Death and Termites

“It is only when a man feels himself face to face with such horrors 

that he can understand their true import.” 

― Bram Stoker, Dracula

When I was young, I was absolutely terrified of vampires ... the most famous being, of course, Dracula. I was scared of all horror movies, but especially vampires. There is one scene from an old movie which really freaked me out. I can't remember the movie or the actors, but I can recall the scene involved a woman dressed in a long white nightgown lying in bed asleep. Outside her window lurked the infamous Dracula. According to my recollection, Dracula couldn't enter the bedroom chamber unless he was invited in, so he would appear outside her window each night, scratching at it with his long, hideous fingernails.
      The idea that the victim played a role in her own demise by accidentally inviting Dracula in (through evil trickery, of course) seemed to me to be highly objectionable. There was a particular terror and dread generated through the suspense of Dracula being just outside her window. I found this tension far worse than any of the gory scenes that ensued.
     Of course, it is this "anticipated dread" that keeps most of us living in fear our entire lives. When my children were young and we would take them to a restaurant, even if they were behaving themselves (a rare occurrence), I still couldn't relax and enjoy the experience because I was waiting for the moment when it would all unravel!
     I realised the other day that I am finally emerging from the dark place I have inhabited for the past few years ... well, it's more like a lifetime really, but the past few years have been especially difficult. Everything I had tried to run from caught up with me all at once! It was truly sink or swim time. As cliche as it sounds, I had completely lost my sense of self. I have always been reasonably sure of the "what", but not of the "why". Suddenly, I began to doubt everything. So began a desperate forensic search for clues about the real me. Who was I before the guilt, the shame, the fear set in? I have been on a quest to find this person. What music makes me want to sing and dance? What art takes my breath away or brings me to my knees? What books make me want to write? Who do I admire? Who and what do I aspire to be?
    There have been many discoveries along the way. I think the most important discovery has been just how little confidence and self-esteem I actually possess. When I was little, I used to dream about being discovered as a writer or an artist, because I thought it would make me feel confident and successful. I imagined myself at dinner parties entertaining and delighting people, because, of course, I would be transformed into someone interesting and knowledgeable ... an introvert no more! My dear friend did point out that even if I had achieved some measure of renown and success, that I was still not a likely candidate to be swanning around singing my praises!
     Now I understand that until and unless I believe in the value of my own work, regardless of what other people think, I will never feel like a "success" ... on any level. Being recognised publicly as a success is surely a little like going on a holiday, or buying a house, or eating an amazing meal. The experience itself is not everlasting. Ultimately, you need to take another trip, renovate or redecorate the house, or try something else on the menu! Thankfully, I have let go of my aspirations to be "famous". I simply want to create because I love creating. I am not opposed to being "successful", but I know that it can be more of a hindrance than a help. In obscurity, I am free to create what I want. I can take risks and fail and no-one is there to judge me.
     In an attempt to bolster my self-confidence and self-esteem, I have begun to simplify and declutter my life. I want to surround myself with things I genuinely love and have respect for. This includes family, friends, home, work, relationship and all other aspects of my life. I am trying to banish the oft-used phrases "I'm not sure" or "I don't know"! I may not be able to achieve the things I desire, but I do know what it is I want!
    Of course, I still experience the old feelings of dismay and dread. These are the habits of a lifetime. Perhaps this is a familiar scenario: 1. something amazing happens!
                                                        2. just as you begin to celebrate, a thought comes
                                                            into your head: "what if?"

Here are some classic examples of "what ifs":

I have just bought a really nice dress ... what if I discover tomorrow that I am dying? (I know it doesn't make sense, but that's how my head works!)

I have finally found a new art studio which I  love ... what if the building gets condemned?

I am living in a beautiful old house ... what if there are termites?

These are the crazy thoughts that come into my head and spoil whatever joy I might be experiencing! Even when I know the odds are in my favour, the thought alone is enough to create a seed of doubt, which grows into a tree of anxiety and dread! I have realised, with horror, that I am inviting Dracula in night after night!

    So, this is my homework! I am learning, slowly but surely, to do the opposite of what my anxious mother taught me to do ... I am tempting fate!! I am trying to experience whatever joy comes my way without giving notice to the dark forces outside my window. Bad things do happen ... death and termites are real! However, I need to stop experiencing the bad things before they've even happened. Quite simply, I need to shut the curtains!

Spare a Thought for the Losers

My son is at home today because he didn't want to go to his school swim carnival. Over the past few days, I've been debating in my head whether I should force him to go (character building?), or whether I should give him the day off! Obviously, I went with the latter. In the meantime, another parent whose kids attend a different school was singing his children's praises after their swim carnival. He gets up at 5am to take his kids to swim training, and they are indeed champions in the making. My big fear is that perhaps my relaxed attitude toward swim carnivals and sport in general is causing my kids to be weak, lazy, self-absorbed, pampered individuals who will have no backbone, resilience or determination. Oh, is that all?

I don't really care about the fact I won't be producing any Olympic champions, but I don't want to be responsible for unleashing Godzilla-like monsters on the rest of the unsuspecting world. I feel it's my civic duty to produce children who are polite, kind, responsible individuals. I want them to be good room-mates, good partners, good employees, good bosses, good citizens of the universe.

My eldest son used to play baseball when he was in primary school. I got a kick out of the fact that baseball was his chosen sport because, being from North America, at least I sort of understood the game! Perhaps, in retrospect, it would have been better if I hadn't had a clue. I have to say it was really painful watching him play. When he played T-ball, he was very easily distracted and would often be seen in the outfield using his glove as a puppet, or staring off into the sky. He frequently spaced out to the degree that when the ball finally went his way, he would stare at it as it flew past him as though it were some small delightful animal scampering by! Sometimes he would look around to see who was getting the ball, without any hint that it was meant to be him. You can imagine how the other parents and kids reacted with frustration. Every week I expected him to quit the game, but every week he showed up and gave it his best effort. His last season of T-ball he ended up winning a trophy with his team. He was surrounded by strong players and he blissfully rode on their coat-tails all the way to the top.

The following years, however, the game became more technical and skilful, and my son was way out of his league. I remember the coach painstakingly explaining the concept of stealing bases to my son. My heart sank because I knew how indecisive he was! He was a black and white kind of kid, and the choice of whether to stay on a base or steal it was agonising for him. Time after time, he would stand glued to the base with the coach, parents, and other players yelling at him to run. Of course, just as the moment to steal had safely passed, he would attempt to run! It was as though my hero Charlie Brown had come to life right in front of me, and I knew his familiar chant of "will I be the hero or the goat"?

