Telstra Tower and Other Small Miracles

The other day I listened to Dr Ellen Langer speak about mindfulness as a way of being rather than a practice. She described the art of seeing the ordinary with fresh eyes, of really looking, really noticing. It struck me how easily the rhythm of daily life can lull us into living on autopilot.

Her talk reminded me of the Buddhist Monk, Thich Nhat Hanh’s definition of mindfulness, doing the ordinary things in life with a sense of purpose and attention, whether that be opening a door or turning on a tap. Each of these little acts can be done either mindlessly or mindfully. Doing it one way we are absent from our life while doing it mindfully we become alive to the present moment. And the present moment, as we know, is the only moment. Whatever happened 5 minutes ago is in past and whatever is coming is in the future. Life can only be lived in the small moments of now.

I have known this for many years but I am not very good at being grounded. My mind takes me hither and dither and I can be quite the scatterbrain. Where’s my phone? My wallet? Did I turn off the lights? Did I just lock myself out? These are daily micro-moments of panic I experience on repeat. My daughter just laughs and says she never gets past counting to 17 before my problem-of-the-moment is resolved!

This morning has been a scattered start. I’m still in my PJs deciding on shower, getting dressed, making to do lists, going to the shop and walking the dog. It really shouldn’t be this hard. Just start with the first logical step (have a shower) and keep going. It hasn’t helped that I am unwell and brain fog has settled in for the day. That’s when I stopped and looked out the window. No, not just looked out the window but really looked out the window. I saw the usual scene before me with fresh eyes. Trees swaying in the wind, leaves like windchimes. Thousands of hushed, eucalypt windchimes trembling on trees only a few metres from the glass pane. I was mesmerised by the bounty of their beauty and then looked further afield towards the horizon.

Erupting in a belly-laugh, I couldn’t believe my eyes! I have lived here for 20 months and have never seen it. Yet there it was, clear as the day before me. The largest structure in Canberra, a 195metre telecommunications tower known as Telstra Tower and it can be seen from my window! How often have I mindlessly looked out and never seen it? How can I miss an obscenely large structure like this? I shook my head in disbelief and couldn’t help but laugh at my selective blindness. Sadly, this is nothing new, many people know this about me but it still catches me completely unawares.

I now have a new landmark to celebrate when I look out the window and I wonder what other delights await me as I learn to look once more with fresh eyes. It’s both humbling and heartening to realise that wonder was there all along. As Thich Nhat Hanh says, “We all have the ability to look at things with fresh eyes and see them as if seeing them for the first time. If we have lost our freshness, all we have to do is practice breathing in and out to restore it.” (From A Handful of Quiet, Happiness in Four Pebbles.)

And so I breathe in and out and learn an old lesson anew. I laugh at how life patiently keeps offering me reminders and I resolve to open my eyes and look deeply as if for the very first or very last time.

Six Days Horizontal

Getting sick is like sitting down on a chair that’s much lower than anticipated. You land hard and wonder why you didn’t see it coming. The signs were all there – lack of energy, headache, a bit of a cough but it didn’t seem that bad. Until it was. And then the crash landing.

Six days in bed felt like long drawn out weeks. There were nights where minutes felt like hours and hours stretched into infinity until dawn. Unable to breathe through my nose, I sat half upright, sipping endless glass after glass of water in a futile attempt to keep my lips moist. It was pretty grim by Wednesday night. Thoughts meandered irrationally in and out of my consciousness. At one point I was writing scripts for ‘Vera’; trains of clever dialogues rattled by without ever stopping at a station. At other times I was coming up with ideas for Podcasts. Perhaps that synapse of an idea will make this suffering worthwhile.

Being sick for a length of time gave me ample of opportunity to appraise my life. Existential dread arrived on cue between the hours of three and four a.m., no alarm necessary. Had I done enough with my one wild life? Clearly not. My shortcomings lay exposed, expectorating. I was condemned, guilty on all counts. My optimism fled at the first sign of the tempest raging in my head.

