Category Archives: Uncategorized

On trying ideas on for size

February 22, 2014 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

I read somewhere that most people over the age of thirty never buy music by a new artist. I don’t ever want to stop trying new things.

I’m at an age where many of my friends have begun reflecting on their lives, as changes in circumstances affect their understanding of mortality. For some the onset of a middle age is unbearably significant, forty is so much more of a hurdle than thirty. Others watch the decay of their most solid relationships, too scared of what might lay beyond to end them with any sensible haste. And some simply find that their careers had been chosen to fulfil a society’s ambitions rather than their own, and it dawns on them that upgrading their BMW generates feelings of smugness rather than happiness. This is where I begin to understand how much my hodge-podge approach to personal development has helped me to transcend the fear of change. I still become broken down by the ending of beautiful relationships, and I wobble a little when I see a work position coming to an end. But I have frequently taken opportunities to purposefully make big changes in my life and this ability to drive my existence in new directions has built a belief in my ability to endure.

Over this first half (ever hopeful) of my life I have drawn myself into other cultures, dwelt in foreign lands and passed through jobs as varied as chainsaw sculpting and mushy-pea making. I’ve chased any opportunity to widen my understanding of the world, and no doubt my progress through life has looked somewhat haphazard to others. But I’m now beginning to realise the advantages of being so open to new ideas. One of the most significant of these is that I understand at a very deep level that mine is not the only world view. I am far less likely now to deride someone for their beliefs, no matter how incompatible they may appear with my own. I’ll voice a counter opinion, but I’m quite happy to have that opinion modified or undone. I cringe when others use blanket statements like ‘men always’ or ‘women never’, because I’ve talked to so many of each, often with such varied personal and cultural stories. Open mindedness is a great counter to prejudice and stereotyping.

So often it is the challenging conversations with others that draw me on to new adventures. I made one of my greatest ever friendships last year with a woman who explained that after growing up in California, and then living in Germany and the Netherlands, she had found her true home in a trailer park in Colorado. So I flew to Boulder and experienced a small slice of this existence with her, and then we went and lived in a castle in Ireland because there’s an excitement that comes with stark comparison. And of those two living spaces it is the cluster of static caravans at the base of the Rocky Mountains that I miss and hope to emulate. Without acting on my curiosity I’d never have discovered just how small a living space I needed to be happy, as long as I could step outside into nature rather than concrete. Then at the end of last year I met a new friend, and her life decisions have led me to confront my understanding of vegan and vegetarianism as reasonable choices. I still don’t think I’ll ever give up oysters or cheese, but I’m building a better understanding of why some people do, and how destructive and disruptive it is to be dismissive of their ideas.

And so I begin another year wondering what new twists will be inspired by my reading, my encounters with others and my restless spirit. I frequently fail to consider how fortunate I am to be able to consider options out of want rather than need. I get to dabble in a thousand pastimes, a dozen careers, a hundred hobbies. The offset though is that I’ve become competent at a number of tasks and yet masterful at none. And in typing that sentence I realise that I’ve just gone against the advice I gave to someone recently. She talked of having no real singular talent, and learning to be ok with that. I pointed out that it might be our somewhat tight Western definition of talent that was at fault, as she has an ability to draw forth deeper thoughts and intensity from people. She’s a magnifying receptor for people’s hidden emotions and I see that being at least as important as nailing guitar intricate solos or being one of Mexico’s foremost free runners. So maybe I too just haven’t yet recognised my truest talent.

Another issue born of a constantly evolving life is that I’m over-aware of impending ruts. This leaves me less capable of gently slipping into contentment, to relaxing into a year or two of simple repetitive rhythms. For my sanity I need to continue learning, for my creativity I need to continue expressing. I find stretches of days spent in offices on repetitive tasks whittles away at my creative drive, and even my self belief. I need to counter this by plotting new goals and reminding myself of just how much pleasure can be drawn from the little things. That being said I’m finishing a contract and boarding a plane for Bhutan in a couple of weeks and when I get back from the Land of the Thunder Dragon I’m going to be investigating getting council permission to build a yurt. Leopards, spots, etc.

I see great value in continuing to learn for life. To consider each hope or dream as a real option is to be on the look out for improvement. I think it is when we run short of ideas that we can become trapped. Ideas are hope, they are the path to continued emancipation. If we’re caught up in an environment which limits or causes us to limit our ability to implement ideas, that’s where we can become buried under life. I found the United States to be a nation in which dreams were still a viable currency, there was still enough pioneer spirit in that enormous land to enable (or at least fail to interfere with) creative living ideas. I returned home to New Zealand with a head full of goals and found a country which has allowed itself to be choked by an ever-evolving colonial bureaucracy. Our government has become many of the things that Americans fear theirs is becoming, the most interfering of states. I’ll need to work hard to find others here who have learnt to circumvent boundaries, to gather support in order to further my ideas.

A few months ago I spent a morning in the Buffalo Bill museum reading of all that this adventurer had accomplished. At first I was embattled by feelings of inadequacy, of having never achieved greatness in any one field let alone a dozen. But then the self-flagellation gave way to my desire to advance, and I wondered how long it would take to learn to use a lasso. I love taking those feelings of doubt and converting them into inspiration. Maybe there is something in that, perhaps my talent lies in turning feelings of inadequacy into fierce inspiration, and in helping others do the same.

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On asking for a little help with my novel

February 8, 2014 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

I apologise for drop off in postings over the past few weeks, life’s got busy and I haven’t dedicated enough of my time to this witchery called writing. I’ve been shifting my life from a city apartment to a cottage that rests between hills and sea, my writing will now be done in front of the duck pond or up in the rafters, rather than in cafes overlooking busy streets.

