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.

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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

katemeadley@hotmail.com

www.facebook.com/katemeadleymusic

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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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The populism that dogs today’s politicians – foreseen by Neil Postman (in “Amusing Ourselves to Death”) and testified to by Lindsay Tanner (in “Sideshow”) – is a lamentable consequence of “always on” media.

Is the opportunistic, narrative-absent populism of Gillard-in-government and Abbott-in-opposition now table stakes for political relevance? Will our future leaders all have to conduct themselves according to the Julia & Tony template; do they all have to be Gill-botts?

Are there enough of us around who see and worry about this? Is there anything at all that might improve this? Are there any signs that some of those improvements are underway?

By its very essence, populism makes un-popular – but necessary – reforms very difficult to enact. This is not to say that there aren’t popular reforms that aren’t also necessary. NDIS is a recent example (though even that one wasn’t universally popular of course).

At its essence isn’t all of this really a question of poor resolution of conflicts between self-interest reforms that are in (most of) our mutual-interest? There are factors other than media that fuel this of course (the limited time between elections being one), but the contemporary media cycle does seem to be driving this self-mutual interest conflict well into the red zone.

Is there a way through this to a new media environment where self-mutual interest conflicts can be more productively resolved?

Are there green shoots in the emergence of a less parochial, less beholden new media (Independent Australia, New Matilda for instance) while traditional media retreats to “safety” behind paywalls?

Too early to tell but I’m keen to find out, aren’t you?

 kevinshaun@me.com.

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

I have a sort of pornographic dislike of blogs. Today’s social media tells me that may be a dangerous thing. Listening to too many podcasts of journo’s writing long form articles and doing extended research and getting sacked and thinking about anyone who’s anyone making an unqualified expert statement on anything at all. A little bit like giving a toddler a medal for putting their toys away, or getting in the bath. Well done. That’s not special at all. Find something meaningful and resonant to say and then say it. So that’s when my fear and procrastination kicks in.

Yes, I am one of those. The aspiring writer who uses criticism of others as a defense for doing nothing at all. I am pedestrian I say. No one could possibly give a shit. This ain’t special enough. There’s a million people in the world more talented with more to say and better ways of saying it that me. And so. I remain silent. And surprisingly, if I open my mouth and say the things that I perhaps could have written then they are even more temporary, a moment in time which may or may not be vaguely remembered by me, or one or two others. And I seem more comfortable with this because there’s no record, no evidence, no proof. I get to keep the glory and hopefully forget the gaff.

But nothing, or not much, is still nothing. And excuses don’t help me sleep at night. In fact quite the opposite. And the reward, the sheer joy and reward of doing should be enough. But the fear mongering procrastination generating defect of character, the disease of the mind, remains as a parrot in my ear. The only answer is to write it out. The opposite is to ride it out, and the more silence there is, the noisier it gets. Deafening. Deafening.

The blog is a self-indulgence, like writing a journal and leaving it open on the kitchen bench. Flag waving look at me behavior. Self-seeking self-gratification. Sharing to make an impression. And so I stay silent. What do I have to give you? How could it possibly be important, what I have to say? Is my experience even relevant in the scheme of things when there are people looking after women and children’s rights in Rwanda and volunteers protesting in Egypt? And so I stay silent. Other than in the privacy of my own kitchen whilst I have an all in verbal brawl with Radio National. Doing the dishes and arguing social policy and crossing my fingers and hoping my vote counts. I remember years ago, when I was a teenager, my mother lamenting the state of our generation and it’s apathy. You know, young adult in the 60’s, Mum out front of Parliament protesting against Vietnam. I had a problem keeping myself open to the message, I couldn’t put together the idea of Mum protesting against a war and painting flowers on her car when she would shortly after marry a man who started out in his career fighting that war. But the message remains and, ignoring the details and difference of who she was and where she was coming from, I must admit that thought without works is dead. It is nothingness. And in a small way, activism of any form, self-indulgent or not, cathartic verbal crap aside, beats the alternative. Beats the hell out of the inside of my lounge room. Beats bitching about small-minded small poppies while I decapitate the competition and say nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

So, no need to blog, no need for a full-scale conversion, no need to go over to the dark side. But the point is there is a point. Never say never but so far I’ll not blog. I can stand up, act, have faith and then let it go. Wait for the outcome, but while I am waiting I must act. Work is work is work. Pressure testing my brain is not desirable, get it out, get it out, get it out.

