Tag Archives: Anxiety

Anxiety – a monster under the bed?

We can’t escape it. The worrying thoughts. Sometimes a pounding heart or sweaty palms. At times the sense of unease. Anxiety in its various forms can be present in all of us at different times. It is called many names. Fear, panic, phobia, stress, freaking out, concern, etc. At times it arrives because of a specific event (like an examination or doctor’s appointment). For others it may be the sight of an unwanted visitor. Good morning Incy Wincy Spider!

None of us escape the experience of anxiety. It is in essence hotwired into us. Hotwired neurologically and like electricity runs through our central nervous system. But why do we have anxiety? This uncomfortable and even disabling experience. Why is it often part of our daily lives? Not everyone will agree on “daily “, but I find that the majority of clients presents with a higher or lower degree of anxiety. This is very often the case when anxiety was not their initial complaint or concern. I am thus not surprised when a referral to me is due to depression or other challenges , but it becomes clear that anxiety is part of the package.

When it comes to emotional obstacles, a major challenge can be fighting against what we can not see or what we believe “is part of whom I am”. In essence the fight can then turn against one self. Me versus I. Instead of me against anxiety. To see anxiety as the enemy is not beneficial and can be visualised (imaginative or symbolised by a real object) as the problem the requires management. And the starting point? At the beginning. Understanding how anxiety operates and why we experience it.

Step 1. Feelings of anxiety start with a trigger or catalyst. This may be a smell, seeing an external object or by internal feelings . The amygdala jumps into action by preparing us physically and mentally into a fight or flight mode. This response is triggered by the release of adrenaline into the bloodstream via the kidneys. As a result our blood pressure and blood sugar rises, muscles are fueled with energy and we focus on what may be the potential danger. This may stifle some into a passive state; others are thrown into chaotic action, while others become extremely focussed and structured.

The Shadow ManStep 2. To identify the threat or potential danger. The importance of this that we may be (1) confronted by a real danger or problem, (2) that we responded incorrectly to an external or internal stimulus or (3) that when nothing happens, uncertainty may be appear to be a threat. This step is within the context of anxiety being a survival mechanism. If not for anxiety, we would not have survived as a human beings over centuries. However, when exposed to anxiety on a regular basis or growing up in an environment where anxiety flourished, it might have become behavioural patterns and even part daily routines.

Step 3. Ask yourself, “What purpose does anxiety serve in my life?” Does anxiety enhance my experiences of love, beauty, creativeness and (importantly) logical thoughts. Does it impede in the pleasure I may gain from a loving relationship, my sleep or even my ability to complete my studies or a piece of art? What does anxiety steal from me?

Step 4. Finding ammunition to manage anxiety. Before you fire away, know we cannot rid ourselves of anxiety . We all have times when anxiety visits and times when it serves an important function. However, consider the following:

  • How many of your worries become true? If you write down your weekly worries. Say you start at the floor, write them down one for one till you reach the ceiling. How many did repeat? Then tick each one that became true. How many ticks? Interesting.
  • Stay in the here and now, the present. Anxiety often let us dwell on decisions we made (“Did I do the right thing?”, “What did they think …?”) or focus on the uncertainties of the future (so many “What if?” questions).
  • Know that your experience of anxiety does not imply something is wrong with you. Anxiety visit people from all ages, religions, cultural backgrounds. You are one of us if you experience anxiety. You are not alone. You are not the problem. Anxiety is.
  • Do you ever worry that someone will knock on your door and say, “Congratulations, you have won a wonderful holiday!” No, anxiety does not focus on possible positive outcomes. It tells us the potential bad stuff, what may go wrong and the worst possible scenarios.
  • Know that physical sensations are anxiety gearing you up for action. Your dry mouth, hairs on the back of your neck rising up, having cold feet and pins and needled in your fingers, butterflies on your stomach, shallow breathing and increased heart rate are all part of the fight or flight package. You can use it if you are under threat. But if all is fine, know that it is just anxiety being unpleasant. Know YOU WILL NOT DIE FROM THIS.
  • Breath in. Breath out. Slowly and deeply. Give your body and your brain oxygen. Breath in. Breath out.

Step 5. If you find anxiety overwhelming, find someone to talk to. This may be a friend, a family member, someone you trust (e.g. religious affiliation) or professional. So often anxiety grows on us as we keep it private. But bottling it up just let the temperature rise. Let it out, let it go. The monster under your bed is not real. It is anxiety trying to scare you.

