Web of lies in Hampi

In a Holy place, once upon a time where two kings ruled, I found myself becoming embroiled in a right royal mess.

It had started off innocently enough, as these things often do, when I made the decision in Goa to be married. I’d read in my research that a marital status was an effective deterrent for unwanted and persistent advances from Indian men. 

Thus in the enigmatic and enchanting town of Hampi, I transferred my diamond dress ring from my right hand to my ring finger.  

As I was checking into the Hampi guest house, the local boys were quick to acquaint themselves.

Ganesh was a striking 25 year old who had fabulous cheekbones, a toned torso and slim hips.  He had a penchant for Bollywood films and I told him with looks like his he could be a film star.

He seemed quite pleased with himself and told me a French woman he’d met at the guest house said he could model in Paris.  Despite lacking height at around 5’8 Ganesh had that feline 'Avatar' look about him – a physical reference he drew himself.

Suffice to say, Ganesh knew he was hot stuff, but he spoke fluent English (not something I’ve found easily among the Indian people) and was funny and alluring.

The first night I arrived he took me on a ‘test drive’ on his Royal Enfield, otherwise known as the 'Bullet'.  

The Bullet is the crème de la crème of motorbikes in India and according to Lonely Planet, the envy of all Indian men who don't own one.

We zoomed around Hampi on Ganesh's Bullet and he took me to the lake to see the full moon and stars.  He showed me snippets of Bollywood films on his iPhone and video clips of a recent camping trip away with friends – including two Western women who were dating Indian men (one of whom is married to Rami – the guest house owner and Ganesh’s cousin).

Ganesh was trying it on with me and I was impressed by his persistence.  Down by the lake he planted the seed of seduction and it didn't take long for that seed to sprout full bloom.  

Our romantic shenanigans were being carried out in the utmost of secrecy. I was married and did not want the guest house staff (nor the Western travellers I had befriended who were the innocent victims in all this) to think I was committing adultery.

The secrecy worked in Ganesh’s favour – it opened him up to play others. 

“Single and ready to mingle,” he said.

Before long, Ganesh’s relationship history was revealed.  He had dated many Western women, lost his virginity to an older Canadian woman (he was 16 or 19? and she was 25) and he had an Australian girlfriend of some three years who had helped him pay for the Bullet (apparently they cost around $1200).

There was also Sian, a 20 something English rose who had come to India for yoga teacher training after a bad breakup in Cardiff.

During her time in Goa, Sian had met Lee, a pretty blonde from Canada and together they had travelled to Hampi where they had met Ganesh (and Lee’s now boyfriend of a month Pradeep).

When I met Sian she was clearly healing, still licking her wounds from the hurts of a cheating boyfriend she had been in a relationship with for more than four years.

But she was also intimate with Ganesh - a fact she kept from me until my last night in Hampi.

It was smoke and mirrors at the guest house and lies were circling. 

But truths were also being unravelled leading to inevitable disappointments and betrayal. 

It took for Greg, a Canadian eccentric, to amble across my path and jolt me back to reality.  This towering figure had rallied me up on my last day in Hampi  appearing out of nowhere to chat at one of the ancient temples.

I mentioned the Indian men and Western women getting together back at the guest house and Greg said these unions were common in India – he’d written an article about it.

“Western women travellers want a brown boyfriend in India, a black boyfriend in Africa, a yellow one in Thailand and the ultimate prize is to bag a Buddhist monk,” he said.

Little did he know I was the cliché.

While Greg was a little offbeat and candor, he made up for it in local insight and I was happy to pass over his idiosyncrasies in favour of his wisdoms. 

Having said all this I had already been warned about the Indian men from a friend I had dinner with in Melbourne before I came to India. 

My friend Sarah told me to watch out for it.  She had met an Indian man in the North, become romantically involved with him and they had spent time travelling together.  Once back in Australia, Sarah received an email from her Indian lover requesting money.

Ganesh had already been working me for money.  He said his family was poor but he had won a scholarship to study veterinary science at Melbourne University and wanted to go.  However on our second day on the Bullet, Ganesh told me he was feeling sad.  He had learned a considerable sum of money was needed for an ‘entrance fee’ to uni and his father – a lowly fisherman – could not afford it. 

Ganesh’s (false) intention was to study abroad and return to Hampi to set up an animal clinic.

But thanks to Sarah’s tale I was already onto the scam.

“I know what you’re doing Ganesh and I’m not paying for your university studies,” I blurted out.

While it didn’t necessarily feel good to put my foot down, it had to be done, and fortunately the force of my response helped silence anymore talk of study or animal clinics.

My time in Hampi was dishonest but it was also fun.

The place is completely bewitching with its sites cast in so much history and religious significance.

It does not surprise me I fell spellbound here in more ways than one. 

Ironically I also believe being married saved me from really tripping myself up.  

Towards the end of my three days in Hampi, Ganesh had backed off and was spending more time with Sian. He knew she was going to be the better bet.  And I couldn’t play any other card as I wore the protective guise of being married.

