Category: The Creative Well

An Emerging Writer’s Spiel

When it comes up in conversation that I’m writing a novel, I’m usually asked what my book is about. I’ve always struggled with the answer to this, not because I don’t know what I’m writing but because I never know whether to tell the story or whether to reveal what it’s really about, it’s message.

If I was asked by a prospective publisher, I’d want to give my twenty second pitch. But even that befuddles me. There’s the advice that as an emerging (unpublished) author, a hook – something vibrant and catchy – is required. But that’s so subjective I can’t formulate one.

My genre is fairly clear, at least. It’s contemporary – probably women’s – fiction. But if a publisher put literary in that description, I’d be thrilled. Literary fiction is what I like to read. It’s what I admire.

So I’ve created an answer that merges story with message and I hope it sounds intriguing.

It’s about three friends who are dealing with the challenges common to women in middle life. It’s about their experience of love and loss, family and friendship, and the choices they make to rewrite future chapters of their lives. It’s set in Australia, India, and Ireland over the course of a year.

This draft will be finished by June – I’m going for positivity – and then I’ll have another look at that pitch and send off my manuscript to the highly selective world of agents and publishers. I’ll finally walk the talk and show all my commitment and perseverance.

If anyone has any advice for me, please post it here. Likewise, if you like my spiel, encourage me with a thumbs up.

Happy reading, dreaming, and writing, my word-loving friends.

The Funeral

I have just been to a funeral of a man I barely knew. Strange, you might think. But not so strange since we were neighbours.

I knew his wife better than I knew him. His wife, who is now without a husband. A woman who had been married for forty years, who didn’t expect to be a widow so early, if at all. You see, her husband was only sixty-five.

She knew the boy at school, the fifteen-year-old, I found out at the funeral. They weren’t ‘an item’ until they were twenty-five, she said. He was her ‘soul mate,’ her best friend, the father of their four children, and the Nonno to their six grandchildren. Sadly, the unborn seventh, will have missed meeting this grandfather.

I saw a lot of love at the funeral. I saw it in those downturned mouths, those tears of grown men, those stooped shoulders. I could hear it in the broken voices, the sniffs, the silences. I listened to the stories told by brothers and sisters, daughters and sons, the mother-in-law, the bereaved widow, and I could feel the respect. Words like ‘legend’ and ‘unique’ were used. Nicknames like ‘Dancing Dennis,’ and ‘The Don’ were bandied about. He sounded like a character, a fun guy, a stirrer, an accepting and encouraging father, a handyman, a genuinely good guy.

I wish I’d known him better.

He was diagnosed with a nasty cancer less than a year ago. The last two weeks were bad. He insisted on coming home for Christmas, to ‘the best palliative care he could get.’ He shared Christmas Day with all his family. And then he went to bed and left.

There is no doubt in my mind that this man left then because it was kinder to his family. Only today I found out that his family was the most important thing in the world to him, that he was selfless, that he would do anything for them.

Observing the large family today, I believe it.

His wife, in closing, said, ‘Life will go on, as it must. But it will never be the same.’

People like this man make the world a better place. He was here, he did his best, he left a legacy. He left good people in his wake. People who will also go on to live good lives, inspired to do their best, and make their own way.

Last week, this man had two requests: I want bright colours at my funeral. I want people to be happy for the good life I had. What a great attitude.

I went to the funeral out of respect for the grieving wife. As a neighbour. As a member of the community. As a potential friend. At funerals, we hear people’s stories. We get to know people better – the deceased and those who loved them. By knowing some of his story, I now know some of hers. Perhaps in this way I can help. It might be that chat while holding the hose on the garden. Or that drink on the veranda at sundown. It might simply be the knowledge that a neighbour cares.

By going to the funeral, I have reached out a hand. By doing so, my own life has more meaning.

This Time Last Year

This time last year, I was in Delhi, India. I woke on Christmas morning, having arrived the night before, and felt as excited as any child waiting to see what Santa brought. What would Christmas in India be like? There was a red, felt stocking hanging outside my door, full of sweets and silliness. Gold baubles and tinsel decorated the hotel lobby and breakfast room. ‘Happy Christmas, Ma’am,’ was said with a nod and a smile as I passed any of the staff. By the time I got to Jodhpur later that day, Christmas was forgotten. I wasn’t sad.

