Superstition: As Stevie Wonder says, it ain't the way.

When I think about superstition, my mind immediately goes to extremes or the popular cultural ones. Black cats, walking underneath ladders, opening umbrellas indoors, walking on the cracks of the footpath. All of them childish, but impactful. I still get a shiver up and down my spine when I have to dry an umbrella indoors, but I do own a black cat and he's delightful. I know intellectually that these things aren't real, the stuff of myth and storytelling. There must be millions of things, in every culture and religion that people have passed down through the generations, through both written and oral traditions, things to look out for, to protect yourself against or with.

I remember as a kid, some of the things from my own heritage, things outside of religion that have meaning and are said to bring misfortune or prevent it. In Maltese folklore a symbol derived from the Eye of Osiris or Horus is used on fishing boats to protect them from harm or misadventure. The symbol of the evil eye can be found in many different cultures that have Phoenician influence, including on the Greek Islands. 

Another superstition I remember is the red horn or hand performing the horn sign, which is exactly the same hand gesture for "rock on". It was frequently used as jewellery or seen dangling from the rear vision mirror of cars, to keep the occupants safe or to curse male enemies with impotence. 

Image via: Pixabay

The Luzzu in Marsaxlokk, Malta. Image via: The Corinthia Insider

 Image via: Tuscan Traveler

Superstitions originate somewhere, are changed and applied to suit the people who they benefit most and eventually fade into mythology. People tend to hold onto these symbols though, as cultural rites and identifiers. They make them feel empowered and in control of things that life inevitably throws at them. They are all a bit of fun when not taken too seriously; comforting and decorative. But they can also define a people and is truly what makes humans so interesting and diverse. We all see the world differently, based upon our heritage. It's how we find belonging and how we connect, not only with people that are like us, but those that aren't, who also explain the same things about life, just in different ways.

But what about when superstitions become institutionalised beliefs that dictate more serious ways in which we live our lives? What about when symbolism, mythology, folklore suddenly starts to infiltrate society, where fact and science belong? That's pretty much my understanding of every religion ever. People used ideas and symbols to describe and influence events. When they came up with better explanations or methods, through trial and error or what we now call scientific discovery, they tossed out the old ways and did things differently. Some things that worked long ago, remained. Many of life's basic knowledge about survival is ancient. Others that were no longer useful, became harmful or were replaced with better ways were forgotten, or given another place to occupy in people's psyches. Perhaps they were used as fables or moral stories, perhaps as cultural traditional celebrations or festivals. Maybe examples of what not to do.

It seems logical to me that by now as a species, we should be able to discern what is real and what isn't. What needs more attention and what can be discarded.

I heard a story not long ago, and it's what got me thinking about superstition. A counselor working in public health had to do a home visit for an adolescent client who was accessing services. When they arrived, one of the parents opened the door and immediately told the counselor to leave. You see she was wearing a red dress and the parent was offended. I don't have details about cultural background or where the belief was derived from but basically the parent believed that red was a deliberate choice by a government employee to exert power and there would not be an equal exchange between the counselor and the client if she came in wearing a red dress.

Amazing right? Ridiculous? Well to that parent it wasn't. It was real. The family, I assume, would already have been feeling vulnerable and powerless. The counselor on the other hand, would have had no idea, but of course would not have achieved much had they insisted on pursuing contact. Of course they left and the case was reassigned to another counselor.

Which brings me to my point. How are we to know what people are thinking all of the time, what beliefs they hold and how they navigate the world? When people's superstitions, (and that's what they are), are derived from a religious belief, particularly the three main Abrahamic religions (Judaism, Christianity, Islam), we have a bit more clarity because they have dominated and colonised a large part of the world. Of course other major religions like Buddhism, Hinduism, Sikhism have just as huge an influence on many. We can't exclude the Indigenous cultures of the world either, that despite attempts to colonise and eradicate them, have survived and in many parts of the world, through oppression and degradation have thrived and preceded everything else.

