Penguin Books

MAY

Now then, I have to confess that I am that person who, if you say the word ‘mindfulness’, might make a sucky-lemon face, so cynical am I. My friend Ruby Wax, who writes so well about all that, has changed my thinking. A bit. But on the whole, I can’t be doing with prescriptive quasi-Buddhist new-age lessons-in-life stuff. I know proper mindfulness isn’t that, but still. I love a bit of wisdom or advice or the odd metaphor, oh yes I do, but moving ‘towards the light’ is dangerous ground for me. If I find it absurd, I find it funny and thus utterly dispensable, that’s the problem. It’s a curse sometimes, because my desire to enjoy the laugh is greater than my desire to find the deeper meaning, however much the latter might be tons better for me. I do want to learn new profound things but I don’t want to learn them from an ocean-going wanker. Sorry to be strict about this, but life is too interesting to have my focus pulled away from it by some airy fairy long-winded esoteric twot. Say something original and I am yours, I will respect you forever. I will wash your car, I will wash your feet, I will wash your mother. Waste my precious time with twaddle and I will put you closer to your God, I swear it.

Mindful? My mind is already full, thank you. Full of vet appointments, work deadlines and fantasy pasty fillings. Why would I want it to be even fuller?

I know, I know, but … you know what I mean? I haven’t got the TIME to be mindful, I’m bleddy busy, like all of us.

And anyway, I like my mind being busy – being busy is living. All of the appointments that fill up this VERY diary mean so many things to me:

I am loved.

I am loving someone.

I am loving lots of someones.

I am working.

I am looking after my teeth.

I am remembering.

I am needed.

I don’t want to stop being busy. Busy is rather beautiful and being told to be otherwise is yet another of those unachievable goals that leave me feeling hopeless, like being a Kardashian or spiralizing, or vajazzling. We are all busy. Let’s NOT stop. It’s great!

YES, YES, YES, to all that.

BUT …

Here’s the thing. I am not advocating that we remove the busy clutter of our lives. That’s my energy, my purpose, I just don’t want to be OVERWHELMED by it, that’s all. I want to notice it, I don’t want to miss anything simply because my diary’s too full, and my head’s too frenetic.

I know something very key about myself which is this: the small stuff is my favourite stuff, but it’s the first stuff to drop off the edge of a busy life unless you pay attention. I want to sit up and be alert so’s I register and enjoy all that lovely small stuff.

Recently, an older woman I admire a lot told a story in my earshot. It went like this: she was a young girl when her father taught her how to row a boat. They rowed together in the river and he showed her how to use the oars. The time came for her to row the boat on her own. He stayed on the shore and she tentatively rowed out into the middle of the river. She was doing OK until quite suddenly the weather changed. The wind picked up, dark storm clouds came in and pelted the little boat with rods of rain. She was very scared on the choppy river, and shouted to her father to tell him so. From the shore, and over the din of the storm, she hears his voice booming out, instructing her to ‘Sit still, hold tight, look up!’ She followed this advice, calmed down and eventually rowed back to the safety of the shore and her father’s arms. She explained that these three simple instructions became a sort of mantra she has carried with her ever since, and she has found them hugely useful to remember, especially if you’re in a pickle.

It’s exactly what I need to remember to do. It helps me to be steady.

I heard that story around the time that I decided to start a new habit, and on reflection, they are connected. I love that kind of congruence, when a couple of seemingly random things float together in a perfect timely fusion.

A habit sounds like a bad thing. This isn’t. It’s a wonderful thing, and it started one May morning when I was out walking my old (now, sadly, dead) dog, Dolly. We walked up the familiar hill near our home, through a narrow lane with overhanging trees bordered by stone walls with primroses poking through. On one side of the track there is a steep bank with a row of houses above. On the opposite side is a deep, wooded valley. There are various breaks in the wall where you can escape the well-trodden path and dart into the woods. I have often done this and I have enjoyed the fact that I am near enough to the track to hear the passers-by. Sometimes, if their frequency is right, I can hear EVERY WORD they say! I know you shouldn’t eavesdrop … yeah … but I do, and I like it.

