So, friends of the blog, old and new. Here we are again. They tell me that blogging isn’t really a thing any more, and I get it: it’s another thing for you to look at, yet another job to do, and of course you have to actually find blog amongst all of the things that are flashing through your algorithm. Will you even be able to notice me? (See me, notice me, adore me). I see that the pundits are all over Substack and that’s where I am now supposed to share my heart. The thing is, I feel like I might have hit peak saturation for learning new platforms, and this happened unfortunately before Substack came out. I mean sure, I dutifully created an account and all, but I don’t think I can learn one.more.thing. At least not in this general area. I am soothed by THIS familiar template and blog knows how to draw the words out of me. I heard that Neil Gamin writes longhand and transcribes his stuff, becoming his first edit, but I just got a handache from the pen and a headache trying to decipher my pretend-doctor’s writing. I read that Cormac McCarthy wrote on an Olivetti, so I had a little go of that, and even though a manual typewriter was where learnt to touch-type, pushing those keys down is hard with these fancy nails, plus, my accuracy is down these days (under 90% on a recent typing test) so that got tiresome very quickly. For a little while I tried the longer FB post thing, but it was a bit like those Bunnings-style fruit and veg shops littered around the suburbs in the late 80s: NQR.

So here we are.

I want to write you some things, and I hope you might read them. I’m just not sure how you will find me, because the Instabook algorithm sure as heck doesn’t like me taking you away from the scrollhole and over to another piece virtual realestate.

Perhaps if we are going to have a fling, you and I, you might have to send me a message of some sort, and tell me where we can meet up. Tell me how you found blog, let me know if we can have another date here, or if I really do need to pop on some lippy and get an uber over to Substack. Back in the day we used to get our blogalicious content delivered straight to our RSS feeds, but is that even a thing any more? If we are relying on socials to get us together, then I think we might be doomed before we even get to first base. So how are we gonna do this honey? I’ll wait for you to swipe.

Too fancy to type

Today would have been Peter’s birthday. He died a ways ago, so I guess it doesn’t really count as a day of celebration any more, but still, it’s nice to have a day where you take some care to remember. I created a lovely day for myself: did some jobs early so I could feel smug, had a beautiful brunch in the sun with a friend who knew him well (we didn’t talk about him, nor did I tell her what day it was- it was enough to know that if I did tell a Peter story she would get it- sometimes I wonder if that’s the whole point of my life- to have people around me who get it), and then came home in time to take a moment on the top deck and look out to sea.

Peter was my Dad-not-dad. He wasn’t the one who donated the DNA, but he was the one who got into my head and heart and made my DNA worth something. He indulged my love of books, teaching me that it was okay to love what I love. He championed my writings, telling me that I had a voice that was worth listening to. He sat patiently and taught me maths that was beyond my comprehension, showing me tenacity, patience, and that I was worthy. He encouraged and helped me set up my first practice despite me being so very green, reminding me that I could do anything I put my mind to, and that he believed in me. He bought my records from me when I said that CDs were the NEWTHING and vinyl was passé, showing me (years later: this one took awhile Bluey) that not everything that is old is rubbish, and that there is value in things past, and that yes *sigh* after it all, it seems that your music taste (Tom Waites, Chain, George Thorogood, Bob Marley) may have been better than mine (Bucks Fizz, Duran Duran, Wham).

I could tell you so many things that I learnt from my Dadnotdad.

And today on his birthday I am trying to decide which one is the bestest.

It’s hard to figure, because the learnings have become mixed with the person I see as ‘me’, so I’m left knotted in what was already here, what he helped expand, and what would have died a little if it wasn’t so carefully tended. I know I’ll never unravel the tangled truth, but as I sit here on my balcony, I give thanks to the man who met a woman and fell so deeply in love with her that he took on three feral children* as his own, doing it so gently that they never had reason to rebel against him or say they weren’t his. For the man who was such an unobtrusive supporter of the woman he loved that we didn’t even realise how beautifully he held her until he died- the subtle cough as he touched her shoulder and reminded her that he was there, that he had her back, and that he would always support her? THAT is a rare and precious gift.

Perhaps most of all I give thanks to the man who taught us how to savour the moments. The man who diligently worked himself up from the mailroom to state-manager, the man who came from a rougher area but never let that become a chip to carry, the man who was never too proud to sweat and toil to pay yet another bill, the man who would always look to bring others up with him as he rose.

When I had my own family my Dadnotdad would come to our home, make some reason to spiral up to the top balcony, crack open a beer or pour a good red, and look out to that big blue that matched his eyes so well and say, “I wonder what the poor people are doing?”And every time it would make us laugh, and we would say, “This. The poor people are doing this.”

And how they love it.

So yes, this afternoon I am sitting up here and savouring, and thanking you for all of it.

Happy birthday Peter.

* Well two really- I wasn’t feral, but the twins sure as heck wanted to be.

