Tag: mindfulness

Pandemic Productivity

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Reading time: 3-4 minutes
Reading accompaniment(s): Another slice of homemade cake (go on, treat yourself)

Lockdown has the potential to be a time of unparalleled productivity. Less distractions. More time. No FOMO. It has been said that Shakespeare wrote not only King Lear or Macbeth or Antony and Cleopatra—but in fact all bloody (pun intended) three—during the plague pandemic of 1606. Four hundred years later, during the coronavirus pandemic, I, on the other hand, have written approximately, well, nothing much at all. I did write one blog post, at the end of April (a cracking good read, let me tell you), but with a grand total of nine hundred and sixty-three words, though each expertly selected and utilised, I don’t think it can be considered quite the same accomplishment as that of my thespian forefather.

The thing is—I have simply not had the inclination to write. Apart from in my journal in the wee hours when I cannot sleep (the result of which I do not wish anyone, myself included, the horror of reading). In fact, I have lacked any inclination to do many a normal activity during this unsettling but, let’s face it, equally tranquil period of time. Perhaps it is because of a lack of inspiration. A dwindling of social engagements causing a depletion of any interesting base material. Perhaps it is because of all of the internal, and increasingly external, discussions about big and scary topics such as life and control and sovereignty and racism. And Bill Gates. If it’s all still such a muddle in my head, how on earth am I supposed to write any of it down with any sort of eloquence? (That’s a rhetorical question, to myself; I’m still in the figuring-it-out stage.) Or perhaps it’s because I’m lazy. A state of being that I’m almost becoming comfortable owning. (As in: you own dat, girlfriend.)

I have had some non-literary-excellence achievements, though: I have completed two jigsaw puzzles (the first since around twelve years of age), and I have baked not one but TWO BLOODY DELICIOUS cakes (my first time ever!!!). A feat I am inordinately proud of, and clearly modest about. But the jigsaws have been dismantled and the cakes consumed. So what have I really got to show for my time spent indoors? Merely slightly more dexterous fingers and a COVID-19 waistline?

Perhaps a better way to quantify my quaran-time achievements is through looking at the thoughts I am unpacking, the conversations I am having, and the way I am treating others and myself. I mean, if my daily candle-lit bubble baths are anything to go by, I’d say I’m doing pretty darn well. Not sure the couple living below us would agree, whose bathroom gets leaked on every time our tub drains. But, you know, swings and roundabouts. I am beginning to try out meditation. I am journaling more. I am entering into those aforementioned uncomfortable conversations with a willingness to learn as opposed to a one-sided view with which to preach. I may still not always communicate my thoughts or frustrations or confusions in the best or most sympathetic way (something I have always done with greater ease via writing, with more time to think, than in conversation, with less time to edit), but I am trying and, hopefully, improving, and that can only be a positive.

But maybe judging everything on a scale of productivity or achievement is where we are all going wrong anyway. I have not written King Lear or Macbeth or Antony and Cleopatra during the lockdown. But what is the problem with that? Am I a machine in a factory? Do I always need to be productive? Maybe the most important thing I’ve discovered during this quiet time is that productivity is not the holy grail. Headspace is constantly telling me to just be, after all. Which leads me to ponder: is a pandemic the ideal habitat for productivity, or is the constant pressure to be, or often simply appear, productive a pandemic in itself? I’m not sure. But it’s food for thought, definitely. And great served on the side of a slice of homemade cake. (Carrot, if you’re curious, with a slathering of coconut cream.)

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Yogis and Vegans

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As someone aspiring to be both a yogi and a vegan, a full-day yoga and vegan festival sounded like the perfect Sunday activity to reignite my lapsed and not-quite-fully-committed-to holier-than-thou lifestyle. For, before Sunday just gone, I had not taken part in a yoga class, or solitary practice, for at least seven months; and my near-daily chocolate habit is regrettably not confined to milk-free dark varieties. So I was definitely in need of a gentle boost and some yogic and plant-based inspiration. 

The Yogific (yes, Yogific) Yoga and Vegan Festival was just the ticket. Off I tootled on my bicycle on sunny Sunday morning, yoga mat slung slapdashedly over my shoulder, legs peddling at double speed to make it in time for the 11 o’clock session: Fundamentals of Ashtanga Yoga for All. (It was the ‘for all’ of the title which piqued my interest most; I, like you, hadn’t the foggiest what Ashtanga was, but knowing that I wouldn’t be completely out of my yoga-less depth was reassurance enough to give it a go.) The bike ride itself turned out to be a warm up for my core, having to balance (precarious as ever on my bicycle) with the added imbalance of a right shoulder bearing the weight of my Dopper (my Dutch friends will know) and the cumbersome length of my rolled up mat, which proceeded to jab me in the thigh on each and every peddle. I spent the entire journey trying to readjust my baggage while staying upright on my bike, as well as avoiding any bleary-eyed pedestrians who lingered on the bike path just a moment too long. It was quite the journey. I arrived red-faced, on edge and thoroughly ready for some Ashtangic healing.

