I Want to be a Wildfire Woman.

                                                         

I have just spent most of my weekend with Wildfire Women and my blood is still tingling.

 For the first time I 've been in a gathering in the UK at which I didn’t feel like the World’s Greatest Imposter. Nor did that Girl in The Bubble feeling overwhelm me. (I must assure you that I really was a girl when I named this feeling). And –bonus- I got to dance. Bit of a misnomer that – I just got up and made an arse of myself as has been my lifelong wont. And for the first time in far too long I did it without feeling anyone gave a damn. And its been far too long since I’ve done that.

I didn’t, at first, even get what Wildfire Women was all about; which I deftly translated into massive guilt which consumed me for the greater part of the first day.

It was true that all these other women appeared to have been on the bones of their arses; or been traumatised in their past; or battled illnesses both mental and physical and were radiant and strong and inspiring as they told their stories. And we paid them the homage they so richly deserved.

But I and my blackdog sat there feeling like the bad fairy at the  Christening. How could one even hint to these shiny, happy women that, goddammit, rising up from adversity  step by painful step does not guarantee all the gold at the rainbows end? 

Because, no matter how unlikely it may seem, there are those in the world who also conquer adversity, and then find themselves starting from scratch again not just once, nor twice; but to an extent that would make one agree with Lady Bracknell ‘seems like carelessness.’

The talk all around me was of reiki and massage and meditation, people traded information on that or were busy networking, and I was, as usual, observing everything from a distance, through the walls of my plastic bubble.

I almost didn’t go back the next day, but didn’t want to appear rude, so I did. And from the moment I stepped through the door I started fizzing: there was a different feeling in the air.  I began to get what Wildfire Women was all about.

It’s about women empowering other women.  It’s exactly what I’ve been tied up with most of my life.  It’s about supporting women who want to go round the hierarchical model rather than dressing in power suits and feeding their ulcers. It’s a female model where the life force is not overtaken by the work force. Where doing things at one’s own pace is recognised; where baby-steps are celebrated; time for oneself doesn’t make one unprofessional; and love and laughter is intrinsic, rather than operating on a different plane from the business model.

It’s about the way I’ve always worked: and it’s working as I’ve always dreamed it could.

And on Day 2 it went to work on me.

It was serendipitous that I found Wildfire Women in my town only a couple of days after I had written my last blog.  In it I was celebrating the inspirational women on my Tweetfeed, and had taken strength from them to stop lying about the reasons I’ve been so ill.  It’s not physical, it’s mental, and I’m going to own it.

But now, after this weekend? I plucked up courage and put my name down for classes at Gym.  Rather than creeping from machine to machine downstairs I came up into the light and interacted with Other People. And I really, really enjoyed feeling the endorphins come strolling on back after a longer vacation they’d ever taken before.  Only the braver ones, of course, but I reckon they’re all on the turn now.

So I grabbed the card too, of a magical Brazillian women who brought her troupe both to dance for us and with us – on Sunday morning. I’m pretty confidently looking forward to making the phone call that’ll include me in her one and a half hour sessions. Which will probably shred me at first: but which could also bring laughter and fun back into my life where it’s always been before.

And, instead of waiting to get better, I’ve accepted this’ll be as good as it gets: so I’ve decided to book myself in to do a thing in Hove Grown – the pre-Fringe, pre-pre Festival next year. I have no idea yet what I’m going to do: a kinda vague outline exists way in the back of the rags and patches of pre-now me which still survive.  But it doesn’t really matter. I’ll do it.

I listened to the wild women; I talked to many and heard their stories and at some point on Sunday I realised that the plastic bubble, like a child’s balloon, had floated away unnoticed, and I was back in the world. After more than two years of being away I’m stepping gingerly back...

At the moment Blackdog is shaking himself, and yawning and looking around him for a more comfortable perch.  He hasn’t actually found it yet, and keeps yapping in my ear that I’m a plonker  to think anything’s changed; that he’s the only one who has been with me through thick and thin;  that without him I’m nothing.

But me – well I’m still fizzing and bubbling for now. I can’t begin to describe all that this weekend was about, nor adequately describe the ideas of Thea and Cat who organised Sunday’s event. But any woman who want to connect to real life, make dreams into reality, share support, get vital information, or just ask questions,  go have a look at:- https://wildfirewomen.co.uk/.

Go get your mojo on ladies;  we’ve come a long way. Now let’s just go a little bit further.