The weight of time

For a while, we try and put the state of the world and the ever-present, anxiety-fuelling background noise to our digital lives on the back burner.

It’s early afternoon, day two of the festival, and we are sitting in a Hampshire field, surrounded by beautiful trees and early autumn countryside. The three of us sit in wobbly fold-up chairs in front of our large white bell tent.

The grass is still a little damp from the previous night's rain, but now the sun is shining, its ancient warmth drying the grass and warming our skin. We talk, sip our drinks, brush away tiny insects and nibble from packets of food to a soundtrack of distant festival beats.

We have known each other for decades, and I can almost feel the physical weight of that time.

The years have passed too quickly, but the weight of time has a counterbalance. It acts as an anchor, a constant, it’s comfortable, it’s wrapped in trust and understanding.

I feel fortunate to know these people. I am lucky.

And I hope I will do it all again next year.

This post has been written by a human.