I’m a lucky man, everyone agrees.

‘But you live your life on holiday!’ they say in London.

‘Londra! Bella citta!’ says the taxi driver from the airport when I tell him where I’ve arrived from.
I’m a lucky man, I agree. I’m lucky enough to be with the one I love, that’s for sure. As for the travel, however…

We moved to Italy when my partner got a job offer she couldn’t refuse. My freelance life meant I could move with her, providing I was prepared to keep on moving – back and forth across Europe (I have my green guilt, I admit, and have done my best to offset, but faced with the choice between Lea and Gaia, I chose Lea).

Back and forth, back and forth, across countries, cultures, climates.

Time works for me – I can get up an hour later at home in Italy and still appear to be bright and early with my emails to England.

I catch the 7 o’clock flight from Italy and somehow lose an hour in mid-air so I am at my desk before 9.30…

Time works against me, parcelling out my two quite separate lives it seems. The comfort, peace, passion of my time in Italy; hitting the ground running in England, I dart off the plane and into a whirl of advocacy, office politics, catching up with friends.

Time is compressed in England, elongated in Italy. In England I rush to get through, in Italy I draw out each moment. Am I doubling the quality of my life, or halving it? Can Lea really understand? For her I have slipped out for a few short days when she has been free to watch X Factor in the evenings without my grumbling. Yet I feel as if I have been gone a week, a month, a year…

Time is absolute and infinitely malleable. The paradox of our lives: every second more marks a second less, The minutes drag during a dull meeting, tumble toward the end of an exam. Some of my Saturday mornings will last for an eternity while whole working weeks have been lost… some working weeks will last forever, while whole weekends…

Counting us, holding us accountable, our time is not linear but three, maybe four, dimensional; indivisible from who we are, like our heart – the clock of our heart, beating with us through the fragmentary, irregular journey of our lives, time travellers all.

The smoke of jerk chicken clings to the trees, the streets are lined with rubbish, the smell of ganja is heavy on the breeze, and the sounds of Caribbean rhythms vibrate the pavement. There are hordes of people everywhere, mingling, walking, dancing, standing, drinking, smoking... girls grinding low against street lamps, hanging off worught iron terraces, swaying on steps, Jamaican red green and yellow proudly displayed. It's a beautiful mess, a mash of music and mayhem, noise and decadence. It could be called a hedonistic scene, and that would be an accurate description! If you were to be dropped off in the centre of Carnival with no prior knowledge to what the event stands for, it's historical significance, it's cultural importance, well, you couldn't be blamed for thinking it was just a massive street party with the intense potential for gang violence at every corner.

I love it.

The smoke of jerk chicken clings to the trees, the streets are lined with rubbish, the smell of ganja is heavy on the breeze, and the sounds of Caribbean rhythms vibrate the pavement. There are hordes of people everywhere, mingling, walking, dancing, standing, drinking, smoking... girls grinding low against street lamps, hanging off worught iron terraces, swaying on steps, Jamaican red green and yellow proudly displayed. It's a beautiful mess, a mash of music and mayhem, noise and decadence. It could be called a hedonistic scene, and that would be an accurate description! If you were to be dropped off in the centre of Carnival with no prior knowledge to what the event stands for, it's historical significance, it's cultural importance, well, you couldn't be blamed for thinking it was just a massive street party with the intense potential for gang violence at every corner.

I love it. Though I have resided in London for almost a decade, yesterday was only my second visit to Carnival, and it gave me one of those heart melting, tear inducing, proud to be a Londoner moments. Perhaps because I am always trying to look a little deeper, find the commonality that connects us all, as Barack Obama says, "what unites us is more common that what divides us". The multi cultural blend in London is comforting, fascinating. I love the different backgrounds that at the best of times blend seamlessly, the variety of rhythms, foods and faces on display was breathtaking. I love that I went with my dearest friend Johnny, and that between us we represent 10 different countries - Nigeria, Italy, Rainforest India, Portugal, Brazil, Ireland, Poland, Ukraine, Japan and Canada, though I jokingly call him my brother from another mother. I love that London brought us together and that I feel safe enough with him to dance in the streets and not care what anyone else thinks for once. I cherish these stolen moments at Carnival because they are rare, and I can look around and feel freedom.

Johnny told me that the reason whistles are blown at Carnival is to reclaim them from the days of slavery, when they were used by white slave owners as a means of summoning and issuing commands to their black slaves. What now is a sound of joy (or in large doses irritation) if one looks a little deeper is actually the cry of a soul reaching for redemption, for the blood and genes of the survivors of humanity's most base flaw who surround the stout soaked streets. This simple lesson of looking deeper at things that are not what they seem spoke volumes to me about the existence of the Notting Hill Carnival, and other ceremonies like it around the world. Because most of these celebrations can be viewed as debaucherous carnal celebrations of excess, when what they are is a unified call to spiritual commitment. What is Ramadan but the Muslim time to reconnect to Allah, a time of internal cleansing and focus through fasting and tuning into the heart chakra? What are Mardi Gras or the famous Rio Carnivale but the last effete vestige prior to Lent? Yes it is easy to label those who solely sit on the side of overinduldgence at all times, festival be damned, and never use the afterburn as a responsible impetus for inner contemplation and an opportunity for spiritual advancement and proclamation. But it is the original purity of the intent that calls to me. It is the amalgamation of modern and ancient ritual and testimony that intrigues me. It is like a siren song to invoke the soul's divinity into consciousness through the act of declaration, be it via fasting, abstinence, prayer, meditation, sobriety... it is the rawness of sacrifice exposed. And it is not perfect and it is all too human in its epic ability to fail.

It's trendy to say that I am on a spiritual journey, or to roughly quote Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, "a spiritual being having a human experience." And life is a series of painfully exquisite contrasts, lights and darks with the colours blurred and incoherent, the cold September sunshine mixed with the gusting rain beating the window pane and the hopeful rainbow that arches its triumph thereafter. And Carnival is merely a brilliant representation of this frail balance. A reminder of the darkness of slavery through the seduction of dance, bodies sacrificed to the beat of the drum, hearts beating in tandem. Because music is to me the highest expression of the soul, the closest human frequency to the divine, is it not? And though we may not each be able to create it, it is inherent respond and participate, and it is the heartbeat that thrives in the chest of our human experience.

As we were preparing to leave, Johnny turned to me and said, "Dance the evil spirits away. Dance them into the ground and leave them here forever. And take away with you the amazing energy of the people." It was by no means a perfect day. There are evidently still places where the races choose not to mix, and where individuality is still frowned upon. Homosexuality is still a sin in Jamaica, interracial relationships are still taboo, religion still polarises, and violence still reigns. But in the smiling face of a beautiful mixed race boy, I saw the light. What some could call the face of God, I would choose to call a glimpse of the Divine. As he danced down in a low squat shaking his rump like his Mother, bouncing gleefully to the massive speakers atop one of the colourful parade floats, a crowd stopped to bask in his glory, drink in his innocence. He was unaware of his power, merely searching our eyes for approval, unsteady on his feet but feeling every note. He was quite easily the most simple and touching channel of grace I have ever had the privilege to bear witness to. He was Carnival Spirit incarnate, and his joyful echo still resonates in my soul and I cling to its mercy.