Category Archives: General Musings

Stories, recollections and ideas on a wide range of topics

General Musings, Metaphors and Stories

The island that time forgot.

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The journey to Lamu island remains an adventure.  Kenyans love to organise a queue so we queue outside terminal 1D at Kenyatta international,  mixing with bewildered looking tourists and resigned East African nationals before being permitted entry where we queue again to scan our bags before standing in a queue at the Jambo airline check-in desks. Then we queue to get through to the security scan – scanning shoes here is still a thing. All shoes. Flipflops, trainers, boots, sandals- no one escapes the shoe police. It’s now 07.30. I haven’t had coffee and miraculously Craig is still breathing. 

It would be fair to describe the domestic terminal as unchanged in the quarter decade when I last sat on the hard plastic chairs.

Thankfully the wee Safari Express coffee shop remains, still serving great tasting coffee, so I slowly emerge into humanness as the Kenyan sun appears, the caffeine hits and Craig, sensibly, remains mute. 

It’s an hour flight in a twin prop plane – a two by two- similar width to Concorde, without any of the razzmatazz . We fly just above cottonwool clouds and I think of Denis Finch Hatton; no wonder he was bewitched, this is a fabulous way to see the vast beauty that is Kenya. 

We are travelling to Lamu at my request. 10 years ago we were in Cape Town for my birthday celebration- now I’m returning to  Peponi’s where I can authentically pretend that I’ve found the halt button to the passage of time. 

The speedboat from Manda across to Lamu jolts me from all these romantic notions. Upon landing and as our suitcases disappear into the verdant hotel greenery, our host offers a welcome aperitif and I find myself agreeing to a gin and tonic. It’s 11am but it’s  5pm somewhere.  As the island is 90% Muslim, Peponi’s is one of the few places that serves alcohol so the bar is always busy- no matter the time of day or night.

I’m not alone as Craig also joins our early happy hour and we appreciatively sip while catching our bearings. 

It’s 5pm somewhere

The view across from the new bar is much different from 27 years ago. What was once pristine empty beach and mangrove swamp  is now full of holiday resorts and private villas. It’s like looking at an upmarket Benidorm circa 1995. I had previously walked Manda beach in private contemplation and solitary sadness however this wouldn’t be possible today, such is progress. 

Some would say progress is allowing the boda-bodas to ply their trade between Lamu old town and Shela, with their irritating beeping and motors roaring. Others would tell you that despite the UNESCO heritage status, the rising modern seafront buildings mark progress. Then again, is progress the increased profusion of Tanzanian styled dhows rather than the traditional narrow Lamu dhow? Or the motorised speedboats which now make charge between Shela and Lamu old town? Progress is the polite word used to describe, “it’s not like it was”. Of course, it’s not. Am I turning into an ‘old duffer’?

We spend a day wandering the old town in the company of a young guide, weaving through the cool narrow streets, the width of a donkey and its load. We climb to the top of the old fort, which the British used as a Mau Mau prison, and from up here, hidden solar panels soak up the sun juxtapositioned between newly washed sheets billowing in the ever present breeze. I silently watch two women, free of burka and hijab walk across a bridge high up between two familial buildings. Life below moves unknowing. Up here, it’s another dimension.

I return to Lamu old town by myself on two separate occasions- it’s 1500 shillings for a one way trip and on both my journeys, I sit as a queen in my own private water charter. It’s a lovely way to observe life on island where unsurprisingly everything revolves around trade and water. 

As a Muslim island, guests here are asked to respect the culture and for women in particular to cover their shoulders and knees. I come with a suitcase packed full of all my Barbados flowy frocks and apart from a strategically placed scarf to cover any peaking cleavage, I’m able to move without causing offense. Unlike some wealthy white Brits who land at the hotel, loudly proclaim that it’s a known hippy place and then peel off their short frocks to reveal skimpy bikinis underneath. They sit at lunch with all their flesh on display and my inner snob becomes outwardly sniffy. 

Me and my nose stare into the distance and into focus comes island wildlife; the donkeys silently plod along, carrying sand,bricks,water, people.

The Peponi camels take up residence when the changing tides allow, carrying heavy provisions for Shela citizens. Palm trees, laden with coconut fruits sway in the cooling breeze.
Wooden sail boats jostle for trade and pleasure. Honestly, how many more descriptions of tropical paradise can I inspire you with?  

 

The day I’ve tried to ignore appears. For all of the remembering and forgetting, time steals abeyance and here I’m thrown into subdued celebration, on a private, luxurious dhow boat, bobbing in the Indian sea. The straining wood creaks as the prow of the boat carves through the water, the sails snap in the wind, flying fish jump ahead of us. There’s no music, no WiFi. Just the captain, his mate, Craig and me. It’s a perfect day, a perfect birthday.

I still don’t quite know how I got so lucky but somehow I can still be that wide eyed, grateful youngster of those many moons before, particularly when the charcoal appears and they cook the most delicious freshly caught fish – even better than I remembered.

It helps that the captain is married to Bibi, chef par excellence, on Shela. She runs her own cooking school and he shares her method and recipe for the melt-in-the -mouth grouper fish. Craig says he’s going to make it; I’m going to live in hope!

Here’s to the decade ahead.

General Musings, Snippets

Empty Head

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Many moons ago when we were just courting, I had first love curiosity- What were the ruminations going on in his head?

