After Eight

Photo by Noor Younis @nooryounis

After Eight

It’s after eight my love, a time when we are seated

Together, thigh bones touching. It feels kinda right

That our flesh wants to touch at night. The heat

where our thigh bones meet is our body’s

Way of saying what we cannot or will not.

The tongue tied twisting of words in skulls

Instead of tongues in mouths. When even the

Simplest things like, “I am here, here my love,”

Cannot be said. Unite is just untie rearranged.

How to unknot the rot that our thigh bones

know nothing of? Our flesh’s longing is

the answer I say. It’s not all about sex you say.

I want our bodies to knot together like rope,

Your dick is talking and omg there is no hope.

I say your name like the way it used to sound.

You stop and look at me, what did you say.

I say your name like the gentle sweet person

It beholds and a smile comes across your face.

I lace my fingers into yours, a knot of

Another kind that binds and preserves and

lets butterflies fly. Your long boned fingers

Come to my face and trace the lines

Of everything you know it to be; imperfect

And human and creasing with each passing year.

We pass up the urge to move fast. What we want

We can wait for, because the moment has caught

us both unawares and makes us perfectly aware

that it is after eight and sometimes knots are a gate.

- By Michael Stolt

#112

Spring

Photo by Arno Smit @_entreprenerd

Spring

The joy of spring makes my heart leap.

The newness of the air into my lungs seep.

Long ago seems the fall, now shaken.

Mother earth’s gentle words, “Awaken.”

You can hear the trees yawn and stretch

Opening up veins, for living water to fetch.

Last year’s growth in new rings found,

This year’s growth slowly running around.

- By Michael Stolt

#3

Despair Within Me

Despair Within Me

When despair of the world grows within me

I remember being young and the bumble bee

Buzzing around flowers in the summer heat.

The sound of water flowing, hearing its beat.

When despair of the world grows in me

I bring you into the front of my mind

And in your laugh and ways, peace I find.

When despair for the world subsides,

I realise that life is just like the tides.

Good and bad things will come and go,

It’s useless to try and fight the flow.

Youth seems to be where happiness lay,

Somethings are better now, who can say.

There is no despair in the love that we share

For two souls in love is black Rhino rare.

- By Michael Stolt

Over The Edge

Torre Egger in the Pantagonian massif

* this poem was inspired by the Netflix docu The Alpinist

Over The Edge

In some

Inexplicable way

You’ve moved

Over the edge

Of the wild

     -  and -

now you have

To learn how

To live there.

There is no

Going back.

You are over

The edge,

Removed from

The place you

Once knew.

Now  you

have to learn

To live here.

In some

Inexplicable way

It needs to

Be the place

You come to

Love.

- by Michael Stolt

Think Beauty Into Thyself

Photo by Anita Austvika @anitaaustvika

Think Beauty Into Thyself

Think beauty into thyself

And kill those thoughts of old,

Those that have such a hold.

Think the best of thyself.

Lay waste to patterns and such

That whisper, ”You’re not much.”

Think bravery into thyself.

Kick down the doors of disgust

And say, “I Love Me, I must.”

- By Michael Stolt

#197

Layers

Layered

I am rock, I am sand. I am land layered.  There is land not everyone gets to see.  I listen to the voice inside whispering, “I don’t want to live without love,” :

 Layer 1:

          On the outside, beautiful:

Sculpted white, balanced and square jawed.

          Blue eyed and a body to die for.

How often has that been the ticket?

          Too often he realises.

An object to be admired by the world.

Layer 2:

          Just under the skin, superficial:

Wanting to please and be pleased;            

          With himself, insufferable.

Lying ways are skin deep.

          It’s just talk when its talk,

Light still shines through from the outside.

Layer 3:

          There is less light, more reality.

The hurt of childhood is of no use;

          Mentors that were tormentors,

harry potter abuse. What if all

  Children have it in one form or another?

Get over yourself and don’t let it surface.

Layer 4:

          The thinker, Rodin. Measured weight

Of thoughts that want the surface.

          A deeper place, protected and beautiful.

Her thoughts dot her existence

          As the stars the infinite universe. She smiles

At their varying degrees of brightness.

Layer 5:

The brightest of all layers. Only love is here.

Love encircles and nourishes and deepens

          All the connections she sees around her. Love

Smiles, knowing that she cannot resist coming

          Back here again and again, a deepening vessel.

Every moment of love makes the next one possible.  

Layer 6:

          The untethered soul. Free of the bonds

Dictated by the surface. Free of

          Terms and places and things and labels.

Freedom to be her true and best self:

a nakedness of soul unmeasured and password

Protected. “Belong to yourself,” she whispers cheerfully. 

Layer 7:

          Infinity lies just beyond, there is no counting

Layers here. The poet’s desk is black,

          The penned words the colour of the rainbow.

If it were up to the poet ,

          All places and layers would look like this

And she would turn the inside out

and let the outside be the last thing we see.

- By Michael Stolt

Paper Will Take Any Ink

Photo by Nicolas Thomas @nicolasthomas

Paper Will Take Any Ink

Paper will take any ink.

And ink will make any word.

It matters not the mind,

In love or gnarled, that writes.

Signs of the mind inked out

On the beauty of blank white

Paper. Pure and purposeful.

Words come loaded : love, hate

fidelity, faith, war, peace - peace.

Words inked out. Blotched or

Botched does not change them.

Paper will take any ink.

Skin will take any ink,

Any notion of beauty

And valour and honour.

It takes any desire and

Manifests itself forever.

Secret thoughts known

and turned inside out

Like a mind being read.

Is there a word for telling

people what’s in your head?

The writing of the soul

On skin. Skin will take any ink.

  - By Michael Stolt

Believe In The World That Must Be

Believe in the world that must be;

Sunrise, orbit, the coming of seasons.

Some things are just meant to be,

Pointless to chase after reasons.

Who knows wherefrom love comes,

That seed that grows in the dark:

Without consent in the breast hums.

The big bang, the fire, the spark.

Like water gently flowing, let it flow,

And do not try to fight the tide.

For there are things we just don’t know.

Let go, trust and the waves ride.

Believe in the world that must be

(Even) if tomorrow starts without me.

- By Michael Stolt

What Goes Glow in the Dark?

Scorpions glow in the dark. Did you know that?  I didn’t until I did. This enlightenment happened on a dark, stary night in an African bush camp.  I was well and truly snuggled into the ring of coziness emanating from the campfire. The flames dancing to that universal music we can’t hear and I am mesmerized. I’m called out of my reverie by cries of excitement from the kids. Their Uncle, Shaun, the Steve Erwin of our family, has roused the kids’ imaginations with stories of glow-in-the-dark scorpions. Being from the generation of the film The Predator, I feel less enthusiastic to go out into the pitch dark. I think I can hear some strange clicking in the distance.

I stand up and stretch and feel the cold creep around my warm flesh, making me conscious of the fact that the cool night air quickly replaces the warmth. The night sky is cloudless and, as I stretch my body, look up to the heavens that are alive with stars. More stars than any city dweller can imagine. The milky way stretches across the sky like a thick spatter of white paint. Cities cannot see any of this. What a shame. I stare at this scene, craning my neck at an impossible angle. I will not be able to hold it for long.

The bushveld is not silent this evening. When is it ever? The nocturnal animals have been woken by their circadian rhythms and are now feeding and talking and moving and loving in the deep dark night. The dark is absolute here in the bush. Beyond the camp fire and the lights from the Lapa, it’s pitch black. The torch will light my way to the hut, but I have to be careful and look out for what creature may have found its way to where I sleep.

The darkness can seem overwhelming for anyone not born into it or grown up with it. It speaks of so many things that terrify the city dwellers: the unknown, being out of control and rooted in the uncertainty of nature. To me the dark is comforting, the unknown is comforting. I can work with what I cannot see. It allows relief from a world that thinks it knows everything and can shine light into every corner of the world. The darkness is not an absence of life. Life goes on in the dark, just not for humans without light, and this I must admit, is the most attractive part of being in the bush: living from sunrise to sunset and then resting in the dark.

It can be a terrible time for city dwellers who want to fill the hours of darkness with activity and social media, updating, influencing, or anything but sitting and contemplating. Darkness brings people together. The campfire is that little light where nothing useful to modern people can happen: slow conversations, magical stories, connection and rest. It is a special place where we detox from our electronic lives. Back in the city, I will long for the darkness to encircle me around a campfire and keep me safe from the frenzy.

