Tag: writing

The Miracle Morning Missed Me

Why can’t I get out of bed in the morning? Every night, my alarm is set on my phone and placed in the kitchen. I have chosen the most ear-piercing, shrill sound that I fear wakes my entire neighbourhood, but I still manage to roll over and go back to sleep. I have tried going to bed earlier, setting the alarm for as late as possible, setting it earlier to give myself more time, having a thermos of tea at my bedside, all to no avail.

The strange thing is that I’m not even comfortable in bed once I wake up. My hips ache, my bladder protests and still I lie there, convincing myself that ‘out there’ is not only less desirable but downright ghastly. It will be too cold and much too unpleasant. Yet when I finally get up, it is quite agreeable out there. The shower is warm, the world seems benign and when I take the dog for her walk, I can’t help but feel jubilant. The frost and silent fog are achingly beautiful. I wonder why I can’t return to this feeling to get me out of bed earlier. It would be so much more enjoyable to have an extra twenty minutes out in the park instead of lying in bed.

I never thought I’d say this, but I wish I were a morning person: someone who wakes up, jumps out of bed fully awake and ready to tackle the day. The type of person who is bright and chirpy, finds the first is hours of the day invigorating and gets things done before others are awake. It seems to make no difference whether I have six hours or ten hours sleep. I wake up bleary eyed, slightly grumpy and always at least a little more tired than when I went to bed. Luckily, my dog doesn’t mind me being monosyllabic for the first hour.

I have read ‘Miracle Morning’, ‘The Five Second Rule’ and various other books of the same ilk, trying to convince me that it is a merely a question of putting my mind to it. Lord knows, I have tried. I have even succeeded for a week or two at a time, but it was always a struggle, and I never felt full of energy. My rocket booster kicks in about 30 minutes before bedtime, which would be perfect timing if my job were midnight space travel, but not so great for a 6am start in the real world.

Many years ago, I taught English to Chinese students at a private college. It wasn’t a great job and for the most part I was deeply unhappy there. But there was one moment that has become a favourite of mine, an anecdote that resonates with every fibre of my being. A young man handed me his journal to be marked. The first sentence read, ‘I was alarmed at 7am.’  I simply couldn’t bring myself to mark it as incorrect.

The Quiet Cost of Disconnection

A few weeks back, I drove 330 km to attend friend’s birthday lunch. I hadn’t seen her for about six months and was delighted to surprise her on the day. I also caught up with a couple of friends I hadn’t seen for years on that weekend. Since then, my life has revolved around work, and I have barely seen anyone. Usually, I don’t mind at all, I’m a bit of a loner and rarely feel lonely. Lately though, there’s been a niggle gnawing within me, a slight feeling of dissatisfaction, which I’m finding disconcerting.

I talk to lots of people during the day, so it isn’t a lack of contact. However, most of my interactions are transactional and I don’t feel connected in any meaningful way. Today, it occurred to me that I know very little about the private lives of my colleagues and they know very little about me. Whilst I don’t expect to have all my social needs met at work, it is where I spend a large chunk of my time.

We always think about the quality of our diet and exercise as the main risk factors for our health. Recently, studies have identified another risk factor, which could be equally as important to longevity and health – the importance of social relations. This may be because the support that friends offer can lower our stress hormones, it can even help regulate insulin and help with our gut function. It reminds me of studies that have been done on positive coronary effects of purring cats on laps. We all need companionship and physical touch.

What matters most is the quality of our interactions. Happy marriages can help prolong life; unhappy ones can lead to poor health outcomes. While not causal, there’s a definite a link. This also applies to friendships. The stronger and more harmonious our friendships, the happier and healthier we tend to be.

But it isn’t just the social interaction that’s been lacking from my life. I haven’t done much of the two things that keep me centred. The first is walking and the second is writing. Before work, I only fit in 15 to 20 minutes of a walk and, now that winter has arrived, I mostly get home after dark. I miss my hour-long stroll after work and so does the dog. No such excuses for my lack of writing.

After a few weeks of missing the online London renegade writers’ group, I finally logged on today. We wrote, we chatted, we laughed and cheered each other on. Such a simple step and I already feel better. Two hours later, I’m buoyed, smiling, and content with my lot once again. And here’s the blog post to show for it.

Music in the Margins

Dickson is an inner-north suburb of Canberra, well known for Asian restaurants and specialty grocers. The shopping precinct is also known for people sleeping rough, alcohol and drug problems as well as boarded up shop fronts. Coles and Woolworths are two retail giants competing against each other, but small shops struggle to make ends meet. It is a mixed bag.

