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View My Stats From Bath to Cork with Baby Grace :: September :: 2007
Depression & Health, Work & Play, Blogging & Media, Customer serviceSeptember 10, 2007 10:55 pm

I think I have enough on my plate without feeling obliged to blog.

So I’m going to give myself an official rest, at least until we’ve moved house, put the boxes away and I feel I live a more orderly life.  Also until I’ve got on top of this work that I’m finding difficult.

I wish I could simply blog my way through it all, but I can’t - and I’m not going to put any more pressure on myself.

Whatever I publish over the coming weeks will be a sign that I’m still here. 

Depression & Health, Poetry, Art & Science, Work & Play, Children, Customer serviceSeptember 6, 2007 5:23 pm

I grew up, I was a child, in one house in Limerick.

We never moved.  That was a stability I took for granted, never thought there was anything privileged or unusual in it.

Grace, Violetta is two.  She’s lived in three houses already, and we get ready to move her to another. 

I’m hoping that she’ll grow up with an ability to take change in her stride, confident that she carries her stability (and security) around inside her - rather than depend unduely on externalities.

I’m getting used to house moves: 1998, 2000, 2001, 2005, 2006 & 2007.

But I’ll not pretend it’s been easy making the transition to flexible living. 

For one thing, running a business out of a nomadic, peripatetic office challenges me more than I welcome. Now I want to say I’ve done it; I have the teeshirt; I’m ready now for the fresh challenge of stability.

The move to Glanmire, Co Cork, is a move from a rented house to a new building.  Into a shell (admittedly a fine shell) which doesn’t have a carpet, a tile or a plank of wood on the floor. There isn’t a stick of furniture, nor an appliance, in place.  I don’t even know whether we’re going for long-life light bulbs, or water butts (with the capacity of two hogsheads) to catch precious rainwater.

The list of people on whom I, we, are dependent would bore the pants off you, dear reader.

If anyone knows of a checklist for moving into a new house in Ireland, please pass it on.

Timetabling all the people with their impressive skills, diverse methods of operation, and distinct styles of communication stretches me - and I don’t want to give the impression that I am masterminding the move.  We have a committee of two that meets every evening to review progress, celebrate tiny victories and achievements, and recover from setbacks.

All this will continue for weeks.  I can be sure of nothing until it is in place, and has been tested.

In the background is a deadline:

we have agreed with Landlord to be out of this house by September 30.  One side of the sandwich is concrete.

Grace has been over to the new house. We’ve talked about it.  I don’t know what she’s taken in.  My hope is that she’ll move with the feeling that she’s simply shifting her security to a different place.  I also hope she’ll continue to be interested in adventure and novelty.

At the same time, I have a big new piece of paid work starting. 

A business that’s new to me, except that I’ve been a customer.  New language, challenging expectations, shifting timescales.  I’m asking myself how well I’ll be up for it?  How I’ll cope with managing these two changes  - these two sets of spinning plates?

I’ll be drawing on all my earlier experience of change management, and confidence building.

The only thing special about all this for me is that it is me who’s getting on with it, not another person. I think I’m better to admit to myself, and others too, that there will be times when I feel it’s all too much for me, and I will want to crawl back into my cave, as if I desired a return to some childhood security.  And other times when I’ll feel a growing respect for my increasing ability to connect with the strength that I’ve built up, with the help of others.

WAAAH  it’ll be fine…

Today:

(1) I got the man to agree to buy, and nail down, plywood in the attic by Monday. 

(2) I finalised one lovely poem, and sent three off in the hope of publication in Revival 5. 

(3) I turned down a piece of training work, because I was already booked that day, and built good rapport with that business with the prospect of work at another time.

That’s a bit of life. 

 

 

 

Depression & Health, Poetry, Art & Science, Work & Play, Blogging & MediaSeptember 5, 2007 9:17 am

I’m finding it difficult to blog these days, so I have to say that I’m liable to become an irregular publisher.

Here’s a little gift I got from Dave Gurteen this morning:

 

We should be careful to get out of an experience all the wisdom that is

 In it — not like the cat that sits on a hot stove lid. She will never sit

down on a hot lid again — and that is well; but also she will never

sit down on a cold one anymore.

 

Mark Twain (1835 - 1910)  from Following the Equator, Pudd’nhead Wilson’s New Calendar  

 

Depression & HealthSeptember 3, 2007 3:30 pm

Last January, as a sort of new year resolution,  I vowed to write all I knew about depression.

Recently, I’ve been wondering what sort of advice I’d give myself if I was struggling.

