Alice's #feelslikehome story 

"Heya, my name is Alice and here is my #feelslikehome story :

Mid Septembre, I was supposed to spend the weekend with friends in a nice house somewhere close to Chinon. But the urge to be alone, to meet that solitude felt stronger. The ocean came to mind. I needed to be by the ocean. So I looked at a map and found that the closest beach to Paris was somewhere around Honfleur. And so here I go, without knowing why I'm going there nor where I'm going to sleep. My intention was to follow my intuition, to follow my feet, to let them guide me to where I needed to go. I arrived at the Plage du butin. The tide was low, revealing long stretches of sand for miles and miles. I still had sometime before the sun went down, so I walked into town - a gorgeous, somewhat overly touristy place with cute colourful little houses surrounded by water and sailing boats.

Eating alone is by far NOT my favourite thing. But then, here I was, willingly alone and, of course, hungry. I walk around looking for the restaurant that would feel like the right place to sit, eat and read quietly. I come across a sweet looking place, quiet enough.

As the French expression says : I take my courage into my two hands and show up to the waiter. He asks "how many will you be?" and I shyly respond : "it'll be just me". Led by my body radar, I sit in a little corner outside but close to the main door. A few minutes later, a couple of elderly shows up, and they kindly ask if they can sit on that table right by my side. "Of course!". They order, I'm reading this life-changing book of Martin Prechtel about grief and praise and at some point, I hear the old man talk about the 4 Tolteque agreements. I listen closer and chose to contribute to the conversation. One thing after the next, we realize we are passionate about some very similar international projects and environmental movements and our touched by each other's stories. How incredible that after all, I found myself eating with this lovely radiant couple in their 80s!

After dinner, I head towards the beach to find a nook to set up my tent. I believe it is somewhat not permitted to camp on the beach, so in the dark, I search for a discrete place to set up camp. I'll realise the next day, I found the ONLY spot for miles that was deep enough to hide me from passersby. The night is sweet, my dreams gently cradled by the sound of the sea.

The following day, after a beautiful long walk on the beach and other adventures, I feel it is time for me to head home. After stumbling across a chapter in Martin Prechtel's book about how the ocean can catch our grief, I decide to walk to the water and ask Her permission to share my grief with Her. At that point, I was holding on to a big red stone in my left hand with the intention of offering it back to the ocean. As I walk closer to the water, I cross paths with this beautiful big bird, frantically clapping their wide wings. For a moment, I'm not quite sure what's going on. As I move closer, I realize this beautiful creature is not doing so well : the bird looks like they are suffocating and desperately trying to get back into the air but struggling to do so. I ask :"how can I help you?". And I repeat again : "how can I help you? What can I do to help you?". While I'm whispering these words, I move closer to them to let myself feel if I can physically support them. For a moment, I don't dare to touch the bird, too scared to generate more fear and anxiety for them. I watch them stumble in a puddle of sea water and stick their beak in the sand, and then fall on their back, and again. So I decide to grab the bird and put them down unto the dry sand to, at least, prevent them from drowning. Following this first moment of holding the bird in my hands, I watch them start the frantic panic-led dance again. "What should I do? What can I do?".

Have you ever been in a situation where you don't know what you are supposed to do or what you can do? Not knowing if what you'll attempt might make things way worse rather than actually help? It's such a strange feeling, not necessarily uncomfortable, but very much unfamiliar. I've found myself in a similar state twice in the past few years and the two times were when I was utterly lost in the woods, not knowing where to go and how to proceed.

I can't watch the bird go through that dance again. My body is telling me to hold them in my arms. So that's what I can do. I pick the beautiful confused bird in my arms - their head dangling towards the ground and their belly facing me. The moment I pick them up, I feel it - I feel the release, the breath becomes smoother, and they let themselves be carried and touched. Not being prepared for such a moment, I still have my backpack on one shoulder, my shoes in one hand and this beautiful creature struggling to stay alive in my other arm. Still not knowing how to support this gorgeous creature, I decide to go drop all of my stuff at the car and then I'll have more space to figure out what to do.

We walk, gently, towards the parking lot, across this long stretch of sand, cradled by the warm colours of a late summer sunset. And I whisper words of love and comfort, I whisper a bird song I learnt not so long ago. I don't know what to do, but I know I can be here with this bird and I can remind them that they aren't alone, that there's another being by their side, to love them. As I put my foot on the cement that leads to the parking lot, I watch the bird take their last breath. But it is only a couple of minutes later that I realize they had left this world.

I drop my stuff, as planned, get rid of it all to be fully present and available. And the question arises : "what now?". I came here to grieve and on that path, I met this beautiful animal who just took their last breath in my arms. And it hit me : "I need to hand them back to the ocean, mother of all mothers." I return to the beach, the bird still in my arms, singing my song of grief -

"Be like the bird that, halters in her flight a while on bows to slight, feels them give way beneath her, and sing, and sing and si-i-ing knowing she hath wings"

I get to that spot where I had found the bird. My stone is still exactly where I dropped it. I pick it up and walk to a little wall of stones behind which is hiding the low tide. A fisherman I had seen earlier is there, quietly watching the sunset, warning me of the incoming tide. I wave and inform him of the bird's death.

I follow my steps, walking along that natural barrier made of spiky rocks and find the spot : behind that wall are a couple of round lower rocks in between which are naturally created little nooks. One of them will welcome my new friend and that big red stone. In that strange daze of grief, I put the bird down in between two rocks with my stone, just by their side. The tide is coming in, so I say my goodbyes to this new friend and go back to the beach.

It is only a few days later, upon my return home that I discovered this bird is a balearic shearwater.

I share this story with you today because of its potency. This is what it feels like home for me, moments like these. Through embracing the discomfort of changing homes, leaving community and friends, coming back to a land that feels foreign, watching myself experience a life I hadn’t dreamt of and my dreams not coming to fruition, I met myself, for a moment. And in meeting myself, in following my footsteps without interfering, I experienced togetherness, I experienced connectedness. These moments are available to all of us when we dare to listen to what our bodies already know.

With love and light  "

- Alice Brand