Cycling uphill

I’m in training for a family cycle ride from Carlisle to Liverpool.  After struggling along the Coast to Coast last year, I realised that I need to get to grips with cycling uphill.  Distance is not a problem. Downhill is a doddle.  But uphill is different – it hurts!

So on Sunday mornings you’ll often find me puffing and panting my way up Parbold Hill, about 15 miles north of Liverpool. It’s a mile or so of 15% gradient, which is a serious climb in anyone’s books.  It starts off steep enough. After a few corners, when you’ve reached the village church and convinced yourself you’re nearly at the top, you turn around another corner and – oh no, please no... but yes! – it gets even steeper. 

The first time I tried it, I thought I was going to die.  No, I tell a lie - I was sure I was going to die. My lungs were bursting, I was sweating (and swearing) and needed three or four stops before I finally made it, just about in one piece, to the top – where there is a great view across West Lancashire and Liverpool, assuming you have enough spare oxygen to keep your eyes working.

The next few times, I realised death was probably not an immediate threat.  I could get to the top of the hill as long as I didn’t mind stopping a couple of times on the way. Two weeks ago I got to the top with just one stop. I found going as slow as possible was the best way: it takes less energy and means I can keep going a bit longer. Last Sunday, somehow, I made it all the way up with no stops at all.

But even when I realised I could get to the top in one piece, I was thinking to myself  ‘Why on earth am I doing this? What is the point of choosing to put myself through so much pain and agony, when there is absolutely no need at all to do so?’ How does this square with my ‘Best is yet to be’ post, where I was writing about just being, and not needing to achieve so much any more? Why can’t I just be sitting at home watching cricket, or taking the dogs for a stroll?

Hmmmm.  It is a bit confusing.

Why do we sometimes choose to do difficult things, when we really don’t have to? 

Surely we have enough tough times in our lives without having to go and deliberately find ourselves some more.  Am I trying (in vain!) to preserve my alpha-male status? Or maybe it’s just a way of keeping boredom at bay.

But I don’t think so. It seems to me there something important about setting ourselves challenges to keep us ticking over, to keep us feeling alive. And I guess there’s a balance to be struck between being and doing.

What do you think?  Have you done tough things that you didn’t need to do?  And why did you do them?

20,000 hits

We've reached 20,000 hits today. Thank you all for your interest and support of this blog, it means such a lot.  

You are reading the posts from all over the world.  People from the UK and Spain are the main readers, followed by those of you logging in from the United States, Australia, Canada, India, Ireland, Bahrain, Philippines and Germany.  There is even recent interest in Georgia and South Korea - it would be great to know how you came across our blog.

The most popular post is still Reaching Out. The next most read are Under the Banyan Tree, Wellbeing Recipes, Respect (thank you Sue),  the original Greetings and the recent Kindness of Strangers.

Thank you all!

Being Kind to Myself

My last post was all about why we are kind to strangers.  Thank you for all your wonderful responses!  

This one, as you will see, is all about being kind to ourselves.  Oddly, it’s something we often find more difficult to do.

Early on Monday morning I had an email from Australia, telling me that my brother Steve is back in hospital.  Probably nothing too serious, some tests to check things out. More news later......  Hmmmmm. 

I set off to work as usual, had a couple of meetings, then tried to concentrate on writing a research report.  By lunchtime I realised I just couldn’t get my head round it, and was making all sorts of silly mistakes. So I went out for a stroll to clear my head.

On the way I passed two colleagues.  I must have looked a bit shaky because they both stopped and asked me if I was OK.  A few years back I would have said ‘Yes thanks, I’m fine’ and carried on.  But I’ve realised that’s not a great way to proceed, so I said ‘No, not really’ and told them why.  I got warm words and a hug. Which was nice.

Instead of walking round the campus, I found myself heading for Costas Coffee. I bought a large hot chocolate with marshmallows and cream, and a lemon drizzle muffin.  Back in my office I thought I would drink the chocolate and save the muffin for later.  But I didn’t, I scoffed the lot - and felt much, much better.

Cycling home in the rain (surprisingly enjoyable when you’ve got the right gear on) I detoured up the hill from Netherfield Road to St George’s Church. It’s a tough climb for me, and I’m always puffing and panting – but this time I managed to get to the top without stopping. And then, the pure pleasure of freewheeling down Everton Brow. 

Then it was off to my Tai Chi class in our local community centre.  As always it was a lovely session, five minutes of meditation followed by half an hour of  balancing, calming movement.

So, without really planning it, I found I’d created my own new well-being recipe for the day.  Human comfort, comfort food and drink, a bit of a physical challenge and then some deep relaxation.

Different things work for different people, but the basic message is the same. We need – and deserve – to look after ourselves, as well as looking after other people.  Kindness goes in all directions.

How would you have been kind to yourself, if you’d received that sort of worrying news?

P.S. I’m pleased to say that Steve is OK.  It turns out it was a minor hiccup rather than a major setback.  

The Kindness of Strangers

One summer when I was a student, my girlfriend and I were hitch-hiking through Italy. We found ourselves sitting in a cafe in Rome, feeling rather tired and bedraggled.  A woman at the next table leant across, said she was worried about how we were managing, and gave me a 50,000 lira note (worth about £20, a lot of money for students in those days). 

A random act of kindness.

Why on earth did she do that?  She didn’t know us, had never met us before, and would never see us again.  How odd!

There’s an obvious point in being kind to family and friends, because we care about them. There’s an obvious point in being kind to people we work with: it encourages colleagues to work harder, and makes our clients more satisfied. 

But why are we kind to people we don’t know, and have no particular contact with?

The writer Anne Herbert tells us to ‘practice random acts of kindness and senseless acts of beauty’, which sounds wonderful - but she doesn’t tell us why. 

Kindness to others is a big element of the major religions. It’s zakat, the fourth pillar of Islam; it’s central to Buddhism; and ‘loving your neighbour as yourself’ is at the heart of Christianity.

But that doesn’t explain random acts of kindness by people who live without a faith.   

Being kind to strangers is strange!

I ask Sue - the kindest person I know - why she is kind to strangers. Her immediate response is ‘Well, what goes around comes around’.  I know that’s one reason she enjoys offering house room for couch-surfers: the thought that people in Mexico, Australia or wherever will do the same for our children when they’re travelling around the world. It’s reciprocity, on a global scale.

Then she says, ‘Being kind doesn’t take extra energy’. It doesn’t cost anything to give someone a hug - although I suppose you might get a smack in the face if your hugging is just too random. She points me towards the Gentle Art of Blessing, by Pierre Praverand: all about wishing unrestricted good for others.  You can find a glimpse of Pierre’s words on  www.youtube.com/watch?v=WegAgepCYfo

She also tells me she’s read something about the hormone oxytocin, so I do some googling. It turns out that acts of kindness are often associated with emotional warmth, which produces oxytocin. Oxytocin helps to reduce blood pressure, and so protects our hearts. It may also reduce free radicals, and slow the ageing process.  So maybe being kind to others is good for our health, our well-becoming.  Interesting.

‘What goes around comes around.’  That certainly makes sense to me.

A few years ago I was sitting on a beach in southern Spain with one of my children. It had been raining non-stop for the past week, and when the sun finally came out we wanted to enjoy it. A young couple struggled past us, looking tired and bedraggled.  They were setting up camp at the far end of the beach, but all their kit was soaked.  After watching them for a while, I went over to say hello, and told them about the woman in the cafe in Rome. I gave them a 50 euro note, explaining how I was just passing the money on.  Maybe they will do the same, twenty years from now.

Why do you think we are kind to strangers?

What is the kindest thing a stranger has done for you?

What is the kindest thing you’ve done for a stranger?

The best is yet to be

Turning sixty has made me stop and think.   

I've been thinking about everything that’s happened in my life so far: the things I’ve done, the things I wish I’d done, and the things I wish I hadn’t done.  I'm aware that it’s getting to be a bit late to do much to change all that.  Time is beginning to run out. I've got a lot more past than future. I haven’t the energy I used to have. My body is starting to crumble, and I know that’s only going to get worse – tinnitus, restless legs, prostate problems, and now the dreaded bowel screening tests.  Eeugh!

Except it doesn’t feel like that to me.

It feels remarkably good.

That’s partly because I’ve got a wonderful family and lots of  good friends, who helped me celebrate my 60^th birthday in grand style.

And it’s partly because things have generally gone well for me in recent years.

But it’s more, much more than that. 

I'm coming to realise that I don’t have to try quite so hard any more. That it’s OK to take everything a bit easier.  That it’s fine to do less, and be more.

 The Victorian poet Robert Browning starts off his wonderful poem Rabbi Ben Ezra like this:

Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be...

He’s not talking about everything being a major success, or looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses. He’s thinking about past failures, and how they really don’t matter – What I aspired to be/ And was not, comforts me.  It’s not a problem, he says, it’s OK to have made a pig’s ear of things.  

I know what he means. Whether things up to now have gone well, or not so well – or even if they’ve been disastrous - there is something reassuring about time moving on.  The past is in the past.  We can allow ourselves to leave it there. We don’t need to dwell on it. And we can look forward to different ways of being.

I’m confident that the next twenty years are going to be the best so far.  Growing old looks good to me. Not worrying about getting anywhere in particular, just enjoying being where I am.  Less hassle - and a lot more fun.    

