‘Set an intention to heal any unexpressed anger that may be present in your life. Go to a quiet place with pen and paper. Take a few breaths. Ask your anger to speak to you. Write down the thoughts and feelings. When you are finished, forgive yourself for holding onto the anger for so long.’ Iyanla Vanzant.
Blessed with quiet spaces in the heart of the busy city. You may have a garden, a little alcove. a haven beneath a tree. Favourite chair in the cafe – anywhere the white noise stops and breathing becomes calmer. The shelter. The sanctuary. The Quiet place where all that craziness in your head, all that anxiety fizzles in a cup of tea. A cup of anything warm.
The day did not start with anger. Rather well actually, when sun brings frost and frost brings glitter to grass. Red buses seem brighter. A happy Winter’s morning. Alighting on the bridge, grand father Thames lay low and resting: mudlarks time. Today was to be the admin day.
Following the once again coup of moi – the little flat is no longer quiet. Packing begins. Not the place to work anymore, so to the softness of one of the quiet places I love to work. Walking along the river is breathtakingly beautiful, past a smattering of small children like dodgems on the grass. Buffered to the hilt against the cold, more like cheese puffs in neon colours. Immediateness of tiny ones. You fall, you cry, you find a curious incident and watch, want it, take it. Life within a metre of your face. Would love that sometime.
It was minutes in the reverie of toast and tea that the death eater emails came through. The sadness of separating assets and all the dust of love that lies within the archives now. Anger rose as anger does when people misunderstand, do not value, do not care and you are powerless against the sails of indifference. The worst feeling. Cannot change the hearts of Rushmorean stone.
And then, you can. The quiet brings it down: the veil of gentle grace. Tea was made for calming and anger taking properties. Pen takes the words of anger and then … I look at them … then look out of the window … there is a walled garden across the lawn, a small gate of wrought iron. A little wilderness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh ‘shall we to the wilderness’, wilderness. My anger follows the path but fades before it gets there. Anger is not worth my day, I have things to do.
Right here, at this little table, in the quiet place. More plans are made in the quietest places, than on vast battlefields of anger. More hearts are healed though quiet than hollow, loud words. I know why gardeners cannot live without their gardens – they find their quiet souls there.
Taking responsibility for causing anger in others is important too. That anger, of which you were the substance, needs to be penned and forgiven for. Penned and put to bed. Do not live a life of guilt, or anger, but when you do feel hard done by, victimised and wretched (love that word), truly wretched, it is not the quiet corner of disobedience days, but the quiet place of openness you need – and then, a beautiful walk to the garden.