What makes an action truly moral? We all make countless decisions each day, but how do we know which ones are good? It can often feel very confusing.
A study published in the Journal of Consumer Behaviour shows that when faced with ethical consumer decisions, we often experience anxiety, stress, confusion and ‘analysis paralysis’.
Philosophers, theologians and politicians have debated ethical decision-making for centuries, and unlike other disciplines such as physics or cosmology, widespread consensus never seems to materialise. And yet, there is one simple idea that most moral frameworks quietly agree on:
Morality concerns how conscious beings are affected by our decisions.
If an action has no impact—direct or indirect—upon a conscious being, is it even a moral act at all? Suppose I were to pick up a stone and throw it. The stone itself is merely an inanimate object, and in isolation, the action would have no moral component. But if that same stone harms, benefits, or even inconveniences another conscious being, it takes on moral weight, especially when taking into account my intentions at the time of throwing.
That’s the qualitative significance of consciousness. For example, if there’s something it is like to be a bat, as philosopher Thomas Nagel once posed, then the bat matters. Unlike the stone, it feels, it senses, it experiences—we can attempt to put ourselves in the bat’s position and imagine life through its eyes (or ears!), no matter how alien. And it’s this very capacity to experience, that is the currency of morality.
If an entity can experience, then it is conscious. And if it is conscious, then it deserves consideration. And it follows that most of us see consciousness as the most valuable, precious substance in the universe—human or otherwise.
So, the next time you find yourself questioning what the right thing thing to do is, start here:
Will this action help or harm a conscious being?
Even in complex situations with no perfect answer, this question is a great starting point. It cuts through the confusion of dogma, politics or tradition, to anchor us in clarity.
We don’t need to be perfect. And we often don’t have all the facts to hand. But we can pause and ask the question. As human beings, making this effort is the least we can do. And if we don’t know the answer—maybe it’s time to find out.
Oh, and if making the ethically right decision also happens to make us good about ourselves—that’s a win-win! Happiness is, after all, what we’re aiming for.
Sometimes, it feels as if you have wandered into a dream. And that’s exactly what I felt as I was walking in woodland yesterday…
The bright, warming light poured into the space like liquid, and illuminated, like ethereal motes, every tiny insect and floating pollen grain that traversed the space between this living substrate.
I breathed softly through my nose, allowing myself the thought that I was sharing the air with countless other beings. And feeling a sense of interconnectedness, I began to open my awareness toward a state of happy mindfulness.
I knelt down and examined a forest of mosses, dense undergrowth beneath its canopy. The greens were so luminous, soaking in the spring rays. Tiny insects, unseen at my normal eye-level began to resolve into focus, and I could perceive a busy day’s work unfolding.
Closer still, I used my loupe (hand-lens) to probe further. as I explored a square inch of woodland as if it were a square mile. Perception really begins to shift when you spend time looking through a loupe. You forget your own size and scale. And before you know it, you actually feel like your world has shrunk to the size of a postage stamp.
And as you move your lens ever so slowly through the thicket of moss, wondering what you’ll discover next, you really do begin to believe that you are climbing the limbs of some giant tree, or scaling the heights of a mountainous rock-face.
Finally, all worries and stresses forgotten, I move even closer, into a truly alien landscape no larger than lentil. Here, the greens take on a translucent quality, and you can almost see the circulatory exchange of organic, life-giving fluids.
Microscopic serrations snatch moisture from the air, droplets seem as large as boulders. And even here, as I am dimly aware of the birdsong drifting in from some far off scale, I see tiny mites and crawling insects that were invisible just moments before.
To think that I can stride through such an immense landscapes, folded infinitely upon itself, and not realise what stories are unfolding around me. Removed temporarily from my normal activities, and completely absorbed in my jungle exploration, I feel completely at peace.
There are no things at this level upon which I can hang my everyday worries. And as such, I feel I am catching a glimpse of how things really are. Existence without filter. I am truly seeing.
For this brief, dreamlike moment, I feel what it is like to simply be.
Mindful moments are hiding everywhere around us, just waiting to be discovered. If you’d like to read more of my mindful postcards, or would like to learn how to apply mindfulness in your own life, then sign up for my newsletter.
Hi, I’m Matthew James! And welcome to this weeks’ With Meaning newsletter about mindfulness and how to find meaning in modern life.
The good weather has been continuing here on the island, and I’ve been lucky enough to get out a few times this week and get into nature. April really seems like the month of yellow. Celandine, dandelions, marsh marigold, primroses, and the last remaining daffodils seem to dominate the verges. I hope you’ve managed to get out where you are. Let me know what things you’ve been observing.
One new thing I learned the other day is how sparrows have sex! I can’t say it’s something I’ve had a burning desire to find out, all these years, but the learning experience was foisted upon me as I hung out the laundry. There on the gutter, a sparrow couple tried gamely to perform their conjugal duet, again and again. With a lot of vocal coaxing from the female, the male would hop awkwardly closer and then try his thing, all whilst balancing 12 feet up on the edge of the gutter. Whether successful or not, I have no idea, but the female eventually, after several efforts, gave up and flew away. Ah, spring!
Thank you for your continued commitment…
A heartfelt thank you, as always, goes out to my paying members—your support means so much me, and allows me to continue bringing you weekly content that’s of value to you.
If you like my audio meditations or my mindfulness content and want to support my efforts (and get access to a host of member-only content!) then consider subscribing to my member’s tier:.
So let’s get started this week with a 5-minute meditation
5-Minute Meditation: Resplendent Gorse Flowers
There’s coconut in the air. Yet softer, sweeter somehow. As you crunch the gravel beneath your feet you recognise the unmistakable fragrance of gorse flowers. It is the beginning of spring.
Along the country lane you stride, following the scent around the next corner, where you will be sure to see the breaking waves of egg-yolk yellow. And true enough, beyond the rump of a grey-trunked sycamore, stirring from its winter slumber, stretching out burgeoning leaf to touch the cool air, there is a stretch of hedgerow, clothed in glorious gorse.
You pause to take in the sight. You inhale a lungful of perfume. A smile breaks across your face. Finally, winter is vanquished. Spring has arrived.
For a few weeks now, the daffodils have been heralding the changing of the guard. With their golden trumpets, they have signalled the coming pageantry of colour and growth and new life. Even so, you did not truly believe that winter would ever end. But now, as you see the bank of gorse stretching out for nearly a mile, you can truly feel in your core, that it is real.
Somehow, gorse flowers seem to reflect back more light than they receive. They seem far brighter than their surroundings. And it’s true, they soak in the visible light from the sun, and then, thirstily, they steal more—for they also take, quietly, the sunlight we cannot see. The violets beyond violet, the reds beyond red, the clandestine wavelengths no-one talks about, even though they encircle us and wash over us as we walk.
And, like a kind of magic, they weave these wavelengths back into a weft of gold that our eyes can detect, casting them back into the world in a different form.
So it is, as you stand there and bask in their glow, that they seem so much brighter than they ought to be. Aglow with righteous vigour. They stand out from the deep, dark greens of the surrounding leaves, or the grasses of the verge, or the sullen greys of the dry-stone wall, like a queen stands out from her subjects. As if, like an angel, they are illuminated by some hidden sun that still shines fiercely upon them from beyond this realm.
You walk the golden mile, with gorse on either side, ten foot high, feeling somehow baptised by the power and majesty of new life. Amongst the thorns and thickets, robins, sparrows, chaffinches chatter and squabble, flitting ahead of you, always staying three strides in front.
As the lane of gorse gives way to open fields, you feel invigorated. Like a new person. Lambs now frolic either side of you, bleating in soft tones their enthusiasm and playful wonder at every new thing they see.
Spring is a time to be hopeful. Through new life’s eyes and new growth’s splendour we can experience the world anew, and allow our cynicism, our jaded souls to be burnished back into a shine.
As you stand and watch for a while, you allow your surroundings to soak into your depths. Every sound, every scent. And as the breeze ripples over your face and hands, you feel an invitation: “Join us! Join in the revelry of new beginnings. Let it renew you!”
Try having a 5-minute mindful meditation yourself, wherever you are. You don’t have to be anywhere spectacular. Simply stop everything for a while, take some slow, deep breaths, and begin to open up your awareness to what’s going on.
Let me know in the comments how it goes. What did you experience or feel? I look forward from hearing all about it.
Listen to this as a guided meditation
Here’s an audio version of this guided meditation, for you to kick back, relax and listen to:
Paying members can access my growing library of audio meditations from the member’s area over at WithMeaning.net.
Main article: How can a simple dandelion help to relieve stress?
Most people have heard about mindfulness and its effectiveness in relieving stress. And there are many who would like to try but are unsure where to start. Luckily, there’s no deep mystery to the process, and anyone can quickly pick up the basics and get started.
Fundamentally, mindfulness is about three things:
Quietening our racing thoughts,
Being present in the moment, and
Being aware of our environment.
It’s estimated that as much as 80% of our stress is caused, not by what we might call ‘stressful-experiences’ but by the amount of time and energy we spend thinking about them—either before or after.
If you’ve ever found yourself fixating on bad experiences, your thoughts going round and round in circles, reliving or pre-living difficult situations, then you know just how pervasive this 80% can be.
It can happen anywhere, any time, and your stress levels will inevitably rise, even though you are not, in that moment, facing any immediate danger.
This is a reason why, for example, air-traffic controllers have such a high rate of burn-out. It isn’t the at-work pressure of guiding thousands of souls safely to solid ground each day—it’s the inability to switch off when they leave work.
The very time they should be recuperating from their pressured workplace is time spent, despite their best efforts, dwelling on it. And thus, they eventually burn out. That is, apart from the fortunate few who, either naturally or through acquiring the skills, can leave the worries of work at the door when they leave.
Luckily, anyone can learn mindfulness as a way to help tackle this 80%. It is a circuit-breaker for your runaway thoughts. It can help to stop the physiological feedback loop that releases all kinds of stress hormones in response to our thoughts.
This is where the dandelion comes in!
This morning was a prime example of how something as simple and unassuming as a common dandelion—often viewed as an unwanted weed—presented an opportunity to practise my mindfulness and bring about a state of deep relaxation and a warm feeling of connection with something outside my normal routine.
The day before, as I rushed around at breakfast time, I noticed that a dandelion was growing in one of the pots in my back yard. It’s head was closed and I wondered when it would flower. Half an hour later, as the sun had angled around and reached the pot, the dandelion was now open. And later that evening, as the sun moved further round and away from my yard, the flower had, once again, closed up.
So this morning, as I had a little more time, I made the point of sitting outside to have my breakfast and observe the flower open up. The whole process took about thirty minutes—yes, that’s probably more than most of us can afford to spend staring at a weed, I admit! Nonetheless, the experience was profound and moving in many ways.