 

 

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UnreLenting

There may different reasons why a blogger may be neglecting his patch in blogger-world. It could be due to changes in his or life, such as improved health, a career move or another family member arriving. It may due to unfortunate events, such as poor health, strain from being a caregiver or increased commuting time. In my case, it has been due to working hard again. Actually, I want to label it. I have been blessed with the ability to work in my profession following the visit from a brain tumour, a craniotomy (to remove it) and a couple of seizures.

I am well aware that some of my fellow travellers, survivors and fighters followed a similar path of recovery, but some have not been so fortunate while others are slowly finding their feet in the lives they embraced before. I may be incorrect in my recall of Freud stating that the two meaning activities in life are sex (i.e. meaningful relationships) and work. In part I agree as I have seen the consequences of the lack of these and how it can add to experiences of anxiety and depression. However I prefer the idea from the old Jewish wisdom writers (from the book, “When Bad Things Happen to Good People” by Harold S. Kushner) that a meaningful life involves, “To live, to love, to learn and to leave a legacy“.  But meaningful living does not only mean saying yes to what is good and beautiful. It also requires the ability to say “no”.

What I found beneficial is to have structure in utilising the gift of saying “No” to myself or “No thank you” to others. For me Lent provides such a structure, given that it is time dedicated (amongst other things) on sacrifice. It is not only within the Christian tradition that the concept of fasting and sacrifice is embedded. Within Muslim (Ramadan), Jewish (e.g. Yom Kippur), Buddhist and Hindu (e.g. Shivaratri) faith traditions times are allocated to focus on abstinence and celebration. These are often based upon remembrance of historical events or in preparation for festivals or significant events within the religious tradition.

Red Red WineSo my commitment for Lent 2015 involved giving up alcohol and sugar. 40 days without while I live among the beautiful vines and wineries of the Western Cape in South African and I savours the flavours, tastes and quality of a good Shiraz, Merlot and Cabernet Sauvignon. So to pass on the enjoyment of these felt quite daunting. However alcohol was the easy part.  But I realised how deceptively sugar creeps into our relationship with food. Even though I run often, eat healthy, don’t drink soda drinks and in general have a limited sweet tooth (a black Americano, no sugar kind of guy), I caught myself a few times popping something sweet into my mouth. Realisation 1: Abstinence requires focus.

Realisation 2: Sacrifice comes with benefits.  This not includes losing weight and saving a bit of money. On a deeper level it provided an understanding of what I am capable to  do and that the ability to say no does not have catastrophic consequences. It taught me the worth of keeping the balance between yes and no, between please and no thank you. Sacrifice does not only exclude foreign substances, but it challenges our internal dialogues about wants and needs.

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MRI Brain Scan: a crash-bang-bang course

It’s the 23rd. It is a positive start”, I think when the receptionist said the date. 23 is my lucky number. I completed most of the paperwork the previous week when I dropped off my oncologist’s referral letter. A few more dotted lines call for my signature. I don’t know how many MRI scans I have had; today’s might be 6th. However, the last one in March was the most important. The one labelled, “all clear”.

How do I approach a brain scan? Like everyone, I suppose I my own ways. Each person will bring specific fears, unique routine and mental preparation before facing the tunnel. Earlier today my rituals consisted of the things under my control. Having a shave, dressing in my favourite light orange and white shirt, wearing comfortable jeans, putting on my trial running shoes that make me feel grounded, a call to confirm the appointment time and leaving enough time to arrive early. Nothing out of the ordinary, but it is the ordinary and familiarity that bring comfort.

I arrive at the hospital 15 minutes early. I don’t carry anxious thoughts with me, never been a great advocate of worry. But I sense the tension in my back and shoulders. It’s not possible to ditch all the anxiety. It tends to sneak in when you are not looking. Anneén arrives before I reach the main entrance. I told her she did not have to come, but it is a great comfort to have her with me. Knowing she will wait in the reception area when it’s all done. It is oddly quiet when we slowly criss-cross through the hospital passages. Most of it was renovated recently and signs warning of wet paint still serve as decorations. “They could have done with a bit of colour” we agree. No one else waits in the reception area. The school and university holidays provide a nice change from the usual hustle and bustle.

