Appreciate.
What's the one thing you have come to appreciate most in the past year? How do you express gratitude for it?
(Prompt Author: Victoria Klein)
~
Ok that’s it. I give up. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t fight the relentless deluge of New Age exhortations to better myself. I don’t have the energy. I barely have enough energy to be civil to my partner and spend time with my toddler without being distracted by idiotic vomit-inducing prompts by people I would not seek out for help or inspiration under other circumstances, so why do it now? (And yes, I have now given up on my shiny dream that any of the prompt authors will be writers whose work I might actually like or want to read.)
Do you know what did it for me? It wasn’t finding something to appreciate - believe it or not, even I am able to appreciate more than one thing in life. No, it is the arse-twitching New Age code that requires us all to BE GRATEFUL. A bit like making a child say thank you for a hideous scratchy jumper it’s been given by an ancient aunt, because heaven forbid that aunt should be offended or have to deal with a child's honesty. When I was a child, being ungrateful was one of the worst things you could be. It was on a par with the gravest sins in my mother's eyes: being unladylike and talking back (or having a mind of your own).
This is the same thing. Express your gratitude, fake it if you have to, otherwise, you will offend God or the Universe or whatever Superpower provides all the things that you want and need in life. And underlying it all is a belief that we need to do this because we don’t really deserve it. We don’t deserve to be happy, we don’t deserve to feel fulfilled or at peace or have love in our lives or win the lottery or own a home or be successful or admired or have 25,000 gazillion followers or facebook friends, so we have to make ourselves jump through a series of hoops posing as spiritual rituals or ways of betterment, the modern day equivalent of sacrificing a few virgins in exchange for a good harvest. And I think its bullshit. There’s nothing wrong with feeling thankful. It can even feel good to do good things or better yourself because you genuinely want to. But start making gratefulness compulsory, or a step in a plan to guaranteed affluence and bliss, and any natural feelings of thankfulness that might have arisen will start to turn into a resentful burden of obligation. Not only that, your face will turn to shiny plastic and you won't notice.
Now that you’ve read that are you thinking, Oh my god, how can she say that? Now god’s gonna strike her down with cancer to teach her a lesson. Well if you did, just think about it. Do you really believe that if you aren’t grateful enough, then you deserve whatever bad shit the Universe has to throw at you? If you do then maybe you need reverb10. As for me, I’ve had enough.
Showing posts with label Things that make my arse twitch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Things that make my arse twitch. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Sunday, December 12, 2010
reverb10: Body Integration (this prompt was truly a gift...thank you)
Body Integration.
This year, when did you feel the most integrated with your body? Did you have a moment where there wasn’t mind and body, but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present?
(Prompt Author: Patrick Reynolds)
~
I knew it. All these years I’ve had a suspicion that Mrs Koumas was hiding something. Yeah, she got us to dissect frogs and stick our fingers inside pig’s hearts, but I always knew there was something she was keeping from us, something she’d left off the curriculum. At the time, I thought it had something to do with the breeziness with which we covered the chapter on sexual organs. But now I know the truth. And now, so many things are starting to make sense.
Like, why my brain keeps insisting on walking three paces ahead of me, or why my tongue keeps diving in to other people’s lunches, or waking up to find my lungs spattered on the ceiling and the bedclothes (pulmonary alveoli are a bitch to get out of the sheets), and dragging my torso down the stairs in the mornings to find my legs, dead on the sofa, where they’d snuck off to watch bad TV in the middle of the night. And don't even get me started on my backbone.
Why didn’t anyone ever tell us of the need to integrate? Were they worried we wouldn't have the guts to do it? Well, it’s a gross oversight. It should be taught in all schools, everywhere, the earlier the better. Otherwise, it is left to the few earnest and caring souls, or to use the proper term, wellness consultants, like Patrick Reynolds, to spread the word. Thank you Patrick, for enlightening me. I mean, I didn’t even know how close I’d been to NOT BEING ALIVE.
