A Lesson in Irritation

I have been reading one of Doreen Virtue's book about Angels. Do you believe in them, or do you think it's new-age hokey crap? I like the idea that I have guardian angels around me, and in particular that my daughters have them. I am an intuitive individual. It helps in coaching, and life in general. I find it hard to believe that I am capable of having these intuitions on my own, without some kind of divine help. Same with my writing. I can write pages and pages, and then once I close my computer, I've pretty much forgotten what I've written. It feels like there's a greater force supporting me.

One point in the book that struck me was about being aware of what irritates us. It could be other people (that driver!), that child (listen!), that pet (come here!), or even that computer (just work!). Doreen, and other self-help gurus, because I know I've read this before, suggest that what gets us worked up is a reflection of something about ourselves that irritates us. My husband gets worked up when he sees that my daughter isn't working hard enough on her school work. He thinks that sitting sprawled on the couch listening to music is a sign that she is slacking off. I asked him what evidence he had that she wasn't getting good results, and he didn't have any. He said, I just worry that she's not going to develop good habits and limit herself in the future. Fair enough, I thought. Then he added, like I did. Or maybe he said, do. Aha.

I was walking the dog one day and realised that I was totally irritated with her. She was stopping at every tree, sniffing for ages, and taking her bloody time to move on. Naturally I spoke sharply at her like she could understand my annoyance, and remembering that I was controlling the lead and not her, yanked her onwards and limited her to a tree or two per street. What the heck? Doreen's words floated into my brain and I pondered what my problem was.

Here's my confession: I get irritated with high needs. Children, dogs, adults, my 19 year old cat (she is so picky with her food that I cannot keep up day to day), and even, I must admit, technology. So why? I don't consider myself a high needs person, so why do other people's high needs irritate me? The answer floated up to me: because you don't honour your own needs as much as you honour everyone else's. Bang! Typical of many women, I think. I do enjoy meeting everyone else's needs, taking care of the kids and pets and house, supporting my husband, putting all my energy into work. Okay yes, often my own needs have been tossed into the back seat.

So that is my a-ha moment this week. It's a good one. Right now I'm using it as an excuse to downgrade the amount of housework I do, and honour my need to do a little more reading. Doreen has a couple more books I'd like to get into, along with the new Lee Child. Taking Jack Reacher to bed is one of my favourite activities!

Unpacking Hunger

I had an interesting discussion with someone recently one morning outside a St Kilda cafe. Never mind the empty bottle of alcohol on his table and the slurred enthusiasm with which he had stopped me for a chat, I was game for a bit of fun. He asked me where I was going and what I was off to do, and I explained that I was going to provide food and support for some hungry people. "Ahhh," he waved his hand, dismissively, "the homeless people aren't hungry, that's just a stereotype." I smiled broadly. "But I didn't say they were homeless people." He stopped in surprise, then laughed the loud, hearty chuckle of a happy drunk. We then had a slightly more open minded discussion about who really is hungry and why do I see them.

This issue of hunger is serious, as the well known psychologist Abraham Maslowe pointed out in his hierarchy of needs. Food is one of the most basic physiological elements humans need to meet before we can move higher up into the realms of safety, love and belonging, esteem and self-actualisation. To compound the troubles of hunger with stereotypes is a flaw that people who have never really experienced hunger before seem to possess.

There are a lot of statistics that prove how prevalent hungry people are. Foodbank Victoria, the largest food relief agency in Victoria, supports over nine hundred charities each year. Their massive warehouse serves as a depot for charities to book in, order, and retrieve the non perishables, fresh fruit and vegetables, and in a good week, dairy products and prepared Fareshare meals. Huge trucks load up here before heading out to regional centres. These nine hundred charities then pass along a staggering 10.4 million kilos of food to hungry clients to provide the astonishing number of 18 million meals each year. We are fortunate in this country to have these resources that so many people work to gather and distribute. Indeed, Foodbank's huge warehouse is staffed mainly by volunteers.

What interests me are the people, those statistics who walk in my door, and ask for food. Our community centre is a final desperate stop for many. There are a few people who come every month, insisting it's an emergency while really just checking out what we have on offer. Some people have a poverty mindset and will always see what they can get for free. Most people, however, are in dire straights. I have heard long stories from young adults in complete shock, who had jobs and apartments and cars, and lost it all when they were made redundant. I have seen career men and women crumpled by addictions that finally got the upper hand, people damaged by terrible accidents that left them with staggering medical bills that undid everything they had worked for, and people who have tried to be all society expected of them, only to implode in mental illnesses. Just about all of them are not living the lives they had once dreamed of. Grandparents, parents, children, couples, singles, young and old souls: there are no exceptions. Most people are supremely grateful, some embarrassed, and a few are terribly humbled to have to ask.

We have discovered, however, that hunger is about more than just filling a rumbling stomach. It's about providing the space to be safe, free of judgements, and heard. Battered women, grandparents struggling to raise grandchildren, parents who can't make ends meet, numerous people learning to live with a mental illness, and many, many people living on the New Start allowance that barely covers rent, utilities and a bit of food, never mind any spare dollars for transportation to job interviews, school fees, or socialising in a cafe with friends.

Our vision at the Centre is inclusiveness, a place to build connections, and provide pathways to greater involvement in society. As our volunteers, quilters, yoga attendees, and even the parishioners next door know, we offer a pretty cool community to become a part of. Some clients have become volunteers, then staff, and then moved on to further studies and jobs. And yet, every year we strive to meet our needs too. We visit Foodbank every fortnight, we are a Second Bite drop off point each Monday morning for local charities to collect fresh fruit and vegetables, we have over fifty volunteers supporting our aims, and each year we spare no effort as we stave off closure and fight for funding to keep the centre staffed and the cupboards full. Throwaway comments that no one really goes hungry in our society are unfair and inaccurate, as is the assumption that those needs, and ours to provide the support, are easy to meet. These are complex situations and real people. Come see us, come talk to me, come determine your own truths.

Pondering Pathways

Following the end of the 12 week program, Growing Strengths, Self-Belief and Superpowers, I thought I would feel nothing but relief. It was a full-on program, requiring weekly tweeks and okay yes, some complete rewrites of the original plan, to respond to the unique needs of this group of women. I enjoyed the challenges and the learning that came with the effort. Hence the anticipated relief after week 12. However, I find a pocket of despondence within.

There are a few prongs to my feelings. First, there is something quite amazing about watching a group of people transform. To witness brains absorb new material, see life in new ways, have moments of AHA, and moments of unstoppable grief, is a precious gift. From these moments, the brain creates new pathways, pathways to conscious living, to mindfulness in every aspect of their living, to choosing what is important and how to act by those choices, to empowered living, to becoming clear about what they want out of life.

Second, we had a bit of fun! I miss that. We bounced between serious moments of dismantling previous assumptions to imagining the most outlandish futures, and even poking some fun at each other. How serious and sad would life be without some fun to balance our struggles.

And the third reason for my despondence is because I'm missing that stumulation to think again about my own life. We can't ever go wrong having a look over our lives, our values, our beliefs, how we speak to ourselves, what guides our decisions, and what goals we are working towards. I think of my cluttered desk and study that I recently took apart and put together again with all the items I want rather than what had suited me at one time or another.

Now I take my thoughts and put them through another kind of workout, and okay yes, I am putting my family through some of the workout too. This weekend we are doing our own vision board workshop. What could be more fun than considering our lives and future, looking through inspiring magazines, cutting out meaningul phrases and pictures, assembling and pasting them in some amazing way to inspire ourselves and give us exciting pathways to work towards? Front and centre of my board will be the word: FUN. Where does it sit in your vision of your life, and what does that word mean to you?

Let me know!

An Imagination Workout

A client last week had a decision to make and was finding it difficult. Not a major life decision, but one that would impact upon several areas of her life.  I pulled out some blank paper and told her to write down or draw all the things that were important to her. I sat back and let her imagination take over. Once she finished, we then looked at the decision and checked how it stacked up against what she had determined were the most important things in her life. The decision became obvious to her, and she announced it with great personal satisfaction and complete ownership.

