Present, connected, resource-full.

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A week ago, I had a very vivid dream about being in Sydney on holiday. On my way back ‘home’, I jumped off a bus without my handbag. My immediate response, realising that I was now without proof of my identity and money, was to panic. However surprisingly quickly, the panic was replaced by a sense of knowing that I would just have to get home using my own inner resources.

Which begs the questions, what are my inner resources? When am I resource-full?

In the wake of Amy Winehouse’s tragic demise, one of the most insightful pieces I read was the blog post by Russell Brand. He knew Amy. He also suffers from addiction. And these words in particular, have  continued to resonate long after I read them:

“All addicts, regardless of the substance or their social status share a consistent and obvious symptom; they’re not quite present when you talk to them. They communicate to you through a barely discernible but un-ignorable veil. Whether a homeless smack head troubling you for 50p for a cup of tea or a coked-up, pinstriped exec foaming off about his “speedboat” there is a toxic aura that prevents connection. They have about them the air of elsewhere, that they’re looking through you to somewhere else they’d rather be. And of course they are.”

That ‘un-ignorable veil’, the alienation from self, the lack of connection to others, are qualities any of us who know someone with addiction issues recognize. And yet, how often are are we all, to a certain extent, veiled?

Recently a friend and I discovered that we go to the same osteopath. After hooting with laughter at our shared experiences of fantastic conversations with this osteopath, we began to talk about what makes him such a great practitioner. And we came to the conclusion (at least, our conclusion) that it’s not just the osteopathy, but his ability to be – without exception – completely present. Present and connected. Not just with his patients but the world around him.

In a world of overwhelm and overconsumption of increasingly scare resources, I can’t help but sense that it’s becoming increasingly important to know and understand yourself. To know what your inner resources are, so that when the external ones fall away – for whatever reason – you can rely on them. To cultivate and nurture the ability to be present and connected to yourself and the world around you.

In your daily life, how often are you truly  present and connected?

If you found yourself in a foreign country, without a piece of paper proving your identity and a wallet full of cards and money, what would you rely on? What are your inner resources?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Part not Apart.

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All snuffly and foggy and groggy with a cold, I have a question. Or two.

When did we begin to see ourselves as separate from nature?

Why?

I don’t have the answer.

Although I do have a wish. A wish that we find our way home.

And because tonight, I can’t quite seem to find words with which to answer such a big question, I’ll leave you with T.S. Eliot and come back to this in a little while.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree
Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always—
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flame are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

P.S. If anyone has any thoughts on this,  I’d really love to hear from you.

A Remarkable Woman

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Today, my grandmother’s funeral. Below is the eulogy I gave.

Mary Leslie Maunsell, daughter of Beresford and Peggy, was born in Masterton on the 28th April 1919. By all accounts her early, rural life at Tinui and Rathkeale with her brother Jock and sisters Shelagh and Ann was very happy.  She went to school at St Matthews and then onto Woodford House in Hawkes Bay. However when Granny was still at school, her mother, whom she was very close to, had an operation that went badly wrong and she tragically died, when Granny was 19.

A year or so later she met my grandfather Bob at a party. Granny was shy and apparently Bob came across her sitting quietly talking to a cat. He’d recently returned from reading law at Cambridge and she found him irresistible in his RNZAF uniform. One of the things Granny often talked about was that while Bob courted her, he would fly low over Rathkeale and drop flowers and bottles of French perfume onto the garden below.

They married in April 1941 and had three children Julian, Diana and Celia. They were married, for 64 years, until Bob passed away in 2003.

As we sat talking about Granny & Bob earlier this week, my aunt Celia said that they were so happy at the end.  And that she came across them one day, sitting quietly side by side on a sofa, Bob gently stroking Granny’s hand.

Although this is not to say that they didn’t know exactly how to wind each other up. One of Bob’s favourite tricks to play on Granny was during the summertime when the doors were open. Granny would be in full gardening mode and Bob would press *23 (or whatever the code was) to get the phone to ring. He’d then go back to his chair and sit there grinning while Granny huffed and puffed her way up to the house.