The week has been confronting. I turned into a creature I barely recognised. I could have walked out of the pages of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Any veneer of humour was chipped away, hope no longer resided in my soul. And my old friend, gratitude? She too deserted me and has only fleetingly reappeared in the past two days. A fair-weather friend on whom I thought I could rely. Faith too had deserted me.

Here I am on day eight and the fog is slowly lifting. I am now fully dressed and have even eaten a meal. I’ve stopped trying to wrestle with what I can’t control and settled into reluctant acceptance. My mood has steadied and the storm has eased. I am emerging, somewhat battered but essentially intact. I tell myself I’ll never take my health for granted again, and even as I think it, I know it’s probably horseshit.

It takes a village

My granddaughter was born two and a half months ago. She’s generally a ‘good baby’ (as if any baby could be bad), but she does struggle with sleep. In this regard, she reminds me of my daughter as a baby. She was a wakeful child, who would become overtired and then unable to sleep at all.

Now, of course, my daughter wishes she could sleep. Even a ten-minute nap is bliss, and she catches rest whenever she can. Her husband is a hands-on dad, which means both of them are running on empty. Nothing can prepare you for parenthood. It can only be understood through living it. I look at them and marvel at their resilience, but I also recognise that fine line between coping and breaking point.

One unfortunate inheritance I’ve passed on to my daughter is chronic migraines. She remembers me lying down with a bucket beside the bed, waiting for her father to come home and take over the evening routine. It probably happened once a week, certainly often enough to leave an imprint. Like me, she can only lie down, hope to sleep, or ride out the waves of pain. I know what she’s going through, but all I can really do is empathise, bring her medicine, prepare food, and care for the baby so she can rest.

Today she called me in desperation, asking where I was. After hours of trying to settle the baby with multi-day migraine, she had reached her limit. She did the wisest thing she could, put the baby down safely and walked away to her bedroom. I remember the guilt of those moments, when I too had to step back. Yet that distance, that breath of space, is what saves both mother and child. No-one can prepare you for motherhood and the contradictions it carries: joy and frustration, love and exhaustion, light and shadow.

She’s fortunate to have a close friend nearby who stepped in until I arrived. Together we cared for the baby, giving my daughter the reprieve she needed. Watching her, I thought about how difficult it can be raising a child in a nuclear family. How much gentler it might be if grandparents, aunts and uncles lived nearby, ready to lend a hand or a listening ear. There is much to be said for the extended family networks that are woven naturally into other cultures. As for us, we simply muddle through, doing our best, one tired, love-filled day at a time.

What Might Have Been, What Still Is

It is seven in the morning and I’m walking my dog. There are a few people about; a Border Collie here, an Oodle there, a Kelpie in the distance. As I come to cross path, an older couple appear without a dog in tow. This seems odd. At this time of the morning, most people walk briskly with their dogs, giving them a quick outing before work. Over time, most of these people have become familiar faces which I acknowledge with a nod and smile, or with whom I exchange a comment about the weather.  

Ever curious, my eyes follow the older couple as they walk in-step, hands in pockets, elbows lightly touching. As I watch from a distance, my heart aches for the familiarity and affection I sense from their movements. In their steps, I glimpse the path I imagined for myself long ago. This is how I always wanted my old age to be; my husband and I, walking along with a dog running ahead, enjoying companionable silence, or the conversation that makes up a lifetime shared.

Watching them, my heart aches but there’s also joy in my sadness. Joy, because they beat the odds of divorce, death or the malignancy of indifference. They have not ended up in a law court fighting out a bitter dispute or learned to loathe each other in silence, bickering away the fleeting moments of their lives. I celebrate this couple and all those who stood the test of time, those who have learned to love through pain, heartache and oh so many joys that life has to offer, to finally arrive at old age together, whether it be by luck, good fortune or good health. And as I watch them go, I know without doubt and without sentimentality that this would have been us, had death not severed my beloved from my side.

Floriade and Friendship

Many a weekend is spent on housework and chores. That’s a fact of life for those of us who work full-time. But there’s more to life than dishes and socks. Weekends also need to include recreational activities to recharge us.

This week my dear friend Heidi announced she would come to visit. We live about 110 km from each other but even with this relatively short distance in Australian terms, we don’t see each other often. I suggested going to Floriade, a Canberran institution which is held every year in September. She readily agreed.

