Our virtual universe and TED

The internet is a world that is so vast that I'm sometimes baffled by the possibility of so much information, thinking, humour, personality or connection that it creates. It's like trying to quantify or understand where the universe starts and stops.

I love that there's so much out there, and occasionally lose hours to a brief question following whatever Google throws at me. There also times where there's just too much choice and I find myself simply browsing those handful of websites I visit daily.

I've recently added a new site to the places I visit often - http://www.ted.com/. I'm sure many of you will have encountered the site before, but if you haven't TED is a not for profit organisation founded on 'ideas worth sharing'. They are, and I'm sharing them here too. The site is simple, attractive and a world of thinking, laughing, challenging talks. Each talk is posted as a video, so you can see the person behind the words too.

I love that the content is searchable by categories beyond an academic topic; where you can visit those that are 'inspiring' or 'ingenious'. I've found myself listening to talk of physics or global challenges or love. Often these are things that I'd never pick a paper or book to seek ideas on, not even realising I was interested. It is a place of joy and debate, of power and honesty.

In the past day TED talks have made me wonder, smile and cry.

This talk on letter writing below made me think of my father: what do I keep of him?

It also makes me glad of the letters my Grandpa wrote to me every week whilst I was at boarding school, never expecting a response. They arrived every Friday, with two second class stamps so I could write back if I found a quite moment and write to someone else too. I still read these letters from time to time. And he is back with me, in his careful copperplate script. Written with effort as his eyesight faded in his late eighties. I treasure those envelopes and the love contained in them.

This one from Neil Pasricha is a gentle and funny reminder that, no matter what, there are things in our lives that are joyful and worth stopping still for a moment to observe and appreciate.

And one final one from Chris Jordan, whose profile quotes this simple thought;

"As you walk up close, you can see that the collective is only made up of lots and lots of individuals. There is no bad consumer over there somewhere who needs to be educated. There is no public out there who needs to change. It's each one of us." Chris Jordan on Bill Moyers Journal

I can only encourage you to take virtual wander, and lose yourself in this beautiful, funny, courageous place.

Lost and found

I'm sitting in front of my laptop having missed two calls from the musician. I don't know what he wants. I'm not sure if he knows either.


I've had a sober evening driving, and he is catching up on festive cheer having worked through Christmas and Hogmanay. His tongue loosened by alcohol, he has been playing a risky game this evening. I don't know what to do.

It worries me because I don't want to be the other, complicit in a betrayal. It worries me because he reaches a part of me so rarely seen by anyone and I am glad. Tempted. Scared. Excited.

He does not try to seduce me.

He tells me again and again that he misses me. I ask what I am to do with these words of his. There is no answer.

Comfortable amongst friends he pays me a little too much attention. He brushes my hair from my face in front of other people. When I leave to smoke, he follows. He kisses me. I do not reach out to him. I want to.

I am scruffy in jeans and jumper when his beautiful partner appears, lean and glamorous in fake fur and a dress.

He follows me to the door. I am only leaving because I am scared of these feelings being exposed. I ask him where he's going, he simply says he wants to be with me. I brush off his 'I wish....' statements. He can't be with me.

'I miss you'

'Me too'

A peck goodnight.

A voice emerges from the dark street. Someone calls him by his name. Has his acquaintance heard the declarations of want, need? These are not words my words, at least. Mine are only those of 'I know', 'what am I supposed to say?'

My phone has been ringing in my bag as I drive home. I send an innocuous text. A holding statement: neutral. Has the acquaintance asked a question? Has someone else seen our legs too close under the table, his hands reaching for me? Where is she as he is phoning me?

It is dangerous. It is emotional. It is not a flirtation. It is soulful and full of sadness. Snippets of each others lives and dreams learned over a couple of years and only now connecting in this dance of the past few months. A little joy in the moments when we find each other.

We don't call or text or email or make plans, knowing an affair is not what's wanted. There is no hiding behind excuses or lies. We circle round our folk, mostly in a friend's bar which has become a home for this lovely group of waifs and strays.

