What is beachcombing? It is the act of searching the shoreline for natural items, such as fossils, driftwood, sea glass or shells but sometimes looking for man-made pollutants such as microplastics and marine debris that may have washed ashore. As a child I collected shells, interesting pebbles and stones as well as the odd bit of sea glass.  Despite growing up on the Jurassic coast, I was never lucky enough to find any fossils and I don’t suppose I really had much of an interest in driftwood as a young child. As an adult, I enjoy all manner of beachcombing and spend most of my time by the shoreline, looking to see what each new tide has left behind.

To me, any kind of fossil, shell or driftwood collecting is a mindful activity. In the moment, I am totally focused on that small piece of beach in front of me, listening to the ocean waves as they lap against the nearby tide line (often precariously close to where I am walking), frequently looking up to take in the wider seascape. It is one of the only times I get to completely switch off from life. I have an over active mind, one that likes to make me feel bad. A chronic worrier, I care too much about what people think and as such I live in a constant cycle of guilt and shame; years of therapy helped me realise why, but I have yet to reprogramme it. But in that moment, of poring over sand and shingle, I am able to be deeply present and connected to the moment. I love looking at the shapes, the colours, the textures and in that moment, there's nothing else.

Although I love looking for all manner of natural things, I love driftwood the most. It is what makes me the most excited. I love a good bit of wood (I know). I have been known over the years to hug trees (yes, I have a favourite tree) as well as bring home sticks from natural spaces other than the seaside, but ocean driftwood is my favourite. Driftwood is the connection between earth and water; It is weathered and transformed by wind and waves, over time taking its shape, the harshness and power of nature smoothing its edges and exposing its knots, a symbol of resilience. Each piece a unique masterpiece in its own right.

I wouldn’t call myself a collector or connoisseur of one particular thing, I don’t pick up what I think will be of value, but select things that make me smile in the moment, also being careful not to remove anything that will cause damage or harm. I am a relative novice when it comes to finding fossils, I have never been lucky enough to actually find a one until last year. Since then, I have been blessed to find a selection of fossilised gastropods, bivalves, sharks’ teeth and ray plates from the Eocene era along the south coast (give or take a few million years). I’d say fossiling is like looking for a needle in a haystack, but it’s definitely harder, made more frustrating by the tide times and daylight hours, especially in the winter with inclement weather. On my most recent finding expedition to Bracklesham Bay, I was so engrossed in looking at the sea bed, that even with a low tide, my wellies were filled with sea water by a rogue wave or two, a week later I'm still trying to dry them out.

I hope one day to have the energy to be able to make use of all the things I've collected by using them in natural crafting projects. For now, I don't have the reserves to allow me too, so I percolate my ideas and collect things as I go and perhaps, some day they will be transformed into a celebration of all the places I've been and all the times that I have been at peace with the ocean at my side.

I first wrote about this about 14 years ago during my Forest School Leadership training. I was coming to terms with several years of unsuccessful infertility treatment coming to an end. It was painful and hard, and like so many situations in life, felt all consuming and like no one on the planet could possibly understand how it felt. I had always wanted to be a mum, and in a cruel twist of fate, it just wasn’t meant to be. Unfortunately, my maternal instincts had led me to a career path years before, that involved working with children. In the early days of my teaching career, I had specialised in Early Years Education and, Forest School I now realise, was an attempt to make that career choice less painful whilst I went through this huge life shift.

That is just one example in life where I have been at my loneliest. Loneliness is something that we assume happens in the absence of others but often the times we feel most alone, are when we are surrounded by others. The isolation and pain felt can be at its loudest when we are in the presence of those who just don’t understand what we’re going through. That is what living with a chronic illness or disability can be like at times. 

So, what is the difference between ‘loneliness’ and ‘solitude’? The dictionary defines the term loneliness as a “sadness because one has no friends or company” whereas solitude is more favourably depicted as “the situation of being alone without other people (often by choice)”.

So then, perhaps the difference is choice? That somehow loneliness is thrust upon us unwillingly by others, whereas we actively seek out solitude? Perhaps. In the context of long-term illness and disability, it is certainly the former, though I disagree with the premise that loneliness only occurs when you have no friends or company. Loneliness stems from a lack of connection with those around us, rather than a lack of proximity to people: a sense of isolation despite being in a crowded room. Solitude is seen as something to seek out for spiritual growth and contentment. A positive experience that fosters peace and reflection. One creates a negative state and the other a contentment with oneself.

An only child until the age of eight, I used to play on my own for hours, but I was never lonely. I have always been okay with my own company, I enjoy it, even crave it at times. But something that has crept in over the years, regardless of the physical presence of others, is loneliness. For myself, loneliness is a painful and deeply emotional disconnect from those around me, usually due to my health and disability. Even when I reach out, I feel still feel isolated.

Conversely, solitude, is often something I seek when I venture to the shoreline. Ever since I was a child, being by the sea offered me that sense of peace and contentment as well as a playful curiosity and creativity, having a hugely positive impact on my emotional wellbeing.

It seems then, that if loneliness depletes our emotional wellbeing, then perhaps solitude can restore it? The degree of solitude required for one’s wellbeing will vary from individual to individual, personally I require regular periods of solitude to reflect and be myself. As complex emotional beings, we can be more than one thing and we can fluctuate from loneliness and solitude depending on any number of factors throughout any given day.

