Yesterday, I read the latest post by Nimue Brown on the wonderful Druid Life blog: Where is my inspiration?
It struck several very deep chords with me.
For the best part of a couple of years, my day job has been increasingly stressful and pressured and has demanded more and more of me both intellectually and emotionally. During that time, it’s been increasingly difficult to find the inspiration to get new personal projects going. And when I have found something I want to say, I’ve tried to weigh up honestly whether I feel that someone else has said it already, or said it better. If they have, then where's the use in my writing about it, too?
And then, there’s the feeling that, as Nimue says, I could be doing something more useful with my remaining energy! And when I take a look at what others are doing, I tend to agree with Nimue's assessment that ‘The world has more writers than it needs...’.
(But then, there is, for me, the pull of poetry. It’s always been my first love in writing terms; it is the one thing I manage to keep going and is the one thing I think I’m reasonably good at. If there is to be a book with my name on it one day, I think it would be poetry.)
I continue to wrestle with the best way to balance the ideas in my head, the desires in my heart, and the time and energy available to me. Perhaps, for now, I should just see where these feelings are taking me; perhaps the inspiration (the Awen) will return. In the meantime, Nimue's post has helped me to feel less guilty and anxious about my lack of motivation and inspiration. For that, for now, I am thankful.
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stress. Show all posts
Wednesday, 1 March 2017
Wednesday, 18 January 2017
Distracted
Over recent months I've been noticing that I find it harder to maintain my concentration. Yes, I'm getting older and, yes, I have a job where there are dozens of things going on at any one time, but this is something different...
For example: I'm sitting in the lounge and watching a film, and an actor I recognise comes onto the screen. 'What else have I seen him in?' I ask myself, and in a matter of moments I have a tablet computer in my hand and I'm googling to find the actor's career history. Once I discover that, I'm then onto Amazon to see how much some of his other films cost to own on DVD.
This leads me to the 'Customers who bought this also bought...' section, and before I've realised it, twenty minutes have passed. And all the while, the film I was watching has carried on playing. I turn my attention back to the film, but this time the tablet stays on my lap, just in case.
I'm increasingly distracted, disconnected; I can't seem to do just one thing any more. And this leaves me feeling dissatisfied and empty. Lots of information, very little engagement.
In her wonderful article 'On time, technology, and a celebration of slowness', Terri Windling writes:
For example: I'm sitting in the lounge and watching a film, and an actor I recognise comes onto the screen. 'What else have I seen him in?' I ask myself, and in a matter of moments I have a tablet computer in my hand and I'm googling to find the actor's career history. Once I discover that, I'm then onto Amazon to see how much some of his other films cost to own on DVD.
This leads me to the 'Customers who bought this also bought...' section, and before I've realised it, twenty minutes have passed. And all the while, the film I was watching has carried on playing. I turn my attention back to the film, but this time the tablet stays on my lap, just in case.
I'm increasingly distracted, disconnected; I can't seem to do just one thing any more. And this leaves me feeling dissatisfied and empty. Lots of information, very little engagement.
In her wonderful article 'On time, technology, and a celebration of slowness', Terri Windling writes:
Nearly everyone I know feels that some quality of concentration they once possessed has been destroyed. Reading books has become hard; the mind keeps wanting to shift from whatever it is paying attention to to pay attention to something else. A restlessness has seized hold of many of us, a sense that we should be doing something else, no matter what we are doing, or doing at least two things at once, or going to check some other medium.
It’s an anxiety about keeping up, about not being left out or getting behind.
This is very much akin to how I feel: as Terri Windling says, I fear being left behind, not getting enough done. Why simply watch a movie when I could half-watch it, and browse the web at the same time? Why merely call a colleague on the phone, when I could simultaneously read and reply to my emails? Why give all my attention to a conversation with my wife after dinner, when I could also have one eye on my Facebook feed?
At least I am aware of this, but something has to give. Multi-tasking is an empty promise which yields half-hearted, shallow results. As Terri Windling goes on to say:
The cult of productivity has its place, but worshipping at its altar daily robs us of the very capacity for joy and wonder that makes life worth living.
Joy and wonder. That, I know, is what I'm seeking. May I learn to walk slowly enough, that I may find it.
Monday, 6 June 2016
(Radio) Silence
I was listening to the Today programme on R4 this morning. Just before it ended, there were a few seconds of silence which were, in fact, part of the link to a brief article about silence.
