Sweet Dreams

Dear Possums, this is not a usual blog post by me. Its a little bit self indulgent.

Whilst riding my pushbike to work this morning the Euythmics song, Sweet Dreams, came into my mind. It is such an apt song for me to be singing today. The lyrics mean more to me now than they did when the song first came out. I tend to enjoy songs for their lyrics. “Sweet dreams are made of this. Who am I to disagree. I travel the world and the seven seas. Every body’s looking for something”.

I like to trust and see the good in people. I have learnt something about myself recently. I am at a loss as to how I am able to live with this fault more wisely. Is it practise? Do you have to throw yourself out there to practise being cautious. Or do you accept the fact that you tend to find good even when it is not there, write yourself off as a danger to yourself and stay indoors and out of circulation for the rest of your life?

Everybody’s looking for something. I thought about that. Its not just other people who are looking for something from me. What am I looking for? I think I know. But what I’m looking for is simple. I think I may already have what I’m looking for. Life beyond my boundaries can seem enticingly exciting, but I think I have learnt that what I’m looking for is probably not out there. And those out there are looking for something different to me.

Stirring Risotto

Hello Possums. Being back with the program has multiple benefits. I now have the head space to contemplate hosting dinner parties again. I started with a small one. There was a lot of work to do. We don’t have a separate dining room. We have one large room, elevated on our sloping block, with floor-to-ceiling windows at one end overlooking the Yarra River. The kitchen is in a corner of this room separated by an L-shaped bench. Along the wall diagonally opposite the kitchen is our ten-seater table made of a big slab of red gum. It is at this table that we eat family meals and entertain guests. Opposite this, on the other side of the big space are two large brown leather couches and a coffee table. I often read at these couches because it is a light spot, I enjoy the view out of the windows and it is quiet. The TV is in another part of the house.  I refused to have the TV in the same room that I spend most of my time.  When the TV is on it distracts me from my thoughts. I prefer to have peace or listen to music.  Chapter by chapter I have read Harry Potter and the complete Deltora Series to my children sitting on these couches. Much of our family living is done in this room too. Homework is done at the table, craft is done at the bench, toys are played with on the coffee table and couches. Consequently, prior to hosting the dinner party the room was a shambles: books and papers in piles on the table; pokemon figurines all over the couches; window art on the bench; notices from school all over the bench too, etc, etc. The kitchen needed a bit of a clean as well. However, I was in a good mood. I hadn’t hosted a dinner party for at least a year (well, maybe eight months). I was relaxed and in the mood for cooking. I turned my ipod on and took my time. I tidied and cleaned and completed the scene with some yellow snap dragons. Earlier that day at our local butcher I had purchased a boned leg of lamb marinated in lemon and herbs. It had been a coolish day. I felt as though I hadn’t warmed up properly all day. This often happens in summer. We get out of practise of needing a jumper. In the butcher’s I noticed the smoked trout and remembered a lovely dill and trout risotto I used to often cook for dinner parties. Risotto to me is a warming comfort food. I almost regretted ordering the lamb when it occurred to me that I could cook a plain risotto to accompany it. I felt inspired. Our holiday to Tuscany came back to me. I purchased crusty bread and fresh salad greens. Back in my kitchen I hoped that I still had some arborio rice. I found a packet of Italian rice given to me by my friends we travelled with. Whilst the leg of lamb roasted in the oven, I invented my risotto. I was surprised to find I was out of brown onions. Luckily there was one red one. I fried it up with some extra virgin olive oil and added the rice. Next a quarter of a cup of unwooded chardonay. I sipped on the rest of the glass of chardonay whilst I stirred. I added the stock cup by cup, stirring all the while. One of my friends, Harry, used to always cook risotto at dinner parties he hosted. I often think of him whilst I’m stirring. He said it is the stirring that releases the glutin to give the risotto a creamy texture.  He usually cooked risotto with porchini mushrooms. I hadn’t decided exactly what I would do but deliberated over this whilst stirring. I decided not to add the cherry tomatoes or olives I had because I wanted the kids to eat it. It didn’t need to be terribly extravagant because it was accompanying the lamb rather than being the main deal. I added some basil pesto and a spoon of roasted eggplant paste, tasted it, added a pinch of salt, tasted it again. It tasted good, but was missing excitement. I grated a decent handful of fresh Australian parmesan and little lemon rind, stirred these flavours in and tasted it again. Perfect! The good thing about risotto is a large batch takes no extra time. I can cook enough to ensure a quantity of left overs. I ate it for lunch the following day. Without the lamb the subtle flavours were more easily discernable. The hint of lemon was magic. The Italian rice had perfectly held its texture. … In writing this post I have been reminded of not only the dinner parties my friend Harry has hosted, but also the times I have tried to match-make him with my single friends. Each time was a disaster in completely different ways, but equally hilarious in hind sight.  I promise to fill you in later.

