Trust Fall

Today is the day. I can feel all the thoughts I've been collecting over the last few days (weeks?), and the emotions that come with them, swelling up within me, like a giant wave. It's about to crest, about to crash; white, foaming, and thunderous. I can already hear the roar, feel the reverberations in my imagination as I watch the might wall of water, grow in silence, gathering momentum as it draws from the waters that were resting in stillness on the shore, unsuspecting, just a moment ago. Let it fall.

Today is my daddy's birthday. He would've been 56 today. Instead, he never made it to 33. What would he tell me if he were here? I think he wouldn't say anything at all, not at first. He would stand there with his arms wide open, as he used to do for me and so many others before the lymphoma took him. With the kindest of smiles on his face, he would stand there, waiting for me to be ready; ready for the embrace of vulnerability and total abandon.

After holding me tight and letting me cry out all my fears, only then would he speak. He would tell me to be brave, he would talk to me of faith, and he would say, "Leap, Princess."

The sharing of these thoughts is that leap. I cannot fall into my father's arms. Instead, I am closing my eyes and falling backwards into a sea of proverbial arms. Your arms, my loved ones, trusting that you will catch me.

So what is this all about?, you are likely wondering at this point. This is about art, connection, and vulnerability.

As you may have noticed, I am not active on social media. Not really. I've always preferred one-on-one, in person, deep, genuine connection over a message on a screen. I want to be able to touch, hug, see the person I am talking with. I want to look into your eyes, watch the subtleties of your expressions as you emote, as you honour me with your story, and I want to mirror back love, telling you: I see you.

I can't do that on Facebook. I've finally realized, however, after many months of stubbornness, that I am an ocean away from the majority of my dear ones. This world of social media (that I have held in disdain for it's bastardization of true connection) is not the problem. I am the problem. I talk about wanting to connect, wanting to see people -- truly see them. But I am afraid to reciprocate. I am afraid to be seen.

It's safer to let you believe that my life is a smattering of holidays and adventures; pictures of me smiling in exotic places. After all, why would you want to hear about my struggles as an artist? Why would you care about the fact that I constantly feel like I'm torn in two between my writing life and my nursing life? Why would I tell you about the fact that I've written a children's book that I'm over the moon about? Wouldn't that be ego-centric and self-seeking? Not just that I've written one but that I actually want your help getting it out into the world? Who do I think I am, anyway?

These are the thoughts that plague me when I sign into Facebook, and cause me to sign right back out again. They are the voice of the Fraud Police (as Amanda Palmer* calls them). Every artist -- no, every person -- is attacked by the Fraud Police at one time or another. The voice (or voices) whisper to you before you create, as you create, and then when you get ready to actually share your creation, they begin to yell: "Illegitimate! Unworthy! You're a fake! No really, who do you think you are??"

This is the truth, so why wouldn't I share it? Isn't that the purpose of an artist? To communicate truth to the world with their chosen medium? This, for me, is the essence of vulnerability. I am standing before you saying: I have fears and goals, I have dreams and anxieties. This is my heart and this is my art. This is me sharing myself with you -- letting myself be seen. Don't let me fall, and I promise, when you are ready to make the leap, I will catch you.

My father knew when to admit he was afraid. He knew when to open his arms to love and be loved. This is me, following in his footsteps.

(*From Amanda Palmer's book, The Art of Asking. Brilliant read.)

Roots

The sun is ushering away the clouds on this chilly Saturday morning and the birds of South Yarra are positively thrilled about it. I am partaking in a few of my favourite things this morning: rising with the sun, reading the ever-inspiring Brain Pickings newsletter, putting on the kettle, and subsequently watching milk curl up in cloudy swirls as I pour it in my tea. And of course: writing. It is one of a few activities, such as dancing, which I do not engage in often enough. Rather than lament it, I am going to enjoy that fact that I am doing it now.

It is an exciting time in our household. We are moving. Our destination is the other side of the city to an apartment that has insulation, a spiral staircase, and a lack of black mould. I cannot say the same for our current residence. This move means a great deal of things for us. It invites (or insists, rather) a coming to terms. The goal is for this move to not be one of many, but one of few. It is a step in the direction of permanence. We have started the seedlings for our life together, and it is time to plant them. It is time for them to establish their roots -- our roots.

