Lockdown - This Little Piggy

I'm afraid to weigh myself.

Yesterday afternoon, I saw myself in my son's mirror and I'm a piggy.  I don't, as a rule, have mirrors in the house bar the essential face sized one in my bathroom.  My son however, has a full length one in his bedroom.  I went in there looking for the Happy Pear cookbook and came out depressed.  

I have a conspiracy theory that about 10 years ago all the clothing brands re-labelled their clothes down one size.  The old 12 became the new 10 just to make people feel better about their brand and buy them. It worked on me.    Even within the same shop, the sizing system is inconsistent: in Zara, I've tried on sizes 6 to 16 and they all fit the same.  

As for their mirrors, they're definitely fixed.     A few years ago, I cut through Debenhams in Mahonpoint on my way to Easons when I caught sight of myself in a mirror.  I stopped and went back for another look.  I looked svelte and downright petite.  I immediately felt elated and bounced on my way.  I checked my reflection again in a shop window but looked normal again.

Six months ago, I loved the video on YouTube of the school principal in China doing the shuffle with the entire school.   It's the coolest thing ever.  I found tutorials on shuffling on YouTube but gave up.  I felt awkward and lumpy.  Then, yesterday,  Pauline from my book club who's great for circulating uplifting messages, put up a video of a Chinese man who must be at least 70 doing the shuffle on the street with two tiny girls.  If he could do it then why not me?  

I searched YouTube for a tutorial and picked the first that came up.  It had 13 million views.  The man in the tutorial explained that the first and most important move when doing the shuffle is the 'Running Man'.  He demonstrated at normal speed and then did it slowly but I couldn't keep up.    

My sons joined me in the kitchen.  The Chinese man danced to 'Staying Alive' by the Bee Gees.  My background music was an outpouring of insults, "You're doing it all wrong, Mum!"  

"Then show me," I begged.  

"No way," they said.  

"What do you want to learn for anyway?" said son (20), "it's not like you'll be using it."

"It's a way of getting fit in a small space.  Anyway I like dancing."

Almost disheartened and on the point of giving up, I searched for another tutorial and found a girl with only 1.3 million views.  She also started with the Running Man but broke it down into four parts which helped.     I practised in the kitchen which has a tiled floor.  Although the girl wore runners, I stayed in socks to help my feet slide.  I wondered should I wear the Birkenstock look-a-likes I bought in Penneys last year.  They only cost six Euros but were lethal.  Their soles had no grip and slid across hard surfaces like wet glass.  Maybe later.

  

Son (22) advised me to keep my steps short as I kept losing balance.  That helped.  I also tended to lean forward as if willing my legs to move faster.   The girl in the tutorial said to keep the body-weight centred by staying upright.  That helped.  After several attempts of stop-starting, I managed to go a whole minute without falling over.  I even started to sweat.  I went to leave the kitchen.

  

Son (22) looked up from his phone, "Quitting already Mum?" 

"No, I need to put on a bra." 

It was Hubbie's turn to cook dinner so I moved my shuffling to the hall.  The girl in the tutorial went onto the next move but I stopped her there.  I want to get the Running Man right first.  The great thing is that you can do it anywhere at anytime: while you're waiting for the kettle to boil, on your way to the loo and you don't need much space.      

Lovely as the weather is, I don't always want to run outside.  Running at the moment feels like hauling sacks of coal up a hill.  So for now, this little piggy is staying at home.  

And how's your fabulous day going so far?

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Putting The 'Mental' into Judgemental

My sister, the youngest in the family, screamed, "You put the mental into judgemental" in the middle of one our many spats growing up.  I thought that was rather clever and wore the slur like a badge of honour.

In March 2018,  I booked myself into the three-day Easter Retreat which promised to follow the Passion of Christ in Glenstal Abbey in Co. Limerick.     My friend, Mary McCarthy attends many of their retreats and raves about the wisdom of the brothers and their hospitality.  On her recommendation, I undertook the retreat to complete the christian leg of my research on spirituality.

My bedroom was a 12 bed dormitory.     There was another woman listed to share but she didn't show up.  I took the bunk nearest the 12 foot long window.    The door to my 'bedroom' was a 20 foot walk away as was the only light switch.  I'm not afraid of the dark but when I needed to use the loo during the night, I was nervous.  As a child I imagined bogey men under the bed waiting to grab my ankles and had perfected the long jump from door to bed only touching the floor once.  That I could no longer do.  I prayed furiously from bunk to door, 'Satan get thee hence.'

