Bleeding Heart

I have been called a soft touch more than once. I cannot bear to see harrowed anguish on somebody face, let alone hear it in their voice or cry. Watching someone bleed or writhe in pain draws a physical reaction from me. I cannot help but do something, even if that something is pray.

I have always been this way. I was the toddler who soothed other children at the park, took pity on and played with vagabonds on city benches and who always shared. To this day if I am asked for small change on the street you get no judgement from me but you do get whatever coins I am carrying. I am no fool, but feel that pain, shame and despair should be alleviated if at all possible.

As such motherhood hasn’t been an easy road to walk for me. I am not sure it is for anybody. If compassion isn’t your strong suit, then parenthood will definitely change that. Not a parent? I have heard parenthood described as having your heart outside your body walking around under it’s own steam. From experience its and accurate description. It is as though they are still wired into your nervous system and you actually feel the child’s pain.

Knowing there is nothing you can do, or being intellectually aware that what you are doing is in the child’s best interest, doesn’t make it any easier to hear them crying or calling your name. Yes baby, Mummy is aware it upsets you. And for the record it does make my heart bleed every time you cry. I only hope you feel my love and forgive me one day. Now cuddle teddy and go to sleep.

No right answer

Life isn’t all rosy. I have front row seats at the moment to some awful melodramas playing out in the lives of my loved ones. Sometimes life is hard. The choices we are forced to make are harder;

How far are you willing to go for family?

How many times can you turn the other cheek?

How long can you keep your head buried in the sand before you are ready to face the fire that is coming close to burning your arse?

When is it advisable to run? How long do you stay away?

How much are you willing to change and sacrifice for love?

When is letting the other go a better option?

When do we decide to stop being victims of our parents and take responsibility for our lives?

How to react when someone changes the rules of the game?

How do you plan when you are on borrowed time?

How do you balance the needs of the other with your own?

How far would you go to protect a loved one?

The more I watch the lives around me the clearer it becomes that no-one has the answer. Everybody’s advice sucks, especially mine. We cannot know how it feels to talk in the shoes of another and we don’t want to know the deepest secrets of their heart. We may not always understand why people do what they do, but that isn’t our role. We are not here to judge, to assess, to evaluate, to blame, to make someone right or wrong. Our concern is to do what we must, as they do what they must. No more and no less. It gets muddy and confused and the lines blur. Nothing much we can do about that. No two will ever see eye to eye, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t in this together. Life doesn’t discriminate.

What I know for sure is that there is no right answer. There is just the choice you make at the time.

Australia Day

We have a lot to be thankful for as Australians this Australia Day. Despite our extreme weather we are relatively free from crisis. We are free from civil war. We have plenty of food to eat. We are afforded opportunities to grow, learn and make our way in the world. Our home is as vast as it is beautiful. Decisions, awful decisions, that others face in poverty stricken regions will never be ones we need to make.

Aside from enjoying our day off, the sun, the surf, the cricket, the tennis and a cold one (or two), let us spend a moment in genuine gratitude. And spare a thought for our service men and women deployed around the world who are missing exactly what we are celebrating.

My forgiving habit

I am in a habit of letting go, of forgiving. I am slow to anger and almost always ‘talk  it out’ with the other when I feel wronged. I even (much to my partner’s frustration) sit down and have that same frank discussion when I feel someone else is upset with me. I have a deep aversion to bottling things up. I hate repressing emotion and I cannot bear to hold a grudge.

This was possibly the hardest habit I have ever formed, and it is the greatest gift I ever gave myself.

I remember what living in a sess-pool of my own angst felt like. I remember hating someone so much it made me physically sick when I saw them in person (true story). I remember anger, seething rage and shame colouring my every decision and word. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I made the choice to feel that way when I refused to let go. The indescribable freedom I claimed through forgiveness forged my resolve in that instant never to carry a grudge again.