As a woman, my brain has never stopped. I’ve gone to many meditation classes and retreats, letting my breath in one nostril and out the other. I’ve acknowledged the thoughts, going back to the breath. I’ve acknowledged the pains, going back to the breath. I’ve moved with the breath. I’ve chanted into the breath. I’ve been on retreats when we’ve physically starved ourselves – when all there was for sustenance was breath. I can hold, exhale and worship breath but, my busy brain chunters on. 

Sunset near Swakupmund, Namibia

Perhaps I am ill-disciplined. Perhaps I lack commitment and rigor. I’m impatient, outcome focused, forward looking. There’s always a horizon, over there, to be explored, cogitated on, imagined. I need to plan and strategise my route, overcome the obstacles, focus on the prize ahead. 

This ability to look forward is why, in 24 hours since I spoke to our soon-to-depart tenant, I’ve engaged 3 estate agents to appraise our property, alerted the neighbours we are going to sell, hired the gardeners to help kerb appeal, appointed the solicitors who will do the conveyancing and started the process of mentally letting go. I live 3,000 miles away! 

Millstream Cottage RG19 8AN
Millstream Cottage RG19 8AN

I’m already mentally living in Scotland, in our forever home – the one with no steps and doors that are minimum 800mm wide ( for walkers and wheelchairs) and kitchen drawers, not cupboards for ease of use. The one where we walk out our front door to restaurants, bars and shops and can easily access public transport to get ‘oot and aboot’ when we go further afield. The one that will store only my items of joy – this is one of the reasons why I’ve stopped purchasing Le Creuset cast iron – fine now but in 20 years- it’ll be too heavy to use. Who buys Le Creuset stainless steel for a future that may not even appear???

That will be me. 🤷🏻‍♀️

So roll back the years, “What are you thinking about”, “Where’s your head?” “Where are you right now”? 

 (Yup, I was that girl…)

That girl…
That girl, in love😍

So I had no frame of reference when he would train those big blue eyes on mine, and say, “My head is empty”, or “There’s nothing in my brain right now”. 

Naturally, I figured this was a problem needing to be fixed. Or in my more insecure moments, I contemplated that I was being deliberately shut out. My fear which ran on repeat,  was he was thinking before us, when there was a them. 

Duh!🤦🏻‍♀️

Today, I understand that this man, and now his offspring, have the ability to empty their heads into nothingness. I have no idea what this is. The closest I ever came to accessing this feeling was up a mountain, either climbing, ski-touring or skiing and, truth be told,  it was always my fear of what might happen next that kept me moving forward. No such thing as nothingness in my brain.

People spend a small fortune to try and get there. My men, they are there every day. At will. When it suits them. 

My curiosity still bubbles,  so now the questions are focused on knowing how. “How can I learn to empty my head into nothing”? “How does it work”?

 “What do I need to do differently to access this seemingly simple task of nothingness ”?

Of course, neither can answer. It just Is. It requires no effort, no thought, just time to be. 

The boy bubble

It apparently can happen anytime, anywhere; playing golf, looking into the horizon, watching sport on TV. They can access a happy nirvana interlude where it’s possible to rest the thoughts swirling through the brain and rejuvenate. 

It doesn’t cost them time, effort or pounds sterling. It’s an inherent ability to be in the now but otherworldly. 

I’m SO envious…

 

General Musings, Insights

Scaredy Cat

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Biopsy, such an ugly word for a cancer adventurer.  It strikes fear into the healthy heart and soul, teasing possibilities and memories deliberately cast aside.

I watch the brain dance, trying not to let my body sway to its tune. All of the learnings I have written about over the course of the past 6 years need to be brought into the conscious, the brain must not be allowed to trigger the cortisol that wakes up the amygdala.  The call of Google must be ignored.  But it’s so hard not to give in, to not look for the worst instead of the best.

To stop myself, I go looking for inspiration and courage, seeking solace in the words and wisdom of others.  I am reminded of the poetry of Edgar Albert Guest;

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you’re trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low but the debts are high,
And you want to smile but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit…
Rest if you must, but don’t you quit!

Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many failures turn about
When we might have won had we stuck it out.
Don’t give up though the pace seems slow…
You may succeed with another blow.

Often the struggler has given up
When he might have captured the victor’s cup;
And he learned too late when the night came down,
How close he was to the golden crown.

Success is failure turned inside out…
And you can never tell how close you are
It may be near when it seems so far.
So stick to the fight when you’re hardest hit
It’s when things seem worst that you must not quit.

I like the bluntness of these words.  There is no ambiguity or room for interpretation.  Stick with it, don’t give up, reframe.  It works to lift the spirit.

But then I find the following…

A Litany for Survival

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive.
A Litany for Survival.” Copyright © 1978 by Audre Lorde, from The Collected Poems of Audre Lorde by Audre Lorde.  Copyright © 1997 by the Audre Lorde Estate.

Goodness, this puts the brain dance into the baby corner.  These words call my soul and I experience the metallic taste of shame.  Living in South Africa, with all of its glory and its gore, these words SHOUT perspective.

Andre Lourde, a self-described ‘Black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet’, uses this poem to deliver insight into the struggles faced by black Americans who have lived with fear ingrained.  I cannot begin to imagine a life lived like this.  A life lived, still by many, in this complex rainbow nation.

