There have been things on my mind, so awful I will not go into them here. I want them to go. They should have no place in anyone's life. They will go.
My darling dad, wise in ways I can only dream of being, spoke to me today due to his concern over my concerns, and I feel different – better – as a result. He said his dad used to sit him down and speak to him in a similar way.
I hope one day to evoke such feelings in my child (though I wish for her to not go through these particular things that touched my life). I hope therefore that she never worries me in the way that I have those who love me...
Sorry, this is a tad indecipherable unless you are in my head (or are my dad), but so be it. Here's to wisdom and love.
Though this post is about my dad, thanks also to you who have also been there for me. You know who you are. You do make a difference.
Showing posts with label strength. Show all posts
Showing posts with label strength. Show all posts
Sunday, 15 April 2012
Thursday, 10 March 2011
Journeywoman
Due to developing an illness that affects one in 300 women, or something like that, I was told I should consider having what purists might term an unnatural birth. The baby was at risk, and so was I. So, her birthday was brought forward and I was booked in for the first operation I have had, bar dental surgery. I was so tired, so very exhausted by weeks of illness and not being able to sleep due to the Woman Next Door (WND)'s bloody noisy, ongoing building work (another story)... But there I was, with S, on the early morning of motherhood, nervous as hell and looking pretty unpretty, my skin dull and blotchy. The place was spotless, utterly clinical. My surgeon and the anaesthetist had warned me of all the complications, which included death, so I was suitably shaken.
The obstetrician sliced through my abdominal muscles instead of parting them (as is normal with most Caesarean sections), as my years of kung fu had rendered my stomach muscles 'so tight!' that the team couldn't stretch them. A compliment, at any rate, and one that made me smile as I waited in fear/hope/excitement as my insides were tugged and pulled with immense force. I had imagined that during a Caesarean section the baby was always lifted out calmly, gently, peacefully... but the fact is they try – where possible – to give the baby something akin to the experience of birth. In reality, they push the little being from its warm cocoon through the incision and out into the brightly-lit, impeccably clean theatre with its white walls, scrubbed and greened theatre team, metal implements and an absolutely massive digital clock on the wall, (which had stared back at me as a spinal tap was inserted).
After this part – the 'spinal', as it's called by some – I lay down as the powerful anaesthetic coursed through my body, deadening my nerves. They sprayed an icy cold substance up and down my sides to determine where sensation began and ended, a process that was repeated until the correct vertebral markers were numb. It was a staggeringly quick process and one that added surreality to that which any new parent must feel. One minute there's no child. And the next? "Meet your daughter," as this tiny person is held above the blue cloth they pin up to stop the mother and birth partner (S, in my case) seeing the gory business. Afterwards, I asked S what he could manage to see, and he said: "just lots of blood". I recall hearing the words: scalpel, knife, suction, gutters... and forced S, at the time, to tell me in great detail about his week at work. Also nervous, he got through this quickly and moved on to a ghost story. I think. I was terrified. My hands were clammy, my brow sweated and the oft-repeated warnings of what might happen to me and the baby rang in my ears. A Caesarean is not an easy way out. To believe so is incredibly stupid. What kind of fool would choose a major abdominal operation with a higher mortality rate than the other option?
The birth itself involved so much pressure being applied to my chest that I suffered excruciating pain in my upper back once we got home – and at one point screamed for an ambulance, as I (really) thought I was about to die of a heart attack. But it's not uncommon, this pain. This squeeze out of the womb helps the baby to do what it would do naturally – take a breath and cry to clear its lungs to begin its life independent of the umbilical cord. I cannot begin to describe the feeling I had at that moment. It was out of this world for its sheer uniqueness. My life, at a stroke – in the beat of a tiny heart – had changed irrevocably. I had taken a fork in the road that would lead us to life anew.
The scar is still numb. I couldn't touch it for weeks after the dressing had been removed, and then, only tentatively, peeking at it shyly as though it might open and reveal my shiny, scarlet innards. It's neat, about six inches across (having shrunk from nine) and sits beneath where I might wear a bikini if I chose to do so. Neat work by the startlingly young-looking surgeon who performed the operation. The skin is looser than it was before and, while I was back into my favourite fitted jeans fairly quickly, there is more sag, more excess, more softness. As my abs were cut open, it's unlikely I'll regain my muscle tone of old. I don't worry about these things. I don't diet. I do my best to exercise (a little). But flat tummy or not, my scar will always remind me of all of the above and more: of where I was and where I am now. It is the best kind of body art. No Chinese saying, no Inca symbol, no bird or butterfly could mean more.
