Don't it always seem to go, that you don't know what you've got til it's gone?

I am no longer gainfully employed. Today is my first day on the other side. I'm now in the wilderness of unemployment land and, to be honest, am struggling with the reality of it. It was my choice to go and I went with my eyes wide open, planning some time as a free agent. But goddamit I feel like I've lost something now, and it feels a little like grief.

We're always told to find work you love, then it won't seem like work at all. My work was pretty bloody close. Many years ago I had a career wheeling and dealing in the stockmarkets of Sydney and London. I always felt empty from it - what were we making? What were we contributing? Nothing real, nothing but changes to the value of pieces of paper. So when that came to an end, I felt relief. I felt I'd been given a chance for another pick of the board. And I picked a career that made my heart sing. I picked conservation, the beauty of nature and the vast open plains.  I now realise that I've been exceptionally lucky to make a living out of something that burns deep within my soul. So WTF? What am I doing? Why am I now in unemployment wilderness?

When the chance to take a break was offered, I figured it was too good to pass up. I figured I'd take this time to reassess my choices. I'd taken redundancies before and it had always worked out for me - always been what I needed to shake things up. This time it feels different. Admittedly I'm only one day in, but already I'm thinking that I was on a good path, that the work I've been doing is important and the people I've worked with feel like my kin. But better than kin, more aligned.

So, I am taking a break, and I am spending time with my lively boys who have been clambering for some attention. But I reckon, instead of turning and changing, this time maybe (if I'm blessed) I'll just pick back up and go in the same direction. And that's a reassuring notion.  I've already found my path, I've already met my tribe.

Ahh the serenity

Our little family has taken what feels like a refreshing dive into the 1970s: we've just purchased an on-site caravan. And I couldn't be more excited. It might not seem very exotic, it's certainly not a bure in Fiji, nor a converted church in Tuscany. But exotic schmotic; to me, this little alumnium box by the beach, only a couple of hours' drive away, is exactly what our family needs. It'll be there waiting for us, ready for us to get sand in between our toes whenever we need it.

The thing that got me going on this caravan idea is "The Top Five Regrets of the Dying' by Bronnie Ware. Regrets like "I wish I hadn't worked so hard" and "I wish I'd spent more time with my family" have been ringing loud in my ear.

Like many people with jobs and kids, we work a lot (both paid work and unpaid home work). When we're not doing, we think about what needs to be done. We look at our iphones when we're hanging on the lounge with the kids, we check emails while cooking dinner, then we distractedly get cross at our misbehaving kids who are just desperate for some attention. I reckon that whilst surviving life we've forgetten to actually live. We've forgotten what we're doing it all for.

Right now, right here, today, our kids still like hanging out with us. They clamber for us to play with them. So we're putting the brakes on. Life's too short, it's time to enjoy the now. It's time to lap it up - play totem tennis, beach cricket and board games, make sand castles and cook sausages in the fresh air. And it's time to do it as often as we can.

Better get some aeroguard. Can you hear the serenity?

Now I just need to slow my mind down. My next post will be titled 'inertia and the holiday planner'. xx

Who's Herman?

My lovely friend handed me a container filled with sourdough cake mix. "It's Herman", she said, "haven't you heard of Herman?". I hadn't, should I have?

Turns out Herman is a friendship cake, a bit like the old fashioned chain letters we shared in 1970s. But Herman is not just passed on, he is fed and grown. Some people talk to Herman and fill him with love and stories. After a few days, Herman is split into four. One portion becomes a delicious sourdough cake to enjoy. Three other portions are then passed on to friends, thus spreading the love and giving Herman a new lease on life to begin the cycle again.

Herman has been bubbling away in my kitchen, growing bigger every day. I'm nearly ready to split him up and cook my portion. Recipes abound but I think I'll go with apple and cinamon.


Apparently Herman has done the rounds of the Blue Mountains and some parts of the western Sydney area, but hadn't made it to the Illawarra (at least not into my circle).

