Rooted

Team IttH wrapped ourselves up against the weather, our pains and our vast doggy age and had a slow wander into Borrowdale first thing.
When we reached the bridge with no name one of us was spent. I sat a while, happy to pause, wanting to ponder, the others mooched on, a rare midweek day together for the ladies.

Sat on the angular agonies of the stone parapet the inclement weather was of little consequence, another sensory dimension to distract. It's been too long since I've been even close to mindful, so I spent a while listening to my heartbeat, slowing my breathing, closing my eyes and coming as close to an internal balance as I can.
Feeling outwards I worked through my senses one by one.

The stones are sharp, but I'm aware their slanting stacks keep them dry, recesses are cold, wet and distinct. I can feel the wind on my face. I try my best not to dwell on the messages other nerves are sending me.
I can still taste the morning coffee, the acrid taste of pain pills not swallowed quickly enough - they seem, somewhat imaginatively, to overpower the smell of the Moor. This is always my weakest sense, I should probably practice more.
Eyes closed I can hear the subtleties of the beck, a sense of falling, tumbling, speeding and pools. An unknown bird barks a discordant cry, the wind ruffles the trees, cattle shuffle somewhere close by.
Finally I open my eyes looking straight up. The sky is so uniformly in the spectrum of grey that it bleaches everything . As I lower my gaze this tree dominates my view and my attention. It takes an age for what I think is focus to return, for colours to emerge, for shapes to be distinct. I spend a moment wondering how much of the tree focuses out and how much stays connected within. 

I know I should stay in this moment longer, but I also know this is today's blip.

Later Mrs IttH tells me I looked like I was asleep.