When choices arise...
Ramblings about adventures of the heart, body, mind and soul
Sunday, November 05, 2023
I'm a big girl
Sunday, October 29, 2023
Unbiased?
Monday, January 09, 2023
Retreat
Monday, December 05, 2022
Breadcrumbs
We look at one another in frustration and sadness before she gets up and leaves. We've both just aired our grievances. There's not a lot more to say, yet it still feels abrupt. It's the most recent in a bit of a string of awkward goodbyes over the past few years, and I wonder again if I could have done anything differently.
Lately I’ve been getting into the Saturday morning habit of stopping at the local bakery on my way back from the gym and waiting in line with other Marrickville locals and their dogs for a kim chi scone, a chai brew and a seeded loaf. Back home, the seeded loaf always needs to be sliced and somehow that means that I’m sweeping up crumbs for the next few days.
My therapist has been talking about breadcrumbs lately as well. Not the seeded loaf type of crumbs, but more the figurative type - times when I am willing to accept scerricks of others' time, or mere morsels of their emotional support or when there isn't reciprocity. She thinks I need to develop a bit more of an intolerance for crumbs.
This is a good challenge for me. It still feels unfamiliar to me to set a boundary, or articulate my needs. As someone who is "other" focused, I have tended to think about what the other person wants and try to see their point of view, which can lead to resentment if they're not doing the same. But in recent times when someone has been flaky a few too many times, or disregarded my needs, or crossed a boundary, I’ve talked about the impact on me, or simply made a request about future behaviour. I've also been able to reflect on my own behaviour and come back later to apologise when I've been out of line. This feels like progress, and most of the time leads to a deeper connection with the other person.
Thanks to facebook memories, I'm reminded that this time two years ago I was staying at a friend's place while I processed the infamous "tea towel incident". I was deciding whether to leave or stay. Able to pretty my temporary sanctuary up with flowers, plants and a couple of cute homeware items purchased from Vinnies, I realised that I was starting to restore a sense of self. Part of me had been tempted to believe a narrative that I was too sensitive, that I was running away, and that I should consider more fully how my leaving would negatively impact on others. A friend recently reassured me that I wasn't running away so much as removing myself from a dynamic that wasn't safe for me. Sometimes communicating needs, setting boundaries or being vulnerable doesn't lead to a deeper connection and the best outcome for all is to walk away.
This year I had an odd birthday. There had been a death, and work had been stressful, and I'd ended up crying a lot. When it came time to join the evening gathering I had organised as a celebration, I worried that I’d still be sad. But I was surrounded by friends; people who show up even though there's stuff going on in their lives, who enjoy spending time with me, and who value the qualities in me that I value in myself. I came away feeling good about the nourishing friendships that I’ve cultivated over the years.
This helped clarify for me that from now onwards I want to focus on those relationships where I feel valued and safe. For the others, I can appreciate their wonderful qualities, and be grateful for what I've learnt about myself from the relationship, but I've recently developed a mild intolerance for breadcrumbs. So, I've decided to choose me. I choose the whole loaf. I choose another slightly abrupt and awkward goodbye.
Sunday, November 27, 2022
Smell the flowers
Our lunch bowls of boiled vegetables and pasta with tomato sauce sat empty in front of us; an adequately filling and nourishing meal. The luncheon had been produced using a combination of the stove, the microwave and Dad’s special touch (which is to say, a firm belief that there’s no need to heat pasta sauce if the pasta is going to heat it anyway). Peering out the window, I commented on the break in the rain and it being a good time for a walk. “Yes, I’ll get my umbrella” agreed Dad, plodding off in search of an umbrella and a plastic bag to put it in. I decided to wear a hat as rain protection, and after some back and forth with options hanging on the back door, we set off with me sporting a smallish cricket hat that nobody remembers belonging to.
Reaching a juncture on our journey, I asked Dad whether he wanted to venture down the lane, or continue along the footpath. Despite previously expressing strong misgivings about the lane, due to it being too overgrown and tree root-laden, he chose the lane, and we carefully navigated a couple of rebellious treeroots and were able to stop and smell the jasmine which was flowering at the southern end.
Later on the same walk, which is really just one block (or 1,000 steps according to the step tracker on Dad’s phone) that Dad treads so slowly that we can be gone for at least 30 minutes, Dad pointed out some bright red flowers. They were the same type that he’d found thrown into a neighbour’s front garden a couple of walks ago, rescued and placed in a vase on the kitchen table. Dad also likes to rescue discarded work gloves on his walks, of which mum, hearing about it from her base in Hobart, doesn’t approve.
