It starts with a tone of voice; the shift of perspective so clear that I might as well be Alice, suddenly looking at the underside of the table, wondering how I got so small. That tone pierces through all the barriers I’ve put up and what’s revealed is the soft murmur of a brain that’s starting to slow down. The silence is yet to come, but the constant whirring has a catch – a pause – to it now, something that has interrupted the usual cycle.
The blindfold erases my sight, but I’d already stopped seeing what was around me the minute I was ordered through the door. I focus to hear the slightest noise and tingle in anticipation while waiting to feel the pressure on skin that will give me my next direction. We call it play but it’s anything but – it’s communication on an entirely different level. It’s telling each other things we can’t or shouldn’t say out loud; it’s an exercise in trust that amazes me every time.