Breathing in wood anemones, I think. click to enlarge
On Sunday evening I walked in the wood. Not a lot of woods in London. None, perhaps, so old and haunting as this fragment I’m lucky enough to live close to.
Between the green-grey-green, the low mossy sunshine picks out the first flowers. Spring at its gentlest, joy stroked into life.
Thinking: tomorrow morning, back to work. Breathe in pleasure, breathe in dread. A fist-fight in my chest.
So here I am back in the office, surviving – just. Breathing through panic. Breathing through overwhelmed and back into the moment - just the moment, all I have to do is take the next breath. I wondered last night if walking in the wood was the best thing to do, if I’d have done better not to open my senses and feelings, to dread as well as beauty. But then I wouldn’t have had the softness of it still wrapped around my heart this morning as I forged, one step at a time, through the bad stuff.
I’ve noticed the Spring more this year, looked harder and let myself be touched more deeply, than for many years - because of those lovely blogs by nature-lovers which have become part of my life in the past few months; because I bought a digital camera and started, for the first time ever, to take photos. It’s sweet, and different, and painful. I don’t think I’m about to withdraw from it.