This week it was my turn. I have been putting off a decision for a good month or more, and today was the last chance I had to make it or tuck my tail between my legs and lay blame elsewhere: my to-do list, my family, my bank, my pet, my pen that ran out - you know, anywhere but with me. I'm a coach! I can't admit to a lack of skills, smarts, esteem, ability to manage myself! I thought back to my amazing client and decided I could do with my own imagination workout. I got out a large blank scrapbook I use for brainstorming, found a coloured pen with ink, and started to write. Wow, what an exercise! I thought I knew what was important in a vague, nebulous kind of way, but to see the words right there on paper: Wow. And it wasn't just the words, it was where some of the words overlapped, where patterns became visible, that really impressed upon me what truly pulled my heartstrings.

Something else that happened this week to guide my next decision. A friend of mine was telling me how sick to death she was of her boyfriend's mess, and how she recently announced to him that she would no longer visit him at his home or spend weekends with him there. No attack, no manipulation, no aggression. A simple but profound statement that said, What I need is important too, and this is my decision. I was so impressed.

And so I announced to my family who were blaring Prince's music and doing their thing on a Saturday morning that I was going to the library. No fights about my need for quiet, or being a martyr and whining about how little my needs mean, or demanding more support. (I know, I know, pathetic!) I felt empowered and that I had edged closer to an item on my list: self mastery. Ahhh, now doesn't that have a nice ring to it?

Crazed to Unfazed

Did you know it's official? Trees reduce stress. What people have innately understood since the dawn of time has now been funded and scientifically tested so that we have evidence based proof. Now we can take it seriously. The University of Wisconsin's School of Medicine and Public Health in 2014 receive funding to explore the impact of nature on people, and found that “higher levels of green space were associated with lower symptoms of anxiety, depression and stress.” No matter the income level, the more green around you, the happier you are. Surprised?
I recommend that someone funds the planting of a serious number of trees on the school drop-off routes. The craze with which drivers race in and out of lanes and rush through lights astounds me. I was rear-ended last week when I had to hit the brakes turning right through an orange light because the car that I expected to stop instead gunned his engine and raced through. A crunch behind me propelled me forward. Argh! More trees please! When the driver got out of his car to inspect damage with me, he apologised straight away and confessed he was in such a rush he hadn't noticed the other car running the light. It could have been a 3 car crash, I reasoned to myself, as my cortisone levels hovered up with the tree tops.
Those incredible stress hormones that flood our body when stress occurs, originally to prepare us for fight or flight, can make us stronger or faster than we normally are. Sounds pretty good, right? The hormones prepare every system in our body to deal with a threat - our hearts beat faster and pump more blood, our lungs speed up to increase oxygen, muscles tense in preparation, our nervous system becomes super alert. Pretty amazing. However, these days the typical citizen gets stressed out all the time. Our poor bodies are constantly fighting wild animals and running from sabre tooth tigers. Or facing morning traffic and a host of self-imposed stresses, including caffeine and sugar, and incidents we deem sufficient to freak over (like being late) which trigger similar effects.
The results of high levels of stress are not good. Our nerves are shot, we become more susceptible to heart disease and diabetes, there's an increased risk of panic attacks, asthmatics can get into trouble if the body demands more oxygen and the lungs cannot provide it, injuries can be exacerbated, constant headaches, tension...we become exhausted, physically and mentally, and grow more impatient and cranky each day.
Recently I saw a film called The Connection, which documents the evidence based information to prove that meditation is good for you, and can in fact have huge positive consequences for us, like switching genes on and off, aiding in the management of chronic pain, impacting upon our mental and physical selves in a range of wonderful ways, even stimulating areas of our brain that we otherwise are unable to. It's a simple activity that requires no degree, no equipment, no travel, no teacher, nothing more than a quiet spot to sit and just breathe. I have found the effects to be quite wonderful. And peaceful. Just what I need to share the road with crazed out petrol heads whacked out on caffeine, running late and determined to butt in, cut off, squeeze past and drive on my bumper to make me go faster.
I challenge you to experiment on yourself. Start with just a couple of minutes in the morning and evening. Never mind the thoughts that come and go. Let them go and come back to your breath. I'd wager you'll soon find a couple of minutes is not enough. Maybe we should meditate while leaning on a tree.
Whatever works to support a more peaceful way of living suits me fine. What works for you?

The Brain Catch

I was out for dinner with some close friends the other night and we were discussing those teenage days when we watched horror films with terrified excitement. I remember crazy sleepovers at my home with everyone trying to scare each other silly by wrenching someone out of sleep with light claw scrapes across our cheek. Oh how I wished I had never seen any of those films.

Why not, I hope you ask. Well, I'll let you in on a secret. Our amazing brains cannot tell the difference between what is imagined and what is real. Isn't that the delight of horror films, or perhaps all films? We get all caught up in the emotional terror (romance/excitement) of the main character from the safety of our couch. Have you ever tried to tell a five-year-old not to be afraid of Captain Cook or the boogie monster because he isn't real? Yeah, they don't get it. They are emotionally worked up into a feverish state of pure fear. There is no logic that will work to talk them out of it.

If we imagine something, then our brain works away to make it possible. Athletes use this technique all the time to picture themselves making the perfect movement. Lots of successful people visualise themselves making the exact speech or deal they want. Or imagine themselves already in the role that they desire. Our subconcious then connects the pathways to make what we imagine totally possible. Within reason, of course. No matter how much I visualise, I don't think I will ever beat Mr Bolt in a running race. But I could set myself up with a new goal, picture it happening, and let the incredible energy of my mind tick away to create opportunities.

Tell me, what do you see when you imagine yourself five years down the track? What are you telling your brain will happen? Or not happen? There are many documented cases of spontaneous healing. Just read Dr Andrew Weil's book by that name, Spontaneous Healing. It's wonderfully inspiring. Do you imagine yourself plagued by illness? Or jumping out of bed with vitality? Are you still in a job that makes the ends meet, or can you see yourself loving a different job, perhaps doing something completely different or someplace totally new? Do you see yourself still struggling to have children, or surrounded by the smiling, joyful energy of kids? What about your life partner? Are you bickering and still at odds, or is your home filled with harmony and honest, open communication?

You will know what your heart needs and wants. If you don't, then take some time to listen to the silence. Your inner voice does know. Trust it. Find a style of meditation that works for you. Meditation is spiritual gold. Consider a life coach too. We have many tricks up our sleeves to spur your heart and mind into action. I know now as an adult that my imaginative brain did not need to see images of crazy lunatics spearing kids at camp or sinking helplessly into the sand. Those were images that I most certainly did not want ever to see manifested, or even know were possible. I have a lot more fun now imagining all sorts of things I do want to happen!

Evaluating Our Values

A few weeks ago I applied for a position in a wellness centre. As part of the application process I had to answer in writing several questions, one of which was, 'What are your top three values?'

In my coaching studies we did an hour-long webinar and lots of reading on values and beliefs as it is a key skill of coaching: to tune into a client's own values and beliefs, highlighting ones that empower the realisation of their best selves and identifiying limiting ones that get in their way. As these values are often unconscious, they can become outdated and even obstacles as we grow and shift on our life's journey.

I found it a challenging exercise to turn the focus inward to look at myself. It's not a common item on my to-do list. Is it on yours? Off the top of my head my list of values to choose from was pretty limited so I did a quick internet search and found hundreds of lists in all different styles and formats.

The advice I found when cruising sites was to look for ones that 'jumped' out at me. Imagining my new position and clients, I then plucked out three words: independence (why I was looking for a position), courage (what I needed to take this step), and respect (pretty obvious, I think!).

I felt quite satisfied with my choices, not only for the application but also because I felt I got to know myself a little better, and I quite liked what those values said to me about me. One thing that has struck home with me throughout my studies is that if I am to see the magnificence in every client, then I must also be able to see it in myself. As Anthony Robbins succenctly stated, 'The most important opinion a person will ever hold is the one they hold about themselves.'

