take a chance, take your shoes off, dance in the rain

Its raining. It is quiet and peaceful, and I have decided I just simply cannot stay in bed any longer. Not that I plan to leave the house at all today – not at all, this is eight hours of precious, precious me time, and I desperately need it to regroup and regather today. It is 8am, there is nothing on TV so a pre recorded ‘I survived” gets put on. Stories of people who have survived such horrible, unimaginable situations that you would only ever read about in a newspaper or see on tv. A lot of whom thought they would never get out to tell their stories, some of whom audaciously say ‘ I always knew I wasn’t going to die. I just knew.’

source

At first I scoff… who on earth knows that. How can you just know? Is that fear speaking? Refusal to believe what the present reality tells you loud and clear? Arrogance? Or, simply the quiet whisper, the recognition that it is simply not your time and you just know some miracle will set you free – despite what the present reality is trying to shout over that whisper.

A few weeks ago a quiet decision was made. To start to focus on being the positive – because so often the quiet whispers of compliments were so severely drowned out by the negative. The good that I knew I was doing, was so drowned out by the ‘not enoughs’ that I felt like I was treading water. Just a quiet whisper, ‘ darling, write it down, write at least one compliment that you get each day down in that diary’. Meh, no harm, how easy could it be.

Then another, quiet, wary whisper the recognition that things were getting better, things had been calm and fine for ‘too long’. Writing it off as paranoia, anxiety… don’t be stupid, things are allowed to be flatlining. Its better than the vicious up and downs, No? Regrouping, joining together with wonderful, amazing, strong colleagues. Collective decisions to be more positive, focus on the positive, not speak the negatives. Visual aids were everywhere.

And then.

The tsunami of horrible, cruel, hurtful words.

The torrent of words and righteous anger, albeit completely misdirected. The look of shock on faces of onlookers. The fight to stay calm, to keep my voice low and even amidst the rising tones, to keep it together just for a few more minutes. To not defend, or enter into this – to remember, this was not about me, i had done nothing wrong. 

Over a number of days. I’d just begin to feel like I believed that truth, maybe, and then another wave. And I’d rise again, floundering, trying to laugh, trying to listen to the voices of support. The kindness. The people who knew me, better than anyone else. Trying, trying. But, oh my head, and its voices, and those words. oh.

And I remembered that quiet whisper… and I read, and read, and read all of those compliments. Those quiet voices, those cheerleaders. The solid, tangible evidence, the numbers, the smiles. The proof that my mind could not argue with, i had done nothing wrong, this was never about me. As cruel, and horrible as those words were, they were easier to make louder than those soft, quiet truths.

Those quiet whispers always come.

They are easy to miss, easy to write off… easy to get lost in the whirlwind of my thoughts.

But they are always my evidence, that everything is going to be alright. That I am fine.

< a timely prompt for the fresh horses brigade with Eden this week… timely. Another funny quiet whisper, that I wasn’t going to miss for the world. > 

It messed me up, need a second to breathe…

What do you want from me?

source unknown – sorry 

I should be sorry for running my own race. For not caring what you are doing, or trying to keep up with all the things you are doing, the Joneses must be an amazing bunch. For not living outside our means just to keep up appearances. For not whinging long and loud and clearly that its just all too hard and woe is me. I should be sorry, for not feeling like life is horrible and annoying and hard and hurtful.

It is… it is horrible and hard and hurtful. It is sad. It is illogical, and catches us so that we can’t breathe and can barely stumble. It is unbearable sadness, and unbearable lightness. The Joneses are all in your head – at the end of the day no one really cares, let alone notices. Its just stuff. And life, life isn’t all about stuff – definitely not stuff you can buy. 

I should be sorry for not having endless patience. For not sitting and coddling and mothering. I should be sorry for not taking more notice and celebrating your smugness. I should be sorry for not being competitive so one of us could come out on top and be ‘better’. For not reacting how you expect. For not sharing my success so you can ride on the tails. For not saying what you think I should. For not backing down. For not giving in.

But, what good is giving up my integrity? I am the one who has to live with myself, and sleep with myself each night. I’m not entering into the playground games. Im just not willing to give up the freedom I have in being authentic to myself, regardless of what that looks like. Competition and smugness serves no one well. 

I should be sorry for having a messy house. For having baskets of washing hanging out to be ironed for the better part of weeks. For not cooking dinner every single night, and packing smorgasbord lunches every single day. For not having boundless energy. For doing what we want to do, and nothing else. For having a fish tank that is full of water, with no fish.

Okay, so the fish tank thing is just plain amusing, and a great symbol that we are so full and rich in our friendships and lives that we don’t get to the shops to buy the blinking fish. Whatever. Same with the messy house and the ironing. I’d rather have a messy house, and the biggest mount fold more in the south west of Sydney than sacrifice the fullness and richness of our relationships and our lives. Cooking dinner every night would mean we wouldn’t know everyone at Italian by name, and we wouldn’t laugh at all the crazy people in the main street, and their stretch sausage dogs. 

I should be sorry for not getting high distinctions in every subject I tackle. I should be sorry for not getting my targets every single month. For sometimes being so distracted in beauty and showing my love that sometimes our savings gets spent. I should be sorry for us taking so many holidays. I should be sorry that you don’t always like what i have to say, that my blog isn’t always that interesting, or that this post didn’t take your fancy.

I should be sorry that it’s not good enough for you.

I should be sorry that I’m not everyone’s perfect.

but I’m so not. 

I’m thankful that I am imperfectly perfect.

That I am loved.

