Shame on a package holiday

When I think of ways in which I might succeed in embarrassing myself over the course of a week holidaying in Greece, not so much comes to mind. I guess it is feasible that I might consume too much Retsina and end up leaping across tables smashing plates with a terrifying abandon that gets me banned from the restaurant. Who knows, if my display was crazy enough, perhaps from the country. Yes, a bit unlikely. Well, how about my bikini bottoms, saggy at the best of times, get wrenched down by a freak wave in full view of the sunbathers on the beach? That would certainly make me blush. Or what if, my attempt to speak the language results in me saying something like “I’d like to ride you like a donkey” rather than “I’d like to hire a little donkey”? Why I might be hiring a little donkey is unclear to me, but I’m just trying to cover all the potential shame traps out there.

Of course, none of that happened. I don’t like Retsina, the sea failed to ripple, let alone get up the energy for a wave, and the only thing I can say in Greek is “thank you.”

However, something shameful did take place.

We were in an apartment within a complex of similar structures divided by blooms of flowers that hung down from branches and climbed walls. Pink and orange blossoms and crimson geraniums scenting the air. Our balcony looked out across the sea with its hazy backdrop of mountains and scattering of blue and white fishing boats drifting gently on their anchors. Above the infinity pool, swallows dipped for a drink on the wing. At night we went to the little restaurant and as the light faded candles were placed on the tables, making the wine glasses glitter. You get the picture. Romantic. No children playing. Just grownups in awe of the peace and the beauty. Unable to believe their luck. This was after all a last-minute deal. A cheap getaway. Heavenly!

As is often the way, after a couple of nights people started to talk to each other over the evening meal. We swapped information about where we’d been that day. We talked about our kids. We found out what we all did for a living. The conversation was light and filled with laughter. Everyone was in a couple except for one man who had come on his own. He was a lovely man. Smiley. Friendly. His only problem in the restaurant was that he didn’t like Greek food, an issue he hadn’t taken into consideration when booking the holiday.

Perhaps he had another problem. It is hard to be alone in a place like that. So set up for romance. On the third night he was sitting at the next table to us contemplating his plate of Calamari with trepidation. I asked him how he was enjoying his time and we struck up a conversation. He said that the place had been recommended to him by an ex-girlfriend. As he said her name a flash of something sad crossed his face. Now, I know I am prone to ask questions, but I tend to avoid prying into personal matters, especially without invitation, so I made no comment. But then he looked at me, his Calamari conundrum forgotten, and he started to talk about her, this ex-girlfriend, the love of his life. He talked about failed romances, unrequited love, mistakes he’d made, therapy he’d had. Yes, I did ask a few questions, but basically, I just listened. Really listened. I didn’t have any advice to give. I didn’t offer platitudes. I made no assumptions.

After a couple of hours, he suddenly looked bewildered. “What’s happening?” he asked. “What are you doing? How come I’m talking to you like this?” Then he got up a little too fast, nudging the table as he rose so that he had to steady it with his hand for a moment.

The next day he barely looked up over breakfast. He didn’t come to the restaurant that night. Over the next couple of days, he kept himself to himself.

I knew he felt ashamed.

And I felt ashamed too.

Ashamed that somehow, I had forced him into this intimate exchange. Forced him into revealing his hidden vulnerabilities.

He had talked. I had listened.

And as a result, we were both mortified.

That strikes me as sad.

Genuine human connection is a wonderful thing. It wages war against loneliness. It reminds us that we have feelings and experiences in common. It expands our understanding not only of each other but of ourselves.

On the last morning, as we were all saying our goodbyes, I asked this man if I could hug him. He looked so relieved. In that short embrace it reminded each of us that it is ok to voice vulnerability. And it is ok to listen.

Our humanity is nothing to be ashamed of.

Now all I need to do is find that little donkey for hire.

The brilliant poet Maya Angelou experienced acute anxiety every time she gave a reading of her work. Her advice for conquering the kind of fear she endured when sharing her work was, “Accept it. Don’t fight it.”