I had a festive lunch with my family, the week before I left. To me, that was Christmas. I had the fun, the feast and the frivolity without the queues, the exorbitant seafood prices and the angst of sharing the day by time slots. I would prefer to do this every year.

I was hyped by the thrill of adventure, of a journey through parts of India I had not been before. I was on my way to an ashram 28km north of Jodhpur on the edge of the Thar Desert, for a women’s festival celebrating shakti, sisterhood and spirituality, plus teachings on the environment – past, present and future – and what we can do to enhance our creativity and heal nature.

Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love and Big Magic, invited me – personally, I felt – on Instagram. I could barely wait!

A few days later, I was at the ashram and had made friends already. We were women of all ages from many countries, and thrilled to be there.

I saw films made by young, Indian women about seed banks and the Bishnois who were the first tree huggers. I learned about the school for kids with disabilities, run by Sneh Gupta, founder of Indiability, and the support offered by Urmi Basu’s New Light Kolkata for women and their children in the red-light district. I had the honour of meeting these women.

My eyes were wide open and my mind, highly receptive.

The food was pure, organic and vegetarian. Also, delicious. There was no alcohol but plenty of milky masala chai.

I watched Liz Gilbert interact with other learners, volunteers, activists, leaders, high achievers, the broken, the fragile, creatives, village women and festival organisers, and was moved by her grace, compassion, and insights. She was one of us and it was empowering.

I was okay. I was an observer and a participant in something that was much bigger than me but felt easy and right. I was part of a team. Whenever something made me sad, I went to the dogs – literally. The female ashram dogs were sweet and gentle.

I got Ayurvedic health advice from Shreejan Sita, the programme director and Ayurvedic Yoga Therapist. I discovered enneagrams and TRE (tension, stress and trauma release exercise) and had a tarot card reading, which was surprisingly accurate. I listened to women’s stories.

Apart from the cold and austerity of the ashram, I had a ball.

On New Year’s Eve, we partied. We danced in the vast red tent – friends and village girls – while Guruji and Shree looked on. We chanted around the fire, burning words on bits of paper to dispel the unwanted leftovers of 2019. No champagne. No mind-altering substances at all. We were high on the sisterhood and the freezing cold desert around us.

The year 2020 was not what I expected. The massive devastation left by the bushfires in NSW Australia was heartbreaking. A close friend died. The settlement on the sale of my marital home was difficult. Covid struck. Relationships became strained. My father’s health deteriorated and he died. Family and friends had challenges. All around me, I witnessed stress, heartache and adjustments.

And yet, I had many good times too: a new home and successful renovations; progress, albeit slow, on the writing of my book; friendships were strengthened; my sons’ lives developed, and their relationships grew stronger. I made new friends and found a new community. I have proved to myself how capable I am. And am learning to be more comfortable in my own skin.

This Christmas will not be as joyful as the last. There will be fewer loved ones at my table. Covid 19 has broken out again in NSW and state borders have closed. The virus plagues the world and India is unreachable and suffering more than ever.

But I am lucky. I have family. I have friends. I have health, a comfortable home, an abundance of fresh food, clean air and sunshine. There is much to be grateful for.

I will drink champagne on New Year’s Eve with a friend or two. I will remember last year’s NYE and the year that was. I might light a smudge stick and set some intentions. We’ll see! I have learned that plans need to be fluid. One of my intentions is to not be so hard on myself when they are.

I wish you a safe and gracious Christmas. May you maintain a smile throughout 2021 and infect the world with it.

Utsava Maa, Shri Jasnath Asan, 2019

Namita’s Blog

Celebrating the Goddess with Utsava Maa in Rajasthan, India

Lisa’s Blog

Life at Shri Jasnath Asan

Bishnois

When Amrita Devi And 362 Bishnois Sacrificed Their Lives For The Khejri Tree

To Be An Activist

What Does it Take to be an Activist?

It takes courage – courage to believe in yourself, courage to face opponents, courage to be able to argue the facts, and stand up to those who try to undermine you.

It takes anger – anger against what you believe to be wrong, harmful or unjust.

It takes confidence – confidence to stand alone, lead or support a minority, confidence to stand with those who are weaker, discriminated against and less powerful, confidence in your own judgement.

