Chapter 1  (Gus at the Bendigo Cathedral)

He looked up the steps to the church, out of breath. Gus had had to leave the house, which was full of his divorced parents. His mum, Helena, had been asked by the officers to identify the body which had infuriated his father who felt left out. Sean argued that if the kids had lived with him, none of this would have happened. All unfair. And all about them. Gus had no air there at all. So he had slipped out, and ran, and ran and ran, gulping down the air. Until he ended up here, looking up the steep hill at this weird-looking church in the cold, autumn afternoon sun.

He was still fuming, so angry he hardly felt the hot tears on his cheek grow cold quickly. He legged it up the stairs, two at a time, and started gritting his teeth, and walking around the base of the building. He couldn’t be still for long. Even just walking, the images replayed in his mind. His father, Sean, coming to collect him and his sister for the weekend. His mother grumpy that he hadn’t packed his stuff, and always referring to Dad as “your father”, as if blaming the kids for their father’s faults. It was early days of the separation, as his friend Joe had said.

Then there was the knock at the door, and two police (a woman and a man), asked if they could come in and speak to Mum or Dad. Gus let them in and called “Muum. Some people…police here to see you.” His mother came from the study out the back and then they asked her was she Helena Monaghan, the mother of Ellie Monaghan? She answered yes, obviously. Then they told her about the accident, about the truck that hit his sister, knocking her off her bike, killing her instantly.

Then there was a silence which seemed like it went on forever…the longest moment in history. And his mother went numb and white and doubled over crying, howling. And he just stood there, frozen, his heart beating in chest like a boxer, punching with each beat. Then the doorbell went, and he let his father in. And they told him too, and asked Helena to go and identify the body. And, what a surprise, his dad started arguing, and Gus saw the open door and ran.

He still couldn’t believe it. He had just that morning had another argument with Ellie. God, how annoying was she? She had to have his hoodie, had to know what he and Joe were going to do, had to jump in on his Halo game. And all he wanted was to get away from her. It was like she was designed to piss him off. One annoying younger sister made to order, ready to stuff everything up, hog your space, embarrass you in front of your friends and break anything of yours worth anything.

And now she was gone.

He realised he was sobbing now, and he couldn’t work out if he was angry or sad or just feeling like a turd because she was dead and he was still angry with her. And now he wouldn’t have any more arguments with her, or beat her at Scrabble or fart in her face, or get her to pull his finger and fart, or show her the next Halo level or eat any more of her fresh Anzac biscuits, or play hero to her friends, or race her to the end of the street, or hear her drainpipe laugh, or keep secrets with her from their parents, or nick her laptop. He could have it anytime now. Not the same.

He thought of going to Joe’s place or phoning him, but their family had gone away to Melbourne for family stuff, and wouldn’t be back for the next week.

Phone? Back at the house.

He checked around, realising he must have looked really weird, with a runny nose and puffy eyes. No-one was anywhere near the church so he used his sleeve as a general wipe, swiped his hair back from his face and then pushed it forward (in true emo style, he hoped), covering half of his face, hoping his glasses would disguise his sooky eyes.

He cleared his throat, and got ready to…to what? He paused not really knowing whether he was ready to go back home. His eyes started to leak again. “What am I gonna do? No Joe, Mum will be a mess. Dad will just be angry and there’s no Ellie either. ” He started gasping again, and he finally didn’t give a shit if anyone else saw.

“Dunno, dunno, dunno”, he sobbed. He thought he heard someone and tried to control himself, wiped his eyes again and flicked his hair so it mostly covered his face again. He looked up and around, stood up and peered around the church steps. No-one. He shook his head, hands in pickets and, looking down, kicked the step trying to act a bit cool.

“Stop!”

He looked around again. There was clearly no one around so WTF? Now he could add loony to his list of stuff-ups. He imagined a conversation with his GP “yes it all began when I was at this church and started hearing things…”

“Stop kicking the steps! It won’t help you and may damage the steps. And blow your nose. It’s dripping.”

Oh crap. He had really lost it now. He sat down and started sobbing again.

“No, no, no. I didn’t say keep crying and release all the snot you can!”

It was coming from the…the (OMG this really couldn’t be happening, last straw and all), the carved face in the wall above the steps. It didn’t look like it was moving though. So he wasn’t hallucinating (oh phew!).

