I’ve been thinking….

How to navigate this time of life that I am in. This movement through the cycle into menopause.

It’s been a journey. A tiring, terrifying, challenging journey. There has been something new and unexpected to contend with, something unsettlingly different, round every corner. It’s hard to convince myself that this is my body travelling through perimenopause, that this is how I will feel. That something awful is not going to happen at any moment.

As I write this now, how do I feel? Well… I have pains across my chest, I have gone from sweating and feeling dizzy to feeling cold and spaced out. My neck hurts, I feel slightly sick. And I can feel a trembling of anxiety, fizzing away in the background like a constant companion.

I live in a beautiful place, surrounded by nature, and a few people have pointed this out, as a reason not to be stressed ‘how can you have anxiety? You’re living in paradise!’. But it doesn’t work like that. Anxiety creeps up, starting with one or two little things which my brain blows out of all proportion. Things that on a good day I would be able to handle without any question, bring it on.

But now, those little things are big, big enough that when one more little thing is added onto the pile, I start to shake, pains begin in my chest, I feel sick, dizzy, spaced. I feel an overwhelming urge to hide, I feel like my face won’t form into the expressions and movements required to communicate with others. I want to wrap myself in my duvet and sleep. And sleep.

At times like this I have crashed. The desperate feeling of ‘I can’t do this’ becomes too much. I run away. But mostly I can’t just hide. So I paste on a smile, pull up my big girl pants and go join in. I feel sick, sweaty, dizzy, sometimes I can’t even get words out. But I smile. And I chat. And I try to appear normal despite the battle going on inside.

Should I be doing this? Sometimes it feels like the answer is yes, as I gradually pull out of the dark space I was in, and feel more ‘human’ as the day goes on. Sometimes though, I don’t think just carrying on is the answer. I should just say NO.

Permission. That’s what this is. Giving myself permission to rest. To withdraw. To reset. Reframing my work life for myself and for those around me. Remembering that no is a whole sentence. Menopause isn’t easy. It’s really bloody hard. There’s a whole repertoire of tough, gritty, sweaty, fumbling, fuzzy, messy feelings and symptoms. But it’s a journey. A journey to the other side. Transition to the next phase of life. The next chapter.

A gift.  A journey. An adventure. A quest for treasure. A stepping into the final third of life. A growing wisdom. In the middle of it we may not feel gifted or privileged but I am starting to learn from so many other women who have come through it…. we soon will be….

And throughout, even when I don’t feel like it, nature is present. I might not step outside, but the birds outside my window chatter to me, reminding me they are always there when I might need them. The trees cast dappled shadows across the room, moving to show me they’re watching. I feel held, heard and seen….. a part of something far bigger than my own story. A part of something grand and beautiful and fierce and powerful. A part of the story….

There is more. More than we see, more than we think we know. More to learn. And the natural world can teach us.

Stop to listen to bird song, watch wren or robin or dunnock going about their daily business. See gull and tern soar in the sky, graceful and expert in their wheels and turns.

Be curious about bee, fly and wasp. Listen for rustlings in the undergrowth and try to guess who might be moving carefully there.

Wonder at the colour of fresh spring leaves, yew bark, butterflies and flowers. Marvel at the perfect concentric circles of a pine cone.

Pick up stones, hold them, feel their texture. Push your fingers into soft spongy damp moss. Get muddy knees exploring tiny burrows and wondering who lives there.

Be curious, be playful, be childlike in your explorations.

Be part of the community around you. Be respectful. Welcome them all with open arms and hopeful they will accept and welcome you.

Acknowledge every being you see. Or at least as many as you can. Reach out and touch a tree as you pass it, feel its texture. Stop to help a caterpillar out of harms way. Behold the ceaseless industry of an ant colony.

Notice, connect, be moved. And you will feel yourself changing, softening. Moulding into a new shape. One that fits. Into nature, into community, into the world around you.

Tread slowly, lightly, observantly.

And. Don’t go back to sleep.

I love working with people in nature. Seeing the joy on the face of a child when they discover a brightly coloured caterpillar, or an adult who’s always been afraid of moths staring silently in awe at the hawk moth they have been brave enough to hold on their palm. It is always a privilege to be able to facilitate these moments of realisation, of connection, of simple joy in an encounter with another being. To stand back and watch a new relationship form.

But there is also a growing feeling in me, one of sadness, hopelessness even, at the growing disconnect with so many other people and nature. The ‘what’s in it for me’ attitude of people visiting natural places. The disrespect, disregard and lack of reciprocity with which many people seem to treat the other beings around them.

And don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying it’s always the people at fault. Lack of awareness, lack of means, lack of handed down respect for the natural world are often to blame. Many individuals are open to a re-aligning with nature, they just don’t know where to begin.