So here he is, I'll soon be sharing mine and I'd love to hear from anyone out there who ends up with a portion of Herman.

Holding hands: is the front hand leading? protecting?

I've often noticed that I hold my kids' hands with my hand at the front and theirs at the back, like I'm leading them around; but I hold my husband's hand the other way around - like he's leading me. What's that about? I hardly think he's the boss - we never negotiated that! The particularly curious thing is that, when I brought it up we tried holding hands the other way around it just felt wrong.

We never had to work out the hand-holding rule at the beginning of our relationship. And, I've checked out lots of other hand-holding dynamics and it's pretty much always guy in front and parent in front. So it must be a guy-girl thing? A protection thing? Maybe it's one of the last remaining acts of chivalry.

Anyway, that's all from me. Just noticed it, thought it was worth, you know, saying. Check out any celeb mags, people in the street and you'll probably notice it too - maybe you already have.

A box crocodile beats laundry because I listened to Galadriel and not Woody Allen

I've been feeling my life is a little over-stuffed lately and the seams have been starting to split. Pretty much every mum I know is over-burdened. So, is this just a malaise of the times? Should we just keep going, gritting our teeth and bearing it? I don't like that idea. I want to say stop, I want to step into this crazy cycle and slow things down, rip out some of the overstuffing and set it free.

So, yesterday, instead of doing laundry and other boring busy never-ending chores, Rory and I made a crocodile out of boxes. And I feel like shouting about it from the hilltops, because making a box crocodile was exactly what I needed to do. It was the perfect antidote to busy busy life and I thoroughly recommend it. Just as I was wondering how to deal with such a request, the universe conspired and my wonderful friend and neighbour offered us boxes and foam bits that proved to be perfect. We tied a string to the jaws so they even snap! Proud I am, and I don't mind saying it.

The plan (in Rory's mind) is to take box crocodile to Africa sneak up on real crocodiles. Oh to be 5 again.

The reason this box crocodile is quite a significant thing to me is because, like many, I tend to listen to my neurotic worrier voice (which sounds like Woody Allen). This voice tells me that you only have good things in your life if you stretch yourself to do more and do better.

But, thankfully, yesterday my calming inner voice (which to me sounds like Cate Blanchett as Galadriel) made herself heard. She told me that maybe I'm so busy doing it all that I don't even notice the 'good things'. They're here all along, jumping up and down asking to be noticed.

Wouldn't it be great if Galadriel could get a little more emphatic and give Woody Allen the old heave ho? But alas, Galadriel is a lover, not a fighter. She waits for a break in the noise and is often drowned out 

So it's up to me to step into my own noisy head and listen to the calm. To create space. To choose box crocodiles over laundry. And now I know the value of a box crocodile. As I type, the kids are occupied - putting 'baby crocs' in the mother croc's jaws so she can carry them around - 'just like in the wild' (with zoologists as parents, that's what you get). And now I have time to write. Ahh, Galadriel, how right you are.

The glory of a teapot

I hereby publicly confess to a special affection for teapots. I love that they are all different - in size, shape, colour and pattern. And tea cosies! Oh my, hand-knitted jumpers to keep the tea warm - my vote for best ever invention.

And while teapots (and especially be-cosied teapots) get me all jollied up, there's more to it than just the love one feels for a pretty cool thing. My cockles are especially warmed by what teapots represent. A teapot means taking a break. And tea made in a pot is usually too much for one person. So a teapot is for sitting down, stopping being busy, sharing a cup of delicious aromatic tea, and having a chat. What better thing is there in life than a chat over a teapot?

For me the quiet-time-space begins with a tea-making ritual. Mine goes like this: boil the kettle. Warm the teapot with the boiling water, discard. Add tea leaves. Pour over just-boiling water and steep the tea for three minutes. I'm a milk-in-the-cup-first girl. June Dally-Watkins may have tought me a few things useful in life (and some less useful - another story), but surprisingly didn't touch on whether milk should go in first. I'm fairly sure the Queen would be a milk-in-the-cup-last-girl.

