On the same day I get a call from a good friend battling a  challenging work situation – for him this day, 11 February, was an exciting reportable day – a day to ring a friend, a day to regroup, to gather forces to make sense of things. To take stock.

Each day, on an average, we take  at least 30 calls from strangers, friends, recovered pals, Indian call centres, real estate agents, car repairers, sisters, work mates and possibly random accidental calls like the people who emailed you when they should have sent their message to someone else and rang to apologise.

Or the older compatriot who picked a fight the day before and needed reassurance that their tone was not too overkill and necessitated calling up personally even though a phone call wouldn’t replace personal interaction and the chance to diagnose body language.

Or the follow up sms from i-phone emails first thing this morning  (because you seem to lose all etiquette when it comes to I-phone apps)  to confirm the weekend movie session or luncheon location. Calls that feel as familiar and real as if heard by voice over the phone. Everything merges – the boundary blurs. We are, in many instances, on automatic pilot.

Every day something’s coming in – we either want or don’t want; we either allow or restrict. Like a restructure that brings us closer to the thing we rejected ages before. Or an estimation of value on a thing we’d invested much more than money into. Or a surprising drive to work when someone else in the driving seat enables one to relax into the concept of trust, of gratefulness and of surrender. To share their just about to begin adventure into Positano and Florence. A drive to witness their lives- now that’s a treat.

These days, on the day – someone new wants to follow you on twitter, or connect on facebook or linked-in. And on these days I play my part in equal part,  inviting people to join me on linked-in or twitter; unseemingly chasing a number that equates with successful social skilling.

On this day 11 February at 20.30 in Sydney Australia all I know is that this allowing, restricting, directing, canvassing, receiving, acknowledging, mining, retrieving, researching, consolidating, reassuring, and consoling has buggered me completely.

I’m knackered – and I’ve no real reason to be so tired except that I was alive on 11 February 2010 in this fabulous city of mine on a day with no fires no rain no hail and no snow and that sort of balance sheet costs something.

I’m also happy that right now, as I write this and breath in and out, my darling brother in law does so with me and lives with the violence of love and faith and trust that binds us across time, cities and belief structures. And that right now, my friend,  all my friends, online off line, in line or out of step are rising to the challenge to breathe at the same rate as each other.

Om shanti

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 We often end the year feeling a short fall or feeling chuffed with how we did, we invariably feel hungover.

 I figured instead of making some new random wish I’d do a bit of an audit to determine any personal growth achieved and any outstanding. If i did well on the investment I’d play it forward -if not I’d have the bones of a new game plan. An investment strategy for 2010.

 Here we go..

• i paid off my debts (a plus)
• i finished the renovations (now what do I do?)
• i began to desire (sigh)
• i shut one door even though Icouldn’t see the nextone open (now what do i do?)
• i started and dropped local theatre membership (what was i thinking?)
• i started and finished psychological and career counselling sessions (and i’ve gotta tell you there are some nutters and some genius operators out there)
• i learnt 8 good truths about myself (now what do I do?)
• i began the year with my elder sister and finished it with my twin – separated by an ocean (a blissful plus)
• i celebrated the birth of two darling babies to two dear friends (a plus)
• i painted 8 paintings (still arguing over the merit)
• i tweeted countless times (still think tweeting is silly)
• i blogged somewhat less (and was richer for the silence)
• i failed to tell some people i loved them (unforgivable)
• i realised what a great mother figure my aunt was (a plus)
• i interviewed dozens of people for 10 minutes and set up a new blog (a plus)
• i  discovered Hafez (a necessity)
• i ceased the incessant chatter to bloke (he was richer for the silence)
• i cemented my personal style (oh sure)
• i drank too much wine (but then promptly drank some more so that bottom line is blotto)
• i started exercising and lost 2 dress sizes (left them hanging on someone elses’ coat-hanger)
• i changed my hair style (working up to going grey when i’m sixty)
• i celebrated my birthday alone (sigh)
• i failed to join a personal gym (noooooooo dissonance there)

So all in all – a reasonable return on investment

Wiser? Nup. Richer? Yep. Fatter? Nup. Happier? I think so.

