The Pilgrim's Way

I lift my leaden legs from a stupor they’ve lingered in for far too long, reminding myself: action over stasis. But of course, after only a step or two the rain begins to fall in fat heavy drops. An easterly wind blows in from the North Sea and slices my bones, stops me dead before I’ve really even begun. You can do this: move, don’t think. I shoulder the discomfort and take a step, then another, my frayed walking boots (the ones that I’ve had since I was eleven) sinking deep into a gelatinous muddy dip in the track. My route is fragmented as it (and I) unravel.

Though the journey is my own, I’m reminded of those who have travelled before me seeking faith, peace, joy, acceptance. Did they too stubbornly resist help for a time? Were they confident they could traverse these paths alone? Did they ever find their truth?

I turn back to my guiding compass and read aloud Blackie’s words*: “Don’t be proud: even if your path is a solitary one right now, the Eco-Heroine’s Journey is co-creational at heart, focused on building relationships - with other humans, with plants and animals, with the land itself. Accept the help which is offered; make friends and allies wherever you can.”

Cultivating connections, though, is not easy if your mind is clawing to retreat back into the darkness. Even though I can see how far I’ve come, how the night no longer shrouds me as it once did, others still see me in those shadow-places and are uncertain if I will ever leave. Their faith and patience have waned over time, their frustration masking the powerlessness they feel, and they doubt me; I understand, of course I do, but I’m going to prove them wrong.

The unopened box of medication sits squat in the bathroom cupboard, ready for action. I made the phone call, picked up the prescription, paid the fee, but now I don’t want to take this final step. I resist.

My therapist’s unanswered texts flash and ping and dissipate. I made the appointments, talked, cried, reflected, but now I don’t want to follow this track. I resist.

I write a(nother) list. Things I need to do to get better, what I need to do to be well again, and then I scrunch the paper in my fist and thrust it into the recycling bin. I resist.

Instead.

At dawn I rise and take the baby monitor outside (he’s four now, but I’m still not ready to lose that piece of armour yet), stretch my arms to the sky, then sink to the earth. I crumple into the soil, body flat, feeling the damp tendrils of summer grass between my thumb and forefinger.

Later I open my laptop and begin to write, of nothing and everything.

Later still I open a book, one that has no relevance to work or parenting or gardening or anything. A novel I can fall asleep in.

It is everything I already know, everything that was already there biding its time beneath my skin, crawling to escape if only I had let it. I pick up my phone to message a friend and see I haven’t responded to their last text three weeks ago. But they’re still there waiting on the other side. I look up at my husband and see how he has become worn with this life, with holding me up each and every day as I have sunk into nothing. But he’s still there too, with faith that I can make it through. And finally I see my son carefully making a train track by my feet. I’ve tried to shield him from my pain, but sometimes it has seeped through, and I ache with this knowing. But he smiles so brightly, grabs my hand and drags me down to see what he has created with overflowing excitement.

I lift my feet and step away from the sofa to join him. One step at a time.

*from If Women Rose Rooted. See the introductory post for this journey here.