The face spoke again, and this time it moved.

“I s’pose it’s time I asked you what you’re so upset about. I don’t really want to know, I’m just a bit sick of you dribbling snot everywhere.” The face looked disgusted.

He really didn’t need this now. He was a goner, a fruitcake ready for the asylum. They would medicate him to the eyeballs. His train of thought was interrupted again…

“Well?”

“You know what? You can get stuffed along with the rest of my fucked up family,” and, god dammit, he started to cry again.

“Oh, nice mouth on you, boy. Hope you don’t kiss your mother with that mouth.”

Gus rolled his eyes and stamped his foot. “Leave me the fuck alone, you stone-faced….Ugh! I have enough to keep me busy thanks.”

“Are you Gus Monaghan?”

“Did you not hear what I said?” He paused. “How did you know anyway?” He looked up at the gargoyle.

“Right, so now you want to know. Actually I can understand you bawling your eyes out. You’re the kid whose sister just died, right?”

“I’m not saying another word till you tell me how you know. What am I doing, talking to a chiselled brick? I am nuts!”

At this point Gus started to leave. The gargoyle cleared his throat. “I am The Green Man”.

Gus started chuckling, then laughing, then guffawing and slapping his thighs.

The gargoyle cleared his throat again. “I am The Green Man”.

This just sent Gus further into hysterics. So much so he had to sit down as he almost fell over. When his laughter subsided, he added “Yes and I’m a Martian too. You’re not green, mate. You’re a light poo-brown-beigey sort of colour.”

“The Green Man. You know, Green-Jack, Jack-in-the-Green.” He paused. “The pagan deity from Britain, who brings rain and fertility to crops….what do they teach you at school?”

“Not to talk to strangers, thought they don’t mention inanimate bricks, or aliens….” Gus stared to laugh again.

“Look, I’ve been told to give you a message. She is ok, your sister.”

“Do not mess with me, brick-head!”

“I am serious. She knows you feel bad about this morning’s argument. She says you can have the laptop as long as you go to her room and get her recipe book and give it to Shaw…no Sean.”

Oh now Gus was really confused. He shook his head and sighed. And he began to weep again.

“Leaky bloody eyes. Can you see her? Can you speak to her? Is she here?”

“Actually no. Someone else gave me the message but they didn’t mention you’d be such a mess. It’s worse when you go through guilt as well as grief. I gather you didn’t part on good terms.”

Gus shook his head and sobbed.

“Well she must have forgiven you otherwise she would not have been able to pass on the message. No-one here would have been able to see her if she wasn’t sorting things out.”

Gus had watched those stupid psychic type shows on TV and didn’t have much patience for them. This was a bridge too far, but he considered that he was already talking to a brick so why not continue in the loony way he had started.

“OK, so why are you talking to me? You’ve passed on the message, right? Are you trying to convince me I’m nuts? I already know.”

“There are three things I need to tell you. But you have to be open to what I have to say. You need to dump what you think you know so you can take in what I have to offer you.” The Green Man was talking quietly now and looking around, checking for eavesdroppers, or so it seemed to Gus.

“Good one.  So what are your pearls of wisdom, your gifts so I can go on to the next level of this game?”

“Sarcasm really is not helpful. Do you want the information or not?”

Gus thought about it for a brief moment.

“Yes, Green Man. Why not? My life can’t get much worse so why not?”

“Right. Right. I s’pose it is a little tough on you at the moment. Which is why the information I have might actually help you.  But, like you and children like you say, whatever. You need to know that when you die, it isn’t the end of everything. You don’t have to understand this, just remember it. Like a clue, if you can understand it that way. The second clue is that it may take you some time to hit the bottom of missing your sister, even though you didn’t particularly like her, and she annoyed you. Don’t give up on yourself or think you won’t get through it. You can and if you choose to, you will get through it with some new ideas, a new type of cool about you, and a better understanding of life. Don’t shake your head, just listen. Or better still, write this down. You can write, can’t you?”

Gus indicated the napkin he had found in the bottom of his jeans pocket. It was soaked.

“Ok perhaps just remember these then. The last piece of information is that you know now I’m a deity a type of Nature God, right? Well you may find surprising help and relaxation and you may begin to feel better when you are surrounded by Nature, or looking at the night sky or a beautiful sunrise or sunset, or going to the zoo and looking at the Butterfly House or anything natural. It will help you. Enough of the eye-rolling. You don’t have to do it now, just keep it in mind. OK?”

