Last week, me and my physiotherapist discussed the pain in my back that I've been feeling for a while which sometimes can be so intens that I don't know how to move my body, and at other times disappears for days or even weeks. She asked me if I had suffer some stress lately?
I tried to shrug in a nonchalant way; it hadn't been that bad. Sure, the last months I experienced some stress because I was about to become unemployed, by choice, in the midst of this economical crisis. And yes, before that, I had been stressed at work sometimes, but nothing extreme. Afterwards, I realised that my reaction might have been a little misplaced. The prospect of a new, unknown future causes more stress then I'd like, but is nothing compared to the stress I've had at work in recent years.
I don't say this to earn some pity. What actually really surprised me was that I never realized how much stress I often feel and have felt. Only when the stress at work led to frequent fights at home, I realized that perhaps, it might be time for change. Without having a clear plan of what I want to do with my life, looking at the future as it presents itself before me, my choice to quit regularly freaks me out. Whenever I explain my lack of plans to friends, family and acquaintances, I can see how the very idea of my present life freaks them out as well; "But, but, how are you.., and what will you.., and then what...?". Their reaction doesn't really help to lower my stress. So all in all, it's not really strange that I have this pain. Stress can have many physical effects, which I already knew for a long time (years ago, an extreme stressful situation led to a swollen lip and too much tension has also led to involuntarily throwing up).
But the possibilities that arise also give energy and lead to a thousand ideas for a possible new life. And that changes the stress into excitement and a positive energy, because of which I look forward to start all those new adventures.
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Monologue
I just entered the train and am about to sit down. When I take of my coat to get ready for the ride home, I hear someone mumbling behind me. At first, I think the grimy voice is accompanying the middle-aged woman on the other side of the aisle. He asks her loudly if this train is going to The Hague. She hesitantly answers with a nod and then turns her back to him.
As the train slowly begin to move I listen, partly involuntarily, to his monologue:
"My mitts are freezing man.
When I get home, I have to take my medicine. I totally forgot to take them.
I went to buy a ticket. Costed me three euro. And now they don't check them. But I still had to pay three euro.
I borrowd a tenner from my daughter.
Freezing mitts daddy.
Is this the train to The Hague?
My mitts are freezing.
This and that and so and so.
Where are we? Delft. Oh, Delft. I lived in Delft for twenty-five years. Now I live in The Hague for eight. But I grew up in Delft. Does this train stop at Holland Spoor or at the other station?
Last week, I scammed a ride on the train, but it still costed me money. This is where my daughter lived. But now she lives in Zoetermeer.
My phone is at home. My phone is at home.
My phone. Is at home.
I have to call my daughter soon though. I have four children, and seven grandchildren.
And I love all seven of them.
I have to remember to take my medicine.
Where are we now? We're still not in The Hague, right? This looks familiar.
My mitts are still freezing."
The announcer calls for the next station: The Hague Holland Spoor.
"Ah, that's my stop. Holland Spoor. That's where I have to get out."
As he get's up and gathers his stuff, I carefully look behind me, to see who this voice belongs? He's in his late fifties, long grey hair, and has very bad breath.
As he walks to the train doors, he keeps talking. The other people around him look at each other and smile apologetically to their fellow passengers. although we listened to his monologue involuntary, we whisper to each other that it must be a hard life to live.
I just hope he feel's warm soon.
As the train slowly begin to move I listen, partly involuntarily, to his monologue:
"My mitts are freezing man.
When I get home, I have to take my medicine. I totally forgot to take them.
I went to buy a ticket. Costed me three euro. And now they don't check them. But I still had to pay three euro.
I borrowd a tenner from my daughter.
Freezing mitts daddy.
Is this the train to The Hague?
My mitts are freezing.
This and that and so and so.
Where are we? Delft. Oh, Delft. I lived in Delft for twenty-five years. Now I live in The Hague for eight. But I grew up in Delft. Does this train stop at Holland Spoor or at the other station?
Last week, I scammed a ride on the train, but it still costed me money. This is where my daughter lived. But now she lives in Zoetermeer.
My phone is at home. My phone is at home.
My phone. Is at home.
I have to call my daughter soon though. I have four children, and seven grandchildren.
And I love all seven of them.
I have to remember to take my medicine.
Where are we now? We're still not in The Hague, right? This looks familiar.
My mitts are still freezing."
