I listened to a podcast this morning while I did the ironing (yes, I know, ironing again. Who knew there was always so much?). A friend of mine from the stables suggested this podcast to me the other day, after I wrote about the messy minestrone in my head. It’s a podcast called The Confident Rider, it’s on YouTube, and the episode I listened to this morning (episode 46) is the latest one published. It’s called “Coming Back to Ourselves: Cultivating a Sense of Safety in the Midst of Stress and Concern”, which was just what the doctor ordered.

I’ve never really been one to listen to podcasts, apart from the one my fashion photographer daughter Olivia produces, called It Starts With A Click (it’s great, by the way! Go find it and listen!). Sure, I’ve listened to random Ted Talks once in a blue banana, but generally speaking, podcasts haven’t ever registered on my mental radar. Maybe it’s a generational thing? I don’t know.  Maybe I’ll start listening to more. Maybe I won’t. Maybe they’ll be helpful. Maybe they won’t. But I think they will.

(Ok, so I started being silly and having fun with the end of that last paragraph. I was tempted to run with it and have even more fun with it, but then I got anxious about it being too obvious so I shut it down. Besides, it’s mean to make fun. We need to be kind to each other as well as to ourselves. I try.)

The podcast episode I listened to this morning didn’t revolve around riding although I’m now looking forward to listening to others that are. Recorded yesterday by a mental coach in New Zealand called Jane (so far, I haven’t been able to find out her last name) who offers various interesting looking courses, both online and off, it revolves around looking after yourself in times of trauma. It encourages you to be kind to yourself, to learn to distinguish fear from anxiety, and to find tools within yourself to shelter your body and brain from the terrifying information constantly being hurled around.

Her words resonated with me.  What she said was grounded in emotion and intuition rather than intellect. Listening to her what she had to say helped settle my raggedy mind, and made ironing – dare I say it? – a mindful and surprisingly pleasant experience.

So potent was this combination of words and ironing, that once I’d emptied the basket, I went into the bathroom and pulled all the towels and bath rugs out of the cupboard. Then I spent time folding them all identically, sorted them into categories, and put them away again, all neat and tidy and perfect.

I don’t think anyone in our household has noticed this remarkable event yet, but when they do I think someone might come after me brandishing a thermometer. 

Because, seriously? What’s happening to me? I’m the woman with the chair by the bed covered with discarded clothes. My dressing room closet is topsy turvy, my tee-shirts and sweaters falling over each other in a drunken boogie wonderland. I’m the opposite of a neat freak. 

But the way I’m going, my tee-shirts and sweaters will soon be marching to a military band, rigidly saluting me when I open the closet. Cedric will be blown away! 

To be honest, I know what’s happening. I’m doing things that I can control. It’s almost like nesting all over again. I’m taking care of my family, keeping the house clean, sanitized, tidy. It’s my coping mechanism. 

Basically, I’m looking for rituals. Doing my horses is my normal ritual, and since anxiety is currently preventing me from enjoying going to the stables, I’m finding replacements. Writing again after so many years is fun, challenging and confidence building. It’s also calming and makes me feel better about myself when I’m feeling like a wimp and a loser and a failure. In fact I’m already wondering how I’ll balance horses together with writing once normal global service resumes, which it hopefully will, one way or another, and way way way sooner rather than later. It feels good to play mental scrabble with random thoughts and piece them together until they make some sort of sense. I feel like I’m feeding my neurones again after having neglected them for years.

And if my newly resurrected neurones can generate a chuckle and a smile, I’ll have lit a teeny spark of positive energy into this traumatised world.

On that satisfying note, I’m going to go and rescue the chair by my bed, currently drowning in yesterday’s sweat pants and tee-shirt, last night’s pyjamas, as well a pair of jeans peppered with cat hair, and a pair of smelly socks.

And then I think I’ll bake a chocolate cake.

Take care of yourself,

Love,

Francesca