Mindful of deadlines? Try a little mindfulness

Last week, with a handful of deadlines to meet, my Mac decided to die on me. And so did my mobile. No nurturing, no magical combination of keys and no tech-savvy friend could nurse the laptop back to life (the iPhone was less dead and was restored but lost data). The Apple Genius Bars throughout London are so booked up these weeks leading to Christmas, they are now sending customers elsewhere  – proof that even technology suffers festive fatigue.

Having backed up most of my work – as a freelance journalist, I am mindful of the importance of this – I still had half-written drafts sitting on my desktop. I also have InDesign and Photoshop programmes installed in that portable office of mine, along with other much-used and all-essential pages, easily found with bookmarks. It throws me off my track and my reaction happens in clearcut stages:

•         Disbelief
•         Panic
•         Anger and tears
•         Desperation and more tears
•       Serenity – and a more balanced perspective on the whole affair. 

The latter is a new discovery – an emotion I have only recently mastered in times of small stresses. And, ironically, this whole computer debacle happens the day after meeting a lady called Ros Edlin, a stress management expert, who advises dentists on how best to cope with it when it rocks their working lives.

Ros and I meet at the wonderful bar, Caravan, in King’s Cross, having corresponded via email, and then with phone calls, regarding a health article in which I’d referenced her work. We hit it off immediately and find we have a lot in common – and I find she speaks a lot of common sense. We share a passion for traditional methods of communicating, both believing that face to face meetings are better than picking up a phone and that picking up a phone beats emails, hands down. Yes, new technology is a wonderful thing – I embrace it daily – but you do need to shoehorn in a little bit of old-school attitude in this big, new world. Good, solid communication – in its most basic form – is, after all, the foundation on which we build strong working relationships. Anything else is just window dressing, furniture, accessories and bunting, added to enhance and used because we are time poor and technology rich.

But last week, I was tech poor – and, suddenly, time rich. With a working life ruled by MacBook Pro, iPad and iPhone, I had to give in gracefully. And so, I deleted PANIC and edited my emotions and switched off. Like my computer, I downed tools and had a day of – what Ros told me was important for us all – mindfulness that can make us change the way we feel, think and act. 

As I walk my two hounds for two hours, taking in the world of winter in all its glory, I roll back some 17 hours to our shared pizza and recall her words about work-life balance, the stresses of our 21st-century lives and how becoming more aware of the present moment means noticing the sights, smells, sounds and tastes as well as the thoughts and feelings one is experiencing. 

Having just read Richard Flanagan’s account of the atrocities faced by PoWs in his award-winning book, The Narrow Road to the Deep North, I am acutely aware of how lucky I am that it is only my laptop that’s broken and in need of nurture and repair.

Mindfulness helps us enjoy the world more and understand ourselves better and, surely, being aware of our reactions is one step to improving our mental state? 

Let’s face it, when I’m lying dead, nobody is going to recall my deadlines, are they?

• For more about Ros Edlin, visit www.stresswatch.co.uk

Stupidly dogmatic

A few false starts and we're off – en route to a fresh challenge and another adventure and a steep learning curve. There's not been a puppy in the family for eight years or more now – and, strangely, I miss this.

On a journey home from Portugal this summer, I spend a helluva lot of hard-earned English £££s on data-roaming fees searching online for 'the ultimate dog'. I look at Bolognese and we drive through driving rain and storms to meet one in Norfolk (too prissy and way too high maintenance). I've never liked small dogs but consider having one. I never looked to adopt at the RSPCA but, suddenly, we are spending many weekends at the local dog rescue centre. Dogmatic in my search, I mentally assess every hound that passes by, every pooch encountered on my walks with our Lab, and clock up many hours surfing the net like a lovelorn singleton, seeking 'the one'. But, after hours that turn into days, I eventually give up my hapless search, reaching a cul-de-sac in my dog searching. I turn tail and then... And then...