I’m about to start on a rewrite of my first book, a story of just what we’re all capable of once we realise how much we can hold ourselves back. Just as important as its message of believing in ourselves, is the idea of collaboration, of what can happen when we unite our talents, spur each other on and chase enormous dreams. I can’t say too much more because I want people to read the book rather than read a synopsis on my blog. I can though tell you that there is at least one unfair death, a complicated romance and the most bizarre religion the world has ever contemplated. Scientology will look pedestrian in comparison. The cast includes a blind vodka maker, a Russian wolf hunter and a kiwi horse whisperer. ‘Write what you know’ was the first piece of advice I ignored on my path towards publishing.

I need a little help though, I need interesting ideas on religion, faith, spirituality. Positive or negative stories of preachers, born agains, cults, ghosts, voodoo, local mythologies. I can trawl the Interweb, wade through libraries and subscribe to magazines, but my book is very firmly about real (ish) people, so I thought I’d ask all of you. If you have a funny, scary or implausible tale about an encounter with (or from within) faith, then I’d love to hear about it. Although not everything in the book is taken directly from personal experience, I’ve tried hard to take real events and then push them gently towards the surreal. I love the idea of some of my character’s back stories being grown from the seeds of real people’s experiences. The wider my range of inspiration, the better the chance I’ll have of throwing my readers expectations every couple of chapters. Or paragraphs.

So please, please, please don’t be shy, either comment on this post, personal message me on Facebook, or email me on reganbarsdell@hotmail.co.uk. The reward for anything I draw from your stories is limited to a mention in the published work, and input on cast selection once the film rights are sold…

Thank you in advance, and I promise I’ll have a new posting up in the next couple of days.

x Regan Drew Barsdell, author in progress.

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On choosing heroes

January 20, 2014 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

When my ancestors were young I like to think that their heroes were knowable, that they were members of their families, their tribe. I imagine they would sit gape-eyed at the feet of the elders and listen to tales of hunts for better lands, confrontations with long-toothed predators and the chaotic mood swings of the mushroom-powered shaman. They would then hug the cast of the stories before they went to sleep, or sneak a peek at them over the camp fire as they keep watch out over the plains. I think that it has always been important for us to draw inspiration from positive sources, and I don’t think we should lose sight of that as we grow older.

As I was a nipper my world view was influenced by my Grandmother’s eel hunting exploits, my Uncle’s exotic travels and my Grandfather’s explanations of how storms build. Soon I discovered I could share other’s lives through reading, and I found a new additional cast of heroes, exciting people and creatures I’d never met. I learnt moral lessons through the exploits of wolves, swordsmen, and most importantly boys who ended up on accidental adventures. I could then engage my imagination and draw some aspects of my day-to-day world into these fables. I’d imagine Hiawatha being as feisty as Renita in my maths class (until she started calling me square-head), and whenever I encountered a sea-faring adventurer they had my Dad’s knowledge of the sea along with their Captain Haddock beards and inventive line in curses. The converse is that I could also take the lessons I learnt from my stories and apply them to the world around me.

The stories that we directly or indirectly place within our children’s grasp help them determine what we deem as important. And if was tales of honour, honesty and strength that I could access at eight, they subconsciously affect me at fifteen, and still echo through my ideas as I make decisions in my forties. It’s so important then to offer up positive role models for those we’re trusted to influence. If we replace Asterix, the Famous Five and Tom Sawyer with a couple of Kardashians and a Rihanna then perhaps we deserve to reap what we sow. And to focus this even further, I think there is huge value in helping people find heroes in the people that surround them.

As I’ve gently (cough) aged I’ve abandoned the untouchables as an influence on my behaviour. I’ve replaced H.R. Giger, Timothy Leary and the guy who got to play Boba Fett with people I’ve shared travel, conversations and tears with. I’ve realised that the people most capable of inspiring me these days are the ones I can share real life adventures with. Rather than hoping and wishing to have a life like a Rock God or Somali pirate I aim to be as patient, tolerant and thought-provoking as the people I meet in trailer parks, Hallowe’en costumes and woodland cabins. I think it’s important to be continue to be mindful of who we look up to our whole lives, as like snow-boarding or motorbike riding, wherever you aim your gaze that’s where you end up heading for.

Why though do I think it’s important to replace those who have reached fame and mass market appeal with local heroes though? It starts with being human. I remember watching a Miss World competition when I was young, and as I watched the parade of pretty ladies I thought how strange it was that I knew girls at my school who were more beautiful than any of them. The girls I shared classes with so much more than an image, they ran races against me, beat me in spelling competitions, and shared stories of unicorns with me. It was the fullness of these girl’s character in which I found much of their delight, and so now I get dismayed and sometimes a little offended when people choose to promote the media creations they read of in magazines over the people around them.

There is a danger in choosing to worship images without flaws as none of us exist without learning from our failures. We’re all imperfect. If my heroes are knowable their glories can be offset against their flaws, they become human, and then I can hope to strive to be their equal. When we meet and get to know other people we get to understand the motivations behind their loves, the frustrations behind their anger and the sources of their sadness. In growing to understand the way they handle these things we can learn powerful lessons.

The other incredible benefit of local heroes is the chance of mutual inspiration. When I was a child I used to dream of earning Tom Sawyer’s respect in a battle of wits, and now I actually have a chance of offering my heroes something to think about. There’s a chance that I’ll inspire them with my own tales, what greater reward is there than having someone you respect and admire cock their head at something you say, and think it through? Sometimes we fail to realise that our own experiences can offer important lessons to others, even our perceived losses or failures.