When you decide to take some time out of your day—whether that’s five minutes or an hour—and really dedicate it to being in the moment, then you open yourself up to experiencing things that are completely outside your normal sphere. Some things, like the opening of a dandelion, may seem trivial on the surface. Yes, yes, we’ve all seen dandelions, big deal! We surely need no longer than a glance to glean all there is to glean from a weed. But there is beauty, and insight, and meaning to be had in the most unlikely places. I would argue that these things can be found everywhere, if only we open ourselves up to them.
It’s like finally noticing that we’ve been ignoring music, playing all around us the whole time. It’s like obsessively binge-watching one TV show until it consumes your thoughts, only to find, to your surprise, that there are hosts of other great TV shows out there.
I sat and watched as the sun warmed my neck. I listened to the birds, the breeze swirling around my small back yard, trying to find a way out. I watched ants and beetles and tiny insects explore the surface of the dandelion plant, as if it were a large building. I watched as hover flies and bees carefully manoeuvred into the pom-pom flower head to feed. I wondered at what microscopic, light-sensitive structures were responsible for opening the flower head in response to sunlight.
The unfurling itself was at the very cusp of my visual perception. Could I see it actually moving? Was I imagining it? My sense of time became decoupled from the juggling of chores and timetables. I really experienced the moment as it was happening. I felt a kind of thrill, that I was here to witness this event—that this moment would only happen once, and here I was to see it.
Dandelions, it seems have their own rhythm to attend to—their own set of concerns and tasks and optimal conditions to strive for. They have the grand goal of procreation to work towards. They need to attract the best insects, they need to reflect the most sunlight, they need to protect their petals and stamen—the only means to achieve this ambition—during the night, when snails and slugs might come to devour them.
All while I scurry around with my own tasks, so too the dandelion has its own priorities. And so too the beetle. And so too the sparrow. Observing this busy ecosystem—I mean really observing—quietened the redundant worries that might otherwise circle my thoughts. It took me out of myself. It realigned my perspective to a wider frame of reference. It showed me that my own problems weren’t the be all and end all. There is in fact, a whole world out there. And even though we all know this intellectually, sometimes it’s good to really experience it first hand.
It’s a near impossible task, trying to put into words the profound nature of mindfulness, and how—if we manage to get it right—it can reach right down and reshape our core.
I would suggest, simply to try it. And to try it again, because, like anything worth learning, it usually takes time to master. But if you get just a snatch of calmness, if you feel a sense of wonder or connection, or of something profound and much larger than ourselves, then keep at it. Try it again. Five minutes here, five minutes there. Because that 80% of unnecessary stress is worth pruning. And you’ll be a far, far happier person for it.
Try it out, and let me know how it goes.
Book review
This week, I’ve been reading The Book of Minds: How to Understand Ourselves and Other Beings by Philip Ball. This is a truly mind-blowing book, since it seems to life the bonnet and fiddle with the workings of your own brain even as you read it. It’s a very strange feeling, but it’s definitely something I’d recommend if you have an interest in existence, and our perception of it.
In this book we discover a concept called a mind-space—a space in which we can position all possible minds, from that of a gnat to a super-intelligent AI to potential alien beings with altogether different perceptions of the laws of nature than us, and it allows us to begin to explore what “it is like” to be one of these entities.
How our brains are structured, of course, influences the kind of mind we have. And the kind of mind we have in turn dictates what we perceive, but also what things are important to us. Beginning to unpick why we think the things we do, or why we strive or why we are drawn to some ideas and concepts and not others, really gets you to question everything. What is reality, when so much of it can be tuned out, leaving us to fixate on just a thin sliver of just a single strata of reality?
If the big questions are something you feel drawn to exploring, this book is a great addition to your toolkit, because it helps you to understand the frame in which we ask these fundamental questions in the first place.
Little acts of kindness
This week’s act of kindness was when my daughters went to a lot of effort to save a bumblebee from certain death by squish, as it groggily rolled around in the road outside our house. It had obviously only just woken up from hibernation and was not able to fly. It’s energy was probably depleted and at any moment the next car would be rumbling down our street.
So, carefully, they moved the bumblebee into our backyard. Onto the very dandelion I spoke about earlier, in fact! There, it slowly responded to the sweet smell of nectar, and began drinking. It was near the end of the day, and it was already beginning to get cold. Quietly, I gave it slim hopes of surviving.
Anyway, this morning, I was very surprised to see the that exhausted bumblebee, having spent the night softly enveloped by the soft grasp of the dandelion, which had closed around it, was still there, and much more sprightly.
Now, it was animated and alert. It still was feeding from the flower, but now it drunkenly flew hear and there, bumping into the wall and window and then returning to the flower. About half an hour later, it was well enough to fly off into the the blue sky and over the rooftops.
It might seem like trivial act of kindness, but I believe looking out for any living creature is a trait to encourage. It’s like planting a seed in ourselves that will sprout and flourish in other areas, given time. For the bee in question, hopefully it will now help to pollinate dozens of other flowers and plants, perhaps providing the catalyst for other life to grow and sustain itself. Like the butterfly effect, perhaps the bumblebee effect will prove to influence the lives of millions of other creatures along the food chain as a result.
Excerpt from my Stress-Buster Course:
Each week I include an excerpt from one of my online courses that area available for my premium subscribers. This week’s excerpt is from my Stress-Buster Programme course, and it’s about the power of asking for help…
Asking for Help – A Lifeline in Stressful Times
We’ve touched on this subject in an earlier section, but now we’re going to take a closer look at it, and why it can be a life-changing superpower. Asking for help can feel like one of the hardest things to do. Many of us would rather struggle in silence than risk inconveniencing someone, creating a fuss, or appearing vulnerable. It’s a deeply ingrained habit for many—a belief that self-reliance is the ultimate measure of strength.
But here’s the truth: sometimes our problems dissolve the moment we muster the courage to ask for help. Simply saying, “I’m struggling with this—can you help me?” or “You seem to have experience with X or Y. Could you guide me?” can open doors you never realized were there.
The Liberation of “I Don’t Know”
For some, the barrier to asking for help isn’t pride or fear of being a burden—it’s the anxiety of admitting ignorance. Uttering the words “I don’t know” can feel like exposing a chink in your armour. But in reality, those three words can be among the most liberating in the English language.
Think about it—none of us can know everything. To expect otherwise is unreasonable, even absurd. And while admitting ignorance might feel vulnerable, it can also be empowering. The gaps in your knowledge don’t define you; they highlight opportunities for learning and growth.
Sometimes it can be a genuine relief—a lifelong burden lifted—to decide not to keep up the pretence that you know everything. Think back: have you ever been in a conversation where you admit to watching a movie you’ve never seen, or knowing a band you’ve never heard of, or reading a classic that you’ve never got round to picking up? The weight of keeping up this lie can be exhausting. The fear of being caught out can be crippling. Just let all that go, and take the decision to own the gaps in your knowledge, as well as the areas you are an expert in.
Every room you walk into, there’s something you know that others don’t. The same is true in reverse. Rather than seeing this as a reason to feel inadequate, try reframing it: where you lack expertise, someone else likely excels, just as there are areas where your strengths might outshine theirs. Tapping into this collective knowledge isn’t a weakness—it’s one of the greatest strengths of being human.
Why People Love to Help
Here’s something I’ve learned: most people want to help. In fact, lending a hand often makes them feel good about themselves. Helping others taps into a fundamental part of our shared humanity—our need for connection, purpose, and mutual support.
Even in competitive settings, this holds true. Take something like TV show The Great British Bake Off. Despite the fierce competition, contestants regularly step in to assist one another, even if it means jeopardizing their own chances. It’s a reminder that cooperation is woven deeply into our DNA.
Of course, not every environment fosters this spirit. In ultra-competitive workplaces or high-stakes situations, it might feel riskier to ask for assistance. But more often than not, the fear of rejection is far worse than the reality. People are often flattered to be asked for help—it validates their expertise and creates a sense of camaraderie.
Asking for Help Without Stress
If asking for help feels stressful, remember that it doesn’t have to be a grand gesture. It’s okay to start small and frame your request in a way that feels natural:
Be honest and straightforward: A simple “I’m struggling with this. Could you lend a hand?” is often all it takes.
Show gratitude: People appreciate knowing their efforts are valued. A heartfelt “Thank you—this really means a lot” can go a long way.
Frame it as a learning opportunity: Instead of focusing on your gap in knowledge, approach the situation with curiosity. “I’d love to learn more about how you do this. Could you show me?”
The key is recognizing that asking for help doesn’t diminish your value—it enhances it. It shows self-awareness, humility, and a willingness to grow.
The Humanity of Helping
Think about how much of human progress has been built on cooperation. We are social beings by nature, and our greatest achievements—be it skyscrapers, space travel, or medical breakthroughs—are the result of people coming together to share knowledge and skills.
This innate drive to support one another is still alive in the day-to-day interactions we have. The next time you feel stuck, remember that you’re not alone. Whether it’s a colleague, a friend, or even a stranger, help may be closer than you think.
Asking for help isn’t just a practical solution—it’s an act of trust, a way to build connection, and a step toward easing the weight of stress. And when someone helps you, you might just find yourself inspired to pay it forward, becoming part of that ongoing cycle of mutual support.
So if you find yourself in a hole, feeling isolated or overwhelmed, pause for a moment and ask: “Who could help me with this?” You might be surprised by the answer. Sometimes, all it takes is one brave question to turn a stressful situation into a shared opportunity for growth.
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Ever been stuck indoors and longed to be out in nature? This week’s media recommendation allows you to create a virtual window into a verdant glade surrounded by woodland.
Have it on in the background to lighten up a rainy day, or listen to it with your headphones as you do your work. Enjoy!
Quote
This quote encapsulates very well what I was trying to express in my dandelion article. Learning to be in the moment allows us to really experience all that is before us, whilst helping to free us from the burden of worrying about the future.
“Live quietly in the moment and see the beauty of all before you. The future will take care of itself.”
Paramahansa Yogananda
Until next time
That’s it for this week! I hope you enjoyed this issue and I’ll see you again next time. Don’t forget to leave a reply if there’s anything you’d like to share. And speaking of sharing, if there’s someone you know who you think could benefit from reading my mindfulness newsletter, please feel free to forward this to them!
There’s coconut in the air. Yet softer, sweeter somehow. As you crunch the gravel beneath your feet you recognise the unmistakable fragrance of gorse flowers. It is the beginning of spring.
Along the country lane you stride, following the scent around the next corner, where you will be sure to see the breaking waves of egg-yolk yellow. And true enough, beyond the rump of a grey-trunked sycamore, stirring from its winter slumber, stretching out burgeoning leaf to touch the cool air, there is a stretch of hedgerow, clothed in glorious gorse.
