Christmas Shopping tips from Dev. You’re welcome.

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I hate Christmas. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my friends and family (individual results may vary), am delighted to cook for them or buy them things they need or desire and a simple glance at my reader’s physique will assure you I love to eat. It’s just the obligation and expectation that annoys me.

I particularly struggle with the present buying. I also struggle with the fact women do everything and if they didn’t there would be nothing organised, no plans, shopping not done, there would be no food on the table or presents under the tree but that, my friend is another column.

We are white middle class people who have everything we need. When my three boys were little the aftermath of unwrapping all their Christmas presents ( I am one of five children ) looked like a Malaysian rubbish heap. The paper, the packaging, the plastic choking hazards, the things with bits that will be lost tomorrow, trampled underfoot, eaten by the dog or sucked up the vacuum cleaner made me taste a little bit of sick in my mouth.

The  just ticking stuff off the list and buying the cheapest gift possible for people who don’t need or want for anything and it goes against everything I believe in.

Sure the boys loved the presents, but not all of them and not forever. The things they loved best were often not the gifts that were the big Christmas morning hits but the pyjamas, books and stuff like a new lunchbox. You know what I loved? Chucking the broken ones out and sending the unloved and unused ones off to new homes.

We spend so much of our lives trying to make ends meet and being environmentally friendly yet the week before Christmas we max out our credit cards on a sack of junk made from unsustainable products in unfair conditions in the developing world.

It would be ace if we could all spend a heap of money on sustainable gifts for everyone but the chances are you, like me, are not independently wealthy.

Every time you spend a dollar you are voting on how your want the world to be. Buy from local, independent, feminist businesses. Vouchers from a restaurant, bookshop, masseur or bath house, florist, clothes shop, nursery, hairdresser, or sport store are excellent. How about a bit of pampering with a mani pedi or a float in a floatation tank?   This will not only be a gift for your loved one but also for the local business. I was at our local farmers market the other day and the place was chockers with fab gifts; gourmet dark chocolate and orange Christmas puds, handmade organic fudge, boutique soap and locally brewed cider with no preservatives!

Everyone eats, everyone drinks! Buy them some consumables! Gourmet hampers are awesome but you can make your own with all your favourite things. If you can’t stretch to a hamper, some chocolate, sweets, cheese and crackers, tea or alcohol will work. You can also stock them up on something they use all the time. What brand of soap, coffee or shaving cream do they use? Get ‘em a six pack!

Better still, buy them a year’s worth of toilet paper. No one likes carting toilet paper home. And we do it almost every week. That family with babies, elderly relative or curmudgeon who says ‘I don’t need anything’ would love a big slab of 24 rolls! Imagine how much less they would have to lug home from the supermarket! Particularly when it helps build toilets in the developing world.

Guitar lessons, boot camp, a house spring clean, an oven clean, golf lessons, a session with a personal trainer, a car clean, window clean, a facial, a cooking course, a garden spruced up, movie tickets, theatre tickets, Melbourne International Comedy Festival tickets, a trip in a hot air balloon! Buy experiences! Buy your loved one a ticket or voucher to my Gunnas Writing Masterclass (dates here).  I developed the class precisely for Christmas. So people could give an unforgettable carbon neutral gift that supported the arts and local businesses! I pay the venue, food, graphic designer and now other sessional teachers so when you purchase a ticket you are supporting a bunch of other local independent businesses. Including the places I purchase my frocks.

Donations. These are my favourite gifts ever. And the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre and Domestic Violence Victoria my charity of choice. If you want to give many charity organisations have gift catalogues and some even make cards you can gift telling the recipient you have purchased a goat, vaccinations, a toilet or a well for some of our brothers and sisters in developing countries.

Plants, framed photos and good quality towels are always well received. When in doubt, give money. Especially to kids.

Big family? Presents are for kids. Kris Kringle for the grown ups. We do a $50 limit at ours. Everyone posts their list online, you get something you want and you buy one present instead of 20.

Finally, if you do have to spend money on someone who is hard to buy for (or hates everything) buy something not only for someone you love but FROM someone you love. I bet you have people around you who do things, make things or teach things who you would love to buy from and give money too. So even if the present isn’t a hit, you have given your business to someone you love to spend money with. It’ll make their Christmas. I guarantee it.

Christmas Eve. Carols By Candlelight. Mum’s Chucking Her Annual Christmas Eve Wobbly

Office Party Christmas Tips From Dev 

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A Dice and a Dollar – Tami Lou Castillo

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

I can barely remember the first time I gambled. I remember more clearly a time in my life when I went to Vegas a few times. It was almost like a routine with me and my mom. She lived in Needles, California. It’s a hoe-dunk town in the middle-of-a-nowhere desert on the border of California and Arizona. It suffers from the stifling heat that nothing grows under except the tan my mom had on the one arm closest to the driver’s window from her daily 15 minute drive back and forth to work. Mom took a supervisor’s position there. It’s hard for me to understand why she took this job, other than it would pay her more and she might get to retire early. She moved into a fifth-wheel trailer at a big camping park on the Colorado River to save even more money. And to live rent-free, she volunteered her time at night booking the in-coming campers in. So, whenever I came to town to hang out with Mom, we often scooted off to Vegas, a not-too-far drive away, and stayed in the traditional downtown Vegas at a casino called The Horseshoe. This was the home of cheaper rooms and two dollar steaks served from 11pm, a place we could afford and, with a little luck, we might come home with a few more bucks than what we started with. We usually played Blackjack. Mom liked Blackjack and we would often practice in our room and play during non-busy times, which were early mornings or early afternoons, when the locals and old-timers gambled at the two dollar tables. You had to know what you were doing or you messed up their odds and they would tell you so. Sometimes in the afternoons, after I’d had a couple of free drinks, I’d wander over to the Craps table, which was just a game of chance. You didn’t have to think. You’d pick a number and they rolled the dice. If you’re number came up, you won. If it didn’t, you lost. I liked playing Blackjack and games of chance, but if I ever got on a losing streak, I had a rule about how much money I was willing to lose. The minute I went over this amount, usually ten dollars, I would walk away. I couldn’t stand losing my hard-earned money, so I knew I never had to worry about a gambling addiction. The toss of a dice and the loss of a dollar together was too much to bear.

