Mindfulness and why it sh*ts me

Mindfulness has become such a buzzword, it’s started to make me feel guilty. Every time I’m not being mindful, which is most of the time, I catch myself and try to be mindful, but I can’t. It’s like trying to fit in dessert after a fifteen course meal. I want to, but I am way too full. I think about it, but I can’t. People who stress or have anxiety, the over thinkers, the worriers, the over analysers, the catastrophisers, the ones who need mindfulness in their lives, have no room for it, because their mind is already full of all the other stuff.

I find myself zoning out at the check-out. I’ve already done the hard work. It’s time for a rest. I am at Woolies, I’ve bought my recyclable bags, I’ve remembered dish washing liquid, garlic, shoelaces and light bulbs.  I relax and wander off into a stare. I’m gazing into the plastic Labrador seeing-eye-dog money box but not looking at it, when she says “How’s your morning been?” I look at her. I know I’m supposed to engage in conversation. I’ve seen the label stuck to her counter “Have you engaged the customer?” I tell her it’s been good while I watch her packing. I can’t go to Aldi, that short conveyer belt thing and the fast packing stresses me out.

I start being mindful. Well, I snap myself out of my stare and look at her. I think about mindfulness, what can I see, hear, smell? I notice her hair needs a wash, her eyebrows are too square and her name badge says Nix. Wtf? Who names their kid Nix? I realise it might be a nick-name or a diminutive of Nicole and I don’t want to engage with Nix. Bloody Millenials, Millenii, Milleniums.

I noticed the piped music for the first time and recognise a song I hate. I smell rotting potatoes and there is some kind of sludge on the conveyor belt. Fuck mindfulness. I realise I have walked into Saturday morning right smack bang into the over 40s demographic of easy listening. Even though I am over 40, I hate Air Supply. How do they work out musical demographics, they have never interviewed me or anyone I know. I remind myself to bring my headphones next time. I can’t be mindful, I’m already an over-thinker. I am mind-freaking full all the bloody time.

My daughter is learning Mindfulness at school. I am pleased for her and ask her about it. “Do you meditate?”  I ask? “Do you belly breathe?” she told me that the teacher got them to get their mini-munch out of their lunchboxes and to inspect it from all angles, to smell it, to look at the detail and to describe it in their minds. She said her strawberries which I had cut up, were swimming in their juice and after inspecting them for so long, she didn’t want them anymore. Any other day she would gobble those red berries straight down without thinking. Instead I had to pour the pink swill in to the sink and then fish the slimy bits out from the strainer. Mindfulness shits me.

What I seek is mindlessness. I managed that quite well for a number of years in my twenties and thirties. Nothing like 35 vodkas, a 3am kebab break and dancing til dawn to kill off a long week. It took me a long time to discover meditation and when I did it was transformative.

For many years I had practiced yoga but the meditation was only about 5 – 10 minutes of breathing at the end of the class and a bit of music. Finding an app with guided meditation has been the perfect way to settle my mind, release the over thinking and take me to place where I can stop and rest deeply. I prefer to think of meditation as taking me to a space of mindlessness or no mind.

For those who find meditation too hard, I need to explain what I do. I do not sit cross legged. I do not find a quiet place to still my mind and sit with my thumb and index finger together like Buddha. I don’t meditate every day. I am always in bed. I meditate sometimes when I wake up to set myself up for the day or I meditate at night to put me to sleep. I lie down with an eye mask on and headphones. This way, if my kids come in to ask me where their sports skirt is, or my husband wants to know why the milk is in the pantry again, they can see that I have checked out.

When I can’t meditate using my app, I belly breathe. At the dentist last week, when things were getting all nervy and the spit sucker was whistling away inside my cheek, I realised I needed to take my attention away from my head. I placed my hands on my stomach and breathed into my tummy. My hands rose and fell. I focused on my breathing, telling myself that the mouth open, sharp whistling sound, the scraping, the taste of rubber gloves and my darn tongue following wherever he put his fingers, would be over soon and I would be okay. This worked. It stopped my hands clenching and my neck and shoulders from shrinking into my skull. It was less painful as my nervous system was calm and not on high alert. Belly breathing is the most effective way to calm the body down.

I prefer mindlessness over mindfulness every time. When my life is busy I need to shut down stimuli and clock off. I don’t need to become more aware of anything or everything. I don’t need to heighten my senses which are already pretty high. Meditation closes me down at night and opens me back up in the morning. It is my defrag, my shutdown, my off button. It does for me what mindfulness cannot.

I use this app, https://www.insighttimer.com because it has over 10,000 meditations when I can’t decide; it also has the option to bookmark when I find one I like. It has sessions which go for five minutes if you are in a hurry or longer ones up to an hour, if you need more time. Some of the people have really deep soothing voices; some don’t do it for me. They have little head shots as well so you can follow your favourites. It’s kind of like Tinder for the anxious. Except you don’t have to meet them in a cafe or worry about what to wear.

Breathe in, all the way to your belly, hold it for four seconds. Breathe out for four.  Repeat.

 

Rachel Wilkinson is a Counsellor, Massage Therapist and Reiki practitioner. She meditates when she can’t sleep, when she is overwhelmed or when she misses her yoga classes. She has just written an e-book called Hell in a Handbag about giving up drinking and how meditation and counselling helped her through that process. If you are interested in this or know anyone dealing with addiction who might find this helpful you can find it by clicking here.

 

 

 

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Who let the dogs out?

I didn’t want a puppy and now that we have one, I still don’t. Everyone tells me “It’s like having a new baby.” I set them straight and say babies don’t chase you around the house nipping your ankles, chewing power cords and swallowing rocks. They smile and nod. It seems like the conspiracy of childbirth, the general amnesia and softening out the edges of traumatic memory.  I still remember! When people I know have babies, I don’t ask them the name or how heavy or the gender, I ask them how horrific it was, how long it went on, who was there with them, which drugs and did they get a private room to hide in quietly and cry. Having babies is hard core. Surely a puppy would be a walk in the park, so to speak.

Not so much. Although he was officially given the name Jasper, he quickly progressed to other names. These included Bitey McBite-face, his night-time name of Whiny-Whiny boy-dog and another impolite habit earned him the title of Humplestiltskin. The day he arrived I was unpacking the dishwasher when he launched a posterior attack. His jaw locked tightly around my ankle, his piranha sharp teeth firmly embedded. The children ran to their bedrooms and closed the door and my husband watched in horror. This wasn’t exactly the way we imagined it might be, like in those toilet paper ads with the cute music and the baby puppies licking the kid’s faces as they all cuddle and roll in the grass. We didn’t get that dog.

