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Tether & Tend

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by with Ali Pember

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Did you feel ‘too much’ as a child and now think you are ‘not enough’ as an adult? I share about life and parenting as a deeply feeling human in an often unfeeling world. <a href="https://tetherandtend.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast">tetherandtend.substack.com</a>

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2/19/2024

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April 29, 2024

I took a day off

I took a day offWhat happens when you allow yourself the space to do nothing but write aimlessly? A short and sweet post from me at the start of this week as I have a deadline for an article I’m writing.Ironically then, it’s about what happens when we don’t have a deadline. What happens is that my playfulness emerges in the form of rhyming couplets.So here is the poem that wanted to play in response to Nelly Bryce’s prompt on ‘self love’ over at the wonderful community of writers she hosts on Poetry Pals. Check it out if you’d like some gentle support and passionate cheerleading for your writing efforts, however big or small.A PARTIAL ECLIPSEI took a day offTo be a poetTo write and rhymeThen get to show itI had a bathI read a bookMore importantly I didn’t cookI didn’t cleanI didn’t tidyNo one knewQuite where to find meI didn’t shopI didn’t HooverI didn’t rebootThe computerI didn’t answer ‘Where is…?’ questionsAnd ‘have you got…?’Was never mentioned I didn’t check Mum’s medication I didn’t do My meditationI didn’t rush To get back homeI didn’t checkOr scroll my phoneI didn’t bowI didn’t scrapeI didn’t wear My hero’s capeI didn’t textI didn’t callDidn’t strive toGive my allThere was no driveTo do it betterAll go was goneFrom this go getterIt was just a day offBut as I’m here to write a poemLet’s say it was a partial eclipseThat will impress them But then the wordsSimply don’t scanAnd trying hardUpsets my plan I took a day offTo be a poetTo write and rhymeThen get to show it— Ali PemberHow about you? Do you ever gift yourself the opportunity to do nothing ‘productive’? What happens?I can say that my urge to ‘tidy up’ and ‘get on’ is lingering below a paper-thin surface. But my childlike curiosity to put some creative marks on that surface wins out sometimes. How might you be more playful today? Get full access to Tether & Tend at <a href="https://tetherandtend.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4">tetherandtend.substack.com/subscribe</a>

April 8, 2024

Have you got the time?

