To be my Friend, not my Critic

I'm around myself for 24/7 and others, including my kids, are only around for a part of that time. In other words, they can get away from me on occasions but I can't escape from myself. For this reason, I made a conscious decision that I might as well be a friend to myself rather than a judge or a critic.

You see, too often in the past I've been the sort of 'friend' nobody would want to hang around. I've kept doing the critic routine on myself. Constructive, loving feedback is one thing, but critics are the sort of people who make snide remarks and keep telling us how we've fallen short. We don't enjoy their company because this goes on non-stop. "You didn't handle that very well, did you?... You stuck your foot in it... You have to work harder... You fell short again." They simply make us feel miserable and judged. We are always relieved to get away from that type of person but the problem is, we can't get away from ourselves.

When we think about it, we admit we probably want to be friends with ourselves. We believe the criticism is something we do for our own best interest, to help us improve. So often, people who find themselves frequently miserable and depressed contact psychologists and life coaches, pouring out lots of time and money looking for help outside themselves. All that may be necessary is to simply ask, "Am I my friend or my critic?" I've noticed so often that seemingly difficult and long-standing problems may be best solved by deceptively simple changes in thinking.

A few months ago, I started speaking to myself gently and kindly. "You got through a day selling books plus a rental inspection all in one week, and took Emma to her Art lesson. That's pretty good going." Recently, I made a faux pas and possibly upset somebody by making the wrong assumption; something I would have normally beat myself up over. I remembered that I'm now doing kind self-talk. "It really wasn't your fault because nobody told you any different and you were acting the best way you thought you should." Amazingly, it did make me feel much better and allowed me to quickly put the incident behind me instead of dwelling on it. Wow, kind self-talk promotes closure.

It works when you receive negative feedback from others too. Instead of getting all upset and giving them power over me, I prefer to tell myself, "Well, he/she obviously has a shallow idea of who you are." I love it when people make friendly gestures to me and assure me that I'm doing OK in their opinion. Well, my own word is as good and meaningful as anyone else's. When we practise kind self-talk and being our own friend, we can have days crammed with valuable positive feedback like this.

I find I've got to carefully keep it up though, or it's easy to fall back into old habits without realizing. Last Saturday, I showed up an event where many SA authors were showcasing our wares. I told myself that my seven books presented a really great display, but then later, I wanted to go over to speak to couple of 'high-profile' authors but as they were deep in conversation with others, I chickened out. I didn't want to take the risk of being snubbed or summarily dismissed.

Disgusted with my chicken-heartedness, I started thinking, "I'm never going to change. I'm just a wuss who isn't going anywhere. I'm supposed to be doing positive self-talk. Well, that's a laugh, isn't it?"

Hey, hang on, stop! I'm my friend, not my critic. Time for kind self-talk. "Being a bit nervous is OK. A bit of reticence is nothing to get critical about. Your seven books look very appealing and you know how confident you are that their pages contain some great stories. Do you realise what you're doing? You're getting critical for being critical of yourself, and you also have the sense of humour to see how funny that is."

I'd recommend reaching out to be your own friend to anybody. If you haven't tried it before, I think there is a lot of truth in a saying I once read, that the person who approval you've been trying to earn most is your own.

That there is more than one standard

Rental inspection is over for another four months. Oh boy, sometimes I wish we were still home owners but about eight years ago, when my husband decided to quit work and study, we found out we had a little baby #3 on the way and wanted to take the kids traveling, the rental option seemed like a good temporary one. Now it has stretched into something that feels permanent and definitely has its down side. Not only do we have to wait for problems to be fixed up in someone else's time schedule but it hurts my homeschooling sensibilities to be 'assessed' The lady who comes is the type who notices such trifling things as dust on skirting boards.

So all week I've been rushing about like a hyperactive Siberian mountain goat washing windows, clearing ceiling cobwebs and tidying the garden. This time she wrote that the condition of the place is 'fair' making me feel like a C-grade student. Then I remember that the "Home Beautiful" magazine judging criteria she uses for her rounds aren't necessarily reasonable considering all that goes on in this house. I look around our four walls and, hey, I think it's great. These are the bodies we have crammed beneath a reasonably small roof.

a) University Music Student for a hubby, who seems to have loose sheet music trailing after him like homing pigeons.
b) Avid 16-year-old gamer for an oldest son, whose corner gets stacked with dirty dishes, bedroom gets piled with clothes, and who skilfully blocks out the first 100 requests to tidy up.
c) Almost 13-year-old girl whose favourite pastimes are gourmet cooking and the visual arts, and who gets stuck into both with gusto and enthusiasm.
d) Active 7-year-old boy. I need say no more.
e) Oh, and then there's me. Well, I like to get a bit of writing done.

