It’s mild out and I’m sweating in my coat, softly cursing my heatgen underwear, wishing I had had the foresight to check the weather forecast before committing to clothes. I’m also wishing I had packed my umbrella, another reason for checking Thursday’s intentions in advance of entering into her orbit, but it’s too late now, so I unbutton my coat, shed my hat and gloves and thank God for his kindness. In December, 14 degrees is an unexpected gift: I’ll not be condemning the horse or speaking ill of the dead, even if it does mean juggling extra pieces. I wipe water from my nose with a tissue and close my handbag; it’s spitting slightly and threatening to rain and the sky looks positively angry. In truth, I’m slightly scared. Ominous and oppressive come to mind; vindictive, also. I walk fast, hoping to make it to the station unscathed.
I cross Leicester Square, dodging commuters and eager tourists. Continue on to Embankment, where I pull out my Oyster, tap the gate, scan the map, turn (as per instructed) and descend, stepping almost immediately onto a train. The doors close and for four stops I knit, the strip in my hands extending, bit by bit. Two weeks in, it has advanced from single brown square to autumn quilt, albeit a small one, housing a bunny rabbit, two carrots, a ladybird and a branch. Organic, in charge of me rather than me in charge of it, I have no idea what comes next: a flower, a moon, a person, a dog…? At the end, there will be a message; there always is. I am keen to read it. I used to check my horoscope and consult the cards, translating from a ‘how to’ book. I also analysed leaves, pulling shapes out of cups. But creativity is better: harder to decipher, perhaps, but more insightful and based in fact. My novels held messages about where I ought to go and where, as a result, I’ve travelled since. My poetry, too; warning and guiding, if only I had been open to seeing and obeying when it was relevant.
At Sloane Square, I finish my row and bag my needles. Then it’s up and off and through another barrier.
Outside it’s dry and quiet, a scattering of people queuing at a newsstand, several taxis speeding by, the odd bus… I take out my phone and check the time: if I’m quick, I can grab a coffee; I could use the pick-me-up as I’m feeling tired and the ‘no light’ does strange things to me. Fresh out of bed, I’m not yet sure what kind of a day today is, but if the last month and a half are anything to go by, it won’t be great; I don’t want to tempt fate by starting on a backfoot. It will also act as a shield against what’s to come if it turns into an ambush or becomes in any way uncomfortable: after Friday’s disaster, I’m on edge; I’m also nervous. In truth, I’d rather not be here but I made a commitment and a bad day or a bad day last week, isn’t enough of an excuse to deny myself a potential opportunity that, in the long run, I should appreciate. I’m dipping and dabbling, sampling and savouring, endeavouring to fix the broken and right the wrong. There will be mistakes. There will be disasters. There will be injuries and things that ache. But it is by being open and by doing, by absorbing and by experimenting, that we learn. Curl up small, attempt to shut it out, retreat and withdraw and reverse into relative silence: and it all stops: movement, action, improvement, progress, healing, happiness and health.
Coffee in hand slightly later than planned, I rush towards my destination; turning sharply onto a quiet street, slipping through a peeling gate, stumbling down mossy stairs. Nose running, coffee dripping from my coat, late: I’m flustered. Now I wish I’d carried on walking or bought camomile tea instead – it wouldn’t stain and there would be no frantic mopping up, later attempted washing, need to visit the dry cleaners… Cost aside: I’ve nothing else to wear in between. A dress and a cardigan; a skirt and a jumper, don’t quite suit. Even with gloves, a hat, a thick scarf, etc., I will be freezing.
But all of this is tissue paper and beside the point. What’s important is yesterday and how that made me feel and how I feel today, still, as a result: positive, alive, strong. Which, after everything I’ve endured, everything I’ve done, everything I’ve suffered and everything I’ve survived, is a miracle.
by Rebecca L. Atherton
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