To know what we stand for anchors us in our truth. Understanding our values and beliefs is an important part of self development on our journey to living our best life. They can guide our decisions, and they can be chopped and changed as our goals shift as we hurtle through our various life stages.

Find a list (the one I used is here) and look for words that jump out at you, keeping in mind your current goals. Chew them over. Do they fit? Are there others that you think you would prefer? A new phase of life can easily require a new set of principles. An offered position as a CEO with huge demands and commitments is hardly the time to prioritise more time at home with a partner or family. Values are essential to keep in mind when making decisions and to help prioritise actions. If my goals are wealth and productivity, it's probably not the best choice to join a girls' weekend away shopping in the big city.

Just in case you're interested, I never heard back from the wellness centre. After the first week I sent a follow-up email, after two weeks I decided to drop by the centre and check it out, pretending that I was a potential client. Lovely place. Great location. Not a soul there except the owner and colleague at lunch time on a weekday. Perhaps they are looking way ahead at a long range forecast. Or perhaps their values just aren't in aligment with mine. Whatever. A door will open soon enough. Especially with my newly tailored list of values to guide me.

The First Hurdle

New Year’s Hurdle 1


Marina stopped short when she entered the bedroom. Would she ever get used to that huge treadmill, looming at her like a bear? She could still see the impressions left from the cross trainer that sat for two years before it morphed into this treadmill. Her lovely morning sea green carpet. She sighed and reminded herself that it was just carpet. One day when this contraption died and went to neglected machine heaven she could put a pretty rug on top to hide the scars. Her foot kicked out behind her to swing the door closed. It rattled against the frame, Malcolm’s belts slung over the door handle tapping against the wood. Marina bent down and picked up a pair of shoes parked at the side of the bed, her side of the bed, no less, and chucked them into his side of the closet. She had borne two children but felt like she was raising three. The bed beckoned like a siren to a sailor and she plopped down. She shoved several pillows behind her back and wiggled into a supported upright position, her legs crossed and hands cupped in her lap. With a big sigh, she closed her eyes. I will learn to meditate, I will learn to meditate, I will learn to meditate, she whispered to herself. A shout from the lounge room made her eyes pop open.

“You stupid ump! What an idiot! Where’d you get your license from? A happy meal? Just bloody great. Unbelievable. Just unbelievable. You should have seen that call, Marina. He called it wide! Wide, my ass.”

Marina sighed again. “I’m trying to meditate,” she called back.

“Why don’t you walk on the treadmill?” he yelled.

Marina looked outside. The sun shone brightly. There were birds hopping all over her garden, eating the snails, she hoped. If she wanted exercise she would go out and do it where she could see the trees rattling in the breeze and feel the earth beneath her feet. The beach was only a twenty-minute walk away. She couldn’t understand why he wanted to traipse on a moving belt inside the house where all he could see was the bed.

She closed her eyes again. It was a new year, and she was not going to have a repeat of last year. She might implode, otherwise. Is this what a midlife crisis feels like? Another year of same old same old and a week on a beach on some tropical island because it was cheaper than a week anywhere else in Australia? She couldn’t possibly survive.

In, out. In, out. Peace. Joy. Love. In, out.

“Come on, you imbecile! Just play! Leave our guys alone. Oh go back to training camp! Can you believe that? Look at him all worked up like a toddler! How did he make the team? Marina? You should see what they’re doing. Well, if it’s too hot for you, go home!”

Marina’s breaths came faster and more forcefully. In. Out. In. Out. She suddenly realised her eyes were squished shut and her fists were clenched. Sure signs of total relaxation. She sighed again and opened her eyes. The treadmill stared back at her. Marina leaned backed and looked up. “Ok, I need some help here. Please guide me somewhere new,” she whispered.

“Yes! Finally! Now that’s how you play cricket!”

The urge to beat her head against the wall was so strong she could barely stop herself. Tears sprang to her eyes. “Quickly!” she added. “Please. Anyone out there?” She waited a moment, listening and watching for some message, some word, some inkling, a lightening bolt, something…something to shake things up. She repeated the word ‘shake’. Her legs swung over the side of the bed and she sat up, ready to consign herself like laundry to another cycle, another year.

It could be worse, she chided herself. At least she had her health, her parents had theirs, she had two healthy kids who grew up pretty well adjusted, she had a nice home, a nice husband, lived in a nice neighbourhood, had a nice job with nice people. She ran to the ensuite and vomited into the toilet. Thank God she’d cleaned it the day before or she’d ralph again if she saw a pubic hair on it or smelled urine.

Mouth wiped and rinsed she sat down on the tiles and leaned back against the cool wall. She could see past the walk-through closet into the bedroom and amazingly could not see the hulking form of that treadmill. Buck, she’d call it. Short for that bloody fucking machine. It was interesting to see her things from a different perspective. She looked up at her closet. Some spiderwebs dangled in the corners. At the bottom of the stack of pants she could see jeans she hadn’t worn in a very long time. They were faded yellow. Coloured jeans had come back in style and she’d forgotten that they were even up there. Marina shoved herself up, spat one more time into the toilet, flushed, and moved for the jeans. She lifted the stack above and pulled on the yellow pants. As she did, a book slid out and dropped onto her foot.

“Yow!” she barked, bending down to retrieve it. She gasped. It was a travel guide to Italy. Printed, she knew without looking, in 1986, the year she graduated from uni. The year she took off to travel Europe with a girlfriend. The year she met Antonio. Her heart stopped for a moment. Or maybe it raced instead. She couldn’t be sure but she felt her chest squeeze. Beautiful Antonio, with his loose curls and smiling brown eyes, and those crazy shoes he clopped around the village in, tall and sure of himself and his place in the world. Marina floated over to the bed and sank down. She dropped the jeans and held the book to her heart. She looked up. “Thank you,” she said, although she wasn’t sure what for except for the wonderful feeling that had erupted in her heart. “Antonio,” she whispered. She cracked the book open delicately, like a pressed flower that might turn to dust. There in the middle was a postcard. She’d forgotten about that too. She flipped it over without seeing the picture. There were his words, written to her. ‘Please come back. I will wait for you. I miss you. Love, Antonio.’ Why couldn’t she remember this postcard? When she thought about it, she couldn’t even remember making a conscious decision not to go back to him. Why didn’t she? She could have been an Italian wife, living on the beautiful Adriatic coast speaking the most beautiful language in the world and eating the most fantastic food.

That’s it, she determined to herself, this is the action I need to take to shake up this life of mine. She put the card back in the book and tucked it under her pillow. She strode out of the bedroom, belt buckles be damned if they mark the door as they rattled as she passed. She marched down the hall to her oldest child’s room and found her iPad, fully charged, under the edge of the bed. She got so tired of finding her iPad completely flat that she’d taken a charger and hidden it. Now she always knew where to find it when she wanted it. He had his own anyway, so why he even needed hers was beyond her.

She sank down on the floor and swiped it on. First she wondered how much it would be to fly to Italy. She had her own account balance. She could do this. She didn’t need permission. She was an adult. The webjet page came up and she spent several minutes trying different days and months and flights to see what she could find. The further away the date, the cheaper the flight. It would be part of the excitement to anticipate the departure date, so she decided six months away would be fine. She left that window and opened another. She wondered what Antonio looked like now. She imagined his hair greying at the temples. He wondered if might have acquired a bit of a belly too, but she knew he’d still stand tall and proud. No doubt he was still living in the same town and working for his father. Both sons followed their father into the legal profession. What was the brother’s name? He was a few years older and she hadn’t got to know him so well. Massimo, that was it. She smiled to herself. She could feel adrenalin surging through her body, so much of it that her fingers shook. She typed Antonio’s name into Google and hit enter. Maybe he was widowed, or divorced, and when they met again it would be just like old times, the same old flame, that crazy desire that plagues teenagers. She could feel herself get excited in anticipation. Ohmigod! She saw his name. Dozens of entries. She clicked on them one by one. No photos, but the address of the law firm and confirmation that he still worked at the family business. Even a map! She could just appear at the door. Would he recognise her?  She clicked on the White pages, Yellow pages, and every search engine out there. She tried Facebook with no luck. No doubt he wanted his privacy. Lawyers, clients, couldn’t have his face and family all out there, could he? Marina remembered how sexy her name sounded when it rolled off his tongue. Perhaps it was his warm brown eyes looking at her as he spoke that amplified the warmth of the memory. She sighed and closed her eyes. Gorgeous Antonio. Where are you, my love?

