What is on Your Horizon?

Dear Reader,

There is a tiny island off the south coast of Crete, in the Libyan Sea, called Gavdos. It is unlikely you will have heard of it, unless, of course, you have been there. Either way, it is the southern most island of Greece.

Only 142 people call Gavdos home all year round, while thousands of people arrive during the summer.

I have not been there yet, but it holds a place in my imagination and I intend to go, hopefully sooner rather than later.

On Sunday, I was on another day trip, this time I was privileged to have my mum and my sister Orla, who are visiting, accompany us. There has been a lot of joy and laughter. As we all know, now more than ever, time together is precious.

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As we drove along the magnificent road that snakes through the magnificent White Mountains towards the sea, I saw Gavdos distant on the horizon.

The heat haze made it barely visible.

And yet, there it was.

A faint line floating in the distance.

Gavdos is a tiny island, the southernmost point of Greece and indeed Europe. From where I was standing, it was simply a beautiful, distant place that I had yet to discover.

But Gavdos has another story too.

In recent years, this small island has become a point of arrival for people making the dangerous journey across the sea from Libya for many different reasons. People who have left behind homes, families and lives they knew, travelling towards a horizon that holds the possibility of something different, and hopefully something better, than the lives they left behind.

There is a significant difference between the horizons we choose and the horizons we are forced to seek.

For me, Gavdos is a horizon of possibility. It is somewhere I imagine travelling to, somewhere I hope to explore.

And that, of course, is a privilege beyond measure.

For someone crossing the Libyan Sea in a small and often unseaworthy boat, the horizon often represents more than just possibility.

It may represent survival.

A safe place to sleep.

A future for their children.

The hope of a life that is not defined by fear.

And perhaps that is what horizons do.

They invite us to look beyond where we are now.

I recently came across a beautiful description of horizons from the poet David Whyte, who has inspired this piece. He writes: “Horizons are invitational edges between what is familiar and what must be imagined: the main horizon in my life is the line over which, imaginatively, my future lies.”

I love this idea.

A horizon doesn’t tell us exactly what lies ahead.

It simply reminds us that there is more.

As summer begins to soften and September comes into view, I find myself thinking about horizons again.

September is a threshold for many of us.

We are conditioned for it from childhood, the return to school, new books, new classes, new teachers, new routines. And then, if we have children ourselves, the back-to-school feeling can be one that overwhelms the system.

I have found myself clinging to August in the past, not wanting the summer to end.

This year, for me, is different.

Totally different.

Instead of getting the school book order in, I will be travelling to Paris with Luca on September 1st to help him settle into a new city, a new life and, most definitely, a new horizon.

I will then return to Crete and, for the first time ever, my wish of extending that summer feeling will be realised.

I am learning, through all the dramatic changes in my life, that unless I have the courage to imagine a new horizon, I could spend the rest of my life looking backwards.

And what is the opposite of a horizon?

I’m not sure there is one.

Perhaps it is the place we become stuck when we stop imagining what might be possible.

So, my dear reader, I thought it might be helpful for you to consider some questions about your own horizon, both physically and metaphorically.

Perhaps this September, you might ask yourself:

What is on my horizon?

What am I longing towards?

What have I been imagining but not yet begun?

What familiar edge am I ready to step beyond?

What would I do if I believed that something beautiful might be waiting just beyond what I can currently see?

And perhaps, most importantly:

In other news, I am still reading the same book by Jane Goodall, still toilet training Tabatha… she doesn’t seem to see the horizon of going to the toilet outside… yet!

I hope to see you online on September 7th for our first in the season special Building Emotional Resilience, webinar with Audrey Casey and then again on September 14th for the first of the season’s Wind Down, Sleep Well live online meditation and soundbaths.

With my love as always,

Fiona xxx