As I grow as a writer I become more understanding of what it can take to succeed in a creative field. My writing heroes growing up were great and popular novelists like Orson Scott Card, Stephen King and Ernest Hemingway. Since then I’ve read of their techniques, beliefs and habits, burrowing through their writings for inspiration. Just a few months ago though my first girlfriend contacted me after reading my blog on ‘being shy’. When I left her all those years ago she was working on her first article for a national newspaper. While we were together she had always written fantasy stories and I used to be fascinated at the back-stories she had for her characters, though I don’t remember letting her know just how much depth I found in her ideas. Sigh. To date she has published several books and attends conventions across the USA, inspiring new authors. Her vision, her determination, her path-building is now a very personal inspiration. I’ll continue to re-read King’s rants about adverbs, admire Scott-Card’s endless inventiveness, and hope to live my stories half as dramatically as Hemingway, but it’s her that I think of when I hit walls of frustration.

Pip is just one of the many people who have helped me find the energy and drive to strive towards my dreams of sharing my stories and ideas. Reading books as a child armed me with the heroes I needed for my battles through childhood. Writing books as an adult is introducing me to the heroes I need to lead me through my emancipation as a freer thinker. To all those people I’ve met that lead their lives rather than being led by them, I thank you. To each of you that makes the difficult decisions in the face of disapproval and disbelief I salute you. None of us should ever settle for less than what we think we are worth, and if we forget from time to time how valuable we are, we only need to look around us for inspiration.

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On making decisions about who to help

January 15, 2014 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

At times I wonder whether I’m being callous when I decide I’m not going to help with a particular problem or cause. I might have been talking to a Greenpeace champion about fracking in Northern Canada, watching attention-starved children in ‘The Long Way Round’, or walking past an old gent curled up with his ageing Alsatian outside my train station. And I don’t really react, I neither travel to the home of Ice Road Truckers, board a plane for Bucharest, nor buy a hot chocolate for the old fella. I just turn away and let the issue slip down into my sub-conscious, and swallow back the lump of guilt that rises in my throat.

There is a degree of pressure on all of us to recognise the troubles that other people, other species, and our environment are facing. If I read the paper, listen to the news on the radio and check Facebook, I’ll have learnt of a dozen local and global problems by lunch time. How can I ignore so many opportunities to help? Even though all these problems appear to have at least a couple of degrees of separation from me, I feel a compulsion to do something about at least some of them. I can’t do everything though, I can’t save the world, can I? How do I balance genuine care and concern against beating myself up for my inaction?

Lately I’ve begun thinking that the key to my self-improvement might lie in consideration. If I actively think my choices through rather than letting myself operate on some sort of auto-pilot then I tend to make better decisions. More importantly though I also then learn more from each choice I make, I pay more attention to the results and any unforeseen consequences. So what happens when I start making thoughtful decisions on who to help?

A couple of months ago I caught up with a loveable Essex lad I used to cook with. Over several rounds of cider I found that he had made a conscious decision in determining which issues he would tackle. He explained that he didn’t want to appear naive or unconcerned, but that he no longer read newspapers or internet news sites. He had realised he could spend all his waking hours ranting about issues he could never affect, or he could instead spend that time interacting with his workmates, family and friends. He’d chosen to focus just on the people he came into contact with each day. He now has the time and inclination to stop and chat to the upset looking Polish plumber on the way to work. He draws his understanding of the world from those around him and prefers to develop opinions based on first hand experience. I see it as a considered switch to ‘think globally, act locally’, as he deals only with the issues within his own realm, though he has an understanding of how his actions might also affect the wider world.

At the time I liked the idea of consciously limiting my concerns to those closest to me, and fending off those issues that don’t directly affect my relatives, my friends or my neighbours. I thought that if we all simply concentrated in helping those around us then we might also gradually impact the larger issues. But after further consideration I’ve realised that most of us don’t take the time to create our own moral code, and as such I can’t trust that everyone will act in the best interests of anyone beyond themselves. So I think I need to concern myself with the wider ideas as well, the bigger issues.

But being concerned isn’t enough. Nor is just showing concern. A few days after catching up with my British mate I found myself back in my home town chatting to one of my best friends and confidantes. We talked about the frustration of listening to people get fired up on ideas and then never doing anything about them. We focussed on our social responsibilities and found firm agreement on the need to turn the energy we might spend venting anger over an issue into action. Ranting to my friends about the Eastern European slave trade might earn me kudos for being a concerned, informed person but doesn’t really result in anything positive. In fact continual one-sided conversations about the world’s evils results in me acting as an amplifier for fear rather than a catalyst for change. Rather than spending my time repeating what I’ve read on news sites I need to start considering each situation, and then deciding whether I’m actually going to do something about it. If I am horrified to learn that insufficient lighting along university walkways is resulting in woman fearing to attend night classes then I have a choice: I can spread the contagion of dismay through angered conversations about men’s inability to police each other or I can use my spare time to raise money for new lighting. It is so much more positive and rewarding to use the passion born of dismay to plan useful action, rather than to promote society’s failures.

The rewards of deciding to act to help others are many, but just as important as considered action is considered inaction. The by-product of thinking each issue through and determining which to act on, is that I’ve also considered which of them I’m not going to act on. If I have made a mindful decision to contribute to a particular problem then I can discard it without shame rather than simply suppressing thoughts of it. I can then answer to people if they confront me about my inaction, though the only person I ever really need to answer to is myself.