Floriade is a celebration of spring held at Commonwealth Park each year. An overall theme is selected for the various garden bed designs. This year Floriade features 12 large garden beds highlighting Australian Scientists through the contribution they made to a scientific field. The garden bed themes have names such as Molecular Structure, Spectrum and Petri Dish. By carefully observing the design of each bed, the theme presents itself. My favourites were the double helix for DNA and the Atom.

While massed tulips are the main attraction, there are many varieties of flowers in an assortment of colours. There are Pansies, Chrysanthemums, Hyacinths and Violas to name but a few. Each display is painstakingly planted to represent the facets of science it celebrates. It can be difficult to discern the images portrayed from ground level but when viewed from above, the images become clear.

I suggested going on the Ferris Wheel to get a better view. After a long wait, we clambered into a swinging carriage that was to take us up for a better view. From above, it was much easier to discern the themes. It was very windy at the top and we rocked from side to side which made taking pictures difficult. Our best photos came from when we stopped half way up.

Heidi and I had a wonderful time exploring the gardens. We were mesmerised by the variety of colours of the flowers we encountered. Black Pansies and deep purple hyacinths! We had never seen either of these. We marvelled at the ingenuity of the of the garden bed designers.

While the flowers occupied the centre of attention, we still had time to catch up with each other’s lives. We are empty nesters; our children flapping their fledgling wings. We talked about our plans for retirement, the joys of having a dog, our fears for future generations.

There is immense comfort in a friendship that has lasted forty years. Surprisingly, in all that time, we have only lived in the same town for roughly two years. Yet like tulips at the Floriade, our friendship has returned season after season, surprising us with vivid palettes of colour and the patina that the years provide.

Floating My Way into Calm

The first time I encountered a floatation tank was in Melbourne sometime in the 1990s. Back then, they were small pods which could either be closed completely or left ajar for those who suffered from claustrophobia. I didn’t know what to expect and found the experience relaxing but rather boring. It was also before I learnt to meditate.

On a whim, I decided to book a 60-minute floatation experience. I reasoned that if I fell asleep during an MRI, I would find floating in an enclosed tank relaxing. I booked into the nearest ‘Wellness Centre’ and a calm young woman met me at the front counter. The process was explained via a short video on an iPad; she then offered me a cup of tea and took me to the floatation room.

Instead of an enclosed tank, I found myself in a very spacious room with a shower on one side and a floatation pool taking up the length of the room. I was surrounded by blue light which I could turn off for complete sensory deprivation. Once showered, I stepped into the pool and immediately floated to the surface of the water. I chose not to have any music and turned off the light.

This may remind some people of solitary confinement and in a sense it was. I began a mindfulness of breathing meditation, where I counted each in and outbreath as one and then continued until I reached ten before starting at one again. I managed to focus for ten times ten breaths which roughly equates ten minutes before I lost track. I’m not sure how long I persevered with counting my breath before I fell into a deep sleep in zero-G.

Sensory deprivation is often used to reduce stress, relieve pain and help with concentration. When sensory input is minimised, it is easier to allow our parasympathetic nervous system to do its job and relax the body. It can lower the heart rate and produce a profound sense of calm. Sensory deprivation, especially when combined with high levels of magnesium sulfate (Epsom salts), can assist with muscle recovery and improved sleep quality. These are all sorely needed when we are always on the go, and my sore body sure appreciated the benefits.

A faint voice awakened me. I stirred, found the light switch and showered once more, washing the salt from my body. Heading to the lounge area, I encountered a number of slow moving, gently smiling people. After tea and a few quiet moments in the lounge, I opened the door and returned to the world outside; calm, rested, and savouring the silence within.

September Stirrings

As September and my birthday approach, I become acutely aware that the year is heading into the final waning quarter. We race about exclaiming ‘where did the year go?’, like we have done every year before this and no doubt will in years to follow. But years come and go in days and hours, in the actions and inactions that we succumb to in the moment. At the time they seem such tiny decisions that they really don’t matter but when we add them up, those moments become minutes and hours and then days and months.