I don’t know about you, but the trickiest bit for me is keeping track of all the different PARTS that need integrating. So for the past 24 minutes, I’ve been working strenuously at finding a way to keep me nice and cohesive. I can tell you straight off that superglue doesn’t work. It made me a bit too cohesive with my clothing and furniture and toilet paper. (Even chanting at the same time didn't help.) Cello tape is also ineffective. I just kept attracting dust and my limbs kept seeing it as a challenge to break free. The secret, I happily discovered, is to use the power of your mind to generate the power of distraction. What you have to do is find something for that unruly disintegrating body of yours to do! And nothing says integration like the power of dance. (Stay with me, it's for your own good.)
Now, you might find it hard to keep up, but with a little bit of practice, I am sure you can do it. We can do this together. If you have any children in the house, I advise you to get them involved too. It’s for their own good. Ok ready? Just let the words into your mind and your body will soon follow. Here we go...
One, two, three…all together now…
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Doin' the skeleton dance.
The foot bone's connected to the leg bone.
The leg bone's connected to the knee bone.
The knee bone's connected to the thigh bone.
Doin' the skeleton dance.
The thigh bone's connected to the hip bone.
The hip bone's connected to the backbone.
The backbone's connected to the neck bone.
Doin' the skeleton dance.
Shake your hands to the left.
Shake your hands to the right.
Put your hands in the air.
Put your hands out of sight!
Shake your hands to the left.
Shake your hands to the right.
Put your hands in the air.
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.......wiggle your knees.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Doin' the skeleton dance.
For those of you requiring visual instruction, a wonderful video can be found on youtube here.
Now, you might get peculiar looks when practicing integration in public places. Workplace practice could be especially problematic, unless you are an elementary or primary school teacher. But remain true. Be a strong and radiant ambassador for integration and make the world a better place. All the doubters will thank you in the end.
I just have one more thing to say about today’s prompt and the photo that accompanied it (which for those of you who don’t get the emailed prompts had the added benefit of a shirtless Patrick Reynolds staring off into the distance in a gaze reminiscent of Christ bearing the world’s burden on his big strong shoulders. Perhaps that is why his shoulders were bare. Or maybe he's just wondering where the bottom half of his body has gotten to. I’d love to share the photo but I fear I would be infringing copyright law. Of course Jesus doesn’t seem to mind having his image plastered all over the place, now there’s a generous bloke, but one needs to be more careful with modern personages in this age of the media, especially with anyone honoured with the suffix consultant). Anyway, what I wanted to say was this:
Sam Davidson, all is forgiven.
This year, when did you feel the most integrated with your body? Did you have a moment where there wasn’t mind and body, but simply a cohesive YOU, alive and present?
(Prompt Author: Patrick Reynolds)
~
I knew it. All these years I’ve had a suspicion that Mrs Koumas was hiding something. Yeah, she got us to dissect frogs and stick our fingers inside pig’s hearts, but I always knew there was something she was keeping from us, something she’d left off the curriculum. At the time, I thought it had something to do with the breeziness with which we covered the chapter on sexual organs. But now I know the truth. And now, so many things are starting to make sense.
Like, why my brain keeps insisting on walking three paces ahead of me, or why my tongue keeps diving in to other people’s lunches, or waking up to find my lungs spattered on the ceiling and the bedclothes (pulmonary alveoli are a bitch to get out of the sheets), and dragging my torso down the stairs in the mornings to find my legs, dead on the sofa, where they’d snuck off to watch bad TV in the middle of the night. And don't even get me started on my backbone.
Why didn’t anyone ever tell us of the need to integrate? Were they worried we wouldn't have the guts to do it? Well, it’s a gross oversight. It should be taught in all schools, everywhere, the earlier the better. Otherwise, it is left to the few earnest and caring souls, or to use the proper term, wellness consultants, like Patrick Reynolds, to spread the word. Thank you Patrick, for enlightening me. I mean, I didn’t even know how close I’d been to NOT BEING ALIVE.