Gus shrugged his shoulders and finally nodded. He’d given up on pretending to be sane. “Is that it? How do you know what to give me? How did you know who I was?”

“That I can’t tell you, yet. Enough to say that if you come here and ask for information, it will be given to you, eventually. You need to develop some patience and to find a way through the next few months. Any chance you can scratch my left cheek? It’s been itchy for 80 years now and the spider seems to like to crawl along it just making it worse.”

Gus tried half-heartedly to reach but was too short and shrugged his shoulders.

Gus knew Green Man was right. How the hell was he going to get through the rest of today, let alone the next few months?

(This is the first chapter of a young adult novel)  

One of the brilliant pieces written by students from The Monthly Masterclass

Don’t read this if you are meant to be doing something else.  No, seriously, procrastination will be the death of you. Or will it?

At a workshop today I committed to writing a feature article about the science of procrastination. Is there research out there about how to overcome it? There must be.

Apparently, Nikolai Tesla was fantastic at overcoming the urge to do something, anything other than working.  As a science writer myself, I need to start with something else, some new research, a scientific development, something already published. It means I ALWAYS have a reason to surf the web to find information and inspiration… and distraction.  And if I feel this way, what effect is this having on the way our kids are learning, who are growing up connected 24/7?

Growing up ‘online’ is not something my 3 year old will dwell on. Do I wonder what it would have been like to grow up without pencils and paper, or colour television? No. But how will they stay focused in a digital learning environment? And is it necessary to stay focussed at all?

We can only absorb so many snippets, tweets, posts and sound bites before we need to sink our teeth into something longer, something real, with a beginning, middle and end. A longer piece to inspire us and change the way we think. How do we find this information without getting lost in the noise?

Almost everything we write, research and read is online. Digital learning is slowly but surely becoming the dominant way kids learn, how we all spend our time.  It happens time and again… I start looking for information online, a subject I’m trying to learn more about, then I’m distracted by the news, something I saw in a tweet, leading to a fascinating blog post, leading to a person, a search on LinkedIn, oh, there’s a guy I used to work with, I wonder what he’s up to, ah, he works at that place, I was interested in applying for a job there, ooh they have a blog, great, and now I’ve completely forgotten what I was doing..?!

Without doubt, kids need to know their way around a search engine.  But can we teach them to start writing offline, gather their thoughts, until they find their own direction and shape for the piece. THEN jump online to find the information they need.

If only scientists could identify the gene for procrastination. If there was an anti-procrastination drug, would you take it? Procrastination is surely part of the creative process. Now here is where I would normally list off a group of writers, scientists and inventors who have admitted to procrastinating but have achieved great things. But I won’t. I’m writing this offline.  No internet for me.  I don’t even have access to a library or a book. And I’m probably writing more on the topic than if I had sat down to do this online. Yet I feel like I’m missing a limb, or half of my brain!

The internet is endless. We all get lost sometimes and wander aimlessly through the abyss. Will the next generation – what are they, the teenies? – be more adept at navigating the internet and keeping their wandering in check?  Or will they become more lost and distracted as they try to learn?

Procrastination will always exist but how will it evolve?

Think about how you procrastinate. Do you wile away the hours online, in a ‘real’ book, with a paintbrush or just staring into space? And just how did procrastinators fill their time back in the dark ages? “Hmmm, I’m supposed to be slaughtering this beast, but instead I’m creating rock art by crushing this coloured rock and smearing the image of the beast on the wall of a cave.”  Which will be remembered? Our cave-dwelling character will die and the flesh and bones of the beast will rot away, but tourists will flock in their hundreds to see the ancient rock art recorded on the wall of this cave.  Maybe procrastination isn’t so bad!

So I’m setting out to put the ‘pro’ into procrastination. Stay tuned for my piece on the science of procrastination. Watch out, I’m going in…

PS This piece was written 100% offline, in under an hour. There is hope for me yet.

One of the brilliant pieces written by students from The Monthly Masterclass

By the unflattering light of a neon snake, I had an epiphany today.

I want to be a Catherine Deveny.

