The healing power of travel

Klara at The Next 1500 Days has written a most beautiful post about visiting a glacier and how it helped her and her husband heal after their first IVF, and gave them strength for the future. Go read it here, if only to see the fabulous photo, but also to read her wise words. Klara and I both love travel. So of course, she got me thinking. 

Before we started IVF, after our first ectopic pregnancy, we took a trip to France.  I have written before about it here, about how it taught me to hold joy at great beauty, and sadness for a loss at the same time. Later, between our first and what would be our last IVF attempts, we had six weeks between cycles, and we took off to nearby Vanuatu for a short beach holiday. More recently, after a difficult diagnosis and treatment, we have been on a bucket list trip to Egypt and a cruise. It took us away from the reality of diagnoses and treatments and necessary home maintenance that were threatening to overwhelm us. 

Travel brings me great joy, whether it is through extraordinary landscapes, or famous sites, or food, or learning new things. That joy, for a short time, helps me forget sadness, or at least, it helps remind me that I can hold both at the same time. In fact, travel almost requires me to do that. Because at home it can be easy to push away any pleasure because I might feel guilty for feeling joy in awful circumstances. I felt that with the loss of pregnancies, until I allowed myself to let go of the guilt. Travel almost demands we do that. After all, we owe it to ourselves to enjoy something that is out of the ordinary, something we paid for, something that has taken a great effort to experience. 

It can even allow me to forget those stresses and realities of life. Because there is only so much we can hold at once. Travel insists that I concentrate on a new environment, maybe different languages and almost always cultures. That brings a real focus on where I am and what I am doing, on experiencing the immediate, the now, and of being aware and appreciative. And in opening my heart to wonder and joy, to experience that, makes it is easier to shut out some of the troubles we are facing. It allows me space to breathe. My posture improves, my shoulders relax, and the biggest stress is (usually) where to eat dinner each night. It makes it easier to forget sadness. And therefore easier to relax. When we are mindful, and focused on that, it gives our brains and our hearts a welcome and much-needed rest. It allows us to stop thinking about the "what-ifs" and what is going to happen in the future. Our brains and our bodies can relax. Our souls can heal, just a little. It allows me some rejuvenation of body, if possible, and almost definitely of spirit.  

By opening our hearts to experience the now, to be mindful, I feel relief. I noticed this first when I just needed to be away from a stressful job. Then after some more serious life events, including pregnancy loss. Travel, for me, provides some healing, and reminds me that there is much happiness to be found in this world, if we stay open to it. I am especially aware of that if I am relaxing in a gentle breeze in Asia, or absorbed in an animal sighting in Africa, or appreciating a beautiful village square in France, or most recently watching a lovely sunset over the Nile. But there is joy in a sunset at home too, or in a funny encounter, or seeing a beautiful flower. Travel has helped teach me that, too. Even if or when we know that there is worse to come, a brief respite of mindfulness can be welcome relief.

The stress of being in new places might be too much for some people. Certainly, travel is not completely stress-free, even when we love it. I'm not a brave intrepid traveller, oblivious or blase about risks in different environments. But for me the benefits outweigh the risks.  That is not the case for everyone. I know too it is a luxury to be able to travel. I hope I will be able to continue to travel, but nothing is certain. So if travel is not for you, I am sure there are other things that can deliver the same awareness and relief for you. When I think about it, a hobby, a good book, a walk or run, a film or play or gig, a day out, or even cooking and eating a delicious meal can be healing, if we let it, if we are mindful, if we are open to letting small moments of joy and peace into our hearts when all else feels gloomy.

 

 

 

 

 

Disrupted plans

I started blogging here when I was at least seven years past learning I would never ever have children. I'd done a lot of grieving, expressed some of my feelings online with friends in a restricted space. I've never done the full emotional download onto my blog that some others have done. And now I know my blog is connected to my own, real name - as connected as I feel to Mali, who has been my online persona since 2006.

I remember some years ago seeing someone say (online, not one of my beloved bloggers) that their plan for their childless old age was to stay healthy. At the time I remember thinking (and writing here) that that wasn't a plan, it was just putting their head in the sand. My parents lived fit and healthy lives, but the ends of their lives were difficult. Genes and cancer had other ideas. Looking at them, I knew I needed to plan. I know now how right I was.

