Over the past week I have been in London at a magical event celebrating the work of choreographer, dancer and movement theorist Rudolph Laban. The celebration was organised by my friend Darren Royston, who choreographed and directed me in various productions during our undergraduate days and who was a source of inspiration and energy across the 5 days of the gathering. 

This time last week I was full of anticipation and anxiety about attending…. I was worried about meeting new people, not being able to keep up physically and not having anything to contribute. But as Erica Jong said, “If you don’t risk anything, you risk even more”.

So I invited my anxious parts to step back and took the risk.

I am so glad I did. I met the most incredible, committed, creative people, all of whom share a passion for connecting and moving with others in a way that can move us towards new and hopeful possibilities. 

If you want to know more about Laban’s important work, check out the informative website that Dr Dick Mccraw has just launched: https://www.labanresources.info

Every single moment of the 5 days of workshops and lectures was a learning opportunity but two of the sessions resonated with me in particular. The first was a workshop on Dance Theatre with Annaliese Monica Koch from Austria, whose immense knowledge, experience and desire to inspire, rather than show, spoke to my inner dancer. 

The second was a practical session on Embodied Shaping as a Pedagogical Tool with Marylee Hardenbergh from the USA, a dancer and dance therapist whose graceful, gentle and pure energy brought out the poetry in us all. 

Within the session we used our movements to inspire poetry. 

I rise in order to grow.

I sink I order to cry.

I advance in order to progress.

I retreat in order to be.

I open in order to love.

I close in order to rest. 

Thank you to everyone who shared so willingly of themselves at the event and gave me such rich food for thought and action. 

A shattering fall

From the greatest of heights

Hard to tell, first of all

What was broken.

Nothing was visible on the outside

Yet horrors within

Left unspoken.

Up became down

And down became up 

As she struggled to swim

To the surface. 

Sometimes she sensed

The glow of the sun

But then lost it again

In darkness.

For a while she surrendered 

And let herself drown

In all that she needed to feel.

Hanging there,

Corpse-like

At one with the sea

And heeding the song of the seal.

And slowly the water

And turning of tides

Soothed her body and

Offered a hand.

She dipped her toe out

Of the waters once more

And cautiously stepped

Onto land.

She could not go back

To where she had been

Giddy heights could no longer

Be hers.

And though she felt sadness 

At losing so much 

She felt herself freed from a curse.

The curse of competing 

Of trying so hard

Of needing to always be more

Without ever feeling enough 

Or on top

Without ever touching the core.

The core of her being 

The core of her soul 

The song of her true voice and heart 

The core which had never

Been seen, heard or loved

But covered by part after part. 

Parts trying to help her

Each in its own way

By managing, fixing and more

But all the time taking

Her further away

From the solid, safe ground 

Of the shore.

She walks under ladders

These days

Without fear

And keeping her feet firmly below.

She walks with her head up

With eyes shining bright

The way of the healer who knows. 

Amongst all the awfulness

Amongst all the bad news

Amongst all the finger-wagging and

Narrow-minded “helpfulness” 

On the platforms which are meant to be 

Social and friendly….

….we sometimes need to look to strangers 

For signs that the world is full of good. 

When things go wrong and 

All it takes is a look

For someone to understand

To help

To bring some tiny act of kindness

That, for a moment

Fixes everything. 

Across nationalities

Across languages 

Across all that divides us. 

I see and thank you all. 

Tonight I swam alone

At first fearful

What if

What if

What if

And then, open to the sounds and scents

Like never before

Fully immersed

In the cool waters

In my self.

After a while I thought of each friend

Who might have been there 

And hoped that their reason for absence

Was a joyous alternative 

Like rugby on the telly

Or a Friday night G and T

Or a hot date

Or a book on the sofa in PJs.

Who knows?

All I know is that I swam alone

And yet somehow not. 

When there’s no going back because you can see from so far forward that it didn’t serve you.

When there’s no going back because you realise that the race you were running where you were winning but falling so far behind wasn’t the right one.

When there’s no going back because pulling yourself out of there took so much damn effort that it nearly killed you.

When there’s no going back because next time round it just might. 

When one door closes
Sometimes
Another one opens
Taking you back to your spirit
To who you were
And are
And want to be.

Today I looked down
And through that door
To something joyful
Weightless
And alive.

I didn’t dive in with them
But they swam for me
And showed me
The way.

I have got into the habit of taking a picture after every swim I do and posting it on my socials.

It’s an attempt to hold myself accountable and remind myself (and others) that I am trying my best to do things to help my body and mind.

It isn’t about the picture, it’s about the discipline of doing…

And it happens even when the picture doesn’t. Today I forgot… so here’s a poem instead.

I didn’t take a picture.

Does that mean it didn’t happen?

Will it fall out of my memory?

Was it even something real?

Yes it did

And no it won’t 

And the reality was fleeting 

But I know my body 

Won’t forget 

The joy it made me feel. 

