An Autumn Walk.

Not much of a title is it, but since it’s the first thing I’ve written in over three months then I guess it’s a start. Then again; if I was perfectly honest with myself it’s the first thing I’ve written for a lot longer than that. Worth writing, I mean.
I digress, an awful habit, picked up since before I turned sober and much worse since then. It’s as if my mind is suddenly far too clear for it’s own good and skitters about all over the place.
Which brings me nicely back to my walk.
I live in a hilly area. Unfortunately right at the bottom. I have bad arthritis and I’m dependant on a stick to walk with. Three facts, not a good start. Writing should be lyrical and flow easily, not limp along like a lame duck. I suppose the fourth fact is the important one that is causing the “white page” effect, so aptly described in quite a few of my favourite horror writer’s novels. I suspect that he’s been where I am now quite a few times over the years. Dead sober and hating it.
Which is why I walk. A lot.
My true walk started as I breathlessly pushed open the gate into the park and stepped through, swirling leaves chasing ahead of my feet, like frisky puppies let loose.
Talking of which…? No, the mad walking-stick hating dog and lady companion is not around today. (That’s another story, quite an interesting one.) Anyway, I’m still puffing uphill, my cheeks stinging with the cold and threatening rain. Though slightly exhilarating I would much prefer a different chill, that of clinking ice, but that’s a dead end track for me.
I stagger to the nearest bench and sort of sink down in an ungainly heap. I’ve managed to build my leg muscles up quite a bit in the last ten weeks, but there is no getting past the fact that my legs don’t work the same as they did some fifty years ago.
Shall I have a paragraph break here? Nope. Too much empty space to fill.
Today is one of the first truly cold Autumn days we’ve had this year and it’s taken me by surprise. Up until now my walks have ranged from the hot and sweaty to the downright dangerously demented ones. Someone once said that I never did anything by halves. They were right. I throw myself into things with more optimism than is healthy in a woman of my age and health.
Back when I started in early September, we were having a spell of nice sunny weather. Apart from a few overcast days it carried on like that into early October, when I was still wearing tee-shirts. Today I’m wearing baggy jeans, a thick jumper and jacket, a scarf and mittens. It’s too cold to linger on the bench, so I haul myself upright and plough onwards.
It’s still only the early part of my walk, the park is a small one and just a stopping point in my uphill climb. (In more ways than one.) I’m still fond of it though because it’s small and cosy, even with its hilly slopes and wind-lashed trees. There was once one huge forest from where I am now to about thirty miles away. Even with the breaks in between where towns and cities encroach, its still pretty fantastic around here. As I walk onwards I’m thinking about that fact and also wondering whether I’ll ever get used to my present mental condition. Rocky. Depressed. Exhilarated.

There’s no doubt about it, I love the outdoors in any weather. It does tend to shape my moods though. Autumn for me is a time of brooding sadness. A sort of echo of the last glory of Summer reflected in the vibrant hues of the falling leaves. I can even appreciate the words of Keats, with his lingering mists and “mellow fruitfulness”. Though what about days like today? Days when nature is hinting at the fury it can unleash when Winter comes? Working with that metaphor, then Autumn is a time of change and transformation. Which is about where I am now. Changing, both inside and out. (During the “honeymoon” period of my detox I discovered that I was losing weight and went overboard with dieting.)
I may be fitter and people have commented on my looking healthy. In fact I don’t feel that healthy. I did initially, but now I feel every tiny ache and pain in my whole body, magnified by ten and then more. This is the Autumn of my life, there is no doubt about that. From what I’ve seen of Winter’s soul, I’m not looking forward to the journey we all must take. Getting old. Getting on.
I exit the park and decide to walk on to the larger park about a quarter of a mile away. All uphill of course. There is a lot on my mind and walking does help to focus on those problem areas. I want to work more with the aging metaphor and also try to work around the lingering sadness that permeates my every waking moment.
If I stop on the way to look at a particularly fine view, or rest with my back against an ancient oak tree, then that’s a bonus. After all, a walk is meant as a pleasurable experience, not just a chore. I can still find pleasure in the day, the blustery wind whips roses in my face and lifts my spirits momentarily.
As I turn into the larger park I stop to catch my breath. From here I can see all over the city I live in. Wales is like that. You are never more than a short walk away from the countryside, even if where you live looks and seems urban.
Did I ever mention that I paint as well? No? Well, I do, or rather, I used to. Maybe that is something I could start to do again. From where I’m standing (actually I’m more leaning on my stick), the clouds are dominating the landscape. They loom menacing across the sky and my mind thinks of what a mixture of colours I’d need to get that deep, almost thunderous cloud. Then I would need several brushes to get that scudding effect. My mind is doing that as well. Scudding. Slipping. Moving on.

The squirrels are cheeky little beggars around here. One is perched on the back of a bench, not less than about two yards from where I stand. He looks at me, I look back. Stalemate. Neither of us is going to make the first move. I don’t want to disturb him, he’s waiting for me to make a move. Eventually I get tired and move on, glancing back over my shoulder, he’s still there.
My goal is a part of the park I love best. A small stream trickles downhill and passes through a manmade feature where bridges cross it in dainty Japanese-style. In fact there is a lovely Japanese maple turning that glorious vivid red few trees can rival. There’s a bench there where I can sit undisturbed for a while.
Somewhere in this moment, there is the beginning of a poem that I will not and cannot ever write. To attempt it would be pedestrian. I am just not talented enough. I was pretty good at drinking myself into a comfortable stupor not long ago. Now what am I good at? After five years of drinking nearly every day, I am alone with a clear mind and the noise of silence is deafening. I would crawl, but I can now walk. I swim. In fact I’m more comfortable and mobile in water than on land. Re-discovering myself is an experience I’m not handling very well. My counsellor says I’m doing fine.
Sitting in this place, with the beauty of the surroundings bringing tears to my eyes I feel weak. Feeble. I cry a lot, especially in the morning when the dry day stretches ahead.
Why did I stop drinking? I nearly killed myself and alienated almost everyone I cared about.
Stopping was hard. Continuing to abstain is even harder. The physical pain was short. The mental pain seems endless.
I get up and start to make my way back towards the entrance and follow the route I took to get here. The wind lifts my hair and a memory comes to me out of nowhere. Just before Christmas many years ago when my daughter was not much older than my grandson is now.
Fetching a live Christmas tree from the forest and singing songs driving back in the car.
Where did that person go to and will she ever return?
Take it one day at a time, they say. But people forget quickly. Give yourself a pat on the back. That’s another one. It’s like taking a walk. An Autumn walk with all the sadness of a dying year. Time to go home to my coffee and biscuits.

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