Reflections at 51

Lately I've been posting to vent and a lot of my posts are quite depressing, so I decided to post when I'm in a good mood and especially now that I've had a birthday and have advanced in wisdom, as happens as we age… (queue sarcastic laughter). 

The last few years have allowed me to grow as a person like you wouldn't believe. I have landed on my feet, so to say. 

It doesn't mean nothing bad happens, people and animals still die, I still have shit days when I feel exhausted and I'm yelled at by patients, or feel belittled by shitty colleagues, or encounter annoying registrars over the phone. I still have insecurity (so much insecurity), and still feel stupid after social events and ask myself if I made a fool of myself. All that stuff. 

But what has made the last few years different? I totally have all my therapy to thank. And if you can't afford therapy, then read thousands of psychology books and journal. I do that too in between sessions. 

But the gist of it is that I have learnt to be comfortable with what I've been given, the good, the bad and the in between. The hardship, the tough days and the bad shit that's happened in my life has shaped me into who I am today, and I have learnt to be grateful for it all. 

I think every time I come across an obstacle, I have to draw on reserve, on experience and then I have to transform the obstacle into something I can jump. That's all life is, I've decided. I haven't yet encountered one I can't jump, and I think the only one that will stop me is the one that kills me, which I have also made peace with. Or my kids suffering or being hurt which I don't even want to think about…. So kids, stay safe! 

It doesn't mean I'm a superhero, and the depressing nature of a lot of my posts is probably evidence of that, it's just that I mull over stuff and then I decide how to tackle it this time… 

I strive to be grateful for stuff. I have learnt that drawing on silver linings make the bad shit palatable, because you are reminded that the ups and downs of life have ups. The ups do come back, even if sometimes the only thing I can be grateful for is the large wings of a wedge tailed eagle flying overhead in Port Augusta, or a tiny lizard on the hot tarmac. Learn to see, learn to lean into the silver linings, and create them with exercise, if that's your thing, I'm one of the lucky ones who get the massive dopamine hit from aerobic exercise. 

Avoid cigarettes, alcohol and drugs as much as possible, as they tend to fuck up your efforts. (As much as they feel good at the time); longer term, they let you down. 

Avoid depressing people who would rather stay in a hole than help themselves, avoid gossip and talking behind others’ backs, avoid chasing money, avoid shopping for crap if you can (still trying to curb that habit!). 

And take risks, not the risk taking behaviour that leads to car accidents and bad sex, but those risks that you know would make life better. Take that holiday solo you've been dreading, go on the dance floor even when you feel silly, dye your hair pink if that's what you've been dying to do but are afraid people will judge you. Be who you actually want to be, take that step to being your genuine self, and strive every day to be closer to who you really are. Even if it's scary, even if you think you need to wait til you're thinner, or richer, or have a partner. Because by the time you turn around and wonder where life went, it will be too late, and you'll have regrets. Get that tattoo even though it will hurt, get that hair cut. Live as if life is yours. 

And when life feels as if it's shitting on you, lean on those people who you have collected along the way, those people are really important…I collect people I want to keep. My friends, my chosen family. Those people you can call at 2 am and know they won't be angry. Those people who don't always have the best advice, and may be just as broken, but have your back, and your best interests in mind. Those who are in your corner cheering even when you make a really dumb decision. 

And when everyone is busy, hug your dog or your cat. Those souls have been my saviours so many times. When there is no one else, they will be there, with those open arms that are loyal no matter what. 

And when everything else fails, turn to yourself and lean in to your strength. It really is in there… If you look hard enough. Play music out loud, make yourself go for a walk, do something different to whatever you have done before. Open a book at random and read the first line, make an appointment with your doctor…. Anything that means you are picking yourself up instead of crawling under a rock. 

And when all you can do is crawl under that rock, lean into that as well, stay there for a while. We all have days when we feel sorry for ourselves and that's OK too. As long as it ends and you find it within yourself to pick yourself up again. 