Increasingly I feel the need to speak for nature, to shout out where it can’t,  to whisper to those who need it, nature is there for you. You just need to be there for it, too.

The smallest thing is enough. A slow mindful walk, a wildflower patch in your garden, a few seeds in a window box. Making a bug hotel or a tiny garden pond with your children. Opening the window to hear the bird song. We can gain so much from nature. It can gain so much from our being attentive to its needs.

Ecocentric, not egocentric. Non-dualistic – being one with nature and equal with all things around you. One interconnected whole. A part, rather than apart. Try it sometime. When was the last time you really looked at a tree, a flower, a bird, a rock, a snail? And I mean really looked. Tiny details, the way it moves, sways in the breeze. Shape, form, colour, light, shade. Really, just look. You’ll be surprised what you really see.

Moving on I feel a stronger and stronger urge to move from working with nature, to, well, working with nature. It can bring us so much, and we can bring so much to it if we really try to understand and listen to what it needs. Indigenous people still listen, take cues from the creatures, the rocks, the weather. We have lost much of this in our modern technology-filled world.

Gaining a little bit back, playing my part, in the smallest way. That is my aim and the path I follow, from here on…

It’s been a while. I’ve been trying to stay off of devices, social media and all that. And for good reason

Since last writing, following the op on my arm which put me out of action for a good proportion of 2023, 2024 has not started out at its best either.

Just before Christmas, I managed to have a dizzy turn and pass out, in the middle of a packed pub, at a Christmas meal. This may have been a one-off you may think, but then two further severe dizzy spells followed. The final one on 29th December put me in A&E, and ended with a night on the cardiology ward, with heart monitors, blood tests, chest xrays and a whirlwind of other investigations. All inconclusive.

A 48hr heart monitor and visits to the doctor for steroid spray for possible inner ear problems followed. Still no real answers. Then with the final visit to doctor in March, the dreaded M-word was finally mentioned.

Yes, you guessed it. Menopause.

And this is where the ‘fun’ really starts….

I have been really lucky to speak to a brilliant GP who specialises in, and is passionate about, women’s health. Who doesn’t bullshit and is a keen advocate of clear and truthful advice on menopausal and perimenopausal symptoms. I’ve learned a lot. And this may be old news to some but I have just found out that the ‘3 weeks on 1 week off’ pattern of the contraceptive pill was only introduced to appease the Catholic Church (who believed women should have a ‘natural’ bleed as part of their cycle). As if women didn’t have a tough enough time of it, we end up having to please religion too… eek.

So, what has happened since? The combined contraceptive pill (which ironically I have been on for years but had no idea could be my saviour), contains all the hormones needed in perimenopause, and the potential to even out some of its symptoms. The only reason hormones fluctuate is because of the 1 week break, allowing the body time to go haywire as oestrogen and progesterone levels drop. So the idea is…. just keep taking it. Revelation!

I may sound like I’m taking the mick, but this is no joke. To say I am desperate for a solution is probably not too much of an exaggeration. Dizziness, hot flushes, brain fog, tinnitus, anxiety, aches and pains, mad tiredness, ridiculously low energy levels. That’s just the things I can remember (like I said, brain fog). Add to this the fact that the dizzy spells and anxiety have put the fear into me about driving long distance (and for a dedicated VW camper driver, solo explorer, nature lover and campsite-frequenter this is pretty gutting) and I’m feeling pretty damn shite, to be blunt.

I feel like a wiped out old fart, if I’m perfectly honest. Angry that women have to go through all this crap, that my hair is going grey, that I’ve got crows-feet and wrinkles, that my hands are looking old. I am trying to eat healthily, I haven’t had a drink since December, I’ve been doing yoga every day, I’ve started (slowly) running again. I keep thinking I should feel great, so why don’t I?? And the thing is, the more I find out about it, the more I find out I’m not alone. Menopause sucks,  and lots of women agree…

But I guess after all this ranting, there is a reason (other than moaning) that I am here.

There is still nature. And mindfulness, and connection. No matter how tired, how dizzy, how spaced out I feel (and writing this I am reaching my screen-time limit so will wind up shortly), nature is always there to welcome, embrace and support.

Daily mindful walks, grounding in nature, taking in every feature in awe, even having a chat to the trees (they know all about menopause now too), has been a lifeline. It doesn’t matter how pants I’m feeling… every time I go outside I am rewarded with beauty, fascination, surprise, joy, wonder.

Try going for a walk. Not just any old walk, but a noticing walk. Look at the minute details – the patterns on a leaf, the whorl of a bracken frond, the marks on a stone, the stripes on a snail’s shell. Say hi to a butterfly, hug a tree (yes really, it feels great and I’m sure the trees like it too as long as you ask before you invade their space). Be a child in nature, look with fresh eyes. Put aside your adult brain and your lifetime of knowledge. Start again. Be a student of nature. Let it show you what it has to offer. And offer something of yourself back to it. We are part of a society of beings, we don’t ‘own’ the planet or nature, we are part of it. We’re just another little bit of the mammalian order, after all.

