The Blue & Yellow Post

I had lunch with my aunty yesterday and showed her the pictures of my recent trip overseas.

She was particularly enamoured of one where a boat is pointing outwards to the horizon, not yet launched, still in harbour waiting and safe. She thought I should use it on my blog - so here it is.

My aunt is in her seventies and is a fiercely loyal woman, loyal to family and to her faith and to her memories. Loyalty is a fabulous quality to have and if you don’t “get” it at birth it’s hard to acquire along the way.

These days, there’s always something to push our buttons, convince us to change brands and form new attachments. I envy her that gift of the spirit, to stick with what she knows and to love it in all its “ordinariness” and to hang on, sometimes in the face of fierce persuasion, to the direction she set and the choices she’s made. She’s a nun - so she knows all about that.

One of the hardest things in coming home after an expansive trip is to accept that your “ordinary” life, the one you left behind, is still there waiting for you. On first impressions, it doesn’t seem to have changed at all.

Maybe the date, maybe the temperature, maybe even the hair colour of your gal pals changes, but as for deep and sustainable change (to the way people think, behave, live, and choose) not a change at all.  Same playing field - just a different ball game.

But what if you want to change? How to do it? I thought the world would do it first. Isn’t that the way things work? Isn’t that why I went away.  I know from experience there’s no shortage of bad change that happens ‘out there’. Let’s face it, shit happens and your world goes arse up more often than not. So why can’t it change when you want it to (as opposed to when you didn’t want it to)?

Clearly for things to change in my life- it’s up to me. It’s up to me to re-enter the stratosphere with the firm commitment to move away from the things I didn’t miss, and move towards the things I did miss when I was away. Move towards good friends, and away from boring work. Move towards healthy lifestyle and away from too much booze. Move towards creative expansion and away from fear and small mindedness. 

Of course I should expand into new arenas, after all that’s what growth is all about. And of course I should embrace the dying-off of the old. Let it go. Don’t try to put on the top you’ve outgrown, or sit in the chair that’s broken, renovate! move up and out. But I’m afraid.

Despite the fear,  I’m changing from the outside in. I’ve started with the way I work and live. I want less contact hours with a traditional way of working and more hours of a creative pursuit. I want to write more and paint more. I want to carve out work that matters to me, create messages that resonate with me. I want to meet more people and talk to them to make sense of my own journey and the world we live in, and what it means to be human, and loyal.

But now that it’s just up to me - I’m stuffed!  I’m not afraid to admit I need help. I need mentors. Hell I need to re-enter the world with a midwife!

Two very good friends of mine, who have midwifed my last big life change (ie meeting blokey all those years ago) are about to relocate to Canada for 5 months. And I’ll miss them. I was going to stay with them whilst I renovated at home, and I was going to lean on them, learn from them all about living well and living boldly. But they were so bold they went off on another adventure.  

So I have to learn all about being bold for myself here in home harbours. So there you have it - alone again. Admittedly I have an expanded view of the horizon and admittedly my personal world did change from outside after all - the perennial question is, as it always will be, am I up to dealing with the consequences?

This is my last post for this journey overseas and as such there is a need to make it significant or full of insight. Alas with those compelling needs it might fail. If Ekhart Tolle could hear me - he’d remind me to live in the now and forget what you need or want. Just enjoy now.

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

Before I do anything I must blog! I am facing the usual list of things to do before one goes on holidays, but I don’t want to start any of them, until I dump a yellow post.

It’s strange that I’ve become so dependent on the feelings I register after a post. It helps make sense of stuff. And that’s just what I need right now.

This morning I’ve been at sixes and sevens. I missed an appointment - even though I was on time! Caught the wrong bus which went on a wierd route to finally drop me off at my childhood neighbourhood of all places, after which I then had to walk 2 kms to get to where I wanted. And I haven’t even left the country!

It’s as if I’m walking in a parallel place, where everything is upside down or back the front and time seems to accelerate and stop at once. So in this state, I’m increasingly confused and unsure of just about everything. There’s an astrological concept called “Mercury Retrograde”, where things get mixed up and go wrong. It feels like that, but I expect it has more to do with the anticipation of and distractions about my impending journey to the other side of the world.

Yesterday I was lunching with a good friend who is also preparing for an exciting new opportunity to do with work, and we were talking about baggage, shadows and expansive mind-sets. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a woman who seemed so familiar it stopped me in my tracks. I realised it was my cousin Cath who I haven’t seen for years. She was walking past the building that now houses Dairy Farmers, my late father’s employer.

