LyndyH

In psychotherapy, it is in discovering the unsaid and within the moments of silence where a client can begin to heal. It is a therapists role to enquire, to be curious for the benefit of the client, so they learn to enquire, to be curious about themselves and to consider the unsaid.

This opens up feelings and emotions and slowly in the sharing, learning takes place leading to acceptance, forgiveness and an ability to move forward and to find happiness and personal fulfilment. Examining the unsaid leads to self awareness, a discovery of the truth and the opportunity to move on to live an authentic, rewarding and gratifying life.

I was brought up in a family where I was not allowed to express my feelings or question what was happening around me and to me.  I suppressed my feelings and honoured my mother and my family; I adhered to the silent messages to keep quiet, to keep the secrets.

When my mother died, I finally began to examine the unsaid and discovered for the first time the joy of speaking the truth.

Now I search for the unsaid in myself and others — by voicing the unsaid, I have discovered joy and freedom and have found richer, more rewarding relationships.

In creative writing, it is often the unsaid that is most important, the most interesting, where for the reader, learning happens, where empathy begins and where truth emerges.

It is often in the unsaid, that which lies outside the text, that a reader discovers meaning.

Why should this be?

In real life, there is subtlety and hidden meaning in people’s words and actions; there is what is said, and there is the subtext, the unsaid and it is this which we are most intrigued and curious about — the unsaid tells us everything, satisfies our curiosity and brings a sense of fulfilment and joy.

So it is for fiction; the joy of reading is in the discovery of the hidden meanings, the unsaid.  We learn and in learning we grow — in the understanding of ourselves and the world around us.

LIHazleton.
Follow me on Twitter where I connect with other writers and all things writing. Follow me on Instagram if you love dogs and other animals.

Are you mindless or mindful?  Maybe you are both, mindless and mindful?

I have been thinking about these two words and what they mean for me, especially over the last few weeks as we pass through the midwinter season.  I try and be mindful all of the time. I find it helpful as I negotiate my way in life; in my relationships, how I look after my body, mind and spirit and in the choices I make. Being mindful involves effort; you need to pay attention. “Pay attention!” This takes me straight back to the classroom; one of the first lessons as children we are taught. What a valuable lesson to learn!

The mind is an abstract thing; we can’t define it, touch, see, smell or hear it. It’s not tangible, but we can sense it, we know it exists, we are aware we have one because we  have thoughts. Being mindful then is being aware of our thoughts. Simple.

Unfortunately being mindful is not simple at all: in any given moment we have an agenda, a primary agenda — whatever we are doing in the present moment, but thoughts crash in and we can get diverted by these thoughts, by the secondary agenda.

I try and be mindful so I don’t get diverted, so I can stay with my primary agenda, the what I am doing in the moment, the what I have chosen to do, that which is best for me and those around me, but not always is this easy, especially when we are with others or being bombarded by the trappings of traditions and customs as we are this time of year.

Have you given thought to what you are doing now? Are you being mindful?

*

So what about being mindless? Is this just the opposite to being mindful and if I strive to be mindful because I have discovered the benefits being mindful brings in my life, do I then want to avoid finding myself in a mindless state? Are mindless activities seen as less beneficial and would I be better off avoiding this state of being?

I associate mindless activities with routine and habit, doing things without thinking about them, things that are repetitive, done without concern or worry. Mindlessness is an inactive state of mind and as such, can be a good thing. I can draw on the past, rely on rules and routines deeply imbedded, ones I can fall back on, ones that may have served me well. This can be comforting, relaxing even, but beware — these deeply imbedded automations may be governing what we do, rather than guiding us and as such may not be good for our wellbeing.

Have you given thought to whether you act out of mindlessness?

