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!!

The Lighthouse and the Waiting Room

I was walking to the train station and I overheard the fragment of a conversation that made me smile. It went something like this: "No, Mum, I don't know where Bridge Road is ..."

That was the sum total of what I overheard, said by a grown male obviously to his mother. It wasn't so much the words that made me smile, but rather the way he said it, with a suitable mix of exasperation and love. I also felt sad overhearing this little vignette. Both my parents are dead and I miss them. I miss having parents. I miss being driven crazy by them.

I sublet an art studio in the city and I try to go there once a week. It's not nearly as romantic as it sounds. Artists, as I am discovering, are like cats. They tend to be skittish and wary of strangers. The studio is in a rundown building and mostly I am there alone ... always alone, trying to convince myself I am having a good time. I hate getting there. It takes me two hours on the train, but once I'm there I feel like I can breathe again. Somewhere deep inside, I know being there is a good thing for me.

I started a new painting. It was from a photograph I took at the Royal Prince Alfred Hospital. It's a simple painting, three chairs in front of a window near some lifts. I took the photo because I loved the peacefulness and stillness of the empty chairs, and the reflections of light on the floor coming from the window. I started to cry as I painted. The waiting room. That's what those chairs represent for me. There is so much joy and sadness in a hospital waiting room.

I don't know if you recall, but I mentioned in my first-ever blog that I would talk to you about lighthouses. This story involves serendipity. I love the concept of serendipity!

1. ser·en·dip·i·ty  Noun The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way: "a fortunate stroke of serendipity".

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The day I purchased a book from the junk shop called Instructions to Lightkeepers, I was also reading Jean-Dominique Bauby's book The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. In 1995, Bauby, a 43-year-old editor of French Elle, suffered a massive stroke that left him paralysed and a victim of "locked-in syndrome". He was only able to communicate by blinking his left eye. It was in this state that he managed to compose and dictate his memoir, published two days before his death in 1996. The book is a beautifully written account of Bauby's struggle to accept his physical imprisonment, and to find meaning in his existence. I was afraid to read it at first, afraid to confront my own fears about existence and the meaning of life, but Bauby wrote with a sense of humour, and the story was encouraging and reassuring rather than depressing. 

On the same day after I'd purchased Instructions to Lightkeepers, I read this passage in Bauby's book: "There is always the chance that we will stumble upon some unknown corner of the hospital, see new faces, or catch a whiff of cooking as we pass. It was in this way that I came upon the lighthouse, on one of my very first expeditions in my wheelchair, shortly after swimming up from the mists of coma. As we emerged from an elevator on the wrong floor, I saw it: tall, robust, and reassuring, in red and white stripes that reminded me of a rugby shirt. I placed myself at once under the protection of this brotherly symbol, guardian not just of sailors but of the sick ... those castaways on the shores of loneliness."

I miss my parents. After their death I felt as though I had been cut loose, set adrift in the world on my own. I am one of those castaways Bauby was writing about ... on the "shores of loneliness". 

Bauby finished his chapter on lighthouses with this thought: "I wait for winter. Warmly wrapped up, we can linger here until nightfall, watch the sun set and the lighthouse take up the torch, its hope-filled beams sweeping the horizon."

Bauby has become a lighthouse for me, as have so many others. Kindness is a lighthouse. Laughter is a lighthouse. Everywhere I go, I am searching for lighthouses.

Yesterday, when I was on my way home, I saw a bus. The word "uncertain" was written on the front of the bus, as its destination! Even a bus can be a lighthouse ...

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Would You Like Some Shame with That Humiliation?

or When Good Ideas Go Bad!

Someone at my kid's school came up with the bright idea to have "waste-free Wednesdays"! The concept goes something like this ... on Wednesdays, the kids try to bring in a lunch without any excess packaging. In theory, I support this. Honestly, though, I'm not entirely convinced that "saving the planet" is such a great idea. I mean, who are we to assume that depleting the world's resources and hastening our demise isn't actually part of the master plan? Putting that debate aside, however, since I've already gone to the effort of having children, I am committed to doing my bit to save the planet ... or, at least to save the planet from my children, if not for them!

When it comes to school lunches, my offspring would rather go hungry than eat the nutritious, healthy snacks parents are supposed to provide! So, in order to keep the peace and make life easier, school lunches originating from our house contain a healthy variety of processed food snacks. Waste-free Wednesdays haven't changed the content, but rather the presentation of our lunches. This involves removing snacks from their packaging and re-gifting them into lovely snap-lock containers. I thought we were doing pretty well with our little subterfuge, until my youngest informed my husband that for two weeks in a row his name failed to make the chalk board reserved for those whose lunches were completely "waste-free". Apparently his drink popper let the team down. As Maxwell Smart would say "Missed it by that much"! 

I was immediately reminded of my own school days of "public shaming". Specifically, I am referring to the dreaded "snowman"! Our class spent days constructing beautiful snowmen out of coloured paper and cotton balls. I wasn't a particularly great student, but I loved art. I was proud as punch over my snowman. Unfortunately, my warm glow lasted about as long as a snowman on a hot summer's day. The teacher informed us that we had just made "grammar snowmen". Here's the punchline ... every time we made a mistake with our grammar, we had to remove an item from our snowman. Cute, right? You get the idea. Our incompetence would lead to the subsequent dismemberment and death of Frosty, and everyone in the class would be witness to the crime! Needless to say my snowman suffered a quick and ignoble death. I only hope it was painless for him, because it certainly wasn't for me. The snowman exercise didn't help me with my grammar, and neither did it bolster my low self-esteem. I'm not too fond of snowmen either!

What annoys me most is that I chose my children's school in the first place because I didn't want them to suffer the same ongoing humiliation I endured at school. Generally, my kids have had a much better experience. Their school gets it right, most of the time. 

This need to be "seen to be doing the right thing" doesn't just happen in schools. Something I've noticed lately is how many theories are espoused on the basis of being "good for us"!! I think we need to be careful not to lose perspective. There should be a balance in life. Otherwise, the "fun-free fuckwits" will end up ruling the world!