Camille,
Here is your swear-jar . . . It will be a kind of store to prevent wallowing and negative thoughts. You are to put a euro in the jar each time you have a pessimistic idea or say anything unconstructive. I can only hope you don’t end up with a fortune in there!
I can’t repeat this enough: positive thoughts have a real impact on your body and your psyche. Some very serious studies prove it. Here’s one example, an experiment carried out under scientific conditions. They filled two containers about the size of a dessert plate with the same amount of earth. Then they planted twenty-three grass seeds in each of them, with the same amount of compost. They put them in a greenhouse next to each other to make sure they would receive exactly the same amount of sunshine each day and enjoy the same temperatures while the seeds were germinating.
The only difference was as follows: three times a day, each of the researchers took turns to sit in front of both containers. In front of the first, they said very negative things, attacking the seeds verbally: “Nothing will ever grow here, nothing is going to happen, this will never produce grass, I really don’t think this soil is fertile. And even if it does grow, I’m sure it’s going to wither and die . . .” In front of the second pot, they behaved completely differently: they were confident and said nice things. They were very positive about the seeds germinating and the possibility of seeing grass grow: “I can hardly wait to see these seeds sprout—it’s going to be great! The weather is fine, the temperature is perfect, that’s going to help as well. I’ve got green fingers, everything I plant is a success.”
Three weeks later, a photo of the two pots appeared in Time magazine. I hardly need tell you that from the first pot, which had been exposed to the negative comments, only two or three feeble shoots had sprouted. The second, on the other hand, was covered in a dark green grass, deeply rooted in the soil and already robust and tall. I’m sure you’ve understood my point, Camille: our words give off vibes. Our attitude as well. If they have such an amazing influence on seeds, just imagine the effect they can produce on people! That’s why we have to pay as much attention to our inner dialogue as to our comments to others. Why not make a start today?
Hoping to see you soon,
Claude
I was impressed by the example he had given me and more than ready to try to change. But I sensed how difficult it would be for me, as I had for so long been in the habit of expressing the negative rather than the positive. Claude had warned me: just as the athlete has to train every day, so reprogramming one’s thoughts demands tenacity and effort. Not to mention being vigilant all the time, because it’s so easy for the mind to slip back into the bad old habits if you’re not careful. I promised myself I would be extra vigilant and put the jar on the bookshelves in the living room where I could see it easily. I even decided to see if the men of the family would play the game as well.
Adrien really liked the idea.
The next morning, Sebastien emerged from the bedroom, clearly grumpy after a night without much sleep. He went over to the window.
“God, look at this weather. It’s so depressing.”
I didn’t even need to say anything: Adrien did it for me.
“Dad! One euro!” he cried, delighted to have caught his father out.
Sebastien started to protest but quickly stopped when he realized that the more he grumbled, the more money he would have to put in the jar.
“No, no, no! OK, I won’t do it anymore, I don’t want to end up completely broke.”
And he went over to give his “guardian of the positive” a big hug.
As for me, I tried every day to practice “positive thoughts and attitude.” To alter the way I put things. To make them not negative but positive. To make them not passive but active. A real mental somersault!
I had printed out a short fable that Claude had sent me and that I often reread. It’s the story of a man who goes looking for a wise man to learn from him.
“Tell me, you who are so wise, what is in your mind?”
“In my mind there are two dogs, one black and one white.
“The black dog is full of hate, anger, and pessimism. The white one is filled with love, generosity, and optimism. They fight all the time.”
His disciple is rather taken aback.
“Two dogs? Who fight each other?”
“Yes, almost all the time.”
“And which one wins?”
“The one I feed more.”
It was clear that for years my thoughts must have been much more like a large Doberman pinscher than a pretty little Maltese puppy. Well, I’d just have to adjust the canine register of my mind. In a manner of speaking.
Claude added another principle to my already long list, one that came from the Emperor Augustus’s favorite adage: Festina lente, or “Make haste slowly.” It seems that like many other people, I habitually confused speed and haste. In recent years I had spent my time doing everything quickly and badly, living like a fly caught in a jar, buzzing around, beating my head against the glass walls of life, and not allowing myself the time to sit back and take stock.
So I urged myself to live life more slowly. To refuse to accept the tyranny of the fast lane. To act, of course, but not to give in to useless pressure. To understand the huge difference between good and bad stress.
I was putting this into practice at work when I received a fresh message from Claude. He was suggesting yet another mystery rendezvous the following Wednesday. At an address in Charenton-le-Pont. All he said was that I should bring a swimsuit and a towel.
A swimsuit? But there was absolutely no way I wanted to go swimming!
twenty-one
That Wednesday I arrived at our meeting place feeling a bit grumpy—although, to be fair, I had put a euro in the swear-jar. Unlike me, Claude seemed on top of the world and excited. What surprise did he have in store for me this time?
It didn’t take long to find out. He had brought me not to any ordinary swimming pool but to one that specialized in scuba diving. When I realized this, my heart started pounding. I was trapped: surely he didn’t want me to . . .
