Not writing is just as hard as writing

I have a frequently-used hashtag – #TheSimpleThings.

Capital ‘t’, capital ‘s’, capital ‘t’.

A title.

An idea that guides what I do and how I do it … most of the time.

At work I want to know the what, why, how. In life I am trying to be more instinctive, less wedded to self-constructed rules based on social expectation. I am trying to understand, and be true to, what works best for me.

And The Simple Things include playing with words … writing.

But not just writing. Writing something of value

(def: value = impact)

The only trouble is – I don’t know what to write about.

There are too many words in the word – spoken and written – that offer no value. That are thrown, like salt, into an already over-salted soup killing the nuance, the sweetness.

And I don’t want to add to the existing cacophony; I don’t want to add to a recipe collection, or reminisce previous travel, or review the ideas of others …

So what ‘value’ to provide … what value can be plated up and served for impact?

?

??

… so no writing. Until I’ve found something ‘worthy’ to write about.

But ‘not writing’ doesn’t mean that my brain has switched off to the idea of writing. As instinctive as the flight/fight response, it identifies potential subject matter and discards the same within moments.

Searching for value without finding any.

 

 

Why is it SO hard to find …

RosePink

… something that I LOVE doing?

Yes, the capitals were required.

Yes, the frustration is real.

I want to work in the agricultural / food sector … or back in the wine sector …

These are the elements that make me smile.

I want to connect French and beauty and food and wine and writing and travelling and intelligent, thought-provoking, energy-giving conversation and like minds and public speaking and innovation and work with purpose and blank sheets of paper and strategising and leading …

with a good income …

I want to muse and mull and develop and pilot.

I want to connect dots.

… for an idea that I am inspired by …

 

…and in the trying to find this something, this thing  to ‘love’, this thing that will feed my soul … I am … nowhere …

… or, rather, I am in a maze of mirrors- staring at my own reflection … trying to decide whether there’s a hidden door or next step forward or whether retracing my path is a better course …

Everyone talks about their ‘passion’ … very few talk about how hard it was to identify.

 

Joy in the shared table

Maslow’s hierarchy of needs is not so much a hierarchy as a two tiered sponge cake …

The physiological needs – food, water, shelter – on which all other needs rely; the base and always the thicker twin of any cut sponge.

Self-actualisation; the top and invariably the more fragile, threatening to break until safely set in place.

And then the middle cream and jam; with time and ambient temperature, a fruit-punctuated mousse – those deficiency needs of Maslow’s: safety (personal, financial and health), love/belonging (friendship, family and intimacy) and esteem (respect from others and self).

New theories sensing that none are more, or less, important, that the other.

And as I was looking down at the needs – whether offered as the traditional pyramid or the less-traditional sponge – I was reminded of the value of a shared table; how a shared table could meet all of these needs, or assist in the meeting if all of these needs.

Food is such a large part of my life – but the majority of my meals are eaten alone …

… what, then, the impacts?

 

 

 

A defined ‘perfect’ and making space

Over the last few days I have been striving for an answer … sitting, thinking, mulling, pondering, musing, speculating, cogitating, evaluating, reasoning, rationalising, brooding, stewing … digging … tangling … muddying … sticking …

My question – “What do I want to do … with this blog?”

This question mirrors a second one that replaces “this blog” with “my life”; but that’s for later.

Do I want to investigate ethical, delicious, ‘well’-infusing eating? Do I want to concentrate on exploring what brings ‘joy’ in life? Do I want to empower and highlight women? Do I want to incorporate more beauty into my own life? Do I want to offer my creativity an outlet? Do I want to connect, and connect with, like-minds through writing? Do I want to spark change? Do I want to create value?

Yes.

Yes x 8.

… and now … how …

?

And I sat down again … and again … and felt frustration rise again … and again …

And before, Reader, you think that there’s going to be an answer at the end of this particular entry – let me disabuse you of this possibility now – I still have no idea. Feel free to continue … or leave me here …

But tonight I went to yoga; a class that I can’t usually arrive at in time.

5pm – a work-obligated impossibility.

But tonight I was home – and was pulled towards the unknown – teacher and class at the Gertrude Street Yoga Centre.

I am attracted by the unknown … but not to the unknown … an interesting dichotomy.

I’m not sure if I’ve written about this before, but I  have never really liked yoga.

#Confession

I was first introduced at a ‘School’ of yoga – what seems like an aeon ago. I was in one of the first formative years of University, a gym-goer (to lose weight) and looking for something to feed soul as well as body. I decided that yoga was it.

Yoga was not it.