My phone rings. He has slipped away to tell me he misses me. To tell me it may take a long time, but the risks are his and he will bear the weight of the hurt that may come, that he wants to be with me, loves me. He chides me for protecting him, for pushing him away from something that could easily become an explosive situation. He takes responsibility for whatever this is.

He tells me he loves everything about me, stealing these moments of simple glances. He tells me I am beautiful. There is much silence. I can hear him breathe and sigh. I miss him too.

He is under my skin, in my head, thoughts of him are part of my day and I am part of his.

I want someone to whom I can give myself wholly. I cannot do this with him whilst he is not mine. I cannot, will not.

The choice is his. He will only be welcome in my heart if he is free to be there.

I want him and I must find a way not to.

I am angry at the situation, myself, him. It would be so very much easier if nothing had ever been said. I try to be angry with him for making it this way.

I want to be angry with him, but with each time his eyes reach beyond my masks and fear, my resolve weakens.

We say goodnight at last. I do not know when these words will come again, but I know they will.

He's found me, found the me that exists in these words and less often in reality. My layers are stripped away and he is there with me.

Letter to an ex flatmate, former friend

I don't know what to do. You write or email every few months. Your last, a month ago, telling me you had dreamt about me twice. I don't respond. I don't know how to.


Still, you keep trying.

You don't understand why we don't speak any more, and I doubt you ever will. I wish you could, but you are too self absorbed.

I was excited when you moved to Scotland. I looked forward to getting you back. I looked forward to rediscovering the fun and talk of hopes, politics, dreams, men and history that we'd had as flatmates, university chums from the start. I introduced you to my network that you adopted as your own. I found you a room in a house with my friends. It was wonderful to have you back.

I listened to you for hours with patience and kindness as your relationships fell to pieces, minor blips happened at work, all sorts of 'dramas' occurred.

I didn't mind listening and counselling you. We trusted each other and it's what friends are for. But, eventually it, you, became a burden when I couldn't even carry the weight of my own problems.

When my life changed, you'd ask after my sick parents but you didn't ask me how I was. Not that I remember anyway. I moved to my home city and we spoke often. You visited me too.

When you did come, you could only talk about yourself. You couldn't listen.

I was falling to pieces and you didn't see that one of your best friends was coming apart at the seams. I don't know if I knew how to tell you. I still struggle to tell people now when I'm all at sea. That is not your fault.

I tried to tell you I needed you, and you didn't understand what that meant. I tired to explain why I was upset with you, you couldn't see my point of view. I was always the strong one, the care taker. The shoes didn't fit the other way round.

It has been two and half years since I last saw you. Less since we last spoke. I miss you, but I don't know if I will ever write back.

I think about you often.

'I tell you everything that's really nothing'

I have to thank my fellow blogger over at http://www.upliftantidote.co.uk/wordpress/ for posting Charles C Finn's poem 'Please Hear What I Am Not Saying'


It's not the best crafted piece of poetry the world has ever seen, but is spoke very strongly to me. It describes so well the mask I wear every day and don't have words for. In so many ways this blog is the place where I attempt to speak out of the real, frightened me. Counselling has taught me that I need to find the integrity to bring the inside and outside lives of me together, and I'm trying.

I suceed sometimes, more than I used to, but often the vulnerable me only spills over in moments of anger, fear and shame and not yet in the postiive way I need it to (as posts of the last few days testify). I'll get there one day.

I do need to talk and not just make noise to fill the spaces when I don't know how to say what I actually want to. It is my responsibility to sort it out, but knowing an audience listens helps. For those of you who read these ramblings and from time to time offer your validation, you're helping me to be honest and find that integrity. I am grateful for it. Thank you.


The original is here: http://www.poetrybycharlescfinn.com/pleasehear.html

Buttons and explosions

I hate that I sometimes react wholly inappropriately to small things. Sometimes a button is pressed and off I go.

Yesterday a friend made a perfectly reasonable observation about something, and off I went. Instead of taking the comment as it was intended I ran off in a completely different direction with it. At least inthis occasion I was tearful rather than anything else.