Rewriting The Plot

Hello Possums. What drew you to blogging? Did you just grow up with it, or have you found it later in life where it has served a purpose for you. I started blogging six months after my mid-life crisis began. As I have announced in an earlier post, the crisis is now over. It ended last November in fact. Like smokers that quit, believe they have found the light and take it as their responsibility to spread the word, I am experiencing the wisdom of hindsight. In short I am putting myself forward as an expert on mid life crises. Welcome to Mid Life Crises 101, lesson 1. The mid life crisis is a case of “losing the plot”, and coming out of a mid life crisis is a case of “getting with the program”.  Lets take each of these in turn.  

1. Losing the Plot. This occurs when something in your life changes. You might say it is when the rug is pulled out from under you. For my cousin’s wife it occurred when she got to the top of her profession, realised that it wasn’t what it was cracked up to be and that her children were growing up quickly. For one of my close friends it was having a baby for the first time in her forties and being thrown into the accompanying sex role with perceived lack of support from her partner. For me it was the simultaneous occurrance of meeting a person who I thought was the sexiest thing on two legs and finding out something about my husband that I hadn’t been aware of. Whatever the cause, losing the plot is a state where you question the boundaries within which you had been living your life. Prior to losing the plot, you wouldn’t have even been aware of the boundaries. In a crisis you feel hemmed in and begin to nudge them. This is the scariest part. Its like the person you thought you were slowly becomes your discarded skin. All shiney and new, you explore the life you have made for yourself from a different perspective and in the process reevaluate and reinvent boundaries. This takes a long time. It took about eighteen months for me.

2. Getting with the Program. This occurs when you have remade or reaffirmed your boundaries. In remaking, new boundaries will be established. In reaffirming you will accept old boundaries seemingly unchanged. However, because you have chosen your boundaries consciously you nolonger feel trapped by them. The boundaries return to being in the background of your life. Being back in the program means your mind is nolonger cluttered with boundary problematics. I have achieved this state by stepping over one boundary (twice), pushing two other boundaries as far as I could, and writing, talking to friends and reflecting. 

