Sweet mouth

I have been going to the Sunday Feasts at the Hare Krishna temple in Albert Park since my uni days. Word spread there was *free food to be had and a group of us flocked to partake in this weekly ritual of vegetarian feasting.

Our visits fed more than our tummies – they nourished our souls as friends sat and chatted around the fountain in the patio of the stunning two-story Victorian residence. We’d soak up the visual surrounds that included women wearing colourful saris and men with shaved heads all but for the small patch of hair and ponytail.

Like the temple, I have been eating at the Hare Krishna vegetarian restaurant, Gopals, in the CBD on and off for years. Gopals catered for my 21st birthday celebrations.

I don’t get to Gopals as much as I would if I worked in the CBD but if I’m ever in the city for a meeting or on a short term contract, I’ll often head there for lunch.

The low key restaurant is reached by climbing a steep flight of stairs and overlooks Swanston Street. Gopals’ clientele are generally easygoing and quiet, this pace and type of person is a welcome respite from the usual rat racers. Many solo diners will sit at the window benches to take in the sights and sounds of the goings on below - trams passing, police cars, cyclists, horse carriages, city workers, shoppers, buskers...

During my recent visits to Gopals, I’ve been served by a young, Indian man who takes delight in suggesting foods for me to try. I love eating Gopals’ desserts and for this he said the other day I have a “sweet mouth”.

Our interactions deepened after I saw him at temple a few Sundays ago. I was sitting with my friend Sara, one of the original crew from the old temple days, when I spotted him in the queue waiting to be served.

I made my way across to him negotiating my path through the sea of people already seated. His eyes found mine and his face lit up. My initial impulse was to reach out and hug him. I was brimming with joy to see him especially as it was unexpected and out of context, but I refrained from being too tactile. I was later thankful for my (unusual) restraint - perhaps a hug would have made him feel uncomfortable?

It was here where we formally introduced ourselves: “Caroline,” “Aadesh.”

Aadesh is delicious looking – I wouldn’t have put him at more than 23 or 24 years but recently learned he’s just turned 30. Whenever we see each other we both break into huge smiles. I think he is pure bliss. He must see something in me too as there’s chemistry that transcends heritage, age or religion. His friend standing with him in the queue that day at temple and the other staffers at Gopals all smile coy to witness our mutual happiness at being with one another.

Aadesh has twice stepped away from serving behind the Gopals’ counter to sit with me while I eat. He talks to me about the food and his faith. He told me on my last visit that Krishna devotees follow four principles: 1. No meat eating. 2. No intoxication (alcohol, tobacco, drugs). 3. No gambling. 4. No illicit sex (ie no sex outside marriage).

Naturally my heart sunk when I heard the latter (I am only human!) and at this point was reminded of the episode in Sex and the City where Samantha falls for the Franciscan Brother but as a priest Samantha can never have him! I called my friend Sara straight after my conversation with Aadesh and told her I felt just like Samantha! All my friends have seen Sex and the City. I had found my own Franciscan Brother but in the form of a Hare Krishna!

I have been involved on one level with the Hare Krishna’s (their food) my whole adult life but never took too much notice of its religion. But since I’ve been moving high speed along my own spiritual journey I appreciate hearing others talk about their faith.

Today I went to temple with Sara and expected to see Aadesh. I know he goes to temple every Sunday – he’s encouraged me to go more often. I thought I would see him and looked forward to it all weekend. Those butterfly flutters of sweet anticipation.

I scanned the whole room where everyone was eating, the queue, the prayer hall, outside on the patio. No Aadesh. Sara kept looking at me checking in: “He’s here – you’ve seen him?” No.

As we were leaving and it became evident I wouldn’t see Aadesh today I felt a strong sense of disappointment. “Well, this is the universe holding it back from me and protecting me from falling for a man who is celibate,” I told Sara. She agreed a celibate man was not the man for me!

That’s the thing about crushes – you can get crushed. I am Samantha from Sex and the City. Life imitates art. And like a beautiful painting hanging in a gallery, Aadesh comes with sign attached: Look but do not touch.

*donations were collected.
Aadesh is not his real name...!

