Expert Status Achieved

I was told the other day that I was expert at something. Those were his exact words. "You're really expert at that darl." It has never occurred to me that I was an expert at anything really. I sort of believe that being expert means you are highly trained  or educated in a particular subject matter or profession and that warrants an "expert" badge. You know, like a heart surgeon or a nuclear physicist - that kind of expert. 

No, he was referring to me being an expert hostess. We have company coming for the weekend and so I was lamenting my "to do" list. The food planning and shopping, the preparation of the guest room and the organizing of activities and so on. Apparently I am an expert at making all these arrangements for guests. An expert at fussing so to speak. It made me wonder what would happen if I did not fuss. What would happen if the guest room was not prepared and the meals were not planned, the ice cube trays were empty and there were dead flowers in the vase?

Would the world end if I didn't make bliss balls and guacamole? What would happen if I threw a fresh set of sheets on the bed and said make up your own bed and help yourself to towels in the linen closet? What if I decided to let people help themselves to the food in the fridge and let everyone fend for themselves? What if I went about my business and did not shop and plan and organize? Would my guests feel less welcome? What would that be like? 

The truth is, I have been doing "hostessing" for my whole adult life. By this stage, it is a bit like second nature. I guess you could say I have become expert at making people feel welcome and pampered when they stay with me in my home. It is something I have indeed become "expert" at over the years. I guess I just never looked at it as being something that one becomes "expert" at. It got me to thinking that perhaps it is something I do that is of value. I have been getting my "Martha" on for longer than I care to admit. We tend to diminish these simple gestures in our own minds as necessary tasks when in reality they are carefully thought out gestures of giving and caring we offer to the people we love. Don't we all love a clean and tidy bedroom with fresh linens and a comfy bed when we are away from home? Isn't it a treat to have someone else prepare our meals? I know for certain that I am genuinely appreciative of these welcoming niceties when I am a visitor. 

Without realizing it, being told I am "expert" at something as simple as making guests feel welcome in my home is a pretty nice compliment and it made me realize my efforts do not go unnoticed. So, thanks Mick. I will take that compliment and wear my "expert" badge proudly this weekend, grateful in the knowing I have a partner who appreciates what I do and what I bring to the table of our life together.

I want Toast!

Leftover green beans, cauliflower and butternut squash mixed into 2 scrambled eggs...cooked in Ghee. I just ate that for breakfast. Oh, and lest I forget, freshly brewed coffee with coconut milk. 

I am on Day 27 of the Whole 30 program (gawd help we call it a diet!) and I swear if I have to eat one more f___king egg, I am going to vomit. Only 3 more days of this regimen and then I can introduce ONE forbidden food at a time and see if it bothers me in any way. 

How did I end up in this dysfunctional relationship with food? I'll tell you how. I grew up popping antibiotics like candies the day after Halloween, (I was plagued with ear and throat infections as a kid), then I took tetracycline all through my teen years to stave off acne, ran to the doctor for every bloody sniffle or sore throat in young adulthood (more antibiotics) and then in more recent times, I overdosed on NAISIDs  (Advil and Aleve) for a too long stretch of time as I suffered through some nasty dental issues and that was the tipping point. My gut lining finally cried uncle.

And so the journey began. It has been a long and arduous trek and it ain't over yet. I have quit sugar, quit meat, quit grains, quit dairy, quit additives, quit alcohol...essentially quit enjoying food. A few years ago when I went cold turkey with sugar, I lost a bunch of weight and felt amazing. Slowly the weight and the digestive issues crept back on and into my life. So then I decided that I would go vegan, thinking that the elimination of dairy and animal protein would be the answer. I gave veganism an entire year of my life. I spent every night listening to a chorus of stomach rumbling that sang out from my abdomen (make that "bloated abdomen") and was rewarded with the addition of 10 pounds and out of control hypoglycaemia. Thank you grains and sugar. Now what? So, I added fish and eggs back into my repertoire of allowable food. The rumbling subsided but the weight stubbornly remained.

On my recent adventure to New Zealand, I just decided to throw caution to the wind and ate what ever I bloody felt like eating. Meat, cheese, bread, sugar....wine - lots of wine - and came home with another 5 lbs attached to my ass. It was time to break out the big guns. My bff had tried Whole 30 twice in the past and she suggested we do it together when we got home from our indulgent vacay. Of course, this was like going from vegan to paleo for me. Not only would I have to eat meat, but I would have to eat it everyday. Sure, you can have fish, and I love fish, but even as much of a mermaid as I am, daily delights from the sea can get a bit monotonous. I had been reading Dr. Google for months and every article I have read about healing your gut insists it is impossible to do so eating a vegan diet. I had pretty much already proved that theory myself, so a return to eating carcass seemed my last and final hope to return to the land of perfect pooping.

I was in. For those of you who do not know about Whole 30, it is essentially a reset diet - an elimination diet. For 30 days you cannot have dairy, grains, legumes, sugar, alcohol, preservatives or additives. You can have most nuts,  animal protein (organic or grass-fed preferred) and veggies with the exception of a few like corn and peas. Today I reached Day 27. I feel a tiny bit lighter, my hypoglycaemia is vastly diminished and I feel happier and clearer-headed. Those are the positive benefits. Sadly, it has not led me to the Disney of Digestive health. Nothing has changed in that regard other than I no longer sound like the percussion section of the orchestra after dinner each night, and the bloated belly has vanished. It's a start I suppose, but I am far from out of the crapper on this aspect for now.

I still have a few options. I can try the FODMAP diet, the SCD diet (Specific Carbohydrate Diet) and the Candida diet. Most of them are similar to Whole 30 but some even further eliminate veggies and fruits. I have tried bone broth and fermented veggies and Kombucha and probiotics and am at a point now where I am so, so weary of trying to heal my gut lining that I am wondering if I should just go and buy some Captain Crunch, a package of Kraft Cheese Slices, a loaf of Wonder Bread, some margarine, some sliced Bologna, a bag of Cheezies, some Twinkies and wash it all down with an extra large Coke and see what happens. 