No White Flag

“I’ve still got sand in my shoes, and I can’t shake the thought of you. I should get on and forget you. But why would I want to? I know we said goodbye, anything else would have been confused. But I want to see you again”. [Sand In My Shoes, Dido]. The job of moving on is a hard thing to do.  The hardest break-up I experienced was with a tall, blonde, athletic Ukranian. We dated for two years. It was during a difficult period of my life. My mother died. He was the last of my lovers to have known my mother. Its possible that my need for security at that time in my life made the split harder to take. However difficult a split is for me I have reflected recently that in general my psychological tactic has been to latch onto the failings of the other. In the case of my tall Ukranian, after we split faults were easy to find. For example, he used to set ridiculous ultimatums. I was playful and could not take them seriously. I tended to push boundaries and flout his ultimatums. To punish me for my behaviour he would withdraw. Once when we were swimming down here at the very beach I still spend all of my summer holidays at, he gingerly entered the water. “Don’t splash me or I will never trust you again”, he warned. Of course, in my book, the only thing to do in this situation is to splash and if possible, trip. He lacked humour. As far as he was concerned I had breached his trust entirely. “I think you are too immature for a sexual relationship”, he pronounced gravely afterwards. Yes! That’s right Possums, he threatened to withdraw from sex because of this. After we split I vowed to never again have an intimate relationship with a person who wagered sex in arguments. Its hard to believe upon writing this story that I ever regretted splitting up with him, but I did for a long time. Focussing on this and his many other failings helped me to recover. There were quite a few actually. He was a creature of habit, cooked the same four meals on a rotational basis and if I joined him in the kitchen had to put up with strict instructions and routine, routine.  We clashed here. My cooking is organic and experimental. He had pannic attacks occasionally to the point where he would purposely lose tournaments in his sport of choice (fencing) to not have to appear in front of the assembly for the trophy. His insecurity manifested iself in our relationship in many ways, right down to long listening sessions on my part. And he was obsessed with his mother. (But he was beautiful. I adored the entire length of  his body during our relationship). I saw him again out of the blue four years ago at the Melbourne Cup. I had since had four children. He was still single, and incredibly nervous at meeting me. I have no desire to keep in touch with him or to ever see him again, but I have been thinking about the process of splitting lately and I wondered why I had been holding on to those bad times. I have decided to let them go because I don’t need them anymore. There were plenty of good times. He taught me how to cook traditional Ukranian food, and decorate eggs for Easter. We went on fishing and beach holidays together up the east coast. We were physically and emotionally intimate for two years. I met the hub less than a year after our split. I destroyed all of our photos after I was married, but my memory is clear. Now, twenty years later I am able to look back upon those memories through a different lens. It has therefore occured to me to ask the question, is it possible to break up with someone without going through a stage of remembering only the bad? Remembering the bad can justify the split and give you a sense of control. Remembering the good brings back the pain of grief for what might have been. Remembering the good happens within a state of melancholy as the process of grief works its way through your psyche. But why is melancholy such an unbearable, intollerable thing? Melancholy is associated with every phase of becoming who we aspire to be. And we are forever and always constantly becoming. This I have been reading about in the philosophy of Judith Butler. Why did it take me so long to see the light? I can walk with sand in my shoes.

Re-focussing

After having raised three children until my youngest at the time was two, I went back to teaching part time for a short while in 1998. Back at the secondary school where I worked they welcomed me as though I was still the same teacher who went out on family leave six years prior. However, I was different in many ways: older, I had a parent’s perspective, I had forgotten why I loved teaching in the first place, I had lost confidence in myself and, after six years with my babies, was unaccustomed to standing at the front of a room of teenagers. After seven weeks, I was back on track (but still fundamentally different to the young teacher I had been). In discussions with my Principal (the Head Master) as the year drew to a close, I expressed a desire for permanent part time work. On February the twenty-sixth the following year, the Principal rang me at home. “Bindi, I’m pleased to tell you that I am able to offer you almost exactly what you asked for: point seven, mainly maths and science, however I will need you to take a bit of computer ed”. His voice had an expectant tone to it that said, I have done right by you, I know you will be happy and I anticipate your squeals of glee. However, I had to say, “Tony that is wonderful but this morning I did a pregnancy test and it was positive”. The twenty-sixth of February also happens to be my birthday… Now, I almost forgot why I started this post in the first place! But the purpose of this post began as a declaration of my new years resolution. In the framing of this, I have wandered quite a bit off track. I shall now bring it back on track to tell you that at the same time that I went back to work I did a few career counseling  sessions with an experienced psychologist who “lived” around the corner from me. In that process I did a Myer-Briggs personality test (among other tests, such as intelligence and one that involved a values sorting task). The upshot of the career counseling was that teaching actually suited me in so many ways that I realised I didn’t want a career change after all. It also gave me lots of confidence because having done the intelligence test I was told I could do anything I set my mind to. Any way, back to the Myer-Briggs and the New Years Resolution. One of the things I “learnt” about myself was that I was apparently creative but could tend towards becoming scatty if I lost direction. This summer I have taken two weeks off work. This is quite an achievement because my main work at the moment is my PhD and there is always things to think, read and interviews to transcribe. In that time I did relax, but two days ago I started to feel a bit lost. As a parent of four, my time is easily absorbed in attending to kid things and we have had lots of visitors who bring out “the hostess with the most-est” in me. What I found was that my physical life was busy, but my head-life started going around in circles – especially over a recent falling out with a (predominantly) online acquaintance I met this year while filming out at one of the secondary schools where I am collecting data for my study. Occasionally the circular thoughts would stop turning and I would return to ideas and things I needed to get stuck into for work. Finally I have decided to get back to it. I have begun rising before my family and tapping out a couple of hours of work on the interview transcripts. The feeling of focus I have gained from this has been refreshing and like a mini-rescue. I feel so happy to be engaging in my work again. My thoughts are moving onwards and into uncharted territory and I love it! I’m still playing hostess, and I’m still getting out in the sun and surf with my kids but the scattyness has gone. Which brings me to my New Years Resolution. I have worked out that the most important thing for me at the moment is to achieve this PhD (it is my final year). My New Year’s Resolution is therefore to STAY FOCUSSED on things and people that really matter to me.

