The most precious of things.

 One moning ( in the days when I was still working )  one of my friends came into our office looking pale and completely exhausted.
" Are you alright?" i asked.
She nodded.
" I've just been awake a long time," she said, "I went running on the beach at 5 o'clock this morning."
" Was it even light enough to see the beach that early?" I asked.
" I couldn't sleep," she said. " I kept thinking about my niece's naynee. She dropped it when we were on the beach yesterday."
" You'v got to be careful with those naynees," I said, " they're easy to drop." 
My friend laughed.
" Sorry," she said, " I'm always forgetting  that no one else knows what her naynee is. It's a scuzzy old, blanket. She's had it since she was born and she can't sleep or eat or go anywhere without it. Losing it is like losing part of herself.It's the most precious thing in her whole world.
 So at 5 o'clock this morning I thought I would get up and go and see if I could find it on the beach."
" And did you find it?" I asked, my heart sinking. 
 The tide had already washed  in and out at least once since naynee was lost, even something much heavier would have been swept away. There was almost no chance it could still be there.
" Well," said my friend, ' I ran all the way along the beach and I couldn't see it.
 So I turned back and started checking in all the bins.
 It's so old and tatty,  I thought someone might have thrown it away. 
It's lucky no one saw me, I must have looked like a crazy person rummaging through the bins at dawn. 
Anyway, I was just giving up when I saw this thing that looked like a soggy lump of seaweed, covered in sand and mud lying in the pebbles.
I went over and picked it up. 
And there it was: her naynee.  I found it. Dripping with slime and dirty seawater, but definitely naynee.
 I ran straight home and washed it.
 It still looks a bit the worse for wear, but my niece never did care about that. Can you believe I actually found it?"  

naynee drying out

And it was amazing that she had actually found it on the unending mile of sand..
But what was even more amazing was the amount of time and trouble she had taken to find an old, falling-apart-at-the-seams-blanket. 
But when something is that precious you will do anything to get it back.  

Because what makes it precious is not how much it costs or what it's financially worth, but what it means to us.
The things we truly treasure are rarely our most expensive or valuable possessions.
Usually the  most precious things in life are valuable because of the person who gave them to us or the memories they evoke.




When our children were still very young, Ninesh ( my husband) escaped for a rare  weekend away 
It was our first weekend away since  moving to Chichester.  
Leaving my mum and dad in charge, we were walking through the drizzling rain towards the car when we noticed that all along our road people were putting sandbags in front to their doors.
" What are you doing that for?" asked Ninesh worriedly.
" To stop water getting in," said our neighbour cheerfully, " Chichester floods every year.  Didn't you know that? " 
An expression of panic spread across Ninesh's face..
" It's OK," I said, comfortingly. " I'm sure mum and dad will cope. The kids will be fine."
But Ninesh wasn't listening, he was already sprinting back across the road into the house.
He found my mum in the kitchen making tea.
"If it floods," he was explaining to her, "Save  my records. Take them upstairs, starting from the bottom shelf."
"What about the children?" asked my mum.
" They'll be fine said Ninesh, " they can nearly swim."

Ninesh's record collection has travelled with us wherever we have been living in the world.. 
 Over the years it has grown to 5 shelves worth.

Ever growing record collection

Individually the records are mostly worth very little.  
Most of them are car- boot -sale -finds or unwanted hand-me-downs.
What makes them precious, is what they represent to him. 
" This one was an amazing bargain," he says, pulling one off a shelf and allowing his eyes to linger lovingly on the cover, " I don't think the guy who sold it to me knew what a classic it is."
Or carefully arranging them in genre specific, alphabetical order he will pick one up and say: 
" Remember where I found this?"
" Is it a test?" I ask, I find it hard to keep track of where and when he has uncovered his added to his trove of vinyl treasures. 
He laughs.
" We were at that flea-market in Switzerland. It was a really sunny day and and afterwards we walked all the way along the path by Lake Zurich."
And suddenly I do remember.
 I remember the blue, blue sky and the boats drifting slowly across the sparkling lake.
" And this one," he will say, " I can't believe I've found it after all these years. There it was, just lying on the groundl at the car boot sale. And it's in perfect condition, look."
And carefully he eases the sleek, shiny disc out of its sleeve.
And while I sit eyeing the ever-growing tower of records, wondering where we can build another shelf, he turns up the volume and air-drums  to the intro.
To Ninesh, each one of those records means something. 
Like the naynee, his record collection is a part of him.
It's his passion, priceless, irreplaceable and of no tangible value, but more precious to him than anything else he owns.
" Why does dad like his records so much," asks Joss, our 15 year old son. " Half the time  they're scratched.  He should just download the songs onto his laptop, then they,d always work properly." 
I am, as usual, floored by the force of his logic.
How can I explain that it is not the perfect sound that makes the records special but everything else about them.
When you are young, it's hard to define what makes something precious.
Hard to know what you will treasure when you are independent and free.
Hard to understand that value and cost are not the same thing.
Once comfort blankets and favourite toys have stopped being the most precious things in the world, there's often a superficiality to what we treasure: designer clothes, expensive shoes, the newest phone, the thinnest television.
In this materialistic, consumer-driven world, it's easy to lose sight of what's truly precious or to really value what you already have.