I’ve always liked spending time with my mom. We had always lived far apart since I was eighteen, so I would often plan a vacation with her or just come and hang out with her. I had no idea that my sister felt differently about spending time with my mom until a few years ago. Susan’s the type of person who holds everything in, quiet as a mouse in regards to important things, then will suddenly break, releasing an avalanche of hurtful truths, past regrets and anger…until recently. I noticed a change in her after we nursed our father through death; she began to open up. I think it was the passing of our father, of not having another family member she was close to, or maybe the mortality of our time left, but she began to tell her truths, to set things straight, to find her voice to the wrongs of her childhood. It wasn’t until now that I am able to see the start of her story. What was that sound? Was it the sound of silence that her heart could bear no more that prompted her to speak? At first it was light whisper, nothing you could actually make out as language, but I asked, “What did you say? Did you say something?” She spoke it so softly and then asked Mom to speak for her to the one who wronged her. When she told me that she asked Mom to speak for her, I called my sister, “Susan, you have to talk to him yourself. Don’t you see? He holds power over you until you find your voice. You must use your voice to take your power back.”

“You’re right Tami Lou! I’ve got to use my OWN voice….using my voice is taking my power back.”

It wasn’t much longer after that and Susan began to speak to us more, to share with us parts of herself that had remained hidden for too many years. She came around to Mom’s more often and did this and that for her. She often asked Mom if she could stay the night. The other day when I was talking to Mom and asked how Susan was doing, Mom said, “She’s an angel.”

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Prompts – Fiona Scott-Norman

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

Prompt No 1 – I can barely remember my childhood. It was a time of books and hiding. A lot of fear, a lot of coping. My first flash of consciousness: sitting on my potty at the bottom of a dark flight of stairs, while my parents argued in the kitchen. Shouting. Angry. This was not to be an unusual occurrence. Looking through a door which was a window of light, two people screaming.

Prompt No 2 – It’s hard to explain why two people stay together when they provoke each other so much. Mum said she almost left Dad twice, each time with me in tow. Talked out of it by her sister. It wasn’t the done thing, of course, back in that day, but I wish she had. What I learned about marriage and relationships was not how to break our and be free, but how to endure. How to stay regardless. I don’t tend to leave. I stay and will things to get better. There was a deal though, Mum signed up for adventure. At the end of the second world war in London there was not a lot going on. Rationing, a broken country trying to rebuild, it was entirely pants. I think Dad probably did love mum, in his way, but mum I suspect hopped on for the ride. A colonial life in a panoply of countries. Africa, Kenya, Singapore, Malaysia, always a drawer of different currency from exotic climes, a rand, a Canadian dollar, a 5000 Kyat note from Myanmar. As a child I was fascinated and envious.

Prompt No 3. “Next minute”, Mum said, “He’d be shouting at me. We’re at a dinner party for dignitaries in Kenya, and then I disagreed with him about something. He looked at me like I was dirt, and said ‘When I say ‘shovel shit’, you jump on the shovel”.

Prompt No 4. I had no idea what to do with mum’s story. I left home like a bullet when I was 18, in Perth, getting away from the egg-shell home atmosphere, leaving mum to deal with dad on her own. It was the 1980s, and Rubics cubes were all the fashion. They reminded me of their relationship, frustrating and unsolveable.

Prompt No 5. Until finally, when mum was dying, I had a revelation. It’s not my fault or responsibility. She was so much happier after dad died, after 61 years of marriage, but ultimately it was up to her. It was her bargain. Dad could be an arsehole, but he delivered on adventure. They lived a life, a great life. Sometimes she complained, “I never saw myself dying in Australia”, but I’d point out to her, “This is what happens to old colonials, they die in a far-flung corner of the British Empire”. She chose her life. She stayed. Not, as Joan Rivers would say, my aisle.

Prompt No 6. What was that sound? Mum’s death rattle was wet and vile, for certain her lungs were liquefying in a stew of their own tissues. I could hardly stand to be in the room. But I stayed, mostly, actually on the phone in the toilet to my cousin Debbie at the moment she passed. They say that people hang on until their loved ones leave before they die. Going to the loo, in the end, must have been enough of a window. She was a brilliant human, Norah, sticking with life with her fingernails, sucking the marrow from what she had. Did not want to go. I didn’t want her to go either. But then that’s what I learned from her. Endurance. How to stay regardless. And I didn’t leave.

Some lessons have to be learned the hard way.

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Back to the middle – Sarah Potter

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

There is always a beginning. A start of something. It can be hard to identify when it began.

They say that the beginning is the best place to start but who are they?

I want to start in the middle. At a time before it spiraled into darkness for my only brother.

Because it wasn’t always bad for him. It was bad when it began and at the end but it wasn’t always hard. Maybe it began around the time that I was born. Maybe it was when Mum became ill. I’m not sure, as I don’t remember. My perception is through other people’s memories and stories of that time. Memories that are warped by my mother’s self-preservation or my father’s inability to communicate emotions prior to my brother’s death.

Overnight my father aged 10 years, went grey and discovered his emotions. I guess the loss of a child will do that. For my mother she clings to a version of events that bridges the gap between reality and appeasing her guilt. I have found subtle amusement over the years in listening to her morph the truth to suit herself until I can see that she truly believes her own half-truths. I on the other hand wear my guilt like a veil that I know can only be lifted with time and self-forgiveness.

Back to the middle…..

My brother, Peter, was 9 years older than me. As adults the age gap was almost irrelevant.

The traveller from overseas had come home with an English girl to settle down in Melbourne. For a time, we were a normal family. A fractured version of a normal family with the past always in the background. For a moment, he was complete and we were happy as a united family. Something that I hadn’t really had growing up.

Even as a child, I didn’t quite understand why I went to private schools and lived at home with my parents while he was shuffled around boys’ homes.

There was a perfectly good bedroom next to mine after all. But my parents didn’t talk about it in front of me and I knew not to ask any questions.

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All children need is to know they are loved

COLUMNS

Repeat after me. All children need is to know that they are loved. Say it every day, have it tattooed on your forehead and write it in the sky. All children need is to know that they are loved.

I was reminded of this as I read a story about a Family Court judge in New Zealand who ruled that a girl named Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii could change her name. Her parents actually named her Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii. The judge then cited examples of children named Midnight Chardonnay, Number 16 Bus Shelter, Violence and twins called Benson and Hedges. Funny? Sure. A bit off topic? Absolutely. But it reminded me yet again that children do not need unusual names to make them special.

They are special. And all they need to know is that they are loved.

Kids don’t need an en suite, computer games, jumping castles, ukulele lessons, bandanas, ironed clothes, matching socks, fancy private schools, trophies, in-ground pools, electric toothbrushes and rooms full of toys.