Mary knew just about everybody.  She regards Glenstal as her home from home as did most of the 100+ people attending that weekend.  From our table in the middle of the refectory, she remotely acquainted me with various people in the room.    "Can you see that lady over there?"  she said.  I followed her line of vision and saw a small, round woman wearing a pale blue cardigan.  "The rumour, " continued Mary, "is that she had sex with one of the brothers up in the tower."     I looked at the woman again.  She looked like a retired nun and didn't seem capable of climbing the stairs to the tower let alone engage in the gymnastics of passion. And why the tower I wondered, it's so cold up there and my thoughts trailed off.

After mass the first morning Mary asked, "Are you getting anything out of it yet?"   I didn't want to be disrespectful to something she loved so I told her truthfully I thought the church beautiful yet modern painted as it was in bold colours and to hear chanting for the first time was unique but I wasn't moved.  I find mass boring and since I find the priest's voice indistinct, I switch off.  "Sorry no," I replied.

After lunch, we listened to a talk given by Br Christopher on John the Baptist or as his tutor in Rome used to refer to him as 'John the Dipper.'   Mary and I roared with laughter.

After the talk, I used the loo and when I returned I could see Mary chatting to a man.  I kept a respectful distance until I could see from Mary's body language she wasn't interested.  I judged it safe to resume my seat.  As I did, I overheard the man tell Mary he worked in the HSE compiling statistics.  I'm sorry to say that once again, my face obviously betrayed my thoughts because the man then looked at me and said defensively, "And I have a Masters in Divinity."  I noticed Mary took his distraction as an opportunity to slip away.

"What's that?"  I said in a polite attempt to rescue the situation.

He told me and then said, "And now I am a coach in spirituality."

"What does that mean?"

"People come to me when they are having trouble connecting to the divine and I coach them through the process."

My brain lit up, "Wow, that that sounds so interesting."

"Yes it is," he said triumphantly and with that he got up and left.  Inwardly I groaned and slapped myself mentally on the forehead, I f***ed up again.

That evening after yet another mass, Mary and I sat in refectory having tea and biscuits. The woman in the pale blue cardigan came to our table and sat down opposite us.  Mary immediately announced she was tired and headed off to bed.  I was trapped.  I smiled politely at her.  She smiled back and said, "You're from Cork aren't you?"  I agreed that I was.  She continued, "Cork has been very good to me.  When I was 14 my father took me out of school saying education was wasted on girls and I got a job as a cleaner in Cork.  In the evenings,  I enrolled in the College of Commerce and did my Leaving Cert.  I had a fabulous English teacher there and because of him I understood Hamlet better than my brother who was allowed to stay in school.  I then moved to England and did nursing.  When I retired, I was always interested in religion so I did a BA in Religion  I then did a Masters in Contemporary Religious Studies and when I was writing up my thesis, I was advised by my supervisor to upgrade to a PhD."

The cogs in my brain jammed.

"And I got a first." she said with a modest smile.

Momentarily deafened by the rusty creakings in my head as I frantically attempted to reverse prejudices and crank into gear, I wondered was this her party piece to confound people like me.  I struggled to say something.  'So you're not a nun' came to mind but I suppressed it.

Finally, I spoke, "What's your thesis in?" 

"Spirituality." she said happily.

Well, God smite me with a cricket bat.  I whispered humbly, "That's mine too."

She immediately perked up and said crisply, "Who are your authors?"

I named the nine books I had read up to that point desperately hoping to impress her. 

"Too many," she said dismissively with a wave of her hand, "stick to four and..." and she then reeled off a list of splendid, magnificent, golden, fabulous nuggets of advice for idiots on academic-writing-made-easy.  I had no pen.  She handed me a pencil from her pocket and I frantically took notes on a napkin.  I couldn't keep up.

"What is your email address?"  I begged. 

"Oh, I don't bother with that," she said.  "Since I handed in my thesis, I'm allergic to technology.  I don't even own a computer.  You'll have to write to me in Galway."

I hardly slept that night.  My brain felt like it had been been pecked apart by crows.  Twice that day I judged.   Actually, I probably judged all day but here in Glenstal fate presented me with two golden opportunities.  The first I failed spectacularly.  The second I grasped but so nearly missed.    Her name is Una.  She overcame my obvious prejudices and persevered in the face of my rudeness.   I reeled at the nearly lost gold mine of information.  Una and I write letters to each other every six weeks and twice a month we talk on the phone.

