I Can but Try

Hello Tamara, it’s lovely to hear your voice stretching out across the Atlantic, from your eco pod of wellness into my quiet space, where things are not so well today. But it is today. New and fresh. I have made it through from yesterday, when I had said goodnight to you and had promised myself a stab at sleep.

You are my first contact with each new day, a determined act as I push away the weight of my phone and every voice contained within. Its disruptive beeps, pings and sparkles which herald a new notification remain encased under the black glass, because I’m going to give myself these ten minutes.

But what if something has happened? Something is wrong?

Breathe and exhale.

Why is it difficult to lay still, even when prone in bed? I shift and twitch, sensing each bump formed within my pillow by a head which tosses and turns, worries and cares. Too much.

Expand the chest, then the abdomen.

Where is the Buddhist bell today to call me back? Are you hitting a bell, Tamara, or is it a digitised sound effect?

Refocus. Centre the spine.

A car toots its horn, a plane rushes overhead, a child whines, a door slams, a Ring doorbell sirens, an engine revolts and an exhaust backfires.

A dog barks. Have next door bought a puppy?

Tamara calls this “monkey mind”, and here I am – swinging once again through the urban jungle, as her voice fades softly away.

Arlene Jackson is a PhD researcher concerned with amplifying lived experiences of illness/disability. She has published both critically and creatively and may be found here @arlenejackson.bsky.social