Waste Not Want Not

There is too much stuff in this house – 16 years of four children, various guests, pets, businesses and endless activity.

It just had to go – I needed to truly release SO much of this “stuff” - this was a clearing of Hollywood proportions. The skip was filled to the brim and so we hired a Ute loaded it up and drove to the DUMP.

The Dump – as a kid, going to the dump was THE exciting adventure of the weekend. There was no such thing as a skip – to us that was the nickname that the Greeks and Italians had for us Aussies who watched Skippy the Bush Kangaroo after school each day. This was the time in my childhood when firecracker nights were still legal and Dad could burn anything in the incinerator in the back yard without applying to the council in triplicate.

Whatever was too big and hard to burn, Dad would load up into the Volkswagen. My brother and I would pile in stuffing our bodies in amongst old bikes with knees up to our chins surrounded by various broken bits and pieces of our household’s life that my father could pry from my mother’s stubborn fingers. The closest dump was located in the next suburb with tiny dirt roads carved through mountains of settling landfill winding around various stages of rubbish processing.

Today it is a very trendy upmarket suburb sporting parks and house proud residences. But back then, going to the dump, for me, a budding Archaeologist, this was akin to a religious experience. After all, these were piles of prehistoric treasures just waiting to be discovered and my imagination would run wild digging up jars containing sacred scrolls and all the answers to the universe.

We would drive into craters of dirt, park beside other dumpers and watch as some people sifted through the already dumped “stuff” seeking that “one person’s trash is another’s treasure” find. We would all pile out of the car and grab the various refuse items and literally just throw willy nilly out onto the ground. The smell was something that has etched itself onto my memory forever – a combination of old, dirt, sickness and death – simply ferrel. There were crows, magpies and seagulls everywhere – all capitalising on whatever opportunity they spotted and wasting nothing.

Looking back now, it was dangerous and quite a health and safety hazard. That is something we never thought of back then. However as a six year old, dodging the seagulls swooping while chucking crap from the VW - it was great fun!

Today, the Dump is called a Transfer Station. Transferring your trash OUT of your household and into a station where it can be recycled restored and resold as someone else’s treasure is a federal enterprise and managed by a strict accountability system. So today, driving into neat lawned grounds we were met by a weighing station and given a ticket with specific path and bay instructions. Impeccable landscaped gardens greet us around each corner and after seven curbs we turn into a large shed with an enormous deep hole in the middle where bulldozers and large shiny yellow squishing machines transform ordinary rubbish into flat neat little packages. The dump smell is diluted to 100th of my memory and the whole place was – well – clean and tidy. I felt significantly underdressed and respectively hopped out of the car, mindful of all the safety instructions as per the hundreds of signs around me and carefully placed the rubbish into the designated area.

It felt like we were at Ikea – the Ikea where items are returned and transferred after a decade or two. I watched the abundance of our city being transferred to this neat clean little facility and wondered about our relationship with “stuff” and where appreciation would factor into our waste management practices. What a great example of the universal balance – here at the Dump?

Sunday mornings may find many people at Harvey Norman or Far Pavilions buying new furniture. Sunday afternoons may find many people at the Transfer Station relieving themselves of the old furniture they no longer want. In one end and out the other – just like living organisms expelling toxins and waste.

Waste management is big business and is the human control of the collection, treatment and disposal of different wastes. Approximately 3000 tonnes of solid waste are generated each day in the south-east corner of Queensland alone. Most of this waste is sent to landfill. But what if we applied the law of the 5 ‘R’s before we made our next purchase?Recycle, Reduce, Reuse, Repair, Restore – this is what REAL appreciation is all about!

How could we upgrade our relationship with “stuff” with appreciation and reduce our waste? Decluttering is a wonderful thing. Clearing out creates space on an energetic level. However what if we regularly conducted an inventory of every single thing that we owned and held in our house, office or life?
What if we valued our “stuff”?
What if we converted decluttering to our very own internal transfer station?

My grandmother’s favourite saying was “Waste Not Want Not” and she lived her life by that premise. I would definitely be in lots of trouble if she were still alive today.

Let’s look at the big picture here – look at the WHOLE picture. I created the Push the Earth policy for our business and industry and have been patting myself on the back about how much I value the environment yet look at my first paragraph – “There is too much stuff in this house – 16 years of four children, various guests, pets, businesses and endless activity. It just had to go – I needed to truly release SO much of this “stuff” - this was a clearing of Hollywood proportions.”

Here I am complaining about having abundance in – well abundance – and instead of appreciating it – I am DUMPING it. The word Waste comes from the Anglo Frankish “waster” meaning to spoil and ruin - squander, spend or consume uselessly.
How about we SAVE, VALUE and APPRECIATE what we have instead of WASTE?
How about we live a simpler life?
Live as part of the earth, part of the tides, the natural rhythms, the planets and the elements.

Align the values of the earth with family, community, work and our own.
Live with less.
Make better use of our resources.
Make better use of our time.

What would appreciate then?

Winter in Brisbane

Late afternoons watching wet weather adds texture to any day. Standing in the rain, you can see the dark clouds over you, hear the patter on the earth, feel the drops sliding over your body and soaking your skin. There is a definite smell to athunder storm, an orange dusty tinge that floats into your nostrils, teasing them and sending it into your mouth and onto the back of your tongue.

It’s delicious!

Curling up in bed, these days of dark weather are a reminder of just how sunny Brisbane usually is – even in the dead of winter. Compare our weather to Europe and the UK or even New York and we realise our winter is almost the same as their spring. How good is this that we don’t have enough dark weather to ever feel oppressed by a gloomy day every so often? Today, a grey dull dreary winters day, the rain fell in large heavy drops that held the promise of spring inside revealing a pale light green glow upon the grass, and a shimmering glistening on the leaves of the soggy trees, as if they were bouncing back some of the summer sunshine they had absorbed in the months previous.

"The best thing one can do when it is raining is to let it rain" — Longfellow

Today, I walked outside for the first time in weeks to check the garden and the wind whipped around me teasing my hair and clothes. Like an electric charge, it was somehow reminding me of impending adventure, the life I had put on hold and how it was all still waiting for me.

I actually stood in the rain and squealed loudly and for the first time in ages, breathed easy.

Soul Mates

Google the words SOUL MATE and watch how thousands of sites line up in readiness to teach you how to meet and find your Soul Mate.
If there is one void that humanity seems to share it is the seemingly eternal search for one’s SOUL MATE. I must admit to searching for the relevance of meaning of this term in my own life.

The word 'soul' stems from the Old English word ' sawol' meaning the spiritual and emotional part of a person. It first emerged in literary public around the year 725 in the tale of Beowulf. Obviously your MATE has been regarded as being of spiritual and emotional importance to you as opposed to simply being functional for the pro creation of offspring, maintenance of an economic base and to hold lands and chattels in a genealogical hierarchy forged in a familial foundation.

Soul Mate is a term we all popularly use to describe someone with whom one has a feeling of deep and natural affinity, friendship, love, intimacy, sexuality and compatibility. Some people believe these are souls we have met and lived with in many life times. They have been our lovers, spouses, mothers, fathers, siblings, teachers, students, family and friends. Somehow we have a contract with these souls to return to earth together for learning and evolution.

One theory of Soul Mates, presented by Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium, is that that humans originally were combined of four arms, four legs, and a single head made of two faces, but Zeus feared their power and split them all in half, condemning them to spending their lives searching for the other half to complete them.

It seems that we feel closer to certain souls, because we have attracted them into our lives as they are on the same frequency or because we want to work out issues with them.

The Law of Conservation says that Nothing is Missing – your Soul Mate is therefore either in the form of the one or the many. I can see that in my life my Soul Mate lives in the many – about 20 beautiful men in my life – all together – are my Soul Mate. Now before you cast aspersions on my admission – (No I’m not a Skank) my Soul Mate is according to the hierarchy of my values – therefore these men provide great feedback for my particular value system and clearly demonstrate who I am and what is important in my life right now.

I get to spend time discussing and philosophizing with some of them – Scientists, Healers, Conspiracy Theorists – Intelligent brains with words instead of juices flowing between us – just as exhilarating but less messy. J The Mediterranean and Middle Eastern men in my life bring out the Goddess in me as they flaunt their masculine energy with me feigning and feinting - opening doors and killing spiders – the ancient game of the warrior rescuing the maiden (swoon) - and the sacred dance (if I so choose J ) My fitness freak posse accompany me on adventure hikes, mountain climbs and marathon runs. As a fag hag, my gay friends (yes they form part of my Soul Mate) share retail therapy and home decorating sprees. My business buddies wheel and deal over endless cocktail lunches with me, exchanging project concepts and beta testing plans together. I have men to go to social dinners with, boys to take to chick flicks, fellows to suffer endless family events with and buddies to party, dance and rock with.

Nothing is missing – all forms are there – in many faces and places. What I love about my Soul Mate in the MANY is the freedom to have NO expectations other than of myself.

As a child, I had this bizarre belief that one day I would meet my Soul Mate walking down the street one day, he would seem familiar and a white light appears between us then boom ….we live happily ever after. My own parents did not provide me with a balanced view of Soul Mates or even a loving Relationship, so my benchmark was drawn from fairy tales, TV and movies.

And so fuelled by a Boy Meets Girl Fantasy, at the tender age of 20, I married my first husband and had children very quickly. I still regard him as family – wonderful person - however he was not what could be termed The One. However, he remains part of my collective Soul Mate and for that I am truly grateful. At the age of 30, I married my second husband. He is one of my business partners even now and I still regard him as family – He Taught me SO much - however he was not what could be termed The One. Yes, he forms part of my collective Soul Mate and I continue to learn appreciation of him.

