Sunrise Beach today

After the eggs ‘eggsploded’ all over the microwave and I spilt the kids smoothie (thick with raw eggs and protein powder) all over the floor, I decided to have a do-over.

I went back to bed, got all cosy, and started again.

There have been a few balls in the air over here at The Asher’s this week, and frankly, I’m a bit a’scairt of dropping one some all of them.

So I did what I always do when the overwhelm threatens to whelm me all over the place: I consulted the Oracle (a Doreen Virtue Daily Guidance book).  I flicked and fiddled about with the pages, until my fingers decided on #197.  Amongst all the claptrap and hoohar, the affirmation was this: “I make time for activities that I find fulfilling and fun.  The energy I spend on myself is a wise investment in my happiness and health.  I am a perfect role model of self-care for my friends and family.”

Sweet.

I had a shitload of stuff to get done today.  All of it boring and uninspiring.  So instead of racing about like a headless chick, and causing the cortisol to course through my vessels, I chose a different course.  I slipped on my comfy Saucony slippers (some people know them as ‘runners’ or ‘joggers’, but mine aint seen any of that action.) and headed off for a walk.

Now usually, a walk means a WALK.  I’m fast.  Maybe as fast as your light jog.  And I’m focussed.  Maybe as much as your ten year-old kid playing Minecraft.  And I’m sweating.  Maybe as much as a Sumo in a sauna.  Because I am WALKING for EXERCISE.  And that means my teeth may be gritted, my fists might be clenched, and my eyes will be looking at some spot in the distance.  Somewhere that I will be going TO.  I won’t be where I am, that’s for sure.  At no point will it be fun.  The fun will come later when the endorphins kick in.

I set out on my walk, but as it was a walk under the heading “Make Time for Yourself”, I decided to let my slippers choose the path and the pace.  I allowed my eyes to look in directions other than straight ahead.

I noticed things.  Like the feeling of the sun on the back of my neck, just beneath my hairline.  And the sensation of the wind playing with the tiny hairs on my arms.  I heard the squeaky-crunch of the sand under my slippers.  I listened to the sea call me, daring me to take off those slippers, and allow my winter-feet taste the cool salt of the sea.  I noticed the little pods on the path down to the beach that were usually just an intrusive burr to the soft arches of my feet, and saw that they are really quite intricate and interesting in their construction.  I saw the ripples in the sand, created by the wind I usually despised, and saw how something annoying could create something pretty.

Pesky pod

Pretty patterns

After a time, I sat on the seat that the para-gliders use to check that pesky wind, and listened to some music.  They weren’t cool songs or new songs or even my favourite songs, just songs that give me feels.  Beth, The First Cut Is The Deepest, The Sweetest Thing, Loving Cup.

By and by, some people came past me: some were hurrying with their dogs, others were rushing off to work or some important place, patting their hair into place and squinting against the sun.  Most of them were on a mission of some sort.  On purpose.  And purposeful.  But my purpose was to be still.  I don’t think any of them even noticed me.  I usually like to think of myself as an intrepid adventurer, treading the road less travelled, but today I was like a Hobbit.

The road goes ever on and on,  Down from the door where it began.  Now far ahead the Road has gone,  And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with eager feet,  Until it joins some larger way,  Where many paths and errands meet.  And whither then? I cannot say.

I liked the not knowing.

It may have taken off some years.

No makeup, bad hair, a photo not fit for sharing… Ahh, screw it.

Will you do something just for you today?  Just because?  What will it be?

…From The Ashers xx

I just watched a little news break thingy.  You know, one of those little briefs, with the top five stories of the day.  None of the little bites were things that I want in my head.  Not one.

Then I went over to Twitter and I saw a whole lotta ugly.  For some reason, there is some nasty stuff going on tonight.  Trolling.  Unnecessary and horrid.  It left a foul taste in my mouth.

And it got me wondering, what is that all about?

What is it, that compels one human to behave so despicably towards another?  How? Why?

Over on Facebook there’s a thing going around about sharing gratitude.  Which is lovely.  I keep a gratitude journal, have done for quite a while now, writing down at least five things every day I’m grateful for.  Sometimes it’s a pretty shitty list, and other times it is insightful.  Or interesting.  Or humbling.

