Hitting The Wall And Returning Home

Do you ever feel like you’re passing yourself in the dark; that there’s a part of you on some outward journey while the other part is returning home … and, somehow, they’re not aware of each other?

The image of an exploding vase was given to me yesterday* – a once-whole and beautiful China vase bursts apart, its millions of tiny fragments and shards flying across the room in all directions, the dust of oneness now swirling, floating and obscuring.

We’re like these millions of shards, like the dust. At some moment in the timeless safety of God we decided to leave the oneness to create separate identities, tiny shards of specialness, and so we exploded from that once-beautiful source. Whether we call it the Fall from Grace, the Fall of Man or the Big Bang, we decided, as one, to become many, separate and alone.

As separate shards of that once-beautiful oneness we have clawed our way up the mountain of life, dragging our guilt of separation as a strongman drags a Mack truck with a rope in his teeth – every new relationship, experience, job and learning a diversion, a distraction to help us forget the dark, heavy stone of guilt we’re dragging. We pretend to forget and so laugh gaily and tell of our successes while, in the wee small hours, the patched-up moments when we’re alone with nought but our sorry tale, we feel the weight of our guilt and wonder what it’s all for. There is nothing so terrifying to a human as silence and inactivity and so we gaily shrug off the guilt as we march back out into the laughing crowd and try to laugh louder than all of them. Our pretence lasts but a moment and, soon, our throat becomes hoarse from laughing and we realise, not surprisingly, that dark and heavy stone never left us. It grimaces at us, beckoning us into its eerie coldness.

Somewhere along our weary traipse across the barren stage of our lives we give up, we give in and slip down, leaning back against that dark and heavy stone. We wait. And wait. It never happens. The dark, heavy stone just sits there and supports us. It doesn’t rumble over us, crushing our bones as we’d imagined. It just sits there and holds our aching bones in gentleness.

Somewhere in that void, that bottomless pit of peace … peace? Yes, with nothing to strive for, the peace we’ve been scrabbling for emerges from that cold, dark stone of guilt and we relax and breathe. With our fake laughing stilled and our clawing ceased, we begin to discern the notes of an ancient song, a timeless call home. It plays through our bones, our hearts, and asks for nothing but our remembering of that once-beautiful and eternally safe oneness we exploded from so, so, so long ago. The ancient memory of forgiveness brings tears to our eyes, smiles to our faces and a glow to our hearts. We are stilled. We are reminded. We are rejoined with the part of us we never left, the part we forgot, the part we’ve been rushing headlong to find in all the wrong places. It was always here in every place we’ve ever been.

As the vase once exploded outward, so now we rewind the tape. No, we don’t pick up the pieces and glue them back together – it’s not as arduous and imperfect as that. We just rewind. We just undo. We just drift back and, as dust and fragments un-fill the room, we un-explode. Quietly. Peacefully. That ancient song, that old rhythm, draws us back and our dark, heavy stone bids us farewell and turns into light as the safety of oneness returns.

We pass ourselves in the dark, unmindful that it is ourselves that’s passing.

While a part of ourselves continues to scrabble about in the darkness, getting new skills, getting money, getting relationships, getting recognition, getting insurance, getting makeovers for our guilt, the other part quietly floats back and settles into that which it never left.

As we pass ourselves in the night, a third part watches and waits and smiles, knowing that the mad scrabbling will continue till we give up, give in and slip down into a warm light, masquerading as a dark, heavy stone.

The benign observer knows that scrabbling in the dirt of this frantic world will cease when we’re ready, when each fragment has hit the wall and collapsed to the floor, with nowhere else to go. Each fragment bumps into other fragments – painfully and/or beautifully – and, when their flight is done, will tumble to the carpet and wonder what it was all about; that explosive dash to find specialness, identity and aloneness. Only after the mad flight into the wall will we realise it was over in a flash and that we never really left. While part of us continues to dream of that excitingly insane flight into separation, we’ll continue to pass ourselves in the night till, one sad and peaceful day, the all of us will hear that ancient hymn of home and we’ll return together, smiling tearfully with a glow in our hearts.