My children are part of my collective Soul Mate for they are truly great loves of my life. They express what I suppress and give me the opportunity to love all the things I disown about myself and my parents and our families. I find it hardest to love them without expectation as theirs is the love that stings and rewards the most in my life – my greatest obligation and my dearest joys.

I look back over the relationships of my life and see that there has only been one person that I truly opened my heart to. I was SURE he was the one – all the signs pointed to him being my twin flame. It was a lesson steeped in synchronicity and destined to change me forever. But I was wrong - he wasn’t the one – I was – and through my love for him, I learned to love the one person I never really knew and never took the time to love – ME.

It has been two and a half years since we parted and I have met the most beautiful men since that time. I could say that no one has captured my heart like he did, or perhaps I have just been unwilling to open my heart again. All I know is that the great mysteries of life must be experienced; they must be lived. Duff writes: “The Nahuatl peoples believed that we are born with a physical heart, but have to create a deified heart by finding a firm and enduring centre within ourselves from which to lead our lives, so that our hearts will shine through our faces, and our features will become reliable reflections of ourselves. Otherwise, they explained, we wander aimlessly through life, giving our hearts to everything and nothing, and so destroy them.”

Now looking back, seeing that for me there has been the ONE (past) and the MANY (present), I appreciate the power of the Soul Mate in whatever form I create and see that my heart shines through my own face now.

It feels like there are so many levels of Soul Mate – well I guess I am collecting data about this right now J.
At the base of the Soul Mate pyramid is the Got To– The Physical Attraction – derived from the Cell and the Amoeba.
The next level is the Should/Ought To – This is our search for the Right Person (i.e. fitting into our Fantasy and Value System)– derived from our Pre Amphibian selves.
Then we find the Need to level– This is our Emotional Need – the search for Romance - derived from our Amphibian centre.
Next level is Want To – This is all about the I – the EGO – everything is the way I Want it - derived from our Reptilian selves. Many people never move past this phase.
Then we move into the Desire To level – This is beyond the EGO – Beyond the Physical, Emotional, Romantic, Material – we enter the realm of REAL LOVE only when the first phases are complete – this is derived from the Mammal part of us.
Once we truly love ourselves as we are with no changes and no expectations that another will complete us, we enter the Choose To level – This is a Conscious Commitment – a Value of Self Beyond the Ego without dependence on the other – this is where we become more Human and less Animal.
And finally we enter the Love To level – Unconditional Love – No Rejection – No Expectation – Nothing to Lose or Gain – Nothing is Missing – we are inspired by pure Spirit.

According to theories popularized by Theosophy and in a modified form by Edgar Cayce, God created androgynous souls, equally male and female. The souls split into separate genders later, perhaps because they incurred Karma while playing around on the earth". Over countless reincarnations, each half seeks the other. When all karmic debt is purged, the two will fuse back together and return to the ultimate.

There is obviously a karma aspect – what I don’t love about myself I will attract a Soul Mate who owns that very thing in him. I hope that for me, a Soul Mate – the ONE – is someone I can share my life with, in freedom, integrity, grace, without judgement or expectation, with two open hearts, walking beside each other on similar paths – where living in my highest values serves his and vice versa.

Lao Tsu called it the trackless path. Jehovah translated means “I am.” In Genesis, God says to Moses, “I am that I am.” Perhaps our Soul Mate is the ME in us and will only appear in another form of ONE when we appreciate our Soul Mate in ourselves? For now, I appreciate that my Soul Mate is all around me and there is nothing missing in my life while I still hold the Fantasy of the One Soul Mate who I will meet walking down the street one day, he seems familiar and a white light appears between us then boom……... :-)

My Irish Tree

For years I had a dream where there was a magical tree in the South of Ireland where I could find and sit in and all my ancestors would come to life and flow through my blood – it would re awaken my Celtic blood. I would see all generations behind and in front of me. Answers for my questions would float above me and I could easily slip into the otherworld if I so chose.

Arriving in Dublin, my first priority was to book a day tour in the Ring of Kerry. My bloodline can be traced back to 1192 in that area and I felt that I may find my tree in the majesty of the Ring. There was one tour available – 17th – I was in! Awaking 6am, I made the Heuston train station by 7am and caught the train to Mallow. A storm the night before had disabled a signal and we sat on the tracks for an hour midway between Dublin and Mallow. Finally, my tour guide disembarked me at Mallow with strict instructions for the next train to Killarney where I would meet my tour group taking me to the Ring of Kerry.

In true Irish fashion, we missed the train, they sent a bus and it broke down, the next one didn’t come and the next train was delayed. I was told to return to Dublin. No way. Bugger Off!

I simply HAD to find that tree so I waited. In a state of no idea where or how – I got on the next train eyes closed fingers crossed – arrived in Killarney – no map – no clue – arrived and walked around the town. It was misty and raining and I discovered a walled garden and decided to look inside. It was the National Park and it ran for hundreds of miles – framed by mountains running rocky down onto fingers of lakes streaming out into the Irish Sea and the North Atlantic Ocean. Wildlife – deer, birds – fauna and flora – tiny cottages dotting the landscape – raindrops dripping from every tree – as I walked alone through this forest and out into the wide expanse where nature had created a theme park just for me.

I found my tree – freshly budding – even in the Irish winter – painted with lime green moss, roots reaching up through the ground and settling at the base of the trunk. Leaves rustling, bark peeling – I could have climbed it and never reached the top where a canopy of the forest trees met to chat about the strange Australian tourist carrying a Union jack umbrella oohing and ahhing as she slipped in the mud along the tracks of this National Park.

I stood firm against the trunk and heard a beating heart. It wasn’t mine. The branches almost wrapped themselves around me as it spoke.

“Get to the Other Side” – the first words – now my mantra.

“Just get to the other side.”

“The other side of what?” I asked incredulously.

“Everything. Every challenge. Every action. Every person. Every situation. Every plan. Start it, get to the middle, look back, look forward and get to the other side. Only then will you see both sides and by the time you get there, it will be what you want.”

Then the tears came.

Oh how I cried!

I cried as this tree took me through every moment in my life and showed me where I actually HAD gotten to the other side and helped me to look back and review the experience.

It showed me my history and the bloodline history flowing through my veins. I saw myself in other lives and saw the same faces always surrounding me.

I crept inside an opening in the trunk and saw pathways and tunnels and doorways to any other world that I chose to create. However the tree reminded me that every opening held the same challenges that I was experiencing now. And I was half way through these challenges.

All I had to do was get to the other side. Every challenge and every life is the same.

There is no more greatness in another body or another time or another country or another life than in mine right now. There was nothing to change - absolutely nothing.

The tree repeated itself over and over.

“There is nothing to change. Everything in your life is perfect right now.”

It said that I was the true master of my life – not any teacher, books, programs, business, individuals, groups, governments or external authorities – but ME. And if I had or did or experienced or found or saw or realised or decided – than it was the right thing because it was me – and I was the true master for me.

In all my challenges - business, family, relationship, health - as with every other soul, the experience was created by me - and as the master, there was a greater purpose for the experience. There would be as many benefits as drawbacks no matter what I did. Trust myself and appreciate the experience. Get to the Other Side by putting one foot in front of the other and not explaining or planning or trying to change. Just be there, do it and love it!

Now that I am home in Australia, everywhere I look, theIrish tree is with me every second. It has taught me more than any book, teacher, school, university or person ever has. And it is ALWAYS following me.
I look at my backyard with new eyes. It looks similiar to the Irish Forest. I drive past the Toowong cemetary every day on my way home from the office. It looks similiar to the Irish Forest. I walk along the Brisbane River each week. It reminds me of the lakes near the Irish Tree. Everything looks different - better. The mundane looks extraordinarily beautiful!

So whenever I feel - ugh - or ggeeeezzzzz - or ggggrrrrrrr - I hear those same words "Get to the Other Side" and somehow the world looks greener and prettier and my heart feels lighter.

Be It Ever So Humble

Tuesday 22 January – today is my final day here in Ireland and I intend to make the most of it. Naturally it was raining and colder than any day I had experienced so far in the UK. I dodged the raindrops while the now familiar sound of seagulls sounded above my head and shunted up to Suffolk Street and purchase my Hop off Hop on bus tour. This is always the best place to start. We struggled through the traffic on past O Connell Street, down beside the River Liffey across the bridge and past the Dublin Castle, Christ Church, St Patrick’s Cathedral, several ancient churches in ruins, Dublinia, the Old Jameson and the Guinness Storehouse. There is astronomical amounts of reconstruction happening in Dublin at the moment.

Several times we became stuck behind a truck as it unloaded building materials at a site. Not only is there a beat here, but a large Euro sign hangs above the city showering it with opportunities and resources. It feels rather exciting watching this city reinventing itself in this way. We took a small side street on the way up to one of the city museums and took beside a backhoe and a truck. We stopped. The bus was wedged between a bus stop sign and a monster pothole. It took 2 hours and 20 men in fluorescent shirts to move the bus and the passengers sitting on board. Not one person was bothered, as this is becoming a daily experience. You know in retrospect I should’ve taken this for a sign of things to come.

Freedom came at a price and time was running out so at St. Stephen's Green I disembarked checking out Merrion Square, the Writers Museum going into the Green itself and hanging in front of the Oscar Wilde statue, walking through the groves of Oaks and watching as the rain dripped its final farewells to me on the greenest of lawns and sweetest of tiny buds slowly but surely emerging from their winters sleep in hope for a looming spring. Outside the park, I ambled along the Georgian Square amid the oddly colourful doors in Merrion and past the National Gallery.

