Not in the way you think. Or if you’re Australian in the way you ought to or used to think. No tnis getting rooted should be considered in the literal sense, as in a tree root.

Ironically, I’m trying to pull myself free of old habits, 20 year homes, 12 year jobs, 50 odd year patterns. Yet the trick is to be centred and rooted to the moment.

My wonderful galpal Rosie calls it “blooming where you’re planted”. More than just making the best of something – she believes we’re in the moment because we’re in the moment. It is what is – so live it and celebrate.

My current fantasy is to uproot and invest in a new place, a new job a new home, closer to family, an investment for the future…. so many ifs though.

My own dad’s anniversary is coming up. He died in his 50s. As we’re all now navigating our 50’s we’ve got bets on who might succumb to the genetic weakness .. if any of us will?

In the meantime – each of my weekends is spent in the best seat of the house, overlooking the water, completing assignments and wondering if this bloody course will ever finish!

I contemplate leaving this view, uprooting to build another home in another place. I do it because I yearn for something new. I do it because I yearn to create another living space. And I do it, I guess, because I may have a genetic disposition that encourages an “act now” strategy over a “let’s wait and see” one.

The art of living in the now means though that we root ourselves where we are – in order to uproot when the time comes. If we’re not rooted in the now – we’ll miss the signs of growth and opportunity – shiftless, groundless, not belonging.

You have to belong to let go.

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For the last three years, on some level, I’ve been trying to leave (home, job, yes now and then even contemplating …) but I’m still here, and everyone else has managed to secure the fabulous job that should have come to me or the wonderful reduncancy that made sense of my staying put in one job for ALLLLLL THOSE YEARS!!

An analyst would put it down to my abandonment issues. Sigh.

I’ve tried healings, CV coaches, agencies, seek.com. career.one, card readings, dream intepretation, prayer, bribery and to no avail. I’m stuck.

I’m finally booked in for my practicum teaching. And I’m hoping the delay in finding the perfect job is because I have to finish one thing at a time! Which in this case is the crazy idea that I could teach in my old age.

Ageing and change is natural and good. It better be, it’s the only constant in life. It actually doesn’t matter if its what you want or not – it’s going to happen anyway.  

I’ve just got to figure out how to work with it – not agin it

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Yes – Lectures have finally finished – thank the Lord!

I have my nights back again! No more trudging over to the other side of the city. I’ll probably waste those night, even though I have a huuuuuuuge assignment to complete. Let’s see shall we.

My class mates all seem to be having lots of fun with Prac. I hope I do to.

I shall miss them:

1. R’s poker face (yes that’s a compliment:)
2. I’s boldness
3. S’s concerns
4. M’s – reliable startup contributions
5. D’s continual out of the box position
6. M’s delightful  nature
7. P’s subtle style
8. Ji’s gorgeousness
9. V’s clever “context” answers
10. D’s hilarious stories
11. N’s commitment to grammar :)
12. C’s love of pink or was that coral?
13. B’s last minute assignment submissions
14. Q’s incisive comments
15. M’s delight at being called  ‘teacher”

A final thank you to the fabulous Teachers – D, S and S.

What more is there to say – “Love ya babe!!”  All of you :)

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This week has been like a runaway train.

It began by watching a brilliant pronunciation teacher identify and correct erros to the beat of syncopated jazz. I am deeply admiring of those who do this for a living.

Later that night in a language analysis session, I took on way too many functions and way too many forms! Though S and the watch were pretty funny.

In the following class we got the dirt on the phonology assessment: Piece of Cake! In 20 mins - translate phrases of phonemes into words and vice versa, describe where in the oral cavity we form sounds, tick off inflections and stress, and throw in a few suprasegmentals – what IS  suprasegmental??  Let me say our booking agent wasn’t overwhelmed with offers.

Chugging into the station for the micro teaching class, where we unpacked the food chain and designed a zoo with passive verbs and polite suggestions, I realised my train was starting to de-rail.

By the time we got to the last lesson, where we learnt how to describe things that will have occured sometime between now and the future that hasn’t happened yet, I was ready to pull the emergency switch.

And the coach wants me to keep it simple.

Sigh.

Choo Choo.

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Hit the wall this week.

An $84 parking ticket from last night’s scramble to get a spot. Annoying, because I just didn’t read the sign properly.

This TESOL journey has certainly pitched me out of my normal routine. I’m developing my own brand of sea-legs. No flippers or fins yet, but this rocking and rolling certainly’aint from the sixties- it’s a whole new dance routine.