This means I must resolve myself to homesickness. I must accept it as a life-long companion. For even if we moved to Portland, after having made Melbourne our home, wouldn't I simply be re-naming my homesickness? No matter where we are, we are missing out on loved ones and their lives.

I digress... Yes, this is a time of establishment. We are tired of "playing house". We want to be part of a community; where the local coffee shop knows us by name and begins making our drinks as soon as we walk through the door.

For those of us who have become accustomed to (dare I say addicted to?) a certain level of chaos, it is a challenge to learn how to become comfortable with consistency. We shudder at the thought of routine. We've long-since associated comfort with boredom. However, if we give it a chance, maybe one day that feeling of comfort will naturally morph into a feeling of joy. The kind of joy that arises when one feels secure, and even (I cringe as I write this), settled.

Smuggler's Cafe

Watch for the moments.
Those shimmering moments -
of knowledge, of love, of pain.
Those moments when
your observations hang like magic
in the air.

The speckles of grey in my lover's beard,
the cracking paint on the cafe's wooden floor.
The piece of newspaper, folded up
and shoved under the table leg;
the table is stable, thanks to those crossword puzzles.
Over-sized Christmas lights and mediocre beach scenes hanging
crooked on the walls,
creating a feeling that invites a smile
and deters pretention.

All the while my mind overflows with love
for the man across me,
for the dimple in his right cheek,
for those strong, reliable hands
that turn the pages
of the Sunday morning paper.

And gratitude.
For the adventures we share,
for his gentleness,
for the way he calms me with his presence,
and makes my heart pound with a single look,
a single smile.

The moment shimmers,
unmistakable.
I take up my pen,
and write the magic,
before it passes.

The Tram Man

I am coming home from work, which requires a tram, and then a train ride. I am tired and not feeling well, so as soon as I board the tram I find a seat. For some reason, I don't sit at the seats closest to me at the end of the tram where I boarded, which would've been far more convenient. Instead I turn right and walk towards the middle of the tram and see three empty seats. There are four total, two across from two others, and there is a man in one of them. He is plump, his grizzled face looks unshaven for about the last decade or so, he has a large knapsack with him, and his most recent shower appears to have been a questionable amount of time in the past. Also of note: he has no shoes on. It is 15 degrees Celcius outside. Not exactly barefoot weather.

My first thought is, "Why are all these people standing up when there's three available seats right here? What are they afraid of? That he's going to ask them for money? Assholes." I sit down at the seat diagonal from him and notice that there is nothing unpleasant or malodorous about his immediate vicinity, as my presuppositions about "such characters" would have expected. (Judge me if you like, I'm just being honest).

No sooner do I lean my head back against the wall, and close my eyes, that I hear, "Hello."

I open my eyes and see that the man is looking at me, leaning slightly forward, with a rather inquisitive smile on his face. His eyes are deep and soulful; not a hint of crazy.

"I am so sorry to disturb you, because you do look very tired" (Thanks, buddy) "but I noticed you appear to be wearing a kind of uniform"(yeah - also known as scrubs) "Do you happen to work in a hospital?"

"Yes", I reply simply, but with kindness so as to not deter him from continuing. I was mildly intrigued as to what may come next. I also had just gotten on the tram at the stop right in front of two hospitals, so that may also have been factored into his deduction. Then again, he does not strike me as someone who pays much attention to things like time and space, so who knows.

"Have you studied anatomy?"

"Yes." (please don't ask about genitals, please don't ask about genitals)

"Do you know how much a colon weighs?"

I smile and somehow avoid bursting into laughter. I can only imagine what the eavesdroppers may be thinking. Oh wait, they're too busy looking at their goddamn phones to notice. "No, that's not my area," I say with what I imagine is a rather bemused expression. He then goes on to ask me how much I think it weighs, in pounds per square inch. I tell him that I have no idea (I'm practically laughing now) and that I work with tiny babies.

"You don't happen to know a proctologist, then?" He says, appearing to mirror my expression, as he is now bemused; his face in a state of laughter, but he remains calm. I shake my head. In sudden seriousness, he says, "May God -- not a he or a she, there's no gender, people think there is, but there isn't -- may the God of Nature and all things bless you for what you do every day." I thank him with the utmost sincerity for his kind words. Then the real fun begins.

