Moving to a new country is not easy. All the things you take for granted just don’t happen as you expect. Life becomes a smattering of minor thrills and slogs of perseverance in a swamp of exhaustion.
As you can probably tell from this post, my brain flits all over the place trying to get every box ticked.
If I spoke Spanish with any fluency, I imagine it would be a slight bit easier
I can speak and read Spanish, but like a child, I’m missing much vocabulary and so all my sentences come with gaps that my brain has to fill. My brain churns and churns. When I read in English, my brain slows down and relaxes. In Spanish, reading is work.
I don’t worry about communication. The problem with half-speaking the language is just one of exhaustion. But I have enough to be able to communicate. My struggles are, for the most part, compensated by Chilean friendliness. The Officina de Extranjeros in Murcia could learn a lot from the PDI in La Serena. The latter know how to smile.
In this swamp of exhaustion one of the simple things you might take for granted is food
Here, eating is a challenge. Not because I have a problem consuming Chilean food or a specific diet, but because the supermarket is some distance away and I have no car. This means everything I want I need to carry, or I need to take a taxi.
I’m going to be moving again in a few weeks and so there’s no point doing some big shop. I’d have to work out how to transport everything all over again. As a result, my diet has been simplified and is going to involve eating of the same few ingredients that I have to hand over and over. It’s not inventive, but it keeps me alive.
Don’t let me begin on the absence of a decent sharp knife for cutting anything.
When I moved to Spain, I put off buying a wide variety of spices until a day where I was cooking for someone else and decided that they were necessary. Once I’d done so, I regretted having waited so long. So this time I’ve decided to buy spices now, at the beginning.
I also need to buy other essentials, like powder for the washing machine.
The Internet is a further challenge
My Latvian phone doesn’t appear to be happy with a Chilean SIM. My temporary apartment, provided by the university, doesn’t have WIFI unless you go and sit downstairs in the entrance hall with the guard. The website for looking for more permanent accommodation doesn’t like to be accessed from my English SIM as it doesn’t like my British IP address.
But amid all this, there are high moments
Like the daily sunsets that I watch from my balcony.
And although the language here is a challenge, it’s also a delight. Every Spanish conversation still gives me a thrill, because I find myself proud to have spoken at all. It doesn’t have to be much either, conversation with a chap in the waiting room of the police station or a few lines back and forth with a curious waitress who wonders where I’m from. It’s all precious in part because it is so difficult.
Then there was the moment I saw my first hummingbird, going from flower to flower, nowhere special, an overgrown bush at the side of the main road. I stood and stared in wonder.
When Rapunzel came to visit the other week, I greeted her off the train in Spanish. She doesn’t speak Spanish, so she replied in French and we flicked through the three languages as if it were a game we were playing.
As we settled back into English – it’s our only common language – the chap following us up into the station gave us both a very perplexed look. Our British accents, neither local to the area, didn’t fit with the flurry of foreign words we’d been giggling through.
But language can be a lot of fun
Yesterday, for example, I looked up Chilean Spanish.
“I’ve spent the last few months learning the Spanish future, to discover they don’t use it in Chile,” I messaged Rapunzel.
“No me gusta,” she replied in Spanish.
We played with language for a few lines, discussing an article that’s relevant to Rapunzel printed in a Spanish newspaper. Then I asked her the question that was on my mind.
“Do you do subjunctives?”
“Je ne pense pas que ce soit necessaire.”
If you want to get a Spaniard to roll their eyes, you ask about the subjunctive
They seem to think that it’s obvious where it ought to be used. And that there’s nothing strange with the present subjunctive having two forms with identical meaning. As far as I can tell, the only purpose of this is to add poetical value of the word within its sentence.
The Spaniards are much fonder of using the subjunctive than us English speakers
Although I’ve never met anyone who’s persuaded me why. I mean, I understand that we do have such a form in English. Chances are, you use it without knowing. It’s a bit like how you know to use a noun and a verb before you learn the labels ‘noun’ and ‘verb’. But how does anyone know where to use it? It’s a mystery.
Our English subjunctive feels quite posh
And because it’s not so obvious and I didn’t know it, here it is:
In the present
It is necessary we be on time tomorrow.
I recommend he leave now.
In the past
If he were here.
If I were you.
I’m not convinced that I use the present subjunctive in my speech
Unless I was caricaturing someone posh. If anyone catches me doing so, can you please point it out to me? I’m curious to know.
