Category: Articles by me

  • Marriage

    IMG_0059

    My partner and I have bought rings.
    We are not marrying each other,
    we are marrying ourselves!

    The more we awaken to ourselves,
    The more our relationship deepens,
    This is our priority now,
    to commit to ourselves first.

    We declared our intentions
    and started to look for rings
    that would symbolize this
    as a gift to ourselves,
    as a reminder of our troth.

    Sofia found hers first.
    It is bright and sparkly clear.
    It reflects her avowed intentions.
    I looked on line for ideas
    but nothing I saw felt right.
    Then, a couple of weeks ago
    we passed an antique market.
    I felt the urge to look
    and I walked past many stalls,
    drawn to one at the back
    with dozens of rings on show.

    My eyes went straight to a men’s ring
    with a rich green stone set in a gold square
    (well – polished brass probably)
    set on a silver ring – see photo.
    It fitted perfectly.
    I dithered over another choice,
    similar but with a red stone.
    Then I knew my first intuition was right.

    It looks bold and ethnic,
    The rich jade stone mysteriously appealing. *
    There are little roundels of crossed swords
    on the decorated silver sides
    and the effect of the whole
    just feels right.
    I want to remind myself
    of my lifelong ‘green’ values,
    of my love of aesthetics,
    refined but slightly exotic.
    The square and the circle
    are strong symbols for
    the masculine and feminine qualities
    that I embody and cherish.
    The swords cut through ignorance
    in service to truth.

    I fiercely commit to love myself,
    to honour and obey my truth;
    to stay true to my beliefs,
    to my values, my souls longings –
    especially when opposed or blocked.

    We have yet to create a ceremony
    worthy of our marriages.
    But that will come
    when the time is right.
    As partners together we notice,
    the more we are intimate with ourselves
    the more we are intimately connected.

    I know that I shall fall short
    of my vows many times.
    But I wish to make this commitment
    with a clear intention for myself
    and no-one else,
    based on love and acceptance
    of my shadow as well as my light.

    And so it shall be, till death do us part.

    * Jade symbolism: Dream Stone,” revered in ancient cultures, as well as today, to access the spiritual world, gain insight into ritualistic knowledge, encourage creativity, and dream-solve. [Melody,341][Raphaell,161] It is cherished as a protective talisman, assuring long life and a peaceful death, and is considered a powerful healing stone. [Mella,87] An amulet of good luck and friendship, Jade signifies wisdom gathered in tranquility, dispelling negative and encouraging one to see oneself as they really are. [Hall,152]

  • The Kali of the forest

    wild boar courage flat
    Last Sunday I did a day of meditation and reflection on the significance of the eclipse and other powerful influences that are affecting us right now.
    In a guided meditation I looked into a mirror and saw a wild boar. I immediately felt this to be my animal totem for the next phase of my life.

    I live on a wooded mountainside where we are surrounded by wild boar and yet we rarely see them. Their presence is brutally displayed in the ravaged turf amongst the olive trees all around us, and we know they are near the house when our dogs wake us in the middle of the night unable to control their excited yelping. This is happening several nights a week at the moment and we see fresh digging and destruction almost every day, though happily not on our land, which is securely fenced.

    These animals are fearless and aggressive in protecting their young and they are hunted in the winter to control the growing numbers as well as for their meat, which is rich and dark, not like pork at all.

    I am in awe of them and it is now time for me to invoke some of their qualities, particularly strength and courage. I call on the totem powers of wild boar, the ‘Kali’ of the forest, to help me at this time.

    The special energy I need from Kali and Boar is the fierce protection of a loving parent to his child. I am aware that my ongoing fears, vulnerabilities and limiting behaviours all come from my wounded child whose original experiences, emotional pain and lack of safety were not properly acknowledged, held, soothed, or protected by a strong and loving parent.