Then up to Trinity College for one last time, crossing the road in front of poor Molly Malone’s statue still trying to offload those old smelly cockles and muscles. One last time I walked over the bridge into O’Connell Street where THE shopping for Dublin is done and checked out a few shops buying too much stuff – imagining how I could squeeze more space out of my already heaving long suffering suitcase. O'Connell Street is the main thoroughfare in Dublin City and one of the widest streets in Europe – and it has certainly seen its share of action throughout history. The warring Irish had a rebellion here a century ago and some monument was destroyed in the process. Replacing it now is the very impressive 120m Spire of Dublin, a needle-like self supporting sculpture of rolled stainless standing directly behind the Daniel O Connell monument – a nice haven in the furious rain. My very british umbrella was suitably noticeable and I hid my face as I sheltered under it in the teaming rain. How silly am I?

Walking down beside the Liffey river, those seagulls that I have been hearing each night are congregrating on the boardwalk. How close are we to the sea here? Very unusual sight. Ambling across the bridge and up towards Christchurch, I checked out the Viking displays in Dublina and found myself sitting inside St Patrick's Cathedral to take a moment and dry off. A large parish priest wearing a purple dress sold entry tickets for 6 euros at the entrance in front of a large souvenir stand at the rear of the church. Bath Abbey was the same however St Patrick’s did challenge my childhood catholic roots. I was surprised at many plaques for Freemasons who were also parishioners. I realised that the churches with their plaques were effective marketing machines.

My hotel was directly around the corner so through the rain across the park at the rear of the Cathedral I tramped knowing my time here was almost over. A lovely final Dublin lunch at 2.30pm and my loyal taxi driver took me to the airport chatting to me about the joy of parenting a sixteen-year-old boy with a taste of independence and centre of self-focus. I got this same guy each time I caught a cab – and he was a fabulous Dublin guide – from him I learned much.

We got to the airport in good time for my 5.40pm flight – I checked in and waited patiently to board. At 5pm a delayed sign began to flash across the screen and I asked the customer service desk the obvious question. Apparently there was an air traffic controller’s strike and our allocated slot to land at Heathrow had been compromised however not too worry – we’ll open soon. 5.30pm arrived and I began to feel concerned. I called the Australian number on my Flight Centre itinerary and was put on hold for 30 minutes until I reluctantly realised they wouldn’t answer and hung up. After much questioning and researching I discovered the Malaysian Airlines desk number and advised the lady of my dilemma. She wasn’t too concerned and gave me until 9.30pm to get there. At that stage I was feeling optimistic so decided to let it go.

By 7pm however, more customers were freaking out and bombarding the airline staff who were suitably stressed and frustrated that they could not make a solid announcement. I tried calling Flight Centre again and after holding for another 30 minutes simply gave in. Poor Manny – I woke him up at 5am and begged him to call the Australian number for me and thankfully he got through after only 20 minutes and re booked my flight for the next day.

By 8pm, the airport was a scene from a horror movie with some passengers screaming abuse at the airline staff, others silently panicking and others simply sitting back in grim assignation of what seems now to be a standard occurrence in Dublin public transport interruptions.

By 8.30pm we boarded the plane by 9.30pm we landed in London yet my nightmare was not over. Everything in Heathrow closes around 10pm. The BMI desk steadfastly advised that my missed flight was not their concern and it was my responsibility to find a hotel at my own cost. So I looked for the hotel reservation desk and it was closed. I called a few hotels and was advised that there were no available rooms within a 20-kilometre radius of the airport due to fashion week and a large number of conventions. Then my mobile phone battery died.

There were no staff around to assist, I had no clue of where to look or who to call, and got myself lost in the maze of renovations and levels in Heathrow itself. For a moment it looked as if I was spending the night on the streets with my luggage.

FREAK OUT!!!!!

I no longer looked positive or strong and began to cry quietly to myself when an American guy walked past me and asked if he could assist in some way. At the moment of weakness and ultimate honesty, help arrived. So after blubbering my silly story, he advised that his friend had similarly missed his flight from New York for their conference and his room was still available at the Crown Plaza, which was ten minutes from the airport. He called a taxi shared it with me and organised the room with the hotel himself. It cost 250 pounds sterling for what amounted to a six-hour sleep BUT IT WAS WORTH IT.

I’ve not encountered many challenges in this trip – none when the boys were with me – and to miss my international flight home due to no fault of my own was inconceivable. To not be given any offer of assistance by the airline or airport staff was unexpected and I was suitably freaked out in a way that I hadn’t been once during my trip. So I guess on my final day, losing it under these circumstances was quite an achievement.

The little things truly are significant. The mundane of showering, charging the mobile phone battery, sleeping in a horizontal bed, changing out of skanky clothes and breathing in your own private space for a few hours – for me, at midnight I was in heaven.

At 3am, my phone rang and I woke up with a start. One of my sons called me from Australia for no apparent reason – just to say hi. I sensed that something was wrong however he wouldn’t expand and so I drifted off back to sleep a little longer.

Back at Heathrow at 8am, it took an hour to line up to check in. Then my new ticket had not been updated correctly in Australia so the Heathrow staff could not check me in. After an hour of haggling with them I called my partner to see if he could phone Australia. That’s when my nightmare REALLY began. He was at the Wesley hospital with the son who called earlier who was very ill, high temperature and connected to a drip and was being tested and closely monitored. It sounded serious. His violent bashing by the neighbour had caused a devastating affect on his health and thousands of miles away, I feared the worst.

Eventually after looking at their training sheet, together the staff and I re entered and administered my new ticket, I checked in and awaiting my boarding. The 12-hour flight to Kuala Lumpur was agony as I collapsed all the possibilities for my son and faced an unthinkable scenario 100% out of my control. My entire body changed form in those 12 hours and every molecule charged on another frequency from that point.

Arriving in Malaysia, there was a part of me that didn’t want to call Australia, as I couldn’t face receiving bad news with another long flight ahead of me. But call I did and it was such a relief to hear that my son was out of danger and released from hospital, still ill but at home and improving. That was a moment to remember forever.

Nothing else mattered after that.

Life is melted down to its very foundation – the love for your child will always take precedence over anything else.

My remaining flight to Sydney and finally Brisbane drifted by me and before I knew it, my youngest son was greeting me in the lobby pf the International Airport.

I loved my adventure in UK and Europe for Xmas, New Year, my Birthday and my work – it was a true success. However I have to admit that for the very first time, I am so happy to be home. Just to be here, at home, with my family, doing nothing of significance other than mundane basic human activities. The magic of my experience is here in Brisbane with me now while I tend to a sick child, prepare for the new school year, clean up my very messy and neglected house, catch up on business work, marvel at how I wore the same clothes SO many times as I attend my laundry and just BE in my home with all my stuff around me.

There truly is no place like home.

Irish Lessons

I was booked to take a tour of the Ring of Kerry. This was my piece de resistence - the ONE thing I was looking forward to. So it was with great excitement that I took a 6.30am taxi to Heuston Station. In Dublin, it is extremely expensive and I was almost used to spending over fifty dollars on a 15 minute taxi ride.

I arrived and caught my train at 7am. By 8am we were delayed and sitting motionless somewhere in the south west of Ireland. The rains had caused great flooding and transport in the UK had been hit everywhere. One hour late we arrived in Mallow and I as toold that my connecting train to Killarney had been cancelled. No problems however - I was told in a liltling musical Irish accent - we have arranged for a replacement bus to drive you there instead.

30 minutes later we were told that the bus had indeed broken down but no panic, a second bus had been dispatched and would arrive in minutes.Thurty minutes later, we were advised that tea and coffee were available for free - somehow to cushion the blow - because the replacement bus was stuck in floodwater. By this time my tour bus in Killarney had left without me and I was told to return to Dublin for my refund.

Not bloody likely - I HAD to keep going - I was in Cork - not far from Killareny and so patiently waited for another train and continued my journey with no plan, no map, no tour, no booking and no clue as to what I would do. The green hills rolled by my train window and the magic of Ireland wove itself into my heart and I was infatuated with this place so really didnt care WhAT I did as long as I was here.

So after an unexpected start to my day, I arrive in Killarney – Cill Airne meaning the Church of the Sloes. Yup it’s all pretty much about the churches here - shock horror the Catholicism of my ancestry hits me in the face here - all I can see is my patrenal grandmother everywhere I look.

I found a local pub and had a brunch to warm me up as it was raining windy and freezing – all my Irish favourites. I walked around the town to find colourful laneways and doorways, an old interesting cathedral that reminded me of St Patrick’s in Gympie and many historic buildings. The town was cute, however as I missed going to the Ring of Kerry I really wanted to explore the National Park and get as close as I could to the mountains, lakes and forest – in a tiny attempt to still experience a little of this heavenly Kingdom of Kerry.

For centuries the Killarney Valley has been recognised far and wide as Ireland's most beautiful destination - being aptly titled as "Heaven's Reflex". It inspired Poet Laureate Alfred Austin to write - "If mountain, wood and water harmoniously blent, constitute the most perfect and adequate loveliness that nature presents, it surely must be owned, that it has, all the world over, no superior". I have to admit it took my breath away while walking through the National Park in the mist and rain and wind making my experience even more surreal and magical.

It is the most westerly point in Europe here in Killarney and the National Park covers over 25,000 acres of mountain, moorland, woodland, waterways, parks and gardens. You access the park from the main town centre and yet once within the walls you are transported to another time and place. I could see over to the misty mountains and the large areas of blanket bog, the oak trees growing on the lower mountain slopes and the remains of an ancient woodland that used to over most of this land thousands of years ago.

