I find it hard not to work every day. My sense of self is bound up in what I do, whether it be writing or drawing. I feel better about myself if I am striving to do something – my day is fuller for it, richer. But as a result rest is rarely taken, and if it is it can make me grumpy, and more than a little dislodged. So I didn’t take the bank holiday off. I kept working. Though I did a brief 10 minute meditation and during it (and yes, I know that the mind is supposed to be emptying) I thought about how I could rest my mind while still doing. The word ‘play’ came through. And I remembered the Paul Spooner book I got a while ago. I could make playfully (I long to find time to sew but that is not play either – I am too serious about it), and an automaton in paper might be the answer. I like the flash bulb moment it gave me, that precious flicker of insight.
I walked out into the still damp air my face pushing through lines of gossamer. And my feet extra wary now of stepping on snails. There are hundreds about, particularly up that back lane. Large and small, they set off on their treks across paths, exposed and vulnerable and leaving their slimy trails. I hate that crunch under foot and that knowledge of taking an innocent life. I dodge them as best I can, performing a kind of dance as I do so.
