Yesterday I was in serious need of a battery recharge so off I headed again to my number one place of choice, Yorkshire Sculpture Park.  As I often do, I made a beeline for the spirituality of the Chapel past the now imperceptible Skyspace obscured by leafy growth.  I've seen the Shiota before and wasn't disappointed this time either.  It is still breathtaking, ponderous and wondrous and heavy in its lightness.  I watched a bit of the video of her bare sleeping body with bloody intravenous support with fascination.  As I walked in, facing me in the interactive pack for young people was a book that stopped me in my tracks.  My Dad used to invent bedtime stories for my sister and I way back when we were little girls based around an imaginary little blue bird.  I swear my Dad is in the Chapel.  In the park.  In January, when I didn't know what to do with myself on the anniversary of his death, where did I go?  I lit a tea light outside, then I carried him with me all the way round on my memorial walk, it was the most fitting way I could find to deal with that uncomfortable day.  He was in the organ pipes too.  Every time I go to the park I take a slightly different route and yesterday was no exception as my senses were deliciously stimulated at seeing familiar sights from a new perspective.  I'd never seen the organ pipes.  I didn't make them sound.  An excuse for my next visit.  I sat several times on my jaunt on benches that were conveniently placed to help me let my thoughts come and go.  It was a thrill to see the herons up close and fearless, like a counsel of grey grandfathers, and what an argumentative cacophonous racket they made!  It was inspiring to see all the different species rub along together in some sort of mysteriously taciturn hierarchic accord.  

It was time for coffee number 3 so I headed back toward the visitor centre and tried not to get distracted by all the alluring enticing pulls.  Boosted by the potent kick from my only drug of choice these days (apart from the occasional sugar hit), I went back out into the sun's embrace to see the recently opened Penone exhibition, A Tree in the Wood.  How appropriate for the park!  As is always the case, no photo ever does the works justice and I was in awe of the spectacle laid out in front of me.  Perhaps fortunately, my phone ran out of juice so I was forced to do the opposite of the person in that old story who missed the Pope passing by as she was so busy taking photos.  I covertly entered the Underground gallery after my external circuit.  Greeted by the keenly discreet young woman who was available to offer just the right amount of information and interaction, I marvelled yet again at the familiar green-eyed potatoes that had ears and even lips, and we both expressed relief that they were periodically refreshed to avoid that stale iodine bin odour.  The smell throughout the gallery is still with me.  It's not just about feeding the visual senses.  I was intoxicated by the addictive heady hit of freshly carved wood from the epically enormous creaking tree that accidentally spanned the split rooms.  Curiosity overcame me as I craned to see a sticky puddle of sanguine sap in the depths of a hollowed out rectangular trunk.  I allowed myself to be momentarily hypnotised by Penone's trance inducing fingerprint pulsating outwards, and intrigued by a wall of aromatic leaves.  I watched some of the silent video about the sculptor, who didn't look how I thought he would from his exotic name.  I thought "hell, I could do that" as I watched him dip his paintbrush into vivid blue and gold pigments in awe of the resulting textures he produced with his hands in the white clay, and thought again.

I wanted to buy the Shiota book from the shop but it was £45.  As I reeled a bit at the price tag (worth every penny for the quality) I remembered my birthday's coming up, and then thought I didn't NEED to have the book, her work was already growing inside me from my visit.  I asked about the poetry reading by Yorkshire poet Simon Armitage tomorrow night and my heart sank a bit as I was told it was sold out.  Of course it was sold out, he's meant to be amazing and I was disappointed to miss that opportunity to witness him reading from his own work.  Maybe he could read every night for a week?  Or a month?

I reluctantly decided to call it a day as my body was screaming at me to rest and although I felt sated for the time being, I could have gone round once more had I not booked Aquafit, and anyway the park closes at 5.  One of the amazing things about this extraordinary place is everything feels so personal in such a vast space.  The exquisite artistic orgy of culture and nature feels like it's put on just for me.  I don't know how they do it!