There’s a sadness in recognising that as people of colour, we are well-versed in understanding why the caged bird sings, but are yet to know the same freedoms as a heron or cormorant
By Evie Muir, writer and founder of Peaks of Colour
How does it feel to be as free as a bird? This was the question we endeavoured to answer during Peaks of Colour’s second walkshop in a series created collaboratively with the Right to Roam campaign. Our first walkshop explored how nature can support us to heal the grief that disconnects us from the land, our bodies and each other. The second walkshop ‘Embodying Liberatory Freedoms’ invited participants to explore somatic practices which, when experienced in nature, have the potential to mend what has been severed.
As we idled along the winding footpath, we passed watermills and dams, remnants of Sheffield’s industrial roots that have long since been reclaimed by the nature trail
Given the themes of remedy and repair, it seemed appropriate for this walkshop to take place along the Rivelin Valley Trail. A three-mile nature trail which follows the Rivelin river, joining the suburbs of northwest Sheffield to the rolling hills of the Peak District, the Rivelin Valley Trail felt like a metaphor for connection. As we idled along the winding footpath, we passed watermills and dams, remnants of Sheffield’s industrial roots that have long since been reclaimed by the nature trail. It was a notable reminder of what has brought us to this place: the sense of inner rewilding we hope to also experience for ourselves.
Migratory birds
Taking place during Refugee Week, as part of Migration Matters Festival, the day began with a birdwatching and nature meditation walk, led by ornithologist, Right to Roam campaigner and former conservationist with the RSPB, Nadia Sheikh. We grappled with binoculars, attuned our bird identification techniques through sensory awareness, and considered the contradictions projected on the human and the more-than human.
A life free from restrictions, from scrutiny, from policing, from struggle, from heartache and the hypervigilance, tension, anxiety and stress it causes within us. What would it be to exist in our bodies safely?
The migration of birds has long since been celebrated by white-led environmental organisations. Year after year, season after season, the anticipated arrival of swallows, house martins and swifts elicit rejoice and jubilation. The arrival of refugees and asylum seekers however, persecuted and destitute, receives a repugnantly hostile welcome. Despite our movement being incited by the same conditions – climate displacement, unrest, survival, self-betterment – for people of colour, our migration is often met with suspicion at the imagined borders we humans have constructed for ourselves.
There’s a sadness in recognising that as people of colour, we, and the ancestors who came before us, are well-versed in understanding why the caged bird sings, but are yet to know the same freedoms as a heron or cormorant. A life free from restrictions, from scrutiny, from policing, from struggle, from heartache and the hyper-vigilance, tension, anxiety and stress it causes within us. What would it be to exist in our bodies safely? we asked.
There’s a sadness in recognising that as people of colour, we, and the ancestors who came before us are well-versed in understanding why the caged bird sings, but are yet to know the same freedoms as a heron or cormorant
Tuning in
This was the focus of our exploration in the second half of the walkshop. Diverting off the Rivelin Valley Trail, we settled at Flying Horse Lawn, a private-land-turned-community-space which boasts a quiet enclave under larch, lime, silver birch and an impressive shelter that can double as a stage or studio. Here movement artist, performer, and facilitator, Sym Stellium, introduced us to movement and visualisation exercises that cement somatics as a political practice.
Pay attention to the part of your body that feels the most tension
Lifting our heads to the sky, we welcomed the gentle raindrops that cooled us down amidst the mid-afternoon heat. Then, we moved our bodies. “First, pay attention to the part of your body that feels the most tension,” Sym guided us. “Listen to what this part of your body is telling you. What stories is it trying to share, what histories is it trying to teach, what can we learn from this tension? What movements does this part of your body want you to make? Take up space and see where you go when you are being led by your body.”
Time became elastic as we oriented around the grounds. Limbs and extremities winding and contorting, our feet being led by the body part that moved through us in a way that felt instinctive and natural. “Then, pay attention to the part of your body that feels the least amount of tension, that feels the most free,” Sym said, and we repeated our movements, this time with a lightness. Our jaws unclenched and our fists released as we moved through what felt good.
