Do nothing

For a long time now I've been doing alot of development work on myself. I read, speak to friends and family, seek out wise people and I take on the wisdoms of those who've long passed (Shakespeare, Jesus) but in their teachings carry on.

I've attended Buddhist meditation sessions, gone to copious yoga classes and one thing I have learned through all of this is - 'to thine self, be true' and trust in the process of life.

For what I mean, if you trust yourself and the knowledge that there is a greater power out there, than ourselves, working its way as it should and we follow that process and move with it - it will work out as is right for us.

In loathe to sound like a hippy or surfer dude - I aim to consciously go with the flow. Taking this one step further, sometimes going with the flow means doing nothing. Do nothing. And by this I mean, things that are concerning to us or worrying us - we don't need to force a resolution we don't need to over analyse the situation.

We can just go with the flow and do nothing. And that's what I'm going to do. Nothing.

It's quite liberating to 'let go' and plenty of spiritual and new age healers are earning mega bucks teaching the wisdom of this simple philosophy. Let go and trust in the process of life.

Another one I heard just last week is "allow yourself to be in the imperfection" in the context that there is no sense of justice in life, it's not always fair and things can happen to us where we would otherwise seek an alternative outcome.

Our challenge and part is to navigate best according to our true self, our true nature - what feels right for us. Feels right - the gut, not necessarily the mind. The intuition. I've read recently about the "false self" - oh the false self - how I've allowed myself to get caught up in this so many times.

It's a relief to know how to strip back and just be. Just let go and do nothing! So this is my lesson for a Sunday night - even though it can be an uncomfortable process to go through as in order to let go, it may appear we are surrendering our control. But on the contrary - when we let go - we are in the hands of full control. We are letting ourselves be in the world as it is and where everything works out as it should.

I told myself you were right for me

This week I let myself get caught in a spin and it was only until a friend said to take stock that I stopped and took pause.

I had gotten caught up in a moment, a moment that in my mind unravelled into the full storybook.

For the first time in years (?) I had two men on my plate and as far as I was concerned one had to go (too young and unavailable) in order to achieve my desired life result (husband, kids - family) with the other.

As my friend was up to speed with all of this - by way of phone, text and email updates from me - by day five she dug her heels in and said it had to stop. No friend of hers was going to be doing all the chasing.

And so it did - stopped. I took pause and let myself breathe. I questioned my motive, my actions - why I was pushing so hard. I had been trying to escape my own daily drudgery, defy logic and fast-forward to a result that was never there in the first place.

It's a skill I've certainly had to learn - knowing when to stop and let something go - and this time around, it happened on an axis - the axis of my friend telling me the balance wasn't right. And like all good friends are prone to do, she told me I was better than that.

So I took pause and considered. With that logic entered and I let it go. I stopped hounding. And it felt good.

When smoking becomes the norm

It doesn’t take long for a habit once broken to become a distant memory especially when its demise is supported by the greater society.

Look around. Nobody smokes anymore.

I still remember coming home from pubs reaking of cigarette smoke and it was a given I’d need to wash my hair the next day, dry clean my clothes after one wear out, or worse ruin them from cigarette burns. Then there was the passive smoking and constant hand waving of others' smoke from our faces.

There were some benefits: “Got a light?” goes down as the easiest chat up line of my late teenage and early 20s. No, these days, smoking is uncool. No decent guy wants to date a smoker.

But recently I took a hiatus from society's widening reality of an implicit smoking ban when I celebrated Christmas with rellies. I reunited with my aunts, uncles, cousins and their spouses across a few lazy days out bush at Koomooloo station – a sheep farm about 160kms from Adelaide and north of country town Burra where my mum grew up.

My aunt and uncle are farmers and their kids too work the land. All of them smoke. My other two aunties smoke. Put us together and as a 'once a casual smoker' I’m now the odd one out smoke free.

Rollies, alpine lights and ashtrays littered with white butts stained with pink lipstick were the visual mainstay set against the blue bush and red dirt.

I’m pleased, obviously, that within my adult life, I’ve seen smoking go from perceived cool, to undesirable.

So it was kinda surreal to be set among a sea of smokers once again. A time warp and slice of what once was very normal.

Addiction is a shocker and let’s face it, the family members still smoking would no doubt have given the deadlies away if it weren’t for the cold, hard reality that after years on years of choofing away – they are well and truly nicotine hooked.

So this Bush Christmas there was a lot of smoke, but fortunately after 15 years of drought, no fire.

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'.