How many times do we fight with ourselves, pummelling the feelings we experience back down into some tiny pocket of our bodies, hoping that they can be safely contained there? But we are fooling ourselves, right? Fooling ourselves because the mind and the body simply can’t be separated. Deepak Chopra puts it so beautifully when he writes ‘Anything that happens in the mental universe must leave tracks in the physical one.’

Perhaps we should take a second to recall a moment of intense emotion and just place a hand on the part of the body where we are experiencing a corresponding sensation. My anxiety sits deep in my belly. As I write this, wondering where my thoughts are taking me, and whether anyone will be interested, I notice a familiar stirring of what feels like a thousand tiny tentacles begin to untangle themselves. Let them, I think.

Let them, because if I try and do anything about them, I am giving them attention. Attention makes them feel important. Like a bully who feeds off the pain she causes, her sense of power engorged with each new jibe. And the thing is, the fear I am feeling can’t tell the difference between a real threat and a perceived threat. Sometimes we are more scared of what we imagine, then anything that actually happens. If we think something is worth fearing, then we become afraid. To throw in a little Shakespeare here, there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.

But my God it’s so easy to overthink, isn’t it? Did I say the right thing? Am I good enough? What if they say no? What if I look stupid? What if everyone recognises the imposter that I surely am?

All those thoughts, all those internal battles, all that fear. It’s exhausting! Why are we expending so much energy on stuff that isn’t even real? Because none of it is, all those fears only exist in our minds. Everything revolves around our perceptions. All of it is about us, and when it is all about us that is too much pressure to hold off.

You know that little exercise that people suggest we do when we begin to feel overwhelmed – either in your head or out loud, name 5 things you can see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, 1 thing you can taste? The only point of it is to shift the focus from yourself; while you are busy thinking ‘but I can’t smell anything!’ you have taken the attention off the anxiety inducing thoughts. Fear, when you boil it all down, is really a misdirection of attention. We can acknowledge it, but if we do more than that it drags us deeper into its undergrowth. If we attach meaning to it, its branches grow ever more tangled.

Sports psychologists ask their athletes to visualise the race, throw, penalty etc. They ask them to visualise the track, the pitch, the crowds watching. They ask them to visualise themselves lifting the trophy, having that gold medal draped around their neck. When they did this, it was noted categorically that performances Improved. When we imagine ourselves performing a particular action, our muscular activity increases in those very muscle groups that would usually perform the activity, as if we were doing it in real life.

THE BODY CAN’T TELL THE DIFFERENCE

We are responsive, empathetic, imaginative creatures We can imagine all sorts of things. And imagination in this sense is synonymous with doing. This gives us power. We can direct our attention another way.

I have another strategy for when my inner monologue fires up and gets my anxiety churning.

I talk back.

But who am I talking to?

In my case she is called Zara. I named her because she arrived while I was trying on clothes in a particular store. Nothing was looking right, and the voice became physical. A feeling of anxiety consumed my belly. Even my hands felt big and useless. Obviously, I left the shop.

What I did next was to name this voice. Now when she shows up, I acknowledge her but tell her I’m ok.

And giving her a name makes me laugh, makes her familiar, lessens her grip.

I have externalised my inner saboteur. I have disrupted the relentless and ultimately pointless self-talk that attaches weight and value to the fear. I can use my imagination to propel me forward not hold me back.

I just realised I have forgotten all about those belly tentacles I mentioned earlier. Think I’ll share this before they begin to stir again.

“Think of yourself as dead. You have lived your life. Now take what’s left and live it properly.” (Marcus Aurelius)

This feels wise. It feels important

And yet…

What does that mean? ‘Live it properly’?

We may all have a different answer.

It is easy to say, ‘Carpe Diem’ or “Be in the moment’ or ‘Live everyday as though it’s your last.’ But these phrases are used so often they can lose meaning. They are things we feel we should do. My god, we’ve seen all the little wisdoms scrawled on enough of those signs you can buy to hang on the wall and then forget to look at ever again.

So, what does it really mean to live life ‘properly’? I can’t answer for you, but I think it is worth some real thought.

