Last night I gave a speech. As I started, I explained to the audience that instead of reading a pre-prepared speech as I usually do, I'd decided to speak off the cuff because of two conversations I had last week.
The first conversation was with someone I've known for a long time. He said to me, "Fiona, it's only in the last three years that I feel like I really know you. I always thought you were nice, but you always seemed so closed." The second conversation was with a widow I only met recently. She said that whilst she had been given my phone number not long after her husband died last year, she hadn't felt comfortable to contact me until I wrote a post in 2lookup a few months ago about how I was going through a tough period. "I realised you weren't all about the positive stuff. That you also still have bad days. And that made me feel normal." These two conversations, one from someone I've known for a long time and one who is a more recent friend, reminded me once again of the power of connection, and how when we are open and honest with other people it allows them to be open and honest not just with us, but perhaps with themselves too. And so I decided last night to not hide behind the mask of words on a page, and to actually live a lyric I love.... I "undressed my mind and dared them to follow". And follow they have. Since last night I've received a couple of messages from people who were there. They've been willing to take their masks off to me, and have shared some of the darkest fears they have, and some of the traumas they have faced. One wrote honestly about a longstanding fear of death, another wrote to me about how unfair life can feel sometimes when some people seem to have it all but she has lost so much. And several others wrote to say that this idea that I spoke about last night that every yes I've been willing to say in the last three years has led me to the next yes would now guide them too. In fact, the only things I've regretted in the last three years have been the things I said "no" to, or the implicit "no" that came from words I've left unspoken. Every yes really does lead to the next yes... Nothing starts with no. Connection to others, being willing to be more grateful for what we have than sad for what we don't have, challenging ourselves to change... all of it starts with saying yes. And as important as it is to take off our masks and truly connect with and be inspired by others, the best part about taking a moment every day to look up and think about what we want to say yes to is that it gives us the power to inspire ourselves. Say yes. ---- Is it a coincidence that today was my first day writing from One Roof co-working space and this is the sign in their kitchen? I don't think so. Follow the signs that lead you forwards.
0 Comments
Marcus leaves his mobile phone in Australia and needs someone to bring it to him in the US. He posts his problem in a Facebook group and asks if anyone is coming to the US in the near future and would be willing to bring it to him. Amazingly Sarah, a stranger to Marcus, agrees and a few days later Marcus has his phone in his hand. Seems a little nuts to me that someone would offer to take an electronic device for someone on a plane, but great, it worked out well. Nice story.
A few months later, Kelly leaves her laptop in the overhead baggage compartment on a plane on a flight from NYC to LAX. She realises as soon as she boards her next flight to Melbourne but it's too late, and by the time she lands in Melbourne it could be anywhere. But, amazingly, her laptop is located. However, LAX Airport won't ship it to her. It has to be collected in person.... And she lives in Melbourne, not exactly around the corner from LAX. She posts her problem in a Facebook group, and asks if anyone is going to be at LAX in the next week or so and whether they would be willing to bring back her laptop for her. Amazingly, a stranger to Kelly agrees and a week later, Kelly has her laptop in her hands. Seems a little nuts to me that someone would offer to take a laptop of all things for a stranger on a plane, but great, it worked out well. Nice story. A few months later, Sarah and Kelly who are friends are chatting about these separate nice stories. And as they are chatting, they realise that it was the same person - Marcus - who was both the owner of the phone and the bringer of the laptop. True story. What are the chances? What are the chances that Sarah would happen to see the post about Marcus' phone and be available the next day to take it with her to the US. What are the chances that Kelly's laptop would actually be found after being left on a plane? What are the chances that Marcus would be available to bring the laptop back to Kelly? What are the chances that Kelly and Sarah would each be separately talking about these stories, and then have figured out that Sarah's Marcus and Kelly's Marcus were the same guy! What are the chances? I'm no mathematician but I suspect that once you add up all these coincidences and chances, the probabilities of it all coming together were pretty slim.... I'm conflicted by the idea of coincidence and chance and whether people are meant to come in and out of your life for a reason and all of that. Sometimes I'm a believer, and sometimes I think it's all rubbish. But the thing is, the crux of this story actually has nothing to do with chance at all... and everything to do with trust. Because if Sarah and Marcus had said "that seems a little nuts" instead of "sure I'm happy to help" the chances are pretty definite that none of this would have happened. And in a world that seems to have gone mad, when we struggle to trust our neighbours, let alone anyone who looks moderately different to us, let alone a stranger from the internet... In that kind of world, we need more people like Marcus, Kelly and Sarah. * All names have been changed to protect the identities of these lovely people Recently both Prince William and Prince Harry have started to speak openly about the loss of their mother with the launch of their new mental health initiative, Heads Together.
