Let the wild heal you.

I remember the night when Stefan and I had gone to see “Into the Wild” all these years ago. We had no idea what the movie was about, just about some guy going out into the wild, doing his own thing. The movie managed to catch me completely off guard, speaking to and from my heart, my yearnings, my view of the world. It was this movie that gently emphatically pushed me out into the wild and gave me (some sort of courage) to go on my first-ever camping trip – all by myself, an experience which I enjoyed and hated at the same time. I learned that I can do it by myself if I had to and I also learned that I love sharing the beauty of nature with other people.
Since then, I have stepped out into the wild on more than one occasion and done some things that were way out of my comfort zone.

• I've carried more than 20kg on a nine day tramping trip through Nelson Lakes National Park.
• I've climbed up Paritutu Rock in New Plymouth and made it to the top even though I experienced a full-blown panic attack on my first attempt.
• I've managed to make my way over the exposed alpine section on the Kepler Track in torrential rain and 100km winds.
• I squeezed through caves that initially completely freaked me out only to eventually discover my deep love for caving.
• Many many times, I've walked tracks with drops left, right, and centre and kept going, even though everything within me wanted to curl up in a ball.

And then something happened. Life possibly. We didn't go out as much as we used to. Life became more ordinary, hectic busyness surrounding us. I missed the wild and yet, I didn't do anything about it. And as time by, throwing a veil over my relationship with the wild as it passed, I slowly began to forget. Forget about the joy it brought. About the growth that came with it. And about how I had met myself over and over again, a woman sitting on a mountain top, listening to birdsong, soaking in nature, at peace.
What I didn't realise was that the veil of time had brought friends with it. Friends that weren't very friendly. Alongside time strolled Insecurity. And Doubt. And the most dangerous one of all: Complacency. One by one, almost as if left with no choice, I became friends with those creatures who, of course, turned out to be the wrong crowd. I became fearful in situations that I had been able to cope with. I also became frustrated with myself for not coping better. And I became angry with Stefan who still seemed to cope so much better with tricky situations. That's when Complacency made its final move. It began to whisper in my ear, gently, seductively. Eventually, I reached a a point where I didn't care anymore. Maybe my love for the outdoors had just been a phase. A phase that I had grown out of. Or so I tried to tell myself. Starting up again felt too hard, not worth the effort. I had failed before. Many times. What could I possibly gain from trying to become more fit and agile once again? Nothing, right?

And then, I read an article about Rwanda and how therapy has helped the people of Rwanda to find a way through their grief and trauma in the aftermath of genocide. I read how practitioners had come in, offering the standard oh-so-Western approach, sitting in a room, talking about the yuck-stuff for an hour at a time. An approach which didn't work for the people of Rwanda as it missed out on the power of their community. Of music and drumming. And of nature and sunshine. The people of Rwanda sent the Western practitioners home and immersed themselves in what they knew would help them instead.
There is a bottom line to all of this. A bottom line which I have read many times and forgotten many times and then remembered once again. The wild can heal you. Maybe not by itself and maybe it doesn't work for everyone. Just for me, this is enough reason to reconnect with the whenua. Because I know that the wild can heal me. And maybe, just maybe, not just me.

Perfect imperfection

She felt broken inside. No one knew. How could they? She only ever showed her lovely, funny, happy, gorgeous face. Mask rather. No one knew that she was so very self-conscious, that she felt as if she wasn't measuring up to society's standards at all, not even to her own mask. It was not that the mask was completely fake, it was just that, well, the mask wasn't all she was. It was only the small part she felt safe sharing. Underneath, lurking in the shadows, was the anger, the sadness, the hurt, the self-harm, the desperation, the brokenness. Underneath was the whole person, gorgeous and ugly, strong and vulnerable, loving and hating, securely locked away so no one would know. No one was allowed to find out that she was not perfect.

This is my story. And this is the story of the people I meet in my counselling practice. The details change, the stories behind the story change and yet, everyone, including myself, wears a mask. The masks change as well. Of course. We are individuals, with our own flavours and colours. Some masks are bright and colourful so that everyone would like us. Some masks are exhaling danger so that everyone would stay far away from us. Some masks are misty-grey so that no one would really see us. Some masks are so fixed to our faces, we don't know how to take them off anymore. Others seem to change, our face is different all the time so that we look like a chameleon, always adapting to our surroundings. And yet, no matter what the mask might be, it only ever shows parts of ourselves. And it hides that we are not perfect.

