Category: Love and Hope

They held a good thought for me…

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This life sure can bring you to your knees. There you are, doing everything you possibly can to improve your lot, and you still don’t feel you have gained any traction. My old laptop was falling apart (literally), last year, the keys missing and the screen jumping. I had to put up with it for a year, whilst I saved to get a new model. If I plan to finish my new book, I really need a decent ‘puter, and I put the call out for suggestions as to what to get. A particular one was recommended by a friend who is a Hollywood screen writer and best-selling author. I have had it on lay-buy for a year (remember them)?! In a month, it will be sent out to me, and I am beside myself with excitement. To be able to finish a chapter without the screen having conniptions and my words ending up where I didn’t intend them to be, will be such a thrill! I was so grateful to my friend, who researched based on my needs.

I have kept a great deal to myself, as to what this past year has consisted of, but it hasn’t been fabulous. It has been hard graft, with no breaks. Within the mental confines of which I found myself, I was humbled and astounded to have friends reach out to me, knowing without me ever having to explain that I was troubled. There was the friend that offered me a Buddhist prayer, ‘May I be filled with loving kindness. May I be peaceful and at ease. May I be well. May I be happy.’ She suggested I say it several times a day. It did fill me with peace.

There was my friend from interstate who sent me the following breathing track.  It activates the parasympathetic nervous system. It has helped me cope with the chronic pain I endure. I hope it helps you too!

I had a family invite my daughter and I for a sleepover, feeding us pizza and letting us join in their Friday night karaoke session. They then drove us into Sydney for an appointment.

A dear lady I had befriended on social media got in touch. I had only met her once, on a camp several years ago. We connected on a deep level, but still I was astounded when she messaged me the other day, offering her beautiful Airbnb for myself and my daughter to have a little break away.

All of these kindnesses keep you buoyant, and end up becoming the foundation from which you can build the future. When a friend is going through hard times, we sometimes feel impotent. What can we possibly do or say to relieve their pain? What if we barely have the resources to cover our own bills? As much as we would love to send flowers or gift them a trinket of affection, we can’t afford to. I can assure you, that you don’t need to. What your friend needs is you. They need your time; they need your thoughts. The messages I received, linking me to prayers and meditations, music and photos, meant the world.

I will never forget the time I was involved in a charity with a well-to-do couple. He owned a bus company, and his wife had diamond rings on each finger. She mentioned that she was going into hospital to have a serious operation as we bid each other goodnight. The intractable thought kept coming into my mind that I simply had to see her before she went under. I felt foolish, as I was sure her husband and extended family would be there with her in the morning. Surely, I would be in the way! The urge refused to dwindle, and so off I set, to the private hospital. I found her in pre-op, the regal lady I had known. Today, she seemed diminutive, with no rings or nail polish on her fingers. Her auburn hair flopped over her ears, not perfectly coiffed as usual. She glanced over and saw me, and burst into tears, her right arm crossing to rest on her heart. I walked over, and sat next to her in silence, my hands in hers. I sat with her until the wardsmen came to get her. It taught me to never presume that other’s lives and circumstances don’t require your presence. It taught me to listen to those urgings. The people with a million friends, are most likely to need you more than you know.

I tell you, every ounce of support, advice and love I have received has been tabled in my book of life and is reflected on continually. Come as you are, with what you have. All you need do for a friend is just assure them that they are seen; that you see them.  In a few week’s, I will go to this Airbnb in the Blue Mountains, with my new laptop. I will recite the Buddhist prayer, and play the breathing track I was sent. I will look out the window of the violet-hued living room, and know that my story has only just begun, propelled forth by friendship. I will return restored, and with a cup filled to brimming, ready to be these things to my friends in turn.

Making a Will and Planning a Funeral

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I recently made a new will. It was something that had been on my mind for some time. I initially had one drawn up with the Public Trustee a decade ago. I balked, however, at the potential of huge fees charged to my estate by the government. The other day, I typed a list of  my insurance policies, as well as bank account details and passwords to my social media. It felt like an overwhelming task at first, but as I progressed, I began to feel empowered. I booked an appointment at my local legal centre for a small fee, and provided the necessary information. There were points added to help guide my daughter until she becomes an adult. It all felt rather dry, so I then began to plan for my penultimate party, my funeral.

