Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

You know those full moon nights?

The nights when we know the moon is full because our calendar tells us so, and because we feel an intensity stirring beneath the top layer of our skin, which has to be attributed to some greater astrological pull igniting our inner animalistic instincts to howl? …and yet, it’s one of those nights when the sky is shrouded by a thick layer of steamy clouds and so we can’t even reflect on the source of the intensity? 

You know those nights? 

Well I’m realising that I’m feeling rather stuck, lying sleepless beneath a grey layer of clouds, yet to be greeted by the rays of my insightful friend, the moon.

While dipping my toes in numerous contemporary esoteric communities, I’ve come across the term ‘Dark Night of the Soul’. I’ve often wondered where the term comes from and I’ve always sensed it describes a significantly challenging and yet potentially transformational life phase. I decided to verify my intuition by looking it up:

The 16th century poem, Dark Night of the Soul narrates the journey of the soul to mystical union with God. The journey is called “The Dark Night” in part because darkness represents the fact that the destination—God—is unknowable. (Wikipedia)

Well that certainly explains it – I am most definitely going through one of these dark night phases and I’m staring through the cracks of my window blinds praying for the first whispers from dawn. 

Perhaps I can attribute being stuck in this dark night purgatory because a part of my psyche constantly compares my privileged, westernised life to the lives of millions of others suffering globally. What this part of my mind tells me is that comparatively, what I am feeling vulnerable or worried about shouldn’t matter. I therefore, believe that my feelings don’t matter, I begin repressing the actuality of the pain I have stored in my cells and my nervous system remains jammed on hyperdrive.

I understand intellectually why dismissing my feelings isn’t helpful. I understand this concept well. I completely understand why dismissing the worthiness of my feelings disregards valid emotions and ultimately, is me gaslighting myself. I can clearly see how debilitating this behaviour is and yet, it’s happening.

I’m also considering that I refuse to teach something that I haven’t yet experienced. I don’t believe I have to be perfect at something or have it all figured out, and I do believe that leading someone to listen to their own guidance system requires me having listened to my guidance system. 

So, darn, I guess I’m in training once again. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m in training and I’m also very happy. I have an awesome life with an awesome family, we have so much fun together. I have buckets of gratitude and I’ve also become aware of trenches of fear. It’s hard to hold two entirely opposing feelings at the same time, so much so that my mind doesn’t know what on earth to do with it all?

The main problem with this dark night is that I’ve realised there’s no thinking my way out of it. It’s an experience mostly unaffected by my thoughts and, is therefore even more frustrating as my thoughts love to hold the reins. 

Despite this, I also feel love and loved like never before. I feel it exploding like the first rays of morning light out of my skin. Perhaps my increased vulnerability is a result of an increased capacity for the experience of love itself? Actually, I have no doubt that this is exactly what’s happening. 

Who invented this love thing anyways? It causes vulnerability on steroids.

Despite studying trauma, trauma responses, associated behaviours and somatic techniques used to regulate my nervous system, anxiety remains a living, breathing, suffocating experience repeatedly activated in me. I have yet to fully embody my intellectual wisdom. I’m working on it and quite disappointingly, it’s taking longer than I had hoped. 

As a highly empathic woman and now, adding to the title, an insanely empathic mother, I’ve been struggling when I hear any unsettling news about anything whatsoever. Disturbing stories run vividly through my mind. Despite all conscious attempts to separate, I feel the suffering of everyone involved. I don’t want to, but I experience their perceived pain as if it’s my own. I unconsciously begin to replay the events at random times throughout the day, times when I least expect the horrific stories to surface. It’s incredibly annoying to say the least.

Even some of the most noteworthy Netflix binge recommendations have hurtled me over the edge into a state of full bodily threat.

This is when I assume my dark night began…

On the morning of Sunday, January 12, 2020,  I was lying in bed next to my three and a half month old son. I was soaking in a few last glimpses of rest before taking on another blind day of motherhood. 

I was using my phone as a sound machine to help Noah sleep, and therefore, I always switched it to airplane mode prior to bed; as a result, I didn’t receive the repeated missed calls from my best friend in Vancouver, or should I call her my ‘other sister’.

Suddenly, the bedroom door opened and Patrick rushed in looking shocked and panicked in a way that requested my nervous system to brace and mirror his body language. I was instantly terrified. All he could manage was to say these words, ‘Lisa. You have to call Britt right now. Elijah is dead.’

(Even today my stomach grips in terror as I write these words on the page. To this day I don’t believe it’s true).

I can’t recall the exact details following or perhaps I don’t want to. The next few days was a whirlwind as I prepared to get a passport for Noah, book flights and arrange to get back to Canada as soon as possible.

Elijah is Britt’s youngest son. On that day he was seventeen years old and is one of the most unique, emotionally mature, deeply caring, talented, courageous, creative, honest and loving young men I have had the pleasure to call my family. I’ve known Elijah since he was eight years old. I was lucky enough to attend his school plays, his grade six graduation, lounge on his couch while he played in his tent outside with his friends. I stared in awe as he announced he wanted to start breakdancing even though he would be the only boy in the class. He didn’t care. He is so sure of who he is. He always has been. He still is. 

He died attempting to help a friend. He went out in the middle of the night to help a friend in need, he hit a slippery patch on the road and he was killed instantly. It’s too horrific to write. It makes it real and I still can’t handle that it’s real.

Noah and I made it to Canada. It was the hardest trip I’ve ever chosen to embark on, and I wouldn’t ever have considered not going. The only thing I wish I could change (apart from having previously invented a time machine to change history) is that I wish I could have had more energy and time to hold my beloved Britt in my arms over those two weeks that followed. 

Something during those weeks, as a new mother, who already feels so deeply about the world, something in me shifted. Perhaps it shifted from an ignorantly calm and overconfident state to a state of constant awareness of what the world is capable of shattering when I least expect it. 

I somehow managed to survive the first three months of motherhood relatively unscathed. This is surprising considering the fact that shortly after Noah took his first breath of air, we entered into a season of deathly fires – fires that killed wildlife in numbers I do not wish to think about. Fires that displaced thousands and tore through beloved homes and fields where memories had been carved for what was assumed to be a predictable eternity. The fires left me nurturing a new born baby amongst some of the most toxic air quality levels, in a small apartment in the heat of Sydney summer. 

Although I felt the effects of the fires in my cells and my heart and struggled on many days to handle the monstrosity of the damage, somehow, I still managed to maintain a general level of trust in life and a feeling of immediate safety.

After I found out that Elijah had passed away, something in my nervous system, in my cells, in my blood, in my thoughts changed. I didn’t realise it consciously then, but looking back, that’s when it happened. 

A few months later, I was walking along my favourite oceanfront cliffs, pushing Noah in his pram. My Dad called, I answered. He said hello and I could immediately tell that something wasn’t quite right. This is because my Dad never has anything but the purest exuberant, maybe even a bit over the top greeting ready to welcome me. He said he had some really sad news. 

I braced myself. I wish I had thought to become aware of feeling my body at that moment. The more I learn about trauma and regulating unbalanced trauma responses, the more I’m recognising the reactions are stored in my tissue, organs – in my energetic body. It’s not my fault that the response is stored here, I didn’t choose it, it happens. My body is trained so beautifully to protect me from threats. It has been doing its duty perfectly.

