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To Be Still

 To Be Still

Being still has never come naturally to me, but I realised something out on the paddleboard the other day. I was kneeling near the edge of the lake, letting the board drift on the soft pull of the water, listening for birds, watching the surface shift. The water gave me just enough movement to keep my body calm — not dizzy, not unsettled, just gently carried. And in that strange mix of stillness‑while‑moving, I saw a kingfisher. A flash of vivid blue and orange. I circled back as quickly as I could and saw it again before it disappeared into a tree, impossible to spot no matter how hard I tried.

The warmth of the sun, the wildlife noise, the slow drift of the board — for a moment I could have fallen asleep. My balance even slipped because I was so relaxed, which never happens on land. Water has always been my happy place. It was my childhood freedom, probably too much freedom, but it taught me how to swim, how to listen, how to feel safe near something that’s always moving.

That five‑minute pocket of calm at Horseshoe Lake — £22 every few weeks — has become something bigger. A return to a part of myself I didn’t know I could still reach. A place where I can stop, look, listen, and be still while still moving at the pace my body understands. A space that feels like serenity, and a place I never imagined I’d find in adulthood.

As a child I had complete freedom in or near water, so I felt the feeling. 

  Footnote: No child is ever truly safe near water — but I was a confident one, and I felt safe long before adult life replaced instinct with fear.  The real dangers of water.  

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