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I stayed up until the early hours, selecting songs, writing a eulogy, copying photos to a USB. I laughed when I thought of my daughter cringing when goofy pictures played. There was too much material to cram into an hour, and so I planned for my wake as well. There will be much laughter, I can guarantee! I didn’t have an 18th, 21st, nor 30th. I am determined to have a joyous party, at least once in my life. To have everyone I love together; to have strangers hug and share stories. To hopefully raise money for selected charities. It will not so much be about me, but to honour my daughter, and show her that she is surrounded by love.

I looked at my drafted plans, and smiled. It has been a painful, lonely, bewildering, scary and ferocious life, thus far. It has also been a life filled with laughter, smiling, swimming, floating, singing, whimsy and love. I have had dear friend’s pass away at a young age, unfortunately not leaving a will. I have seen the intended wishes for their children and possessions be dishonoured. My heart broke a decade ago, and it propelled me to have my initial will drawn up.

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We leave this world with no earthly possessions, but what a relief it is to know that it will all end up with those it was intended for. If it’s something you have thought of doing, my advice is to not put it off any longer. It is a relief to not have it on your intended to-do list, and in the back of your mind. Drawing up a will and planning your funeral can assist you in living, funnily enough. Do you want your ashes to become a diamond, or would you want to be buried in a pod, and grow into a mighty tree? The possibilities are endless, and your loved ones won’t have to guess what you would have wanted. As I selected photos and music, I felt content. It has been a good life, despite the storms. It has been a good life because of the people whom have walked alongside me.

When life sucks, add some whimsy

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Definition of whimsy on http://www.vocabulary.com

We have a new Prime Minister in Australia. It is truly embarrassing. I was at a class when I received the breaking news on my phone, and announced to everyone that Peter Morrison had landed the top job! I had been under the mistaken belief that Scott Morrison and Peter Dutton were interchangeable. Perhaps, I was mislead in thinking that it was a shared role? With life feeling heavy, grey and frankly, ludicrous, it was time to escalate the whimsy factor.

 

I found some elf ears, much to my delight, and proceeded to wear them on public transport. Now, if you are a Sydney person, and have taken trains the past couple of weekends, you will know what a shambles it has been. Trips that would usually take 40 minutes were suddenly taking four hours, and that is if your train was running at all. Solution, elf ears! When I put these on, everyone started smiling, if not laughing. Conversations were started, and whimsy ruled supreme. There were even people stopped in heavy traffic gawping, as I waited for a bus.

That’s the thing about whimsy, it takes us out of our every day ho-hum lives. It is surprising, startling and without ego. It contains humour and frivolity, with no goal in sight, other than to delight. I was amazed at how a pair of elf ears could pick up the energy in a dreary space with tired and annoyed passengers.

Here are some other recent whimsical episodes of note:

 

We had a rainbow lorikeet feasting on jam left at our table and attended a mad hatter’s high tea at the Westin, Sydney. We fell in love with greenery draped over light fittings and up the walls at a bistro, and we ran through a water feature.

We admired the meticulous costumes of Cos Play characters on their way to some marvellous expo, and congratulated the raucous Kiwi’s on winning the Rugby. We listened to melodic buskers strumming their guitars and danced in the streets of Sydney. We were at the Body Shop, and nearly jumped out of our skin’s when one of the sales people let out a shrill scream. She jovially explained it was, in fact, a hiccup, and that it always alarmed people. She continued screaming, every minute or so, the poor darling.

I bought a solitary violet cream chocolate from Haigh’s, after unknowingly jumping the queue (which  snaked out the door). I was mortified upon turning around and seeing the people patiently waiting, and was greeted with bemused smiles, bless them! I watched my daughter soar through the sky on an outside trapeze. Why did she want to partake of this class? It was to feel the sensation of flying; the sensation of being free of all incumbencies.