The bulk of the article was an interview with Dr Helen Lees who spoke about the importance of silence in our lives. In her responses, Dr Lees mentioned a forthcoming film about this topic, called In Pursuit of Silence, in which she features. The trailer for the film (below) is astonishing...
Just watching the couple of minutes of the film trailer started me on a train of thought in which I realised how little silence - real silence - there is in my life. There is, I suspect, a strong link between that fact and the lack of stillness, peace and 'belonging' which I often feel.
The film is due to show in only one place in the UK, and I think that a trip to the US to see it is probably beyond my means. I wait for the film to be released on DVD in due course and, in the meantime, seek out some of the silence which it celebrates.
The bulk of the article was an interview with Dr Helen Lees who spoke about the importance of silence in our lives. In her responses, Dr Lees mentioned a forthcoming film about this topic, called In Pursuit of Silence, in which she features. The trailer for the film (below) is astonishing...
Just watching the couple of minutes of the film trailer started me on a train of thought in which I realised how little silence - real silence - there is in my life. There is, I suspect, a strong link between that fact and the lack of stillness, peace and 'belonging' which I often feel.
The film is due to show in only one place in the UK, and I think that a trip to the US to see it is probably beyond my means. I wait for the film to be released on DVD in due course and, in the meantime, seek out some of the silence which it celebrates.
Monday, 21 December 2015
Coming home - again
The last few weeks have been more stressful than usual. A cold-type virus which lasted nearly a fortnight, and a very heavy workload have meant that my regular yoga practice hasn't been at the top of my to-do list. Indeed, I began to think that my yoga practice could easily take a back seat for a while.
I was wrong.
For the first few days, my not practising meant that I could squeeze in a few more emails, or finish off another piece of written work. It also meant that I didn't have to slow down. But I soon began to notice how restless my mind was, and the extent to which my thoughts were occupied with nothing but work. Not good.
I also began to feel guilty about not taking time out for yoga. Why would I let something I love drift away? Where was my commitment, my discipline? What would happen if I didn't start up again?
Then I remembered this article, which reminded me what I was missing, and why it was important to restore the balance.
So today, I unrolled my mat, and came home again.
And as I began to move, and to find the breath in my body, I realised that yoga is always there, waiting for us to come back to it. There is no judgement and no demand for explanation; rather there is a welcome and the reminder that we are mind, body and spirit.
It was good to be home.
I was wrong.
For the first few days, my not practising meant that I could squeeze in a few more emails, or finish off another piece of written work. It also meant that I didn't have to slow down. But I soon began to notice how restless my mind was, and the extent to which my thoughts were occupied with nothing but work. Not good.
I also began to feel guilty about not taking time out for yoga. Why would I let something I love drift away? Where was my commitment, my discipline? What would happen if I didn't start up again?
Then I remembered this article, which reminded me what I was missing, and why it was important to restore the balance.
So today, I unrolled my mat, and came home again.
And as I began to move, and to find the breath in my body, I realised that yoga is always there, waiting for us to come back to it. There is no judgement and no demand for explanation; rather there is a welcome and the reminder that we are mind, body and spirit.
It was good to be home.
Wednesday, 13 May 2015
Walking back to happiness
In the last few weeks, something in Nature has changed. Or, rather, practically everything in Nature has changed. Alternate days of very warm and wet weather over recent weeks has notched the setting of the garden up to 'lush'. There is now so much more of it! Every branch is feathered with leaves, and blossom hangs heavy, tempting sleepy bees and promising fruit.
Something changes in me, too. Outside is now where I want to be. This desk, which was a welcome observation point in the winter and early spring, is now a burden. The Earth is trading its energy with the Sun, and I feel that I want in on the deal.
So I take the quickest and easiest route I can think of: I head out into the garden, barefoot. I've been doing this for several weeks, of course, but only as far as the clothes-line, with the washing basket in my arms. The feel of the damp grass has been pleasing, but the trip has merely been a means to an end. This time, the journey is the beginning, middle and end.
In a sense, that is the most important part: I am walking for the sake of walking, and for the sake of knowing that I am walking. I am not going anywhere, I am just going. And I want to feel the journey, however short it may be, and to feel myself present on the earth.
As I walk, I feel the transaction between my feet and the earth. I feel that there is an energy, a presence, a life beneath my feet. I am aware of temperature, texture and traction. There is a give and take, an adjusting of pressure in each footstep, an awareness of the difference between stone and leaf.
