Newsflash: Tribe Found in South Pacific!

Hello there! Sorry its been a while, but something very exciting has been happening..

I was just reading through some old blog posts and found a post about desperately missing my “tribe”. And I still do, very much. But the very exciting and lovely thing is that I have found another. Another group of people who really care about me; who I am, what I think and how I feel. And, what is more, I have felt the joy of simply being myself with reckless abandon again.

Of course the curse of it all is that by its very nature this tribe is transitory – I am always having to let someone go, and soon enough they’ll have to say goodbye to me and the grief I already feel at some day having to leave this place will become palpable.

But for now, I love that people laugh with me, and occasionally at me; that my social calendar is almost too full; that I have several people who will gladly give me full body hugs n the street; that I have platonic husbands (and wives!) willing to go away on weekends and shoot the breeze for hours at a time about the kind of stuff that floats my boat.

Friendship is truly transformative and I have a renewed perspective on life that I am entirely grateful for.

So if I say this is wonderful, believe me when I also say that my heart longs for my friends and family at home who get me and love me in a way that has provided the strength and foundation for this experience as well.

It strikes me that my cup of friendship runneth over – and I can only hope that I can give back to the people I love – the rich gifts I receive.

In short. I love yous all.

Inspired to Dream!

Check out this awesome book!

It has inspired me to dream the biggest dreams I can imagine... all over again!

http://www.veryawesomeworld.com/awesomebook/inside.html

Clarity

Clearly, Paulo Coelho can say in one line what it took me a whole blog post to clumsily articulate:

“Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream.”

yep, that's pretty much it.

A word about me

I think I’d almost always rather try something and be a spectacular failure – than not try it and settle for mediocrity.

Having said that, I need to clarify 2 things so I don’t sound like an uber- hypocrite.

The first is that I actually have nothing against mediocrity; most of us are spectacularly mediocre at most things and it ought to be embraced. If we spend our lives trying to excel at everything – we are bound to overshoot and end up disappointed most of the time. Which is also not to say we shouldn’t shoot for quality experiences – or that we shouldn’t be mindful in our interactions, its just to say that there are bound to be particular ways in which our time and our skills can be best maximized in life rather than be spread thin as an oil slick.

The second thing I need to clarify is that I am a crap goal setter and of course have not attempted to do all the things I have, at various times dreamed for myself. If I had shot for the moon on everything I’d be playing wembley stadium tonight (or at least the Tivoli); I’d be launching a novel or appearing on Parkinson… so yeah its perhaps true that mediocrity is a relative concept and that I have hidden out in my own version of it too.

What I think I’m really talking about is the fact that when I know something IS right for me, and I am scared to death to do it – I would rather follow my instincts and jump than stay living safely on the precipice with the view of my possible future always in sight but just out of reach. To be honest I feel like there are plenty of occasions on which I have gritted my teeth, steeled my jaw , taken a deep breath and plunged head-long into the breach in the name of my own sanity; in the name of what was truly important to me; in the name of walking my own path. It hasn’t always been a comfortable experience. Sometimes its been scary as hell. Sometimes it has been against the will, advice and support of those closest to me – who I would never want to hurt or harm. But it has always been the right thing to do.

Each of us has one thousand lives inside us; one thousand possible paths to tread. Sometimes when we think we are taking a fork of the road that will take us far away from the place we are currently standing, we find in fact that it leads us right back to where we are, because that’s where we are meant to be.

Sometimes, it feels like the most selfish act in the world to be true to myself – to that invisible magnetic force that pulls me inexorably to the future I am supposed to have. In fact it is the most selfless act I have in my arsenal. I can’t be true to anyone else if I can’t be true to me.

I can’t say I never struggle with decisions and I can’t say I always know that the plunge I am taking is definitively correct. But I can say that I have never regretted living my truth – and that I have regretted decisions made in fear. All I can do is learn from those patterns.

Right now I have some decisions to make and they feel like they will be some of the most definitive of my life. Maybe they won’t. All I know is that I am approaching a fork in the road and not even the various paths are clear yet – but what I can say is that the more I tune into myself, the more I trust I will know the right path when I see it. And I am making a promise to myself that I will walk it – even if its steep and I can’t see round the bend.

