January 25th, 2011

Over in the Word Sauce Kitchen this month, we’re exploring the idea of ‘imperfect.’

Funny how we seem to think of ‘imperfect’ as not perfect, not good enough, could be better or with something missing.

Here’s the etymology of ‘imperfect’:

From the Latin imperfectus ‘unfinished.’

The imperfect expresses an ongoing, uncompleted action. (The Ancient Greek term was paratatikós ‘prolonged.’)

Something ‘imperfect’ is something that is unfinished, still happening, still evolving, unfolding, awakening… A work-in-progress.

Tags: imperfect, Word Sauce, writing
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January 6th, 2011

Since I shared my story of my dad’s heart attack, collapse and ongoing illness last week on this blog, I’ve been so grateful for all the wonderful messages of support that I’ve received. So many people have contacted me by email and shared their own personal stories with me or added their comments to my Facebook page.

I want to thank each and every one of you from the bottom of my heart for sharing this experience with me so generously. Your stories and love have given me such enormous strength over the last few days.

You know, I almost didn’t hit the ‘Publish’ button on that blog post. I wondered if it was too personal or whether, as a therapist, I was crossing the line, doing too much of what in therapy-speak we call ‘self-disclosure.’

There’s no doubt that, when I wrote my story in the early hours of Monday when I couldn’t sleep, it was just for me. It was because I felt that my body wasn’t big enough to hold all the emotion. It was welling up inside me, pressing against the inside of my chest so that I could barely breath.

I had to get it ‘out there’ somehow – and the way that I know best, the way I find most helpful, is to pick up a pen or tap away at the keyboard.

As the words flowed, I began to feel calm.

My belief in this healing power of writing is what drives my Word Sauce writing programme. (Lots of new developments ready to launch in that area soon, people, just as soon as my dad is fully on his way to recovery, so please do watch out for that.)

Tapping into that therapeutic writing process is one thing. But to then put the product of that process out there in the world – well, isn’t that a bit attention-seeking or even self-indulgent? Is it appropriate?

Strangely enough, right now, I’m working with my current group of Word Saucerers on a module of the Word Sauce Programme that is all about reading and being read, about how to become a kind, compassionate reader of our own stories, those stories we tell ourselves inside our heads, and how to nurture our own talents and abilities with words, the ‘sauce’ of our very own juiciness.

Given that, I decided that it was especially important that I shared my story, sent it into the world, despite my hesitations and trepidations.

But there was something more too.

As soon as the words were there on the screen, they were not just for me anymore, not just about me and dad anymore.

It was suddenly so clear to me that the story itself is everyone’s story – the story of love and of what it feels like to love someone, the story of daughters and fathers, children and parents all over the world since the beginning of time, the story of what it is to be human, of what it is to have a very human heart.

And I believe that stories help us all to make meaning out of the very darkest of times. Stories help us to stop and reflect and wonder.

I’m keeping a little notebook in my handbag right now and jotting down thoughts and reflections, words and jargon that strike me as I shuttle between home and hospital ward. It helps.

It also gives me a sense that I’m making something out of it all. I’m not sure quite what yet, but the feelings are already arranging themsleves into new forms.

I notice, for example, how often in everyday language we all use words and phrases like ‘from the heart’ or ‘whole-heartedly’ or ‘take heart from…’

I’ve been noticing how, when I speak to a nurse or the registrar, I find myself placing my hand over my own heart for emphasis, even though I might be saying something totally unconnected with the condition of my dad’s arteries and the medical decisions that need to be made.

It’s almost funny to catch myself saying on the phone to my mum, ‘I’m taking great heart from the fact that he’s looking so much better today.’ It’s as if I’m cracking one of my dad’s own terrible corny jokes.

But it’s surely not coincidental, the verbal and non-verbal body-based metaphors we find ourselves using. I’ve been observing them for years now, in client sessions and in people’s writing. I’ve been researching this connection for years too. Our bodies make their way into our words all the time. Our bodies are always trying to be heard.

What is it, I wonder, that’s trying to make itself heard in your life right now? What do you notice when you really slow down and listen? How is your body trying to speak to you? What are the stories that are most helpful to you and what stories do you need to tell or get ‘out there’ onto the page?

Tomorrow, I’ll be writing about a particular story – a mythic story – that has been helping me to make sense of my journey over the last few days. I’d love to  hear about the stories that have been helpful to you in your own life.

Tags: healing, story
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December 6th, 2010

Poem-making can be a very slooooow process. I’ve been making poems ever since I was a little girl but my serious apprenticeship to poetry began around ten years ago now.

Sometimes, the initial impulse for the poem comes very quickly. And in those beautiful combinations of flow and serendipity, the first few lines, maybe even the shape of the entire poem can move swiftly and easily from my head onto the page.

