Category: ocean

The places I go …

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It is akin to a dream, this dense clump of trees unfolding before me, reaching sharply into the sky. As I walk through the forest under canopies of palms and eucalypts and a discord of screaming birds, my feet arrive at a bog. I’m at the lip of a lake I cannot reach for the rain that has distended the ground. Perhaps Jacky can take me tomorrow so I can see where it splits from the earth and drops away.

There is life above, around and below me. The swollen ground silently objects under my boots and as I lift my feet, it plumps up like a pudding.

The air is slow and dense from woodsmoke, and it anchors me to the moment. I crush leaves between my fingers; that stain of scent not leaving the folds of my hands until I bathe later that evening.

With the sun caught in the canopies – splintering shadows onto the ground as though they are dancing a jive – the screech of a cockatoo and flurries of parrots embroider the Piccabeen palms. Their silver mottled skins are grooved with what looks like inverted feathers, as though someone has taken the time to stencil each one.

Early evening yields to the call of the kookaburra, cackling at our stupidity and the irksome way we do not love them every minute of every day.

Diamonds scuttle across the water as the day reaches into dusk. The milky way splashes across in silver and white – a smattering of light and relief in their spilt majesty. The sky cradles a waning moon.

Being here, it takes time to breathe at a slower pace; to let my belly soften and sink into my winter bones. I find myself in a world where it is becoming more difficult to disconnect from the goings on of humanity, my country, my community. There is a deep well within me of wanting to be free from the destruction, the war, and the suffering I have no control over. But then I realise for the millionth time that I control nothing. I can but try to go forwards in what seems to be the right direction. I can shepherd and steer myself, yet control does not belong to me. It never has.

I am finding myself enjoying growing older. Not only because I never expected to, but with the growth itself. I am assured as a human being, though never would I believe that I am particularly ‘good’ at any one thing, although I am on my way to becoming an exceedingly keen listener, and that itself is an art. 

Another art (and something I am not particularly good at) is writing. It is a pursuit I will never be great or even exceedingly good at. If I ever become half the writer I have yearned to be all my life, would that be a paragon of happiness? How am I ever to know if I am anything over than average unless someone tells me differently? And even then, can I bring myself to believe them? In all likelihood – not a chance.

With age comes wisdom and truth. Some are fraught with despair, while others have a far more convivial pulse. I remain unconvinced that absolute truths do not exist, although these things often come down to perception.

Breaking my bonds with the city, I ‘go within’ as Jacky calls it, and reach back into the folds of myself I have forgotten or allowed to lapse. I come back to breath, firing my body in the sun. My lungs expand; each lobe bristling with each seemingly bottomless breath. I readjust the way a spinnaker does downwind. Silence is my ballast.

As I come to see my senses as a decoy, I’m carried towards a deeper understanding of who I am, where I am in the world and how I came to be here. I temper my body, but do not become weary, and there is a far greater element of not needing answers – to embrace the mystery and come home. Should books and music, baths and tea, shadows on the wall from the moon, and the odd storm be all I had for company, I would want for nothing. For there is equanimity in the quiet, and peace in patience.

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I’m going to India!

So how’s 2016 treating you so far? I’m deliriously happy to report that mine has begun like no other. Strange things are happening to my body and I’m rising earlier than ever (think 4-5.30am). I’m off the valium I was taking for my restless legs, and I think what has happened is that my body clock has done a complete one-eighty since I’ve been off the suboxone.

Being awake and present in the morning is such a gift, and while it’s something I’m still getting used to, it’s something I want to get used to. Dawn and dusk are the best parts of the day, and I’m getting so much done. I’m also suitably tired enough to collapse into bed only to go straight to sleep early in the evening.

I was to go to yoga with my friend Natty D. this morning, but alas, I could not find my yoga pants, so I’m in the process of turning my wardrobe inside out and donating a whole lot of clothes to charity. For me right now, less is more – unless it’s tea.

Speaking of tea, I caught up with my beautiful Bec yesterday (I have two beautiful Bec’s in my life – talk about being blessed), where we shared too much good food and did a gift swap. We’re both Capricorns, so if you’re into astrology, that needs no explanation. She’s part of my tribe – a ‘soul sista’, if you will. We giggle a lot and have debaucherous conversations. She has been one of my biggest and brightest supporters and I love her HARD for her open heart and willingness to cry with joy.

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She’s also obsessed about India, is a full time sari wearer, and with her husband Alex, has just spent close to a month in their beloved India. I was thoroughly spoilt at lunch with a bag of Chai Marsala from the world famous Abraham’s Spice Garden in Periyar. I’ve been having rabid fantasies about this chai mix ever since Alex made me a brew last year. Along with some black jasmine oil (which apparently smells different on everyone, so it should be interesting to see how it smells on my salty skin) and some loose green tea from Mumbai that came in a beautifully carved wooden box with brass elephants, I was feeling a tad emotional.

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I have a few sacred places that I visit – the farm, Barcy, Carmel-By-The-Sea and Byron Bay (even since it’s been heinously gentrified), but India is a land I’ve wanted to visit ever since I can remember.

