…and pause…

I read a cool blog today from my friend Esyltt Graham (Vitality With Esyltt) where she spoke about the importance and power of the pause. Of stopping and sitting to just be.

I know I haven’t always been one to embrace the pause. My mind pings from one thing and pongs over to another in rapid and relentless layers. I can’t even say “in succession”, because some of the thoughts don’t even wait for the one before to be finished before they are off, racing to the next destination. Which means I can look like I’m in quiet repose, when really I’m busy with all manner of thoughts and internal conversations. I don’t think I’m alone in this, which made me think about how important the pause actually is. The lack of pause could even be the real pandemic. Or is it endemic: a condition that we know is there, but have decided we will just live along with? Do we live in some kind of symbiosis with it, perhaps even addicted to its presence- this lack of pause- until the day comes when it overtakes us and we are forced to take the time to succumb or rejuvenate?

I have created a whole slew of procedures in my world to stop the mental ping-pong. I have a five-step morning ritual that centres me, and gets me ready for the day. I have ‘day dreaming time’ in the diary, where I sit on the couch and let the pings pong at will. I set aside time every day to read. I meditate daily (sometimes for tiny snippets of respite, and others to take in the wild expanse of the unified field) and of course I love to write. Some of these things are more effective than others at creating opportunities to pause, and I guess they could sound like a lot of work, but they actually do the opposite for me. They are the things that bring me the most joy and the most delight. De light. They bring me to the light. You know that sense of fizzy fun that coaxes the edges of your mouth up into a crescent, no matter how deep that valley between your eyes is? (Fun fact: Liam once said to me on a particularly fraught day “Your valleys are deep today Mum.” Thanks kid, I’m aware.)

So yes, I can see the value of the pause. Of that ability to take a break from the busyness and the scrolling and the information overload, and to simply allow. To sip a cup of tea. To feel the warmth of the mug on your hands. To watch the dust motes dancing on the sunbeams. And perhaps to do even do a little more than a pause. To actually put in a full stop.

For it is in the stopping and the sitting and the space between the notes, that the true symphony of our life is played out. Perhaps it is in these pauses- these narrow crannies between one task and the next- that if we tune in our ears, and open our hearts we will see the thing we are looking for, find the light that we most yearn to bask in. It the stops we might have the mysteries of the universe revealed to us, or maybe we will just get clear on what to cook for dinner, but I have a feeling that there is something just there, just on the other side, that would love to show its shy little face, if we can just stop long enough to glimpse its presence.

Maybe the pauses are where the meaning lives.

What do you do to pause? Is there anything in your pauses?

…From The Ashers…

So here they are, the hits of the week… (I’d love to hear yours as well you know- sharing is caring, after all).

1.Bringing back blog. I had a funny start to the week- a bit wobbly in some ways, and I realised I wasn’t taking enough time to do the little things I like. Nothing astounding, just a bit more water, a bit more sun on my skin, and a bit more mucking around on the keys. Not piano keys (I won’t torture you with my rendition of Ode to Joy, which is the only song I know), but the keys of this little golden MacBook. It has a way of pulling the truth out of my fingers and I didn’t realise how much I had missed that. So “hi”.

2. RIP kettle (yes the little fucker is almost brand new), so hello warranty claims and all that happy crappy. (That’s a lie, that stuff is never happy is it?). The upside- and there always is an upside isn’t there- is that I was “forced” to go out for a coffee which slowly grew into a second breakfast, perched up in the Noosa treetops at Peppers. Big high ceilings, the chirp of holiday-makers, and staff that let you savour your moments. Five stars.

3. Heres’s another double-edger: a girls’ weekend away at The Goldy with The Heathers (I’ll tell you about them sometime- maybe that’s a story for the Secret Asher Stories?) canned due to Rona, so for once I’ve decided to gift myself the weekend off. So Cokesi and I will trundle down the Big Bruce to BrisVegas for some gyoza-fuelled shopping time. You’ve gotta grab your moments these days, don’t you? We are grateful that we are able to drive more than ten kilometres for something that some would consider non-essential (those someones clearly haven’t seen Coco after a Bubble Tea, diving into Zara Teens.