The wild animals can see and smell better than we can. I wonder what they think as they see the dancing light of the campfire in the distance? They know not to approach too closely as man’s fears are a terrible thing. It will destroy their life, that much they must know. They know it all too well I imagine, but they cannot stop us. They are themselves, that’s why. As themselves they are non-violent (even those who use violence to eat) and benign to their surroundings, unlike us. “If they could, would they stop us?” I wonder. Who can stop us from destroying this incredibly beautiful world? No one!

The kids are bouncing up and down as I come out my hut putting a jersey on. The static electricity sparks off miniature lightning bolts as my body rubs against the wool. The crackle and pop remind me that there are forces unseen in this world that make it beautiful. The kid’s excitement is not matched with my own. I would rather have stayed by the fires’ side. I feel less adventurous tonight – what is my intuition telling me? I ask Shaun if there are any predators lurking in the dark. He nonchalantly tells us that there is a Leopard on the property somewhere, but that there is nothing to worry about. It hasn’t been spotted for a couple of days and it is a very shy creature that will not come near such a big group of people. His confidence is infectious, I think no more of it.

Of course, the kids need for adventure is youthful excitement. It takes me a moment to remember mine. That ants in my pants desire to always be moving and being moved by my curiosity comes back to me. My body has done a lot of moving and answered so many questions for me.  I am consciously grateful. I have no aches and pains really, a swimming career protects knees, ankles and cartilage. There is a growing heaviness though in the body. I call it existential drag. The longer you live the more drag is my theory. Maybe it is just the body slowing down through age. I am not sure but I feel it. It is a blessing to me that I am so in tune with my body and feel all of it – the good and the bad. 

Uncle Shaun, aka Steve Erwin (without the Australian accent – but with the Afrikaans accent) gives us each an Ultraviolet (UV) torch, also called a blacklight. I ask why it is called such, my curiosity getting the better of me. Shaun explains that humans can’t see UV and hence why it is black. It emits a purple light and so I am confused but leave it there. The UV light does nothing to illuminate the darkness – now I get why it is called a blacklight.  

We walk in single file down a trail that starts at the back of the camp and the one we use to go to the bird hide. The torches of white light illuminate a patch of ground in front of us. I recognize the ground beneath my feet, yet I cannot look up. The dark unbalances me and I feel as if I am in a completely new setting. I want to look up. We walk for five minutes, then branch off to the right, on a path I hadn’t seen in the daylight. Another couple of minutes and then we stop. Shaun tells us this will be the best spot to start looking. An endeavour that I think will prove fruitless. It does not take long to find the first scorpion. A squeal of delight is emitted from one of the young ones. As quickly as the terrain and darkness can allow, we all file over and see what all the fuss is about.

There on the ground the most glorious sight. A scorpion glowing turquoise. Of course, it wasn’t actually glowing, but it felt like it. Shaun showed us the difference. White light and one can barely make out that it is anything but a rock maybe, throw the UV light over it and it lights up to a colour and brilliance that dazzle the mind and eye. Oohs and aahs gush out of us. We can’t take our eyes off the beauty of the thing. Looking like a piece of jewelry. Jade carved in the form of a scorpion; we lose any feeling of danger that had shadowed us on the walk out. Shaun bends down and picks it up and puts it in his hand. We all take a step back. He tells us not to be anxious. Its ok to come closer. We move a little closer. He asks who would like to hold it. My fearless child is the first to stick her hand up. What have I done to deserve this creature? Shaun calls her forward and places the scorpion gently on her hand and tells her to stay still. My child’s face lights up and even in the dark is almost as radiant as the scorpion’s skeleton. The scorpion wears its armour on the outside.

 We continue to search for scorpions and find half a dozen under rocks. There is no need to call each other over now as the surprise of finding one has worn off, but not the surprise of their beauty. A noise silences the night and our delight. A throaty sound, like the sound of sawing through coarse wood comes to our ears. It is a strangely terrifying sound. We all freeze. A cold sweat comes to the back of my neck. I look at Shaun, there is no hint of the white of hope.   

Turning Lamp Posts Into Sweet Talk

Ironman Frankfurt July 2017 - Anything is Possible

Turning Lamp Posts into Sweet Talk

The road stretches out before me. The odometer reads one hundred and sixty kilometres. I still have twenty to go before the training session is finished. I am having a good day out. The sun is shining, a treasure in a place renowned for rain. I feel lucky. A light wind has accompanied me. It has blown the sweat cool to my skin. It’s the small things that keep you going on the grueling days. Keeping a positive mindset is a difficult thing to do. It needs to be practiced and honed. Endurance sport is a great arena to learn this skill. It is very useful in every facet of one’s life.

I have to be honest; I haven’t always talked nicely to myself or been the most positive person in the room. I spent the first few years of my triathlon training beating myself up and hating most of my long sessions. It seemed like too big of an obstacle to get over. I had signed up to do a long-distance triathlon to prove somebody wrong. They’d said I couldn’t do it. Not the best advertising you might think and yet, Triathlon pushed my body to the limit and my mind even further. This is the story of learning to sweet talk myself.

I don’t know what’s going on in your mind. I really don’t and no one else does either, except for you. I hope it’s a nice place. It isn’t always. What do you do when negativity is the captain of your head?

We are all in a process of change or flux, and so nowadays I think of self-talk as a pendulum that moves on a spectrum from one side to the other- positive to negative or vise-versa. That’s how it works for me anyhow. Triathlon taught me how to control the extreme swing to negative thinking and now most days I am in the positive half of the spectrum.

Nature vs Nurture?

So, here’s a question you might like to ponder. Are we born positive or become positive? The research (Røysamb et al.,2018) suggests that hereditary factors determine 30-40% of our outlook. That is a big piece of the pie we have absolutely no control over. Luckily the genes leave 60% to other factors. Røysamb et al.,2018 conclude that the life we lead and the environment in which we live are the other major contributing factors to your self-talk and outlook. Victor Frankl, the Holocaust survivor, psychiatrist and author of A Man’s (Women’s) Search for Meaning said, “Our greatest freedom is the freedom to choose our attitude.” Apparently, he was only 60% right. We don’t choose our parents or genes they give us, but we can learn, as Frankl puts it, “to choose one’s attitude in any given circumstance.” And herein lies the power of triathlon to teach us to choose our attitude.

The Effect of Negative Thoughts ☹

What are the effects of negative thoughts? They delay recovery, promote injury and restrict performance. A couple of weeks before my first long distance triathlon I picked up a calf injury. I was still learning how to talk nicely to myself and the injury took me back to a place of negative talk and thought. Besides going to the Physio and getting all the treatment I could, the injury would not heal and I believed it never would. I think this attitude contributed to me keeping this injury for a long time in one form or another. When I learnt to sweet talk myself the injury not only healed for good but running became a pleasure and positive thoughts replaced negative ones.

How I got into Triathlon

I didn’t like running and hated cycling. This is how I started my triathlon journey. This isn’t the best attitude I know. I got into triathlon because of a snowstorm. In the winter of 2008 a snowstorm in North Holland, the Netherlands brought all public transport to a halt and I had to get home to pick up my kids from daycare. No buses and the roads completely blocked; I decided the only realistic way to get there in reasonable time was to run. This was my first 10km run. It was fun and cold and well an experience to say the least. I stopped half way to help some people with their stranded car. What I learnt from this day was that running wasn’t so bad and I could do it. I was already swimming at the local club, cycling daily to work and with this last piece of the puzzle, someone suggested I do triathlon. Today, I enjoy running the most, isn’t it funny how life works?

Chrissie Taught Me About Lamp Posts

Chrissie Wellington dominated triathlon from 2007 to 2012. She was undefeated in all thirteen of her ironman distances. She won her first Kona world championship less than a year after turning professional. To say the least, she set the standard for the rest to follow. In her autobiography A Life Without Limits, Chrissie spoke to the fact that she struggled staying positive when thinking about the race ahead of her. She would get out the water and dread the bike ride to come. I can relate. One hundred and eighty kilometres is daunting, even without the marathon to come. So, what did she do? She would make a deal with herself to ride to the next lamp post, tree, marking on the road etc. and see how she felt. She described how this got her not only to the next lamp post but to the end of the race. She could manage emotions and physical fatigue one lamp post at a time. In Kona there are no lamp posts when you get out on the Queen K highway, but she had her markers that pulled her in and kept her going at a pace nobody else could follow.

Turning Lamp Posts into Sweet Talk

If you only need to get to the next lamp post, you can sweet talk yourself there. “it’s not far,” or “You are doing great, keep it up,” or “Focus on technique until the next lamp post,” or “You’re doing great, keep it up.” There are a million small bits of nice things you can say to yourself if it’s only to the next lamp post. It’s not looking too far ahead. You are not looking at the suffering or the mountain still to be climbed, only the next small section to complete. With practice you can learn to use one mantra repeatedly or different ones. The power of this method is that it is very difficult to not celebrate getting to the next lamp post and keep going. There are enough lamp posts to go around, you just have to notice them. Be conscious of the lamp posts in your life and let them sweeten your talk.

The 12 Minute Rule

Another way of talking well to yourself is committing to doing your set training or task for 12 minutes and then checking in with yourself to see if you want to continue. The first 12 minutes is a great way to have a free zone, where you can build positive thoughts and vibes for the hard training ahead without commiting to it. If after 12 minutes, you’re not feeling it, you stop and do something else. Nine times out of ten, you won’t and you will be talking sweet to yourself all the way through your training and the rest of the day.

3 Benefits of A “Lamp Post” Attitude

1.      You smile more. On the longest bike rides and run, after I had learnt about lamp posts, I smiled more. It’s just to the next lamp post anyway, what did I have to lose? Enjoy the ride.

2.      You learn and practice reframing. The art of seeing a problem or obstacle from a different and more positive perspective. Instead of being upset at the headwind slowing you down or decreasing your average speed, you appreciate it as a handy training tool, adding a little more resistance to your training load. Instead of stressing about the hours of training ahead, you use the time to listen to your favourite music or podcast and learn something new each time.

3.      You build resiliency. You accept change as part of life. How you feel now may change at the next lamp post and that’s ok. The weather or your race strategy might change, its ok. Resiliency will help you deal with these changes and make taking action easier.  A flat tyre is a change you don’t want, but it’s not the end of the world. And most importantly, when things change you know you can influence your mind positively to that change.

My mind has become more positive over the years and now leans towards making every day an eight out of ten. These days, even though I am no longer training for triathlons, I become conscious the moment my mind and thoughts turn negative and I use the tricks from Triathlon to move them into a more positive realm. The lamp posts are in my head now, and the road ahead is as it should be, whether I like what I see or not. Happy training and thinking.

Witch Way Now?

“Having expectations of others means you are trying to fix their lives. Fix your own life – that is freedom.”  - Sadhguru

Witch Way Now?

“Well-behaved women seldom make history,” is the prison men have made for women. When women break free of their supposed ‘good-behaviour’ their power frightens men and men call them witches. In this blog I write about my thoughts on this slogan and why I think it upholds a long standing patriarchal narrative that has killed and shackled women for centuries. Long live the witches!

I am walking through Amsterdam early on a Sunday morning and it is a pleasure. The streets are quiet, the party goers have returned to their dens and the streets to the early risers. There is a lovely peace to a city slumbering and numb from the reveling of the night before. The sun rises lazily into a clear blue sky and a hint of warmth touches my cheek as I amble through the streets. The architecture of the Amsterdam School surrounds me, keeps me company and echoes of times past. Times have changed or have they? I pass a house on the street and look at a poster hung up inside the window. It reads, “Well-behaved women seldom make history.” (see foto above) It is a curious thing, isn’t it? Interesting. I stop and take a picture. Later, when I am thinking about the poster and the book I’m reading (In Defense of Witches by Mona Chollet), this post starts to germinate. I am glad I took the picture. I think the person who hung the poster there had good intentions and on the surface these words seem well intentioned. Well-meaning words can support existing male narratives and propaganda about women. I think this slogan does and it makes me angry. Let me explain.

These words play into a very old and long held patriarchal belief of what a woman should be. And what is that? Well, well -behaved of course. What does that species look like? Wife, mother, a faceless being at the service of others and the common good without sexual or intellectual desire. A ‘thing’ that does not have autonomy over herself or her body because that is not what the world of men want for her. This is a well-behaved women of not only then, in the shadows of history, but also now. Anti-abortion law in the USA speaks right into this narrative. Ill-behaved women on the other hand are characterized by their ‘refusal of motherhood, rejection of marriage, ignoring traditional beauty standards, bodily and sexual autonomy, homosexuality, aging, anger, even a general sense of self-determination[i],’ and are also the symptoms of witchcraft as Carmen Maria Machado Explains in her foreword to In Defence of Witches. Women who want these things for their lives were once labeled witches, ostracized and burnt at the stake. Women today are not hunted or burnt, yet the male narrative today portrays these women in a very negative and controlling light. The stakes are lower these days but women still have the pressure to conform in our patriarchal society.

The word witch has been sidelined into the imaginations of Disney viewers and the power it wields over us today is minimal. But once the witch bewitched men. Women outside the control of the patriarchal society in which they lived were called witches. Today we might call them Feminists, liberals, bitches or assertive. They were seen as the ultimate threat to the order and stability of societies. They were women just wanting to live their lives on their own terms. They died for the wish to be free. Just having a cat was enough to get you burnt at the stake.

These words in the window, they touch me in a different way than the sun, they leave me feeling cold. They are words of men who want to control women. And things men want to control, they destroy. “Nowadays despite being legally and practically sanctioned, women’s independence continues to elicit general skepticism.”[ii] Why is that? Because freedom, independence and volition is different for women than it is for men. A free woman is not a free man – for women, freedom comes at a price.

“We strongly sensed that with the pill, life would never be the same again, we’d be so free in our bodies it was frightening. Free as a man[iii],” Annie Ernaux says with certainty in her book The Years. But is wasn’t to be. ‘Free as a man’ is for men only. Women were shamed into not using the pill for many years after its introduction. Witches, in the broad sense of the word - women who had agency and self determination, were the only early adopters. It came as a surprise to men that women were sexual beings who had sexual desires and needs and yet who didnt want babies to show for it. It frightened men that the pill gave women the freedom to meet these needs without taking the responsibility of child rearing, just like men. The word witch was antiquated by the time the pill came along. A much older one, however, was used in its place to dissuade women from using the pill. Whore. Women wanting to be free in their bodies, in whichever way they wanted, suddenly became whores. It stopped most women from taking control of their sexual pleasure and bodies.

Why was a married woman wanting to take the pill? Was she wanting to be unfaithful to her husband and four kids? This is another way that the patriarchal socialization war machine has turned against women in a big way, labeling things that are ok for men as not ok for women.  Of course the pill brought freedom to women across the globe, freedom to have control of their bodies. Freedom to have sex without getting pregnant. Freedom to decide not to have children. But it came at a cost: the cost of being labeled whores in the beginning; men taking away the ability to use it through law making and still, today, the cost of violence against women for wanting to make decisions about their own bodies.

There is a “deeply embedded tendency in our society to hold women ultimately responsible for the violence against them[iv],” says Karol F. Karlson, a specialist on the new England witch trials. Being a witch, and by men’s definition – ill-behaved,  is a dangerous thing for a woman. It means women lose the ‘protection’ of the patriarchal structures around them and sometimes the support of the matriarchal support in place. Practically this means a woman will lose the protection of her village or the men in her life or the police are slow in responding to yet another report of partner violence. For the women involved, it feels like a target has been put on their backs. The male narrative that a woman wanting freedom is a target for violence should be the first on everyone’s list to eradicate. We have to hold the men who are violent against women accountable, not the women seeking to be themselves. As Mona Chollet says, ‘there is no need for witch hunts anymore as the trial and tribunal that condemns women to death has been privitised, death coming in the form of spousal violence.’ Why are the death of innocent women, then and now, still not a priority in the modern world?

Mona Chollet gives a very succinct answer to this question. “Truth be told, it is precisely because witch-hunts speak to us of our own time that we have excellent reasons not to face up to them. Venturing down this path means confronting the most wretched aspects of humanity. The witch-hunts demonstrated, first, the stubborn tendency of all societies to find a scapegoat for their misfortunes and to lock themselves into a spiral of irrationality, cut off from all reasonable challenge, until the accumulation of hate-filled discourse and obsessional hostility justify a turn to physical violence, perceived as the legitimate defence of a beleaguered society[v].” The answer brings us to another: When will the patriarchal society fall? The answer: not soon enough.