Happy new year - I get it

And right back atya – if anyone is reading

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The training program is run by my very dear friend and her husband who designed and created it. For information on the program – you can visit their website.   

It’s a program that grew out of the disciplines and philosophy of psychodrama where the client can “show” rather than “tell” issues and life situations they need to deal with. By “showing” their current and ideal situation utilising a 3-D stage/play of small figures and props, they see for themselves the role, relationships, dynamic and often the first step to making it better.

 It reminds me of the old fashioned sand-play, but taken to the next level. The program involves various techniques. One of my favourites was a technique to envision the ideal solution to a problem then envision what helps you move towards it and what enables you to move away from it. You strengthen one, and lessen the other.  By using a series of well structured investigative, diagnostic questions a person can glean greater insight into their own patterns, roles and limiting behaviour.

We spend so much time creating our stories and narratives. And part of that creative work includes filling in the untenable gaps in life and our ideals. We plug up the holes with addictions, defence patterns, and often unrealistic mental constructs. For me, drinking my way through grief was better than facing the black hole of loss.

With this program I could “show” myself and another (witness) what was really going on. I could get out of the area of talking/telling /language and go straight to where the emotions and memories live. That’s why it’s so powerful – one can’t lie (that is if you’re serious about fixing the problem.)

For me, the wealth of the program can be encapsulated into the 2 main insights I took away:

1. That we can only change our own behaviour and we can often begin that change with a small step. 
2. That we play roles in life -some helpful, others not so helpful. Once we are able to describe that role and see it for what it is – we can change it, just as one assumes and drops a role on a stage.

I love workshops that enable learning – specifically if that learning is going to make my life more loving and expansive. With my love and background in theatre I loved this sort of learning especially. I’d also done psychodrama before with very helpful results and so I was surely in my element.

The group was comprised of insightful, humble, loving individuals. These learning groups always are. People that want to grow are invariably interesting. The group were a microcosm of society and a rich mix of types, some introverted and extraverted.  Some were willing and able to externalise their insights in the feedback sessions – no matter how painful. Others were able to witness someone else’s work, without having an opinion – not interpreting, just reading the signals and signs. We all loved it.

Mainly because the 2 days were facilitated by a delightful individual – a friend to many of the group. He is a young man – committed to caring and enabling the growth of others. A man who’d found a great vehicle for insights into his own process, the meaning of why we do what we do, and a way he can help. He was getting his trainer “P” plates, and he passed with flying colours – and well deserved.

The first night of the weekend, I was so exhausted I virtually collapsed asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. And I dreamt.

 I dreamt of a stingray threatening the safety of my twin sister and myself. We were swimming in unclear, opaque water, and I warned her of this hidden threat   To avoid contact with Stingray, I urged her to scramble onto a pier out of the water.  My sister, though, remained in the water and was touched as the Ray nudged past and around her. Instead of dying, or being stung, my sister rode on the back of this huge magnificent beast – as if were a flying carpet. And as she did, the Stingray morphed into something less ominous and more graceful. It grew a neck and head of a swan, which my sister caressed. 

I took the memory and elements of that dream into the 2nd day of the workshop. On this day I set up my ideal future – including the chance to love someone again, and to live in a fuller way. My intention, in this play of life, was to shed the role of fearful resigned loner and assume a new role of courageous giver and lover.

For me the Stingray’s beautiful transformation was testament to this desire. Change and growth were possible, if we stay immersed in the emotional water – despite the lack of vision and clarity and fear of being hurt.

Now totems in dreams are a big part of my psychic library. And both the Stingray and Swan evoke stronger intuition, protection and discernment. My own more pedestrian associations link it to the sudden and surprising attack on a well known Australian naturalist who was fatally pierced in the heart by a Stingray. No guesses there about my own lesson.
 
Later that night, when I returned home I spoke with my sister Gab over the phone. In tandem, we romped through the events of our respective weekends. She told me of her delightful stay with dear friends at Noraville, on the Central Coast of NSW; I told her of my weekend – the people I’d met, the insights I’d gleaned. Just as we were about to phone off.. she said,

“Oh yes, I forgot to tell you. The group went snorkelling today over the rocks at the end of the beach, as the tide was low and one of the blokes saw biggest stingray he’d ever seen. And even though it scared the life out of him, there was something extraordinarily beautiful about it.”

