Blog

  • Dramatic Trauma

    I’ve always been curious about the impact of our perceptions on the reality we seem to contend with. This became even more prominent in a recent discussion regarding the way in which we perceive or interpret various experiences and how it subsequently affects us.  One thing I realised is that I don’t recall ever looking at any of the many colourful experiences in my life and feeling distinctly overwhelmed or traumatised by it. The thought of it being traumatic never entered my mind.

    Sure, there would be times when I would describe the experiences of others as traumatic events in their lives, but I think there is a very important difference between how we describe something for effect, versus how we experience or internalise it. This rings true to my views about labels and how that also drives conditioned responses within us. Without intending to rob others of the gravity of their life experiences, I would suggest that the moment our internal conversations suggest to us that we’re experiencing a traumatic event rather than just a challenging event, it reinforces the sensations associated with feeling attacked, as opposed to raising our awareness of our response options instead.

    It reminds me of moments when the responses of others towards an event in my life seemed to have heightened my awareness to the impact of it compared to how I felt a moment before they said anything. This has happened to me often regarding death or near death experiences. I would cope with the reality quite well, but would be jolted into a deeper sense of loss or betrayal when I saw the emotion in the faces of others that were witnessing the events unfold.

    It’s like the contagion of a yawn. We tend to feel a need for rest after watching someone else going through a really hearty yawn, even though there was absolutely nothing wrong with our energy levels before that. I think this is the same response we have towards people that express raw emotion around us. We’re drawn to it like a moth to the flame. Sometimes it grounds us in compassion, but often it sucks us into the victim state that makes it that much more difficult for us to emerge from it. More destructive than this is when we find a sense of comfort in the sympathy from others that dwarfs any level of comfort we experienced in the normal course of our lives. That’s when the weak and neglected among us play to the sympathies of others and remain bogged down in a phase of their lives that ultimately defines their existence, not because the event itself is too traumatic to let go of, but the attention and significance it afforded them is too rare for them to want to give up. Rare in the context of their lives.

    It’s that dramatic emotional response that leaves a lasting impression. It makes a mediocre life noteworthy,  and when that fleeing moment threatens to pass, a cycle is spawned where we seek opportunities to create triggers for yet more sympathy because as long as others sympathise, the true frailty of our lives would escape us as long as we enjoy the sympathetic embrace of others. That embrace tells us that it’s ok to be broken. It tells us that simply surviving is a triumph in itself, and that any lack of conviction or courage to move beyond that point is completely understandable.

    That’s when we fail ourselves, and we fail others. When we gauge the intensity of the struggle of our lives relative to the weaknesses of others. It’s for this reason that we need to look towards those that rose above it rather than those that coped. Unfortunately, our celebration of mediocrity makes it increasingly difficult to tell the difference. Couple that with our innate fear of exposing ourselves to the same opportunity that earned us betrayal and you have a perfect recipe for a victim’s regret that is despised on the inside and dressed as strength on the outside. If only we put as much energy into moving on, life would be so much more endearing.

  • Instinctively Rigid

    It occurred to me earlier this week that instinct is what grounds me in my old ways. It seemed like a strange truth at first, if a truth at all, but the more I grappled with it the more it became clear to me that instinct, although often the result of years of experience and practice, can often hold me back from growing. But like pretty much everything in life, there are no absolutes. So what then would be the difference between those instincts that hold me back, versus those that propel me forward?

    I believe it lies in defining the focus of what I wish to hone as a preferred response. Whenever that response was focused on my external reactions, including the manner in which I verbalised my thoughts, then it most often developed into instinctive responses to external challenges that caused me to cement my position very convincingly without giving me reason to pause for long enough to consider if there may be merit in what I was challenged with. I guess it’s the difference between having a prepared response for a similar situation, versus an assumed response for tokens of a similar situation. The difference is subtle, but important.

    It’s the same as wanting  to raise your hand to defend yourself from a perceived threat of an incoming blow when all that was done was someone standing close to you wanting to reach out and remove some lint from your shirt. Because we weren’t paying attention, the hand gesture appeared as a potential threat and instinctively we responded by going into attack mode. Fortunately, in such a situation it’s easy to very quickly realise that the attack is not in fact an attack, so we are able to restrain ourselves before striking at the person for their kind gesture. That’s the easy part.