I believe there is a cost to acting out of mindlessness. I know this to be true for me, as I have suffered (and I have caused others to suffer) from not paying attention to myself and what is right for me. I have neglected my own wellbeing through not being mindful. Accepting things without questioning them is an act of mindlessness. Here’s a simple example: I grew up seeing and believing a family consists of a mummy, a daddy, and a child and if the child is fortunate, they would have a brother or a sister, grandparents, aunties, uncles and cousins. I grew up without a father, a mother who wasn’t able to mother and no siblings. I did not question that families were defined in this traditional way and so I hid and pretended all was well, that my family was like any other, when in truth it was far from being like any other. It caused me heartache and pain.

Moving from mindlessness to being mindful however is not always a conscious choice and sadly, I lived many decades before finding self awareness. This is common; many people live their whole lives not discovering mindfulness. For some, a shift or an awakening is needed. My awakening came when my mother died.

Here’s another simple, seasonal example of being mindful: last week I was in the city. It was manic with seasonal shoppers and bargain hunters. I had come into the city to meet with a writing friend, to share our work. After a pleasant couple of hours, we said goodbye and I headed towards the bus station. Passing Marks & Spencer, somehow I found myself drawn to go inside and before I realised what I was doing, I was in the womenswear department amid the crazed throng of shoppers. Fortunately, I caught myself – “what am I doing” I asked as I headed for the nearest exit, thanking myself for being self aware.

*

Now to the writing. What have my musings on mindfulness and it’s benefits in contrast to mindlessness got to do with writing?

To understand mindfulness, to remind yourself to practise it, or to explain it to someone else, consider a creative writing technique – the metaphor.

Metaphors that have the following elements are very useful in understanding mindfulness:

• someone (or something) that represents you
• something that represents your thoughts/feelings/perceptions
• a situation in which you have an opportunity to react to your thought
• a reaction that would lead to an undesirable consequences and
• another reaction that would lead to more desirable consequences

Here are a couple of examples:

The River of Life — sometimes it feels like we’re being carried away downstream in the river, struggling to stay afloat amongst all the mud, filth and debris (i.e. our thoughts)     But instead we can choose to stand on the riverbank and watch as those thoughts, events, sensations, feelings go by.

The Mountain — whatever the weather, or whatever happens on the surface of the mountain – the mountain stands firm, strong, grounded, permanent.  We can choose to be like the mountain – we can observe our thoughts, feelings and sensations.

LIHazleton.
Follow me on Twitter where I connect with other writers and all things writing. Follow me on Instagram if you love animals.

Sweet little lies – we all tell them and I guess for the most part, people do because sweet little lies can act as a social lubricant. We all want to to be liked don’t we, we all want to get along and have friends, don’t we? Telling sweet little lies to protect the other person, to smooth the way, to hide a truth too painful to tell is acceptable … isn’t it … or is it?

I lied to protect my mother. I followed her example, withholding the truth, hiding. I told lies only when I had to, when I was asked a direct question. Questions like: where’s your dad and who’s that woman your mum is with?

When I left home, it became easier. People stopped asking those kinds of questions and I told fewer lies. I became good at hiding though. Avoidance and listening became my new strategies. I discovered if I became the listener and the enquirer, I could avoid revealing anything about myself and my history. It worked. In fact it worked too well. People generally like to talk about themselves and the more I enquired of others, the more I listened, the smaller I became. I didn’t realise I was killing myself inside until it was too late; I had all but lost myself, all but vanished and my mother had died. It was too late to greet her human being to human being, to stop lying to protect her and to ask her to face the truth.

~

When the lying stops and we turn to face the truth, we see wonder. I believe my mother revealed her truth and discovered wonder. She did it her way.

~

And the writing? What’s all this got to do with writing? What’s this to do with Fact v Fiction?

Back in July, after a 121 with my writing mentor where I’d been talking about struggling with my book in terms of structure, she suggested I considered writing my book as a memoir. She advised I read some memoirs and look for a memoir writing workshop.

BANG!