It takes knowledge – knowledge of the facts, of what is hidden, of what is manipulated, knowledge of the injustice, knowledge of the consequences.

And it takes time – time to gain a thorough understanding, time to plan, time to gather troops.

Activism is difficult. It can be uncomfortable, alienating, dangerous and time consuming.

To be an activist is to be clear on what is right and wrong.

Simply standing up for those around you who are discriminated against – a senior person, a junior person, a fearful person – is activism. Making troublesome choices that care for the environment, living creatures and society – is activism. Joining a group for the betterment of the community is activism.

Those activists who go beyond their immediate world and challenge those with the power, those who lead a cause that affects others, will often be persecuted. They are presented as troublemakers, irrational, stupid and wrong. Their act is misrepresented and undermined by deflection, by the cause itself being manipulated or the action being scrutinised to overemphasize the faults.

There have been many activists in history who have suffered greatly for their cause. They have been jailed, tortured, demoralised, lied about, joked about and killed.

The point of this Blog Post is – activists should be respected, whether you agree with them or not. Because, they are not fighting a cause to be famous or rich or to have something to do. They fight to achieve what they believe is right. And if you look back in history, what may have started out as something trivial, laughable and irrational, has turned out to be something important.

The Bishnoi people of Rajasthan India, back in 1730, were the original “tree huggers.” They died trying to save their forest. This literal, but derogatory term, is used frequently to belittle defenders of the environment, even in “environmentally conscious” Australia.

At one time, in the southern states of America, Eleanor Roosevelt was told, “You have ruined the niggers. They weren’t race conscious until you started hobnobbing with them.” This outstanding humanitarian of the 1940s and 50s was maligned by sexual allegations and malicious jokes, totally designed to undermine her.

The fight against cruelty to animals, discrimination, the decimation of biodiversity, food wastage, water pollution, mining in sensitive areas, and air pollution, are all examples of just causes. We need to do our best to do no harm, to contribute to the betterment of the world’s health, to think as a member of society and the global community, and not purely as an individual.

But if we wish to make a large impact, we need to have the qualities and skills of an activist. We need to focus on one issue. We need to care so much about that issue that we don’t care what people think.

Young Greta Thunberg hasn’t chosen a small issue or a straightforward one. It is one of the most complicated and controversial issues of our time. The discussion around climate change is both scientific and emotional. I used to say I wasn’t a fan of Greta’s. The sixteen-year old embarked on her mission when she was thirteen. She is a child, easy to use, belittle and dismiss. I have read the arguments against her, the hypotheses and the scathing accusations. I wasn’t going to be manipulated. Then a friend, disappointed in my assessment, gave me the book of her speeches. Her desire is straightforward: Adults and World Leaders – listen to the scientists, read the data, inform yourselves and act urgently to stop the increasing temperature of the earth. If you agree that the earth is warming, there is good reason to act urgently. If you agree with the scientific facts that she refers to, there is good reason to act drastically.

Greta is told to stop being disruptive, stop scare mongering and go back to school to finish her education. She says she will, as soon as the leaders start taking action, because without that, there is no point.

Look at history. Don’t dismiss what Greta says before thinking and learning about it. And don’t hate her for being an activist.

The humanitarian, Urmi Basu, recently advised me, “If you really want to know what’s going on in a place, find out what the activists are doing.” Those few words have changed my entire way of thinking.

It’s not likely I will ever be a leading activist. But I will do my best to contribute to the world’s well-being. I vow to remain open minded, curious, community minded, environmentally careful and more courageous than comfortable. My form of activism will be small and spread wide. I will write about issues that I care about. And in that way, I will call myself an activist.

Will you be one too?

 

Reference:

Greta Thunberg No One is Too Small to make a Difference.

“Everyone and everything needs to change. But the bigger your platform, the bigger your responsibility. The bigger your carbon footprint, the bigger your moral duty.”

Urmi Basu, founder of New Light India, a refuge for children and young adults at risk in the red-light district of Kolkata. www.newlightindia.org

Brene Brown, Research Professor, public speaker, writer and social worker who says, “Integrity is choosing courage over comfort.”

Eleanor Roosevelt, American first Lady 1933-45, diplomat and humanitarian, activist until she died in 1962, for child welfare, housing reform, equal rights for women and racial minorities.