* The image of the exploding vase came from Anna Powell at her course, Forgive Your Life For Not Being What You Meant. Her website is The Unlearning School. Thank you, Anna.

We Are All Connected – You Can Bank On It

What have the US banks, its war machine and a South African AIDS conference to do with writing? Read on and you will find out.

With the worldwide call for America to stop destroying the lives of innocent Afghanis, those controlling the US government – the ones making money from the destruction – are having to look for new ways to make their money. With huge power and little imagination, they have decided to shift their destruction to another country. Out of the blue, these power brokers – banks, mainly – have ordered the US government to get upset at Iran’s apparent (thought unproven) attempts to test nuclear weapons. Compliantly, obediently and with no facts before them, President Obama and the other puppets in his government then ordered the British government to get upset at Iran’s possible, not proven, nuclear arms attempts. The British government responded, as requested, and cut banking ties with Iran. Did I mention that the banks are behind this?

An apparently unrelated fact is that I lecture at an Iranian university in Britain. So, because troops are withdrawn from Afghanistan, I may not be paid for the lecturing I do.

Nothing in this world is unrelated. Absolutely nothing.

I used to run personal development courses in New Zealand, called Free To Be Me. One day, out of the blue, I received an email from a lady I had never heard of – Diane Lang in South Africa – inviting me to speak at an international AIDS conference in Port Elizabeth, SA.

It was only after I returned from South Africa that I found out how it had all come about. Someone who had attended one of my courses told a friend in Tauranga, NZ, about it and me. That person told a friend in Wellington, NZ, and that person told a friend in Auckland, NZ. The Auckland person happened to have a sister in South Africa … and so my life was changed and I am ever grateful to the network of friends and to Diane who listened to her sister, to her intuition and then took a risk and invited me, sight unseen, so to speak.

And what has all that preamble to do with writing? Keep reading.

Writing is an essentially lonely occupation. No one else can write our words and so we must find quiet space to write. Then, when we come out of hibernation, we send off our articles to magazines, not knowing if they’ll answer. We send off our proposals to agents and publishers, not knowing if we’ll hear back. We write our blogs not knowing if anyone will read them or comment.

For much of the time we hear back from no one and the sense of loneliness persists.

Then, somewhere and somehow, we’re noticed. Someone comments on a blog. A magazine takes an article. An agent suggests a meeting. There’s no logic to any of this as the same blog has floated round for months, the same article(s) are sent to dozens of magazines, the same proposal letter has been sent to many publishers and agents. Mysteriously, from the pile, our approach and words eventually touch someone and we discern that there are, indeed, others on this planet. We’re noticed and a glimmer of hope arises.

It may appear to go nowhere – the magazine changes its mind, the agent suddenly becomes busy with other writers, our blog followers wander off to other blogs.

Sometimes, however, something sticks and we can’t quite believe it. A real magazine takes our article, a real publishing contract is signed, our blog followers continue to increase.

That something which sticks is just the tip of the iceberg. For every blog follower or commenter, there are at least 100 who read and don’t click to follow or to comment. For every yes from a publisher or agent, there at least 50 who have read our words and who may do nothing now … but may go back at some later time and reconsider.

What I’m trying to say (is there anybody listening to this?) is that whatever we do, somebody notices. We may not know, just as I did not have any idea that all these friends were talking about my courses behind my back … just as the American banks have no idea that their order to the US administration is having an effect on my income in little olde Englande.

It may feel like a lonely journey, scratchy pen on old paper and nothing to show for it. And all I can say is keep writing and keep sending out your words. You may or may not know, right now, but someone is listening, someone is being touched … you can bank on it!

Freedom Writers and the Police State of Wordland!

I had to laugh, yesterday. It was Sunday and, on our way into Oxford, were signs saying that there could be congestion next Friday as there was going to be a demonstration. How did they know? Permits. Now, I thought, protests and demonstrations were against some form of authority but these English protesters went, cap in hand, meekly and compliantly, to pay the exorbitant fee and ask the authority if they could protest against said authority! The English have gone to war against police states, fascist regimes and dictatorships, little realising their wee country has become one.