As Simone De Beauvoir reminds us, “Representation of the world, like the world itself is the work of men; they describe it from their own point of view, which they confuse with the absolute truth[vi].” And this is where this poster goes wrong, it is describing something from the world view of men, who want women to be well behaved and subservient. The poster should read, “Women in captivity seldom make history. Free women sometimes make history. To make history, free all women.” It is about freedom, not good or bad behaviour. Well-behaved speaks of an expectation that will always be a judgemental hook.

I walk away from the window and it’s message and turn down a street that’s brighter and breezier than the last. This street carries the hope of the architecture holding it in place.  The sun is bouncing off windows and dancing and shimmering on the street before me, like the road of gold in the Wizard of Oz. The light breeze carries smells of life and life smells delicious. I am conscious of my feet walking, one step at a time. With each step I walk away from the poster, distance myself from its message. The road leads me to a T-junction. I stand at the junction and look left and right and ask myself, “Witch way now?”

“Having expectations of others means you are trying to fix their lives. Fix your own life – that is freedom.”  - Sadhguru

______________________________________________________________

[i] Foreword by Carmen Maria Machado pg. vii In Defence of Witches by Mona Chollet

[ii] Pg. 16 In Defence of Witches by Mona Chollet

[iii] Pg. 30 The Years by Annie Ernaux

 [iv] Pg. 16 In Defence of Witches by Mona Chollet

 [v] Pg. 7 In Defence of Witches by Mona Chollet

[vi] The Second Sex by Simone de Beauvoir

Our Two Silences

A place of peace and inner silence, somewhere in this beautiful world.

by Anna Swir (1909-1984)

Our Two Silences

Silence

flows into me and out of me

washing my past away.

I am pure already, waiting for you. Bring me

your silence.

They will doze off

nestled in each other’s arms,

our two silences.

Translated from Polish by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan.

I Am Thinking

By Michael Stolt

I Am Thinking

I am thinking and thinking and blinking,

These two things I do without… ummm

Yes it’s weird,  isn’t it? Add to that

That my heart beats without my consent,

I cannot stop it even if I wished for it

Or swished my tail in irritation. There

Is no mitigation for this life started, never

Stopped. We carry the burden of life

Don’t’ we? It weighs heavily on each

Of us, no matter who we are or

What we have to say about it. We

All act as if it’s the best thing

That’s ever happened  to us. “be

Grateful for your life”, be responsible

in drinking and flying and smoking,

but don’t be joking about not

staying around. Kill yourself

responsibly the propaganded

advertising proclaims, better yet,

suffer yourself into consumer stupor,

penned up with the others: cattle, sheep,

pigs and chickens - ready for

the slaughter. Is it only me who

carries the burden of life, or are

there others? Covered up under the

false joy the consumerist church preaches.

It reaches everywhere, all over the place.

There is a race you know. For survival,

Revival, burial.   

Your Poet is Out There

I think poetry is for everyone and that everyone on this earth has a house poet- a poet that speaks to us personally. A poet that captivates and speaks your private internal language. I hear you sigh, the on-set of boredom at the mention of the word poetry. It brings back memories of school classrooms, smelling of hormones and sweaty armpits, stinky feet and classroom furniture. The memory of the language teacher getting you to read those incomprehensible lines that confused you and drooped the eyelids. But what if the poetry at school and what has come across your path since then isn’t YOUR poetry? What if Shakespeare wasn’t talking to you in your language or circumstance? What if, the words you need to read, are out there looking for you and ready to bring you into the delight and awe of the power of poetry?

Poetry is personal. No one can or should tell you what to like or dislike. Like music, an author or food, everyone has their favourites. Isn’t that the hope of the future, diversity and the fact that we are not all the same? God forbid everyone should like John Donne!  

Someone I respected deeply, once said that my favourite poet was too Pastoral. I stopped reading my favourite poet for a while because of this, but realised quite quickly thereafter that what I like and love in poetry, is just that, what I like and love. I don’t have to apologise for it. This personal aspect of poetry is key for me in my journey with poetry because I don’t waste my time anymore with poetry that I don’t connect with. It's logical right? Why would you spend time with someone who bores you and brings little value to your thoughts, feelings and emotions?

I didn’t realise this until the summer of 2006. I had always liked poetry. I wrote my first poem Take Notice in 1990. It came out of nowhere, really. Bubbled up. I didnt think it was any good because it seemed simple and understandable. I wanted to write like the greats. The greats wrote complicated poems with greek and old world references that were highly intellectual and not understandable. In a word, boring to me, of course. I felt guilty for thinking and feeling like this. If everyone in the world, I assumed this to be true, liked Shakespeare and William Wordsworth et al., then who was I to say otherwise? I didnt realise that not everybody likes the greats. It meant that I spent years collecting and reading poetry that bored me to tears. It was of course a good learning experience, for form, rhyme and meter etc., stay with me. Yet it left me cold, excuse the cliché. It felt like having to stay at the table and eat the food put in front of me, even though I didn’t like it. It wasn’t palatable.

I ate it anyway, because I thought it was good for me, but it left me empty. I thought this was the only poetic food available, in musty old books with references to things and themes long rusted in the memory of history. I didn’t get the connection with my life now as a youth growing up in the Apartheid years, hearing already then of the damage we were doing to the earth, and wanting to know how I fitted into to all of this, Shakespeare was silent. He didn’t speak to me. Or rather I was deaf. It can go both ways.

Then in 2006 someone posted a poem on facebook by Wendell Berry. The poem spoke so clearly to me, I can still recall the sensation. A bolt of delight, like electricity, sizzled in my brain and I felt like sleeping beauty after the kiss. I was suddenly awake and conscious of a feeling about poetry I had never had before. Connection. After that came delight. After that came infatuation. Here is the poem:

The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

 in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

 I go and lie down where the wood drake

 rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

 I come into the peace of wild things

 who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

 waiting with their light. For a time

 I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

The spring and summer of 2006 I will never forget. The weather was warm and dry, unusual for The Netherlands then, and I used my lunch break to go and sit on the bench by the water and read Wendell Berry. It was a two-minute walk from the office where I worked. The collected poems of Wendell Berry made me smile ear to ear. I had found my house poet, the person who spoke directly into me. I don’t know how else to say it. A kindred spirit. I believe everyone has such a poet. Wendell Berry is that to me. His poems don’t rhyme, they are not iambic, and they are beautiful. His poems are thoughtful and gentle and resilient. They are thought provoking and wonderful. I don’t expect you to think the same.

What Wendell Berry did for me was open up the poetic flood gates. I had not realised, I know it sounds stupid, that poetry could be anything you wanted it to be, literally and figuratively. Thoughts flow and can be written down as they flow, this is poetry. It helped me break loose from the strictures of poetic structure and gave me the tools and desire to write a lot of poetry. I think the most wonderful thing Wendell Berry did for me, was point me in the direction of finding poetry that I understand and speaks to me.

Thanks to Wendell I started a 365.poem challenge. I wanted to write a poem a day for a year.  Unfortunately, that never materialized. But the flood gates were open. Inspiration coming from all directions, I only had to be conscious. To date, I have written two hundred and sixteen poems. One of my most recent poems, Pitter Patter came like the rain it speaks of, naturally and flowing. I hope that one day I can close off the 365.poem project when the last in this number has been written.

For so long, I was reading poetry that made no sense to me. The words were readable, but as I said earlier in this piece, the connection was missing. Even after having it explained to me, or researching the meaning of a poem, it still seemed foreign, not a part of my experience. So, I discarded reading poetry that doesn’t make sense to me. I know this seems judgmental, but it’s my life.

In the past ten years, poetry has become so accessible because it comes in so many different forms. Spoken word poetry is an example of this. Check out Harry Baker in his TedTalk and be amazed at the way poetry can be cool and funny. So please, keep looking for your poet.

Poetry is a way of expressing oneself and the rules are cool, but not everything. Learn them and then apply them and then lose them. Rules are meant to be broken and your poet will most certainly do that, I am sure of that. They will draw you in, frame your world and help you understand how you fit in to it and then teach you how to live within it. If you are looking to learn the rules of poetry and understand it in a fun and delightful way of writing down your thoughts, then there can be no better book than Stephen Fry’s The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within

Penguin’s book Poems for Life is a great place to start your poetry reading journey. There are new and old poems. Funny and serious ones. It takes on the full gambit of human experience in poems.

