The Power to Change (Part 1)

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Fourteen months ago I developed this terribly anti-social dry cough.

Thanks to digital media, you’re lucky enough not to hear it.  But for those in close proximity, it’s not exactly the most endearing habit on earth.

After much nagging, I eventually paid a visit to the specialist (paid being the operative word) – only to be told what I already knew.

There’s nothing wrong with me!

So I guess that makes me psychosomatically insane…

In search of answers, I did a little googling this morning.  And if what they say about Louise L. Hay’s theories is correct, I am apparently resisting change.  Either that, or it’s a blatant “world, look at me!” grab for attention.

My fear is that she’s right – on both counts.   At least, it seems like an effective strategy for continued unemployment…

From my childhood, I have far too many fond memories of being doted on when sick.  Mum, tending to me in the middle of the night, with alternate hot and cold compresses, vapour rubs and lemon ginger teas.

In my memory, I was never more loved than when I was unwell.

Fast forward a few years, and suddenly you realise there’s no Mum anymore.  What was once Mum’s love is now a matter of self-love.

And that’s where it gets tricky.

A couple of years ago, I was commissioned by a local university to develop some videos on Positive Education.

It’s strange, how the universe sends you subtle messages.  During the research phase, I filled out the online survey of character strengths developed by the Authentic Happiness Testing Centre at University of Pennsylvania.

The survey creates a rank of 24 core character strengths, highlighting your top five.  But what is most revealing are the strengths that fall at the bottom.

Among my bottom five were “Capacity to love and be loved” and “Zest, enthusiasm and energy”.

Put those two things together, and what you have is someone who doesn’t love you or themselves enough to get off their lazy ass and Exercise!!

Me. The last time I had Zest, Enthusiasm and Energy.

Me. The last time I had
Zest, Enthusiasm and Energy.

But now I have this pesky cough screaming at me.  A little tell tale hack drawing the world’s attention to my self neglect.

How to change?

If, like me, you suffer from “vague and general feelings of powerlessness”, then you need to read Girl in the Hat’s “Body Talk” series, starting with this post.  Now.

There’s a video as well.  You need to watch it.

In it, the science behind a simple posture is explained, made all the more compelling by the fact that it requires no real effort at all.

Basically, anyone who can sit still for two minutes and breathe can do it, so you can see why it appealed to yours truly.

The odd thing is, the day I read Anna Fonté’s post, something clicked.

Since then, I’ve reignited my stop-start relationship with yoga. I’ve started meditating again.  And as of today, I’ve broken through a personal record by cycling for the sixth day in a row!

It’s early days, of course.  I’m almost scared to say it in case I jinx the flow.  But that’s the old me talking.

The new me celebrates achievements as they happen.  And understands that change is a process.

Sometimes it happens imperceptibly.  Like staring at an optical illusion until, suddenly, you see it and you wonder why you never did before.

Next week, I’ll explore this theme more fully.  But in the meantime, I’m curious.

Does anybody out there struggle as I do with the power to change?

Love. Unconventional.

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Love is a hot topic, this week.  But, if you’re anything like me, mention of Valentine’s Day tends to bring on that sweaty-palmed feeling – for all the wrong reasons.

How are you supposed to distil what someone means to you in one day, or one gift, or a few scribbled words on a card?

Any other day I could spontaneously cook a fine meal, or buy some special music or write a piece of poetry.  But when I’m expected to say ‘This is how I feel?’

It’s times like these I turn to the allegorical tale for answers.

Following through on my promise last week, my Valentine’s share is a story on Love. Unconventional.

the-lion-who-wanted-to-loveThe Lion Who Wanted to Love, by Giles Andreae and David Woitowycz, is a rhyming tale about Leo – a cub expelled from his pride on account of his tendency to hug, instead of hunt, other animals.

I am a vegetarian, so of course the story appealed to me.  But the true magic has nothing to do with that at all!

In the wild jungle, Leo finds himself rescuing young antelopes, injured giraffes and thirsty hippos.  He wins them over with his love – and in return, they feed him.

We won’t analyse what it is they feed him – wild berries, I presume.  But the power of the story is demonstrated by one simple principle.

It is in giving freely of himself, without expectation of return, that Leo wins the loyalty and support of his friends.

When Leo gets into trouble, they are there to rescue him, and his family finally see the value of his loving ways.  In the end, he is crowned king of the pride!

Accompanied by colourful and endearing illustrations, the verse slips off the tongue – and if you prefer to listen than read, there is also a CD.

The book has been a big hit with my nephews for some years now.  The eldest must have taken the message to heart, because one birthday he started giving away his gifts to thank his friends for coming to his party!

Luckily, he doesn’t yet know what really happens when a lion befriends an antelope in the wild… 😦

Personally, I’m going with the make believe version – but not just because it’s warm and fuzzy.

Sometimes, Love – well, it’s bigger than we are.  No matter how we try, it won’t be boxed into a neat little package with a bow on it.

And that’s okay.

I don’t know about you, but I feel better already.

How important is Valentine’s Day to you? Any tips for those of us who struggle to express ourselves?

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If you haven’t already, pick up a copy of the first three e-books of the Hello Pepi Series – available on Amazon.  It’s all about the love…

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Once Upon a Child…

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Until I was about twenty one, I spent most of my life without television.  Growing up, I was convinced this was a form of child abuse.

Though we did have a black and white TV for a few years when I was a kid, it sat in the corner with a cloth over it – a mostly forbidden delight.

My entertainment came in the form of records and books, and even then, the repertoire was limited to a revolving loop of favourites.

There were Uncle Arthur’s Bedtime and Bible stories and the Little Golden Books.

Songs, like This Old Man and The Old Lady who Swallowed a Fly, that are still burned in my brain.

As I grew older, I practically learned by heart The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.  Devoured my way through Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys and the Famous Five.  Read, on repeat, a few classics, like Jane Eyre.

On the odd occasion, when the folks weren’t home, I’d sneak a peak at Disney’s cartoons.  Though my favourite forbidden pleasure was those little possessed puppets down at Fraggle Rock.

Instead of wide, I learned to read deep – and, perhaps because my influences were so few, their impact stands out vividly.

As an adult, I’m clearly not over it.  Ever since I became an aunt, I’ve found myself indulging my inner deprived child with things meant for much younger minds.

I spend hours in the kids’ section of bookstores, utterly breath taken and unable to choose.

Wall-E and Fraggle Rock  have somehow made it into my private DVD collection.

Then there are those CDs I meant to give my nephews and niece – Pure Imagination, by Michael Feinstein and, ahem, Schnappi und Seine Freunde.

People think I’m strange.  Adults aren’t supposed to like this stuff.  Right?

As we get older, we learn to put things in their place.  Categorise and label our lives into neat unrelated boxes.  Kids.  Grownups.  Play.  Work.  Fantasy.  Reality.

There’s this prevailing view that to understand children, you must be a parent.  As though adulthood automatically divorces us from our past.

When Maurice Sendak died, I read an article about his life and work.  Of course, I can’t find the exact one now, but the part that struck me was the motivation behind his writing.

He never forgot what it was like to be a child.

Pop psychology is always urging us to get in touch with our inner child.  So if you ask me, reading children’s books is the perfect self-help therapy.

Allegorical tales cut through all the outer complications and connect with the inner emotional reality of our lives.  They give form to demons that haunt our dreams.  Help us to imagine ways to deal with them.

Pepi's First Things

Mona and Pepi – from Book 2 in the Hello Pepi Series

If in any doubt, do a Google search on ‘Inner Child’.  There’s even an IMDb list made for “people whose inner child still exists”.

This is opposed to a search for ‘Adult Fairy Tales’ that will take the whole topic way beyond PG.  But that’s beside the point.

Since I like to read them, and I also like to write them, in the coming weeks, I’ll be introducing you to some of the children’s stories that captivate my imagination.

I’m calling it self-help.  You can call it research, and use your kids as an excuse if you prefer 😉

Do you like kids’ stories and fairy tales?  What were your favourites as a child?

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If you haven’t already, check out the first three e-books of the Hello Pepi Series – available at Amazon:

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The Stories that We Tell

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On Monday, I went to see Life of Pi, the film.  As I haven’t yet read the book, I didn’t know what to expect.

But from the opening scene to the end, I was drawn in to a beautiful, magical tale about the art of storytelling itself.  About our place within a grander narrative – that space where the line between fiction and reality is blurred.

Following on from last week’s theme, I can’t seem to let it go.

In 2003, I had my first attempt at visual storytelling.  My mother and her twin were turning sixty.  And along with organising a weekend getaway for both our families, I decided I would make a video.

The timing was terrible.  I’d just handed in the final assessment for the Bachelor of Arts I took too seriously.  Negotiating with my long lost cousins had turned into a circus.  And my personal relationships were a mess.

On the drive down, my mind was anywhere but on the drive.  Somehow I had turned off the main highway on a road to who-knows-where and was collected by a car through a roundabout.

It could have been fatal.  But apart from a bit of whiplash, luckily neither of us were hurt.

The weekend was a train wreck, as far as I was concerned.

While the family carried on as though nothing had happened, the best I could manage was to tremble absentmindedly behind camera.

Back home, as I trawled through hours of shaky footage, a story started to take shape.

Twins

Mum (right) and her twin sister

Two sisters, separated by a stretch of sea between Melbourne and Tasmania, reunited with their families for the first time in years.

Slowly the sequence of events started to be rearranged.  Hours reduced to moments, obscuring memory.

Awkward empty laughter became witty repartee.

The disgruntled old fellas turned kindly and ineffectual.

Some things were left out.

The part where no one prepared their speeches.

The pained expression on my mother’s face upon hearing how her sister is the “Mum away from Mum.”

Activities and chores that in reality dragged now speed by to the “Flight of the Bumblebee“.

Rare moments of affection, old photos and a child’s lopsided grin slow to the sound of a collective heartfelt tune.

“My island home, my island home
My island home, is waiting for me…”

– Neil Murray
covered by Christine Anu

Somehow, a melange of a family reunion is turned into a nostalgic longing for our place of origin – for home and belonging.

By the end of the edit, even I am moved!

What I didn’t expect was that ten years on, the video would become the stuff of family legend.  Apparently, my little cousins (even the new ones) still watch it every time they visit their gran.

Little surprise, then, that they want to do it all over again for the impending 70th.

I’m a little worried about their expectations.  I feel like I made a propaganda film.  Will they be disappointed when they see our family for what it truly is?

But what is that, exactly?

At the end of Life of Pi, we are presented with two possibilities for the story that was told – a realist version, and the magical tale.  In either case, the essential elements of the story remain the same.  So we are left with a choice.

Reality, or the story that elevates reality to a place of understanding?

Surely this is the point – to understand each other from the stories that we tell…

“The world isn’t just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring something to it, no?

Doesn’t that make life a story?”

– Pi Patel, Life of Pi by Yann Martel

What do you prefer? Fact or fiction? Should we write grand narratives, or are they all a lie?