This Angel

I wrote this as a teenager. It remains the only piece of my poetry that I have kept. Still not sure I want to share it, but here goes.

This angel fell,

her halo lay broken, aside her beliefs,

shattered, like glass

this fragile heart beats.

Uneasy.

Unsteady.

But not alone.

She will never live a lie.

Isolated.

She will find her harp, her own song.

Her music, her soul,

soothes,

the wounds of her fall.

Lets talk about…. my imperfection

This blog should have been written 24 hours ago. Maybe more. No excuses here, mind you. I am open to criticism and may she who embodies perfection throw the first stone. Any takers? No? Really? That’s no surprise to me. But it does bring up an important question – Why do we try so hard to appear perfect?

I am no super woman. Yet so often I catch myself trying to be. So when I sat in the hair stylist’s chair this morning, after only 2 hours sleep, with the world’s greasiest hair, a piping hot coffee and grapes from the fruit market across the street, I apologised. Not once, but about a million times. I apologised for not getting my stylist a coffee because I couldn’t remember how he takes it. I apologised for my hair being greasy because the hot water system had been down for nearly two days and I can only bare an ice-cold shower for long enough to wash my body. I apologised for eating despite the fact that I hadn’t had time for breakfast (I spent my breakfast time sleeping and having a cold shower). I apologised in advance for rudely leaving my phone on incase the plumber called. I apologised for not taking better care of my hair. And then apologised for having such fabulous hair that despite rarely conditioning or brushing (yes bad rae!) that it still looked good to him. I apologised for not being my bubbly because despite two highly caffeinated drinks I was not alert. At all.

Honestly, this was my morning. And that only demonstrates the need I felt to be perfect for my hair dresser! On the way home I was to pick up a prescription for my baby and ingredients for dinner. Dinner is covered but the prescription was still on the fridge! Damn. Getting home, feeling that I was doing pretty well, only stuffing one thing up, functioning on caffeine alone (the grapes didn’t go down well) I realised that I had promised my son a kinder surprise. Epic. Fail. Mum. The darling child was happy with my discarded grapes none the less.

I am calling myself out. I am so far from perfect it is laughable. Don’t expect me to be, the closest I will come is apologising for my shortcomings.

PS Oh and I will apologise to you if you find spelling or grammatical issues. My editing eyes only kick in after 4 or more hours sleep :)

Lets talk about…Breasts (boobs, knockers, tits, jugs, fun-bags, globes)

I have never much been ashamed of breasts. I come from a long line of well endowed women, so I have been comfortable with the idea of cleavage for as long as I can remember. Breast were normal.

In my final year of primary school I had the largest breasts in class. By far. I found them awkward, over sized and embarrassing. I didn’t know quite what to do with them, and felt uncomfortable in my bras. Breasts were mortifying.

In my teenage years I was known for my outrageously plunging necklines and I quite liked provoking reactions from boys my age, and relished the opportunity to lecture them on their sexist behavior should they look for too long or make a comment. Then, breasts were powerful.

When I settled into my relationship and began rediscovering sex as tender and romantic, my breasts had yet another role. They became lovely, sensitive, adored and an important part of our sex life. My breasts became feminine.

A few years later I fell pregnant. Other than the constant vomiting, one of my first signs of pregnancy was breasts so tender even my bra hurt. Throughout the pregnancy they grew and changed in shape, colour and even function. Before too long my breasts had become mammary glands.

When the beautiful baby boy finally arrived he almost instantly began rooting for a nipple. He came close to finding his father’s before he was placed in my arms. I was flabbergasted at the force with which he began to suckle and bemused by the process of organising the breast and baby correctly (yes there is such a thing, and it is tricky to achieve in the beginning). My breasts became a learning experience.

Five weeks later on my second trip to the early childcare nurse with my happy and settled newborn I was faced with a different prospect. “It isn’t a personal failing dear” she said, “it is just that god didn’t give you enough milk.” With instructions to buy formula as soon as possible, my breasts became a failure.

It turns out the nurse was wrong. My breasts became their ultimate purpose, nurturers.

18 months later my toddler still feeds a few times a day. Now he feeds for his immune system, to top up his nutrients, for comfort, for bonding and to soothe the busy toddler to sleep. Like the proverbial Swiss Army knife, the one tool has millions of uses. My breasts became utilitarian.