Recently I quit the best job I ever had to try a less conventional career path.  I was burned out by two decades on the corporate treadmill, frustrated by the inflexibility of western working ways, and determined to find alternatives.

I’m on a mission to create a big life, not just a big living.  So I’ve been taking random creative adventures. And today I attended a writing masterclass by the delightfully feisty Catherine Deveny.

As I parked my car, Catherine cycled past in her fur coat and raspberry beanie.  It struck me just how fabulous she looked.  She exudes fearlessness, fulfilment and freedom.  And I wanted what she’s got.

“You can’t order hummus until you know it exists” said Catherine at the Big Hearted Business conference.  I realised today that Catherine is my hummus.  In my teens it was Marilyn Monroe for working her curves.  In my early career, it was my big boss lady who successfully juggled it all.  And now, I’d like to order a big serve of Catherine flavoured hummus please.

Fearless

 “Pull your finger out and sing from your heart” Catherine challenged us.

She is unapologetic, opinionated, feisty and funny.  And her super power is her ability to articulate so that others connect.

If you put good stuff out there it comes back in spades.  All you need is intent, charisma and persistence.

For the first time in my life, I do not have a plan.  And that excites and terrifies me, in equal measures.  But Catherine encouraged blind faith by saying “you only need to be able to see as far as the headlights”.  The rest will come into light with time.

My perfectionism streak has caused paralysis too often.  So I need to lower my expectations of myself.  “Perfection is the enemy of good” she said.  Don’t let it stop you.

Showing up is the hard part.  But once you’re in the pool, you will swim.

And it’s only crazy if it doesn’t work.

Fulfilled

The satisfaction is in doing the work, even more so than getting it published, praised or paid, explained Catherine.

She has clearly been rewarded, sought out and most of all satisfied for saying what she thinks.

Great people do great things.  And if not you, someone else will do it.  Why not you?  Crack your own whip.

Free

Catherine describes her creative, financial and emotional independence as “fuck off status”.  It’s the freedom to say no, as you please.  And it’s a neat picture of success for a yes-person like me.  You see, I’m a pleaser.  And my inability to say no frequently gets me overcommitted and overwhelmed.

I also envy her inhibition.  “Loving your body, as it is, is an act of social disobedience” she explained.  And I love that kind of rebellion.

Apparently, for every positive thought, we have 17 negative ones.  That’s tough competition for a fragile ego.  The trick is to know to expect the negative ninnies, and when they shout, promptly tell them to piss off because you’re busy.  Then you’re free to do great work.

From the moment I entered the funky Collingwood warehouse today, I felt inspired.  Modern artwork adored white walls and hipster coffee orders abounded (strong decaf late anyone?).

Catherine cracked the whip and made us write.  And I was inspired by what people produced with the combo of reckless abandon and a ticking clock.

I’ve found a new sense of urgency.  Before my eyesight fails I’ll shoot beautiful photos.  And before my hands seize up with arthritis, I’ll write words that matter.  I do not want to be on my deathbed regretting the risks I was too scared/tired/busy/embarrassed to take.

Catherine pitched today’s workshop as “creative laxative” and it’s given me the writing runs.  Despite having a family to feed and concert tickets, I am amazed that I could squeeze out this piece tonight.  There is always time if you choose to find it.

Catherine reckons that the only difference between her and anyone else is that she did it.  And so I vow to too.

My tools of trade will be different to Catherine’s 700+ columns, 8 books and countless stand-up gigs.  I marry people.  I shoot people.  I write.  I don’t do funny, but as a celebrant, photographer and blogger I am excited about finding freedom, fulfilment and my own brand of fabulous.

The neon snake artwork that hung over today’s workshop stated that “fear eats the soul” and so I am getting over myself and sinking my teeth in.  You have been warned.  Follow my adventure via Twitter @wiselyjade or www.jadewisely.wordpress.com

Thank you Catherine, for the kick in the arse.

Blog                     jadewisely.wordpress.com

Twitter                    @ wiselyjade

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One of the brilliant pieces written by students from The Monthly Masterclass.

How did this book start?

It started sitting in a boardroom in Collingwood with 13 other writers.  At one end of the room was a shiny, wet looking yellow canvas.  At the other was a neon sign that said fear eats the soul.  A snake wound around it with an apple at the top.  I used to be petrified of snakes.  I thought it was pertinent.