And what has that to do with writing? Simply that Wordland has become a fascist state and, like England, it’s crept up on us so subtly, so cleverly, we haven’t noticed. And, like the English, it’s stifling creativity. I hear so many budding writers put off writing because of the rules thrown at them.

I’ve been told off for using dots … you know, when someone can’t think of what to say next. I use them to slow the text down to the speed of the story to help the reader to … aah, to connect with the mind of the speaker.

I’ve been reprimanded for use of hyphens – there’s a rule about them, apparently – as I’ve used too many per page. Nobody’s quite sure why the rule exists – there’s just a rule so obey it!

And single-word sentences are forbidden. Seriously. Single. Word. Sentences! I use them to stop the flow, momentarily. Or when someone’s angrily stamping their feet and saying, “Stop. That. This. Instant!”

And starting sentences with and. That’s naughty too.

However, Cormac McCarthy used no speech marks … you know, inverted commas … in The Road and millions of readers have enjoyed his book. I found it mildly confusing but, thankfully, there were only two speakers. Other books I have started and gave up on had more speakers, no inverted commas and it was just too hard keeping up with what was narrative, which was conversation and who was conversing with whom.

However, that’s just my preference and if others like it, all power to creativity. I’m certainly not going to promulgate a rule about it … or about anything else. I’ve got a life.

So what I’m saying, timid new writer, please, please, please don’t ever stop (or not start) because you don’t know all the rules of writing, for two reasons:

Firstly, there are no rules. There are what are called conventions which are not rules but things that people have worked out, over time, that work better than other things – like writing left to right, breaking up text into readable chunks called paragraphs and full-stops and capital letters to help, again, with that chunking. However, if you want to write your 80,000-word novel as one long sentence and readers love it, go for it. Stick your finger up at the authorities, make your protest and be creative – we might all learn something

Secondly … I can’t climb into the minds of writers but I strongly suspect this … it’s an excuse to stop writing. There are many fears that keep us from writing – fear of success, of failure, of judgement, of giving up our accustomed discomfort – and it can feel easier to pretend it’s about someone’s rules and not about our own fears.

If you’re a member of the Apostrophe Protection Society or the Ban The Hyphen Collective, your “good” intentions are not good at all. You’re a part of a fascist society and we need more creativity, not less.

And if you’re a writer, don’t let the rules stop you. They didn’t stop Cormac McCarthy and thousands of other writers who thumbed their noses at convention and succeeded.

Just get writing – conventional or radical – and know that whether you do or you don’t, the fear will still be there. What will go away when you start, however, is the bitterness for not starting, for not stepping out, not standing for who you are. If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything, like the compliant Oxford protesters.

Friends and Being There

This article is not about writing, writers or books but it’s something that touched my heart and, writers or not, we all need friends.

Recently, a friend of mine (I’ll call her Mary) decided to have an abortion and, boy, did that bring out the Righteous Ones, The Ones Who Know, the Ones With Spears of Judgment.

You see, my country has never been attacked and I fondly imagine that, if it was, I’d choose not to fight, for two reasons. Firstly, I’ve always won my fights by a hundred yards and, second, I know of no war in which there has been a winner. Wars are only for losers. However, I know that I do not know what I’d actually do if that terrible time came – it’s a lottery as to whether I’d crouch in cowardly supplication, proudly stand in defiance of fighting or take up arms with the rest of them.

It’s all very well to theorise about what we might do, what we should do, but it’s quite another thing to do when the times comes. It therefore behoves me not to judge those who either take up arms or those who do not. I don’t know what I’d do and I cannot in clear conscience make a ruling on others.

And so with Mary: I know some anti-abortionists who tossed their theories away when they, themselves, became pregnant. Theory is fine, especially when we’re talking about what someone else (not us) should do. Theory is all very well when we’re talking about some nebulous possibility.

