Valhalla: A Walk Through Fire

At the very tail end of July, I went with Dai and the Spud to Valhalla Viking Festival, just for a day. Whilst booking the tickets, I'd done something slightly out of character and signed myself up to take part in a firewalking ceremony, which I then proceeded to be incredibly nervous about for the next few months. It felt like the next chapter in a series of occurrences which had started with my energy healing at Goddess House, as well as being something I could never have done even as recently as a year ago. I am very afraid of fire, but I am also devoted to a Goddess of the Forge, and I decided to place myself on her anvil and let her shape me as she would.

The festival itself was tremendous. The day was sunny and warm, and the location was fantastic. It was too hot for me to wear the slightly more historically-accurate outfit I'd originally planned, so I simply wore my favourite dungarees and kicked off my shoes to walk barefoot on the dusty grass. Our first priority was lunch; I enjoyed delicious fresh pizza in the shade of the woodland temple while the boys shared a burger. This was idyllic in itself - there were lights strung between the branches in the shade of the trees, which we could just see from where we sat on the outside, and when we finished our meal and ventured into the hushed interior, we discovered that the cardinal directions were marked by carved wooden statues of Norse gods and goddesses. 

Dai and the Spud quickly went off to play with axes while I had a peruse of the stalls. Some necklaces of amber beads caught my eye, but I tore myself away and we met up in the mead hall for some live folk music. The Spud wanted to get as close to the stage as possible to look at the instruments.

The day passed in a similarly laid-back manner. The people-watching was on point, the atmosphere was friendly. We spent a magical hour listening to a storyteller in the lantern-strung woodlands, and even the lively Spud was captivated by his tales of gods, giants, shapeshifters and trolls. I didn't break my no-buy; despite the abundance of stalls, there was so much to see and do that consumption didn't feel like a necessary entertainment.

Then at last the time came to proceed to the firewalking arena. There were about a hundred people taking part that day, and I felt a tremor of anxiety as I left Dai and the Spud outside the circle, watching. 

A sacred space was defined; as an Earth sign, I was told to find myself a space in the North quadrant. I had been seated a few moments, when a blue-haired elfin person in a linen tunic, Viking leg wraps and hand-forged spoon earrings sat down beside me with a friendly smile. We soon got to talking, and I forgot to be nervous. This was Jenna, who had come all the way from Sydney for the festival. Soon I also met Amelie, a striking presence in a long green dress and impressive armour, who bounced over to us exclaiming, "I love both your clothes!", and in between helping to build the fire, we chatted about cosplay, our favourite fantasy authors, and all kinds of other things.

I had intended to keep myself to myself, anticipating a meditative and solitary experience. But I figured that when the universe hands you kindred spirits during something you've built up in your head as a pivotal moment in your story, you should probably take the hint. 

Once the fire was lit, a circle was cast, and the ceremony began. During the calling of the quarters I could already feel the heat of the flames on my back. As the fire roared, we began by walking around the circle and acknowledging every person there, with a nod, a hello, a handshake, even a hug. I hadn't anticipated hugging strangers as part of my experience that day, but found myself surprisingly open to it. 

The next step was something that I had been particularly worried about for a while after seeing it mentioned online - an arrow-breaking ceremony. As the arrows were handed out we were encouraged to try to bend them between our palms - well, all that happened was that I got sore palms. We had the option to sit out, and honestly I did give it a thought, as I was pretty convinced I would be the one person who couldn't break my arrow, but in the end I stood in the queue with Jenna and Amelie.

At first, with the point of the arrow against the hollow at the base of my throat, I pushed as hard as I could, and it wouldn't bend, never mind break. I resigned myself, took one more deep breath, anticipated serious injury or at least great embarrassment, and walked into the damn arrow as hard as I could. I heard the snap like a gunshot before I registered what had happened.

The lead instructor recovered a piece of my splintered arrow from near the fire, and as he handed it to me, he said quietly, "That was powerful."

The firewalk.

After the arrow, I wasn't afraid. In fact I surprised myself by stepping forwards when they called for someone to go first, and in the end I was the second to set out across 600-degree coals. 

I'm not going to tell you too much about the sensation, in case you ever have the chance to experience it for yourself. The coolness of the dampened grass on the other side was almost startling. I felt like I could take on anything, anything at all.