The obstetrician sliced through my abdominal muscles instead of parting them (as is normal with most Caesarean sections), as my years of kung fu had rendered my stomach muscles 'so tight!' that the team couldn't stretch them. A compliment, at any rate, and one that made me smile as I waited in fear/hope/excitement as my insides were tugged and pulled with immense force. I had imagined that during a Caesarean section the baby was always lifted out calmly, gently, peacefully... but the fact is they try – where possible – to give the baby something akin to the experience of birth. In reality, they push the little being from its warm cocoon through the incision and out into the brightly-lit, impeccably clean theatre with its white walls, scrubbed and greened theatre team, metal implements and an absolutely massive digital clock on the wall, (which had stared back at me as a spinal tap was inserted).
After this part – the 'spinal', as it's called by some – I lay down as the powerful anaesthetic coursed through my body, deadening my nerves. They sprayed an icy cold substance up and down my sides to determine where sensation began and ended, a process that was repeated until the correct vertebral markers were numb. It was a staggeringly quick process and one that added surreality to that which any new parent must feel. One minute there's no child. And the next? "Meet your daughter," as this tiny person is held above the blue cloth they pin up to stop the mother and birth partner (S, in my case) seeing the gory business. Afterwards, I asked S what he could manage to see, and he said: "just lots of blood". I recall hearing the words: scalpel, knife, suction, gutters... and forced S, at the time, to tell me in great detail about his week at work. Also nervous, he got through this quickly and moved on to a ghost story. I think. I was terrified. My hands were clammy, my brow sweated and the oft-repeated warnings of what might happen to me and the baby rang in my ears. A Caesarean is not an easy way out. To believe so is incredibly stupid. What kind of fool would choose a major abdominal operation with a higher mortality rate than the other option?
The birth itself involved so much pressure being applied to my chest that I suffered excruciating pain in my upper back once we got home – and at one point screamed for an ambulance, as I (really) thought I was about to die of a heart attack. But it's not uncommon, this pain. This squeeze out of the womb helps the baby to do what it would do naturally – take a breath and cry to clear its lungs to begin its life independent of the umbilical cord. I cannot begin to describe the feeling I had at that moment. It was out of this world for its sheer uniqueness. My life, at a stroke – in the beat of a tiny heart – had changed irrevocably. I had taken a fork in the road that would lead us to life anew.
The scar is still numb. I couldn't touch it for weeks after the dressing had been removed, and then, only tentatively, peeking at it shyly as though it might open and reveal my shiny, scarlet innards. It's neat, about six inches across (having shrunk from nine) and sits beneath where I might wear a bikini if I chose to do so. Neat work by the startlingly young-looking surgeon who performed the operation. The skin is looser than it was before and, while I was back into my favourite fitted jeans fairly quickly, there is more sag, more excess, more softness. As my abs were cut open, it's unlikely I'll regain my muscle tone of old. I don't worry about these things. I don't diet. I do my best to exercise (a little). But flat tummy or not, my scar will always remind me of all of the above and more: of where I was and where I am now. It is the best kind of body art. No Chinese saying, no Inca symbol, no bird or butterfly could mean more.
Thursday, 3 January 2008
On guard
When I spar in kung fu, I am shocked when someone hits me in the face or around the head. I have tended to drop my guard, which is dangerous (obviously) but am doing my best to keep my arms up. Being swiped or hit is an incentive, that's for sure. If someone closes in on me, I tend to fight back hard, which had the result of me hitting someone below the eye in my last class.The chap in question, who is a very nice person, was not too pleased. But what could I do? He'd stepped on my foot a couple of times after I'd hurt my toes and he had swiped me on the face and head a few times, and he was really going for it (as one must).
It feels unnatural, fighting, but it's good when it is controlled, as you learn to focus and realise that there is art in defence – attack is not everything. It makes you more stable on your feet, too.
