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Back to the drawing board

It is a miserable Saturday afternoon here in the Southeast of England. It is very wet and dull. Just writing the word miserable fills me with shame. How often we complain about the insignificant things that are hugely significant? We complain about the rhythms of nature that balance out the delicate equation that the environment is. We moan about the rain when rain is the answer to so many people’s desperate prayers. We complain about the sun’s scorching heat when others’ whole livelihoods are solely dependent upon such treasure. So many of us have it all, but blinded by so much stuff and privilege, we fail to see what is missing in our life.

Well, I am turning my sense of entitlement and shallowness on its head. It is thanks to such dire weather that I find myself writing once again after months of an absolute inability to put pen to paper. Whilst I am still grieving my parent’s loss, I am beginning to come through the other side of that tunnel a little bit freer, wiser, and a lot fitter.

There have been two major shifts in my life since my parents passed away. I have started going to the gym and I no longer have any social media accounts or live my life through other people’s social media. I know, you must be thinking: ‘Big deal’. Trust me, it is huge!

Not only had I never set foot in a gym before; I detested gym culture and had zero time for those who bragged, or so I thought, about their exploits at the gym. As far as I was concerned, gyms were stages where statuesque, divinely toned individuals strutted their stuff and got their daily fix of adoration and admiration by like-bodied individuals. I perceived gyms as prisons of the self, as hell holes where egos gorged on further aggrandisement and self-veneration; gutters where altruism, empathy, compassion were thrusted out and vanity, selfishness and narcissism were pumped up; traps where the weak were drawn to in order to be judged disdainfully by the far superior breeds. Everything about gyms shouted addiction, misplaced pride, discrimination, judgement.

During the last two years I have gradually introduced exercise in my life. A like-minded individual I met through twitter encouraged me to do the ‘Couch to 5k’ challenge. It is an online app which guides you step by step to run five miles at the end of a few weeks’ training. This is for absolute beginners, which I was. It was really gruelling work but eventually after having a few breaks and having to re-start the challenge a few times, I persevered and completed it. I went from having my heart in my mouth after just one minute of running, to actually running for half an hour on a fairly steady breath. I went from counting the seconds in every minute wishing for it to be over to being in the zone and embracing the freedom, the release, the joy that results from body and mind being at one with each other.

As with any exercise and specially seeing as I had started at 52, I did suffer an injury and eventually I had to stop running and look for a lower impact exercise routine which gave me the same cardio value but did not destroy my body one impactful stride at a time. I moved onto the cross trainer. That became my new religion. Three times a week I went into my garden shed and did a workout on my cross trainer. I gradually increased the length and the intensity of such workouts. After my parents passed, I simply could not find the motivation to do anything that involved any considerable effort. They were no longer around and so my mojo and my raison d’etre ebbed away with them, so this shift to having the drive to regularly commit to an exercise regime was monumental.

Call it Providence or the stars aligning in my favour, but around that time my daughter had just joined a gym and had been on at me to come along and see for myself how incredibly uplifting and energising her sessions were. My daughter is my guardian angel as I am hers. We get each other. We have each other’s backs. We trust each other completely. Not many people one can say that about in life. Certainly not me. During my workouts on the cross trainer, I often posted pictures of my body on twitter as a witness of my progress and the fitness challenges conquered. Those pictures got a lot of attention and compliments. Sometimes, attention came from the wrong sort who were just out to get their kicks and feed their sexual desires. There were even some devious individuals who went as far as complimenting me about my blog, my writing in order to get close to me; to make sexual advances at me. It beggars belief but that is what social media has turned a lot of people into. It is a free for all. No accountability; no rules; no transparency; no moral compass. What happens behind the screen stays behind the screen. Only, it does not! Social media has become one of the most dangerous tools which when falling on the wrong hands can pulverise a life with one single click of the mouse.

All that attention on social media, most of it unsavoury, made me realise that actually feeling good on the inside more often than not goes hand in hand with looking and feeling good on the outside, at least feeling and looking good according to your own standards. One fine morning I finally decided to go along to the gym with my 25-year-old daughter. We did a SH’BAM class which in hindsight I realise was an incredibly bold move on my part having never even set foot in a gym. I absolutely loved it and decided there and then, I would become a regular member at that gym. A year later I attend classes 3 to 4 days a week and some days I do two classes back-to-back. I have done most things now: Body Attack, Les Mills Grit Strength, Total Body Workout, Free Style Aerobics, Body Jam, Pilates, Body Balance, Body Pump, etc.

Nurturing my mental health through exercise is really working for me right now and has helped me immensely to pull through the grieving process. However, like any other practice or habit that makes us feel so good, fitness can easily become an addiction that prevents us from nurturing other important parts of ourselves like our emotional and spiritual wellbeing. Often, we assume that one goes hand in hand with the other but that is not necessarily so. My current fitness regime takes a lot of time from me and whilst that time is very well invested, I am neglecting other things that make be balanced and happy, my writing for example. I want my fitness regime to propel me to a more well-rounded, more positive me and not to become a shelter that prevents me from actually living. A little bit of chaos, breaking the rules and opening yourself up to the unexpected will always trump a life of perfect order, monotony and letting precious days pass you by.

As for quitting all social media, that is one of the best decisions I have ever made. Creating an environment where we have all normalised ‘making love or war’ with people whom we know nothing about and who know nothing about us is one of the most stupid things the human race has ever produced. All that time and energy wasted on futile attempts to convince ourselves and others that we matter. It is often believed that the next generation is able to correct the mistakes of the previous one and to bring about measures to prevent those same mistakes being made. Social media is not one of them. We have reinvented the wheel, but this wheel is simply not fit for purpose and is in fact destroying our ability to relate to and communicate with other human beings, as we sit alone blinded and in judgement behind screens that act as mirrors reflecting back what we want or need to see or hear.

