Well Becoming

Peanut Brittle

2018-09-09T16:09:36

This post is from my wife Sue

My mum and I loved peanut brittle . Expensive presents weren’t the order of the day growing up but once I started work one year I bought her a whole sweet jar full. And she still had all her own teeth!

Just recently I was quite sad as a good friend had been diagnosed with cancer So one of my daughters sent me a present to cheer me up. Included in it was a slice of peanut brittle. Suddenly I was smiling, going back through the years to my childhood. It wasn’t actually about the peanut brittle, that was just the catalyst. So what was it about? And what about those who don’t have ‘peanut brittle‘ memories to fall back on?

I was very lucky. There are so many little things that remind me how safe and valued I felt growing up, although we only realise these things retrospectively. The things that made me feel OK as a person, first as a child and later on as an adult.

But actually we are all okay as people. It’s just that if no-one helps us to realise that growing up we have to find ways of doing it for ourselves.

A very common way is not to remember anything: “Oh that’s in the past, for me it’s a bit of a blank “ Bit of a shame really as you are blocking out all the clever ways you managed to survive growing up in a difficult environment, all the things you managed to work out for yourself.

Or you only remember the bad things you were told or believed about yourself.

“My mother says I was born an angry child”. I don’t think so but it makes some sort of crazy sense if your life was not good.

And maybe the most complicated one to deal with as we get older, we pretend it was all OK!

So what can we do about all this?

Firstly, keep repeating to yourself my dad’s mantra: ”You’re as good as anyone and better than no one”. Never mind that you don’t quite believe it yet. Just keep saying it. It affects how you feel about yourself and other people. And how you treat yourself and other people: as equals.

Then if you’re past wasn’t good enough make sure your future is better. Work out the things that make you feel good. That’s not what other people think, it’s what you think. I mean going swimming fills me with fear and dread. For someone else it’s a fantastic way to relax.

And it doesn’t matter what it is you like. Train spotting, watching Coronation Street, computer games, doing nothing. All valid if it’s your choice. Rebuild your world as you want it. And yes, I know it’s not always that easy. But remember the mantra – you’re as good as anyone and better than no one.

Go on, you deserve it!

Stage 6: Delight

2018-04-15T08:23:06

Today we complete our journey from despair to delight, with six of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ sonnets as our travel guide. To celebrate, we share his pleasure in his own favourite poem, The Windhover:

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
      dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
      Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
      As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
      Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing.

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
      Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

      No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
      Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

This sonnet really does work best when you read it out loud. It takes a few goes to get the rhythm of it, especially the first few lines. Do try it yourself - you’ll soon find you are flying with the falcon, up and down, barely taking a breath until the first full stop arrives, half way though line seven.

Then you can have a rest and check out some of the words and images. In line 2,’ dauphin’ means ‘crown prince’. In line 6 the imagery is ice-skating – for us today it could as easily be skiing in the Alps, or surfing the waves of Cornwall. Lines 9-11 give the image of the prince on horseback fastening (buckling) together his armour. In lines 12-13, ‘plough down sillion shine’ refers to the way that soil, when turned over by a plough, becomes big and shiny. In the final line, ‘gall’ means graze or scrape, and ‘gold-vermilion’ is the colour of fire, or fresh blood.

Hopkins used the word inscape to refer to the charged essence of a thing (a tree, a landscape, a sunset or – in this case – a falcon); the absolute individuality that gives each thing its being, its uniqueness, its sanctity, its purpose in the world. He created a second word, instress, to refer to the energy that holds the thing together and – importantly – to the impulse which carries it whole into the mind of the person seeing it. His heart stirs for the falcon, he is at one with it in its mastery of the air.

We can gain profound courage from this sonnet. The beauty and joy of the falcon, ecstatically riding the wind, infuses with his energy not only Hopkins the poet but also ourselves the readers. It prompts us to celebrate those moments in our own lives when we feel effortlessly magnificent and free.

He inspires us to believe in a glittering luminous core to our own being - a core not crushed by the ‘sheer plod’ of our daily activities, but brought by them to the surface, honed and sparkling in the sun.

And all this in full awareness that our existence is precious but precarious; that danger or death may be lurking around the corner. An awareness that only heightens the intensity of our joy for life in the present moment.

Stage 5: Comfort of Others

2018-04-13T07:28:43

We’ve now reached stage 5 of our travels with Gerard Manley Hopkins – and here we find his sonnet Felix Randal.

Felix Randal the farrier, O is he dead then? my duty all ended,

Who have watched his mould of man, big-boned and hardy-handsome

Pining, pining, till time when reason rambled in it, and some

Fatal four disorders, fleshed there, all contended?

Sickness broke him. Impatient, he cursed at first, but mended

Being anointed and all; though a heavenlier heart began some

Months earlier, since I had our sweet reprieve and ransom

Tendered to him. Ah well, God rest him all road ever he offended!

This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears.

My tongue had taught thee comfort, touch had quenched thy tears,

Thy tears that touched my heart, child, Felix, poor Felix Randal;

How far from then forethought of, all thy more boisterous years,

When thou at the random grim forge, powerful amidst peers,

Didst fettle for the great grey drayhorse his bright and battering sandal.

This poem is about the life and the death of a Liverpool blacksmith, whose real name was Felix Spencer. He died of pulmonary tuberculosis at the age of 31 - the average life expectancy in Liverpool at that time.

It may seems strange that I’m suggesting a poem about death and dying can help us on our journey from despair to delight, but I really think it can.

A few words and phrases may need explaining first. In line 4, ‘fatal four disorders’ probably refers to the Catholic notion that there are four elements of original sin. In line 13, ‘random’ means built of rough stone. In line 14 ‘fettle’ means ‘make ready’, and ‘sandal’ is a classical term for an early form of horseshoe.

I find a very strong affinity with Hopkins throughout this poem. He wrote it just a few minutes’ walk from my University office, where I am sitting right now. So it feels particularly real and tangible to me.

For me it resonates strongly with the real world relationships I enjoy as a family doctor today. His vivid description of Felix crumbling in the face of disease. His application of the best evidence-based care (though for Hopkins his evidence comes from Catholic doctrine, not NICE Guidelines). His bearing witness to Felix the man, ‘powerful amidst peers’ in his ‘more boisterous years’.

But above all, in the mutual benefits that derive from his care of Felix as his death approaches. I find the heart of this sonnet is in lines 8 to 10: ‘This seeing the sick endears them to us, us too it endears’. Sight, words, touch and tears - all shared, in a beautiful reciprocity.

This is an opportunity for all of us.

Connecting and giving are two of the Five Ways to Wellbeing. We can recognize – and accept as entirely reasonable and legitimate - that we ourselves receive comfort, a greater sense of wellbeing, as we provide comfort to others. We feel, we become, appreciated - and loved.

