A cozy nomadic dream.

A dream is where I begin, a safe place, a cozy place, a place where the flowers are wild and the moon is fierce.

My home is in my mind, my existence is just an existence, the dream of living the life I long for is what I hold closest to my heart. No atom, space nor time can compare. It’s the idea of a better life, the idea of any kind of life that reminds me of a little place I once knew, that will always be my cozy place.

My life has been nomadic. I have never settled in one place long enough to call it home, yet I have never left the place that I should be calling my home. I have not travelled, nor have I fled footloose and fancy free. I have stayed, hidden, out of sight, trying to survive, trying to find a light.

When I was younger, I dreamt of many places, I learnt of the power that my imagination holds. In those dreams, I found many places, I found comfort and I found freedom.

I could describe thousands of my dreamt up worlds, but I will rewind it back to reality, back to the last place I felt truly safe, the place that brings me most comfort and the place that for me, will always be my cosy space.

This, is my cosiest place. My escape, my happy little memory..

There’s a cottage, a large white stone cottage, with a beautiful garden that overflows onto a sandstone wall almost trailing out into the street. The old wooden gate hangs ajar, I push it open and step down the two precariously balanced stone steps onto a slim path. As I walk towards the cottage, I can feel the flowers caress me, I can smell the fresh scent of grass and a warmth that only the purest of souls can feel. There’s a beauty to this place, a safety, an overwhelming sense of peace and magic.

As I reach the end of the flower draped path I come to three large steps which lead upto a beautiful wooden door painted a muted shade of baby blue, surrounded by ivy but that’s not where I’m heading, instead I vear off to the right, down five very slim, moss covered slabs of sandstone. I have to be careful not to lose my balance, the stones are slippery.

Down here there’s not an unpleasant smell of damp, but rather a comforting earthly scent of nature. There’s a small wooden door, with a window just beside. The window glows golden with a warm firelight, there’s a cat at my feet, rubbing against my legs, meowing demanding attention. I gently knock on the door then lean down to stroke big ginge, the cat. It’s a squeeze, I’m holding a mountain of sheet music and balancing a keyboard on my back but who could resist such a lovely welcome from the cottage cat?

The door opens, the damp, musty smell grows ever stronger as I step into the tiny cellar. I’m pulled in by a delightful bearded man, a tall man, with a powerful presence and an abundance of charisma, he’s much older than I, as I am but a child at this point. His smile is disarming, and I’m at ease. This man, would fast become my teacher, my mentor, my best friend, and my hero.

He is gone now, but those years I spent down in the moles den, singing and slamming keys are the safest and happiest years I can remember.

My life at home was troubled, I was a somewhat unhappy child but I loved to sing, oh how I loved to lose myself in all things lyrical. I didn’t have a Father, not a real one. An alcoholic violent abusive excuse of a father yes, but a dad? No. I didn’t know what a dad was that was until I found my way down the cottage garden and into the moles hole.

Growing up, a victim of abuse, the constant weight and strain of abnormality was unbearable. There was never a place for me to feel at ease, never a time for me to breathe. I felt smothered, in a constant state of fear and panic. I found solace in music and I was lucky to find a mentor who not only taught me how to sing, but who taught me how to smile. He called me SBC, I still have those letters written upon my keychain. That sense of comfort, that sense of complete and utter ease is, for me, the ultimate cosy place and I can feel it wherever I am, wherever I go, with whomever I’m with, alone or with others. I always feel your love, and I always feel at ease. That is my cozy place, down the cottage garden down into the cellar we all called the mole hole.