    I learned to cope with my childhood by developing a ‘wise’ and rationalizing self, who could always explain why other people did what they did, and in ‘his’ mind forgive them. This self has run my life in a way that has allowed me to function, but he dishonours so much in me, while my inner child is still left out in the cold, in pain, shamed and made to feel wrong – by that very self in me!! who insists in making it alright for everyone else at my own (inner child’s) expense.

    Seeing this now, I am determined to strengthen my inner loving parent so I can hold my child to give him a genuine feeling of safety and unconditional love that has never been there. This means being willing and able to tell other people when I do not find their behaviour respectful or honouring of me. It means being willing to stand up, with fearless courage if necessary, to tell people what I feel, set my boundary to limit them and assert my right to be who I am, in my truth.

    This is what my inner child and my soul long for, and its what Kali and wild boar offer me now. If I only focus on what is already free in me, I leave my wounded parts stuck, in pain, in my old story.
    I need a new story now. I don’t yet have a mantra for my new totem so I go forward with my heart open, honouring The Goddess:”OM KALI SVAHA!”

  • Surviving Boarding School – New Boy.

    The master led us up the grand staircase and along a dim corridor with bare and squeaky floorboards; past the dorms of the older boys, who were still chatting noisily downstairs on that first night.

    We found ourselves in an attic dormitory with its eight beds all squashed in. The master left us to get to know each other and prepare for ‘lights out’, as he called it, but boyish chatter was in short supply that first evening. I felt the strained silence of shyness and unspoken distress as we all got undressed and into bed. The master returned to check that we were all tucked in, then blurting his impersonal ‘good night’, he plunged us into darkness. As the light went out I momentarily noted that several boys had already disappeared under their coarse woollen blankets.

    I lay face up adjusting my eyes to the darkness until, after barely a minute, muffled sobbing came from the bed next to me, with at least one more further away. Through my disorientation and numbness came a very clear and determined thought:
    ‘I must be OK because I am not crying’.
    My own attempt to self-comfort – the inner voice of a sensitive eight-year-old protecting himself against the unbearable pain that lay barely hidden beneath his bravery. The only thing we had in common on that dark night was that we would not be seeing our parents for three weeks at least and our homes were unimaginably far away.

    My inner protecting voice ensured I survive that night and the next five years. It dampened my sense of loss. But my statement to myself also effectively cut me off from my feelings and imprinted me with emotional blocks that have affected me over the following fifty years.

    I lay awake a while longer, my loneliness and confusion becoming overlaid by the more immediate fears of what tomorrow would bring; whether I would be able to find my way back to our classroom and all the other areas of this seemingly vast and spooky old building. Eventually, exhausted by it all, I fell into a restless sleep to the eerie yet soothing sound of the night wind moaning in the casement windows.

    Over the next weeks and months, I grew to cherish that time of the night before sleep; lying in the dark dormitory with just my own thoughts disturbed only by the restless breathing of the other poor sods with whom I shared my life. It became a necessary moment of coming back to my self in that quiet, after all the bustle and pressure of the day. I could allow my inner feelings a little, wonder what might be happening at home, try to make sense of it all in my childlike way and worry over whatever homework or test lay in stall for us the next day, knowing that it was all down to me. Noone else was there to share my burdens and worries. There were no reassuring arms to fold myself into and no kindly words of advice to show me the way.
    ……..At some point in those early days, possibly even during that first lonely night away from home, I made a massive but unconscious decision that would have far-reaching effects on the rest of my life. But I will come to that later……….

    – This is the first part of a longer autobiographical essay about the moulding of young souls to become leaders of men, how it affected me and my future life. I have never spoken out about it before and my story flows in fits and starts. Much of it still lurks unformed, after years of gestating in my body. Further excerpts will follow.

  • More Support, Less Sport!

    Sport, spectator sport at least, is a serious ‘weapon of mass distraction’, to borrow a phrase from Lewellyn Vaughan-Lee. Men particularly are attracted to sport as a form of escape, where perhaps women might go shopping.