It was the same with batting. He would stand with his bat cocked and ready, only to strike out every single time. I would like to say that he didn't get frustrated or upset, but he did. It broke my heart to see him fighting back the tears. His catching and throwing were so bad that the coach thought perhaps he should try the glove on his other hand! Even though I'm left-handed, and my son is clearly left-handed, in desperation I agreed to the ludicrous suggestion. Predictably, it made things worse and finally the coach had to admit that my son was just an extraordinarily bad player! At least the coach had a kind heart and was understanding. I can't say the same for the majority of parents and other players who laughed at my son, screamed at him from the sidelines, and basically made it known that he wasn't welcome on the field. And still, I waited for him to come to me and say he'd had enough. He never did. He played out that season and I marvelled at his courage to fail and keep on going. By another miracle his team won the championship game. In what can only be described as a classical cinematic moment, my son hit a wonky slow-motion line drive that was enough to allow two players to cross the line. After that season, he decided it was time to hang up his spikes! He still proudly displays his trophies, and his memories of his career are thankfully different from mine. He thinks he was a pretty good player.

It occurred to me this morning that what if all the "losers" decided not to show up? What if we all just stayed home and didn't participate? The simple answer is that some of the winners would have to become the losers! They might not like it! One of my son's team-mates, who was a talented player and used to bully my son, had the misfortune to strike out once. He put on quite the performance afterwards, swearing and kicking at the dirt. It may be character building, but the truth of it is, losing isn't much fun. My younger son went to the swimming carnival last year. He gave it a go and didn't enjoy it. He's not sporty and isn't really competitive. At least he gave it a go, but I don't think he needs to keep on losing to prove a point! My elder son played baseball because he loved the game. He loved going and he loved being part of a team and he loved the ice-cream he got after the game. Eventually it became too competitive and too serious and not much fun, so he quit. It's too bad that competition often takes the fun out of things. Winning is fun. Losing isn't so much fun!

So here's a message to all you winners out there, please remember that the losers play a valuable role. Without us, you wouldn't be having so much fun. And if we losers all decide to take a day off, then it might just be your turn to lose!

The Love Challenge!

I've been reading about "slacktivism" and the ice bucket challenge, which I'm sure you already know about, so I'm not going to bother explaining. I guess, though, my take on it is that surely anything anyone does that is positive, rather than negative, is a good thing? I was thinking about that on the drive home today from Sydney. I was also thinking about an elderly man I do work with. He is such a beautiful person, and today I saw him sitting on the toilet. I'm a volunteer, not a carer, so I don't have to do any of the bathroom stuff. But today I had to hold a roll of toilet paper while a carer ran off to get an absorbent liner thingy. The carer indicated that the man wouldn't mind if I saw him on the toilet. Thankfully he didn't notice me, because I minded on his behalf! Ageing really does suck.

But that's not my point! I was driving home thinking of how damn lucky I am to have privacy in the toilet! When I remember to lock the door, that is, and the kids don't bust in. Working with elderly clients has made me so appreciative of so many things. Mobility, freedom, privacy! Wow, these are all things I really have taken for granted. I am trying not to. I am trying to remember how important every second, of every minute, of every day is.

So, here's my point. I've come up with my own challenge! And perhaps it comes under the heading of "slacktivism", but I don't care. And I know that no-one actually reads this blog, but I don't care about that either! I am "putting it out in the universe", and that's all that matters. This is a personal challenge. I am sharing it because I hope other people might decide to take it on as well. There's no money involved, no-one to sponsor, and no cure! But I think this is really important.

Here's the challenge!! I challenge myself, and anyone else out there who reads this, to let go of the silly negative thoughts, to stop complaining at work, at the grocery store, at school pickup, at book club, at restaurants, at yoga, at home, at airports, at kids' birthday parties and on and on and on! I will try to think of my elderly friends and all that they represent, and all they have lost, and all they will continue to lose. I will try to be grateful for privacy and mobility and freedom, for being able to drive myself home, to make myself a cup of tea! Life is so simple, but we make it complicated. I don't want to complain anymore. I don't want to be part of the bad news I read and hear about. One of my heroes, Alice Herz-Sommer, who died recently, said this: "I am looking for the nice things in life. I know about the bad things, but I look only for the good things."

I have a choice! We all have a choice. And I want to chose the good. I want to see the good, talk about the good, sing about the good, read about the good. The bad will come! It always does, and I'm not afraid of that. But I refuse to seek it out by complaining unnecessarily! Join me in this challenge. It's easy. Smile at people, be friendly, be joyful, be positive! Find something good about work, school, friends, family. Count your blessings, sing someone's praises. Say please and thank you. Ask people how they are. Hug someone. Slow down! Look around. Get off Facebook for a while. Look up from your phone. There is a beautiful piece of graffiti on a building in Newtown. I have it on my phone. It says: Love is the answer. When I spend a day with elderly people who are grateful for a smile and someone who notices them, I know this to be true.

My challenge is free and it's easy. I know that this isn't an original challenge, but when I was driving home, I had this thought of how great it would be if people complained just a tiny bit less. Of how nice it would be to walk into a grocery store where people were smiling and not looking sad or angry. Of newspapers that report positive stories as "news", rather than features for the lifestyle section. Of trains where people aren't afraid of making eye contact for fear of being abused. Of workplaces where people aren't complaining endlessly of being tired or caught up in the myriad of dramas that seem so important. Of family get-togethers where people aren't comparing houses, or jobs, or children, or achievements. Imagine that!

In the end, none of it matters. We are all subject to the same wheel of fortune, turning ceaselessly. So, choose happiness, choose love. Love is the answer! I will leave you with one more thought. This from Victor Frankl:

Everything can be taken from man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms ... to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way.

Let me know how you go!

Do You Know Where You're Going To?

“Not all those who wander are lost.” 

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

I am on a train heading into Sydney with a group of people from various other countries. They are being familiarised with taking the train to Sydney. The irony is not lost on me. I am, in some ways, probably more scared than they are!

I don't know them. I am not part of their group, but I am part of their journey—as they are now part of mine. Why should I be scared, you might ask? I have been in this country for many years. I am, for all intents and purposes, a privileged English-speaking white woman.

The lady across from me is outlining future excursions: a cooking workshop, a day spent decorating boomerangs and learning about Aboriginal culture, a bicycle trip. I am a bit envious. They all seem so eager and fresh and young! 

It brings back memories of my arrival in this country, of being plagued by a terror and a loneliness that threatened never to abate. Of course, I had the huge advantage of speaking the language, of understanding most (but not all!) of the customs, and the culture. With that, however, came assumptions. It was "understood" that I would fit in, that I needed no introduction, no explanation or assistance. And I felt obliged to hide my fears—to deny (even to myself) the depth of my insecurities, my isolation. 

Everything felt similar yet different. I was painfully aware that the onus was squarely on my shoulders to fit in, to belong. There was no interest in where I was from. It was as though my life had begun upon arrival in this country. My homesickness seemed inappropriate—ungrateful even! I felt the unspoken truth of what wasn't said out loud but rather implied: This is your life now. You are lucky to be here. Remember, though, because you weren't born here, you're not really one of us!

I survived the homesickness, the loneliness, the fear. I found a job, made new friends, had children, bought a house. I am lucky to be here! I have a truly wonderful life. And yet, that fear of arrival in a strange place has never left me. I am eternally the stranger, the visitor, the foreigner. I can't quite settle and relax completely. Everything still, after all these years, feels tentative. I have to "work" at feeling like I'm a part of things. I can't (I don't) take it for granted. I still get lost easily. I have just learned, after all this time, to drive to the outskirts of Sydney. I'm not yet ready to drive in the city. I'm running out of time though. I dare not leave it too late!

