Are you glad you exist?

On hope, beauty, robins and even grief

I love you. I’m glad I exist.

The Orange by Wendy Cope, from The Poetry Pharmacy Returns, compiled by William Sieghart.

Hope is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –

254 by Emily Dickinson

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Hello friends.

A bit of poetry in the morning can lift the soul. When I visited Haworth last weekend, I bought 2 new poetry books. One was a lovely little book of Emily Dickinson’s poems. The other was a first edition Christina Rossetti, bound by her brother Dante Rossetti. I hadn’t intended to buy it. It fell into my hands, honest guv. It needed a new home. My friend asked the question, which I will attempt to answer someday, what sort of life this book has had since it was published in 1892. What houses has it lived in, who has read it, who has cherished it, who has thrown it away?

I took inspiration from Beth Kempton this morning and started my writer’s hour (courtesy of London Writer’s Salon) by reading poetry. First Emily’s, then Wendy’s beautiful poem. That final line, ‘I’m glad I exist’ made me think back to all the moments I’ve had in recent years where I’ve been doing nothing in particular, nothing ground-breaking, and yet I have had a moment of feeling utterly glad I’m here. It’s not even being grateful to be alive; to simply exist is a blessing.

So I scribbled some more, and then here we are.

I’d love to hear about those moments you’ve been simply glad to exist.

Enjoy x

Our walk before it got too dark to take photos. My own photo.

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The clouds are skating across the sky, from south to north, but I see them go from left to right, from one mountain to the next. They skirt around the edge of the Blorenge, towering over the town. White wisps blossom from the trees clustered about halfway up and they join their fellows, flying off to the Sugar Loaf, still hidden, sheltered under a blanket of morning moisture. As the clouds go, they reveal the top of the mountain. It’s a mountain of colours, whatever the season. Here, at the end of winter, it is a rich, earthy brown with patches of sandy green and a network of lighter paths carved by humans and sheep alike.

And there, at the top, a dusting of white. It’s thicker than a few weeks ago. Winter holds firm at the top of the mountain. It holds the Sugar Loaf too, looking for all the world like its namesake this morning. The sun finds a gap in the cloud cover and suddenly the mountains are lit up, a startling white in contrast to the earthy clothes they wear in the milder temperatures.

The gap passes, and the rain comes. There is blue sky above though, and I can feel the rainbow heading our way.

I’m glad I exist.

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The owl called from the shadows across the river. The trees barely moved. The wind had finally moved on. He called again, and an answer came from the trees behind us. A breath and then the direction the songs came from changed. Silent wings in a forest full of life. Even over the unmistakable sound of a river that is wide and fast and deadly, the dusk birds sang, punctuated by the owls.

I’m glad I exist.

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I’ve never seen two robin redbreasts next to each other. They bickered on the front fence, tails held high, red plumage shining in the rare bit of sunshine.

I never know what makes us glance up at just the right time to see something like this. Or even to wonder had I ever seen this before? I sipped my tea as they burst into flight, and returned to my writing.

I’m glad I exist.

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There’s a moment when you realise that the grief is no longer the floodwater that washed in for the autumn, finding every gap and crack. It has receded, leaving undeniable signs of its presence, in the fabric of your life. You notice them, as you notice the photo on the wall that’s always been there, the cracked paving stone you always step over, the way to shut that door just right.

Grief is presence and absence simultaneously.

I’m glad I exist.

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In my corner, quiet and calm no matter the goings on outside of it, the sun glances around the side of the mountain, making eye contact with me. Why is it we can’t help but glance, sometimes, at the source of this light, seeing bright stars track across our vision afterwards?

I know I shouldn’t, but I look. The snow on the hills beside the mountain looks violet, blending into the clouds rimmed with bright gold, blushing faintly pink. The rain, the snow, has stopped. I see stars for a moment, then the sun is gone, dipped below the hills, and onwards to the west.

I’m glad I exist.

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Thank you for reading.

If you’d like to see a bit more of what I do, try this post (if you like poetry):

If you don’t want poetry and fancy a short story, try this: