Don't be discouraged

More than just a bout of the blues, depression isn't a weakness, nor is it something that you can simply "snap out" of. Depression is a chronic illness that usually requires long-term treatment, like diabetes or high blood pressure. But don't get discouraged.                 The Mayo Clinic 

I live with depression. I live with it like you might live with a coloured rock constantly in your pocket, or a strange and lumpy weight hanging from a string around your neck.

I have lived with the illness for so long. Most of my life. Over the years I have wished it away; I have ignored it; I have felt panicked by it. I have judged myself—felt so terrible for falling so low, for being so pitifully "weak" as to be so sad.

In the past I believed that voice in my ear, the one that said everyone else had this living thing in the bag. "Look around you!" it sneered, "no-one else is lost like you! Everyone else is coping fine! Everyone is clean and shiny and full of pluck and vigour! You're the only one curled in the bathroom wanting to die!"

Ah. Every time I think about it, I think how exhausting it has been.

Getting sick with clinical depression is awful. It feels so terrible you'd never wish it on another living being. What kind of mean trick is this? Not wanting to live when the world is wild with beauty. Finding your whole self raw and whole days unbearable when your kids are literally dancing and singing in the exact space you are in—that's some bizarre torture right there.

What's hard is there's also a weird comfort to bleakness like that. It's just so familiar. Depression becomes your old blanket, your worn groove; it's the loose tooth you fiddle with your tongue, the addiction that soothes you, the only path you know.

Many times I have treated it. And many times, after I stopped being acutely sad, acutely anxious, acutely wishing to not be alive—I forgot, over time, to keep taking care of myself. Forgot to keep exercising, seeing counsellors, seeking the sun, talking, being mindful, sleeping, eating well, taking medicines (herbal or otherwise), exercising, exercising, exercising. So inevitably, I got sick again. Just as sick as before, the old groove rising up, the familiar rut coming to claim me.

But not this time.

The dark can't take you if you see it coming. It sounds too simple, but after all these years… you see, I know it so well now, treated it for so long…It's impossible to miss. 

These days, right when I see it coming is when the fight begins.

Oh, yeah, depression?

I see you standing there, saying you know me best, hissing like some dude selling sorrow from the pockets of your trenchcoat.

I see you.

Who do you think you are, sidling out of the alleyway peddling your old wares, smiling that toothy smile?

Don't you realise?

I see you.

And I'm not afraid of you.

Right here is the moment I kick myself fiercely into gear.

I go to yoga—it's only my second time. I twist my body into wild and improbable shapes next to the bendy young things. They can fold themselves into origami swans but that's okay—I may be the strangest swan anyone's ever seen, but I'm there.

I let myself cry in front of my counsellor because I'm really tired, and a bit overwhelmed, and because it's not weak to weep. And I speak to friends about some recent insomnia and they give advice and I see my naturopath and together we do some tweaking until I'm sleeping again. 

I go to the doctor and renew my mental health plan, just as I have year after year after year. I sit there speaking plainly, unashamed of recent bleak moments, because at least I am sitting here, damnit,  talking and treating this. As I always have. 

And I talk to my husband 'til midnight, and we sift through the stuff and plan days I can exercise regularly, days I can stick to. We figure what we need to do to keep me well.

It's a sign of strength to recognise when you're beginning to slide into sickness and to tell the people who matter.

It's strength to say depression is an illness, just like so many others. It is nothing to be ashamed of.

It's strength to say, Hey, I deserve to be well; I choose the new groove, the fresh path, that bright way of seeing…

even with the coloured rock in my pocket, or the strangely-shaped weight at my neck.

Those are just rocks and things. They don't define who I am.

some thoughts from the busy buzz of my brain…

Let's pretend I haven't been away for six weeks, shall we? Let's pretend I wrote in here just yesterday, and that we're just picking up where I left off…?

Yeah?

Perfect :)

Now…where was I?

Ah. Yes. Walking outside.

It's winter here, but we're kind of lucky.

