A Class Divided

My Year 11 class are currently writing their reflections about Jane Eliot’s A Class Divided. We have just finished watching the PBS special (first two sections). I have a very multicultural class; most of my students were born here in Australia but their parents, like mine, were not.

For those of you that have never seen Jane Eliot in action with her ‘Blue Eyes Brown Eyes’ social experiments, she divides groups into two based on their eye colour. Brown eyed people become one group and blue eyed people become the other. Jane Eliot ascribes power to one group by diminishing the power and self-esteem of the other group, to highlight how quickly and superficially we judge people of different colour to ourselves.

Her use of this type of social experiment started in 1963 after Martin Luther King Junior’s assassination. She was teaching in an all white community in Ohio and after hearing grown white men use divisive language in the news reports questioned the impact this type of ingrained, often subconscious rhetoric could have on her students who didn’t know any differently, and had no reason to question the white patriachy.

The students were impacted significantly, and amazingly, often within the first few hours adopted the degrading language and mindset of a dominant culture. Eliot’s experiment saw friendships broken and generally cooperative students become selfish very quickly. But more than that, her discussion and debrief with the students ensures that this is a lifelong lesson in discrimination that is learned fast. We all know that people are not born racist; this experiment ensures a more peaceful and fair community.

The ethics of these experiments with children have been questioned; in this case I firmly believe that the end more than justifies the means. If the experiments are conducted by an credible teacher/social scientist.

If you haven’t watched it, watch it. It is worthwhile.

The link is here:

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/shows/divided/

 

My ❤️ Home

Of all of the places that I have been blessed to travel to, no place has caught my heart quite as strongly as Nepal. The Nepali people the kindest that I have ever generalised. We encountered nothing but humour and beauty in the people that we met. I have always longed to go back to work and one day I will. 

My heart and ‘prayers’ go to the people, local and foreign, who are struggling and suffering now. I wish there were something I could do. Geologically we can make the quake seem logical. Spiritually we cannot. No nation deserves this destruction; Nepal less so. 

People who have so little were willing to share everything. The children, permanent snot frozen to their faces, willing to laugh and give directions when I got separated from my trekking party (singing through the Annapurnas as I walked through beautiful landscape completely at peace for probably the first time in my life a definite highlight). Drinking with the locals, being taught songs (resim pi didi), and being delivered hot tea every morning by Santa. 

Waking up to snow capped mountains almost every day. Fresh air. Fresh food. The chaos of Kathmandu – beeping cars, shouting people, cows in the middle of the road, holy men sitting with dreads and me being questioned about mine. Memories that have lived … When not many do. 

Children in school in full school uniform without shoes, sitting in concrete cells on wooden pews, smiling because they were fortunate to receive an education. Bless. 

Nepal is a beautiful place, even in its extreme poverty, because the people are so genuine. I did not want to leave and felt mortified on the plane, it’s delay a sign that I should have jumped off. And now, such loss, such destruction, such isolation. 

My heart goes out to the people impacted and I ‘pray’ that the nation recovers wholly and quickly.

❤️

Very Sad news

Waking up this morning to news that Andrew Chan and Myuran Sukumaran have received their formal notice of execution from President Joko Widodo is devastating. Seventy two hours left to breathe. Or more. No formal date set. And then by firing squad.

Cruelty epitomised.

They should have been executed soon after their sentences were handed down if they were going to be executed at all.

In the ten years they have been waiting, both men have changed their lives. They are no longer the young adults that attempted to smuggle drugs. Sure, they shouldn’t have done that and they do deserve consequences but this … well, this is just cruel beyond belief.

And it does appear to be ego driven by President Widodo. His behaviour suggests a man trying to assert himself in international affairs as a force to be reckoned with. He will be remembered in Australia as the man who gave notice to two Australians of their impending death on ANZAC Day and who ruled without compassion.

I will be equally upset with our government if sanctions are not levied towards Indonesia. It is alright to be friends but friends don’t behave this way. If ever there was a time for mercy it is now; two men who have turned their lives around, have been rehabilitated, and have been serving the Indonesian people since turning their lives around should not be murdered.

Ridiculous.

Ego should not enter politics and the death penalty is never a satisfactory way of gaining justice.

Lest we forget

High School students are not renowned for thinking outside of themselves but yesterday all but five of ours did. Every year our school hosts a brilliant ANZAC Day ceremony. Every year I feel more moved. Yesterday I had tears. 

