Lost in a helicopter (sensory-being/object mindfulness)

Another day, another sensory-being mindful walk. I don't get these so often now - my sensory-being* is usually shared, which is wonderful in its own way - so being given nearly half an hour to myself with the instruction/agreement to use it for a mindful wander was a relished treat.

And the fact that I could take up that opportunity in autumn is not taken for granted. My brain was in a place where I could lose myself in the moment where often I tend to either become overwhelmed because of associations and memories, or to avoid or dissociate for fear of that happening.

So anyway, off I toddled on my mindful wander. My feet found a spiky floor that they enjoyed feeling through my shoes, and then some benches that are pleasant to stand on. However my attention wasn't drawn after that by the Wander Path (oh pants, it looks like I still haven't written a post about that to link to!) like it often is - most times some sight or texture will invite me in to linger but none did. I didn't push it, just wandered on, waiting to see. It was the scent of the fir trees in the end that called me, but what it called me to was a helicopter - the kind that you used to spin in the wind as a child; sycamore seeds.

And so I was lost to the world for a good five or ten minutes, first feeling the flat sides between my fingers - still and moving - the veins of the seed pod making gentle ridges beneath my skin. Inspecting it closely, drawn into the visual pattern, then turning it sideways and seeing the pale, smooth line it made against the backdrop of fallen leaves on the path below, feeling that line between my thumb and index finger, smooth yet sharp, curving round infinitely. The bump of the seed at the end in contrast. Then deeply breathing in to see whether it had a scent of its own: not the sniff you do when you think you want to smell something, or you want to demonstrate that you are smelling, but the deep slow inhale through the nose that allows your sensory receptors to really do their job to the full. Helicopters have a scent. Then I have to say I was thinking about as many senses as possible and did have to find out if it had a taste too, so I did lick the helicopter. I felt the patterns from earlier on my tongue. I became more deeply acquainted with the helicopter, understanding more of its being with every new aspect I experienced and the longer I spent on each. I went back to smelling, and one side smelt stronger than the other. The first side smelt stronger after I licked it - maybe one side smelt stronger because I had licked it more? It felt different between my fingers from when it was dry. I held it up to the breeze, watched it spin to the ground and it was gone. My moment finished, it passed on to its own next moment; the fleeting crossing of our paths stretched out by my curiosity and a suspended moment in time.

*sensory-being explained here by Jo Grace of The Sensory Projects, where I first encountered the concept. Or search my previous posts for my own witterings on the subject and how it overlaps with mindfulness - you can start here.

Tiny Things

When everything feels bleak around me and hope is hard to see, when I feel trapped or desperate, I often find that it is some small thing of beauty that saves me. 

A tiny unnoteworthy scrap can catch my focus and become treasure that brings a window of escape to get me through the fog or darkness. Yesterday it was a leaf that I impaled (or threaded, depending on your mood...) onto a twig. So tiny and simple, yet with infinite journeys of discovery, new every moment from every angle as it is moved in the light. Shape and shadow inviting me in and away from the heaviness in my heart. And of course my many Peggies helped at other moments.

Once before, it was a holly leaf. The group facilitator seemed slightly put out that it seemed to hold more of my attention than she did, but she didn't know that an hour or two earlier it helped to keep me alive. Thankfully I have rarely ever had suicidal impulses, but in a dark moment those spiky points, the glossy shine and the smooth edges, they absorbed me enough to get back to a place of safety. I think it's only reasonable that I dwelt with them a little longer. Staring in wonder. Entranced by the power of a single leaf. Two years later I still have that leaf, nestled in my treasure basket for mindful moments when it's needed.

I don't usually talk here about my faith, but I can't let this post pass without reflecting that of course, it is not the little things that save me, it is their maker. He offers them in my moments of need and he holds me in his hand through darkness and light, and the darkness is not dark to him. But through the little things, he saves me over and over again as he has saved me once and for all and given me the only true hope that endures after all suffering.

