Lessons I Learned From My Mother.

Lessons I Learned From My Mother.

This is the second in a series of reflecting on lessons learned. I’m sharing them because I think it’s really important to consider how we learn from those around us. It’s about actively engaging in the learning process, throughout our lifetimes.

I think it’s universal that the relationships between mothers and daughters are complex. I know mine is, but in a good way.

When two women which such high-powered EQ co-exist in a variety of roles over decades, there is simply so much to navigate. The roles of nurture within a home, parenting, then be-friending, supporting, challenging, disciplining and helping create self-awareness – all these roles have become shared in our relationship. I’m grateful for that. I’ve learned a lot about how to love and serve a wide range of women in my life from this relationship with my mother. I’m also lucky to share some aspects of that relationship with my sisters, although no child has the same parenting relationship there is certainly plenty to learn and observe from our shared experiences.

As with Lessons My Father Taught Me, these are my words to describe what I’ve learned from a woman who raised me, teaches me and inspires me still.

  1. Fix the problem that starts with you.
    It used to drive me crazy as a teenager and young adult. Now I try to ask myself the question before I need Mum to – it’s a really powerful question. In any situation or conflict that didn’t go my way or I found myself in some sort of trouble, she would ask, ‘Well, what was your part in it? What did you do to get that reaction?’. It’s possibly the smartest way I started to learn the power of self-awareness, when to think before speaking and when to risk it regardless. It’s an incredibly powerful tool in forgiveness and reconciliation to be able to humbly own your own part in any conflict. There is rarely any shame in being responsible for your own actions, when it comes to making an apology.
  1. If there’s something you want, there’s always something you can do to get it.
    As much as my dad has taught me to always believe and look for hope, it’s my mother that has taught me to always consider what actions you can take to pursue the result you want. She’s an expert problem solver because of that, always looking for action you can take to move you closer to the goal.
  1. Just tell the truth and then we’ll deal with it.
    There’s not much to say about this. Other than, I’ve learned this is most valuable in relationships. Too often, it is in relationship with others that we struggle to be most truthful about what we think, what we feel and how that might affect each of us. So this, is possibly the singular most important thing, because it goes hand in hand with a promise. Just tell the truth (and I will be graceful enough to receive it well) and then we’ll deal with it.
  1. Let your brain rest on it, great solutions sometimes need time.
    I’ve lost count of the number of times I have talked to my mother about a problem or challenge I’m facing, only to have her call me back the next morning or email with a solution I never would have considered. From time to time, she’ll even say – ok, let me think about it and I’ll call you tomorrow. I’ve learned that our capacity to come up with creative solutions is often most effective when we let our instinct and subconscious have a few hours to wrestle with the problem first. Often now, I’ll come back from a meeting with a client and just need to sit and think about the information. It’s digesting time. It’s time for the genius within to do work.
  1. Creativity, hospitality, traditions and atmosphere welcome people in.
    I’m sitting at my mother’s house right now, surrounded with Christmas decorations. This is the first year in a long time we haven’t thrown a traditional Christmas decorating party with our extended family and friends. Mum has a knack for creating environments that people can enjoy, for hosting with enthusiasm and creating traditions that welcome other people into them. I realise that I carry many of these traits from her – annual parties, traditions and creating atmosphere for people to enjoy. I learned from her and I hope to teach my family the same.
  1. You make your family and then you choose it.
    Maybe it’s because we have a small and geographically dispersed family, or growing up in the church but for whatever reason, our extended family counts more friends than blood relatives. But they are close as close can be. Mum has consistently welcomed people into our family life, including our friends as we’ve grown. From that I’ve learned the value of investing in the children of your friends and known the peace that comes from making a family of friends, even as a single person.
  1. Always look for opportunities to connect people.
    Mention the word ‘networking’ and people sometimes visibly shudder. It conjures images of self-serving, rapid business card exchanges and a set of shallow, transactional relationships. I prefer the word ‘connecting’ because that’s what Mum does in her professional life and her work life. She is constantly connecting people to one another for no personal gain, but in a way that enriches others. I’ve learned from her that connecting other people is a rewarding process from which goodness comes.
  1. Be generous with your time, your love and your money.
    There’s a fine line between living a life of true generosity and living a life of obligation. From my mother, I’ve learned to give what you can, when you can. To make choices about generosity wisely is something I’m still learning, however I think the more you connect with giving something away for the sake of someone else and less for yourself, it matters less.
  1. Be active in your creativity and in your rest, so that you add to the world.
    My mum is a maker and a teacher. Of course, that’s not her job. But if you were to ask what my mother does, I would tell you she makes and she teaches. What makes her a good teacher? She offers what she knows without pretence. She shares her knowledge willingly. She makes constantly – whether it’s foodie treats (no one can beat her strawberry jam or tamarillo chutney), quilts, scrapbooks, room renovations – you name it, she is constantly making. She adds to the world. So I try to make, create and rest by adding something to the world.