The words that came out of my Dad’s mouth were, yet again, too incomprehensible to process. My cousin Jason, my beloved, gentle, kind, strong, incredibly wise, generous, highly intelligent and patient cousin had passed away suddenly. I won’t go into more details, and, I was set up yet again for an intense heartbreak that no one should have to, but life asks us to endure. 

Life felt a little bit more unsafe.

Less than two months later we found out that one of Patrick’s closest friends, an equally vibrant, sparkly, adventurous, deeply funny and loving human had passed away in a tragic and still unclear circumstance. 

There it was once again. This time I was having to sit beside Patrick and watch him endure the pain of loss of someone I know he cared deeply for. 

Life felt a little bit more unsafe. 

Within these painful losses was Covid. It was August by this stage and we already had to endure six months of lockdown and the loss of a visit from Noah’s Nana, (Patrick’s mother). She was packed and heading to the airport, thrilled to finally meet her now six month old first grandchild when the world closed its doors. We were thrilled at the thought of watching her cuddle Noah in her arms. She couldn’t come. It was okay for a little while but then the waiting started to feel unfair, almost illegal. 

It feels unfair that my Dad has yet to squish Noah’s chubby legs. It feels unfair that I haven’t been in a room with both of my parents for over three years, never mind receiving necessary family hugs. 

At the time, I was acutely aware that I was feeling the exact same feelings as so much of the rest of the world and so, yet again, I disowned my emotions and pushed them aside. 

Flash forward to a year later, I had assumed I could have resumed a feeling of safety. I had assumed that I shouldn’t be repeatedly stalled by a horrible electrical charge running through my skin, called fear. I wish I could say that my anxiety isn’t running rampant on most days, but that wouldn’t be the truth. The truth is, I’ve been living many happy moments and I’ve also been having a really hard time. 

In June, I found out I had Skin Cancer. They caught it early and I was fortunate that it hadn’t spread. Suddenly, the beliefs I held around my own resilience and predicted longevity were questioned. I was deeply confronted by the C word. 

So here I sit, with many other moments worthy of contemplating and sharing and the details aren’t what’s important, the truth is important. The truth is that today, at times, I feel deeply unsafe. I feel deeply sad that the world is filled with both magnificent beauty and an equal dose of pain. I feel equally excited and terrified about life and the future of our planet and the future of our children. I feel terrified that I could die before I’m done living. I’m terrified of ever losing someone I love again. I’m so, so terrified. 

Admittedly, I don’t feel like I’ve been handling the uncontrollable reality of life very well at all. Some days I have perspective and I am filled with presence and laughter. Some days I go for a jog through the bush and every leaf and rock seem like my best friends. Some days I can openly receive the wealth of support from friends and loved ones beside me, and, simultaneously, in some moments I feel truly alone in the vulnerable, surrendering process called accepting reality. 

…and here my mind goes again…

As my awareness connects to Britt, and I picture her sitting on her inviting white couch, suddenly gripped by the horrific reality that her soulmate Elijah isn’t sitting beside her; as I think about her pain, I no longer feel like I should be permitted to be feeling unsettled, but I am. 

Actually, I must admit what I’m feeling because I have a deep rooted hope that others going through difficult times can find capacity and validation for what they are feeling. I hope they may feel acknowledged and receive compassion regardless of the circumstance. I hope that others know that it’s completely okay to feel both gratitude and not okay simultaneously. 

Personally, I’m working on it. It’s a baby-step process. As I enjoy the bubbly, hilarious and exquisite moments life has to offer me, I’m also trying to gently embody the darker ones too. As uncomfortable and confronting as it may be, here’s to healing and everything it requests.

May I develop a capacity for peacefulness again, by learning to accept what is stored in my body today, by listening, holding and breathing into it until it feels safe once again, and by releasing that which I cannot control. 

May everyone develop a capacity for peace. 

With no further ado,  the past two years have absolutely felt like a cloudy full moon night, which brings me to the conclusion that the dark night of the soul, although potentially enlightening and life altering, well, it just plain old sucks and I pray that this ‘life training’ is over very soon!

Signing off,

Lisa xx

Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

From my experience, pregnancy is a contradictory phenomenon. It’s the most profound expression of nature’s magic and is, simultaneously, the most common process known to man. 

I don’t believe I have adequate knowledge to begin making claims about what a mother should or shouldn’t do, think or not think, experience or not experience during pregnancy and childbirth. I do, however, have decades of experience exploring the limits of my own physical body, (mostly by pushing it too far), as well as researching my psychological and emotional behaviour.

I’ve spent thousands of hours quietly listening to the other realms that make up this world. I wouldn’t claim to understand them, though I admit that I have a naturally intuitive gift to listen.

I have also spent thousands of hours overthinking multiple aspects of life, philosophising about whether there is a possible meaning associated with every occurrence, (typically to my detriment).

I, like everyone, have survived numerous uncomfortable life lessons.

I have (reluctantly) acknowledged these humble moments as opportunities and have (reluctantly) chosen to spend over twenty five years attempting to unravel my psyche. I’ve luckily been guided by many incredible spiritual mentors and therapists; thus, enabling me at times to access an internal intelligence beyond that which seems to exist in my surface thoughts.

Some days, if I’m feeling grounded and balanced, I have developed the ability to communicate with ancestors who have passed, (sometimes anyways, I definitely don’t label myself as a psychic medium).

I have come to understand a lot about energy and how it, in itself, is an entirely unique aspect of life that society is only beginning to acknowledge.

I presume that for thousands of years, indigenous populations around the globe have dedicated generations after generations listening to the earth and to spirit, connecting with nature, especially plants and animals. They have somehow attuned to a subtle intelligence so that they can, very simply, continue to survive and flourish. 

In a connectivity-addicted world, it’s extremely challenging to find a quiet space not yet interrupted by information highways bombarding the ‘purer energetic comms’.

It’s challenging, but not impossible.

In my opinion, listening requires practice, patience and a lot of time. These days, people don’t like to hear that something is going to require a lot of time, (myself included). In my opinion, this is one of humanity’s greatest misfortunes, potentially a catalyst for our very own demise.

There appears to be many excited, positive and open-minded people developing an ability to listen. Maybe they are sensing the more subtle earthly elements and may feel drawn to share what they see? I salute the curious who are dedicated to learning more about themselves and nature. I also observe what I like to cheekily label as the ‘millennial spiritual hipsters’ and I’m reminded of the advice offered from one of my most respected yoga teachers:

Birthing a beginner student requires a minimum of twenty years of committed daily practice, coupled with the survival of numerous life experiences, and a sourced ability to respond in a conscious way.

Two decades into my personal spiritual research, I couldn’t agree with him more. I’m very hesitant to be drawn into wellness communities where claims are being stated on an hourly basis for ways to clear your energy or connect to a higher vibration because the host has completed a three month online course. There’s nothing wrong with doing a course, but I definitely tip toe around those making absolute claims after very short periods of experience.

It seems to me like many of these ‘instantaneous gurus’ are lacking the experience (called time) that enables the most potent and humble guidance system (called wisdom).