I don’t know about you, but the trickiest bit for me is keeping track of all the different PARTS that need integrating. So for the past 24 minutes, I’ve been working strenuously at finding a way to keep me nice and cohesive. I can tell you straight off that superglue doesn’t work. It made me a bit too cohesive with my clothing and furniture and toilet paper. (Even chanting at the same time didn't help.) Cello tape is also ineffective. I just kept attracting dust and my limbs kept seeing it as a challenge to break free. The secret, I happily discovered, is to use the power of your mind to generate the power of distraction. What you have to do is find something for that unruly disintegrating body of yours to do! And nothing says integration like the power of dance. (Stay with me, it's for your own good.)
Now, you might find it hard to keep up, but with a little bit of practice, I am sure you can do it. We can do this together. If you have any children in the house, I advise you to get them involved too. It’s for their own good. Ok ready? Just let the words into your mind and your body will soon follow. Here we go...
One, two, three…all together now…
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Doin' the skeleton dance.
The foot bone's connected to the leg bone.
The leg bone's connected to the knee bone.
The knee bone's connected to the thigh bone.
Doin' the skeleton dance.
The thigh bone's connected to the hip bone.
The hip bone's connected to the backbone.
The backbone's connected to the neck bone.
Doin' the skeleton dance.
Shake your hands to the left.
Shake your hands to the right.
Put your hands in the air.
Put your hands out of sight!
Shake your hands to the left.
Shake your hands to the right.
Put your hands in the air.
Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle.......wiggle your knees.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Dem bones, dem bones, dem dancing bones.
Doin' the skeleton dance.
For those of you requiring visual instruction, a wonderful video can be found on youtube here.
Now, you might get peculiar looks when practicing integration in public places. Workplace practice could be especially problematic, unless you are an elementary or primary school teacher. But remain true. Be a strong and radiant ambassador for integration and make the world a better place. All the doubters will thank you in the end.
I just have one more thing to say about today’s prompt and the photo that accompanied it (which for those of you who don’t get the emailed prompts had the added benefit of a shirtless Patrick Reynolds staring off into the distance in a gaze reminiscent of Christ bearing the world’s burden on his big strong shoulders. Perhaps that is why his shoulders were bare. Or maybe he's just wondering where the bottom half of his body has gotten to. I’d love to share the photo but I fear I would be infringing copyright law. Of course Jesus doesn’t seem to mind having his image plastered all over the place, now there’s a generous bloke, but one needs to be more careful with modern personages in this age of the media, especially with anyone honoured with the suffix consultant). Anyway, what I wanted to say was this:
Sam Davidson, all is forgiven.
Thursday, December 09, 2010
reverb10: Party (oh good grief...)
Party.
What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans.
(Prompt Author: Shauna Reid)
~
Disclaimer: Due to the continuing cheesy self-helpness and/or annoying inaneness of the prompts that have been emerging of late, I'm being forced to respond in the only way that I know how short of abandoning this project altogether. If things don't change soon, I will be renaming it Things That Make My Arse Twitch. If you are averse to cynicism, bitterness or bad language, don't bother reading any further. Go read something dull and inoffensive instead.
~
I think it’s fair to say that, for much of British & North American society, the word ‘Party’ necessarily and automatically means alcohol, bad music, more alcohol and acts of idiocy fuelled by as much alcohol as possible. Calling them shenanigans, I suppose, is a way to make them appear more charming than they actually are. This is all in the name of “fun”, and anybody who does not partake in such activities is viewed with great suspicion and cast out with mocking more fervent than that shown for any religious or political cause. For there seems to be no religion more feverishly practiced than the religion of “fun”, except of course Consumerism.