Oddly, when I think about eating crap like that (and as a kid, I did), I had no weight issues, lots of energy and actually liked what I was eating. (there may have been the occasional constipation), but it was sure YUMMY! I have given much thought to "eating to live", vs. "living to eat". I know people who give little thought to their daily noshings. They tend to be a healthy weight and spend far less time in the kitchen. Perhaps taking the focus off food is the answer. Meat and three veg. The English way. The boring way. Is that the answer? I don't know. It's not anti-cancer. Meat is cancer causing. Sugar feeds cancer cells. Grains make you fat and cause brain fog. Dairy causes inflammation. The advice is endless and the studies are questionable. 

It's tiring. It's exhausting. It's tedious. 

And so it goes on and on and on...my dysfunctional relationship...with food.

Scammed by Jesus

Red Dragonfruit

I really got to thinking about the importance of trust in relationships today. I am not just talking about the trust in a marriage here either. I am talking about the trust in absolutely every relationship we encounter in life. 

I have a tendency to enter into most relationships with rose-coloured glasses. I can't help myself. It is a bit naive I know, but I do like to believe that people are inherently honest and sincere. I have been caught out from time to time but not enough to have turned me into a suspicious, distrustful or paranoid being.

Today I was caught out. For about 3 years now I have been shopping at the local Thursday markets here in town. Over time I have become familiar to several of the vendors - some, more so than others. There is the older kiwi couple I buy my garlic-stuffed olives from and the perennially smiling Asian woman who has the freshest herbs and sweetest cherry tomatoes and the couple who own their own avocado farm. There is a dour couple who seem hardened but have the market cornered on the two items they grow - bananas and sweet potatoes. Then there is my favourite of all - the fellow that looks like Jesus (the long blonde hair, blue-eyed version) who grows nothing but dragonfruit. His dragonfruit are a thing of beauty - pink and green and unblemished and sweet as they get. He sells them priced according to size. I always buy his largest at $3 a piece. One of his $3 fruits is a generous feed for two people. I reckon it is worth the extra .50 cents for the jumbo size. 

I have spent a bit of time getting to know "Jesus". He is what you would refer to as a calm spirit. He exudes a zen-like inner peace that I have found very appealing. Turns out he has even written a book (self-published) that essentially outlines his philosophy on life as he has come to see it based on various teachings of ancient and modern religions. He is clearly a man who lives and follows a spiritual path. I like him. I even downloaded his book and planned to read it soon. It is a book that needs to be slowly digested, so I have been saving it for a holiday on the beach.

I arrived a bit late to the markets this morning and when I got to his stall, there were only a few medium-sized dragon fruits left and some small ones; his large fruits were all gone. "Wow, you don't have much left today, looks like you have had a busy morning. No large ones I see." He agreed that he had been busy and that he was also getting low on his harvest and that he only had white fruits today, as the reds were not ready quite yet. He went on to tell me he would likely have red next week. I reminded him I preferred the whites anyway and he said he knew that, so it really did not matter to me that he had no reds this week. I was reluctant to settle for the smallish few that were left, but figured it was better than no dragonfruit for the week, so I bought what was left and he even threw in a freebie small one. He often does this for me as he knows I am a regular customer who pays the premium prices for the pick of his crop and I appreciate his generosity. 

We had our usual friendly exchange and I moved on. I decided at that point that I wanted to go back to a stall to pick up a nice looking cauliflower I had passed by earlier. Normally "Jesus" would be my second last stop along the street. After a few minutes had passed, I came by his stall again, and to my surprise, he had filled his table with three new boxes of beautiful dragonfruits in every size, including the jumbo fruits he knows I prefer. I glanced his way. He saw me and diverted his gaze. I tugged on Steve's arm. "Did you see that?" "See what?, he said. "Check it out - Jesus has just replenished his table! He has every size and plenty of them!" 

And that was it. That was the moment, my trust was broken. Just. Like. That. I felt sucker-punched, jilted, duped, cheated and shocked. But mostly what I felt was hurt. Here was a man who had convinced me of his altruism. He had for over two years been building a lovely vendor/customer relationship with me that I had come to appreciate and I looked forward to our pleasant exchanges and now he had lied to me. He had not run out of large dragonfruit at all. He just wanted to sell the dregs before pulling out a fresh batch. Sell the dregs to me. He could have told me he had better ones. He could have further enhanced our relationship by making me feel special. Instead he risked our bond. I walked back to my car feeling disappointed and deflated. He was not special after all. He was just like every other seller out to make a buck. Could I blame him? Isn't that what anyone selling anything is all about? Had I myself throughout my own life in sales, not done the same thing? How could I cast a stone?

I had put him on a pedestal. He had even told me once that his fruit were particularly beautiful and sweeter than other mass-produced dragonfruits because he put his heart and soul into the growing of them. I believed him. Mostly because I actually believe in that sort of thing, not just because he said it. I do believe it is possible to pass along loving energy into things we create. I believed he was doing what he loved and nurturing his dragonfruit crop in this way. I still believe that. I will still buy his dragonfruit. What I won't do again now, though, is fully trust him. He broke that trust today.  I don't feel like a special customer anymore. I feel just like any other customer with money in her wallet.  

Like any relationship, once the trust is broken, you can never really go back to how it was before. Even marriages that survive an affair - are they ever really the same again? It is impossible really. All you can really do is move forward and try to embrace what it is now - not dwell on the past indiscretion(s). This is difficult for most people. I count myself amongst them. I left my first marriage knowing I was never going to be able to live with the knowing. 

Maybe we need to lower our expectations around trust since being trusting is really just setting yourself up for disappointment. At some point in just about any relationship trust is broken to some degree. Some breaches are just easier to get past or forgive. The truth is, we are all capable of damaging the trust whether it is between friends or family or clients or customers or any of the myriad of relationships we have in our lives. The sad part is that until we are all genuinely able to trust others and be trustworthy ourselves, the world will never heal. 