Vale ol’ Walt

How many dogs can you say you’ve known who have made it to 17.5 years?

My very special boy: Walter Warwick James.

This last week, I wormed my way around the fact that my dearly beloved pooch best lay his gorgeous self in heaven.

I prayed to God, the angels (including St Francis of Assisi - patron Saint of Animals), my late mum and Walt's departed friend/foe Maggie Charly for strength, protection, guidance and support as well to ask their hand in Walt’s transition ‘home’.

Walt passed on Wednesday 28 Sept around 4pm with the aid of his vet, Di; Sandie my local florist and great Walt lover; and Sara, a friend who on many occasions has taken Walt under her watch.

Outside it was raining and thunder was bellowing two great claps (Sara remarked this a fitting send off – and my aunt Lucy later commented it was the heavens applauding me for having the courage to action a necessary bon voyage).

Sandie, who had stayed holding and cuddling Walt to her for his final curtain call, came out of the vet’s consultation room a few minutes later with a great tuft of Walt’s hair for me to cherish - taken from his gorgeous crimpy bits over his ear.

She said the vet had informed his little heart had stopped right away with the administration of the anaesthesia. There was no sign of pain or resistance. Walt went swiftly and without fuss. Sandie said he looked so peaceful wrapped up in the vet’s fluffy, white blanket.

I had kept the last chapter in this sad journey relatively private in honour of spending Walt’s last days together and in self protection to try and finally reconcile a life without him.

I had been considering a two month contract up in Sydney so had taken Walt to the vet for a consultation to make sure he was doing ok and that I could go ahead with including him in my short term relocation plans.

Walter was very old, feeble, had periodontal disease and dementia. But I was committed to holding onto him and if he still had a Sydney run in him, we would make the trip. After all, we had practically been all over Australia together.

Another cursor to get me to the vet was Walt had 'urine scold' brought on by his unsteady gait and pretty much no strength in his back legs to hold him up and prevent the urine stream from hitting his skin.

In short - the vet was adamant Walt would be in pain due to a myriad of poor health conditions (namely all brought on by his v grand age) and suggested I say my goodbyes before his condition deteriorated further.

“If you hadn’t been at home to care for him all these years – he would have gone by now. Most people who go off to work each day and leave their dogs in the backyard would have had to put him down a long time ago. With the dementia, he more than likely would have found himself in a precarious position and met his end.”

She had a valid point – there have been several occasions over the months where without my interception, Waltie’s misdemeanours would have led him haphazardly to heaven’s pearly gates.

One evening last year for example I took Walt off lead to Albert Park Lake. While I had turned for not more than a minute, he had wandered across the path and fell into the water. A passing jogger yelled to me as I searched (in the other direction) for him: "Is that your dog swimming in the lake?"

I wouldn’t have suspected Walt would end up paddling in the water! But it was already dark and Walt had obviously lost his bearings and fallen in. I had to dive in - in the middle of winter - to retrieve him. The jogger stayed with me and helped me haul him up. Shivering, skinny, tiny Walt. I cradled him in my arms and carried him home, looking to the sky all the way: “Mum, I know you saved him for me, I know.” And the jogger guardian angel sent.

Walt was a cat; he had nine lives but more. I used to call him my little ever ready battery – he went on and on and on. Even after each close call, he would rally.

In our last days together, I reasoned that he’d experienced enough sorrow on my part. He had tolerated me sobbing over him – tears welled when my look lingered on his trusting eyes, the sense of dread permeating through my every pore. But he was sensitive to my grief and he took it on. Witness to this I determined this transference of despair would cease. Walt’s body was too old, too frail, too worn to absorb these punishing throes of sadness.

Instead, happiness and joy, peace and respect would reign. Walt didn’t deserve any less – he had shouldered my ups and downs, been there through it all, a staunch support and trusted shepherd. The Shetland Sheepdog – in his breed’s made role; a shepherd to the sheep, but for Walt’s life, the shepherd over me. Watching and there, ever present.

Tuesday we had a good night’s rest together. Sure, I was up intermittently tending to his needs as per usual, but importantly I had mostly slept soundly and hadn’t succumbed to a sleepless night.