When called, I know the drill. I leave my outer layers of safety behind and emerge from the change locker in a faded peach colour garment. A further breakdown of any aesthetic possibility comes in the form of my long black running socks sticking out from underneath. Comfort? Yes. Sexy? Definitely not! I wait for a few minutes underneath signs and arrows that directs towards different scan options. A cleaner slowly sweeps the floor area surrounding me. I feel a need to focus on something. Unfortunately the small Beavers and Butthead cartoon on the notice board is too small to make out the writing.

Luckily the bad joke requires little time as it is 8:45 and the MRI scanner waits. Lying down on the flat surface is the easy part and fairly comfortable. The radiographer knows about my previous scan experiences, so she shiftily hands me the earplugs (to reduce the noise) and place two sheets of white foamy stuff both sides of my face. She moves my head slightly to the left and gently pressed down on my chin to position my head correctly. The small rubber bubble is placed into my hand, in case I need to call for help. It provides some security, as I used it on a previous occasion when the claustrophobia got to me. Finally she covers me with a blanket for both physical and emotional warmth. All I need is music to relax, but it is not available as I am not allowed any metal (not the musical type) or earphones in the tunnel due to the strong magnetic fields.

You can open your eyes if you want to”, she says as I slide into the tunnel. “There is no way”, I replied louder in my head than in words. I made that mistake once before. I don’t like narrow spaces. I admit that I don’t like being out of control either – especially about my physical space. I can feel my elbows being slightly pushed inwards by the sides of the MRI’s tunnel. For a moment I am aware that the blanket is slightly pulled back on the sides due to inwards movement. “I am covered like corpse”. I don’t know where the thought came from, but I was ready for it. “I am here because I am alive”, I counter-argue. “I am here being I want to remain healthy and value life”. And so my process in my head starts to manage the crowded space and mechanical noise.

  • I start with thoughts. Focussing on being alive. The people who matters for me. I am doing this for them and me. What I know. For example, I had no symptoms or strange behaviour (as far as I know at least!). What is important (staying healthy)
  • Visualise memories and beautiful images. Seeing my daughters jump on the “bungee trampolines” the previous day. Looking out over the sun covered vineyards with snow covered mountain peaks behind.
  • Letting go of these images and thoughts and let them flow away like thick honey.
  • Slowing down my breathing. Being aware of my breath, rather than the lack of space around me.
  • Comparing the mechanical noises with sounds I know. I hear a large mechanical bee, a dentist drill, an electrical mosquito, a loud air-pressured drill. A hammer against a water pipe.
  • Physical sensation (such as an itch that I can scratch) indicates to me that I am alive.

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It does not feel like “about 25 minutes”, but after a short silence the radiographer returns and injects my arm with contrast dye. This makes certain tissues and blood vessels show up with greater detail on the scan. I move back inside with less tension for the last 15 minutes. I allow my senses more freedom to explore the experience. Mumford and Sons are still playing “After the Storm” in my mind when I exit the scanner’s tunnel. I am set free.

2013-09-23 12.11.21_resizedIt is 3 hours later and we are sitting at the neurosurgeon’s office. I am aware of the results CD in my hand. The CD is light, but the engraved information carries a different weight. Martin greets us as he walked passed. He needs to quickly go to the ward, but will be with us on time. On his return, Martin opens the scan result on his computer. There two brains, both mine, on display. One from the March scan. The other from this morning. They look similar. Martin shows the left frontal area where the operation took place. I dark area indicates where the tumour and some brain tissue were removed. Nothing else shows up. The scan is almost identical to that done in March. I am clean. No cancer growth or tumour cells are visible.

Once more I am set free.

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The Tough Going

I love those moments when creative thoughts awake in the cortex and streams like golden liquid down neuro-pathways onto the white screen. Words that splatter out ideas, experiences and events into a synchronised line of meaningful thought. Or when the artist’s imagination draws a vision that flows in charcoal and paint onto a canvass to bring beauty into life.

But occasionally dark skies cloud the psyche and dwarf the imagination into submission. Troubled times arrive in the form of external events and dries the magic and steals the funny bones. And no, not all of these shadow times relate to brain tumours or cancer treatment. At times it is just life. Waves of “it happens” that saps the juice and suck the marrow from my fruit. Not so much Carpé Diem, more crap and damn.

