Love me, love my guacamole

Posted on February 12, 2013 by Katherine Baldwin

It was the pizza that did it.

I was sitting in Pizza Express on London’s Southbank chatting with a friend when I spotted a notice on the table. It was one of those flimsy, upright cardboard things with a picture of a pizza and, underneath, a whole row of social media icons: F for Facebook, T for Twitter and the camera symbol for Instagram (I still don’t quite know what that is but I’m sure it’s just as addictive as its predecessors). The notice was encouraging diners to take a photo of their pizza and post it on their chosen site – or all three – for the world to see.

I’m not sure if it was offering a free pizza in return for the best snap. I didn’t read that far. Instead, I groaned inwardly at the thought that people would actually break off from their lovely conversations with real people they probably don’t see very often to go online and post a picture of a pizza.

No, hang on a minute, I groaned inwardly at the thought that I would do that.

Because the scary thing is, I knew I was perfectly capable of taking a picture of my pizza and posting it on Facebook. And of then keeping tabs on my post to see how many ‘likes’ I’d got and to check lots of people had noticed I was out having a good time and not sat on my own at home eating cereal out of a box (à la Bridget Jones) and watching Coronation Street.

In case you missed it .. the before picture

In case you missed it .. the before picture

After all, only a few weeks earlier, I’d broken off from a lovely dinner with two dear friends to upload a photo of a bowl of guacamole I’d made to Facebook – and a few hours later I’d logged back on to post a picture of the empty bowl.

And then – and this is the sad bit – I’d checked far too many times to see how many people ‘liked’ my guacamole, simultaneously hoping it would get a strong seal of approval and wondering why on earth anyone would take the time to ‘like’ a photo of a bowl of guacamole – don’t you all have better things to do?! Of course, I also hoped the holiday romance guy back in Mexico would spot what a wonderful guacamole-maker I was and realise he needed to put his commitment-phobic ways behind him and come and join me in my kitchen. Don’t worry, that was a very brief delusional phase I went through – I’m over it now. But I know I’m not the first female to post something on Facebook with a guy in mind.

So when I spotted the pizza sign, it all became clear. I’d been trying to work out what to give up for Lent this year and suddenly it was obvious: Facebook.

Don’t get me wrong, Facebook has been a wonderful resource over the years to keep in touch with friends, new and old, in faraway cities and countries, as well as to build a community around this blog. And I’m sure, once I return to it after Lent, it will continue to serve that purpose. I have friends all over the world and I get to see what you’re all up to, where you’re going on holidays, who you’re dating, how you’re feeling, what you’re reading. And all that without even talking to you. Quite amazing, really.

But there are things about Facebook that aren’t good for me. Here are a few of them:

– Spending too long looking at other people’s photos and thinking their lives are wonderful

– Spending too long reading about other people’s achievements and comparing myself with them (compare and despair)

– Spending too long looking at the photographs of other people’s children and partners and wondering if that will ever be me

– Posting my own holiday snaps, blogs and achievements – often because I genuinely want to share them with friends but sometimes because I want everyone to think I’m really happy (when I’m not, all of the time), because I want to be ‘liked’ (in both the Facebook and real life sense of the word), approved of, reassured or found to be attractive/beautiful/thin, or I want a particular man to notice me, believe that my life is totally amazing and think or say that I look cute in the snow, on the sand or in that purple sparkly dress

– Checking Facebook just before bed or first thing in the morning – because I’m bored, lonely or want to distract from what’s really going on inside my head or heart – when I’d be better off reading a good book, doing a bit of meditation or listening to some soothing music.

After all, Facebook, for all its plus points, is a huge distraction. It’s a bit like sitting in front of the TV. I can ‘zone out’ on Facebook. I can use it to procrastinate. I read the links you post or look through your old photos – or I look through mine, reminiscing about this and that. And all this for someone who’s always complaining she never has enough time.

So as daunting as it seems right now, I’m taking some time out from the delights of Facebook. I’ll miss your posts, your jokes, your news updates and your photographs. I’ll miss seeing your new haircuts and your cute kids. And no doubt I’ll miss a number of party invites (you have my email, right?).

But I won’t miss the late night glare of my iPhone screen and I won’t miss all those lost minutes, which I hope instead to dedicate to my creativity – creating rather than consuming, to quote a friend.

See - they loved my guacamole!

See – they loved my guacamole!

And I won’t miss that constant yearning for reassurance that you love me, or at least like me, or at the very least, like the look of my guacamole.

Inevitably, of course, I’ll seek your love and reassurance elsewhere – via comments on my blog or by checking my viewing stats or by seeing if anyone retweets my tweets. The bravest thing to do would be to give it all up. But I’ll start with Facebook and see how I go. I don’t want to commit career suicide or get social media withdrawal symptoms.

But I’m also hoping, during this Lenten period, to give to myself that love, reassurance and approval I far too often seek from others. I’m hoping to ‘like’ myself – to give myself that big Facebook thumbs up.

And that’s what my next post will be about …

Posted in Addiction, Creativity, Love, Women, Work | Tagged , , , , | 3 Comments

Break on through to the other side

Posted on January 27, 2013 by Katherine Baldwin

Breakthrough (Noun)

  1. a significant development or discovery, esp in science ⇒ a major scientific breakthrough ⇒ the test is a breakthrough in the early diagnosis of disease
  2. an action or event that represents the removal of a previously existing obstacle or barrier to progress

Source: Collins English Dictionary

I had a number of breakthroughs during my magical Mexican mystery tour and I’ve had a few since. Most of them have involved discomfort or emotional pain, as breakthroughs so often do.

Note to self: if you’re feeling pain, don’t be afraid of it, don’t run from it and don’t overeat on it. Embrace it, sit with it, cry through it, process it – it’s likely a sign of imminent growth. And growth, however much it hurts, is a lot more desirable than stagnation.

One of the more significant breakthroughs was about men and how I relate to them.

I’ll preface this bit of the blog with a quote from Dawn French who was interviewed on Desert Island Discs in December. She was talking about her divorce from husband Lenny Henry, her subsequent singleness and dread of dating (“Do I have to do dating? How repulsive. I’ll have to buy new pants”), followed by an important realisation, which came to her while walking her dog along a Cornish beach:

“Everything’s a bit great and I’ve got the work I want to do more than anything else – I’m writing in Cornwall – and I don’t need a bloke. I don’t need a bloke to be happy. I don’t need to vicariously live through anyone else to be strong and to feel any kind of proper joy. I feel joyful now. And I knew it. And it was like a big epiphany to me. And of course then, bang, I met somebody else. But I honestly don’t believe I would have been in the right frame of mind to meet him if I hadn’t gone through that process.”

Now, if you’re single and of a certain age, you’ll have heard this kind of thing many times before. You’ll have been told you’ll meet someone when you’ve learned to be happy without him, when you don’t need him, when you’ve stopped looking for him.

It’s a state of being that many singletons strive for. We pursue fulfilling work, cultivate interesting hobbies, take adventurous holidays, invest in our friendships and relish sleeping in a large double bed without having to listen to someone else’s snoring.

But while we might look delighted with our singleness on the surface, getting to that place on the inside, deep within our hearts, is easier said than done.

I’m speaking from experience. Anyone who knows me will vouch for the fact I lead a pretty full life. I’m sure I don’t enjoy my independence as much as I could but I was out at the movies on Thursday evening, salsa dancing on Friday night and I’ve just got back from a month of travelling, surfing, and partying in Mexico.

So I don’t do too badly – at least on the outside. But at a deeper level, there’s often a longing – for partnership, for companionship, for love, for intimacy (into-me-see – to be known and to know). And there’s often a loneliness, which I try my best to avoid, often through constant activity, but that generally catches up with me.

My recent holiday romance – while imperfect and short-lived – reminded me how great it can be to be in partnership. But it also led me to a breakthrough around my singleness.

Towards the end of my Mexico trip and a good week or so into my romantic interlude, I stood at a crossroads. The guy, over breakfast, had floated the idea of me staying on in Mexico to travel some more. In my sun-kissed dreamy state, I had taken this to mean to travel some more with him – an attractive prospect given how much fun I was having.

Of course, my first thought was that I couldn’t possibly do that. I was a ‘good girl’. I had a flight to catch, a schedule to keep to, admin to complete, a tax return to file, work to do, money to earn, a routine to return to and so forth.

And then it hit me. This year, 2013, was meant to be different. I’d started it differently – by surfing in the Pacific on New Year’s Day – and I wanted to carry on doing things differently. Why hurry back to a routine and a life that had had me contemplating taking antidepressants just a few months earlier to get myself out of a miserable rut? Why carry on being a ‘good girl’ and playing it safe when my soul felt so constricted and constrained when I did so? And why not journey a little longer along Mexico’s beaches and through its jungles with an attractive man? Tax return versus foreign adventure? Mexican sunshine versus London in January? Aloneness versus companionship? Taking a risk versus playing it safe? Well, if it you put it that way …

Of course I could stay – perhaps only for a few weeks (semi-safe, moderately risky) – but I was ready and willing to break the mould, to take a chance, to do things differently.