Have you ever had a place you’ve never been to pull on your soul? Like really pull on your soul? Well, for me, that’s India.

I can hear the call of the Ganges plunging into the Bay of Bengal, the spice plantations, the temples and its people. I have some stunning books on India I reflect on often, and a couple of years ago I wrote ‘India. I weep because it is there and I am not. And I weep because I may never get there.’

So what’s holding me back? I’ve never had any luck with travel insurance, and getting sick in a developing country with transplanted lungs would not be ideal.

But what is life if you don’t get to experience it? What is life without a little risk?

Until I get to India, I will always be a falling leaf looking for a place to land. And so I am going. I have two years to save, plan and research with my doctors, read and observe and get my body into optimum condition. I’m going to be with Bec and Alex who know the country, have researched hospitals for me (bless) and know where to eat, stay and how to carve out an authentic Indian experience.

We will celebrate Bec’s 50th birthday in Udaipur, and I’m planning on staying for a few weeks. Why go halfway across the world to what I believe is one of my spiritual homes or places of spiritual refuge, when this might be the only chance I get? So it’s off to the Ganges to gently dip my toes into its waters, spend a day watching the funeral pyres, meet some sadhus (holy men), meditate in an ashram for a few days, catch a train to Varanasi, shit myself as is per the authentic Indian experience and go on a two week tour.

I’m well aware that travellers often have a romanticised view of the places they visit, but I know that India isn’t all palaces, ashrams and markets. India is a country of immense poverty and suffering, so my ultimate India experience would be to volunteer at a hospice. I figure it’s the least I can do as a human being.

But back to the farm. Every year, Ben and I give Ganesha a de-web and a rubdown with dubbin. As we worked on Ganesha with lots of love (and dirty jokes), I felt connected and uplifted by this act of ritual and worship. I rubbed his belly with reverence and love, and massaged his hands like I would a fragile human.

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OH, THE REVERENCE …

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Shiny, happy Ganesha!!

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On the third day of the New Year, I drove from the farm up to my folks place at Mooloolaba where I was greeted by this vision.

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I spent a beautiful afternoon wandering around and sucking back veggie juice, then I walked down to the beach to bless my 2016 gratitude stone that I’ve added to my medicine bag. Then I meditated. You get some odd looks when you close your eyes and stay perfectly still for extended periods of time. I just smile at people and get a smile in return – what a gift that is in itself. Spending time alone doesn’t mean I’m lonely. I spent so much time alone as a child in hospital that I’m an ace at it, yet so many see being alone as wasted time. Redundant time.

Why not surround yourself with people?

I like to pose another question – why not surround yourself with YOU? Why not be comfortable in your own presence and hold the space for your body, mind and spirit. For me, the rewards of being alone are constant and ever changing. It restores me back to calm and peace and a surrendering of sorts to the universe and it gives me spiritual sustenance in a Waldenesque kind of way.

The true waste is this – waiting for someone else to fill your cup. Don’t wait. Fill your own cup with your dreams, memories, plans, loves and adventures. No one truly knows what you know about yourself except you, and that is something really special. More special than you may ever realise.

When I’m alone right now, this is the place I’m dreaming of and making plans for – the Bhaktivedanta Hospice in Vrindavan. To say it inspires me is an understatement of gargantuan proportions. Here’s what it’s all about. Also, here’s to conscious dreaming …

My summer of love

Earlier in the week, someone asked me what I’ve been up to. ‘Reading, writing, stuff …’ But mainly reading and writing, hanging out with my sister and my nephews, working, planning, walking and dreaming. It’s true – I’m an abject failure of a social butterfly, although I did actually go OUT Friday night to the opening of Brisbane’s The Soul Pantry – a fabulous florist in Newmarket you should visit if you live in Brisbane. I mean: TERRARIUMS. I am obsessed. Such a granny. 

It’s my favourite time of year. Yes, I love Christmas and will be trimming my tree (and the rest) this weekend, but it’s summer that truly has my heart. I had a passionate relationship with summer in my youth – days of water-skiing, inner tubing and swimming at my home on the Brisbane river; meditating on the pontoon at water level, and slathering coconut oil on my body to bake myself like a ham.

But then I had my transplant which meant no sun. Or, I could have sun, but with a family history of melanoma, my immunosuppression and my wish for eternal youth, I literally took shelter and have been alabaster ever since. It took about fourteen years for me to re-embrace summer and over the last couple of years, I’ve rebooted my brain and learned to adore what I call my ‘Summers of Love’ once again.

