A Figure of Speech.

Every Sunday backstage at the 'Hermanos Vazquez' Circus Show, as we tour across America performing, we each take a turn to do a motivational speech to keep us going for '3 show Sunday'. This week, it was my turn, after 6 months of wonderful contributions from other performers. 

I chose to speak what I know, and to recognise the work of a very significant group of people.

This is the first time I have ever spoken in public about anything that happened during that time of my life. 3 years ago, when I lay in hospital, I would never thought it would or could be possible for me to be where I am today. But I made it. Here I stand. I stand in a show costume, with all the freedom in the world, as proof of the potential of human survival. 

Anything. Is. Possible.

This speech marks the start of the Liberty's concept coming into action, fighting forwards for the freedom of every woman, and every man, to be all of who they can or wish to be. Without cages.

Please share, and spread the word. Every read is appreciated, and all support is counted. 

Love & Liberty!

Helen Victoria.

X.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dyjm3yvRlMQ&feature=youtu.be

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"I was, as some of you know, rather terrified to do a speech. I struggled to think how to put something together that would entertain and motivate. But then this week one of our team here announced that he and his wife are to have a baby daughter. A new life, yet to exist! This daughter is yet to unfold her chapters in this world. And with this train of thought, I found my speech. 

Every pay packet that I have received since I began here in January, minus expenses, has been sent home to fund an ongoing 2-year legal battle I am facing from my previous life. I stand here today as testament to the potential of human survival. I can honestly say that I would not have been able to achieve any of it without the very thing that stands around us currently. Performance space. And within it, people like you, who, in backstage chats and Sunday humor bring to life the life I live. 

There was one more element of my liberty that I must account for. That is the work of Women’s Aid, an organization in England that helps victims of domestic abuse to safer environments. They were the foundation from which I was able to rebuild. Without them, I would not be standing with you today. 

With a little research, I found a sister organization here in Chicago. I found that they were asking for donations to buy emergency survival kits for women who have just made their escape. They need money for items such as toiletries and phone chargers. I cannot describe how much of a difference it makes for details such as these to be taken care of, speaking from experience. 

In the last few days, I have managed to establish a small sponsorship fund from a few companies and anonymous donors who, when I wrote to tell them about our circus speech tradition, and some of my story, were more than happy to donate to sponsor our third show. The money donated will go directly to the Women’s Aid of Chicago. 

Therefore, ladies and gentlemen, you can all consider yourselves a huge contributor to not only my life, as I have described, but to leagues of victims of domestic abuse in the very city we currently stand in. They are all someone’s son, or daughter.

LET US LEARN TO LOVE CERTAIN FORMS OF MADNESS. LET US RECOGNIZE THAT TO ALTER THE ESSENCE OF AN ARTIST IS TO QUELL THAT SEETHING GENIUS SO NECESSARY TO THE BEAUTY OF THIS PLANET.

Embrace your environment here. See the details all around you. And know that no matter how you spend the remainder of your short time left here in Chicago, you have each made a difference to a whole host of lives. Both in the circus ring, and beyond it’s walls."

The Overwhelming Knowledge of Rainclouds.

Chicago, Illinois is where we are, and it is rather magnificent. Full of incredibly contrasting architecture, corners to explore and lakeside beach walks! We have been here for ten days, after a lengthy (3 day!) drive over here from our previous show city of Houston, Texas. I don’t know that I quite appreciated the size of America until that drive, which was only crossing a small handful of states! Safe to say, I have gotten used to driving on the ‘wrong’ side after driving one of the circus trucks for that length of time.

Halfway through the journey, at a non specific and unremarkable stage of the journey, something quite brilliant occurred. As I was driving along the freeway, with what seemed to be prairie lands either side, something rather magnificent began to occur around me. Beginning with a pattering of rain on the roof the vehicle, raindrops began to fleck the screen and windows surrounding me. Following this, the raindrops grew larger, until they started to blend together as they spilled down the glass. Before long, torrential rain surrounded me. Just as I switched on the windscreen wipers to try to see the road in front me a deafening crack of thunder could be heard, before the most wide stretching and all consuming lightning bolt broke across the skyline in front of me. Filling my gaze with white light, the shadowy purple sky above the fields either side of the road was soon lit up with natural strobe lighting. Flashes and shatterings of blinding light tore the sky open until I was unsure whether I was driving on a road, or flying through space. I can honestly and criminally admit that I have no idea where the tarmac of that road ended, and where the night sky began. 