    The difficulty lies in our instincts that are informed by the internal conversations that we have. The smallest trigger from someone that invokes memories of a hardship or pain that left a scar we wish to hide from the world results in us responding to the storyline in our heads, with just enough attention being paid to the conversation at hand to ensure that we present our defence as a carefully considered retort to something that was implied, even though it most probably was not. It’s almost as tiring as that last sentence was to write.

    Instinct does not create new realisations. It simply reinforces what we’ve learnt before. Each time our instinct proves to be a successful response to a perceived threat, it becomes ingrained even deeper and defended more fiercely than ever. If our focus is on growth, our instinctive responses will be observed so that we constantly adapt it relevant to the new realisations that we acquire with each moment that passes. If our focus is on defending the struggles of our lives, then we’ll remain rooted in developing our defences aimed at demanding recognition for every battle we fought. Most fall into the latter category, that is why we find ourselves in a society that is instinctively victims by nature, and violent in expression.

  • Still Searching

    The search for serenity continues. It’s a search that will always be futile, like the pursuit of perfection, but its pursuit promises peace. The kind of peace that is forever elusive yet holds enough promise to keep us committed to its pursuit. Passing my fingertips over the keyboard without crafting any thoughts holds a similar promise. It’s as if I’m hoping that through some stroke of genius the clutter in my head and the weight on my shoulders will suddenly unpack itself beautifully in prose that will give it meaning and purpose. The stroke is there, but the genius is not.

    There was a time when a slow deep breath with my eyes closed would cause the substance of my thoughts to surface while subduing the noise. Now, such a breath only reminds me of the shallowness of my breathing. It’s the shallowness that echoes the distractions of my life. Discarding the essentials while focusing on the embellishments. I see it around me all the time. I’ve spent fortune after fortune of hard-earned bonuses in the renovation of this piece of land each time hoping to create a comfortable space that will remove the clutter and allow for repose, yet so many iterations later I have yet to place even a basic bench in the backyard so that I may be able to enjoy the peaceful surrounds of a garden that is admired but rarely enjoyed.

    My breath is like that bench. In misplaced moments I find myself inhaling deeply, feeling the release it offers, but losing focus on exhaling because the next breath is prompted again. Completing a thought, or a chore, or even a breath, have all become synonymous with restlessness. The chest tightens, the shoulders spasm, the neck stiffens, and the head pounds. But these are not my emotions being expressed through an unwilling body. It is echoes of the strife that exists around me. Strife that is disguised well. An unhealthy focus on needing to prevail leaves an underlying torrent of debris that threatens our composure the moment the crack in our armour reveals the wounds beneath.

    Too often I notice too many with an outstretched hand to seemingly want to lift me out of the abyss of reality. I smile a silent smile at their obliviousness. They’re oblivious to the fact that I stepped into the abyss to cup my hands beneath their feet so that they may be lifted high enough to see what life is like beyond the surrender of their hope to the expectations that they have grown to embrace as reality. It’s the same distracted-ness that convinces us that the more effective our defenses the more wholesome our perspective, until we reach a point where we’re ready to offer those defenses to others before we even understand their reality.

    It’s the tokens that count. The tokens that resonate with us in our search for familiarity of purpose. We see a struggle that, on the surface, resonates with a defining moment of our own and before even looking closer, let alone trying to understand, we present a promise of salvation not realising that such an uncalculated gesture in fact reveals our desperation for serenity more than it offers peace. I believe that life will only ever offer a psychosomatic relief from the trials of this world. As we prioritise our efforts on those things that provide relief or comfort, the impact of their poor cousins is deferred for only as long as we’re able to keep them away from the feast we hope to indulge in.

    Life presents us with a spread of delicacies and trinkets, carefully concealing the sweat shops that operate behind the veil of obliviousness. Those that are restless through conviction peer behind that veil in their attempts to see the delicacies and trinkets for what they are, slowly finding themselves repulsed by it. Most prefer to indulge instead, believing that what lies behind the veil is unimportant, because it is only in the appreciation of the indulgence that gratitude is reflected. Gratitude is hollow when it appreciates the outcome without an understanding of the toil that made it possible.

    Perhaps in that there is some truth. Perhaps it is the hollowness of the appreciation expressed by others towards our achievements in life that never fully heal the wounds that created the present moment. It’s a fleeting consolation that recedes when the darkness descends. The night is only as peaceful as the day’s indulgence, and the day’s indulgence is only as focused as the reflections of the night. Perhaps we should stop seeking fulfillment in the expression of gratitude from others. When we use that hollowness as a yardstick against which to measure our success, we subscribe to the insanity that dictates that the oblivious will define our peace. I just realised why the search continues.

