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…

Fitting out

“I think fitting in is highly overrated. I’d rather just fit out…
Fitting out means
being who you are,
even when people insist that you have to change.
Fitting out means
taking up space,
not apologizing for yourself, and not agreeing with those
who seek to label you with stereotypes.”
~ Golda Poretsky ~

So-called ‘firsts’ happen all the time, we are often just not aware of them. I had a first this week that threw me a bit – well, more than a bit, to be honest. I went to a study group that had been recommended to me, after a full-on day at work. I brought a whole load of un-processed stuff to the group, sitting with it without being able to sort through and make sense of it. Probably not a good start, but hey, life happens, right? ‘It will be fine.’ Well, at least that's what I kept telling myself. ‘It will be fine. You'll find your place.’
Well, I didn't. I sat there, overwhelmed by the day. Overwhelmed by the people, the topic, the pace of the conversation, the flood of emotions that was raising up within me. And I felt that there is no place for me. That I am this type of person who searches and searches and searches and never fully arrives. Fully arriving… What the heck does that mean anyway? What's the goal? I have searched high and low, in the most likely and most unlikely places. There must be a place where I fit in. A place I can call home. There just has to be.

I haven't found it yet. And still, there is a gentle voice that tells me that that's not entirely true. It's just that I have found it in more than one place. I have found in the quiet moments where I meet with a person's soul, without judgements or fears. I have found it in breath of mountains, the energy of beaches, the peace of lakes. I have found it in tears and laughter and silence shared with friends. I have found it in a cup of tea. In a cat curled up on my lap. And I have found it in myself. In the space between spaces, that space that is just mine and yet yearning to be discovered and loved and accepted for who she is. I have found it. It just looks different than I thought it would. And that's OK. Because ultimately, it's OK to fit out. As long as I have places where fitting out means that I am fitting in.

Good-byes

“Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea
comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth.
Go in peace!
I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.”
~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~

Yesterday, it was time for another good-bye. Together with a group of friends, I drove to the airport in the wee hours of the morning to farewell two precious people. I have known them only for the past six months, but some people you meet and it's love at first sight. So it was with Dave and Greta. And now they're gone. Hopefully I will see them again. But even in this day and age, Indiana (USA)-Auckland (New Zealand) is a long way. There is hope. There will always be hope. But there is also the thing called realistic which sometimes translates to pessimistic.

From a young age, my life has been riddled with good-byes, be it people or places or animals or dreams. There came a time when I became practically numb to it. Where I began to expect good-byes around every corner. As a result, I became cautious, very cautious. Why enter into a relationship with someone: They might leave anyway. Why trust someone: Disappointment was already waiting in the wings.
So, inevitably life became very lonely. Predictable, yes, but also very very lonely. At some point in my life I finally allowed the grief over all these good-byes back in. And in it came. It rushed in, almost drowning me at times. I remember gasping for breath in particular strong waves. I remember learning to surf the waves rather than being constantly swept away by them. I remember fighting the urges to go back to a life without grief. A life that appears to be so much easier to bear at times. And then I remember why I want to feel. Why it's all worth it. Because ultimately, there is no joy without tears.

“Every meeting led to a parting, and so it would, as long as life was mortal.
In every meeting there was some of the sorrow of parting,
but in everything parting there was some of the joy of meeting as well.”
~ Cassandra Clare ~

Quiet silence

“Quiet people have the loudest minds.”
~ Stephen Hawking ~

I am a quiet person. I am married to a quiet person. Some of my friends are quiet people. And so are some of my clients. Being quiet is fine, me thinks. There is nothing wrong with it. Some people are just more quiet than others and that doesn't mean that there is nothing going on in their minds. Far from it. Quiet people have feelings and thoughts just like everybody else. There it is again – quiet people are people, too. They are just a bit more cautious when it comes to sharing what is happening in their busy minds. They wait for the right person, the right moment to come by and then, only then, they might share. Maybe.
This is what I have been doing for most of my life. I might come across quite extroverted at times, easy to be around, talking, laughing, having fun. But (and this is the important part), you won't meet the real me. Or rather, you will meet a part of me, but most of it, the part that sits in the corner, watching life's every move, the part that never takes it chances, that is cautious and shy, THAT you won't meet. It takes a long time until it dares to come out of its corner and it can be gone in an instant, in that brief moment when you laugh about something and look at it in a funny way (or at least that's what the part thinks). And then, the whole cycle starts again.