I find tea is especially special if enjoyed from dainty little flowery teacups and saucers. So indulgent, so calming, so CWA.

And I would confidently argue that the taste of pot tea - i.e. leaf tea - is a world away from the taste of tea bag tea and completely worth the little extra effort. I admit to being a little bit of a tea snob, but I wouldn't go so far as to refuse to drink tea bag tea.

One thing I would like to say about tea is that I find it almost undrinkable if made from overboiled urn water - the kind you find in an office where the water boils over and over again, all day long. If you're interested, the scientific explanation of this is that the urn boils all the oxygen out of the water, and tea needs oxygen to infuse.

And this week, so enamoured am I with teapots and their zen-inducing calm space, I have created the hanging garden of teapot on my back deck. Second-hand or chipped teapots have been given a new lease on life, growing lovely herbs and hanging plants. The handles make for easy hanging and the spout allows perfect drainage.

Bring me your broken teapots, your old and unloved or forgotten teapots. I will rejeuvenate them, love them, celebrate them. The glory of a teapot knows no ends. Praise be to the teapot.





The unexpected

I love this little poem / prayer from my ole mate Michael Leunig:

God give us rain when we expect sun.
Give us music when we expect trouble.
Give us tears when we expect breakfast.
Give us dreams when we expect a storm.
Give us a stray dog when we expect congratulations.
God play with us, turn us sideways and around.

Amen

 

Now don't get me wrong, I like sun more than rain (who doesn't?). But sometimes we don't realise how much we need rain; or we just need something different, something we weren't expecting. To me this poem is all about shaking things up a little (or a lot) every now and then. Not always, of course - too much shaking is bound to lead to sea-sickness. But a little bounce around the sink of life can surely be fun. We can plan our lives, set out with expectations about how the day will be, the week, month or year. But it's how we deal with the things we don't plan that really gives us that zing that we're alive.

So whether the surprise is something joyful, or just something you weren't predicting or planning, I say at the very least, just notice it. That's often enough. Or just maybe you might enjoy it.

 



In praise of Leunig

There's something about Michael Leunig, cartoonist extraordinaire, that I think is almost god-like. It's his whimsy, for sure, but also the insights he shares into the simple (but important) things in life. We often forget to notice simple things, but Leunig notices, and shares. For that I always seek out his wisdom, or it finds its way to me.

Leunig's biography tells of his education coming from not just a school, but also 'various factory gates, street corners, kitchen tables, paddocks, rubbish tips, quarries, loopholes, puddles and abattoirs in Melbourne’s industrial Western suburbs'. I love the wisdom found in a puddle. And a loophole.

If I were to list my childhood education in this way I'd include insights I've gained whilst floating around on pool lounges; looking into the big brown eyes of my labradore-kelpie; hanging out smoking in kmart cafeterias; shivering whilst waiting for the ball to come down to the shooters' end of a cold netball court; watching my dad sling a billy of tea around in a big loopy circle; and observing the homeless woman (known locally as 'Juicy Lucy') with trepidation and fear at the Parramatta train station bus stop.

These things we do, all of them, they shape us, they contribute to all that we are today. Especially the ones that zing us with living (and I'm pretty sure don't come from looking into a TV screen). These are the scarey things, the lonely things, the naughty things, the brave things. Leunig knows this and his magic pencils bring it to us.

As an ode to Leunig, I want to share a few of my favourites:

I'd also like to admit I don't know what the rules are with reproducing Leunig's work here. They are Leunig's works, his copyright and his IP. They are from his heart and have touched mine. I hope that sharing the love fills in any gaps in my knowledge of blog-cartoon-sharing-rules.

