Meanie me

Over the last week or so, I had a strange experience of feeling just a little bit ... mean. For a few days I felt anywhere from mildly irritated to annoyed at least once with pretty much every person I came in contact with. And it wasn't so much the irritation itself that bugged me the most, but the fact that my response to all those situations was becoming sort of unpleasant and a tiny bit ... mean. 

Although I strongly believe that other people with qualities we feel we don't have only reflect those qualities already present within us (otherwise how would we recognise them in the first place?) and that meeting such people should only inspire us to become more fully ourselves rather than want to be more like them, there are days when it seems I want to be more like some people I know. We all have met them, you know, those people that might have crossed our paths for only a brief instant, and that day or those moments of being with them were so magical because the other person just seemed so amazing (although we will never know if that person is always like that or whether it was just a particularly good day for them). I have definitely met people like that - a smiley girl in a summer camp ten years ago whose name I don't remember anymore but whose constant jolly chatter still rings in my ears; Kristina, one of our new pregnancy class instructors (yes, it's our new little project for August!!!) who is just a beautiful dimpled embodiment of femininity and who upon meeting us for the first time, gave us the biggest kiss on the cheeks as if she'd missed us for years; my husband who can irresistibly laugh even at the least funny jokes of strangers and make them feel at ease and welcome; the list goes on! We all know those people. Well, had you met me last week, I would have definitely not made it to the list of people you would have wanted to meet again.

It seemed that nearly in every situation where I was interacting with my fellow human beings I felt a bit distant, hesitant, closed off, and just a bit of a meanie. When we went to our batucada class, I felt weird and awkward for being the only one not to eat gluten-and-other-things-filled birthday cake of our teacher. Normally, it would not bother me and I can refuse things quite gracefully, but on this particular day I felt a bit mean just thinking to myself that perhaps everyone else shouldn't be eating it either. When I also refused wine and everyone found out about our news, I was stunned by the sudden outburst of joy from the entire group, which despite being so beautiful, only highlighted the contrast between their genuineness and my social clumsiness in that moment. It was suddenly as if the whole group turned into those people, and here I was gluten-free and not one of them.

Then we went to the pregnancy class and my already present irritation got only worse when we found out that Kristina, a.k.a. the goddess of femininity, was not going to lead the class that night. The new instructor tried. She really really did her best to liven up a slightly flatly-disposed group that we all were that evening. She smiled and chatted away trying to fill in the gaps, made exaggerated noises and twisted herself in every position imaginable to prepare us for birth, she asked questions in a jolly way and laughed at her own answers. But the more she tried, the meaner it all made me feel. I constantly felt like rolling my eyes, contradicting and correcting her, or the worst - silently looking at the carpet and pretending I didn't hear her 'silly' questions. I left the class full to the brim of 'oh my god, did you see how she...' type of comments which, irritatingly, my husband did not really find entertaining for longer than a few polite moments of letting me vent.  

Then there were my work colleagues. Nothing really happened as, thankfully, last week I worked from home, but I even that felt like a smug and slightly mean thought - knowing that I could switch them off at any moment by closing my laptop. 

Early on Saturday morning when I was on my way to my natural eyesight improvement course, I realised that this snappy snake behaviour had to stop. I was about to meet up with a group of lovely people that provide me a month-worth of inspiration every time I get to meet them, and I really wanted to feel open and relaxed and enjoy the two days ahead. So as I was walking through the rain and cold to the bus stop, I asked myself what this was all about and whether there was a particular memory that wanted to emerge to be observed and made whole again. 

Instantly I was brought back to my earlier self at the age of six on a metal-framed squeaky bed in a bleak hospital room where I spent a few days after a hernia operation. My parents did their absolute best to make that gloomy environment a little more comfortable during my brief stay there. To this day my dad bringing me books and, on one occasion, a white wind-up rabbit toy remains as one of the sweetest memories of seeing him slightly embarrassed that perhaps he had underestimated my age. 

