Posted on October 4, 2015
“Everything In Moderation” – My Uncle Peter (and, I believe, Oscar Wilde)
This has always been Uncle Peter’s philosophy in life: Everything in moderation; nothing to excess. This is such a sensible way to live but, for me anyway, impossible to abide by. As much as I hate to admit it I lack self-discipline. This theme runs through all my activities including mediation practise and eating habits. It’s usually all or nothing!
I decide on a Monday morning – it has to be Monday because I can’t ever begin something mid-week – to go on a ‘healthy eating’ plan and commit to 30 minutes meditation each morning. This usually follows a few weeks of self-indulgent eating and drinking resulting in my jeans getting tight. (How this phenomenon happens I don’t know, I think there needs to be a study of the correlation between eating too much and clothes shrinking in the wash).
Monday passes well. Meditation achieved. Lots of salad and veg with grilled salmon or chicken. No wine or chocolate. I’m so good! Tuesday very similar although a chocolate biscuit is added at the very end of the day due to sugar craving. Wednesday morning a friend invites me to lunch at Al Fresco’s, a lovely Italian restaurant. Do I decline or just vow to eat something healthy?
Of course I don’t decline – I love to meet for a chat and Alfresco’s is the perfect place. I have a food shop to fit in before I go so I decide to meditate in the evening instead. My foot has just stepped onto the slippery slope.
On arrival my friend is sipping a glass of chilled white wine with an almost full bottle glistening in the cooler beside the table. Our usual ritual. Help!
Not wishing to offend I allow the waiter to pour and I indicate to stop when the glass is a quarter full. (I’m trying).
After a quick catch up I look at the menu. Now it gets tricky. I refuse point blank to pay £10 for a plate of lettuce and tomatoes and the fish is a little beyond my lunch time budget so I opt for something middle of the range: a delicious, thin based anchovy and black olive pizza. My favourite.
As we eat the waiter tops up the glasses.
Then, having ruined my healthy eating plan for the day I follow up with a coconut meringue thingy. Absolutely delicious. I arrive home stuffed and a little tipsy (I didn’t drive by the way, hubby dropped me off. Somewhere in my subconscious I knew I would have the wine!). Needless to say I fall asleep in the evening after thirty seconds meditation.
The trouble with all this is that having broken my strict regime I can’t recapture it. Now I will have to wait until next Monday to start again.
Why is it so difficult to have a small glass of wine and not half the bottle? A few squares of chocolate rather than the whole bar? Or two biscuits instead of half the packet?
I know it’s all to do with mind set and mine is obviously malfunctioning. I need to come up with a new strategy otherwise I will end up overweight and alcoholic and walking in the opposite direction on the path to self-awakening.
I will have a think…
Posted on September 9, 2015
Linda Huber lives in Arbon, Switzerland. Although Linda has been writing throughout her life she considered it a hobby until the publication of her first novel, The Paradise Trees, In September 2013. Just a year later, in August 2014, The Cold Cold Sea, was published and her third novel, The Attic Room, was released in July 2015.
The Attic Room is a suspense/thriller that spreads over three generations: Nina, her daughter Naomi and her mother Claire. When Claire dies following a car accident Nina is trying to cope with the deep grief she feels for the loss of her mother when she receives a telephone call from a lawyer.
Nina discovers she has been bequeathed a substantial estate from a man she does not know: John Moore. From her home on the Isle of Arran she travels to Bedfordshire, leaving Naomi with a friend to run their bed and breakfast business, to see the house she has inherited.
Once there she becomes embroiled in blackmail and lies as she uncovers dark family secrets involving her mysterious benefactor. Who is John Moore and what happened in the attic?
Like Linda’s other two novels, The Attic Room is packed with suspense and intrigue. It explores a difficult topic which Linda has weaved into the mystery in a sensitive way. Her research into the subject results in authentic characterisation which enhances the tension and secrets the story reveals. A well written book and a good read.
Watch the trailer to get a taster
You can also see the trailer for Linda’s new book Chosen Child:
You can follow Linda on Twitter: @LindaHuber19
Posted on August 30, 2015
Things We Have In Common is Tasha Kavanagh’s first adult novel, having written books for children under the name of Tasha Pym. She has also worked as an editor on films such as Twelve Monkeys and The Talented Mr Ripley.
Yasmin is 15 years old, very overweight and has no friends. Her fixation with the pretty girl in her class, Alice, alienates her further from the other children and she retreats deeper into her own world of fantasy and obsessions. Yasmin lives with her mother and Gary – her stepdad – which creates additional issues for the troubled teenager.
