Experiences of Height and Depth

Last weekend I wrote a story. It was a half hour exercise on my final play therapy training weekend in London, using my own painting from the previous half hour exercise as a stimulus:

As I read it back to myself, I noticed the elements of height and depth, of which I hadn't been conscious as I wrote. Today I went on an unusual walk which also caused me to notice height and depth, so I decided to write a rare blog post consisting of my story followed by an audio visual account of my walk.

   I am Walter. A water molecule. Ancient, older than the hills. Eternal, indestructible. H2O transformed over and over. Today I am surrounded by a dark loamy soil deep in the earth in a pine forest. I fell here some weeks ago and sank down deep, into a cool haven, free from the threat of evaporation for the time being. Not in a puddle for children to stamp in, just sunk down, deep and dark. I do sense a gently upward tugging though, and as the days go past I am drawn to the roots of one of these mighty trees, gradually sucked up and up, through fibres that are moist and juicy, finally ending this journey in a fresh new pine needle.
    From here I do succumb to evaporation. Actually not such a terrible thing. Quite freeing. I gain energy and warmth and fly off into the air, rising through layers of thermal currents. I see beautiful blue birds flying in the tops of the trees. Not a pine forest anymore though. I have drifted westwards and can see fruit trees, surprisingly large, in full leaf and covered in fruit. But my place right now is not with the trees, but to join with others in the clouds. We always have such a party up here, getting together, making countless combinations of patterns, giving much pleasure to the humans below as they exercise their imaginations to see shapes and animals and faces in the clouds above their heads. We are gathered here now as soon-to-be rain clouds but first we are blown even further west, joining forces to form heavier and heavier drops and finally falling . . .
    Over the sea. Into the sea. Down, down, down. Going deep again, but not contained by the earth, rather flowing together, restless, churning, writhing at time sin eddies and currents. It gets darker the deeper we go, and at times I am afraid. Of what, I ask myself? As a water molecule, what do I have to fear? Maybe I sense the fear of those inhabitants of the sea who are hunted, never knowing when they will be snapped or gobbled up. Or for the predators . . . will they be fed or hungry today? Still, these are not MY worries. I am intact, whole, indestructible, exploring the depths of this sea, or is it an ocean now? I can cover huge distances in such a vast body of water, travelling around the planet, washed up on this shore or that. I feel myself now floating closer to the surface, itching to be transformed again, but needing new energy to do so.
    I look up and know that it is evening, a very glorious evening, with a vivid sky of orange and red. Not enough warmth though, from the sun at this time. I can relish and savour the beauty of this sunset, knowing I will still be here once the impending darkness has passed. Darkness holds no fear for me right now. I’ve been right down in the deeply dark recesses of the ocean and I know darkness is down there, far below me. But now I float gently in the twilight, anticipating the stars of the night sky and looking forward to rising again in the heat of the day that will be tomorrow. Where I will go from there I do not know, but here I am, free-floating, gazing in wonder at the last fiery rays that come from a body so foreign to me. I’m glad I will not be consumed by the intense heat of that heavenly globe, so distant, yet so powerfully tied to our existence here.
    I rest in peace.

So that was the story! Now for the walk.

I decided to walk from Wellow, where we are staying this week, into Bath along the Sustrans cycle path.

For the first forty-five minutes I got rather wet in the blustery showers that have been blowing across the country all week. I was looking forward to entering the Combe Down tunnel and getting out of the rain. I have often laboured up the steep side of the valley from Monkton Combe to Combe Down, never realising there was a mile long tunnel deep below my feet. I also did not know there was a beautiful surprise waiting for me in the middle of the tunnel. I had been told it was very cold in the tunnel, but relative to a Latvian winter, it did not feel unduly chilly to me. It was gently illuminated, with damp brick walls, and my footsteps echoed as I walked. Of course I just had to sing something to try out the acoustics. The Latvian song Pūt vējiņi is a wonderful one for such circumstances, and I was reminded of singing it in a cave at Petra in Jordan exactly one year ago. Today I experimented with creating my own harmonies, wondering if one note would be sustained long enough to merge with the next.
While testing this hypothesis, I became aware of a different kind of music, as if a string quartet was playing in the distance. I noticed a bright light moving towards me, a head lamp belonging to a walker going in the opposite direction. I assumed they must have brought the modern equivalent of a ghetto blaster with them, to enjoy in the echoey tunnel. However, as they passed me, I realised this was not the case, but that the music was being created by the tunnel itself. Pulsating discs of light played repeating patterns on individual string instruments, creating a similar effect to the one I had been trying to achieve with my singing. Harmonies blended in and out of each other as I continued through the tunnel. Initially I immersed myself in the magic of the experience at a sensory level, but found myself responding more deeply, moved to tears by beauty and wonder. In that moment I reflected on the powerful metaphors of height and depth, of being at the surface, visible, observable, and being hidden, deep in the bowels of the earth. I pondered the processes of depth psychology, engaging with the unconscious and encountering the unexpected, being changed in ways that defy rational explanation.
I made a video of part of the experience, the concept of which is described is described here.

 

 Eventually the music ended, and I came to the light at the end of the tunnel, emerging into watery sunshine. The rain had stopped. Or maybe the weather systems on each side of the steep hill were different. I was glad to move forward, planning to meet my oldest, bestest friend for lunch in Bath, a different kind of beautiful experience. I felt replete with the magic of my tunnel walk and began to wonder how it will feel next time, with the element of surprise removed, entering rather with a sense of anticipation and expectancy. Will I return with my family, making it a shared delight? Will it live up to the wonder of this first encounter? 

I know I will never feel the same at the surface in Combe Down, knowing what lies deep beneath my feet.