It’s been almost 20 years since her tragic death. Few people who were alive at the time, myself included, could forget watching those two boys trail behind their mother’s coffin. This week, in an interview for GQ magazine, Prince William said: “It has taken me almost 20 years to get to that stage [where I can talk about it]… And also it is not like most people’s grief, because everyone else knows about it, everyone knows the story, everyone knows her. It is a different situation for most people who lose someone they love, it can be hidden away or they can choose if they want to share their story.” Sheryl Sandberg, the COO of Facebook and now founder of OptionB.org, wrote something similar in her brave and vulnerable book OptionB: Overcoming Adversity, Building Resilience and Finding Joy which she co-authored with psychologist Adam Grant. She talks about how everywhere she went after the death of her husband Dave Goldberg, she knew people had heard about her loss and were anxiously wondering what they should say to her. Both Sheryl Sandberg and Princes William and Harry have had to deal with their losses in public. For them there is, as Prince William put it, no way of hiding from it. I can’t even imagine how difficult it must be to know that literally in every room you walk into, everyone knows everything there is to know about you (or at least think they know everything), including about your loss. But the interesting thing is that I also find the opposite is true for me. I’m basically anonymous, a person whose “grief story” is not known outside of my own circle, and yet sometimes I actually fervently wish that everyone I meet would somehow just magically know that my husband has died so I don’t have to deal with the awkward moment when it, inevitably, arrives. Because, much as Prince William might wish it, unfortunately even anonymous people can’t really keep a grief story about the loss of someone close to them hidden. In the three years since the sudden death of my husband I’ve had many of those awkward moments. At a new hairdresser, I talk about my kids and get asked what my partner does. “Um, he passed away a few years ago”. When I started a new part time job I was asked what I do “on my days off”, and have to explain that I use those days to manage my late husband’s business. Immediately, eyebrows were raised at the word “late”. When I was buying a car I was asked whether my partner would need to come and help me make the final decision. “No, that won’t be possible”. (Never mind the sexist nature of this question…) When I fill in a new patient form at the doctor’s office, I have to tick the widow box, and get “the look” when I hand the form over the desk to the receptionist. Of course, unlike the Princes or Sheryl Sandberg or anyone else with a public profile, tabloid magazines aren’t writing big headlines about my loss, or making up stories about how my husband died. And that certainly makes a difference. I have some level of choice about exactly what I share, and with whom. But I can’t actually hide from my loss entirely. It’s there in every assumption that society makes about people. I could lie... I could nod and smile and make something up when I get asked questions about my partner. I could call my husband’s business my “side hustle” and pretend that I’m like every other 30-something who seems to have one nowadays. I could even tick the single box instead of the widow box. Both are true I suppose. And unquestionably there are some days when it would be easier to pretend to live the life that people assume I am living rather than reveal the truth. But I don’t. I always tell the truth when the questions get asked in these private conversations. Publicly, I speak and write about grief and loss in the Facebook