I think that given our blend of homeschooling personalities and well-used furniture which we can't afford to replace, expecting a "Home Beautiful" A-grade from us is a bit of a tall order. Instead of a wing of Buckingham Palace, our home looks more like the Weasley family's house, "The Burrow", (pictured above) for anybody who has seen the "Harry Potter" movies. It's an interesting, colourful place where books get piled on shelves, saxophones and art canvases abound and current projects get spread across the table tennis table. It's the sort of place where you can kick back to see where your heart leads you. If our home was to be judged on cosiness and creativity we'd surely receive an A, but that's not the way the real estate offices do it.

I must remind myself not to buy into other people's grading systems. Having her come through is a bit like like being assessed for a subject I never signed up to study. I keep it clean. There's always a basic order that we all understand. When the day arrives that we leave, they'll find it ship-shape. We're happy. And as a sentence on Face Book reminded me, women whose homes are always impressive and immaculate don't find time to write books.

That too many plates were smashing!

Because I do all my work from home, I felt that I should be able to handle anything. But just recently I noticed that there were lots of plates I was keeping spinning; parenting, household maintainence, education, writing, promoting, church based activities, commitments which touch base with others in the outside community. Wow, if they were all paid, I ought to be a millionaire.
I was getting cranky and emotional.

I guess we've all seen images of those plate spinning shows. A number of large dinner plates are placed on long sticks and each given a forceful spin to help them keep their balance. Just as one gets spinning nicely, some of the others begin to wobble as they lose momentum. The fellow in charge rarely gets a chance to sit back and admire them all because he has to be so attentive and alert. This is fine for a brief show, but when we try to live our lives with this same principle, exhaustion and frayed nerves soon set in.

I think there are two accurate signs that we're trying to keep too many plates spinning.

1) The supposedly enjoyable ones get relegated to 'just another plate to spin.' Parties and social events become chores to politely attend and get out of the way instead of relaxing outlets. A womens' author I read mentioned the sort of ladies who want to groan when they roll into bed and their husbands expect a bit of intimacy. I can quite understand that. Oh, I forgot about that plate. I hope he'll be happy if I give it just a quick spin tonight. I need to catch a few hours of sleep so I can jump straight up and check what other plates are slipping.

2) As we think we're coping very well, unbeknown to us, our stress hormones are rising and our adrenal glands are beginning to resemble burnt out matches, but we can't see so we don't know. We only notice that our physical monsters are rearing their ugly heads; those chronic conditions we're prone to when things get a bit too overwhelming. For some it's migraines, for others acid stomachs, we all know what they are for us. Mine is a horrible thing called "IC" which flares up especially when I'm under pressure and has aptly been likened to a headache in the pelvis. Burning and pressure in the bladder happens which I can't easily get rid of because it isn't a urinary infection. It's part of my system's response to my being run down.

Last week, I saw a young couple dressed like gypsies moseying slowly down the street with their baby, looking as if they were having a wonderful time. It reminded me of the lovely, laid-back time I had with my family in 2004 when we took our caravan way up to Queensland and back down the coast. Even though Blake, our youngest, was just a few weeks old when we started, it was one of the most relaxing times.

I've been making the decision to prioritise health and stop some of the plates spinning. I've stepped down from some activities, which although great, were things I realised were other peoples' priorities and not mine. If you haven't noticed yet, I tell you there'll always be people giving us more and more plates to spin if they think we can manage it. We don't have to take them all. I've pared mine back to just a few (the homeschooling, writing and family ones). I'd encourage you to do the same if you feel you need to.

When there are only the essential few, you don't need to spend all your energy just to keep them spinning. You get the chance to spend more time polishing them and even adding pretty designs to them, which is far more satisfying than simply keeping them spinning.

That I experienced some genuine "self" help

Fiction is the genre I enjoy writing most, but when I visit libraries and bookshops I also love to browse the self help and personal development sections. I'm always open to the idea of improving something and if any of these books contain ideas I've been overlooking all my life, so much the better. They often boost my mood when I read them; particularly those with lively anecdotes and stories. Perhaps anybody who has been borrowing and purchasing self help books for as long as I have ought to have their act far more together than I do. That's an interesting thought.