Yasmin, convinced Alice is to be abducted by a man she knows is watching Alice, becomes embroiled in a rather one sided friendship with the potential paedophile/murderer.
Kavanagh has captured the voice of the lonely and complex Yasmin – desperate for love and attention – very convincingly and it leaves you wondering where the boundary between fantasy and reality lie for Yasmin; they appear to merge, leaving you to speculate on whether the events she relates have really occurred or whether they are just flights of her imagination.
Although a monologue of Yasmin’s confused and unhappy existence – and I have to admit that at times she left me exhausted – it is also a novel of twists and turns. Unpredictable and intriguing. Just when you think you have worked out what is happening – you discover you haven’t.
The novel had an excellent start and then the voice of Yasmin became a little tiresome. However, once accustomed to her expression the novel was all-absorbing. It is a story that flows well and begs you to turn the next page. The only failure, in my opinion, was the ending. I didn’t find it as satisfying as I would have liked.
Published May 7th 2015 by Canongate
Posted on August 25, 2015
Steady and predictable Raimund ‘Mundus’ Gregorius has his life turned upside down one day when he meets a beautiful woman on a bridge. Fifty seven year old Gregorious, a classical languages teacher at a school in Berne, decides it is time to evaluate his life. On impulse he abandons his classroom during the middle of the day’s teaching and embarks on a journey of discovery.
By luck or providence, whilst browsing in a second-hand book shop, Gregorious picks up a book written by a Portuguese doctor, Amadeu Inacio de Almeida Prado, who died over thirty years ago. The book, A Goldsmith of Words, is written in Portuguese – a language Gregorious does not understand. The book shop owner translates the first page and Gregorious immediately feels the words speak to him.
Gregorious begins to learn Portuguese in order to translate the slim book containing the philosophical jottings of Prado, who, as well as working as a doctor, became involved as a resistance fighter during the dictatorship of Antonio de Oliveira Salazar. Gregorious takes a train to Lisbon to unravel the threads of Prado’s life.
Although Gregorious makes the bold decision to take control of his life it feels as though he has exchanged his own uneventful, mundane existence to live it through Amadeu Prado. His desire to understand the complex life of the doctor appears to control his new existence as he meets Prado’s family and friends to learn what it was really like to be Prado. However, as Gregorious slowly settles into his new life, and reflects on the past, memories of a spontaneous younger self emerge. He realises he wasn’t always so unadventurous and begins to alter the way he has perceived himself for so long.
The philosophical musing of the sometimes self-indulgent Prado can be a challenging read but reveal some thought provoking insights. I have an interest in meditation and often reflect on the meaning of life, which was why I selected the book to read. Because of this I paid particular attention to the sections regarding Prado’s thoughts. That said, some parts took a second reading to grasp their meaning. Although Mercier has tried to reveal Prado in small chunks, parts are a little long which very occasionally slows the book down.
In Night Train to Lisbon Peter Bieri, himself a philosopher writing under the pseudonym of Pascal Mercier, has managed to merge reflective thinking with a classic novel of intrigue, love, passion and adventure mixed with a dose of humour. It is not a book with peaks and troughs but maintains a steady pace. Although it sometimes needs patience and slow digestion – more easily absorbed in a quiet place – I found it very enjoyable.
Posted on August 16, 2015
Half of a Yellow Sun follows the lives of five ordinary people through a decade of Nigerian history. After receiving independent federation rule in 1960 the country was thrown into civil war in the late sixties when Biafra, a state in Eastern Nigeria, was granted secession.
The characters are introduced during a time of peace and plenty. Twin sisters Olanna and Kainene, educated and wealthy, live very different lives. Olanna is introduced as kind and thoughtful as she reassures an elderly lady at the airport that the plane carrying her son will stop on the runway. Olanna gives up her luxurious lifestyle in Lagos to live with her lecturer lover, Odenigbo. Kainene, strong, wilful and less beautiful than her twin, helps their father to run the family business and becomes involved with an Englishman, Richard, who has a fascination for Igbo art.
Odenigbo, a university lecturer in Nsukka, entertains friends where food and alcohol flow and lively intellectual debates ensue. His strong political views cause Kainene to refer to him as Olanna’s ‘revolutionary lover’. Ugwu is Odenigbo’s thirteen year old houseboy who loves to cook for Master and his guests while absorbing fragments of their lively discussions.
Biafra’s secession in 1967 brings a Nigerian blockade and eventually war; the mostly Muslim dominated north against the Igbo population in the south. The world, with the exception of Tanzania, refuses to recognise the State of Biafra.