I have had a dream for years about sitting beneath an ancient oak tree in this area of Ireland and today they surrounded me as I walking through the park towards the lakes and bogs. There were plenty of birds and geese although I didn’t see any deer apparently they are renowned for this area. The deer were smart and stayed indoors as the blustering cold wind was whipping under my jacket and turning my umbrella inside out.

That umbrella! I bought it in London on Christmas Day as we made our way to Marble Arch for lunch. It is a cheap Union Jack design and now walking in Ireland I suddenly felt very self-conscious and almost in danger using it. However there were no shops open inside the Park and it was wet. I saw the ruins of Inisfallen Abbey, Muckross Abbey, House and Farm.

I eventually found MY tree and sat there while the wind howled around me and I nestled close to its trunk and listened as the leaves shook and sang over my head. Pure Magic!

Reluctantly I left the Park and headed back into town to check out these churches that influenced the very Killarney name. Whenever I travel and need to find some peace and quiet while away from my hotel room, I usually find a church and just go and sit and think. There is something about the angles of design in these old buildings that alters my molecular structure and readjusts the vibrations within and without.

First church I checked out wasSt Mary's Church in Rookery Close. A really cute little Gothic style church which once again used to be an ancient significant site. I sat here for quite a while reading all the plaques and admiring the incredible stained glass windows. Before I knew it, my clock showed it was three thirty in the afternoon and I felt the darkness of the evening begin to creep across the windows outside. Time to find a train to take me home to Dublin.

Changed again at Mallow after Killareny and then arriving in Heuston it was easy take a Lurs (like a tram in Amsterdam) to Abbey Street and walk across O Connell over the bridge to the Temple Bar area, down Dame Street and to Juice for dinner and home to the Radisson.

Too easy!

Friday 18th was all about work and meetings. That went well however the highlight was being invited by Dr John F Demartini to visit the Mountjoy prison for women with him. The Irish Prison Service is actually one of the oldest public institutions in the country, dating from the 1800s when several of my ancestors were given a one-way ticket to Australia. I think we Aussies were great for the Irish prison system! The Dóchas Centre at Mountjoy, for Women, runs a Personal Development curriciculum dealing with issues like employment, training, social welfare and forms of basic life coaching. I spoke to a few wardens who said that the prisoners were THEIR teachers and that every single one of us has committed a crime of sorts – only we haven’t been caught and these prisoners have. Aged between 17 and 30 for the most part, many are different nationalities caught at the airport upon entry for the standard – drug trafficking.

The wardens said that many reoffend to return to the family and security and support programs that are not provided outside in their three generational sub culture at home. These Personal Development courses are designed to transform that cycle into more choices for the women. This was a profound experience for me and I felt honoured to have been invited by Dr John Demartini. I watched him speak to the girls for a couple of hours. It was a talk that I’d never heard before and he received heckling and rejection as well as applause and acceptance.

After meeting some great Dubliners deeply involved in this sector, we headed to the Radisson for our Teachers meeting and a group dinner at Juice – fast becoming everyone’s favourite Dublin restaurant. Like the previous weekend, the Breakthrough early start and late finish, kneeling and working with clients for hours on end was a tiring yet rewarding experience.

It was especially significant for me this time however. I was asked to surrogate at 1am in the morning for a local fellow as his mother. When I looked into his eyes I saw my third child and the words he said to me belonged to hi,. So I looked into the eyes of a stranger, saw my son and told him how much I loved him and that no matter what he did, there was no need for forgiveness.

I went to bed straight afterwards and thought nothing of it until 10am the following morning about to leave for the Sunday breakthrough and my phone rang.

It was the son whose eyes I had seen in the face of a stranger the night before.

He had been assaulted by the next-door neighbour at exactly the same moment that I was telling this surrogate that I loved him. Apparently teenage fun got out of control, they threw eggs at the house and the fellow next door lost his cool and bashed him into unconsciousness.

He had been taken to the Wesley hospital and had tests all day and was very ill and in great pain. Because of the work I had studied with The Concourse of Wisdom and Dr John Demartini, I knew in my heart that nothing was missing for my son and that he was safe and loved even though I was on the other side of the world. (even though as a mother my heart wrenched in agony at our distance)

The power of this experience changed my life forever as the next few days would soon attest.

Magic Folklore Myths in my Celtic Blood

I booked a tour called Celtic Experience – woke up early and walked up to Suffolk Street where an old converted church holds a large collection of souvenirs, tour bookings and information booths. Yesterday while walking around Dublin I noticed the traffic jams and this morning it was obviously slower. It must be said that Dublin traffic would be the worst I have ever seen. The city is growing and renovating and reconstructing. Where it is usual for one or two traffic lanes, many are closed due to building site danger. It is far quicker to walk than it is to take a bus, Lurs or Taxi. Consistently buses are late and the locals laugh at you when you mention that a tour bus is late. “What did you expect – this is Dublin.” He he he

So eventually our tiny little mini van tour bus arrived with the driver all in a flurry. There were 10 of us and we eventually got out of Dublin and onto the northern freeway system. Our driver was our guide and in lilting Gaelic tone he told stories of Tuathta De Danaan, Fir Bolg, the Celts and the various faery tales and mythologies of Ireland. He was a brilliant storyteller with a great love for the history of his country.

First stop was Fourknocks megalithic mound, Naul in County Meath. The name Fourknocks comes from the Irish 'Fuair Cnocs' which means 'The Cold Hills' and my hands were literally turning blue as we stood outside the mound while our guide told us the story. The mound is part of a complex of small sites in the area, and forms part of the Art of Alignment, so common here in this country. This mound is directly aligned with the line of Winter Solstice sunrise through the holes in the top of the mound lighting up inside at specific stellar times. We crouched down and walked into this enormous underground chamber. There are zigzag patterns on a number of stones inside and scholars believe this refers to the constellation, Cassiopeia, which would have been visible through the Fourknocks passage between 3000BC and 2500BC, around the time the site was constructed. The symbols used here are all about astronomy – creating calendars based on shapes for sun, moon, stars – constellations.

The way that this mound was designed it is obvious that is was to capture a specific moment in astronomical time. There is no doubt that the people of the Neolithic were acutely aware of the great cycle of precession.

It was freezing at Fourknocks and by the time we all loaded back onto the small bus, there were icicles on some people’s boots and jackets. Gorgeous setting regardless of the cold, rolling misty green hills surrounded us linked by old roads cutting through small villages and tiny cottages. In the middle of nowhere we stumbled across this significant site and coupled with the story telling, it was quite a magical experience.

Our bus then took us to Monasterboice - St Buithe's Abbey, an early monastic site celebrated for its crosses, near the Irish east coast, northwest of Drogheda. Alighting from the bus we were greeted by a horrible stench. Apparently this is soilage – a combination of manure and soil used to maintain the green rolling hills. At least it kept my nose distracted while the rest of me froze as we walked down a lane lined with winter bared trees until we came across a graveyard featuring the largest Celtic Crosses I have ever seen.

Our guide explained how these crosses are like complete museums as they contain narrative scenes about various biblical stories in decorative abstract motifs. When the Romans arrived, they needed to market themselves to the Celts and this was an initial effective strategy. Most early medieval monasteries in this area feature freestanding, monumental crosses some up to 17 feet in height. The decorations – now covered in moss are incredible abstract ornamental patterns (the Celtic interlace and spirals, geometric patterns, inhabited vines, and entangled figures) combined with naïve Christian figures as their main story telling device. It was raining as our guide deciphered one of these large crosses and once again it felt magical and as if we were transported back in time to a live and very real mythology.

We drove through tiny back roads while listening to the best of Irish music. I have probably heard “Cockles and Muscles” approx 100 times in this past week. J U2, Sinnead O’Connor and some truly interesting new irish musicians – watching the irish countryside roll by the bus window while accompanied by the irish music captured the heart of this experience really well.

Next stop was at Mellifont Abbey - a ruin now – and was the first Cistercian Abbey to be founded in Ireland. It is located between the village of Collon and the town of Drogheda in County Louth. We drove into an impressive tranquil valley near the Mattock River lined with leaf less trees and the now familiar greenest of green hills – and yup still sporting that stink.Seriously there’s nothing to see here except ruins and maps and charts of what it USED to look like. Still combined with our guide story telling, we could almost visualise the Abbey in all its glory.

By this time we were not only frozen to the core but starving so we were taken to a local pub in Collon in the south west corner of County Louth. Here I met several other aussies, naturally and a guy from Boston who works in mental health – always a fun discussion topic and we embarked on a heated discussion about the 2008 US Presidential elections. The concensus is very Clinton. I will continue to send my wishes to Obama – the world could do with a leader like him.

After a hot roast meal, fortified with a Guinness or two, it was time to head towards our next destination, the hill of Slane.This is sold as a major christian site where St Patrick lit some fire os significance and began the destruction of the Celtic and Gaelic cultural heritage. This site where there is a mound on the western end of the peak, which lies hidden from the view of visitors by lots of trees, has a very ancient significance. The Fir Bolg King, Sláine, who gives his name to the area was associated with this mound and quite possibly buried here. The people of this land loved a fight – seriously – there’s always a tale in this land of someone battling someone else and. This is all part of tradition and legend in this country. Standing high on this mound looking out over the hills towards the ocean and the Hill of Tara and the surrounding countryside, I could almost feel the other worlds and the histories all happening simultaneously.

