Take your anger to the quiet place, with tea and toast.

‘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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Autumn soul.

For someone who is never at home, lacing her life between jobs, commutes and contacts, today was a gift.  A nothing day, and an everything day.  A day, now darkening beneath the first of the true grey days, that I have not spoken a word to anyone.

The beginning of Autumn.  Light hides now, the sun weak and rain draws patterns on glass. On waking, with a day to myself, the urge to turn into the duvet was tempting, but for me, the first, true Autumn day, is the soul day.  For cleaning of life, of space and spirit.  Inward time.

Preparing for the winter, and myself to get through it.  Most know I take little responsibility for my misery dans the London Winter, Lord knows that I struggle with it still – but for the first time, I choose to stay this year.  Much has happened with little choice of my own, so I am sort of surprising myself on this one, and may I take the opportunity now, to yet be held unaccountable when the grey monotone smallness of post Christmas slithers beneath my heart. 

I do love Autumn though.  Always have, its my birthday season, as nature sheds her clothes and stands naked, without fear, as one does when the lover loves regardless and still finds the beauty.  Land becomes carpets of jewels, the fox blends and rosé turns to red. To bed and fire and books and stories of closeness – and family.  Of memories and the world can wait a little – the pace can slow a little – the questions are left unanswered and the messiness of life matters not – for in Autumn I refrain from questions and trying to prove.  Resolve to linger a little longer, love a little deeper and bring the threads home.

In Autumn I still have the faith that though things have changed, beauty remains.  In Winter I grieve for the things that have changed.  Autumn is soft, voluptuous, rounded with berries, scented with earth and passion.  Winter is a grave yard of buried hope. Unless it snows, unless it’s Christmas, unless love still lives there.  Autumn is falling, yet landing softly.  

The Autumn soul is a kind one.  And I hope above all, I can still be that.  So, in this quiet day of preparing for Autumn, the things of others are packed to take out another day, to reminisce about with care and affection.  The candles are lit, the wine is poured, the lack of hearth is not yet lamented but the soul is calm.

‘Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness …’  Keats

Mellow we shall be.  Mellow and still moved by the magic that lingers.

Autumn brings the heart to a quiet mindfulness.  And it remains the same.

Painting by Madison de Villiers

Image: Wow247

 

Dance like everyone is watching you …

‘Tripped and fell, stood up again … and I am dancing still.’

Consider myself a dancer.  In the early years, nothing greater than the new pair of ballet shoes, and waiting in the wings for the day I could finally graduate to the beloved tutu. Oh, to be given a tutu, that stiff, gorgeous bit of Swan Lake. Most of the time, being the tallest in the class, I was rather the sailor, or the tree, or the mountain top, but the tutu escaped me until my mother had one made, just because she loved me, and I have the picture to prove it.  Years of ballet classes in the hope of point shoes … oh the hope, and when I finally got them, black satin I wanted, just to be different, the ankles said no – not a chance you were going to be on point, forever.  Ugh.

Shattered dreams.  Giselle was still out there, but rather than give up, I changed to contemporary dance.  The satin, black, beautiful point shoes are still in a box somewhere.  The changing led to an Honours degree in dance, and my love for Martha Graham, for Isadora Duncan – doyennes of the different dance. Danced until they dropped, the one getting old but still dancing, the other, killed by a gorgeous scarf trapped in the wheels of a car. Ah, the drama was my intoxication.  And their differentness became my life dance.

I learnt that the dance need not be the traditional.  It may not be the classical, the formal, the stylised acceptance – it was the free form of dancing, of moving to music, to rhythm and even now, at this age, when the music comes, the dancing comes. Not on a stage, but on the stage that is my life, in the any place where dance makes me happy.

But it is more than that.  Dancing is a metaphor.  The way you live your life.  Times we feel awkward and exposed, incapable, clumsy.  We fall and trip and crash to the ground. Life does that.  But as we lie there, there is always the beginnings of the tapping, the notes that begin to play and it ignites us to doing again, to get up again, and move again.  How we move, matters not, we move, and we shimmy, and we shake, and then we rise above and lose ourselves, find ourselves and rather than dance like no-one is watching, we dance like we were born to do it. On the open stage of life. Our own style.

