A long intermission

My goodness, it's been almost a year since I last blogged. That's astounding to me given I have kept this blog up to date pretty regularly across the years. I guess the main reason for my big wide stall pertains to a general level of happiness with the status quo, and no nagging requirement to share my musings with the cyber community or as cathartic exercise - and probably more to the point - that in a career of public relations - it involves a lot of reading and writing. So it's not uncommon to run out of puff at the end of a work day and then pursue extra-curricular writing - such as personal blog maintenance.

But here I am - posting again, just to acknowledge and say - that I haven't disappeared. I'm still here...and there will be more. Still where, one wonders? The child of the universe has a lot of land she can traverse. Well, right now, Hollywood, Los Angeles. Yes, isn't that special? Special indeed for an Aussie girl who grew up on Hollywood film.

So that's enough for now - even though I could tell you that I visited Marilyn Monroe's grave the other week and happened upon other famous people buried there too, such as Truman Capote, Dean Martin, Billy Wilder, and Farah Fawcett...and that to broaden my community here in LA and make some new friends - I have enrolled in a comedy improv eight-week class organised by the well-known to industry peeps, Upright Citizen's Brigade. 

And that one of my favourite things to do when I'm feeling down, bored or blue, is to youtube "crocodiles in Africa" and stumble on the majestic mash of those fabulous dinosaur reptiles battling it out in nature's cycle of life (visit this one for true awe-inspiring wonder https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LU8DDYz68kM) or that reading this article a friend posted on her facebook feed made me remember my own experience of losing my mum and it made me cry: http://www.theage.com.au/entertainment/brian-nankervis-pays-tribute-to-his-mum-20170509-gw0s46

Yes, there's lots of that sort of stuff that I could share - the daily LIFE stuff - that makes up the day-to-day and keeps you feeling human and joy.

It's near summer here in LA. The sun is out and it's warm. And I've recently discovered a cool coffee place around the corner from me where I can drink an almond latte and listen to people talk about screenplays and directing films, as well was recommended, and since been to a delicious deli-restaurant & fine wine shop/institution (Greenblatts on Sunset Boulevard) where the servers treated me well and were nice to me.

Those things make me smile. 

Death

I’ve experienced a thousand metaphoric deaths. Death to the ego, death to control, death to youth, death to what we want in our life but can’t have, death to delusion, death to people you don’t hang out with anymore – or, places you used to go.

I don’t dwell on the subject, but it comes up every so often.

A friend of mine lost her life partner last year to cancer and she posted the following on facebook last week:

It fascinates me how many people express what they know about what happens after you die. I like the musings and the various ideas, but no, you don't know, you just don't.

Even those that have been dead and revived, still do not 'know'.

No amount of book reading, meditation, or journeys to India can give you this information set in stone.

Yes to investigating it ~ no to pretending we know it all. 

Concocted wisdom is so unattractive; a fool's paradise.

‪#‎generalobservation ‪#‎notaboutanyoneortheirbeliefs ‪#‎nofilter

It’s been a while since my last blog entry and I’m bringing it to life again with a post about death. 

We all die – but what is it to die, really?

In terms of the afterlife, I've had a few ghostly encounters: 

·        My mother died on the 25 July, 20 years ago. When my father and I entered her hospital room to see her after she had died (my brother and a nurse were already in the room), I felt a va boom, va boom, va boom energy – contracting, expanding, contracting, expanding – the whole room seemed full with her spirit.

·        On 30 July (my birthday) and five days after her death, my cousin and I were laying in my bed, both of us awake, though each of us presumed the other sleeping. A dark aura came together in the shape of a person from across the room. The va boom, va boom, va boom energy returned. The blackened metaphysical figure hovered for a while, then dispersed. The next morning my cousin and I were making my bed. She said tentatively: “Your mother came back last night.” “I know,” I said. "You felt it too?”

·        A few years after mum’s death, Dad and I were renovating our family home. We wanted to make it the best version it could be in honour of her. Soon after we launched our renovations, Dad met his now wife. He would stay over at her house which meant I was often alone in our home. The builders had knocked down back walls which left security vulnerable. A thrifty robber would have found his way in. 

