Kindness, Growth and a Grateful Heart

The 100 Day Project, Day 3 of 100 Days of Writing... Today, I am writing in response to Laura Jane Williams’ Ask the Question project, which I subscribe to. Laura is the brilliant blogger of Superlatively Rude and all-round fabulous human being and today after regaling a personal anecdote she asked the question: Who do you need to look at with different eyes, just for a moment? What would it do for you to admit that maybe it’s YOU who has been unkind? 

Kindness, Growth and a Grateful Heart

I used to be a different type of person you see, a very different type of person and the journey from who I was to who I am now has taken several years, a lot of self assessment and reading hundreds of books. As a teenager and young adult, I was quite an angry, little (secretly introverted, but outwardly brash) hot mess. I was not very confident at all from adolescence, but I defended and concealed this with cynicism, sarcasm and often a hate of, or superiority towards those who may have (unintentionally) inflamed my numerous insecurities.

Basically, I liked to blame other people for stuff. Either they were a bitch or a dick or too stupid to understand or they made me feel like this or like that. It wasn’t that I didn’t blame myself for my shortcomings, oh I certainly did that in crippling detail... but I found that criticism of others came easily too. I never felt comfortable with it, not really, but somehow if others were also at fault, it felt easier to deal with my own self-assassination.

Now because this post is not meant to be a whining tale of my angsty years... I will move straight on to what I have learnt that has changed both how I look at others and myself. First though, it is pertinent to say that it did not make me happy AT ALL. The more that I criticised or looked down at others, the more imperfection I found in myself... far from ignoring the plank in my own eye, I built it with the sawdust that I saw in everybody else’s until it was disproportionately huge. And I came to the point where I wondered why I spent so much time comparing myself to others or reacting to them so strongly. 

The two words that changed everything, Kindness and Growth (some may use lesson or education but I feel growth is more positive). Simply put, to move forward and to get somewhere with our lives, hopes, dreams, relationships etc etc, we need to treat ourselves with kindness and grace. We need to accept our weaknesses, nurture them into positives and not berate ourselves constantly. In turn, once we accept our own faults, we are also more able to look kindly upon others; we can see their whole selves and not just the parts of them that seem to provoke vehement, emotional reactions in us.

The second point is growth, because once we are kind enough to our self and to others, we are able to look objectively our flaws and theirs, we can accept that perhaps they are there to teach us something and can try and work out what that is. For example, I have always loved a glass of wine, but in more emotional times of my life, I have often drunk too much to drown out thoughts or to try and enjoy myself in a situation I am uncomfortable in. I used to berate my excess and lack of control, now I have learnt that if I feel uncomfortable, I need to face that situation if it is important, or remove myself from it if it is only damaging.  It is the same with other people’s flaws; I have felt irritated at colleagues by the way that they have done things, which in turn made me frustrated. Only after careful thought did I realise that perhaps I was just uncomfortable in the work I was doing, my irritation at their personality was simply an extension of how I was feeling trapped in a situation.

I don’t know if I have explained this concisely at all, in fact it is probably far too verbose and I don’t claim to not find other people irksome at all, ever, far from it. It’s not a cure this way of thinking, but a practice for living that enables you to take a step back and regroup when you need to. When I find myself reacting to anyone or criticising myself now, I stop and think be kind, learn and grow and always have a grateful heart. I also try to think about where that other person is coming from in order to respond if necessary in the calmest, truest way. If you do these things you are never far from the soul of your true self and generally - I have found - the happier you will be.

*Thanks to Laura for provoking this piece... you’re aces...

Photographer, A Short Story

I'm breaking from the norm and posting fiction on here. This is Day 2 of #The100DayProject and this started from "Write a story about the images on a roll of film". Please do feedback and share if you like it, I'm here on twitter.

 

Photographer

She was cleaning out the bottom draw of his office desk when she found them. Six rolls of camera film, the old-fashioned kind of film that came in those small black cylinder containers. She remembered seeing these types of films before when she was a child and being told not to open them because it would ruin the pictures.

There were no photographs with these ones, or at least none that seem to be nearby. She assumed they had not been developed. She placed them aside in one of the weary piles she had made, throw away, give to charity, give to Mum or Dad or one of her siblings, keep for herself, investigate. The films went in investigate. There were several of these piles around each of the rooms in the house, left as she moved onto the next obstacle. 30 years of life in five piles, like there were five of them, it was ironic, she laughed to herself, but not really.

