For my dad

Originally I'd planned to blog tomorrow. Somewhere near the beach on the Sunshine Coast, reminiscing on a lovely few days with my dad. I wanted to write about the man he is, what he means to me, and probably what good buds we are.

But then life happened, including one cancelled flight to Queensland, one trip to emergency with my pup and one very unsettling discussion on marriage equality with a couple of old acquaintances. So instead, I'm going to write about the man my dad is not.

My dad is not a paralympian, although as a child I sure thought he could put his missing hand to better use. He is, however, a surfer, a musician, and a man who has never been defined by his disability.

My dad is not generous with words, but I've never felt unloved, or un-special. He's not that generous with money either, but I've never been unsupported.

My dad is not tall, but he sure is handsome.

My dad is not my life coach. He's never told me what to do. He's never told me a boyfriend was no good (well, at least not until after we'd broken up). He's never told me what to study, how to vote, how best to succeed. Yet, every decision I make, I know what he'd want me to do - and I know it's for the best (except voting for Tony Abbott. Friends don't let friends vote for Tony Abbott, Dad).

My dad was never on the parent teacher committee, but he took me to soccer on Saturday mornings, and debating on Wednesday night.

My dad was never my minister. He never told me what to believe in, what was important. He listened to my concerns for his eternal life, my concerns for the world, and more recently, my concerns for dairy farmers. He never told me I was right, never told me I was wrong, but he was always my sounding board.

You know what else he wasn't? A man in the sky, who created me to feel a certain way, but forbade me to ever act upon such feelings for fear of eternal damnation. A man whose words, written thousands of years ago, having been interpreted thousands of times, in hundreds of languages, set the precedent for modern law.  And if your Father is like that, you'd have to be wondering why you got such a rotten deal.

I don't like to speak about fundamentalistic Christian faith, because I know not all Christians share the same view. But I know if I ever put words in my father's mouth, or took him out of context, or decided it was my place to enforce his judgement, he'd have something to say to me about it.

So to my old pal who told me today that my decision to stand with the chaff (Matthew 3:12 if you'd like some more context) was between me and God, you bloody bet it is. As it is for every gay couple who choose to marry, and definitely not anything to do with you.

I'm so grateful for a father who let me grow into the person I am. A person who can see the mistakes of their past, because they were allowed to make them. A person who can walk comfortably into the future, secure in the fact they will make more mistakes, but that's okay too.

Anyway, Dad, if I'd gotten on that flight this morning we'd have had a different day for sure. But everything happens for a reason. And at least you've still got your grandpuppy.

There's no such thing as free love

I've been lucky enough to spend the last few months with the guy I always imagined myself with, in the relationship I always wanted, feeling the love I'd always hoped to feel.

Everything else in my life has lost importance. I don't care about the car I drive, the bed I sleep on. I don't care about going out for fancy meals or drinking fine wine. I don't need to go out to the movies, or go on overseas holidays - I just want to be where he is.

So is it true, then? Are the best things in life free?


Meet my friend, Kate. She is one of the kindest, most gentle, most loving girls I have ever met. She has a beautiful son she adores, and a husband who is her best friend. She is living the life I hope for when I am her age, with a grace I will only ever be able to fake.

Then, one day, every thing changes. Her husband doesn't want a family anymore, he wants to drink wine on a school night, eat in front of the television and stay out all night. He wants to be twenty again. And so he leaves her.

Kate finds strength she never knows she had. She protects herself and her son as best as she can. But she hurts.


I took my man out for vegan pizza and told him how frightened I was. That I have a happiness I never knew without him, and I have more to lose than ever. I told him I wanted to trust our relationship, to trust us enough that I could know that would never happen to me.

I expected him to assure me he'd never leave me. To promise that we would be different. We were a perfect fit, the lucky ones who got it right.

He made no such promises. Only that we'd do the very best we could, and if we failed, we'd still be okay.


It's not the stuff fairy tales are made of, it didn't read like the script in my head, instilled from Hollywood expectations of love and happily ever after.

It meant that to love him completely would come with a cost. The price I pay for love is the risk of losing him. It's a gamble.

No, it's not a gamble, it's an investment. I can make a wise investment, get sound advice, choose low risk stocks. But there is no certainty in life, and certainly not in love.


I watched a documentary this week about free love. My new fave Brit, Dawn Porter, stayed in a free love community and searched past its all accepting, all generous and painless exterior, to find the loss, the insecurity and the fear of it's residents.

We're naive to believe we can live a full life without paying for it. And maybe Kate's husband, when the thrill of mid-week hangovers and walks of shame wears off, will realise he stopped paying for love, and therefore doesn't deserve it.

Because we do make sacrifices, we compromise, we change to fit the one we choose. It's a cost, a price we pay. And we can't expect to yield the high returns if we don't make the investments, and re-invest the dividends*.

You know what tho? I reckon he's worth it.


*I haven't used so many analogies since I spoke in the Christian church...

nineteen eighty-five

*This blog is dedicated to my boy, Shaun, who turns two on Tuesday. You've taught me more about unconditional love than any person I've ever met. And I love you.*

On Saturday morning I had the fabulous opportunity to spend some quality time with some old, dear friends. You absolutely take old friends for granted until you move away from the place you grew up, and its simply marvelous when two people you have known for over 15 years marry and live in the same city you do now. I'm so grateful for my friends Robb and Phillipa, because they know me. I never have to justify myself, excuse myself. They know me, they know my intentions, and they trust me. And on Saturday, I carpooled with two very precious new friends to Yarraville, for brunch.

But I haven't even got to the truly wonderful bit yet. Phillipa's parents were visiting from Tasmania, and would be joining us for raspberry and white chocolate muffins, fruit salad, sourdough and mercy valley cheese.

I can't explain how special it was to eat, drink tea, and talk with this amazing collection of people. People that I feel safe around. People I feel connected to, loved by. And as I was giving Phillipa's mum a big kiss goodbye, I shared something with her that I'd only just realised to be true:

I am absolutely loving everything about getting older. Not for one minute do I wish I was fourteen again. Or eighteen again. Or 21 again. Especially not 23 again. I've discovered an age where you feel confident, loved, respected. Where you are challenged, needed, and important.

I love having a little guy in my life who truly needs me. Shaun and I are best friends, we are family. And if I don't come home he shits on the carpet. Because he needs me.

But also he wants me.

Family is an incredible institution, and I'm lucky to have some amazing relationships with people in my family. I also spend time heartbroken for the cousins that are growing up so fast and if I'm lucky, I get to play lego with once a year. But my family is unique. If we don't like you, there's a pretty good chance we probably just won't talk to you. We don't have an overwhelming bond of 'family' that forces us to love each other unconditionally. And while sometimes I wish for that - there is something to be said for the fact that every person who is in my life is there because they want to be.

And so, this sappy blog comes to you from one very loved up, very happy girl. Because this weekend I was able to spend time with special friends, old and new, celebrate my baby boy's second birthday, and see Tom Ballard live at the MICF.

I'm not sure when I realised I was living the life I had always hoped for, living the life I wanted for myself. I have it. And I'm not even afraid to jinx it.

Also, wisdom and experience tells me life isn't perfect. And it won't be. But I'm not scared of imperfection. Of heartbreak. Of pain. Because everything I have experienced so far in my life has brought me to this point.

Also I have an incredible safety net. The wonderful people, who after knowing me for 15 years, still want to know how my week was. And the people I've just met - who want to come to the beach for my dog's second birthday.

~