Please help yourself to some self-help...

Please help your self to some self-help…

Please help your self to some self-help-I’m giving it away free…

Seven of my self-help/improvement/enlightenment books are doing a terrific job- holding up my bedside lamp. The eighth is giving stalwart service as a coaster for the bloody camomile tea. To add insult to injury, it was suggested that I save the cold camomile tea bags and use them as eye masks. Well they are organic…?!

I feel as though I am standing facing a blank wall with my nose nearly touching it. I can’t magically spirit myself through the wall, I can’t knock it down and there seems to be no way round it. Life shouldn’t be like this; waiting for something to happen, even when that something is specific, and even more so if it’s something that is surrounded by mists of fear.

All the affirmations and admonitions to be patient, to relax and allow life to unfold/evolve/ (or bloody evaporate at this rate) are falling on impatient ears.

My determination to create a CV and take a small step into the world of theatre has fallen by the wayside.  My note to self to finish the play I started a few years ago (about a wedding, there’s a surprise) and maybe even try to put the damn thing on somewhere, have subsided in a stew of apathy – or more truly endemic lack of confidence. Okay, back in the saddle – or rather back on the yoga mat- and gallop across fields of meditation, mindfulness and being in the bloody moment. Again, it strikes me that it’s not so much that  my mind is a machine that  always plays the same  looped tape , but a  permanent   minstrel wandering the fields with the fairies half the time and the other half  wondering when the next bottle of wine and bar of chocolate will be along.

Good MORNING! Dahhlings!

GOOD MORNING DAHHLINGS!!

Shakespearean Saturday

Fell out of bed at 7. On to the early bus, feeling and looking like a wreck who’d spent the last 3 days fasting, being bombarded with gamma rays  and running out of hospitals in a backless paper gown..  Of course I was far too early for the Workshop. (I’m pathologically prompt). Into a nearby “cool” café (never been there before, turns out that “cool”=expensive) for a banana and café latte. Then back to the hotel to register along with the other 49 wannabees sorry participants, most of whom hovered around the teen/early 20s mark and many of whom also seemed to know each other.

So; First exercise; We had to stand up in front of the class, introduce ourselves and tell one thing about ourselves that would surprise every else. Really, that one could backfire! Then onwards to a day filled with vocal exercises, pretending to be a tiger or an elephant, walking around the room en masse while all shouting gobbledygook, playing games…

Lunch couldn’t come quickly enough. Out the door and in for a burger with 2 other participants; a nice woman who was already big into musicals – she sang in a choir. The other lunch companion was apparently some sort of movie extra –and psychopath…. I nearly ended up feeling sorry for her internet acquired dating partners, about whom we learned far too much. If I ever meet a guy called John from Tipperary who suggests – never mind.

During the course of a very long afternoon we had to read aloud, form threesomes and enact improvised plays. It became apparent that the definition of “good sight reading skills” was open to interpretation. There was a huge difference in abilities and those differences were not consummate with confidence.  Modesty forbids...  ah to hell with modesty. I was brilliant. “Warm”. “Funny”. Engaging”. “Authentic”. Thus was I described. Thin, hungry, demented I’d have said. Legend has it that really good actors find the core of character in themselves. Makes sense. After all, if you think you’re someone else, you’re probably in need of psychiatric attention.

Staggered off the bus bone tired, with only enough energy left to consume a Chinese takeaway and a bottle of wine before I hit the bed in a most dramatic fashion.

Stage-struck Sunday

Thank God this session didn’t start till 10am.

Today we learned how to do up CVs, introduce ourselves, and the importance of a really good show reel. More improv. More jumping around the room doing mad stuff. Then we were individually filmed speaking to camera, and then we had to enact a scene with another person who of course tried to hog the camera and speaking time…

At the end of the day, we all swore undying love to each other and I passed a sheet of paper round (I know, I know) with the promise of circulating a list of our ‘phone numbers/email addresses. Of course we were all going to go home and immediately start researching speeches for our show reels…and typing up CVs making sure to include the fact that we could skydive or ride bulls or do a great Transylvanian accent…Then we’d be ready to start persecuting sorry contacting agents with our thespian skills…

 I don’t know if I have the energy to be a drama queen – although there is a certain gentleman who’d say I deserve an Oscar for some performances…

Patience...patience...