4. The Joe Dispenza course I completed this week. Thanks Hay House for marketing like MoFos until I finally signed up. The learning and the mediations are ace, but most of all, Joe got me clear on me. The Mind Movie “memory of the future” is a deal-breaker for a visual learner like me, who also loves some groovy (yes, I said groovy and I’m standing by it) music, and some words of affirmation. Hit me up if you want to know more. Bloody gold.

5. Old records. I reckon they hold some magic in their ridges. Telling stories of tunes past, each jump a reminder of a time when I danced too hard and too close to the needle on our old floorboards, or carelessly shoved a record back into its sleeve, rushing for the next song, the next song. Today I’ve got this one on rotation. I’m pleasantly surprised about how many of the spaces between the mondegreen of words I actually get right. Good songs get into your pathways don’t they? And they know how to take you to that place.

Hello old friend, I remember you.

So that’s it for my hits… What are yours? Did you have a moment of “Lively Up Yourself” this week?

…From The Ashers…

Look Ma, no watch.. Is it just me or is it funny that a timepiece is called a watch?

This week I have been delving into what I really love to spend my time on. And I mean spend. Mitch Albom reminds us that humans are the only species who divvy up and measure time a structured way, to divide and divide and divide until even a long exhale, a sip of tea or a glance to the horizon are allocated a moment. All of the other creatures who inhabit this planet measure time otherly. By the scent of the breeze, the crunch of frost on the morning grass, the ebbing of the tide or the smile of the moon.

Time is a currency that we spend and save through our days. We throw it away with wild abandon as we gaze into the eyes of our babies, and tap tap tap away when we are far from the people we love. We let it fly freely as we cartwheel and sprint through our childhoods, sleep and grumble it away through our teens, and try to hoard it as the menopausal pull of gravity sags our stomach skin and jowls, and we finally admit that just as time is starting to speed up, we want to take more of it, in bigger and bigger chunks, for ourselves. To fill it with things that make our hearts beat more resonant and  deep, and if we are truly lucky; skip a little every now and then.

The places we choose to spend our time on don’t notice us at all, so it is us who must do the noticing. It is us who must approach our spending with care and attention. To make our investments count. Moment by tiny moment. Or so we believe.

The cult of busyness has fed into this trope, adding a sense of guilt, making us like ticking-eco-warriors (worriers) constantly finding ways to save, share, reuse and recycle our time so that an indolent hour in the sun is something akin to putting the plastics and glass in with the regular garbage. A small thing for one, but with a callous flow on effect that could jeopardise more than we planned. Or does it?

What if the flow on effect of us taking time to centre ourselves does the opposite of destruction? What if, instead of wasting and destroying, it soothes our cells in a way that they are free to bathe in moments of expansion? Of rejuvenation and clarification. Of love.

And what if this sensation creates the space for us to just simply care? For ourselves. For the things that blow our skirts up. For the hearts of those around us. For the minds and bodies of all humanity. What if by the simple process of spending some of our minutes and hours on something that allows us be present and listen to pull of our yearnings, we are able to be more present to give our presence? Being careworn is something that happens with time and weather and experiences and love and grief and life. The care will be worn into us, and we to it, holding hands through the rest of our days.

I think today is a great day to spend some time with care. Holding hands with her. Seeing what she can show us when we show up.

After all, what do we have to lose?

Time? She shall pass anyway.

What are you spending your time on today?

…From The Ashers…

Remember joy? It was a thing we used to have a lot of, and we talked about it heaps, back in the day. Then over the last year or so; not so much. So many new words and phrases have jumped into our vernacular that it seems we have forgotten some of our old faves.

And we’ve stopped writing and posting about our favourite things too. At least I know I have.