They don’t need to have a bath every day. They don’t need their own room. It’s OK if they sleep in their clothes and have Weet-Bix for dinner in front of the telly every now and then. Lollies, plastic junk that gets broken underfoot, fancy renovations, junk food and outsourcing parenting are not good ways to love them. Loving them is the only way to love them.

It won’t spoil them. It won’t make them greedy. Loving them will teach them there’s enough to go round and there’s no need to be stingy. Loving children will teach them to love. Withholding love will teach them to withhold.

When I had my first child, I asked people what they did with their second child. There were a lot of uptight first children around and second and subsequent children generally seemed more relaxed. People said things such as happy parents equals happy baby, follow the child and don’t muck about with cloth nappies, just go the disposables. I thought to myself, I’m not going to treat this baby like he’s an only child. I’m going to treat him as if he’s got four brothers and sisters.

When my eldest was four days old, he wouldn’t stop crying. People were getting more and more anxious about trying to stop him crying. Pacing up and down the hall, patting, jiggling. The cries got louder and louder. I was lying on the bed and said: “Give him to me.” I held him and said: “You just cry as long as you want.” Calm descended. Instead of struggling with the reality (thanks to a few champagnes), I went with it. I used this technique many times and although it never stopped a baby from crying, a toddler from whinging, a child from nagging or a bunch of kids from squabbling, it stopped me from struggling with what was happening.

Around the age of 60, people seem to start looking back on their lives. Before then, they were too preoccupied living it. My new theory on parenting is to parent like a grandparent. All the grandparents I know look back on their parenting days and tell me they wish they’d been more relaxed and less controlling. They wish they’d enjoyed it more. Sure, get the homework done, teach them to be kind to each other, to help out and to wait their turn. It just means not going into conniptions when they leave their wet towels on the bathroom floor. It means stopping what you’re doing to give them a cuddle on the couch, tell them a story or lie together on the trampoline looking at the clouds. Just for a moment.

The wisest bloke I know is a cabinetmaker. His name is Michael Clarke. He’s 60 in January and has spent 45 years going into homes installing wardrobes, drawers and bookshelves to help people store their stuff. His wife’s a psychologist. The two of them have spent a great deal of time in other people’s lives and under their roofs. He told me they’ve come to the conclusion, with their vast and varied experience, that the only thing you can do for your kids is to get your own shit together.

When you were a kid isn’t that all you wanted? To know that you were loved and to feel that your parents were trying, and sometimes failing, but at least trying to get their shit together? Is it possible that it really is that simple?

Looking for the perfect Christmas gift? Gunnas Writing Masterclass, Write Here, Write Now, Gunnas Weekend Writing Retreat! 

 

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Part Six. South Of Fucken France Biarritz

COLUMNS

There is so little hoo haa about crossing borders in Europe. As an Australian we’re used to multiple hours of plane travel, airports, visas, injections, passport control and palaver as a part of being in another country. On the bus from San Sebastian to Biarritz we only knew we had crossed the boarder into France when our phones sent us updated roaming charges due to changing country. ‘Huh,’ said Bear, ‘We’re in France’.

Jesus fuck remember how incredible it seemed crossing the Murray River and seeing a sign telling us we were no longer in Victoria but now in fucking NEW SOUTH WALES? We’d peer around rubber necked and blinking noting the people looked the same but the licence plates on the cars, the flavored milk brands and the chemist names were different? I was 10 when we went on school camp to Swan Hill and crossed the border into NSW. It was like visiting Narnia. I was certain I ‘felt’ different and the people looked ‘not like us.’ We had to be super careful not to accidently leave an apple in our bags on the way back over the boarder to Victoria because we may inadvertently destroy the entire agricultural system of Australia. WHAT THE FUCK IS FRUIT FLY?

A mate has a story about being a young backpacker 25 years ago in Switzerland driving around with a group of yahoos trying to find a party. They were lost so went into a shop to ask directions only to be told they were actually in Italy not Switzerland. IMAGINE TAKING A WRONG TURN AND BEING IN ANOTHER COUNTRY! NO I FUCKING CAN’T.

We arrived in Biarritz 1ish. I’d never hear of Biarritz before, it was Jess’s idea and to be honest I just go along with anything she suggests because she is a fucking genius. Biarritz. I liked it because it was ‘It’s beer’ backwards. Kinda. Well it’s Biarritz in the way Yoda would say it.

I once spent a week with my mate Caitlin and our seven kids in a place called Toora simply because it was A Root spelled backwards. We spent a week in cabins at a holiday park with a jumping pillow. Every night we barbequed I wore a tee shirt that said I Love My Girlfriend. Towards the end of the trip I discovered if I wore it inside out it said I Hate My Girlfriend. Funny looks. Good times.

Biarritz is in The South Of France. When I think ‘The South Of France’ I immediately think ‘Playground Of The Rich And Famous’. It’s one of those things people drop into conversation and I think ‘They are rich, they are cool, they are cultured’. I had no idea about The South Of France but it sounded like something I was very keen to be able to drop into conversation. ‘Ah yes, South Of France. Bit of a fucking shithole if you ask me. Not as good as Australia FUCKEN LUCKY COUNTRY BEST PLACE IN THE WORLD CUNT’ etc…

So here we were in Biarritz. We wound through the hilly streets and found our Airbnb apartment block. It was old, dinky and the five flights of carpeted stairs had the smell of everyone’s nanas place in the best possible way. Old. Ancient. Full of history and secrets. The apartment was small but perfect. No wifi? No problem. It was just a place to recharge ourselves and our devices. We’re not here to fuck spiders.

We immediately headed down to the main drag for food and beach. We were looking for a joint someone had recommended called Blue something but couldn’t find it so ended up somewhere else. An outside bistro with a view of the beach, a building site and what appeared to be the French version of Cotton On, proof that every country has it’s bogans. We ordered some unmemorable but satisfactory food and I was mesmerized by two French women a few tables away.

They were well dressed women in their 60s out to lunch with their two little dogs. Dogs in restaurants in Europe? I fucking love it. Never understood why in Australia kids and Collingwood supported are allowed in cafes but dogs aren’t.

So these women ordered their food, a glass of wine and every time they put food on their forks both little dogs reached their front paws as closely as they could to their owners knees and stood on their back legs hustling for a morsel. It would have made a great photo but I wasn’t in the right position and I don’t bust my arse to take holiday snaps. There is a line between making an effort to take snaps to jolt your memories and share with your friends and being totally preoccupied with every photo op. I did think ‘Chances are if I’ve seen it once I’ll see it again.’ Didn’t.