I just thought I'd have a few more years before they were necessary. My husband and I are going through some pretty serious health stuff right now. It's caused me to realise that even my relatively cautious plans have now been blown out of the water. I'm going to take a step back from No Kidding in NZ. I'll still blog, but just not every week. Because there's a lot going on in my head at the moment, and I don't want to write it all down for public consumption. And it's hard thinking of topics to write about when my every thought is about another issue. 

But living in the moment helps. Finding joy in a lovely day, good food, a joke. I wrote about it in my 2020 Healing series, and Gifts of Infertility under Mindfulness. It helps each day pass. I don't apologise for the repetition.

 

Simultaneous joy and sadness

I can’t find if I have written about this before. But for me it is a reminder of the need to accept feelings of joy and sadness at the same time. To know that we can hold both in the same space at the same time. To see this as the start of healing, and know we'll be okay. After my first ectopic pregnancy, my husband and I went to France. I even took steps to ensure I would not be pregnant, as the last thing either of us wanted was a repeat ectopic in a strange country.

We flew in to Paris and picked up a car at the airport, and set off for a month. We relished the freedom of going where and when we wanted. We knew that if we did have a child once we got home, as we hoped, this freedom wouldn’t be possible for a long time. We had the most wonderful time, exploring most of the country, seeing unexpectedly gorgeous scenery and fairy-tale villages, eating amazing food, shopping in markets, practicing my French. We explored the chateaux of the Loire Valley, stayed in famous wine villages, walked through medieval palaces in Avignon, and had a magical day in the Tarn Gorge, choosing a beautiful picnic spot by the Tarn River under the “new” bridge (that was still hundreds of years old) and the willows, eating the most delicious ripe sweet strawberries we had found earlier that day in the market at Uzes.

The sadness from our ectopic pregnancy remained, but all this time later, I don’t actually remember feeling it most of the trip. Except for once. I sat beside the Dordogne River at beautiful La Roque Gageac, and felt overwhelming emotion at the beauty of the old village curving around the river under ancient cliffs. I thought about the fact I wouldn’t be there if we had not lost our pregnancy. I felt the tears coming, but realised that it was possible to feel joy at the same time as feeling grief. One didn’t cancel the other out, and feeling joy was not a betrayal of the one you were grieving. It was rather a chance to snatch a piece of peace and happiness in the world, even in the midst of sadness. A chance to offer our souls some replenishment, and to know that we would survive.

La Roque Gageac

 

Is a No Kidding life a radical one?

The Gateway Women Fireside Chat that I mentioned last week discussed the idea that those of us who are ageing without children are "radical old women." Apart from the fact that I really don’t feel like an old woman and I’m not ready for that term (despite being older than some on the panel!), I agreed with a lot of the opinions given in the discussion. They reiterated the key points that almost all childless-not-by-choice and many childfree women talk about when we get together. It's always worth repeating! But I came away with two thoughts that weren’t really represented.

The first is that I object to being labelled (by society, by anyone) as radical just for living my life. Sure, I don’t have children, but that's only a small part of what makes me who I am. This idea makes me bristle. I object to the idea that just because we differ in only one way – the fact that we haven’t reproduced or parented – we must be seen as radical. I know many No Kidding women (and men) who are the very opposite of radical. They live normal lives – they go to work or school, love their friends and their (extended) families, strive to be better, look after their homes and neighbours, and care about the world. They want to be accepted and recognised and seen, and considered to be an important part of society and their communities. Surely there is nothing particularly radical about that?

Of course, it comes down to the definition, and there are many definitions of “radical,” as pointed out in the panel discussion. There is the “extremist” definition, the one that automatically comes to mind when I first hear the term “radical.” To be radical means “believing or expressing the belief that there should be great or extreme social or political change.” (Cambridge dictionary) A radical holds very different views, opposing the status quo (as opposed to just differing from it), and speaking out about it. By definition, a radical view is or can be seen to be threatening to the existing dominant societal structure. I find it terribly sad that simply wanting to be accepted for being who we are is seen as threatening by those living different lives. I’m not a conformist, and never have been. I’ve certainly never understood why living life differently should be in any way seen as particularly "radical." But I don’t feel like an extremist or particularly militant either. I’m just someone who puts an alternative viewpoint – a viewpoint many people have never considered – out there, and who wants society to see us and accept us. Is that radical? It doesn't feel like it.