Ridiculously my last night in Hampi was sleepless as I lay in bed knowing Ganesh was spending the night with Sian (although they had been discreet about it).

Had I been truthful about my single status things could have turned out differently. 

I have a hunch Ganesh would have travelled further with me too (like Sarah with her Indian beau) and I suspect I would have fallen (the long held, ingrained pattern of adoring unavailable, beautiful men).

But as it were, I dodged that Bullet. 

And I hope Sian will be ok.  

She and I exchanged email addresses, her asking: “Are you on facebook?” but sadly I won’t be able to befriend her as she'll only learn I didn't tell her the truth.

It’s also not my business as to how those two will turn out.  I've 'let go' and am leaving the rest up to them.

As my wise friends have said to me before – sometimes a person has to figure it out for themselves.

Photo: Ganesh 

The son of Shiva and Parvati, Ganesha has an elephantine countenance with a curved trunk and big ears, and a huge pot-bellied body of a human being. He is the Lord of success and destroyer of evils and obstacles. He is also worshipped as the god of education, knowledge, wisdom and wealth.

Memories and reflection

As I pack up six years of my life from living in South Melbourne I’m clearing out a lot of paperwork. Much of it relates to my public relations’ career; as well a ton of personal memento, like letters and cards from friends, old lovers and family; and of course, as one former boyfriend, Nirmal, used to name as one of the ‘three sure things in life’ –  taxes.  He said ‘death’ and ‘nurses’ were the other sure things, him being an obvious sure of himself doctor.

Among the pile of papers I've waded through is a writing assignment for my Graduate Diploma PR degree.  I only have it in hard copy, therefore my decision has been to throw away the hard copy, retype it, and post to my blog.  

The assignment was to write a feature piece based on the tone and style of an article derived from a magazine. We could find the article ourselves to base it on and I chose the piece: “On the death of my mother” by an American writer, Caroline Knapp.  Her story had appeared in Cleo magazine in August 1994. 

My lecturer wrote on grading my work a 'High Distinction': “Powerful and moving writing Caroline. Technically good, too.”

So let's see what you think (!) I’ve decided to chronicle it among my blog entries. Interesting that it comes so close to my blog entry mentioning my mum “Hello Mother”.  That’s just the way it is with mothers – you never forget 'em...!  

Unfortunately I cannot include a photo of mum as digital didn’t exist back then and I haven’t a scanner. Instead I’ve posted a picture of a Camellia flower. A camellia bush grew for many years outside mum's bedroom bay window in our beautiful garden in East Malvern and the blooms looked just like this one which she loved.

Written in 1998 – I was 23 years old at the time of writing.

On the death of my mother

Caroline James was only 21 when her soul mate – her mother – passed away.  Here, she lends an account of her mother’s life and suffering in the final days until death. And two years on, how she feels today.

On Thursday, July 25, 1996, roughly 7.40pm, my mother died. The time since has been like a vacuum, and not until now is the gap starting to fill. For the first time, I can write openly about it, without breaking down or fearing I will.

Time feels divided in two parts.  Before – with my mother, and after – without her.

The death certificate states sepsis as cause. But I know my mother died of cancer. It started in her breast in 1987 and like a creeping vine, spread under her arm to the lymph node and to her ribs and hip. After nine years, our worst nightmare became reality when malignant spots were confirmed on the lung.

My mother’s attitude was one of ‘living with cancer’ rather than dying.  I remember my friends’ reactions to the news – in the weeks/months following her death: “I never knew she was that sick” and comments such as “she always looked so well.”

Despite her deteriorating health, my mother lived life as usual. Yet usual to us, was very different to her. I remember in a rare moment, adding humour to the very serious, she shared how she felt: “You know when you have a shocking hangover? That’s how I feel 90 per cent of the time.”

Nonetheless, in all the time I knew my mother was ill, I seldom heard her complain. I once saw her cry. 

The never ending treatments, radiotherapy, chemotherapy, tamoxifen – took their toll on her physically. After chemotherapy, she lost her hair, and I watched her grasp and tug the last strands from her head, reluctantly placing them in her lap.

In the course of one year, my mother had aged ten. It’s noticeable in photos.  In a photo taken at her 50^th birthday party, my mother shines; a head full of auburn curls, supple skin, sparkling eyes. You would never know. Photos taken six months before her death, paint a very different picture, one not so deceptive.

Yet her attitude, especially to her family, never changed. Travelling overseas shortly before her death, I stayed on because I could never detect anything other than ‘mum’ when speaking on the phone. 

Happy mum, funny mum, mum who was always there.

Her own mother is still alive. I’m 23, and a motherless daughter of nearly two years. The harsh reality seeps in because I was there. I witnessed, begrudging, the suffering and the dying, the shocking side effects of cancer treatment: the exhaustion, the vomiting, indigestion, constipation, muscle spasms, lack of appetite, mood swings – and the pain.