group 2lookup and elsewhere for the same reason: because I believe silence contributes to social isolation. The less we talk about difficult things, the more people who are dealing with them feel somehow “abnormal”. It’s as true for physical illness as for mental illness. For grief as for domestic violence. For the challenging behavior of our children, as for financial difficulties. Often when we do talk about these difficult things, we speak in hushed tones. We worry that someone will not really understand. We worry about our reputation. We worry that people will think less of us if we are seen to be “not coping”. We worry so we say nothing.... and even when we choose to reveal our secret we worry that every conversation will somehow then be tainted in the awkward silence of the knowledge itself.... Hide the secret and people won’t know what you’re going through.... Reveal the secret and worry that people will avoid the elephant in the room - and possibly spending time with you altogether - for fear of putting their foot in their mouths... it can feel like a catch 22.As part of the interview, Prince William commented: “I am shocked we are so worried about saying anything about the true feelings we have. Because mental illness is inside our heads, invisible, it means others tread so carefully, and people don’t know what to say, whereas if you have a broken leg in plaster, everyone knows what to say.” I’ve been both of those people: the one who is hiding feelings and the one who doesn’t know what to say, and neither feel good. A long time ago, a girlfriend’s mother died. She was young and well loved and it was tragic. I went to visit and my friend was distraught. I remember feeling helpless. She was crying uncontrollably and I said to her “is there someone I can get for you?” And then I realized.... the one person who could comfort her was the one who had died. I felt awful. I had meant well of course, but what a dumb thing to say. I beat myself up for it for a long time and actually avoided my friend because I felt like such an idiot. That conversation stayed with me for over 20 years. I remember thinking about it in the week after my husband died. I remember thinking, I’ve said dumb things to others and people will say dumb things to me. Sometimes they will realize it afterwards and sometimes they won’t. But mostly they will mean well when they say it. And I decided then and there to be open with my “secret”, to never shy away from talking about the loss. I decided that having people say hurtful things to me unintentionally was better than having them say nothing at all. That if I tried to put people at ease even when they said a dumb comment, perhaps they’d be less awkward when speaking to me or someone else dealing with something difficult. And perhaps if I was open, it might encourage others to be more open too. My perspective isn’t the same as everybody’s of course; for some speaking about loss or some other difficulty opens the scar anew. And it doesn’t mean that some conversations don’t hurt me. But I know I’d prefer to deal with a difficult conversation or two, than to live in silence and secrets. And I wonder if the Princes are starting to feel that way too… Life isn’t always shiny/happy. But I think it’s a lot easier to look up to the light if you aren’t hiding all the time in the shadow of a secret. Option B: Overcoming Adversity, Building Resilience and Finding Joy is available at bookstores and online retailers. [Note, this post has been published in the Huffington Post. For republication please contact me]. Yesterday I went to an event in support of two incredible parents and their beautiful daughters Jaeli and Dali. The day was to raise awareness for syngap, a very rare genetic condition that both girls have.