They laid down more coals, made the pathway longer and wider. Jenna, Amelia and I queued together again and walked across on each other's heels, casting handfuls of oats into the still-burning fire as an offering.

On the third walk, we were invited to make our offerings to a lost loved one. My father's death still felt very recent. I made my offering to the fire, then had to step back and get my tears in check. We had been asked to be silent at this point, so I couldn't explain to my new friends why I was crying. They each offered me a hand, and we strode out on the longest walk yet, together. On the other side of the smouldering coals they both gave me a hug. Two kind, beautiful souls whom I was so grateful to meet. 

After the circle was closed, I went to find the Spud and Dai, and get a much-needed drink of water. The soles of my feet were peppered with black marks, but undamaged.

As someone whose thoughts recently have been very much concerned with concepts like personal style, I also had some unique takeaways from this experience and the day as a whole that may or may not resonate for anyone else.

Firstly, the variety of styles and goods for sale I saw throughout the day reminded me that I like and appreciate a lot of different things, which is why I have so much difficulty minimising my wardrobe or editing it down to a 'core style'. For the first time in a long time I was able to see this as something to be grateful for. I might not have a signature look, but I am able to gain a lot of pleasure from aesthetics and material things without limiting myself to one set of criteria.

Secondly, the people I saw and met showed me that there is a lot of scope for finding joy in your personal expression that goes above and beyond 'being stylish'. I met cosplayers, LARPers, historical reenactors, and people who either liked to dress up for festivals or just feel comfortable, and it reminded me that there is much more to dressing than trying to make your parameters as small as possible in order to define yourself. I realised that I'd recently been looking at clothes and dressing through quite a narrow lens as I tried yet again to 'find my style', and I went home feeling a sense of happiness and excitement about my fairly random wardrobe that I haven't felt in ages. Dressing is not just about encapsulating yourself at a given moment, it can also be about creating a character, creating a feeling, expressing a moment or connecting to something else (a sense of connection to your ancestors through the fabrics they wore, for example). 

In the weeks following the firewalk, I was aware of subtle changes in my thoughts and attitude. The day after, I came to a decision on something I'd been dithering about for years (more on which at some future point). When I found myself angsting over makeover shows, a calm voice in the back of my head said, this is just a racket to make you feel like what you already have isn't good enough.

I had proven to myself that I could be vulnerable and open, but I had also shown that I could be brave and strong. It changed slightly how I see myself and how I respond to the world, and I look forward to seeing where this new perception leads me. My broken arrow still sits on my altar. I am so thankful for the experience, to the instructors, to Dai for his support and encouragement, to my Goddess, and to Jenna and Amelie. 

In Praise of Borrowing

When I was in my early teens, sharing clothes was pretty normal. It was exciting when my best friend Topaz got a bag of clothes handed down from her older, trendy neighbour, because I knew she'd give me what she didn't want and probably let me borrow the rest if I pleaded enough. My mum and I used to borrow each other's clothes too. Sometimes we even gave them back.

Nowadays, it's not so common to borrow a mate's dress to wear to a party. But for me, on my shopping ban, having a community of friends and relatives I could call on to help out was heartwarming and uplifting, not to mention it saved me a pretty penny or two.

When our electric whisk spluttered and died halfway through Dai making our son's first birthday cake, I called my friend Rose - she lived five minutes away, was a fellow mum so likely to be awake at such a silly time on a Sunday morning, and given her perfect house and propensity for holding coffee mornings, I felt sure she had a set of beaters we could borrow. And she came up trumps, saving us from a two-hour wait for the shops to open so we could have the cake ready in time for the party. (And she even said we could keep the beaters! What a woman.)

My friend Topaz lent me a pair of smart shoes for an evening out, and we now have an agreement whereby we share the shoes - mostly they live with me, unless called upon by Topaz for an occasion, thus saving us both from needing to buy any more nude wedding-guest shoes for quite some time.

When lockdown started, I asked Alice, a hardcore movie buff, if she could lend me some family-friendly DVDs to get me and the Spud through those long afternoons. She dropped off a stack of DVDs on her way to work - along with her Disney+ password.

