Less is More.

The last week in London has been fairly challenging to say the least.  Summer holiday mayhem, madness, machiavellianism.

And that is just in my own home let alone what has been going on in the streets.

I must admit I had a moment one evening last week.  Lying on the sofa, with Brad away in Birmingham just as the riots kicked off there,  I briefly wondered why I had removed my children from their carefree, barefooted sunny freedom and brought them back here.  A dark moment in a night filled with sirens and a palpable tension.

It has taken me a week to remind myself why we made the decision we did.  A friend once told me that there are no good or bad decisions, just decisions.  From those decisions we learn valuable lessons.  We make a choice and we need to make the most of what we have.  Live in the moment without regrets or attachments.

Many of my readers will know that my decision making process (with regard to this return to London) was long and considered, even painful and tiresome.  I recently read a great article here about making difficult decisions, and I reckon I can tick quite a few of the those suggestions, and therefore rest easy in this place.

I decided to start a photo diary on my Facebook page to document the things I love about London.  As a way to focus on the positive.  Because there are always surprises and random moments of beauty and wonder in this city.   If we take them for granted, then it is easy to only see the dark and dirt and chaos.

Having left this city for a few years for some soul cleansing in my homeland, I have returned with a deeper understanding of what it takes to survive here.  In a city of constant motion, where the energy flows like a thunderous river, nearly visible to the naked eye.  Ever so mesmerizing, so easy to fall in and be swept away with the currents, tossed and tumbled and washed ashore like a piece of useless flotsam, miles from where you started or intended to go (this of course can sometimes be a good thing).

We have to be able to know when to stand behind the yellow line.  Take a seat and breath.  To observe the motion without feeling we have to jump on board.

I received another of my daily truths from Brave Girls Club today, and as I quite often find, it was a timely message about slowing down, not getting caught up in the race to have everything (or at least what we are lead to believe is everything we need).  Stopping in the moment without grasping for the next.

This message applies to life in every corner of the globe.

Here I Am

We have been painting.

It is quite physical and at the same time meditative.  Also hugely satisfying to paint over the stains left from a time that went before.

We are re-decorating our house, yet it also feels in some way like we are re-decorating our life.  The scars and stains we know exist, we have lived through the mess.  Now we are starting out fresh.  On a clean page.  An exciting new chapter.

The colour palate is, quite unsurprisingly, white.  Who would have thought white would come in so many shades.  That light from different angles can make the same shade change so dramatically from room to room.  Surely there is something metaphorical in that?

I want it bright and cool with a splash of colour here and there.  A happy space.  A haven from the urban chaos and long winters to come.  A welcoming family home.

The repetitive up and down of the roller on the wall provides a space to think, and of course, in covering over what went before, my mind comes to pass over what has been and gone.  Back and forth.  Up and down.  Covered now in a thick layer of paint.  Not without a little sweat and pain and irritation.

Will we even remember what it looked like before?  With time it will become harder to recall the details.  New life and memories will be breathed into the space, upon the clean slate.

When you leave a place for a long enough period and have the opportunity to return and see things through different eyes, with a fresh perspective, it is not necessarily going to be a more favourable outlook, but fresh all the same.

For me this time round, returning to London, it is like coming home.  I could never have imagined I would say that about London.  Yet its noise and dirt are surprisingly soothing.

It is nice to leave a place and come back to find it has improved, evolved.  We tend to feel that when we travel and return it is us that change, and we grapple with our new relationship with self and place.

I live in an area of London that is gentrifying.  Yet it is doing so in a way that doesn't feel exclusive.  There is a mix of cultures and colour and age to keep it vibrant.  Its new breed of residents fight to maintain and enhance its sense of community. Fighting the multinationals to keep it local, encouraging and supporting the creative force and spirit.  Whilst I have been away attending my own inner battles this place has also kept moving and expanding its outlook.

For us, upon our return, the community welcomed us.  We are a part of the tightly woven fabric upon this small part of the Greater London tapestry.  We felt both warmed and slightly taken aback.  It was proof that time invested is returned.

It is not going to rally around like a small country town, the weak do get left behind.  I was weak and I was broken when I left, and etched into the old paintwork were all those years of toil.

