In the summer of my sixteenth year I lived for a week on a small uninhabited island, the bird sanctuary of Burhou, home to puffins, storm petrels, oyster-catchers, gulls, and the never ending tidal rapid of fast-moving swells, eddies, and strong underwater currents that wash a careless swimmer out to sea.
This single week of fleeting cloud and sky, of razor sharp and craggy rock, of daily circumnavigation of a lonely, beautiful, natured isle, is never far from where I breathe, I stand. I sleep with sound of wave.
My body is made of cells, the smallest structures within me. Over half of these cells are not human.
My body is host to many tiny forms of life in addition to the fourteen kinds of cells I make. Bacteria, fungi, and viruses, both helpful and hurtful, make up the community of my physical presence.
If I think of myself only as a physical being, I am far less than meets the eye.
It is my mind, my spirit, my actions that form my me, for my body is but the vessel of existence.
I visit Wentworth Place, the house where the poet John Keats lived two hundred years ago.
During his short life of twenty five years, Keats published fifty four poems in three short volumes.
In his time the poems of John Keats were little known - two hundred copies were read.
This place is not the same, and yet I sense its touch. A time of spring and nightingale, of love still whispered through the walls in hopeless ache. The muse and loss of time's oppressive might.