I would like to point out that as varied as my experience of my breasts has been my breasts have never been any of the following: lewd, inappropriate, dirty, obscene, pornographic, offensive, a problem or anybody else’s business.

I think it is time we reclaimed our breasts. Inherent to our femininity, as they are, they should be revered and respected. A woman accentuating the feminine curves of her body or feeding her child is as natural and normal as can be. If you disagree then the problem resides with YOU not breasts or the woman they belong to.

How I failed as a liberated woman (Google first and shoot second.)

I am a strong, independent woman of the 21st century. I am a card-carrying feminist. Don’t believe me? Ask anybody who ever jokingly told me to ‘get back in the kitchen’, or anybody who so much as mumbled a chauvinistic comment around me since I was 5.

Yes, you heard me 5. There is a story my parents enjoy telling of a christmas party that I attended when I was a child. My father was in the Navy and at the time he was working with Navy divers. Now, just to fill you in Navy Divers are crazier than cut snakes. Men only join the clearance diving team if they are over the top mucho wankers with waaaaay more brawn than brains. So back to the christmas party. This diver spilt a beer on me and my pretty party dress. When I asked him to apologise (as would be the civilised thing to do) he made a comment about not apologising to a ‘little girl’. Let’s just say that he didn’t live down the dressing down he received from a 5-year-old ‘little girl’, until he got his new posting.

My history of fearlessness and standing on my own two feet started early, and it only got worse as I got older. In year 6 I was reprimanded for highlighting the plight of women in Saudi Arabia in my turn of show and tell. My show was the book Princess and I read aloud carefully selected excerpts, which the teacher deemed ‘inappropriate’. In year 7 I was sent from the room for asking my religion teacher the position of the Church on teenage prostitution in Australia. And by year 10 I was already a member of a political organisation, only responding to the title ‘comrad’ and espousing a lecture to anybody who greeted me with ‘you’re looking good’ because how fucking sexist is it that the first comment we make to women (not men) is that their physical appearance is pleasing!

Now let us fast forward to the failure my 5-year-old self would have kicked my arse for.  I have never been good with bugs. Or dirt for that matter. I have always been a bit of a girly girl ( no, the irony is not lost on me) and I freaked when there was a hornet, in my living room. In a nano-second I had nothing but adrenalin coursing through my veins. Because this hornet was HUGE! And also, my baby’s Daddy is allergic to wasps and bees. So there is every chance my baby could have an anaphylactic response to a sting AND since we are at home without a car, such a response could be fatal. Or at least this was the train of thought that was on constant loop in my mind. So you understand why my body chose flight over fight.

This could have been a perfectly respectable Mamma bear protecting baby bear situation, but it quickly degenerated into a farce. I grabbed the baby and my blackberry (the weapon of the 21st century) and ran into the hall trapping the hornet in the living room & kitchen. Then I was afraid it would make a nest for itself in the toys or the couch. Imagining scenes of me returning to the room for food and water, only to be exposed 360 degree to the wrath of the hornet, I opened the door a crack to spy on it. Then I made a few calls for advice. My mother, from whom I inherited my feminism, could do nothing but laugh and tell me to ‘squish it’. Thanks Mum, I hadn’t thought of that. My Nan advised me to hit it with a broom. When I advised her that I didn’t have a broom, she was too busy trying to figure out ‘what kind of woman doesn’t own a broom’? and forgot all about the hornet. My Aunt had no advice at all, but she did decide to buy me a fly swatter for christmas. Woot!

I rallied my courage, donned a long sleeve shirt (in case it tried to sting me as I squished it) and snuck back into the room armed with a shoe. I was sure I could do it. I mean I faced my fear of heights by abseiling, I faced my fear of snakes by petting a python and I managed to make it through labour in a meditative state. I can be both hunter and gatherer. I am woman hear me roar!

Minutes later I ran screaming from the room and called for my partner, in tears, to come home and kill it. Which he did. = Fail.

I learned multiple lessons from this failure:

1. Australia has Hornets (who knew?) Australian Hornets are non-agressive nectar eating creatures that only sting to paralyse caterpillars to feed their young.
2. Ignorance is the root of all major fuck-ups. The better you understand your enemy (read situation, person or stinging insect) the more likely you are to find a reasonable solution without degenerating to tantrums or violence. In short Google first, shoot second.

Failure

One of the feelings that I hate is failure. I don’t think I am alone here. Nobody wants to feel as though they failed. My distaste for the feeling has another level to it though. My every failure is somehow turbo-charged. I feel like a failure for feeling the emotion failure.

