Spaces

There are many places we live in, work in, have fun in, suffer in. There are cities, villages, fields, seas. What I have realised recently, though, is that within those places, there are also spaces. And it is those spaces that hold the real meaning of our memories and reactions. It is the spaces, not the places, that matter.

For example, I live in London (UK). Now, London is a huge city and, more importantly, the only one of its kind I like (at least, of all those I have visited or live in). It is full of different nationalities, flavours, architecture, culture... and also of racial disagreements, bad housing, lack of manners, dirty streets. Yet, when I say I like or love London, depending on the mood, I mostly relate to specific spaces of London. So, what do I love about London? The South Bank on a stroll, the lower floor of the Royal Festival Hall where you can see people practise dance, the museums on a school day, the Candid Arts Café and Kenwood House for a cup of tea, my friends' homes, the hills of Hampstead Heath and Greenwich Park,... Specific experiences of spaces that have meaning in my existence, reducing the urban sprawl to personalised moments.

Initially, I thought we, as humans, would compartmentalise the aspects of cities to manageable portions in order to successfully relate to otherwise hostile, over-stimulating environments. But nope, I have tried it out on other settings, and still the mold fits. Not only for smaller cities of, say, under half a million people, but even to villages of only a few hundred inhabitants. In fact, and please feel free to disagree, I believe this tendency to identify with only certain spaces applies to our very own houses.

Think of it, maybe move around your home: does each step feel the same, or do you feel the same in each bit of the place? Beyond the different uses of the different rooms, do you relate more to one chair than another, one window than the next? Just in this room, I can tell how working on the computer at the desk, on the floor or the bed have completely distinct connotations - killing time, feeling happy, and being moody, respectively. And this, despite the fact that there is no clear difference between them beyond those of the space in my mind as linked to the space in the room.

Of course, this might seem irrelevant or even deterministic for most of us, since we have to live in certain houses, work in certain rooms/cubicles, etcetera. But how liberating it is, at the same time, to realise that just a few centimetres away begins a space which may give us a wholy new perspective, and why not try it? In the meantime, we can simply choose to relish our sacred spaces, our family spaces, our love spaces. We can decide to spend more time there instead of the other, less uplifting ones, and then do spend that time.

Because its limits are only within us 'space (really is) the final frontier.'

Praise

I have a problem with praise. OK; not a problem per se, more like a disfunctional relationship with it.

On the one hand, I love praising people, then observing how it empowers them. When people are praised, they realise their own wonderful characteristics, that others are aware of their efforts and achievements, and that they can go further than they thought. Praise tells them that, even though it may have been hard to reach that certain level, by having achieved they have broken their own ceiling. And if the ceiling is broken, why not push themselves just that bit further, higher, closer to their aspirations?

Praise, when devoid of motive other than being the truth, is a wonderful gift, notwithstanding the relative scope of the achievement. Have you ever seen the glow on a child's face when you show your pride at their being able to spoon food into their own mouths? Or at their creativity for having drawn a rainbow with 27 different shades of 3 colours? And the face of a young adult when you acknowledge their thoughtfulness for having bought you that outlandish, yet 100% trendy, new top so that you are less of a drab parent? Or, for me, my students' slightly straighter back when I comment on how far their effort has taken them; how admirable their dedication.

The examples are many, each one a pool of joy and shimmering greatness. Praise, what a wonderful kiss of truth.

So, what's the rub? That, for all I love it, I have difficulty receiving it. Now, I know I'm not all that unique, but since it is my experience of it, it is I who is bothered by this. Praise is my Kryptonite, in a way. The moment I receive it, I begin to panic and become divided within myself. A whole host of conflicting thoughts and emotions assault me, and I let them, weak and weary. Things that range from 'It's not that big a deal, why are they making such a fuss' to 'Oh, blast, and what if I cannot pull it through again next time? What if I fail? Has this been a fluke?'. My head gets even noisier than usual, my world comes to a shivering standstill.

It's tiring, all this issue with praise. It turns all I do into a monster I must feed, and me into a coward who would let the monster starve rather than subject myself to more scrutiny. The saddest part is, most of those monsters are creatures of my love, offspring of my heart and passions - not Minotaur, but Kronos' divine progeny, victims of their mother's fear.

It has now become the time to break away, to open my arms and accept praise. It is no easy task, but I have realised refusing it means that a) I am betraying my own Grace; b) I am betraying the giving hearts of those who have given me praise; c) I am betraying my past, present and future creations; d) I am betraying all I have ever praised.

Thank you, all of you who have ever expressed joy in what I have offered, achieved, created, shared, revealed or simply lived and loved through. I may not be there yet, but hopefully one day you will see me smile proudly at your praise and you will know: yes, she has learned to receive herself.

Praised be.

To love, to hold?

We learn that to love is to hold. Thinking about it simply, I would agree. After all, hugs are a favourite of mine: hugging, cuddling, snuggling... You can feel the tenderness, the warmth, the joy of them in their very shapes - all requiring a double consonant, like a hug needs two of us. The beauty of an embrace is as mystical as well known, for it can save a life (as it does premature children - see link below), heal our souls as well as our bodies (another link), and enables us to express the greatest depths of love when words fail us - a parent holding its child, friends reuniting, supporting the bereaved or celebrating victory, all are inextricably linked to the wealth of love of the hug (no, no web link - unless you choose to send one in a comment.)

But then, hold, now that can be a bit trickier. You can be held captive, or enthralled; hostage, or in amazement; in contempt or in the highest regard. So, which hold is love? Hold has, sadly, a connotation of strength, of retention. A tint of imposition that is wholly selfish. It is that desperation to link ourselves to others that makes us feel as though letting go were the same as being ripped asunder. And yes, it does hurt, that not being able to hug, to cuddle, to snuggle with our loved ones. It hurts us, making us believe that the centre of universal pain is in that tearing, which seems so absolute, so abysmal, so abhorrent.

Is it, though? One of the greatest gifts my mother ever gave me was the awareness that she loved us so much she would not hold onto us, but rather encourage our journeys, however far we may choose to go. Of course, it hurt. I know it hurt her to have us far away, and independence was not always happy (at least for me), I can tell you. Still, her decision to hug, cuddle, snuggle when we were there, and then not hold on when we had to grow - that has become a measure of love for me. Love abundant, with freedom, free from the guilt that can be born of debt or devotion.

As the days become shorter, I take stock of the sun cycle that dies, and I realise, I had forgotten. For a while, I was in a relationship where I felt held, and I felt the need to hold. When it ripped apart, I was left in no-man's land. It's taken me a whole year, and then some, to remember that I am a true lover, who loves, and hugs, and snuggles, and cuddles. A true lover, who will support, embrace and sometimes challenge. A true lover, who will not hold.

I choose to love with my eyes wide open, with my heart wide open, with my hands wide open.




(And, if you're still wondering...)
Kangaroo care - http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/health-24924955
Hugging benefits - http://www.mindbodygreen.com/0-5756/10-Reasons-Why-We-Need-at-Least-8-Hugs-a-Day.html