For our wedding we were given a set of four Rob Ryan plates by our friend Annie. Intricate deep blue paper cut designs illustrated with warm & wise words on delicate white plates. Gorgeous objects.

This morning, as my toast raised its golden head from the toaster, I found myself reaching for one of our plain, pale green plates instead of the Rob Ryan plate next to it. I caught myself. What was flashing through my mind?

You might break the expensive one if you use it. It might wear out. You don’t deserve to use the expensive plate with your ordinary breakfast. Save it for a special occasion. Save it for a rainy day. Save it.

Of course, I took the Rob Ryan plate.

We are all afraid of impermanence. One way of dealing with impermanence is to squirrel our precious things away, where they will be ‘safe’. For ‘safe’, read ‘go mouldy’ or ‘get forgotten’. If I use my Rob Ryan plate more, it is more likely to get smashed on our unforgiving slate kitchen tiles. But oh, I will have enjoyed it.

As it says on Rob’s plate, other planets cannot be as beautiful as this one. But only if we remember to see it. To make use of it. To savour the taste of it. With open hands.

Only if we let things smash on the kitchen floor when it is their time to be smashed.

Wear your mohair cardigan today, start that notebook you were saving for when you had something important to write down. Eat that expensive Manuka honey in the back of your cupboard. ENJOY your beautiful objects (and people) while they are here.

Fiona writes: At the moment I really want something. Something big. I’ll tell you what it is in due course, but for now all you need to know is that I want it, but it might be just beyond my reach.

My classic recourse when I’m in this position is to get all defensive and pretend that I can do whatever needs to be done to get what I want ON MY OWN. “I’ll find a way.” “I’ll work harder.” “Don’t worry about that little detail, everything will be just fine.”

Inside I’m quivering. I feel like a fake who’s about to be found out. I feel not-quite-worthy.

This week, I admitted to a few people close to me that I didn’t really know what I was doing. That I wasn’t as in control as I liked to think. They knew this already, of course, as they’re clever people. But it felt good to say it.

The next step is asking for help.

I don’t like asking for help. It is even worse than admitting vulnerability. The fear of being rejected is pretty strong (although the actual experience of rejection is usually not so bad). I can feel guilty about the other person putting themselves out, or taking a risk on me. I can worry that they think I’m selfish to want what I want in the first place. It might leave me in a position where I ‘owe’ them. Eugh. It’s uncomfortable enough just to WRITE about it.

Somewhere deep inside me, I know that we are all utterly dependent on each other and the earth all the time for our survival and our emotional health. But it’s so hard to really face the truth of that.

Of course, asking for help also glues the human race together. Most of the time, when we have enough resource ourselves, we love to help. We like that people trust us enough to ask. It reminds us of our own vulnerability and leaves us feeling grateful for each other.

So here goes.

Universe, will you help me?

There. That wasn’t so bad. And now I will attempt to hand it over, and it will be up to the universe whether it gives me what I want, or whether I might need something different instead.

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Nepali monk by Wen-Yan King via Creative Commons with gratitude.

Fiona writes:  My mind is blank. I’m completely out of inspiration. I have nothing to write to you. Zilch. Nada.

Fiona writes: I’ve always been interested in how the value of money shifts depending on what you’re buying.

I spent a morning with a friend in Monmouth recently and spotted one of these golden finches in a gallery.

I loved it. But it was £29. This seemed like a lot of money to spend on an impulsive whim, on an object with no purpose.

If I’d got home and Kaspa had suggested we go out for a meal, I’d have said yes in a second. The average cost of a meal for the two of us? Around £30.

The same thing happens with toasters. I take an hour deciding whether to spend an extra £20 on a swish toaster (and decide against it), then later put £20 of petrol in the car to go on a non-necessary drive. A beautiful toaster would bring me the pleasure of looking at it’s glossy redness for years & years!

In my experience it can be most difficult to spend money on ourselves when we’re buying a non-tangible services to nourish our bodies & souls – massages, coaching, retreats, time with alternative therapists, psychotherapy.