This writing thing, it’s personal though. There is a line between the meaningful and the mundane, the pedestrian. Showing a lack of discrimination will require the death of a parrot or two, or at least the locking of the parrot in a robust cage. I must admit that I am so used to the presence of the parrot that I cannot imagine my life or my writing without it, but the parrot always wins, the little bastard, before I even start. Let us presume then, that rather than killing the parrot, we could retrain it. Give the parrot a whole set of new lines, or at the least a muzzle. The parrot will be permitted to come out at times and speak its mind but the standard response guideline will be “Thank you parrot, now shush, I am working”. Which raises a number of questions, not the least of which is, will my imaginary parrot survive or will it perish? And does it matter in the end? Will I remember the parrot when it goes or will the case be that I wake one day from a reverie to discover than it’s been a while and I hadn’t even realized it was gone.

I was writing about a sentence before, a life sentence, which I do have. Once upon a time I thought it was a death sentence but now I’ve managed to comprehend that it’s more like a community service order. Perhaps it may one day force me to say nice things about bloggers, because I’ll have to make amends otherwise, under the community service order. Perhaps it may mean that I’ll be saying nice things about blogs and not even realize I’ve said them until afterwards. Putting away the sword and locking up the parrot are a challenging concept. Sentimental objects that may not help me, that may no longer be useful and that are taking up additional space in an already busy and crowded mind. I get the feeling if I had my way I’d keep them in the back cupboard in the event I feel the need to take them out one day. My trusty shields, deflecting fear of failure and paralysis.

Now that I come to think about it, it’s a bit like what they say about snakes and bears. Stand very very still. Don’t try to run. Fear and paralysis. Bravery in this case may mean that sprinting at the Bear is required, that doing the opposite of what’s been done before today will bring a different outcome, that doing differently and not predicting the outcome may mean a healthy survival rate. The scary thing being there will always be a possibility that the Bear will eat me. Regardless of whether I freeze or I fight.

A simple guarantee is that if we freeze for long enough one of us is going to get hungry and think the other is a snack. And my money is on the Bear. It’s got better teeth. Not to say that my teeth aren’t ok, my dentist is astounded that they’re surviving considering the frequency with which I get a check up. Something along the lines of ‘beautiful, god knows how’. So let’s assume that I am confronted by a hungry Bear, on a regular, let’s say daily, basis. Experience has told me that if I freeze, then no one gets anywhere ever. Leaving ourselves open to the possibility that we may be eaten regardless, a swift addressing of the Bear may be the best alternative.

I Realized I had a Sentence When – Libby Neesham

I realized I had a sentence when things always seemed to be a little off track and I had no explanation other than I was crazy, and lazy and nothing and nowhere. It was more than a little ethereal at that stage. Didn’t make much sense. It took a breaking point, a rock bottom to get me there. And who would have known it could be liberation to be crushed so small you couldn’t breathe anymore. Who would have known that at the bottom the journey can start again. Who would have known that there’s a whole party of people down there working their way up again and putting a chain of hope and experience together to make it happen. Not me. Until I got there. And thank god. Looking back it’s clear as day that there was more than me going on, that that sentence wasn’t what I saw it to be. Yes, I was crazy. But crazy isn’t the worst thing in the world. Being trapped, totally stuffed, feeling unimaginable hopelessness. The lack of hope, the devastation. Survival only mode. Terrifying. And there, at the bottom of the heap, crushed and broken, it lifted. I know what happened, but my own ego still gets in the way of me talking to people who don’t share the sentence. Who else will understand? Years of pulling it off, being crazy without anyone knowing, just to give up the game by telling a story that’s so much more far out than any of the crazy shit that went through my brain before I crashed. Totally mental. If I told you you’d either think I was insane, or sort of misguided and in need of your pity. So I share only those parts with the few. What I can share today is the hope and experience and optimism that is now. The world has not changed. Not one bit. However, there’s been a shift from within that seeps out in everything I do and say and think and feel and share. That’s the bit that everyone else gets. Last night I was practicing qi-gong and I could see my own hands. Seems pretty ok as a concept, yes? Now I’ll mention that my eyes were closed and I was in a darkened room. I am a skeptic when it comes to weird shit like that. Supernatural strangeness. But with an open mind it’s amazing what you can achieve, and the truth of the matter is that I can see my hands with my eyes closed if I create the right combination of circumstances. And yes, to answer your question, it’s freaky the first time. I had a bit of a play with the idea when it first started happening. I was like, no fucking way, that’s ma hands! So I made them go away just so I could see if they would come back. And lo and behold they were there. Golden light and all. Tell me it’s impossible and I will tell you that that may be YOUR TRUTH. My truth is that I can see my hands when my eyes are closed, if I make myself very still, and I bring the universe inside myself, I can see my hands as outlines of energy, floating in black space. I went on to spend several hours walking around feeling like I’d smoked more pot than Willie Nelson. Clouds of it. Like that out of body experience you have when you disconnect completely. And getting back to the original point, way back when when I first started talking about the crazy lazy stuff, if you’d asked me then if I could do what I can do now. Any of it, not just the freaky hands trick, if would have said no quinoa. You’re mental. That’s impossible. So I am in a position today where I ask, how is it possible to make that change? The letting go and the seeing of the truth, not my truth, the truth, of my situation. And as I climb I form a link in a human chain, someone else is there as well and they need me, and I need them and…