He asks, with no transition of subjects whatsoever, "Do you think the gains of growing up outweigh the losses of childhood?"

Without missing a beat, I say, "Yes." If I was intrigued before, he now has my full and undivided attention, excepting the occasional glance out the window to make sure I don't miss my stop.

He sits back, "Mmm." He nods, seemingly in agreement. Then he follows it up with another home-hitter, "Children have 'imagination', adults have 'mental illness'." He looks away for a moment, a half-smile of cynicism on his face.

It's my turn to be the mirror. "Mmm," I say, nodding and thinking, my friend Brian is gonna love this.

He interrupts my thoughts with the next question: "What if children were the teachers, and we adults," he says, pointing to me, then him, then everyone, "were the students?"

"That would certainly change things up," I reply.

But before I can say, "Sounds like you want to go to Nevernever Land", he says, "You know the Bible says Adam is the first man?"

"Yup." (Just go with it, Gretchen.)

"But it doesn't say he's the only man," he looks excited now. He starts to ramble on a bit about mankind popping up all over the place at the beginning of the world, the Jewish think they're the special ones, etc. I try and keep up with his mind, which seems to be a skipping record. He tells me about how he lived and studied in Israel for 10 years, I ask him what he studied, he tells me he studied the Bible, and that there's many more books than just the Bible. I say "Yeah, like the Apocrypha." He's very impressed with this and asks me how I know this... blah blah blah...

Then he says: "There's 12 people all holding hands around a tree. If you asked them to draw what they see, would the pictures look the the same? No. Are they seeing the same thing? No. So why do we think we only need one perspective to see the whole picture? We look at a tree, and we think we have a good idea about what it looks like, but we don't. We need all 12."

"That's right," I agree. "That's a great analogy."

"How many of them do you think would draw the roots?" He says, leaning forward again.

"The imaginative ones," I say. "Or rather, the insightful ones."

His eyes light up. "Yeeesss, the insightful ones. Children are insightful. Adults are insane, but children? No, they are insightful. They understand more than we do. Did you know there are actually 12 senses? We have organs that detect five of them, but we have 12 --"

At this point, the tram is coming to a stop at Melbourne Central Station, and it's time for me to depart. I begin to shift my things to signal that this is my stop, and he looks a bit sad as he mumbles, "Oh you have to go, I see," or something to that effect.

I stand and reach my hand out to shake his, and say, "I wish I could continue this conversation, but unfortunately, I need to go."

He waves my hand away and says, "No, no, I can't, it's in the Bible, I can't."

"No hand shake? Okay, well it was lovely meeting you."

"May the God of nature and the God of all things bless you." He moves his head as if we were to kiss on both cheeks, (though he was sitting and I was standing several feet away), and then he bows slightly with prayerful hands against his forehead.

As I walk towards the station, I begin to write this story down in my head, and then I realize: I don't even know his name.

Perspective

Death summons perspective. It stops us in our tracks, even if only briefly. The closer the loss is to our souls, the longer the pause. The lens through which we have grown accustomed to viewing our lives shifts. For some, it zooms out. For others, it zooms in. Things come into focus, or become blurred. What doesn't happen, is nothing.

Those who are far removed from the loss may offer a gasp or frown, or some other acknowledgement when they hear the news of the tragedy. Then they move on. It may appear that nothing has happened, but it's only a façade. At the very least, they have put up their proverbial hands to deflect the facts from reaching their heart. No sooner have they heard it, than they have shaken the thought from their heads. They straighten up their shoulders, close their eyes, and move through the pause that news of death insists upon.

It is not a malicious act of insensitivity. It is an act of self-preservation. To enter into the loss, the pain; to be swayed by the breakers that death hurls at the shore of safety, is to admit that they are not invincible. After all, it is the most terrifying kind of vulnerability to come face to face with mortality; to admit that every day is not a guarantee, but a gift.

For me, the lens has zoomed out, and has come into focus. I am not impervious to loss. To believe the lie that I am somehow sheltered from the final link that closes the loop in the circle of life, would be to separate myself from the world. It would create a belief of "otherness." I would be saying, "I am the fortunate, they are the less fortunate."