There’s a way of living which is earnest, good and generous. It’s wholehearted and passionate, a force of nature and I aspire to live in that way too, in the steps of my mother.

A Man Who Opens Doors.

A Man Who Opens Doors.

I am boarding a short flight from Las Vegas to Los Angeles. Soon, I’ll take an overnight flight they call the red-eye to my final destination. I’m drowsy and looking forward to a few hours of peace in my own mind during this stretch of travel.

The young Australian couple seating themselves behind me have other ideas. His nasal twang is behind my right ear within minutes of beginning to taxi. I can see him twisting in his seat, moving his shoulder away from his partner but pushing his face into hers. He spat out the words.

‘Get off me! We’re going to be next to each other for 15 bloody hours, the least you can do is give me this one flight without cuddling me to death.’

My mood breaks with a crack. My head hits the back of the seat and I can’t help but tilt my ear towards the rest of the conversation. Human observation is my skill and trade, inescapable even in a steel tube hurtling down a runway.

(more…)

A Woman Of Contradictions, Strong and Weak.

A Woman Of Contradictions, Strong and Weak.

I’m sitting in the airport lounge, listening to a flurry of Mandarin to the left of me and a Southern drawl to the right of me. Their human commonality is they are all loud talkers. I’m a loud talker too, but I love little more than silence and quiet.

It’s one of many contradictions, that I love to make noise as much as I long for the quiet. I know a couple of people who are quiet talkers. It makes me lean in, not only to listen to what they say, but  to pay closer attention to them. I like the difference between someone who makes you lean in versus one who makes you lean back.

I’m sitting in the airport lounge, drinking a long black espresso and beside it, a whisky and soda. One is deep, rich and will awaken my senses. The other is light, smoky and crisp but will eventually soothe me into easy sleep. I like to drink them at the same time just to experience the spectrum.

I celebrated my birthday with friends a week ago, because I love to throw parties. A dear friend said to the crowd, ‘Tash manages to be spiritual without being weird.’ Another contradiction.

I’m leaving for the other side of the world to see people I love in places I long for. I’m excited and nervous, hoping it will be all I’m wishing for – connection, richness of experience, deepness of love shared between kindred spirits. I’m hoping that each relationship I cherish will grow richer and stronger and more through the chance to be present with one another.

But I, as always, grieve quietly the absence from others that is required to make those connections possible. I’m full of joy and full of sorrow, albeit momentarily, because I cannot bear to be apart but I cannot bear to stay.

I, like always, am intoxicated a little by the mystery of travelling alone. Wondering who will cross your path, knowing the complete freedom to be and see and do whatever takes my fancy along the way. I am, increasingly, tired of travelling by myself. I find I no longer want to see new places without sharing the experience with another pair of eyes, another set of senses. I like to be alone; I am desperate not to be alone.

And here is the deepest contradiction of them all. I am strong. I have an emotional backbone made of steel. It might be best to say I am grounded; at peace with the vast array of emotion that strikes to the core of the human experience. I can grieve and laugh in the same day, I can (sometimes) stand calm in the face of chaos, I can navigate through the storm.

