By Sarah J Bryson
Slow down. Take stock of those things which are picking
at you. Get up when you are ready. Clear the diary.
Turn off the phone. Dress in comfortable clothes.
Cook a meal, perhaps, starting in the morning
with the whole day ahead, knowing the flavours
will only come into their own over time.
Home in. Take your coffee to a comfortable place.
Put your feet up. See the world pass, as you stay still
just watching, allowing your mind to be free.
Let the cat relax on your lap and stroke her soft fur
while you ponder a decision, feeling her purr
vibrate back through your fingertips.
Take a deep breath and let it out. Repeat. And again.
Drop your shoulders. Take a meandering stroll and listen
to the birds, notice the season, the glint of cobwebs.
Enjoy the sunset as you sip your drink.
Run a bath when it is dark, and light a candle
to drift its scent as you soak in the warmth
top up the hot water using your toes to turn the tap
and stay, if you want, until your fingertips are wrinkly
and the cat is scratching at the door.
Make your way to bed, when you are ready
there’s no rush today. When you turn out the light
think of a favourite place. Take your time to fall asleep.
Pandemic in the Community
Planning ahead I tell each one that I will ring again before I visit,
just to make sure, and when I do I will ask, ‘Any new fever?
Persistent cough, loss of sense of smell? Are you feeling unwell?’
Unwell, I think, within the constraints of your life-limiting
illness, which is the reason I am visiting, in the first place.
I dress in uniform, and the car is full of PPE, in boxes, and bags –
some I have been provided with, and other stuff I have sent for
just-in-case – masks, gloves, white plastic pinnies -the ‘universal
precautions’- also a face visor, a wipeable bag, and rubbish sacks.
That, plus the usual equipment. It’s just as well I have a regular slot
for on-line shopping. There’s no more room in the boot.
I have worked out a strategy of how best to translate the advice
(dictated by those who are not actually doing it) into practice.
It’s a balance between prevention of infection, compassion
and human dignity. I hope. I get to the door, with my bag
and ring the bell – I want to show my face first and let them see
the fact of a smile before covering it. I step across the threshold
not knowing if this household is a risk to me
or if I am, in fact a risk to them. Time may tell.
Sarah is a writer, nurse and amateur photographer. She is interested in words, words for well being, people and nature – and the connections between these aspects of her life.
During the Covid-19 pandemic I have seen how so many people are ‘on-alert’ all the time, and how exhausting this response can be. For some a sense of responsibility to others and neglect of self can then become the norm. Sometimes those caring compassionate people do need a ‘permission slip’ to attend to their own needs. At the same time as these thoughts were in my head a friend offered a prompt for a group I belong to, entitled ‘Sleep’ – and that is how this poem came about.