There is profound energy here on this ancient Neolithic site. I read this passage from 'Táin Bó Cualgne' : '' . . . MacRoth surveyed the plain and he saw something: a heavy, grey mist that filled the space between the heavens and earth. It seemed to him that the hills were islands in lakes that he saw rising up out of the sloping valleys of mist. It seemed to him they were wide-yawning caverns that he saw there leading into that mist. It seemed to him it was all-white, flaxy sheets of linen, or sifted snow a-falling that he was there through a rift in the mist. It seemed to him it was a flight of many, varied, wonderful, numerous birds, or the constant sparkling of shining stars on a bright, clear night of hoar-frost, or sparks of red-flaming fire. . .'' I could almost see everything noted in those words.

The thing I really loved about today was learning more about the Art of Alignment. This mound in Slane forms a very interesting alignment with some other ancient sites. There is a 360-degree view and you can see the four corners of Ireland and most importantly directly to the Hill of Tara. Everything was created for astronomical purposes. The first bard of Ireland was called Amergin and his very famous saying rings true here at the Hill of Slane. ''What land is better than this island of the setting sun; who but I can tell the ages of the moon.''

Our small group was significantly quieter and awestruck we our bus drove off towards Tara. It was almost a religious experience in many ways when you realised how everything was aligned and designed over five thousand years ago.

Light was fading, after all it WAS 3pm as we drove up to Teamhair na Rí, "Hill of the King" – the hill of Tara. It is a long, low limestone ridge that runs between Navan and Dunshaughlin in Meath. According to tradition, this is the big site - the seat of Árd Rí na hÉireann, The High King. And it was bloody cold – the coldest all day in fact!

We were greeted by signs re telling what USED to be here and of course hundreds of black and white sheep who viewed us with disdain – bloody tourists again!

Once again this hilltop has witnesses countless significant battles and dates back past 3000BC. Very Iron Age! The centrepiece here once we climbed up and over mounds and across ring barrows was the Stone of Destiny. Now this is beginning to sound like a Jack Black movie but it was very cool. Here in the middle of the Forradh stood a medium height stone standing, at which the High Kings were crowned. According to legend, the stone would scream if a future king touched it. We all took turns and not one murmur. I’m not sure I could squeeze anything else into my work life so probably better this way.

Standing on this mound you look directly over at the Hill of Slane across a ringfort with three banks. The Hill of Tara is all about the seat of the kings of Ireland until the 6th century. However the significance of the Hill of Tara predates Celtic times, typically the Neolithic when people were quite busy it seems here.

I walked past the mound of the Hostages, which has a short passage which is aligned with sunset on the days of the ancient Celtic festivals of Samhain and Imbolc as well as being in the exact direction for the Winter Solstice. Obviously these people held deep knowledge of astronomical movements. Legend names the Hill of Tara as the capital of the Tuatha De Danaan, pre-Celtic dwellers of Ireland. It was here on this mound where I surely felt a sturring of the celtic blood in my veins.

Driving home in the cold wet dark Irish afternoon we soon encountered that now famous Dublin traffic and eventually disembarked at the boardwalk on the river Liffey to walk the remainder of the journey. It took an hour to reach the Raddison and what a great way to further explore this city. The guide noted that the Dublin traffic is worsening by the day and that he has not been able to deliver people back to the starting point for at least 12 months now.

I doubt I will complain about Milton Road traffic ever again. (Ok give me one week!)

Night Fell Clean and Cold in Dublin

Whenever I think I have my shit together, little things begin to happen to humble and remind me that I don’t. My key wouldn’t work in the lift or my room door when returning last night to the Hilton. Recoded I then got stuck in the lift. Not being able to open the safe in the morning to get my passport and flight tickets, I finished packing, about to check out and realised I had lost my luggage lock. Tube service to Heathrow stopped in the morning due to flooding, not enough pounds left for taxi, cash machine in hotel not working and 40 minutes left to flight time. You know – little things like that!

Ah love that adrenaline!

As usual, with the William Tell overture playing in my head, it all worked out in the wash and I landed in Dublin at lunchtime breathlessly looking out the plane window at the rolling green hills reminiscent of the ones that I fell in love with from the movie Flight of the Doves a million childhood years ago.

How many flights have I caught this trip? The well worn routine – currency exchange, baggage, tourist info booth, transfer to hotel and before I knew it, I had been dropped off out the front of the Molly Malone statue across the road from Trinity College. It was raining however now it simply doesn’t bother me. Back Pack, laptop bag, wheeling my large blue suitcase, I walked down College and then Dame Streets, turning into the Great George and then Stephens Street until I reach quite a dodgy looking end of town at Golden Lane where the brand spanking new Radisson resides – my home for the next week.

It feels good here.

Walking down the street, there is a beat to this city. A pulse that permeates everything and everyone – it is alive – music, art, knowledge and people. I forget that Dublin was once a medieval city - there is nothing to remind you here - it feels modern. Then I realise that the Vikings laid much of the cobbled streets around here maybe 1000 years ago as a through passageway to connect the river to the main market centre around High Street.

Clifton Street being heritage listed at 130 years of age seems quite silly in comparison! gulp!

Checking in, I set myself up in my new home, book my day tours – Ring of Kerry, hill of Tara and Wicklow and Glendalough before setting out to the city centre of Dublin.I am close to everything. Yet again I have been afforded the good fortune of another great position. Gracie!

Trinity College is my first stop. Founded in 1592, playwrights Oliver Goldsmith and Samuel Beckett were a couple of the famous students here. The lawns and open student square reminded me so much of the original Conservatorium of Music that I attended near the old Botanical gardens in the city centre of Brisbane. Such a long way , so long ago - yet to realise that within one year, Sam will be going to Uni - life has a way of completing that circle!

You know how we all secretly keep lists of things we wish to achieve in our lifetimes? Amazingly, this trip has seen me cross many things off - unexpectedly and unplanned. For no significant reason, I’ve always had a love for the main image of the Book Of Kells and over the years have collected many posters, cards and books sporting this image. It fills me with a sense of the sacred somehow – the images of the four elements combined with ancient symbols whose meaning and origin is unfamiliar to me. So today, my mission was to visit the Old Library and view the Book of Kells. Supposedly written around the year 800 AD, these texts are elaborately decorated key words, phrases, symbols and scenes around old versions of the four gospels in Latin text interspersed with several poems and writings.

Very cool indeed!

Looking for the exit upstairs, I stumbled onto the Long Room. Now THIS was magnificent. I stood there in awe for what seemed like a very long time until they asked me politely to leave. (I hope I wasnt drooling) This room is almost 65 metres in length, and houses around 200,000 of very old leather bound faded books of all shapes and sizes. Alphabetized per room, book shelves reaching the high wooden barrel-vaulted ceilings, long thin wooden ladders per room – this was my nirvana – f**k the band – honey I’m home! Marble busts of notable minds sit silently down either side of the room. I didn’t see it however apparently there is the oldest Harp to survive from Ireland, dating from the fifteenth century that lives in this room. I was too obsessed with the lines and lines of old books to notice anything else.

Reluctantly I left when asked to - thinking to myself – that’s the kind of library I want in MY house - all 70 metres of it.

Crossing over to Suffolk, I poked around some little shops and had a late lunch in the nude café. Chilly. He he he – great soup actually!

The Temple Bar was interesting – naturally it was a red light district – funny how all interesting places usually start that way. Cobbled streets leading to retail and warehouse premises, there is a real art house feel to this area. A major beat in this zone and in walking past the many bars and pubs, the posters advertising live music seven nights a week give me a clue why.

It doesn’t feel old here – it feels young and alive! More like Amsterdam I think!

I venture over to check out the Dublin Castle – nice and close to my new neighbourhood. There survives an original fragment of the Norman tower whose claim to fame fascinated me. In 1742, over 700 people were crammed in to hear the world’s first performance of George Frederick Handel’s new oratorio “Messiah”.I’m suitably impressed now. The history is beginning to seep into me. I will admit though, like Windsor and Oxford Castles, it is so odd discovering a castle right in the centre of a 21st century town. All we have is kangaroos in our backyards!

Sight Seeing, Shopping, Snooping complete for the day, the light dying and the rain refusing to relent, I hear a distant church bell and suspect it is St Patrick’s Cathedral – around the corner from my hotel. It sounds so comforting as I walk back to the hotel and retire for the evening in front of Irish TV – which by the way is far superior to what we witnessed in Britain.

James Joyce said “When I die, Dublin will be written in my heart.”

I’m kinda getting that.

Leaving London

Upon my return from Amsterdam, Thursday and most of Friday were spent in the company of the only UK Demartini teacher, an intelligent and motivated amazing new friend. It is always nice to meet like minded people and share experiences in a similar field of work and life.We drove from her home in St Albans into London at lunchtime Friday, a wet rainy day and checked into the Hilton Metropole in Marylebone. Then I went shopping in Oxford Street. Packing for this trip was all about comfort, travelling and warmth – I had no clothes suitable for facilitation at the Breakthrough – one pair of well worn boots – yup - it was time.

Selfridges, Marks and Spencer, Evans, Faith, Next, Gap, Russell and Bromley – clothes, bags and shoes – it was still sale time and there was no shortage of options for me. Nothing fancy – but it was nice to see the unfamiliar and different. I must admit, M & S are a great store – would be nice to have them in Oz.

I walked home back along Edgeware Road which is crammed with a multitude of Middle Eastern retailers that include newsagents, bookshops, hairdressers, pharmacies but especially it seems cafes, restaurants and Shisha bars. Customers can smoke the hookah pipe while relaxing on wooden (my only association would be) Moroccan style seats with exquisite carvings on the arms and legs. Shisha is the Arabic water-pipe in which fruit-scented tobacco is burnt using coal, passed through an ornate water vessel and inhaled through a hose. The smell is attractive and enticing, comforting and inviting – I felt rather envious as I strolled back to the hotel room arms laded with goodies.