Spiritual bypassing is a confusing and abusive by product of this trend. I cringe when I observe some of the unfounded allegations being made, yes with seemingly positive intentions, but completely lacking practical facts, emotional responsibility and compassion.

Because of these observations, I’ve felt terrified to share my own learnings, even when they have a solid foundation, stemming from years of curiosity and practice. As a result, I must conclude this:

I’m still a student. Let this be clear. Absolutely a student. Perhaps at times, also an ignorant, egotistical and biased one. This being said, I am coming to terms with the fact that I know that I have developed through personal experience of successes and failures and time, adequate tools and resources to share what I have learned not as an expert but as a beginner student. 

So how does this relate to pregnancy and childbirth? Well, it seemed essential to offer an intro and disclaimer prior to delicately sharing one of my theories about creating a human and bringing him or her earth side.

Insert Noah.

At about age thirty-five, I finally admitted to myself that I wanted to have a baby. I’m forty-one now and have a gorgeous two year old maniac of a son. It took me a while to get my head around the request for service that parenting entails. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to give up my life, freedom, career, time, etc. Little did I know how incorrect this view was, (this story for another day). 

Around this time, as the concept of becoming a mother floated through my psyche, I recall sitting in meditation and seeing a little boy. He had white blond hair and was playing in the water out front of my local beach. I swore he must be mine. 

Life proved me wrong, this little white-haired boy was in fact my precious nephew. I was fortunate to hold my sister’s hand as she accessed an unfathomable inner strength to help him take his first breath of air. 

My nephew played on that very beach during the first year of his life. I then experienced visions of two other children and I was baffled with who they were and I questioned my intuition, (as I have many times before). I hesitantly stored these visions in the back of my mind. 

It was only a year and a half into my relationship with my fiance when I saw my son. He whispered in my ear for about six months prior to his arrival. I asked him to advise me when I was ready to become a parent and when he wanted to come. I asked and heard nothing. I asked again, still nothing. 

It was nearing the Christmas holidays and I was beginning to write off this imaginary soul whom I felt a deep connection to, when suddenly one morning, I sat quietly and I heard a voice whisper, ‘Now’. 

My fiance and I discussed beginning to try for a child, well aware that being in our late thirties, it could take a while to conceive. 

A month later, I was pregnant. 

I knew that my son had a fiery energy the second his cells began to multiply. I loved having him in me and I was aware that I was being challenged on every physical, mental and emotional level. I vomited for nine months until the day he arrived. Once I held him in my arms, I felt entirely myself again and thus began the fourth trimester, another adventure in itself…

As I attempted to prepare my mind, spirit and body for the raw opening that is childbirth, I became privy to the realisation that I needn’t hold one hundred percent responsibility for what was about to take place.

What I’m referring to is different from what my midwife advised. She asked me to envision my ideal birth and be open to change as the process is unpredictable on the day. From a practical perspective I completely understood this, but from an emotional or embodied place, I was feeling detached. Between the urge to vomit and a desire to crawl underneath my blanket, I tried desperately to meditate. Despite my inability to feel intuitively connected, one day I was gifted an explanation of how this thing called ‘birth’ seems to work:

My baby will have the birth he or she needs to have for his or her life. I can do every preparatory exercise imaginable to prepare for the most calm, surrendering experience and yet, I will only be in control of half the birthing experience and result. 

I was both shocked and relieved to understand that I was only in control of part of this process. I’ve always really liked to control things, still do. A part of me hated the idea that one of the most important moments of my life was only half within my control. The other part of me who puts constant pressure on myself was finally allowed to exhale. 

The beneficial result of trying on this gifted concept was that I absolutely had no choice but to start taking some of the pressure off of myself. I’m highly esteemed at setting intentions and high expectations, followed by criticising my results and feeling deeply guilty if things don’t go exactly to plan. Actually, I’m quite excellent at this!

Pregnancy was different for me. Noah was asking me to give myself over to him on every level. Being sick and therefore, unable to do very much at all, forced me to surrender in a way I never had before. 

The beliefs I held about exercise and achieving were destroyed during the months I held my son inside of me. He did not let me get away with my old ways of thinking and doing. The teaching was non-negotiable. 

Unfortunately, now that he’s in the outside world, I have reverted back to some of my psychopathic perfectionist tendencies and I’m keenly aware of my behaviour and I’m doing my best to soften. Some days I get it right and feel like I’m momentarily able to rest. 

If there are any other mothers right now, preparing to welcome their child into the world, and are feeling a degree of pressure to perform during childbirth, let me offer a consideration (not advice), just a learning from my experience:

It’s not all on you. 

Is it possible, as a mother, to become deeply quiet to listen to our children to let them enter as they choose?

My birth story was exquisite and, according to my hopes and expectations, I did a number of things wrong. Although I still harbour guilt for some of these ignorant choices, the truth is, I believe that Noah entered exactly as he was supposed to, with my fiance and sister exploding with awe. 

If I could do it all again, this is what I’d propose to myself…

Can you become so quiet that you allow your child to be heard? Can you take some of the pressure off of yourself? Can you let your baby guide you during the process? Can you trust your power and instincts? Can you let what happened be complete just as it is? 

To remain humble, it’s possible that my beliefs about how a mother welcomes her baby into the world aren’t accurate.

These insights only relate to my personal experience of becoming a mother. I would never assume that anyone else has the same observations. If it resonates and helps in some way, fabulous. If it doesn’t, then I’m perfectly content to keep the theory as mine alone.

This being said, I’m still happy to share what these beliefs offered me:

Within this moment coupling extreme power and extreme surrender, I was taught how to apply faith itself. 

Maybe, this was one of the rare moments when I truly embodied the concept called trust. 

A part of me sometimes argued my beliefs, assuming that every mother has a duty of care to her unborn child to ensure the safest and most peaceful entry into this world.

As much as this concept also feels true, I personally experienced an overwhelming sense of Noah’s determined spirit even when he was only a few cells. I wouldn’t dare to remove the willpower from the spirit of my baby either. Babies are undeniably life and love in its purest undisturbed form and who really knows how this whole life thing works anyways?

For me, childbirth seems to request this…

May the willpower of the soul be coupled with the listening, strength and surrender of the mother; thus, for even a brief moment, coupling the most transformational elements of nature itself. 

To all the mothers and soon to be mummas out there, I believe that you know what to do and you are amazing! 

Xx

Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

I’ve always appreciated science and its processes – Research, hypothesize, observe, test multiple times, observe again, compare with previous results, come to a conclusion, educate others.

Despite my fascination with scientific discoveries, what I appreciate even more is personal experience – Living, breathing, feeling, listening, watching, knowing. 

For me, experience is alive, it is moving and continuous. There isn’t a fixed beginning and an absolute end. Experience reflects the nature of life itself, the ongoing and incomprehensible cycle of giving, taking, destroying, replenishing, opening, closing, creating and releasing. I feel comfortable relating to this embodied world. Although I curiously dip my toes into the scientific pool on a regular basis, (thrilled by the latest revelations), the only absolute truth that I live by is that which has been proven to me by first existing within me. 