I realise in hindsight that the ticket collection situation was another preparatory exercise to get your body (and mind, to an extent) feeling flexible and fluid. While at the time, for me at least, it felt awkward, unnecessary and a little bit painful (I suppose the perfect introduction to a day-long yoga session). The three or four ticket attendants were sitting inside the building, the Klokgebouw (Clock Building) to be precise, each with a top hung window separating them from the outside world, which opened approximately five centimetres at the bottom, to give a kind of boob-height crevice through which to conduct their ticketing business. One either had to stand up straight and shout at the volunteer through the glass, or bend down to align mouth with opening to ensure audibility of a more socially acceptable conversational volume. I opted for a combination of the two, which, after my slightly stressful commute there, presented itself as a confused mime artist with passive aggressive tendencies. Anyhow I got the ticket and gained access to the event.

Ashtanga Yoga appeared to me quite similar to how I perceive and know ‘yoga’ as a pursuit to be, with the main difference being the conscious attention paid towards two specific muscle positionings: the Mūla Bandha and the Uḍḍiyāna. Just hearing the sounds of these words made me feel more yogific. Accompanied by hand movements gesticulating an upturned jellyfish contracting followed by the stylised removal of a cloche from said jellyfish, our instructor explained these muscles to us laymen as the pelvic floor and two centimetres below the belly button. Right. That I can understand. Trying to hold them both in while breathing and performing various poses and Sun Salutations, however, was another challenge entirely. I persevered, though, and felt good for it, and definitely forgot the woes of the outside world, which I guess is one of the main objectives. 

Next on the agenda was a series of talks, spanning meditation, mental health and meeting your nutrient goals while following a vegan diet. Each talk and speaker was very different and very good, and each displayed a distinctive yogi / vegan / hippie accent to their appearance. We had the dreadlocks. We had the patterned harem pants. We even had the FiveFinger / ‘minimalist’ / ‘barefoot’ running shoes (you know, those reptile-like ‘shoes’ that separate the toes and look to induce four inescapable toe-wedgies in each foot of the victim (I mean wearer)). We had it all. 

The talk room itself was almost as off-putting as the choice of footwear. It certainly wasn’t made for talks, and clearly had not been adjusted in any way to accommodate them. Bearing in mind that the yoga sessions had a capacity of two hundred, the talk room had an advertised capacity of thirty-five, but in reality could seat ten comfortably, with the rest having to find a section of floor space on which to perch in the lotus position, with (perhaps) an unfortunately closer look at the individual toes of the speaker. Fear not, though, I always managed to bag myself a chair or slice of sofa – anything to not be at eye level with the twinkle toes of Spiderman.

An overpoweringly large silver table also featured in the room, slightly off centre in its haphazard placement, with no purpose or function other than to get in the way of the already limited floor space and provide a strange focal point that the speakers were forced to work with. My favourite speaker verbally acknowledged the barmy layout, much to the relief of the audience who had – for five plus hours – been questioning the choice of furniture individually, and felt a great sense of togetherness when this confusion was out in the open and shared collectively. Ah. There’s nothing like feeling part of a community.

As this was a vegan festival, I had high hopes for the lunch offering. These dreams were quickly dashed on realising that there were a total of two food stalls, between them serving vegan ‘chicken’ for an unbelievable three euros (I can never understand why anyone who choses not to eat dead animal is tempted by fake dead animal…but that’s just me) and vegan poke bowl for an eye watering €9.50 (my dish of choice oftentimes, but on this occasion marred by the presence of broad beans (?), unseasoned non-sushi rice (??) and dubious tasting grated carrot). I went for the poke bowl and was unsurprisingly underwhelmed, and now near penniless. Satisfied I was not. And what better way to compensate then a large piece of vegan (naturally) baklava? Nothing, as it happens, as that put me right back into my Zen-like headspace. Om.

My final session of the day was Yin Yoga for Stress Relief and Ultimate Relaxation. Turns out I clearly needed it. We were in Seal Pose (yes), which involves lying face down on your mat, hands underneath shoulders, then straightening your arms and hollowing your back to look up at the sky. I thought I was doing quite well until the instructor tiptoed up behind me to push my shoulders down, pull my head up, and say to me, very deliberately, “Relax!” Approximately two feet of space opened up between my ears and shoulders after her intervention; it is conceivable that I was holding some tension there. 

On my cycle home I did feel calmer, freer and a little more mindful. I got back in time to watch the second half of the Premier League final, only to discover that our sports channel was solely showing the Man City match, cutting to Liverpool (whoop whoop) only when something exciting was about to happen. This made for some less-than-relaxing viewing of a less-than-ideal result. But I was Zen now. So I just watched those City goals drift into the net; observed their presence, without judgement; and let them pass, as if into thin air. 

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