That I am so flawed, as there is beauty and genius in those flaws. That I am achieving amazing things, that I never thought I could do. That the sense of achievement I feel is there, because I slogged out every single baby step of the way. That I am a work in progress. That I build up lifers for friends, not billions of people who only know my name. That my writing is so hodge podge random, because that is reflective of my life and adventure. That I am full of laughter and light.

That I am me.

So, I don’t really care what you want from me.

Because this is who I am.

Neigh.

PS. Click on the neigh. Read more strong amazing courageous womens sorry (or not) posts. Leave them comments, acknowledge their strength and their vulnerability, all of which is simply beautiful. Stop. Reflect. Breathe.

Take a drink to get your courage up…

The question posed by Eden this week absolutely gave me pause to think… in fact, even Adam my little karaoke jukebox encyclopaedia and muser of all things left of the middle was also stumped (and still has not provided me an answer, humph!) And honestly, I was surprised I had not ever thought about this in any particular detail before… Partly because I am absolutely terrified of death, of the long black nothingness. Of my life meaning nothing. Of wasting time. Of the unknown. Did I mention the long black nothingness? I am also slightly petrified of any of my family or inner circle passing.. I’m not so sure how I would cope. And then would my life turn into a long black nothingness? Anyway, back to the request…

“Tell me your funeral song”

I’m kind of torn.. none of the songs by the band that I am known to love quite ‘fit’ my funeral, much like me and most of my life, it just doesn’t ‘fit’ in how it should, or where it should (irony!)  and the songs that I have carried with me for years, that always get me singing and wanting to dance and loving, have lyrics that are… unsuitable? For example this one, love the song, not quite right for the purpose:

 

Or this one…

 

Somehow the repeated line of  ’I've never been so alive’ would go down too well… although the people who know me would get a super giggle out of it. Because we all have warped senses of humour like that. I did especially like (seriously) ‘Careening through the universe, your axis on a tilt, you’re guiltless and free I hope you take a piece of me with you’ …

However, after much music listening, you tube surfing and lyric reading, i have come down to two, wholly appropriate songs.. that incidentally i remember working in the city, over a decade ago listening to both songs when I needed to go to a quiet place. to shut my eyes. to just breathe. to just be.

I see it around me, I see it in everything…
I said my goodbyes this is my sundown.
Good, Goodbye, lovely times
Good, Goodbye, Good Goodnight 

What would you think of me now, so lucky, so strong, so proud?
I never said thank you for that – thought I might get one more chance
May Angels lead you in, Hear you me, my friends….

I never said thank you for that – now I’ll never have the chance

And if you were with me tonight
I’d sing to you just one more time
A song for a heart so big
God wouldn’t let it live

May angels lead you in…

Linking in, joining the love, supporting the writers and hearing their hearts at:

And so it goes…

In the middle of untangling some theories of modernism this morning (snore) I was delightfully distracted by that little blue bird that tells me there is a new tweet from some fantastic awesome person I am following/tweavesdropping / spying /stalking /loving on… and I was so touched by what I read, that it totally deserved ‘another’ study break… because when the outline is this:

‘We’re bringing on the fresh horses every day. Life keeps going. I don’t know who hands us the reins for our fresh horses .. I just know that I dig my cowboy boots into the stirrups and ride like my life depends on it. The horses that got me to that point in my life grow weary and collapse but I go on like a gladiator. So do you.’
Eden Riley here

And it thumps you right in the heart because thats exactly what your little spirit needed to hear right now, well that deserves a place on the Saturday morning weekly schedule. And it also heralds my heart to some semblance of normal – I’ve had a break from my favourite links, from reading, from supporting, from commenting, and i have felt so lost. So disconnected. So not me. And I’ve felt it, and seen it in myself, captured those debbie downer thoughts, and let them rob me of my sleep.

So. Let me return… and return I will….

I am someone who adores writing. I am somewhat of a stationery whore, and I always. ALWAYS carry around, purchase, borrow a thousand pieces of paper, and books, and post its, colourful pens, sharpies and highlighters. It lets me say all those things I could never say in real life. It lets me show my emotion in a way that isn’t destructive. It lets me remember the beautiful things that I want to look back on and know I climbed that mountain and conquered that battle. It lets me see what I am feeling – particularly when I cannot process or articulate it for the life of me.

You see, my handwriting is crazy, loopy, beautiful and tangled, like its always just bursting to escape….

I have my journal writing

I have my bright, colourful, trying to make study fun outline writing

I have my ‘angry’ writing.. too fast, too furious, just needs to get out… now…

And my planning / organising handwriting….

To me, handwriting is beautiful. Sure, I can type faster – but I can’t type with that much emotion – or precision. I can’t type and feel the weight of the pen in my hand, and the pressure of it on the paper. i can’t feel the texture of the paper, and pound out my anger in exactly the same way as I can when its physical. I can’t focus quite so well on the computer as I can when its me and my books, or my pieces of paper. I can’t take notes when i am trying my darndest to help a client and remember the important bits when i am typing or staring at my computer.

Sure, the words i type on my computer help me to connect – but they don’t help me to be quite so present in the moment as when I am writing. There is something so sweet and romantic in receiving a handwritten lunchbox letter:

So. Those fresh horses? That feeling of belonging? Of being part of something? Of being supported, valued, good at something? Of being heard? I’m excited to have that time of a Saturday morning – with someone I have long read, and respected and admired. Go here to be a part -

< and for the record, i still feel like this year is life changing, like parts of me are being pulled apart, challenged, and put back together… I’ve never felt so encouraged, and supported… I’ve never felt like i have had so many cheerleaders who see my heart and love, just so love on me, so thank you, for those who twitter with me, read me, comment me and email me. I love this space. LOVE. >