The second issue was the question Jody posed, “what do we want to do with our ‘radical’?”

I thought of all of our blogs, the articles we have contributed to or commented on, the social media posts we make or comment on, the art some of us make, and all the other things that we do to put the point of view of people who are childless not by choice, or who are simply living No Kidding lives. We’re already doing a lot!

Then I thought of my neglected Instagram account (@nokiddinginnz), the book I’ve written but never published, all the time I don’t contribute to other online groups (like Gateway Women), and felt guilty. Am I not doing enough with my ‘radical’? I think it is terribly important that we speak up. I think it is terribly important that people remember there are women and men out there who wanted children, but who couldn’t have them for whatever reason. And I think it is terribly important that people are reminded that any of us who don’t have children are still equally important members of society, with valid opinions, lives, and contributions to society. So I am forever grateful for those who do so, who represent us in public. I play a small part, I’ve definitely gone beyond my comfort zone, whether here on my blog when I’ve very nervously pressed “Publish,” in private conversations when I’ve made myself vulnerable by tentatively countered someone’s mainstream opinion, or by very nervously commenting under my real name in articles in national media outlets. My part might not be as big as Jody’s or Pamela’s, but it is still important, as is that of all my readers and fellow bloggers. And I'm going to keep doing it, as long as I have an audience.

But speaking up is not obligatory. Just as we don't have to find our "Next Big Thing" when we don't have children, we don't have to become spokespeople for the childless not by choice. I know that speaking up isn’t for everyone. Some of us feel much more vulnerable about exposing our sadness or perceived failures to the world, and many of us fear judgement. Some of us are uncomfortable with speaking up – so many of us have been taught that it is rude to disagree, for example, when it is really courageous. I’m personally uncomfortable with confrontation, and don’t particularly enjoy arguments, although I know others who thrive on debate. (I do like being able to put my point of view, or make someone think, by a well-placed comment or question, but it can take a toll.) It made me think. Why should any of us feel compelled to do anything with our radical? It can be hard enough just living our radical lives day-to-day, navigating this pronatalist world as people without children, let alone dealing with all the other stresses of life.

Then I came full circle. Maybe that’s the whole point of being “Radical Old Women?” The second definition of radical is as fundamental, “relating to or characteristic of the basic or inherent constitution of a person or thing” (Collins Dictionary). It brings everything back to basics. And the basis of being a woman is, in fact, simply being, whether or not we have children. Ditto, the basis of being a man is simply being. The basis of being a human is simply being a human. And we all do that. We show there is value in our being just who we are. I guess that is radical in both meanings of the word. 

Just living our lives – with meaning and kindness and happiness and love – is enough of an example to others that society is varied, and that variation is valuable to us all. Life isn’t a one-size fits all proposition. How boring would societies and communities be if we were all the same? Embracing our existence, our No Kidding lives, is, after all, a radical act we didn’t think we were capable of at one stage in our lives. Wherever, and however, we live, we are here, and we are not going away. We are living, breathing, feeling role models. Maybe that’s radical enough for us all?

 

 

 

The Freedom of No Kidding Travel

 For the last month, my posts have been pre-written and scheduled. I haven't been able to comment much on any of your comments, but I have been trying to keep track of them. I haven't been doing much reading or commenting elsewhere either. Why? Because we have been on a fabulous month-long holiday (I'll write more about it over on A Separate Life in the next days/weeks) celebrating our life together in southern Africa. And there are some pics on my (at)travellingmali Instagram page if you're curious.

As usual after a trip, I think about the questions about kids. The first time we got it was from a honeymoon couple from New York. Clearly they are thinking about children. I just said, "no" to the "do you have?" question, and they said smoothly, "so you're here, doing things like this!" and it wasn't clear if they meant it as compensation, or explanation, and I didn't clarify either. It was easy, and we let it go. Then one of the staff talked about his planned wedding later this year, and the plans that they will get pregnant within the next year, move and change jobs all to ensure good schooling for their as yet unconceived child. DH and I looked at each other and rolled our eyes. The thing is, it will probably work out for them. It does for most people. But the ignorance of his confidence that nothing will go wrong really struck us.