You pause to take in the sight. You inhale a lungful of perfume. A smile breaks across your face. Finally, winter is vanquished. Spring has arrived.
For a few weeks now, the daffodils have been heralding the changing of the guard. With their golden trumpets, they have signalled the coming pageantry of colour and growth and new life. Even so, you did not truly believe that winter would ever end. But now, as you see the bank of gorse stretching out for nearly a mile, you can truly feel in your core, that it is real.
Somehow, gorse flowers seem to reflect back more light than they receive. They seem far brighter than their surroundings. And it’s true, they soak in the visible light from the sun, and then, thirstily, they steal more—for they also take, quietly, the sunlight we cannot see. The violets beyond violet, the reds beyond red, the clandestine wavelengths no-one talks about, even though they encircle us and wash over us as we walk.
And, like a kind of magic, they weave these wavelengths back into a weft of gold that our eyes can detect, casting them back into the world in a different form.
So it is, as you stand there and bask in their glow, that they seem so much brighter than they ought to be. Aglow with righteous vigour. They stand out from the deep, dark greens of the surrounding leaves, or the grasses of the verge, or the sullen greys of the dry-stone wall, like a queen stands out from her subjects. As if, like an angel, they are illuminated by some hidden sun that still shines fiercely upon them from beyond this realm.
You walk the golden mile, with gorse on either side, ten foot high, feeling somehow baptised by the power and majesty of new life. Amongst the thorns and thickets, robins, sparrows, chaffinches chatter and squabble, flitting ahead of you, always staying three strides in front.
As the lane of gorse gives way to open fields, you feel invigorated. Like a new person. Lambs now frolic either side of you, bleating in soft tones their enthusiasm and playful wonder at every new thing they see.
Spring is a time to be hopeful. Through new life’s eyes and new growth’s splendour we can experience the world anew, and allow our cynicism, our jaded souls to be burnished back into a shine.
As you stand and watch for a while, you allow your surroundings to soak into your depths. Every sound, every scent. And as the breeze ripples over your face and hands, you feel an invitation: “Join us! Join in the revelry of new beginnings. Let it renew you!”
Try having a 5-minute mindful meditation yourself, wherever you are. You don’t have to be anywhere spectacular. Simply stop everything for a while, take some slow, deep breaths, and begin to open up your awareness to what’s going on.
Let me know in the comments how it goes. What did you experience or feel? I look forward from hearing all about it.
Listen to this as a guided meditation
Here’s an audio version of this guided meditation, for you to kick back, relax and listen to:
For more meditations like this, be sure to subscribe to my newsletter…
Science-backed ways to be happier…
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Let’s paint a picture… you’ve done your homework, you’ve finished that self-help book, you’ve memorized some new healthy habits to try, and you’ve been nailing it in practice—breathing exercises, mantras, stress-relief techniques—and you’re ready to stride out into your week, feeling confident and hopeful.
But wait! As soon as that first challenging moment hits—as soon as theory meets reality—what happens? When you’re ready to leave the house and your youngest has inexplicably removed all their clothes, or your boss drops the bombshell that your project deadline has been cut in half, or you’re at the checkout and you realise you’ve forgotten your wallet—all that preparation can fly right straight out the window. Sound familiar?
Unfortunately, it can happen to all of us. In those high-pressure moments, we often fall back into old, and well-established, patterns of behaviour, even when we know better. That’s why we can read self-help books that seems to make perfect sense, and yet struggle to enact any of their advice. And that’s okay, because we’re all human, and this is a long road we’re on. But it’s exactly this kind of situation where we need something in our environment to bring us back to our best intentions, to prod our memories and remind us of the kind of person we want to be.
That’s where figurines, totems, jewellery and other small objects can come in handy—how you can set up simple, subtle reminders in your surroundings to help you stay on track, no matter what life throws your way. Let’s take a look at why these devices can be so effective…
In my Stress-Buster Programme, I encourage people to identify a key stressor in their life and make just one small change to address it. Instead of overhauling everything at once (which rarely works), we focus on forming one new habit at a time. It takes about two to three weeks for a habit to settle in, but even then, we all need reminders.
One of the most effective ways I’ve found is using small figurines that represent the qualities I want to develop. It might sound a little unorthodox, but it’s been a real game-changer for me.
The first time I tried this, I was sixteen. I picked up a small, dull brass skull from a craft fair. I first saw it on a Sunday outing, but I had no money, but something about it spoke to me. I felt compelled to take the 40-minute bus ride on my next day off and return to the craft fair, hoping it was still there. Thankfully, there it was, still sitting at the stall. To my teenaged mind, it seemed steeped in symbolism.
At the time, I was determined to dedicate my life to learning, and utilizing my mind (which I still am!), and that little skull—symbolizing intellect and deep thought—became a powerful reminder of that commitment. Even now, when I glance at it, I think of the incredible potential within the human mind and my own commitment to growth.
Years later, when I became interested in philosophy, I found a small figurine of a Chinese scholar, about four inches tall. He still sits on my bookshelf today, a quiet presence reminding me to cultivate wisdom, tolerance, and insight. Since then, I’ve collected a few figures depicting meditation, and I even built a miniature LEGO diorama of an explorer reaching the summit of a snowy mountain—my personal symbol of perseverance and determination.
And they really do work wonders. Even after years of having them, whenever I see these figures, they bring me back to the values and habits I want to reinforce. And if stress tries to pull me off track, they’re there as gentle nudges, reminding me of where I want to be.
My most recent acquisition was a small, white Buddha figurine, just two inches tall. I found it in a little shop selling incense and gemstones, and as soon as I saw it, I knew it was exactly what I needed. At the time, I was juggling a busy family life, a loved one’s terminal illness, and an overwhelming schedule. Stress and anxiety were becoming daily battles, and I was struggling to remember my mindfulness techniques when I needed them most.
This small, serene figure became my anchor. Whenever my eyes landed on it, I was reminded to pause, breathe, and bring myself back to mindfulness. In the heat of a stressful moment, it helped me regain control before emotions spiralled out of control.
Unlike a picture or a screensaver—which can fade into the background after a while—a figurine is a real, three-dimensional object. It exists in your space, catching the light differently at different times of day, drawing your attention in new ways. We tend to assign personality and significance to physical objects in a way that’s harder to do with images. And the best part? It’s portable. I can move my Buddha to different rooms, placing it where I need that extra reminder most.
Intentions are easy to lose track of. You might set a New Year’s resolution or a personal goal, but if it only exists as a thought, it can easily slip away amidst the chaos of daily life. When you give that intention a tangible form, however—something solid, something visible—you dramatically increase your chances of sticking with it.
For me, figurines have become essential tools for personal growth. I also use symbolic jewellery, like a pendant I wear, as a reminder of a particular promise I made to myself. I have worn that pendant, every day, for ten years now—and every morning, as I stare into the bathroom mirror, my eye catches sight of it, and my promise is renewed.
So if you want to set yourself up for success, consider this simple but powerful method. Find a small object that represents your goal, your values, or the change you want to make. Place it where you’ll see it often. Let it become a quiet, steady presence in your life, gently steering you back toward the person you want to be.
Every day I try and fit in a 5-minute mindful meditation. Nothing complicated—I just try observe my surroundings, and really immerse myself in the moment. This week’s meditation came when I was out for a walk with my family along the coast where I live. Spring was tentatively showing signs of life, and I experienced a perfect 5 minutes, as we stopped half way up the hillside to catch our breath.
So let me take you with me to that place, so you too, can experience a little of the peace I felt. First, close your eyes for a moment, and take some deep, slow breaths. When you are ready, open them once more and I shall take you the peaceful place I found.
Don’t forget to take your time and read nice and slowly, allowing each image to seep into your mind. Try and experience your surroundings, and the sensations they might bring…
The blue of sea and sky
Blue. Blue is everywhere before you. The near cloudless sky above, with a handful of wandering wisps, and then the deeper, richer blue of the sea, stretching out into the infinite haze of the horizon.
You are sitting upon a dry, comfortable tussock, high up on a grassy hillside. The best seat in the house. The green is rolling away from you, steeply down toward the cliff below, where waves lap against unseen rocks.
The spring sunshine warms your face. When you blink, it illuminates your eyelids with a pink glow. You look out over the surface of the water. Thousands of square miles laid out like a rough-weave cloth. So much blue! So rich and deep, as far as you can see.
In patches, here and there, you pick out movement that seems more than just the foaming crest of a wave. There is life down there. Tiny flecks of white, undulating in a familiar rhythm—wings in flight.
Seabirds. Some bobbing on the water in groups, spread out like flotsam from an unseen shipwreck. Others are circling into the air, looking beneath the surface, waiting for a flash of sunlit scales to swoop down and pounce upon.
This area of sea is industrious. Gannets wheeling high, cormorants flying so low their wing-tips touch the waves. Gulls of all kinds, a scutch of guillemots. Maybe, you fantasise, even some puffins.
You stretch out your awareness and try to enter the mind of one particular bird, bobbing on the surface, about two miles out to sea. What is life like for you, today?—you ask. What are you feeling, out there in the blue, with only the sound of lapping water, and the quicksilver glints of sunshine balancing on the tips of the waves?
You release a satisfied sigh, and sink into a comfortable repose. You slow your breathing and let the calmness of the moment seep into your core. You feel a sense of utter peace. Time seems to stretch, as if all other parts of your life have melted away. Only here, only now exists.
Here, on your tussock, looking out to sea, and tasting the salty fragrance of its unbounded freedom—you feel content.
Why not try having a 5-minute mindful meditation too, wherever you are today? You don’t have to be anywhere spectacular. Simply stop everything for a while, take some slow, deep breaths, and begin to open up your awareness to what’s going on.
If you like, you can let me know how it goes in the comments. What did you experience or feel? I look forward from hearing all about it.
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Hi, I’m Matthew! And welcome to this weeks’ With Meaning newsletter about mindfulness and how to find meaning in modern life.
I’m so happy that spring seems to be in the air. The first delicate pink clouds of blossom are popping up here and there, and I noticed that the sycamore trees have beaten most other species by unfurling their lime-green leaves. I’ve been picking the yellow-est of yellow gorse flowers with my daughters so that we can capture a little of that gorgeous coconut fragrance by making some homemade ice-cream.
Combine this with the sunshine we’ve been having here on the island, and this last week has filled me with an excitement of what’s to come. Finally, winter seems to have been vanquished!
There’s lots of exciting things in this Wednesday’s edition, including a five-minute guided meditation where I whisk you away to an idyllic sea view on the edge of a cliff, an article on how to cement those well-intentioned good habits we all try and establish, and a breathing exercise to try. And more!