Anyway, I apologised profusely. I did feel bad, as the intent is not to hurt one another but rather to make contact, which can be painful nevertheless! I suffered a hard kick on the arm from a relative newbie who was lashing out like mad (and rather dangerously). I guess we'll all have our share of injuries. I've had a kick in the breast (extremely painful), a cut lip (caused by the instructor!), massive bruises and various pains.
Why do I do it? There are many reasons: serious exercise, increased stamina, better focus, great camaraderie, I like to learn rather than just pound away in a gym, it brings catharsis in huge measure, it helps me to sleep and it is empowering. I certainly don't walk down the street feeling invincible – that would be insane – but if I needed to punch someone in extenuating circumstances, I'd hope all the practice would kick in (so to speak) and I'd send them flying.
Apparently people who are trained in martial arts get into less fights – maybe they give off more confident vibes, or maybe they know that they could really hurt someone... My instructor, and others I've seen, would be formidable opponents. If anyone was stupid enough to try to take them on in a threatening situation, they'd be pretty regretful when they woke up in hospital!
Tuesday, 1 January 2008
Resolution MMVIII
I resolve to be resolute:
1) I will get my sleep pattern sorted. I will come off the pills and it will be OK. My life will be mine again. I will be energised.
2) I will earn more money. I work very hard but my income doesn't always match the hours I put in.
3) I will continue to train in kung fu and become fitter yet. The health benefits of regular exercise have been astounding.
4) I will finish my novel. I cannot have this as a resolution for a new year again – no way. This is the year.
5) I will save more money. I don't want to worry about money any more...
6) I will continue to sort out my ball of wool stuff. (This means something to me, apologies for being vague.)
1) I will get my sleep pattern sorted. I will come off the pills and it will be OK. My life will be mine again. I will be energised.
2) I will earn more money. I work very hard but my income doesn't always match the hours I put in.
3) I will continue to train in kung fu and become fitter yet. The health benefits of regular exercise have been astounding.
4) I will finish my novel. I cannot have this as a resolution for a new year again – no way. This is the year.
5) I will save more money. I don't want to worry about money any more...
6) I will continue to sort out my ball of wool stuff. (This means something to me, apologies for being vague.)
Sunday, 11 November 2007
Hypervigilance
My friendscape has shifted, changed. Bits that were corroding have broken off, bits have been added, some bonds that had gently relaxed are stronger now than they ever were. Some remain constant, a comforting presence, like an invisible circle of hands holding you in, keeping you away from dangerous edges.
I am in a state of hypervigilance. This is what I have been told. It is likely to be related to why sleep has been such an issue for me. In a world of friends, I fear the unseen foe: the woolly mammoth around the corner, as a wise woman so aptly described it to me recently. Hearing that analogy made me laugh, even though the context of the rest of our conversation would make most people cry.
Like Madonna, (and yes, I am aware of how trite that sounds), I have a tale to tell. Sometimes I hide it well. But (keeping with Madge)... it burns inside of me. And when something burns with such intensity, you need to manage it, to create some distance from it.
It is necessary to treat such a thing as a foe – you need to keep it close enough to see what it is up to. You look into its blinking, cunning eyes, see into its darkness and the places where its tendrils have secretly snaked their way into your being, and then, only then, can you peel away the creepers, take it by the scruff of its neck and shove it aside for good.
Sometimes you bleed during the process. The process can be so painful that you are numb, and only when you are in a place of relative safety can you let yourself examine yourself and see what shape the cuts are, what hue the bruises and then – then – you begin to apply balm and dressings and although you are raw, something has changed.
A few people are aware of your tale – you don't know why you chose to tell them but you did. They clicked on some level; their strength, knowledge and compassion, perhaps invisible to others, is visible to you, and it is a relief to share such things, to see that the aftermath of the telling does not repel but in fact draws them closer.
I am in a state of hypervigilance. This is what I have been told. It is likely to be related to why sleep has been such an issue for me. In a world of friends, I fear the unseen foe: the woolly mammoth around the corner, as a wise woman so aptly described it to me recently. Hearing that analogy made me laugh, even though the context of the rest of our conversation would make most people cry.
Like Madonna, (and yes, I am aware of how trite that sounds), I have a tale to tell. Sometimes I hide it well. But (keeping with Madge)... it burns inside of me. And when something burns with such intensity, you need to manage it, to create some distance from it.