The next morning at breakfast as Mary and I lined up to collect our porridge from the hatch, I said, "You know the retired nun who had the sex up the tower?"

Mary looked at me alarmed, "Keep your voice down."

I whispered, "I was talking to her last night and.....  look, here she's coming to join us."

Mary said sharply, "That's not her."

"It's not?"

Mary's eyes quickly scanned the dining room, "It's that blonde woman by the window in the red cardigan."  I followed her gaze.  The woman in the red cardigan looked to be in early 60s and was just then chatting happily with a priest.  Not only was she blonde but was wearing full make-up including red lipstick.       Yep, I could definitely see her climbing the tower alright.  The slut.....

Observations Day 3 - 10

Day 3.             I knew everything; it was time to go home. 

Day 4.             My eating slackened.  I became aware of my                           mind-body disconnect.

Day 5.             My inner child came out and it was fun.   5pm                         is tea-time and we were allowed fruit only with                           tea and coffee.  A sign by the trays of oranges,                             apples and bananas asked that we limit ourselves                       to two pieces a day.  Inner child said, "F*** that"                         and I took a 3rd banana.  I defied anyone to stop                         me and was disappointed no-one did.  I saw their                       non-intervention as a sign they didn't care and I                         took the rejection personally.  

On day 6.        I emerged from the meditation hall groggy with fatigue and my eyes almost closed.   I felt a wetness under my feet and noticed the flagstones of the school yard were damp like someone had spilled their water bottle.  My eyes scanned the whole yard.  It was all wet.   I looked up and felt the faintest hint of rain on my face.  The first rain in eleven weeks.   I clapped my hands with joy.  The elderly lady who meditated sitting on a chair whirled around and smiled at me.  The girl with the feather earring behind me laughed.  The joy of seeing the old and the familiar.  I did the only thing open to me I clapped my hands like a child.   The teacher who was a few feet ahead of us, but we had not noticed immediately put her finger to her mouth and urged us with her eyes to be silent.  We suppressed our giggles like naughty school girls and scurried away.

Day 7.             The lady who slept just inside our dormitory door left.  I guessed she was having a bad time because she did not attend any of the meditations that day and skipped breakfast.  I saw her at lunch time, and she ate so ravenously, I assumed she's back on track.  But at 5pm, her bed was stripped and her wardrobe empty.  I felt robbed.  I knew she was unhappy, but I could not ask her.  It’s part of the rules that we must not speak nor make eye contact with another: we must respect other people’s wish to not be distracted.  Still, had we been allowed to talk to her we might have persuaded her to stick it out.

Day 8.             I felt an incredible peace settle around my shoulders. It was a relief not to have to talk, not to have to entertain anyone and just be left alone.  I realised the burden it is to be always on show, to feel compelled to talk at every opportunity.

Day 9.              I had a long shower.

Day 10.           After breakfast and mid-morning meditation we were finally allowed given permission to speak to give us time to adjust before heading out into the real world again.  We didn't know what to do with ourselves.  The sign outside the door said we could speak but no physical contact.  I turned to the girl next to me and gently prodded her in the arm with my finger.  She laughed.  We hurried into the lounge room and we talked for Ireland.  We introduced ourselves, told each other the impressions we had formed of each other. 

It felt so good to be able to talk and communicate and it felt like we were among old friends. The kind of friendships you form in Irish college; deep and intense, like you shared a journey together.  I felt everyone there was my friend and they seemed to feel the same way.  One of the four other women in my dormitory, Mary from Limerick said to me, “Remember you handed out the ear plugs the first night because of your snoring?  Yeah, well, snoring is not your problem.  You talk in your sleep.  Every night you’re having a party.  You’re laughing and talking and every night, I’d go, ‘Ah here, she goes again.’”

I was astonished but quickly recovered, “Well, that’s my cue to tell you a joke.” I then told them the filthiest joke I knew.  It got such a great reaction that I decided that one was enough rather than my usual instinct of rushing in with twenty more.  I usually hog all the attention, but I was happy to sit back and enjoy what my new friends had to say. This was a first for me.

                      Spiritually I am at ant level.  However, I take comfort from Bryson’s (1999) quote that being human is a process and at this stage of my journey, the insights I gained, and awareness of my demons is a huge step forwards to understanding myself.  It is a relief to realise how shallow my mind works.  The image that came to mind as I grew bored with the hysterical drama that usually plays out in my head is that of withered, dried out leaves rattling across an empty playground.   