Regarding current philosophies, dogmas, conclusions, opinions, suspicions and judgments, I prefer to reside in the neutral position. Life consistently reveals to me how easily something I swore was true yesterday can be trumped by something new – A humbling experience that I’ve consciously chosen to avoid. 

In reality, how can anyone say they know the absolute truth? Is that even possible?

There are select moments however, where perhaps still naively, I feel that I have earned adequate personal experience to maintain a strong position. My argument is debated a millions times over, (of course, only between the multiple personalities in my head) but still, I win the debate every time. When I feel a sense of confidence and assurity, this is one of the rare occasions that I confidently share my opinions. 

I don’t know how everyone else is handling this, but within these very strange and often polarising times, I’m feeling confused. I’m feeling confused by my ability to maintain a compassionate and neutral relationship to another’s strong opinion when it opposes that which I feel deeply passionate about.

I’m trying really hard to appreciate that someone else may feel just as passionately about a conflicting view, and I understand that non-judgement is the more mature and respectful position to hold, however, if I were to claim that I’m not judging those with a contrary belief to mine, then I would be lying.

Does anyone else struggle with this too? 

I do find myself capable of maintaining a level of mutual respect and appreciation for the other belief in that I don’t resolve to hatred and verbal condemnation. This being said, I do one hundred percent quietly judge my opposers for their beliefs, (sometimes even loudly to intimate friends). 

How on earth could I not? How can I, a vulnerable, emotion-filled human, maintain my strong-willed opinion based on what I deem to be more than adequate embodied experience whilst maintaining a non-judgemental perception simultaneously? Is that even possible? 

Can someone who has done this please tell me how they handle it and sleep at night?

Here’s an example: I’m a mother of a rambunctious and beautifully social almost two-year old boy. I feel very strongly about some of my parenting beliefs, specifically in regards to honouring and supporting his emotional needs. 

After surviving many sleepless nights, both from Noah kicking my ass with multiple wake ups and my own psychosis of questioning whether I’m doing the right thing to be a good mother, I’m learning to follow my intuition. 

So, when I hear about others following techniques that seem ignorantly abusive towards their children, emotionally traumatic at the very least, I can’t help but judge. I don’t feel that treating any child this way is acceptable. In most cases, what I label as emotionally abusive parenting arises not from what others do partake in, but actually from what they don’t do – An absence of connection, listening, touching, acknowledgement and physically showing love. Shaming is something I judge as well, (just had to add that to the list).

Disclaimer: I’m not claiming that I have any of this mothering thing figured out!

I’m learning everyday – mostly by making mistakes and feeling quite guilty about them afterwards. This being said, I do have strong intentions of how I would like to parent and they constantly guide me to try to be the best mother I can be, even when it feels like it opposes the norm. 

I’m not going to expand on this example as it will turn into an emotionally driven roller coaster packed with indignant reasons why I’m right and another is wrong, which I hate hate hate. I am, however, prepared to question myself…

I recognize that the most powerful critic of my life choices and decisions is my inner critic. I recognise that I’m always trying to be a good person and understandably I’m inspired and strangled by my greatest karmic gift – a laser sharp intuition and the ability to see, hear and feel everything, (especially things that aren’t even mine to feel). I recognize that despite my unique gifts, I must remain both a teacher and a humble student, constantly cycling between knowing and being and doing. 

I admit that my ability to discern what I should care about is sometimes biased, ignorant and blurred. I recognise that I’m still amidst a deep process of defining my place in this world. At forty-one, I’m still learning to use my adult voice. 

Regardless of my ‘accepted flaws’, I’m having a hard time accepting my judgment of others, and motherhood has taken my passion to a whole other level. 

Perhaps it’s okay to admit that I judge you if you don’t agree with me?

Perhaps this is where a concept ends and necessary universal transformation begins?

Is it possible that I’m trying to convince myself to share more of the truths that remain nestled intimately next to my heart? 

Now yuck, wouldn’t this expose me to the judgment of others too?

Absolutely it will. 

Let’s hope I’m now strong enough to know it’s happening and continue to speak anyways. Maybe this could enable a deeper understanding of my own vulnerable and imperfect being? Would this allow others to explore and accept their own perfectly flawed characters as well?

So why am I suddenly considering sitting in the vulnerable seat again?

I’ll tell you – When I’m repeatedly woken up at 3am by strings of words, phrases, titles and concepts knocking at the walls of my cognitive brain, I get a sense it’s only fair to offer them a platform. They may not even be entirely my thoughts anyways, who knows where it all comes from? 

So here’s to sharing that which feels true today, knowing that tomorrow it may no longer hold its worth. 

Here’s to exposing my vulnerable cavities, the ones I’ve kept closed for a couple of years. As I begin feeling and sharing and judging the opposite, you are welcome to judge me too. I cringe saying it but I guess that’s just how growth works…

xx

Illustration by artist Jungsuk Lee

Good Evening Manly,

…After a very long hiatus involving falling madly in love with the man of my dreams, getting engaged and pushing a little human out of my body, it’s just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise.

I’m aware that it may seem like the wrong time of year for this post, but the Canadian in me senses Christmas as soon as cozy weather arrives. The middle of May in Australia reminds me of late autumn in Toronto – a few leaves start to change colour, thicker socks come out of the drawer, followed by red wine and sexy dates with Netflix in bed; after all, it’s difficult to change thirty-something years of seasonal conditioning.

So considering the environmental cues, and the fact that this just popped into my mind, I would love to share a brief story about a real life Santa Claus and an unexpected act of kindness.

December 2019 – my first Christmas as a Mother. We felt very lucky to spend it with my sister and her family in a big farmhouse, with a fully stocked kitchen and a dog. We played with the alpacas, swam in the pool and placed milk and cookies out for Santa in anticipation of a Christmas morning gift extravaganza. I love watching my two nephews engage in the same traditions my younger sister and I held so dear to our hearts. We try our hardest to maintain many Canadian holiday customs despite the steamy, sunny, beachy weather most often greeting us on the 25th of December. 

A few days prior to the big event, to maintain the customary routine of my Mother, my sister and I popped off to the shops to buy the ‘last few gifts’. Despite her greatest efforts, our Mother always required a few more ‘last few gifts’. It felt good to maintain a comfortable predictability of home, considering we now exist amongst an odd summer landscape claiming to be Christmas.  

This being said, eight Aussie Christmases in, I’m gently welcoming the change, yet I highly doubt it can ever entirely replace the magic of Christmas in winter.

I recall waking up in the dark hours of the morning, gazing out my icy snow-laced windows, searching around for my slippers and robe to make the first descent to see if Santa had come. This would always be followed by a meagre attempt to gently awake my sister so we could begin pitter pattering amongst the sparkly gifts cascading throughout the living room.

We were very fortunate children and Santa was always ridiculously generous in our house. The effort my parents put in to create a magical and special experience for us for many, many years hasn’t gone unnoticed. 

So here we were, my sister, my son and I, happily  wandering around the shops of the idyllic countryside town a few hours south of home in search of more magic for our boys. We sat down at the best cafe in town and as my sister went in to order our coffees, I began to nurse my impatient three month old son.

