Or How to Savour Every Morsel of Life

I love it when social media feeds me something that immediately makes me go, ‘Ooh!’

That’s what happened this morning when I came across this video by Canadian psychotherapist Rob Stanley.

What struck me was him talking about how we can train our brains to start lifting our mood through anticipation, by developing the habit of looking forward to big things, small things, everyday things.

So I started looking into anticipation and came across the idea of anticipatory savouring, the pleasure we can experience from looking forward to something before it even happens.

Psychologist Fred Bryant has explored savouring in three ways: we can savour things while they’re happening, afterwards through remembering, and before they happen, through anticipation.

Human beings, not human doings

At the heart of my coaching philosophy is self-care, not just in the sense of getting our nails done, having a haircut or taking a bath, although all of these things are perfectly valid, but as a way of nurturing autonomy and a sense of self, recognising that we are human beings, not human doings.

I’ve developed something I call the ladder of self-care, which looks at the different ways we care for ourselves, often without even realising we’re doing it.

At one level there are the ‘snacks’, things we do because they work, but whose effects are very short-lived. A glass of wine, for example, might be a snack. There’s nothing inherently wrong with having a glass of wine, or even a second, but if we’re only ever relying on snacking behaviours, we can get stuck in a cycle of addressing how we feel for the next twenty minutes without really looking after ourselves in the medium or long term. That can become a route towards avoidance and addiction.

Then there are the ‘staples’, the things we know make us feel better but often struggle to do, and the luxury treats, those proper treats that we make space for and look forward to.

The principle is simple: what are the things we choose for ourselves that make us feel better, not just for the next twenty minutes, but in the medium and long term too? And what happens when we start making those choices more consciously?

I’ve always talked about luxury treats as things we start benefiting from the moment they’re planned. We might have something booked weeks or months ahead, and there’s already pleasure in knowing it’s coming.

But I’ve mostly applied this to the big things, when actually there’s so much more we could do with anticipation at every level of the ladder.

Looking forward to the ordinary things

I’ve noticed this happening with my yoga classes. There are two classes I particularly enjoy, one on Monday morning at 9.30 and another on Tuesday evening at around 5.30, and simply knowing they’re coming up has become one of the building blocks of things I look forward to.

There’s real comfort in knowing that every Monday and Tuesday, I have something I really enjoy.

What’s interesting is that I might not always do the class, because I might not be well, something might get in the way, or the class might be cancelled. But that doesn’t destroy the anticipation, because I’ve already benefited from looking forward to it.

Yes, I might feel a bit disappointed if it doesn’t happen, but guess what? Next week it’s happening again.

Five days by the sea

A few weeks ago, the parents of one of my daughter’s friends suggested that we might like to come and house-sit and look after their pets while they were away. They live in a little seaside town in Norfolk, and the moment I heard about it, I thought, ‘Ooh, that would be lovely.’

I’ve been thinking for a while that I wanted to plan a retreat. I like retreats, but I often find that they’re not quite what I want them to be, because ultimately they’re somebody else’s vision of what a retreat should look like.

Suddenly it occurred to me that this could become my own mini-retreat, so I booked it for myself.

To my husband’s slight surprise, I was quite clear that I was going on my own, and that I wasn’t expecting him to come. He understood, and he’s taking some time off himself, with plenty to keep him busy.

I really wanted this to be a gift to myself.

Five days, on my own, in a lovely home with two cats and a dog, next to a forest and near the beach.

I’ve never really lived on my own, and I actually quite like my own company these days, which probably wasn’t the case when I was younger. But I don’t know whether I’ll enjoy five whole days alone. I know I enjoy spending time by myself, but what will it be like when I really am on my own?

I want to give myself that stretch, to explore it, to see what it feels like, and I’m practically giddy with anticipation.

For several weeks now, I’ve been enjoying the idea of these five days, benefiting from something that hasn’t even happened yet.

I’ve looked at Google Maps to get an idea of the place, seen pictures of the pier, which looks rather lovely, and discovered that the local cinema is showing a couple of films I’d like to watch.

