It's beginning to look a lot like…

Christmas always comes as a surprise to me.

Probably because the year is always roaring, kind of like a fire or train or truck or runaway ball in an Indiana Jones movie—it's hard to keep up with time and how quickly it passes. Sometimes you're so busy moving, keeping ahead of the Busy, you don't think of anything but just Getting Through. Or maybe, you're so happily running alongside that train, watching the fire, dancing on that ball, that you just don't notice time doing its thing, moving right along.

And now, it's 4 days until Christmas and, wait… how did that happen?

Christmas…the massive holiday that businesses and advertisers plan for, for months, the one that brings in money for shops big and small, the one that involves a lot of buying and thinking about giving… the holiday where everyone wants you to be Happy! Everyone's wishing you a Merry one, in the shops, at the end of term classes, over the phone to each other, strangers and friends alike. It's this thing we're all united by, and stressed out by, and maybe a bit confused about, sometimes. It's like the word that doesn't look weird until you write it a dozen times.

Christmas. What's it about?

What are we getting "ready" for?

Why do we cherish it?

Who says we should even celebrate it?

I'm getting these questions from my kids; I'm thinking them myself.

My family and I live outside the box in so many ways. So why do we "Do" Christmas?

I think the reason so many of us "Do" it, is because that's how it's always been, at least in my collective, European/Australian/American culture. Millions and millions of us join the hustle, do the bustle. We get the presents, make the food, prepare the parties, play the music, decorate. We fret, we argue, we spend. We sit together one day a year beside a tree that people say we should get, opening presents people say we should buy, scarfing down food people say we should eat. We do it, often joyfully, often begrudgingly, often stressfully, often lovingly.

And then we do it all over again the next year.

Why?

Well, it can be fun. Like, a lot of fun.

Stockings alone. I mean, stockings rock. Seeing that great lumpy thing at the end of your bed at dawn—I'll never forget how excited I used to be. What's not to love about a giant sock full of stuff? The crackle of the paper as you open the tiny Thing and then the next tiny Thing and the next? Sharing what you've found with your brother, your sister, your parents. So much smiling! Then the presents under the tree. The pile of them, literally singing to you, wanting you to shake them, hold them, open them, hug the person who gave them to you. And the giving. Well, that's pretty awesome too. Seeing the look of delight on peoples' faces when they've unwrapped just the thing they wanted. That moment can be so lovely.

Being together is beautiful too. Families often rock. There's all that love, for one. Then there's the hugging, the laughter, the shared history. The smiling, and of course all the singing. Those Christmas songs! Something about them, it just makes you want to do something jolly, doesn't it? Right there, on the spot.

And of course—and for many this comes top of the list of why we "Do" Christmas—well, there's Jesus. For millions of people, this day is a celebration of a life devoted to bringing people to God. I'm not religious…but at the same time I am not not religious, if that makes any sense. I'd call myself spiritual, a person of faith, but I don't know how to explain the depths or intricacies of it to anyone except, sort of, to me. And I think Jesus was pretty awesome—in the same way I also see Buddha, and Ghandi as awesome, and all people who devote their lives to love, peace, and compassion. Jesus saw humanity as all worthy of being saved; he saw all people as deserving of love. He was the turn-the-other-cheek guy, the forgiveness guy, the rebel, the new-path taker, the one who walked with everyone, spoke to everyone, believed in all people. Who wouldn't want to celebrate the birth of a guy like that?

And if you go to church on Christmas, and sit with others celebrating a life built on love, faith, and kindness? Well that can be beautiful, too. There's so much smiling in church on Christmas—I've been to church twice on a Christmas day, and it felt like a truly happy place to be.

But Christmas, the Thing, the constructed reality that we are expected to follow without questioning, I feel a bit full of that. I feel like we're at the edge of reinventing our Christmas, at a turning point where we might start choosing Something Different, something Else.

Our tree for a start.

The things we would like to give and get.

My kids and their wants.