The perfect dance, like a play, like true theatre, always has the scene of … well, all fall down. It’s a classic. The betrayal, the broken heart, the what do I do now moment.  The suspended pause. Will we fail? Will we rise? Will we get up again … of course we will! Life dance always builds to the great ending and we do the same, only we do not wait in the wings, or stay in the chorus of our own lives, we adapt, we find the scarf in the derelict box, the talisman and change our perspective. And we dance, in the open, unafraid, for everyone to see.

As we are this dancer of our lives, when we get dropped by the lead or fall back into the shadows for a while, we are also being watched – we baby boomers are exposed in our glory, or defeat, by others, younger than us.  Times it is not a pretty sight to see the principal loose her footing, but the important thing, when things go wrong, is to show those who follow us, that the dance is not yet over.  We do fall, we do succumb to doubt and awful disappointments and lie there for a while.  But we do get up again, and we can show that change may be required but the dance will go on.

And it does.  Without the perfect leg rise, the perfect pirouette or the handsome catcher who was absent as we crashed.  For still, there is the grand jeté, the leap of faith … the can can.

When we dance, as if everyone is watching, we dance in truth. We spin, we turn, we stumble at times and we get up to dance again. Technique in dance, and life, may have escaped us, but style, oh yes, style will be the climax of the dance.  We will fall, and we may just fly, trying and dancing is all.

Live with your own sense of style, and you are dancing in the light.

Images: google, motivationalreads,pintrest

You are your brand, even if it’s a re-brand and all those words that go with the idea.

 

‘Owning myself is a way to be myself.’ Oprah Winfrey.

So missy here confessed to the laying it bare and what a great, naked, euphoric feeling it has been.  Nothing to hide, no dark corners anymore.  The scars on the body visible but proudly displayed. I am sure the black dog will come again, nip that naked behind quite firmly, but somehow dealing with said dog I think will get easier from now on.

And so to the branding, or re-branding of me, naked and all.  Not going to happen all in one go, and not pretending to recreate a persona, business, set of environmental spaces all in one go.  I have time, the important thing is that I made it across the Rubicon and am, I surmise, still in one piece. Would rather have been skinny dipping than forging through black mire, but skinny dipping is on the list.  Not the bucket list I might add as I have an aversion to the very term, ugh, squirm and to hell with that, one last time sort of defeatism, but the list of freedom.

I digress.  The branding begins with what no longer fits.  Let’s begin with the outer look shall we?  If you are like me, I have held onto clothes that ‘maybe’ I can use one day when I am next in a place I will never be again.  Those went  in the black bag dragged to the charity shop and cannot explain, but always with a somewhat guilty expression on my face? Why do I feel guilty about taking clothes to the charity shop? For another time.  The clothes went, along with the linen and tea towels and shoes.  The coat I bought my ex the first time we came to London and I thought he looked like an RAF pilot and left for me to sob over and put on post sauvignon blanc. Gone. Important to clear clutter of pain pre sauvignon blanc.  Remember that.

Unlike Carrie Bradshaw I have only a few pairs of shoes I personally would sleep with.  Unlike Carrie, I can barely hold my balance on the heels, once elongating the long legs and power to exude grace.  Public transport has put a stop of any idea of heels. Short of wearing sexless trainers, I am to practical yet classic footwear. Sob, bye, pretty heels. No, be firm she says.

A happy confession to make.  Even in the dimmest grey of depression and angst, this plum never descended into trackpants/hoodie/bargain/pj’sallday look.  So none to throw out. The slippers can stay. Take heart fluffy slippers, you can stay.

A shameful confession to make.  One, dear Lord, oversized, velour gown in lilac, avec sobs, wine stains, candle wax and numerous food history which would be ‘walk in, put on, sit on balcony and scare the passers by mode.’ I looked like Barney on drugs, the day after, doing the walk of shame. I actually did not dispose of said evidence, my children demanded it. She is gone.

Darling has gone shopping

Little budget for such things but one does not need, no imperative not to get all in a fell swoop.  The excitement of being a little selfish, a little cheeky and adding to the new wardrobe is hours of therapy in one afternoon. Do not believe I do not care anymore to see the fatness in the cubicle and go – I don’t care, this is me – no, it sucks but it is motivation 101 also. I don’t like the letting go, not about to embark on an epic marathon of blisters but I will make it happen.  For later.

