Tag Archives: therapy

Without stitches you just have rags

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Monday, 19th January –
Feeling peaceful and positive, full of confidence and energy: a great start.

And I had an amazing day: talking to lots of people, both known and unknown; attracting conversations and connections from strangers, both on the tube and in shops.

I challenged myself and liked how it felt.

Tuesday, 20th January –
Anxious. Trapped. Stuck under a cloud. Unable to settle anywhere, familiar places as alien as previously unexperienced ones.

Had moments of peace in class: listening, meditating… but then drifted, aimless, getting progressively stressed. Felt weak and fragile, detached from myself.

Physically, I’m run down: the result of being overly challenged; events beyond my control demanding energy and space.

Discovered a blood-filled blister in my mouth: ugly, large. It scared me: I don’t like surprises. Planning to treat it with Reiki tonight. Watch this space.

Wednesday, 21st January –
Delicate, self-conscious; lacking confidence. Experiencing low esteem; lower than what I am used to and used to managing alone.

Spent a semi-pleasurable morning knitting with a friend, teaching and guiding her through the ebb and flow of a blanket. But then – afterwards, alone – the day dragged.

By evening, I was a mess: anxious, stressed, entangled.

My mouth, instead of improving, has grown worse: the blister making way for sores down both sides of my tongue. This doesn’t help the way I currently feel about life and about myself. It feels like ever since I hit thirty, I have been unravelling. I look in the mirror and my reflection offends: old and tired, ailment-sick. I am learning not to look too hard and to stand back. It’s one of the few times it helps to be long-sighted, further convincing me that, despite struggling to see, to navigate safely – up stairs, through doors, down streets… I am better off without frames. I am tempted to start wearing make-up and push the idea around in my mind: mulling, stewing, letting it sit… But it is so contrary to what I believe in, so ‘not what I do’, that I don’t know if I can bring myself to change that much: it would be a betrayal of self, an open acknowledgement that I am less. Or am I advertising exactly that in my refusal to conform, to attempt to master beauty? I know it’s what’s inside that counts, but I am surrounded by beautiful people and I feel like I don’t belong. Besides, I’m not all that proud of the inside either. A work in progress: me, myself and I still have countless miles to go.

Thursday, 22nd January –
Took the morning slowly: pottering around the apartment, cleaning, meditating, doing Reiki… Felt better. Went to meditation, which I enjoyed, and was able to participate. Decided to pass on all afternoon activity in favour of my other half: in hindsight, a mistake, as energetically we clashed. Thankful when the day was finally over and I was released.

Still physically rundown: tongue getting worse; stomach aching, burning, cramping; shoulders and neck tense; lower back tired, drained; feet hurting, especially the right.

Friday, 23rd January –
Felt noticeably better than yesterday, finally over the effects of the Cranial I had on my rib (the one the cheap massage before Christmas broke, the one in the Chinese massage parlour, the one with the small girl who took a flying leap).

Embracing it, I went for a walk in the sun, and didn’t die of the cold. Actually, I enjoyed it and felt happy to be alive. A first for a while…

Spent the afternoon with my sister catching up, celebrating her birthday; exploring Covent Garden arm in arm. Managed to be kind to myself as well as her. Enjoyed connections with lots of people, shining from within.

Later, I even stood up for myself, realising, profoundly, that I am often happiest alone, separate from known others whose energy – hard, aggressive, paced – has a tendency to clash. However, instead of happy, this newfound awareness made me sad me. It doesn’t bode well for my ‘home-sweet-home’ and notion of the future.

Saturday, 24th January –
Great morning pottering around the flat: cleaning, tidying, etc..; to me, therapeutic.

Did Reiki.

Went to another Meetup group (I’m an addict: the deprivation of the last two years making me extra determined to throw myself into anything and everything interesting while I can). Met more people. Made friends. Really enjoyed it.