Whereas I’m certain that I do use the past subjunctive
It’s simpler to identify than the present subjunctive because it always involves the word ‘were’. In the first- and third-person ‘were’ replaces ‘was’.
If I were you…
If you were nicer…
If he were here…
If we were happy…
If you all were intelligent…
If they were mad…
Here again, it gets complicated by my dialect
In Yorkshire, you may say ‘when I were there yesterday’ meaning ‘when I was there yesterday’. And in the town where I went to school, it’s also common to replace ‘were’ with ‘was’ as in ‘we was eating chocolate’. In standard English, this would be ‘we were eating chocolate’.
Thus, if someone were to say ‘If I was you’, I’m not sure I’d notice that they were in the indicative mood, not the subjunctive. Would you? Or am I blinded by my non-standard English?
Did you notice the ‘if someone were’ in the previous sentence is the past subjunctive?
This doesn’t help me understand how to use the subjunctive in Spanish
And Rapunzel is right. On an everyday basis, it is not necessary. You can get by alright without it. Even if the locals might despair of your ignorance.
But so much of language is not necessary, it doesn’t mean it’s not wondrous. Plus, the idea of conjugating a word for its poetic flavour makes me smile.
It’s five am and I guess I should be in bed, sleeping
Between the intercontinental flight and the bright light
outside my bedroom, my body has become confused. Other than the building lights
and the street lamps, it’s dark. The birds seem as confused as me as there is a
lot of tweeting that I can hear from my bedroom. If I hadn’t heard the tweeting
birds, I would have stayed in bed. I got up and had a cup of tea, dehydration
is a perfect excuse for not staying in bed any longer.
They drink Celong tea here
Wandering up and down the supermarket aisles, I searched for
coffee. It took me a while to find as there is a tiny selection, unless you are
a fan of instant of which there’s plenty, meanwhile, I came across the tea
aisle. Row after row of shelves stacked deep with boxes and bags, brand after
brand, of Celong tea. Beside which, there was a small selection of Twinnings
fruit and herbal teas, in tiny boxes that presumably contain only five teabags
each, and a decent selection of options for Argentinian Mate, a drink
DeepThought tells me is made from the leaves of a plant in the holly family.
I bought a bag of Celong tea leaves and I’m doing my best to
develop a love for it by consuming a mug full every few hours. It’s no Lapsang,
but it will suffice. I also bought a bag of ground coffee.
My mad plan is to go for a run as soon as it begins to get
If you’re reading this, it’s because I actually went for a
run rather than chickening out. The route I’m planning on taking is easy. I’m
going to head straight down the coastline. I saw people taking this route
yesterday when I was sitting on the balcony watching the sunset. Because I can
sit on my balcony and watch the sunset across the Pacific Ocean. Isn’t that
madness? I’m like an odd, off-season tourist in my temporary accommodation.
It’s not clear how many people are in the apartment block, other than the
doorman, but the answer is not many. There are a few cars parked in the
carpark, but most of the spaces are empty.
Talking of madness, we do have dogs
And by we, I think I mean the entire city. The dog situation
is one that I’m going to have to learn about further. There are many dogs
about, which when you first look, you imagine must be strays, but most look
like healthy, friendly strays. They are abandoned. The cars drive slow, I think
because of the dogs, which wander around in silence and chase the tractors on
the beach. Their coats have a healthy shine associated more with house pets
than street animals, and yet, like cats in England, they wander free.
My body remains perplexed, but it will adjust
It’s winter here. A time of coats and jackets, but walking
home from the supermarket with my tea, also for taking off my jumper and
feeling the sun’s heat on my arms. I’m told there is a drought – is there ever
not a drought when you live on the edge of a desert? As the rain didn’t visit
for nine months, and then, when it did come, was little more than a mist. More
rain is hoped for.
There was a signal, so I sent a message announcing my arrival at the bus station in Murcia, in Spanish, a language I knew some words of but had never spoken.
“Yo soy aqui”
I intended to say, “I am here”. Translated it does mean “I am here” but, as any Spanish speaker knows, it should have been “Yo estoy aqui.” As it’s the verb estar (to be) nor the verb ser (to be) in such situations.
In ‘Spanish time’ my host arrived and waved me to her car
She spoke some broken phrases of English. More than I spoke of Spanish but that first day, neither of us could construct a sentence.
If you have since met the Casera, the rolling English you heard was not what I experienced that first day. You heard her speaking after months of living with a native English speaker in her apartment.
