have I rediscovered my voice?

I have been searching for meaning in my life for as long as I could consider what life could possibly be for. The conclusion I perpetually come to is that there isn't any. This makes me very very depressed and disappointed. But I must be wrong and must be missing something because a great many people do appear to have a great deal of meaning in their lives; and leave so many smiles in their passing.

As I sit quietly by, early on the Monday morning, it's impossible not to listen to the passing conversations between the various bird species: crows in the tall sycamore trees, pigeons on the rooftops and a variety of songbirds perched around the hedges, shrubs and smaller trees and in the background I hear the rumble of traffic on the A1(M), but what am I listening for? Is it the answer to my search for meaning?

It's 5:30am and I'm stood waiting the the same kettle to boil to fill the same cafeteria before I sit at the back patio doors and linger over the same cup of coffee.

Now I sit at the rear of mum's long living/dining room while considering the long day ahead: managing to dodge the many pitfalls which cause me anguish and leave me shaking my head at the futility of it all.

Is time my friend or is it an enemy? As I 'over think' existence, and struggle to grasp any thread of substance, I feel I'm constantly waiting for something.

Now I cross my legs and sit firmly back in the chair and push the plunger down on another two cups of coffee beside a large double glazed patio door and listen to my body gurgle as the remnants of yesterday gather in my lower intestines.

...

On Thursday I have to be at Elland Road Vaccination Centre early to have the first of the Covid jabs which will allow life to resume 'normality' and perhaps give me a chance to feel a little more real as the roads, routes, avenues, boulevards, paths and ways reopen for my 10.5 sized feet.

Walking does allow me moments where I have meaning, but it is a fleeting object of desire. Like being addicted to a drug walking has become dulled unless it is challenging and diverse, both quality and quantity.

As there seems a little light at the end of the second 'lockdown' I've booked a flight to northern Portugal to walk the Caminho for two weeks from the 7th June.

Now I have perhaps a means at my disposal for finding a little meaning - which I am struggling to arrest - in the passing moments? But I must look hard into the face of the task and let the moment be all encompassing. To tell myself not to be beyond the corner while I am right where I am. In a larger way I'm looking around the corner to the 7th June and it's simply the same ideal. Something up ahead must be better than the meaninglessness in the current.

Maybe there is a meaning in walking as whenever I am in the activity I know it has the potential to make me joyous? Listening to nature as I travel through it. Looking at the sky as I walk below it. Lingering at crossroads not sure which branch I should be taking, regardless of the suggestion of sticking to the Camino, right of way, etc, wishing I had just a little more courage to walk anywhere I am led and trust in the spirit I have felt often moving me forward. What am I afraid of really when I won't just follow the guide who knows the route I should take?

...

This morning got better. The clouds gathered. It was humid. Lola and I traipsed along the Old Railway, Springs Wood, Moor Plantation to Nova Scotia Plantation. We were forced to jump over the flooded dyke, surrounded by Bluebells, before we got to some humanity crossing York Road at Sand Bridge into Swinnow Hill and along the original byway between Wetherby and York: Sandbeck Lane. We returned alongside the modern A1(M) to Carr Lane and back to mum's for a hasty cheese, lettuce and mayonnaise sandwich. Two good hours going various ways with my favourite being.

Now I dwell on Bond Street drinking my third beer - ABK Weisse bier - listening to the features of Leeds.

Previously I had two Pilsner Urquell's above Headrow House, reading Stamboul Train by Graham Greene, while reducing my 'rain shadow' under the inadequate umbrellas. The colossal storm threw me upright as I stood reading by the pole of the only possible shelter. It's was actually quite funny: we've left the EU and we're simply not weather equipped for outside being... Luckily I've enough rain attire this day!

I'm below the red/orange/copper granite facade of the old Lloyds Bank, where Head of Steam has their establishment (and a pitifully small gentleman's toilet) listening to the same homeless man who's vents some passion (and has vented his passion all through my recollections of lockdowns, tiers and Covid) and does this one thing as I listen, hear, observe the human movements coming and going between Park Row and Albion Street.

The wind rips up, the man cries in anguish and the rain comes again. The beer glass is empty. Feminine giggles and smoking girls whirligig as my mind takes me to memories of the Hunsrück and my own dance with Covid in March 2020.

...

Now I have a fourth and final beer up in The Nation of Shopkeepers on Great George Street: I finally have a heated booth!

What was once The Courtyard is now more of a young folks' game, but I can smell porridge along the passageways, to and from the toilet, either side of the kitchen: I love oats, but is this a misinterpretation?

...

So I asked. No they haven't got a pot of gruel being stirred by penniless teens. But I'm charmed no less. The boss is here today and she has zero personality wherever I am concerned: she must have a whim for avena sativa and guilelessness. Maybe it's me in error in regards her (as a very flawed individual I'm sure it's my incredible misunderstanding).

***

Five beers then home. Feeling fine I walked home to a simple pasta dish, using up all the Tempeh, Paneer, garlic, a spoon or two of plain live yogurt and a sprinkle of bittersweet paprika. Reorienting my bed to face the sunrise.