Thank you for your continued commitment…
A heartfelt thank you, as always, goes out to my paying members—your support means so much me, and allows me to continue bringing you weekly content that’s of value to you.
So let’s get started!
5-Minute Meditation:
Every day I try and fit in a 5-minute mindful meditation. Nothing complicated—I just try observe my surroundings, and really immerse myself in the moment. This week’s meditation came when I was out for a walk with my family along the coast where I live. Spring was tentatively showing signs of life, and I experienced a perfect 5 minutes, as we stopped half way up the hillside to catch our breath.
So let me take you with me to that place, so you too, can experience a little of the peace I felt. First, close your eyes for a moment, and take some deep, slow breaths. When you are ready, open them once more and I shall take you the peaceful place I found.
Don’t forget to take your time and read nice and slowly, allowing each image to seep into your mind. Try and experience your surroundings, and the sensations they might bring…
The blue of sea and sky
Blue. Blue is everywhere before you. The near cloudless sky above, with a handful of wandering wisps, and then the deeper, richer blue of the sea, stretching out into the infinite haze of the horizon.
You are sitting upon a dry, comfortable tussock, high up on a grassy hillside. The best seat in the house. The green is rolling away from you, steeply down toward the cliff below, where waves lap against unseen rocks.
The spring sunshine warms your face. When you blink, it illuminates your eyelids with a pink glow. You look out over the surface of the water. Thousands of square miles laid out like a rough-weave cloth. So much blue! So rich and deep, as far as you can see.
In patches, here and there, you pick out movement that seems more than just the foaming crest of a wave. There is life down there. Tiny flecks of white, undulating in a familiar rhythm—wings in flight.
Seabirds. Some bobbing on the water in groups, spread out like flotsam from an unseen shipwreck. Others are circling into the air, looking beneath the surface, waiting for a flash of sunlit scales to swoop down and pounce upon.
This area of sea is industrious. Gannets wheeling high, cormorants flying so low their wing-tips touch the waves. Gulls of all kinds, a scutch of guillemots. Maybe, you fantasise, even some puffins.
You stretch out your awareness and try to enter the mind of one particular bird, bobbing on the surface, about two miles out to sea. What is life like for you, today?—you ask. What are you feeling, out there in the blue, with only the sound of lapping water, and the quicksilver glints of sunshine balancing on the tips of the waves?
You release a satisfied sigh, and sink into a comfortable repose. You slow your breathing and let the calmness of the moment seep into your core. You feel a sense of utter peace. Time seems to stretch, as if all other parts of your life have melted away. Only here, only now exists.
Here, on your tussock, looking out to sea, and tasting the salty fragrance of its unbounded freedom—you feel content.
Why not try having a 5-minute mindful meditation too, wherever you are today? You don’t have to be anywhere spectacular. Simply stop everything for a while, take some slow, deep breaths, and begin to open up your awareness to what’s going on.
If you like, you can let me know how it goes. What did you experience or feel? I look forward from hearing all about it.
Main article: cementing good habits with physical prompts…
Let’s paint a picture… you’ve done your homework, you’ve finished that self-help book, you’ve memorized some new healthy habits to try, and you’ve been nailing it in practice—breathing exercises, mantras, stress-relief techniques—and you’re ready to stride out into your week, feeling confident and hopeful.
But wait! As soon as that first challenging moment hits—as soon as theory meets reality—what happens? When you’re ready to leave the house and your youngest has inexplicably removed all their clothes, or your boss drops the bombshell that your project deadline has been cut in half, or you’re at the checkout and you realise you’ve forgotten your wallet—all that preparation can fly right straight out the window. Sound familiar?
Unfortunately, it can happen to all of us. In those high-pressure moments, we often fall back into old, and well-established, patterns of behaviour, even when we know better. That’s why we can read self-help books that seems to make perfect sense, and yet struggle to enact any of their advice. And that’s okay, because we’re all human, and this is a long road we’re on. But it’s exactly this kind of situation where we need something in our environment to bring us back to our best intentions, to prod our memories and remind us of the kind of person we want to be.
That’s where figurines, totems, jewellery and other small objects can come in handy—how you can set up simple, subtle reminders in your surroundings to help you stay on track, no matter what life throws your way. Let’s take a look at why these devices can be so effective…
In my Stress-Buster Programme, I encourage people to identify a key stressor in their life and make just one small change to address it. Instead of overhauling everything at once (which rarely works), we focus on forming one new habit at a time. It takes about two to three weeks for a habit to settle in, but even then, we all need reminders.
One of the most effective ways I’ve found is using small figurines that represent the qualities I want to develop. It might sound a little unorthodox, but it’s been a real game-changer for me.
The first time I tried this, I was sixteen. I picked up a small, dull brass skull from a craft fair. I first saw it on a Sunday outing, but I had no money, but something about it spoke to me. I felt compelled to take the 40-minute bus ride on my next day off and return to the craft fair, hoping it was still there. Thankfully, there it was, still sitting at the stall. To my teenaged mind, it seemed steeped in symbolism.
At the time, I was determined to dedicate my life to learning, and utilizing my mind (which I still am!), and that little skull—symbolizing intellect and deep thought—became a powerful reminder of that commitment. Even now, when I glance at it, I think of the incredible potential within the human mind and my own commitment to growth.
Years later, when I became interested in philosophy, I found a small figurine of a Chinese scholar, about four inches tall. He still sits on my bookshelf today, a quiet presence reminding me to cultivate wisdom, tolerance, and insight. Since then, I’ve collected a few figures depicting meditation, and I even built a miniature LEGO diorama of an explorer reaching the summit of a snowy mountain—my personal symbol of perseverance and determination.
And they really do work wonders. Even after years of having them, whenever I see these figures, they bring me back to the values and habits I want to reinforce. And if stress tries to pull me off track, they’re there as gentle nudges, reminding me of where I want to be.
My most recent acquisition was a small, white Buddha figurine, just two inches tall. I found it in a little shop selling incense and gemstones, and as soon as I saw it, I knew it was exactly what I needed. At the time, I was juggling a busy family life, a loved one’s terminal illness, and an overwhelming schedule. Stress and anxiety were becoming daily battles, and I was struggling to remember my mindfulness techniques when I needed them most.
This small, serene figure became my anchor. Whenever my eyes landed on it, I was reminded to pause, breathe, and bring myself back to mindfulness. In the heat of a stressful moment, it helped me regain control before emotions spiralled out of control.
Unlike a picture or a screensaver—which can fade into the background after a while—a figurine is a real, three-dimensional object. It exists in your space, catching the light differently at different times of day, drawing your attention in new ways. We tend to assign personality and significance to physical objects in a way that’s harder to do with images. And the best part? It’s portable. I can move my Buddha to different rooms, placing it where I need that extra reminder most.
Intentions are easy to lose track of. You might set a New Year’s resolution or a personal goal, but if it only exists as a thought, it can easily slip away amidst the chaos of daily life. When you give that intention a tangible form, however—something solid, something visible—you dramatically increase your chances of sticking with it.
For me, figurines have become essential tools for personal growth. I also use symbolic jewellery, like a pendant I wear, as a reminder of a particular promise I made to myself. I have worn that pendant, every day, for ten years now—and every morning, as I stare into the bathroom mirror, my eye catches sight of it, and my promise is renewed.
So if you want to set yourself up for success, consider this simple but powerful method. Find a small object that represents your goal, your values, or the change you want to make. Place it where you’ll see it often. Let it become a quiet, steady presence in your life, gently steering you back toward the person you want to be.
Try it out, and let me know how it goes.
Book review
This week, I’ve been reading Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion by Robert B. Cialdini. It’s a classic book on psychology, though I only just stumbled upon it myself, and it details seven major ways in which we humans cannot help but be influenced by society around us. Such as how we respond to authority, how likely we are to follow crowd behaviour, the instinctive need to meet someone halfway in everyday negotiations. Shaping all areas of our day-to-day lives, these seven triggers explain a lot of my behavioural habits and where much of my angst and anxiety stems from.
For instance, the idea of reciprocity in social relationships—as in, if you do me a favour, then I shall instinctively feel indebted to you, and feel increasingly uncomfortable until that debt has been repaid.
This is a great trait for a social species, because it means that we are more inclined to offer up, rather than hoard, our own time or resources to aid another person. Confident there is a good chance that the giver shall receive something back at some point in the future, it oils the wheels of cooperation and community.
Unfortunately, so strong is the urge to repay such debts, that this trigger can often get us into socially awkward pickles.
I’ve lost count of how many times I have regretted saying yes to something I didn’t want to do all because someone—consciously or not—was pushing all the right psychological buttons to make it near impossible for me to refuse.
So if you too find yourself standing on a runway in torrential rain, on the verge of a heart attack, trying to pull a 100-seater air-plane for charity, 200 yards, with only seven other people, wondering how on earth you got yourself into this situation—then this book is for you.
And if you’re anything like me, it will be because a friend came back from the the shop one day brandishing a chocolate bar you hadn’t asked for, but felt it was only polite to eat, and then having eaten it, felt further obliged to repay that debt by agreeing to the first favour they ask in return!
Little acts of kindness
I went to watch my daughter in her Youth Orchestra concert the other night. It was at the cathedral, and the acoustics were amazing. It was a lovely occasion, and I was moved to tears a couple of times. However, in my rush to congratulate my daughter after the performance, I left my glasses under my seat.
It was only at bedtime that I realised my glasses were missing. They’re my only pair and I need them to drive. So, early next morning, I traipsed back up to the cathedral in the hopes of finding them before the first mass of the day.
Unfortunately, all the seats had been cleared away, the night before, and my glasses were nowhere to be seen. Thankfully, a kind woman was setting up, and took ten minutes out of her day to help me hunt for them. She took me into the back rooms, and into the side rooms, we hunted around the edges of the huge space, on all the tables and displays, in case someone had simply put them to one side.
Finally, as I was beginning to lose heart, she found a plastic bin full of ownerless drinks bottles and woolly hats. There, amongst the detritus, were my glasses.
The woman didn’t have to go out of her way to help, and without it, I would not have found them. One of the most generous things we can give one another is our time, and through this quiet act of kindness, she made my day. So thank you. You made the world a better place.
Excerpt from my Mindfulness Course:
Each week I include an excerpt from one of my online courses that area available for my premium subscribers. This week’s excerpt is from my Mindfulness Made Easy course, and it’s about how we can reduce stress levels with the simple act of breathing…
Breaking the stress cycle before it takes over
Very often, when we face stressful situations, our breathing becomes fast and shallow, our pulse quickens and our blood pressure becomes elevated. Cortisol and adrenalin courses through our veins, and we might find we become shaky or more frantic with our movements and mannerisms. We might frown or stretch our cranial muscles, causing ourselves to develop headaches or migraines. And finally, our very thoughts become harried and uncoordinated as we nudge ourselves along the spectrum between calmness and panic.
