The cavalry is not coming.

I remember telling myself this. Distress can do that to you. Give you falsehoods. Make you forget.

In the end though, I found a way to ‘find my own grit, in my own time’ (a beautiful phrase in Katherine May’s book ‘Wintering’). A way, or maybe ways, through this particular winter. Some ways came from within myself but most of the ways came to me from outside, in the beautiful feet of friends.

Friends who run through walls as the Script sing.

In visits and phone calls by the lake. In trips out and brownies in the post. In gifts of Sea Soul Blessings In postcards, necklaces and sofa slumps.

The cavalry wasn’t coming.

It was already here.

Here in the part of me that rose up, rallied and saved what was left of myself.

Here in repeated pilgrimages to the beach,  just to be on that shoreline, in the presence of the vastness of the sea.

Here in rediscovering the joy and fulfilment of a hot bowl of spaghetti bolognaise.

Here in the comfort of re-watching TV series I’d already seen, because I needed the safety of knowing how the story would end.

Here in family listening to this winter on repeat, encountering a version of me they’d not seen before and accepting me all the same.

For a good few weeks I just clung to the sacred texts of three poems by three great poets;

Finnestere by David Whyte;

‘no way to make sense of a world that wouldn’t let you pass’

Peace of the Wild Things by Wendell Berry;

I feel above me the day-blind stars, waiting with their light’

The Journey by Mary Oliver.

‘there was a new voice, which you slowly recognised as your own, that kept you company’

This was the make up of the cavalry here in this winter. Here to give reassurance that even though distress may have taken some ground, friends come running through walls to help reclaim lost treasures. Here to remind us that we are not and never alone.

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