    Sport provides a relatively controlled outlet for men’s need for a sense of belonging and for some form of combat as an outlet for aggression. It fulfills a need; its better than going to war! it can even be therapeutic.

    But all of this, in my humble opinion, is part of an epidemic in modern men, to reach out for anything that focusses attention on the relative safety of their outer world, to dampen, hide and escape from inner pain. There is a huge need for us men to stop running for our chosen form of addiction, whether it is sport, gambling, alcohol, drugs, sex, porn or any combination of these. We need to face the truth of our collective pain and personal woundings. Sport plays its part in this escape and the denial that lies beneath it.

    I need to say here, that I was a keen sportsman at school and I learned a great deal about team spirit, tactics, co-operation and courage. I learned what its like to win and what its like to be a loser. I learned that it is not always about winning or losing, ‘but how you play the game’. I learned about the killer instinct that is needed to be at the top of one’s game; and I found that I didn’t have enough of that.

    I now see my interest in sport was a combination of enjoying the agility of my body and its thrilling hand-eye coordination, along with the regular opportunities it provided for me to gain the approval of my peers and teachers, avoid the misery of shaming that the non-sporty boys were subjected to, and to prove myself to be manly; thus enhancing my fragile self-image; something that all teenagers desperately need. I can’t speak for the girls, but I would imagine their attitude to sport might be similar in some ways and different in others.

    Our culture holds up the most successful sportsmen as heroes. As role models they can play a useful and effective role in helping young people to find their way along the treacherous path to healthy maturity. These sporting role models promote, strength, dedication to a goal, loyalty, teamwork, bravery etc. But it is a path with little room for tenderness, vulnerability, compassion, empathy, emotional intelligence and spiritual depth. I can understand why many women are bored, dismayed and angry at their partner’s dedication to sport at the expense of their commitment to their relationship and family, as an avoidance of facing and dealing with their wounds and multiple fears, be it of intimacy, as a result of early maternal abandonment or engulfment ( I suffer from both), fear of exposure, weakness or disassociation.

    There has always been a small minority of men who, either driven by the need to heal their trauma, or directed by some inner light that they have brought with them from a previous life, become seekers of truth; to know and accept their inner world, to heal their wounds, and thereby grow and then serve humanity in some way. It might be through a powerful calling to engage in many years of spiritual practice, it might be through psychological depth work. It might be through a combination of these paths. Either way it stems from an inner calling of the soul.

    In fact we all have it and it is based on love. Love of life, of others and crucially of ourselves.

    We just need to ‘re-member’, but that can be a hard one. Our society doesn’t as yet acknowledge that we all have an inner calling, let alone honour and respect, then nurture it to enable everyone to find their true path in life along with the sense of fulfillment it brings.

    I’m not suggesting that everyone has crippling inner pain and wounds to heal. Many people’s true path in this life is related to a gift or talent that is very much rooted in the outer material world. The world of sport would be an example of this. Society relies on most of us to find satisfaction in practical jobs in a day-to-day world.

    I am referring to the need for individuals, men and women, to take responsibility for their emotional health and intelligence, consciously working with it. There is help out there, but only on the fringes. It is still considered by the mainstream a thing to do when there is a crisis, usually by less fortunate, un-together people with problems. Without time and money to pay for private training or psychotherapy, the help does not go beyond patching people up and sending them back to work in order to pay their mortgage and their taxes.

    The cultural view that prevents this changing is underpinned by the rigid denial that takes Mr Average off to his football match or sends him down the pub to drown with alcohol the unsettling feelings of dissatisfaction with his life, the hurt and private shame that sit just below or on the periphery of his consciousness and which his conditioning tells him must be kept hidden and out of sight at all costs. He might allow himself the thought from time to time: ‘there must be more to life than this?’ But its a question that threatens, that carries fear with it and which all too often triggers the denial response and the illusion of safety that accompanies it, leading back to whatever distraction works best. I speak about this from experience!

