Grounded

I made a difficult decision recently. It took ages, but as soon as I made it the air grew lighter and I could breathe again. Funny how we always say to trust our gut but end up ignoring it until it’s almost too late. Long (long) story short: I quit my job. 

Even writing that sentence gives me the jitters. Working class backgrounds tend to shout at us if we do something so rash. Plus, I feel guilty. Soon enough I’ll be able to move on from a job and an organisation I loved, and soon enough I’ll see that the transfer to a new company wasn’t going to work, no matter how hard I tried. Maybe I’ll see new pastures with new promise. But for now, I’m slowing down and releasing some of the pressure that comes from working in challenging criminal justice settings. Learning to breathe again is the thing.

And an odd quirk is helping. Wellness guides suggest various things at times of transition. I’ve tried getting up early (don’t like it), going for a run (sore knees), meditating (too quiet). But then I read about something called ‘grounding’. It’s the simplest thing: stand on the earth, preferably in bare feet, and ground yourself.

I scoffed, of course, and finished my coffee. But the image stuck in my head and I thought about it all day. I could picture my bare toes being tickled by fresh grass, while birds chirped happily in the trees above my head. My garden is small and a bit wild but it’s lovely. Maybe this was worth a try? So recently, with the arrival of spring, I’ve aimed to start each day (not too early, see above) by stepping out the back door and feeling the ground beneath my feet. The first day was a bust – sharp stones on my way to the grassy bit and generally too cold underfoot. This should have been expected. Rookie mistake. So next day I was better prepared: big slippers for the short journey from the door to the garden, and a warm cuppa in my hand. Much better! I slipped off the slippers and gingerly set my bare feet on the grass. It was cold and wet (dew? I hoped) but I took deep breaths and even a few steps. The birds were not singing. The cats were giving me funny looks. But I stuck it out. Soon enough, I ran back inside and found a pair of socks, apologising to my feet. Did this help? Did I feel grounded to Mother Earth?

Well, yes. I’m getting better at leaning into it, I suppose. And like most habits, it’ll take time to grow. I feel like I’m allowed to be here, taking a stand as another day begins to unfold. Health worries and job anxiety melts away, and just for a few minutes, I’m simply a person who stands on grass. 

This simple act has continued to place me on the earth at this point in time. I don’t get out there every day, and sometimes the vibe is all wrong (and let’s not even mention the headless shrew incident). But most days I make it a priority to take barefoot steps outside. The birds sometimes sing and even the cats look on with a sense of, if not approval, certainly something approaching it. Deep changes are taking place as I stand and look into the sky. As a middle-aged woman, I have felt invisible and I’ve spent many years in the background. I didn’t think I was allowed to take up space. But the feeling of standing with skin touching earth, reaching back to my shoe-less ancestors, has taught me that I am here. And it’s enough.

Holding a Grudge

At the last count I hold about twenty seven grudges. Some of them are minor infractions of the ‘how dare they?’ variety, some of them are a lot bigger and some of them, let’s be honest, should no longer be on the list. But I’m happy to say that I’m in very good company.

’Tis the season for scary costumes but be careful if you’re wearing a creepy mask in the presence of a crow. These smart birds will not forgive you. A few years ago a zoologist in America learned that crows can recognise individual human faces, especially those they associate with bad experiences. (Same crow, same). But he also started to realise that the birds shared this new knowledge of dangerous humans with other crows.

John Marzluff and his research team at the University of Washington trapped, banded, and released eight American crows at different sites near Seattle. Before trapping the birds, the researchers donned different rubber masks (a caveman face, for example) and watched the reactions. While the birds were caged, nearby crows circled the site and sounded alarm calls, and when the masks were seen months later, the scolding continued.

Over a year later, John still couldn’t leave his office without being yelled at and pushed around by one particularly annoyed crow, even when he didn’t wear his mask. Families and fledglings and friends of the crow joined in, having decided they did not like this human. The grudge had begun.

Members of the Corvus family are funny and wise and smart. There’s something clever about holding a grudge – it keeps us on our toes, helps us to look out for bad behaviour and therefore stay safe. But it’s detrimental too.  Bitterness, like a poison, seeps. Psychologists suggest that rather than trying to focus only on forgiveness, we can find self-compassion, the very thing that was probably lacking at the time. If we can smooth the way to some kind of peace with what has happened, our minds and bodies will surely benefit. 

So far, so humanly interesting. But the crows in this Seattle experiment were right to scold – the researchers were dangerous. So keep hold of that grudge, clever crows, it’ll stand you in good stead for the future.

A Dirty Word

I’ve just hit send on a stressful email. Something has been an issue for years and recently raised its head again to remind me that I really don’t know how to fix it (other than turning back time and making better decisions). The topic is one that we still don’t really talk about, or certainly not with any honesty. It makes the world go round, yet very few of us understand how it works, and in a capitalist society we are under its thrall. Yes, it’s that dirty word: money.