It is necessary to treat such a thing as a foe – you need to keep it close enough to see what it is up to. You look into its blinking, cunning eyes, see into its darkness and the places where its tendrils have secretly snaked their way into your being, and then, only then, can you peel away the creepers, take it by the scruff of its neck and shove it aside for good.
Sometimes you bleed during the process. The process can be so painful that you are numb, and only when you are in a place of relative safety can you let yourself examine yourself and see what shape the cuts are, what hue the bruises and then – then – you begin to apply balm and dressings and although you are raw, something has changed.
A few people are aware of your tale – you don't know why you chose to tell them but you did. They clicked on some level; their strength, knowledge and compassion, perhaps invisible to others, is visible to you, and it is a relief to share such things, to see that the aftermath of the telling does not repel but in fact draws them closer.
Tuesday, 18 September 2007
Me, interrupted
You've been sitting nervously on the floor for two hours, your backside's growing numb and your lumbar spine is beginning to ache. Then your name is called. You step up. You – and the three others who have been called up at the same time – do the first part of the kung fu exam – a random combination of hand moves, turns and kicks. Tricky. Trickier yet due to the nervousness spilling from every pore.
But you try to focus. Focus. Focus. Your eyes are fixed ahead, your mind is clear, dangerously so. Your legs wobble ever so slightly. It's scary. Imagine around 70 people watching you during an exam. There were 60 sitting on the floor behind plus, say, 15 of the elite in front, arranged according to hierarchy [think Last Supper]...
Then – then! – just before the second (and main) part of the exam, I was called over by the guru (to carry on the Last Supper metaphor, we are talking about the most Holy one here)... I was so nervous I must have looked like a rabbit caught in headlights.
I thought he was going to tell me to leave for being or doing something appalling but instead he whispered in my ear and told me not to worry. I'm sure it was for about five minutes. Five minutes while 75 pairs of ears strained to hear what I was being talked to about. To put this into context, no one else had such a summoning. Just me.
Maybe they all thought he was imparting some secret technique, some previously-hidden method of something or the other. Instead, he gently asked about, and advised me on, my eating. He asked whether I was sleeping well [he surely must be psychic] and generally seemed to pick up on the fact that I have been extremely stressed and needed a bit of a pep talk with regards to looking after myself well. Even though he has met me only twice, he'd noticed I'd lost weight and was concerned. I was touched, even though the context of the chat was quite surreal.
The chief is a (very tough) man who eats meat – and plenty of it – and you really do need to eat well to have the strength to train properly. I'm not a veggie but I don't eat enough protein and haven't stepped up my food intake to compensate for the thousands of extra calories I burn off at kung fu. So, he had a point. But to be interrupted in the middle of my grading was novel, surreal and made everyone else stare at me for a while. Suffice to say, I have bought a batch of meat and fish so that I can get into my size eight jeans without needing a belt to keep them up. I seriously do not want to lose any more weight. I wish I could eat chocolate but I'm still banned from it due to the caffeine yadda yadda.
Watched Girl, Interrupted last night on the box. Hmm. It was pa
inful viewing in places. There was Winona, all angsty, but quite normal really. And there was Angelina Jolie, being very nuts. What was scary and sad is that this story was based on a woman's experience. Thank goodness the world knows more about mental illness these days.
Bits of the film reminded me of a wonderful, wonderful book I read earlier this year: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell. A moving and deeply disturbing read, and one of my favourite books.
----------------
Listening to: Kosheen - Empty Skies
But you try to focus. Focus. Focus. Your eyes are fixed ahead, your mind is clear, dangerously so. Your legs wobble ever so slightly. It's scary. Imagine around 70 people watching you during an exam. There were 60 sitting on the floor behind plus, say, 15 of the elite in front, arranged according to hierarchy [think Last Supper]...
Then – then! – just before the second (and main) part of the exam, I was called over by the guru (to carry on the Last Supper metaphor, we are talking about the most Holy one here)... I was so nervous I must have looked like a rabbit caught in headlights.
I thought he was going to tell me to leave for being or doing something appalling but instead he whispered in my ear and told me not to worry. I'm sure it was for about five minutes. Five minutes while 75 pairs of ears strained to hear what I was being talked to about. To put this into context, no one else had such a summoning. Just me.