Among the very few entertaining things was the fascinating illnesses that the other hospital room mates had. In addition to a girl that had nearly entire body in a cast, most vividly I remember another girl who for whatever reason as part of her therapy could only walk on all fours. I don't recall what must have happened exactly or much of the dynamics between all of us kids. I don't even know what triggered a particular situation that I recall most clearly, but I must have felt very hurt and angry. Something really really mean and unfair must have happened or must have been said to me by the girl walking on all fours. I just remember angrily retaliating to her that in that case (whatever it was) I wished she stayed the way she was - walking as she did. Although I am sure we quickly, as kids do, made amends during the rest of my time there, deep in my mind and soul, for years to come this remained as a striking proof of some deep inner meanness that I was capable of. That and a doubt that perhaps this was only the very tip of the iceberg and that if really pushed, I could respond with something much more horrible and ugly, for now silently lurking inside and waiting for the right dark moment. You know, like they show in horror or news stories.

By the time I approached the bus stop, I had allowed myself some space and time to relive that memory and to change it in such a way that the two girls of the past went on separate their ways, physically healthy and filled with love and forgiveness. I sighed with relief of feeling more like myself, hopeful again that perhaps someday someone might also see me as one of those people.

Future re-imagined

Last week I went to a work conference in Nairobi, Kenya. The week was busy but went well, and my favourite part was the abundance of fresh fruit that were in season - in Europe we simply don't get mangoes and avocados that taste the way they taste in Africa!

When the time finally came to head back home to Spain, I felt prepared. I left the hotel four hours in advance of the flight as there had been some reports of other colleagues getting stuck in Nairobi traffic for three hours and missing their flights. The taxi journey to the airport was as smooth as ever, and I was at the airport some forty minutes later. Although I had to wait for a while before check-in opened, I didn't mind it at all. Actually, waiting at the airports does not bother me, as some of my best thinking and writing time has happened due to delayed flights. After check-in, I slowly wandered around shops and bought some honey-coated macadamia nuts (another one of my favourite things about Kenya) and had a nice cup of coffee, which is among the country's biggest exports but a rare treat for me.

It all felt so nice and unrushed. By the time boarding started, I had finished a handwritten letter to an old friend and had reached the third chapter of my new book by Terry Pratchett. After a two hour flight I was supposed to arrive to Addis Ababa in Ethiopia, spend a few lazy hours there waiting for my connection to Madrid and arrive home early the next morning, just in time for breakfast and our dog Pepe waking up. That was the plan. 

Halfway through our journey to Addis, an in-flight announcement came up that they had encountered a problem with the plane's engine which meant the plane would need to return back to Nairobi for servicing. Hearing about engine problems during flights is not something that puts people at ease, and I could feel my neighbour passenger - an elderly gentleman from Germany - tense up upon hearing the news. Now, I can't honestly say it was not bothering me at all, but it was not the first time it had happened during flights with various lesser-known airlines, so I just took out my book to distract the mind from its at times unnecessary creation process. When we finally landed in Nairobi, the German gentleman look at me and nearly reproachfully commented that he could not believe I just sat there reading my book through it all. I explained that my view was that had I sat there all worried, it would have not added anything positive to the situation and who knows, perhaps, even would have contributed to manifesting a different possible reality than that in which we landed safely. He seemed to agree with  my explanation but appeared very uncomfortable at a prospect of having to travel on the same plane again - serviced or not. So when the announcement came up about a few seats being available for people with connections to China on an earlier flight, he rushed out of the plane with them although he had previously told me that Addis was his final destination.

The rest of us just waited. As always in these cases, announcements were rare and few but they seemed to be making progress with the plane and just kept asking us to wait. A flight attendant informed me that my flight to Madrid was delayed so I sat back trusting that I would still make the connection in time. Finally, a good hour and a half later, the plane was ready to start its journey again and we headed for Ethiopia. I spent the flight pleasantly chatting with a new neighbour passenger, a gentleman from Ethiopia. There is a certain liberty and beauty about conversations on the plane as usually they don't lead to deep friendships or long-term connections, but it's a beautiful moment of a brief journey shared where you had so much in common side by side - a meal, a movie, and a night's sleep - more than you could ask for from most first dates. 