We take photos when he is not biting the girls and post them on social media. The world comes to visit. We make appointments for puppy cuddles, people arrive at the same time and it is overwhelming for him. He licks, bites, snuggles and runs away. We hear the advice about the ticking clock, the hot water bottle, we had already tried both without success, we listen to the advice of letting him sleep with us, sleep without us, inside and outside dogs. My neighbour reminds me of the python we had last year in the garden. We listen and can’t process it all. It’s like learning a new language. By the time a school mum mentioned anal gland draining, I just blocked it out.

I get used to getting up twice or three times a night to stand out in the cold watching him pee. I think about the people who said it’s like having a baby, it is and it’s not. At least babies have nappies and don’t shit on the carpet. Our house is tracked with mud and grass and smells like poo. My hands look like a bare knuckle fighter, bloodied and scabbed.

He continues to cry and yelp and whine when we put him to bed. I text my next door neighbour at 9:40pm to apologise for the noise; she has two dogs. She understands. We have moved him from the laundry with toddler gates, where he cried and peed, then to the en-suite so he can see us. He flings himself at the bars like he’s been falsely imprisoned. He bites the edges of the shower tiles; I suspect he is filing his teeth. He yanks down my bathrobe from the back of the door and humps it.  He growls and bites and chews my bedside table legs when I take him out to passify him and let him sleep beside me.

On the third night we are both on the bed with our feet up screaming at each other. “Why is the dog tearing around?” I flip up my eye mask and check the time its 12:02am “Why are you coming in at midnight?” I shriek at my husband.  “The World Cup was on!” The dog is jumping up at the bed growling and biting. I am so tired, it feels like we are both in a sinking boat with a wild storm and huge waves thrashing us. “ I don’t know what to do with him,” he says. “I hate him,” I cry “ I want to send him back!” around and around the bed the dog races with his high pitch bark and growling and now I get the meaning of the word throw cushion. I want to hurl these at him and stop the noise. Instead I let him lick Rescue Remedy from my fingers and put amethyst and rose quartz crystals in his water. “Like that’s going to help,” mutters my husband. Eventually we all sleep.

I speak to my family and friends about his behaviour and they mention crates. I get one from K-mart which is fabric and an inoffensive colour and cheap. On the way to the vet he tries to rip it apart, I see the whites of his eyes and his bared teeth and growling while he carries on like a mini Cujo. I have to pull over and stop a few times to let his head out of the zip at the top. He escapes and walks over my lap and chews on the handbrake. I’m reminded of the Afrikaans saying “Buying cheap is buying expensive.” I know I need to get a proper sturdy crate and give this one to someone with an aloof cat.  He starts looking up when I call him Silly-dog.

“You do realise I can see your Google searches on my iPad mum,” my daughter informs me after finding my 11.45pm search of “Why do puppies eat their own poo?” my husband is gagging in the en-suite as I come in with the Spray ‘n Wipe and paper towels to clean up the remains of the day. We did buy the premium puppy food for extra nutrition, but I had no idea it was so good he would eat it twice. Apparently, to them it is a delicacy, it’s only humans who find it repulsive. Puppy poo eating is a thing. That wasn’t on the paperwork, or mentioned under the breed category. Nor was anal gland draining, for that matter.  I take him to the vet, she tells me how I need to clean his teeth, fold the ear back and reach in deep to pluck the hair out. Jesus. I think I stop listening.

During the week, a friend mentions boundaries, suggesting a play pen. It reminds me of the kids with the little back packs with ropes on them and I say “I don’t like the idea of animals in cages,” she raises her eyebrows and drinks her tea. I phone the vet and ask can I have the puppy training classes sooner than later. I had booked this when my life was about me, and not revolving around sharp toothed, stealth ankle biter with a penchant for shredding my pyjama pants and eating his own poo.

The pack leader at the puppy school means business. I note her outfit, dark long pants, closed in shoes, long sleeves, hair pulled back, like she is going into battle. She tells us that one in three puppies has issues. My daughter and I exchange a look, which says God, that’s us. Of course we get the one with issues.

We learn quickly. We get a clicker so the sound can be associated with a reward. I learn about positive reinforcement and understand why shouting NO was not ever working. We learn about boundaries. Pens. Crates. I buy both. I buy blankets, towels, toys, treats. I buy some overpriced dog collar from the vet which has the smell of a lactating mother on it for $127. We use bacon, ham and salami to teach him to sit, come, chase a ball and it starts to be fun. We click the clicker and treat. He stops biting us so much and popping him in the pen means I can unpack the dishwasher in peace. Every day gets better. I start to play music, burn candles, and vacuum, I disinfect all the rooms he has been in, I wash all the blankets and open the windows. Containment, boundaries, praise, treats. I get it now.

He probably hated us too. He had gone from the comfort of his mother and brothers and sisters to a family of big people who yelled NO all the time, who ran away from him and left him locked up at night.

I can now see how it is like having a new baby, because we learn to parent. It takes a little while to get to know one another, how everything works, what the other likes and dislikes, how we all need connection and containment and treats. It has been interesting to notice the need for time to ourselves when things get overwhelming. It is perfect to see how encouragement works better and more effectively than shouting. I also became aware of how we present ourselves and families on social media.  Here is a photo of my cute dog, with a perfect background and kids playing outside in the sunshine. When the reality sometimes is, here is my dog eating his own turd at 2am locked in the bathroom. We don’t post the unflattering stuff. We filter. We select how we want the world to see us.

It’s been a steep learning curve for us. I haven’t had a dog since 1985, we didn’t have poo bags back then. Now I have the black bags in one pocket and treats in the other, I’m dolling out bacon, chicken, saying a lot of “Good boy!” and clicking the clicker. Last week I realised how instinctive it had all become as I dropped the girls to school, called out have a good day, and reached into my pocket for a treat.

If you are a new parent, have a new pet, or are in a new relationship, I wish you luck. Ask for support when you need it, take time out for you, watch and learn.  Sometimes everything goes belly up, but that’s when the personal growth happens. As you learn more about them, you learn more about you. You learn kindness, patience, acceptance and love. And bacon. Because life is better with bacon.

 

 

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Goddamn right it’s a beautiful day!

Wednesdays are called BIG Wednesdays at our place. We start at 6.30 to get to choir by 7:40, it is sports day for both girls, I head over to the clinic, so we need lunches packed for all, we have to remember it’s library day, then after school care, then netball training til 6.30pm. With Mark away as well, it’s entirely possible it’s a McDinner tonight. I pack a salad for lunch. A mid week load of washing is in the machine.

