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.