The announcer calls for the next station: The Hague Holland Spoor.
"Ah, that's my stop. Holland Spoor. That's where I have to get out."
As he get's up and gathers his stuff, I carefully look behind me, to see who this voice belongs? He's in his late fifties, long grey hair, and has very bad breath.
As he walks to the train doors, he keeps talking. The other people around him look at each other and smile apologetically to their fellow passengers. although we listened to his monologue involuntary, we whisper to each other that it must be a hard life to live.
I just hope he feel's warm soon.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Time
Time is a strange concept when you're traveling. At some point, you forget what day and date it is and feel detached from the rest of the world, that is defined by an ever continuing ticking clock.
On the other hand, time is the only thing that determines your trip. In the morning, there's check-out time. Then it takes time to travel to your next destination, and you normally take more time to actually get there, including breaks. Because when you're traveling, it's always time for a break: a coffee break, lunch break, toilet break. And of course, you want to arrive somewhere in time, so you have time for dinner and a nice evening. The next day, it starts all over again.
Then there's the time difference. Eleven years ago, I still had to calculate whether it was the right time to call home, now, receiving replies on emails arrive a lot later than they usually do (eleven years ago, email didn't function like a conversation like it does now, it was more like writing a letter, you didn't mind the wait).
And it has gotten worse. Thanks to wifi, you're online and available everywhere. The only problem in New Zealand is that the internet still comes from Australia and therefor is so expensive that you have to purchase time limited internet access.
So if, after a relaxed day that was actually determined by time, you want to get in touch with home, taking the time difference in account, you are also dependent on the 30, 60 or 120 minutes that you purchased for a lot of money. And then, the people at home have to be there and have to have time to talk, chat or reply your email.
It's not easy to be a world traveler.
On the other hand, time is the only thing that determines your trip. In the morning, there's check-out time. Then it takes time to travel to your next destination, and you normally take more time to actually get there, including breaks. Because when you're traveling, it's always time for a break: a coffee break, lunch break, toilet break. And of course, you want to arrive somewhere in time, so you have time for dinner and a nice evening. The next day, it starts all over again.
Then there's the time difference. Eleven years ago, I still had to calculate whether it was the right time to call home, now, receiving replies on emails arrive a lot later than they usually do (eleven years ago, email didn't function like a conversation like it does now, it was more like writing a letter, you didn't mind the wait).
And it has gotten worse. Thanks to wifi, you're online and available everywhere. The only problem in New Zealand is that the internet still comes from Australia and therefor is so expensive that you have to purchase time limited internet access.
So if, after a relaxed day that was actually determined by time, you want to get in touch with home, taking the time difference in account, you are also dependent on the 30, 60 or 120 minutes that you purchased for a lot of money. And then, the people at home have to be there and have to have time to talk, chat or reply your email.
It's not easy to be a world traveler.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Roadkill
Driving in foreign country is always an adventure. Last summer, I violently touched a deer, when I was driving through the States, which damaged the car in such a bad way that a poor guy had to drive up for four hours to replace it. The deer apparently survived, because it was nowhere to be seen.
On the other side of the world, where it is already an adventure to drive on the wrong - or right (though left) side, the roads are paved with small animals that are united with the tarmac in different heights. Besides the fact that they take many forms while dying - long and stretched or small and round, there are also an awful lot of different kinds: white butterflies, little round birds, stretched out mice, opossums or other rodents.
As a true vegetarian, I'm always afraid of these kinds of accidents, I prefer to refrain from any animal suffering whatsoever. However, the number of stupid birds that scarcely escaped the destructive effects of my tires is huge and sometimes the situation demands for the sacrifice of a bird instead of a human - that's obvious of course.
But every time there's a little pile of animal on the road and I drive along or over upright legs, tails or wings in an almost casual way, I wonder how 'mankind' got to be so superior? What makes us better than these animals, and why aren't we bothered by their deaths? We travel to the other side of the world because only there we can find pure nature, we try our best to take pictures without any proof of human action ("too bad of that lamppost", "hey, why didn't they put that fence just a little to the right?", "ugh, that stupid farm ruins my photo"), but we only shrug when we pass the hundreds of lives that once were. Of course, I realize that with all the misery in this world, roadkill in New Zealand will score low on the list - they still had a great life before they met my car. But still. But still. But still, I wonder every time again.