I am still scared of many things: being alone, homesickness, sadness, getting lost. The people on this trip are young. They are brave. And they have much greater barriers to overcome. I am glad they have a guide! I am glad they have each other. I am hopeful they will find their way, that they will have wonderful lives. I am inspired by their joy, their curiosity, their willingness to explore. Perhaps, I will never really feel as though I "belong" here, but being the witness, the observer, the stranger, gives me an awareness that I wouldn't otherwise have. I notice things others take for granted. It has made me more tolerant, more sensitive, more empathetic, more understanding. In short, it has made me a better person!

I don't know you ... I love you!

I haven't posted for a long time. There is plenty I could have written about, but I just couldn't seem to write it! I spoke it, though. I do like to talk!

I have a constant battle with myself about whether I should be writing at all. The ever-present crisis of confidence. The crisis I have about every aspect of my life. Am I a good mother ... am I a good editor ... am I a good friend ... am I a good [fill in the blank]??

There is one day of the week, however, where my inner critic takes a break, where I don't have time for the usual self-analysis. On this day, I spend time with people who have dementia. When I first started doing this, I felt all the usual trepidation, the usual doubt. Will I be good at this? Can I even handle being around people who are suffering such a cruel disease? I had some idea of what it would be like. My mum had dementia. It wasn't pretty. She had a slow agonising decline.

There is no doubt that dementia is a horrible illness. There is no doubt that watching someone you love slowly dying is heart-wrenching. I wasn't sure I had the "right stuff" to be around people with dementia.

I will admit, it's been a steep learning curve! It's not that I really "do" much. I sit with people, serve morning tea, do puzzles, serve lunch, chat. But you have to be completely "present" in what you do. It's the most important aspect of the job. Here's the amazing part. I love being there. It's a joy in so many unexpected ways. I don't know much about the past history of the people I'm with. I know very little of who they were before the disease took hold. This gives me an important advantage. Unlike their loved ones, I don't grieve for who they were. I can enjoy them for who they are now. I can be with them in the present. We sing, we dance, we laugh, we play with balloons, we talk, we comfort each other, sometimes we cry. They never fail to surprise me with their insight, their kindness, their gratitude. We take each day as it comes. Sometimes they remember me, usually they don't, but it doesn't matter. The only prerequisite is that I am "open" to whatever happens. I accept them for who they are now, and they accept me in the same way. There may not be a tomorrow.

A couple of weeks ago I was greeted with this by one of the dementia patients: "I don't know you ... I love you". If only we could all express that sentiment.

Today was Remembrance Day, and ironically I spent the day with people who are losing their memory. But it was the perfect place to be. One of the carers saw this quote on the way to work, and she wrote it on the board: "If the power of love could overcome the love of power, the world would be at peace"!

Remembrance Day, indeed.

Peace.

Giving Good Blog!

So, I noticed a rather sizeable spike in my blog readership! Obviously, the strong, silent type readers, because they certainly haven't commented on anything I've written.

I am rather inclined to look for the cloud in any silver lining, so I was dubious about my new fan base. I decided to do a search on the domain that was providing my newfound popularity. According to other bloggers, it's a porn website! Imagine my surprise ... NOT!

I was trying to re-create the scenario. Joe Reader is online looking for his daily porn fix. He comes across one of my blogs entitled "Hooking in the Suburbs". "Ah," he thinks "this could be interesting. Perhaps a blog revealing the real secrets of desperate housewives!"

Instead, however, he discovers that the blog is talking about anxiety and the fine art of rug-hooking! Disappointed (and more than a little restless) Joe reads on, convinced at some point he will find what he's looking for. Then, an amazing thing happens, he becomes "hooked"! Yes, he was hoping for enormous boobs and shameless acts of debauchery, but instead he is drawn in by the subtle wit and stunning beauty of the prose he is reading. He is a convert!

This is fiction, of course. Joe and all of his friends came and went, or ... perhaps it was the other way around? Either way, you know what they say, what goes up must come down! And in my case it was the readership!

Fortunately, I'm not the least bit disappointed. Since starting this blog I have been discovering how much I like to write. How much I need to write. Sometimes, my inner critic tells me not to write. It is convinced that I have no business writing unless it's serious, unless it's important. But so much of my life is weighed down by seriousness. The thing that saves me is laughter. Funny things I read (like other people's blogs), funny friends, funny movies. I need laughter as much as I need writing! I like the serious stuff, too. In fact I've just finished reading the most beautiful, inspiring book, which I will share with you another time.

For now, though, I am just going to keep this one light. And to Joe, wherever you may be, thanks for the memories!

My Induction into the Hall of Shame!

On Tuesday, I went for a WH&S induction. I was told that WH&S replaces the old OH&S framework. Apparently, HSRs help to monitor contractors. Contractors must ensure that appropriate PPE is used. Contractors must also provide up-to-date SDSs for all chemicals used on site. Furthermore, a PCBU has an absolute duty to take all reasonable steps to ensure health and safety of workers.

I wasn't sure if I was being inducted or if I'd stumbled into an English As a Second Language class! One acronym came to my mind ... WTF?!

In case you are wondering why I was participating in this induction (and surely you are!), I have been doing some volunteer work at a hospital in an arts program! Me and my new best friends (three electricians, an air cooling expert, and two cleaners at a mental health facility) were being inducted! 

I was very nervous. The course started at 8.30am and was held at the local hospital. I barely slept the night before. I've worked on my own for so long that I've forgotten what it's like to do any kind of course with real people in a real place of employment! This feels way too grownup for me!

"Do you think there will be a test?" I asked my husband. He had done this kind of thing before.

"Nah, not for this. You're just being inducted."

"Phew," I thought. 

"So," said the lady running the course, "first I will go through the presentation, then there will be a short quiz."

"Fuck, Fuck, Fuck" (Me ... not her!)

"Now, don't worry," she assured us "no-one's failed it yet!"

"Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, I'm going to be the first person in history to fail." (me again!)

At least now I was alert and awake, despite my four hours of sleep. I then proceeded to annoy everyone by asking the teacher questions. I thought I'd better clarify things if there was going to be a quiz! Even she looked exasperated with me. I was slowing things down. People obviously had places to be. Finally, the moment of truth arrived. She handed out the quiz. 

"Now, I'm going to leave the room," she announced. "Feel free to discuss things, if necessary."

"Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, I came alone! People in front of me and behind me were whispering, comparing notes. Fuck, Fuck, Double Fuck!"

I read through the quiz. OK, I took a deep breath. I am an editor. The questions were multiple choice and seemed pretty obvious. Hesitantly, I answered the first few questions. So obvious!! What was I worried about. The cleaners behind me were agitated. The guys in front of me were crossing out answers. I was already done! 

The course instructor returned. She began marking the guys in front. Perfect score. The second guy (who looked to be the age of my eldest son) also got perfect! "Well done," praised the instructor. She must have had doubts about him! The next guy motioned for me to go. I knew he'd come with the others, so I let him go ahead. He looked pretty nervous. Perfect! 