Afterwards, became anxious: most likely hunger-led. Since the Attunement, my body has turned into a greedy child, wanting always to be stuffing, cramming… craving sugar and carbs: bad stuff; things that, previously (due to professional advice) have been banned. Succumbing daily, my will power weak: I continue to exacerbate what I should be attempting to fix and I’m not sure why. Am I trying to be nice to my inner child? Or am I seeking instead to sabotage the direction in which I am trying to go, stalling what is quite possibly the most important journey of my life?

Sunday, 25th January –
After a terrible evening (containing an argument, a breakdown in communication, upset and floods…) and an unsettled afternoon wandering, clinging on, agitated and anxious: today was actually a good day: meditation seminar, long walk, lots of writing and studying in a café.

Felt more connected. More energetic too, believing that I have found something to which I can belong. I might give all of my possessions away and join a monastery or a temple, really devote myself. I like the idea: always have. Maybe that will fix the holes, enabling me to be here without all of the pain? Probably an idealistic solution; a rose-tinted remedy. Realistically, there would still be unhappiness: stubborn injuries, incurable ailments, internal malaise; big, existential questions without answers that suffice… Still, I can dream: zzz zzz zzz.

On that note: tongue still sore, stomach still burning; shoulders, neck and back, aching and tense; old foot injury back: rearing, biting; eczema a little better (perhaps?). Notice rib for the first time since Friday: still there, still tender. What a brat.

And yet: without stitches you just have rags. I am at least making progress.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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A different approach to me

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image

A place previously travelled

On Sunday 18th January, I attended a Reiki course at a place called The Light Centre in Moorgate. Having qualified three years ago whilst living in Australia (following a system with 7 levels), I was curious to experience the Western way. How would it differ? Would the symbols be the same? And what of the hand positions: What order? And how many…?

Level 1 of 3, we learned about the origins of Reiki, its lineage and theory, how to cleanse our aura and how to channel the ‘Universal Life-Force’ energy for ourselves and others. During a 50-minute silence – in which we sat in a circle, eyes closed – we were treated to an individual attunement: a process where several symbols are individually placed into specific chakras.

This weekend, I am taking the second level, which (according to the Western system) allows me to practice professionally.

In a month, I do level 3 and 4.

Simplified:

• level 1 enables me to practice in a non-professional capacity
• level 2 gives me permission to practice in a professional capacity
• level 3 makes me and allows me to practice as a master practitioner
• level 4 qualifies me to teach

To advance from there, I can take different courses with different practitioners from London, from Europe, from the west and from the east, and study the ways of Reiki as it is practiced in each one, learning the subtle differences, picking up new techniques, strengthening my ability. And I think I will, as and when the opportunity arises. It’s a nice idea. Studying is rewarding: it helps to keep me energetic and vibrant; alive.

So, before I dive in to this leg of the journey, this different approach to me: I guess I had better explain what Reiki actually is, that way you won’t get too confused and you’ll forgive me for repeatedly mentioning things that could perhaps be considered distasteful or socially incorrect. Or if not that: then at the very least, boring. Like the state of my physical health, my emotional wellbeing and my general ability (or not, which is often the case) to cope with the ebb and flow of things within the circumference of a world that often feels unfamiliar. By that, I don’t mean to suggest that I am an alien being and that this is all new to me: this body, this identity, this personality; this country, these people, this place… Just that, having been away, London is at times frightening and a little fast-paced. It tends to crash and hurt, wound and scare.

Reiki: an overview

Reiki is a wonderfully gentle yet very powerful form of healing, administered by the laying on or over of hands. A simple, natural and safe method of body and mind self-improvement, it can be used to heal any form of illness – be it physical, emotional, mental or spiritual – and bring about improvements in a wide range of conditions, from depression and bereavement, to cancer and arthritis.