Stage 4: Comfort of Self

2018-04-10T16:00:18

We’re now at the fourth stage of our journey from despair to delight, and it’s beginning to get a little easier. Here is today’s sonnet by Gerard Manley Hopkins:

My own heart let me more have pity on; let

Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,

Charitable; not live this tormented mind

With this tormented mind tormenting yet.

I cast for comfort I can no more get

By groping round my comfortless, than blind

Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find

Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise

You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile

Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size

At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile

's not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather — as skies

Betweenpie mountains — lights a lovely mile.

A couple of clarifications - Hopkins often uses adjectives to stand in for nouns, as in line 6, ‘comfortless (world)’. And he likes to create new words, such as ‘betweenpie’ in the last line.

There is a sense of interior space in this poem, of having (at long last) a little room to rest, to breathe, to grow. And a great message, that we deserve kindness and love.

Hopkins is beginning to be gentler with his ‘sad self’, giving himself a break from his incessant internal critical chatter. It’s time to ‘call off thoughts awhile elsewhere’.

We can do the same. We can take time out from tormenting ourselves about why we feel so unhappy. We can resist our negative thoughts. I can stop yelling “Just pull yourself together, stupid” inside my own head. You can recognise your own worth. You can realise that it’s alright to feel the way you do.

For Kristin Neff, self-compassion has three basic elements: self-kindness, in place of self-judgement; common humanity in place of isolation; and mindfulness, observing rather than identifying with our negative thoughts.

We can be compassionate to ourselves – have pity on our hearts - just as much as we are towards others. We can treat ourselves just as well as we treat our friends and the people we love.

I love Hopkins’ phrase ‘leave comfort root-room’. It’s about giving ourselves permission and space for a sense of ease and well-being to set down roots and begin to grow.

Maybe it’s time for a duvet-day - or two….

And then, who knows, joy may (increase in) size and catch us unawares. Hopkins’ evocative image of God’s smile, distilled within his new word ‘betweenpie’, is of a brightly dappled sky seen between dark mountains. For him that brings memories of the hills of north Wales. For me it conjures up childhood days of sunshine over Glendalough in Ireland.

We can help our own smiles to grow. One way that works for me is the meditation technique of visualising a constant, infinite stream of warm, spacious, liquid sunshine; pouring in through my head; slowly and gradually filling my body, from my toes all the way upwards.

Stage 3: Determination

2018-04-08T09:03:24

The third Hopkins’ poem I’ve chosen to guide us on our journey from despair to delight is called Carrion Comfort.

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;

Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man

In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;

Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.

But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me

Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan

With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,

O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.

Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,

Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.

Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród

Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year

Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

Now there’s a fair bit of difficult stuff in this poem, which we’ll not worry about too much. For example how Hopkins likes to use adjectives like ‘rude’ as verbs; or phrases like ‘I kissed the rod’ which means taking holy orders, becoming a priest.

Let’s focus on the first four lines, which are all about his thoughts of suicide. Hopkins is not just accepting his despair. Now has started to wrestle with it. He is not going to die. He is not going to let anyone or anything feast on his rotting remains. He is not giving up – even though he knows how hard it is to keep going - as we can see from his double negative ‘not choose not to be’. He can. He can stay alive. He can hope.

Unlike Hamlet wondering whether ‘to be or not to be’, or Keats who was ‘half I love with easeful death’, Hopkins is determined to survive. Like the conatus – desire - of my favourite philosopher Spinoza, these lines are all about his dogged, bloody-minded resolve to keep going, come what may. And we can draw immense strength from that.

There’s a lot more wrestling in the rest of the poem, but it’s no longer with himself. Now it’s a conflict between Hopkins and his God. We can take this more generally. Since we have decided we are going to stick around, we can decide there is no point in just meekly accepting our fate. We can decide to stand up and be counted. We can decide to do battle with the conditions that have been grinding us down.

But what’s the point?

Maybe it’s to strip away the ‘chaff’, the rubbish that surrounds us, so that our ‘grain’, our inner being, lies ‘sheer and clear’. Maybe it’s to find out that we are strong, strong enough to grapple with the toughest of them all, and not be defeated.

And we have a clue in the last line that the worst is over, as ‘of now done darkness’ shifts these experiences from present to past tense.

Stage 2: Detachment

2018-04-06T07:06:49

The second Hopkins poem on our journey from despair to delight is also deeply troubling, but it does offer us a glimmer of light along the way.

A note before you start reading: in the first line, the word ‘fell’ means ‘deadly, ferocious evil’.

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.

What hours, O what black hoürs we have spent

This night! what sights you, heart, saw; the ways you went!

And more must, in yet longer light's delay.

With witness I speak this! But where I say

Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament

Is cries countless, cried like dead letters sent

To dearest him that lives alas! away.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree

Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;

Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.

Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see

The lost are like this, and their scourge to be

As I am mine, their sweating selves; but worse.

The main message Hopkins conveys to me in this poem is his dreadful sense of loss; endless separation from the one he loves; sourness and bitterness; visceral, heart-wrenching grief.

And yet.

He finds an element of detachment. Despite his obvious distress, Hopkins is able to write perfectly formed classic sonnet lines: ten syllables, with the stress on every second one: ‘I wake and feel thefell of dark not day’. And then in the final six lines, he decides to vary the rhyming structure from the standard <cde cde> of the previous poem to <ccd ccd> (decree/me/curse; see/be/worse).

There is resonance again with mindfulness meditation - with the point at which we begin to create a space between ourselves and the pain and distress. Instead of being caught outside in the middle of a thunderstorm, we begin to watch the thunderstorm through a window.

He has some inner company in this time of trouble. Within the first three lines, Hopkins’ switch from the first person ‘I’ to ‘we’ (I plus heart) to ‘you’ (heart). So he is not dealing with all this on his own. His heart is taking some of the burden for him.

And maybe there is a purpose for him, behind all this suffering. With ‘I see’ at the end of line 14, Hopkins suggests that this experience is enabling him to understand the torment of lost souls. We do not have to share his views on the afterlife to gain value from this idea. If we have experienced grief and loss ourselves, we are so much better placed to offer empathy and compassion to people we know who going through it all now.

Stage 1: Despair

2018-04-04T07:50:07

This is the first step on our journey from despair to delight, taken in the company of the poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. We’re going to jump straight in with what, for me, is Hopkins’ most desolate sonnet.

Here it is: take a deep breath, and read:

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,

More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder ring.

Comforter, where, where is your comforting?

Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?

My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief-

Woe, wórld-sorrow; on an áge old anvil wince and sing -

Then lull, then leave off. Fury has shrieked 'No ling-

ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief'.

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall

Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap

May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small

Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,

Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all

Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

Yes, it’s a tough one, isn’t it? It’s probably the most troubled and troubling poem I have ever read. Grief upon grief. Fury after fury. An endless falling into nothingness. Nobody there to offer any comfort or relief. The only possibilities of escape are sleep or death.