I have asked my two what they want for Christmas, and repeatedly they've said, "Nothing." My son is saving for juggling clubs…all he'd like is maybe $5 towards those. My girl, well, she literally has asked for nothing at all. We aren't even doing stockings this year. I have bought one shared thing for them, and it's something I would have bought anyway, something they already know about and have seen. They want to give money to Animals Australia, to other charities that support compassion. They don't want any stuff at all. And…this is the most interesting part perhaps… we don't have anything for our extended family yet. Nothing!

It's that kind of Christmas we seem to be having. Already re-inventing, I suppose!

We'll see my family—my mum and sister and nieces and partners—and we'll eat food and we'll be really happy to hang out together. I know we will sing silly songs and my kids and husband and I will give our mostly home-made gifts (if we can make them in time?). And there might be moments we misunderstand each other or worry about something, and we mightn't have a perfect time.

And we will do it again, next year, because that's what we do. Because being together and singing Christmas songs and opening thoughtful gifts is a dance that can bring a whole lot of joy.

But one year… one day… ?

One day, I'd like my Christmas to be silent. Well, not silent… but quieter. Just shush, Christmas, please, just for a moment? Let me sit with you and look around.

I'd like the noise of the shops and the people asking me to Buy stuff to settle down.

I want to not be urged to buy things I don't need or want. I want to not buy stuff just because society tells me to.

I want to give when the giving makes sense, when the giving helps, when the giving isn't about material stuff, but about something Bigger.

I'd like all the junk to be replaced with food or shelter or medicine or books.

I'd like to sit on a beach, or an empty church, or walk in a field of snow, and I'd like to stop, and feel thankful.

I would like to sit and feel grateful to life. To the Universe. To god—whoever or whatever that might be. To the energy pulsing around, making the earth spin and my molecules knit, and my breath go in, go out, go in.

I'd like to spend a morning watching waves.

I'd like to hold hands with my family and tell each person why I love them.

I want to eat only plants, and talk about real things.

I want to listen and make a difference.

I'd like to do something of value.

I want to laugh.

I want to give.

Perhaps we already are? Beginning to have the Christmas I dream of? I think we might be.

This year, just yesterday, my kids, husband, niece and I made this tree. We had such a beautiful time doing it. I adore it, and everything it represents.

I think we will have a truly lovely time this Christmas day. I hope you all do, whatever you do—whether you are alone or with families—celebrating, working, living, giving… I hope you find joy.

Which is the same hope I have for you all the days! The ones before and after, every day that rolls out from you, roaring.




note:
the elf with the santa hat and the reindeer were created by my beautiful niece. Juggler and Santa by my boy, cat by my girl. Star by the five of us. Fox by me :)

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.

after the storm

the thunderclap was so loud that
we, standing
under the verandah to see the
rain slam down in sheets,
jumped a mile
and ran
back inside
scaring the cats and dog
who were perhaps already
scared
by thunder louder than any thunder in the history of
thunder

if there is a such a thing.

if such a history exists it isn't in a book somewhere but
waits
written in memory alone

for all or one of us to
pull out some day far in the
future or tomorrow
and say
remember that storm? the one where
we jumped and ran and laughed
so hard? where we were scared a little but
at least we
were together?

and after the storm
which rolled and
rolled

after we waited in light so
dim it felt like night

after the sun came back and power too,
all the lamps and clocks
dancing on with a click

I walked through the
garden

and under a just-washed sky

to see and take note of the wet
and the life,

to look at
all the small bright things.

growing Compassion

When I was a girl, about 12, I remember standing at the bus stop, waiting for the school bus with my sister, and stamping on the ants.

"Stop!" she said. "What did those ants do to you?"

Of course the ants had done nothing, but there was a quiet thrill in me, to have so much power. Tiny ants; what was the point of them?

A couple of years later, a friend of mine at his birthday party put a ring of some kind of gasoline around a group of ants on the sidewalk. Then he lit it on fire. It was a small fire, but all his friends and I crowded around to see the ants in a panic, feeling the wall of heat, with nowhere to go, no protection, no possibility of escape.