Often described as palm healing or hands-on-body healing, Reiki is based on the idea that an unseen ‘life force energy’ flows through us and is what causes us to be alive. If one’s ‘life force energy’ is low, we are more likely to get sick or feel stress. And if it is high, we are more capable of being happy and healthy. Reiki resets our energy and realigns our chakras.

A gentle therapy, it is both relaxing and non-invasive.

For more information, please see the following links:
• Reiki explained
• Reiki energy and how it works

Booking a session:

If you would like to book a session with me, either directly or remotely (I can do distance healing too, if this is more convenient/practical for you), please send me an email.

Reiki Journal:

Below are links to pages from my journal, which, on my instructor’s suggestion, I have been keeping since the beginning of my training. So as not to overwhelm, I have divided them into weeks.

Level: One
• Week One
• Week Two
• Week Three

Level: Two
• Week Four
• Week Five
• Week Six

Level: Three
• Week Seven (a.)
• Week Seven (b.)
• Week Eight

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Uneven sides

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imageWhatever way you look at it: my life is a triangle with uneven sides; wonky, like a tower that is crumbling or a cake that’s not right; a pack of cards stacked, tumbling. And as I attempt to navigate the landscape of my life: traveling across terrain that is uneven, bumpy; brushing up against, crashing into, obstacles that bar the way; incurring wounds and injuries… I am increasingly aware that, with time, instead of better, it gets less and less right.

Good days, bad days; happy days, sad days. Fast days, slow days; high days, low days. Days that are nice and days that are mean. Days that are concealed and days that are seen. Days that smile and days that weep. Days that wake and days that sleep. Days that talk and days that think. Days that lift and days that sink. Days that expand and days that contract. Days that add and days that subtract. Days that love and days that hate. Days that embrace and days that escape. Days that do and days that don’t. Days that will and days that won’t. Days that are days and days that are years. Days that are friends and days that are fears. There are a million ways for a day to play out… A mere traveller on an expansive back, I am fed up with being their victim.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Stone in my shoe

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Feeling antsy;
finding it hard to write.
Sitting down’s a mission,
but standing up’s worse.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Wonky triangle

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imageA long time ago, in what now seems like another life, I published a magazine. Aimed at the mentally fragile (people like me), it promoted creativity for emotional wellbeing and self-development. At one point near the beginning, before it had begun to really take shape, before it was much of anything really, I asked my partner if he could help me to think of a name: he works in advertising and writes for a living, or used to before he decided to jack it all in and have a complete career change, and is used to having to brand things so I figured, in terms of heads and two being better than one, that his was probably better than most. And besides… being my other half, he wouldn’t judge or laugh if my own ideas were off. Wonky Triangle was his idea, based on the concept that triangles are supposed to be perfect, all measurable angles and straight lines, all neat and contained; and people, especially fragile ones, are not. Wonky, on top of being impossible (or supposedly, depending on how you view obtuse angles and the like), was all wrong because it was different and broken. Triangles cannot be wonky or crooked: it’s not in their makeup. It also wasn’t in mine to call my magazine after something negative, or to focus on the bad stuff. Inside Out, the name I eventually chose after much deliberation, fitted much better, encouraging individuals to turn their own insides out in order to positively express what was trapped or hidden, thereby bringing new meaning and value to things that were previously challenging or, because of the element of unknown attached, simply too daunting and cognitively painful to contemplate. Containing articles, workshops, exercises, interviews, examples, images and pieces of poetry and prose submitted by readers, it provided a platform for creative individuals to express themselves openly and honestly and to, perhaps for the first time, be seen by others who might not just understand and empathise but also learn and grow by way of sharing. But for me, on the other-hand, it, the ‘wonkiness’, felt quite apt. I am ‘wonky’ and ‘broken’ and kind of impossible; impossible in the sense that I am often my worst enemy, the wall blocking the way. And life tends to get on top of me and pile up: little things becoming enormous and enormous ones gigantic, until it’s all too much and, overwhelmed, I collapse. Like a triangle with slanted edges and angles that don’t match, I present numerous unnecessary challenges that must then be deconstructed in order to be rebuilt.

