A Tale of Two Walks

Yesterday evening, Julie and I took a most unusual walk after dinner.  It was just our usual stroll round the village - in other words sticking to roads and not straying off into the muddy fields - but yesterday, at Julie's suggestion, we did it mindfully.  I have experimented quite a bit with mindfulness over the last year or two, and done some mindful walks, but this technique, which Julie learnt from one of the staff on the unit, was new to me.

We walked arm and arm, and we took it in turns to describe out loud what we could feel in one bit of the body after another.  So we started with the feet (taking it turns to describe how it felt as the heel hit the tarmac and then rolled to the toe), and then to the lower legs (Julie had an ache in one shin), then to the knees (I could feel the fabric of my trousers rubbing against my knee as I walked), and upwards through the body.  Before long we were describing how the breeze felt on the backs of our necks, and how my eyes stung a little from hay fever, but Julie's felt soft and sleepy.  This took us to roughly the half-way point of the walk, and on the way back we described first what we could hear - from our own footfalls, to a passing car, to the cacophony of birds around us singing out the end of the day.  Next we turned to tastes and smells (the smoky smell of a conifer hedge), and finally to sight, which we did by stopping at a field gate, staring in one direction and trying as best we could without moving our gaze to describe exactly what we saw in front of us, down to the shifting colours of the pasture, and the distant haze of the parish church.

It was a very successful walk, and we were astonished when we finally reached home to discover that we had been out for more than half an hour - The Voice had already started, and we were just in time to hurry in and fight for our space on the sofa.  It was a pleasant surprise because this is the time of the day (the early part of the evening) when Julie really struggles with dipping mood.  I suspect the dip is a combination of weariness, the fact that everyone else is distracted by the need to prepare and serve food, and a need for medication, usually given around this time.  Yesterday, using the mindfulness technique she had learnt, we were able to power through the rough patch, landing safely on the other side just as the evening schedules on TV picked up.

Fast forward to this morning, and the walk we took today could not have been more different.  It was a fine spring day, with a clear sky, though perhaps a little chilly.  During the week, I had gone exploring on my bike, and stumbled on one of those secret walks which are hidden all around our little patch of countryside - an easy half-hour walk along a grassy track, under trees, leading past ancient woodland and a moated manor house, to a local beauty spot.  I knew from the county archaeologist that these old green lanes are very ancient features of our landscape.  I was keen to return with the family, and perhaps see the deer which I had heard haunted the wood.  Joe and Julie seemed convinced: we packed up sandwiches, parked at the top of the track, and I set off enthusiastically, with Joe and Julie trailing a little behind.

Within twenty minutes, Julie stopped dead, declared that her feet hurt, and that she didn't want to continue.  I talked her round, offered to swap shoes, and sure enough, only ten minutes later we were at the end of the walk, sitting in the sunshine, unpacking our sandwiches.  At this point Julie began to sob, and carried on crying all the way through lunch and the walk back.  Despite everything we tried, she could not tell us what was wrong, or suggest anything we could try to do to help.  Mindfulness this morning, it seemed, was out of the question.  She was inconsolable and so distraught that she started to hyperventilate, making herself even more panicky.

There is something very disconcerting about anyone crying outside on a sunny day.  Tears are usually shed indoors in darkness; instinctively we think of sunshine and happiness in the same breath.  Julie, however, is living proof that not all the beauties of nature nor the warmth of the sun can protect you from the ravages of depression.  I felt so sorry for her, my lovely daughter, sitting there amongst the early violets, sobbing her heart out.  It was only when we reached home again and she phoned up the hospital that she could put together the strategies she needed to take her through the next few hours.  We did manage the rest of the home visit - we didn't take her back to the hospital early - but it was a hard slog, and she needed to be constantly entertained.