Love the new additions to the family.  One in particular, in the pic above, has become my closest friend.  I have fallen in love with her.  Lovely  comes from Cos and her fabric is like satin, her colour ice-blue and her flow is lyrical. She is so lovely I want to buy her sister, do you think I should?  The dress is simple: I am Maria in the convent, and Maria, in love in the conservatory. Think I should buy her sister and that is the point, when something fits, when it makes you happy, it’s an epiphany of style, and the adding to the brand that is the better you.

Wearing Lovely today.  Found matching nail polish, ‘saltwater happy’ by Essie, to match and you will find me, far from the sea, but as I only choose colours if the names make me happy, this is a given. I am.

 

 

 

The London Summer ‘s Monday. All this on a Monday?

 

Not quite a, but a little bit,  manic Monday.

Something has happened.  I wake early and want to go to bed early. Oh dear Lord, I have turned into my parents! Hang on, there is a blog about this … to be written.

Summer in London is the best in the world.  When it does not rain, when the grey cloak is absent, and when I actually find myself waking to birdsong at around four thirty in the morning … and don’t mind. Wide awake … is this possible?  ‘Tis summer y’all and this one is making the most of it for sure. Dark thoughts of my personality in the winter are all too close but shun them this past Monday. It was a London Monday and it is summer, so it counts for the telling, for summer in London is life changing for this crazy person.

By seven I am at the bus stop.  London style, waiting for the 39 and timed to perfection, a la city mapper, which no sensible Londoner should be without. I love the bus ride, I meet the world.  So many stories and a gem of two, scary looking school girls plopped into the seats in front of me.  Grumpy me would have gone, holy shite, they still look hanging from Saturday night.  Hideous hair for starters, make-up plaster and attitudes to match. I am intrigued.

‘I’m so tired, and just found out I have a history project – well, I ain’t gonna do it. Just not happening.’

Friend: ‘F…k them.’

And I used to panic about my nails being too long at inspection. Hair tied up above the collar, the school brookies up to the midriff, freaking out about getting an A.

‘And they made us run around the hockey field. F … king random.’

Okay … hope life treats you well.

My ‘other job.’ A few times a week I am waitron at St. Clements. A love affair, tempered with mind stories of customers I will write about … love the arrival to fresh croissants and fresh coffee.  Good friends and ‘hello’ to the regulars.  The major triumph is remembering the coffee orders (call this brain gym) for not a single … I shall have a flat white.  It’s a flat with a little foam, dry, weak, extra hot with almond/soy/oat/coconut and my kingdom on a horse stuff. Sorted.  The regulars arrive, their dogs … ‘hello Godot, hello Toby, hello Rafferty and oh, hello lovely Lola! The most silent and well trained dogs and I remember my own … dogs that is … dogs that ran in the garden and barked at the postman. Here comes Poppy, hello Poppy!

This is my community and the time goes by in a whirl of Avocado (smashed), coffees and conversation and then my shift is done. Seven hours of running (another blog) but summer awaits.

The Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy of the Arts. 22 bus takes me right there with my oat milk cap ( learning the lingo) to witness a spectacular exhibition of art from all walks of life. An hour of indulging and inspiration right there on Piccadilly. Have I mentioned that rocking up in the city in my standard Converse not longer phases me? In my Silver Street, I am rocking the Converse (another blog she thinks) but wandering through art is a gift. I am lost in wanting to be able to try it one day.

I am  always and a forever Laduree child.  I have an expense account for Laduree. And so, it is fitting, post great art, to get my usual macarons. Which are your favourite? With the grass of Green Park calling, I acquired mine.  For grass was calling. It is six o’clock and the sun is high.  All are gathering on the  green – office workers, mothers, children, tourists … all are lured to the idea of just falling on grass, or hiring one of the typical deck chairs for an hour or so. Life on a Monday is now life on a Monday flopping on grass.  Most with wine, the cheese and crackers, friends and photo’s but me, with the Laduree.

It’s a long way from my own garden, from my swimming pool and drinks on the veranda, but the grass is welcoming.  The Converse come off, the toes, so white, wiggle at the thought of freedom.

The thing is, life changes for all of us, drastically, silently at this stage of our Silver Street.  Thoughts of how did this ever come about, how did we end up here, and all that, but for that hour, with freedom on the grass of Green Park, a day of work done, culture fix in hand, I found more than anything, that I was happy. On a Monday. Go figure, in summer, in London, I could do all this, earn, learn and breathe at the end of it. I was doing this alone, and that was the sad part, but I was empowered in that I was doing it. Little windows to people I would never meet again, knowing that others have pushed for something more and me, just soaking up the last of the Monday summer sun before taking the bus home.