Maybe they all thought he was imparting some secret technique, some previously-hidden method of something or the other. Instead, he gently asked about, and advised me on, my eating. He asked whether I was sleeping well [he surely must be psychic] and generally seemed to pick up on the fact that I have been extremely stressed and needed a bit of a pep talk with regards to looking after myself well. Even though he has met me only twice, he'd noticed I'd lost weight and was concerned. I was touched, even though the context of the chat was quite surreal.
The chief is a (very tough) man who eats meat – and plenty of it – and you really do need to eat well to have the strength to train properly. I'm not a veggie but I don't eat enough protein and haven't stepped up my food intake to compensate for the thousands of extra calories I burn off at kung fu. So, he had a point. But to be interrupted in the middle of my grading was novel, surreal and made everyone else stare at me for a while. Suffice to say, I have bought a batch of meat and fish so that I can get into my size eight jeans without needing a belt to keep them up. I seriously do not want to lose any more weight. I wish I could eat chocolate but I'm still banned from it due to the caffeine yadda yadda.
Watched Girl, Interrupted last night on the box. Hmm. It was pa
inful viewing in places. There was Winona, all angsty, but quite normal really. And there was Angelina Jolie, being very nuts. What was scary and sad is that this story was based on a woman's experience. Thank goodness the world knows more about mental illness these days.Bits of the film reminded me of a wonderful, wonderful book I read earlier this year: The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell. A moving and deeply disturbing read, and one of my favourite books.
----------------
Listening to: Kosheen - Empty Skies
Friday, 14 September 2007
Strength
It's a funny thing, the way I can perform some moves in kung fu and yet be so weedy at others. I went along, feeling deeply tired, a bit emotional, and worried, challenging myself to: a) be alert, b) not cry, and c) have confidence. It was a trial to maintain a, b and c, but somehow I did it, although I was acutely aware of my failings as I performed the moves.Instructor N has become super-strict in the past couple of weeks. I regret telling him that his holiday stand-in was "Nice, and very strict" the other day... He's a good chap, though, and I think he is utterly fraught, as some of us are going for our first grading soon, and our efforts will reflect his teaching ability. He sat with his head in his hands the other day as we did our moves. Lord.
There's great camaraderie building in class. There aren't that many of us, and over the months, those of us who have attended regularly have got to know each other well enough to laugh, joke and encourage. The other regular female club member, V, whose spirit appears light, but has hidden, dark depths, has become a friend.
Lots of odd things have happened this month: good, bad and weird. I'm not quite sure what to expect next. But then again, was I ever? I know that I have become a little more resolute in the way I deal with things, even though I am still just as upset by the bad/weird. The good, when it comes – and it does – is often tinged with the vibrancy and sparkle you'd associate with seeing stars or the glistening, glassy surface of a mountainside lake. These times are not to be taken for granted; they are beautiful and peace-bringing. You can immerse yourself in their glow, but cannot hold such moments in your bruised hands.
Sometimes, strength is knowing when to just let something be, to let it drift, catch the wind and blow away so that it can embed itself where it is more suited. It may indeed float back to you (but you may have moved elsewhere).
Paradoxically, strength can also be knowing when something needs to be dealt with, such as the ghost in my nightmare. I suppose I am haunted, in a way, by something: my personal poltergeist. When I told S about this particular dark dream, it took only two minutes to recount, yet it had managed to ruin much of my day.
That aside, I do believe in ghosts. Real ghosts. I've seen some (not just the ones that inhabit dreams). They fascinate me.
This phrase I read the other day, penned by Ernest Hemingway, stopped me in my tracks: The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
Tuesday, 11 September 2007
Words to lick greedily
Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
William Shakespeare
The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
Ernest Hemingway
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
William Shakespeare
The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
Ernest Hemingway
Friday, 15 June 2007
Synchronicity and strength
Some serendipitous and strange things have happened lately. In the last week, I've bumped into/heard from three friends (separately) who I had last seen at least 12 years ago. They are all from an era of my life that brings forth nostalgia and makes me feel grown-up because of the passage of time. The latest one was an ex-colleague going home on the train this evening – he was a thoroughly decent individual then, and still is now. Oddly, I know all three from the same place.