                                           The experience is sufficiently strong enough for me to believe that the benefits of meditation real.  I did not have the same experiences as the others but then I am at a different stage to them.  What I experienced was enough for me, for now.  The insights I gained as to how my mind works has changed me.  It has improved my Coaching practice in that I understand the importance of deep listening and to what is not being said.  I am mindful of what I am saying and what I am bringing to the conversation.

                      Could I have obtained all this without meditation?  I don’t think so.  I understand intellectually that emotional intelligence is a good thing but until you experience the absence of emotional intelligence you don’t fully understand.   At the outset of any relationship whether Coaching or otherwise, presence is more important than skill.  You cannot connect or relate to someone unless you have been there yourself. The tools of Spirituality are the energy behind the effective Coaching relationship. Since presence is the opposite of absence, if you are not present you don’t make a connection.

---

 [ND1]

Demons 3 - 6

Demon 3         My Inner Child

By day three my inner rebellious 5-year-old showed up and I enjoyed her.  I felt that this was the true me coming through and I was proud of her kick-ass-bitch attitude.   I decided to ask the teacher. 

An hour is set aside every evening to ask the teacher any questions we might have on our practice.  I joined the queue and waited my turn.  “Is this inner child the true me coming through?”  I asked.  The teacher replied making a small circular motion under her nose with her forefinger. “Focus on the breath,” she said.  Disgusted at her lack of imagination and disappointed I didn’t get the confirmation I was looking for, I left her and went straight to bed.

Demon 4         Judgemental

My sister says I put 'mental' into judgemental. And I do.  I had an opinion on every one of the 39 women and the men I could see and none of it was flattering.

Demon 5         Self-pity 

It's a curse. It usually strikes around 3 o'clock every afternoon when I'm at work.     Thoughts like, "Nobody appreciates me. Nobody listens to me.  I have no friends,” usually leads to me to sneak out to the shop and buying a three Snickers bars to console myself.  I have the dramatic tendency to lose perspective and wallow in self-pity because clearly no one cares about me. 

Demon 6         Boundaries 

On the 10th and last day, we are given permission to speak.   I went berserk.        In the few hours before we were sent home, I talked and laughed for Ireland.  It was as if a  spring of joy came gushing out of me.  I felt magnanimous, powerful and I wanted to shower my goodwill on everybody.  I made a point of introducing myself to the four ladies with whom I had shared a dormitory for the last 10 nights.  I had done three but could not find the fourth.   I went looking for her.  

          I finally came across her in front of the notice board closely examining the schedule.  Without hesitation, I bounced up to her and announced, “I feel like such a slut: I have been sleeping alongside you for the last 10 days and I don’t even know your name.”  The woman turned to me in slow motion and said carefully, “If you don’t mind, I’m in the zone right now and I don’t wish to speak.”      I backed away quickly. 

Two insights slotted into my radioactive brain.  

i) I didn’t take it personally.   I completely understood that this was her journey.   

ii) Just because I am feeling magnanimous and generous with my fabulous personality, not everyone wants to be around me.  At least not in that particular moment.  She is entitled to refuse my company and I found myself able to respect that. 

Later that same day, I was in the dormitory packing to leave when the same lady stood at the doorway clearly distressed, “My lift to Dublin Airport has fallen through.” 

“I’ll take you.” I said. 

She looked at me in disbelief, “You will, are you sure?  Is it out of your way?”

“It is but that’s fine.”

“I’ll find someone else.”

“Ok.” I said and resumed packing. 

Half an hour later she came up to me in the canteen, “I’ll take that lift, if it’s still ok?”

“It’s still ok.”

“Are you sure?”

          All the way to the airport, she talked like she had just taken Speed.  Luckily it was only a 30 minute journey.  As she got out of the car, I asked her name.  She seemed distracted as she frantically wrenched her bags from the back seat of the car.  Her answer was muffled.  I think her name is Michelle. 

Demon 2 Emotional Eating

The food was plain and vegetarian but there was plenty of it.  A notice by the fruit bowl requested that we take no more than two pieces of fruit.  My inner child came out:  I was not going to be deprived.  I took an extra banana and in my head I defied anyone to challenge me. No one did. 

           Each meal time I made sure I was at the top of the queue to get the best choice of oranges.  The oranges were exquisite.  When they ran out, I complained. They gave me the last orange.  The following day they ran out of oranges.  I nearly cried at the betrayal. 

At meal times I piled my plate high and sat near the buffet to go back for seconds. 