I want to hang onto this, for I know the winter will come.  Thoughts of living in this Silver Street will return with all it’s trepidation, but for me, on a Monday, to experience all that … was it meant to be?  That is another blog I think. 

Let’s just say, Monday in Summer London for this Silver Streeter was a Monday of being in the most exciting place I can be right now.

The lesson: Take a Monday in your life and add the spice.

Images Royal Parks, Laduree, Royal Academy

 

 

Hello Grace. Forever remembered Kate.

Welcome to my world Grace …

Remember those pebbles one keeps turning up?  Today is a massive pebble moment for me. More like a boulder moment to be exact.  Today, after much trepidation and thought, the caution to the wind blew right in and I bought, for the first time, with my own hard earned money, the latest MacBook Pro. Woosh went the money, hard earned and into my life, came Grace.

Let me tell you why.  For the the first time, since the ‘divorce’ I bought an expensive item, with my own money.  All those hours put into working, not just as a hobby, but as a life changing career path, I have squirrelled my cash into the rainbow fund.  The ‘what if everything goes pear shaped fund?’ The sometimes ‘martyr’ fund, or ‘I don’t want to be ninety-nine and live in a council flat fund.’ All those thoughts of whatever and must prove myself fund.  

But there are times when you just have to say, I need investments, and so I began my sort of bucket list (though I loathe the very phrase) fund of what I needed for my own future goals, my want to call my own sort of thing:  these included, my own bought car, and a computer I could travel with.  The latter being very important.  Let’s just say that mother computer who has been my love for the past seven years, is one that requires a hefty shoulder to carry.  Big assed Bertha was becoming tedious on the bus, lugging and that extra piece of luggage needing a wheelie bag all of her own. Love her I do, but lugging her was not the smoothest operational procedure on an airplane, or bus, or pretty much anywhere with her zero battery hours.  Yup, I messed up on the battery saving thing. You know what I mean.

Swallowing hard for the sake of progress, I did the deed today, and bought Grace.  Sleek, small, light as feather and nécessaire in this new life of mine.  We shall travel, we shall discover each other and I have another project at hand.  Right now, she is still sealed and looking virgin like on my table – there are the little issues of data transfer etc, but right now, all I can do is stare at her and think, Grace, you and I are going far. Why did I call her Grace? Because turmoil, struggle, hardship and surviving have dissipated and evolved into ‘Grace.’ What stories we shall write!

 

And Kate. Kate Spade was a well known, wonderful entrepreneur who brought joy to the world. To all she seemed the icon of achievement in business, in her public and personal life, in everything she did.  Kate took her life two days ago. Her death shook many – how can it be that a women in her fifties, having achieved so much in her life, always on the outside, bubbling and sparkling on show, could have been so unhappy, so desperate to have ended it with a note?

The shock of it all.  And yet, the sadness of it remains.  The hidden grief, trying to keep that chin up high and pretending all is well, when your inner soul is shattered and torn. I kept thinking, must it take the loss of a well known celebrity in her ‘Silver Street’ time, to jolt us into acknowledging of the many other Silver Street women who, on the surface, seem content and accepting, when they too are lost and afraid and think these thoughts of ending it, and we don’t see the pain?

Truth be told, when life spins from one existence to another, these thoughts of suicide are all too prevalent in those we least except it. When loss and loneliness confront us and we are bewildered as to how it came about, how to deal with it, how futile the future seems – building one life that seems now extinct and not being able to cope with it all.  Truth be told, I was there, many are there, but still we smile, go about our daily lives as if not wanting to burden. The darkness of grief affects millions of people at this Silver Stage – losing our parents, the empty nest syndrome, job redundancies,  failures in relationships, change of habitat … for some the where do I go from now, is frightening. And some, like Kate, cannot see beyond. To want to end it all may be there, in thought, but to go on is what we need to focus on … for help is there. Others are there who can relate and most importantly, it takes you, just you … to make the change, no matter how difficult, but it is possible. 

And that is why I write. The depth of grief is surmountable. The promise of more, even in a different form, is waiting and achievable.

Hello Grace. For all the Kate’s, for all the women in their Silver Street times, different but finding a new path, is going to be the journey upwards to the light. And I shall take all those who could not find it in this time, and take me with them. Everyone matters – everyone counts. New chapters waiting to be written, and for me, with Grace.