No shortage of things to do

 

There is no time at my place to mope around. Sally and Emma have finished school and the holidays have begun. Kathleen and Rosie have come home from the last carols performance with their choir for the week. The only commitment we have left before leaving for the beach house is a party tonight that the whole family is invited to.  There is no time here to worry about young male teachers who are fickle about women. No, not at all. These diversions are best ditched and filed under “not worth it”. Bindi, file that away as a note to yourself. There are children who need your help to make ginger bread men and to write them lists so they can pack for the holidays. And when you have finished this, phone a friend. Under no circumstance are you allowed to mope about falling out with this particular acquaintance. Good Girl.

It feels weird. It shouldn’t but it does.

Hello Possums. Tonight I have been invited out by my dancing buddy V to partake in tapas with a group of mutual friends before kicking on to a nightclub for some African music. I invited the hub. And he said Yes. Normally he wouldn’t come. He would use the excuse of looking after the kids - especially on a Friday night. Usually he prefers to sit in front of the telly with a bottomless glass of red. After a busy week, he needs to unwind. This is his normal line. And during footy season, television on  Friday night is a sacred ritual. This is why Friday nights are often girls nights for me. If I need to catch a movie or a play or go dancing with girlfriends, this is the night. It should not feel weird that my husband is coming to watch African drummers with me. But it does. It really does. I am not unhappy about it, just weirded out. I think its great that he’s making an effort. How he fits in could be quite an interesting social experiment.  Yesterday I had a conversation with a friend and colleague about mid life crises. I told her mine was over and she laughed and laughed. Yes, it is, I confirmed. Now the marriage difficulties on the other hand, these are not solved. Its just that the crisis aspect is over. I met an older man who I thought was wonderful and this has made me less panicky. I now feel that I am able to put time into the marriage, and even after five years if it still fails then there will be no resentment. There will always be hope and someone out there for me. There is no hurry. Before I thought I had to make a decision quickly, otherwise it would be too late. She thought about what I had said. Hmm, she deliberated, why is this the case that so many marriages are going through difficulties? Mine too! Why is it that our husbands no longer interest us? Take my husband, he is beautiful, a lovely person. He would be a great partner, but for someone else! But I’m not interested any more.  He bores me. Maybe it is a stage, I said. And she agreed. A stage in a long term relationship. Like stages our children go through, that are obvious to us in hindsight. Maybe this is a stage for women in their forties?  

Conference Highlights

Hello Possums. As you know I have recently returned from a conference in Fremantle, Western Australia followed by two nights in Syndey with girlfriends. I was pretty tired when I returned on the weekend. The difficulty upon returning is slotting back into normal life whilst trying to overcome the excitement and fatigue.

I’ve been riding my bike into work this week and did a pump class yesterday. The exercise helps me sleep soundly. However, last night I was so fatigued after pump that I thought I should really have dropped down in the weights considering I hadn’t been for over a week. I went to bed early with the book I’m reading and fell asleep by ten o’clock. I feel great today, back on track and focussed. I even suspect that I am over my mid life crisis – more about that later.