We are so blessed in Australia. The greatest enemy we face is the natural elements. And then our own ignorance. Generally we all have enough or are able to access what we need through support services, and a strong community in times of crisis. 

With every passing year the young people of our nation show more respect. Yesterday both the Australian and New Zealand anthems were played; and it brought tears to hear both sung (albeit quietly). 

Usually when I have had to speak to the miscreants who show little respect I have been livid and ripped them a new one but yesterday I spoke calmly. I explained that they wouldn’t have the freedom to be disrespectful if countless men, women, animals and children hadn’t sacrificed their own lives for our freedoms. I also prophesied that when they become adults they will understand the gravity of their disrespect. 

They were respectful at this point. 

But only five from 600. I was proud of our student body. And of our HSIE faculty who are instrumental in organizing this  ceremony every year. Triple J asked if ANZAC Day would lose its impetus as time passes; I see the tributes getting stronger. We just need to learn to embody the spirit of the ANZACs every day: a fighting spirit, mate ship and service. 

One hundred years ago today, Australian and New Zealand soldiers were slaughtered en masse as they fought at Gallipoli, showing our countrys’ collective spirits to the world, fighting to preserve the freedoms we often take for granted. 

Lest we forget. 

The Excitement of Change

I am moving house.

I have been in my home for eight and a half years; the longest time I have lived anywhere. Not only that but I am now ready to commit to property and within the next two years will buy my own home. I think it is safe to say that after 44 years I am no longer a commitment phobe, and I’m pretty chuffed with myself for that.

I have always felt the need to be free, unencumbered, unrestricted. I have wanted to be able to afford to roam. My IVF journey has afforded me the ability to put down roots; on the river of completion I am.

I hate moving. The physical act of moving so I’m hiring removalists. This will be the first time I have done this in my eighteen moves. And this will be my second last move (bless). I love packing and definitely unpacking, but the loading and unloading, well, time for someone else to do that bit.

I feel in my bones that this move is signalling bigger changes than just location. It feels so right.

IVF is so expensive. It was my deposit for a home. It was also my priority for over five years. I do not regret it because it has brought me here. But it meant that I could not buy now. When I received confirmation earlier this week that I did not have a suitable guarantor, it had the potential to instil fear and frustration. A friend jumped in to allay that. She and her mum have literally just bought a property and wanted to rent it out for a year.

Hello new tenant!

And it provides me with a timeline. There will not be much spending over the next year; I will be saving like crazy for a deposit. I think I can almost make it.

Fate does work in mysterious ways. This move feels right. And the next time I move, my last, will be unencumbered. I will be free to be an adult lol. That is, free to become a prisoner to a mortgage.

And for the first time in my life, I’m good with that.

Maybe as we age we start to define freedom differently.

I’m excited! I’m moving!

The Brave

I would not want to be a teenager today. I feel for them. My childhood was dysfunctional but somehow stable too. My mum was home for us. My dad worked hard for us. We had a community in our street and as a result, an extended family. 

We were as likely to cop a smack from Aunty Maureen (next door neighbour) as we were our mum, and same can be said for her kids. We would hang out in each other’s houses or down at the park. Together. From dawn to dusk. 

There was no internet. There were no mobile phones. Everything we knew we learned at home, or at school, from a limited TV schedule, books, or each other. 

We were encouraged to think outside of the box and create our own entertainment, and we did. We created. We inspired. We collaborated. We supported. 

Bullying wasn’t long term; squabbles were frequent. But our parents made us sort it out ourselves and so we did. Retrospectively, it was a simple life. 

Our parents were alcoholics, abusers, gamblers; supporting each other and providing for all of us. We became resilient adults, striving for more, desiring to create a better world. We are the dreamers, the mystics and the poets. And we are damaged. But mostly happy. 

Kids today. I shake my head at the world we have given them. Technology is raising them. They are disconnected from anything real yet hungering for it, and ultimately just want to be seen, acknowledged, loved. 

They are the bravest generation because they keep going. Often alone and often scared. Not sure how to find answers even though they are fluent in Google. And social media. Often alone and often scared. The bravest souls. 

Eating disorders. Self harm. Promiscuous behaviour. Increased depression and anxiety. 

What are we doing to them? 

They crave connection and love. We give them the most recent technology and permission to be out all night. 

They grow and survive in spite of us. 

My hat is off as I salute you. A brave generation. 

We have a lot to answer for, my generation. I am sure they would prefer hugs and validation over iPhones and Facebook. 

It’s time we listened to them. It’s time we connected with them. 