A while ago, I was running a story writing workshop in a school. 
 The children were all 9 and 10 years old and I was trying to get them to start using their no-limits, anything-goes imagination to write a story
So I took out a golden box.

" Inside this box," I said, " is the most precious thing in the whole world. Because it's a magic box,it can change it's shape and size so what's inside can be as big or as small as you want it to be."
I passed the box to one of the boys.
He stared at it hard for a minute and then said:
" I think It's got the newest XBox inside."
Most of the other boys clapped.
" I think it's got the most expensive football boots you can buy inside," said another boy.
" I think it's full of as much money as you will ever need," said one of the girls.
" I think it's a magic wand," said another.
And so the box was passed around the circle until everyone who wanted to had had a turn.
There were a few who were too shy to try.
One of them was a small, thin boy with unbrushed hair and a jumper two sizes too big.
He'd sat the whole time, shoulders hunched, eyes down, staring at the floor. 
Just as I was putting the box away, he held out his hands without looking at me
" Can I have a turn?" he asked quietly.
I handed him the box.
He took  a deep breath and looked up.
But the words seem to stick in his throat. 
I smiled encouragingly, willing his hands to stop shaking.
" So," I said, " what do you think is inside this golden box? What do you think is the most precious thing in the whole world?"
He hesitated for just a moment, clutching the box to him.
" I think," he whispered, "that  inside this box is ..love." 

It's easy to misplace the golden boxes in our lives.
Easy to forget about them and let them lie gathering dust somewhere.
It's easy to replace them with prettier, more expensive versions.
But in the end, they always come back to us, full of the simplicity and beauty of what we truly treasure.

It's a Control Thing

Lately I've been thinking a lot about control- about how losing it is often harder than gaining it. 
Seems to me if people spent less time trying to take, be in and keep control and more time losing control, the world might be a much easier and nicer place to live in.

I was once on a " just girls," weekend to celebrate a friend's birthday.  As I was loading the dishwasher after breakfast, someone said:
 " It's lucky my husband isn't here to see how you've done that."
" Done what?" I asked.
" Loaded the dishwasher," she said, " he'd just take everything out and do it again. He does it to me all the time."
" Mine does that as well," said one of the other girls, " certain plates go in certain places and all the cutlery has to be sorted into individual areas"
" Mine can't stand it if the plates are facing different directions," said another.
Turns out, a lot of partners have a problem with letting go of dishwasher-control.
" Wow," I said, " in our house we're just glad that someone has actually loaded the dishwasher."

But dishwasher control is nothing to the battles for control that go on in the other parts  of our lives.
It comes in many different forms.
There's the overt, public, assertive kind of control: this is how it's going to be done, no discussions, no questions, no arguments
There's the covert, underhand kind of control:   I know she asked you to to do differently but just do it my way because it's better and no one will mind."
There's the passive aggressive, quietly threatening kind of control: I don't want to be a nuisance but I've been up worrying all night because I don't really agree with what you're asking me to do and I know my view isn't important but I will have to seek further advice if you make me do it.
And then there's the worst kind of control, the personal kind where you are too scared to show or admit how you really feel in case someone uses the information to make you look stupid or feel weak. 
That feeling that you need to be in control, and the panicky feeling that you get when you think you 're  not, is so intrinsically part of being human, that most of the time we're not even aware of it.
But it's a constant and emotionally draining battle.
And it begins from the moment we're born.
I sometimes wonder if the reason why the first noise we make as babies make is a cry not because we are taking our first breath,  but because we're really cross that we've  had no control over when we've been born.
Without consulting us, the warm, cosy uterus has expelled us into a cold, hostile world.
Who wouldn't be mad?
Who wouldn't cry and want to shout out " hey, put me back in.  Let me decide when it's time." 

And that battle for control continues for the rest of our lives.
First we need to control our parents and siblings.
Then we need to control our friends and acquaintances.
Then there's our work colleagues and our bosses.
And finally we have to control our lovers and partners and eventually our own children.  
The more we want control, the more exhausting life becomes because there's always someone who wants it more and will fight for it harder.
Yet the thought of giving up control, or if not giving it up, losing it for a little while, can be petrifying. 
" I can't do it mum," says my almost 17 year old daughter, "I can't just let go, The thought of not being in control makes me feel sick." 
And with all the lessons I have learnt in life, with all my irrelevant experience and unlistened to advice, with all the love I feel for her, I can't show her how to do it. 
I can't show her how it can sometimes be alright to make yourself vulnerable.
I cant show her how the freedom that comes with enjoying the moment without worrying.
I can't show her how much fun it can be to drift without knowing where you're going,
Or how important it is to sometimes lose yourself in your dreams and be ruled by your heart.
All I can do is hope that she will one day find someone who she trust enough to help her find it out for herself.

