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Episode 4: Multiple choice

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Over 50 new romance blossoming after online dating in Australia

I love this hand drawn image of me after our first date #handdrawn #over50 #comics #backyardcomics #australia #queerlove @boneAndsilver

 

Have you read Alain de Botton’s The Course of Love? Do it. I loved it, wolfing it down. It’s partly based on Attachment Theory, and crucially for H & I, Alain suggests we bring all our faults to our first date, rather than just our good stuff. Now because we were 1641kms apart, and I thought we’d never meet and therefore had nothing to lose, I invited H to tell me all their worst qualities, as an exercise for us both.

‘H’ said ‘Yes Lets’. And then wrote:

‘Wow, I’ve never EVER laid my shit on the table to anyone… OK… I’m going to be completely honest and leave not one thing out…’

Don’t worry, I won’t go on. But the point is, we swapped shitty stuff, and got an insight into deeper levels that don’t usually see the light of day so soon.

Awesome.

In Episode 3 HERE, I name-checked another book called Attached; I have to say I think it’s changed my life. Synchronistically, I was reading it when I first came across H, and mentioned it in one of our early messages; H downloaded it straight away (that was the first clear ‘Yes Lets’ I got). It gave us a common vocabulary with which to talk about ourselves, our various exes stretching back 30 years, and our families. In fact, it was crucial to us continuing to message each other, after the great challenge of Fight #1…

Yup, we managed to disagree. Strongly. Apparently, I was sending mixed messages [no comment]. H misunderstood, reacted and withdrew [no comment]. I reacted back, and… THEN STOPPED MYSELF. Thank god for those 1641kms. Thanks to reading Attached, and understanding my romantic behaviours so much more deeply than ever, I saw clearly for the first time in my adult dating life that I had 3 choices:

  1. I could continue to be a highly-successful Avoidant, and just disappear, blowing off the perceived drama of H’s communication, and the potential ‘neediness’ behind it which I would have to deal with (damn harsh I know)
  2. I could get super Anxious about how I’d just fucked it up/it was all my fault/there was no hope, and just give up (equally harsh in a different way yes?)
  3. Take a deep breath, and practise being Secure: take responsibility for my part in the confusion, apologize, focus on and reassure our fears or concerns, then just keep showing up calmly and with love.

There’s probably a year of blog posts in why I could have chosen each one of those first two, (mmmm, especially the Avoidant- so much simpler/smoother/familiar, with an easy pleasure to it, if I’m really honest) but I’m going to spare myself all of us the agony.

Obviously, I did the third one. I literally had the book open on my lap, glancing at it as I typed:

“5 Secure principles for resolving conflict-

  1. Show basic concern for the other person’s wellbeing
  2. Maintain focus on the problem at hand
  3. Refrain from generalizing the conflict
  4. Be willing to engage
  5. Effectively & simply communicate feelings & needs”

I chose to Be the person I actually want to be connected with, and I can truly say I’ve never done that with such clarity or ease before. It just felt right. What an incredible opportunity it was, for both of us. And the rest, as they say, is History. Or Herstory.

Right time, right person, right place (especially as it’s not the same place- somehow, it seems to be essential in our story that we actually live so far apart for now).

But first, in real life time, I’m going to Melbourne TOMORROW for our official 4th date.

I CAN HARDLY WAIT…

Episode 3: From when do we count?

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How do you decide your ‘anniversary’ date with your beloved? Is it the first time you meet? First kiss? First overnight stay? Wedding? So many significant times to choose from!

We didn’t meet for over 2 months since that first cheeky profile swing by in early October. But somehow I still hold that as a precious beginning (such a romantic fool I admit). So today (Sat 4th) is 5 months since the hello… But we didn’t meet in the flesh till just before Xmas; would that be a more realistic date to celebrate?

So much unfolded between October and December… And as crazy as it sounds (even to myself, tough cynic of a Crab that I can be sometimes), I was definitely already ‘feeling the love’ by the time we met.

Even typing that makes me laugh out loud! After SO MUCH online dating, how the hell could I actually fall for someone I never met?? We’re all warned aren’t we, about online scammers, and doomed internet romances; we roll our eyes don’t we, thinking ‘how can anyone be so stupid??’…

Yet there I was, looking forward to messages/composing long messages/fantasizing about meeting etc etc. It could have all gone so wrong, so easily. In 2015, The Australian Competition and Consumer Commission’s Targeting Scams Report says that Australians lost over $229million to online scams, which includes over $54million for romance and dating scams! Good thing I was never asked for any money hey? Yes, it could have all gone so wrong…

EXCEPT, I was doing it with Her.

Yup. With a seemingly beautifully kind, creative, gentle, smart, funny soul, who kept showing up online, and kept saying Yes Lets. Who started sending me tiny hand-drawn comics based on things we’d written about; who said she got teary over stories I’d written her; who followed through on things she said she needed to do, so that I trusted in her integrity, like stopping drinking alcohol; who made me laugh out loud time and again with her cute pictures.

Well, apart from Week 3 or 4, when she had a little tantrum about how many other people I was maybe messaging with (I admit there were a couple at the beginning, but so was she!). Have you ever had a fight online? It happens in slow motion, with plenty of time to really sink into those emotional dramas, lash out from them, then reflect and think ‘Holy shit, that was a bit uncalled for, by both of us’.

And there’s no easy fix. I couldn’t pick up the phone and say Sorry, or wait to hear hers, because we’d agreed we were having such fun writing and drawing to each other, and weren’t going to talk before actually meeting Dec 21st in Melbourne.