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These are the moments we live for. The moments of unexpected beauty, the sublime and the ridiculous. If a pair of elf ears can make a carriage full of irate passengers smile, I may have to add an entire elf outfit to my repertoire. Life isn’t meant to be a series of annoyances and trials. The harder life gets, the more whimsy must be added. Whether that be in the form of a coffee mug or some novelty to make everyone smile. The moments of whimsy make life worth living.

Reaching Out

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I have a friend whose visage has no sharp features. Rather, it presents in soft-focus, much like the content of their mind and heart. Sensitive, to them life can feel like steel wool rubbing against debris stuck to the surface of their psyche. Steel wool can be useful for plugging holes to discourage rats and their gnawing teeth, I guess. The aftermath of youthful trauma rears its head- ready to bite- throughout their life. They found the hardest times were when their children reached the ages they had been when they were subjected to horror. The hardest times were when their partner made a flippant remark that reminded them of someone else, in another time. Hell, the past has a way of making itself known, even if one buries it in a pile of compost in order to grow flowers. Turning the waste (as happens in random remembrance), it comes up for air.

I had known this particular friend for many years, had known about their depression and anxiety. I knew about the trauma this person had endured, both in childhood and in their current experience. I knew that they had attempted suicide at thirteen, and that it was nothing short of a miracle that they were still here. I had bumped into this friend twice in as many weeks, and we hugged as though the separation of a year hadn’t occurred. I gave them my new details, and they said they would be in touch. I knew they weren’t traveling well, and each day, my thoughts extended to them, so I was delighted when they finally texted. “Can I come over? Are you home?” I said I was, and put the kettle on. We talked about many things, including  recent stressors  (which would bring anyone to their knees). Without a solid foundation in their childhood, nor a cheer squad, this person was flailing.

They admitted their thoughts had turned to not being here, and they still weren’t sleeping, a long-standing problem. They had used up their free psychology visits, and no resources were forthcoming, despite pleading for help, not once or twice, but many times. They had found comfort in their pets, but when they suddenly died, that support was taken as well. This friend didn’t need advice, they just needed someone to listen. I held their hand and declared, “by you messaging, and finding the energy to come over, you made a powerful declaration about your worth. You want to live, and I am in awe of you.”

The very next day, this friend texted, and wanted to take me up on my offer of going for a walk. It was another powerful statement. I knew it took everything they had to do so, and went against everything they felt like doing, which was to stay in and lock themselves away. As we walked, we took in gardens, and noted the concordant sounds of kookaburras and cockatoos in trees stripped of their leaves. We admired architecture and smiled at the sight of garden gnomes and whimsical sculptures.

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Another friend recently dropped in, whom I hadn’t seen in years. I had loved them from afar, knowing somehow that their life was now complicated and far from the halcyon days of old. They apologized for not keeping in touch, explaining that every shred of energy had been dedicated to their partner, who had been suffering mental illness. I reassured them that in regards to friendship, seven years is no time at all. I meant it. It was a homecoming, and we simply picked up where we left off, spending an afternoon laughing and crying in equal amounts.

People’s lives are complex, and we rarely know what goes on behind closed doors. We have no idea what it takes to prepare themselves for the dawn of a new day. To get up and shower can be an extraordinary achievement, as can visiting a friend or going for a walk. When a friend isolates, seemingly dropping all contact, they may be going through a transformation or they may be going through hell. I have seen the trees outside my bedroom window shake their leaves throughout autumn so they can have the energy for new growth. Hellish times make life contract, reduced to the basics necessary for survival.  People can be like trees, and need to know that the door is always open. They need to be assured that understanding and love await them after a time of withdrawal, and that we will grieve their losses, as much as we shall rejoice when new growth springs forth.