A month ago I got an email from Hollie McNish, after I had volunteered, via a Facebook post, to review the copy proofs of her next collection, Virgin. I didn’t strictly fit the criteria for being a reviewer as my social media following isn’t big enough… but luckily Hollie let me sneak into the circle of the chosen few after I sent a pleading request for special consideration on the basis of my love for her work.

This was enough to make me feel very privileged and all warm-glow-insidey.

This feeling intensified when the proofs arrived and I squirrelled the book into my holiday luggage, ready to read it while away on my summer travels in France. 

I sat and read the poems on the 4 and a half hour crossing on the Cherbourg to Poole ferry. 

What does it say that I felt I had to keep the book open flat on the table and was too ashamed to expose the cover and Virgin title hidden from onlookers? What does it say that I felt as if I’d be judged, labelled, exposed or deemed guilty of some sort of sex crime for reading a book with a title that could be seen as “inappropriate?”

Does it say something about just me, a recently-departed head teacher, who sometimes felt that others saw her voice as inappropriate but for all the wrong reasons? (When her voice was saying all the right things to protect children but when these things made the system feel inadequate or uncomfortable.)

Maybe. (But oh how just trust me on this speaks to me).

Does it say something about just me, a survivor of sexual abuse, who is still trying to tell her little 7 year old self that what happened wasn’t her fault and can never, ever be excused? (Even if sometimes others try to find excuses or can’t listen because her voice makes them feel uncomfortable.)

Maybe.  (But oh how swimming speaks to me).

Does it say something about just me, who because of what happened when I was 7, has lived with a disproportionate sense of shame and guilt and confusion about all things sex and touch and love and spent her teens and early twenties in utter confusion about what was ok and what wasn’t. (And did things that were both.)

Maybe. (But oh how saying no, when you’re nice and polite speaks to me.)

But what it also says is exactly why these poems and collection are so important for our society at this moment in time. 

They are absolutely about just me but they are also about us, as living, breathing, sexual, safety-seeking beings. They are intelligent, perceptive, funny, heart-breaking and human poems. At many, many points they had me crying big tears and circling and underlining hard as I read words and lines that had my heart pounding and my voice wanting to shout agreement and understanding and felt-ness. 

These are poems that debunk the historic concept that lost virginity is somehow shameful, whoresome and othering. They explore the fate of that much-maligned virgin Mary and all the tortured virgins since, who have been slaughtered instead of supported. 

They examine hymens and bike-riding and orifices and consent and lack of consent,  where women’s bodies have been seen as the property of men and where laws and society have validated… and continue to validate… this criminality. They are, in many ways, poems of despair. 

But they also celebrate Hollie’s genius in re-birthing the virgin so that we can all take pride, from this moment on, in being virgin. 

This is a collection that frequently helps us feel connected through our despair at the world, particularly if we succumb to watching the extremes (most people). But these are also poems about love and all the good, joyous stuff in the the world (croissants, warm and making love x 18). They remind us that, too often, our beliefs are influenced by conventions, concepts and a culture created by c***s. (And I’m allowed to use that word because I have one, although I still can’t quite shake off enough shame to be able to write the three missing letters in the starry part.)

I love these poems. I love Hollie for writing them and for giving me a chance to feel seen in my despair and to feel hope at what humans can and could be, if only we challenge the concepts that aren’t good for us. 

My favourites?

call me – for being the love song that every mother needs to sing to her girl when she is about to fledge 

and

never, as in not once, ever – for helping me understand that all the mysteries of my body and in particular the coil and thrush were never just me.

What will yours be?

I highly recommend that you get a copy of Virgin and find out. You can do so through all of the independent bookshops listed here: :https://geni.us/VirginSigned

Your octogenarian friend said that she wants to live to 100. 

You said that you don’t.

But may I just say, with all due respect and love

That I want you to.

And even then, 20 years more of you, mum,

with your love, wisdom and encouragement 

wouldn’t be enough. 

You told me that a boss, once,

amidst rumours of his imminent departure

put up a notice about the bucket full of water and the hand, which, 

even if it seems like a big presence at the time

is quickly replaced by the water once removed.

The thing, though, dad,

is that you are a big, caring, presence in our lives

and have been in the lives of many, many people while your hand’s been in the bucket. 

And

of course

it doesn’t take a physicist 

(thank god, as Clarky talked me out of that one)

to know

that once the hand isn’t there

the bucket isn’t as full. 

We are utterly dispensable

and utterly indispensable

all at once. 

This is a poem that I wrote for the occasion of Alex and Kane’s vow renewal ceremony – 26th July 2025.

What and where and who is love?

The curious mind has asked

Through words and music over time

Passed on in search of truth.

In kiss, in touch, in look, in word

And yet in so much more 

In you, in me

In all we see

In all we do and are. 

In all we’ve shared 

And all to come 

But most of all in now

This moment where we join as one

To make love’s sweetest vow.