A Letter to Me

I'm interviewing high school boys for a little passion project of mine at the moment.  They are so full of life and future and potential that I ache to have my life ahead of me like they do.  Instead I feel older, and regretful, and panic'y that I've got to get as much experience and life out of this life before I can't be bothered (note to self: I will ALWAYS be bothered ok?)  I wish I could be that age again, but just a wiser, more purposeful version.  I want to do this life all over again.

One of the questions I've asked them is what they'd say to a 13 year old version of themselves.  Which got me thinking of this post I wrote a couple of years ago that I've decided to pop up again.  It has needed no editing.  I'd still say the same stuff....


This is gratefully borrowed from this (and please do watch this if you have a moment).

What would you say to your 16 year old self if you'd been able.

This is my letter to me.

Dear 16 Year Old Me,
Go love your mum, tell her you do, be with her, show her the adult you're going to grow into.  Because you're not going to get the chance for her to see it.  She'll be gone in 11 years from now.
Don't rush, you'll be doing that your whole life.
Look at those girls around you.  They'll be your friends for life.  Look after them.
Be a little crazy, you know when you feel that adrenalin charge when you do it sometimes, do it more, it's fun.
Don't worry about what you look like, it will get a little better.
Turn off the lights.
Don't just think you have to get married because everyone else is.  It will only end in tears.
Go have some fun.  You know what I mean.  More fun.  Do it.
Go exploring, get brave, be adventurous, otherwise you'll be in your 40's and go "uh-oh, better go exploring, better be brave, better have some adventures."
Be confident, just because you're surrounded by gorgeousness, doesn't mean you're not.
Smile more.  See  how those that do seem happier.  Watch and learn girl, watch and learn.
Just to warn you, your dad can be just like your mother moans about.  Don't get a surprise about that ok?.
Your sister will become your best friend.  Crazy I know but it will happen.
Even though you didn't have the most conventional role models, you will be a good mum.  Just trust your instincts and do what feels right.  Oh and watch others, those around you are an absolute fountain of knowledge.
You will find inspiration in so many surprising ways and from so many different people.
Don't be a victim.  Sadly, (and I'm sorry about this), but you'll probably have some reason to be.  Don't be.  Just be positive and use those experiences.  You'll be so much happier for it.
There are so many people far worse off than you.  You may not know this yet, but there are.  Try and help them.  If you can't, then be empathetic and don't judge.  Ok, that should be a separate line on it's own.
Don't judge.
You are in control of your life, don't just wait for it to happen, make it happen - I know that sounds like a cliche, but sometimes those cliches can be so wise..
Sometimes you'll feel that you're at the edge of something scary and wonderful and you're too scared to jump off.  Please jump.
Don't start drinking Diet Coke.  If you do, it will take you years and your 8 year old to get you off the stuff.  Just don't start.
Wear sunblock.  never baby oil, and never baby oil in the snow.
Don't get in the car with people who've been drinking.  Trust your gut, you know it is wrong.
Remember how quickly you grew up and away from your parents.  Remember when  you look at your kids, try and keep pace.
Be someone, be something, don't just be nothing.  You are better than that
Dear 16 Year Old Me, please be happy, please use these years and live a crazy, full and amazing life.


What would you write to your 16 year old self?

Help

Today has been another day of horrific fires in NSW, we're only in October, this is February type of fires.  I've been stuck in my office catching a glimpse of the sky and watching it turn from blue to beige to ruddy brown thick with smoke only realising there was a tragedy unfolding as Twitter and newsreels started to fill up with stories and images of what was happening on our back door.  Driving around doing our after school activities, my boys and I watched the sky, inhaled the smoke and wiped ash off our arms knowing that in our safe spot by the beaches, we were lucky.  I'm an avid am radio station fan.  I listened intently as I drove.  With local telephone lines down, people were calling the station in shock with stories of their loss while others called with offers of help.

There were offers of beds, of clothing, of animal sitting, of furniture, of immediate food and water supplies.  Business owners called with no agenda other than to offer help.  A school canteen owner in the area offered his stock to children "so they don't go hungry or thirsty, - just come down and get it if you can".  I choked down tears as I listened to the community rallying, literally.

In the early days of public giving in NZ, we had 48 hour telethons, and yes although the causes were promoted we gave our $10 so some celebrity from some British soap opera would mention our name over the telly  Often there was an agenda, yes we wanted to do good, but also, yes, a little bit of us wanted to be seen to be doing this.  Maybe too many disasters have touched too many people since then.  Giving is an act of necessity now.

Once after an overseas natural disaster, I was visiting a friend.  She had a pile of blankets that she'd quietly collected and was sending overseas to the devastated area.  I would never have known about this if I hadn't popped in.   She hadn't just offered up her credit card number.  She had got busy.

But really how you help isn't as important as the fact you do help.

Because often at the worst of times, we see the best of people.

Role Models

In life we often look to people who inspire us, who we aspire to, and think to ourselves, "I'd like to be like "her/him/them".

Sometimes we don't have to look far at all to find role models.  I see them in the school yard as mums greet their children or kiss them goodbye, I see them when my friends lovingly describe their husbands or children.  I see them in my parents-in-law with a love filled 50 year old marriage.  I see them in my online world with clever successful writerly friends, generous mentors, and battlers who keep trying.