The first week of October 2014: I am a devout follower of the 'things happen for a reason' school of thought, without doubt. A leaflet, pasted to many lamp-posts in the fishing village of Salema, catches my eye:

Now, ain't Google Translate just the best thing ever? I am ashamed to admit that my linguistic skills are sadly lacking. For someone hell bent on spending more and more time in this most beautiful, heavenly slice of south west Europe, my Portuguese is limited to only the necessary niceties.

Anyway, what I can do is research online and research is what I do to discover that Portuguese Water Dogs are the smarties that truly do have the answer.
For the uninitiated... these hounds were once the best friends of Portuguese fishermen, driving fish into nets, retrieving lost tackle and swimming messages from boat to boat. They have webbed feet and waterproof coats. They thrive with activity, especially if it's water based. And their heritage stretches way back to the 8th century when the Moors arrived in Portugal, bringing these water dogs with them.

We immediately find a Portuguese Water Dog that really isn't a Portuguese Water Dog or a Cão de Água Português as is their proper native handle. In our enthusiasm, we fail to see what is staring us squarely in the face – a con artist with a clever line in faux innocence and mock indignation when we challenge her with the rumours that she runs a puppy farm and is a fraudulent breeder. We remain a deposit down to this day, and there's a very different deposit we'd love to leave on the doorstep of said puppy farm, but some things are best left – well, left.

Meanwhile, at the water trials on our doorstep – Salema beach – we watch from afar one Rodrigo Pinto, a man so in tune with these hounds, it's poetic. He can bark instructions that send his charges scurrying all points of the compass across the sandy beach, focusing them directly into their crate – within seconds. The beautiful hounds shoe horn themselves into said crate and await his next command, ready to spring into action – and waiting on him. Solely.

To cut a long story short, we fall for this man and his hounds and his passion and his knowledge. We talk on the phone long-distance from the UK – lots – and eventually meet him at his kennels/hotel for dogs – Casa da Buba in Lagos. He does not disappoint. Needless to say, this man has a story to tell.

So, we suddenly have Única in our lives. Black, curly haired and feisty – and so, so exciting. And, just as exciting is the story Rodrigo and his son, Goncalo, have to share. They have a history – and a future and there's a whole world out there with whom they need to share it. President Obama, are you listening?...

Walking – I'm running with it

Exercise. It’s always been about the heart-pumping, sweat-pouring, oxygen-demanding kind. That pinnacle of endeavours; that aim to become ever faster; fitness activity with that feelgood-but-bad factor – in running shoes, in water or, of late, on a bike.

The more the body aches post-workout, the fitter the beast. I have taken Herbert Spencer’s Darwin-esque theory of the survival of the fittest and I’ve run with it, interpreting it as I see fit. If I’m not standing still, I cannot catch anything, right? I know that’s a contradiction, but allow me that. As I hurtle towards 50, I want to enjoy life in a half-decent physical state and enjoy it before it all goes horribly wrong, if you get my drift...

Feel the burn

I’m a typical 20something of the 1980s. Back then, younger readers, it was all about throwing our bodies around in high energy, high impact aerobic classes. It was an era of Jane Fonda ‘feeling the burn’ (in the first ever exercise video of our time) and that was many years before Davina’s tame efforts – and only a year before Miss McCall turned sweet 16. It was a time when your conscience barked silently at you that ‘no pain no gain’ adage over and over and over until, muscles wrecked, the body grew bored of the same old routine and the mind was dulled by the same old music tracks.

But now, even that iconic workout video of Jane’s has grown up – 32 earlier this year – and with it, I feel I have, too. For I have discovered walking. Not the baby steps discovery of some 48 years ago, but proper ‘Salomon walking boot’ walking. Hiking, if you will. And to those who scorn and scoff and are under the age of 30, take heed. Footwear doesn’t just have to be about pounding the streets of London’s West End in physically disabling high heels. I’m now just as happy hotfooting it around the west end of Europe in comfortable boots.