It was a lovely conjunction of the past and future, and I took it as an omen and message from Dad that he was watching out for me, and would watch out for me on the journey ahead. As we spoke, I noticed how my cousin has the features that mark our family: the sort of nose or forehead or eyes or smile, voice, earthy nature and shared memories that connect us in a single blood line. And once in that space, you immediately re-connect to that time of childhood and family gatherings. It’s a very comforting feeling because it is so familiar.

So, this morning, as I found myself accidentally deposited in the streets I used to walk as a child, I said a silent prayer to all those in that familial bloodline who have always watched over me. In particular my granny, my aunts and my 2 mothers. One blood mother and one step-mother. As it is mother’s day tomorrow I have decided to  place a flower on their graves in thanks for the time we spent together.

Time is so fleeting that we often have to run to keep up with commitments, appointments and tasks. Have I done all I should do? Will there be time to fit in another…? Perhaps I should pack an extra….? What if I get caught out without a ….? The list is endless, and the anxiety intense especially when travel is involved.

Time get’s all out of kilter on a trip. Time differences, cultural differences, language differences heighten the experience, and much of what we achieve on the travels are relished more after we return than when we’re in the middle of them.

Right now my darling sister Gab is in Romania and emails us her fabulous impressions spelt out in a paragraph: so few words but packed with remarkable vistas and visuals. A sort of 10 second grab. I know, though that behind those grabs are the normal anxieties that come with not understanding the language, missing the hotel because of the signage, hoping that the train will arrive in time to make the connection you need in order to arrive on time somewhre new.

So it goes and this time next week I’ll be in a completely different place and space. Walking down neighbourhood roads a light year away from those I walked down today. And I’ll see and smell and hear a miriad of new impressions. But before all of that, this yellow post is one of prayer and thanks to my ancestral and familial line, and in particular to my darling parents for their generosity in affording this remarkable next journey.

Bring it on.  

Once upon a time a simple little family lived deep in the woods of a land far away.

The husband was an old wise man. He had 2 children who were simple of heart and mind, called rooney and trooney. His much younger 2nd wife he named Beauty. He died in tragic circumstances and around the same time his simple children disappeared never to be seen again. So Beauty was left alone in the world.

She decided to pack up her possessions and leave the wooded house she’d known for the last 13 years. Her only possessions of worth were the cloths she had woven since being a little girl. She came from a long line of weavers and each generation added something unique to the craft. Beauty’s talent was an ability to weave almost intangible cloth, as light as wind, as soft as water and as bright as the sun.

Beauty could also embroider the cloth in such a way that it came to life and anyone who looked on it felt a deep longing and was immediately transported into the scene itself. Why it was even said, beauty could embroider feelings, such was her skill.

Most of beauty’s work had been sold at market. But she packed up what was left of her work into a parcel which she carried on her head. And she set off on the northern road. She walked most of the day, through all sorts of landscapes until she saw some farming lands in the distance. Coming closer to the verdant fields, she noticed a single cowherd and some dairy cows. He was herding the cattle into the barn.

Beauty asked the cowherd if she could spend the night in the barn along with the cows. He simply nodded. Beauty was touched by his gentle nature, and felt sorry for the cowherd who only wore the flimsiest of cloth. She reached into her pack and handed the cowherd a fine blue cloth the colour of midnight. Embroidered with the sun, the moon and a thousand tiny stars, the cloth was large enough to envelope the young cowherd, so that he disappeared into the night.

Beauty settled on the warm hay in the barn and was so tired she fell deeply asleep the moment her head touched the ground. The last thing she heard were the murmurs of the night and a single voice singing softly to the moon.

The following day there was no sign of the cows or the cowherd – for they had set off at first light to graze on other fields. She ate some cheese and bread from her pack and walked further on the northern road.

The road turned and twisted into a deeper darker wood. The ancient trees reached towards the sky, forming a cathedral like canopy above. She looked upwards marvelling at their grandeur and missed her footing, tripping on an exposed root. Down she tumbled – flat on her face in the mud.

Oh dear oh dear, said a voice to her left, what a mess you’ve made.

Beauty looked around for the voice and saw an orange dog and blue lynx.

Blinking twice at these strange figures, she heard the lynx chortle,

What a fine mess you’re in – you should have looked where you were going.

Beauty scrambled to her feet laughing, you’re right of course lynx – but if you could show me the way out of the woods I can dry off in the sun, and it will brush off – you’ll see. Perhaps, if you could also show me a river, I could wash my face and hands as well.

The lynx laughed, and pushed past her so quickly Beauty almost lost her footing again. But she chased after lynx until they emerged in the sunlight.  Before she could thank her guide, lynx disappeared.