Over the years, I have learned to accept myself for who I am and to slowly step out of my comfort zone at the same time. I have had some wonderful experiences and I have also gone back into hiding, licking my wounds, time and time again. And overall, my cave has become less of a prison, but rather something I can dance in and out of, just as I need it. I have come to like my quietness while being able to choose it more freely.
Still, there is also a different type of silence. A silence that slowly sneaks up on you. A silence that is jealous, that isolates you, that wants you all to itself. That promises you that you don't need anything else. Anyone else. That tells you that silence is enough. And before you know it, you are trapped in its web. No way out.

Trapped by silence is where I find myself at the moment. I have no idea when it all started, but here I am, sitting in the spider's web. I have been finding it incredibly hard to share my heart for quite a while now. And not only with people I don't know too well/don't feel too safe with, but increasingly also with the closest people in my life. When I realised that this was happening, I initially tried to prevent the door from closing, but eventually I gave up. It's too hard right now. Too much effort. Where to begin? How to end? No idea, so better leave it as it is. The thing is that it gets very lonely after a while. It separates me from connection with my friends. From entering into a heart space. From meeting myself in others. And the mind? It never stops. It keeps going and going and going. And…

“Silence is so freaking loud.”
~ Sarah Dessen ~

Counsellors are people, too...

It is weird being a counsellor sometimes. People often react in interesting ways when they hear that I belong to this (misunderstood) profession. There are people who swamp me with their life stories at the first opportunity, expecting that I can ‘fix them’ – of course for free. Others almost magically lose their voice, stumble for a bit, and then, clumsily, change the topic. Others again get this haunted look on their face before they suddenly avert any eye contact – for everyone knows that every decent counsellor can analyse another human being within the fraction of second. Because that's what we do for a living, isn't it? Yeah, right.

This is, of course, not true. Well, at least not entirely. Yes, counsellors (and other therapists) ARE trained to notice some cues that other people might miss. They listen differently. They are full of ideas and theories. But (and this is important)… Counsellors are also normal people. Really. People with feelings and thoughts and insecurities and flaws and all that jazz.
The thing is, I sometimes get the impression that I am ‘supposed’ to have it all together. To be calm and at peace with life and myself and others. To be a mature adult. The thing is, I am NOT always calm and at peace with life and myself and others. And I am far off being a mature adult at times (some would say more times than others). Yes, I am working towards it (many counsellors are on a life-long personal journey), but the thing is, I might not ever get there. And I am certainly 'not there yet'. I sometimes want to throw tantrums like a three-year old child (and yes, sometimes I actually do). I can get so very caught up in my emotions that I can't see a way out for a short (or long) time. I can get incredibly stubborn and incredibly insecure – sometimes at the same time. I can deeply love and deeply hate people, including myself. I sometimes have no idea how to do this thing called life. How to survive in this confusing world. A lot of people might go through similar struggles. And the thing is, I am people, too.
So please, whoever you are, be gentle when you meet a counsellor. We have feelings like everyone else. We need breaks like everyone else. We have up and downs like everyone else. We get it right (and wrong) like everyone else. We are people, just like everyone else…

Reaching for the stars

Tomorrow, I will embark on a journey bigger than any journey I have travelled before. I will drive down to Taupo and, as part of a team of four, walk 100km within 36 hours. This slightly crazy endeavour has taken me five months of preparation. Since November last year, I have spent hours and hours and hours of walking to get ready. I have walked up and down numerous hills. More times than I can remember I was ready to throw the towel, to get out, to find a different hobby. I had an injury early on in the training and needed lots of physio and acupuncture to get going again. More than once I questioned my own sanity, my abilities. And still, I kept going…

What kept me going was not only because all of this supports a great cause, but also because of my slightly stubborn streak and my desire to cross something off my bucket list that had been sitting there for a while. And don't get me wrong – there were many times where I absolutely enjoyed myself. The times when my husband and I walked the beaches in our neighbourhood at night. Or when we admired the full moon coming up next to Skytower. It has been a crazy ride, but oh, so worth it.

