{"id":306,"date":"2020-05-28T18:22:14","date_gmt":"2020-05-28T17:22:14","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/writersrebel.com\/?p=306"},"modified":"2020-06-02T19:06:38","modified_gmt":"2020-06-02T18:06:38","slug":"wanderland","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/writersrebel.com\/wanderland\/","title":{"rendered":"Read: Wanderland<\/span>Jini Reddy<\/span>"},"content":{"rendered":"

This is an exclusive excerpt from Jini Reddy’s new book, Wanderland<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u2018In south-west London, trying to make sense of it all \u2013 not just my father\u2019s and sister\u2019s deaths, but what felt like a total failure to make anything stick \u2013 I\u2019d gravitate like a homing pigeon to Holland Park. It brought me back to the me I once was: the me who had loved her London publishing job, the me who had shone, even the me pre-grief.<\/p>\n

I went there every week, religiously. I\u2019d exhale once I got through the gates, race to the Kyoto garden, throw pennies in the wishing well and pray grimly to the carp, wander around the Henry Moore sculpture and up and down the leafy, wooded trails behind the cafe. In this place, my pain was bearable. Why was I so stuck? I\u2019d ask myself over and over. It wasn\u2019t fair. I was in a nightmare I couldn\u2019t wake from. I figured my life as I knew it was over, with the best years behind me. I may as well face up to it.<\/p>\n

Little by little, my attachment to Holland Park waned and I discovered Wimbledon Common, a mere bus ride from where I now lived. I\u2019d stomp moodily through the wood to the Windmill cafe, sip tea and weep and wail and plead with the gods. Where were they, anyway?<\/p>\n

Walking out my shame at having absolutely nothing to tether myself to \u2013 no job, no partner, no home of my own, no father or sister \u2013 was becoming a habit.<\/p>\n

On my walks to the Common, I\u2019d pass the tall iron gates to Cannizaro Park and one day decided to take a look. The park was hidden behind a stately country house hotel and was more of a landscaped garden with woods and extraordinary trees \u2013 the kind of park you felt you couldn\u2019t just turn up at in your slobby, holey leggings. At the bottom was a winding path where in season the rhododendrons flourished and the towering redwoods, birches, maples and horse chestnut trees arched or twisted and generally invited you in in defiance of the human code of formality the surroundings seemed to dictate. Every step I took was a prayer. Sometimes I\u2019d wrap my arms around the branch of a tree and beg the tree for help. I was desperate. I prayed and prayed. And eventually things did change. By some miracle, I began to get work as a journalist. I was giddy with joy and relief. Through work I roamed and had adventures I \u2019d never dreamed possible. I turned into a travel bore \u2013 the worst kind. If someone asked me how I was, I\u2019d simply tell them where I\u2019d been or where I was going. My identity was tied up in names on a map.<\/p>\n

And then I began to ask myself what it was that was missing. Because something was. On my travels, I\u2019d yearn to go off piste, away from people and into wilder places, sometimes in countries unpopular in the West. I wanted to meet the local medicine woman or man, not just for the magic and the mystery of their calling, but because on some level, I sensed they\u2019d accept me because I too did not fit in. Such encounters would almost never feature in my itinerary, carefully cobbled together by a conventional minder or well-intentioned PR. And if they did, editors would too often weed out any references to them in the features I wrote, even when I pleaded with them. \u2018It\u2019s sentimental fluff,\u2019 said one breezily, his cut-glass, public school accent brooking no argument. End of. But, oh, the thrill of meeting someone who\u2019d talk about the elements or the sky or earth or tree or a peak or waterfall as if it were a special friend or part of a clan of mysterious, sentient beings. In my book these indigenous people weren\u2019t sentimental \u2013 they had vision. My heart would leap and inside I\u2019d be screaming yes, this.<\/p>\n

But what exactly was I seeking? What was this thing that ran deep that I hungered for? It had to do with the natural world and with landscape but also something more. It wasn\u2019t a forensic thing. It wasn\u2019t a cold, detached, indifferent, objective thing. I walked and reflected and clutched at wisps of half-formed thoughts. I delved into the world of spiritual ecology, tried plant medicines and made friends with shamans (long before they became shorthand for a brand of consumerist, urban hipness \u2013 insulting to the genuine healers I knew). I dabbled, dipped a toe into arcane practices and took a vague, non-scholarly interest in the writings of nature mystics.<\/p>\n

Around this time, I finally discovered the woods at the end of my street and the lake beyond it. I\u2019d walk up there a few times a week and learned the names of the waterfowl from the information board. I got to know the ornery coots, the Egyptian geese, the moorhens and the mallards, male and female and the Canada geese with their exuberant runway landings and take-offs. Air Goose, I called them.<\/p>\n

After my time by the lake, I\u2019d turn back up the woods and head home, calmer and with a stronger sense of edging towards something. I just wasn\u2019t sure what. Or maybe I was too afraid to voice it, to say: \u2018 I want to go deeper, I need to go deeper. To tread a more mystical path. \u2019 But in the end I had to. My parents, born into the sharp end of apartheid, had struggled and taken heroic, courageous steps so that life could be better for their children, so that I could choose my beliefs and my path, so that I could walk in freedom. To not claim this freedom would be dishonouring them as much as myself.\u2019<\/p>\n

Extract from\u00a0Wanderland<\/em>, \u00a0published by Bloomsbury Books.<\/p>\n

Copyright \u00a9Jini Reddy, 2020<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jini Reddy\u00a0<\/strong>is an award-winning author and journalist. She was born in London to Indian parents who grew up in South Africa, and was raised in Montreal, Canada. Jini has a degree in Geography, an M.A. in English Literature and a passion for writing on travel, nature and spirituality. Her byline has appeared in The Guardian<\/em>,\u00a0Time\u00a0<\/em>magazine,\u00a0The Metro, The Times<\/em>,\u00a0Sunday Times Style<\/em>,\u00a0The Sunday Telegraph<\/em>,\u00a0National Geographic Traveller, BBC Wildlife, Resurgence & The Ecologist\u00a0<\/em>and other publications.\u00a0<\/em>Her first book,\u00a0Wild Times,\u00a0<\/em>was published in 2016 and she is a contributor to the forthcoming\u00a0Women on Nature\u00a0<\/em>anthology.<\/p>\n

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 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This is an exclusive excerpt from Jini Reddy’s new book, Wanderland. \u2018In south-west London, trying to make sense of it all \u2013 not just my father\u2019s and sister\u2019s deaths, but what felt like a total failure to make anything stick \u2013 I\u2019d gravitate like a homing pigeon to Holland Park. It brought me back to […]<\/p>\n

Read More… from Read: Wanderland<\/span>Jini Reddy<\/span><\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":1030,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[4],"tags":[35,45,59,44,46,43],"yoast_head":"\nRead: Wanderland - Writers Rebel<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/writersrebel.com\/wanderland\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Read: Wanderland - Writers Rebel\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"This is an exclusive excerpt from Jini Reddy’s new book, Wanderland. \u2018In south-west London, trying to make sense of it all \u2013 not just my father\u2019s and sister\u2019s deaths, but what felt like a total failure to make anything stick \u2013 I\u2019d gravitate like a homing pigeon to Holland Park. 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