For the next month I’m doing something a little different… My friend and often partner in crime silliness is away for a month, so I’m doing a locum for her. This used to be my job back in the dim dark ages before kids, and I bloody loved it. Working in someone else’s practice is invigorating and fresh in ways that defy good sense. I mean, chiro never changes, people are similar the world over, and anatomy doesn’t have that much variation. Yet stepping into someone else’s practice is delicious and strange. It’s almost like reading someone’s diary, when they say you can. You’re not doing the wrong thing- they gave you the key- but you know you are peeking behind the curtain. And I love what’s behind the curtain. I love being allowed into the workings of another person’s mind. I love trying to see the world as they might. Working in someone else’s space is a little like that. It’s fun and curious and humbling all at once.

So this morning I’ve crossed the bridge, left The Shire, and set myself up in Sam’s office. I bought some creature comforts; my own activator, my own computer, and I’ve stepped into some of hers, whilst following the procedures manual to the letter. (I’m good with a list).

Even though I’ll be doing the work I’ve done for eons, and probably even reuniting with some people from our old days when we worked in the same office, my world seems somehow different today. I had a new spring in my step as I walked through the shops just now, and I have felt extremely professional and competent turning on lights, popping out the signage, checking the messages.

Full disclosure: I am a bit of a dolt sometimes, so I am aware that there will be some plot twists and winding side roads over the next month (I’ve already been asked about someone’s third-party payer that I have no idea about), but there is something intoxicating about setting forth on new adventures. Sometimes a change in geography is all it takes. I feel a little like Bilbo.

So this weekend, I hope that you have something different to look forward to this week. Our brains of course love habit- they try to make as many things in our day habitual as possible because it’s soothing, but this little brain also loves novelty, and so it is getting some nice little zings as this newness unfolds.

Wish me luck.

And Sambo, sorry if I mess up your EFTPos. I think this is fairly likely- I’m sure you are expecting that.

My little slice of paradise

Do you believe in magical thinking? I do. I know deep down that what we sing about, we bring about. And by that I mean: the things we love to think on, the things we give energy and good juju to, are the things we attract. Of course we have to add lots of fun and allow for time, but it seems to me, if we want things enough and are prepared to do the work for them, we very often get them.

And then there’s magical thinking.

I got thinking about magic a couple of days ago when I went into Unit Two’s garbage dump bedroom and noticed this picture by the gorgeous Kate Knapp on the wall. We got this for Coco when she was a little screamapillar, probably more for us that for her (she couldn’t read, after all) so we could think of a future for her that was more sunshine and unicorns than the one the medical staff were suggesting. Her bedroom these days is littered with half used lip gloss tubes and Minties wrappers, back then it was filled to the brim with life-affirming slogans and brain-enhancing paraphernalia. It’s been a long moment since I noticed this pic, with Saffy the skaterdog living large. Take a look: she’s wearing roller-skates. And guess what Coco’s fave activity outside of scroll-holes and hot-water-depleting-showers is? Yep, give the lady a prize, it’s rollerskating. Magic? Or coincidence?

Then there’s the vision boards I’ve created over the years. At one stage the kids told me to be careful what we put on them, because “everything on them comes true”. (Well duh, dummies; that’s the point). It think it was the day that I was putting a picture of a restaurant I wanted to go to, replete with food porn pic. The kids were going through what we shall call their “culinary white phase” so the rainbow of nutrients gave them palpitations. (Don’t worry kids, you were not invited any way.)

So I looked around at the other pics that adorn our walls: the painting of Nath and I staying true to our promises. The Leunig that reminds us to be where we are. and who we are and shut out the “next shiny thing” noise. The blackboard scrawl reminding us of how lucky we are. The little bookcase light that says, “Do things that matter” and helps me to shrug off the things that don’t.

There’s more of course: I’m a purpose gal- I don’t choose to collect things, ideas or people that don’t have significance to me, so it’s been fun to have a look at the things that our home is peppered with, and be reminded of how the magic can unfold. How affected we can be by slogans and ideas and pictures of the world we wish to inhabit.

This week I’ve been motivated to create some vision boards- one for the house upgrades we will be working on next, and another for my beautiful life over the next five years. I can already see some things lining up, simply by surrounding myself with the magic. Isn’t magic funny. It works even when you aren’t checking in on it.

Now the only concerning thing is this delightful little vision that Unit Two put on the ceiling above my bed a week or so again. Oh Cillian… why did they do this to you?

I’m sorry Cillian

Every Friday was book day in our house. Well, not for anyone else, but for me. Every Friday my Dad would head off to work, like he always did, suit and tie, polished shoes, moustache blazing. And every Friday afternoon he would come up the driveway, tie a little loosened, moustache a little awry (it was a magnificent mo’ and probably deserves a blog of its own) with a brown paper bag tucked under his arm. I would watch him from the front room, trying not twitch the curtains too much as he came up the path with that slow loping gait of his. Unhurried, unflustered. That was my Dad.

He would come in the door, put his bag gently down, acting as if there was nothing unusual happening. He would continue on with his languid movements, kissing my Mum hello and pretending that he didn’t have a bounty of adventures under his arm. Meanwhile I would be hopping from one foot to the other, almost peeing my pants with excitement, and trying to act nonchalant (this was part of the charade we played) waiting, waiting. Hoping the paper bag was book-shaped and for me, and not Darrel Lee chocolate-shaped and for my stinking little brothers. Spoiler alert: it was always book-shaped.