We are human. Our ability to love binds us, and our ability to lose unites us. If we are not in this together, then we are not in it at all. Life is a gift. As my father put it: "I cannot run from an aspect of the gift without running from all of it. If I run from life, I fail to live life. If I fail to live life, then I am unworthy of the gift. Right now, this morning, is life. Be a worthy steward of the gift. Embrace it all."

Contemplating the end of a long "sabbatical"

I sit and wonder how to best soak up my last moments of unemployment.

It’s the first of April and the sun is setting on this waiting game that started at December’s end.

Life is a volley between feast and famine,

And there’s no doubt I’m sitting firmly in the latter.

I squirm in my seat.

I can see the feast ahead.

But I’m not there yet.

No, no. I look around me and I see clearly – I’m not there yet.

I am right here.

I’m right here wearing my worn out shoes and outdated clothes.

But my bowl isn’t empty.

It’s full of rice and beans!

“Survival of the fittest” I joke with my Love, as we smile through tears at the state we’re in.

Secretly my mind is on that last piece of chocolate, sitting cold and preserved in the empty cheese drawer of our fridge.

We’re saving it for a rainy day, we say.

‘Cause right now,

with our garden that won’t grow, the cool that won’t stay in, and the mosquitos that won’t stay out –

It aint rainin’.

Oh no, that sun is shining.

It lights up this city and lights up this flat and lights up my baby’s eyes.

Those eyes…

They can’t decide if they’re green or they’re blue.

They seem to spark when that dimple shows up on the right side of his face,

Hiding in that speckled scruff of a beard he won’t let grow.

I follow those eyes and I see – [gasp]

They’re lookin’ at me!

I look deep into those turquoise pools,

And I start to fall.

He smiles, my heart pounds, my lips are chasing his, I’m sure I’m gonna drown, and then he says:

“How ‘bout them beans?”

I laugh,

And then he laughs.

We laugh til we cry and we hug til we sleep and then we say goodbye…

To another day.

I’m one day closer to that shiny, new job,

One day closer to paying off that debt,

one day closer to something new in that bowl.

After all,

One day is all we got.

Each and every day is just a collection,

Of the here’s,

And the now’s,

And the moments we call: “present.”

We call them that because that is what they are:

A present, a gift,

Already unwrapped and waiting to be seized.

I wake up in the morning on my last day of unemployment and I see that sun is shining but I say:

“Sure looks like rain to me!”

I make a beeline for that fridge,

That drawer,

That patient piece of velvety dark chocolate, because I know..

No matter what the weather,

Right now is all we got,

And I’ll be damned if I’m not gonna seize a delicious piece

of that stuff we call,

life.

Happy Easter

I have no great excuse for the large gap of time between blog posts. I had a goal of one post a week. Then some small, irritating-yet-very-convincing voice told me that I have nothing to say, and therefore nothing to write. Nothing that anyone would care to read, anyway. Maybe if I produced something worthwhile, I would have something to say about it, this voice tells me. So I turned inward, allowing my insides to congeal one Netflix episode at a time...

Therein lies one facet of the great lie of our generation. That is, the lie that tell us that our worth lies in our accomplishments; in what we are able to produce. Every pixelated corner of every social media site -- no, every internet site -- is overflowing with information. Not just information: ideas. Pick a subject. It could be politics, gluten-free cooking, DIY body butter, or yarn bombing. Almost anything you could possibly think to type into the search bar will have a plethora of sites to dig through. Soon, one hyperlink after another, you will be drowning in ideas, facts, and opinions. But mostly just pure rubbish.

All the while, there is something happening subconsciously. We realize, as we are sitting there consuming it all, one byte after another, that we are just that: consumers. All these other people, the ones who have discovered how to make no-sew tote bags and wine bottle bird feeders, have contributed something to modern society as we know it. What's happening in our subconscious is the forming of a question. This question slowly rises to our conscious mind leaving us (that is, people like me) feeling paralyzed: What can I contribute? Now, you can give into the paralysis or you can ask yourself another question: What does it take to transition from a consumer to a producer?

That's all well and good, but perhaps the real question is this: What is the source of your value? That is for you to decide, but I can tell you this: it sure as hell can't be found on the internet.