I don't remember feeling anything much other than perhaps this wasn't a fair fight. This was a step up from stamping. I don't remember watching for long. I think, at some point, I walked away. At least, my 40-plus-year-old self hopes I did.

Then my sister became vegetarian. I was fourteen. Being vegetarian in the 80's was very different to today. We would go out to dinner and the waiter would be stumped, totally unable to fathom what my sister could eat. My relatives would have big family dinners and serve ham salad, telling my sister she could just pick out the meat. As a university student, I would eat big t-bone steaks in front of her at family get togethers.

I ate meat without a thought. I killed spiders without a thought. I felt distant from other animals, and to be perfectly honest, I think I felt better than them. I remember thinking, "It's okay to eat chickens, because they are stupid." (Not actually true, it turns out). I felt the same about fish. I was a bit wobblier thinking about cows as they were so gentle and placid-looking. As for pigs, rumour had it they were smart, but I put that out of my mind to eat them.

My sister, in the meantime, remained vegetarian, never wavering, raising her kids as vegetarians, and quietly, slowly influencing me with her steadfast refusal to eat meat.

Some years ago, we had a problem with some mice. It was an infestation; a bunch of mice had found our house and decided to move in. We could hear them, scrabbling about contentedly in the walls, and sometimes popping, darting, dashing into our house to look for grub. We were told to bait them, so that's what we did. One day soon after, I remember finding a sick, scared mouse in our house. It could hardly move. I can't write or describe what I did to dispose of that mouse, but I will never forget it. That mouse was terrified. It felt shocking to kill it.

By this time, I was the mother of two kids as well as the carer of a dog, a cat, chickens, fish, birds. I cuddled my cat, walked and talked with my dog, watched as our two birds tried to have babies. The chickens would run to us when we dug in the garden, looking for worms. The hens shouted to let us, anyone, know they'd just! laid! an egg! My kids and I adored our pets.

Then about four years ago, I saw a friend's cat get run over.

I saw the whole thing from beginning to end. And I thought: I can't do this any more. Separate myself.

I went vegetarian then. I lasted about nine months. But no-one else went with me, and I'd just been diagnosed as wheat intolerant, and I couldn't think of what to eat. It seemed suddenly so hard. So I returned to eating meat, but I had to consciously switch off my mind when I went to buy steak or sausages or chicken at the shops, when I faced the shelves and fridges filled with meat. Switch off, don't think, don't think. Once it was at home, it became just another food, in its packet. It was easier to eat when it was just stuff in a packet. Nothing more.

Three years ago, around February, we went on a camping trip, to sand fly territory. Those sand flies were crazy. They'd bite you the minute they saw you, no introductions, no hovering about just to say hello. My son was really, really scared of them. On our last day, we were driving away from the camp site, and a sand fly came in through the window. There was shouting and panic.

We pulled over the car and I grabbed a tissue box and thwack! I got that fly. Job done. I turned back to face the front. My husband began to drive. I heard a sound and looked over to see my son and he was crying so hard. Face collapsed, weeping.

Why? I asked.

Because, because…

Oh, sweetheart. Because I killed the sand fly?

Yes, Mum. Yes.


That's when I realised how deep compassion could go.


Four months later we became vegetarian. A year and a half after that, we became vegan.

And our compassion, our "sympathetic concern for the suffering of others," has grown and grown and grown.

We have read, seen, discussed, learned so much. We are more aware these days, not just of animal welfare issues, but of global and environmental, political and human rights issues. We talk about everything, and our eyes are wide, wide open.

It's like we opened some door, and in came this sense of the World, all around. Our "Selves" stopped mattering so much. Now we talk of giving more, not needing as much, of wanting to speak out about the things we care about, making a difference, small or large. We talk of being the change we want to see in the world. We try, daily, to BE the change.

This might all have happened whether we became vegan or not. I know some extraordinarily compassionate people who eat animal products. I know people who are mindful and seeking to make positive changes in the world who also hold barbeques and eat chicken curry.