A friend recently introduced me to American writer/activist Colleen Patrick-Goudreau. Colleen has a piece of advice which I think summarises my ideas on being charitable: ‘Don’t do nothing just because you can’t do everything’.

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365 days on

January 1, 2014 reganbarsdell 2 Comments

I don’t always want to look backwards on New Year’s Eve but this year has been my most transformative ever, and the happiest I can recall. I had some sad and harrowing moments, but these were entirely offset by incredible times with beautiful people, many of whom helped me learn to better understand myself. Old friends and new have provided new viewpoints, unconventional ideas, and someone to measure myself against. Four people in particular have helped me understand what it is that makes me happy: a couch surfer, a film maker, a child and my new best friend.

A Canadian dancer and snake breeder entered my life through a Couch Surfing request late last year. Over a couple of months this independent thinking woman introduced me to the possibilities my own country offered. Seaweed soups, diving for paua (and ending up with sea snails), and late night discussions on a nest of sofas were among the more endearing moments from our friendship so far. But it was her deep and thoughtful contemplation of the ways in which she interacts with the world that had me cocking my head like a curious spaniel. She introduced me to a range of ideas more quickly than I was able to take them onboard, but I’ve spent many odd moments digesting the fruitful concepts she fed me and adding them to my understandings. I’d like to thank her for living her life like an adventurer no matter what her circumstances are. She helped draw my eyes up from my navel to the horizon, and helped me understand how to plot a new path for myself.

An American film maker was a second Couch Surfing discovery. Our friendship was born from similar interests and it grew quickly through the sharing of incredible experiences. We spent six weeks soaring in New Zealand, teaching each other, complementing each other’s world views and growing as individuals. But when I caught up with her later in Colorado we found a way to undo our bond with doubts and insecurities. We sacrificed our ability to inspire each other to better things and I came to understand the fragility that our pasts can instill in us. I gained from our time together though, she taught me to write as myself, to have faith in my good nature, and never to place too much trust in the judgement of others. As we travelled through the heart of the United States I began to truly understand the deep beauty of the world we live in through her gentle appreciation of the intricacies of nature. I’m forever grateful for the time we had together, though sad it had to end with us managing to grow so far apart.

The new child in my life is my wee niece. When I returned from my travels I visited my brother, his girlfriend, and their duck-fixated daughter. She taught me of the ability of children to reconnect us grown-ups to our truer selves. When she crawls into a room she’s a focal point, and it is endless fun watching normally taciturn New Zealand males gently place their beer bottles on the table and sink to her height, replacing stoic stares with wrinkle-webbed grins. Though children this age are armed with only facial expressions and grunts, they are a reminder that even without language we can communicate so much. This smiling little girl also reminded me that I never want to forget how to find simple pleasure as she does, in the way clothes hanging on the line cast bouncing shadows on a lawn, in the potency of the flavour of a lime, in the infectious giggles of others. Plus she’s going to grow into an awesome excuse to buy slot car sets and radio controlled cars over the next dozen Christmases.

The fourth and most important new person came into my life just as this amazing year was coming to an end. I arrived back in Aotearoa ready to carve out a new life, to create a beautiful, simple space in which I and others could learn to craft their own homes. As I began my hunt for land I met this woman, this fiercely independent kiwi girl who has lived her life making difficult choices and then learning so much from the consequences. In a year of meeting influential people she’s been the most incredible revelation of all. She’s someone who understands the joy of thinking independently, the importance of living within the world rather than just on top of it, and the benefits of living mindfully. She sees and appreciates me for who I am, rather than who she or I wish I could be. She magnifies my hopes and amplifies my dreams, and I hope that I contribute as much positivity to her life as she’s already brought to mine. I like to think she’s the best possible reward for simply being good.

I’ve been fortunate to travel this year and meet a beautiful array of people in the places I visited. I learnt the pleasure of the honest compliment from Ron in Colorado, rediscovered painting for the sheer joy of it with Belfast Kate in Derry, and rediscovered the poignancy of romance when I visited the lock bridge in Cologne with Ilja and Ivo. But returning home reminded me that we don’t always have to hunt out great people in Reykjavik, Westmeath or South Dakota. Catching up with my cousins Ben and Bam reminded me of how much fun it is to return to the people who knew you as a volatile young immortal, and I met the most important person of my new future in Cuba Street, over a cup of tea and forty minutes of breathless conversation.

So this year I’m not going to a big New Years festival, or catching a flight to Fiji. Instead I’m going to spend the evening with my cousin’s family, along with my guru/mentor/heroine. I realised some time ago that it isn’t the setting that’s the most important thing, it’s who you share it with.

Some of my most memorable events of 2013:

1. Dolphin swimming in Kaikoura, capturing it all on GoPro, and then it being set to one of the most beautiful pieces of music in the world.

2. Realising the true impact of altitude after (very briefly) chasing a fit young dog up a mountain at 10,000 feet in Colorado, surrounded by wild elk, deer, and evidence of bears.

3. Experiencing extreme-costume-envy as my sister and I engaged in a Derry Halloween. Her home-made ‘Beaker’ costume hatched smiles in children, flashbacks in adults, and a great photo of her and I high-fiving in front of a Northern Irish police Land rover. And having the photo taken by a PSNI despising Belfast girl dressed as ‘Spring’.

4. Watching my usually-separated-by-thousands-of-miles family battle it out to get to sit next to my nine-month old niece at a gorgeous meal in a sunny Marlborough vineyard.

6. A day which started in Paekakariki laughing more deeply and painfully than I have in years, and ended in Shannon where I realised coming back to New Zealand was the best decision I could have made.