Perfect: having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics.
What a goal. What a trap. The aspiration to be the perfect mother-father-employee-friend-human destroys people time and time again. For a very long time, it destroyed me. It discouraged me from showing my true colours, my authentic self, my vulnerability. And yet, it is (like one of my very dear friends said the other day) essential to truly be myself if I want to truly connect with people. So, what's the alternative?

Perfect: as good as it is possible to be.
I will never be perfect-perfect. I will always be perfect-imperfect. I can strive to become as good as it is possible to be right now and that is all I can really do. That includes the mask I choose to display and it includes all those things that lurk in the shadows. Because this is who I am. At this point in time. I am as good as it is possible to be. A perfect imperfection.

Rebuilding the city (and yourself)

Christchurch. A city in trauma since the devastating earthquakes in September 2010 and February 2011. The city will never be the same. It was rattled with significant force, rattled to its core. 185 people have lost their lives alongside numerous animals. In my recent visit, I walked around the CBD, deeply touched by the still very visible signs of devastation. I got a glimpse of what it must feel like to walk through a war zone.

The soldier who has survived his recent deployment. The woman who has come out of her abusive relationship. The teenager who has experienced sexual abuse, perpetrated by the father. The little boy who has seen his mum being beaten up and eventually got hit as well. Different stories and yet, these people are all caught in their personal trauma. Once again, hearing their stories reminds me of walking through a war zone. I can't see it, I can't smell it, I can't touch it, but there it is. Shattered minds. Broken feelings. Panic and desperation and anger wherever I look.

There is something that amazed me about Christchurch. (There was more than one thing, but I am trying to stay focussed.) Christchurch was oh so full of life. Full of creativity. Full of people who are picking up the pieces, turning them this way and that, and then making something new and unexpected with it. In others words, Christchurch was full of hope:

I found this mural next to Countdown close to the CBD. Next to boarded up buildings. Next to cracks in the walls or the footpaths. “Our vision for the future is hope.” I saw wonderfully graffitied walls in the CBD. A new mall, made out of shipping containers. Life, everywhere I looked. I felt the panic and desperation and anger and yet, it was as if the city was looking at me with bright eyes, exclaiming: “Yes, it's been hard and yes, I still cry and scream, and yet, I am life! Enjoy me. Explore me. Be alive in and with me!”
I stopped. I looked around. I listened. Breathed. Waited. Listened some more. I thought about how trauma throws a town, a person into a state of shock. And yet, this is not where it stops. Yes, trauma carries risks. And trauma carries possibilities. The chance to learn. To try something different. To be creative. To grow. To hope.

Trauma tears a soul apart.
Pieces, lying on the ground, desperate to be put back together.
The soul tries so hard to be whole once more.
And there is hope.
There is always hope.
She will never be the same again.
She will always carry scars, some visible, some invisible.
And she carries beauty.
She will always carry beauty.
Amongst all these scars, there are flickers of who she once was.
Who she still is and can be again.
Trauma tears a soul apart.
But there is always hope.

~ Kathrin Marks, 18th of July 2013 ~

One of those years

I haven't posted anything in a long time. And it's not that I didn't want to or didn't have anything to muse about. It's rather that the clock doesn't seem to stop these days. I blink and it's Friday. I blink again and it's Monday. And so forth and so forth and so forth…
I can hardly remember a time in my life when things have smoothly sailed along, journeying across the calm sea, with time to smell the roses. Right, there are no roses out on the ocean (except on fancy ocean cruise ships), but you get my gist. Time. To breathe and think and be. Time to enjoy the moment. Yes, I do experience those times occasionally (usually when I am away on a holiday that lasts longer than a week) and yes, I also love change and movement. So, most days it doesn't bother me that my life isn't anywhere near to this (alien) concept of smooth sailing. I love my life and I love that I hardly ever know what's around the next corner. But sometimes, just sometimes, I so wish for a break from all this.

Today has been one of those days. Don't get me wrong. I do have good people in my life. I practice gratitude on an almost daily basis. When I write ‘one of these days’, my definition is that life is tricky. And trickier. And even more tricky. So, in that sense of the word, it was one of those days. And you know what? I would be happy if it would have just been one of those days. Or even one of those weeks. But it feels to me like this is one of those months, one of those years even. I have had rough years in my life, years that I don't want to repeat. I don't want to forget about them either (there has always been too much good in them), but some years are just ‘one of those years’.
2006 was one of those years when Stefan and I were preparing our move across the world. And then…
We had to put one of our cats to sleep.
Two of our very close friends experienced deep emotional struggles.
Stefan lost his job.
We had a huge marriage crisis that almost ripped us apart.
In the midst of this, we tried to come to terms with the grief that accompanies leaving a place called home in hope of finding another home.