And where money is involved, trust is even more difficult to maintain. 

I wonder if "Jesus" has given any thought to this "moment" that occurred today, and if so, how is he reconciling it in his ever-evolving spiritual journey? Will he feel the same ease with me next Thursday during our weekly exchange, or will something have changed? When he says good morning, will he look me in the eye? Will he be able to read the change in mine? Will there be an awkward discomfort between us now? 

Who knows? Maybe "Jesus" will be asking ME for forgiveness. 

Home

Home

Days of adventure

followed by

coming home

sinking back

into comforts

and loving arms

I sigh

Familiar birdsong

on Sunday morning

foot sliding on cool crisp sheets

then gently skimming

his ankle

the soft silky dip

between hill and heel

I sigh again

No need for lights

I know my way

by touch

by sounds

by smell

by heart

I sigh once more

This place I call home

where we dance

cheek to cheek, barefoot

on cool tiles,

share stories and secrets,

wide smiles and tears

as necessary as the adventure

this sigh worthy life of mine

My Circles of Life

Indalo Man Ring

Circles. Round bits of metal and gemstones. Promise rings. Engagement rings. Wedding rings. Broken circles. Broken promises. What about these meaningless, yet oh so meaningful bits of adornment worn upon our left hand ring fingers?

By now, these rings have piled up; their stories embedded in their hard tiny O-shapes. I still have the first ring given to me by a boy. It won't slide past my baby finger knuckle now. The pale pastel opal set in white gold seems faded and insignificant, not unlike the memories of that relationship. The insignificance only in relation to the brief two years of our coupling, not in reference to what it meant at the time. You know, that early "real" relationship with all of its firsts. I recall how much I treasured that token of his love. It announced I was part of a duo. I was unavailable. Taken. It is the ring that symbolizes the starting point in my journey of love and loss. My first heartbreak.

The next ring I wanted never materialized. I loved him more than he loved me and I wanted a ring from him but he never gave me one. That wished for confirmation that never found a home on my hand probably taught me more about love than I realized at the time. I knew the relationship was one-sided and a ring would not have balanced anything. It would have been a meaningless gesture, so just as well he did not bestow a trinket of what would have amounted to false hope. I had no band of silver or gold to prove to the world I was loved, because I wasn't. I gave him my heart when all he wanted was the body that held it.

A rolling ring came next. It was a knock-off the the infamous Cartier Rolling Ring. Three bands of
white, pink and yellow gold, intertwined. It was a playful ring. It slid on and off my married ring finger like silken metal against my skin. It was somewhat unique and all we could afford. We were fresh out of university and struggling to make a start in life. I was happy with these simple bands of hope and promise. It never occurred to me at the time how the ease of slipping off my finger foreshadowed his ease of slipping out of our marriage bed. In fact, I had a warning shot early on when it slid off my finger into a lake while we swam. I watched with horror as it disappeared into the black-bottomed depths of that cottage country fresh water lake just as I listened with horror two years later to the sound of him making love to another woman from the other side of the bedroom door. The replacement ring rolled off my finger for good that day along with him. I should have known neither was a tight fit.

My next ring was larger than life. When asked if I wanted a big ring, I was honest this time. YES! We had a ring designed to reflect my artsy self-image. It was unlike any traditional wedding ring. No pair of rings for me. I wanted one big knuckle-duster with presence and impact. I loved that ring. I still love that ring. It was an original. The design was modern; a combination of white and yellow gold, a large central Cabochon Amethyst flanked by high quality quarter carat diamonds sitting high up on my finger never failed to please my eye. It spoke volumes. It screamed status. It spelled creativity. It was soooo me. Or so I thought. For many years it fit perfectly. Just the right amount of snug. Not long after I got it, I became a bit disappointed with how the amethyst became scratched. The once shiny surface was marred and dull. I kept meaning to have it reset and re-polished, but never got around to the task. I lived with the flaws. After about 18 years, it became loose on my finger, sometimes even falling off if I wasn't careful. It started to seem clunky and annoying almost. It was too big for my ring finger but still too small for my "fuck you" finger. It had lost its fit. I still loved the ring, but I didn't love it on me any longer. The ring, like my marriage had run its course. The flaws were too deeply embedded. A jeweller told me he would have to remove the amethyst and sand the stone so severely to fix it that it would not fit in the original setting. He told me I would be better off replacing the stone altogether. It sits in a safe now and I take it out from time to time to admire it and remember our time together and the important milestones we shared.

A ringless period followed. My finger felt naked and vulnerable for a time. I was single. Available. Untaken. At first it felt scary. I was a bit lost. My identity was shaky. I felt eyes upon me. A glance at my empty ring finger from a stranger was noticed. I wanted to hide my single status one day, then wave it about like a victory flag the next. It was unpredictable. Was I ashamed of being single in my fifties? Was I so identified with being a Mrs. that I did not know who I was without that title? As time passed it became easier and I noticed it less, until it mattered not.

I am wearing a new ring now. A new old ring. It is a reproduction of a silver pinky ring I had bought for myself in Spain in 1977. I gave that ring to a boy I cared about in 1979. It was a symbolic gesture at the time. The ring is the image of Indalo Man. It is a stick figure of a man holding a rainbow over his head. It is considered good luck to the person who receives it. There are many meanings attributed to the symbol including new beginnings. When I gave away my original ring I told this boy that Canada was at one end of the rainbow and Australia was at the other and maybe one day we would meet again somewhere along that rainbow. He kept this ring in a box for the next 32 years. When we reconnected in 2011, I asked him if he still had the ring and he said, "Of course I do." He had this ring remade for me in gold and had a diamond set as the head of the Indalo Man. It is not a wedding ring. We are not married. It is a symbol of our connection; our history and our new beginning. It feels light on my finger. Not cumbersome. Comfortable. I wear it on my left pinky finger, just close enough to my ring finger to remind me of our bond but far enough away to remind me I am not just a Mrs.

Have I come full circle? So it would seem.