Also note: this song "Tiny Things" by Yvonne Lyon

Rambling

Probably my favourite walk I've been on since the teeny one came along. In the moment, mindful in the best sense of the word, and connected.

A dog has had a happy time here too!

Cool air on my face, muted quietness dulling the country sounds under a layer of cloud, and the contrast between the angular scrunchy stones waking up each spot of my feet and the soft springy damp turf. 

The smell of damp earth and trees. The silent swoop of a buzzard. The warmth and gentle breath of the baby sleeping close against me in the sling. His coos and curious expression as he wakes up and looks around. The patterns of the spiralling straw in its bales that mirrors the perfect swirl of hair on the back of his head.

The shadows and changing light in the furrows of the ploughed fields as twilight falls. Relative freedom from memories as I stay present in the moment, walking in the more agricultural areas away from all the trees that carry the strongest reminders, and giving thanks for all the good things in my life, and for hope.

The Oldways

 If I wasn't already known as the village crazy lady then walking barefoot down the street stroking my hand with the fronds of a fabulous piece of reed should have done it!

This walk was long overdue and as soon as I left the house my feet let me know they wanted to be on the ground, not the flip flops I had put them in. I ignored them for the duration of the appointment I had gone out for, but as soon as it was over I had to let them be free. 

My feet found so many wonderful treats and treasures for me and led me to where I needed to be. 

Long grass, short grass, cool grass, warm grass. Hot hard tarmac. Smooth paving. Earth baked dry and earth with a spring. Soft dirt, spiky stones. Bark that wakes up each millimetre of forgotten sole.

Insects buzzing, breeze in the trees, pigeons beating the air with their wings. Doves cooing, tiny popping as water evaporates under the sun from the drying stream, and the odd drip from the grasses growing into the water. A distant pheasant. Butterflies dancing. Songbirds chattering. And me, finally still. Sitting, silent. Breeze stroking my skin in the warm shadow. Bare feet, breathing the life around me, being part of this place in this moment.

Whisper

Whistles and shrill squeals awaken the evening air as the swifts soar and arc across the sky in their infinite playground of freedom. They have brought me peace and joy in summers gone by, but I said goodbye to those days as they were followed by dark, dark ones and it became too painful to remember the rising promise of life when it had since been dashed so thoroughly.

And yet tonight the warm breeze that gently stirs the birch leaves brushes my skin with the softness, security and familiarity of a well-loved blanket, delivering the faintest glimmer of what I thought was lost to me: forbidden, abandoned hope. It's gentle enough to be permissible - it slides in, the tiniest of feelings, barely noticeable so as not to alert the beast within to its presence, and yet I know it has visited me.

Hope is painful, it brings uncertainty and the possibility of crushing, destroying disappointment. These things I cannot bear and so by habit I squash hope. I box it up for when I'm sure - it's lovely to know it's there but I can't bear to touch it. But this hope stole quietly up to me and stroked me on the cheek, not overpowering with its presence but simply passing by just to let me know it was there. It didn't need me to take it captive, it will come again when I'm ready for it, and I will learn one day to dance with hope.

I won't wear make-up on Thursday: Body Intelligence gleaned from staying in bed!

OK, it's true I didn't wear make-up on any of the other Thursday either, but that is a reference for the Cool Kids who both wear make-up and listen to "actual music". Maybe I should have picked the more accurate line from the song "I will do nothing on Thursday: sit alone and be."

That is exactly what I have done. Well, I went and let the chickens out about lunch time to get rid of the anxiety that I hadn't done that or fed the guinea pigs. Brought the Piggle Peggies in for moral support and returned to the land of bed. At 3.30pm I even progressed from a prone, under-several-duvets state to seated with just one merely draped over myself.