I can’t see clearly anymore. I don’t know where it will lead me and if it will lead anywhere.

I don’t expect to see the future as the present is where we’re at. But it’s a balancing act to maintain equilibrium and to keep my normal (increasinly busy) job balanced with these additional demands.

I have a foot in each camp and I feel an increasing chasm open beneath me. The chasm, aka “unknown” is my only certainty:

• Unknown environment = expensive mistakes
• Unknown content = no more free weekends
• Unknown future=need for flippers
• Unknown capabilities=fun
• Unknown contacts=15 new ones and counting
• Unknown adventures=a love of the open sea

Wouldn’t mind a compass though.

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 I observed a class today back near my old alma mater. Years of trying to find a park, worrying about late assignments, studying lines for the next play and fantasising about the cute boy in my drama class,  came flooding back.

Earlier that day, I had listened to an interview on radio with Daniel Hope, the violinist who played at the funeral of Yehudi Menuhin and who knew he would play the violin when he was just 4 years old.  In my observation class we learnt about a dancer, Steven McCrae who likewise envisaged a clear artistic path from a young age. That night I dreamt about Cate Blanchett and our local theatre. The whole day yesterday was populated by artists.

Several days earlier, my sister had pointed out I was using overtly negative language about my future and was, she suggested, not enabling the positive artistic future I yearned. She was right. If we keep focusing on the old, or saying No to the things we don’t want, we stay fixated on the old situation – we’re facing in the wrong direction and can’t see the new.

So in TESOL speak the plan for this micro life – lesson goes as follows:

Student Level: Pre adult.

Context and target language: Balance the good and bad bits of the past just enough to positively alter the direction of my  work and life

Form and Function: Give myself time to understand how care, optimism,  a sense of exploration and playing to my strengths will enable change.

Resources: Realia and memories, childhood dreams, stolen time and bold brave micro teachers.

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As the last stage in my home transformation process I’m surprised at the level of disquiet and unease the change has caused. I’ve replaced the tired dusty 25 year old carpet with cleaner lighter tiles - marked out with cream white grout lines.

For the first day in this new environment I found myself gingerly stepping around and over the grout lines like a child or an OCD sufferer avoiding cracks in the foothpath. I couldn’t get away quick enough, away from the potential dissonance that comes with a big purchase or job. Was it the right choice of colour? Is the job a good job? Why do I miss the carpet?

I escaped to my sister’s house 2 hours away for Christmas and New Year. Normally a haven where the brain slips into neutral, the body goes into idle and the heart gently opens. Calming, loving, no disquieting elements at all. A fabulous end of the year. As the weather proved to be a delight, we swam each day in warm Christmas water, retired early and slept in late. And during each day, the most energetic thing we found ourselves doing was making a pot tea for whoever was laying around nearby. 

Only this year was different. There was a discontent, a restlessness, and the ever present grief. Old feelings in a reliable setting, not unlike my now defunct carpet. Comments in passing, spiralling thoughts on the eve of a new year: Why was I alone? Was I driving people away? Would my life always be like this? Why was I such a worrier? Why didn’t I have more friends? Any friends? Why did I have to invade my sister’s life.

On New Year’s Eve it peaked. Friends, new and old, were invited around. There was predictable conversation and brand new people. The house was squeaky clean, the windows glistened, the table was over flowing with our signature dishes, the garden awash with sand-bagged candles, glowing as the sun descended.   My wish for the event was that it heralded a new year full of wonderfully creative loving people, as well as  an open hearted attitude in myself to new adventures and experiences. 

There were 2 conversations that evening that proved to be testament to the wish. The first was with a long-standing friend of my sister’s – who is opiniated, funny, wounded and guarded. Having just broken up with her boyfriend, and undergoing profound family dramas, she was transmitting nervously most of the night, old scripts, old lines, sure laughs, side-swipes and commentary.  In truth it was exhausting to watch and interact with. But then again, I had a head full of grout lines and sustainable fear of the future.

The 2nd conversation was with the new gay girlfriend of  a (previously assumed straight)  family friend. She was affirming, interested, gentle, alive, abundant, happy and in love. When you’re in love – is there a sweeter place? I found her delightful.

I got what I wished for. It was time to let the old way go, the old friends or friends of friends; the old way of worrying about everything; the old way of standing on my turf. And it was time to embrace the new. But how?