Yes, he did.
I tried to protest, to get out of it, claiming that I had never learned to hold my breath, that I wasn’t sure I could do it for even ten seconds. Claude waved away my fears and told me the point of the exercise: he wanted me to understand the importance of my breathing in channeling my emotions and to stay in control of myself in any given situation.
OK . . . I got the general idea, but did I really have to prove it by trying this extreme sport? As if by magic an instructor appeared with all the equipment, and quicker than I could say “Stop!” I found myself strapped into a load of very heavy gear that I didn’t have the faintest idea how to use. My brain almost ceased to function: I found it hard to follow and retain the instructor’s directions, especially when it came to the signals for communicating underwater. If Claude thought I was going to play at being a mermaid, he had another think coming! Rather than graceful and agile in the water, I looked more like a hippo brought up in the Sahara. With the regulator stretching my mouth and my hair spreading all round me like tentacles, I looked more like Medusa with her snakes than the sweet Little Mermaid, Ariel.
Be that as it may, the sight of me underwater gave Claude a good laugh. I tried to give him a little kick, but the water slowed all my movements. He must have seen the frown spreading across my face, but he did not relent, apart from asking with a signal if I felt all right. I shrugged to show that I didn’t, but the instructor soon led me down to the bottom of the pool and I became completely absorbed in the experience. At first my anxiety made my heart race. I had to force myself to breathe in a controlled fashion to calm myself and avoid hyperventilating. All at once I understood—I could sense—that breathing was the key to managing my movements. After a few unsuccessful attempts I began to judge things better. I even found
myself able to float up or down just by controlling my breathing. The sense of weightlessness was exhilarating! By varying the amount of air in your lungs you could control how high you rose, becoming heavier or lighter as you wished. That meant I could adjust my position underwater with minimal effort.
By the end of the session I felt completely at ease and even dared turn a few somersaults by pushing off from the side of the pool. Had I overdone the oxygen? I felt light-headed!
“So, how was it?” Claude asked me outside the changing rooms.
“Wonderful! But you could have warned me.” I poked him in the ribs to wipe the sly grin off his face.
“Ow!” he said, laughing. “It would’ve been a shame to miss it; you looked so charming. A mermaid in a swimming pool!”
I pulled a face.
“If I’d told you what I was up to, would you have come? You wouldn’t, would you?”
He was right there.
I left the swimming pool feeling much prouder than when I had gone in. It was a unique experience that would be added to my list of powerful memories and anchors in my Positive Notebook.
While we were waiting for the bus to take us back to Paris, Claude insisted on making another point.
“We should spend a couple of minutes reflecting on the lesson to be drawn from this experience: whenever you find yourself under stress, concentrate on your breathing and remember what it felt like to be diving underwater. How calm it is below the surface, peaceful, the way you managed your breathing, your self-control. You need to become aware of your breathing even on a normal day. Bear in mind that healthy breathing is not merely breathing in but also the way you breathe out. If you expel all the air in your lungs, that gives them the chance to refill with new air, which will help your body more.”
“You’re right, it’s something you need to know.”
“And now you do.”
twenty-two
With all that I was learning from Claude, I tried hard each day to live more aware of myself, even when I was doing the most mundane things. Brushing my teeth or chewing my food became new and interesting experiences and increased my sensory awareness. I understood the saying “To live in a dream world” much better now. It was true that you could go through life disconnected from yourself, with the annoying consequence that you were never in the only place that really matters: the here and now.
The previous evening, Claude had sent me a text message with a formula I really liked:
Today is a gift. That’s why it’s called the present.
But the more aware I became, the harder it was to see my family continuing to live in what I now saw as the wrong way.
So that evening at dinner I exploded.
“No, Sebastien! Get off your laptop—we’re eating. That’s the flippin’ limit! We don’t see much of you as it is, and if when we do you’re not really here—”
“But I am here! I’m sorry, but I’m expecting an urgent e-mail. It’s work, so don’t get mad up about it.”
“In other words, you’re not paying any attention to what you’re eating.”
“Who puts these ideas into your head? That guru of yours?”
Breathe calmly. Don’t play the game. Don’t get angry . . . Think kind thoughts . . .
“Exactly. I’m working on how to become completely aware, and it’s life changing.”
“I’d like to see it,” he said sarcastically.
“OK, I’ll take you at your word. In fact, I was about to propose we do something interesting together in the near future.”
“You were? What?”
“You’ll see.”
I said nothing more: I wanted it to come as a complete surprise.
I was following Claude’s method of directly experiencing something that would teach a real lesson. I had found a very special place in Paris that would help me make Sebastien realize, in a concrete, empirical way, what it meant to be fully aware, and its benefits. I was very pleased with myself and was rejoicing in advance at how my surprise would affect him, imagining the amused, sexy look on his face.
However, when the day came and he discovered where I had taken him, he seemed worried rather than pleased.