You see I should know better. I know that there is no such thing as failure.

So not only do I feel crap for not succeeding, I feel even worse for feeling that way. Because, drum roll please, failure doesn’t exist, everything is simply feedback. Feedback to show you how prepared (or not) you were, how skilled (or not) you are, how on track (or not) you are, how well (or not so well) you handled the situation. Failure is asking you to honestly re-evaluate the situation, to debrief and to consciously learn the lesson.

Call me lazy, but sometimes I just don’t have the fortitude to do it. It is so hard to look the feeling of failure in the face and consider it logically. It is harder still to identify my misconceptions, re-arrange the plan that got me here and decide on a new course. But you know what? When I have the courage, and can dredge up enough emotional energy to do it, things get better – FAST. The added bonus is that lessons learned via an uncomfortable feeling, like say failure, tend to stick with us so we make the mistake fewer times before really getting it.

I have had a roll of ‘epic failures’ the past 6 months, possibly more than ever before. I have been getting feedback left right and centre telling me I was off course, I was ignoring my intuition and that I had my priorities way out of whack. But I hadn’t stopped to debrief until this weekend. I was too busy, too run down, too unsupported  too [insert excuse here] to look at what was going on, and so I kept ‘failing’.

The lesson I have been afraid of facing is that I am not paying enough attention to my intuition. I have been feeling dread and doing it anyway, I have put others needs before mine and my babies, I have taken what others say as gospel and ignored my own feelings, I have supported my partner without question. Each time the feedback was clear; dreaded feelings and crappy results flashing like the proverbial neon sign telling me to listen to my inner voice.

Lesson: Listen closely to your so-called failures. Heed what they are telling you. There is nothing worse than waking up and realising that you have lived a shitty groundhog day every day for 6 months.

5 reason to wisely choose your friends (the power of Osmosis)

Balance is the natural state of the universe. Things have a way of working themselves out in the end. Things flow from high to low until both are equal. If we try to work against the flow we might succeed… for a while. And then we fail.

The 5 people you spend the most time with are the most influential in your life. Their personality, habits and preferences bleed into yours. So you had best choose wisely who you spend your time with. These people flavour your world.

You don’t believe how influential these people are? Try these on for size:

1. Ask a smoker why they took up the habit and who gave them their first drag
2. Ask a star student who they study with
3. Watch the way the presence of a baby changes the speech of its family and friends
4. Ask an ex-junkie who they spend time with now that they are clean
5. Ask an outdoor type how many couch potatoes they hang out with

Know the goal posts

Ask the question. Know the goal posts. It’s not just wise in business it’s essential for harmonious personal relationships to set boundaries, guidelines, to be clear on what is expected.

How do you know your relationship is healthy? How do you know your friend is living up to their role? How do you know you are delivering at work? How do you know what you can expect from family? Where does the obligation start and stop? How far are you ‘supposed’ to go? According to whom? Who drew these arbitrary lines?

Know what you need. Ask for what you want. Be clear on your deal breakers and enforce your boundaries. If you don’t know what the goal posts are, you will always be disappointed.

I’m wrong… a lot

My near and dear just died from shock at that title. If you ask those who know me well personally, they will tell you that one of my least favourite things is ‘being wrong’. In fact, few of them have ever witnessed me admit an error or mistake. But, despite my utter distaste for the experience, I am wrong… a lot. We all are.

• When I walk in a room I am sure everybody is noticing the flaws in my figure… I’m wrong
• When I think I can’t take it any more… I’m wrong
• When I think people care about when the last time I mopped the floor was… I’m wrong
• When I think I have nothing intelligent to say… I’m wrong
• When I think I simply must do everything… I’m wrong
• When I think the world will stop turning if I take a break, put my feet up and have a cup of tea… I’m wrong
• When I think feeding people will cure their ills… I’m wrong (but at least they are fed)
• When I think it matters if my son’s shirt matches his pants… I’m wrong
• When I think I have remembered everything… I’m wrong
• When I think I can be calm when we get lost en route to a new destination… I’m wrong
• When I think I can please everybody… I’m wrong
• When I think no one is listening… I’m wrong
• When I think I understand… I’m wrong
• When I think there are enough hours in a day (I am writing this at 12.01am)… I’m wrong
• When I am convinced I am not good enough… I’m wrong
• When I think raising my voice helps… I’m wrong
• When I think I suck at learning languages… I’m wrong
• When I think something is more important than responding to a call for “Mumee!”… I’m wrong
• When I think change is an external process… I’m wrong
• When I think I don’t have time to meditate… I’m wrong
• When I think I should feel guilty for eating chocolate… I’m wrong. Very wrong.

