Okay, I did the thing.

I didn't realise it was this easy to start a blog these days, sans Wordpress or any other such.

Now, what am I going to write about?

There are two themes in my life at the moment. But really only one: mental health. Whether that's mine or the health of those around me, or whether it comes in the shape of practices to support one's mental health.

I'm in the second half of my fifties, and a few months ago started hearing the ticking hand of time. It doesn't indicate how long I have to go, but that time is passing. Of course, this is true for everybody, but I feel it more as a tip-toe chase (like grandmother's footsteps, but I'm being tracked down by a shadowy figure with a scythe).

Some days I feel like running a bit faster ("not yet! NOT YET!"). Other days – many days – I almost turn and bow my head for the slice. This is normal. Is this normal?

Is this how my parents felt? Is this life? Or is it just my life? My fucked up, failed and failing existence? Am I just taking up space and air that should be relinquished for others to use better?

As you see, lots of questions. None of them answerable. Not by you or me anyway.

My father died when he was 61. Early, you might say. But maybe not. He died precisely when he died, so we might assume he was on time. He spent several years dying prior to that, so we might even say he died late. But I don't think so: everywhere else he was intensely and frustratingly punctual.

That's a habit that I absorbed. On time is late. Early is on time. Perfect. But what does it mean for the ultimate appointment? Well, all I know is: when I hear the clock ticking, I fear that I'm running late for that train, and I wouldn't want to miss it. In the rush, I feel apologetic towards Death. What did the White Rabbit mutter as he ran? "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!"

Talking of which. I saw a black rabbit at the roadside twice recently. It triggered a childhood era unsettling: a portent of death? However, on the first occasion he (I'm appropriating the pronouns of the Black Rabbit of Inle in Watership Down) served a different purpose. I was properly unsettled, so drove more carefully along the road. And precisely because of that, I saw the antlers amid the branches on the roadside, and braked comfortably to a stop just as a red stag leapt out in front of me. Thank you, Black Rabbit.

Why am i writing this way? Because my mental health is not as I would wish it to be, and one of the most life-giving things I know is noticing the subtle communion between this little man and Nature. Nature holds me, whether alive or dead. I just need to remember that and wrap myself in it like a warm blanket.