We get to spend winter in a world that usually looks like this.

I took these photos a week or so ago, on the day my girl and I walked from the beach to the new chocolateria downtown. It was HEAVEN. 

They had so many vegan options, from fruit fondue to churros to decadent hot chocolates. We ate way too much sugar, but then walked it off in the sunshine, through the park, by the sea. 

That was a really nice day.

Today, our world

credit

has looked mostly like this…

But that might be because it's been a really busy month and we just had a really busy weekend and lots of late nights, and we are really really tired.

PLUS, it was raining. It's almost never washed out and grey here. There are clouds all over where the sun should be. What's up with that?

It's funny because my son just got his braces tightened today, and he was in a bit of pain. And he was so tired and it was the start of another busy day, and he looked out at the clouds, and the grey sky and the rain, and he said, "At least the weather's good today."
My boy.

Speaking of my boy…!

He turned thirteen the other day. Wow. How can I be the mother of a thirteen year old? I remember that time of my life so clearly. I remember the music I listened to, and the days going by, and high school life, and…I think my boy might be happier than I was then. At least I think (and hope) he's having a spectacular life—filled with adventures, laughter, security and so much love. I hope he looks back on it and goes, Yeah, that was a good time.

He says I can't post photos of him any more without his approval. He says I can't call him a kid any more. Actually, I'll rephrase that: he has asked very politely for me not to call him a kid any more. And he wanders off to band these days without giving me a kiss. Sigh…!

So rather than show him at his birthday dinner holding tofu up to his eyeballs, and rather than show him juggling rings or balls or clubs, or show him blowing out the 13 candles that we stuck into a tub of soy ice cream…

here's a photo of his brand new, totally-adored juggling clubs. They have become an extension of him, so they kind of count.

I do love him so.


My son's birthday marked a year to the day since my friend Jennifer passed away.

I thought of her through the whole day…felt love, felt glad that I'd known her…then thought of her some more. I think of her all the time…she taught me some incredible things, and left us all with some beautiful gifts—strength and thankfulness being two of them. What a guide she's been in my life.

She'll always be a part of my boy's birthday… like she was a part of our wedding, and our lives, and that goes on; it hasn't changed.

I am so glad I got to know her and be her friend.


As for everything else?

I am thick in the writing of my novel. Like, so deep inside it it's all I want to do. I want to write when I wake up, when I'm driving my son and daughter to all their classes and things, when I'm cooking…pretty much all moments of the day. Some days I want to move to a writers monastery where all the monks have to do is sit in reverence before the page.

It's kind of hard to do anything else, kind of hard to think straight. I suppose that's the feeling of being in love, right? But with someone you can only see for minutes at a time, sometimes for longer stretches, but in the end someone or something always takes you away.

This sort of constant tearing at the heart can't be good for a person, can it? I'd break it off, but you see, we're tied together now.

The novel is the reason I haven't written here more; the novel is the reason the laundry doesn't get done and the groceries stay in their bags and why I'm late sometimes.

I would like to write more here,

but until this thing is Done, I can't…

so…

I'm thinking maybe I'll write less?

But more often.

Yeah. Yeah.

That's it—less is the new more!

Little posts, like little postcards… from the brain that's constantly thinking of towns and magic kingdoms and girls who steal moonlight, and what to do with the Queen, and why did she go there and should I turn her into a bird?

Could be kind of interesting :)

So I'll see if I can do that. Postcards. Just little ones…tiny colourful thoughts… like those shells you might pick up on the beach. That might be just right.

Love and peace to you all! :)

Sometimes it's just nice…

Sometimes it's nice just to take a walk, you know?

And say hello to the trees.

It's nice to find wombat holes tucked into glades…

and see that the sky is an uninterrupted blue.

It's nice to look over water with sun glinting off it…

and find mushrooms as big as your hand! 

It's nice to stand by beautiful things…

and notice the wild, reaching…

and see a boy,

in his Element.

