The still point

Willow Blooms #008 A quiet love letter to the NHS

Many things have been bubbling in my writing over the past few days. I have multiple drafts of article #008 trying to come to life, but it has been difficult to get my words onto the page in a way that has felt right. Each iteration has been abandoned.

I am reflecting on today being my last day employed in the NHS, marking the end of a 25 year relationship. I have pondered whether it is the right time to write about this. How, or even whether to share my thoughts about this significant transition. I remain unsure, which suggests it may not the right time.

So what else has been on my mind? There have been many considerations for this article.

For instance, I have been troubled by the post-budget speech from Victoria Aitken, Secretary of state for health and social care, sharing her thoughts about the challenges and future for the NHS. This was thick in its narrative about productivity, giving flashes of the future reform in the shape of AI, accountability and incentivisation. A chill went through me, and I started an article in response. I put it aside. Today is not the day to write about that either. I want to stay amongst the healing ripples of yesterday’s sound bath.

So what else?

I have been listening to Ursula le Guin’s Dancing at the Edge of the World, on Audiobook. For anyone unfamiliar with the book, it is not one of her science fiction novels, but a collection of essays written mostly in the 80s. In them she reflects on literature, feminism, travel, the purpose of attending university, what constitutes success, and inequalities. Despite being written 40 years ago, many of the themes, whilst needing some updating, remain more relevant than we might want to admit. Her writing is intelligent, perceptive, sensitive, witty and at times hard hitting, and it sparked many trains of thought that I wished I could continue in conversation with her. I would love to follow some of these trains with other people, chewing over the ideas as the countryside flashes beside us. But I know I cannot do any of these topics justice in a Substack article today, and my thoughts, and experiences stay simmering in the pot, and food for my personal meditation.

What you put out into the world comes back to you

Do you believe in Karma? The idea that what we put out into the world comes back to us? As a clinical psychologist I believe that the lens through which we see the world, impacts on what we think, and feel about ourselves and others, and impacts our behaviours. How we behave towards others, and if you like, what energy that we put into the world, impacts on how other people see us, how they feel around us, and how they respond to us. Psychologists often refer to the underlying ideas about ourselves and the world as schema, resulting in a cognitive bias which can be helpful or unhelpful in different contexts. Others taking a more spiritual lens, might call it Karma, or manifesting. Either way, it seems that what we say out loud and silently to ourselves, often becomes true.

Whatever perspective we have on this, I know that every piece of writing that I put out into the world has an impact on those who read it, and is no longer mine. One of le Guin’s essays explores this idea, and she says that writing only has life when it is read. The words, and meaning within the words exist in relationship with the reader, and each reader is free to make whatever they like of it. My words, now that you are reading them, are no longer mine. If indeed they ever were! Unlike a letter that can be thrown onto the fire, or hidden in the bottom of a drawer, the words we share on the internet have a special power, and exist forever. I can edit, or delete what I post, but it has a ghostly form, and exists outside of my computer screen, in a form that can never be entirely recovered and reclaimed. The fact that you and I do not talk together in real time, or in a physical space makes the relationship between my words and your experience of them even more strange. I hope, as happened to me when I listened to le Guin’s book, that it sparks off your own thought trains that you want to follow!

A community holding hands

This brings up a recollection of a conversation I had with Caroline Evans, Herbalist and Naturopath, last week. I haven’t written about this previously, but she shared a belief that we have a responsibility to seven future generations. Seven- that’s a long way into the future.

We might experience this as a heavy responsibility, or an opportunity for great positive influence. With this in mind, she posed the question of what we choose to put out into the world. From her words, my mind created an image of a chain of people holding hands, stretching forward and backwards through time. Our choices do not just impact on our lives, there are chains of people to come, whose hands we are already holding in ours. Caroline’s words reminded me that no matter how difficult the struggles we face, we are never alone, and it is never just our responsibility, but our choices matter.

Be careful with the words that come from you

The words above were spoken in warning by another wise woman last weekend. Words offered not about this situation specifically, but for all of our communications. Some of what we read on social media and see or hear other areas of our lives can certainly be given in haste. Some of it is written with fingers that consciously want to hurt, or conceal, or deceive. At other times they express raw reactions with an absence of reflection- the words hurt, conceal, and deceive, without consciously meaning to, so have the same effect.

We are all human, we have all likely been careless with words. At times we might look back on what we write with regret. These things can be repaired, if we choose to do so, by apologising, retracting and editing. I know I have not always been careful with my words in past situations. On Substack, I write with the intention of offering space for reflection, and enhancing well-being. It seems to me that this is a community of people trying to do the same.

This weekend I was gifted an image by a female friend of a hermit crab, and it returned to me as I was writing this article. I wasn’t immediately sure why it popped up, but it was another story of how interconnected we are, even in times of our greatest vulnerability when we can seem most alone.

Untitled under CC by 2.o Taken from Simone Mcewan’s wordpress blog

The hermit crab has a tough exoskeleton on parts of its body such as it’s claws, but the rest of its body has a soft covering. These parts are concealed within the shell of another animal, and the hermit crab adapts to the shell’s shape. As the hermit crab grows, it can outgrow its shell.

