On Mondays We Walk For Wellbeing

I am one of these strange people that actually enjoys Mondays. Making my ‘To Do’ list the day before is one of the highlights of my weekend. When I wake up at the start of the new week, I’m so excited to get going and start fulfilling my goals that I wouldn’t be surprised if some people said ‘she’s not normal, that one.’

One of those goals is getting out and moving as often as I can. I try and walk in the forest everyday. It’s good for my body, it’s good for my head, it’s good for my creativity, it’s good for my soul. I can be feeling like I want to blow something up before I go for a walk, but as soon as I’m outside, this feeling rapidly melts, and with each step I take further into the outdoors, and with each breath I draw into my often tense body, I feel better.

But sometimes, days are crunched up and before I know it it’s 5pm and I haven’t so much as opened the window. And this is far from good. So, from today onward, I will promise to myself that on Monday’s I walk.

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The snow that should have arrived in December fell thick and fast and heavy the other night. We were driving back from my man’s family home in Hagfors (a little town in the big woods where we had spent the weekend BBQing in the snow, examining wolf prints and hiking in the dark) when it started to come down, creating cozy yet inexplicably dangerous whiteout conditions. I can’t say I was anxious though as the car slowly slipped its way back to Borås, simply happy to have my good friend back.

I needed to pull down the blinds this morning because there was work to be done, and I couldn’t leave the apartment until I’d written at least 3,000 words on The British Monarchy. Though I did keep peeking behind them every half hour, just to check that the snow was still there and that the rain Borås is sadly famous for hadn’t cleared it to mud.

When I did manage to get out into the forest, my senses were working in overdrive. Though I could hear Spring’s voice – water rushing from the streams that edged the pathways- the dense snow was coming past my ankles and making that gorgeous ‘like you’re eating a meringue’ sound.

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Not even five minutes after leaving the apartment.

The icicles I thought I had seen the last of last week had grown back in different, albeit more delicate forms. Because I knew that this could be the very last real appearance of winter for several months, I looked and I looked and I looked. I paid attention to the blinking icicles, no matter how small or how tiny the crevasses were into which I had to creep to photograph them.

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I paid attention to the curious, Tim Burton-esque way the snow had collected on the firs. I paid attention to how the clouds masked the sun and preserved the snowy forest kingdom.

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I ate my first solitary snowy Fika. (Though my ‘hot’ chocolate was lukewarm. I’ll take tea next time. It’s more reliable.) You haven’t lived until you’ve taken Fika in a snowy Swedish forest.

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Put simply, I didn’t really want to go home. My heart, my legs, my soul was enjoying the forest too much. Despite the fact my fingers were screaming bloody murder, and I still had another 3,000 words to write when I arrived home, I found myself walking slower and slower the closer I got to the apartment. I wanted to preserve every memory of every footfall so that they would see me through the coming warmer months.

 

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