When you make the choice to fully immerse yourself in something, there is a shift within your cells that is terrifying and exciting in equal measure.

In the moment that you decide to go all in, to play full on, there is terror in the knowing that you will lose something of yourself in the process, and that you will gain something too. The fear is in the stepping off. In that free-falling moment when you don’t know quite where you will land, or even how. Will you spring as light as a gymnast on the lush grass, or will it be more like the first time you bring your Christmas-drone in for landing, shaky and off centre, with the no-rain-for three-weeks crispy weeds spraying out in all directions?

A fledgling project, an expensive purchase, a shiny new relationship. They all create the nervicitement of: new me/old me. And right there in the moment between the two, is where the juice is. And that juice is the sweetest and most luscious of all.

In a dusty box at the back of  my mind there is a creature called the Push Me Pull You. I think it could be from Sesame Street, or maybe it lives with Dr.Doolittle, but in my memory it has one body and two heads, facing in opposite directions. So if one head wants to move forward, the other must go backwards.

Jumping in feels a lot like what the poor Push Me Pull You must always have a sense of. In order to move at all, the backward facing head has to trust, and step into the vulnerability of not quite knowing where it’s going, or what the ground is like. It can only feel the irregularity once it carefully places its tiny cloven hoof on the uneven ground. And the forward head has to be sure to lead in the best direction, dealing with whatever comes up in each moment, and making decisions the backward head can’t help with.

Today I sat on the stairs and watched my little girl grow up before my eyes. She went into her bedroom in a flurry of iridescent flamingo pink, and emerged with only a blush of subtle rose on her shoes-a nod to the the days of childhood that she inhabited only moments before.

I sat on the stairs and watched her gather her bag, count her money and smooth her hair. I saw the confident step of the woman she will become, going out into the world without me by her side, her only compass the words we have shared over the years, and the direction she chooses to steer on her own.

I sat on the stairs leaning on my sandy summer-knees, pulled by the heaviness in my heart, as I thought of the way the world looks at her, both real and imagined, and the judgements she will face. I remembered all the times she has cried about how people stare at her, or ask her why she is yellow. And I guessed at all the times she didn’t cry, but pushed the dark feelings deep down into her gall bladder, and smiled the sunshine of defiance.

I sat on the stairs, and the stairs stretched out in front of me like a dark Dr.Suess movie, a conveyor belt of the endless nights and days where I will watch her take that ebullient step over the threshold, without looking back, out, out into her life.

As it should be.

I sat on the stairs and I knew in that moment that my little girl needs very little from me these days. She knows her own heart and her mind is stronger than a nine year old mind ever should be, and that is how this world turns. My little girl is no longer little.

I sat on the stairs and thought of a mother I know very little of, who made a choice this very day to jump off into the abyss of blissful anaesthesia. A mother who knew that no matter how long she sat on the stairs, her little girl was not coming back. I thought of Debbie and her broken heart and I had a tinkling of what that rancid loss might be like.

Can you die of a broken heart?

Can you choose when you step out of this world?

I think you can.

I hope for that mother, as she let the griefs lay all over her like a heavy and cool blanket, it was more exciting than terrifying. I hope she felt the relief.

I hope she got to taste the juice. And I hope it was sweet.

Vale Debbie. Vale Carrie. Travel well ladies.

Last week our kids were in a school play. When they initially put their names down last year, I groaned inwardly, all the while secretly hoping they would lose enthusiasm for the idea, and decide it wasn’t for them.

I could already guess what would be involved: after hours rehearsals, costume preparation (no, no, you cannot make me CRAFT), makeup on show days, parental attendance to the actual thing. For FOUR nights. And then the aftermath of exhausted kids who “are NOT tired” for a week. Probably resulting in an earlier than usual transfusion, for the one with the blood thing.

So possibly not my preference, truth be told. (Can you tell?)

I’d like to say that I’m a better Mum. That I’m the type that embraces everything that my children love, but I’m just not. I’m a bit shit, and I like best it when they like things that I like. Going to cafes, reading on the couch in my trakkies, rollerskating, sitting quietly on the beach looking at the waves and daydreaming. (Which is basically never. Of course the little weirdos don’t like any of those things.)

So, as they say, the show must go on, and the entity that is “The Primary School Musical” gathered its own momentum, and dragged me along with it. I purchased craft-like objects on Etsy and got a glue gun. I took kids to rehearsals on holidays. I bought a shade of foundation that I will shortly return to the Oompa Loompas. I learnt how to tease hair without screaming in the child’s face, “I am trying my best not to hurt you, but this must be done, the piece of paper says so, and I hate it too. Stupid play. Stupid costumes.” *

I personally grew up doing sport, and as such, kept a wide berth of the drama-nerds. You know who I mean. The kids who got called Butterfingers and Mamma’s Boy. The kids who couldn’t play softball or cricket, and always looked like they were someplace else when I signalled to the pitcher that it was ON and that we all needed to be a team. The kids who were in some nonsense thing called ‘the play’. The only play I was interested in was what was going on at home-plate. I didn’t get the drama kids. Nor they me.

