I watched a video of myself today. This is something I would usually shy away from, but on this occasion it was different. Because it was a video of me doing my first ever talk to an audience. 

Once I’d stopped judging my appearance and wondering why I do that weird lopsided thing with my mouth, I allowed myself to appreciate what I had achieved. Even I thought I came across well, and that I had spoken from the heart.

Fortunately, so did my audience, who gave me great feedback and applause. I couldn’t stop crying at the end. Watching it back, I can’t believe I made it such a big deal about getting up there and speaking, but truly it was the hardest thing.

The subject of my talk was performance, and about how I’d been a performer all my life but had only recently begun to discover who I truly am. I was surprised at how articulate I was, how eloquent I sounded, and how I managed to structure the talk without even having thought about it before I stood up to speak.

Although I love writing and will always be a writer, there is something so powerful about connecting with an audience when you speak your truth. It’s a new experience for me but one I will be trying again

In fact, I have just booked myself on to a three-day public speaking course entitled Speak Like a TED Talker, run by the lovely Sarah Lloyd-Hughes, who gave me the platform to do the mini-talk that was videoed. 

After years of singing to someone else’s tune, I think I have finally found my voice. And that’s something to celebrate.

Oh yes, there absolutely is hope for you! I thought I’d be a mad old cat lady but then I met my future husband - when I least expected to. Glad you were heartened by my story, it is never too late.
With best wishes, Beverley 

Last week I stood up in front of a group of people, most of whom I didn’t know, and spoke without a script for about three minutes. 

This may not seem like a tall order to many of you, but for me it was a big deal. It took every fibre of my being to break through my resistance and walk the few yards from seat to spotlight.

Why? Because I’m a writer. I enjoy the comfort of the written word. The spoken word is a mystery to me - or at least public speaking is. I’ve been interviewed for TV, I’ve been on the radio, and even given a speech at the famous Oxford Union debating society, but I’ve never stood up like that and spoken my truth. I’ve always had a job title, an eye-catching outfit, a face covered in make-up - and maybe even a wig - to hide behind.

That was the subject of my mini-talk: the fact that I’ve been performing since I was very young, first as entertainment for the family (I used to be wheeled out in front of relatives to sing at the age of two), then on stage with the band I sang backing vocals for in the late Seventies (that’s me above, posing in the backstage dressing room at Dingwall’s in about 1978).

I carried on putting on a good performance, first as a music journalist and then as a player on the London club scene. I performed well in all the jobs I was given to do, and focused on being whoever people wanted me to be. 

I managed to hide behind a series of masks for most of my 20s, 30s and 40s, and only started to peel them off when I hit 50. Now I don’t want to perform in that way any more. I want to be authentically me, without dressing myself up, making myself fit in or fulfilling someone else’s fantasies.

Stage one of Becoming The True Me was to qualify as a human potential coach. Stage two is about finding my voice, so I have just enrolled in a public speaking course entitled “Speak like a TED talker”.

If I can get to be even half as good and authentic a speaker as Brene Brown when she gave her TED talk on the power of vulnerability (an incredible 4,831,325 views and counting) I’ll be a happy woman. Until then I’m going to start working out exactly what it is I want to say, what I think people want to hear, stand up and just say it.

Yesterday, millions of people from Texas to Japan were fortunate enough to witness one of our solar system’s most amazing light shows - an annular eclipse of the sun. As the moon moved over the sun to block out 94 per cent of its light, they were treated to the spectacular sight of a ring of fire in the sky.

While these days eclipses have turned into a tourist attraction, you can still understand why our ancestors were terrified of them - especially when the sun was blocked out completely. One wonders whether they would have seen the ring of fire as a good or bad omen.

I’ve seen various interpretations of this sky metaphor - one being that the sun turns into an eyeball, looking into your soul - but it’s hard to miss the obvious parallel with a wedding ring. But who or what is getting married?

In Buddhist mythology, the ring of fire symbolises the process of transformation humans must undergo before being able to enter the sacred territory within. It both bars the uninitiated and symbolises the burning of ignorance.

Or perhaps it’s just about love, as Johnny Cash sang in his song Ring of Fire.

Even if we can’t see them with our own eyes, eclipses are powerful cosmic events. I can attest to the fact that witnessing a solar eclipse is quite unforgettable.

I was in Plymouth in August 1999 when Devon and Cornwall were on the path of totality. Despite the fact that it was a cloudy day, I’ll never forget the eerie feeling when the light dimmed and a flock of about 50 birds fell silent and started circling overhead.

