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.