YES, we had a real live date lined up! Phew- I can almost hear the collective sigh of relief 🙂

But in the meantime, we apologized, and learnt a little more about each other, and most importantly for me, learnt how to choose different responses than I usually would. For this, I am 100% grateful to 2 books, one smart therapist, 2 50th birthdays, one comet called Chiron, 3 months of a dating website subscription, and 1641kms of space between our homes.

But more of that next week in Episode 4. [If you want to stay ahead of the game, you could pre-order your copy of ‘Attached’, by Dr Amir Levine, for which I am receiving zero commission, but have definitely personally sold at least 10 copies of by word of mouth alone.]

In the meantime, I want to say Thank you today to an incredible human who has spent the last 5 months engaged so deeply and pleasurably with me, shining light into some of our dark corners (with plenty more to come I’m sure *gulps nervously), and who brings a calm joy to my heart x

blogpano

Morning waves & dolphins jumping, Wategos Beach, Byron Bay

 

Episode 2: ‘Yes Lets’

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It was pretty clearly stated on my dating profile: “I travel for various gigs, often to Brisbane or the Gold Coast, so don’t let geography keep you away from me- no further than that though sorry.”

But still I clicked on a message in early October last year which read: “I guess H* is too far away then? 🙂 Great profile”

I smiled. Cheeky. Replied: “It’s probably not a good sign that I’ve never heard of it. Sorry. Best of luck on here :)”

And that should have been that, shouldn’t it?

Except a week later I was bored, and there had been no new messages from anyone anywhere, so I clicked on that visitor profile, wishing I knew where the hell H* actually was… and found myself smiling as I read it, admiring the unique layout & phrases they’d used. Interesting, and a bit quirky. Plus the pics: all cute (although only 3/10 were smiling). Almost as cute as one of mine:

The seduction of a filling bath tub implies both self care and romance for the over 50 online dater

A new white bathtub to tempt online dating success my way #australia #bathtub #selfcare #onlinedating @boneAndsilver

I checked Google maps on my phone… Oh, H* really is that far away…

Darn it.

Still, can’t hurt to just send a friendly “How’s your week been/any luck on here?” message can it? Which of course SPECIFICALLY goes against my previously well-established protocols of online dating, as outlined in previous post HERE.

Now have you ever played that drama game called ‘Yes Lets’? Let me explain: in a nutshell, one person makes a suggestion, however mundane or absurd they like, and all the other players enthusiastically say ‘Yes Lets’, and everyone starts doing it. Then the next person offers a new, contrasting idea, and the same refrain rings out. It’s really fun, positive, and morale-building, and I didn’t think it was possible to play it online, but it seems like it can be done after all.

Because before I knew it, or rather, in an easy evolution, daily emails just became the norm. Checking in about how our days had gone, and what plans we each had for the weekend, with which specific friends. Plus long stories about childhoods, or past romances, or numerous answers to an interesting questionnaire I found in the New York Times HERE.

Online dating is easy and fun. It can become flirtatious, meaningful, frustrating, superficial, confusing, revelatory, and mind-blowing. It can also hurt. Never forget that there is a real, soft-fleshed human on the receiving end of your typing, and that you too can feel stung by words thrown your way. Just as I’d advise in real life, DON’T TYPE TIRED OR HUNGRY (in fact, don’t do ANYTHING tired or hungry if possible). If you think you’re being toyed with, or perhaps misunderstanding/being misuderstood, don’t reply; just draft something, sleep on it, then re-read the original email before Sending…

Yup, there were several hiccups in this story, which could have ended at Week One (if I hadn’t been bored and clicked on that profile again), or in Week 3, when I was misunderstood as bragging about my other dating activities, or most terribly, in Week 13, when two soft hearts clashed and turned away for a day, thinking that was the right answer.

But more of that later, as I continue… See you here next week x

Episode 1. Cardinal rule: broken

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I’m an online dating Queen. I have no shame in saying that, and have been having a great time since 2010. It’s the perfect way to mend a broken heart/find romance/explore taboos/have fun/find love/make new friends/get laid/connect/learn. I’m a strong advocate of it for women, especially anyone approaching 50 or over who’s sitting at home alone, wondering where all the good dates are. Don’t go to waste: tuck yourself up in bed with your pjs, grab your laptop, and start cruising. Don’t get me wrong; I love being single too, and certainly living by myself… But a little bit of attention and interaction from someone cute never goes astray does it?

Street graffiti in Melbourne celebrating living alone #over50 #livingsolo @boneAndsilver

Street graffiti in Melbourne celebrating living alone #over50 #livingsolo @boneAndsilver

I reckon I’ve got online dating down to a fine art after all these years, and within 10 minutes of talking to someone in real life who’s saying they would like to try it, I can tell which website they should be using. That’s because I’ve tried them all, and am familiar with who else is using which ones, and thus what types of people you are more likely to find where.

Charge a fee? When I lived in Adelaide a few years ago, I used to joke that I should charge a fee for my services, so many times did I encourage women to open a profile. I even coached people I didn’t know over the phone a couple of times, whose friends had passed them my number. I love it! Of course it’s not for everyone, but it’s certainly an effective avenue for exploring who’s out there from the comfort and safety of your own home. Much more pro-active than sitting on the couch feeling sad and lonely, assuming that your romantic life has passed you by.

