Sculpting Lions

I’m approaching the New Year with such a mix of emotions, aware of the need to let some things go.  An act of burning boats, as I find advancing years taking their toll physically, charging me with the task of distilling my activities to align more precisely with my values.

In history, the command to “burn the boats” resulted in hugely increased motivation for armies to attain their goal having landed on their enemy’s territory.  It’s mentioned by  Sun Tzu, in The Art of War, a classic work of strategic wisdom, really, rather than military aggression, and  beloved of business gurus and similar.

I have decided to resign my professional memberships, meaning that I can no longer work as a clinician.  I can no longer say I’m a Chartered Psychologist,  and will soon be de-registered from the Health and Care Professions Council. Hard won recognitions which have largely defined who I am for many years ….. so what am I now?  

What will happen when I relinquish such status markers?  Will I experience a sense of annihilation? Who will I be? Will I be revealed as a nobody?  But of course, we are constantly evolving, and sometimes we have to let go of one thing before the next incarnation becomes apparent.  It’s a case of shedding the old skin – or maybe more like sculpting lions.

(In answer to a Census question “What is your occupation?” , a person replied “I am a Sculptor of lions”. …………Follow up question:  “What do you do in your job?” ………Answer:  “I chip away the bits that aren’t lion”. )

There is a fear lurking about what will I find if I chip away bits of me, those professional markers?  Will there be some ugly shape, or, scarier still, will there be nothing?

I’ve been sitting with this existential question, which has taken a bit of courage, but, with the spaciousness of silence,  the help of various writers and the patience of friends, I can say that all of the following is paradoxically true:

I am nothing

I am everything

I am one with everything, all made of the same stardust, all constantly in the flux and cycle of creation and destruction, birth and death and renewal – around me and within  ……all  pretty much outside of my control

What I do is almost irrelevant, yet essential, to the universe

What others think of me, and how they judge me is their business

I can be held by something deeper and wider than professional structures, useful though they have been.  In fact, that has always been true, but now I’m freer to float in those spacious waters.  In turn, I’m freer to embrace the opportunities that arise, to identify the challenges that are Lizzie-shaped, and to meet them with an open heart.

Shutting the Door on 2020? Or gently opening to its effects?

So how has 2020, the Year of the Pandemic, left you?  A gamut of experiences!  - some having  contracted Covid themselves, some watching loved ones suffer. Others lying awake with financial worry, Some feeling  split asunder,  caring for children whilst working from home.  Some exhausted from frontline work, feeling their humanity sucked from them in the relentlessness of it all. Anxiety, depression, isolation.

There are also those who've enjoyed a break from the daily hamster wheel of doing stuff, and been able to break free for a while from the tenacious habit of keeping busy -  given themselves long overdue permission to stop, listen to bird song, to savour good food, play with creative projects, loosen up.

Recently, I've seen the usual clutch of New Year greetings, some of which contained a message of "Shut the Door on 2020", as if we could somehow pretend it never happened. But there's a lot to be processed.  Mindfulness teaches us to open up to the aversive, as best we can - including aversive memories or lingering sensations of loss, or residual anxiety.

Some ask - what's the point?  Why dwell on horrible things - indeed, why dwell on the past at all?   The point is that experiences can leave reverberations, here, now - a foot print, a seemingly indelible mark. While it's true that time alone can sometimes allow such effects to fade away  in the busyness of daily life,  experience points to a truth that shutting horrible stuff away  often means it will pop up somewhere else - another time, another place, or else it will just lurk in the background, silently undermining us . Can we instead allow these feelings some breathing space, with great tenderness? No need to  to entertain any thoughts about the events that gave rise to them, but rather, just letting them drift in and out?

Mindfulness encourages us to open up to the whole panorama of what's here, now - whether zooming in on the intricate detail of the breath's movements,  the physicality of the heart beating, the tingling in your big toe or the soundscape within or without.  Or it may be opening up to what does not lie in our immediate attentional field, but will bubble up  if given the time and meditative space.  Lurking emotions, a suggestion of sadness,  a previously suppressed pain,  an unexpected joy or a feeling of comfort in the warmth of your own hands folded in your lap. For me, it is only from this point of knowing what's here, now, that I can make any sense of my life  as something other than a bundle of habits and a chain of knee-jerk responses. Only from here can I discern meaningful possibilities.  