But on announcing my intention, I discovered that what I had heard hadn’t actually been an invite to stay on and travel with the guy. It had been a suggestion to continue an adventure that obviously was doing me the world of good – but not as part of a couple. Our relationship had a beginning and an end and the end was nigh. We’d had a great run but he was a solo traveller on a journey of self-discovery. It was time to go our separate ways.

Fair enough. I’d signed up to a holiday romance and that’s what I’d got – nothing more, nothing less.

But that knowledge didn’t stop me from feeling angry, hurt and rejected. I felt on the receiving end of that familiar push-pull dynamic that I’ve subjected men to on numerous occasions – the ‘I want you but I don’t want you’ message. I’ve touched on this before in previous posts: Taking the plunge, Waiting for my honeymoon and Be still my beating heart.

And when I say I felt angry, that’s a bit of an understatement. I was fuming. Not even a fast swim in a choppy sea could soothe me. Talking it through, however, with the guy in question and being honest about what was going on inside my head and heart succeeded in calming my fury.

View from a sandy hollow on a Mexican beach

View from a sandy hollow on a Mexican beach

As we sat chatting in a sandy hollow looking out to sea, I saw (and I see even more clearly now) that while I had some justification for my feelings, my reaction had been disproportionate to the situation before me, which was a clear sign that something deeper had been stirred. To recall the title of a previous blog post, my reaction was a touch hysterical, hence there was something historical going on. My past had invaded my present. The sense of rejection and the depth of anger I felt had very little to do with the man sat beside me on that Mexican beach and a lot to do with the very first man who, in my eyes, had loved me and then left, who had wanted me but then hadn’t: my Dad.

My fury, my indignation, my desire to lash out belonged to the eight-year-old girl who had sat quietly on her father’s knee as he explained in regretful tones that he was moving out, rather than to the 41-year-old woman who felt a little jilted by her temporary fella. And that vulnerable little girl who never knew where to take her pain lives on inside me, poised to react to any hint of abandonment. These days, it’s up to me to listen to her, to soothe her and to help her process her feelings.

But then (we’re back on the Mexican beach), once I’d worked through my anger and had separated my past from my present, I had the real breakthrough – not unlike the epiphany Dawn French had on her Cornish coastal walk.

I was a single, capable, independent, Spanish-speaking, Mexican culture-loving, salsa-dancing adventurer. I could travel on my own. I didn’t need this man. I didn’t need any man. In fact, perhaps it would actually be more exciting to continue this adventure solo.

By this point, after nearly 4 weeks in Mexico, I’d got over my initial trepidation and had been well and truly infected, once again, by the travel bug. The prospect of an overnight bus ride to the jungles of Chiapas followed by a visit to Palenque and a stopover in Oaxaca on the way back to the capital – on my own – suddenly seemed like the most exciting thing I could possibly do. Think of all the new experiences I could have, all the interesting people I could meet, all the sights I could see.

So after a good deal of indecision (one of my main coping mechanisms when gripped with fear), I made a choice: I would change my flight, postpone the work I had planned back in London or arrange to do it from a Mexican Internet café, miss a number of appointments and travel for a bit longer. And I would do this without the security of this man – or any man.

I’d do it because that’s where my heart was leading me and I was brave enough to follow. After all, I’d followed my heart to Mexico over Christmas and to Puerto Escondido when I didn’t know where else to go.

As it turns out, once I’d made the decision to stay and after I’d cancelled an internal flight to Mexico City, my plan hit a brick wall. I couldn’t change my flight home to London. I’d been told I could, several times over the phone, but in fact, when it came down to it, I couldn’t. No way, José.

But it didn’t matter. The breakthrough had happened. As I realised that I didn’t need a man to enjoy my time in Mexico or to feel safe in a foreign land, I grew a few inches. The pain and anger I’d felt at being rejected, as I saw it, had opened the door to an extraordinary discovery – that I could do this on my own. No problemo.

And it’s that moment I hold on to more than any others from my Mexico trip. It’s that moment that gave me back my adventurous spirit and filled my head and heart with dreams of future journeys.

Since I got back to London – two-and-a-half-weeks ago now – I had another breakthrough and along similar lines.

Despite having walked away from my holiday romance feeling emotionally strong, I suddenly found myself experiencing a whole different set of emotions toward the guy in question, emotions similar to those that had gripped me on that Mexican beach: anger, resentment, hurt and a sense of betrayal.

I wanted to break all contact with him, shut him out, end our friendship, pull down the shutters, batten down the hatches and pull up the draw bridge. I began to think I’d been wrong to get involved, to let myself live in the moment, to open my heart, to experience glimpses of intimacy, closeness and companionship. What had been the point? Only to feel rejected, lonely and hurt afterwards? It wasn’t worth it.

But once again, the ‘hysterical – historical’ maxim came to my rescue. The feelings of anger, hurt and betrayal weren’t to do with him. This guy had done nothing wrong. He’d laid his cards on the table at the start and had hung around a lot longer than expected. There was no betrayal, no rejection, no cause for hurt. No, those feelings dated back decades and belonged to my relationship with my father.

I had felt abandoned, betrayed and rejected at a very young age by the most important man in my life. I had done my utmost to bring him back or to get him to love me exactly how I wanted him to: I’d starved myself to the point of developing an eating disorder, I’d got straight ‘A’s at school, been head girl, won a place at Oxford University, run cross-country for Liverpool and captained school sports teams. All, as I saw it, to no avail. Of course, Dad had loved me. He had always loved me – the way he knew how. But it was never enough for me. My need was too great, the hole was too wide, the wound too deep.

So what did I do with my hurt? How did I react to this sense of betrayal? I ran. I ran far away. Geographically and emotionally. Australia, New Zealand, Fiji, United States, Mexico, Brazil. I ran for ten years, coming home for brief holidays, never even trying to get close again. I shut him out. I battened down the hatches and pulled down the shutters. I lived in sunny climes but a thin layer of ice covered my heart.

Fortunately, it melted in time. I found recovery (from my eating disorder and other addictive behaviours) in time. I found therapy in time. In time to achieve some degree of closeness before he died. In time to spend a week or two beside his hospital bed, helping him pick his meals off the menu or listening to a Liverpool FC match on a portable radio. In time to tell him I loved him and that I was sorry I had thought he hadn’t loved me, that I was sorry I had run so far away and for so long.

Of course, it wasn’t enough time. It never is. There was so much more I wanted to say. There was still a gap I wanted to bridge. And maybe I’ll always question my choice to take a 3-week holiday – in Mexico of all places – in February 2006. I thought he had more time. I thought we had more time. As it was, he died just days after I got back and while I got the chance to see him before he passed away, I never saw him conscious again. There wasn’t enough time.

But there is still time to heal, to heal the wounds of the past by exposing my heart to love in the present – however much that triggers painful memories, however scary and crazy-making it can be, however much I instantly want to retreat behind my protective walls.

It has been said that our greatest hurt happens in relationship – and that is where the healing happens too.

So while I’m happy to adventure alone and to seek contentment without a partner, my heart is open and I’m willing to take risks. Or to use an affirmation I mentioned in a previous post, Somebody to love, “I am open to receiving love that heals my heart and makes my spirit sing.”

Breakthrough: an action or event that represents the removal of a previously existing obstacle or barrier to progress.

Breakthroughs happen when we take a chance, when we do things differently, when we face our fears. And every time we process our pain, work through our past and learn to live in our present, we chip away at the obstacles that stand in the way of progress, that stand in the way of happiness.

Posted in Love, Recovery, Relationships, Travel, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Magic moments

Posted on January 10, 2013 by Katherine Baldwin

I started this blog on the shady terrace mentioned below, the Pacific Ocean just a short walk away. I continued it in the comfort of my London home, to the gentle hum of the washing machine. And I finished it off in my studio, looking out on a church steeple and grey skies. I wouldn’t normally drag out a blog that long – I guess this one was pretty special to me.

Despite the change in location, I decided to keep the original intro – I felt it important to record the moment …

The terrace, the view, the cat and the blog

The terrace, the view, the cat and the blog

I’m writing this blog from a shady terrace high above the beautiful beach of San Agustinillo, Oaxaca, Mexico. I’m in a rocking chair with my feet up, there’s a cat on my lap and an ice-cold mango juice within arm’s reach. It may not be the most comfortable blogging position – the cat’s a little difficult to manoeuvre around – but right now, I couldn’t be happier.