Essential advice? If I had to distill 7 years of experience down to one paragraph (for which I should probably charge, or make into a TED talk), I’d say this:

  • Be clear and honest about what you want (there’s a big difference between seeking a marriage partner or a kinky sex playmate for example). It is also totally appropriate to admit you don’t know what you want; just be clear about that.
  • Be polite (I always say ‘Thanks but no thanks’, unless you’re a rude idiot, and then I won’t hesitate to Delete, Block or Report)
  • Exchange emails for a couple of weeks before giving out phone numbers or meeting
  • Meet in a public place like a café
  • Most importantly, whatever it is you seek, REMEMBER THAT YOU ARE THE PRIZE AT THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN THEY MUST CLIMB

So I’ve online chatted with men, women, married men, married women, bisexual people, older or younger people, a priest, several psychologists, various artists, a plumber, a headmaster, someone stuck in bed with chronic fatigue, a professional hugger, travel agents, a human rights activist, a few lawyers, a dog groomer and ex-professional golfer, a political speech writer, plus a multitude of office workers and small business owners. It’s been so fun! But I developed high standards about who I will actually meet face to face, depending on my needs, as my time is precious, and I enjoy being discerning; for me, that winnowing out of the chaff from the good stuff is part of the pleasure process, like the cyber equivalent of the thrill of the chase.

I’ve evolved a set of protocols I guess, which work really well for me, as I’ve learnt the hard way about too much online emailing and then the disappointment of reality, or the power of projection, or the time-wasters etc etc. And in those protocols or rules, I’d have two sculpted in golden capital letters, one of which I’ve shared already, but which is so essential that I’ll paste it again:

  • REMEMBER THAT YOU ARE THE PRIZE AT THE TOP OF THE MOUNTAIN THEY MUST CLIMB (i.e. don’t sell yourself to someone; be sure of your value, and the worth of what you’re offering, whatever that is)

And secondly:

  • DO NOT GET INVOLVED WITH SOMEONE IN ANOTHER COUNTRY, OR EVEN JUST INTERSTATE/ACROSS YOUR OWN COUNTRY

Right. That’s pretty clear obvious clear.

Native Australian flowers in a tiny glass bottle #onlinedating #over50

Native Australian flowers in a tiny glass bottle #onlinedating #over50 @boneAndsilver

So what have I gone and done?

After almost seven years of hugely fun, successful, illuminating online dating (on and off, using 2 or 3 fav websites [hello OKC]), I got involved with someone living in a different state… 1,636kms away to be precise… in Melbourne, Victoria.

*Sigh

But not just ‘involved’…

*Deeper sigh, and insert eye roll Emoji

More like… ‘falling in love’ involved… *insert cute pulsing red heart

I didn’t mean for it to happen.

I don’t really know how it happened.

Yet on the other hand, it couldn’t have happened any other way…

[To Be Continued]

 

Prepare to lie. Prepare to buy. Prepare to die. Part Three.

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No one wants to die right? Unless you’re in intense pain, physical or psychological. We all know we’re going to die eventually, although a lot of time, effort and money go into denying that. I’m sure we all hope we die peacefully, in our sleep, in good health, aged over 90… Or the majority of us anyway.

I turned 50 last year, as I’m sure many of you have too. There comes with this birthday a realization that I’m probably more than half way through my time on this earth, and certainly the most energetic, adventurous, undefeatable half. Now my back aches if I try to camp & sleep on the beach, plus I feel the burden of mortgages and school fees cramping my style if I get the urge to up and travel to South America on a whim for example. Oh how the freedoms and vitality of the youth is under-appreciated by them!

Now that I’m half a century old, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to do many things I dreamt of doing when a teenager… Like being a famous journalist and living in a groovy loft in New York. Playing bass guitar in a reggae band. Being one of the lycra-clad weekly dancers on UK’s Top of the Pops. Having dreadlocks down to my bum, running a Youth Hostel in the rainforest near Cairns. Hitchhiking across Europe with my latest Latin lover. Buying a red soft top Mini Cooper and zooming around town- no, wait, I’m SO gonna still do that!

You get what I mean. Some things just aren’t going to happen. The opportunities slipped by, or I never created them. I love my life, and what I’ve made for myself, but every once in a while, I feel the wistful longing for an adventure that’s never going to be.

The beginning of a new year lets us reflect on what we’ve done (or not done), and what we hope to achieve in the coming 12 months. 2016 was such a huge, tumbling year for all of us: so many political challenges, so many environmental changes, so many deaths. I started 2016 by NOT staying up till midnight (true sign of ageing), but attempting redemption by getting up at 5am to greet the first rays of light at Australia’s most Easterly point. In fact, I blogged about it HERE.

I’d recently started a new romance, so we met there and held hands as dawn broke; it felt like an auspicious beginning…

Now bear with me, as it IS all going to connect in the end, but do you know what your Psoas is? Or how to say it? [Sew-az]. It’s buried deep in your body, running from your spine at the back, into your pelvis, through your hip bones,and out towards your thigh sockets.

psoasimage

In April, we went to a 3-day workshop run by the American grandma of all things Psoas, Liz Koch, who maintains it’s not a muscle, but an intelligent tissue, unlike any other in the body, capable of storing both trauma and wisdoms you can access to release.

Like any discerning teacher/practitioner, I take workshop advertising and testimonials with a big pinch of salt, but I saw with my own eyes her waist and spine undulating like a swollen snake. Never seen that before. I also watched a fellow participant in constant back pain, with completely flat spine and hollow demeanor, change by the 3rd day to having a curve in her lower back, looking 5 years younger with a twinkle in her eyes, saying she’d just had her first night’s sleep without pain in years.