In direct parallel to the natural events playing out around me, my body was lit up with electric energy as my heart rate fastened, my skin was awash with tingling goose bumps, and my eyes wide with curiosity. There was no one else in that car, but suddenly I felt the most heightened sense of awareness of life. I don’t know how many minutes it lasted. But I know how it felt, just as physically as I could feel the blood rush through my veins and organs in those moments. Soon enough, the event had passed and I sleepily adjusted back into the monotony of driving, the radio (which had cut out, although I hadn’t even noticed) and wondering when we would next need to stop for gas. But the memory has long stayed with me.

The reason I describe this event to you, is because I feel it is the best possible way of analysing the most important thing to me in the entire of this world. That feeling, those events – they are how I feel when I truly breathe. When I write, when I dance. It is how I feel when I am challenged in conversation, when a new idea comes to me, and when I notice the simplest and most communicative art in the world around me. The physical sensations I described could just as easily have been describing how I felt when I auditioned for the Lido in Paris, or whenever I have had the opportunity to dance alone in studios, or when I have taught ballet in a class situation. Goose bumps and all arresting physical sensations have overtaken my body in moments of elation, inspiration, and education. I have seen lightning break open before my eyes and felt the reverberations of thunder claps thud through my chest when I have found a like mindedness in another person to share my ideas with. And, most deliciously, when I have loved, and truly been loved. With no adjustment to the narrative, these moments in life are my thunder and lightning. I find no better analogy, at this time. 

When do you feel the most alive? When have you felt the most arrested by a moment, person or feeling? Which moment, or moments? 

I used to fear thunder and lightning. I also used to fear the kind of life that I knew I truly wanted, but was afraid to try for. I ran from aliveness, and hid in the shadows of the safe. I now actively construct daily life seeking such moments out from wherever they may be hiding. Sometimes it might just be an aggressive and tumultuous few minutes of dancing in my hotel room alone before I head out to go to the show each evening. Or it might be a few hours lost between bookshelves in the local second hand bookshop. Or it might be writing a few pages of my notebook between acts, or driving between states and finding a few minutes of lightning that catch the edges of my skin and lift them away from my bones for a few delicious out of body moments.

This, in essence, is what the basis from which much of Liberty’s Arts & Wellness Centre will feed from in it’s developing growth. It is not my own thought processes from which it should grow – but instead those which visitors will find for themselves.

We are not factory products. We are people. Made up of an innumerable amount of segments, corners, needs and hungers. It is about each individual finding out what it is that makes them lose everything to the moment they are in. The moment where they give themselves over to trust their feelings and judgements entirely, releasing themselves for a collection of moments into only themselves. 

Recently, I have been trying to write poetry. Not altogether too successfully, as I seem to keep finding myself flowing over into familiar paragraphed chunks of writing. The ability to fit my thoughts into a few concise lines has proved rather difficult! What have you been working on recently? Where have you been the last few days?

I have also been experimenting with interviews, and I am currently gathering my notes from two recent significant interviews with two wonderful women that I have been fortunate enough to cross paths with in the recent few months of my American adventures. More of that in my next post – once I work out how to fit hours of material into a readable and concise reading space for you all! It seems I am better at extending and expanding than I am folding things back into handfuls and bite sizes. A work in progress, without doubt.

As I finish writing this particular entry, I am curled up on the windowsill of my Chicago hotel room, watching the sun set on the city whilst listening to the gentle piano sounds of Ludovic Einaudi - the piano music that I cannot write a word without. The skies are clear, and my pulse is calm. 

But then, you never know when the next thunder and lighting may break out in front of you.

To you, to purple rain, and to life.

Helen 
Victoria.

Buttered Mash

Hot fresh toast, with pools of golden butter pooling in every crevice. 