Once I found a website which listed what the compilers called history's Top 100 self help books. I realised that I'd already read a huge chunk of them, which left me puzzled. Surely, in that case, I ought to have what it takes then, whatever "it" is. My husband said, "Maybe you have too many self help books. I think people ought to choose just one and then stick to it."

Well, recently I found Og Mandino's The Greatest Miracle in the World in a second hand shop for 10c, which proved to be a great bargain. It's a personal development book disguised as a fictional story. The mentor character, Simon Potter, tells Mandino that he'd spent several years dissecting all the great self help books which had ever been written, trying to extract their essence. He listed Norman Vincent Peale, Dale Carnegie, James Allen, Napoleon Hill and many others I've read over the years. Finally, he was able to compress their messages down to 5 main points, a bit like reducing a scientific substance to its chief elements. Rather than suggesting you all go out to buy the book, I'll tell you what they are.

1) Count your blessings.
2) Recognise and appreciate your uniqueness.
3) Go the extra mile.
4) Use your power of choice wisely.
5) Do all of the above with an attitude of love.

It made a lot of sense to me, especially as God IS love. I'm sure that anybody who follows each of these straightforward suggestions consistently cannot help improving their mindset and condition.

Now, here is the unexpected thing that helped me. I'd just done something silly which I was paying myself out over, and I wanted to forget about. I don't know why, but I randomly decided to read a few pages of A Design of Gold, one of my own novels I've written. It was published in 2009 and since then, I've worked on two others and forgotten some of its finer details. Well, I found myself drawn into the story of how my characters Michael and Jerome had fallen down a pit (an apt analogy but pardon the pun). Their feelings and points of view really struck home with me. I even felt like cheering them on as they realised that they needed to change their thinking patterns to improve their lives. It was great for me to re-visit these two young guys with a fresh perspective.

I decided that the advice they gave each down the mineshaft was good and to take it on board myself. It was all about how a simple shift in the way individuals think about themselves can make an enormous difference to their personal satisfaction levels, even when nothing else changes. Can characters actually be wiser than the author who wrote them? Well, I have to say yes, I think so. At least we all may forget some of the wisdom we once knew. I was smiling for the rest of the day, to think that a story I wrote back in 2008 was now coming back to bless me. It felt a bit surreal in a very pleasant way. I never would have thought of myself as a self help agent, but hey, why not? Maybe I didn't need to spend all the money on self help resources.

Then I couldn't help thinking of the story of Balaam in the Old Testament. If God can choose to speak through a donkey, I guess He can speak through me.

I am down to my last 20 copies of the novel concerned, A Design of Gold. I've been selling them for $20 but I'm willing to sell them for $15 now to clear them. I'm not mentioning the $5 discount on my website because I'd like to do something nice for readers of this blog. If you haven't read this book before and would like to take advantage of my offer, please send me a message either through email (from my website) or my Face Book page, mentioning that you read my offer on my blog, and I'll be sure to get one to you promptly. That wasn't my intention when I first started writing this, but just occurred to me as I got near the end. See, I'm an impromptu sort of person at times.

To take my hands off the steering wheel!

Life has been fairly face-paced with lots of unusual activity happening recently. And I've been battling the recurrence of a physical problem they tell me is a chronic, long-term thing which will always recur when I'm under pressure with depleted adrenal glands. I'm going to choose not to believe that. With God's help, I'll completely recover. I'm a lot better now than I have been for a few weeks, but during those weeks of suffering, I stumbled across a source which supposedly has spiritual, underlying meanings for different physical conditions. Mine was said to be partly due to fear of letting go.

My first thought was that this couldn't possibly be right in my case. But when I asked my husband, he said, "You're one of the biggest control freaks I know!"

No way! He has to be wrong. Control freaks are the people we all recognise on sit-coms, who like to organize other people's lives and boss them around; or super perfectionists. Anyone who knows me or has visited my home will surely know that I have more of a gentle, haphazard approach. What's this control freak thing?

I couldn't dismiss it without more thought. One night last week, I found myself rolling into bed with the usual array of thoughts chasing each other through my mind. Will Logan receive the student card I posted him in time to have ID to get him home from Cairns? (That's another story. All worked out well). How will my book fare in the CALEB prize it's been shortlisted for? (I'm happy to say it's now a finalist). It's only Monday, we're out of money and there won't be any more until Friday (not the first time that's happened, and we always manage). How will I go with the workshops I'll be presenting at the coming Writer's Fairs?