What about new and unknown stuff? There must be an eternal combination of heritage, new information, life experience and mental process that can influence the way a person walks through the world. What if someone thinks they can read my mind or vice versa? Or that they have had previous lives, or that I have? What if someone thinks they travel in their dreams or can heal using their thoughts and hands? (This is an actual industry worth millions of dollars). What if I am dealing with people on a day-to-day basis, people I love, acquaintances, those I interact with at work and in public, that have superstitions that I could never even guess let alone navigate openly? Maybe they think I'm sabotaging them or that they can move things with their mind and therefore I can too. Some people might have a thing about women with grey hair, or left handed people or those who only have female children or no children. 

What if some people's superstitions are so strong that they genuinely believe things that are not real and don't exist, but live their lives as though they do and those people make the laws, influence the medicine, control the information and decide who is worthy of life and who isn't. Imagine that superstition was mixed up with government!!! Imagine that!

Self-doubt and writing

 
Writing is one of the most liberating processes for me personally. I journalled endlessly as an angst-ridden teenager and young adult. It helped me to get my feelings and thoughts out of my system, read over them and make sense of them. The words were a true reflection of my disposition at that time. Sometimes it was poetry, sometimes black marks on the page. These days we blog or post on Facebook. Same difference.

The art of letter writing too, has evolved into emails and texts and I have to say, I'm ok with that. I would rather write short greetings, day-to-day catch ups or verbose soliloquies, than say them. Writing to someone is a great equaliser. They can't talk over you or respond their thoughts without considering your voice. They are forced to read what you have to say and then reply. I find it not only an efficient way to communicate but a leveler of the proverbial playing field.

Writing books has been a blissful and wrenching process simultaneously. I love nothing more than to sit alone and in silence; (this never happens, I write among the chaos of a young family most of the time!), and to thump out the work of my mind and heart on a keyboard. For me, the hardest part is definitely not the writing. Not even the re-reading, editing or re-writing. It's the sharing.

When I journalled, I assumed, and rightly so, that the words on those pages were mine alone. Nobody would ever read what I wrote. Maybe my children or grandchildren, or great grandchildren, after I'm long gone, would discover the chest of journals in some dusty garage and pour over the ramblings of their long dead relative. How romantic!

When I decided that I would write books and self-publish them, it was with the intention that I would manifest my desire, regardless of what an industry's rules were, and whether or not I was lucky enough to ever set foot in that world. Without the approval, hmm maybe that's the wrong word. Promotion? Endorsement. Without the endorsement of an industry: having a publishing house pick you up, give you a contract, market and promote you; without that machine of commercialism behind you, it's just you and your words, out there in the wind, naked and for all to see and judge or ignore. It's a bit masochistic because that is what I love most about self-publishing. That authenticity. It's just me out there. Purely what I have written, by myself, without much interference, with no one but myself to blame if it all goes pear shaped. It's very scary, but it's very liberating and I get control over the entire process of creating a book. I'm aware this may be a bit dysfunctional, but it's the only option I have to live out my dream right now. People don't have to read my books. They are not coerced or encouraged to, other than by my piss-weak self-promotion on social media, to my handful of followers (most of whom I'm convinced are bots!). And if someone does read my work, they don't have to like it. It's not trendy to. They don't even have to finish it. They can be completely indifferent. There's no popularity to cloud their vision or entice them. I have to say, I really like that. I can stay in the shadows.

But, and it's a big one, I'm still terrified about writing the wrong thing, causing pain, getting it wrong. Despite there being no real contractual consequences, (I don't owe anyone anything. I can write and publish the same word over and over again if I want to); despite that, I don't! I want to write something good. I want to write with integrity, honesty, emotion, passion, authenticity and fearlessness. I want my words to have impact. I want them to be enjoyable and entertaining, to make people feel and think. I want it to be the best it can be at the time I do it. Subject to change of course, and hopefully for the better.

It is now time to publish my second book, a prequel of sorts, in the trilogy that has become the guinea pig of this whole journey. And I am plagued by fear and doubt, which some may say means I'm on the right track.

