We pick our way across paths made hard by the sun, worn bare by feet and hooves that have followed them for a thousand days. The old sheep track follows a ridge between two fields that run away from it like the tide as it turns; rushing, spilling downhill and away to the houses and the villages beyond. There’s a row of ancient hawthorns on top, bent with time and wind. Their roots push up through the bare earth and their twisted branches are clouded in springtime white. The blossom catches the afternoon sun, still strong enough to create a canopy of shadow, a tunnel of shade that draws us along it.

We walk with purpose, but with two entirely different aims. My eyes on the horizon, I am casting my mind wide; allowing the warmth of the sun and the stirring of the breeze to empty out the day and fill me up again.

She has her nose to the ground, tracking their traces and zig-zagging across the path, up and down those banks like a mad thing. The sheep moved on today, she’s enjoying the freedom of the whole field, of not being constantly called to heel, of not being made to walk the one path.

We both switch sides, explore this bank and duck under that gnarled branch, swinging low across the path. At the end of the field, we cross the old railway bridge. We stand on the high stone arch and look along the line, abandoned now to undergrowth and grazing cattle. The sun has dried the muddy path that lies at its feet and so, free of sheep, I clamber down the side of the embankment, sending her scurrying first to see if it’s too steep. Usually we walk this field at pace, but today, we wallow in the unusual emptiness, taking our time to explore new corners, meandering.

I see things I don’t usually see.

I see things I usually see, but from a different perspective.

I slow down.

I look again.

I measure them up, decide whether I can make the leap.

I take the detour.

After all, I have the time.

These past few weeks can do that to a soul. Opening up schedules like a surgeon slices open a chest. Cracked wide open, everything spills out and it can feel like no less than real, vital, open-heart surgery.

Or a game of Operation. We take the tweezers and remove the pieces of our lives one-by-one, trying not to electrocute ourselves in the process. Breadbasket. Adam’s apple. Butterflies in the stomach. Funny bone. Things buzz. It feels strange, but maybe we like it?

When everything is emptied out, the path before us becomes less certain. The old roads are cleared and the fields around us suddenly empty. For some, it can be a blessed relief; someone has stopped the ride, we can get off. Stand still and take stock of all that is around us. Look out across the rolling fields, climb down the embankment, take the time to explore the hidden paths.

Sometimes we find that it looks different from this angle, this thing that we thought was our life. We took for granted that we had to be busy. Thought that our churches couldn’t function without a thousand meetings, our children would not flourish without extra-curricular overload, our family would not be happy unless life was full to the brim with everything.

How are you? they would ask.

Good, we would reply. You know, busy. But good.

But now, it all looks different. Now the pieces of our lives are emptied out and laying before us and I decide on this:

There are some things that I miss: Seeing friends. Hugging people. Visiting family.  Road trips. Putting on a nice dress and going out to dinner with my husband occasionally. A table full of people. A beautiful, crazy festival that I get to organise every year. Standing in an actual room with other people and singing songs to the God whom I love. The beach.

There are many things I do not: Constantly juggling work and home and school and kids and church and work… Overloaded schedules. My husband working away. Rushing, always. Being late more often than I’d like. Doing more than I need to because of FOMO. Doing more than I want to because I am too scared to say no. Being overcommitted. Thinking I can do nothing about it.

We follow the path tightly alongside the stream, down the wooded valley full with the scent of wild garlic and the last displays of fading bluebells. We climb a stile and suddenly, we are thrown back out, blinking, into the sunshine. She runs in circles, carving through the long grass, leaving buttercups swaying in her wake. We cross the wide open field and I realise that life is like this now. No tight path to tread. Just wide open opportunity. There are lessons that I’ve learnt and new rhythms that I’ve found and things that I hope will not ever return to ‘normal’, no matter what comes next.

Reading in the sun. Dinners together as a family, every night. Garden games. Sabbath. Rest. Simple pleasures. Taking joy in really small things, because when they’re not being measured against all the big, flashy stuff, they stand out as what they really are – great. Open fields and sunsets and country lanes. Bike rides and walks with my dog and lifting weights in the garage with my Dad. Time.

I’m acutely aware of these first world privileges, of the greedy perspective of being able to take stock and realign. I realise that it hasn’t been everyone’s experience, not even here, not even amongst the people that I know and love. For some, the constriction of their lives has become an unbearable weight. The loss of focus and activity and distraction has brought old coping mechanisms crashing down, with little that can be said or done to prop them up again. It’s been heartbreaking and painful and at times, the helplessness takes my breath away. Maybe I’ll write to that another day.

For today, I am trying to remember these good things. The choice and opportunity that slowing down gives us to meander and explore the margins of our lives. To veer from the path, peer over the bridge, and sometimes, scramble down the banks in search of new adventures.

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