Here’s my story. Once upon a time I received a health insurance payout (following the diagnosis of multiple sclerosis) and wanted to put plans in place for the future. We bought our dream campervan and we started up a small business. Hans the Van eventually carted us off for the Big Trip in 2018 – 361 days visiting 17 countries – a dream indeed, and one I’ll never forget. The Wee Tram was adorable, challenging, fun, stressful, and even though we had to wind the company up after five years, I’m still glad we did it. 

Other than that, I followed professional financial advice and put a large chunk into storage pods, an investment that seemed simple and safe at the time. You’re probably gasping in shock, or at the very least raising your eyebrows at this point, since stories have been hitting the headlines in the last couple of years, often involving people who have lost their savings through investments like this (or even their pension pots, a definite yikes). As the years progressed, it became clear that this was Not A Good Thing, and slowly, very slowly, I started to admit that my money was possibly gone. 

To add recent injury to old insult, my lovely job reading with people in criminal justice settings might be coming to an end soon. This is (unsurprisingly) also about money – funding, tenders, you know the voluntary sector drill. Losing my regular income (and work that I loved) wasn’t in my plan, so perhaps it’s no surprise that today’s email about financial issues is hitting hard. 

Along with the fear and anxiety about the future, though, sits a heavy sense of shame. I’ve always worked hard for a living, always known that money is precious and that not everyone has what they need to survive, never mind thrive. Working class backgrounds instil in us various things, ranging from pride to anxiety to a distinct lack of capacity to dream of something better. But money is also something about which we do not speak: don’t hang your dirty laundry out in public. Hence the arrival of shame. And its bedfellow, guilt. I feel guilty that I wasted a gift, that I didn’t talk about it for a long time, that I’m no longer in contact with the old friend who gave me the advice. Therefore, I’m also feeling sad. 

But the end of the story is still to come. This is a bump in the road and there are paths ahead that could hide all sorts of possibilities. It’s okay to lie down for a while and lick my wounds.

Breathe

Are you holding your breath while reading this? I mean, I do expect regular readers to be thus entranced when a new blog arrives, but otherwise is this the case? If so, you’re not alone. 

I was replying to an email recently (not a particularly tricky one I might add, though they can be in the mix) and realised that I wasn’t really breathing. I was taking small breaths, no doubt, (and was therefore, thankfully, alive) but I wasn’t doing it properly. It was as if I was holding my breath in fear or anxiety. This is a phenomenon called ‘email apnoea’ and it could be that up to 80% of us are doing it. This is not good news in our technologically-heavy world. If we spend up to five (or eight if you’re a teen) hours on our phones per day, it stands to reason that screen use is indeed the new smoking. Our lungs are not happy at all. These incredible organs can do so much but we no longer help them out.

Holding our breath contributes to stress-related diseases and disturbs the body’s balance of oxygen, carbon dioxide, and nitric oxide, which helps keep our immune system strong. Shallow breathing can also trigger our sympathetic nervous system ‘fight or flight’ response. If we stay in this state of emergency breathing and hyper-arousal for extended periods of time, it can not only impact sleep, memory, and learning, but also exacerbate anxiety and depression.

It now makes perfect sense that I feel anxious when I get a notification or attempt to write an email response (or blog). My body is trying to tell me something. We usually need outside forces to remind us though. When I was on my way to my brother’s funeral some years ago I got an amazing message from my best friend. Katy’s words were wise and simple: ‘all you have to do today is breathe’. And she was right. My lungs got my head and heart through that difficult day. 

Our bodies are constantly trying to keep us alive and well. Screen breaks, noticing our breath and even exhaling slightly longer than inhaling can all help. Deep breaths, everyone. Everything is going to be all right.

Summertime Sadness

Here’s a weird one. I’ve only recently noticed that when summer comes around I get a bit sad. I’m not sure if I’ve been like this all my life (I’ll check with Mum and report back) but it’s a thing for sure. The sun comes up early, the birds sing loudly, school’s over and the nights stretch out. All lovely and positive things. So why the dark cloud above my head?

I sought advice from the world of psychology and was delighted to find that I’m not alone. Seasonal Affective Disorder has been claimed by the winter but it’s a summer phenomenon too, albeit much less common. In the summer months it could be the early morning light affecting sleep quality, more noise in the world around us (garden parties and kids playing football, you know the drill) or even a sense of guilt that everyone seems to be having a great old time in T-shirts and shorts while you’re still wearing socks and scarfs (this may be just me though).

It made me curious to see if we are somehow overly fond of the season in which we were born. I’m a winter baby with a late November birthday so maybe I’m simply unconsciously reminiscing about those first days of existence? Or maybe it’s related to our personalities. I’m an introvert so it probably makes perfect sense that when the world flings open its doors and rushes outside to make NOISE and be loud at festivals and garden parties that I’ll recoil a little and run away. I love a dark evening under twinkling lights, drinking hot chocolate by the fire, wrapping up in a big coat and splashing through puddles. But I think I love all those things because there’s seldom a crowd nearby. Rain and darkness bring peace.

Don’t worry, I’m not like a vampire who hisses if the light hits my face (not really) and occasionally can even be seen to enjoy time with others outside. So it’s not a disorder for me, exactly, it’s more a season that I now recognise as my favourite. Winter is coming.