But the thing that always underpins the whole thing, is a gratitude for life.  This life.  This one chance we have.  This here and now.  I’ve had too many people I care about die, and if I’m lucky enough to live on, there will be more.  So many more.  So I’m grateful to be alive in this time, this town, with these people.  Singing and dancing along.

Perhaps if everyone on this spinning blue globe could be so grateful, the news bulletins would be something inspiring to watch.  People on Twitter would play nice.  And Facebook?  Well there’d be no need for gratitude reminders, because we would all be thankful all the time.

I reckon that would be something newsworthy.

…From The Ashers xx

I had a funny blog (hilarious even) all mapped out in my mind to pop up here, but I’ve just watched Q and A, and now it all seems a bit frivolous.

Did you watch it?  I usually can’t stand it, mostly because of Tony Jones and the fact that my Twitter blows up with all the #qanda tweets and I’m too lazy to mute them.  But also because of all the grand-standing and posturing, that I can’t help but think is all for show, and that they might all go out for a beer together afterwards.

But tonight was different.

There was a reflective reverence to the panel.  The answers were thoughtful.  The interactions respectful.  No yelling.  No name-calling.  Perhaps it’s because the panelists weren’t as polarised by politics as they usually are, or maybe it’s because regardless of the methodology in which each one believes change can best be implemented, there was a commonality of intention.  A bigger picture that each one, in their own way, would like to work towards.

And there was a warmth.

As it ever is: treaty is one of the goals, as is creating the best outcomes for families- children in particular, as well as encouraging bilingual-ness (I’m not sure what the correct term would be).  These issues were only just touched on and then moved along.  There was much to discuss and very little time.  Not enough for any actual deepening of understanding.

I’m sure there will be tirades on blogs tomorrow, for example: the maligned Noel Pearson will be praised from one side for being eloquent and sensible and caring for the rights of children, and criticised from the other for being simplistic with an ‘either/or’ policy and of course for being Toned Abs’ right hand man.

And so it goes.

For if you care enough about an issue to go on National television and state your opinions outright, and are then following up those ideas with your life’s work, you will expect that someone, somewhere to have an opinion that is both equal and opposite.  And they will voice it.  Most likely without you being in front of them, to have the right of reply.

I can’t help but think: why are there still sides?

I have no idea what the best course of action is for Australia as a nation right now.  This big warm-hearted country steeped in guilt and shame, and yet still unable to back down and apologise, and make change on a meaningful level- and not just with a few words of acknowledgement before a seminar, about the traditional custodians of the land- but with real action.  I don’t pretend to know what the next step is, nor do I think I’m alone.  Even the people intimately involved in putting forward suggestions seem to be lost on where to go.

So instead, we sit on our hands, or throw them in the air, afraid to weigh in, lest we say/think/do the wrong thing.  Offend someone.  Over-simplify.  Make the wrong choice.  Be seen as too white or too brown.  Yet we know, that every single time we don’t make a choice, we are making a choice.  Not choosing is still choosing.

And still we wait.

And yet again, the little children are taken away.

I just looked at a photo of myself taken last weekend, and I look about two hundred and eighty-six years old, the bags under my eyes are big enough to pass as suitcases, rather than little nightclubbin’ handbags, so I think I need to go to bed early, without writing a blog.  Seriously.  Sorry about that, getting you here, under false pretences.

<Imagine I’ve inserted a nice little pic of my bags right here>    I tried to take you one, but I have no makeup on, and selfies on the reverse camera are never very nice… I couldn’t take one without looking like Grug.  And a little bit like my brothers.  Which sounds mean, but I’M A GIRL.

My nose is really big. Is it growing with The Menopause?

Don’t worry, I won’t leave you completely empty-handed, here is a little thing from my Instagram Lovely, @smilechickie:

I like it.  Even if I’ve never heard of Bob Moawad.  So no apologies.  I’m going to bed to work on these John English eyes of mine.  See ya on the other side.

…From The Ashers xx

People who have more and more clever words and freely flowing intelligence than me have written about Peaches Geldof, and with their empathy, have done something to stem the tide of dumping waves of drivel written by people who see this varied, beautiful, hard, unique world in stark black and white.  No, not stark: sanctimonious.

It must be simple to see the intricacies of life like that, with no margin for human-ness.  No value on individual variation, or the magic of creativity.  No striving for something rare, something raw, something real.