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

At 8:30am this morning I sat down with Catherine Pham the acting manager of The Melbourne Clinic “Outreach Program” in Richmond.

Struggling to meet her fixed gaze, I nod robotically while she gives me her diagnosis:

“It seems to me that the future is looking fairly bleak to you right now Alex.  From the little time I’ve known you it’s become apparent that there are many different pieces to your personality that you’re not quite sure how to put together…but I think you already know this.”

I keep nodding.  I already know this.

“There’s a child in you that’s hiding away scared, that is afraid to fail.  That craves nurture, care and shelter.  But the adult Alex is ready to throw caution to the wind and start working towards your goals as a journalist.  There’s a part of you who’s is trying to take care of everyone who is around you and a bigger part of you who knows you’re barely taking care of yourself.  I imagine it feels a little bit shitty Alex, trying to put all these pieces together?”

I don’t answer for a few moments.  Not usually one who’s short on words I do my best to decide and to vocalise how ‘this feels…’

“Yeah,” I begin, faltering.  I clear my throat and start again.

“It just feels fucking frightening…” I hear myself say.

The Melbourne Clinic runs a program called “Outreach” which has been set up for patients who have recently been discharged from an in-patient facility.  The idea is that inside the safe and secure compounds of the Melbourne Clinic, the “mentally ill,” (or the old, the drug and alcohol dependent or disordered) individual is able to seek daily one-on-one care from a dedicated team of psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers and in my case, nutritionists.

When one has completed their forty day stay, walking through those front doors feels like diving deep into a dark and wondrous unknown.

This is where Outreach steps in.  “The Outreach program provides support and assistance at the recommendation of your treating doctor,” says the brochure I’m gripping in my shaking hand.

This morning my fractured and fragmented self is sitting in front of Catherine Phem. I am hunched over and curled into myself like a scared infant, being “assessed”.

It feels a little bit like a psych session and a little bit like speed dating.  Catherine is helping me find my best suited “Outreach Support Worker.”  Another attachment to my expanding support network which assists to shift things from “fucking frightening” to “a little bit shitty”.

Catherine has thick square glasses and a mop of dark hair that she periodically runs her hand through.  She is sitting facing me, knees crossed, a Chanel scarf wrapped nonchalant around her neck.  Her fixed stare, professional attire and thoughtful insight stop my mind wondering too far away and my eyes from resting on the floor.

“I imagine it’s very frightening Alex…not only are you trying to figure yourself out, but you’re searching for an outlet for all those emotions the eating disorder once provided.  Our aim is to help you direct those emotions in a more positive and fulfilling way.

But you know these new ways are not going to provide the instant gratification that your old coping mechanisms once did.   Drug use, alcohol abuse, binging, purging, risk taking and breaking the law are a great way to feel whole for a little while.  But I’m guessing you were feeling pretty empty the day you decided to self-admit…Am I right?”

“I still feel empty,” I reply.