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Recognition

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I recognized him instantly, the young man seated at his desk. “Excuse me,” I stammered, “would you mind if I sketched you?” I was at the Correspondence School in William street, Sydney, to meet my teachers and attend classes for the day. These wonderful people would prepare lessons for me, in between my surgeries. The art teacher had suggested I approach his colleague to have some practice. He smiled as he turned around, which was quickly replaced with a look of horror. He had been in the clinic with me when I was fourteen. The last time I had seen him, he was catatonic, one of the patients in the long-term unit. He had been in for nearly a year, on a trajectory of hopeful recovery and devastating lows. He had been my friend, and I his. Now we were out in the world, he a twenty-five year old teacher, and I at sixteen, housed in a body brace. He pleaded with his eyes, not to let slip that we knew each other. The room was crowded, and conversation of a sensitive nature would be overheard. I told him with my eyes that I wouldn’t reveal his past. I sketched his profile as though he were a stranger. He formally bid me goodbye, and I went on my way.

The same thing happened at a department store in the city. A girl I was in hospital with served me at the counter. Her blue eyes sparkled and she smiled before her visage turned to horror. I had wanted to embrace her, and squeal, “you survived!” She had been molested by her Uncle, and her parents had disbelieved her. She had tried to take her life, and ended up in the hospital with me. She was funny, warm, kind and had run away to live with her older sister, before being dragged back. We were forbidden from seeing each other, and I had fretted over her fate. Once again, I promised not to let slip that we knew each other, without saying a word. I only had to look into her pleading eyes.

It happened time and again, my meeting people who had once been close friends. You can’t help but form an incredibly intimate bond with people whom you live with 24/7. On the outside, these people treated you like a stranger, and you were asked to treat them the same. Nobody knew of their prior admittance, nor battles, save for a few family members. It was a given that if people knew their history, it would ruin any chance of employment, let alone promotion. No wonder I had seen executives of well-known companies rescind into the shadows after having complete breakdowns. What a burden it is, to keep up appearances.

I shared the clinic with teachers, models, musicians, nurses, rock stars, people on the board of major hospitals, chefs, actors and many more aside. They became my family, and trusted me with their secrets. There was a disconnect when they went out into the world to regain their place in their industry. It was an unnerving dissonance that didn’t sit well. I instinctively knew that it wasn’t healthy. These were the days before social media, where a famous person could hide their struggles inside the walls of a private clinic.

This year has seen many stressors heaped on me in a short period of time. When one has seen hundreds of people rescind mid-way through their lives, and have heard them table their backstories, one has a tendency to be attentive to the health of one’s own mind. There have been weeks when my brain has been seized by anxiety so severe that I would spend days reading over the same sentence, or forgetting why I went into the kitchen. Depression so crippling that I would want to crawl back into bed within an hour of waking. Social media can help us to feel connected, but it can also make us feel dejected. Witnessing everyone’s highlight reels, seeing people having fun whilst we sit on the periphery of it all can be devastating.

A famous photographer was in the clinic at the same time as I, and I held her sick bowl and pressed cold face cloths to her forehead as she suffered withdrawals. She introduced me to Carrie Fisher’s writing, giving me a copy of ‘Postcards from the Edge.’ She also gifted me a diary, urging me to put anything that made me want to live in its pages. I included quotes, photos, song lyrics and my own musings, and I still treasure this thick diary with its art nouveau cover. She was a truth-seeker and was one of the rare few who didn’t give a flying fig who knew about her admittance, nor fragility.

As for myself, I feel like an Autumn leaf, blowing this way and that. It is time to have trauma counselling. Back when I was a teen, nobody I knew was diagnosed with PTSD, nor anxiety. It wasn’t seen as imperative that trauma counselling begin straight away, to reduce the severity of symptoms going forward. I have rung the centre that was organizing specialized counselling many times, as well as emailing. The trouble is, services are stretched to breaking point. The willingness to assist is there, but the sheer volume of people needing help is overwhelming. I am going to call into this place soon, and talk to somebody about starting this specialized counselling. Receiving what you need is a battle, and you have to believe that you are worth the fight. I know I am worth the fight, and I am also fighting for my daughter, so I can be the best mum to her that I possibly can. We adults need to lead our young to know that articulating our struggles and being honest with our emotions is healthy. They need to see us reaching out to one another, and advocating for services. Contact the health minister and local MP’s and persist until they respond to the call for more services. We are at crisis point in Australia.