After the women finished their lunch and their wine they ordered café gourmand. Café gourmand is your after meal coffee served with three small desserts. Something like a little cake, a mini crème brulee and a macaroon. It’s fucking brilliant. Of course it’s ‘controversial’ in France. Some say the food is poor quality because it’s leftovers; others say coffee should be a thing on it’s own and not diluted by anything else. I LOVE café gourmand because a) I am a guts and b) because I never want a dessert I just want to try everyone else’s. I think there’s a club for that called everyone.

After the French women had finished their lunch, wine and café gourmand (with none of this ‘oooooh I’ll be naughty’, ‘oh I really shouldn’t’, ‘lucky I wore stretchy pants’ annoying boring bullshit, they just ordered, got stuck in and enjoyed), you know what these old French dames did?

Lit up cigars.

Jesus I could have jumped the table and kissed them. Life goals.

We finished our lunch and wandered along the pier for an ice cream and as I licked it strolling along the promenade having a squiz I thought to myself ‘South Of France. I am on the beach in the South Of France’. The ice cream was great. Just the same as Australia but in the South Of France.

The beach with it’s regulation sand, water, sky and attractive nonchalant people reminded me a little of Bondi. As we lay our towels down there was a gorgeous toddler with her ridiculously beautiful parents who was whinging non-stop despite their efforts to appease her. I am not sure why this amused me but I kept thinking, ‘So you’re on a beach in the South Of France with not only perfect weather but your good looking doting parents and you’re still whinging. Fucking humans. AMIRITE?’

We lay our towels down and Bear immediately went to sleep as he does because he is gifted in many ways and the area he is most skilled in is napping. We call it The Austrian Sleeping Syndrome. Jess checked her social media and I read.

The book I was reading was I Am, I Am, I Am by Maggie O’Farrell. I met Maggie on the Trans Siberian Express when I was 25. She was clever and cute and had a ridiculously adorable boyfriend. They had both just graduated from Cambridge and were smart, funny, well-travelled Brits. I am not sure how I found this out but Maggie is now a brilliant and super famous writer. She generally writes fiction but her latest book is a memoir about the 17 times in her life she almost died inspired by her young daughters extreme allergies.

‘O’Farrell’s middle child is eight years old. Since birth, she has suffered extreme allergic reactions between 12 and 15 times a year, one or two of which will tip her into full-blown anaphylactic shock. This book is a literary exercise in normalising the near-death experience.’

Jess asked me what I was reading and I explained the book and how I knew Maggie. I asked if Jess wanted me to read her a chapter. ’That would be great’ she said ‘ I love being read to’ and about three pages in she began to snore.

So I lay soaking up the sun while Bear and Jess slept either side of me. I pondered the magic of reading a book by someone you met travelling while you are travelling and her book not only writes about travelling but mentions the ACTUAL trip where you met.

The toddler had stopped whinging and I watched three women around my age chat non-stop for an hour. They reminded me of my friend Marie-Louise and Genevieve. We holiday on the same beach every year and have made a sport from outstanding beach conversations.

We wandered back to the apartment, dressed for some dinner and headed out to a Basque place called Bar Jean for dinner.

We had only been in Biarritz for a few hours and all three of us had already become enamored with a giant bronze statue at the end of our street of a massive sheila we named Sheila. She was not some majestic or ethereal marble figure but a sturdy thick bare footed girl with hips, cankles and practical hair. We read the plaque. La femme Basque, Francisco Leiro. Call the whalers on stormy days.

So we passed Sheila on the way and posed for a snap.

The night was food, laughs and a wander in our new super comfortable Camper boots. At one point a marching band past with a crowd of 80 or so people following. We dawdled home through the town, up and down the hills and along the beach until we found ourselves climbing the five stories to our little apartment with the sea view that you could only see if you wedged yourself between the toilet and the wall and stood on one foot.

I love being five stories up in an apartment because of the views, the quiet and even the flights of stairs. After busy days walking or riding and almost in our bed I love to look up at the five story apartment block and think ‘Big day already and I have to climb a mountain before I go to bed. Game on.’

We woke and as expected the weather was cooler. We had three days in Biarritz. The first and last day of our trip had perfect beach weather and the middle day we knew was going to be mild and cloudy. Perfect slow day. I love a slow travel day. I find it impossible to carve out a slow travel day if the weather is brilliant. It’s always great when the weather is shit so I am forced to slow down. Otherwise I am FUCK LOOK AT THE WEATHER GET UP GET UP WE’RE IN A NEW PLACE!

We began the day with a bad American breakfast at Milwaukee, which according to our internet search seemed our best chance of a decent coffee. It wasn’t. Bear headed home to play guitar (he takes a Washburn travel bass for his medicinal need to do stuff with his hands, his guitar playing is often like his knitting). Jess and I wandered around the shops and I picked up a blue linen frock at a little market stall. As the northern hemisphere descended into winter I shoved my new dress into my bag smugly imagining myself of riding down the Merri Creek to the Coburg Pool wearing it while The South Of France was cold and dark.

The woman who sold me the dress said ‘Very nice. Good fit. And the price is very interesting!’

We kept wandering and I remarked that I do almost my shopping online in Australia. Jess was the same. We both only shop in actual stores when we are travelling. I went through everything I was wearing. All online purchases. Including my bag. We wandered into Galerie Lafayette (the French version of Myer) and each picked up a couple of scarves. I have always been a big scarf fan and Jess lives in Paris where EVERYONE wears scarves. The weather in Paris is quite mercurial and similar to Melbourne in that way. Most people do a lot of walking between home, work, socialising, subway and chores and scarves help regulate the constantly changing temperatures. Also chic. Jess and I found ourselves wandering around the department store chatting and holding things up against ourselves and looking in the mirror. We were having an incredibly relaxing time, neither had done this with a girlfriend for decades.

Jess suddenly remembered she was kind of interested in buying a new leather jacket. I told her she should buy one while I was in town so I could get the tax back at the airport. We tried on things, bought some bits and pieces and I said ‘Fucking hell look at us Jess we’re like a couple of surgeon’s wives out shopping while our husbands are at a conference.’ She couldn’t choose between a black motorbike jacket and a yellow bomber jacket with a fur collar. ‘Why not both?’ I said.

We hooked up with Bear around lunchtime and headed to a bar on the hill called Kostaldea. It was a lovely long walk where we got lost, got found and talked mainly Jess’s ‘visagiste’.

When we all met up in San Sebastian all three of us remarked on how good her hair looked ‘Who cut it?’ asked Em.

‘I don’t go to a hairdresser anymore I go to… a visagist.’