When the plane landed in Addis Ababa and the local time was announced, I realised with horror that I had 25 minutes left before the departure time of my next flight and my only hope to make it seemed to shatter as the same flight attendant who had previously told me that the flight had been delayed was now corrected by her colleague that, in fact, it hadn't. In the next five minutes that followed, while everyone left the plane and were getting on the transfer bus at the speed of the slowest breed of snails, I could just feel all the previously repressed mind creation processes break all the dams in my head. Trillions of questions and possible scenarios about to happen as a result of a missed connection just flushed over in panic - When is the next flight to Madrid? What if there is none for another day? Or two? Or three??!! Will I have to stay in Ethiopia? I will have to stay in Ethiopia!!? Will they pay for my hotel? They better pay for my hotel! I bet it's going to be a horrible hotel! Ethiopian food  made me sick 2 years ago, will it happen again?! I will need to get a visa. I am not sure I have enough cash for it! Will I be back home for the weekend? I really want to be back home for the weekend! And on and flippin' on... 

Suddenly, in the midst of all of this chaos and rush of thoughts, I had a clear flash of a possible future - where I am sitting on the Madrid flight that I am supposed to be on with my legs up, cozily watching a film, and about to fall asleep. Just that - as if it was a still photo. And that's when I knew that just like all the other futures I could imagine, this one was also possible and that the only thing I needed to do was to keep bringing back to my mind the image that I desired as clearly as possible, allowing the rest of the events to unfold in their order.

I have had many experiences of near miracles happen due to this ability of the mind to narrow down all possible futures to a particular one and maintain it while the world spins around. One of the most vivid examples was during a particularly difficult summer a few years ago. My parents were separating, my 3.5 year-long relationship was crumbling, I was about to finish graduate school and was unsure what the financial crisis meant for job options, and for the first time I was having serious physical pain and concerns about my health - all while having to do well just one thing - write my graduate dissertation. It was one of the most painful processes I have experienced in my entire life, because my mind endlessly wandered from one challenge to another, and there were times when I would stay up all night only to write 70 words. I mean, three or four sentences in ten hours! I spent my days partly sleep-walking in a state of complete numbness and trying not to focus on the world collapsing around me, feeling just a little more alive during my daily ritual of going to the beach and walking around barefoot. I would return back to the cursed laptop only to spend another horribly unproductive night. In addition to my mom's loving presence and cooking, the reason I got through that summer is that one day I had a glimpse of a possible future. Just this instant where I was handing the dissertation over in time for the deadline. Just that moment of my hands and our programme assistant's hands holding it for a brief second of exchange, and me feeling proud of it being complete. This still image was my lifeline during that summer when millions of times I felt like giving up and quitting everything. And I made it! A few weeks later, that precise moment happened when I handed the dissertation over an hour before it was due, all freshly printed and bound, only to be later evaluated with a merit. 

My memory of that summer was suddenly interrupted by the opening doors of the snail-filled bus. For a split second I brought back the image of me curled up in my seat watching the film, and then... I DASHED. I am pretty sure that had it been an Olympic sprint, I would have at least received an honorable mention for running at such speed with two suitcases! I got ahead of the crowds, madly rushed through the Ebola temperature control area somehow managing not to set off the alarms even though I was steaming from of running, excused myself but pushed ahead through security, and finally arrived to the finish line wearing just my socks, a couple of minutes before the plane doors closed and the boarding was complete. Eventually, when I stopped panting and feeling the taste in my mouth as if my lungs were bleeding, here I was - all cozy in my seat with my feet up and ready to enjoy a film. A long nap and a few hours later, I was whisked away home by my lovely husband only to make it in time for breakfast and waking up of Pepe, the snoozy dog. 

Stolen joy

So last week was interesting... I went back to the UK, ready for a few busy days at work and to see some of my friends in the evenings. And then, just a few hours since my flight had landed, it happened...

I was on the London metro with my luggage travelling to a train station when my stationery pouch got stolen. It only took a few distracted seconds of me glancing at a free newspaper on a seat nearby, and it was gone. Upon noticing that it had disappeared, I felt my blood freeze for a split second because earlier during the day my passport had been inside it (and for whatever reason, a strange thought had prompted me to removed it).  As I ran through the list of things that I could remember putting into it, it became clear that whoever took it would be very disappointed. There were no phones, no money and nothing of real value. Well, to everyone except me - a set of inexpensive headphones, post-it notes, handwritten love letters from my husband, new gorgeous colour pencils, and three fountain pens. Yes! All of them.

Now, I realise that in the grand scheme of things, this is not a major event that should make the evening news (even knowing my absolute passion for paper and fountain pens on which I will expand later). As I was trying to remember what else had been in the pouch, it hit me that the biggest deal about the situation was that it was the second time it happened, last time being at the end of October when my work laptop got nicked with lots of personal letters, notes and - yes - my favourite fountain pen in the laptop case. 