So how could this dread-full poem ever be helpful to someone in the depths of despair?

Well, I think it offer us comfort in three ways.

First, it makes a connection for us. I first read this poem when I was 18, soon after a big relationship break-up and living in a place and with people I didn’t know. I felt totally alone, and utterly miserable. And I realised: this guy understands what I’m going through, he’s been there himself, he’s talking my language. So there was a link for me with Hopkins, a sense of shared experience. And I didn’t feel quite so alone.

Other people I know have felt the same. ‘It’s like finding a friend,’ someone told me recently;’ I felt like he was sitting next to me, reading to me. It brings a closeness.’

Second, reading a poem like this can help us accept that it’s OK, it’s legitimate to feel so distressed - something we may often doubt or feel guilty about. ‘It’s allowed, you’re entitled to feel that depth.’

And third, there is something powerful and impressive about Hopkins’ absolute, raw honesty here - his ability to give deep expression to the reality of his experiences, however terrifying that reality may be. There is no pretence, no denial, no hiding.

You may know that mindfulness meditation is helpful for people who have recurring experiences of depression. And this is precisely where mindfulness begins – resting in the present moment, however difficult that moment happens to be. Staying with the reality of our situation. Without judgment or evaluation. Without avoiding the problems we face, or trying to solve them. Just being there.

This is the first stage of the journey. If Hopkins has the courage to face his misery head on, then so can we.

From Despair to Delight: a journey of six sonnets

2018-04-02T12:04:28

I’ve been reading a lot of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poetry recently. And I've realised that his sonnets can offer relief and hope for people going through a period of deep distress.

I’m going to show you what I mean in this series of posts.

Hopkins was one of the most original poets writing in English during the 19^th century. Throughout his life he experienced a range of intense emotions, from utter misery to great joy. And he has an astonishing ability to express his emotions in his poetry.

I’ve chosen six of Hopkins’ sonnets which, I suggest, can take us on a healing journey: from despair, through detachment and determination, to comfort of self and comfort of others, and finally to delight. The first four are taken from his so-called ‘Terrible Sonnets’, written in Dublin in 1885 during a period of profound sadness. The fifth was written in Liverpool in 1880, while he was working as a local priest. The final one, his own personal favourite, was composed in north Wales in 1877.

I’ll present each poem in turn, and then make some comments on how they might help us.

Four things before we start on the journey.

The first three of these sonnets are very bleak indeed, so do take care of yourself while reading them. If they strike a deep chord, then make sure you have someone you can talk them over with.

Religion is very important to Hopkins, and permeates all his literary imagery. He became a Jesuit priest, having converted to Catholicism (a very radical move at the time) while a student at Oxford. But it is not at all necessary for us to share his beliefs to get immense value from his poetry.

Sonnet structure: Hopkins adopts the standard 14 lines for each sonnet, like Petrarch and Shakespeare before him. Like Petrarch (but unlike Shakespeare) he usually divides them into two parts: the first eight lines set out the main theme, and the last six lines offering a response. Unlike both Petrarch and Shakespeare, Hopkins often moves away from the standard format of ten syllables a line, with stress on each second syllable; he enjoys experimenting with the length and rhythm of each line.

Reading the poems: I recommend you read through each one a few times, to get the general style and rhythm in your mind. Then, for maximum effect, read it out loud. This way you really begin to hear how his words sound and interact with each other.

OK, with all this in mind, we can begin. I will introduce the first sonnet for this journey – ‘No worst there is none’ – in my next post, in a couple of days’ time.

In praise of our electric blanket

2017-04-01T10:55:48

I’ve been worrying quite a bit recently – partly about family problems and work pressures, which I can do something about; and partly about the corrosive effects of Brexit and Trump, which I can’t do anything much about. And then I’ve found myself worrying about worrying, which is more worrying still - and definitely not to be recommended.

So after discussing all this with my daughter Anna, I decided it’s time to look up my old wellbeing recipes, dust them off and see if they need any updating.

For those of you who don’t know, a wellbeing recipe is a list – a set of ingredients – of things which give you pleasure and help you feel better about yourself. It’s not a fixed list. Wellbeing recipes vary from one person to the next, and for each person they can change over time.

My old recipe included some ingredients, like walking in the mountains and diving through waves in the ocean, which are great but not immediately practical for me at the moment. So I’ve worked out a new recipe, composed of ingredients I can use easily and often.

Here are some of the main ingredients:

· A few minutes of mindfulness meditation every morning, using the Headspace app on my i-phone. I’m following a set about anxiety at the moment, which is helping me to explore my sensations of stress without feeling I’m being swallowed up by them – imagining, instead of being caught outside in in a storm, that I’m safe inside a house watching the storm through a window.

· The parkrun at Croxteth Hall on a Saturday morning gives me a great sense of wellbeing, especially now that I’ve managed to stop stressing about how fast I’m going and can enjoy the run for its own sake. There’s one section of the course, when sunlight glistens through woodland onto some ponds, which is magical. And running with my daughters is a huge bonus.

My afternoon siesta, which I’ve built into my routine since my cycling accident, is a must-do these days. It stops me from wearing myself out, restores my energy, my memory and my creativity. Highly recommended!

· Watching detective programmes on TV with Sue has been in my wellbeing recipe for ages, and it still helps me unwind of an evening. Elementary and Inspector Lynley are our current favourites.

· At the end of the day, I’ve started reminding myself of three things I’ve been grateful for - and one thing I’ve done well - during that day. They can be small or big things, it really doesn’t matter. This simple exercise, focusing on what’s gone well for me, does a great job of settling my mind down.

· And finally, sliding under the duvet and into bed, with our double electric blanket turned on to full heat. A wonderful, warm, comforting cocoon to snuggle into. Blissful, utterly blissful. Thank you, and good night.

Love is not an apple pie

2016-09-16T14:04:45

When I was a boy I used to worry that there wasn't enough love to go round. I thought love was like an apple pie – good stuff, but there was only so much of it and then it was gone.

When I was born I sort of assumed (as much as babies can assume things) that I had all my parents’ love. Then my younger brother was born and I had to share their love with him. Only half a pie now. And worse was to come. The next year another brother was born and my share of the pie went down to a third. Oh dear, what a disaster…..

No wonder we used to fight so much. The arguments we had on Sundays over who had the most fizzy drink with our roast dinner were nobody’s business!

Luckily for me, I thought, no more brothers or sisters arrived to take even more pie away from me. A third of a pie was better than nothing.

But of course, I realise now that this is all nonsense.

Love isn’t like that at all. It’s not finite, it’s infinite. In fact, weirdly, the more love you have the more there is around to share.

Another way of putting this – for those who like maths or game theory - is that love is not a zero sum. My gain is not your loss. My gain is also your gain. Or, if you like chemistry, we can state that love (like gas) expands to fill the space available.