For us though, our choice to become a vegetarian family, and then vegans, was our door to compassion, opening.

And it's so bright and clear in here!

Sometimes it's a bit too bright, too clear. Sometimes there's too much knowledge, because once you look…you see that real suffering is all around.


But for us, whatever sadness that knowledge brings,

is countered with hopeful, positive acts.

Like my husband removing, the other night (and over the course of two more nights) more than 30 teeny tiny baby spiders from our house.

Spider by spider by spider…!

And my son learning to cook tofu scramble this week, making breakfast for himself and his dad…

And my husband (not a pet lover) speaking to the dog and cats with a whole new voice, a whole new language…

And all of us sitting and smiling over dinners that taste so very, very Good.

Peace and love and hope coming out to you all! 

I hope you feel it, because it's big and growing,

and there's so much to share. 

the magic of Being

Somewhere along the way
to Getting and Staying Better,
I began to live.

I began to exist
in the moment,
for the present,
noticing the small seconds ticking by,
the way my breath went out, came in, went out, came in.

I found myself taking moments,
micro-meditations
where my hands would settle at my sides
and I would notice

a cloud drifting
the sun on my skin
a slow blink
the sink of soft sand as I stepped forward
a spoon in a pot, stirring
the purr of a cat
the curl of a wave
a bird in a tree, dipping its small beak into blossoms
a snoring dog, legs twitching as he ran in his dreams
a wooden floor on bare feet
children talking
children laughing.

I found I spent more time making eye contact
saying thank you
saying thank you
saying thank you.

I noticed the power of a hug. How two can become one, and how—whether it's a friend, a child, the love of your life—a hug can realign your spirit into Better in the space of 2-10 seconds (the approximate length of a regular hug, not counting those long hugs on couches with a beloved child on your lap, still smelling of sleep, their hair tousled and tickling).

On this path to Being Better,
I have
woken up.

And my favourite feeling?

The feeling when you notice,
you are still here.

You get to be alive
on this breathing, feeling earth.

You get to share and give and care and love and breathe,
for as long as you are here.

The feeling
is miraculous and divine.

It hits me,
each and every day now.

In the smallest moments, and in the large,
in the moments I share with others,
in the things I get to give
and in the slow sweet seconds I spend
on my own.

I feel it,
and tears come to my eyes, all the time,
all the time.

I am so
grateful,

and
there is
so much peace.

back

Hey.

HEY!

So, we're back. We've been back from our trip for three weeks now, and it's taken a while to adjust.

We tore straight into term 4 like it was a train we had to catch on the run, like we were hobos and we were racing after that thing with our bootlaces flapping and our hair in our eyes. We leaped on, and have been rattling on the rails ever since, looking at each other like, "Dude, why are we on this train called Reality and not still on holidays in Western Australia and looking at the sun setting over the sea?"

We're, all of us, shaking our heads a little in surprise. Or maybe that's just me. I don't think the kids mind. They got into a reading and writing rhythm while on holidays that just hasn't quit. All they want to do is write and read and read and write and so that's kind of all they're doing. Meanwhile, I keep looking around and trying to come to terms with the fact we aren't on holidays any more and the sun isn't setting over the sea.

So, how was it?

It was awesome. Awesome, then more awesome, like an cake made of awesome, with icing made of awesome dolloped on top, and more awesome on the side!

It was one of the happiest times of my life, actually.

But I took a lot of photos. Like, 1,400 photos. And when I got back I thought, "I need to blog about our trip!" But then I looked at ALL the photos and thought, "Ohhhh. Maybe tomorrow."

Which turned into "I will blog about it, but not today and tomorrow we're busy. So I'll do it the next day, or whenever I can sort out one thousand and fourteen hundred photographs."

Which turned into, "It's too hard. Maybe I'll start in November."

Which turned into, "How will I ever blog again??"

And that, of course, morphed into that classic existential question of:

"WILL I ever blog again?"