Walking is cool. You don't feel a burn, you merely grow a little warmer and you simply see more ‘stuff’ than you do when running or, even, cycling. I would go so far as to say, it’s the new cycling – once the preserve of a generation far beyond my own, I am now extolling the virtues of an exercise I was once only curious about, mostly prompted by the hoards of ramblers who traipsed the canal paths and tramped the fields near where I lived when I wasn’t dancing in fluorescent leggings and leotards to electro pop at the YMCA gym in a small underground studio off Tottenham Court Road.

Communities lay undiscovered

I suggest to those of you under the age of 30 to factor it in to your fitness portfolio now. It complements all that aerobic exercise and is a revelation, too. Whole communities lay undiscovered out there that may only be enjoyed at walking pace – flora and fauna, all creatures – great and small, and people, so many people. And, if you haven’t some beautiful countryside to explore, take an amble through the city and remember to look up, discover more about your neighbourhood, its buildings and get fit into the bargain.

Turning point

Spanish families have mastered the art of city walks. Visit any of the major cities and you will see large groups of them out enjoying themselves as they ‘walk the promenade’ in the early evening, just before sunset.

DOG FOR SALE – LOVES WALKING.

Charities raise funds utilising this most simple and most accessible of exercise. Signing up for a sponsored walk may prove the turning point you need in this pursuit for a slo-mo, steadier-paced exercise to complement the rest of it. And if you need further inspiration, you can always buy a dog.

Blog hijack!

Long goodbyes, 20 minutes' sleep and we’re off. My parents look incredulous at my ability to rise after such little rest,  yet I’m equally as questioning of their getting up at 1am when we aren’t supposed to leave the house for another two and a half hours. I've barely been back in England for five minutes and I’m already back on the road – holiday number three in just five weeks. Not that I’m complaining, as a (hopefully) relaxing trip to one of my favourite places is desperately needed after a fast-paced and exhausting week in the inexhaustible Magaluf.

Stay at home
This has also been the most anticipated holiday. For months. We’ve been fired at with enthusiasm from parents about an unmissable two-day drive down to Portugal that contrasts greatly with their insistence that our attendance is not compulsory if we feel we'd 'rather stay at home'. Regardless, who would choose to remain in England? Firstly, for fear of breaking the hearts of parents who, despite their insistence that 'we understand completely if you don’t want to come' actually really, really want you with them and secondly. the chance to see places so old and so beautiful it would be foolish to miss out.

At 18, the idea of travelling a distance of more than 1,500 miles with parents in a large, although still slightly cramped, car, is often one of horror yet it doesn’t particularly faze me. This may be unusual, yet I see our ability to stand each other (most of the time) as a happy bonus and I pity other families for not having something I hope will stay with us for a very long time. As we travel on the unattractive motorways of the north of France, with Dad pinching his nose, horribly imitating the muffled voice of a pilot and the car filled with the monotonous, yet slightly aggressive instructions of the SatNav as we head into Salamanca, I still can’t help thinking how lucky I am.

Curb your enthusiasm

And so we’re off again on this now much-loved oft-trod escape to the south west of Europe. As we grow more familiar with each schlep (even allowing for the sneaky curveball of some changes to the complicated diversion through Rouen), this trip, two have become six – with four teens aboard, we are outnumbered.

We are taking the slow road to our quick fix of happiness. Two weeks heading towards/staying in/returning from Salema in the western Algarve. We have packed looms and bands, countless magazines, and DVDs of their choosing are piled high in the boot. There’s a boxed up, newly purchased three-man dinghy (complete with oars and pump) atop their four bulging suitcases that hold 19 bikinis between them.

The next generation

We’ve lost the battle over music choice but, to be fair, we never even put up a fight. For this holiday belongs to our next generation, two of them having joined the ranks of adulthood since our last summer all together in the sun. But do they count among the numbers of adults on this holiday? I think not.