And you know, this journey is so similar to other goals we have in our life. I facilitate a group for women who have experienced abusive relationships once a week together with a colleague of mine. This week we talked about boundaries and how difficult it can be to set these. I listened for a while, being a witness to the struggles these women go through in their lives. And then something clicked for me.

Five months ago, I started this journey. At that point, I was nowhere near walking 100km in one go. 20, maybe, just maybe, 30km might have been OK, but that's about it. I would not have been able to walk the whole thing without killing myself. It is the same with the boundaries some of these women struggle to set: They might want to set a boundary with their abusive (ex)partner, but this is just too big a task to do. So, they give up. Just as I could have given up five months ago. I could have said: “This is impossible! I am NEVER going to be able to do this!!!” And that would have been fair enough. But this is how we bury our dreams. Accept the status quo. Stop reaching for the stars. Because we tend to forget that all things need training. Walking 100km needs training. So does setting boundaries. And learning to be gentle with ourselves. And accepting our feelings for what they are. We don't start out with the biggest challenge. We pace ourselves. We have a rest when we get tired or hurt. We experience many up and down moments. We celebrate victories along the way. And then, one day, we are ready to face the biggest challenge. And then, just then, we dare to reach for the stars…

Self-care

It's been a crazycrazycrazy month filled with many a good thing. Don't get me wrong: I wouldn't change anything about it. Or maybe I would. Who knows. Can't do anything about it now anyway. And I thought that I was coping well. At least until last Tuesday…

I ran a group for women in the morning. Everything was fine. Or as fine as can be when the topic of the day is “Impact of domestic violence on children” and when you are also battling a headache that kinda gets worse by the minute. I remember debriefing with my co-facilitator afterwards and she suggested that my workload had increased over the last weeks and that maybe I should think about whether I was getting enough self-care. I told her that I was indeed taking good care of myself. That it was just a headache. Really.
It hit me when I drove back, going from one thing to the next to the next to the next. I realised that I had hardly stopped during the last weeks. That I had not even written another entry for my blog in the last couple of weeks. So, where was my self-care again? When this realisation hit me, I broke into tears. I felt extremely tired and low, fighting to keep the car safely on the road. Eventually, things got a little better when my headache subsided, but the question remained: Was I doing enough self-care…

People generally fall into two categories: Selfish or selfless. People who are selfish find it hard to be selfless and vice versa. The key to self-care is to understand that self-care actually needs both sides of the same coin: Sometimes it means that we are able to give to others and sometimes it means that we need to have firm boundaries. It means that we are able to say both Yes and No. That we understand that they are both valid. That they both have their place and time. I talk to my clients about this and still, I so struggle with it myself at times.

The people I am privileged to see in my clinical work inspire me. They are full of strength, resilience, wisdom. They sometimes lack hope or the ability to see future possibilities. They might need someone who encourages them to put themselves first.But they eventually get there. They learn how to dance with adversity and be in relationship with themselves.
Right now, I need to do the same for myself. In order to be a counsellor, I need to be gentle with myself. I sometimes need to make decision that others might interpret as selfish. And that's actually ok. I have zendoodled my Hand of Self-Care a couple of weeks ago. As an exercise and as a reminder for myself. Maybe I need to look at it more often and then actually put it into practice. For I wholeheartedly love my job. And to do it justice, I need to wholeheartedly love and care for myself…

Zendoodling

I have always said that “I am not much of an artist”. I have always felt inferior to others who just have a particular gift for it. I have also known for a long time that I am something like a writer, but give me a pen or paint or pastels and I will either run away screaming my head off or break down crying because I wouldn't be able to create anything worth looking at anyway.
This of course happened before I joined the online group ”Art Therapy and Happiness” (have a look here: http://www.trauma-informedpractice.com/online-courses/art-therapy-happiness-project/). Initially, I was blown away and utterly intimidated by the quality of work I found in the workshops offered to us. And then, I created my first Zendoodle. And suddenly, I was happy and not so intimidated anymore. This is what I wrote in the group forum when uploading the picture:

