The domino effect

What happens when everything is being dismantled - intentionally … or not

As a kid I used to love them: the world record attempts dominoes. You know, when enthusiastic designers and an army of volunteers would painstakingly set up literally thousands and thousands of dominoes in a warehouse. It was all the rage in the eighties (well, it was where I lived).

Broadcast on national television we all sat mesmerised around the television anticipating that moment when the designers would tip over the first domino, to then see rows and rows of dominoes toppling over and collectively sympathise with the tension in the faces of the people who had spent months designing it all and setting it up.

That first domino was the only one you could actually control. Which is exactly what I’d like to talk to you about today.

You see, when I closed my business, I knew exactly what I was doing and why.

It was the right thing to do at the right time.

What came next, I imagined, was going to be a joyful period in which I could play, experiment, be creative, see what would happen.

That first domino would set in motion a series of dominoes, leading to … well, I didn’t know, exactly, but it was all going to be lovely, free and creative.

After all, I CHOSE this. I made the decision. I executed on it. Ergo, whatever came next was also in my control. Right?

Except, no.

Because, and you may remember this too, in those broadcasts something always went wrong. Complicated designs didn’t work. Dominoes wouldn’t fall over when they were expected to. Rows of dominoes were starting before they were supposed to. Or the dominoes just stopped.

Unforeseen things happened. Things you had no control over. You pushed that first domino. And had to watch, helplessly, what happened next.

Yes, I closed my business. I took some time off. I didn’t immediately fill that vacuum with creativity, play, busy-ness.

And what happens with vacuums is this: it attracts stuff. It gets filled.

In my case it got filled with an immediate need to move house, brought on by our landlord (Renoviction is what my friend Linda called it). Our home of 14 years taken away from us. A stressful move, issues at the new property, security kicked away from underneath us. Sleepless nights, a million emails and phone calls, stress, lots of middle-of-the-night conversations, a legal battle.

That first domino set in motion a series of events that no one could see coming. (Well, I certainly didn’t).

And yes, it may well be the best thing that could have happened to us. The kick up the bum we needed. That’s what we keep saying to each other. One day that’s what we’ll say and what we see.

But for now, where we’re finding ourselves is in a cloud of dust, with the demolition of our old life underway, the pieces of our old life breaking down, with no clear pathway ahead of us.

I’ve spoken to you before, about the wisdom of your body. How you should listen to your body, listen to your gut.

Well, let me tell you this about the state of my gut. Because, as I write this my gut is one hot ball of rage, anger, grief, anxiety, sadness, indignation. My body literally SCREAMS against the helplessness of it all.

Whilst at the same time I am having to be practical and organised and clear-headed.

It’s taken me by surprise, the total physicality of this experience. It probably shouldn’t, but it has. How this dismantling feels in your body. Because your body knows. It processes. It reacts, even if you can’t allow it to, even if it’s not convenient.

It wakes you up at 4 in the morning with a racing heart. It makes you break out in outbursts of rage at inopportune moments. It brings tears to your eyes when you least expect them.

Whilst seeing the dust cloud of the demolition happen in real time.

My inner Controller is STRONG. It wants to control what’s happpening.

But, like the world record attempt, once the first domino goes, you’re going to have to let go.

And that’s where I am now.

Trying to decide what actions ARE in our control. What we CAN do. Not in a month’s time. Not tomorrow. Now. Right now.

Trying to let go of the rest. Of expectations of how this period SHOULD have gone. Of expectations of others. Of expectations - above all else - of myself, of how I could (should) have handled this so much better, so much more gracefully.

Trying to ground myself in the practices that I know help: breathing exercises, going for a walk, talking to each other, talking to others, writing this newsletter, watching the tiny newborn seagulls on the roof opposite, cleaning the bathroom to within an inch of its life.

Getting some of that adrenaline out of the system.

Protecting that tiny daily sanctuary, where I am still myself.

Now is not the time for great big plans. Now is not the time for rebuilding. Now is not even the time for creativity, play or experimentation (and - yes - there goes another expectation …).

The building is still falling. We’re still in the middle of a dust cloud. Barely able to see ahead of us. The liminal period, the transition phase, they call this. Never before experienced quite so viscerally.

All we can do now is wait it out. Wait until all the dominoes have fallen. Wait until the dust settles.

And perhaps, just perhaps, this is the time when something new will emerge. Because under the dust there will be new life. Under the ashes of the volcano new life will grow.

It’s just this period, this time of chaos, and the surprising physical consequences, that we’ve got to endure, navigate and outlast.

Until such time that we can see what remains, what was always there, what parts we want to rebuild.

Not rebuild the same, but rebuild in a new way.

Because, yes, this IS an opportunity. We see that, even if we’re not feeling it yet.

For now we sit it out. We sit with the insecurity, the uncertainty. And we wait, and do what we can.

That’s it, for now.

See you next week!

Tineke x

🔴🟡🟠

Tineke Tammes is a coach, writer, visual storyteller, obsessive doodler | Redesigning the next chapter in real time

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