I see them in the friendly butchers who dice my chicken thighs even though the shop is busy.  I see them in my lovely blog readers who kindly leave comments.  I see them in friends posting gorgeous images on instgram of places they've run, sights they've seen, clever and stunningly beautiful.  I even talked about it once before here with my lovely bakery people 

Role models provide a motivation and an urgency to be different, to try harder, to be more, to be less.  We learn lessons, we change behaviours.

My neighbour in her early 70's lives alone.  After a year of living next door to her, I still don't know her name after that initial mention of it 12 months ago.  What is that - there's a time when you have the chance to ask again but once that door is slammed shut - what do you do to find out?  Steal some of her mail, get one of my kids to ask, ...own up?  Worse, she always calls out a cheery "hello Lisa" to me.

She's had some work done on her place recently.  Some wooden fence railings and decking were replaced.  Today I saw her  - 'Hello Lisa!", "hello....", she had set up an elaborate painting system with long fence railings stretched out over her drive way, blue paint dripping onto the ground, paint brush in her hands.  She was getting busy and painting her fence railings for when the nice young men came back later this week.  Often she's out gardening, I scurry past my own garden death zone as she nurtures hers.  She is purposeful, she is energetic, she is in her 70's and not restrained by that.

I'm guilty of making excuses, for being lazy, for being a victim.  But I only need to look out over my fence to get the motivation I need to be none of these things.

We are surrounded by role models - who are yours?

Be gentle on yourself

Do you sometimes have periods when you feel a little less able to handle the normal'ness of life.  When normally you can exist satisfactorily (notice I didn't say "happily" here) amongst the racing, the priorities, the homework, the exercise, the work, the nagging, the arguments, the games of handball, the washing folding, the meal planning, the meal preparing, the meal cleaning upping and that a sit down at the end of a day with a choccy biccy and half a TV programme are enough.  Before the cycle starts again the next day.

But do you sometimes have times when you can't cope as well.  When your voice gets raised more than normal, when you huff and puff a little more than you should, when you don't exercise as much as what you could.  When you just feel a little annoyed that life is kind of like this?  And that you enviously think of others who can sit down with the 6 pm news, or  laugh a little more?

This has been a slow burn for me.  No outback epiphany.  No dramatic drama.  Just a slow dawn of realisation.

Now I won't be a victim, nor lazy.  And if somethings not right on my patch then it's up to me to sort it. To do a little analysis.  And find a solution.

My calm times of the day are when I work, quietly, contentedly, my brain overflowing with ideas and things to do.  I think of a pipeline of "stuff to do/read/write about", and it's always chokker block. It's my peaceful time.  And then my babies and their madness and chaos come home, and things start to unravel a little.  This is my transition moment, when I need to get my Personal A game on.  When I need to look after myself and be gentle on myself so I can be how I need to be.

It's working a treat.  Quietly to myself I call it Project Me.  It's when I am my priority.  If I am calm and at peace, then life is calm and at peace.  And lordy, even homework gets done with only some gentle murmurs of dissent.  It's when my boxes are ticked - and the boxes aren't things like "shirts ironed - tick", or "dunnies cleaned - tick", but more like being prepared, less clutter, regular exercise, more interesting reading, more career productivity, more loving ....

It's an interesting exercise in self awareness and control for me.  And for someone who rattles through life a bit, it couldn't have come at a better time.

What do you do to help you deal with life when you're not feeling like you can?

What's in your Project Me boxes?

It's happened

I know we get confronted by reality in our mirrors every day, but we can buffer the pain by (a) walking  away from the mirror (b) telling ourselves we look this shite as it's early in the morning or (c) layering on some makeup to lessen the ravages of time.  My preference is for a little of each.

But sometimes, when you've left the safety of your home and you're out there exposed in the world, you can get slapped with reality with no defences to soften the blow.  And this happened to me.

I was just having a bit of a ho hum kind of Sunday, stuck at home surrounded by jobs to do, homework to nag about.  In a fit of pique and deciding that although cricket is something we all enjoy, I'd rather go on some "important errands" than head to the nets with the family.  So with no thought of what I looked like (crap and middle aged), I headed to the busy'ness of Manly on an unseasonally stunning day. (Seriously Winter, I wouldn't mind one good burst of cold weather just once this year!).

I was looking for a squishy hat to take away with me to the Outback this week (yes, I know, more on that later).   It seems every time we travel I squash my solid'ish nice hats into bags and they never, ever revert back to their original shape.  I have a collection of squished unwearable hats, so I thought I'd be sensible.

Manly is a jam packed full of surf shop, name a label and it's there.  Perfect I thought.  So I started trawling the shops.  Hat shopping is not something you need help with.  It's a simple case of point me in the direction of the soft squishy hats, a mirror, then get back to the counter and continue texting, thanks, I'll be fine.

But one young barely teenage staff member took an interest in me, and kept thrusting hats in my direction.  She got me to try a hat on that I'd discounted because it made me look too middle aged and frumpy.  I tried it on "nah, not so keen on this", she kept insisting, and as it always happens with me, I started reconsidering.  If I pulled up the front flop bit, and put my mirror face on, it wasn't that bad.

"Do you like this one the best then?, I asked her.

"I do, it's more suited for mature people, that other hat is for younger women".

*Pause*

Did she just call me MATURE?  She DID.  She called me  MATURE! Have I crossed the line where I can't shop at surf shops unless it's for my kids or niece?  Am I MATURE????

With my mouth pursed like a cats bottom, I politely put the offending item down and walked out of the shop never to return again.

I've always promised myself that I would not expose my ledge of flesh in crop tops, nor wear high topped denim undies, and when the day comes that I should cut off the birds nest in my hair and get a sensible bob or "older ladies cut" then I would.  I will not be mutton dressed up like lamb.  But no waaay am I there yet.

It's ok to see the date on the calendar, to have that quiet shock in the sanctity of home, but it hurts more when Reality politely taps you on the shoulder in a busy surf shop on a sunny day.  I'm sorry Reality, but I am not yet ready to welcome you into my life.

Have you ever been confronted by your age or do you ignore it like me?

post script: That's not me in the photo in case you were wondering.  And age has absolutely nothing to do with that.

A story about coleslaw.

Actually it isn't really. But it is sort of.

The husband isn't keen on certain foods, and so it's evolved over the years that I've stopped eating these foods too, because, really why would I make a mushroom risotto when he likes neither mushroom nor risotto.  It's like I've adopted a form of happy and well intended martyrdom, I've withheld a pleasure from me so he'll be happy.  And I've got to say he's always the first one to say "make it/buy it/eat it - I'll just have a little" and then shake his head in frustration when I don't.

So this isn't about him at all, but more me, and why I do it.

This year, with the clock racing, I decided life's too short not to order vegetarian pizza, so I have subtlely re-introduced MY foods back into our family.  Coleslaw is one - nothing better than a nice crunchy asian slaw with peanuts, asian dressing and coriander to complement a ...(insert anything), tomatoes are in the fridge, mushrooms, salads a plenty, and a half vegetarian pizza is on the menu when we do a pizza order.  And if ever The Husband is away my boys look in disgust at whatever of my favourite forgotten foods I've managed to splodge together and call "dinner".

Why do we do this - withhold your own pleasure so you can pleasure someone else?

My mother was an expert at this, so I've learnt from the master.  She would put our simple meals in front of us with a sigh, dreaming of exoticness while serving up very nice ordinariness to our family.  Saturday nights used to be a challenge for my dad as it was their night to stretch the imagination and take a few risks.  And if you know my father he's not a risk-taker.  With my sister and I safely esconced in front of the telly with our take away fish and chips, Dad would wisely choose his words carefully after the first mouthful.  And my Mum was a great cook, it's just my Dad had simple tastes (I want to put in here, I'm not sure how either of them could taste anything after the volume of wines and cigarettes they'd consumed but that would be wildly inappropriate so I won't).

With horror, I sometimes find myself barely letting my husband swallow his first mouthful before I'm asking - "Do you like it?  Are you not eating it because you don't like it."  And I take the silence (while he attempts to swallow) as confirmation of this, and adopt a cats bottom sulky mouth until he can splutter out that it's good.  I'm my mothers daughter.

But still it has been empowering to let go of the self created martyr (seriously that is a hard word to spell) and just be.  To not worry about making everyone else happy at my own expense.

Because when it comes down to it everyone else is happy to make me happy.  It goes both ways.  It's just taken a lot of coleslaw-less meals to realise it.

What do you hold back on and why?  Is the time to start now?

post script - we had coleslaw twice this week!  Yes, twice! 

Dear Kate ...

Dear Kate,

Just thought I'd drop you a line to say that I also have princes, actually I have three of them.  This is them here....

I know that you're getting heaps of advice on what to do and not to do, and if I was you I'd throw away those books, and have a listen.  You see here's the thing.

It doesn't matter.

Because  even though you'll make a hash of plenty, often on a daily basis like I do, hopefully you'll get lucky like me.

And even though sometimes your prince will act like a royal pain in the butt (did you see what I did there?) and  he'll have green snot hanging down his face, or he'll run away from you in the supermarket when you're 8 months pregnant with your next, or he'll ask loudly why the person with the very big nose has a "very big nose", or he'll get a little pimply and a little sullen, he'll still be the most divine and magical being on earth.

And even though other people will think their prince is a little bit awesome like your one, here's the secret... no one even comes close.

Back then

Funny how kid's minds word - my youngest asked yesterday if I actually lived in the "olden" days, and I can remember when my eldest wanted to know if  everything was in black and white "back then".  Their perspectives are based on their now, and a little bit back.

I don't have the joy of catalogues of family photos to show my kids my life when I was a kid.  They don't know that I looked like a boy as did their Aunty thanks to our mothers desire for us to have our hair cut very short, and that we'd go to the shop for our mum's cigarettes (!) and the shop keeper would ask "what do you want Son?".  And we'd want to say we were girls but were too embarrassed.

They don't know that each summer I'd be let free to go "brown as a berry" and my brown legs would be shown off with pride to friends "she's got her grandfathers skin", Mum would say proudly.  My son has got the same skin but if there is any sign of colour on it, I take that as a fail as a parent.

My kids don't understand that the Sister and I had the one toy basket with the same toys that we played with for years, and if one broke, then we'd try and fix it with Sellotape or just play with it broken. We didn't get to go and buy new ones.  No one did. There was no Target or Big W Bumper Toy Spectacular's each July, and our mother wouldn't be pushing a trolley laden with large boxes through the throngs of other mothers.  We had what we had, and that was all we knew.  And I think we may have complained a little that we got a fake Barbie doll who's heads fell off quite quickly.  But other than that, we accepted what we had without question.  Everyone did.