At first I felt awkward and a bit weird asking for stuff, until I realised that it opened a door for people to ask me for things in return. This year I have lent and borrowed items from irons and plungers to books and hairdressing scissors, and therefore we have all saved a) money and b) resources, because rather than having one of everything each, we are sharing what we have.

I'm pleased to say as well that, as well as sharing, my friends and I do a lot of swapping. Maternity wear, baby clothes and toys have done the rounds from mum to mum in our group, saving us each a small fortune. And when we have a clear out (or just an item of clothing we're sick of looking at), we have developed the habit of rehoming the clothes with a friend rather than plonking them straight into the charity shop. 

Sometimes this has come in extremely helpful - just before my planned clothing swap in January 2020, my friend Ana was living in a camper van, which was stolen from a supermarket car park with all her possessions inside. Under my stairs at the time was a huge stash of clothes - spare items from all I had been given by Topaz, Bel and Alice, plus bags of things that had been given to me for the swap party. After making sure no one minded, I was able to go through it all and sort out an emergency stop-gap wardrobe for Ana. 

I've noted before that the generosity of friends had helped me out of a tight spot during my ban, and I really feel now that being able to help each other out - and ask for help (and nick each other's old clothes) - has brought us closer, and created a feeling of community. With the added bonus of being kinder to the environment. Happy days! It's not exactly ground-breaking, but I was so out of the habit of asking for what I needed (when I could just buy it) that people's willingness to share came as a lovely surprise.

What Would You Do Differently If You Loved Yourself?

For the first time in... Okay, possibly ever, I have less than 120 items in my wardrobe. That's not counting coats, shoes or bags. By some people's standards, this is an awful lot. I am certainly very privileged, to have so much. And by others' standards, this is hardly anything at all.

To me, it feels about right. Enough for variety, to be creative in how I put things together, but not enough to overflow my storage and become unmanageable. I'm doing the little trick of turning the hanger around after I wear an item, so that I can double-check that everything I've kept is pulling its weight.

This is a massive improvement on my wardrobe situation this time last year. However, I have identified two issues that I need to take in hand.

1. I'm not being very kind to myself

I often talk about wanting to be able to be creative with my wardrobe, but I'm not actually doing that. 

Eliminating the clothes I didn't like but was keeping - and wearing - to avoid being wasteful was a good first step; now I need to tackle the other end of the equation and start making the effort to put myself together in a way that feels good to me. Not the current situation where I scrape my hair back into a frumpy low ponytail, throw on the nearest clean-smelling jeans and tee, and go, only to soldier through the day trying to ignore the fact that I feel crap.

To Buy or Not To Buy talks about self-kindness and self-care - not necessarily the fun kind like taking bubble baths, but making those appointments you keep putting off, keeping your living space clean and tidy, giving yourself time, space and tools for creativity and play, and (in my case) using the correct toothpaste for my sensitive teeth even though it's not the cheapest, drinking water - not just coffee - and changing my outfit if I don't like it instead of forcing myself to wear it anyway (because I'm an eco-conscious mum and therefore must not care about my appearance? Or something equally nonsensical).

I've fairly recently started to be able to wear jewellery again - without fear of the Spud ripping my ears off or breaking my necklaces - and it's made such a difference to how good I feel when I make the effort. And it's lovely to rediscover all my favourite pieces. But more importantly it's proof of how the littlest effort can have a huge effect on how I feel.

Taking half an hour in the mornings to do my hair and make-up isn't going to make me a bad mum. (Although the two-year-old is currently wearing blush and gold eyeshadow because he wanted to be involved. He chose the colours himself.) I have always enjoyed expressing myself through clothes and style - when it's because I want to, not because I feel like I have to - and I hope that I have the experience now to not let shopping for new things become the aim, but to be creative and thoughtful with what I have.

It also wouldn't hurt to take the odd bubble bath (something I've let slip since Dai's been working longer hours) and to take a bit more time to do things like shave my legs or paint my nails - things I have avoided doing, as a kind of reaction to my previous ultra-high-maintenance existence, but would actually quite like to do (I'm also looking forward to being able to re-book my cancelled treatment at the Lush spa once things are back to some kind of post-COVID normal). No one's handing out prizes for Martyr of the Month, and life's too short not to at least try to enjoy being in your own skin.