Hazy Hours at the edge of the Universe

Twice now I have personally witnessed the birth of a child. On both occasions my younger sister has given me the very great privilege of accompanying her through the hazy hours on the edge of the universe where women go to do this amazing thing they do.

My nephew was born 40 years to the day after my older sister was born. For my own mother, also present at the birth of her Grandson, this must have been an amazing marvel and I have to say some of the tears I shed after our gorgeous lad’s appearance were for my mum – who took that journey alone all those years ago. No sister held her hand; no mother was allowed in the room; no husband could witness the miracle. Only a crisply starched nurse held her hand as she gathered her strength to push life into the world. How things have changed for the better!

One of my clearest childhood memories is the day my younger sister was born. I was so excited as we crowded around her cot to welcome her to our lives. Pretty much every day since she has given me cause to marvel at her creativity and her strength. Sometimes, even when she seems at her most vulnerable – she digs reserves from somewhere and she brings beauty forth from pain.

No matter what I do in this life – it will never come close to that. But at least I was there to hold her hand and for that I will be forever thankful .

The Easter Message

I actually love going to Church on Easter Sunday. I love responding to the minister’s proclamation “Christ is risen!” with a resounding “He is risen indeed!”

And it’s not because I am a firm believer in Christ or the Judeo Christian philosophies – it’s because these Easter themes of loss and re-birth and renewal are universal and because hope, more than any other emotion should be celebrated and its joy and promise shouted from the rooftops.

I think about this stuff every Easter – but there’s no better time to be thinking about redemption and renewal than when you’re waiting for a baby to be born. And that’s exactly what I am doing right now; waiting. My sister’s second child is due imminently and we’re all coaxing it out by our sheer will.

So what exactly, this Easter needs to be cast away? To be let go of? And what needs to be turned over into the soil of my life providing fertile ground for renewal?

That my friends, is the money question. In recent times, I’ve never felt as great an urge as I feel now to push away from the shore – to cast off just about all the vestments of my former life and begin again. How exciting that would be in many ways.

I think of my sister bringing on new life and envy her the opportunity she has to explore again the duality of parental life; the opportunity to at once be your self and fulfil your own desires and yet also invest so heavily in the “invention” of another. I watch my friends beginning new relationships or reinvigorating old ones and I envy them their opportunity to reinvent themselves by being seen through someone else’s eyes. I think of my young, idealistic friends in Honiara and envy them their life before them; uncharted and full of promise.

And I think I want all of this and none of it. I want it all because I want to embrace renewal and rebirth and the freedom of starting with a clean slate – and I want none of it because I want at once both freedom from my past and the opportunity to turn the sum of my experiences back into my soul-soil and to finally learn their lessons.

But these things really are at the heart of the Easter message. A clean slate is ours every day if we want it. We forgive and are forgiven, we learn, we move on. It’s the forgiveness that’s the key. Whether of ourselves or others.

In the Christian story of Easter, Christ’s family and followers rolled the stone away from his grave and found him gone. Before ascension could be known and celebrated, first there was grief and a great test of faith. For me, rolling the stone away this Easter means embracing what must first be lost to ever be found again. I have to forgive myself the thousand errors of judgement that have lead me down the path I find myself on and yet simultaneously celebrate and have faith in my choices.

It’s a long time since I’ve swung on monkey bars but I reckon Easter is a bit like that; the moment of greatest fear and exhilaration is the dark moment – hanging with one hand - right before something solid and known can be grasped. Just like the birthing process I am about to accompany my sister through. And writing that, she has just appeared to say her waters have broken… He is risen indeed!

If I Had a Hammer...

Warning – the following blog post is a completely revealing insight into my human frailty and base sense of humour.

Lately, every conversation I have is about sex. I’m not really that surprised; I talk about it a lot anyway so go ahead and add months and months of suppressed sexual identity and no prospect of an “encounter” or relationship and you have a recipe for … well to be frank and fairly uncouth – whatever the female equivalent of “blue balls” might be.

Just today, I was skyping with a good friend and we were joking about the fact that I mentioned I was on a boat trip and while out on the ocean was contemplating life and what prospects I had in my near future for “getting a bit”. She said “I get it.. big blue ocean.. who can I fuck?” and I said yeah big blue ocean, who can I fuck?... tall tree who can I fuck?... red car, who can I fuck?... empty beer can, who can I fuck?.. Oh yes, the situation is terminal.

