Having a "me"

I've been wanting to write this post for a while, but I'm not entirely certain of what I want to say, so please bear with me!

It's a post about being a "me": existing as a person or specific entity present in the world of other specific entities. This is something that most people probably take for granted most of the time, but a truth that I have often struggled to accept, or done my best to ignore, consciously or otherwise.

Even as a child I could not bear being conspicuous. Reading aloud at school was terrifying even though I was an advanced reader, being picked on to answer a question (because I NEVER volunteered) was my worst nightmare, having my music practice observed (just the presence of another person in the room, or even the house) made me angry and fearful and even the acknowledgment of my having completed some action or made some choice made me at the least uncomfortable. I sometimes find it intrusive when people use my name. When I'm really stressed out and can't have the control or invisibility I need, I have recently realised I just disappear. My body is there, doing what has to be done, but I'm not really in it - I have relinquished all choice, feeling, control, and thereby, "me", because to try and maintain a part of it or be present while lacking those things is too painful.

I always knew I was different from other people and that other people often knew this too, and being different is generally experienced as being wrong. I learnt to fit in well enough to avoid being a complete social outcast, but for many years I was very much clinging on to the perimeter of inclusion with people who were hardly the embodiment of "accepted" themselves. My goal in life was to go unnoticed.

All this is hardly news to me, and I am fairly sure that it has been a conscious goal through childhood and adulthood. When I received my diagnosis of autism I finally had a "reason" for why I was different and as I had grown older I had found a small number of friends who I truly fit in with. I had the longed-for acceptance and belonging and an explanation of why it had always been so difficult.

How wonderful to go unseen

Yet I retained this need to be invisible. As I worked through therapy recently I was aware that this was one of the functions of my mental health disorder. It was driven by a desire to be entirely insignificant, unnoticeable and to the outside world non-existent. That way you can't cause any problems, you can't be at fault or fail, and you don't hurt. Of course this is nonsense, and I did all of those things a thousand times more because of my condition, but those were the beguiling promises it made me.

Through therapy I have been trying to entertain the idea of a "me" being allowed to exist. Complete with potential for pain for others and myself and inevitable imperfection. I often find it difficult even to write or speak in the first person (even as this is written!), but I am gradually beginning to tolerate the existence of my emotions and to accept what I do or don't do, whether it is what I was aiming for or not. And then to show compassion to that "me" that has been allowed to exist. (It turns out my psychologist wasn't lying when she suggested that accepting things I don't like about myself might help them to gradually be needed less. Counterintuitive propaganda I thought, but there is definitely something in the whole acceptance, compassion, nurturing thing. I hate it!)

My battle with this idea really struck me after I read a post on social media over the New Year period. It stated that "Your wellbeing should be your number one priority. Nothing else is more important." I turned this thought around and around in my head and couldn't make sense of it. Something was wrong with it: it didn't seem to add up. I couldn't work out if it was supposed to be true or not, so I consulted Mr Peggy. He seemed to think that ultimately it probably is true. I'm still not sure (discussion welcome!), but it really made me aware that I still have a strong resistance to considering such a high value on my wellbeing even though I have changed a lot.

Then I began reading a book on "Exposure Anxiety" and my goodness, it resonates in places (I've only got to about page 30 of 300-and-something!). It was mentioned in the afterword of Donna Williams' Somebody Somewhere (second of two autobiographical accounts of Williams' life with autism and her journey from "her world" into "the world") and sounded interesting, so I popped it on my Christmas list and have begun to read avidly.

We disappear at any hint of discovery

Williams defines Exposure Anxiety as "an involuntary social-emotional self-protection response that is increasingly understood as a crippling condition affecting a high proportion of people on the autism spectrum." "Exposure anxiety makes it difficult to dare 'expressive volume' in a directly-confrontational (self-in-relation-to-other) world." "Exposure anxiety is about feeling your own existence too close up, too in your own face." (Williams, D. Exposure Anxiety, The Invisible Cage 2003, 10-11.) It produces aversion, diversion and retaliation responses and can present in many ways, just as each individual with autism is different, but can include difficulties in making decisions, fulfilling needs, being unable to perform under observation tasks which are well within an individual's skill set, speaking through other people's words (echolalia), being very controlled or controlling, and a myriad of other issues.

