It’s fun isn’t it: not choosing. When we are at some sort of a crossroads in thought, and we decide not to choose. Maybe we toss a coin, ask someone else to decide, or even just refuse to choose until the choice is made for us by some external event or person.

I love how we can dally and dilly all over the place, making nice little crop circles on the carpet whilst maintaining a definite and definitive decision not to decide. It’s like that we think that if we somehow wait long enough it will “all work out.” Because, and here’s the hallelujah and praise the baby cheeses: it will. It will work out some how. It just might not be the how that we really wanted. And then sometimes, weirdly, it is. Which I suppose is why we do it in the first place. At some time in our personal history we have not chosen, and life has worked out just fine and dandy thank you very much.

So we keep doing it. This not choosing.

The best and most funny thing about not choosing, is that it is an actual choice. Which is why it’s the best cosmic joke going around. When we abdicate responsibility and say, “I just can’t choose right now” we are making a choice. And the energy/universe/whatever comes on over and matches that up and says, “Here you go, have this then”.

I have a feeling that the thing you then get is actually a perfect match for what you really wanted all along. Or at least it’s the thing that you think you deserve. And so goes. So when we find ourselves flipflopping all over the place and being in analysis paralysis, then maybe it’s a chance to say, “I choose not to choose.” And then see what happens next.

As long as we are happy with anything much, or nothing much, or all of the much- who knows with this little roulette wheel- then all will be well. Just know that not choosing is choosing.

..when you know stuff and don’t do it and then you find out that all you ever needed to do in life you already knew? But you just didn’t do it. Or maybe it’s just me.

I’m doing a course at the moment and the coach (Katrina Ruth) is kicking my arse. Not because it’s new and challenging information (but she does have a cool way of cutting through the BS) but because it isn’t. We just had some homework to do, and one of the things she said was, “How can you expect consistent results if you don’t do consistent work?” SO annoying.

There’s a meme getting around on StalkerBook at the moment saying something about how exercise is hard, but being a fat bastard with no cardiovascular fitness and dying of a heart attack is harder. And being married is hard, but going through a divorce and using your kids as weapons whilst your solicitor banks the drama-cheques is harder. So choose your hard.

And so it is with getting what we want, in the areas we say are important to us. If we profess it’s important to be healthy, and we want to be surfing when we’re 80, then there’s a fair chance we need to be doing that now. I have a feeling that things don’t magically just fall into place at 79 years, 11 months. The same goes for all of the life areas. Things aren’t just gonna happen if we don’t put in the effort, and that means now. Not next week or year. And not just today, but tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

Question: What do you want to come to fruition? What do you say that you want to be happening when you’re 80? Say it out loud right now, and then chop chop, take a tiny step. Want to be fit? Drop and give me ten right now.

I bet you can’t wait to hear mine.

Pause for effect.

I’ve been saying for years that when I’m 80 I want to be a crazy old lady who drinks Champagne on the regular (not sparkling mind, the proper stuff) and wears high heels every day. So it’s only fitting that I got myself into training, and got these bad boys to celebrate Coco’s gallstone removal. Or just life.

Now someone pass me the Veuve.

Today has been a day of discovery. We began not knowing what it would hold (does anyone ever?) and as we panned along, we found a richness that we didn’t know was there. The gold is always hidden in the dust isn’t it? You have to be prepared to look.

We are in the hospital getting the next part of Coco’s gall stones dealt with. Hopefully the hand is a good one. If we end up with a pair of threes I’m asking for a reshuffle. But that is a game for another day. Today we held some aces.

We arrived at the hospital “way too early” (sorry, but you kinda need to tell us when to rock up if “too early” is gonna be a thing) so what else were we to do but hit the shops?

After the last surgery and our extended stay, I did that thing every desperate person does: make a deal with ??the universe?? and the deal was: if we ever get out of hospital, I’m going directly to Tiffany to get Coco a present. I had something in mind, but I wanted to see if she loved it too. Finally, as we were released onto the bustle of Stanley Street, we couldn’t do anything but go home to our people and have our minds and bodies enfolded in their arms. We wanted to smell sugarcane marinated in humidity, and for the salty air to wash the disinfectant from our nostrils. We wanted for things so simple that Tiffany felt out of step with us.

