source: patmarch

When we arrived in Melbourne, I spent a good month weeping at odd moments. The car seemed to be a particular problem spot. I guess no one in the back seat could see my tears and that provided me with a freedom. Driving the boys to  story time at the new library, to their new swimming lessons, to their new daycare, to the supermarket that never had any parks, the tears would well and inevitably spill over.  We were in the car a lot because of where we lived so I had plenthy of opportunity. Wherever we were, I would think of the Sydney equivalent and sob. Remembering my family, my friends and tears would fall. Somehow, our life in Sydney seemed to make more sense. Our family made more sense. We had an identity. We were us. In Melbourne, I felt we were anchorless. Bar a couple of Cam’s friends and his family, no one knew who we were. And in particular, no one knew who I was.

I can’t remember now when I stopped crying. But I did. I must have. We fell into the swing of things, or I guess I did. Life in Melbourne became our normal with its ups and its downs. But it became that, life. Just normal beautiful heartfelt life.

But the crazy, nutty thing now is that being back in Sydney, falling straight back into the life we had, my family around to love and help us, my friends dropping by, sharing a beer and hanging out with us, I can’t help but miss Melbourne terribly. Like enough to cry in the car again. Is it change that disrupts us, enough to unsettle us or is nostalgia a fundamental human experience?

Nostalgia is defined as a yearning for the past, often in idealized form. It is what I have exactly. Since I’ve been back nothing in Sydney equals that in Melbourne. I feel completely unsettled again, like the family equilibrium has been disrupted and we are now ‘out of place.’ This is nuts given my same response when we arrived in Melbourne. I know my memory is skewed. I mean, Melbourne was a fantastic city to live in for our family – so much better for kids – but I was lonely and I’m back now amongst those I love and yet I feel so dislocated.

Another historical definition for nostalgia has been homesickness. And in the 1800s it was even considered a medical condition, a disease. This interests me because my experience of this, this nostalgia, this longing, feels out of my control; as if no self-talk would make any difference.

I guess I’m trying to work out why. What function does nostalgia play? What evolutionary role does it have?  It is to help us adjust to change? It haunts me, follows me wherever I go. And it fits so neatly into the glass as half full or empty. Is my nostalgia just another inherent way that I vew the  glass half empty? If so, that scares me. I guess now that I’ve articulared it, now that I am aware of it, I can change it. Well, I’d hope so.

What are you nostalgic for? As there been a time in your life when you fell this intensely?

copyright tw collins

It’s getting a bit tough round here.

I’m looking for beautiful things.

To look at.

To make me feel a bit better.

And a bit less tired.

The boys are pushing every button we have.

And we seem to avoid looking at each other.

I feel flat when we try to negotiate the way

together.

And he just feels angry.

The heat, oppressive

and silent,

doesn’t help at all.

Yesterday, I mentioned that the baby turns 6 months today and how far that still seems from when he is one when, hopefully, things will be easier with him.

C said, ‘that’s the difference between you and me. I just thing how great it is we’ve made it to 6 months.’

Ah, the glass. Exactly, how half full is it?

But, I’m up and running over here as well. If you’re a parent and are trying to find info about raising a young family and what mistakes not to make, come on over.

Parenting By the Book

At least, it is

for me.

I realised yesterday,

after a tough,

tough, day,

that I need to learn

patience in a

BIG way.

My lack

thereof

makes my life

so much

harder

and, of course,

it’s pretty horrible

for those

around me.

My teeth are sore

from being ground

yesterday.

I assume from

stress.

Every unwelcome

noise,

spillage,

fall,

breakage,

bump,

drove me

insane.

So, without going

on and on

about how

my lack of

patience

kills

our rhythm,

what can I do about it?

I’m not sure

yet

but, hell, I’m

willing to

find out.

This stuff is hard man.

So many days

I just

feel

I wasn’t

made for

this parenting

stuff.

Really.

As I got my life back together post-breakup, I moved out for the first time on my own. It was this step that opened up a whole new way of being for me. I LOVED IT. I had a sanctuary from the world. Somewhere I could breathe. Somewhere I could be. On. My. Own. It was as if, I fell into some sort of coma, my identity repairing itself from years spent constantly around other people. Often people I didn’t know well and people I didn’t connect with. Years spent being ‘on’. All the time. In my own place, I could just be.

