A rushing kind of a day
Deep within the demands of work
Deadlines loom
So I concentrate
Focus
Get things done
And forget myself
–
Now it’s evening and
I peel myself away from the TV
Put on some music
Slow down into
Familiar movements
–
An hour later
I re-emerge
Relaxed
Refreshed
Calm
–
Reawoken to the truth
That if I slow down
Underneath the rush
Below the fear, the fuss, the resistance
Peace is always waiting
There were holes in
This one wonderful creative life
It had got a little threadbare
Over the years
In need of darning
Tarnished
A light had dimmed
–
And now, I’m adding threads
Wild snatches of music
Experienced from the inside
Part of a circle of people playing
For themselves and for each other
Sharing tunes and memories
And weaving a richer life
–
The warp and weft of friendships
Reacquainted.
Stories, rhythms, rhymes
And the hills of the Lake District
My hills
And a scattering of colour, paint on canvas,
Feeling the lines and texture flow from the brush in my hand
–
The peace of deep, relaxed movement
Taking time to reconnect
The wake of a canoe across the lake
Adding a silvery thread
–
All combining
All absolutely necessary
Now I know what I’ve been missing
All of this is what I need
Now there are no threadbare patches left
In the tapestry that is
This creative life
This week I have been curled in upon myself
like a fern frond
waiting beneath the snow
for spring warmth
and lengthening days
as the bitter eastern winds howl
A blessing and a curse
this vivid imagination
conjuring up so many pleasant daydream worlds,
and paintings, stories, poems, music.
Allowing me to put myself in another’s shoes,
to empathise.
Enabling me to imagine the worse possible catastrophic outcome
for any situation I find myself in.
My body doesn’t know
that the stories in my head are not real,
and responds with pleasure, excitement, fear, dread, anxiety,
feeling it all, deeply.
And it takes a strong rational act of will to calm down,
to find a way back into the here and now.
Leaving the world of the imagination is not easy.
A blessing, and a curse.
‘I think’
said the monkey mind
‘that I think too much’.
And she scampers off busily
up thought trees tangled
with stories.
Narratives twisting towards the light
thrusting up strange blooms,
every shade of the emotional rainbow.
Curious to know more,
the monkey scampers on.
Always restless,
the voice chattering away
in the jungle of my mind.
Does that monkey ever sleep?
Those small things that you deny yourself,
The movie, or book,
Night out with friends,
Or bunch of flowers
That you think you don’t deserve.
–
Leading on to more denial,
The kind words you would bestow on a stranger
But wouldn’t consider saying to yourself,
Preferring instead the harshness
Of an inner critic
–
The chances not taken
By the likes of you,
Missed opportunities,
Paths left unwalked,
A life half lived.
–
You can’t deny
You need to lighten up.
Be kind to yourself and
Open up
To the joy in this world.
The clouds dispersed to reveal the estuary
domed with blue.
A cold north wind blowing
but in the shelter of a hedge
the sun felt warm, springlike
with birdsong
and the first frogspawn in a ditch.
–
The rising, full moon high tide paused
at the outer edge of the saltmarshes
where the birds gathered;
curlew, oystercatcher, redshank.
Then the sea quietly,
relentlessly, marched on over the marshes
scattering birds, forming islands of green
that gradually disappeared underwater.
–
A stream of sea pushed in past our feet
to the railway embankment
signalling the time to leave
this inbetween place
to the sea and sky
and the birds.
These graphs tell a story
A ski slope line runs from the year I was born,
Downhill to today.
A precipitous decline
In numbers
–
Or visualise it another way.
A gullimot fledgling’s daring plunge from the cliff,
The rapid whistling descent of a displaying snipe
The airborne dive of the gannet,
The mournful cry of a lone curlew.
–
The echoing silence of once busy seabird cliffs,
Fields full of crops, but empty of birds,
These graphs tell a story
But the story isn’t finished
How it ends is up to us.
A glimpse, from the window, of stars.
The great bear, or saucepan,
Tracing a line to the north.
–
After that, I had to go out.
Grabbed my coat,
Turned my face upwards,
Greeted familiar landmarks in the sky.
–
It’s so easy in winter
To come home from work in the dark,
Spend the evening indoors,
Miss the simple wonder outside
Of a ceiling of stars.
–
The owls were quiet tonight
As I stood
Starbathing.
Tension is who you think you should be,
Relaxation is who you are.
So they say, and I would agree
And I have practiced being relaxed, and gone deep in that practice.
And yet….
And yet….
Despite knowing, in my body, in my mind
How good relaxation feels,
In my daily life tension still wins.
At work, behind a computer,
Trying to get things done, getting irritated by the little things,
Or worrying, or wondering why it’s just not all done better, or quicker.
My muscles tighten as my mind tightens.
This is the real me in so many moments of my life,
The me with tension.
And to relax requires an effort of will, a decision, a choice.
It’s a choice I fail to make, over and over again.
–
I’ve just come back from tai chi class
And I feel great
The feeling will carry over into tomorrow
Then it will gradually dissolve back into tension and forgetfulness
Using too much effort, and trying too hard.
One of these days I’ll make a different choice.
Until then, tension is who I am, relaxation is who I am not allowing myself to be.
–
Sometimes I wonder, as I practice tai chi,
Just why I keep going,
What I’m achieving
It is me, coming back to the choice between tension and relaxation.
Learning to choose relaxation in each moment,
So that one day I will truly be able to say
That relaxation is who I am.
Life in the Fresh Air 