The house in North London was a classic Victorian with five floors including the basement and the front door was on the first floor and had steps up to it from the front drive. It was a novelty among her friends when she was a child having those steps up, like a mansion or a castle they used to marvel. Now it was dusty and empty, much of the furniture had been removed and her footsteps echoed round the bare walls as she walked about.

She went to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea with the small bottle of milk she’d picked up from the supermarket on her way over. Sitting on the stool as she looked across the garden, she remembered burying a box of treasure at the bottom when she was five or six, she remembered smoking in the clearing behind the shed when she was sixteen and sitting with James in the garden just last year, drunk off French rose, dogs running around as they shivered together in the damp dusk air. They’d revelled in having that house to themselves when her parents had been away, their week of house sitting had become a dream of an adult life that they did not yet have. She’d taken great pride in having a proper meal on the table when James got home every day. It meant she had to leave work early that week, but somehow something in the house had grasped on to her, as if she was retracing her mother’s footsteps and imagining the family home and the children she did not yet have. They were quiet the next week when they went home to their one bedroom flat in Shepherd’s Bush, claustrophobic all of sudden as if their roles had been shaken. That was the first time she asked James if they could move to the country after the wedding.

She washed up the mug and left it on the draining board. It was enough for today, she’d come back tomorrow. As an afterthought she grabbed the rolls of film from the office and put them in her bag, she’d drop them into the photo place on the corner on her way home. She assumed that they still developed these types of films.

“Yes we can do these, but not in an hour I’m afraid, you’ll have to pick them up tomorrow morning.”

She was restless that night in bed as she had been many nights over the past three months. She got up and went out through the kitchen onto the balcony, picking up James’s cigarettes on the way. She didn’t know why she’d started smoking again since it all happened, but it soothed her somewhat. James had mumbled to her on her way out of the bedroom, “Rose, where are you going, come back to bed.” She’d ignored him, he was tired from a business trip and she knew that he would soon fall back asleep.

It was good that the house had sold quickly, she knew that. When her mother had told her matter-of-factly, she had nodded swiftly,  “I’ll sort it out... I’ll go through everything”.

“Well I was hoping you would, Ben is obviously not here and Yasmin just does not have the organisational skills as you know... and I think it would upset her and your father seems quite useless in the whole matter. He’s still living with his brother in Oxford,” she paused, “God knows what he finds to do there... but well, that is not my responsibility anymore.”

She’d wanted to shake her mother at that, she’d wanted to shake her at many moments over the past few months. She was stoic in the extreme, numb and resolved day to day. All she really wanted from her was to see some sort of emotion, some expression of feelings or fear or anguish. Or at least she’d wanted her mother to confide in her, to talk to her. However, following the announcement of what had happened, all she’d got was this calm shadow of her mother, busying herself by making things happen with the house as soon as possible.

Her father had been the opposite on the few times she’d seen him, grey and shaken. Tearful at points - which had made her quite uncomfortable - and desperate for forgiveness but unwilling to ask for it. Yasmin, her younger sister, messy and joyful at the best of times was a whirlwind of tears and anger. She never picked up her phone and some of her own friends had mentioned that she was drinking a lot, out every night. Sometimes she’d called her in the early morning crying and asking if she knew anything... “But you must have known... she must have known. Where do they live these people?” She could only reassure her with softly spoken words that everything would be alright. Though of course she could not predict this, it somehow soothed her to take this motherly tone.

James, forever protective of her, was frustrated with her family.

“Yasmin is 27 years old,” he would say, “she’s not a child. Your parents should be dealing with this.”

Ben rarely called, she’d get the odd email from his office address in Australia asking about the house and the sale and the money. He’d spoken to her father several times apparently, for all the use that was. His geographical distance seemed to translate to an emotional one too and of course he had the children, it was not so easy to fly over to England, though she suspected that his wife, Jennifer would have put a stop to that even if he had suggested it.

She thinks that even as she picked up the six packs of photographs emblazoned with the bold print of the shop the next morning that she knew what they would contain. She paid the man his £30.00 and took the carrier bag he offered, driving back to the house.

She dropped the keys as she unlocked the door, trying to balance her coffee and handbag as her hands shook, carrier bag heavy. Walking straight through to the old living room where the only rug that remained in the house lay, unsold – Turkish she thought – and sat down cross legged taking the six photo packs out of the bag. One by one she opened them and spread them across the rug. Three of them contained photographs of scenes she recognised. Her seventh birthday party when Yasmin, precocious at five, wore a tutu and embarrassed her; a trip to the zoo that her father had taken them on one Saturday, Ben aged twelve, surly and adolescent as she and her sister marvelled at the animals; Christmas 1993, she was 8, photographs of presents being unwrapped and the Christmas puddings being lit. Her mother smiling in the background of some of the shots, glamorous as ever, though she was still shocked at how beautiful she was at... 35 she must have been.

