Some days are harder than others. Sometimes, when motivation completely eludes me, I have to remind myself that it’s not one day at a time, its one hour at a time. So, I do that thing. I make cup of tea, then tell myself like a child to get dressed, go to the shop for food, then a walk in Panel Lane, alone in an ancient trade route that used to be a pig drove. It is sheltered from the wind, but I can hear it all around me, moving the trees. I imagine the lane in its former days. Some say it’s haunted. I like that. I can almost feel it; it’s like a portal. I touch the moss on the side of the bank and gently let nature soothe me back to life. I watch the river from the ancient brick bridge. The river is close to bursting its banks. I walk. I let the repetitive action of left and right revive me. It is not cold. The crows make their sounds of winter. I even break into a run. Suddenly I am okay. I go to St Leonards and buy a coffee from the little shop in Marine Arcade and sit in the alcove, sheltered from the wind and rain and watch the waves; huge and furious. It’s okay. I miss people, so I say hello to everyone I pass. Everyone looks so fascinating somehow. Every hour is a meditation on life. I just got through another day.