And whatever you do, don't pretend to be ok for long, pretending and masking your pain just makes you feel like it doesn't exist and ignore it and that doesn't lead anywhere good. 

Weaknesses are normal and everyone has them, they just pretend that they don't exist. 

I think to a certain extent I have created my luck. I know I have had a lot of luck in a lot of ways, but I have also tried to make my life better. I know not everyone has the luxury to do what I have done, and there are circumstances that make decisions to change things harder, and obstacles bigger. But I truly believe that we all have the power to advance towards happiness, and I have even heard of political prisoners in the depths of crap making a place in their mind for happiness. No one can take away your spirit. 

Life really is shit at times. We all have bad things happen, we all have difficulties. The majority of our issues are external, though. Inside, we all have the same stuff, we all have the same potential and are all equal. I choose to stay positive and have undying optimism that life will get better, even when shit rains on me. Like the credit card fraud that I have had today and my effin cancelled card. But it's all shit… It doesn't break me. 

Life is yours…live like you mean it. 

Illusions

 Did you swap one set of walls for less visible ones? 

Protection in motion, 

Protection in dunes and shadows of storms. 

I am covered in a blanket of moving pictures in the dark. 

In my mind, I am hidden. 

But, in truth, I am easy to discover, 

easy to fool, 

easy to consume. 

I jump into the abyss, 

I don’t look back, hoping for redemption, forgiveness or a new beginning. 

Do you ever turn the devil on that spread? 

Dance on in the same abundance. 

I know scarcity comes after dark. 

We get what we deserve.

Wishing is the key.

If I just hold on, illusion turns real. 

Hold that image, 

time may just rewind, 

life may be renewed. 

So I live on in the images that shift and turn. 

My skin becomes older, 

my body degrades, 

and it all passes unbidden, undecided and undeclared. 

Are we tainted by the wind? 

Are we tainted by the shadows that lie undiscovered? 

Are there delays, regrets, life wasted? 

For then I wake. 

It is dawn, 

The silver linings on those clouds shine through. 

It always comes back. 

Be patient. It always comes back. 

The wheel of fortune turns. 

The inevitable always ensues, 

it is impossible to stop. 

Even when you want to. 

Even when you wish hard enough. 

Vibrations in the air soothe me. 

Images of pixelated fantasy,

fabricated voices in the night. 

They are for those like me. 

For those who remain hungry, starved, malnourished souls. 

Do you see it? 

Did I choose to show it? 

They look on in admiration, 

they see the pinnacles and summits,

the satisfaction. 

And I do. 

I listen, I wake, I stand and deliver, over and over again. 

I will not stop til it’s over. 

Those cards will fall how they will. 

Even if those cups fall reversed, 

even if those swords fall on my back. 

Even if I continue to be the player, the clown. 

Even if all I ever see is the mirror. 

If I had just one wish,

it would be to end the yearning. 

Not everyone gets their caramel coating. 

Mistakes, missteps and assets

 We all make so many mistakes in life. Miscalculations in finances, relationships, job choices and even careers. We stuff up in parenting and in every day life. We trip up and hurt ourselves, walk around with bruises on our legs and hurt our backs lifting boxes.

I tend to focus on my mistakes. And it is because I notice the consequences and blame myself and wonder about the what ifs.

At the end of the day, none of them are earth shattering mistakes. I maintain that I try my best to live without regrets. Even when I lament my mistakes, I try to focus on the positive outcomes. Or at least if I feel terrible, I allow myself the wallowing for a day or so and then move on.

I mostly learn from my mistakes, although I do think it takes a number of mistakes in the exact same area to make me understand the lesson. Slow on the uptake of emotional learning.

There is one thing that is never a mistake, and that has so far never had negative consequences. Albeit painful, love is never a waste. I think it is the salve that soothes the worst of mistakes, and the consequence that is never a regret.

It is responsible for a lot of bad decisions, I grant. However, genuine , and unconditional love does not ever hurt anyone. It stays and endures, and allows, bonds and forgives.

Genuine love endures over years of hurt and forgives the mistakes that others make.

