#3 Rhythm, rest and recalibration

It’s now over a month since we arrived in Canterbury. Everyone’s back to school and college and the gentle, creative drift into work I enjoyed a couple of weeks ago has gathered pace. I don’t know about you, but things feel a bit faster and already more out of control than I’d hoped, so I’m grateful to my past-self for having committed to writing four reflections on my Southwark to Canterbury pilgrimage from early August. It’s keeping the brilliant memories alive and also the learnings, the resolve and reflections too.

The Old Kent Road
Our exit from London on day 1 was along the Old Kent Road of Monopoly fame. I had no expectations of what this might be like but I can tell you, it was a cacophony of massive rumbling HGVs, shrill and frequent emergency sirens and car after van after car. We inhaled petrol fumes as we walked with our rucksacks, wearing our outdoor gear more suited for mountain terrain, looking a bit incongruous to the passing traffic no doubt. My skin felt dirty with pollution. The Old Kent Road is incredibly straight and mo

stly flat – you could see exactly where we were heading all of the time, and the temptation for me, despite happy distractions to view interesting murals along the way, was to stride it out and get to quieter, fresher air as soon as we could. 

But, it turns out, that would have been to miss out on a few things. 

Pausing to rest
I suggested we stop for tea at a café on a busy corner. We could have carried on really, and my sense was, we were all on a default setting to get to where we were going as efficiently as possible. Tea didn’t feature in that plan. Stop we did though and were greeted with a genuine welcome and a huge smile. This was already starting to feel like a good idea. There was home-brewed iced-tea on offer (it was 30 degrees outside), and an opportunity to put down the bag and to rest our feet.

I don’t think we knew how much we needed to rest until we finally stopped. And once we did, I understood this needed to become part of the daily rhythm for the rest of the walk. The stop had brought human connection and kindness from strangers, a break from the over-stimulation of the busy road, a little celebration of being underway, some reflection on where we’d come so far and time to notice what we needed mentally, energetically and in our bodies too (the tea was just the ticket). An early lesson worth learning!

Settling into a rhythm
As we continued our walk, the tumult of the city seemed to fade a little and we began settling into the rhythm of our feet, our conversations and the cadence of our own thinking. In this way, the walk became a meditation. I found myself more in my body than usual and perhaps as a result, less attached to my thoughts and my thinking, a liberation I appreciated enormously.

As I mentioned in my first reflection, life had adopted a new rhythm, of bag packing and unpacking, eating, sleeping and Wordle! I was very happy to embrace this simpler way, which freed up internal and external space to embrace the things I recognised really mattered: nature, people and friendship, connection and conversation, ideas, art, music, love! I became able to recognise and act upon what my body was telling me in real time: ‘Slow down, Claire, recalibrate, value rest and choose when you can to carry a lighter load. And if you can’t make the load lighter, share it with those who care, so you can enjoy the fascinating, messy, unpredictable journey of life for many good years to come’.  

Walking through loss
A rucksack is a metaphor some coaches use to help their clients consider what mental and emotional ‘load’ they might be carrying, and what they might need or want to set down. I was carrying with me the loss of my beautiful dad who died earlier this year after a short illness. It came quickly and as you’d expect, had a huge impact.

My dad loved to walk too and we’d share photographs from our respective hikes, inviting the other to ‘guess where’. He also enjoyed photography and because he was always on that side of the lens, I don’t really have many photographs of him. My dad would have loved our walk, and he would have followed us along on a map from his den in the garden, telling me about history and the landscape and the local beer! So on the pilgrimage, by putting one foot in front of the other, as humans have done for millennia, I was also connecting with m

y dad and the memories I have of him while finding a way to process my loss. This wasn’t at all conscious and I chose not to take it to my journal while I was away. It felt beyond that; visceral, unconscious, deep, too profound for any language I could muster. Walking, one of the oldest human rituals, enabled me to be with my own emotions without them overwhelming me, and to take comfort in my grief from the rhythms of the earth and of my own two feet. 

It’s at this time of year, September, that the seasons shift. It always feels like the new year to me. The air is colder now than when we were wondering whether the jumpers in the rucksacks were a safety net we could have done without. Nature is slowing. It’s time for savouring and reflection on what’s been glorious, preparation for hunkering down.

Every year since I first came across it, I’ve recommended Wintering by Katherine May to my friends and sometimes my coaching clients. I’m not usually one for re-reading things I’ve enjoyed, but I feel changed by our walk in ways I don’t yet understand. I think maybe Wintering will shed some light, help me recalibrate the year and move towards action some of the learnings I’m taking from putting one foot in front of the other.