In the spirit of that, then, I just do not understand “friends” who tell Mary that she’s a bad person, that she did the wrong thing and that they know better than her what decisions she must make in her life.

Believe it or not, having to make the decision of to abort or not to abort was not the best time of Mary’s life – it was an absolutely crappy time and the whole thing brought her down in depression, self-doubt and a whole lot of other negative feelings. It was not a time that she had the strength to easily withstand the slings and arrows of those who she thought were friends … that was the last thing she needed.

What she actually needed, my friends, is not judgement and being right but support and being there – practical friendship and not theoretical nonsense. Your thoughts?

Creating Bigger Problems for a Bigger Life

When my son was younger he delivered newspapers for four years. Sometimes the newspaper van would be late, making all of the newspaper boys and girls late. If he was ever more than 10 minutes late in delivering his newspaper, we could guarantee that we’d get at least 3 phone calls from people who were either worried or angry about their late newspaper.  Now, of all the problems in the world, on a scale of 0 to 1,000, where would you place the problem of late newspaper? Somewhere around 1 or less?

Next, compare the amazingly “big” people in history with those with the problem of late newspaper be? Where on the scale would the late newspaper people be?

Now consider the problem of trying to feed and heal the millions of starving people in Calcutta. How big is that problem on the above scale? And the person who created that problem? How big was Mother Theresa’s life?

And the person who created the problem of bringing racial harmony to the 250 million people in USA … a big problem and how big was Martin Luther King Jnr’s life?

And Nelson Mandela’s problem of creating equality and empowerment in an embattled country of 70 million people – a huge problem and a huge life.

And did Mother Theresa, Martin Luther King Jnr. or Nelson Mandela ever worry about their newspaper being late, their neighbour cutting the hedge too low, a nasty comment their fathers made thirty years ago, an extra few wrinkles or what labels they had on their jeans? Probably not. By creating larger problems, they not only created larger lives but the smaller problems just fell away, effortlessly.

Does your life actually get any better when you get a new paper boy, heal the rift with your neighbour, resolve things with your father, get a new plastic surgeon or buy better clothes? As soon as one problem is solved, another turns up and, again, you’re being held back from your true and grand destiny by the ever-mounting mass of problems that seem to appear when you least expect them … and you’re so earnest about your spiritual, emotional and physical well-being but you’re just not getting anywhere. And, all the while there are people out there who don’t meditate, who eat meat, who have no money, who have crippled bodies, who don’t bother with counsellors or psychic readings, who don’t go to church, who don’t know or bother about health foods and fitness, who don’t have amazing talents and yet these strange people are living massive, fulfilling lives and they’re doing great things for the people and creatures on this planet. The difference between people is the size of their problem and the size of their problem is directly proportional to the size of their lives and the size of the contribution they are making.

To give you some ideas, bigger problems that people have created in The Free To Be Me courses I run include:

Helen was struggling with the problem of a court case over the custody of her children. Rather than trying to deal with it or reduce it, we tried to make a bigger problem of it. She created the problem of helping ALL New Zealand children to have a greater say in their futures when their parents divorced. Helen initially decided to do a law degree to become a custody lawyer and, when that didn’t feel right, started working in the court system, counselling children and pushing for more equitable rights for children and both parents. A new vocation opened up for her, one she couldn’t have imagined if she had buried herself in her smaller, personal problem. And her smaller, personal problem? No, it didn’t go away. However, somehow, while her mind and energy were on bigger things, her ex-husband softened and agreement was magically reached, whereby shared custody was agreed to, meaning that her two boys had time with both parents and Helen then had time to pursue her new career. A bigger problem and a bigger life.

Pat became tearful as she related the bad feelings between her son and her and the fact that he hadn’t talked to her for 40 years. So we created a larger problem of having a wonderfully close communicative relationship for them. An apparently small but subtle and powerful change, from focusing on what wasn’t happening to what could happen. The next week she came to the course in tears – happy ones this time. During the week her son had rung from England, unexpectedly, saying that he had had enough of the stand-off and he would love to visit, repair and improve their relationship. While on the phone, they arranged for him to fly over 3 weeks later. Bigger problem, bigger solution for bigger people.