While attempting to calm his little kicking legs, I noticed a warm smile from an older gentleman with a white beard sitting at the table next to us. I could tell he was watching me, but not in some uncomfortable, intrusive way. He was observing as if seeming to remember something special from a time from his past. I could feel happiness and melancholy from his subtle observance of our mother-son moment. 

As we finished our pit stop and felt ready for some serious shopping time, the older man quietly stood up, approached me and said with yet another big smile on his face, ‘You have very good posture while breastfeeding! Good for you’. I giggled at the thought, as I had been struggling with shoulder and neck pain from a billion hours of horrible posture while breastfeeding for the past twelve weeks. I simply said with a big smile, ‘Thank you’, (as he didn’t need my victim story) and we went on our way. 

The perfect little village had, of course, a perfect little toy shop. It was the kind of shop run by the same passionate family for years, filled with wooden fixtures, warm lighting and a full selection of felt toys and books. There wasn’t a plastic machine gun in sight. I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone told me that Harry Potter lived in the attic. 

Noah was finally asleep in his pram, so I wandered around the friendly shop excitedly making mental lists of the cool toys I was going to be able to get for my sons’ holidays to come. 

My sister had made her selection and was asking me for my approval when I casually mentioned to her, ‘Do you know what I’d love to get for Noah…his first toy car’. That’s all. I just said that and then my sister went to the register to pay for her gift. 

Less than a minute later, maybe it was only a few seconds, as I was peering at another corner of educational toys, I received a tap on the shoulder. It was the same white-bearded man with the same warm smile on his face from the cafe. He was holding a small, beautifully wrapped gift with a sparkly silver ribbon. He said to me, ‘If you can guess what’s in this gift my dear, then it’s a gift for your son’. I instinctively laughed, assuming that it was just a fun joke, but to indulge the game with the recent toy desire in my mind, I responded, ‘It’s a car!’ 

The old man grinned an even bigger smile and handed the little box to me. All he said was, ‘Merry Christmas’. 

That was it. He turned around and walked away. I was shocked. He just gave me a gift completely out of the blue. I felt overwhelmed with his generosity. I said an exuberant thank you and my sister and I left the store mirroring massive smiles at the lovely moment we had just experienced. 

The funny thing is that it didn’t matter what was in that beautifully wrapped little box, the box could have been empty and it felt like the most special gift I had received in years.

Low and behold, amongst the gift extravaganza, laughter and wrapping paper shrapnel, my fiance and I helped Noah to open his mystery Christmas gift.

Guess what it was?

A toy car. 

…and not just any car. It was a shiny, top of the line, British red racing car with a big number five on the front.

Guess what my favourite number is?

Yes, you’re correct. 

I believe that Christmas magic does exist. It exists regardless of being surrounded by green grass and hot salty air, or snow-filled driveways and the smell of chimney smoke. Christmas magic exists in May and December and all of the seasons in between. It is always only just one small gesture away. 

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. 

xx

Good Afternoon Manly,

Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

It’s another chilly Monday morning and I left the house twenty minutes early, allowing myself time to meditate before teaching.

Despite years of practice, I still find waking up any time prior to 6am painful, so setting my alarm twenty minutes early doesn’t change a thing. Knowing how much I get from even a few minutes of presence and breath awareness strengthens my commitment to stick to this habit.

I am proud to say, I’ve been sitting for twenty minutes every Monday morning for close to a year and in hindsight, I wouldn’t trade even one of those minutes for sleep.

As I sat in the warmth of the small white yoga room, I recalled the teachings of one of my wise spiritual mentors, Dr. NC. He shared an important concept that resonated with me. Until I am properly able to contemplate death, I cannot fully appreciate my life, nor will I have access to bliss (the ultimate goal of the yoga practice).

Life free from fluctuations of fear, lust, anger, desire, anxiety and any limitations coming from the ignorance of my mind cannot be silenced until I experience what it is like to die.

My interpretation of his view on death is that it is neither good, nor bad, but simply a neutral part of the process of consciousness. Freedom from physical life may very well contain much more light than we assume, and when I sit and consider what it would be like to have the physical energy gone from my body, I am left with a non-negotiable stillness.

What I interpret from Dr. NC’s message is that I should not fear death, it could be the greatest experience of them all. If I’m going to waste energy on fear, it should be the concern for not experiencing my life fully. 

Propped up on my bolster, I completed my six rounds of alternate nostril breath. This practice always relieves me from the chaotic and familiar headspace I live in most of the day.

For some reason today, I heard Dr. NC’s words, ‘Practice contemplating death by practicing being dead’. As an effective tool to train our minds into stillness, my teacher recommended sitting absolutely still for twenty minutes minimum. When I say still, I mean not even a flutter or a twitch. ‘Be a statue’, he advised.

I had ten minutes left in my twenty minute sitting commitment so I thought, ‘Why not, let’s see how I go?’

I find it easy to sit still on certain days and very challenging on others. Today felt accessible. My breath was present so I began to watch it and made the decision not to move, (sometimes a decision is all it takes).

As movement ceased, the first sensation I noticed was my pulse. The rhythm of my heart is mostly not within my control and I have always found that fact fascinating. In that quiet moment, driven by curiosity of my bodies’ own natural engine, I became overwhelmed with a sense of deep gratitude for the life that is always pumping through me. 

That’s all I felt – how happy I am with the mysterious body I get to live in. I recognize how often I disrespect my body, mostly by ignoring its requests (Otherwise known as….not making the time to listen).

This morning I listened and within the stillness there was an unlimited source of energy beneath the surface of my skin. A forward pumping. A vibration moving outwards…

I sat perfectly still for the ten minute commitment and I considered how amazing it is to be alive. That’s all, I’m just so lucky to be alive.

Lise x

lisaclark.life

Good Morning Manly,

Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

THE WAVES DON’T STOP.

I call myself a surfer and here I am craving still waters?

The waves don’t stop. The ocean is liquid for a reason. She doesn’t have a starting point. Her edges bleed into any material that will receive her. She doesn’t follow border rules. It may appear that she gets tired on a beach or a rocky cliff, but she doesn’t. Her waves dilute, but they never stop. They run through you and me. They keep us fluid. They keep us moving through life. Without the ripple effect of her wisdom, we would be stagnant and everything would cease to exist.

The ocean soaks into everything and remains hidden. Her fluctuations work from behind the scenes. So why do I keep expecting things to stop moving? I keep searching for a still point, for a reprieve. She won’t allow it. That’s the worst scenario she could imagine. Even when I don’t believe her, the ocean has my back.

I haven’t written for a while. This year I survived a King Tide. Everything in my life has been excavated, tossed, swirled, soaked, thrown out and changed. It’s hard to capture in words the impact of surviving that kind of a swell.

So why has this blond girl decided to open her computer today you may ask?

It’s time to move on. It’s time to put this year to rest and take a moment, a pause, to reflect, acknowledge, celebrate and share gratitude for everything I’ve been through and everything I have right now.

IT BEGAN WITH A STORM.

I can recall that eerie feeling – It’s the feeling I get when my instinct warns me that a torrent is coming my way. I didn’t know what it was, but it felt big, it felt unsettling and I wanted to board up the windows, run away and hide.