The girls take a stool at the kitchen bench; I pour myself a coffee and them a hot chocolate.  They have bed head, are wrapped in onsies and fluffy dressing gowns and chatting about a YouTuber. Ellie takes her first sip of the warm chocolaty milk. “Mmmmm” she says and leaning into her older sister and giving her a side hug. Ruby reacts with a confused face and pulls away. “It was just so yummy I had to hug someone”, Ellie explains. Today she is the joy bringer.

I pile one child into the car for choir, check the lunch box is in, the jacket, the water bottle, the library satchel, the laptop which isn’t charged again. I ask the other to bring in the newspaper and hang out the washing. I get a blank look. I congratulate myself on my ten minute meditation which enabled me to hold my peace in that moment, while I reverse out over the paper, passing the bin which is the only one left out in the street from Monday. I need a neon sign at the front of my house which says “It’s Wednesday – for the love of ducks – cut me some slack!”

We head to choir, where we are usually late or completely miss this if we can’t pull off an early morning. I switch off the radio and begin the car therapy. “You know when you hugged your sister at breakfast and she didn’t know what to do, or why you did that?” I begin. She smiles. “I was just so happy!”  We are approaching the road works near the farm, which I forgot about. They have blocked off a lane while they lay some pipes for drainage and we wait in line for the man to turn the sign from STOP to SLOW.

“Some people don’t know how to react when you hug them, or when you are happy and they aren’t. It’s not your fault, sometimes people don’t know how to be around emotions.”  I wanted her to know what she did this morning was gorgeous and expressive and authentic.  I don’t want her to feel rejected by not getting a response. “Some people aren’t huggers, or they might not feel happy when you do, so don’t take offence, just keep doing it, just keep bringing the joy!” Up ahead, the man turns the sign and we move forward behind a line of cars, who are now probably also late for choir. We wave like maniacs to the sign man. I yell out “Thanks Buddy!” he maintains passive face and doesn’t react. “See?” I say, “Some people get it and some take a while, but don’t stop bringing the joy”. I know persistence pays off; it took me two years of saying good morning to one-bike-two-dogs til he finally caved and cracked a smile.

I return home, hang out the washing, scoff my breakfast, put on mascara and try to tame my hair. I hustle the older child into the car to the continuous parenting audio loop of “jacket, lunchbox, fill up your water, have you cleaned your teeth?” We each stab at our favourite radio channel, back and forth until we get some music and she looks out the window. We approach the roadworks again.

I begin the car sermon. “You know when I saw you after drop off the other day, hugging your buddy, you both looked so happy!” She smiles. She had been on camp for a week and had not seen her Prep buddy. “Her whole face lit up as she hugged you and even her Dad was smiling.” I usually try to drive safely at drop off zone, but I always do the look-back to make sure they don’t need anything. This is when I saw Ruby drop to her knees grinning and hugging her four year old buddy. “Do you realise how much joy you bring to each other?” she smiles and tells me her birthday is coming up soon. We spoke about hugs and how some people are huggers and some are not, how some people relish in our joy and others don’t know how to be. We talked about her sister hugging her at breakfast and how unexpected it was, but also how beautiful.

Don’t ever underestimate the joy you bring to people, or the joy others can bring to you. Be the hugger, or the hugee. Give and receive the joy. Be the smiling person, be the maniac kid and Mum waving at the road-works man.  Persistence pays off, because one day, maybe when the weather warms up, or the sun is shining at a different angle  and warming his face, he will realise even though he is outside and it is early and cold, and we are all late now, that it is a goddamn beautiful day.

And what an excuse for this ditty by the Eels. 

 

 

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Burnout

The doctor opened the door, leaving it slightly ajar while I tried to squeeze through the gap. I lug an overfilled handbag, in one hand, a bunch of scripts and the other some rumpled, snotty tissues. “There’s never a dull moment in your life!” she said as she shooed me out the door. I grimaced and kind of fake laugh, shaking my head. God.

I arrived with a sore shoulder and scuttled out with some scripts for sleep, a low dose pill and some kind of topical gel for rage. It may have been my throw-away line like “I’m also becoming an angry middle-aged bitch.” She asked whether I was taking anything for the bursitis pain, which I thought would pass a year ago,  how my sleep was (never enough) what are my stress levels like, (more than I need) and exercise (evaporated totally since the shoulder injury).

She suggested I had adrenal fatigue. I was working for two companies, managing after school activities for two kids, running on daily fuel of about a litre of coffee packaged food at sporadic hours. In addition to this, I was studying a diploma of counselling, volunteering one day a week, and my husband was pretty absent and working away a lot. There was so much on my mind, so many balls in the air, I became overloaded and lost focus. I had a car accident and my period stopped. Then I stopped doing everything that once brought me joy.

After the rear-ender, had some whiplash and shoulder pain; this was followed by restricted movement, countless rounds of physio, and two useless cortisone injections.  It meant I didn’t go to yoga, I stopped being the fun mum, piggy-backing my kids to bed, and I stopped running. I stopped hanging out with friends because I was busy with work and the kids and driving, back and forth. I ferried the kids to their after and before school activities, so their lives would be broad and rich and full of culture while mine was diminishing and narrowing into a darkened vortex of work space and car space and the mindless driving, driving, driving.

I became too cranky to meditate and I became Shouty Mum again. I wish someone had shouted at me “Yoo-hoo! Self Care!” I wish I had written that down on a very large piece of paper and stuck it to my fridge. Everything that I needed to hold me together, I had let slide.

My weekly stress busting exercise of running a few ks around the block, slowed to a once a week guilty walk. My new way of blowing off steam was to belt out loud power ballads with the radio in my car. The quiet had stopped. The space between things had shrunk. There was nowhere for me to land. I’ve done burn out before in my twenties, that was a car crash on the Sydney Harbour Bridge, a bout of shingles and a one way ticket overseas, I kept running, never really letting anyone help me.

My over thinking had become out of control, my patience a ragged thread. The nice part of me, the one that used to be helpful, compassionate and understanding was blurring out and in its place was impatience, numbness and rage. I had nothing more to give.

I realised I had this during a work conversation, as I quickly glazed over, losing interest. A scream in my head yelled “Why don’t you just shut the f up and get out of my office?” My blank look did nothing to discourage the person talking about the problem they had had with a colleague. “For god’s sake!” the voice in my head screamed, “I’m holding my handbag and my keys, please leave, so I can pick up my kids from school without break the sound barrier”. Go somewhere else and word vomit about your day.”  I smile. Disconnected from the me smiling.

Instead, I lose it in traffic.  I save it all for the motorway. “Are you freaking kidding me?”  “Thanks for the warning buddy.” “Really, now, you too?” “No one thought to let me know it was a no indicating day??” Crank up the power ballads.