Cleaning up after lunch was a fairly simple process, although there was the matter of the leftover pasta sauce. We agreed to freeze it, which meant searching for a suitable container. The next task was labeling the container, which was complicated by neither of us knowing where any tape was. After searching dresser drawers and a funny little shelf where bread used to be delivered 100 years ago, Dad eventually found some sticky tape in the cupboard above the microwave. He carefully wrote “Tomato sauce, October 2022” with a black marker, which then almost immediately began to fade on the sticky tape. “Masking tape would have been better” I noted, without being prepared to look for any. Dad felt that it was really the year that was more important than the month, and a flash of a memory came back to me. After Grandma died, the aunts were cleaning out the freezer and found some unlabelled wedding cake. The last wedding had been Jane’s about 10 years earlier, so it was assumed that it must have been hers. Anyway, I think it was Dad who thought of putting a second piece of tape over the first to reinforce the writing, and after searching again in the dresser drawer and bread shelf, he found it in the cupboard above the microwave, and was pleased with the result.
Recent visits to Dad have been quite enjoyable. When I was a teenager and he was busy “providing for a family”, our paths only really crossed when there was conflict - his TV too loud just outside my bedroom, his socks going missing and ending up mistakenly in my laundry pile, or times when I wasn’t allowed to go out. Now, both of us in different stages of life, there isn’t the same clash of wills, and we can take in the simpler things in life together - an impressive flower, daily walks, and the changing seasons. Dad, who rarely prepared a meal in our 20 odd years of living together, (although that is partly because his pizza a la peanut butter remains on the veto list) now even bakes (from packet mix) if I give him enough notice of my arrival.
So, Dad continues his daily walks and dutifully calls mum each morning and night to assure her that he’s alive and well. He occasionally accuses me of being bossy, and other people of interfering, but mostly he's placid and agreeable, and chats away pleasantly with the community drivers who take him to appointments. When I asked Dad if he felt resentment towards any of us he thought about it and said no. He didn’t feel resentment towards any people, just about the aging process. At which point his voice wobbled ever so slightly.
Sunday, May 09, 2021
Mothers Day
This year I found myself accepting a “Mothers’ Day” massage invitation from the local urban health retreat, and a rose from my gym instructor. The pink thornless stem was thrust into my hand as I was leaving the gym, sweaty and tired. “Happy Mothers’ Day” he said with more than enough cheer for both of us, dutifully wiping his offering with hand sanitiser. Walking home with the ill-gotten gift that was too long to fit easily into my tote bag, I started to feel that my hasty reply “Oh, I’m not a mother” might have been a little too self-effacing. He had insisted I take it anyway.
While Mothers Day has come to be a time of commercialism whereby we bestow gifts and praise upon women who have borne children, Mothering Sunday was apparently an early Christian tradition where workers returned home to their “Mother” church, meaning the village and church of their childhood. We talk about our mother tongue to mean the language of our childhood, and the mother country to talk about one’s native country. So, it seems mothering can have a broader meaning. But there’s a reason the word Mother is used figuratively in this sense. Mothers have traditionally been so integral to those early memories.
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"Do you have children?" she asks as our gaze is drawn to the rainbow unicorn birthday cake. Standing amongst the group of mothers, who I haven't actually been introduced to by the harried host, I keep my response brief. "No". We stand there in awkward silence for several more moments. At another child's party I am introduced as "the other person without children", as if that in itself ought to be a conversation prompt, like "you both play tennis". These days I carefully manage how and when I attend children’s birthday parties.
In another scenario, I was sharing a drink with a friend, a woman who I admire greatly. She's incredibly funny, compassionate and creative, has a heart for justice, and is nobody’s fool. Yet, it was only after the second glass on an occasion several years into our friendship, that she gave any indication of how the grief of childlessness had affected her. It occurred to me that while a miscarriage brings unimaginable grief, at least it's a grief that has a moment and a form. It’s a known quantity. People send flowers. Grief of childlessness is less tangible, and the way childlessness is understood has less “form” as well, as another blogger reflects.
A few years ago, during a weekend away with several amazing childless and childfree women, a friend recommended a book called “The life unexpected: 12 weeks to your Plan B for a meaningful and fulfilling future without children”. The author, Jody Day, weaves her own journey of coming to terms with childlessness into a book which explores the experiences of countless others. She offers examples of role models; childless women who have lived well and made significant achievements in their lives. It occurred to me reading this book that I wasn’t alone or unusual in my sadness, nor would I always feel this way. And the negative labels of childless and non-mother now have permission to evolve into positive, life giving descriptions. Now, a couple of years later, I can speak more openly about the subject, which back then was just too painful.