I had done that thing that's meant to be sensible (although admittedly it may come slightly out of desperation too) where you communicate that you need something before utter disaster hits. The trouble I have discovered though, is that then if you get the thing Brian tells you in no uncertain terms that this is a catastrophe. You shouldn't have the thing: no-one else has the thing - why are you any more entitled to the thing than anyone else? Accommodating the thing has cost other people: you are an even worse person for needing, and taking, the thing. You didn't really need it anyway, you just quite fancied it - you could, and should, have managed without it; after all, nothing terrible happened to show that you needed the thing, so you must just be greedy and lazy. Now that you've had the thing, what if you actually need it in the future? You've already had it so you'll have to manage without next time. You can't carry on like this, "needing" things left, right and centre, you need to pull your socks up and get on with life like everyone else.

Contrary to appearances, I haven't just come here for a whinge about the Brian. In my nothing-ness and the approach to it I stumbled on a couple of observations.

The sensory may be more involved than I think.

A perfectly adequate set of resources for
the day

This is funny, because I've just started reading a book by Penny Greenland of JABADAO* about (well, partly about) how body intelligence (the is a whole chapter just introducing the concept of what this is) can be used in the mind together with intellectual intelligence to approach everyday issues and problems.

In the lead-up to realising I needed some space I first noticed my brain responses: getting irritable, decreased patience, increased behaviours and unhelpful thoughts. Then as things progressed over the next day or two and I became more stressed rather than less, on the final day I was much more aware of sensory responses. The piercing vehicle-reversing-beep I had to block from my ears, a scratchy label in my clothing, appreciation of darkness. The all-pervading discomfort caused by a foreign and distasteful (to me) scent on my fleece, that became so unbearable I had to give up my fleece. The proprioceptive/touch dysregulation of not wearing my fleece when I'm already stressed. The overheating of my body from the down bodywarmer I luckily had in my car that I fetched at lunch time to solve the proprioceptive problem.

To be very brief, something like this...

I don't know whether it's that the warning signs come in this order - the lower-level stress is signified by more cerebral warnings and the sensory warnings signify that things are escalating - or that my awareness works in this order: the more significant my stress levels, the more I function on a sensory level and the cognitive loses priority. I suppose processing capacity is decreased when under stress so this would make sense. Now that I think about it, there's a lot of theory that explains this, but you can go and Google that - I can't be bothered to talk about it now (but if you ask I'll go and find it!). Yesterday I also began exchanging words quite bizarrely. I explained to my fellow class Peggy that I was going to cut the Duplo lengthways to make it fit. I meant Velcro. Just picked the wrong word. I used the word purple instead of person to the same colleague about five minutes previous to this. My thoughts were jumbled and I wasn't properly paying attention to myself or anyone else.

I came across a quote in the JABADAO book today: "This woman's focus has changed so thoroughly from intellect to body that stringing words together has become difficult. She has swapped an intellectual way of being, for a body way" (page 33). I laughed aloud when I read it because it seemed so apt. The lady in question had made this transition intentionally, but I had perhaps begun to make it unconsciously, which is why the kind of work described in the book is so important. Becoming aware of and utilising this body intelligence can help integrate the systems and employ them in a helpful way.

As I was sitting alone and being today, I attempted to be mindfully aware of my frustration, my guilt, my fear and anxiety (two distinct states/thoughts for me) allowing them to be, while listening to what my body needed and permitting it to have that. It meant I stayed in bed for a really long time. It's now 4.30 and I'm still there in fact. I never stay in bed for that long. I sometimes have days where I stay a pretty long time, but eventually my body tells me it's time to do something else. I can feel the time approaching, but it hasn't come yet, and I'm trying to ignore my own judgmental feelings and my feelings about how it would appear to others and not rush my body into doing what it's not ready for.

As I knuckled down and did nothing I found some of the reasons why here was the right place today. They were mostly sensory. It's not that I'm in a dark place mentally and can't "summon the motivation" to get out of bed (don't get me started on people making those kinds of judgments). I am not psychologically bound to being here. Neither am I intensely physically exhausted and thus unable to get up, although I am tired. This time, my body has told me that this is the right place for it to get what it needs right now.

Not laziness. Important work to enable
future functioning. Down with shame.