And we can build up our capacity for love through meditation, and practicing random acts of kindness.

Why am I thinking about this now?

Well, it’s because I’ve just had a delightful cuddle this morning with Heath, my newest grandchild.

And a couple of weeks ago I was sitting in a (fortunately large) tent in the Peak District in the pouring rain with thirteen family members of various ages. It was busy, noisy, chaotic, exhausting - and yet totally wonderful to be part of all those loving interconnections.

I’ve got so many grandchildren now it’s easy to lose count, but the brilliant thing for me is that it simple doesn’t matter. They are all equally loveable, and there is no sense at all in my old worry that I somehow have to cut that love into bits and share it around.

Unlike the apple pie, there is plenty of love and always more to go round!

Caring for ourselves

2016-08-14T11:25:24

In the last four posts I’ve been thinking about suffering and hope – ways to listen better to the suffering of others, how sharing brings the beginning of hope, the need to be thoughtfully positive, and how to offering practical hopefulness.

It does work.

Darren’s been coming to see me for a while now. He is still alive. He still mostly rants, and I still mostly listen, but there’s less booze and fewer fights in his life. He’s got a girlfriend and a dog, and his drumming skills have found outlet in two local bands – one with a possible recording contract. We’re both beginning to feel more hopeful.

To be able to offer hope to people in distress, we need to take good care of ourselves.

With the frequent pressures we find in our own lives, whether its hassles within our families or problems in work – or an awareness of our own frailty and mortality in the face of traumatic accident or life-threatening disease – when we find ourselves trudging through treacle, we do well to recognize our own suffering and give ourselves the freedom to hope.

I’ve written before about how helpful it can be to create a well-being recipe, where you write down a list of all the ingredients of life that help you flourish, and then use them to build up something positive when you’re feeling down or harassed.

It’s good to refresh the ingredients from time to time. Ironing shirts is still on my list, but I’ve added in mindfulness meditation, and parkruns are now part of my own well-being recipe.

And it is great to have fresh starts, to try out new experiences we’ve never had before. And what could be fresher than meeting my brand new grandson Heath, born just a few days ago – welcome into the world!

For Heath, and for everyone: in those times when life gets tough and you’re suffering, I can’t offer you better words of hope than these, from Irish poet John O’Donoghue:

"On the day when the weight deadens on your shoulders and you stumble, may the clay dance to balance you.

And when your eyes freeze behind the grey window and the ghost of loss gets in to you, may a flock of colours, indigo, red, green, and azure blue come to awaken in you a meadow of delight.

And so may a slow wind work these words of love around you, an invisible cloak to mind your life."

Practical hopefulness

2016-08-06T16:02:23

So far I have been writing about the importance of compassion, and about the best ways of being positive. Now it’s time to think about what practical steps we can take to help a person in distress become more hopeful about their life.

Of course, a lot depends on how much knowledge and skill we possess. Doctors, psychologists and mental health nurses, for example, have access to drugs or therapeutic techniques, which aren’t available for others. Faith leaders and counsellors have status and training that can often be of particular benefit.

But we can all offer important, practical help.

Two well-tested things that anybody can offer are Mental Health First Aid, and Psychological First Aid. And then, with a little training, there’s Problem Management Plus.

Mental Health First Aid (MHFA) is helpful for anybody who is suffering from mental or emotional distress. This graphic shows you the five main ingredients:

So, for Darren, I’m there to assist with his crises, like when he gets his sickness benefit turned down. I’m always willing to listen to his concerns and his worries. I give him information about courses and things he could do to improve his drumming skills. I offer him the choice of seeing the mental health team, and I encourage him to keep in touch with his friends even after they’ve had arguments.

If you want to find out more about MHFA, you can download a free app by clicking on this link. It takes your through the five steps and gives you lots of helpful suggestions.

Psychological First Aid (PFA) is designed to help with communal suffering caused by disaster situations, such as the Ebola crisis in West Africa, or asylum seekers and refugees fleeing turmoil in Syria and Libya.

As you can see from the next graphic, PFA has three key elements: Look, Listen and Link.

It’s all about providing practical care and support and protecting people from further harm. It’s particularly useful for vulnerable groups, such as

· Children and adolescents, especially those separated from their caregivers.

· People with health conditions or physical and mental disabilities.

· People at risk of discrimination or violence, such as women or people of certain ethnic groups.

PFA promotes people’s long-term recovery because it helps them to feel safe, connected to others, calm and hopeful. It offers social, physical and emotional support, so people are better able to help themselves, as individuals and communities.

You can read more about PFA here, and watch a brief video about it here.

If you would like to be more actively involved, I suggest you learn about Problem Management Plus (PM+).

PM+ has been developed by the World Health Organisation to help adults facing adversity. It involves five weekly sessions and covering four main topics:

· managing problems

· managing stress

· getting going and keeping doing

· strengthening social support

It’s been shown to be effective in high, middle and low income countries. It’s similar to the Positive Thoughts Courses that Sue runs regularly.

And very importantly, it can be delivered by people with no mental health expertise, after a brief training.

If you want to find out more about PM+, click on this link.

Next time: taking care of ourselves.

Being positive

2016-07-31T09:22:19

For most people, sharing their suffering is just the first step on the way out of the dark woods in which they find themselves. Let’s now consider the relevance of being positive.

Expressing hope and optimism, and taking a positive approach to a problem, are usually more helpful than expressing doubt and uncertainty.

But we need to be a bit careful how we do this.

If we are too cheerful too soon, before the other person has had time to tell their story, they may think we just don’t care or understand. Here’s how Sinéad O’Connor puts it:

I went to the doctor and guess what he told me… He said, "Girl, you better try to have fun no matter what you do“. But he's a fool.

So, don’t rush in too quickly with your hopeful words.

Then we need to think what sort of positive approach is best to take.

I can think of at least four different ways. I may tell Sinéad that I’m an expert and can solve the problem for them; or that we can work on the problem together; or that she has the resources to manage it herself; or that her problem will get easier on its own, given time.

These approaches all convey hope and optimism, but they are all very different. We need to tailor them to the understanding of the person we are hoping to help.

For example, an expert approach might be more helpful if Sinéad believed she was suffering from a disease or an illness; but as she sees herself having problems with her relationships, a shared or time-focused approach is more likely to be helpful for her.

So it’s worth finding out how the person we’re hoping to help see things.

In any event, shaping the patient’s story in a more hopeful direction is likely to be valuable.

Talking with Darren, I aim to build on his strengths: his obvious intelligence and his drumming skills.

And we can see hopeful shaping in this consultation between a doctor and a patient with muscular dystrophy:

P: It's just quite painful and tiring and depressing.

D: Yes, yes.

P: and I've been really cold since I came back, just can't seem to get warm so it's just very diff-, very depressing. Sorry.