So I did all Liz’s exercises: the breathing, the rocking, the hissing and shushing. I arched back and forth over soft balls, I rested, then rocked again. Lotsa rockin’. An’ restin’. I felt exhausted, and slept for 11 hours both nights. And somewhere in there, in all the rocking and releasing and hydrating, my Psoas “said”, as clear as a bell:

‘Prepare to die.’

Absolutely NOT what one wants to hear, any time, ever. Especially from within your own organs. I wished it wasn’t so. But that’s what I ‘heard’. And then I couldn’t un-hear it could I?

I didn’t tell anyone, not even my lover. I drove extra carefully for weeks. But Time passed, as it does, and I kept being alive, as I have done so far so good, so I let the awareness drift away gradually… Until France in July, 2 days before my 50th.

Born in France as I was, I’d wanted to be back there for such a significant birthday. I made a conscious decision to be away from all my friends and family, especially my son ‘16’, partly as a way of not needing to organize a big celebration and make a fuss. I invited that new romance to meet me there though… And completely underestimated the stress of travel, the loneliness of being away from ‘16’ after such a significant time there together the previous summer (see all previous Blog posts from September to November 2015), and the ghosts of my childhood and Dad who shadowed me at every corner in Paris.

I had a pretty shit birthday. There, I’ll admit it. I was an emotional, anxious mess, somehow cast adrift, and not sheltered safely in the arms of love. I must have been really hard to relate to, swamped as I was by my own intense experience… I felt weirdly swept up and ‘out of this world’ for the 2 days before, cried 3 times at least on the actual day, and felt so lonely. Not little wimpy sniffles either, but a full body wailing. A part of me died somehow, at the same time as part of me was being born into my next half century. I just had to surrender to it.

That’s how New Year’s Eves are too: we must mourn the passing of the old year, and all we filled it with, at the same time as welcoming the fresh adventures of the new one. We lost so many hugely influential entertainers and musicians in 2016; every one of them tied to a corner of our hearts in a different, personal way we perhaps can’t even articulate…

img_7160

Street art, Brixton UK, 2016

I will hold my hand proudly up as a longtime Wham fan; my brother bought me that single for Xmas 1984, and I reckon I’ve played it every damn Xmas since. I CANNOT BELIEVE HE DIED ON XMAS DAY:

Last Xmas- WHAM!

What am I trying to say? My Psoas and I want you to be open to dying every day. Any day can be your last. Especially your birthday. Any day someone can leave you, or you can quit that job/stop smoking/shave your head/move to Venice/tell someone you love them at last. You can kill your old life any day, before it kills you, if it’s not bringing you joy.

I ended that romance. It hurt a lot. But it hurt being in it more. And my new life without it feels so much better. After some lovely solo time, I’ve started this new year in a new romance: totally unexpected, ground & rule-breaking, completely different. Heart-led. [More posts to come]…

So my Psoas was right: I did die. I wasn’t prepared to, even though I’d been officially warned, but it swept me up and away anyway. Which is the thing about Death isn’t it? Bowie, Prince, George, Carrie… the list of 2016 goes on… Relentless!

And now we’re in 2017. My resolutions are the same as last year: to be Brave, Vulnerable, Peaceful. I’ve added Being Kind as well, and I truly hope we can all be Kinder this year: to ourselves, to each other, to our precious planet, and to the fragile silver thread of Life we each hold, entwining ourselves with others’ hearts.

Happy New Year. Love your Psoas. Love your whole damn body. Love your Life.

Live your Love xx

 

 

 

 

 

relationships, online dating, raising a teenager, over 50, positive ageing

Prepare to lie. Prepare to buy. Prepare to die. Part Two

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We don’t celebrate Thanksgiving (yet) in Australia, nor do we have Black Friday. In 2016, more than 154 million Americans shopped either online or in store, according to a National Retail federation survey from CNN, Nov 27. They spent $1.9 billion online on Thanksgiving Day and another $3.3 billion on Friday, according to Adobe. In 2014, total spending for the 4-day Thanksgiving/Black Friday holiday weekend was over $50 billion.

In 1994, I travelled through Indonesia with a flatmate from Sydney. We went to Sumatra, way off the beaten track then, and got terrible ‘Bali belly’ the day after we landed. It was the morning of an all-day bus ride up the island, and my period arrived too. So there I was, losing all my bodily fluids explosively from all holes, sitting on a crammed bus where we were the only white faces, driving further and further off into the unknown. We literally staggered off the bus that night and collapsed into a small family guesthouse, both of us thinking we may die.

Of course we didn’t, and the owner fed us hard boiled eggs and banana porridge for 3 days till we recovered. We climbed the nearby still-active volcano, trekked through the jungle, ate lots of good cheap food and put weight back on, then three weeks later headed back to Denpasar to fly home. We went into a supermarket to kill time, and I was absolutely delighted by the massive choice of products, the cleanliness, the shininess of the world.

That’s the first time I realized with alarmed clarity how strongly I’d been programmed to buy for comfort.

Watch Black Friday 2015 (1 min 28 of hell) HERE

Of course, for drama’s sake, I’ve picked an extreme example of consumerism, I admit.