In the centre of the shopping precinct is a plaza with a public library servicing the surrounding areas. At night, the covered entrance way provides shelter for the homeless. Vinnies does a night patrol in the area, providing food, jackets, sleeping bags, and offering non-judgmental social interaction. There are many who would like to clear out the poor and ‘improve’ the suburb. They speak of a clean-up as if it were a matter of getting some mops and brooms, sweeping away unwanted people.

Yes, I can attest to the problems in the area, but I also see a richness and community spirit. While waiting for a prescription to be filled, I sat on a bench opposite a muralled wall where an upright piano stands under the eaves of a building. It is old and weather-beaten, but its keys are intact. Playable, even if most likely out of tune.

A man in his 40s, wearing a black backpack, sat down, rolled a cigarette and began to play. The music that flowed from his hands was enchanting. As it was a public holiday, there were very few people about. Yet those who were about to walk past, stopped, took videos or simply listened before continuing on their way. I stood up and commented on the soaring melodies to a woman with a pram. Her toddler was transfixed. Soon, someone else joined us and we were strangers no more. The pianist had brought us together to enjoy the moment, doing what he loved best, awakening within us the power of music.

At the end of a song, I approached to say thank you. He was rather bashful, telling me he was self-taught and had only been playing for two years. He could only play by ear, and as he hadn’t worked out how to use the black keys, he could only play in C major or A minor, the two scales that can be played solely on the white keys. He probably wasn’t aware of that. Nevertheless, he sounded accomplished, and his repertoire was extensive.

This man, rich in spirit but poor, had transformed my trip to the chemist into deep appreciation for the gifts that people can offer each other. He touched the hearts of everyone who walked past and allowed people to connect who would otherwise not strike up a conversation. All because someone had leaned an old piano against a wall in the mall.

I have seen the architect’s impression of a precinct, a master plan of hundreds of new apartments and clean, green public spaces. The language of conservation (zero waste) and Connecting with Country (green corridors) are present, appealing to our middle-class conscience.  No doubt the suburb will enjoy a process of gentrification and it will be prices rather than the broom that will eventually sweep the suburb clean of people like the piano man.

Missing the Date, Catching the Moment

My mind is scattered. The other day, I drove to Sydney for an appointment on the wrong day. That’s a six hour round trip I could have avoided. I have a bad habit of skimming emails and assuming details. It has got me into trouble before. But I decided against self-flagellation and make the most of a day in the city.

Although there were many options to get into town, I chose to take the light rail from Dulwich Hill. Not the quickest way but I wanted to see what it was like. Having grown up with trams in Melbourne, I have always had a soft spot for them. I much prefer them to trains and buses. I like that I can see the driver, that they are smaller and more intimate than trains, and travel at a slower speed. There’s a human scale to them, almost a little quaint now, yet efficient at moving people from one suburb to the next.

The track goes along a narrow goods train corridor which hasn’t been used for years. For most of the journey, there’s vegetation on both sides of the track, making it a pleasant ride through a green corridor. On this particular day, the leaves of the trees we were dappled in sunlight, giving the effect of passing through an arbour. I was captivated by the changing light and shadow on the various shades of green. Yet when I looked at my fellow passengers, hardly anyone noticed. Familiarity breeds contempt.

As I began to observe the commuters, I noticed two women reading a book, maybe three people sitting quietly and the rest were either scrolling on their phones or wearing earbuds. In the past, commuters may have been reading a newspaper or book, knitting or striking up a conversation with someone nearby. People would have made eye contact with each other or even given a slight nod. I remembered a TV show aired on SBS called ‘Going Home’. We used to watch it regularly after the news. Filmed in 2000-2001, it followed the lives of a fictional group of commuters on their homeward train journey. The characters shared aspects of their lives with one another, noticed if someone was missing and discussed current affairs. This series could not be made now. Who would watch a group of commuters staring at their phones for 20 minutes a day?

Once more, I focused my gaze outwards as we passed Jubilee Park, Wentworth Park and then made our way into the city. It had been a pleasant trip, musing about the nature of change and the joys of travelling along a green corridor. Did it matter that I arrived on the wrong day? Not really. I spent the day doing a bit of shopping and surprised a dear friend, turning up unannounced. A perfect, unscripted day.

A School Life, A Full Life

We are approaching the end of the term. I can tell. My floors aren’t vacuumed, and the bed is overdue for clean sheets. Lots of little jobs are falling by the wayside. I tell myself that I will get to them next week when I finally have some time.