Here,  the most unequal society in the world, many are unemployed or have little or no income.  The latest statistics from the quarterly Labour force survey show an increase in unemployment.  In a country of roughly 40.7 million people aged between 15 and 64 (potential employees) approximately only 16.4 million are working.  Those who are not able to work, because they’re at school, or ill, or for some other reason, are estimated to number 13.2 million. That leaves 27.5 million people in a void.  And what do these 27.5 million people do to survive?  Maslow’s hierarchy of basic needs is not being met for huge swathes of the population. So many of us luckily struggle to understand the fear of not knowing where our next meal is coming from, or not feeling safe as we go to sleep – from attack, from the physical environment or from nature itself.  When survival is your job, there is little room for acknowledging anything but bare necessities.

While modern South Africa should not be neatly categorised into the haves and the have nots, the whites and the blacks and the coloureds, the roots of colonialisation cannot be discounted.   In addition, the seeds of corruption and state capture sown by the previous Zuma regime have created seismic disparity across all ethnic races, genders and ages.  Crime and poverty and fear, as expressed by Lourde’s words, are demonstrably evident in all regions here.   The need for change cannot just be expected to come from the political establishment and the ballot box – elections are on May 29 2024 –  but needs to be systemic, involving, including and not confined to, all levels of enterprise, communities, and the judiciary.

Ultimately, acknowledging my privilege and with Lorde’s words in my head offering the needed reframe, I lie on the gurney and fully accept the enforced sleep granted by the anaesthetist’s needle.

I will sleep the deep sleep.

The biopsy results will come back as benign.

I am blessed.

General Musings, Insights, Life change, Snippets

Limbo

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Here in Port Louis, Mauritius, I sit in a hotel room waiting for tropical cyclone Eleanor.  The downstairs bar is emptied of its glasses, bottles and furniture, tiny birds fly unchecked in the indoor breakfast room, grateful to be indoors where the crumbs are plentiful; guests gather at the buffet, filling their plates, unsure of when the next meal will be served.  Storm tracking apps are traded like stocks with much chatter on Eleanor’s projectory and strength; reception lies quiet, its glass front doors locked.  Hotel staff who have not gone home bustle around, calmly helping guests with their queries and needs.

Caucan Waterfront, Port Louis, Mauritius

Bellies full, we stagger back to the room where the food coma hits and I pass out, missing the blustery gusts, the driving rain and the Palm trees bent double in the gales.  I wake up to silence.  No bird song but no perceptible damage either.  The anti-climax hangs in the air between us, like a missed opportunity for a story yet to be told.  In gratitude, Craig completes his expenses and cleans up his emails while I sit with my book, trying to concentrate and quieten the busy mind.

For me the last 24 hours are the analogy for the last six months – a promise of something which turns out not quite as expected.

For South Africa is a beautifully cruel country offering contrasting experiences and incredible highs and lows.   Learning to trade in trust has been hard, I’m having to go inward to come out again.  While we remain physically safe, I have lost psychological safety having trusted people who have stolen thousands of pounds worth of irreplaceable family heirlooms and jewellery from our home.  When coupled by a serious physical assault by a medical professional, who was (wrongly) trusted on the basis he was a British High Commission approved Doctor, I find myself unmoored, bobbing along in a questioning sea; What is my skill set?  What is my cultural awareness?  How do I show up?

Male Lion in Madikwe National Reserve

By contrast, placed in wide-open spaces of endless sky and a far horizon glinting in the sunlight, with elephant breath through the window and a reverberating lion roar in the ear drum, the country of South Africa delivers a truth perspective; I am but a mere speck of breath in the universe.

And so, in this ying and yang of experience and expectation, disappointment and joy, fear and excitement, I sit in stasis.  I have to work first on self before enjoying the fruits of future work.

While this cannot be rushed, I also recognise my fortune; a now comfortable home and a life-partner gainfully employed, I have the luxury of taking the time needed to heal and explore.  My South African counsellor, used to dealing with victims of violent assault, murder and rape does not indulge willy-nilly, self-reflective wallowing.  Let’s call the spade a shovel and we will dig in to the past to understand the present.  In reality this means I am swallowing medicine I have tried to avoid for 30 years.

You can’t lie to liars without becoming a liar. We can’t cheat a cheater without becoming a cheater. Fighting fire with fire doesn’t protect trust it merely leaves you with the ashes of your integrity. Michael Josephson

I don’t know where this will lead.  For the first-time, in a long time, there is no clear outcome.  To learn to trust again, I must first trust in time and instinct.

Sit in limbo.

The storm may hit;

It may also swerve past.

Tropical Cyclone Balal 2024

General Musings

The day after

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So the detox juice thing isn’t going so well. I stare into the now empty pot of Belgian white chocolate ice-cream, while next to me beckons a similar sized pot of unopened, rapidly softening, organic chocolate delight. This is breakfast in the tropics; the morning after a hurricane hits.

We know it’s coming way before it arrives.  There are lots of warnings and businesses and Government offices start closing the day before. Many here laugh that “God is a Bajan” so they remain relaxed, viewing this as paid time off to hang with friends and family. There is the usual rush for petrol and for basics at the supermarket but it’s all in lighthearted, good natured terms; there is a general held view that such  storms blow past this lucky island with minimal disruption to life.

But  tropical  storm Elsa, upgraded to hurricane Elsa, decides to be the first hurricane in 55 years to smack this delusion to smithereens.