So before we can get to the point where we can practice mindful thinking, we need to halt this physical runaway-train effect.
Resetting our breathing with some deep breaths
Here’s one of the simplest techniques you can try, and one that can be performed almost anywhere. Very often, in tense situations, or even when we are toiling at a computer workstation, we forget to breath. We breath out, and then simply forget to breath in again, sometimes for significant periods. When we do inhale, they often are short, shallow intakes. This is one of the physiological stepping-stones that triggers our stress hormones to kick in, taking us one step further towards a state of panic or distress. So when you notice yourself beginning to feel antsy, if you hear yourself snapping at someone or crying out in frustration over yet another thing that’s gone wrong, then stop—take a long, deep breath…
Try to enjoy this long inhale, like when you take a long cold drink on a hot day. Savour it. Fill all your lungs and hold onto that life-giving air for a second or too, before gently exhaling, and blowing out all your tension.
As you exhale, do it at a slow, unhurried pace. Allow yourself to feel your muscles relax on this out breath. If you can, you can try stretching your arms, or legs, or neck muscles, on the in-breath, to really loosen those little knots. As you exhale, and release yourself from the stretch, let your muscles and frame relax into a softer, looser posture. You don’t need to slouch—just let go of that unneeded tension.
If you like, you can repeat the process until you begin to break the cycle of escalation towards fight-or-flight.
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Ever been stuck indoors and longed to be out in nature? This week’s media recommendation allows you to create a virtual window onto a azure lake in the Swiss Alps.
Have it on in the background to lighten up a rainy day, or listen to it with your headphones as you do your work. Enjoy!
Quote
I love this idea, it encapsulates the power of mindfulness so well. Learning to be more aware of the ever-unfolding moment, in all its complexities, allows us to experience the good things that are happening, right now…
“Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.”
Omar Khayyam
Until next time
That’s it for this week! I hope you enjoyed this issue and I’ll see you again next time. Don’t forget to leave a reply if there’s anything you’d like to share. And speaking of sharing, if there’s someone you know who you think could benefit from reading my mindfulness newsletter, please feel free to forward this to them!
Do you ever have negative feelings about our body and how we look? One moment, you’re fine—then suddenly, something you’ve seen or heard has prompted you to feel a little pang of body-related negativity. Well here’s a quick habit you can work into your day that might help…
In today’s world, we are constantly made to feel self-conscious about our appearance. Whether watching a movie, shopping, scrolling through social media, or flipping through a magazine, we are bombarded with unrealistic beauty standards. Watch enough Marvel films, for example, and it’s hard not to start comparing our body-shapes to the likes of Captain America, Thor or Black Widow—and that’s not a battle most of us mere mortals can ever win!
With all the other stresses we face in daily life, body shame is an extra burden we shouldn’t have to carry. Here’s a simple practice I’ve picked up along the way—one that helps counteract these negative feelings. It’s a little act of gratitude that I dedicate to my body each day after my shower.
In those private moments of vulnerability—when we’re standing in the bathroom, the door locked, finishing our morning ablutions—we are perhaps closest to nature than any other part of the day. Almost all the layers of modern identity are stripped away: our clothes, hair products, makeup, jewellery, even our phones and watches. The mask we wear for the world is momentarily set aside, leaving us as we truly are.
And it’s in this safe-space that I take a few quiet seconds to acknowledge and appreciate my body. A simple pause to shift my perspective and marvel at the incredible job it does every day. After all, our bodies are the vessels through which we experience life and the universe.
In practice, this act of gratitude often takes the form of a silent thank-you; other times I think of a few improvised words. If I were to write it down, I suppose my giving-thanks could be expressed something like this:
Thank you, body, for being you. For being my trusted vessel, my vehicle, through which I explore and experience this extraordinary life. Thank you for giving me sensation and perception. Thank you for your strength and your sensitivity, for your instinct to protect me, and your dexterity and adaptability. I will never fully comprehend the incredible complexity of your hidden structures and processes, working ceaselessly to keep me alive and functioning. But I appreciate their brilliance, and their ability to translate my intentions into action— allowing me to shape my world, to receive and share ideas, to create and connect. For this, and so much more… I thank you.
I call it a prayer of thanks, even though it’s completely non-religious. Some things in life deserve to be elevated and revered for the astounding phenomena that they are. And yet, we are conditioned to view our bodies critically. We notice those extra pounds around our waistline, or compare our muscle tone to others, or focus on perceived imperfections in the mirror. Advertising feeds these insecurities, planting tiny doubts about our self-worth every time we see a billboard, browse the web, or turn on the TV.
But in truth, the human body is a wonder of complexity and efficiency, designed to adapt to an endless variety of situations. It can taste a multitude of flavours, detect millions of scents. It allows us to climb mountains, dive beneath waves, and feel both the heights of pleasure and the protective warnings of pain. Our hands can manipulate the microscopic and craft monumental works of art. We can pick out a child’s cry in a crowded room and discern beautiful music in abstract sounds.
Like the Millennium Falcon—the imperfect but reliable ship from Star Wars—our body may not be the strongest, fittest, or most capable compared to others. But it is ours. It is home. And it deserves to be loved.
Society has its own standards for measuring worth, but in truth, there are many ways to define value. It’s all about perspective. Your body is beautiful. If there were no other bodies to compare it to, you would never feel inadequate. You wouldn’t feel the pressure to renew a gym membership just to meet someone else’s definition of “acceptable.” If you lived on a desert island, this particular stress would likely never cross your mind.
So try this small act of gratitude today. It doesn’t have to be a rehearsed speech, it can be a silent, off-the-cuff thank you, for a specific thing that your body does well.
The important thing is that you acknowledge your body, appreciate it, and celebrate it for what it is—your vehicle, your home, your lifelong companion. Give it the love it deserves, and notice how a little weight, you may not have even realised you carried, lifts from your shoulders.
Use this meditation daily to make real positive changes to your life…
For your health and relaxation, I present to you a guided meditation that will whisk you away from whatever stresses and tribulations you may face today, to a place so tranquil and remote, you will find yourself revisiting it in your daydreams…
This audio meditation takes you on a journey to the core of your inner being, helping you to achieve deep relaxation, but also helps you to feel more positive about your situation, and helps to point you in the right direction.
Use this meditation for general relaxation, but also to help you along your path, as you journey toward a happier, more fulfilling life…
So, find somewhere comfortable and private. A place where you won’t be disturbed for a while. A place where you feel safe and secure. Sit, or lie down – so long as you are comfortable. Take some slow, deep breaths. Clear your mind. Finally, with a quiet sense of peace and curiosity, engage your imagination.
Give each thought a chance to seep in and conjure interesting images in your mind’s eye—as we begin…
I hope you enjoyed this meditation. If you found it helpful, then try using it a few times a week. Repeated use will help make the meditation more effective.
Also, don’t forget to try out some of my other guided meditations. There are different meditations for different situations. All of them, specially designed to help you rid yourself of stress and set you on your path to fulfilment.
What happens to your state of mind, if you are cut off from the internet for a week? No media or news from the outside world whatsoever. This is what happened to me last week, and the results were startling, having a profound effect on the way I perceived the world around me. This article explores the psychological and spiritual insights I gained from the experience.
A chance to unplug completely
It seems, there is only so much stimulation we can take in one dose, only so many facts we can absorb at a time. Whether we experience one thing deeply, or many things superficially, we each have a finite amount of attention we can spend throughout the day. And if we happen to be a stressed, prone to anxiety or sensitive to over-stimulation, then spreading our attention too thinly can cause distress or burnout.
I was allowed the chance last week to discover what it feels like to be out of arms reach from media giants, ubiquitous advertising and tailored feed algorithms, when I experienced eight days without any internet connection—something I had not done since the rise of social media. And in exchange for trading in my online fix I was rewarded with my first ever glimpse of a kingfisher (as well as a feast of encounters with bats, kites, herons, buzzards, toads, and owls).
My family and I took our first proper holiday in several years. We went to the south of Wales, taking a break from it all and enjoying the gentle pace of life onboard a narrow-boat. The difference from our (moderately) hectic life could not be more stark. Up and down the canal we voyaged, taking a week to travel about thirty-five miles—about as far as a round-trip to my nearest Tesco supermarket.
Slowing down the pace of life
When you chug along slower than walking pace, you really do become utterly absorbed in the details around you. All week long we were immersed in the beautiful and wild landscape. From the smallest wildflowers, to the greatest of oak trees, it felt so gratifying to be enveloped by nature and to actually have the time and capacity to soak in every detail. It felt as if I were spending my attention budget much more wisely—by experiencing fewer things and thereby seeing them truly.
On the drive back home, it struck me just how little I could observe my environment, as the world sped past at sixty miles per hour. We can be fooled into thinking that we have beheld that beautiful farmhouse or interesting meadow, when all it has been able to offer us is a fleeting impression. Like a skimming stone, our eye bounces from one thing to the next. We afford the merest glance at a landscape’s entire inventory before it becomes a thing of the past, and it’s onto the next field, the next building, the next distraction.
There is a poem by Robert Louis Stevenson that I came across recently, and it has stuck in the mind. It’s called From a Railway Carriage, and it describes the feeling of rushing along in a train. A few lines read:
And charging along like troops in a battle All through the meadows the horses and cattle: All of the sights of the hill and the plain Fly as thick as driving rain; And ever again, in the wink of an eye, Painted stations whistle by. And here is a mill, and there is a river: Each a glimpse and gone forever! …Gone forever.
Robert Louis Stevenson
By travelling in cars and trains, we have become accustomed to a fast lifestyle with information thrown at us from every direction. But this week was different. It was the first time in many years that had I experienced a week without any internet connection or appreciable phone signal, and the contrast could not be clearer. No laptop, no pings from my phone, no social media feeds. And it was bliss. More than that, I felt so much better—better than I have in years.
Addicted to the hive-mind
I think most of us, most of the time, are within reach of the internet at different points in the day. It’s so readily accessible that I find myself unable to keep away from it for very long.
Whether I’m checking the news, emails, Whatsapp, social media, podcasts, music, blogs, forums, sports updates, articles, research, or shopping, the web is always just a click away. And once I’ve opened my browser, it’s impossible not to glance at at least one or two of my feeds. In the evening, there is also Netflix, Amazon Prime, Disney Plus, or YouTube to tempt our attention, each throwing it’s fair share of sensory stimulation.
It’s not that any of these are intrinsically bad, taken in isolation (although I do reserve a special place in hell for certain forms of social media), it’s that my mind becomes saturated with the detritus of other people’s opinions—influencers, pundits, columnists, commenters, comedians, journalists, satirists, talking heads and more. My thoughts become infiltrated by the views I’ve exposed myself to throughout the day.