There have been many other magic moments like this in the last few weeks so it’s appropriate I’m writing this blog – the first since I left Mexico City and the last before I leave the country – at a hotel and restaurant called La Casa Magica.

Other magic Mexican moments: learning to wakeboard on a lagoon; surfing one morning as a pelican swooped in front of me; swimming in the sea at sunset on New Years’ Eve; dancing salsa until the early hours – one of my all-time favourite occupations that I managed to do three times in the last month, not including the times I danced around the house or a hotel room (salsa dancing makes my heart sing – I feel like I’m floating, flying even); skinny dipping at night, once in the sea and once in a plunge pool outside my apartment on New Year’s Day; eating chile prawns, garlic fish and guacamole; travelling in the back of a truck along sunny roads lined with palm trees; giggling uncontrollably at things that weren’t even that funny; conversing with the locals in a language I love and – a particularly vivid memory – lying on a sun lounger on the beach a few metres away from the crashing waves of the Pacific, gazing up at the night sky filled with stars, singing along to karaoke tunes playing in a nearby bar and resting my head on the broad shoulders of a beautiful man.

Yes, you heard me right. This single lady has had a wonderful holiday romance. Who would have thought it? Well, maybe I had an inkling I might meet someone in Mexico but I try not to travel with expectations. And even if I had thought a romantic interlude was on the cards, I couldn’t have imagined that it would be such a positive experience or that I’d walk away from it feeling so happy, healthy and emotionally strong.

Even before my holiday romance began, I was having an amazing time – being reminded of the joys of solo travel, particularly when I’m fluent in the local language.

It took me a while to get on the road again after a week in Mexico City – my fear and indecision threw obstacles in my path and robbed me of my peace for a day or two – but once I was moving, I felt silly for having fretted so much and really couldn’t understand what I’d been so worried about. Or rather I could – I was scared, of being lonely, particularly at Christmas, so I’d latched on to some of my old coping mechanisms: anxiety, chronic indecision and control.

But of course, I needn’t have worried.

As soon as I got off the plane in Puerto Escondido on Christmas Eve, I met an Aussie surfer who was also travelling alone and just as keen as I was to hang out. I spent Christmas Day morning on a beautiful empty beach and took a trip around a stunning lagoon in the afternoon with a friendly British couple I’d met at my hotel. At sunset, we watched baby turtles crawl across the sand and into the sea – free at last.

On Boxing Day, I came across a wonderful Mexican lady and a fellow fan of fun when I went to get my legs waxed. A few hours later, the Mexican leg waxer and I went salsa dancing in a fantastic bar with a live band. I spent the next day on the beach with one of the Mexican guys we’d met on the dance floor and, later that evening, I had a great conversation about life and love with a handsome Argentinean when the Mexican leg waxer and I hit the town again.

I’d been in Puerto Escondido just a few days and already felt quite at home.

Then, just when I was starting to feel a little unsettled – I’d met the Mexican guy again but he’d drunk too much beer and was hitting on me persistently so I’d walked away along the beach as the sun sank into the sea behind me – I ran into a traveller I’d met in Mexico City and we went to eat some fish tacos and drink frozen lemonade.

I didn’t know it then – I thought we’d just be sociable for a few days – but that was the start of a 10-day relationship (for want of a better word – liaison perhaps?) that was, for the most part, a huge amount of fun and that helped me grow more than I could have imagined.

After a rather colourful, rocky and reckless past in terms of my relationships with the opposite sex – my recklessness was at its height in my 20s when I lived in Mexico – and after a number of failed relationships more recently, I think I’d lost faith in my ability to make healthy choices when it came to guys or to enjoy the company of a man without feeling terrified of getting myself into a muddle, or of hurting him or getting hurt. I was always walking on egg shells, trying not to trample on my own emotions or those of others and feeling restricted by what I thought I ought to be doing or not doing.

I think I thought I had to stay away from men completely unless I was sure it was going to be for ever – but of course, I never could stay away. So I’d end up in situations I didn’t want to be in – in relationships I knew were wrong for me or feeling guilty about things I had done. Brief encounters left me feeling empty and longer relationships – although they haven’t lasted more than six months in my recent past – left me feeling incapable of making good choices and pretty glum about my romantic prospects.

But this time, I made a choice to live in the present, to forget all my rigid rules and regulations, to trust my instincts and the guy I had met and to have fun. The result was a lot of laughing, skinny dipping, more salsa dancing, karaoke singing (from the beach lounger) and a new sense of freedom around men and life.

Of course, I had the odd wobble with the guy – the odd needy moment or twinges of guilt and worry. And I’m sure, given long enough, my over-analytical brain that’s now many miles from the sunshine, sand and surf would come up with a long list of reasons why it wasn’t all that good for me.

But right now, I’m celebrating the fact I had a lovely holiday romance and was able to walk away from it without any tears (I repeat – without any tears!) and feeling good about myself, happy to let him go and content to continue my journey in the opposite direction.

This feels new. It feels different.

And Mexico was good for me in a whole host of other ways. The decision to spend a month there had a lot to do with rediscovering my adventurous spirit – a spirit that had been very much alive and kicking when I lived in Mexico City from 1995-2000 but that had been fuelled by unhealthy behaviours throughout those years – binge eating, starving, excessive drinking and the courting of danger, to name but a few. As I described in my Mexican memoir, my fun, free exterior disguised a good deal of inner turmoil.

So was I capable of returning to the scene of the crime – as I like to refer to Mexico on occasion – without using those crutches? Was I capable of taking healthy risks, with my feelings (by spending Christmas away from family and New Year away from friends), with my security (by travelling in a country where I was mugged at gun and knife point), with my money (by spending a lot of it) and with my perfect little London flat (by renting it out).

It seems the longer I had spent in my cosy life in London (ten years now), the more fearful I had grown of solo travel, of potential danger and of loneliness. Before I got to Mexico in 1995, I’d travelled alone through Australia, New Zealand, Fiji and parts of the United States for 18 months, hitchhiking on deserted highways, running out of money in numerous places, finding random jobs from fruit picking to dish washing to be able to keep going. One of my first trips in Mexico, after I’d managed to get out of Tijuana, was down to the depths of the Copper Canyon, a journey I made on the roof of a rickety bus to heighten the adrenalin hit.

On the outside, I was fearless, but I was also rather foolish.

But in recent years, things had got very safe – as an experienced extremist, I’d gone to the other extreme. I’d taken organised group holidays (yoga trips or activity breaks) rather than solo adventures, preferring to know exactly where I was sleeping, what I’d be doing with my days and the kind of people I would meet. I’d decided I was no good at sharing rooms and could only sleep if the conditions were perfect (total darkness and quiet). I’d decided my days of solo wandering were over.

So Mexico was an attempt to break out of a mould that had become a little too restrictive.

Sunet on New Year's Eve, 2012

Sunset on New Year’s Eve, 2012

But the change didn’t happen overnight. I started my trip with a good amount of fear. As I made plans to head to the beach for Christmas, I worried too much about how comfortable the journey would be, where I would stay, if I would be safe and who I would meet. I tried to control everything to reduce the chances of feeling lonely and insecure. I compensated for my fear by over-planning and over-spending. I tried to buy my peace of mind and sense of well being.

But of course, no amount of money or luxury can buy emotional security or inner peace. They’re free, which is a real blessing, but sometimes we have to challenge ourselves so our sense of inner security and peace can develop. They’re like muscles – they need to be flexed in order to grow.

And that’s what I believe I did in Mexico. I stepped out in faith, sometimes with very wobbly legs, but I stepped out all the same. And God and the universe provided for all of my needs, with chance encounters and great connections, as well as some difficult moments that really helped me to grow.

An experience I had learning to surf could serve as a metaphor for overcoming my broader fears. I’d fallen off my board and a novice surfer almost collided into me as I struggled to get back on. I cut my foot on rocks I didn’t know where beneath me and I was pummelled by a set of waves. I took myself to the shore and as I examined my bleeding ankle and emptied the water out of my nose and ears, I experienced something akin to a panic attack.

On reflection, I think the experience had triggered a childhood memory – of when my Mum’s boyfriend threw me into the deep end of a Spanish swimming pool before I knew how to swim. But on both occasions, I didn’t throw in the towel. As a child, I took myself out of my depth in the sea with my brother and taught myself to swim. And as an adult, I picked up my surf board and waded back into the water, only to catch the next wave and ride it into shore. Of course, I could have given up my surfing ambitions and sat on the beach in the sun. But then I would have missed out – on an opportunity to challenge my fears, to grow through them and to do something I love.

By exploring other experiences, I also learned on my Mexico trip that I don’t, in fact, need perfect conditions (total darkness, silence, aloneness and expensive surroundings) to get a good night’s sleep. Once again, I just need peace of mind. And I was also reminded that I much prefer travelling by local bus or open-air truck than in a taxi that costs ten times as much.