As Liz Gilbert reported in her personal memoir ‘Eat Pray Love’, I knew the tempest was coming but “go back to bed Liz,” because you will need all your strength to push through.

This is how I felt. Lord, please give me a good night’s rest so that I am in the best physical, mental and emotional standing to meet the eye of the storm.

The next morning, my Waltie spent time sleeping with me and we had a good while together where he lay by my side and I snuggled into him. He positioned his beautiful nose to nuzzle my neck and face and his front leg lay on my arm as I stroked his body’s soft fur and moved my fingers over his worn paw pads.

My aunt Sue said to me about losing her beloved Hacksaw at 15 years: "When Hacky died, I wasn't sad....he'd had a great life and it was his time to go."

In part this rings true. Walt exited this world when it was the right time for both of us - and in his departure and the days before - he handled it with patience, courage, grace and dignity.

The dog was worn out – he was exhausted, but in true stoic, stubborn Walter style he was going to stick around and wasn’t going to leave me. But boy was he ready to go. And it was my call as the custodian of his comfort and care, the steward for this animal’s welfare, to give him my blessing and fond farewell.

It is also important to place in perspective that Waltie outlived almost any canine’s lifespan. Walt’s struggles with movement, agility, eating and his ‘witching hour’ dementia meant his life had well come to its end. Nature’s way – circle of life.

Vale ol’ Walt and Godspeed. You are and will be sorely missed.

Images - painting of Waltie, photos taken by the artist and friend, Sam for inspiration, in August 2011; flowers given to me by Sandie in memory of Walt; Caroline James (me) and Walter (taken April 2010).

Dementia dog

Every night around 7pm a sort of witching hour begins for my 17 year old Shetland Sheepdog, Walter.

I suspect triggered by the smell of dinner cooking (usually salmon, chicken or steak), Walter’s aged mind flicks a switch and turns its state to 'dementia dog'.

For the next hour at minimum Walt will pant and pace about the house seeking out obstacles. He’ll walk behind the TV among all the cables (where I fear he'll electrocute himself), squeeze his body between the wall and my office desk, crouch under the coffee table, hover in a corner, or squish himself behind a chair. Of course he often gets stuck and loyal me comes to his rescue.

During these times Walt is overcome with busyness. Dementia dog's nightly charade can carry on for several hours and very often I’ll have to cart him outside for my own mind's escape. After a short interval (because it's cold outside), we're back...and dementia dog can resume his second act.

I read him well and while this behaviour would no doubt cause distress to an untrained eye; I know it’s just the folly of a very old, old dog. Besides, when dementia dog sets in, it can signal he needs to pee or is thirsty for a drink.

But unfortunate to say, dementia dog brings with it broken sleep. We'll settle for bed around 11pm, but I will be up at least once a night tending to some four legged whim.

People have remarked the interrupted sleep is good training for potential motherhood but if dementia dog were indeed a newborn; he'd be a toddler by now - such episodes have run their nightly ritual for at least three years.

I know there are plenty dear to me who think it’s time Walt gave up the ghost but I love him and am scared to let my faithful friend go.

So this reasons why night after night, year after year, I’ve allowed it to carry on – Walt’s twilight dance in the twilight of his life.

The positive spin

I remember having a good whinge to my (then) boss of the incompetencies of a supplier we were dealing with and I was quick to point out everything this team was doing wrong and 'as a consultant to us' should be doing right. Why were we paying all this money for their shoddy work? On my ramblings went.

My boss turned to me and said: "I know the problem, but I want to hear the solution."

It struck me then that here lies the challenge - finding the solution. The easy part (of which I was so competent) was to focus the bad.

None of this mattered, because this supplier was on contract, had pitched for the work, won it and had a job to do. The fact they were doing it badly was not in dispute, but it was time to do something about it and get the supplier on track.

The suggestion to take the positive over negative came up again in a conversation with a friend yesterday.

She was telling me about an issue with her partner and I said to her point blank: "why don't you just say 'your way is not working'?". My friend replied: "well, I'd like to take a more positive approach than that."