It was startling to me, during this week-long blackout, how little mental baggage I was carrying around with me, and how wonderful it felt. I had my own thoughts, I could be present in the moment, I was neither distracted nor anxious.
I had thought my internet habits were fairly conservative, and my media consumption modest. But as I looked back on my normal routine from the perspective of my media holiday, I could see that in reality I was actually a media-trawler, dredging up all manner of junk and dumping it wholesale into my mind, allowing it to swill about and effect how I thought and felt.
How social media triggers emotions
The main problem, as I see it, is that of elicited emotions. News outlets of all kinds—generalized or subject-specific—are there to shape opinion. So much of the views we hold are actually received, whether from our preferred news sources, or our favourite online hangouts. This in of itself is not necessarily a bad thing. It is, after all, how ideas percolate through a society. That said, scrawling through Twitter can leave you jaded when so many commenters are simply parroting catchphrases or trying to gain traction via controversy or extreme reactions.
The problem, as I found out, is just how much each of these platforms rely on eliciting an emotion from us, and—through frenzied competition with other outlets—just how good at it they have become.
Where opinions tell us what we should be thinking, media in general tells us what we should be feeling. If a platform or outlet has figured out that it is profitable to elicit negative feelings in us—feelings of frustration, injustice, anger at the world’s inequalities, or politician’s follies—then we risk losing ourselves in a mind-storm of dark emotions. Politically news outlets are particularly adept at making their audience feel a certain way—outrage is always a successful emotion for eliciting clicks, views and interactions.
Even if I try and confine myself to an innocuous subject, sport perhaps, I will be fed headlines above, below, to the side of the text, enticing me to click on other articles. Headlines that tell me a parent was brutally murdered, or a child abused, or a celebrity arrested, or that a world leader has declared war. I will be informed of scandals and heartlessness and tragic natural disasters. Feelings of despair about the world’s climate and biodiversity are now defined as a tangible mental syndrome. These feelings will have mostly been brought to us via the media we consume—however well-meaning their intentions are.
And all this tumult is before we delve into the unending world of social media with a seemingly infinite sea of personal opinion, conflict and self-righteous vitriol.
Each and every and post and webpage will elicit a different reaction, a new emotional response. Such a relentless roller-coaster cannot surely be good for us. Even when I log off, I will find these thoughts tumbling around. I’ll have arguments in my head with an ignorant commenter, or a politician whom I disagree profoundly with. Round and round go my thoughts, when I could be present in the moment and experiencing something positive and something real. Well that was my routine, until this last week showed me life unplugged.
Relief from internet overload
This last week has been such a relief from the overload I didn’t even realise I was trying to cope with. Last week I realised just how little of my media diet I actually needed. In truth I cannot think of one podcast, one site, show or outlet I truly missed. I had books to read when I had any urge for entertainment or intellectual sustenance. They didn’t try to sell me stuff, they didn’t try to tempt me away onto a different page. If they were pushing a narrative or opinion, it was at a slower, more digestible rate.
And when I was with my family, out in nature, observing wildlife and enjoying each other’s company, I felt completely present. I was neither distracted, nor riled up from the latest controversy in some far-away place. I achieved moments of mindfulness, contentment and peace. I experienced real joy.
As I return to my normal life, there will be certain things I cannot avoid—the chores of day-to-day living. But the main takeaway from this last week is that I do not need to exist on a fast-food diet of online media. Whatever I thought it was giving me, I didn’t miss. And the good feelings I experienced in their absence demonstrates it’s a habit I should continue to foster.
If there’s one thing I’d recommend from my recent experience, it would be to tone down your exposure to bad news, or any news for that matter. Sometimes it feels terribly important to be kept in the loop on what’s happening, whether far away or locally. But in truth, the price we pay is a state of sensory overload and negative emotion.
There are some issues about which it is healthy to be kept informed about. There are some issues that it is our duty to have an informed opinion about. But the vast majority of content can be done away with without any consequence.
Spiritual clarity from reducing time spent online
Try it today. Try cutting down on what you consume and discover how it can increase your general happiness and mental health, but also allow that mental space to find greater spiritual clarity. Rather than checking that social media feed, why not dig out a good book, or take a walk? You might be surprised at the difference it makes to the now, and how much your sense of inner peace increases.
For your health and relaxation, I present to you a guided meditation that will whisk you away from whatever stresses and tribulations you may face today, to a place so tranquil and remote, you may find yourself revisiting it in your daydreams.
You can either read or listen to this meditation, depending on your preference. To listen, simply click the video below:
If reading is your preference, then make yourself comfortable, and we will begin…
So take some slow, deep breaths. Clear your mind and let your worries float away, and calmly observe your thoughts pass through without judgement. Finally, with a quiet sense of peace and curiosity, engage your imagination.
Slow down your rate of reading. Give each thought a chance to seep in and conjure interesting images in your mind’s eye—as we begin…
The late-afternoon breeze crosses your face, cool and refreshing against your skin, urging you to turn toward the bluff of the hillside where you notice the scarring of an old landslip. You have been walking along a country path in the wide, open moorland, your feet crunching across gravel, soil and seed with each step. The air feels crisp against your cheeks, which are glowing from the climb, and you receive the faint scent of damp soil and wild heather. There are no hedgerows here, so the hills roll right up to your feet, the landscape introducing itself to you in a way that feels intimate and welcoming. The very ground beneath and around you here is alive, responding to meet your step with nearly equal pressure, and just a hint of yielding companionship, as if the ground welcomes the addition of your imprint.
Pin-flowers, grass and hard-rush all sway gently, some brushing against your legs as you pass, vying for your attention. Immersed in this ancient landscape, you feel a sense of deep contentment, as if the normally hard-edged boundary between you and the world has softened and relented just a little. There is a diffuseness of being that feels pleasing.
Instinctively, your eyes are drawn to the sheep grazing just feet away in silent contemplation. In ones and twos they comb the land for the sweet, green tips of new growth. Some wander close enough for you to hear their soft, rhythmic, chewing. Here and there, a sheep lifts its head, and you feel its gaze upon you—brief, yet curious. Before you can make any kind of connection, you are dismissed, and they amble back into the thick of the greenery, hooves rustling through the foliage. You smile with amusement—you suppose that your purposeful strides have impeded upon their serenity. Taking the hint, you slow your footsteps, allowing the calm of the landscape to inform your pace. Feeling the clomp of each step vibrate up your bones, you begin to place your sole with a little more care.
After a little way, the road dips downward, and you feel the ground beneath you ease into a slope. Instinctively, your body adjusts to the gentle descent, and your legs shift into the change in balance. Ahead, the ford gleams, catching the light across its surface like a sheet of ice. Your sense of balance heightens as you approach the slippery path down toward the ford. To the right, the stream gurgles and babbles. Its cool, clear water sparkles as it tumbles over the rocks, sending a fine mist into the air. The soft coolness kisses your skin and you instantly feel refreshed. The stream continues to meander to and fro as it flows away from you, laughing and singing—with the rocks, the tangled grasses, the exposed peat—and continues to wend its way through a marshy, picturesque valley. You follow its trail, and as your gaze recedes, your eye intersects a series of dry-stone walls marking out patchwork squares of wetland. Jutting greys against feathered greens.
Upstream, and over to your left, a holt of beech trees reaches uphill, their trunks thick and solid. They stand watch over the valley, keeping two hills at arms length. You feel a pull in your chest, a gentle invitation, as if the trees are calling you to investigate.
Watching the water jostle its way through boulder and scrub toward you, the cool, moist air from the stream swirls about your ankles. You are thankful for small pleasures, and feel drawn to the woodland from which the water flows. And as you cross the ford and approach the holt, your breath deepens with anticipation. The trees, towering above, cast playful shadows across the path, confusing the eye with misdirection. You step into the shade, feeling the temperature drop slightly, the air cooler here, heavy with the earthy scent of damp leaves and rich soil. Each breath fills your lungs with infusion of living, forest aromas.
Over a little bridge that spans a modest boggy mire, your feet settle onto a well-trodden trail, the ground beneath you firm but cushioned by a carpet of fallen leaves. As you climb up into the copse, your calves stretch, your muscles enjoying the slight pull, and you find yourself standing in the stippled rays of a late summer afternoon, beneath the canopy of an ancient beech tree. The sunlight filters through its leaves, casting intricate, moving patterns that flitter across your skin like fleeting tattoos. You feel the warmth of the sun on your arms, just enough to soften the coolness but not enough to overheat. Somewhere, not far away, you hear the blade-sharp call of a buzzard—low down and ready for a kill—and for a moment, your pulse quickens, the sound piercing the stillness and reminding you of the untamed nature of the moor.
The breeze that wanders across the swale stirs the branches of the trees, and you feel the gentle gust lift the hairs on the back of your neck. The branches sway in response, their movement almost hypnotic. Their limbic forms wave languidly, and their leaves flutter as if sentient in their own right, chattering, gossiping, responding to the gentle whispers of the wind.
Your senses heighten, your skin tingles as the cool forest breath gains in strength, as if awakened. It wafts over every inch of your exposed skin. The stiller you become, the more you fix your stare, opening yourself to a more meditative state. Where once you saw only a still patch of woodland, now you are aware that movement is abundant. You root your feet to the spot, feeling the connection between your body and the earth below, and try to get a sense of all that is unfolding before you. The interplay between air and leaf, vibrations—a million strong—conducted down through the branches, into the trunk, deeper still into the root system and beyond. The more you observe, the more you behold. Calmly, you let your awareness stretch outward, trying to take in the infinite, delicate motions unfolding about you. You try to let yourself see every gesture, every interplay. All those extraneous details we generally turn a blind eye to. You become absorbed in the infinite complexity of the moment. And, as a stargazer becomes accustomed to the night sky, over the course of a few minutes, your perception seeps into the landscape about you. You begin to discern snatches of the environment’s true character.
There is something sacred here, something alive, beyond what the eye can perceive; an intricate relationship between tree, earth, and air. Feeling a pleasant sense of connection cascade throughout your core, you try to unfurl your awareness further. You breathe in deeply, taking into your lungs the velvet notes of the earthy mulch, the wet wood, of a multitude of leaves—mingled with the soft, sweet aroma of nearby heather that comes drifting in off the moorland. As you inhale, you begin to wonder: what mysterious signals are being exchanged here—between air and leaf, between insect and bark, between root and fungus? What conversations are happening beneath the surface, in darkness, in this place where the tree and the earth blend together, where roots sink deep into the soil, tapping into unseen runnels of water that wind down from distant hilltops? A landscape in constant flux. A netherworld of filigree rivulets, hair-like tendrils, fungal proboscis, seeking and probing, day and night.
