Collecting New Loves, and the Dreaming That Weaves It All Together

I am writing this in the air, filled with new energy, flavours, wild herbs, and memories from an island: the aesthetics of Mediterranean houses — oh, the colours! — and the way the bougainvillea drapes the walls.

Memories are keepsakes, and memories grow stronger as I ponder. The sound of the pen makes me feel like there is something sacred about a notebook, or the act of journaling. There is also the eternity of the written word.

Every place I go, a new love arises — for cultures, for history, for people, for some of the little things that make the whole.

My first memory of the exotic: the Singaporean humid air, heavy with the scents of burning sandalwood mixed with the sweetness of orchids. How it rained for two hours every morning, the dampness after. Tigers made of stone, the ink art with its twirls and scrolls. Potpourri and massive paper fans with colourful paintings of landscapes and herons.

Further east, the aesthetics of Japan can fuel a battalion of artists: the temples, the kimonos, the bonsai gardens, the sakura! To invent an entire custom of having picnics underneath the cherry blossom trees…

I reminisce on the love of places I have longed for, that felt so much better than expected, such as the earthy vibe of New Zealand, meeting with Māori people and witnessing the raw, mind-blowing haka, whilst falling in love with their Pāua shell jewellery and facial tattoos. Walking around in the buried village with its ancient aesthetics; then going north to discover the Hawaiian islands, really sensing the connection between these cultures. Watching hula dances and swinging fire poles in the dark, gifting lei necklaces made from orchids to my son. Since then, watching Moana sends shivers down my spine. Having felt Polynesian culture, talking to water doesn’t seem so much a fairy tale.

I take a breath to remember, what was it exactly, that feeling I had? I stare into a cloud as I remember the train journey across the American land, the pull of the Rockies and the roar of the Colorado River, the canyon’s whisper of Hopi and Navajo myths. It was the feeling of almost remembering something ancient: rituals, connection, songs, a peaceful way of being, while holding a turquoise stone of the Midwest.

That feeling drove me to Peru, where I got plenty more. Bathing in the energy of the majestic Andes and the lush rainforest. Holy wood incense and the grounding taste of coca leaves, while sitting in ceremony with shamans singing icaros. It filled me and fuelled me. I promised myself to learn how to meditate. Some of the people I met there, I will keep close to my heart forever.

The feeling of a place can be magical and unreal, and can surprise you profoundly, like the old temple in Sri Lanka with the oldest tree that lived at the same time as Buddha, and the abundant altars filled with lotus, water lilies, and jasmine. The way it made my heart feel massive and vibrant, and like it wanted to melt into the grounds. I could have easily been there always, and now a part of me is.

Myths unravel when I dream, letting me see places, things, or gods that still exist in some kind of world memory. Once I have felt the places, I can go back. Writing activates memory, and lets me relive the experiences, often wildly in dreamsight.

When I put my book down and close my eyes, the relaxing, steady hum of the jet engines surrounds me. Borne on the white and red wings of the aircraft, the vibration draws me into a quiet space. My soul sets off to Japan. In a vision, I see a young, innocent-looking boy. He has animal ears, like a cat or a fox, and sits quietly, pondering. Then I see a blazing orange fire illuminating his face. The fire is born from his hands, and it doesn’t burn him. The scholared fire ignited a curiosity, and I have my next research planned out.