Hey, hold on! I caught myself. Indeed there is more than one type of control freak. I'm the sort who has always worried everything like a dog gnawing a bone. I've done it so often that it's become normal, without any consciousness involved. Way back when I was a little girl, my dad always went for a few drinks with friends after work on Friday nights. It was his regular tradition, but I used to lie awake in bed waiting for him to come home, desperately certain that he shouldn't be so late, while images of car wrecks and squealing ambulance sirens filled my imagination. Whenever I heard the sound of our car arriving in the carport, relief would flood my veins and I'd decide I could go to sleep at last.

One another occasion, a sweet little white kitten of mine was run over by a car and killed while I was away on a school camp. From then on, I found it hard to trust my family to care for any other pet and hovered anxiously over them. I think my subconscious must have latched onto the idea that all my anxiety was partly responsible for keeping my dad and my pets safe from harm. It did seem to be a cause and effect relationship. I'd worry, they'd come through fine, therefore worry was working. I think that, without knowing, I carried this warped way of thinking right into adulthood.

In fact, a few years ago, I experienced a nightmare in which I was speeding around the curves of the Adelaide Hills' South Eastern Freeway in the dark while my three children sat in the back. I had no visibility and the brakes had stopped working. All I could do was try to remember where all the sudden curves and sheer cliffs were. To my credit, I woke up with my heart pumping hard, feeling more concerned for the kids than I was for myself in the dream. It doesn't take a genius to figure out my state of mind.

But I was a Christian. For years I sincerely believed I'd committed everything to God in prayer. But had I really? I'd gone through the motions, but perhaps I'd been more like the little girl who prayed for her seedlings to grow, then kept uprooting them to check. To use another analogy, I asked God to drive and then wouldn't move over and release my grip from the steering wheel. Now it began to make more sense that I should succomb to a condition related to not letting go.

How good it was to realise that and make a solid decision not to. I rolled over, really did trust God to work it all out OK, and enjoyed a peaceful night's sleep. And of course everything is turning out exactly as it should. I could honestly feel stress seeping out of my cells, and the more I consciously remind myself to take my hands off the steering wheel, the more I expect the peace and well-being to continue.

All future symptoms of my condition will surely leave when the underlying angst which set them up has been dismantled. They'll have no choice.

To Stop Watering those Horrible Plants

When I was a little girl, my naughty teenage brother was given a tiny marijuana seedling by someone he knew. He brought it home and planted it in our garden. Later, when it came time for our dad to do his evening watering, he asked, "What's that new plant and how did it get there?" Dad was proud of his garden and never missed anything.

My brother told him, "It's oriental mint. I thought I'd like to try some ethnic cooking."

"Well, I nearly didn't see it. It won't last long if you forget about it and leave it dry. I'd better look after it for you." From then on, to my brother's amusement, Dad watered the little cannabis plant whenever he watered everything else. Its time in our garden was short-lived but I still remember the sight of my dad, standing there watering something he would've immediately uprooted if he'd known what it really was.

I keep accidentally nourishing plants which I think are OK but aren't. Many people do.

A little bit of jealousy and envy. Don't I have a right to feel bitter?
A smidgin of back-biting and complaining.
A flash of bad temper over an incident a saint would be annoyed at!
A bit of resentment. Hey, these people are so annoying, they deserve it!
A pinch of fear. That one has the potential to spread in a flash and take over the whole garden.

When I think more globally, it seems that society as a whole keeps watering harmful plants until we have a whole forest causing all sorts of problems. Many have been legalised and indulged in for year after year, so it doesn't occur to people that it's the plants that are causing the trouble. Mediums and spiritual gurus peddling all sorts of weird philosophies are treated like heroes and invited to be special guests on our morning breakfast shows, de-facto relationships take the place of committed marriages, one-night stands are treated as a bit of fun and babies are aborted as if they aren't human-beings just like the rest of us. Pre-nuptial agreements are made as loop holes for the brave and among those who do decide to try walking the 'traditional' path are same sex couples. Then we wonder why therapists' appointment books fill fast with the names of hurting people who are battling confusion, hopelessness, guilt and betrayal over what they've done, or what they feel others have done to them.

It upsets me to see that some of the people who take it upon themselves to urge others not to water these plants do it with sneers on their faces and holier-than-thou attitudes. They spread the name of Jesus around in a harsh, judgmental sort of way, without understanding how completely natural it is for people who have never been taught Biblical scriptures to assume that what they see the rest of the world do must be fine. Censorious, vinegar-faced types of Christians who criticize and spread disapproval wonder why their input is repeatedly rejected. Wake up you guys, you've read the Book, they haven't! It's like bagging me for not being able to speak fluent Russian. I just haven't been taught. In the same way, they don't understand that what the twenty-first century western world calls 'normal' is not what the Bible calls 'normal'.