Genuine love allows for tears and recrimination and upholds the values the loved one stands for.

I love a lot of people who perhaps on the surface do not deserve my love. But the fact of the matter is that the love I give is not expectant, nor reciprocated at times. It is a never ending source of power and energy that renews with the giving.

I know this probably sounds a bit mushy, but true love is not something that necessarily shows. It is not the romantic gush that is spewed in movies. It is the evidence of strength in conflict, the upholding of boundaries, the allowing of growth and separation, the pain of goodbye and freedom of being yourself. The belief in your value as a human and the giving of a bit or a lot of yourself without the expectation of any specific reward. True love is invisible. It is the desire to do a good job or a good deed not because anyone is watching or because you feel guilty, but because you want to give of yourself, and spread yourself thin over the world until you are spent. It is the desire to simply love because it is good.

This is the only asset I have that could never be taken away by a prison sentence, or the deprivation of freedom of mind. Even in the darkest recesses of my mind, I would find it. I truly believe that love in its purest essence is something we must learn to do. Something that is essential to our survival as a species. It translates into empathy and substance and into doing and building. Supporting and nurturing.

I have a long way to go in my journey of learning how to love properly. Self love has been the hardest of lessons in this life.

And the selflessness of allowing and letting go is hard. Such a huge part of love that is overlooked when you are in the midst of it.

Allowing someone to leave and let them go on their own journey, whether they are a friend, child or partner. This is love. It is a way to demonstrate that you have that person’s best interest in mind, even if it means they need to not be in contact with you in order to procure that growth.

Allowing others to make their own choices in life and have their own opinions, whether I agree with them or not. Respecting and practising silence when appropriate. Breaking my own rules and changing them to adapt to others’ comfort. Learning new ways and aging gracefully in the process. This is love.

Someone asked me recently what my specialty is in medicine. I have a lot of skills and experience, that is true.

But I really do believe that my desire to impart knowledge and share it with others, communicate for understanding and give time to others selflessly is my super power.

I am not the cleverest, or the loudest(eek), or the fastest even. But I try to give of my time, understanding and love. In every day life and work.

I hope that when I am gone, this is one of the first things that people say about me. I know they will say I am silly, I am aware of that. But I hope they say I am kind.

Because I make mistakes, and I will continue to make them, but in all of my mistakes, I will try to make them kindly, thoughtfully and deliberately.  

Sorry

 

As I fumble my way through life, finding meaning in the dawn. I am guilty as the sunrises and I am guilty as it sets. For I am a fledgling in the tides of life.

No course, no destination, Just an assumption of being.
This life is fickle and dubious and dim. It is set for its own devices and I no longer have any control. I never have. Only the illusion.

I am mother. That is what I am. That I what has saved me.

And now I am not. For the dusk has arrived and the light is leaving, and it is no longer fruitful, it is no longer ripe.

I seek refuge in the darkness of my guilt. I am so sorry.

I was trying to defend you. I was trying to survive.

I bleed into the centuries like a gaping wound, and I cannot control the haemorrhage.

I didn’t make that wound, but I walked around unaware of its presence.

I poked it and prodded it and made it bleed even more,

Because I thought it was safe, healed, done.

And yet I am never done.

I am forever doomed to repeat, and renew, and pardon and beg.

I am forever wondering and just managing, and waiting.

And rescuing this soul that doesn’t heal, and it is in stasis and congealed.

I fix hoses, and stitch wounds, I manage castles that are broken and bent.

To provide meaning and distance and tracks that lead me to somewhere where I will forever belong.

I cannot stop this train , this horse, this massive machine of momentum.

I am powerless and small. And just me.

And that is all I will ever be.

I will never know if it is enough, or right, or just, or fair, or forever.

I only know that I am true, I am alive, I am humble and beginning at the end.

I am grey and misty and young and free. And I belong to life long habits that may never satisfy anyone other than her. That silky smooth flower with pigtails and blue gold.

For she is mine and I am hers. That is all that is true. My love endures and never ever shall I forgive the darkness for destroying my peace. And more than ever, theirs. My ones. My onlies.