It has been a rough 4 weeks. In between my car breaking down (twice), a broken tooth and attempts to replace it with a temporary implant (3 times and still not right), a drawn out winter the soaks Spring into a foggy memory and aiming to take that big grown-up jump again into the dark (called house hunting), the good times have been sidelined. Over the same period work slowed downed, adding pressure on responsibilities such as paying the tax master. It felt like sinking, drowning in the smoky skies.

Wet Winter

While holding up this grim picture, I am not bursting into sing and dance. I am actually not a great believer in positive thinking, or when the dark cloud comes rolling over the hills that you should start searching for the silver lining. When the dark clouds appear, find shelter. The storm while pass, but while it sweeping down and pouring gallons of water on the earth, curl up under a warm blanket. Stay dry, stay warm. It’s OK to cuddle up.

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A good day to live (aka the clean MRI Scan)

Did it take so long last time? I have had a few, but did it last for “at least half an hour”? Maybe my attention was directed on going into the tunnel previously. I have had MRI Scans at 3 different hospitals now. At Stellenbosch when I was admitted following my first seizure in May 2012, then Somerset-West due to the super-duper scanner to aid diagnosis, another prior to my operation and finally at Panorama to mark out the mask I was due to wear during radiotherapy. Now it came full circle. I am back at  radiology in Stellenbosch to re-scan, 7 months after my craniotomy and the surgery to remove my unwanted Oligodendroglioma. I know, it sounds like a tumour with a degree and a shotgun.

Dressed in a purple frock I lay under the bright hospital lights. An aweful pop songs plays out in the background. The scanner table supporting me feels narrow, the blanket over me soothing. But it does not calm my fear. I grip the tube leading to the small rubber balloon that resembles the pumpy bit of a sphygmomanometer (that measures blood pressure). However in this setting “Pumpy” is my weapon against claustrophobia. You did not know? Yes, I am scared of small spaces – have always been. And while I am at it, I might as well admit my fear of heights. This dates back to before my sense of invincibility was shattered in 2012. Before I was struck out of the blue with the scan images that showed the tumour in my left frontal lobe.

MRI ScannerShe is friendly, reassuring but professional. Her words of support are balanced by skipping through the instructions and a final question about anxiety. “Occasionally”, I lied, feeling the slight dampness in my hand holding the panic button. “We are just behind the glass”. Her smile was more reassuring than her words. I breathe and close my eyes. I will not repeat my previous mistake. Don’t keep your eyes open while sliding into the scanner. Not again! Even though the flat table is mounted low when you get on, it raises up before moving electronically into the tunnel. The closeness to the “roof” triggered my anxieties before and it was only moments between the closing of my chest, my heart kicking against my ribs and my fingers closing in on the panic button for escape. So I close my eyes and feel movement into the open mouth of the machine.

Apart from the “button”, I rely on breathing to calm me down and my imagination to drift into creative ventures. My mind’s eye luckily opens up colours at first, then ideas and memories. I feel my body resting heavier on the surface beneath me, while I am surrounded my noises that sound like a broken drum machine.

Without warning I was moving out. The light on my eyelids told me I was out in the open. Through my ear-plugs I could hear a mumbling voice. These are good to keep the thumping and humming noises at bay during scanning, but do not benefit communication. Furthermore is difficult to make the words out as my head is kept steady with two rests on both sides. Oh yes, time for the injection of “contrast material” that enables a sharper contrast on the scan. Again I close my eyes after the cool sensation in my arm replaces the sharp sting. Breath. Think colours. Drift away to a foreign place out of tunnel-land. Relax.

I carry the CD containing images of my brain in my bag for the next 24 hours. Unopened it stayed. Strangely it did not concern me much. Anneén and I spoke before going to bed about the upcoming appointment with Martin (my neurosurgeon) and both felt at peace. We go over the facts. I have not had further seizures since the first ones; my language skills appear to be intact, no significant praxis problems and my executive functions (i.e. multi-tasking, planning, taking initiative) is as bad as it has always been! And through writing my blog and steadily increasing my running distance I feel a sense of achievement and connection with the world around me. Maybe it was our talk, maybe the awareness that I had no control over the messages encrypted on the CD, but I slept like a baby prior to the day of the big reveal.

