Making Time

My friend's yurt.
My friend’s yurt.

Sometimes, it feels like there is no time. Racing from one appointment and activity to the next. Friends come into your mind, and you determine to get in touch. The day ends, and by the time you remember (usually late at night), it is too late. I hadn’t seen a group of friends for well over a year. I used to go to a meditation on an old train carriage, placed in a friend’s garden. The foliage around it was moist, and frogs would hop onto you as you slid open the door. You would be treated to ambient music and twinkling lights as you arranged yourself in a chair. We would laugh together and tell stories. They cheered for me when I was going through IVF, and celebrated when I fell pregnant. When my daughter arrived, they cooed over her.

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It was time for a reunion. It was overdue. We met at a glorious place on the way to the Southern Highlands, hugging and chatting as though we had never been apart. Over a lazy Sunday brunch, eight women caught up, and then went to a yurt, owned by one of the ladies. There we sang, and laughed some more. We determined that there weren’t to be any more long intervals between catch-ups in future.

I have another group of friends who were my rock through the early days of endometriosis and infertility. We are all scattered about the city, and we remark often that it is best for society that we aren’t able to see each other frequently. We are noisy, cheeky and quite hilarious when together. Anything can happen, and usually does.

My friends made me do it!
My friends made me do it!

I love them more than all the stars in the sky, so impressed am I with their irreverence and spunk. We went to a high-end jewellery store to inquire about the cleaning of a necklace, and were treated with a look of distaste. One of the ladies below became impertinent, which provoked more giggles. These are the sort of people who encourage an environment where you don’t have to watch what you say. In fact, the ruder your train of thought, the better. Light relief in a world so heavy and grey.
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They haven’t had it easy, but then again, no true heroine ever has. It has propelled them to be funnier, try harder, have more empathy than your average woman.
I broke three umbrella’s in the storms that deluged Sydney earlier this week. My daughter started Term 2 of home schooling, and it was back to our hectic schedule.
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Our erupting volcano
Our erupting volcano

So far, we have made a volcano erupt, worked with clay, attended workshops and kids meditation and she has completed several online lessons. Trying to find balance is ever-challenging. I am working on it, and if I hit upon the secret to organization, I will let you know! One thing I do get, is that maintaining a social life is a necessity. Organizing catch-ups isn’t in spite of the hectic schedules we all have, rather it is so we can keep enduring them.

Letting Go and the Art of Surrendering

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I have always had a will of iron. I had to take control at a young age. Had to learn to eat and drink again. Had to learn how to walk. Had to rebuild the strength in my body, mind and soul. I hit all my targets. The same applied when I started correspondence school. Whatever I focused on, came to be. When I went out into the world at eighteen, I had huge dreams, and expected them to all come true, and in the allotted time. I was going to be a published author in my twenties, have several kids, a big rambling house and a strong body. As time passed, I saw the vision become clouded, as though someone had smeared petroleum jelly onto the camera lens. Instead of a tribe of kids, there was infertility. Rather than my body getting stronger, I slipped and fell, breaking my spine again. Instead of a large rambling house, there was a string of dodgy rental properties. Instead of peace there was turmoil. There were times when I lived on potatoes for a week, times when I had to walk miles home. Life was reduced to survival. The dreams refused to die, but they were tempered. The shoots dared to rear up from the soil. Spindly little things, they were, and I feared a downpour would flatten them. My saving grace was the removal of a time frame. Letting go of control. Having a tight schedule and discipline saved me as a teen. It wouldn’t work now. I was down on my knees as infertility and pain and uncertainty pounded me. I was pummelled. “I surrender!” I screamed.

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As soon as I uttered those words, the kaleidoscope in my hands turned, and a beautiful geometrical pattern took shape. Everything about it was different to what I had stubbornly cleaved to. The colours were somehow more vibrant. Perhaps, it was a portent of things to come. I didn’t want the next decade to be remembered by a series of operations, disappointments and scars. As I was admitted to hospital yet again, I had to believe that this provided another step  to where I wanted to be. I had to surrender all control, yet hold onto the kernel of my dreams. They had after all, given me the fuel to keep going. Life is very different to where I thought I would be at this age and in this year. Yet as I reflect on the friends I have met, the miraculous daughter I birthed, the fact I am still able to walk, and am a published author, I can see it is damned near perfect. It is hard to surrender control. It is hard to accept that the vision has evolved and changed. It is scary. When you hit a target after the storm has pummelled your home, it tastes that much sweeter. Don’t give up! Don’t you ever give up.

Self-Acceptance

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I have had my weight remarked on twice in the past week. “Have you lost weight? You look like you have.” It was meant to commend me, most likely on an imaginary stringent diet and ruthless exercise regime. It had the opposite effect. Was I considered overweight before? Not as acceptable? My weight is like the tide, it fluctuates. I don’t weigh myself, nor focus on my weight. I couldn’t give a flying fig, frankly. I need to walk and do weight’s to combat insulin resistance and fragile bones. That is all.

I am a busy lady, and any available head space is filled with other concerns. I think of my friend with liver disease, who is doing everything in her power to keep well. The friend undergoing chemotherapy. So many friends enduring pain and illness. I think of friendship and shared meals and toasting with a good drop of wine. Weight is rarely stable for anyone. Surgery, illness, puberty, pregnancy, infertility treatments, menopause and a perfect storm of endocrine issues sees to that. My aim is to live and do it well. I remember being an adolescent, and feeling empowered by how underweight I was. Filling myself with water before the dreaded weigh-in, eating a dreadful concoction for breakfast that the other girls insisted set like cement and filled you up for the day. Walks were treks of pain, lasting hours. I can’t recall noticing anything of beauty on these hikes. That wasn’t the purpose of undergoing them.