I am grateful to have had the opportunity to heal in the land of plenty, my home land Australia.  This gratitude I will carry always, and I wrote about it recently here.

I did learn that loneliness and depression are not symptoms of place.  We can feel a deep void even in paradise.

Paradise can also become a little tiresome.  A little like retiring from life.

For us, this place has a constant palpable heartbeat.  By choosing to live here we are in someway more alive.  Perhaps via osmosis.  Sucking up and drawing on the collective energy, the transient force of such coming and going.

I feel alive again.  No longer in transit.  I am not waiting to be or to go.  I am here.

The whims of the city.

 

http://weheartit.com/entry/6882838

As the train rolled into the station the dawn light offered up a soft warm glow that gave an almost celluloid quality to the scene.

After an arduous journey on the overnight train from Geneva I was excited to have finally arrived in Spain.  En route to Barcelona, city with a rich and rebellious history.  Home to artists and intellects, vagabonds and bohemians.  City of wide majestic boulevards and dark Gothic alleyways.  Of crumbling decay and architectural brilliance.

As we alighted the train to the platform, a chilly morning breeze greeted us and the first of the autumn leaves scuttled across the track.  Then I felt it, something warm and wet landed on my head. WELCOME TO SPAIN it seemed to say.

They say it's a sign of good luck when a bird craps on your head.  But it never feels that way at the time, and especially so after an all night journey on a crowded train.

A day or so later, in a hostel room in Barcelona, I jumped out of the shower and pulled on a tight white t-shirt.  I checked my reflection in the mirror.  Had my breasts grown?  Well that certainly would have been a great fortune, perhaps the bird poop theory really was true after all.

I twisted and turned, this way and that, trying to get a better look at myself from different angles, admiring the large pert breasts that had seemingly appeared overnight.  Perhaps I had just gained a little weight with all the bread and cheese on the backpacker menu.

Then it came to me.  From far off in the distance, within that 19 year old consciousness of mine, something was trying to grab my attention.  Leaping around waving a large bright flag.  And like the Bull to the Toro all I could see was red.

Pregnant.

As I watched, the reflection of the girl in front of me changed in an instant.  Just moments before she'd been bursting with the light and sparkle of a young woman brimming with the possibilities of her new found freedom.

Ashen face.  Grey eyes.  Panic in the pit of her stomach.  What would happen now?

I hated Barcelona in that moment.  For its dirt and noise and thieves.  For delivering this devastating news.  For providing the backdrop to what seemed like a great disaster.  For reducing my world to just four dirty stained walls.  For crushing my hopes and dreams.

I couldn't  have known then, that only a few years later, that same city would compensate me for this burden, open its heart and soul, and provide for me a liberating, seminal experience upon my journey as a young women finding her way in the world.

And then much later still would yet again provide the backdrop to the beginning of possibly one of the most unsettling yet enlightening periods of my life. 

I didn't have the baby.  It wasn't the time for us.

I was however spellbound by that city.  Sucked into her womb.  Beguiled by her beauty and wisdom.  Hypnotised by her charms.  At the mercy of her whims.

I'd be surprised to meet anyone that has spent time in Barcelona and not been moved in some way by her spirit.  Her enigmatic charm weaves tales for all that encounter her.

I know now the bird poop was indeed a welcome.  For a part of my soul was rejoicing.  A part of my soul had come home.  Over the years, since that fateful morning on the train platform, I have had a grand love affair with Spain.

In her embrace, under her watchful eye,  I grew up**.


(**A lot of my Spanish friends will be rolling off their chairs in fits of laughter reading that! Yeah I know I didn't behave like a grown up alot of the time, but you know what I mean!)

Four O

Two score.

Two by twenty.

Four decades.

Four by ten.

Forty.

There, I said it.

Hard to believe that only one hundred years ago what was expected for my life, in terms of years, would almost be over. I'd be entering my twilight years.

Nowadays, unless fate has other plans, I am expected to reach the ripe old age of 81.5. What's better is I don't even have to look that age if I choose not to.  So essentially 40 really is middle age.

How are you suppose to feel at middle age? In our minds I am not sure we ever get any older than some point in our twenties perhaps. Aside from being infinitely wiser than I was at twenty (Oh, to have had the knowledge then!),  I feel the same as always.