But oh, how I am soft. Tender and gentle, longing for peace. I have become strong in the face of the storm only because I have faced it for one hundred days. I can bear the stern light of the sun because I have lived in the desert. I can withstand what presses in from the outside because I have been born with steel inside me.

I am soft and I long to yield. I want not to withstand. I want to be comforted, I want to crumple. On the inside, my soft and gentle heart holds to the steel of my skeleton. My vulnerability has slowly been creeping out, slowly losing it’s hold on steel. I like it, I like that it means I need others in that state.

I am a woman of contradiction. Not complicated, just faceted. Never just one, I am one and other.

I am not strong. I’m vulnerable. More than I realise most of the time. I need others to hold me up and take of me more often than I know.

This Is Not Enough.

This Is Not Enough.

It’s Friday night at 6.01pm. I’ve just clocked out 43 hours in a 4 day work week. I’m about to go to dinner to celebrate a friend’s birthday. I’ve managed to see friends a couple of times this week, smashed fewer than usual gym sessions but still lost weight. I’ve meditated, left room for spiritual things and even caught up on a favourite TV show. I’ve eaten right, but not too right. I’ve been well-behaved but not too well-behaved. I even managed to do an early morning daycare run for one of my best friends; playing aunty to their 2 year old girl. And I’m telling you honestly, if this is my life, this is not enough.

This is not about being too busy. This is not about being tired or trying to achieve higher heights at work. This is not about the tension between the corporate career life I’m in and the not-for-profit, youthwork and hospitality life I love. This is not to complain because I know I’m blessed. It’s not because I’m lonely or pining for what I don’t have. I am wringing the marrow out of life on a daily basis. But this is not enough.

I live between two conflicting philosophies; one that compels me to use whatever I’ve got in my hand to do whatever is in front of me and the other, calling my attention to the horizon and all the possibilities beyond it. One hand holds tight and says, ‘be good, be useful’. One hand reaches out towards what might be and says, ‘be more, do more’.

I have to get comfortable telling the truth, to myself as well as others.

No matter how hard I work at my job and how much better I can be, or how much I achieve,
(with strengths and weaknesses)
No matter how rich and deep the social circle,
(too good already)
No matter the gracious chance to love other people’s kids,
(I’m so grateful)
No matter how healthy or strong or skinny I might become,
(with all the trappings of vanity)
This is not enough.

I am a Futurist, as well as a few other things. I’m always looking to the future possibilities and trying to figure out how to get there. But that’s not why this is not enough.  It’s not enough because these things are meaningful for other people, not for me.

I’ve come to know that I work better when I am part of a team, because I find meaning in the dependency that we have on one another. It propels me forward. It gives me a story to tell, a story that is ours. It’s not always easy to form a team or to form a team that has shared meaning and story but it’s even harder to be one person who’s lost the meaning of their own story.

I once had a singular focus and ambition and I’ve spent a few years now trying to find my meaning in other stories and in new places only to circle back around.

I can only imagine that this is close to what some mothers feel, when their careers and life paths change to centre around newborn babies and growing children. A re-orientation, losing a sense of self while becoming part of a new team. Sudden, the story of our kids tends to be centre stage.

So this, what defines my life right now – is not enough, simply because it’s not the story I want to tell at the end of my days. Or even today. The meaning I’m after (the ambition that has simply been buried and biding it’s time) is still the same. The values that drive me are still deep at the core of who I am and the story I want to tell.