I've exchanged details with the trio and hope to meet up soon, so we can recall those heady days of unbridled energy and a large capacity for alcohol and several nights out in a row. Now, two of them are parents.
My tipple was always a black Russian. I cannot even sniff one now following an incident in a certain night club when I was 23 and the fresh air hit me after I downed eight of them. Ugh. I recall thinking, as consciousness faded in and out like a Belisha beacon as my head slumped on to the bar, that this was no way to die, that my parents would be deeply ashamed and upset, and that my face would be on the front of the newspaper for which I worked.
Aside from these chance meetings, I have worked like a mule. S, his colleague and I have been working in Liverpool, a city I last visited in 2005. The people are, on the whole, either fabulous, gregarious souls who could talk the legs off several donkeys, or simply your average Joes and Janes. Every town has its characters but the Scousers – some of them – are peculiarly and particularly funny and interesting.
Luck struck here, too, as we inadvertently met people who were interconnected with some we had met while travelling to other towns (one is very well known, which was a bonus). It was exceptionally weird. There is definitely something magnetic in the air. (Yesterday, I even read my tarot cards for the first time in years, as I felt so affected. They made me smile.)
But, this morning at breakfast, burdened with lack of sleep and exhaustion so deep I could barely speak, I sat alone watching the rain cascade down the wide, cold Liverpudlian hotel windows. The water streamed diagonally across the glass like furious tears. It was grey outside and I was grey. I matched Liverpool. It was 7.45am or so, and my work companions were still in their bedrooms, asleep. I, of course, had to get up early due to my sleep programme. I had not slept at all well and felt ill. I picked my way through the cooked breakfast. The best bit was the strong, black tea.
My tiredness is all-encompassing and I am, at times, made mad with it. I feel, on occasion, that I cannot possibly do another thing. But I do. So, I must be stronger than I think.
I've exchanged details with the trio and hope to meet up soon, so we can recall those heady days of unbridled energy and a large capacity for alcohol and several nights out in a row. Now, two of them are parents.
My tipple was always a black Russian. I cannot even sniff one now following an incident in a certain night club when I was 23 and the fresh air hit me after I downed eight of them. Ugh. I recall thinking, as consciousness faded in and out like a Belisha beacon as my head slumped on to the bar, that this was no way to die, that my parents would be deeply ashamed and upset, and that my face would be on the front of the newspaper for which I worked.
Aside from these chance meetings, I have worked like a mule. S, his colleague and I have been working in Liverpool, a city I last visited in 2005. The people are, on the whole, either fabulous, gregarious souls who could talk the legs off several donkeys, or simply your average Joes and Janes. Every town has its characters but the Scousers – some of them – are peculiarly and particularly funny and interesting.
Luck struck here, too, as we inadvertently met people who were interconnected with some we had met while travelling to other towns (one is very well known, which was a bonus). It was exceptionally weird. There is definitely something magnetic in the air. (Yesterday, I even read my tarot cards for the first time in years, as I felt so affected. They made me smile.)
But, this morning at breakfast, burdened with lack of sleep and exhaustion so deep I could barely speak, I sat alone watching the rain cascade down the wide, cold Liverpudlian hotel windows. The water streamed diagonally across the glass like furious tears. It was grey outside and I was grey. I matched Liverpool. It was 7.45am or so, and my work companions were still in their bedrooms, asleep. I, of course, had to get up early due to my sleep programme. I had not slept at all well and felt ill. I picked my way through the cooked breakfast. The best bit was the strong, black tea.
My tiredness is all-encompassing and I am, at times, made mad with it. I feel, on occasion, that I cannot possibly do another thing. But I do. So, I must be stronger than I think.
Saturday, 26 May 2007
A wise man said...
"If you suffer, it is not because things are impermanent. It is because you believe things are permanent."And:
"We all have the tendency to struggle in our bodies and in our minds. We believe that happiness is possible only in the future. The realisation that we have already arrived, that we don't have to travel any further, that we are already here, can give us peace and joy. The conditions for our happiness are already sufficient.
"We only need to allow ourselves to be in the present moment, and we will be able to touch them. What are we looking for to be happy? Everything is already here. We do not need to put an object in front of us to run after, believing that until we get it, we cannot be happy. That object is always in the future, and we can never catch up to it." – Thich Nhat Hanh
To be able to achieve such a state must be an intense release. Ambition, I reckon, is healthy – it drives you on to better things and negates apathy. But, yes, putting happiness on a pedestal that you will never touch, see, taste, smell or hear, seems like a waste of life.