  • Out of Touch

    I sat up in bed this morning, looked at myself in the mirror, and asked myself a simple question. What are you losing sight of? I’ve been significantly distracted for some time now.

    The truth is, by most standards, I’ve been sad most of my life. It’s a natural disposition. Always aware of what is not. Any humour spawned by such a life must be dark by nature. So I hate that people can relate to my ramblings. I hate when anyone else can relate to my life experiences, because for the most part, it was not pleasant, and so I’m painfully aware of how unpleasant it must have been for them as well. As comforting as it may be for us to find those that share our afflictions, it’s sad that there is so much affliction to share.

    Contemplating this leaves me distracted yet again. The challenge of my life has mostly been to determine when that threshold is breached when giving others the benefit of the doubt translates into ignorance as opposed to kindness or understanding. Not that it matters. Considering whether I appear as kind or ignorant erodes the sincerity of the act of giving and in turn distracts me from the purpose of that interaction.
    A distraction a day seems to keep the devil by my side. Between the devil and my demons, much of the present moment is lost. Quiet contemplation is not quiet anymore. It’s rowdy and cluttered. The more we connect, the greater the noise and the clutter. The less we connect, the greater the void and the emptiness. Striking a balance is impossible unless you indulge sufficiently in the distractions to ignore the tipping of the scale in either direction.

    I need to renew my subscription to life. Confliction and ambivalence are cold companions, but in the absence of more, we should not spurn the companionship we have. Damn, that sounds so complacent. And the stirring of the spirit starts again, in search of the answers that every moment seems to cloud. If the questions are endless, so too must be the search for answers. Contentment and peace therefore must lie somewhere between seeking the truth, and knowing which truths are not worth seeking.

  • Double Standards

    The hypocrisy of society is reflected in its inclination to chastise individuals for being individuals while declaring that we should all be respected for our right to be so. The individuals among us are often belittled and ridiculed when we seek to encourage change because of a notion that if we try to achieve more, we’re automatically assuming a level of aloofness that undermines the validity of our neighbour’s struggles. The only time we’re allowed to be bold is if a presently recognised authority or personality (a.k.a. uninformed celebrity) bestows such acknowledgement on us as well.

    We are a mentally lethargic society that seeks direction from academics and political leaders alike in our assessment of the merits of anyone’s argument, before we will apply a meagre dose of courage to actually think for ourselves. The distractions have become the substance, and substance is rarely recognised any longer. Too many times have I found myself being ridiculed for holding alternate views about a common misconception only to later see the same pea-brained bodies propagating the very same view because it was suddenly associated with a public figure. Public figure, celebrity, academic, and the like should not be mistaken for an informed source or an independent mind.

    We have become masters at producing templates for individuals to adopt, and those that don’t adopt our templates are discarded as irrelevant. Our templates are disguised as frameworks and free thinking models, associated with a farce of freedom of expression, embellished with unspoken limits which, once crossed, finds the transgressor stripped of any credibility that they may have previously enjoyed in those superficial circles. It’s a matter of first winning the popular vote, and then being able to sway opinion, rather than winning the popular vote because you have an opinion.

    This is not a vent, nor a cry for sanity to prevail, both of which would be futile anyway. This is merely an attempt to state the obvious, because far too often we miss the obvious in our efforts to appear informed or introspective. Stating the obvious without demonstrating any personal conviction in the process (unless you’re a celebrity) may afford you a rare opportunity to actually influence the minds of those around you to challenge the reality that they take for granted. Of course, even if they do pause for a moment while seriously contemplating the gravity of your observation, their moment of pause is often quickly followed by a nonchalant shrug waiting patiently for an endorsement of the truth they just contemplated before they find reason to act on it.

    Those that act on a recognised truth independent of such endorsement quickly fill the ranks of the individuals that shalt not be. They are the eccentrics, or the weird ones. The ones that apparently don’t get it because everyone disagrees with them, while they smirk internally and smile politely externally having realised that a lost sheep will forever remain lost if their only sense of direction can be obtained from a shepherd. And all the while, the sheep will be goaded on to think for themselves and exercise their right to freedom of expression, provided they express themselves within the norms that have been deemed acceptable by the tokens that rule their brainwaves.

    Yet another case of pervasive ignorance parading as collective wisdom. Or more importantly, the sane man appearing insane in front of an insane society.