Original Indalo Man Ring

Engage! Engage!

It Will Be

I used to think

every action

each encounter

any conversation

would repeat 

sometime

somewhere

surely

Youthful naivety

worn like a shroud

Surely became

maybe

or... likely

the thinning shroud

of mid-life

But time

does not heed

snooze buttons

and pressing pause

is impossible

So now

I don't think.

I know.

every action

each encounter

any conversation

could be the last

as my shroud 

in near tatters

warns

Could 

has turned to...will

when every action

each encounter

any conversation

will be remembered

as the last

by someone

not me

The threads of the shroud

hover, cloud-like

beneath my feet

carrying me now

constant reminders

Engage!

Engage!

they cry

in every action

each encounter

any conversation

Like it will be

the last.

Don't Judge a Tree by its Trunk

As I meandered along on my daily walk this  morning, it occurred to me that tree trunks came in a huge variety of shapes and sizes. There were fat bulbous trunks, gnarly peeling trunks, spotted trunks, scaly trunks, smooth trunks and crooked trunks. This assortment of trunks makes for lots of visual interest and makes the natural world around us an ever-changing collage of colour and texture.

It got me to thinking how we embrace this individuality in nature and how boring it would be if every tree trunk looked exactly like the next. Why then, I wondered do so many of us struggle with embracing these exact qualities in humans? If everything is energy and everything is connected and we truly are all one, why would we judge our fellow man/woman based on their skin colour or age or size? How did racism and discrimination come to be? Where did the human race veer off track? When did we start judging the world around us based on visual attributes?

As these thoughts continued to swirl around in my head as I rhythmically placed one foot in front of the other dreaming of the day that all this walking might one day lead to smaller thighs and calves (so I could be like the fashion models we are supposed to look like and worthy of praise), I came upon a terrible sight. A few paces ahead of me I noticed a large bird laying on the side of the road. It was not moving, clearly dead. As I got closer, I felt my chest tighten and my heart skip a beat as I realized it was one of my favourite species...a Kookaburra. He had likely swooped too low and was not fast enough to avoid an oncoming car. I felt sick. I never like to see dead birds or animals on the road and this one was particularly upsetting as I love them so.

This led me to think about how the death of this Kookaburra had a far more powerful impact on me than had it been (in my mind) a lesser bird. If it had been an ordinary pigeon or a crow or a bird that I am not so fond of, would I have felt as sad?  This of course begged the question - Why had I created a hierarchy of birds in my mind? A similar feeling had washed over me a few weeks earlier when I watched as an oncoming truck hit and killed a Rainbow Lorikeet, another bird I find beautiful. When did this way of looking at the world around me become so ingrained? Why were beautiful birds more important than ugly birds? 

How does prejudice incubate? We are all aware that it is learned. I get that. But when did it begin? What moment in our ancient past did it happen for the first time? Did one cave man just decide one day that he was better than the Neanderthal standing next to him because he had some feature he decided was somehow better than his fellow cave dweller? Perhaps he was a more successful hunter. That would make sense I suppose. But what turned his superior skill into something that put him ahead of his mates versus just a skill he could simply share and therefore give back and contribute to his tribe? He could be the good hunter and another dude could be a good fisherman and another could be good at making weapons and so on and so on. When did they start placing higher values on certain skills? 

Are we just innately selfish, self-serving beings? Is the survival instinct so deeply ingrained that we will do anything to make our own individual lives easier at the expense of anyone or anything that gets in our way? That could be forgiven in our Paleolithic past perhaps, but surely we have evolved. Or have we? (My mind does pawnder (ponder while walking).)

But back to the trunks and the birds. Is the leap from what is seemingly inanimate (the trunks) to the visibly alive (the birds) as it moves and makes noise, where we start to discriminate? Before anyone ever told me that one bird was more beautiful than another, did I love all birds equally? I wish I could remember. I imagine that as soon as I began to understand language, I began to hear and learn what was considered more beautiful. My mother would have taught me that one girl was prettier than another and one bird was more prized than another and one religion was superior than another.  So children grow up believing what they are taught in those early years until they start to question everything...even their parent's teachings. Or at least we like to think this is what happens. But sometimes they don't. They don't question what they were taught. I actually knew a girl growing up who believed that Hitler was really a pretty good guy. Her German parents told her that and she never questioned it even as an adult. Scary shit.

I would like to believe that for the most part, my generation of baby boomers, have done a much better job of teaching our children about racial equality and embracing their own unique selves despite what they are bombarded with in the media, but I think we still have a long way to go and a generation or two to finally reach a place of complete acceptance and tolerance. That prediction is probably a bit naive, but I am hopeful. 

In the meantime, I am going to try to find the beauty in all living creatures...even the less colourful ones.

Ending and Beginning

The view from my future house

Today was an ending and a beginning for me. As I mentioned earlier this month,  I had signed up for a 30 day writing marathon. It was called Writing Yourself Alive (WYA). Initially I wasn't sure what to expect. Was it going to help me get unblocked? Would it be a quality program or was it just an Internet money grab? Would I stick with it? Would I get any credible feedback on my submissions? Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. I decided to throw caution to the wind and go for it. The timing was right as we are in the midst of one of the hottest summers on record here in Queensland and who wants to go outside anyway? May as well hole up inside and write. 

So that is what I have been doing. Writing. Writing, and more writing. I wrote in the morning. I wrote in the afternoon. I wrote at night. I wrote at the kitchen table, on the sofa or at my desk. I thought about my neglected blog but did not think all that much about my neglected chores. I "dug deeper" and responded to "prompts" and shared my work with other writers in the "writer's lounge".  I made new cyber-friends. I read their work. They read mine. I laughed and cried and spilled my guts and deepest darkest secrets and fears on our "members only" Facebook page and the course website sharing space. It was easy. It was hard. It was therapeutic. It was magical. It was nourishing. It was more than I hoped it would be. It was a joy.

