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?

Sensory Series Part II: Sharing the Sea

I accidentally deleted this post, so I'm afraid the new version isn't quite as compelling as the original, but I wanted to have a go at rewriting it anyway.

Last week I went to visit my family, who live near the sea. My Mum and I decided to make an impromptu visit to that wonderful place where the land and sea meet. Impressive in itself for two people who are not good at decision making!

Now, it's not a new idea to me that my Mum and I experience the world in a similar way and share a love of "real" life and being outdoors. In fact this is shared by my two sisters too. We all get a great sense of freedom, peace and life from being in nature.

Mountains are the best

People tend to baffle at the way we can spend such a time, hours sometimes, in one spot, just being. Popping out, having a quick wander and taking a photograph is enough for many people to have "done" a place, but for me it takes time to "absorb" a place to its full potential. I appreciate opportunities to go with similarly-brained people because I know they experience it more like I do. They're not going to be bored, or think I'm mad. They're not going to interfere with my experience and mine isn't going to interfere with theirs.

As my Mum and I walked along the clifftop we chatted intermittently but our comments quickly turned towards our current experience, sharing observations of the way the light changed over the sea, the sky and the hills. The way the sound of the sea changed to a low roar as the land rose between the path and the cliff edge, and how it came back in full force again afterwards (I definitely didn't run up and down the bank playing with this change...). The springy turf under our feet, the way the water fountained up in one particular place and sparkled as it sprinkled back down, the shapes and lines of the layers of rock, the cold metal of the hand rail harsh on our hands and muted through our sleeves, the great crashing of the waves. The weight of my legs as I swung on the rail.

It was real. I was real. I was connected. For me, such an experience brings a sense of completeness: wholeness and truth, and being comfortable in myself, knowing who and what I am. (This ties in with my next post, too) And as I drank it all in I realised that it wasn't just that I was connected. I appreciated the fact that my companion was not only not interfering with my experience, but that she was also experiencing that realness and connectedness, and through our mutual connection to our spot in space and time we were connected to each other.

I have discovered that my sensory world and my powerful way of experiencing life doesn't have to just be mine, but can be a way of meaningfully connecting in a fundamentally "real" and true way with others. Maybe this is the greatest gift autism has given me.