I now had drama kids.

And believe me, there were dramas. Between hair and makeup and late nights and a very cold theatre, there were dramas. And that’s just for the adults. (Did I mention it went for FOUR NIGHTS?). But in the spirit of all things social media-y, I only posted the smiling pics of us all sharing beautiful times. I did not post my contorted maw, yelling at children to sit still whilst I brushed the knots out of stage-hair at 10pm. I did not post children crying from being accused of being tired and unreasonable, when they “clearly” were not. I did not post the stringy hot glue getting all over my hands and bench tops when I tried to glue the stupid felt leaves to the costume. I did not post the kid crying with nerves and excitement on opening night, saying they didn’t want to be in the play any more, and me saying “Don’t you dare drop a tear on your cheek, and ruin that make-up.”

No, I posted the best of. Because that is what we do.

The other thing we do, is we surrender to the process. The Primary School Musical has a way of drawing you in, and even if you struggle to stay away from this drama-nerdism, you are engulfed. And if you let yourself, you find out some things.

When you drop the kids to the Green Room, there is an energy that erases all of the previous turmoil. Children are bounding about like big-eyed puppies at the playground and doing the kid version of sniffing each others nether regions. They are full.

Before the show starts, the children do a warm-up song, and if you spy through the crack in the door, you can see them singing as if one, faces as beatific as when they are asleep. It can stop time, and take your breath away.

During the play, they support each other in ways you wouldn’t imagine. They gently help out those who have been overcome by nerves and misplaced lines. They laugh with each other, not at each other at the various foibles, realising that they are all together in this.

After the play, they gather together to smile and congratulate themselves and each other in a completely unselfconscious way. They get changed in the same room, the younger children admire the older ones as deity, and the older ones know the small ones by name, and say things like, “Good job Coco, see you tomorrow.” The small ones then walk a little taller.

On the final night, just before opening, the musical director gives his last address, and it’s similar to a coach on grand final day. He congratulates and thanks them for their endeavours so far, and spurs them on to achieve greatness at this finale. But even more, he reminds them of the beauty of art and song, and encourages them to play big. He tells them a secret that will stay with them forever: that if they give their all, then that effort will be reflected back to them in the faces of the audience. He points to his heart, and tells them that this is what they will touch.

And they do.

And it does.

*This may not be true. Only the walls (and my neighbours) will know for sure.

…From The Ashers

Last month we talked a little about the science of persistence, what it takes to make your persistence, well, persist.

It turns out there is much research into what makes us persistent, to exhibit true grit, so we can use this knowledge to improve our likelihood of staying the course, even in the face of adversity.

In my quest to examine the nature of persistence in the gritty real world, I did what I always do: I turned to my zen master gurus kids.

If I am to be completely honest, my kids so far haven’t exhibited much in the way of sporting accomplishment (sorry kids, but you probably won’t be going to the Olympics any time soon, unless Minecrafting and making Glitzy Globes is admitted), but when they set their minds to it, they are able to surprise me.

This is the story of Coco and the Cartwheel… Getting gritty in the garden.

Coco had been going to gymnastics for a few months when seemingly, she woke up one day and decided she wanted to learn how to cartwheel. (In the interests of full disclosure I will admit that I have never performed what could be termed a successful cartwheel, so other than a knowledge of the basic biomechanics involved, I could be of no real assistance. That’s right: I have never done a cartwheel. I’ll not be mocked.)

“Mum how do you do a cartwheel?” she asked me seventy-three million times a day, “I really, really want to do a cartwheel. Do you think I’ll ever be able to do a cartwheel? I think I’m gonna do a cartwheel soon.”

With absolutely no desire to hurtle through the grass upside-down, I asked her why she was willing to risk breaking bones and vases for something, (let’s be honest here) is essentially useless.

“I love the idea of it. I love that I can’t do it yet, but I know that I will one day, and then all of us girls at school can cartwheel all around the oval,” she said, hopping from one foot to another, popping to get back to her training. Then she stopped, “I know Mum, why don’t you video me with that slo-mo thing on your phone, so I can see what I’m doing?” I smiled inwardly, knowing what I knew about the science of grit: interest, deliberate practice, purpose, hope and belonging. Or in in8 model terms: Why, What, How, Who with, and When? She had it all.

