How barren life is at times! How parched the soil! How devoid of hope…
Sometimes the well of hope isn’t just dry. It’s full of bloody serpents.
I know.
You pull up a bucket, lean forward for water and instead you get a full-fanged bite in the face.
The last thing we think of then is magic.
Actually, that’s not true. It wasn’t the lists that made me ill, it was my failure to live up to them.
To Do Lists used to be a constant reminder of my inability to make the basics work. I knew they were proven to be a good thing. I knew the key elements of a good one.
Prioritisation.
Realistic timeframes.
Chunking down tasks.
I knew the To Do List instructions. I just couldn’t follow them. As soon as an item joined my list every fibre of my being seemed to rebel against the doing of it. A core ‘I’m inadequate,’ belief was calling the shots, colouring my view, forcing my hand.
I’d write the list with a sigh and then sabotage all attempts to follow it. I can’t tell you how often a day would end without my reaching number one on the blessed thing…
A busy working mum takes her child into the supermarket. He’s a tall boy of seven, with dark, intelligent eyes, a puppy dog smile and a slight lisp when he speaks.
A casual observer would see the boy charging up and down aisles with the energy of a springer spaniel — keen to be involved, full of grins and noisy with it.
A closer look would show us something slightly odd. Each time the boy returns to his mother’s side, he thrusts his left hand in her face. The hand is grubby, inked with letters. The third time the hand flashes in front of her, the bemused woman reads the word he’s written there in pen:
“Sorry”
…The misery of lack…
Alexis de Tocqueville’s observation in 1831, traveling the “new world” of America:
“I have seen the freest and best educated of men in the happiest circumstances the world can afford; yet it seemed that a cloud hung on their brow and they appeared serious and almost sad […] because they never stopped thinking of the good things they have not yet got.”
I don’t know about you, but I have spent a lifetime being tortured by seemingly out-of-reach desires. So much so that I couldn’t enjoy any of the things I already had. I have lived a rich and beautiful life: snorkelling, diving, martial arts, writing, teaching, learning, theatre, singing, dance and more, all bathed in the deep abiding love of my husband and my friends.
The fact is, there is no worse feeling than the despair of not being able to be, do or have what we want. It may sound like spoiled toddler thinking, but it runs through every moment of human existence. We have desires. Unless we reach Nirvana — ‘extinguishing’ the suffering cycle, we are faced with the reality of restless energy ever seeking more.
Addictive and double-edged; when we believe we can fulfil desires, we feel wonderful. Exaltation. Jubilation. Life is exciting. A thrilling ride. But the buzz of achieving one dream can become an endless chase for more, bigger, better… These desires, run rampant, can rot a life of luxury as well we all know.
When desires feel like needs, when we feel unsafe because of our perceived lack, it‘s torture.
Three steps to making friends with your fear…
Hurtling towards the rocks as the Dordogne opened out into a massive toothy grin, I wondered if taking a lesson or two might have been wise before leaping into this kayak for my virgin trip.
Don’t hit that great big rock, don’t hit that great big rock, don’t hit that…. bloody hell.
All my ‘don’t-ing’ drew me (of course) to the biggest rock of the bunch, with the force of a junkyard, car-lifting magnet. I was about to be scrapped.
I remember an insane prioritising of sandals over paddle as the kayak crunched and capsized. I grabbed for my footwear as the boulder bit and I watched the blade swoosh away on the current… Well, at least I wouldn’t die without footwear…
It was pure comedy: a Tik Tok clip of a flock of 30 ducks or more, pouring out of their shed like noisy molasses, onto the surrounding sloped land, only to discover unexpected snow. To a bird, they responded as one.
First, scanning the weirdly white world, heads swivelled in alarm as the flock stood still. They shared a brief ‘What the f**k?!’ moment as they registered the shocking state of affairs.
Then, at a three-quarter flap, their fluid formation turned on its communal webbed heel, flowing right back up the little hill and into the safety and warmth of the shelter.
The whole thing was over in less than a minute. The birds moved like liquid, all as one, of one mind, with one response to this frozen world of crunchy white.
I’m still grinning. It feels like it should be a child’s game, Duck, Duck Dare…
But where am I going with this?
Well, nearly right back into the shed, in truth.