“Do what you feel in your heart to be right – for you’ll be criticized anyway. You’ll be damned if you do, and damned if you don’t.”

“One’s philosophy is not best expressed in words; it is expressed in the choices one makes… and the choices we make are ultimately our responsibility.”

Animals Australia https://www.animalsaustralia.org/ Photo credit.

Extreme Start to 2020

I was in India when the bushfires were ravaging Australia. Even in an ashram in a tiny village in Rajasthan, news reached me that the coastal town of Sussex Inlet, where my beloved river house sits, was in danger. Fires were out of control throughout the South Coast of NSW devastating bushland, National Parks, and towns.

Over December and January, at least thirty-four people and a billion animals died; 186 square kilometres of tree-covered land including 5900 buildings, were destroyed; people lost possessions and livelihoods; wildlife lost their food.

It’s depressing to think that some things won’t recover. The fires were too vast and hot. That which will recover, will take a long time.

But feeling depressed doesn’t help. There’s too much to do.

People are rallying to help. Communities are growing and bonding over the effort. Solutions are germinating, just as plants will.

Ironically, I was in the ashram to talk creatively about the environment. Despite the huge environmental problems in India, it is a place of such spiritual energy at its core, it’s inevitable that seeds of recovery are sprouting there.

The ashram was the location of a conference-like festival called Utasava Maa, ‘a transformative all female festival, uniting extraordinary women from across the globe to share, inspire and collaborate in response to the ongoing international repression and violation of the earth and her daughters.’

Women, the traditional carers and protectors of the communal environment, joined heads and hearts to create ideas about change, starting with ourselves and the most basic of local levels.

Like many of the other Western women, I was attracted to the festival by the passionate motivator, Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat Pray Love and Big Magic. This woman’s capacity to inspire and rejuvenate others is at goddess-level. To be in her company, and of others like her, for nine days in a soul-stirring environment, was life-changing.

On the eve of the end of 2019, Western and Indian women danced together. It was barefoot and free. We sat around the campfire wrapped in thick, woollen shawls, and listened to the guitar and the tabla, and the voices of those who sang or had something to say. We wrote things on paper, things we wanted to let go of, and burned them in the flames. We said goodbye to unhelpful things. It was a ritual that closed off the past and wiped the slate clean for the future. It was cleansing and uplifting.

Except, at home, the fires burned. The contrast was poignant.

I’m concluding that getting back to the ancient ways is a good place to start restoring health. But I’m not going to turn this Post into an opinion piece.

Despite the euphoria I felt at midnight on the other side of the world, reality is problematic. Since I’ve been home in Australia, the positivity I felt coming into the year, has been attacked several times.

Issues that lay dormant over the Christmas/summer holidays, have seeped through the cracks and emerged, persistent. Normal life is uncomfortable. It’s bills and emails, shopping and cleaning, responsibilities and duties.

Reality has a way of slapping you in the face if you get too carried away with dreams. A very dear friend, a passionate, loving, shining light of a woman, lost her struggle with cancer and died last week. Her light has gone out and she didn’t want it to. She had life to live.

It’s important that we live knowing that time isn’t endless. Not only is our time here on earth restricted, but it can be extinguished way before we’re ready.

My point is, that we should use each day well. Be positive and step forward. Do the things that you plan to do, despite the difficulties, the fear and obstacles; despite the chaos of real life. Think about the future, yes, but live each day with vigour, concern for others and care for the natural environment.

In National Parks, the motto is, leave nothing but footprints. But a national park is like an ashram. It’s the ideal. Ideas grow into deeds like seeds grow into trees. In the real world, leave your mark. Even on the smallest level, do something to make the world a better place. Raise the children to be community minded, grow a garden, lend someone your strength.

2020 is going to be another life-changing year for me, starting with moving house and ending with a publisher for my book. I do more than hope. I do something each day towards my goal; despite the everyday hassles and drama; despite what anyone says. My dreams mix with reality. They merge and flow and continue to grow with any fertiliser thrown at them.

Be uncomfortable. Be active. Do what you need to, to make 2020 a good one.

In the words of my guru, Liz G, Onward!

 

What will you do to thrive in 2020?

 

 

Relationships Change

It would be helpful in all relationships if we reflected on how we change over time: as an individual and as a member of a relationship.