We all roared laughing and it became not only a running joke but a bit of an obsession for me. What was a visagist? Should I go? What would my hairdresser in Melbourne say? He’s a bit like a controlling boyfriend who watches me all the time and never lets me out of his sight.

‘A visagist,’ said Jess tossing her mane and theatrically fingering her curls, ‘is not just someone who simply cuts your hair. It’s someone who finds the essence of who you are and what your style is and sculpts your hair accordingly.

She too has a bit of a possessive hairdresser who has been known to COME TO PARIS FROM FRANKSTON to cut her hair.

I was tossing up a visit to the visagist purely for the story, (that’s how I make all my decisions in life, what would harvest the best anecdotes) but decided an afternoon in Paris sitting in a chair having my hair fondled by a wanker was not the best use of my time.

‘The style assessment and the haircut doesn’t take that long it’s the special drying technique where you sit under one of those old fashioned dryers that takes up all the time. Tell him to do the cut without the drying…’

We found the restaurant behind a golf course on top of the hill. It was more an open air bar than a restaurant so instead of a meal, a view and a glass of wine we ordered multiple serves of their one bar food platter (bread, ham, cheese and pickles) and got drunk on wheat beer while watching the surfers below and planning our next trip.

We rolled down the hill extolling the virtues of daytime drinking and arrived home around five o’clock. We promptly all feel asleep had a nap for an hour or so and then cleaned ourselves up for dinner.

It was a long lovely stroll down the street, paid homage to Sheila, then through the town, over the hill and down onto the beach to Le Surfing a funky casual bistro, more Australian in feel than heavy rich European. Another lovely night.

We did see surfers surfing in Biarritz. It was all a bit sad to be honest. A lot of people for a few shit waves. Despite the fact in France surfing is actually prescribed by doctors for depression.

We woke early keen to grab some gorgeous sun before our 2pm train to Paris. We packed up, had a quick coffee, pastry and juice at the boulangerie and hit the beach. Jess is from Frankston so she rented a wetsuit and a board and hit the waves showing those French cunts what for. Actually I don’t think she even caught a wave. We sucked up as much sun as we could before one by one we head back to the apartment. Bear went back to vacuum and clean the bathroom (this is the only Airbnb I have ever stayed in where you actually have to clean it and not just leave it tidy I mean who would want to stay in a place cleaned by the previous AirBnb visitors?). Jess went up to Galeries Lafayette to carpe diem and buy the two jackets she saw and use my travellers tax free exception and I stayed on the beach eking out the last minutes on the beach. It was much easier knowing I was heading home to warming temperatures. A lot of the Europeans on the beach had the grim look of people on the Titanic. I felt smug. Suffer in your jocks frogs.

Jess had taken my passport to get the tax free deducted from her jackets hoping to pass as me thinking something along the lines of ‘we all look the same to them’. Unfortunately they didn’t buy it and she texted me to meet her at Galeries Lafayette. No prob. I packed up my towel, had a quick dip and headed up the hill. I was wet so I walked along the beach drying off with my sarong around my waist and when I hit the shops, stalls and throngs of wandering I continued.

In Paris NO one wears active/sports/casual/mooching gear in the street. NO ONE. If you are going to the gym you wear your smart street clothes and when you arrive at the gym you changed into your sportswear then when you finish your work out you change back into your smart street gear and walk home. Jess has a mate who does Pilates everyday. The studio is around the corner from her house. Literally ONE BLOCK. Everyday she walks around tp the Pilates studio in her smart street clothes, gets changed, does her one-hour work out, gets changed again and then walks the block to home.

So I walked along in bathers and a sarong towards Galerie Lafayette and a man dressed in 50 shades of cerise and a panama hat loaded down with shopping bags waiting outside an expensive shop for what one assumes would be his partner gives me the biggest dirtiest look.

I just turned to him and said ‘Apres moi le deluge’ (after me, the flood).

I popped on a frock and sorted out Jess and her jackets, signed the forms and we headed back to the apartment for the final time via a place called Bali Bowl a hole in the wall that sold ‘superfood’ smoothie bowls (vomit) had good coffee that took a bizarrely long time to make.

As we turned up the hill to pay homage to Sheila for the final time I heard a voice from across the street ‘Catherine?’

I turned and it was Heide. A mate of Hugo (my 16 year old) on exchange in France. I’ve known this girl since she was in prep. I’d seen her recently at a do in Melbourne for a French exchange student being hosted by my mate Faith and I knew she’d left Melbourne a few weeks ago because I’d seen it on Facebook. I did not expect to run into her as I was wandering through the South Of France in my bathers.

I ran across the road and embraced her. “FUCK WE HAVE TO TAKE A PHOTO YOUR MUM WILL LOSE HER SHIT”. I then looked up and saw she was with her host family. A very French looking mother and a couple of teenage host siblings.

Heide said ‘I just walked passed Stephanie Alexander, now you!’

‘Who next?’ I said ‘Catriona Rowntree? Denise Drysdale?’

Here’s hoping her host family’s English isn’t that good. Jess joined us as I spoke bad French to her host mother and her host mother spoke bad English back to me. I introduced Jess and explained in English to Heide that Jess had been an exchange student too and not only is she now fluent in French but she lives in Paris and works as a manager in tourism.

I was so happy to bump into Heide. When I asked her how it was going she said ‘Up and down’. Being an exchange student is very hard. Not only are you a gangly awkward teenager but you are thrown into a new family, culture and school. My eldest son had a disastrous exchange experience and I have to say it’s the most stressful thing I have ever experienced. So much so the exchange company no longer sends students to that country. They’d had too many similar situations before. I would have loved for Dom to have bumped into a friendly face from home one of those days when things were tough.

(Re Dom’s exchange, he came home and hit the ground running, made sense of it in the way he does and in November is heading back on his own for a month to make peace with it.)

Jess and the host mother spoke in French. The mother had said ‘She came with nothing’ referring to Heide’s French. ‘Yep, that’s normal. That’s the Australian education system’ said Jess (who had also been a school teacher in Australia for eight years) ‘I was the same. Don’t speak any English to her. Only French.’ The mother also added that Heide had made massive progress in a very short time.

If things had been more down than up that day I hoped that little random interaction could help smooth and lubricate for both Heide and her host mother. Hats off to exchange students and their host families. It’s an incredibly valuable thing to do. After the war the all Germans children learned French at school and there were many exchange programmes between the countries to patch up the wounds.

When I posted the photo and reported the sighting to the mums from the primary school we all had a massive laugh ‘Those kid have to be very fucking careful. They never know when one of the school mums is watching them. EVEN if they are in another country!’