In the 78mph gusting wind, roofs blow off, trees fall taking power cables with them, landing on roads in the wet with live cables sizzling. The lashing horizontal rain pelts down, drenching the remaining volcanic ash, turning it into stubborn dark grey sludge. Roads are flooded, cars and vans submerge in the rising waters. Corrugated walls fly away like weightless sheets. Roof tile shards crash to the ground.  For 3 hours Elsa blows her fury leaving in her wake bursts of angry temperamental rain.

She departs, leaving behind a personal reminder;  our patio is strewn with torn and lost plant limbs and debris; forlorn, reluctant confetti of a wild wedding at which we were the bewildered guests.

By mid-day, the heat is rising,  stifling action and inducing restorative sleep.  There is little to do, no power means no WIFI and Roscoe, who slept through the entire thing, is desperate to hotspot my data so he can stay connected and find the latest Euro 2020 football scores. It’s funny-sad to watch his generation rootless at the loss of the umbilical internet cord.

In the evening, we drive over for a mutual cook-a-thon at the residence where there is generator power, a working gas cooker, blessed air-con and WiFi for the teenager. On the way there,  the devastation aftermath becomes more gut-renching. Lots of the little wooden chattel houses are blown apart by the wind and 100+ year old trees shamefully show their naked roots as they lie majestically supine, rendering roads impassable. Later driving home, we are hopeful that power and water are restored but it’s not to be; as we turn by St Thomas church which has already lost a mighty oak tree, darkness greets us.  We drive down the hill knowing it’s moonlight only at our home.

I’m up sweeping and mopping at 7am before the heat rises. It’s eerily still, barely a puff of wind.  All windows and doors are open trying to catch a breeze to help cast off the day before. It’s a beautiful blue skies morning, the sun kissing a glistening sea. It’s hard to believe this was a raging skyscape barely 24 hours before.

IMG_5310

Power continues to be off  and water remains a tap trickle. The contents of our freezer are on the other side of the island and I travel 10 miles to enjoy a shower in a friends pool room. We discover the knobs on our old, large Weber gas  barbecue have quietly disintegrated despite being sheltered under the now rotting branded cover.  This necessitates an evening trip to the takeaway on the highway, Chefette, where we appear to be joined by half of the folks of Holetown.  Power outage is at least good news for one commercial operation.

The night time air is heavy, hot and claggy.  All windows remain open but the curtains remain statuesquely still. I lie on the yoga mat next to the open patio doors. The persistent mosquito buzzing does nothing to aid sleep.

Outside the sky is clear, the stars are bright and all of Holetown lies in darkness. Yet more trees have brought down electrical cables, Barbados Light and Power have been overwhelmed by Elsa. We may get power tomorrow or maybe not. It will be as it will be.

In the last 4 years between Elsa, Dorian, Maria and Irma; the ferocious lightening storm of 2 weeks ago; the rise in the amount of sargassum seaweed layered across all beaches on island; the steady increase in air temperatures; the battles with seasonal torrential rain and the resulting flooding;  the reduction in fish; the loss of coral reefs; we are witnessing, first-hand, the reality of climate change. And these tiny islands with their ambitious NDCs and determination to move to Electric Vehicles and sustainable renewable energy sources, are catching the brunt of the developed nations industrial progress.

These islands are not just holiday destinations. They host entrepreneurs, developers, thriving businesses, and lots of opportunities for investors.  Homes for all living creatures and prosperous livelihoods are under threat.  We need to understand that decisions made elsewhere to burn, mine and harvest fossil fuels and hydrocarbons have severe consequences in places where there is little protection from the erosion of earths’ atmosphere.

In 120 days from today, COP26 goes live.  The message is clear; ambitions and talking isn’t enough, we need finance, action and real change.
Let’s get it done.

 

 

General Musings

Sign of the times

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We are now back home on our tiny tropical island. Monty dog is delighted to see us and is acting as if we’re never to be out of his sight again.

To get here we had a couple of similar but very different experiences with regards to COVID testing. The protocols relating to travel to Barbados clearly state all passengers need to have a negative COVID PCR test taken 72 hours ahead of disembarkation.

We had a night of stress; well to be accurate Craig was stressed; trying to book a COVID test in England for the following day is a bit like trying to get popular festival tickets the moment they go on sale. Web pages refusing to load, the need for constantly inputting various bits of information only to find out no test slots are available so to start all over again. Eventually,  we find a 15.30-1600 drive through slot in Chesterfield, miles past our Rotherham destination. This also means we need to leave St Andrews at 0900 the next morning instead of having a leisurely final breakfast with the boy.

Craig drives through Storm Francis in grim determination with the wind and rain battering our hired Volvo. It eats up the miles as we drive further away from the boy, out of the homeland and into the mood matching weather front. Stopping only for petrol and a brief comfort break we make the testing site at 15.40 to find it deserted. We are the only clients here. No queues; no need to show the desperately saved QR code’s from the gov.uk site; no need to match the car registration in some undefined system. Just gather some paperwork which is attached to our windscreen wipers and drive through to two medical staff, bundled up again the biting gales and nippy rain squalls who are barely sheltered in the large open ended marquee. The swab down the throat makes us gag and the nose swab is not at all uncomfortable: 5 swipes round each nostril with all 3 swabs bagged and labeled using the codes they’ve given us to register to receive our results. We drive out of the test Centre at 15.53 with a deflated air: is this really it?