Terminal because I can’t escape it; what’s that old saying?.. For someone with a hammer, every problem looks like a nail. Well I’ve got a big old hammer and everything- all my memories, past relationships, current interactions, chance encounters – everything – looks like a nail that either fuels the fire or explains why I have no fire to fuel!

I’m thinking meditation is the only answer. But, you know, it’s not the ONLY answer. It’s just the answer to avoid what some other answers might be – because clearly I have poor judgement in this area; clearly my big old hammer has gotten me in some trouble in the past; clearly I cannot be trusted with the hammer and need to miraculously turn it into something far less forceful and energetic and much more zen, like a feather. OK, very bad analogy.

If only I would use my energy for good and not evil.

Perhaps I will go and do some yoga – yes that way whilst I am calming my mind and walking the middle path I am also training my body to be a pretzel. One never knows when that might come in handy…

Para Cantar Es Vivir

To sing is to live. And I’m singing again – so it follows that life seems a little richer.

There have been times in my life when I just couldn’t sing. When the act of making music brought too many emotions to the surface; when I would sit and stare at my guitar with longing but know that a single chord would make me weep.

One of my life’s deep ironies though is that the physical act of making music, singing and playing, is also the only thing that can sweep that emotion away; make it manageable; make it dissipate. Once you get through the initial fear of your own feelings and the first physical reaction to their surfacing – your strength comes back and rescues you.

It’s something that Tim Winton captured perfectly in Dirt Music; when Luther Fox first reconnects with music through that lone plucked fishing wire. He plays and plays it until all of his emotion has surfaced and he throbs some wild dance full of years of pent-up feeling.

I haven’t felt quite that bad this last year and I have been playing music for myself – but I recently found a group of people here in the Sols who play the sort of “Dirt Music” I like (anything you can sit on your verandah and play) – and more particularly anything you can find a harmony to blend with.

It’s magic. And better still, I have found someone to sing with whose voice seems to blend perfectly with mine; quite a rare thing in this world and something I have missed since my best singing buddy embarked on a career not quite so conducive to drinking and late-night backyard guitaring; motherhood.

There is something almost indescribable in the pure pleasure that accompanies singing in harmony. It’s what I imagine the cognitive process of flying feels like; an effortless soaring – your being in tune and resonating with everything around it. And sometimes you hit a sweet spot where you could just curl up and stay forever. For example, I discovered what I think is the sweetest spot in all the world when I was about 15 and encountered Vivaldi’s Choral piece “In Memoria Aeterna” for the first time. There’s a bit when the altos are mimicking cellos and singing sweeping chords to the words “erit – Justus – non ti – mebit “ and the sopranos mimic violins and sing melodic runs on top of that harmony to “Ab auditione mala non ti mebit.- non ti mebit- non ti mebit”. I know it doesn’t come across well in my description but trust me – it’s always felt for me like my feet are lifting of the ground. You can download it from itunes and you really should – but there’s nothing that compares to singing it. In fact, if any close friends who are reading this happen to be around when I pass from this life, please remember that I’d like that played at my funeral!

So yeah, the power may continue to go out regularly and the water turn off too. And it may be frustrating and challenging and far away from home (if not in actual distance then in every other way) but singing has made the world of difference. Again.

Unto Thyself Honesty

“Be anything but a coward, a pretender, an emotional crook, a whore: I’d rather have cancer than a dishonest heart.”

Holly Golightly – Breakfast at Tiffany’s

Honey I'm Still Free..

I hope loyal followers (and anyone else) find the following mildly amusing :-)

It’s Valentines Day and I am a sucker for all things romantic- so you’d think this would be my favourite day.. but its like being a fan of music and being deaf.. or being a fan of good food and wine and living in Honiara (!) right now there is no outlet for my romanticism. Valentines day is dead to me – and it’s a pity because in some ways I’d love to have someone to fill the bath for; spill rose petals on the beadspread for; make French toast and coffee for; drink champagne on the beach with; sing tortured love songs to; have an amazing mindfuck of a conversation with. Blah Blah Blah.

So this Valentine’s Day I’m loving me instead. Metaphorically – OF COURSE! All that good will has to have an outlet!

I’m kicking back with a glass of wine (gee can you tell?!) after a weekend of intense work and having had my first dinner party with guests invited under my own steam. It might have taken a year to get here – but I finally feel like I am part of this place – and that feels good. It doesn’t change my mind about wanting to leave when my time is up – but it does make me happy.