They are my forever. Without them, the despair swallows me whole. Without them I am nothing and never would be.

All this.

All this.

And no more. And yet so much more.

Forgive me, for I did not know.

Forgive me, allow me to destroy all that is wrong, allow me to learn, and take all that hurt.

I am so sorry.

I am so sorry.

I didn’t know.

And the more I tried, the more I broke.

I am so sorry.

Waves crushing and turning and changing and evolving and it is all OK

Life is just a collection of ups and downs. Sometimes the ups are numerous and then I have found, there is often a wave of downs that require the strength of a leviathan to endure.

I am not sure, but I think I have ridden these summersaulting waves on and off for years. I am not sure if everyone goes through this, but I am often in awe of the unfair amount of disruption I have had to endure.

I am not sure that there is any sort of reward for this effort. I dont think there is a rhyme or reason for it. It just is.

And then we get old and pass the baton to the younger generation to do the same again. And it is all quite irrelevant. 

I don't say that with any remnant of sadness, it is just a fact.

Which is why I am culling memory boxes full of shit that no one will give a fuck about when I am dead. It is all stuff…. Nothing more and nothing less.

I will just live while I am alive and then die when it is my turn.

Would I like to share this mortal coil? Of course! Life has been pretty lovely but lonely at times. I dream of a companion who will make everything OK. But that is not going to happen, so I better get used to just watching the world happen as I watch.

I get pretty tired. And I am sure some of it is of my own making, as I set myself huge tasks to fulfill. But if I didn't, I'd be afraid that I would not leave any mark. At least this way I may be remembered when I am long gone. 

Maybe. Or maybe not.

There are lots of us people who do not conform to the norm. Weirdoes who aren't in a marriage, or have conventional 9 to 5 jobs. And that is ok. I wish there was a community of us, somewhere to belong. The world has become so divided and so quiet. There is so much instantaneous communication, and yet none when you stop and listen.

I crave connection, and always will. That is my wish for the human race. Communicate and connect with others, or we will get lost. We will fall asleep in the vast forever and be no more. 

Waves recede, waves crash, waves go quiet and are barely noticeable. The ocean is just like life. And maybe we are just biological processes that are echoed everywhere. And we are just aware. Maybe it's our reward. Or our punishment. I am not sure which.

Life cycles and weaves and changes and turns. And I am glad it does. But I can also be sad that it does. Both feelings are valid and true and so present.

I am so happy, and at times so sad, for exactly the same reasons. I wish I was not quite this self aware and that I could just coast along unconsciously. Not sure why I have been dealt this card. But I have, and so here we are. Onwards we go.

Next chapter? Do your worst. And your best. You are both welcome and I am ready.

Flow

 

My house is tucked away from the road, almost hidden. It is nestled between two bungalows that have seen better days, a bit like me. Mine is older, and smaller. It has overgrown bushes that cover its façade and a small verandah at the front that provides a covert vantage point. A place to sit and watch. I watch the birds that stop and rest in the trees, I watch bees that buzz in the Jasmine bush that is tangled and woven around the brush fence that separates my house from Number 7. The postie greets me most days and I wouldn’t recognise him if I saw him at the shops, because his face is always covered by a helmet. Nevertheless, his wave and greeting are welcome. 

 

Galahs cause a racket every morning as they fight and wrestle in the gum tree in the reserve across the road. In autumn, their frenetic activity knocks large chunks of fruit from the tree and litter the road like witnesses to a crime. 

People walk past as they hurry to work, from work or dally to school. Fit and healthy couples powerwalk or run past on weekend mornings, and women with strollers chatter as their babies sleep or sit up and watch the same things I do, but with greater expectation and less cynicism. 

 

It has been a while since I have been an active participant in conversation with these people. I could talk to them, get to know them and interact with them. But my perspective provides a candid view, an uncomplicated snapshot of humanity and the exercise lends itself to guess work, and this is the purpose. My guessing game: who is this lady? Who are they going to see today? Who will greet them at work? What do they do for a living? Do they look caring, busy, arrogant, disengaged, depressed? And when they come back in the evening, I like to assess their countenance, to try to work out if they have had a good day, if they have had to fire someone, or if they have been fired that day. 