D: It's not easy to put up with, this, is it? You're obviously somebody, you like to keep very active and getting around the place and doing what you want to do.’

P: I just don't want it to be on top of me, and it feels like it's on top of me.

D: We've got to reverse that, haven't we? We can't get rid of the dystrophy, but you can be on top of it rather than the other way, rather than the other way round somehow.

This is a beautiful example of sensitive, person-centred optimism, which we can all learn from.

Next time – some practical steps to encourage hopefulness.

Tears at the heart of things

2016-07-24T09:18:45

Last week I wrote about how difficult it can be to listen to the suffering of other people. I also suggested some ways we can become better at that.

Here's why this matters: bearing witness to suffering, giving a sense of being understood and accepted, is the first - essential – step towards finding hope.

I’d like to go back a couple of thousand years here, to get some help from the Roman poet Virgil, and his epic poem the Aeneid which describes the travels of Aeneas after the Trojan War.

Stay with me, this will make sense in a minute!

In the first book of the Aeneid, we find Aeneas as a refugee, driven far from his home by the vicious ravages of the Trojan war. He is in Carthage, gazing at a mural in a temple, which depicts battles of the Trojan War and the deaths of many of his friends and countrymen. He is moved to tears, and offers a rousing tribute to his fallen comrades.

In the middle of this, he says: ‘sunt lacrimae rerum’.

Yes I know, your Latin is probably a bit rusty, but don’t worry……

These three words - sunt lacrimae rerum - have been translated as either ‘there are tears for things’, or else ‘there are tears of things’. The first version – tears for things - indicates the burdens we have to bear, the frailty of human existence, the ‘shit life syndrome’ people like Darren (who you met last week) experience. The second version – tears of things- indicates that things feel sorrow for our suffering - that in some sense the universe feels our pain.

But of course it isn’t one or the other. It’s both. Virgil is fully aware of the ambiguity and wishes to us to understand both meanings at the same time.

So does the Irish poet and scholar Seamus Heaney, who translates the phrase as ‘There are tears at the heart of things.’

And this is its richness and power. At that moment when I experience and express compassion for the suffering of the person in the room with me, both senses of sunt lacrimae rerum are simultaneously in play. They can express pain, distress and suffering, knowing that – from me - they find understanding, compassion and safety. Our meeting place has become, momentarily, a sanctuary.

Sometimes bearing witness to a person’s suffering in the face of overwhelming life experiences and difficulties, may be all that is possible, or necessary.

Listening to Darren, behind his angry ranting I hear a lost, lonely, frightened little boy. I want to give him a huge hug and bring him home with me, but I content myself with a friendly smile, a warm handshake, and an agreement to meet again soon.

What’s your experience of bearing witness to suffering?

Suffering and Hope

2016-07-18T15:32:40

When we’re caring for someone going through difficult experiences in their life, there are two main things we need to do: acknowledge suffering and offer hope.

I’m going to explore these two themes in a series of posts over the next few weeks.

Let's start with acknowledging suffering.

Suffering may be expressed in the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins: No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief/More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder ring […..] O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall/ Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed.

Or in the paintings of Francis Bacon – currently on exhibition in Tate Liverpool - portraying his subjects ‘enclosed in the wretched glass capsule of the human individual’.

Or in the expression of collective suffering when (as WB Yeats puts it) ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world’: be it the continuing effects of the Iraq war or the migration forced by political turmoil in Syria and Libya.

Or in the bristling, frustrated anguish of 19 year old Darren, piercings through lip, nose and eyebrows, scarring up both arms, who tells me about parental separation, fostering and sexual abuse, bullying in school; and how booze keeps him from feeling too much but leads to fights with friends, nightclub doorman and police. His only comfort is beating the hell out of his drum kit in the middle of the night. He doesn’t think he’ll live much longer, and I fear he may be right.

The first thing we need to do is to listen. In the words of the British psychoanalyst Wilfred Bion, we should be listening ‘without memory or desire’: when we listen with memory, we are intent on making the speaker part of an old agenda; when we listen with desire we are intent on making them part of a new one.

To listen purely, to just listen, is the most valuable thing. But it is also the most difficult thing. I don’t know about you, but I often find it exhausting, debilitating, to give my full attention to the suffering of others.

We often find ways to protect ourselves – to distance ourselves - from the full emotional impact of what our patients are trying to tell us. A bit of me doesn’t want to hear what Darren is telling me – it’s too raw, too real, too painful.

But we can do better.

Ronald Epstein recommends that we turn toward suffering: actively seek to recognise it, become curious about the person’s experience, and intentionally become more present and engaged.

What help me to turn toward suffering are daily mindfulness meditation, my weekly 5k parkruns, and being able to discuss knotty problems with my wise wife Sue.

What helps you turn toward suffering?

Next time - the first steps in offering hope.

Yes country and western music does hold the meaning of life

2016-07-12T15:44:28

After a long pause, a message from my wife Sue:

I’m listening to Vince Gill- look at us. Also I was checking on the blog and realised there had been a bit of a hiatus in chapters And realised how the two probably mirrored life since Chris’ accident 2 years ago.

But to get back to Vince. To make it easier I’ve cleverly added the words to the blog, well arranged for them to be added. On the surface it’s a lovely tale of happy ever after.

Look at us after all these years together
Look at us after all that we've been through
Look at us still leaning on each other
If you wanna see how true love should be then just look at us.

Look at you still pretty as a picture
Look at me still crazy over you
Look at us still believing in forever
If you wanna see how true love should be then just look at us.

In a hundred years from now
I know without a doubt
They'll all look back and wonder
How we made it all work out.

Chances are we'll go down in history
When they wanna see
How true love should be
They'll just look at us.

Chances are we'll go down in history

When they wanna see
How true love should be
They'll just look at us.

When they wanna see
How true love should be
They'll just look at us...

But it says more than that. “After all that we’ve been through” No ones’ life is without its ups and downs. Some much more down than up. I was on holiday in Crete recently. Looking at the beautiful Aegean Sea I couldn’t help but think of the refugees who experience it in such a different way.

Still leaning on each other – that’s what it’s all about. Sometimes one leaning more than the other, and the leant-on wondering if they’ll need a prop to help them not fall over!

And it’s important that we do recognise when extra props are essential. Different for everyone. Maybe friends, medical help, prayer, meditation. There’s always something however leant on or nearly down we feel. Useful to keep a list of them in your head when time are good so not so much effort to recall when times aren’t so good. “Here’s one I prepared earlier” we can think to ourselves' ringing a friend to ask for help

How we made it all work out. Not just by taking advice from country and western songs although I probably can offer a song for every one of life eventualities. By working at it. Doing what’s needed at the time. Not dismissing the little changes we can make. Since back from my holiday I’ve got involved in MerseyAid, mainly sorting donated clothes for refugees. And getting Chris not to work too hard is still a work in progress!