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The time is now. For a couple of reasons:

• We’ve just had our very middle aged birthday and
• We both have a thing for Jesus

Don’t get me wrong – our fascination comes not in a fundamentalist way, but rather, as an aesthetic sensibility and appreciation of religious iconography and the role of the teacher  in our midst.

I got a picture from her yesterday with the following request:

 I thought you should know that this is the picture I want on my funeral booklet. Thanks to Michael for unearthing it from who knows where, but I think it completely captures what I’m all about: irritating to Jesus who is ready to bonk me on the head because I talk too much; envious of other older women who can still pull handsome sailors and, of course, a lifelong, studious disregard for my own appearance.

With that request, and with that photo, I realised I loved her more than ever before. She’s clear, she’s unapologetic and she’s joyous (yay even unto death and men that sail the 7 seas).

Death is, funnily enough, on both our minds as we’re coming up to the anniversary of our dad’s death. He died over 20 years ago now, and so didn’t live to see his twin grandchildren turn 21, or my other sister’s Gab’s children reach their maturity. His anniversary this year will coincide  with a large family reunion we’ll be having with our cousins, and  as a catholic family we have scads of cousins – and of course we drink! Dad would surely endorse this dual celebration of life and death.

Cate and I both have a proclivity for dreaming as well, and often share notes – seeking help and insights from our shared family paradigm, culture and personal history.

My own significant dream this last week was, I believe,  portentous. It featured, as mine often do, totemic animals, often blue in colour, that talk or visit or leave me gifts. The message I took from this last one was a wake up call to check my health and in particular the health of my heart. I took it also as a direct message from my Dad who had died early from a heart attack. Of course, I did check only to find out my blood pressure was much higher than normal, with a consequent need to run a series of blood tests to find out what’s going on.

Cate’s dream this week was about being at the edge of an endless ocean, on fine white sand, more exquisite than she’d ever seen before. Her take on it was a view of the limitless, ego-less boundaries a sort of heaven on earth – when the spirit in action and the numinous in life are realised.  Cate reminded me that (as Gnostic Jesus says) ‘The kingdom of Heaven is at hand and men/women don’t see it.’

Clearly our shared preoccupation with Jesus, that grew out of a Catholic childhood, is also a pursuit of the perfect life. A life that was lived; that is – a life worth living, for however long. A life more about the journey than the destination. More about the process that the result. And of course one that can be shared (if you’re lucky enough) with someone you love.

I looked up the meaning of my latest blue (dream) totem – the cricket , to find out that it is the protector of hearth and home (hence my linking it to Dad). It’s also a totem best known for chirping and singing, which it does by rubbing its wings against a leaf. In my dream the cricket was sick and only when it started moving around did I put it back on a leaf (I guess to start singing again). Is this me, coming back to life after Bloke – getting ready to sing up a storm?

In any event, with the love of my life gone, and the other half of my heart on the other side of the world, it seems that life “just isn’t cricket” any more.  So what’s a girl to do?

Dust off the blues (and in my case working in a blue collar environment perhaps shed them altogether), get truly green, turn over a new leaf and sing aloud.. Here’s one for Jesus, One for Cate and one for me. Have I ever said it better?

I love you S.H

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I work with this person. She and I have similar interests and insights. We’ve read the same books and have similar approaches to the importance of spirit in our life.

She loves and teaches stories, she is a writer and an editor, a seeker, committed to relationship building and a Libran. She also has a Catholic background and recently lost her father whom she cared for deeply. 

Like me, she believes that the path of the heart is all encompassing and when all is said and done, it is love that resounds and remains at the end of life.   I believe, though that she is farther along the path than me and a little clearer on what that tenet actually means in day-to-day life.  She is courteous and gentle; a great listener and very thoughtful in her care of others.

When she told me yesterday that she followed a guru in her spiritual practice I had a puzzling and negative reaction. And that worries me.

Despite the fact that we shared so many other interests I didn’t want to hear that she had handed over personal power to another. I find the choice of a guru akin to deifying another and this has never sat well. As I’ve done in the past, I dismissed the path as a possible method to find meaning and enlightenment.