Although in constant denial, I knew.  At night, I would slide down between the sheets in effort to block it from my conscious, yet no matter how hard I tried to forget, the constant reminder was there. My mother’s bedroom was only two rooms away. The reality of loss is completely surreal to me. Previously, death was just a word, not an actuality.

I remember after visiting hours at the hospital one night, my father, brother and I left to have dinner at a Chinese restaurant in Little Bourke Street. We made meaningless small talk while avoiding any mention of my mother’s health. The reality was all too consuming. It was the first time our family had sat at a Chinese restaurant table together without my mother. Chinese dining is like an institution to my family.

The possibility she would never join our table again? No, mum still had so much to give to life and to us. Who would tell us what to do, how to do it and when? To ensure the iron and gas oven switch was off and the doors were locked?  In the structure of everyday life, my mother’s importance to ours was overwhelming. She, to us, was larger than life.

She carried with her a positive outlook all the way, even toward the end. I remember one day when I was crying at her hospital bedside, she turned and said: “What are you crying for? I ain’t dead yet.”

She defied the odds several times before. Like a rollercoaster ride she would be up and down, but always amaze us, and bounce back.  When the cancer spread to the internal organs, we realised things were looking grim.

On overhearing a telephone conversation between her nurse and specialist, she later told my father and me what had been said. Phrases such as...this one’s not long now...three weeks at the most.

Mum was presently at home. She had been in and out of hospital for months. As her condition worsened, further time in hospital was inevitable.

I must admit this time in my life is blurred. I was vague and carried a great sense of denial. This infuriated my mother – she needed me – yet I’d run the other way. I simply could not face death in the eye, especially hers.

On reflection, I swept a lot of grief to the back of my mind, under the carpet, somewhere where it could be hidden/forgotten.  But who was I kidding?  And who were the doctors kidding? Not once did they tell us that our mother’s life was nearing an end.

My father travels frequently with work and at the time, was due for an assignment in Cairns. The doctors did not advise him to stay in Melbourne; it was my father’s decision and intuition that prevented him from leaving.

The doctors gave nothing in the way of time-frame, and influenced by the ambivalence, I started a demanding job the week she died. I was completely horrified however, when they suggested a hospice. It had come to this? Ten years of fighting and the battle was to be lost.

We did not move her, she died before we could. Slipping in and out of coma, she was often confused and disoriented, largely from the morphine. I remember her giving me the strangest look one day, a look of ‘who are you?’ but then there would be something, a gesture, a word to remind me she knew.

Her state of mind was playing tricks; she would mumble and talk to herself, all the time wearing an expression of confusion and anxiety.  It was as though in the five days leading to her death, she had hit the replay button on her life, and her mind was reliving it, sorting through the last 52 years.

I believe mum died when she felt it safe to go. Her mother and sisters (who live in Adelaide) had come and gone. Her minister gave his blessing and afterwards placed his hand on her leg and softly said: “Goodbye Jenny.”

On her final day, my father had sat with her for over an hour during lunch. And strangely that night, I was the first family member to arrive at her bedside. Every other night I would walk into the room to find my father and brother sitting beside her. Tonight was different; it even felt different. The room was dark and mum was lying on the bed. I was shocked at her breathing. She drew breath loudly, gasped for air and then slowly exhaled. Only later did I learn that nurses call this “cheyne stoking”. My mother had hit the downward spiral and it wasn’t long to go.

I sat with her in silence, I was terrified by her breathing and in my mind I begged her over and over not to go – not without my father or brother in the room.

Time lapsed until finally between my tears I courageously whispered: “It’s okay mum, I know you can’t stay. I want you too, but I understand, you can’t stay.”

Where were my brother and father? It was so weird that they hadn’t come yet. Looking back, I believe they weren’t meant to be there. This was my time – my goodbye – alone with my mother.

It was to be my 22^nd birthday in five days. I had wanted her to hold on, but that night I knew she had to go, sensed she wanted to. And in that time, before my brother finally entered the room, we had said goodbye.

Moments later William and dad arrived. I grieved also for my father and brother, both in their own internal mess. Mum knew how we were, I’m sure of it. I was so scared to witness her passing and I know she knew it (I think I’d even told her months before).

My father and I didn’t stay long after that. Despite our suggestion that he come with us, William was adamant: “I’m not going to leave her.”

Suspecting this to be the last goodbye, I reached out my hand and ruffled her hair.

“See you in heaven (repeating) see you in heaven darl.”

On the way home, my father and I stopped at a florist to buy our neighbour, Ann, some flowers because she had invited us to dinner.

At 8.10pm, we were about to leave home and go to Ann's when the phone rang. My father answered it and within seconds I knew, dad’s gasp from hearing the news on the other end confirmed it. She was gone. Dad handed me the phone. It was William.

“William, how did she go?” I had to be the strong one and refused to lose my composure.