Therefore, we couldn’t say much, yet we somehow conversed for the next twenty minutes.
This was a swift education. When it comes to conversation, the most important thing is to have faith.
Very soon, I’m going to meet a Chilean man at a Chilean airport
I will have to open my mouth and speak.
Butterflies swarm in my stomach to think of it. We have two common languages, so it shouldn’t be a problem. From his writing, I assume he speaks beautiful English since his style of composition made me smile with some admiration. I speak Spanish, more or less.
He speaks Chilean Spanish; I speak Yorkshire English. Hiding behind the Andes, Chilean Spanish has developed its unique forms. Yorkshire is well, Yorkshire. I’m told my accent is lovely, but at least for the first week, unintelligible.
I speak non-rhotically, which is a pain when it comes to learning Spanish
Rhotic being a technical term meaning I drop my ‘r’. In Spanish this is a problem as every infinitive verb ends in a vowel followed by an ‘r’ and in many forms of British English (non-rhotic English) such ‘r’ sounds are abandoned.
Take the word ‘car’, which I pronounce ‘cah’.
And then apply this to the Spanish ‘hablar’ (to speak) and get ‘hablah’ which more or less is ‘habla’. I.e. he speaks.
You may wonder, ‘what the hell are you on about Catherine?’
Which is understandable. I wouldn’t have known any of this phonetic vocabulary, if I hadn’t spent quite so much of the last year searching to discover what this annoying letter ‘r’ is.
Despite hours trying, I have never been able to trill an r
But even the single r in Spanish is a harder sound than any r in my English. My pronunciation of ‘Gracias’ is wrong, not because I fumble over whether it’s a c or a th sound in the middle, but because my first syllable is fluffily soft.
From the feedback I have surmised from my students, I imagine my Spanish accent would work if you were casting the little sister of a Disney princess. It’s not the sound I was hoping for.
We take speaking for granted
When I speak in Spanish in front of my parents, I expect them to understand. They should understand me. They are my parents. When my mum stares at me as if I am speaking gobbled-gook, I wonder why. It takes me a cognitive churn to understand that she doesn’t get what I’m saying.
When I speak in half-formed mumbled English, they seem to know what I mean. If I mime, they tend to get it. They know me, they know my voice. So, I find it bewildering how when I’m speaking Spanish are there so many blank looks?
But we also take for granted our knowledge of our language
We instinctively know what feels right. Or, to invert that idea, we know what sounds wrong. We feel that someone is speaking our language as a second tongue before we know how they’re mis-forming the grammar or before we can identify where the pronunciation mimics their native language.
My Spanish students stumble at the difference between the ‘b’ and the ‘v’ sounds. A Finnish friend has a wider spoken vocabulary than me but speaks with an odd ‘v’, which gives her foreignness away.
As children, we absorb this language knowledge without realising we’re doing it
Grammar especially. Later, at school, some English teacher tries to explain what a noun, a verb and an adjective are, by which point we’ve been using them for years.
Then we start to study a foreign language. I did French and German at school. At this point, lots more grammar descriptors come into play, like verbal tenses and moods, and we become very confused.
French, German and English might have much in common, but their structure differs.
Learning German was not a success
Despite having had approximately 110 classes in the subject, I can’t say anything useful whatsoever. When I’m in Germany itself, I recognise some words but not much else. I don’t have any innate feeling about German and so, to me, it’s random sound.
When you don’t have any feeling about what is right or wrong in a language, you’re reliant on rules
You use your first language as a basis for the language you’re learning. Then, rather than learning the new language from scratch, you adapt the rules you know to the new language. My Spanish students ‘cook my mother’ because such grammar makes sense in Spanish.
I would say that my job requires some awareness of this grammatical web.
As an English language assistant, they tell you all you need is to be able to speak English
Which sounded like a wonderful way for me to teach and avoid my lack of formal grammar education. The marketing chaps stress how your role is to conduct conversations and focus on speaking skills.
While it’s true that from a feeling we know when a student says something we wouldn’t, it’s insufficient for answering why.
And the best students ask, “Why?”
At first, I figured I must be able to work it out. I’d think of a few examples and the student would nod. A few hours later I would be in the grocery store or cooking dinner and an exception to my supposed rule would pop up.
At which point, I had to hope I remembered which student in which class had asked the question. Then I’d need to admit I’d made a mistake, and then from somewhere work out a satisfactory explanation or the grammar.