There is a sense also that I am empowered: I have chosen to walk barefoot, and to attempt to become more conscious of the natural environment. The busy world laughs at those who go barefoot, or is embarrassed by them, but those who choose to do so discern something of the richness that is gained only when we remove our shoes and dare to stand barefoot on sacred ground.
Walking barefoot reminds us that we are part of this world, connected to this earth. It makes the link that is missing when we wear shoes - that there is a slower, more mindful way of going through life, one that takes notice, one that feels, one that concentrates on things one step at a time.
Something changes in me, too. Outside is now where I want to be. This desk, which was a welcome observation point in the winter and early spring, is now a burden. The Earth is trading its energy with the Sun, and I feel that I want in on the deal.
So I take the quickest and easiest route I can think of: I head out into the garden, barefoot. I've been doing this for several weeks, of course, but only as far as the clothes-line, with the washing basket in my arms. The feel of the damp grass has been pleasing, but the trip has merely been a means to an end. This time, the journey is the beginning, middle and end.
 | |
| Onto the grass - in the presence of Dandelions |
In a sense, that is the most important part: I am walking for the sake of walking, and for the sake of knowing that I am walking. I am not going anywhere, I am just going. And I want to feel the journey, however short it may be, and to feel myself present on the earth.
As I walk, I feel the transaction between my feet and the earth. I feel that there is an energy, a presence, a life beneath my feet. I am aware of temperature, texture and traction. There is a give and take, an adjusting of pressure in each footstep, an awareness of the difference between stone and leaf.
 |
| In the wood, with holly leaves, humus and stones |
There is a sense also that I am empowered: I have chosen to walk barefoot, and to attempt to become more conscious of the natural environment. The busy world laughs at those who go barefoot, or is embarrassed by them, but those who choose to do so discern something of the richness that is gained only when we remove our shoes and dare to stand barefoot on sacred ground.
 |
| The earth leaves its imprint on us, too |
Walking barefoot reminds us that we are part of this world, connected to this earth. It makes the link that is missing when we wear shoes - that there is a slower, more mindful way of going through life, one that takes notice, one that feels, one that concentrates on things one step at a time.
Thursday, 11 December 2014
A different season
There is something about this time of year that feels different. It's not just the onset of Christmas, nor even (for those that observe it) the preceding weeks of Advent, though it is connected to both of those seasons. I think that it's partly shaped by the change in the light (darker mornings and evenings, longer nights) and the weather (colder, wetter, greyer) - two things which I feel increasingly sensitive to. As these things change around us, I've noticed that I feel differently about certain everyday things. For example:
Music: at this time of year (it's currently mid-December) I find that I need to listen to quieter, older music. I veer towards voice-led pieces in minor keys - things that I imagine to have been originally sung in the hall of the Manor house at the edge of a deep wood, or sung around the Winter Solstice fire. Or I seek out solo voices singing lullabies which were written by moonlight on a lute. My usual playlist of 70s classic rock and progressive metal (it exists - look it up!) will not work at this time of year (except, perhaps, for a few tracks on the ever-wonderful Songs from the Wood): it's either too brash or too complex; too obvious or too new; too epic or too demanding.
Shops: a mixed blessing - at this time of year they need us, and we need them. But I sometimes find it hard to like anything they sell, or I begin to tell myself that I could make such-and-such an item myself for a fraction of the cost ('All I would need is six metres of red ribbon, four of purple, a dozen silver bells, a square metre of green felt, pine cones, holly leaves, driftwood, needles, strong thread, and an apprentice with three years' experience of theatre set design and I'd be done!'). More realistically, I find myself being drawn to things friends of mine have made with their own hands and are selling as gifts (God bless them, every one).
Work: for an Anglican priest this time of year is going to be busy: there are countless Advent and Christmas events and services, plus the preparation each once requires, to swiftly fill the diary. But there are still emails and meetings, rotas and reports, and it is these that feel the most draining, and which keep us out of step with the season. It feels that we would benefit more from being with people than from communicating at a distance; gain more from sitting together at tables than being occupied at desks. Whatever our work, could there be more giving of practical help and fewer online chores?
There seems to be something about this time of year that draws us to quieter and simpler things. Perhaps it's something to do with being in a season which throws us back onto our own resources a bit more. Or perhaps the stripped-back state of the natural world helps us to appreciate the richness of a hand-made item or the quietness of an ancient song? Or are we more inclined to invest ourselves in making and creating because it brings us back to the limits and opportunities of what and who we are as humans?