On the other side of the world, where it is already an adventure to drive on the wrong - or right (though left) side, the roads are paved with small animals that are united with the tarmac in different heights. Besides the fact that they take many forms while dying - long and stretched or small and round, there are also an awful lot of different kinds: white butterflies, little round birds, stretched out mice, opossums or other rodents.
As a true vegetarian, I'm always afraid of these kinds of accidents, I prefer to refrain from any animal suffering whatsoever. However, the number of stupid birds that scarcely escaped the destructive effects of my tires is huge and sometimes the situation demands for the sacrifice of a bird instead of a human - that's obvious of course.
But every time there's a little pile of animal on the road and I drive along or over upright legs, tails or wings in an almost casual way, I wonder how 'mankind' got to be so superior? What makes us better than these animals, and why aren't we bothered by their deaths? We travel to the other side of the world because only there we can find pure nature, we try our best to take pictures without any proof of human action ("too bad of that lamppost", "hey, why didn't they put that fence just a little to the right?", "ugh, that stupid farm ruins my photo"), but we only shrug when we pass the hundreds of lives that once were. Of course, I realize that with all the misery in this world, roadkill in New Zealand will score low on the list - they still had a great life before they met my car. But still. But still. But still, I wonder every time again.
Sunday, February 17, 2013
Identity
You can only start all over when you leave the old behind.
By suddenly renaming something the Old, that for years had been the Present - my job, it feels like my life turned upside down. My job had determined who I was over the last few years. I committed my time, energy and love to a place, the people, the work. When I told strangers about my job, I also told them about me.
Of course, not everyone sees it that way. People have jobs that don't say a thing about what they like or find important in life. People who work at IKEA don't necessarily like to arrange or build things or love Scandinavia. But in my case, by leaving my job, I now don't belong there anymore, I'm not a part of a place that felt like home for such a long time.
There's no better way to separate the New from the Old than leaving. In this case by traveling to the other side of the world for a few weeks (which lead to envy from people at home who have to work and to pity from other travelers who are on the road for months).
The problem with traveling though, is that you are constantly determining your identity. The first things people ask when you meet them are: who are you and what do you do? I still have to get used to talk about my new occupation, and I always feel a little insecure when I tell them. But it is a relief to see that no-one questions me and everyone just accepts it when I tell them.
They already believe me. Now I have to start believing it.
By suddenly renaming something the Old, that for years had been the Present - my job, it feels like my life turned upside down. My job had determined who I was over the last few years. I committed my time, energy and love to a place, the people, the work. When I told strangers about my job, I also told them about me.
Of course, not everyone sees it that way. People have jobs that don't say a thing about what they like or find important in life. People who work at IKEA don't necessarily like to arrange or build things or love Scandinavia. But in my case, by leaving my job, I now don't belong there anymore, I'm not a part of a place that felt like home for such a long time.
There's no better way to separate the New from the Old than leaving. In this case by traveling to the other side of the world for a few weeks (which lead to envy from people at home who have to work and to pity from other travelers who are on the road for months).
The problem with traveling though, is that you are constantly determining your identity. The first things people ask when you meet them are: who are you and what do you do? I still have to get used to talk about my new occupation, and I always feel a little insecure when I tell them. But it is a relief to see that no-one questions me and everyone just accepts it when I tell them.
They already believe me. Now I have to start believing it.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
Rituals
People love rituals. We are creatures of habit, who like to know what is coming, so we can live our lives quietly and without any hassle. Everything that disrupts the ordinary has to be normalized as quickly as possible, because we want to feel safe.
When you want to start again, you need to change your rituals and habits. You have to break with existing patterns, to make place for new ones. Resigning your job means that work rituals will disappear: snoozing in the morning, getting a coffee when you arrive at the office, incoming emails that will determine your work, time ticking away too slow, but more often too fast so it's too late for lunch and almost time to go home, chats with your colleagues about life after work. A new job will replace some of the stress. because even though the coffee cups and your lunch buddies will look different, the snoozing and chats will probably still be a part of your life.
Without having a new job, without lunch buddies or coffee in the morning, your new life feels like a huge black hole of unknown depths. Sure, you can make yourself a coffee at home, you can have lunch with potential partners and force yourself to start snoozing early in the morning. But facing the unknown nature of your work, which only gradually will become clear, goes against all human behaviour.
It's frightening not to know what is going to happen over the coming months and eventually years.