Life has a way of always working itself out

Many of you read a post that I wrote a few months ago. I spoke about feeling that throughout my infertility process a part of me had died and I feared I would never be the same again. This is still true. But on a more positive note, I feel like I am on the other side of my grief regarding my inability to conceive and carry a child to term.

I do not apologise for the darker moments that I have shared because they are integral moments in a long journey that has lead me to here. The moments of darkness, of extreme pain, of disconnection in life, form parts of the journeys we all undertake. Without extreme pain we cannot experience extreme happiness. Without loss we cannot appreciate what we do have.

I am blessed to be alive, to be independent, and to have enough. There are many things I do not have that I will work towards, but at the moment what I do have is enough.

This is all over the place – it wrote more fluently in my head lol.

The last week or so has seen a real zen like state take me over. I feel that I am at my strongest again. I want to attempt to share how I arrived at this point. A lot of the feedback I receive thanks me for my honesty. I am so grateful that I can write and that I can share; service to others is vital to happiness. Even when it is unintentional and selfishly motivated ;-).

About six weeks ago I was informed that the house I rent was going to be sold. I have lived here for eight and a half years (the longest I have ever lived anywhere) and it has been my home through my maturation as a person (yep, I am almost mature now). I was calm initially then just sobbed. I didn’t want more change just now and I knew that my infertility treatments were made possible by spending my deposit for a home and then some personal loans. I also knew that most landlords and real estates do not permit pets, and at forty four I wanted to live somewhere nice.

I reached out to my immediate family for any support that they could offer. Unfortunately, for a multitude of legitimate reasons, none were able to help at this time. But the process has helped me.

Prior to speaking to my landlord I had been up and down about accepting my sister’s offer of egg donation. I was at peace with the child not developing from one of my eggs but the expense was terrifying me. Already in debt, minimal savings, I didn’t feel secure that this would be the right financial decision.

The phone call from my landlord forced the decision. Regardless of what came next, spending more money on fertility treatments was not to be my path. Having a roof over my head became more important and I have been able to let go (almost) of my dream to be a mother. To the extent that I was able to support a friend through her own IVF process (with a successful pregnancy resulting) and another through her own fertility issues with minimal pain.

That phone call became a catalyst for change. And for revision of my life’s goals.

Today, I found a place to rent. And when I say I found it, I didn’t. It was offered to me. I will have a roof over my head. My pets (my family) are welcome there (as they have been here). I will save like crazy to raise the funds for a deposit and I will own my own home. In time.

Without change being imposed upon me, I am not sure I would be where I currently am.

Without accepting the change (after a couple of tantrums – just ask my mum), I am not sure I would be where I currently am.

I reached a point where I realised I needed to trust that everything was happening the way it was meant to happen.

I do believe that we are all here for a reason. Sometimes the reason evades us, or makes no sense, but I still believe.

I have some beautiful friends. They aren’t always who I want them to be for me (as I am sure I am not to them) but I still love them. Some of them surpass my expectations because they are cut from the same cloth, and I am blessed that many of the people I work with, I adore. I feel like I want to mention them all by name but how boring for you all.

I have accepted that when I have few expectations, except that everything is as it should be, I am generally happier. Without pain and grief I would not know the depth of happiness and fulfilment. Without every step on my journey I would not be where I currently find myself.

Faith is important. Trust is important. If you find that through religion that is great. If it is through sport, fine. If it is through politics, great. But wherever it is you find it, make sure you hold on tight in the bad moments/months/years to it … it really will pull you through and keep you here.

Thank you for reading, for giving my musings an audience, and ultimately, a purpose.

Happiness is …

Melbourne.

Sydney is one of the most beautiful cities that I have ever seen. Whenever I have flown home and the plane flies over the harbour I realise how very beautiful Sydney is, and how much it is home. But Melbourne is where my heart is.

I have loved the idea of Melbourne since I was a very little girl. Our neighbours hailed from Victoria and I just loved it. Almost like I knew it was my heart home in Australia, similar to Byron Bay, Newtown and anywhere in the bush. Sydney is the business capital. Melbourne is the arts capital. It is more relaxed (or maybe I have never lived here so it appears to be). The people aren’t as rushed, harried, stressed – or don’t appear to be. The music, the food, the comedy, the trams, the serenity.

I love it here. Well worth the nine hour drive we undertook today to make it here before tickets to Fiona O’Loughlin tonight.