I had invested in a day off to attend a writing class; something about writing, creativity and overcoming procrastination I think.  It hadn’t occurred to me until that day, that perhaps my career was one of the manifestations of procrastination in my life.  Until that day, I had seen my busyness there as productive.  It certainly fitted well with wider notions of success.  There were milestones I could point to in my work to show the world I was achieving; there’s where I crossed into a six figure salary, there’s where I got the word Director in my job title, that’s my seat at the Board table, here’s a sprinkling of awards for my work.

To be clear, I did not hate my job.  I loved my job.  I found it incredibly intellectually stimulating and rewarding and I never tired of working with the vast numbers of different people I got to meet.  Challenging them to see and do things differently so that they could grow their business and realise their dreams.  I work hard at and love my work.

But I had a gnawing feeling for most of my life that had been getting stronger and stronger.

I wanted to write.  I knew that.  I had been writing sporadically since I could write.  And before then, so eager was I to start, that I used to try and mimic Sandra’s hand when she wrote while holding a pen (mine never quite looked the same as hers at the end though and I was at a loss as to explain why hers had meaning and mine didn’t; what was this black magic called writing?).

There was another gnawing thing I’d always wanted to do; to be vegan.  Sticking that label on myself, just next to the feminist one and the marketing one and the blonde one and all the others, was a scary leap for me.

It didn’t sit at all well with my need for everyone to approve of me.

If you ever want to be immediately confronted about your life and discover whether you are ready or not to defend your choices, allow me to recommend being a 32 year old blonde marketing director, expected to hold your own in the boardroom and then declare yourself both vegan and feminist.  If you really want to spice it up, throw in a few liberal, extremely left wing political views with some of your capitalist ones and then take your DD’s and your shaved armpits, hop in your Merc with your designer handbag and floor it to Vegie Bar for a raw taco.

You are, in short, not what people expect of all those different stereotypes and rather difficult to place in a well-defined box.

What I’m trying to say here is that when you decide doing the right thing, not the normal thing, is what you’re going to do; you need to be ready to defend it.  Or, if that’s offensive to too many people: when you decide that you must follow a different path to the one you’ve been on and that you are no longer going to do what you should, but you are going to do what you feel in the pit of your belly, people will confront you on it.

Like you have (probably) never discovered before in your life, people will feel very free to publicly and loudly attempt to discredit everything you say.  Your bosses, your staff, your family, your friends.  The first couple are fairly easy to handle.  The second two groups are quite a bit tougher on the skin thickness.

There’s one theory I believe describes most of what you need to know about why this happens and you can arm yourself with it to be ready for the onslaught: cognitive dissonance.

When we hear or learn something that doesn’t fit with our existing way of thinking or being, that challenges our belief system or values or place in the world, our brain doesn’t like it much.  We either choose to learn more about what we’ve heard, choose to agree / disagree / partly agree with it and then alter our lives accordingly.  Or, we fight against it and defend our old way of being in the world, denying, ignoring or dismissing the new information.

You can see this play out in so many ways in our society.

Tell someone that buying an ice cream for the kids on a sunny day at the beach is the same as buying veal.  They’ll either learn what you are saying is true and, if they disagree with veal, they’ll stop buying dairy ice creams and get the kids an icy pole or a non-dairy frozen treat of some delicious variety or they will deny it and/or ignore it and carry on.

If you are scared of homosexuality, you might currently be defending your old beliefs by angrily protesting the right of gay people to get married, calling such a thing unnatural, immoral or just plain wrong.

If you are the Prime Minister of Turkey right now, you might be violently trying to stop civilians protesting because your ingrained belief is they should be doing what they are told.  You might be labelling concerned citizens ‘extremists’ to discredit them or blaming Twitter for your woes instead of looking for a solution.

If you grew up on meat and three veg, as so many of us suburban Aussie kids did, you might really struggle to comprehend someone telling you that roast lamb is horrific, not the homely, comfort food your Mum lovingly prepared for you and that you thought it was.

Here’s the rub; this is all fine in theory.  When you have your step uncle who you’ve known since you were seven years old insulting you and screaming you down on your Facebook wall for everyone else to see, it can begin to feel a bit more personal.

When you get asked “where do you get your protein?” more times than “how are you?” it starts to wear thin.

