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!!