So, now what? Well, that's where the beginning part comes in. Apparently it takes 28 days to cement a new habit. It worked. With 30 consecutive days of daily devotion to my writing under my belt, I feel ready to tackle the big job. The job I have been procrastinating, putting off, half-assed attempting, three steps forwarding and two steps backwarding for so long. I am dedicating the next year to my book. I am giving myself a deadline. By March 1, 2017, I will have a completed manuscript. Sooner if I can. Call me crazy, call me a wishful thinker, call me whatever you like, just don't call me when I am in process!

I have set my intention. Our final prompt for the program was to write a letter to ourselves from the future, five years from now. A written image board of sorts. I will share my letter here with you all, with the universe, and for the record. 

Cue...2021.

Hey Deb!

Yo! Over here! It’s me – 2021! You made it kiddo! Look here! Yeah, that’s you sitting at that table. That’s you at a book signing. I just went outside the shop and there is a line-up half way down the block. Not bad for a first effort, I must say. I told you all along, you just needed to believe it yourself. You had a story to share and all these women here Deb, they relate. They saw something of themselves in your story and it gives them hope. That WYA group was a genuine catalyst. I knew you would figure out a way to do this. To tell your story without hurting anyone. I always said, where there’s a will, there’s a way. Didn’t I? Didn’t I?

Okay, okay, I will lay off the I told you so’s. But seriously Deb, it was you who did it. Sure, I nudged you along a little. I hovered out here, five years down the road and you started to image me. The picture became clearer and clearer with each chapter you completed. You started to see the finish line, your photo on the dust jacket, the book signings, the interviews. And how about those residuals? Ya gotta love those deposits from your publisher every month. Oh, and check this out Deb. This morning’s New York Times. You made it! Number 3 and climbing. Why, I bet you will hit number one by the end of the month.

And look here. Your book club gals are reading your book this month. They are so proud of you Deb. They knew you could do it. Let me tell you something on the down low Deb. Shhhh! Lean in. I am not supposed to go beyond today, but between you and me, next month you are going to surprise them all with tickets to come to Australia for an all- expense paid trip to help celebrate your success. They are never going to forget this Deb. You are going to have such an awesome time hosting them at your new house – that waterfront home you have always dreamed of is finally a reality. I see at least two more books emerging from that place Deb. I love the way you positioned your desk to take in that panoramic ocean view and the way you can hear the waves crashing on the boulders down below the cliffside when you throw open the floor to ceiling sliders. I love how stoked you get when you write during the full moon. You are so inspired by the moonlight reflecting on the waves.

Oh, and get this – you and Emma are working on a screenplay of the book. Her film studies have really paid off. While you two are busy doing that, Steve is creating the most awesome one of a kind tables in the studio behind the house. He is in his element creating “furniture as art” and you are at the top of your creative game. It’s just how you always imagined it Deb. You are doing what you love with the people you love around you. Does it get any freaking better? I don’t think so darlin…I don’t think so.

Cheers and see you in 5,

2021 xoxo

This just happened this morning, two days after writing this blog entry. I just had to share it, since it will be a part of the book. I don't want to give too much away at this point as a book sometimes has a mind of it's own, but I will address the magic and importance of "intuition" and "subliminal messaging" that we all have access to but often ignore. I set out on my walk this morning as usual and I normally take one of two routes, but felt powerfully drawn to take a street I rarely walk down. I just listened to my gut and went with it. I always reckon these things happen for a reason. I got about 20 metres down the road and happened to glance down at my feet and there was a small pale blue sticker - the number 5, laying on the pavement. There was nothing else around it. Just this lone number sticker. I walked by it initially, before realizing it was a message meant for me. I spun around and walked back and took this photo. See you in 5. Indeed.

Today's Assignment - Create New Words

I had some fun with this one. It was a light-hearted break from some of the more serious subjects we have been writing about in my 30 Day Writing Marathon.  Feel free to add some other  "gasms" in the Comments.

Designgasm – the overwhelming excitement you experience when you see a perfect room, or house or shoe

Foodgasm – the moment your tastebuds cry out “more, more, Oh my GOD, MORE!” (often involves chocolate)

Scalegasm – the fist-pumping joy you feel when you step on the scale and are down 5 lbs without even trying

Bookgasm – when you close an incredible book you just read, pause, and let it melt into your memory and sigh

Eargasm – when you hear a song or piece of music that moves you to tears (because it is good)

Composigasm – when a writer strings together what he/she considers a perfect sentence, analogy or metaphor and reads it over and over and over again basking in their own brilliance. (sometimes followed by a cigarette)

I Want....

I also want to read this book again.

Today's Writing Marathon prompt was to write a poem where each stanza started with the words, "I want".

I wrote this pretty quickly and the truth is, I could add many more "I wants", but these were the wants that sprang to mind right away.

I Want

I want to move forward
and stop looking back
quit changing direction
focus my track

I want people to see 

beyond acquiring things 

know happiness is not 

owning fat diamond rings 

I want deeper connection 

more face to face talk 

less cell phone obsession 

more time for a walk 

I want meaningful sharing 

my soul being fed 

not dead boring small talk 

that leaves things unsaid 

I want to live in a world 

where the spiritually depleted 

wake up one fine morning 

feeling joy, not defeated 

I want to see my girl’s life 

flourish and grow 

watch her follow her dreams 

don’t let them go 

I want just one more thing 

to hear people say, 

Have you read her book yet? 

Go read it today! 

(Had to throw in that last verse to lighten this wish list up a bit!) :-) 

Yabbies for Breakfast Anyone?

So, imagine this. It's about 6:30 am. I am about a block from home, heading back after my early morning walk. It's already starting to heat up here in Queensland. If I don't go by 5:30 or 6:00 at the latest, it becomes too uncomfortable. The combination of the humidity and the seering sunshine just hurts this Canadian gal's skin way too much.