I don’t know when bookdayFriyays started, but I lived for them.

And I don’t know if my Dad knew how much they meant to me. I wish now I’d told him. I wish I’d told him how I would wake up on Friday mornings with the delicious hope that today I would get a book. For it wasn’t like Christmas, when despite the threats of parents about good behaviour, we knew deep down that we’d at least get something. Bookdays weren’t guaranteed. Bookdays were a treat. And there is no day in the world that isn’t improved by having hope.

Eventually he would do that little cough he did before all important conversations, and say, “What’s in this bag, I wonder?” By then I’d be ready to lose my mind, but instead I would say, “Um, is it a Trixie Belden?” And for thirty six amazing weeks it was. Apparently as Trixie gained popularity among girls of a certain age, some of the books became difficult to source. So not only did he have to remember which one I was up to, but to find it in the bookshop after his “Friday business lunch” (it was the ’80s remember, and Bob approved of such things), no matter how elusive volume fourteen was. As the years went by the books changed, but to be honest, it’s the Trixies I remember the most.

And though I know that bookdays can’t possibly have been every Friday, when I rewind through the years, it feels like they were. It feels like I spent hours waiting by the window, and then even more hours reading on my bed, then later, under the covers, binge-reading by torchlight. I’d read it cover to cover on Friday, and then again over the rest of the week, savouringly. My Trixie addiction taught me to read for content and then for context, where on the second read I’d notice language constructs and finer details that I’d missed the first time. I still do that now, dog-earing pages, underlining, re-reading, and looking for treats that some authors leave for people like me who love the way words are put together.

People sometimes say I read a lot, and it makes me tilt my head to the side as I wonder what they mean. Compared to what? Compared to whom? Reading does so much for me: it’s where I learn, it’s how I make sense of the world, it’s my form of mediation, it’s where I make new friends and catch up with old ones, it’s where I go on adventures and lose my sense of self. I’ve lived a thousand lives through words laid carefully on pages, honed by wordsmiths. To read “a lot” is to live fully.

I do wish I’d had the chance to tell my Dad about the lives he’s helped me live. It’s been a wild ride: it’s been big and bold and full of bright colours. My lives have stretched through the centuries and even through the worlds: “there are other worlds than this.”* and my Dad gave them to me in a brown bag.

I hope he knew.

*From the Dark Tower by Stephen King

She’s had a life..

I love a bit of woowoo. I have loved ‘pulling a card’ since Di Coleman introduced me to her little affirmation cards close to thirty years ago. I am not the type to put my life in the hands of the gods, but I do like to make meaning of things. So I like to pick a card and see where it makes my mind go, what connections I make, and whether or not I see it as relevant to me.

Today I had a little time, so I decided to use my cute little animal tarot cards to do a full Celtic Cross. It’s always fun to see what I think about the ‘problem’ I see myself in, once the cards give their opinion, and what will happen going forward, based on tiny pieces of cardboard. Would I make a major decision due to the presence or absence of the Dragonfly card? No. However sometimes having someone (card, person, meme) jump into my mind can solidify what I really think. Below the surface of the daily to-do list, the opinions of others, and the demands of running a business or two, it can be fun to take a moment and reflect on what is under the calm surface of a life.

So I dutifully laid my ten cards out, nodding along at some of the suggestions (and let’s face it- a card reading is only going to be as good as the person interpreting it) and tilting my head in curiosity at others. I always hold my breath a little when it comes to the last card in the cross, for it’s the the big enchilada: “The Most Likely Outcome.” (Ta-da). It’s the card where the curtain is pulled back and we get to see what the great and powerful Oz really looks like. Are we still in Kansas, Toto? Or are we about to land on some funky ol’ witch?

I sucked in my breath when I saw that my outcome card was from the Minor Arcana (damn) and the suit of Winter (double damn). I hate Winter in life and in cards. The Winter suit is always a bit sucky. Anyhow, it was too late to put it back in the pack in the hopes of getting a more auspicious card*. To add insult to psychological injury, it was a card with bloody birds on it. Winged-rats are my kryptonite.

I’m about to share with you what my most likely outcome card said, but I don’t think it was just for me. I think it might be for you too. I won’t type the whole thing out, but here are the Cliff Notes on it:

• It’s easy to convince yourself you’re trapped when you really aren’t.
• Being afraid of change can prevent you from having the vibrant, colourful life you’re dreaming of.
• Believe in yourself.
• Ask for help.
• And most of all the message is: “Escape the cage of your thoughts, sing your song, show your true colours, and know that you’re beautiful.”

So take this as your reminder this lovely day. It’s your permission to be wholly and fully you.

Go and “Fly my pretties! Fly.”**

*I may or may not do this sometimes if I don’t like a card.

**Don’t come at me. I’m referencing the original cut.. Or Mr.Burns, choose your poison.

PS That Em Rusciano vid is worth a watch. It’s a banger.