She scrolled down. LinkedIn! She called up her account and typed in his name. Ohmigod! He had an account, although it looked rather incomplete. There was no photo but there was an email address. Could she just email him after all this time? Dare she? She read over the bare bones of his history. It had to be him. University of Bari. She shifted on the floor, wiggling like an excited child. She drummed her fingers and coaxed herself to breath. She went back to the results page and scanned down the list. Twitter! He had a twitter account? She clicked on it. A photo! A picture! She held the iPad away from her face to better focus. Could that be him? On the water on some kind of boat. That would be like him. He’s holding his hand up. He sure had long fingers. But look at his face. He was bald! There was that fading ring around his head of thin brown hair. No curls. How could virile, beautiful Antonio be balding? He does have a tummy too. Look at that. Even through the oversized collared shirt he wore there was the distinct outline of a stomach.

Marina felt her own stomach clench. Or maybe it was her heart aching. Exhaustion suddenly descended on her. She clicked off the iPad and let it slide onto the floor as if it was too heavy to bother with.  She felt a bit stunned, let down. How could the universe have let him go like that? Such beauty, such a force of energy. She knew she wasn't exactly Venus reborn, but still. Hair dye, Pilates and a dog that needed far more walks than she ever thought possible helped her to keep her shape.  After two babies there wasn't a lot of perk left in her breasts, but she still considered herself energetic and competent.

She hauled herself up and left the room, closing the door gently behind her. She floated down the stairs in a daze and wandered into the lounge where Malcolm was eating a bowl of corn chips and salsa, and chasing them with a cold James Boag. She plopped down beside him on the couch.
He smiled over at her. “Want a beer or glass of wine? Have a corn chip.” He handed the bowl over to her. She looked at him, then studied his hair. He had nice hair. Thinner, and almost all grey, but still wavy and still there. He glanced away from her when the broadcaster’s tone of voice went up an octave in excitement.

“A glass of wine would be great,” she said. He stood up immediately and danced his way to the kitchen. “Anything for you, love.” Marina watched him go, then turned her attention to the cricket match.

The Rebellious Truth

The word rebel has come up for me several times this week: at work by a parent struggling with a teenager, by a friend of the family struggling with a teenager, in the many parenting books I am currently reading, and by a reference to my teenage self as a rebel. That didn't sit well with me, as I never thought of myself as a rebel. More like aimless.

I have a friend who once shared a story with me. She was driving along, her three kids in the back all singing or gabbing away, when a policeman pulled her over for one thing or another. She lowered her window and this cop began to berate her. He used harsh words, a belligerent tone and was extremely rude. Afraid, one of the children began to cry. Despite the cop yelling at her to stay in her car, she said to him, 'what, do you think this is America?', and proceeded to climb out. She proceeded to explain to him that she had always taught her children to respect the law and police officers, that when they needed help they were to call for the police. His atrocious behaviour had undone all that by terrifying her young children, and what did he think he was accomplishing? Suitably chastened, the officer turned around and returned to his car.

When I first heard that story I was astonished and in awe. Get out of your car to face down a police officer? That takes guts!

The first famous people that came to my unilluminated mind were James Dean and Marilyn Monroe, but that seemed woefully inadequate, after all, James died speeding along at 24 in a terrible car crash and Marilyn at 36, addicted to alcohol and sleeping pills. Hardly an appealing goal for anyone.

Time Magazine this year in March published a list of history's most rebellious women in celebration of International Women's Day. This list, which includes photos, is made up of some absolutely amazing women. Some of them are Tawakul Karman, Aung San Suu Kyi, Harriet Tubman, Mary Wollstonecraft, Joan of Arc, etc. I urge you to take a look at this list and share it around and make sure every female, especially young ones, know who they are. Well, most of them anyway, as some listed here were so violent that I wondered why they were to be admired. Just because they were female?

Interestingly, I didn't find an equivalent list of rebellious men. Are there just too many? Is it too normal a behaviour for them? Or aren't there very many? When I googled 'rebellious men' I got pages of bible quotes, a few fashion stores, one of which had clothing styled after military gear. Is that rebelling? Looking like you're in the military, but you're not really? Is the intention to support our military?

Next I googled 'modern day rebels' and first up was a link to a hilarious series of pictures, a bit tongue in cheek, of 21 Modern Day Rebels Who Do What They Want at pophangover.com. My favourite has to be the smiling pooch unwittingly sitting behind a sign that states "No Dogs Beyond This Point," but the postage stamp was pretty clever too. I hope that poor dog clinging desperately to the signpost made it down safely.

The next links really weren't what I was looking for either. I decided to look up the definitions of rebel.

According to oxforddictionary.com, a rebel is a person who rises in opposition or armed resistance against an established government or leader; a person who resists authority, control, or convention. Not quite satisfied with this definition, which could describe any two-year-old testing boundaries, I found at vocabulary.com this definition: someone who exhibits great independence in thought and action; a person who takes part in armed rebellion against the constituted authority (especially in the hope of improving conditions). That last phrase is key for me - the hope of improving conditions - the reason for the behaviour, which can hardly be applied to teenagers getting pregnant or addicted to drugs or cutting school.

At psychologytoday.com I found a great article by Carl E. Pickhardt entitled Rebel with a Cause: Rebellion in Adolescence. He states that "although the young person thinks rebellion is an act of independence, it actually never is. It is really an act of dependency. Rebellion causes the young person to depend self-definition and personal conduct on doing the opposite of what other people want." It's a bit to chew over, but worth the effort. He also writes: "Rebellion can cause young people to rebel against their own self-interests - rejecting childhood interests, activities, and relationships that often support self-esteem." He offers an informative breakdown of the stages of rebellion from children aged nine all the way through to their early twenties, when the mind-set shifts from, 'You can't make me,' to 'I can't make me,' when the person is unable to get themselves out of bed for a job, complete assignments for class, or act in their own best interests. According to Pickhardt the last challenge of adolescence is to figure out how to end the rebellion against self interest and accept their leadership authority.

I think the best definition comes from urbandictionary.com: "a rebel is a person who stands up for their own personal opinions despite what anyone else says. A true rebel stands up for what they believe is right, not against what's right. It's not about smoking crack, drinking till you're rendered unconscious, or beating the crap out of anyone that crosses your path. It's all about being an individual and refusing the follow a crowd that forces you to think the same way they do even if it means being an outcast to society. True rebels know who they are and do not compromise their individuality or personal opinion for anyone. They're straightforward and honest and they will sure as hell tell you like it is."

It's convictions, it's guts, it's standing for a greater good, (eliminates many politicians, doesn't it?) and it's faith in who they are. That to me is a rebel. I only wish I was one! I'd love to hear your examples of who you think is worthy of being called a rebel.

The Threatening To-Do List

I've been procrastinating a lot lately. My attention wavered from my studies. I haven't faced up to writing more than boring repetitive journal entries. Clutter was getting so deep that the house started to take on that stale stuffy smell. I was managing to get the kids chauffeured around on time and the dog out for a walk, but everything else seemed too much, not enough time, too busy. Ever been there?

Today I decided to listen to a webinar for my studies while I pottered about dismantling the alarming amount of clutter. It was called Clearing Out the Clutter. Sometimes I surprise myself. While the coach talked about how clutter zaps our energy and creates an obstacle to moving forward, I created a staggering pile of paper to recycle (why did I print out so many film scripts and how many doodles can kids leave lying around?), filed away important documents, stashed a few treasures in memory boxes, and finally made executive decisions about bits and pieces.

