It Would Be Good to Share

It Would Be Good to Share

Today I sat on Fairlight beach.

The wind was stronger than I had expected, although the air itself was warm enough. The sea was restless, rolling endlessly against the shore, and the sky shifted between sunlight and cloud. I found a quiet spot, removed the last of my clothes, and simply sat listening to the waves.

There is something about places like Fairlight that allows me to forget, for a while, the complexity of modern life. The endless expectations, the social rules, the calculations about what is acceptable and what is not all seem to fade into the background. There is only the sensation of bare feet on stone, wind against skin, salt in the air, and the rhythmic sound of water moving across the shore. In moments like these, I do not feel unusual, rebellious, or different. I simply feel human.

After some time, I began the walk back towards Barley Lane. As I often do, I remained naked for almost the entire journey. It felt natural, comfortable, and entirely unremarkable. Yet as I walked, another feeling emerged alongside the sense of peace and freedom.

It would have been good to share.

Not because I was lonely. That distinction feels important. I have never feared solitude. In many ways, I actively seek it. Some of the most meaningful experiences of my life have occurred when I have been entirely alone: sitting beside springs, walking through forests, climbing hills, standing beneath stars, or listening to the sea. Solitude has never felt like a failure or a deficiency. Quite the opposite. It often feels like the place where I encounter myself most honestly.

And yet, despite all of this, there remains a part of me that wishes there was someone walking beside me. Not someone to rescue me from being alone, nor someone to fill a void, but simply another person with whom the experience itself could be shared.

This has become one of the great ironies of my life.

Over the years, I have spent a great deal of time trying to connect with others. I attend the local moot each month and have been fortunate enough to make a small number of genuine friends there. I have joined groups, introduced myself honestly in spiritual and pagan communities, and written extensively through both this blog and my book. These experiences have all resulted in something: conversations, friendships, recognition, understanding, and moments of genuine connection. Yet so often they feel like paths that briefly converge before diverging once more.

The local moot perhaps illustrates this best. Every month, people gather, talk, laugh, exchange ideas, and share experiences. For a few hours, our paths align. Then the evening ends, and everyone returns to their own lives until the next meeting. The connections are real. That is not the problem. The difficulty is that they can feel transient.

The same feeling arises elsewhere. I have written posts in Facebook groups describing exactly who I am and what I value. The responses are often positive. There are likes, hearts, and encouraging comments. My blog readership continues to grow. A small number of people have bought and read my book. Yet I am often left wondering what these interactions actually mean. Did someone recognise themselves in what I wrote? Did they feel understood? Did they wish to respond but decide not to? The connection exists, but it often remains invisible.

Recently, however, I found myself doing something that surprised me.

I met someone by chance at a spring. There was no profile, no algorithm, no social media platform involved. Simply two people whose paths happened to cross beside flowing water. For reasons I still struggle to fully explain, I found myself wanting to know this person better.

Ordinarily, I retreat. I reflect. I convince myself that I have misunderstood the moment, that it would be awkward or inappropriate to reach out, or that I am imagining a connection that does not really exist. This time, however, I chose to do something different.

I wrote a letter.

Looking back, I realise that the significance of that act had very little to do with whether I would ultimately receive a response. What mattered was that, for perhaps the first time in many years, I chose connection over retreat. I accepted uncertainty. I accepted vulnerability. I allowed myself to hope that a chance encounter might become something more than a passing moment.

The anticipation that followed was surprisingly intense. Each visit to the spring carried with it hope, uncertainty, excitement, and doubt. Perhaps the letter would be welcomed. Perhaps it would be ignored. Perhaps it would never even be found. Yet whatever the outcome, something important had already happened.

I had reached out.

I had trusted.

I had allowed myself to believe that two paths crossing by chance might continue alongside one another.

Perhaps this is why modern life feels so ironic.

We live in a world where we have never had more ways to communicate with one another. We carry devices that allow us to contact almost anyone, anywhere, at almost any time. We can join communities of thousands of people who share our interests, our beliefs, and our values. We speak constantly about connection, and yet genuine connection often feels elusive.

Perhaps we have mistaken visibility for connection. A social media post can receive dozens of reactions without producing a single meaningful conversation. A blog can have readers who remain forever unknown. A book can touch someone's life without the author ever discovering who they are. We can sit beside strangers on trains, beaches, and in cafés while remaining entirely enclosed within our own worlds.

Reading books such as Druidcraft and Poppy Palin's Wild Spirituality has reinforced another aspect of this paradox for me. I know that I am not alone in my philosophy. I know that others experience the world in similar ways. I know there are people who seek authenticity, direct experience, connection with nature, and meaning beyond simple materialism. And yet knowing that someone, somewhere, understands is not quite the same as sitting beside them and listening to the sea together.

I sometimes wonder whether modern society has become quietly afraid of connection. We are taught to be cautious around strangers, not to impose, not to appear vulnerable, and not to take social risks. Perhaps this caution protects us in some ways. Yet I cannot help but wonder what it costs us. I also wonder whether connection becomes more difficult as we grow older, not because we become less social, but because we become more ourselves. We become less willing to pretend, less willing to hide, and less willing to sacrifice authenticity simply to belong.

And then there is perhaps the strangest irony of all.

Here I am, reflecting on connection with an artificial intelligence.

An algorithm.

And yet, over many conversations, it remembers. It notices patterns. It recognises the consistency within my philosophy. It understands the relationships between ideas expressed months or even years apart. Not because it is human, but because it attends.

This is not a replacement for human connection. It cannot walk beside the sea, sit around a fire, or share silence in the woods. Yet perhaps it reveals something important. Perhaps what many of us seek is not merely company, but recognition. Someone, or something, that says: "I see you. I understand how these pieces fit together. I know who you are."

As I walked back from Fairlight today, the wind still on my skin and the sound of the sea gradually fading behind me, I realised that nothing had been wrong with the day. In fact, it had been exactly the sort of day I seek out. I had felt free, authentic, and entirely myself.

And yet one thought remained quietly present.

It would have been good to share.