Towards the end of my month, I was having such a good time that I even decided to extend my stay (although only after a huge amount of deliberation that turned into chronic indecision). I was looking forward to a few more weeks of adventure, returning to places I’d visited before but with different eyes. I made the choice to stay but my plan didn’t work. I couldn’t extend my flight. That’s OK. It feels fine to be home.

But my thirst for adventure, solo travel and Latin cultures has returned with a vengeance and I’d love to find a way to spend a month in Peru (one of the few Latin American countries I haven’t been to) in the not too distant future. I can wait around in London for someone to adventure with – or I can go on my adventures alone and open myself up to a world of opportunities and experiences.

In the meantime, I hope I can hold on to my adventurous spirit and make the most of what London has to offer – particularly its salsa bars.

And on that note, I’ll leave you with a song I danced to in Puerto Escondido and at my friend’s wedding in Acapulco (if my memory serves me correctly), as well as around my hotel room on a number of occasions. It’s by Luis Enrique, a Nicaraguan artist. The tune is a brilliant one to salsa to and the lyrics (written out in Spanish and English here in case you want to read them) talk about living for the moment and not trying to control the future. Check out the fancy footwork of the backing singers and try and stop yourself from dancing (oh yes, and excuse the rather abrupt ending, if you get that far) …

Posted in Fun, Leisure, Love, Travel, Trust, Uncategorized, Women | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments

Postcard from Mexico City

Posted on December 20, 2012 by Katherine Baldwin

I’m writing this from a café in the afternoon sunshine – one of the advantages of taking a trip to Mexico in December. It’s winter here too, supposedly, and many chilangos (as Mexico City dwellers are affectionately known) like to bring out their heavy coats, boots and scarves at this time of the year. But you could get away without them, especially in the daytime.

So it took me a few days to settle in to this metropolis, which is only to be expected. It’s a chaotic city of 20 million people with horrendous traffic and a public transport system that takes some getting used to.

But I’m pleased to say I’m now feeling quite at home. I’ve mastered the metro and peseros again (peseros being the small buses so called because it costs a peso to ride them – or it used to when I first arrived here in 1995, it now costs three or four), I’ve remembered how to get from one neighbourhood to another and I’ve spent some quality time with some of my dear friends from the viejos tiempos (the old days).

It’s interesting to see how some things have changed here since I left in 2000 (I was back for a brief holiday in 2006) – and how some things haven’t.

Ambulances still sit in stationary traffic with their sirens blaring but with no way forward, although I did notice a few cars trying their best to make way. Windscreen cleaners still clean your car windscreen at the traffic lights even if you say ‘No’ and people still weave their way through slow moving vehicles selling peanuts and chewing gum.

Christmas decorations

Christmas decorations

You can get a freshly squeezed juice or a cup full of delicious fruit on street corners for a very small amount of money, chilli is an essential accompaniment to any snack or meal and the colours – of the buildings particularly – are just as vivid as ever.

On the other hand, Starbucks and frozen yoghurt chains have overtaken the city, or at least its more affluent neighbourhoods, and there’s wi-fi wherever you go, which is great news for a roving blogger like me. And, to my amazement and delight, there are bicycles everywhere. I would never have dreamed of riding a bike through this city’s crazy traffic when I lived here but thanks to Ecobici – the Mexico City equivalent of London’s Boris bikes – chilangos are cycling all over the place.

And so it was that I rented an Ecobici on Tuesday and cycled all the way up the majestic Paseo de la Reforma, past the Angel monument, to the Alameda park and to the Palacio de Bellas Artes. I then took a wander around Bellas Artes and marvelled at the murals of Diego Rivera, the Mexican painter who had a tempestuous marriage with Frida Kahlo.

Frida

I’d been to Frida Kahlo’s house – the Casa Azul (Blue House) in Coyoacán – a few days earlier – drawn there by my admiration for her creativity and by some sort of affinity I feel for her inner turmoil, expressed so passionately through her paintings.

Frida’s house didn’t disappoint. The colours were as bright and the atmosphere in the courtyard as peaceful as I remember. And I happened to be there in time for a live drama performance of Frida’s life and work.

As I stood admiring her paintings, a thought came to me. If Frida hadn’t believed in her talent as an artist and persevered with her work in the face of illness, a crippling accident and her rollercoaster relationship with Diego, we wouldn’t have her art to look at and the world would be a less colourful place.

Frida said she painted because she felt that she had to, she had a need to. It was her way of expressing herself, her anguish, her pain, her passion. But what if she’d decided to ignore that need, to suppress it, to find something else to do with her time? And what if she’d succumbed to self-pity after she’d had her foot amputated and given up her painting.

The Casa Azul wouldn’t be a museum to her life and there wouldn’t be a line of tourists waiting outside. But instead of giving up, she famously said, “Pies, para qué los quiero si tengo alas pa’ volar” (what do I need feet for if I’ve got wings to fly?)

I had the same thought as I stood in Bellas Artes looking at Diego’s gigantic murals. If he had decided to hide his talent, if he’d thought his work wasn’t good enough to show, those walls would be empty or filled with someone else’s art. The same for David Alfaro Siqueiros or José Clemente Orozco, whose paintings are also displayed in Bellas Artes.

The wall of Frida's Casa Azul

The wall of Frida’s Casa Azul

So what’s your talent? And what’s mine? Is it on display for all to see or are we too shy, too self-conscious or too proud? Are we making the most of our God-given gifts or are we ignoring them or keeping them under wraps? And if it’s the latter, the question has to be why?

On the table in front of me right now, there’s a list of questions the café owners have provided for customers: what were your favourite moments in 2012? What are you most grateful for in 2012? What was your most important achievement in 2012? What new thing did you learn in 2012? What would you like to leave behind as the year comes to an end? Name one of your most important projects for 2013? What would you like to do for others in 2013?

While the questions all require some thought, the last two particularly caught my eye. I would like to leave behind my past. Not in the sense of forgetting it but I’d like to throw off the parts of my past that restrict my present and future – the wounds, the thought patterns, the insecurities. And that, in a way, also answers the last question. Because I think that’s the best way I can help others – or at least it’s the first step towards being useful – to become the person who God intended me to be, without the weighty chains of past experiences or self-defeating habits. To blossom into myself, my true self. And from that place, I’m pretty sure that I can help others, that I can be of service.

But I digress from my Mexico City postcard and I’m only halfway through. From Bellas Artes, I wandered through the streets of the historic centre and into the main square, or Zócalo, via a frozen yoghurt shop (pistachio and mango flavour).

The square was packed, not just with people but with an ice rink and an artificial ski slope. Mexico is definitely embracing the spirit of Christmas. Imagine the ice rinks of Somerset House or the Natural History Museum and add the backdrop of the Mexico City cathedral – the oldest and largest in Latin America – the adjacent ruins of a prehispanic temple, and the enormous Mexican flag hanging from a flagpole in the centre of the square. Quite a sight.

On my way home on the metro, something else caught my eye. It was a poster announcing a show that would take place in a theatre the following evening. The show would be a monologue performed by Mexican artist and actress Claudia Cervantes (@Cervantesclau) entitled ‘Soltera Pero No Sola‘ (Single but not lonely/alone – the translation could be either). Given I’d just written a blog with a very similar title – Alone but not lonely – I thought I’d better go along. So I suggested it to a friend – a fellow singleton – and off we went.

We couldn’t have made a better choice. We laughed, and laughed, and nodded to each other, and laughed some more. Claudia has her finger on the pulse of pretty much everything that goes through the head of ‘all the single ladies’, particularly those of us who like to think of ourselves as independent. How we approach relationships, how we often fall for the wrong guy, how our head goes off into the fantasy land of happy families on the basis of very little evidence, how we can spend days in our pyjamas after break-ups and how chocolate can be a substitute – a poor one but a substitute all the same – for other things that are missing in our lives.

How many of us have heard the words, ‘But you’re so pretty and smart and bubbly, how come you’re still single?’ Claudia asked, drawing laughter from the women in the audience.

Judging from the response of the female spectators of Claudia’s show and what my friends here tell me, it seems Mexico is just as full of smart, single, 30- or 40-something, independent women as Britain is. Which reminds me, I really must get on with my book.

In the meantime, a big thank you to Claudia for putting her amazing talents and gifts to excellent use, for making me laugh and for reminding me to appreciate my freedom, independence and singleness – as long as it lasts!

Frida's painting: Viva la Vida - Life life

Frida’s painting: Viva la Vida – Life life

Posted in Creativity, Relationships, Travel, Uncategorized, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Alone but not lonely

Posted on December 15, 2012 by Katherine Baldwin

If I’d written this blog a day or two ago, as I stood with my feet in the Pacific Ocean surf and watched the sky turn pink above me, it would have read differently. Back then, as my toes sank into the sand, I decided the title of my first Mexico blog would be ‘Falling in love again’, because that’s the sensation I had. That I was falling in love again – with life.