While my grandmother had a basic education and led a simple life, without great adventures and grand achievements, she was far from a simple woman. Granny had a keen, inquisitive mind and she sought to understand the nature of human existence and experience. The bookshelves at Mariri Rd are full of books on meditation, psychology, bio-chemistry, yoga and health. Her faith was deep and she explored a number of religions.

Granny was a wonderful cook and her understanding of beautiful fresh ingredients has shaped my approach to food. She created a magnificent vegetable garden and while none of the family can remember her ever buying vegetables, most of us remember sneaking down and pulling scrumptious baby carrots out of the earth.

Granny was a gifted, soulful pianist and for as long as she could, she played everyday. She skied, was a champion golfer and a keen, if not intrepid, swimmer. It would be 10 degrees outside and there she’d be, in her bathing suit at Balina Bay, crouched down at the edge of the water, eyes closed as she splashed salty water on her face and inhaled the scent of the sea before she walked unhesitatingly into the ocean.

And yet the thing we all remember most about Granny, was her presence. Lovely, gracious, peaceful and wonderfully kind. As Simon, my uncle, says “With Mary there was never an awkward moment”. She was a very good conversationalist and utterly non-judgmental.

It seems to me, looking back over her life that while Granny may not have achieved remarkable things, she was a remarkable woman.

As we sat talking the other night, Celia told us that late in her life Granny spoke emphatically of a top secret mission she carried out in Egypt in her youth. Galloping on a white stallion out towards the pyramids. And while this is highly unlikely (although, I might add, that she was in Egypt for a week or so when she was 19) to me this image somehow evokes a vivid sense of Granny’s spirit. Beautiful, adventurous, whole-hearted.

One of the things she often said to her children and grandchildren was “close your eyes and imagine yourself surrounded by pure white light”. Remembering this over the last few days leads me to finish with a farewell blessing attributed appropriately, to both the Irish and Kundalini yoga…

May the long time sun

Shine upon you,

All love surround you,

And the pure light within you

Guide your way on.

 

Farewell Granny.

 

A lost cat & A beside note.

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The witching hour. 6pm. The high risk period when Mum would need a drink. When she couldn’t get alcohol, she would work her way through a block of cheese. Something, anything, to alleviate the high anxiety. These days she can’t get wine, so she obsesses about her cats. One in particular. Piddle.

Poor Piddle, an extremely elegant little Occicat, who went through a phase of piddling as a kitten and the name stuck. However Piddle is now wonderfully self-sufficient. She usually disappears for a day or so on the full moon, spends time roaming across the nearby golf course. She always comes back. But these days, every day, at 6pm, Mum goes outside and calls and calls and calls. Then she comes back inside and tells her caregiver that she is worried because ‘Piddle is hungry, lost and alone‘.

But Piddle is not the one who is hungry, lost and alone.

There’s no ‘medical proof’ of this of course, but my theory (and while I don’t have a psychology degree or a medical one, I have a lifetime of experience) is that as Mum becomes more childlike, she is becoming more open with her feelings. And while she can’t, has never been able to, will not ever say ‘I am hungry, lost, alone’, I know that this has how she feels. And this has how she has felt for a very long time.

The hunger, of course, is not a hunger for food, but a hunger for a very different type of nourishment. A sense of fulfillment. While she is not physically lost, she lost her way many years ago. And while she has constant company, my lovely mother feels that she is alone.

The anxiety, an almost constant presence of worry, preceded the alcohol dependence and the dementia. I have no doubt it started before I arrived on the scene. According to New Zealand’s Mental Health Foundation, New Zealand has a high prevalence of anxiety, mood and substance abuse disorders, exceeded only by the US for anxiety by the US, Ukraine and France for mood and only by the Ukraine and US for substance abuse disorders.

Recently, I read a fascinating article by a Rick Hanson PhD, a neuropsychologist on Self-Directed Neuroplasticity: A 21st-Century View of Meditation. Addressing the field of contemplative neuroscience, Dr Hanson concludes by taking the reader through a simple 5 step meditation. Becoming attuned to the breath, conscious relaxation, a feeling of safety, wellbeing and connection. What fascinates me, is that for each stage, he provides an explanation of what happens to the brain. The element of safety, struck a particular chord.

“The third suggestion focuses on feeling safe. This is a very important one, although it’s often hard for people because we have what I call “paper-tiger paranoia.” Essentially, we evolved to overestimate threats and to underestimate opportunities and resources for dealing with threats. Although that may have been a great way to pass on gene copies in Africa two million years ago, it’s a lousy way to experience quality of life in the twenty-first century. Most of us can feel safer than we normally do. I prompt people to feel as safe as they reasonably can because there is no perfect safety in life. None of us is safe from old age, disease, or death, for example, but most of us can afford to feel less guarded, less braced, and more confident in our capacities to meet life.

It sounds so very simple, but at the end of the day – and at the beginning, middle and every moment in between – isn’t that what we all want?… Nourishment, mind, body and soul. A sense of purpose. To be attuned to our self, to feel relaxed, safe, well, connected.

I cannot undo a lifetime of feeling hungry, lost and alone for my mother. It took me a long time to realise that’s not my responsibility.

But she is my mother and I love her and I it makes my heart ache to think that she feels hungry, lost, alone. So next time I visit, I think I might just put a little note beside her bed which says ‘Your life has purpose. You are loved. You are safe. You are home‘…If I could, I’d sprinkle a little fairy dust and put one beside your bed too.

A brief (but not Twitter length) thought on dreaming big.

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I’ve been trying to fit this thought into 140 characters in order to post it on Twitter, however even though this is intended to be brief, I simply need more than 140 characters.

Recently, I’ve shared a big dream with a number of people and I’m interested in the most common response which is ‘Wow, that’s a big dream‘ accompanied by a slightly skeptical expression. I used to take this more personally, as if somehow this was a reflection on me personally. Obviously these people thought I was being fantastical, ‘a dreamer’, incapable of making it happen.

But recently, I re-read a book called Synchronicity which talks about the power in creating something for its own sake, not for yours and I’ve realised that this is exactly how I feel about this dream I’ve had for so many years. I want this to happen not so much for my sake (although of course I’d love to be involved and that’s a key point because in order for this dream to manifest it will require collaboration) but for its sake. I want to see it come to life.

Understanding my relationship with this dream has consequently shifted the nature of my attachment to it. I feel like I’ve become an advocate for ‘it’, rather than ‘my’ project. So that when I hear people say ‘Wow, that’s a really big dream’ and look skeptical, I’m interested. As kids, we dreamed BIG dreams. We were allowed to dream big dreams, encouraged to. But as adults, somehow that’s silly. Not always, but in my experience, it usually is.

Why?

I’m interested in your experience, your thoughts…

Dreaming of the miracle that is you.

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Last month, I had one of the most vivid dreams I’ve experienced in years. The background to this dream is that here at home, we have a compost heap. And a month ago, on top of the compost there were old apples from a tree in the garden and wasps feasting.

In the dream, I saw the same compost heap but it was covered with old blankets. And while I didn’t know why the blankets were there, I did know that somehow I had to uncover it, without sending the wasps into a frenzy. Apprehensive but determined to do it, I took a deep breath and walked purposefully down the garden path.

Very quietly, gently, firmly, I took hold of one corner of one of the blanket and began to peel it away. And as I did, I heard a sudden fluttering of insects wings. I flinched. Turned away with my eyes tightly shut, expecting at any second to be stung. But it didn’t happen, the fluttering stop, I couldn’t hear any furious buzzing. So very slowly I turned back to the heap and was rendered speechless by what I discovered. For the compost – and all the wasps – had disappeared, and instead there was a clear surface made of dark shiny wood and it was completely covered with butterflies. Hundreds of them.

But these weren’t ordinary butterflies. While they were as ethereal and ephemeral as butterflies, shared the same delicate structure and were the same size, these little creatures represented every animal on earth. A miniature ark. As they fluttered one by one (rather than two by two), my eyes alighted on a tiny giraffe, a tiny elephant, a tiny lion, a tiny wolf, a tiny buffalo. All butterfly-like. Down the back of the garden on a wooden stage.