 

Do they have a lover? Are they married? Lonely? Serene? Sick?

 

The speed at which they walk, the lean of their body and the steps they take reveal so much. Of course, I never have a true answer, it is all hypothetical. Like a detective game that has no end. It gives me back a sense of purpose and labour. One that has been long since gone for me. 

 

Sometimes I knit for hours waiting for someone to walk past. Sometimes I sit inside to watch, especially on Halloween afternoon when large groups of people march past and knock at my door. The sense of mischief and fun is gone, and any sense of magic is obliterated in the crowd. I leave some sweets at the verandah and watch from inside. 

 

Entire stories are revealed to me, and a sense of belonging that has long since eluded me accompanies my days. 

 

There is a woman who reliably walks past every day. She stands barely 5 feet, and her fast-paced walk is urgent, and at the same time leisurely. She walks quickly a few steps, and then stands and looks back, behind her, and waits. She carries a bag with her, and on rainy days she has an umbrella that is never open. She has walked past for at least 5 years. Every day, without fail. And 8 steps behind her (for I have counted) walks a white dog that is only white by strict definition. A grey grimy tinge covers him, and he walks three steps and pauses to pant noisily before continuing. He must get a wash every now and again, but he is never truly white. He is not matted, but he looks like a worn-out jumper that has been loved and is pilly, but lovingly kept, threadbare and safe. 

He is fat, his belly almost touches the ground, and his tail hangs low to the ground. I imagine that he is in pain, maybe his joints ache and that is why he must stop so often. And still he follows, accompanying the woman. Her hair is only a shade darker than the mutt. Her skin wrinkled and stained by many hours spent in the sun. I think the dog’s skin must look similar under the filthy coat. 

 

They walk past, and just past my jasmine fence, they change course and cross the road into the reserve. 

 

A few times when I haven’t been paying attention, I miss the woman walk past, and I only look up when she has already entered the reserve. A few times my heart has missed a beat as I have not seen the dog follow and only realise as she pauses to wait for him to catch up that he is hidden by the long grass and merely taking his time, as is his way. 

 

I have heard some people say dogs are cute and have in the past been very much in agreement with this. However, I could never say that decrepit dog was cute. He was like a coarse and stiff garment that has just been starched and must be worn repeatedly before its stiff edges give enough to be comfortable. His short-legged waddle always the same. For years I saw them walk past, and for years I thought it must be his last walk that day, for he appeared aged and used up from the very first day I spotted them. 

 

She was the same. Old and worn from day one. 

 

I never saw her show any true affection for the dog. They appeared just to work together. A quiet understanding in their manner, a patience that made me look away one day because it seemed I had eavesdropped into an intimate moment that I was not entitled to. 

 

I grew used to the pace of it. Her eight steps, her patient wait, his slow appearance. Without missing a beat, their slow dance continued all those years. 

 

And then, last week, I saw her walk past and counted the steps. And this time, she did not turn, she did not slow. She continued. Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven. I stopped counting as she crossed the road into the reserve and continued walking without him. 

 

It took me a few moments to comprehend, and as the truth dawned on me, a torrent of emotion accosted me, and I heard the sob before I realized I was the one making the sound. The loneliness and the grief surprised me. It was a selfish grief. I was merely used to it, or so I told myself. I was missing the predictable nature of their dance. I was clinging to the idea of continuity, of things staying the same. Because they never do.  And I had foolishly grown used to their predictability and synchronicity. The marching of time without the passing of it. The comfort of something that was not ending, that was allowed to continue. Maybe I had imagined it was a film printed on a ribbon, and all it was doing was playing on repeat, just for me. 

 

They were a point of connection and comfort. A string with an end to it, one I could understand and predict. But far enough removed from me that I didn’t need to experience their joy or sadness, or tiredness, or their bills, their family dynamics, and their regrets. For they also left that day. 

