Slower, Further, Deeper
As a kid I loved to run. Always fast, never far — cross country was my kind of hell. I got into sprinting at school, coerced initially because my PE teacher had seen me run at lunchtime, and he read my name out for the 100 and 200m inter-form team. The nerves before a race almost always stopped me, but every ounce went into it when the whistle blew, straining every sinew to be the fastest. I wasn’t the fastest (that was Craig) but it didn’t matter. The effort, the speed, the short lived blast of endorphins, was what made me do it again.
And so went life. Nerves before starting something, sometimes stumbling into it, then headlong. Fast, but not far. Education, work, fitness, relationships. All the same.
And then.
Everything stopped.
In September last year I received two unexpected, and very different, phone calls.
Late one evening my Mum called. She had been in hospital recovering from an operation. She was groggy but it was so lovely to hear her voice and share a few words before telling her I loved her and to have a good nights sleep.
The next morning, my Dad called. I was on my knees gasping for air before the words had stumbled out of his mouth. He couldn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
I was on a plane the next day and spent a few weeks in Cyprus throwing myself into the arrangements for my Mum’s funeral, helping my Dad as much as I could (he, like me wanted to keep busy and took a lot of the responsibility). Our family flew in from different parts of the world. It brought home how we only really got together in these moments. Used to be weddings, christenings, now funerals. In. Out. Good times, but fleeting.
Soon after I returned to the UK, I took redundancy from a job I made myself think was everything I wanted and needed but knew was slowly killing me inside. Initially reluctant to leave, then happy to move on (see a pattern yet?). I left at the end of November, determined to enjoy a couple of months with the kids before looking for something new. My Dad came over for a bittersweet Christmas. January came and went, and I decided it was time to get going again, to throw myself into looking for a job.
Then another early morning phone call in February. Another stumble to the ground. My brother. Died in Hong Kong, taking his own life.
Job, mother, brother. All gone in what felt like an instant. Each on their own, hard to deal with. Hard to recover from.
I was broken.
Numb.
Lost.
“How does someone find purpose and passion when most of what they held true and close has either disappeared or barely exists?”
That’s what I said to a friend and then blurted in an email to a guy who does QiGong in his garden. I almost didn’t press send. We had exchanged a few emails since the end of 2018. Mostly me taking my time, building up to what I knew I needed — to start again. This time I knew it had to be different. I couldn’t push out of the blocks with the intensity of days gone.
It wouldn’t last.
It never did.
Just before lockdown I met Mark in his garden, his ‘shed’. For those that have had chats with Mark, been part of his workshops, or followed his QiGong sessions on Instagram, you know how it feels after the event. I’m positive he has changed many minds, and lives for the better. His parting words that day have been the catalyst for changing the way I think, and behave — find your joy.
Find your joy.
Worth repeating.
For me right now, it’s not an overwhelming elated joy in me and the world. It’s the smaller, slower, more gentle joy that has always been there for me but I’d never fully appreciated.
It’s dancing while cooking in the kitchen (and I mean really dancing, losing yourself to Aretha, forgetting the onions starting to caramelise in the pan) and opening your eyes to see your daughter copying your moves. It’s my new, gentle morning routine. No rush to the train. Meditation, coffee, walk, QiGong, coffee, journal (and another coffee). It’s the simple pleasures of spending time with my kids every day, not just before they go to bed. Hearing the laughter from my son playing Fortnite with his friends online, and my daughter chatting to hers. Sitting together in the garden on the sofa I built, lighting a fire, toasting marshmallows and watching the sunset. And I’ve found joy in designing and creating again, something I was really struggling with.
I even started running the other day. Not sprinting, running. Ok, more walk and run, but it’s a start. I’m appreciating the slowness, the build up, the gentle cadence. It’s not the me I know, but it’s the me I’m getting to know.
I’m finding my joy in starting again.
I’m finding my joy in going slower, further, deeper.
Matt Coyne