The ride in today was pleasant, although its hotting up – we’re heading for a high of thirty-two. While I was riding I started to reflect on the wonderful experiences I had at the conference. Here are the main highlights:

1. Being there when my colleagues triumphed

Two of my dearest colleagues, who I really should call friends, presented in the same session. Their session was very well received. It was a highlight because for one of them it represented over a year of personal struggle, triumph over self doubt to achieve academic breakthrough; for the other it represented recognition of brilliance. My young colleague Dan is an intellectual heavy weight. His presentation challenged the audience and the result was honest, open, collegial debate. This rarely happens in conferences, but it is what should happen all the time. He is making a name for himself. I feel proud of them both.

2. Experiencing an inspirational presentation

Brenton Prosser presented his research on children who had been diagnosed with Attention Deficit Disorder. This work has been published (see the reference below). He wrote the following poem to capture his emotional commitment to his project. He read it out aloud from his book in his presentation. It touched me and I cried (alot). Here it is:

“You run camps? Who for?”
Boys who need a break,
boys whose parents need a break,
or just boys who are broken.
“What are they like?”

He’s eight,
likes Power Rangers, cricket and footy,
is shy, still has baby fat,
and the sweetest smile you’ve ever seen.
But he won’t shower,
he smothers himself with shit,
so the adults won’t be attracted to him
and do what they did last time.

He’s nine,
shines at eight-ball, exploring and climbing,
is tiny, tough, even nuggetty,
and is a bundle of happy energy.
But his mum doesn’t want him,
he cries and kicks a door down in anger,
so the adults won’t forget he exists
and do what they did last time.

He’s ten,
plays basketball and handball no-end,
is slow to catch on, yet so lovable.
But he’s A.D.D.,
he yells, he fights, he threatens, he taunts,
so the adults won’t know he’s the weakest
and do what they did last time.

He’s eleven,
loves go-karts, bikes and fishing,
is tall and lean, maybe even stringy,
and has freckles and a college hair-cut.
But he loses his temper,
he hits and bites and spits and screams,
so they adults won’t know he’s afraid
and do what they did last time.

He’s twelve,
lives for woodwork, computers and horses,
is short for his age, yet so mature,
and has the round-rimmed glasses of an artist.
But he wants to die,
he scratches his wrists and watches for cars,
so the adults won’t be there any more
and do what they did last time.

These are just boys, who are broken,
it breaks me too.
Any more questions?

Reference: Prosser, B. (2006). ‘Seeing Red: Critical Narrative in ADHD Research’. Flaxton: PostPressed.

3. Making a new friend

I had met this person briefly before (a year ago). Upon becoming reacquainted at the conference dinner he said, “I did not recognise you because you have grown even more beautiful”. We spent a lot of time together during the last two days of the conference. He is a teacher and academic, originally from Kenya, who has lived in Australia for the last eight years. His native language is Kikuyu. He has a gentle way, wonderful sense of humour and an exotic turn of phrase. His interpretations often draw upon metaphor from his cultural herritage. He is four years older than me. He called me lioness.

I discovered beauty in an older man who appreciated me and I believe my mid life crisis has been cured.

Still Smiling

Hello Possums. I had a brilliant day at The Oaks yesterday. I left home at 9.30 in the morning and didn’t get home until midnight! I have uploaded some photos as promised and you can access these via the Flickr link to the right. I’ll leave it there for a couple of days. Now, let me just quickly share some funny incidents and two lovely compliments I received during the day.

The train was filled with people on their way to the races dressed up in splendid fashion. A group of young men stood in the doorway ahead of me. I admired the way one of the young men had groomed himself, and in particular the way he had shaped his beard. I was admiring its neatness and how perfectly it suited his face, when I noticed he had quite lovely lips. He caught my eye for a moment and smiled shyly. When he smiled I noticed that on his teeth he had braces…

Later I was talking to an older woman on the station platform at Flemington. We were both waiting with tickets for our friends. A different group of young men were also waiting quite close to us. They seemed younger and louder than the sophisticated group on the train. We both agreed that although Oaks Day was traditionally Ladies Day, there seemed to be very large number of men arriving. I don’t mind the eye candy, said she. I laughed. Just at that moment one of the louder ones received a text. Reading it he said, Hey I just got a text from my grandmother…

I spent most of the day in our reserved area with three girlfriends. A group of three men in their mid forties joined us at our table after race four. They were very chatty. We shared tips for the races, rounds of drinks and some great conversation. After a couple of hours of this, one of them said to me, You are the youngest person I have met in ages! I found that slightly incredulous.