For instance, this gem from Philip Larkin:

This be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.

I believe strongly that your poet is out there, waiting for you, [If you have a house poet, please share their name and your favourite poem]. They have been writing poetry with you in mind all along in the hope that, one day, you will find each other. It will be the care you need in this crazy and extraordinary world. With a bolt of delight, you will awake from your poetry slumber (school induced, and fall in love with the words meant for you. My hope and wish is that your poet finds you as quickly as you want them too and that your beautiful self is reflected in their words. May you be inspired to write a few lines yourself, no matter how imperfect. A line to remember you by, please do it for yourself.  And if all else fails - breathe.

Breathe by Becky Helmsley

She sat at the back and they said she was shy.

She led from the front and they hated her pride.

They asked her advice and then questioned her guidance.

They branded her loud, then were shocked by her silence.

When she shared no ambition they said it was sad.

So she told them her dreams and they said she was mad.

They told her they'd listen, then covered their ears.

And gave her a hug while they laughed at her fears.

And she listened to all of it thinking she should,

be the girl they told her to be best as she could.

But one day she asked what was best for herself,

instead of trying to please everyone else.

So she walked to the forest and stood with the trees.

She heard the wind whisper and dance with the leaves.

She spoke to the willow, the elm and the pine

and she told them what she'd been told time after time.

She told them she felt she was never enough.

She was either too little or far far too much.

Too loud or too quiet, too fierce or too weak.

Too wise or too foolish, too bold or too meek.

Then she found a small clearing surrounded by firs,

and she stopped ... and she heard what the trees said to her.

And she sat there for hours not wanting to leave.

For the forest said nothing, it just let her breathe."

In Search of Peace and Quiet

I love a Sunday morning in bed. Preferably the weather mustn’t be too nice. A soft rain falling outside and the sky a light grey. The world turns in. The smell of coffee wafts up to my nose and draws me into a gratefulness for my life I cannot ignore. I am very lucky. The coffee competes on the night stand with the books that want to be read. My phone is dead. Turned off. The world is silent. What is happening in the world, news we call it, is temporarily arrested and not able to come into my bed or my head.

For me there is a peace and quiet in seeking out the smell of coffee and the sound of rain, rather than have my face sucked into the constantly new images, flashing by, of a world I do not inhabit. I like the feel of looking out at the same view through the window and hearing the same sounds. It brings familiarity and stops me coveting what I will never have: a house in the Maldives or a Ferrari. Not that I want these things, I must add, yet the world into which my phone draws me, tells me stories that wrench me out of the seemingly dull and static now and try and sell me a life I don’t really want.

I am not static, I am moving, even in bed. It may not be in the direction the world wants me to move. But I am moving. I am dreaming, thinking, reading, listening, being still. That’s a type of movement. Moving towards a peace that brings me comfort in a world that moving headlong towards extinction.  The turning of the pages, the bitter taste of the coffee in my mouth. Experiences that quieten my mind and draw me to a place of wanting to be a better person; more kind, available, patient, curious, non-judgmental, inclusive, non-binary.  

With the world “outside” and the room inside, silent, I have time to think about these things and re-commit myself to my North star. What is important to me? How can I live what I believe and stay flexible and open to all experiences, respecting people’s choices and opinions? Difficult questions. I know the answer to the former, but struggle with the latter. As I sip my coffee, I remember that I have grown used to certain things as an adult that I simply could not bear as a child. The taste of coffee and alcohol, for instance. This thought is a good reminder that I can become used to something, enjoy it, even if it may be detrimental to my health and well-being.  

Searching for peace and quiet is my conscious act of rebellion, I guess, against a world I do not fully understand. I do not understand the need for the hurry and breathlessness I see around me.  I would have thought that at the near age of fifty, I might have, or have got a better understanding of the world. Yet I have to admit, I seem to understand it less the longer I live. I am grateful that I am still free enough to choose peace and quiet so that i can get away from this confusion. However, I admire the energy and stamina of those who can sustain a life led at full-speed ahead with seemingly no moments of rest. I cannot do that. My soul searches for a place of rest and peace. I am grateful for this searching and rebellion. It brings me to places I would never have seen otherwise.  

Places I have never actually been to. Getting lost in the words that are not mine, but whose images are. The miracle of my mind to read and picture that hillside house overlooking the rough and tumbling sea. The genius of my undistracted mind to smell the salty sea without even being near it. The joy of listening to the birds chirp ceaselessly outside a window that isn’t mine, in a place where the brook is babbling and meandering through the forest like a happy snake. My mind can find peace anywhere, anytime. It can draw into itself and daydream.

I dream a lot about how my world could be. It is bittersweet. Do you daydream? Do you place yourself in that category? A daydreamer. In my daydream world, it is a world where the world is quieter, not so much white noise. It has room for daydreamers and there are no weapons. It is a world that is grey, not black and white. Daydreaming is peaceful in my mind. It is not violent. I guess some people’s daydreams are violent. I respect that.  

My daydreaming has leaked the heat out of my coffee. It is cold and more bitter than I remember. I gulp it down in one swift movement and try to balance the bitterness of its taste with the sweetness of my daydream. The sun has come streaming onto my bed, disturbing my peace and quiet with dust motes careering around the room in a frantic dance I cannot begin to fathom. The sun’s heat gently peels away the duvet and tells the message of what awaits should I decide to get up and take my daydreaming outside.

The Twins

Jenny and me at my sister Caroline’s wedding - Oct 2014

This story is about my sister, Jenny, and me. Twins. Born together on a winter’s day in 1973. Three minutes apart as my mother told it. This story is about the last month of her life. This story originated as a creative writing piece I did in a writing course at The International Writer's Collective. I didn’t share with my class mates then that this was a personal story. The version below is somewhat longer than the class piece. Writing this piece had a dual purpose: it helped me remember our last month together, and helped me to process her loss.

The 14th March 2023 marks two years since her passing. Jennifer, my twin sister, was the best birthday present I ever got. This piece of writing is dedicated to her memory, may she rest in peace.

The Journey

[Memory is such an imperfect tool until it is not. It is imperfect at remembering until it remembers every detail of a moment or time or place, or all of it together - the last moments together. Our first and last nights together.]

It was in the time of the Covid-19 pandemic, January 2021. My phone rang. It still rang freely, even though people weren’t free to walk in the streets. “I don’t know how to say this,” Jenny said. And then she said it. I was running a bath. The water kept coming yet my world stopped in that moment. A momentary skip of a universal beat. It was unmistakable. My hands were trembling, everything was trembling. Something a hot bath couldn’t fix.

“I’ll be on the next plane down,” I said. The flight arrived two weeks later. Pandemic delayed. During the long flight the plane had crossed that imaginary boundary of the North and South divide and with it the seasons flipped. There was nothing I could do about it, overnight, Spring had changed to Autumn.

I arrived at the house shared by my sisters and walked through to the patio. Jenny was sitting in the dappled shade of the Elm tree, out of the midday sun. Even at this time of year the sun was still strong. Jenny stood up to greet me. I towered over her, I always had. There was a standing joke between us that I had stolen her food in the womb. She was unsteady on her feet and thin as a stick. Thirty-six kilograms at last count. She looked as if something was trying to suck the life out of her. There was. Cancer. I smiled, trying not to look shocked.

We hugged only as twins can, without reserve and complete intimacy. The conspiratorial time in the womb still evident to all. She sat back down in the chair and looked at me with those wild eyes that gave away how much pain she was in. “You know I’m going to beat this.” She was challenging not only me. “Don’t you?”

“Of course you are, ” I said. I turned my head quickly away and gazed out into the garden, green and lush from the summer rains. “Those sunflowers are so big,” I said. It took Jenny a moment to register what I’d said, then she too looked at them.

“I know,” she said. “They’re my favourite flowers.”

“I didn’t know that.” I said. After a lifetime of knowing her, I still didn’t know her.

Jenny the business owner, the single mother. Jenny the strong woman, the loyal friend. Jenny the beautiful soul, the extremely hard worker. Jenny the focused, the stubborn. Jenny the babbling brook, who couldn’t keep quiet and always had something to say, was solemn and quiet in a way that I had never known before. It frightened me. Instead of talking, she wanted to be massaged with cannabis oil. Day-in and day-out I laid my well intentioned and pleading hands on her bones. She was skin and bones – cancer can do that to your loved ones.  