I look forward to the day when people who have sought help for their mental health can embrace upon meeting outside of their initial contact. They can introduce their friend to their colleagues and share where they are up to now. The silence and shame and the hiding parts of ourselves is toxic. The older I get, the more I see of our fragility as a species. I know  that the parts of my body that were fused and reinforced with titanium are the strongest parts of me. The cracked and damaged parts are the strongest. It is the neck and shoulders, hips and discs in my spine that once were healthy, that are complaining. The same is true for the mind. The brain that can be pliable and work toward a glorious future, can also become stuck on replaying trauma, like a reel of film. It is exhausting to keep a smile plastered on, to disregard the damaged psyche underneath and to play pretend. It is time to stop. It is time to advocate and it is time for shame to be quashed.

Removed from Society by NBN Cable (Digital Detox)

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I thought I may have finally got the balance right regarding social media and the internet. Refraining from oversharing, and pulling back from the dreaded Fear of Missing Out and understanding the truth behind a cultivated snap and status. Seeing who the fearsome Wizard really was behind the curtain in Oz. A house move saw me taken off the internet for the term of my natural life (okay, it was a month)! A fibre optic cable below my house was damaged and needed replacing. It was a month filled with highs and lows.

The Lows:

  1. My daughter is enrolled in some excellent classes, which can only be accessed online. This presented a problem.
  2. No Netflix, Stan or Apple TV!
  3. This led to no The Handmaid’s Tale for four weeks!
  4. I couldn’t complete research for my upcoming book.
  5. I couldn’t write on my blog.
  6. Our many groups sent out invitations and vital information, via Facebook, which we couldn’t access.
  7. We missed hearing loved one’s news, and knowing what was going on in their lives.
  8. A strange feeling of isolation, of being on an isle by ourselves, took place.
  9. Paying bills and keeping informed about payments was a hassle.
  10. We missed opportunities only presented online.
  11. We certainly missed the feeling of connectedness.
  12. We craved the immediacy of being able to put a query into a search engine.

The Highs:

  1. When we woke, the first thing we did was not look at social media. We chatted over breakfast instead.
  2. My daughter rediscovered workbooks and the joy of reading novels.
  3. We played board games after dinner.
  4.  We found ourselves having early nights and waking refreshed.
  5. We were so busy setting up house (and our lives), that we rarely thought of social media.
  6. We found out who we were and where the internet left off in its cultivation of us.
  7. We rode out the listlessness and found a contentment with being without our devises.
  8. There was time to potter, to read, play and rest.
  9. We found that if we took a photo and couldn’t upload it to Instagram, it would still exist and bring joy.
  10. We brought out our old DVDs to delight in.
  11. I lost a large chunk of anxiety, being offline. I sometimes felt as though social media were a beast that demanded to be fed and acknowledged. Once you were on Facebook, for example, it would feel rude to answer one or two messages, and not the rest. The same feeling applied to going to one or two groups and not the others. So many invitations and details to remember!
  12. We needed this month to reflect and replenish, and we did just that without the sensory overload.

A lovely fellow came over and fixed our NBN connection, once and for all. Sure, it was a relief to be back online, but there was also a feeling of wistfulness. You know the feeling when your phone has been off and when you switch it back on it lights up and buzzes with numerous notifications? Whilst we enjoy being back online, with all that it entails, we are also wary of getting sucked back onto the digital highway. You know how one moment you are answering a Facebook message, and the next you are looking at Meerkats on YouTube? You don’t know how you got there, nor are you adult enough to switch off. Before you know it, its 2am and you have to be up in four hours. The IPad and laptops may be fired up again, but we have kept the board games and novels out, as a pertinent reminder that we are more than an avatar, and we need to regularly switch off.

