Articulating pain frees up space in the mind or soul for gentler, kinder, more positive perspectives

It might sound a little clichéd that a men's council group got onto talking about fathers and fatherhood within the first few gatherings, but the experience and shared stories created a deeper sense of trust and connection.

I have felt a lighter, persistent positivity in the last four weeks since joining the circle council. I feel like my mind is clearer, like I'm able to engage with greater delight in tasks, experiences and relationships.

With that in mind, I felt sudden a rattle of agitation when our council leader, after we'd checked in, invited us to share our pain or joy of father relationships. As is consistent with council circle, we were to share our own story and avoid comment on each others. He also reminded us to listen from the heart to each other and speak spontaneously when our opportunity came.

I had to work had to apply these principles during the other members first few experiences because I felt a weight of the pain that I've tended to avoid acknowledging. The pain of the past is usually dealt with through attempted ambivalence and shelving frustrations. I pushed them from my mind to give attention to the other narratives, which were a mixture of positives and negatives.

The talking stone felt a little heavier than usual as I hefted it in my hand after it had been passed to me. I spoke in a passionate rush of frustration, disappointment and distance. I shed tears and spoke vehemently.

After an emotional few minutes of tirade and anxiety that I might cause the same hurt to my own children, I finished and listened to the other stories of both proximity and distance.

After each sharing our truth, we held hands in silence, eyes closed, acknowledging each others openness and honesty. A member of the group then offered a blessing of appreciation for our fathers, and in particular a recognition that we were loved by them; that despite our disillusion, that our fathers had acted with the best of intentions and that they had done their best with the abilities and limitations they brought with them.

As I'd been listening to the stories that came after mine I had felt a space open in my mind. As people spoke of the small acts, habits and characteristics of their fathers that they appreciated, I felt myself willing to be kinder, more generous.

We are taught to avoid the word "but" in our stories. When we express a perspective or experience and then say "but" to segue into the next section, we diminish or undermine that which has been said previous to it.

Instead, we say "and..."

After our moment of unity and acknowledgment, I took the opportunity to speak further and said:

"I am a fan of the saying, 'writing crystallises thought.' Perhaps speaking spontaneously, leanly and emotionally, to a trusted ear does the same thing. Everything that I said remains a reality and a definite experience. As I articulated my pain and allowed to bubble up out of me, it felt like I was freeing a space in my mind or spirit or soul... whatever you consider that consciousness to be. As I spoke my pain, I realised how emotional space it was occupying. Sharing it released it, or at least reduced it and freed up space for compassion and appreciation and a more positive perspective.

What I shared earlier is a truth... and... expressing them has made room to notice others. Who I am and what I appreciate about myself are, in part, things I can also take time to see and appreciate in my father.

He is, in ways, not self-conscious and doesn't worry what people think of him, a characteristic I deeply appreciate in myself.
He is willing to say sorry, an act I also value and can do comfortably.
I love to entertain an audience, a delight I also see in my father.
I have an appreciate for people, for diversity of cultures, for the earth, for nature, for art... which are all perspectives that I recognise in my father too."

As with previous weeks, I feel a deep and abiding peace.

Anger is a reaction to a deeper, potentially useful, feeling

The messy EU referendum results and political bickering in its wake has left me unsettled and angry. I've spent almost a week sniping and griping at any opportunity.

Yesterday, at circle council, I welcomed peace back into my mind and body. I woke this morning with that calming sense of well-being.

There was considerable talk last night about the referendum. A lot of us, myself included, expressed our anger at the result. We were angry, we felt divided from friends, family and fellow inhabitants who had voted Leave.

The campaigning has been ugly. The reaction to the vote, from some corners of society, uglier still. This wasn't about "losing" - I'm English, I'm used to losing - this was about a deeper sense of frustration.

As we took turns to listen deeply and with intent, I was reminded of a lesson I learned several years ago as I had been exploring my anger at other challenges. Anger is a reaction. We say "I feel angry" when we really mean "I am filled with anger" or "I am reacting with anger."

Instead of being the root of our emotion, anger is usually the reaction. Often we don't know what to do with anger, other than point it at other people. We're filled with anger, so we point it at others and try to empty ourselves of it. Unfortunately, the more we pour anger out on others, the more it seems to replenish and fill us.

As we spoke I questioned what this anger, this reaction, was being prompted by. In doing so, I identified a series of feelings:

Indignation. I'm indignant at what I perceive to be an injustice. I feel the wrong result was collectively reached by the UK. I feel indignant that people were duped into voting for something that was based on distortions and unrealistic promises. I feel indignant that certain individuals in leadership appear to have put their personal ambitions above the best interests of the people they serve.

Defensive. I'm feeling defensive of the many people who are being hurt by this decision. The fuse of racial segregation seems to have been lit. The "out" vote seems to have mobilised an ugly underbelly of racism. I want to protect those who are on the receiving end of it.

Confused. I'm confused at how so many millions of people could have reached a conclusion that seems so counter-intuitive. Given the vast volumes who voted leave, I'm sure there must be some among those voters who did so for deep, carefully-considered, well-intentioned motives. I'm sure there must be some... I just can't see them. So I'm confused at how so many could make such a wrong decision.

Having articulated those in the group, I felt a calming change of emotion. I didn't feel so angry any more. Instead I felt motivated. I don't know anything constructively to do with anger, but I do know what to do with the deeper feelings.

If I feel confused, I can seek understanding.
If I feel defensive, I can reach out and defend and protect.
If I feel indignant at injustice, I can work to right a wrong.

Rather than get stuck in a cycle of nonconstructive anger, I can channel the deeper feelings into "being the change" I hope for.