Have you got the time? I don’t mean stop and look at your watch (not that anyone has watches these days). I mean have you got the time to do what you need to do? To be who you want to be? That question of ‘have you got the time?’ can land in different ways depending on your stage of life. You may find yourself in the trenches of early motherhood, where the nights stretch like elastic and the days blur into a monotony of feeding and changing. Simultaneously wanting aspects of your existence to hurry up, and wanting to press pause to soak that tiny person in a little longer. Or maybe your kids are long since grown and flown, and time opens up into a different dimension. I find myself, an older mother (to whom the hideous phrase elderly primigravida applied when I was pregnant), post menopausal at a time when my daughter is on the wild trip of puberty, and with elderly parents to care for. So my time takes on a poignant quality.I don’t know where this note will find you. You may not have a school aged child. You may not have children at all. But I hope you may relate to a sense of incredible optimism about all the things you might possibly achieve, if only you had the time.If only…‘If only I had the time’ I find myself thinking. Except this kind of thinking isn’t really thinking. My rational brain has checked out as soon as I utter these words. It isn’t thinking, it is complete longing. If only… If only…I somehow intuit that I could be a much better person, living a more fulfilled life, if only I had the time."If only, if only," the woodpecker sighs,The bark of the tree was as soft as the skies.The wolf sits below, hungry and lonely.He cries to the moon,"If only, if only."— Louis SacharJust like the woodpecker wanting a tree with soft bark, my longing for more time is really a sigh for something that doesn’t exist. No amount of productivity hacks or time management tools are going to offer up more hours in the day.I have to be okay with the time I’ve been given. There it is, just ticking along, not trying to piss me off. It’s only when I try to squeeze every last drop of meaningful or productive juice out of the fruit of a new day that I feel so parched.Perhaps I’m stretching the metaphor, but my days can feel like satsumas you’ve kept too long at the back of the fridge. They look plump and shiny and inviting. But when you peel them, the segments inside are slightly dry and full of pith. The problem isn’t the fruit. The problem is my expectation.Holiday amnesiaSchool holidays induce a peculiar kind of amnesia in me. I forget what it’s like. The lack of routine. The late bedtimes. The need for constant snacks. The random playdates and endless trips to the park. The driving to National Trust properties to take part in supposedly educational activities along with 350,000,000 other families. The giving in to being pestered for a McDonalds. The bedroom hopscotch that takes place on sleepovers. The impossible conundrum of trying to find somewhere that isn’t too deathly dull for an 11 year old, but with wide accessible pavements and plenty of places to sit for my mum, who finds it difficult to walk. The assembling of a stunt kite in the boot of the car. Only to find that the wind brings heavy rain clouds that force us back into the car, where we sit with windows steaming up at the scenic viewpoint.In this peculiar kind of amnesia, I think that I will have more time. I will have more time, even though I am still working and I have no childcare. Because time suddenly assumes expansive proportions when viewed through the lens of the holidays. I think that I will finish the umpteen books I have started. I am optimistic about the possibility of organising the cupboard where all the towels and bedding have been chucked haphazardly for the past 6 months. I intend to cook wholesome meals from scratch, including a Yotam Ottolenghi recipe with 15 different ingredients that are not readily available in my local supermarket. I imagine that I will write insightful and erudite articles for you, dear readers. I even dreamt that I wrote a whole piece last night then woke to find it didn’t exist.So instead, you get this. My half baked ramblings that veer from tragi-comic to somewhat profound. For goodness’ sake - time - the topic is vast, how can I ever do it justice in a Substack post? Stick with me…Productivity trapMuch of the source of my ‘if only’ thinking is that I feel under pressure to make every minute count. In the Western world we are constantly exhorted to live our best lives. To work hard, be present for our families, and have an active social life. All while being self contained, not needing help, nor social support. The ‘perfect mother myth’ thrives in this kind of culture. There’s always a nagging sense that we could be doing more, should be doing more. It keeps us busy and overwhelmed. Not enjoying the time we have. Individuals sacrificing themselves for the greater good. Worker bees without the hive.This is a topic I will return to in future, as it deserves a much longer post, and right now… well, right now, I don’t have the time!Savouring timeSo back to the topic in hand, which is really just a musing on my relationship to time. On the one hand, I can feel a rich full belly of time when I truly slow down and savour the moment. There is no hurry. Everything is unfolding exactly as it should. On the other hand, I can feel such a ridiculous sense of pressure to be in the moment that I simply can’t.The idea of ‘making the most’ of the time we are given seems to me to be the issue. That’s where the pressure lies for me, at least. But what if we simply need to get comfortable with ‘expecting the least’ of the time we are given? Not having expectations opens a space to savouring what is actually here.Many of the moments in my day are pretty mundane. In a moment I will get up from writing this to let the dog out because she is scratching at the door. I will get distracted by checking whether the washing is dry or not. I will make a mental note to get the prescriptions ready to drop in to the pharmacy