Make it deluxe...

the June postcard

I was crying out for a break. If you’d seen me during the first half of May, you’d have met someone utterly depleted. I was sick of work, especially my medical role. What was meant to be a bridging job had become the main act. Psychotherapy had taken a backseat. I was tired of showing up every day, reaching into the crevices of my being for any last remnants of energy. I didn’t have capacity for a job that often feels like I’m holding so much hurt. I felt like quitting everything.

In psychotherapy, we make space for the hurt to become known. There is time to unpack the boxes routinely taped shut. It is work that feels sacred. Away from screens, permission to feel it all, sitting in ambiguity, braving the unknown. The beauty of this work is that it’s ongoing. Esther Perel likens it to sculpture. Each week we shape a little more or the clay. There is a continued relationship. It is allowed to evolve over time. It’s a practice of being alongside, rather than entering the expectation to fix all, and fix it all in one sitting.

Cannabis Clinic isn’t the same space. Patients come for cannabis, not therapy (at least not consciously). I weave compassionate inquiry into my practice. I ask what’s stressing them, who is in their support system, if they’ve tried therapy, and offering an invitation that perhaps it might be something to consider. I often come up against resistance, and I get it, not everyone has capacity for self-examination. Regardless, you can feel the hurt in the room. It’s inescapable.

Despite the resistance, it also feels like patients are crying out for something more. They are tired of having pills thrown at them and wondering why they’re not getting better. They are tired of insufficient answers, yet few question why they might be so sick in the first place, as if their environment and life experiences are divorced from their health. Why would they, when the language of healthcare does not dare to delve deeper. And yet, I meet so many who are tired of the medical model, its paternalistic narcissism and failings when it comes to managing chronic illness. As long as medicine continues to wilfully separate emotional from physical health, we will be stuck putting band aids over symptoms rather than getting to the root cause. As an intriguing metaphor goes when it comes to dental care, extraction is painful but leaving it to rot is deadly. I don’t believe emotional health is any different.

Anyway, the work was beginning to take its toll on my own health. It has been challenging navigating this very new space in healthcare. There has been much to learn. It is 100% person facing work, and I do miss jobs where I could hide away with a cup of tea and write reports every so often. My lunch hour is sacrosanct. After a big morning of psychotherapy, I’ll often retreat to a café and journal to decompress. I’ve realised I need a break roughly every three months. Respite every quarter to replenish.

Luckily, I had a few days off in Rotorua. I was holding a workshop at Saunafest. A delightful festival next to Lake Tikitapu and a genius setup that had taken over the holiday park, meaning there were hot showers, power, playgrounds for the children and kitchen facilities aplenty. A setup that I can only imagine was a godsend for families. It was one of the most special festivals I’ve been to. I’ve been to many, including a few “conscious” ones, which can encompass a certain kind of spiritual kool-aid - all style, little substance and even a sinister slice of conspirtuality. This felt very free from all that that. I’m led to believe saunas really are the most wonderful leveller. An evaporation of ego. A release of all physical and mental tension. There’s freedom in wandering around sans make up, with plenty of cosy layers between hot and cold plunges, nothing to prove and nowhere to be. An environment where a mum felt comfortable enough to breastfeed on the dancefloor. For this to be the most beautiful, natural thing.

I was in awe of the turnout at my workshop. I had a lovely mid-morning slot on the main stage, which gave way to an open invitation of a large crowd pulling up bean bags and blankets, inviting so much deep listening and sharing of stories. I have a special fondness for my womanhood workshop, using archetypes to demonstrate the cycles and seasons of a woman’s life. I was blown away by the insights brought forth by so many amazing women and had several come up to me throughout the festival to share what conversations it had sparked.

Saunafest was a festival that really knew how to look after its contributors. I was given not one, but two free tickets. My partner had my plus one which meant it was a very special shared experience for the two of us, an introduction to the spaces I adore so much. Every email I had from the organisers felt warm, inclusive and thoughtful. All the crew were fed on Saturday night with the most delicious burritos. My highlights were running around the lake, listening to Casual Healing lying beneath a canopy of diamonds, the Twerk Werk workshop (who knew!) joined by a friend of mine after her volunteer shift, the wide collective silence at the end of my workshop, the scent of mint and mandarin in the saunas, swimming in icy waters under the bluest sky and counting shooting stars.

I kept hinting to my partner that the festival was merely a warmup. As it coincided with his birthday, I booked us an extra two nights glamping in the Waikite valley. I’m not very good at keeping things a surprise so I was bubbling over when we turned into the muddy paddock to find a white hexagonal dome filled with all creature comforts. A large king-size bed looking out to the valley, full kitchen and bathroom, a woodburning stove, an outdoor bath and our own private sauna (naturally). I believe his greatest excitement came from the ability to watch the Warriors on Sunday evening (I didn’t even know the place had a TV!). We entered a blissful bubble of red wine, slow mornings, cosy evenings and complete immersion in nature. My fire-starter partner had the sauna up to 130 degrees! Morning mist clung to the valley. Cows baritoned across fields. We swam amongst geothermal springs at kerosene creek and cooked pizzas outdoors over the fire pit.

“This is deluxe!” He kept exclaiming, his face full of wonder. It’s a statement that has since stayed with me.

Every so often, make it deluxe. Buy the really good cheese from the supermarket. Pick flowers for yourself. Spend good money on leather boots. Wear them often - to work, clubbing, on a Sunday as you stroll to your favourite cafe with a notebook. If you can’t think of anything to write, start sketching what’s in front of you. Pretend you’re an artist, who’s to say you’re not. Order that second wine. Same goes with oysters. Book that hotel, that massage, that secret spot you’re aching to go to. Choose it exactly the way you want it, without compromise. Indulge in excess. Be the main character. Make it deluxe because you can. Make it deluxe because it’s essential, for aliveness, for enjoying pleasure, for imbibing sensuality and living an erotic life.

And rest. In a world that clamours for attention and productivity, rest is quite possibly the most anarchic thing you can do. Practice the art of doing nothing. Turn your phone onto airplane mode. Watch sunlight dance across tree canopies. Pick up shells and inspect their patterns, brush their vertebral textures with your fingertips. Walk. Without headphones. Without music. Without a phone in your hand or indeed on your person. Lie in bed beneath fresh white sheets with no alarm. Try a day without any plans. Decide in the moment. See where it takes you. Enjoy creative, luxurious, abundant rest. I don’t think it gets more deluxe than that.