A STEP TOWARDS SUNSET

April is ending. Sunset is now around 8.30pm. I’m enjoying an evening walk whilst also feeling fragile. I have slowed down and I’m walking with a stick.

The stick is not just a geriatric lifestyle accessory, though I turn 77 in May. I cannot rely on my balance. I have had two heavy falls outside in recent months. The first, last September, resulted in a bone fracture near my left shoulder and hospital outpatient treatment – mostly Xray monitoring and physio. The second, four weeks ago, was a matter of scrapes and bruises, but enough to shake me up.

I’m still physically resilient and have recovered well. My bones are strong for my age and I am now taking vitamin D tablets to preserve that strength. At the same time I acknowledge a slight shift in identity. Hence my slowing down and walking with a stick. Whilst I don’t entirely  like this change, I have found it easy enough to accept. Overall I continue to feel blessed. I am still alive, still mobile and still full of wonder at the riches that life offers me.

I notice that these recent experiences have influenced my approach to Mayday. I am very aware that, in the Pagan wheel of year, this date marks Beltane in half the world and Samhain in the other half. In a yin-yang kind of way, I’m thinking of both, as a kind of flowing, interactive unity. Unstoppable fecundity and inevitable dying away. One universal process.

So I am out walking, slowly, in the last hour of sunset, grateful that sunset is now so late, and getting later. I am quite happy that everyone is overtaking me, and in many cases showing some consideration because of my stick. There are courteous, often silent, negotiations over space. I frequently stop and look around. When looking at flowers on the canalside, I see both the power and fragility of life, as the waters continue to flow. Half an hour later, looking at buildings and sky, I see a play of still radiant light and gathering shadow. A bird flying away. I am refreshed by my witnessing of the world around me as I begin my return home.