Today I woke to birdsong, the sunlight filtering through the curtains, feeling alive and awake for the first time in weeks.
Seems as if I’ve been living in the shadow for some time, like the newly undead . Light patches of happiness and awareness creep in periodically – time with my children, a trip to the beach, coffee with a friend, a night of hedonism, music and banter with my boyfriend. However, these moments never really outlast the creeping dread of anxiety. Anxiety fuelled by the sale of my house, the search for somewhere to live, lockdown et al.
Today the sunlight, the early sharp light before full morning seems to have activated a happy place. And I’m sitting on the deck, in a faded plastic chair, a mug of tea within reach … and I’m writing. Without angst or preconception, nothing essential. Not a story, rhyme, or extra chapter for one of my many unfinished works of dubious literary content. Just an acknowledgement of my existence at this present time.
And anyway, aren’t all words essential? More valid when they jump onto the page, eagerly dropped , a seamless stream of consciousness as each word eases the weight of the unwritten hoard in my brain.
It feels good, better than good, the stirring of the muse, who’s been gently whispering in my ear for over a year – resulting in many random scribbles in random notebooks.
Today the sun forced me up, and although I can always use more sleep, I felt an overwhelming desire to arise and pull back the curtains. I relished the early morning chill , the feel of the floor beneath my feet. At the washing line, I paused many times to pat the black-furred mini beast who curled her unhelpful way about my legs. The back field was a glorious vision of long grasses, bright buttercups and mysterious circles of forget-me-not and violets. And everywhere a rush of tweeting and chirping.
There was a heavy pause in the air, the sky waiting for the moment to sound thunder and signal a downpour. I felt it in the soft breeze that blew the pale, white thorn blossom about like faerie confetti. The cat laid herself at my feet, and began to lick a lazy paw, a single dandelion wish resting between her ears. Wet-whiskered and silky from her path through the meadow.
Nature pulls me in with the arms of a lover and I breathe deeply, each inhalation slightly easing the coil of wire within, a gentle unspooling. I take a sip of my now tepid Earl Grey and bend my head to the open page.