What it needs is a lot of touch/proprioceptive input. When layered for weight, duvets and blankets give my body the perfect way to receive input to my body's entire touch receptor; its largest single organ, the skin. A friend once told me of a discovery that the more of her that was touching something, the more comfortable and relaxed she felt. I am exactly the same, and the only thing I have found that beats a good pile of duvets is swimming. When I move in water (not necessarily in a conventional "swimming" way, but in the way my body wants to), it moves past every cell of my skin. I find it exceptionally helpful and regulating, and now that I've written that, I've realised that was my first sensory clue to my dysregulation. I noticed the immediate calming effect of being in the hydro pool the day before the other sensory clues and commented on it at the time.

The other reason I needed to be in bed was to regulate via the olfactory sense. I would certainly never have intentionally sought this method of helping myself, but sometimes my body knows more than my brain (body intelligence...). Now I know that this will disgust some of you, but try and let go of your social conditioning for a minute and bear with me. Our own smells and those of our loved ones are some of the earliest developmental experiences for our olfactory sense, and thus easily processed and calming (credit Joanna Grace). I became aware part way through the day that I was frequently seeking this input, putting my fingers to my nose, and even smelling my own shoulders and arms (weird, I know!). When I leant over the other side of the bed I smelt Mr Peggy's smell, and after stroking the Piggy Peggies my left hand smelt of them. All of these were contributing to the gradual regulation of my body.

The final piece of body intelligence I gleaned also came from Hopping Home Backwards. There are little exercises throughout the chapters which aim to help the reader understand better by experiencing what is being discussed. All I could notice was that every time I tried one - they are all about listening to the body and what it wants - all mine wanted was stillness. It didn't lead me into any kind of movement unless there was a part of my body that wasn't touching something and then it asked to curl up smaller or snuggle into a bit of duvet. For me this was surprising. Mine is a body that likes to move. It needs to move. It needs to stretch a lot and it is useless at sitting still. But all it would do today was be still.

And I'm pretty sure it was right. I was right when I communicated that I needed some space. Whatever the Brian said afterwards, and it is shouting loudly as I write this, I did the right thing. And it was right to do the right thing. My brain can sometimes lie to me, but my body knows and tells me the truth. You've done enough. Sit alone and be.

*Hopping Home Backwards, Greenland 2000.

10 Deep Breaths for 10 Days

Day 1 (Monday): I follow Hania Therapies on Facebook as I visit Amy Manancourt for massage and yoga therapy. As I checked my page at lunch time Amy was presenting a challenge to her followers: take 10 deep breaths for yourself each day for ten days and see what happens. It seemed do-able and potentially interesting, so I thought I'd give it a go. I tend to think I'm pretty good now at listening to myself and allowing myself time because I have had to learn to do this in order to keep functioning. So I thought it would be interesting to see whether a little practice like this would change anything much or not. I took my 10 breaths when I usually have a mindful moment at the end of my lunch break and they encouraged me to linger just a little longer appreciating the stillness and my surroundings (though not much longer or I'd be late!).

Day 2 (Tuesday): As I took my 10 deep breaths on Tuesday I was reminded of when I first visited Amy for treatment a year ago. At the end of each yoga posture she would have me take three deep breaths in with a sighing breath out. Although I never mentioned it, I really struggled with this - hearing my own breath was incredibly uncomfortable. It felt painfully vulnerable, as though my most intimate self were laid bare (eye contact can also feel like this). Luckily I trust her a lot! I felt exposed and most definitely not invisible (A desire to be invisible can drive a lot of behaviour in my life. Currently reading a fascinating book on 'Exposure Anxiety' and autism - future blog post in several months when I've finished it...); troubled by my own existence and taking up of space and air. I also had difficulty in those days when yoga required stretching arms out when lying down. I think I felt unprotected, exposed and vulnerable again, and had to work very hard mentally to physically open up form my 'safe' closed posture.