And if any one is interested in more Leunig, please do go to Michael Leunig's official website: http://www.leunig.com.au/

A wise old owl

A wise old owl sat in an oak.

The more he heard, the less he spoke.

The less he spoke, the more he heard.

The wise old owl was a wise old bird.

 

(I don't know who wrote this little verse, it wasn't me, but I think it's worth sharing)

Note to self: you will NEVER be this young again

Today is my husband's 40th birthday and it's got me thinking about age. Even though 40 seems like such a big number (and I was 40 a couple of years back now), this day, today, I realised that I am younger than I will ever be again.

It seems obvious, right? But I'm sure it's something we forget in our day-to-day scrabble through the density of life. 

I tend to look in the mirror nowadays and wonder who is this middle-aged woman looking back, especially because I feel the same inside as I've felt for 20-odd years.

But it's dawned on me that some day in the future I will look back at the photos of myself now, and probably notice how young and fresh-faced I was 'back then'. Haven't you done that with photos of your parents, or your grand-parents? 

I am at a line in the sand that I will never come back to. So I just wanted to say to any of you out there who, like me, have despaired when looking in the mirror: youth (and beauty) is all relative,and completely subject to reinterpretation in hindsight.

 So smile and enjoy now. Because you're worth it.

Who has a post-apocolyptic skill-set?

Every now and then my mind wanders to what it might be like in a post-apocolyptic world. Am I the only one? Just like in science fiction, I imagine the whole system we rely on for food, clothing and shelter has collapsed; infrastructure is destroyed; shops are looted; travel is only possible on foot; food is scarce. I know it's a horrendous thought, and I only entertain it to, well, to entertain myself. Like watching '28 days' or 'The Road'.

The way the thought experiment goes in my mind is, if we were to find ourselves living in post-apocalyptic world, what would we do? Say we woke up and our house was crumbling around us, buildings everywhere were destroyed, and only a few people had survived. What then? Would we seek out other survivors and band together? How would we be if there were more people than resources? Would we turn on one another? And then, would we have the skills to find food, clothing and deal with illnesses. These days we all have skillsets that pre-suppose infrastructure and a functioning economic and health system, so how would we go if we had to shift to survival mode?

Recently I've come to realise how little I know about my own environment (even with a zoology degree). I don't know which plants can be eaten and used for medicines. Is there a natural asthma treatment? I really don't know how to go about hunting and butchering a roo or a deer. Some people would find this easy (my husband included), me not so much. I hope my husband survives (for more reasons than your skills with dead things, honey).

The only skill I can claim to have that could possibly be useful (besides knowing how to use a mortar and pestle) is spinning yarn and knitting. I learnt to spin wool on a peddle-driven spinning wheel a few years ago, whilst living in darkest, coldest Alaska. I used the soft, warm under-fur of pre-historic looking, ice-age-surviving muskoxen (quiviot) and learnt to spin it into a heavenly soft brown, multi-ply yarn. I then knitted the yarn into the warmest scarves I have ever known. Even though I won't be harvesting quiviot, I imagine I could learn to spin any type of wool and I could be the town yarn-maker.

I also imagine the apocalypse survivors would start again with an economic system of exchange - once the dust had settled.  I hope the surviviors might include friendly folk who know how to make electricity, build a functioning fridge, melt down all the metal that can be scavanged and turn it into useful things. I know some pretty enterprising folk. I reckon the surviving women of my town would quickly set up an exchange arrangement: I can see a roster for child minding so a hunting party could bring back a carcass; I can see communal meal-cooking (hopefully the some of our local Megabatch women would be apocalypse survivors). I can barter my yarn for that all important asthma treatment.

So I'm not advocating preparing yourself for the apocalypse; I don't think we should be stock-piling canned food and building bunkers. And I especially don't think we should live in fear of such an unlikely event (or even live in fear of a likely event, but that's a whole 'nother story). That said, I think a little sharing and swapping within our communities never goes astray.