What worries me is that I have no realistic alternative and no real reason for rejecting the path she’s chosen other than fear and confusion. Don’t get me wrong, I want to reach enlightenment along with the next person. Her path however, is dependent on trust and love – and that scares me.

When I went to India 10 years ago I sought the spiritual home I thought I needed. I was on a quest to find meaning and resonance. I had dreamt of gurus, met practitioners, read books, prayed and received confirming indicators that indeed this place and its spiritual practices would provide a place of rich sustaining support. Alas it provided noise, dirt, stress and crowds. I couldn’t see past the smells and confusion. As for inner sight I was lucky to maintain my sanity keeping an eye out for fast moving traffic and bullocks in the middle of the road. I was deeply disappointed and decided I had no spiritual bone in my body.

Besides, I had my darling husband as an alternative ‘religion’. He was my path to the heart. He was my divine other. It was enough. It was real and trustworthy. But it ended. Now without him I am rudderless and back to square one. Still sightless and a little the worse for wear; love might be the thing that matters in life, but it gets stripped away in the surety of death.

The sustaining truth from all of this, though, is that change is the other great constant in life; change in death; change in jobs; change in friends. And that the harbingers of change in my life invariably arrive with a baton – passing on a new curriculum of learning just before its time to move. This new friend brings with her the next list of subjects I am to study. When the student is ready, the teacher appears. In this case with she comes with a lesson plan: advising me to attend to the moment, to stay awake and to remember that for a seeker, the path doesn’t end.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time, T S Eliot

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The trip has been extraordinary; brilliant new vistas, challenges, laughs, delights, colours, smells and a light that is completely different to the one in Australia – home.

Milan is the last stop on this 7 week trip. I chose it for a number of reasons – not least among them was the fashion and the architecture, Castello Visconti-Sforza and of course, La Scala. Well I have seen sooooooo much architecture including some fabulous Art Deco and Art Nouvea balconies and iron work. I have been overwhelmed by the heat! frescos, statues, reliefs, mosaics, bells,cafes, good looking men, chapels, basilicas and the duomo which takes your breath away on first sight.

I have tried on every bit of outlet-worthy-last-season’s-oh-why-have-I-let-myself-get-this-fat piece of clothing;have walked every bit of shopping street,corso,via known to black belt shoppers:have worked the metro to within an inch of its red,yellow and green directions, and have found a few pieces that I will look at and sigh – Oh Milan.

One day I journeyed one hour away from gorgeous Milan to the small town of Bergamo. I was on a mission, to find and see the Visconti Tarot deck, which was, I understood in the care of the conservators at Acadamia Carrarar. I went up and down, in an out, around and about Bergamo on a gruelling 32 degree day, crossing bridges, climbing to forts at the top of the hill and ceremoniously saying good bye to Blokey, and then reaching finally the museum only to discover it was closed for renovations (for 2 years).

Having this disappointing sign translated word for word by a charming Italian, I traversed yet another knee breaking hill to find the palazzo de Regina (the temporary home of the academia collection) was also under renovation. I was so despondent I cried.

Just a bit, because someone was playing Ave Maria on the Flute outside the Basilica Maria di Maggiore. How can you be sad? On a beautiful day, in a beautiful town when that happens?

Remembering Gabbie’s and Cate’s advice not to get attached, and realising how many other fabulous places were yet to be discovered, I stopped that course of thought, dusted myself off and planned the next adventure to take place back in Milan.

Now those that know me, know the passion I have held dear (more than any other) has been the threatre. I went off to la Scala to be delighted by a view from a box, a tour of Callas’ wardrobe and memorabilia from this remarkable place of dreams and music. And to my great delight and surprise I saw some tarot cards (collected from the theatre stalls over many years). The only Arcana card – the judgement card from the Marseilles deck- smiled back up at me from behind the Scala museum collection; as if to say, Be surprised by life, now that you have made the right decision to move on with things.
The Judgement card has an image of people being called up and out of open graves (for the last judgement). Most pictures I’ve seen of this card, shows the dead to be quite chipper, having been dormant for so long.

So there you have it. I got my Tarot message after all, that it is good to move on and let the dead bury the dead. Blokey would want that for sure. I also got to see so many more things than I would have – because I had an intention to try as hard as I did and to hope and to care and to be disappointed (so take that Tolle!).