I once read somewhere that hiding your light under a bushel is the worst kind of pride you can display; who are any of us to decide that we are less worthy of life’s riches than those around us? So tonight I say.. Love me. Because I am great. I’m pretty smart, I’m creative, I’m funny (even if in a dad-joke kind of way!) and I’m brave and kind and just a little crazy and let’s face it, who doesn’t love that combination?!

So in the immortal words of Abba I’m just gonna put it out there - Honey I’m still free, take a chance on me!

Ps.. who ever you are kissing tonight, I hope they are half as good as me- because I kind of rock at that too. (now I hope all the people who are reading this who have kissed me are smiling and knowing its true!)

Happy Valentine’s Day x

fuck was i..

love love love these lyrics...

was watching season 2 of weeds and this song was played. Just 3 lines of it - but enough to hook me and make me look it up. When a song is right, it's so fucking right. Jenny Owen Young, you are a master of verse.

love grows in me like a tumor,
parasite bent on devouring its host
i'm developing my sense of humor
till i can laugh at my heart between your teeth
till i can laugh at my face beneath your feet

skillet on the stove,
it's such a temptation
maybe i'll be the lucky one
that doesn't get burnt
what the fuck was i thinking

love plows through me like a dozer
i've got more give than a bale of hay
& there's always a big mess left over
with the "what did you do?" and the "what did you say?"
"what did you do?" and the "what did you say?"

skillet on the stove,
it's such a temptation
maybe i'll be the special one
that doesn't get burned
what the fuck was i thinking
what the fuck was i thinking
what the fuck was i thinking
what the fuck was i thinking

love tears me up like a demon
opens the wounds and then fills them with lead
& i'm having some trouble just breathing
if we weren't such good friends, i think that i'd hate you
if we weren't such good friends, i'd wish you were dead

skillet on the stove,
it's such a temptation
maybe i'll be the lucky one
that doesn't get burned
what the fuck was i thinking
what the fuck was i thinking
what the fuck was i thinking

love is so embarrassing
i'm this awkward & uncomfortable thing
i'm running out of places to hide
what the fuck was i thinking?
(you know that i've got what you want)
what the fuck was i thinking?
(you know that i've got what you want)
what the fuck was i thinking?
(you know that i've got what you want)
what the fuck was i thinking?
(you know that i've got what you want

Intense

The only dead body I’ve ever touched was my Dad’s. Until today.

The treasurer of the Red Cross here in the Solomons died yesterday after a very brief illness. It was a shock to everyone. His death was so sudden that at almost the same moment he died in the hospital, I was a few streets away assigning him some tasks in a working group we were on together.

Bobby was a good man; he was dedicated to Red Cross and attended almost every training session I’ve given since I’ve been here. He was a great workshop participant and although much older than most of the guys in the sessions he loved mixing in with their curious participation combinations of drama, singing and just plain story telling. He was the most dedicated Board member here and he often stopped into the office for a chat. So today, when the Secretary General asked everyone to go to his house to pay respect, I went too.

Mourning might be culturally specific but grief looks the same wherever you go. I have been there, where his family were today; a family grieving a lost husband, father, Grandfather and the traditions were different but the tears and fears all too familiar.

When we arrived, Bobby’s Wantok, his wider family & clan were all gathered; sitting quietly in the shade of his garage. More family were inside, sitting with tears silently streaming. And there, in the lounge, was Bobby with his wife and three daughters. He was laid out in State covered by an Island print cloth for his body, and another for his head. As the leaders of our organisation crouched next to the coffin on the floor, his family removed the cloths and there he was.

My lovely grown men of Red Cross began to cry. His wife and daughters silently sobbed, and I was overcome.

After a short speech by the Chairman of the Board, The Sec Gen made it clear with just her eyes that each of us were to pay our respects individually. Each of the staff and volunteers knelt beside Bobby and silently, reverentially, made their prayer. The physical nature of their respect differed each according to their own cultural custom; some grabbed his forehead in their hands – the Polynesian boys bowed their heads to his chest. Most put their hand upon his now silent heart. So that’s what I did too. I knelt there and laid my hand on his chest and I tried not to think of that last silent chest I touched as I gave thanks for Bobby’s life and his work and I asked whatever higher power that drives this universe to allow his work to inspire mine and be half as dedicated.