Image WWD.

 

 

 

Friend-preneuring.

Friend-preneuring.

It Happens.

Let’s face it, being here, right now, at this time of our lives … different.  The pages of the book of our lives turn a little too fast, like those animated cartoons they draw and then wizz the pages by so frantically until it all seems to come alive. Woosh!

Everyone though is different.  Some are content with the blessings bestowed and some well … really starting all over again. Complacent or energised? So much to do, much to accomplish, a few dreams to be dusted. Life not even close to settling.

Starting or building up a business at this stage … it’s not so different to all generations.  We have the same blocks to build, the same networks to form, the same goals to achieve.  When it comes to  networking … it is different.  We are fortunate to have the experience, so you see, times it does count. Might not be in your known field, you may be wanting something totally different, but this is where I find the concept of networking so special.  And more so as a women in her Silver Street.

Let me tell you why. And this is important.

I network a great deal for my business. What I have found so enriching about most of it, is that the people I network with, almost all become friends.  

Women are like that.  We don’t meet on a golf course or in a board room, but in a coffee shop, over lunch, in a park, in our homes.  Sharing similar goals and ideals on how to achieve financial freedom. Doing what we love, be it in the creative, financial, medical or education fields.  We chat, first about ourselves, our families, our history and before long we are connected on a deeper level – we actually care about each other over and above our business interests. We want to help each other on a level deeper than business.  How can we help?  How do we tell others and recommend their business? Foster their goals? How do we serve someone who is perhaps, also beginning a new life, a new business – see what’s happening here? We are friend-preneuring.

Of course we want those we form relationships with through networking to help us in our endeavours, believe us worthy of recommendations and build lasting relationships, but we are going deeper than that, we are caring, as women do, and wanting to help.  Is that not our nature, particularly at this stage of our Silver lives, to embrace and empower our sisters and in doing so they will do the same for us? If anyone said friends and business don’t mix, I disagree.  It is the many friends we make through networking, the coming together of like that encourages and fosters our business.  We form a network of kindred souls and my business has grown because of this.  Because friends, some new, some from long ago, are also out there, working hard for their families and themselves and understand the silent language of women in business with lives that may be difficult, wonderful, personal. Women who have lived and turned over many chapters. Friend-preneuring is about the personal. My clients become my friends, my friends give me business, my business thrives because these friends care and I endorse them and care for them in return.

True success in life and business only grows if those you believe in, believe in you.

Networking in this hurried world is not all about landing the contract. The brief. Not in my business anyway.  Being in the travel and events business, being a writer and motivational speaker is a business I can only grow if I learn to understand my clients, their personalities.  They want the best wedding for their children, a memorable trip, a resonating voice.  To be heard. I am not selling a material object but a dream.  To be successful in this, I need to feel trusted and understood. Many great women who are in business do this.  They offer more than the goods, they offer compassion, clarity, vision and in our Silver Street, understanding of what it is like on this road of life.

Networking is great. It is also hectic at times.  But every so often, someone comes across your path and you connect – your get each other, your business interests may be different but your willingness to take care of each other, is mutual. You want to be there for them and they for you. And you work together, as business partners, and as friends.

I look at networking, or entrepreneurship more as friend-preneurship.  And I love it. My clients are my friends and more than that I am theirs. And business is blooming.

So when you go out to network, go out to make a friend. Best of all worlds.

Image Mogul

 

 

Choose to show up

 

 

 

Choose to Show up in your own life.

On your terms.

With all your messy make up,

Your unfinished business.

With tattered ballgowns

and good intentions.

Bring your past.

Do not forget your heart.

 

Choose to show up.

You are your own brand.

Dear Social Media… have you been a naughty girl?

 

  Baby you can drive my car … but hope you ain’t taking me over a cliff anytime soon.

If you only knew how long it took this Silver Streeters to get to know you. I mean let’s face it, some things were not in my schoolbooks back in the day – twitter this and twitter that, loading Instagram (which I have noticed many are less than instant what with blossoms in December if you get my drift) and Facebook was this anemone’s way of checking up on her long lost what you want to call it people, it took time right?  Let’s not even go to the Snapchat number, I mean who wants to spend time loading a picture and have it snap and vanish … ah maybe some of you do, but I was quite happy with the chosen three to the point of addiction and say what … now the dark side powers that be have been selling my data to the enemy? Little old moi?

