On Trusting Your Instincts & 'Caring Enough'
For all my planning and Type A tendencies, I invariably leave important things to the last minute. The panic and fear of a looming deadline - even when I keep moving the goalposts – feels both thrilling and revolting, almost as if the frustration at trying to complete something at the eleventh hour is outweighed by the ultimate satisfaction I get out of finally finishing it. I’ve always wondered if this is simply instinctive – a gut reaction to having to finish something for other people. Wanting to do it because it’s socially instinctive and beneficial for us to do so, but not wanting to because it’s human instinct to be selfish and feel like a task is antithetical to survival if it’s primarily to make someone else’s life easier.
Perhaps I’m being reductive. More likely, I’m being reactive. Which I guess is kind of my point.
I’d waited until the train journey home from East Sussex to pen this newsletter. I wasn’t sure what I was going to write about, which makes sitting down to the write the thing in advance infinitely harder, more time consuming and ultimately frustrating. I usually always get it done, one way or another, whether I’m happy with what I’m putting out into the world or not, which I suppose is not necessarily the smartest way to write, but does make it fairly authentic, which fulfils my desire to write in one way or another.
I thought about writing on trusting your instincts because to me, this feels like it follows a similar line as being reactive – that is, rushing to a conclusion before you have time to really think about it. This is because I received an email in the middle of my rail replacement bus journey that immediately made me feel frustrated, upset, out of control and unnerved. I’m not sure why I cared so much. Earlier in the year, a good friend and I had made a pact to simply ‘care enough’ about work – to not let it dictate our moods or make us believe that it truly mattered more than its power to keep us out of financial ruin. The problem with that is that we are both enormously empathetic people, as well as slight people pleasers (but in the best way, I think). It’s hard to just ‘care enough’ when you work in community; when you get all of your value and energy from seeing people feel good about the work you’re doing. ‘Care enough’ is a good concept in theory, but it’s difficult to put into practice when caring is your gut instinct.
Earlier this month – and probably still now – I’d been feeling listless and confused about my purpose in life, and more specifically in London. With no partner, flat or job truly keeping me here, I wondered why I was spending so much money to be in a city, when my gut was always telling me to escape to somewhere with more space; to isolate myself in the middle of the woods, with dogs and vegetable patches to keep me company, rather than humans which make the concept of caring enough impossible.
My instinct has historically been to run away in these situations. I did that in 2015 when I left London for Cornwall. In 2017 when I left Cornwall for India. A month later I left India for Sri Lanka, then quickly changed my mind and came back to India. I moved from India to California, California to Nicaragua, was forced to evacuate Nicaragua for Costa Rica, and made my way home via Vancouver. I left home for Cornwall again, and Cornwall for London one last time. When heartbreak hit earlier this year, I fled to Vancouver and LA. And then this summer, I’ve been stuck. Stuck in London, not literally, but metaphorically – hemmed in by the rules I’ve placed on myself. That I need to stay in order to prove something. That I can’t leave because I’m an adult now. That those instincts I once felt were those of a child, and age and society dictate that I must do what is ‘right’ and not what is ‘good’. You can see my attempts at working out ‘what’s good’ for me in this past newsletter.
Instead, I’ve found myself temporarily vacating London for weekends by the coast. Last weekend in North Wales. This weekend in East Sussex. I slept on the floor of one of my best friend’s static homes on a farm. The moon was full and so were we – from ramen earlier that day, a cold dip and the best chicken couscous salad I’ve ever eaten. I woke up to blue skies and sat on the wooden patio staring at the cows. We drove to a service station to eat a McDonald’s breakfast, and came back to watch shows on BBC and pick blackberries for a crumble. A bonfire crackled to my left, the smell of flour, sugar and butter perfumed with tart apples and fresh berries wafted over from my right, where my heavily pregnant friend stood laughing at our inability to be true bakers. My instinct to escape was correct, but I’m learning that these instincts don’t have to yield such permanent results. That sometimes, we just need to take a beat. To be patient with ourselves and the world.
I never cared for crumble. My instinct is always to pick savoury over sweet. This one was delicious, cut through with thick double cream, the purple bleeding into white. Turns out this instinct was wrong. Autumn called out and we answered, and now I’ve written this, the email doesn’t matter, and neither does my obsession with future proofing my life.
I know I haven’t sent out a recipe-not-recipe this week.. rest assured it will be a double whammy next week!