For the curious, that’s Ghosts: The Possession of Button House and Klara and the Sun by Taika Waititi, regardless of what the critics say. I’m quite happy to make up my own mind, thank you very much!

I’m aware that the weather might be pretty dreadful, but I can also imagine myself walking along the sea with the dog, wrapped up in my big dry robe.

I’ve booked myself a couple of massages, because, hey, guess what? They’re cheaper in a seaside town than in good old London town. I know that going for a massage with someone I don’t know can be quite difficult for me, but I’m choosing to anticipate the pleasure of being looked after, rather than focusing on what might make the experience uncomfortable.

I’m also thinking of bringing my yoga mat, some lovely smelly creams, body butters, oils and perfumes.

I’m looking forward to discovering the house, meeting the cats, and seeing what I feel like doing, which might include staying put for five days and properly retreating from an active life, or going to the cinema, walking on the beach, exploring the town.

I don’t know yet, and I don’t need to choose.

What I want is a menu of possibilities, five days of pure choice and autonomy.

And that feels like immense self-care.

The pleasure of leaving things open

Even the journey is something I’m looking forward to. I know it’s about a thirty-minute walk from the station to the house, which might be a bit much with a suitcase, but I’m not closing the door on it.

If it’s a nice day, perhaps I’ll enjoy walking, getting the lay of the land, stopping at a café, a bookshop or a charity shop along the way, rather than automatically shutting myself into the tin can of a taxi, which might feel safe but removes some of the experience from me.

Equally, I might arrive feeling tired and hassled, and be perfectly happy to jump into a taxi. I want to keep all those possibilities open.

I’ve even been toying with the idea of being silent for five days, although I suspect I enjoy vocalising too much for that.

Perhaps instead I can enjoy making sounds without having to make meaning all the time. I might talk gently to the cats, sing along to music, go down to the sea and allow my voice to roll like the waves, make my own sounds without worrying about being heard, overheard or judged, even by myself.

The freedom is what excites me about this experience.

Even on a retreat, you’re still within the confines of somebody else’s programme, sharing space and experiences with other people. This time, I get to decide, or not decide.

I might enjoy something I hadn’t anticipated, I might find something difficult, I might discover that spending five days alone is not quite what I thought it would be.

I’m not anticipating things that are definitely going to be positive, I’m giving myself room for pleasure, for anticipation, for discovery.

And while I know there could also be dread, I’m choosing the anticipation.

Not led by fear, but by pleasure and curiosity and play.

What if we rehearsed the good things too?

There’s another aspect of this that’s particularly interesting to me, especially in relation to autism.

We talk a lot about rehearsing situations, about overthinking, preparing, needing to know every detail of what we’re getting ourselves into, the sensory side of things, the expectations, what might happen, what might be asked of us.

Knowing the answer before the question.

Many of us become very good at this, anticipating what might go wrong, what might be uncomfortable, what might overwhelm us, often for very good reasons.

This makes me think of The Rehearsal, the series by Canadian comedian Nathan Fielder (whose new film, You Can See Everything, about convicted fraudster Elizabeth Holmes, is another thing I’m really looking forward to seeing).

In The Rehearsal, Fielder explores what happens when we try to rehearse every possible detail of a situation before actually experiencing it, something that has resonated with the autistic community. The desire to know what we’re getting ourselves into, to anticipate the conversations, the expectations, the things that might go wrong, to know the answer before the question has even been asked.

Interestingly, in the second series, Fielder becomes fascinated by aviation safety, particularly the communication failures that can contribute to accidents. He also explores the possibility that he might be autistic himself, although he doesn’t pursue a definitive answer on screen.

Mate, if ever there was a moment when I found myself thinking ‘One of us! One of us!’, this was it.

In the course of investigating aviation safety, he actually trains to become a pilot, and ends up flying a Boeing 737.

And if that isn’t an example of how exploring things with curiosity and play can open massive doors, I don’t know what is.