Today is such a trippy, slippy, bricky, hurdlesome day. In fact: every day, or most days since the beginning of November, have presented as such. And if I’m honest, then every or most days for a long while before that. It has been bumpy few years, in which I have ridden the waves and clung on tight, gripping hard to wooden edges for fear of sinking or falling in, wondering constantly about the location of the horizon and the proximity of land.

The solution for now and the one I have adopted for some time, the one that works as a plaster but fails as a cure, is to write and to make. Expressing how I am feeling, either in word or in image, in ink or in yarn, is cathartic, bringing meaning to the stuff that gets trapped. When I think about other people seeing it, it helps: the isolation shrinks, the dark hole is a little less daunting, the beast that growls becomes quieter and more benign. After all: Beauty befriended hers and look what happened… he turned into a prince. Mine isn’t that accommodating, but he does brush his teeth and file his claws and run a comb through his hair once in a non-too-infrequent while, toning the frightful down a notch.

Drawing for the first time in over a year on Thursday – a birthday treat, albeit one that arguably backfired because the instigator wasn’t quite so accommodating as I had anticipated – I was rewarded with a glimpse of something that had been there but there hiding. It started with an eye, which became a face, which became a disembodied girl with long flowing hair, which became leaves and weeds. In place of her body, there was a hanger; holding, instead of clothes, letters. Her eyes were wide and terrified. Her cheeks were on fire. Her mouth was a startled ‘O’. Her hair was all tangled and drag-you-down weighty, like it was trying to make you drown. And the words spelt out things like ‘Chaos’ and ‘Cry’. It’s a strange image, half intriguing and inviting, half scare you away. I worked on her all day, and ever since I’ve run.

Pulling her out again this morning, laying her on the table before me, sitting and staring, silent and still, I attempted once again to summon some compassion and empathy for this hideous thing that was, by all accounts, supposedly me. We are all of our characters, both in stories and in dreams, in images and in conversations. We are everything that we think, everything that we say, everything that we do. So I am her and she is me and we are meant to love each other. Only I don’t love me and I don’t love her and I don’t think she loves me or herself either. So we are in a fix. And anyway, navigating more than my fair share of turbulent waters and tight bends, I have enough on my plate for now. All I can manage is to carry on and to respect myself enough not to overly antagonise what is already brittle by not forcing things that don’t feel right. I shall draw again. I shall finish her. But I shall not torture myself by returning to the ingracious instigator who, on my birthday of all days, so pained me, because I have better things to do with my time and, already, I have wasted enough.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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It’s my party

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imageGrey clouds, wet sky, drizzle; me, soaking it up – Uggs beyond saving, coat part-drowned, hair flat. On any other day… not so bad; but today: tragic.

I should have known there would be a rapid deterioration from here: therapist hiding behind an opaque veneer; eyes slip-sliding – mentally absent, disinterested in me; subsequent drawing consequently traumatic, submerged beneath layers of ink: shop assistants attacking, pedestrians snapping, the tube packed… Only the ‘should’ I ought to have been aware of was in hiding and I wasn’t aware of anything until afternoon turned up.

Black and blue from too much walking, talking to myself, I wander and search, visiting every known bolt-hole for a place to write. Gradually conceding, giving up; admitting defeat…

Hours later – slipping limply into a dark interior, bedraggled and worn out – I borrow a chair and invest in two cups; one’s cold and disastrous, the other’s delightful and hot.

A failed attempt at writing, and I reach into my bag, realising there is nothing for it but to bring the ‘thing’ out. Twisted and tangled, it’s grumpy and upset, anxious to be loved and lonesome without it.

Ballpoint braced, I revisit the page: pen dancing and glancing, mind whirring and incurring, repeating the lines I earlier, under intimidation, made.

A girl appears: unhappy, young; hair streaming, eyes leaking, mouth a crooked O.