In the evening after the metro theft I arrived at the hotel only to find that there was not a single ballpoint pen or pencil in my room, and I was quite suprised to discover near-withdrawal type symptoms that I started experiencing. I kept pacing around the room looking for something to write with, checked the opening times of all stationery shops within 5km of the hotel, and felt like I did not know what to do with my hands. Finally, I decided to release all this tension by typing out all that this situation represented to me and look for clues as to why I was a match to it.

Firstly, I focused on what writing and pens mean to me, and the list just kept on going. For me the actual physical process of writing is one of the most extraordinary sensations that I have experienced in my life. Ever since my first handwriting classes at the age of six, writing brings me into a complete state of flow. I become very aware of the exact point where the nib is touching the paper - that magical moment of now - a divide between the lines written in the past and the blank page ahead for what is yet to become letters in the future. It is one of those experiences for me where time just stops existing, and I feel fully and completely immersed in the present, noticing the subtle movements of my hand and softly following the sliding nib  with my gaze. With computers and typing having taken over the world and me hardly ever needing to write at work, writing has become nearly exclusively dedicated to letters, reflections or journals. Therefore, I treasure my fountain pens because they represent being in the present moment, expressing my creativity, liberating my deepest innermost feelings, staying connected with myself and others, sharing the love with closest people in my life, and simply pure joy. Having them stolen felt for a brief moment like momentarily losing all of the above.

Nonetheless, the more deeply I was willing to look into this, the more beautiful the whole situation began to appear. One of the pens that got stolen was an expensive pen given to me as a gift in one of my previous relationships. It was the last pen I added to the pouch before the trip thinking that perhaps it was too expensive to take with me on a trip to overseas. And yet there was a sense of release and relief that came with knowing that it no longer belonged to me. While I pondered the loss of the objects I loved, I kept rejoicing that nothing really really expensive or difficult to replace was lost. 

Reflecting on it further made me aware of three situations in which I had experienced similar feelings, and you will know from this blog that I am all about discovering those parts of us that split off and get stuck in the past only to keep resurfacing in similar situations in search for wholeness and reintegration. The first one had happened earlier in the week during an intense conference call with two colleagues about a particular area of work that has not been managed by anyone and will become my responsibility in preparation for our audit. As the conversation got heated, I felt exactly as described above - as if I was allowing my creativity and joy to be stolen from me. Somehow, realising this made me feel more in control of how I approach this assignment, because at the end of the day it will need to get done, and I have a full choice in terms of the attitude I do it with.

Second situation that surfaced was an old memory of when I was probably about five years old, and a stranger passing by on the street started accompanying me on a short trip to the nearby shop. After a few casual questions about where I was going, she reached down into the pocket of my coat and grabbed a handful of coins my mom had given me to buy bread. It was the first experience in my life of theft in a physical sense, and rather than being scary it felt unfair and invasive and simply not nice to know that other people can just take things away from you.

Finally, the earliest memory that came up related to all of this was of me in pre-kindergarten year (so perhaps at the age of three or four), when I received a beautiful stuffed toy, a while teddy bear, as a present. It was so gorgeous that I vividly remember instantly falling in love, overjoyed that it belonged to me. The details escape me of what happened exactly, but by the end of that same day one of the other kids had grabbed it from me and had absolutely destroyed it with a green marker. Although I probably would not have been able to express it eloquently in words at that time, I was absolutely devastated, overwhelmed with grief for the loss of the perfection and beauty that the bear had been, and completely robbed of joy. Most of the rest of my childhood I remember the same feeling returning on a smaller scale every time any of my toys would break or get dirty.

I love it when old memories resurface because I now have the power and authority to return to them and participate in them again, but this time as an adult. The point of doing that is to be there unconditionally present and love wildly the younger version of me stuck in that situation. This involves me imagining that I have every superpower possible and I can grant every wish until the little one in the newly created alternative memory feels happy, safe and whole. Afterwards, I don't necessarily forget the situations, it is simply that they completely lose any charged emotions or triggers around them. Once we can see things clearly in the light (including the light of our awareness), they stop being scary or make us feel powerless. 