Patience is a virtue.

Patience is a virtue…I possess very little of. The days and months are flying by. It’s now late summer or rather late what-passed-for-summer. I’d been told it could all be done by autumn, possibly a court hearing in October. Now autumn is closing in and the documentation is still not completed, never mind a date set.  It’s hard, living in limbo and all the while wishing and hoping and wondering if you’re doing the right thing. If a thing is the right thing to do, why is it so hard to do it?

Plus; the sums aren’t adding up. (Surely it would be more appropriate to say; minus; the sums aren’t adding up?). If the house is sold for x, it will take a lot more than half an x to buy another one. Unless, of course, I take a sudden fancy to living in a Mongolian yurt. But since I hate camping (tried it once, didn’t like it) it’s highly unlikely that I’ll take to life under canvas or yak skin now. Courage, Môn brave!  Today’s affirmation is “All is well. There is more right than there is wrong”.  Hello? Hardly one hundred percent positive.

 I’ve had a break of a week away but I’m still bone tired. Plough on. Get up, dress up, and show up. Hit the marks. Go to work. Go to evening class. Go to the cinema. Here’s the thing; I always loved films but now I find thoughts intruding even as I sit in a darkened cinema watching a film and eating jelly babies. Unbidden, thoughts pop up in my brain like jack-in-the boxes. Same things over and over again.

This week’s task; find something that I’ve always wanted to do but never had the courage or confidence to, and go for it. So I’ve signed on for a weekend “Acting Boot Camp”   Voice, movement, agents, CVs, and that entire sort of theatrical thing. What’s more it’s for serious actors, not just people who want to be extras on “Game of Thrones”.  Then I can be officially a drama queen.

Wednesday; A visit to a different kind of theatre – a hospital theatre. I am required to fast from midday Tuesday and have not even a drink of water from midnight. Into the hospital at 7.30 a.m. on Wednesday half asleep and parched. By 7.30 p.m. I have a raging headache. Before they take me to theatre at a quarter to eight in the evening, they have to put me on a drip because I’m completely dehydrated… 

I’m in my tracksuit ready to go home and eat the doors off the fridge when the doctor tells me he wants me to have a different test on Thursday. Which involves another fast. Oh. Ok doctor.

Thursday 9 a m. “It won’t be long now, you’ll be seen to soon” said the nurse At 10 am in I go, under the scanner. Suddenly a very loud alarm goes off. Nothing to do with me, luckily. It’s the hospital fire alarm. So up I have to get off the scanner bed, and walk to the designated assembly zone in a paper hospital gown… OMG

False alarm. Back in again. This time all goes smoothly.  The two-days-thinner me is now back in the tracksuit and fantasising about a Full Irish Breakfast. But the consultant has other plans.

Back in on the Friday, fasting again…

Home, feeling like the wreck of the Hesperus, but fine, for which I give thanks. The consultant puts the huge weight loss down to “stress”.   J

Tomorrow, the theatricals. Darling!

Family Pets...

There seems to be a general assumption that a family pet must have 4 legs and a great deal of fur. That’s not true. People keep lizards, snakes and tarantulas, even if you can’t take any of those for a walk. Or even bury your face in their fur. Well, you’d just squash the tarantula, wouldn’t you. As for the reptiles; you’d just exfoliate your skin, and not in a good way.

I find that people look askance at me when I say yes, I have 2 pets; they’re goldfish. They live in a garden pond. I frequently sit in the garden and talk to them. They don’t answer, but then neither does God when I talk to Him. Well not directly. Neither do the fish.

The generic name of my pets is “The Goldies”. I christened them Porgy and Bess. They‘re Olympic Gold Medallists in synchronized swimming, up and down they go, always in unison. So devoted are they to each other, that when they rest, they cross their tails. How lovely it is to sit and watch them holding hands, or rather holding fins.

Of course I don’t know whether they’re boy and girl, girl x 2 or boy x 2. So far there have been no baby Goldies, but then the last 6 summers have been very cool.

I hope they’re not bored in the pond, but then again as they allegedly only have a 30 second attention span, probably every minute they’re finding something new to look at, or even falling in love all over again.