I can be overwhelmed by the strength of my feelings sometimes, my reactions shock me. Sometimes I am just numb.  At least now I have the ability to take a step back, understand that I am reacting not to what has just happened but to a lifetime of experiences. And I can hold my hands up and say sorry, explain a bit.

I'm better at sharing what I'm feeling rather than defending myself from a imagined enemy, or withdrawing.

I hate it. When I'm on a low ebb I'll fight back when actually what I need is a hug and a listening ear. I just don't know how to ask for that. Sometimes I just need a bit of reassurance, to know that I'm cared for and that it is only a passing storm.

It's getting better, and will continue to do so, but I'm not there yet.

Children - To be or not to be?

I've talked occasionally about whether I want kids or not. My last post, on a cheerier note, mentioned it too. Writing it and time with my nephew has made me think a little about whether I'm be completely honest on this subject – with you and with myself.


I've been vague with 'if it happens, it happens. If not, that's ok' type comments.

I'm not sure that's true. It's what I tell myself.

In about a month and a half, i'll be 35. I'd always imagined I'd have settled down, married, be having a family now. It hasn't happened.

I don't let myself dream about being a wife and a mother because it seems so far away from reality right now. It's something that, courtesy of time and biology, seems to be slipping from my grasp. It means I have no choice but to consider what an alternative life might look like, and live the one I have as best I can.

The truth is, even if it scares me, I would love all of it.

Time to check in

I step outside for a cigarette, for one reason only. To stand awhile on French soil.

The truth is, I could be anywhere.

The airport is a concrete sprawl of car parks, numbered sections and suitcases wheeling past. I know I'm back in Europe only because the skies are grey and it is cold.

I know I am not at home, because there it would be dark at 4pm.

I know I am not in Scotland, because the road signs are for Paris.

I am in transit, in more ways than one. I return inside to drink machine made coffee and browse perfume counters before joining another queue.

Anywhere.

Too many questions

Two weeks ago I left the pub after one drink, and my sister's boyfriend behaving like a spoilt child. I haven't been back since.


It's Friday night and I'm home alone after an exhausting couple of weeks. Glass of red wine, too much to eat, cigarettes, junk TV and some domestic pottering.

Despite phone calls from three of my usual Friday evening companions, I just don't want to go out. I've made lame excuses. I can't figure out if I'm tired or grumpy or worse. I worry when I get into this hiding mode that I'm on the verge of wanting to stay away and wallowing. Is my response my response to the idiot boyfriend reasonable or rational? Am I playing out one of those old stories of my child hood again and not recognising it?

I can't find the root of this. I wanted those phone calls, and still rejected my friends. I wanted to know they cared, and miss me, and still I am here not there. Why?

The longer I leave it before I return to their company, the harder it will be to go back to the fold without creating something of nothing. It wasn't nothing though. It mattered to me. It just doesn't matter to them. I am making the boys uncomfortable by my absence. If I were there it wouldn't be an issue, by not being I am shining a spotlight on an argument so far unresolved and making them complicit.

Am I punishing them for not standing up for me when I needed it? Would I have accepted help if they had? Probably not. The reality is, I am the only loser.

How do I regain myself and let it go?

A question

There are a millon sentimental quotations out there on the subject of regret (better to regret the things you have done than the things you haven't, better to have loved and lost etc.....). I wonder if people believe them, or if it's what we tell ourselves to dull the pain of loss or stupidity or moments of weakness?

I'm not sure I believe people who tell me they have no regrets.Who are they trying to convince, me or themselves?

Is there anybody out there?

I kind of underestimated the importance of spirituality to me in connecting with other people, and writing last night has reminded of its impact for me in relationships and attraction.


Of the encounters below, I've had two conversations on the subject – from completely different perspectives. One with a man who, in his early forties, has decided that after all he does believe in God, and hasn't quite decided what that means for him yet. He is open to exploration and acknowledges his views will grow and change.

The other was an adamant atheist. An atheist who was scornful about those who do hold religious views, have a faith or any kind of spirituality or curiosity. He's made his judgement, and believes himself to be correct and all others wrong. This was a huge turn off.