Martin is younger than us, but he carries calmness in his eyes and words. I don’t doubt his knowledge or expertise. The fact that he has been inside my head twice before does forge a strange connection. He does not rush when he opens the scan images, both from yesterday’s scan and the ones from before surgery. “It looks very good” he says, “There is a little scaring from the operation and the radiotherapy, but no sign of tumour”. We look closely at the computer screen as he indicates a ventricle that has returned to normal seize and to where the brain has pushed towards the front where the tumour was removed “to fill up the empty space”. I ask what I need to do from here on. Should I scrutinize my diet? Should I watch my alcohol intake? Do I continue to take Epilim? Martin reassures, “Continue with the medication and complete the chemotherapy, but live your life as if you are cured” After all we have been through, this fantastic news seep in slowly. It is gone, no tumour left.

I often look at brain scans with my psychiatrist colleagues at work.
However it is different knowing the one looking back is your own.

I wish I can paint a smile on it.

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Stories in late summer

I see it as an honour. I know it is my profession, but I never take for granted that people share personal and intimate stories of their lives with me. It is often under the label or description of “depression” or “anxiety” or “loss”. But as with all labels, they reflect a limited part of the surface. And people’s lives, personalities and relationships have much more depth and texture.  The stories that are weaved between these areas are filled with even more detail, emotion, memories and unconscious material. To tell their stories bring them in touch with Imagewhat happens in their lives, but also with who they are. Often the telling of their stories is a liberating experience, to be able to unburden their load or to break a weighty secret that keeps pulling them down. As Leonard Cohen once sang, “I need to tell my story said one of them so bold. I need to tell my story before I turn into gold

Often the (conscious or unconscious) request that arrives with these stories is for pain or suffering to end. And who would not want that? Especially in our western culture where fantasies of health, wealth, wellness and youth are sold on magazine covers, labels of medicine bottles, pop culture and social media? Who wants to be forever young? Well, the advertisers and those behind the fat wallets are pushing hard to make the sell to us. And within that fantasy the enemies are pain, suffering and ageing. Even on cover of my monthly Runner’s World edition, those smiling with their white teeth and their bodies embraced by the latest running gear are all seemingly in their 20’s, white and healthy. But when I line up for a race or fun run, these front cover “athletes” appear to be in the minority. And still, on public display and in the hearts of people I see in therapy, there is a wish that all problems and those threats to a positive view of life and being human can be solved. Even in my own heart that fantasy does arise.

In part I agree. Pain in its physical form should be investigated and treated.

However, suffering is an intense discomfort that we all face on our life journeys and one without a quick fix or delete button. The death of a love one, the diagnosis of a brain tumour or a friend’s cancer, the unhappiness that crept into a marital relationship over the past 10 years or the awareness that you are not happier since you got that big promotion opens the door to internal turmoil and a collapse of the card-house of positive fantasies. This often happens after you established a family, a career and settled circle of friends. But that platform of ambition and dreams can become a distraction of the realities of life. We all grow older, we all suffer losses and we all drink at the well where the water became stagnant and bitter. It does not spare us. There is no cure for life. As Scott Fitzgerald once said, “In a real dark night of the soul, it is always three o’clock in the morning …” Tragedy is inevitability.

What then do we do with suffering when our distractions, cognitive strategies, helpful friends and intake of medication or alcohol do not bring relieve? How do we approach suffering that cannot be switched off? Maybe that is the point where you stop running, stop bargaining and stop self-medicating. The point where suffering is not the enemy, Wandererbut the door we need to pass through in order to learn about the life we are living and this person we are. Then suffering becomes more that just discomfort and an unwanted emotional experience (which it will remain). Then it might become about meaning, about purpose, about becoming the full complicated, eccentric, individual we are meant to be. This is something that several great leaders have embraced and through their suffering found ways of being that made them larger than life.

It is a relationship with suffering that can bring us to meaning. The knowledge that while suffering is real, so is my life and that whom we are can be expanded through this experience. When we find meaning, pleasure and connections in our hospital beds, while on medication and during the process of picking up the broken pieces. When it is possible to cry about the threat to our health and youth, while holding  onto new aspects of relationships with a partner and friends that open up. When the bereavement process reminds us of all the aspects that we loved about our grandparents, a friend or a brother. How precious are these moments in contrast to the fleeting moments of pop culture, the hard lines of fundamentalism or the fantasy that we can take away life’s pain and suffering.

