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).
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Saturday, September 8, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
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...
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...
Saturday, July 7, 2012
I could save the world - if I could be bothered
At some point in the last few years, I've become incredibly lazy. At first I thought I was nesting - building myself a nice home and all that. Then I figured I was 'growing up', I didn't get the same enjoyment out of late nights and loud pubs as I used to, and that was to be expected.
But at some point, I've turned into the person who would more than happily spend Saturday night at home watching old DVDs. And wake up Sunday and do exactly the same thing.
I know I crave boredom. I find it very hard to come by. I live a busy week, with full-time (and then some) work, daily walks with Shaun, visits to the gym, the supermarket, the pay-day dinner out. On the weekend, all I want is to feel bored. To wish for some entertainment. To want for something to do. I spend my weekends not making plans, avoiding all social functions, with the premise that avoiding them may make me bored enough to want to attend.
But then I catch myself, watching the same episode I watched the week before and ask, 'Would Marieke Hardy* be doing this?'
*Marieke is my litmus test. She's a vegan, living in Brunswick with a dog with a human name. She also has a cool blog, is a columnist for Frankie and writes a successful sitcom. And I'm pretty sure she's been on #qanda.
There's so much I want to do with my spare time. I wish I blogged more often. I wish I could finish the books I'm working on. I wish I would write another article and get myself published again. I wish I would get to work on my documentary idea. But I can't get all that done and be bored at the same time.
Sooner of later I figure this stage will pass, and I'll go back to being the passionate, driven, determined Lucy of my youth. In the meantime, I guess I'd better go fold my washing.
~
But at some point, I've turned into the person who would more than happily spend Saturday night at home watching old DVDs. And wake up Sunday and do exactly the same thing.
I know I crave boredom. I find it very hard to come by. I live a busy week, with full-time (and then some) work, daily walks with Shaun, visits to the gym, the supermarket, the pay-day dinner out. On the weekend, all I want is to feel bored. To wish for some entertainment. To want for something to do. I spend my weekends not making plans, avoiding all social functions, with the premise that avoiding them may make me bored enough to want to attend.
But then I catch myself, watching the same episode I watched the week before and ask, 'Would Marieke Hardy* be doing this?'
*Marieke is my litmus test. She's a vegan, living in Brunswick with a dog with a human name. She also has a cool blog, is a columnist for Frankie and writes a successful sitcom. And I'm pretty sure she's been on #qanda.
There's so much I want to do with my spare time. I wish I blogged more often. I wish I could finish the books I'm working on. I wish I would write another article and get myself published again. I wish I would get to work on my documentary idea. But I can't get all that done and be bored at the same time.
Sooner of later I figure this stage will pass, and I'll go back to being the passionate, driven, determined Lucy of my youth. In the meantime, I guess I'd better go fold my washing.
~
Saturday, June 9, 2012
The 3am Philosopher
The other night I was woken by a text from a friend. It was 3am, and I could only assume he had been drinking. I read the message and rolled over, ready to resume my sleep. But I couldn't stop thinking about his message. I knew exactly how he was feeling, exactly where he was at, and so I turned back over, grabbed my phone and replied.
My reply was concise, thoughtful and wise. I was really impressed by myself.
We went on to exchange several text messages, each more wonderful and philosophical than the last, until eventually the need to return to sleep overwhelmed me. When I woke in the morning, I was faced with an enormous question:
Was I really that super intelligent and insightful last night, or was that just 3am talking?
Is 3am 'just woken up' the same as 3am 'been up all night' when you really believe you could solve all the worlds problems - if you cared enough. Or, is it that your mind is so clear because there is nothing clouding it that you can see solutions to problems clearly, interpret the world accurately.
I remember sitting up one night in 2010 in a backpackers in New York City because I knew if I let myself sleep, I'd lose the thoughts in my mind forever, and they couldn't be forgotten, I had to write them down.
I'm ready to share some of those thoughts with you:
- it's impossible to act feminine when you sneeze and accidentally sneeze up snot.
- when all else fails, watch Alias season 5 again.
- if someone is drowning in quicksand, don't be polite about rescuing them, do it quickly and roughly and apologise later.
Now you know, these are pretty true thoughts - but so wonderful I had to write them down, at 3am, never to be lost?
You be the judge. I'm happy for the record of my NYC brain. Actually, that was the morning I sat up and decided I would start a blog. It would be called 'Lucy's Thought of the Week' and it would be about whatever was on my mind, and how I was working it out.
You know what? It IS impossible to act like a lady when you've got a face covered in your own mucus. Alias season 5 is a wonderful way to feel better about your life. And if you were to save someone from quicksand, they probably wouldn't give a shit how you manhandled them. They'd probably give you a drink. Or their first born.
Until next time.
~
My reply was concise, thoughtful and wise. I was really impressed by myself.
We went on to exchange several text messages, each more wonderful and philosophical than the last, until eventually the need to return to sleep overwhelmed me. When I woke in the morning, I was faced with an enormous question:
Was I really that super intelligent and insightful last night, or was that just 3am talking?
Is 3am 'just woken up' the same as 3am 'been up all night' when you really believe you could solve all the worlds problems - if you cared enough. Or, is it that your mind is so clear because there is nothing clouding it that you can see solutions to problems clearly, interpret the world accurately.
