Selecting Those 1% Reads

I haven’t written in months. I would classify myself as someone who writes, as opposed to a writer. The former brings possibility, the latter pressure and expectation. I need to feel to write. Today, I feel.

I’ve read many books down the years. I intensely disliked reading as a child, yet was handed the opportunity to address that at university, when, for the first time in my life, I could not get around reading the assigned book, Jacqueline Wilson’s The Suitcase Kid. Whilst aimed at people younger than I was, it was most enjoyable, and over the years, cemented its place as the spark that ignited a bonfire. The fire continues to burn, and, having read a mind-changing piece minutes ago, it motivates me to share a few titles with you, titles which represent that one-percent, crème de la crème to me.

Each has changed the way I see the world. I’d love to know how you felt about these if you have read them, now, or later, or which books impacted you so. Book talk multiplies the enjoyment of reading exponentially.

Stuffocation – James Wallman

Perhaps the best title ever given and a word that should surely adorn the pages of our dictionaries for time to come. Wallman argues that too much stuff is the greatest problem the Western world faces, that it’s killing us. Dramatic? Possibly. But it led me to minimalism as I found myself identifying with the problems of having too many things, a problem I naively felt was unique to myself, yet formed part of the reason I entered therapy some time ago, and spent my early adult years unhappily married yet hopelessly trapped. Wallman has a couple of talks on YouTube, and a slightly awkward manner of delivery. I urge you to check them out, especially if you’re at the beginning of the minimalism journey, or, even better, yet to discover it.

Sapiens – Yuval Noah Harari

Harari’s brief history of humankind presents thoughtful considerations on why Homo sapiens have developed as we have, with particular reference to behaviour. Today’s reading discusses the development of religion, and how Communism and capitalism fall squarely within its confines. Time and again, he has illuminated my thinking, and I love nothing more than a person that challenges the way I think about things.

The Things We Are Prepared To Walk Away From – Joshua Fields Millburn

https://www.google.co.uk/amp/s/www.theminimalists.com/walk-away/amp/

In this short essay, Fields Millburn cuts to the heart of how I interpret minimalism, providing a parallel context away from the abstention of unnecessary material pursuit. Here, he discusses the need for ongoing love for the people we spend time with, and that only with that love can both parties attain fulfilment. Thought-provoking, borderline radical in parts, I challenge you to read this with passivity. I couldn’t, and, many reads later, cannot today.

The Damned United – David Peace

The controversial fictionalisation of football (soccer) manager, Brian Clough, covering his early career and dovetailing this narrative with that of his ill-fated forty-four days as manager of then-giant Leeds United. In Peace’s version, he brings to life the legend of Clough, with his greatness and especially his weaknesses. I have many, many weaknesses, and tend to respect, if not quite revere, those who know what it is like to struggle with things too. The character is portrayed so strongly that you can begin to predict what he’ll say or do next. A fabulous text for anyone who understands why we don’t always do what appears so obvious to everyone else, for anyone who understands what it is to be driven by fear. For anyone who understands what it is to spend so much time watching the bottom line that ascension to the levels above appears as mythological as Heaven to an atheist.

Taking a Step Back

This week has been all about taking a step back in my relationship, cutting out the noise that creates unhappy thoughts and feelings, and looking for something that aligns more with my values. 
It’s easy to forget who we are in this world of constant stimulation. A moment’s peace is harder to come by. Even on a walk by yourself, you can find yourself bombarded with unwanted advertisements – billboards, taxis, even minimalist podcasts – all vying for your attention. 
But attention is a scarce resource. By paying attention to one thing, you cannot, by definition, be paying attention elsewhere. Choosing how to spend it governs much of our wellbeing, which is why it is imperative to monitor how you feel when you are around different people, things and situations. Ask yourself: Why am I here? If you can’t describe a net positive contribution for your soul, maybe you should be some place else. 
A difficult week with my partner follows a couple of difficult ones and we decided to be honest with each other a couple of days ago. It was a painful experience and I’m digesting what was said, and I realised I needed to take a step back. Some of the things that were said made me realise my partner doesn’t really know me at all. Maybe I’ve lost so much of myself in the relationship that I don’t either. I don’t like who I am when I’m around her sometimes, and that matters. Having a poorly face adds frustration into the mix, feeling unable to comfortably express myself so much of the time. Taking the last couple of days to reconnect with myself has left me peaceful, enjoying a slower pace of life. 
This morning I packed and brought home several everyday items that I had left with her, clothing mostly. I found it quite upsetting and put it away immediately, the sight of it heaped in the corner a reminder of what ultimately looks like failure. A healthier way to express it would be the continuation of my journey, and all steps are valuable, even the unhappy ones. When unencumbered with false urgencies and stress, I often reflect on the past this way; it enables me to enjoy happy reminiscences and neutralise events that once caused me pain.  
I don’t know what the way forward will be here. There appears one or two insurmountable obstacles, though time softens the sharpest of words, because when it’s all said and done, no one remembers what you said or did, just how you made them feel. And I don’t feel that bad. 
By taking that step back and spending more of my attentional energy in my world, my space, it’ll give me that peace of mind and freedom necessary to be able to give more to others, which is what I’m doing when I feel most purposeful, and ultimately happiest. 