Cool, creamy yoghurt topped with a flurry of fruits and a slathering of honey.

Gooey, rich, deliciously dark chocolate fudge cake…the kind that falls heavily to its side when nudged on to your plate.

Crisp skinned peaches that snap upon puncture of their surface, before a cascade of juicy yellow flesh riots the inside of your mouth, and out and over your chin.

Potatoes. Roasted, buttered, mashed, with garlic, crushed, fried….always potatoes.

What’s your comfort food? Do you have one? What do you reach for in times of hunger, discomfort, or even boredom?

I was the child that ate all her dinner, and happily finished anyone’s leftovers. My Dad, to my utter embarrassment, would laughingly call me ‘the girl with hollow legs’ upon picking me up from teatimes at friend’s houses as their parents exclaimed at how much I had eaten. Unsurprisingly, as years passed, I gradually gained a little ‘puppy fat’ as it was kindly termed to me. As a developing teenager, the extra inches of skin did not go unnoticed. As many do, I began to compare myself to my peers, whilst tugging down my tops and shirts to cover myself just that little bit more.

As a young adult, I discovered dance and began to naturally lose the extra layers. To my delight, hip bones started to emerge. My limbs became leaner. I had cheekbones! Suddenly people were complimenting me on my figure. I fitted clothes I never could before, and actually liked how I felt in them. I began to notice what I was feeding myself with. My mother eats very organically, and is on the whole a vegetarian. I picked up on her healthy eating habits, which only sped up my new weight loss abilities. Because that is exactly how I had come to see them – as abilities.

As I moved through my late teenage years and very early twenties, my control over my food became more specific. I began to see food as something to consider before committing to union with it. I ‘deleted’ certain foods from my diet, and began to enjoy being hungry, knowing it was helping me to lose more weight. Within the negative relationship I was entangled in, he and I both learnt to use food as a form of control over me. Food became both my weapon and my shield, all at once. 

When I came away from that situation, I began a process of carefully rebuilding, replacing and renovating my life. A long process of finding out who and how I wanted to be started to unfurl, and with it came decisions as to what I did and did not find acceptable any longer. One of these was my relationship with eating. It had gone on long enough. My hair was falling out, I was tired, and I’d had enough. Years of habitual control blockaded my efforts. But I refused to relent, and instead encouraged myself to appreciate the food I was given by whoever it was that had been kind enough to share foods with me. On the days and nights when the battle defeated me, I would go and listen to music to calm myself, or go for long dancing sessions alone to soothe my mind before getting back on the horse. It wasn’t instant. It took time. But time was what I had. And what I still have.

The term ‘eating disorder’ is a very ambiguous term in my opinion. I believe, similarly to mental health ‘disorders’ that we all have certain controls and habits in the way we eat and how we eat. It might be that someone struggles to eat vegetables after a childhood of being forced to. Or a person may be a little fussier than another person. Or perhaps someone else uses chocolate to self medicate their emotional injuries.  I am not proud of my battle with eating. But it happened. And without that journey I would not be speaking as I am now, as who I am now. I am now not only happy in my life, but happier than I ever thought was possible. Much of this is due to these processes of self examination, combined with being so fortunate to have the love and support available to me unendingly from my remarkable family and friends. The link between the two has not gone unnoticed. 

This week I broke down one of my last barriers, and ate some barbequed meat at one of the wonderful 'social sunday' BBQ's held at the circus. This might seem a meager effort! But for me, it was one of the last moments of letting go. I was surrounded by kind hearts and gently encouraged, with no fanfare, to simply try some. As I sank my teeth into the food I had been given, I literally felt my body relax. As if it was a long knotted tension I hadn’t realised I was maintaining that just fell away. After I had finished eating I sat for a little while, and just took in the moment. I looked around at my friends, who were chatting, laughing and enjoying the evening and I let it all wash over me, without the need to limit or control what I was feeling. This, intrinsically, is how and why I could let go in the way that I did.