Addicted to sunlight as we Aussies are, when darkness envelops you at 4pm, your body seems to think it is 9pm and becomes tired and slow, just wanting to curl up in bed as soon as possible. I’m still not used to these limited hours of light.

After dinner we attended a Demartini Facilitators meeting with John in preparation for the weekend. Here I met the team – there’s 12 of us for 200 clients this weekend. Being the only Australian, I all of a sudden felt inadequate and sub standard. It’s got something to do with my accent - having always admired the English accent and growing up with the American accent on TV and in the Movies, the European accent always seems so exotic, in comparison I felt self conscious and horrified with every word that I spoke.

Yes I sound like the biggest bogun when I speak. Rounded tones could not help. Now this is an unexpected perception!

Eventually I got over such nonsense and learned much from meeting these inspiring new teachers all participating in a huge event that was managed in an alternative manner to my customary standards – which of course was perfect for me – challenges become my driving force for evolution.

Early to bed, early to rise and it must be said that this Breakthrough Experience was very special indeed. The content of the program appears to have undergone something of a transformation – (or that is possibly just me) much more user friendly and instantly effective. All the teachers were incredibly experienced and bought a wealth of knowledge to the event, adding value to every single client in that room. As usual I experienced much synchronicity with the clients that I worked with however am beginning a catalogue on quite a pattern emerging within this paradigm of the human species. Working for many hours on the Sunday to facilitate the final completion was an exceptional experience filled with smoke and mirrors, adding up to undeniable proof of beauty of this grand organised design called life. (My heartfelt thank you to Mark)

Sunday night I met a couple of cousins for dinner in a pub near Paddington station. Simply by virtue of blood they made the time and effort to meet up in a foreign city. In those two beautiful talented intelligent yet relatively unknown men, I saw my children, my brother, my mother and myself. There is no real knowing or major connection between us other than family. Yet hugging a familiar stranger when you are thousands of miles from home is such a great comfort isn’t it?That actually made my night - love ya guys!

Monday morning my body awoke with aches and pains in unusual parts of my body. I’ve been walking everyday except for the Breakthrough days in order to maintain some sort of exercise routine. The weekend event was held underground with 4 sets of steep stair cases between the seminar room and reception. Wearing new shoes and taking many trips to reception for various reasons my core muscles and thighs were given quite a workout and were stinging and aching in protest upon awaking. Yup nothing is missing!

So as a total crybaby whinging and whining - I took the first half of the day to do some Pushworth work and enjoy the view from my desk - actually just not to move and sit for a bit to rest. I would’ve stayed in front of that window all day if it wasn’t my final day in London. Ok up ya get then!

Taking the tube was an unexpected trial on Monday afternoon – just when I got all pompous thinking I had it all sorted! The Circle and District lines were closed so to get to Harrods, I was given the opportunity to become creative and find my way around the Monopoly board another way. My aunt told me that once you master the tube you master London and she was right.

Before I knew it, I was stepping inside Harrods on a mission to find a teddy bear shopping bag for MR. Gaining entrance via the Beauty and Parfumerie departments; I discovered the room of luxury which kindly led me to the arcade where several varieties of teddy bear bags greeted me. There were some nice bargains in the January sales however all I could think about was how would I get it home? Considering space and weight really is a great way to save money isn’t it? Otherwise if Harrods was in Brisbane, my credit card would have taken quite a beating.

Taking the Egyptian escalator I reached the Food Hall and almost wept. If only Niko had visited with me while the boys were in London!!! It was heaven! Weaving my way through the fish meat and poultry sellers and food outlets, I was met with a bouquet of the most exquisite aromas. I felt like a child walking through a wonderland of colour, seasonings and cultural menus. I couldn’t dare stop not for one moment. My feet took me on an adventure through the Charcuterie, Fromagerie, Traiteur, Flowers, Fruit, Vegetables, Bakery, Chocolaterie and Confectionary. Every piece was presented as art. The Middle Eastern sweets, naturally of interest to me since working with John on Filosophia, displayed their sweets as if they were pieces of the Mona Lisa in Le Louvre. I was too afraid of stopping as it was simply too irresistible NOT to purchase one of everything. I must admit that was my first rush of excitement experiencing a food hall on the same paradigm as a museum of antiquities.

Niko, you would have had quite a religious experience – and considering your relentless atheism, that’s saying something!

Leaving Harrods was an important step in self control and I felt my purse breathe a sigh of relief as I stepped outside onto Brompton Road. Next stop, Notting Hill Gate. Emerging from the tube onto Pembridge Road at the exact same moment as a heavy hail storm was fun. I made it into Portobello Road just as the ice was bending my umbrella inside out. The antique shops and funky little cafes that I DID catch a soggy glimpse of were closing up just as my umbrella took its final breath. Taking refuge in the Prince Albert, where hundreds of others had the same idea, was a welcome ten minutes of warmth. The storm decided that it would settle in for the afternoon so there was nothing to do but to visit the very old and eccentric looking Coronet cinema and watch Charlie Wilsons War for a few hours until the ice and rain had enough and dried the street up enough for me to venture back to the underground station on my way home. Three wet souls paid a handsome three pounds 50 pence and sat in the lower of the three tiers in a Victorian cinema that opened in 1898 previously lauded as one of the finest societal venues in its time.

So much for my final day in London. In my fantasy, I didn’t accomplish much. As a tourist, I like to squish in as much as possible – who knows when I’ll return – I want to make the most of this city while I can. So Harrods, a smidgeon of Notting Hill and back to Marble Arch for dinner before retiring for one final night with my exceptional view staring down Park Lane as it winds around Hyde Park, snakes close to St James Park with the feint outline of Big Ben gazing up and over at the London Eye being closely watched by the Big Pineapple in the Financial District.

Samuel Johnson said that “You find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”

Life in a Northern Town

It's 10am on Monday morning and I am sitting on the 16th floor of the Hilton Hotel in Marylebone looking outside through the enormous rain dropped window beside my desk at the London landscape - the London Eye and Towers of Westminster are very close - over there sits the Financial District and their own glass version of the Big Pineapple, the neat rows of red and brown houses and apartments lined up through Kensington and Knightsbridge meeting a nice little tree lined gap in the shape of Hyde Park, queues of red double decker buses fill the grey wet streets with colour as the city lights gradually fade in anticipation of dappled sunlight filtering through the dripping heavy clouds.

Missing the boys associating the sights with memories of our time here together yet revelling in the freedom to sit here and postulate on the past few days, I chuckle to myself about the wow factor in spending time here in London. I've always held quite a fantasy that life here would be more exciting, interesting and fabulous than a life spent in Brisbane.

North of the Equator, my ordinary everyday life when not madly scrambling to fit in as much site seeing as possible, is the same as my ordinary everyday life South of the Equator. The colder climate has just as many benefits for my physiology as the stinking heat. Grey skies, late sunrise early sunset, the added 5 minutes to grab cap coat scarf brolly and gloves seriously isnt more time consuming than grabbing insect repellent, Raybans and the obligatory slip slop slapping!

I considered that my life away from my children would be vastly different from suburban life as a working mother running a household - it's not. I'm still doing the same stuff - sleeping, dining out, catching up with friends, working and writing.

Yet life in this northern town (north of Brisbane that is) I do feel intrinsically better. The time and space, discovery, adventure, joy and wonder that a vacation (where you vacate from your life) provides truly has great benefits. Jetlag, distance from loved ones, financial expense, adaptation to new physical environments, currency conversion, adjustment to cultural and language diversity, job replacement and business proxy do balance these benefits however these are evident in everyday life anyway - we are simply acclimatised to their present forms. I wonder how much more I could experience life if I lived it as a tourist when I returned home?

I left Brisbane exhausted, stressed out, in pain, in fear, in resentment, in sadness and in silent resignation that my life was all about work without fun and joy. I figured that it was the PLACE and the CIRCUMSTANCE and the PEOPLE that clogged my arteries and affected my experience.

It was merely my perception - nothing and no one else had anything to do with it. I created all those feelings myself - my life - just as it is - wherever it is - is perfect. It's always going to include all the major archetypical characters - plot lines worthy of any Greek Myth - ups and downs - the yes and the no - the OMG and the Oh Shit - thats the beauty of it.

So I've sat around in my PJs long enough today. I'll do some work, take a bath, go outside as the sun is now beginning to shine, visit Notting Hill and Westminster Abbey, meet some friends, dine in a new restaurant, walk down Edgeware Road and inhale the sweet smell of the hookah pipes featured in the several middle eastern cafes edging the road and live my life in wonder regardless of where I am and who I share each moment with.

I may as well be in Brisbane. And when I return, I may as well be in London. :-)

Exchange Enlightenment

Thursday 27 December was overcast and raining in the morning as we ventured out into London again. Today’s mission was to find the British Museum as the boys were keen to explore every inch of it. We navigated through the Tube, exited at Tottenham Court RoadWalked up great Russell Place and there it was swarming with thousands of people from all over the world – cacophony of accents and flavours.

Surprisingly it was free admittance - a nice bonus when we entered the Great Court. Starting with the Egyptians and then the Assyrians it took several hours before we even looked at the Roman and Greek rooms.

Since childhood, I have found it difficult to walk in antique shops. I feel nauseous and unable to breathe like something is choking me. Is this old energy that I am feeling – no idea – however I experienced this on a grand scale last year in the Vatican Museum. Today at the British Museum, it was much worse so I headed outside as quickly as possible to get some air. The boys were very enthusiastic about the Museum so after a quick lunch at a local café we went back inside.