I am innocent M’Lord.  Checking it all out is what makes the tube ride shorter.  Focussing on the snapping of flowers, sunsets, bridges and tufts of snow helps me focus on pretty things when the world is bug ugly. Innocent stuff indeed. Thought I was being challenged and victorious when words were limited to limericks and so many characters and yes, believed all these warriors were my army in business and marketing. So what if I told you where I went to school and proved to the world that may children were the best in it – harmless stuff. My voice.

For now it seems my trivial pursuits are part of a darker scheme. Could it be that I have voted for Trump without knowing, that my ‘I am here at Heathrow’ has sent a subliminal message to the trackers who have twisted my course for their own benefit?  Shudder M’Lord, shudder and shake at the thought that I many have swayed the Brexit vote – could it be? Mais non!

Say it isn’t so.  I am just little old me wanting to have a voice that tells my story, not yours. Thought you were the sisterhood but maybe you are the sinister hood after all.  Get it about Ads and such, but voting and endorsing other people’s screwball antics is not what I followed you for.  So you big guns with the golden pockets (lined by the likes of little old me) get your act together and clean up your conspiracies. I don’t want to delete (oh dear what shall I do if I don’t have you) so let me play and go about my business of pretty things without feeling like Salieri with the possible poison.

Phew!  There I have said it. If you want me to be your friend in the future, you are going to have to stop being a naughty girl – my BFF’s do not use me, turn on me or help me sway an election.

We have a lot to give, but it will be on our terms okay?  This way we all get to win.

Your dubious friend on Facebook.

Images Telegraph, Hastac

Learning something new today. Don’t settle with the ‘I’m too old for that.’

bicycle-girl-basket-full-flowers-milk-bread-paris-architecture-background-39462916 Learn anything new today? 

It’s a sobering thought, one I consider daily of late.  Am I learning anything new?  At this stage of our lives, our little brains are pretty saturated with information, habits and experience.  Choc a block full.  Some of it may have disappeared – you know the ‘forgetful’ and ‘must be my age’ stories, how we try to recall things or simply shrug our shoulders and go ‘no, it’s gone.’

Not so true.  I believe it is all still there, only we have forgotten to exercise our brains on a daily basis.  Remember homework?  Everyday your brain was trained to take in new information. Plenty of it.  When we educate our children, we too are exercising our brains in reading stories, assisting with assignments and doing some of the research to boot.  

Work channels our brains into a specific goal orientated place – what pertains to what we do.  We have hobbies and learn from this, and then we get to a point, at least I do, when I wonder if I am learning anything new lately?  Has my daily routine only taxed that part of my brain that falls into that routine, in fact, I think my brain has become lazy.

So I am on a mission to re-educate myself.  All too easy to throw my hands up at new technology for starters.  Some of it I got the handle of, others are more challenging.  Times I ask my adult children for advice (and do you get this?)  to receive the automatic rolling of the eyes.  So I tend to believe it, but it’s not good enough.

streaming-content

Stay with me here.  Let’s take streaming.  Seriously, streaming.  I had not a clue, and now I seem to be the last person who is doing it.  Or really understands what it is.  I am aiming to be streaming 101 student.  Barely got to the grips with Social media, like Instagramming, and now everyone is posting ‘my story’ or adding little lines and messages on their photographs and I am ‘how do you do that’?  

Terms like picmonkey, Alexa,  cloud, 5G, virtual and smart this and smart that … oh boy, it is like a new language, which it is, and I have to get on board.

Then there are the subjects I used to love, or want to learn more about, like French and graphic design and never got around to.  On board and committed.

So what am I saying today?  Apart from regular work, the normal routine of life I follow, I am determined to prove to myself that I can learn something new, perhaps an hour a day, or a project for the month, but I need to do two things with my brain.  Get up to speed on current issues, such as finance and technology, and return to the subjects that I love and re-discover, be it Art, fashion, design, gardening or activities such as camping (did’nt see that coming), getting the camera out again and so much more.

Make the time. What I do, is think about a conversation I have with my children or anyone else.  The ‘how was your day’ sort of conversation.  Do I say the same thing all the time, or can I add to the conversation and my lifestyle by training my brain to recall or learn something new – would like to think so.

Image:  Computer hope, all career