Now, it was my turn. Correct, correct, correct ... and then a pause ... and then a big X! "Oh," she said, "looks like you've got one wrong!" 

I could feel my face getting hot. "Really?" I said.

She pointed to the question. It was a true or false answer: You are prohibited from consuming alcohol in the workplace.

I'd answered "False"!!!! 

"So, the correct answer would be?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, of course, the answer would be true!"

"It's OK, love," she said. "A lot of people get that one wrong. It's sort of a trick question."

I couldn't really see what was so tricky about it, other than the fact that you had to read the question carefully, which I obviously hadn't done ... unlike my friends, the electricians! Thankfully, I still passed the induction. I sheepishly accepted my card.

Something occurred to me later in the day. I work from home ... so, technically, I do allow alcohol in my workplace! 

I'm glad I didn't think of this at the time, however. I don't think the instructor would have appreciated my little joke! 

The Child That Got Away

It was my birthday last Saturday. Birthdays are a time of mixed emotions for me. I can't say I really look forward to the occasion! It's more than the fact that I'm getting old. I am getting old! I'm still trying to pinpoint when exactly that happened?!

Aside from the obvious issues related to getting older, I have other, more personal, issues! For many, birthdays are a reason to celebrate. I love my children's birthdays. I couldn't wait to meet them. Their births were painful, yes, but they arrived into a maelstrom of love!

My own birth was not a joyous occasion. My birth mother had decided to give me up for adoption. I get the impression that my birth father didn't want a baby, but left it to my birth mother to decide. They were living together, but weren't married. She was from a different country and had no family support. She had had a difficult relationship with her own mother, and questioned her ability as a mother. I can't help but acknowledge that my birth was painful on so many levels. When I was giving birth to my own children, I didn't know my birth mother yet. But, at the time, I remember wondering how she must have felt, how difficult it would have been going through the agony of labour, only to relinquish the baby. There was also the realisation that for months afterwards there would still be hormones and other reminders to deal with.

When I finally established a relationship with my birth mother, I anticipated that all my questions concerning my birth would be answered. I was wrong. My birth mother is still grappling with the guilt and pain of having given a baby up for adoption. We email each other, but that's it. She doesn't want to meet me, or even speak to me on the phone. After years of pleading, she finally sent me a family history. It answered the practical questions of heredity, but stopped short of giving me any real indication of her emotions, other than that the absence indicated to me just how painful it must have been. With respect to my birth, there was hardly any detail at all. She said she only held me once.

I love to recount to my children the story of their birth! They love to hear the details of what it was like when I was pregnant with them (so and so always had the hiccups, another decided to kick incessantly whenever I tried to sleep). They want to know what foods I craved, what names I had picked out, what they were like as newborns! I was wearing a George Thorogood T-shirt when I gave birth to my eldest, my daughter was born in the back of a four-wheel drive, my third child was born with his hand extended like some superhero emerging, and my last was induced and emerged so confidently I couldn't quite believe he was mine!

I don't like to make a big fuss of my birthday. It's not false modesty, which some presume! I don't have parties, or invite people to dinner. In fact, I usually don't even tell people. If they know, and want to acknowledge my birthday, I'm OK with that, but I won't seek it out! I don't have it on Facebook! I can't imagine that my feelings toward my birthday will ever change, but I won't say "never"! Regardless of the fact that my birth mother and I are still trying to define our relationship, she sent me an email for my birthday ... and I was happy to receive it. I also have a birth brother. My birth parents split up for a while after my birth, but then they got back together and eventually married. They had a son!!! He sent me an email too. At the end of it, he said he loved me!! Again, it's a difficult relationship. We don't really know each other and it's not easy to suddenly become close to someone, just because you're supposed to be. It's a start though.

I've been reading The Art of Happiness, the philosophy of the Dalai Lama. In it he talks of the importance of compassion. I think I am learning to apply that to my life ... starting with my birthday! Letting others celebrate your life is a form of compassion towards yourself! My birth may have caused pain and anguish, but I want my life to be about love and compassion.

What Lucy Said!

On the weekend, I attended a two-day yoga workshop. I am already imagining the eye-rolling!!!! If it's just too "peace, love and everything groovy" for you, feel free to go straight to Woogsworld! If, on the other hand, you can't sleep, or you are feeling guilty about something and would like to indulge in a little self-flagellation, then ... read on!

The yoga workshop was split into four sessions over the two days. The morning sessions focused on the physical practice, while the afternoon sessions explored meditation and philosophy. 

A woman by the name of Lucy Roberts ran the workshop. Right away, I liked her. She radiated a genuine warmth. Most importantly, she also had a sense of humour. I'm always a little afraid of "retreats" and "workshops"! I like to practise yoga, and I am interested in learning more about the spiritual side, but deep down I am more than a little cynical!

There was one thing that Lucy said, however, that really resonated with me. She was talking about meditation, a practice I have always struggled with! To say that I have an active mind is a huge understatement. My mind is the poster child for hyperactivity. My mind is the wise-cracking smartass who makes fun of everything, but, at the same time, desperately wants to embrace everything. I am terrified of my mind! I am terrified of looking inward!

Lucy described her meditation as a way for her to re-connect with herself. "Yes, yes," I thought. "I get the concept, but the trouble with me is I'm not sure I WANT to re-connect with myself! I haven't spent all these years running for nothing!" Then, Lucy said something that stopped me in my tracks.

She said that when she doesn't take time out to meditate, that she loses a connection with who she is, and sometimes that manifests itself in feelings of isolation. She explained that we sometimes attribute loneliness to not being around enough people, but that what we might be missing is ourselves!!! In that moment, it all made sense to me. 

It's true that I have lost myself somewhere in life. And it's also true that I have been imagining that if only I had the right job, or was surrounded by the right people, or living in the right place, that happiness would fall into my lap! But, I think, Lucy is right. I have lost the truth of who I am. Who am I? I said in my bio for this blog that I am looking for myself! But I think I have been looking in all the wrong places! I have been searching for myself out in the world. 

I need to stop looking outward and start confronting my own inner terror! I need to create more space and slow down. I need to quiet some of the noise in my head. I need to stop running and start sitting! 

Thanks Lucy!

You Can't Roller Skate with a Toothpick in Your Mouth!

I woke up this morning at 4am. There is something about 4am that destroys me. It's as though no living creature should be awake at that time.

I felt an overwhelming rush of hopelessness. I couldn't stop crying, and I couldn't imagine how I would get through the next day, let alone the week, the month, the year, the ...

Life can become so complicated, so exhausting.

I was on the train this morning reading a short story by Somerset Maugham. The name of the story is The Fall of Edward Barnard. It's about a man who goes to Tahiti, probably in the 1920s, with the intention of making his fortune and then returning to Chicago to marry his fiancee. The plan falls apart, however, when the gentleman chooses a life of simplicity in Tahiti over a life of wealth and society in Chicago.