    So I come back to my starting point. The problem is everywhere and although it is deeply entrenched, the potential for change is huge. There is a growing trend among women in the western world to do their inner work. This is supported by women’s natural tendency to be more relational, more willing to share problems and vulnerabilities, more motivated to get out from under thousands of years of oppression by men and the patriarchal systems men have created. We are entering a third generation of women willing to do this work for themselves and for the cultural benefit of their gender. Its a minority of course, but women are streaks ahead of the men.

    The women are longing for men to step up, do their inner work and meet them. But even when men respond, there is a valid fear in men that in facing their gentleness and vulnerability, they need to reveal their weakness and women can feel very threatened at the loss of the strong man they have become dependent on at their side, even if it is only temporarily. It is a double bind for men. Codependency is rife in our culture.

    Now its time for men to pick up the batten – to use a sporting phrase – and do the inner work, that is crucial to their healing and conscious awakening – moving up to the third stage in David Deida’s terms. As men we to need to learn to share our inner realities and support each other in this process. It is necessary for the natural death of the old paradigm, that is anyway crumbling, so that a new and more conscious MANkind can evolve.

    This call is a call to myself. I too am implicated in this process, as someone who has been stuck in Deida’s ‘second stage’ for too long, soft male, comfortable with feminine ways, but missing the dynamic energy of the integrated masculine. Without it, humankind, stuck in the destructive patterns of dominator patriarchy, will surely destroy the very ecosphere that has supported human and all other life on this planet since the beginning of time.

  • Praying for the Earth

    Planet_Earth_by_sanmonku
    Planet Earth by Sanmonku

    Praying for the Earth by Paul Swatridge
    – adapted & developed from a talk by Lewellyn Vaughan-Lee in 2012.

    At this time there is a real need in the physical and spiritual body of the Earth.
    Creation itself is calling to us, sending us signs of its imbalance and distress. Imbalance that we can see in the tsunamis, floods and droughts, as they become more frequent.

    The Anima Mundi (Soul of the World) is crying out.

    Those whose hearts are open can hear this cry, a cry from deep within creation.
    Just as our own soul can cry out for help at times of deep need, such that we are taken by prayer to implore to a higher power for direct help, a direct conscious connection that bypasses ego and words, going straight from our heart to the divine. In this same way, when our hearts are open, we can create a direct connection to the soul of the world.

    Human beings, who are supposed to be the guardians of the planet, who long ago learned the sacred names of creation, have forgotten this reverence and their responsibility as guardians. Instead they have been systematically and heedlessly desecrating and destroying the Earth on a global scale. And now the Earth and its waters are dying.

    The Earth needs us to acknowledge its sacred nature. It needs our prayers more than we know. It needs us to understand that it is not just something to use and throw away.

    Real sustainability is not just on a physical level, it is also spiritual. It is not spiritually sustainable if it doesn’t nourish our souls; there is an emptiness, a desolation, there is no longer the joy that belongs to life.

    The Earth needs us to help it connect with its own sacred source. We are the conduits who can create these connections in a new way. No longer the patriarchal order imposing from above; now is the time for the sacred feminine energy of Shakti – organic, life-giving, nurturing and infusing everything with love. We hear the cry of the world and like a mother with her child, we respond.

    We are the ears and eyes of the divine.. Through us the beloved, the creator, can see directly into creation. If we can see with the eye of the heart, we can feel into the core of creation and recognise our responsibility to care for our planet with compassion, instead of blindly following the materialist path to destruction.

    Even if we have forgotten over the centuries, it is still in our DNA. We can reconnect with the sacred substance in creation as the indigenous peoples of the world have always done; we can hold the earth within our hearts, nourish it with our love, offering it to the divine.