tomorrow. I will rummage through the fridge to find what’s there for lunch and probably find those old satsumas.Mary Oliver writes about this sense of interrupting yourself mid flow, and the ordinariness of time. Have a look at the quote below. If you read the full piece, she is arguing for the need to honour your creative power and give it space free of distractions. However, the thing I love the most about her insight here is that the magic of creativity exists alongside the need to “eat, speak, sleep, cross a street, wash a dish!”The clock! That twelve-figured moon skull, that white spider belly! How serenely the hands move with their filigree pointers, and how steadily! Twelve hours, and twelve hours, and begin again! Eat, speak, sleep, cross a street, wash a dish! The clock is still ticking. All its vistas are just so broad—are regular. (Notice that word.) Every day, twelve little bins in which to order disorderly life, and even more disorderly thought. The town’s clock cries out, and the face on every wrist hums or shines; the world keeps pace with itself. Another day is passing, a regular and ordinary day. (Notice that word also.)”From ‘Of Power and Time’ by Mary OliverYes, sometimes we need to put down the dishes to attend to something more beautiful and profound. But most often I think my creative power as a mother exists in the very ordinary life I am building to make a regular rhythm and presence for my daughter. There are clean clothes. Snacks will be replenished. Bedtime cuddles are always available. This is no less valuable than the ‘memory making’ days out or time spent communing with nature.I started by asking ‘have you got the time’ to do what you need to do, or be who you want to be? Time is motoring along, and you are most likely busy doing all the things. Perhaps that frustrates you. Perhaps you would love (as I will admit I would) more time to yourself. Perhaps that’s the nub of it, really.But I want to acknowledge that there is still being in the doing. Being doesn’t require you to sit on a cushion for hours in meditation. Being just requires you to notice. It’s okay to be making yet another packed lunch. The crusts cut off the bread. Exactly the right variety of processed cheese. The apple because you want to include at least one of their 5 a day. The hidden Creme Egg because you like there to be an element of surprise. The juice carton. Making a packed lunch is a moving meditation. This is love in action. This is enough for now.Special timeWhen my daughter was little, I used to quench her insatiable need for me by offering ‘special time’ each day. I would set an egg timer for 15 minutes and sit down and be immersed in completely child-led play. I would do a voice over for all the teddies and dolls at the tea party. I would dance to the tinny tunes and random beats selected by her as DJ on a battery powered keyboard. I would overcome my resistance to mess and reach for the glue sticks and glitter shakers.Those 15 minutes sometimes felt intolerable. I had so much to do. I was touched out and in need of space. I was incapable of much enthusiasm for another tea party scenario. At other times, that short burst of focussed attention opened up a sense of being in the moment that was as freeing for me and it was nourishing for her. It made the rest of the day flow somehow. She was more content. I was more available.This makes me wonder. I wonder if a simple practice might be to gift myself some special time. Just 15 minutes to do whatever I want to do each day, guilt free. It’s a micro equivalent of the artist date recommended by Julia Cameron in her classic book ‘The Artist’s Way’. In it, she says:“An artist date is a block of time, perhaps two hours weekly, especially set aside and committed to nurturing your creative consciousness, your inner artist. In its most primary form, the artist date is an excursion, a play date that you pre-plan and defend against all interlopers. You do not take anyone on this artist date but you and your inner artist, a.k.a. your creative child. That means no lovers, friends, spouses, children - no taggers-on of any stripe.”So this will be my experiment to Tether & Tend for the rest of the school holiday. To ring-fence a daily sliver of time and see what happens. To gift myself some minutes with no expectation. No multi-tasking. No tidying up. No responding to messages. No distractions. And what a gift that will be. A glistening, truly juicy, orange segment ready to be picked and eaten. Even savoured.If you want to join me in cultivating some simple practices to help you to* become more aware of your thoughts* find a sense of grounding and safety in your body* soothe your nervous systemthen watch this space, because I’m launching a mini course soon.It is called Growing Present and it will be available for <a target="_blank" href="https://tetherandtend.substack.com/subscribe">paid subscribers</a> from the week beginning 22 April onwards.Each week will include a short video to explain the practice, a one page reminder, and a guided audio.Questions for exploration(either in your journal, or here below if you feel called to comment or reply to this email - I’d love to hear from you!)* What is your relationship to time?* Do you feel a pressure to ‘make the most’ of every second?* When does time take on a softer or more generous feel in your life?* Would you feel able to gift yourself 15 minutes each day? Or does even that seem a remote possibility?As always, just a reminder that this Substack isn’t therapy or coaching. If this brings up stuff that is triggering for you or that you need to process further, please seek the support of qualified professional.I offer 1:1 sessions in my Therapeutic Coaching practice, which you can find out more about here. I specialise in working with mothers, so my website references this, but I do also see a wide range of clients with different issues. Get full access to Tether & Tend at <a href="https://tetherandtend.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4">tetherandtend.substack.com/subscribe</a>