Maugham describes Tahiti as such:

Below them, coconut trees tumbled down steeply to the lagoon,

 and the lagoon in the evening light had the colour, tender and varied, of a dove's breast. 

On a creek, at a little distance, were the clustered huts of a native village, 

and towards the reef was a canoe, sharply silhouetted, 

in which were a couple of natives fishing. 

Then, beyond, you saw the vast calmness of the Pacific and twenty miles away, 

airy and unsubstantial like the fabric of a poet's fancy, 

the unimaginable beauty of the island which is called Murea.

As I've mentioned before, I am a city girl, through and through. But, even I could appreciate what Somerset Maugham was getting at. When the man in the story was asked to justify his decision to eschew a modern life, he responded:
Do you know that conversation is one of the greatest pleasures in life?
But it wants leisure. I'd always been too busy before. And gradually 
all the life that had seemed so important to me began to seem rather trivial and vulgar. 
What is the use of all this hustle and this constant striving? ... 
And what does all that activity amount to?

Later in the story, he quotes this famous line:
We know that it will profit a man little if he gain the whole world and lose his soul.

I realised, I am "soul weary". I long for simplicity, clarity, peace. I live in a largely self-induced chaos. I want to strip away the unessential, and figure out who and what gives me contentment.

My youngest son was roller skating in the house the other day. I was horrified to discover he had a toothpick in his mouth!

Today, it occurred to me that that is exactly how I feel about life. I feel like I'm roller skating with a toothpick in my mouth. Part of me is sailing around, experiencing the absolute joy of the moment, going as fast as I can, arms outstretched, embracing life ... but part of me is plagued by the terrible notion that, at any moment, I might stumble and fall, causing a toothpick to lodge in my trachea!

Tell Me What You Want ... What You Really, Really Want!

I was in an op shop, and I saw a pair of clogs! They were powder blue and the sweetest clogs. Instantly, I was transported back to my childhood!

My friends and I have spoken before about things we wanted as kids, but never got. Sometimes, we were given "versions" (probably cheaper!) of the things we actually wanted! My mom was so earnest in this, and I was so afraid of hurting her feelings, that I never showed the disappointment I felt.

My own children have no such concern for my feelings! They indicate their wants and needs with frightening alacrity. I'm on the fence about whether that is a good thing or not. Sometimes, I think what we didn't get as children helped define our sense of what we wanted as adults. Perhaps, it helped develop an understanding that we had to "work" for things we wanted, that we weren't just entitled to them because we wanted them! On the other hand, I think that sometimes getting exactly what you want as a child can be a good thing. It reinforces the positivity that comes with believing life does, on occasion, work out! That life can deliver the goods!

So, I wanted to write this blog as sort of a tribute to those childhood things I wanted, but didn't get. Which brings me back to the clogs! The ones I lusted after were leather and sleek and oh-so-stylish. Instead, my mom bought me a faux denim pair that were adorned with huge gaudy flowers and red laces! My toes used to hang over the edge and I could barely walk in them. I must have been a sight in my flares, my tube top and "clogs"!

I have to admit I was a bit of a tomboy as a kid, and I developed an enormous crush on a toy called a Big Wheel. This was an incredible piece of 70s' engineering ... a low-slung plastic tricycle, with a "hand break" you could pull to spin out! A bunch of kids in the neighbourhood had Big Wheels and I begged my mom for one. I didn't get a Big Wheel, but I did get an orange plastic skateboard! It might have been okay, except that all of our roads had gravel, and the wheels on the skateboard would get stuck, catapulting you off the skateboard and onto the asphalt!

Another item high on my wish list was a denim jacket. I really really wanted a denim jacket. This time, my mom bought me a mustard-coloured jacket in the "style" of a jean jacket! It went well with the two-tone shoes my dad had previously bought me because they were the only ones in the store that fit me, and he was too impatient to get me a proper pair of shoes. No word of a lie, these shoes were half-red and half-blue! They looked like bowling shoes. Even my mother looked horrified when she saw them. Perhaps, she imagined the mustard-coloured jacket would take the focus off the clown shoes.

Other coveted items included an Etch A Sketch, a Lite-Brite (which my cousins had!), and a proper Barbie doll. I have to say that I did get to use an Etch A Sketch much later on, as an adult, and was completely frustrated by how little I could actually "draw" using straight lines!! Architecture was clearly never going to be a career option for me. 

My mom, in her attempt to support her rather fluctuating feminist views, was completely opposed to buying me Barbie dolls. I wasn't a huge doll person myself, but ALL my friends had Barbies and ALL they did was play games involving Barbie. I had enough social issues, I NEEDED Barbie as currency. I thought my luck had changed when I went to a garage sale hosted by a friend of my mom's. This woman was an artist and apparently not concerned with how Barbie might warp her daughter's perspective on life. Her daughter was grown up now and she was prepared to sell me her whole collection ... kit and caboodle. You can't imagine my excitement at being presented with a mysterious leather case, apparently filled with Barbies and clothes. My mom relented. I was about to be initiated into social acceptance. I opened the case and could feel my face begin to burn, the tears pricking my eyes. These Barbies were ancient! They were practical, brown-haired dolls with conical breasts rivalling Madonna's infamous costume. The clothes they came with were tailored, conservative numbers, befitting secretaries and teachers. These Barbies were biding their time in offices until they could marry and have children, until they could become the housewives they were always meant to be. 

I accepted the case with as much grace as I could muster. I took my Barbies to my friends' houses, and tried to "modernise" them as best I could. Unfortunately, I couldn't dress my Barbies in any of the modern clothes. Nothing would fit over their very pointy breasts. My social currency was counterfeit!  

It wasn't all bad news, though. There were some toys I begged for and actually received! Two standouts were the pogo stick and the Easy-Bake Oven. Sadly, I bounced a few times on the much-anticipated pogo stick, only to discover that it promptly gave me a headache, and it was actually really boring! The Easy-Bake Oven was much more of a success. The only problem being that you cooked with a LIGHTBULB!! I can remember making my family eat the "cakes"! The fun really began when I ran out of the "official" cake mixes and started experimenting on my own. I loved my Easy-Bake Oven, but it didn't love me!

Generic child with her Easy-Bake Oven!

All of these experiences did teach me valuable lessons. They shaped me as a person! As long as my future career didn't involve straight lines, excessive bouncing, fashion, road racing, or cooking, I knew I would be on the right track!!

I Fell in Love with a Polyester Nanna!

Recently, I went to a fundraiser for a hospital in East Timor. I knew absolutely nothing about East Timor.

Now, I know that East Timor is just over 600 kilometres off the coast of Darwin. I also know there is great diving there! And that the roads can be quite dangerous. I know that people get tapeworm because they keep pigs as pets and then kill them and eat them! Ok, that's all I really know about East Timor!

The fundraiser was for the Bairo Pite Hospital. The clinic is supported by Australia and is always in desperate need of funds and volunteers. It was confronting to eat and watch images of sick kids. I was left with that feeling of despair that there are so many needy people in the world, and so much injustice, but also with a positive feeling that on the flip side there are so many good people willing to help.