“It was very peaceful, she went very peacefully.”

My brother’s relationship with my mother was a funny one, they adored each other but it was very love/hate. She tried to control my brother’s life and at every step, he rebelled and refused to listen.

Mum used to tell me: “It’s different with your first born,” the bond will always be there.

Two years before her death, William moved from Adelaide into our family home. He had been away from home since he was 12, at first living with my grandmother and then at boarding school. He came to live with us to spend time with mum. At this time, even though she had cancer for seven years, she was relatively well.

In flights of fury, he would scream at her: “I feel like I’m just waiting for you to die, and until you do, I can’t get on with my life.” 

Later that evening my father and I drove back into the city to say our last goodbye. Mum had always said to me that she regretted not seeing her father after he’d died.

I had made that promise to myself; that I would see my mother.

We walked into the room and William was sitting beside her, with a woman about mum’s age who had been visiting her for the past week or so. She later told me it was her job to visit the sick, but with my mother, she felt an immediate kinship. Mum had that affect on people, her infectious laugh and wide smile made even the coolest person feel warm.

Immediately I sensed the passing. The room felt different, and around me I felt her, the room was filled with her presence. She was on her back, head slightly tilted one side and mouth slightly open, lips in a faint smile. Her face was relaxed and eyes closed – she was at peace.

My brother stood and embraced me and within his arms I sobbed, releasing my sense of anguish – it was all over.

That night, my father and I dropped into some family friends, and we opened a bottle of red wine and talked and reminisced. It was a wonderful feeling to be among those familiar, and to be talking to those who really knew her.

William spent the night at his friends. The fact he was the one to see her go is very special to me. I knew I couldn’t be there, but I wanted her to go with someone and I think she wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It was her time with my brother, to put the tumultuous past behind them and forgive. And love.

My cousin flew in from Adelaide the next day, and her mother (my aunt), arrived shortly after. The following week was a time for the family, where I was so appreciative of their support.

Five days later, it was my birthday. That night, early morning, I believe my mother returned. I was overwhelmed by an amazing sense of presence, much like I’d felt in her room after she had died. My cousin was sleeping with me and she felt it too. Mum had come to say hello and acknowledge my birthday.

Much has changed in the time since. I fell into a desperate dose of alcohol and cigarettes. Latching onto anything, anyone, that would ease the emptiness I felt inside. I was two people. I mechanically worked through the day like a robot, and at night would let the defences down, sinking one or two bottles of red to drown the misery.

The trend continued for six months, I later heard some rumours spread about me (from a friend in Adelaide). People were saying I had ‘lost the plot’ since my mother’s death. I briefly saw a psychologist, but was disenchanted when he wanted to concentrate on me, not her. All I wanted to do was talk of her; keep her alive – living – even though she was gone. I took to reading about grieving and death, and about philosophy; thoughts on life.

Dad followed much the same pattern. He travels extensively; I think it helps keep his mind on other things. But we talk about her, and refer to her frequently. Missing her.

My brother returned to Adelaide in January of this year. He left the job he “hated” and only took to “please mum”.

He has returned to complete a Bachelor of Arts at University and has strong aspirations to be a musician (he wrote, composed and sung “Hello Mother” at the funeral).

When you lose the most important person in your world, life takes on an entire new meaning. But slowly, the real world seeps back into your life, and you’re back on the treadmill with everyone else. Life goes on, so they say. I told mum I would return to study. And I have. I am with the same company I started with the week she died; I know she’d like that. Mum liked stability.

A new friend

I tend not to have many male friends.

Yes there are those partnered with my female friends and of course my (gay) friend Renato, but there aren’t too many straight guys I’ve befriended on my own terms.

I gravitate towards female friendship and usually subscribe to the ol’ chestnut: men and women can’t be friends without the sex part getting in the way. ‘When Harry met Sally’ being one of my favourite films.

I've been at my brother’s house when his friends have come around for their weekly Thursday night get together. The evening goes something like this:

William plays his guitar; drinks some wine; reads the label on the wine bottle. Dallas plays with his phone; drinks some wine; rolls a %$&. Scott drinks some wine; smokes a cigarette.

Milly (Hamish Mill) is the exception; he likes a good natter. So eventually Milly grows tired of talking to silence and ventures inside to find me and Rachel chatting about love, marriage, spirituality, children, parents, fitness, health & nutrition, travel.

People say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks and I would have thought me an ‘old dog’ in my strong-held beliefs that women serve me better in friendship.

But all this changed when I met Andrew (pictured).

I nicknamed Andrew ‘Boston’ (because that’s where he’s from) and we became friends when he began a two month internship at the organisation I work at in Melbourne.

Boston blended in well to corporate culture – he wore a dark suit and was quiet and courteous in the open-office environment.

One of my colleagues asked if I would give Andrew an overview of my role so I booked a meeting room and took him through what a PR professional does.

"I thought your job was like Peggy’s from Mad Men,” Andrew said.