8. A night in a lighthouse on Wellington’s South Coast, watching the skies transform and realising there was no other place on this Earth I wanted to be more.

9. Hiking to the cold face of Franz Josef glacier whilst being overflown by hundreds of helicopters in the breaking light of dawn.

10. Being introduced to the ‘tiny house’ movement by Jupiter, in her gorgeously renovated trailer at the base of the rocky mountains. Be well, Jup’s, my thoughts are with you, wild woman.

11. My Grandmother Zoe’s wake, a chance to learn how she impacted so many people in such favourable ways.

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The power of words

December 11, 2013 reganbarsdell 1 Comment

They can propel us forward or stop us in our tracks. They can shift our mood, seduce a potential mate or deflate an ego. Words can reshape our entire world. The removal of the word ‘human’ from the category of ‘nature’ has damaged our relationship with all those organisms that we share the earth with. This is further impacted by our inability to understand non-human methods of expression. Would we hunt, imprison and harvest non-human animals so quickly if they could plead their cases in a language we could comprehend? Words are seriously powerful Ju-Ju.

Some of us realise and utilise this power. We pick our words with care, and then use them as creatively as possible. Others seem to believe there is a tax per sentence, a metaphysical cost to each conversation. Even this difference in attitudes towards words is important. A friend recently explained to me that she believes that differing language capabilities might well have impacted on her relationship with her brother, and I know my own relationships are the strongest with the people I can chat to for hours.

Even knowing all this though, I sometimes fail to give words the respect they deserve. Occasionally I’ll drop a sentence with little thought or consideration, and then redden as I watch disappointment well up in someone’s eyes. I once shared a few reunion drinks with an old friend at a dark den of wine-consumption. As we gathered our coats one of our fellow wine tasters told us what a great couple we made. We were both quick to point out that we were just friends, but as we left my words failed me. They didn’t disappear altogether, if only. Instead I managed to use them to undo us. I took her arm, chuckled again and said ‘we could be a hilarious couple’. That sentence was the end of ten years of singing David Grey at the top of our lungs, sharing post-relationship-breakup insights into love, and showing Wellington how not to dance. I’m not sure whether I’m more upset at the poor choice of words, or my once-friend’s reaction to them. But wherever the fault lies (and no doubt it’s somewhere between the two of us) I miss our shared guffaws and occasional tears, and I realise more than ever the power of a sentence to destroy something beautiful.

My words aren’t just important for their ability to communicate information to others though. They also have an effect on the way I see my life, and on the decisions I make for myself. The way I feel about things is revealed in the way I talk about them. If I’m unhappy with a person then the language I use to describe them reflects that. What I’ve also found though is that the reverse of this is also true: The way I talk about things affects the way I feel about them. If I continually refer to myself as a fat and incapable then I reduce the likelihood of my getting up early to go for a bike ride. If I put myself down when someone gives me a compliment, then that compliment is undone, and I may also hurt the person who granted me their uplifting thoughts. The words I use can act as a step up into somewhere brighter, or a step down into somewhere darker.

The words I receive are just as important the ones I give. There are so many sources, from romance novels to WikiLeaks, and each time I pay them attention they have the potential to alter the way I see the world. So I need to be selective in where I draw my information from, and to maintain a degree of skepticism. Over the years I’ve found that it’s important to supplement this library of influences with something far more evocative, far more intimate and thought-provoking. Conversation.

Languages develop in order to exchange information, and it’s this through this trafficking of words that I most readily grow new ideas and transform old ones. I have never learnt as much from university texts, Hemingway’s ‘Old Man of the Sea’, or the Quran, as I have from long talks with fascinating people. I learnt of the ability of a death to transcend even the most carefully prepared defences from an oncological nurse from Tasmania. I had to confront my ideas about gun control in the United States after talking with the people who had lived through violent confrontations and fought back. And I learnt of the ongoing effects of the holocaust as I journeyed to a bunk room in Auschwitz with an Australian girl whose grandfather had survived three years within. She translated as we followed a Jewish school group through the eerie grey work camp, shuddering at the rooms filled with ghost children’s shoes. I could entwine my reactions with hers, and I both grew and shrank a little over that soul disrupting couple of hours. Words. Are. Powerful.

As a writer I aim to put my words in front of as many people as I can. I aim to entertain, inspire and occasionally confront. I understand that there is a degree of responsibility within this, but at least I can edit my responses before they’re published. It’s the words I swap with people every day that I need to ensure that I’m mindful of. If I take care to communicate in ways that lift both me and those I spend time with then I should never have to lose a friendship over a misunderstanding again.

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Happiness

December 3, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

Over the past week I’m the happiest I remember ever being, but why is that? I feel a need to delve deeper into my state to understand its source, to determine what things lie behind it, as maybe then I can perpetuate it. I’m not looking for a universal answer, I have no doubt we all vary in the catalysts for our joy. I’ll be happy enough (haha) if I can develop a personal answer. And in the hunt, maybe others will find something useful too.

After recently spending a short time living at the base of the Rocky Mountains and then in the Scottish Highlands, I’ve come to better understand how much my surroundings affect my mental state. When I spend time living in busy spaces, be it the centre of Edinburgh or the edge of Wellington, I find I can jitter under the influence of too many distractions. My thoughts reflect the rapid changes in my environment and while I am thrilled to be able to access so many different experiences, I struggle to prioritise the important things. I get distracted by the process of just living. As a result I frequently feel an urge to climb aboard a train to Shannon, or bike down to Leith, or catch a boat to Marlborough. And when I do this, when I disembark into birdsong, ocean breezes and woodland scents I can’t smother my grin. I’m bounded by stretched out horizons sculpted by natural forces rather than urban planners. My thoughts slow to match the pace of my new surrounds, the slow steady shift of the seasons, the tides, the weather. And amongst the trees, hills and sand dunes happiness finds its way into me a little more quickly. Or maybe it’s just that there is less to distract me from its persistent presence?