Well the answer is, Yes.

YES!

I have decided to try and write a little bit about our trip, then write about life, then write a little bit more about our trip, then more about life, and so do it in manageable pieces, like a home-made quilt. It might be funny shaped and have frayed edges, but it's my quilt and I already love it to bits, as unformed as it is.

Our Trip to Western Australia

Story #1.

I got on that plane.

It wasn't easy; actually it was one of the hardest things I've ever done. Over the years I seem to have built my fear up until it has been extraordinary—this sturdy castle where I've holed myself up like a girl in the tower, or the grimy bearded dude in chains in the dungeon, or like the Beast. Whatever the analogy, there I had placed myself, more and more stuck, from the time I was 16 'til now.

It took a LOT of work, months, just to book the plane. I'd been working on this solidly with my counsellor and my naturopath and my doctor for the past 9 months, and booking the plane was a huge step. A big healthy leap forward in managing my depression and anxiety.

But then it turned out I had to actually get on the thing.

On the day of the flight, all was mostly well…just a little tangle and jangle of nerves, until I was actually on that gangplank, walking towards the door of the plane.

Oh. My.

Fear rose up and nearly swallowed me whole.

I walked and slowed. Slowed, slowed, until my kids were up ahead with their Nana, and people were streaming past like trucks on the freeway.

I kept looking at my husband. "Are we really doing this?"

"Yes," he said, firmly, gently.

Slower and slower we went down the gangplank. Almost to a crawl.

"Really? Are we really?"

"Yes," he said.

At some point, he slid his hand between my backpack and my back. And we kept moving forward.

All I really remember is the urge to stop. The urge to sit. The urge to turn and run away from the plane.

And I remember my husband's warm hand between my shoulder blades.

At some point, my kids were at the door of the plane. Their Nana could get on, but they needed boarding passes. I had those, in my hand. My kids' heads turned, and they searched for me. I waved.

"They're with me!" I said, brightly.

And time sped up.

There we were at the door.

There we were handing passes to the flight attendant.

There. We were. On the plane.

In all the visualisations I'd done with my counsellor, nothing quite captured the metal-in-the-mouth, cold-skinned terror I felt then.

This was my worst nightmare. I was on a plane.

And my husband stood nearby.

He told me later that he'd kept a pressure on, with that warm hand of his, kept his hand firm on my back, knowing how much I wanted to turn and run.

He kept me moving forward. He steered me onto that plane, with love, so that I could face my fears, live through a moment I had built into a monster, and go have an extraordinary holiday with my family.

We flew, and I only cried three times.

And I told myself I was safe. And I smiled at my kids. And I noticed when my thoughts tried to sabotage me. And I gave myself a good stern talking to once, in the bathroom. And there was turbulence and a bumpy landing, but we were fine.

And when I got off, for the first time in years, I didn't swear I would never do that again.

I thought, We have landed.

And I took a photograph.

And I felt grateful and I felt excited and I thought, I am glad that's over, and then… I let it go.

And went and had one of the best holidays of my life.

the most important thing I have to tell you

I've come to realise that the thing I most value in life is kindness.


Kindness is respect and love, intertwined.


Kindness is choosing

to think outside ourselves,

being aware of the consequences of our actions,

thinking how others might feel about the things we say and do.

Kindness is choosing not to bring suffering onto others.

Kindness is compassion.


But kindness isn't soft, no sir. Kindness isn't pink and Hallmarky. There are no kittens and bows on my kindness card!

My kindness has muscles and steel and strength. My kindness asks me to rise above a moment when I'm tempted to be snarky to someone, or say things about someone behind their back.

My kindness asks me to say sorry, to own the moments where I've been wrong.

It involves choosing paths that are sometimes difficult or different from the norm.

My kindness has me saying no to choices that cause another living thing to suffer pain or fear.


Sometimes I think if all anyone ever chose in life was to be kind, the simplest path would open up in front of them.