The storm hit in January. The waves ripped my heart open and revealed the foggy lens I was watching the world through. My surf board broke in half. Everything I thought to be true ceased to exist. I thought heartbreak, shame, and loss was enough, but the storm chose to be thorough before she settled. She dug up the rotten seaweed, bleached coral and plastic trash from my seabed as well. I had to look at all of it. I laid in bed for weeks surrounded by piles of rotting, dried, salty debris.

It took a while, and finally I sat up one morning and started picking up each piece. I cleaned them off, thanked them for their part in my ecosystem and put them back in the ocean where they belong.

LOOK! THERE’S SWELL.

(photo credit TED GRAMBEAU)

When there’s swell I have no choice but to grab my board and paddle out. I fall a lot, I hurt myself. I’m often embarrassed and frustrated but I have to get up again. “Just get up!” my friend says. “Get up, get up, get up, get up…”

Once the storm had settled and my seabed was starting to form a fresh layer of sediment, I began to remember how wonderful each new wave was. The sun rises were warm, the laughter was no longer masking pain. I was receiving warm hugs and long chats from friends. I felt like a sea urchin, crawling out of my shell for the first time, looking at the world as a brand new place where possibility exists. I was vulnerable and a bit shy, but I felt excited.

I started to remember who I was a long time ago. I felt like I had been caught in a whirlpool and was finally spewed back out into open waters. I didn’t remember how I got there. I was different now – the sun exposure told stories to my skin, the winds had repaired my protective layers and suddenly I felt more youthful than I had in years. I felt beautiful again.

WAITING FOR A GOOD ONE.

I didn’t give up paddling. I was determined to learn everything I could from the exposed wounds. I went to counselling, woke up every morning and sat in stillness. The stillness felt far from what stillness ‘should’ feel like but I sat anyways. I practiced yoga, on and off of my mat. I returned to the ocean everyday that I could. I shivered in the cool Autumn air and let the sea wash me, over and over again.

I put in the work. It felt like years of trembling, crying on my board, surrounded by hoards of confident men, feeling alone and far from adequate. I never felt like I belonged but the ocean speaks to me and I kept listening to her, “Stay,” she would say, and so I would sit there day after day, sometimes in crowds, sometimes alone, and I’d try. Somedays I was terrified. The smallest waves seemed impossible to ride. Why did it look so easy. Why was everyone so relaxed? It felt unfair.

AN OASIS IN THE OCEAN.

One day a surfer who I had known for quite a while reappeared in the waves. He paddled up beside me and offered me his hand. I felt safe next to him. I was tentative but for some reason I didn’t paddle away. I stayed and we started to surf together. I told him about the storm. He already knew. He already knew everything about me. I never had to share a single word.

He watched me fall off of my board and cry. He let me blame him for my poor surfing. He kept paddling out beside me and saying, “Come on, it’s all good.”

Eventually the blame, tears, fear and running away were proven unecessary. They were ice cubes floating in a cool sea, but spring was coming and they’d have to melt.

As I finally let myself surf with him, unprotected and fine with it, I gained the strength to stand up on bigger waves. The smaller waves weren’t serving me any longer. The ocean was guiding me towards the break that suited the new me and the best part was that I was finally getting to share it with someone else.

The waves got fuller and the seams of my heart started to strengthen. There were lots of days when I tried to put on a thick wetsuit and protect myself from potential cold, but he wouldn’t let me keep it on for very long. He reminded me that shivering is okay and put his arms around me until I remembered that inside, I’m always warm.

I BOUGHT A NEW BOARD.

Feeling more confident and ready to paddle out on my own again, I looked at my beloved blue fish and although filled with great memories of waves survived, I knew I had surfed her enough. It was a decision I had to make – to let her go. She represented safety, friendship, family and growth, but I had outgrown her. I walked into the store just to ‘have a look’ and to my own surprise I left with my first ever brand new performance board. I quit my job that week too.

The past few months I have spent hours battling challenging surf in Indonesia, I’ve spent hours dripping sweat in hot yoga rooms, I’ve moved my life into his beach house, my surfboards have come too. My heart has skipped many beats. It has questioned whether I will fall off again and have to cut my leg wide open a second time?

It’s possible and I don’t want that to happen. I’ve decided I’m going to surf as often as I can and keep practicing, keep listening to the ocean, keep paddling out beside him, laughing with him, watching sunrises and sunsets with him and waking up next to him.

This is the wave I choose and I’m going to ride it as long as I can, smiling as often as I can.

To everyone in my life – you have supported me this past year in ways that can’t be acknowledged with anything other than a long hug in person. I wish I could give each of you one right now. Thank you.

Thank you to the ocean – you are always there for me. You are my best teacher and I will continue to be your humble student for the rest of my life. I respect you and your graceful, limitless power.

Although this morning I resist the waves, I know I would still prefer them over a stagnant pond. Still waters can’t breathe. Waves challenge me because they keep coming, I can’t predict when and how but one thing’s for sure, there are unlimited waves in the sea and without them my life would be meaningless.

Here’s to a brand new year, brand new possibilities and to effortless flow.

With love and light,

xx

Good Evening Manly,

Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

Sometimes when I’m running, I think about all of the people around the world who are disabled or don’t have the strength to run. I think about the people who are sick or just too tired. Some people don’t even have the time or freedom to run. Some people have nowhere to run.

When I’m running and I remember the other people who can’t, I run faster and harder. I run for them because I know that if they could, they probably would run for me as well.

It’s easy to focus on what’s wrong. I realised today that although I consider myself to be a naturally positive person, I also have a tendency to complain a lot and share the apparent things that don’t seem to be working in my life.

I wonder why I do this?

I’m a fairly sensitive person. A day doesn’t go by where I take my life for granted. I know how lucky I am and I am very aware of the world’s suffering. I’m not hiding from it.

I feel disappointed in myself when I reflect on the conversations I chose to have with people this week. I could have focused on sharing the moments of peace and calm and connection. Instead, I chose to talk about the things that scare me and the possible cracks I might trip over next week.

Have I trained myself to rely on drama to feel interesting? Am I concerned that sharing only positive stories could make someone else feel uncomfortable? Why would that be? Why wouldn’t everyone else be happy hearing only happy stories?

Perhaps I feel like I’m connecting with someone else when we both share stories of life’s unease or am I merely fuelling a continuance of the worst sickness of all – negativity?

I am interested in my darkness. We all have darkness in some form, whether it’s that thought that scratches me and I don’t want to admit I listened to it, or it’s the self-sabotaging habits that I continue to feed, or it’s the words I tell myself about how I must not be good enough again today.

Where is the disconnect between soaking up the beauty of my life right now and my need to highlight what I don’t think is working? It’s totally bizarre.

I wonder how my life could change if I only talk about the good things?

I wouldn’t do this to ignore the bad ones, but sometimes the bad moments don’t even exist apart from the corners of my imagination.

I confidently stand by the belief that when something genuinely unfortunate is happening, then the sadness, pain and disappointment needs to be felt and shared and worked through so it can be released from my soul.

My interest relates to the other ‘bad things’ – the concepts in my head. The ones that haven’t happened yet or happened a long time ago and are jammed on repeat. What shall I do with them? They are making me tired.