We are staying in South Yarra, a street back from Chapel Street, in a beautiful apartment (that is, better than we expected). Tastefully decorated and quite large, we are happy to call it home for the next couple of nights. A short walk to the tram stop and closest railway station.

Tonight we travelled into The Arts Centre. Ironically, this time last year I was here with my two buddies and we saw a comic in exactly the same theatre we were in tonight, a couple of rows down and closer to centre. It is Melbourne’s renowned comedy festival so there are many comics in many places so truly is odd that I found myself in the same one.

An hour long show. Amazing! If you ever get the chance to see her, do yourself a favour and do it. Hilarious. Glasses had to come off so that I could wipe away my tears. It felt like a conversation, like it could go both ways if anyone could stop laughing long enough to say something back. And I have immediate respect for anyone that is comfortable enough in their own skin to speak like a human, i.e. “fuck” and “cunt”. Not overused; just an appropriate amount. Like they are used naturally. Love it.

And I know there are people out there who do not agree with the use of this type of language, especially by women, but really, that’s the status quo/patriarchy speaking. At our most liberated, there is nothing that sums up some situations and some people as eloquently as vulgarity. And there are few words more powerful and adept at evoking a response from others. If you are overly concerned about the ‘c word’, I have a game you can play to desensitise you to it (just inbox me hehe). And if you believe that as women we shouldn’t use it, I say, “Let’s claim it back!” I have one and I am not ashamed! And no, I am not drunk.

There is something beautiful when you are witnessing someone in their truth. Tonight it was obvious that Fiona has found her way; comfortable with who she is, recovering from hardship and addiction, and seemingly happy (although I am always a bit wary in labelling a comic happy).

Sharing our stories is powerful and healing. All of us should do it more.

We are all more alike than we are different.

My spirit is most free when I am unburdened from responsibility and travelling in different environments to home. A simple trip to Berry has the same effect on me. Bring on New York!

Having said that, I stress less abroad with regards to public transport. In fact I am most comfortable with public transport in the countries that do not speak English. Weird. I could analyse it further but not tonight.

Tomorrow I will endeavour to go to Dymocks on Collins Street. Then tomorrow night, Something For Kate’s fundraising show at Richmond’s The Corner Hotel. A bit exciting.

Then a very early start on Sunday morning for a long trip home. And then work on Monday.

Unfair.

Holidays need to last forever. As much as I love my job. I have three books I would like to finish this year.

Not bloody likely.

Feedback Requested please :-)

Following is the start of a new adolescent fiction novel/la. I would appreciate any constructive feedback that you could offer. Does it flow alright given the time shifts? Is the voice authentic? Does it feel realistic?

Cheers brothers …

It is called Secret Society.

Preface:

I believed that that would have been the end of it.

Honestly. It’s not like it happens every day.

Okay, I didn’t realize it did. I didn’t know it had happened to some of my friends. We never really spoke about that sort of stuff. How do you even open up a conversation about it. Ick. Thinking about it makes my stomach turn. Thinking about him makes my stomach turn.

But I can’t get rid of him. I squeeze my eyes shut when my thoughts turn to him. Squeezing them only seems to allow images of him seep into my mind.

Thoughts. Images. Anger. Lash out. Hide. Cry. Thoughts.

A never-ending cycle.

Like I said though. We don’t talk about it. It doesn’t happen if we don’t talk.

It didn’t happen if I don’t talk.

It’s just a nightmare.

Recurring.

Destroying.

Never-ending.

It’s just a nightmare.

Monday:

“Hey! Lissa! Wait up!”

Hands in pockets. The days were already turning, betraying summer. I walked along the path. Uneven. How does concrete shift so much in some places and not others? Makes no sense. I remember the day we sat on our bikes, across the road, watching the men lay it. We had been debating if we had the courage to engrave our names on it when they went to lunch. We didn’t. It stayed pristine. Until the earth forced cracks and movement.

You would have to be careful if you were riding your bike on it now. Especially at dusk. The cracks could swallow the tyre. Movement. Change. Unpredictable.

I was listening to my music, entranced by the promise of other worlds when I was pushed from behind. Lurching forward I struggled to maintain my balance and stumbled as one who is afraid to fall so fights ferociously against it. Barely balancing I heard raucous laughter and turned to launch an attack.

“We have been calling out to you for ages. How loud is your music!”

My body relaxed. Just. I pressed pause.

“I almost fell.”

They looked at my ashen face, turned to each other and continued their raucous laughter.

Shaking my head, I pressed play, adjusted my bag, put my hands back into my pockets, and continued walking.

