I am writing a daily blog (Monday to Friday probably!) on preparing spiritually and physically

to lead a Pilgrimage of 100 miles in September.

for details of the Pilgrimage, click on the dropdown Cotwold Pilgrimage bar at the top of this page

I admit it. I’m tired.

We’ve been back from the States for almost two weeks; not only is the holiday euphoria wearing off along with the tan, but the amount of exercise and the lack of sleep is beginning to show.

The first month of Gretchen Rubin’s Happiness Project, which I began in January, is a time to take plenty of sleep; and I started well - preparing for bed at 9.30pm most evenings, turning off the light well before midnight after a relaxing read in bed. And I always intend to continue the habit, as recommended in her Project.

But with a Vicar for a husband whose evening meetings mean he isn’t back in the house until well after 10pm and who then needs to unwind, early nights are not easily attainable in this household.

And the time difference of two weeks ago took a while of adjustment – in a deep sleep when the alarm goes off each morning but wide awake late at night.

Yesterday evening was no different. Husband out, due back late.

Except that, after another day of powerplates, hurtling into London, running up and down the escalators (all right, climbing swiftly) meeting up with old friends, hearing the London sirens going day and night, I realized by 8pm that I was physically and emotionally drained.

So I was a couch potato for the entire evening and read the newpaper cover to cover (except for the sports pages) completed the crossword and swooned over the property pornography in Country Life.

My light was out well before 11; the Vicar came in late from a meeting and needed to unwind, watch the news, do the Su Doku.

Inevitably I woke when he came to bed.

There were sirens several times during the night. It was oppressively airless again.

Sleep came and went.

So this morning has been leisurely. Be kind to yourself, people have repeated to me over the past eighteen months. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, bereavement, depression – they each take time for recovery.

Sirens cause flashbacks; the number I heard yesterday while sitting in the British Library forecourt was extraordinary. Each one meant taking control of emotions, a mental readjustment, a not giving in.

Sirens are constantly heard up and down the Broadway; they penetrate our house, my mind.

I am learning to adjust, mentally to replace them with another image. But it takes time.

So I am being kind to myself today. No pressure. And no pedometer.

We are under grace, not law.

A morning to go slowly.

Grace-filled, grace-full, grace allowed,.

I am writing a daily blog on preparing spiritually and physically

to lead a Pilgrimage of 100 miles in September.

for details of the Pilgrimage, click on the dropdown Cotwold Pilgrimage bar at the top of this page

Today has been a curate’s egg kind of day.

This morning, I stood at the happiest place: the arrivals gate. Oh the joy of hearing the cries of delight, the sobs of joy, the squeals of pleasure, as loved ones were reunited.

Smiles and laughter. Hugs and kisses. Exclamations and enthusiasm.

Would my own loved ones ever come through that door?

And would I recognize them?

I always have that ridiculous fear when waiting for my family and friends – that I won’t recognize them.

But of course I always do.

There they are!

And my eldest granddaughter she leaps up into my arms, words spilling out to tell me of the overnight flight and all that she, they, have done.

And her younger sister holds out her arms – she’s balanced precariously in her car seat on top of the luggage.

My poor daughter is pushing the luggage AND the buggy – so is doubly glad to see me.

The happiness of reunions and being welcomed and recognized.

Surely a foretaste of arriving home in heaven?

Of being welcomed and recognized and swept up in joy and affirmation.

* * * *

And then this afternoon.

The unhappiest place to be: driving across a hot dusty crowded London. Friday afternoon in a tired capital.

It’s only 14 miles door to door: it took exactly two hours and ten minutes.

People were hot and tired and frustrated.

Horns blared and bleated.

Finger gestures were indescribable.

Cars were cutting in and cutting up and cutting out.

Voices were raised.

It was all too tempting to join in.

And then something reminded me of Amy Carmichael and her writing.

Her book IF

If a sudden jar can cause me to speak an impatient, unloving word, then I know nothing of Calvary love. *

*For a cup brimful of sweet water cannot spill even one drop of bitter water however suddenly jolted.

How sweet was my spirit this afternoon?

What flavour was spilt?

* * * *

No walking today. Fewer than 1,000 steps, after the ten, and eleven and twelve thousand of earlier days.

Relationships take priority over rules.

Joy over judgement.

Tomorrow is another day: and I am booked for a 7 mile hike with a friend – to Hampstead Heath and back.

And then a powerplates session.

* * * *

And I’ve been in the happiest of places today.

I’m grateful.

It’s good to have my girls back.

Tired of sirens

THE HAPPIEST PLACE TO BE