Someone* once said, “Things have no inherent meaning, just the meaning we bring to them.”

It’s a statement that comes to me time and time again, because it’s so simple and true. I use essential oils a lot, and I like them for the ‘properties’ they have. You know, how Rose Oil needs the massacre of fifty bazillion rose petals to make 5ml of the stuff, and it has a vibration of 325mHz and is the oil of Divine Love. Now it may or may not be those things. And it may or may not bring me divine love when I inhale it, but it’s the meaning I bring to it that gives it at least some of its power. You might smell it and say, “That shit stinks, it reminds me of the 80s” (potpourri was a thing) and bring a completely different meaning to it.

And so it goes.

For all of the things. Whether it be the transformative or mundane experience of birthing a child, bringing home a new cat, or that first sip of silent coffee. It’s the meaning we bring that gives our life meaning.

The cool part is: we get to choose. We get to choose if that fancy champers is a story of female empowerment, success and innovation, or an expensive way to get pissed. We can choose if putting on some lipstick is a sign of gender-based oppression, ridiculous vanity, gorgeous nurturing of our feminine (or masculine- get on it fellas) beauty or a reminder to speak our truth. Très exciting. (Or boring- yet again, you get to choose).

My life motto is “choose your own adventure”… a variation of “You do you, Boo” because I believe it’s the source of true freedom. From FOMO and JOMO and growing a Mo. (Shut up, I’ve got The Menopause okay).

This week Coco did a hard thing, and, as it is with many hard things, there were opporfuckingtunities galore. Some of the biggies were her expanding belief that she can do hard things, along with an ability to control her own state. Often in life it is alluring to believe we are the victim- of crappy circumstances, mutated genetics (sorry Coco) or financial flukes that are outside our control. And although it might be kinda easy to go along with that flow, we’re going to end up in the crappy creek if we keep the story running. And the converse is so cool. We already know it, don’t we? When we jump in (not to shit creek, into the pool of potential) and accept the reality of the sitch, and wonder, “What can I do with this clusterfuck?” the real fun can begin.

When Coco did her hard thing this week, we chose to make some meaning from it. And because I am nothing if not good at shopping, of course I chose meaning in a little blue box. We trotted off to Tiff, and once our eyes grew accustomed to the opulence, we found just the thing. A little bracelet with silver balls, that she can use like Mala Beads to calm her state when things get freaky. A little bracelet as shiny as the moon, that she can use to know that the power of nature is within her, and she is a force of her own. A little bracelet with a blue heart to remind her that she has “cor” or courage waiting within her, any time she wants it.

So is a Tiffany bracelet a silly present for a thirteen year old? Probably. Is it indulgent to buy a kid something like this for ‘no reason’? Maybe.

Or maybe it’s just the meaning we bring.

*If you know who that someone is, please tell me. I use the quote a lot and I would like to attribute it. Guy Riekeman perhaps?

Yesterday I had an afternoon where lots of things were time dependant. I don’t like time to rule me- I prefer to let it roll along close by me, sometimes leading, sometimes following and sometimes, in those sweet moments of flow we even hold hands, time and I. Yesterday time was boss.

I had to pick up some cool presents for our Chicks Who Click private coaching group, then bust into the corona-free zone of the school to get Coco’s case left over from camp (yes, the two day old poo-water marinating in the Queensland sun smelt DIVINE for those of you following along), then be back to get the kids to work and singing lessons. Time-frames. And none of them mine. Which doesn’t sound like much, until I decided to believe the voice in my car “Do a u-turn and return to the route” instead of the voice in my head saying, “I don’t think that’s right.”

It wasn’t.

So I ended up sitting near Gibsons (which is the other side of town if you aren’t from Newsa), blinking like a mogwai, and wondering why on earth I didn’t listen to my brain instead of Siri. When you organise yourself to the nth degree, any deviation can throw the whole space-time-continuum thingy awry, and the earth shifts on its axis. Or perhaps I’m being a little dramatic. Blogging can do that to a person you know.