When you get called extreme for choosing a compassionate lifestyle while others eat eggs produced from the pain and suffering of free range laying hens and the crushing of all their male young at a day-or-so old, you’ll have to learn to handle it.

You will decide you need to follow this niggling feeling even though it scares the shit out of you, or you’ll slot back into life as it was.  You can’t have both.

There will come a time when living compassionately is the easy path.  But sorry, dear friend reading this, this is not that time.  You are out there shouting that the world is round and everyone else knows it is flat and thinks you are mad.  You’re daring to suggest Rosa Park doesn’t get out of her seat and you are going to get arrested for it.

Oh, and if you don’t think you’ll be out there shouting about it, I have more bad news.  Because here’s the thing: once that thing that goes click in a person goes click in you and you make the connection between your ham sandwich and Babe; you have to shout.

You have to realign your life behind this choice so much it will shock you.  You will need to get everyone else’s clicking bit to go click so much you will not believe it.

As I learnt that day in that snake-lit room in Collingwood, when that need arises in you, you have to do it like you have to shit.  You can dance around ignoring it for a while, but you’re only delaying what must inevitably happen.

So that is how this book started.  I had to write it for you.

I simply didn’t have a choice.

Twitter: @SuzanneKayJH

Email: suzannekjh@gmail.com

Blogs:

http://93sleeps.wordpress.com/

http://marathonsformaddie.wordpress.com

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One of the brilliant pieces written by students from The Monthly Masterclass

Recovering from anorexia sucks. It can feel like thankless hard work from the minute you wake until the minute you fall asleep. You’ll probably cry, maybe you’ll scream, you’ll most likely curse under your breath, throw food across the room or even scream and curse and cry all at once as you fall to the floor of the kitchen in a heap. Oh, and you will definitely fart. A lot. But ask anyone who has embarked on the journey and they will tell you that recovery is worth every moment of bloated, gassy rage.

Although to date it is the single most terrifying and exhausting venture in my 23 years on this speck of dust we call home, I am wholly grateful for the amplitude of gifts my adventure into recovery from anorexia, depression and anxiety has bestowed upon me. Let there be no illusions, I am not ‘recovered’, and I may never be ‘recovered’ in the sense of the word that one might conjure up, all rainbows and smiles and chocolate cake. But I am proud to say that I am in recovery. I am recovering the lost pieces of self and learning to manage the disorder that made my life unbearable so it no longer has control over me.

Unfortunately, recovery from anorexia is not a straight trajectory, there is no cookie cutter recovery. Recovery can be a scary, lonely place. But there are some things that might make that path a little less terrifying to begin upon. Some of these things I recently discovered when I restarted my yoga practice. My main piece of recovery advice is get yourself weight restored, get medically cleared and get onto a yoga mat!

I had long been obsessing over the idea that to achieve the perfect recovery, I had to be ‘happy’. It became increasingly clear that the perfect recovery doesn’t exist and happiness is an elusive state of being that no one ever seems to achieve. And if not happiness, then what?! Panic?! Cry?! Both?! I began to realise as I moved around that piece of foam on the ground with my neighbours bottom wobbling dangerously close to my face that although the burning in the back of my thighs was uncomfortable, it wasn’t unbearable. And when we lay down to close the class in a guided meditation, I could feel the tightness of anxiety embracing my chest and discovered that it too, though uncomfortable, wasn’t unbearable.

I learned there on that mat that recovery isn’t about becoming happy and recovery isn’t about the absence of painful emotions. Recovery is about being able to feel it all and being ok with feeling it all. I learned that my emotions cannot have power over me unless I let them, and by attempting to numb them and starve them away, they had taken the power and ran.

So if recovery isn’t about being happy, what is it about? What does it look like? During a relapse last year I began the ask myself this very question and I resolved that my recovery is only mine and thus I am the only one who can define what it should be for me.

I see my recovery as a life long journey of constant re-evaluation, of recognising and managing the sneaky little voices of anorexia, depression and anxiety that weasel their way into my mind at times of stress, loneliness or vulnerability. Some people believe that total recovery is possible, which may very well sit with you. On the other hand I believe I’ll never be totally in the clear, but that by being in touch with myself, honest with myself and honest with the people around me, I will be able to manage my life without relying on self starvation to get me through.

