I’ve agreed to rest it. My foot. My injured foot is not getting better. The swelling is less but the discomfort is not. I’m not good at resting. I like to move, to keep moving. And that hour of energetic, contemplative movement is important to me. I walk out into the dark and come back with the morning. But this morning I haven’t gone. I took his advice. And it made me cry. To let go of it is hard. You could swim instead, he said. Yes, I said, I could. So that is what I will do. Starting today. A week off. A week of not walking, of not putting weight on it. But what a struggle it is. To step out. To step out of my regime. So rigid. I follow the lines and without them I am a little lost. A new thing. A new thing to get used to. I called them. What do I do? She told me. Times, costs everything. He will have to take me. If I’m not to walk I will have to be taken. I haven’t swam for a while. I’m not a strong swimmer. l like to be in the water but I’m not confident. I will become so. I will build up my strength. We are resourceful, he said as he kissed me goodnight. Yes, I said, we are. There is always a way. What can I learn from resting? Do more yoga, take more time over each pose, feeling each pose. It is always about time. How to fit it all in. I breathe. So alert. So acutely aware of everything.

A little pampering. I’d booked it a while ago for the holiday. To have nice feet. It was lovely. I didn’t want her to stop. And how I love their chatter. Both of them. Inconsequential chatter about weddings, dresses for the flower girls, favours and then family holidays, cats, feral ones and fledgling seagulls. She fed them strawberries, she said of her colleague. I like them. They are restful to be around. Simple pleasures. And her boyfriend, soon to be husband, going up inside those wind turbines. How I’d love to do that. Shall I ask?

I am a little lost. It is all awry. But I will recover. Even now, I feel it healing. My foot. My precious foot.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.