The second time I was hit in the face; reminded of my ugly habit.

I will of course be able to apply my new-found logic to my personal relationships. I recollect at least two previous boyfriends who said: "you're so hard on me" and since gone onto find women obviously not as 'hard (as) me'; having married them or about to.

So perhaps instead of repeatedly pointing out my loved ones' shortcomings (I should have learned the first time nagging is not effective!) I will endeavour to approach the issue as my friend said, with a positive spin.

Rewind to: "You drink too much, you party too hard, and your breath and every pore of you reaks of alcohol; it's disgusting and sooooo unattractive" (37 year old v responsible day job boyfriend getting home at 8am Saturday mornings after epic Friday nights' out),

...should have been rephrased as:

"Honey, you're obviously popular and have an enviable social life, but I'm really looking forward to spending time with you tomorrow and it'd be great if you could make it home by 2am (remember the usual was 8am) so you're not feeling unwell or overtired, and we can enjoy a great day together."

I dunno....having just read over the above, I think I may have tried the positive in this particular scenario over and over - but when booze has its grip no sense can come of it.

However, there's something to it, this positive business. Sure beats the goody two shoes tut tutting and finger pointing (one finger pointing at you is three pointed back at me).

So I'll take my pledge and strive for the positive. Old habits die hard, I'm sure to teeter on the naysayer ledge a little longer than admirable...but hopefully when I do step it forward; I'll be dipping my toe in the purified waters of a 'glass half full'.

You can't always get what you want

On the first day of spring where there should be a spring in my step, I've fallen flat.

As readers of this blog are aware (and newbies about to find out) today I had my appointment with a fertility specialist to chat about egg freezing.

I was all gung ho (re-reading my former post I note this sentiment) about taking action to ensure I had my reservation at the baby making table.

Today's appointment was a real eye opener. I didn't spend too long with the specialist because as soon as she quoted the costs ($12 - $13k minimum) for the process, I tuned out making my mind up then and there that if children weren't in my future the natural way - as a current single woman, I wasn't going to test run the science.

Apparently one needs about two rounds of 'egg collection' (across two cycles) to maximise their chances of producing an egg right for fertility. Of course I would have to pump hormones into myself to get more eggs created than usual and for the process to 'harvest' them I would have to go under a general anaesthetic (that part of which I knew). And once the eggs are frozen - it's about an extra $1500 to inseminate with the male's sperm.

This was all getting a bit much.

I could go further into the ins and outs but for want of not getting too technical or tedious - the upshot is this: I'd be looking at about $30K outspend to have a baby from frozen eggs.

Which had me sitting across from the doctor thinking; do I want a kid that badly? And today without a partner in the picture, my gut says no.

In anycase - on the first day of spring, when the sun is shining and nature is set to bloom - my rosy cheeks have paled. Even if I had the money I don't think I would do it.

It just seems too hard.

The search

We all seem to be searching for something. Obviously it’s age-old and part of the human condition.

There are those searching for a partner for love and/or to begin a family; and there are material collectables many are seeking to acquire - a better home, a car - and the need for a well paid job to achieve it all.

Always searching, searching, searching.

Last night I met a 41 year old woman not dissimilar in looks to Kylie Minogue. One might jump to the conclusion that such a sweet, pretty person might largely be satisfied with her lot. But scratch the surface and I uncovered there was a lot of searching going on inside.

This lady – let’s call her Kylie – wanted to attract the right man in her life and the process she was undertaking to achieve this left me leaning in to hear more. I’ve heard close friends talk like this – but as a relative stranger, Kylie was brave enough to share it with me right off the bat.

She kept a ‘grateful diary’ and would list daily occurrences she was grateful for. Along with the grateful diary, Kylie had prepared a checklist of the qualities she wanted in her future partner. Mixing the two (the grateful diary and her most eligible bachelor checklist) she would read it aloud and in doing so, hoped to manifest both – a grateful life and a wonderful man.

I can only support her that the universe answers this call. Add to that "I'll have what she's having." (When Harry Met Sally)

And me - I shared with Kylie my search for the right place to be with God.