Our needs and our deeds are different at various stages of our lives.

When we are young, we are incomplete, still feeling our way: exploring, experimenting, discovering. What do we like, dislike? What do we want, not want? What and who inspires us to develop within? Some relationships that we build will bond forever. They become part of our foundation – cemented by who we essentially are at our most basic. Some, we find, are not of the same material, and these will fall away like bark from a tree.

Between young and middle age, we are building our lives along with ourselves: our careers, our homes, our families. These external pursuits bond us to those in the same position: peers, neighbours and other parents, joined by commonalities. Activities, struggles and achievements shared, tighten these bonds. But as we develop and commonalities pass, only those that have grown together and have respect for the emerging differences, will survive.

The relationship with one’s child and the relationship with one’s intimate, “romantic” partner undergo the largest changes and strongest stresses.

The child needs to be nurtured to grow well. Each child requires our individual attention for it to be the best it can be. We give our children everything, until we feel sapped of nutrients ourselves. We must take time out to replenish ourselves. We need space, time and pursuits of our own. We must continue to look after ourselves in order to look after our children, and in the process, our children learn to be independent. The relationship changes and if we resist, it will break. We need to release our children for them, and our relationship with them, to thrive.

Perhaps the intimate relationship with one’s partner, is under the most strain. It experiences the greatest external pressures: work commitments, finances, household chores, dedication to children, influence of parents, siblings and friends, the minutiae of life. It changes constantly with circumstances. Our responses and feelings ebb and flow. The demands we put on the intimate relationship – predictability, stability and consistency – can be so great they are impossible to achieve.

The intimate relationship begins in a state of perfect compliment. We cannot get enough of each other’s eyes, thoughts, bodies, company. It is a self-enclosed world of perfect unity.

It eases off into a companionable sameness; two separate people heading in the same direction, reaching for the same goals. Loosely hand in hand, supporting each other, learning from each other, admiring each other. This relationship can build a life together; a family, a business, a mature self-sufficiency in an ever-expanding membrane.

In middle age, when we have built our worlds, raised our children, reached or given up on dreams, there is, inevitably, another change. There is opportunity for growth. Without clinging nostalgically to the past, we can adapt to the new circumstances and reach for possibilities. Our goals may differ, pursuits diverge, viewpoint shift. If we allow freedom rather than restriction, growth rather than stagnation, respect rather than criticism, our intimate relationship can thrive in a state of ongoing friendship. For this to happen, we need to understand and accept ourselves and our partners.

External and internal circumstances cause everybody and every relationship to change. We need to hold loosely, dance lightly and be generous to ourselves and of ourselves, for any relationship to thrive with these changes.

The inspiration for this blog came from reading, Gift From the Sea, by Anne Morrow Lindbergh.

“The light shed by any good relationship illuminates all relationships.”

The novel I am writing explores these changes in relationships. I would be interested in your thoughts.

Territory

The road off the highway was red-brown dirt and bereft of signs. The driver steered the mini-bus, sixteen of us on board, through the scrubby bush that lined both sides. Sticks and leaves hit the windows, and rocks clunked off the chassis. We entered a Darwin backwater.

Our host, Patrick, stood in a broad opening, waiting for us to disembark and gather near him. He was wearing Hard Yakka gear: faded navy shirt and drill shorts; ripped Akubra. A gun in a holster and knife in a sheaf, sat on his right hip. His heels were as cracked as drought-dry earth; his toenails as grey as ash, just like his long beard.

When we were silent before him, he greeted us sternly. ‘You’re here by invitation. Do what I say, and you’ll be safe. You’ll learn a lot about crocodiles. Up close. These crocodiles are wild and it’s not like a wildlife park or TV show, which is just entertainment.’

Patrick marched us up to the mangroves. ‘Never look for crocodiles,’ he instructed, checking our eyes were on him, ‘because if you don’t see any, you’ll think they aren’t there, and then you’re in danger.’

We crossed the gang plank, under order, two or three at a time, ‘in case something happens,’ and climbed onto the rectangular, aluminium boat. We sat, peering out through steel mesh which fenced us in. We were shown the holes where we could hold our camera phones. ‘Don’t stick any part of you outside the boat; not a finger!’