I remember sitting up one night in 2010 in a backpackers in New York City because I knew if I let myself sleep, I'd lose the thoughts in my mind forever, and they couldn't be forgotten, I had to write them down.
I'm ready to share some of those thoughts with you:
- it's impossible to act feminine when you sneeze and accidentally sneeze up snot.
- when all else fails, watch Alias season 5 again.
- if someone is drowning in quicksand, don't be polite about rescuing them, do it quickly and roughly and apologise later.
Now you know, these are pretty true thoughts - but so wonderful I had to write them down, at 3am, never to be lost?
You be the judge. I'm happy for the record of my NYC brain. Actually, that was the morning I sat up and decided I would start a blog. It would be called 'Lucy's Thought of the Week' and it would be about whatever was on my mind, and how I was working it out.
You know what? It IS impossible to act like a lady when you've got a face covered in your own mucus. Alias season 5 is a wonderful way to feel better about your life. And if you were to save someone from quicksand, they probably wouldn't give a shit how you manhandled them. They'd probably give you a drink. Or their first born.
Until next time.
~
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Clare
Taken from my novel - 'Jesus, Boys and Life In Between'. This short story is called 'Clare' - not my Thought of the Week this week :)
No #2 didn’t know he was gay straight away (pun intended). We dated for about three months until he burst into tears on my couch one Sunday afternoon confessing he’d had a sex dream about my brother. Of course many years later he would move in with my brother and I returned to my comfortable position as least favourite child and least likely to procreate. How does a gay brother become more likely to parent than his younger, more attractive hetero sister? Simple: she has a biological predisposition to repel straight men.
Number #3 hurt the most, because I was convinced I’d chosen wiser this time. We met at a pub. He was drinking beer, watching footy with mates. He goes for Collingwood for Christ’s sake. He didn’t care for hair gum, he didn’t find Judith Lucy funny, he’d never even watched Are You Being Served? But after six months I felt him drifting away from me. First it was the dropping of the hand. Then the spontaneous cuddles. Then he stopped staying over all together. At dinner one night he confessed he’d been cheating on me with men. I forgave him, because I am a sucker, and we continue to be the best of friends. I’m even best man in his wedding in NYC next year. But as happy as I am for him, there’s a huge part of me that hates him too.
My brother reckons it gets easier as you get older; people are more aware of, more comfortable with their own sexuality. There’s less margin of error. I’m know I’m ‘still young’ – but I’m in my prime, and if I don’t shack up soon I’ll have to settle and that isn’t the stuff fairy tales are made of. I want my prince charming. I want him to be kind, and handsome, and dashing, and ride a white horse, and sing and dance with woodland creatures, and wear leather boots, and hell. I want a gay straight man.
He has to exist. A wonderful man with fabulous gay qualities but no desire at all for some hot male on male action. He’s all about the boobs. And beauty. And brains, of course.
So eligible men, form an orderly cue. Because with me, you never have to pretend the Veet cream in your toiletry bag is your sister’s, you never have to be responsible for the ethical re-movement of spiders and you can drink all the vodka cruisers you desire – because they are delicious. And we should all stop pretending that they’re not.
David Coleman was my first. No, not the first guy I had sex with – the first of many of my future loves who would turn out to be a raging homo. I say that with love, of course. How can you not love the gays? They make the best boyfriends. They talk to you, they shop with you, they talk hair, fashion, drink martinis with you. But then they leave you on the dance floor alone to grind up a sweaty man in a tank top. Every Saturday night.
No #2 didn’t know he was gay straight away (pun intended). We dated for about three months until he burst into tears on my couch one Sunday afternoon confessing he’d had a sex dream about my brother. Of course many years later he would move in with my brother and I returned to my comfortable position as least favourite child and least likely to procreate. How does a gay brother become more likely to parent than his younger, more attractive hetero sister? Simple: she has a biological predisposition to repel straight men.
Number #3 hurt the most, because I was convinced I’d chosen wiser this time. We met at a pub. He was drinking beer, watching footy with mates. He goes for Collingwood for Christ’s sake. He didn’t care for hair gum, he didn’t find Judith Lucy funny, he’d never even watched Are You Being Served? But after six months I felt him drifting away from me. First it was the dropping of the hand. Then the spontaneous cuddles. Then he stopped staying over all together. At dinner one night he confessed he’d been cheating on me with men. I forgave him, because I am a sucker, and we continue to be the best of friends. I’m even best man in his wedding in NYC next year. But as happy as I am for him, there’s a huge part of me that hates him too.
My brother reckons it gets easier as you get older; people are more aware of, more comfortable with their own sexuality. There’s less margin of error. I’m know I’m ‘still young’ – but I’m in my prime, and if I don’t shack up soon I’ll have to settle and that isn’t the stuff fairy tales are made of. I want my prince charming. I want him to be kind, and handsome, and dashing, and ride a white horse, and sing and dance with woodland creatures, and wear leather boots, and hell. I want a gay straight man.
He has to exist. A wonderful man with fabulous gay qualities but no desire at all for some hot male on male action. He’s all about the boobs. And beauty. And brains, of course.
So eligible men, form an orderly cue. Because with me, you never have to pretend the Veet cream in your toiletry bag is your sister’s, you never have to be responsible for the ethical re-movement of spiders and you can drink all the vodka cruisers you desire – because they are delicious. And we should all stop pretending that they’re not.