    Each one of us has the possibility to make a direct connection and to make a difference, through the grace of our love and devotion. This way we can reunite spirit and matter, making a difference where it is most needed in the world. There are many ways to do this. We each have our ways to pray. Here are some suggestions to consider:

  • Acknowledge that the Earth is not unfeeling matter, but a living being that has given us life – a sacred life.
  • Remember that the Earth has a soul, as we have a soul.
  • Know and trust that the power of the divine has the potential to heal and restore creation.
  • Let ourselves be guided by the cries we hear, to offer our love and attention where it is needed, remembering the sorrow and suffering of the world and asking for the healing to flow to wherever it is needed.
  • Sit and breathe and feel the quiet energy and rhythm of our heartbeat as we breathe. Remember that our breath and the breath of the world are one. It is breathing through every leaf, every plant and tree, through the lungs of all living creatures, even through the earth itself.
  • As we breathe, let the love grow in our hearts – our love of creation. This is where, as we hold our focus, the reconnection takes place and the healing begins.

    It may seem too late to prevent destruction on a physical level and we may feel too small and powerless to make much difference on the outside. But we can all do the powerful inner work in this way.

    It is our inner sacred relationship with the Earth that we have neglected for so long and it is this that is most needed now.

  • Meet me in the Woodshed – a new Facebook group for men

    MEN – Who are we, when we struggle and crawl out from under the vast belly of Patriarchy? and Matriarchy too?

    The planet we live on, and have abused for so long, is revealing to us the devastating effects of our insensitivity. Remembering the importance of our connection with nature and realising we are just a part of a vast web of interconnectedness, I find myself constantly asking the question in different ways: who am I, in a ‘mansuit’, living at this time? 

    It is becoming rapidly clearer that it is the power of the feminine that is needed on our planet for it to restore itself to a balance of health and wellbeing. Only through the compassion of heart-connected goodwill and cooperation can we create fulfilling relationships with women and with men, as well as addressing the wider issues that surround us: war and conflict resolution, political corruption, poverty, injustice, inequality and ecological decline.

    So how can we as men find the courage and resources we need to free ourselves from the deep conditioning and wounds of patriarchy and matriarchy? How can we heal and grow, to wake up and stand beside the women who are doing their work too, as we aspire to stand strong and empowered in our masculine presence, dependable and passionate, yet open and vulnerable, sensitive and compassionate to a world hungry for love?  

    We are being called to open to the intuitive feminine within us, to balance and temper our rational masculine, ready for a changing and evolving new world? Do you hear the call?

    Women are coming together in empowering groups, but there is very little available as yet for men. I am looking for ways to find support for myself as a man and so I am starting a Facebook group just for men. 

    Come and be supported while offering your support to other men in the Facebook group Meet ME IN THE WOODSHED.

    It will be a safe place to explore our growing edges as men, to share the pains and pleasures of evolving into deeper levels of consciousness that are needed in these challenging yet exciting times. 

    MEET ME IN THE WOODSHED is a private group so only members can see what people talk about there.

    Let me know if you want to join and I will invite you to join us.

    Description of what the group is about:

    A safe place for men to gather and explore our growing edges as men.

    To share any insights, wisdom, vulnerabilities, curiosities and excitements, both the pains and the pleasures.

    How can we heal and grow, to wake up and stand beside the women who are doing their work too, as we aspire to stand strong and empowered in our masculine presence, dependable and passionate, yet open and vulnerable, sensitive and compassionate to a world hungry for love?

    Practice it here, receiving and giving support to each other.

    Brothers, this is your space, this is our time!

  • My Mother

    This week I got a little closer to something I have been sidestepping for a long time. My partner tells me how I subtly withhold my self, my thoughts and feelings, my vulnerability, my love – for her and for others. I measure it all out from a distance.

    It has been a feature of our relationship, as she has her own ways of holding back in her love-giving. We have both been hurt in previous relationships and both had parental influences in our childhoods, where our patterns of withholding began. We are kind to each other over this, but we both long for the other to let go so we can drop into deeper connection.

    So we are gradually learning to heal and change these patterns. For me it has been clear for a long time that the root, the tap root at least, stems from the time when I was sent off to boarding school. I coped with the pain of separation from my parents by unconsciously deciding that I would not show them my love. I learned to withhold to protect myself, particularly from my mother. I was probably angry as well as sad and lonely.

