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.