On Walking

We’re the first of the walkers up into wood, I can tell by the single gossamer-light cobweb lines that catch my face. The hawthorns are heavy with deeply red berries, and they’ve bent to make a tunnel that meets just above my bare head. The early-morning sun lights the ash and goat willows in white-gold patches, and I have to steady myself, or else I’d run skipping like a loon, to dance in the richness.

Yeats wrote that ‘too long a sacrifice, makes a stone of the heart’. Jilly Cooper had one of her characters say the line when he’d waited for a woman he’d loved, and I’ve been thinking it these past few weeks, waiting, waiting to hear back from agents about The Badly Born.  Part of me whispers let it go, let it be still-born, like the others. The other part of me is defiant, and thinks good: be a stone. Stones endure. Stones hold down balloons of hope.

The agents have had my book for seven weeks, now, and with every passing day, I tried to make myself more stone-like, more weighted against lift-off and the possibility of a fall.

Last night, though, I had an email from one of them, telling me I was yet to be read, but would be soon, and I lay in bed, clutching my phone, recognising how utterly I’d failed in the stone stakes. I’ve no defences at all, no weight for that slippery, silvery bubble of hope. I can feel it rising despite all of the times I’ve trusted it and we’ve been so high, and I’ve fallen. Falling hurts so damned much.

What makes us do this? In love, or work, or art, or whatever it is that terrifies and fascinates us. To reach for something we’ve such little chances of touching. How much more content must people be, that can control their hope.

I’ve walked almost the length of the woods unseeing. I’m breathless with an exhilaration I know must not be trusted. I call in the bigger dogs, then let them go again. Dora stays beside me, shooting me suspicious, disapproving looks. She’s checking I’m still beside her, not spriting around in the tree tops.

Oh, that hope. It’s glimmering in the sky above my head, the dappled earth is falling away beneath my feet. Dora’s barking at something but I can’t look round, can’t look down.

Steady, I think. Steady. Just hang on, and don’t let go.

Author: mrscarlielee

Country housewife. Mother. Writer. Wearer of frocks with wellies. Loves Dancing, Frivolity and Good Books. Blog at https://mrscarlielee.wordpress.com/ Tweet @MrsCarlieLee Website: www.thecountryhousewife.com

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