I found I enjoyed being with myself. I felt reenergised. I felt wholly happy for the first time in years. I felt more complete. And, I met someone amazing, someone like me. Someone very adept socially. Someone who others sought out in social situations, but someone, like me, whose preference it was to be quiet. Alone or with someone close. Very quickly we began a family. We knew so soon that we had found an answer in each other.

It was when I allowed myself to identify as an introvert, to live my life this way, to acknowledge that I sought energy from time on my own, preferred aloneness, that I found true peace within myself. I made decisions in my life based on my need to be quiet, to avoid large social situations or situations that required I meet a lot of new people. This drains me considerably and has so often made me feel inauthentic. I accepted that I had a few close friends and that this was enough. I began searching for a career that would allow me this quiet, which would not demand significant social interaction. I planned a family to provide community and connection in my life. All of this made sense.

And what has happened has been transformative. I have ironically, met more people and made more friends with whom I share real and authentic connection. I find social situations much easier. I no longer dread my social engagements in the same way. This is because I have found a way to be present, to be me.  I don’t have to pretend anymore. I don’t need to always make conversation. I don’t need to always be funny, be interesting, be pretty, be known. I enjoy being social now because I feel more real.  And I don’t feel obliged to do it again tomorrow or next week or even next month. I enjoy it for what it is and then retreat into the space that I feel most alive. I write this having come across this website the other day.

It felt like I’d come home.

I don’t know why I find this so compelling. It’s just a beautiful way to start the day.

blown away

by the effects of fatigue.

It is like a drug which

absolves

actions, behaviours, and

thoughts.

I enter each day

with the best intentions

but

if my night has been

chaotic

full of waking moments

full of feeding

full of that whinging cry

full of wet beds

full of nightmares

full of heat

or

full of cold snaps

I wake the next morning

awfully

regretful

that I have

to start the day.

My tone of voice is

sharp and shrill.

I snap or

I am silent and each time

I forgive myself

because

I’m tired.

But it’s not fair and

it’s not enough.

And little people can’t achieve

that level of empathy

yet.

How are they

to understand?

That mummy

is

damn

tired and

therefore

not

expected

to be

nice.

I have spent

5 years now

tired.

It’s nothing new

so I shouldn’t act

each time

with such

entitlement.

This is

life

right now.

And it won’t take much for me to fall.

Apart.

I don’t take care.

I make too many mistakes

I won’t be what I was

I don’t concentrate.

I self-flagellate.

I cry.

I complain.

I tick over the days.

I hate not having much money.

I hate the slippery fall into debt.

I could work.

I hate that I can’t relax.

I forget to breathe.

I forget breathing is all there is.

It’s all I know.

I hate that I don’t want to be here right now.

I hate this weather, there’s no relief.

I hate that I can’t play with my 2 year old

I hate that I feel so bored, so numb.

I hate that I can’t just have moments.

I hate that I know I can change things but I don’t.

I am agitated, anxious.

I am grinding my jaw and tensing my shoulders.

But,

I can express gratitude.

I am grateful today that

I didn’t hit anyone when I was driving

There is a breeze through the house

That my baby woke once

For coffee.

That C was with a client when I rang him with the news

That I will survive; we will.

That

We have food in the house

I can cry if I want to

It’s just money – even if we have only a little.

That

Even gardenias with their amazing perfume, still have soiled petals.

That

The glass is still

Relentlessly

Half full.

copyright sixtostart.com

So I thought I might go for a 2 word year.

Less, and

Play.

Kind of like the yin and the yang.

A gentle equilibrium.

It felt safer doing it that way

but

do you know?

Since choosing,

Less

Has definitely been more than

Play.

Funny that.

I think far more about

trying to achieve

less

in my life, than

trying to achieve

more play.

Who’d have thought?

We have less at the moment,

less money,

less time,

less patience.

So I’m working towards

less stress

less spent

less planned activity

to try and give

each one of us

a bit

more.

Less, or

Play.

One full and the other,

not so full.

I’m sitting with both

until one,

reaches up and

grabs me.

Why, when I have to choose,

am I only conscious

of what I’ll leave out

rather than

what I’ll gain

by choosing.