Then turning her attention to the other three films, there they were. The same few years according to the red digital date marking in the left hand bottom corner, as the photos of her family. The first pack was mostly of a blonde woman laughing, she was attractive, though not especially so and not more beautiful than her mother. She was in a park and they were having a sort of picnic and then there were some of her father who was also laughing and one of them together hugging, taken by some passerby. 

The next pack was of the same woman and some other people at dinner in a house. The woman was clearly pregnant and there was one photograph of her father with his hand on the bump. She didn’t recognise any of the people, though that meant little. Finally there was an album full of pictures of a baby. Not newborn, maybe 10 months old. In a pram, lying on a play mat, looking over the blonde woman’s shoulder as she held him. There was none of her father in this one, but he had clearly been the photographer.

She left the photographs on the rug and went back to the job at hand as she sorted through some book shelves, lifted boxes of their old toys down from the attic. She put the rubbish outside and re labelled everything in boxes: Charity / Mum / Dad / Ben / Yasmin / Rose. Then on an afterthought, she picked up the photographs from the rug putting the first three in her box, the others into the smallest empty box she had labelling it, Isabel and George. With a final look around, she picked up her handbag and walked out of the door, locking it behind her.

Lost

I have decided after a dreamy ten day holiday to take part in the #100DayProject. There are various versions of this across the web and Facebook, but the general premise is a promise to do one thing everyday for one hundred days. I have decided to write. As a "writer" this may seem an odd thing to choose but I am in dire need of a writing habit that is not at the mercy of my creative spirit. I think comitting to this project will FORCE me to write something every day, however rubbish it is. For added help I will be using The Writer's Block by Jason Reuklak for those times when my head is empty.

I will be posting everything that is written here, so prepare to see A LOT more of me... and apologies if sometimes it isn't the most insightful prose.

Today my challenge was "Describe Your First Brush With Danger". This turned into a much deeper piece than I was expecting, but ain't that the way it goes. Anyway here it is. Day 1.

Lost

Being physically lost as a child is perhaps the most frightening thing in the world. Your heart beats quickly, the world seems huge, familiar paths and areas that you walk with your loved ones everyday suddenly transform into sprawling jungles filled with monsters around every corner. You jump, you jump as anyone approaches you as you have been told not to talk to strangers... you don’t know who to trust as your mother usually vets people for you. You tend to think more attractive people might be nicer to you, or kindly old ladies, but still, you are good and heed your mother’s words. Don’t move, don’t talk to strangers.

After walking around the small vicinity of the area in which you first found yourself lost, eyes desperately trying to make out a familiar figure, a red coat, the pitch of voice that calls you home, you sit down and you cry and this seems like the end of the world. This, the first danger you have ever felt, real true danger. Even as you remember the nightmares you have had in your bed, when your mother or father has come running, you scoff and become more tearful. When you had monsters in your head at night, you knew that they were always there to reassure you that these were just dreams and after hours of softly stroking your back and whispering calming words in your ears you believe them, safe in your home. Safe with your people.

But now they are nowhere to be seen. Everyone around you is a strange blank face and they all seem so large. Your mind flits between panic about how badly you will be reprimanded when they finally do find you and even more hysterical panic that they never will. You cry all the tears you have, until you know it is useless and then you sit forlornly on the ground waiting. You wonder what will happen to you now. Will you die soon or will one of those strange people kidnap you and take you away forever. You know not where, but you have heard such things.

Then she appears, an angel on the horizon that you almost don’t believe is walking, no running towards you. And she is crying. And you find yourself being enveloped in the familiar smell of cigarettes and perfume. The fear tension pours out of your body and the relief brings more tears. You are found.

**

Being mentally or emotionally lost as an adult is perhaps the most frightening thing in the world. Your heart in turn beats quickly and irrationally and then slowly and dully. The world seems huge and tiny at the same time, familiar streets and trains of thought seem both terrifying and full of monsters and that mind-numbing type of monotonous that is so alarming that it often makes you feel physically sick. You fear approach in this loss too, physical approach as this feeling of loss has turned you into a shell-less tortoise, a mole in the sunlight, shirking, blinking... diving for solitude. And also mental and emotional approach, because as fearsome as this loss is you are comfortable in it for now and anything or anyone that might try to tug you from it is highly suspicious and intrusive. Don’t move, don’t talk to strangers.