So let’s get more relaxed and casual. I’ve always been a fervent second-hand shopper, which continues to this day. When complimented on groovy jeans, unique dress, or overall stylish outfit, I love being able to say it cost me $5 from a garage sale.

jeansblog

Now what do you do with your second hand clothes? Donate them to the charity shop? The amount of clothes Americans actually throw away into the rubbish each year has doubled from 7 million to 14 million tons currently, or 36 kilos per person. The EPA estimates that:

“…diverting all of those often-toxic trashed textiles into a recycling program would be the environmental equivalent of taking 7.3 million cars and their carbon dioxide emissions off the road…”

That’s so many cheap t-shirts and leggings! And if they’ve got a mix of manmade fibres in them, they’re going to be around for a very long time:

‘…synthetic fibers, like polyester, nylon and acrylic… are essentially a type of plastic made from petroleum, and will take hundreds of years, if not a thousand, to biodegrade.’

I still garden in a pair of denim cotton Levi red tag jeans I was given when I was 21. They’re stained and torn, but still completely function as trousers. We all need to stop buying CRAP! It’s simple. Reduce, Reuse, Recycle. Don’t stand in line all night to be the first one in the door at WalMart to buy a new TV; camp in a tent with your children or your neighbours’ children instead, telling stories and making shadows by torchlight on the fabric walls.

As I stood in front of those stocked shelves in Indonesia, finding comfort in my variety of choices, I felt a small piece of me curl up and wither. The part who’d survived the bus ride from hell, and the kindness of a stranger who’d fed me. The part who’d recovered, and climbed a volcano from dawn to dusk, with a small parcel of rice and curry wrapped in a banana leaf, no cutlery needed. The part who’d used sign language and a tatty dictionary to get around, but had still laughed and played with locals in a town square during a wedding celebration. It was my ‘wild woman survivor’ part; the part of me who can recover from illness, chop wood, give birth, move mountains. The part of me who KNOWS what’s good and right in this world, and what’s plain CRAP. We don’t need 15 different types of sugary cereal for breakfast:

‘The United Nations Food and Agriculture Organization estimates that about 795 million people of the 7.3 billion people in the world, or one in nine, were suffering from chronic undernourishment in 2014-2016.’ [More info on World Hunger facts HERE.]

That simple banana porridge and hard boiled eggs from chickens at the end of the garden were enough. These 2nd hand cotton clothes are enough.

I am enough.

Now Christmas is coming, with temptations for Kris Kringle $20 gift exchanges no one really wants, and of course, incredible pressure to use credit cards and ‘no interest’ purchase plans.

Just say ‘No’. Don’t buy CRAP. Make gifts, swap gifts, or even better, use the cash you would have spent to make a donation to Greenpeace, Amnesty International, Oxfam or whoever you like. Just don’t buy CRAP. You can’t buy family cohesion. You can’t buy your kids love and respect, not really, not deep down. You can’t buy your way out of emptiness, or true soul loneliness. You can’t buy relief from guilt, or an escape from trauma. You may think you can, but that’s a learned behaviour. And I saw mine, reflected back to me in the shiny mirror of an Indonesian supermarket: I was dirty, smelly, skinnier than usual, and looking a bit like a rabbit caught in headlights under the fluorescent tubes. But oh boy did I look happy and pleased with myself. My wild, adventuring, surviving and thriving self, who’d swum way out of her comfort zone, flailed, sunk, flailed, and bobbed back up.

There is incredible power in being a consumer; and thus a non-consumer too.

In gratitude for simplicity, G xO 

Prepare to lie. Prepare to buy. Prepare to die. Part One

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Following on from my last post about childhood and Mum Down the long lane, I woke up this morning and thought about the lies I learnt to tell from a very young age. ‘Yes, I’m fine’. ‘Yes, this dress is nice’. ‘Yes, I’m enjoying this birthday party, thank you for coming.’

I was taught so easily; coached at daycare, by my parents, by books about good little princesses. As a sensitive child, learning to tune in to others around me, I quickly figured out that it could hurt people if I told the absolute truth, so I didn’t. Perhaps your experience is similar?

One of my earliest memories is crystal clear, and can only be mine (no prompting with an old photo, or someone else’s version of what happened). I’m almost 3 & a half, being taken to visit my new little brother in hospital, as he’s just been born; I’m assuming Dad took me. I remember walking into the room, and approaching the single bed. Mum was lying there, cuddling him as he lay alongside her. And there was something else beside them: a miniature ceramic tea set, with cups and saucers, teapot, milk jug, and sugar bowl. It was very pretty, and I wanted to touch it. Then Mum said ‘Look what your brother brought you.’ A kind attempt to placate any sibling rivalry, to nip it in the bud. I remember thinking ‘Well, he’s too small to have gone to the shops and used money, so he didn’t bring it for me, a grown up did. Probably Daddy. But I want it, so I’ll play this game…’

Thus I lied, and said thank you little brother, that’s great…

Fast forward 2 years: I’m nearly 6, and Mum and Dad were having another party that went late into the night. It was the seventies, so who knows what they were all getting up to! I used to come downstairs in my nightie because I’d hear all the music and laughing; the long living room would be full of women with big hair and colourful eyes, bright dresses or wide pants, men in more somber clothes. Lots of jewellery and big rings. Glasses being held, with empties everywhere. Ashtrays overflowing on small tables. I’d walk around, looking at everyone, smiling at those I knew, staring at those I didn’t.

Another vivid memory: sometimes if I stood still and looked long enough, especially at someone I didn’t know, it was as if layers used to melt off their faces, and I could see inside them, into their fear or their smallness or sometimes their kindness. They would look completely different, like a snapshot from deep within. Sometimes they’d realize what I was doing, and snap themselves shut. But too late: I’d often seen that they were all lying too, playing a game because they wanted something. Or someone…

My lying continued. As a young teenager, I was lonely, caused partly by geography. I attended high school in a town 3 miles from where we actually lived, so kids in my home town disliked me, seeing me as a traitor. And because I actually lived in a town 3 miles away, none of the kids at school liked me either. Well, there were a few, but generally I was not popular. Too different, born in France, smart but lazy, talented in some stuff but hopeless in others, and pretty poor (I was bullied for having a second-hand uniform and being too skinny, over and over through the years).