I was delighted. I felt lit up. And still felt that way when I awoke. I don’t always write my dreams down, but I did with this one and it has lingered during these past 4 weeks.

Last night, before I went to sleep, I came across a TED talk by cinematographer Louie Schwartzberg on the hidden beauty of pollination. You will find it below. Please, watch it before you leave. It’s only 7 minutes.

Today, walking home from a conversation about death with a group of wonderful people (it sounds grim, but was far from it) I found myself thinking about how miraculous life is. Recently I watched a presentation (online) given by one of my heroes, Sir Ken Robinson. In it, he suggests (and you can tell he really does find this miraculous) that we all just stop for a moment and consider how many people had to connect, down through the generations, in order for each one of us to be here. Think about your own family tree, how many people had to meet in order for you to be here.

This past month, I’ve found myself quite fascinated by quantum physics, quantum biology, astrophysics and astronomy. And so this evening, I’ve been thinking about how miraculous it is that I am, you are, not only a part of a family tree, but a part of this tree of life. If you consider the universe (I’ll admit that’s easier said than done) and imagine yourself on its outer most edge, then zoom in through space to this pale blue dot of a planet, home to an estimated 11 million species and 6.9 billion humans and the stage for a 4.55 billion year history of life on earth, how mind-bogglingly, goosebumpingly, light-a-fire-in-your-belly miraculous it is that you are here. You. Are. Alive.

Sit with that for a moment. The miracle that is you. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Feel it. In your body, in your mind, in your heart. In your soul.

How does it feel?

Let me know, I’d love to hear from you.

 

A lesson from Countess Zofia, lying in state.

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My car, a grand old navy blue Volvo, is currently lying ‘in state’. The head gasket has gone and my compassionate mechanic (otherwise known as Jason at Brendon Motors) told me that it would cost the best part of $2500 to get her going again. The answer was no. However I’m irrationally fond of the old girl and in spite of the fact that she ‘died’ a month ago, she is still in the garage. Calling the wreckers to have her taken away, somehow feels like calling the knackers yard to have an old horse carted off.

In the days since she ground to a halt, I’ve learned quite a lesson from Countess Zofia ZF 1860 (named by my lovely friend Stephanie who is of Polish descent). She has taught me about the benefits of not having a car.

While Zofia has sat quietly in the garage, I haven’t looked for a replacement. Partly due to lack of time – well, of course I’ve had the time, it’s simply that I’d rather spend a spare two hours connecting with friends – but mostly because I’ve been enjoying walking. And not having to pay for petrol. Or accrue parking fines.

Not having a car has also required me to schedule less into my day. Because I divide my time between a number of enterprises, I’ve tended to schedule as many things into my day as possible, racing from one appointment to the next.

Being car-less has meant more space. Fewer meetings sitting down. More movement.

Not having a car has coincided with a whole-hearted realisation, born out of a recently embedded daily yoga practice and learning about stress and our physiological response, that as humans we are designed to move.

The combination of not having a car and consequently walking for an hour a day, becoming more attuned to how my body responds to movement and food and yoga has meant that I’m leaner and fitter. I have more energy. I’ve dropped a dress size without trying.

I do realise that it’s easy to say this when the weather is unseasonably beautiful. Perhaps it won’t be so easy to extoll the virtues of being car-less when a whopping southerly strikes. Although I have, it has to be said, made myself get out and walk in the rain. I quite like walking in the rain. Perhaps I’ll get a corgi. And call her Zofia.

Enough of that.

I’m still not quite ready to stand on the pavement and wave at Zofia as she is spirited away.

Perhaps I’ll wait until I know I’ve formed a new habit of walking whenever and wherever I can. According to a paper published in 2009 in the European Journal of Social Psychology, it takes on average 66 days for a new habit to form. Zofia died just over a month ago, on the day of the Royal Wedding (speaking of corgis and walking in the rain). Which means another 35 days of being without a car.

I’ll let you know how it goes. The walking and the waving goodbye.

 

 

 

Hello grief, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.