It has nothing to do with Exposure Therapy used to treat various mental illnesses, and I'm not sure that it is a widely-acknowledged "thing", but I think it can be a useful way of understanding aspects of behaviour in some autistic people, and the suggestions given for supporting such people certainly have merit. I see a large overlap with Pathological Demand Avoidance (PDA): though perhaps a difference in motivation, the mechanisms and presentation can be similar and helpful responses may look alike.

Perhaps I will write a separate post once I have finished the book, but I found it an interesting concept given my musings on why I find it so difficult to have a "me." (Which I still want to call a "you" because that is much less uncomfortable!)

So here's to "me." Me is a bit intermittent and only appears when she can face it, but we're seeing more of her as time goes on. Just don't tell her if you see her - she'll probably evaporate into thin air!

PS. You can probably tell her afterwards, when it's over because then it's less intense

New Year Post

For the past couple of weeks I have had three or four pending blog posts floating about in my head, logically resulting in no blog posts actually being written. So I have sat down to try and disentangle them and transform them into vaguely intelligible form!

I'll start with the expected "New Year - looking back - looking forward - with a touch of sickening sentimentality" one. And then I promise I'll get back to autism! Some interesting things I've been thinking about to try and figure out enough to condense into bloggery... anyway...

As I have taken stock of my adventures with Brian during 2018 I have been pleasantly surprised by a few realisations. When I compare my current state with the Peggy of a year or a year and a half ago, I am experiencing things I never believed I would actually experience, and neither was I sure that I wanted to. Some of these changes have even come about in the space of the week or two that this post has been swimming in my mind, forming and reforming itself to keep up with my changing perspective.

A year ago I was working 50% of my full time job, only going in for half days and finding that something of a struggle. When I returned to full time I battled anxiety attacks most days at least once and spent an awful lot of time crying in bathrooms. This month I took my first day off sick and since September have only had two incidents at work that required support from others. Not a perfect clean record, but progress I could not dare to imagine a year ago.

Progress in recovery for my specific mental health condition (which I don't discuss on this platform) has flourished lately. The months and months of hard graft working for what I didn't believe I wanted is finally beginning to pay off. Sometimes I genuinely believe that getting "better" actually is better. Just the last week or so I have felt the first breaths of freedom from my disorder. I have hope of a life beyond: the life that I had wished I dared to believe in but couldn't risk.

I am learning to treat myself with compassion. To accept the days where I need to go at my own pace, not shower until lunch time, wear joggers and snuggle down with my pets. To be kind to myself when I “fail” or fall short of my perfect ideal. To turn down the social occasion without (with less…) guilt if I need to, to do what I can not what I think I “should.” To ask for space or time or explanation when I need it.

I am learning to participate in my own life, to risk making choices or allowing my preferences to show. To let the feelings happen. It hurts a lot. I chicken out very often. I don’t like it. I prefer the safety of numbing and ignoring the feelings with destructive behaviour. But I know it doesn’t work. I’ve tried it. It’s not sustainable, and it’s not the life I want to live.

To get this far I have had many months of therapy from a psychologist who has helped me understand myself, my “what”s and “why”s and how to help myself, and most importantly, shown me that I can and am allowed to help myself. Her consistent voice is beginning to counter that of the ED and tip the balance of whom I believe.

This being the NHS, our sessions are about to come to an end, and I am trying to take the lessons I have learned and allow myself to feel the fear and sadness that this brings. In some ways, I’ve only just begun to really be able to talk about the things that matter, and with another couple of months I could be better enough that I would be equipped to keep going. This lady has heard things I doubt I will ever utter to another breathing being (as well as enabling me to utter things to other breathing beings that I thought I never would utter!), and I have invested much into allowing her to help me. She has helped me a lot. I won’t see her any more, and all that knowledge will go away with her and I will be left with the understanding and skills she has shared, to go forward my own way. It’s a lonely, scary and sad prospect. I hope I will do her proud. And I hope that if I don’t, I will forgive myself, pick myself up and keep on trying.


And the wonder of the thing is that in just the few days since I wrote the last four paragraphs, I have grown in hope, in confidence of the possibility of that hope being fulfilled, and in assurance that I am on the right path and I want to be on it. I honestly didn't see this coming, and especially coming so quickly. To have that inner reassurance (and the amazing support of some stalwart Peggies rooting for me all the way) and strength before I finish my therapy is a completely unexpected gift that I couldn't be more thankful for. I'm under no illusion that I won't come across setbacks and crushing doubts as Brian fights back, but I know that freedom can exist on the other side and it is worth fighting for.