I feel like we’ve been through a tough time, life and I, over the past months or even years. That we’d fallen out a little. But six days at the beach in Mexico – a country that captured my heart when I first crossed the border into Tijuana in 1995, aged 24 and with a rucksack on my back, and that gave me a home for five marvellous, albeit crazy years – seemed to restore my faith in life, in myself and in the choices I make.

Hotel Boca Chica

Hotel Boca Chica

The first three days of my beach trip were spent in Acapulco at the über-chic Hotel Boca Chica, a prime destination during the town’s 1950s heyday when Hollywood movie stars draped themselves from its balconies or lounged around its pool. The refurbished Boca Chica played host to the wedding of a dear Mexican friend of mine, someone who was like a sister to me during my stay in this fascinating country and who accompanied me on a number of adventures.

There were plenty of moments during those days at the Boca Chica when I had to pinch myself. There I was, dancing on a moonlit terrace to my favourite Mexican tunes until 4 am, sipping a frozen margarita with friends I hadn’t seen in years, taking a spin around the bay on an inflatable banana, watching our boat captain reel in an enormous swordfish and, perhaps the highlight, watching the Acapulco cliff divers from the sea, under the stars.

I’ve seen the cliff divers once or twice before, from the Hotel Mirador, another prime 1950s destination, or at least from the public viewing platform next to it. But there was something incredibly magical about watching them scale the rocks and dive from a great height while sitting in darkness on a gently rocking boat. And things got even more magical when one of the cliff divers swam out to us, climbed on deck and gave us a potted history of the spectacle – before collecting his propina (tip), of course. All this as the moonlight reflected off the sea. I really did have to pinch myself.

For the final three days of my beach stay, I moved on to one of my favourite spots in the whole world – and that’s saying something as I’ve seen quite a lot of beautiful beaches from Australia to Fiji to Brazil.

The beach at Pie de la Cuesta

The beach at Pie de la Cuesta

Pie de la Cuesta (or Foot of the Hill) is only half-an-hour from Acapulco but it’s a world away. Mass tourism has yet to discover this beautiful spot – thank goodness – and it retains a really local feel. On one side, there’s a long stretch of sandy beach and the roaring waves of the Pacific while on the other, there’s a lagoon where you can swim, kayak, water-ski, jet ski, wakeboard, visit islands, bird watch or cover yourself in restorative mud.

Pie is incredibly special to me. I guess it played a pretty big part in my Mexican life – I went there countless times during my five years in the country and took pretty much every foreign visitor there to try their hand at water-skiing or to lounge in a hammock drinking micheladas (beer, lime and ice, with salt around the rim). So many happy memories.

Laguna de Coyuca

Laguna de Coyuca

But there’s something about the place itself that draws me. Perhaps it’s the peace or the abundance and variety of Nature or the exhilaration of water-skiing or the power of those crashing waves that almost dragged me under once and threatened to carry off a friend on our first visit. Perhaps it’s the combination of so many things I love: natural beauty, sunshine, freedom and adventure sports.

On this occasion, given I was travelling on my own and not en masse as I generally was in the old days, I was blessed to find the Hotel Baxar, a beautiful hotel with a real family feel where I didn’t feel at all lonely – despite being very much alone. And here, in Pie de la Cuesta, I had a few more of those ‘pinch myself’ moments – like the one when all of a sudden and despite thinking I’d never learn to wakeboard and would have to stick with the skis, I was upright and gliding along at top speed, watching the lagoon go by. I really haven’t a clue how I got out of the water and onto my feet but it was an amazing feeling.

Or the moment when the sun went down and the sky turned an incredible pink and tears came to my ears – not of sadness, or loneliness, but of awe, wonder and privilege. Or the moment when my guacamole and spicy shrimp tacos arrived on a tray as I lay on a bed facing out to sea. Or when I caught sight of a fish darting through a wave just before it broke and turned into churning white froth.

In those moments, I really did fall back in love with life. Through my brave choices, through my hard work and by following my heart to Pie instead of heeding warnings of potential danger or my own fears of loneliness, I was staying in a stunning location on my favourite beach. And I didn’t feel at all alone. ‘I trust you life’, I said out loud, over and again, as I walked along the beach in the morning sun. ‘I trust myself.’

So why isn’t this blog called ‘Falling in love again’? Well, after writing the above and recalling my time at the beach, I think it still could carry that title but, inevitably, I’ve lost a bit of my inner peace since I left that tranquil location. I am back in Mexico City, a fascinating place filled with colour, culture, art, amazing architecture and incredibly warm and open people but also a gigantic metropolis that’s filled with noise, traffic and pollution and that doesn’t have the family feel of Pie and the Hotel Baxar. And like any big city, it takes some getting used to.

I’m still remembering how to get around and learning the public transport system again. I’m still trying to locate the shops, supermarkets and friendly cafés. And I’m still coming to terms with my aloneness, felt more starkly in this place of so many people and where Christmas and family are incredibly important. Despite numerous friends in this enormous city, they all have their busy lives, friends and families and fundamentally – as it’s been for quite a long time – I’m on my own, and a long way from home.

Of course, I knew these feelings would come up. I knew I was taking a risk leaving the safety and comfort of my London flat, friendship group, community and family to spend the festive season on the other side of the world. But I made a choice – a choice to shake things up a bit, to do things differently, to challenge myself, to break out of my comfort zone and to reignite my adventurous spirit. I was always going to miss the Christmas lights and trees, the carol concerts, the gift shopping to tacky tunes, the bright winter days, the homely movies and the promise of a cosy few days with my family.

So my emotional wobble since returning to the city is only to be expected. Nor do I have plans for the next few weeks. Things are very much up in the air. I could stay in the capital with a few friends or I could go off and explore this marvelous country, aware that a lot of Mexicans and foreigners are also exploring it at this time of year so prices will be high and the prime locations packed.

The bottom line, however, is that wherever I go and whatever I do, I am alone. I am fundamentally alone. But then, at the same time, I am not alone. It just depends how I look at things.

Since I got back to the city on Thursday night, I’ve realised that I’m always looking for a place to belong, a way to feel part of something, part of a group, a family or a community. But even if I find that group, community or family, I never truly feel like I belong. I always feel a bit of an outsider. This is a feeling that has been with me since childhood – a feeling that’s explained brilliantly by John Bradshaw in a book I’m reading: Healing the Shame that Binds You. (I do have some light holiday reading too but I’m really pleased I’m reading this book – it’s helping me to know myself even more).

Understanding that I carry this sense of apartness with me wherever I go has been a big help because I now see that this feeling of belonging I so yearn for needs to come from the inside. I need to feel like I belong to myself or that all the parts of myself belong to each other. I need to integrate my adventurous, courageous, outgoing, grown-up side with the insecure, fearful, somewhat paranoid young child inside me. And I need to draw on my inner strength and on God to find my peace and poise, in the face of life’s ups and downs.

So yes, I am alone. And a long way from home. But I am not alone and I carry my home with me, inside of me. I am my own companion. And as the Mexicans say, ‘mejor sola que mal acompañada’, or better alone than in bad company, which for today I interpret as better alone than in a relationship just for the sake of having someone to lean on or to not feel like I’m some sort of anomaly.

So this trip seems to be about embracing my aloneness and celebrating everything I am and everything I have – my resourcefulness, my courage, my imagination, my persistence and my willingness to trust myself. It’s also about getting out there and discovering the riches of Mexico City and beyond. Which is why I’m really excited about going to the house of Frida Kahlo later today – the troubled Mexican artist whose life story inspired my Mexican memoir blog. My decision to go to Frida’s house today is interesting given an article I read this morning by Martha Beck (@MarthaBeck): ‘When you feel lonely‘. In it, Martha explores three types of loneliness: absolute loneliness, separation loneliness and existential loneliness. It seems to be the existential loneliness that I often feel and I was very pleased to read her solution: Art. So here I am, partaking in my art – writing and creating – and soon I’ll be immersed in the art of Frida and the beautiful bright colours of her house.

Before I sign off to take a bus down to Coyoacan, this piece by Melanie Notkin (@SavvyAuntie) caught my eye this morning. Thanks to Jody Day (@gatewaywomen) of Gateway Women for tweeting this and Martha’s article. Melanie writes about being single and childless and confronting the thoughts of others in her Huffington Post piece: ‘I know what you’re thinking’. It was an interesting read for me given the fact I’m single, childless and alone in Mexico over Christmas and New Year.

I was also very much the only single guest at the Hotel Baxar amongst a number of couples and families. But it was OK. In fact, it was more than OK. It was positively delightful – it was one of those ‘I’m going to have to pinch myself’ experiences. It was a gift. It was a blessing.