I went to school with Danielle, their mother, but in the way that life happens, despite lots of mutual friends, I hadn't really kept up with Danielle's life and had no idea until recently about what she and her husband had been dealing with. Her daughters experience over 50 seizures an hour, hardly sleep and have impaired speech, autism, motor difficulties and behavioural issues. Recently, in Danielle's words, she decided to stop living a "double life" and finally revealed her "secret", being the serious nature of her girls' illness, to her work colleagues. Danielle works 4 days per week on 4 hours sleep per night and yet somehow for a long time kept what was happening at home a secret. Danielle and her husband Danny, with some gorgeous supportive friends, have launched a new campaign #secret4syngap to raise awareness of this rare condition and funding for research (details below). The team is asking people to write a secret on a piece of paper, post it on social media and nominate others to do the same. Their hope is the campaign will offer an emotional challenge, allowing individuals to share something they would otherwise feel uncomfortable sharing with others. In Danielle's words, "Something that no one else knows, except you, and could potentially help someone else if you shared it?" I laughed when I was asked yesterday to reveal a secret as part of the campaign. I joked - "pretty much my whole life is already on Facebook. What's left to tell?" And it's kind of true.... You all know already that I eat peanut butter straight out of the jar with a spoon!! But jokes aside, the afternoon got me to thinking more broadly about secrets.... what we choose to tell and what we choose to hide. And why.... Everyone has secrets. And some days it can be easier I think to live the life that people assume you are living than reveal the truth. I know there has been many a time when I've felt like nodding and smiling and making up something when someone I've just met asks me, for example, about what my husband does. But I don't. I always tell the truth in these private conversations. I write and speak publicly about grief and loss for the same reason: because I believe secrets and silence contribute to social isolation. The less we talk about difficult things, the more people who are dealing with them feel somehow "abnormal". It's as true for physical illness as for mental illness. For grief as for domestic violence. For the sometimes challenging behaviour of our children, as for the financial difficulties we can face. Often when we do talk about these difficult things, we speak in hushed tones. We worry that someone will give away our secret. We worry about our reputation. We worry that people will think less of us if we are seen to be "not coping". We worry so we say nothing.... and even when we choose to reveal our secret we worry that every conversation will somehow then be tainted in the awkward silence of the knowledge itself.... Hide the secret and people won't know what you're going through.... Reveal the secret and worry that people will avoid the elephant in the room - and possibly spending time with you altogether - for fear of putting their foot in their mouths... it can feel like a catch 22. So here's a secret I haven't yet revealed here but which is the basis for so much of my life now.... A long time ago, a girlfriends mother died. She was young and well loved and it was tragic. I went to visit and my friend was distraught. I remember feeling helpless. Not knowing what to do but just wanting to do something, anything, to help. She was crying uncontrollably and I said to her "is there someone I can get for you?" And then I realised.... the one person who could most comfort her was the one who had died. And I felt awful. I meant well of course, but what a dumb thing to say. I beat myself up for it for a long time and actually avoided other conversations with her because I felt like such an idiot. That conversation stayed with me for over 20 years. I remember thinking about it in the week after Matt died. I remember thinking to myself, I've said dumb things to others and people will say dumb things to me. Sometimes they will realize it afterwards and sometimes they won't. But mostly they will mean well when they say it. And I decided then and there to be open with my "secret", to never shy away from talking about the loss and to always speak Matt's name. I decided that having people say dumb and even hurtful things to me unintentionally was better than having them say nothing at all. That if I tried to put people at ease even when they said a dumb comment, perhaps they'd be less awkward when speaking to me or even someone else dealing with something difficult. That if I talked about what I was dealing with it might encourage others to as well. My perspective isn't the same as some people's, of course; there are many for whom speaking about loss or some other difficulty opens the scar anew. And it doesn't mean that some conversations and comments don't hurt me. I'm a natural introvert, and being open about how I feel hasn't always been easy. But I know that for me it's better to deal with a difficult conversation or two, than to live in silence and secrets. Life isn't always shiny/happy. But I think it's a lot easier to look up to the light if you arent hiding in the shadow of a secret. This picture is of Dali.... looking up. Yesterday evening as I walked home I noticed the full moon. I could see the markings on it perfectly. I thought it was beautiful.