Kylie offered that she was a spiritual person, she too like me had attended a religious style school, but she took a more open approach to God – ie God is any God – not just a Christian one. Of course - I agreed.

My relationship with the church started young and as a school boarder from years 8 – 10 in Adelaide, it was routine to attend church on Sundays. We would kit out in our Sunday best - school uniform, hat and gloves and the School Principal would walk around the dining hall to inspect everyone before we were allowed to board the bus.

Our shoes had to be perfectly polished and hair tied back neatly and if they weren’t – we would be sent back to our rooms to rectify the situation.

When my parents relocated from Alice Springs to Melbourne (and I left boarding school to live with them) my mother, living with cancer, found solace in the church. So every now and then I joined her.

When travelling Europe for the first time, I visited some of the most beautiful churches and remember sitting in one in Brussels feeling a firm sense of peace. It was here – in a church – where I felt closest to God.

So it makes sense that I've continued to step into a church from time to time. But sadly, at 37 years old and single, church attendance doesn’t quite fit.

I know Melbourne’s churches would LOVE to have younger people join their congregation and it’s not an uncommon story dwindling attendance requires a boost in new blood, but church going remains predominantly a blue-rinsed affair.

I’m not seeking to be a ‘happy clapper’ born again Christian, Hillsong devotee, or new-aged Buddhist – all of which do tend to attract a younger demographic. But sometimes I just want to sit in a pew with God. And it frustrates me - hard, wooden seating aside - that I don’t feel I comfortably can.

So perhaps a meditation class will be my happy medium.

I mentioned this to Kylie and again she surprised me. She too had searched for a good meditation class and was able to recommend a place in Caulfield for me to try.

Meditation is not quite going to meet my need to revisit the Brussels' church experience; but neither is going to my local church sitting next to a group of oldies keen to latch onto me on a Sunday. I know community meditation is an experience I’m destined to try.

And there’s one certainty about searching. It never stops.

Hair for all seasons

My mother was loathe for me to cut my hair when I was a late teenager/early 20s. She always said to wear it long. I suspect in main because she subscribed to the "over 30 must wear hair shorter" consensus, and was generally at pains to point out the time one could wear their hair long was short.

But she needn't worry about me cutting it or experimenting too madly with colour back then. My locks were always long and blonde - a natural blonde - and when they darkened over time, I kept it light with highlights.

However since then I've kept it long (long after 30!) and seen a few colours rinse through.

Today I'm red.

I feel it suits me at this life stage. I am a Leo afterall (the Lion with its glorious 'red' mane). Strong and fiesty. Defiant.

Isn't that what people think when they see/hear "redhead"? Headstrong and difficult to tame?

I've come into the ease of red after noticing many beautiful women with its shade - naturally or coloured like me.

There's Christina Hendricks (Joan from Mad Men); Miranda Otto; Patricia Clarkson; Scarlett Johansson; Julianne Moore - and my current favourite redhead, Mirielle Enos, (pic attached along with a rather ghostly white and earnest one of me) from the US TV series The Killing (extra kudos here to Mirielle - she's married to 'Cameron' from Ferris Buellers' Day Off).

On the flipside there are some scary sorts who sport the mane - Vivienne Westwood, Sarah Ferguson, Grace Coddington (US Vogue); Rebecca Brooks (News of the World).

It is common knowledge that a woman often changes her hair after something big has happened in her life (and usually bad big!).

I long ago grew tired of being perceived as the gregarious blonde, after one too many personal knocks, this tag no longer fits.

So, I turned my locks to a more brooding brunette...that lasted a year before seeing red.

What I love about my current flame is a redhead is regarded as strong - yes, but not necessarily loud (something I know doesn't have to translate to 'blonde' but I have always equated myself as the loud blonde).

Hey, I don't mind being blonde; but I'm constantly striving to drop the 'loud' and sporting my red almost serves as that traffic light reminder. Stop! It's red. Are you being loud?

I've heard from many men that they're not as attracted to redheads as to blondes or brunettes. But stuff blokes - this colour stays!

And yes, it's not purely coincidental that I have chosen the shade while a single woman (ie no man to turn up his nose).

I'm loving the red but keeping it quiet.