Then the coach suggested we do an exercise. I quickly rushed over, plopped into a chair as directed, feet on the floor, and took a few deep cleansing breaths. Then with pen and paper I followed her instructions and made a note of everything that came to mind as she asked a series of questions, like: What unfinished tasks do you dwell on, What are you worried about, Are you concerned about something in your future, Has someone made you angry, Is there someone you need to forgive...? And then my breath caught. My heart is pounding again as I relive that moment. The coach's words then faded into the background as my attention turned inwards. What was going on? Why had time stopped? Why couldn't I breathe?

Forgiveness. There was someone I needed to forgive. Someone I knew well, who tried hard at everything, who knew she was human but still made mistakes and beat herself up terribly for it. Someone who liked to appear happy and easy to get along with, but who felt challenged treating herself the same way as she treated others. As that to-do list grew and grew, incorporating intentions of better fitness regimes, stricter guidelines for children, more studying, more support for her family and pets, more gardening, reading, tidying, housecleaning, effort at work, getting more sleep, meditating, writing letters - you get the idea - she felt worse and worse about herself. Ever called yourself hopeless? Even though you perhaps would never call someone else that?

And so, stunned into awareness, I said to myself, I forgive you. For letting those opportunities go by. For being too scared to take action. For dropping out of this or that. For being too nice to my kids. For being too afraid to stand up and say, I matter, and this is not how I do things. For not believing that I am worth it.

I forgive you.

And with a tentative sigh, a clean slate, I tuned back into the coach and continued to toss that clutter, both the mental and the physical. Thank goodness everyday is a new day.

Cotton Ball Craze

Summer holidays. Warm evenings. Beach. T-shirts and shorts. Sunburns. And lots of time with the kids. Could it be any better?

I thought perhaps it could be a smidgen better. With the holidays also comes a lot more time together and more chance for friction. Yes, okay, it's learning life skills, but looking for consequences for poor behaviour doesn't sit so well with me. Determined to find another way to stave off the sibling squabbles, I googled ways to encourage and reward good behaviour in children.  I discovered a website called Your Modern Family and found an easy reward system to set in place. In an empty jar you drop a cotton ball when the child does something nice and unexpected. When the jar fills up, they get to choose an activity (you set the guidelines) to do with a parent or whole family. I like that option better than getting more 'stuff'. After a discussion with my daughters, a short trip to the dollar store for a pretty jar, we were off and running.

I could see their brains cranking, the smoke pouring out of their ears, as they started to digest what it meant to do something spontaneous, nice, or helpful. At the end of day one, there were two or three cotton balls collected, and much discussion about what activity would be chosen. Rock climbing seems to be high on the list. Fish and chips on the beach for dinner a close second. They batted ideas back and forth while in the background I continued to do laundry, make meals, feed the pets, clean up, plan activities, etc, and then I headed into the pantry and pulled out an empty jar of my own.

What are you doing? they demanded. I want a jar too, I said. When mine is full, then I get to pick an activity too. I didn't elaborate then, but I was thinking a weekend away on my own with no one expecting anything of me and lots of time to read and write. I explained that every time I did something for someone else, without being asked, then I too could score a cotton ball.

At the end of day three we all stood before our jars and stared. The girls had six or seven each, which was really great. I rewarded them for random acts of kindness, sharing, and efforts made to make someone laugh. They were getting really creative, and I noticed that they were not reacting so emotionally when the other child had a mood swing. Our eyes then swung to my jar, which was overflowing with cotton balls. Their eyes opened wide and jaws hung low.

Mom, how did you do it? Well, let's see, I answered. I cut up fruit for your breakfast without being asked, then fed and watered the dog, cats and bird without being asked, I put away your breakfast foods, I washed your laundry, I hung up your laundry, I made your lunch, I swept the floor of dog hair, I changed your bed linens, I emptied your bins, I took your clothes off the line and folded them into piles so all you had to do was take your pile to your room and put it away, I made your afternoon snack, I tidied up afterwards, I made your dinner, I washed up afterwards, I read a book to you, I tucked you in and kissed you...you get the picture.

They turned their dear little faces to me in astonishment. I smiled. Quite widely. I used the momentum to expand their list of chores, and which they have actually, unbelievably, agreed to. Their cotton ball jars are filling quickly, and the amount of spontaneous kindness and assistance has increased. But more than that, there is a new appreciation for what their mother does in a day. And I too learned a lesson: I do too much. They are fully functioning members of the family who share this house and are quite capable of handling more responsibility in the running of it. I have wanted to find more time for reading and writing, and now I have. I have also learned that it's a good idea to reward myself too because I do a lot and it should be rewarded and not just expected, by me or anyone else. I get more cups of tea made for me, and two meals a week are now out of my hands. And I sit down when I see the cotton balls piling up too quickly. Some things can wait, and it doesn't mean I'm a bad mommy. Who knew there was such a lesson to be learned so easily by so many of us from cotton balls? Long live the cotton ball.

Questions, questions

Someone asked me recently if I felt my life was stressful. Why? I asked, surprised. Because so many of your blogs relate to stress. Interesting, I thought. My shifts really are my very own.

Australia, specifically Melbourne, rated as the number one city in the world to live this year by The Economist Intelligence Unit. For the third year in a row. Yet Australia rates as number 10 on the UN's list of happiest nations. Part of the determinant for this rating is the country's level of mental health. Apparently 10% of the world's population suffers from clinical depression or crippling anxiety disorders. This is the statistic that interests me, rather than the longevity of our lives, GDP etc, because "mental health is the single most important determinant of individual happiness." (page 5 of World Happiness Report.)

And yet our rates of mental health are startling. Not only is suicide the leading cause of death for young people aged 15-24 (Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2012), but Australian youths have the highest prevalence of mental illness than any other age group (ABS 2009). 14% of them suffer from anxiety disorders, 6% suffer from depressive disorders, and 5% suffer from substance abuse disorders. Despite being tenth on the list of happy nations, thirty people will attempt suicide on average on any given day, and six will be successful. 

One night at work recently I was enjoying some Christmas cheer with some other quilters when a man came storming in. The front door had been inadvertently been left unlocked. His whole body was moving in seemingly different directions, as if each body part had its own music and rhythm, completely separate from the neighbouring body part. He wanted food. Our party food. My boss and I got up straight away and moved towards him. It was way outside our normal hours of giving out food parcels, but as we were there and he needed help, we were prepared to give it. At first he was upset that he wasn't allowed to help himself to the Christmas baking that the quilters had brought in to share, but he calmed when we promised him a food parcel. He had the munchies, and he needed food to calm whatever craziness was going on inside his body.

We took him to the other room, leaving doors open and treating him as if this was a perfectly normal event. He danced around the room, totally unable to relax or stand still, and plucked food from our cupboard and fridge that he could open and eat straight away. We gave him lots of room. I could feel my heart pounding, not so much from fear, but from all senses on heightened alert. His behaviour seemed unpredictable to me. I took my cue from my boss, who remained calm and relaxed. She managed to find out  his story. 

He had been staying at a seedy hotel not too far away. He got into an altercation with two other people, and couldn't handle the stress and stay at the hotel any longer. He scored some ice to settle his harried emotions, carried off his folding metal bed from the hotel room, and wandered off to find somewhere to set up camp. With our bright room lights glowing and delectable food spread visible, he decided he wanted some when he walked by with his bed and whacked out mind. Perhaps it was a good thing the door was unlocked; who knows what he might have done to get inside or how stressed he might have become if we had said no and refused to open the door to him.

With the stomach pacified, a new blanket to warm him and thick new socks to comfort his toes, he jolted and jerked his way back outside, struggled to set up his bed in a doorway a few inches too short for the metal frame, lay down and went to sleep. Ordeal over. I took a very deep breath, debriefed quickly with my boss, and returned to quilting to talk to the others about it. 

I couldn't believe that anyone would willingly do that to themselves, reduce themselves to such a state when reason and logic are flung out the window, never mind physical control. I can't imagine how crappy his body felt the next day when the hangover began. It hadn't been his intention to use ice. It was a reaction to a stressful event. An inability to deal with stress and provoked emotions.