Which leads me to:

2. I have become a fearful dresser

Before I deleted Instagram, every now and again someone I vaguely knew from my old blog would pop up to tell me they liked what I wore better when I was goth. I used to tell them in no uncertain terms that their opinion on the way I dress was less than relevant. 

However, this year I realised with dawning horror that I don't really dress for me any more, either, and I've given the opinions of strangers far too much relevance - even control.

This is partly to do with where I live - a small, conservative southern town. As a goth I used to get a lot of attention, both positive (little old ladies wanting to touch my poofy blue deathhawk, being photographed by art students) and negative (spitting, throwing things, insults). When I moved on from that style, it was a relief to feel more like a private person and to have a bit of anonymity. 

Unfortunately, this feeling of anonymity eventually became a bit of a rut I was stuck in, helped along by a lack of confidence, comparing myself negatively to every woman I saw, and a weird feeling after reading too many fashion books, blogs and articles that there was a secret fashion police who might be summoned if I dared to wear the 'wrong' thing. (An annoyingly precocious child in a playground did once threaten to "call the fashion police" on me. I was wearing New Rock boots, ripped fishnets, and a black corset and frilly skirt, both trimmed in hot pink lace. I was on my way to a doctor's appointment; that was my version of casual.)

The items I purchased in Glastonbury reminded me that I didn't always dress to be invisible. Whilst I think my days of corsets-as-casual-wear are probably done, if I'd lived in Glasto for the last decade - or Brighton, or London - the way I dress now would probably be quite different. I love the clothes that I have, but I'm aware I often talk myself out of buying anything too 'out there'. 

I really want to channel that less self-conscious, more creative version of me into future purchases (which will be CAREFULLY chosen to work with my existing wardrobe and SLOWLY acquired according to space constraints and budget. And prevented from ever again being the be-all and end-all - I once wore fishnet tights, a faux fur coat and a full face of make-up to go to the beach, and I won't be returning to being that anxious person, unable to let go and take part in things, like a big decorative doll). In the meantime, I'm really enjoying taking a fresh look at my wardrobe, and putting together outfits that actually make me feel good. 

Gala Darling says a brilliant thing in her book Radical Self-Love, which I'll have to paraphrase from memory because I lent it to a friend (two years ago, hun, just saying): "What would you do differently if you loved yourself?" Asking this question has changed my life, from getting out of bad relationships to getting off the sofa to drink some water and go outside. Next, it's going to help me embrace who I am inside and stop telling myself I can't wear this or that because it's too fanciful, too daring, too bright, too dark, too masculine, too feminine, too weird, too dramatic, too basic, too noticeable. Because I do love myself, and I don't need to be invisible any more.

However, A Caveat

Once I'd been making more effort with my wardrobe, hair and make-up for a few days, I realised why I'd downgraded these things so dramatically on my priority list in the first place. On day one, I spent almost all day browsing shopping sites, daydreaming about what I would buy next. On day two, I'd noticed the drift back to shopping so I put my tablet away and went out for walks with the Spud, but I wasn't really present or focused - I was trying not to mess my hair up and planning future outfits in my head.

By day three I was cross with myself. I'm not sure why I find it so hard to get this particular balance right, but I could understand why I'd forced myself to stop caring about my looks - to make room for other things. I think this is my ideal next step - I like to try to dress in a creative way, so I need to make sure I'm actually reflecting that in the way I live my life. Doing before dressing, so to speak - I must make time for writing, doodling, knitting, trying new recipes, long walks and dancing. I also must not discount comfort in favour of style - I love my New Rock boots, but they're not great for playing with the Spud outside as they're heavy and sometimes rub a bit. So I need to make sure I dress for what I'm doing, which sometimes means an anorak and wellies whether my 'personal style' likes that or not.

So I had never intended to be unkind to myself. I'd shoved my fashion obsession out of my head to make room for the rest of my life. Now, my goal (because I love myself) is to dress in a way that I'm happy with WITHOUT OBSESSING. Just get dressed in the morning, smile at the end result in the mirror... and go do stuff. Step one: plan some exciting stuff to do.

Just a little note to say, I am away this fortnight, leaving early tomorrow, so I may be a little late to respond to comments on this post! Many thanks for your understanding. Normal service will resume upon my return.