Over the next few weeks Coco practised, practised, practised. She fell onto her head and her bottom, she bruised her shins and dented my walls, and accidentally kicked the cat in the head, as she careened through the lounge room. Most days I was cajoled into ‘rating’ her efforts out of ten, and one lazy autumn afternoon, her Nan watched her do 57 attempts without stopping. Until finally, somehow (grit maybe?) it clicked. She went from doing dodgy, splay-legged, upside down cockroach flips, to properly executed, graceful cartwheels. She jumped for joy, as did the cat and the chippy husband (Think: plaster walls), and shouted, “You ripper, I can do them. I’ve mastered them…Yippee… Now I’m going to google ‘how to do a round-off’ and nail those too. I can’t wait!”

Oh my. Give me strength. Or grit*.

A sign of persistence

*If by grit you mean a glass of wine and a nice lie down.

That was then, this is now

When I was eight years old I got my first pair of roller-skates.

I woke up on Christmas morning with anticipation that shimmered in front of me like the gauzy curtain of a boudoir. I ripped it aside with nary a thought of how it may have been thoughtfully placed to create a mood, such was my desire and my need.

I ran to the box that was the size and the shape and the heft of the things I had been wishing for since at least November, which of course was the same as forty-seven years in my eight year old chronoestimation. I held the box in my hands and waited a century-second before hungrily tearing off the slippery-gaudy-cheap paper. Skates. At last. Skates.

The wrong skates.

My heart stopped beating for a moment-year, and I buried my face in the remnants of that gaudy paper, ashamedly scratching away the look of horror, before my parents could see what the face of an ungrateful child looked like.

The skates were white, yes. The wheels were red, yes. They were boots, yes. But they were Hang Ten. I wanted Redstones. More than wanted: I needed Redstones. In that moment of complete and total disappointment, I knew that there was nothing I could do, and that I would never have Redstone skates. The part of my forebrain that somehow knew things that adults knew, was aware that this was probably my one shot. My one chance at owning Redstone roller-skates. And now it was gone. So close / so far.

I forced a smile to my mouth and to my eyes, and carefully laced the hideous wrong-skates. My parents were overfrothing with the happy that comes from seeing their child truly love the carefully-chosen gift so much, that they can’t even speak. I couldn’t speak.

To keep my hands from shaking and my from eyes crying, I began the soothing task of lacing, and once done, I slowly made my way down the slick cement front steps. Each step was heavy with the despair of the wrong-skates. I took a deep breath, bent my knees slightly to get my centre of gravity just so, and pushed off down our driveway.

The skates rolled forward like nothing I’d ever felt before. They had a power of their own. I barely needed to push- I was gliding, gliding, flying, gliding.

“Am I flying? I think I’m flying!” I screamed so the people two streets over, behind the Henwood’s double storey house could hear. “These skates are AMAAAAZING.”

I skate-flew out onto the road, and lifted up to the touch the lowest lying clouds with the three lateral fingers of my left hand. From my place above the world I looked back to see my Mum and Dad below: she leaning into the space at the front of his chest where she fitted like a nesting cup, he with a grin that threatened to split his head open like the watermelon on that weird knife ad.

I think I heard him shout, “I know you wanted Redstones, but the Hang Tens have better bearings. They’ll roll better.”

I didn’t exactly know what that meant, but that day I knew without a doubt what considered, quiet, caring, love meant.

It meant Hang Ten skates.

The very best kind of love. Love that makes you fly.

…From The Ashers

*This was created from a prompt from Liz Gilbert’s creativity challenge: What did you most love to do when you were eight? It was supposed to take 20mins. I failed- this took me 37minutes. Oh well. Close, as they say, but no cigar.

What did YOU love to do when you were eight years old? Do you still do it?

Why not?

I mean that- why the hell not?

Sometimes the beauty is in the spaces, isn’t it?

The pause between when you tell him you love him for the very first time, and you wait, one beat, another, and there is that delicious-scary anticipation, before you hear what he will say back.

The gap between the notes in your favourite song. You know precisely how long to hold the silence. You take your breath, before the lyric unfurls the next layer of story.

The very first moment when you become aware of yourself in the morning, when for a second or two you are no-one and nowhere, your brain is furry and unfocussed, and there is no cancer or death or pain that cannot be taken away.

The beauty of the space.

This week two more of my people died.

I know this is inevitable. That with every moment that passes, every beautiful space that passes me by, I draw closer to another death. A bigger space. Another one that can never be filled.

Those deaths take my breath away, every single time.

This week two more of my people died, and there is a space in my heart that can’t be filled, and nor would I want it to be.

What do you say when someone dies? Do you say: passed away, passed over, left this earth, deceased? I don’t like any of those. I say they have left a space.

And so I mark it.