Peggy, the character who is a copywriter and later promoted to account manager, in the HBO award-winning drama series based on a fictional ad agency in 1950s/60s New York.

I love Mad Men.

Andrew worked his social charms on other colleagues and before long we were all catching up for Friday night drinks.

He would constantly say: “I love Australians” and me: “Tell me about America.”

My (other) American friend Nicole also watches Mad Men and she invited me and Boston to a show at the Next Wave Festival where she is marketing manager. The theatre was irreverent and original and gave Boston and me happy fodder to discuss at post-show drinks.

My friend Renato (another Mad Men fan) happily agreed for Andrew to join us at his Mad Men and martinis season five end party.

We all liked Boston.

Andrew left Melbourne just before Nicole and Anson held their ‘Christmas in July’ party. I would have liked his company – the party was winter wonderland fabulousness (many guests wore woolly sweaters with Xmas motifs like reindeer and snowflakes; we decorated a homemade gingerbread house with smarties; drank fresh eggnog, got tipsy and danced in Nicole and Anson's lounge-room).

Boston and me have kept in touch. He introduced me to his flatmate Josiah who’s from Portland. Josiah has given me some fantastic tips and insights into Portland and Seattle. Both have helped me enormously in shaping my upcoming US plans (San Diego/Portland/Seattle).

Josiah intends to return to Portland after finishing his degree.  Hopefully this will prompt Andrew to visit us. Otherwise, I’ll go to Boston.

When an employee leaves an organisation, their farewell speech seldom focuses on the work alone: they usually mention the people as a highlight. My work contract ends in January and while the work’s been good – it’s where I met Boston. 

It may have taken someone from the other side of the world to change my beliefs about the dynamics of gender and friendship. The Quiet American. But perhaps it was just meant to be - Melbourne is afterall sister city to Boston.



In 1985, Melbourne’s international sister city relationship with Boston was established. As vibrant knowledge cities, Melbourne and Boston are connected by a common commitment to excellence in healthcare and medicine, information and biotechnology, education, the arts and culture.

See link: http://www.melbourne.vic.gov.au/enterprisemelbourne/BusinessSupport/international/Pages/SisterCityBoston.aspx



The pic: Andrew looking daper in his suit. He took influence from Mad Men’s Don Draper. He wanted to ‘look fantastic in a suit’ (see first link below for reference). Knowing my love for Mad Men and Game of Thrones, Andrew shared these clips - watch if you're a fan:

Don Draper’s guide to picking up women: http://www.videolog.tv/video.php?id=440339

Don Draper presents Facebook timeline: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wAcyJhsamcQ&list=FLkg7Jr2Omo_kNayGio4c1mA&index=50&feature=plpp_video

Game of Thrones: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xq6dez_snl-game-of-thrones_shortfilms

Hello Mother

I’ve always loved the theatre and whenever I travel, I will see a play.

During my recent trip to San Francisco, friends had recommended the pastry shop, Tartine, so while I sipped my soy latte and munched on a fruit scone, I read over the Arts section of the San Francisco Chronicle to get a feel for the theatre around town.

I came across a preview for The Normal Heart.  

The Normal Heart focuses on the rise of the HIV-AIDS crisis in New York City between 1981 and 1984, as seen through the eyes of writer/activist Ned Weeks, the gay Jewish-American founder of a prominent HIV advocacy group.

As in all good theatre, this production touched me in ways I could relate my own life.  

One of the beloved characters had contracted HIV and in a following scene, his doctor tells him the grim news that the virus has progressed to full blown AIDS.

Facing the audience, the grown man cries: “I want my mother.”

The attending doctor casually enquires: “Can you call her?”

“She’s dead,” he replies.

My mother died when I was 21 – five days shy of my 22^nd birthday.  Her own father died when she too was 21.  I remember asking her: “Do you miss your father?”  “No,” she had said. “It’s so long ago now.”

It’s been a difficult road without my mother.  I have a father and brother and their male influence in my 20s was undeniable. Essentially I became more like them dropping any hint of feminine.  I was male in a female form.   I chased the boys and usually got them - but never for long.  I was too strong and overt.

There were many happy times in my 20s, the young and heady lifestyle is undeniably intoxicating, but I transgressed many weekends in a haze of booze and cigarettes.

My father met his now wife when I was 26.  The subsequent years were some of my hardest.  I moved to Darwin before I was 30, and back again, via Sydney for a year, by the time I was 32.  I’ve been in Melbourne six years since.

There have been several occasions where I have wanted to yell to a listening audience: “I want my mother.”

I’ve certainly felt it.

I miss her humour and her being.  The fact I’ve put off having a child because she cannot be here to support me in the role of motherhood because it is just so damn hard child rearing without that maternal presence.

Very often I’ll signal my mother through prayer.  And she’ll throw me the occasional hottie.  I know it’s her doing – she liked a good looking man as much as I do.