Women with children regularly remind me of my good fortune. “Oh, I’d give anything to have a night at home alone on the couch watching tv” they gush at me, or “I wish I had the time to paint my nails”, or "you're probably busy partying". While my day to day life doesn’t look quite like how they imagine it to be, I have come to see the advantages of the dependant-free lifestyle I find myself in. I actually love being the fun aunt, having time to create a deep connection with nieces and nephews both biological and chosen, and the space to think deliberately about how I want to set boundaries with these small people, show love and model living with courage, vulnerability and integrity. I enjoy being involved in voluntary activities, and cherish the way I can spend a Saturday morning sitting in a cafe writing if I wish, or enjoy live music of an evening.
I also wonder whether hiding behind the comments about toenails and couches is perhaps a voice that is as silenced and frustrated as mine. Mothers who want to talk about regrets or loneliness or a yearning to live out broader dreams than motherhood might be worried about being judged as ungrateful or “bad mothers”. Where is the space to talk of such things? Is there a way that we can be present for one another in our regrets, and yearnings, and moments of joy, without it being a competition as to who is most hard done by or most successful?
There’s also a cynical part of me that sees Mothers Day accolades as tokenistic. Our society idolises mothers, but does it really respect them? When people wax lyrical about how much they appreciate everything that their mothers and wives do, I can’t help but think “why don’t you just do your share of the work, mate?” Our national household survey indicates that even when incomes and paid workloads are even, women in coupled households with dependent children (as in Mothers) do 23 hours of housework compared to men, who do 16 hours. And that's a significant improvement since the early 2000s.
So, yes, it is important to acknowledge mothers and motherhood. And I am ever grateful for the ways my mother’s care has shaped the trajectory of my life, and what she gave up to be my mother. And there is room, I hope, to acknowledge broader notions of mothering such as nurture of communities, and the birthing of new ideas. My adopted aunt, who has several more decades of navigating the childless scene under her belt than me, reflected today that Mothers Day doesn’t have to be a time of exclusion or loneliness for those who are not Mothers. The intent is evolving, she believes, to include recognition of those who nurture others in a multitude of ways, and those who would have liked to have been Mothers but couldn’t or didn’t. When I skyped with family on Mothers’ Day a couple of years ago my nephew wanted to wish me a Happy Mothers Day as well, but then remembered that I’m not a mother. After a short and slightly awkward pause while he contemplated this dilemma, he announced that there should be a “Ladies Day”. Cute. And luckily there is an Auntie's day in July, so he can make me a card then. But until July rolls around, I’ll unapologetically take the rose and the massage, thanks very much.
Tuesday, February 23, 2021
Worth your weight
"I propose we read books by amazing authors who are reframing the idea of living in bodies that do not confirm to the mainstream acceptable shape and beauty standard." And so it was that our summertime book club decided to focus on books written by larger women this year - a personally relevant topic for many of us after a year of sedentary lockdowns.
After a few emails about the topic (which everyone was keen about) and which specific books or poetry or podcasts to select (trickier to agree about with so many options), we decided to start with Shrill: Notes from a Loud Woman by Lindy West. I cheated and just refreshed myself on the TV series. Shrill is a bit of a hero's journey. A young, plus-sized journalist is insulted by a personal trainer in her local coffee shop, humiliated by her boyfriend who expects her to leave by crawling awkwardly over the back fence so that he doesn't have to introduce her to his flatmates, and belittled by her boss. After a life changing circumstance and the encouragement of her flatmate and work spouse, she finds her voice and power. In standing up to her boss and setting clear boundaries with the boy she’s dating, she finally earns the respect she is due.
My online copy of Hunger |
Next we read Hunger by Roxane Gay, whose life changed immeasurably when she was gang raped as a 12 year old by boys she knew. Gaining weight as a protective mechanism, she offers insights into the experience of living life defined as a super morbidly obese person. Roxane doesn't allow the reader a reprieve from the daily humiliations of her lived experience; from chairs cracking, to gym bullies, and the challenges of air travel we gain some understanding of the ways in which fat people are denied a dignity, and how one incident can change a person's life trajectory so significantly. Decades after the event, she searches online for the boy who, with his friends, raped her all those years ago; the boy whose face she sees in her minds eye every single day. She learns that he is successful in the business world and has used his privilege to build a good life for himself.