When I wrote and published the first book I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. The story took 10 years to develop and building the architecture of a book, setting up a business from scratch and fulfilling the needs of this experiment were a massive learning curve. This second story was a smoother process, from the benefit of experience, but I have some major doubts. I'm getting to the main point, stay with me!

So, my biggest fear with the first book was creating and writing characters that were Aboriginal. I was terrified that I would get it wrong. I worried about appropriation mostly, and so many other issues that I had no idea how to even approach it. I asked questions, did my research and let my imagination and intention speak for itself. Then I came across a great paper by the author Anita Heiss who addressed this issue. Dr Heiss' paper talks about white writers and their fear of not getting it right when creating Indigenous characters. Whilst I still had lots of discomfort about my amateurism, my lack of experience, my limitations in research, I forged ahead and did my best. I worked hard to portray my Indigenous characters with sensitivity and respect and to ensure that it was clear that the voice of both the author and protagonist was clearly a white person. In this way, I did my best to be descriptive without appropriating. I'm not sure if I succeeded completely, I'm sure there is always room for improvement, but I worked really hard to get it right and as stated in Dr Heiss' paper, I simply could not omit an Aboriginal presence in a story set in Australia, and in particular, in the countryside.

The Indigenous characters have returned in the second book, and I hope to include them again in the third book. I felt more comfortable the second time around. They felt more real and accessible to me than ever. I felt better about writing them and even bringing them closer to the central narrative. Again, I wanted to make sure it was clear that the story was fictitious, the author and the protagonist were still white and still mostly describing, from their perspective, their experiences and relationships with these fictional characters, which sometimes exposed their bias and ignorance. Again, I have doubts and I'm sure there is room for improvement, but I'm happy to stand by that, and if necessary grow and learn. 

Now I have a new uncertainty and this one is a little harder to make peace with. In the first book (spoiler alert), the protagonist starts off being a heterosexual woman, who later falls in love with a woman, the protagonist in the second book. I had some concerns about writing from the first person about being bisexual, when I, the author, am not. How can I speak for someone's experience, when I haven't had that experience myself? Do I even have the right? There was no way to make clear that the author was observing the character, because the protagonist tells the story in the first person. I justified my actions by allowing myself to explore a "what if" scenario. What if I, a heterosexual woman, found myself falling in love with another woman? It's not entirely impossible. I delved into that possibility as the fuel to my creativity.

This time it's a little different. I have to say from the outset that it's too late and I can't change it. As I write this, the second book is in the final stages of publication. You see, this time, the protagonist is a lesbian. She discovers her sexuality in her teens and I wrote the story in the first person. It feels a little deceptive and I'm not sure that I have the right to do this. I have a million justifications. I tried to be respectful and authentic, it's fiction, I should be able to imagine characters that are far removed from myself. But it still doesn't make peace with the appropriation of a gay woman's voice. I knew the only way around it as I was writing, was to write from the third person, making it clear the author was a straight woman, observing and describing a fictional lesbian character, but I felt the impact would be stronger in the first person and I felt strongly about not 'othering' the character - I didn't want her sexual orientation to be trivialised. I am aware that I may have done the wrong thing. That I may have made a mistake, but I simply didn't know how else to achieve the continuity of the style of story telling that I began in book one. I even considered writing the third book in the third person to prove myself wrong, to highlight how I should have written book two, but I'm not sure I can. I even told myself that the central issues of the story in the second book weren't the sexual orientation of the main character. That family breakdown, relationship dysfunction, addiction and recovery were the main themes. That it doesn't matter that she happens to be a lesbian. But it does matter. Her orientation is central to the character's being and I have appropriated that voice as a straight woman, by telling the character's story in the first person.

Therefore now, all I can do is stand by my decision, whether or not it is right or wrong and let the storytelling speak for itself. The politics are something I am willing to admit I got wrong, and knowingly! It is not something I am only discovering now, or that has been pointed out to me. I knew it was problematic from the outset, but I did it anyway. I'm not hoping to get away with it and this blog in part is a way to address my doubts, not exonerate myself. Remember, the industry machine does not exist in my writing and publishing. There is no media attention, no social media mob, no consequences. Lucky for me. It is very likely that not many people will read this book. So I want to make it clear that I am aware and mindful of my possible misstep and that I am willing for it to be a point of discussion if it comes up for people who do happen to read this book and find it odd that a straight woman is writing from the perspective of a lesbian.