One of the great by-products of time spent surrounded by Scottish Lochs, Kapiti Coast estuaries and Colorado foothills is that these immersive and ever-changing environments inspires physicality. I want to bike through them, hike amongst them, climb them, jump into waterholes from them. They encourage natural paths to fitness, and when I’m fit and active two things happen. Firstly I no longer have to think about how unfit and inactive I’m becoming, and that’s such a hideous, ugly psychological burden. Secondly I want to share my love of these spaces with friends and family. So rock climbing, swimming and water fights replace pub haunting as my communal activities of choice. And I honestly believe that the relationships developed through positive activities can be stronger and deeper than those developed through sharing shouted conversations in nightclubs. Of course there’s little better than sharing a glass of wine or cider on a beach after a hard day in the outdoors…

So there’s a degree of physicality involved in my ongoing happiness. But these natural spaces also tend to enhance my creativity and I need to create to feel whole. I need to write long letters, draw intricate sketches and build cairns from stones harvested along river banks. It’s this making, crafting, doing, that is one of my best indicators for how comfortable I am. When I’m happy my creative capabilities become second nature, they flow more cleanly from me. So I guess in some ways they’re a symptom of my happiness as much as a cause of it. But sitting making pottery in the woods isn’t enough, not without anyone to share the results with. I love people too much.

My relationships with other people might well transcend all else as the primary keys to my positivity. Over recent years I’ve realised that I don’t need to entertain people in order to hold their attention, I just need to be myself. I’ve always enjoyed listening to people, trying to understand the things that they believe about the world. Taking up writing has intensified my interest, and I love talking with new friends and old, and engaging with them. I’ve been through enough ups and downs in my life to be finally able to offer long, deep, meandering conversations that can be of benefit to both those I talk to, and to myself. It can be scary at times, letting people see the real me. But it also seems to enable my friends to talk more honestly about themselves, and these growing relationships make me happier than anything else.

I’ve also learnt the value of being a positive person, on being a beneficial influence on the people whose company you enjoy. This has left me very grateful to the people I’ve learnt this from, and I’ve found that expression of this gratitude is another key to a blissful state. If I take the time to talk honestly to people about how much I appreciate them, or what they’ve done, we both get to feel good about it. At times that’s difficult in a low-key humble-is-best country like New Zealand, people aren’t always comfortable with having their little kindnesses praised. But it’s one of those things that takes just a little effort, and rewards both parties, despite any potential blushing and mumbling. I am helped along every day by people, and I want to always remember to acknowledge this, and to learn from their generosity of spirit.

As I’ve been writing this article I’ve realised that the simple process of learning new things is one more thing that brings me joy. I gain something from learning new things. The act of discovery, of learning new skills or simply improving my knowledge motivates me. I love researching the history of wolf hunting in Russia, or learning how to craft straw bales, or how to whisky is made. Or delving into what I need in order to be happy.

It seems then that all the conditions for living a pretty sweet life are within my control. They’re all reassuringly positive, I don’t get off on lighting fires…actually, maybe just a little. But good fires. But it’s not the denigration of others that makes me smile, it’s not the harvesting of power, nor the accumulation of wealth. I simply need to immerse myself in my environment, in my creativity, and in my relationships with my friends. It is very heartening to realise that happiness might well be a lifestyle, rather than a destination or a goal.

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The benefits of walking an honest path

November 22, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

Nine months ago a friend introduced me to the idea of the ‘law of attraction’. This metaphysical concept states that whatever vibe we push out into the universe, we then tend to attract back in response. So if we start thinking we’re fundamentally worthless then this idea begins to permeate our thoughts, our emotions and then our behaviours. All of this will all be picked up upon by the universe and as a result we’re more likely to attract people who are as worthless as we feel. Obviously this can be put to far more positive uses, and I realised this morning that I have grown to believe in a variation of this idea based on honesty. If we’re able to project our honest selves, we’re more likely to attract people who are honestly like ourselves.

Anyone who has spent time around very young children can have little doubt that we start life as emphatically honest creatures. Any kiss stolen from the milkman, chocolate lifted from the pantry or weight put on by a relative can’t pass without comment. And thus begins the first lessons in moral ambiguity. Those that raise us usually teach us that ‘white lies’ are ok, and that we should hold back the truth if it’s likely to cause offense. As we stretch into our teenage years we learn that no-one’s arse looks big in anything, that the girl or boy who pretends to hate you is often the one that is too scared to admit their secret passion, and that your parents will reject you if you admit you’re gay. We’re coached to know when to conceal truths. If we’re lucky we were raised to avoid using a lie as a truth, but rarely are we schooled in the dangers of failing to disclose what’s in our hearts.

I had my own collection of secret shames as a teen. My hidden crushes, my inability to contribute my virginity to a good cause, my dismay at thinking the Beatles were rubbish. Ironically it would have been far easier to choose full disclosure at this stage of my life, as I hadn’t yet started building a serious baggage collection. Now though full and frank honesty means admitting truly uncomfortable things. That unicorn-in-a-heart tattoo, the vocally challenged rendition of a Robbie Williams tune at my wedding, the huge hurt I went through when that blessed union dissolved. Fortunately though the benefits of deciding to drop all the barriers is never too late. Over the past couple of years I’ve discovered that although the exposure of your vulnerabilities means that you’re left with nowhere to hide, the significant benefit is that there is no longer any need to.