It's nice to run…

and dig…

and walk by water…

and jump into holes left just for you.

It's nice to notice

the colour of clouds…

to sit

in the moment your porridge is done

and listen to the simple tick

of the clock

and your own, quiet breathing.

It's so nice to take time

to be together,

to take note…

isn't it?

And so very nice 

to smile!

:)

guns, love, winter, and braces

We tried to go walking by the beach yesterday between thunderstorms, and got lashed by our first grey autumn rain. The sea frothed and surfers leaped into the waves, and the clouds made a mushy mess of the sky. We couldn't help but laugh, the four of us, striding in that wet, together.

And they caught the Boston bomber yesterday and people were alternately weeping and cheering in the streets.

My son ate his thousandth cup of soup last night. He is into day five of braces. They hurt, they hurt, they hurt. I would gladly take his pain and live it, if I could. But I can't, so all I can do is lie beside him at night and tell him stories at 3am, as I did on night one, when he couldn't sleep for pain. Sometimes that's all you have—your stories, your love, your closeness.

I have entered a debate on gun control, it seems, in this blog. I suppose if you bring up a subject, you engage. So I guess I am engaged. But only so far as it's healthy for me, and my family to engage…At some point I move away to make soup, to sit with my son and watch movies on the couch with him and give him pain relief. Last night the four of us played Pictionary at the dining table, our heads bent over the paper, and we laughed 'til we cried. I move away from the debate, but also move closer…to send good wishes and peace to those who feel differently from me.

Both sides of the gun control debate have solid statistics at hand to argue their point. They have history to back them, and essays and quotes from famous people. Both sides have real-life stories, tragedies, heart-wrenching and affirming tales to support their side. With a debate like this comes strong emotion. And strident rhetoric. And tears. With a debate like this, with every decision and news story, you have weeping and cheering…in the streets, on couches, by hospital beds. With a debate like this, there can be no winner. You just have lives, affected.

So I am sending love to those affected by violence. In Boston. In Syria. In my own home town. I am sending my beliefs out into the ether. I believe in conversation and community. I believe that we can be collective guardians of the world. I don't believe things are "bad" or "good" or that "evil" exists. I don't believe in "us" and "them." I think violence comes through a chain of choices and circumstance, people let down, led astray, feeling there are no other options. I believe violence can be met by a wall of peace.

I believe the focus of society should be on creating the most compassionate community. I don't think we have to be docile or passive: I think we can be alive and alight with our kindness, our empathy, our passion for non-violence. I believe we can sit on buses and be conscientious objectors. We can stand at microphones and have dreams that inspire nations. We can listen to and help those who are frustrated and unwell. We can be inspired by those who seek and have sought Peace. Love. Equality. Understanding. We can sing, and speak out, and protect our children—we can change the world.


I am a pacifist. I am a mother. I am an informed, gentle, global citizen. I am happy to debate, but I  know where I would debate, if I could choose. Not in a town hall at a podium, with notes in my hand. I wouldn't stand or sit opposite my opposition, shaking my fist. I would rather not be behind the computer, writing words to people who don't agree with me, but instead sitting together—mother beside mother, person beside person—at a kitchen table, or side by side on the couch. I would have our hands curled around cups of tea. I would have us talking and listening. Talking, and listening.


Sun is out today. I think we're going to the local markets; they're held at a little school that overlooks the sea. Music is always playing. We will be together. The sea will probably be an impossible, perfect  blue.

peace to all

Hasn't it been a strange and imperfect week?

You look at the newspaper and it's heartbreaking—ranging from difficult to impossible—all around, in country after country.

And you sit with your boy as he struggles through pain and you feel it as though it's your pain.

And you're tired and you'd like life to be simple, but it isn't.

And the laundry pile is huge.



I was sitting on the edge of my bed this morning, thinking, "Today isn't going to be easy."

Once upon a time, I would lie down on days like these, and let the hard take over.