Cheryl had not smiled for the last two years, such had been her depressive state, and she created the problem of finding ways to be able to smile every day for the next two years. Two years later she rang me to say that she had succeeded and that, in the previous two months, she had not been able to keep a smile off her face as she had met a “wonderful man” for the first time (she was 38 years old) and she had now got her first full-time job and was loving it.

Bryan’s problem was to create a world that was free of domestic violence. He has formed a men’s group and, though he often experiences frustration, he is really enjoying the challenge.

Peter’s problem was to be self-supporting (financially) and when he had achieved that state, to help other unemployed people to do the same. He has formed his own business and, though shaky at the start, after two years he is employing five staff, who he is encouraging and training to create their own businesses.

My problem was failure at being published. So I eventually decided to de-focus on my personal problem and re-focus on others. After 17 years of frustration, I set out to help other writers become published. I started this blog and our website and did a lot of other things to help others become published. Then, recently, O-Books offered to publish one of my books! I have also become a commissioning editor for them and so I’ve acheived two long-desired goals – being both an author and a publisher – my world just got bigger!

So, the problems can be very personal ones, huge global ones or anything in between.

Now it’s your turn – let me know (by comments here) about the biggest problems you can create and we’ll compile a list of them to inspire others to greater problems, greater lives and greater fulfilment.

Just how HUGE is it possible to be? Just how HUGE do you want to be?

This is an excerpt from  my book, The Lawless Way – click here for the paperback or the kindle edition.

Problem Should Exist

The problem with problems is that most people have been trained or indoctrinated in the belief that problems shouldn’t be. You’ve spent your infancy, childhood, schooling and adult life (to date) finding and solving or eliminating problems in the various ways that you do, as if problems shouldn’t be there.

Problems shouldn’t be is the war cry of every responsible human who’s trying to make a positive difference in their lives and in the world. They are such good and earnest people but they feel, despite their best efforts, that they’re just not getting anywhere. In fact, many feel they’re going backwards – every time they conquer or solve a problem, the solution becomes a bigger problem.

People, with the best of intentions, introduced rabbits into New Zealand for hunting and for meat. Then, at times, the explosion in the rabbit population has almost decimated millions of acres of farmland.

People take a pill to help with their heart-burn and the side-effects are that they get diarrhoea. So they take anther pill for the diarrhoea and a side-effect of this second pill is that they have dizzy spells. So they take a third pill which helps with their dizzy spells but it aggravates their arthritis. So they take another pill to help with their arthritis and it makes them feel depressive and it goes on and on. So now they have heart-burn, diarrhoea, dizzy spells, worse arthritis, depression and a medical bill they cannot afford to pay.

While we continue to think that problems shouldn’t exist, we’ll spend our lives on a frustrating and fruitless search to eliminate them, thereby creating a greater number of problems which divert us from the grander destiny that awaits us. Like the mythical hydra, every time we chop off one head, another two grow back – every solution leads us to one or more problems.

So how can we change our lives?

Simply by saying, problems exist. That simple. This may be too simple so you could use the more complicated version which is, problems should exist. Either way, simple or complicated, an acceptance that problems have always existed, will always exist and should always exist, will bring you a huge sigh of relief and, in that acceptance, an ability to dramatically change your life.

So, to change your life you can try two things:

Firstly, accept that life = problems and that no-life = no-problems.

Secondly, you can create a problem that’s large and grand enough to be worthy of you.

Sound simple? Maybe too simple! What you can do to transform your life is actually very simple but, in the doing (or contemplation of the doing), some resistance may arise.

This is an excerpt from The Lawless Way and we’ll continue, in further blogs, on how to use problems for a bigger life.