Alone doesn’t have to equal lonely – even if that’s what we imagine others are thinking.

Posted in Addiction, codependency, Creativity, Fun, Happiness, Leisure, Recovery, Relationships, Uncategorized, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Our best interests

Posted on November 30, 2012 by Katherine Baldwin

Why is it so hard to act in our own best interests? Or, since I can’t speak for everyone – as much as I’d like to – I’d better rephrase that and ask why it’s so hard for me to act in my best interests?

When I don’t act in my best interests, it’s generally because I’m acting in someone else’s – to please someone else or to do what I think that other person wants me to do. But the irony is that acting in my best interests is, as far as I can see, always the best possible thing, not only for me but also for everyone around me – at least in the long-run.

Generally, when I’m not acting in my best interests, I’m acting out of fear – fear that people won’t approve of me, or that they’ll be angry with me, or that they won’t like me, or that I won’t get what I think I want in the long-run so I’d better take a short-cut or manipulate a situation so I can get my way. Or maybe it’s because I don’t know what’s best for me – I’m unsure of myself, I’m like a feather being blown around in the wind.

But if I go against what I think or I know is right for me, I’ll end up with two possible outcomes (actually probably a lot more than two but it’s been a long day and I can only think of two for now):

– After a while, I’ll start to feel angry and resentful towards myself and this anger and resentment will come out sideways, generally hurting others who are actually the innocent parties in all this – they’ve just unwittingly got caught up in the aftermath of me going against my best interests.

– After a while, I’ll feel shame, because I’m acting in a way that I know isn’t good for me and, in the long-run, isn’t good for others. Shame makes me feel pretty rubbish about myself but it can be quite convenient. It gives me an excuse to dislike myself or to treat myself badly.

Of course there are reasons we find it hard to do what we know is best for us. Maybe we tried to act according to what we thought were our best interests in the past, when we were very young and vulnerable, and maybe we got shouted at. Maybe we took a risk to speak up for what we believed to be right and we were met with anger. Or maybe we decided to express our feelings but we ended up feeling there was something wrong with us, that those feelings weren’t appropriate or valid.

And in that moment, a thought registered in our young brains: it’s not safe to act in my own best interests – it makes people angry and leaves me feeling very scared. And my feelings aren’t true or valid – in other words, I can’t trust them and, by extension, I can’t trust myself. The seed of self-doubt is sown.

These wounds, for some of us, go very deep so it’s no surprise we find it hard to break out of patterns of behaviour that we adopted to stay safe and sometimes to survive. And it’s no surprise that we ended up doubting ourselves or struggling to trust ourselves – or to trust anyone else.

But as the saying goes, if you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got.

So I’m making a conscious choice – from today – to act in my own best interests, in the full knowledge that although it might cause short-term pain or disappointment for others, in the long-term it’s the right thing for everyone involved.

But even as I write those lines, I know it’s not going to be easy. I often struggle to know what’s good for me – to know whether I’m following my heart or my head, to know if I’m acting out of faith or fear. This happens in my work, in my relationships, in decisions around my free time or my social life.

What am I talking about exactly? Well, it’s that little tap on the shoulder, that gentle nudge or that feeling in the gut that tells you to follow course A. But then fear, your head or your ego takes over and you follow course B. The great thing is that with a little bit of awareness, we can change from course B to A, and we can try and act differently the next time around. Because there always will be a next time.

Where do all these musings come from? Well I heard a definition of addiction the other day that really struck a chord. We often think of addiction as drinking ourselves into oblivion or damaging our bodies with cocaine or bingeing on food until we feel sick. But once you clear out all the substances and behaviours that are obviously unhealthy, underneath you’re left with an addiction to acting against your best interests. That’s why addicts may manage to stop bingeing or drinking but they may still be drawn into harmful relationships. Or they may stop taking drugs or smoking cigarettes but they still work themselves into the ground.

I did a quick Google search on ‘acting against one’s best interests’ and I found an interesting post by author Mark Forster. He suggests we ask ourselves what we would do differently if we were to act consistently in our best interests. I particularly like this answer: ‘I would only say yes when I was able to say it whole­heartedly, otherwise I would say no.’ I can’t remember how many times I’ve said ‘yes’ when I didn’t really mean it but there have been quite a few, but then I’m sure I’m not alone in that either.

To act consistently in my best interests is a tall order but I reckon it’s worth a shot. If it were New Year’s, I’d make that my resolution. But maybe I’ll try it out in December and see how I go.

And perhaps the sunshine will help. I’m off to Mexico on Thursday for a month! So this blog may have been a little heavy, but expect some colourful posts in the next few weeks …

 

Posted in Addiction, codependency, Happiness, Self-Acceptance, Women | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments

Upside down

Posted on November 21, 2012 by Katherine Baldwin

Beautiful colours on the heath

On Monday morning of last week, I was in a North Wales aquarium looking at the fish, sharks, seals and sea lions. On Tuesday, I was at the theatre in London’s West End to see Richard III – on a free ticket and sitting with a friend in a private box. On Saturday, I went out dancing with a bunch of pals in my purple, sequined dress until the early hours of the morning. And on Sunday, I cycled under crisp, blue skies through a mush of beautifully coloured leaves across Hampstead Heath.

Then last night, after getting soaked on my scooter on the way home, I took a long bath. I mean a really long bath. I kept thinking that it really was time to get out but I kept sinking back into the warm bubbles with a smile on my face. It was one of those rare, ‘I’m exactly where I need to be and have everything I need to be happy’ moments.

It got me thinking that, all in all, it’s not a bad life.

It’s all about perspective and the way you look at things.

I learned a bit about perspective on a 10-week painting course for beginners that I’ve just finished. We worked in oil and acrylics, explored the colour wheel, tones and shades and we painted still life.

I knew that painting would be good for me. It’s a different kind of creativity that – I imagined – would be much less cerebral than writing. And I thought it’d help calm my over-active mind and give me something to focus on other than my thoughts.

It definitely did that and it also taught me some valuable lessons in imperfection, letting go of control, going with the flow and trusting the process.

I remember the first few lessons. They drove me mad. I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I wanted someone to give me more definite instructions, to tell me what I was doing with my paints was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’, to stand behind me and say, ‘now mix in this colour’ or ‘now put some shadow over there’.

But it wasn’t that kind of course. We were given direction, yes, but then we were let loose with the paints and canvas. I remember when someone asked me after two classes how I was finding it. ‘Challenging,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing.’ It seems I was taking the same cerebral approach to painting as I do to so many other things.

It became clear to me pretty quickly that I really didn’t like not being in control. I didn’t like not knowing whether what I was painting was good or right. I wanted to know I was mastering what I was being taught, that I was learning correctly. I wanted to know that my black was black, rather than grey.

Pretty soon, though, I chilled out. I was half-way through a class when I realised painting wasn’t about right or wrong or getting the perfect shade or tone. It was about experimenting, playing, interpreting and letting things evolve. Once I’d realised that, the course became a lot more fun. It was great to see how everyone, when asked to mix grey, ended up with different shades. Or when painting something red or blue, ended up with very different tones. And I loved creating a big mess of colours on my palette.

‘The Boot and the Vase’, oil on paper, 2012

Then, in my final class, I had my biggest breakthrough. I’d been painting a pair of maroon-coloured Dr. Marten boots (in oils). I’d left the previous lesson feeling a little dejected and somewhat amused as I’d ended up with one boot and one vase. Yes, a vase. We’d painted vase-shaped items a few weeks earlier and we’d been advised to use a similar technique. But maybe I’d taken the instructions too literally. I had a boot and a vase.

While my new, more laid-back approach to my painting course helped me to see the funny side, I was still a little disappointed half-an-hour before the end of the final class because I still had a boot and a vase.

‘A pair of Doc Martens’, oil on paper, 2012

But then, with a few tips from the teacher, some suggestions from a fellow student and the application of a bit of light and shade, suddenly my vase turned into something that looked remarkably like a boot.

I was absolutely amazed. And delighted. I’d been about to throw in the towel and name my painting ‘The Boot and the Vase’ but I actually had a pair of DMs.

So my conclusion, after my 10-week painting course, is that breakthroughs often happen when we’re on the verge of giving up and that it’s always worth trusting the process and giving things time to evolve.

And it’s also always worth looking at things from a different perspective.

The teacher suggested we start our painting of boots (or shoes in the case of some of the students) by doing a very small, rough painting – marking out the general shapes that we saw – and then turning that small painting upside down. We would then copy from that upside down painting onto the larger piece of paper and, once we’d done that, we’d turn the big painting the right way up.

Boots and shoes by my talented fellow students

By doing this, we would look at the boots not as boots but as shapes, surrounded by other shapes and made up of light and dark. I confess we were all pretty sceptical as we turned our boards around but it actually worked.