When did I last download a ‘Now’ album, I ponder, as I buy boosters to ensure its full delivery to my iPhone. I am appalled to discover this latest release is number 88. ‘What is she singing?’ husband asks, and I hear echoes of my parents. As we all do eventually, I suspect – as these girls will, I hope. In the confines of a Dodge Super Caravan (strangely, no longer feeling overlarge, wide and roomy), we will all dig deep to become tolerant of each other but not of any other travellers – those many strangers who swell in huge numbers in airports this time of year. We have neither the desire or need. We are in our own world of travel and it may not be as fast or cheap as flight but it will be fun.

‘ROAD TRIPS ARE MUCH MORE FUN AND FREE.’ I keep telling the girls this, in a variety of ways and at varying interludes – from when I booked the crossing to just before we leave, when heading out of the EuroTunnel at Calais and as we enter Bordeaux and so on, increasing the frequency and pitch as we nose ever nearer.

‘YOU JUST SEE SO MUCH MORE IN A CAR!’ I screech.
Holidays are often said to make or break a family. I am in danger of either nailing it or putting the final nail in the coffin of whole-family excursions with my high expectations and breathy enthusiasm. And it’s only day one.

War-torn mothering

I am torn. I cannot decide if I was more fretful when our two eldest daughters headed off to Magaluf last Sunday amid headlines of THE sex scandal (insert Daily Mail latest – 'British holidaymakers are avoiding the Mallorca resort of Magaluf following its sex act shame') or whether their return flight home is the more worrying. The latter following the shooting down and destruction of Malaysian Airlines flight MH17 over eastern Ukraine that killed 298 people on board. The two 18-year-old loves of my life flew the nest, alone but together, for the first time last Sunday. They survived a week in Magaluf (save the stories a teenager should never share with a parent) and they will arrive at Stansted in one piece, too. Safe, tanned and exhausted and with seven days of self-sufficiency under their belt to be built on in the many years to come. I hope. For their travels home do not include the option of a flight path over a war-torn area and security is at red alert for all airlines right now, I imagine. However, my irrational fear of flying can only be accentuated by such a catastrophic tragedy as befell the world this week. I read and reread about every passenger on board. Their DNA and dental records the only forensic evidence left to identify their bodies scattered across the fields of sunflowers.

Comfort blanket
Hours beforehand they were people just like you and me, loved by their families and tweeting comments and posting pictures on Facebook before embarking on the doomed flight. I torment myself with every minute detail, every morsel of information – the politics beyond my comprehension and control, but the true-life backgrounds easy to relate to my own small life. We can all make a connection to the personal stories behind harrowing headlines and heart-breaking images – and I so often err on the realistic ‘why not me?’ rather than the blindingly optimistic ‘this will never happen to me’. The additional storm clouds gathering – with much rain, thunder and lightning – add weight to my over-active imagination and so I turn to transferring thoughts to written words, creating that necessary distraction that is my 'comfort blanket' in times of internal, personal turmoil and panic. I call my mother, 80 last week but still a little fearful of storms as if she were still eight. We talk nonsense in a reassuringly conspiratorial fashion that is the very foundation of such a relationship. Unspoken words of reassurance pass between us, her knowing I am fretful about two daughters flying home from their wild days in Mallorca and my knowing she is uneasy about the storm brewing and the lightning that changes the colour of the skies. It is evident in our jolly tones and happy chatter that we are masking our real thoughts and unfounded fears.

Careful navigation
She need not cover mirrors and hide knives in a superstitious fashion and I have no need to make empty promises to be a better person to nobody in particular in order to have our daughters delivered home safely. Life follows a path, fate takes hold and that careful navigation is as much to do with strokes of luck as it is about wise choices, caution and sensible risk aversion. I am not 18. I am a 48-year-old mother. I adore the fact that I have become a little less 9 to 5 and more footloose, but I do have responsibilities. And forever will. Growing older offers many options. Shedding ridiculous fears and unwarranted worries are sadly not among them. My mother would tell you that.