My Doctor explains it to me “It’s because your hormones that kept you stable for so long are ramping up and getting into frantic mode. Your fertility window is closing and those luteinising hormones are whacking the heck out of your ovaries.” She is lovely, descriptive, and brutally honest. She talks with her hands, which I like. She smacks her fist into her open palm. “ This is what happens when you get hit by the RAGE” She taps her computer screen bringing up a list of medication we can try, she mentions: gels, creams, pessaries, oral contraceptives, IUDS, hormones which go under the skin, something called a marina which just sounds too big to go anywhere. I am overwhelmed and I cry.

“Really?” I say. I spent most of my life trying not to get pregnant, now I’m at the gates of menopause, I still have to consider these things? She sighed, shrugged with her palms up and rolled her eyes. She didn’t need to say it, the sigh and eye roll meaning, “The shit we women have to put up with is phenomenal, then they sweeten it up with a longer life expectancy.”

After I admitted I probably had one solid night’s sleep in ten years, she offered me sleeping tablets and anti-depressants. I can’t take sleeping tablets because my children don’t sleep. I consider taking the pills, grinding them up and adding them to their little bowls of rice or mashed potato.

“I’m not very good with chemicals” I say, “I’m pretty sensitive.” She looks at the screen, “Still not drinking?”  I nod. “The pain killers aren’t addictive or anything”, she looks at me.  Like I’m an addict. Like pain killers aren’t addictive. I say no to the antidepressants and the pain killers.  I get why she might want to offer them, I’m tired, I’m hormonal, I’m stretched, I’m in pain, but the thing that tipped me over was that I stopped everything else I needed. Everything that helped my sanity.

I remind myself to breathe. Drink water. Eat food which doesn’t come out of plastic wrap or a can. Pour myself another tea. Look up my yoga time table. Meditate.

Until the Doctor explained it, I didn’t understand it was out of my control. I couldn’t understand why I had become so angry. I now see I had suppressed a lifetime of emotions by swallowing them down with alcohol. This allowed me to soften the blow, vent my anger, in a sociably acceptable way.  But I wasn’t getting the help I needed with the mindless drunken venting to friends. I needed a counsellor, not a wine. Now I see what happened, no exercise, no yoga, too much stress, kid wrangling on my own, pain and no place to vent.

I can normally moderate myself with exercise, food, meditation, sleep or friends. But the angry hormones were something extra adding to the mix. The increased cortisol, the adrenalin overload, the depletion of energy, the fatigue, the tears. The overwhelm, and just wanting to lie down and for everything else to go away.

I’m not big on medication, I have lots unfilled prescriptions. I suffer through a cold, burning eucalyptus oil and sipping lemon tea. I get a massage for headaches; I’ve never had to medicate my mood. This time I understand, there is a chemical imbalance, my hormones are going into overdrive, my stress levels are through the roof and the additional pain is reducing my sleep and energy.  This time, I say to the doctor, give me the things you think will help. I’ll take care of the rest.

I consider, how as a society, we soothe our souls, suppress our pain, rage, hurt and sadness. Life is complex, fuller than ever before, we are bombarded by media, social media, which shows us how our life could be, if only we had the right car, right house, right lounge suite. Life is a lot louder, with added colour and texture. Everything is a competition. We all are expected to want more from our lives now.

I’ve done some work on mine. I’m back at yoga, the gym, catching up with friends, a counsellor, listening to my meditation app and booking massages as often as haircuts.

This time I know what to do, I live my life, my way, with external supervision. I ask for help when I need it. I’m too vibrant to burnout.

 

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For all Mothers – the organised and disorganised

“Mum you have inspired me for when I become a mother,” said my eldest child, a few weeks ago. She has my full attention. She is not talking about her Spotify playlist, growing by the minute with hip hop artists singing about their girlfriend’s butts, she is not telling me why she needs to go shopping because all her clothes are too babyish, or could I please not buy the rice crackers for school snacks as everyone else has chocolate biscuits. She is talking about how I have inspired her. I’m all ears.

We sit at the kitchen bench, where all important topics are covered. I wipe a space for her elbows. “You see,” she begins nervously; I can tell this is important to her, or difficult to say. I wait, head cocked, with the listening face. “I’d like to be an organised mother,” I nod for her to continue, but also to acknowledge the rare praise she is anointing upon me for being organised.  “I want to have in-trays for all my kids, so they can put their school notes in and we can make sure we pay mission money on time and have the notes signed for the teachers.”

I’ve seen this too in a magazine. White in-trays lined smartly along a hall table with the children’s names inscribed. She found it on Pintrest. I remember seeing it and thinking it looked like a great idea, a sensible, structured idea. Until I realised, as a mother, I’m neither of those things. I ditched that idea soon after my first child was born. I waltzed into the hospital with a four page birth plan, outlining my need for no pain medication, no medical intervention, a six CD play list, scented candles, incense and a novel. The medical staff must have had the same knowing look I had with the organised mother comment. Let’s see how this goes, shall we? I emerged traumatised, two days later, after a 27 hour labour failed to progress, I had an emergency caesarean, a smorgasbord of drugs, the intervention of several doctors, one wearing white scrubs and rubber boots like he had come in from the dairy, and a small child. I learned a few lessons at the Mater Mothers.

  1. Life is unpredictable
  2. Children don’t follow a schedule
  3. No amount of planning can prepare you for some things that just happen

I think about how I am organised in life. I’m quite organised at work. My appointments are documented, client notes are entered on the system, I have a check list of how things go, my to do list of what I have coming up. I schedule times, book appointments, manage reminders.  I check in, follow up, research, share information. I think about how this year has unfolded, how I have relocated my business to a new clinic, across town, how I need to manage my hours around my children’s activities, fit in some after hours appointments and weekend workshops, how things are beginning to take shape.

Home is a place where things are allowed to slide. Our bags hit the floor, we eat, I put the washing on, we  watch TV, play music, eat, tidy up, read, sleep, shower, start the next day.  Groceries are usually on the fly, exercise fits in where it can and sometimes we just rest. Home to me, needs to be a place of sanctuary, away from the structure and constraints of work and school; a place to recover from straight rows of traffic and the enforced lining up, of running late and lugging bags full of equipment.

I have signed many notes, ticked boxes and given medical details for the gazillilonth time but sometimes these remain stuck under a fridge magnet while other notes pile on top. Some I have remembered to return, tucked into smug little envelopes with the monetary amount written on the outside and addressed to the office or teacher. Sometimes I have had to sidle up to the teacher at school, and give verbal permission for things. Sometimes, they don’t make it out of the school bags at all; until they are scooped up at the end of term clean out, stained pink by mystery lunchbox swill.