March 28, 2024

Breaking cycles. Including bicycles.

For anyone feeling socially awkward and physically inept (in life, or on a bicycle).I had another post planned for today, but instead I find myself with something to say about cycle-breaking. Of a literal and metaphorical kind.As I begin to write this, my daughter is on her second day of ‘Bikeability’ with her Year 6 class. She will be out there somewhere, wobbling.This is by way of a little prayer for her to have a better day than yesterday.And, in voicing this, I am also saying a prayer for those of us who:* have felt deeply hurt but never shown it;* mask the effort it takes to hold all those raw edges together;* hate rough and tumble;* stumble on inept into sporting and social arenas;* sense they are on the outside looking in;* are left sitting on the bench.In my world, prayer means calling on something bigger than myself, not necessarily God for anyone who feels excluded by this language. Prayer can mean what you want it to mean. A sincere asking. A heartfelt wish. A healing thought. An unspoken vulnerability. A private chat. A tiny offering. For me, it’s an acknowledgement that I can’t control everything. I can’t make it all alright. I can’t short circuit pain for my child. Instead, I look at the sky and say:“Please let her be ok.Please let her not wobble too much.Please let the other kids be kind.” Where it all began‘Bikeability’ is the modernised version of Cycling Proficiency that most folk in the UK will recall from their own school days. I remember the unforgiving surface of a grey concrete playground set up to mimic a road. Having to zigzag around orange plastic bollards. Not wanting to let go, but instructed to stick my arm out to indicate. Trying and failing to do an emergency stop. Losing my balance. Crashing into the bollards. Hot flush of embarrassment and the sting of suppressed tears as the other kids laughed. Oh how they laughed.It was perhaps over optimistic to attend Cycling Proficiency because I had only recently learned to ride a bike. My mum and dad were not outdoorsy cycling sort of people. But I pestered them for a bike because I wanted to be part of the gang. I wanted to follow my friend Kerry as she freewheeled down the streets where we lived. She looked so confident, so cool, so free. It wasn’t so much the bike that I wanted. It was the swagger, the sass, the independence. Everything my own two wheels represented. The ability to get further away from my parents. The ability to fit in.Mum clipped out an advert from the back of the Sunday supplement. A cheap enough bike. Made in Czechoslovakia. When Czechoslovakia still existed. I don’t know if she realised that it would come in bits that would need to be bolted together. The box arrived and dad disappeared into the garage for what seemed like the whole weekend. There was a lot of muffled swearing. He emerged with a fully functional bicycle. But, and there is a large but, they had omitted to tell me that it was a fold up shopper bicycle. The kind beloved by old ladies with a blue rinse, people wearing sandals over white socks, and anyone valuing practicality over performance. It was not cool.I was desperate for performance over practicality. Yet there I was, trapped in sensible shoes, cardigans buttoned up to keep out the cold, and easy care polyester trousers with an elasticated waistband. In a fatal design flaw for something made in the early 1980s, the flare of my polyester trouser kept catching on the handle that was meant to collapse the bike. So my deeply uncool Czechoslovakian folder up shopper bike had a disconcerting habit of folding up as I was riding it. The whole spectacle was excruciating.My cycling dreams of freedom came to an end one afternoon. I had failed Cycling Proficiency so I could only ride on the pavement. There was a cul-de-sac just behind my house where some new houses had been built on the allotments. It was a steep drop down into the circle of driveways. Kerry sped off down the slope at high speed, executed a perfect sharp turn at the bottom, grinning. She beckoned for me to follow. It wasn’t sabotage. She must have thought it would be OK for me, her clumsy friend, as there was no through traffic. I was scared, but willing.I started my descent. For one brief moment of suspended animation - the wind rushing through my hair, the dizzying speed, the sheer exhilaration - I felt elated. I was the Eddie the Eagle of the fold up shopper cyclist’s world, sticking two fingers up to the kids who had laughed at my ineptitude. Until I came a cropper. I was unable to apply the brakes gently but firmly enough and turn the handlebars to bring the bike around into a safe arc. I must have hit them too hard, or perhaps it was just that the bike wasn’t made for speed. I went flying over the top, and landed smack on the ground, skidding down the road in a starfish formation of chin, nose, elbows and knees. I put my hand up to my face. There was a lot of gravel and blood.In my quest to be cool, I had managed to crack both my two front teeth, with one half broken off. This meant I had to have an NHS standard issue crown fitted. It had a metal pin that was painfully visible. It was made of a semi porous material that was a magnet for food stains. I was doomed to spend my teenage years doing a funny smile so it wouldn’t show. The accident put paid to my cycling ambitions too. The bicycle was put back into the box in bits, and taken to the dump.As a parent myself, I understand why my mum wanted to protect me from literal hurt. But there