You’re holding down your job, working in the ‘wrong’ place and unable to share the day-to-day banality of office life; you’re ‘teaching’ your children, knowing that you can’t give them the attention they need to learn this new concept and wishing that you’d be comfortable with school or nursery being safe enough, soon enough; you’re managing your home, now with added dust, washing up and general mess because you’re all there, all day every day.
I can’t fix it (I’ve got my own dust and mess, thank you very much!), but I can tell you that you’re ok, that solutions will present themselves and you will once again feel superhuman.
No, “We’re in a pandemic dontcha know?” check-ins here: your wellbeing is as important now as it was 12-months ago, as it will be in 12-months time. Why is a collective traumatic experience a reasonable excuse to suddenly want to know “really” how people are? Shouldn’t we care about each other all the time?
To be honest, I’m pretty relaxed about other people’s approaches to wellbeing: ‘whatever floats your boat’ (provided no one else gets hurt) is my general rule of thumb.
I’m also pretty relaxed about my own approach to wellbeing.
Take this morning, for instance: I’ve been for a pre-breakfast 5k run, then eaten a bowl of berries, three slices of buttered toast, followed by the devouring of an Easter egg in front of Frozen (for the first time – more on that in another missive, I’m sure!).
Am I well? Yes thanks, but frankly, it’s none of your business.
I listened to a really excellent Ted Talk yesterday, “It’s OK to feel overwhelmed. Here’s what to do next” with Elizabeth Gilbert. It wasn’t an easy listen and was pretty uncomfortable at times.
Then I saw an interesting post from a friend who does an enormous amount of volunteering for homeless people locally. The post was about how ‘selfish’ people were being by wanting to go to a local DIY shop, waiting in a queue, socially distanced, for over an hour.
I filed the two things and went for a long run in the countryside this morning. I love a peaceful run alone in the morning air. It’s quality thinking (or not) time, where my feet and my brain head off together for a bit of TLC.
By the time I got home, I’d come up with the text that follows. What do you think?
For me, saving the NHS is a long-term position and I have a responsibility to myself and others to do whatever I can to retain it.
Immediately: observing social distancing; staying at home; washing my hands
Medium-term: caring for my mind (while observing the above)
Long-term: caring for my body (while observing the above); voting wisely in elections
The immediate responsibility is going well. BUT Without time outdoors in open spaces, I would suffer crippling bouts of depression and be a risk to myself (a medium-term cost to the NHS) and without exercising, I would increase my already genetic risk of diabetes (a long-term cost). Who am I to say what other people *need* to do to keep themselves and their families well?
Moral high-grounds are wobbly, lonely and seem to be unfathomably judgemental. I’m hopping down for a bit.
My Dad’s great: intelligent, funny, kind and thoughtful; reliable, steady and an excellent listener.
Dad also takes most of what he reads with a healthy dose of cynicism. He refuses to believe everything at face value and is very careful to find secure sources.
When it comes to his health, however, he can be frustratingly unscientific. For instance, I can encourage Dad to exercise, explaining the benefits to his general health and that it might even be good for his various aches and pains; I can send him scientific papers about the benefits; I can show him examples of people who have benefited, but he refuses to believe it’s true (or certainly won’t act on it).
This article came with the very excellent Research Digest from the British Psychological Society. Now I know: he just doesn’t want to hear it!
Earlier on this spring, I planted some lavender seeds.
I cared for the seeds, photographed the pot every day to chart the journey from seed to blossoming bee-trap.
The seeds didn’t grow.
My infamously un-green fingers (sorry Nan) have let me down again… At this point, I usually give up, but not this time; all because of someone I met at the Barnes Fitness Woodley 10k last year…
I LOVE to be a tail-runner. That means volunteering to finish a race last. The tail (or sweeper) serves as a marker to the marshals so that they can stand down and can often find themselves supporting the final runner along the course, as the speed-dæmons disappear from view and the final kilometre feels like a 3-mile hill-climb.
Last year, I had the very great pleasure of helping a gardener to the finish. They admitted that they weren’t fully fit and were struggling. So, I found out what they’d be doing with the rest of their day and we talked about gardening.
They spoke so passionately about what they grew and we ate up the distance smiling and laughing. They told me that the best bit about gardening was not knowing what would grow and what wouldn’t. They said that it was ok if things didn’t grow, “It’s not time for them. When they’re ready, they grow.”
It made me think about the runners I coach, the NQTs I’ve mentored and the people I’ve supported through various challenges.
Like the plants, they need some solid foundations and a suitable environment. Like the plants, they need nurturing. Like the plants, when they’re ready, they grow.