Cancer took away Jenny’s interest in her business and family. The pain in her body too great to focus on life. Death was already wondering the halls of the house and her body. Jenny’s loved ones we were looking it straight in the eyes. You can’t not stare.

Life goes on amidst tragedy. Food is still prepared and eaten. The flavours of the food do not sour in the mouth because of looming tragedy. The wholesome and delicious food my sister Caroline was renowned for, tasted just that. I could’nt make it otherwise. It was our family tradition that we sat down to eat at the table. All together. No TV or phones or distractions. Family time. Jenny came once to the table to eat, the first night after I arrived. After that she would never come to the family table again.

She never complained about the pain she was in, even though it must have been immense. Her stoical, stubborn and focused self was still evident. She could barely stand now, but still wanted to walk herself to the toilet. I offered to carry her, “No babes.” She called everyone that. “I don’t want you to carry me.” She was as light as a feather by now. I was forty-seven years old, a strong guy, I could have carried her in one arm.

“Why not?” I protested.

“Because I don’t want you too,” she said. “I can walk by myself, just give me your arm.” We hobbled to the toilet and back again to her bed. She was a proud woman, just like our mother.

When we were very young we had one room together. We were together every moment of every day. I don’t remember this, I was too young. I only remember stories about it. Our parents gave us each our own room from about the age of five or six years old. A luxury then. We grew up having seperate rooms but did sleep together in the same room every now and then when visitors came or when some special occasion warranted it. Those were the best times.

In the last month of Jenny’s life we had one room together again. I slept in her room on a blow up mattress for the time I stayed in South Africa. This was precious and painful. The last two weeks Jenny was bed-ridden and you could say I was too. I spend most minute of every day with her, except for meals and breaks and my daily swim at the public pool, which helped me clear my mind and connect me to my body. It was cleansing.

And then on the night the angels came to claim her, a month and two days after I’d arrived, I walked into her room after having had my meal and she was waving her hands frantically. She hadn’t spoken for a couple of days. “I’m hot,” she said, “I need air.” I grabbed the fan and started fanning her fiercely. She lay back relieved. Her breathing changed , it became peaceful and irregular, with longer pauses, quietened and then stopped. And just like that, I was her twin brother no more.

Wearing My Heart on my Sleeve

“But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve.” Shakespeare coined this phrase first in Othello. Miriam Webster’s dictionary defines it as, “Showing your intimate emotions in an honest and open manner.” I have been told I wear my heart on my sleeve. It seems more of a curse than a blessing up until now. And yet, here I go again.

Thank you for taking the time to read this blog. Your time is so valuable and yet you decided to spend the seven or eight minutes here. It means a lot to me because this blog won’t change your life, but it will mine. It seems futile then (you reading my blog), doesn’t it? Maybe, but you may have a laugh along the way and some food for thought.

I used to think that my writing would and could change people – maybe even the world. I assumed I had something to say. I naïvely believed that any piece of good writing went straight to the brain and re-wired the reader and vola. I supposed I sound like some kind of American dictatorial President, don’t I? Or the CEO of Facebook – especially with the assumption that I think I write well. [Hear maniacal laughing in the background] - (I was thinking of using an African President as an example, but they have more honour than those idiots Trump and Zuckerberg). Anyhow, I have gotten on the beaten path, back into the bush.

My writing; any piece of writing won’t change the reader. Writers can’t change readers. It is as immutable a fact as the rising and setting of the sun. This thought brings relief. I can now continue this blog without any pressure on me that what I write from here on in, will 1. either be of any good, 2. make a difference in your life or 3. (god forbid) change who you are. What a beautiful thought.

I have wanted to be a writer since I was a boy. (As I tried to write boy, I made a typo, it came out BOT, - the bots are coming, that is the future with chat GPT – maybe a post from it in the future). I think this desire to write came from how words feel to me and how good authors convey them. The desire to express myself in writing is strong, not perfect or good, but strong. I try to copy the best writing I have read and make it my own.

I have tried not to write, but it is difficult. Something always calls me back to write. Another poem, another sentence, another revision. Words that look imperfect after birth – a skew feel, or shape or sound want to die and yet I want to keep them alive, make them better or something more beautiful. I want words to be their best selves. As if my mind hadn’t conceived them and their existence is beyond my mind, as it were. The reflection of the mind can be cruel.

SwimGym, the place where I work now, gave me something I am truly grateful for. A wall upon which to write. You see, the walls there are painted with a paint that can be written on with chalk markers. The coaches write the swim trainings on these walls and at the end of the day wipe the slate clean. I write poems on these walls because that is their and my purpose. These poems are seen by the people I have got to know well. The writing rightfully vanishes at the close of the day.

I think we all want to make a difference in life, to be seen and valued – I do, anyhow. Since I was a child, I wanted that difference to be with writing. Writing is somewhat of a journey into wearing your heart on your sleave and confidence to show the world the result. The confidence has grown over time, this blog is a testament to that. Yet there is still so much doubt and uncertainty about my mind, the words and how they land in the minds of others. In this regard, SwimGym helped me here again by asking me to write blogs for them about swimming. It has given me more confidence in my ability to believe in my writing ability.

Two things I love, writing and swimming. Wearing my heart upon my sleeve, I ask – is it naïve to have a job where I can do two things that I love? The world is harsh in its answer. Money and power trump love.

I am conscious of the fact that my writing makes people, who read it, feel something – good or bad. It makes them see what works or doesn’t, for them, and that’s ok. I used to think that if people didn’t connect with my writing that that was my inability to write what they wanted, but I now know it’s not true. My writing helps people clarify their feeling’s and helps them to write their own story more clearly. What more could I ask for?

My writing cannot change you, but it does change me. Every time I take pen to paper or finger to keyboard, I am writing myself out of an older story and into a newer one. One letter at a time I am changing. It is a love letter to self.  It happens slowly and imperceptible. Only when I look back do I see the path snaking along like a cryptocurrency index. I am not the person I was, as a young boy, yearning to write and wanting people to read what I had written, because now I am writing and you are reading and for that my world is different and to you, I am grateful.

“Showing your intimate emotions in an honest and open manner,” is a scary thing. I encourage it. Do it responsibly. Whatever you feel from reading this blog I hope it’s given you the courage to do something that you love, yet scares you. Let the world see a little more. It is difficult, I know. You are beautiful and the world is waiting to embrace your heart upon its sleeve.

A Day In The Life

A Day In The Life Of A Swim Coach

The pool is teaming with moody teenagers. They are swimming up and down the pool. It is a long set. They will be tired and moodier when they get out. They don’t know how wonderful their lives are. I am speaking to several of them through headsets they are wearing. This nifty piece of equipment allows coach to be their “voice of god,” so to speak.

I am speaking to them individually and collectively about their swimming technique and the things I see from the side. “Coach sees everything,” I speak into the microphone with my Darth Vader voice. Reminding them to make sure they stay focused on swimming pretty. I watch to see if they are streamlining well off the walls and how the mechanics of each stroke is being applied.

Of course, these things are important, their technique and focus etc., yet I know how they feel. Some of them are feeling great and strong, with very little worries; some of them are feeling a little overwhelmed with their lives and can’t concentrate on the set. As the set wares on - the feelings, good or bad - intensify. I am there to help them through the set. I am not a schoolmaster or a disciplinarian, I am literally a voice in their heads. What I say matters.

So, I have to be careful what I say and how I say it. I decide to start singing. I am a crap singer, but I love poetry and can string some ryhming words together to a phoney rap tune. The silly things that i am singing make little sense and have no connection to swimming or what I am seeing my swimmers do or want them to do. It is merely a delightful distraction. I notice that my ‘headset’ swimmers seem to straighten up a little in the water, their tumble turns and streamlines become a little cleaner and they swim a little better. Between sets, I see them all smiling at me and each other. They are having fun and so am I.

Many years later, I meet one of these swimmers again and we talk about how they are doing and it feels very familiar. They tell me that one of their lasting memories was not the personal bests they swam, or the many hours of grueling training, but the times I was singing away like a madman into their headsets.

Honesty

Kids are pretty honest. Young kids especially. Through them my Dutch was put under the microscope and they let me have it when my grammar was wrong. I loved it. There is that saying in English right, “Take as good as you give.” I was giving them feedback on their swimming, and they were giving me feedback on my Dutch. A fair swap, I think. What I learnt from these delightful kids was, one: not to take myself too seriously and two: coaching is a two-way process. A feedback loop between coach and coached. Being the coach means nothing if you are not willing to listen, be challenged or criticised from the people you are training.