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I wish I could say it gets easier, but it doesn’t. In fact, a little like too much time in a dentist’s chair leading me to have a lower threshold of dental pain, repetitive experience of losing a family member feels like it’s decreasing my tolerance of grief. I  know what’s coming.

During the last eight years, I’ve lost a father to Lewy Body disease (a combination of Parkinson’s and Alzheimers), a grandfather to old age, two uncles to cancer and while my grandmother is still alive, I’ve lost her to advanced Alzheimer’s. Now, I am losing a mother to dementia.

I have deliberated at considerable length about whether to publish a post on this. Mum is still alive and I don’t want to betray her trust or sense of dignity in any way, but there are so many people in my position. And particularly for those of us who are only children, this can feel very lonely. So whoever you are, wherever you are, if you are losing a parent to dementia, I want you to know I am sending you love and light. I really am.

This is where is gets, well, kind of blurred around the edges. My mother has alcohol induced dementia. My mama has consumed a considerable amount of wine over the years to self-medicate severe anxiety. The medical fraternity have always referred to her first and foremost as an alcoholic, sufferer of anxiety, second. But as someone who knows her almost better than anyone, I know, without a shadow of a doubt that she used it to self-medicate. High anxiety first, next step, bottle of wine. And god knows, I get it. While I lost a grandfather and a father 6 weeks apart, she lost a beloved father and her husband who she’d seen deteriorate from a proud, immensely self-disciplined surgeon into a little old man, hunched in a chair, unable to walk or talk, hallucinating. And all the while, aware of her own mother losing her marbles.

How do we cope?

Sometimes we don’t.

Sometimes you feel a calm sense of acceptance.

Sometimes you put on a brave face when you feel anything but brave.

Sometimes, when you hear that your mother has slipped on knee-high pantyhose instead of a glove, you feel your stomach sink.

Sometimes, you want to find a quiet space, curl up in a corner and howl.

And frequently, you wish that someone would invent a miracle cream to magic away the puffy eyes. If you’re reading this and know of something (and it’s not full of chemical ingredients you can’t pronounce) I’d be extremely grateful if you’d let me know.

To be perfectly honest, right now, I don’t know how I’m going to deal with this. But what I do know, as I become aware of how quickly my mother is deteriorating, is that the time I have left with her, while she still recognises me and we can enjoy each other’s company, is hugely precious.

I do know that it’s high time I left go of any residual sense of resentment about the mother I ‘should have had’ or simply wished I’d had.

I do know that the most healthy way I can respond to this, is with grace and compassion. Not just for Mum but for me.

And tonight, just for a little while, that means that I welcome my old friend grief back into the room and together, tissues in hand, we sit and talk for a little while.

 

 

 

A tale of three nourishing women

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Or how to avoid a grumpy path…

By way of introduction

I’m very seldom in a foul mood, but late yesterday afternoon I spent 20 minutes stuck in traffic in the supermarket car park, after I’d spent too many hours in front of my laptop, without a break. I scowled. I cursed. Not at other people, but myself. For not listening to either my rational mind, which had told me that 4.30pm on the day before Easter was not the smartest time, or my intuition which had hollered “Woop! Woop! Pull up!” as we motored towards the supermarket.

Forty minutes later, as I dropped the three items I’d bought on the kitchen table, my evening could have gone either way. I could have eaten too much potato (Irish ancestry), watched crappy television and stayed grumpy. Or not….

Three very simple things

Three very simple things prevented me from continuing on my grumpy path.

The first thing I did, before any further grumpiness and lethargy could set in, was to head out for for a walk in the botanical gardens. The second was half an hour of yoga. The third was assembling a delicious salad, from a fridge and fruit bowl full of fresh local produce.

Three women you should know more about

I have three women to thank for helping me make a happier and healthier choice remarkably easily.

Marianne Elliot and 30 Days of Yoga

After years of occasional yoga classes, in October last year I took part in Marianne Elliot’s 30 Days of Yoga course. 