"Youth is wasted on the young."  said George Bernard Shaw. How we dream at forty to have the bodies and stamina we did at twenty. How I lament at forty that I that I didn't appreciate my youth more at the time (well maybe I did because I do remember having a really fucking good time).

My 30's were pretty challenging. By half way through I had given birth to three (healthy and beautiful) children. I had also lost my Mother. Those two things alone are enough to irreparably scar the body and mind and soul. Etching the strain and pleasure upon our faces as we stumble through the years.

Now I am here at forty. 

I face it with the resolve to not to look backwards, but rather look forward to the decade ahead as a new and exciting adventure. One where I carry with me the lessons and experience of half a lifetime. Feeling more self assured and confident than ever in who I am and what I want.

As Doctor Seuss so splendidly puts it:

“Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.”

And that is precisely how I intend to forge ahead.

"I am off to Great Places! 

Today is my day!   

My mountain is waiting, 

So... I'll get on my way!"  

Mother Land

I feel truly blessed to call Australia home.

She always opens her arms to me when I need her most.

She always opens her arms to embrace her children. Never questioning, never judging. Unconditionally welcoming home all the sisters and brothers unto her warm and nurturing bosom.

Yet she never grips too tightly. Just enough to let you know there is always a place for you in her heart, no matter how far you stray.

Freedom to roam is our national birthright. Global wandering. Following our own particular songlines wherever they may take us. For many of us those lines lead us to prosperity and fulfillment in far off places.

I am grateful for her generosity. For her kindness. For knowing how to heal my wounds. For providing a safe and clean and comfortable sanctuary. For always believing in me. For encouraging me to follow my dreams. For giving me the self confidence and drive to pick myself up and carry on. Always knowing she is there to support me.

I love her like a Mother. It is tumultuous at times. She gets on my nerves just as much as I can't live without her. She is the wind beneath my wings yet living permanently within her clutches is stifling.

Like many Aussie's who choose to live abroad, and especially in loud, crowded, mad places like London there is an enduring lightness to our spirit. An ease with which we are able to face each day, brushing off the dirt and grime that so quickly gathers.

My sister once explained this as a secret we all carry in our souls. A strength and resolve gained from the knowledge that a haven exists for us . A special place to which we may retreat, retire, restore.

I have used her for all of those reasons these last few years. I thank her for that privilege.

When next I call I know she'll put the kettle on and make up my bed, and there will be joy in her heart as she welcomes home another child to recount their adventures.

Wrapping her arms gently around me as I place my head against her chest and feel her warmth. All will be well in the World.

Procrastination is my middle name.

I shouldn't be writing this at all. But rather attending to the pile that is thus:

And thus:

Oh, the crap you accumulate with children.

International movers are coming on Thursday.

It's a quiet child free day and all I want to do is sit here with the heater on my feet whilst sipping a hot cup of coffee and write about all the stuff that's been going on my head.

There are a few projects beckoning too. More furniture makeovers.

I want to strip this beautful cabinet back whilst I still have a garden big enough to handle the fumes.

I spent some of yesterday and Sunday stripping off that horrible baby poo yellow paint they loved in the 60's from this trolley that I salvaged from my Grandfather's estate. It looks so good.

I could have been packing and organising but I found half a can of paint stripper left over from this chair project.

Salvaged from Vinnies for a buck each, a set of these fabulous mid century dining chairs. Stripped and treated and re-upholstered. I am in love.

I'm on a roll.

Unfortunately no room in the London home for this project. It will be available at the garage sale along with these Parker dining chairs I never got round to.

But I have to reel myself back in to the job at hand.

Organising three distinct areas:

One for packing on the ship bound for London town.

Another for the garage sale.

A third for storage.

People ask if I am excited about the move, about returning to London and all that it entails.

Not currently amongst all this chaos.

But I will be. Probably about a day or two before we go and everything here is sorted.

I am definitely looking forward to many things; to change, to new beginnings, to opportunity, to friends and much much more. But that is a whole other post for when this week is over.

Until then, I will be surrounded in cardboard and packing tape and lots of dust and memories.

In Transit

 Image care of Estan Cabigas

So another two month single Mother stint begins.  Hopefully the last for a long while.