Music: at this time of year (it's currently mid-December) I find that I need to listen to quieter, older music. I veer towards voice-led pieces in minor keys - things that I imagine to have been originally sung in the hall of the Manor house at the edge of a deep wood, or sung around the Winter Solstice fire. Or I seek out solo voices singing lullabies which were written by moonlight on a lute. My usual playlist of 70s classic rock and progressive metal (it exists - look it up!) will not work at this time of year (except, perhaps, for a few tracks on the ever-wonderful Songs from the Wood): it's either too brash or too complex; too obvious or too new; too epic or too demanding.
Shops: a mixed blessing - at this time of year they need us, and we need them. But I sometimes find it hard to like anything they sell, or I begin to tell myself that I could make such-and-such an item myself for a fraction of the cost ('All I would need is six metres of red ribbon, four of purple, a dozen silver bells, a square metre of green felt, pine cones, holly leaves, driftwood, needles, strong thread, and an apprentice with three years' experience of theatre set design and I'd be done!'). More realistically, I find myself being drawn to things friends of mine have made with their own hands and are selling as gifts (God bless them, every one).
Work: for an Anglican priest this time of year is going to be busy: there are countless Advent and Christmas events and services, plus the preparation each once requires, to swiftly fill the diary. But there are still emails and meetings, rotas and reports, and it is these that feel the most draining, and which keep us out of step with the season. It feels that we would benefit more from being with people than from communicating at a distance; gain more from sitting together at tables than being occupied at desks. Whatever our work, could there be more giving of practical help and fewer online chores?
There seems to be something about this time of year that draws us to quieter and simpler things. Perhaps it's something to do with being in a season which throws us back onto our own resources a bit more. Or perhaps the stripped-back state of the natural world helps us to appreciate the richness of a hand-made item or the quietness of an ancient song? Or are we more inclined to invest ourselves in making and creating because it brings us back to the limits and opportunities of what and who we are as humans?
Thursday, 26 June 2014
Coming back to earth
Yesterday, I got myself very wound up over a work-related issue. It was one of those that begins in a meeting - things were said, things were not said - and then I carried the issue around with me for the rest of the day. Not only that, but I used the issue as a spring-board to imagine and develop other scenarios which might potentially cause trouble a little further down the line.
As the day drew to a close, I still had this issue whirling around my head. I couldn't shake it, and when I finally went to bed, I lay there running though it in my mind. Not good.
When I woke this morning I had the echoes and memory of yesterday's worry and stress. But today was my day off, and I dreaded the idea of carrying the issue around with me on what should be a work-free day. As the day looked like it would be sunny and warm, I decided that it was a good time to water the veggie garden before the sun got up.
First, I had a quick check of my Facebook feed, and came across this article posted by a good friend. Although I didn't read it all the way through at the time, I got the gist of it and decided to try it out: I watered the garden barefoot.
During the fifteen minutes of walking back and forth to fill the watering can, I found myself coming back to myself. I allowed my body to remind me of the things that are important to me: the garden, nature, creativity. The space and quiet of the early-morning garden, and the feel of the earth beneath my feet seemed to be healing the damage that yesterday's stress had caused. I remembered that I belong to the earth, and to myself, and that my work (even though it is important to me) does not define who I am.
So today has been about coming back to earth, returning to myself, reconnecting my mind and body. And next time I am in that meeting (and it will happen!) I will come home, take off my shoes, and pick up the watering can.
As the day drew to a close, I still had this issue whirling around my head. I couldn't shake it, and when I finally went to bed, I lay there running though it in my mind. Not good.
When I woke this morning I had the echoes and memory of yesterday's worry and stress. But today was my day off, and I dreaded the idea of carrying the issue around with me on what should be a work-free day. As the day looked like it would be sunny and warm, I decided that it was a good time to water the veggie garden before the sun got up.
First, I had a quick check of my Facebook feed, and came across this article posted by a good friend. Although I didn't read it all the way through at the time, I got the gist of it and decided to try it out: I watered the garden barefoot.
During the fifteen minutes of walking back and forth to fill the watering can, I found myself coming back to myself. I allowed my body to remind me of the things that are important to me: the garden, nature, creativity. The space and quiet of the early-morning garden, and the feel of the earth beneath my feet seemed to be healing the damage that yesterday's stress had caused. I remembered that I belong to the earth, and to myself, and that my work (even though it is important to me) does not define who I am.
So today has been about coming back to earth, returning to myself, reconnecting my mind and body. And next time I am in that meeting (and it will happen!) I will come home, take off my shoes, and pick up the watering can.
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