Where the heart is

I'm desperate to be back home. My mum is sick, and I hate not being there for her. Not being able to make her cups of tea, or go with her to appointments, or hold her hand and make her feel better. This week, my home has been Hobart, because that's where my heart is.

It's times like this I regret moving away. When things are good, they're great. But when things are bad, I may as well be a million miles away. Then even if I'd stayed in Hobart, my dad left. Many of my friends left. I would still find myself away from the people I love.

Because the best way to solve puzzles is to draw a mind map - you'll have to imagine a picture with my heart in the middle. My heart has four branches:

Hobart, where I spent twenty one years of my life learning how to read & write, make friends, ride a bike, drive a car, dance, sing, drink, fall in love.

Melbourne, where I've lived for four years, and found freedom, self acceptance, cafe breakfasts, cider, a beagle named Shaun and my soul mate.

The Sunshine Coast, home of my dad and wicked step mother, my favourite cousins and their beautiful children and my grandpa and his girlfriend, Joan.

And New York City, where I spend three weeks in 2010 and still haven't ever been able to move on from.

So if you look at it one way, I'm a lucky girl with a big heart full of love. OR you can look at it this way (this is the way I am looking at it today):

Now, no matter where I live, my heart always be broken. I'll never be totally at home in one place. I'll never be able to drive the streets anywhere else like I can in Hobart, remembering walking home from school to my grandparents house, where I had my first kiss, the doorsteps I curled up on while having a nap on a drunk walk home, the church I dreamed one day I would buy and convert into a trendy loft for me and my friends. But, if I live in Hobart, I won't have the lifestyle I have in Melbourne, the family I have made for myself here. I won't have the job opportunities, Cere's cafe, Sydney Road and Shaun won't have Brighton Beach or Albert St Park.

If I move to the Sunshine Coast, I'll be closer to my dad, but further from my mum. I'd be hot, all the time, and I don't do sweaty well. I'd be greasy from the sunscreen I'd be forced to wear daily due to my alabaster skin. I would also have to hang out with Queensland people. But I'd get to spend the precious last few years of my Grandpa's life being someone more than a stranger. I'd get to see my little cousins grow up, be a real part of their life. And I wouldn't have to wear stockings in winter.

I'd move to New York in a heart beat, except for the fact I would have to leave everyone I know and love and everything I'm good at and Shaun behind. And I don't have a green card. How long would  NYC be the city of my dreams if I was broke, and alone?

Because ultimately, my heart lives in people. It lives in my mum and my big brother. It lives in my old friends from Primary school, from High school, the people who knew me when I was in cargo pants and a red, polar fleece vest with skate shoes. It lives with my new friends and family in Melbourne, the people who helped me find the person I wanted to be. It lives in Shaun and Mr McGoo, the best roomies a girl could hope for. It lives in every member of my family, Dad and Sally-Ann, even those in New Zealand, Sydney,  England. It lives in Steve in Canada, in Tracy in England and in Chris wherever decides his next home will be.

So maybe we can't be everywhere at once, but if we're lucky, we can find love wherever we go.

~

Would you like fries with that?

For Christmas, a good friend gave me a "happiness journal". It's used to prompt writing and journaling and general wonderful feelings. Chapter one has us listing the things we would like in our life to make us happy. My list was pretty straight forward:

- see a movie every week
- travel the world
- be as healthy and fit as I can
- be a successful opinion-ist
- have a big family (and I don't mean lots of kids here...)
- rescue animals and children
- read a book a week
- have a veggie garden and chickens
- go out for breakfast once a week
- work really hard for myself

I hate this list. Here's why.

When I was headed home to Tassie for Xmas, I stopped at Oporto for dinner. I wasn't feeling well, and hate flying when I'm feeling a bit trashy in the stomach. I ordered a veggie wrap, and a Coke (because nothing settles a seedy tummy like the burn of Coca-cola)

Did I want to upsize it and get fries? No thanks, I'm really not hungry enough to eat all this as it is.

