Every Friday since the start of the year I’ve walked the few miles from my home in Hackney into central London to visit my therapist. Recently, I’ve felt as though I’ve finally begun to get used to the strange process of opening myself up, both to myself and to him—although it remains difficult to work out what to do, what to say, how to process or not. I don’t think that will ever change, maybe it’s not meant to. Walking there this past Friday though, with the sun crackling on the bare skin of my neck and the first signs of spring all around, I realised that part of the process is that walk itself. When the grey months of late winter were at their worst, i thought often of taking public transport to the office, yet there’s something in that act of walking that I currently need.
The world is my parish
The world is my parish
The world is my parish
Every Friday since the start of the year I’ve walked the few miles from my home in Hackney into central London to visit my therapist. Recently, I’ve felt as though I’ve finally begun to get used to the strange process of opening myself up, both to myself and to him—although it remains difficult to work out what to do, what to say, how to process or not. I don’t think that will ever change, maybe it’s not meant to. Walking there this past Friday though, with the sun crackling on the bare skin of my neck and the first signs of spring all around, I realised that part of the process is that walk itself. When the grey months of late winter were at their worst, i thought often of taking public transport to the office, yet there’s something in that act of walking that I currently need.