In saying all this, I am proud of the work I have done so far and hope to do more. I adore the characters I have created and their journeys and truly feel that the story honours the issues and themes I hoped to highlight. This year I hope to write the final book in the trilogy and bring all the characters together. It might make all the mistakes of the past worth it. After all, that seems to be the central message of the saga. That life is just a series of experiences and decisions that we make with the tools and knowledge we have in that given moment, and that in retrospect, these events form the tapestry of our lives. We don't live in a vacuum. We share our life's voyage with those who we are intertwined with through kinship, friendship, love and chance.

The second book in the Space trilogy will be available for purchase on Amazon on the 14th February 2018.

Resolutions

Making resolutions is a tricky thing. Big decisions are made, mostly in our own minds, during a rush of emotion, often marked by significant milestones in life. New Year's Day is the most common one. Birthdays too. We feel like we are getting a clean slate. The end of something and the hope for a new beginning. There are other triggers too. Falling in love, a quarrel, losing or starting a new job, having a baby. Sometimes it's simply a matter of waking up with an unexplained surge of energy. After a powerful yoga session, I feel like I can change the world!

The reality though, is that many of these thought processes never see the light of day. We don't manifest many of the thoughts in our mind, because they are simply thoughts. What ifs. Coulda, shoulda, wouldas. That's why we are such suckers for entertainment. Living vicariously through others. Reality TV, a sitcom or soap opera, a film or play, music. We look outside of ourselves and want that feeling within. "I'll have what she's having!"

Finding a balance between dissatisfaction and gratitude is tricky. It's no good simmering in bitterness and unhappiness, but complacency is the killer of dreams. It's tempting to live vividly in our heads and merely survive reality. Or go the other way; mindlessly seeking instant gratification to satiate our endlessly insatiable desires, never making peace with anything we do or have.

Where can we get perspective? In nature? With our loved ones? Through exercise, sex, intoxication? Why not all of them?

Above all else is creativity. I think the answer lies in Art. What is your art? What do you create alone? By yourself and for yourself. Do you garden, cook, paint, write, play music, sing, build, craft, mend or heal?

Sometimes the jumble of thoughts that make us crave change are just a jumble of thoughts making us crave change.

Fizzy, muddled energy that clouds our vision and torments our feelings.

Go make something beautiful. Make it a habit. Share it. Sell it or give it away, display it or collect it for future generations to find. And learn to read what you create. What does it tell you about yourself? What does it make you notice? How does it help you to see? What path is it leading you on? 

Do it. Or not. Sometimes doing nothing is an act of creativity - simply observing, existing, when life is demanding you to do anything but. What art and creativity does achieve is a manifestation of energy, a practice that trains us to make decisions. To choose. It really does. Art, in and of itself, imitates life. It teaches you to think and see efficiently. To make sense of the 'thought mess', the 'feeling chaos' and turn all of that into something beautiful and meaningful. Or at least external. Art pushes out the muck inside and transforms it, makes sense of it. It liberates and lightens. It empties and makes room. Art creates and takes up space simultaneously. It facilitates balance.

This is my resolution for 2018. Also, growing out my eyebrows, but that's another blog post.

I resolve to create. I write. I crochet. I sew. I might draw and paint again. I make every action a work of art. As luminous with beauty or prickly with ugliness as it needs to be, I resolve to notice my ability to create. What other purpose is there? 

Happy New Year.

Why Books are Magic, Especially for Children

When I was a child, my nickname was Booka Book. I repeated the phrase over and over again: "Booka booka booka booka", whenever I wanted a book. My parents gave me books, they let me flip through the pages and absorb them, they read to me. Golden books and Lady Bird books were favourites and I still have many of them, that I have now passed on to my children. 