What took me by surprise was the emotional impact it had on me - I remember feeling overwhelmed as the sky darkened and being comforted by a woman I had only just met. I can well imagine why the ancients would have believed a total eclipse was the end of the world!

The UK won’t be in the path of totality again until 2090, so it really was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and one that set me on a very different path in life. 

I’ll be fascinated to see what effect yesterday’s annular eclipse will have on humanity. Let’s hope we won’t literally have to burn in a ring of fire… :-o

For months I have been bemoaning the effect that the Olympics and Paralympics will have on my day-to-day life for a few weeks this year, when it will take me longer to get to work and there will be thousands of people streaming past my front door to get to the equestrian and cross-country events that are taking place in Greenwich Park. 

I didn’t know whether to stay put and batten down the hatches or simply flee to the relative calm of my mother’s house in Wales. Bloody Olympics. What an imposition. And I’m not even interested in sport. 

Or at least that’s what I said until I switched on the news this morning and saw Ben Ainslie light the Olympic Torch at Land’s End and take it on the first leg of an epic 70-day journey around the UK, through crowds of people who just wanted to touch the torch itself. 

Suddenly my cynicism melted away and I found myself, inexplicably, in floods of tears. Why was I so moved by this spectacle? Not because of all the hoo-ha and hype of the Olympics as a commercial event, but because of the symbolism of the Olympic flame. 

You could see in the behaviour of those people who just wanted to get close to the flame, that it symbolises something much greater than a global sporting occasion. That there is something sacred about this flame. At the risk of sounding pretentious, I’d say it represents the coming together of humanity. 

In a culture has been largely shorn of ritual - ironically it only seems to exist these days at sporting events or great national occasions such as royal weddings - here is evidence of the hunger for meaning, for a reason to congregate around a common purpose. 

For the Greeks who created the Ancient Olympics, this flame was divine. It represented the fire that Prometheus had stolen from the gods to give to Man. In the modern era, the flame is kindled at the Temple of Hera at Olympia by the light of the sun, in a ritual overseen by the high priestess (played by a Greek actress), accompanied by 10 women representing the Vestal Virgins of Rome - the keepers of the sacred fire.

I did see the news coverage of this ceremony, which took place earlier this month, and was struck by its feminine grace and power. It reminded me of a time when women were the guardians of the divine, and the goddess was as important as the god.

There is also something enduringly hopeful about an eternal flame, an ever-burning light to guide us in the gloom. And that’s something we can all do with right now. 

So I may not be watching the sport but I’ll certainly be glued to my TV screen to watch the Olympic Torch entering the Olympic Stadium up the road in Stratford. For that moment I will not be cynical; I will honour the arrival of the divine spark of the goddess!

Last month I wrote a post about the return of the Up Series - the pioneering documentary strand that began in 1964 and followed the lives of 14 Brits from the age of seven, revisiting them every seven years.

The first part of the latest instalment, 56 Up, was screened this week. I was struck by the fact that there had been less drama in the lives of the participants since they appeared in 49 Up and those profiled seemed largely happy with their lot.

Even Neil, the cute, chirpy Liverpudlian kid who wanted to be an astronaut at seven but was derailed in his teens and twenties by mental health issues, seemed more at peace with himself at 56 - even though he is still a “scratchy malcontent” (as perfectly described by Allison Pearson in the Telegraph) and his years of homelessness have given him the weather-beaten look of a much older man.

He even ventured his opinion on happiness - “Perhaps we’re most happy when we’re not aware of it” - and mused on the delights of friendship before admitting that he didn’t much want to live past the age of 70. 

Neil’s solitary anguish aside, the participants were mostly enjoying a new lease of life as grandparents or following their passion (former teacher Peter is now having some success as a musician and university administrator Sue is a member of a local amateur dramatics group).

There were only four female participants in the series (an oversight by the producers) but you can already see that the years have been kinder to them; the men looked resolutely grey and middle-aged.

The most touching moments for me were when the editors fast-forwarded through someone’s life, cutting from child to grandfather in less than a minute. Who can say how these vivid flashbacks impact on the participants?

I felt a sense of relief that, despite the hurt, anxieties, challenges, marriages and divorces, so far they have all pulled through and have reached a plateau of contentment. They are, at least, still all alive and none (apart from, perhaps, Neil) seems to have serious health issues.