There is no one or immediate cure for loneliness, but it is important to remember that it also isn’t a fixed state of being. It can be helpful to find a community of likeminded people, either online or in person, somewhere where you can be yourself without fear of judgement or rejection. It can be challenging, but set healthy boundaries with those that increase that sense of isolation and try to seek out positive opportunities that encourage time alone and ultimately cultivate a healthy relationship with solitude.

I love taking photos. Mostly of loved ones, wildlife and of course the coastline. There was a time when I wanted to be a professional photographer, I even started art college and doing private wedding photography under the misguided notion that I would be able to express my passion and creativity whilst making a living through the medium. But, alas, it wasn’t meant to be and after a short time I realised that art college wasn’t the place for me and that photography would remain a passion and a hobby.

The thing I loved most about my old film SLR (Single-Lens Reflex) camera, and the four years I did spend studying photography, was the darkroom practice. I lived on my own at a young age and it was an emotionally difficult time for me, but I don't think I recognised the pain and loneliness at the time as much as I do with hindsight. I spent all the hours I was allowed, alone in the darkroom, as a way to cope. I loved the experimentation and creativity of developing my own photographs; watching images appear from nowhere, having control over the final tone and quality of the picture. Upon reflection, it seems that photography offered me an escape, a place of safety and solitude during a time when I needed it most.

Jumping ahead a few years, the advent of the digital camera had begun, and just a few years later the improvement of camera phones. Whilst I resisted the conversion from film to digital stubbornly, I too eventually upgraded to a digital SLR and a decent camera phone. In my opinion, there is no comparison to the time, patience and skill required as well as the ultimate satisfaction gained using film and darkroom photography. With the introduction of digital and camera phones, anyone can take a good photo and, if they can’t, technology and software can fix it for you.

I only take my digital SLR out occasionally, especially if I know we will encounter wildlife, but day to day I too use my phone. I love my digital SLR and you can absolutely tell the difference in the quality of the images, but I struggle with pain and dexterity in my hands these days. Straps tend to hurt my neck and wrist and the weight wears on my arms, not to mention the cognitive fatigue that I get using the manual aspects of the camera, so I don't use it as often as I would like. However, I feel privileged to be able take photos of such beautiful places and wildlife, so I use my phone, and whilst it isn’t necessarily a creative challenge, it captures a moment in time; the light, a feeling, a memory. And after all, that's what photography is about. My ego ebbs as I age and I mind less as I get older, but that's why my photography page will show some differences between image quality, some are taken the old-fashioned way, and others taken in the moment with the camera most accessible to me, my phone.

At the beginning of February, I turned to my Husband and proclaimed with absolute certainty that ‘this winter is a very wintery winter!’ Not because of the weather (although it has been a cold and wet one) but because I've had a deep ache in my bones and level of exhaustion I can't verbalise that has ground my existence to a halt and turned me into a mere shadow of myself. 

This kind of wintering, isn't just a seasonal one but a personal one for myself and this particular wintering of mine has spanned the last few years, where I have witnessed a complete transformation in every aspect of my life as I have had to adapt to disability and come to terms with the realisation that it is not going anywhere anytime soon. At times I have thought I was improving, and of course there is an ebb and flow to chronic illness, but last year it was pointed out to me that I hadn’t improved, I’d adapted. I’d shrunk my life around me to suit my routine and daily needs because the alternative was not accessible to me. How did I not notice that?

One of my favourite books is ‘Wintering’, written by Katharine May. I have read it cover to cover several times, but often these days I revisit chapters and the most dogeared pages, like visiting a friend when I need some comfort and reassurance. This excerpt sums up the notion of wintering so succinctly and resonated with me the moment I read it: “Wintering is a season in the cold…a fallow period in life when you are cut off from the world…rejected, side-lined, blocked from progress… Perhaps it results from illness…However it arrives, wintering is usually involuntary, lonely and deeply painful” (1)

What I now recognise is that I had actually been yearning to winter for some time during my illness before my diagnosis, I felt a need to let go, pull back, hibernate, have no plans, no expectations, limit growth but, of course it wasn’t actually winter, this time scale spanned years so being the stubborn and productive person I am, I pushed on. Despite being an advocate of rest for others, I have always thought I would be seen as lazy or indulgent to take rest for myself (perhaps because I had been told this in the past or perhaps because the length of rest I needed exceeded what is deemed as socially acceptable). That narrative is so ingrained in both my own family mindset and society, that we feel like a burden, that it’s a shameful emission to need prolonged and frequent rest. As it turns out, taking rest when I needed it, when I felt that yearning, is probably what would have reduced the severity and length of this particular wintering and ultimately my now chronic illness. Instead, all of my misguided attempts to ‘keep going’ with more exercise, hobbies, therapies, all led me to the same burnt out, exhausted mess I am today. 

Being physically and mentally unable to push through any longer, I finally have had to give in to the simplicity of my wintering. Friends and family fall away where I am not the instigator for communication, I work less, I socialise less, I do less. My mind and body hate it but I am learning new ways to both pacify their productiveness whilst nurturing the rest they need. I am still learning to let go of that nagging feeling of being a burden as well as the guilt, the shame and the embarrassment that comes with it, otherwise I will never improve. I don't yet have the answer but I hope by finally surrendering to my own personal winter, free of any fixed plans, just simple routines, that I will start to emerge a little lighter as the spring begins to return in both nature but also on my own journey.

(1) Katherine May (2020) The power of rest and retreat in wintering. Rider, Penguin Random House UK