At the start of this year I formed an incredible relationship with a stranger, one which initially transcended misunderstandings. I met someone who I immediately felt comfortable with, and we spent six weeks sharing secrets, swimming with dolphins and grinning at our good fortune. At times I was jarred by some of her revelations, but when I took a moment to examine my responses I realised that our moral codes were almost identical, and I’d met someone else who had dared to forge a life in spite of other people’s opinions, rather than because of them. Through our shared honesty I discovered what could be gained by letting someone know the real me, and I think she found sanctuary in that too.

A drastic change in circumstances upset this delicate balance. We both fell back into old patterns of behaviour and fought to rebuild walls to protect ourselves. As a result we could no longer see the person we’d been so overjoyed to find. That brief, beautiful commitment had been built on a mutual sharing of everything. When we lost that we lost trust and faith in what we’d built and we both knew we had to walk our own paths again. There’s no more lonely feeling than leaving something like that behind, but we both now understand what incredible rewards honesty can reap. And I hope we’ll always be in each others lives.

The benefits of exposing my thoughts has also led to a significant shift in my writing. A couple of months ago I wrote an article that was a simple, open explanation of my thoughts. It was pure, unrefined, unseasoned me. It elevated my writing to a new level and things changed. From that point on I’ve had much more feedback on what I’ve written. I’ve found so many more points of connection with people who have been kind enough to read my articles, and then moved enough to comment. I’ve had my honesty reflected and it has given me the confidence to continue to write more frankly, and not to shy away from difficult issues.

It’s not always easy living your life in the open. We’re taught to hide our vulnerabilities, to reduce our exposure to pain. But if we can’t let other people know who we really are, then we can’t be sure that they love the ‘real’ us. If we can find people who enjoy our company despite or even because of all the things we usually hide, then the reward of continued friendship is all the sweeter.

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On just how beautiful you are

November 15, 2013 reganbarsdell Leave a comment

This post is dedicated to every person who looks into the mirror with a question, and is too often disappointed with the answer. It’s for every one of us that has written a valentines card and then binned it prior to delivery, or almost worked up the courage to tell someone how stunning they are, only to blush and turn away at the last minute. And it’s to those people that we turned away from, the ones left unaware that they caused us such discomfort in such a beautiful way.

Over the past year I’ve lost count…actually no, not lost count, started counting the number of people who genuinely don’t seem to realise just how much they have the potential to light emotional fires in others. How many people out there grew up anxious that they weren’t found attractive by anyone? And how much that blindness to their allure was due to someone, someones, being capable of letting them know of it?

What’s your reaction when someone tells you you’re beautiful, sexy or handsome? Is it instant denial or evasion? Maybe followed by an embarrassed silence? You are gorgeous. Sorry, I don’t want this to come across as trite, this is no half-hearted penmanship hoping to garner kudos from the dispossessed. Instead it’s a heads up to everyone who found a way to avoid letting someone else know just what you see in them.

For a range of reasons many of us in New Zealand (please let me know if this is an international issue…) are subject to social conditioning which acts as a barrier to simply walking up to someone and saying ‘Hi, I just wanted to tell you that you’re gorgeous, you honestly walk with an elegance most could only ever imitate.’ Even reading that I imagine some of you doing a gentle cringe. That’s such a shame. An honest compliment is such a simple way to improve someone’s day, maybe even their year. With the way I was raised it used to take an unfathomable degree of courage to speak these words to a friend, stranger, or maybe even girlfriend. There was the fear of rejection, the anxiety around someone taking it the wrong way, the feeling I’d look foolish. Any society that coaches us to build up walls against giving or receiving compliments becomes a difficult place to grow up with any degree of self confidence. Especially if you’re brave enough to embrace your individuality.

But this social inhibition, this fear of reprisal for offering a kindness is just one side of an important issue. The other is environmental. We are reminded each day of airbrushed idealism. We’re taught to compare ourselves to physical impossibilities. Images are stretched, narrowed, lightened, smoothed and blended. Things get worse though, some of us feel a twisted need to be surgically manipulate to look like these satin haired shop dummies. The terrorists who perform these invasive augmentations are known as ‘plastic surgeons’ for a reason, Barbie and Kim Kardashian are anatomically misshapen PVC marketing gadgets, not an aesthetic ideals.

I’m here now to raise my hand and let everyone know, but women in particular, that I find ‘imperfections’ to be the source of your beauty. Every smile-dedicated wrinkle at your mouth’s edge, every dark or light spot on your arm, every inch of freckled skin. They separate you from the magazine advertisements, the super smooth waxy misrepresentations of humanity. I look at a cover girl image and I can no longer see a person. I look at a face in a skin care advertisement and I know with absolute certainty that all of the people I touched, kissed, held, or chatted to in the last year are far more attractive to me. The hairs on your arms, the birthmark across your stomach, that dimpling on your thighs, that’s gorgeous reality. It’s texture, it is differentiation, it is what gives your beauty depth. When I meet you I see you holistically. The way you hold your head, how much you transform when you smile, the arch of your eyebrows at my comments. I’m not drawn to what you see as your flaws unless you draw my attention to them. And they shouldn’t affect my opinion of you unless they’re all you can focus on.