Forgiveness is simple, but not necessarily easy. In fact it can be excruciating hard, until you know how. Once it becomes a habit you find yourself restless, desperate for ways to let go of what hurts you.

Here is what I have learned about forgiveness so far:

• Emotional pain is there for a reason. It is telling us something is left undone; something to do, something to learn, something to say.
• To move towards forgiveness you must first acknowledge the pain you are feeling AND feel it. If you are forgiving more than an argument with a loved one, this could mean you curl into the fetal position or cry tears of rage. Either way only way forward is through it. It won’t be pretty or a walk in the park, but it is no worse than living with the suppressed pain indefinitely.
• You must forgive yourself before you forgive the other. You did the best you could with the information and resources you had at the time. Shit happens. You can’t control everything, be gentle with yourself. You’re ok.
• In time you can forgive the other. They did the best they could with the information and resources they had at the time. It may not have been ‘right’, it certainly wasn’t ideal, but it is done.

I can forgive much, but I am not an expert. There are things I am sure would shatter my resolve to forgive. There are situations I cannot fathom, let alone let go of effortlessly. But while my life is in a comfortable capital city and all my family members are healthy, I feel I have no excuse but to let go.

Powerful honesty

I have this friend. I have known her a long time. Nearly half my life. She has this thing; she is blatantly honest.

I wonder if you think that is a ‘good’ or a ‘bad’ thing? From experience I think it’s a good thing, if you can take it. The older I get, and the longer we are friends, the more I rely on her honest opinion.

She is prepared to disagree, politely of course, on anything of importance. Openly and tactfully laying her cards on the table when something is awry. More than once I credit this with saving our friendship from crashing into the rocky shore of our opposing political views, divergent lifestyles and different views on life and the world. More than once her honesty has also rescued me from swirling confusion and dominoes of bad decisions.

Although her honesty is a blessing, it is sometimes a difficult pill to swallow. Not because of what she has to say, but because our pride, inadequacies and fears make honesty confronting some times. Herein lies the second layer of blessing; her honesty makes me a better person. A more aware, more compassionate, stronger person.

If only more people were courageous enough to be powerfully honest.

Sense of self

As the days roll on, I am lucky enough to witness my toddler create his sense of self. He has begun using sentences with ‘me’ and ‘mine’. He also refuses help and asserts his opinions with the all too annoying “No!” and “Yuck!”. Despite its infancy, his self-esteem seems imperviable. I wonder how long it will stay that way and what I can do to help.

When he does something ‘naughty’, he comes to me, admits his wrong doing and then gives me a cuddle. If he is chastised or punished, he assumes the millisecond it is over that he gets cuddles, and loving attention again. He interrupts almost every hug his father and I share with a ‘love oo’, his chubby little arms outstretched, knowing in his bones he will be embraced too.

I love watching him, and his infectious belief that the whole world loves him, at work on the street. Fearlessly he smiles and greets strangers ‘Hello’. Smiles and bats his eyelashes and is offered any number of treats from chocolates and marshmallows, to stamps, toys and books. At such a young age he works a room so well I learn just by watching him and people who are less than friendly seem to not even register.

He takes risks. He values only love and fun. He expects the world to support him. He anticipates love from all directions.

Every day I feel as though I am seated at the foot of the Master. With close study he may teach me perfect self esteem.

Musings on Grace

I firmly believe that it takes a village to raise a child. In a ‘village’ children grow up at the feet of elders, learning vital lessons. Adults in a ‘village’ mentor and teach adolescents, instructing them in the skills and knowledge that they will need to contribute to the village in adulthood. Sadly I feel that my generation grew up largely without that village. This is not a criticism of our for-mothers; they were focused on creating a society where we (as women) would be valued as equals. It is because of them that we have an opportunity now to instruct the daughters of our new ‘village’ in all the skills of an adult and not just half of them.