After a few such incidences, I took the better line, “I don’t know. Let me check.”
Teaching English is a constant lesson in humility.
The English grammar experts were all around me
They were the teachers, whose English was sometimes odd in its form, but who had learnt grammar first, conversation second. And hence, they knew the rules inside out.
But this is not my only linguistic challenge as a language assistant.
Most native speakers don’t speak standard English
I don’t. When I’m teaching, I try to speak with clarity and standard grammar, but I refuse to adopt my ‘a’ or my ‘u’ into anything but what it is. My ‘r’, as I’ve said, is a hopeless case. I could not fake an accent, even if I wanted to.
It is only through learning grammar though that I can differentiate between my Yorkshire (my idiolect) and Standard English. This is important. I mustn’t trust my feelings. To say ‘I am sat on the sofa’ feels right but it’s not standard. Furthermore, I have no problem with double negatives or double contractions, although I try not to use them.
When a child uses a double negative, which is a common mistake for native Spanish speakers, I smile and tell them they sound like they’re from Yorkshire. I show them their mistake ask them to use Standard English for school. I couldn’t tell them they’re speaking wrong when it’s the same quirk as we have at home in England.
It’s not infrequent that I screw up
And I’ve given classes where I’ve caught myself speaking with non-standard grammar. At this point, I pause the class and wave my arms about a bit.
“You know how here you say ‘estamos’ as ‘etamo’ because it’s your dialect? When I said ‘I am sat on the sofa’ it was because of my dialect. It’s not standard English. Please do not do this in your exams. We should say, ‘I am sitting on the sofa’ as it’s the gerund here.”
But it’s important to recall what is correct varies depending on who you ask
I met one (Australian) English teacher who thought it was abominable to teach children to use contractions in their writing. I bit back the urge to say, ‘You shou’n’t never do what?’.
If a child put some double contractions into a piece of dialogue, I’d give them bonus marks.
I love beautiful language
Books with intricate sentences which wind stylistically in directions you didn’t suppose possible enchant me. Yet, what’s most impressive about language to me is how we can mangle it and still communicate. For eight months the Casera and I lived together. Neither of us fluent in the other’s language, we used whatever language allowed us to communicate. So what if we broke all the grammar rules and pronounced the impossible imperfectly, we conversed.
An experiment in collaboration: this post was written by the Mother.
Today there was a large bee trapped in the greenhouse. Well, he wasn’t exactly trapped as he could have left. The window and the greenhouse door were wide open. However, the bee kept going around in circles and hitting itself against the glass becoming angrier and more frustrated, unaware that it was so close to freedom. It just couldn’t see the way out.
When I first had glasses, I hated them
My daughters bought me a chain to hang them around my neck when I didn’t need to wear them (there had been a few tense occasions when I couldn’t find my glasses anywhere). I have never used the chain. It seemed like something an elderly spinster would use working in a dusty library, taking her glasses off temporarily to give a disapproving look to someone who made a slight noise.
I had a feeling that using them would make me age without even having a birthday. Nor did I want a constant reminder of the need to wear glasses.
Now, of course, I need to wear the glasses all the time
Seeing clearly can become quite tricky when I don’t have them on. For example when I am doing yoga. In my class, when someone waves to me from the other side of the room, I wave back in acknowledgement, not certain who the blurry face belongs to.
But of course, just getting a pair of glasses doesn’t mean that you can really see.
Sometimes you need a process to help you
Meditation has been described as ‘polishing the lens’ through which you see life.1 The intention being to gain clarity whilst also understanding that thoughts and feelings that you see are just that – thoughts and feelings. You then have a little space in which (hopefully) you can respond rather than react. In addition, over time, you start to see that there are choices and perspectives.
This process can happen not just to individuals, but also to societies
When I was at school and studying history a student in the year above lent me a book called something like “The Elizabethan world view”. The book set out the changes that had occurred during the reign of Elizabeth the first and the understanding and perspectives the people in England had about the world and their place in it. Things were changing. The world was a lot bigger and different than they previously thought.
I was reminded of the book again this week
I listened as my daughter explained that to her, travelling is about seeing the world, experiencing other cultures and connecting with other lives. Gaining both a view of the world and a world view. What she sees is reflected in her writing and her art.
Learning to really see can take time and effort but sometimes seeing the way forward may be so much closer than you think.