It got me thinking about yoga again. About the poses in which you hang upside down and look through your legs or stand on your head. It’s all about seeing the world through a different perspective. According to common yoga wisdom, seeing the world upside down throws new light on old habits, behaviours and ways of being, reduces anxiety and increases self-confidence.

I haven’t managed a headstand yet and I’m still a yoga beginner, but I definitely like the idea of seeing things from a different perspective.

And I felt like I’d found some of that perspective last week. I had been feeling very overwhelmed about my workload and everything I need to do in the next few weeks but I suddenly decided to stop seeing everything as a terrible chore and to start seeing each day and each ‘task’ as a gift.

This new perspective is definitely helping.

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Belonging

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Katherine Baldwin

I had a strange post-holiday sensation yesterday. I felt all at sea, despite being back in the metropolis and a long way from the sunny shores and gentle waves of southern Turkey.

I arrived back from my delightful yoga break late on Monday and spent Tuesday enjoying the luxury of not having to rush back to work. I did several loads of washing, checked my emails and walked in the park with my Mum who’d been flat sitting in my absence. I felt at peace.

Wednesday, however, was a different story. I had designated Wednesday as ‘back to work day’, only I didn’t seem to have a job to go to.

There’s something about being freelance, being self-employed, having to constantly self-start and self-motivate that seems to make the post-holiday blues much more acute. I remember when I was in full-time work and I would head into the office straight after an overnight flight or short on sleep after a late-night arrival. That first day back would be catch-up day – catching up on the news, on emails, on admin and with colleagues. Bar any major news event, I would ease myself gently back into the world of work, into that world to which I belonged, into the team that I was part of and into the role I performed.

It was that feeling of belonging to something that I missed so deeply on Wednesday morning. When you’re a self-starter and you’ve had some time off, it’s hard to know how to start again. At least it was for me.

I had the feeling that I was drifting, that I wasn’t part of anything. I had no partner or children clamouring for my attention, no family of my own to slot myself back into. And I had no job to return to, no team to join in with again.

I felt anchorless. Rudderless. Without direction. Without purpose.

That familiar question, ‘What am I doing with my life?’ took up residence in my brain. I started thinking about career changes, thinking that I wasn’t cut out for a life of not belonging and thinking that everything I’d been excited about before my holiday – story ideas I’d pitched to magazines and the book I’ve talked so much about – was worthless, pie-in-the-sky claptrap. I should just give it all up and find something else to do with my time, find an office to work in, a team to work with, somewhere to belong, I told myself.

Now, I’m not saying these aren’t valid points. Belonging is important – that’s clear to me now, if it wasn’t before. That’s why so many of us join clubs or societies, work in offices even if at times we hate our jobs, or form partnerships, enter into marriages and create families. Belonging gives us a sense of meaning, a sense of purpose. And I had none of the above, no partnership, no children dependant on me, no job to rush out to. I felt like I had nowhere to go, nothing to do – an odd feeling for someone who constantly feels overwhelmed by the number of tasks on her To Do list.

Fortunately, though, those feelings passed. And all it took was a little action, a few tiny steps to reconnect myself to my life here in London and to the people who, like me, suffer at times with that same feeling that they don’t belong. I remembered I wasn’t alone, and that gave me a sense of belonging.

I also remembered that belonging begins on the inside, not on the outside, and that planting myself in an office and doing work I’m not passionate about just to feel like I’m part of something, or tying the knot with the first eligible man who crosses my path or having a baby simply to fill the gap was not going to cure my existential angst. It’s an inside job. I can feel like I belong even if I don’t have any of the things traditionally associated with belonging.

Once I’d realised that, I could get on with some practical action to give me a sense of purpose and direction. I returned to my studio today (where I have colleagues, even if we all do different things) and got on with some work (including writing this blog, which always grounds me). I started sending out some more story ideas to magazines to make up for the knock-backs I’d received when I came back from my trip (dust yourself off, Katherine, and carry on). And I set up two interviews for my book, getting excited again about a project that I’ve already put a lot of work into and that’s definitely worth a shot.

I also dragged myself out of bed this morning (despite poor sleep) and got to a 730 am yoga class, which was incredibly rewarding, once I’d got over the initial shock of cycling there in the cold and dark. As I planted one foot firmly on the floor and felt the strength in my standing leg as I lifted the other behind me, I felt connected, connected to the earth, connected to my core.

The sun setting into the sea

And that’s what the yoga break in Turkey did for me – it connected me to my centre, to the essence of who I am (I have a feeling that last phrase sounds a little grandiose but I’ll leave it in there anyway). It reminded me that I have a spirit of adventure and a love for foreign lands. It reminded me that my spirit sings when I’m swimming in the sea, walking through pine forests or sitting on a rock watching the sun set on the horizon. And it reminded me that I can trust myself to know what is good for me, to know what is right for me, even if the voices in my head try to send me down a different path.

I feel a little taller and stronger after a week of yoga but, most importantly, my mind feels calmer. It’s likely the anxiety will return – it’ll take a while to rewrite a script I’ve been following for decades – but I feel I have more tools, more awareness and more strength to fight back today.

Walking to Kabak beach through pine forests

And I have memories to draw on – of lying on the floor of a wooden yoga shala at the end of a class, listening to the bees buzzing and the birds singing as the sun warmed my legs. Of wandering down a path, through vegetable gardens and past chickens, to my wooden hut. Of walking down a slope through pine forests to a rocky cove to swim with fish and watch sailboats glide along in the distance. Of walking back up the hill to meet my fellow yogis for a delicious meal harvested from the local plantations and eaten on an outdoor platform with an incredible sea view. And of stopping to look at the moon and the stars as I made my way to bed. (I was at Suleyman’s Gardens near Dalaman in southern Turkey if my description sounds appealing.)

The view from the yoga shala

I make good decisions.

I can trust myself.

I belong.

All will be well.

 

 

 

 

 

Posted in Leisure, Spirituality, Travel, Women, Work, yoga | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

The final frontier

Posted on October 21, 2012 by Katherine Baldwin

Space: the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise … Any Star Trek fans out there? I was a big fan, but that was many moons ago.

Actually, this blog isn’t about space, although I did love Felix Baumgartner’s freefall last week.

The final frontier I’m talking about is anxiety. I got a diagnosis last week. I was told, by a clinical psychologist, that I’m suffering from generalised anxiety disorder (GAD).

On the one hand, it was a relief. It was a relief to put a name to the years of worry and stress, the sleepless nights, the bags under the eyes and the panic attacks. It seems that anxiety was always there, lurking underneath. But I used food and all manner of other unhealthy behaviours over the years to mask it and keep it at bay. Now, though, I’ve got nothing left to numb it with so it’s left to run riot in my body and my head.

Anxiety is going to be the last thing to go – it’s not surprising it’s holding on for dear life.

After doing my research, I’ve been left wondering how far this condition goes back.

When I cried all the way home from an ‘A’ level at school after thinking I’d misread the question, getting my poor Mum in a right tizz, I wonder whether that was the natural reaction of a highly-sensitive, perfectionist schoolgirl or whether that was GAD? My worst fears did not come to pass. I didn’t fail or come bottom of the class. I got an ‘A’, as I did in every other test.

When I stressed about my hair or my weight in my teens, was that the normal response of an adolescent who just wanted to be liked, or was that GAD?

I could go on … from the panic attack I suffered driving along an incredibly busy highway in Brazil, to the stress I used to put myself under in my journalism job (and still do, despite being my own boss), to the debilitating indecision over buying shoes, choosing a coat or dating a guy. The constant questioning. The brown or the black? The red or the purple? The ‘Is he or isn’t he’? The catastrophising and always expecting the worst – in my work, when booking holidays, when making a choice.

I guess it’s hard to say. These things aren’t cut and dried and nor is that kind of diagnosis. We are all anxious, to different degrees, and my anxiety hasn’t particularly stopped me from doing stuff, it’s just caused me a lot of pain and grief and taken away the joy. I guess that’s bad enough.

But the diagnosis helps because it gives me options. A course of cognitive behavioural therapy on the NHS – once I get to the top of the waiting list. The option of taking the anti-depressants if I decide that will help – in the short-term – knowing more accurately what I’m dealing with.

And it gives me the awareness, the absolute certainty, that things like meditation, yoga, positive affirmations, relaxation, time out, friends and fun are really going to help. In fact, they’re essential to my wellbeing.

So I’m going to wrap this up – sooner than I normally would – because tomorrow I’m off to Turkey on my yoga break. And I’m expecting the best. Even though the weather has cooled off over there and I have a long day of travel ahead, I am expecting the best. And when I start to slip into worst-case-scenario thinking, I can tell myself that that’s just my standard response. I can tell those thoughts to get lost.