To me recovery is not denying that anorexia has been a big part of my life and who I have become, but not dwelling on it either. My recovery is finding creative solutions and self determined and musical. My recovery is travel and coffee and wine and rediscovering Nutella eaten straight from the jar. It is pain and sadness and laughter and all of the people I am yet to meet and sharing stories over lunch with my dearest friends. My recovery is a place where I learn to ride the ups and downs without the downs consuming me for months on end. My recovery is not relying on alcohol to feel normal. My recovery is knowing when I need to ask for help and knowing that sometimes I need to take medication to lift the weight and darkness of the crushing depressions so that I may engage in therapy and get myself moving again.

My yoga practice is a space where I have learned how to take things at my pace, not the pace I think I should be taking things. Where I listen to my body and let it take it’s own time in reaching the next stepping stone. Likewise there is no time limit on my recovery, which doesn’t mean that I may become complacent, but which means I may allow my steps to be as small as they need to be to slow shuffle towards my bigger goals.

Recovery also involves slips and relapse and failures. Just this week I found myself too exhausted to leave bed for a day after several days of far too little food and far too much walking. In yoga it is important to attempt every pose with the intention of performing it fully and correctly, to reach for your toes with the intention of touching them, even if you know you’ll only meet your shins halfway. Every day must be lived the same, with the intention of moving towards recovery, reaching out towards it, stretching yourself just a bit further, a bit further, slowly, slowly, until one day something connects and you can look back on how far you have come. Having a slip up is not failure or a disaster, it’s an opportunity to learn that 5 hours of walking and a bowl of soup are not compatible. And so with the intention of moving towards recovery I spent a day napping and snacking and getting back on track.

Finally, ask for help and look for inspiration and information in every dark and dusty corner of the bookshelf, internet and music store. Your friends and family are a phone call away and there are some ripper therapists just waiting to shrink the shit out of you. You deserve to recover, whatever the hell that even means.

Bon appetite, recovery warriors!

Twitter – @katemeadley

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One of the brilliant pieces written by students from The Monthly Masterclass

The decision to sell Australian uranium to India has to rank among the more troubling Australian foreign policy developments in the last ten years. While Australia has stipulated that its uranium may only be used for civilian energy purposes, this moratorium will fail to prevent – and may well enable – a nuclear arms build-up in the sub-continent.

At the core of the problem is the fact that while Australian uranium itself will not be directly enriched for the weapons-making process, it will free up uranium derived from other, less scrupulous sources for military purposes by enlarging the net supply of nuclear material to a state which has refused to sign the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty.

Based on what we know about arms build-ups historically, from the pre-WWI British-Prussian naval build-up of 1870 to 1914, to the nuclear programs of Soviet Russia and the United States in the Cold War, the military expansion of one state rarely occurs without triggering a rival response from another. Given what we know historically about arms build-ups, the truly alarming prospect is not that India will have more thermonuclear weapons; it’s that it will trigger a corresponding nuclear build-up from Pakistan in response.

And therein lies the real danger: Pakistan’s government, military, and intelligence services cannot be relied upon to keep tabs on Taliban and Al-Qaeda forces. As Christopher Hitchens noted in the aftermath of Operation Geronimo, the assassination of Osama bin Laden forces two unnerving interpretations of events into the open. The world’s most infamous terrorist was discovered in a safehouse not one mile away from a Pakistani military base, in a posh resort town for the country’s military elite. Pakistan’s very own Sorrento or Noosa Heads, if you will. Now either the nation’s government, military, and intelligence service were all unaware of his presence, in which case, Al Qaeda and the Taliban have demonstrated they can effectively outmanoeuvre Pakistan’s government by hiding the world’s most wanted man right under their nose – at least until the United States discovered him. Or, far more disturbingly, the relevant authorities were aware of his presence, in which case, Taliban and Al Qaeda sympathisers would appear to have infiltrated elements of the Pakistani government, military, or intelligence service. And we want to supply the enabling factors for a nuclear arms race into this troubled region?

At the very best, the discovery of Bin Laden in Abbattobad demonstrated serious vulnerabilities in Islamabad’s security net, and in the administration of a burgeoning nuclear arsenal in the course of an arms build-up, the opportunities for one rogue weapon to slip through the net would seem to, in a word, proliferate.

Twitter: @lachlanmccall

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