The exhausted bee finally lay down on the shelf in the greenhouse
I carefully scooped him into an empty plant pot and carried him outside, laying him down by some plants. Later, I checked, and he had flown away.
When you listen to teachers talking, in low desperate
voices, it’s often about the inability of children to focus. There is a
palatable fear of the children who are, at this moment, entering primary
school. They are the children who had access to mobile phones and tablets as
babies. Giving a toddler a video to watch in a restaurant might keep them
quiet, but what is it teaching them about paying attention? Maybe this is
scaremongering. The ridiculous idea that the next generation is always worse,
It’s easy to switch into a blame game, but it’s all of us
who face a challenge here. Teachers struggle to get students to focus on the
lesson at hand. They also struggle to focus themselves on their endless marking
in the crowded distractive den of the staff-room.
For me, cultivating focus has become a bit of an obsession
Or, to be more truthful, the obsession is how I’m not
focused. I keep finding myself sabotaging my attempts to concentrate. I want to
concentrate because I’m pretty sure an ability to concentrate is essential to
doing great work. However, sometimes my mind feels very fluttery. I do think
that I am improving but it’s a slow process.
Some factors have a significant impact on my concentration.
First, I know I need a tidy environment
What you’ll find, if you enter my room today, are two suitcases heaped high, paperwork scattered across the surfaces and precarious stacks of books. Hence, I cannot work with any efficiency in my room.
Second, I know I need a routine
And yet, should you look at my calendar, I seem to be doing something different every day. I had this week scheduled as the week to get back on task, and instead found myself on a trip to the Chilean Embassy in London. This took three days.
Third, I know I need to be well-rested and yet I am not
Instead, I’m grumpy, achy and wasting time curbing my desire to whinge. Some people drink a strong coffee and then power through, I am not one of these people. Take away my sleep and I’m like the toddler who’s had YouTube snatched from their claws.
My desire for focus comes from a desire for craftsmanship
To me, craftsmanship is a beautiful word because it
immediately brings to mind the engraving of a master carpenter, the smell of
sawdust scattered on the floor, dark barns and intricate design. Or mighty
wrought-iron gates, their bars entwined and the how flames in which they were
born. Then the smell of oil paints drifting through an open window, the grain
of a canvas and glistening colours dabbed on a wooden palette. But more than
that, time and effort, brought together, create something to be proud of.
This is not so far from something I noticed when I was
Having listened to a teenager talk about her schoolwork,
week after week, I recognised that projects which took a lot of steady time
created a genuine pride. Perhaps because they’re more personal. It’s your
creativity showing through. And, it’s easier to share engender enthusiasm about
a project from your parents, than another test on irregular verbs.
After all, I too want to have a life of things I’m proud of
I don’t want slap-dash success or in at the last-minute
signs of relief. I want to step back from my work, look at is as something
whole and complete and feel something from deep inside me that says it was
worth every minute.
So, I need to tidy my space, sort out my routine and get some sleep
And then, once I’ve worked out how to do it myself, I shall
return to the question that haunts teachers. How do you teach a child to work?
I somehow feel that scrumpled homework and a
cram-for-the-exam attitude fails.
Can you focus well? And if so, how did you learn to do it?
Sometimes friends apologise for not staying better in touch. Perhaps this is because of some sociata idea of what it means to be friends. Sometimes, when they say this, I want to instead thank them for not being too much in touch. If every friend I had wanted to know about the minutiae of my life I’d not have any stories to tell. I’d spend my life glued to my phone and miss out on what’s in front of me. I find myself thinking, please don’t say that you’re sorry when it’s unnecessary and don’t do something because friends ‘are supposed to’. See me from time to time. Smile when you do and share some laughter. Take occasional moments to show me you love me, as I love you.
Yes, it’s true that I’m
like anyone else and sometimes fear missing out. Sometimes I hear about a group
of my friends meeting up and doing something together. I contemplate for a
moment, how, if only I had taken a different path, I could have been there too.
Nostalgia grips tight and I shake it off, like a dog shaking off the water
after climbing out of a muddy lake. We can’t live all the lives laid out in
front of us and I’ve chosen this travel-focused one. It’s pretty sweet. The dog
still smells but you can hose it down later. Its tail is wagging.
