Embracing difference

 One of the thoughts that used to come to mind often was that time mid-morning when one might make a cup of tea or coffee and have a time out. I would try to imagine all the other people doing something similar and that was a pleasant thought - all the people in their homes or out on the site or on the farm brewing themselves a cup of tea. I suppose, I was imagining that the brewing of tea, or coffee, created a connection, an imagined connection.

I have been thinking about the power of imagination lately. I suppose you could call it manifestation, although I don't often have that element of 'this will happen' in it. I simply use my imagination to take a little break from what is happening in front of me. I have always done this. I think another word might be disassociation, I might take myself out of a dull conversation for a few seconds and just think my own thoughts.

I delighted recently in a story Jimmy Fallon told about growing up knowing that he would be on Saturday Night Live. The interviewer asked him, 'what if it hadn't happened?'. He was emphatic. There was just no way it wouldn't have happened in some form, he said. There was no way he wouldn't have made it happen.

My husband said something similar last night over dinner. When he was young, he said, on the farm, he came to have this feeling that he would do something special out in the big world. He wasn't entirely sure quite what, although by the time he was ending his undergraduate degree, he knew it would involve world markets. When he achieved his dream, I think it was the happiest time of his life.

He is very unwell now, but he has this huge belief that he will get better, and seeing how he manifested his dream job, it's hard not to believe him, whilst at the same time, I said to him yesterday, 'Can you please let me take it one step at a time?'

We are very different in this way. I much prefer things to be steady. I like the day to day. I like morning tea. Like that. I like making dinner. I like meeting up with my adult children. I enjoy the beautiful morning sun we are experiencing this winter. I like it when the camelias bloom.

Well, of course, this was the attraction for me, wasn't it? The polar opposite of myself. The guy with adventure in his soul; the dream in his heart. Who else could take me out of myself in this way? Who else could challenge a degree of complacency in my being, the comfort in the day to day?

Man, at times it has been a struggle. My inner being wants to scream, can't things just be normal? But that's the thing, isn't it? What is normal anyway?

You know what though? I think I am at peace with the different perspectives now. I'm curious about it rather than discombobulated about it. I think after nearly 50 years, I am getting used to it.

It is what it is

 I would like to think that the sky is the limit; that two people can get so close that they can reveal themselves, perhaps not in entirety, but close enough.

We keep secrets from one another, don't we? We keep the secrets that we must. We shelter the other not just from parts of ourselves, but from parts of themselves. We understand that complete disclosure wouldn't be in anyone's interests.

What happened in childhood, the attachment issues that may have appeared back then, potentially even in the preverbal stage are enduring.  They leave marks on the psyche. It's territory that should be explored only with a well-trained therapist, not a partner, so sometimes one just adapts and makes allowance for, and compromises with a partner, in the overarching interests of what is.

I do believe that an attachment style is able to be adjusted; that is, that one can go from an insecure attachment style to one that is secure. I am testament to that.

I have taken a test a few times to ascertain my attachment style. It focused on asking me questions about my mother, my father and my husband. I came out as having a disorganized attachment style. In one case, I was said to be 'avoidant' with similar questions. But I noticed just yesterday when I was whiling away time awaiting the cooking of the vegetables that the test score revealed I was actually quite close to the category of secure if you took away the result of the attachment to my mother. It was the result of the relationship with my mother that had statistically reduced my overall score.

I suddenly realized how flawed this logic was. Sure, no doubt, I needed to look after myself as a child whilst, of course, wanting to be nurtured, but should that affect my functioning score now? So, I went elsewhere and immediately noticed that there were no questions about my parents - one dead for over 30 years and the other one at death's door - bur rather lots of questions about my thought patterns and daily patterns now. What do you know, I came out as Secure.

This was delightful news and signified buckets of growth. I have been feeling it, especially recently. It comes down to those few words - It is what it is. Acceptance.

It's really important, I believe, to have plenty of empathy for the people with insecure attachment. Sometimes they are obvious in their presentation but often they are not. Even well trained and highly experienced therapists need months if not years to figure them out, so it's not so much a job for us to figure them out, as it is to accept that there is some trauma there. 

Try your best to stay emotionally regulated yourself. Stay calm. Maintain appropriate boundaries for yourself. When you hit their brick (emotional) wall, and you will feel it when you do - recognize you have gone as far into that neck of the woods as you can today and let that expedition go. Only ever do what you can do without there being harm done. 

