Sitting in a park, sheltering from the drizzle, I spot a cluster of beautiful, elegant thistles. And I’m immediately called away by a part of myself so familiar I can hardly see it. Knotted in my chest, this part clings, desperately, trying hard to get things right all the time. It is pained, caught up in harsh self-judgement. And it says to the rest of me, with some insistence,
“You are not entitled to this”.
“You are not entitled to stop and look in awe and wonder. You are supposed to be trying, doing, proving. You are supposed to be being hard on yourself.”
And on seeing it – perhaps on its feeling seen – it relaxes its grip a little. I am flooded with joy and gratitude at the beauty before me, and at being alive to witness it.
And, for a moment, I am here, at last.