Today was different. Today we were spilling over with hope and spark so we bought hot pink shoes and gold skirts, plush cuddle cats and silly sushi keyrings. And we went to Tiffany.

A small while ago, a healing angel, dressed as a fairy taught Coco how to regulate her state with mala-bead breathing and a dusting of magic. So I had a little idea that a beaded bracelet would be the perfect thing for her to move through life with. An anchor to help her hold fast when the wind springs up, or a little rip appears. An anchor with a heart-shaped charm to remind her of her brave, if the days threaten to wash it away.

For courage is coeur is heart, and what better place to hold that Robin’s-egg blue charm to match the sky and the sea and her eyes and the bluebird of happiness than in her heart? Ready to come out any time she chooses.

All part of the gold we found, on a day that could have been dusty.

My girl has gone to sleep now, Mimi the horror-faced toy who has been at every hospital visit since babyhood (and would hold the reaper at bay), under one arm, and the cuddle cat over her head to drown out the mobile phone conversation from the Dad in the bay next to us who is planning a breakfast-shift somewhere. I asked Nathan earlier why people must speak so loudly on mobiles and he said it’s because the other person is so far away. The breakfast must be in the North Pole. Hey dude, tell Santa I said hi and I’d like some noise cancelling headphones, STAT, please and thank you.

As soon as I’m sure she’s in a deep enough sleep I’m stealing the cat, because between North Pole guy in bay one, snoring Mum in bay two and the elevator-style bedtime music coming from bay three, I think I am going slowly insane. Actually, hold the slow, I’m already there.

Just me and you, blog. Sitting in the dust.

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.)

Every morning at around 7am, there is a kid, somewhere in our neighbourhood that yells out, “Bye Dad, I love you, have a great day.”

And then, silence.

We don’t know if there is a beaming dad in his ute who goes to work with something extra in his heart because TILYK yelled out, or if there’s a guy in a suit and tie who is scowling at what the neighbours think. We never hear from Dad. Does he wait patiently and whilst TILYK runs out to the balcony for his shout out, or has he already driven off, heavy as the tasks of the day drag the corners of his mouth down? Is there a Mum who pushes TILYK outside, hissing, “Say goodbye to Dad, quickquick.” (Mums are always saying things like quickquick and don’tdawdle), or is TILYK one of those helium children who wake up close to the ceiling and bounce through the mornings?

Some days we smile right along with The I Love You Kid. Those are the days where we’ve had coffee and cooked eggs and the dogs have been walked and the shirts are ironed and no one spilt cereal on the floor. Those days are where we too brim with good cheer and the intention is set for a great day. TILYK is another part of our affirmation.

And some days we don’t smile. Those are the days when uniforms are crumpled and there’s not enough butter and Shitcat peed on the floor instead of the litter and all I can think of is all.of.the.things that I should do. Shoulding all over myself. It’s a crappy mess. (Worse that cat wee). And those days TILYK also gives me the shits.

This year corona happened, and for a time our windows were shut against the morning breeze and each other. We pulled our loved ones close and thought the enemy was a teensy microorganism that was so powerful it could take away the free things: the salty air, smiles, handshakes, dancing, the sound of the waves, the DOM.

And it stole The I Love You Kid from us. Either his Dad didn’t go to work, or he was a little deflated, or our ears were deaf to his lilt. For months we didn’t hear TILYK and we missed him like certainty, especially on the days when the whelm threatened to over us.

So now that the corona life has morphed into something else, we can hear him again.

And on the days that aren’t as glittery we breathe out, and remember that The I Love You Kid is speaking to us all. He doesn’t know it, but all of the houses that snake along this road hear his fierce cry and our cells hark back to a time when we were brave of heart. He reminds us that we have a choice of how free our hearts are, and what pulse we choose to hear.

The best days are when we know that the cry of, “I love you” is meant for all of us, and our corpuscles respond with, “Have a great day,” and we know that we will and we know that we choose and we know that our minds are free.

Thanks Mel, over to you.

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.