My kids don't understand that we would drive without seatbelts, in the back seat of our parent's  cigarette smoke filled car, with our dad driving after definitely  more than 2 glasses of beer/wine.  I'm ok my kids don't understand about that.

My boys don't understand the joy of being carefree, of making club houses in the bush by the beach, of lying in forests by myself on the pine needles, listening to the wind in the trees and watching fantails, while a block away my family did their stuff, probably knowing I was down their or maybe not.  Of driving towards a river, three astride on a 50cc motorbike, no helmets, just the hot wind, and towels around our shoulders. Of freedom, and not even "controlled" freedom as I experiment with my almost teen, but real freedom.

But then I don't have memories of my parents being as much a part of my life as I am of my boys.

And I wouldn't swap that for all the freedom in the world.

How do you share memories of your childhoods with your children as they live theirs?

Don't Shoot Me

Living in Australia, it's been hard to ignore the debacle that is called the Australian government.  Ok I might change that first line.

And you know me that I'm more likely to comment on the status of vermin infestations than politics.  But here's the thing....

There has been an outpouring of emotion on social media about the departure of our first woman prime minister, and don't get me wrong, yes she is a role model for our kids, and yes, she has made great steps forward  for breaking through political glass ceilings and all that.  Yes, I get that.  But fact is, she made some mistakes, she told some fibs (thinking carbon tax - see I do read the papers), and really she only scored a "satisfactory" rather than a "commendable" if there was such a thing as a Prime Minister report. And that may be a little generous.  So you know, you don't perform, you get the chop.  And it's not likely I'm dancing about her replacement.  Nor the alternative.

My pragmatism comes from where I've come from.  As a Kiwi, I'm proud of the fact that our teeny country can make such significant in roads into many things.  In fact I'm beyond proud.  Through size and attitude (I wanted to use the word "balls" but thought that a little provocative in light of the subject), we've given women the right to vote way back in 1893, a first world wide, we went nuclear free in 1984, we've introduced same sex marriage in 2013 and we've HAD a female prime minister, Helen Clark for 3 consecutive terms from 1999 to 2008.

So lets keep it real.

What we want is for sex not to be an issue (and lets be fair - SHE didn't make it a thing, the media and pundits did).  We want to have the same choices and chances irregardless of sex, sexual preference, skin colour, religion... watch out, I'll start spouting the "I had a dream" Martin Luther King Jnr speech  my friend Katie and I recited at a school assembly about 100 years ago. If you think of yourself as different, then you are different.

You get it? It shouldn't be about whether you wear a skirt or pants.  It's about how you do, if you don't do good, then hasta la vista baby.  And it's not a sad day for our daughters, their dream isn't lost, they just need to find another role model if they need a female one.  There are a gazillion out there and a gazillion in the making.

We just need to look for them.

You get it?

A forgotten joy.

Fact you may not know about me; I only got my drivers licence when I was 28 after failing it badly as a 17 year old - there's a story, it involves a maths class laughing at me, a school fence pole, a nose of a car, some swearing and a policeman swapping seats with me after I made him.  It also involves an insurance issue, and my parents.

Anyhoo, after being that badly scarred, I took to my bike for the next 12 years.  I biked to uni, I biked to holiday jobs, I biked to friends houses, boyfriends houses.  I biked in the morning and at night.   And when I got myself a husband I also got myself a drivers licence and a mountain bike, and took to the tracks like a woman possessed, until I lost both my husband and my nerve for steep, rocky tracks.   A new life, a new husband, three kids and a big SUV, my old rusty mountain bike came along for the ride.  And when my husband discovered a passion for mountain biking, I sighed and gave it a short half hearted attempt, before I decided I would rather run the tracks than ride them.

Yet when a passion for mountain biking evolved to road riding for my husband, I signed up with him, imagining a retirement of biking holidays and a future "thing" that wasn't as sedentary as golf.  But I didn't feel quite as at home on skinny tyres and cleets and narrow handle bars, but I kept going, and discovered that once I got going, 200 metres up the road I was in love with the feel of riding again.  A marathon got in the way of any riding and my encouraging biking buddies stopped asking me out, because they'd heard the excuses.  Yes they knew I was nervous, yes they knew I didn't like the clip on shoe thingees, and yes they knew I was scared of the Wakehurst Parkway.  But surely I could just get over myself rather than making excuses.  My words, not theirs.

A revelation came unhappily to me recently - I have to learn how to ride my road bike again - shit happens.  I will do it.

But then I had a good revelation - you see, all I want to do is ride, I like riding, I feel fearless, and fast, and free, and young again.  So I've asked for a second bike for my birthday, one without clips, with slightly wider handle bars, slightly less skinny tyres.  And not one that will look fierce or that I can throw myself down mountains on...

....but one that I can do this on.

Because that's all I really want to do.

What have you stopped doing that you really want to do again?  It's not too late ....

Finding the joy

This gorgeous photo is of my aunt, I wrote about her here, do have a read, she's very special to me for many reasons, but when I saw this photo of her, for me, it  summed up the way she's chosen to live her life.  Because this is a photo of a woman just turned 70 who is having a moment of joy.  And my aunt has gone chasing joy in her life.  Only recently she married her extremely long term partner and took themselves on an extended honeymoon to Paris, where they explored, they found new friends, they drank red wine in cafes while people watching and they immersed themselves for a few weeks in a life different to their own. They were newly weds and they were 70, and they were having an adventure.  A joyous adventure.