Walking into the History of Money hall, I no longer felt ill however I had quite an epiphany instead. When we breathe our bodies convert Oxygen and use it in a variety of ways throughout our physical system. It is exchanged and this is a benefit from which the body can profit when it manages the oxygen and the body effectively using the RRRRR policy – reuse recycle etc.

Exchange is the basis of life. Fair Exchange is according to one perspective. Everything that happens in life is a commercial opportunity. If someone can effectively utilise a resource and get more out of it by investing time and energy into doing so, then this will be charged and sold on accordingly where needed or where it is perceived to be needed.

The knowing of oneself and one’s body and the Natural Laws and looking at life through the matrix of balance is the only effective way of managing the resource of life. If one does NOT manage one’s own resources then another external entity will – by the laws of Nature. Waste not Want not. A population of dependant people who look to external authority to take claim or accord blame will always be used for commercial exploitation for they set themselves up for that very thing simply by expectation that SOMEONE WILL FIX THIS OR MAKE IT HAPPEN. Governments and Religions are external reflections of our own physical systems – something that RUNS everything.

Money is a commercial enterprise that has been established and utilised for thousands of years for profit. Minting and distributing it is an expense that is added onto its value. This British Museum room more effectively details our modern financial system than I have ever witnessed. Once you delete the HAVES and the HAVE NOTS illusion and see money for what it REALLY is – just another unit of exchange – you gain much more control over it and can choose YOUR value. Ah controversy!!!!! (I can hear the comments now)

No longer feeling ill, I chose to sit in the Room of Enlightenment while the boys inspected the rest of the Museum. You know, symbols wise – London certainly provides much information. Lions are everywhere – on buildings, standing guard over doorways and gates.Gargoyles and reptiles surround them on rooves and over drainpipes. The boys are noting the symbols for each age – Twins (Romulus and Remus) for Gemini, Ram for Aries, Bull for Taurus, Fish (Jesus) for Pisces and beginning to question what happened in the previous ages and WHO made up the symbols. Then Niko decided that the Mayans were responsible for the Lion symbol that we see on EVERYTHING here. It will be interesting to research that and discover the basis of its origin and relevance of its symbolism.

The Room of Enlightenment spoke of classifying the world. Think about that! Who made up the classifications and the criteria for each? Looking at ages and civilisations room by room at a Museum like this is a brilliant example of how humanity creates its own destiny. Being in this place truly inspired the boys to ask questions – how come the Assyrians and Egyptians exhibited such incredible advancement thousands of years BEFORE the simple and naïve Celts and Europeans?

Those two rooms combined with the literally trillions of dollars worth of antiquities that the British STOLE from the Ancient World profoundly cleared my perspective of this matrix.

After the Enlightenment of the Museum, we visited Abbey Road and the boys reluctantly crossed the road on the zebra crossing for photographs. Paled into insignificance after the ancient worlds they had walked through hours earlier.

Then we made our way through the crazed shopping crowds on Oxford Street to go to the Odeon Marble Arch and see I AM LEGEND. It was very unsettling especially walking back through the thousands of people on Oxford Street and then being squished like sardines onto the Tube platform and then into the carriages. That bloody movie is haunting me and has brought a whole pile of fears to the surface I’m afraid. The opportunity for a deliberately created and publicly released air borne virus to be effective is all too evident here in such an abundantly populated small island. I’m not sure how London will cope with so many people visiting for the 2012 Olympics!

Being here in this city is not like being in Italy where one lives more in alignment with Nature. Living here is being fuelled by Enterprise Exchange that has been an industry of thousands of years. I still love London however feel rather nauseous and guarded and keeping vigilant about the forces in this matrix. There is much going on here.

Ho Ho Ho Its Magic

It's 4am, I'm hopelessy jet lagged yet am lying awake thinking of Magic so am giving up to sit at my laptop to write. I'll pay for this tomorrow you know!

My third child has given me grief about this trip to London at Christmas for months. He created every possible diversion – injury, illness, rugby commitments and finally resorting to the mother of all tantrums – anything to punish me for ruining his Christmas. So what was he seeing that I was ruining?

I was taking away HIS magic of Christmas.

For him, magic happens each year with the decoration of the house, putting up the tree, going shopping together on the first night of December to see the City Christmas lights, Christmas at the farm the Sunday BEFORE Christmas, Big family dinner on Xmas Eve (including my parents, brother and his family, uncles, aunts, cousins and friends) sing carols in five part harmony together, watch Muppets Xmas Carol together, opening one present before midnight, all four kids sleeping together in one room, plus partners and ex in laws, no one allowed upstairs until 7am then everyone together have to go to the tree, one person hands out the presents and then we all rip open the paper, play together, eat special breakfast together then have a snooze, then dress to go to the various relatives for the rest of the day. Then Boxing Day the tradition is the group movie outing before heading to the beach together until the New Year.

This is how my son experiences HIS magic of Christmas. Note that all activities are TOGETHER – this is important to HIM. Ex partners with whatever girlfriends form part of our inner circle are expected to participate in this annual ritual. No exceptions - Christmas is for family - in whatever form that may be.

When they were little, the Santa tradition was the main event. We would read “The Night Before Christmas” together after dinner, put out a pillow case just for Santa presents, search the sky to see if we could catch a glimpse of his sleigh, put out the bottle of Fourex beer, plates of Christmas cake (I had baked after soaking the fruit in rum and brandy for 4 months prior) plus a carrot for Rudolph, the children would go to bed around 10, we would clean up the dinner, wrap the presents and still be putting together the Santa presents under the tree and in the pillow cases way after midnight, they would get up around 5am with whoever was the baby that year and the day would begin with stories of spying Santa in the middle of the night sneaking into their rooms.

My youngest child clung onto that tradition for as long as possible and the other kids played along as none of them wanted to relinquish that magic. Each of them have taken turns gigging as Santa’s elf or Carolling during the day for quite a few years as well. Once the baby of the family turned ten, and everyone complained about gigging on Christmas Day, the festivities quickly morphed into this important ritual carefully crafted by my third child. The other kids go along with his traditions and willingly participate each year. However as the two eldest now own their own homes, their OWN version of the magic of Christmas is being developed - with the years and growth of each child's inner circle, the magic transforms its network coverage and appeal.

My parents were never really into creating magic for Christmas and this gave me the freedom from an early age to organise the Christmas decorations. Mum and Dad played Santa until we were about 10 but after that, the gifts were very basic with little ceremony. From an early age, Christmas Day was spent up at Hazel and Rons farm with our grandparents, cousins, uncles and aunts. THAT was MY magic! Rotten mango fights up the tree with my cousins, my aunt serving a cold lunch featuring to my horror each year minted jellied peas, at night we ate cold leftovers but the plum pudding with 5 cents hidden inside dripping with my aunts lumpy custard was the drawing card. We all played under the mango trees, (adults and children alike) floated on old tractor tyre tubes in the dam, playing cricket and tag, card games with elderly relatives and touch you last whenever anyone went home. The tree was a real pine tree that always drooped in the summer heat by the end of the day. Decorations were paper machier and pine cones, cuddlepie seed pods and gum leaves. From the age of ten I began to sing in the choir and play organ in the church and so Christmas Eve included midnight mass and carolling.

My parents didn’t create OUR family Christmas ritual so when I began my own family and was still pretty much a kid myself, I was busting with excitement to create my OWN magic.

As my daughter and I celebrate Capricorn birthdays just after New Year, those two weeks have been crammed with parties, events, gigs and extreme event management seemingly non stop for the past twenty years. However, through the years, Christmas became quite hard work. December became a frenzy of Planning, the Art of Decoration, Projects, Shopping, Cooking, Cleaning and Traditional Maintenance. We were always adding to our MAGIC repertoire. There were the Sweet Boxes, Profile Charts, the Magic Parcels, The Xmas Slideshows, Photo Competition, Costume Parties, Xmas Cookbook, the 12 days of Gifts BEFORE Christmas and the annual Christmas books. Our Christmas projects were out of control and I was beginning to start the NEXT Christmas planning from Boxing Day.

A few years ago, I began to feel resentment at creating this magic alone. I wanted to see it, experience it, create it however more than anything I wanted to share it. Like my son, the word TOGETHER became important to me. My original intention was to create magic for my children to enjoy. This expanded out into my inner circle of family and then my circle of friends and would regularly host 50 guests at each event. The washing up and cleaning for weeks after December 24 would take it toll leading to exhaustion for New Year. 2006 saw me in hospital for Christmas Eve hence 2007 found us in London without half of my inner circle contemplating the MAGIC of Christmas from another perspective millions of miles away from home. (and at 4am on a dark cold winters morning)

We arrived in London late on Christmas Eve and the boys were greatly disappointed. The fantasy the boys had was that there would be incredible coloured lights and decorations on every street corner, roving Christmas Carollers, snow and the smells of traditional Christmas fare - like in all the movies they have watched for years. Instead, as we roved the streets at 7am they found no sunshine, no heat, little colour other than grey, streets were deserted - the only smells were 24 hour corner stores selling day old pappadams.

They expected the MAGIC to be created by something or someone else.

I spoke to the eldest two children back in Australia and they too had a different Xmas featuring curry, midnight whipper snippering and general silliness. They created their OWN magic with whatever was around them and even though they missed us, Christmas for them was still magical and fun.

So when my uncle finally arrived mid Christmas morning, with Christmas cake and muffins that he baked himself - a little bit of Christmas began to filter into the boys gloom. My uncle took us out to lunch at Thistle Marble Arch where we sat with hundreds of people who didn't necessarily have a family Christmas to go to. Together we ate traditional roast lunch and drank copious amounts of wine while wearing silly hats, playing balloon battles with the other tables surrounding us and creating our own magic with whoever was around us at that moment.