I looked at the sky and the trees and heard the birds. Sky was a cloudless blue. Trees were green and wild. Birds were talking, telling each other stories.

And I got up.


Today I got up and took some laundry downstairs and that was a small, good thing.

Today, my son, who just got braces yesterday morning and was up all night in pain, just put on some Miles Davis. I'm writing to the music that makes my son happy.

Today I read a blog post where the person suggested we focus on being kind. Being patient. Breathing deeply. Yes, I thought.



I've had some strange times this week, interacting and, for the first time, debating/respectfully disagreeing with people online. I am usually very agreeable on social media, so this felt new for me: kind of fiery and peaceful at the same time. The people I have "debated" with I respect hugely, and I have not wanted to seem argumentative. But I have wanted to share an alternative view: my view, my truth.

I am finding that I'd like to speak, and speak, and speak my truth more. And, of course, let people speak theirs in turn.

Already I write about animal suffering a little on this blog, but not often. I "like" things that relate to animal rights on Facebook, and every now and then, I share information I feel is important to read. But there are more things I care about. Things I am quiet about because I don't want to push an "agenda" or have this blog become political or be about "causes." But what I care about, and the change I want to see in the world, really matters to me. People are making huge changes happen in the world by speaking out. Why don't I, more?

For some reason I've been thinking about Gandhi a lot recently. What would he do? What would he say in the face of the NRA's agenda, and bombings in the US and drone attacks in Pakistan, in the face of factory farming, hunting in National Parks, of people living lives of judgement and hate… all things I find difficult to bear?

I believe he would speak, and speak, and speak, his truth.

He would BE the change he wished to see in the world.


So this is the change I wish to see in the world. The change I try to live daily:


People putting kindness and compassion above all.

People living in, and accepting, equality.

People prioritising peace, and the lives of others, over "centuries-old rights" and "this is how things have always been."

People seeking non-violent solutions for conflict.

People protecting the voiceless.


It's not how a lot of the world is right now, but I keep hoping. And getting up in spite of things. I keep choosing kindness, compassion, positivity. And writing my truth.


Here I sit, on this day that's turning out to be not so hard after all…with a cat on my lap, listening to jazz. It's just started to rain and I can hear it pick-pocking the verandah roof outside.

I will write words I care about. I will feel sadness and confusion for the people of Boston. I will feel joy that marriage equality has been recognised in New Zealand. I will mourn another bombing in Iraq in the days leading up to their election. I will be baffled and deeply disappointed by the Senate choosing not to change gun laws in the US. I will march against live export when Animals Australia brings the rally to the city of Sydney. I will hug my children.

I will get up in a minute and put the laundry on. Give my son some more pain relief. Make him some more soup. Listen to the rain.

And send, as always, love and peace, to all.

People in the public gallery of the New Zealand Parliament, 

singing the Maori love song "Pokarekare Ana" 

moments after same-sex marriage legislation was passed. 

Beautiful. 

SPAM: a collection of poems

The doctor's wife

I like what I see so now i'm following you.

Place a bowl of pot pourri on your window sill, so breezes can 

waft the scents around.

Theгe's a fine line between the all-natural sorts of snoring that should 

cause no worries, and the 

consistently habitual type of snoring that 

goes out of control.

When your discs realign, 

pressure is removed from your nerves and 

you will probably feel plenty of relief from lumbar pain.

Also there still may be timing or emotional issues that hold you apart—

this may not be your only Soul-Mate. 

I'm uniquely qualified to say so because I was a doctor's wife in the 60's.

Your ex

A woman could undoubtedly go 

away your ex 

domicile through morning, 

self-confident in your girl manifestation,

 find out through mid-day teas, 

my significant other become tricked.

Exactly. How?

The former individual is equitable of 

more session lessons for the uncastrated case. 

Like if something goes unsuitable, how region can they bank?

Unquestionably unwell

Unwell unquestionably come more 

formerly again since 

exactly the same nearly very often 

inside case 

you shield this increase.