In the last few days I have spent some time talking with some of my very good friends here at the circus about their favourite foods, how they like to eat, and what meals are important to them. My ears were filled with tales of home cooked dinners, family traditions, and culinary habits. I heard of childhood sugar canes, roast dinners, varying soups for the sick, and so many flavours of ice-cream that I lost track! One dear friend of mine told me all about ‘the fish dish’ which is her mother’s speciality. Provided as a pure communication of love and care, my friend’s mother cooks it for her every time she comes home from a contract, or even just because. Mainly made up of garlic, salty oils, potatoes and fresh fish, the dish was described to me as it being, ‘like you’re wrapped up in a sleeping bag, eating it warm and all at once’. To me, her words spoke volumes of the love that was contained within the meal, more than even the taste experience itself. Her dialogue was filled with nostalgia, and without even tasting the meal I could feel the good intentions and warmth of it. It filled me for the rest of that evening, in fact. 

I want Liberty’s to be a place where anyone can feel warmth such as this. I want the souls who walk through its doors to be nourished and filled as much as they need or want to be. I want it to be an environment where any individual may walk in and feel comfortable to eat or not eat whatever they want or need to. To say whatever they want, even if that is nothing. I vow to make it a place where everyone is welcome regardless of whatever is unfolding for them outside of its doors in their lives and minds. Just as I have been so fortunate to have found some time and spaces in my life where I can be free to be all of who I am, I absolutely vow to provide spaces for others to do the very same in the Liberty’s Arts & Wellness Centre of our future. There will be a space for you. Numerous spaces. Spaces with potential. Rooms filled with 'fish dish' warmth. 

Go well today. Take joy in your mouthfuls, conversations and movements. Hear all that is around you. 

To the journey.

Helen Victoria

X.

Candle Mathematics

Age is a curious thing. It is one of the first things children want to know about each other when they meet and is still a common query between us as adults. I always find it fascinating to note how often newspaper and magazine articles quote the age of the people they are describing. It is rare that a media article will omit the total amount of years a person has been alive, particularly in the case of celebrities. As if somehow it provides a clearer viewpoint of the section of life the person has been reached, or even a tiny clue as to why they are in the situation that the article describes.

How old are you?

Tomorrow I will have been alive for 26 years. I was actually almost a month late being born, and so my date of birth should have been a little earlier than May 2^nd. By all predictions, I should have arrived on April 6^th. As has proved typical, I took my time to choose exactly the right moment. Weighing in at 12 pounds I was the heaviest baby that Slough’s Wexham Park Hospital had delivered to date. With a mass of black hair and rather comically entirely filling the plastic hospital baby cot provided, I drew rather a lot of of attention. So much so, that eventually the nurses drew the curtains protectively around my mother and I to protect us from staring eyes and journalist enquiries. Rather ironic in reflection of the career I would pursue in adulthood!

As a teenager, age seemed so very important. At 16, we would be able to buy cigarettes. At 17, we would be allowed behind a wheel. Every birthday was vital. The golden age of 18 seemed like a destination. Enchantingly, it would be a time when we would legally be allowed into the clubs we were already sneaking into. 18 seemed like the age of freedom wherein we could be whoever we wanted and go where we wished without constraint. At that age, I had no concept of what freedom truly meant. To my friends and I, it seemed as if the world became unlocked as soon as we were legal adults. I had no idea.

Past 18, ages began to blur as they still do for most of us. I began to realize that in the adult world it mattered less what your birth dates were and more what you were doing with the time you had been allotted. In a world of social media, we are reminded daily how our peer groups are doing, what they’re doing, and how they’re doing it. Every day, a birthday reminder inevitably pops up on our screens informing us who is the latest to add another year to their age. “Colin is 29 today! Wish him a Happy Birthday!” It is a curious and often wonderful thing, social media. But it is also a very effective utensil for self-doubting comparisons. ‘When I was that age I didn’t have a house yet’ or ‘I’m past her age and I’m still not in a serious relationship’ or ‘I went to school with him, and now look what he’s doing!’ And on it goes. The seeds of doubt watered and encouraged.

I spent most of my time as a child dreaming of what I might later become in life. My teenage years became a rush to ‘find’ something to do with my life before it somehow became too late. What did you dream of being?