So next time you go out, don’t be afraid to show some joy in the wild world around you. Even if it’s just a dandelion poking through a city pavement, or a caterpillar clinging to your garden plant. They all have something to teach us. Determination, resilience. We’ve just got to open ourselves up, and listen.

And my journey with nature, it doesn’t end here. Exploring the depths of connection will continue to be my goal, my medicine, my support. And I Will aim to support the nature around me too. Reciprocal, rewarding, healing, learning, growing into the person I am becoming on the next stage of my travels through life. With nature I can try my best to be strong and to grow into this new me with calm and mindful knowledge.

So whatever the aging process throws at me, no matter how low or ill I feel, I will always have the support of the other-than-human world around me. I may not go out some days, may choose to rest indoors instead, but I can always borrow a little bit of nature… a stone, a stick, a feather, to keep with me for that day and to return the next time I head back out. And that in itself is an incentive, to head out, to get into the air, to feel the breeze and look at the sea.

I am finishing this a couple of days after the first instalment,  and as I write I feel awful. Wiped, dizzy, weak and achy. I’ve been in bed since 7.30 and mostly asleep since about 8. This is not how I want to be. But I guess I will adapt. With help from what I believe in, and by being kind to myself, I hope I will learn to live with the process and to learn from where it decides to take me… wherever that may be….

The past four months have been a challenge. It has taken that long for my arm to heal after my op in March, a much longer time than I ever imagined. In that time I have had good days and truly awful days. Days where I need to get outside and breathe, and days where I just want to hide myself behind a book or a phone screen.

And now that I am starting to finally feel normal again, I have begun to get heart palpitations, scarily fast or slow heartbeats, and sometimes what feels like a pause. A pretty scary thing. So out of one stream of surgery visits and into the next.

Meanwhile, on the island, things are not going well. The suspected bird flu outbreak on the lagoon continues to wreak havoc on the tern colonies, with deaths every day of chicks and adults. The total of hundreds of birds lost to this cruel virus is heartbreaking. The island and the lagoon feel wounded. As do I. I went away in June on the week-long residential part of my course with Natural Academy, where I discovered things about myself I never expected, found unknown strengths, and explored weaknesses. I came home feeling different, somehow more connected, more aware. Coming back to avian flu was like a slap in my much more attuned face.

So in these weeks, when the feeling of losing gets too much, when the questions come every day about how many lost, how long, what will happen next, when the rhythm of my heartbeat tries to play a crazy tune along with my anxiety and makes me feel dizzy and disassociated, the grounding, holding wholeness of earth has come to my aid.

Every morning, and at least a few times during the day, I have made sure to take the time to sit, quietly, breathe and ground. To be with earth, tree, bird, ant, leaf, dragonfly. In these times I find myself rooted, firmly planted in earth, soil, leaf litter, pine needles. I feel my breath in and out, shared with so many other occupants of this place. Taken in by gull, vole, lizard; given by tree, sky, air.

Even a few minutes indoors, listening to blackcap outside my window, watching sika deer eating her breakfast of seemingly impenetrable bramble, is enough. Grounding, breathing, being.

The other joy I have found is to leave the screen behind. Leave the social media whirl, the self-gratifying urges of sharing every detail of life. To stop looking down, to look up. Outside.

A morning poem, a few pages of prose, a podcast with a fascinating subject or an inspiring person. A more graceful, peaceful, gentle start to the day.

And the other fascination, taking time to slow down, to look closely, to let myself be drawn in and be wholly distracted by the small things. To study, to remember, to photograph the detail. To describe its beauty. Taking in the awe and wonder of the detail.

So just for a minute, take time out from the office, from the screen, from the demanding immediacy of your mobile phone. Nothing is so important it can’t wait for you to take a few slow breaths, to be fully in the world, in the moment, in life.

When everything else is forgotten for just a minute. Then is the time to just be.

I haven’t yet been outside today. I am laying here after another poor night’s sleep, feeling a little bit wiped, torn over whether a walk or a lay in would be best for me.

A week or so ago I had an op on my arm (or under my arm to be precise), meaning I’ve felt rather immobile for the past while, and making even putting a coat on to go out a mammoth effort. It’s just past spring equinox. The weather is unpredictable, wet, and windy.

But still, the urge to go outside is always there. As I sit up in bed, looking out at the trees standing proud on the hill outside my window, waving their rhythm in the wind and rain, I want to be out there, feeling it in my hair and on my face.

The ups and downs of the past few months have sometimes left me elated, excited, and have at others others left me exhausted, wanting nothing more than to hide. And at those low times I have allowed myself time to do this. To just hide, rest, and repair.