Being Intentional in a Relationship

Five years back, a scene in The Americans left its mark on me. General Zhukov explained his feelings for his dog in a way that changed how I saw parental relationships. Denouncing his dog for her lack of beauty and intelligence, he surprises us by saying that he cares for her everyday, and, in that act, he falls in love with her and realises his life would have no meaning without her. As a father now, I understand those sentiments. Only lately, through the prism of minimalism, have I seen that they apply to romantic relationships as well. 
I’ve never made relationships easy. Ex-partners would characterise me as moody, hard work and often cold. In both my marriage and a long term relationship (LTR) prior, I frequently lived up to the billing. I didn’t want to, and I convinced myself that I’d been with the wrong people – that the bad ways began with external stimuli. Then came a recent LTR in which my partner was different. 
Genuinely, she is kind, affectionate, loving, interesting, caring and supportive. Despite this, I was not able to change, and not understanding why has been a source of great frustration. I wonder if an LTR is something I think I want until I get it and then realise maybe I don’t want it at all. 
Through the practice of minimalism, I have seen that people are infinitely more important than things, and that doing meaningful things with them makes me happier than buying possessions ever did. However, I think I’ve been stuck in an endless cycle of thinking about what I want to take from a relationship rather than give. I know what I want but the trouble is when I get it I’m not really happy as I’ve usually played to get it and it makes me feel selfish, lowering my self-esteem, and from there stems moodiness and coldness. Add to this that we quickly pick up on someone who gives only to receive, and often resent them for it. After all, it’s ugly. 
This week has been an eye-opener for me. Quoted in a podcast by The Minimalists, Martin Luther King Jr stated that life’s most persistent and urgent question is: What are you doing for others?
My first thought was to ask the lady with whom I’ve spent the last eighteen months. My second was to not do that. It has the potential to be adversarial, especially in a period of unhappiness and change. Perhaps I could put myself in her shoes and answer. I produced very little and, from there, began to answer my question about why I become unhappy in LTRs, and what I could do to change this moving forward. I’m not ready to contemplate being alone for the future and I am unwilling to accept unhappiness as the default state in my relationships. 
I am happiest when I give to others. My time, my attention, my mind, my support. I feel good about myself and in my own small way help to improve the lives of others in the process, contributing beyond looking after my needs in the world. Since that moment, I’ve set King’s quote as my phone wallpaper to help me form a habit of asking myself: what am I doing for others? More, I’ve taken action and, I dare say, helped as many people this week as in the whole of last month. This increased intentionality elevates my consciousness about what happens in happy relationships. 
As I focus more on giving than taking, I am less disappointed when my hopes aren’t met. After all, I’ve spent less time focusing on them and building expectations around them. And I build up credit, perhaps in the banks of others, but especially in my own bank. This credit isn’t to be spent sinfully in a rather calculated balance, rather to be saved as a reminder of a way to make everyone a little bit happier.

God?

I want, desperately, to believe in God. I state that frankly. It is absolutely how I feel and as far as religion and myself goes, it is something that drives my thoughts and feelings. As with so many things in my life, I’m ambivalent. I don’t know if I do or I don’t. The technical term for this is agnostic. At times in my life, I’ve really struggled with this, and I’m struggling with it again now. If you have seen any of my recent anti-religious posts, you may have gathered I’m a little unsettled. 
It is always during dark times that the question arises. I am a selfish person. When all is well, religion doesn’t factor in for me at all. I don’t even think about it. When I’m sad, when things are going badly for a time, that’s when I begin to wrestle with it. And what I wrestle with is this: ultimately I’m a scientific man. I believe in testing theories and arguments to see if they stand up to scrutiny, and tend to respect or rally against them thus. I’ve always had a hard time hearing things I believe utterly wrong and being quiet about it – and I’m very happy when it turns out I’m wrong, because in that moment, I can grow. I’m not a fundamentalist; my opinions aren’t fixed for all time regardless of evidence. I’m a scientist, and if you show me evidence that the earth is flat which supersedes that which we currently hold pointing to its spherical form, I’ll change my beliefs overnight. Yet despite all of this, and the fact that (to me) there’s no evidence of God whatsoever, I want to believe in him (I say him, I couldn’t care less which gender God is). 