Now I am to be 26 years old. I live in hotels, with no fixed address as we tour the American states as a circus company. I dance, write, photograph and draw every day that I can. I cook on a plug in griddle pan and with a microwave. I live out of a suitcase. The identifiers and possessions of my past are long gone. My name has been changed, my location has altered, and my mindset fixed. I am limited on space, yet I can stretch my limbs and my mind further than ever before, surrounded by the creative and loving positivity of my circus family and my family and friends beyond this environment. For this, I am unbelievably grateful.

I do not believe anyone ‘should’ be anything by any particular age. People do amazing things at all kinds of ages and differing points in their lives! I feel it matters far more what experiences the person has found and seen, and what they have decided to do with their individual circumstances. There are examples of this all around us - if we can take the time to see them.

Fundamentally, there will never be an age where everything becomes ‘alright’. This, at 25 years and 364 days old, is what I now realize. I appreciate now that there will never be an all changing moment of blowing out candles where I am automatically wiser, more protected, safer, freer or more able to live a better life than the last moment I was in. I cannot look ahead to the future for my answers; I can only enjoy each as they pass to the best of my abilities. This is all we can do.

Who knows where I might be when I turn 27! Last year I was turning 25 in Paris, having ‘Liberte’ (painfully!) tattooed upon my wrist to remind me of my journey whenever I might lose my way. As I write, sitting in the US in reflection of the past year, I can honestly say that I have no idea where I might be by next year. But I know that my tattoo will not fade from my wrist. Or the belief that lies behind it.

For now, these are riches enough.

Helen Victoria.

X.

Our Painted Faces.

Backstage, before the ‘Circo Hermanos Vazquez’ shows begin, the performers can be seen warming themselves up for the coming events. Acrobats stretch and hyper extend their limbs. We, as dancers, do the same. The clowns check their props. The horses are brushed down and groomed. We pass each other in the backstage areas, greeting each other as we go about our preparatory activities.

Currently, I am working in an environment that is entirely made up of illusion. In equal measure, the circus ring where each performance happens is filled with happiness, magical and infectious passion, creativity and bravery of the most immense kinds. Every day at my place of work my colleagues dive off of trapeze ropes, spin from death defying heights from sky-high motorbike tracks and lift one another in balancing acts that appear to defy the laws of physics. They wear harnesses to lift them to the skies of the circus tent. They become the characters audiences have paid their ticket money to see. Not to mention the pirouetting horses and flying dogs in our circus show!

For 2 glittering hours, audiences are taken in by the magic that we provide. As a dancer in our group of 6 showgirls, our specific job is to contribute to this shimmering display with high kicks, feather plumes, glittering costumes and smiles as wide as the tent itself! The 2000 capacity tent of audience members drink up every moment and glimmer of it all, as they wave their glow sticks, spill their popcorn in excitement, and applause the brightly lit scenes that play out in front of them. Our smiles remain affixed, as we have photos taken with paying audience members. We hold our centres, pull up as tall as we can, and bevel as hard as our dancing shoes will allow. Twenty dollar smiles for every flash of the camera. 

Then, united, we march backstage. The giant red curtains swish closed behind us, marking the true end of the show. And in this specific moment, the true magic occurs. We turn back into people. Transformers of a less mechanical kind, arguably.

As we disperse away into our separate trailers and changing areas, we return to our former selves. Our names return. Our various aches and pains return to us as adrenaline levels subside. Our thoughts differentiate from one another once again. We carefully remove our feather plumes, costumes and accessories and step back into reality. Removing our masks in every sense.

But which truthfully is our reality? Which of these states is the truest version of ourselves?

I arrived into the world of dance initially believing and hoping it to be a place of escapism. I was seeking a place where I could express myself in an environment where I would not be judged, and I could pretend to be someone I didn't feel I was. As my dancing journey has continued, I have altered my perspective entirely; with no spoken words, dancing is where I find the truth of myself. It is where I feel most comfortable. It is where I establish the outer edges of my thought processes, rather than solely the skeleton of them.