And, I got to see Milan in all its size 8 splendour. And if I don’t fit into drop dead tiny Italian state of the art fashion, do I care? You bet your size 14 arse I do! But that’s up to me to change and let go of that extra baggage.

Ciao Milan and thanks

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I am in a hotel that rivals Faulty Towers – in its demographic and at times in its level of service. But that’s not to say it’s bad; rather it’s entertainment value outweighs all else.

The first element in this remarkable entertainment are the Brits – either complaining about the weather, that admittedly has been wet; or complaining that the good weather – now that it’s clear – may not hold.

The second element in this delightful entertainment are the Italians – charming and incredibly good looking. I’m talking in this last instance about the youngish – middle aged men. Now I never thought I’d be a leerer (is there such a word) but I’ve become one in Italy. A large majority of the men look like George Clooney, which explains why he got a villa, knowing that he wouldn’t stand out.

If I may be permitted to have a third element – and I’ll record one anyway – it is that the beauty of this place. The lake is characterised by charming villages and villas built along the banks of a remarkable deep stillness, blue green, grey, misty  or bright light hazy sunshine it’s all stupendous.

I’ve waxed lyrically about all the places I’ve visited on this holiday for the very good reason that I picked them as I was designing the itinerary. I needed to be reminded of the splendour of the world and to be reawakened by my own response to that splendour and beauty. Well I have.

I spent an hour at Villa del Balbianello this morning – Oh my God! Built in the 1700s is various stages it has belonged to counts, cardinals, monks and explorers and now resides as part of a bequest in the care of the Italian national parks people. It is in all senses of the word, a grand villa. I arrived at the front steps by way of speedboat full of Milanese (aka stylish) Italians. Up through the ornate iron gates framed by mossy sculptures and a garden green, dripping with bright red flowers and plane trees sculptured into candelabras. It beat the movie set of ä Month by the Lake hands down. 

In other circumstances (ie my owning the villa, or being the only one at the villa) I would have taken time to sketch and paint and lie about in this heavenly sculptured gallery of delights. But alas, I was one of many moving tourists, who filled each path, step, loggia, room and ramp 4-across. There was no stopping, just movement. And that was OK. I think my senses, visual and olefactory are reaching overload.

My sister and I are travelling together. She will leave me in Milan the day after tomorrow. I have 3 more days on my own in Milan for some serious black-belt shopping a trip to Bergamo to see the Visconti Tarot deck and, if I’m remarkably lucky a night at La Scala to hear Verdi.

 It’s been great having her as my companion. We work well together. Perhaps it’s Karmic as well as familial. We laugh at the same things, break each other up, respond to the same sort of stimuli in similar ways. She is a delight. Even when she lost her camera at the Abbey yesterday (watch those pesky monks!) she was so good humoured about it, and took herself off on a 2 km walk today to report it to the police in broken English-Italian-English. 

Well the Lake is a must-see. Preferably without the tourists, but then again I am unmistakably one of them, and I am deeply grateful to the Italians they indulge us. I’ve always wanted to live by a lake. In my life, I dare say, that desire will translate into a house on Lake macquarie as opposed to a villa on Lake Como. But what’s in an address!?

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We are, as the old English writers would put it, on an excursion today: to Murano, famous for Glass making,  the Lido, famous for Byron et al, and the Island of Burano, famous for lace - all aboard the Vaparettos! a water  boat that chugs from station to station up the waterways of Venice. What fun indeed.

We are staying in the suburb of Cannaregio far from the maddening turistos, near the jewish ghetto in a moorish inspired hotel, reminiscent of Shylock and all things shakespearean. Funnily, I’ve learnt more about Italy, during my life, from an English Playwright than from actual travel. Well, that is all changing as one can’t help but be inspired and aroused by this place.

Gab and I are in Venice, Italy. What a place! I thought Croatia was beautiful, but this is like a balm for the spirit.  A fair amount of it is enhanced by a delightful golden liquid called Prosecco (Miss Garner used to drink it in Salley Vicker’s book).