I still experience these difficulties now when I am having a tricky day with Brian, and I have noticed that as soon as the difficult thoughts and feelings are present in my body it begins almost to shrink: to curl in on itself, becoming tense and making itself as small and invisible as possible. My 10 deep breaths helped me realise how far I have come from that first meeting a year ago though: I now notice this feeling in myself because it is not present all the time.

Day 3 (Wednesday):  On Wednesday it was very difficult to allow myself my 10 breaths. I think I got to about three. The day was challenging, the Brian was loud, and I didn't feel like I should be using the air I was breathing. I would be a better person, or have more respect for myself if I could do without that air. This sounds as though I have a terrible opinion of myself and non-existent self-worth, which isn't actually the case, so maybe it's not the best way to express how I sometimes feel, but I can't quite find any words that come closer. Perhaps it's more that fact that concentrating on the breath reminds me that I exist. I am here in this world, taking up space and oxygen. If I breathe, there is undeniably a "me". And on difficult days I find this a troubling concept to swallow. I'd like to be able to choose my visibility or invisibility. [edit: just read a quote from Exposure Anxiety - The Invisible Cage by Donna Williams: "so someone can actually trigger their own Exposure Anxiety simply because they become such an intense audience to themselves." Interesting.]

Day 4 (Thursday): On Thursday I still struggled, but managed to take my 10 deep breaths. Amy suggested on Thursday that we consider what we are grateful for when we find that moment where we give ourselves permission to slow down, listen and simply breathe. I was (and am!) grateful for birdsong, for sunshine and for hope.

Day 5 (Friday): I can't actually remember my 10 breaths on Friday. I thought when I started that I should make notes as I went along, but somehow didn't. I'm working on accepting this imperfection and going with what is. I usually take my 10 deep breaths time lying on my bench on the moor at lunch time, and the day was going OK at that point so I think it was fairly uneventful. The day later became stressful and I used some less constructive coping methods accidentally. I learn from this that I can never become complacent about how I am coping and that I must continue thoughtfully and intentionally looking after myself. I also continue practising acceptance of the me that is right now, with all of its different facets.

Day 6 (Saturday): I didn't get round to doing my 10 deep breaths. It was a busy day, and full of fun and excitement but also brought anxiety and some triggers taking me back to a time in the past where I was very much in the grips of my mental health disorder (particularly in the light of Friday). I stayed on the straight and narrow but my brain was busy! I could have made time for my breaths but each time I had an opportunity I forgot. Which is an insight in itself, really. However, I'm not going to berate myself, feel guilty or let the incompleteness or imperfection of my 10 days spoil things; rather, I notice, accept, and observe what this says about where I am right now.

Day 7 (Sunday): My normal routine has been rather out of the window this week because of Saturday's activities and preparations for the through the week. I always find it a bit difficult to balance weekends when I don't have a normal Saturday and today arrived with the relief of knowing my routine will be back to normal this week tempered by anxiety that I could not quite pin to any specific source. It threatened to overtake me as I searched for the balance between doing and not doing, preparing for the week (physically and mentally) and allowing myself to be however I needed to be. I couldn't settle to anything or find peace. I was pestered by thoughts of negative coping strategies and overwhelmed by all the things I needed to accomplish (including relaxing!).

I had set YouTube to "My Mix" (to create a playlist from music on my playlists or similar) as I wanted to listen to something but couldn't decide what. After a short while I was stopped in my tracks by a piece of music that brings an instant change in my internal state. It was the first piece of music playing when I walked into the JABADAO! training over a year ago, which was a day that changed my life (for more on this and also on Amy Manancourt see this previous post) . That piece has a lot of power for me and it reminded me instantly of my 10 deep breaths. I put down what I was doing, laid on the floor and took my 10 breaths. The breaths led me to my mat and half an hour of yin yoga. I won't claim it solved everything, but I was then able to go and eat something and from there to do a few jobs and then sit down and snuggle with my guinea pigs for a long and settled chill out. The anxiety didn't leave me completely: I'm still sitting with it now, but I got through the day without engaging in too many negatives, managing a few small achievements and having time to hopefully mean I can face the week ahead. I'm trying to be kind to myself about the things I might not get done, or the timescale I might be working to.

