Sometimes I Just Need to Go Outside
Sometimes I Just Need to Go OutsideSome days, I feel organised, calm and completely in control of my life. Other days, I open the fridge three times without remembering what I wanted, walk upstairs and forget why I am there, and feel personally victimised by a laundry basket that appears to refill itself overnight. Those are usually the days when I realise I need to go outside.
I do not mean climbing a mountain, marching through the countryside in expensive waterproof trousers or suddenly becoming the sort of woman who owns a compass and knows how to use it. I simply mean stepping outside. I might take my coffee into the garden, walk around the block, sit beneath a tree or stand in a field staring thoughtfully into the distance as though I am in the emotional final scene of a television drama.
Life can feel like a lot. I spend so much time remembering appointments, replying to messages, finding missing things and checking that everyone else is all right. I remember birthdays, bring the snacks and somehow know where the spare batteries are, despite having absolutely no memory of where I put my own phone. Usually, it is in my hand. While I am busy looking after everybody else, my own mind can become very noisy. Did I reply to that email? What shall we have for dinner? Have I upset someone? Does the dog need worming? Why am I still thinking about something embarrassing I said in 2017?
Going outside does not magically solve everything. It does not empty the laundry basket, answer my messages or explain why other people can see a full bin but apparently cannot remove it from the house. What it does give me is a little space between myself and all the noise. The sky does not need anything from me. The trees are not waiting for a reply. The birds do not care whether I have been productive, and the river is not judging me for eating biscuits for lunch.
At Campervan Retreats, I have watched women arrive carrying far more than their weekend bags. They arrive tired, overwhelmed and sometimes unsure whether everyone else will be more confident, adventurous or better at reversing a campervan. Then, almost without noticing, something begins to change. There are campfires, walks, fresh air and conversations that do not have to be squeezed between responsibilities. There are mugs held in both hands, chairs that refuse to unfold, coats that looked far more waterproof in the shop and dogs behaving as though the entire retreat was arranged solely for them.
Then comes the laughter. The sort of laughter that makes someone snort, which makes everyone laugh even harder. Shoulders begin to drop. Strangers start sharing stories. Someone tries something she never thought she would do. Someone else sits quietly and realises she does not need to fill every moment. For a little while, nobody is asking where the clean towels are. Nobody needs a lift. Nobody is shouting from another room because they have looked for something for nearly four seconds and cannot find it.
When I spend time outside, I remember that I am more than the things I do for other people. I am still curious, funny, brave and capable of trying something new. I am still me. I do not need a campervan, a retreat or perfect weather to feel that. This is Britain, so waiting for perfect weather is an excellent way to remain indoors indefinitely.
Sometimes all I need is ten minutes. I put my phone away, walk somewhere green, notice the sky and feel the air on my face. When my mind starts listing everything I should be doing, I remind myself that looking after me belongs on the list too.
So, before I reorganise a cupboard I never intended to touch, search for the glasses already sitting on my head or begin a one-woman argument with the laundry basket, I go outside. My problems may still be waiting when I return, but I usually come back feeling calmer, lighter and a little more like myself.
And sometimes, that is exactly what I needed.
Julia x