AND FINALLY

A taste of my own medicine

‘GO OUT and do something,’ I tell readers from time to time, believing that activity can help our moods.

Of course, it won’t ‘cure’ depression or a broken heart, but forcing yourself to engage with the world (even by going for a walk and noticing five things along the way) can be a step towards thinking that life isn’t quite so bad.

I’m also fond of encouraging fresh challenges. Feeling bored and stale? Then try a new course or pick up an old hobby. Such cliche counsel can transform lives. But one day I asked myself whether I ever take my own advice — and the answer was ‘No’. It was time to push myself, too.

Many years ago, I tried the ‘soft’ martial art, Tai Chi and enjoyed it — so I found a place nearby where I could take it up again. The trouble was, the class fell in the middle of Monday morning. No matter, I thought, I’ll just start the week differently.

What happened? I lasted four weeks. No matter how much I tried to focus calmly on following the teacher’s moves, my old hamsterwheel of a brain kept spinning into panic. ‘You should be writing your column . . . tackling that pile of readers’ letters . . . working on your book . . . ’ it nagged. So I’d dash home from Tai Chi in a state of stress, which is the opposite of what I needed. Sadly, I gave up. A failure.

Next came the Friday drawing class. As a young woman, I was rather good at art but haven’t picked up a pencil or brush in years. So it was (literally) back to the drawing board for me — and I found it really, really hard. My disappointment at realising I wasn’t nearly as talented as I imagined was huge. Did that pitiful scratch really come from my hand?

But the challenge is to realise the meaning of the

process. The rubbing out and starting again is a fascinating exercise in creative humility. Each little ‘failure’ takes me one small step forward, and not being brilliant is irrelevant. I shall continue — and am so glad to have been reminded that it is the trying that counts as success.