Away from their laughter. Away from their ‘friendship’.

Before long I felt their strides match mine on both sides. Maybe today wasn’t the day we parted ways. I could pretend a little longer. Maybe. Arms linked through mine. No words exchanged. No words necessary. We marched together into the day.

*****

“So what was up with you this morning?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying Liss.”

“Nah. Just a rough weekend. Threw me when I went flying. Didn’t expect it.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to push so hard.”

I nodded. Acknowledging her words was all I could do.

“We okay Liss?”

“Sure Clem.”

And we were okay. I wasn’t. But we were.

And so, rather than going to first period, I turned and left through the gates. I figured I could go to the gardens. Hide there. Listen to music. Think. Work it out.

*****

Saturday:

“I’m glad you aren’t a normal kid Lissa.”

“Thanks mum. That’s great. I wish I was normal.”

“No you don’t. Normal is boring. And over rated.

“Easy for you to say. You’re an adult. And from all accounts, Miss Popularity at school.”

“You’re popular; you have lots of friends.”

I rolled my eyes at her. She’d never get it. I don’t know how different times were way back then but they had to be different. My mum still barely knows how to use a computer. I’m permanently attached to one device or another, to her frustration.

It’s only my mum and me. My dad took off when I was younger, like three. Mum always tells me it wasn’t about me but I find it hard to believe her. We were a package. He left the package.

She works hard. Long hours. She is relatively young still. My dad had been her world. To this day, he is the only man she ever loved, she says. She doesn’t hate him.

No time for hate Lissie. And he gave me you. If I hate him I am hating someone who gave me my most precious gift.

I envy her attitude. I question if it is real or if she is protecting my image of him. I play along. Keeps her happy. But I don’t feel the truth of it; I do hate him. He had a responsibility. He’s a jerk.

“I have to go to work Liss. What are you doing tonight?”

“The girls are all hanging at Clem’s. Might sleep over if that’s okay?”

“Sure. Her parents will be home?”

“Yep.”

My first lie.

“And just you three?”

“Yep.”

Second.

“Sure. What time will you be home tomorrow?”

“Not sure. Does it matter?”

“Grandma is coming over with Pop.”

“What time?”

“About 11.”

“I’ll be home.”

Third lie. Unintentional. Unknown.

I had meant to be home.

I love my grandparents.

*****

Monday:

Serenity. The gardens were almost empty. In my area there was only an older mum pushing a baby in a stroller. She ignored me. I showed them the same respect.

My laptop lay open in front of me. An empty page … waiting …

I had no words. I barely had thoughts. Just sensations. Glimpses. Flashes. Before I could hold them they had fled. Frustrating. I ate my apple. Slow bites. One after the other. A slight breeze reminded me that summer was almost over. Clocks would change soon. Less daylight hours. Less laughter. Less freedom.

The inevitability of change.

The impermanence of predictability.

*****

Saturday:

Clementine’s parents weren’t home. They had gone to Melbourne for the weekend. Her dad had been at a conference down there and they had decided it was a good time to go away. Clem’s brother was nineteen. He was responsible for the house and his siblings. They had been warned not to have anyone over.

They didn’t listen.

I don’t know why parents who are going away never tell the parents of their kids’ closest friends. I think that would be the best way to ensure no parties happened. I always thought adults were meant to be smart. It disappoints me that they’re not. Who are we meant to have faith in?

I arrived at three. Clem and her brother Oliver were moving the valuables and the breakables into the back room that they intended to lock. They had been busy. The place was virtually spotless.

“Lissa you have other clothes don’t you?”

“Nup. Just my pyjamas. Why?”

“We are dressing up. It’s okay though. You can borrow one of Sally’s dresses.”

Sally was Clementine’s seventeen year old sister. They were as different as sisters could be. Sally was really tall, really elegant, really beautiful. Clem was tallish, tomboyish, and scraping pretty. But she didn’t seem to care. That was one of Clem’s best qualities, her confidence. She believed that she was enough, perfect as she was. I had always tried to emulate that with disastrous consequences. I always came across as insincere. I guess that’s fair; it was insincere. Oliver was similar to Sally. Tall, strong, elegant. Ultra confident too. They were all confident. I wished I was.

“Sally! Lissa needs a dress too.”

No response.

“SALL!”

“What?” And Sally came towards the top of the stairs.

“Hey Liss.”

“Hi Sally. How are you?”

“Good. What Clem?”

“Liss needs a dress. Can you hook her up?”