Community vs. Consumption

Day 100 of the 2019 shopping ban - or what would have been - came and went. I consoled myself with the thought that I would have spent an awful lot more over the last three months had I not been putting my heart and soul into my challenge. It had been a shock to me how quickly I fell back into 24/7 browsing, shopping, and thinking about shopping. And I was astonished by how crap it made me feel - I was desperate to stop again. I didn't care if my clothes were unstylish, I would wear bin bags if that was what it took to leap back off the dizzying whirl of the consumer carousel. 

I stopped the clear out. It was making me worried and uncomfortable, wishing I'd left well enough alone. I was concerned about the time, money and effort it would take to replace what I was bagging up. I felt I was going too far in my need to reach a clean slate. And once again I was trying to create an image around myself instead of keeping in mind my true likes and dislikes, and my real life.

Three months of hard work, trashed in a few days! There had to be better ways of spending my time.

Shopped Out

Once I had some breathing space, it was time to tackle the new set of problems I had now made for myself, a matched pair. One: I had once again devastated my finances, and there was only one last lump sum of holiday pay on the horizon, at the end of the month. I was going to have to figure out how to stretch that money as far as it could possibly go.

Two: I had devastated my wardrobe. In the ruthlessness of my clearout, I had left myself next to nothing for daily life. It was all very well and good that these two party dresses and this winter blouse sparked joy, but what was I going to wear now?!

The second problem, after all that frenzied buying and discarding, turned out to be the easiest to fix. I set myself a £20 budget to hit the charity shops and replenish my naked closet. 

After the intensity and guilt of the previous fortnight, I was - finally - shopped out. I couldn't summon up the energy to browse every rail and compare every item to try to curate the perfect selection of items that "felt like me". I went to British Heart Foundation. I picked up every item in my approximate size from the £2 or less rail. I took them into the changing room, and I bought everything that fitted that I didn't hate. I repeated these actions the following week. 

It was far from being the perfect wardrobe, mismatched and full of oddities, but I was resolved, now, to stop giving the whole matter such goddamn importance. I was sick of repeating the same cycle and learning nothing. The whole experience of shopping online - with such queasy passion, such grasping desperation! - had reminded me of why I'd wanted to get off this ride in the first place. I'd felt totally out of control, and that frightened me. Much to my surprise, I hadn't enjoyed shopping at all.

The Generosity of Friends

For a short time I muddled through, doing an awful lot of laundry as my new "minimalist" wardrobe endured the daily deluge of baby food, milk, puke, and other things the bevy of well-dressed online influencers smiling benignly at their ethically produced ceramic mugs apparently weren't dealing with.

Then one day I was having a cuppa with a good friend, Bel, when I mentioned I was low on clothing options. Bel winced, laughed and said, "Well, I've just had a clearout. Let me bring you a bag of stuff over and see if there's anything you want."  I was delighted - even more so when she returned with an enormous shopping bag of lovely things. It wasn't all to my taste, but it cheered me up immensely to have some new outfit options - and for free!

Word soon spread amongst my social circle that the lunatic on a self-imposed shopping ban had compounded her personal torture by throwing out half her clothes. My mum, bless her, dug out from the depths of her cupboard a bag of things she'd been meaning to take to a charity shop, and kindly returned to me a warm coat I'd given her the previous winter because I thought it was unstylish. The designer replacement I'd bought did nothing to keep out the wind - not an issue in June, but a nightmare in January. When you can't solve your problems with spending, it's best to be prepared.

One friend, Alice, turned up with a bag of clothes and an expression of pity. I'm not sure if she thought I was a charity case or just a bit of an idiot. Bridesmaid Topaz turned up with an astonishing six binbags (SIX) for me to take my pick from. "I'm not a shopaholic," she explained. "This is what I left behind at my mum's house when I moved out. She's such a hoarder, she didn't want me to part with any of it. I've been working on her for ages! I haven't even seen some of this stuff in years. Do what you like with it."  

I was left with a bulging wardrobe (again), a sense of gratitude and great relief, and a new insight into the content of my friends ' closets. It seemed I wasn't the only one with a tendency to accumulate an untenable amount of stuff. One close friend had had an entire second bedroom devoted to rails of clothing, but had to scale back when her partner moved in. She is always beautifully dressed, but had dipped into her overdraft in order to fund her shopping habit. 