 Feedback

Receiving feedback is not easy. I think easier for kids, than for adults though. When giving feedback, I use the same formula every time. I look for what the swimmer is doing well. This is my standard approach. I will stop and ask myself, “What is this swimmer doing well?” This creates a positive vibe and when I give feedback I start there, then I move on to the focus point. It opens up communication channels in a respectful way.

“What is the swimmer doing well?”, is the mantra I keep in my head. If you ask this question, you will always frame people’s effort, not only swimming, but human effort, in a totally different light.

It is the realisation that everybody is trying their individual best. The swimmer in front of you is not doing what they are doing on purpose to piss you off. They are doing what they are doing because it is their best effort at this moment and do not know any better.

From this point of view, I start the correction process. Carefully and gently, reminding the swimmer what they are doing well and what is holding them back from becoming faster and more accomplished as a swimmer. The responsibility for change is then where it belongs, squarely on the shoulders of the swimmer.

Toilet Breaks

Travelling on holiday in the car to the coast was a nightmare for me. My dad tried to drive the seven hours from Johannesburg to Durban without stopping. If I needed the toilet, I would have to hold it in until my dad decided to stop or we had reached the destination. It was hell. I developed a toilet anxiety from this. I do not envy this on anyone.

In the swimming club where I gave training for many years, the head coach frowned upon swimmers who wanted to go to the toilet midway in the training. It was something I was always strongly opposed to, given my own memories.   

The head coach saw the need to go the toilet as a weakness or ill-preparedness for the training on the side of the swimmer.

My belief in this assertion was tested one day in training. One of the teenage girls asked to go to the toilet midway in a crucial set. I felt a little irritation come up, because this was the second time in the training. There was a moment where I wanted to say no and spout the vitriol of the head coach, but the boy in the car bursting to go to the toilet spoke up. The girl got out the pool, walked to her bag and retrieved a tampon.

I never had any doubt again about my decision to let swimmers go to the toilet.

 NOTE: Amsterdam counts three free public toilets accessible to women, men’s urinals dot the landscape at regular intervals. This is clear sign who designed the city and that there is no thought given to a woman’s experience of the city. Something I mentioned in my blog Feminism, where to now? Being forced to go into a restaurant, pay for the toilet or a beverage to access a toilet is simply wrong. Something that is a basic human right, should not be monetized. This is a clear gender bias gap.

Don’t Change Your Swimming Cap Without Letting Coach Know

Competitions are stressful for coach and swimmer alike. I am dealing with a million things at once and swimmers are nervous, excited, disappointed and everything in-between.

The one thing a coach needs at a meet is predictability. Getting the right swimmer to the start block at the right time and then focusing on the hundred other things that are going on around us.

So, when I looked up expecting to see a certain swimmer on the blocks, I was horrified to see that another swimmer was in their place. I remind you that lots is going on and I wouldn’t have made this mistake in training.

I yell out to the swimmer that they are in the wrong heat. The meet referee and starter don’t blink an eye. The parents in the stands all look at me like I am crazy and how could they have entrusted their kids to this madman. The starter continues unabated. I am sweating by this stage because I think, “Oh my god, this is going to be a disaster.”

“Hey coach, when do I start?” I look down at the owner of the voice who I think is on the starting block . My eyes must’ve popped out of my head. “What’s wrong, looks like you seen a ghost?”

I then up look up as the gun goes off and see a completely different swimmer set off down the pool.

I look down at the swimmer again quizzically. She smiles her crooked smile and says, “I leant her my swimming cap. Hers broke and she forget to bring spares.”

I could have throttled someone in that moment. You see coaches become conditioned, just like their swimmers do. If you see the same swim cap day-in and day-out in practice on the head of a swimmer, you automatically assume things.

I had a good laugh about it after the meet.

 A God Among Mortals

I literally do see everything. It is a superpower that I have and many other coaches too. It is difficult to describe. I guess it’s because I love the sport and practice being focused on the swimming movements that I do notice everything.

I can be focused on a swimmer in the foreground and yet see something happening at the other end of the pool.

One becomes so attuned to the swimmers’ movements that it becomes a language in itself. That minute change in the way a swimmer recovers over the water is an indication that the swimmer is thinking about something else.

A swimmer dipping their head with each hand entry is struggling with the pace. I can tell from looking at a swimmer and how they warm up how hard I can push them in the training.

I see the eyes of swimmers widen when I tell them exactly how they are feeling. No, I cannot read minds, but it’s close. I know what I know from what I see. It is wonderful to be able to work with people in this way. Speak into their sporting lives with positivity and power and help them achieve their swimming goals. It is so satisfying to be a swim coach.

Everyday is so varied and an affirmation of human effort.

 Becoming Conscious

The most curious thing about being a swim coach is learning that people swim unconsciously and by default move their bodies in pre-determined ways that they know nothing about. I see them as they really are. Describing this is tricky because generally people won’t recognize themselves in my description of them swimming. They think I am describing a stranger, only to be surprised when they realise differently. Words are complicated, pictures provide clarity. When I show them the videos of themselves swimming, the scales fall from their eyes.

We think we are right until we know we are wrong. This old adage holds true for swimming too, but changing the technique is a little harder. Consciousness is the first step. It goes a long way to helping swimmers let go of their old swimming self’s. It isn’t easy.

It is my greatest pleasure in life to have a drill ready to help them become conscious of what their bodies are doing. Consciousness brings attention and attention brings change.

May we all be the change we want to see in the world.

Clocking Away

A day in the life of swim coach is also clocking times, writing swim sets and managing the swim trainings. This is the hardware of swimming. It stays constant and is scientifically based. It is the place where things feel controllable. Yet they too change from time to time. The complexity of the swimmer is the software and is programmable.

A day in my life is varied, intense, physically draining and yet indescribably fulfilling. Drawing the best out of people is so rewarding. It is the place where love resides. Not a phony love that lasts for only as long as the words are on the lips, but a genuine love that sees others grow and become something more than themselves. They grow out of their old swimming skin and into their new one.

I love it.

The Last Traveler #2 - Birth

It’s boiling, for god’s sake!” Diana screamed.

“You will be ok, just breathe,” Etta tried to keep her calm. There was no need for Diana to get upset, but only the closed circle of people present knew that.

She couldn’t keep still; she writhed and fought all the way. Her panic was real. She struggled to get air into her lungs and began to choke. Her eyeballs felt like they were going to pop out at any moment. She had trusted them. She had trusted Etta. Etta said it would be fine.

The room was white and sterile. She thought it was a container of some sort. It was round and white emanated from behind the walls in a way she imagined heaven to look. But she soon found out it was pure hell. In the middle there was a square pool filled with a blue plasma that glittered. It was beautiful and she stepped forward to take a closer look. Only then did she notice the x on the floor.

“Stand on it lovey,” Etta’s voice guiding her on. Diana took a step forward, wondering what would happen when she stood on it. Never, in a million years, did she imagine that her life would never be the same again. ‘X marks the spot,’ she thought to herself as she took the last two steps onto the cross.

Immediately the body suit dropped from the ceiling, clamping on to her. Her entire body gossamered. The alarm bells started to ring. Not only in her head, but all around her. “Etta, I’m scared, get me out.” She said. She felt like she was suffocating. She held her breath.

“You will be ok, just breathe,” said Etta. Diana kept holding her breath. She was scared to open her mouth, the body suit covered her whole body and it felt strange. It pressed into her face. She didn’t know how there could be any air to breathe. The feeling of panic was real. She was writhing around in the suit, but to no avail, it held her fast. She opened her mouth and choked on the air that came into her lungs, almost as if her brain didn’t believe that it was possible. She felt like her eye balls were popping out of her head.

“It’s ok lovey, hang in there, it will only take a few minutes. Etta’s voice disappearing as the room suddenly started to quickly change shape. Platforms appeared under the feet of the people in the room and carried them out to safety behind the white walls that became dark and sinister.  She was alone now. The red light above her turned green and she heard the computer generated voice from somewhere up high, “Plasma Fusion initiated.  Sequence begins in 30 seconds and counting.” Diana fought against her body suit but it was of no use. She was being lifted up and over the blue cosmic plasma pool. It glittered; she couldn’t take her eyes off its beauty. What a strange sensation, being scared and mesmerized at the same time.