Perhaps the tree is reacting to the taste of the earth, organic compounds carried down the hillside by the stream—it’s root receptors firing, its glands opening, its pathways absorbing and pumping liquids to and from its extremities. Perhaps the tree’s root system is emitting its own chemical messages in turn—through scent, through secretion, into the dark mulch of the Earth. Here, there is no clear boundary between the tree and its environment.
Where does the tree end and the forest begin? The wind is thick with its pollen, its pheromones and trace compounds. The tree extends beyond what you can see with your eyes. It has an aromatic aura that takes the shape of the spaces in between. An invisible side to its form that mingles and stirs and percolates into every nook and cranny. Here, everything overlaps. The trees, the ferns, the mushrooms, the vast, urban sprawls of lichen, blooming across trunk and branch. You begin to glean a sense of the continuous flow of life and energy that surrounds you, entering you, where even the air you breathe seems to hum with the presence of the living. Like a Kami, a spirit, you can sense the presence of the tree everywhere, in its manifold splendour.
It unfurls about you as the leaves flutter and strobe against the sky. A spirit that flows through its branches, its roots, its leaves, extending outward to touch everything around it, from the moss growing on its bark to the millions of insects crawling along its surface.
You look closer, and the complexity of life reveals itself to you. There are whole worlds thriving on every level of the tree. You lean closer to take a look at the lichens, with their scrolling folds, their porous surfaces, hosting miniature ecosystems of their own. Tiny ferns cling to the cracks in the bark, their delicate fronds reaching out toward the sunlight. Even the smallest sprig of heather grows stubbornly in the crease between trunk and branch, its resilience a testament to the quiet strength of life here. You feel the verdant pulse through your fingertips, realizing you are tapping into a majestic, symbiotic web of existence.
As your gaze travels downward, you see the roots of the tree plunging into the earth, seeking nourishment from the soil and water. You shift your weight, feeling the firmness of the ground supporting you as you sit on your haunches. What hidden conversations are being whispered along the roots at this very moment? Do they talk of the visitor that has entered the wood? Do they sense your presence? Taste your pheromone aura? Feel the pressure of your footprint? Or are you invisible to them? What secrets are they broadcasting into the groundwater, or sharing with the minerals in the earth, or with the vast fungal networks that connect one tree to another, forming an invisible web of communication throughout the forest?
For a moment, you try to imagine the life of the tree. Its giant lifespan, its perception of time. Can it think? Can it feel? Perhaps not in the way we understand, but does that matter? Its existence is its own form of intelligence—a complex, adaptive system that responds to the world around it. It doesn’t need to possess a mind like ours to be intelligent, to be cherished, to be valued. You wonder if the tree has a spirit, a soul, or if it is simply a remarkable manifestation of life itself.
You reach out and touch the tree. You run your hand along its magnificent elephantine hide. With your fingertips, you absorb every texture and fold of the bark beneath your hand, rough yet alive, pulsing with an ancient energy. The bark is warm in places where the sun touches it, cooler in the shaded crevices. The roughness of the bark scratches gently against your palm. You feel your breath deepen, your chest expanding as if to take in not just the air, but ultimately, something of the tree as well.
What do you take from this experience? What wisdom can the tree offer you? Perhaps it is not about gaining knowledge, but about being present, about allowing the tree’s energy to merge with yours, to carry a piece of its spirit with you as you walk away. Perhaps there will be an interchange. Maybe you will each take a part of the other. Perhaps that is what life is all about. You feel a faint warmth spread through your chest.
The stream nearby continues its journey, flowing endlessly through the forest. Its sound fills the air—a soft, melodic babble, constant and ever-changing. As if in response, you hear a hidden songbird send forth an echoey strain. You feel a flush of contentment begin to ferment at the back of your head. Fascinated by the way the dappled light skims about the liquid surface, you feel you could spend a lifetime studying this stream, learning every detail about its flow, its temperature, the minerals it carries, the bacteria and fungi that live within it. You could measure it in every conceivable way and yet—and yet… Describing it in such a way would not even scratch the surface.
Empirically, the stream is unknowable, constantly shifting, constantly transforming, its course changing with every turn, its surface reflecting the dancing silver that is sent spinning off the water’s edge. Feeling its cool spray on your face, you crouch down, reach out your hand and feel the cold water trickle through your fingers, the sensation grounding you in the present moment. You trace every ripple and swirl caused by your fingertips, changing the stream ever-so-subtly. It feels icy to the touch, its waters flowing over your hand and readily accepting the gift of your heat.
Suddenly, you realise that every ounce of water that flows past you is unique, part of a vast, interconnected liquid system that spans not just this forest but the entire world. The eddies and whirlpools, the way the sunlight catches the droplets and throws rainbows into the air—each one fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it appears. And beyond, to where the sunlight liberates the vapour, sending it into those moisture-rich thermals upon which the buzzard now surfs—all of it is beyond your full comprehension. It is larger, bigger than you. Ancient and unceasing.
But you do know the stream, at least, an aspect of it. You can sense it, feel it. You don’t need to catalogue every fact, every measurement. Data isn’t the stream. You know it in the way that matters most: through experience, through presence. You feel its energy, its movement, its life. And that is enough. And you cannot be present, observing, experiencing, without also influencing what you are observing. In this way, you are part of the Tao, part of the great flow of existence that moves through everything. And so, in sampling it, in being receptive to it, you also come to know it.
The bank of the stream is alive with greenery. You feel its energy humming through the soles of your feet as you stand on the verge between land and liquid, feel its life coursing through the very air you breathe. The roots of the tree shore up the soil, providing a foundation for an abundance of plant life. The ground beneath your feet feels soft, springy. It overflows with miniature forests of a very different kind. You reach down and run your fingers through the cool, damp moss, feeling its delicate texture, its wet mucosa gently prickling your skin. Every inch of ground here is teeming with life—sphagnum moss, marsh grasses, ferns, tormentil, ling. Every inch of ground is an unfolding drama—too much to take in. But you don’t need to. Instead, you open yourself to the gestalt, to the totality of the experience. You let it wash over you, sinking into your very core like all the other aspects of this enchanted place. Like the roots of the tree, you feel steady and grounded.
Nearby, the stream continues its journey, the sound of water flowing over rocks filling the air with its music. The constant, ever-changing melody seems to vibrate through your body, aligning with the rhythm of your heartbeat.
Here, in this small corner of the forest, you stand at the threshold of the infinite. Every square inch of soil beneath your feet, every leaf that sways in the breeze, every droplet of water contains multitudes—ecosystems within ecosystems, layers of life stretching down into the microscopic and beyond. You feel a sense of awe swelling in your chest, as if you could zoom in forever and still never reach the end of it.
You are swimming in the truth, submerged in the richness of the world, its complexity unfolding before you with every breath. This tiny patch of land is a cacophony of life, an ever-unfolding mystery. And you are a part of it, just as the tree and the stream and the moss are. The background sound of leaves and the scent of damp earth have permeated you, and you allow yourself to be fully present, feeling the spirit of this sacred place.
You resist the urge to catalogue, to explain. To merely collect data. You allow yourself to be immersed in the now, absorbing everything around you. You let the kami of the tree, the stream, the forest blend with your own, guiding you, shaping you, taking you down a new and unexpected path. Like two photons mixing, you feel yourself entangled with this place, forever changed by this moment.
A few, deeply contented breaths. A pause, holding onto these last seconds like they are the last rays of the day…
And now it feels like the moment to leave.
You walk away slowly, leaving the trees and the stream behind, but carrying their essence with you. You feel lighter, somehow. Lifted. Now, you are mindful of where you step, careful not to disturb the delicate flowers, the burgeoning mushrooms, the fallen twigs that create homes for countless creatures. Every step is a prayer, a moment of reverence for the life that surrounds you.
The stream continues its song, cutting through the landscape, whispering with the earth, and you listen to its endless conversation. Every square meter of this forest is alive, a conflux of insects, plants, and microorganisms, each one a player in a much larger ecosystem. The sunlight catches the wings of tiny commuters as they flit through the air, casting a shimmering aura around them. Pollen drifts lazily on the breeze, tiny stars in a sky of green.
You feel a quiet peace settle over you as you begin back along the path you came. Your breathing has become peaceful, the forest’s pace informing your own. And with each exhale, you release any lingering strains of tension, knowing that you too, are part of this vast, unfolding web of life.
Return gently now to the present, with a sense of renewal and inner peace. Experience the slow rise and fall of your belly, as you breathe softly through your nose. Imagine a positive energy entering your body and coalescing at your core, to give you the confidence you need to continue with your day. Feel that blissful stillness that lets you know that your fulfilment comes from within, not without.
And don’t forget, you can return at any time, for another guided meditation!
One of the important aspects of finding meaning and spirituality in life is learning to accept who we are—without judgement—because sometimes those very traits we are most embarrassed or ashamed about are actually great strengths, in the appropriate environment. And thus, if we can adjust our core beliefs to incorporate a more positive view of ourselves, we can do away with so much time and energy wasted on negative thoughts, or regimes of misguided “self-improvement”, and instead focus our efforts on our spiritual growth.
Sometimes, society can make us feel shame for our personality traits. There is every chance you know how this feels. Perhaps you are naturally shy, or socially awkward, or struggle with anxiety, or are easily distracted, or lack self-confidence, or even just bite your nails. Whatever it is, we are often conditioned to see these traits as limitations or failings when compared to the celebrated archetypes of our time—the go-getting hero, for example, or the self-made entrepreneur, or the attractive athlete, or the popular extrovert, or the high-achieving graduate. The list goes on.
But the human spirit doesn’t work like that. It is a beautiful, intricate universe unto itself, each one its own unique shape—and is ready to flourish and be happy, if just given the opportunity. This was reaffirmed to me recently when I watched, of all things, a video featuring a group of otters. Let me set the scene…
So I’m sitting with my daughters on the sofa, watching a video about three otters living in captivity. A new pool is being installed for them. It will be about waist deep when full, but presently it’s being filled with a hosepipe, and there are only about two inches of water. The human carer allows the creatures to investigate this new installation, and one of the bolder, trailblazing otters—let’s call him Bob—has leapt up the steps of a plastic slide and jumped down into the pool. Bob is splashing about enthusiastically and trying to eat the stream of water gushing from the hosepipe.
Having seen that the pool and hosepipe are safe, a second otter—Sue—decides to join in. Up the slide she goes and down into the shallow pool to join Bob.
A third otter—April—is much more tentative than the first two. She is picked up by its human carer and placed at the top of the slide so that she can look down into the pool. Perhaps she doesn’t like the high walls of the enclosed space, or perhaps the hosepipe looks unpredictable and dangerous. Whatever her perception, this unexpected addition to her environment poses many unknowns, and she clearly seems anxious and deeply reluctant to jump down. She sniffs and looks around at everything that’s unfolding, in a way contrary to the first two otters.