There are only some people who hunt down joyous moments.  For many of us, if we serendipitously stumble across such a moment, we cherish it, and breathe it in, but it's a happy happenstance we've found  it.

But joy comes from the soul, it's felt rather than experienced.  Everything needs to be aligned for it to be "just so", it's not just the event, it's about your attitude and your willingness to embrace this with happiness and excitement.  It's all in your head.

You see in this photo, my Aunt could have chosen not to stick out her arm, she could have wanted to, but decided not to, or she could have watched others and envied them for doing so, or she could have stuck it out but been terrified. Instead my Aunt would have stuck her arm out roaring with laughter (I'm guessing that was fact), and embraced that moment.  And then moved on to the next event to experience another moment.

Joy needs to be hunted down with passion.  The mundane can transform into something special with a mere twinkle of an eye, and your head being in the right space.

I play a little drive way basketball with my littlest fella.  We all do.  It's just what we do at the moment. The passion which he throws himself into the game makes me chuckle and warms my heart.  He walks around with a joyous spring in his step, his joy is infectious.  My husband and I talk about protecting his joy, of nurturing it, of not shutting it down with our need to rush, and do stuff.

And my Aunt is an inspiration.  Because if you believe in joy, you will always find it.  Whether you're 7 or 70, it's always there if you want it to be.

Memories

Lordy it's hard writing a blog when you have a rodent issue.  I've had my life on pause until it's sorted.  However when the very nice Pest Extermination man came today to sort out my (ahem) small problem, and advised me that it was of biblical proportions then I knew I needed to face reality and push play again.  Especially as I write this I know they're munching away on an evil feast, before taking themselves OUTSIDE to die a humane death (actually sorry animal lovers, I don't give a toss if it's humane or not - it's a RAT OK???).

So another Mothers Day has been and gone, my 12th as a mum and my 18th as a motherless daughter.  I usually write a wee something for my mum each year such as here and here.  Memories will be forgotten if they're not dusted off every now and again and remembered.

I think about what my boys will remember about me.  Sometimes I shudder a little when I realise I've been too stuffy and unfunny, and too focused on getting stuff done.  I'm always so frustratingly focused on getting stuff done rather than just being.  I think this is an inherited thing.  I worry for myself that the cycle is repeating. I certainly don't have memories of my mum being fun, and silly and giggly.  I don't have memories of my mum being random, of letting things go, of being carefree.  And this isn't meant as a criticism of my mum.

It's a cautionary tale for me.

I'm not there, but I could be if I don't watch myself, or maybe that's stop watching myself and just be.  My eldest did one of those beautiful cards at school where they thank you for things you've done as a mum.  You know the kind that sometimes says "thank you for always making sure I get my homework done", or "thank you for keeping my room tidy".  My son's card wasn't like this, it was beautiful and made me cry in the mothers day mass I went to with him at school.  But it could have.  And in my eyes that would have been an epic fail.

I need to remember to keep young and playful for my boys, to do silly, to do random, to parent responsibly and irresponsibly.

I need to remember to do this for them.  But more importantly I need to remember to do this for me.

And so another mothers day, and another year to remember what it means to be a mum, and to have had a mum.  Last year, almost on this date, a dear friend built a cairn for my Mum in her memory at Mount Everest Base Camp, later that year, I built one for her on a stunning beach in Goa in Southern India.  On Saturday, my husband will be in Angkor Watt in Cambodia, he's going to build a cairn for her there.  This is how I like to remember my mum, for her uncannily wide general knowledge (my sister has inherited that bit), and even though she didn't have adventures, she would have appreciated the fact she can be remembered in these countries, even if it is a pile of stones, built from love.

I don't want my boys to remember me with rocks.

 I want them to remember me for the adventures I had with them, and not the ones I didn't.

Are you creating the right memories?

One Word

At the start of the year my clever friend Kelly from the fabulous  A Life Less Frantic  wrote this, an idea fondly borrowed from the equally lovely blog maxabellaloves - there's two blogs to check out if you're after some good reading and good writing!  The idea is all about finding a "word" that will define your year, that will be your mantra, your goal.  Now I loved this, and commented quickly and decidedly .....

Ummm, finding my word is harder for me, and I’ve chewed it over a bit. I have many goals this year, and they need focus and productivity, and energy. If I get all floppy and spend too much time faffing, I’ll never get there. So, I’m going to set myself the goal of trying to be all of these without losing the essence of what makes me tick. Which is a bit of floppiness and a lot of faff. So my word is focus – on my goals, on my tasks, on the opportunities and potential.

Well that was well and good in JANUARY, but we're now in almost May, as in 5 months into the year, not 5 days, and truth be told I'm not nailing my own brief.  Fact is, there is waaaay too much faff and far too much floppiness.  So much in fact that there isn't enough room for focus and productivity.  Ok, it's not as dire as it seems, I've had stories and more stories and corporate writing, and pitches and my pipeline is full of ideas and spec stories.  My year is definitely more focused and productive than the last.  But truth is, I'm not operating at full speed.  I'm not finding moments to sneak out a quick pitch, or jot down an online story idea.  I'm lazing in bed watching the sun rise rather than rising before it.  I'm heading to my big white bed and my book and my husband at night rather than not.  This is my choice. But with every choice comes a cost, and my cost is my productivity.  And that's not a choice I agreed to  make at the start of my year.
So I'm going to find more moments, more opportunities, I'm switching up a gear.

And I'm changing my word.