I am a perfectionist by nature. I do things, I do them well. This often stops me from beginning – but it always pushes me to the end, once begun.

This school taught ‘correct’ posture, ‘correct’ breath, ‘correct’ mind emptiness. It gave me an excellent grounding in yoga practice that assists me still – even in the class of today.  But it also gave me something to strive for …

… shoulders a touch further back. Hips a touch squarer. Press palms into the mat, knuckles down. Hips higher. Neck an elongation of the spine … straighter … longer … Heels down. Chest out.

There was a defined ‘perfect’.

Quite the stressor.

And so my long, often stressful, relationship\. I was attracted to the idea of fluid movement, extended body, mind flow … but could never quite ‘accomplish’ it …

But tonight there was a question asked with every pose “Does it feel comfortable?” and the ideas of ‘making space’ and ‘taking space’ that resonated.

I realised that each posture is a way of filling my space. Taking up space. Elongating. Extending. Feeling every muscle …

And I realised that in each posture, comfort was the most important element – but ‘comfort’ in my own skin. ‘Perfect’ was nothing other than that which I …

in the ‘me, my self, I’ /no-one else / just me, context …

feel.

Some days, I know that I want to curl, to hug, to be as small as I can be … to feel as little as possible … and those days I allow my self from time to time … but I also know that they aren’t good for me long term …

And today, I wanted to create my own space – to breathe through movement and to feel every muscle; to let go.

So today – I did.

And today, I ended an hour feeling like molten gold – golden-hued fluidity, enduring, assured that where I was and how I was is perfect.

So – in letting go – I found what I was looking for in my yoga practice. In letting go, I found the sensation that had attracted me in the first place.

And in relation to the blog – and, indeed, my life, I haven’t quite worked out how I can do all of the above … but I do have more faith that an answer will present itself if I stop searching for it and simply make space for it to arrive.

Tadasana

 

 

 

 

 

 

How to soak up the last vestiges of Summer …

I dread winter – the ease with which I can hibernate, curl up into myself, isolate. Summer offers a brightness that cajoles openness, connection; warmth-created contentment and ease … remnants to capture and store; memorise in order to recall.

HOW TO: Soak up the last vestiges of Summer

Wander slowly to a space that offers sunshine and a park bench.

Turn the mind inward, invite each of the five senses on a stroll through the outside.

SummerPanorama

Today I am lucky; today I walked slowly up from the coffee shop towards sunshine end-of-street; today there was no-one straddling, sitting, or otherwise commandeering a spot whose back rest sits at a 45 degree angle from upright and whose legs rest offers a chaise longue-like comfort.

Rest back. Face skyward.

Feel … radiant, bone-level warmth not yet dulled by autumn; the hard, cool, wooden seat bench, timber planks marking back and legs; insistent breeze.

Hear  … birds settling in; telephone conversations – fragmented; off-key tram bell; whizz of unbraking bicycle.

Taste … the history of coffee.

Smell … city perfume – melange of garbage, tree-green and people; sticky sugar from a half-empty can.

See … Tree trunk – red painted; bitumen footpath, grotty, butted; bicycle – gravity-pulled down the hill; advertising-wallpapered building facade; bicycle – leg-pushed up the hill; clear blue …

Eyes follow a Father Christmas; flirted with by the breeze.

Lean back – sun-bathed face, sun-kissed arms.

click

Captured warmth of Summer.

Memory stored.

 

SummerToSee

Masks and fragmentation

I entered the yoga studio feeling fragmented.

To be fair, I was on the verge of illness the level of which makes one question whether one should lounge or take to action; whether it would be socially irresponsible to extend the bug to others, or equally irresponsible to ignore the personal requirement of daily exercise …

… fragmented.

Nonetheless, in response to the question, “how are you?” my automated response was given – “fine – thanks”.

An alternate reality.

A facade.

A mask.

Masks are barriers to connection.

They are instinctively established and instinctively felt.

I protect myself from you. You sense my mistrust.

The yoga class today introduce the idea of dropping down into reality – pain, discomfort, strength, power, light …

Dropping into reality … carefully setting aside the mask.

“How are you?”

“I moved to a new city in search of a career-orientated north star. The bright light that I thought that I saw … so wanted to see … was the shimmer of sun ray off metal – bright, attention-grabbing … fleeting.

And I am still here.

Still searching for the north star.

I feel a little lost and the people that I trust with my self are on the end of fibre optic cable, and I need face-to-face.

My apartment is soon to be sold which means the one small root that I had shot down into this life is going to be pulled up.

And my dating story is not being assisted by modern technology …

So – I’m feeling a little like I don’t belong …

a little fragmented

… but thankyou for asking.”