This kind of spending isn’t as straightforward as buying a golden finch. You never know exactly what you’re going to get. It is necessary to depend on another human being. It’s much cheaper to buy a book. Even worse, these nourishing experiences often involve venturing into uncomfortable places in order to find new paths. Risk, vulnerability, the unknown. Who would pay money for that?

I would. The best money I’ve ever spent is on therapy for myself, on writing courses, on retreat weeks, on online materials – on golden opportunities to grow & learn & untangle tangles & connect more fully with the glorious world around me. These activities have stretched my horizons, and have shown me how awful & wonderful I am. They have helped me in my relationships and helped me feel more grounded & calm & content. Of course, the task goes on and on. We are ever-unfolding: layer upon layer. What an adventure.

Our mindful writing ecourses come into this category. £50 / $75 might seem like a lot of money to spend on yourself. But what you’re buying is more valuable than a toaster, even a beautiful one. A month’s worth of food-for-your-soul. The vehicle of mindful writing, the making of new connections, the nourishment of poetry & inspiring quotes & essays, the sharing your experience with others – activities that have the potential to change you & your life irrevocably.

If one of our e-courses is for you, then take a jump. If not, then I’d encourage you to spend some money on something else that nourishes you this month. Forgo a meal out, or a few bottles of wine, or a few months of satellite TV subscription. If there is less money around then negotiate a low cost space, or do a swap with a friend.  

You are worth it.

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Gold finches by Shan Anabelle Valla.

Fiona writes: I was looking forward to mushrooms on toast this morning. I got out the chopping board and looked in the fridge. No mushrooms.

As I fetched an egg instead, Kaspa said, “Come here!”

He was looking at the chopping board. I looked at it too. Nothing. “What?” He moved me a step the right so I was looking at it from his perspective.

The chopping board was decorated in a tangle of fresh slug trails. Slug slime that I would have eaten for breakfast with my mushrooms, if we’d had any.

Life is often like this. We move a step to the left or to the right and we suddenly see everything differently.

This is certainly true in my relationships. Sometimes I struggle to be empathetic with people and I judge their actions. ‘Well, you should just do this!’ I think.

Once I’ve heard more about the situation, or about the person’s family history, or about their fears, I step to the right. I wonder how I would manage to act any differently to them, had I been in their shoes.

Sometimes all we need is a step to the right. Sometimes it can be difficult to see things any differently, and takes a long time before we have more of the picture (especially if our own blind spots get thrown into the mix).

What we need to remember is that there is always another way (many other ways) of viewing a situation. We will never see the whole picture, but we can try to move towards greater clarity. Examining our own filters, understanding more of the other, and letting go of our judgements one by one.

The slug trails on the chopping board were actually rather beautiful. Loops of glittering silver.

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Fried mushrooms on toast by Kaptain Kobold via Creative Commons with thanks.

Fiona writes: Home again, after a trip that took us away for three days & three nights.

A morning of catching up and clients. An afternoon & evening ahead of the same, with these two clear hours in between.

Maya Angelou wrote: “I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.”

When we were away I found myself at home on the high cliffs of Ventnor, looking across to the sun glittering on the sea. I found myself at home in our hotel room, early-to-bed and watching CSI. I found myself at home having happy ‘conversations’ with my beautiful one year old niece. At other times, it was more difficult.

I take a cup of cherry & jasmine tea and my kindle into the garden. The sun is out. Next to me is our small magnolia tree. Half of the buds are still in fists, and half have burst into gorgeous tattered white blossoms. I flick between reading about fictional murder and faith.

Fifi, the small grey cat from a few houses down, joins me on the grass. She rolls on her back & surrenders to the pleasure of being stroked. My own three cats mill around, hunting leaves, tolerating each other.

A sound draws my attention. Whoop! Whoop! Whoop! I look up.