Today, I arrived home after 7pm and my number one priority was feeding the animals and then cooking my own meal. My poor dog didn’t even get out for her customary walk tonight. I’ve snuggled into my dressing gown and I have no desire to brave the elements.

To be fair, not all of it has to do with working at a busy school. Last week, I had several engagements that left me with little time at home. The first was a delightful dinner on Friday night where good company, a bottle of bubbly and the funniest conversations made me laugh so hard that I had to hold my sides. Both food, and company were outstanding.

Saturday, I drove back to Millthorpe where I used to live to catch up with dear friends and get a haircut. It is a three hour drive one way. That’s quite some distance to travel for a hairdresser. While I like the Salon and the quality of the cut, my main reason for not swapping over to someone else is that I enjoy catching up with friends. As we move away, it is harder and harder to keep in contact. ‘We must keep in touch,’ is a common refrain but life gets busy and after a short time the connections are weakened until they are completely severed. I didn’t want that to happen.

The downside of being away for a weekend is that the washing, cleaning and weekly preparation doesn’t get done. I went headlong into this week without much of a plan. I’m feeling the effects of it now. My Monday has been taken up with reactive tasks and the important items on my to-do list never got a look in. When I packed up in the afternoon, I discarded a full cup of tea I had made myself at midday. I hadn’t been near my desk since then.

Am I frustrated? Maybe just a little. But life is more than just the tasks we feel we have to complete. I’m glad that I went to the dinner with good friends on Friday, and then off to see more lovely friends on the weekend. The washing can wait. I still have plenty to wear. While I may be tired, I am also incredibly grateful for my full life in loving company.

I’m grateful for friends – old and new, grateful for shared laughter, and for the chance to be of service, even on the messiest of Mondays. The to-do list can wait. For now, my dressing gown, a warm meal, and a quiet moment are exactly what I need.

The Old Lady’s Silent Farewell

The other night, an enormous moth came into my study. Each of the dark brown wings had a blue ‘eye’, no doubt to intimidate a predator. I saw it settle on a window and watched awhile. I ought to get a large glass to capture and release it on the balcony, I thought. Then, momentarily distracted, I forgot all about the moth.

A week later, I found it dead on the table near the window. Even in death, it looked majestic. I felt guilty that I hadn’t remembered to release it and hoped it had a chance to mate and produce another generation of Southern Old Lady Moths. What an odd name for such a stunning moth!

Once I found out its name, I was curious to learn more. It is such a human trait. Naming something makes us feel more connected to it. So, I did a little research. Southern Old Lady Moths can be found where there are acacia trees, and we have plenty of them in the nature reserve across the road. Their caterpillars feast on wattle leaves and can grow up to 6cm. Their heads and feet are orange, just like the underside of the moth I found.

Once they emerge from their chrysalis, the moths are nocturnal. During the day they hibernate in small, out-of-the-way spaces, sometimes even in houses and garages. During these times, the moths remain perfectly still. This was what I was hoping for when I found the moth on the table, but I quickly realised this was not the case.

I felt responsible for its demise. I wished I had remembered to take it out when I first noticed it. Now, in death, I had the opportunity to observe it closely. I marvelled at its markings and its orange underside and head. Then, belatedly, I placed it in a pot plant on the balcony. Though I had forgotten it in life, I gave it a place in death. Here it will either provide food for a bird or turn to compost, completing its cycle of life.

Aching for Attention

Recently, my body has been telling me to pay attention through aches, pains and annoying niggles. The message is clear; take heed, you are more than the mind and your thoughts. The physical form is just as important, ignore it at your own peril.

I have suffered from migraines for most of my life and they have often come about when I have pushed myself to the limit. Things like forgetting to eat lunch, sitting in front of a computer for hours on end, not getting enough sleep are just a few ways I have abused my body and while it faithfully keeps going for a long time, eventually it tells me to stop. Usually, it does so in a not-so-subtle way. That’s because it knows that only a sledgehammer will stop me.

I often find wild bruises on my legs or dried blood on my arm, and I have no idea how I acquired these. I brush off minor cuts or bumps as inconveniences only to discover later that they weren’t so minor after all. I am not proud of this. It comes from an attitude of considering my body as an inconvenience that I carry around with me. I see it as a limiting factor in what I try to achieve. So, I ignore it as much as I can instead of working with it or giving it the care it needs. If I am honest, it has been a lifetime of neglect.

The last week has been particularly tough on my body. I stupidly wore high heels to work on a ten-hour day when I had to run from one building to the next and greet people in an official capacity. By the end of the day, I was hobbling back to the car, in pain and exhausted. That night, I slept 12 hours. My body said ‘enough’.

