I’ve tried to consider what seeds grew to grow the lush vine of Silent Sundays. There are many. Let me recount the most recent. Following an energy-intense workshop I’d facilitated the day prior, my voice was strained and I was flattened on the sofa. The morning was spent moaning about exhaustion – physically, mentally, and emotionally. For as long as I could recall my diary looked as chaotic as Time Square; alarms beeping, reminders flashing, and colour coded to accommodate the dozen different areas of the world I was micro-managing. ‘Recovery Day’ had been typed in my electronic-brain, having realised that the facilitation of a large group took it out of me, literally. I had historically been a waste of space after these events, ironically the workshops were all about the art of mindfulness!? My habit had been to lie flat for parts of the day, but continue to engage in the familiar family antics.
There was a time I remember, as a child, where there wasn’t a freight train pushing me from behind. It was usually when I was dancing or hand-standing, flipping around the lawn under the warmth of the sun. You know those times where the mind is free from thought and you’re completely and utterly ‘in the moment’? There was a photo of my sister and me sitting up in bed, reading. I’d already managed to mirror that intense look my mother wore (eyebrows gathered together, focused, and insisting on knowing whatever it was that lay on the pages of the book).
Mum always said I was cursed with a madly busy mind inside my little head. “That brain of yours never stops,” she’d sigh.
It became a problem in my teens. So much attention on the future and trying to control what lay ahead. Hello, anxiety! This imbalanced neuro-hormonal swing often goes hand in hand with depression, and sure enough, those times where everything felt like too much were rough and tough.