Until my parents became ill about five years ago, and caring responsibilities kicked in with full force, I did believe in God. I haven't ever rejected God, but instead found myself abandoned. That sense I had of a dialogue disappeared. I was upset by this, and sad that when I needed someone, something, anything to bring relief to my life that that solace and refuge had gone.

I'm not a great fan of religious dogma and I've always struggled with the church as a formal institution (although I do appreciate the community that it offers). Over the years I've explored my faith (or lack thereof), read and discussed the issue with many. I've engaged with it. I've listened and I've challenged my views. I respect the choices and beliefs of others. It is not for me to judge, which is why the staunch atheist's dismissals irritated me. It told me more about him as a person and his limited degree of empathy than many conversations might have.

The uncertain believer was open to listening, sharing, acknowledging and not judging, which in itself surprised me. I've known him for many years, ordinarily he's man of very strong views - politically and otherwise.

So, where do I stand on all this now? I would loosely describe myself as Christian Humanist.....it's the closest I can get to something that makes sense. But, labels are only labels.

A sense of spirituality exits for me, in that I do think about these things and I'm overawed by moments in life that go beyond and by beauty in its many shapes. These moments, however, are often very ordinary.

If spirituality is a journey of understanding, seeking wisdom, value and hope, looking harder and deeper and acknowledging that there is more than the individual, then it is important to me and the connections that I make.

The 'Christian' simply acknowledges the faith that I once had and the cultural paradigm I grew up in. I also think Jesus seems like he was a good guy, divine or otherwise. As a friend puts it 'Jesus was a social worker'. I like that.

Humanism makes sense to me, although I'm agnostic rather than atheist. It is postive and inclusive, seeking out meaning, purpose and takes responsibility for the common good. Weirdly, I quite like going to church. I like the quiet meditative moments, beautiful buildings and the singing.

So, I guess I'm open to sharing my life with people of all views,as long they respect mine, but not those who belittle. Bigots – it seems atheists can be as closed as any religious fundamentalist - are not welcome in my life. That particular atheist would be shocked to learn that's how he appears.

Deaf Ears

I don't need to have the last word. I don't need to be right or wrong. I just want to be understood. I sometimes wonder if I'm speaking a different language. I am trying to stop editing my words so that I do not offend, or upset, or challenge losing my voice along the way. I am trying to be truthful.

My mother has spent my life telling me that 'if I say black is white, black is white'. Any attempt at putting across another opinion or asking her to see someone else's view met with that helpful remark. I learned that it was her way or no way at all.

I didn't shut up, I kept fighting, kept trying to be heard, kept getting shot down. I was relived when I left home. I was tired of trying. Tired of fighting. Tired of not being heard. I learned to save my energy for the battles I could fight and hid the rest.

In all those years, I don't know I ever told my mother about the name calling, and the like. I remember being told about sticks, and stones....' Perhaps I did try. I know I stopped telling her things. A recent conversation has shown she hasn't got any idea of quite how much I put up with, and probably never will.

Any argument or discussion where I feel I am not being understood still stirs up that urge to fight back and be acknowledged in some way. I am thirteen again.

If someone tells me 'there's nothing else to say' or 'let's leave it there' or 'let's agree to disagree' or, or, or.....

It lights an old touch paper. These words translate in my head as 'your views or feelings are unimportant, I don't care, I don't want to know what you think, I don't respect you, I don't love you'.

I fight back harder than I should because I am thirteen again, not thirty something, and I am trying to be heard. All I want is for someone to ask me 'what do you think?' or 'I don't understand, why don't you tell me?'. Is that so much to ask? Perhaps it my responsibility to be more eloquent.

But am I thirteen again, and hurt, and scared of everything slipping through my fingers. I fight back in a fit of unreasonable proportion. Or, I am silent. Choosing my battles. Or, I am silent. Scared of my vulnerability.

She still doesn't listen.

