When I was a child I used to love folding origami cranes… there was something satisfying and slightly magical about creating a recognisable form from a blank sheet of paper. Working through the familiar steps relaxed my mind and body. 

Later in life I learned that in Japanese culture, these cranes are called orizuru, and it is believed that their wings carry souls up to paradise. A thousand orizuru strung together is called senbazuru, and it is said that if someone completes this within one year, they are granted one wish. Individual and collective efforts to complete senbazuru have come to be recognised as a wish for recovery or peace. 

I spotted Helen’s prompt whilst headed into a difficult time of the year for me. I pondered taking a small, simple creative project on my travels between various family members to help facilitate some meditative moments amidst the maelstrom of chronic illness, PTSD, festive sensory overload etc. 

I decided that folding 1000 cranes was unrealistic… but was sure I could make at least 100 by January. 

I ordered special paper (but was unwell and accidentally ordered the wrong size)

I ordered more paper (but was unwell and accidentally ordered the wrong kind)

I ordered more paper, folded six cranes (and then part of me became anxious that 100 sheets was not enough)

I ordered more paper. 

This kind of pattern is a rather unfortunate habit of mine! Part of me still holds creative fire. As soon as I have a better day, my brain jumps into wild imaginings about all the projects I’d love to complete. It also tries to grasp at ‘easy’ projects that I could do when I feel too ill to do anything but lie in silent darkness. 

Over Christmas, the colourful stack of potential-crane paper travelled with me to 5 different houses, but did not leave my suitcase. (The thing about feeling too ill to do anything… is that I feel too ill to do anything). 

This is rather what my ‘recovery’ is like – no linear ‘getting better’… or even any real sense of progress. 

It is a constant ‘being with’; a falling short.

I carry my creativity around in my suitcase… folded flat and dormant. 

Usually, I no longer experience this as ‘failure’ – I accept that it’s important for part of me to be allowed to dream… with no attachment to outcomes. 

My life is not productive, but it is still meaningful.

I no longer really make things, but I spend more of my life present with the shimmering shaking ‘wow’ of being alive. I’m grateful for every blessed moment that I am not in overwhelming suffering. 

There are spaces of living potential in every cell… and in the turning between every breath. Life… death… recovery/ renewal… endless cycles. 

I don’t know if I will ‘recover’ in any meaningful sense of the word, but I hope to continue to expand my capacity to be present with what is – for as long as I am able. 

I met Helen on the way home from my Christmas travels, and talked about the uncertainties of potentially only having another 5 months left of a treatment which improves my quality of life. I wondered aloud whether I should be doing things from my ‘Bucket List’… but really I’m too sick for grand plans – even with the treatment. 

The small things in life have become so precious to me – in a way I find impossible to articulate.

I mentioned the unmade project that I was carrying around, and Helen suggested I submit a picture of it – still in my suitcase – as an honest reflection of the reality of recovery.

A few hours later, I arrived home to find an unopened Christmas present waiting for me. It was a ‘Bucket List’ calendar. Instead of grand suggestions like running a marathon, or travelling the world, it is filled with things that feel possible (and that are not harmful to the Earth). I cried! 

The first suggestion in January is ‘Learn how to make a paper crane’… 

I made three more, and we went up to the woods to gaze at the silhouettes of trees against the ever-changing sky.