 

Eurydice, Safety and Heroes found Lacking

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This past week, a 22 year old comedienne of extraordinary talent, was brutally murdered on her way home from a gig in Melbourne. Her name was Eurydice Dixon. We cried and grieved for a woman most of us had never met nor had the privilege to see perform. We mourned her and we realized that her death holds a mirror to society and our perceived safety. Every woman I know looks behind when they hear footsteps quickening as they walk. We keep our keys in our hands in case they need to be used as a weapon in carparks and when nearing home. We scan our surroundings and check in with friends after they leave our presence or we theirs. We tend to sit in the back of an Uber or taxi, and are hyper-vigilant at all times. Eurydice certainly was vigilant, and it still wasn’t enough, because the onus was on her accused to be a decent human being and not destroy her young life. We know what she was doing out at night; walking home from her work. Nobody has asked what the hell he was doing out.

Last weekend, I opened a Sydney paper and my eyes cast to a front page story. It detailed the abuse two sisters suffered at the hands of several high-profile visitors to her parent’s home in the 70’s. The parents happened to be well-known writers. I realized that I knew one of the men mentioned in the story, and immediately wanted to vomit. He is now deceased, but was one of Australia’s foremost pop artists amongst other titles. I knew him to be quiet and unassuming, and in his later years, professed a religious leaning. I had gone to his home in the Eastern Suburbs countless times, and had numerous conversations with this fellow. I never got the ‘creep vibe’ which women count on to assist in discerning who is to be feared and who isn’t. I recall on one occasion I asked him if he would consider donating some of his art for a charity auction I was involved in. The next day a courier came with signed shirts, prints and posters. I was touched by his generosity. I never saw the lecherous side to his character, but I have no doubt it existed. Repulsed, I gathered the books I had in my library by the girl’s parents. I also gathered up the biography and prints I had from the artist. I wanted nothing to do with either their art nor them, in any capacity.

Looking back I believe that I was spared hell from this artist for the fact that I had already been through hell. My body was damaged and scarred, and I had lost my youthful naiveté by the time we met. We were also always within crowds of people at art openings and parties. I had prided myself on being able to spot a predator at ten paces, and yet in the past few years, a GP I had seen was incarcerated for rape, and I heard that others from my past had been accused of such horror. The link between them was that they all looked normal. They were all educated, charming and seemingly decent. Somehow, it makes the horror worse. They were able to have access to young people, unabated. To be honest, it turns my perceptions on whom is to be trusted upside down and inside out. I feel pressure on a daily basis to keep my daughter safe, whilst she craves liberty of movement the older she gets.

I recall when I was a little girl and would play in the park around the corner, leading onto a dead-end street. There was a vacant block next to the park, overgrown with weeds. I saw a man hiding within the tall grass and was informed by a friend that he had called out to her, beckoning her to come over. I saw him watching me, feeling his gaze before I saw his eyes. I took it upon myself to knock on every door on the street and notify the residence that there was a bad person about. The police were called and it was found that he was a sex offender, with a long history. I didn’t think for one moment that it would have been my fault if anything had happened to me. I was simply at the park for the purpose of playing with friends. As we grow, we are taught that it is up to us to be vigilant, to not take public transport nor walk at night. We must be alert and alarmed at all times. Too bad if we are without a car or need to be out for work or any other reason. The onus goes from the creep in the long grass watching us to the fault of a woman walking by with a purpose.

We start to doubt our own impressions of situations and people as we grow. We worry about making a fuss, about being impolite to the stranger attempting to strike up a conversation, for instance. You know what, girls and boys and grownups have the right to move through their lives and our streets unabated. Eurydice had the right to safely walk home from her gig. The blame is entirely with her killer. The blame lies with the parents of the girl’s whom they didn’t protect in their family home. The blame is with the artist whom I had once admired. I now can’t even bear looking at his face nor hearing his name. The blame is with the creep watching the kids from the long grass, not with the kids playing in the park. I have gathered up the artist and writer’s works; people whom I once looked up to, and have thrown them in the recycling. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the paper came back as cardboard, holding cartons of inspired work by decent men and women?