I was in the front bedroom with my two dogs, asleep. An energy came over the room which triggered me to wake. Besides the bed, crouching on the floor – in a position that signaled fear that I’d catch him - was a young man, about 20, with brown tousled hair, wearing a red flannelet shirt. I was stunned to paralysis. I tried to talk or scream. I couldn’t. Instead his eyes met mine in a flash of shock – me at seeing him, and he at being discovered by me. Finally I was able to muster some semblance of a voice: “Get the fuck out,” I said. “Get the fuck out,” my voice meek but mouthing the words. I thought he was going to get up and run. But right before my eyes he dissipated into thin air. I threw my head to the other side of my pillow and closed my eyes tightly. “Holy fuck, I’ve just seen a ghost. Holy fuck, I’ve seen a ghost."

·        About three years before mum died, our family spent Christmas at my Aunt Sue’s country home. My three cousins often had stories to tell about ghosts lurking up around the farm house. They were all used to it. Phenomena. The same cousin who would be with me on my birthday those years later was attuned to the spirit world. We all believed she must be a ‘fresh spirit’. So it goes, a fresh spirit is a new soul to the world, no past lives - and as a result, she’s especially tapped in. That day our family had been up to my maternal grandfather (Bert's) grave site. I never knew him. Mum was 21 when her father died, and her youngest sister, Helen – only seven. There were four sisters in all. Jennifer (my mum), Sue, Lucy, and Helen.

Later that night – around 11pm – Sophie (the fresh spirit cousin), Lucy, Helen, and I, sat at a Ouji board that my cousins had long ago etched into the kitchen table. We intended to channel Bert. We’d been at the board, fingers on the glass, and obligatory candles, for over two hours trying to conjure up ghosts – hopefully Bert, but anyone would do. Suddenly he came in. “Is that you Bert?” Sophie asked. The glass quivered. “John Robert Field, is that you?” The glass wavered for a bit – all our forefingers pressed firmly on its overturned base. Definitively the glass moved to “Yes.” And so we went on – did you know we were at your grave site today? “Yes.”

Who are your daughters? The glass would find the letters on the board to spell J-E-N and then S-U-E. Instead of spelling the other daughters' names, the glass instead led us to Lucy, her person, – stopped for a bit - and then off to position in front of Helen. Sophie began to ask more questions. But Bert didn’t move. More questions. Still staying put in front of Helen. We began to sob. Was this Bert reclaiming lost time with his youngest daughter Helen? The daughter he had only known for seven years? It felt like it. 

Lucy asked: “Will Jen be alright Dad?" Jen, of course being my mother – who was as it turned out to die less than three years later. Bert didn’t want to answer. He hovered between yes and no. A wave of devastation flooded the pit of my stomach. The session wrapped as Bert tired and we could sense the energy wane. It was time for us to let him go.

There are probably other accounts – but those four examples are the most profound I’ve experienced. I dated a doctor who worked night shifts in the ICU department at several Sydney hospitals. He said he’d be asleep in the bed assigned to doctors on night shift, and in his dream – he would be walking down the wards and see people walking past him. He’d be woken sharply by the nurses calling his pager. “Doctor – we need you in room [XX] to certify a death.” Nirmal would head to the room – see the deceased patient and recognize them as one of the people from his dream.

In closing, I’ll share some wise words written from Bishop Koshin Ogui, a Buddhist teacher, who gave sage advice to a troubled young man thinking he’d be better off dead. 

“It’s a certainty that at some point you will die. So there’s no need to rush. When your time comes, you can die then. But since you’ve been blessed in this life with a human form, why don’t you try living a while longer?”

Photo: Mum. 

Harassed in Old Town Istanbul

Not every man is a creep, but the ones who are, spoil it for the others.

First of all, like my time in India, I'd been warned. Twice.

My friend's mother cautioned her that it may not be wise for me, a tall, blonde, Western woman, to travel alone in Istanbul. "Have you ever been to a Muslim country?" my friend asked. "Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia" I replied. "India."

Not the same, she quickly dismissed.

The other warning came from a friend who has friends who have married Turkish men. It did not go well, she said, and both women are now divorced. Do not have a holiday romance with a Turkish man being the moral of the story.