An introduction

Some time ago I explained my reasons for writing here. My blog is anonymous to all, apart from the friend who's been mentioned here previously. It is a space for thoughts I have nowhere else to put or struggle to say out loud. It is a diary of sorts and a world apart from reality.

Somewhere along the lines I became a person who performed for those around me. I learned to conform to expectations, learned to please, and hid myself away. I felt like a fraud.

After crumbling last year, I started counselling to help me sort through the quagmire of broken bits. I could never have anticipated the journey that process began. It was a journey that started with external influences on my life, and then turned inwards. Through turning inwards, I am beginning to learn to share what I found there. I'm learning to give a bit of myself, take risks with my emotions and let people see the 'weak' version of me. The two selves may emerge one day as a whole, mask removed and integrity in place. I hope so. I'm trying.

A conversation has made me want to share a little of the external self here too, and give this a context.

In real life I work in the not for profit sector. I am privileged to work in a world of passionate and committed people who really do believe they can change the world bit by bit (so do I).

I am an outspoken, clever, compassionate girl with good friends. I am active and busy. I volunteer. I play the fiddle. I have fun and interesting times.

All sounds a bit conceited. The next bit? Sentimental, trite perhaps.

But, I'm a bit like a three legged dog. I live life and pursue my career reasonably well, but I often stumble. I am inhibited by the part of me that is more present in these pages than the everyday me. They are both real and true, but quite different. The scared, vulnerable, hurt me is here without the façade.

Not embracing the blogging 'me' has caused me to damage many things. I am a procrastinator as I'm scared of success/failure. I argue over things that are seemingly insignificant because a button has been pushed by someone to whom it is invisible and fires up things in me that are terrified. I run from emotional intimacy because I'm scared that if someone truly knows me they will dislike what's on the inside and on, and on, and on....

I am doing the best I can to reconcile the two. I will get there. I could not continue as I was. So, some days are good, some days are bad, sometimes I just want to record a moment in my day. For years I have told everyone what I thought, not how I feel. It is time for this to change. These pages are part of my journey.

I neither need nor seek pity or praise, just somewhere to explore.

One day, I would like to learn to write.

Small steps and revelations

Last night I did something that scared me, and something important. I let someone in the real world, a friend, read what is written here. It another small step towards letting the world see who I am, truly and not the facade that is so often presented, or the person who tries to please, placate, support or give people what they want. There is an honesty in it, and my words found acceptance and support – I think. Letting people see me as I am, exposed and vulnerable, terrifies me but each time it happens I am finding my way towards a more satisfying existence.

Sometimes I wonder why I do this, blog that is. Two reasons, I guess. Firstly, an outlet for thoughts I have nowhere else to put and, secondly, to remember. I can't bear to read the diaries of my youth. They are few though. I don't own a camera. So much of my life is unrecorded and I have either forgotten how I got from one place to the next, or I look back with the proverbial rose tinted glasses or with sadness. Those perceptions of my past have an unreality. I hope, one day, I will be able to read over these words and recognise things as they actually are now and not what I thought they were looking back from a different paradigm.

Hopefully I will see myself for who I am and what I've become, and remember those who have touched my life along the way. I am blessed that they are many in number, and include some very special people. I am blessed that I am loved. I need to remind myself of that in dark days and memories, and in the happy and sad times that come along. I am no longer ashamed of myself, and trust that openness and honesty will enable me to find the intimacy and companionship I seek from friends, family and lovers. I want to give them something of me, as they allow me to see them. Small steps and revelations.

More of the past

Here is a woman I didn't know. She was my great grandmother and I bear her name. My mother thinks we look alike. I can't judge. There seem to be many mysteries in the communal past of our family, are they actually secrets, or is it just that we can never know everything? I am sometimes shocked by words that come out of my mouth. Shocked because they are not my words, they are my mother's. I, like a parrot, occasionally find myself speaking phrases, commands, opinions that are not my own. How many of these came from her mother, and her mother's mother? Are there family phrases and opinions that still remain which came from the woman in this photo? Words distilled down the years gaining strength or becoming weaker in an intergenerational game of chinese whispers.