          On the 4^th day, my stomach said, "Enough.” 

          My mind said, "Don't be ridiculous," and moved the spoon to my mouth.  

          Stomach, "I will vomit all over this floor if you insist on eating that."   

          My mind howled, "But I'll starve."

          Stomach gave a silent heave to prove the point. I slowly lowered the spoon and reluctantly left the dining hall but not before taking an extra banana and hiding it up my sleeve just in case.   

          The following morning at breakfast time, I heaped my bowl high.  It happened again; I could not get past the 4^th spoonful. Again, my mind urged me to keep going but the stomach said no. Sadly I left the table.  

          At lunchtime, I filled only half the plate but struggled to finish.  The next day, at breakfast I halved the amount again on my plate and ate slowly waiting for my stomach to tell me it had enough.  When it did, I stopped eating and left the dining hall fearing starvation.    I didn't starve. Eventually I learned to trust my stomach.  

This experience forced me to listen to my body and made me aware of the mind – body connection.  Why I was not aware of it before now I presume is because the ‘wallow-in-self-pity’ aspect of my personality.  I eat when I’m upset.  

          I worked as an Au Pair in New York for six months when I was 21 and was desperately homesick.  As soon as I put the children to sleep at night, I gorged on pints of home-made ice-cream which I associate with Sunday dinners and sunny afternoons at home. I gained two stone within the first two months of being there.  I ate the ice-cream while crying and continued to do so to the point of vomiting. My relationship with the parents of the children was not good so talking out my feelings was not an option.  As I continued to ignore the ‘enough’ signals from my stomach, my tolerance for greater quantities of food grew, until Vipassana.    Why it came up so forcefully as early as day four, I'm not sure.

       Reflecting on it since, I assume that when the well-worn tape in my mind started playing the ‘pity me’ story and all the usual escape routes were unavailable, this opened up a space for my inner voice to finally be heard.    I had no choice but to listen.  The body signals I ignored for so long came through loud and clear.    

I then saw connection between meditation and mindfulness.   Meditation denies your ego the distractions it relies on to cover up suffering thus preventing you from dealing with it.  It acts like a broom for your mind to clear out all the dirt you accumulate; the conditioning that Anthony de Mello argues has been imposed on over the course of your life to date.  Meditation forces you to wake up.      

      Mindfulness is the sister tool.  It is the practical application of paying attention to what your body is telling you over the course of your waking day.  I listen to it.  I try to keep an open mind and to be curious about the feelings and emotions as they arise and what they might mean for me.  It has changed old habits and destructive behavioural patterns.   Get this moment right, and you will get day right.  

Since the lockdown I am mindfully ploughing my way through bowls of ice-cream and troughs of Taytos but at least I know I'm pigging out.  My clothes don't fit anymore.  Tights and oversized t-shirts are the only things that fit. But this will pass.  

          In the meantime, I'm enjoying the pancakes son (22) cooked this morning soaked in lemon juice and sprinkles of sugar while listening to the singer Paolo Nutini on Alexa.  I am also mindful I might never get this moment back again.  

Meeting My Demons

 On a hot, muggy July afternoon, I set off for the four-hour drive north to Drogheda.    I was on my way to my first Vipassana Retreat - 10 days of complete silence.   Ireland was in the 11^th week of a heat wave and while it wasn’t insufferably hot, the countryside looked jaded and already the leaves were starting to shrivel.   

Vipassana Ireland does not have its own centre and so they rent a boarding school which means retreats can only take place three times a year during the school holidays.     

     Registration took place in the cafeteria which was separated into men and women only zones by seven-foot high room dividers that ran through the centre of the room. We are asked to surrender our phones and any writing materials.  I considered hanging on to mine but in the end I gave them up as I did not want to compromise the experience. 

Every morning at 4am, we are woken by a gong, By 4.30am we are found sitting on our mats in the meditation hall and focusing on our breath for 12 hours with meal breaks until 9.30 that evening.   The meditation practice for the first three days involves sitting upright and concentrating on the small area between the upper lip and nose.  You are asked to focus on the breath coming in your nostrils and the breath going out through your nostrils. Nothing else.  

          All your needs are catered for; your meals are prepared, you do not need to clean, drive or go anywhere.  With no TV, books, writing materials, mobile phones or Wi-Fi, alcohol or people to talk to, you have no choice but to listen to the endless patter that passes through your mind.  

     The whole idea is that with nothing to do and nowhere to go with none of our usual distractions to turn to, we are obliged to pay attention to our bodily sensations, feelings, thoughts, emotions and whatever else arises. 

