Sensory Series Part III: Sensory Mindfulness

Following on from my previous post where I tried to describe the experience and effect of a shared sensory moment (and failed to recapture this in my re-write!), I'd like to put together my thoughts on mindfulness.

Mindfulness is currently all the rage in the mental health world, and can mean pretty much anything under the sun. Some find it life-changing; others are underwhelmed, and for others it is actively unhelpful.

The first kind of mindfulness I was introduced to is one where you are supposed to observe your thoughts as they go by, not engaging with them but acknowledging their presence and not letting yourself get distracted into thought. I didn't find it useful. Maybe I never cracked it, but it didn't do anything for me!

More recently, I have come across mindfulness described by several different people more as being present in a moment.  According to this view, I have recently come to realise that I naturally live in quite a "mindful" way.

This stormy sea was a thrilling sensory experience: the roar
and crash of the waves, the cold water on my face and hands,
the smell of the salt water and the taste of it round my lips, the
wind and rain rushing at me. I could have stayed all day,
 completely absorbed in the moment, but my companions may
 not have been so keen!

Walking along in the airport just yesterday I noticed my awareness of the rain dripping down the windows of the tunnel, the weight of my rucksack on my back, the fact that one shoe was tighter than the other. Mr Peggy, when I enquired as to the contents of his brain at that moment, was aware of the stories of all the people walking alongside us - why they were travelling, where they were going etc. We found it an interesting comparison!

A technique often suggested for people with anxiety or panic attacks to regulate or ground themselves is to name one thing they can taste, two they can smell, three they can feel, four they can hear and five they can see. I do this automatically.

The tree above my bench

I take my lunch breaks outside, where I often lie on a bench. I listen to the sounds of the birds, the river, children playing, dogs exploring, the leaves moving. I feel the breeze, the warm sun (occasionally!), the wooden bench on my back or raindrops. I smell fresh rain, cowpats, flowers. If I open my eyes I see the blue of the sky, the green of the leaves, the clouds slowly moving, the light dappled through the leaves and branches, the bright light of the sun.

It adds up really (in my head anyway!). At Jo Grace's Sensory Engagement for Mental Wellbeing training day, she commented that according to the general definition of mindfulness (similar to the one I use of being present in the moment), sensory beings are by nature always mindful. Their experience of the world is primarily sensory, and they are therefore constantly present. (She then went on to explore what mindfulness for mental wellbeing could look like for sensory beings - being completely caught up in, engaged in and delighted in a moment.) I'm not a sensory being; I am a linguistic being - I am writing this, after all - but my sensory awareness is perhaps higher than that of some linguistic beings.

I lost my track of thought there, but I think this is mainly me bringing together all my previous thoughts as I have been discovering the sensory world, and realising that my natural inclination towards sensory mindfulness could be a useful tool to mental wellbeing.

Not only this but it with the right people and in the right contexts it can be even more than that: a vehicle to connection and communication from others, which in everyday life I can find stressful or draining. This connection itself is of course a contributor to mental wellbeing.

So at this point in my exploration of sensory awareness and its effects, I think I am going to employ my discoveries by putting meaningful sensory experiences, and especially shared sensory experiences, down as a tool to boost my wellbeing and to be intentional about pursuing such opportunities.

Any thoughts?