This calls for the following:

  • A new swimsuit and rashie √
  • Bebel and João Gilberto on repeat √ (and Enya – don’t judge me. Did you know she has a new album?) √
  • The radio tuned to ABC classic FM  √
  • Naked cooking, naked dancing, naked writing. Okay – just entire days spent totally naked √
  • Admiring the lights of the city – sometimes with clothes on – hoping no one has binoculars trained in my direction √
  • Writing on my balcony, watching and listening to the birds flying just out of my reach while the sun sinks behind the mountains √
  • Scratching words together for my novel √
  • Watching ‘Love Actually’ & ‘Eat Pray Love’ (and crying a lot) √
  • Late afternoon wandering by the river √
  • Stealing the swing from unsuspecting children at the park √
  • Coming to the realisation that a whole year has passed and I HAVEN’T KILLED A SINGLE PLANT √
  • Reading Les Murray’s latest collection √
  • Thoughts about new balcony furniture (Keren Brown, I am looking at you) √
  • What-the-fuck-am-I-going-to-cook-for-dinner mania √
  • Clandestinely skinny dipping in the pewl come twilight  √
  • Mangoes, mangoes, mangoes √
  • Sunscreen. All day, every day √
  • Make friends with salad. Yeah, not convinced unless it’s covered in five types of cheese.

And so that is my glamorous life. I got all of the stuff I love and adapted it to my post-transplant, no sun life. November has been a pretty sedate month, and December is looking distinctly unremarkable. But I like unremarkable and ordinary and as much as I’d love to be in Barcy now, that trip will have to wait until another time. 

My novel (set in the outback in the early 70s) is coming along (1200 words today – take that, Hemingway), an epic and covert poetry project is beginning to take shape and I’m working on a short story. I never write short stories, but the last one received a great review in the Sydney Morning Herald, so this in itself is miraculous.

I turn 39 on New Years Eve, and as with every birthday, I have no idea what I’m doing. Big changes can happen between now and then, but I seem to always escape to the country for my birthday. Last year, I spent a very sedate birthday at my folks beach house at Mooloolaba, and the two years before that, I stayed at my friend Nic’s farm in the hinterland of Byron Bay where we did we got our witch on and burned shit. Going by the year 2014 turned out to be, I can say that burning shit GETS SHIT DONE. I highly recommend it #manifestinglikeamofo

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I’ve never spent a NYE at my place in the city and don’t know if I ever will. I feel in limbo with its frenetic pace – almost as though I’m shackled – whereas out ‘there’, whether it be Barcy or the farm or the beach, I am unencumbered and free. 

Waking up in the quiet of dawn and going for a surf on the first morning of a new year is such a gift. There’s nothing that quite matches its intensity or sense of calm. Bobbing in the ocean for while, eating a solid brekkie, sinking into a good book, doing some writing of my own and going for a wander is my ideal. Simple, yet ideal.

But first I have get through Christmas, which isn’t to say that I ‘endure’ the festive season. Quite the opposite, in fact. I love getting my yule on and buying gifts for my nearest and dearest. I’m in full blown love with my new baking fruitcake tradition to the point where I’ve now had my fruit mix soaking in rum for ten days. When the weather cools down, I’ll bake. 

As I type, it is 6.27pm. Cicadas embroider the air which will forever take me back to the vipassana I did in 2013. There’s the odd siren, barking dog and the bristle of leaves in the evening wind.

Over the next couple of weeks, my opiate antagonist therapy will whittle down to zero, so I’ve been thinking of how I can celebrate this milestone. I don’t drink, so I’ll most likely keep things unremarkable and ordinary, write down some words and walk along the river. I’ll open my arms up to the world like the protagonist in my novel did today and feel the salt building on my skin. Salt is something I’m quite fascinated by, and not just because it grows in little mounds on my skin in summer that I can season my fish and chips with.

While I have a humanities brain, I find the  chemical breakdown of salt fascinating and  beautiful. On their own, sodium and chloride are highly toxic. But when they come together, they create something really special. Salt is stable, non-reactive and compatible with life. Salt gets a lot of bad press, but on a hot day like today, I’ve gobbled down no less than fifteen salt tablets because I lose excessive amounts through my skin as a CF’er. Where you might have to cut salt out of your diet, I can dump it on my food in excessive quantities. Without it I become hyponatremic which can be fatal, but that’s enough histrionics for today.

Being able to be completely free of Suboxone is going to be absolute freedom. I’ve not had one craving for anything drug related since I started on the therapy in 2013, and that alone lends me a steady strength. Back when I first started lining up at the chemist at the junkie counter, I knew I had my addiction cornered. There wasn’t a part of me that didn’t want to be free from the slavery that is addiction and I knew that I would get here. How did I know? Because once I make my mind up about something, I get it done. Whether that’s being stubborn or just being really fucking determined, I’m not sure. Maybe it’s a potent mix of both. Knowing I had this beat from day one was essential for my recovery, and the day I take my last dose may be unremarkable and ordinary, but as I’ve always maintained, there is great beauty in the ordinary. Even when you can’t see it, it is everywhere. If you don’t go in search of magic, love or anything else you want in life, you will never find it. The Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi is deeply rooted in revering nature, the everyday and its imperfections. It’s a state of heightened consciousness where there is beauty hidden in how you experience the world in its state of constant transience. The Buddhists were really onto something with their reverence for impermanence, so I urge you to embrace your wabi-sabi. If that’s not enough, then maybe some Roald Dahl will do the trick:

‘And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.’