        Tim Parks in his book, Teach Us To Be Still warns that under these conditions all your demons come up.  I was intrigued to meet mine.

Demon 1         Taking Things Personally

 The meditation hall is visually divided in two halves, one half with 40 women and the other 40 men.  Rows of blue mats, each three-foot square, were arranged neatly in eight rows of 10 mats per row in front of a raised dais on which sat our teacher.   The ‘Old Students’ - those who had previously completed a 10 day retreat - sat in the front row while the newbies sat behind.  Each person was assigned a mat and we were told this is where we have to sit for the next 10 days.  My mat was the last in the second row behind the old students.  Next to me on the inside mat was Britt from Berlin. Her bed was directly opposite mine in the dormitory. 

The windows in the hall did not open so the fire escape doors, one at each end of the hall, were kept propped open all day.  Being seated a mere 10 feet from one of these doors, I found the breeze heavenly.

I didn’t have a meditation shawl, so I used one of the blue blankets supplied.  That first day my hands were hot and itchy.  I didn’t know where to put them.  The breeze from the open door helped but I couldn't decide if I was hot or cold and kept adjusting my shawl.  Twice as I re-wrapped myself and adjusted my legs for the millionth time, I accidentally clipped Britt on the arm with the blanket.  Since I was not permitted to speak or make eye-contact I didn't apologise.  I resolved to be more careful. 

The following morning at 4.30am as I settled onto my mat, I noticed Britt’s was bare and remained so for the next two hours.  I wondered where she was as I definitely saw her get out of bed that morning.      At the sound of the breakfast gong, I slowly rolled onto my right side in an effort to get my circulation going and gently unfold my aching knees. It was then I spotted Britt sitting at the back of the hall leaning against a wall.  Immediately, my brain flooded with poisonous, paranoid thoughts, "Stupid B****!  She couldn't handle a little fidgeting.  I wasn't still enough for her purist ways."   

          As the days went by and we passed each other in the corridors or on the playing fields, Britt would occasionally try to catch my eye and share a sympathetic smile.  I blanked her: she'd burned her bridges.  

On the 10^th day, when we were permitted to speak again, Britt dashed up to me in the dining room and taking a chair next to me, breathlessly announced, "I've been dying to get to know you."           I acknowledged her presence but kept eating. Britt eventually sensing my coolness made a move to leave.  It was then I asked her why she had moved to the back of the hall.    Britt sat back down again and told me she had complained to the teacher that the open fire escape door was making her cold.  The teacher refused.

       "And then,” she continued, “do you remember those birds!?”     The meditation hall was surrounded by loads of trees in which resided rooks, crows, seagulls.  Every bird in Drogheda seemed to be in those trees and for some reason every evening at 7pm they would just kick off and make this incredible racket.  I found them a welcome distraction.  Again, Britt asked the teacher to close the doors but he refused.   However, to address her complaints, the teacher arranged for her to move as far away from the doors as possible.    

As I sat there listening to her earnest explanation, my body flooded with guilt. It was not Britt’s choice to move. It wasn’t her fault.  I held a grudge for nine days for a slight that did not in fact exist and deliberately kept the resentment stoked up all that time.  How shallow and self-absorbed was I to think that Britt’s actions had anything to do with me.  So sure was I that she ‘slighted’ me, it never crossed my mind that Britt might be suffering and that she was simply doing what she could to make her experience more bearable.

       I always sensed I took things personally and tend to lose perspective easily but this episode completed knocked me off kilter.  How many hundreds of people up to now had I misjudged?  How many potential friendships have I lost out on because I assumed the worst intentions behind other people's actions?  

       A friend, Mary Coleman who I met on my second retreat, recommended the book, The Four Agreements by Don Miguel Ruiz.  In the book he quotes, "Nothing other people do is because of you."  The book is good and listening to the author read the book on YouTube is even better.

What I've Learned From My Travels.

You can make friends with anyone.

One friend had a mantra, 'just because it's different, doesn't mean it's wrong.'

In London, I avoided Irish nightclubs and pubs but still most of my friends were Irish.   London is the most difficult place in the world to make friends with the locals.    In Singapore, joining the St Pats Society was the only way to make friends.

Children and dogs are great for breaking the ice and meeting new people.

If you are good at sports, you make 40 new friends instantly.  Everyone wants you to be on their team.  In fact, you don't even have to be good, just turn up and your teammates are grateful.  

