Seeing is believing

You know the way. You are sitting at home of a Sunday afternoon, watching a couple of classic movies, slobbing around in clothes with conveniently elasticated waists. There may also be pizza involved. And a duvet.

We were watching Harvey, that Jimmy Stewart movie about the invisible rabbit and alcoholism and loneliness. Jimmy, who plays Elwood P Dowd, is just saying that he always has a wonderful time "wherever I am, whoever I'm with" and our hearts are warming nicely at the message when somewhere in the house a phone rings.

You know the way. The usual hunt for the mobile phone which is located under a cushion. But it turns out the mobile is not ringing. Then comes the hunt for the cordless phone. But the ringing isn't coming from that either. Harvey is paused. An ear is cocked. The ringing appears to be coming from the computer. My computer

is phoning me. Bring, bring . . . bring, bring. Okay, computer, keep your hair on. I click the green button and my brother in India appears, all fresh-faced and smiley, on the screen.

Skype. It's changed my life. My brother lives for most of the time in India so I usually only see him once a year when he comes to Ireland after his annual trip to Burning Man. He brings videos of himself and his girlfriend lashing around the Californian desert wearing not very many clothes. Then he is off again, and we might e-mail or have the occasional phone call until he returns with stories of hedonism and sandstorms and spiritual adventures.

For the past couple of months he has been putting gentle pressure on me to join Skype, which offers free calls all over the world. I've been using my increasing technological ineptitude as an excuse. I tell him about my iPod being dead, or at least languishing on life support. I explain how I can't even get my head around our new digital TV package, never mind this Skype yoke.

"Look, if I can use it then you definitely can," he says, referring to his legendary technofuddles. So, when I run out of excuses I google Skype and sure enough, I find I can do it and the next thing I know my computer is calling me. Bring, bring!

The voice comes through the computer. "I can't see you," he says. "Turn on the video."

And I really don't want to, you know the way. The hair is a mess, I've no make-up on and there's the endings of a giant spot on the side of my nose. It's not natural to expose yourself this way during a phone call.

But he won't let it lie, so I turn it on and point the video at my boyfriend who is spotless, with tidy hair, wearing his bright, red and white Liverpool shirt.

There's no small talk, no gossip, no how's the weather going on here. My brother and his girlfriend explain that they have joined this honesty group in India where pillow fights can break out at any time and everyone is encouraged to "own their feelings". They meet on a rooftop every night except Sundays. Today is Sunday so in the absence of their honesty group they thought they'd ring us.

Harvey will have to wait.

"How are you feeling?" they ask. And rambling anecdotes about nights out and karaoke marathons get cut in mid-telling. "I don't want your stories," he says. "What are you feeling?" Hmmm.

Next thing I know I am telling him about frustration and sadness and disappointment and all my barriers to change. How lately I've felt like a chef who has all the ingredients for the cake measured out, sitting on a counter in the kitchen, but when it comes to making the cake I am at a loss. (Eating cakes has never been a problem obviously.)

Somehow the visuals make this unexpected conversation easier. His girlfriend suggests something called "holding the space" and we talk about the importance of making vulnerability visible. I think it's because I can look into her eyes that what she is saying sinks in.

Courtesy of our new Skype honesty group I am that bit clearer about how I might start actually mixing that cake. Mostly, I realise I want to be like Harvey. Having a wonderful time wherever I am, whoever I am with. Even on a video phone with a spotty nose and bits of pizza crust on my dress. You know the way.