Just completed my first Zendoodle. And yes, it was a surprise to me - I actually felt like an artist by the end of it :-)
And yes, I 'cheated' a bit, being a beginner and all - I ran with the idea of tracing my hand to have an outline first and I looked up different ways of filling it in. I did my own thing and I copied some of the stuff I found. And even though it felt a bit like cheating, I realised that what I am doing is actually called 'learning'. And that felt good. I will try and make as many Zendoodles in the next month as possible and I am SO looking forward to the art swap now :-) [where every participant creates 12 Zendoodles, keeps one, sends the remaining 11 to other people, and receives 11 ‘new’ ones] Zendoodles are fun :-)

I was amazed by my positive response to this art activity. I was amazed how quickly I understood that cheating doesn't always equal cheating, that sometimes cheating is actually learning. I allowed myself to be guided by other people's ideas without feeling bad about it – looking for inspiration does NOT equal failure. I have found something I like to create, something other than writing. This has been a wonderful experience for me…

Identity

“Don't write about what you know, write about what you feel.”

This is what Elif Shafak says in her TED talk about the power of storytelling. I have always admired people who have vast knowledge, are able to wove it into a compelling story which has the power to change one's perception of self, others, and the world. I, on the other hand, have often felt like my knowledge wasn't enough/too-boring/irrelevant to people. So, for a long time, I didn't write. I tried it here and there, had some ‘success’ (whatever that is in the first place) with some stories, but most of the time, I kept quiet. I felt like all I ‘knew’ were feelings. Processes. The understandings of stories – my own as well as others. And who would be interested in any of those in this rational, intellectual, fact-hungry world? No one, I thought for a long time.
And then, then I began to write stories in the context of my own personal counselling. Stories which helped me to encounter my demons. Get to know them. Make sense of them. And one story at a time, the world became less dark. The demons didn't look as frightening anymore. I shared some of these stories with some of my close friends, scared of what they would see or think about me and still, wanting to be seen, known, appreciated for them at the same time. But it was until much later that I made the decision to write for a ‘wider’ audience. This is when I started this blog. These are my first timid steps out into the world, a world I so often find too rational to understand, a world which seems to be so focused on tasks and success and the process of the mind rather than the oh-so-airy-fairy-world-of-feelings and intuition and everything in between.
Don't get me wrong. I am a thinker. I have come to accept my intellectual self, a part that I have struggled with for a long time. A part that made me feel out of place, too difficult, too deep, too philosophical to have a relationship with. Nowadays, I like the Thinker just as much as the Feeler. And through the process of writing stories, I have made peace with who I am. I have lost and searched and found my identity. And I have come to a place where I take another step into the unknown and share one of the stories that I have written last year. Because sometimes, it is about stepping out of our comfort zone. The question is, how do YOU lose and search and find your identity? I encourage you to take a step into the unknown as well…

Safety

She was feeling cold, so cold. The tiny tent was shaking in the gale-force wind. She swallowed hard. How much longer could it withstand these conditions? What would she do if it gave in? Where would she go? She had been stuck here for a couple of days now. The weather was still deteriorating, not that it made any real difference to her situation. She was stuck as it was. She didn't particularly like this being-stuck-business, but, hey, better safe than sorry. It sounded like hell had broken loose outside. Who knew what would happen if she decided to venture out? No, the tent it was. The tent had been her trusty companion for many trips. It had never let her down and it would be alright this time. There had been times when she had toyed with the idea of leaving the tent behind, of sleeping under the stars or in huts or wherever, but she had always come back to what she knew best. You never knew what could happen when you were tramping, so carrying a tent gave her all the security she needed. She was so used to setting up the tent by herself that she could do it in a heartbeat, with her eyes closed. Tent equals safety. The tent was almost a part of her. Never ever would she leave it behind again.