So here's to a year of stubbornly practising self-acceptance and self-compassion, exploring and enjoying the experience of allowing the stalwarts of Team Peggy to support me, and seeing how many breaths of freedom I can breathe.

Failure or Progress? The mental health analysis

Welcome to Week 5! All I can say of Week 5 is that it has offered a veritable plethora of opportunities to practise self-compassion.

Joking aside, it has been rather an odd week which has at times baffled my attempts to disentangle my thoughts and responses to events and actions.

I'm glad I have engaged in the disentangling process though: it has been rather enlightening. When I originally wrote the sentence above, it read "has at times baffled my attempts to disentangle the positives and negatives." My rewriting reflects way my perspective is changing, which is actually a pleasant surprise, because as well as logically being able to produce the arguments I am beginning to almost believe them. Credit I believe to my psychologist and some really lovely people who keep talking sense at me. It's easy to forget where I've come from, or to feel discouraged when I see the long road in front of me, but little bits of change really are happening - something I never properly believed possible. I hoped, but I could not see how it could actually come about. I suppose that's why we go to therapy...

I did a Thing!

So yes, this week included a Thing. I did a Thing! I took a day off work sick. I mean, admittedly I did have to arrange it the day before, and I had to battle the Brian, but I did the Thing! And do you know what, I have such wonderful people around me that I spent the rest of the week being congratulated by various people (from Mrs School-Peggy to Mr Peggy, Welsh Peggy to Mummy Peggy and other lovely Peggies) for my rather unorthodox "achievement".

I fought with self-criticism and feeling useless, with bitter disappointment that I had spoiled my chance of a full half-term with no time off, and many other emotions, but those around me gave me another voice to hear. One that saw the progress in being able to recognise the danger signs before crisis. The bravery in deciding to communicate that to someone else and following up that decision. The seeds of self-care in listening to and acknowledging my needs when they aren't what I want them to be. A voice that may one day exist within me, as I realised that a term with a day off but without meltdown at school may genuinely be better than a term with full attendance leading to decline in my mental health and functioning level at work and a holiday barely recovering from the term.

Square Peggy 1 - 0 Brian

But then of course came FRIDAY. Just to test the battlefield. FRIDAY did not treat me well. I was fine in the morning, but was battered with two double-attacks of immediate and unexpected changes that re-wrote the whole day. I managed to weather the first attack with a good old tried-and-tested bathroom sob session and told myself that I could get to lunch time and then the afternoon would be OK (a low-stress activity for me that was as yet according to timetable). The second wave finished me off and as soon as everything was safe I excused myself for another bathroom session. Decided in a very grown-up manner to let Teacher Peggy know I was struggling, but we ran into each other on my way back to class and she bundled me off to Safe Peggy and I ended up trundling home.

Cue Brian trying for another point. I hadn't even managed the term without meltdown at school now. Why can't I deal with the things like other people can? Why should I be special? Not pulling my weight, useless, causing trouble: mean comments ad nauseum. And yes, I am still struggling with those thoughts, and with the worry that it will happen again or that I will end up back where I was, be unable to work full time etc etc.

BUT even there I know it is not all bad. I got through the first wave of death. I didn't go into complete crisis at the second ("I'm not counting this as a crisis because x, y, and z" was actually said to me!). I was able to tell somebody what the problem was. I looked after myself during the day - went for a tramp on my moor, really stuck two fingers up at Brian by stopping for a hot chocolate on the way home, and put no demands on myself for the rest of the day.

So for the minute, I'm practising seeing that "failure" and "progress" may be closer than I think. Treating myself with acceptance and aiming towards compassion. Not labelling things as "good" or "bad" but letting them just be what they are, with the rainbow of emotional responses that brings. (See this fabulous article by Joanna Grace on rainbow emotional regulation.)

And I am loudly expressing my gratitude for so many people who tell me things so convincingly that I almost believe they mean them, who let me experience a voice other than the one in my head, and who back me up when I nearly hear it myself, celebrating when I follow it. You have had a big part in any progress I am making. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being with Team Peggy.

I have autism. This means some things are more difficult for me than they are for other people. It can sometimes be hard to be me, but it is not wrong to be me.