Of course it isn’t. This is England 2020 under the Johnson government; we get on the plane 72 hours later with no results.

Arriving in Barbados, we walk towards the line with the other unfortunates who have not received their test results on time. It is quite a line. Thankfully our dip passports help us gain quicker traction and about 30 minutes after landing in Barbados and completing a form, I am in a cubicle with a fully gowned up medical doctor resembling a medic in a war zone.

This experience is very different. The throat swab is way longer than the UK version and I wretch several times before she takes it out my mouth. Just like the UK COVID experience she hands me a tissue and tells me to blow my nose to clear the nasal passages ahead of the next part of the test. She then asks me if I have a preference of which nostril to use, I am slightly perplexed by the question but state I have no preference. She then asks me to do a couple of deep breaths and to then continue to breathe through my mouth as she inserts the swab up my left nostril and down towards my throat. This is my surgical side and within a few seconds I’m aware it’s a poor choice. This is no tickle, my eyes are watering and she continues to probe for just over 10 seconds. It feels like my nose is bleeding. It’s not pleasant. It feels invasive. When done I ask about the test procedure explaining the difference in experience from the UK. She tells me Barbados is following WHO guidelines with no deviation and that she is aware of a number of false negative tests arriving into the island.

I’m curious so I start asking other friends and colleagues about their experience of COVID tests in the UK. So far the common factors seem to be the throat swab and the mild gag reflex. But some have had their nose swabbed with the other end of the test stick used for their throat swab, some have had both nostrils done, some have had only one nostril done. None have had their nose swab done down the back of their nasal passage.

I’m left wondering about testing consistency and voracity. Naturally in a small island it’s easier to control the process to ensure all testing follows WHO guidelines but how is this managed in the UK? Who is testing the testers?

After a summer of gaffes and U turns, falsehoods and blame-shifting, my Westminster trust quota is at its lowest level. The levels of grey uncertainty in my mind are far exceeding any minuscule slivers of black and white. Public health and well-being are paramount to getting our economy back on its feet and test, track and trace are fundamental foundations to this goal. 

From my limited experience and investigations, surely it’s not beyond the wit of man to get some consistency across testing protocols, including on how to book a test?

The lesson being learned; be careful where we put our X.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

General Musings, Life change, Workplace change

Bias

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I wrote this over  a year ago and for some reason never posted it.  Given all that’s happening now with BLM and the ugliness of division wrought bare with UK and US politics, it seems apt to actually press “publish”

Last year, the Irish actor, Liam Neeson, opens his mouth and lets a genuine insight come out during a newspaper interview with a journalist, Clémence Michallon.   In this he admits to having combed the streets looking for any lone, random, aggressive, black-skinned man; to batter with a cosh in revenge for a close female friend being raped.  During this interview, Neeson was at pains to point out that he knew his feelings were wrong and this primal need for revenge could not be assuaged in a decent society.  And given he probably knows more than most, the reeking damage that revenge creates, having grown up in Ireland at the height of the troubles, I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt.

FILE – This Saturday, Aug. 15, 1998 file photo shows Royal Ulster Constabulary Police officers as they stand on Market Street, the scene of a car bombing in the centre of Omagh, Co Tyrone, 72 miles west of Belfast, Northern Ireland. The Aug. 15, 1998, attack was the deadliest in four decades of conflict over Northern Ireland. None of the Irish Republican Army dissidents responsible for killing 29 people, mostly women and children, has been successfully prosecuted. (AP Photo / Paul McErlane, File)

Obviously I don’t know Neeson so cannot speak on his motives and how he thinks.  However,  he does make a fine point which has been lost in a lot of the more sensationalist press and TV coverage on this story;  primal revenge comes from a very different place than conscious or subconscious bias and the two should not be confused.

Even the associate professor of experimental psychology at University College London, Lasana Harris, struggles to make a conclusive link.  Although he says that incidents such as rape can shape the the way someone thinks about a specific community, he thinks that it may have something to do with existing or pre-existing biases.  To give credit where its due,  he acknowledges that there is an unjustifiable prejudice when it comes to black people being perceived as perpetrators of sexual assault. “You can control it if you’re aware of the stereotype, if you’re aware of the fact that you have these stereotypes and these biases,” he says.

It’s this acknowledgement which creates the distinction; primal revenge involves an action or behaviour which is not premeditated or thought out. Bias is often a conditioned choice which can be mitigated once someone is aware they are biased in some way.  Neeson became aware of this in the week after hearing of the rape and chose to change his attitude and behaviour.

This all starts with our brains which are complex systems which control much of what we do.  We can be exposed to 11 million pieces of information at any one time; however our brain only has capacity to functionally deal with about 40 information ‘bites’ at any moment.  Thankfully we  have the capacity to make unconscious decisions within 200 to 250 milliseconds after taking in a piece of stimuli,  so we  filter information and select what is important to us, to reduce the demand on our brains.

In addition, and I’m massively simplifying lots of neurological research here;  our brain is made up of 100 billion neurons. As we grow and develop, these neurons are ‘wired up’ to each other and  then communicate through thousands of connections  helping form our memories.  The part of the brain called the hippocampus is vital for forming new memories. We use our hippocampus and surrounding areas to bind our memories together and add information about context or location.  Given we start to form our memories as early as 3 days old,  we all have different memories based on our own experiences, backgrounds, cultures and attributes.  Even so our memories are not exact records of events; they are  reconstructed in many different ways after events happen, which means they can be distorted by several of our biases.