I was catapulted into no mans land, a metaphorical place where I felt empty, depleted of creative energy. I struggled, I was miserable, my mojo disappeared. I flip-flopped between my desire to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth and my desire to write creatively, to write to entertain, to tell an interesting story, to develop my characters, to share and to interweave character arc, plot and theme. In short, to write the best book I am capable of writing, primarily for the reader but also for for me.  For the last few months, I have been floundering with the whole memoir v fiction thing. Thankfully, I have pulled myself from the doldrums. I have spent time reflecting on how much I have  really enjoyed writing fiction, albeit interlaced with experiences, personal and observed. I have finally decided I am writing a hybrid novel and this feels empowering!

Fact v Fiction? Who cares! I write because I see truth and wonder. I write because I enquire of myself, I listen and I speak. I write to discover the truth inside, not just tell it.

Do I still lie? Yes, I do, sweet little lies only of course!

Do I still hide? No! I am visible and available for contact.

LIHazleton.
Follow me on Twitter where I connect with other writers and all things writing. Follow me on Instagram if you love animals.

I am an introvert. On one level I have always known this, but I have come to be content with this self knowledge only recently. I can now be open with myself and with others about this part of me. I dare to be proud to be an introvert.

My childhood shaped me. The truth of the absent father, the unavailable mother, the emotional neglect, the loneliness of being an unwanted child, the shame and silent secrets passed to me by my mother have all helped shape who I am. I believe I am a product of my upbringing but fortunately this is not the whole of me. 

I am and I can be so much more if I choose to be.

And I do choose to be more than a product of my upbringing. But I am proud to be an introvert. It is a place where I feel most comfortable. 

I suggest many writers are introverts. Writers spend time with themselves. They immerse themselves in their silent worlds of words and the page. They read, think, reflect, philosophise, create. They write novels, non-fiction, flash fiction, short stories, poems, articles, essays. They write because of a need to share of themselves, to speak through the written word, to give back, to create. 

All writers if they want to share and have their work published, need to place themselves in situations that, for an introvert, can be challenging and demanding. For example, literary festivals, writing groups, public readings, writing courses and retreats, marketing opportunities, meetings with editors and publishers.

Before I became a psychotherapist, an artist and a writer, I hid my natural state of being an introvert. It didn’t fit with my academic past, my corporate identity and the mask I wore to get by in life. 

But thankfully no more.

I dare to be proud to be an introvert.

Day 7 – Glen Coe Mountain Centre to Kinlochleven  – 11 miles

LIHazleton.
Follow me on Twitter where I connect with other writers and all things writing. Follow me on Instagram if you love animals.

I have a daily yoga practice. Why? Because I dare to be silent. I dare to be silent because I dare to seek my supreme Self or my true identity which is universal and Divine.

In the West, people think of Yoga as exercise; putting your body into strange shapes and breathing deep, but this is only one ‘limb’ of an ancient eight limbed philosophy. Ultimately Yoga is about disentangling all that is human and finding contentment or a Higher Self.

I am one of those who have chosen to follow a spiritual path that is Yoga. We use the Asana (exercise) limb of yoga to train our bodies so we can sit in stillness and use the practice of mediation and the practise of silence to find (or for most people, glimpse) the Divine.

It requires commitment, dedication and is a journey that never ends. I began my journey in 2009, initially attending one class a week, then two. I have added a monthly yoga philosophy morning and my own daily practise.

But what has this to do with writing and writing with emotional depth?

I believe when we dare to be silent and sit in stillness, when we are able to quieten the constant chatter in our heads, our most beautiful Self is revealed and it is from this source that creativity emerges, our best and most beautiful writing.

Dare to sit with stillness in silence and see what you can create, what stories you can tell, poems you can craft and novels you can write.

I dare to be silent.

Day 5 – Tyndrum to Inveroran – 10 miles

LIHazleton.
Follow me on Twitter where I connect with other writers and all things writing. Follow me on Instagram if you love animals.