    Me with my mother, father, grandparents & great aunt (middle front).
    Me with my mother, father, grandparents & great aunt (middle front).
    My withhold included not telling my mother about my pains and unhappinesses over those years at school, as I grew up. It continued through my adult years, that I didn’t show her my love and I didn’t speak to her about those years and about my awareness, as it became clearer to me. I found myself stuck with this behaviour, unable to change it, except on rare occasions when I managed to offer her a kiss, or a quick hug. I don’t think I really wanted to change this. Maybe I was still holding resentment, even though in my maturity, I could see she had done the best she could as a mother.

    My mother is now 91 and although she is mentally alert, she may not have too much longer to live. Suddenly this week I could see the possibility of speaking frankly to her and trying to heal the lifelong divide that has sat between us, unaddressed.

    A few months ago I found myself speaking to her about a traumatic event that happened in a class at school, which ever since has left me with a fear of speaking in public, afraid of being shamed, as I was back then, and specifically now, unable to learn and speak italian for fear of making a fool of myself.

    My mother was shocked to hear of what happened to me at school and how it has left me with a lifelong scar of fear around performance related things. She has mentioned it several times and I am now feeling a strong urge to speak more openly with her about all of this and to try to close the ‘love gap’ that has kept us distant emotionally since I was eight.

    I won’t be seeing her face-to-face now till september, but when I go, I wonder if we can heal my wound (and hers) so that we can shed some tears, hug and be close in the vulnerability of my truth for the first time. And of course I wonder if the healing will bring benefits in all my other relationships, especially with my partner.

  • The Gift of the Desert – Camels and Racing Cars

    IMG_1057IMG_1066I adjust to the slow swinging pace of the camels and take in their mix of gentle grace, their unique body shapes and their massive animal presence. I stare at the beauty of the shadows we cast on the sand; the unmistakable camel silhouettes, linked in a caravan of four by their looping rope halters. I hear the intermittent rumbling of a stomach, the grinding of teeth. I notice their sexy eyelashes and delicate lips. My pubic bone grinds on the cloth saddle of my camel, as he lurches me back and forth.

    Dust and sand mist the air. We veil our faces with the free ends of our turbans; turning our faces away from the wind as it gusts from the east. I feel grit between my teeth.

    The mother dune rises high above us, her orange sand muted in the misty light, as the evening draws in. The soft shapes and curves of the hillocks and valleys interlock and swirl around each other with an aesthetic that manmade shapes could never emulate. Nature’s beauty shines here, timeless in these shifting piles of sand.

    Dusk and then dark arrives, as we approach our tented camp. Distant drums beat an african rhythm from a nearby bivouac, creating an aural backdrop to the tranquil scene that awaits us, like a syncopated heartbeat of the earth itself.

    We drop into the shelter of our berber tent, its brown woven camel hair stretched taut over crooked poles. We sip mint tea, sweet and restorative after the journey. Then we lie out on the warm sand staring up at a big sky peppered with stars, as the wind sighs around the tents, sending flurries of sand into our faces to remind us where we are. Dry air, warm wind, smarting nostrils, gritty eyes, bodies surrendered to the earth.

    There are conversations about nomadic life, timeless knowledge, the constant search for water and food for the goats and camels. We are served vegetable tagine and reflect on this tiny taste of another way to live, increasingly jostled and tainted by the modern materialist ways and needs we rely on. Yet the nomads are here, surviving, thriving, holding both worlds. There are Four-by-fours and motorbikes alongside camels; weekly markets, cell phones and solar lighting. Jeans and sports shoes are accompanied by turbans of every colour – still the most practical headdress for the desert.

    We are so disconnected, so out of touch with the simple life, that even one night in a nomad tent is a challenge for us; forcing us to consider all that we take for granted in our world.

    We greet the dawn with wonder and by eight we are mounted and making our way back through the dunes, drinking in the silence and the peace in this orange sunlit sea of sand.