Our fundamental way of looking at and encountering the world is driven by this “hard-wired” pattern of making decisions about others based on our memories and what feels safe, likeable, valuable, competent, etc. without us even realising it.  So we see certain things and miss certain things, depending on what the unconscious is focused on. It filters the evidence that we collect, generally supporting our already held points of view, and dis-proving a point of view that we disagree with.

Add to this mix, our culture, which comes to  life though the symbols and meanings, stories and myths, observations, values and assumptions we  start gathering from a very young age.  Symbiotically we absorb the generalisations and stereotypes that  our human groups holds and by human groups I mean family,  friends, colleagues that we spend time with;  they all influence our bias even when we don’t realise.  We all use stereotypes to some extent, as they help us to learn about people and other human groups as well as make quick decisions such as, is this situation safe or dangerous?  Our capacity for stereotyping also helps us look through a busy crowd and spot our friends.  So in summary our brains, cultural upbringing and life experiences influence our stereotypical thinking and our biases.  Its what makes us uniquely human.

I’ve hosted cultural subconscious bias awareness workshops and run coaching sessions on the impact of bias particularly on decision making and teamwork.  Invariably participants warm up by completing a number of the free bias tests offered online.   These are useful for me too as certain instances or situations on this island can affect my bias and I want to stay aware of my reactions and choices.

For I too experience deep seated racial bias here in Barbados.  White skins to black skins;  black skins to white skins and black skins to different shades of black skins.  I have lost count of the amount of times I have been standing in a queue, quite happily with all colours of skin, only to find when its my turn to be served for the black-skinned teller or server to walk off, or find another laborious task to do first,  before serving me.  Never was this more blatant than in a Wildey coffee shop next to Carters, the local hardware store, when after queuing to place my  coffee order, the local server walked off when I got to the front of the queue, forcing her colleague to eventually shout across the store for my order.  I watched the same woman do this twice over with other white- skinned customers as I sat drinking my coffee.  Another small example involves the local Cheapside market stall vendor who charges me $6 for a bag of lemons and then charges the customer standing next to me $2 for the same product.  When I ask about the price difference,  I’m aggressively informed “this is my price.  Do you want the lemons or not”?  You quickly learn not to argue, particularly when you feel the need for the accompanying gin!    Living here and experiencing this regularly I now have a small inkling of what racism must feel like for black skinned people living on my home island.

There are many training courses and workshops that recruiters and hiring managers can attend to make sure that their own biases do not affect the hiring process.  However,  its often difficult to find out the personal biases and attitude of the candidate without stepping into a minefield of employment law.  This is why I love this practical 5 minute article by Fletcher Winbush which gives an easy to follow  6 point guide for any hiring manager to uncover any underlying attitude issues held by a candidate.

More employers, particularly those in the service sectors;   need to hire for the right attitude and awareness of personal bias, than just relying on skills (which can be taught) or experience (which can be learned on the job).

Understanding our personal biases gives us choice; to look at any situation which gets our dander up and figure out why we think and feel this way.

Stay curious about difference.  Stay curious about yourself.

 

 

General Musings, Snippets

First love

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The boy falls in love. Tumbling blinded into desire and pulsing need. His world obliterated by one gorgeous group of atoms molded into female form.

I watch. Powerful and powerless. A jealous enabler; part taxi driver, part cook, spare part. It is too soon for him to understand the love jumble of emotions: at fourteen he is still a child and she is older by 15 months or perhaps years. He has no chance of breath or choice while faced by such advanced feminine wiles. He cannot and does not listen to me. Why should he? What can I possibly know of young love in my “ancient” form? I persist, trying to keep connection, trying to be neutral, dropping suggestions and hints of how to spend time, where to spend time, gifts and ideas shrouded in wisdom and guidance.

I helplessly watch him make poor decisions on where to spend his time, grateful that the love of the game means he still goes to practice and still performs on the pitch. The difference is she now joins me to watch him play, even though she doesn’t like the sport. I think he likes having her there although the other players both tease him and revere him for this female slavish devotion.

We are bonded in our love of the bones of him and I gradually let her in as time shows this is not a fleeting first love but a deep felt connection fulfilling some primal calling.

She’s bright, well read and attractive. Her parents go from acquaintances to friends and we bond over concerns of the nature of their relationship, shared taxi duties and mutual values. This is hugely helped by their Scottish/Danish sensibilities, this similar cultural references making even the most delicate of conversations somewhat easier. The hardest of these being the “are they really ready” and the discussion and debate between blocks and facilitation. Of course the kids are steps ahead and I have the painful pleasure of listening to my boy explain his feelings and ask for my support. I sit on the sand, letting it run through my fingers as he confidently puts forward his thoughts and opinions; how can this be my child, my boy? But then again, how can this not be my son? We walk back along Bathesheba beach and the world has changed, the juggernaut of progress has found a different gear. He runs ahead to play with Monty dog and I realize the gold of the moment is not in the sand or the glistening Caribbean Sea, it’s not in the delight of watching boy v dog races and the joyful hoots of his laughter; rather it’s in the acknowledgment that this is the beginning of letting go. The start of my journey to learn to let my child grow into a man. It’s not easy.