Cairo Time is one of my favorite films. It's with American actress, Patricia Clarkson, and is a visual and soulful feast that starts with a woman traveling to Egypt to meet her husband. He is working for the UN but is delayed from his post, which leaves Patricia largely alone for days unto herself.

Her husband has a local business acquaintance who takes Patricia under his wing, and while this man is very likable and the ultimate gentleman, others, we come to learn, are not.

One such scene demonstrating this is when Patricia's character walks out onto a city street. She is quickly seen and followed by several men.

This has happened to me in Old Town Istanbul (a highly touristic part) three times in four days. That's not counting the constant: "Hello lady" "Where are you from?" "Can I tell you something..." that I endure from the touts the moment I walk out of my hotel door.

Yes, on three consecutive days, I've had a different man follow me, arrive at my side, and start a conversation...and then, what?  They keep at it for a few more go's until thankfully, seem to accept defeat.

These incidents harken back to the time I went swimming in Gokana, India, when I needed to keep swimming further out to avoid the packs of Indian men wanting to grope me underwater.  I'd read about this, and that local Indian men are not great swimmers, so the idea is to swim out to get ahead
and away from them. Unnerving it was.

Back to Istanbul.

I wanted to like this place, I'd heard great things, and friends rave.

The thing is though that I travel as much for the interactions I have with the local people as I do for a place, and this city is tarnished. It's branded with a collective of men who are sleaze buckets and honestly, probably know no better. Or at least, that's the impression.

I loved India - even with its gritty layers - I still loved it. Unfortunately though, India in its dark corners, has a problem with how it treats women. What impressed me however was that news reports do not shy away from this dirty truth. And the local women are right on it (scroll back to posts of mine in 2013 to see my writing on it).

I don't feel that from the Turkish women. I don't feel the resistance...but what do I know? I can't understand Turkish so I can not read the news, nor have I spoken to any Turkish women about it, if
much at all. Language and culture is a barrier and working Turkish women in the tourist parts are scarce.

But it does seem evident in this city, that it is a man's entity, and even when called to prayer five times daily, many are not practicing the virtues of the Qur'an.

Picture: Patricia Clarkson in a scene from Cairo Time.

Istanbul!

Turkish delight

Fresh pomegranate juice!

Halva!

Call to prayer!

Turkish disdain

Leering men!

Intrusive touts!

Traffic!

A stressful morning

I've been part of a Buddhist meditation group for the past few Wednesdays in San Francisco and there's not much more that can test the technique than arriving on a stressful situation.

Travelling solo comes with many perks but it also has its challenges. Much as anything I guess in the sense travelling with a friend or partner can at times be equally lonely and stressful.

I'm not entirely sure why I do it but I regularly throw myself into testing situations. Call it in the vein of personal growth and keeping things fresh.

This morning I was due to catch a 10am ferry to the island Hydra. I was staying at an airbnb in Athens and little did I know but as I left the keys in the apartment to 'check out' I unwittingly locked myself in the building. Unbeknownst to me, the downstairs door leading outside, had been locked and needed a key - the key I had just locked inside the apartment.

I frantically worked this door thinking a good push could unlock it but, no. In less than an hour my ferry would depart and I knew I would likely miss it. The following half an hour was spent sweating from the heat and stress and trying to calm my hurried mind so I could work out what to do. I had already knocked on the two other apartments in the building to no avail and in the end I used a combination of iPad and phone to source contact details and call my airbnb hosts. After a 15 minute wait someone they had rallied by phone came to my rescue. Phew. I was out.

I did miss the 10am ferry and had to wait an additional four hours for the next one at port. I whiled away this dead time reading up on the Australian liberal party's leadership contest at a cafe tucking into a healthy omelette and traditional Greek coffee. A much appreciated respite after an isolating start.

This is the thing about travelling, and especially to countries where English is the second language, if spoken at all. It can do its darnest to test your mettle and the side that reveals itself to you in these circumstances speaks volumes.