After walking around this small vicinity of your brain that your loss is comfortable with, you recognise all the familiar figures. They are all you or versions of you that you have allowed or other people that you have allowed, who echo back at you this version of yourself that you have approved. But these familiar figures don’t comfort you, they make you angry because they are why you are lost. This is the first danger, you have felt, the first real true danger, but this time you do not scoff at your nightmares, because they are part of your daytime. And your mind has given so much power to them that they have wrapped around your thoughts. And it is much harder to reassure yourself.

Your real people, your good people are everywhere to be seen. They are in photographs and in phone conversations, they are beside you every day, they are reassuring you, they are laughing with you, they are there. Yet, you are still lost. Even in the sea of familiar faces. You do worry about reprimand, because you are now an adult and adults are not meant to be lost, but it is ok because no one will know. You sometimes cry and sit on the ground forlornly. You do not worry about people kidnapping you... you think that might be a welcome break. You do worry that you have already kidnapped yourself. You know not where, but you have heard such things.

Then she appears, no angel at all, flawed in many ways, but she is familiar. Get up, she says, get up... we do know the way. We are not really lost are we? We have taken ourselves here and so we can get back. She is not crying, she is smiling and she is strong. I’m sorry, she says, I went away for a while, but you always knew I was here. Why are you not moving? Why have you not talked to some strangers? You are not a child. There is that familiar bossy yet placating tone and your fear is beginning to ease. It might take a while you realise, but you do know the way. You knew the way all the time really. Didn’t you. She did, she’s you. You are found.

Leading Our Own Life

Soooo... I've been a little quiet lately because I've been figuring my shit out, to put it bluntly. You might remember in a post I wrote about reading the signs that life was battering me a bit - or really I was battering myself. The thing is that I was working in a job for some great people, had been there for four years and I just wasn't feeling any joy from it any more, you know. It was becoming something that I had to get through every day and instead of waking up and thinking what can I achieve today I was letting the fear of change and failure crush me, standing still and curled up, feeling lower and lower.

I was preaching all this stuff on Instagram and in my blog posts about how to live your life but I wasn't doing it. I half-heartedly looked at other positions, but I knew it wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want to work for someone else doing the same thing. That wasn't why I was unhappy, it was because I wasn't using my best qualities. I was living a life governed by what I thought I should and it was destroying me.

Dear Women

A few weeks ago, on International Women's Day, I had another mild disagreement with a friend about feminism, where I had to cave and bite my tongue for fear of launching into an angry shouty, tirade which would defeat my purpose entirely. 

I thought you see, as I think every day that we'd moved forward, that at least middle-class, educated women living a cushy life in the UK's capital would understand that they couldn't not be feminist. Or that I couldn't understand how they could live in our world and not be one. 

I understand that the word has still held onto some bad branding, perhaps I should talk about being egalitarian instead... But to me it is not about everybody being equal, it is about having equal social, political and economic rights - all of us. For we are not all equal, as Osho said, nobody is superior, nobody is inferior, we are each unique and incomparable, and wonderful because of it. 

But if you are a woman who identifies as "not a feminist", it surely means you support the view that men as a collective are better and more valuable than you. Deserve more. Can dictate and control our entire sex. How can you think that? How can anyone man or woman, think that? Why is anyone superior?

So I decided to write a letter to every woman to illustrate what I want for them, for us, for men. After you've read it, please tell me that you still don't need feminism. 

Dear Women,

How are you, you marvellous creators you?

I wanted to tell you a few things that I really want for you, maybe you could tell me if you want them too...

I wish that you will not always be judged by your looks as if that is all you have to give. I also hope that you will be able to wear what you would like with no backlash or judgement. Wear make up or don't, whatever makes you feel your best. Men too.

I want you to be able to walk on your cities streets on your own without feeling ashamed, embarrassed or fearful. I don't want you to suffer rape or sexual abuse because you are a woman and others feel they are entitled to your body.

I want governments and economies to support you, to realise that you have as much to give as a man and to show this through wage and economic equality.

I want you to be able to vote if you want to, to decide things about the country you live in. 

I want you to concentrate on being mothers if you want to and raise your sons and daughters just the same.

Or be sports stars if you want to, write books, run countries or sew and bake if that's your thing. 

I pray that you have choice. I hope that you can do one thing or everything you want.