Failure or Progress? When the autism monkey invades

This term has been going pretty well. Admittedly I've flagged a bit since week two, but we're on the home straight: 4 of 7 weeks completed and this is the last week of my evening commitments so I know the next two weeks will have more space. I've got much better at dealing with things, understanding and communicating my needs and so on and so forth, so have been quietly looking forward to completing a whole half term clean: last term (an 8-weeker) only held one drama and that was solved by the new and groundbreaking technique of going home and recovering (shocking I know!).

We had a great time!

Then came this week. I misjudged the weekend, having a wonderful day dancing on Saturday with friends, but instead of taking Sunday as a nothing day I took the utterly wild decision of doing an hour's shopping on my way home. This sacrificed my alone time and I had jobs to do in the evening once Mr Peggy was in. I should know better, but sometimes I get complacent and think it can't cost too much to do one extra Thing at the weekend (I generally limit to one Thing per weekend, and try to keep alternate weekends empty, having learnt that this allows me to function during the week). Turns out it does if you're me.

Monday nearly finished me off and I knew I wasn't on top form for supporting some of our little people, so I did a Thing (bold just to differentiate from the Things above!!). I found Mrs School and told her I thought I needed to call in sick for tomorrow. Mrs School has been on this whole parade with me and understood what a Thing it was and was very proud of me for my great achievement. I spent the rest of the week being congratulated by various people for this step in my development: rather humorous but very powerful. How grateful I am to be surrounded by supportive Peggies who are invested in wanting the best for me.

So, having done the Thing I returned on Wednesday, back to functioning level and feeling rather pleased that my bravery had paid off. Yes, I did mourn the loss of my clean half term and deal with some rude Brian behaviour but I came out on top and realised that I am still the winner because actually, I recognised the need and acted on it before ending up in disaster-land. I was able to reflect that a half-term with a day off and without crisis at work is a better achievement than a full half term having dragged myself along at 25%, lost progress on my mental health and needing the full holiday just to begin recovering from the term. Yay! Well done Peggy!

Enter FRIDAY MORNING.

SQUARE PEGGY is much as she has been every morning. She struggles to get out of bed and reflects that actually, she does pretty well day to day. When you consider that by the time she gets to work she has overcome several difficult transitions and sources of anxiety (Getting out of bed, getting out of the shower, leaving the pets, getting out of the car. Dealing with the anxiety of possibly being late, what might happen during the day, whether she's been an acceptable human being etc.), it's reasonable that she sometimes feels a bit wobbly. 

FRIDAY MORNING presents SQUARE PEGGY with an email announcing that the weekly Friday morning meeting (that she panicked for the whole journey she would be late for) is cancelled. She doesn't cope well without this meeting and if she misses it her Friday always feels uncomfortable. FRIDAY MORNING then informs SQUARE PEGGY that assembly is semi-cancelled and to take place in classrooms instead.

SQUARE PEGGY cries in a bathroom for 20 minutes to process this information, then gets herself to class. She plans to try and tell someone it isn't a good day but this is difficult to communicate. She tells herself that if she can get to lunch time she is doing hydrotherapy in the afternoon and that will be OK. She can do this.

As she goes to collect the children FRIDAY MORNING informs her that the pool is closed due to illness. Five minutes later a visitor she had forgotten was coming for the morning enters the room. She holds it together until the children are safe and settled in class and excuses herself to visit the bathroom, where she cries for another five minutes. 

Long story short; Friday is not spent at school either. I've not had the week I was expecting, and today hit me right out of the blue when I thought I was fine.

A tramp on my moor solves a lot!

I have come a long way though: I am now able to reflect with less self-criticism and take on others' comments about the difference between this week's wobbles and those in the past.

On Tuesday I called it before it got to the stage of turning into a crisis. Full on win.
Today I had no idea it was coming, but actually I overcame the first wave of Bad Stuff and didn't completely melt down even at the second. I was able to verbalise what the problem had been, I didn't have to wrap myself in my blanket and calm down for half an hour, I could accept that maybe it was sensible to go home. I went home even though Mr Peggy was there, and I told him I was coming. I looked after myself on the way home, because I'm learning that I am not an exception to the rest of the world: I make progress when I am safe and cared for, not when I am told off and criticised.

I still have an ideal of perfect functioning that I feel substandard for not meeting, and the outcome isn't what I was looking for, but neither is the outcome entirely negative. I am learning, I am progressing, and as that happens I may well move more towards my ideal of functioning. But if I don't, I will accept that. I have autism. This means some things are more difficult for me than they are for other people. It is sometimes hard to be me, but it is not wrong to be me.