Later on, I was speaking to a friend and she told me she had been up half the night with her son as he wakes up every month, like clockwork, when its a full moon. She told me the moon isn't beautiful to her. "More like creepy", she said. "That big face stares at me and laughs". "But your son also loves the ocean", I reminded her, "and there would be no tides if there was no moon...." And there it is right there. The duality of life. (Not to mention me on the verge of sounding shiny/happy... heaven forbid!!) But it's true. We wouldn't value happiness if we couldn't experience sadness. If we couldn't feel fear, we would not know the thrill when we act with courage. And of course, there would be no great pain in loss if there wasn't a great love that preceded it. Everything has two sides. Ive been really affected this week by the words of Connie Johnson. For those who dont know her story, she is an incredibly brave woman who has been battling cancer for years. Together with her brother, Samuel Johnson, they have created a charity called Love Your Sister which has to date raised over $5 million for cancer research. Recently she announced that she was stopping chemo, and she said of her children: "My pain will [soon] be over. And theirs will just be beginning". I cried when I read it, because of course it's true. In beginnings there are endings, and in endings beginnings. But what's also true is what her brother said. "Anything truly wonderful comes at a cost". And there are two ways of looking at that too.... The cost... or the wonderful. I think when we notice the wonderful and are grateful for it - even if we have it for way too brief a time and at first when we lose it it seems so unfair - in the long run, the price we pay for having had it at all will never seem too high. There's a dark side to the moon. But even the thinnest crest of a new moon lights up the night... and brings in the tide. I have a confession to make. Today I spent quite a lot of my yoga class looking up.... I couldnt help it. Any time I could lift my gaze without falling over, I looked up through square windows in the roof out onto the blue sky. Every few minutes the sun would shine brightly through, making an already bright room even brighter. I couldnt help it. I looked up.
And as I looked up I was thinking about one of the happiest days of my life... the morning Noah and Cara were born. You see... the yoga instructor today is the daughter of the pediatrician who was in the operating room that day, and the man who I have always believed saved Noah's life. Like Matt, this man was also taken from us way too soon. And so two of the people who were in the room on that day are no longer here... and yet I think of them both often. This morning made me think again about memories. What we remember and what we forget. I'll always remember that day my kids were born of course. I'll remember how the alarm clock woke us with the song "you are so beautiful" playing. I'll remember the way the pediatrician spoke to us gently in a soft voice. I'll remember seeing my beautiful babies in teenie tiny beanies under bubble wrapping to keep them warm. I'll remember the look on Matts face as we had our first family photo just a few moments after their birth. But what of the things I wont remember? What of the memories Ive already forgotten? When I look back am I distorting what was our reality because there's noone else to confirm it? Am I making the memories brighter than they were... or darker? What of the memories of our life that he held for us, that I let go of because I knew they were in his keeping? I wish we could one day be old together arguing over whether it was Amalfi or Positano where we had a room with a view of the side of a cliff. Fifteen years of memories that only he and I shared... The memories of a marriage that nobody else will ever know. It feels like a moment ago he was here, and a lifetime ago that he left. And in between there are the three years I've had on my own. Three years of memories Ive made without him. And here's the real confession..... Some of these memories are, almost absurdly, the happiest memories of my life. I argue with myself... How is that possible? But I have to acknowledge it is true. Because this shadowy hole that sits in my heart without him, a gaping hole which draws me deep down into the depths some days and makes it hard to even breathe... somehow this hole is what has forced me to look up and see the world, and all its possibilities, through new eyes. And for that I honestly couldn't be more grateful. My husband, Matt, died suddenly four days before our 12th wedding anniversary when he was 39.