The processing of my inner-grrrrrrr

Today I'm cranky. My whole body is abuzz with crankiness. A bunch of things have happened that are culminating today in - well, just in 'grrrr!'. I won't go into the causes, but now I have to decide what to do about it.

Mostly I feel like having a gigantic adult tantrum and throwing stuff. I feel like firing off angry emails. I feel like burning bridges. I feel like it's my turn to be angry and self-indulgent. To make other people walk on egg-shells around me. But I know that's not really going to solve anything. And isn't a good look to the kids ('mummy wants you guys to learn to control your tempers, but don't watch while I let a whole wolf-pack of aggro off the leash').

Another option is to just keep my head low, ride it out and maybe the grrr will just pass. The problem with that option is that I'm on a knife-edge all day and any little thing could send me postal. That's not a good way to spend the day.

So what else? I often find writing helps me process, it's a way of letting go of whatever's in my head, so that's why I've turned to this blog. Welcome to the processing of my inner-grrr.

Here's how it's going: all the little and big things that are getting my goat have already happened, and can't un-happen. So, when I look at it with open eyes (and try to do it with an open heart), all I can really do is change my reaction to those things. Right now I'm still too cross and don't feel like opening my heart; but I'm going to take a deep breath (or 10, or 100 - the way I'm feeling it might take 100) and start by letting go of as much of the grrr as I can.

So if step one is to breathe. Step two is to let go of the reigns a little. Today I'm going to say 'yes, sure, why not?' when the kids ask for little things, things I would normally disallow: 'yeah, sure, you can watch TV today, have another ice-block, stay in your PJs all day. Why the hell not, hey? Let's all stay in our PJs today'.

Step three (and I'm working this out as I go) is to say 'no' a little. That sounds contradictory to step two, but it depends on what the questions are. If people are asking more from me than I feel I can give, today I'm going to say 'no, I'm sorry but I can't right now'. This feels like it stops the slings and arrows from coming in over my fortress walls. These three steps are already helping me feel a little lighter.

Step four: I really want to take some time to look at the stuff that got me to this point. Who knows, maybe I can learn a little. I'm not going to do that here, publicly, but I am going to pull out my diary and write it all down. I'm going to have a good ole rant. I don't know why it feels better to write it out, maybe it just gets it out of my head a little. And I feel like someone is listening: me. And that's all that really matters.

Step five: I'm giving myself permission to feel low today. Not every day can be an up day and I think it's important to be realistic about that. Is it possible that we are so pummelled with images of an ideal world, of happy, happy, joy, joy (in advertising and all around us), that we feel like we're not doing it right when the happy, happy isn't happening for us? We can't be up all the time - the up would loose it's up-ness without a down every so often.

So, the verdict is a bit of breathing, riding it out, processing, having a PJ day, saying yes and saying no, and letting that all be ok.

Ahhhh, I'm feeling a little better already - thank you blogosphere.

The natural order of things

In my twenties I spent a lot of time tripping around this amazing planet. I was considering leaving the world of finance and, as an antedote to the boozy lunches and to the stockmarket ticker in my head, I went to some raw and wild places. Places like Africa, the Amazon, the Galapagos. I count my blessings every day that I've seen such wonder. Those places were like a drink of crystal clear water. Those places awakened me to nature and to a yearning to understand what I was seeing. I wanted to know why the boobies had blue feet, and why the boy and girl boobies wave their blue feet about when they're deciding whether to 'get it on'. Why do boy frigate birds have big red balloons blown up under their throats and then fling their heads back to show their balloons to the girls who fly above, choosing who to shag. And how did that outlandish behaviour even start? And why do zebras like to hang out with wilderbeest but not so much with elephants? I needed to know more; had to have explanations, patterns, boxes to put things in.