I’d rather tell you how it felt to kiss him for the first time instead of how afraid I am that I could lose him.

I’d rather tell you how on Monday I caught twenty waves, instead of Thursday when I only caught two.

I’d rather tell you how wonderful my Great Aunt was and how important a role model she was in my life as opposed to my regret for not being able to see her again.

I’d rather tell you about the compliments my co-worker gave me as opposed to the times she reminded me that I didn’t succeed.

But I don’t share those first facts very often. What a shame.

I could tell you how tired my legs are but I’d rather run for those who can’t run and feel the pavement under my feet and the sweat dripping off my cheek.

I could complain about social media and the way others are portraying themselves or I could read a book instead.

I could meet you for a walk and spend an hour spreading my fears into your world or I could tell you how important you are to me and the million reasons why.

It’s all a ‘could’…A choice… A perception ignited into action. I could dream and lie in bed or I could dream and buy the ticket.

It’s always just a choice, another choice. Which one shall I make tomorrow?

…I think I’ll go for a run just for the joy of it. I think I’ll go for a run for you.

xx

You’d think, after my last few posts, that I’m referring to recovery from the heartbreak I experienced at the beginning of this year.

You’re wrong.

I’m referring to the re-ignition of my spirit. I’m referring to a process that has been happening for much longer than the past year of my life. It’s a process of unravelling and re-building that I’ve been working on for most of my adult existence and if you can believe it,  I think another layer just melted away!

Dear Mantown,

Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

Today I am free.

About a week ago, I woke up in a bunk bed in a bright white bedroom, nestled in a luxurious beach house on the cliffs of the Central Coast. It wasn’t just any Sunday morning. It was the first Sunday morning in a very long time where I felt that everything is possible.

I walked onto the back deck and looked over the glass railings toward the peach silhouettes of numerous sand encrusted headlands, protecting some of New South Wales’ most desirable surfing spots. I took a deep breath of the icy winter morning air and smiled.

Sure, it’s true that the previous night I concluded the last official day working in my full-time role – the job I’d committed myself to for over four years, but there was a greater sense of space that hovered around me than just that realisation.

Something was lifting and I couldn’t quite define what it was?

We cooked breakfast in the large bright kitchen together, sharing avocados and steaming milk for our cappuccinos. We wandered down to the beach and jumped into the clean, playful waves. We laughed and waved our arms as we shared the rides. We had hot showers and naps and afternoon beers while sunbathing. We were serenaded by the soothing tone of the classical Spanish guitar. We talked about life and our dreams and what we had learnt in our past relationships. We laid in hammocks and brought each other chocolate and tea. We sang ‘Happy Birthday’, not once, but twice and shared foot massages. We cooked each other dinner and whispered our deepest secrets under the stars.

We were gathered in this house together, embarking on another chapter of our lives and here I finally realised I am a Permanent Resident of the country I most want to call my home. I have a generous community around me, supporting me, loving me. I have a very special man standing beside me who I am opening my heart to and I am healthy. My family is safe. 

I am free from the tethers of my job and I’m free from the fears I created about not being enough and I’m free from the delusional thought patterns that have been holding me back from sharing my skills with the world in the best possible way.

I’m free from thinking I don’t deserve to be madly in love with a gorgeous man who is also madly in love with me and I’m free from the concerns that I won’t have enough money and I’m free from my own excuses about why I should continue to sabotage myself. I’m free from the stories telling me that I can’t speak my truth and I’m free from the worries that I’ll be alone. I’m free, for some reason today and I couldn’t be more relieved.

Why today am I suddenly free?

I don’t know.

Maybe it just happens this way? One day, all of the work I have done solidifies and I glimpse a moment of the serenity of love. The grace of life and the acknowledgment of what already is washes over me and for a moment I am blissfully at peace.

Yes I know, it’s possible that tomorrow I may wake up and feel afraid again and the next morning I may wake up and feel heartbroken, but right now I am free and that’s all that matters. Right now is all I have and so I’m enjoying it and sharing it with you in the hope that maybe you can feel this freedom for even a moment too?

(I haven’t written poetry for about twenty years and suddenly these little phrases started moving through me. I thought maybe I shouldn’t share it because it might not be very good but in line with my attitude today, I am ‘enough’ and therefore here are some more words in case you fancy reading them…)

Finally Free.

And one day I woke up

And recalled who I had become

A stronger mirage

Of even the sum

Of my original vision

Of a woman so wise

That finally my wounds

Couldn’t be touched by their lies.

 

And one day I woke up

And looked in the mirror

And a few wrinkles smiled

From the laughter last year

 

I could never regret

The choices I made

They gave me the stories

The fuel

But they fade

Into the moon

Into the sea

The stories that told me

How brave I could be

 

And so one day I woke up

And finally knew

To honour my failure

They had failed too

 

Everyone had…

Him and her

The man next door

The elite women in fur

 

And I remembered that perfection is really quite grey

Dusty and creased

It’s not what we say

It’s who we are

And how we rise

After the storm

After the sighs

 

It’s the shattered and broken

That make it okay

To trip over edges

“Try again today!”

 

I couldn’t be here

Without my mistakes

And even the heartache

And despite the high stakes

I keep on smiling

And trying again

Because it’s the effort that counts

Not the measure of zen

 

I feel so lucky

To be able to see

The bruised and crumpled

Aspects of me

That have allowed me to stand

All alone in the sea

On a board in the sun

I am finally free.

xx

Dear Byron Bay,

Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of ‘being on holiday’ in paradise…

I’ve taken myself away on a ten day holiday alone. I realised that what I’ve been craving over the past couple of months is stillness and time, and so I created it. Off I headed last Saturday, surfboards and bikinis in tow, to one of my favourite healing spots – Byron Bay.

As I departed for my journey, I allowed myself to consider, “How can I spend adequate time alone to create space for the new without being taken over by the debilitating choke hold of loneliness?” It’s a valid question after all.

I’m sorry loneliness, I don’t want to make you the villain here, but honestly, you’re one of my hardest friends to spend time with and your worst character trait is that you show-up uninvited.

I’ve repeatedly filled up days with to-do lists and obligations to avoid hanging out with you, and yet, you always call to remind me that I promised we would spend time together. 

Being alone without feeling lonely is an art, a practice, a commitment. At times, I’m quite good at it.

I love my space. I love waking up when I want to and eating what I want and surfing when I feel like it and laying in bed and staring at the ceiling or sitting in a restaurant reading a book and sipping a delicious red all by myself. Not everyone allows herself to be seen in the world alone. I’m comfortable alone. At times I’ve chosen it and practiced it. I haven’t been afraid of it.

…and, being alone isn’t always easy. In an unexpected moment it opens me up to the vulnerability highlighted by my friend, loneliness.

We all have this friend. We are born with her and we leave with her. She doesn’t go away, she might hide herself behind a curtain of temporary hugs, but when we close our eyes, only she is there with us. She’s very loyal.

I don’t intend to insult her. In fact, there’s nothing wrong with her at all. She is a vital part of my humanness. When I am aware of her presence, she helps to reveal the unnecessary and imaginary stories confabulated by my mind. The truth is, after all, I am always alone and I’m never alone.