That was three years ago, and this year I decided to spend the third anniversary of this “day” walking at what is known as the “1000 steps” in the Dandenongs in Melbourne, Australia. As I arrived, I noticed only a few cars in the car park which surprised me. I thought there would be lots of people here on such a gorgeous sunny day. I parked and walked through to the start of the trail…. and noticed the steps went down…. I had always expected the trail to start with steps leading up. Down I went…. 776 steps down…. (apparently there’s only 776 which kind of bugs this data nerd but anyway)… As I walked, lots of people passed me going the other way. I was a bit confused. I finally got to the bottom and noticed a large car park filled with cars. Apparently my car’s GPS had led me to the wrong end of the track and I’d actually gone down when I “should” have gone up and gone up when I “should” have gone down. Expectations.I expected to start the track by going up…It went down. I expected my life to go a certain way… It hasn’t. Expectations.As I walked, I was thinking of my wedding day. There are two enduring memories I have of that day. The first is the staircase I walked down, my version of the aisle. The second is that it rained, poured actually, until about half an hour before the outdoor ceremony which I had stubbornly refused to even countenance moving indoors. I spent much of the morning of my wedding day looking up, checking the dark clouds, and as I walked down the stairs I remember the sun was shining so brightly that I had to squint. It was so much more beautiful – and memorable – for being so unexpected. Expectations.I thought I’d learned the lesson about not being able to control things on the day I got married. It took me another 11 years and 360 days to learn it properly. That sometimes the unexpected can bring joy; and sometimes it can bring pain, but either way what you expect very rarely turns out to be what actually happens. Expectations.I expected this year’s third anniversary days – wedding anniversaries, death anniversaries, birthdays – to be easier than last years. But they were harder… maybe because of the expectation itself. I expected to be “more ok”, and I was knocked for a six when I realised I was not. When I finally got back to the top of the steps and made my way back to the car I remembered a quote I love. There’s no elevator to success; you have to take the stairs. I believe that. I believe professional success is born out of tenacity and persistence and keeping on going even when it feels like a hundred walls have been put in front of you. But I wonder if there is also no elevator to happiness. No shortcuts or automated processes which can take you, effortlessly, in one straight line upwards. That happiness, like success, is also at the top of a peak whose steps must be climbed. Each step, both the shallow narrow ones and the deep ones which require several mini steps to climb, takes you closer to the top. It’s hard, especially if you are unfit for the challenge having never climbed something like it before. Some days it feels like the oxygen is too thin, that you can neither breathe in nor breathe out, so you just have to hold your breath for a little while. But I wonder if the worst thing you can do to yourself is to have expectations about the climb itself…. Because sometimes the climb goes up, and sometimes it goes down, and both lead you to new discoveries. Expectations.I walked down the steps on my wedding day to get to Matt and the long future I expected we would have together, but I walked up the steps on my wedding anniversary this year to go home to my kids. And the only expectation I have now is of something I can absolutely control – that I should never deny how I feel, but I can always control how I think. And I’ll always be grateful. Today I’m looking up at my local shopping shopping strip. Within about 800m we have an Italian pizza restaurant, a Lebanese shwarma restaurant, a couple of Japanese sushi places, a Vietnemese and a South Korean restaurant and a Mexican taqueria. There’s a cafe owned by French people, a bagelry owned by Israelis, a flower shop owned by Russians and a fruit shop owned by Greeks. In the supermarket we have Kosher products alongside halal products, a full Asian spice section and Aussie lamingtons in the bakery.
This isn’t a political statement about immigration policy. I’m not trying to change anyone’s opinion about the benefits of multiculturalism or the number of refugees we should let into our country or whether building walls - literal or metaphorical - is a good idea. Today, I am simply taking a moment to be grateful for the extraordinary culinary and cultural diversity I am able to enjoy without even leaving my suburb. My grandparents could never even have imagined it. I spent the last few days on holidays with a friend of mine and her two sons, one of whom is non-verbal. Its an interesting term. This beautiful boy can't speak in the language that you and I speak, but he spoke a universal language that anyone can understand - the language of love. This boy who cannot speak shines love through him. He communicates his love for his Mum in every pull on her hand, in every smile, in every minuscule glance upwards into her eyes.
