Like the dog chained to the chariot wheel I have no choice. It makes no difference whether I am dragged claws screaming and scraping, or whether I trot docilely; I travel the same distance. The trick is to consent, to act as if I have chosen this particular journey.
Therein lies the transformation of my inner landscape. Falling precipitous cliffs Become smiling meadows; claustrophobic sycamores no longer invade my space but shelter, gently, a skirmish of sparrows.