Other times, I write six or seven poems before I write the poem – the one that feels just the right ‘fit.’

And other times, I roll a feeling, a word, a line around in my head for days, weeks – sometimes even years – before it finds its way of being in the world. I spend hours obsessing over a line break or a single word.

That’s what poem-making continually teaches me. It can’t be rushed. Keep showing up. Keep your hand – and your body – moving. Something will happen.

For me, it isn’t really about clearing time for making more poems. It’s simply about being open to the poems arriving – and making it easier for that process to work itself through.

In my experience, that perfect time when my diary is clear probably isn’t going to happen at any point in this lifetime.

Or, if I wait for that clear afternoon, I’ll bo so rusty and clunky when it does finally arrive that I’ll waste time feeling my way in.

It’s a bit like writing this blog post in response to the brilliant #reverb10 project. I’m late showing up. Six days late, in fact. Because I spent a week thinking that I really couldn’t or shouldn’t write another blog post until my shiny new website is ready, the website that will help frame my focus on writing and creative well-being so much better.

In the end, I just did it.

I’m still learning…

For #reverb10

December 6 – Make. What was the last thing you made? What materials did you use? Is there something you want to make, but you need to clear some time for it? (Author: Gretchen Rubin)

Tags: Making, poetry, reverb10
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July 30th, 2010

Let me tell you about the cake. Oh, yes. The mouth-wateringly fragrant carrot cake, full of plump sultanas and toasted pecans. Topped with cream-cheese-and-lime frosting.

Of course, it wasn’t always a cake. It didn’t always look delicious.

At 8pm on Wednesday evening, it felt more like this: ‘It’s Tom’s dad’s birthday and I have to make him a cake right now because, if I don’t make it now, I’ll have no time tomorrow.’

‘You don’t have to make him a cake,’ said Tom.

‘I do, I do. I made your mum one for her birthday last week and so I have to do the same for your dad. And he doesn’t like the quick and easy kind. He likes carrot cake. But, anyway, I want to do it for him. And I said on my blog on Monday that I would be making something every day this week. So this is today’s thing.’

And now I’m starting to feel horrible at my lack of graciousness. I shouldn’t be moaning about making this cake. I should make it with kindness and from the heart, even though I’m Really So Tired.

Or not do it at all. Because it’s only me that has set up this ridiculous expectation that I must make cake. And not just a cake but quite a complicated cake. I could just go out and buy one tomorrow, of course. But that feels wrong too.

‘Stop being so horrible,’ says that voice inside me, ‘Stop being so ungracious and selfish. Stop being, quite frankly, such a lazy cow. Stop moaning.’ Oh, yes. You have no idea how mean and strict it can get inside my head sometimes. Or maybe you have.

Anyway, once I realised that the only person who was telling me I had to make cake was my very own unkind self, I took a couple of deep slow breaths and decided to be kinder.

My body relaxed. I noticed where I was holding in and holding on. Actually, I didn’t even need to decide to talk to myself in a different way. It was suddenly so obvious.

I wanted to make that cake. So I surrendered to it.

Surr-enderrrrrr-ed.

I stopped thinking about all the Other Things I also had to get done and that I could be doing now if only it wasn’t for having to do this thing. I stopped thinking at all. Instead I measured out flour, broke eggs into the bowl. I began to enjoy it, the smell of vanilla essence and grating the carrots into slippery ribbons.

Before long the cake was in the oven and the frosting was waiting in the fridge and I sat down with a cup of fennel tea and decided not to do all the Other Things. Until tomorrow. Because this was enough.

Carrot cake for Tony. Made with love.

And it tasted good too.

Each day on my blog this week, I’m hosting a Carnival of Making. I’m sharing with you something that I’ve made and hearing about what you make too. I’m interested in what happens when we simply allow ourselves to make something – without it having to be Perfect or A Work Of Art. I’m interested in the process of Making something, finding our flow, Making as, well, simply Being. Please join me and tell me about what you’re making. I’d love to hear from you.

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July 28th, 2010

I just wanted to share with you a little of how it is for me – this Making thing.

So, yesterday, I wrote that making something doesn’t mean that you have to get out all your paints and a great big canvas or craft A Great Poem.

When I get into that, I’m already outside the flow, outside the making, doing the ‘ummm,’ and ‘errr’ and ‘Is this Good Enough?’ that makes my chest tight and my stomach and shoulders tense – a place where nothing new can easily happen.

But here is a quick scribble I drew whilst sitting waiting for someone yesterday. And a few more doodles that I did in my notebook, just towards the end of the day.

A few moments, that’s all it was. My hand moving across the soft white page. I noticed the thoughts, ‘This is infantile, this is silly, I really should practise my drawing skills…’ and then I let them go.