An ancestral line
It was here I realised I don’t feel this way as much as I should. The part of the body that really spoke to me were the balls of my feet. My soles felt hot, and a pulsating, aching heat throbbed in my walking boots. I felt moved to remove them, and sooth my feet on the cool, damp grass. The more I paid attention to this heat, the more the sensation started to travel, up through my toes, to my ankles, the back of my calves, thighs, lower back, spine, shoulders, neck and temple, until my whole body began to tingle.
I must look after my feet, I thought, show them more gratitude and care; they transport me through this healing journey
It wasn’t uncomfortable. Rather, it felt like the immediate release after a massage. I glided gently through the grass, and by the time Sym brought us back into the space, I realised I barely felt my feet at all. I felt elevated off the ground, floating, with the grass caressing my journey. I must look after my feet, I thought, show them more gratitude and care; they transport me through this healing journey.
When it came to sharing what arose for us in the session, we sat around in the circle on the damp grass, and discussed the similarities and differences in our tensions. I found I wasn’t the only person who was drawn to notice their feet, and ancestral trauma was something that came up regularly. Someone noted that they felt sensation only in one foot. They had a chronic illness, and often experienced pain in their feet. But when they interrogated this further, they realised this was the particular foot which a parent had had amputated, and maybe they were experiencing that transferred pain.
The neck was also a part of the body which felt particularly noticeable for people. One person reflected how conscious they were that their neck was trapped between their head and body, like an in-between land, a liminal space that often gets neglected. “It’s what I use to look up at birds,” another agreed. “I must look after it more.”
Others felt more called to examine their relationship with the inner workings of their neck, their throat and tongue. People reflected on the ways they were instrumental tools of oral traditions, or how it represented the practice of holding your tongue. “For me, it was the front of my neck,” someone said. “It didn’t make much sense to me at first, then I thought of the two veins that always appeared in my mum’s neck when she was stressed, that’s how we knew she was angry.” A relatable chorus of mmms sounded in solidarity.
“It made me think of all the tension that has been built up over generations, that appears in blood streams. All the tension from staying silent instead of expressing the feelings, because for whatever reason, we know we can’t”.
An embodied liberation
What stood out to me was the ways that feeling freedom in our bodies was contingent on us feeling through the pain, in order to identify the sites of transformation that we needed to pay attention to. Exploring embodied responses to liberation/oppression, freedoms/unfreedoms, as a tool to reclaim ongoing healing, also allowed us to transform our anxieties, be they about our bodies, our environments and climates, or the structures we must navigate. It also allowed us to visualise ourselves, but not from a place of judgement.
With Nadia’s ornithological wisdom and Sym’s intuitive guidance we were able to feel at peace, present and rooted in place rather than at the unruly behest of our emotions. A bee could buzz past our ear, and we could remain still and in connection with it. The rain could fall on our faces and we could be present within it. The wind could howl through the leaves of the trees and we could embrace the loud soundscape of nature. Just for a moment, for one afternoon, we understood, knew deeply, what it means to feel freedom.
This story is written by Evie Muir as part of a series documenting three walkshops created by Peaks of Colour and Right to Roam. Read the first of her stories here.
Evie Muir
I’m Evie (she/they), I’m both a domestic abuse survivor and qualified domestic abuse specialist, writer and the founder of Peaks of Colour — a Peak District-based nature-for-healing community group, by and for people of colour.
Having worked in the VAWG (Violence Against Women and Girls) sector for over 10 years, specialising in Black and queer survivors’ intersectional experiences of gendered and racialised trauma, I left the sector when I became burnt out, disenfranchised and disillusioned. My work now sits on the intersections of gendered, racial and land justice, and seeks to nurture survivors’ joy, rest, hope and imagination as abolitionist praxis. Advocating for the decolonisation of the outdoors, I’m interested in the ways nature can forge a landscape of healing and justice outside of carceral feminist models.
As a Northern freelance writer I’m passionate about the liberating form of writing as healing and resistance. My debut book, ‘Radical Rest’, explores Black and Abolitionist Feminist approaches to activist burnout and is published by Elliot & Thompson in 2024.