Things have gotten so serious and scary and strange, that telling you a story about how yesterday I thought I’d like to move to the country, so I drove for over an hour, some of it on dirt roads, to get to the old Kandanga School, a property that I thought I’d buy. When I go there, I realised: it was IN THE COUNTRY. Which meant there was country things like flies and dirt and cows, and not so much non-country things like cafes and homewares shops selling pinch pots and Witchery stores. It turns out that I don’t like the country quite as much as the romantic part of my brain thinks, and Country Road is really nothing much like country roads.

With the world doing weird-world stuff I feel a bit frothy talking and telling about the millions of things that go through my head (why does Woofa the shitcat sit on the back of the couch instead of on the couch, how did that wispy white cheek-hair grow to five centimetres when I only plucked it yesterday, should I start a combined chiro-cafe-bookstore called Crooked Spines, or should it be Aligned Spines, or should I also sell records and call it A Few of My Favourite Things and be done with it?)

So on my drive to the country I played Dan Zanes tunes on the way there (from when the kids were little and Hayls was alive) and Hamilton on the way home (now that the kids are older and Hayls would have loved the MadKing songs) and I remembered a little of who I was before the crazy stuff began. I remembered that I liked to go to cafes and drink coffee (only one or I can’t sleep) and write stories. I remembered that I liked to breathe deeply, to look a the sun shining on peoples’ faces and to talk to strangers about unimportant issues. I remembered that I am not a scientist or a researcher or a biochemist, I’m just a Mum with kids that I want to hold close for as long as I can, and take care of them the best way I know how. I remembered that I like it when people are kind.

So no, this blog doesn’t tackle the big issues. It doesn’t tackle any issues. But it does carve out a little space of joy for me, and so that’s what I’m doing from now on. Bringing back the joy.

Joy to the world.

What brings you joy? I’d love to hear…

…From The Ashers

Today, as I always do on your leonine birthday, I woke up feeling a bit perturbed. Nothing specific, it’s just that when you die you really die don’t you? No matter how much I try to trick my mind to believe that we are just busy in our lives right now, and that I’ll probably see you on the weekend (of course you’ll want to celebrate, you big show-off) I still know. Somewhere back in there, nice and deep, is a box with “Hayls” engraved on the lid in fancy-as-fuck script, and mostly I prefer to keep it shut. It’s not dusty though, I pick it up and turn it over in my hands often. I stroke the grain of the wood and trace the lock with my finger. I smile as I think of some of the treasures inside, and as long as I don’t open it, all is well.

But some days I am brave enough to flip open the latch and open that box a tiny crack. Snatches of conversation sneak out and hit the air and my heart. I might hear one of your catch-phrases (cats of Australia, vertebone, heeeeed, muff ’em Liam, big girl, a Billy Ray Cyrus) or maybe I’ll hear you laugh. I’ll definitely hear you laugh- you were always laughing weren’t you? Perhaps you’ll call me waif. I know I wasn’t called waif  in a good way, but I liked it anyway. You’re the only one who ever called me that (for obvious reasons), and I felt very Kate Moss. (I could use a bit of that now that I have an expanding menopausal arse, thanks.) Maybe you’ll call me a bogan for one of a myriad of transgressions, tell me how to eat my meal (chef has already seasoned that) or instruct me to drink some kind of weird cherry beer.

Some of our ill-thought out, fanciful plans might slither out, or if I’m lucky I might get an image- one of you prepping a meal, trying on a new A-line “cutesy” skirt, or getting ready to jump in the pool for our laps.

I might get your smile.

The thing is, I know exactly what’s in the box, so I don’t know why opening it is so scary.

Maybe it’s because even after all these years, knowing what’s in it and keeping it pristine-closed is safer than admitting that all I have left of you is some ashes and the contents of the box. I guess I want something more, which seems both selfish and just right at the same time.

I’ve been waiting all day today for someone to post on your page. I wanted everyone to remember that it would have been your birthday and you would be expecting presents and phone calls and cakes, but I wanted them to remember all by themselves. I wanted them to miss your smile as much as I do.

