Walking isn’t the same pleasure it once was. I must and do accept this and try to find other things to focus on such as the smell of the air when I first walk out, the temperature, the feel of the wind on my face and so on. It is a kind of paying attention that I see as a gift that comes with the discomfort of my hips. It is the same when I do yoga, I concentrate of what is going on, what it feels like. Perhaps this is the generosity of old age. A mindfulness. A mind full of life. I smelt elderflowers and old roses as I walked along North Road this morning. The seagulls (or not seagulls) were noisy above me, screeching and hollering across the sky. And the sea roared too. It wasn’t cold but the wind was gusting, pulling and pushing at my stick. I feel vulnerable then and at its mercy. And that’s OK too. It’s a state of being alive. Another review to write. I wobble and worry about what I state, seemingly so confidently. I am not. I just do my best. Always.
