Dear body

I have so much to be grateful for that this letter is unlikely to capture all the years.

This morning you walked me along the beach, sang to me the hissing of the waves, hummed to me the thrum of the propellered plane, ground in me the sand. You delighted me with scents of fresh sea air, damp seakale and sand, the particular smell of warm, dry sand. You massaged me with the rocks, sand, shellfish, slippery seaweeds underfoot, despite the cushioning of my shoe.

You whispered that I might see without looking, naming or labelling; that beyond recognition I might find a universe of watery capillaries gathering into vessels and tributaries flowing down towards the waves, of twisting and sinewy tree branches, bark embedded in the sand, whose sap glistened as it ran up the boughs. Thank you.

You have taught me to dance in delight, to groove until my sweat rolls off onto the slippery floor, to meet and delight with strange bodies, negotiating our ways through the rhythms. You have shown me how, finding the right person, the dance becomes a thrilling dance of stars and lemon sherbets, of popping candy and champagne in every pore.

You have taken me to wondrous places that truly opened my mind to the enormous variety of this world. Thank you.

You have tapped me on the shoulder to remind me – and even waited quietly and patiently for me to notice – that you’re always here, holding me, supporting me and loving me in all my mental doubts and fears. Thank you for being always here, always now, and always unconditional.

• Encountering real magic
• The first conversation
• The ideas room
• Writing as transmission