So I did what any self respecting loon would do: I breathed out, I smiled, and then I described (out loud) how the next hour would play out. How I would do all.of.the.things with ease and grace. Which of course made me laugh, as grace isn’t really my thang. (Have I ever told you about my “grace”-or fall from- on the escalator in Paris? Comment below if you must know more.)

The dude hosing the path out front of Gibsons gave me a smile- as you do when you encounter an unhinged Mum in a pretend 4WD near school pickup time- which I interpreted as him thinking, “Wow, she’s hot for an old bird, and I do like ’em with a bit of cray-cray.” Winky emoji. (Or maybe it’s the eggplant?)

Back to the narrative:

Guess what?

I got it all done. In fact, I got it done with time to spare. Time and I were mates again. Sorry for being mean, forgive me Time?

Which leads me to the point, and the thing that Coco and I were discussing this morning. Sometimes we think we can’t. Maybe we think we can’t get it all done. Or we can’t take the leap. Or we don’t have the skills. Or maybe we think we are too small, too weak, too dumb, too lazy, too incapable. But the funny thing is, when we set our intentions clearly, when we profess what we want, when we put in our specific order (I’ll have the steak medium-rare and put the gravy on the side please) and make sure it is received, then we can do more than we think we are capable of.

We aren’t incapable. We are IN CAPE ABLE.

We can all be super heroes in our own lives. In capes (obvs).

My cape says ‘The Fabulous Popping Nacho,” Liam’s says, “The Mighty Lightening Bolt,” and Coco’s says, “The Amazing Little Bee”. (Yes, we all have our talents, and yes, if I could choose again I’d now be The Chick of Truth, but sometimes you have to work with what you’ve been given, don’t you?). Point being: we all have capes. It’s just that sometimes they get chucked to the back of the cupboard with all the unmatched socks and the now dusty Apple box with the receipts from last Christmas. And we forget we have them.

Here’s some homework: Dust off your cape. (You’re more than able.)

Dr. Seuss knew didn’t he? In Oh The Places You’ll Go he describes how the waiting place is the worst. How nothing happens and nothing happens and nothing will ever happen. Or at least that’s how it feels when you park your wagon out front of the waiting place. You can’t go in and get a refreshing ale- no that’s not for the waiters. And you can’t leave, because one of the conditions of the waiting place is that once you agree to the wait, you have to wait it out. Sounds a bit like Hotel California.

Earworm right there for you Boomers and Xers. #sorrynotsorry

Moving on.

We are currently in a waiting place. Surgery has been sort of scheduled for Coco, but there are still many little moving parts that need to line up, so nothing is quite set yet. We don’t know precisely where to go, or when, but we do know a general direction and an approximate day. Plus or minus.

The funny part is: this is the same as it ever was. Because that is what life is like. We run our circus with apps for productivity and calendars to show where we will be at any given time, but it’s really all just a promise on the wisp of a dandelion. All of the appointments and work meetings and party acceptances are just a semblance of a life well organised. Which can change on a dime.

We trick our brains to believe that those colour-coded blocks of betrothed time will anchor us to something real and solid. It’s how we make sense of the world. Which is what makes the waiting place such a challenge to sit within. Whether it’s waiting for surgery or waiting to get out of lockdown or waiting for the phone call from the oncologist, the waiting can be worse than the actuality.

Part of the discombobulation of the waiting place is the the tickle of activity that goes on all around. People go and come and go as you sit and watch. They make dinner plans and break arrangements. They buy shoes and groceries. They live. They play as if all of the things they are doing have meaning, and all things will come to pass.

The most interesting thing about the waiting place is coming to the understanding that we live much of our lives by a pact. We agree that we can exchange a pineapple (fifty dollars) for about twelve actual juicy pineapples (giving us about six times our RDA of Vitamin C into the bargain), even though no one can eat a plastic promise. We tell the bank we’ll pay back the loan no matter how often they change the rules and bend us over. We tell the kids to get the parchment to get a job, to earn more pineapples.

The pact sounds a bit like the theme song to Trainspotting if you let your mind get all PF Project.