I’m not naive about this. I know everything could go belly up, any time. Like it did for John Lennon – who ironically used Browning’s poem as the basis of one of his very last songs  ‘Grow old along with me’ (you can find it on http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oixKjpZ5a1o) - just a few months before he was shot.

But that’s not the point. Not at all.

It’s all about living hopefully.

Welcome in the Maumturks

Whenever I’m back in Ireland, my body feels lighter, my step is springier.  I’m energised. My life seems easier, more balanced.  I feel at home.

Last week I was in Galway for a research meeting, with friends and colleagues from all over Europe. We worked hard - and we had a grand time. Our conversations ranged far and wide, from whether Greece would have to leave the eurozone, to how to make room in your bed so that your guardian angel can look after you while you sleep. We had music, dancing and plenty of fine food. We even had a breakfast rainbow (thanks Evelyn, for the picture).

Within this cornucopia of good things, two particularly improved my well-being. 

The first was the welcome we received from Mary and Tomas, who were introducing us to participatory research. Céad míle fáilte – a hundred thousand welcomes – says the Irish Tourist Board.  With Mary and Tomas, it was closer to céad milliún fáilte.

I pride myself on being pretty good at welcoming people, especially in my surgery where I offer a smile and a handshake as people come in to see me, and another handshake as they leave.  But it turns out I’m just a novice, and there is so much more to making people feel fully welcome: lots and lots of friendly visual contact, hugs (sometimes) as well as handshakes, sharing (and remembering) names, physical comfort and refreshment - and the huge importance of chatting. 

I’ve just worked out that welcoming is 75% of wellbecoming! 

The second big thing that improved my well-being was climbing Lackavrea, the easternmost peak of the Maumturk range (it’s on the right in this photo). As you’ll have noticed from my earlier blogs, climbing mountains is one of the ingredients in my own wellbeing recipe.

It was just great to find a new one to add to my list – thanks to Joss Lynam’s walking guide to the mountains of Connemara, and to Tim Robinson’s wonderful Folding Landscapes map. 

Lackavrea only just qualifies as a mountain – it’s a tad over 1000 feet - and you can easily get up and down again in a couple of hours.  But I still had a real sense of achievement, not least at avoiding slipping too many times in the boggy turf on the way down.  There are sensational views from the top, so I’m told, though was covered in cloud when we got there.

So, while we munched our Danish pastries, we imagined the light reflecting off the waters of Loch Corrib to the east, and the sun setting behind the full extent of the Maumturk range, as it rolled away westwards in front of us.

Beautiful!

The Tree of Life

I love big trees. A while back I was sitting under the Banyan Tree in Pakistan.  Recently I’ve been to visit the Tree of Life in Bahrain. 

The Tree of Life is remarkable. It lives all on its own on a small hill in the middle of a desert.  You can see how big it is by the size of the people beside it (including Sue, if you look very carefully). Apparently it’s over 400 years old.  It’s a member of the mesquite family, known for their very deep root systems which can tap water more than 50 metres below ground.

Local legends abound. One story is that the Tree of Life marks the location of the Garden of Eden, and the origins of our knowledge of good and evil.  Another is that it survives thanks to Enki, the Sumerian and Babylonian god of water, mischief and life.   It makes an appearance in the 1991 Steve Martin film L.A. Story, but has nothing whatsoever to do - thank goodness - with Terence Mallick’s pretentious Tree of Life film.

Sue and I get to see it just before sunset, after a tortuous journey through the oil and gas fields of central Bahrain.  There are no other trees or any vegetation in sight, just sand, rocks and a couple of gas flares burning in the distance.  There are a few other people there, Indians on their day off from jobs in the service or construction sectors. Our host, who’s lived in Bahrain for over 40 years, has never been to see the tree before.

It is easy to climb and sit in. Lots of signatures, hearts and dates are inked in its lower branches.   It doesn’t have the immense solidity and security of the Banyan. It’s a comfortable, friendly tree. The sort of tree you'd just like to hang out with for a while. No need to say much, maybe a bit of a chat about old times.  

The Tree of Life is deeply reassuring. It has survived and flourished in the some of the toughest conditions you can imagine, arid and hot, often over 50 degrees in high summer. It’s seen people come and go over the centuries: Portuguese and British, Iranians and Indians, Germans and Americans, Shias and Sunnis.  And it’s still there.  

Given the recent troubles in Bahrain, and the possibility of more to come, the Tree of Life is a powerful symbol of survival and resilience during tough times.

It lives on its little hill, untroubled by difficulties or events around it. As my favourite philosopher Spinoza says, it is 'persevering in its own being'.

It is.