As a result of growing up without the village microcosm we are drastically short of role models we can aspire to emulate, again not because our mothers are not ‘role models’ but because our paths are likely to be very different to theirs. Young women are in search of mentors and are coming up short. The ‘self help’ genre is growing exponentially as women reach out for help, desperately craving guidance and support.

I am fortunate in that I have had the loving guidance of mentors throughout my journey thus far. There is no substitute for experience; lessons only become permanent when one has lived them and been transformed by the experience. But the transformation isn’t automatic, the generation of women who repeatedly turn to inappropriate relationships, emotional eating and ‘retail therapy’ are a testament to that. The disconnect is that the skills necessary to courageously face life, walk towards our dreams and learn from adversity were the ones we never learnt at the feet of our elders.

We identify women of grace that we wish to grow like, but lack the vocabulary to identify what it is about their person that we value. The closest words we have to describe what it is we want are; beauty, respect, success and charisma. So we blindly stumble in search of what we think will bring us these; physical ‘perfection’, celebrity and the adoration of men. But we have the cart before the horse. Celebrity (lasting celebrity and not infamy) and adoration are the by-products of a life lived gracefully with purpose.

The deceptive nature of grace is that it ‘appears’ effortless. It seems as though it is a gift bestowed at birth when it is an attitude and a set of skills. Grace is a carriage, a way of being, that has nothing to do with external beauty. Though a graceful woman does possess a ‘glow’ that is often mistaken for, or perceived as beauty. There are guidelines, tools and secrets that graceful women live by and demonstrate, that when applied to our lives, transform them as though they have been bewitched by a fairy godmother’s wand.

This year I am working on embodying grace a little more… what about you?

Collective magic

The music building to a crescendo. Thousands of hands meeting in unison. The clapping creating a deep bass drum rhythm that somehow links us all.

The same is possible with dance. With celebration. With mourning. Solidarity

These are the great levelers of the human experience. In these experiences we can forego our personal identity and feel at one with thousands of strangers. These experiences change us. It always feels as though a little part of my defenses, my separateness, is lost after a ‘group moment’.

These times remind me, I like to think, of how we could relate to humanity. If we just let ourselves. They remind me of a better way.

Bless our musicians, our sports heroes, our leaders, our idols who can precipitate such events. Perhaps they hold a key to a more peaceful planet.

The damsel’s lesson

I am the first to criticize the ridiculous  Hollywood view of romance and love. It is out of control and totally unrealistic. The idea that a woman needs a man to rescue her from a ‘loveless’ existence is insulting and dare I say it well-meaning.

Stories are powerful. Very powerful. And there is a reason we are re-telling the same stories now that were told hundreds of years ago.

Oral history was once the way we learned of the world. Parables and allegories have been guiding us since our childhood. Since humanities childhood. Some stories are so powerful that almost every culture has a variation of the same theme. Stories and the players in these stories are so ancient, so integral to our lives, that they have become archetypes that we unconsciously breathe life into every day.

The nursery rhymes of today were warnings of yester-year. The  fairy tales of our childhood once taught what it meant to be a man and a woman. The stories of the Princess marrying the Knight that rescued her have some merit. Hold on. Before you take off my head with one bite, let me remind you that I am a (albeit failed) feminist at heart. There are literally hundreds of versions of this story, but they all boil down to this; his ability to remain unfaltering in the face of obstacles freed her, and in return her love sets him free. That sounds rather equal and honouring to me.

The age old drama doesn’t sound quite so ridiculous any more does it? It sounds almost evolved to me…

Lets look closer. The man of the story invariably demonstrates equanimity. THE most attractive quality in a man. You may say you look for a man who can make you laugh, or someone who is honest with you, and maybe you are right. But I say you would pick the man who holds the ground solid beneath your feet so you can dance to the beat of your own drum over a goofball or the guy who tells you your bum really does look big in those pants, any day of the week. I know I did. Not sure? Check out this song and tell me if you would not be drawn in by this level of dedication.