Which is why the waiting place is no place for anyone to stay too long. Sanity darts away as we look at the farce of pineapple collection, where people are born and pass away, and no pineapples were harmed in the making of this movie.

The waiting place. Just stay for a moment.

Do you remember that show? With Norm and the other guy sitting at the bar? I can’t remember the other guy’s name right now, and I know that’s not right, because Cheers was all about having a place where “everybody knows your name”. Anyway, if you know Cheers, then you are screaming the Other Guy’s name out right now. (I’m pretty sure he was in Toy Story as well. Just call me IMBD.)

Moving on. I have had a couple of places like that in my life. And like my list of friends, I guard them closely. I don’t have too many (I don’t like to spread myself thin), and I choose them carefully. The Morning Star Hotel in Willi was one. Taco Bill’s in Clifton Hill another. I’d like to say Cocktails and Dreams on The Goldy as well, but I think that was more about NOT welcoming me in (another bar, another life). These days it’s Village Bicycle and Bistro C. And here.

The first two are by choice. The third, not so much.

And yet when we arrived here today, at a place that I don’t want to come to, to do a thing that I don’t like doing, I realised that this place is a part of me and I am a part of it. I have a favourite room (27), a favourite carpark area (mezzanine, part e, because: Me… I can always remember where I’ve parked), and even a favourite mug in the parents’ room.

Fave mug. Insta worthy hospital flat lay. Yes I used Mayfair.

Smiling nurses greeted us by name and made a fuss of the kid as if she was Suri Cruise. Doctors who I’m now on patient advocate boards with, popped in for a chat. Other trainee doctors came in to feel the kid’s excellent hepatosplenomegaly and marvel and the lowness of her haemoglobin (everyone’s gotta have a talent, right?). We feel comfortable enough to put our faces right in close to the camera at the entry, and make stupid faces to make Margie on the front desk laugh. We know the order of things, and we are close enough with the guy at Merlo to raise our eyebrows in conciliation when the idiots don’t understand the discount system for bringing their own cup. We never say a word to each other, Merlo Guy and I, our wiggling brows say it all. Today he was almost a seagull, as he step-by-excruciating-step explained the difference between cup sizes (why are they in ounces?) and the store pricing policy to an irate lady dressed in KT-26ers and leggings-as-pants, who was arguing over 30cents and her card being declined. Usually I would’ve just said to pop it on my order, but it would’ve felt like a betrayal to Merlo Guy, and us stalwarts have to stick together in here.

In here.

A funny thing happens to the kid when we get in here. I try to speak in the language of hospitality instead of hospitals. I call it “checking in”, and we run to the bathroom to see if we are getting L-Occitane toiletries (we aren’t). We look at the “room service” menu, and talk about how yummy the Mango Chicken will be (it isn’t). And yet, still, she becomes a ‘patient’. She lays in the bed all day, even though she could easily sit on the couch with me, and is as quiet and compliant as a lamb. It’s like the institution does something to her, as it does to me. She goes docile, I go to war.

Today I decided to play it a little different. I made a decision to treat this funny, mushy-pea walled place as my Cheers. I chose to see Margie as Sam Malone, and Penny as Diane Chambers. Kevin was Norm, and Stu was the Other Guy. (I tried not to call anyone Carla, but my brain accidentally might have. I told it to hush now, we don’t have to be that mean.)

In some weird way, after so much stretched-out time together, this soft, speckled lino and the sweet-prickly smell of chlorhexidine has gotten into my nostrils and into my being. I didn’t choose it, wouldn’t have chosen it in a million years, and yet here we are. If I love my life (and I do) and I love my kid (and I mostly do, can I be “barley” during tantrums?) then I must also love the experiences and the laughcries and the learning I have done in this place. It has tested me more than any other location (yes, even more than the Cricketer’s Arms in 1992, may I never get a stomach bug like that again), and it has shown me more about myself than I ever thought I wanted to know. I’ve had some of my biggest moments here, both fair and foul.

And so now, just like the blankets. A part of me is the property of Queensland Health.

Cheers.