The mission money did go to school eventually, after the reminder emails were sent out. As for the raffle tickets for last year’s fete which were put in the first aid box when we renovated the kitchen, that was a legitimate mistake. For which I had to send an apologetic text to my friend, who had posted me a notice on school letterhead stating I needed to have a stat dec. signed because they were raffle tickets and fell under some government or catholic legislation to do with numbers and gambling and competitions. When I did find them three months later, it was too late.

My daughter looks at me, I see her with her idea of how she would like to be as a mother and I know about the best laid plans. I begin to defend myself and realise it is futile. I have missed things, I accept the blame is partly mine, I realise it can be shared by a preoccupied mother and worn out children. I understand there have been other priorities this year. I don’t want in-trays in my house. In my study and at work, sure, but I don’t want them lined up in my home suggesting the military precision of the Von Trapp family.

I’m as organised as I can be. I have sticky notes in my handbag, a black board with last week’s activities on it, half rubbed out notes scribbled on my hand, a mobile phone with confusing appointments which sometimes start at 5am instead of pm, a diary with work appointments and two kids with multiple activities to add to the list of mine and the schedule of my husband’s work trips. It makes sense to me. We are loosely scheduled, which is how I like it. If one is too tired to swim on Monday, we go to the Friday session. We sometimes skip choir, because ten minutes sleep in is more important to tired leg muscles recovering from netball training.

I swing and sway with the activities, based more around compassion and the need for small parts of the day where we can switch off. Places where we can park commitments, obligations and have time for a hug or a snack together, or just hanging out. Time to connect, to chat, to play and laugh. I can’t be the in-tray mother, all white and wicker, all clean benches and 7 pm bedtimes. Life doesn’t happen like that.  Today we skipped choir, because last night we were all cuddled up watching The Voice together, after showers and a leftover meal. Bedtime was later than normal, because they decided to share a bed together which was followed by giggling and laughter for twenty minutes longer than usual.

We don’t fit into the busy, scheduled, in-tray life where kids have structured play and down time. Sometimes life offers up opportunities to gather and connect with each other and these fall out of the discipline of schedules. The time we have with our small children has an expiry date, some day they won’t have time to sit and snuggle with me.

Soon, I won’t have their sleep warmed bodies crushed close to me in a morning hug, their tangled bed hair to brush out, and their teeny underclothes on the line. They will have their own homes, children, jobs and schedules, where they will choose to find time for me.  I will no doubt be where they left me, drinking lukewarm coffee at the kitchen bench, with a half open book beside me, scribbling down a shopping list or to do list, with the curled yellow edge of a reminder note from their primary school camp peeking out from under the fridge.

 

 

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I’m coming home

I don’t really have a home town anymore. My parents moved to another city I have never lived in, so when I go to visit, I mostly see them and sometimes cousins and usually aunts. There isn’t a lot of nostalgia there for me. It doesn’t really feel like “home” home.

When they lived in the town where I spent my teenage years, there are vivid memories seeped into the houses and streets and neighbourhood.  The corner of Fitzroy and Carthage st, where I had my first kiss, walking home from netball with my boyfriend in Year 10. Anzac Park where Felicity Roche and I had a sneaky cigarette hiding under a bush. Matt Parker’s house in Upper Street, where we went to a party, then rocked all the rooves in his street, even though his father was a lawyer and they knew all their neighbours. I can drive a 2 kilometre perimeter around East Tamworth and everything is 1985 again.

When I was 10, we used to play chaseys in the school playground. You could always run back to the big old tree trunk that was “home”.  You knew you were safe, you could catch your breath and no one could get you. When you ran around again, you were fair game and up for grabs, but there was always a safe place to come back to. This is what these people are to me. Like an anchor. This is how I feel with them; safe, solid and home.

After a week’s holiday in Sydney, I realised even though I don’t have the home town anymore, there are people in my life, who are my home. Who I can see and immediately feel all is well. I know I am where I belong. We hug and laugh and tell stories and a deep feeling of contentment washes over me. There are some new stories, updates and gaps to fill and no one tells the old stories quite like us. Reminiscing reminds me of some of the difficult as well as brilliant times we have been through together. Saying the names of pubs we used to drink in, the nicknames we used to call each other, the people we lived and worked with, which I had forgotten. The ease of not having to explain anything.

Like the welcoming yellow light on a veranda, I am drawn to them.  There is a yearning need to reconnect, in real life, to be seen and to be heard and felt. Not just the silly banter and thumbs up on social media. We remember the times we have shared, some intense, some side splitting and some we don’t have to talk about but can just smile and nod. The kind of language you have with an old friend, where you can just say a word or a phrase and bring it all flooding back. Nothing else needs to be said.  We know when it was, where it was and who said it.  “You know you want it,” was Campbell, Oxford St, ’93. Turns out I didn’t, but it is still a funny thing to say about everything.

I managed to catch up with my friend and her family last week and even though it involved a little juggling of schedules and days and times, we got there in the end. It was only a few hours, she said it was like speed dating, but we covered a lot. We caught up on seven years of comings and goings, overseas postings, breakups, deaths, buying and selling houses, career changes, siblings,  friends and aquaintances. When her son walked through the door, my heart almost burst out of my chest. I had been at his birth 15 years ago, cradling him to my chest when he was less than an hour old, his hair clumped into bloodied dreadlocks. To see him as a tall young man brought tears to my eyes. He came and kissed me hello, even though he didn’t know me, but had heard the story of the long night of his birth many times.

When my two girlfriends met for dinner at the pub, it was the same; we sank back into the foam banquette seats and all sighed at the same time and laughed. There was recognition on a physical and cellular level. Nothing had changed for us, but many things had changed with us. We updated each other, exchanged friends and family news. At one point I looked at our children playing together, the men talking about sport and I thought “Wow! Did we ever think this would happen, when we were single and in our twenties, that we would have kids and husbands and partners and everyone would like each other?” No one but us knows what schmuppety means. But it felt like that. The joy reached deep into the lonely parts of my soul and rolled through the cracks like warm honey.

This is what I want for my children, all of our children. A place of  safety and acceptance. Friends who are their touchstones, who are real places of love and truth, who feel like home.

 

If this rings true for you and has inspired you to physically reconnect or go home, I’m happy for you to share to your page and your people. * Tag you’re  it.

 

Also a great excuse to share this ear-worm from a Brisbane band who I borrowed the title of this blog.

 

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Tap into bravery!

This half day workshop is designed to encourage access to confidence and bravery. We look at ways to tap into courage and to face challenges head on. This workshop is aimed towards children who are beginning to feel the pressure of friendships, study and facing the transition into adolescence and secondary school.