The novel moves successfully between the early sixties and the late sixties to provide a contrast between the indulgent lifestyle of peace time and the famine and hardships that inevitably come with war. The early imagery of Ugwu’s pepper soup and spicy jollof rice reinforce the horrors of eating roasted bush rats to stave off starvation.
As the war progresses, Odenigbo, Olanna and daughter Baby have to leave their home in Nsukku. Their descent into poverty forces them to live in a single room of squalor, join food queues for any scraps they are able to receive and the need to hide in air raid shelters, which they share with an assortment of small creatures. Relationships that were easy when life was good are put under enormous strain when food is scarce and the people they love are brutally murdered. Kainene has a different experience of the war as she sets up and organises refugee camps for all of those forced from their homes. Her life with Richard is stable and he tries hard to integrate and become accepted by the Igbo people. Ugwu faces challenges as he explores the natural inquisitive passions of a teenage boy.
Half of a Yellow Sun is named after the emblem for Biafra, worn on the sleeves of soldiers fighting the war. This three year war has been consigned to distant memory for most of the world and the word Biafra synonymous with starving, large bellied children in Africa.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adiche has done an excellent job of bringing the war back to the attention of the world whilst telling a beautifully written story. The account of history, which members of her family experienced, is related through these five wonderful characters in a moving and empathetic manner. She has captured the human condition well: during times of suffering some find a deep inner strength whereas others flounder and surrender, unable to cope. The changes in each of the characters also reinforce that although we often have little control over external circumstances we do have a choice in our personal response to them. An inspirational read
Posted on July 20, 2015
One definition of mindfulness: “The quality or state of being conscious or aware of something”.
I find that with each passing birthday since graduating to the wrong side of fifty I can’t forget anything or lose an item without thinking that I’m getting old and losing my memory (and my family readily agree). It’s true that I have a particularly irritating issue with my mobile phone. Due to an absence of pockets in my clothing I’m constantly moving the phone to different locations and then not remembering where I last left it.
I know friends that have a similar problem with their reading glasses – and yes, I am aware that reading glasses are the need of the ageing! But when I look back at my younger days, I used to ‘lose’ things then. All the time. I was never accused of getting old. My adult children frequently dash around the house while getting ready for a night out because they can’t remember where a particular pair of shoes are, or they can’t find their Oyster card.
I have gone along with the annoying quips of ‘Alzheimer’s’ and ‘old age’, even to the extent of believing it myself, until I recently read a book by P.D. Ouspensky called Conscience – the search for the truth. At the very beginning of the book Ouspensky links consciousness with ‘self-remembering’. This means being aware of yourself, and the things that you do, which is analogous to that of mindfulness and present moment awareness. These topics are very trendy at the moment but from what I can understand it’s very similar to the basic concept of what my mum used to call ‘paying attention’.
Where am I going with all this you wonder?
I believe there is a strong correlation between a lack of mindfulness and what we perceive as forgetfulness. Blaming old age for poor memory is hasty and offensive. I believe it’s not that we lose things, we are simply unaware of where we put them.
Returning to P.D. Ouspensky. We can only become more conscious of our actions if we are aware of ourselves while performing these actions. Ouspensky relates an experience of his own where he made a conscious effort to be aware of himself for a period of time. He was aware of walking along a few streets and arriving at the tobacconist for his cigarettes and then, two hours later, he suddenly ‘woke up’ and remembered himself again. He knew that during that time when he was unaware of himself he had accomplished so many things: called at his flat, telephoned the printers and written two letters. He knew he had completed those tasks but he wasn’t aware of himself whilst doing them.
I decided to try this little experiment. I would be conscious of myself and aware of my journey from home to Tesco. A ten minute car ride. How difficult could it be? To answer that question I suggest you try it for yourself – it is very difficult. The first few minutes I remembered with absolute clarity. A silver Mercedes let me go first on the roundabout (thank you Mercedes driver) and the lights were red when I approached the traffic lights and a young woman and child crossed the road. The child wore a red jumper…then five minutes later I arrived at Tesco only to realise I had been planning what I would have for dinner for the next few evenings. I can’t even remember the point at which I stopped being aware of myself driving.
The interesting point is that the small details about the car that stopped for me and the colour of the child’s jumper were not deliberately remembered but because I was aware of them so clearly I recalled them easily.
So this brings me back to the misplaced phone. It is obvious that my mind is unaware of where I leave it rather than forgetting where I’ve put it. Is this any better I ask myself? I’m either getting old and senile with my memory cells dying at an alarming rate or I spend my days in a semi-somnambulistic state unaware of what I’m doing!