I notice about halfway up the block a young boy emerging from the drive of his house. He is shirtless, barefoot, about 9, maybe 10 years old. I watch as he makes his way across the street to the corner where his mate or brother (not sure which) is standing waist deep in the storm drain on the road. He has lifted the heavy cast iron grate off and it is leaning against the curb. I cannot hear their conversation yet, but as I get closer, I can see that the kid in the sewer drain is about the same age, also shirtless and he is using a small net with a short handle and he is scooping guck and slime and gross sludge about 2 cups at a time and emptying it on the concrete next to the hole.

The two of them then sift through this disgusting sludge with their bare hands and are pulling the odd "treasure" out of the glup. My first thought is, "isn't this a bit dangerous.? What could they possibly be looking for and where is their mother?" Initially, I figured I would just keep walking past them, leaving them to their search, but my curiosity got the best of me, so I stopped and asked them if they had  lost something.

They looked up at me and the one in the hole says, "I lost two dollars in here the other day." Now that I am standing right over them, I see there is a secondary prize being found. He has collected at least 4-5 small creatures that look a bit like a small crab. "Eeewww, what are those?", I ask. "Yabbies," says the kid in the hole like I must be a complete idiot for not knowing. I ask him what they do with them. "Do you use them for fishing bait?" The kid on the street says, "yeah, you can use them for fishing." "Aaahh,  I see", I say trying not to be grossed out by their grubby, slime covered fingers as they grasp the wriggly crustaceans up for me to examine. I see they have not found their gold coin however and as I am about to leave them to their hunt, the kid in the hole, looking as feral as a character from Les Miserables shouts after me, "I'll eat one if you dare me!"

I gotta tell ya, the mere fact that this kid was willing to pop one of those filth covered yabbies in his mouth was as horrific to me as it would have been if he actually did it. I assured him I did not need to see him eat a yabby from the storm drain and he seemed disappointed that I didn't egg him on. He shouted out, "have a nice day" as politely as would be expected from an urchin standing in a pool of black goo at 6:30 am., and as I turned the corner toward my street, I looked back and saw they had continued their mission, unphased by the likes of me. Part of me wanted to give them each a 2 dollar coin just to get them out of the hole, but I reckon that would have ruined the fun.

Just another day here in my hood. In Maryborough. In Queensland. In Australia.

A Letter to my Muse

I had fun with this assignment today. It was a writing prompt on Day 17 of my 30 Day Writing Marathon. We were to write a letter to our Muse, AKA, our inspiration. This was mine.

Dearest M,

Please forgive me for ignoring you. I want to drop everything when you come around, but sometimes it is just not possible. It does not mean that you are not precious to me. Please don’t for a minute think that I don’t appreciate you. I do. I truly do. You are my moment of brilliance, my shining star, my guiding light. You make everything flow and flower and flourish. You shower me with metaphors and analogies and illiterations. I owe you so much.

It’s just that I am annoyed when you show up at inopportune times. We really have to talk about the 3 am. visits. Give me a break. I need my sleep. You know I am a morning person. Are you mad at me for giving up our wine? I know you used to enjoy that. We did seem to come up with some great material after a couple of glasses of Shiraz. I did mention that I was having some digestive issues, right? The wine is off the menu for awhile M. You’re not alone, I miss it too. We had some really crazy ideas some nights, didn’t we? Funny though, looking back at what we wrote, it wasn’t as stellar as we thought it was at the time, was it? It was pretty good, but nothing earth shattering.

Also, I know you have asked me in the past to write down the ideas you feed me. I realize I have become a little forgetful over the years. But seriously, it’s not always convenient. Could you do me a favour and stop showing up while I am driving? It’s very distracting. Sometimes I get home and can hardly remember how I got there. Your’re like a rambunctious puppy when it comes to car rides. You just love nothing more than sitting shotgun with your head out the window, tongue hanging out, wind whistling in your ears. I get it. It is one of your favourite times to appear. Just remember, I need to be concentrating on driving, not on you and another one of your crazy notions.

Did I just hurt your feelings? Please don’t take it that way. I love you M. You just need to consider me a little more. Can we schedule you in perhaps? Make a date? Could you do that? Could you adhere to a schedule? Is that asking too much? Does that spoil the spontaneity for you? Does that seem too robotic for you? I know the answers already. Yes, no, no, no, no. yes and yes. Okay, so it looks like I am the one who will need to adapt to your schedule. I try you know. I really do try. You are everything to me. You do know that, don’t you? Without you I would be empty. My life would be meaningless. Shit, I just heard Sam Smith singing and the radio is off. “Oh, won’t you stay with me?, ‘Cause you’re all I need.”

But wait, isn’t that a song about one night stands? That’s not about us. Although, I must tell you that when you disappear for days at a time, I wonder if you really do care about me. Please stop doing that. We’ve been together for long enough now, that I do trust you will always come back, but even I can get insecure when you are gone for too long.

I do have one rather large favour to ask of you M. Could you send me a sign? You know I am struggling with which direction to take with this novel. Should I focus on the actual story verbatim or should I turn it into more of a spiriitual, self/help guide? I’m a bit lost and confused. Step in would you? Yank my reins a bit. Push me one way or the other. I will be waiting for your guidance.

Yours,
Forever and ever,

Deb xoxo 

Writing Myself Alive

Where I wish I could be writing. The Red Cottage on Mabel Lake

Figured I might hop on my blog here today and let my loyal readers know why they are not seeing much from me these days. I have joined a 30 day Writing Marathon to kick start my creative juices and get over some writer's block that has taken hold lately.

The good news is, I am really enjoying the process and the program is really getting me deeper into my passion which you all know is the written word. The program requires accountability and writing exercises that are stretching me in different directions and just generally making me commit more time to my novel.  Today, one of the prompts was to summarize your creative path and growth to date.  I will share what I wrote with you and perhaps a few other snippets  as I move through the marathon. Most of you are aware of most of this already, but others may not know me as intimately. I give you Day 11.