  • Orphaned

    I’ve found that the most unassuming leaders and role models are the ones with the greatest impact. They are not the ones that are celebrated from the pulpits. In fact, from the pulpits is where you will find them despised or judged. But that is not a testament to their being, instead it is an indictment against the bearers of those stations.

    Seeing a father celebrated tonight left me ambivalent, as the subject of fatherhood often does. I looked across at one whose father was taken away at a young age. I saw the fight to maintain composure dull the eyes that was just a minute ago filled with the enthusiasm of youth. But even in that there is a blessing that I struggle to relate to, and I wonder if those that have lost truly appreciate the gravity of the grounding point that they have in life, even if only for those few short years beyond which they may understandably feel cheated out of a lifetime of love and affection, not least of all the wisdom that often accompanies such a presence.

    Oddly enough it really is the presence more than the conscious efforts of fatherhood that appear to leave the most powerful impressions. Perhaps in that presence I can relate,  but not much beyond. I often recall the words of a man I once met when he described the influence his father offered in his life. He recounted how he awoke every morning to see his father sit comfortably in his favourite armchair reading the newspaper, allowing all about him to continue uninterrupted, but equally uninterested. It was that scene that prompted him to be more than his father ever was, to him or to those around him. That is a reality I can relate to.

    But tonight was a reminder for more than just that. I found myself questioning my views about celebrating life versus celebrating occasions and witnessed first hand how people that I have anyways recognised and admired for living a full life seemed to be galvanised by the occasion of marking a milestone in a life fully lived. Perhaps they, like me, don’t recognise the amount of life they live. Perhaps they too, looking from the inside through the lenses that filter their reality, may not recognise the amount of life they have lived relative to the struggles and loss that scarred their landscape.

    The reality I’m faced with is that life is not separate from the bad times, or the occasions. Celebrating the occasions in the absence of celebrating life at least gives us speckles of appreciation even though I still spurn the distraction it causes in its wake. Contemplating all this, including some unexpected interactions this evening gnaws away at yet another old companion that I’ve held dear for so long. Jadedness is spawned by bitterness. It’s a response needed to dull the ache that a lost youth and an absent father etches into our distorted view of what promise the world holds. It’s this same distortion that often sees us fighting battles that exist only in our minds.

    Maybe the fatigue of being me is suddenly not a fatigue, but instead it is a surrender to a reality that was self imposed. Self imposed or not, it is still my reality. Tonight, sitting here, isolated in my thoughts, surrounded by the warmth of an extended family of whom only a select few I have ever connected with but still feeling the familiarity of a blood line I am tied to in spite of my exclusion for reasons unknown to any of us, I find my soul oddly consoled, yet still restless. But it’s a fading restlessness, even if just for tonight.

    Perhaps my jaded soul will learn what it means to feel human after all. Perhaps not.

  • Purposefully Distracted

    The earlier days of my life don’t prompt recollections of clarity and purpose. I can’t recall moments where I had a definite view of what I wanted to become and where I wanted to be at any specific point in my life. Of course, the one prevailing thought at the time was the premonition that death awaited me at the age of 23. Needless to say that premonition was wrong, and each time I experience a decidedly unpleasant moment in my life, I find myself wistfully recalling the comfort I drew from that premonition.

    Beyond that point I found myself unprepared for what lay ahead. Apart from the typical considerations of wanting to be an architect, or something, I pursued whatever opportunities came my way with relative ease and minimal conviction. My naturally competitive spirit drove me to push the boundaries in everything I did, but at no point did I find myself driven towards a higher calling. I merely made the most of what I had access to, and that pretty much sums up my approach to life as well, for a while at least. Eventually, after several severe betrayals, and the sudden realisation of the additional responsibilities that surfaced when I wasn’t paying attention, I found myself compelled to define a path for myself.

    I chose not to. Instead, quite sub-consciously I defined what it was that I did not want. What I wanted was too stifling to commit to. It limited me and defined me in ways that I did not feel comfortable imposing on myself. So instead, I focused on what I didn’t want. That felt liberating. Still does. I found that it allowed me to consider options that would otherwise have conflicted with a carefully crafted path in life. Little wonder then that I find myself restless when among those that have their lives planned to the last detail. They have this idea as to what they want to achieve, by when, and where to after that. It sounds too clinical to be life. Some view that as purpose, I view it as safety. Safety is something I’ve never truly craved. Comfort perhaps, but not safety from the fluidity of life.

    Against that backdrop I found myself observing those around me. Those that fit the mould and ticked the boxes of success. I could never relate, and in weaker moments, those empty boxes that I could never tick were used quite successfully to pummel my spirit further into the dirt. Fortunately those moments never lasted. But each time I emerged from that space it provided me with insight into the constraints of leading a life well planned.