Day 8 (Monday): Well I somehow completed the day without disgracing myself in any dramatic way. I used coping strategies that probably aren't helpful in the long run, but they work to get me through what needs to be done. I don't have any other option right now. Despite not being able to allow myself some other things, I did defy the Brian enough to have my 10 deep breaths. Although I experienced a definite resistance to letting go at all, the breaths did help to relax my body and mind a little, for which I was grateful in the context of the day: a moment of slight relief is maybe all I would have been able to accept. On days like that, an attempt to grant myself anything is likely to be rejected as unacceptable because it is too much, too overpowering. Just a little at a time, so as to fool the Brian into not noticing.

Day 9 (Tuesday): Today was similar. I threw out my last lifeline early in the morning, which was caught by a couple of wonderful work Peggies perfectly undramatically and just about got me through a day which was even more challenging than expected. My thought while taking my 10 breaths was to consider carrying the practice throughout the days. I breathe very slowly so ten at a time takes quite a while, but I thought it could help when things are difficult to remember I might be able to stop and take just one deep breath, or even not to stop, but at least to take that breath for myself in the midst of whatever is happening, giving myself space to refocus. Of course I was then too busy the rest of the day to employ this and it only came to mind again once I reached my bed at night!

Day 10 (Wednesday): Reading back yesterday's writing is amusing as I recognise that taking deep breaths is hardly a new idea for somebody that has lived with anxiety for a while! It's the prescribed-to-all first line of defence and doesn't generally cut the mustard for me. But having committed to this practice for these ten days has perhaps brought back its value to me, and allowed me to find what a relaxing deep breath is for me, rather than one that is full of stress. It still isn't going to solve everything for me, but there are times when it could be the ingredient in my coping concoction that just gets me through a particular moment. And of course I know very well that taking a proper time out purely to ground/focus/meditate/yoga/pray/whichever precise emphasis or name you choose to take at a given moment does proportionally more to bring (or perhaps is even exponentially proportionate to) a physical and mental change of state. Can I restructure my days to facilitate more of this??

So I haven't had a perfectly-formed beautiful journey of discovery to share with you from my 10 Deep Breaths for 10 Days, but that is not what it was about - that is just what my perfectionist Brian would like to turn it into. Instead you have an imperfect but real record of my explorations and thoughts, ups and downs. I'm not even going to say successes and failures - just a story of what is. Down with judgment is what I say!

Busy Being OK

I can't really be sitting here by a field, the wind in my hair, birds in the air, while the day is carrying on without me. And I am not there. I am supposed to be there. I have a duty to be there, and The Plan was to be there. I can't not be there. Yet the wind in my hair and the pain in my stomach tell me I am here, and so do the tears as they start to fall. It's a cruel twist that the wind helping to calm me is carrying the voices of the local school children playing outside.

There are difficult conversations to be had, and difficult, heavy decisions to be made. The magnitude of the moment is at once a crushing heaviness and a weightlessness of incomprehension. For now, all I can really understand are the wind, the flight of the birds, the movement of the clouds, the water droplets on the leaves next to me. The tractor in the field behind me turns the soil. I remember how to breathe again.

Now, with the sun on my face and the wind moving my body, I know that for the minute it is fine to be busy being OK. I will sit here for as long as I need to.

I sat next to a field for two hours. Not quite true. I sat next to a field for an hour and a half, then I did some mindful stretching next to a field for half an hour. Then I went for a walk. I crunched leaves, I followed butterflies, I laid on the earth with the sun on my face. I stopped to watch the water sparkle and the dandelion clock fly away on the wind. I made a moment for the tiny blue wildflowers, I smelt the cowpats and I felt the textures under my feet. I let myself be captivated by the dancing and flickering of tiny white leaves bright among the darker trees of the woods. I remembered me. I am very grateful to be able to do these things, no matter what else I can or can not do.