She remembered the one time where she had forced herself to leave the tent at home, to step into the unknown. She had planned her route, mapping out the location of the huts very carefully. She had been fine for the first few days. The walking had been easy, the weather couldn't have been better. She laughed at herself about her need for security, about her ridiculous reluctance of leaving her tent at home. She found herself enjoying the trip, meeting people around the camp fire in the evening, the warm and comfortable nights, the joy of having dry clothes in the morning. She remembered wondering why it had taken her so long to come to this point.
And then, on day five, it had happened. It had been raining all night and the track leading up the mountain resembled a creek. She hang on to roots and rocks as she cursed her way up. 16km and 7 hours later she had made it up to the saddle. From here, it would only be another 4km to the hut. Time for a break before she started her last leg for the day.
The rain had finally stopped. Relieved, she sat down. Her body screamed. It had been a tough day. She rummaged around her bag to find some nuts and dried apricots. Leaning against a rock, she slowly nibbled one after the other.
She had no idea what exactly had happened next. One minute she had been sitting on the saddle, overlooking the valley and celebrating her achievement, the next minute she had heard a massive rumble and found herself a couple hundred metres washed down the mountain. Every muscle, every limb yelled out in pain. She eventually managed to persuade her resisting body to crawl over to the spot where she could see her pack lying some 10 metres away. She had her tent, she would be safe, she could just spend the night here and make her way up the mountain and to the hut tomorrow…
Of course there had been no tent this time. This night was etched into her memory. She vividly remembered the intense panic rising in her when she had fumbled for the tent, the scream that had escaped her lips once she had realised that it was sitting at home, safe and sound. Never EVER would she allow this to happen again. Sure, she HAD survived that night, she HAD managed to make it up to the hut in the middle of the night. Sure, she lived to tell the tale. But she had learned. Safety came first. Always. So the tent it was and always would be.

Another gale-force wind rattled the tent. She could sense the pegs trying to hold on to the ground, trying to keep the tent down. How much longer did she have...? It was about to get dark again. She climbed into her sleeping bag and pulled it up and around her head. She was feeling so cold. Tomorrow, yes, tomorrow she would be able to get out. Tomorrow, there would be sun. And no more wind. Tomorrow, she would leave the tent. Tomorrow. Definitely. Not just yet.

The light was fading now. Not long until night would hit. She had to save her batteries and she only turned on her torch if she really had to. She lay there, on her mat, listening to the wind. It whispered seductively to her, wanting to lure her out of her tent, out of her safety. She suddenly felt trapped. Safe, yes, but also trapped. And lonely. Anything could happen outside and she would never even know anything about it. But no, she would not leave in the dark of the night. That would be suicide. She felt the fear creeping up on her, reaching for her throat, her heart, her stomach. No. Not this time. Better safe than sorry…

It was than she heard the voice again. The voice that belonged to the outside world, that visited her in her tent sometimes, meeting her where she was.
“You do belong here, my love. You belong with me. You belong with people. You belong in this world.”
She was crying now. “But it's not safe out there! Remember that one time? Where I almost died? It was just a matter of LUCK that I made it to the hut in time, nothing else! Not again, do you understand what I'm saying? Do you hear me??? It's not worth it!!!!”
The voice came. Gently. Slowly. And then, the voice hugged her. In the silence that followed, she allowed herself to let go. She let it come out all at once – the fear, the loneliness, the emptiness, the confusion. Yes, most of all the confusion. She had no idea what to do, what to think, what to feel. She felt lost, completely lost.
“Come, my love. Baby steps, remember?”
And she came. And there they were, waiting for her, holding something in their hands. She had missed it. Oh, how she had missed it. They were not able to enter the tent, she had to go. Meet them. Take what was hers all along. So she did. And finally, she began to sing. After all these years, her voice rose and fell, telling her story. It was time.

Catching the scaredy cat

One of my big dreams is running my own private practice. I still remember vividly how I had found a sort of home when I walked into Josie Scott's practice in November 2011. Her room is not only warm and friendly, it is full of creativity. No, let me rephrase that, it IS creativity. I am quite sure that it does happen at times, but I can hardly imagine how a person would NOT want to start building, exploring, imagining, dreaming in this wonderful environment Josie has created. It felt like I could just arrive there and find me. Be me. Breathe me.
Ever since, creating my own practice where people can find and be themselves has been one of my biggest dreams. Thomas Merton once said: “Art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time.” We can let go, hold on, try out when we encounter ourselves in drawings, sand, clay. We can meet once again with our inner child and we can have a conversation with our grown-up parts as well. We can catch up with people we have lost, draw from their wisdom, resolve conflicts. We can do all these things when losing ourselves and finding ourselves in art.