I don’t drink and the gene for small talk skipped me over. According to some, I'm a (GASP...wait for it...GULP) Party Pooper. It's true. I don’t do parties and I wear my badge of social outcast with a touch of pride. There is little worse than being the only sober person amongst a hoard of drunk party goers, convinced of their own charm, sex appeal, intelligence, talent for singing, sense of humour, happiness, love of all mankind and invincibility while under the influence of alcohol. Perfectly likeable people with whom I’d normally be able to hold a cogent, interesting, thought-provoking conversation become babbling strangers. Also, herd mentalities scare me. People behave differently when they are gathered in groups. Even without the inclusion of alcohol the word group makes me shudder.
I prefer to be with lucid people on a one-to-one basis. I prefer to enjoy music of my own choosing at a reasonable decibel. I prefer not to have to clean vomit or red wine out of the carpets of the flat I’m renting. Even these days, now that I’m older and the parties I may get invited to no longer involve vomit or shenanigans, I find it hard to be polite when faced with inanity. When I don’t like someone or something, it’s very clear. I’m no good at fake-smiling and pretend-liking and faux-flattery. I cannot talk about the property market or mortgages or designer furniture like it’s the be all and end all of my existence. Honestly, I find farts more amusing. So I have a tendency to be silent – which is the worst possible thing you could be at a Partaaaayyyyy. Because everyone suddenly feels the need to draw you in or ask you if you’re okay with a look that confirms their suspicion of your mental illness. Not that I’ve had a great deal of experience of this because, thankfully, I haven’t been to a Partaaayyyyy in a long time.
It’s a “nice” attempt at inclusivity for the prompt author to also word it as a “social gathering” and to write drink instead of booze, but I know what she really means, not least because it’s not a glass of Ribena she’s holding in her photo. (And let's not even get started on the phrase "rock your socks off". Even my arse is cringing at that.)
But even if I'd been fooled by that, I could not be fooled by the instruction to write about the clothes. In my mind, this cannot be justified in any way (fashion is the only swear word I try never to use) unless it refers to fancy dress – and anyone that I would want to socialise with knows that the only fancy dress that really counts is one that involves a small child and a costume made out of cardboard, string, toilet paper and cut-up pairs of old pants.
So I’m betting Shauna's definition does not include any of the “social gatherings” that I have attended this year, all of which included children (GASP!), yes, NUMEROUS children UNDER THE AGE OF 3, complete with sticky digits, mucky chops and loud voices, running around with gleeful abandon, some of them barefoot, many of them also naked or clad in nappies, OUTDOORS, in a PARK, being allowed to be themselves and feed themselves (the food was laid out on the ground and later demolished by pigeons) and climb into slimy fountains and splash each other and then fall over in sand and come running to embrace the nearest adult they belonged to for comfort kisses and cuggles. Which is a shame, because I actually enjoyed one or two of those this year. In fact, they are probably the best “parties” I’ve ever been to. And not a glass of booze or designer frock in sight.
What social gathering rocked your socks off in 2010? Describe the people, music, food, drink, clothes, shenanigans.
(Prompt Author: Shauna Reid)
~
Disclaimer: Due to the continuing cheesy self-helpness and/or annoying inaneness of the prompts that have been emerging of late, I'm being forced to respond in the only way that I know how short of abandoning this project altogether. If things don't change soon, I will be renaming it Things That Make My Arse Twitch. If you are averse to cynicism, bitterness or bad language, don't bother reading any further. Go read something dull and inoffensive instead.
~
I think it’s fair to say that, for much of British & North American society, the word ‘Party’ necessarily and automatically means alcohol, bad music, more alcohol and acts of idiocy fuelled by as much alcohol as possible. Calling them shenanigans, I suppose, is a way to make them appear more charming than they actually are. This is all in the name of “fun”, and anybody who does not partake in such activities is viewed with great suspicion and cast out with mocking more fervent than that shown for any religious or political cause. For there seems to be no religion more feverishly practiced than the religion of “fun”, except of course Consumerism.