Michael Carr Gregg is a passionate children's and adolescent's psychologist. In one of his blogs entitled, Are We in Danger of Raising Marshmallow Children? he states that current parenting practices that cotton wool our children is not doing them any favours. "The result will be a generation of young people incapable of assuming adult responsibility with no idea how to handle the routine challenges of life, making them risk-averse, psychologically anemic, and riddled with fragility and anxiety."

Do I live a stressful life? No, I have it pretty good. Do I experience stress? Why, yes, I do. And I am concerned about my children's future. And the future of all our children. Why are they living with such anxiety? Why are they killing themselves? Why are they anorexic, addicted to drugs, unable to cope with life's challenges? Why do they turn to ice when they can't handle their emotions? What do they need to learn to handle the bad things that will happen, as they do to everyone? We lose games, break bones, have parents that hit or emotionally wound or abuse, get fired, fail exams, get hurt. What is the difference between those people that get up and shake off their pain, and others that fall apart? Why is 20% of the population in this happy country depressed and anxious? That is what intrigues me. That is what I am passionate about. And that's what I think about. It wouldn't be much of a blog if I wrote about my breakfast and how much I like the little birds that feed in my fejoia tree. This may be my blog, but it is about a much bigger picture that I cannot keep to myself.

What kind of fence do you use?

Odd title, I know. I like to think that mine is wooden, with gaps large enough to climb through. The fence I am referring to is the one you created throughout your life, it is your story, your history. Many of us pretend not to have a past and prefer to cut all ties. Does that mean it has any less of a guiding influence? Perhaps that's invisible fencing that gives us a shock when we stray too far anyway.

Other people have a solid brick fence many feet high. It is sturdy and safe and keeps them in place. Some are like prison walls though, and are meant to keep people out: no change allowed. Or maybe no challenge allowed.

To what extent are we defined by our past? Lots of us like to move somewhere new, start over again, and while extreme it can be liberating. I know a child who was caught in the reputation of scrapper, picking on people, starting fights. Through family shifts this child moved schools and was able to shed that jacket and start again, and created a whole new image that felt much better. How great is that? But a man I know killed a step-father defending his mother. Prison and guilt destroyed him and he lives in search of another bottle, completely unable to move beyond the circular glass wall in which he has enclosed himself.

What about maintenance? Do we plough onwards, neglecting what's behind and paying attention only to what's ahead? Here come the cows over the broken fence to consume all we have sowed. Where is that balance point between maintaining who we have been, cherishing our old stories, and planning ahead to see where we are headed? If we see a mountain ahead, do we just sigh and keep at it, or look for another way to build or direction to go? I'm pretty sure my fence has crumbled in a few places and starts again some ten metres away.

Some of us have very prickly fences that have wounded us terribly. Physical or emotional scars will remain. What do we do with that structure, where bits of our flesh still hang off the barbed wire?

My story has been pulled from the past a few times lately. Once by the exercises in the course I am doing, and now with a visit with my mother. It feels weird. I see that I have tried several different structures that start and stop, and that they are falling for the most part into disrepair. Sometimes I have not wanted to go visit back there, afraid to face the old emotions that tend to rear up, but today I have read some advice and it goes like this: go back and visit your story. It is your story. Have compassion for yourself and release old pain without getting caught up in the story. We must give meaning to our story because it is ours alone, and from this meaning we can move forth helping other people to learn too. We are all imperfect, we all could use more compassion. It's time to plant some flowers along the fence line and take ownership. There's no other story like yours, like mine. And what child does not love to hear stories of parents or grandparents when they were little? Or even their own? My kids love to hear over and over again what they did as little ones. No matter how silly.  It's a perfect opportunity to help them build their fence. What does yours look like?

A Recurring Word

My word for this week is patience. It's been dancing around my thoughts over the past while, maybe year, as I wear myself out stressing about getting to wherever I'm going. Perhaps it's the forties, perhaps it's just me, but my journey seems to have a million hairpin turns with no end in sight. When will I be satisfied with my achievements? Patience, darling.

My husband came home this week describing the 'sales' attitude at his workplace as impatient. 'Just get the customer to sign now!' is the motto, where my husband traditionally has been the let's-build-the-relationship kind of salesman. I can relate to that impatient attitude. I want to be a best selling writer changing people's lives, and I want it now!

I've started a 12 week course at Humanworkplace.com and part of this week's lesson was to read and reflect on our life's journey. I must say I haven't given my history much thought, but after the exercises I realised that my strengths are the same now as they were in high school. How annoying as I thought some were recent revelations. As I reflected further on one particular article on our reading list, I became aware of the importance not only of the journey, but of honouring it, each and every step. The word patience flashed brightly like a neon sign in my mind.

I think now that if we slow down and look around ourselves more often, we will notice more, more of what's important, and more choices to bring on what we want. Once we stress that logical thinking part of our brain I referred to in my previous post shuts down. Just as asthmatics can't breathe so well once their chests tighten up, neither can our brain think clearly if we are tensed up and stressed.

One trick for me is thinking time. While I walk the dog, wash the dishes, cut up food for dinner, or sit and have a cup of tea, the more time I allot to pondering what's going on and how I can bring myself more fully to the present moment, the more I see. As a farmer harvests what is planted, our minds will harvest what we sow. Always thinking about what's next on the to do list? Then the focus will always be on how much there is to do and how rushed life is. Those funny people we all know, they always look for the joke, for the funny angle, and that's what they harvest. Who doesn't know someone who always manages to find the negative part of any situation? They look for what's too hard, too risky, too silly, too anything, and that's just what life will be for them.

 I've always envied meditators who can sit and empty their minds for periods of time. They seem so calm and centred and happy with exactly where they are in life. It must be nourishing for both body and soul. I started off intending to take ten deep breaths and usually made it to three before my mind wandered off like an errant sheep. Lately I've made it to eight. Not just sitting uncomfortably cross legged on the floor, but at my desk, or at the stove, or standing in a queue, or driving, or looking at the divine sweetness of a sleeping child before I collapse into bed with a treasured book. The result? My patience factor has increased. Imagine what meditating for half an hour might do for me.

Given how disabling stress can be and how great joy feels, I'm going to stick to deep breathing and ruminating as I charge through my days, and enjoy where I am with a patient frame of reference. Same list of things to do, just a different approach. It's certainly more fun, and I am more productive along with patient. Maybe today I'll make it to ten.

Stressbusting

I had stopped by work on a day off recently when a man appeared in the doorway, eyes downcast, asking for a food parcel. It was his first time to visit us and he was humiliated. I welcomed him in and reassured him that we were happy to help out. His shy and nervous demeanour relaxed as we chatted and I eventually prompted him to share his situation while he picked out some food to tide him over until his disability payment came through.

This man used to have a decent job, a fun life, and lots of friends. He worked in the music industry so there were lots of late nights making music and singing. His craft was his passion. Slowly and steadily the demands and accusations of high maintenance musicians wore down his protective veneer, and he had a mental breakdown. The diagnosis, as he put it, was schizophrenic tendencies. Triggered by stress. Can you imagine that turn of events in your life? If you knew that excessive and prolonged stress would trigger schizophrenia or other mental health disorders, would you initiate any changes?

From a post in Forbes Magazine in October last year, David DiSalvo reports that 'stress, no matter its cause, alters brain circuitry in ways that can have long term effects on mental health...traumatic events appear to cause depression by derailing the brain's so called reward system, which normally causes pleasurable feelings whenever we engage in fun activities like spending time with friends...stress also causes the release of chemicals that impair the function of the prefrontal cortex, home of higher level thinking...acute stress mutes our reflective tendencies, leading to everything from anxiety to aggression to depression.'

Curious about the possible link between stress and schizophrenia, I visited schizophrenia.com and discovered this: 'These lines of research are converging: brain development disruption is now known to be the result of genetic predisposition and environmental stressors early in development (during pregnancy or early childhood), leading to subtle alterations in the brain that make a person susceptible to developing schizophrenia.' There is a whole lot of cool information at the website if you are interested,  just travel via the link above.