We were asked about kids elsewhere. Nowhere were we asked any follow-up questions. People were polite, and easily able to pivot to another topic of conversation. Where appropriate, I asked simple questions about their kids. But I found it all very easy. Mostly.

The highlight was at the very beginning of our trip. On safari, we shared our vehicle with a couple from the UK who were about our age or just a few years older. We had a lovely time with them. I said to my husband after a couple of days that I was sure they didn't have children either. It hadn't been mentioned, almost pointedly, by either of us. In fact, it actually took me a day or two to realise that neither of us had brought it up. How liberating is that? I felt so free and relaxed, and didn't even think about the issue.

Towards the end of our days together, I was chatting to the other woman, asked her to forgive me asking the question, and asked it myself. I felt awful doing it, and so as soon as she confirmed my guess that no, they didn't have children, I assured her that we didn't either, and apologised for the question.  She made me laugh. "If I'd had kids, I would have told you all about them by now!" I agreed, saying that this is why I thought I could ask the question. Neither of us talked about why we weren't parents. I suspect again that we were both childless not by choice, simply the way that we talked about the subject. But there was no need to know. We'd had a lovely time together, have exchanged emails, and hope to meet again.That's all that mattered. 

We were away for over four weeks. It was not school holidays, so we rarely encountered children on our travels. (Well, except for the hundreds of kids on school trips in one part of South Africa - though they just made us smile.) How lovely it was to feel part of a place, of experiences, of life, without feeling that our reproductive status was in any way relevant. There was just freedom. Bliss. Joy.

Balancing my message

I read an interesting article* today, that talks about countries that measure happiness and receive a high ranking, and how that can actually increase mental distress. In brief, it said that if you are told you should be happy (because you live in one of the happiest countries in the world, for example) but you are not, then your level of isolation and mental distress is going to be higher. 

Effectively, it seems that this is the old equation whereby Satisfaction = Performance less Expectation. If you expect to be happy and are told that you should be, but you're not happy (for whatever reason), you are going to feel even worse. Your expectations have been raised, and by not achieving them, you feel even more deficient. The article noted of course that social media can accentuate this, because of the pressure to show only the beautiful parts of our lives, or only the best photos, implies that everyone else is living a wonderful life, except us.

When reading the article, it immediately made me think of those of us who are Not Kidding. We have been (or still are) surrounded by people telling us that parenthood is the ultimate goal (as it may have been for us at one time too), and that we won't know true meaning, love, and happiness if we are not parents. It is no wonder that, fighting against that paradigm, we find it so hard to deal with the world sometimes, and find our isolation and otherness to be distressing. But of course, that's because the difficulties and stresses of of being a parent, and the regret that some parents may feel, are not given equal air-time, or equal validity. Most parents, even if they do want to scream in disappointment, anger, and/or frustration, won't do it on social media because they want to protect their children from those emotions too, and (like us) they want to avoid the judgement that they know will result. Both those are very understandable reasons. But what it means is that they perpetuate the idea that parenthood is everything, and we continue to be bombarded with just one side of the story.

This brought me also to thinking about my blogs about embracing our new lives. I know I've expressed this concern before. I worry that by talking about the positives of life without children - which are varied and many - I might make people who are struggling feel worse. Having been there, I would never want to do that. It is a fine line between acknowledging the true joys of our lives with the losses that brought us here, and the difficulties that we might face. It's a fine line between emphasising the good times and denying the pain that we have felt or occasionally feel. I'm often torn. I want and need to let people know that life without children (not by choice) can be and is wonderful. I don't want pity, or condescension. I am not lesser, and I do not want to convey that. 

But at the same time, I don't want any of us to be ignored either. We face discrimination, we face bias, and we are often ignored or invisible. Our feelings are not often considered. Our isolation is dismissed. Our lives are joked about, even if at the same time, our lives might be envied. So I guess what I am saying is that if you are struggling, I recognise that, and have written about it, and will continue to write about it here. I would never want you to think that I ignore the tough parts of our life. Life is not perfect, and no-one has the perfect life. But life isn't all doom and gloom either. That is not our fate. Far from it. There is so much to celebrate. So much to hope for, even in the dark days. Hope that your life will be good, that you will find peace and joy again. That your growth will be extraordinary, even if you can't see it at the moment. That you will find gifts from this life that you would never have expected. 