Tough love  

This may sound strange. 

These websites have already been in 

existence for several years. 

Your conversations are mostly small talk.

 Love 

Oh my goodness! 

Awesome article dude!

 Gгeat deliverу. 

Ѕoliԁ argumentѕ. 

Kеep up thе grеat wоrκ.

by

Anonymous

(ps: Thank you, dear commenters of all kinds, 

for the laughter, support, and inspiration you have given me over the years. Much love to you!)

if music be the food of love…

My husband had a really big concert on the weekend.

Every year, he puts together a big band of young people to play with a famous jazz musician (or two, three, or more!). I've written about this band before, here, but that was almost three years ago! Time for a retell, I think. :) Every year, these kids and young adults get together on the day of the performance (for their one and only rehearsal!), get given sheet music they haven't seen before, plus a t-shirt to wear on the night, and get shown where to sit. They rehearse, hard, for 6 hours, then come back that night to perform. It's incredibly exciting for a lot of these kids—there's nothing like it in the area. I suspect there might be nothing like it in the country.

Now, when I say a big band, I mean, a really really REALLY big band. It is made up of 150 people. 150! Yes. All those young people work together to create a concert, led by a man with huge vision and energy (my amazing husband, who is helped by lovely, tireless colleagues), all of them running on sheer exuberance, talent, and courage. Some kids have only been playing for a year, and they sit beside people who are in their last year of highschool (even early university), and somehow, it works.

The only things they're asked to do? To have fun. To either play (or look like they're playing!). And to go for it.

My husband came up with this idea about 7 years ago, and his wonderful Conservatorium of Music has put on six Megaband shows so far. I've designed the t-shirt for every concert, and my son has played four times. We've had jazz, funk, and latin greats all come to play as guest artists, and on Friday night, we had 900 people come to watch. It's a thing now. Like, a real THING, something you might imagine kids remembering when they grow up…like, how maybe they got their guitar or music or drum sticks signed by this awesome musician, or how maybe that was the first time they ever properly performed and they were so nervous but they did it, and this maybe was the beginning of them realising they wanted to be a musician.

This lovely night has become part of our mutual history now, part of my family's and my town's story. It makes up some of the colours, the woven pattern of our place here. What a beautiful thing for people to be part (and proud) of.

For me, however, my favourite part of the night was a small and perfect thing. Something that felt so personal, but was shared with over a thousand other people. And afterwards, I felt all weepy with pride.

You see, my husband directed the band wearing Converse sneakers.

Second-hand ones, at that.

He wore a gorgeous black suit, crisp white shirt, grey tie, and these grey canvas "classic" Chuck Taylors. He bought them from the op-shop the other day, scrubbed them clean, and wore them to this "big deal" event. And the lack of black leather 'dress shoes' was noticeable—so much so that one of our two famous guest artists called my husband on it.

The guest who is a friend of my husband's, made a joke about my husband's tennis shoes. He suggested maybe my husband forgot to change shoes, and perhaps my husband needed to borrow his again, like that time four years ago (when my husband actually forgot to bring his own).

That got a good laugh, and then my husband good-humouredly went to the microphone and said something to this effect:

"These aren't just tennis shoes, man. These are Converse all-stars. These were made with no animal products."

Applause rippled through the audience, rose like a quiet wave through the theatre.

"So don't be givin' me grief 'bout my shoes no mo'."

And he grinned at the famous jazz man, who grinned back, and my husband turned to the band and began conducting the next piece, and the famous jazz man began to play something beautiful.

And while the night wasn't—at all—about animals or about ethics or choices or beliefs, the night, for me, became in that moment about something bigger than music, bigger than us sitting here, bigger than 150 kids having the time of their lives. It became about standing up for, reaching up towards, something that is as big as spirit, and as deep.

When my husband could have said nothing, he spoke for living things that do not sing or play or have a voice as we do, but feel as we do. He spoke for creatures who might have loved to listen to the music as we did, and been lifted by that music into joy.