So I lied about stuff, trying to play a game of acceptance that I could never win. About why we were poor. About why Mum and Dad got divorced. About my lack of homework, or a mysterious illness, or dramatic events swirling around me. I played the game I’d been taught/taught myself, and I hoped desperately for happiness, which came sometimes in the drama room, dance studio, or most often, buried in a book.

The anxiety of being a late-developing teenager was compounded by a sense of deceit; I felt like I couldn’t be honest with anyone, desperately piling pages of stories on top of my real, naked, not-good-enough self. We all did it to different degrees; I’m sure you did too? We worried about all the ways we were ‘supposed’ to behave, or look, or speak, or purchase, and the complex web of our ‘social persona’ unfurled. Teenagers do it still. Let’s be honest: so do adults. That’s why we read all those positive affirmation memes in our Facebook feeds, and why we all have at least one or two Self Help books on our shelves.

But now, I’m fifty. For decades, I’ve been practicing honesty-is-the-best-policy (you’ll be relieved to know). Most of my friends would describe me as direct or forthright. I find it essential to say ‘That’s bullshit’ if I think something is. Yet it’s still possible to omit telling the whole truth isn’t it? Truth is so relative anyway. And if you’re sensitive to the feelings of others, or how they will behave with the new information you give them, it can be tempting to avoid a genuine, 100% disclosure.

Which of course is why relationships struggle, intimate communication can be so fraught, and men and women read books about the different planets they are from.

I’m trying to slow down and really listen to myself in interactions, especially challenging ones. When my son ‘16’ and I argue about homework/chores/staying out late etc, I am truly trying to remain calm, yet express ALL of what I need [well, apart from that ridiculous fight we had last week about what was for dinner when I’d just cooked a massive lunch!]

Prepare to lie indeed. Prepare to slip your soul’s gentle truth sideways, as you weigh up the pros and cons of each situation, and how you can cause the least damage to the hearts of others, including your parents, children, or lovers. Or benefit your agenda. Or ripple the pond of your workplace as lightly as a feather not a rock. Honesty takes courage; it takes softness to reveal your deep fears or inadequacies, and how they’re influencing your behaviour. It takes practice to open your throat, and let out the quiet roar. For sometimes, we know that what we say will destroy something we care about, like a romantic connection, or the tender hopes of an auditioning student for example. Such is Life, painful though it is.

I once heard this in a movie I think, long-since forgotten which one or when. But it’s become one of my mottos:

‘I’d rather be sad with the truth than happy with a lie.’

 I wonder how differently my childhood may have played out if Mum and Dad had said ‘We got you this tea set so you’re not jealous of your new baby brother.’ And I’d answered ‘Yes, I knew he couldn’t have bought it, he’s too little. It’s lovely, thankyou, can I play with it now?’

Down the long lane

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My mother, who lives in England, turned 80 on July 4. From Australia, I had organised a 3-day weekend get together in an old farmhouse on Dartmoor for our closest relatives, meaning 13 of us met up to celebrate. I hauled myself over to the UK, begrudging all those people who sleep easily on planes. Still, four good films in a row aren’t bad going.

A couple of weeks before I left, I treated myself to a massage. As usual, I wondered why I don’t do it more often? It was such a lush experience, with hot white towels softly lowered over me, and warm wheat-bags resting along each limb, feeding the air with that fresh bread scent. No tinny dolphin music, just silence. It was in a private home, so no exterior noise, or impatient clients waiting outside the door for us to finish. The masseur created a wonderful sense of nurturing, with her deliberate, knowledgeable movements, and I sank into the experience. I’d had a horrible cough for a few days, so I needed a bit of TLC.

About halfway through, I realised how rare it was for me to feel this: the complete surrender to being taken care of. Even with lovers, there is a sense of reciprocity, which is one dynamic I love about lovers of course. But this soft, vulnerable, needy ‘me’ is a rare sighting; even when I’m sick, I prefer people stay away from me so I can grump my way around the house alone.

So there I was, revelling in the indulgence of fluffy fabric draped across me, noticing how well tended I felt. And you know how sometimes we get memories triggered by a favourite smell or a childhood toy? I was suddenly a little girl again, yearning for that same feeling from my Mum. I gazed up at my tall mama, watching her move about the room, longing for her to stop and bend over me, to stroke my hair out of my eyes, or rub my back. And as strongly as I sought that caring touch or attention, I also knew I wasn’t ever going to get it.

Not then. Not now. Not ever.

Back in the cosy farmhouse on Dartmoor, I settled Mum into the main bedroom, with its solid four-poster bed. She was excited to be seeing everyone, especially my brother. Dinner was underway in the large kitchen, with various kids helping to chop vegetables or make salad, and just for a moment, it felt like we were part of the happy Waltons family from my childhood TV viewing. Mum sat at the table with a glass of rosé, watching all the action, while I stood in the doorway and watched her.