There is only one problem: I haven't got a space for my private practice yet. I have created the space in my head numerous times: I have painted (and re-painted) the walls, experimented with furniture and lighting, decorated the room. And I have started my own sandtray collection which I keep in tool boxes. I have bought wonderful books which encourage feeling and thinking and exploring our own stories. I have ideas galore, but so far, this has pretty much just been a dream of mine. But is it just a dream after all?
Dreams are often vague, elusive things, sometimes behaving like scaredy cats who run away from us, who hide in their dark caves. And we can get desperate searching for them. And then, after roaming the forest in the dark, hoping that we would find the cat again, the rain sets in, soaks us, washes away our hope, our confidence, and we give up. We go back to our warm and comfortable and boring house. We drink the same old tea and eat the same old dinner. We sleep in the same old bed and wake up to the same old work. We are happy. Or we make ourselves believe that we are. We forget about the cat. And that is how we live day in, day out. And this is how we eventually die. We feel that something was missing all these years. We have some vague memories, but we can't quite catch those either.

I know that I won't be able to make all my dreams come true. Sometimes I realise that some dreams are not worth chasing after so I let them go. And some dreams need adjustments. And others are worth fighting for. They inspire us, motivate us. They still run away, are difficult to catch, but with the right preparation, I can brave the dark. I can brave the rain. I can brave whatever the journey might throw at me. So, planning my private practice, collecting equipment, buying books is my way of preparing myself for the journey. This cat, this dream, I won't let go. It might not be around the next corner, but it will be there eventually. Till then, I will keep on preparing myself. Because it is worth it.

Be perfect?

Perfectionism is one of the biggest traps people can fall into. It comes in so many shapes and forms and it doesn't differentiate between people. Between ages or ethnicities or abilities. Everyone can fall into this trap. No one is safe. And the trap, oh, the smell of the trap… It lures us in. It speaks to us. It surrounds us, seduces us, crawls into our brain. It promise success, prestige, fame. It takes hold of our will, our motivation, our emotions. And then, once the job is done, it becomes almost invisible. It evades our touch, is constantly on the move. It has won. But has it?

Perfectionism is a double-edged sword. Wanting to excel in something can drive us, motivate us, enable us create something new. And perfectionism can also drives us mad as we are trying to achieve the impossible and are never satisfied, even if we manage to eventually ‘get there’ – because Perfectionism tells us that there is always another ‘there’ behind the last ‘there’.
And Perfectionism also changes the way we think and feel about ourselves. It whispers (often false) promises. It haunts us. It gets our hopes up. And then, when we fail (“Yet again”, Perfectionism sneers), we rapidly descend into a dark void where we beat ourselves up about not being ‘good enough’. We feel sad, dejected, alone. Ready to give up. Until Perfectionism starts to haunt us yet again, this time with new tricks, but always the same agenda: To infiltrate us. To drive us until we can't walk no more. To kill hope, confidence, relationships.

Brene Brown has done fantastic work in the area of perfectionism. In her book The Gifts of Imperfection she writes:

“Understanding the difference between healthy striving and perfectionism is critical to laying down the shield and picking up your life. Research shows that perfectionism hampers success. In fact, it's often the path to depression, anxiety, addiction, and life paralysis.”
Understanding this has taken me a while. Wanting to change has taken even longer. And putting it into practice is still a daily struggle for me. It takes courage, every single day. But imperfection is what I choose. Even if Perfectionism creeps back in and re-gains it – temporary – hold. I am imperfect. And that's OK.

Fear

“If you really want to know what fear is – go to the edge of your script.”
To me, this cryptic line explains a lot about people and their struggles. And it has helped me to understand myself better. And, eventually, to have much more compassion and patience for myself. But let's start at the beginning…

Every person has a story. A story that has been shaped by our experiences, by our culture, our relationships. And while we are writing our story, we make decisions: About ourselves, about others, the world. Decisions that in turn shape how we act. Feel. Think.
These stories can also be called script. Like in a play where everyone says the lines the director has chosen for them. This is sometimes incredibly boring and still, it offers great comfort because through it, we have a purpose. And that's why we hate and love our story, our script. We feel trapped within it and yet, when we attempt to find a way out, we are terrified, unable to move. Going to the edge of our script is the most fear-inducing we can possibly do. The world outside our script is too vague, too new, too different: Even though we desperately want to explore it, we have no idea how this could possibly work. How do we act, think, behave in this strange new world? And how can we still feel safe?

