a watermelon beach towel
heartbreak and overwhelm and a vigil for these times
In early January 2024, I walked from my room in the hotel I was staying in on the island of Lanzarote, down a curved marble and wooden staircase, across a bridge with giant koi fish swimming below in a pond and out to meet my immediate family and in-laws by the pool. It was a pleasant 23 degrees celsius outside, the sky was a pale blue and I wore a light orange sundress and flip flops.
Scanning the early morning sun loungers for my group, I was filled with a sense of deep satisfaction. I had just had an early morning walk on the beach, done some yoga, had a swim, now I was joining my family for a day by the pool. How lucky I am, I thought, to be here in flip-flops and a sun dress enjoying a warm sea breeze on a winter January morning just after Christmas. The trip was a very generous gift from a family member and I felt a warm wash of gratitude as I stood there idly scanning the loungers, sun on my browning skin.
Scanning, scanning across the eager families out to get the prime pool-side spots for the day, my eye caught a beach towel on the back of a blue sun lounger. It was a normal, brightly coloured towel - sky-blue background, with triangular hot pink and green watermelon slices jauntily scattered across it, black pips peppered on the pink-towel flesh.
It was a harmless towel. Cheap, innocuous, ordinary.
It was also a touchstone to a portal.
One which, once I’d seen it, I could not retreat from. The pool, the sun, the fat tourists and the skinny tourists and the happy children and the screaming toddler and my slip of a sun dress and the endless airplanes that crisscrossed the sky constantly carrying still more of us fat and skinny and happy and screaming and dressed in whatever we wished, all of it became to me suddenly grotesque.
Gaza! the towel screamed - Gaza! is happening and you are on holiday enjoying the sun, in January of all months and Gaza is happening and you are soaking up the sun on your skin and wondering about a juice or a coffee from the free poolside bar. I stood there by the koi pond in the hotel on the coast of the island of Lanzarote for a long time staring at the watermelon beach towel, unable to move towards my family settling down for the day by the pool, unable, too, to know quite what else to do.
It is now over 18 months later and I still feel frequently useless, at a loss, guilty, privileged, heartbroken. Despite marches attended, letters written, money given, candles lit. I am still unsure how to speak out, speak up, how to galvanise. What is impactful, useful, will make any difference at all ? What is my way of saying no? What drops can I contribute to the sea-change that is needed to stop this horror, and the endless horrors ongoing elsewhere in the world (because, yes, they are all connected, aren’t they?).
I know I am not alone in feeling heart-broken and overwhelmed.
recently wrote powerfully about being uncertain what to do with her despair around the genocide unfolding on our screens and also wrote of ‘how desperate and useless’ she felt in the face of the daily images and accounts coming out of Gaza.I’ve had many similar conversations with friends. One of these conversations, with old childhood friend and fellow Substack writer
, led to an idea. We spoke about the idea of holding a vigil. A way of pausing, reflecting, gathering. A way of creating space for private reflection in a communal setting, as well as of raising some much needed funds for relief work in the region.Below is some more information about the event, along with a link to register.
Yes, we are - if I may speak for Clare as well - both heartbroken and often unsure how to act. But we are also determined and sure that the tear-drops and rain-drops and drops of sweat shed into buckets then poured into puddles, ponds, lakes, seas, oceans by so many of us are worth something, are doing something. The act of coming together counts.
You are invited to A Vigil for these Times | 22 July | 19:00 - 20:30 IST
An online evening of reflection, poetry, music and art making offered as a gesture of solidarity, a coming together in a way that feels sacred and conscious and kind.
Hosted by
With guests Brian Crosby (musician & composer) and (writer)
It is a difficult time to be alive.
The tectonic plates of humanity are shifting and fault lines – horrific, painful fault lines – are showing themselves across the globe.
It can be challenging to know how to show up in these unprecedented times. We can feel afraid, overwhelmed, burnt out, or feel unable to step away from the horrors unfolding in real time on our screens. It can be hard to know how to use our voice, how to access our gifts, how to move towards the light.
But the world needs our voices. It needs our gifts. It needs us to come together and find ways to speak.
You are invited to join us for an evening of reflection, art making, music and readings. The evening will be combination of lit candles, gentle body work, breath, reflective prompts, inspiring art and openings to share our creative responses.
We are thinking particularly of the people of Palestine as we host this, a place on the planet right now where one of the greatest fault lines are showing up.
And we are holding our Earth, and all her kin, as we grapple with the ecological and biodiversity crisis unfolding at our feet.
The event will be an opportunity for you to quietly reflect and to privately explore what your voice might sound like, and how you would like to use your gifts in these turbulent times.
We will be joined by writer, mother and grower
Registration is required and there is a booking fee for the ticket.
We also ask for a donation of an amount of your choosing which will be donated directly to MSF's Gaza Appeal.
Thank you both for offering up this space and time. I'll be there and will share xx
So much love to you both 💕 I am so excited