“I feel hollow and numb and scared.”

But even this feels better than how it felt fifty two days ago when I first dragged my tired, skinny self through to reception at the Melbourne Clinic.

“What scares you the most Alex?” Catherine gently inquires.

I don’t have to think too hard about this one…

“Fucking it all up again.” I reply straight away.

I think back to two days before when I sat with my hands cuffed behind me, sobbing and shaking in the back of a divvy van.  On my way to the Fitzroy police station to be punished again for acting out on those “quick gratification” behaviours.

“At least you didn’t end up binging that day.” Had been the retort from my psychiatrist after I’d finished fessing up in my session the following evening.

“Granted, you did ride your bike half way across Melbourne, minimize on your meal plan and get done for shop theft, but at least there’s still been no purging.”

52 days.

“You should congratulate yourself for that.”

Back in the room with Catherine I find some words to put to these fears.

“I just feel like I’m incredibly vulnerable right now.  I feel like there’s not much pushing me towards what seems like an invisible finish line and I feel like one more false move and I’ll spiral completely out of control again.”

Catherine nods encouragingly.  She has seen hundreds like me before.  All or nothing, black and white thinkers who succeed, succeed and succeed until one too many bumps in the road leads to complete derailment.

I nearly got there under the gentle eye of Constable Mitchells as I cowered in the corner of the Fitzroy interview room on Tuesday night.  But following the questioning, the finger printing and the anxiety evoked shaking fits I dome how got back up on my bike…quite literally.

At 7pm while I was supposed to be attending my first “post hospitalisation-binge-eating-information-evening” I was tearily making my way through the dark, back to the surrogate family who have opened their home to me for a short while.

Trying to out ride the shame, guilt and fear my latest “fuck up” had conjured I was “car doored” on the way home.

The unseeing driver had nearly thrown me off my bike and I’d just kept riding.

“Fuck you!” I screamed either at him or to myself.

You’re a fucking disgrace, the voice in my head yells back.  “Why must you keep on making it so much harder than it has to be?”

But at least I hadn’t purged that day.

“I’ve sat in on a few of your ward rounds Alex and I know the demi-circle of professionals sitting around telling you what to do with yourself can be an intimidating environment.  But I don’t think you’re one who is very easily intimidated.  That’s why I’m thinking of assigning Ainslee as you’re “Outreach worker”.  She’s going to be able to give you the push that I think you want.”

I’m nodding again.

“Just so I have something to pass on to Ainslee, can you tell me some things you like to do?”

“Besides eating, getting high and exercising?”  I mumble, using that familiar defence of sarcasm to deflect from what I’m really thinking.  Which is that I haven’t had time to enjoy too much else for the past few years…

“Ummm reading, writing, climbing, feeding my brain, I dunno, I like sitting in cafes for long periods of time and I like taking trips away from myself somewhere in the outdoors.”

“That’s a good start,” says Catherine.  “Now I’m aware that you’ve got a writing class to attend so I won’t take up much more of your time.  We just have to do a risk assessment which I’m sure you’ve done before.”

I have.

Catherine contrives from my “yes” “no” “yes” “no” answers to her (insert dangerous behaviour) questions that I’m not about to do myself or anyone else any harm and she stands up to open the door.

“You’ll be hearing from Ainslee in the next few days,” she says signalling it’s time to go.

I return her smile and make my way back outside the safe walls of the Clinic.

Outside in the sunshine, “Adult Alex” slings her back pack over her shoulder, fastens her helmet to her head and sets off to meet another Catherine.

“Today I’m doing something productive,” I almost smile.

This is how it feels to be only just ok.

Here is Alex’s email. She’d love your feedback alwix@hotmail.com

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I should have known how it would be. When she was two she and her sister spent the night at a friend’s place up the road. The next morning I could hear her all the way down the hill. As she burst though the back door she was crying with rage and loss ‘Daddy wouldn’t let me to stay longer’

At just 20 years old she left without a backward glance laden with all she would need for a year in Mexico. As if we had any idea and that was just about the material bits and pieces.
The next 36 hours were full of self-recrimination. ‘Why didn’t I tell her…I forgot to tell her…What if she..?
What if I…? What if they…?’

The previous 20 years of feeling good about good enough parenting dissipated under the weight of all the what ifs.