The page, the pen, making marks, noticing with curiosity what wants to emerge.

A few moments. I felt calm and quiet – a little fizz of excitement somewhere in the bottom of my stomach beginning now too.

Something had happened.

Each day on my blog this week, I’m hosting a Carnival of Making. I’m sharing with you something that I’ve made and hearing about what you make too. I’m interested in what happens when we simply allow ourselves to make something – wothout it having to be Perfect or A Work Of Art. I’m interested in the process of Making something, finding our flow, Making as, well, simply being. Please join me and tell me about what you’re making. I’d love to hear from you.

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July 27th, 2010

There’s nothing quite like plunging your hands into a big gooey mess of dough and moving them around a bit.

Rye sourdough bread. Very messy fun.

I made a batch last night and, whilst I was bringing it together and getting flour all over the floor, it got me thinking and making connections in the way that making things always does.

I started to think just how good it is to make something new, to experiment with paint, with dough, with words and that it’s so helpful for me to remember to do it more.

It’s so easy for things to get narrowed down to what you see right in front of you. When you remember to shift into doing something different, there are amazing insights to be had. I often feel my entire body change, let go a little, making room for the ideas to flow in.

We do sometimes need a bit of a nudge to do something new though, don’t we? And so I was wondering…

What if we were to have a great big, juicy  Creative Love-In, right here on this blog?

What if we were to make some new things – experimenting, rolling up our sleeves, making a mess, making (erm, are we allowed?) mistakes, getting dirty, playing around?

It wouldn’t need to be a big extravagant canvas or a finished poem – although that would be fantastic. It could be something very small  – a pen-sketch, a scribble, a very delectable and innovative sandwich – and still be so important.

And just look at what Adele in Finland is making over here.

What if I were to keep telling you about what I make and you could tell me all about what you make, right here in the Comments? And we could keep it going for the next week or so…

Are you in?

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July 26th, 2010

This week I cleared out a tiny studio space at the top of our house. It’s the eyrie where I perched to write the last pages of my PhD, the summer that we had just moved into this house. I remember feeling hot and bothered up there and wishing I could be downstairs in the rest of my life again. Perhaps because of that, the space soon got overlooked in favour of the much bigger downstairs room where I work with clients or the kitchen table where I like to sit in the mornings. The poor, old abandoned roof space had become a bit of a dusty dumping-ground.

But last week I cleared it out. I was craving a new space – a light, airy private space that has something to do with making things in secret. And I realised that I already had just that space. Time to reclaim it.

On Saturday, I went up there and unwrapped a new canvas and some acrylics. I had decided that I would make a painting to go in a space above our bed and I felt full of zizz  and spark at the idea of getting the paint on the canvas – and my fingers.

Now, can I just add that I have never really painted before. I have no idea about technique. I just knew that I wanted to do it. And what did I discover? That painting is just like writing.

Yes, the small square of blue sky framed in the window above my head. Yes, the white clouds passing, the sound of birds, the sunlight on the table. Yes, the thrill of mixing a colour and experimenting with different sized brushes.

There was a moment when it was just right – the bluey-green seemed just the right shade of bluey-green, a little hazy, letting the paint underneath show through. Everything was flowing – my hand, the sun on my shoulders, the smell and feel of the paint.

And then I thought something like, ‘Now, I just need to get more texture here and add in something with a finer brush here… and what is it that I’m making, anyway? Does it need more of this here? Does that look a bit clumsy?’

Gone! My painting suddenly more thought than felt. Over-thunk. Bang. Gone. In one teeny moment!!!

And I thought, this is just like making a poem. The minute I catch myself saying, ‘Oooo, I’m writing a poem about X, Y, Z ,’ I might as well get up from my desk. Because I’ve already left the process. I’m sitting outside of it going ‘Oooo’ and ‘Errrr’ and ‘Not good enough’ and ‘That would be better.’

I looked at my painting – you know, the one that was supposed to go in that space waiting in our bedroom, well, that is if I’d actually been capable of doing it right - and I heard myself starting in on more of this, just for a second, ‘See, not as good as you thought you would be, are you? What did you even try for? Why didn’t you just stick to writing?’

And then I realised. And I laughed. I had a good old chuckle at myself.

I think I’ll be painting over the canvas and beginning again – some parts, anyway. But at least I know that I can.

And I had so much fun painting.

Even now, I’m looking at my painting and thinking, I’m going to be kind to myself about it and curious about what will happen next. And I feel a big surge of joy for this new process I’ve discovered.

It seems that painting, like making poems, is all about the process. Surrendering to it. Rolling around in it. Loving it. Laughing about it. Knowing you can start all over again and make something even better. Remembering to trust that there’s so much more where that came from.

Funny, that. Who would ever have thought it?

Tags: creativity, painting, process
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