I will make every effort to keep a track of where I place my phone and will update you of my success on the next blog. (I’m absolutely confident, now I know the theory, that I can put it into action).
Posted on June 18, 2015
“Life is my school, and I’m here to learn” Shakti Gawain. Every experience has something to teach us.
Today I woke in a good mood twenty minutes before my alarm was due to ring. I got out of bed and carried out a meditation exercise which left me feeling at peace with the world. Today was going to be a good day.
On my way to a meeting I was driving along a country road at what I considered to be an acceptable speed. From out of nowhere a large Mercedes GL350 zoomed up and sat a meter behind me. It was probably slightly further back but you get my drift. She was very close.
I looked in my rear view mirror to see a woman at the wheel screaming into her mobile phone. As much as I felt sorry for the poor soul on the other end my irritation was growing at her careless disregard for my safety. She beeped her horn, which I ignored. My lack of response to her intimidation apparently left her no option but to overtake. As the car screeched past, her hand lingered far too long on the horn while she hurled abuse through her open window. Irritatingly, she then pulled immediately in front of me in an effort to avoid a car on the opposite side of the road forcing me to slam my foot on the break. Although there was no possibility of her hearing, primal instinct took over and I yelled back.
COUNT TO 10……… I DON’T THINK SO!
So where was my calm composure now? It had vanished as quickly as the elephant in the Siegfried and Roy magic trick. My shoulders were so tense they were up by my ears and my knuckles had turned white gripping the steering wheel. How dare she yell such abuse? She was driving appallingly and she was on the phone. If anyone couldn’t drive it was her. I felt irritable and short tempered for about an hour after. Why? Because I felt personally slighted. That woman had implied I was a bad driver.
Now, my personal growth books tell me that when people behave badly it should not be taken personally because it is often an expression of their inner turmoil; their own inner conflict and suffering. If she had pulled up behind someone else – unless the person in front was driving so fast she was unable to catch them in her Mercedes GL350 – she would have treated them exactly the same.
I know all this. But it didn’t help. So I have to ask myself: Should I continue reading the plethora of inner growth manuals that adorn my bookshelves in the hope that someday I will benefit from the wisdom they have to offer or should I give them to the local charity shop and know that at least I’ve helped raise a fiver for a good cause.
Posted on May 21, 2015
I read recently that there are 36 spiritual laws governing the rules of life on Earth, one of these being the Law of Attraction.
The premise of this law is that whatever you focus on you attract into your life. Negative thoughts attract negative situations and likewise positive thoughts bring positive circumstances into your life. It’s all to do with the vibrations with which we resonate. Sounds great doesn’t it? This means if we all think constructive thoughts we will all be very happy…maybe.
Conceding there was some sort of logic to this and because it sounded simple to put into practise I wondered whether the Law of Attraction could be used to improve the pitiful state of my financial affairs and supply me with a replacement for my clapped out Citroen C3. Could it help me win the lottery for example? I decided to put it to the test.
I selected six random numbers – well, almost random. I put pieces of paper with numbers 1 – 49 in a box, shuffled them in the usual manner, and pulled out the following:
6 7 9 18 32 41
I thought it unlikely that three numbers under ten would come up so I put number seven back and chose again. I got 26 and felt that was a much better balance.
I printed the numbers using font 36 – nice and big – and stuck them to my desk. I found a picture of a luxury car and put it next to the numbers. Would it work? Would I clear my debts and be the proud owner of a decent car? I was dubious.
When practising positive thinking I understand that it is necessary to believe you have already received what you desire rather than hope for it. So, with this in mind, I spent the next three days frequently looking at the pictures on my desk chanting with excitement that I had won the lottery. I felt a bit of a fool, especially when overheard by my son who immediately asked for money to go travelling.
When I had some time to reflect on my win I wondered what I would do with it. If it was less than £50,000 I would pay off my overdraft and the maxed out credit cards. If any was left, which was unlikely, I would get a nice car. However as soon as I started to think in larger sums, especially when I got into the millions, I wondered how much I would gift to relatives and friends. Then it got tricky. I’m sure you’ve done the same and come to the conclusion that you would have lots of money but no friends because they would all think you mean. I was so overwhelmed trying to decide what to do with the money if I won it (sorry, when I won it) that I was terrified by the prospect of actually winning. I ripped the numbers and picture from my desk and resigned myself to the fact that an overdraft and full credit cards were not the end of the world or worth losing my friends for.
22nd May 2015