Care to share what you are wrong about?

Secret desires

We don’t often admit (to ourselves) what we really want. If knowing what you want doesn’t terrify you and exhilarate you at the same time, then you don’t really want it.

We tell ourselves lies about what we want and justify them to others. We settle for lesser goals. We try to satisfy our appetite with more palatable pursuits. We compromise. We play it safe.

There is a popular, and flawed, theory about why we avoid our true desires. The theory suggests that we avoid what we really want because we are afraid of failure. Yes, failure sucks. I am yet to meet anybody who enjoys it. But I do know, and know of, plenty of people who relish in the memory of failure experienced and overcome. Failure is a situation, an event, an opinion, a belief. We aren’t deeply afraid of failure.

We are utterly petrified of anguish. We fear the heartbreak & the pain of watching our dreams perish before our eyes.

So often we don’t surrender to what we really wanted until we are on the brink of losing it. The aversion to the agony is stronger than the desire for the sublime reward of realising your deepest secret dream.

Don’t bite your tongue. Don’t doubt your gut. Don’t be afraid of knowing and chasing what you really want. Listen to the quiet voice within or else you might find that you started to fight way too late and only ended up with a front row seat to watch it slip away.

There will never be a right time. There will never be a perfect situation. It will never get easier, safer. Surrendering to your deepest wants will always be fraught with risk, the risk of being hurt in the deepest possible way.

Truth: I want another baby*. I realised this when the doctor told me the test was negative.

*Note – It is now a goal of mine for the next 5 years to have another baby. I won’t be trying for a baby in the immediate future though. Mum and Dad please don’t freak out.

When ‘almost’ isn’t good enough

• I almost made my flight
• I almost have enough petrol
• We almost won the battle
• I almost told the whole truth
• I almost have enough hair dye
• I was almost faithful
• Her skirt almost covers her ass
• I almost made it to the meeting on time
• I almost made the sale
• I almost remembered your birthday
• The tent is almost waterproof
• I almost fell in love
• I almost have enough chocolate for everybody
• I almost remembered the grocery list
• I almost remember my way home
• We have catered for almost all the guests
• We have almost enough film to capture the wedding
• I almost saved them
• I almost remembered my wedding vows
• I almost made it to the birth in time

What I learned about myself playing Chess…

1. Safety first. I take risks, but only calculated ones.
2. I am only happy when I can anticipate my opponent.
3. Unless I have a strategy I feel vulnerable (even when my King is safe and sound).
4. Tactics are the natural love child of strategy and methodology.
5. I don’t like to feel controlled.
6. I dislike being reactive.
7. If the ship is sinking I look for ways to jump. If I think it’s a lost cause I wont flog a dead horse.
8. I underestimate myself.
9. I find it easier to see the pros of another and the cons of myself.
10. I don’t have a poker face.
11. I care way too much about pawns (Compassion or stupidity? You tell me.)
12. I’m not comfortable with the ethos the end justifies the means.
13. Once I have a strategy, I am like a dog with a bone.
14. Once a piece has a role it pains me to have it multi-task.
15. I avoid direct competition for a reason (its not good for the soul).
16. I can be spiteful.
17. I strongly dislike not being skillful in an area.
18. I can turn anything into an exercise in self awareness.

Small Things

We are taught not to sweat the small stuff; to let go of minor irritations, not to concern ourselves with petty things. While I agree that it isn’t worthwhile panicking that the kitchen isn’t spotless or that some one else is wearing the same outfit as you, I think the small things speak volumes about us.

We come prepared for the big things, both good and bad. We expect elation and anguish. We know roughly how to deal with the big things and if we don’t, we know where to go to for help. It’s ok to talk about the big things; positive or negative they become a badge of honour.

How we deal with the big things says a lot about us. Are you the kind of person why holds their head high in the face of adversity? Do you fold under pressure? Do you bravely face the ups and down of your life or do you search for scapegoats?

But for me we embody our grace, or not, in the small things; how we handle minor irritations, poor service, gossip, rudeness, rain and everyday stresses.