She’d never liked to cook. Nor wash up. She worked long hours running the local library, and being a single parent. Twice a week she bought meals from the next door neighbour- undercooked Shepherd’s pie or macaroni and cheese with a hard boiled egg. I’m not in any way claiming a terrible abused childhood, or a neglectful mother. I’m not saying she was ever deliberately cruel (although that half-cooked mince did make me gag). I just had the recognition that somewhere in me were needs for care that weren’t met, and I’d learnt to shut them down, and take care of myself instead. I learnt that so well that I now use ‘self-sufficient’ as shorthand to describe myself. All my friends will tell you I’m independent, and run my life efficiently and effectively solo. Have done for years. Know how to buy or sell a house, travel the world, study, perform, online date, and deal with my teenage son’s demands, dramas, and delights.

I’m also a pretty good cook. And I enjoy baking. I was planning to make my delicious chocolate and raspberry brownie for Mum’s birthday cake the next day. I’d brought candles, balloons, sparklers, party poppers, and silver banners which proclaimed ‘Birthday Girl’.

But no matter how hard I try, my brother remains her favourite. We all know it. I’ve got used to it now, but it must have frustrated and upset me when I was younger. Another reason to pull away, and just mother myself. I’m not blaming her for that; parenting is hard, being married is hard, being a stay-at-home Mum is hard, plus her own childhood and young adulthood had been hard, so how can I know what inner conflicts she was struggling with? Or what I might have done unintentionally that triggered reactions in her? I can’t. And it’s the past. What’s done is done. Perhaps we could talk it over…

OnFerry

New York ferry March 1968- I’m 18 months old

6 months ago, her doctor confirmed what we’d all suspected: she was in the first stages of Alzheimer’s disease. She’s a very well read and sensitive woman, but her world has increasingly shrunk, as she’s stopped playing her many CDs now that she can’t work out how to use the stereo. Her anxiety has spiked, especially around new situations, or travel. She was watching more TV, while writing endless lists of things to remember, strewn around her flat like a giant’s confetti.
It was almost a relief to hear it. And so sad; we’re all still processing it. Scary too of course. She’s in complete denial- fair enough! Says the doctor’s just trying to sell her expensive medication that he gets a commission on- perhaps that’s true? But when your Mum finally forgets your son’s name in your weekly phone conversations, on top of a mountain of other momentarily lost information, like days of the week, or names of vegetables, you know it’s real.

I watched her on the birthday weekend, smiling and laughing. But rarely using anyone’s name. Except her brother’s, and he died last year. A couple of times she couldn’t find the downstairs toilet; I put a light on the landing so she’d find the upstairs bathroom in the dark. She didn’t cook or clean or help tidy up, and one morning I found her trying to eat her muesli from a saucer as she couldn’t find the bowls. She fretted intensely about random issues such as a dog we passed on our walk, or the noise the children were making chasing the colourful balloons.

I watched details of her life and mine dissolving on her tongue. She followed conversations, but didn’t lead them; she agreed to memories we offered her, but held less and less for herself. Perhaps it can feel peaceful to her? Less attachment to all the ways she felt hurt, rejected, or misunderstood over the years, grooving the pathways in her mind which kept her attuned to pain or distress.

I watched her on the birthday weekend, walking slowly away from me down her laneway of memories, thick hedges tangling up high on either side, shading out the light. She is walking away, step by step, day by day. And with a thrashing tantrum I have to contain, the tiny selfish child in me wails once more for the Mum she can’t have, has never had, will now never have.

I grieve for, and forgive us both.

Baby

France, July 1966

Poetry and knives

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I saw this poetry on Facebook today, and it made me sweat. It happened live last night in Australia, and thank goodness my friend Kelly shared it early, so it exploded into my morning. Now it’s Trending all over the place, and rightly so.

Kate Tempest ‘Progress’ poem

Someone in the Comments called her a mediaeval prophet, and I think that’s perfect. She is completely embodying her passion, her skill, her need to communicate. I love her. So young, and so smart.

Did you notice the tweet ‘Kate Tempest reminds us old farts that we stopped maintaining the rage’? Brilliant, and true.

So I’m nearly 50, and just missed being a dreaded Baby Boomer, slipping quietly into Gen-X instead. I don’t think I’m particularly materialistic, although I enjoy my I-phone, and laptop, but I don’t think they rule my life…and sometimes I do indeed take Dylan Thomas’s advice:

“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light…”

If I’m not having my nanna nap that is.

But I will always get out of bed for organic food, well-cooked, preferably at home (or for Naomi Campbell’s $10,000, whichever is more likely).

So that’s one reason I bought my seven-year old son a knife, and he still has it. No, not so he can defend himself against grumpy old people, or instant gratification teenagers, or even his I-still-feel-like-I’m-slightly-sleep-deprived Mum.

Knife

I bought it in Adelaide’s small Chinatown for only $5. In fact, I bought two. Because I knew my son would not share his, and that’s ok. He was 7 then; now he’s nearly 16 (in less than a month MY BABY!!), and stoops slightly over the chopping board to cut veggies.

I bought it for him because it’s small, very light, strong, and has a natural wooden handle; I can sharpen it more often now that he’s older. I bought it for him because I could see the temptation to plonk him in front of the TV screen or DS or mobile while I cooked dinner, but where’s the community and family experience in that?

Of course, I’m no Jamie Oliver/saint super Mum: I throw together a quick dinner 6 times out of 7. But over the 9 years since I bought him that knife, we’ve spent hours cutting stuff up. We started with cucumbers and zucchinis (even though he wouldn’t eat them!), then moved to carrots and apples. Now he chops anything (well, not a huge fan of onions), and loves complaining that I need to sharpen all the knives. He’s got a job as a kitchen hand on Saturdays in a groovy, upmarket café, and loves telling me what the chef cooked him for his staff lunch (we’re talking Wagu beef burger with Haloumi, chipotle mayo, salad etc).