What? You haven’t met anyone younger than forty-three for awhile? I queried.

No, I don’t mean in age, I mean in outlook to life…

At a bar in Southbank afterwards we danced with a group of young men from Brisbane and their mate from England. The one from England bounded up to me, introduced himself and inquired as to whether I’d been to The Oaks (as you do). I motioned to my hat (a dead give-away) and replied that we had. But told him it was more difficult to tell whether he’d been because he wasn’t wearing one. He said, may I borrow yours? He put it on and we laughed. After a little while he put it back on my head and said, I wish I could look half as good in a hat as you do…

Later in the night I was dancing to ‘You’re the One That I Want’ with one of the Brissie boys. He dipped me so low that not only my hat fell off, but the beads fell off from around my neck. As if that wasn’t funny enough, he picked the items up with a flourish and dramatically replaced them onto me as though it was part of our dance. Neither of us skipped a beat. But I was laughing. There were few onlookers laughing as well…

The damage has been done

When I turned forty, a group of three girlfriends gave me an Estee Lauder beauty treatment voucher. It included a facial, free skin assessment and a massage. I had never had a facial before this (nor since). It’s not generally my thing, Possums. I couldn’t understand why some women, including many of my friends, liked to sit for an hour doing nothing but have someone else clean their faces. I have also never had a manicure or pedicure for the same reason. A clip with the nail clippers does it in less than two minutes and that’s really all I require.

However, I went to have the facial out of a sense of obligation to the girlfriends who had pre-purchased the service. I remember chatting to one of my male friends, Rod, after I had the facial done. I was relating to him my surprise that the facial had made my skin feel good, eventhough outwardly it was impossible to see any difference. He was (is) skeptical. I remember him saying:

Maybe they strip away a layer of your skin and its the repair process that makes it feel rejuvinated?

Anyway the treatment included a skin assessment with a largish machine that was designed to show areas of your skin that were oily, dry, sun damaged, or whatever, so that the young woman operating the machine can treat you right (and recommend products to you afterwards, of course). Under the machine my skin showed up as pretty normal except for areas of sun damage around my cheeks. I was then informed that the sun damage had caused my skin to become thin in those areas. I’m not sure what she expected me to do about this, except perhaps start worrying… ?

Today I went for a half hour run along the beach. There was a gentle breese blowing, keeping it cool despite the sun being out. A few people were out on the beach, eventhough it was too cold to be swimming. I passed a dad playing in the sand with a little girl dressed warmly in jeans and a jumper, but with her fairy outfit over the top of this. She was wearing a large sunhat that didn’t match the fairy outfit. Her vigilant dad had obviously remembered to protect his little fairy against the sun’s harmful rays.

I, myself, had put sunnies on, and sunscreen but had forgotten to slap on a hat. I thought of my sun-damaged cheeks. But instead of worrying I started to reminisce about how the sun damage had most likely come about. My skiing friends and I would camp for weeks out in the snow for back country skiing in the New South Wales ski fields every spring. The weather was usually hotting up and we would get some great skiing in, sometimes in just T shirts and shorts. I remember one year it was so hot that by the end of a week we were plastering our faces with blue zinc (that’s all we happened to have) and wearing silk scarves around our necks and ears to protect ourselves from the sun. In the snow it is particularly easy to burn because in addition to the direct rays, you get a lot reflected back at you. The underneath of our nostrils used to burn, for example. We must have looked funny when, at the end of our trip, we skied back through the resort covered in blue zinc with silk scarves trailing. After these fabulous trips I would always end up with a distinct goggle tan on my face.

As I was running I reflected that the experience of those times were well worth any skin damage I have now as a result. I decided to treat the damage as a mark of life, part of my character, a story for the telling. Its part of me and I will never cover it up or be ashamed that my skin is nolonger perfect.