How to feel a little calmer while life has some challenges.

Recently I heard the renowned therapist, Esther Perel , capture exactly what I have been asking myself.  She put it something like this: "how do we find a sense of ease when the ground beneath us is constantly shifting at the moment?"  As I continued to listen to her podcast, I realised with a sigh that she was not about to offer a quick fix.  We all know that uncertainty is a natural part of life but there seems to be rather a lot of it right now.  Nothing seems as steady as "before". Even the weather seems to be changing more rapidly than I remember.  Not long after our early spring sunshine came an abrupt change of season producing hail and sleet.  I went outside to experience the only snow of the winter, which lasted for moments.  This week produced more windy weather, with the sea becoming a wild, muddy brown landscape sending roaring waves onto our beach once again.  As I swam on a fairly windy day I was immensely aware of the power of the sea as I moved with

After what feels like a grey kind of winter I was more than ready for some sunny weather and blue skies.  Just a walk in the sunshine makes me feel more energised and alive.  As I walk, I notice that more people are smiling and saying cheerful hellos, commenting on how lovely the weather is.  We have escaped the winter months and that is reason to feel grateful.  Maybe spring is designed with melodic birdsong and colourful blooms to tempt us out of our hibernation.  Time to escape from the computer screen and spend more time in nature. Yesterday, we walked at Oare Marshes, a peaceful nature reserve along the estuary from Whitstable.  As soon as we arrived, I felt my spirits start to lift.  The landscape is unique with grazing marshes, freshwater dykes and salt marshes providing rich habitats for so much wildlife.  It is especially important for a diversity of migratory and local wetland birds.  We walked along the narrow path with boats moored up on our right and the wind blowing cool

When the going gets tough, I go swimming.  Having discovered the healing power of the cold ocean during the pandemic, I am glad to still have this "therapy" on my doorstep.  If the sea could speak, maybe she would whisper "come in, you will feel better after".  Or she would say, "shshsh, don't worry, all is well right now".  This imagined encouragement is enough to get me zipped into my swim suit and wrapped up in my cosy robe, heading for the beach. Yesterday felt like spring in Whitstable with dog walkers and visitors all enjoying the warm rays of sunshine and blue skies.  High tide was around 5pm, so I knew that the water would be slightly warmer than the previous day.  As the sea comes in over mudflats, the sun has a chance to heat it up slightly.  Each day is never the same and as I stood on the beach I was surprised at how low the water was at high-tide.  A dog walker explained that it was a "neap tide" so the water doesn't come in

Since living by the sea in Whitstable, I am much more in tune with the changing weather patterns than I ever was.  Windy days mean choppy seas, wild swims and bracing walks.  So I wasn't especially concerned about Storm Eunice on Friday until I woke up to hear that we now had a rare "red" weather warning.  Even then, it didn't seem any windier than normal as I headed out for a long walk in the early morning.  It felt invigorating and noticeably quiet (where are all the dog walkers I wondered?). By the time we'd dashed out to the shops and got home, something was starting to shift. Tucked inside our solid, warm house we could hear the roof creaking and wind whistling through gaps in the windows.  Then we heard the first breaking sound outside over the loud thrum of wind.  Even opening the front door felt hazardous as I crept out to see the debris of a large slate roof tile on the floor.  I went to clear it up thinking it would blow around the cul-de-sac but quickly

Living by the sea in Whitstable has been a blessing throughout the pandemic.  Being able to walk along the beach always makes me feel better and invigorated.  Seeing the wide, open space of water and mudflats that change each day is a constant source of joy.  I have started to recognise the patterns of bird species depending on the tide.  If walking wasn't enough, becoming a winter "cold-water swimmer" has given me a deeper connection with the wildlife and the chilly sea.  Each time I swim, I'm sure the same black-headed gull looks at me from his perch with slight amusement and recognition.   Last weekend, I popped out for an hour to pick up some last shreds of plastic waste that I had spotted while walking on West Beach.  With wellies on, wrapped up against the bitter wind and damp air, I was shocked and dismayed to see how much plastic was on the beach.  I have been part of a monthly community beach clean here for over a decade, so I intimately know about rubbish on

Recently, my friendly postman wished me a Happy New Year!  He then sighed and added, "I'm not sure if it is worth saying it this year, as it just seems like more of the same..."  From what I know, my postman is not a particularly negative person, in fact he is actually rather cheerful even in torrential rain and icy winds.  But perhaps he was just saying what many of us are wondering at this time.  We are supposed to be starting a happy new year, yet Covid cases are soaring with only limited restrictions in place.  Do we carry on as normal and hope for the best or do we limit our social contacts and hunker down? I wanted to write a positive, happy and upbeat post for the start of the new year.  I have taken some great photos, trying to capture sunshine and freedom away from restrictions.  And there are many moments of joy to write about.  The winter clear skies are stunning here by the sea, with the bright sun reflecting off the expanses of sand.  I have stopped my walks

After last year's Christmas celebrations were "cancelled" for many of us in England due to surging Covid infections, this festive season was supposed to be extra special.  Somehow perhaps we could miraculously heal the isolation of the past festivities by having extra hugs and a third helping of Christmas pudding this time?  Even though I enjoy a quiet Christmas day with Martin, I also relish being out with others.  Whether that is having a mince pie with friends at their beach hut and playing with their twins or even simply having a winter swim and chat with other neighbours.  Last year we couldn't do any of these things due to restrictions, so this year I was going to do it ALL.  Or so I thought.  Except by the Wednesday before Christmas, my snuffly cold had worsened and I was in bed with a fever of 37.8 ℃.  Even though the lateral flow tests had been clear, with a fever I needed a PCR test.  Apparently I had about a 50-50 chance of having Covid rather than a bad co