So that’s life care of the country scene!

PS The Dance by Garth Brooks. Tells us we have to take a chance on life. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. But you’ll never know till you try.

And now I'm glad I didn't know
The way it all would end the way it all would go
Our lives are better left to chance I could have missed the pain
But I'd have had to miss the dance

In praise of uncertainty

2015-03-25T12:13:13

All too often, I plan my life away. I make arrangements way ahead, work out what I’m going to be doing weeks or months in advance. It gives me a sense of security, the impression that I’m in control of my life. And when things go wrong - or seem to go wrong – then it’s all about how to fix it. What can I do right now, straightaway, to make it better?

There’s also a strong sense of that when I’m in my GP surgery. People come to see me with problems, often hugely distressing problems. It feels like it’s my job to help to fix them – in just 10 minutes.

And when I’m working as a researcher, there’s continual pressure to come up with quick answers and solutions.

But, let’s just hold on a minute…… Perhaps that’s not always the best way to go.

Being uncertain, not being sure, not rushing to make my mind up: perhaps that has some advantages.

‘Negative capability’ is the term created by the poet John Keats. In a letter to his brothers in 1817, he writes about how achievement is linked with the capacity of ‘being in uncertainties. Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.’

The Irish poet Aubrey de Vere speaks for ‘the doubt of one who would rather walk in mystery than in false lights, who awaits that he may win, and who prefers the broken fragments of truth to the imposing completeness of a delusion’.

This is important not just in poetry (or in research), but in life, particularly when we are facing our own distress, or the distress of others.

Maybe we don’t need to try to work everything out so quickly. Maybe it’s better to wait, to reflect, to allow events to unfold for a while. Maybe it’s better to let the mysterious or doubtful remain just that, rather than rushing to conclusions that may be false, or making decisions that could turn out to be damaging.

As Beth Rushing says, there is ‘hope, and truth, and beauty in the practice of negative capability, in listening patiently, having a certain level of comfort with uncertainty, and in recognizing that what appears to be given, is not necessarily so’. For the psychoanalyst Wilfred Bion, it’s about listening ‘without memory or desire’.

We do well to cultivate our ability to tolerate the pain and confusion of not knowing - rather than imposing our ready-made certainties on ambiguous situations or challenges.

And by resting in uncertainty, we allow space for something new, something transformative, to emerge.

Breathing Space

2015-02-09T16:48:51

I’m doing a lot of meditating these days, with the help of Headspace. Twenty minutes or so, every morning, sitting in my favourite chair. Often with a dog curled up near me.

The focus of the exercise is very much on my breathing. Not trying to alter it, or breathe in any particular way. Just observing it. Noticing each time I breathe in and out, how my chest moves out and in, the rise and fall of my belly. How each breath is always just a little bit different from the next one. Some are quicker, some slower; some are deeper, some shallower. The pauses between the breaths: how the pause after the out-breath is usually longer than the pause after the in-breath. A wisp of air on my upper lip.

Maybe counting each breath, one in, two out, three in, four out…..up to ten, then starting over again. Or maybe not, maybe just letting each breath come and go. Resting my attention on the breath. Observing, watching, noticing, witnessing, all in a relaxed sort of way. Nothing too intense.

Sometimes it feels like I’m sitting on the sea shore, watching the waves coming in to land on the beach. They keep on rolling. They are endlessly different, and endlessly fascinating. And you don’t have to do anything about waves. They just happen.

You might think it is boring, but it isn’t. It’s gentle, kind and enjoyable. I often find I’m smiling quietly to myself.

It’s important, in a subtle, understated sort of a way. It creates more space for me. It puts other things, my everyday busyness and concerns, into perspective. And if I do get hassled during the day, I can take a few seconds out, just to breathe. I’m finding all those things I have to do, somehow may not be as important, as urgent, as serious or as worrying as I thought they were going to be.

So making time for breathing now, creates more breathing space during the rest of the day. Seems like a good deal to me!

Curiosity

2014-10-13T21:20:37

My curiosity is returning. For quite a few months after my accident I was just plodding along, getting by, not thinking very much about anything new or different. But now, as my brain heals itself, I find I am beginning to look around me again, and starting to wonder about things.

It feels great!

When I say curiosity, I mean the eagerness and desire to find out about new things. I mean inquisitiveness, an interest in strange and different experiences, a sense of excitement at finding the unexpected. I mean asking questions that start with “Why…..?”, “What if…..?” or “I wonder whether…..?”

We are all born with a sense of curiosity. Just watch any baby or small child looking around, eager to explore and try something new.

The Greek philosopher Aristotle told us ‘All men by nature desire to know’. Without it we would never learn anything, never develop our potential. Albert Einstein said ‘I have no special talent, I am only passionately curious’.

And it turns out that curiosity is good for our mental health, our wellbeing.

The American psychologist Barbara Fredrickson reminds us how important our positive emotions are, because they increase our range of thoughts and actions. Curiosity sparks the urge to explore. Joy sparks the urge to play. Contentment sparks the urge to savour and integrate. Love sparks a recurring cycle of each of these urges within safe, close relationships.

Broadening our minds in these ways, through exploration, play, savouring or integrating, promotes discovery of new and creative actions, ideas and social networks. These in turn build up our personal resources and provide lasting reserves for us to draw on if life gets difficult again.

Curiosity is effective against fear of the different, the unknown. And it’s a much healthier (though sadly less common) response to the different than prejudice.

Alexander von Humboldt was a brilliant, but very anxious 19^th century German explorer. He overcame his fear and worries by unceasing curiosity. He made discoveries in an unparalleled range of sciences from botany to geography. He used his curiosity to break down the barriers of prejudice and increase his enjoyment of life. He was a pioneer of global thinking, whose reward was to feel in touch with the entire earth.

You know the old saying ‘Curiosity killed the cat’? Well, if you look into its origins, it turns out to be just the opposite. The original saying was ‘Care killed the cat’, where the word ‘care’ means worry, sorrow or sadness.

So we should turn this upside down, and say ‘Curiosity cured the cat’.

I wonder what you’re wondering about just now.

A bubble of joy

2014-08-14T14:02:31

Our local community centre is closed for the summer, so we’re holding our Monday evening tai chi class in my back garden.

A dozen of us, working our way through the movements.

I’m barefoot, feeling the soft grass and firm ground beneath. The threat of rain has passed and the sun is warming my face. The wind comes up, gusting towards me through the wooden arch by the pond, resonating in the trees overhead.

A bubble of joy swells from my belly, up into my head.

Trying Easier

2014-04-25T16:59:55

Most of the time, we think we really should be trying harder. If only we did a little bit more, things would work out OK. It’s all about achievement, success, doing more and doing it better. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try and try again. It’s drilled into us from an early age. Study more. Get a promotion. Run faster. Score more goals. Be a better parent.