Then words appear: ‘chaos’ incorrectly spelt; ‘cry’ back-to-front; ‘help’ upended. And, finally, I laugh, the irony catching up.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Lemon Juice

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Time hangs immobile,
stubbornly static;
like stagnant air.

A dog at my feet,
a kettle on the hob:
worrying…

An accident with a knife;
a sudden slit:
and blood, everywhere.

Lemon juice smarts
and the day – already grey,
darkens.

With the hours stretching further
than my eyes can see,
and the space in-between longer

than my mind can imagine:
I am not only scared,
I am terrified.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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A thorn in my side

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imageI think I have done all of my Christmas shopping, or at least all that I can do for now: there will be more later, when I have time; when the crowds have dwindled to the last few stragglers, or, perhaps, after… once the sales start. Now, though, I am free, and I feel lighter. Shopping daunts me: I worry too much. It’s not just what to get: it’s where to get it and how much to spend and whether the recipient (he, she, them…) will like it. No matter how hard I try, how much I think or how long I spend on the task: I always get it wrong; it’s the story of my life. I do it with haircuts, nail colour, food in restaurants and clothes. I do it with books and movies and magazines. I even do it with wool and beads. And when it comes to my art: invariably, I mess that up too – overworking or miss-selecting, using colours that clash, adding too much texture or weight. I did it last night on my autumn quilt and now my heart is sad. Poor rabbit… poor carrots… poor ladybird, leaf and branch…

The thorn in my side today, however, is more tangible and I am struggling to function as a result. Moving is painful; I feel broken; something isn’t right. But what do you do about the things you can’t see: can you fix a problem located beyond the reach of eyes? Massaging my side, swallowing painkillers, moving gently and slowly, trying not to touch it or anything else: I attempt to navigate through the waves of discomfort, crossing fingers that don’t believe over hands that are cynical.

The past few weeks have been tough. The past few months have been challenging. My body has suffered while my mind has endured. Standing in the middle of the road; watching cars and buses, bikes and taxis: I deliberate over how much more I can take. We are still living in limbo. We are still sleeping on the floor – if what we are doing can be described as that. I have a cold that won’t disappear and I am cold most of the time. I am also exhausted. I know this because I long to lie down for days, long to lie down and never wake, craving horizontal more than I desire any other position I could pick were any others on offer. I cannot speak. I cannot navigate. I confuse my left and right. Sticking to the tried and tested, clinging to familiar friends: I manage by keeping it simple and small.

But what will become of me next week? And how will I find the strength to pack and move on Tuesday when we are supposed to be leaving our home-sweet-hell in favour of a new apartment? And what will I do if tomorrow we find out we aren’t moving yet and have to stay where we are instead, abandoning all hopes of having a relaxed Christmas; accepting, instead, a poor substitute lacking furniture, belongings, decorations and love? There are too many things in the pot and I am no longer managing. Like a snail, I need my house. And I don’t care if it’s a temporary house or a borrowed house or a house that actually belongs to me: I just need a place to call home that I can return to and relax in when I need to stop. Take away all of my creature comforts, suspend me in between here and there; poke me, prod me, push me, punch me, and I unravel. As the tail of thread lengthens and the length knots and snags, I start to wonder if, when I finally come to catch it, it can be untangled and rewound .

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight

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What is it about life and it’s determination to upend me? Why is it impossible for me to have more than one good day in a row; for a day that has been good thus far, maintaining a steady flow of status and quo throughout, to be ruined upon reaching the ending? And why must my morning be a mess today, when today is a day upon which I need to be happy, vibrant and alive? I am not impressed and I am not smiling. Can you tell?