We grabbed the cases, dragged them down the five flights of stairs, caught a cab and pretty soon we found ourselves at the Biarritz train station. We stocked up with some assorted charcuterie and a few excellent baguettes from a vending machine and we were on schedule for dinner in Paris.

****
COMING! Part Seven. Paris!  (there are 20 parts to total)
Did you know you can buy Gunnas Writing Masterclass VOUCHERS here?
 
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On Teenagers, ATAR Results And Young People

COLUMNS

On Teenagers

Adults need to stop asking young people what they want to do or be when they grow up or finish school, and instead, if they want to talk to a young person find our what they are doing or being NOW.

It’s lovely adults care but rather than focus on young people’s ‘future’ perhaps the best way adults could care is to let them know it’s normal not to know or be confused and not to worry about any of that stuff until they are 30.

This is not only because technology has us moving towards less jobs and a living wage.

Often adults ask young people about ‘what they are going to do’ in order to find a subject to talk about. The adult then goes on to approve or disapprove of the young person’s choice, to pigeonhole them or go into a rant about how the correct way the young person should go about their life.

This is not a conversation. This is a way adults create a social interaction so they can tell young people what to do and how to do it.

Teenagers need to focus on being teenagers. There is enough stuff to learn and to do than worry about the pressure to predict what a future self in a future world may want to do. I tell my sons 15, 17 and 20 everything I have needed to know I have learned from travel, living with people and working in hospitality. It’s important for boys and men in particular to be encouraged not to be defined by career or money.
I understand young people may have a desire to see themselves as something other than a kid or a student but I think it’s unwise for that definition to be a job, a profession, a course or a university. So many miserable grown ups have become that way because they have committed to a job/course/profession because of often well meaning people attempting to ‘encourage’ them. This usually manifests as the young person feeling pressure and not wanting to disappoint. Rather than demanding an answer from young people about what they want to do or be perhaps it’s wiser to focus on what they are doing and being and who they are and what they love.

When my kids fret about ‘the future’ I just say ‘You know what you have to focus on right now? Being a 14yo. That’s your only job. Be a 14yo.’

I understand the ‘Say something so adults will stop asking’ but I disagree strongly. There is nothing wrong with young people saying ‘no idea’, actually it’s a far better answer. Not only does a place holder answer put pressure on the young people to follow through but if they change their mind and don’t get the ATAR necessary it makes them feel even worse and as if they ‘failed’ seeing as though they ‘promised’. It also suggests that their present life is of no importance and just a holding pattern and the only thing worth having a conversation about is ‘the future’ when they are ‘an adult’.

It’s almost as if ‘well the only conversation worth having is with an adult or about being an adult’.

Focus on the sport they are into, their social lives, what music they’re listening to, what games they are playing, what YouTubes they are watching, who they are hanging out with, how they are finding their part time job etc. Most the young people I know are very, very interested in discussing politics and culture. They are often far more informed than I am about many things and it makes for a great chat.

Adults need to stop trying to help young people with their future and instead simply witness and encourage their present. Your ‘help’ often isn’t helping.

Another thing I have noticed is that almost all men and boys assume they are going to work full time for their entire lives, I assume to support a family and/or for status and identity. VERY FEW WOMEN HAVE EVER THOUGHT LIKE THIS. Women assume for many reasons they will work full time, part time and not at all due mostly to assuming they will have children and take time out of career to do that.

It’s bizarre that men and boys don’t think that way too. They should and it’s not only about encouraging men to be more involved in caring for their children it’s about encouraging boys and men to care for themselves and not simply see themselves as walking wallets or wage slaves. How many times have you heard women say they want ‘a rich man’ or men say ‘if I were wealthy that women would love me’?

Men need to have more balanced lives and be encouraged to be more rounded people. As men embrace this the added benefit will be giving women more flexibility and less excuses to be financially dependant on others and drop out of participation in and contributing to life outside their front door.

Women and girls need to stop thinking of themselves as being defined by their relationships with others but by who they themselves are, what they think and what they want.

‘What would you like to be when you grow up?’

‘An adult that can think of better things to ask teenagers ‘what do you want to be when you grow up?’

On ATAR Results

‘Alan’s leaving’ said my youngest son, ‘His parents are sending him to some private school. How can they afford a private school when they own a $2 shop? If everything is so cheap how can they make any money?’

‘So Alan’s starting year 8 there?’ I said.

‘No they couldn’t get him in when they wanted so he’ll be repeating year 7 next year.’

‘Is this Alan who does two hours tutoring every night?’

‘Yeah and his parents give him $10 a day for lunch but he’s only allowed to play 30 minutes computer games between his tutor and all the homework he gets. The only fun he has is at our school. And now he’s going to some private school because his parents want him to be a doctor.’

‘What about his brother’s and sisters? Is it the same for them?’ I asked.

‘He’s an only child. His family came to Australia three years ago.’

********

My eldest son got his VCE marks this time last year. It was a happy day. He was rapt with his ATAR score and delighted with his English mark. English was all he cared about. He’s dyslexic and wants to make a career from words, ideas and stories. Even though he wasn’t focused on a specific score, course or university he got well above the marks to enroll in the course he’s most likely to choose.

Watching my son go through the VCE experience made me understand why and precisely how our current year 12 system is unfair. The best we can hope for is that the VCErs are happy with their score and the felt it reflected their effort and/or ability.

I’ve always said to my kids ‘chose the subjects you love and your life will follow’. The ‘follow your passion’ and ‘do something you love and you’ll never work a day in your life’ encouragement has embedded it another pressure. The pressure to ‘find your passion’. And what if they don’t want to make a living from their passion for the fear it will lose it’s sparkle?

I have no interest in any of my three son’s marks unless they want to share their delight or disappointment. If they walk through the door and said ‘Guess what I got 89% on the test last week!’ I’d say ‘Well done! You must be rapt!’. If they walk through the door and said ‘I’m really pissed off I thought I’d done really well and only got 62% on the humanities essay’ I’d say ‘Well that sucks. Can I make you a milkshake? Would you like me to organize you some extra help? Let me know.’

I have never been focused on my children’s marks, only their behavior, effort and happiness. My hopes have been for them to be resilient and well rounded.

On the day the year 12 results roll in there is always a non stop media stream of spectacular high achievers punctuated by messages of news of how my mates kids and my son’s friends went. The day my eldest son got his ATAR the day dislodged something in me and I reflected deeply and widely.