February was a special month to me. I ran the Gino’s 10 km Night Race through the streets of Stellenbosch and survived! I wrote a piece called “Finding Sugarman” about the music and influence of Rodriquez in South Africa following the movie “Searching for Sugarman”, which appeared on the official Rodriquez website (http://sugarman.org/). My moment of international fame! But tomorrow a MRI Brain Scan is scheduled followed by appointments with my neurosurgeon and oncologist on Wednesday. I am grateful that I can have both, even though I wish the brain tumour never came into my life. But both aspects are part of where I am at present and through embracing both do I find parts of the essence of the journey that we call life.

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How Bad News Flows

Just a ringing telephone.
Just my mother’s voice on the other side.
Just another conversation about the week with a bit of this and bits of that.
Just good to speak to her, the same spread of topics. “How is everyone?
It was fine just like that.

But bad news infiltrates the normal flow of things. Unexpectedly. Unwanted. “Did I hear that Laurie has been diagnosed with lung cancer?” Out of the blue, into the cold.

Laurie was a classmate many years ago, a good friend and never a smoker. Despite little contact over the eight years while we lived abroad, he remains a dear friend. And I hate phrases like “good friend” being allowed in the same sentence as “bad news”. Even more when the bad news shadow push towards someone who lives in service of others and support their lives towards new meanings. Like my friend Laurie.But sometimes it merges into the same linguistic stream, creating a new reality that follows the telephone’s ring. In a few seconds the past is shattered with a new present.

It reminds of what Douglas Adams wrote in Mostly Harmless:

One of the problems has to do with the speed of light and the difficulties involved in trying to exceed it. You can’t. Nothing travels faster than the speed of light with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws”

Bad news with its own special laws bends the rules and does not read the policy document. Like an outlaw, a deceitful prophet, or the fraudulent official. Bad news carries its own load of heartache and pop songs. Maybe a positive take on it, is that it can override the previous bad news edition. It makes the mouse we caught in our bedroom on Monday night, the power failure Wednesday and the 15 cm drop in swimming pool water on Friday appear like an eventful week, but its only humorous samples to be served at a next social event. Nothing more. But a friend’s diagnosis touches deeper. It wakes the existential me that wants good will, for good to triumph over evil, even world peace. It stirs those emotional places that I visit after dark, the memories where tears and fears frequent, and the heartaches that left scars.

British Library Gate ShadowBut the bad news shadow man can serve other functions. It waves a flag with a red question mark. Where am I? What is my focus? Who is important in my life? What am I suppose to do where I am now? It wakes us from our slumber and pokes us in the side. It raises the shadows that we have forgotten to confront. It is not the niceties of life that gets us through these times. It asks of us, like Job, what remains when I am stripped of everything?

Bad news in essence presents the question of meaning.

Bad news is not about what we have or what possession we might have lost. It does not deal with the fantasy of acquisition or our standing in the world. It takes us inwards, towards facing the mirror with our history and present portrayed in full detail and full colour. It takes us towards our relationship with all the parts of ourselves that developed throughout our journey through different times and places. It takes us towards what we love and loath about whom we are.

And it takes us outwards towards those whom we love. Those for whom we hope that they will take their cancer, their loss, their heartache, their heart attack, their unfaithful partner and that it will confront them with the totality of whom they are. Wake up the shadows that they have to confront, bring them closer to the meanings they have to find for their life. Be that psychological, spiritual, artistic, humanitarian, existential or within whatever framework you define your journeys. It requires the relinquishment of what is unnecessary, what holds us back and what allow the shadows to anchor us in a false reality. It might be status, it might be the drive for success, or it might be materialistic. Or it might be to give up the hope that the world is manageable and predictable. We run into bad news and it breaks our hearts. It takes the solid earth from under our feet and grabs the soft pillow from under our sleeping heads.

Being lucky might not mean the bad news will go away or fit into our fantasy that everything will be all right. Being lucky might mean that we meet ourselves outside the constraints placed upon us by our parents, our teachers, our culture or our fantasies about how life should be. Being lucky means becoming authentic, facing our shadows and watering our inner beauty. It might take us to showing love to ourselves and those we love. Then, to quote James Hollis*, we learn “that life is much riskier, more powerful, more mysterious than we had ever thought possible” and that the “world is more magical, less predictable, more autonomous, less controllable, more varied, less simple, more infinite, less knowable, more wonderfully troubling than we could have imagined being able to tolerate when we were young”.

*From “Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life

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