I regularly feel like I'm jumping into a pool of icecold water, that takes my breath away. It's like that typical sauna feeling when every fiber in your body cries out: WHY? Why jump into this bath, when we were having such a great time in the eucalyptus scented heat? But you know, while the fibers in your body keep shouting at you, that although the heat was indeed lovely and safe, once you'll climb out that cold bath, those little screaming fibers will start purring like kittens because the next feeling will be so much better than if you hadn't jumped.
So whenever I am mentally catching my breath in the cold, I imagine the wonderful feeling that will come next, and I try to be confident that everything will turn out right. The lack of rituals can only mean that there are endless possibilities and anything that will happen might become a new ritual in time.
When you want to start again, you need to change your rituals and habits. You have to break with existing patterns, to make place for new ones. Resigning your job means that work rituals will disappear: snoozing in the morning, getting a coffee when you arrive at the office, incoming emails that will determine your work, time ticking away too slow, but more often too fast so it's too late for lunch and almost time to go home, chats with your colleagues about life after work. A new job will replace some of the stress. because even though the coffee cups and your lunch buddies will look different, the snoozing and chats will probably still be a part of your life.
Without having a new job, without lunch buddies or coffee in the morning, your new life feels like a huge black hole of unknown depths. Sure, you can make yourself a coffee at home, you can have lunch with potential partners and force yourself to start snoozing early in the morning. But facing the unknown nature of your work, which only gradually will become clear, goes against all human behaviour.
It's frightening not to know what is going to happen over the coming months and eventually years.
I regularly feel like I'm jumping into a pool of icecold water, that takes my breath away. It's like that typical sauna feeling when every fiber in your body cries out: WHY? Why jump into this bath, when we were having such a great time in the eucalyptus scented heat? But you know, while the fibers in your body keep shouting at you, that although the heat was indeed lovely and safe, once you'll climb out that cold bath, those little screaming fibers will start purring like kittens because the next feeling will be so much better than if you hadn't jumped.
So whenever I am mentally catching my breath in the cold, I imagine the wonderful feeling that will come next, and I try to be confident that everything will turn out right. The lack of rituals can only mean that there are endless possibilities and anything that will happen might become a new ritual in time.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Again
Once, I did this theatrecourse of a week, that was titled 'Again'. You had to repeat things, but each time like it was the first. So I jumped for half a day like I hadn't jumped before, and I had to sink to the ground and stand up again in slow motion for at least one and a half day. We were given a time frame (the duration of a song, five minutes starting now) and couldn't change our pace. It probably won't sound all that exciting, but I still have fond memories of that week. It was when I found out that there are numerous ways to do something that seems the same in a different way.
It feels like I'm starting over again. I'm not talking about the New Year and the twelve empty months that lie ahead and that I get to colour. Ten years ago, I graduated and got my first job. Slowly, I found my way: I found what I liked to do and what I didn't like so much. I had several temporary jobs untill I decided to err on the side of caution and take a 'real' job. And by a nice twist of fate, I got the job I knew would be mine when I applied for it.
Now, after working at this amazing place for six years, I choose the unsafe path and step into the unknown. I am going to try to do something I'm not so good at: to follow my heart. I am going to try to do the things I really want to do, but that actually scare me too much. And more and more, I am reminded of the course I did years ago and the fun I had finding new ways to go down and push myself up again. Whenever my daily panic attack hits me and I feel like jumping into a pool of icecold water, I try to focus on how I pushed myself up again. I guess it will be like that in real life too.
I will start again
It feels like I'm starting over again. I'm not talking about the New Year and the twelve empty months that lie ahead and that I get to colour. Ten years ago, I graduated and got my first job. Slowly, I found my way: I found what I liked to do and what I didn't like so much. I had several temporary jobs untill I decided to err on the side of caution and take a 'real' job. And by a nice twist of fate, I got the job I knew would be mine when I applied for it.
Now, after working at this amazing place for six years, I choose the unsafe path and step into the unknown. I am going to try to do something I'm not so good at: to follow my heart. I am going to try to do the things I really want to do, but that actually scare me too much. And more and more, I am reminded of the course I did years ago and the fun I had finding new ways to go down and push myself up again. Whenever my daily panic attack hits me and I feel like jumping into a pool of icecold water, I try to focus on how I pushed myself up again. I guess it will be like that in real life too.
I will start again
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