The man in this story is tested and is proved to be worthy. He has demonstrated, beyond the shadow of a doubt that he honours the lady, by setting about the quest. He has proven to be strong and grounded by achieving the quest and he didn’t have time to visit the whorehouse when he was slaying dragons or vanquishing the witches, so it’s a safe bet that he is a one woman kinda guy.

As for the woman she is essentially feminine. No by that I don’t mean weak, or feeble or a victim. I mean that she is magnetic. The rescuer is drawn to her, not for her achievements or actions, but for who she is. She is allowing and gracious and loving. Her heart is the rescuers prize and her love soothes the battle weary warrior.

The story of the damsel in distress is important and powerful. It is a way our fore-mothers reach out to us instructing us to shine our true self forth and to test the men who are drawn to it. And their advice is when we do find a partner who is as strong as we want to be free, that we love him with all we have.

So, Hollywood may bastardise it and hide its worth beneath makeup, special effects and poor story lines, but we continue to be transfixed because the integrity of the tale remains.

You gotta have soul

I love music. Pretty much all music. Well most, anyway. (Rap and death metal being two exceptions). My music collection spans the Crooners of the 1940′s to current pop stylings of Pink. I love rock and punk, folk and even some country. You’ll often hear my radio tuned to jazz, but acoustic rock and gospel are probably the two genres that really make my heart sing.

For years I have been ashamed to admit some of my favourite songs and totally baffled as to how the music of the day (presumably my day) doesn’t click with me. I know I will cop some flack for saying this (translation form Aussie slang I’ll get shit for saying this) but so much of today’s music lacks soul. There I said it. And I’m willing to defend it, too.

Now before I totally betray the musicians of today, of which many are outstanding artists, I should put this all in context. Music is a transformative medium. It has been used in rituals for worship, healing, and celebration in every culture all throughout history. Music has fueled many a revolution and moved listeners to feel the full gamut of emotion.

Herein lies my disappointment; the music of my generation doesn’t really (collectively) say all that much. And a lot of what it says I don’t want to hear. Case in point David Guetta’s “Sexy Bitch”. Oh please, the least disrespectful thing you can use to describe her is ‘sexy bitch’? Give me a break.

There will always be the trashy light music of the day thats purpose is solely to provide entertainment and enjoyment. Think disco and dance music. But the popular music of a time really interprets and reflects the happenings of the day. Our music reflects only personal dramas. Personal triumphs. Personal pain. The closest we have to anthems for a generation are Green Day Time of your life, Tomorrow by Silverchair, Dammit by Blink 182 or Crazy by Gnarles Barkley. Which pale in comparison to Queen, Bob Dylan, Leonard Cohen, Sex Pistols & Nirvana who championed generations before.

Pink has tried with Mr. President. John Butler Trio put in a good effort. Jack Johnson even writes about recycling. The Black Eye Peas manage to have a point while they inspire our ‘good night’s out, but they alone cannot breathe fire into the hearts of a generation. Our artists may not have a civil rights movement or the Vietnam war to draw on like the heroes of the 60′s and 70′s. We may not be fighting the establishment as we did with the birth of punk in the 70′s and 80′s. But you cannot tell me that when Rap and Hip hop came to the fore in the 80′s and 90′s that our rock and folk artists lost the ability to inspire us. Or that we live in a Utopian society with nothing to inspire them.

Thank heavens for Coldplay, U2, The Killers, Green Day, Foo Fighters for the soul they inject into a seemingly shallow industry at times. Let us hope they are still rocking on in 30 years time like their forefathers Dylan, Cohen and Cash all who had albums feature in the top 100 albums of the 00′s.

Please prove me and my (secretly folk loving) musical heart wrong. What are the anthems of our (Gen Y) generation? Who is still flying the flag and writing to inspire us all?