To cut the long story short, the happy ending to all of this was reached after an indulging afternoon visit to a couple of big beautiful stationery shops in London. Sigh... I can write things down again!..

Conscious parenting (and dog ownership)

Busted with dirty laundry again...

This week I have had at least three situations where our usually shlumpy, funny and entertaining Basset Hound dog Pepe made me so angry. Very stubborn by nature, Bassets are not exactly the breed of dogs that lend easily to discipline or to doing what anyone else says. And this was very clear from the moment he arrived into our lives with his over-sized ears at the young age of 3 months. He knew with absolute certainty when he wanted a break from his first walks with a leash, and would lie down in the middle of the town street leaving us confused and panicked. He knows now with absolute certainty that he loves dirty laundry smell while he drags it around the house; he adores sunny patches on our white couch where he never gets to sleep but on which, nonetheless, he attempts to climb at least twice a day. Lately, he must have realised that what he has not been gifted in the height department he was more than compensated for in his length. So he now jumps upwards to stand and see things over balcony railing, and, naturally, on top of the tables where he always finds something of interest - notebooks, paper-towel (he is obsessed with paper like me), dishcloths, my salad lunch which got left for 30 seconds...

Pepe's entire reality is made up of expectation that the world is a giant playground where everything that he likes is made for his enjoyment and everyone wants to play with him. And so it is. Most people we meet during our walks think he is the funniest thing they have seen and want to touch him and pet him; most dogs love his enthusiasm for playing or at least don't get annoyed with him. So this week has been unusual in that I was the one getting annoyed with him on a number of occasions - you know, upon the usual realisation that we can never get through a toilet paper roll that does not have Pepe's teeth marks and rips on it because he ends up pulling them all off across corridors and eating bits of them. On a number of walks this week Pepe was absolutely insistent that he wanted to play with a particular dog so much that following us on our path to the opposite direction was just no longer an option. It's very funny when it's not your dog or when it happens the first hundred of times. But then this week my patience seemed to be wearing very thin and I got very angry. Angry and frustrated enough to want to punish him. If he would just listen!!! 

I already apologised to Pepe for slapping his bum when I saw our living room full of cotton that he had extracted from a successfully destroyed toy (this was just a  moment after he had noisily pulled down a place mat off the table with everything that was on it). I became so aware of this sudden all-consuming anger that seemed to completely overtake me for that brief second and result in a slap. Where was this all coming from? And what did it mean? And most horrifyingly - am I on the road to becoming one of those future parents that slap the bums of their kids every time they chew through a cable or a toilet roll (OK, maybe it's only Pepe)? 

Wind woke me up a couple of nights ago and, as it tends to happen quite a lot recently, I could not go back to sleep. I now know better than resisting insomnia - usually, I find, somewhere before dawn, there is a lesson. As I reflected back on those questions, I felt two old memories rising up from the dusty corners of my mind. One was of me at the age when I was teething. In it I am chewing the edge of my wooden baby-cot, watching people in the room and feeling, perhaps for the first time in my life, irritated, annoyed and wanting that they would just listen! Another memory that came back was of me and my sister getting spanked. It did not happen very often but I do recall a number of occasions. Most of the memories involve me and my sister giggling uncontrollably at night while I used to do my famous "reading fairy-tales from my handkerchief" or getting to the end of the yes and no question game and finding out that the animal that I was supposed to guess was "a dandruff". The giggly atmosphere would quickly chill down when we would hear one of our parents get up to come with a warning, We would know that the final drop was reached when we would hear our father get up to punish. 

So on the windiest night of this week, I spent time returning back to and re-imaging both of those memories in order to release those feelings of not being listened to and of being punished. I don't carry resentment towards my parents. They did a lot of amazing things for me as a kid, including listening to my complaint at the age of 5 about a kindergarten teacher who spanked me for not taking a nap, taking me out of the kindergarten and allowing me to stay at home for a year before starting school. 

While I do realise that there might be a difference in the relationships that we have with pets and kids, as well as a degree of difference in communication and comprehension, ultimately, it is my deepest belief that all clashes between us and them point to the same - parts of us that are triggered and are in need for healing. Dr. Shefali, the author of The Conscious Parent, puts it beautifully - "Every interaction with our children is a reflection of our relationship with ourselves''. This week has taught me that the same can be said about our relationship with our pets, and this has inspired me to be a more conscious mama for Pepe.