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
Punch drunk
Bloody hell, I've got bruised knuckles. The bones of my left hand are dark and red, slightly swollen and painful. Kung fu was (is) brilliant. I feel bloody excellent after my session. I was tired as heck, but after the day I've had, it was pure catharsis, so much so that I have introduced a new label to my blog: pleasure. Had I had a good day, I'd be shouting from the rooftops. I couldn't do much due to my ongoing hip problem (possibly caused by going slightly mental in class while kicking a few weeks back) but it was nevertheless great.
My commutes to and from work have been transformed due to the finding of the MP3 player. Wonderful. I close my eyes and can switch off for at least two hours a day.
And, this evening, I learned that Gordon was told by the publisher to work as agreed or walk. I can't say that someone possibly losing work pleases me – it doesn't – but my goodness, some people not only hang themselves by what they do and say, but they also buy rope, plant a big tree, fix the knots and even fork out on a new stepladder before leaping off.
Anyway, come what may, work is work. And, despite waking up sodding early for several days and working like a hound, tonight I feel fucking fantastic.
My commutes to and from work have been transformed due to the finding of the MP3 player. Wonderful. I close my eyes and can switch off for at least two hours a day.
And, this evening, I learned that Gordon was told by the publisher to work as agreed or walk. I can't say that someone possibly losing work pleases me – it doesn't – but my goodness, some people not only hang themselves by what they do and say, but they also buy rope, plant a big tree, fix the knots and even fork out on a new stepladder before leaping off.
Anyway, come what may, work is work. And, despite waking up sodding early for several days and working like a hound, tonight I feel fucking fantastic.
Wednesday, 16 May 2007
Fierce
I have turned into Alexis Colby. Was that her name? That hard businesswoman in Dynasty? Me, that is. At least for a while.
I blame the t*r*dness but I have a short fuse, a very long to-do list and a light peppering of patience when it comes to Gordon at work. The useless tool, who does eff all, all day, except whinge, had the audacity to come up to me today and ask: "Are you happy?" after yet another disaster occurred with an article we were meant to process today.
Are you happy? I'll give you sodding bloody happy, you insipid, gumptionless, talentless, lazy man.
Gordon not only has no clue as to how to run a magazine but he is getting paid twice as much as me to not run the mag and to leave it all to me. Brilliant. I was so tired yesterday that I fell over on the stairs at work. I mean.
So, now, after nearly two weeks of shit-shovelling, I have finally had enough of this malarkey and have become Very Tough. I speak to Gordon in the manner of Sir Alan Sugar barracking a boardroom failure in The Apprentice. Cut to the chase. Take no crap. Scythe away the waffle.
DO IT, I say. And he does it. Happily.
WHERE IS THIS PAGE? I ask. And he fumbles around and finds it (eventually).
He has no clue unless told or asked. I think he likes to be dominated. Well, at least one of us is getting our rocks off on it.
I have no qualms about behaving in this manner. I just want to get the magazine out and for it to look good. It will have my name on it as deputy editor and, as some of you may know from previous posts, I guard my professional reputation fiercely. I've held editorships before (yadda yadda) but now I'm freelance, and you really are only as good as your last job.
Fierce. Yes, that's it. I feel fierce. Resolute and fierce. Is this a result of the kung fu or tiredness? Or both? I wonder. I did sleep well last night, though. But who wouldn't after two hours of kicking and punching (albeit in a slightly pathetic manner due to feeling wrung out)?
I need to sleep well or I will collapse. They will find me, a well-dressed heap with nice shoes/boots, fairly toned legs and arms cetra (thanks to the Wushu) and baggage under her eyes far bigger than any so-called 'bags for life'.
NMJ has reminded me that I intended to post on the subject of The Apprentice. Well, all I can say is: can Katie possibly be any more smug? She is horrendous! How has she survived? How can this be? She is simply awful, with her 'witty' insults and oh my, that nose to end all noses.