“So this was your big idea?” he muttered so dubiously that I had a sudden moment of panic. What if this evening, which was meant to be a celebration for just the two of us, turned into a fiasco before it had even begun?
I wasn’t having that, so I tried to cheer him up.
“Come on, Seb, trust me. It’ll be great, you’ll see. It’ll be a laugh.”
It didn’t work. While we were waiting for our allotted attendant, I could see him casting a skeptical glance at the entrance where we were standing, trying to see through the heavy curtains hiding the room where our “festivities” were to take place. The curtains looked like those heavy rubber ones at the start of ghost-train rides at amusement parks.
Our host, Vincent, finally arrived. He instructed me to stand behind Sebastien and place my hands on his shoulders. Then he took Seb’s hands and placed them on his shoulders, inviting us to follow him through the curtains.
We entered a room that was in total darkness. And when I say “total,” that’s still not strong enough. I chuckled, feeling Sebastien’s back trembling under my hands. He wasn’t exactly enjoying it.
We groped our way until we found our chair backs and sat down for this blind-man’s lunch. I have to admit that at the start I didn’t feel very comfortable either. Enveloped in this complete blackness, the only way we could get our bearings was to judge how far away the sounds were that we could hear around us, and that made me quite anxious. Was I going to be able to survive two hours like this, with no visual input at all, clinging to the table like a life raft in the darkness?
We began to fill the dark space with disjointed conversation, both of us equally lost in this unusual situation, clumsily attempting to learn this new sensory alphabet. And yet to judge by the lively talk and laughter from the other guests around us, it seemed we would soon get over our awkwardness.
Fortunately, the arrival of the first course helped us relax. Vincent, a nonsighted person, took great care of us and served us a surprising dish. In this unaccustomed universe, we tasted it as much with our fingers as with our palates. We also rediscovered our mouths’ ability to distinguish different flavors: it was as though we each had 1,001 taste buds. The fact that we were deprived of sight seemed to enhance our other faculties, and the result was an explosion of sensation.
“Well? Now do you see what it’s like to eat while being fully aware of what you’re tasting?”
“One point to you.”
“Admit that this is a nice surprise, isn’t it?”
“I admit it. Good plan.”
Our voices and words acquired a new resonance. Not being able to see each other’s face and expressions, the rhythms of our breathing and intonation became much more important.
The meal continued with one taste adventure following another, punctuated by different wines, all of them subtle delights that detonated in our mouths as our senses continued to reveal their hidden talents. Ordinarily, we only use less than 10 percent of their potential. Just like our brains . . .
By the end of the meal, I could sense that Sebastien had been won over. He talked enthusiastically about his feelings, tried to define as accurately as possible the nuances of the dishes and wines we were offered and to guess which herbs or spices had seasoned the sauces. This new awareness affected him even more than I had expected; awakening his senses seemed to give him a taste for more.
“Thank you, darling. This has been a wonderful initiation. But aren’t you afraid that all this might give me ideas about other equally interesting ways we can become fully aware of what we’re sharing?” he said warmly, grabbing hold of my bread roll rather than my hand and then knocking over my wine when he finally
made contact.
I laughed.
I knew perfectly well what he was talking about. And personally I had absolutely no objection!
twenty-three
I was pleased with my progress and sensed I was on the right track. Yet that did not stop me from feeling painfully on edge at times. I was in a strange euphoric state that disrupted my sleep and undermined my calm. In other words, I was stressed out. I wasn’t going to become a Zen master anytime soon. The changes in my life—so many and so rapid—had set my mind reeling. My nerves were overloaded, and it wouldn’t be long before I blew a fuse. I desperately needed to relieve the pressure: I couldn’t carry on like this, and so I spoke to Claude about it. He saw this as an excellent opportunity to make me conscious of the benefits of meditation and heart-rate control. Concepts that were utterly alien to an Energizer bunny like me.
“There’s nothing I like less than sitting still. It makes me feel useless, as if I’m wasting time. I really think that meditation is a no-no for me.”
“That’s what you say now, Camille, but it’s like all the rest: you’ll get there. Only a few weeks ago, the idea of doing ten minutes’ exercise a day seemed impossible to you. So did eating in a different way.”
“Yes, but this isn’t the same: it’s not in my nature to be Zen.”
“No one is asking you to change your nature. Just to alter a few details in your daily life to achieve greater well-being and calm.”
“I don’t deny it must be great for those who can do it, but I just can’t stay still. I’ve always been that way.”
“Always, never! What if you forgot about those absolutes? Don’t you even want to try?”
I agreed, slightly ashamed of protesting so much.
“Don’t worry, Camille. You can do it. It’s simply a question of adapting. Afterward you won’t be able to do without it. Did you know that according to some very serious studies, monks and other experts have better health and a stronger immune system? It’s worth giving it a shot, isn’t it?”
Your Second Life Begins When You Realize You Only Have One Page 10