So how can we transform our self perception, how can we undo the influence of all those who should have no impact on the feelings that are created when my eyes spy your form? How do we reverse the damage caused by marketers, media and merchants? The greatest and simplest way I can think is to take the definition of beauty back into our own hands. That’s it. The responsibility for determining what beauty is lies with each of us. And the best mechanism to reclaim beauty as something personal may come down to simple communication. Every person we fail to address with our honesty in regards to their attractiveness to us, is another of us who hasn’t reached their deserved level of self-confidence. I know that I sometimes fear that my words might be taken as inappropriate, that someone might think I’m hitting on them, or that I’m attempting manipulation. But if I’m an honest person and I tell someone simply and humbly with all my focus and attention that I see their beauty, then I hope that they’ll see my words for what they are, a genuine expression of what I observe. I’ll start. To every woman I have ever made asian coleslaw for, taken the piss out of ‘The Batman’ with, filmed swimming with dolphins, or laughed at German words alongside, you are all so, so beautiful.

And now I implore the rest of you, just stand up, walk out, and find that person. Take them by the hands, the shoulder, the leash, and engage their eyes with yours. And tell them. Unleash the shackles, drop the filters, and let them know just how beautiful they are. Because that glance down at your shoes as you approach, that looking up from under your fringe, that quick shy grin, they’ll all be noticed. And the blush, the quickening of the heart, the gentle perspiration is all worth it. Trust me.

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On returning home (and what that means)

November 3, 2013 reganbarsdell 1 Comment

My hopscotch journey towards New Zealand began with a flight from Inverness to Belfast. After six months on so many different roads I’m wondering what I’m heading back to. Where and what is my ‘home’? Here in my sister’s Derry backpackers around forty people a day enter our lives, tread about within our communal home, and then head out to their next port of call. Some of them bind themselves to us for brief periods, sharing pints, songs and stories. I ask these ones about their homes, about what makes their bungalow in Washington State, their apartment in Genova, or their farm outside Kabul the place they want to return to. And in their stories I hunt for meaning, because I’m about to return to a country in which I hope to build a new life.

It was the three months in the USA that opened my mind to new ways to envision my future in New Zealand. That bold country has enabled generations of people a great deal of control in deciding what sort of home they want to create for themselves. The enormous and varied landscape provided opportunities for millions of people to create something new, unrestricted hundreds of generations of tradition. And for some time their government left them enough freedom to determine their own paths. And though these freedoms may be disappearing, I still found plenty of people who had tried two or three different lives on for size, and found one that fit. Not the one their parents dictated to them, nor their laws, nor their peers. And their experiences helped me understand how I might be able to combine freedom of thought and movement, with a permanent base, a real home in my country.

Many of the Americans I met also helped me understand that I shouldn’t be afraid to walk with conviction towards the things I want. It’s not just the lifestyles that Americans have been free to create, they’ve also been encouraged to chase ideas. My own hopes and dreams were usually bolstered when I shared them with people. My enthusiasm for the outlandish wasn’t as open to negativity and cynicism as it might have been in other environments. I realised the importance of ensuring I spent time amongst ideas people, creative people, intelligent free thinkers. They drive me onward, rather than slowing my progress.

The third thing I decided to take home from the States was the utilisation of the honest compliment. My first response (I shudder to recall) to these positive critiques was cynicism. I hunted for subtext, for an end-goal in these happy comments on another person’s character, hair style or youthful vigour. And when I couldn’t find it, I began to realise it was simply a good and kind act. I was smitten. I was even the recipient from time to time, which no doubt made me doubly suspicious. But then I grew to understand its simple power to bring happiness. So I’m taking this home, and I’ll aim to fill a few half empty glasses.

The transition to Europe helped add new ideas to those I harvested from the Americans. I did two months of volunteer work between Ireland and Scotland, and the time spent in old homes in old parts of old countries was useful in corralling my thoughts on what I need from life. Wandering and cycling through the countryside on the occasional days that the sun spilt between clouds on the horizon was blissful. But being so far from civilisation tended to make my head itch. The humble quarters within the castle walls (ironically) taught me how little space I needed to relax in. The caravan in Scotland shrank this space significantly, but the views I took in from the narrow lounge windows became my environment as much as the thin aluminium walls that shook like barley in the exhausting cross winds. So small house, in big country. Tick. The lack of people though, that was the itch. I need my cafe interviews with artists and musicians, my wander through the markets picking out beetroot to roast, my Wednesday evening gigs at character packed pubs and bars.

Now I’m back in Derry, the heart of my travelling experiences. Six weeks ago I was here briefly, licking fresh wounds, and working through my thoughts and hopes. This time I’ve returned with a peaceful energy, a head full of ideas, and a focus. My Halloween evening here was spent dancing on the edge of a life I knew in my thirties. I told ghost stories to gladiators, twirled with witches, and faced down demons. And I’ve made peace with the things I’ve seen and done. I’m consolidating I’ve learnt, and begun planning for what comes next.

New Zealand is still a place where we can build our dreams. I’m returning to Aotearoa with new ideas from other places, aiming to build a home between town and country. A place I can share with people who fight to obtain their dreams, and with my family. I’m returning to spend time with my young niece, the newest member of that family. Her Uncle Regan’s returning a little less cynical, a little more focused, and just as happy as when he last saw her. He’s looking forward to telling her tales of far off lands, encouraging her imagination, and supporting her ideas and hopes.

I’d like to thank all those people who I have met along this most recent journey. You mad, wonderful, inspirational girls and boys with whom I shared a few beers, a trailer, a Castle or a laugh with. You’re all forever welcome to visit me in my home, wherever that will be. I’ll make sure there’s a comfy couch.