This intoxicant is enhanced by the vistas as well, the bright and variegated colours of the walls, the distresseed brick and rendering, the mossy-water-licked edges, the rotted wood and coloured striped poles that poke up out of the rocking rolling green water, the many boats navigating, bumping, in a dance across the canal ways: hell I can even stand the American tourists!

It is like living inside a painting or an art Gallery. This became especially apparant to me, when I went to the Accademia (Gallery) a day or so ago, and sat before enormous paintings from the 17th Century of the suburb in which I am now living. Why I even recognised the washing hanging from the shuttered windows, in much the same way they are displayed these days. Now that was surreal!

Yesterday we went to Frari the basilica that houses The Annunciation by Titian as well as a Donatello statue and surprise of all – the tomb of Monterverdi (my all time favourite composer of sacred music). Just when you thought you’d seen it all. A few days before we’d seen the graves of Ezra Pound, Serge Diaghilev and Igor Stravinsky at Cimitro, an island cemetery visible from Venezia town.

Well the city beckons, I need to be off to taste some more scampi, some more casa vino Blanco and catch another Vaparetto. Another glass of your finest my good man, line them up.

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What to do when you can’t tweet?  Blog of course.

Gab and I are travelling around Croatia and today we sorted out the ferry trip awaiting us later in the week that will take us further up the coast and thereafter over to Italy.

This is arguably the most beautiful place I’ve seen in my life. Sure everyone says that – but I mean seriously beautiful.

Picture this: Marble buildings with base reliefs in brass, marble stone road straight up the middle of a town; gargoyles, catholic statues of St Nicholas and a plethora of others, that sit atop a magnificent cathedral; squares filled with umbrella’d cafes and bars, fresh food produce every morning in the square; the most exquisite jewellery made of gold and coral – filigree handworked and competitively priced; pastries that pack the kilos on; a wall walk – of 2 km length that will manage to get the weight off.

This morning we walked for about an hour - past grand old mansions that are now post offices, banks, restaurants or tourist offices. Makes one wonder what sort of life style these croatians had before the war savaged their town.

Each day we trawl for the perfect coffee; each night for the perfect seafood repaste. They work hard for the tourist dollar and we are delighted to be spending it here. Fabulous scampi, prawns, fresh mussells, fish and pasta. Cool beer and house wine in a jug. Go that weight gain.. what a way to live.

Our apartment is buried in the heart of the old town, our landlady a charming woman who laughs when we try to mime our communicative needs – 2 beds not one; ice tray for gin; hallway light control etc. If you come to dubrovnik – you’ll be swamped by people at the boat offering apartments – we were so happy to get this fabulous deal doing it that way. I’ll tell you the details if you plan on visiting her.

For now – a ferry awaits, a seafood dinner and a concert in the old church at th end of the central stradun road.

Dorbra !

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Our tiny cabin provided the right amount of privacy and peace and recovery from the nightmarish customs passport check we endured at Bari.

After conflicting instructions from the check-in windows, about 300 passengers of varying nationalities all found ourselves in an airless corridor waiting for passport control to open the doors.

Like cattle we were herded for nearly 2 hours in a tight space with no explanation, other than random and agressive waving of the arms. Was the boat delayed, had it sunk, were we stuck at Bari forever? Now and then the Canadians made a run for it,  but were always sent back. There were a handful of clergy in the queue so we had spiritual counselling, and a nun from the queue, dressed in a brown habit handed out sweets to the back-packers – she was possibly looking for vocations but in any event she was a great balm to them.

Finally, either the late boat arrived, or the cleaning was complete, or they decided they’d punished us enough, and the doors were opened and we were practically run through  – some even got through without a passport? No check no question no nothing – oi what does it all mean?  On board we had a couple of stiff drinks and all was good.

Anyway, when the new day arrived we sailed into the delightful town of Dubrovnik that keeps delighting the senses with steep stepped alleys, tiny apartments, charming landladies, very cool internet cafes and a plethora of sightseeing boats in the harbour. Even popped into the church for a quick hail-mary.

The task ahead is to visit the beauty parlour (where I will have to talk Gabbie out of getting a hair dye – lest it turn out bright red like most of eastern europe!) have a swim, walk the wall of the old town and relish this town that seems to have emerged from the mist of misery last night like nirvana.

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