I woke with a headache this morning and instead of reaching for pain killers, I reached for water. You’re learning, I thought. My body felt stiff, aching all over even after my morning shower. I looked at my to do list and promptly closed my diary. It could wait. Instead of pushing myself to get the next thing done and crossed off, I walked my dog to the local café, enjoyed a coffee and decided to honour my body with a massage.

After forty-five minutes of pleasure and pain, I thanked the Chinese masseuse and floated out onto the street. Colours seemed brighter as did my mood. Back home I approached chores with more energy and decided others could wait. I took the dog for another long walk and met up with some of the regulars in the park. Looking up at cotton ball clouds, I watched their shapes change. I noticed a colony of ants build a nest on the side of the path and I realised I was pain free and happy. All I needed was a little self-care and acknowledgment of my body.

Weekends: The Gift of Time Well-Spent

I’m back at work after two glorious months off. While I was still working diligently on my own projects, the days and weeks had a different rhythm. Often, it was difficult to tell which day was which, as the weeks rolled into each other. There’s a deliciousness about feeling that we are outside of time, but it also has its downsides. Like forgetting about business hours for example and realising that others work on a different set of assumptions about working hours.

Now that I am back in the Monday to Friday world of work, weekends have a special quality to them. I can sleep in, read a book, go to the market and walk my dog at a more leisurely pace than during the week. This morning, I took my dog Zoë to the local café, wrote in my journal, drank my latté and shared a freshly baked croissant with her. Bliss.

Walking back, I took my time and noticed the small things that go unnoticed when on a deadline. Like the slight breeze that caressed my bare arms ever so gently. Entering a copse of trees, I saw the shadow of the leaves dancing on the path beneath my feet. I stopped to watch this shimmer of shadow and light – a performance dedicated to the spectator who chose to notice its exquisite beauty.

Back home I performed all the mundane duties that accumulated during the week. I didn’t grumble or delay, I completed them with a sense of joy that comes from being truly present to miracle of life and all it has to offer. Or as Eckhart Tolle put it,’Always say ‘yes’ to the present moment… Surrender to what is.’

What Do You Mean I Have a Criminal Record?

A couple of days before Christmas I went to my letter box, expecting to find some lovely cards from friends near and far. Yes, there couple, but there was also an official government letter. I was curious. I had just paid my rates, and I was sure I hadn’t been speeding or handling my phone in the car. What could it be? When I opened it, I could make no sense of the contents. It was from the Magistrates court, informing me that my ‘case’ had been before the court, and I hadn’t attended the hearing. I was clueless. What case? Was this some hoax or an elaborate scam? I leafed through the pages to see why I had been summoned. There was a fine and court costs totalling roughly $700. What for? I still couldn’t work it out. Finally, I on the last page, the offence: a parking fine with no further information.

I called the court. Yes, they had a record of the court case, no, they couldn’t tell me anything else. Contact Access Canberra. Onto my next call.

‘Can you tell me the infringement number?’

‘No, because I never received one.’

‘Your name please?  Vehicle registration?’

‘Sorry, we can’t find any infringement relating to that vehicle or under your name. Try the police. Their infringement notices don’t come through to us.’

The police had no record, so I contacted the court again. I was put through to a different department to a woman who had access to more information than the person I had encountered earlier.

‘A yes, it is a parking fine issued by the Australian National University (ANU) on February 7, 2024.’

I suppose I could have been there, but I certainly hadn’t received a notice of the fine, nor a reminder, let alone a summons to attend court.  At this point I realised I had entered Kafka’s ‘Trial’. As he said, ‘The right understanding of any matter and a misunderstanding of the same matter do not wholly exclude each other.’ Yes, this made perfect sense under the circumstances. Where to next? The ANU parking office of course!

‘We have photographic evidence of the parking ticket on the vehicle.’

That’s when the penny dropped. ‘My daughter attends ANU. She must have borrowed my car, received the parking fine and then forgot all about it,’ I mused.

‘Very common,’ replied the woman on the other end of the phone. I suggest you ring the court and ask for a form to have the matter put aside.’

I thanked her and made yet another call to the court…

An operator at the court advised in dulcet tones that unlike other jurisdictions in Australia, the Australian Capital Territory regarded unpaid parking fines a criminal matter once it came before the court. I was incredulous. A criminal record for an unpaid parking fine of which I had no idea and no letter of demand? Once again Kafka came to rescue to try and make sense of my situation.