This is what I’ve come up with as a first draft…

 

1             Put one foot in front of the other.  [This means keep going; the tiny steps matter and add up.]

 

2             Breathe each breath as if it was not to be taken for granted. [Value each moment.]

 

3             Do not panic, help is coming round the corner and you never know when things are going to get better. [I know well the feeling that things are going to get worse.]

 

4             The darkest hour is just before dawn. Just when you think they have reached an impossible bad state, the improvement cavalry is about to come over the hill and rescue you – the thing is to hold on. [Don’t give up.]

 

5             Go out, out into fresh air, even if that simply means opening the front door for a glance outside.

 

6             Write it down. The act of writing is like playing chess. It concentrates the mind, gathers your mind together from the splintering that has been going on; writing holds you while it holds your eyes focussed on a point.  Keep on writing, even when the effort to make marks on the page seems too  much. Adrenalin comes out of hiding. One word pulls another out from somewhere.

 

7             Keep on loving yourself. You are worth it. You are lovable. You are beautiful. Your beauty lies in your uniqueness. There is no one else like you, and the whole of the universe’s health depends on the diversity of genes, thought, emotions and ways of being.  You are a cog in the wheel, and you contribute something especially good in the mix – whether you like it or not – whether you know it or not. Your worth is not to be measured by the extent to which you feel, think and act like others. Your value is the minute difference you bring to others. Like the one butterfly that flutters her wings in Indochina, and causes, through a complex chain of causation, the rain to fall in Clare, you are what the health of the future needs.

 

8             Any amount of lousy feelings and despair cannot rob the world of your vital health-promoting contribution. If all people were content and lazy in their satisfaction, there would be no engine for developing sensitivity and preparedness for the confusion, uncertainty and awkward days that will come with the change in weather.

 

9             Hold on to the knowledge that you don’t have to do anything. You are not obliged to be anyway. You are able to live with hurt/pain and the will to die out, because these are sent to strengthen you. Sure, life is not a bed of roses, but you are special and lovable -  even when you are feeling like a lump of shit that could be spat out. The stronger you feel bad about yourself, the more you are getting ready to appreciate yourself later.  Look, I felt those strong feelings. Isn’t it fascinating that I could feel so low, and still change.

 

10          Everything has its cycle. Coming and going. Tide and time. Whatever stops is dead. Where there are feelings and thought, there is life.

 

11          The first time you experience things going out of control, and disintegrating, is the worst. The second time, you know you got through it last time, and, even though it is again dreadful, you know , even though you may not feel you know it, that you got through it. The third time, you realise more clearly than ever before that you have a reason to hope for a change of weather. Yes, you’ll have to hang in, and it’ll be tough, maybe tougher than it ever seemed before, but you have knowledge or the glimmer of it: this will pass, and you have now a memory to call on of what it was like to recover twice already.

 

12          The collapses have been sent to help you learn something: it might be to enable you to recognise and honour your inherent capacity to endure. Now you have some positive emergent memories to recall; it is no longer all despair and a history of dreadfulness. There is increasingly a sense of variety in your life: the good and the bad, and the good that comes from and after the bad.

 

13          Your friends, family, acquaintances – your circle has grown through the mess, and the hardship, and the strains; all have stretched and developed them, and they know more about what it’s like to live around you: they are experienced. You can increasingly rely on them to tolerate, support and live with how you are.  You are a full person, not simple, nor a one-dimensional smiling face. Your layers make you more interesting, more difficult to categorise, harder to take for granted.  You have become more real for them, and they have become more real to you. It is clearer and clearer what you need and desire from them. They know you better.  You also know them a lot more than you used  to, and they are deeper people to you. Out of the dreadful struggle to survive and cope, and find meaning in the experience of being down in the rough place, has come a richer depth to life.

 

14          Speak to yourself with exceptional kindness and love. You are all you have to love. You are yourself. You live with your own unique spirit, and you know the adventure that is you better and better, as a result of each mountain you have climbed. You can see that you wouldn’t be half a person of such depth, if you had missed out on those horrors. What hasn’t destroyed you has made you a deeper, richer and better person. You have grown in self –awareness, and  ability to care for your self, and out of your personal experience has come an ability to be there for others.

 

15          Because it hasn’t been easy, to put it mildly, it has been all the more valuable and profound. You are a fitter person for yourself, better able to anticipate that the depth of distress might well come visiting you again. But you have brought others along with you; you have given them the gift of a challenge to be there for you. That has changed them, so that they are more attentive to the troubles of others, and, in turn, more worthy to receive the support of others, if and when their turn comes to visit the well of greatest fear. You are doing your best to add love to the fund from which we all draw.

 

Poetry, Art & ScienceSeptember 1, 2007 12:37 am
"Life is painting a picture, not doing a sum"
 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, Junior 
(1841 - 1935) 
 
ps thanks to Dave Gurteen
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