The ladies didn't want any of the excess clothing back, so as well as a full wardrobe I now had a full cupboard under the stairs. This time, rather than stress and overwhelm, my full wardrobe gave me only joy and a sense of abundance. I realised that the thousands of options online had only given me a sense of panic, of needing to keep up, of not-enough-ness. I had actually stopped browsing charity shops, prior to the ban, because I had come to feel that to make the exact right clothing choices and stop buying things I didn't wear, I needed the option to filter by size, brand or colour. I was overwhelmed by choices. Want jeans? Dark wash, acid wash, stone wash, sandblast, boyfriend, slim boyfriend, girlfriend, mom jean, skinny jean, super skinny, high waist, low rise, ripped, raw, ankle grazing, bootcut, flared, skate jean, balloon jean, cocoon, embroidered, slim fit, cigarette, stretch, jegging, bleached, cargo, frayed, button front, straight leg, cropped, distressed, crop flare, cuffed hem, pleated, pom-pom trim, patched, plastic knee windows... A smorgasbord of choices. (I did not make any of these up!)

And yet, I still couldn't seem to find exactly what I wanted - trend-driven fashion brands produce en masse, and their target market apparently wasn't a twenty-seven year old new mum with a round belly and boobs that require scaffolding. In fact, many brands and high street stores seemed to be aiming their wares at a target market of petite teenagers who don't need underwear or feel the cold.

Conversely, these new clothes of mine had been chosen from a very limited selection - they were not "perfect", or curated, or selected via a Pinterest infographic. But they brought colour, and variety, and I felt happy to have them. I also felt silly for not having thought of asking my friends and family for help sooner. Was I so locked into the consumer mindset that I had forgotten about community?

The Dark Side of "Retail Therapy"

I had also now seen first hand the sheer volume of clothes already at large in the world. Women and their overstuffed wardrobes are the butt of many a movie joke (Confessions of a Shopaholic, anyone?), but seeing the stress, financial pressure and even debt caused by overshopping, I wasn't laughing. 

Retail therapy is promoted to women as the cure for whatever ails us. I have bought new clothes to cheer up, to wind down, to reinvent myself, to affirm myself, to celebrate an achievement. It had become the norm for me to buy a new outfit for any given night out. When planning my wedding, I put "new dress for hen party" on my to do list without even thinking about it. It literally did not occur to me to wear something I already had. And I doubt that I'm alone in this. In fact, Metro reported in 2017 that one in six young people won't re-wear clothes they've been photographed in on social media; a survey of 2000 women cited by the Daily Mail found that an item of clothing is worn, on average, just seven times. During my ban, Dai overheard a Primark shop assistant telling her colleague that she replaces her jeans every six months, as she feels after that they are "worn out". 

With a culture that places so much emphasis on our appearance on the one hand, and treats clothing as a disposable commodity on the other, it was no major surprise that all my friends' wardrobes were bursting at the seams. 

Having worked in a charity shop, I had seen first hand a small portion of the millions of garments that are donated each year - many unworn. The shop I worked in received such a high volume of donations that we occasionally had to turn goods away, because we simply didn't have the physical space to take in any more! Yet despite the best efforts of staff and volunteers, charity shops in the UK only sell around 10% of the clothing they are given. The rest - damaged or soiled items, but also unsold items in good condition - is sold to "rag traders", who generally ship it to third world countries. The second hand clothing industry is worth billions of pounds, but it is also saturated. Second hand western clothing is no longer a hot commodity; there is just too much of it. 

Our cast-offs are known in markets in Ghana as 'Dead White Man's Clothes', as Liz Ricketts reports on the Fashion Revolution blog, "When secondhand clothing started flooding into Ghana in the 1960s people assumed that the cheap imports had been the property of deceased foreigners, hence the name. The truth – that the clothing was simply excess that living consumers in the USA and Europe no longer wanted – was less than obvious." Kantamanto Market in Ghana is the largest second-hand clothing market in West Africa; 15 million items are unloaded there each week, and yet Liz Ricketts discovered that 40% of each clothing bale sent to Kantamanto becomes waste in landfill. Haiti is so flooded by second hand clothing imports that the local textile industry has suffered and many tailors have gone out of business. We are producing, buying, and disposing of so much excess clothing that even the developing world cannot make use of it.