was no encouragement to dust myself off and try it again at any point. It wasn’t until I was in my 20s that I got back on a bicycle, and there’s another, longer cycle-breaking story to be told about that. All I know is that it was never mentioned, and the indelible imprint of my physical (and emotional) awkwardness has persisted long into adulthood. It was more than being unable to ride a bike. It underscored my sense of being unable to fit in. To my mind, I was always going to wear unfashionable clothes and have dodgy teeth.How it’s goingBack to the present day and ‘Bikeability’ for my daughter. The name may have changed, but unfortunately the cruel taunts of other kids haven’t.I could tell before she even spoke that it had not been a good experience. Eyes brimful with tears that only spilled in the privacy of home. Red faced, not wanting sympathy or attention, but not knowing quite what to do with these big feelings. Oh goodness, the recognition. I have been there so many times.The desperate hurt plunged deep into your whole being by comments like:“You haven’t learnt to ride a bike then”“Don’t get stuck behind her, she’ll crash into you”“Your bike looks stupid”“You are as bad as your mum’s driving” (Apparently I was spotted running over a plastic bollard outside the school gate. A recurring motif in my life.)And all the while, smiling, keeping it in, joking along with each fresh insult.In situations like this, all I can do is be a big safe container for whatever needs to tumble out. I work to keep myself steady whilst simultaneously wanting to lash out at the kids concerned. I offer to intervene. She declines. I say that she doesn’t have to stick with it if she doesn’t want to. She does.We have a quiet evening. We watch TV. No homework. Lots of cuddles.How it turned outSeveral pep talks later, and despite her tummy ache in the morning, my daughter decided to go in for day 2 of ‘Bikeability’.The good news is that it wasn’t so bad. They went out on the road in a trail of fluorescent yellow tabards. I caught sight of them as I drove back from the town. I waved encouragingly at my daughter. She was at the back, but at least seemed to sport a genuine smile. The girl who had teased her yesterday was more concerned about not going into potholes than name calling. One of the outwardly confident boys teetered on the brink of falling off as he indicated to turn. My daughter found that the previous day’s practice had helped her to feel more confident with the bike, if not the social situation. She came home, glad it was over, but not distraught.It’s not a perfect end to the story. Cycle-breaking is not a direct and easy process. To be honest, I don’t even like the language, although it makes for a neat play on words. I think we just create new cycles with a hope that they will spin in a more productive way. The skeletons of the old cycles remain, rusting, with odd sharp jagged edges that can catch you out sometimes.There’s more to be done to support her confidence in this new skill, and in her ability to field unkind comments. There’s work I still need to do on that narrative that I will never possess physical grace and am hopelessly clumsy. Or worse, that I have to sit on the bench of life for fear of being caught out. But I do feel that my little prayer was answered. So here it is again, made universal for anyone struggling to fit in:“Please let us be ok.Please let us not wobble too much.Please let people be kind.” That’s all we can ask for really. That, and good teeth.I’m thinking of us all gliding along gentle woodland paths, riding pretty pink bicycles through dappled shade, in my fantasy of future summer holidays.Questions for exploration(either in your journal, or here below if you feel called to comment - I’d love to hear from you!)* Have you felt parallels between what’s going on for your child and what went on for you as a child?* Does that make it harder or easier to handle?* How do you support yourself in moments like this?* Are there narratives about yourself persisting from childhood that you’d like to change?As always, just a reminder that this Substack isn’t therapy or coaching. If this brings up stuff that is triggering for you or that you need to process further, please seek the support of qualified professional.I’ve written another similar post you can access <a target="_blank" href="https://open.substack.com/pub/tetherandtend/p/i-let-her-ride-on-my-back?r=1ed70p&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true">here</a> with 3 suggestions on how to support your sensitive child (and your sensitive self) through playground dramas. So I won’t repeat the points here, but do take a look if this resonates and you want to explore further. Get full access to Tether & Tend at <a href="https://tetherandtend.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_4">tetherandtend.substack.com/subscribe</a>

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What is Tether & Tend?: Did you feel ‘too much’ as a child and now think you are ‘not enough’ as an adult? I share about life and parenting as a deeply feeling human in an often unfeeling world. <a href="https://tetherandtend.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast">tetherandtend.substack.com</a>
How often does this podcast release new episodes?: This podcast updates weekly.
Where can I listen to this podcast?: This podcast is available on 2 platforms including Apple Podcasts, Spotify, and more. You can also use the RSS feed directly.
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