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A conversation is recounted in the book # Shantaram  in which the character, Khaderbhai, says: “There is no such thing as believing in #G...

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Friday, 20 February 2015


The rot started to set in about three weeks ago.  I had been working well to shed some of my surplus-to-requirements festive season weight gain, exercising daily, watching my diet and seeing daily weight changes generally headed in the right direction.

Then, doing something inconsequential, I tweaked a moving part in my lower back and put myself largely out of action for a week. Before I could get back on the path of righteousness, a visit to the beautiful Buddhist Retreat Centre in Ixopo intervened, providing copious quantities of their vegetarian meals and famous steamed puddings and custard.  This was followed shortly by a stay at the Table Bay Hotel in Cape Town for a few days which presented the coup de grace to my efforts at rehabilitation, meaning that all of January's good work had been undone.  

Over about the same period all efforts at sorting out an unusual plethora of home IT and DIY issues, on which I generally pride myself, came to nought.  Add to that days of administrative stuff at the office putting me way behind with my professional work and I found myself slumped into F*ck-it mode.

This is a place in which I rarely find myself, but it usually follows on multiple frustrations and my inability to understand what it is that Life wants me to learn from this cr*p.  F*ck-it mode gives me full permission then to indulge myself as much as I like in huffing and puffing, eating what I like, giving a finger to exercise and generally thinking that Life's a bitch.  (Blogs tend to dry up then as well.)

Rising above it usually requires me to get a wake-up call.  My body is pretty good at that, responding in a manner I don't much like, either on the scales, trying to get into my clothing or climbing a flight of stairs.  A pile of work on the edge of my desk and clients asking when their agreements will be ready isn't a bad wake-up either, as is limited (or no) internet connectivity at home.  Life is good that way: it gives truly helpful messages to which we can respond positively or we can stay in f*ck-it mode until the wake-up calls get bigger and nastier.

So, I am pleased (and a bit sanctimonious) to report that I took the first remedial steps yesterday evening, taking on an hour and a bit of painful Astanga yoga in my Maputo hotel room, incentivised by a view across the sea to Inhaca Island and the prospect of closing my belt to its pre-New Year notch.

The response, however, needs to be from a place of choice rather than a place of survival, because the latter will eventually drive you back to f*ck it mode.

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