It’s a new day, and I’m not entirely sure where this path will lead – but I’m walking it anyway.
Life has a habit of throwing curveballs at you: sometimes gently, sometimes sideways, and sometimes directly at your head. This past month has brought one of those unexpected turns. For the first time in my life, I’ve been walking on my own. I used to walk with my old dog Rufus, my beautiful Irish Setter who loved to play and explore, but since he left for his next journey, I stopped walking altogether.
Until one morning, about a month ago, when something shifted.
At 5:30am, I woke with a clear, insistent desire to walk. I’ve had this desire before, of course and I’ve been very skilled at ignoring it by staying in bed with a book. But that morning, something clicked. I got up, put on my sneakers, and walked out the door.
It felt like the same inner switch that flipped when I gave up smoking 25 years ago. One decision. One moment. One “I’m done.” I quit, ate far too many lollipops, smoked a few herbal cigarettes, and never looked back.
Walking felt like that.
I walked the next day. And the next. I found an audiobook I loved. Then podcasts that inspired me. And so I kept walking.
When June arrived, I decided to raise money for the Alzheimer’s Society. I set up a JustGiving page, chose a beautiful photo of my Dad, and off I went again.
And then… everything went sideways.
What began as a quiet, personal practice – early morning gratitude, birdsong, hedgerows, cows, sheep, the soft beauty of my Somerset village – slowly became something else.
I listened to a podcast and suddenly felt compelled to share my walks on social media. Morning videos. Daily readings. Scheduled posts. Before I knew it, I had fallen headfirst into headless‑chicken mode – doing twenty things at once, none of them nourishing me.
I was still walking, but I wasn’t meditating. I wasn’t stretching. I wasn’t listening to myself. I was performing instead of being.
Yesterday – on Summer Solstice – everything came to a head.
I took a different path, climbing into the hills above North Wootton. I pulled out my phone to record my morning video… and then Spirit whispered:
“Put the phone down. Sit. Look. Listen. Be here.”
So I did.
I sat in the grass and listened to the bullocks calling, the birds singing, the wind moving across the fields. I looked out over the rolling green countryside and my village nestled below. I breathed. I softened. I found myself again.
As the sun broke through the clouds, lighting the sky in golden rays, my phone died – completely. And that was only the beginning of the weirdness.
I walked home feeling peaceful and harvested my peas and broad beans with Bonnie, my bulldog companion. It was blissful – grounding, earthy, simple.
Then the little voice returned: “You should be doing your morning reading.”
I climbed to my art studio, turned on the camera… and my phone shut down. Again. And again. And again.
The message was unmistakable:
Stop living a hashtag life.
Start living your real life.
Later, meeting friends for a drink, I felt the familiar weight of depression settling over me. It had been there for weeks, quietly brewing. I went to the pub bathroom and cried, not because I was lost, but because I finally acknowledged it.
I spoke with a dear friend, and that conversation helped me begin to return to myself.
This morning, I didn’t want to get up. I walked anyway. I climbed the hill, only to find it blocked by unfriendly bullocks and walked (rapidly!) back down again. I wandered the village, then returned home and sat in my meadow/orchard watching poppies and cornflowers dance.
And then it hit me:
I hadn’t taken a video.
And all I felt was relief.
I lit a candle. Lit incense. Left my phone in the study. Picked up the crystals that called to me. Sat by my Apollo chimes and let their music wash over me. I stretched. I meditated. I breathed.
Still no video.
Still relief.
I sat with my guides and asked what was happening. Their answer was simple:
“Reassess your energy.
Find your flow again.”
It was an Ah‑ha moment – a lifting of the shroud I’d been under.
I had forgotten why I mattered in the process.
I had forgotten why those 90 minutes each morning were sacred.
I had forgotten myself.
So here I am, writing this down, understanding more with each word, and feeling my priorities realign.
Wish me joy as I find my flow again.
© Alison SpiritWeaver 2026 – www.alisonspiritweaver.co.uk