And now? We have found a home in New Zealand. And as difficult as those days were, they are part of my story now and they have shaped who I am. They have opened my eyes and deepened my relationships. They have brought me so much more in touch with myself and with others. Would I want to go back and relive 2006? Hell no.

It turns out that 2014 is one of those years as well. A lot of wonderful stuff has happened and yet, life is tricky. And trickier. And even more tricky. Since we have first arrived in New Zealand in the beautiful January of 2007, life has constantly moved on the fast lane. But: There have been occasional rest spots along the way. Time to fill up the car. Time to get some lunch before moving on. We have never managed to stop for long (metaphorically), but that's fine with me. But this year… This year is different. Life has moved from the fast lane to Formula One. Rest stops don't exist. You get fuel within a matter of seconds and then you're off again. And if you need to pee… Well, let's not go there. And today was one of those days that has been so characteristic for this year: Good stuff and challenging stuff and somewhere, in this confusing mix, there am I. Tightly gripping the steering wheel. Hoping that I won't crash. That at the end of this race, there will be a rest stop. One day.

Once again: Don't get me wrong, I do have people in my life. Good people. Sometimes I think the best of people. But at the end of the day, we are still holding the steering wheel of our own lives. And at one point or other, we get tired. And this is where I find myself at the moment. I am tired. So very tired. I can't keep holding on. So I release you. Into the wild. Be safe.

Miss Perfect or What the heck does it matter what I look like?

“I've gone through stages where I hate my body so much
that I won't even wear shorts and a bra in my house
because if I pass a mirror, that's the end of my day.”
~ Fiona Apple ~

Fiona Apple is completely unaware of this, but this is my story, too. I hate walking around naked. I get changed as quickly as I can. I don't particularly like swimming – which is great because I actually don't like walking around in swimwear. I don't like wearing pants that end above my knees because my knees are ugly. I hate shopping for pants (and dresses and skirts) because my upper legs are actually wider than my hips (and this makes it a nightmare to find pants that fit over my legs and then also fit my comparably small waist).

“But… you are beautiful, your husband adores you, you really don't know how gorgeous you are.” Oh yes, I have heard things like that. Can I believe them? No. Because I have also heard many other things: “You have sturdy legs, you've grown pretty big hips, you're boobs are quite small, you look like you've gained some weight.” Do I believe those things? Happily. Because they are supported by today's fucking stupid what-people-are-supposed-to-look-like-standards, they are proclaimed from every billboard and TV and cinema screen. Women are supposed to be perfect. Perfect in every respect. I am not perfect, full stop. I am actually far from it. It is impossible for me to measure up to these standards. And actually, it is impossible for every single person. Women AND men.

Back in the day it was hip to be big. Being big spoke of prosperity and health. Nowadays it is hip to be athletic and skinny. Being skinny speaks of discipline and health. Funny, that. I yearn for the day when we are able to look at each other and don't see prosperity or discipline or health. When we look at a person and see just that: A person. A human being with a story. A human being worthy of love and respect and honour.

Steve Maraboli once said: “There is nothing more rare, nor more beautiful, than a woman being unapologetically herself; comfortable in her perfect imperfection. To me, that is the true essence of beauty.” I wholeheartedly agree and yet, I still don't dare to walk around my house naked. On the outside I pretend that I am (mostly) ok with my body. But when I look into the mirror, I see only what is wrong with my body. I am yearning for the day where I am able to look into the mirror and tell myself:

“Hello, fellow human being.
You are beautiful. Every single bit.
I love and respect and honour you.
And now: Get undressed and marvel at your unique beauty.
With love from a fellow human being.

Choices

Alice came to a fork in the road. ‘Which road do I take?’ she asked.
‘Where do you want to go?’ responded the Cheshire Cat.
‘I don't know,’ Alice answered.
‘Then,’ said the Cat, ‘it doesn't matter.’