A big bird, high above, is flapping her black wings. I can see each bubble of sound as it is made. I imagine it moving through the sky towards my ears. Have I ever heard a bird’s wings sing like that in my life before?

I am at home here in my own garden. And also I am not. Various thirsts (boredom, the urge to look at the sales statistics for my new novel, anxiety about what’s happening later today) pass through me like ghosts.

Maya Angelou also wrote: “The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”

Is there such a place? Can we expect that we will not question ourselves, and that others will not question us? As an alternative, can we find a way of being at home in the middle of the questions? Can we find a large enough container – one that we can lean back into?

A way of rolling onto our backs and enjoying the strokes. A place where we feel safe enough. A way of surrendering.

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Photo: ‘Magnolia’ by spisharam via Creative Commons with thanks.

Fiona writes: This afternoon we ate chocolate cake on a bench in the middle of Ledbury for Anna’s birthday.

It didn’t look quite as fancy as this one, but it was home-baked with chestnut and almond flour, lots of butter, and lots of chocolate. It was GOOD.

The sun shone warmly down, convincing us that it really was Spring. We ate cake and licked chocolate from our fingers and laughed.

Afterwards we mosied home along the west side of Malvern, driving a narrow road that hugs the hills on one side and drops away on the other to a mosaic of fields far below. These views still knock me sideways. Do I really live here?

This sunshiney story could end here. But I haven’t told you about the manure.

As we left Ledbury it was hot in the car, and as we drove we wound down the windows. They had been spreading manure on the fields outside. The stink filled the car – sweet, sickly, with an edge of death. It lingered as we rose up onto the hills.

I sometimes forget to mention the manure, and the other forms of s*** that I encounter every day (like every other human being). This might lead you to believe that I have a blessed life, swanning off to eat chocolate cake in picturesque towns most sunny afternoons. My life is not like that all the time.

But really, my life is perfect with the manure. Manure might not smell as good as chocolate cake, but it helps things grow. Sometimes the other s*** in our lives does this too. (And sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes, s*** just happens.)

Either way, I want to live a life (and write about a life) that includes everything. Uncensored. Diverse. Colourful. Unpredictable. Disappointing. Joyous. Not-always-feeling-happy. Not-always-keeping-everyone-else-happy. Chocolate cake AND manure.

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‘cake for andy goldsworthy’ by distopiandreamgirl via Creative Commons, with thanks.

Fiona writes: This morning I managed to drag myself into our front room before breakfast. I haven’t done this for a long time.

Our front room is where our golden Buddha lives, on a table covered in aqua material embroidered with gold peacock feathers. This is where I come to do my ‘daily’ (less than daily) spiritual practice.

I felt pretty good during practice, and even better afterwards. Days begun in front of the Buddha often have a different quality to those that aren’t – more spacious, more centred, less scattered.

Yesterday afternoon was meant to be a ‘day off’, but we spontaneously had some ideas about how we could change things around at Writing Our Way Home and we got stuck in. It was immensely satisfying.

At times like these, when things are going well, it’s easy to do the ‘good thing’. But my experience of doing spiritual practice over the years, and of working, and of writing, is that sometimes it feels good and easy, and sometimes it feels like the hardest thing in the world.

One way of avoiding this is to only do practice on the days when we feel like it. How many books would I have written if I’d taken this tack? Not a single one.

Some mornings we drag ourselves to the Buddha and after five minutes it feels good and we know it’s the right thing to be doing. Some mornings we fidget through every minute, and then later in the day we feel the benefit. Some days we never feel the benefit at all.

Is there a benefit on those days? My best answer to myself is, ‘Keep doing the practice, and you’ll find out.’

It’s not easy to practice (or to do anything) regardless of whether we feel like it. Such is life. We need to decide what our ‘good thing to do’ is, and make a vow to do it. We’ll fail, often, because we’re foolish human beings. But we can drag ourselves in front of the Buddha before breakfast again the next day.