I'm not kidding. It really does get easier.

 

* I can't find the exact link, apologies!

Turning trauma into art

"Writing about trauma is more than simply documenting experience—it's about illuminating life on earth. It's about transforming tragedy into art, and hoping that somehow that piece of art may help someone else who's gone through something unbearable and who doesn't yet see that there truly is a light at the end of the dark tunnel."

— Tracy Strauss, Poets and Writers Magazine, Sept/Oct 13

I found this quote some years ago and have been meaning to show it here. Not that I would describe this blog as “art!” But the idea of writing about our traumas, about our losses, and about our recovery definitely applies to this blog, and to the blogs of so many of my readers too. I love that it recognises that writing about our own traumas helps others feel less alone, that they can read our stories and see themselves in it, that they don’t feel quite so isolated.

I love too that it recognises that writing about traumas can provide hope that maybe things will improve. After all, when we find our lives are going to be spent without children, it is not a static situation where life as we had planned it stops. Where there is initially a vacuum because our lives are not filled with the children or grandchildren we had hoped for, life and light and joy will fill it. In particular, hope fills that vacuum, although it is directed somewhere new. There is, as the quote above mentions, light at the end of the tunnel, and we all find solidarity and friendship and joy through the third, feared and neglected door of Infertility’s Waiting Room.

I know all of us who blog in our No Kidding world talk about this – the pleasure of discovering that life goes on, and is good and rich and full. I apologise to those who find it repetitious. But I do think it’s worth repeating for anyone new who might find this blog. And it's worth reminding those of us who have been here for a while too, and may have the occasional lapse. It gets better. I'm not kidding.

Gratitude for the little things

I write a lot about how appreciating the little things enabled me to see that life was going to be okay, and to remember that there is joy even during the first throes of grief. The last few days I've been feeling a bit weepy, and I'm not sure why. It might be because the focus of our lives over the last few years is now over, as of Wednesday last week when the in-law's house officially left the family, and I don't know what to do with the relief. I don't know. I know it will pass. But it's a good time to remember the good things about life that are often so little. It helps with resilience, and sometimes I need that. I thought I'd share some of mine from the last day or so.

• I baked bread for lunch, and that first crusty slice, slathered with avocado and topped with ripe tomato slices, had me groaning in ecstasy. A simple lunch, but it was soooo good.
• I've been listening to the news today, with the first non-quarantine flights between Australia and New Zealand for a year arriving today, as our joint "travel bubble" opened today. So much joyful family reunification brought a tear (or two) to my eyes too.
• The sun shining through the yellowing oak tree leaves this morning made the whole tree glow. Not a bad sight to see as I ate breakfast, I think?
• A beautiful autumn walk along the foreshore last evening with my husband. I enjoyed the exercise, the sea was calm and blue, dozens of people (and dogs) were enjoying the beach, and the low light was just beautiful.
• I wrote my #Microblog Monday post for A Separate Life yesterday, hitting Schedule 24 hours early. A very satisfying feeling. I should do it more often! lol
  
• I learned a new knitting stitch last night, and I enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment as it worked perfectly.
• Reading some lovely heart-warming posts yesterday and today from fellow bloggers Klara, Jess, and Infertile Phoenix.
  

And now, for something unrelated but necessary:

Admin Notice: 

Blogger has advised that their email subscription service will be discontinued in July 2021.

After July 2021, my feeds will still continue to work, but the automated emails to my subscribers will no longer be supported. Maybe try Feedly to keep up to date with my posts here. Or subscribe to Instagram (@nokiddinginnz)where I will try and flag new posts more regularly. 

 

Shared experiences in beauty and grief

 Last week, I went to the very fabulous Van Gogh Alive exhibition. If you haven't seen it, I hope that one day you get the opportunity to do so. I've seen Van Gogh paintings in museums around the world, including the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, which has wall-to-wall originals of his various sunflower paintings. But this was something else. They take paintings, and parts of the paintings, and project them on screens to music. Some aspects are moving - clouds or trains or birds. When Starry Nights is shown, or a forest scene, you feel as if you are immersed in the forest.