When I discovered dancing, as an adult, it was as if I had been given a new body, and I had to work out how to move all over again. Similarly to an infant, I was clumsy. I fell a lot. I tripped, rolled, and lost direction in the room. I dizzied myself, frustrated myself, raged, and fought against myself. I also discovered moments of pure ecstasy, where I was able to truly achieve what my mind wanted my body to do. Gradually, with the support of musical inspiration and some technical tuition input, I learnt to not only control my body, but to release it in many ways from the confines it had previously experienced. I learnt new shapes, patterns and ways of moving and thinking that I had previously been unaware even existed. Most importantly, I felt as if my body and mind were finally connected to one another. I cannot think of a more truthful experience.

I now find myself in the professional position of repeating the same movements over and over again for a paying audience. I dance now in rooms full of audience members, rather than in solitude. I perform alongside other dancers who are paid, just as I am, to perform the same actions and movements in the exact costumes every night. We wear full stage make-up, have our hair neatly pinned in buns, and wear long, stretching fishnet tights. We are a unit of dancers, employed to be so. But have my dancing days become any less truthful?

There are many situations in life where we have to put a brave face things, or perhaps omit certain truths from conversation for the sake of others or ourselves. Everyone in the world has a story to tell, a pain they have felt, or something that if probed would make their heart plummet in it’s casing. But we are living currently in a world of fashion, media presence, and tireless attempts at perfection. Social media absorbs us into a false world of perfect relationships, ideal ways of living, and popularity stakes. In some senses, the performing world, in the classic ‘life imitating art’ theory is more real than the ‘real worlds’ we are surrounded by.

Sometimes in life and on the stage we may all feel the need to put on a slightly braver smile than we really feel. I don’t believe this makes us any less of ourselves. Sometimes it might just mean that we need a little more time, or a different set of spotlights, before we feel comfortable to uncloak ourselves.

In two hours time from now I am due on stage. I will wear the same costumes as I did yesterday, and the same ones I shall wear tomorrow. As a performing unit, we will step out into the circus ring under the glimmer of the giant mirror ball suspended above us, and demonstrate all that we are in the performing arts world. For two sparkling hours we shall give ourselves over to the ideals of the audience. We are there to return to the audience what the experience of performance gives to us, in allowing them to take a collection of moments in their day to experience a feeling that remains truly indescribable.

Whether I am on a stage in full costumery, or alone with a clean face and an old leotard in a chipped wall dance studio, I believe in the power of freedom. I am very sure that for every show we do, we make a difference to the audiences who witness them. There will be someone in every audience who is struggling, just as there is undoubtedly someone performing bright lights in front of them who is feeling the same. Both of these candidates might be putting on a front. But in the magical moments of music and performance, for a few moments, both are soothed.

This, intrinsically, is all the truth and freedom I will ever need.

Helen Victoria.

The Hands Of Your Time

Throughout our lives, we wait. We await the call out of scribbled Starbucks names, pronounced incorrectly. We wait endlessly for trains, joining together to complain all the while at their delay and irregularity. We wish our time away in anticipation of the end of a course, the start of a holiday, or a birthday celebration. We long for Friday, from the disproportionately early moments of Monday. A ticking clock of anticipation and forward thought. ‘It will be better when’… ‘Once this year is over…'

What are you waiting for? Are you hungry? Are you waiting for an email, a telephone call, a shadow in your doorway? These are your personal clocks. How long will you wait?

As I type, I am sitting in a dressing area enclosure in Texas waiting for the next show to commence. I am in full costume and stage make up. I have billowing false eyelashes affixed to my own. I have deep shades of red carefully painted on to my lips, and deep flicks of coal eyeliner sketched upon my eyelids. I am waiting. Waiting for the jingle of the 'Circo Vazquez' circus show opening music to commence. I have been waiting since the last show of this evening finished, and much longer in truth.

People from varying countries, backgrounds and ages have reached out to me recently with their stories. It has amazed me not only that anyone has read this blog at all (always a wonderful surprise to me) but that readers have felt that anything I am doing has connected to their own lives. For this, I am very grateful. 