She was to arrive at Mexico City airport at midnight – the witching hour.  What if Juan the taxi driver failed to materialise? And who was Juan anyway? A contact of the Student Travel guy who was to be rung, who was to appear and carry her off to the backpackers (coven?) returning her to the bus station the next morning for the final journey north.
I slept with the mobile thinking of my own mother who had no such luxury when I left without a backward glance all those years ago. But when the call came in the wee hours I did wonder if it wasn’t better not to know.

‘They’ve  lost my luggage and I don’t know what to do’ click-silence-ring back-silence. Her sister rings ‘did you get the call?’ ‘Yes’ – ring back- silence.  There  was nothing to be done. Surely my good enough parenting would prevail and maybe Juan would help. I slept uneasily.

Another 24 hours went by. (not as long as the month my mother waited to hear from me, trekking in Nepal.)  At last an email. It had been an epic journey but she made it through an unscheduled stop in Hawaii for a sick child, the lost luggage crisis and a blood nose on the bus. The connecting flight was achieved, the luggage found (Juan did help) and a nice lady had tissues for her blood nose.

But it wasn’t so much this that gave me heart as the story of being driven through the prostitutes’ barrio ‘so interesting mum’ with the women laughing and chatting round glowing braziers. I was impressed that she’d negotiated the travel ‘crises’ but more impressed by her ability to remain curious and  non-judgemental about her new world.
And this ’embrace all adventures’ attitude continued through a year that was so long for me and in the end so short-seeming for her.

I missed her and I relished every communication. Many made me weep with laughter. Many involved thoughtful commentary on her new place and people.

I discovered in her a kind of exuberant innocence which kept her safe even in the so-called Badlands of Mexico.  Even being bitten by a scorpion made for a great story. ‘When the taxi driver heard I’d been bitten he did a screaming uturn and took me to the local hospital which  was amazing. They didn’t even have computers and they laughed at me for my short non-Mexican name.’

There was  one very urgent text though. ‘How does one roast a potato?’ I replied suggesting it might be good to roast more then one potato at once but I began to think that if this was all that was being asked of me then maybe the good enough parenting had worked.

What does a good enough mother hope for her child? I think the  writer, Katherine Patterson captures it for me. ‘There are only two things we can give our children. One of them is roots. The other is wings’

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

Who would have thought that in the new millenium all things to do with food would become cool? Growing, preparing, sharing and writing about it. Plus a new generation of foodenistas have welcomed a lifestyle with a lighter footprint. However, beyond the modern, youthful and emblematic ‘Eco-frugalist’ way of life there lies a deeper concern. One yearning for connection, sustenance and wellbeing, driven by a deep conviction that a changing climate will see an end to much that a consumerist society takes for granted.

While this social evolution has captured the imagination of a growing section of our community, new opportunities are needed for those less well resourced, those experiencing some sort of disadvantage, to tap into this food-focused revolution. Turning the tide of modern day physical and mental maladies, we are increasingly discovering, requires tools. These tools for change are present in our communities and are available to everyone.

They take the form of unused infrastructure in places such as community and neighbourhood houses and churches. These spaces are steadily becoming repurposed as Community Food Centres, with great examples such as The Stop in Canada, recreating community through the power of food.

Possibilities for community activity abound where there is space to establish a garden for the community to grow food, sell it at a market, swap it, collect and swap seeds, create a compost or raise chickens.  It involves better use of kitchens where food rescue groups can redistribute fresh food and people can come together to learn to cook, preserve and share it around a communal table. And language is no barrier when it comes to food. Its a place where everyone has a right to a place at the table.

Its a place where kids can spend time after school in the garden or kitchen and those with spare hours, but not spare cash can connect, learn, be inspired, find services, and make friends. Social enterprise also has a home in a location where inspiration and hope drive creative ways to learn and earn through food.

A Community Food Centre can be the greatest investment in preventative medicine a government, large or small, can make. All it needs is some enthusiasm for new possibilities, collaboration, an available location and the kick start of funding. These food hubs for healthy eating can become a source of community pride, an example for planners, and part of the fabric of a more resilient and equitable society, one where prevention of illness and the driver for wellbeing occurs via community connection.

Check out Jennifer Alden at www.healthbrokers.com.au

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