The workshop covers:

  • Tapping for anxiety and stress in order to become confident and fearless.
  • Positive thinking strategies – using The Work of Byron Katie.
  • Visualisation activity to encourage fearlessness
  • Fun activities incorporating connection and inclusion

Date: Sunday 22 April, 2018

Location: Step into Health 1/69 Secam St, Mansfield

Time: 9am – 12pm

Cost: $129 includes 1 parent and 1 child under 13

Morning tea provided

Spaces are limited for a small group environment – to book email info@rachelwilkinson.com.au

About us:  Rachel Wilkinson is a Holistic Counsellor, Massage and Reiki therapist as well as a parent. She is a Certified Infant Massage Instructor. Karen Downing is a Holistic Counsellor, parent, grandparent and a Childosophy- Children’s Wellbeing Practitioner. Together we will support and guide you through proven methods to tackle anxiety and fears, how to catch negative thoughts or beliefs and turn these around, and how to tune in and connect with your body and emotions.

 

 

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What if?

I didn’t realise I had anxiety until I was about 45. Sometimes you don’t realise you are different from everyone else, but on another level, there is a deep knowing that you are; and you don’t want to be. I grew up wanting to be the same as everyone, aspiring to invisibility because that’s where I could hide.

It wasn’t until I stopped drinking alcohol, that I was able to see what lay beneath. Beneath the self-medicating, suppressing my emotions, outside of the drinking culture, where I had my support system, my tribe.  I came out from under the table, so to speak, where I had been hiding. When I stopped drinking, all the old insecurities came up, which I thought I had long buried.

Anxiety appeared.  There were a lot of “What ifs”. What if people didn’t like me when I didn’t drink? What if I was never invited to a party again? What if I was invited to the races? What if I had to go to a wedding? What if I wasn’t accepted? What if I didn’t know how to behave? What if I can’t dance? What if I have to have sex sober? What if I turn into AA preaching evangelist?  Turns out, I was the same person I had always been, only with less vomiting. Turns out, I was funny, entertaining, interested in people and a good listener. Turns out, I can still tell a story as well as the next man, or woman, only this time, holding lemonade not vodka.

I found it awfully uncomfortable being vulnerable, standing alone on the hill of sobriety, with all my friends drinking and playing in the valley. Because, in Australia, drinking goes hand in hand with social gatherings. How will I find a new tribe, a new group of friends? After the dust settled, it seemed I didn’t have to. I noticed that the people who understood me, stayed. Friends suggested coffee meet ups and dinners and movies or shopping so I didn’t have to feel left out. I’ve been to concerts, film festivals, weddings, birthdays and hen’s nights. Sober. People who needed me to drink fell away and I began to notice what was left, the people who didn’t care about me not drinking. They had always been there, they either didn’t drink, or didn’t drink so much, they were the quiet ones, the thoughtful and interesting ones, the ones who listen.

Now that I’m not drinking, I don’t have any time for the type of conversations I used to be involved in, the bar talk of who has the biggest or best story, the way people listen when they drink, just waiting for you to stop talking so they can tell their better story. There is no engagement, no connection. Just swapping tales. Bar banter. I used to think I drank to connect, now I see it for what it was for me, a way to disconnect, from myself.

In the past, alcohol was my bravado; alcohol allowed me to walk into a room full of people with confidence, alcohol let me have deep conversations with friends and strangers waiting to use the bathroom. Alcohol was my secret weapon, a way to meet people and instantly share a bond. Alcohol gave me an excuse, “God I was so pissed,”  “You know, I can’t remember dancing on the table,”  “I forget what happened at the end of the night, or how I got home,”  “ I think I was speaking Spanish” – soooooo drunk. “Whose phone number is this in my phone and who took all my money and cigarettes?”  Alcohol was my pass out. My proxy, my stress buster, my mojo, my soundtrack, my mood shifter, my fall guy, my go to, my friend. I didn’t realise, that I could be all these things myself, without it.

A counsellor I was seeing during this phase, asked how I felt. I said “I’m fine, it’s not like I’m an alcoholic or anything.”  She laughed at me.  She stood up to draw on a white board and I knew I was now part of a complex cycle, or at least in some kind of a Venn diagram. She drew some arrows on the board into a circle demonstrating the cycle of addiction and said “Well, addicts always deny they are addicts.” She then looked at me, the way counsellors do when they call you on your own bullshit and you haven’t quite got there yet.

She suggested I try 30 days of not drinking. It helped me to journal this. I will publish this eventually, once I make it G rated.

So, I’m an addict now,  I think, well that makes sense, I do obsess over things, I do think I have an addictive personality, but it’s not like I was downing a bottle of gin just to get myself out of bed each day. I had never had the DTs, I had gone without alcohol before, when I was pregnant, so 30 days shouldn’t be too hard. My body could use the break; it’s been about 30 years.

I went to see my acupuncturist as self care was my new buzzword. More like self-repair. He hugged me and we both agreed it had been a while. My daughters came into the session but were quickly occupied with colouring in on the floor.

“So what’s been going on?” he asked.

“My legs have started feeling hot at night. “ He looked at me and asked how old I was; before I could answer the children yelled out “She’s 45!” So there it is. Middle age.  “It sounds like menopause, but you are too young.” He hummed and haahed and took my pulse.  “It could be liver. Does it happen with alcohol as well as without?”  I looked at him confused, and realised I didn’t know. I’ve never, not drank.  He decided to treat my hormones, because after all, I was middle aged.

Unbeknown to both of us, my body had started going into early menopause due to a few major stressors in my life.

How I cope with my anxiety

I’ve come to realise that my anxiety can sometimes be helpful. I am the one you want to go away with for a weekend – because I will bring everything. I have the spare soap, mosquito repellent, glad wrap, paper towels and matches. I have eight pairs of shoes and four pairs of swimmers, four cardigans and a rolled up raincoat, because you never know. I have the Vegemite, the breakfast cereals, spare coffee, because those sachets really only last a day, sugar for the same reason, toilet paper, garbage bags, dishwashing liquid and three phone chargers. I have the full array of different types of sunscreen, spray, factor 50, wet kids and tinted for the face. I have board games and cards, two or three novels and a travel clock. Up until a few years ago, I also packed a pocket knife. I had to check myself this week packing for Sydney, I started going into the “What ifs?” before realising I was heading to Sydney, not Siberia, and they sell things there.

