Recently I was talking to a friend about an experience that I had many years ago that challenged me in ways I could not have anticipated, took me right out of my comfort zone; but was subsequently transformative. I described it as my heart being in my throat.

We spend so much of our lives contorting ourselves to fit the idea of who we should be, the daughter, son, mother, father, sister etc because we want to fit in, be heard and be loved, which I understand to be our birthright. The ironic thing is that what we really want is to be accepted for who we truly are and yet in the process of trying to fit in we often lose sight of who that person is.

When we get a papercut or accidentally cut ourselves preparing vegetables we know and trust that our body knows exactly what to do to repair itself, and if we remember to notice then we could watch as our skin knows just how to knit back together to retain its ability to protect us.

Recently I was fortunate enough to have a whole shoulder replacement! Yes I know, they can do them and it seems very successfully too with minimal scarring and almost instantaneous relief from what was a very sore and painful shoulder joint. However I was in a huge dilemma for some months before going ahead with surgery, because in my mind it wasn’t painful enough, not sore enough and not all the time.

When did selfish become such a loaded word, when the word self is about individuality and uniqueness.

Last week I was asked what my new years resolution was going to be, and for some reason I didn’t understand at the time, this comment made me unreasonably angry.

This is an old metaphor that I find myself using with many clients and colleagues, is this you? if so I can help you ….. Many many years ago, two monks were walking through a town where a great rain had fallen and the main street of the town was flooded. A beautiful lady in her best clothes was trying to cross the road, but couldn’t cross because she was afraid that she would damage her clothes.

I love looking at and making mosaic and especially some of the beautiful pieces made with found sea glass, its edges worn down and a kind of patina all over that makes it looked etched. Then I realized as I creep towards my 60th birthday that I am like one of those pieces of glass, more and more, the hard edges worn down by loss, illness and a little fear to make me softer, less sure of things that I would have argued the toss about when I was younger.