I waited 13 minutes for that wrap (well done BTW, Essendon Airport Oporto) during which time I had the chance to read my receipt and the menu often enough to realise that getting "fries" would have cost me an extra two cents.

Yes. Yes, you spotty faced, greasy haired, rude teller. Yes I would like fries for TWO CENTS.

Edit: For the sake of the poetry I'm calling Oporto's chips, fries. I'm pretty sure they were chips, not fries. I like to be honest with you when I can. Also I'm not sure my teller was spotty faced, or greasy haired. But he was rude - so that's how I remember him.

You know what else I'd like now you mention it? Everything on my list. Everything you are telling me may be a possibility for my life. Yes thanks, I'll take it.

Why is it, we can be perfectly happy with where we are, what we've ordered, until we know that there is better. Better value for money. More time with people you love. More success and satisfaction. There are things I can do to make the world better.

I haven't finished chapter one of my journal yet, and I'm sure its not designed to drive me to depression. But, if happiness is only true when it is shared (see; If you're happy and you know it) can it also only be true when it is complete?

Or, am I constantly searching for ways to feel unhappy? For ways to explain away how wonderful the world can be, because sometimes, it's not perfect? I only have to list the things in my life that are good - a man who loves me, a perfect apartment, handsome friends,  a beaglier who likes to lick - to know I am blessed. I am happy. But the quest for happiness, for success, for fulfillment, often stop me enjoying every moment.

I've got a week off starting Tuesday. My holiday challenge is to write everyday about what I have to be grateful for. Why everything I have, right now, is enough. In fact, it's more than enough, it's perfect.

~

Fix it, or get over it

When I was 24, I figured 25 was proper adult. This meant I had six months to quit smoking or I was an idiot. So I did.

I'm a few days of 28 now, and I still in no way feel like a proper adult.

There are expectations you have when you're a kid about what being an adult is like. You have a job, your own house and car, maybe your own children. You make your own decisions about what to eat for dinner and when you can go to bed, but you have to pay bills.

What I've learned from my twenties is; having a job means you have to go to work even when you don't feel like it. You can't drink the night before, because you can't do your job properly when you are seedy. Having your own place, even if you are renting, means now you have financial responsibilities greater than the dole would support - so you're stuck working for THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. Your car needs petrol, a service, a new set of tyres. Your dinner needs to be paid for, prepared before it can be eaten, and you still have to do the dishes after. You could stay up as late as you wanted, sure, but you still have to get up at six the next morning, so best tuck in early. I don't have children, but I do have a dog, which means I can't travel whenever and wherever I want, I have to feed him and walk him every day, and if he decides he won't stop licking his foot I have to pay hundreds of dollars in vet bills until he gets a new hobby.

In that sense, I know I'm an adult. I have independence, financial responsibilities and a dependant. What I still have tho, is the insecurities of a sixteen year old girl.

That's why, my 2013 New Year's Resolution, is fix it, or get over it. 

Example one: You can't keep whining about the 5 kilos you can't seem to shake. Either lose them, or accept them as part of who you are in your late twenties.

Example two: You can't keep complaining you don't have enough time to write. Either make more time, or accept you won't get to write as much as you like. Your book won't get finished before it gets irrelevant, you won't be published before your thirty. And be okay about that.

Example three: You can't keep being lonely because all your friends have moved away. Either make more of an effort to keep in touch with them, or get over your social anxieties and make new friends.

I have two years left until I'm thirty, which is when I've re-decided proper adulthood actually begins, and you can't keep being insecure and anxious, or you're an idiot. You can't have kids until you're happy enough with who you are that you can raise them to be happy in who they are. You can't quit work to be a full-time writer until you've proven you can spend a day off not watching DVDs.

I can not turn thirty until I'm proud of who I've become. So this year I'm gonna fix it, or get over it. Then I get a whole year just to enjoy it.

Happy New Year all xoxo

If you're happy and you know it...

Today was a good day. I celebrated one year with my wonderful man. We drove home from our weekend away in Blairgowrie back to our beautiful unit in Brunswick. Shaun had a lovely play in the park. The sun was shining, and I made pasta for dinner.