Aiming For Nothing, Getting Nowhere

Most people aim for nothing and hit it with amazing accuracy. Despite knowing that targets and goals move us forward, we resist them like price rises. Obviously, goals don’t always get us to where we planned to be. In fact, they hardly ever do which does not prove they’re useless.

Often they’ll get us near to where we want to be and, having got there, we realise that’s not where we want to be. The goal was wrong but helpful.

Jan, who attended one of my workshops, had been enduring a bitter divorce and a disturbing custody battle over her son. Wanting to find resolution to her particular problem, I encouraged her to set her sights wider and imagine what it would mean to her to help all children in custody battles. She eventually set a goal of becoming a divorce lawyer. Then she did her research and decided, dejectedly and eventually, that it would take too long, be too expensive and mean too much time away from her son. Wondering what to do next while feeling she’d failed the goal she had set herself, she had a call from a lady she’d met during her investigations into being a lawyer. It was a job offer and she’s now working in the court system as a mediator in divorce cases and as an advocate for children in custody battles. That connection, phone call and job would not have happened if she’d not set a goal that didn’t seem to work. She’s very happy her dream, her goal, did not come to fruition!

Though goals may seem to fail us – as per Jan’s example – they do, primarily, get us moving in one direction or another. It’s easier to steer a boat when it’s moving and the same with us. If we’re sitting on the couch, watching television and wondering what to do, it’s unlikely that God will scream at us with a message of hope while handing us a gift-wrapped life.

All of our lives, all of the time, are works in progress and only by taking a step somewhere, anywhere, can we know if it’s a right or a wrong one. From one step we’ll get a feeling about the next and so on. As Martin Luther King Jnr said, “Just take the first step. You don’t need to see the whole staircase. Just take the first step.”

A goal sets a direction and a movement today, from what we know in this moment. As we step forth, learning and experiencing new things, we can confirm or change our original goal.

By the way, before I started writing this article, I had the first sentence in my head and a strong idea of what I’d write about. However, after I wrote down that first sentence, my pen took off in a completely different direction and a totally different article emerged. And I’m still proud of the different article.

So, I challenge you: set a goal, take a step and remain open and excited about what the second step might be. If not today then when?

Ideas from Whose Life Is It Anyway?

Some ideas from my book, Whose Life Is It Anyway? Perhaps I could take my own advice and try one or two …

A. Each birthday, give yourself the gift of friendship – take four days off, by yourself, somewhere special, do all the exercises in this book again and have fun (in other ways) with the best friend you’ve ever known.
B. During the rest of the year, commit the following senseless acts of kindness and random acts of love, as often as you like:
1. Ask a policeman the directions to Heaven.
2. Buy an ice cream and give it to someone.
3. Pay for two or three cars behind you, at the tollgates.
4. Ring your parents and thank them for some specific deed they did, many years ago.
5. Ring friends and say you hope they have a really special birthday, months before their birthday.
6. Stop in the street and hug yourself luxuriously, languorously and lovingly.
7. Send pressed flowers with your tax returns.
8. Pick flowers and give them to your bank teller.
9. Touch people gently when you are talking to them.
10. Send a happy picture to a politician who is having a hard time, whether or not you like him or her – the postage is free!
11. Look in the mirror and tell the person something complimentary.
12. See how many smiles per hour you can give away – ones that pop up on other people’s faces.
13. Thank your children for making a difference in your world.
14. Invite your neighbours over for a bring-your-own Sunday lunch.
15. Pat yourself on the back when you do something well and say, “Thank you for excelling.”
16. Pat yourself on the back when you do something badly and say, “Thank you for learning.”
17. Plan a really special day with your family in your bedroom – see how many fun and interesting things you can all do in one room.
18. Write love letters to yourself, post them and keep them to read when you’re up, down or in between.