Over the years I have learned that my script is not set in stone. That it is up to me to explore it and to slowly advance towards its edge, into the unknown. I have explored many characters in my script, I have hated some and I have learned to love them. I have come to accept them (myself) for who they are (I am). And I have learned that the journey to a new script doesn't mean that I have to completely let go of my old script. While the old one doesn't fit me anymore, it still offers comfort and safety. Venturing out is connected to coming back to my secure base. So, take care, whoever you are, on your journey to the edge of your script. And be gentle with yourself might you get scared. It's ok. We all do at times. Come back in when it gets to hard and go on when you are ready once more. Take care…

Perspective

She struggled. She didn't want to walk anymore. This was way too hard. The heat, the pain, the others who seemed to even enjoy it while she was fighting to put one foot in front of the other. She was ready to give up. She didn't care, either. There comes a time when you just can't walk anymore. When enough is enough. When you realise that you are not made for this. That you should better find a different hobby. That this is not you – and this never will be you. And then, she looked around. One last time. And then, she closed her eyes. She listened. She breathed. She let go. And she walked once again, just putting one foot in front of the other. Not looking at the other people or at her surroundings. Ignoring the world. Just walking. One foot in front of the other. And then, suddenly, she arrived. She had made it. Once again. She had managed to get to the top. She smiled. She had arrived.

Life can throw you curve balls. Some of those are quite easy to catch, others – not so much. And sometimes, too many balls come flying at you, from every direction, until the ground looks like an enchanted winter wonderland, covered with little and big white balls, gently gathering at your feet and sticking in your hair. And you think that life is not fair, that you can't possibly cope with all this stuff, that you will never ever be able to get out again. And then, you think back to the time when you couldn't walk no more. When everything had been too much. And when you had focussed on the task right in front of you: One foot in front of the other. No more. No less.

Life can be incredibly unfair sometimes. And life can be incredibly hard sometimes. Overwhelming. Too much to go on. Never-ending. It can leave us feeling completely out of our depth. It pushes us, challenges us, all the time. And sometimes, all we need is to gain some perspective. Perspective on life. Perspective on ourselves. Perspectives on others. Life will always throw us curve balls. This is what it does. But it is for us to choose what we do with them. We can sit down and never move again. We can thrash around and watch them fly, but they'll always come back. Or we can sit down with them, pick them up one by one and get to know them. And then, we can decide if we keep them or put them away. That's not to say that the going will be easy. But it will make it worthwhile. And it will help us to arrive. In our own time. In our own story. In our own life. Arrive home.

Unexpected meetings

In my job, I have the privilege of meeting people from all walks of life, with all types of stories, ages, nationalities. I am invited into their world, I am a (sometimes silent) witness to their pain. And time and time again I am amazed about the human spirit's desire to survive and to keep going. I am a counsellor. This is what I do: Listen. Encourage people to tell their stories. Bear witness to people's stories and enable them to, eventually, make sense of their respective storyline.

What I didn't expect when I started my journey as a counsellor was that I would meet myself over and over and over again when other people would share their stories with me. That in listening to them I would hear myself talk (through their words) about things that I (used to) battle with in my own life. Sometimes the similarities were so intense that it almost terrified me - I would hear a story which reflected a struggle in my own life at exactly the same time.

You know, being a counsellor is the most amazing privilege I can imagine. Encountering myself and sometimes finding answers for my own struggles is an added bonus. But first and foremost, what this job teaches me every day is that we are all human. We might have lots of money or we might have none, we might have a presumably perfect life or we might live in a constant hell, we might be beautiful or clever or talented (whatever that looks like in the first place), but whoever wherever whenever we are, we still have similar battles. This thought comforts me. No one feels exactly what I feel and still, we all have probably felt something similar at one point in our lives. We are not alone in this. I can see myself in your story. Thank you.

Share your art

“So many art and expressive therapists never share their art. Even Carl Jung did not dare to share his art – for fear of being seen as a crazy person. But I dare you to share your work despite your fears. Despite your (non)abilities. Share you art. It is worth it.”