Almost a year later I stand in the kitchen and say to her “You must finish this. You deserve better and are worth more than how he’s treating you now. Let him go. He does not have the courage to tell you it’s over for him. Instead he’s treating you badly and it’s breaking my heart as this is not how I have brought him up. No woman should be treated with such cavalier distain – never let this happen to you again. Have the courage to break your heart, you cannot change him, change yourself” She nods tearfully and goes downstairs to almost verbatim repeat what I have said back to him, I guess in the hope to make him change.

I stand battered by his hormonal rage when she leaves. He’s confused. My sisterly solidarity has trumped my Mothers love. He doesn’t understand my betrayal and is determined to prove me wrong. This lasts less than a week and she is cast off again. I rage silently wishing her courage.

Four weeks later, he tells me she’s done with him having sat him down during break-time to let him know her decision. I ask for his response and he shares that he sits with her , letting her talk, feeling responsible for her pain,  yet relief that she’s ended it. I give my female perspective and watch as his eyes cloud over.

There is much learning still to be had.

She will always be his first love, always be special.
He doesn’t realize this yet.

One day…

 

 

General Musings, Snippets

High on happy

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I’ve written a couple of blogs over the past few weeks which have not made it to publish stage yet, somehow all the negativity , worry and concern created by a potential Brexit and the utter stupidity from the Orange one across the pond, has seeped itself into my writing.

Thankfully, I know a cleansing is in the offing and as I board the plane I have the excited tingling sensation of a four year old anticipating gooey chocolate cake and the resulting sugar high; the mountains beckon.

We are here for a full 8 days and after the first day of purgatory where I’m still trying to break in my Surefoot custom-made ski boots which after 8 seasons of blister plasters, ibuprofen pain relief every 3 hours, and bruised shins, are obviously a lost cause, I give in and go to the hire shop. As I slip my feet into the padded softness of the brand new, rented, Alpina ski boots, I realise that this is what having cancer does; it shortcuts decision making. Yes it costs, but whether it’s a penny, a pound or millions of spondoolies, you can’t take it with you. I am here now.  My own blasted boots are never going to ‘spark joy’ and I want to enjoy my time on the mountains. What a fabulous decision this is proving to be. Free of foot and leg pain, I am able to go anywhere and do any ski run of my choosing.

There is a moment today, when the ice wind is cutting through my 7 layers of clothing, my 2 pairs of socks and gloves, my full face balaclava, goggles and helmet and eating into my very bones, when I look out and down the hill. In front is my husband and son together cutting sharp turns on freshly pisted virgin snow. We are the only people on this run. The lake at the bottom of the mountain glistens in the pale sunlight, the snow blows silently off the pine trees and drifts into the air as I pass, the only sound I can hear is the satisfying squeak-crunch of ski on snow. I momentarily stop, thinking I should take a photo to capture the moment before shaking myself to my senses. This is a moment for living, not recording. A moment of sheer aliveness and gratitude that no camera could ever hope to capture. Seared into my memory bank; the only way to thank the universe for my being here is to keep going.

One of the joys of skiing for me is the ‘present-ness’ of it all. It’s the best form of mindfulness that I know. There are no other thoughts than icy, bumpy, lumpy, pisted, groomed, deep powder, tracked-out snow and the kind of skiing and control it demands. It’s been 3 seasons since we last skied together as a family and in this time we have all experienced significant life changes – not least that Roscoe has grown over 8inches and his new body means he needs to adjust his skiing style. On day two we send him off on an advanced ski lesson and he returns wild eyed, exhausted and slightly deranged. From one of the chair lifts we look aghast at the places where he’s been and I’m so glad that I don’t have the burning need to prove myself anymore. As a boy with competitive mates, he probably has many more years of sheer stupidity and daftness on skis ahead of him.

 

Although the following day, his muppetry extends to a new unparalleled level , where mid-way through the morning he turns to me and says, “Mum, I’m just not feeling it today”. I leap to the conclusion that he’s lost confidence given his extreme ski the day before and reassure him we’ll take it easy. Later, as we tighten our boots after lunch, he makes a surprising discovery – his 70’s style clam shell boots (now coming back into fashion) are on the wrong feet and he has skied like this all morning. I reflect that he must be fairly reasonable on skis that he made this possible.

By contrast as Craig and I are inching into our middle years, our aches and pains seem to linger longer. These little creaks are gentle reminders that our bodies are not designed to keep going ad-infinitum. In the mountains the aches become muscular, deeper; a welcome reminder that we can still ski-fly down the hill but there are consequences attached to such decisions. I wonder if skiing decisions go the same way as life itself where the caring adult becomes the child and the child becomes the caring adult. Do black runs and the high of surviving off piste glide into the gentle delight of blue and green runs as the pine-tree snow-dust scatters in the wind?

When I was in hospital one of my best memories to replay was of a restaurant in Switzerland, full of some of my favourite ski friends, and us skiing from our lodge in Chatel in France, across the mountain and up on a T-bar to this shining bastion of good food and even better wine. Fortified with full tummies and the requisite amount of alcohol, we would all ski like demons home, making the last ski lifts as the clanging bells sounded across the valley. On our final visit, we didn’t acknowledge this was our last time, there remained the potential of another sojourn, another year.

Now of course, I am more aware of time; next time, last time, final times. So I don’t take for granted this ability to step into comfy ski boots and have an easy glide down the mountain. Who knows what lies ahead. Apart from today and tomorrow, everything else just stops, while the mountain envelops me in her magic of possibilities.