But there will never be a remedy quite like the one that nature offers. I have for my course been reading of ego, soul work, nature therapy, vision quests. And although I can not (on Brownsea at least) go off into the wilderness for a week without seeing a single person, I can immerse myself in nature, hearing, feeling, seeing, breathing and tasting the freedom it can offer.

In the past weeks I have ventured to other wild places, other realms of this wild world we live in. From thousands of lapwing in Norfolk in January, to three quarters of a million starling in the Somerset Levels in March. Nature offers spectacular, breathtaking, humbling displays. But also the tiny, secretive, almost overlooked wonders. Frog spawn in the bomb pond, the first velvet buds of a willow, the unfurling leaves of hornbeam. A bumblebee casting itself from sun patch to sun patch, a peacock butterfly grabbing some warmth on a gravel track.

If we look, and I mean really look. If we let ourselves be still. If we stop, put down our screens, our stresses, our rules. Get dirty knees crawling in the grass to watch some ants. Get grubby hands rooting under falling leaves for woodlice. Smell the soil. Touch the feathery seed heads of reed. Breathe the rich, coconut smell of gorse.

Awe and wonder, seeing things anew. This has been my aim for these weeks. To experience hedonic pleasure in the more than human world around me. To grasp sensations and feelings with a wild, excited joy. The familiar becomes fresh, the well-known becomes amazing. And it’s not like it wasn’t. It was always so. It’s just up to us to relearn to see it that way.

This time of year, when the leaves are falling from the trees, the weather is unpredictable, when the winter birds are arriving on the lagoon and around the harbour, is a time of change. The unsettled weather may not be to everyone’s taste, but to me, the constant movement, constant change, is refreshing.

It’s been a busy year. Time has flown. The year is coming to an end, yet again. It’s easy to let time slip away, to feel like you’ve not made the most of it. It’s easy to think I’ll get to that tomorrow, the next day….

It’s easy to look down, to become so hung up in everything we have to do, that we forget the things we need to do.

To forget to get outside, to connect, to stop, listen and take notice.

This year I have started a course, a study in ecopsychology. I hope to expand my own experience, my own connection with nature, in order to share with others the healing power that the natural world can offer.

The first weekend was an introduction, to the course, to the people I will be working with for the next year, and to what to expect. A chance to put aside any hang ups I may have had, any doubts about what people will think of my beliefs, of the fact that this is what I want to study. Yes it’s not everyone’s cup of tea, yes there are those who do not believe in the healing power of nature. But to me, from a personal point of view, it is obvious.

Those days when I am stressed, tired, thinking nothing is going right, all I need to do is take myself outside, even for a few minutes, and everything seems easier, better, calmer. More real.

It’s the small things. Getting close, looking in detail. I have spent more time slowing down, looking closely, listening, stopping to touch a tree or feel the texture of fungi. Stopping to breathe, to ground and to connect.

The next weekend meeting of the course group happens at the end of November. I look forward to seeing what it will bring. Meanwhile I continue to expand my reading, my practise and my own experience. To better know myself and my natural surroundings is to better help others to do so too.

It’s nearly the end of October, nearly the end of another season on the island. The clocks go back on Saturday night, it’s Halloween on Sunday. People keep reminding me it’s only 2 months til Christmas (joy), and the summer camping season is over.

The weather is still mild, the leaves are falling from some trees but still green on others. There’s been a bumper crop of chestnuts this year, much to my and the squirrels pleasure.

It’s a busy time, loads to do, planning, working outside, longer hard days leaving us tired but satisfied with a good job done.

But anxiety never cares about all this. Never worries how tired I am or how worn out from a day’s work. Never bothers with the fact that I might need a clear head to just get on with stuff or inspiration for plans and schemes without either a fuzzy, stuck feeling, or a desperate need to do everything, resulting in doing nothing.

The feeling of tightness in the chest, of constant tension in the stomach, of headaches and neck-aches, of restlessness one minute and downright wiped out exhaustion the next. I know I need to get out and walk, run, exercise. But I can’t. Be. Bothered. I know it’ll make me feel better if I do, but I’d rather sleep. One day on top of the world, the next I can’t even handle the washing up without a minor panic.

Writing it down helps. Perhaps getting it off my chest, sharing the feelings, perhaps so others can relate. I want to just get on with things. This gets right in the way (and right on my bloody nerves). I know that I should just go and sit in the hide, get out in the air and just be still and calm. I will do it, just not right now. Tomorrow morning I will get out and about. I think. I hope. I won’t know until I get there. Even sorting out my running gear seems like a mammoth task right now. I want to give myself a shake and say look what you’ve got, look where you are and what is around you. And I will. Eventually.

But for now. A rant is as good a way as any to help get it off my chest.

Tomorrow is (hopefully) a better day…..

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.