I don’t drink and the gene for small talk skipped me over. According to some, I'm a (GASP...wait for it...GULP) Party Pooper. It's true. I don’t do parties and I wear my badge of social outcast with a touch of pride. There is little worse than being the only sober person amongst a hoard of drunk party goers, convinced of their own charm, sex appeal, intelligence, talent for singing, sense of humour, happiness, love of all mankind and invincibility while under the influence of alcohol. Perfectly likeable people with whom I’d normally be able to hold a cogent, interesting, thought-provoking conversation become babbling strangers. Also, herd mentalities scare me. People behave differently when they are gathered in groups. Even without the inclusion of alcohol the word group makes me shudder.
I prefer to be with lucid people on a one-to-one basis. I prefer to enjoy music of my own choosing at a reasonable decibel. I prefer not to have to clean vomit or red wine out of the carpets of the flat I’m renting. Even these days, now that I’m older and the parties I may get invited to no longer involve vomit or shenanigans, I find it hard to be polite when faced with inanity. When I don’t like someone or something, it’s very clear. I’m no good at fake-smiling and pretend-liking and faux-flattery. I cannot talk about the property market or mortgages or designer furniture like it’s the be all and end all of my existence. Honestly, I find farts more amusing. So I have a tendency to be silent – which is the worst possible thing you could be at a Partaaaayyyyy. Because everyone suddenly feels the need to draw you in or ask you if you’re okay with a look that confirms their suspicion of your mental illness. Not that I’ve had a great deal of experience of this because, thankfully, I haven’t been to a Partaaayyyyy in a long time.
It’s a “nice” attempt at inclusivity for the prompt author to also word it as a “social gathering” and to write drink instead of booze, but I know what she really means, not least because it’s not a glass of Ribena she’s holding in her photo. (And let's not even get started on the phrase "rock your socks off". Even my arse is cringing at that.)
But even if I'd been fooled by that, I could not be fooled by the instruction to write about the clothes. In my mind, this cannot be justified in any way (fashion is the only swear word I try never to use) unless it refers to fancy dress – and anyone that I would want to socialise with knows that the only fancy dress that really counts is one that involves a small child and a costume made out of cardboard, string, toilet paper and cut-up pairs of old pants.
So I’m betting Shauna's definition does not include any of the “social gatherings” that I have attended this year, all of which included children (GASP!), yes, NUMEROUS children UNDER THE AGE OF 3, complete with sticky digits, mucky chops and loud voices, running around with gleeful abandon, some of them barefoot, many of them also naked or clad in nappies, OUTDOORS, in a PARK, being allowed to be themselves and feed themselves (the food was laid out on the ground and later demolished by pigeons) and climb into slimy fountains and splash each other and then fall over in sand and come running to embrace the nearest adult they belonged to for comfort kisses and cuggles. Which is a shame, because I actually enjoyed one or two of those this year. In fact, they are probably the best “parties” I’ve ever been to. And not a glass of booze or designer frock in sight.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
reverb10: Beautifully Different (or things that make me want to puke)
Beautifully Different.
Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful.
(Prompt Author: Karen Walrond)
~
I do not like this prompt. In fact, I posted a response to it earlier that was a tad cynical and defensive. Then I decided to check Karen Walrond out, to see where she was coming from, and I felt sheepish about my first post (which I originally deleted but have decided to add to the bottom of this post.) Because she seems genuine and I'm grown up enough to admit that the defensiveness is possibly because thinking in the way that the prompt asks brings up all kinds of difficulty for me. Things I could probably fill a book with. So I'm going to sit with this difficulty for a while and see what it has to say to me.
I don't know if I will necessarily find or try to find what Karen asks us to. I'd prefer it to find me. Who can say what makes a person beautiful anyway. Eye of the beholder and all that. Also, I like not knowing what it is that "lights people up". Knowing might alter it somehow, or make it disappear. And I'm inclined to believe that the not knowing is the magic of it, the best part of it.