Just because you meet someone of the same nationality does not automatically mean you'll get on.

When we moved to Singapore, my sons were then three years old and five months respectively.  One of my friends, who is still a good friend, told me I was 'immoral' taking them away from home.  It took me some minutes to frame a reply.  I told her, gently, at their age wherever their parents were that was home for them.  

But best of all, travelling brings out strengths you never knew you had. The five of us confined to a cabin on the Tran-Siberian Express between Beijing and Moscow for six days and nights revealed our children to us.  Our youngest son then six years old, realised he had our undivided attention and he became a stand up comedian.  He took us all by surprise.  Confined to such a tiny space we had no choice but to listen and he was good. 


Some years later in Australia, we drove a campervan from Brisbane to Newcastle.  My 15 year old son set up the GPS to ensure we did not hit any toll roads.  Unaware that he had done this, what should have been six hour cruise down the coast became a 14 hour endurance test.  After four hours' driving, my husband needed a break so I took over. 

We found ourselves in the 'Outback' which never seemed to end.  As we drove through the black night silently panicking, the pygmy tribe 'Wherethefuckarewe' came to mind.  Names of towns loomed large on the GPS raising our hopes only to find the 'town' contained a single dwelling with a streetlamp.  We drove on into the infinite blackness.  

I drove up the mountain and coming down the other side I saw several signs saying 'Do not fry the brakes' and wondered what they meant.  I continued to gently pump the brakes as I descended in the complete darkness.  I smelled burning.  Then suddenly the road split in two.  In my panic, I veered left and came to a halt in a sand pit.  Immediately, the campervan was enveloped in clouds of evil smelling smoke. 

I screamed, "We're on fire," and we all jumped out.  

As we backed away from the burning vehicle expecting the engine to explode, I noticed the fabulous night sky.   "Look at the stars," I urged my family excitedly.

My husband looked at me in exasperation, "The engine's on fire and you're looking at the f***ing stars."

The engine wasn't on fire.  

My husband took over driving.  To break the tension, our son (15) started up a stream of consciousness-like banter that lasted for over two hours - he quoted lines from movies, rattled off scenes from the D'unbelievables and other favourite comedy shows.  Like my younger son on the train, I  marvelled at his personality.  Being trapped together, we witnessed a side to him that was unknown to us until now.     

Just before midnight, we finally got to Newcastle and pulled into the car-park of a 24-hour McDonald's for dinner.   I asked the only other customer about camp sites in the area.  He told us they close at 8pm but then suggested we ask the manager if we could stay in the car park saying, "They're good country folk, they'll let you."   We asked and they did. 

The campervan is so tiny there's a danger of it rolling over if you turn corners too fast and, if one person goes to bed, we all go to bed.   

At the stroke of midnight, as we prepared to clamber into bed, my husband announced sadly, "It's my birthday."   We took a photo.               We spent the night of his 50th in a McDonald's car-park on the side of a dual carriage-way next to a busy roundabout.

The next day, neither my husband or I had the appetite to face another day on the road.  Our 18 year son took over the wheel for the 150 mile road to Sydney; a stroll in the park compared to the endurance the day before.      We arrived at the outskirts of Sydney at 5pm.  He had the use of GPS but in the rain, the gathering gloom, rush-hour traffic and in a city he had never been in before, he remained calm and unflustered as he steered the van flawlessly from the north west edge of the city to the eastern suburbs where our friends live.

You learn about yourself and those people you think you know, through the trials that only travel throws up.

Graduation Day

I've just remembered I am supposed to be graduating today.  The ceremony was cancelled of course.  I booked today and tomorrow off as leave but I'll cancel those.  Hubbie also booked leave and is taking the opportunity to treat the next four days as a mini Vipassana retreat.  That means he has to get up at 4am, be on his mat from 4.30am to 6.30am sitting in silent meditation. Breakfast is from 6.30 to 8am. It is now 7am but there's no sign of him.  

As we walked through a deserted Douglas last night he asked me the typical vipassana day schedule.  Once he says he'll do something he stubbornly sticks to it.  We got as far as the turn off to the Gael Scoil and met son (22) jogging towards us.  He introduced us to the entrance of Tramore Valley Park.  I pass it everyday driving to work and never noticed it.  It used to be the city dump.  I knew it had been turned into a park but did not know how to actually get in.  I shall return there this evening and maybe attempt jogging.