One day I thought I’d lost them; I glanced out the kitchen window as I was cooking dinner and was horrified to see a huge heron standing on the hedge gazing down at the pond. I chased him away, but the pond seemed empty. I thought he’d gotten them and I was broken hearted. Three days later they surfaced. They must have been terrified to stay down so long.  Some instinct unrelated to their attention span had kept them safe.

Of course, yes, it would be nice to be able to bring them places, but unless I can get hold of miniature aqualungs and strap then to a skateboard it’s not really practical. So unlike dog lovers who regularly end up chatting to strangers in the street, you don’t really get a social element with the Goldies. You never end up saying”I met someone interesting walking the fish today”. Although; the other evening, as I waited for my Chinese takeaway, I chatted to the goldfish in the tank on the restaurant counter. With that, the Chinese man behind the counter whipped out his Smartphone and showed me videos of his own fish swimming in a large aquarium in his home. I have no idea what type of fish they were, as I don’t speak Mandarin. Of course I was very complimentary – well if someone showed you photos of their children, you’d wouldn’t say “That’s a very quare looking child”, now would you.  Needless to say, I felt obliged to whip out my antique Nokia and show him a photo of a black plastic garden pond with two small yellow blurs in it. The picture doesn’t do them justice; they’re 6 inches from nose to tailfin and built like Czechoslovakian body builders. And not from steroids I might add.

As I say, people look askance when you say your beloved pets are piscine. Sometimes you don’t need something that will curl up on your bed or bark at strangers. Sometimes you just need restful companions who will hear your secrets in silence.

BAck in the groove...

Back in the Groove

I tell you, all this spiritual self improvement would wear you out. Today I have to say yes to the Universe. Nod my head up and down and say yes. So the commute is spent nodding yes. I’m at my desk nodding yes. By lunchtime I’ve a crick in my neck and my shoulders are tight.  My mind is wandering away from work and all round the houses of whats, ifs and ands. It’s enough to drive you to drink. Stop! Mindfulness, Ghráinneog! Place all unpleasant thoughts in File 13 and shred. Mindfulness to the present, which is lunch. Pay attention to drinking the tea. Bite of the ham sandwich. Savour the flavour. Drat. There’s no fecking mustard on it.

“WHEN I LOOK IN THE MIRROR I DON’T EXPECT TO SEE THE SAME PERSON. THE PERSON IN THE MIRROR IS THE OPPOSITE TO ME, THE INVERSE, AND EVERY MORNING…”  ?

So I decided to do what an extremely successful and famous entrepreneur does… he stands in front of the mirror first thing every morning and tells himself he’s wonderful. Amazing Brilliant. Sexy. Whatever you’re having yourself. So that’s what I’m going to do. Every morning.  Also the Tibetan Rituals the yoga teacher showed me. The whirling like a dervish. The camel pose. The plank and down dog combo, I think comes next.  The flinging your legs up over your head. He swears they change your life. Well that’ll be fun. Better not do those in front of the bedroom window. The neighbours will think I’ve finally gone round the twist. Oh yeah. In order to do all this good morning stuff, you’d want not to have a hangover. That might be the trickiest part….

Day 4;goodbye to the mountain

Up at 3.45 am again and not feeling wrecked! Working hard at acquiring serenity and spiritual whatever.

Later in the morning, I made my way, on my own, up to the Cross. Heard noises as if something were coming up the path after me. Alone on the mountain, my heart was in my throat. Indeed, something was coming up the path after me- two somethings. A pony and a donkey. The donkey was in pitiful condition. His hooves were so overgrown that he could barely walk. The poor thing was in need of urgent veterinary attention.  (Later enquiries ascertained that the mountain and any animals thereon belonged to a local woman with a reputation for being difficult.)

I made my way down to the Guesthouse, packed and tidied up in preparation for an early afternoon departure. I was leaving feeling not very different to when I had arrived. I had met some very interesting people (to say the least!) and gained huge respect for the strength of belief that kept this community of monks in this life day after day, year after year.