It seems they do. Is it weird or cruel to feel comfort in that? I don’t know any more.

Kaye posted a pic on Insta and you’d love it: you look both happy and hot (not in temperature). I think you’d rate yourself. Your hair looks fab.

Happy what would have been your birthday Hayls. I guess it still is your birthday, but it doesn’t quite feel the same saying that without you here in person. I ate cake. It was too sweet, but I put it on top of the weird stomach-wrench I already had, and it sat on top. I guess it will cover up the ache a bit shortly, the sweetness mixing with the sad and making something digestible. I guess that’s why you nourished so many people. You were healing them. Healing us.

Thank you for all of the times you did that. Even when we didn’t know we needed it.

Luv ya.

I have a kid who loves musicals. The schadenfreude that my friends have over this is something just short of proper evil. I fell asleep at Phantom of the Opera. I read a book during Jesus Christ Superstar, and I created an entire study/life timetable during The Boyfriend. The only musical that has ever really captured my full attention is Rocky Horror, and I guess that probably says more about me than the show.

Having a kid who loves musicals means that instead of spending our evenings seeing cool bands, shocking comedians and important movies, we see people prancing about the stage and singing things that they could easily just say, with songs that always end with a big ‘bomp’ (just in was you didn’t know that the song was ended).

Having a kid who loves musicals means that she is IN musicals as well. I have written before about the surprising magic that happens when you watch a group of actors bring a show to life- the frizty energy backstage before the curtain raise, the almost rapturous delight as they take their final bows. Humans humaning towards a common goal is always an honour to experience, and acting is no exception.

Having a kid who loves musicals of course means that we are going to see Hamilton. On paper it sounds strange and yes, I had to initially watch it with an IMBD blow by blow explanation of the plot and the history, but once you understand what the heck is going on, and that there are double castings (so actors can get killed off and come back as someone else), it is strangely compelling. We are going in August, so as is my wont, I’m learning the songs. And they are earworms.

Slogans, song lyrics and advertising jingles have always been my crack. I have a brain that is constantly talking to itself, arguing, defining and rejecting ideas it doesn’t like, so to penetrate the membrane and get inside, things often have to find the back way in. Which is what song lyrics do. I don’t take much notice of the music, but I suspect it has a Trojan horse effect for me, hiding the punch of the pop, until it explodes into my limbic system- that place where emotions all hang out together.

Hamilton has weasled its way in. Lin-Manuel Miranda, that clever, clever writer has woven riffs of songs from my early twenties with new lyrics, making old music and even older stories into a fresh new fabric. The familiar snippets of tunes just outside my conscious reach means that I allow the next layer to be implanted. Its entirely tricksy and almost the G-word. If not genius, it’s definitely inspired.

Three phrases have wormed my ear most significantly: The world turned upside down. I’m not throwing away my shot. You will never be satisfied, I will never be satisfied.

The world turned upside down: over and over again, in this post-2020 year, I’ve found reason after reason to sing these three lines.

I’m not throwing away my shot: I’ve used that more times than I care to admit, noticing moments of joy that I would usually rush past. Taking opportunities I might usually squander. Living more. Being more. Taking chances. Adding richness. Not throwing away any shots I have for being present.

You will never be satisfied, I will never be satisfied: this one’s the kicker. Of all the lyrics in all the songs (and there’s more than twenty of them) this one is the one that gets me every time. When is it ever going to be enough? Is there ever enough? Will I ever be enough? It’s the question that keeps me awake at night, enveloped in the love and warmth of an amazing family, home and life, and yet still wondering: is there more? Is there something else that I could be doing? Have I done enough?

So just as I suspected: musicals suck. They make you think all the thoughts and question all the things, getting in and under your skin until they end, or you end: BOMP.

What about you? Do you love musicals? Are you satisfied with what you’ve got?

…From The Ashers