Three Scrawny Minutes … on Art, Life and Death

Last night I went to the local pub, The Plough, to sing and strum at their weekly jam night. Though I sang a song or two, it was a complete fiasco as are many things organised by artists. Sorry guys, art and organisation seldom go together! However, there is something about immersing yourself in art, no matter how uncomfortably, to create art … and I woke this morning and, between 5.30 and 6.00 am recalled, as a song, the experience of my father’s funeral and having to limit my thoughts on his life to three minutes. Well, right now, it’s just a pile of words and I’ll have to work with the muses to hack and slash and create rhythm and chords. But, disorganisation or not, artists and their vibes open doors to all of us if we dare to feel uncomfortable for a sweet moment. And here is the raw song, ready to be polished …

Three Scrawny Minutes

1. To sum up a man’s life in three scrawny minutes or less

To curse him, swear at him, thank him and bless

That’s what they gave me as his body lay there

And I hadn’t to think where I start, the far or the near

For memories spawn memories, lever open broken doorways

And there’s another in its shadow, not far away

Chorus

So how do you talk when he’s flat in a box

Lying still, stupid suit and new socks

This ain’t the man who strode the earth, no fear

With a mind alert and a temper to match, beware

It’s my old dad, you silly bastards, you can’t be told

Too big to fit small words, small spaces, small church won’t hold

Smoking and striding, thinking and yelling, dogs at heel

The hills poured their soul into a man who wouldn’t feel

2. We’ve come a long way, this old man and me

From a young father with a child on his knee

To the sadness, the weakness of brain tumour and broken heart

And me the young boy; once close, now grown apart

I might talk of sad times, glad times and the urbane

But from here, this great distance, they’re one and the same

Chorus

3. I remember the five o’clock starts as the sun yawned awake

Seven men, seven horses, twenty dogs in the day-break

Rolling smokes, creaking saddles, snuffing dogs and still trees

Dust rising as magpies ripped the silence, if you please

But the men nodded, murmured and said bugger all

Sucked on their fags, eased leather straps and heard hills call

Chorus

4. One by one we’d break from the group

Till there was him and me, horses and dog troupe

A rising, weird feeling he wanted to talk as fathers do

He’d grunt and ahem, looking shy then give orders anew

Horse riding in rain, sun or wind, there’s no one for miles

Lambing ewes, fixing fences, he’s never far and I smiles

Chorus

5. For when the horses are shod, the dogs are fed and the day is over

What’s to be said in those thousands of acres, rye and clover

Gnarled hands, leathered faces and cracked smiles

Tell all in their silence, their stoic pain, than all of the miles

Of kind words, cute stories, so banal to impress

Shoved neatly into three scrawny minutes or less

Chorus

7. You see, a boy and a man grow through each other in tune

They hate and love, curse and joke, chuckle and fume

But there’s nothing to be said, the story in our heart

‘Cause there’s good and bad, tough and sweet, dumb and smart

Three scrawny minutes, scrawny words get in the scrawny damned way

Life grown together, apart, and now one’s gone home to stay

Chorus

Apple Cider, Doing It Badly and Writing

We’ve been making apple cider while learning about life and writing.

Making apple cider is hard work and, at the end of a hot summer’s day the three of us smell … well, let’s just say, fecund … we feel like we’ve carried donkeys across the Sahara and we probably look like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

Picking apples from the ground is easy enough thought the buckets are heavy to carry the hundred yards to the old, brick shed. Cutting the apples into quarters is easy enough, for the first two thousand, and then the hard work starts. Bucket by bucket, the chopped apples are poured into the spout of the press and someone has to turn the handle to squash them through the mincer. They don’t go willingly! Just think of the power one needs to exert into one bite of an apple, especially a hard one, and now multiply that by a thousand, for six hour on end.

Then, having forced them through the gnashing teeth of the grinder, by strong arm, into the round, wooden, slatted press, one then has to squeeze the bejeezers … well, juice, actually … out of them. This is done by winding down a massive thumb-screw till they all collapse into an exhausted heap and give up their clear, life-blood into our eagerly waiting container. The turning of the screw, my darlings, is no easy feat for apples do not surrender easily and it’s a whole-body experience to exert several tons of pressure on a tribe of quietly screaming apples and, when they’ve succumbed, unwind, pour in more quarters, turn the grinder, wind down the thumb-screw, unwind … and, once in a while, carry a massive bucket of exhausted apple pulp the hundred yards to the compost heap and then enjoy the sunshine as we pick another 73,000 tons of apples … no, actually, it’s a bucket or two but it feels like more and more as the day progresses.