Beauty looked at this new vista – a field of wild and splendid poppies, as red and bold as the eye could see. Overwhelmed by the sight and the warmth of the day, she surrendered to the impulse and lay flat on her back gazing up in wonder at the sun above her. She was soon asleep - dreaming of embroidery the colour of crimson blood and rubies. When she awoke the sun was low in the sky and she knew she needed to quickly find another place before night fell.

She walked down to the river that ran through the poppy field and saw her reflection. Beauty laughed so hard at the messy sight she saw, she lost her footing and fell headlong, pack and all, into the fast flowing river. Beauty grabbed at overhanging branches but was unable to grab hold of anything for any longer than a minute – for the river current was too strong.

Just surrender, the water murmured, just go with the flow.

Beauty could do nothing else but give in. The river raced past fields of lavender, of sage or rosemary of thyme of sunflowers and finally a field of cotton, with their puff ball flowers she knew so well.

The river finally slowed and the water became golden and shallow. Beauty was able to stop and stand up on some rocks.

Thank you river, for I would never have made it this far without you. But the river was silent and she started to think she imagined hearing that voice earlier.

With the sun almost set, Beauty made her way to a nearby Cotton Mill. The door was open and inside the millers wife was setting the table for dinner. Beauty asked if she could dry off by the fire.

Well you’d better, laughed the miller, for you are drenched through and you’ll catch your death if you stay like that.

Beauty sat by the warm fire and unpacked her fine cloths – spreading them around her to dry as well. The miller’s wife watched all of this with greedy eyes – for she could see how valuable the cloth was. Beauty turned to thank her for her hospitality and the miller’s wife quickly set her features into a smile, hiding the greed and envy behind a warm and generous grin.

She fed Beauty a fine dish and poured goblet after goblet of wine, drugging the last goblet with a sleeping draught. Beauty was so hungry she ate it all and swallowed all the wine, marvelling at how wonderful it made her feel. She forgot all her sadness and fear of the future. Before long, she was sound asleep snoring as loudly as the pigs outside.

When she awoke she was on the side of the road with a very sore head and no parcel of cloths. Realising the miller’s wife had stolen them, Beauty started to wail and cry for all that she had lost and for her own stupidity.

So loud was her wailing that a passing tailor heard the din and stopped to scold her. Now the tailor was a wily fellow with a ready smile, a quick wit and big heart. But he had a twisted leg and walked with a limp. It certainly didn’t slow him down for he was born like that.

Now stop it right now, he scolded Beauty. Not given to self-pity himself, he said, why you have your health, you seem young and healthy, what could be so bad? You can come with me and I’ll put you to work in my shop.

Beauty was so startled by the tailor’s abruptness, she agreed and followed him to the next town where his shop was already set up and well established.

And so they worked together for many years. She embroidering and weaving cloth finer than ever before, with images of poppies, and cows and fields of sunflowers.

The tailor grew to love her and she him. Eventually they married. And people came from far and wide to see their fine work and buy as much as they could make.

One day many years later they heard that a miller’s wife had been robbed and murdered.

And of the cloths she stole from Beauty? Why some say one cloth forms the sail on a pirate ship, another forms the tent of a gypsy fortune teller, and another hangs in the queen’s own chamber. As fine as ever before.

A long time ago someone took this photo. It was the week after the death of our mother. They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

Just as a picture records seminal moments like these, those same moments highlight the essence of who we are.

I believe those moments of death, birth and marriage highlight a hunger for certainty and meaning.  We make meaning of things with the head and the heart, and for want of a better word, with the spirit.

How much of our spiritual skills are handed down and how much do we acquire? Can we acquire any after a certain age? And do seminal moments up the ante at all?

My own seminal moments include:

• The death of my mother when I was four years old
• The death of my father when I was 30 years old
• My marriage when I was 37
• The death of my husband when I was 48 years old
• The death of my stepmother when I was 48 years old

The primary death of my mother was the defining one.  As one of four siblings we each had a different way of responding to that event. These responses set in motion an entire approach to the way we live our lives.  And this approach is well explained by a particular spiritual system.

The Enneagram has gone the farthest to explaining what these responses were. All of the family is into the Enneagram. So much so, that we’ll describe the behaviour of a family member as a typical 6 or that’s a 3 for you!

The Enneagram is based in a Sufi practice and is a dynamic program to define the spiritual self in relation to others and the world. The system went through a number of iterations to become what it is today.