Sally smiled.

“Come on up Liss.”

I took the steps slowly, uncomfortably. I hate dresses.

But we had fun trying them on. Oliver’s friends had arrived and Clem had been liberated to come upstairs and help us.

Processing Time

My head has been working hard for the last month or so, processing many things, some of which I do not have access to. 

My birthday is coming up. 

I generally love birthdays but the last two have only served to remind me how different I am. How alone I am. 

Not lonely but alone. I blame my 38th birthday for this. That was the birthday that changed me. I came home from a lovely dinner to reflect on and then act on my childlessness. 

Six years later I am still childless. 

And I’m not sure how I feel about that. 

I sacrificed a lot to undertake that path. And I have lost a great deal as a result. And I’m not quite sure where that leaves me. 

I’ve always felt like I’m different to other people. My life hasn’t ever really followed a mainstream path and for the better part of my life I have been grateful for that. I have done a lot of things; achieved a lot of things; created a significant life for myself. 

And I do acknowledge that I have been mother to many. 

After my 41st birthday I stopped organising birthday celebrations for myself. Very unusual for me but I didn’t feel like I had much to celebrate. By my own choice. I’m weird. 

I’m not married. I’m childless. I don’t own property (yet). I’ve been in my school for a long time (people have said that I’m too scared to move and fail to understand that I am just, most of the time, happy there – still learning, still growing, still making a difference – so why must I leave). I’ve travelled. I’ve written. I’ve done many things; learned many things. I feel deeply. And I give way too much. 

Usually to the wrong people. 

I’ve almost accepted my weirdness. 

Almost. 

Liz Gilbert posted about shame this morning. Last night I watched Brene Brown’s TED talk on vulnerability, connected to shame. 

As much as I have lived my own life and been very authentic throughout the vast majority of that pursuit, which has yielded great fulfillment, and funnily this sentence now needs to change but I can’t delete what I’ve written. Aha. Epiphany. I have spent most of my life fulfilled in service. And happy. Blissfully. 

I have also experienced extreme depression, been suicidal countless times (none recently – in 2008 I painstakingly prepared my death and organised my life and only stopped the process when I realised someone would have to find me and that would cause trauma to them), but have accepted all of that as part of the process, my process on my journey throughout my life. 

And whilst I’ve always held strong to doing what I feel called upon to do, I still feel guilt sometimes for who I am. Shame. I don’t live a normal life and I’m not a normal person or teacher or writer or healer. And whilst I am good with that inside of myself, the older I become, the more shame I feel that I have not been normal. 

Devastatingly tragic. 

And funny. 

Childlessness has forced me to appraise myself and my life along a continuum of normal that I have never subscribed to – NEVER. In fact, that I have intentionally flouted for most of my life. And the last two years, since I lost connection with a soul mate, have left me feeling lost, disconnected and broken. 

Epiphany after epiphany this morning lol. 

One of the reasons I haven’t written much recently is that I’ve had minimal clarity in my thoughts; they’ve been swirling aimlessly trying to roost after consuming too much Red Bull (my thoughts, not me – I don’t touch the dangerous stuff). I feel like that is reflected here. 

I think the point that I was supposed to reach this morning is that none of it matters. None of it. It doesn’t matter that I’m childless or different. It really doesn’t. As long as I live my life, not just exist, and as long as my life is rich. And my internal life is very rich. My external life lacks balance – yep, still trying to rein that balance in. Have I spelt rein correctly. I don’t think so. Goddamn I used to have flawless spelling. There just isn’t enough time in each day to do all that I want to do. 

I think my childlessness will scar me. Many things have in my lifetimes. But I tried. I think there is more that I could have done but I wasn’t able to at the time and I’m at peace with that. I think that maybe I was just meant to try. 

I think I’m meant to do lots more in my life too. My head keeps returning me to my idealistic 15 year old self. I think that there are children in Africa and Nepal that I am supposed to meet. Not yet but soon. Other places to visit. And I’ve almost successfully conquered the fear regarding those adventures that have kept me reined in (again with that word. Why does the brain select words which create uncertainty in its own peace). Should there be a g or is that the one where we are in power. MFC! Exasperation. And I can’t google it because I’ll lose my flow. Nuts. 

I need to write my list. I need to set more goals. I need to say no to things that don’t fit me anymore. Work to do. 

Gotta love holidays. 

I’ve also come up with the first few chapters of a new book. Just need to start writing them outside of my head. 

PS. Hours later I find the following image on Facebook. Timing.