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 fuck up your EFTPos. I think this is fairly likely- I’m sure you are expecting that.
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?
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 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.
The reason I blew the dust off the pages of this blog and decided to put fingers to keyboard again was because I felt like I wanted to add some value to the world. I have a busy bee of a brain, and I can move through a myriad of thoughts and feelings within a day, and I thought some of them could be of interest or use to you too. Lovely friends read my musings and tell me to write a book. Something longer and well constructed and more impactful, but I think we have to be honest here: I’m essentially a light-weight. Just as I love to talk a good talk about loving Veuve; two glasses and I’m pretty well gone. Samesies for personal development: I read all the books and do all the things, and then it comes to pass that all I really want to do is be like Cyndi says. Plus imagine an edit? No thanks. I’m too fragile to be told that I have to change something.
Funny, because just as I wrote that par above, a friend messaged me that I should take a look at Substack. Some kind of writing forum I guess. Mayhap I will. Or maybe I’ll just plod along doing what I do here with no real plan or goal other than looking after my mentals, amusing me, and possibly you.
So something nice:
I said I wouldn’t do any more grief posting, but I do have one more thing to add. I won’t tell you the whole story today- but suffice it to say, last year I won at a silent auction at a fundraiser in support of someone who’s life is entwined with mine. My bid won, which meant that we got to go to The Long Apron up in the hinterland for an amazing five course degustation and wine pairing. I’m not a winey, so I love it when someone does all the work and chooses the perfect blend. It’s always amazing to me at how certain flavours go together and can in fact change the entire dish. People are so clever.
But back to the Hinterland. As you can tell, I have some griefs going on: my kid has moved out, my cat got munched, and it’s winter, which is always a time for me to go internal and reflect. So being able to take some time out to go and stay up in the hills was an amazing privilege. Do you find that? Getting out of your own home can have huge benefits. It helps you to see things a little differently, and to come back home with new eyes. Added to that, the Sunshine Coast Hinterland is gorgeous. We have these little towns nestled into the cliff side, so there are views right back to the coast, and yet you are in another world. The shops are different, the restaurants are different, and the weather is different. On Sunday we drove home through actual fog, something I haven’t seen in about twenty five years.
I guess the point of today’s post is not to make you feel a certain kind of way, but to perhaps remind you to think a certain kind of way. To remember that your brain loves novelty almost as much as it loves familiar routine, and that by expanding that part of your mind; the curious, light-hearted, fun seeking part, you will allow yourself to step back into the routine with renewed energy, hope and gratitude.
It’s worth a try.
Views to the coast from Montville
PS Pop over to my insta if you want to see pics of the food, and a wine glass bigger than my pin-head.
It was Easter Monday, and we had been away in Brisbane for the long weekend, spending time with Mum and our manchild who has moved out (so he’s probably just “man” now).
When we have small stays away we have an amazing young girl- Little A- come and mind our cat. She comes and stays for hours, forcing pats on Woofa The Shitcat, and just hanging with her. Sometimes in life you meet people who are true animal whisperers, and cats know them, and know them well. You see, this little sunshine came to live next door to us when Woofa was spending one of her 482748972957892759 lives. In those weeks I was feeding her Ziwi pellets like they were tablets and giving her water in a syringe. Little A was right there with me much of the time. Cheering Woofa on, and sending her the good juju.
Once Woofa recovered (no one fully knows how) Little A was there to give her ear rubs and toe tickles. Woofa was a cat who loved very few, and Little A was one of them, and for that I am grateful. For the next part of this story is not so nice.
Warning: Not nice stuff to follow.
When we got home from our trip, Woofa did what she always did- as we bought in the cases, she shot out like a bullet to make her ablutions. She would abide the shitty-litter when needed, but she always preferred a fresh air toilette. Before too long she was back inside to spread her fur over as many of our black clothes as she could- marking our legs with her scent and making us angora-like. I used to find that annoying, or at least the depilation that was always required after a Woofa encounter. I would take that annoyingness now.
As I was starting on the washing, Woofa decided she needed another run outside. It was nearing dark, and I usually wouldn’t have let her out, but she had been inside all weekend, and I thought, “Why not?” Why not indeed. Sometimes in life you have to be cruel to be kind, and other times you think you are being kind when unbeknownst to yourself you are actually being cruel. This is my guilty cruel.
I let my cat out for some freedom and to let her breathe the cool night air, and within minutes the massive cat-killing-listed-dangerous-dog next door; the one who is not allowed to be unmuzzled or in fact off its lead, EVER, had my little mate in his mouth, crushing that night breath right out of her.
Crushing her little lungs until they couldn’t draw in one more ounce of air.
Crushing her and crushing us at the very same time.
Flashback:
We got Woofa at a time when life was tricky. My Dad had died earlier that year, and I had a gaping maw in my insides that didn’t feel like a hole at all, but a lump of bluestone; just as heavy, just as cold, just as grey. I didn’t know quite how to grow around grief back then (oh what a thing to know: joy not joy) so when I looked into the blue eyes of that tiny kitten and I felt a little chip of bluestone fall away, I had to have her. Don’t get me wrong: I pretended that she was for the children (MOTY, me) but I think we all knew she was for me.
And so she was.
She was the one who sat with me through the long nights of worry about Coco. I would sit on the couch in Coco’s room, watching the rise and fall of her chest in the eon-nights before the horror-relief of transfusion day, trying to decide if she was doing the “puffy breathing” that constituted an emergency (what the hell is puffy breathing anyway?) and Woofa would purr a rhythm of a normal life. Some nights I could even believe her song.
She was the one who sat on my feet and kept me warm all the nights when Hayls was crook and I didn’t have the words to cheer her on in a way that she would feel buoyed. And then after. She was there with that same warmth in the after, when she cajoled me to believe that one day I would feel warmth in my blood again. And she was right, that cat of mine.
Or perhaps I was hers.
I guess that’s more true. I was hers. She owned a piece of real estate in my cells in exchange for all of the things she gave me.
By and by and through the years my life got easier and less grief filled. Less death, less fear, more life, more fun. Things got easier and harder and easier again, and all the while, any time I had sleepless hormonal nights, or early morning wakings, she was there and there and there with me. I’d open my lids and there she’d be, right up close and staring at me with those blue eyes saying, “It’s okay. You’ve got this. You’ve always got this. Now get me some food. And by the way, I don’t really give a shit about what ails your mind, give me the food. Now would be good.” I would raise myself from the bed and the so-familiar-it’s-almost-unnoticed ba-dumph of her hitting the floor would follow me to the kitchen.
Flashforward:
There’s now been a little time since the Cujo next door killed my mate. Enough that you’d think I’d be used to going to the pantry without being accosted for “meo-ore food, meo-ore food”. But I still reach for the bag.
Enough that you’d think I would have stopped dream-thinking there is a little warm comfort weight on my feet at night. But I still feel the heft of her.
Enough that you’d think that I would have stopped half waiting for the ba-dumph. But I hear it in my mind.
Death is a strange and cruel thing. It allows your brain to leave you with things added: guilt that you let your cat outside to be picked up by a monster, fear that you might lose it like George at the murderer’s owner if she dares come near, anger that some deaths can be so so simply avoided, and yet they are not.
But the reaper? He leaves you not with things added, but with things taken away:
your comfort,
your solace,
your little friend,
and perhaps most of all the ba-dumph as she follows you, to salve your heart.
RIP Woofa Shitcat Butterball Popsicle Asher. You were a Goodcat after all.
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