Marianne Elliott is a change-maker, a human rights advocate, a yoga teacher and a writer. She is the creator of 30 days of yoga: an online course to establish a regular home practice of yoga and to build a kinder relationship with your own body. She is currently writing a memoir about her life as a UN peacekeeper in Afghanistan. And as of today, she is now a regular contributor to the Huffington Post.

In Marianne’s own words, “30 days of yoga is an online program designed to give you everything you need to begin (or restart) a regular practice of yoga in the comfort of your own home. All you need to bring is the intention to give yourself what you need and the willingness to be a bit kinder to yourself than you might generally be.”

One of the key lessons I’ve learned from 30 Days of Yoga is the benefit of simply showing up on the mat. Carving out some space and time for embodied practice. Even if only for 10 minutes. In ways I find difficult to articulate, it has has become an essential ingredient in my recipe for self-nourishment. It has strengthened my body and my intuition. And I have no doubt that because of Marianne’s course, and the practice I have embedded into my daily life as a result, I am more attuned to my self. The decision to go for a walk in the gardens I can link directly to time on the mat.

To experience a taste of what Marianne has to offer, I suggest you start here with her Free Easy-Breezy Do-It-In-Your-Chair Yoga Class http://marianne-elliott.com/easy-breezy-do-it-in-your-chair-yoga/

Nicola Cranfield and Brooklyn Kitchen 

I met Nicola a couple of months ago and soon afterwards invited her to speak at a NourisHer evening. After years as a corporate accountant, interior design and extensive travel, Nicola has established the Brooklyn Kitchen in Wellington and is following her bliss coaching people in healthy living, particularly food and wellbeing. You can learn more about Nicola and the services she offers through the Brooklyn Kitchen by clicking on her logo, but the key learning I’ve taken away from my conversations with Nicola, is the importance of tuning into how you respond to food.

As Nicola points out, there is a sea of information on food and health and diets out there, and what works for you may not work for me. However what will work for me (and you), is paying attention. For example, I love fresh, warm French baguette and yet I know that my tummy doesn’t. It’s not that I’m allergic to gluten, but I don’t digest the bread easily. The intolerance wouldn’t necessarily stop me from enjoying a slice if I was sitting in a cafe in Paris, but faced with a choice between quinoa salad for lunch and a baguette with cheese, I’ll go for the salad.

As is also the case with Marianne, what Nicola does with warmth, wisdom and kindness, is suggest that we pay a little more attention to ourselves. And she is able to give very sensible pieces of advice which are easy to digest and won’t weigh you down.

And so, when I stood in the kitchen yesterday evening, listening to my mind-body, knowing that it needed to walk and stretch, I also knew that the food I ate would directly affect my mood. Quite simply, I would feel better, lighter, happier, after eating a salad. Which brings me to the third woman who helped me avoid a grumpy path.

Jo Freeman and Urban Harvest  

In the spirit of transparency, let me say that I spend half of my week working with Jo, marketing Urban Harvest, the online fresh food market she founded here in Wellington just over a year ago. But might I also point out that I was a customer before I became a contractor!

As a woman with a tremendous amount on her own plate (family, voluntary work, a one year old business) Jo is her own target market. She knows, only too well, how important it is to source local good food easily. With every cell in her being, Jo believes in Urban Harvest’s mantra ‘feeding you well, saving you time, making life simple’.

And so do I. I love food. A perfect holiday for me is one which includes wandering through farmers’ markets. But for most of the year I’m not on holiday and my days are full. I actually don’t want to even really think about food. I want to go home and know that I have the ingredients with which to whip up something fresh, nutritious and delicious, pronto.

Rock on, Urban Harvest. Thanks to Jo, and the courage she had in founding Urban Harvest (in a recession, I might add), once a week I take home with me a big red chiller bag full of fresh produce. Most weeks, it contains a dozen free range eggs, the organic fruit & vege box, gluten free bread, fresh fish and a treat. I may well have devoured the treat earlier in the week, but the kitchen was still bountiful last night and in the serene wake of yoga, a salad all but assembled itself in front of me.

Authentic with a capital A

If my purpose has a recipe, I suspect it’s this: discover, create, connect, communicate, nourish. Or something to that affect.