The system is good for our family for a number of reasons: it is dynamic and inter-related. In other words, we are who we are, in relation to ourselves, to others and to the world. And the best part is that each type is in the process of change and growth. It perfects itself in movement towards or away from other types. 

There are nine types. And each type is defined by a reaction to an impulse (in our case this was pain and fear). No type is any better than another. There are ways to find out what your type is, but I always believe that when you find out your type, you are invariably embarrassed and or humbled by the insight.

We four sit together. We have a 5, two 6s and a 7. Each one of us reacted to the pain of losing our mother in a slightly different - though connected - way. One retreated to the head (5) to find an intellectual explanation; two joined a bigger system (6) to offset the anxiety and belong somewhere and the last one chose the path of sensation to feel alive and to avoid pain (7).

I wanted to write a book with my sisters. Gab was to write the path of epicurean delight – food and pleasure; Cate was to write a dissertation on sense-making and intellectual control and I was to write the third path on myth making and imagination. In the middle of the story, a fairy tale would link and explain the three types. We got so far but no farther.  As it matters more to me, I will pick it up again one day.

The dynamic process of the Enneagram means that as a 6 I have the potential to move towards a number 9. I am not changing types but, if I continue to grow, I can develop a new set of spiritual skills, represented by the number 9.

When I am at my best as a 6, I am self-affirming, trusting of self and others, independent yet symbiotically interdependent and cooperative as an equal. A belief in self leads to true courage, positive thinking, leadership, and rich self-expression.

Number 9, at their best are self-possessed, feel autonomous and fulfilled: have great equanimity and contentment because they are present to themselves. They are intensely alive and fully connected to self and others.

One of my nieces is a 9 so I can learn from her what it feels like to live like a 9. Another one of my nieces is like me, a 6. So if I can live well and fully, I might assist her in understanding herself a bit better.

We are attracted to other types and can understand them. I have a penchant for 5s (given that my twin sister and husband were both 5s). I certainly understand them and I lean on them to make sense of the world inside my head. I also ‘get’ 7s and lean on them when I nudge the bottle or cook up a feast to comfort myself.

So way back when I was 4 years old and the worst thing in the world that could happen did happen; I assumed the mantle of the fearful loyalist. To face whatever it was I had to face, front-on; counter-phobic and confrontational. Confined by and in this awful situation, I was wrapped in a straight-jacket of anxiety. My twin sister, also 4 years old followed another path – one of the eremitic Investigator; equally valid, but different to mine.

Neither of us could tell where the paths would lead. But they were set in motion by this momentous event, and they would diverge many times in the years that followed.

A picture does indeed tells of a thousand worlds still to be lived.  

I have developed a penchant for steps.

They are a fit metaphor for my program of personal change. It’s a multi-step program to correlate with my great age. So far, the program includes:

• A stepping out exercise component to move the lard off my arse
• A 12-step program to move the booze out of my larder
• A quick-step program to excuse my weird fascination with the TV show, “So you think you can dance?”
• A step-up-to-the-plate program to learn more about new media
• A one-step-at-a-time program to manage my stress levels
• A Steppenwolf program to explore my cultural and philosophical bent and
• A Russian Steppes program to facilitate overseas travel.

Of course, I’m not the only one undergoing such a venture. Like many other women our age, my own sisters are taking steps of their own.

Yesterday I watched my sister, Gabby record her first podcast about positive parenting and how to set limits with love, helping parents in what is arguably the most noble of all professions - bringing up kids.

And this morning I congratulated my twin sister, Cate on getting a sweet gig, doing what she does best - mediation in the courts. 

I’m using this blog as part of my watch your step program. Just watch what happens. With the help of a  great career coach and suprisingly non-neurotic therapist,  I’m submitting my own ”matters for mention”  about and in a process of personal change.

Matters Blue and MattersYellow.

Blue matters when you’re still, stable, satisfied, safe, secure and speaking your truth. Did you know that marketers use blue if they want to build trust?

Yellow matters when you’re changing, moving, altering, striving, climbing and creating new ways of thought. Did you know that couples fight more when living in rooms with yellow walls?

So as my mult-step program evolves,  I’ll be moving between Yellow and Blue moments. Sure, I’ll want more blue moments but I know I’ll have to have an equal if not greater number of  yellow ones. 

And for the significant moments  the “oh my god, of course!! ” moments, I dare say, there’ll doubtless be a story that makes sense of it all.  A story about what drove me in the past, and a story that reveals what the future is and what role I’ll play in it. 

So all I have to do is to keep writing up and down the steps, until  I get to the top or the bottom of what really matters. 

Be sweet.