In truth, I believe it is most important to find something you are in love with, and not waste a moment in spending as much time as possible with it, or in pursuit of it. No matter what, this is what is vital. I am in no way qualified to tell anyone else how to lead their lives, or how to find the motivation within themselves that is so intrinsic to finding what makes them happy. But I can share some of one story, as I have done previously within these imaginary paper walls of blogging, to try to offer some structure for new ideas to be formed. 

I spent my years from birth leading to adulthood experimenting with every art form possible, in attempts to try to find my own path. I painted, sketched, and drew with everything from pencils through to sticks and mud. I assembled sculptures. I decorated anything I could find. I designed fashion, attempted to sew, and took photos of my friends in trees, studios and railway tunnels in varying creations. I filled sketchbooks, covered canvasses, painted designs on to fences, wrote poetry, and made haphazard structures out plywood offcuts from which to draw their shadows in the sunlight. I eventually undertook two art A-levels amongst my other studies trying to work out what art form truly fitted into my hands. Despite my love for it all, I increasingly felt the guilt of an artistic imposter. I somehow felt like a lost generation artist, as I guiltily emulating artwork of times before rather than creating anything truly my own.

One ordinary day, one of my very most soulful and important friends took me along to a ballet class whilst we were in our first year of Art College. I joined her, to keep her company predominantly. Then, in Bath city arts hall, something stirred. I discovered what was to become every paintbrush stroke, every clay sculpture, every photograph and every drawing I had ever experimented with. I found the materials of who I was born to be. In that room, something happened that no words I could ever type could ever explain. All I knew, as I walked away was that whatever it was that I had just experienced was to be my life. This I knew.

But I was 20 years old and I had never experienced a moment of technical dance in my entire life! I was inflexible. I was awkwardly untrained. I was living in Bath, enrolled at a prestigious art college. ‘It’s too late’ was all that echoed around me. But a seedling had been irreversibly planted.

So I returned to my hometown. And blindly invested every scrap of my soul and physical ability into working as hard as I humanly could to try to find my way back to the euphoric moments of my own Narnia that I had so inadvertently stumbled across. I rented cold church halls in exchange for cleaning them, just to have space to practice. I dug out doorways of village halls when the snowstorms came, unable to allow a day to pass where I wasn’t practicing. I painstakingly stretched at every opportunity. I practiced in the fields behind my house. I travelled between 3 differing counties attending dance schools anywhere I could Google search. I enrolled in children’s ballet classes - at the great amusement of everyone there - just to establish the basics that I had not yet experienced. I studied jazz technique from YouTube videos. I examined show DVD’s and observed classes. And finally, in the spring of 2010 I managed to convince a panel at a full time dance college to take me, on the premise that my hard work would continue. The phone call of acceptance was one of the most exhausting moments of it all. I physically collapsed with the relief, slumping in the corridor of the offices I was cleaning at the time to pay for my training.

Two intensive years of more than full time training later, I leapt out of my training academy into the arms of my first dancing contract in colourful, wonderful Morocco - the birthplace of the Liberty’s blogging journey.

Because it isn’t about the closing moment of making a dream come alive. It’s about the travelling path of every stage of it. Every truth, lesson and reality lies in the groundwork, not the finish line. It is the truthful journey that is there to embrace, rather than the completion point. Along with every splayed paintbrush, blurrily developed photograph, uneven clay pot and worn down ballet shoe marking each step of the way.

Sometimes it’s the never-ending wait for the end of a long day. Sometimes it is for the gentle acknowledgment that we have been waiting for the right thing. Sometimes we shall wait patiently. Sometimes we cannot wait a moment longer. Everyone knows what it is to wait for something. And I pray and hope that every human has the opportunity to want something more than can ever, ever be  described. To want something so badly that it fills every pore of your body, every idea in your head, and every vein and bone of your infrastructure.  It is this that is what is most important! The job role of Liberty’s Centre for Arts & Wellness will be to guide those who come to it’s doors to make their own individual choices for whom, what and how they seek.

I am no braver, wiser, or more astrologically fortunate than the next person. I just decided not to wait a moment longer, once I knew what I wanted to seek out during my time here.

It is our individual choice how we respond to the clocks and pauses of our lives. For every human heart and clock there is a journey to be found. Make yours your own.

Ready, set…

Helen Victoria.

X.