The notion of a shared we, of a shared space when the I becomes the we, is usually how romantic love is described; but I saw this love the last few days. This boy and his mum are just love. They are their own we. And I can't stop thinking about them as I'm sitting here tonight. My kids are asleep and my friends have gone back to their homes. The house is quiet. I know I should be trying to plough through my backlog of life admin but I keep getting distracted by this view of the sun setting. And this thought. That the only thing equal to the knowledge that light follows dark and dark follows light is that love is not just universal, it is transcendental. Love doesn't always need language, nor touch, nor even time. Love crosses age, religion, gender and location. Love - in all its forms - can be messy and mean and passionate and angsty and confusing and beautiful and can make you at the same time both exponentially happier than you have ever felt before and desperately, unequivocally, sad. Love is the one thing that both continues after death, and can be fundamental to the creation of life. Love is the one sensation for which time means nothing and depth means everything. There is no distance equal to love, even when love needs space to survive. The briefest moments of love will never be fleeting. Love is love is love is love is love is love. They are the words Lin Manuel Miranda spoke when accepting the Tony award for best musical for Hamilton (the music which I call the soundtrack to my year last year). He was speaking to the tragedy of the previous day when dozens of people were killed in a shooting at a gay nightclub in Orlando, simply for being gay. Love is love is love is love is love is love. The speech was a beautiful reminder that there should be no rules to love. No boxes to tick or stereotypes to conform to or expectations to meet. That the very essence of love is that there is no "normal"; that each love, just as each person, is different, its own version of itself that can never be replicated. Each love has its own unique fingerprint. Love is love is love is love is love is love. Its the most famous line from his speech, quoted and requoted, tweeted and retweeted millions of times. Its spectacular in its simplicity. But for me there was another line in his speech which truly spoke to love. In speaking of his wife, Lin said: She nudges me towards promise by degrees. This is the crux I think of love. That all you want when you love someone is to nudge that person towards the best they can be. Whether it be the love for your child, or anyone else in your life, this is all that matters. That together you are better than you are as individuals, because together you push each other to be more, to do more, to feel more and to know more. Whatever more is, however measured or defined. By small degree or with giant steps. Just more. On the first night we were here, my friend looked up and pointed to the brightest star in the night sky. We worked out that it was Venus, the planet named after the goddess of love. We didn't realise it at the time, but Venus is currently shining at its brightest for 8 years... My friend's son is 7 years old. The light of Venus... and love... has never been stronger in his lifetime than it is right now. Every day my friend nudges her son towards his promise. With every loving look she nudges him. He is her shining light and she is his. And the promise that that kind of pure love brings is as guaranteed as tomorrow's sunrise. Day 3/3. Beach 3/3. Each more perfect than the last.
This is Berry's Beach in Phillip Island, Victoria, but as we arrived I was transported back to the memories of a holiday from when I was about 21 that is still one of my all time favourites. It was a last minute trip. A good friend and I spontaneously decided to go to Western Australia. We were 21: despite my Virgo tendencies, spontenaity was still a thing. We met up with two other girls that my friend knew, hired a car and drove north, Thelma and Louise style without the gun. We had a destination in mind, but nothing planned along the way - an 800km journey. I'll never forget the white beaches that went on for miles that we came upon by chance; the water was crystal clear and warm at our feet. We stopped where we wanted to stop, figured out accommodation on the fly in whichever town we happened to be passing in the late afternoon. There was literally nothing and no one expecting anything of us. We had total freedom. It wasn't long after this trip that Matt and I started dating, and from then on I was never as free again as I was on that 2 week break. In many ways I have more responsibilities and less freedom right now than I've ever had before. Although they aren't babies, my kids are still reasonably dependent and I'm still reasonably (ok, a lot) protective of them. Last night I polished off their jar of vitagummies because I felt like something sweet but I didn't want to leave them alone asleep in the hotel room to go and buy myself an ice cream! But today at this beach I did something I haven't done before. I let the kids wander. They climbed over the rocks and jumped into the pools of warm water and picked up sea slugs and shells. They didn't have their hats and probably not enough sunscreen and the pools were technically too shallow for jumping. But I stood back and let them play. Not because I wanted to abrogate my responsibilities - I did it because I remembered that long ago West Australian holiday, and I wanted them to feel the deep sense of pleasure that warm water at your feet and a white beach that goes on for miles and, most importantly, freedom, can give you. I looked out to the horizon past a cloudless sky as I walked through the warm shallows myself, listening to the distant sound of the kids laughing as they played. And for just a moment, for probably the first time in almost 3 years, I felt free too. |
AuthorFiona is a writer, consultant to government and not for profits and former cynic turned yogi. Archives
June 2017
Categories |