Each friendship, of
course, is different. The nature of some involves more frequent conversation
than others. Some friendships work well though instant messages – the
conversation is vibrant, funny and natural. Others seem to me to never quite
get flowing through on a phone screen and yet, face-to-face they glide,
effortless. Some in-person conversations leave me feeling rejuvenated. Some
take some time to process. Most though are a mixture of both: a flood of warm
feeling towards the other person, the delight of connection, followed by a
readiness again for my own space.
As much as I fear
missing out, I don’t need to know everything about my friends’ lives. I prefer
to know what is devastating them or what they are celebrating. The extremes at
both ends. And I prefer to be told direct, rather than through some other
person in passing, although I’d also prefer to know than not know at all. I
like long walks and conversation. I like sharing good food and bouncing
thoughts and ideas back and forth. I like exploring somewhere new: a monument,
a mountain, a bookshop or an idea. I like art galleries and museums and slow
meanders through airy rooms where conversation flits back and forth in low
voices: yes, history, politics, art, philosophy, but gently so.
I like people making me
laugh. Hysterical giggling and hula hooping.
I like friendships that
look forward more so that backwards. People who suggest places to visit next
year and things meanwhile I could read this year, because they saw it, read it,
and thought of me. I like seeing photos of job offer emails and chickens.
I love gifts, like
But most of all I love
when I can be with someone and feel comfortable being neither more nor less
You all know who you
are and I’m grateful for you all.
in the case of Anders Ericsson, who needed subjects to stick with his gruelling
number memorisation scheme and test his hypothesis about deliberate practice,
choose people who have learnt to stick with hard-work.
… I made it a point to recruit only subjects who had trained extensively as athletes, dancers, musicians, or singers. None of them ever quit on me.
Peak by Anders Ericsson and Robert Pool
focused work ethic isn’t
something you can turn on with mere good intention. It takes skill to persist
and skills must be developed.
I write, I’m stationed in the Mother’s
a Saturday morning and I’ve told
my family I’m going to be writing here
from 10 until 12. My family are generous, including in their support for my
writing, and agreed, with enthusiasm, to allow me this time, alone, in the
quiet, to write.
In theory at least
My sister has come to visit and is writing a letter to her plumber. Our enthusiastic Mother is supporting her with suggestions of wording, advice (always make sure you are specific about what preparation means) and scheduling. They grab the calendar and start working out when the plumber would be best installing the bathtub.
The letter requires a template, because letter writing is not a run of the mill activity, and then printing, signing, scanning and sending. Therefore, it is twenty past ten by the time I have chased the Mother out of the room.
look at the screen and take a calming breath
not a situation unique to me. Finding time to concentrate and work on those
things requiring deliberate practice, like playing the piano, is difficult.
Especially when you live with other people. Routine and closed doors help, but
since I live out of a suitcase, they can be difficult to come by.
We can complain about distractions
Pigeons flutter across the field opposite. However, I’m not sure the real problem is the distractions themselves. I am not a helpless child waiting until my family are asleep to have quiet to do her homework. My problem is the absence of ferociousness when it comes to dedicating, and protecting, the time I set aside for my work. I’m the one who’s responsible.
I’m at risk of sounding lecture-y, as my
sister would say.
my voice here gives away my insecurity
want to be dedicated to the few things that matter most to me, but sometimes it’s
hard to dispel the distractions. I can put my phone in a drawer and hide from
social media. My phone is a tool. People present a trickier challenge. What can
I do about my mother popping in to ask if I can take her to her appointment
next Wednesday? Or popping into the study to tell my sister (who’s
now working at the father’s desk)
our father is on his way home? They’re
going to brew some beer together.
my mother is happy and smiling, she uses her sweet little sing-song voice and
adds a sugary sorry to each interruption.
How is it possible to be angry with her when she’s being adorable? How
can I muster up my ferociousness and declare that I need quiet when I’m
sitting in her chair, at her desk, with a tummy full of her cooking? It’s
I roll my eyes and smile; I must keep trying.
find thinking about deliberate practice as a mindset helps
me, it comes down to deliberate choice. Am I reacting to the many factors
around me? Is the urgency of a few tasks dominating my mind? Or am I making
careful choices about how I spend my time? If I let myself roll with my
surroundings, if I forget to pause and prioritise, then discover I haven’t
painted or written anything in a while.
What’s more, I end up tired. This spirals: I sleep too few hours, don’t run or cycle, forget to meditate and find I can no longer touch my toes because I haven’t been doing yoga. The excuses roll in, I say I’ve been too busy but this reality is I haven’t been ferocious enough about protecting my priorities.
used to object to time plans
rigidity goes against my nature. I was much more comfortable with imagining I’d
get things done in a gentle spontaneous manner. This was a convenient lie to
tell myself. My getting things done looked like a deadline and a mighty rush.