You would see it, ribboning out. It would glow. And whenever you were faced with a choice, you could say, Which is the kindest? And so your life would be laid out in easy pieces, the yellowest, finest, brick-est road.

It seems so simple, some days.

But a couple of months ago I had to make a hard decision. This one was tricky.

In order to be kind to myself, I had to possibly disappoint and hurt someone else. For years, I'd let myself be part of a situation that caused me suffering because I wanted to be nice. I thought that was the kindest choice. I thought kindness meant I had to sacrifice my own happiness and wellbeing.

But that's not what I mean by being kind.

Kindness is recognising that sometimes the person you have to nurture is yourself. And if you're honest about that, if you take ownership of your own needs and wellbeing, and you are clear and you are gentle, then that isn't cruel. It's being true.

And truth is the white-hot core of kindness. Not the "truth" people use when being judgemental or pushing their agenda, knowing it'll hurt someone else. But truth that comes without malice or words that bite. Truth that's filled with compassion for others. Truth that respects, loves, and honours other living things with a fiery, steady light you can see for miles.


Kindness is all these things of beauty
held together in two hands,

cupped.


Kindness is a living thing;

you can feel its pulse beating against your fingers,
along and into your skin.

Do you feel it? It beats as you beat.

It has your heart.

it is a beautiful day today

Spring is here. You can tell because the peach tree has erupted, quite suddenly, with bright pink blossoms.

Yesterday I sat in the sun on a bench with a lizard in my hands. He sat so quietly on my finger, his little heart beating. He didn't try to run; he simply soaked in the sunlight. We named him Maximus before we released him on to the grass. At some point I looked up into the peach tree and could see bees by the dozens, buzzing from flower to flower to flower, gathering. 

Yesterday, I went to my naturopath, and together we finally flushed out the seed of doubt laid by a doctor about 6 weeks ago. This doctor (not my usual), really pushed for me to get some Xanax for my upcoming flight. When I told him I had a natural supplement that worked well with anxiety, he said with a little smile, "Well, it's always nice to have a placebo." And when I said again, I would rather not take Xanax if possible, he said, "Well, once you're on that plane, it's hard to get off!"

I left his office, and let his words seep in as the days passed. I let his words grow inside me like a weed. I let them take root and I gave them power. And I felt fear, real debilitating fear, for the first time in months. That was my August, filled with beauty, busy-ness, laughter, and creeping, creeping fear.

Meanwhile, other things happened recently to try and trip me. Two other potential triggers to depression sprouted up like companion weeds. As though they saw one weed allowed to grow, and they thought, "Oooh! Open weed season! Cowabunga! Here we come!"

I watched these things build around me. Over there, one trigger. Over here, another, and right here beside me, my fear of flight. I could see how easily they could pull me under. The conditions were all there, ripe for a perfect storm.

But as my hardest day hit on Saturday, and as I saw the storm roil and ready itself, and as I named it and called it "Perfect" and spoke of it to a friend, I realised that wasn't what it was, at all. 

A truly perfect storm is nature's anomaly. It exists in science, or—as some see it—in the hands of God. It is completely out of our control.

But this—my situation—isn't. Words and triggers and history and loss are often out of my control, but my reaction to them is not. I don't have to let the storm rise, because I don't have to give it power. I literally just have to keep moving through the water. Just keep moving. Forward and forward and forward again.

I just have to breathe and watch bees gather pollen from the peach tree. I just have to plan for a trip and let sorrow pass through me, and listen and be a friend, and love always and be kind, and walk. 

I just have to watch my boy juggle and listen as my girl has drum lessons with her dad.

I just have to hug my mother when she walks in the door.

I just have to kiss my husband and put my hand on his back.

I just have to run my workshops and watch how the kids' voices tumble over each other, so excited to share.

I just have to have a cat on my lap.

I just have to see my counsellor and have him remind me how well I am doing.

I just have to skip rocks on the water.

I just have to see my naturopath and talk through treatment and feel calm and whole and hopeful again.

I just have to keep moving. Make my way forward, with my eyes wide open, noticing and finding the joy, always.