Ten minutes down river, we were chugging over to the muddy shore, Patrick having noticed a ‘small’ croc in the water. It followed us, knowing there was a chicken carcass linked to that chugg. ‘I know all the crocs in this area! This is a female,’ said Patrick. Her skin was the colour of rotting autumn leaves: beige and brown and grey; quite beautiful. She thrilled us as she launched herself from the water up to the flying carcass, dangled from cotton thread and a bamboo pole. Our cameras and fingers stayed behind the mesh as we were awed by the insides of her mouth and the number of teeth. Snap. The sound was sharp and definite. ‘She’s got reflexes five times faster than any human,’ said Patrick in his stern voice. ‘Two point four metric tonnes per square inch is her jaw closing pressure; that’s two thousand four hundred kilos per square inch!’ he drawled. Clearly, an inch was a preferred measurement for Patrick. Abruptly, our girl turned and scampered onto the mud.

An enormous male was heading our way and since crocodiles can’t tell the sex of one another in the water, she had to get on shore to lift her head and open her mouth to show her feminine submissiveness. If he’d met her in the water, he would have assumed her to be male and fought her off his territory.

As he took over the chicken carcasses, and the show, she hung back in the shallows. Patrick commented on them both being a bit distracted, and he looked up river. ‘This’ll be interesting,’ he said.

The small female thrust herself into the water, swimming quickly toward an approaching crocodile. Patrick chuckled as the newcomer twisted back and raced in the opposite direction, both crocodiles scooting on top of the water. The big male croc looked back at the boat, more interested in chicken. Patrick answered our questions. ‘He doesn’t care; she’s scaring it off her territory, which is around one hundred metres. It’s probably a female. He’s got anywhere between twenty and fifty females in his area,’ he said, smiling. ‘She’ll ward off small males too; she only wants the alpha around.’

As we watched, the first female disappeared under the water, and just like a cartoon, the surface one sped up. They both emerged, as if stopped by an invisible fence, and engaged in mouth-to-mouth combat. ‘That’s the border line of the girls’ territory, a bit of a no-man’s land,’ Patrick informed us.

We moved further along the river, coming to another bank, this one sandy and edged with thick scrub. Another female, lolling in the water, took to the chicken, and gave us another chance to see deep inside her mouth as she jumped up to meet the unpredictable, flying carcass. Suddenly, she aquaplaned onto the bank, the same male having followed us. The females obviously felt fear, despite Patrick’s comment that crocodiles had no emotions. ‘They might know the sound of the boat and associate it with the chicken, but if I fell in the water, I wouldn’t be spared. There’s no attachment, no love. If they bite the propeller it’s because they’re testing it for eatability. They let it go. Anything organic, they eat it; your bones, your teeth, but not your knee replacements or your fillings.’

Good to know! Crocodiles are only interested in territory, feeding and mating. There’s no happy, no sad; just pissed off, hungry or horny! Any similarity to man is coincidental, and if you know a man like this, unfortunate!

 

Have you ever met any pre-civilised creatures who fight over territory, mates or tucker? Be careful who you smile at!

 

Being Disliked and Not Needing Praise: The Benefits

How do you feel about being disliked?

If you answered, ‘I couldn’t give a stuff!’ it’s likely you’re being defensive. Let’s be truthful; we’re social animals and we’d all rather be liked.

But there are benefits to not minding, and maybe you’ve worked that out already.

When we’re children and we want to please our parents. As school kids, we want to please other kids: the cool kids, the smart kids or the sporty kids. We want to fit in.

Many adults still strive to please; the daughter who studies accounting instead of art, the husband who chooses the secure job instead of the one that excites him, the friend who keeps quiet instead of declaring a different opinion, do so in order to please others.

They fear causing an argument. They fear rejection. They fear being disliked.

They strive for acceptance and recognition and end up living a life according to someone else’s idea of how they should live.

We have no control over what someone else thinks of us. Others don’t have control over what we think of them.

We can’t make people appreciate us or agree with us. So, isn’t it better to be honest? Isn’t it better to choose the life that we believe will make us most happy? And, isn’t being honest a better way to form true, solid relationships with people who like us for who we truly are?

If we can accept ourselves as we are and recognise our own ability and limitations, if we’re not always seeking recognition and praise, we will be able to live life in accordance with our own values.