During dinner, I was looking around at the people in the room. People "give" for various reasons, some genuine, some self-serving. I felt an energy in the room that suggested these people were genuine. They were mostly an older crowd, with grownup children, many of whom were there, sitting at their own table.

I am really really bad at small talk, but I made an effort and muddled my way through. When dinner was over, however, that's when the real magic happened.

The event had a DJ, and, as I suspected, the music was of the "wedding" variety! My musical tastes are a little less mainstream. As soon as the music began playing, however, almost the entire crowd jumped up from their seats and swamped the dance floor. I sat in my chair completely gobsmacked! I've seen people run for buffets like that, but never a dance floor!! It's been a while since I've danced, so I wasn't sure if I was up to it. Then, a woman caught my eye. I can still picture her clearly.

She was wearing a safari-style outfit, pants and a jacket, with a nice blouse. Her hair had the "permed" look about it, but it suited her perfectly. She was immaculate. It was as though she'd stepped right out of the 70s, perfectly preserved. What caught my attention, more than her clothes even, was the smile on her face. She was having an absolute ball! She was dancing up a storm, and there was a look of happiness and joy on her face that made me feel so hopeful, so full of love. I dispensed with my dancing anxieties and took to the floor. I just had to be near her! I felt her energy, her passion. I fell in love with her style, her absolute grooviness!

This is what life is about, I thought. Loving when you can, dancing when you can, helping when you can, doing whatever you can ... but doing it with love and passion and joy!!!!

I don't know who my polyester nanna is, or where she lives, or even if she is a nice person! But I will never forget her smile. Rock on, Nanna, rock on!

Meditate on This!

The other day I actually wore a strapless bra to yoga. Yes, I do confess, it was in the name of vanity! Sometimes a girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do!

For Christmas, I bought myself a cool yoga top. Normally, I wear secondhand singlets that have seen better days. The cool top has a cool strappy thing at the back. I've admired the style on other women at yoga. Apparently, though, these women have REAL boobs!!

When I finally exchanged my maternity bras for real bras (which, I'm ashamed to admit, didn't happen until the need for said bras was long past), I discovered padded, push-up bras! I am so attached to my miracle bras that I honestly forget my boobs aren't real! These bras actually give me cleavage. Granted, I've never caught anyone, male or female, staring at that particular area of my anatomy, but, still ...!

I admit I was disappointed when I tried on my cool yoga top at home. You aren't supposed to wear ANY bra with this top. It has some elastic, extra fabric feature, which I imagine is supposed to give you support ... if you have something to support that is! In my case, it completely flattened out the little I have! OK, I know that yoga isn't about cleavage. And I know that vanity is really uncool and unspiritual and probably even unethical, and un-everything else. On top of that, I read an article in Sunday Life (yes, I know I said I would stop reading supplements!), entitled "I Use Botox and I'm a Feminist ... I've Come Clean". The article was written by ... wait for it ... Jessica Rowe!!! Jessica writes, and I quote: "My brand of feminism is about choice and supporting women and respecting the decisions they make for themselves ...". Of course, this article made me want to vomit.

And yet ... here am I, Madame Hypocrite, swanning off to yoga in her best black strapless ... without a tree pose leg to stand on! I spent the entire class worrying that my bra would end up around my waist, something that actually happened to me during a vigorous game of table tennis recently. I did, however, get several comments on my top!!!

The next day, though, it was back to a comfortable, daggy singlet. I haven't yet retired cool yoga top. Or made any resolution to go bra-less!! I had every intention of raising my daughter with a feminist sensibility, but I will admit, sadly, I can't say I have modelled that sensibility. All I've done, it seems, is pass on the confusion I learned from my mother! So, perhaps, as much as it pains me to admit it, Jessica and I are in the same "Rowe" boat! OK, that was a really bad pun, but I couldn't resist!

I don't know what the answer is. In fact, I'm quite sure I don't even know what the question is, either!

Me and My Brother

The other night I saw a Belgium movie called The Giants about three boys, two of whom were brothers. It was a simple film. The young teens had been left to fend for themselves and were trying to survive as best they could. This involved, among other things, lots of silliness, swearing, wrecking, ransacking, smoking, fighting and some farting. It was a very touching film.

The movie made me wonder what my three boys would be like, if left to their own devices. A terrifying thought! It also made me wonder about the complex relationship of siblings.

I have one brother who is five years older than me. We have a complicated relationship. There is no doubt that we both love each other, but we are very different people. Our parents' "dysfunctional" marriage meant that, like the boys in the movie, we were often left to figure things out for ourselves. We had to grow up fast. The legacy of those years, I believe, has affected our ability to be close now. Both of our parents are dead, so my brother is the only witness to my childhood.

I did a painting from a photograph I had of my brother and me, standing knee-deep in water at our grandmother's cottage. There was something about the way we were standing that made me want to paint it.

My brother is probably aged 10 in the photo, so I'm about 5. I am wearing a red two-piece bathing suit, with my back arched in that little girl way, tummy sticking out. I was no lightweight when I was little! I have a stunned mullet expression on my face. Very flattering! I think my mother must have been cutting my hair at the time. If she wasn't, she should have fired the hairdresser! I am pale and freckled. My brother is lean and brown. He is looking directly at the camera. His expression is confident, bemused. (I know he is just as insecure as I am, but doesn't show it. Still doesn't!) The angle of his body is what fascinates me the most. He is arching to the side, one hip thrust outward. It is such a boy pose, angular and athletic at the same time.

I sold the painting in a charity art show. The woman who bought it said there was something about the painting that reminded her of growing up and going to the beach. She said the painting brought back happy childhood memories! I was really thrilled that she bought the painting. And I was grateful she shared her story with me. I hope she has the painting on her wall somewhere. I like to think of it hanging in her house ... me and my brother!

I'll Take My Feminism with a Dollop of Whipped Cream!

Have you ever had one of those awkward self-conscious moments when you just want the earth to swallow you whole? I had one the other day!

Here's the scenario. I was invited out for lunch with a group of women to celebrate International Women's Day. Yes ... I know ... that in itself can be problematic! But I am trying to say "yes" to things. Trying not to retreat into my usual place of safety.

I've never been relaxed about going out with people. To begin with, I'm never sure what to wear, and my anxiety has been heightened by a series of outfit blunders over the years. One of these disasters involved attending a feminist pot-luck supper when I was at university. This was a time when women's studies had emerged on the curriculum and there was a heightened sense of feminism. My mum had been a women's libber, so I was both drawn to and repelled by feminism!! I liked the aspects of female independence and choice, but I wasn't sure about the responsibility part! I still kind of liked the idea of being wooed by a guy and put on a pedestal. I still liked the idea of doors being held open and chairs pulled out! I wanted to be romantic and feminine but also kick-ass!

Things were a bit confusing in my house concerning women's rights. Firstly, my mother married a chauvinist, so she wasn't really off to a good start! Secondly, she proceeded to allow him to control her life and to rob her of what was left of her already low self-esteem. She would dutifully cook dinner for him, and then keep it warm in the oven while he was out drinking and spending the household money. Her main act of defiance was to play Helen Reddy's song "I Am Woman" at full volume.

