So the past few months have been strange ones. For a start I had what would turn out to be the last Christmas with my dad, as he passed away on the 20th January after a year-long fight with leukaemia. Long weeks followed, of not being on my beloved island, staying with my mum and helping her sort out the myriad things that need to be dealt with when someone has passed away. (And finding out that after 60 years of partnership, my dad knew where all the important paperwork was and never told my mum).
It seemed for a while I was a visitor here, just popping back to grab some clean clothes or to check on the flat and my leopard gecko (who to be perfectly honest would be indifferent to my presence anyway). I was getting a few hours here, an overnight there. My running routine went out the window, I was tired all the time, in short I wasn’t keeping up the looking after myself whilst I was looking after others.
It’s taken three months to even begin to feel relatively normal again, and then that’s only sometimes, and never guaranteed when. Being back at work and getting into practical work helped a bit, but some days just felt so tiring, and an uphill struggle. I still wasn’t running….I just wanted to sleep in the mornings instead. (I haven’t managed 15k a week since December).
But this is where the island comes in. I realised that instead of hiding away and sleeping, I could be getting out there, breathing the crisp winter/spring air, listening to the birds, watching the sunrise and sunset. And gradually, slowly, that’s what I’m doing. The past week I have started trying to run again, and when I’ve not run, I’ve got up early and just gone for a wander to watch the sun come up, sporting the classic ‘ski-jacket and pyjamas’ look, and thankful that I’m highly unlikely to run into anyone else at that time of the day.
And little by little, it helps. There are still days, anxious, full days, where I feel like there are just too many things to do. Relatively mundane things, normal boring stuff like washing up, changing the bed, hoovering, that freak me out more than I know they should, but they still do. There are the days where I think I’d rather just curl up under the duvet with my book or just sleep and forget everything else for a few hours.
But then, if I feel up to it, I take myself outside.
I’m so lucky that a mere 5 minutes from my door I’m thrown into a rich mosaic of life. At this time of year, with summer approaching, and the breeding season getting underway, I can hear the screeching of black-headed gulls and Sandwich terns from my bedroom window, enticing me to come outside and see. And if I do, I find myself surrounded by a cacophony of noise, mad screeching, display diving, posing and posturing. I’m sure most black-headed gulls are slightly unhinged, but that just makes me like them even more.
And if I tune in over the din of the gulls, then I hear reed bunting in the reedbed, water rail squealing like mini pigs, a Cetti’s warbler shouting his piercing song as I pass by the bush in which he skulks. The geese on the lakes seem to think a constant barrage of urgent honking is the thing to do, and when I walk by they eye me suspiciously and up the volume. The first mallard ducklings have started to appear, and the smaller woodland birds (and the lumbering wood pigeons) are collecting nesting material from trees and the ground. It’s all going on out here, and I’ve been missing it. Like missing an episode of your favourite soap and having to catch up, a day or two out of the loop at this time of year can result in missing many a drama and a twist and turn in the story of mad joyous life that goes on just outside my window.
So here I sit, suddenly inspired to write this whilst sitting at my kitchen table, looking out of my window at the last grey light of the day, punctuated by the white and dark trunks of birch and pine. The robin who sings outside my window every night is delivering his usual performance, full of gusto and not a small amount of ‘get a load of me’. He’s the last bird I hear before I sleep, and he always leaves me smiling. In the morning the tiny, feisty wren who is staking his claim to the tangled territory of bracken outside my window will be shouting his trilling call, his whole body shaking with the effort. He’s small, sure, but try telling him that…
And as if by magic, the wildlife of this island has helped me twice. Once when I see it, hear it and experience it, and again when I write about it. It’s amazing how just getting a few words down in black and white, how sharing something wonderful, can help. And hopefully not just help me. I was up at 6 this morning, heading out for the sunrise. It’s now 8pm and I’m ready even this early to crawl under my duvet with my book, listen to my robin, and spend a couple of hours just winding down.
It’s true. Nature is the best remedy.
Stones and Feathers 