    Gradually we are aware of engines in the distance; motorised vehicles manouvering in the distant dunes. Suddenly a seriously customised car bursts over the hill infront of us, invading our senses in every way. Then we see an overweight man leveling a phallic telephoto lens towards the car. As we approach him, it dawns on us that we are walking through the middle of a car rally. Our moroccan guide shouts ‘Fuck You’! and raises his fist in defiance of this intrusion to our peace.
    The man shouts back to reason with us; “But this is THE Libya Rally!” as if there could be noone on the planet that would fail to be impressed and excited to be involved, while showing his blindness to what we have come to the desert for.

    The clash of patriarchy symbolised by these ultimate in ‘boys‘ toys‘, and our little caravan of camels, hits me with its poignancy in this moment, just as we had dropped into the essence of what we came to Morocco to experience. The camels become nervous, while I feel pain and confusion, as if caught in the crossfire on a battlefield.

    And as we detour around the rally base, with its massive entourage of support trucks, cameras sponsorship banners, and crowds of followers, Sofia reminds us to bring love to the situation and I am suddenly filled with gratitude, as the significance of the moment sinks in.

    Its a gift, that the very day that we decide to experience the desert, looking for a spiritual connection with the place and its people, has coincided with the one day in the year that the Libyan Rally came to this same spot on the planet, with all its noise and razamataz. It has shown me in such graphic terms the clash of two worlds. The paradox that I and so many others are living with.

    I touch into the part of me who could enjoy an opportunity to feel part of this disconnected, frenetic, technically addicted world, and then I move into that bigger part of me who has always been there in the shadow of patriarchy, deeply connected, nature-based, timeless, grounded and still.

    Our little group weaves its way to safety. the rhythm of my camel’s stride rocks and soothes my churned emotions.
    I sit with my dilemmas; how to integrate and live my soul’s journey? How to give my life meaning and purpose? How to dance a new paradigm while surrounded by the old? And how to help others looking for healing and restorative means to deal with the split and disconnection that we are all suffering in the loss of what these berber nomads embody so well?
    This is the gift and the challenge. This is my work. The work we are starting to do in Italy.

  • A Beard Quandary

    I have ‘worn’ a beard my whole adult life apart from one time in the 1980s when I went to India on my own and had the courage to shave it off and see myself ‘naked’. My suspicions were confirmed and I grew it back by the time I got home. The thing is, I (believe I) have a week chin and originally it was a bid to look more of a man, more macho. I have hidden behind my beard ever since; for periods growing it full and bushy, and after some time, usually when life felt good, I would ‘come out’ (a relative term!) by reducing the bush to a neat goatee chin appendage.

    My partners – there have been several – tended to put up with the bristles around my mouth (I have to admit the hairs are more like scratchy pubic hair than head hair) on the condition that kissing was kept to a minimum apart from the occasional moment of animal passion; and as for my looks, I got the impression that they tended to agree with my preference for covering up my chin – what there is of it.

    This week Sofia commented on the fact that I had let my present goatee get rather long – she’s not over keen on the scratchy stuff. We started to talk about my beard, my entrenchment in my needs for one (the vanity and my psychological need). She thinks it unbalances my face and detracts from my main asset, which she describes as my large, smiling, friendly eyes. So I immediately went to the bathroom mirror and experimented with pruning back.

    I haven’t yet had the courage to take it all off, but I am thinking about it. It feels like a huge thing to display my whole face to the world. I am irrationally scared at the thought and yet I am much less concerned about how I look or what people think, than I used to be. But I am embarrassed to admit that my vanity is still that big.

    Maybe IF I do shave it all off, it would be really cathartic and maybe it could be a part of showing myself more fully to the world in lots of other ways – becoming more authentically who I really am. I hope that I am communicating my sense of humour about this as well as my terror. Its a dilemma I will play with for a while and a part of me is saying ‘what’s the big deal, you can always grow the friggin’ thing back again’. True, but its what it symbolises somehow, after all these years.

