I was sat in the church garden across the road from work today, taking a quiet moment beneath the gentle sway of the trees, watching fair weather clouds drift lazily across a blue May sky. There was a softness to them—those wide, slow-moving shapes, barely burdened by their own weight. In that stillness, with the murmur of distant traffic fading into birdsong, my thoughts began to mirror the clouds. On days like today, when I feel well in myself—light, content, steady—my thoughts seem to float just like those clouds. They carry some weight, yes, but not enough to trouble the sky. They move in and out of my awareness without resistance, casting the briefest of shadows and then passing on.
I noticed how, like thoughts, these clouds changed shape as they travelled—forming strange and wonderful silhouettes before melting into something else entirely. A dog, a boat, a face—then gone. And I thought, this is how thoughts behave too. On good days, I can sit and appreciate their creativity, their transience, the beauty in their impermanence. Even when one grows a little heavier and darkens slightly at the centre, there’s often still a lighter edge—a silver lining, as they say. Something redeeming. Something to be learned or accepted, even within the discomfort. And that’s the gift, isn’t it? Being able to see the edge of light even in what’s beginning to grey.
But as I sat longer, I reflected on what happens when these thought-clouds begin to gather. On those more difficult days, they seem to find each other—drawn together in some unconscious communion—and they start to share their weight. What was once light and benign begins to swell and obscure the brightness. The thoughts thicken, slow, and press against the joy. Eventually, they can form storms—those mental weather systems that once drowned me completely. But even storms have a purpose. Without rain, the world dries up. Without emotional weather, we grow barren too. Feelings, even painful ones, nourish the soul. And in learning to see them this way, I no longer need to fear them.
Today, as I sat and watched those clouds and let these thoughts unfurl gently in my mind, I felt a deep and simple gratitude. Not for the perfection of the moment—but for the awareness of it. For the ability to sit and observe my thoughts, rather than get swept away by them. I saw their form, their movement, their meaning—and I welcomed it. I didn’t need to run, to numb, to drink. I didn’t need to escape into oblivion because I’ve learned to stay. I’ve learned to watch. And in that watching, I’ve discovered peace—not constant, but available. Even when the clouds grow heavy again, I know why they’re there. I can accept the rain, knowing it will pass and leave something blooming in its place.
None of this—this clarity, this calm, this presence—would have been possible without the help that’s been freely given to me through Alcoholics Anonymous. It was there that I learned to stop fighting, to stop fleeing, and to start feeling. To follow the suggestions with a willing heart. To trust that if I did what was asked, if I remained honest and open-minded, a new way of thinking and living would take shape. And it has. The garden, the clouds, the thoughts—they’re all part of it now. Not things to avoid, but things to cherish. Gifts of awareness. Proof of life. And in that quiet moment today, I realised just how full my life has become—clouds, storms, sunshine and all.
The Sky Across the Road
I sat beneath the sky,
and the sky did not speak,
yet it taught me everything.
The clouds drifted overhead,
not rushing, not resisting,
shifting form without clinging
to what they had just been.
In their movement, I saw thought.
In their stillness, I found peace.
They came, they lingered,
they passed,
unhurried,
untroubled.
Some were light,
woven from the breath of the sky.
Others, heavier,
burdened with unseen rain.
Yet even these bore light
at their edges.
On days of balance,
my thoughts are like this,
arriving without storm,
leaving without sorrow.
Casting only soft shadows,
they remind me:
nothing needs holding.
A dog,
a boat,
a face,
and then gone.
So too, the mind shifts.
What once seemed sharp
becomes gentle;
what once seemed urgent
becomes still.
And when the clouds gather,
as they do,
as they must,
I no longer curse the rain.
It waters something
deep within.
Even the storm
is sacred.
Even the grey
is a teacher.
I have learned not to flee it,
not to drown in it,
but to feel it
and remain.
There is a still place
beneath all weathers,
where the watcher waits
without judgement.
Today, I found it again.
Not by force,
but by surrender.
Not by knowing,
but by noticing.
And in that noticing,
I remembered the gift:
not perfection,
but presence.
To sit in a garden
and not need to run.
To watch the sky
and not fear its change.
To feel the fullness of life,
without grasping at it,
clouds, storms, sunshine and all.
The Way is not escape.
It is return.
Return to breath,
to stillness,
to trust.
And in that return,
I become whole.