There were rolling stories about teenagers getting near perfect scores. I wondered how this was even possible. As a dyslexic it’s impossible to conceive how anyone can rote learn or remember even the simplest things. I am 49 and still can’t tell my left from my right.

It was even more difficult for me to imagine wanting those kinds of marks in order to be accepted into the type of courses that required those marks, or even just wanting high marks for the sake of high marks. I’m a completionist not a perfectionist. Ps get degrees and all that.

I was happy for high achieving kids and their teachers. Everybody deserves celebration and recognition. They worked hard and have marks to prove it. But working hard is not guarantee a person will get a result that reflects it.

There would be kids who worked as hard if not harder and received far lower marks on ATAR Monday. Some students work hard, some have huge support, some have a natural ability to find academia effortless, many are blessed with a few of these.

How much of a success is it for a clever kid who finds school work easy and enjoyable with amazing support at school and home to get an excellent ATAR?

I couldn’t help wondering what the costs and the pressures were of those marks for those kids who had done exceptionally well.

I wondered what the high achieving kid’s motivation were. The pressures they were under and the expectations the people around them had of them. I wondered what those kids missed out on. I wondered how they would feel when the thrill of the high mark they received and the prestigious course they were accepted into faded. Would they be happy, relieved and relaxed? Would they feel daunted? Would they feel the approval from their parents was love? Would they be excited about studying an area they were passionate in? Would they be grateful for the incredible sacrifices and investment their parents made and the opportunities afforded them?

Or would they do what was expected of them regardless of their own personal interests. They, their parents, their teachers and school had invested such a huge amount would it seem wrong to ‘waste’ the marks they got and the doors those marks opened?

On the day the scores came out I wondered about the kids with the super high scores. I kept thinking suddenly the bar had been lifted so high for those kids and it was all down hill from here.

When you get an average or above average mark there is plenty of room to surprise or impress. Under promise over deliver. When you score an ATAR of 99.9 and get into medicine or law at Melbourne Uni the only way is down.

Would the parents of students who receive close to perfect ATAR scores feel vindicated by the investment they made in expensive schools and tutors? I’m sure some kids would have enjoyed the challenging ride. Others would have been panicked by the fear of disappointing their parents who had so much hanging on their outcome. Other kids would have failed their parent’s expectations.

Mostly I wondered about the cost. Not financial but human and emotional. Yes they got high marks and no matter how much effort a student, their parents and their teachers put in not all kids would be able to achieve these marks.

Around the time the VCE results came out I joined the biggest VCE Facebook page and lurked a little. After not giving this particular juncture in time any real thought I was suddenly fascinated by what a strange day the ATAR result day is. It means nothing and everything. As I scanned the page there was a mix of students satisfied, thrilled and disappointed. There is so much leading up to this day but so much more ahead for these young people.

The page was full of selfie videos of people getting their results. Some reacting to getting the ATAR they hoped for, some being shocked at a score much lower than they expected and some in disbelief when their expectations were exceeded.

This post broke my heart.

‘For the people think the Asian stereotype is a joke:
I got an atar of 91.65 and my parents weren’t exactly the happiest parents in the world. The first question I got out of them was how come you got such a low atar? What I can’t tell them is that leaving you 8000 miles away in a foreign country with a sister who constantly fights with you, whilst battling depression and constant anxiety weren’t exactly the best of circumstances.’

As the day progressed I thought about the many hundreds of people I knew who’s life’s had not in any way shape or formed turned out the way you would have predicted if you had simply judged it on their year 12 results.

A girl who is also dyslexic received a score well below what she had expected and hoped for. According to her mum she was ‘in shock’. I wanted to run to where ever she was and hug her and tell her it is okay, it’s was okay and it will be okay. The education system is crazy and does not reflect a people’s ability or effort unless you are a particular kind of person with a particular set of genetic and socio economic advantages.

I wanted to tell her an amazing ATAR does not insulate you from unhappiness, failure, self-hatred, abuse, addiction, grief, envy, depression, anxiety, sickness, bad luck or a broken heart.

The girl is fabulous and I can’t wait to see how her story will end, I can’t wait to see the world recalibrate and when she gets her moment to shine that will put this tiny insignificant blip into perspective.

On ATAR results day Facebook threw two articles into my feed back to back. The first article was about parents of 24-year-old twins with severe disabilities. It was a sobering read as the media was constantly updating the perfect scores of perfect kids by the minute. These parents are still parenting their adult children as if they were three years old. I wondered what their expectations for their children were? What would these parents consider an extraordinary achievement. Their daughters showering themselves, catching a bus or getting dressed?

The next article was about a Syrian refugee, Saad Al-Kassab who despite missing out on several years of schooling and only beginning learning English in 2014 received an ATAR of 96.65. He was disappointed. He was hoping for an ATAR score of 98. Saad is going to study medicine his mum wants him to be a doctor.

I can’t stop thinking about Alan who’s starting at ‘some private school’ next year. His parents arrived in this country three years ago and are giving him what they see as the best chance in life. Private school, tutors, high expectations, limited free time and the chance of a better life they never had.

Alan’s parents want him to be a doctor.

I wonder what Alan wants.

Alan is 12 years old.

“The greatest burden a child must bear is the unlived life of its parents.” Carl Jung

On Young People

Son: Don’t cook dinner for me tonight
Me: Where you off to?
Son: You know Milo Yiannopoulos?
Me: *heart sinks*
Son: We’re going to the city for this thing
Me: This thing? You’re going to hear him speak?
Son: No way! The lads and I are going to the protest
Me: *heart restarts*

When you teach your kids how to think not what to think you have many moments like this. Sometimes they will be curious about views you don’t share or endorse. In that case I always a take a very relaxed stance and say ‘I’ll be interested to hear what you make of that.’ When they tell me their take on it I nod and make noises.

I never ever try and ‘talk them out of it’ or say ‘that’s stupid you’re an idiot’. I have a lot of faith in all young people. Love them with an open hand.

If you are attempting to raise your child to think for themselves how could you be get angry when they do? Surely you should think ‘Fantastic, they think something I disagree with, clearly they have learned to think and not just mimic their parents.’

Let their intellectual, creative, social and political curiosity do it’s own thing untethered. If you take them on and try to argue with them or change their mind it can pull their own perfectly accurate instinct and moral compass off course. Muddling through to find out what they think is a complicated process as they separate from their parents, find out who they are and become fine young adults.

Another thing we can provide is a soft landing for when they fuck up. A non-judgmental place where they can catch their breath and lick their wounds.

It’s a parents’ job to become redundant.

