Tag Archives: curiosity

The Games We Played

Growing up in the 70’s & 8o’s we always had one cupboard stuffed with board games. Piled up boxes splitting at the corners and bulging at the seams because the components had been hurriedly shoved inside at the close of the previous encounter. There was no replicating that first fresh glimpse of a new board game… everything sitting pristinely in its own compartment… obediently claiming a space.

The plastic playing pieces separated from the dice next to the the cards immaculately ordered with satisfying straight edges next to the board folded perfectly at the crease sitting neatly on top of the marbles or the straws or the money arranged by amount and colour or the spinner with the arrow still firmly intact.

After that very first ‘opening’ inevitable packaging chaos ensued. It didn’t matter how hard you tried… things would never fit back into that box in quite the same way ever again.

But that was all part of the fun.

Little did I know that the many hours wiled away playing those games were prepping me for my uncertain future as an adult.

TWISTER – awkward entanglements.

MONOPLOY- property dilemmas (should we or shouldn’t we?) and the terrifying white envelopes containing those first bills (Really? I have NO money in the bank? Didn’t I just pass GO??)

CLUEDO (CLUE in the USA) – the toxicity of gossip and the constant speculation about the lives of others, “Do you really think Miss Scarlet did it in the kitchen with the led pipe? Just last week we were hanging out in the library with Professor Plum and she was going on and on about the candlestick. Who knew?!”

OPERATION – the confirmation of my lack of hand/eye co-ordination and my leaning towards psychotherapy. All I really wanted was to ask that poor, naked guy, “So tell me, how do you feel about this relentless bodily intrusion?”

MASTERMIND –  how to communicate with people who like to keep things hidden.

FRUSTRATION (TROUBLE in the USA) – the reminder that  life is just one great big pop-o-matic dome and you can waste forever wishing for a 6. Even so… your only choice is to keep on popping.

CONNECT FOUR – the satisfaction when things fall into place.

And finally KER PLUNK – my most beloved game. Ker Plunk taught me that sometimes you just have to take a risk. Pull that straw. Hold your breath.

And wait to hear the marbles…

What memories do you have of board games you played as a child? Write for ten minutes. Roll the dice and see what arrives… share in the comments!

 

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A Question In The Air

I’m back. Extrordianry how disconnecting for a week can leave you feeling so much more connected.

My computer is still acting skittish though. Maybe he doesn’t trust me now. Lilly, my dog, is behaving a bit oddly as well. I’ve always heard that dogs have no memory and live like mindful monks – only in the moment.  But I’m not so sure.  I think Lilly remembers being left behind.  Her  wistful expression tells me there is a question in the air.

“Will you leave me again?”

We bank memories. Store them in secret hiding places. Fill the pockets of our psyches with fistfuls of experiences. Sometimes they get buried because there are so many being gathered and crammed into tight spaces. Spines. Temples. Guts. Muscles. We hold memories in our bodies and they determine our maps.

Each of us becomes an atlas… alive with continents of feeling and oceans of recollection.

When I was in Mexico I discovered a plant by the name of Mimosa Pudica. It has a delicate fern like leaf, not dissimilar to many other plants, the difference being this plant appears to have a memory.  When you touch it, even lightly, the leaves tilt up and inwards, like finger tips meeting in prayer. Don’t hurt me.  The mimosa is programmed to protect itself. Pudica in Latin means “shy, shrinking or bashful”. Apparently the Mimosa is also referred to as The Sensitive Plant or the Touch Me Not.

Isn’t that wonderfully appropriate?

Sensitivity is often regarded in our society as a weakness.

“Oh… he/she is soooo sensitive…” as if the word itself is a tender spot that turns a tongue painfully pink when spoken.

On the contrary, I truly believe that sensitivity is a blessing. But for those of us with the label it can also be cumbersome. Like the Mimosa plant it might result in excessive self preservation.  A closing up too soon. A touch me not mentality, when in truth we are longing to be touched. Somewhere, deep down, we hear the echoes of distress. We remember stings and burns and bites, and we employ all our energies to prevent repeat performances.

I was entranced by the Mimosa plant.  I kept brushing against the leaves. I kept watching them close.  I kept imagining that somehow I could entice this organism to trust again.  To remain receptive. I didn’t. Eventually I wandered back to the beach, with a new resolve. I can’t alter the DNA of the Mimosa, which has clearly evolved with a greater purpose, but I can continue to lightly retrace my own steps.