  • Every Man Needs a Shed

    I have spent a lifetime building and enjoying sheds. It all stems from my den-building childhood on a farm in the 1950s. Fond memories of secret tunnels in ditches where the weeds were over my head. Spaces under hedges, a posh den in a disused chicken house, with the sign ‘The Club’ over the door. Then there was the tree-house my dad helped me build in a yew tree, from where I could see the whole garden while hiding in the dark green foliage.

    These special secret places were the fuel for rich fantasy and adventure, sometimes with my sister or a friend, but most often on my own. It was in these places that I felt free to really be myself and to be creative without being observed or disturbed, and herein lies the key to my adult shed habit.

    It is no secret that men need a shed; somewhere to go and just be themselves without being observed, away from feminine interference. For me it is somewhere I can be master of my own kingdom, where I can make a mess without criticism. I can make things, repair things, store things that have no place in the house and most importantly it is the place to keep and arrange my tools along with all the jars and boxes that accumulate over time; screws and bolts, brackets and wire and string; offcuts of wood and all the leftover bits from DIY jobs that I can’t bring myself to throw away.  I love to be amongst it all and know that with my hands, my tools and the right materials, I can tackle most DIY jobs.

    But for me its not just the need for a shed to disappear into, its also the fun and labour of creating one. Chalets, garden rooms, dog kennels, goat sheds, retreat huts, compost toilets, store sheds, workshops – I’ve built them all and I’ve enjoyed them all. And what has been the most satisfying thing in their conception and their construction, is that in many cases I have used recycled and ‘found’ materials, letting the design of the structure dictate its form and appearance. Doing it this way creates a quirkiness and individuality that is so much more satisfying than an off-the-shelf shed, although I have nothing against buying a flat-pack shed. They are much quicker and easier to erect of course.

    Although I have been an enthusiast throughout my whole life, I firmly believe that a shed is an essential accoutrement for anyone in their retirement years. Most young men want to use their spare time for sport, for socializing or for getting out and about. For many men the thought of spending hours in the garden or tinkering in a shed has little appeal. But as we get older and particularly following retirement, the whole of each day may involve being at home with the wife or partner for the first time, after years of being in a relationship. This is when a shed becomes an essential and very healthy option for the man of the house as well as for the woman, who may not want him under her feet all day and be happy to see him disappear into his den in the garden.
    And for the man living alone, recovering from illness or depression, there is still great benefit from having a shed, where you can get away from the TV and computer, make and leave mess, learn a new skill, lose yourself in some new hobby, undergo a DIY project, develop a money-making enterprise, or just to do nothing at all and cogitate, dream and watch the world go by.  

    Of course some sheds are really garden rooms, studios, writers’ or artist’s garrets. Whatever they are they are, by my definition, sheds; and in my case they are for seriously practical use on the one hand and they are places of refuge on the other. Although I haven’t actually gone through with it, I have always included an imaginary sign on the door of all my personal sheds, which reads ‘NO GIRLS’, and I have often jokingly shared this fact with friends. There is a part of me that means it of course; my sheds are no place for women. I need to have my refuge, however much I love and get along with the fairer sex – and I do. But in as much as women need to have time away from men, us men need to have our sacred spaces outside of the shared accommodation of the home.  

    A final anecdote about sheds: Some years ago, while living in Herefordshire with my then partner, we became known as the Buddhists who lived on the hill. A friend came by one day when i was building a store shed for our logs and he said in his lilting Scandinavian accent, “Now I know what you buddhists mean when you talk about ‘shedding your worldly goods’; you build sheds to put them in. Ha Ha Ha!” 

    Amongst the variety of shed projects and shed indulgences that I have been responsible for, I have made my living as a wood carver, furniture maker and antique restorer, setting up several professional workshops from which to ply my trade, two of which were homemade sheds. I welcome feedback and personal anecdotes from any shed enthusiasts or tentative shed converts reading this article.