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There is a place for you here
The last week has, in large part, been filled with the fun and games associated with two lively six-year-old twins.
First, we spent a day at Stockeld Park, exploring the Enchanted Forest, playing crazy golf and watching the boys race around on go-karts.
There was also the maze.
The boys dragged their dad into it against his better judgement, and we then spent around 45 minutes trying to find our way back out again. I'm not sure that did much to change his opinion of mazes!
Then came another first: their first sleepover with us.
Both boys seemed completely comfortable and, during the weekend, met their cousin Dougie for the first time. We played shop - something I'd assumed they might consider themselves far too grown-up for - went for a walk, played at the park, fed some moorhens and Dyson the swan, who is back on his favoured pond, alone.
The boys hardly stopped eating.
We took some radio-controlled cars onto the green until one inevitably broke. There followed the sort of negotiation that only six-year-olds can conduct before, somewhat begrudgingly, one agreed to let his brother have a brief turn with his.
Bedtime went remarkably smoothly, if you overlook the several changes of room before they finally decided where they were going to sleep. Eventually, all was quiet and they slept through until morning.
I'm not sure I've ever heard my name shouted so many times in one weekend.
"Auntie Carolyn!"
Each and every time I hear it, it still makes me smile.
It's difficult to comprehend that only a few short months ago, we hadn't even met. Now they come to our home, sleep here without their parents, reach for my hand when we're out, and seem to have complete trust in us.
It fills my heart with joy.
On Sunday, they decided they wanted to go home on the bus, so that's what we did. At the bus stop they held my hand and waited patiently, chatting away, their natural inquisitiveness and curiosity evident in everything around them.
Yet once we climbed aboard, something changed. They became really quiet, each choosing a window away from the other, and simply watching the world pass by.
For two boys who rarely seem to stop moving or talking, it was quite something to watch.
They are already making plans for their next visit.
Having met their second cousins (my grandchildren) for the first time a few weeks ago, they asked whether they could have a sleepover here with all four of them together.
They seemed considerably more enthusiastic about this prospect than my husband and I were.
There was another little reminder of connection this week too.
During a video call with my grandchildren, my grandson asked when he was coming to stay. Apparently, whatever answer he received wasn't soon enough for him, because he promptly demanded that his dad take him to Nanny Carolyn's right now.
The fact that he was due to have an MRI the following day was, as far as he was concerned, a completely irrelevant detail.
It made me smile, of course, but afterwards I found myself thinking about what all of these little moments have in common.
A few months ago, my nephews and I hadn't met. Now they are comfortable enough to sleep at our home, are already planning who else they can invite next time, and shout "Auntie!" whenever they want me. My grandson, meanwhile, apparently considers Nanny Carolyn's somewhere worth abandoning all other plans for.
There is something incredibly precious about being somewhere a child actively wants to be. Somewhere they feel comfortable, wanted, and secure enough to simply be themselves.
Perhaps belonging isn't something we simply find.
Maybe it's something we quietly create for one another - through attention, consistency, shared experiences and all those seemingly insignificant moments that gradually say:
There is a place for you here.
Children have a wonderfully uncomplicated way of letting us know when they feel it.
Meanwhile, outside...
Perhaps inevitably, all this activity has meant less time outdoors for me than I would normally like. But the world outside has continued changing anyway.
Over the last few days, the weather has cooled somewhat, although the humidity remains. Following some much-needed rain, traces of green are beginning to return to the grass.
Near home, cormorants have been basking in the trees, while lapwings gather noisily in the cropped fields, their strange kazoo-like calls carrying through the air as they rise together overhead.
A lone dragonfly rested on a tree stump, moving only when a huge fly ventured a little too close and presented the possibility of a meal.
The cows seem to have settled too. They are quieter now, almost subdued, as they graze. Their drinking pond has shrunk further, the banks almost meeting in the middle. Two mute swans have taken up residence there, their usually white necks stained orange by the dirty, stagnant water.
Kestrels have been busy searching for their tea, while what we think was a lesser black-backed gull has been patrolling the river, giving a distinctive yell unlike anything I remember hearing before. I'm still not entirely convinced it wasn't something more unusual.
The deer, their coats now turning a richer orange, are becoming more visible as they gallop across the fields.
And in the garden, the apples and plums have been ripening, although the blue tits and blackbirds appear to have decided that they are for them. There is very little left for human consumption.
Meanwhile, mice appear to have decided that they belong in the garage.
They dart from cover whenever my husband attempts to tidy it, with evidence of their enthusiastic 'shredding' appearing beneath almost every piece of furniture he moves.
Not all belonging, it seems, is equally welcome.
There are signs everywhere that the season is beginning to shift.
Space to explore
I've been thinking about curiosity this week too.
Children seem extraordinarily good at giving their full attention to whatever matters to them in that particular moment. A go-kart. A bus journey. A broken toy. Something glimpsed through a window. A question that simply has to be answered immediately.
As adults, our attention becomes much more fragmented.
There is always something else to do, something to plan, something we think we should be achieving. Even time away can come with an internal list of everything we're not getting done.
Perhaps one of the things that allows curiosity to flourish is feeling secure enough to explore, and there is something in that which resonates with coaching for me.
A good coaching space isn't somewhere we need to arrive with everything worked out. We can bring the uncertainty, the half-formed thoughts and the things we haven't quite found words for yet.
It's a space in which someone pays attention.
Being genuinely listened to, without someone rushing to fill the silence or decide the answer for us, can create room for something else: curiosity.
What might be possible?
What haven't I noticed?
What if I looked at this differently?
What do I really want?
Perhaps that's one of the reasons I'm so drawn to coaching outdoors. Nature invites that same quality of attention.
A call you've never heard before. The first green returning after rain. A dragonfly waiting on a stump. Deer moving across a distant field.
We notice more when we aren't rushing towards the next thing.
What comes next
Work has been moving quietly in the background too.
I've been contributing to an expression of interest for some potential collaborative work, which has been exciting to explore. I don't know what will come of it, but there is value in the process itself - thinking alongside others, considering what we might create together and being open to possibility.
Next week, my attention needs to shift again. My postgraduate course needs some focused time, as does promoting and developing my coaching practice.
But perhaps I don't need to think of that simply as a need to ‘get focused’.
Maybe it's about being intentional about where I place my attention, while remaining curious about what might emerge.
This week began with us spending 45 minutes trying to find our way out of a maze.
Perhaps that's not a bad reminder that we don't always need to know exactly where we're going.
Sometimes we just need to feel secure enough to explore.
And perhaps, somewhere along the way, to know:
There is a place for you here.
If you could use a little space to explore what comes next - without needing to have the answers before you begin - coaching can offer a place to pause, think and be curious.
You’re always welcome to get in touch for an informal discovery conversation about whether coaching might be useful for you.
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