And then we acknowledged his family and left the room.

As we reached the road, the wailing began and it’s a sound that’s been with me all day. The men and women of Red Cross got back to their work distributing flood relief items. Maybe it was just me who struggled, reflecting quietly on another time and another place. Maybe its just me who is struggling still with a sudden pain as raw as that first day ten years behind me, which mostly I can deal with, but which sometimes bites me in the arse.

Vale Bobby Kwomae – another good man gone too soon.

I heart Kristin Fontana!

"Destiny calls. This is your year for recognition"

Now there’s an astrological star cast I can live with!

see www.kristinfontana.com

I've resolved...

This might seem really odd. I am trying to avoid the whole New Year blog post. I’m sure it’ll come because it’s lurking there, in the back of my mind; making its presence felt. I don’t really want to talk about resolutions – because I’m resolute about thinking they can be another way to set yourself up for failure! But hey, that’s chock full of my own life issues – so here’s one crazy little resolution I’ve made that I’m kind of looking forward to the challenge of keeping...

I’d like to write a Haiku a day.

Think of it as my daily crunches for my mind. I’m going to look at my day and see if I can do enough verbal belly flops and tumble turns to turn it into beautiful Japanese inspired verse.

It also helps to make manifest what I’d really like to do this year; maintain a positive perspective. Hopefully the concise nature of the Haiku will assist me to strip each day back to one theme, idea or action that has been central to my day. I think it will help me focus. And help me to write.

Each day will be a new muse.

Here’s yesterday’s:

Summer rain has come

The deluge stopped us on the road

Banana leaf umbrella

And today’s:

Disaster strikes!

But Humanity’s gone digital

We rebuild computers

Hmm… we’ll see…

Eve's first flesh, on Adam's torn out rib

Once upon a time I wrote a poem that I’ve been trying to remember.. it had a line in it about "Eve's first flesh, on Adam’s torn out rib." I think what I was trying to capture at the time was a visceral feeling of connection; one person growing from another – inexorably part of each other. I wish I could capture it.. or find that draft somewhere. It was a good line!

I was reminded of it just the other night, when I was treated to an indepth conversation with someone I have only just met. He intrigues me. We were discussing relationships – more particularly, the culture of relationships here in the Solomon Islands – and I was asking a lot of questions about the peculiarities I have noticed (according to my own cultural standpoint of course!) when Solomon men discuss their marriages.

My observation is that many of the men I have discussed relationships with here view their marriages as a social contract and a financial arrangement whereby they support and are committed to their family unit but do not necessarily feel a deep, heartfelt and soul stirring connection to it. My new friend had many great insights into the cultural reasoning behind this, which of course incorporated tribal beliefs and practices as well as the Christian teachings which have so influenced the development of this country. I found his musings fascinating but more than that, there was one thing he said that completely resonated with me..

When describing his idea of love and what it should be, he talked about a visceral feeling that is almost indescribable but which he thinks must be innate; there to tell us we have found a good match. A feeling that is like an implanted memory of Eve being shaped around Adam’s rib; a part of him taken and given to another to create a perfect match.

OK I agree - there’s so much in that to unpack. So many cultural references – so many truths and half-truths. But deep within me, it stirred something and it made me remember that line of my poem and smile in recognition.

In its simplest form, I think love is about connection. And I think you can recognise that connection instantly, or watch it grow over time. I think you can believe that you complete someone and they complete you – and like magnets you are drawn to each other over time and space to find that missing part and conversely I think you can build a connection with someone that draws your lives together; entwines you like roots growing around two tree trunks; two becoming one over time. However you want to depict it, I think these connections give meaning to the inexplicable feeling of belonging that is part of the joy of love.

For just a moment talking to J it was like looking in a mind-mirror. Our paths to the same conclusion have been so different and yet, there we were.

It was cool, that's all.

Sunday

I always wished you’d come

to me on Sunday afternoons

when the light was soft and

the summer offered jasmine on the breeze.

Filtered through the trees

and my window, the dappled light

made patterns of my crisp white sheets

and I wanted to turn your hands to them,

your back to them, your hips to them.

But you never came. Sunday after Sunday

passed and passes still without you;

just a memory on the breeze, with the jasmine.