It’s the day for it, isn’t it? The day when all of your chosen media are full of everything you should-would-could do to make yourself more shiny from this moment forward. The implication being that somehow this whole last year was crappy, and were all personally in need of some kind of therapy. Depending on the algorithm and, what you have been looking at and liking of- it could be your body, your mind, your finances or just your shoes.

I don’t hold with that at all.

I think that almost everyone I know did the best they could in each of the moments. I know for me, some moments were better than others in the Champion Of All Things awards, but on balance, I did okay. And I bet you did too.

The end of the world year can take on portentous feelings if you buy into it all too much. The endless lists of how-to and what-to and who-to can become overwhelming if you let the whelm come anywhere near your neurones. And it will try to flow over you. That’s its nature.

This morning we chose to pop over to the beach for the last time this year, I thought I would take some really cool pics of the kids frolicking in the gentle waves, and Nath getting barrelled. I imagined the sun would be rising over the water, creating diamonds of significant rays all ready to be captured. In my mind’s eye I envisioned a significant moment. Perhaps we would hold hands in the water and send out a frangipani, singing Kumbaya and Auld Lang Syn (neither of which any of us know more than two lines of) and say fare you well 2016. Something to mark the passing of the year, and the passing of my Dad.

Shit. I wasn’t going to mention that, but I have and I have and I have, and of course I always do, for the end of the year now always brings more to it than just the end of the year. It is also the end of a life. Which is why I attach more significance to this day than just an arbitrary date. For if we are to be real and say the truth, there is no inherent meaning in the moments from 11.59.59 to 12.00.01, other than the meaning we chose to make.

Ever since my Dad passed away on the first day of the brand new year, I wake up on the 31st feeling scratchy. Sometimes half a day goes by before I acknowledge the reason why, but whether I chose to look at it or not, the irritation is there from the moment I open my eyes. Sometimes I think I’d like to hurt someone or have them hurt me back, just so I can let the constriction in my throat burst out, and the prickling behind my eyes slosh away.

So we went to the beach. Like any other day, but like a day that I would like to be different, significant, something.

The beach was a fairly windy, which is never a good omen for me because: FRIKKEN WIND, and the surf was little more than a blown-out shorey with a massive sweep. The sand was too hot for children who had chosen not to wear their thongs, against my best recommendations, so: all.of.the.whinging. And then on her first ride, Coco cracked it because the salt water was too rough and TOO SALTY. Liam tried to paddle out the back a few times, couldn’t, and came sloping over to me, shoulders hunched in the posture of defeat.

And that was about where I lost it. Not in a major way, and not out loud, but in enough of a way that everyone knew to ‘Stay away from Mummy right now’.

I went up the beach a ways by myself, and wrote ‘2016’ in the sand with my big toe, and the waves licked it up.

I noticed the toe-nail polish from my Christmas manicure glistening in the sunlight and I thought it looked pretty.

I felt the despicable, messy wind on my two-day-old sunburn and I liked the slight cooling feeling.

I looked out to the horizon and saw a white yacht bobbing over to the edge and smiled at the memory of all the drawings the kids and I have done together over the years.

I saw Nath standing with his back to the dunes, hand up shielding his eyes, watching the waves, watching the kids, watching out for us in the solid, stable and careworn way he does and I realised that even in the shittiest moments, in the seconds where I feel the most broken and fragmented, I have this wonder of a man in my life.

We didn’t sing Kumbaya or even One Love. There were no petals set free. The kids still carried on about things that kids do. My sunburn still stung and we still have ants in our bathroom. There is still paperwork to be done, and tomorrow I will probably have a slug-like hangover rather than fluttering into the new year on rejuvenated wings. And my Dad is still dead.

But there is coffee for tomorrow and champagne for tonight, and we all do the best we can with what we’ve got, and some of the moments will be mundane and muddy and magical. And so it goes. Come by here and Kumbaya.

Fare You Well 2016.

Fare You Well Peter.

Fare You Well, Regular Reader. Travel Well, Travel Light, Smile When You Can.

…From The Ashers

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.