ANZAC Day

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The past week has been a whirlwind of epic proportions. My daughter and I went on the RSL Rural Commemorative Youth Choir camp, which was extraordinary, in and of itself. The choir was kindly hosted by Concord RSL, a friendly little club with a community emphasis. We pitched tents out the back and were supplied with a food van, BBQ, showers and the auditorium for practices. We were made to feel welcome from the moment we stepped over a pond housing gold and orange koi fish, and into the entrance.

The kids played barefoot bowls in between rehearsals and services. Speaking of services, last Friday the choir sang at the Anzac Field of Remembrance Service at St Andrews Cathedral in Sydney. Gwen Cherne spoke about her experience as a contemporary war widow, and there wasn’t a dry eye afterward. Real and lasting change is being brought about as a result of brave soldiers and widows/widowers speaking out. You can read her speech here.

The choir was also honoured to sing at an Anzac dawn service at the Kokoda Track Memorial Walkway at Concord, organized by Concord Repatriation Hospital. 3000 crochet poppies were lovingly pinned on a giant cut-out of the word ANZAC. A grand lady of 94 and her daughters had knitted 900 poppies alone. I had the honour of meeting Albert, a 102 year old veteran with twinkling blue eyes. As we chatted, he talked of his teenage years in the employ of Farmers Department store in Sydney, and of the mischief he would get up to. He spoke of dances and hope. He made me promise to never lose my smile, as he believed that a part of humanity perishes with each down-turned mouth. If he can still smile radiantly at 102, I think I can manage to keep grinning!

I talked to another veteran about what ANZAC day meant to him. He replied that to him, it wasn’t about particular battles, but rather the spirit, which must be preserved. It is a holy essence containing mateship, dedication, freedom and the hope of peace for all humanity. Every veteran I have ever met has expressed the fervent wish that the past shall never be repeated. War is hell, of that they can assure you. My Canadian Grandfather was in the Army during WW2, and I have been surrounded by those in the armed forces. I have had the pleasure of loving friend’s children who serve as medics, peacekeepers and whom are there to help out in natural disasters. I was in that clinic at fourteen with veterans suffering what is now known to be PTSD. The conversations we had were among some of the most meaningful of my life.

This Anzac day, I am grateful to be a part of the RSL Commemorative Youth Choir. The kids are able to learn from and interview older people, which is a real privilege. They also step up to be leaders, gifted with many opportunities to speak up and speak out for causes they believe in. They are taught about fairness, discipline and mateship. The future of the Anzac spirit is in good hands, with unprecedented numbers of young people attending dawn services across Australia. The hard work of honouring the sacrifices of past generations has only just begun. At its core is a plea for peace, the spark of which is in all of us. We can start where we are, in our communities. ‘Lest we Forget.’

Gurus

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Gurus, how I love to loathe thee… They are a virulent force on all social media, utilizing platitudes and photos of streams and forests, vandalizing them with glib and meaningless words. Do you want to be a winner? Follow them! A warrior? Do the same. They will hypnotize and deprogram you. They will use the collective energy of the  people gathered to make you succumb if plucked from the audience. You may very well do things you wouldn’t ordinarily. The worst of them play on people’s discontent and lack of self-esteem in order to reel them in. Once at the seminar or ‘free talk,’ they will push hard to up sell their books, programs and future events. It won’t end until the end of time itself.

I have had these characters on the periphery of my life, tap, tap, tapping; trying to get my attention. Apparently, they can make crooked spines straight, reverse heart disease and set mind’s right. They can make all your dreams come true. It is not only insulting but ineffective. Somebody very close to me spent thousands on books, programs and seminars, and tried to cajole me to do the same. Sadly, this individual has nothing to show for all this expense and effort, and their already fragile mental health has suffered even more. I have had friends-intelligent people with beautiful lives follow particular gurus around the circuit as though they were rock stars. I have known tragedy to befall some, and the gurus have been strangely silent when it happens. They have already moved their circus onto another field.

I heard that a particular guru learned of a participant who had been sexually abused as a child by a family member. He thought it a sterling idea to get her to talk about it, then picked three strangers from the audience to be her ‘uncles.’ I wonder what happened after the show. What trauma had been revisited and stirred? This guru insisted that winners don’t have pasts, at least not ones that should in any way be acknowledged. I vehemently disagree. I remained sane by not only acknowledging my skeletons, but getting them out of the closet for a samba.

Walking barefoot through hot coals doesn’t make you more capable; it is how you conduct yourself everyday. I know a dear soul who grew up in an orphanage. She cleaned houses for a living, and dreamed of one day opening a book store. She scrounged and saved for over twenty years, and sure enough, her dream came true, and the fine establishment of Di’s Book Exchange came to be. I know a gentleman who has lived with mental illness all his adult life. Professional help, the right medication, good nutrition and exercise all playing a pivotal part in his wellbeing. A slight wind can tip him, but its the measures he takes each day that steer him.

The seminars the gurus are fond of, bring together a spectacle of sound, lighting, fist pumps and the shouting of core words, not just for effect, but to flood the body with feel-good hormones. Sadly, these wear off, and one ends up chasing the next fix. The recent conversation regarding the fellow in the above footage, and his response to the Me Too movement, has to be seen to be believed. Pretty women are virtually unemployable? He used his height and strength to intimidate the woman featured. In my time, I have had many, many gurus approach me. Some have stated that they can ‘fix’ my life, and make me a winner. I drolly laugh, and respond that I am already a winner, simply by merit of surviving a huge amount of crap. Like my lovely friend in her book store, I chip away, day in and out to educate my child, clothe and feed her and I, keep myself healthy, put aside money for her future, see my friends and make grand plans. It starts with a drink of water or a dollar coin. Success is in the small steps, not grand gestures in front of thousands of people intoxicated with the spectacle they are attending.

Sound-bites and gurus should be avoided if at all possible, and futures created from one simple step, rather than treading through hot coals or spending thousands on seminars. Particularly if the guru leads you to have to spend time in therapy afterwards…

 

 

Moving and Reframing

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My daughter and I are moving again, into a lovely friend’s home. She is travelling to Europe to go exploring with her little family, and we shall be minding her Chinese Crested dog. She looks like this:

This little dog is a great escape artist, notorious in our town. She has an elderly boyfriend who happens to be a Chihuahua with no teeth, as well as another suitor around the corner. She actually helped dig this terrier out of his backyard so she could play with him!

At the moment, I am sorting through what is going into storage, and what needs to be brought into the house. I have already donated/given away quite a bit. Honestly, when you start decluttering, it is akin to falling through a worm hole; limitless! I have no idea why I kept all manner of items, including clothing and shoes that were ill-fitting. Perhaps it was in the back of my mind that in order to feel safe, I had to hold on. Maybe it was in case I couldn’t  obtain more shoes and clothes, books and nick-nacs? This move has been hard physically, as I am not supposed to lift anything. Even the process of filling boxes has been excruciating. Somehow, I am managing. This move is getting me closer to feeling secure, with a forever home; I can feel it.

My friend has a yoga studio in her home, imbued with years of people relaxing and letting go. It hangs around in the ethers, and makes you sigh with relief upon entering. For several months, I shall be able to breathe in and exhale heavily, laying my head down and resting. It will be a welcome relief, even if I have to keep a watchful eye on our little Chinese Crested friend!

To those in permanent housing, I highly recommend clearing out your home, as if you are moving, only bringing that which you need or love back in. It is cathartic! The thought of moving twice in a year is overwhelming, and so I won’t think about it for the time being. This move sees me  being transient, a roamer without a base. It is both thrilling and frightening. I remind myself that we are all transient in the end. You have to shake up your world sometimes, or else you stagnate. As I light candles and incense in my friend’s home, and leave my shoes at her front door, I will be honouring the home’s history, and waiting with eager senses to receive what it has to teach me.