This is what I didn't write:
Showing posts with label connection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label connection. Show all posts
Wednesday, 8 August 2018
Wednesday, 6 June 2018
Wednesday, 22 February 2017
Note to self
Ask for help when you need it.
Challenge your backstory.
Fill the page with your words, not theirs.
It's OK. Ask for help.
Keep asking until you get it.
Sunday, 30 October 2016
Sunday, 11 September 2016
Saturday, 6 August 2016
Wednesday, 20 April 2016
Truth tellers
Our bodies are truth tellers.
Whether or not we're paying attention, they tell the truth, constantly - to ourselves, and to other people.
Our words tumble out in a constant stream, sometimes sparkling with skillful clarity, but often clumsy, poorly aimed, or deliberately unclear.
But the reality of our experience is lived and felt in our bodies, and traces itself across this fluent tableau of energy and movement, moment by moment. All of our truths, spoken and unspoken, are written there, subtly, in the fleeting language of our faces and gestures, and more revealingly in the vibrant, vital energy that surrounds and animates us.
To have insight into the powerful untold stories that people carry about with them, or even to hear our own quiet, unadorned truths, we need to listen carefully, respectfully, compassionately. We need to look beyond the surface of things into the spacious reality that lies within each of us. By bringing this quality of intent and awareness to our attention, we share a gift that is both sacred and profoundly human: our understanding.
Whether or not we're paying attention, they tell the truth, constantly - to ourselves, and to other people.
Our words tumble out in a constant stream, sometimes sparkling with skillful clarity, but often clumsy, poorly aimed, or deliberately unclear.
But the reality of our experience is lived and felt in our bodies, and traces itself across this fluent tableau of energy and movement, moment by moment. All of our truths, spoken and unspoken, are written there, subtly, in the fleeting language of our faces and gestures, and more revealingly in the vibrant, vital energy that surrounds and animates us.
To have insight into the powerful untold stories that people carry about with them, or even to hear our own quiet, unadorned truths, we need to listen carefully, respectfully, compassionately. We need to look beyond the surface of things into the spacious reality that lies within each of us. By bringing this quality of intent and awareness to our attention, we share a gift that is both sacred and profoundly human: our understanding.
Monday, 11 April 2016
Friendship
Wishing to be friends
is quick work,
but friendship is
a slow ripening fruit.
~ Aristotle
Saturday, 9 April 2016
Friday, 8 April 2016
Tuesday, 10 November 2015
Antidote
It's not all bad news.
There's a simple, but potent, antidote: empathy.
And there's that word again: connection.
There's a simple, but potent, antidote: empathy.
And there's that word again: connection.
Monday, 9 November 2015
Hangover
What's better than my all time favourite TED talk?
Finding out there's a sequel. And it's just as powerful as the first - or maybe more so, because it probes the uncomfortable reality of the 'vulnerability hangover' that followed its delivery.
It goes to the heart of the paradox of vulnerability: that it's not weakness. That it's our most accurate measurement of courage. That it's the birth place of innovation, creativity, and change.
And that we can't unlock any of that unless we examine its paralysing flipside: shame.
Finding out there's a sequel. And it's just as powerful as the first - or maybe more so, because it probes the uncomfortable reality of the 'vulnerability hangover' that followed its delivery.
It goes to the heart of the paradox of vulnerability: that it's not weakness. That it's our most accurate measurement of courage. That it's the birth place of innovation, creativity, and change.
And that we can't unlock any of that unless we examine its paralysing flipside: shame.
Friday, 16 October 2015
Lucid
I dream. I dream a lot.
It’s ironic, really, that someone whose sleep is so broken is
rewarded by such a sumptuous palette of dream-story every night. (#narcolepsy)
But there you have it. I’m a dreamer.
Being partially asleep in your waking life is one thing, but
being partially awake within your sleeping life is something altogether
different.
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Pointed moments
So, it is done. My surgery is complete. The cytotoxic hardware has been removed from my body, and my last jagged scar has been reshaped to a gentler contour. My entire treatment path is now firmly behind me.
However, the Universe has a timing all of its own. In the same week I have surgery, my young niece is suddenly struck down with juvenile diabetes.
Through a fog of analgesia and bandages, I am excruciatingly aware of the magnitude of this diagnosis, stretching before her through all the years of her life. At the same time that I’m attempting to skip blithely away, leaving behind me linoleum waiting rooms and a succession of hypodermics, another person dear to me is entering this green-painted space. And in an enduring, not a temporary, way.
I especially feel for her for all the needles that are coming.