That’s the start of making apple cider and we all slept an exhausted – more exhausted than the apples – and happy sleep as our muscles unknotted themselves and smiled again.

And life? Aah, yes, the revelations on life. Well, as Suzie was turning the screw with grimace and furrowed brow, I offered to relieve her.

She said, “If you want to do something, even if you do it badly, NEVER GIVE UP!” She stopped and smiled wistfully. “My God, you never forget the things your parents taught you and that was my father’s favourite phrase – even if you do it badly, NEVER GIVE UP! And I can’t, it’s so ingrained.” Then she returned to squishing apples into submission.

A Course in Miracles (ACIM) is a psycho/spiritual course to help us experience abiding peace and joy, irrespective of the events and dramas around us. It tells us that doing the course and achieving the results is both easy and difficult. The steps to take, the changing our minds about ourselves and others, are very simple steps – you need no degrees, no rituals, no money and anyone of any age or creed can do it. The difficult part is that we have to do it in every second of our lives. Every time a negative thought, a thought of judgement or a peace-less feeling comes to us, we acknowledge it and change it to one of peace.

Initially, of course, being totally present to my thoughts, in every moment, was difficult. In fact, my mind could wander off and wallow in self-pity or anger for days. I did the ACIM process very badly but I kept doing it. As I became more vigilant, I would notice that my mind enjoyed taking the detours into thoughts of revenge, victimhood or sarcasm. I kept doing it, very, very badly and, as I kept doing it I could hold my mind in place for whole seconds, then minutes, then hours at a time. I have a long way to go till I get to that constant state of wakefulness but, as I keep doing it badly, I keep getting better.

The same is true of writing. I come across great writers who write badly. Some continue doing it badly and end up with truly great work. Others stop at the doing it badly stage, thinking they’re not good writers.

It’s like tying our shoes or buttoning a shirt, which we are all capable of doing, eventually. As small children we do those things badly but we insist on continuing to do them because we want to and know we can. Then we learn to ride a bike (badly), learn to read (badly), learn to drive a car (badly), learn to interact with the opposite sex (badly) and operate a bank account (badly). Doing it badly can be frustrating and/or fearful but we end up doing each of those things very well. However, they are the basic, practical things of life and there’s no question we’ll succeed.

In some things we’re not sure of success. The doubt creeps in and we are apt to blame parents, teachers and everyone else. We begin to doubt ourselves.

We may realise we have a flair for writing (or painting, gymnastics, statistics or whatever) and do it badly. Then the doubter – yes, that little person constantly on your shoulder – shouts in your left ear that you’re useless, you’ll never make it and it’s best you stop right now before you make a fool of yourself in front of others … others who have their own little doubters screaming abuse in their ears.

ACIM tells us that we don’t forget to take the steps to attaining lasting peace and contentment. Rather, we don’t do them because we believe we don’t deserve the results.

The same with writing or any other skill – we do not persevere because we do not believe we deserve the rewards of a job not-badly done … of a successful career in our chosen field.

That’s the reason I started this blog and my publishing company (The Write Site) – I’m not disenchanted with the publishing industry (as most new publishers seem to be) but I know how hard it is to constantly do things badly till I get to do them better. I know about the doubter on my shoulder and I know about the feelings of underservedness … and I also know how great you and I really are.

Feel free to send me your manuscript (or what you’ve done of it) and I will tell you what you must continue to do (badly), what you’re doing brilliantly – yes, there will be something you’re doing brilliantly – and how to replace the doubter with the abiding sense of peace from which all great work flows.

That, my friend, is my sacred mission – let me help and I’ll know more of peace as I sip my excellent apple cider … the pen-ultimate reward, really!