Kenyan Squirrels

A New Year and a new class schedule. I was looking forward to once again hosting a series of Mindfulness Classes at Norden Farm Arts Centre. If you’ve never been it’s worth checking out: a really interesting mix of music, film and activities. I wended my way over, checking I had everything I needed, prepared to arrive with plenty of time to get the room ready and welcome people as they ended their busy weeks with hopefully a bit of calm.

Then the phone rang. (Am I the only person left who is genuinely still excited about Bluetooth in the car?!) It was the Box Office Manager asking where I was, which was more than a little odd. ‘Two minutes away’ I replied breezily. Which, as it turned out, was beneficial since the class was meant to start 10 minutes ago.

Argh!

Within the blink of an eye, I had morphed into my own worst cliché: the Mindfulness Teacher who was late for her own class. When the man who sometimes likes to hold my hand turned up to deliver a session of IT training without his computer, I was entirely sympathetic. I had not known just how devastating it must have been. Until now.

I stopped my car in the car park (rather than actually parking it), got everything out and asked an unsuspecting gig-goer if he wouldn’t mind helping me to cart my accoutrements inside. He was more than willing.

I arrived with my impromptu porter to a room full of a faces I couldn’t quite read, but there certainly seemed to be an air of anticipation about the place, which did nothing to alleviate the difficult feeling that had wasted no time in enveloping me in what felt like a fog of doom. There was, of course, only one thing for it. I was honest with them. Jeeves got a round of applause (thank you so much, whoever you are) and confronted with a group of faces that were now smiling, I explained what I could sense in my body as a result of the previous four and a half minutes. How I use my mindfulness in action, and how they could too.

‘We wondered what you’d be like once you got here’, one of them confessed once my heart rate had returned to normal and the class was well under way. I gave a brief synopsis of what I would have been like if that had happened 10 years ago, much to their surprise and just a touch of hilarity. (Think hot sweaty mess, panic, and plenty of language that would make your ears bleed).

The class, as it transpired, was most enjoyable. What an incredible group! Willing to give anything a go, to sit with their own emotions and not be afraid to let them bubble up even though they had no idea (and we often don’t) why they were feeling this way and wanting to talk about it afterwards. I was touched, that I had been able to provide them with the space to get to know themselves a little more; to discover new techniques and theories; to take a moment to relax.

Everyone laughed when one lady, when asked to visualise an animal native to Africa (I suggested a giraffe or an elephant) said she could only come up with a squirrel and spent the rest of the meditation with the jittery red little creature at the forefront of her mind. But it was a laugh of camaraderie and understanding. (I have since established that squirrels are native to Kenya, and include the Striped, Unstriped, Zanj Sun and Ochre Bush species. Who knew?!)

Thank you, Norden Farm folk, for allowing me to show my vulnerabilities and for your terrific support in return. For teaching me more about being a teacher than any book ever could.

If you’d like to join this class I will be back, promptly at 7pm on 24th February. Booking via the Norden Farm website. It would be great to see you there.

No squirrels were harmed in the production of this Blog.