2021 already promises more Covid challenges.  Things have changed again even since I began writing this blog. Where I am, we've moved swifly through the Tiers into complete lockdown, as in all of England. I've caught myself descending into heartsink a little, worrying about loved ones and friends working on the front line..... Time once more to breathe, slow down, savour what's here, notice what nourishes, keep safe  - and send out wishes for wellness, ease, and peace to anyone reading this.

Christmas Presents or Christmas Presence?

Christmas is a time when anxiety can visit me big-time. I've grown up in an era and social context where expectations around gender-roles, food, gifting, decor, and generally being jolly - are huge. 

But this year is different.  The challenges of Christmas seem insignificant against the enormity of the climate and ecological crisis that is staring us in the face.  Thoughts of what this is likely to mean for my grandaughter and her generation can threaten to cripple me.  And of course, I know that people of all ages are already suffering from displacement, food shortages, health problems.

Anxiety is a contracted state of mind, rooted in our fight/flight/freeze biology , which narrows our focus on to one thing - how to escape imminent danger, this moment, now.  It stops us from wasting time and energy on thinking about anything else.

My Christmas anxiety is rooted,  not in the perception of immediate physical danger, but in an irrational but potent fear of rejection - by “the tribe”, significant or powerful "others". It is cloaked by  a fear of disappointing others.  What if I don't come up with an appropriate gift - look like I've not been generous enough with time, money, or imagination? What if there's not enough food? (Crazy - the fridge is literally bulging!)

Eco-anxiety similarly contracts the mind, but it is not entirely irrational.  But it's hard to balance the appearance, mostly of "business as usual" on the planet, (at least where I am now, in wealthy-ish Gloucestershire), with the solid scientific knowledge that the earth's life systems are already disintegrating.  If I'm not careful, I can cycle between highly driven activism,  and rank denial  ( because at times it's just too much to hold in mind).  I need a middle ground.

So at this point where I find myself in history, I'm enormously grateful to have learnt the practice of mindfulness. Whether  I'm sitting on a cushion or walking in the woods tuning into the sound of the wind and leaves rustling, it's a practice that activates  parts of the brain (e.g. the insula) that generate an experience of timelessness.  In those moments, I get a felt-sense of spaciousness, the drivenness begins to evaporate, and  there's a possiblity for wisdom and creativity to emerge.  Here also, there is the possibility of acceptance (rather than denial) of even the direst of scenarios. This is freeing, because it takes a lot of energy to keep pushing away what’s unwanted but real, and it is futile.   The new-found spaciousness also allows the imagination to conjure creative solutions, moment by moment, and to make wiser plans for my own benefit and that of my friends, my family and the planet.

Responding to Crisis

Mindfulness is about tuning in to what’s wisest, moment by moment.

Like many of you, I’m sure, I have been deeply touched of late by the various calls to action, in response to the urgency of the Climate Crisis - David Attenborough, Greta Thunberg, and Extinction Rebellion with its audacity, tenacity, imagination and sheer volume. Greta’s steely-eyed demeanour and the simplicity of her speeches, pierce me.

“You lied to us. The house is on fire” .

Attenborough’s “Climate Change - the Facts” leaves me bewildered. The Extinction Rebels’ energy and willingness to sacrifice their own liberty challenge me.

Like many, I think of dear young ones in my own life, and of families afar, who, if the predictions are correct, will suffer hardships in their lifetime, easily. Weather extremes, food shortages, social breakdown.

It’s natural that the enormity of it triggers that age-old coping response-trio of fight, flight or freeze. We can find ourselves privileging one of those responses, or cycling through all three. Some jump on every activist opportunity with gusto, only to burn out in a short time. Some shelve the mental distress of hearing the facts, and carry on as usual, until the facts invade again from left-of-field. Some attempt to neutralise their guilt with what they know to be tiny gestures, criticising themselves that this is pitifully inadequate. I must admit, I’ve done it all.