Also, some things that light some people up can make others scowl. Friends have told me they love my laugh (raucous) but my mother hates it. Some people like my twisted sense of humour, others not so much.
In the meantime, in an attempt to get into the spirit intended by the prompt, I leave you with this photo of me as a buck-toothed 10 year old with my cheeky 7 year old brother.
1: Oh Puke. Fingers down my throat GAG. Sphincter muscles working overtime in extreme ARSE TWITCHERY, second only to hearing James Blunt croaking out THAT friggin “tune”.
2: Seriously? Even my therapist wouldn’t ask me to do this.
3: Paul’s just gonna LOVE this one.
4: What else have they got in store? Surely there can't be much more of this. Are all the prompt authors going to be people with books to sell?
5: Ok, cynicism aside…what do I really think?
a) This feels just like an exercise to make unconventional / sidelined / overlooked people feel accepted.
b) As one of those people, my urge is to stick two fingers up and say Bog off, please don't patronise me.
c) I’m not fond of blowing my own trumpet. Doesn't mean I don't have one. So there.
d) What makes a person beautiful really. Eye of the beholder and all that. Sometimes, it’s something you’re not even aware of that “lights people up”. I'm inclined to believe that the not knowing is the magic of it, the best part of it.
e) If you look hard enough, you will find whatever it is you’re looking for, whether it’s there or not.
f) Maybe I’ll post a photo of myself as a bright and sparkly child. I had a most unique overbite.
g) True beauty speaks for itself. It doesn’t need an ad campaign or a PR consultant.
At heart, this prompt seems to be about self-esteem. But self-esteem comes from a place of unconditional acceptance and love, not from a list of things you can name that make you beautiful. To me, making such a list only serves to solidify superficial social prejudices. No matter who you are, whether you are or feel unique or different or ordinary or plain, you deserve happiness and you deserve love. Okay. Enough now. If I don’t stop, I shall disintegrate shrieking like the much maligned and terribly misunderstood Wicked Witch of The West.
Think about what makes you different and what you do that lights people up. Reflect on all the things that make you different – you’ll find they’re what make you beautiful.
(Prompt Author: Karen Walrond)
~
I do not like this prompt. In fact, I posted a response to it earlier that was a tad cynical and defensive. Then I decided to check Karen Walrond out, to see where she was coming from, and I felt sheepish about my first post (which I originally deleted but have decided to add to the bottom of this post.) Because she seems genuine and I'm grown up enough to admit that the defensiveness is possibly because thinking in the way that the prompt asks brings up all kinds of difficulty for me. Things I could probably fill a book with. So I'm going to sit with this difficulty for a while and see what it has to say to me.
I don't know if I will necessarily find or try to find what Karen asks us to. I'd prefer it to find me. Who can say what makes a person beautiful anyway. Eye of the beholder and all that. Also, I like not knowing what it is that "lights people up". Knowing might alter it somehow, or make it disappear. And I'm inclined to believe that the not knowing is the magic of it, the best part of it.
Also, some things that light some people up can make others scowl. Friends have told me they love my laugh (raucous) but my mother hates it. Some people like my twisted sense of humour, others not so much.
In the meantime, in an attempt to get into the spirit intended by the prompt, I leave you with this photo of me as a buck-toothed 10 year old with my cheeky 7 year old brother.
~
On second thought, I've decided to add my previously deleted post to this one. Whatever it is, it's what I felt at the time and do still feel. Here it is:
Here are my reactions to this prompt, as they occurred:
1: Oh Puke. Fingers down my throat GAG. Sphincter muscles working overtime in extreme ARSE TWITCHERY, second only to hearing James Blunt croaking out THAT friggin “tune”.
2: Seriously? Even my therapist wouldn’t ask me to do this.
3: Paul’s just gonna LOVE this one.
4: What else have they got in store? Surely there can't be much more of this. Are all the prompt authors going to be people with books to sell?