But right now, for me, it’s different. After my cycling accident I’ve developed a mild traumatic brain injury. I’m easily tired, my mind often feels foggy. It’s difficult to concentrate for long.

So the advice I’m getting now is – don’t try harder, try easier.

I need to take things easy, give my brain a rest so it has the chance to recover.

This turns lots of things on their head.

It’s better for me to put things off until tomorrow, even though I could do them today. Procrastination is no longer the thief of time – it’s the essence of healing.

‘You snooze, you lose’. Not any more. Quite the opposite. My afternoon siesta is essential to keep me going throughout the day. So for me it’s now ‘You snooze, you win.’

Laziness, slacking, indolence, idleness, sloth: that is supposed to be one of the seven deadly sins, but not any more. Now it’s a cardinal virtue.

I don’t always find it easy to take it easy. Trying harder is so ingrained in me that trying easier doesn’t come naturally. I have to remind myself, stop myself doing stuff that I really don’t need to do, or not just yet. And it’s surprising –and liberating – how many things that I was convinced were absolutely essential turn out to be a bit less important after all. The world hasn’t quite ground to a halt because I’m not doing as much as I used to.

It’s about being, not doing.

I’m enjoying my weekly tai chi classes, and I’ve taken up meditation again, with the help of a website called Headspace. They help me to be aware of how things are, notice my experiences and feelings, without having to worry or do anything about them.

And I’m building up my physical fitness. I’m back on my bike– off road – and it feels great.

Trying easier is helping me heal. It is refreshing. I can feel the benefits – each week a bit more energy, a bit more headspace.

I gently recommend it!

Off Balance

2013-12-03T20:16:41

Sometimes you can be moseying along, feeling pretty good about how you are coping with life – and then everything goes pear-shaped......

Well, that’s happened to me. I was making steady progress after my cycling accident when, one night on my way to the loo, I suddenly realised I couldn’t walk straight. The world seemed to be turning round and round. I couldn’t work out what was up and what was down. My head was spinning. I had to hang on to the wall for dear life. The next morning was no better. Walking downstairs was too terrifying to contemplate, so bum-shuffled instead (which confused the dogs no end.)

And no, before you ask, I hadn’t been on the ale.

It was vertigo. It’s common after head trauma. The collision dislodges the tiny stones in the inner ear (otoliths) which are responsible for balance.

It’s better now. I’ve had time to reflect on my responses to this, and how they might make sense for different sorts of unexpected problems.

Panic. Yes, I’m afraid so, panic is the first thing you do. It’s pretty inevitable when something unpleasant and unexpected happens, no matter how calm and capable you like to think you are. My precarious night-time trip to the bathroom was accompanied by various silent expletives, ‘You cannot be serious’ and ‘What the **** is happening’. It was not funny, not at all. I was scared. I was knocked off balance - literally and metaphorically.

2. Find a place of safety. If you can, find somewhere out of harm's way, to ride out the storm. For me it was lying on my back in bed, moving as little as possible. I didn’t know what was happening, how long it was going to go on, whether it would get better or worse. But just lying there I had a sense of calm, of acceptance. In Gabrielle Roth’s words, I was ‘finding comfort in the sweet territory of silence’.

3. Distract yourself.If you’re stuck somewhere bad and can’t do anything about it, then it’s good to take your mind off it all, distract yourself. Switch from right brain (feelings) to left brain (thought). I decided to try and remember the names of the main characters in The Wire. I got lots of them – McNulty, Bunk, Daniels, Avon and DiAngelo, Bubbles and the brilliant Omar Little. For some reason I couldn’t recall Stringer Bell (psychoanalysts will have their theories, I’m sure).

4. Find support. You need someone who’s there for you, who can calm things down a bit and help you think about what to do next. For me that’ was the easy bit. I just told Sue and she was there like a shot.

5. Seek help. You still need someone to help you fix the problem, or at least manage it as best you can. Within 24 hours I was in touch with the wonderful Nova Mullin, balance therapist from our local hospital. She has exactly the right combination of wisdom and confidence, assured me it was going to get better and started me on exercises I could do even with my neck in a brace.

As I say, I’m a lot better now. I can do White Crane Spreads Wings again in my tai chi class - though not yet with my eyes closed!

I wonder if this makes sense for you. How did you respond, the last time something unexpectedly horrible happenened?

Grief and Joy

2013-11-20T17:41:31

Here are four of the many wise and thoughtful responses I’ve received to my recent posts. The writers have given their permission for me to share them with you.

I was thinking, "Don't rush. Grief doesn't have a destination. It's a journey of a lifetime". I wonder if you have read "Carrying the Elephant" by Michael Rosen? It's the first of three volumes of poetry for adults, primarily about the death of his son. He has some powerful imagery about "walking along". I find this helpful, and the poem always makes me cry. I think the whole journey of life thing is a bit trite, but I like the idea that we walk along. I take myself to the lakes and think of those who accompany me on the way, sometimes we hold hands, sometimes pulling or helping each other, sometimes the kids and dogs dash about in front. There are those who walk with us for a while, join another group then return, and those who just spend a short time with us. There are those with whom we walk in comfortable silence, and those to whom we cannot stop chattering. We take in the ever changing view, in all its weathers. I find life can be hard to make sense of, and I find this idea comforting.

My brother died nearly 15 years ago, and I still miss him. I found it took a year before I was back to normal functioning. One of the hardest things was not the absolute grief – which was like falling off a cliff into profound sadness, but the brain fog. Quite simple tasks became almost impossible, and academic work was quite beyond me. My experience was that with time, and by that I mean over the course of the year, not just a few weeks, although the level of sadness didn’t diminish, the frequency of falling off the cliff did, and each time I fell off, it lasted slightly less long. So I went from being always at the bottom of the cliff, to being mostly at the top of the cliff, but with episodes of feeling the same searing loss as right at the beginning. It was like losing half my self.

I’d like to add one more thought that came to me while reading your blog: when one grieves a loved one, the more this person was important to us, the heavier we’ll feel when we lose this person because to some extent, this person inhabits us more; we sometimes feel responsible for pursuing this person’s mission; thus it feels like gaining a lot of weight suddenly and having to learn how to balance our body with this new weight after.

I agree completely when you challenge the foolish notion that there is a set ‘healthy’ period of time to grieve. Simply not true! Loss affects everyone differently; the person, your relationship and manner of their passing also play a large part in determining how you come to terms with what has happened. In many ways, you never recover from what has happened, but you learn to accept it and manage your emotions. I know that my grief is managed when I can let go of those moments I missed or wasted (survivor’s guilt?), and think of that person with a sense of joy that overrides my sorrow. Other times I relive the grief as raw as ever, usually when I think I should have moved on – but this is not something that makes me concerned or ashamed.