Powerful yoga

This post is a slightly jumbled attempt to collect and process my thoughts on one of those unexpected transient moments that somehow strike deep into your consciousness and capture you, leaving a wash of thoughts and realisations across your mind. It might not all be correct or what I would like to think, but is my observations of what my Brian was doing. I wrote it only for myself but later thought it could be of interest to others in a similar situation.

Moments gone in a breath can leave a wake (on contrail...) to appreciate

My thoughts this weekend have been constantly drawn back to a comment made to me on Friday.

As I left my yoga class on Friday my teacher said I had worked well today. "Very powerful". That comment was unexpected and it had a massive effect on me. There was an instant emotional reaction. I'm not sure exactly what it was, but it was a positive one. I felt seen, I felt valuable, I felt that I had achieved something, that my work was "good"; I felt strong.

At that point I had no idea I was feeling all those things; it just felt good. But it kept coming back to me, and I was intrigued as to why such a small comment could have such a transformative effect. 

This teacher had seen my work. Had noticed, when I was just being quiet and not drawing attention, just working hard for myself. I have always craved that seeing from people. (Interestingly, I generally seek not to be seen: to melt into the background and be anonymous. To only be noticed when I choose, but this is the 'good' type of seeing.) People who pay attention to the things that are less easy to see. These are the ones who want to see, who really care. If you ask for attention everyone will have to give it. If you don't, the ones who are worth it will spot what is going on.

I thought perhaps he had noticed how hard I was working, how well I want to do (which as I write this, I realise is a little ironic in yoga...). Perhaps he notices each week how hard it is for me to relax myself. How I even when I manage, the tension creeps back within minutes or seconds and I have to work so hard to send it away again. Perhaps this is why he is so firm when he tells us to "Let Go". That nothing else matters right now except being here and breathing. Perhaps he knows how safe this makes me feel. Somebody else being so firm, instructing, almost ordering relaxation. I'm good at obedience, and being told to let go means it's actually OK to for once. One time I nearly just burst into tears!

Perhaps he sees some of my story. He once asked quietly about the marks on my arms, enquiring whether I was OK. I told him he didn't need to know; he didn't push for more and we've never spoken about it since, but I often wonder how often he checks to see how clear my arms are, or what he thinks when there are fresh marks.

Sometimes I have wanted to tell him, but I think it's better this way. A kind of silent understanding, and he responds in the best way for me, with strength and push. He understands that I need to work. No coaxing, no gentleness, but humour and strength, with care underneath. It's healing. Talking about it would complicate and mess it up. He's found the way to get to me, and wow, it works wonders. I feel like a different person after his classes.

He's probably completely oblivious!

So that's why commenting had such an effect, and it has had an effect like that before, when he's commented that my work was looking good today. (I think it's partly also that the comments are so minimal. No excess, no gushing or opinions, just a quick fact. Truth - thought through and genuinely about me, but objective and to the point. Feeling but few words. This is not overpowering but empowering, healing and draws me in to want more rather than making me want to push away.)

But why "powerful" in particular? Why was that so huge a reaction?

I often feel powerless? With anxiety, ASC and my mental health problem, it is easy to feel overwhelmed.

It made me feel strong and I don't often feel strong.

Strong is one of the few good feelings I really want, I think. It's not nicey nicey, smarmy and wishy washy. It's definite. A positive attribute I could bear to have. I can respect it in myself.

A first step towards self-respect??

It said I had done a good job. I really like doing a good job, and somebody knowing I've done a good job, but not because I've told them, and neither have they told anybody else.

It acknowledged my work to discipline my body and mind. Part of this is the being seen and part that I like to have control over myself. I often feel out of control so this is a bit like a drug to me. Is it OK to get this from yoga or is it feeding the control addiction?

I was receiving respect from him and this was good. Not just nice comments but true seeing, understanding and respecting.