Wild Geese

I’m in self-isolation and I’ve noticed that my chutzpah at having to stay in permanently might have been somewhat misplaced.

Currently, I’m well and that’s certainly something to be thankful for but, under those circumstances, being confined to home is surprisingly unsettling.

The thing I miss most of all is walking the dog. It’s my meditation, my routine, and it establishes a foundation for the day.

Without it, I’m a bit lost.

I won’t be making banana bread because I cannot stand the stuff and I won’t be teaching myself to make sourdough because that boat sailed long ago as evidenced by how much fridge space is currently taken up with proving dough. My son once told me that cleaning the kitchen is tremendously satisfying because there is a thin layer of flour on everything.

Instead, I turn to my work and, more specifically this morning, some one-off questions I have from clients of an online therapy startup I freelance for.

I enjoy answering them because it makes me feel like an agony uncle and enables me to channel my inner “Dear Sugar”.

Today I notice that every question is pretty much the same. People feeling overwhelming anxiety and trying to deal with friends or colleagues struggling in similar ways.

In a moment of intense jeopardy, I feel tempted to cut and paste some of my answers, turning myself into a surrogate Google but resist.

My instinct is to tell everyone some version of how important it is to take care of your own needs before you can take care of anyone else’s.

I consider using the analogy of putting on your own life jacket before trying to assist other passengers which I feel especially pleased with until I think about inadvertently triggering a nervous flyer.

Get enough sleep, eat properly, get some exercise, stay connected with people, and make sure you spend some time doing the things that you love, blah, blah, blah. In my head, it all sounds so banal and, frankly, unhelpful.

I know that most if not all of these things become harder to do when we feel stressed or anxious and so the treatment risks worsening the problem.

Finishing the hoovering at 8 am while the dog is out for her walk, without me and looking perfectly happy about it, I put out the second load of washing and while I’m in the garden, I tidy the raised beds.

Next door’s bedroom curtains are still closed so I try and shut the garden bin quietly as I stuff the dried husks of sweetcorn plants into them and wonder if it’s too wet to cut the grass.

I don’t know what’s wrong but if anything I’m managing to make myself feel even less settled with all of my industry.

Some geese fly overhead in the slate grey sky and I watch them disappear into the distance over the spire of the church. A blackbird watches too from the safety of the washing line.

I take a lung full of cold autumn air and breath it out slowly, closing my eyes.

Back in the house, I pull a volume down from the shelf. “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver. I sit down in the deep leather armchair and I read the title poem as a reminder and wonder how much better my clients might feel if I just suggest they do the same.