Things you might be curious about
What activities already exist in your life that you have committed to? How well do you manage to carry them out regardless of how you feel about doing them? Is there something else you’d like to commit to in this way?

“Promises are the uniquely human way of ordering the future, making it predictable and reliable to the extent that this is humanly possible.” 
~Hannah Arendt


“But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep…”
~Robert Frost


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Photo by MrClean via Creative Commons with thanks.

Fiona writes: Last night after our Buddhist service we sat in a circle (as we do once a month) and slowly passed a stone around. Whoever has the stone speaks – everyone else keeps their mouth shut and listens and waits for them to be ready to pass it on.

We had a few people who hadn’t done it before, and I was a bit worried about them. When I was given the stone I spoke about how nervous I was when I first sat in a circle. I was aiming what I said at these new people. I went on a bit.

Afterwards, Kaspa said he’d noticed that I was ‘trying too hard’ at the beginning and that something about what I was saying struck a false note.

After everyone else had shared, I picked up the stone again and admitted how hard it is for me to ask for help. I talked a little about how my family history made ‘being independent’ necessary. How good I am at being a ‘coper’. The advantages of this, and the pain of often being alone and of not being able to trust others to hold me.

After we’d finished and packed away, someone approached me quietly and said how moved they were by what I’d said about being a ‘coper’. They’d recognised themselves in my description.

I was able to have this helpful affect on another member of the group (unlocking some emotion in them and then connecting with them through their sharing this with me) because I wasn’t trying too hard to ‘make them better’. I wasn’t trying at all. I was focussed on my own work, and speaking from my heart.

Time after time, I learn the lesson that it isn’t helpful to push, grab or pull at things. Next time, I might be able to notice myself ‘trying to make others comfortable’ and focus instead on whether I’m comfortable and where my own vulnerability is.

Of course, I’m a human being, so I probably won’t. But it is helpful to remind myself that we don’t have to push or pull. We can hold things lightly, and trust.

“The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach – waiting for a gift from the sea.”
~Anne Morrow Lindbergh

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Today is the last day for registration for March’s mindful writing courses - spend time with me investigating Writing and Spiritual Practice, or join Kaspa on our brand new Journalling Our Way Home course. Click the links & read more. 

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Photo: Sea Storm by MedoRRa (via Creative Commons with thanks)

Fiona writes: Earlier I went out into the garden and called for my two young cats. 

They weren’t on their usual spot on the bed (alongside old man cat Fatty) and the paranoid part of me wanted to make sure they hadn’t both been knocked down by a car (we did lose our cat Silver, pictured, this way).

Tsuki came straight away, and purred around my legs for a while before scampering off to leap at flies. Roshi didn’t appear. ‘Maybe he’s asleep under the bed’, I thought. ‘Maybe he’s too far away to hear me.’ ‘Maybe he’s been knocked over by a car’ lurked at the back somewhere.

Eventually, just as I was about to give up, Fifi (the small grey cat from a few houses down) bounded over, closely followed by Roshi. They’d been off gallivanting together.

Roshi was delighted to see me. He has a very loud purr. He gave me some love, and then he had other things to be getting on with.

The sun is always there. It shines on us. When clouds get in the way (or the earth itself) it is still shining. We just can’t feel its rays.

Roshi’s preoccupation with Fifi’s tail didn’t mean he didn’t love me any more. When Fifi went home for her tea, the clouds moved, and he came inside and lay on my lap and purred at me some more. In fact, here he is again. (he says to tell you all, prrrrrup!)

Maybe death is only a more permanent form of cloud. Maybe the love is still radiating, somehow. I feel it when I remember Silver’s smile as she rolled and rolled in the sunshine. 

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A reminder that registration for this month’s mindful writing ecourses ends tomorrow (Thursday). If you’d like to spend more time with me investigating Writing and Spirtual Practice, or join Kaspa on our brand new Journalling Our Way Home course, click the links & read more. 

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This went out yesterday as my weekly inspirational newsletter – sign up here.