I have had many sharply pointed moments over the last two years. They often involve the disastrous combination of limiting food and water and then expecting to find a vein, plump, juicy and ready. I have been tended by a succession of faltering medicos, who pierce my body before losing their nerve and missing the target completely. I sense their doubt before they even begin and am never surprised when they fail repeatedly, leaving a trail of purpling pain variously up my arms, hands and even feet.
There is a solid inner wall somewhere in that moment of anticipation when the needle is poised, and only some of them know how to reach through it within themselves in order to make the necessary connection. I always know when someone will hit liquid gold on the first try. I can feel their inner guidance system merging with my body. It is as if they find the vein using a spatial sense that extends beyond their fingertips. They strike with confidence and certainty and usually cause little discomfort. I have often contemplated what this quality in my nurses and doctors is. Perhaps it is the ability to step through their own fear of pain and be fully present, fully engaged on the level of our common humanity.
Therein lies the difference between a physician and a healer. The very best, most precise, most advanced medical techniques will never be enough without the human ingredient of care, given simply from one person to another. So my hope for my niece as she starts out along a long road of medical encounters, is for treatment based on the very best of what scientific knowledge can provide, coupled with the true medicine of compassionate presence at every turn.
However, the Universe has a timing all of its own. In the same week I have surgery, my young niece is suddenly struck down with juvenile diabetes.
Through a fog of analgesia and bandages, I am excruciatingly aware of the magnitude of this diagnosis, stretching before her through all the years of her life. At the same time that I’m attempting to skip blithely away, leaving behind me linoleum waiting rooms and a succession of hypodermics, another person dear to me is entering this green-painted space. And in an enduring, not a temporary, way.
I especially feel for her for all the needles that are coming.
I have had many sharply pointed moments over the last two years. They often involve the disastrous combination of limiting food and water and then expecting to find a vein, plump, juicy and ready. I have been tended by a succession of faltering medicos, who pierce my body before losing their nerve and missing the target completely. I sense their doubt before they even begin and am never surprised when they fail repeatedly, leaving a trail of purpling pain variously up my arms, hands and even feet.
There is a solid inner wall somewhere in that moment of anticipation when the needle is poised, and only some of them know how to reach through it within themselves in order to make the necessary connection. I always know when someone will hit liquid gold on the first try. I can feel their inner guidance system merging with my body. It is as if they find the vein using a spatial sense that extends beyond their fingertips. They strike with confidence and certainty and usually cause little discomfort. I have often contemplated what this quality in my nurses and doctors is. Perhaps it is the ability to step through their own fear of pain and be fully present, fully engaged on the level of our common humanity.
Therein lies the difference between a physician and a healer. The very best, most precise, most advanced medical techniques will never be enough without the human ingredient of care, given simply from one person to another. So my hope for my niece as she starts out along a long road of medical encounters, is for treatment based on the very best of what scientific knowledge can provide, coupled with the true medicine of compassionate presence at every turn.
Monday, 4 October 2010
The Human Condition
So after my huge blog debut, it seems that no one is reading.
I have had 5 page visits – ever! I suspect they are mostly my own, as I tweaked. Along with a couple of drop-ins from North America – of the crawling kind, perhaps. Or maybe just more of my own visits, via some far-flung trail of servers. My understanding of that mystery called the internet is as gauzy as a real spider ‘s web. No matter, there is plenty of entertainment in speculation.
I find myself pondering that essential quality of the human condition: aloneness. Ultimately I am the only person inside my skin. With the rare exception of conjoined twins, where two separate people, two different consciousnesses, share connected bodies, we are all alone.
This aloneness connects us. We reach out to touch each other, to bridge the yawning space between us, to catch a glimpse of ourselves in someone’s eyes. Just as the internet gives me a glimpse of myself reading my own page, via a brief transfer of energy, a trail of light from machine to machine across the globe, so too do we light each other’s lives.
I have had 5 page visits – ever! I suspect they are mostly my own, as I tweaked. Along with a couple of drop-ins from North America – of the crawling kind, perhaps. Or maybe just more of my own visits, via some far-flung trail of servers. My understanding of that mystery called the internet is as gauzy as a real spider ‘s web. No matter, there is plenty of entertainment in speculation.
I find myself pondering that essential quality of the human condition: aloneness. Ultimately I am the only person inside my skin. With the rare exception of conjoined twins, where two separate people, two different consciousnesses, share connected bodies, we are all alone.
This aloneness connects us. We reach out to touch each other, to bridge the yawning space between us, to catch a glimpse of ourselves in someone’s eyes. Just as the internet gives me a glimpse of myself reading my own page, via a brief transfer of energy, a trail of light from machine to machine across the globe, so too do we light each other’s lives.
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