5: Ok, cynicism aside…what do I really think?
a) This feels just like an exercise to make unconventional / sidelined / overlooked people feel accepted.
b) As one of those people, my urge is to stick two fingers up and say Bog off, please don't patronise me.
c) I’m not fond of blowing my own trumpet. Doesn't mean I don't have one. So there.
d) What makes a person beautiful really. Eye of the beholder and all that. Sometimes, it’s something you’re not even aware of that “lights people up”. I'm inclined to believe that the not knowing is the magic of it, the best part of it.
e) If you look hard enough, you will find whatever it is you’re looking for, whether it’s there or not.
f) Maybe I’ll post a photo of myself as a bright and sparkly child. I had a most unique overbite.
g) True beauty speaks for itself. It doesn’t need an ad campaign or a PR consultant.
At heart, this prompt seems to be about self-esteem. But self-esteem comes from a place of unconditional acceptance and love, not from a list of things you can name that make you beautiful. To me, making such a list only serves to solidify superficial social prejudices. No matter who you are, whether you are or feel unique or different or ordinary or plain, you deserve happiness and you deserve love. Okay. Enough now. If I don’t stop, I shall disintegrate shrieking like the much maligned and terribly misunderstood Wicked Witch of The West.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
On the luxury of Lifestyle Choices
I love my yoga teacher. I think she’s a wonderful teacher and a wonderful person. Recently I discovered she has a blog, which I’ve found thoughtful, authentic and heartening. Then I read her recent post on Inspiration. Logically, I can see where she’s coming from and I’m very happy that she took the path she did and that it’s making her happy, and I still think she’s a great teacher and a cool person. But at the same time, I couldn’t help but feel irritated as I read.
Paul and I don’t know how to drive. We don’t own cars. We take public transport everywhere, or Paul cycles. We don’t own credit cards, never have. We only have one TV. It’s not a flat screen and it makes a high-pitched squeak when it’s turned on. We consider getting an Indian takeaway on a Saturday night a treat. And we don’t have a mortgage. Honestly, we can’t afford to have one. Even if I was still working I’m not sure we could afford to have one.
But I gave up work to be at home with Jake and have no income except for child benefit and some money Paul gives me every month. I also sponsor a little girl in Burkina Faso. And I donate what I can when the DEC makes an appeal. And we’re debt free. You could say we're living simply, but we've never looked at it that way. We’re not living like this to fulfil a manifesto or because we felt like making a Lifestyle Choice. It’s just the way we live. Whether or not it makes us happy doesn't come into it. We didn't choose to live this way for happiness. Personally I have other measures for happiness. This is simply how we live. And we're not the only ones.
There are countless people out there living this way without the need to shout about it and who won't be written about in the NY Times. Like my friends N & M in Italy who work as hard as hell to live in a stone house in the countryside and grow all their own veg. Never mind a TV, they don't even own a fridge. Or how about my friend Emily who's living off the land in Wales. And there are countless more people living a lot more simply than they would wish because it's all they can afford to do.
Up until now I’ve never felt the need to shout about it, but reading that blog post made me feel like shouting. It’s great that Tammy Strobel and her husband are no longer $30,000 in debt. But seriously. Correct me if I’m wrong, but only people with a lot of money, and obviously more money than sense, can get into that much debt.
I don’t want to live under the mentality that my life is owned by a bank that doesn’t care about me either (and that’s not the only attitude to have towards owning a home), but at the same time, knowing that we can’t afford to have a mortgage, I wonder how it will affect Jake, not having a home to pass on to him when he’s older. I know that on the list of priorities in life, owning a house is no great shakes, but I’m a mother and I care about his future. So it would be nice actually, to be able to afford a mortgage, to be able to have something to pass on to him. And as much as it pains me to say it, not everyone who has a mortgage or who has money is soulless and dead. And not everyone who can (or can’t) afford to make such Lifestyle Choices as Living Simply is a paragon of peace or joy.