My new word is now "productivity".  And this time, I'm not opening the door for fluff or flop.

What's your word for this year?  And are you living it, or only a little bit like me?

A warning

I've been lucky enough to write some stories recently about important health topics - melanoma and breast cancer, and both have made me hyper aware of my own need for care and vigilance.

I trained for marathon through winter last year, and by the end of my training, my back looked like this.

I ran in the rain, and clouds, and sometimes sun, and I would diligently cover my face, and would put a slick on my arms and shoulders and as far down my back as I could reach, in a rush.  I wore a visor, and I wore sunglasses, and I thought I was doing ok.  But that photo isn't ok.  That is sun damage.  The thing about sun damage that I didn't know is that it is cumulative, it builds on what damage you've already done.  The slate isn't wiped clean after each incident, it goes onto the tally.  The longer your tally, the more chance that you may develop a skin cancer.  And the body in it's infinite amazingness, remembers.  A sun burn experienced years ago is still tucked in the body's memory banks,  adding to that tally.

This is a bit sombre, and possibly a little overdramatic but not much.

And as I wrote and researched my article, I got an almighty wake up call.  I have olive skin, when I was a kid, my parents would watch as I got as "brown as a berry".  I don't have many moles, and thankfully I haven't had too many instances of serious sunburn (apart from those teenage years where my sun "protection" was baby oil *shudder*). So my risk factors were low.

But the young guy I interviewed for my story had had a mole that he had removed purely for cosmetic reasons, but which turned out to be a melanoma.  And his life had changed.

I watched a mole of my own change a little.  Hmmm.  And an appointment was made, where the doctor shook his head smiling.  "That's just a "insert hard to pronounce and spell medical word", that's nothing at all and is completely normal."

With relief, I relaxed as he continued his skin check.  And went straight to a little mole I've had my whole life.  "Now this one, this one could be trouble".  He looked, he flicked through text books, looked at pictures, then looked at my mole again.  He made me look at it, even though I said "I've honestly had that my whole life and I'm pretty sure it's always looked like that".

To the naked eye without a magnifying glass or textbook.

"Moles can change", he said.  And that hadn't occurred to me, I thought a "changing mole" was a radically different look, bleeding, colour, visible to all.  But not every change is obvious.

So I had my dodgey mole removed, and it turned out to be fine.  But that's because we caught it now.  "These type of moles turn to melanoma's if not removed", he told me.  And I believed him because I checked Dr Google when I got home and saw words that shouted out "close call" to me.

I know mole removal is common place, as is dodgey moles, nothing moles, I know people who have moles removed regularly without drama nor whinging.  This story is SO not about me and my mole.  This story is about vigilance, and taking precautions, and getting checked often and professionally.

So, when was the last time you had a skin check.  Truthfully. Was it "never ago" like me?

The story I wrote about melanoma opened my eyes and could very well have saved me a lot of things in my future including my life. Maybe this blog post may do the same to you.

Put "skin check" on your To Do list if you haven't had one recently.

Promise?

Who are the "biggest losers"?

My boys have started watching The Biggest Loser.  Accidentally.  I don't think I'm ok with it.  On autoplay I do the positive glass half full "yes these people are big but at least they're doing something about it."  And they are.  But this is extreme.  My husband and I try and be good role models for our kids, we eat healthily with treats, we exercise, we make sure exercise is part of our kids lives.  So they know that eating well and exercising is the norm.  And I say this knowing that most of you reading this do exactly the same thing, and probably more.  This is not rocket science.

I tried explaining the simple concept of calories in/calories out to my boys, but lost them quickly when I tried explaining that "calorie" was a measure of energy (and I may have actually made that part up).  Isn't it simple? You eat well, you do plenty of moving and somewhere in the middle it all balances out into a healthy person. And there are times when I'm glad I have boys and that I probably won't be faced with all the stuff that mum's of girls have to filter, to protect their innocence and their self esteems.

Like when I saw this on one of those spamming group buying emails that seem to clog my inbox

Get Rid of Stubborn Cellulite! Only $49 for a Non-Invasive Ultrasound Fat Cavitation Session (Valued at $400), $99 for Three Sessions (Valued at $700) or $139 for Five Sessions (Valued at $1000). Target Love Handles, Thighs and More. Plus Receive an Expert Consultation

WTF is fat cavitation?  It sounds like a made up word, and it certainly doesn't sound comfortable, nor capable of working miracles.

There seem to be so many excuses not to get off your bum and do the hard work yourself.  Miracle treatments, mud wraps 5:2 diets,  - no doubt, all largely fads and not very successful ones at that.  There aren't many better feelings that completing a hard run, gym class, swim, walk or whatever your choice of exercise is.  My doctor once advised me that as I am on the slippery slope to pre-menopausal symptoms, that exercise will be one of the best preventions and if need be remedy for dealing with times when you think you're being smothered by all the turkeys.  And there is even a medical name for it - endorphins.  If you've never experienced them then get moving for a while and you'll catch on.  Endorphins are the bodies invention for the gain at the end of the pain.

So my blood boils a little when I see extreme solutions to extreme situations.  Don't get there in the first place.  Move lots, eat healthy, be healthy.  Then you can save the money you might have spent on "fat cavitation" on something a whole lot more fun.

Am I preaching to the converted?

Provocative

I love writing this little blog, and I stand with my hand on my heart and apart from the odd extreme piece of fluff, I've been proud of everything I've written on here.  Hand on my heart proud.

