When the earth is sliding…. just walk

Weatherwise, it’s been a glorious weekend here in Suffolk. Warm temperatures and blue skies. Sticky mud drying out to hard ruts. Early morning fog has lain across fields like a heavy, damp blanket. But in the pockets of dispersal, I’ve glimpsed a fox slinking across the field, and as the inky darkness turned almost imperceptibly to a shade of grey, the birds began to wake, trying out their voices, tentatively starting their day. And just a few minutes along, there was the barn owl and on still, the kestrel sitting on a high wire, breathing in the sun.

On a personal level, things have been tricky. Days and nights filled with worry and uncertainty. It has felt as if the earth, my earth, is sliding and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Added to which, it’s brain tumour awareness month and in a few weeks time, it will be six years since Tim fell asleep for the final time.

It’s a lot. A lot to keep a person in bed, afraid to get up in case there is more.

But I learned nearly six years ago, during my month in Shetland, that the only thing to do when the earth is sliding is to walk. So I put my boots on and grabbed Molly’s lead. We didn’t go far, but took a stroll along the riverbank. We saw swans and moorhens. An egret taking flight. A flock of Brent geese preened and lolled in a field. Molly ran from pure joy and then paddled in the river.

I breathed in the heady scent of wild garlic, stopped to take in a spray of daffodils and a drift of snowdrops. And I held my face to the sky, letting the sun warm and comfort me and listen to it telling me that everything will be all right.

The week ahead will be filled with a huge workload, longing, missing, wishing. But these slow walks have helped me to remember there is hope. And I will carry that with me.