Explore the contours of my memory map, through writing and reflecting.

And in doing so, recognise the times I flinch and wilt, anticipating the same hurtful outcome, instead of remaining open and inviting in a fresh response.

Write ten lines beginning every line with the words “I remember…”  Stay aware of the memories that trigger you to curl inwards. Create a poem of floating moments.  If you want more… zoom in on one of those memories and flesh it out. Write for ten more minutes. Be brave. Share in the comments. I’m listening…

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SLOW DOWN and BREATHE


Each week a Write To Be You Reflective Writing Workshop has a different theme.

Yesterday’s group were reminded by a big sign taped to my front door to SLOW DOWN and BREATHE. Sounds easy enough, but can be hard to achieve when you are accustomed to speeding through life. Navigating traffic.  Rushing through ceaseless emails. Skating down supermarket aisles watching the clock. Ending a conversation because you have to move on… to another conversation.  Gulping down food. Forgetting to drink. Forgetting to pee. Skipping meals because time is of the essence. Rushing to work. Rushing to school. Rushing home from work.  Rushing home from school. Are you tired yet?! I am!

The irony is, we lose the essence of time by not savouring it.  All of this urgency to make it through yet another day steals from us the chance to loiter in our lives. To linger in a subtle moment and expand it with our undivided attention.

At the end of yesterday’s workshop, as the group were settling down for their guided mediation, I noticed the UPS driver walking towards my front door.  I could see him through the glass.  I’ve only ever exchanged a pleasant greeting with him and accepted packages. I know nothing of his life, but I don’t envy his schedule. An endless litany of deliveries.

He paused at the sign on the door and left the box at the threshold. In my fantasy, he ambled leisurely back to his truck, listening to the rustle of the wind in the bamboo leaves, becoming aware of the gradual rise and fall of his rib cage, as he too had been reminded to SLOW DOWN and BREATHE.

I encourage you to take a moment to linger. Examine an object you use or pass everyday with little to no thought. Direct your attention to that object and reflect on it and then write about it in detail. Ten minutes is all you need.  So many people can’t manage to slow down, even for ten minutes. Try it! And then try again tomorrow and the next day and the next day.

Breathe deeply as you write.

Who knows, even as I post this, the UPS driver might be signing up to a yoga class. Stretching his body into downward dog. Enjoying the citrusy sting of a lemon on his tongue.

We all need a reminder…

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Strangling Stereotypes

Photograph by Chloe Green 2012

Meeting someone at a party or social occasion and revealing to them that you’ve trained to be a psychotherapist, usually evokes a discernible reaction.

Not always a pleasant one.

Scenarios I’ve encountered:

The Escape Artist likely to be thinking, “Oh dear god, get me away from her quickly! She’s definitely  dull, eerily earnest, and will probably spend the whole evening analysing my every move.”

The Dissenter“Isn’t psychotherapy merely a self indulgent pursuit with the sole intent of avoiding accountability and blaming your parents for everything?”

The Macho Man, “I talk sports, stocks, sex and statistics in no apparent order. Feelings are for females.”

The Veteran, “Been there. Done that. Have had sixteen therapists since I was sixteen. I know so much I could be YOUR therapist.  I mean – seriously!”

And finally The Virgin, “Wow! That’s amazing! It must be fate that I ended up meeting you tonight, because I’ve always thought about seeing a therapist and I have like a million stories that I think you’re going to be really interested in…”
One of the first clients I ever treated was a woman about 20 years older than me.  When I entered the waiting room to greet her, she dropped her jaw in disbelief.

“The therapy is with YOU?” 

I’m not sure what she was expecting. Maybe a few more wrinkles. A flowing cardigan and jade beads. I obviously didn’t meet her expectation of what a ‘proper’ therapist was supposed to look like.  She held a stereotype in her head, as we all have the tendancy to do.  Sometimes it is much easier to summarise people in one dimension (like I  have playfully done with my party goers above) than to stay receptive to the complexity of  all human beings, regardless of race, gender, nationality, religion, and even profession.

Stereotypes strangle.

It turned out that despite being in my thirties, with a leaning towards Death Cab for Cutie and a cupboard full of skinny jeans, I was still a good listener. And the client eventually realized that.