He makes a mess when he cooks, and sometimes I DO wonder if the effort I spend on cleaning up is a good exchange, but then we bond over fancy mushroom eggs and steamed/fried sweet potato chips with goat’s cheese and smoked paprika, and I know it’s all worthwhile. Especially if it keeps him away from the screens Kate is talking about, and the empty feeling inside we are trying to fill. Did you watch her poem? Seriously, click on it  right now!

Kate Tempest ‘Progress’ poem

Blog tales for the Over 50s with positive ageing, dating & relationships

When your teenage son asks if you’re a feminist

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‘Yes. Absolutely 100%. Totally, dedicated, committed, Yes!’ I replied. He shrugged, in that gangly, wide-collar-bone way so many teenagers have, and said:

‘Yeah, so am I; it’s just obvious isn’t it?’

My heart nearly burst with pride, and my eyes teared up over our cereal bowls. But I kept my cool, and made a casual remark about how great it was he thought that, and what a shame he wasn’t running the country entire world (he often teases me for my over-enthusiasm; I really don’t know what he means).

That was last year. Yesterday, on March 7 2016, the day before International Women’s Day, the Australian Council of Trade Unions (ACTU) released their updated report ‘Gender Pay Gap – Over the Life Cycle’, which sums up its findings with this nugget of shame:

“Australian women are financially disadvantaged at every key stage of their life: in childhood, at the workplace, through pregnancy, motherhood and as a carer, and in retirement.”

This is why I’m a Feminist.

I care about financial equality because we live in a capitalist system, where money equals power. And when women are consistently disempowered, it pisses me off.

The report outlines that:

  • Women are earning less on average to men than they were 20 years ago
  • Women earn $284.20 less per week than men
  • 70% of part-time work is undertaken by women
  • 60% of women are graduates in recent years, however female post-graduates earn 82% of the salary of a male post graduate
  • Just 24% of Australian Board Directors and 17 % of Chief Executives are women
  • Women, during their child bearing years (25-44) earn up to 40% less than men in the same age group, regardless of whether they have children
  • Women spend twice as much time doing unpaid work including caring for children, older people or people with a disability, housework and volunteering in their local community

Women are clearly awesome. And not renumerated equally for that. Or valued socially by those higher up in the hierarchy. It pisses me off.

But I’m not a man-hating feminist. [Oh actually, that’s not true. I do hate the behaviour of men who beat or murder their partners and/or children, while acknowledging they may indeed have had terrible trauma stories themselves; Data from SBS television Nov 2015 shows one woman is killed by her partner in Australia every week; in 2015, 79 women died as a result of violence, with an estimated 80 per cent of the deaths a result of domestic or family violence. And don’t get me started on Catholic Cardinals who cover up abusive priests for years, moving them around…]

But I digress. The final 3 points in the ACTU report seal the deal of rebellion for me, as I age [dis]gracefully:

  • The average superannuation balance for women at retirement is $138,150 compared with $292,500 for men
  • 60% of women aged between 65-69 years have no Super at all
  • It is estimated that 38.7% of single women will retire in poverty

*Sigh*

That report is one of many reasons I’m a Feminist.

Now what does that word actually mean? According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the full definition of Feminism is:

1:  the theory of the political, economic, and social equality of the sexes

2:  organized activity on behalf of women’s rights and interests

We can thank the suffragettes in the late 19th century for the evolution of feminism, and again in the 1960s with Germaine Greer (can you believe women couldn’t actually vote until 1918??)

For me, it is indeed obvious: of course we’re all equal, and worthy of that parity. Certainly not the same same, but gloriously valuable in our diversity (and I include every multi-coloured, gender-fluid/sexually-orientated/non-binary/non-labelled human being that I possibly can here, as well as unicorns).

UnicornBlog

But we’re all trying to function in a system (or system combination) that is inherently broken. Or rather, is constructed to remove our freedom and sense of community, as we continue to struggle for access to resources, education, expression, and [eventually], simply clean air and water.

Capitalism combined with Patriarchy is a killer mix, and they are both ruining the world. So while I type this in my safe, quiet home in the land of milk, honey, and every organic gluten-free product ever invented, I am acutely aware of my privilege as an educated white woman, believe me.

But I still earn only 80 cents to every dollar that a man does! Fuck that. Yet I donate a percentage of my income every month to Greenpeace, Amnesty International, and the guardians of the whales, Sea Shepard. You do indeed have to Be the Change you want to see in the world.

Today is International Women’s Day. Yesterday in the car to school, ‘15’ and I talked about Catholicism/Christianity/Paganism, and how me and pretty much every woman I know would have surely been burnt at the stake as a witch. I told him I hoped that one day he found a girlfriend who was descended from a witch… [not yet though, like, not too soon, cos he’s still my baby boy forever quite young really]. He quietly agreed. This morning I reminded him to wish his many female friends a great special day, and encourage them to feel free, wild, liberated, and capable of doing anything they dream.

But the facts from the ACTU report rile me. Domestic violence murder statistics from Destroy The Joint organisation, which stands for gender equality and civil discourse in Australia, sadden me to my core.

So on behalf of every single mum, every beaten wife, every illiterate child in the developing world, and every man who feels trapped in a dishonourable role, I am a Feminist. For our suffering Mother Earth, I am a Feminist.

DestroyTheJoint

And for you, dearest son ‘15’, and your potential children’s children’s children, I am a Feminist, and raise you as one too, to love, honour and appreciate the women in your life.

Because that’s what we all need.