When I’m sitting amongst a crowd of friends I can feel connected or I can feel alone. I can be making love to my partner and I can feel seen, heard and touched or, I can feel alone and so the question remains, what is the factor that suddenly makes me feel lonely?

Last weekend heading up north, I relished in the time to myself. I loved driving for six hours singing out loud to oldies, humming and hawing to podcasts and daydreaming for ages on end. I was alone and I felt happy.

The second day on the road, as the sun started to set, streams of light peered around the clouds, warming the entire horizon with a peachy glow. Suddenly, the confident peacefulness was interrupted by my friend loneliness who appeared to remind me, “Hey! You! Look….isn’t that pretty, isn’t life pretty? What a shame that there’s no one sitting beside you to properly enjoy this moment.”

I considered pulling the car over and taking a photo for Instagram. Sharing the moment with my friends online could easily bandaid the belief that somehow observing the beauty by myself wasn’t enough.

And I didn’t.

I looked at the sunset and watched it drench the sky in purple and then I watched it and watched it, and continued to watch it until the oranges were drowned by darker hues of violet and the light dimmed and the outlines of the mountain range became clear edges, so sharply focused that they cut the dimensions between land and sky.

As I continued to let myself drive and watch the sun disappear for another night of rest, that feeling of being alone in the world and somehow failing because no one was beside me started to dissipate and settle.

In total darkness, my friend who had appeared so unexpectedly was barely visible and I remembered that every moment of beauty is a gift and I felt peaceful and happily alone once again.

Xx

(Image credit: Matthew Sullivan Something_to_see_here_1 flickr)

Hello World,

Just another blond girl here, reporting on the ups and downs of living in paradise…

I’ve disappeared for a long time. I had to disappear. I needed to close me eyes and be held for a while. I didn’t have another choice. Maybe we need that sometimes, just to hide under the covers of another person until we are ready to move forward again?

I wrote this more than six weeks ago. I’ve been afraid to write and share it. I haven’t wanted to admit my truth to the world – that I’ve let myself down. Despite shame, fear and confusion, today I am ready to speak.

Thank God for airplanes.

Air travel exists to sweep us away at the exact moment we need to escape, (even when we don’t realise we need to escape). That’s exactly what an airplane did six weeks ago, delivering me to the safety of my sisters fluffy living room carpet in Perth. That’s where I wrote this:

The morning of my journey, I sat in the Sydney Domestic Airport lounge puffy-eyed, traumatized by disappointment and feeling exposed amongst the general neutrality of the travelling public. Despite my vulnerability, I was too exhausted to construct another protective wall around myself and so I managed to call my Dad and share my heart-wrenching experience in spite of the bustling suits and prams. 

He hesitated to say it. In attempt to lighten the mood he recycled the comment that my sister made a few years prior. She was considering factors that made her liable for experiencing debilitating heartache…

“Karma is a bitch”!

It did make me laugh. Maybe only for a second but I think I smiled? It led me to question whether this was My Karma? I did, after all, leave my beloved first boyfriend thirteen years ago to jump into the arms of my beloved second boyfriend only a few days later.

I wonder if I have to feel what my first boyfriend felt? Maybe that’s only fair?

Maybe it’s only fair that my current ex is eligible for karmic revenge too? He told me that he has felt this pain at a point in his life also. I’m not sure how any of this works? I’m not, and I imagine we probably need to experience an array of these devastating circumstances to properly know every corner of this life thing we’ve apparently agreed to.

So here I am stuck in the pain and well I guess I understand this one now? One of my best friends said I will get one percent better everyday and so in one hundred days I should feel one hundred percent better. Well about ten days in, I’m not so sure I’ll handle making it to one hundred.

As I’ve reflected on this love affair, lasting about seven months of my past year and destructing the scaffolding built around my heart, it wasn’t ever calm.

Not even from the beginning. It was thrilling but never calm.

My friend, one of my best friends who knows me very well, described it in terms of water (I understand water). She guessed that I feel depleted because I’ve been swimming sideways in a riptide for the past seven months. Was I ready to admit this? Maybe in some ways I was? Maybe in some ways I am?

The crazy thing is that love was so strong in this encounter that the riptide seemed manageable, almost exciting. Was there something in this suffering beneath the surface iced with ‘love’ that I was liking? How else could I have allowed myself to remain so unsettled for so long?

Maybe I just wanted to feel what it was like to fall this deeply again? I say ‘again’ but maybe I haven’t opened myself to this depth of feeling ever before?

I certainly must have known on some level that I was trading with the enemy? I knew that many of my needs were being unfulfilled. Yes, by him, and also by the missing demand to have them met. I could easily feel ashamed and frustrated with myself because on some level I knew, but then he was holding me every night and that was fuelling me in another strange way that felt safe.

…And now, as I have to, I am letting him go and it’s agonizing. I ask myself why, if I did know how shallow some elements of this relationship were then why must it be this painful?

(I must mention that many elements of the relationship were beautiful and fulfilling and special. I refuse to allow the destructive ending to ruin those parts)

I presume I can answer myself by saying, “That’s how love feels”. Despite logic, I allowed myself to love unconditionally and within that, I disrespected my values and let it rule. Maybe, when I completely hand myself over to love, and if it is only love, without a sandy foundation to sink my feet into, then eventually love gets tired.

Even love can’t sustain itself without oxygen and earth.

Where do I go from here? I guess I feel the daily percentage of missing evaporate from within me and as cliche as it sounds, refocus the love back into myself.

As my good friend said, “Love didn’t do anything wrong here. Don’t be angry at love”. Love kept me above the surface in this rip tide the whole time. Love gave me the strength to swim, while laughing in the salty waves.

Love is still working around me, through me, in spite of me. Love is healing me, strengthening me and telling me the truth.

Love is still holding my hand. It hasn’t gone anywhere.

Well I think I’m out of the rip now and although so much of me desperately wants to get sucked back in, I know that’s impossible. The only problem is that I haven’t yet reached the shore. I’m still out here, floating aimlessly, hoping I can touch the sand soon because I’m afraid of being stuck here in the middle of the ocean for a long, long time. I hope the tide brings me in and the beach can hold me safely because right now I feel anything but safe.

…And that’s just being honest. Right now I’m floating around in limbo, not allowed to go back home because it no longer exists and not knowing where my new home will be. I hope I can see it soon, that’s all, I hope I can see it soon.

PS. Six Weeks later, I’ve endured another forty-two days of evaporation and I am better. Much better actually. I feel strong, and light and clear and the truth is that I also miss him everyday. I’m still in pain and I still have nightmares and despite the hurt I feel and the fact that he doesn’t deserve this – I still care about him. I want to hate him, but I don’t. I still love him and maybe that won’t ever go away. Life will go on and I will feel happy again and I will still love him. Some people get our love and it’s not fair and that’s ok too.

You may be drawn to ask me if I am willing to do this again? The answer is:

YES. Of course I am. 

BEING HAPPY IS NOT HAVING NO SHIT.

SHITLESSNESS IS NOT A MEASURE OF MY HAPPINESS. 

Life is all of it. I’ve strapped my seat belt on and I’m not getting off of this rollercoaster until it’s time, so let’s go again world, let’s go again…

xx