And the reason for this is at 32 years old, I crave a safety blanket. I want someone to wrap me up and tell me everything in my life is going to be okay. It’s been a turbulent few years for me, after 27 of sheer predictability for a kid like me. I grew up as a middle class child, enjoying all of the privileges – and I use that word carefully, because children like me had privileges and head starts in life that others didn’t have. My mum was home when my sister and I were young. She didn’t have to work, we were well clothed and fed in a spacious, comfortable home. Not nearly all are so lucky. She taught me to read quite early, and this, along with the maths she would make me do, gave me a solid foundation to start schooling well and begin to move nearer to top of the class. This continued. My exam results were nothing special but comfortably allowed me to carry on along my path. I went to uni, became a teacher, married, and life, humdrum though it was, ticked along nicely. The safety it afforded me in a salary that made life affordable (without too much money), and in having a wife who, though we often disagreed, I felt loved me, and supported me, when things were well. 

Then came Thursday, 15th November 2012. A little on edge, talking to a colleague, I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my face. I lost concentration on the chatter and began to panic, as you do. As I carried on talking, mostly to test the pain, it happened again and again. I ended politely, went to sit back in my classroom, and try to understand what was happening. This pain would come and go, however it sadly increased in intensity and the length of time I’d have it for. When it was bad, I couldn’t teach, and eating was nearly impossible. This post isn’t about my journey in this regard, but the background will help you to understand why I am where I am with spirituality. Having had more and more time off, my marriage finally broke down in July 2015, and I left teaching in the September. I felt a new start – no stressful relationship especially – no stressful job (I’d become obsessed with being perfect in paperwork and it never ended) – and I’d be okay. Wrong. 
I can’t get rid of the problem. I feel it has ruined the life I worked to create, in terms of employment and family. I see my two daughters two days a week now; it should be seven. That’s what I wanted. I know that when I delve deeper, I have a lot of responsibility in my choices down the years, but my condition has taken life from making it hard for myself to can’t function. And I feel angry. I’m angry at what I believe has been taken from me and I don’t think it’s fair. I feel an injustice. 

But here’s the catch: if something has been taken away; if there’s an injustice, there must be something regulating fairness in the first place, a power higher than me, than us. A power who can do what he (there I go again) likes and I’m nothing more than a lab rat in his cage. I have some choices but if he wants to change the rules, he can. And I am powerless to stop him. 

At times, I pity myself, I guess. I think maybe we all do a bit. I think, ‘Why me?’. Why can’t I teach? I believe I spent over a decade helping children to learn skills they would benefit from in life, both academic and in terms of discipline – being responsible and making the right choice even when it isn’t what they want to do. Working quietly improves output sometimes, even if you want to be chatting with your mates. There’s a life lesson in there. I am not the best person, far from it. But I don’t think I’m the worst either. This feeling of injustice plagues me when I’m unwell. 

I’m never one to settle, and I explore this. If there is a God, why would he be unjust? What would he get out of it? The problem would have to be me, right? 

Recently, I read The God Delusion by Richard Dawkins, which through a process of scientific principle and conveying harrowing tales, ridicules religion and its believers. It struck a chord as it was an outlet for my aforementioned anger. I could join this club. With my logical mind, I’m part-way there. There are so many bad things in religion, from hatred and persecution of people to continual warring between rivals. There are all of the circular, rather childlike arguments about if God created everything, who created him?

At the same time, there are so many good things, too. For any of my teaching colleagues, you may remember a colleague who was in her fifties and so full of the joy of life. She didn’t worry about a thing. Such a lovely, good person, and I miss working with her. She used to belt out Michael Bolton in the morning and once even sewed my jacket! She wore a golden cross around her neck, she was a weekly churchgoer. She is the embodiment of why I want to believe in God. I believe her faith gave her this underlying contentment that things will always work out right in the end. Even when terrible things happen, it’s part of a higher plan, and things will be okay. This is the safety blanket. I can grasp it. 
Spirituality has always been a very personal thing to me. If you read the Bible literally, you will find atrocities – in the Old Testament in particular. This assumes my God would be a Christian God; I was baptised, attended church schools and even my wedding was a religious ceremony as we had both wanted it that way. The Ten Commandments, remembering hard and fast rules all of the time without exploring the latitude of life, would stifle me and my liberal outlook. What I take, or have taken, from God is the idea of love and warmth. That even when you are alone, you’re not really. The love and warmth is always there and when you do good things to help people, to help animals, to help plants, that feeling of warmth and love grows. It becomes security. Everything is going to be alright. 

Then there is the fear. I have lately insulted God and the idea of religion. I have wanted to embrace the teachings of Dawkins’ analysis, wanted to decide once and for all about God and forego the continual battle in my head. My condition has worsened significantly in the last month and in the back of my mind is the fear: am I being punished for blasphemy? Is it guilt? I’m running out of explanations, and historically, turning to God provided one. 
It provided me with that safety blanket away from I am getting it hopelessly wrong all of the time. It allowed me to rest easier in the higher plan. And if it could allow me to be a little more secure, feel a little more loved, and be a little happier, how can that be a bad thing? For now, the battle goes on.