I’m sat in the garden after a slow walk down the railway line. I’m so glad I went.
The temperature was perfect and a cool breeze was blowing, just enough to cool my brow.
I always feel thoughtful on these walks. The surroundings take me out of myself. It’s as if I’m breathing with nature instead of just witnessing it.
Eighteen months ago this walk would have taken all my concentration just to get through. Thirty-five kilos lighter now, I barely thought about the walking at all. My body just carried me and my mind was free to wander.
The delicate scent of white field roses blooming by the stream. A deep fuchsia rose, a variety I don’t know the name of, crushed between my fingers, its perfume lingering. The deep, throaty call of wood pigeons, magpies chuffing in the tree canopy.
The Elder tree displaying its tiny white blossoms, thirsty for every drop of sun to fatten its berries. And everywhere, the purple-pink blossoms of blackberries, promising a bountiful early Autumn harvest.
I wish I could bottle that feeling of treading those paths. That wistful connection to nature that makes me feel so grounded, rooted, and held. Like the feeling of sinking bare feet into cool grass.
It reminds me to put life into perspective, especially when my thoughts are tangled. That peace is just outside my door and no amount of shiny distractions can replace the tonic that nature is for my mind.