What really intrigued me, though, is this: 'research has now shown that children's and teen's brains are very sensitive to stress (up to 5 to 10 times more sensitive than adult brains) and can be damaged by frequent or ongoing stress. ... This stress-related brain damage can greatly increase risk for many types of mental illness later in life.' (sourced from the same article listed above)

There will be more about mental health in our civilised first world in a coming blog because it's a growing concern, but before I sign off I would like to share an interesting bit of information: people with the genetic predisposition for schizophrenia had a 1000% increase in their risk of developing the illness if they smoked marijuana!! If that is your fallback choice to alleviate stress, you may want to try something else. And if your children get stressed a lot, consider finding ways to help them handle it. Their brains continue to grow until they are 25 years old, and while they are amazingly adaptable and capable, able to regenerate and learn quickly, it would be great to fortify them with a solid foundation to handle stress easily as they travel down the road to independence.

Kids and Kindness

Recently my eight-year-old daughter came home from school in a good mood. But by bed time, as she became more and more tired, she started to really misbehave, which is quite out of the ordinary for her. When she crossed our line of acceptable behaviour, she was sent to her room to calm down. Ten or so minutes later I dropped in and she burst into tears and apologised, explaining that she had been feeling frustrated from the day's events. Aha. The old hold-all-the-emotions-in trick.

I have raised my children to be kind, but that is, I now see, not good enough. Because when faced with someone who is mean, kindness has little effect. I actually think the kindest kids may be the favourite to pick on, because the retribution is minimal, and the resulting stress the kind children feel and express through tears is a good reward for those kids doing the harrassing. In the two schools we have attended the staff at both teach the children being hassled to put up their hands and say, 'stop it, I don't like what you are doing,' and if it continues to escalate, to say, 'if you don't stop I will tell the teacher.' To the kids who love to stir up others, these retorts would have very little effect. In fact, it may just stir up their fun level a notch or two. In the face of these kinds of children, kindness does not work. No wonder she got so frustrated: despite following the social rules, some children will not (can not?) reciprocate.

To my daughter's shock, I gave her permission to say 'no' to the troublesome child when she tried to come between the two friends. And in class when this child interrupted and disturbed her learning, I gave her permission to speak out loud and interrupt the teacher by demanding that the child stop. 'Really?' she asked. 'I don't want to get in trouble.' I smiled, 'you can tell the teacher that I gave you permission to speak that way, and the teacher can talk to me if she doesn't like what you did.'

At school the very next day the trouble maker came over to stir up the two kids playing nicely. My daughter turned to her and said, 'no,' and explained she had had enough of her interruptions. Shocked, the troublesome child went to the teacher to report the incident. (Imagine!) The teacher heard both sides of the story and requested that the troublesome child leave the others alone and sent her off to play elsewhere.

It's not enough to be kind in this world. There are unkind people who need to hear 'no'. And the nice kids need to know how to say it and stand up for themselves. It doesn't mean stooping to the behaviour of these kids, but it does mean knowing that if that amazing inner voice says, 'this feels wrong,' the nice kids have the power to say 'no way,' whether it's trouble making kids in the playground or adults intent on mischief. Our kids need to know they've got permission to stand up for themselves. They need to learn to listen to their intuition. They need to know they have the right to refuse to do anything that seems wrong. The relieved and satisfied look on my daughter's face when she relayed the success of her new strategy during the day's events confirmed for me that kindness, while an important aspect of feeling good about oneself, is not enough on its own.

What's yours?

I got my first unsubscribe request today. Not my first rejection with all the projects I've worked on, but blogging is much more personal than fiction. At least it feels to me like it's a bigger risk.  Writing a story of fiction is bloody hard work, don't get me wrong, but to send my own personal observations out there on the net for others to read and judge? Yikes. I had to stop and think about how this unsubscribe request felt to me, naturally with a pen and paper.

When I wrote fiction, the point was always very clear: to entertain and inspire people to feel emotions, and hopefully help them feel connected to something greater, more universal. What then, are the points of my blogs?

A friend recently shared an incident with me when she talked herself out of trying something new by asking 'what's the point?' to her daughter, who snorted and said, 'there doesn't have to be a point to everything we do.' Are we so trapped in our left brains that we can't do something purely for pleasure? I think perhaps that I have missed the point of my writing: it's not about anyone else, it's about doing something I just have to do. For now, it's in the form of a blog.

What I've realised is that writing is my addiction. Blogs are the latest method to feed my habit. My husband once told me that I get 'feral' when I am between projects. Writing brings me back to myself, helps me clarify what's going on inside, allows me to connect to something bigger than my roles as daughter, wife, mother, daughter-in-law, friend, school parent, employee etc. 

The definition of addiction by the free online medical dictionary states:

Addiction is a persistent, compulsive dependence on a behavior or substance. The term has been partially replaced by the word dependence for substance abuse. Addiction has been extended, however, to include mood-altering behaviors or activities. 

This definition is abbreviated, and there is an interesting slew of information that follows about the costs to health care (in this case, in the US) to treat people addicted to substances.

Maybe we all have our own 'addictions'. Would you be more comfortable if I used the word 'hobbies'? But really, aren't all the activities a search for satisfying our soul, for altering our moods? Yes, some are much more serious and damaging, I agree. I just get grumpy when I don't make time to write. An alcoholic quitting cold turkey could shock the body into heart failure. A woman I know resorts to quilting. She knows its her day off or down time when she cuts, sorts, and stitches material together. When work overwhelms her, she goes home and quilts. We all know someone who pops a cork or laces up the running shoes. So what happens to people who haven't found a hobby, or just don't make time? Are they those grumpy people we run into all the time?

What's your addiction or hobby? What do you get from it? I would love to know. Meanwhile, I will keep on writing, because it is for my own peace of mind or soul. And when I get feedback telling me that I've struck a chord, that's great. And when someone else unsubscribes, well that's fine too. I've fiddled with my words and things make sense. Phew!

Yes, You Are One too

On Saturday, October 12 across dozens of countries around the world, in hundreds of cities, thousands of people came together to demonstrate their concerns about the actions of one company. A single company. And where in Australia can I read about this feat? The local online paper of Margaret River, it seems, a small town in southern Western Australia. And Facebook. There I can find pictures of protestors from: all across America, Canada, England, Holland, France, Germany, South Africa, India, Japan, Puerto Rico, Jamaica, Portugal, Chile, New Zealand, Austria, Bulgaria, Switzerland, and Slovenia. Also online I can read about it at websites from around the world too, except for those here in Australia.

Why have the major newspapers here chosen not to report on this event? I wonder if there  exists a fear of retribution from this huge and greedy company. Fear of something. What? I can't imagine why else there wouldn't be celebrations of the actions and efforts of so many people from so many places. Against a single company! Why aren't papers looking into this event, and trying to answer why would so many people come together? What is it about this company that inspires such action?

I won't try to break down their track record. They are surrounded by so much controversy that even scientists on or not on their payroll would have trouble convincing you to support them or not. But I do know that after reading reports, hearing scientists speak, studying the effects of GM foods on animals, people and the environment, that there is a problem with what they are up to. I have no interest in an argument or discussion with you; I did my research and made up my own mind. And so, it seems, have thousands of other people around the world.

Even though my role in this world is currently limited to immediate family and friends, I still occasionally get that roll of the eye when I talk about being an environmentalist. Hear this now: you are all environmentalists. Yes, you journalists too. Don't believe me? Who likes the feeling of sunshine on their skin on a spring morning? Who likes going camping? Who likes spending the day on the beach? Who has a holiday house? A boat? A jetski? A canoe? A caravan? A tent? Who loves the sight and smell of flowers blossoming in spring? Who loves the smell when they enter a forest? Or the spring thaw of the earth in a country that freezes over? The sight of green when they get outside the city limits? The beautiful array of fresh food at a market? Watching animals do their thing at zoos or how lucky how about in the wild? Going fishing? Hiking? Biking? Skiing? Strolling? Rolling? Swimming? Where do we know is good for kids to spend time? Enjoy your food/wine/coffee/tea? Love fresh air? Looking at a view of mountains, water, islands, trees? Ever smell your food before buying?

