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 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.

Transfusion Day: Before

In the lead up to Transfusion Day, things get a little tetchy around these parts. People might cry if they don’t get their hot chocolate in their favourite Bunnykins cup, or if the hot chocolate is too hot, too cold, too milky, too chocolatey, stirred too much, not stirred enough, or it is served without a spoon (Bunnykins of course). I can’t even begin to imagine what would happen if it was revealed that it was made with Oat Milk. So the adults do the best we can to make things smooth and easy and not get cross with her for feeling overwhelmed, because we know that she is exhausted.

As are we.

In the lead up to Transfusion Day, I get a little tetchy too. I don’t care much for frivolous conversations, and unless I’m at work, my mind finds a way to wander up and down the long white clickety-click lino corridors of the Children’s Ward, hovering over the stifling walls of the treatment room, where the child who will always be my baby will soon have her golden skin pierced and pierced and pierced until the cool smooth of the needle can slide along the length of a vein.

And so we wait.

We wait until we can avoid it no longer, and we book in for Transfusion Day.

And then something strange happens.

The child who might burst into tears, crying, “Why did Daddy put the salt so far away?” even when it’s directly in front of her, becomes a child transformed. She gives up a sample of blood for crossmatching, and it’s as if we are in Medieval times, and the blood-letting creates a space in her circulation to be filled with vitality. The child who would whimper if she was asked to pick up her socks, will put socks on her hands, in an attempt to do a no-hands cartwheel. She will run and play and laugh and craft. The bursts of energy are short-lived, and her chest will rise and fall in a way that my Motherduck instincts will watch like LASER, but at least there are bursts. She is preparing for her Coco-ness to return.

Transfusion Day: After

And so we wait.

We wait with a nervous energy that tries to escape and bubble out of our pores.

She is nervous about getting the canula in, and yet equally excited to open the Glitzy Globes I’ve bought her to play with to pass the long long day, I am nervous about a million different things that will never eventuate, and yet equally excited to have essence of my daughter back, with all of the potential and promise of an eight year old.

So there is a balance.

As always there is at times of transformation.

In the lead up to Transformation Day we are jangly and raw and open, with our hearts exposed to the elements. And yet somehow we are closer to something within us, than we are at any other time: our truth or our life force, or some invisible element that makes us human. I don’t know what it is, but it allows me to look at the world through eyes that have been scrubbed clean of filament, and I can see in razor focus.

It’s a Transformation.

If you read these words and think you might like to share a transformation with a kid like Coco,

call the Blood Bank on 13 14 95 to book a spot. You can be a hero.

…From The Ashers

Last week Coco received what truly is the gift of life.

If you could see the difference in her before and after a transfusion you would be like me, urging people to give blood, give blood, give blood whenever they can. Before, she is fractious and intolerant, prickly and itchy. She might cry if she drops a pencil, or doesn’t like the colour of her cup, her skin a pallid yellow. After, she is full of energy and cheeky fun. Our house zings with the sound of her deep belly laughs, and she is literally, in the pink of health.

Yesterday I went and gave some of my blood, and as always, my heart warmed, to see the number of people who, at this crazybusy time of year are willing to slow down in the sanctuary of the blood bank for an hour or so, and offer up their veins to share that bright red fluid that makes us all tick. And keep on ticking.

At the blood bank we smile at each other, little nods as we unite in our goal of saving anonymous lives. We sit in the cool, calm confines of that haven of life, protected from the jostling activity that seems to get everyone jangling at this time of year, and take some time out to reflect on how lucky we are. Lucky that, this day, we aren’t the ones needing blood, and in fact, we are healthy enough to have a surplus to share around. The efficient blood angels will drain about half a litre from our bodies, and our clever marrows will slmply pump out some more, with barely a blip. We reflect on the magnificence of the body.

Once when Liam was small he asked me how rainbows are made, and I gave him a long and fanciful answer involving paint and fairies. He didn’t believe it for a moment, and when I told him what it really was, describing white light and the dispersion effect of the light being seperated into its different wavelengths, he listened in rapt silence. He then asked me why I would make up a ‘weird story’ when the reality was so much more magical. I think of that often. I think of the wonderous abilities of nature, and clevernesss that resides within every single one of us. The way that yesterday, without any conscious effort from me, I was able to accomodate and create another half litre of those beautiful little biconcave discs that carry around our breath.

As I looked around the busy room at he blood bank, I was humbled at the number of lovely people who will stand up (lie down?!) to give Coco a gift so special, without even knowing her. A gift better than any trinket or shiny bauble, and one that allows the walls of our home to swell with fun and vitality and joy.

The true gift of Christmas.

If you would like to give blood, call the blood bank on 13 14 95 to book a bed. You won’t regret it.

…From The Ashers