As previous blogs will attest, the Top Gun fighter pilot; the irresistible Tristan; and later our Saint, Bede.

Mum appeared in a dream around the time I was reconciling the end with Tristan.  She and I were sitting at a table talking.  I had spoken the circumstances of our union and how its end had made me sad. 

My mother, who had been listening attentively, said in a casual manner: “Of biscuits and bread.”

“What does that mean?” I quizzed.

“Of biscuits and bread,” she repeated as the dream trailed off.

It’s neither here nor there; it’s just the way it goes.

I later relayed my dream to the wise and wonderful Peter, and he put a new spin on its interpretation:

Biscuits are sweet.  Bread is nourishing.  Do you think she was simply pointing out that Tristan was sweet - but not nourishing enough to be long lasting?

Maybe.  This explanation made sense.

I asked my mother once what her favourite food was. 

“Bread,” she had said.

The Shaman Lover

My sister in law and I have been on a similar path for the past few years in that we've complemented one another in honing our quest for personal growth and understanding.

We've read similar books, chatted about our learning's, and shared inspirations by motivational thought leaders.  Rachel often buys me these books for birthdays and Christmas.

Her latest offering is a book called Broken Open by Elizabeth Lesser (on a google search you'll find Oprah's a fan).

In this Lesser relays her own experience dedicating a chapter to an extra-marital affair with a man she refers to as her 'Shaman Lover'.

"I was drawn to him by a force stronger than any kind of will to turn away - as if his gravitational pull matched that of a planet," Lesser writes.

She explains:  In some cultures, a person in the midst of a crisis or heartache will consult with the shaman - a medicine man or a healing witch who holds an exalted place in the society. The dictionary describes a shaman as "a member of a certain spirit world, and who practices magic or sorcery for the purpose of healing and divination."

Lesser goes on to describe the experience of meeting a Shaman Lover, which she claims has common markers.

"You will know you are on a journey with a Shaman Lover if you feel a sudden loss of control, a fearsome sense of abandon, and especially an air of foreign-ness. The Shaman Lover is not the one you thought could turn the large ship of your life around. If you thought you would be attracted to someone with money, he is broke; if you wanted respectability, she's a gypsy; if you longed for sweet romance, he's mean; if you wanted deep peace, she's trouble."

In reading this chapter I realised I had experienced my own Shaman Lover in Tristan.  In retelling my experience of Tristan to my trusted and wise friend Peter, he said sometimes an experience can be so unsettling for the heart that we know never to repeat it -  breaking us open so profoundly that it is too painful to re-enter.  Knowing my pattern of chasing unavailable men - Peter quizzed me if I thought I could fall prey again?

"No" I vowed. "Never." Peter, looked at me smiling: "Good," he said. "So you've learned."

But just one week after this conversation, the Gods threw me another Shaman Lover.  Just to make sure. Was this a test sent from my guardian angels?  Did I really mean what I had professed to Peter and told myself?  Was I strong enough to resist what Lesser deemed a force of planetary proportion?

And most importantly - was I ready to reject this Shaman Lover so that I would keep my focus on my true search for love?

Interestingly to really knock it to me good the new Shaman  Lover was a doppelganger for Tristan.

Bede (pictured) too was 29 years old, tall, lean and 'James Franco' handsome.  And just to dig the heels in deeper - Bede too hailed from New Zealand.

Bede who was christened with a Saint's name my friend Linda later told me (she has a son called Bede) sat on my couch and played guitar singing to me Jeff Buckley tunes late into Friday night.

Together we had reached this moment and place quite serendipitously - although I will say I had known of Bede's existence for a short time already.

Surrendering myself to this new 'Saint' would show all the hallmarks of reliving the sweet bliss of a Shaman Lover - but also lead to its ultimate doom.

Lesser quotes Japanese poet Fujiwara no Teika:

From the beginning
I knew meeting could only
End in parting, yet
I ignored the coming dawn
And I gave myself to you.

This time I was attuned.  And I was fierce.  No, not again.

Lesser tells of consulting a psychic during her affair.  The (turns out spot on) psychic said:

"You are finished with Tom, your lover, but you will remain indebted to him, throughout all of your lifetimes," the psychic said.  "He gave you back your body, your heart, your voice. Do you understand? When you found him, you found your own precious voice. This is the contract you had with him; he has had this contract with many others.  He freed the song of your soul.

"He comes with fire to awaken the dead. And yet he burns himself with his own heat. You cannot stay with him or you will burn yourself as well.  I know you love this man, so write this down:  Tom, throughout all eternity, I am grateful to you for the gift of my soul's voice."

And me?  I was captivated by Bede, this new Saint sent by angels, but I knew my heart could only handle one Shaman Lover in this lifetime.

Because although my time with Tristan was fleeting "he comes with fire to awaken the dead."

And the memory of that dance still burns very much alive.