My kids are at the age, (my eldest is three and a half and the twins are almost two), that they are finally appreciating books. They no longer squirm and lose interest and become distracted when I try to read to them. They will sit together immersed in a pile of books, alone with the pages and the stories inside. Sometimes swapping between themselves, the eldest 'reads' to the siblings, reciting from memory what happens on each page. Sometimes word for word from those stories that rhyme or making up sentences as the pictures come to life in the mind. The twins are transfixed when they listen and jibber away in their own baby language, when they have a book to themselves. 

We have finally nailed down the bedtime story ritual. Whatever happens with books during the day, at bedtime we choose one or two books, sometimes three if it's early, and I sit on their bedroom floor and read to them. For the most part, they listen and join in. They know the last words of a familiar rhyming sentence and we say it together:

"...and his favourite food is roasted....?"
"FOX"

That's from The Gruffalo. It's a favourite in our house. So is The Gruffalo's Child, Room on the Broom, The Paper Dolls, in fact anything written by the incredible Julia Donaldson. 

Another staple in our house is anything by the incomparable Lynley Dodd. Hairy Maclary and his friends visit our place often and they are as familiar as family members.

These days, our children are so lucky. Not only do they get to delve deep into their own imaginations through the magic of these stories, the books come to life in animated reality. Some of their most beloved tales have been made into cartoons that not only bring the pictures and words from the pages to life, they fill the gaps in the stories, highlighting the nuances that can be easily overlooked. Like in Room on the Broom. The dragon flies low and menacingly over a bog filled with a large toad and her babies. As he passes, they fart bubbles into the mud. That isn't in the book!

As fantastic as technology is, and it is, despite how much whining and criticism we hear about how everyone's face is stuck in a screen these days. So what! They once said novels would destroy young people's souls too. As fantastic as technology is, it still doesn't compare to flipping the paper pages of a colourful book. Children slow down. They go places while sitting still. They do it alone and independently and they grow as a result.

Solitude, self sufficiency, a quiet space to let the cogs of your brain turn and link up happens in a special way when you hold that bundle of paper and absorb it, letting it seep into your psyche and do what it needs to without distraction. Because that, to me, is the biggest difference between reading anything on the internet and reading a book. It's the volume of messages and pathways reaching out for your attention all at the same time when you're on an electronic device that makes your brain and your being travel too fast sometimes. That's not always a bad thing. It teaches you to be discerning and efficient. With practice you learn to skim and only take in the stuff that you need, the important information you require and discard the junk. But it's only when you're focused and expert at skimming that this works. Other times all sorts of junk falls through the cracks and derails your thinking. Again, not necessarily a bad thing. Who knows what you might learn by mistake!

A book, on the other hand, well it's a kinder journey. It's a cruise not a speed boat and sometimes the adrenaline flood is best put aside. 

I'm Addicted to Crochet

It might seem like a strange hobby for a young woman. When I say young, I mean 40ish, which isn’t that young really, but I’ve been crocheting for years. I must have been in my late teens when I first learned and completed my first project, a granny blanket.

Crocheting is one of my favourite, if not at the top of the list, pass times. I was taught by my mum and my aunty and it is something passed along from one woman to another in my family, no doubt most families, of women who crochet, knit, stitch, sew. It is one of those oral traditions and practical skills that women just show and teach each other. Although these days, with Pinterest and super crafting websites, the abundance of materials, design and information sharing, it’s no longer just a pass time for old grannies. It’s a global art form ranging from the humble beanie to elaborate creations, like the art works of Shauna Richardson who crochets giant animal sculptures that were featured in the London Olympics. Her work is known as crochetdermy – literally crocheting life size and larger, true to life animals. 

I remember traveling through Europe in my early 30s and being completely enamoured by the lace making traditions in Venice and Malta. Those artisan crafts are at risk of disappearing and they were urging young women to take an interest, to talk to their elders about the craft and perhaps even learn, so they can pass it on to future generations. 