Face it. You are an environmentalist too. Does this mean you should go march too? If you like. Or it could mean it's time to take an interest in what's going on with what's most important to you, otherwise companies like Monsanto and the slew of politicians in their pockets (and newspapers?) will remove nature from your food/wine/coffee/tea and replace little bits with science projects. That may be okay with you, but it would be nice to have a choice. And some control. Monsanto's executives have been reported to state that the company goal is to control 100% of the commercial seed supply in the world.  All of them genetically modified and patented. I mustn't get started or you'll give up on my blog. Just listen. Not to me alone, but to the thousands of people who on Saturday banded together to demonstrate that the world needs to take note. Please, take note! Especially you Australian journalists.

Always a choice

I have been procrastinating these few days. Not only are school holidays on now, which is a busy time, but several of us have been ill too. The real reason, however, is my resistance to face the revelation that has surfaced. It's a vulnerability thing. Perhaps you didn't know I'm human. Or perhaps you didn't think I knew I was human? Oh I know it. The emotions that have always flowed through me remind me constantly. And they are cause for the half of the population who couldn't stand Eat Pray Love to shake their head at me and want to tell me to get over myself. Oh if it were so easy!

For those people who have known me longest, they are aware of how much time and effort I have put into writing stories. Screenplays (five), an attempt at two novels, short stories, and most recently a stage play. While technically I get good scores, there are elements that are lacking. A couple of months ago I discovered it was theme, the reason behind the story. But this past week it came up again that my main characters, my protagonists, are victims, and as any writer will tell you that kind of person is boring and a fast route to a dead story. A victim has things and events happen to them, rather than making decisions to take actions, even if the results are disastrous.  This word, victim, has come up a few times for me. Do you ever get that, when something seems to keep reappearing to you, demanding attention? Even these reminders from the universe are proactive!

While I tried to grasp the definition of victim in terms of crafting character I naturally looked around my life at myself and people. What kind of behaviour do victims have? What kind of attitudes? What does their life look like? What are their habits? And the scariest question of all, do I? Could I behave like one? Are there times when my fall-back attitude is one of a victim? It couldn't be possible, could it? No, surely not, not in my pampered little world. Then one night I dreamed clearly of a horse. I was riding, and it bucked and kicked until I flew off, and then it pushed me away from it and into a river. Being a spiritual being, I looked up horse in my power animal oracle cards. The key words on the card itself are: 'Freedom. You always have a choice.' Huh. I opened the little guide book and started to read: 'Let go the illusion that you're somehow a victim. Know that you always have a choice in any and every situation. Take responsibility for the consequences of that choice, and stop holding on to any beliefs that you have to somehow suffer though or endure the circumstances of that choice. Once you fully allow this reality, you will automatically shift into experiencing greater control over your life.' How's that for a nudge?

Yesterday I was busy doing errands. I had been quite unwell the previous two days and spent them at home. All right, I wasn't really on the couch, but I did avoid housework and instead pottered in the garden and sorted through clutter that was begging to be handled. Very satisfying. But yesterday the children were with me and once again the normal demands of life returned. We had several errands to do and the list got longer as one item we needed for a birthday today was proving elusive. I can't stand shopping at the best of times, so to have to extend my list by three or four shops in different locations became tedious. Add to that the demands of children who get hungry, want to buy this, want to look over here, want their allowance, get nosebleeds in the middle of Spotlight, and then throw wobblies (temper tantrums in Aussie slang) because they can't get their way, well, you can imagine how the fun factor of a day out together wore out very quickly. Oh the woes of our first world. I can hear the sighs of the Eat Pray Love haters again.

To get to the point, as I became grumpier and grumpier about children who say no when I ask for help but still expect dinner cooked, about the possibility that I have victim tendencies, about the rest of the clutter/chores/weeds that needed attention, that the chicken for dinner was still frozen solid, and that I felt exhausted and so unwell I just wanted to sit down and quit, I realised that I was being a victim. Oh poor me. I knew if I stood at the stove and cooked I was going to resent dinner, resent the family, and myself for doing what was expected rather than looking after myself. The horse card came to mind, 'you always have a choice.' And so I closed the door to the study and plonked myself down in my chair with a cup of tea and told the girls to make themselves busy somewhere else. Seems so obvious doesn't it? I can hear echoes of 'duh'. Yes, okay I can be a slow learner. It has taken a lot of thought and attention to learn this about myself, to see that indeed when stressed I can play the victim. Yuck! That sucks! Who likes a victim? No one. And so what the heck am I role modeling to my children??? That always gets me.  Is that what divides the Eat Pray Love readers? Those who have victim tendencies love the story and those who don't hate it? So I've said it. It feels like a confession of weakness.

Am I alone in the universe who for some bizarre reason adopted this behaviour? Is it a housewife of the first world syndrome? Is it a nature/nurture thing? Societal trend? I suppose the most important question is how do I move away from it? As Brooks and Dunn say in one of my favourite songs, 'it's just a drop in the bucket till the bucket fills up.' I'll keep looking at my horse card propped up on my desk and when I start to feel that irritability come over me I will remind myself that I always have a choice. Seems so ridiculous, really. I am reading a book called "Global Woman" in which I am learning about the huge industry of imported females from third world countries to work as nannies, maids and sex workers in the first world countries, often leaving behind their own children to be raised by someone else. What strength would it take to make a decision like that? To alleviate the terrible poverty of their situation, these women choose to live and work oversease, sometimes not seeing their own children for years. Well, perhaps in starting to be more aware of my own choices I can move forward to making greater and more meaningful decisions. And then I too can become one of the impatient Eat Pray Love disdainers.

Connecting With Words

One day recently I was dutifully taxi-driving a car load of children around the city. We passed a community building with a big sign hanging out front that said: "Say No to Family Violence." My eight-year-old asked, "What is family violence?" I explained how in some families parents thought it was okay for husbands to hit wives, wives to hit husbands, and even parents to hit children. "But are they allowed to?" she asked, shocked. We proceeded to discuss the laws (no, it's called assault) but that behind closed doors people often disregard laws. To my astonishment, a visiting child piped up in a very casual voice, "my mum and dad hit me all the time." She then lapsed into silence and I could see her brain working through this new information, trying to make some sense of her difficult situation. Further discussion with the child will take place out of range of my children's ears.

What breaks my heart is not just that she has had to endure parents who express their anger this way, but that she doesn't have anyone to trust at home to be able to ask questions to understand life. When my girls want to nut through some new information, they ask numerous questions so they can create a clear picture for themselves. I love those conversations. They trust that they can ask, that they will get help to understand, and that the answers are honest. If I don't know something, then we find out. Often I get to learn something new too. Perhaps I am making an assumption that this child can't trust someone at home, but can we trust someone if we fear their anger and lashing out with a smack?

I work with socially disadvantaged people, people cut off from mainstream society, people cut off from family ties or connections with meaningful relationships. I see what happens when people do not have someone to communicate with, someone they can trust to say anything to and know that they will be heard. Many homeless people interviewed report that disconnection is one of the reasons they land on the street and stay there. It's very sad, to me, and it's one of the reasons I love my job - because I offer a way of connecting with these people so that no matter how shy, how cut off, how humble or how much pain they are in, they can have a chat and a moment's connection to someone who does care.

Which brings me back to children. They are learning so much from adults around them; they are learning how to behave, and open communication is fundamental to their development as independent and secure adults. It is such a gift to give them to know how to articulate their feelings, to satiate their curiousity, to feel free to say whatever they like with people they trust. I love that my children come home from school and unload about their day, that we can talk about the good things that happened that made them feel good, and also dissect the not so good things that happen too. Because as you know, good and bad things happen to all of us, all our lives, and what a gift for any of us to have someone who cares and who wants to listen. It is reinforced to me, over and over again, just how important it is to foster that connection, to make time, to let them know they are worth listening to.