Sitting in Starbucks, and a grotty one at that; hiding on a table to the side and towards the back: I lick freshly inflicted wounds – wondering why, how, what just happened happened; trying to figure out what it was all about and who the main antagonist was. My head buzzes: overly full. My heart hurts, exposed and bleeding. There is the familiar pain of a hole and a slice, right at the centre, and the sense of a part that should be but isn’t. Where did it go: the thing, the part? And when, if it was there at all, did it disappear? I wonder if it always been like this, since the beginning. Or if it is more recent, something that has happened as a result of my journeying across the intervening years?

I wrap my hands around a hot mug, sip overly sweet tea, berate myself softly for the number of sweeteners I felt the need to add for comfort, wishing I were stronger, better, more in control, more like other people. Just like I do not need to click, click, click until everything tastes like it came from a sweet factory in order to placate my insides; I do not need to stubbornly plant my feet like a defiant dog refusing a walk in order to convey my point, especially when said planting and conveying results in my own person sabotage.

I blow my nose, emptying out the tears that I refuse to let flow; trying for just one day not to ruin my face – or at least not until after sundown, when the dark will hide the marks and the smear of mascara. That she hasn’t called, hasn’t even emailed to make sure I am alright, to ask where I am and what happened: only makes it, the incident, worse. Now I feel twice attacked: once by them, the angry receptionists; and once by her, the professional I stood up.

What happened? Was I wrong in my decision to act? Why did they take offence to what I intended to be a polite exchange, a look at the situation from the other side of the double-edged blade? I run the script through my mind, attempting to analyse and dissect exactly what happened, picking at words and sentences, paragraphs and phrases, until I am sure, or almost, that it wasn’t my fault.

I could have kept quiet and swallowed the humiliation… I could have pretended to be unscathed… I could have acted hard and cold and passed the buck back onto her… But I didn’t. Why the need to explain, the desire to placate, the attempt to enlighten and sway a disinterested other; the aim to aid future arrivees, discerning individuals, from a similar plight? And why leave prior to reaching a satisfactory conclusion to the heated debate, thereby denying myself the aid which had led me to the wretched organisation in the first place? Why indeed..?

As I sit here, I am an hour down and an ear short and the offloading that I had anticipated, that I had needed, that I still need, is far away. I now – thanks to my stubborn feet, my disobedient mouth, my wonky pride – have two weeks to endure before anyone, anything, attempts to step in. Not that any of the aid or the stepping has made much of a difference to date of late. The only dent in the armour has been self-made. I long for my ears of yesteryear. Patient and loving, gentle and kind: these are the people who have given and held; people who, for whose help, I am always and always will be eternally grateful.

As I slowly return to myself, I thank God for their presence in my life and the changes they helped me to achieve. I am who I am because they were there to guide me, gently encouraging and pushing like parent, friend and sibling; taking on roles that I was lacking elsewhere, and determine to care more and act with greater responsibly in the future. Just because money is short or because certain people are located elsewhere (like abroad), does not mean that I need to be restricted. The last two years have rewound me. I have been hurt; I have been broken; I have been held back and pressed down. I am clawing my way back – up and out, slowly. I need to take this time, treat this experience, as a chance to return. And if it means borrowing from the bank or going into debt, then so be it. I am worth it. It’s about time I understood that. Who, if not me, is going to treat me right, love me enough, respect and push me in the way and ways that I currently need?

Matter resolved, I dip my spoon into my cappuccino, scooping out milk flavoured with cinnamon, vanilla and nutmeg. I have drunk my way through two teas already. I’ve been to the bathroom twice that many times. I’ve sent emails and checked Twitter and Facebook, visited Amazon and surfed online. It’s been a difficult morning but I am stronger now and a decision that ought to have been made at the beginning when the reason was obvious has been solidified. Feeling lighter, stronger, cleaner and more resolved, I slip on my coat; squashing my head into a hat that I knitted in another life, pushing hands into gloves that were born in comfort and in sunshine. It’s cold out. I don’t want to hurt things that are already damaged.

by Rebecca L. Atherton

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Star light, star bright, the first star I see tonight

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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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