For me it is about being engaged. And actually, a lot of the time I don’t feel I am. I work hard, doing my best, showing up, ticking off my to do lists like I’m winning some unnamed prize for productivity. I think I do a lot of things that I don’t really engage with. Not fully, not with my whole heart. Not in response to the evolving day and all the moments it contains.

When I am coaching, yes, then I fully engage. I hear what is being said and often what is not being said. I am open to every beat and nuance. When I am in the sea I feel the water on my skin. I notice the colours change with the light. When I read, I can be lost in a story that holds me with its every word. Sometimes sitting round my battered old kitchen table laughing with my daughters I feel a swell of love and joy.

Am I living properly in these moments?

And if so, what can I extrapolate from them to apply to all those other hours when I am distracted, thought loaded, going through the motions to get something done? How can I live it all properly?

That how is key. We can all say things. Hell, we can even understand them. But it is another thing to do them

.

So, what would your life look like were you to live it ‘properly?’

Would it be being more fulfilled in your work? Would it be spending more time with family and friends? Would it be going out into nature? Creating something? Not caring what other people think? Would it be feeling comfortable in your body? Travelling? Doing good?

Go on… what would it be?

And how are you going to do it?

I think that it begins by making one change. Doesn’t have to be something huge. For example, when I wake up, I always reach for my phone and start scrolling through news. My change is going to be leaving my mobile alone for the first hour of every day. Not a big thing, but in that hour perhaps something else will happen. Perhaps I will engage with the day as it begins and how might that effect the hours that follow?

One conscious change at a time. Small or grand, it doesn’t matter.

No looking back. Facing forward. Time is finite. It feels important to use it well.

Some other words for rattle are clatter, clack, jangle, vibrate, jar, jolt…

There is no peace in these words.

In moments when a situation carries emotional intensity, sometimes a stillness falls and you become aware of all the external rattle surrounding you.

It’s like there is a buffer between you and all the noise. You can hear it, but you are not inside it.

I had this experience recently, standing on a railway platform in the evening sun.

Incubated by my experiences of that day I could hear snatched conversations

And in my moment of stillness everyone else seemed so worried, so concerned, so caught up.

Issues at work where there had been a misunderstanding.

Complaints about a partner who didn’t want to go to an event.

Outrage at the way someone had behaved at a party

Worry about whether an email might be received the wrong way.

All valid reasons to become unsettled.

All valid reasons for anxiety and irritation

And yet…

In a moment of clarity and of stillness it just sounded like everyone was rattling about.

A moment like that lends itself to a sense of deep understanding of something that can’t quite be named.

And a moment like that doesn’t last.

The everyday world pushes hard against that quiet place of contemplation, and your own personal jangling and jolting song picks up the pace. You are dancing again to its jerky rhythm.

But there are things you can do to tune it out.

I am making a conscious effort now to question myself about how I react to day-to-day events; after all I think we can choose where and on what we expend our energy.

Do I need to care so much about someone not returning a call? I have no control over whether they do or not, so why am I rattling about it?

Do I need to care so much about the washing up not being done when I get home? I can do it or ask someone else to. Either way things will get cleared, so why am I rattling about it?

Do I need to care so much about a comment I’ve made that might be misconstrued? I have no idea whether it has been, so why am I rattling about it?

The list could go on, but you get the point. All the small ways that I get jolted and jarred as I go about a day, can be avoided.

Does this resonate with you?

If so, ask yourself two questions: What are the things that really matter? And what are the things that are in my control?

Rattling is a misdirection of attention.

Pausing, breathing and refocusing gets us back on track.

There is only one moment where it seems to me that rattling is natural.

And that is not when we are in the flow of life.

She didn’t literally carve off bits of flesh to hand out. She didn’t donate her vital organs. Her body remained intact. It was a quiet shedding of self. So quiet, so gradual, that it took years for her to register that there were parts missing.

Let me tell you her story. She doesn’t mind; I checked. I think she feels it might be helpful.