But then it happened. Somebody asked me politely how I was.

'How are you?' is the most complicated sentence in the English language. The sentence itself, seems harmless, but if you misjudge the context you can cause much harm.

Example one: Walking the dog in the morning. Nod a polite 'How are you?' to the man with the staffy you pass at 6:20am every weekday morning. He answers, not with the expected 'How are you?' nod back, but rather answers the question and you have to stand awkwardly and listen to the reply.

Example two: (True story) Sales assistant asks customer: 'How are you?' Customer replies with 'Actually I have breast cancer.'

Example three: Friend asks friend 'How are you?'

This is where it gets tricky. Sometimes you know that friend has had an awful day. Sometimes you know they've had the worst 6 months of their life. You are feeling excellent. So you answer - fine.

Sometimes you've had a bad day. You stubbed your toe, your train was late, your boss was grumpy. But your friends mother just died. So you answer - fine.

I first realised two months ago I was happy. Actually - I didn't realise so much but my dad looked at me and said 'Could you be any happier? 'But with the knowledge of my happiness came its closest friend. Guilt

Guilt that my friends weren't so well off. Their relationships weren't going so well. Their job wasn't as fun at Christmas time. They were sick. They were unhappy.

And I didn't feel happy anymore.

Maybe happiness, like love, is only true when it's shared. You can only be truly happy in the presence of others who are truly happy.

Can you happiness make someone who is sad happy? Or will it only make them feel worse?

Can you ever answer a question honestly, without taking in all the factors? Because today I feel great. But I have a mosquito bite on my foot that is itchy, and if you asked me right now how I was I'd say pretty pissed off actually.

So there's the ying and yang. You can't appreciate the good without the bad blah blah. But wouldn't it be nice, if when you were happy, and you knew it, you really could just clap your hands?

It's time to go... values

Lately it seems my Facebook feed has been inundated with announcements of my previously vegetarian friends getting back on meat. The status update is typically met with lots of 'likes', lots of congrats, and lots of invitations to head out for a parma*

Putting my vego ideals beside, I've been wondering what is it their friends are really celebrating? 'My friend had a really strong, personal conviction about something they believed in, but now they can't be bothered keeping it up'? Or, 'Thank god, one less person to make me feel guilty about cage eggs'?

I commented on one announcement with a simple, 'I couldn't do that'. Not judging, but in genuine bewilderment. There are so many reasons I choose to live a vegetarian lifestyle, how could I possibly turn my back on them?

But then I remembered. I remembered 18-year-old Lucy, when all her friends slowly but surely, began to leave the Pentecostal church, turning to her youth pastor and declaring, 'I could never do that.' Followed by a desperate attempt to reason - 'I guess they didn't love Jesus as much I do'.

Okay - I'm getting to my point. I did leave the church, and it was a massive decision. I'd identified as a Christian for 23 years, and giving up the title was difficult, but it didn't change who I was. And my friends, who have returned to their pre-vege lifestyle, haven't changed. They're still the same people.

If we're not defined by our values, what are we defined by? We're not defined by how we look, or where we live. We're not defined by how much money we earn, or how many friends we have. We can't even say we're defined by our words, or our actions, because they only ever paint half the picture at best.

I like to think we're defined by our heart - by our capacity to love. I gave up church, but I still love people, I still love the world. I still live to share love with whoever I can. I could give up being a vegetarian and still love animals. I could still be an advocate for animal rights, and I could still be the parent of the happiest, healthiest dog in the park. I would still be me (but I couldn't do that).

Not to encourage you to all go out and throw away your passions, your convictions, your beliefs, but just to remind you - Barack Obama changed his value on gay marriage. Richard Muller changed his beliefs on climate change. I changed my mind about eating a McDonalds double quarter pounder with cheese. Never be afraid to question what you believe in, and check that your 'value' matches your heart.



(*or parmie, depending if you're in Tasmania or Victoria).

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.