It makes me think of an experience I had recently with my daughter, Natacha, when we went to visit London College of Fashion, part of UAL, where she’ll be studying hair, make-up and special effects for film and TV next year.

She’d been once before and had come away a little concerned about the surroundings, particularly the lack of little corner shops or places to go nearby. It felt as though anything she might need would either be quite far away, expensive or overwhelming, like Westfield Stratford.

There was also something about the image she’d always had of university, a lovely image d’Épinal, as we would say in French. Ancient buildings, beautiful student houses, campuses like Oxford or Cambridge, probably with a sprinkling of Hogwarts thrown in for good measure. All that old-world charm and magic associated with university life.

Except those weren’t the places offering the education she wanted. She’s a city girl, studying fashion, hair and make-up for film and TV, and the places we’d been looking at were necessarily guided by the subject rather than the architecture.

So when we decided to go to another open day, we thought we’d try the journey as though she was already studying there. Rather than cycling or taking a taxi, as we’d done previously when running late (hello, ADHD!), we planned a route by public transport.

We had a nice walk along a quiet road to a bus stop near our house, took a bus that dropped us by Hackney Wick station, and walked the remaining ten minutes or so.

And what a discovery that was.

Instead of the unpleasant, slightly overwhelming urban environment she’d been imagining, we found ourselves walking through streets full of really good street art, then along a little path by the river, through wooded areas and over a pedestrian bridge surrounded by greenery. There were lovely places to sit outdoors, with people enjoying the sunshine, and something almost pastoral about the whole experience, which isn’t quite what you expect in that part of London.

By the time we reached the university, she could already imagine herself doing that journey every day. She even said she thought it would be lovely in the rain.

And once inside, she loved the modernity of the place, the museums nearby, the creative, city-based environment that actually suits her so well.

She’d gone from comparing the university with an imagined ideal to discovering something she could genuinely look forward to experiencing.

And because she’s taking a gap year, she’s now enjoying the anticipation of university a year and a half before it even starts.

What a gift.

I wonder how much this contributes to seeing her develop into a young woman who, despite having experienced severe anxiety in her early teens, is now taking on jobs on film sets, working on major productions, meeting people in organisations where she has no previous contacts, and not only handling the work but presenting herself with such charm and confidence that she’s asked to come back.

I can’t know how much of that is connected, but I find it interesting.

What if we started applying some of that same capacity for preparation to anticipating what might be pleasurable?

Not ignoring the possible difficulties, but considering the possibilities alongside them. What might I enjoy? What might be lovely? What might I discover?

Rather than rehearsing only the things we’re worried about, could we also begin rehearsing the things we’re looking forward to?

And perhaps become more comfortable with the idea that not knowing exactly what will happen doesn’t always have to be frightening.

Sometimes it can be exciting.

Anticipating missing my life

These weeks of looking forward to my little retreat have already been giving me something of a break, but they’ve also given me something else.

I’m looking forward to coming home, to seeing my family, my cats, being back in my own home.

I’m anticipating missing my life.

What a lovely gift that is too.

Sometimes I think we need to step away from things to enjoy them again.

But that’s an article for another day.

Learning to savour

I remember describing a lovely client of mine as a ‘life savourer’, and encouraging her to cultivate that quality further, because I think it’s a precious thing, and something so many of us miss.

Now I’m finding a whole new dimension to that capacity to savour, through anticipation.

I’ve been talking about rituals, self-care, pleasure and the importance of having things to look forward to for years, but this has given me a different way of looking at it, new language to explore, and another layer to something I was already doing.

I’m curious about what happens when we start applying this more consciously, not just to the big treats and special occasions, but to all sorts of everyday things, the class we enjoy, the walk we might take, the nice thing we’ve planned for tomorrow.

And I’m curious about what this might change in my coaching too.

I don’t know yet, and that’s part of the pleasure of exploring something as it happens.

I rather like the idea that we might not have to wait for something lovely to happen before we can begin enjoying it, perhaps we can start looking forward to it, or even enjoy the looking-forward-to-ing itself.

Antici…pation!