In my appointment book, which is the thing that runs my days, I write their name, where the time for their check up would normally be. My Dad comes in most Saturday afternoons. Hayley comes in every second Tuesday night. Geoff comes in once a month on a Saturday morning, and Bob has 9.15am on a Tuesday, every fourth week. Don’t worry about my tenuous grip on reality, I know they aren’t actually coming in, but I can’t bear to erase them, to take away the space they held in my life.

In the beginning, the space is almost unbearable. The allotted time stretches out from my toes to eternity, and I think I will never endure the tock-tock-tocking of the moments passing. After the passing of months, that if joined together would wrap around the equator eleventy-million times, the space takes on a new form. The time morphs and passes faster, or perhaps it just has less barbs to be ripped out of the gentle skin of my forearms. The space holds itself, it never de-ceases, but I find that I have a fortitude, a fort, that I never knew I’d built, and I can sit in the space, and put the jigsaw pieces of my heart back together.

Some of the pieces are missing.

There are spaces where there once was a picture.

But there is beauty in the parts that are now missing. They are the memories of my very own. Invisible to another, but clear to me.

And they are wondrous.

…From The Ashers

My Oxford Dictionary App defines Persistence as “the fact of continuing in an opinion or course of action in spite of difficulty or opposition.”

This definition may feel particularly pertinent at this precise moment in our collective chiropractic experience. From the conversations I’ve had with colleagues over the last few weeks, I am hearing an array of responses: some of us are energised and excited by the current state of play and can’t wait to step up to the plate, all the way through to those of us who are angry, scared, or even worse, just don’t want to play this game at all anymore.

What can we do to cultivate the inner strength, the grit, to achieve what we want for our lives, our profession, and those of whom we serve? Research tells us that grit is defined as “perseverance and passion for long-term goals” and that grit is the most reliable predictor of success, and is actually more important than intelligence.1. (Whew, saved by science.)

So to be successful, it turns out we don’t need to be smart, we just need to keep on going. I’m sure that sounds okay to all of you out there doing Tough Mudder and Cross Fit until you regurgitate your kale smoothies into the dirt, but how do the rest of us get gritty? It turns out Professor Andrea Duckworth has researched it (Very sciencey of me to find this.)2. and grit comes down to just five things:

1. Pursue what interests you. Let’s be honest, if you don’t really like it, you aren’t very likely to stick with it, are you? So I like it so far: do more of the things you like (See point 3, below).

2. Do deliberate practice. Which means working on weaknesses and making improvements, not shonky, “she’ll be right” and “I’ll look at Facebook whilst I do it” practice. As we used to say in softball, “Practice doesn’t make perfect, PERFECT practice makes perfect.” (Imagine eleven hormone-fuelled girls screaming that in your face every training session. If that doesn’t make you gritty, I don’t know what will.)

3. Find purpose. And this means having a greater sense and meaning to your work. It might even be what separates a job from a vocation. What does your work bring to the world? If the vision is big enough and exciting enough, it’s easier to stay until the final siren (Ohhh how this one warms my heart. Statement of Purpose review anyone?).

4. Have hope. This means not just sitting around hoping things will be better some day/ some how, due to factors outside our control, or because you adopted some slogan from Pinterest, but more of a gritty type of hope, that believes that our very own actions can improve the future. That tomorrow will be better because we will make it so.

5. Join a group of fellow grit-masters. Perhaps my Mum was right when she used to trot out all those old sayings like, “Birds of a feather, flock together.” In fact, Jim Rohn is often quoted as saying that we come to be the average of the five people we spend the most time with. So finding a team of people we would love to be like could be a resourceful strategy.

We can overlay Professor Duckworth’s work with what we know about The In8 Model 3. and the game of life.

Quadrant 1: Why? Having a meticulously refined and useful plan behind what we do. Which would hopefully, be a purpose we can’t wait to live.

Quadrant 2: What? Create blueprint, and then practice it, making corrections as  you go. In the words of our Quest Marketing Guru, Paula, “Just wing it. Something is better then nothing… and then make appropriate corrections as you go.” With appropriate checking an efficient strategy will result.

Quadrant 3: How, and who with? A great team of like-minded people can often do so much more than an individual, when they are on purpose and have well defined ethics that serve the world.

Quadrant 4: What else, and when? This echoes the desire to get things done, and the knowledge that we can do it. In the words of William H. Johnsen, “If it is to be, it is up to me.”

So how are you going on the persistence project? Are you ready to get down and gritty and get the job done?

After all, they do say it takes a bit of grit to make a pearl.

Let’s make a whole treasure chest.

-Alison Asher

1. Pink, Daniel. Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us. 2011, Riverhead Books.

2. Duckworth, Anglea. Grit: The Power of Passion and Perseverance. 2016, Scribner.

3. Postles, Mark. The In8 Model. 2011. Self Published.