In my real world I write.  I think of ideas, I pitch them, my stories get accepted, they get rejected, I write them, I jump with glee when I see my words online or in print.  Especially if it's glossy and in newsagents where I catch a glimpse and my heart skips a little.  And I'm even more proud of the words I write there, because I put my big girl pants on, and write with zero fluff (which actually does require a little effort).

You see here's my problem.

The air waves are filled to breaking point with bloggers.  People write about everything and anything.  People read about everything and anything.

And then they form very quick, very uninformed opinions about things.  And become 'experts' about topics that really, most would admit, they're not an expert on.  And for me, it's not about those that write the words, it's more about the gullibility and naiveity of those that read it, and don't go away and do their own research and their own thinking, and their own opinion forming.  They read the words of the non-experts and take them for gospel.

Reading blogs and thinking that's it, is frankly a smidge lazy in my eyes.
Normally I just sigh, whinge a bit and just get on.  But yesterday I read a few things that made my blood boil.

A very popular and successful women's website put a piece about how one of the men charged in that horrific rape in India had committed suicide.  The story was not an opinion, just stating the facts.  Yet, like in a witch hunt, they came running "Good riddance", "I want to "like" this many times over", "he got what he deserved", "bring back the death penalty" - blah, blah, blah emotional uninformed bullocks.  I couldn't help it, and added my "shame on you, it's a life people", and the backlash at me started.  You see these people probably think I support the man, which I don't, but the fact was a life has been lost, regardless of circumstances, and the hounds are out, baying for blood and dancing around the corpse of someone's son or father, husband or friend.  Which is a hideous side of human nature I'd rather not see.

My blog is my happy place, it's my place for my own thoughts.  I'll never claim to be an expert, I'll never write a post then try and squeeze it into a sponsored product post (because these are surely the most painful thing to read ever).  I'll just keep doing my thing here.  And be true to myself.  I know there is a zillion of us out there, and I know that you have a choice.

Thanks for making the choice to pop by today.

Home

You all know how much I love living in this country.  Love isn't strong enough...I adore this country.  I can't believe that serendipitous  good fortune that brought me here. In less than 48 hours I'm going to be lucky enough to walk 50km's along the most gorgeous stretch of the most gorgeous beaches in this country doing  Coast Trek , the scenery will help soften every sandy step a little.

Still....

I miss home.  And I've talked here about how you can have many homes that all mean different things at different times, but sometimes you just have one special emotional home in your heart.  And for me, New Zealand will always be the home in my heart.

And at the moment I miss it "So bloody come home" is what all my NZ peeps are saying.  And I need to -  for a visit.
The other day I was listening to the radio and the radio announcer said he was going to interview lets call him "Gav from Te Puke".  I clutched my heart (truly) and waited.  And then Gav started talking and I started smiling.  I miss listening to the NZ accent, and am often startled with how strong it is, it's like my ears have become attuned to the Aussie accent so much I can't even recognise my own.

 Then today I read this,

A staff member at Sand Dunz dairy said people were coming into the dairy "speechless".

... and apologies because it is a truly tragic circumstance it's quoted in. but it brought a teeny warmth to me. "Dairy" - in New Zealand we call "corner shops" - "dairies".  I can't break the habit.  My kids say it, we all say it.  A dairy is a dairy.  And no one here has any idea what I'm talking about.  So to see it in an Australian newspaper was a little satisfying.  A dairy sells milk and ice creams, right?  A " corner store" might not even be on a corner.  Just saying...

I miss New Zealand stuff, the brands in shops, the shops even, I miss seeing the maori and pacific island influence. in signs, on the streets,   I miss the smell of the air, the colours, the plants, the smell of the bush.  I miss my old life there, I miss my friends, I miss home.

I don't know what brings this on - maybe because a dear friend is heading to Queenstown next week to run in an off road marathon I ran in that I swear I can remember every, stunning minute of.  Or perhaps because there have been NZ touristy articles in the weekend newspaper travel supplements.

Or maybe because I am long over due to head back for a visit.

Where is your emotional home in your heart?  Where do you miss if you haven't been there for too long?

Precious

Half the walls in our house are solid concrete.  Which is a pain in the bum when you're trying to hang art work.  The Husband employed the same hanging techniques as our tenants who used to live here, but maybe their artwork was paper backed onto cardboard but the system isn't working for us.  And this has been a slow dawn on us as the occasional canvas has dropped to the ground.

But yesterday was different.

When my mum died she left her collection of art to the Sister and I.  Mum was many things, and she had an incredible eye for art.  It was brave and contemporary and well.... Mum.  Her art was her signature, and there were many works she snuck into the house, daring Dad to comment on the new acquisition and dent on the credit card.  With my Dad happily alive and kicking and with both the Sister and I living in Australia, it's been a slow transition from his walls to ours, and there are some that will sit snugly on Dad's walls until they are no longer needed there...

And the art is like a roving collection - neither The Sister or I have laid claim to anything - it's shared, we have an understanding, we own it together.

But yesterday one of mums favourite art works, and one of mine, for this reason, came crashing to the ground.  The glass was shattered but the artwork thankfully untouched.  It will be reframed quickly and hung properly by someone with a concrete drill and hangy thing.  Or else it will head north to the Sister for her turn.  I was gutted.  And had a revelation in my fright as I discarded the glass painstakingly from the frame.

See here's the thing...