A sensory processing meditation

Imagine it’s Monday morning.

You are getting ready for work. You’re not a hundred per cent sure whether you can face the thought of another week. You’ve got some tricky meetings coming up and a load of data that needs to be done accurately, but you work with a supportive colleague and you know there’s some fun planned in the afternoon. Anyway, you don’t have a choice, because you have to pay the bills and your partner would hardly be impressed if you refused to go just because you didn’t feel like it. Not to mention your manager.

You get out of bed and prepare for the day. You’ve got an outfit in mind that will help you take on the day. What have you chosen? What is it made of? What colour is it? How does it make you feel? Relaxed? Powerful? Cheerful? 

Go and open the wardrobe and look inside. You see that your clothes have been replaced by a very impressive yet rather cumbersome suit of armour.

It’s the only thing there, and you can’t go to work wearing nothing. Your partner who drives you to work is hurrying you along. It’s time to go. You need to be at work. You have a meeting at 9. You can’t miss it.

It’s difficult to put the armour on. Your partner has to help with the gauntlets. You have no idea how you can even begin to do the day wearing this. You have to wear the sabatons on your feet as well. Your partner fixes them on and practically drags you out of the door. It’s hard to co-ordinate your movements.

You arrive just in time for the meeting, but every movement reminds you of this suit of armour. It gets in the way. It makes some very unwelcome noise in the serious meeting. It’s very uncomfortable. The corners dig into your muscles. You must present the information you have brought to the meeting, but you can’t see out properly. The helmet is too tight, squashing your head. All eyes are on you, wondering why you’re not explaining the data. Your elbows and knees rub on the hard metal every time you bend them.

Perhaps you can take your attention off your predicament for long enough to notice that everyone else is wearing armour too. But they all seem perfectly comfortable and are moving on with the meeting smoothly. 

The meeting ends and you never did manage to make a valuable contribution. How do you feel? Angry that you didn’t perform well and it wasn’t even your fault? Ashamed because the manager you wanted to impress was there? Upset? Exhausted? Not to mention in pain and way too hot by this point. But you can’t take the armour off. Everyone else is wearing theirs without comment, and it’s not even lunch time.

"Don't worry, you're fine really!"

You manage to find a friend on your coffee break and ask what is going on and how on earth they were able to cope in the meeting. You friend reassures you that everything’s fine. Don’t worry; you’re OK. Just keep going and focus on the things you’re doing. You’ll get used to it - see - we’re all OK. 

After lunch you discover that parts of the suit are actually lined with sandpaper, and that is why you feel like the skin is rubbing off your toes every time you take a step, and why you get such pain when you stand up and the suit rests heavy again on your shoulders. But when you try leaving your hands and feet uncovered after lunch, you are told in no uncertain terms that it is unacceptable to present yourself like that. You must look the same as everybody else or you have no right to be one of them. You think perhaps you would rather not be one of them, even though you were so desperate to impress this morning. You remember that there were parts of the day you would have enjoyed if you’d have been in that outfit you had in mind this morning. The one you couldn’t find in the wardrobe. 

But by now it’s an effort just to endure what should have been a fun afternoon, and all you want is to be at home, in your pyjamas, safe. 

The constant pain reminds you every minute that you are wearing this suit in response to a requirement of yourself (you can’t go to work naked and you must go to work), your partner (you must leave the house now, and we need to pay the bills) and your manager (you must look presentable like everybody else). How does that make you feel? Angry? Hostile? Rebellious? Now imagine that you have a condition where you find it difficult to comply with your own and others’ expectations or demands even when you need to do something that you really enjoy. How much more difficult does it make it to keep this suit of armour on?

You reach the end of the day, get the suit off and crawl into bed. How do you feel now? Defeated, that everybody else just functioned as normal but you couldn’t? Worthless, because you couldn’t overcome the challenge? Cheated, that you couldn’t enjoy the fun? Frustrated, because you couldn’t prove in that meeting what you really can do?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And how do you feel when you find out that everybody else’s armour was fake? Fleece lined and flexible. They weren’t acting differently because it wasn’t different. They didn’t see the difference in your armour. They didn’t listen when you tried to ask, and they didn’t believe you when you tried to say you couldn’t do it. “You’re OK”, they said. “Just get on with it.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

NEVER assume you know something about somebody or their experience unless THEY have told you. You can’t assume that because you, or the majority of people, find something comfortable or acceptable, that the individual in front of you also does.