To transform yourself is hard. It’s hard enough changing the external environment, but now I have to face the disintegration of my old self.  Luckily my best teacher of all (my sister Cate) rang me with the answer – Imaginal Cells.

When a Caterpillar turns into a Butterfly it has to disintergrate and disolve first. Then almost by magic, imaginal cells appear to help the move into a Butterfly. All of this is done, unseen within a chrysalis. There’s a period of waiting and a total surrender to the process. When the Butterfly emerges it’s hard to link the two creatures so tranformed is the shape, look, feel, weight and scope.

If that means I have to walk on the grout lines, I will!  Just Imagine then, what I’ll be able to do.

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I agreed to talk at a conference about organisational change communications. As last speaker of day one, I became increasingly more nervous as the day wore on. I compared myself (unfavourably of course) to every speaker who went before me. These were General Managers, Goverment CEOs, Directors and Managers. These were national and international organisations of thousands of staff, with publics in the tens of thousands.  Way out of my league.

What had the organisers been thinking when they asked me to tell our simple story?  All day, I tweaked my narrative, adding bits, taking bits off, giving it a different angle, only to change it again once another speaker finished their glamorous and interesting story. I had nothing! And I was about to be humiliated with mass walk-outs and dismissive smirks,  I could see it happening right before my eyes.

With no alternative but to push ahead, I settled on a simple story from the heart, a few humorous annecdotes and some well-timed self-deprecating insights. I got through the talk, dry-mouth and all. Why I even made them laugh. So I guess it worked. People told me (as they always do when queuing up behind you at the drinks counter) that they enjoyed it. And that it was the sort of story people like to hear at these conferences. But even that didn’t make it better.

That night, in my room, I cried myself to sleep. Partly from stress relief, partly  because I missed Bloke as he wasn’t there to comfort me, and partly because I’d drifted so far away from my own core beliefs and values that I felt a fraud.  But what message  would have helped me sleep soundly that night; and what would make me proud of using my gifts and talents to reach out to people again.

The Saturday before this conference I was getting my hair cut and coloured. And in the seat beside me was a woman whose 5 year old daughter was playing at her feet. For over an hour, this child amused herself with curlers and whetever other salon paraphenalia appealed. I watched with delight this creative, engaging, resilient, funny, affectionate, never-clingy, never-demanding, great kid.

I commented to the mother how impressed I was. The child’s “in your face” style reminded me of someone, and as I watched her it took sometime for me to realise that she reminded me of myself at that age. Like this child, I was always going up to strangers, talking to them, even sitting on their lap on the bus. It was a family joke, that I had no fear barometer and was too friendly for my own good.

As the similarities occured to me, in my mind’s eye, I fast-tracked this child’s life and informed the mother that she had “an actress on her hands.”, the mother laughingly agreed, and as if, on cue, the strangest thing then happened.

This child of 5 looked at me and asked if the baby in my tummy was ready to be born. I laughed and told her that there was no baby there – just fat. I looked down expecting to see the tell-tale roll of fat on show, but realised I was wrapped up in a salon tent-like sheath, covering me from neck to mid-calf. Without a pause, the child climbed under my hairdresser’s shroud, to curl up on my lap where she began to loudly whimper like a baby. With no other alternative - and in shock I guess- I patted this tiny form and coaxed a psychodramatic birthing. And with the precision timing that comes with a short term memory, a minute later this baby-child slid out from under the sheath, to land right at my feet. 

I laughed at the time, and assured the nervous mother that it was all good fun, as it had been. But it’s only now, a week later, and following the insights I’d gleaned from the conference presentations, I realise this little guru had come with a message.

What landscape had I traversed since being 5 years old and how much had I forgotten of my true nature? Was it time to give birth to some reincarnated creativity? Re-kindle the first principles of my courageous nature. Could I remember the fun and drama of being 5? Would that be my message – to grab at those precious moments when they come and say yes! Now I’m not suggesting we sit on strangers’ laps to be born again in front of them, but for me, I needed just that.

I needed to remember the world is a comforting place not a frightening one.  And the baby inside of me, that child who survived the most awful event of all, a mother’s death, can survive all sorts of mini-deaths and changes life produces. In front of an audience or not. It’s actually not about me, but about the messages I’ve learnt on the way.

‘So if we find our feet on firm or shaky ground, we just need to get out of the way . Only then will stuff start to happen. And despite us, people will hear the message they’re meant to hear and meet the teachers they’re meant to meet.

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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?

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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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