My black holes

I may not have mentioned in the past, but I have little black holes in my cognition. Areas where a normal person would understand a specific topic are totally blank within me and I am left confounded as to how in the hell someone could possibly conceive of such a thing.

Here are a few of those black spots, that for the life of me I cannot wrap my head around. The instances where i try, my brain explodes and goes walking around on its own two legs:

Violence

Violence, for example ultimate fighting/cage fighting. I mean really who thought that this was a good idea? How can people watch it or participate in it? While I am a pacifist and don’t believe that violence is ever the answer I can understand that at times it happens. But to encourage violence to cause injury for no reason but enjoyment? I simply cannot understand this.

I know many a soldier and trust me, they don’t relish violence. They would much rather avoid it if they can. They do their job, they serve their mates and their country but they don’t have a blood thirst. Martial Arts too avoids conflict as much as possible. Combat training is used as a path to controlling the base desires of the body and even the greatest of military minds SunTzu said that he who goes to battle has already lost. Fighting for the sake of fighting? I can’t see the fun or even glory in fighting for nothing. No disrespect to the fighters… I just don’t understand them

‘Earning’ respect

I have had some discussions recently with friends about respect. I find it an interesting topic of conversation. There seems to be a consensus that respect can be earned by deeds. That the actions of a person can, somehow, be tallied up, judged. The result indicating whether or not others should respecting them. What the? Are we really serious? Do we mean to say that an outsider can arbitrarily perceive and judge another by their deeds and then decide not to respect them? Again, I have difficulty understanding this. Who do we think we are?

Every human being is deserving of respect. Full stop. Respect is a function of respecting others and as such is an extension of character not deeds. We do what we have to do, no body has the right to judge us or disrespect us. And if they try they only succeed in disrespecting themselves.

Abusing the body

I will admit up front that I am not the most physical person. I would much rather exercise my mental, emotional or spiritual self than the body. But I am getting better. Fueling the body, exercising the body, pushing the body all seem relatively valid to me. But pushing the body beyond rational limits? All I can say is ‘why?’ By all means push through the pain barrier, find your physical limits if you must, but once you’ve found them, it doesn’t make sense to me to push the body beyond its clear signals to ‘Stop!’ to the point that you risk damaging it.

Our secret weapon

I know in my bones that nothing life will ever offer me will be as fearsome as my worries are. Not because my worries are terrible, horrifying or gruesome, but because in my worries I underestimate myself.

As a teenager, and even in my early 20′s my greatest fear wasn’t losing my job, being physically attacked walking home in the dark or  getting food poisoning from eating a bad kebab after a big night out. My greatest fear was losing my identity to ‘Wife and Mother’. This, I worried, would be a fate worse than death.

I was plagued by images of an unhappy me. I would be balancing budgets, changing nappies, cooking daily and not working outside the family home. I imagined that this suburban hell would repress my unrepressable spirit. I was sure that if I was to dedicate myself to the role and responsibility of a householder that there would be no return, and my soul would be crushed.

It sounds dramatic, I know, but I would still argue realistic. Girls of my generation were pushed hard as children, told that our brains and careers would be our salvation, our ticket out of domestic subservience. Well, maybe it was worded more like ‘If you work hard you can do anything you want. You could be a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, a nurse or even an engineer. You have so much potential. Don’t waste it.’ Waste our potential on what? The roles not listed, like wife and mother perhaps?

It turns out though that suburban wife and mother was not enough to repress my spirit. I know that now because I am there. It is no walk in the park either. My fears about the never-ending list of tasks to complete and the remarkably short time to actually do them was spot on. As was my fear that the needs of my partner and especially a small child can at times feel suffocating. What my fears didn’t account for was the strength of my spirit. My spirit is still strong enough to fight for time and space to express my individuality.

I am convinced that this unaccounted for ingredient, my real potential, will bode me well in all of life’s ‘hells’. Because I can’t imagine how high my spirit will fly in the face of adversity, but I can’t help but live it.