The message of hope - given that all of these people are just a year older than me - is that if you can deal with what life throws at you through your teens, twenties, thirties and forties, you have a good chance of getting to a place where you’re comfortable in your own skin.

This has certainly been my experience. Watching the programme, I start imagining what I would have had to report if I’d been one of the 14. At 49, I probably would have been wearing a coping mask - having a good time on the surface but hiding the fact that I was unhappy, living alone, still getting involved in unfulfilling relationships and having a tough time going through the menopause.

Unlike most of the actual participants, in 56 Up I would have had quite a story to tell - turning a corner at 50, meeting my future husband, getting married for the first time at 53, and qualifying as a life coach at 54. But, like them, I have arrived at a place of calm, peace and balance that at times in my life I thought would be beyond my reach.

Let’s hope the contentment continues through to 63 Up - and certainly every major survey conducted about such matters indicates that happiness does indeed increase with age, if health is maintained. After all, there must be some consolation as the flesh weakens.

But as the Up Series continually and poignantly underlines, there is nothing quite so compelling as real life.

Welcome to poetry corner. I’m by no means an expert but I admire the poet’s ability to communicate volumes in a few verses. Of all the poems that have resonated with me in recent times, this one by prolific 13th-century mystic Rumi really hits the mark:

THE GUEST HOUSE

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honourably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

So what does it all mean? My take on it is this: whatever we feel in any given moment - be it joy, sadness, anger, fear, shame, guilt - it’s important to welcome that emotion, to honour it and acknowledge its presence.

Even if you are overwhelmed by grief and you want it to stop, don’t push it away. Embrace it, because while you are in reaction you can’t see the bigger picture - the one in which grief is creating space for your next stage of development.

Each emotion that arises in your awareness is a messenger from beyond, i.e. your unconscious. Pay attention to the emotion (energy in motion) and take the information it has for you before letting it go. 

Wave it away as you would a guest when they leave your house. Smile to yourself, and look forward to the arrival of the next unexpected guest with the awareness that they may not look like a guest at all.

Each guest has a gift for you, even if the gift is in strange or unattractive wrapping. And the payback you get for welcoming your emotional guests is that you bring them in from the shadows. As they come into the light, they can no longer sabotage your behaviour.

And that’s all from The Pearl Within’s poetry corner.

Today I am going to write a post about football. Only it’s not really about football, rather like Field of Dreams isn’t really about baseball.

As those of you who follow the ups and downs of the Premiership will know, on Sunday Manchester City won the title for the first time in 44 years. Not only that, they won in the dying moments of extra time, and in doing so snatched the trophy from under the noses of bitter rivals Manchester United.

If it had been a storyline in Roy of the Rovers you would be hard-pressed to believe it. In fact, I doubt that any City fan had dared dream of this happy ending. You just could not make it up.

I spent five years living with one of the most diehard, dedicated City fans you could ever meet. He has stuck with his team through thick and thin - and mostly thin. Not for nothing are City supporters called Bitter Blues. They put up with year upon year of hopes being raised and dashed and watching their rivals become more and more successful, rich and powerful.

And then, thanks to the investment of many millions of pounds, City were finally able to compete with United on a level playing field after years of trailing in their wake. But this isn’t really about the players: it’s about all the emotional investment that the supporters have put in over the years. 

That investment finally paid massive dividends in the most spectacular and exciting way last Sunday. I’m sure many of those supporters would say it was better than winning the Lottery. But they also know that, having now experienced the ultimate triumph, it will probably never quite feel this good again.

Which brings me to a wider point about how we respond when really good things happen to us - especially things we’ve hoped for and dreamed of for many years, things we thought might never happen.

Once the euphoria dies down, where does that leave us? Possibly with mixed feelings, some of which might be uncomfortable. A voice in your head might say “This is too good to be true” or “It’ll never happen again”. How do you deal with success when you have become accustomed to what you perceive as failure? 

If you have been stuck in struggle for a long time, your experience of joy will have been limited. People often feel more comfortable suffering, because it’s what they know. When there are dramas, pain and challenges to overcome they are able to dig deep, access their inner resources, and keep on going regardless.

Will you, like City fans, have to adjust to a new worldview, one in which success comes easily and good things happen? Could it be that you don’t have to wait 44 years for one blinding moment of complete triumph, and that absolute joy is always available to you?

I congratulate City and all their supporters, especially those who might be about to experience an identity crisis: it’s a big leap from Bitter Blues to Champions. And sometimes it takes a leap of faith to trust that the good times can keep on rolling, even when you’ve waited decades for them to begin. 

I love the BBC genealogy programme Who Do You Think You Are?, which takes well-known people deep into their family history and on an emotional journey that often changes their lives for ever.

There is something truly profound about uncovering your roots, finding out who your ancestors were and what challenges they faced in their lives. I’ve dipped in and out of my family history over the years but my interest was rekindled this weekend when my husband started tracing his lineage. 

With the help of genealogy website ancestry.co.uk, which was allowing free access to the 1911 Census all weekend, we added to the information his parents gave him, filling in some gaps, correcting some names and piecing together the jigsaw puzzle of his family background. 

We knew that his grandfather lost his life at the age of 30 when a bomb landed on the pub he was in, but we were able to put that tragedy in a wider context when we discovered that 72 people died that night in one of the biggest air raids in that area during late 1940.

We also discovered that he had three older sisters, and was probably the treasured only son of that family. My father-in-law was six months old when his dad popped over the road for a pint and never came home. 

Events such as this are life-defining - especially when you lose a parent so early in life - but it’s all a question of perspective. They become an important part of your story, but it’s up to you how you interpret them.

At different times in the past, the defining event of my life became part of my “poor me” narrative, an excuse for rejecting intimacy, a reason to become independent, or the pain that I hid deep inside. 

But by putting the event in the wider context of history, I was able to see it from a very different perspective. My challenges were uniquely mine but I’ve never had to live through war or been subjected to prejudice, unlike my Jewish great-grandparents, who had to leave everything they knew behind in Russia and come to England to escape the pogroms of the late 19th century.

The 1911 Census showed that their eldest daughter was Russian, but that seven children had been born in different locations in England. There is a story in there about why they had to keep moving on, and why my grandfather called himself George rather than his birth name, Gershon.

On my mother’s side of the family, I discovered that one set of great-grandparents lived a few miles away from where I live now, and that my grandmother’s dad was a glass bottle packer.

What floored me, though, was finding out that two of my great-grandmothers were called Sophia! This is especially intriguing as one was a Londoner and the other Russian - although I suspect the spelling of the latter’s name had been anglicised. 

Sophia is the Greek word for wisdom, although I’ve now learned that she is found throughout the Bible and was revered by the Jews as the Bride of Solomon. She is wisdom incarnate and goddess of all those who are wise.

I’m more than happy to be descended from two women named after the goddess of wisdom, and incorporate that into my story. Everything I do now, both professionally and personally, is based on staying connected to my inner wisdom.

So perhaps I should thank my great-grandmothers for pointing me in that direction. I’m also full of gratitude to all the members of my family that came before me, whose strength and determination made my life possible.

(Pictured above: a Russian icon of Sophia and her three daughters, Faith, Hope and Charity, courtesy www.northerway.org)

i heart connection © erincarver.com

The heart is a mysterious organ. To some it’s simply a very efficient pump; to others it is the seat of the soul. But there isn’t a human being on earth who doesn’t know what it means to feel something in your heart, to have a heart that’s bursting with joy or a heart that’s broken.

When I want to access my intuition (inner teaching), I drop my awareness into my heart. I don’t really understand why it works, but it does - my mind stills, I stop telling myself stories and cut to the truth.

I’ve long been fascinated by the research conducted by the Institute of HeartMath and its latest study is about the heart connection between mother and child. It showed that when a mother placed her attention on her baby, she became more sensitive to the subtle electromagnetic signals generated from the infant’s heart, as detected in her brainwaves.

It’s not commonly known that the heart develops and begins beating in the foetus, before the brain is formed. Or that the human heart possesses a complex energetic system that processes electromagnetic information that can be detected up to 3ft outside the body.

IHM’s research shows that the heart produces 40 to 60 times more electrical amplitude than the brain. The heart acts like a director, and much of the rest of the human body follows its lead. 

“The heart puts out a powerful, rhythmic signal that the brain responds to,” IHM Director of Research Dr Rollin McCraty has explained. “In a way, we could say that the heart and brain ‘talk’ to one another, and together they set the rhythms for the entire nervous system and body.” 

The concept that the heart directs the brain is a profound one, and perhaps provides a glimpse as to why I feel connected to my inner wisdom when I’m in my heart. And it makes it even more important to listen to the heart’s rhythm and keep it healthy.

But I don’t think the heart will be giving up its secrets any time soon.