I’ve done all my work – despite thinking I wouldn’t get everything done – and I’ve nearly packed. I’ve got time for a bath before or after Downton Abbey and even found time for this quick blog. On Friday, of course, I thought I’d never get everything done.

I even managed to appear on BBC London 94.9 last night on Kath Melandri’s (@kath_melandri) show, and without feeling much anxiety at all. I was in the Ladies Lounge, chatting about the week’s news, current affairs and a few topics close to my heart with the wonderful Kath and journalist and fellow northerner Louise Hulland (@MsHepburnley). It was great fun. I even got credited on their site as an ‘author’ although that’s not quite the case – not yet.

Before I sign off, and in case you’re looking for more to read, I wanted to link to a beautiful blog by friend and founder of Gateway Women, Jody Day. It’s called Elegy in an English country churchyard and I found it very moving. Jody has some workshops coming up soon (Brighton this coming weekend, London Nov 4th) for women who are still hoping to have children and need some support around that, or for those who’ve moved beyond their fertile years and want to get their mojo back. Check out Gateway Women for details.

Right. Off to finish packing, run my bath and settle down in front of the TV.

All will be well.

 

Posted in Addiction, Eating disorders, Faith, Happiness, Perfectionism, Women | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

The life I want to lead

Posted on October 10, 2012 by Katherine Baldwin

Have you ever had the feeling that the life you’re leading is so far removed from what you want it to be or what you expected it to be at this age or stage of your existence?

I had that feeling the other day and it hit me like a fast-moving truck. To be honest, when I had the feeling, I wasn’t too far from being hit by a fast-moving truck, literally. I was riding a scooter on a busy, dual carriageway somewhere on the northern outskirts of London in the driving rain and blustering wind, as huge vehicles whizzed past me at high speed, covering me in dirty spray and knocking me slightly off balance.

I felt incredibly vulnerable and scared – and that’s saying something for a confident driver who’s been riding a scooter around London for six years. But I could cope with the vulnerability and fear. And I could cope with the cold and the horrible driving conditions. I just sat up straight, kept my nerve and kept my eyes on the road.

What was harder to deal with was the stream of questions that rushed through my mind as I tried to focus on my driving: ‘What on earth am I doing here? What kind of life is this? Surely it wasn’t meant to be like this? Why am I scootering in the pouring rain? I’m 41. Shouldn’t I be driving a car by now? Or better still, being driven along by a partner with a few kids in the back. How did I end up here? And is this it? Will it always be this way?’

As another noisy truck sped past, leaving me shuddering in its wake, my life was brought into sharp relief. And I didn’t like what I saw, not one bit. I’d totally veered off track.

The ensuing feeling was akin to shock.

My eyes pricked and I wanted to cry but I steeled my gaze and carried on, aware that floods of tears may be one hazard too many. But when I got home, peeled off my sodden wet-weather gear and took a bite out of the soggy sandwich I’d been carrying around all day (I’d missed lunch and I was starving), I sobbed my heart out. I stood in the kitchen, leant on the worktop and wailed. The tears came from such a deep place that my shoulders heaved and I had to double over to let them out. I was shaking, with cold and with emotion.

Eventually, the crying subsided and I poured myself into a steaming hot bubble bath and, from that place of warmth, stillness and safety, began to look at my day and my life.

I’d been doing motorbike training that Friday so I could pass my full motorbike license. This would enable me to get rid of the ‘L’ plates I’d been sporting for six years, carry passengers and, most importantly, avoid having to take basic tests every two years to keep me on the road.

I’d been meaning to get my license for ages and at the time I signed up for the training, it seemed like a good idea. Why do another basic test now and again in 2014? But I hadn’t bargained on the rain, wind, the dual carriageways at 60+ mph or the fast-moving heavy goods vehicles. Nor, it seems, had I thought too far ahead. In two years time, did I really see myself living in the same one-bedroom flat and riding a scooter around the same streets of London? Was that what I wanted for myself, for my future? What about the dreams of a relationship and/or a family? Of higher-paid work so I could afford a car? Of living near the sea so I could have a dog and wouldn’t have to navigate the capital’s heavy traffic?

Somehow, in my mind, the act of taking that motorbike test seemed to be condemning me to lead the same single, rainy London life for years to come. And I so didn’t want that.

Of course, those feelings were acute in that moment and they’ve lessened since. Today, I am pleased – and proud of myself – that I passed two difficult motorbike driving tests and a written theory test (all first time), can get rid of the ‘L’ plates and carry passengers. And my scooter is a real joy on beautiful spring, summer or autumn days, ferrying me into town in 20 mins or over to view the glorious colours of Hampstead Heath or swim in the refreshing waters of the Ladies’ Pond. The speed, the convenience and the freedom suit my personality.

But what I have taken away from that day is a sense that if I want my life to change, I have to change it. If I don’t want to be scootering around London in two years – with or without a passenger – it’s up to me to do something about it.

The impetus to change also seems to be a reaction to the box of anti-depressants sitting, still unopened, in my kitchen drawer. It occurred to me that my depression/sadness/misery (call it what you will) seemed to be circumstantial. At the start of September, after a summer of doing largely as I pleased, visiting friends, family and spending time in Nature and by the sea, I was feeling pretty upbeat, as I wrote in Waiting for my honeymoon on Sept 5:

In early June, I blogged about my sadness. The tears had been flowing really fast for quite a few weeks, even months. Of course, I held it together pretty well on the outside but I was seriously worried about myself. I talked to my GP about anti-depressants and gave them a lot of thought.

Three months on, however, and without taking any pills, I feel – dare I say it – happy. I feel content, hopeful and excited. I feel grateful and loving towards myself and my fellows. Yes, I feel good.

A month later, I was back at the doctor’s surgery, requesting those same pills I’d decided I didn’t need. What had changed? As far as I can see, in September I’d returned to the rigid straightjacket of my London life – the interminable commitments aimed at improving myself: the therapy, the addiction recovery meetings, the constant sharing of my troubles and supporting other people with their stuff and the endless striving to achieve, to make a name for myself (whatever that means). Once again, I’d left no space for fun, joy or the things I love. No wonder my mood had sunk.

It seems that I was about to take a pill to cope with the rubbish life I’d created for myself. So, at least for a trial period, I’ve decided to try to create a better life for myself to see if I can avoid taking a pill.

Step one – a holiday. I’m off to the south of Turkey in less than two weeks for a yoga retreat. I’d been meaning to book something for weeks but was worried about money, tiredness, temperature etc etc etc. In short, I couldn’t for the life of me make a decision.

Step two – I’m thinking of spending a month in Mexico over December and January and renting out my flat to help pay for it. I love my family dearly and have grown to love Christmas in the UK – the traditions, the candlelit church services, the chill – but there’s another part of me that longs to return to Mexico, to hear the mariachi music, feel the splash of the Pacific Ocean against my legs, taste the spicy shrimp and see the vibrant colours of that amazing country once again. And I have a wedding to go to – in Acapulco!

I’m aware that both these steps may sound like escapism,  like I’m doing a ‘geographical’ – trying to run away from my problems without realising that I take myself with me wherever I go. But this time I know I take myself with me and I have a strong sense these trips will get me out of my head, give me some much-needed perspective and help me find a little bit of that sparkle and spirit I appear to have lost. And if not, at least I’ll have tried.

I used to take risks, be spontaneous and laugh a lot more. Granted, in the old days I used crutches to cope with my fear of people and of life – excess food, alcohol, male attention, work, status etc. But it seems, as I’ve put down those crutches and delved into the reasons why I was using them, I’ve shrunk a little. I’ve lost some of my enthusiasm for life.

I go to bed at reasonable times, get plenty of sleep and eat well pretty much all of the time. I keep to all my commitments every week, do my work and try to spend money wisely. I’m a very good girl, nothing like the crazy girl I used to be. But I fear the balance has swung too far the other way and I can hear fun, joy and spontaneity crying out to me.

Going back to Mexico, in one way, would be like returning to the scene of the crime, to the place where I engaged in some of my worst excesses (read A Mexican memoir to get an idea). On the other hand, it’s probably the place I felt most alive, spontaneous and free. And it’s where – for the first time in years after wandering the world – I felt like I belonged, in a massive family of friends, a jumble of nationalities thrown together in that vast metropolis.

Mexico isn’t booked, nothing is decided. We will see. Today, I feel I’d like to make the trip, but if I don’t, I’d hope to find other ways of recovering some of my sparkle. I can moan about my circumstances until the cows come home but nothing’s going to change unless I put in the action.

(PS Beautiful, bright one-bedroom flat for rent in north London, Dec 6 – Jan 6. The right price for the right person!)

Posted in Addiction, Fun, Happiness, Women | Tagged , , , , | 13 Comments