It reminds me of that small biscuit that can’t possibly make a difference yet over time adding up to extra kilos or the five dollars for a coffee that can add up to a substantial amount of money when invested. We often look for the big things that make a change in our lives when we should be looking at the micro-moments that have the real impact.

Recently, I have begun to question every one of my purchases. Do I really need it? Will I really use it? How much will it be worth to me in six months’ time? They are quite sobering questions, and I have found that many things are quite unnecessary. This has also allowed me to appreciate the things I do have. The exception to my newfound frugality is buying books, but even there, I have curbed my spending. In part, because I am running out of both shelf and wall space to accommodate them.

As I approach the last quarter of the year, I am disappointed with my lack of progress on some goals but at the same time, I am buoyed by the progress of others. On reflection, this sounds fairly normal. We dream big at the beginning of the year but then, getting through the day with all its demands wears us down little by little. In addition, like joker cards, life’s twists and turns can jolt our lives onto a different track altogether. 

I head into my birth month taking stock of this past year, what I can achieve as we sprint towards the finish line of 2025 and what lies ahead for me in the coming year. I’ll be a year older, none-the wiser, but feeling positive about some of the habits I have been developing. Spending less and living within my means is a basic tenet in life that I should have acquired decades ago but I am proud that in this season of my life, I am on my way to conquering my spending habits and learning to make the moments count. It turns out, the last quarter of the year, and of life, is also shaped by the smallest of choices.

Red Plaits, Freckles and a Dash of Mischief

The first Children’s book week took place in Australia in 1945. Every year since then, children participated in book week parades, dressing up as their favourite character from a book. This year is especially significant as we celebrate 80 years of encouraging children to immerse themselves in books and find novel ways (pun intended) to engage with reading.

The Children’s Book Council of Australia confers awards to authors and illustrators of outstanding children’s books published in the past year. The ‘long list’ or notable books is announced around February, followed by the ‘short list’ from which the finalists are selected. The books that receive prizes often become best loved classics with children.

Book week parades started out with simple home-made costumes and a lot of imagination. Today, parents can spend a small fortune on costumes, wigs and accoutrements. My favourites, however, remain the simple imaginative costumes. If I could have given a prize this year, it would have gone to a little boy at my school who wore rainbow stockings, a long t-shirt, a hand-sewn felt snake’s head and a crocheted blanket made of colourful granny squares. He was the rainbow serpent! Second prize would have been awarded to the girl in leotards with underpants over it. She was ‘Captain Underpants!’

Teachers almost always join in the fun with costumes of their own. My go to is Pippi Longstocking because she was my childhood favourite character. This year, the book turned 81, a year older than the CBCA celebrations. I loved and envied Pippi. She lived on her own in Villekulla cottage in Sweden with her monkey and horse as company. Her father was a pirate and there was little mention of her mother. She was superhumanly strong, lived by her own rules and adults had no power over her, no matter how hard they tried. Recently, I was amused to read that she has been pathologised- it is now thought that she had ADHD and oppositional defiance disorder traits!  I couldn’t help but laugh at this. Are we about to prescribe her Ritalin?

There definitely is a bit of Pippi in my genes. I think that’s the genius of Astrid Lindgren, her creator. Every child has a little Pippi in them wanting to come out. Some manage it better than others. Of course, our job as adults is to keep the lid on the shenanigans and keep children from jumping off roof tops or attempting other dangerous things. Still, the yearning is always there to break free.

So once again, I embraced my inner Pippi and drove to school with my red plaits, multicoloured stockings and painted on freckles. The only downside was that the teachers recognised who I was but none of the children had ever heard of the one and only Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Ephraim’s Daughter Longstocking.  

Painting the Harbour Bridge and Other Never-Ending Chores

https://www.pexels.com/photo/sydney-harbour-bridge-4023897/

There is a myth that the Harbour Bridge is continually painted without a break. The story goes that when painters finish at one end, they go back and start at the beginning. This is an urban myth. The reality is that sections need to be painted at differing intervals. Still the myth persists.