Brad's gone on ahead of us.  Back to London.  Launching full tilt back into work.  Preparing a little bit of financial padding before we arrive in July.

He almost didn't leave, which had nothing to do with the usual culprits like killer hangovers and sleeping in.  His plane was grounded for security reasons.  It seems someone had left a mobile phone on the plane.  These days that's enough set off a full blown security panic and totally screw with a whole plane load of passenger's plans.

Meanwhile, somewhere else, the mobile phone owner was experiencing that sinking moment of realisation and panic whilst pulling apart the contents of his bag.

Brad missed his connecting flight in Dubai and is now pacing the halls of the airport.  No doubt cursing the phone dude, but perhaps quietly wondering whether it's his karma after all.

He left his phone at the departure desk during a recent trip. It was 6am, he'd been up drinking all night.  It was a predictable outcome.  I wonder now if a similar security situation occurred.  Whilst he snored and dribbled onto the passenger beside him, back at the airport all hell was breaking loose.


I noticed that a friend had recently joined a new Facebook page entitled something like: Bin Laden is dead, so let me pack my shampoo already!.

Indeed the liquids restriction has been an international travel disaster.  I know it came to play in the hope that it would divert a real disaster.  But the collective heartache and anger it has caused us travellers could surely create enough force to manifest it's very own large scale natural disaster.  I have seen people in tears, fuming with rage as their recently purchased duty free items have been confiscated at security.

When the liquid ban first came down it was a blanket NO LIQUIDS at all.  I often wondered what happened to all those full bottles of Channel perfume I'd see lined up behind the x-ray counters at security.

It must have been a lucrative time to be a security officer at an airport.  A bit like being a waiter in a fine dining restaurant where the tips are revered.  At the end of the shift they all sat around sharing out the days goods.

Later, when the liquids rule changed, it never seemed to be the same set of rules in every country.   What was OK in the UK was not the same in Singapore.  This surely encouraged the continuation of a whole new black market trade in confiscated goods.

I went to Europe last year and stopped to transit in Bangkok.

Transit: a timeless space,  a limbo land.   Where sleepy, discombobulated passengers float about in a daze.  A large cavernous place that echoes with both silence and chatter all at once.  Where an odd energy permeates the air, a mixture of excited anticipation, anxiety and melancholy.


I tend to buy a litre or two of water for the plane ride in whatever airport I am departing.  I have learnt now to only ever do this once past security.  Pay the premium, but at least board the aircraft with my precious hydrating liquid.

Once off the aircraft in Bangkok, before being herded into the transit area, all passengers must first go through security where the usual 'no water bottles' rule applies.  The fact you have clearly just gotten off a plane with that bottle of water in your luggage doesn't seem to count for anything.  But rules are rules.  What are you going to do?  Make a scene? And what time is it anyway?

I found a spot to purchase more agua, a cheap joint on the lower floor away from the Cartier boutiques and overpriced seafood bars. The time was approaching to snap out of the transit fug and find the boarding gate.

As I paced towards the gate I could feel the distance growing between myself and Transit, and with it an increasing sense of direction and purpose.  I really had someplace to go.  A destination awaited me. Suddenly time was relevant again.

But alas, yet another security check ahead.  The Liquids Nazi strikes at the very last hurdle.  I was disgruntled to say the least.  I pleaded.  I disputed.  I made a scene.

In that echoing soundless space my rage was palpable and I didn't care.  The ridiculousness of it all was infuriating.  I threw my unopened water bottle into their clear plastic bags with the most graceful attempt at contempt I could muster.

I realised then why the water was so cheap in that last stop shop.  It's recycled.  All those misguided travellers.  The shop owner has never experienced such a prosperous period of growth in profits.


I've been in transit for a while myself now.  Discombobulated, (how cool, I get to use that word twice in the same post) in the beginning at least.  But this last year or so certainly in limbo, between places.  Seemingly floating, timelessly, through days and weeks.  No fixed direction.  A friend suggested that perhaps that's just how we all feel after having a few kids. There could be some truth in that.

But I know am going somewhere now.  I have a direction. Purpose.  I am heading towards that departure lounge with long, steady confident strides.  A whole new chapter awaits for us to begin.  We are gathering momentum.

Boarding.