You did not walk with me

Sadness overwhelmed me in the night, and at daybreak I gave up on sleep and slipped downstairs to rouse the dog. I grabbed her lead from the hook by her bed, clipped it on to her collar, and we tiptoed out of the house together. The skittering of claws on the pavement was the only sound in the hushed dawn.

A car or two, early commuters on their way to work, rolled past us as we followed our regular route out of town. We turned onto footpaths, winding our way up towards the higher slopes. From there, I could see the hilltops still shrouded in cloud, as if they were pulling the duvet over their heads, unable to face the day. I knew how they felt.

Walking was at least better than lying awake with my grief and despair; it satisfied a need to be alone and sad. I believe it’s important to make room for emotions perceived as negative; that feeling these strongly is as vital as being happy or joyful. In the words of writer Susan Cain in her book Bittersweet: How Sorrow and Longing Make Us Whole:

The tragedy of life is linked inescapably with its splendour; you could tear civilisation down and rebuild it from scratch, and the same dualities would rise again. Yet to fully inhabit these dualities – the dark as well as the light– is, paradoxically, the only way to transcend them.

It had been years since my mum had been able to walk up here on the hills, but I missed her even more intensely because of it. Thomas Hardy wrote about this peculiar kind of absence in his poem The Walk, in which he follows his regular walking route after his wife Emma’s death.