Dig Deeper…Day 10…recall your artistic growth/path 

Colouring. It all started with colouring. Brightly coloured construction paper and fat Crayolas in Kindergarten. These brought me joy. This was followed by the primitive musical instruments that we would clang together like an untrained chaotic orchestra. But the teacher would really up the creative ante when she would say, OK, today boys and girls, I would like you to write a poem." That was the real music to my ears. Rhyming words. Roses are red, violets are blue, pass me a pencil, I’ll parlez-vous. For a shy, dreamy little girl, poetry was my Nirvana. There was something about the focused searching for the right words, the rhyming words that would still convey the context of the story being told in the poem that truly could engage me for hours. 

Later on it was word puzzles. I couldn’t wait for the Saturday paper to land on the front porch so I could grab the giant Word Find and then when I got a little older, it was the weekend Crossword. It was a great brain workout that didn’t seem like work to me. It also helped earn me A’s in spelling. In seventh grade, I summoned up the courage to submit one of my poems to the annual school yearbook for publication, not knowing if it would actually end up making it into the Poetry Section. I wasn’t even sure if I really wanted it to appear, as it was an angst filled sonnet of pre-teen heartbreak. When it did get printed for the whole school to see, I realized the incredible light it shone on my already shaky vulnerability and I was embarrassed and regretted sharing something so personal. It was the end of my poetry career, publicly anyway. 

I continued to write poems and love letters and journals for years. Years later when I was not accepted into one of Canada’s top Journalism schools, it was my skill as a letter writer and journal writer that helped me turn that “decline” letter to an “accepted” letter after refusing to accept their decline decision. I called the chairman of the department and begged for a face to face interview. An appointment was made and I pleaded my case and convinced them that I would show them what a great reporter I could be even though I had never worked on my high school paper. (that was pretty much a prerequisite for entry at the time) What I had done, was set off to see the world after high school and I had what could only be defined as “street smarts” and had recorded my adventures in journals. I was accepted as a “mature student” at 24. 

It was there, in my years at Ryerson’s Journalism school that I developed another love. Photography. It was part of the curriculum to be able to wield a camera. so I turned my focus to photojournalism. I could already write. This was exciting and new. I wanted to turn it into a career, but as fate would have it, I ended up taking a job in PR after graduation and I wrote advertising copy and public relations materials and put the silly notion of becoming a photojournalist or reporter behind me. There were few jobs in my field at the time and they went to the superstars of the program, not me. 

Over the next decade I made the mistake of working for money versus doing what I loved. I got married, had a child, stayed at home and went back to colouring with my toddler.  And decorating my house. I was bored. I went back to school to get some accreditation for my decorating and studied at night for 3 years. I started my own interior decorating business and it worked for me for another decade until I got fed up with the design world. I still enjoyed the field, but didn’t want to work for other people any longer. I missed writing. I knew I had to return to my passions. I read a quote – I forget who said it, but it was simply…“If you want to be a writer, start writing.” 

I launched my blog shortly after I read that. I had no idea what I wanted to write about, but I stopped worrying about all that and just started writing again. Since 2009 I have kept my blog going. It is not a money earner and I don’t care about that. It is simply a place for me to write. A place that I go to hone my skills, pour my heart out, rant, rave and ponder. Sometimes I even write poetry. I do whatever the hell I feel like doing there and it has been a wonderful tool for examining my life, commenting on the world, expressing my creativity and simply stringing words together to form some meaning to myself and others. It is something I do for the sheer love of doing it. And that has been enough until now. Joining this 30 day marathon is my next step. Not sure where it is leading, but I am enjoying the ride. 

Best Original Screenplay

My image board-made this in 2011

Wow! Before I start thanking everyone, let me just say this - image boards work! (audience chuckles). Secondly, all you bloggers out there, persevere, keep writing. Even if I never ended up standing here tonight, my blog was always a place to go to express myself. It is a creative adventure that has fed me for years...and that alone is worth the effort to keep it going. Some people paint or sing or dance - I blog.

This screenplay would never have manifested without the characters in the story and since this is a true story, I want to thank all of you, especially my sweet daughter and my Mick for filling my life with the only thing that matters - love. (camera pans to Steve and Emma sitting next to each other in the audience-they are smiling and I make tear-filled eye contact with them). 

Thank you John Madden, your genius direction made my story unfold truthfully and authentically...so grateful you "got" me. Thank you to Drew Barrymore for recognizing a love story that needed to be told. Thank you to the awesome cast - Rachel, Bruce, Richard - all of you! Thank you to the Academy for voting with your heart.

And last but not least, I thank the great poet Rumi whose words lifted me through my most difficult days and pushed me to face my fears and follow my intuition and listen to my gut. "Gamble everything for love or leave this gathering.  There is some kiss we want with our whole lives." 

That was fun. Have you ever imagined your acceptance speech if you won an Oscar? This is the first time I ever actually wrote it down. 

Now I need to write the damn screenplay. 

Right after I figure out what I am going to wear to the ceremony. 

:-)

Be like Casey

Not all "aha" moments are minor epiphanies. At least that has been my experience. It's great when they are, but yesterday I had one that was more like a kick in the gut or a slap in the face or more accurately the "holy fuck, I just noticed a grey pubic hair" moment.

So I have spent the last few days watching the Australian Open tennis and as much as I love tennis, watching the pros is always a reminder that I am no longer twenty-something or thirty-something or even forty-something and I am never going to hoist a trophy before the throngs and cameras at Rod Laver Stadium or Wimbledon or even my local tennis club. Those days are behind me. I will keep playing until my body won't allow it anymore and that is a good thing and I will make the occasional  shot that gives me a glimpse of what could have been but I will never be the subject of a wikipedia page citing my career hi-lights and stats and details of my personal life that I likely would prefer remain private.

Now, I am a realist and I am well aware that even if I had grown up with parents who had pushed me, or parents who were rich enough to hire coaches and send me to training camps, or parents who even noticed that I was a wee bit athletic and encouraged me I still may not have succeeded like thousands of other hopeful young athletes, but I often do imagine..."what if"? This is not a blaming or shaming thing either. Who knows? Even if they had cracked that whip, maybe I would have rebelled and said screw you, I don't want to work that hard. I would rather hang with my friends and smoke cigarettes behind the school gym. It takes more than just a push from mummsie and poppsie to turn out a star athlete. The kid has to want it too. It's easy to look back and think would've could've, should've, but as the saying goes, "don't look back, you're not going that way".