Mindfulness opens up the possibility of tuning in to our own courage, wisdom and compassion in the face of overwhelm and potential shut-down.

The Three-Step Breathing Space is a meditation that can last three minutes or three hours. Practised regularly, it can become an unconscious habit that fosters presence of mind, and its bedfellow, wisdom.

The first step involves getting the scope of our interior world, noticing how we are this moment, beginning to unfreeze, in the presence of our own friendly self-regard, embracing whatever is here, whether anxiety, boredom or blankness. In step two, we allow ourselves moments to be grounded in the now, using the sensations of the breath, or the sound of birdsong or the whirr of a computer or whatever, or the feeling of our own feet in contact with the ground. In the third step we open up again to notice our bodies, ourselves, in the space we inhabit.

Then we can notice what bubbles up from the calmer, more creative recesses of our brain. We can plan and act from a position of wisdom, presence of mind and groundedness, rather than from frantic or numbed-out fear. Furthermore, this can be a radical act of savouring this precious moment of our lives, joyfully even, rather than being stuck in some future catastrophe-land.

The science has been done. History tells us how to precipitate urgent change collectively. The invitation is for each us to seek and to find, mindfully and heartfully, our unique place in the world at this critical point in the planet’s history, this moment.

Returning from Absence

I'm returning after illness and recuperation.  A shock diagnosis, fast-track, invasive investigations, awaiting life-or-death results, surgery,  and then the weird energy of a hospital ward with its clinical machinery, bland decor and robotic routine, all dotted with acts of sweet kindness.

Formal meditation practice becomes impossible at such times, but I found myself grateful for the Jon Kabat-Zinn mantra -

"If you're breathing, there's more right with you than there is wrong with you, no matter what is wrong."

I found it possible to let the medics take care of what was wrong, and focus on those other very basic elements of experience - the fact of having a body - being aware, at least, of my skin touching the sheets and the ability to wiggle my toes and to feel the weight of my head against the pillow. I could also, in the context of the whole body, notice those no-go areas numbed by the anaesthetist's potions and by the surgeon's knife, and by the consequent internal rearrangements.

I could be aware of the mind endlessly generating thoughts like a bubble machine, and emotions like the ebb and flow of a river, and of the possibility of giving and receiving kindness, of being patient, of trusting.

In life, lack of ease (dis-ease) is always but a whisper away, but I seemed to be able to channel Leonard Cohen in experiencing that "the cracks are where the light gets in", the place where we can drink in and savour the good will generated by others, and find kindness for oneself,  and healing.

“Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in.”

— Anthem by Leonard Cohen

Are you being breathed?

I wonder what springs to mind for you when you hear someone mention "the breath"? What's the feeling-tone for you?  Boredom? Comfort? Resistance? Curiosity?

We explored this in a group of friends recently as we meditated and discussed.  We experimented with making space for the breath in our bodies by making micro adjustments in our sitting posture, locating the breath in the back of the body, and having a sense of the back straight, the head "free-floating".

We shared different experiences from the past. Some find  it reassuring to become aware of the breath, whilst  others had found it  anxiety provoking - in its extreme,  to the point of a panic attack, ambulance, A & E.  A reminder of the delicate dance of the chemistry between oxygen and carbon dioxide, and the havoc and utter fear when our own anxiety trips the system, transposing these two chemicals. For some, their meditation had had to be anchored for a while on a different focus, such as the sound of birdsong, moment by moment, or the sensations in their feet.

A great help for me has been the phrase "not so much breathing as being breathed", which tunes me in to the elasticity of my own body - lungs, belly, fascia, skin - all moving with the breath spontaneously. 

Then, sometimes, at a certain point, I feel intimately connected with the world around, aware, at some level, of the planet's oxygen nourishing my own blood, my own cells - every one of them, and my brain, and its role in keeping me alive and happy. I love the idea of a fair exchange, with the carbon dioxide breathed out contributing to the photosynthesis of plant life around me.  And then - the plants provide more nourishment by way of food, or more oxygen! 