Perhaps she is so used to it obscuring her view that she can only look down on others. If she looked any more horsey, I'd be slapping a fiver on her at Sandown, I tell you. Maybe her nose grows as her smugness deepens, in which case she'll have a trunk in two episodes' time.
I thought Sir Alan was great. As usual. I'm worried that I'm beginning to see him as a sort of business role model. Have to say, Tre performed far better than I thought he would, though that beard stuff is a tad odd. I'm not sure who I want to win, though. As long as it's not Katie, I'll be happy.
I blame the t*r*dness but I have a short fuse, a very long to-do list and a light peppering of patience when it comes to Gordon at work. The useless tool, who does eff all, all day, except whinge, had the audacity to come up to me today and ask: "Are you happy?" after yet another disaster occurred with an article we were meant to process today.
Are you happy? I'll give you sodding bloody happy, you insipid, gumptionless, talentless, lazy man.
Gordon not only has no clue as to how to run a magazine but he is getting paid twice as much as me to not run the mag and to leave it all to me. Brilliant. I was so tired yesterday that I fell over on the stairs at work. I mean.
So, now, after nearly two weeks of shit-shovelling, I have finally had enough of this malarkey and have become Very Tough. I speak to Gordon in the manner of Sir Alan Sugar barracking a boardroom failure in The Apprentice. Cut to the chase. Take no crap. Scythe away the waffle.
DO IT, I say. And he does it. Happily.
WHERE IS THIS PAGE? I ask. And he fumbles around and finds it (eventually).
He has no clue unless told or asked. I think he likes to be dominated. Well, at least one of us is getting our rocks off on it.
I have no qualms about behaving in this manner. I just want to get the magazine out and for it to look good. It will have my name on it as deputy editor and, as some of you may know from previous posts, I guard my professional reputation fiercely. I've held editorships before (yadda yadda) but now I'm freelance, and you really are only as good as your last job.
Fierce. Yes, that's it. I feel fierce. Resolute and fierce. Is this a result of the kung fu or tiredness? Or both? I wonder. I did sleep well last night, though. But who wouldn't after two hours of kicking and punching (albeit in a slightly pathetic manner due to feeling wrung out)?
I need to sleep well or I will collapse. They will find me, a well-dressed heap with nice shoes/boots, fairly toned legs and arms cetra (thanks to the Wushu) and baggage under her eyes far bigger than any so-called 'bags for life'.
NMJ has reminded me that I intended to post on the subject of The Apprentice. Well, all I can say is: can Katie possibly be any more smug? She is horrendous! How has she survived? How can this be? She is simply awful, with her 'witty' insults and oh my, that nose to end all noses.
Perhaps she is so used to it obscuring her view that she can only look down on others. If she looked any more horsey, I'd be slapping a fiver on her at Sandown, I tell you. Maybe her nose grows as her smugness deepens, in which case she'll have a trunk in two episodes' time.
I thought Sir Alan was great. As usual. I'm worried that I'm beginning to see him as a sort of business role model. Have to say, Tre performed far better than I thought he would, though that beard stuff is a tad odd. I'm not sure who I want to win, though. As long as it's not Katie, I'll be happy.
Friday, 27 April 2007
Resonance
Hmmm... strange things are happening today. Strange: good.
Everything S told me last night about having to make myself not go under in terms of mood and confidence due to the doings of others (in situations where I cannot take control) was powerfully reinforced by what I randomly tuned into on the radio earlier. It was uncannily spear-like in its directness of message.
One of the speakers said something like: "You may feel pain, but suffering is a decision you make." Words to that effect, anyway. It sounds cheesy written down but the presenter and guest uttered words about happiness/unhappiness and making decisions about these feelings that were so apt and helpful that I can only marvel. Coincidence? I don't think so. I think we are drawn to certain things, and people, in life.
Everything S told me last night about having to make myself not go under in terms of mood and confidence due to the doings of others (in situations where I cannot take control) was powerfully reinforced by what I randomly tuned into on the radio earlier. It was uncannily spear-like in its directness of message.
One of the speakers said something like: "You may feel pain, but suffering is a decision you make." Words to that effect, anyway. It sounds cheesy written down but the presenter and guest uttered words about happiness/unhappiness and making decisions about these feelings that were so apt and helpful that I can only marvel. Coincidence? I don't think so. I think we are drawn to certain things, and people, in life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)