When you have lost someone, there is suddenly a finite number of "things" as in physical possessions that they have left.  Memories and feelings are infinite, and we can nurture them and revisit these at our pleasure and leisure.  But actual physical things are different.  It is something that can be touched and is physical evidence that the person we lost, walked the earth, made decisions, decided to buy that "thing".  It's a physical reminder of that person and it's irreplaceable.
And for me, I just put at risk, not just something worth a little money and that is beautiful, but something that my Mum coveted and opened her wallet, swiped her credit card for and proudly took home.

No one in my house can truly understand this.  Nor understand the dark and sad mood that descended on me for the rest of the day.  I only have so many possessions of my Mum's left.  Once they're gone, that's it.  That's it.

Do you have precious possessions of someone that you've lost?

ps.  Sorry Sister.

The Life That Was

Today I went hunting for the old school shoes before I resign myself for the need to battle the malls and buy new school shoes.  With three boys, overpriced school shoes have a way of working down to three pairs of feet.  But by the time Smith gets them, often they're in a very sad state that not even a good lick of shoe polish can revive them.

Our big bags of winter clothes and clothes to be grown into, all live in a ceiling space, which seems to hold all the parts of our lives that don't fit inside our cupboards.  And it was in the hot ceiling surrounded by bags and boxes and small speckles of what looks suspiciously of rat poo, that I saw it.

The big blue box of a life I used to live.

I'm a sucker for memory stuff, I wish I had more of my own, including the person who could tell me the memory stuff.  My boys will have their first every things, their favourite books, an old baby toy - and I hope one day they'll get as much pleasure from looking through their things as I do from the image of them doing that.

My big blue box is a collection of 12 years worth of memories, although I hadn't realised there would be a finite number otherwise I would have collected a few more.  Still, it's nice to know there are photos, letters, even a wedding dress to look back on.  It's of no interest to anyone apart from me.  And no matter how lovely the Husband is, I really can't expect him to get excited about trawling through this memory box.

I'd love to have a chat with the person who features in the photos alongside me.  To have a chuckle at haircuts, clothing choices (always mine, never his), remember old songs, old trips.  To remember listening to Bjork while driving along the empty and heather strewn Scottish Highlands, of coming home to a hot poured bath after busing, then training, then busing and finally walking back to a hospital we lived in in some nothing town of the UK, before doing it all again the next morning.  Of mountain biking together, the king of the mountain, then burning out brakes and the heels of my shoes, too scared to give in to the adrenalin rush, and then releasing the brakes and wondering why it took me long to do it.  Of good times and of not good times, I have an internal catalogue.  And for someone who overshares so freely, this is a chapter of my life that I won't.  Because it's not just my chapter to share.

Still when you go looking for old school shoes, and you see a big blue box of memories, it's nice just to have a sneak look, before closing the lid again.

Do you have memory boxes?  Do you ever look?

Time Out

I've loved having my kids off these holidays.  Normally, with only 10 days to go, I've lost it a bit, and anticipating this happening again, I said to the Husband that I wouldn't mind a couple of hours on my own this weekend, just to give me a little bit more juice to keep the energy and tolerance levels up a smidge more.  At 7.30 tonight, I realised I'd forgotten to get my time out, so took myself off to the beach for a little "me" time hoping like hell, the dishwasher would be emptied (it wasn't), the crap picked up off the floor (nope) and boys would be happily in bed (none of them were although two were in their pj's) so I could sit and watch something mindless on TV (which was futile considering there is both tennis and cricket on tonight) once I got home.

Do you find yourself going a little crazy, a little more snippy sometimes, a little ummm, what's the right word...bored with picking up wet towels off the floor, cutting up watermelon by week 5 of the 7 week holidays.  I love my kids being home, love it, love making not making lunches, love reading in bed, love not having to do the normal after school madness, love the holidays but I always feel a little vacant by now, like I'm a vessel.  And during times like this, the internal dialogue that seems to be with me during my waking hours, quietens, to the point where now, it's almost silent.  And even though I've had a full schedule of stories on during the holidays, I've needed a break from that voice that fills me with ideas and ramblings.  Sometimes it can be a little earnest and well meaning, and sometimes I just need to not have to listen to it so I get a little break from myself.

So tonight I'm sitting at the beach in a gentle drizzle, eating a bag of teeth lollies, watching the last of the surfers in the water, and I'm feeling all peaceful and chilled.  Or at least I was until the sealice that I got on my ocean swim yesterday that are covering a part of my anatomy that rhymes with jubes and doesn't begin with "p" started itching the bejesus out of me (and it's not cool wildly itching that part of your body in public), I hear the voices start back up, a couple of ideas, a flicker of a thought.  Then I get it.  Sometimes I just need to be alone.  Not running, not hanging out washing, not doing groceries, but just alone in my head, by myself.  It's where my thoughts are interesting and I get all analytical and thoughtful.  When i'm not alone, they don't come, and then I'm the lunch maker, the towel hanger-upper and my thoughts retreat until I'm back in my silent house, just me on my own.

I often say to The Husband that he only gets the dregs of me by the time he gets home and that if he was home at 2pm on a weekday when I'm writing, he'd find an infinitely more interesting person than the one with the furrowed brow who meets him at 7.30pm each night.  Well that 2pm me isn't even home at the moment, but it only takes half an hour on my own to know she's not far away and I'm ready for her to be back.

Do you like being on your own too?

These were gone 2 minutes after I took this photo