I have had helpful advice and suggestions for my anxiety like: “What’s the worst thing that can happen?”  Well obviously death, so I have to plan my funeral and the readings and the songs and who is coming and who isn’t and if I want to buried or cremated, and who I leave my clothes to; there is no money.  If I am cremated is it ok to get my children to take my ashes to a remote world heritage island off the west coast of Ireland? Does one have to declare ashes at customs? Is it still considered animal product, if it is dead? Or is it mineral? So what’s the worst thing that can happen?  Possible confiscation of human body matter on an international flight, imprisonment of my children for people smuggling, albeit dead people, then the ensuing law suit to regain custody of me, the dead parent and petitioning by a human rights organisation to allow my children to scatter my ashes on the heritage listed island. Oh – I’ve thought about it. I’ve kind of over thought that one. It does not make me any calmer.

Here are some things I do which help me cope when anxiety visits.  I do some of these things daily, some only sometimes. I made the acronym STOP IT. Which is better than what is the worst that can happen?  because that is way too long, and in periods of high anxiety, six things are easier to remember than 26. Yes I did count them. Counting is an anxiety thing as well.  It’s about maintaining control. I think that could be another chapter.

So here are the six steps or *STOP IT*:

S – Shame it. Name and shame it. I call the voice in my head a name and tell her to go away with quite a short sharp word which rhymes with truck. For example, “F off Margaret” if that was your mother’s name or whoever the voice sounds like. Mine often sounds like Angela, and says things like “You should be wearing a skivvy or at least a spencer.” So I tell that voice to F off.

T – Tap on it – Using Emotional Freedom Technique (EFT) or tapping, I go somewhere quiet, usually a bathroom (for all its ambiance) and I tap on the 10 or so acupuncture points on my body saying things like “Even though, I have to speak to the pay office about my holiday calculations which seem odd , I still deeply and completely love and accept myself.” You can find out more about EFT on YouTube.

O – Occupy yourself. Wash your hands, go to the loo, have a drink. Make a cuppa. This is something I have often instinctively done but now it has been proven that it breaks the neural loop of obsessive thinking and calms the body down.

P- Phone a friend, or if you can’t do this, imagine this friend speaking to you, telling you everything is ok, you are fine and even though it feels like it, you won’t die.

I – Immediately breathe – big deep breaths into your belly, so the belly rises. In through the nose, and out through the mouth. At least four or five breaths are needed to calm down your nervous system.

T – Turn the thought around. So if the thought is:  “I am hopeless” make it “I am hopeful” or ” I am full of hope” or “ I am not hopeless” . Sometimes the brain tells us negative or unhelpful thoughts which we can choose to believe, or not. Choose not. Or call the thought out for what it is, Byron Katie asks, “Is it true?” most of the time, we completely generalise, or make thoughts up.

* Just by the way, yelling at someone to STOP IT, STOP IT, when they are in the middle of pacing and worrying or an anxiety or panic attack is really, really unhelpful. Also telling them to calm the F down has never been any use and may provoke violence. Offer support, hugs, say things like” I am here for you” or “breathe, “or “would you like a cup of tea?” are all good.

Please comment or share if you find this useful, I’m thinking of writing a short handbag book on anxiety with some tips and tricks for survival. There are many other things I have tried which work well, including yoga and meditation. I’m beginning to become interested in the role anxiety plays in our lives and if we can ever capture this sneaky little beast, to stroke and calm it, or if it will always dwell under the surface, popping up in times of stress. I know it exists to protect us from harm, but sometimes it is useful to grab it, tell it to STOP it and F off.

Rachel Wilkinson is a Holistic Counsellor, Massage and Reiki Therapist operating from Step into Health in Mansfield, Brisbane. She never thought she was anxious until she stopped drinking. Now she feels so good and has come so far, it is difficult to imagine going back. She helps children, teenagers, and adults deal with anxiety, including ways to harness calmness with EFT or tapping, The Work of Byron Katie, and guided meditation. You can read more blogs on her website here https://www.rachelwilkinson.com.au/blog/

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Exercise for wellbeing

Today I went back to the gym, after a few days off. I noticed I had been feeling twitchy, unkind and a bit blah. I knew if I thrashed around on the treadmill for a while I would find my balance. Also when I put on my Lycra clothes and sports bra I feel thin and powerful. Mostly because they are so tight, the restrictiveness makes me breathe in and stand taller. I feel like I can conquer the world when I am wearing my gear on my way to a workout session. Within minutes of arriving, I am exhausted, sweaty, and feel like I might vomit. I get off the treadmill and sit down for a bit on the rower, recovering.  I look at my biceps as I pull back the handle part, looking for any sign of definition. Nope. None.

What I have noticed mostly about scheduling regular exercise is that it helps my mind. It makes me take some time out from my own stuff and it shuts off the over thinking. It also means I don’t prowl around the house looking for another load of washing, then spend an hour on the lounge waiting for it to finish. At the gym, I am more aware of my body, I slow down, I breathe, I connect to myself and my thinking slows. I am find it hard to fill my head with negative self talk.

Positive mind talk

Often there is a personal trainer in the gym shouting something to someone else that I take on as my own. She says things that I wouldn’t normally say, but I’m happy for them. “You are a machine!” she yells. Yup, I think plodding away on Level 8, when I by now, I should* crank it up after seven months at the same speed. I am a machine. “You are on fire!” Yup, I think, listening to Karl Stefanovic snort laugh on morning TV. I am on fire.  “Look at you go!” I glance at the timer. Has it been 10 minutes, yet? Only 2.18? What the heck? Look at me go, sweating and puffing for another seven minutes and thirty two seconds…

I know I haven’t lost weight, because when I take off my high pant leggings, the spare tires and the tummy sag back into position. I don’t go to the gym to lose weight. I go to let off steam, to de-stress, to find my zen and to slow down my thoughts. Now instead of speaking to my shoulder in an negative way, like “You are so weak, the other side is much better than you…” I now, feel the difference between each side when I push out or pull down and say more reassuring things like “Wow –you are really getting stronger, thanks for sticking by me.” I notice that I can run the same distance with less encouraging talk, I notice my fitness has increased.

Positive body talk

It is important to be kinder to your body, to acknowledge it is amazing and doing great things. Because it is; and you are, anything less than this is self-destructive on a cellular level and the body begins to believe you.  Byron Katie tells us that when we as humans, fight and rail against things which upset us, we create our own frustration. Her theory is about loving what is, loving the round parts of our bodies, loving the firm parts, loving the dimpled bits and stretched out bits. She is about loving the calm and the storm. Watching it all play out. Her philosophy is fluid and makes sense; whenever we go against something, it hurts us and other people. It stops us finding peace in our lives and experiencing joy.