And the waves can't help but ease. The storm can't help but settle.

It's spring here.

The blossoms and bees are out. It's a beautiful, beautiful day today. 

a hopeful heart and a song

This morning I walked by the beach

and although I am better for the most part today I wasn't, quite. Today, I walked by the beach and I started with fear held close to my chest and some tears might have come and I walked and thought, When will the walking work? When will the sea come and pluck the worry from my ribs? When will I make like the sun and rise determinedly from out of the water? When will my skin notice the light and drink it in?

I walked and walked and kicked the sand hard down with my feet and I thought,

It's not working and it'll never work and I could feel my chest aching and at some point I looked up and looked around, as my body kept moving forward and forward.

At some point I saw the beach pool and the blue water inside it and outside it

and at some point I noticed the tide was really low and I saw how the rocks were exposed and mossy-green.

And at some point, I don't know when,

maybe when I stopped watching my fear like it was a trapped bird,

I began to see rocks in the sand. And they were smooth and flat and round and perfect

for skipping.

At some point, I reached the part of the beach where I needed to turn around and head home

to my children and my husband and the day

and I had all these rocks in my hands.

Perfect for skipping.

I stood by the water's edge and I waited 'til that moment between waves when the sea

was calmest.

And I spun those rocks in.

And the rocks danced on the water.

One caught air so big, I couldn't help myself.

I whooped out loud with joy.





Tonight, I thought of this song.

It's not about rocks or skipping or the sea or even about how walking lifts me always. It simply makes me happy…which is a small, good thing, don't you think? 

fear held and let go, held and let go

credit

When I am quiet on here, I'm usually busily working stuff out. Thinking and thinking and thinking.

Well, I should say, When I'm quiet in general, I'm working stuff out! In real life, I sometimes start twiddling my hair, gazing off into space, and thinking deep thoughts. My husband always notices, always asks what I'm thinking. Sometimes I can tell him, sometimes, I haven't figured out what exactly I'm thinking, just that I am! My thoughts come in all these colours, kind of like drifting into a cloud made of paint bubbles, as well as snatches of music, books I've read, photos I've taken, moments I've lived, and fears and joys I've felt and carried about with me like trinkets.

It's busy in this mind of mine. Busy good, busy sad, busy afraid, busy planning, busy dreaming, busy hoping, busy taking it all in, this extraordinary life.

We're flying to Perth for a big family holiday in three weeks today. If you've read my blog for a while, you might know I have a fear of flying. But I don't know if I've been that clear about this fear, certainly not recently: my fear has been profound and debilitating, and in January, when I tried to plan a trip to the US, it was the main thing that brought me down.

If you don't have a fear like this, it must be hard to believe. This crazy fear—it's been like the monster in my closet, and whenever I look at it and give it energy, it comes roaring into my bed, sits on my blankets, curls up inside my chest and sings terrible songs that keep me awake for days.

So I've been working with a counsellor for 8 months to deal with it, and with all the related monsters and monster babies that come along with something like this. Because the fear feeds other fears, unsurprisingly, and brings up all sorts of memories. The fear lives inside my history and who I am. I've been trying to figure it all out. Try and accept the fear and move on, have a life that isn't pinned down by it.

I'm doing really, really well. This flight is our test run, and from there, I'm hoping I can get on a plane to visit my husband's family in the US. We have friends and family over the sea, such dear, dear people, and I want to see them.

One of the things I've said over and over is how important I think it is to be up front about my issues with depression and anxiety, so that it isn't a hidden illness, something to be ashamed of, so that anyone with a history with this illness might feel less alone.

But I write that I am afraid of flying and I feel a bit silly. Like, I've been working with a counsellor for this long about something this safe? Really?

I'm not afraid of heights, but some people are. It's hard for me to imagine how that might feel. I'm not afraid of small enclosed spaces, or sharks, or dogs, but some people are. I don't feel their fear, but I get it. Some fears seem to come and swallow you whole. You can't explain it. You just try your best to live.