Anyway, on this one occasion, I was in the valley, clambering over a huge fallen tree trunk, and there was a fabulous shagpile of bluebells all around. The sunlight was flickering through the tall beech trees and dancing mischievously on the cobalt flowers and it was breathtaking. I was overcome with a sudden desire to lie down, so I did. Dolly was a bit confused; this was highly unusual, but she was ancient and tired so didn’t resist. There was a nip in the May morning air, but it was dry so I lowered myself on to the crunchy forest floor, trying not to crush any precious plants, and I lay still, right next to the big thick tree, my dog breathing steadily by my side and I looked up.

Up.

Up through the leafy canopy to where I could see chunks of blue sky beyond. I rarely see this sight and it was gorgeous, surreal. Why had I not done this every single day, such a simple achievable instant hit of natural beauty, right on my doorstep? Never mind the phenomenal eye Beauty, the ear Beauty, nose Beauty, fingertips Beauty and ultimately the heart Beauty were ALL tickled awake. As my quickened-from-fast-walking heartbeat slowly slowed down, along with my breath, so my spirits rose, and a sublime calm flooded into me. My body, mind and heart were all ticking at exactly the same rhythm. Then my breathing deepened, and I felt like I was sinking backwards, downwards into the bracken underneath me. Sinking yet supported, I just surrendered to the vast perfect peace of it all. The stillness was the loveliest part. ‘True silence is to the spirit what sleep is to the body – nourishment and refreshment’ – W.Penn. To be still, silent and awake rather than asleep was a revelation.

I loved

loved

loved it.

And now it’s my ‘habit’ and I try to do it as often as possible, sneak into private places, lie down, look up, and find some minutes to travel inwards a bit, give my head time to hear my own quiet inner voice, normally so muted by loud living. That’s when I remember things I’ve forgotten, and when I allow distant nagging suspicions to be heard. My best creative and instinctive thinking happens then, when it’s just me and nature, and silence. Not a single second of the silences I’ve known has been a waste of my time. It’s been the BEST use, because in those stillnesses I have allowed myself to plumb and dredge some hope and optimism up from the sediment of deep fundamental places I don’t ordinarily visit. I am truthful in these moments. As truthful as I can bear.

‘You are never more essentially yourself, than when you are still’

Eckhart Tolle

There’s no doubt that if you can find a few minutes to leave space where words usually live, thoughts can come and inhabit that same place. Of course, it’s not always totally silent. Our world isn’t.

But I am silent. So then not only can I think, but I can also listen. And not not not talk.

Oh, it’s such a fantastic rest.

And it’s such a release to let my heart unpeel, and to sit quietly with my sadnesses and my joys, uninterrupted by the loud squawking need for instant reactivity. I don’t know about you, but I am always feeling the need to react immediately to everything. We are all so impatient, my blood boils over the tiniest little wait. I have forgotten somehow that I am utterly entitled to some peace and calm because without it, I will boil over.

The absolute best thing about lying down and looking up is that if you can gently moderate your breathing and clear your mind of silly insistent petty stuff, those terrier thoughts that constantly nip at your brain, you can view the real world from the underneath, so to speak. As if you’re at the bottom of the ocean where, even if there’s a ferocious storm up above, all is muted and calm on the sea bed.

Now, don’t mistake this quiet for air and light and froth only. Silence is potent and can be muscular. I have found strength in silent moments to sit down hard on any angers or hatreds or jealousies. I have confronted some demons there and I have managed to process my difficult stuff through the filters of the silence. It really is powerful, and I can’t be without it, because, the truth is, my inner compass is only activated when I give it the time and the quiet. It’s a delicate mechanism that can’t work well when jolted about.

Of course, the true balance happens when there is a lovely noisy life as well as a lovely quiet life. Some of the noise is utter joy, like when your kids laugh till they fart, or when you’re ALL singing along to Adele in the car, or when someone is frothing milk for your coffee, or when THAT person’s footfall is on your stairs.

Noise is good.

Silence is gooder.

That’s all.

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