Cleaning my house feels like the story about painting the harbour bridge. No sooner do I finish one task, the next is already waiting for me. Now I don’t know whether the painters enjoy their job, but I certainly don’t enjoy mine. I’d much rather be at my desk writing, reading a good book or taking the dog for a walk. Vacuuming, not so much.

Yesterday I vacuumed, did the washing, folded the clothes and put them away, packed and unpacked the dishwasher, changed the sheets and put the rubbish out. Today I will clean the bathroom, iron some work gear, tidy up yet again and water the plants. There’s much more on the list, but I know I won’t get to it. Already the floor looks like it could do with another going over.

Tomorrow the working week begins. When I get home, I will cook, tidy the kitchen, do the dishes and clean out the kitty litter. There won’t be time for much more. The rest of the week will follow in the same vein and then will come the weekend when the big clean will happen once more. Whoever came up with the phrase ‘rinse and repeat’ is a genius. It applies to so much of our daily lives.

Yet while I grumble about my daily chores, I also remember my mother’s lot. When I was a child, she washed clothes in a wooden tub using soap and a washboard to scrub them clean. It was backbreaking work. We didn’t have a vacuum, so cleaning the floor was a matter of a daily sweep with a broom and weekly mopping. Our dishes were washed in a plastic tub and dried with a tea-towel. There were no modern appliances in our house. Cleaning was drudgery.

I have to remind myself that I have it so much easier now. It takes me less than three hours to clean my house top to bottom, which is no more than 2% of all the time available in a week. Viewed in this way, it is hardly an imposition. As with so much of life, it is the attitude to the task that makes the difference. And so, the Bridge gets painted, my house gets cleaned, and I am blessed that life keeps moving on.

Mornings, Magpies and Me

Some children are up at 6 a.m. full of beans, ready to play. They wake their bleary-eyed parents with laughter, chatter and joie de vivre. I was never one of these kids. I’ve been a night owl from the day I was born.

My mornings have always been hard. Getting out of bed is hard. Jumping in and out of the shower is hard. Facing breakfast is hard. Anything beyond a grunt is hard. The only thing that isn’t hard is taking the dog for her morning walk.

Although I bitterly resent it before I go, the moment I’m out in the park the day changes. I remind myself this is worth getting up for: the cool air on my face, the well-trodden track under my feet, and the dog cantering ahead like a racehorse.

By this time, I’m smiling and have found my voice. I even enjoy meeting fellow walkers and saying hello. Yet the 45 minutes before the walk have been hellishly difficult. Why can’t I just skip the moaning and groaning and get to the good bits straight away? I’ve read The Miracle Morning, and each time I go back to it, I get all fired up about embracing the new habits it suggests. My enthusiasm, however, wilts the next morning when I actually have to put those lofty ideals into practice.

I now leave my phone in the kitchen and set my alarm so I have to get out of bed to turn it off. Great in theory. In practice, I’ve been known to yell ‘Siri, stop!’ loud enough for my phone to obey. When that hasn’t worked, the rebel in me has simply waited out the alarm with the doona pulled over my head. I can be ridiculously obstinate about getting up.

I’ve tried Mel Robbins’ five-second rule, but if you’re not committed, you won’t do it. I understand the theory (I always understand the theory) and for a while, when I’m all enthusiastic, it works. But inevitably, I slip back into bad habits.

This morning, I set my alarm 15 minutes earlier than I needed to and another for the right time. It let me hurkle-durkle for a while, letting thoughts amble lazily through my mind. With enormous effort, I stumbled out of bed and into the shower. Only when the warm water trickles down my face do I truly wake up. Until then, I’m a zombie condemning everything that crosses my path to hell and damnation.

I’ve always admired people who wake up ready to face the day. The world seems built for morning people. Life would be so much easier if I fell into line. But today, I’ve had a small win. I was out the door 20 minutes earlier than usual, and it made a huge difference. The dog had a much longer walk and I wasn’t in a hurry to get back. So instead of rushing, I enjoyed the magpies warbling and spotted a kookaburra perched on the overhead wire. I’d have missed this beautiful kingfisher on any other day. If every morning started with a kookaburra, I might stop arguing with my alarm. Might.