19.2.18 Garden wall
There are days when I can't help but feel such envy. Not for a busy life, but for a wide one. I envy lives that can roam. You'd think someone who has always found movement difficult would have evolved to be a sedentary, restful creature, happy to circle the nest, but I haven't. I'm a wanderer, all the way through.
My range on foot at the moment is about 10 metres. It's much less than it used to be. My feet drag and must be pulled along one at a time and it is agonisingly slow, to experience and to watch, but I get there in the end. I spend all day testing the edges of my tether just in case it has stretched a little. Walk and rest, walk and rest. I do it over and over until I've filled a day. My limit stretches to fill my small house and, with some bracing, it gets me out into my tiny, paved garden, too. I aim for at least one trip out there each day. I had it adapted last year and so the length of it now runs with sitting places and handholds. I climb it, horizontally.
Inside of myself, I am rarely still, filled with an energy that doesn't know what to do with itself. There is such a mismatch between my body and my intent. If I could unhook my body from my will, I would cover leagues within minutes, but I can't, and so all the energy has to find another way out.
It manifests these days as a kind of quiet intensity. I think and feel the equivalent of long, bracing walks. My hands type it out or try and spin it into something beautiful, although I have to do that slowly too. It comes out in looking most of all. My gaze has intensified as my body has slowed. Now, I notice everything and I am hungry for everything: hungry to experience every detail I can. And I do. I make sure I don't overlook a thing. If 10 metres is my limit, I will know it better than anyone else on this earth.
There are days, like today, when I watch the world go about its activities and I burn with longing. "Oh all the things they must see!" I think.
But even now a quiet voice inside of me can't help but whisper back, in challenge, in defiance:
"Ah, but Jo. Think of all the things they must miss."