Here's looking at you kid

I had a big blow on the romance front this week. After experiencing my own 'vision quest' in New York (see prior blog entry) I knew in my heart I needed to exhaust the potential of taking things further with Tristan in New Zealand.

So despite a halt in contact for some weeks brought on by me (I knew I needed more from him than he was giving) I did an about turn and delivered him with a proposition:  How about I come and visit you in January and let's see if we can take it further?

I see eyes rolling but stay with me - I had it all worked out.

First up, there was housekeeping to sort out. I would complete my work contract and he would go to Lima, Peru, as intended for two months to volunteer his design skills to a not for profit organisation. Part of making up his Masters. In Jan I would visit him in Dunedin and stay as long as need be. Ignoring the copious signs of the past that I was not nor would ever be Tristan's 'one' I somehow thought I might be able to change his heart.  In Dunedin love could grow.

So when I reached out to him last week and suggested my idea, I felt like I'd won the lottery when he said: "I would be open to that," and "sounds like a great plan."

Those joyful feelings stayed with me for a full day! Of course a crash was only a hint away…as naturally in this scenario, doubt kept its hold in the corner of my loved up/fuzzed up mind.

Monday night before Tristan left for Lima, we organised a face to face skype date. This is when after seven months of never quite saying it in full - he came clean.

I'm just not that into you.

What's more in the time we had dropped contact, it had freed him up to meet someone else. A 'lovely' Dunedin girl his own age who had text him her number and he was looking forward to a coffee date on his return.

Despite our wonderful time together - it did not feel enough.

As you can imagine - hearing this was a terrible blow - but fortunately in the days to follow I found my head.

Of course with a little help from the usual picking up the pieces of Caroline's broken heart suspects and my dear facebook friends (wink wink) I removed the rose coloured glasses and fronted up to my own actions/choices/thoughts/feelings.

I mentioned in the prior post that my sister in law gave me the book "Why you're not married…yet" for a belated birthday present. She said not to take offence by the gesture she just thought I could get something from it.

Turns out I did approach reading it with trepidation (who cares if I'm not married... yet? Yeah!) but curiosity got the better of me.

Last night after being propped up by kind and caring words from friends Linda (more to come) and Ques - I came across this nugget:

We attract men into our love lives who reflect back what we think of ourselves.

Applying this to me and Tristan - he said it didn't feel "enough" with me.

On introspection I realised that's how I think of myself (and dare say many more women fall in this trap).

I'm not good enough for real, enduring love.

Tristan is also eight years younger which begs the question, why do I chase younger men?

I haven't grown up.

Growing up is scary - it represents putting down roots, being accountable to others, living out and accepting your responsibilities, facing up to some shoddy finances - accepting you don't look 30 anymore.

What's more - at my life stage, I'm conscious of what I don't have that my peers do. I am not a home owner, I do not have an investment property, I am not married/in a relationship, and I don't have kids.

So how do I make myself feel better about all this lack? I pull in a guy who lives with his dad to save on rent, is not a home owner, has never been married and does not have kids. And that guy is going to be younger than my 38.

But even though Tristan and I did have our connection - he inevitably wants a woman who feels more like him.

"You're champagne and Tristan's beer on a summer's day," Linda my friend of 20 years said. “He's a hiking Kiwi boy and you're a cultured woman.”

The new chick, I asked - she's beer too?  "Cider" Linda wrote. "Like beer but a bit more girly."

I wasn't ready to give up. "I'm happy to swill beer," I professed. "Yes, but you are old enough to know you can drink both. He is young and his taste buds have not yet developed," she quipped.

A simple and silly, but poignant exchange.

I'm obviously saddened things didn't work out with Tristan, but I'm also glad I can take the positives from the lows.

A spring clean of putting the beer goggles away, getting the champagne glasses out, giving them a mighty good rinse and letting the Veuve pour in.

The Vision Quest

I recently returned from two weeks in the US – the trip’s primary purpose to ‘activate’ the green card I won in the US Diversity Lottery (needing to be done by December 2012) as well determine if LA, San Francisco and/or New York could be viable cities for me to find work and live.

I stayed in airbnb accommodation (www.airbnb.com) which is basically paying slightly less than four star hotel rates to stay at someone else's house while they clear out. People are cleaning up on this site and the business behind it has become huge and profitable.  I read an article in Vanity Fair about successful start-ups coming out of San Francisco – and one of the names mentioned was airbnb.

I like the idea of staying in a person’s apartment as I wanted to get a feel for how a local lives and with guidance from my American friend, Nicole, I stayed in neighbourhoods she recommended would be a good fit.

I loved LA for its weather, San Fran for the charm and New York for its sheer pulsating mass, but it wasn’t until I sat in an East Village coffee shop in New York...that I realised where my next destination is preference to be.

A lot had led to what Oprah would term my “Aha” moment that Sunday morning. Most recently watching the film “Friends with Kids” on the plane where a New York sassy woman of 38 has a baby with her best (male) friend because they both agree time’s not on her side and with no romantic prospects in sight for either, the bestie steps up. 