On the flip side, however, my mother was largely responsible for establishing a lunch room at my primary school, so that women who worked wouldn't have to send their children home to an empty house at lunchtime. Ironically, my mother was a stay-at-home mum! She had strong feminist ideals and she would make them known, even if she couldn't follow through with them herself. I can remember her outrage at a Paul Anka song "(You're) Having My Baby"! My mother felt it was an affront to all women ... and, actually, listening to the song now, I think she may have had a point! YouTube it if you don't believe me! Here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t3y0zh-3VJg.

To further add to my confusion, my mother also loved Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass! One of their album covers, called Whipped Cream and Other Delights, depicts a naked girl covered in whipped cream licking her finger! Not to mention, much of Herb's music sounds like stripper music! Is it any wonder I grew up confused?

So, back to my feminist pot-luck supper! My friends and I intended to go to the supper, after which we would kick on and see a band. We showed up at the poor host's house, dressed in our "going out" best. As I recall, I was wearing a red mini skirt and high heels. I had bright red lipstick, black eyeliner and my hair was teased and sprayed to within an inch of its life. Nothing says feminism like a mini skirt and high heels! The women were shocked at our appearance but had the decency not to make a big deal of it. I think they could see we were hungry undergraduates and despite our appearance our hearts were in the right place!

I wish I could say that my days of inappropriate dressing are far behind me, but alas not so. Only a couple of years ago I invited a friend to go to a cabaret style night out. I had it on good authority that everyone (and I mean everyone) dressed according to the theme of the event. On this occasion, the theme was based around the movie Caberet with Liza Minnelli. I donned my fishnets and hot pants with all the "divine decadence" I could muster. My friend did so as well. We arrived at the event to discover that everyone (and I mean everyone) was wearing normal clothes! To make matters worse, the event took place in a rather seedy district, making us look less like we were there for the entertainment and more like we WERE the entertainment!!

Now, back to my International Women's Day lunch. Are you still with me? I spent an uneasy afternoon trying to find something to wear! Something that said serious, but not too serious ... sophisticated but not too overstated. When I couldn't find anything in my wardrobe along those lines, I settled for op shop chic ... my favourite. I don't even have a proper going-out handbag. I have a backpack. It's a nice backpack, but it's still a backpack.

Things were going OK ... until I arrived, that is. I arrived right on time. Yes, right on time. Usually, I arrange to go to events with a friend, because I am so hopeless at entrances. I hate the awkwardness of arrivals. This time, however, I slipped up and went solo. I swanned confidently into the restaurant clutching my backpack, only to discover I was the first one there. I know this doesn't sound like a big deal, but it was a nice restaurant, with stuck up waitresses and lots of men in suits. The waitress sat me at a table for six, right in the middle! There I sat, like the proverbial sore thumb ... for half an hour!!! I was dressed appropriately, at least, but I still felt completely self-conscious. By the time the others finally arrived, avec swishy handbags, I might add, I was exhausted from trying to look relaxed and confident! I realised I had nothing left for the lunch. After placing my backpack surreptitiously under the table, I spent the rest of the lunch nodding and smiling. The conversation ranged from boob jobs to designer shoes to children's birthday parties!

As I sat there listening, one thought came to mind ... I'm still confused!

What do Crocodiles and Vegetarians Have in Common?

Today I got a compliment from an old guy in a park who was holding two plastic crocodiles! I think he was trying to sell them. He told me he liked my hair and not to cut it! The interaction lasted for only a minute, but it made me smile all day.

I don't know what I would do without the oddballs and the misfits in life. I'm reading a book of Haruki Murakami's short stories, Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman. In one of the stories the main character makes the following observation: "I much prefer imperfect, more memorable types of people". I agree, wholeheartedly! Over the course of my life, I've met some incredible people who live outside the box. I have learned that first impressions are just that.

The neighbourhood I grew up in was pretty conventional and conservative. I remember when a vegetarian family moved into the street. The gossip was alarming. The poor parents were condemned for depriving their children of red meat! Only one diet was considered suitable: meat, potatoes and vegetables. Even pasta was cause for suspicion!

Fortunately, this particular family had a strategy for dealing with criticism! They invited everyone in the neighbourhood to a housewarming. Curiosity killed the cat ... and, apparently, higher moral ground! Not a single neighbour refused the invitation! And the menu? ... entirely vegetarian. This was also the era of being polite, so to refuse food was not an option. By the end of the housewarming, the entire street had to eat their words!!

Times They Are a Changing (Part 2)

Are You Being Served?

So, I did step out into the world today, and I did open my eyes ... and it's a damn scary place! I stood in Spotlight with my daughter, who had to buy fabric for a sewing class.

My mum was a sewer, and I have memories of her buying Butterick and Vogue patterns, for a jumpsuit or flared pants, or, for a special occasion, a floor-length skirt! I remember the thin tissue paper patterns covering the dining room table. She used to make all my clothes. Some were more stylish than others! This involved lots of polyester (durable, yes, but no-one cared whether the fabric actually breathed!), and geometric patterns. I, of course, dreamed of owning shop-bought party frocks like my friends, who had less talented mothers ... like myself, funnily enough.

So, it was with some irony and chagrin that I found myself in Spotlight today! I only wished I'd paid more attention to my mother's sewing advice. I tried my hand at sewing, but I just didn't have the knack for it, much to my mother's disappointment. Today, though, I managed to assist my daughter as best I could, and we made our way to the counter. As we waited behind a couple being served, a rather large queue began to form behind us. Rainy days must bring out the craft in people!

Then, to my horror, in slow motion, I watched as a woman behind me leaned forward to take a number! I should have rushed over right there and then, but I was frozen to the spot. In succession, the entire herd of people behind me took number after number. Still, I stood like a grim statue. Surely, I thought, the woman behind the counter would understand. She could see that we'd been standing there patiently for 20 minutes. Surely, I reasoned, common sense would prevail? The couple in front finished their transaction and I felt the adrenaline flooding my system. I was ready to leap forward with my bolts of fabric and explain my predicament.

It was like a shoot-out in an old Western movie. Before I made it to the counter, I heard the woman say in a loud voice: "Number 22"! And before I could open my mouth, number 22 sprang from behind me and handed the woman her purchase. Finally, I spoke, in a rather pathetic squeaking voice: "I didn't know we needed a number ..."

The woman stared at me, expressionless. My daughter was elbowing me. "Just take a number," she hissed.

I turned around and saw the mass of people waiting, triumphantly holding their numbers. I looked into the woman's eyes, and I repeated: "I didn't know we needed a number ... It's my first time ..." My voice dwindled.

"How much?"
"Sorry?" I said.
"How much fabric do you want?"

With those words, my faith in humanity was restored. Maybe, it was divine intervention. Maybe, my mum was pulling some strings. If anyone could, she could! Maybe, the woman behind the counter was a softy hiding beneath a grim exterior. Maybe, all the stars were aligned. Maybe, it was the rain! Whatever happened, this woman was my new best friend!

Another story, another moral ... if you are ever in Spotlight buying fabric, take a number!