No matter what defences a person puts up, we are all fundamentally the same in that we all want to get close. Sometimes, people just don't know how. It just doesn't feel safe. You do what you can do. It's all we can do. There's peace in knowing that.

Flowing

 The last entry was Wednesday, a horrible day. I just read back on that entry which I had written first thing that day. I was motoring along as best I could when I got a call for permissions for my mother to go into palliative care at the nursery home - in other words, no heroics - and I found the double Dutch too much. I heard the word 'infection' which didn't jive with the word 'palliative'. It wasn't until the next morning - yesterday - when a nurse I knew well rang, and by then I was able to have the conversation, a perfectly orderly and reasonable conversation, and we were all on the same page.

It feels like I can have the thought 'just flow with it', that that thought is lodged in mind and body, and then so many minutes later, tears flow, and I am not so good at flowing. It's not in the plan, to fall apart, and then I do, which is what lead me to write now, again, first thing in the morning.

Wednesday was almost mad with the many things and thoughts I dealt with. I ended that day with my son wanting to talk about accepting a place at a college to end out his Masters. This means in so many weeks, he will formally move out of home, my last chicken. Of course, I said he should accept it, he has saved the money to do so, and it will be a good experience for him.

And then, he sort of had a meltdown, wondering what would happen to our dog who we had buried in the garden if I sold the house. I guaranteed him that if and when that time came, we would bury her remains in our garden by the sea. He clearly was feeling vulnerable too, and that was his expression of it. I made a mental note that as soon as possible we needed a dog in our lives. It's the first time we have been without a dog, and we need the commonsense of a dog. Dogs definitely flow.

It makes sense there's a certain amount of processing going on, for both of us. It's not since just before Covid, when all the boys of the family had a European holiday skiing the Alps (and thank God for that) that I have been alone in the house a good deal of the time. Is it some colliding of the stars that I fell two weeks ago and have been tending to a sore knee? Do things simply happen all at once for a reason, I wonder.

Today, we finally pick up my son's car - long story - but it's another reason, his borrowing of my car to get to work and university - that kept me in a contemplative state, a transitional state, a preparation state.

When there was the opportunity, I used to attend a Dharma Dialogues gathering. I am not so inclined now that it is online, it's just not the same for me. I recall Catherine, the host, say that we do this, sit silently and then talk when moved to do so, about life's big all-encompassing thoughts. We do this, she said, gathering strength, flexing the muscle, so that when things do fall apart, we are ready. 

I find myself noticing little things. I think one notices different things at times when they resonate with you. I heard Rachel Ward talk briefly about thinking that the farm they owned wasn't something she could involve herself in, until the kids had gone and it occurred to her, that she did in fact have a place there. It meant she had to learn from scratch, daunting but do-able.

And I heard my husband on a telephone call to me, about a subject he usually handles, say to me, 'you'll work it out'. That's not something he typically says.

It feels a bit like the material I am reading about 'attachment' and healing with attachment modalities. There's that psychoanalytic sort of approach, working with emotions, bringing them up, creating new meaning or strengths or outcomes or solutions that way. Then there is the practical approach, the solutions approach, maybe more the cognitive behaviour approach, addressing dissonant thoughts.

It's a beautiful thing, these new modalities, where the therapist is seen as the guide, to help the client see that all that was needed was actually already there inside the person. Maybe the material of the life story needed to be massaged a bit, like a 'trip' that might lead you to see that, as an example, the man you feared so much in your mind, as a boy, is now no threat to you. Your body can relax.

I wonder if, in a way, I've been doing my own therapy in the past two weeks, spending a lot of time alone, and gently guiding my mind to see things in a new way; gathering creative solutions and feeling into my natural strengths - growing.

I love watching 'Couples Therapy'. I watch it on SMS on Demand, but I think Americans watch it on Showtime?? Anyway, this couple in Season 4 jumped ship. She's a psychoanalyst herself, as bright as a button, but she just couldn't give her husband what he wanted, this elusive sense of 'home'. He was demanding that she come up with the solution, and she just couldn't engineer it. It seemed doomed to fail because it was like asking 'hand over the money' when the money simply didn't exist. Her frustration was palpable.