Choices. We are surrounded by choices. We constantly face them, little ones and big ones. Significant, life-changing ones, and the numerous fun choices like buying milk or dark chocolate (or both)? Sometimes, we are not even aware of the choices we make on a daily basis. We just make them, as if we were going through the motions. But sometimes, sometimes there are choices that have the potential of completely turning our lives around. Which are full of excitement and risk and potential. And full of change.

When we are confronted with those choices, everyone responds in their own individual way:

• Some take one look at those choices and then just run at them, tackling them to the ground and running with the last option standing.
• Some transform into an ostrich, burying their head in the sand, hoping the choice will make itself somehow. Or just go away already.
• Some sit down with the choice, look at it from all angles, examine it, talk with it, and then walk into the most enticing direction.
• Some take the choice along when they have coffee with friends or family, mulling it over while soaking in each others comforting presence.
• Some people have been known to even kill the choices in a desperate effort to avoid them altogether.

I am not sure what my response is to the tough choices life throws at me from time to time. I sometimes happily go for a run with them, while I am also known for having hearty debates with them which sometimes leave me sitting on the ground, weeping like a blubbery mess as one of my friends would say. Choices, those really tough life-changing choices, excite me and scare the living daylights out of me at the same time. I yearn for them as much as I want to hide from them.

Still, there will always be times when those choices enter our lives. I am sitting here with one at the moment. I quite like the choice or rather its potential. Yep, it still freaking scares me, but we are quite happily drinking tea together, Black Tea Liquorice to be more precise. There is a lot of risk involved in making this choice. Not life or death risk, but still pretty high in the scheme of things. What makes me feel more comfortable to be around this particular choice is thinking about who I am, what I stand for, what is important to me in life. My identity, in short. Sitting here with the choice, drinking tea at this crossroad in my life, I can look up at my identity and use it as a signpost. Your choice: This way. And that's what helps me most in making those hard choices. Thank you, Ruth Chang, for helping me figure this one out. Because sometimes, it does matter where we go.

Talking about or being with?

She had been coming for a while now. She liked it here, liked the friendly atmosphere, the people, the journey. She felt safe, seen. She enjoyed being free to talk about whatever had been going on her life. About what wasn't working for her – again. She never felt judged, no matter what mood she came in or what language she used or what stories she shared. She was free to talk about what was on her heart and mind. And still, she seemed to go around in endless circles, bringing up the same old struggles, unable to see a way forward. She felt frustrated and yet, she had no idea what she could do about this…

This story could be anyone's story. I see this pattern in the clients I work with, I see it in my friends, I see it in myself. Talking about something comes easily to many people. ‘Talking about’ is not really a question of avoiding to take responsibility or rather, that's not the full story. Yes, it is sometimes (often? always?) easier to talk about other people and how unfair a situation might be rather than looking at our own piece of the puzzle. But I have found that people do this for a good reason. They might want to protect themselves or they might want to protect someone else. They might have all these feelings that are living behind the steel bars that make up their hearts, serving a life sentence. People also might be scared of what would happen if they would change tactics and step into the unknown.
The unknown. Some people are known for their passion for the unknown. They seek it out, they travel to the South Pole by foot, they climb unclimbed peaks, they travel to the Amazon to study plants, hoping to find a cure for a disease. But for most people, the unknown speaks of unforeseen dangers. Of a risk not worth taking. So they live life as they always have. Their hearts may be full of dreams, ideas, hopes, but the fear of the unknown is just too great.
When these people come into therapy, they are talking about many things. It helps them to feel safe. It makes sure that their life doesn't really change even though change is what they desire most. But there, in the corner, sits the unknown. Always hiding. Always menacing. Always preventing the person from moving forward.

She had been coming for a while now. She liked it here, liked the friendly atmosphere, the people, the journey. She felt safe, seen. Then, one day, when she came in at her usual time, she looked into the other person's eyes. Trusting and yet, still wary. The woman looked at her and gently, carefully, spoke to her:
“I feel like you are running away from me. That we have been going in circles for a while. I would love to meet you. See you. What do you think?”
She took these words with her. Pondered them. Fought them. Ran away from them, too. But wherever she went, the words would be already waiting for her. And eventually, she stayed with those words.

Parker J. Palmer once wrote: “Before I can tell my life what I want to do with it, I must listen to my life telling me who I am.” Moving forward, breaking the cycles we feel trapped in happens when we cease to talk about things we can't change and instead choose to be with ourselves – our feelings, our thoughts, our fears, our dreams. When we get to know the unknown. See it for what it is and become friends with it. When we are being with…