Accompanying the beauty and anguish of the paintings are quotes from Van Gogh's writings and letters. He could paint, but wow, he could write too. I started photographing so many of the quotes, because they spoke to me, and because they seemed so appropriate to this blog. It was just a reminder of the experiences and thoughts and growth we share with others going through hard times, who feel isolated or "other" or misunderstood, who feel alone, sad and depressed. 

I'm just going to put up some of the quotes and paintings, and let you decide if they fit with your life or not.

In an artist's life,
death is perhaps not the most difficult thing.

I will not live without love.

I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic
than to love people.

The beginning is perhaps more difficult
than anything else, but keep heart,
it will turn out all right.

I wish they would only take me as I am.

Though I am often in the depths of misery,
there is still calmness, pure harmony,
and music inside me.

It is looking at things for a long time
that ripens you and gives you a
deeper meaning.

Finding beauty in the weeds

Yesterday, I wrote a Monday post about a walk I had recently taken. You can read about it here. The key point was that I had found joy in the little things. Namely, trees I saw all the time, and weeds. Yes, weeds!

I thought again that this was one of the main things that helped me get through the dark days of loss. But not only the dark days. Noticing beautiful things helps make good days into great. It accentuates joy that I might  already be feeling. It deepens gratitude that I am already feeling. It is a lesson that I have brought with me into my No Kidding life. Yes, I know I talk about this frequently. But I think about it a lot too. I never knew at the time what an impact it might have on my life.

When I was young, I used to take joy in little things too, in the form of childish excitement. But as I grew into a teenager and young adult, I think I felt it less. Excitement wasn't acceptable as we grew up. I remember at one time being told to calm down. I never let myself feel or show my excitement in that way again. Not really.

But when I was grieving, I realised that I could take a quiet joy in things that took my mind off my grief. It helped. And it helped to be able to name what I was doing. A friend told me early on in second ectopic to roll with the feelings. That they'd come and go, and that was okay. That was, it turned out, good advice. Because in doing that, I was better able to understand those feelings, recognise them for what they were, and let them flow through me. .

The grief of loss, the pain, the fear, the jealousy, were each acknowledged. But at the same time, it helped to feel joy, and know it was joy or pleasure in the moment, without denying all those other emotions that were swamping me. It helped to feel gratitude, and recognise it as gratitude, knowing that things weren't so bad, that in some ways I was lucky, that there were things in my life that were still good. It helped with perspective. There wasn't just loss in my life. There was more than that.

Gradually, I became better able to understand, recognise, and actually own my feelings. My feelings weren't me - they were a part of me, but I could see they weren't permanent. Sometimes they helped, sometimes they didn't. But if I could recognise them, I could deal with them too.

Owning my feelings. Even the ugly ones. That has been part of the growth of coming to terms with, and living, a No Kidding life. Maybe it would have come to me anyway. Perhaps. But I'm pleased it has. It makes my life better. Easier. Filled with joy and gratitude. And I think (I hope) kinder too. Better able to understand myself and others. Perhaps that's the best gift of all. 

There is beauty everywhere. Even in the unwanted weeds. And it is there to help us.

 

No Kidding 2020 Project: Day 3 - Delight

In the dark days when I was dealing first with loss, and then with the realisation that I would never have children, I had moments of relief from the disappointment and grief. In those fleeting moments, joy crept into my life. When it first happened it was unexpected, and I was taken aback, shocked that I could feel joy in the midst of the worst times of my life. Shocked, and guilty. I felt terrible that for a few moments I forgot about the all-encompassing loss and grief I was feeling. It felt like a betrayal – of me, of the babies I had lost, and of my husband. I wondered what it meant. If I could feel joy, maybe I wasn’t grieving as much as I thought? If I could feel joy, maybe I hadn’t tried hard enough, or wanted it enough?

But the simple fact is that, just like it is hard to escape sadness in this life, it is also hard to escape joy. And joy helps the sadness pass. It doesn’t erase it, certainly not at the beginning. But it gives some relief. It shows that life is always worth living, and a sign that we will be okay. Let it find you. Let yourself feel it.

And so my message today is to delight in whatever brings you joy.

I’ve written about the importance of joy quite a lot (I have 19 posts labelled “joy”), but that is because my memories of those flashes of joy are so clear, so intense, and that being able to feel joy or delight was an important, if surprising,  part of healing.