This is what Shaun McNiff said at the Whitecliffe Expressive Arts Symposium last year. Well, he said it a bit more elaborate than that, but this is what stuck with me. Do I dare to share my art? Not really. I have started a creative journal last year and I have been writing stories for a little while now, but some things I just don't dare to share with a wider audience. Also, I don't call myself an artist. I am great at discounting my own work, thinking that no one would be interested in it in the first place.

And then, just last week, I listened to Judith Scott's story (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=46LdVzWoNhI). I was in awe of her incredible ability to make her inner processes visible with her chosen medium. I witnessed how she managed to speak her first words after years of silence. How she followed her heart, innocently like a child. Without limiting or judging herself.
And then, a couple of days later, Stefan (my husband) and I had a conversation about the question: What is art? Who gets to decide? How much talent is needed for something to be considered art? It was a most wonderful conversation and it made me think some more.

Like I've said before, I don't consider myself an artist. I can't draw very well. I can't sculpt or weld or do anything that requires 'artistic skills'. But is this true? And does it matter? And what if I am actually wrong…? This year, I am planning to create more 'art'. To use it as a medium of self-care. And as a medium of self-discovery. And I have decided that Shaun was right after all: Art is worth sharing. Any art. When I share my art, I am vulnerable. I show myself to whoever dares to look. And if others don't consider it art: I believe it is not up to them to decide. So here is what I created today. Here is me.

Introducing self-doubt

For me, self-doubt is something like a good ol' friend. We have known each other for as long as I can remember and trust me, we have had our fair share of good and not so good times together. Self-doubt, for example, is very reliable. Always there when I (don't) need her. Always playing her (well-known) games with me. And certainly one of my clingiest friends enemies.
Over the years, self-doubt and I have had a few conversations. I remember this one well, when I was starting out on the longest tramp to date and initially, nothing seemed to go as planned. Everything was so much more difficult than I had anticipated and I was ready to give up. The conversation back then went something like this:

(Self-doubt, sneering) Soooooo, you really thought that you would be cut out for this?
(Me, meek voice) Well, yeah, kinda...
(Self-doubt, arrogant) You are ridiculous, you know that? You, cut out for this. Cut out for ANYTHING? Really? Stop day-dreaming.
(Me, quietly) OK....

My relationship with self-doubt has changed somewhat when I compare my life today with my life back then. Yes, the relationship is still rather complicated and more, well, 'intimate' than I would prefer, but some things have changed. I have completed my studies just three months ago and am now in the delightful terrifying position of finding a job. The only thing being that there are no jobs out there in Auckland. Well, there are a scattered few, but most of them are not what I would want to pursue as a career choice. So, what to do?

1. I could sit in my house until the day when a fairy godmother arrives at my doorstep with the perfect offer of employment in her silver hands. (Don't ask me why the hands are silver, they just are.) Well, not gonna happen any time soon.
2. I could be happy to volunteer until the end of my days and make jam and preserves in my free-time. Tempting, but no thanks.
3. That leaves good ol' option number 3: Get out there and find it. Create it. Be it. This what I want, but it scares the living daylights out of me. And it certainly opens the door for self-doubt, who happily sneaks in...

The thing is, nowadays self-doubt still makes herself heard. And that's actually OK. Because someone with a very gentle voice has recently joined these conversations: Self-acceptance. And this person listens to self-doubt. Listens to all her worries and fears and insults. And then, very gently, self-acceptance moves closer to self-doubt. Very slowly, as to not scare her. Self-acceptance is the quiet presence that allows self-doubt to be. To rest. And maybe, one day, to transform. No one knows when 'one day' will come. It might still be a while. But it doesn't matter. Self-doubt has finally found some rest. And that is all that matters for now…

A journey starts with one tiny step post

"Why don't you start a blog, talking your experiences at this point in your life? Others might benefit from what you might share." This is what a very precious person in my life said to me today. Stupid idea. Good idea. Really? Oh, why not.
So here I am, starting on a fresh blogging journey. About what it's like to be a counsellor. About how I (don't) cope with the tight job market here in Auckland, about self-doubt and anxiety and discoveries. And it's also about all the marvellous moments this wonderful job has to offer - big and small. But most of all, it is about being human. Being real. Being vulnerable. And being together in all of this. I am excited to see where it might lead us.
Arohanui.