You have to bend. You have to look squarely at the cards you are dealt, and you have to play your hand with skill and quiet courage. You have to be ready for anything.

I close my eyes. I see the river and take inspiration. Here I go. I flow.

When things fall apart

 I am struck by this experience of accompanying someone in a dire prognosis. No doubt, for each person or couple the experience is unique to them. In my case, my husband has made no bucket lists but rather sees each new day as an opportunity to reach for a cure to his condition.

It's incredibly frustrating to both of us that a potential cure is not allowed in this country and we may in fact soon have to board a plane to purchase the no-harm medication elsewhere. I am no conspiracy theorist but there's no doubt that there is profit at the heart of such decisions to refuse access to potentially lifesaving medications currently inexpensive.

 I have been forced to look inside my own mind for a way forward, for a way to approach each day, navigating his approach and my own, one more centred in the facts before me. I have seen this positive thinking bear fruit and I have seen it become a failed harvest. 

I am reminded at just this very moment of the title of Pema Chodron's book, 'When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times'. I must order this book today for it seems timely.

There is no question that it is indeed a difficult time. I dreamt last night of being in war, of having to navigate around the enemy to be safe and I woke, needing to escape the dream. I lay there, aware of the reason for the dream. I was in a deeply vulnerable place.

I think when you are in a long marriage, especially when it began when you were still in your teens, the thought of losing that mate is so confronting, hiding in denial, or anger, or disbelief, seems far better an option than sitting in the facts of the matter. I have used this strategy for quite some time.

Who knows why or when one begins to let that outer shell of security go, but it has gone. My mind seems to be stuck in the moment. Will this be the last anniversary, will this be the last year. Every transaction, every 'good morning', every decision seems so poignant.

I once heard Blanche d'Apulget talk about her last year with Bob Hawke (a former Australian Prime Minister) and she said it was the best year of their lives because it had been so intimate. I am not sure that my husband will be so vulnerable in the last year of his life if it is to take time away from the task of staying longer. I am not sure he sees the value in that sort of approach, and I am not expecting it.

Rather, right now, it's an accompanying kind of task, and in many ways, my role is to provide comfort and support for him to do what he thinks he should do.

We both are not inclined to share distress or worry with our children, but my eldest son was in town last week and it was impossible to completely hide my state of mind from him. Goodbyes are never easy and he saw my tears as we said goodbye. It rattled him and he has been checking in on me as much as he can in his busy life. I noticed him say in one telephone call, 'It will be better when...' and of course that's not a bad thing to say. It was a rough day when I saw him, no doubt about it, a sort of rock bottom from which I have risen.

 I remember once much earlier this year say to a confidante that I felt "stuck". I don't feel stuck any more. I feel like I am truly living the days as best I can, not expecting too much of myself and at the same time not giving up or giving in.

My youngest son is here until he finishes his Masters degree in Counselling. He chats with me about the material in his course and it's the material on Attachment Theory I find so fascinating. There's no question I have not always been securely attached, nor my husband, but I like to read that this attachment is flexible. It can get better.

I'd love to sink into the arms of someone - anyone - who was willing to be the comforter. It's not easy to be the source of strength for others, to be the one 'all right', 'fine'. There's the temptation to fall apart and wait for someone to come along, perhaps, to save me. Since I doubt that could or would happen, I find myself a little avoidant, for sure. I am soaking in my own company. At the same time, there is a voice whispering in my ear a great deal, 'You will be okay. I am here with you.' I am not sure who exactly is whispering, but I appreciate her company.

Purpose

 Due to some hypnotic work of recent times, I have felt calm, in spite of the turbulence, both close and far. There's no doubt that the trances worked for me and I know this is very special work because I hear hypnotists on the Internet in various places like Spotify and it does nothing.

Even so, I do have my moments when my world can feel like it is blowing up. My husband will return home from seeing his oncologist. He speaks to me matter of factly, and I sit there as his active listener. But last evening there came a moment when my body reacted in a way that I had to notice. I suppose you would call it a panic attack.

"Can I ask you to pause for a moment? My body is overloaded."

In fact, it didn't last long, and I was soon breathing freely again. I think by acknowledging the bodily reaction and giving it some attention, things settled down.