Time has changed everything. I walk with my little girl, holding her hand. I actually take deep, fresh pockets of air into my lungs. I notice beauty. If I were to focus on my weight, I wouldn’t have time to live. I have been there, taking my pocket calorie counter to the shops, weighing and examining everything I encountered. I ended up sick and depressed. It was the opposite of life.

Seeking Movement and Colour and Life (Part 1)

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I was meant to see Rod Stewart last week but due to circumstances out of my control, I couldn’t go. I put my granny knickers back in the drawer, and purchased two tickets to a charity screening of Cinderella instead. Saffron from Kid About and  Kaity are two local businesswomen who joined forces to raise money for Kids of Macarthur Health Foundation.  They put together a magnificent event, resplendent with face painting, photo props and raffles. My little girl and I  went beforehand to Coco Cubano and  shared a platter. Munchkin had a mango drink and I had a Mojito. We had endured a crazy schedule that day, starting off at drama lessons. Now to get there, we have to catch a train through the suburb where I fell. The building is right near the railway line, and visible in all its glory. Every week, I hold my breath, and shudder with conflicting emotions. Gratitude that I am alive two decades after the event. A feeling of absurdity that I am taking my daughter to her activities past the building which held the ledge which held the villain…A feeling of defiance. ‘Up yours! I am still here!’ A feeling of sorrow. ‘I was so little…’ I took this grainy picture and somehow it seemed fitting. The scratches upon the train window are evident. It is grainy as the building whizzed by, much like my life on that particular evening.

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Anyway, we had been to drama and then guitar lessons. Mummy’s spine was beyond agonizing. I leant over toward the seat in front for some relief on the bus. Mummy needed a Mojito by the time we got to our pre-movie café.

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I met many familiar faces at the movies, including Nicci, our cupcake aficionado.

 

I didn’t know what to expect with this retelling of Cinderella and it was beyond my imaginings. It held all the little girls spellbound, and the ladies gasped at the visual feast on-screen. The settings were  beautiful. The villains were beyond contemptible; vile and  bitter. Fortunately, they didn’t take Cinderella’s light. She didn’t end up a twisted old bat, wounding others as she had been. She became more of who she was inside. May that be the case with us all. I am so glad we went, to support our friends and the wonderful organization who was benefitting, and to see Cinderella come into her own.

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Easter

You can’t breathe life into someone who is lost. Believe me, I have tried. I have been privy to someone I care deeply about being taken down. At first by addiction, and then mental illness. I am grieving although the person lives.  If you are not careful, their reality becomes yours, a closeted,  nonsensical, grey world. It holds no colour, no engagement, no life. I could feel myself becoming pulled into the mayhem this Easter. A land where money is of no consequence, rules are for other people, and laying down staring at the ceiling is what one does for 48 hours. If you are caring for somebody in this situation, coaxing them to eat, to live, to fight, can be exhausting. Best be careful that you don’t go down too. You don’t see it happening. I didn’t. I ate Hot Cross Buns in the city Good Friday, then spent all day Saturday in bed. A smothering film of depression clung to me. I was exhausted. Giving, giving, giving until I was bone dry. The rest did me good. Not having to think. “Please, don’t ask me any more questions,” I pleaded.

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Easter Sunday, the torrential rain stopped and the sun came out. I went to Ashfield Uniting Church. My sanctuary. Rev Bill Crews feeds the homeless via a soup kitchen and van. Via the Exodus Foundation, kids who have fallen behind are educated, and a new school is being opened in Liverpool. Each Christmas, there is a free lunch and it is a grand affair, with a cast of thousands! They do so much at Ashfield, and have changed many lives.

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This treasured lady is 98 years of age. She walks everywhere, lives in her own home, and takes a great interest in social issues. I want to be like her when I grow up!

We went to lunch afterward, and munchkin met the Easter Bunny and his assistant!

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Rev Bill was off to Hong Kong and then Cambodia, so she gave him a big cuddle before he left.

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Nobody pretends to be perfect here, to have it altogether. We muddle through life, and that is enough. You are still loved. Isn’t that reassuring? No titles need to be proclaimed, no diamonds flashed, no mention of private jets. No pontificating. I don’t think you would get away with it if you tried! It was a happy Easter indeed.

Weird day today.

After a concentrated, delightful weekend, I faced a weird day. One of those days when you feel out of sorts. I got home from pickup, the most pressing feature being getting feeling back through the right side of my body. A hot bath then voltage via my Tens machine! Yes! A missed call from my beautiful publicist, saying that Radio National wanted to interview me for White Ribbon Day. Oh my goodness! I called her back and she said I was to be interviewed live at 5.15pm! I felt a weight of responsibility on my shoulders. My little girl was excited and declared she would hold my hand throughout the interview. What a price to pay. It is a daily price. The pain never fades, in any respect. I am not doing any of this for me. I could have written children’s books from the start! I am whimsical and it is what I relish. I am ill-prepared for my story. It is ill-prepared for me.

My daughter is on her headphones, listening to Katy Perry, and singing her lungs out. We are cool! I feel the weight of responsibility on my shoulders. I am so sorry, so very sorry, for all those that didn’t survive. I am hoping to lead the way for all those that did and wonders what happens next. I am so glad I am here. I understand those that couldn’t hang on. At the end, there is nothing but love. It is hard to rebuild a life. I am still constructing, but after the violence ends, there is nothing but joy throughout the whole process. I am thinking of all who have been told they were nothing, have been abused in any manner possible this White Ribbon Day. Believe me, you are everything. xxx