It started when she was much younger. She had a job that involved a fairly arduous commute and two small children who she was obsessed with. It was a time of maneuver and dash. A time of lists and tasks. She told me that in all the chaos, she felt joy. There was no time to think, and sometimes that can be a good thing.

So, when her husband asked her if it would be ok if they put a desk in their bedroom, she said “of course.” A week later the thing arrived. Huge and modern and occupying a quarter of the available space. With it came a special black chair on wheels so that her husband’s back would be ok when he worked. Then came the big new computer and the box files, the tub of ‘useful’ wires and plugs, the printer and the stacks of paper. She was so busy she didn’t look at it all that much, and anyway when she lay in bed at night, she could look up through the skylight and stare at the stars.

And time passed.

And more things arrived.

A guitar.

It makes him so happy, she thought. How lovely to have found something that takes his mind off work.

Then another in its bulky brown case.

And time passed.

Now when she looked around the room there were six guitars. All lined up against a wall in their similarly bulky brown cases.

When questioned her husband told her that they made him so happy. So, she stopped questioning because she wanted him to be happy and anyway, she had her own things to be getting on with. Work was demanding as were the needs of the young adolescents she loved so much.

Then came the books. So many books. Great teetering piles of them.

“We need some shelves”

“Ok”

Wall to wall shelving, pushing the guitars into the middle of the room.

Not much room for the bed.

And time passed.

And a sofa bed was purchased. Just about space for two people to share. But handy during the day as somewhere to sit and read.

It was ok. There was a plan.

The children would be leaving home soon and one of their rooms would be repurposed into a beautiful new sleeping space. Uncluttered. Peaceful. A place to retreat to and be restful in.

But the cost of rents skyrocketed, and the children did not leave home.

This woman I know looked around one day and realised she had given away all her space. There was nowhere to put her things. She didn’t enjoy the uncomfortable sofa bed and the stars she could still see through the sky light just reminded her of how small she was.

Every time she’d said “yes” part of her had got dislodged. Giving space to someone else’s needs meant that she had left none for herself.

Now we can judge this husband and wife. He was selfish and she let it happen.

But I’ve met them both. I’ve met a kind and gentle man and a woman who is capable in so many ways.

And anyway, the point of this is not to judge.

And the room is of course a metaphor.

So, setting all judgement aside, do you recognise anything in this story?

When does saying yes cost you something that you need for yourself?

What compromises do you make that leave you diminished?

Kindness is king but it isn’t always kindness that propels us to put someone else’s needs first.

Sometimes it is habit.

Sometimes it is fear of the consequence.

Sometimes it is the need to be liked.

Sometimes we just forget ourselves in the chaos of life.

Perhaps you have found the balance in your life, I hope so. But if not, is there a way to find your way back to that core part of yourself that needs preservation? It will still be there somewhere deep inside. Take up the space you need.

Our first visit came about because my friend’s father died.

Far too young

We came away to think of him. And ever since we have returned every year at the same time.

We have come here heavily pregnant (fortunately only one of us each time). We have come here knowing a marriage was over. We have come here grieving more loved ones lost. We have come here when we are unable to breathe from the brutality of what dementia does to someone. We have come here amid career changes. We have come here in the middle of house moves. We have come here as our children have struggled and flourished in equal measure and somehow grown, so very quickly, to be adults. We have come here in all the mess and in all the joy

Getting older brings an understanding of just how inexplicable and truly beautiful life can be.

Terrifying, painful, dazzling, precious life.

An understanding that the wind still tangles up your hair

And that you still laugh from your belly

And that true friendship survives all the curve balls thrown

And that the sea still lashes against the cob wall and drenches you when you least expect it. Making you curse and laugh all at once.

And isn’t it a privilege to have experienced it all?

And isn’t it wonderful that you are so much less self-conscious than you were all those years back?

And haven’t you a measure of your own strength and resilience?

And don’t you still look forward to the future twists and turns and forks in the road?

I no longer mourn the passing of the years as I get older.

Instead, I carry them with me with a quiet knowing and appreciation

.