Writing and Psychotherapy require similar skills. If you are writing fiction, you owe it to your characters not to sum them up in a sentence (as fun and easy as that can be) Your characters should become your clients.  They need to be the ones at the party, keeping you in the corner, spilling their histories. Stay curious. Keep your ears open. Observe their body language and their gestures. Find out about their parents.  It does matter Mr Dissenter – I promise.

And if you are writing about yourself, then you have the pleasure and the pain of internal investigation. The two endeavours are bursting with benefits. And while each come with a handful of hazards, ultimately they share the same joyful purpose: to artfully activate transformation, leaving the recipient altered and opened, in ways both subtle and sweeping.

Write about stereotypes. Are you stereotyped in your world? Have you encountered obstacles as a result? OR Write about writing. What are your tricks for ‘fleshing’ out your characters? How do you avoid the pitfalls of flat packing and build more dimensional creatures instead? SHARE YOUR FINDINGS HERE! I’m the Good Listener, remember?!
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Goldilocks and the Three Apples

Goldilocks bolted down her block, her heart beating rapidly.  She was on her way to the mall with a fist full of crumpled money and a head full of chocolate brown Ugg Boots.  So what if her mother was expecting her to return home with five rotisserie chickens for her granny’s book club?  She had alternate plans and a vast imagination. She’d simply explain to her mother that a lone dark wolf, also apparently hosting a book club that afternoon, had unexpectedly apprehended her, grabbing the chickens and fleeing with such speed that he’d flown right out of his boots.

Chocolate brown UGG boots to be precise.  Delicious!

Talking of, she was a little hungry. She’d rushed out this morning neglecting to eat breakfast.  Not surprisingly, Golidilocks skidded to a cartoon halt as she passed a neighbour’s house and was arrested by a comforting, oaty smell wafting from under their front door.  Her mother liked to call this ‘getting distracted’ but Goldiocks preferred to think of it as ‘staying curious’.

She knew the house belonged to The Bears.  She had often seen them sitting in their minivan programming their sat nav.

Goldilocks decided to stop for a moment. Just a wee moment. Her stomach was leading the way. She pressed her nose to the window mesmerised. All three Bears were at the breakfast table.  Daddy Bear on his MacBook Air, Mummy Bear on her iPad and Baby Bear on his iPod Touch.

They were so engrossed, they didn’t notice Goldilocks in the window, her face like a flattened pancake.
They were so engrossed, they had left three untouched, tasty, nourishing bowls of porridge growing lonely and cold in front of them.
They were so engrossed, that they paid no attention when Goldilocks ever so quietly opened the front door and silently slid into the house and under the table.

First, she coiled her arm up like a snake and snuck a smidgen of porridge from Daddy Bear’s bowl  (he was scrolling through pictures on Facebook and feeling mildly envious of Larry’s new young wife.)

Goldilocks spat it out! Yuck!  There was nothing that irked her more than lukewarm, lumpy porridge!

She scooched over to Mummy Bear to try her luck.  Mummy Bear was busy tweeting a picture of her porridge to her 9,781 followers.

Goldilocks gagged. Another mouthful of disgusting tepid goo.

Lastly, Goldilocks crawled towards Baby Bear, who was playing Angry Birds and looking just as furious.  She reached up her hand and dipped in the spoon.  When the porridge arrived on her tongue – it was perfect.  Just the right temperature.  Creamy and delicious.  She rescued the bowl and gobbled the remains, savouring the milky warmth.

When Goldilocks finished, she tugged at Baby Bear’s shoelace. Perhaps the Wolf with the chicken fetish and the chocolate brown Uggs could wait for another hour or so? Baby Bear slammed down his iPod and grunted, but when he saw Goldilocks under the table clutching the empty bowl, he smiled mischievously. At last, a real person to play with who didn’t have an annoying squawk and a constantly furrowed brow. He hadn’t wanted to eat his porridge anyway.  The only thing he’d asked for that morning was – an Apple.

THE END

The moral of this story? Keep your imagination limber. Stay Curious.  Seek out human connection.  And most importantly – DON’T LET YOUR PORRIDGE GROW COLD AND LUMPY!

Writing Prompt for today: Recreate a mini fairytale.  Be adventurous – let the story lead you. And /or write about curiosity.  Do you have enough of it?  Are you curious about the world around you?  Other people?  What would you like to find out more about? Curiosity fuels both our writing and our sense of self.

I’m loving your stories and responses in the comments section, and I’ve no doubt that each one spurs on the next.  Keep them coming! Everything you send is received with gratitude and interest.

 

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