I’m one of those people who likes to please. It disturbs me if someone is upset with me or dislikes me. I suffer if I feel misunderstood and I will keep quiet rather than argue. I like to be praised and recognized for my achievements and will adjust my behaviour in order to get it.

But lately I’ve been wondering if it’s worth it. I’ve even been wondering if my trying to please indirectly contributed to the breakdown of my marriage. If I’d had more confidence in myself, would that have made a difference to my relationship?

Trying to please is hard work. A desire to please comes from a place of uncertainty. Am I worth it? Am I good enough? Will he still like me? Are we even sure what someone else wants?

If we’re trying to please, we’re trying to obtain praise, recognition, acknowledgement. The very desire to receive praise comes from a place of need, to have our self-worth reinforced.

It betrays that we’re not doing something purely because we want to. And it’s requiring someone else to behave a certain way. Expecting reward makes us even more vulnerable, and invites conflict.

Trying to please is not living the way we honestly want.

Are we being true to our values and beliefs if we’re worrying about what others think of us? 

Living life trying to please others, or even one other, is not a rewarding or free way to live.

Accepting ourselves as we are, fulfilling our tasks to the best of our ability without needing someone else to tell us we’re worthy, and following our own path, are surely better ways to find happiness.

With these thoughts in mind, I’ve been endeavoring to achieve self-acceptance.

I was advised to read a book called ‘The Courage to be Disliked’, by the Japanese philosopher, Ichiro Kishimi and the writer, Fumitake Koga. The book portrays the philosophy of Adler, one of the three giants of 19th century psychology, alongside Freud and Jung.

Adler states that all our problems are interpersonal relationship problems. That means, how we live our lives in relation to other people.

One of the first principles is the separation of tasks, that is, knowing what is our own task and recognising the boundary of someone else’s task.

My behavior is my task. How someone responds to that behaviour is their task.

Adler says that knowing and not crossing these task boundaries is the gateway to harmony in our lives. Crossing the boundaries causes conflict.

Imagine that your mother-in-law has ‘tidied’ your linen cupboard while you were out. Or your friend suggests it’s time you repainted the house, disciplined your child or lost weight. Do you think you’d be delighted with their recommendation? I think not!

The reason there is conflict when someone encroaches on another’s task is because there is the implication that they know best: they’re superior, you’re inferior. A feeling of inferiority or superiority comes from a vertical vision of relationships.

A fundamental principle of Adler’s philosophy is that all interpersonal relationships be horizontal, that is equal. The housewife and the company executive are equal, just not the same. Economic superiority has no connection to human worth. If people are equal, there is no need to compete with others. It is not about being better than the next person.

It is about being self-reliant and the best person you can be.

Without a feeling of superiority or inferiority, it is easier to live your own life and not encroach on others. When you recognise your own ability and limitations, you can find the courage to change what you can change and improve yourself. You can move forward without worrying about what the other person is doing or what they think of you. It allows you to contribute to society while at the same time being yourself.

When you contribute to the lives of others, committing to your own community, you come to accept your existential worth. To have self-worth you need to feel that you are of use to someone.

 If you feel that you have purpose you will feel that you are contributing.

Happiness is the feeling of contribution.

It will result in seeing others as comrades and knowing that you have worth equal to others. People wish to belong and have a feeling of ‘it’s okay to be here.’

Being disliked by someone is proof that you are exercising your freedom and living in freedom.

It is a sign that you are living in accordance with your own principles.

Being disliked by people is inevitable, just as it is inevitable that we dislike some others.

Living your own life the best you can, choosing the best path that you believe in and your own lifestyle without blaming others or trying to please others, is all you can do.

What another person thinks of you, if they like you or dislike you, is that person’s task, not yours.

In conclusion and in the words of the author,

“Learn to delineate your own task and what is another’s. Contribute, knowing your own worth, not for praise or recognition, but for having a sense that you are beneficial to the community. An awareness that ‘I am of use to someone,’ gives us the courage to live. Accept ‘this is me.’ Having the courage to be disliked is having the courage to be happy.”

 

https://www.allenandunwin.com/browse/books/general-books/self-help-practical/The-Courage-to-be-Disliked-Ichiro-Kishimi-and-Fumitake-Koga-9781760630492

 

IMG_3298 (2)

Today is Another Day. Be Grateful.