The history of the world has been dominated by fights for control.
One country trying to control another.
One race trying to rule another.
One religion trying to dominate another.
The hardest thing to say is: " let's try it your way."
The hardest thing to swallow is your pride.
But perhaps, if we spent less time battling for control and more time thinking about how to trust and value each other, then maybe the world really would be a  better, less fragile place.
It won't be easy but it might be worth a try.

So the next time you load a dishwasher, go wild.
Let the plates face different directions, the cups be higgledy-piggledy and the knives and forks be muddled together.
It's a first step towards letting go ....even if the dishes don't end up so clean!

Daydream believing

So it has arrived.
My final day of work.
I have collected my last sign in sheet, filled in my last registration form, answered my last phone call and handed over the mantel of responsibility to someone who wants it more and will wear it better.
I have let the doors of the Children's Centre close firmly behind me..... and the Autumn sunshine has never felt so good.
In front of me lies a beckoning ocean awash with long-wished-for dreams and unspoken hopes.
And I'm ready to dive in, head -first.
No more waking up in the middle of the night remembering all the things I have forgotten.
No more filling in forms that are left unread and filed under " filled-in forms."
No more trying to meet impossible targets set by detached, power-hungry bureaucrats.
No more performance management reviews or self-evaluation frameworks.
No more gathering, inputting and analysing data that never measures what its meant to measure nor tells you what you want to know. 
My life has been given back to me, wrapped in shiny, endless possibilities and full of not-for-sharing-chocolate.

" The trouble is," says my dad when I'm round to visit, " once you've got all-the-time-in- the-world, you usually end up filling  it with nothing-at-all."
'Not me," I say pouring myself a third cup of tea, " I'm going to fill every moment with meaningful somethings."
My Dad smiles indulgently and reaches for the TV remote. 
And I turn away because even though I don't want to admit it, I'm just a little worried that he might be right.  
Things tend to take as long to do as the time you have to do them.
If you have two hours to cook dinner and clean the house, then it takes two hours.
If you have all-the-time-in-the-world, it might take forever.
Perhaps it's only by perpetually racing through life that we create enough energy to reach  our goals.  
But I'm really hoping not.
I'm hoping that by standing still I can still achieve just as much.

My first day of freedom was spent wandering around the Chichester Sculpture Park with an old school friend.
She is beautiful, clever, rich and successful.
But none of that comes with a happiness guarantee.
She has been a constant visitor in our home over the years but this was the first time that I could really give her my utter, complete and undivided attention.
I heard every word, not just the gist of what she was saying.
I truly listened.
My mind didn't wander to the untidy pile of papers on my desk or the emails needing replies or the social worker waiting to be phoned back or the leaflets with next term's dates needing to be signed off.
Instead we admired the modern installations, tastefully and incongruously displayed amidst the ancient woodland and sweeping West Sussex views. 
We admired the clever curve of bronze, were confused by a beautifully designed staircase leading nowhere, let our reflections become part of a sculpture of right- angled mirrors

 and admired a Chinese inflatable pig from inside and out. 

" I take a photo of my friend coming out of its rear hole," explained a German tourist, showing us the photo on his phone and pointing at his friend who has just emerged from    the pig's stomach. 

We laughed and wandered on. 
And while we walked, we talked, soothed by the beautifully strange not-quite-reality of the place,
And at the edge of the Park we found: "It Pays to Pray,":  large, bright blue shapes and words flashing across 4 flat screens.

For a refundable 20p you can choose from a list of chocolate bars: Bounty,, Starbar, Flyte, Delight, Wispa, Drifter, Timeout, Picnic, Ripple, Devour, - all the old favourites. But you put your money into the slot and choose, you are not given a chocolate bar, but a prayer. 
My friend made her choice and her prayer flashed up on the screen: 
" Keep me safe, keep me warm, keep me in the lap of luxury."
She smiled sadly.
" I wish," she said.
And I do too.
I hope that, one day, like me, she is given the freedom and the time to find all those things.
While she carried on exploring a while, I sat on a warm, grey stone slab, part of an installation looking like a miniature Grand Canyon. In front of me was a valley of yellow fields, each straw tip bathed gold in the sunlight , birds swooping across the echoing blueness of a cloudless sky..
Lost in the picture- perfect peacefulness, I wondered what prayer I would use to fill my now-shapeless days.
" Let me find my muse. Let me always have orange ink in my pen. Let me constantly day-dream.  Let me sometimes know, when they ask at breakfast-time, what I'm cooking for dinner.."

Some people say that it's only through work that our lives have meaning. That it's our jobs that give our lives meaning and define us.
Perhaps they're right.
 But for as long as I am able , I'm willing to take a gamble that it's more than that;
that being there to catch your children when they fall, being able to truly listen to your friends, having time to watch your flowers grow, is enough.
And then there are the clothes to wash, the meals to cook, the rooms to clean and the masterpiece to write.
And I'll be doing all that... of course.
Just not right now. 
Monday will be soon enough... and I think there might be an episode of "The Mindy Project," that I haven't seen yet.