It has been a while since I last wrote and I am aware that because of it many of my regulars may have given up on me in terms of checking my blog. If you happen to still be here, I would be grateful for any comments that can start a conversation or simply give me feedback. I am grateful for any and all comments. There are also a handful of people I met through social media and through this blog who I’d like to hear from as I miss those specific interactions. Again, if you are there, do drop me a line or two.

Be well, be kind, look after yourself and above all be present, live in the moment.

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A river of tears

She sat there feeling defeated, sipping her coffee whilst listening to Massimo Viazzo’s ‘River Flows in you’. The irony of the title of that piece, she thought, her mind filled with visions of a life that flowed like a river: weightless, spontaneous, vibrant, free. Her spirit, however, laid so arid, almost inert gasping for droplets of hope that would then merge and cause her existence to effortlessly flow into a vast sea of yet unopened doors and passageways she felt inexplicably drawn to. By the age of 20, Esperanza had already travelled to USA, UK, Australia, and most of Europe. What happened to me? she thought. At what point in my life did I begin to regress; did I allow my hopes to be rudely replaced by all my fears?

Tears running down her face, sobbing, unable to hold it all in any longer. Maybe ‘Cry me a river’ would have been more apt, she laughed begrudgingly, maybe the purpose of all these tears is to empty out til there is nothing left. Maybe then and only then, she consoled herself, I will experience an epiphany provoked by the avalanche of the mountain of all my tears drowning out my sorrows, and the impact will be of such magnitude that it will force me to finally metamorphose into the butterfly that laid dormant all these years. Hope by name, Hope by nature. Hope was undeniably all she had left.

The problem was that when hope visited, it never came into Esperanza’s consciousness alone. She always arrived holding a mixed bag of responsibilities, a good conscience, a sense of loyalty and all the other laudable attributes we admire on others but know fully well stop us from living the life we really feel we were born to live. What an impossible mix of emotions she had been dealt. How does one live knowing they are sacrificing their dream for a peaceful conscience, when it is that very dream that helps us push on, take another step, breathe life and positivity into those under our care? How does one ingest a poisoned chalice being fully aware that the very act of salvation is irrevocably and simultaneously mired in condemnation?

The conundrum of whether life is an act of selflessness or selfishness kept her awake at night and riddled with anxiety in the day. Her mind told her one thing but oh how her robust beating heart told her quite another. She knew complete peace and stillness would only come when she breathed her final breath. And yet there was far too much joie de vivre in her to surrender into her fate just yet. This agonising battle of what’s right and what is meant was ironically the fuel that fired her soul; a quest for the hidden treasure she was determined to fulfill til she found an answer; even if it turned out it wasn’t the answer she had hoped for all along. Taking on that unthinkable gamble is what gave meaning and purpose to her life but it was also what was killing her restless spirit one bellicose day at a time.

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Life is a messy affair!

Photo courtesy of my son

It always throws me out of kilter how we live life with such breathless intensity, with such a sense of self-importance. We strain and strive to seek purpose and we convince ourselves that we are the movers and the shakers, that the entire world will cease to be, should we stop to actually take a deep breath and savour the act of simply being alive. And yet, at a moment’s notice all that relevance, meaning and feeling that we are right where we are meant to be, comes crumbling down, is pulverised when we learn about the passing of another or their terminally ill diagnosis.

I had such news about an old friend this morning, and quite frankly, I am shocked to the core. I mean, I am a fairly positive, driven person who is industrious and eager to make life better for those around me, those dependant on me, and at various stages of my life also for strangers in need. My life makes complete sense. I am on a journey, and I am increasingly aware that to every beginning there is an inherently tragic end, but nothing prepares you for the sense of weightlessness, irrelevance even, that the news of someone’s sudden, unexpected death inundates us with.

Humans are desperately born into an existential dilemma; and unsolvable equation: in order for our lives to be maximised, to garner the utmost sense and purpose, common sense forces us to become selfish, self-absorbed, limited in our sight. We choose a lane in our journey, and we stick with it, because we know a race is only truly won if we focus primarily on what is around us, if we persevere to the end. And yet, living that way equates to applying a tight blindfold on ourselves. We enter a period of denial about our rightful place in the universe, about our irrelevance when confronted with the bigger picture. Is it safe or even ethical to live any other way, though? Can we truly live if we are permanently aware and reminded of our own finiteness? Wouldn’t that be the same nonsensical behaviour as barricading our own exceedingly small window of opportunity to live in the moment, to savour every breath, every experience enjoyed or hoped for? When I heard the news of our friend who has had a severe brain bleed and whose prognosis, if he comes round, is to live the rest of his life in a vegetative state, my sense of self just went up in smoke. What is this absurd game called life that we put every fibre of our being into taking part in and winning, if that elusive higher power can just arbitrarily and abruptly throw us out of the game? What is the point of even playing if our odds overwhelmingly point to losing before we get to the end that we strived and hoped for? Numb in my kitchen in my family’s presence, time stopped, and I felt as if I were standing in front of a mirror, but I could see nothing. No before, no now, no tomorrow. Nothing, just a fleeting shadow embodying a gradually intangible lifetime. What is the point of it all if after all the striving, the worry, the suffering, the fear, we can just seamlessly go from being the masters of our universe to the dust in someone else’s journey?