Lace Displays in Venice - Own Photos

Maltese lace making – Image via maltainsideout.com

     

I once attended an exhibition at the Powerhouse Museum in Sydney that showcased some incredible lace and crochet creations. From wall hangings to garments and jewellery. Even crochet inspired urban fencing! It was truly incredible.

Crocheted Tea Set – Own photo

Wall hanging - Own photo

Garments – Own photo

Jewellery – Own photo 

Crocheted fence – Own photo

I love everything about crocheting. I love buying the yarn. Here I am holidaying in New Zealand in 2010 in a yarn shop. Happy much!!!

I love the feel of the hook traveling through the soft yarn and the rhythmic repetitive knot making, which is all crochet essentially is. Over the years I practiced the basic stitches over and over until I could do it without looking and gradually learned to not only understand the combinations and designs by reading written patterns, I also taught myself to read diagrams, which are much easier and less prone to errors.

It’s easy to learn how to crochet these days. There are YouTube tutorials for everything and the simplicity of crochet, once understood, demonstrates the endless possibilities that you can create and make. From garments to dolls, blankets, homewares, bags and anything else you can come up with. And it doesn’t have to look daggy. Some of the most well known designers like Dolce and Gabbana have released crochet lines. But who would want to spend exorbitant amounts of money on a homophobic and misogynist brand when you can make shit for yourself.   

Crocheting gives me peace of mind. It is incredibly meditative and relaxing, but it isn’t mindless. There is a lot of concentration and problem solving involved. Also mathematics, logic, creativity, ingenuity, patience and generosity. Crochet is a wonderful avenue for gift giving. I love nothing more than to make something for someone else and there are many opportunities to crochet for charity; from blankets for refugees, little pouches for orphaned baby animals and tiny beanies and booties for newborns and premature babies in hospitals.

Crochet as therapy is undeniable for me. It puts me into a meditative state, regulates my breathing and distracts me from negative thoughts. It’s a great time filler and lets me surrender to a productive experience when I’m feeling idle or am procrastinating. Best of all, it keeps my mind active and alert, but at ease. There have been some suggestions that crafts like crocheting can improve the health of the mind, even preventing or delaying the onset of dementia. It can improve memory and trigger recollection of treasured events in one’s life. The book Crochet Saved My Life by Kathryn Vercillo talks about how crochet can help with depression and stress at the very least. There isn’t a lot of scientific evidence to support the health and psychological benefits of crochet. Most of the information tends to be anecdotal and comes from people’s individual experiences. My uncle told me that his mother once had a stroke and the doctors weren’t optimistic about her recovery. She was a champion level crocheter. She invented stitches and patterns in her mind and could make absolutely anything from crochet. She did absolutely beautiful work. He tells me that after her stroke, she resumed crocheting and her facial paralysis improved. In fact, she made a complete recovery and astounded her doctors. It is hard to prove if there was a link between her crocheting and her recovery, but the doctors thought it was possible. It certainly didn’t do her any harm and she lived a healthy and productive life for many more years. 

I have made so many things over the years. For myself, my friends, their babies, my babies, for raffles and for strangers. I’ve photographed most things because I part with most of them. Someday I hope to share this skill with my daughters. They watch me now, mesmerised by my hand movements and the colour of the yarn. Ok, so mostly they play with the balls of yarn like kittens and undo my rows by pulling at it, thinking it's a game, but I do see that glimmer of curiosity and they love trying on their hats and ponchos as I make them. They watch me wear my beanies and scarves and gloves and smile at all the colours of yarn in the big bucket by the lounge. When all else is just too hard, I crochet. I sit quietly and knot and knot. Mostly I make little projects that are easy to complete and give me instant gratification, but there’s nothing more satisfying than finishing a big job like a blanket. The girls have one each and I made all three while carrying them in my belly, those memories woven in every stitch.

Retrospect and Living in the Moment

Have you ever looked at an old picture, knowing exactly how you felt the moment it was taken; self conscious, unattractive, miserable, uncertain, unhappy - then looked again a few years down the track and remembered it differently? You were thinner than you felt then, your skin was younger, your smile less corrupted, your heart more free. That's the power of retrospect. When we look back at ourselves we more often than not think they were great times in our lives, even though the reality back then was different.