During the days, I stroll the streets alone and pass organised tour groups, mostly older people, probably retirees - mindlessly trudging behind their tour guide in numb submission. That's not me, I note, but I know why the sheep do it. Having to report and accord for yourself 24/7 in uncharted territories is not for the thin-skinned.

One thing the meditation and its teachings have taught me, is to breathe through it which helps still the mind and creates the space to think rationally.

I made it to port and was pleasantly surprised to learn that I was able to book the 2pm ferry at no extra charge. Things were taking a turn for the better. That is, until I stepped in shit.


Photo: made it to stunning Hydra - the view from my window.

The Salon Series

Inspired by American writer, Gertrude Stein’s, salon talks in Paris where she hosted the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Pablo Picasso, and Scott Fitzgerald, for hearty and robust discussion in her home, I thought it fitting given I had moved into a beautiful place in Lower Pac Heights in San Francisco, to replicate my own version of the salon series.

Three good friends in PR tech came along on Saturday night and we kicked off with the following topic: A moveable workforce in a disruptive economy still ruled by legacy.

The aim of the evening was to allow candid conversation in a private setting, and thus I've omitted parts, but in general my talk covered:

Despite the ‘disruptive economy’ the way our bosses see the workforce, is still to catch-up. Our employers, and peers around us, are still living with the mindset that a ‘permanent employee’ is best.

To be permanent comes with fitting in and has its organizational perks such as health and dental benefits, vacation and sick leave, and oftentimes, share options.

Permanent is optimal and yet there remains a disconnect, i.e. more and more of these ‘disruptive’ companies want a disposable workforce where they do not really need to invest in the employee, and yet they demand our loyalty.

So we turn to the 'Gig economy' as it’s been coined in recent media articles from top outlets such as the Wall Street Journal and The Guardian.

The article in The Guardian The ‘gig economy’ is coming. What will it mean for work?, written by Arun Sundararajan, a Professor from New York University said:

Today, more and more of us choose, instead, to make our living working gigs rather than full time. To the optimists, it promises a future of empowered entrepreneurs and boundless innovation. To the naysayers, it portends a dystopian future of disenfranchised workers hunting for their next wedge of piecework.

Hillary Clinton warned of the downsides of this informal workforce in a recent economic speech, including the potential erosion of workplace protections, citing Uber as a case in point.

As a contractor, it is on me to provide healthcare and dental. This is where being a permanent employee would have done me multiple favors. 

Professions are changing drastically in scope and the way we work is continuing to be redefined. In the PR and journalism profession alone - we have had a complete overhaul on what is valued and what’s not.

The New York Professor says:

There’s definitely a sense of freedom about being your own boss. With some planning and self-discipline, you can achieve a better work-life balance. But there’s also something comforting and settling about a steady pay check, fixed work hours and company-provided benefits.

It’s harder to plan your life longer term – such as buying a house - when you don’t know how much money you’re going to be making from one quarter to the next.

After working seven continual months as a contractor without taking any vacation or sick days, the end of my consulting gig this month signals time for a much needed rethink on next steps and time for respite. And this break of mine, of course, will be unpaid - as unlike a permanent employee – I do not get paid for vacation leave.

But sometimes, and very oftentimes – one has to ‘disrupt’ themselves by doing things such as fly to the other side of the world, and spend time among other cultures and ways of life, before we can make sense of and find our place in the disruption at home.

Picture:  Gertrude Stein is pictured at the Paris residence she lived in for 33 years, and which became a salon for the artists and writers of the era.

How the death of my mother has pulled rank over my life

With respect to a friend who posted this article to her facebook newsfeed, A Letter To The Motherless Daughters On Mother’s Day, (its content a little too schmaltzy for this Aussie), the action and article spurred me to write my own post.   

Granted the article’s author is still young, 26, and her loss acutely fresh at two years. So I’m not quite sitting in her space, even though, yes, I am a member of the club we've both been forced into kicking and screaming.

I am a motherless daughter and have been since my mother succumbed to breast cancer at age 52.

“Mum dying fucked everything up,” I said in a matter-of –fact tone to my Melbourne shrink. I had been seeing him sporadically for a few years so he knew a thing or two about my story. “It did,” he agreed.

The long and often painful road between then – losing her, five days shy of my 22^nd birthday, and now, turning 41 in July, has covered tough terrain. Wine has been a stoic friend. Cigarettes too (for the naysayers, I haven’t smoked in a while). Her dog, Walt, who I inherited at four and went onto live until he was 17.

Across the years, I’ve turned to these tried and true aids to numb the wound that simply won’t heal.

The challenge for real healing as a person is huge and something I’m only now tempted to really address.  But that’s another blog post.

Friends have helped. Reading, theatre, family, a PR career, yoga, travel, my faith…the usual things one does in life, have helped.

But through the bumpy course, there’s been a lot of destruction both to others and, as a natural by-product, to myself.

In the years since that out-loud acknowledgement to my therapist, I’ve been in a constant battle to win back myself.

Where the exterior often points to a bold and brazen warrior, the person inside is much more complex.  Aren’t we all? 

On losing my mother, a deep sense of abandonment wells inside that heavily spills over when later disappointments come.

“You’re a sensitive person too,” one of my best friend’s Juzi, has long held.

Yes, I am – but my coping mechanism across the years has been to cover this up, play strong. I’ve fought relationship battles wearing an impenetrable shield while spitting harsh words.

Age, wisdom and experience, have taught me one doesn’t win friends, lovers or favour, by being a bitch.  Instead, these days, I work very hard at being more agreeable. We all have our slips but I’m proud of how far I've come.

When mum died, I was thrust into an adult world probably a lot sooner than I was ready.  Being the only female in a nuclear family consisting of father and brother, without that maternal guide - saw me morph into a much more masculine version of myself.  This has never served me well. I’m working on it... less yang, more yin. But I will always be strong, and strong women can be alienating.

I haven’t had a mother to help navigate my adult life, instead turning to my aunties, female work mentors, and taking inspiration from female public figures: actors, politicians, authors, etc, which too has soothed.

More so, it’s been my friends, father, brother and sister in law, that I turn to. Their achievements and grace in handling their own paths and life’s events, encourages me because it is inspiring.

I didn’t marry or have children. I believe losing my mother had quite a bit to do with this. My life was no longer normal without a mother in it, at the young age of 22, so I didn’t place value on leading a normal life.

I didn’t feel pressure to do so either.  My dad and brother showed little interest in these things for me.  And throughout my 20s, while I paved a very successful PR career for myself, my personal life was often teetering the edge of firestorm hell due to residual grief. 

My mother valued work. She was pleased when I was working and wanted me in a good job.  She appreciated education.

I went to university for two degrees, and carved out a 15 year public relations’ career. I’ve often been motivated by knowing this about my mother. I know, in this achievement, she would be defiantly proud.

I’m travelling the world. Why not?  Be free now - for one day, we will be dead.

Looking death in the face of a loved one brings such perspective. Be curious and strive to live a full life. My mother’s courage has burned in me - all this time, throughout my many solo adventures, to India, Africa, Vietnam, USA, Europe, and more.

You can resent family. Mum has three surviving sisters. Each had children of their own, who now (many) have their own children. I look at my beautiful cousins still with their mothers and sometimes resent them.

My younger cousins in their 20s, don’t remember her which at times, can make me sad – but it’s practical, they were less than 10 at the time.

None of this is their fault and I’m sure on some level, me feeling resentful is a very natural response.

On Mother’s Day – not long after my mother’s actual birthday (27 April), I’ll just get on with it.  It’s a day you get through. Yes, it’s noticed and yes, it’s felt. The feeling uncomfortable and strange – amplified today where I could have very well had my own kids to celebrate with.

Yes, if mum were still around, life would be different. Not all good. She was a strong woman. There would be clashes.

She’s not here today, and yet, she is.  I’m still writing about her, remembering her, influenced by her – shaped my life around her - some 20 years on.

Photo: my school friend Sarah Willoughby, who I have known since we were 12, recently shared this picture with me. She was at her parent's house and found it. I don't remember it, but I can assume I'm 21. It wasn't long after this that mum died in anycase. I'm wearing my dad's suede jacket that he wore in the 70s. I used to love wearing my parent's vintage clothes. Mum was always a size smaller, but I could squeeze into a few things!