She had no idea what was going to happen.  She also realised this might also be her destruction. Why would they hurt her? Why was Etta so sweet and lovely just to let her die? Her thoughts raced around her head and she realised she had stopped breathing. She suddenly gasped and started choking. She took big gulps of air. It felt as if she was struggling to breathe. “Calm down Diana,” came the soothing voice of her mother. Was she dreaming. She tried to look around her but she couldn’t. The body suit held her tight.  The body suit tilted forward and she screamed. She was now over the pool of plasma.

She was slowly being let down and she could still hear the sterile and emotionless voice tick off the seconds to initiation. Her body touched the plasma and. It was as if all the air had been sucked out of her, as if she was being freezer dried. The pain was incredible. A pinching and pulling pain that started at her feet. Every nerve ending being broken and rebuild. The plasma swirling up and into the gossamer like a mold. She screamed and then she started to feel it. Like being cracked open she started to feel the energy building up inside her. She caught a glimpse of the machine that now came out of the ceiling. A long barrel of adamantium that was pointing straight at her head. This was it she thought, they are going to shoot me.

She could feel her body continuing to radiate and the feeling was pulsing in her veins. The fusion plasma was still swirling around her. She was getting dizzy. She was choking. She couldn’t breathe. The panic was real. Death felt near. She wanted it to come. Surely that would be better than what she was experiencing. She opened her mouth to cough and try and grab some air and then it happened. The fusion plasma beam came out of her mouth. A hundred thousand microns of energy. Her head jerked up and the beam came out of her eyes and mouth. The adamantium barrel was there to channel this incredible force away. Legend has it that she gave Oberon enough energy that night for a hundred thousand years.

The gossamer was now all light, white and then blue, then green. Turning its colours around the room and making a helix around Diana. The light still streamed from her forehead and mouth. The gossamer had all but disappeared dissolving into her flesh and becoming a part of her.

Abruptly the light stopped and she slumped forwards. Robot arms caught her and gently laid her on the bed that had come out of the floor next to the pool. The room returned to white light and then a soft yellow.  The bed moved slowly through the opening in the wall to a room beyond. 

“It’s done,” Tesla said, “we have the Last Traveler.”

“Well done, Etta, for this outstanding result,” Gordog said. “The Confederacy will be pleased.”

“Hey lovey, how are your feeling.” Said Etta stroking her head softly.

“Where am I?” she said. Pushing on her hands to bring herself upright but she was gently pushed back by hands she couldn’t see.

“You are okay,” Etta said. “You did really well. I am so proud of you,”

Diana stared straight out in front of her, struggling to focus on the soft lamp that stood in the corner. Was that her mother’s lamp? She started to point, but she had no energy. Etta gently laid her hand back down on the bed. “The answers will come.” The room was cozy and much warmer in colour of the light than the birth chamber had been. The walls were a rich apple green. She couldn’t take her eyes off the lamp. Her body felt strange. It was pulsing. A sensation she had never had before. It was as if the ocean had taken residence in her body, pulsing with waves that crashed and then receded. It was something she let happen. She tried to think of something else, but she couldn’t. The sensation would not let her.

She breathed in deeply and the bedside light glowed brighter. As she exhaled the light dimmed. She did it again and the same thing happened. She must be imagining things. She tried to concentrate on the light. The room seemed to be pulsing now too. She took a deep breathe in and the room expanded and then contracted on her exhale. She felt so tired. She closed her eyes and fell into a deep long sleep.

Einstein’s Theory of Insanity and How it Pertains to Swimming

Albert Einstein’s Theory of Relativity by Carl Wilkinson (author), James Weston Lewis (illustrator)

“Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” – Albert Einstein (Theoretical Physicist b1879 -d1955)

If this is so, swimmers are insane. Mental people who are also delusional.  You spend months and months, years and years swimming up and down the pool, doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results. You expect your technique to improve and your times to drop. So, who is right, Einstein or you?

It’s tricky, because, like those shifty quarks in the universal sub-atomic soup, the truth, is illusive. I think the answer lies in knowing when to do something different and when to keep doing the same thing to get the results you desire. How can you know? Come take a swim with me through the murky waters of Einstein’s theory of Insanity.

What did Einstein mean by “same thing,”?

I think he meant cleaning your house with a tooth pick instead of a vacuum cleaner, or opening a door with mental telepathy instead of a key, or reducing carbon emissions while still using fossil fuels. This looks like insanity to me.

In these examples, knowing when to do something different is clearly helpful and sane. 

Get a Good Coach

Obviously, Einstein didn’t have a good coach.

A good coach will keep you sane. She will reflect back to you what you are doing in your swimming. Your coach will video you and analyse your stroke. She will tell you what you need to keep, and what you need to change. Seeing yourself swim is the best way to help you understand the truth about your swimming.

When to Keep Doing the Same thing?

When embedding new technique or building swim fitness.

That new technique you learned from your coach or online is something that needs to be practiced. This means doing the same thing over and over and getting feedback from someone in the know, preferably your coach.

Building swim fitness is all about swimming the same swim set, once a week, at your aerobic threshold pace. I won’t get into here; this topic is a blog on its own. You don’t want to swim too fast or too slow. The threshold is also called your Critical Swim Speed (CSS). It might feel like the same thing every week, but your speed will improve over time.

Consistency of performance is crucial, and this can only be achieved by doing the same good things week in and out. It’s the way modern athletes train.

When to do something Different?

When you want to change your technique. You want to have a high elbow catch; you will have to learn to let the hand lead under the water. Something different. You want to have a good push out at the back of your stroke, you will have to keep your hand facing backwards instead of turning it to your hip. Something different.

This is the moment where you have to let go of your former swimming self and re-imagine yourself in another form, another movement. Initially the result might look different to what you imagined.

Most technique changes come with having to slow down your pace. But once ingrained you will swim faster and more efficiently.

Re-phrasing Einstein’s Theory

Re-phrasing the theory brings some relief because it acknowledges our humanness and speaks more easily into our own experience. What if it said, ‘Sanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results,’ or ‘Insanity is thinking you are the same person today as you were yesterday and doing the same thing will produce the same results.’

How does that make you feel? If you have ever watched Darts or Golf, you will know that doing the same thing over and over does not necessarily bring the same result.

Why is it so hard to get the same results?  

You are not the same person day-in and day- out

Why is that? You are in constant change: physically, mentally and spiritually. Each time you come to the pool you are a changed person – not new, just changed. Your experiences between your swims will influence your results, for better or for worse.

What can change you?

1.      Change itself. On boarding of a new technique will physically change the structure of your brain.

2.      How you feel. Are your thoughts positive or negative? Life circumstances change the way we feel about the world and the training you are about to do.

3.      Health: Sickness can change our energy and motivation levels significantly and vise-versa. Sickness also has the ability to remove a certain level of fitness. Your Critical Swim Speed will go down.

4.      Where you are in your cycle. Performance, motivation and energy levels will be different depending where you are in your cycle; stronger and more motivated in the follicular phase and down on power and motivation in the luteal phase.

5.      Fitness. Your level of fitness changes how you respond to the training and what training load your body can endure.

6.      Visualisations. Seeing yourself swim correctly in your head changes how you actually swim. Watching videos of others swim helps you mimic those movements. Best you choose the right videos.

Expect Different results

Do the same things, expect different results. Be happy when the results are the same. It means that something is working well in your routine or some change is constant for that moment.

Expecting different results is not a fatalistic statement saying that things will never improve or that you won’t get better. It is a statement of truth reflecting our life journey.

I promise you that most of it will be up, but when there is a dip, or a fall in your result, it won’t crush your motivation. Analyse what changed in you to bring about that result.

Our brain has an irritating tendency to remember us at our fittest and best. It is a nice to have memory but dangerous when you are coming back from injury, the birth of a child or when you feel unprepared for an upcoming swimming event.

Motivation

There is nothing motivating in Einstein’s words. In fact, it is only demotivating. Why bother training if nothing is going to change.

Motivation is a strong indicator of swimming success, not only to improve technique but also get faster and fitter.

Einstein was not a Swimmer

Einstein could not swim. If only Einstein had been a swimmer, imagine what one-liner he would have come up with then? The quote by Einstein hurts our understanding of ourselves and the ability to grow through our constant good habits. Keep doing the same things and expect different results. Keep embracing the change in your swimming life and enjoy every moment of it, because it might stay the same.