It did not feel good and often left me feeling unsatisfied with the work I had
could do it, because I could rely on my quick brains to solve any last-minute
issues and, my tongue, if necessary, to talk me out of problems. This is like
people who don’t sleep much saying they can
function with less sleep between yawns. Progress might get made but how do we
feel about it?
I used to think planning took too much effort
as it was inevitable the plans would fail, they were pretty much pointless.
I got frustrated by my lack of good feeling about my achievement. Not planning
was resulting in an erratic output of work which runs contrary to my belief
that consistency is essential. You can’t run a
marathon if you only run when you’re in
the mood. And you cannot complete a novel if you’re not
sitting down to write when the house is silent.
In my schedule, I marked off the hours already committed to something or other with coloured pencils and then looked at what was left. What I noticed about my plans was how little time I had to write. Furthermore, once I started looking at the time set aside to writing, I realised most of it was spent doing random admin tasks. Useful things to be sure, but not what I had intended.
which point, I took a Sunday and I marked out a whole long stretch for writing
I designed the day to support my writing rather than trying to fit the writing around what was already in my day. And it was like falling in love with the art all over again. So I edited work I’d been doing and found I had the time to think about the wording. I wasn’t in a rush. I wasn’t contemplating the bus timetable or my to-do list. Instead, I’d submerged in the activity I wanted most to be doing and was loving it. I felt I could even do it well.
is why I read about Anders Ericsson’s research
fascinated by people who excel, and I’d like
I’m trying to build my routines through awareness of what I’ve now learnt. People excel through conscious determination. They need a willingness to keep at the minute details. Not in a half-minded way, but with the honed skill of keeping at it. Ericsson thinks of this essential commitment as a skill, something it takes time to develop. It’s a skill found in athletes and serious musicians and, I hope, to be developing in me.
Oh and it’s all a lie anyway. I have a room of my own here; I just don’t have a chair.
Very soon I am going to fly a quarter of the way around the world to Chile, where, for the next year I shall be teaching English. I am, if we are being mild with our words, overwhelmed. It’s not going to Chile that’s overwhelming. Nor is it the idea of teaching. Culture shock I’m sure is awaiting me at passport control but I’ve taught English before and this isn’t my first time living abroad. No, what’s got me overwhelmed this time is the haste with which I’ve been living this last two months.
It’s the travel up and down the country and the suddenness at which things seem to happen. Then, add to this, seeing people I haven’t seen in a long while and trying ever so hard to make those moments count, maybe too hard sometimes. How inevitable it is that my brain feels like mashed potato.
I was going to spend this week being calm, writing, reading and painting. That didn’t quite work out because with less than 48 hours of notice I had an appointment in London on the seventh floor of the Chilean Embassy. The lift was broken. They play Classic FM in the lobby where you wait for your documents to be processed. A couple of Americans were also waiting for their documents. At one point, the young man sat upright in his chair with a suddenness that made the rest of the room turn.
“Is that… Is that our national anthem?” he asked.
The woman beside him frowned and shook her head.
I thought no, that’s the music to Indiana Jones.
I walked away with an inky thumb, a visa and a selection of important-looking documents. I crossed the road and lay down on the green grass of St James’ Park with my packed lunch.
There was a black swan with tiny cygnets in the water, which seems a bit late to me, but I’m no swan breeding expert. I thought back to the pheasant who visits us at home, sadly she’s lost all her babies, and to the cygnets that we used to count every time we walked around the lake near the house where I once used to live when I was smaller and more naïve. It’s these wandering, winding thoughts that I feel have been absent from my mind recently. Perhaps I’ve been focused on what needs to get done and lacking in time spent staring, watching the world around me flutter by.
I guess I’m stressed, but saying I’m stressed feels like an excuse. I keep hearing myself implore that I’m tired. I am tired but whenever I hear the words escape my mouth, I find myself thinking back to the predictable conversation in the office kitchen, back in that distant past when I had a desk job.
How are you?
I’m not that sort of tired. I’m not tired of my day to day, nor the people in my life. I’m not lacking enthusiasm. No. I guess it’s more like my fans are overheating. Is there a word for that?