I often re visit old photos, with exactly that experience. I think most people I know do. I don't have regrets, but I do have many 'if I knew then what I know now' moments. 

I had a fairly happy and stable childhood. It has been captured pretty thoroughly in photographs and film; granted it was the 70s and 80s so not to the extent that say my children's youth will be captured; what with instant digital photo and videography often requiring little more than a mobile phone to capture every significant and not so significant moment of their upbringing. I've also had a running commentary through my mum of the story behind each photograph, so the memories have been kept vividly alive through her story telling, coupled with my own recollection.

The way in which I see my teen years has shifted though. I remember feeling self conscious and awkward, moody, restricted, confused most of the time. Nothing unusual for an angst riddled teenager really. I'm sure my experience is similar to most people at that age - that horrible hormone loaded, in transition from child to adult time, between the ages of say 14 - 17. When I think about it now, it was three years; a drop in the ocean in the scope of a lifetime, but at the time it felt like an unbearable eternity.

I look back now with different eyes. My skin was youthful and smooth, my expression serene - pouty and sullen, typically troubled, but oblivious, maybe even a little bit innocent. My figure was tidy, not posture perfect, but in proportion. I dressed eccentrically. I lived in op shops and Indian boutiques. I had my own sense of style. I applied minimal, but bold make up. I cut and dyed my hair regularly. I was never conventionally beautiful, but I looked after myself. I took pride in my appearance - however slacker and effortless.....ok lazy, it was. I felt like an outsider, a misfit, but there was a shine in that uniqueness that I completely missed at the time. What a shame!

Sometimes I think to myself, 'Why was I so shy? Why was I so self conscious? I had the world at my feet. I could have done more, enjoyed more.' But that's just seeing myself through my current eyes, after all the experience and growth that has accumulated since.

I look at my post teen years in much the same way. In my 20s I was looking back at those teenage years and lamenting the missed opportunities and really not enjoying the present I was living as much as I should have, in retrospect. It didn't occur to me that that present, the time in my 20s when I lived alone, earned a decent income and had the freedom to enjoy every moment, would be something I would look back on fondly. 

I've finally come full circle. It has recently dawned on me that I keep looking back with new eyes on my past and neglecting my present. So why don't I just look at my present in the same way and just appreciate every moment now, not 10 years from now. 

The other day I was driving to my parents' place in my 4wd, three beautiful daughters quietly traveling with me in the back seat. I tuned in to some classic old fogey radio station that plays all those excellent hits you never know you like until they play them on the radio in the car 10 years later. That song by Bryan Adams came on, Summer of '69. That line was a light bulb moment; "Those were the best days of my life". That's what got me thinking about this. The best days of our lives are the moments we are living right now. We just don't appreciate them until later because living in the moment is fraught with so much other stuff to distract us. It's not easy being human. We worry, we feel anxious, we fret about decisions we must make, we agonise over what people think of us or how we look and how we come across to people. It takes our attention away from the bigger picture of what we are actually experiencing. Later on, in retrospect, all that negativity falls away and we are left with the happy memories.

We forget about the ill feelings we carried and the self depreciating, crippling mind chatter that held us back from taking risks and leaping whole heartedly into the guts of our lives. We only remember our past mostly with fondness, the good old days, the simplicity and the innocence of our youth. 

If we can have such clarity in retrospect, why can't we drag that optimism into our present? We should be able to recognise each and every day, each and every moment, particularly when the shit is hitting the proverbial fan, that this is it. This is all we have. This moment is the only thing that is real and it will be gone immediately. Why wait? Why only appreciate it later with the benefit of clarity? Why not clear our vision now?

So right there in the car, with Bryan Adams' gravelly voice reminiscing about his youthful summer and my girls quietly dozing in the back as I drove peacefully to my parents' place, I decided to be more grateful. To be more present every day. To love photos immediately and take more of them doing the things I love with the people that I love. I'll still look back and love them in 10 years time, but it will be the second time around.

I highly recommend reading The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle.