Sarah's Health Notes: Find your own ‘growlery’

Years ago, I read Charles Dickens’ Bleak House and made the delightful discovery of a ‘growlery’. Here’s Esther, the heroine and narrator, describing it: ‘Mr Jarndyce, my guardian or employer, has a room that he calls “the Growlery”. It is where he goes to think or muse, when life becomes difficult, or the difficulties of life seem overwhelming’. Jarndyce is a kind chap so rather than venting his ire on others, he goes to his growlery to ‘grumble’ and ‘grind his teeth’. Or just to be on his own.

Increasingly I think that we all need our own growlery or grumpery, as I used to call mine. That was when we lived in London and the only place I could go when I felt like socking my husband and saying something narky – or indeed when I was furious with someone else and unfairly ranting at him – was a narrow first floor terrace. I would announce that I was retiring to the terrace to grump, and possibly moan and snarl to myself, and he knew any conciliatory action should wait until I came in. Worked a treat.

As well as hissing and spitting, I realised that a growlery/grumpery can also be a sanctuary. For 23 years my beloved horses provided just that. When I was with their (mostly) gentle energy, I had to be like them, rooted in the present. Or, as the Tibetan Buddhists say, ‘the space between moments’. A concept called ‘flow’ by Western psychologists where, like meditation or mindfulness, your brain can rest and let go of distressing or destructive thoughts.

You don’t necessarily have to be still. With my horses, I might be cuddling, stroking, grooming, mucking out, riding – but never checking my email or social media.

The only time my Anglo-Arab riding horse bit me was when I forgot to be in that moment with him. I was tacking him up in a hurry to ride with someone who was waiting. Far too much of a rush for him, so he turned his head and nipped my thigh so I would know this was unacceptable.

When they all trotted off to the Elysian fields (at great ages) I missed them dreadfully. But it took me a year or so to realise that part of the missing was not having my sanctuary. A wise friend, who I go to for cranial work, suggested I find another sanctuary/growlery/grumpery. It’s somewhat peripatetic this current version: a spare room tucked away down a corridor where no one comes and phones don't work. The bathroom, of course, with the door firmly shut. Lying on the grass in the horses’ old summer field, gazing at the sky and listening to buzzing insects. A long train journey, not in a rush hour, reading an unimportant novel. Most recently, the back of a big border in the garden where I had a most satisfactory grump digging up creeping buttercups.

More difficult if you work in a busy environment; of course there’s always the loo, but it might be worth seeking out another space. I admired one past colleague who kept her eye on vacant offices where she would disappear to, rather like Macavity the Mystery Cat, when the going got warm.

As much as the place, it’s the concept of – in 1960s parlance – not laying a heavy trip on others. Where you can soothe yourself almost without trying. And emerge with a degree more balance.

I recommend it.