So I returned to Australia, gave stockbroking the old heave-ho and enrolled in zoology. Like any mature-age student, I buckled down to take it all in. I learnt some amazing things about natural systems and behavioural evolution. I categorised the wild into family, genus and species. Patterns had names, the world fell into a whole bunch of categories. But one thing that has stayed with me: it's all connected; the world is dynamic - nothing stays the same for long. Change is everywhere, everywhen.

Fast forward to the here and now: I have two kids, a house, dog, cats and chickens. So far from Africa, but still so much the same. I often forget that the laws of nature apply here too. But every now and then I realise that we're all part of it. Of course my kids' behaviour has an evolutionary basis. Of course their play is a way of learning skills they'll use as adults. Of course the dog guards me like a resource and growls at the cats if they come near.

And, the big one, is that in all of nature (and so, of course, my home is not excluded), order tends to chaos. And there's not a bloody thing we can do about it. That concept is helping me cope with the crazy so much better. And like everything, the crazy will change. Probably I'll miss it when they're grown.

Does anyone else think sleep is kinda interesting?

The dog is whimpering, her feet are trotting, she's huffing and puffing, twitching, her ears moving back and forth. What on earth is she dreaming about? "Chasing rabbits", we used to say about our old labrador. Probably was. And for this dog it's probably chasing balls. And the backyard cockies.

I just want to say that I think sleep is pretty bloody interesting. And so is dreaming. We don't really know why we do it, but we all do it, without question. We understand why we eat and drink, what's happening inside our digestive tract and how food creates energy. But what do we understand about the physiology of sleep? Not very much, is my guess.

It gets dark, we say goodnight to one another, lay down in our warm beds, across the country, the streets empty, the lights go out and it is quiet. We all sleep. And then the sun comes up and we all stir, climb out from under our blankets, rub our eyes and say 'good morning' and off we go again. Have any of you ever thought - say, in the middle of the night - that pretty much everyone in your town is lying still right now, asleep? Like we've all agreed that's what we do at night. Like robots; machines shutting down for regular maintenance.

Birds do it: my chickens put themselves to bed at twilight every night. If we disturb them (say to grab the eggs from underneath their warm bellies) they hardly stir, like they're totally away in another zone. Chimps make make fresh beds every night out of leaves and curl up in them. But do bees sleep? And sharks? Don't they need to keep moving to stay alive? Cows and horses sleep standing up - how does that work? Why don't their legs collapse under them?

And what's the go with anaesthetic? Why is it that you can sleep and realise time has passed, but if you go under an anaesthetic it's like you awoke an instant after you nodded off. The doctor says: "I'm going to count down from ten and you probably won't hear me when I get to one: ten, nine, eight, so how was that? The surgery all went really well, how are you feeling?". So what's different about sleeping under anaesthetic?

I know we need sleep, that we function like drunks without it, but what is our body actually doing? What's the process that's going on when we lay down, close our eyes and drift away? Are our cells repairing damage? Can they only do that when we stop most of our other functions? What is going on in there?

And dreams? Are we sorting the day's events into memory folders, is it just leftover random noise from our busy minds all folding together to make a weirdly disjointed stageshow in our heads?

So many questions and I don't really have any answers. If I could choose another career (and I've already swapped about a few times, so I think I probably won't), I'd definitely look into sleep. That is all.

The stories of our parents' lives - so much we don't know

I've decided to embark on a new project, and I thought I'd share it with you - that way I've said it out loud and feel more accountable for making it happen.

I figure everyone has at least one story in them, probably many more than one. And so often those stories go untold. My mum has spent the past couple of years piecing together our family tree. In the process, she's discovering snippets about her rellies, little bits of information that let her build a picture of who each person was. It even seems a couple of the sly dogs had more than one wife (at a time)! Scandalous!

All this picture-building got me thinking about my own parents' stories. What did they do with themselves before I came along, what were their aspirations, their favourite ways to spend time, where did they travel, and why? What made them choose a particular path over another? I also feel the need to know my husband's parents' stories. These people are so integral to our lives, so special to us, but there are a million things we don't know about them, their lives. What made them who they are?

