I walk once a day, and I imagine a time when people will return to the world in the same way the bluebells do. I think – often – of the small joys I miss: kissing my Grandma’s powdery check, and rummaging the rails of charity shops, and sitting cross-legged on my sofa wedged between the adored friends I never saw enough. I replay news updates in my mind and I worry about the days to come and the lives behind those increasing numbers, and the what ifs. What if. What if. What if.

I walk once a day and I try, also, to focus with intent on the beauty in these slower, quieter days: the flowers and the leaves and the blazing April sunshine, all of which seem more vibrant than before; all of which I can slow down to notice. The stretching and exhaling and reflecting, and cooking and reading and dreaming. The strange elasticity of time, and how raw appreciation for the things that truly matter is spilling through all of us like ink in water. I think – often – of the immense kindness and resilience of so many people in this world, and of the extraordinary work being carried out by extraordinary people on the frontline. There is light – so much light – in this darkness.

I walk once a day and then I return to my home, an entire world within a world. I light a candle that smells like the sea, and I watch from my window as my neighbours go about similar rituals throughout the day. I think – every single time – about what that means: that we are coming together, apart, in an incredible act of love and compassion to protect the strangers around us. We stay home for one another because we are at home in one another. We’re different, but the fundamentals are the same. I have never seen such humanity.

I walk once a day, and I imagine a time when people will return to the world in the same way the bluebells do. These days are repetitive, but slowly and surely they fold into one another. And we keep on.