These are not thoughts I tend to dwell on. I accept that it is too late in life to turn tennis into a career and am happy to be able to still play doubles with the ladies 2-3 times a week. It's fun. It's social and it gets my body moving. Sometimes it moves parts of my body beyond what is comfortable and I wince or limp around for a few days, but that comes with the territory. Heal and get on with it. The alternative of not playing anymore is more painful as it is always a great spirit booster as well.

Enough about tennis. Back to the "aha" moment. I suppose it may have been even more impactful because of the young tennis players in my aging face all weekend but this is what happened. I was scrolling through my FB feed and came across a video of a couple of young dudes who decided to take advantage of the snow in Manhattan to make a video of themselves being towed through the streets by a rope attached to an SUV on snowboards. This is the sort of youthful shenanigan that "old" people might scoff at as dangerous or foolish or irresponsible but I thought it was brilliant. 

The clip had already been viewed by over 27 million people. Of course it had. It was Casey Neistat. If you don't know Casey by now, you will one day. It is inevitable. Until yesterday, my knowledge of Casey was limited. I had heard him interviewed by one of my other favourite success stories, Rich Roll and I followed him on Instagram, but this latest video made me dig a bit deeper. Who the hell was this guy anyway? As I sat on my sofa, reading through his Wikipedia profile, awestruck by his achievements in his life thus far (he is 34), now I was really impressed. I thought he was just some other "one hit wonder internet sensation", but now I see how wrong I was. This is a guy who dropped out of school at 15, lived in a trailer park, on welfare with his girlfriend and their son from 17-20 and then all that changed when he moved to NYC. He has worked as a dishwasher, a short order cook and a bike messenger. Now he has over a million YouTube subscribers, is co-founder of a social media company called Beme, is a film director, film producer and Vlogger. Geez Casey, maybe you should get a life. 

And that is when I had my "grey pubic hair" moment. Fuck. I have been sitting on the sidelines my whole life. This is how it is done. This is the kind of creative fearlessness I have always wished I possessed. (I know, I do possess it, I just need to utilize it) This "just do it" energy that Casey oozes - that is da bomb! This guy is idolized by millions who wish to be more like him but fear holds them back. His followers on Twitter and Instagram seem to worship him. They can't wait for his next move. What will Casey wow us with today? What crazy comment or video or stunt will he hit the Internet world with tomorrow? He does not hold back. As ridiculous or useless as his ideas may seem, he throws it as us and who cares if it bombs? Tomorrow is another day and he ain't looking back. He just keeps moving forward. And that is what it is all about. So many of us get mired down in the 'what ifs?" and it paralyzes us.

So, forget about Bill. Bill is boring.

Be fearless. Be like Casey.

Better still. Be the you that is lurking and always has been.



Enjoy this video...Casey at his best!

Put on Your Red Shoes

I once served a guy a draught beer at a bar I worked at in my twenties and when I set the frothy cold glass down in front of him he gave me an unusually wide smile and held his face in that position like a mad man clearly trying to get my attention. I was slightly unnerved by his behaviour and then he ran his tongue over the tooth to the right of his two front teeth and said, "you, me, Cher and David Bowie". That's when the light came on and I realized he was referring to our "fangs".  Not exactly a fang, but a slightly crooked, protruding tooth that the four of us shared. I thought it was great that he took such a positive approach to our common flaw. Shit, if Cher and Bowie with all their money never bothered to fix their fangs, maybe it was kind of cool after all. 

Somehow knowing that even David Bowie likely got food caught in his "fang" (soft white bread comes to mind), created some sort of weird kinship between me and him thereafter. I had always liked his music, we shared the same initials and he was a Capricorn just like me, always appearing on all those "fellow Capricorn" lists that seem to pop up all the time. He probably even knew that he had to face cameras in a certain way to avoid accentuating the imperfect tooth. As I scrolled through countless photos on line of him today, I noticed that depending on the angle, his teeth either looked nearly perfect or the "fang" stood out like dog's balls. I noticed that in later photos it seems to have disappeared completely so it looks like he eventually did have it fixed (hmmm, maybe it's not too late for me either).

That however is really only a silly lead in to what I want to say today which is how profoundly sad I am that he has passed. I am no doubt not alone with these feelings and I bet there are few Bowie fans out there today who are not spinning some of his old records today. Before I sat down to write this, I did a private little tribute dance in my living room which conjured up soooo many memories of days gone by that my brain could barely slow up enough to really drink in each past moment. Bouncing up the aisle at work, dance floors all across Canada, cleaning my apartment on a Saturday afternoon, sober, drunk, you name it, I was moving my body.

I was reminded in a Facebook message from my dear old friend Heather how we loved Let's Dance, a song that we heard nearly every shift we worked together at the old Hargrave Exchange. It was on the reel to reel tape that played over and over night after night. I recall there was some criticism of Bowie going "all disco" with that song, but I loved it anyway and it always made me want to do exactly that...dance! If I was beginning to slump half way through a busy night, that song could pick me up like no other, even if I wasn't wearing red shoes.

His music has always been able to stir me emotionally. When I hear him sing Under Pressure with Freddie Mercury and he sings that last verse, something inside me feels like it is going to burst out of my chest. When music and lyrics can impact you like that, it's powerful and meaningful and important. It's art. It's poetry as therapy. 

Just as his music is loved by millions, the sadness of his death will be felt by millions more. 

So, today as he passes from Ashes to Ashes, barely making it to his Golden Years, his Fame illuminated brighter than ever, take a moment, pay tribute and listen to Heroes or Modern Love or Fashion or Changes or China Girl or Rebel Rebel - pick any song and LET'S DANCE!