I want to stop watering these plants, not because of some fear-based compulsion to follow external rules and avoid criticism but because I've seen the problems these growths cause when we cultivate them. I've tried jealousy, fear, competition and criticism. Not only have they not worked but they've soured my life. I want to tear out their roots whenever they appear because I know they are bad for my body, soul and spirit. I fully expect the good fruits I want to plant in their place to take off and attract people by the sweetness of their taste and the fragrance of their flowers.

That's what attracted me, after all.

Not to worry about whether I'm appreciated

I was explaining to my 7-year-old son that his dad and I receive the same amount of money, after a question he asked me about incomes. At the moment, it's true. As a full-time student, my husband's Austudy allowance is pretty much the same as my parenting allowance. Anything I receive from writing is a bonus. My little boy was taking that in when his 16-year-old brother remarked, "Well, at least Dad actually works for his," or something like that.

"Hey? What did you just say?"

I'm afraid it regenerated into an exchange of heated words. I found myself beginning to spiral down to a place I didn't want to find myself - the pity party. You may have been there. How can this person not perceive all that I do, not only for him but all day long? This came straight after I was vacuuming around his computer chair while he was sitting in it, etc, etc. I managed to catch myself in time before I really started to wallow in all the bad party food that makes me feel sick. It's a sign that keeping this blog is a good influence in my life, I hope.

Firstly, I remembered some wise advice from Dale Carnegie, in his book, How to Stop Worrying and Start Living. He'd just told the story of a boss who was burning with bitterness because he'd given each of his staff a Christmas bonus and nobody thanked him. Carnegie remarked, This man made the human and distressing mistake of expecting gratitude. He just didn't know human nature. The crux of his chapter was simply that. Human nature has remained pretty static for aeons and probably won't change in your lifetime, so just accept it and get on with your life.

I remembered other bad-mood-making incidents I've experienced. A common thread they've contained is me chafing over some perceived lack of appreciation or gratitude, and people not giving feedback for a job well done. How silly to get our feathers ruffled because of the way human nature is wired. It's as foolish as griping because the sky is blue and your favourite colour is red. Jesus healed 10 lepers one day, yet only one returned to thank him. Why should we expect anything different? Why should I take my poor son to task when I know in my heart that teenage boys simply aren't wired to notice such things. (After a bit of yelling, he actually said, "I didn't mean it like that," which, while not an apology, is the closest thing I could expect.)

Another silly thing I do is gauge my effectiveness by the amount of positive feedback I receive. When I hear praise, I happily feel that I'm on the right path. When none is forthcoming, I begin to question the wisdom of the way I'm spending my life. It's time to stop being a ridiculous human barometer with praise as the mercury. I'd rather be a steady, glowing thermostat who knows deep in my heart that my contribution to life is valuable, no matter what others are saying.

I think the nature of what I do has made this more of an issue for me than it might be for others. Authors hope for positive feedback from readers and reviewers, while people such as parking inspectors, office workers and train drivers may find it easier to go about their daily work without expecting gratitude. Sometimes I've longed for the simplicity of the job of a parking inspector, office worker or train driver, yet instead of making such a hard core change, I can simply stop my thirst and craving for the one thing human nature isn't naturally inclined to give. When I think about it, this is as silly as someone remaining dissatisfied because of their insatiable craving for dodo-bird schnitzels garnished with hen's teeth.

Over the last few days, I was very pleasantly surprised to receive two thank-you messages from people whose manuscripts I wrote reports for in a competition. I found out that reports were returned to 25 writers and I was genuinely stunned when 2 thought to thank me. This seems consistent with the ratio of Jesus and the 10 lepers, even though writing somebody a few pages of feedback is nothing like healing somebody of a fatal, regressive disease. It proves also that appreciation isn't quite as rare as hen's teeth. I'd like to be found among the number of those who do feel and express gratitude and appreciation. Especially now that I've experienced first hand, after hearing from these two people, how it brightens the day of the recipient.

Centuries ago, Dr Samuel Johnson said, "Gratitude is a fruit of great cultivation. You do not find it among gross people." Let's be unlike the mass and be vigilant to sow gratitude seeds always.