I am not sure whether to call it 'anticipatory grief', or catastrophic thinking or something else, but maybe it's just a natural thing to be a bit panicked about difficult news.

I am proud of the way my husband handles his cancer. If one avenue closes, he simply looks for a new route, all the while staying positive and believing that he can make a difference to the outcome. This makes it much easier for me than for many other spouses.

He is also remarkable in the way that he continues to enjoy all the little joys of life. I had moved the Fiddle Fig to the front of the house where it gets more light. He noticed the abundantly healthy new growth this morning and was genuinely excited about seeing the progress of the plant. He is an infectiously positive person. He has fallen too many times to count, got up and dusted himself off just as many times.

My life, our lives, may well have changed forever. My husband said he would like to return to our hotel in Bali. This is an ideal destination for a holiday because we can go to the Pyramids of Chi for meditations every day if we choose. I started to make arrangements, considered dates and so forth. He was keen but at the same time he sees the oncologist again in six weeks and he may wish to begin a new treatment that requires him being here. Scheduling something has become something outside of our control.

In the meantime, we work away at putting our lives in place. He's actually expanding his business rather than starting to close it down and this is in line with the fact that he has never thought the idea of retirement is for him.

I am completely aware that my life has always and will always spin around my husband. It's the relationship, our dynamic; the way that suits us both. There is no changing this.

There's a bit of a trick they use in psychology, in couples therapy, where they might get one of you to do the opposite of where they want you to go ultimately. That's what happened to me a while back. My submission was removed (I am here to tell you they can do that!). 

When I finally accepted that this is what had happened to me, not a trick of the mind, but absolutely a state of mind where I no longer had access to even my erotic fantasies, I screamed bloody murder. I did not go quietly into that good night. My submission is so very much an embodied and enduring part of me that I was rageful about it, until it was returned to me, at a deeper level. Then, I was fine.

I have had some pretty confusing and confronting situations over my life, but nothing was quite so confronting as those ten weeks when I felt like what maybe a regular girl feels like. No, it was worse than that. It felt like I was in a desert without water supply.

There's another trick of the psychology trade where they might put the work into creating change in the quiet one (comparatively quiet, that is). That also happened to me, this time at my request. When I changed, everything changed. Somebody has to be willing to stand up and say, 'I can do this. Choose me.' That's how a 'system', a marriage, can evolve.

In a few days it is Mother's Day here and I am fortunate to say that I have four children of which I am immensely proud and five divine dear grandchildren. 

Over the past few years, I have learned to let judgment go; to just consider that we are all doing our best, except the manipulators, thieves and cheats. They need to do better.

My purpose has been to love; nothing more, nothing less. I do what I do with that intention, knowing that to grieve is to love. They come to us cap in hand. That's the journey. That's the human experience. The sooner we understand this, the better.

Daily Maintenance Spanking

 A couple of weeks ago I was given an idea which I immediately embraced. Thus, a joint email was sent to both my husband and me. It outlined an idea which the kink friendly therapist we have been using, on and off, had found to be successful with several of his recent clients.

In essence the idea was for me to be given a daily maintenance spanking. We would be working towards five minutes a day. It was no problem to work up to that amount of time, but to cap it at five minutes. No other directive was given, except that if the spanking led to a play session or sex, that was fine.

I had mentioned to my husband to expect an email and once he received it, and I let the dust settle a bit, I asked if it was something he thought might work for us. He was fine with it, he said, so long as I was fine with it. I have noticed this pattern, that he wants what would make his girl happy, consistently.

Several days went by. I admit I was a bit frustrated. I think he noticed that too. He came to me one morning out of the blue and said we would start now. It was a loving spanking, peppered with lots of soft and loving touch.

We got to Friday and that was a very busy day for me. We had had a lovely evening out together at a concert and by the evening I was looking for a shower and bed. He came to me at a low energy point, and I wasn't able to be sweet enough in my request for a shower first. He noticed. He always notices these things.

I got the rounds of the kitchen later. He made it clear that he was in charge of when things happened and how they happened. He was quite right about that.

The following morning the spanking was memorable, and my memory of that day is that I was quiet, co-operative, sore and present. It was far too soon to know what this daily spanking was doing to me, to us. Each day had been a bit different to the one before, in terms of a reaction, so I was in a 'just noticing' state. I noticed that I was a bit out of sorts but only in an internal way. Just, noticing.