‘But I’m not guilty,’ said K. ‘there’s been a mistake. How is it even possible for someone to be guilty? We’re all human beings here, one like the other.’

‘That is true,’ said the priest ‘but that is how the guilty speak.’

I downloaded the form to appeal the conviction. Besides my name, there was no part of the form I could have completed without legal advice. I was required to state ‘briefly, but specifically, grounds relied upon and the questions of law to be raised.’

I am a literate person with a high level of education, yet I could not complete the form. I had to call someone with legal training who was able to find me the specific law, including clauses and subclauses, we would have to rely on. My daughter completed the form, and I paid $102 to appeal the judgment.

As a teacher who needs a police clearance every 3 years, I am at the mercy of the judge to quash the conviction. It could also affect which countries I can enter and whether I get stopped at the border when leaving or entering Australia. While I think this will make a funny dinner anecdote in the future, I am also appalled at how easy it is to get caught up on the wrong side of the law. If I didn’t have the contacts I have, didn’t have the money to appeal, was illiterate or a dozen other handicaps that could derail the appeal process, I could wind up with a criminal record for life.  As dramatic as it sounds, I could even get a jail sentence for being unable to pay the fine which keeps increasing with every wrong turn.

So, cross your fingers for me on February 17, when I go to court to have my appeal heard. If I don’t succeed, I’ll sing a verse of Arlo Guthrie’s ‘Alice’s Restaurant’ and walk out. For those of you too young to get the reference, there’s always YouTube.

Messy Pages and Plot Twists: Journaling, Cinema and the Creative Spark

A couple of years ago, I revisited the Julia Cameron’s The Artists Way. I have kept journals on and off for the past 30 years and certainly consistently over the past 8-10 years. As Julia suggests, I write 3 pages each day, but I rarely get to do this in the morning. My pages are completed as part of my evening routine.

There is nothing earth shattering within the hundreds of pages I have written. They are mainly trivial recollections of the day with the occasional piece of insight. No historian will ever want to read it. I miss most of the important things that have happened on the world stage. Instead, I concentrate on the minutia of my life. Still, I keep writing and find it a comforting daily exercise.

While I write my blogs on the computer, my journals are all handwritten. I use a fountain pen because I love the feel of the nib as it glides across the paper. My writing is both messy and ‘ample’ as someone once said. I prefer a medium nib that lets the ink flow like my words tumbling out onto the paper. Sometimes I get the first part of a word on paper and part of the next. My hand can’t keep up with my thoughts. But that’s OK too. Nobody will read this, not even me. I have boxes of journals under the stairs which would make good kindling for my funeral pyre.

But writing the three or so pages daily is only part of Julia Cameron’s routine. Another practice she advocates is the artist date. She points out that this is one of the hardest to keep. We create all sorts of reasons why we can’t make time for ourselves. I had forgotten about this until last week. I realized that I had not been out anywhere for weeks, except the shops and my customary dog walk. Something had to change.

On a hot day there’s nothing better than escaping to the airconditioned comfort of a cinema. My favourite place is the Palace Electric in Acton which also hosts various film festivals. There were several films to choose from. I decided on ‘Conclave’ which was a drama centred on the election of a new pope. I was surprised as to how many people were in the audience. I presumed it would only be Catholics or those who had an affiliation with Catholicism who would find the film interesting. It seems it had a much broader appeal. The intrigues and machinations reminded me of ‘The Name of the Rose’, at a smaller scale. The acting was superb, but the characters mainly depicted nationalistic stereotypes. Nevertheless, the film took me on a pleasant cinematic ride. It had one of the best plot twists I never saw coming at the end.

After the movie, I thought about why Julia Cameron advocates the Artist’s date. Yes, there’s the usual ‘you need to fill your cup’ first type answer, but I sensed that there was more. I thought about the experience of walking into the foyer, smelling the popcorn, watching people mingling at the bar, wondering whether I should get a glass of wine (I didn’t), then walking into the dark cavern of the cinema itself. I had to find the row, the seat number, wonder whether people were going to sit next to me. Then when more people arrived, I had to practise equanimity as the talked and talked right through the ads. I hoped they’d stop once the film started, and they did. Then the feeling of watching a film on a big screen, the clarity and immediacy of it. Finally, leaving the theatre and listening to snippets of people’s conversations about the film. The experience brought me into the world and out of my head where I had been stuck for days. A writer has to experience things and Julia Cameron invites us to do just that. Or as Hemingway put it ever so eloquently – ‘In order to write about life first you must live it.’