Final task; donation envelope to be filled. The advice given was to donate whatever you would pay for Bed and Breakfast in an ordinary guesthouse. Or less - whatever you could afford. I gave what I thought a hotel would cost; I thought it the least I could do in return for the experience I’d had. I also added a note requesting the Brothers to please, please, look for the little donkey and have it attended to. I’d have made reference to the little donkey of Bethlehem if I’d thought it would strengthen my plea.

Goodbyes said and envelope slipped into the Guest master’s post-box, I was heading out of the secret garden when I heard my name being called. The Guestmaster was hurrying down the path, robes flapping. Very taken aback, I wondered what could be wrong.  Had I not left enough money for my stay? Had he taken offence at my requesting help for the poor creature on the mountain? This is what he said when he caught up with me: “I couldn’t let you leave without complimenting you on the state you left your room in. It was spotless. Thank You. You left me very little to do.” 

Hello? The fact that the elderly Brother practically ran down the garden to thank me, begs the question; what state do other guests leave their accommodation in? Are they partying and trashing the rooms? Perhaps he finds rooms lined with tinfoil tacked to the walls in order to keep the mind readers away? The thought of him having to shovel piles of anti-demon salt away from the doorsteps had me in convulsions of unseemly laughter.

My four days and nights had not been silent, quiet, or enclosed, as expected. On the contrary, they’d been action packed. I’d climbed, gotten up at 3.45 am, had chocolate cake for breakfast with a monk, met people who talked in tongues and made day trips to castles and the seaside. And that wasn’t the half of it.

I left the monastery and drove home, singing along to the Gregorian chant cd, until I took a wrong turning. After that, only The Eagles could help me fly along when I eventually got back on track.

Day 3 at the Monkery...

Day 3 at the Monastery; the Silent Chapel

When the bells rang at 3.45 am, I staggered up out of the bed and dressed in the warmest clothes I’d brought; i.e., ALL the clothes I’d brought.  A tee-shirt under a sweater under a fleece. Jeans, socks and trainers.  Quietly I unlocked the door and peered out into the corridor. Empty. Good! Off I ran on silent feet through dimly lit corridors and down staircases to the unlocked door in the wall. Into a tiny chapel where the only light came from still-burning candles now flickering down to their wicks. On into the main church building, where only the main lights over the nave gave illumination. The church was very cold. There were just two of us in the pews. The monks filed into individual choir stalls and turned on little reading lights attached to the lecterns. The praising of God began.  My new friend Henry of the Levitation Lessons sat beside me, whispering explanations of the order and parts to the singing.  As it ended and the monks filed out of the church, dawn was beginning to light the stained glass windows of the apse. The ceremony had been beautiful. Praise and thanks for a new day. Grand. Now I could flit back to bed. Oh no I couldn’t! It seemed Henry and I were going to hear Mass.  Apparently a very elderly monk who liked to do his own thing, said Mass after the first prayers of the day, the Invitatory Prayers I’d just witnessed. So back in the small chapel, the two of us sat in the light of flickering candles and waited for the swish of robes…

                                                                                                                

After the Mass (attendance; 2), breakfast was chocolate cake and tea in the guesthouse kitchen. The Maverick Monk who said his own Mass in the chapel came. So there I was at 5.30 in the morning eating chocolate cake with a monk and a fellow guest. Let’s just say, I learned a lot about the monkly life. It was daylight when I fell into the bed, full of calmness, spirituality, and chocolate cake. Still hadn’t sorted out my head, but, well, there was time yet.

Later in the day I brought my book to the Summer House. Ordered myself to sit quietly and just read. Be spiritual. Reflect. Breathe deeply.  What I didn’t know until I entered the pretty little building was that the Summer House was the Smoking House, and not for kippers or salmon. It reeked. I sat on the verandah. Still coughed – but this was due to the fact that two smokers had taken up residence on the bench beside me….have people no consideration? The damn cottage was already ruined, why not just go in there for a puff and leave the outdoor benches for non-smokers?  Stop... I’m here to learn Patience. Charity. Unselfishness….  Feeling very impatient and very uncharitable, I made a beeline for to the car and took off so impatiently that I practically did a hand brake turn. Another spiritual exam failed! I won’t be getting canonised any time soon. Ah, but there was compensation for my failure;  fish and chips by the seaside.