The following morning, I asked if he was okay with using his hand. I had a feeling about this, and he admitted that his hand had acquired a deep bruise. He showed it to me. He is on a lot of medication, and I had already wondered if it was going to be an impediment.

It would have to be an implement, I assured him. I didn't want to see him hurt. That wasn't the idea at all. 

We both did a search of suitable items. He had a wooden paddle and a leather one. I had a wooden hairbrush. The cane wasn't going to work, nor the flogger, the strap or the crop. They were all there somewhere, but we only searched for the paddles. I wouldn't say I am not a masochist but nor am I an ardent masochist. I can be quickly brought to heel at the thought of a sound beating.

He selected the leather paddle, because he is sensible and that was enough of an upgrade from his hand for now. In truth, his hand hurt more the previous day, but the paddle induced sexual excitement almost immediately, and he struggled not to turn it into an instant sexual encounter. 

The man is on androgen replacement therapy so technically speaking what happened isn't supposed to happen. However, spanking can illicit these sorts of results. So, he did that and then spanked again later.

I think a threshold we have to get over is that I can't prevent myself from making a lot of noise when paddled and I think this can throw him off, as if I can't take the pain. It's not easy, for sure, but it's something that has to be worked up to, not at all insurmountable.

It occurred to me, as it would to any sensible person, that there are some issues to address. Is it not the case that after a few weeks of this, one is going to be almost constantly marked? And, what about sexual appetite? What about the ability to concentrate on other matters?

I went looking for material about daily maintenance spanking and found very little of use. One couple has partaken for the past 18 months every single day and has nothing but a glowing report (pun intended) of the practice. That's reassuring, but it does have to be noted we are talking about a self-professed intense sadist and masochist. I wish I could hear from others who are perhaps a little more mainstream in this non-mainstream practice.

So far, all is good. We have both agreed to this and what's important here is that we stick to our agreement.

One thing I have noted already is that it has brought out his desire for a dominant stance overall. We have an agreement that I don't start to eat my dinner before he takes his first bite or tells me I can begin to eat. We had takeout last night, a very rare thing these days, as I usually cook meals that suit his needs, and it completely slipped my mind. He noticed. I was pleased he had noticed. I definitely had erred, and he told me I had earned a disciplinary stroke. 

Ah, he wants to do that too. So be it. I am delighted. I want him to want this.

I think the thing about agreeing to something like a daily spanking is that it is an instant recognition of the polarity between us, an instant recognition of the power dynamic at play. Whilst I don't have months or years of experience of it to be able to recommend it, the initial results are more than satisfactory.

90 days

 I've not been a person who worries too much about New Year resolutions. It did, however, occur to me today that if I were to nominate a period of time, and the time in mind is 90 days, what could I achieve in that time?

In today's political world 90 days sounds like an eternity but in fact it's a rather short period of time - maybe 13 weeks. That's really no time at all. It might be interesting to record the goals, the challenges and achievements of a time period like this. Maybe not a lot changes on the outside, maybe it does, but most interesting, what might change on the inside?

In fact, yesterday I did a lot of work in a single hour. I was led into trance again and we explored the older me, the one close to death, who advised the 60 something me.  That was cool. However, it led to a new feeling, I explained, because my mother was close to the end of her life and beyond being able to say the things that I would love to hear. There was sadness around that.

Back I went down and created for myself a different end to this story where she expressed her love, her pride, her delight in having raised us and watch us live our lives. That was lovely.

This work is complete, we believe. There will be a check-in in 90 days and that has me wondering, what will I be like in 90 days? Will I have grown, will I be content, will I have some new endeavour in which to express creativity?

I am thinking of the Truman Show here and wondering what it would be like to wake up with no history? That's not exactly dementia. My mother has forgotten big slices of her life. She has returned to her childhood with her mother and lives quite happily there. She has taken a few things with her, like her dog who isn't alive, but in her mind, she is. It's all a bit jumbled but it makes sense to her and that's all that matters.

What if we lived in a universe where there was no remembered past and we woke up fresh every morning, ceasing the day? That sounds a bit like that strange series I started watching where the workers forget what they did at work. Hmm

What I mean is, imagine if there really was just 'Now'? 

'Imagine all the people living life in peace."

Anyways, enough ramblings, let's see.