The carer tries to coax the creature to join the others, and April’s mannerisms betray an internal battle as she skirts the edge, back and forth, trying unsuccessfully to summon the will to jump in. Her fellow otters glance up at her every now and then as if to say “Come and join us! What are you waiting for?”
Eventually, the carer picks April up and places her down into the water with the others. Immediately, she panics, and makes a terrific leap to escape the confines of the pool. After a little time, she manages to return to the top of the slide, where she watches on from the sidelines.
Observing the behaviour of the otters was a profound experience for me. Whilst my daughters delighted in watching these cute animals play, I was struck by just how much I empathised with April. Personally, I don’t have any difficulty jumping into pools, but I can certainly identify with that same level of anxiety and sensitivity when it comes to certain situations.
We all have areas of our personality that we are less than happy with. Perhaps we see them as weaknesses or failings. But, in their animalistic innocence, these otters demonstrated to me that qualifying such traits as good or bad—and consequently assigning feelings of shame or guilt—is a cognitive misstep. The idea struck me like a hammer: these otters simply are—they have completely different personalities, different ways of interpreting their environment, and such differences are completely innate. They were indifferent to my own definition of what constitutes “normal” otter behaviour.
In human society, we would celebrate Bob’s bravery and try to fix April’s reticence. In human society, we would coax, encourage, chastise, and make April feel self-conscious about her shyness, her anxiety, her introverted nature. Media, culture, peer pressure and “helpful advice” from friends and family would impart the overwhelming sense that there is something wrong with April. Something sub-par, or less than ideal.
If she were human, perhaps she might seek help or therapy to try and change her disposition. She might try cognitive therapy, or hypnosis or perhaps a psychologist could work through her past to uncover what incidents had damaged her and made her the way she is. She could read self-help books about how to gain self-confidence, or how to tap into her inner warrior. People might tell her to just “man-up” or “grow a pair” or bandy about other derogatory terms.
Ultimately, those who had no problem with jumping into pools might even judge her to be a coward, or lazy, or just not trying hard enough—failing to fully understand that her experience of the world is fundamentally different than theirs.
What is interesting, though, is that all of these societal consequences are qualitative judgements. In actuality, April the otter knows nothing of our social constructs. Neither she nor Bob has no knowledge that they are displaying either preferable or non-preferable behaviour. They are blissfully unaware of the labels assigned to their character traits, and the baggage that comes with them, and thus the behaviour of each otter was simply an honest, unfiltered manifestation of their inherent character.
They were each beautifully different, I had no inclination to label one a success and the other a failure. And in that moment, I felt a weight lift, because I knew I could neither label my own intrinsic traits as faults either. Neither otter were broken, neither were better or worse. They simply were. And if otters can display such a variety of inherent personality, without the addition of blame or guilt, then surely so can we humans.
Indeed, as I watched Bob, Sue and April’s behaviours I imagined how they might play out in different situations in the wild. In some cases, Bob’s boldness in taking risks would pay off. He might discover new, fruitful territory that contained untapped food supplies. Sue, being a follower, would soon join Bob, and eventually, after much hesitation so might April, having first assimilated all the new stimuli—though she would probably be late to the party. In human terms, Bob would be labelled as brave; April, a failure.
However, in a different situation, Bob might find that his boldness lead him into trouble. Perhaps diving into a situation that contained hidden dangers, such as treacherous currents or a camouflaged predator. April, on the other hand, sniffing, listening, looking all around, is attuned to all the strange and new information. Being quiet, attentive, sensitive and keenly observant, she might instinctively pick up on the danger that’s present. That anxiety of hers is borne out of a higher threshold for what she deems safe. And in such cases as this, it would save her life, and also the lives of all the otters like Sue.
So you see, populations of creatures can benefit from having a mixture of bold and sensitive personalities. The bold ones simply have their tolerance for safety dialled all the way down. They are, by definition, less sensitive to the potential threats around them; more willing to take risks—perhaps non-cognizant of the risks. The anxious ones, on the other hand, have their sensitivity dialled up to the maximum. Both have their strengths in different situations.
Let’s return to the world of people. Where the bold can trail-blaze in terms of action and deed, the sensitive can trail-blaze in terms of original thought, emotional intelligence, the arts.
One of the challenges we have in our human society is to rethink our ideas of good and bad, so that all kinds of people, of all natures and personality-types can feel both valued and have the appropriate environments in which they can flourish. In our schools, in our work places, in our institutions. One of the primary factors that contribute to why so many people experience mental health issues is that our inflexible social structures are not inclusive enough of neurodiversity.
One of the dangers we must watch out for is a disproportionate emphasis on a “warrior mentality”. If our culture celebrates the aggressive, warrior hero over everything else—at boardroom level, in politics, around the meeting table, in the play-ground—then we run the risk of listening only to the voices of the bolder, louder sections of society, of rewarding aggression and confrontation. They are more easily heard, after all.
But if we allow the sound of the quieter voices to get drowned out, we risk losing so many rich and valuable contributions. It is no surprise that, over time, people who don’t fit in to the ideal norms have their self-confidence chipped away, by the unthinking feedback they get from their community.
Often, nuance and subtlety are the first victims in public discourse. The irony is that human society is an artificial construct. We can shape it in whatever way we wish, to accommodate all types of person, if we so choose. For example, if humans were half the height we currently are, and half the strength, then naturally, we would design our technology to cater for that. So why then, in today’s world, should our power tools, our seatbelts, our shelf-heights, our pianos be designed for the average male adult to use, with his man’s strength, and stature and hand-span? Why aren’t there also power-tools for women? Pianos that can accommodate a woman’s average hand-span?
Similarly, we should be able to build our institutions and social groups with variety in mind, so that personalities and minds of all types can feel welcome. Millions of people worldwide suffer with excessive stress, anxiety, self-esteem, low confidence or depression, purely because they are being told that they don’t measure up to a fictional ideal. If you are one of those people, then you are not alone. And if the world keeps telling you that there’s something wrong with you, then instead of taking it at face value, try turning that statement on its head and say, rather, there’s something wrong with the world.
The ideas we perpetuate as a society, the turns of phrase, the jokes, memes and digs we make at other people’s expense, they all have a cumulative effect, and impede the wonderful world we could be building for ourselves. Aggression, ultra-competitiveness, exclusivity, self-promotion, and a tough, dog-eat-dog mentality might well have its place in certain environments, but we need to forge new ways that people can integrate and contribute to society so that everyone feels enfranchised.
Our whole society misses out if there persists a culture of making people feel bad about themselves.
From time to time, one of my daughters has a compulsive habit of biting her nails. We’ve tried many tactics to keep her from biting them down to the quick. It would be so easy, through the use of normal language and phraseology, to impart the impression that there is something wrong with her for doing this. And she, herself can sometimes become distressed. She wants to stop, but she cannot, since she does it almost unconsciously, when reading or watching TV. And then summer comes around and we go out picking berries—blaeberries, blackberries, blackcurrants—and it becomes starkly apparent that what appears to be a problem in one environment becomes a great strength in another.
Out in the wild, she is the most tenacious, the most prolific berry-picker. 100,000 years ago, her compulsive streak would have made her the best gatherer in the tribe. When picking berries, she feels at peace, mindful, useful. When the rest of us have long since tired, she is still clambering up hedgerows and into thickets to seek out one more scutch of fruit. And interestingly, once returning home, her nail-biting stops.
So it seems, the problem most definitely does not reside within my daughter, but in the environment she finds herself in. There isn’t anything wrong with her, it’s just that her instincts aren’t being effectively channelled, in our modern, indoor lifestyle. So my challenge is to find ways in which I can reshape our routine that allows my daughter’s tendency to be more of an asset than a hindrance.
So the next time you feel at a low point, the next time you catch yourself having negative thoughts or believing the stinging language people use, remember: very often the problem isn’t with you, it is with your environment, or society at large.
This is a powerful idea, because, even though knowing this won’t necessarily fix anything over night, it removes the added burden of self-loathing. It removes the leaden weight of thinking that there is something wrong with you. You are who you are. You have natural tendencies and an innate spirit that is unique and beautiful. In time, you might be able to make subtle changes to your life, that allow you to flourish in ways you didn’t think possible. All you need to do is shape your world to fit the shape of your person.
Changing your environment may be more practical than changing your nature.
And if your aim is to continue to grow and explore in a spiritual way, then this is an important step to finding peace and meaning in your day-to-day living.
I’ll finish with something my daughter asked when she heard one particularly disagreeable pundit using derogatory terms on the radio. She turned to me and said:
“But Dad, snowflakes are beautiful.”
She made me very proud in that moment. “Exactly!” I replied.
Unwind and catch your breath as I take you with me on my walks and adventures into nature.
I also chat about mindfulness, well-being and finding meaning in modern life, if you’re looking for a quiet place to escape your day, then this is the place for you.
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About me
Hi! I’m James. I love taking walks in nature, and thinking about life’s big questions. I started this blog so I could share my adventures, and connect with like-minded people.
I’ve spent much of my life contemplating—about the universe, philosophy, spirituality and the meaning of life. It gives me great pleasure to put these thoughts into words, in the form of articles and essays; and it’s my hope that you too will gain some pleasure from reading them.
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Here are a few of the books I’ve have been reading recently that I’d recommend:
Life 3.0
Max Tegmark
A mind-opening book about the various philosophical possibilities that the advent of AI presents to our world in the coming years, including an investigation into what constitutes a mind.
The Book of Minds
By Philip Ball
A fascinating scientific and philosophical investigation into what it means to have a mind, and just how different that experience can be – whether it is the mind of an insect, a human or some alien or artificial intelligence.
The Old Ways
By Robert Macfarlane
A beautifully written account of what it’s like to follow the ancient walking paths and routes across the British countryside and coast.
The Hidden Life of Trees
By Peter Wohlleben
A beautifully insightful exploration into the complex and mysterious nature of trees. What they feel, how they communicate, and how they contribute to a forest’s Wood-Wide Web.
The Bells of Old Tokyo
By Anna Sherman
A travel book that describes Anna’s quest to understand Tokyo’s complex cultural tapestry by visiting the ancient ceremonial bells that lie hidden throughout he city.
The Book of Chuang Tzu
Translated by Martin Palmer and Elizabeth Breuilly
A book that gathers together the stories, tales and teachings of one of the great founders of Taoism, Chaung Tzu – one of the most fascinating of the Chinese philosophers.
For an exhaustive list of books relating to the topics covered here (including several free-to-download books), please visit the Member’s Library…