So, here's my project: I'd like to spend a whole bunch of time with each of them and record their stories. I think it's called taking an 'oral history'. With their permissions, I'd like to share a few highlights here.

So watch this space.

The comfort of physics - just in case I pop my clogs

I shared this on facebook, it was posted on a 'Science is Awesome' page, and I thought it might be worth adding it here so that someone could read it at my funeral - nothing imminent (so far as I know), but I think it's good to share your wishes in advance...

 

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy..., every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.

And at one point you'd hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

And you'll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they'll be comforted to know your energy's still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you're just less orderly. Amen.

-Aaron Freeman.

The buzz of connecting women: a thank you to Helensburgh

So much is written about how it takes a village to raise a child, with plentiful nodding about the community spirit of days-gone-by. And I feel constantly bombarded with modern-day problems arising from people living in their own isolated houses, struggling with their own private issues and not knowing how to reach out for support. Well I want to have a little rave about Helensburgh, NSW, the town in which I live, and especially its women. Something must be in the water. This place is abuzz with connectivity, like neurons firing in a toddler's brain.

This town of maybe 6000 people, surrounded by national parks and an escarpment that drops off to the seaside, is to me an oasis not touched by nearby urban sprawl. I guess affordable property has attracted more than your average proportion of young families. Houses have grassy yards and hills hoists, bushwalking is minutes away, as are sandcastles and ocean pools. And perhaps this has brought together a high proportion of families with a common ethos: escape the rat-race, spend time in fresh air. Grow.

I have no doubt that this connectivity has sprung from an online hub where more and more of us womenfolk are regularly going to check in, to give out, to ask for input. This local facebook group (called 'The Mama Tree') brings (mostly) mothers together so we can share, well, anything really: promote your small business or community initiative, ask a question about a child's rash or seek a recommendation for a plumber/electrician/removalist, etc. Just in the past month I've noticed a mothers' circus group, a local meal-sharing initiative, a 'mumpreneur's business expo', community markets, an art group for littlies to experience art and nature. And there seems to be more and more every day. Whatever the reason, my community experiences in 'the Burgh' are nothing like anywhere I've ever lived. This town is buzzing with women, mothers, reaching out to each other, helping, sharing and building a rich and vibrant community.

I've been thinking about how lucky I am to live in such a motivated and warm community and today I read an article in the Sun-Herald that prompted me to share my gratitude about the local buzz. The article described the problems society is facing as people 'pursue happiness', and talks about Hugh McKay's latest book (The Good Life: What Makes a Life Worth Living?). The basic point is that, by people making their own personal happiness their lifetime goal, their birthright, they're missing something richer. It's ironic, but McKay argues that instead of putting yourself and your needs first, if you seek a wholeness with your community, you end up finding that yearned-for personal happiness.

So, Helensburgh, thank you for giving me wholeness. My life and my household is zinging with connectivity. How funny that the internet that has taken people away from face-to-face encounters is now fostering just that. This is its unstoppable evolution - we need to be connected.

And (while I'm talking up community engagement), here's a plug: if you're in the Burgh and fancy swapping a meal so you get a night off cooking - go to 'Megabatch! 2508' on facebook (and just to be clear, I have no personal vested interest in Megabatch!, I just love love love the idea - and that connectedness brings my personal gain).

Reconsidering single-tasking: mindful multi-tasking works better for me

In an earlier post (too many cold cups of tea) I wrote about being trapped by my multi-tasking world. I found myself moving through my house in circles, picking things up and taking them to another room, only to be distracted by something there that I needed to do, and on and on. The result: days filled with half-done jobs. And cold cups of tea. In that post I wrote that multi-tasking was an addiction I wanted to kick. I yearned for a simpler 'one-thing-at-a-time' time. With space in between jobs. For. Quiet. Being.