So irrespective of the absolute tomfoolery which is currently happening in the homeland; the plots, defections, confusion, concern and uncertainty, there will always be a mountain beckoning somewhere. A mountain of promise. A mountain of fun. And if we’re  lucky we might meet at the top of such a place and have a bite of something delicious and a toast, or two, to the sheer joy of breathing in the air of just being here.

Engaging people, General Musings, Life change, Snippets

Legacy

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Between Christmas festivities and New Year celebrations we fly to the USA for a reminder of first world life.  3 nights and 4 days are plenty enough to gorge on Floridian excesses including Miami South Beach posing, head-turning car porn and excess bling; to Key West tourist-tat, determined displays of alternativeness (if you have to try this hard, then you’re not living authentically) and wish-washy sunsets; we are happy to get back on the plane laden with a fresh supply of magazines and bargain basement clothing.

Many of these magazines have articles focused on looking back; on a year in review, person of the year, etc. They provide interesting reading; some names and stories I was unaware of, others have been shared in mainstream media.

These articles bring to mind a charming animated Disney Pixar movie which I watched on a plane last year.

Coco, tells the story of the dead souls who annually reunite with their living relatives as long as they are remembered. When the last living soul who remembers them dies, they turn to dust.

I’m also reminded of a recent radio programme talking of when Bing Crosby met David Bowie and the recording of their duet “Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy” for Crosby’s popular TV special. By all accounts Crosby was not much enamoured of this young upstart, he being the much bigger star at the time. So it’s interesting to move forward 40 years to find Roscoe’s generation being inspired by Bowie and wondering who the old geezer wearing the Granddad jumper is in the video.

I ask Craig during our drive down to Key West, who he thinks will be remembered in 150 years time. When our generation and the next two generations have gone, and many of us will be dust. He responds almost immediately with a cynical reply,  “despots and tyrants are always remembered”.  We start to go back in history and I reluctantly see his point. We also talk about explorers and scientists and have a lively debate on if Stephen Hawking will be remembered years from now. Is his legacy strong enough or do his pronouncements on relativity (the nature of space and time), and quantum theory (how the smallest particles in the Universe behave) to explain the creation of the Universe and how it is governed, merely lay the foundation for others to make more startling discoveries? On British Royalty, we agree that Queen Elizabeth and Princess Diana are likely to be remembered for their actions and enacting change. Our jury is out on Prince Charles. Driving past the still half-mast American flag (we presume due to the recent death of 41, President Bush) we talk about those American Presidents still living and dead and mull on those who are memorable or not. We deduce that those who were firsts or created long-lasting change are remembered, those who served and chartered a steady course, less so. This is equally true of British Prime Ministers; Blair, Cameron, May will disappear into a historical timeline, Churchill, Pitt, George, possibly Thatcher, Atlee and even Chamberlain stand out. Of business leaders, I think Gates will be remembered for his philanthropy and determination to rid the world of polio, malaria and other curable diseases, much more than him co-founding Microsoft. Will future generations remember Buffett, Zuckerberg, Branson, Dyson or Jobs? Or the GE titan, Jack Welsh?

When I coach senior leaders and CEOs I ask the legacy question as a way to get them to think beyond the quarterly or half-yearly results; to look beyond their tenure and out into the horizon. Focusing on this helps them align with the broader purpose of the organisation and these two elements tend to be much more engaging for employees than the traditional mission, strategy and vision. An organisation led by a leader who knows where they fit in the bigger picture, who they are, why they are there and why they want to achieve their goals is much more likely to succeed in the longer term than those solely looking for enhanced Total Shareholder Earnings and quarterly profit growth. The sustainable long-term health and viability of an organisation and the success of its Leader should never be measured on financial performance and metrics alone.

While using this question is instructive for those in positions of power and authority, I’m not sure how helpful it is to others. For focusing on legacy feeds the human ego, leads to craven angst on meaning and satisfies our craving to be noticed.

It’s true that considering our legacy is a way of making sense of why we are here. But why are we focused on creating meaning and measuring success on a time-bound, out of our control construct?

Surely it is enough that our contribution to life and living is honored and celebrated by those who we love and who love us in return? Being our version of a legend in our own lifetime helps focus our energy. It doesn’t matter how big or small our achievements are, it matters than we care and we count. That our lives are meaningful to one person or many. It matters that we absorb, learn from and accept life change while remaining true and constant to who we are.  It matters that we stay open to, and flexible about, our ever-changing knowledge and beliefs. That we take positive action when we can.

At this time of year, we can get caught in big hopes and aspirations, in setting goals and maybe making changes. In making ourselves better, living our lives differently, being more. Many start to think of legacy as the years quickly move on. This time of year, encouraging change is good business for those of us in the business of change. You will find your inbox and social media accounts littered by offers of helping you shift your mindset, your waistline and some of your bank balance.

Before you swipe up for more information or click the reply button, or get lost in Pinterest or Twitter while worrying about what’s missing, your negative voice chattering about inadequacies and comparisons, just stop.

Take a moment for reflection.

Shift focus, acknowledge you are human, fallible, contradictory and unique. That you are enough as you are. That you matter, irrespective and sometimes because of, all the choices and decisions you make and the people you love and care about; who love you, as you are now, in return.

By all means keep improving, growing, learning, developing, thriving. But start from the premise that you already count. That you are already a legend, for someone, somewhere.

Now what’s possible?