It has been a joy discovering Jo and Marianne and Nicola. I consider myself to be very lucky indeed that each week I work with Jo. And that most weeks, I walk with Marianne and drink tea with Nicola. These women walk their talk, each is in her element.

Knowing these women nourishes me. Connecting you with them, so that they may also nourish you, nourishes me too.

http://marianne-elliott.com/

http://www.brooklynkitchen.co.nz/

http://www.urbanharvest.co.nz/

 

 

 

“That’ll do pig, that’ll do.” Advice for my inner critic.

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I have a soft spot for pigs. In fact, given the right environment, I’d love a pet pig. They’re smart and have been known to out perform dogs in experiments comparing the intelligence of primates, dogs and pigs.

But this post is not about pigs. The reason for the porcine introduction is one of my favourite lines from the movie Babe. For those of you that haven’t seen this delightful movie, this is the story of a little pig trying to find his destiny. And find it he does, mustering sheep in his own way, guided by the intuitive help of a wise old farmer and the support of a border collie he calls Mom. In the last few seconds of the film, following great success at a fair, Farmer Hoggett turns to the adorable little pig and says ‘That’ll do pig, that’ll do.”

Over the last few weeks, I’ve found myself saying exactly that to my inner critic.

Tomorrow is the final day of a truly enjoyable, educational and enlightening course I’ve been participating in called ‘Off the Mat Into the World: Embodying Your Purpose‘. Superbly co-facilitated by Marianne Elliot, Kelly Fisher and Nick Potter, the course combines yoga with personal and professional development for change-makers.

For me, one of the most illuminating aspects of this course, is the work we’ve been doing on our inner critic. That voice inside which says ‘I’m not good enough’ or ‘I’ve failed’ or ‘I will fail so there’s no point evening trying’. Let’s face it, I think we all have one. At least most people I know have one. Not because it’s something talked about openly or regularly, but because so many of the people I know have such expectations of themselves and are seriously good at beating themselves up.

I suspect I’ve sounded like a stuck record and have been boring the pants of numerous friends lately by raving on about this process of visualising and conversing with my inner critic. But honestly, it’s been a revelation. It has been a similar experience to my recent realisation that at the age of 38 I didn’t really know how my mind and body functions. That I know more about art history than I know about my digestive system. And while there’s nothing wrong with being able to analyse a painting hanging at Te Papa it does seem a little ludicrous that I know so little about this mind-body I inhabit.

With respect to my inner critic, for 30 odd years I feel like I’ve been followed around by this invisible character that has never missed an opportunity to whisper in my ear ‘Hmmm, I think you could have done that a whole lot better’. Except that she had become a part of me, so insidious that the message has been a hundred variations of ‘I’m not good enough.’ But finally, I feel like I’ve called her on it. Swung round, caught her by the arm before she disappears into the shadows and asked ‘Who ARE you? Where did you come from? And why do you keep saying these things?’

It turns out that SHE is the personification of the girl/woman I’ve spent most of my life thinking or believing (unconsciously) that I should be. Taller, prettier, richer, thinner, more successful, more fit, more popular etc etc etc. And while there have been times in my life – recently, in fact – where her voice been more distant, if I’m being completely honest, she has always been there. Created out of layer upon layer of expectation. The expectations of family, friends and society (or at least my perception of their expectations) and my very own expectations of myself.

At the same time as having a full and frank conversationwith my inner critic, I’ve continued to hear the voice of that wise old Buddhist hermit mentioned in the previous post. His words ‘Fear nothing other than the failure to experience your true nature.’ This whole process feels like peeling layers of old paint of an oil painting revealing the nature of the original work below. By paying attention to my inner critic, the messages have shifted from a voice deep within and impossible to differentiate from my own to a voice belonging to a woman who I can now see is a product of years of conditioning. Identifying my inner critic has essentially helped me peel off more layers and experience more of my true nature.

So now, instead of lurking in the shadows, this woman who represents all that I think I should be walks along aside me and tomorrow when I do something and she turns to me and starts to say ‘You didn’t do that…” I will look at her and firmly, but kindly, say “That’ll do pig, that’ll do.”