You can’t assume that because you get a sense of belonging by looking the same as everybody else, that all people do. Some people find their sense of belonging in being understood and accepted. In feeling that their needs are reasonable and that they are supported to contribute to the best of their ability. Without that feeling, they will never have a sense of belonging, no matter how much they look like the others in a group.

If we want to call ourselves an inclusive community, let’s not miss an opportunity to create the feeling of value that is so easily stolen from so many vulnerable people.

Under the Tree

This week has been a fabulous week of lunch times on my bench under my tree. I have been very consciously enjoying making the most of the beautiful crisp autumn days, never knowing whether each will be the last.

The knowledge that these days will not last forever brings an urgent appreciation of each moment; drinking in the wonder and stunning beauty of every detail which floods my senses.

But my main train of thought this week paused on the ever-changing nature of my spot under the tree. Each day I come to my trusted spot: the same time, the same place (providing some outrageous member of the public hasn't chosen to ignore the big invisible label booking my daily slot...), the same routine of eating the same lunch. 

Many would find it boring, but although I must agree it is predictable (I find this brings me peace) I am never bored. The experience is never the same twice. Because everything else is safely constant, I can process and find pleasure in the change around me as the seasons progress and the weather varies. I feel connected to the real things in life, and the rhythm of the surrounding world.

Hot sun, cold air, gentle breeze, blue sky, angry clouds, dancing leaves, muffling blankets of snow, powerful wind moving my body, cotton wool clouds - the elements are my trusted companions.

Surprisingly often they mirror or complement my internal state, for as I sat this week, I realised how ever-changing I am too. On no two days do I arrive on that bench as exactly the same person. A thousand things conspire to present the me that exists at any time. Some days I am cloudy, some days the sun is bright and the sky deep blue. Sometimes I am silent and muted like the snow blanket, or I need a forceful wind to counter the turmoil inside. Even on the worst days there will almost always be a snippet of birdsong or a tumbling leaf to bring a passing moment of joy.

And the conclusion that I came to is that it is absolutely fine that a different me stops under the tree each day. It is as natural as the constant change of the sky and air around me. If every day were perfect blue skies and sunshine it would lose its magic, and I would miss out on so many of the other wonders to experience. I will not always be perfect blue skies and sunshine, but neither will I always be cascades of raindrop tears. Each moment will pass to make way for another, which in its turn will pass. 

Some may linger longer, but none is permanent, and this is the natural way. I may not be OK, or I may not have been able to make the best choices, but that is a part of the story, and that is OK. Wait and see what the next moment brings. It may be similar; it may be different, but I'm trying not to write the story before it happens, and to accept the way it unfolds with interest and compassion.

Busy Being OK

I can't really be sitting here by a field, the wind in my hair, birds in the air, while the day is carrying on without me. And I am not there. I am supposed to be there. I have a duty to be there, and The Plan was to be there. I can't not be there. Yet the wind in my hair and the pain in my stomach tell me I am here, and so do the tears as they start to fall. It's a cruel twist that the wind helping to calm me is carrying the voices of the local school children playing outside.

There are difficult conversations to be had, and difficult, heavy decisions to be made. The magnitude of the moment is at once a crushing heaviness and a weightlessness of incomprehension. For now, all I can really understand are the wind, the flight of the birds, the movement of the clouds, the water droplets on the leaves next to me. The tractor in the field behind me turns the soil. I remember how to breathe again.

Now, with the sun on my face and the wind moving my body, I know that for the minute it is fine to be busy being OK. I will sit here for as long as I need to.

I sat next to a field for two hours. Not quite true. I sat next to a field for an hour and a half, then I did some mindful stretching next to a field for half an hour. Then I went for a walk. I crunched leaves, I followed butterflies, I laid on the earth with the sun on my face. I stopped to watch the water sparkle and the dandelion clock fly away on the wind. I made a moment for the tiny blue wildflowers, I smelt the cowpats and I felt the textures under my feet. I let myself be captivated by the dancing and flickering of tiny white leaves bright among the darker trees of the woods. I remembered me. I am very grateful to be able to do these things, no matter what else I can or can not do.