I digress.  I woke up this morning and had my usual reaction on waking up, "Fuck, I'm still here." I immediately corrected myself and tried to think of things to be grateful for.  It's a work in progress.  The old demon of self-pity simmers constantly in that part of the brain just behind my third eye.      And then I remembered that today I'm supposed to be graduating and somehow that made me feel better.  

I resurrected this blog so that I could write up the insights gained during the writing up of my research and thesis.  I forget the terminology but the bones of the thesis was to explore the role of spirituality in coaching, if any.  I think there is.  The 16 coaches I interviewed as part of my research bar one did not agree but I think they're wrong.  

In an hour long conversation with the course supervisor, Pat I became carried away in my crazed enthusiasm of the subject matter.  Pat brought me to a screeching halt when he gently asked, "Is this about spirituality in coaching or this about Geraldine's exploration of spirituality?"

I did eventually finish it.  It was the most interesting six months of my life but lonely because you become obsessed and lose all sense of time.  A colleague, who works with post graduates told me that PhD students frequently suffer from depression while working on their thesis.  I'm not surprised. If I had to come with 80,000 words after four years, I'd be hiding down a fox hole too.

I digress.  Later today, I shall insert segments of my thesis.  The purpose? In coaching speak my life long goal is to become a wise old woman - a cross between Judge Judy, Dolly Parton and Oprah.   The old is here; I'm working on the 'wise.'     It's also so that I can explain to my children and grand-children - please God give me grand-children - my thought processes while I was ruining their lives.

I bought Starbucks coffee pods in Supervalu yesterday.  The coffee smells of cigarette butts but I shall drink it: waste not want not.  I'm a slave to my upbringing.  

I digress....time to log on for work.

Uncle John

My Uncle John a.k.a. Fr Louis O’Dwyer died at lunchtime today.

He grew up in London but was evacuated to Galway during World War II which gave him a mixed accent. Irish people thought he was English and in England people instantly thought he was Irish. To me he sounded like John Cleese. 

Ordained a priest in the Benedictine Order, he studied in Douai Abbey in Belgium before returning to England to teach philosophy in an all-boys boarding school in Cheltenham.  He played rugby for Belgium, earned two PhDs in philosophy with a keen interest in the German philosopher, Martin Heidegger and spoke 11 languages including Hebrew and Russian.  When I asked why Hebrew, he laughed and told me it helped him understand the bible better.

When I was getting married, we did not want a mass as part of the ceremony but met huge opposition from the conservative elements in both families.  Uncle John did everything he could to accommodate our wishes.  He said that the mass was not actually part of the marriage ceremony but despite his sweet manner and his considerable diplomatic skills they refused to be persuaded.  We caved and included the mass.  Uncle John however, got the last word.  As part of his speech in the church he said, “You Catholics in Ireland.  It’s like those people who want chips with everything, so it is with some Catholics and mass; you feel the occasion is incomplete without it.”   At the end of the church ceremony, Uncle John turned to our guests and announced, "And now they are married, let's give them a big clap."  I loved that part.  The conservative elements of the family didn't approve of that either.

On Valentine’s Day in 1994, my uncle in Cork died.  Uncle John officiated at the funeral.  This uncle and aunt holidayed every summer in West Cork and loved having visitors.  Uncle John told us all the story of how at the end of one such visit, my cousin, Kathleen Anne presented my aunt with a huge potted plant.  Kathleen Anne’s boyfriend, not wishing to leave out my uncle, dashed out to the porch and returned with a cactus.  We held our breath.  Uncle John continued, “And you know, to the world, Arthur was sometimes like a cactus; prickly and difficult to get to know.”  We laughed. 

One of his favourite stories from his time as Parish Priest in Cheltenham was when a retired Major rang him on the telephone.  “Padre,” said the Major, “what’s the drill?  Got to bury the wife. Dead you know.”

Uncle John loved all my jokes even the rude ones.  The last time I saw him was in May 2018.  My mother and I travelled over to Reading to join our English cousins in celebrating his birthday in a pub garden near his monastery.  Sitting under an oak tree beside a busy canal on an absolutely stunning summer’s day, I whispered to him my latest joke about an Irish couple adopting a German baby girl.  He loved it.

Mum told me he took his vow of poverty seriously and handed over his monthly teaching salary to the monastery.  He was always putting other people first and had the gift of making the vulnerable feel heard.  

Uncle John was easy to be with, he was always pleasant company.    All his nieces and nephews loved him even those that were completely disaffected by the church.  He took an interest in everybody which made it easy for people to relate to him.

I will miss him.