I wrote a collection of these lines in 2008:

there are the dark days
that cloud the mind right from the start
there are the eulogies i compose 
melodies i’ve learned to sing
by heart when i’m alone
afraid
my life might be a song of sorrows
unless i find the meaning

there is a quietness that i have never shaken
a terrifying absence and conviction
that most of what i dream will never come to pass
i imagine life too big before i start

but my ambition is to make a difference
as large a one as i might ever conceive
if my name is never known
the ambition is the same
i’d make a difference in your heart

i’ve read ten thousand names
and whispered them aloud
i’ve spent long nights awake
perfecting every part

i’ve listened to the heartbeat
of a thousand lives

and heard the same refrain

and my ambition is to make a difference
collecting all the stories my life is made of
and if i could somehow remember all their names
my ambition was to make a difference
and their names would make the finest start

The truth is, I do want more. Maybe it’s because I want to have children of my own to invest in and it could be that’s selfish. But I also want to make a difference to the world at large. I don’t want or need fame, but I crave influence – to enable change for the many. I’m ambitious enough to believe I could do it. In fact, in my deepest secret self, I believe I’m meant to, somehow, be part of something bigger and more significant than my life alone.

At high school we completed the clichè ‘write your own eulogy’ assignment. I wrote simply, ‘She made us think differently.’

I still want that, and so this is not enough.

 

Chasing Normalized Beauty

Chasing Normalized Beauty

I got to 200 the other day. 200 gym sessions this year. I train for lots of reasons.

I need the stress release of boxing.
I like to talk to my trainer who is both my friend and therapist.
I like getting up to go to a place I want to be in the mornings.

And then there’s the real reason, that I sometimes admit to myself.
Because I want to be beautiful, I secretly whisper to myself.
T
hen I have to follow it up with empowering feminist phrases like ‘beauty is strength’ and ‘healthy is beautiful’.

But I released when I counted to 200, I’m not chasing beautiful at all. I’ve been chasing normal these 200 sessions or so. In fact, normalized beauty is probably what I’ve been chasing since my early teens.

So much comfort is found when you can establish your identity within the spectrum of normal. Society doesn’t push uncomfortably on any of your sharp edges that way. Nothing feels like a mis-fit if you can find a spot in the middle of everything.

Normal is not even about being a certain weight or shape. It’s about fitting in. Fitting into clothes, fitting into expectations, fitting into.. normal. Fitting in substitutes for having a sense of belonging, but belonging to what?

Normalized beauty is a set of homogenized templates. Haircuts, fashion cuts, brow styling. Slightly deeper we get to athletic versus curvy and I’ve already talked about the fashionable butt trend. I was just reflecting on the waif trend of the early 2000s. Normalized beauty changes to reflect societal trends. Normalized beauty is formed by comparisons and averages.

So that changes something for me, because actually I’m not humble enough to aspire to normal. I want to be beautiful. I want to be extraordinary. I want to be captivating – and I want to be all of that beyond a normalized beauty template.

At my age, the internet and Facebook is full of pithy sayings and blog posts from women who mean well. They write about becoming comfortable in their own skin, loving their stretchmarks and how their partners are truly attracted to them when they are full of confidence. I want to rally against that, because it feels like just another form of normalization.

I do want to be beautiful in ways that are more than just my body, my shape and my skin. I want to be seen as beautiful in all the ways that only I can be seen. I want to be incomparable, therefore nothing about my beauty can be normalized. I think we all do, men and women alike.

I think I am idealistic. At my age, I’ve pursued this game before. But perhaps it’s not a game. Perhaps all I’m chasing at the gym each morning is strength. Perhaps it is confidence that makes you beautiful, once you know who you are. Perhaps it’s having confidence that there is beauty within you, instead of being concerned with how I average out on the scale of ‘normal’.

Normalization is a creeping vine that has the power to choke us. It pushes us to keep up with the ‘human experience timeline’ – marry at a certain age, buy a house, have kids, change careers, travel overseas, buy that beach house… and so on. Normalization starts on the inside though, in how we see ourselves, then how we see others, how we relate or compare ourselves to others and then how we compare against the timeline.

It comes back to identity. Who am I? What am I about? Where and how do I find meaning for myself. What am I going to do about it?

I’m going to get up in the morning and hit the gym for session #201. I’m going to look in the mirror and see what I see, instead of what I’ve been looking for. Instead of chasing normalized beauty, I’m just going to chase uncovering, discovering me.