But - it's now months later and I can't stop!!! I need to unpack the dishwasher while the kettle boils. Who did I think I was kidding? Do I live in a cave in the Himalayas? No! Do I only have three or four things to do in a day? No! I'm a working mum with two pre-schoolers, four chickens, two cats, a dog and a husband. I honestly do not think I can finish one job before I start another. Not. Going. To. Happen.

So, should I abandon all hope? Throw my hands in the air and say 'stuff it, inner peace will just have to wait until I've got more time'? No! I really don't think Himalayan monks have the franchise on quiet being. Instead, I see another path. Sightly more hidden but there all along. I now think I can continue to multi-task, so long as I do it mindfully. That word is bandied about a lot, but all it means is do, but watch the doing. If I can observe myself doing the many, inter-connected things I do, and appreciate the fact that I'm getting so much done, therein lies some zen-space. Like spinning plates. The problem wasn't the doing, it was the thinking about the next thing to do while doing the first. That's how I forgot about so many cups of tea.

So no - dammit - I'm not going to fight the urge to unpack the dishwasher while I'm waiting for the kettle to boil. I'm going to occupy my mind, spin the plates, live on the edge.

And - I think anyone who achieves a blob of inner peace whilst juggling a household, kids, work (not to mention the chickens), should congratulate themselves. Don't you think that's got to be a harder path to enlightenment than the one trod by a cave-dwelling hippy? Maybe.

Guilt dust stops you flying

Dusting off my keyboard...

Well it's been a long time, way too long, since I've posted anything here. In fact I'm surprised that my old blog is still functioning - but here it is. So, to any of you who follow my meandering posts, it's nice to be back.  

Today's topic is guilt. That old chestnut has sooooo much to answer for, and it's especially a burden for mums. The mums I know are already pretty laden packhorses - so what's the point of adding this extra, toxic, guilt burden too?

I think for me the guilt seed was planted during my Catholic education. I do remember a lot of  feeling bad for even thinking about doing something nice for thyself before doing it for thy neighbour, etc. And that young, impressionable Catholic child has taken guilt to heart. I might've shed lots of other aspects of the dogma, but the guilt one is sticky - like that gluey stuff on kids' toy packages that looks like snot and you can't get it off your fingers.

These days my religion is nature. And I'm finding it hard to see an evolutionary purpose to guilt, other than maybe to keep mothers from abandoning their offspring. But who's really doing that in our suburban world these days? I don't know any mums that are like the tigers at the zoo - you know: when the keepers have to take the newborns away and bottle-feed them. So what's the point of feeling bad about a coffee, or a solo movie?

People always say to mums of littlies: 'Take some time for yourself, it'll help you cope with all the hard, needy family stuff''. And I've always thought 'I'm sure that's true, but when?'; or 'Yeah, but the sobs from my kids because mummy wasn't here when they hurt their head/knee/face negate all the quiet internal bliss I might have felt from having a coffee on my own'. But you know what? Through trial and persistence, I've realised that they learn. They adapt. They cope.

By pushing through so that 'me time' becomes a semi-regular thing, the guilt burden fades. It just becomes what you do. I think it's a bit like when you first go back to work, and you can't imagine how they'll cope with that - but a year later you look back, and you realise they handle it just fine. It becomes just a part of what you do.

So now I think that any mum who takes time out for herself is actually teaching her kids that it's important to look after yourself. So you're doing good by them by doing good by yourself, And after the quiet time without someone pulling on your leg, your patience buffer has been refilled. And then you're a better mum. Win-win all the way home.

I know 'mumma guilt' is something people frequently write about and so it's not really new or miraculous - but the realisation that guilt can be dropped is new to me. The actual knowingness and practice of me-time-without-guilt is new. So I implore you all - if you haven't, try it. More than once. Make it a regular thing and you'll see the benefits.

PS I told my kids that the sign on women's toilets is a lady wearing a super-hero cape, and they totally believe me. Now I feel like it's a bit true.