 

She walked past again last Tuesday. On Wednesday, her pace was slower. My picture was on playback at half speed, it seemed. And on Thursday, for the first time in 5 and a half years, she did not come. 

 

On Friday, I sat out all day, in case I missed her.

 

On Saturday, I waited until the stars had begun to make freckles on the skin of the firmament. 

 

And on Sunday, I spotted her grey curls as she appeared, reliably, on the right of my viewpoint. The pace was back, her spring had returned, and she walked the eight steps I had grown so used to counting until last week. 

 

And then, she turned. I had never felt any expression in her before. I think she smiled, although I never saw her face move. Or maybe it was me that smiled, it is hard to tell. And then, on the right of the frame, a brown curly thing, barely as tall as a full-grown raven appeared, following her. He did not stop, he did not walk three steps, he was just slow and small, so the requisite eight steps and the pause were essential. He had a peculiar smile on his face, with a tongue almost as long as his ears. His tail was a circle that ended where it had begun, and as the woman crossed the road, I watched them disappear into the park and wondered if this new film was as predictable as the last. 

A new comfort settled into the hole the ragged bitzer had left a few days before. 

 

The bus did not slow at bus stop 31 this morning. This driver is not good at slowing for passengers. I have noticed that. The older guy we get on Mondays is a lot better at remembering who will be at the bus stop. 

I saw the woman who walks the white dog, except this time she was walking a little brown dog. Cute dog, I thought. 

As we got close to the brown fence next to the white house with the grey patio chairs, I looked for the other, older lady. She is always half hidden, almost as if she is buried by the bushes that obscure her from the road. She is always sitting with her head turned towards the hills, and she cranes her neck to peek over the roses just beyond the bushes. I noticed her sitting inside when we came trick or treating with the kids at Halloween. I didn’t blame her, they were noisy, and high on sugar. If they weren’t mine, I might have hidden too. 

Today, she wasn’t there. A big truck with red letters saying “Removals” stood at the front of the house.  I wondered fleetingly where she had gone, but the bus had moved on. 

 

ID

 Who are you?

Can you honestly answer this question without hesitation or white lies?

I don’t think any of us can.

 And I think that when our lives change, the answer to the question changes.

So far, my worth as a person and my role has been well defined. My purpose in life became providing for my children, getting them to adulthood happy and intact, and I have done that.

I know this role never really ends, but the truth is that kids grow up and move on, and a lot of people have a bit of a crisis when they become empty nesters.

A lot of people have a partner they want to travel with, plans for holidays, new adventures, movies to see and so on.

It is very hard for people like myself who find themselves still single after 20 years and an empty nest.

And, what this is forcing me to do is to genuinely take a look inside myself, the raw self. The self that has no roles, no further societal “useful” purpose other than work.

Who am I really? Naked and alone, stripped of all titles and masks, roles, gender and work.

What makes me tick, what makes me happy, what is my soul’s purpose.

And it is hard. I don’t believe many of us truly take the time to ask ourselves these questions. Nor do we often please that raw part of ourselves. Simply because it is coloured by what our partners or children want, what people might say about our tattoos, taste in music, choices of schedules, and financial situation.

I should feel lucky to be in this position to ask myself these very first world questions. And I am sure I will once I arrive at my core and stare at it face to face.

Do you genuinely know your core self? Who is it? What is its resounding vibration? What would it look like next to other people’s cores? Is it equal? Is it worth more, less, the same?

I don’t have the answers to these questions. I’d like to think that living brings me closer to those answers and that the path to enlightment is laid out for me to walk on , barefoot and free.

I am starting to feel luckier, and not as sad. I acknowledge the mother in me who has saved my soul from a fate of oblivion. This role allowed me to love me and my children. It gave me purpose, motivation, love and amazing insight into my psyche.

I am forever grateful for that stage in my life that saved me.

Now is the time for me to boldly move forward alone.

Thrilling and terrifying as it is.

Let’s see what happens.