Sometimes it doesn't work so well. But sometimes, with hard work and words spoken and thoughts thought and with lots of writing and looking for beauty and checking in and having the best mental safety net in place, it does start to work. It starts to get better. The fear loses its strangle hold.

The last three weeks have been crazy busy with amazing, wonderful, happy things.

At the same time, since the beginning of August, I've been getting this wild panicky feeling in my chest. It hit me around about then, in this, Oh Wow, way. Oh. I'm getting on a plane. Wow. I am getting on a plane. And if I give any space or air to the feeling, up comes the wild fire of fear. What if? What if? What if?

I feel like a motorcycle daredevil then. I'm heading towards the burning hoop. I am going so fast. I have done this before, I am in my flame-retardant suit, there are people standing by with fire extinguishers, the crowd is moving me forward with goodwill and prayers, my family is standing by, my children are hopping up and down with excitement. It should be okay, but you never know for sure. All you can do, is let go. Surrender to the movement of the bike, of your path forward and through.

And when I surrender—because I really want to jump; I want to leap through that hoop—I suddenly see.

There is no burning. There are no flames. The fear makes pictures only I can see.

There is so much beauty. Beauty on this side of the hoop and on the other. I am pointed at the hoop, moving forward, surrendering, accepting. Letting go.

month of beauty: a beautiful life

I went to the doctor today. He was very thorough; somehow in our half hour appointment, he managed to assess my flu, give me a script for antibiotics, chat to me about herbal medicine vs drugs, give me a referral to an eye doctor, and assess my mental health. He wrote on my revised and renewed mental health plan: “Doing marvelously.”

In my head I saw a big exclamation mark at the end of that sentence! And he bulk-billed the entire thing, so the government footed the bill. Nice. 

I drove home along the freeway, listening to the radio. It was Coldplay, the new one with Rihanna, the kind of pop song with that indefinable hook, where you can't help but sing along. 

I felt so happy, so clear. And just like that, the world began moving in slow motion.

Because I had a sudden, vivid flashback to late November last year. 

I remember driving to the doctors then, along the same freeway, crying. I remember feeling hopeless. Beyond hopeless. For a fleeting, unbearable second, I thought of doing something stupid there on the road, with my car and the freeway walls. I remember talking to the doctor ten minutes later. I remember the terrible weight of being seriously clinically depressed.

I remember.

I got through that day last November and many more, always loving my kids, smiling at friends, but feeling so lost sometimes in my time alone I couldn’t see my way out or through. 

And just as I thought I’d never get out, I’d never be free,

something changed. 

I reached out my arms for help. Hands came, and saved me. 

And in early January, wellness began. And grew. And grew.

7 months later, here I am. Driving along the freeway, hope in my heart, Coldplay crooning in my ears, sun shining like crazy, singing along with my flu-cracked voice.

And the gratitude came up in a shining wave and I cried.

How clear the hills were—all rumpled greens and shadows. 

How crisp the notes, lifting up.

How calm my hands felt, resting on the steering wheel.

How bright and clean the sun.

How lucky I am.

How alive I am.

How beautiful, achingly beautiful life is.

I get to live it, and,

for as long as I am here,

I get to look for the beauty, every single day,

and find the joy.

I am so grateful. 

∞

I have loved my month of beauty. I swear, it's so clear now—it’s like beauty sings to me every day.

I began this month, on "day one," with a tribute to Jennifer. I continued the month of beauty, because she inspired me. 

Jenn looked for beauty all the time. We talked about, and she wrote about, and we connected deeply about the beauty of positivity, the beauty of looking for and finding the joy, the beauty of family and friends, and the beauty of giving love. She "beautified" her days in small and simple ways, often just by noticing good, small moments, simple elegant things, and being grateful for them. Jennifer lived so fully, so lovingly, so givingly. I am so glad I knew her. 

This month was for honouring and celebrating a life of beauty.

Thank you so much, for coming along with me on this special ride.