    The plans that I saw unfolding in most people’s lives usually took a path that started off with youthful passion in wanting to change the world. That defined a mission for them that set them on a path to achieve the prerequisites needed in order to influence the segment of the world that they wanted to change. Those prerequisites ticked the right boxes and in turn unlocked opportunities that promised success, recognition, and importantly, wealth. Along with those familiar trappings of success came the distraction. Oh that painful distraction. The one that prompts us to indulge in the trappings as a token of celebration for our efforts to succeed in a world that we despised enough to want to change. Silently, and almost imperceptibly, they grew to define the very same world they set out to change.

    All the while the responsibilities accumulated to the point where the trappings were no longer tokens of success, but instead they had become necessities that were essential for the fulfilment of those responsibilities. Purpose didn’t matter any longer, or if it did, it morphed into a shadow of its former self. And slowly they assimilated without realising it. What once defined their desire to contribute their unique talents to the world now only defined their taste in the trappings that aimed to set them apart from the rest. Discernment replaced purpose. And so the distractions overtook and death became a reality that only happened to everyone else. That is when they lost themselves.

    I see many people almost totally bewildered when their carefully constructed path through life meets a forced detour. What started out as a great idea quickly unravels into empty stares when faced with the coldness that reality offers. At some point we all succumb. We set out with passion, get distracted by our ego, lose sight of what is important, and then shift focus to that which is needed to sustain the distraction while dismissing the passion for purpose as a whimsical desire of youth. We grow old because we undermine that passion for life. We grow weak and meek, and almost despicable when we believe that there is ignorance in youth rather than clarity of purpose. When we hold on to such beliefs of youth, we condition ourselves to accept that its abandonment is in fact maturity, while its embrace is foolhardy.

    I choose to live a foolhardy life. The best part is that it is not a crowded space at all. Unfortunately.

  • Heart Strings

    There are moments that creep up on me that extract memories and yearnings that l barely recalled up to that point. But in a brief moment, those vague recollections suddenly surge forward with an energy that leaves me mute. Playing with my niece tonight rendered one such moment. The sincerity in the laughter of a child is enough to restore peace to this world. At least peace to my world. Ironic then that such peace would also be accompanied by some moving memories as well.

    I found myself recalling poignant moments in my life with my own daughters, both of whom were snatched away at a very tender age. It wasn’t the struggle that followed that left its mark, but instead two completely random moments that were unprompted and almost missed.

    It was a typical night on an atypical weekend when my oldest daughter was with me. It was summer, not winter, unlike so many other poignant moments that somehow defines my life’s collage. She was probably less than three years old. She had the cutest brownish gold curls that wrapped around her face. I put her to bed and continued with my evening before joining her later. I climbed into bed and laid on my side facing her. She turned to me, cupped both her hands on my cheeks and just stared deeply into my eyes. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t smile. She just looked into me and held my stare for a long while before turning over and going to sleep. I can sometimes still feel her tiny hands on my face.

    The other memory that revisited unexpectedly was on a cold winter’s day. My day started early around 2am when I received the news of my ex-wive’s unexpected death in a motor vehicle accident. I travelled to the township where her funeral was to be held hoping to see if my younger daughter was coping with the loss. At that point I was also struggling through legal battles to get access to her, so her only interactions with me in the years leading up to that point were stolen moments I secured when visiting her at her preschool before going to work. So I didn’t know what to expect. But that is just the context, it wasn’t the memory.

    When we sat down to have lunch that day she insisted on sitting next to me. It made me happy to see her still attached to me despite the time apart. We sat there having lunch when a random glance from me caught her looking expectantly up at me. Big bright eyes, the softest smile, but a distinct sense of her reaching out to see if I was noticing her. That was the moment. That look. Seeking inclusion, affirmation, affection, or acceptance. Or maybe all of it. All hidden behind that precarious smile. Her true fragility was revealed when I took her home and saw her frail body in the bath the next morning. Her skin was flaking from her body, and her belly was swollen from a poor diet. But even that sight doesn’t dwarf the memory of that smile. That infectious, strong, but fragile smile. Enough to tug at the heart strings of a brute. Even this one.

    Moments like those cannot be choreographed, but they can be easily missed. Distractions deny us the beauty of those simple moments. Perhaps that would explain my heightened sense of impatience when I find myself prompted towards that which is inconsequential.