Whatever our circumstances in life, I’m pretty sure we all want the same thing. We all want to be happy. We all want love in our lives, we all want peace of mind. We just have different ways of seeing those things, different ways of trying to achieve those aims. Some people are more aware than others of the things that are destructive. Some people have had better teachers, have been shown more compassion, have experienced more love and forgiveness and understanding. Some haven’t been as fortunate.
Yes, money and greed can trap you. But so can emptiness. So can loneliness. So can manifestos. So can judgemental, simplistic attitudes. If you’re rich you’ll never be happy. I’m better than you because I cycle and don’t own a car. So can pride.
So please. Go beyond Trendy Lifestyle Choices. Tear up pretentious Manifestos. Get real. Look inside your heart. Be honest. Get messy. Dig deeper than the pretty face of tranquil inspiration. Live with your heart open because you have no other choice.
Paul and I don’t know how to drive. We don’t own cars. We take public transport everywhere, or Paul cycles. We don’t own credit cards, never have. We only have one TV. It’s not a flat screen and it makes a high-pitched squeak when it’s turned on. We consider getting an Indian takeaway on a Saturday night a treat. And we don’t have a mortgage. Honestly, we can’t afford to have one. Even if I was still working I’m not sure we could afford to have one.
But I gave up work to be at home with Jake and have no income except for child benefit and some money Paul gives me every month. I also sponsor a little girl in Burkina Faso. And I donate what I can when the DEC makes an appeal. And we’re debt free. You could say we're living simply, but we've never looked at it that way. We’re not living like this to fulfil a manifesto or because we felt like making a Lifestyle Choice. It’s just the way we live. Whether or not it makes us happy doesn't come into it. We didn't choose to live this way for happiness. Personally I have other measures for happiness. This is simply how we live. And we're not the only ones.
There are countless people out there living this way without the need to shout about it and who won't be written about in the NY Times. Like my friends N & M in Italy who work as hard as hell to live in a stone house in the countryside and grow all their own veg. Never mind a TV, they don't even own a fridge. Or how about my friend Emily who's living off the land in Wales. And there are countless more people living a lot more simply than they would wish because it's all they can afford to do.
Up until now I’ve never felt the need to shout about it, but reading that blog post made me feel like shouting. It’s great that Tammy Strobel and her husband are no longer $30,000 in debt. But seriously. Correct me if I’m wrong, but only people with a lot of money, and obviously more money than sense, can get into that much debt.
I don’t want to live under the mentality that my life is owned by a bank that doesn’t care about me either (and that’s not the only attitude to have towards owning a home), but at the same time, knowing that we can’t afford to have a mortgage, I wonder how it will affect Jake, not having a home to pass on to him when he’s older. I know that on the list of priorities in life, owning a house is no great shakes, but I’m a mother and I care about his future. So it would be nice actually, to be able to afford a mortgage, to be able to have something to pass on to him. And as much as it pains me to say it, not everyone who has a mortgage or who has money is soulless and dead. And not everyone who can (or can’t) afford to make such Lifestyle Choices as Living Simply is a paragon of peace or joy.
Whatever our circumstances in life, I’m pretty sure we all want the same thing. We all want to be happy. We all want love in our lives, we all want peace of mind. We just have different ways of seeing those things, different ways of trying to achieve those aims. Some people are more aware than others of the things that are destructive. Some people have had better teachers, have been shown more compassion, have experienced more love and forgiveness and understanding. Some haven’t been as fortunate.
Yes, money and greed can trap you. But so can emptiness. So can loneliness. So can manifestos. So can judgemental, simplistic attitudes. If you’re rich you’ll never be happy. I’m better than you because I cycle and don’t own a car. So can pride.
So please. Go beyond Trendy Lifestyle Choices. Tear up pretentious Manifestos. Get real. Look inside your heart. Be honest. Get messy. Dig deeper than the pretty face of tranquil inspiration. Live with your heart open because you have no other choice.
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