The other is I met several women while away who were just like me.  Single and older – all open to the idea of children, but no closer to finding a suitable mate. For two of these women, they won’t get the chance, already well underway in their 40s. Specifically, I had arranged meetings (work purposes – not because we all shared single and childless status!) with one such woman in LA, three in San Fran and two in New York.

Of course we all know this but there are older single women everywhere!  Not just in Melbourne and/or Sydney.  Everywhere.  And I could see my course if I set on any one of these American cities. My course would be just where they were. As the saying goes (sentiment thereof) “same shit, different city.”

One other thing on the flipside of the coin that I noticed while in San Francisco and New York is a lot of young people are married. Add to that, many have children. In the Marina district, San Francisco, sporting a huge diamond engagement ring (along with their lululemon ‘uniform’) was mainstay for the pretty, slim girls at yoga class, and in New York I noticed several young couples wearing wedding bands.

I was perplexed, all these youngsters married. And they looked content and happy!  It was heart warming really. I thought - good on them, having a go.

So here I was in America, alone, sussing out work opportunities and I could see it would be a tough road – especially in city that never sleeps New York.

I thought to myself - what is it you're after Caroline? New York is a hard city.  Sure I can play tough on the work front but it's a city that doesn't show a real lot of warmth if you're on your own. And I figured, perhaps this is why all these people marry young.  Because they are there to support each other and they're making a go of it in the big smoke.

There in the East Village coffee shop it hit me. I was watching a young couple with two small kids enjoying breakfast at a corner booth and they looked so comfortable and normal. 

Never mind I had been reading a trendy New York City guide book telling me where to find the best bars and restaurants - when I looked up to contemplate the young family - I thought: "I want that”.  More than anything else right now.

While of course the idea of family and children has travelled with me throughout my late 20s and certainly into my 30s – I knew and accepted the reasons I had never got there and actually had grown  pretty resigned to being motherless. 

I figured it just wasn’t going to happen for me. I had passed on previous partners open to the idea therefore obviously I didn’t want it that much. So turns out, I do want it - it just didn’t feel right then.

The message behind what I felt is so crystal clear that I have since gone against my initial thinking that New York was ultimately going to be the “moving to” US destination.  I am now entertaining what I would think are more family friendly options like Seattle, Portland and Chicago.  My mate Sara suggests I also check out New Orleans.  I know about Boston – but it’s cold!

I relayed my epiphany to a male friend this week and he chuckled saying that I had experienced my own “Vision Quest”.  Ordinarily he said one goes on a vision quest to a solitary place but as per usual,  I had done things my own way.  I’d experienced my own vision quest amidst one of the busiest cities in the world!

This was the first time I had heard of a “vision quest” and perhaps you too - so I’ll relay what it is through a cut and paste job from Wikipedia (apparently outback versions of vision quests are pretty popular here in Australia - who knew?)

A vision quest is a rite of passage in some Native American cultures. The ceremony of the Vision Quest is one of the most universal and ancient means to find spiritual guidance and purpose. A Vision Quest can provide deep understanding of one's life purpose.

A traditional Native American Vision Quest consists of a person spending one to four days and nights secluded in nature. This provides time for deep communion with the fundamental forces and spiritual energies of creation and self-identity. During this time of intense spiritual communication a person can receive profound insight into themselves and the world. This insight, typically in the form of a dream of Vision, relates directly to their purpose and destiny in life.

I wrote to one of the women I met in the States on my return this week. At the dinner catch-up we’d had in New York I had asked her if finding a man was achievable.  She had said it was easy enough to find a man in New York – but a much harder task to find the “right” man.  In the email I said I was now leaning towards other cities outside New York in my search for a place to call home.

This is what she wrote back:

“Just keep an open mind and everything will work out. What I said about the right men being available can apply to any city anywhere really...one’s individual perspective has to change and the world starts looking a little brighter. There comes a time when we have to stop blaming our surroundings and get real with what’s happening on the inside. Ya know?! There are great communities just outside NYC like where I am now, or even parts of Brooklyn, so you'll find what’s best for you.”

She’s right.  It starts from within. Which is kind of funny that parallel but inadvertent to these events - my sister in law gives me the book: “Why you’re not married...yet” for a belated birthday present this week.  It’s a corker – and I recommend it to older single women but be warned, you’ll need a thick skin (which I have) because the author’s approach is it is ourselves that prevents the marital outcome.  In relating to myself – I agree!

With all of this – internal and external change is inevitable.  And I have a new sense of curiosity and intrigue as to where I’ll take myself next!

Postscript:

I relayed my observation to (American friend) Nicole about the youngsters being married and she suggested the reason they marry young is the US doesn't recognise defacto status as well married people get better tax benefits in the States.  So people get married.

I thought this was funny that my observation was correct and not just me playing Cinderella or some such starry-eyed, noticing these young people married. 

It is a financial imperative!