Times They Are a Changing ...

I just finished reading Franz Kafka's short story Metamorphosis. At its most basic level, it is the story of a man who is transformed into an insect-like creature. It is quite a bleak little tale! The main character comes to accept his transformation, but those around him are repulsed by his exterior. They are unable to accept that the creature might still have a human consciousness and understanding, which he does. 

Alienation is a feeling with which I am all too familiar ... perhaps the reason I found the story so heartbreaking. At a very early age I was told I was adopted. This wasn't something I was able to process very easily as a child. I wanted to belong, but there were physical reminders that I was the odd one out. I was the only member of my family with fair skin and freckles! My brother wasn't adopted and I could see family resemblances in him that made me envious. 

My family wasn't religious, but I was sent to a Catholic school after primary school. I hadn't even been baptised, so you can imagine how I felt at school. A bastard and a heathen!! This sense of alienation has pretty much continued my whole life. Perhaps my decision to live in another country was an unconscious desire to make that metamorphosis complete! 

This isn't a lament, although I know it sure sounds like it! I am actually quite grateful for these experiences. They have provided me with a different lens through which to view the world. I've met countless other "strangers" like myself, who are all struggling to find a "home". 

I met up with a friend yesterday. I haven't seen her for years, but it was a sweet reunion. We first met when our children were only babies and we were both searching for friendship and understanding. With another friend we formed a trio, and we would get together and drink tea and eat and laugh. Each of us came from different backgrounds, with different viewpoints, but what we had in common was our sense of alienation! Eventually, various forces pulled us in different directions. Seeing this friend yesterday, however, reminded me of what our friendship meant to me during that period of my life. All these years later and we are both still grappling with "belonging", with "identity" with "purpose" and "meaning" in our lives. 

The truth of Kafka's story, I believe, lies in its simplicity. He isn't dealing with "alienation" on a grand scale, it's represented at its most basic level, in the home, with family members. Kafka reminds us that "alienation" can occur in any setting. 

I often feel the hurt of alienation in the most simple of circumstances: standing in a group of people and not being included in the conversation; or listening to people happily making plans that don't include me, acting as though I don't exist. In these moments I can relate to Kafka's insect character! I wonder whether I, too, have transformed into some hideous creature that people can't abide! It is such a simple thing to make someone feel noticed, included: a nod or a smile to show them they are welcome. I read a book once where the main character, an older man, was so afraid that he would pass from the world unnoticed that he would create minor disturbances, such as dropping a bag of apples, so people would see him, would acknowledge his presence. 

I am constantly amazed by how insular we have become. People go about their business but rarely interact anymore. 

I am still hopeful that I will find a sense of belonging, somewhere, somehow. But experience tells me not to make assumptions anymore, not to discount people who look different or who act differently. I think that's what's so great about blogging. Connections are made without knowing or caring what the person looks like or where they come from. Connections are made from the inside out! 

Today, I am going out in the world and I'm going to open my eyes, really open my eyes and take a look. I want to see people, to talk to people. I want to belong!

Where is My Mind?

Today I sat in the car with my teenage daughter. She was eating hot chips, drinking ice tea. She had Ed Sheerhan playing through her iPhone. We were parked, looking out at the ocean.

"Stop!" I wanted to scream, like the start of the Pixies song. I wanted to paint this picture of mother and daughter laughing, sharing a moment. I wanted her to be older than her 14 years, to be coming home from Europe, maybe, or on a break from uni. More than anything I wanted her to be telling me how happy she is. More than anything, I just want my kids to be happy and healthy.

Here's the real picture. She is crying. Actually she is sobbing. She is sobbing because she did the wrong thing, she betrayed my trust ... and she got caught. The thing is, I'd planned to read her the riot act. I'd planned to ground her for life, to take away every electronic device she owns. I'd planned to be smug in the knowledge that my instinct as a mother was right, that she'd done exactly what I thought she was going to do, and she got busted.

As soon as she started crying, though, it just broke my heart. My resolve faltered. I wanted to believe what she was telling me, even though I know differently. I did read her the riot act, but I am still trying to negotiate all of the other boundaries. I'm trying to figure out exactly what punishment I should mete out, or if I should punish her at all. It all seemed so black and white before, before she started sobbing and telling me she knew she'd made a mistake. And then there was "the moment" ... when I realised, of course, that she did what she did because she is just so insecure, so desperate to be loved and to be accepted.

I said everything I was supposed to say, but I felt unsure about every word I said. Nothing prepared me for this. Nothing.

The Unbearable Lightness of Blogging

Today I Won the Lottery!

OK, not the "I can now quit my day job and buy a bigger house or take a world trip" kind of lotto, but another kind ... a better kind. Well, I think it's better anyway. The prize in this lottery will never diminish, never run out, nor is it likely to inspire envy, or cause long-lost relatives to appear from the woodwork.

I know you are waiting with anticipation to find out more! Today, I had my first blog comment ... and it was the best comment I could hope for. It was made by a beginner blogger like myself. Her opening words were so simple, so achingly beautiful, they made my cry: "You have a reader now".

I googled her blog and was astounded to discover words so similar to my own:
"So the idea was to introduce you to my little family with some stunningly hilarious well-written prose about how we all came to be here. I would have had you all hooked by now, hanging on my every word and waiting for the following instalment. But I don’t really write like that. I tend to blabber out whatever my sleep-deprived mind is currently thinking about. Occasionally, I may even write a sentence or two that makes sense. More importantly, I write for me. To get all the chaos in my head out onto the screen. I don’t want a thousand followers, eagerly awaiting the next chapter of my life (though that would be kind of cool!). If anything, I want one… yes, just one… person to say “I know how you feel” or “Yep, I’ve been there”. Because right now I’m feeling a little alone and lonely and wondering if anyone in the world understands me."

If you are interested, and I hope you are, read her blog: http://betweenloveandchaos.wordpress.com/

Talk about serendipity!

My daughter came home from high school today and actually shared something with me. I was holding my breath in case some noise interrupted her train of thought and reminded her that she was talking to me, her mother, the person she both loathes and loves. The person she runs to and runs away from. The person she is so terrified of becoming. She told me that today she actually sat with some kids at lunch, and that a girl in the hallway told her she was pretty. I let my breath out slowly and silently, and took a chance:

"I have some news, too," I said. "I got a comment on my blog."
"Was it Dad?"
"No," I replied.
"What did they say?"
"They were really nice."
"Looks like we both had a good day," she said.

I am welling up as I write this. I think her final words were something along the lines of: "Well, don't make a big deal of it, OK?" Man, she knows me too well.

Gulp ... "Too late," I said. "I think perhaps I went a little overboard in my reply."

She rolled her eyes.

Double gulp ...  I definitely won't tell her about this blog!

I don't care, though. What happened today is proof to me that there are good people out there. It's proof that even if you aren't religious, miracles exist and prayers can be answered!

And to my reader (who is probably by now regretting having made a comment!): I know absolutely how you feel, and, yep, I've been there. I'm still there, in fact, but feeling a little less alone thanks to you. Let the eye-rolling begin!!