I feel that in many ways people are the memories they gain and share with others. These transcend being, and can never be taken away from you. I will feel sadness as well as happiness, and this will probably continue in waves throughout my life. It means that the person was important to me. And I find that to be a comforting thought.

Thinking/wondering about grief and how long it lasts, I think we can be still grieving gently at some level while learning to live on without the person we mourn, so these two experiences co-exist within us. There isn't a 'stop time' when the grief has ebbed away and we see no mark of it on the sand; there isn't a 'start time' when happiness and lightness begins again and we exchange one for the other. Each informs the other, perhaps.

In the poem 'Lovers on Aran' Heaney asks a wonderful question of the Aran land-sea scape: 'Did sea define the land, or land the sea?' and he goes on to say that 'each drew new meaning from the waves' collision'. I wonder if perhaps grief and joy are just like that, defining each other, quite powerfully, each drawing new meaning from the collision that happens within our identify when we are shaken and upended.

And I think of how you've also had to cope with your accident and the whole recovery process, and that 'squishiness of being' that reminds us we are so very vulnerable, and so very precious. And how in your blog you talked about handing over to others to take care of you. I imagine that here, too, in the collision of strength and weakness in our physical being, we might find some definition, some new meaning/s about who we sense ourselves to be, our growing identity.

It's late, it's a dark blue night, the wind is sweeping in from the west; rain is gusting down from the Connemara hills and sparkling against the windows. I send my warmest thoughts, and to Sue and Sasha, every good wish. It sounds so good to have their care and comfort. I get the impression you are forging ahead to where you want to be, so I'm also sending various Irish pishogues, magical spells and mythical beings to speed that up!

If you'd like to read the Seamus Heaney poem, a favourite of mine, here it is:

Lovers on Aran

The timeless waves, bright, sifting, broken glass,
Came dazzling around, into the rocks,
Came glinting, sifting from the Americas

To possess Aran. Or did Aran rush
to throw wide arms of rock around a tide
That yielded with an ebb, with a soft crash?

Did sea define the land or land the sea?
Each drew new meaning from the waves' collision.
Sea broke on land to full identity.

Reasons to be Cheerful

2013-10-28T14:10:44

I had a nasty accident ten days ago.

I was knocked off my bike in town by an unobservant driver, ending up in a dramatic pool of blood in the middle of the road. Broken nose, teardrop fracture to my 7^th cervical vertebra, lots of lacerations and bruises, and a fair bit of post-traumatic stress.....

But also many reasons to be cheerful.

It could all have been so much worse. I’m still here. No brain injury (thank you, crash helmet). No spinal cord damage.

The kindness of strangers. I’ve written about this before, and here was living proof of it. Within seconds I was surrounded by passers-by making sure I was alright and got the help I needed. Top of the list of good Samaritans was Tracey Saphier, a nurse on her way home from work, who took charge of the whole scene, making sure I didn’t move, mopping blood out of my eyes, talking to Sue on the phone, checking on ambulance arrival time. Thank you kind people of Liverpool, thank you Tracey.

Our NHS is great in a crisis. It really is. Forget the bad press it gets these days. The ambulance team who got me onto a stretcher and secured my neck; the amazing trauma team in the Royal Liverpool Hospital who checked me out from top to toe in a matter of minutes (while chatting to me about bikes and cycling gear); spinal surgeon Marcus de Matas who took all possible care of my neck fracture; and the staff on Ward 4a who looked after me while I couldn’t move for three days. I needed their help, and they were there.

Sue is wonderful in a crisis. She really is. She arrived at the hospital before the ambulance, fed me yoghurt when I couldn’t reach the hospital food, guided me through a psychic meltdown, and now is getting me back on my feet at home. I needed her help, and she was there.

The love of family and friends. Thank you all for being there, for your kind words and actions, for looking after Sue as well as me.

My neck brace, my exo-skeleton (non-biologists, google it!) for the next three months. It’s keeping my neck and back safe, and is deeply reassuring.

Time out. Now I can watch all five seasons of Breaking Bad in one go.

All of the above (well, maybe not the Breaking Bad bit) are parts of something bigger, something that I haven’t quite worked out but seems profound to me. For a while there, lying in the road and in hospital, I was in a real mess, completely helpless and utterly dependent on the care of others - something I’m not at all used to.

And it was OK. In fact more than OK, it was liberating. I didn’t need to try and control my own destiny, it was fine to let go. I could relax. I felt – no, I knew – that I was in safe hands.

So, one final reason to be cheerful:

Being alive is wonderful.

How long does grief last?

2013-10-02T18:36:19

My brother Steve died two months ago. Those of you who’ve been following this blog will know this is a big thing for me, and explains why I haven’t posted for a while. I’ve been mourning him. Life hasn’t been much fun. I’ve been trudging through treacle. Sometimes I felt like I was drowning in it.

But the past couple of weeks are better. An evening in London with Anna and Tom. A long weekend with Sue in Andalucia. A new grandchild on the horizon. Walking the Bounding Ridge of White Nancy (yes, really – google it) last Saturday. My wellbeing recipes are starting to kick back in. I’m feeling lighter.

So for me, this time round, the worst of my grief lasted six weeks or so.

Which is interesting. The Orthodox Christian tradition is that mourning lasts for 40 days. The soul of the departed is thought to travel around during that time, visiting places of significance in its life. I wonder where Steve’s been visiting: no doubt Dublin, Corbridge, Cambridge and Newport. I’m sure he’s called in to see us in Liverpool.

However, as anthropologists tell us, there are many different cultures of mourning. In Victorian Britain, for example, mourning after the death of a sibling was expected to last for 6 months. So maybe I have a while to go yet.

The American Psychiatric Association would have us believe that if grief lasts for more than 2 weeks – that’s not a misprint, not two months or two years but two weeks – then we can be diagnosed with a depressive disorder and offered medical treatment. So absurd it’s hard to believe, but it’s there in black and white in DSM-5, their current system for classifying mental disorders.

This is dangerous nonsense. It may help big pharma to sell more pills, but it stands in the way of realising and accepting our loss. It sanitises sadness. It medicalises this normal part of what it means to be alive, to love.

A friend’s wife died just over a year ago. He’s beginning to think about going out with other women, but he knows he’s not really ready yet. Someone told him ‘You should be over your grief by now, you need to see a psychiatrist to sort yourself out’. He asked me what I thought.

My answer was simple: ‘Absolute rubbish! You’re still grieving. You can’t rush it. Take your time. You’ll know when you’re ready to move on.’

Grief is the price of love.

It drags us down. It drains us of energy. It hurts, physically. As CS Lewis wrote in A Grief Observed, time may be a healer but he’s not a very good anaesthetist. We just have to hang on in there,hide under the duvet and let it wash over us. Grief lasts as long as it lasts. There’s no timetable, no deadline.

But then, eventually, one day, it starts to get easier.

If you are grieving now, I hope that day is not too far away.