******

You may also like… Tips for parents of Year 12s

I got 51% for HSC English. These days my writing is used on year 12 exams.  I also run Gunnas Writing Masterclass all over Australia and have had 6000 people attend since 2014. Yes we do vouchers. Love to see you.

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Ode to a new school year – Heroic Jasmine

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

Ode to a new school year – a teacher’s work is never done

Here’s a ‘write out’ colleagues who aren’t overjoyed, happy excited to be beginning the new school year (yet again).

I’m not writing for the bright eyed and bushy tailed newly qualified youngsters or not so youngsters who anxious yet sooo happy to have a job and to be gearing up to be getting to to know their new companions over the next school year. Every year they get a guernsey. They get a greeting and a photo op in the local or even national papers. Their Australia Day is filled with optimism and anticipation as they look forward (finally) to the start of a new school year. They’re set, as far as they can be. ‘Smart not too casual’ clothes? Check. Plans for their classroom layout? Scope and sequence curriculum planning documents? Check. Check. Posters? Displays? Board work? Check. Check. Check.

No, those aren’t the colleagues I’m writing for.

I’m writing for all my teaching colleagues who spend Australia Day hoping the following week won’t be spent in a poorly furnished classroom which is boiling hot and without any form of functional cooling, I’m writing for those who hope that the ‘first day back meetings’ will allow for at least half an hour to find out where the new office is and what furniture, carpeting and other items need to be brought from home to make it habitable. Extra time to actually remove last year’s coffee, blood sweat and tearstains from a small patch of desk would be a bonus!

I’m writing for the ‘old teaching hands’ who will need to hunt for the set questions, assignments, rubrics, essay topics, list of ‘to dos’ and other essential materials they managed hurriedly to cobble together for Week One D-day before being the last to leave the building in a frazzled yet lethargic heap after the end of term ‘chicken and champers’ and congratulatory backslapping the night before last minute Christmas shopping.

I’m writing to encourage, commiserate with and salute all my colleagues who look and feel old before their time, especially after the habitual nightmare before term starts way too early yet again. Yes, that’s right, those who have been in the teaching and child and helicopter parent wrangling game far too long. Those who are over spending their hard earned holidays taken at the most expensive time of year in locations where they are still unable to avoid the “Hi Miiiis” and “Hey Sir” (of the unwanted yet still polite) cries of their inescapable charges.

I’m writing to wish all the best for the new school year to those who really deserve it and keep coming back, year after long school year because they are committed and do it in spite of the lack of acknowledgement. Good Luck and Happy New School Year!

*** Special Best wishes for those, like me celebrating their birthdays on the first day of the new school year when you really can’t come up with any believable or acceptable reason for celebrating they way you really want to…elsewhere.

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Limits – Sarah Nicole Sheldon

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

I am a single mum and I raise my two kids alone with very little help or support.  My kids have high needs. They both have disabilities, are both ASD (Autistic), are affected in different ways and I need to parent my kids differently.  This is not all of who I am, and it’s not all of who my kids are, but sometimes it can feel that that is all that is seen.

It can feel like my own individual identity gets eaten by my special needs parenting identity.  People’s perception of what that means can be exhausting. Their pity so strong it stinks.  Some days are hard.  Some days are hard for everyone.  Parenting in general can be hard and sometimes in our house, the days are endless and excruciating.  The pressure relentless, the loneliness overwhelming, my fear, stress and knowledge of my own inadequacy grows until it steals all the air in the room. 

And I can’t breathe. 

I can’t see.

I can’t speak. 

The space from where I am, and where I want to be, it grows too.

Grows into a thing with power and life, and takes up a space it doesn’t deserve.  A small part of me speaks the truth, that I am only one person, and what I am dealing with was never designed for only one person.  But the sharper truth is that I am the only person left.  Inadequate and all.  

That is the truth.

It is the truth, that I wish was a lie.

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Fear, my voice and sleep – Olivia Sayer

Gunnas-Masters

Another brilliant piece from a GUNNAS WRITING MASTERCLASS WRITER 

‘So where am I’ I hear you ask. Right now. Now. At just right now.

Well I’m stuck. Totally stuck. You could say I’m stuck in a rut, a loving rut, a cosy comfortable rut. Or perhaps I could say it’s a loud rut. A rut that would be nice if it was quieter. Less drama of a rut, a rut that I need to find my way out of. I must do something fast and just seriously stop listening to her talking in my head. You know, that annoying one. The one who never shuts up unless she is sleeping. The one who totally ruins my mood in the morning if I haven’t had enough sleep.

Sleep, ahhhh yes how powerful it is with its healing properties. I am not sorry to say this, sleep is not overrated. Out bodies begin to collapse if they don’t reboot. Our bodies heal when they rest while sleeping.  Even though she knows all of this, she resists sleeping enough in the hope she will reach to clarity.

I wish I just wish she would shut up. I wonder could I possibly turn her off? I wonder is she connected to wifi like everything else is these days? Turning her off would free me, would take off the reigns she has on me. She stops me, hinders me, annoys me, worries me for all her personal reasons justifications and excuses. I could get more sleep for starters, oh what I could do for more sleep.

Why is she so fearful? Do I really know? Yes, of course I do. She just doesn’t wanna get hurt again. She doesn’t want to be disappointed one more time.

She yearns for a sense of certainty for once in her life. It hasn’t existed for more than two decades. She put her life in a box and placed it on the shelf a decade ago to live someone else’s dreams and visions for the sake of love. Is that what you would call love?

Moving forwards without clarity cripples her. It’s horrifying for her to not know how things will unfold as she is a perfectionist and must get things right. Are these expectations of herself a little too much? Can’t she see how much she has accomplished all by her own accord.

She knows all she needs to do is surrender. Surrender to what is showing up right now in her life, which is easier said than done of course. She has got terabytes of knowledge and wisdom, which seems to be not enough. ‘Im so lost’ she says. ‘I don’t know what to do’ she gasps. ‘I just don’t know’ she cries.

How do we expect people to figure their life out on their own with the help of guidance or without the ear of an authentic listener? Do I know who I am? What my values are? What makes me want to fly out of bed? Getting to know yourself is a journey! Discovering aspects about yourself is about having the pieces of the puzzle finally fit with many aha moments.

This adventure ride is a totally unpredictable one which uncovers your deepest fears, self-doubts, limiting beliefs and vulnerabilities. You have to be willing to face the music and have the courage to allow yourself be scared.

Maybe that’s what she needs to do. Stop waiting for certainty and clarity. Do what she can today, no matter how small of a step towards her goal it may be and get enough sleep.

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