My friend said that I was like a hermit crab, outside the shell that I have been in for many years, scurrying along the sand, looking for a new one. It normalised the feelings of vulnerability and uncertainty that we experience in times of significant change. It might feel unsafe, but it is part of a process necessary for growth.

I later learned that hermit crabs do not always do this alone, but are often part of a synchronous vacancy chain. See Hermit Crabs Use Social Networking to Find New Homes — Biological Strategy — AskNature for more detail! When an empty shell is washed onshore, a community of crabs approach, and in size order, check it out. If it isn’t the right size, they wait for another. But if the shell fits a crab, a chain reaction occurs. Or a chain of house moves ensues! One crab moves in, leaving another empty shell for the next in line. Thus the movement of the first crab has benefits for many others in the community, allowing each hermit crab to find the perfect shell. How many crabs might have lived in one shell, I wonder.

A community sharing shells

As I contemplate the dash from my current shell to a new one, I find myself in a place of stillness. An invitation to whatever what wants to come up to do so.

Recently I reposted an extract from

Cydney Hayes

Substack article. I am doing her work an injustice in my oversimplification, but she shared her thoughts on, and reactions to the Notes function on Substack. It drew my attention to the platform’s ability to lure us towards the art of gaining followers, rather than the art of writing, and reading articles. It made me think of the ways we can get distracted or consumed by the need for shares and seeking likes and followers. How this can stop us from slowing down, lying in the grass, gazing up at the clouds, and enjoying the articles on offer to us. There is so much brilliant content in Substack.

Her article reminded me (us?) that it is important to consider why I am (we are) here. My response was:

Be brave- have fun - develop my creativity - share my reflections -connect.

So, I am bringing these intentions here. I hold them in my hand and gently blow, scattering them like seeds. The first three to fall are-

• Be brave.

• Share my reflections.

• Connect.

Recently I went on a retreat, and we were each given a string tied bag and invited to consider it as a container for all of our sorrows. We were asked what we might put in our bags, and what it was like to carry these bags of sorrows around with us.

I took up these invitations, and wrapped my bag around my wrist. When the evening was over, I went to get ready for bed. Whilst brushing my teeth, I noticed how much of a burden the bag was. It swung as I turned on and off the tap, getting in the way, and getting wet. But the swinging bag reminded me that something that had seemed a part of me, was not. I saw how it got in the way of me living my life.

Thus this bag of sorrows allowed me to distance myself from the sorrows, and to consider them differently. I was able to get some perspective and be more curious. I asked questions such as, how many sorrows were in my bag, and what they were, considering which perhaps were not mine to be carrying. I thought about what I needed.

If you did this for yourself, being playful, and open to what comes up, I wonder what your experience would be. Would you find, like me, that you have sorrows in your bag which are not yours? Do you take on the sorrows of other people, and for whatever reason, find that you are carrying them around? I wonder why we each do this, and whether we would all choose to continue doing so if we saw how heavy they were. I’m sure there must be a multitude of reasons stopping us from putting them down, or why else would we carry them? I wonder if they get in the way of you living your life how you’d like to live. You might generate very different ideas about what you’d like to do about this than I did.

My bag is currently hanging on one of the door handles in my kitchen. It swings each time I open the cupboard looking for plates. I am reminded that I have a place that I can keep my sorrows safe, and I can take them out, look at them, and take them in my hand, like a collection of seeds, and blow them into the world, asking for help, and inviting something new to grow from them.

Moving on

Without me knowing it, my meandering mind has brought me gently back to the beginning, with the loving threads of ending and sorrows quietly weaving my parts together. The hermit crab shell and the bag of sorrows offer a useful way of conceptualising our ways of being, or the schema that we carry through life, and often don’t think about. They also serve to remind us that if the shell doesn’t fit any more, we can find a new one, and every day we can make decisions about our relationship with our bag of sorrows.

How do I want to live now?

And now?

And now?

And now?

I have given 25 years of my own service to the NHS because I believe in, value and support what it stands for. The NHS is full of wonderful people, doing wonderful work, and I am grateful for the opportunities it has given me, the skills I have developed, the connections I have made, and the people who have trusted me to walk alongside them in their struggles. I have some sadness about leaving the NHS, but there will also be relief. As I leave my old shell, it is my deepest intention to let go of the sorrows of the system that I have been carrying.

As I take my leave to close this love letter, I wish you the greatest of health NHS, and for wise leaders who will reflect on what you, and the people who continue to serve you, really need.

We approach the vernal equinox, the day of equal day and night where the sun is directly over the Earth’s equator. In the Northern hemisphere we enter spring. May we take this opportunity to remind ourselves to look to nature for wisdom, not just to artificial intelligence and arbitrary targets of productivity.

The final two of my seeds get caught in the gust of air and fall to the ground.

• Have fun

• Develop my creativity

Why, my Substack friends, are you here? What are the seeds that you want to grow? I’d love you to let me know in the comments.

In the still point before the abundant growth of spring, it is time for things to come into bloom.