Both of these talented and brave and ultimately powerful women feature on an episode of This American Life podcast entitled “Tell me I’m fat” where they share about their journeys. Also on the podcast is Elna Baker who, with the assistance of drugs and surgery, transitioned almost overnight from being Fat Elna during the first 20 years of her life, to become Thin Elna thereafter. Fat Elna had wondered whether her unlucky-in-love status and lack of success in her career were attributable to her size. “Don’t be paranoid” she had told herself, “of course it’s more complicated than that”. Sadly, Thin Elna had to admit that it had been 100% due to her weight. Recently married, and with her career moving forward in leaps and bounds, she had achieved the success she yearned for, yet found herself missing “Fat Elna” who she describes as happier, less inhibited on the dance floor, and a generally nicer person than Thin Elna. I, too, felt incredibly sad about the loss of Fat Elna.
Just the other day, an aunt shared a photo of two young women at the beach, circa 1960. The dark haired one on the left, stunning in her white two piece swimsuit and polka dot head band and smiling broadly, turns out to be my mother aged around 16. Never having seen photos of her younger than about 23, I peered inquisitively at the young lass in the beach scene, taking in the details and finding the points of likeness to the petite, now grey haired woman I have called mum for more than 4 decades. Those were the tail end of her “fat years”, apparently, and so she didn't ever show us photos of that time. I'm glad to see that “Fat Lyn” is happy and carefree.
Two sisters, circa 1960 |
When I was about 10, we all had "autograph books" where the people in our lives wrote messages to us. Some people wrote silly poems, some shared affirmations or declarations of love, some offered advice, and some just drew pictures. Mum's message to me was a bit of all the above: "A caterpillar's heart still beats in every butterfly, Inside you are always you. Inside you are always you". Staring at a moth in the bathroom at a campsite the other day, the fluff of the caterpillar head still visible beside the adult wings, I thought again of mum's words. Yet, if we are inherently the same, regardless of any physical change, why does it feel as if our worth is inversely related to our size?
As opposed to Elna and me, Lindy and Roxane don’t go through any chrysalis-like transformation. Although Lindy considers surgery, she eventually decides against it. Both women have only dwelt in the fat camp, with Lindy becoming a trailblazer for the fat acceptance movement and Roxanne an advocate for fat friendly clothing and accessible spaces. While I’m here in this camp, I’m enjoying supporting Australian-based clothing designers who make attractive, colourful, garments for women of a wide size range and helping otherwise tentative women to find clothing that makes them feel great.
But with some size-related health issues rearing their ugly heads, I'm seriously considering making an attempt to work off those COVID kilos. There's a part of me that, like Roxane, is afraid of being thin again. What if doors are opened that were previously shut? What if I am faced with evidence that society really is that shallow? What if I turn into one of those women who tut tuts when fat people reach for another piece of cake? But whatever my size, I'll still be me, and I'll always have the richness of my wider life experience. I hope I also have Fat Elna's uninhibited approach to dancing and Fat Lyn's broad, unapologetic smile.
Monday, March 09, 2020
Point of view
Sunday, June 02, 2019
No joy
The skirt and I in our heyday! |
Not long after the recent election I was surreptitiously de-friended by a family member. Apart from not knowing how this will play out at a future family get-together, if indeed there are any more, I am disappointed that there was no explanation (although I can guess what it's to do with), no farewell, and no gracious recognition of happier times that we've shared.
So, as I contemplate the future for pre-loved outfits and friends, I realise it's not too late, for me at least, to do this right. As I carefully fold the skirt, I remember the day I bought it, at a market in Freemantle. A friend selected a slightly different one for herself, and we delightedly compared notes for a while afterwards. I remember that I was wearing it when I met my ex for the first time. He said that the corduroy was a giveaway of my hippy tendencies!! The same tendencies that, ironically, are not appreciated by all.
And I remember an outing - just the two of us - when I was about 5. I think there was ice cream involved, a walk along the beach and a child-like wonder at the world. And when, sitting on Grandma’s back porch as a twenty-something, I was told in conspiratorial tones about a first crush. I’ll treasure those memories.
So, while people and garments will continue to come and go from my life, I'll always have the memories. Each one has a special place in my heart, even if one of us has outgrown the other or there's hurt and disappointment still in the air.
And so with those sentiments in mind, I'm now headed to the op shop. I'll be dropping off a bag with a few memories inside. I hope that the skewiff patchwork corduroy skirt will spark joy and create new memories for someone else for many years to come.
Sunday, March 03, 2019
Pell and the patriarchy
local church |