For I suspect that is the bland type of world we would have, if people, individuals, weren’t striving for truth, beauty and passion.  And I suspect that sometimes those who burn the brightest are singed then scarred by their very own flames, and perhaps, in choosing to pursue the highest of ideals, they can get lost along the way.  At least they are looking for a way.  Forging a path.  Instead of sitting comfortably at home armed with a keyboard, waiting for someone to fall and fail, so they can shoot out judgement on the choice of vehicle, or lack of navigation skills.

I have known six people with six different addictions, that started as something fun and ended (does it ever end?) in pathology.

One never even discussed her addiction, so normal it was.  So much part of who she was.  She was lost inside the behaviour, not even realising she didn’t know the way out.

One knew he was addicted, but chose never to say it in case that made it powerful, so instead he shrunk it down really small, tiny small,  and hid that significant pebble somewhere in his marrow, never to be seen again.

One saw the problem, made an assessment,  went through the steps, and stopped.  “Forever”, she said.  And to test herself, surrounded herself in the very substance, and all of the substance-users every day for work.  Until she was diagnosed with death.  It was the first thing she did, leaving the hospital, because “Shit, I’m gonna die anyway, I might as well die happy.”  I was sad that she had deprived herself so long, if that was what she really wanted to do.

One was so riddled with demons and horrors that he would trip over them any time he ventured inside his own mind, and so he chose to keep them anaesthetised and groggy lest they chase him down, until one day they fought him to the death.

One was completely in control of everything.  She could stop any time she liked.  She only did it because she liked it.  She was in charge go ‘it’.  In fact, she shouldn’t even call it ‘it’, as it wasn’t anything.  Every single day she woke up to stop it again this day.  It was exhausting, but better than losing control again.

One knew it all.  He knew he was an addict, and that he always would be.  He knew he had to get clean, get clean, get clean because he had a wife and children and he owed it to them to be/do/see/have it all.  He both owed them and resented them in equal measure, and he was sure that he would kick it for them, kick it tomorrow, but oh what he wouldn’t give for just a tiny taste.  No more, just a taste.  He told me he loved it more than anything else in the whole world, and part of me thought he should just be using and forget the rest, if he loved it so much.  But that wasn’t for me to say.

Because none of it, not one bit, of any of it was for me to say.

Or condemn.

Or pretend to know what life is like for another.

All I know is that we would all do well to look for something to love, something to love more than anything else in the whole world.  I suspect then we should do that thing, as much as possible.  And hope that thing is a good thing and not a bad thing, because the world tells us there really aren’t any shades of grey.

…From The Ashers xx

I’ve just been watching Total Recall.  Not the Arnie one, the other one.  Besides being an unreal adrenalin-fest that is setting my Sympathetic Nervous System on FIRE, the heightened neural function has got me thinking.  Unusual for 9pm on a Monday night.  The discussion is around having memories implanted by changing body chemistry.  i.e. You choose the ‘memory’ you want, perhaps something you might not be able to afford or ever dare to do, and they inject you with the chemicals required to make you believe you did it.  Affair with George Clooney?  Here you are luv, can’t you almost smell the Nespresso from here?  Trip to Paris?  Oui, and here are a couple of extra kgs on your bum from all the pastries.

We already know this to be the case, don’t we?  Our memories are simply a bunch of chemically modulated neurones firing at a particular frequency, painting a picture of something we assume to be true.  And the more we play that movie in our minds, the deeper it becomes entrenched.  The more connections we make for that chemical tale, the more we interpret this imprint as fact.  The Reality.  For it is our reality, but is it actuality?  Our cells tell us it is.  But is it?

It is said that “the mind doesn’t know the difference between something real, or imagined, if repeated in great and vivid detail”.

Our technology is not such that we can simply inject ourselves with holidays to Disneyland and weekends with River Phoenix, (Yes, yes, I know, STILL.) but could we not at least try?

Would it be possible to enhance our happiest or most thrilling memories, and modulate our most distressing ones?

Could we, with regular, repeated and comprehensive practise, modify the way we perceive our past, and hence potentially change how we react to current situations and circumstances?

And who would that make us, if we could?

So please excuse me, whilst I go and imagine eating this lot:

No Turkish Delight in my imaginary box.

Who am I kidding?  Imma eat them for realz.

What “memory” would you implant?  And hands off River and Johnny Depp, they’re mine.

…From The Ashers xx