The ability to connect with nature is one of the most basic and important aspects of modern life. Many people are losing this connectivity, through lifestyle, man-made distractions and lack of mindfulness. I believe they are losing their souls and sense of peace.

Taking ten seconds to notice the outside world as we wake each morning can enhance our appreciation for being alive. Look out of the window. What do you see? What do you hear? Can you open the window and feel it? What does it smell like? You are connected. You are alive.

I’m fortunate; I’m free, healthy and live by a river in a small Australian coastal town. There is a lot to be grateful for right there.

I look out of my window or step onto the deck. The river glistens and teams with visible life. Water hens, ducks, pelicans and cormorants cruise and dive, fishing amongst the seagrass. I can hear the flapping of large wings splashing water as black swans groom.

Before the river are tall Eucalyptus trees, as high as five storey buildings. Magpies, currawongs, kookaburras, corellas and galahs come to rest and socialise on the branches. The antics of the pink and grey galahs make me smile and I understand that it’s natural and good to have a sense of fun. I remember to lighten up.

In winter, some of the Eucalyptus trees burst into creamy white flowers like little tutus on Snugglepots and Cuddlepies. Hundreds of small white butterflies flutter around the tree and thousands of lorikeets jostle to feed on the nectar. The combined tweets and squawks are as loud as the ocean on a stormy day.

Underneath, on the grass, kangaroos munch and hang about enjoying the morning sun. Joeys follow their mummas, eating alongside, trying to get back in the pouch for a quick milky snack or a rest. She lets them until she’s carrying a new one which may be a while if the weather is too dry. In that case, a large joey will still climb in, legs poking out awkwardly and at such strange angles, I wonder how it can contort so. It’s like a teenager that’s outgrown its single bed. Eventually, it will fall out and meet up with a friend for a round of play boxing.

I smile. I breathe. The air is clean. I am free to watch. And I am grateful for another day.

Will you spare a moment to be grateful for the day?

IMG_6770

Plotting, Planning and Perfectionism

Perfectionism is the highest form of Procrastination!

I know, I’ve been down this path before – in LIFE and in the BLOG.

My writing is slowed by painstaking planning. There are two types of writers (so say actual writers who’ve written and published books): Plotters and Pantsers. One does the whole PLOT thing in a rational and methodical way and then does the story writing. And the other writes ‘by the seat of their pants,’ creating as they go along (or being told what to write by the characters themselves!).

I believe most writers fall somewhere in between – on the writer-type spectrum.

I’d love to be the creative type who simply has the story flow out of them. Those writers are sublime beings to me. They’re REAL WRITERS!

I’m on the other end, maybe one point off extreme PLOTTER. I love making notes, researching, reading writing-craft books, listening to authors speak in interviews, following them on Facebook….

I nod my head and take more notes.

I’m amazed that I even have a first draft. If you read it, you wouldn’t be so amazed, because it’s really crap! But that’s okay: it’s in the RULES – a shitty first draft is how it’s supposed to be! Ten points for me!

Now that I’m in second draft stage, I’ve stalled. I’m the plotter, the planner, the perfectionist, and I have a sneaking suspicion, the procrastinator!

I re-did my CHARACTER PROFILES – in extreme detail. They’ve changed a little over two years, and I was getting confused, having to check through realms of notes, even for things as basic as family names. My character profiles are beautiful: tables that have headings like BACKSTORY, QUIRKS, CONTRASTING TRAITS. They’re the kitchen sinks of character profiles! With two vacant rows between each heading! You get the picture? And I have three protagonists, so I got to do three!

Next step: THEMES. Which character expresses what themes? Easy. Done.

Then there’s the CHARACTER ARC, which is another way of saying TIMELINE, in my mind. I can spend days on this! The 10-25% mark where the reader gets a glimpse through the persona at the essence of the character, the dark point at 75% etc. Whoopee! Days of perfect planning.

It might seem like this is all important stuff, and I obviously think it is, because I’m doing it. But is it really necessary? Am I overthinking it? Have I read too many craft books and had too many lessons? Is this just putting off writing the story? Is it PROCRASTINATION?

Or am I the most perfect planner ever?

I don’t know, but I better Post this Blog and get on with it. One day, I might finish the damn book!

Ironically, it’s called The Rest of Their Lives. I won’t say any more!