The more you lie on the couch saying to yourself  “I feel fat,”  or  “I’m just so tired,” your body and brain will believe it. For me, I always feel fat and lazy when I don’t exercise. I feel much better after. The chemical release of endorphins is what my body is craving. I often feel awful doing it, but always much better having done it.  So even if you don’t feel you are getting any visible physical results from exercise, you are getting results. Your neurochemistry is elevated, enhancing your mood, your heart and bones are getting stronger. Your nervous system is maintaining equilibrium.  Your respiratory system is working hard to send more oxygen to your body, your muscles fibres are on, pulsing with more blood and you are sweating, excreting nasty toxins.

Be kind to yourself, if you don’t feel like it, don’t do it.  Listen to your body. Be guided by what it is telling you.  More often than not, it can be helpful to listen to the body and ignore the brain! I have been to the gym tired before, because I felt I should, and I lasted 5 minutes before packing it in and heading home. Your body knows what it needs.  I will finish with two very profound words by a wise man named Tom Braun, “Should, shit.”*

* If you feel you should do something, it is often somebody else’s expectation of you. Sometimes it is more realistic to be driven by our own wants or needs, rather than someone else’s shoulds.

 

Rachel Wilkinson is a holistic counsellor and massage therapist working at Step into Health in Mansfield Park, Brisbane.  Depending on what is going on in her life, she is also a regular member of a gym. She listens to people for a living, so in her downtime she talks a lot, to friends, work colleagues, random people in the supermarket and delivers many life lessons to her small children, when they are trapped by seatbelts in the car. She finds relief in writing.

 

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Mind your own business

My minding my own business face

I’ve been called on my judgement a few times. Never as loudly as the time I was told to mind my own business, by a man washing his clothes at Kirra Point on a Tuesday morning.

I try really hard not to be judgmental, or if catch myself making a judgement call in my mind, I try to talk myself around it, or understand the person has permission to be as they are. So the man washing his clothes at the lookout may not have been homeless; he may have been on a surfing safari whilst renting his Honolulu apartment out on Air B&B.

My problem is, I don’t have what my drama friend calls a neutral face. I think I am more on the opposite end of the spectrum with my what the heck? face. I am not like Lady Ga Ga. I’m not even terribly good at UNO, let alone having a poker face. You can actually see me thinking, “Woo-hoo! I have a wild card pick up 4 and you are going down!” or in the supermarket “Why the hell would you wear a bra with a strapless dress?” You can see my face crumple, the brow wrinkle, the lip turn down and the head tilt. I think I even have a what the heck? wrinkle near my mouth. I usually get caught out when I do this, by walking into a pole, knocking over a display in the aisle, or a small child appears in front of me, forcing me to trip over my own feet. When I am in your business, I am not minding mine. I’m not watching where I am walking, or driving, for that matter.

My business, Your business, God’s business

So Byron Katie, has a theory about thoughts. She was depressed for many years and spent a lot of time thinking about thoughts and how we relate to these thoughts. She says in life, there are three types of business: your business, my business, and the Universe’s business, or God’s business; (these two are interchangeable, but basically represent the huge things we can’t control in life), like the stock market, or traffic lights, or the weather.

When the man at Kirra Point yelled at me, it was a very good reminder about staying in my own business. I suspect he also saw my what the heck? face. He was washing his T-shirts under a council tap and hanging them on the fence to dry. His business. So he saw me looking and yelled very loudly “Mind your own business, you need to focus on your own stuff, not what I am doing, this is not YOUR business.” True. Not mine at all. I was ashamed, averted my eyes and walked down the very steep hill in a bit of a dangerous hurry.

Byron Katie asks us to think about when we are in somebody else’s business, who is minding our business? I tend to preoccupy myself with what everyone else is doing as a way of escaping my own reality. I think this is how reality TV has found its audience. I can yell at the TV “You’re an idiot!” and “I can’t believe you would speak to someone like that!” when in fact, I speak to my family, loved ones and sometimes myself in a similar way. When I judge others, it is another way of taking the attention away from me, hiding my own shame and behaviour while gossiping about others. So who is watching my business, while I am sticking my neck out into someone else’s?

Acceptance

Byron Katie believes the reason we get stressed is because we are rallying against the things we can’t change, instead of accepting them. So when I get angry at the rain for drenching me in an unexpected shower, I should really be accepting it is raining, and realise I didn’t bring my umbrella. Or, if I was more evolved, I could be grateful for the rain, because it has been so hot and dry and be happy because the farmers need it and the dams need to be filled to ease the drought.

Byron Katie does exercises using a worksheet, where a person can investigate a thought or belief like “I hate my life,” or “I am fat,” or “Nobody likes me.”  When you do what she calls, The Work, she asks you to say this belief out loud, question its validity, then give examples to support why it isn’t true.  A simple question. “Is it true?” A simple look at how we think. So rather than get angry or stressed about something, accept it as it is and move on. Acceptance in itself can be a huge change for some people.

Old beliefs

Some of our thinking can also be old, outdated, or can actually belong to somebody else. My mother used to say “If you go out with wet hair you will catch a chill,” I used to go out every day with wet hair because I didn’t have the patience or energy to blow dry. What is a chill anyway? Why do we sometimes hang on to these outdated thoughts? Sometimes I have almost said this to my children, and caught myself with the thought, “Hang on a minute, isn’t a chill or a cold caused by a virus?” and “when is it ever cold where I live anyway?” So often our thoughts are not true, we just think they are, or we are just used to thinking them. Quite often, it’s a habit, or our thinking has just fallen into a negative pattern.

Yesterday when it was raining and I was driving behind a car swerving all over the road and I said to the person in the other car “What is wrong with you?” I was watching the car swerve all over the road in front, I think I may even have yelled “Are you drunk?” I was so caught up in criticising his behaviour, I didn’t see the pothole he was swerving to avoid and I hit it with a bone jarring doink.

I know it is hard to stay in our own business, but ultimately it can be less stressful to only worry about the small space we take up in the world, rather than what everyone else is doing. I believe judgement can sometimes have a place, my children know if something feels weird or creepy, it probably is, but that is more like a gut feel than a criticism of behaviour. I think too much, to have any room in my head for anyone else and their behaviour, the thoughts are there, but I often now tell them to go away, I don’t believe them, they are not true and I don’t have time for them. They can go and mind their own business.

To understand a little more about The Work and how Byron Katie does this, you can follow this link. 

To look at one of the free worksheets for adults and children you can download here.

 

Rachel Wilkinson is a counsellor and massage therapist at Step into Health in Mansfield, Brisbane. She studied Holistic Counselling and The Work of Byron Katie with The Awakening Group. She works on judgement all the time. She has tried to stop saying ” No judgement, but” as it is always seems to precede a judgy sentence. She now realises when the young kids say “Just sayin”” it is also a way to excuse how judgmental you are. Just sayin.’

 

 

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