Last weekend I actually went away for a much needed yoga retreat.  It was all the more exciting and poignant because I have not been to any kind of "group thing" since the pandemic reared its head.  Having delayed getting my vaccine for six months and then being ill for weeks afterwards, this was finally my chance to escape.  It wasn't even far away, just over an hour's drive but that was enough.  I packed a weekend bag (full of thermals) and left my house alone, for the first time in nearly two years! I arrived at my retreat destination, a lovely Quaker House in Surrey, checked into my spacious, warm room and wondered what on earth do I do now?  I had turned my phone off for the retreat, there was no cooking or tidying to do, no work on the computer, no internet, no micro-managing, no yoga books to study.  For a moment it felt rather unsettling and unfamiliar.  And then I remembered, I was supposed to rest, relax and enjoy the present moment.  Or failing that, I cou

I don't know why I keep "forgetting" that my father died in August this year.  Probably because it is too painful to really grasp.  Fully accepting his death would feel more like taking hold of a hot baking-tray straight out of the oven without oven-gloves on.  I can manage moments when I remember that he's not here anymore.  And then the pain gets too strong and overwhelming.  Just today, I popped into a local shop to buy a birthday card and I spotted their array of calendars for 2022.  Automatically I started to look for a steam-train calendar for my dad and then the grief feeling washed over me again.  It is like a wave of shock, emptiness, longing, sorrow and confusion all at once.   The only person who has asked what my grief feels like is my homeopath, Lucy.  Amazed that someone is interested and can cope with this emotional process, I begin to tell her.  "This is going to sound odd, but I miss his physical presence so much".  She is nodding and lookin

Yesterday we finally embarked on the last section of our "coast to coast" walk continuing from our previous stop at the village of Etchinghill on the Elham Valley Way.  This final part of the route would take us all the way to the south-east coast of Kent, finishing on the beach at the seaside town of Hythe.  As with many things during the last 18 months of the pandemic, the walk has not gone to plan.  We intended to walk this section two weeks ago, but my on-going health struggles following my second Pfizer jab had other ideas.  Twenty-four hours after completing our previous section of the walk, I was suddenly ill again with more post-vaccine symptoms.  It has taken until now (alongside my GP's firm instruction to not suddenly over-do the exercise) to feel able to walk this far. Etchinghill was bathed in the most glorious morning light with clear blue skies above us and a definite autumnal chill in the air.  We retraced our steps for a mile or so from our last section a

Apparently the UK has been dubbed "viral island" by some of those living further afield in places with low covid cases (eg in Australia or even closer to home in parts of Europe).  Since the supposed freedom day here on the 19th July, I haven't even wanted to write about the situation. How could I begin to describe my overwhelming emotions as the Prime Minister announced "freedom" from all restrictions, despite an alarming surge of the Delta variant.  I just wanted to bang my head against a brick wall and rant about the lack of common-sense involved in this decision. I also sensed than no one wants to talk about the pandemic anymore.  I hear surprising and confusing phrases about how we are supposedly "post-covid" or "post-pandemic" now (oh I wish).  If I have tried to talk about my concerns, I am not often met with the reply "oh well, we have to learn to live with the virus."  I've even worried that I'll be labelled "n

Last week, we continued our "coast to coast" walk along the Elham Valley Way starting before the pretty village of Elham.  As soon as we arrived back at our starting point, I was cheered by being among the rolling gentle hills and green vistas of this beautiful area.  The Elham Valley Way has its own marked signs along the whole route, each time giving a little boost of reassurance that we are on the right footpath.  However, this morning we planned to deviate from this path for one reason only - cows. Much as I like cows, I am a little hesitant about walking through a field of them.  So Martin kindly spotted an alternative route avoiding the potential cow field which was worth the extra distance.  Or so we thought!  After cleverly following our diversion, totally cow-free we rejoined the planned route and promptly came to a stile with a florescent yellow hazard sign.  "Cows and their young present in this field" it warned.  We studied the map once again and this ti

The strange thing about living so near to the coast is that very often the inland areas are forgotten by visitors and even the locals.  Even though I will never tire of the endlessly different seascapes that I am so blessed to see each day, the one thing I miss are trees.  Something about trees has always inspired me, soothed me and filled my heart with joy.  So with this in mind, I was very happy to set out on the next stage of our walk heading further along the Elham Valley Way.   Leaving Bridge, a pretty Kent village, I was already excited because we were about to walk across my favourite field.  This field has an almost regal feel, winding past a huge mansion where for a moment I could imagine being in a scene from Pride and Prejudice.  Even the sheep seem relaxed and friendly, almost smiling at us hiking past.  The grass feels soft underfoot and the clear path leads to another picturesque village and ancient church.  We actually know this area as it is near a very popular pub/hote

Doing a walk to help raise some much needed funds for Cortijo Romero in Spain has been an idea for a while.  As many of you know, Cortijo Romero has been a hugely important retreat/personal development centre for many thousands of people for more than 30 years.  CR provides a healing sanctuary where it feels safe to recharge, grow and rest in a world that often feels increasingly challenging.  It has been hugely impacted by the pandemic and has only managed to run a handful of courses in the last two years.  So while travel is slowly becoming more feasible and there is definite hope that CR will survive the ups and downs of the pandemic, it also desperately needs our help. Having studied maps of Kent and considered a whole host of options, I decided to keep it simple and local. With the Delta variant still surging, I wanted to walk close to home so that we could travel back after each section.  I decided on a "coast to coast" walk starting from the beach near my house in Whit