Ancient writings talk about the focus of the breath bringing us to a sense of wellbeing, I have to say that this is very welcome in my life where my attention can get pulled every which way, at times to a point of craziness. Another translation of this "focus" is "collectedness". I like that. 

Lessons from a Frog

It's true that in England, we have been lurching between cold winter temperatures and a searing summer heat, but actually it's spring time.  There's blossom on the trees, lambs are in the fields, and new shoots are becoming visible.  Life is fizzing away out there. I've been watching the progress of the tadpoles in my pond, with an earlier memory of a swarthy frog sitting on the edge, quite still, eyes bulging, throat pulsing.

"Sitting still like a Frog" by Eline Snell, is a Mindfulness book for kids in which they are encouraged to do just that.  Frogs have a wisdom in taking moments to sit and simply notice, alert but relaxed, wasting no energy doing anything that is neither desired nor necessary. In this mode, they just absorb life unfolding around them and within, moment by moment.  The frog is simultaneously part of life whilst also observing it. You might say that the frog is at one with the Universe.

When I think about it, I'm astounded at the ease with which I can get busy doing things that seem like a good idea at the time, but wind up just wasting energy - physical, mental, emotional.

To misquote  Eckhart Tolle  (who spoke of cats)  - I have known many Zen masters - and most of them were frogs.

We humans have largely lost that reptilian skill, to stop intuitively and simply notice, allowing our senses to bring us real-time information on the state of things - inside and out.

In Spring,  we're especially aware of life around us as nature wakes up, but actually life is always around and within - even when things feel dull, lifeless or overwhelming.  What is it actually like to check in for a moment with  life unfurling  around you and within your own body? Whatever is going on, there's a freedom in sensing that fizzing, pulsing, pausing, tingling, numbing,  aching, sparkling - and tuning in to  the vast spaciousness that somehow holds all of that. 

“A frog is a remarkable creature. It is capable of enormous leaps, but it can also sit very, very still. Although it is aware of everything that happens in and around it, the frog tends not to react right away. The frog sits still and breathes, preserving its energy, instead of getting carried away by all the ideas that keep popping into its head......
Anything a frog can do, you can do too.”

— Sitting Still Like a Frog - Eline Snell

New Beginnings

Welcome to my first blog post!

I'm starting anew, which offers a chance to savour that balance-point between the ending of past projects and the starting of a new journey.  I'm noticing the effects on me of the last few years of running Ridgeway Mindfulness - the pattern of planning and running courses,  figuring how to recruit those ready and able,  coming up against administrative brick walls and other practical and personal difficulties .... and then,  hearing the stories of participants and witnessing with them  the shifts in mind-states, practicing meditation with them,.   Giving myself space to reflect on all of this allows me to feel the reverberations in body, heart and mind, so that, in moving forward, I can truly start with a felt-sense of where I am now.  I know my start point.  I know this moment.

All experience changes us, and it's an act of self-love to tune in to the effects of life's demands, what we've given (or had taken) and what we've received and been nourished by.

For all of us too, devastation sometimes visits as part of our experience, where everything crumbles to dust and all we can do is to sit amidst the smoking ruins, see what the desolation feels like, find a grain of kindness and say, "Well this is how it is now", and patiently await the green shoots that will surely arise from the ashes. 

On a less dramatic level, we can, at any moment, choose to start anew.  Every time we catch ourselves lost in hopeless thought, or in an internet search-maze,  or caught in a vicious cycle of panic, or a mindless, dulling routine, we can choose to step back, notice the effects of these last few moments - body, mind, heart .....  take a few breaths .... and reconnect , with heart - refreshed for the next few moments of our life's journey.

“When it comes right down to it, our entire past, whatever it has been, however much pain and suffering it has included, becomes the very work of inhabiting the present moment with awareness, equanimity, clarity and caring. You need the past that you have; it is raw clay on the potter’s wheel. It is both the work and the adventure of a lifetime not to be trapped in our past or our ideas and concepts, but rather to reclaim the only moment we ever really have, which is always this one. Taking care of this moment can have a remarkable effect on the next one and therefore on the next one, and therefore on the future - yours and the world’s.”

— Jon Kabat Zinn, Mindfulness for Beginners