For many years, I considered cows to be kind of docile, boring creatures. They lacked the elegance of horses. They were scarier to meet in a field than sheep. However, I consider myself educated. According to the radio the other day, they like opera. According to a nature-loving friend, they also exhibit a great deal of curiosity.
So long as you don’t spook them.
The cow on the mind of everyone here is called Lionel
This is not what his owner calls him, but it’s the name I have given him, now we have become close-acquaintances. He’s a beautiful cow (although you could argue he’s not a cow at all, being as he’s a boy). He has a strong, muscular build and satin-like shiny black fur.
For one reason or another, the electric fence, which keeps Lionel and his buddies in the field opposite our house, stopped functioning. I blame Lionel. The father says it’s because one of the posts has snapped.
Whatever the cause, the wire no longer curbs Lionel’s curiosity, and as such, the other day he discovered himself free to adventure.
First, he investigated the river at the bottom of his field
It’s a shallow stream. Part of the river is where Lionel and his mates drink. They appear at the top of the hill and gallop down with such heavy footing I’m forced to take on a new respect for the strength of their legs. It’s a steep hill, the cows descend without fear, throwing their entire bulk forward. To my eyes, it looks as impossible that they will make it to the bottom of the hill without snapping a foreleg as it looks reasonable for a plane to fly.
Lionel leads the troops.
So, although it was a new section of the river to investigate, it wasn’t enough to sate his curiosity.
At this point, he climbed up the other side of the bank
He did not understand the Mother owns this land and he is not welcome.
The Mother said, “Catherine, there’s a cow by our fence.”
I said, “Dear cow, you are not welcome here, this is my Mother’s garden, please go away.”
Lionel scratched his head against a small bush, taking out the bush. Once the bush had been destroyed though, he did decide to return to his field.
Being naive, I said, “Let’s call him Lionel.”
I took his photo and sent it to the Father and considered it all quite jolly.
The next morning, I was waking up when the Mother shouted at me
“Catherine, the cow is in the garden.”
Now I wasn’t a witness to the incident
Lionel had made yet another excursion to our side of the river and somehow moved through the fence into our garden. I cannot quite work out how this occurred, as enough of the fence was left standing that Lionel now found himself trapped in our garden. Not one to leave the Mother being distressed without immediate assistance, I ran outside in my dressing-gown. A couple of friends who were staying the weekend were prancing around talking to Lionel. Someone closed the gate to the road.
The fence was going to prove a problem
My parents are fans of doing a proper quality job when they do something and the fence, I believe, is supposed to outlast them. It wasn’t designed to be taken apart by me in my dressing-gown on a Friday morning.
As we were trying to create an escape route for Lionel, ward him away from the fruit trees and gooseberry bushes and keep him well clear of the greenhouse, he started getting a bit agitated. I didn’t fancy our chances against a distressed cow. The Mother called every possible place we could think of to get help with a cow problem, but nowhere had a phone line open before 9 am.
Nine o’clock seemed a long way away.
Lionel started to experience his first travel woes
And his pals, like all good friends, wanted to provide support. Before we knew it more cows were crossing the river and climbing the steep and dangerous bank to get to Lionel.
They didn’t want to climb the precarious bank but, out of loyalty, they would. These cows couldn’t, however, navigate through a fence.
My visitors and Lionel continued to prance around the garden, the Mother shut herself in the house and I got dressed.
Somehow, the fence was broken
It took a long time and left us with a further problem. We had to let Lionel out of the garden without inviting his gang in. I went through the fence and asked the cows to leave. There were a thud and a splash and, for a second, I thought a foreleg must have snapped as a large lump of cow plummeted into the stream. It didn’t.
Lionel hopped up from the drive onto the lawn and moved, with hesitation, towards the opened fence. One of my friends jolted forward and Lionel turned in panic. Adrenaline must have been flowing through the blood of both men.
“Slow down,” I said, talking to cow and man
Lionel looked at me with distrust and turned back towards the opened fence. The moment he was through another friend swung the remains of the fence back in place. From here Lionel could find his way down to the river and reconnect with his fellow cows. Determined not to have any further cow incursions, we barricaded the fence shut with some logs and went inside for breakfast. After some time splashing around in the stream, the cows returned up the hill for theirs.
The Mother was still fuming; she is not a fan of Lionel
But I have respect for him. Curiosity is a precious skill. It’s an ability many people don’t think about strengthening. They repeat themselves in the same safe loops. They stay in their fields only heading into the river when someone else has gone there first.