Exhausted with jet lag and filled to the brim with London Christmas pudding, the boys finally agreed that Christmas in London was indeed special and magical.

Isn't magic, after all, simply making the best of what you’ve got without expectation or judgement, going with the flow and appreciating the moment - just as it is?

Imagine if we could start to do this EVERY year without necessarily the tree, decorations, the gifts, the dinners and the ancient rituals. Imagine what magic we could create out of the moment as it gently lands on us on Christmas day.

Hello 2008

I wonder what you've got in store for me new year? My wishes for all my friends:

I wish you Health... So you may enjoy each day in comfort.

I wish you the Love of friends and family... And Peace within your heart.

I wish you the Beauty of nature... That you may enjoy the work of God.

I wish you Wisdom to choose priorities... For those things that really matter in life.

I wish you Generosity so you may share... All good things that come to you.

I wish you Happiness and Joy... And Blessings for the New Year.

I wish you the best of everything... That you so well deserve.

This is what I will be wishing you all when the clock strikes twelve in a couple of hours and we will be fighting hoardes of freezing people on the Embankment Pier listing to Big Ben chime and watching the London Eye fireworks.

Traditionally people all over the world cheer and wish each other a very Happy New Year and will put up with extraordinary hardship to do so - finding baby sitters, spending a fortune on club tickets, drinks that cost more than furniture, fighting public transport queues and barring that perfect spot outside in the harsh winters air.

For some, this event is no more than a change of a calendar. For others, the New Year symbolizes the beginning of a better tomorrow. So, if you look forward to a good year ahead, spread happiness with these wonderful New Year wishes.

Traditional Irish Toast - May your right hand always be stretched out in friendship, never in want.

Minnie L. Haskins - And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown. And he replied: Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you better than light, and safer than a known way.

Movie: "When Harry Met Sally", Harry Burns - And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible.

Edith Lovejoy Pierce - We will open the book. Its pages are blank. We are going to put words on them ourselves. The book is called "Opportunity" and its first chapter is New Year's Day.

Charles Dickens - A merry Christmas to everybody! A happy New Year to the world!

Sydney Smith - Resolve to make at least one person happy every day, and then in ten years you may have made three thousand, six hundred and fifty persons happy, or brightened a small town by your contribution to the fund of general enjoyment.

Anonymous - Your Merry Christmas may depend on what others do for you. But your Happy New Year depends on what you do for others.

William Makepeace Thackeray - Certain corpuscles, denominated Christmas Books, with the ostensible intention of swelling the tide of exhilaration, or other expansive emotions, incident upon the exodus of the old and the inauguration of the New Year.

Aisha Elderwyn - Every new year people make resolutions to change aspects of themselves they believe are negative. A majority of people revert back to how they were before and feel like failures. This year I challenge you to a new resolution. I challenge you to just be yourself.

F. M. Knowles, - A Cheerful Year Book - He who breaks a resolution is a weakling; He who makes one is a fool.

G. K. Chesterton - The object of a new year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul.

John Greenleaf Whittier - We meet todayTo thank Thee for the era done,And Thee for the opening one

T. S. Eliot - For last year's words belong to last year's language and next year's words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.

Emily Miller - Then sing, young hearts that are full of cheer,With never a thought of sorrow;The old goes out, but the glad young year Comes merrily in tomorrow

Martin Luther - Glory to God in highest heaven,Who unto man His Son hath given; While angels sing with tender mirth,A glad new year to all the earth

Walter Scott - Each age has deemed the new born year - The fittest time for festal cheer

Benjamin Franklin - Be always at war with your vices, at peace with your neighbors, and let each New Year find you a better man.

Edgar A. Guest - A happy New Year! Grant that I May bring no tear to any eye When this New Year in time shall end Let it be said I've played the friend, Have lived and loved and labored here, And made of it a happy year.

William Arthur Ward - This bright new year is given me To live each day with zest To daily grow and try to be My highest and my best!

Ella Wheeler Wilcox - What can be said in New Year rhymes, That's not been said a thousand times? The new years come, the old years go, We know we dream, we dream we know. We rise up laughing with the light, We lie down weeping with the night. We hug the world until it stings, We curse it then and sigh for wings.We live, we love, we woo, we wed,We wreathe our prides, we sheet our dead.We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,And that's the burden of a year.

Charles Lamb - Of all sound of all bells, the most solemn and touching is the peal which rings out the Old Year.

Make your choices, hold on tight and enjoy the ride. xxxxx

Blue Book

Jenna was busily working at her desk that Monday morning when she received a call from one of her friends that his grandmother had passed. She had never met this woman or known this person for very long yet she found herself weeping in her office like she had lost a dear companion. Brushing away the tears, she saw an image of pale white hands, shaking, controlled, beautiful and holding onto glass rosary beads and grasping a faded blue book.

As she questioned herself, the image disintegrated and she was left with an indelible portrait of this tiny beautiful old woman dressed in pink, cream and navy with delicate white porcelain hands sitting pensively in a corner of a quiet cool garden surrounded by white roses. Jenna could hear children playing, the sounds of their giggles floating through the air beside her and she smiles as she recalls playing as a child herself.

…………….Her hands shaking, holding glass rosary beads, she grasped tightly to a small faded blue book. Jenna saw in her minds eye, that the blue book had an old fashioned hard cover – like the inside of a book without its removable printed cover. Was it Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy? It was most certainly an old classic, well worn and well read.

Jenna watched in her imagination as the old woman beckoned to a small fair haired boy to leave the games and come over to where she sat. The small boy dallied as he walked carefully over to his grandmother and stood silently beside her white cane garden chair as he waited for her to speak. She grabbed his stubby little hands tightly and shoved the faded old blue book into them firmly. The boy was quite reluctant to take it but as a very well mannered child, he accepted her gift in grace.

There was something special about this boy in her eyes. She had a special relationship with him and shared a bond that no one else knew about. It took another 33 years before the boy actually remembered the bond that they had shared. He looked at the world through her eyes – piercing blue green eyes that could sparkle regardless of the disappointment they may be hiding.

The boy was a little afraid of his grandmother as there were times when her severe manner took him by surprise. Several members of the family looked upon her as harsh or mean in many ways, however the boy also saw her softness. It was only years later that he understood full well the perception by others of his own perceived meanness - just as she too was judged.

His grandmother grew up in an era where appearances were everything and she quickly learned to behave and suppress who she really was for the good of her family. There was an element of the rebel in her which leaked into her silent rejection of the hypocrisy of her generation and social caste. She kept herself locked away in a secret mythical world which was easier to control and live as she pleased. Her husband was a solid choice and was heartily accepted by her family as a worthwhile breeding partner. Yet he betrayed her from the moment they married but he did his best to hide it out of loyalty to his family name. She knew but never addressed it out of fear that it would be confirmed without a doubt. There is no doubt that he loved her but as in so many mythologies, he was cruel to himself and this cruelty sometimes bled into his relationships. He was endlessly remorseful about his hurtful behaviour and she appreciated this about him.

Of course the small boy was oblivious to his genealogy and simply saw his grandmother as a graceful old lady who smelt of lavender and was ever present in the landscape of the family dynamic.

He held the book tentatively and listened as she recounted tales from the blue book and how important it was for him to love the characters and embrace the story for it was HER tale in every essence. The blue book was an ancient key to a tunnel where she could escape and express who SHE really was. Reading this gave her great comfort and she read it over and over again in times of great desolation and loneliness. This book contained clues to her history and she really wanted her grandson to treasure this tale in a bid to get to know the real HER.

The small boy thanked his grandmother quietly and took his leave taking the book with him and placing it on the plain brown desk in his bedroom. There it sat unnoticed and unthought of for years. It was packed away into storage boxes when the boy went away for work and was unpacked and filed in new book cases upon his return home as a man many years later.

Jenna wondered about this man now. Why did she see this blue book and what possible significance could it hold for him? This year had sewn a new seam of experience for him and the parameters of his life had been quite shaken as a result. He had been questioning everything and actually looking at the world not as he’d like it to be but the beauty of it as it is right now flaws and all. This philosophy was most definitely a recent addition to his evolution.

He remembered the blue book and opened it at page one. Almost immediately he looked in the mirror of the characters and saw his grandmother and reluctantly himself. His great love for the people in his life, his expanding sphere of influence, the natural artistic streak in his expression of language, art and music and his earthy vulnerability were all alive in this book.

The central character suffered constant bullying and abuse at the hands of his father and brother enduring his mother’s over protective smothering love. As soon as he could, he left the family farm and took a ship to a far off land to work and establish a name for himself away from the domain and shadow of his father. However no matter how far and wide he travelled, his father was still the voice in his head and the tongue that could shred people in a moment. To balance this, his breeding dictated his polite and cordial treatment of women and this more than emotional attachment motivated his relationships. He was a good man, willing to be accountable and always supportive of those around him. Yet he remained a bachelor with his heart firmly locked away.

A great love for babies, he remained childless, yet in business was addicted to the excitement of creating something new, building it and reaping the rewards of watching it grow. He was safe investing his love for creation in business. As his grandmother had invested in her family empire, his business empire grew as he proved to the father he carried in his top pocket that he was capable of success on his own.

Jenna woke from her day dream and stared blankly at her laptop screen. Where did THAT come from she asked herself? How could one blue book in her imagination hold such a tale? It was as if she in turn was reading about herself. She quickly rubbed her eyes, got up from her desk to stretch her legs and walked over to her bookcase. And there on the middle shelf, filed between various training manuals sat a faded old blue book.

So Jenna plonked herself down on the sofa in her office and began to read the tale of a tiny beautiful old woman dressed in pink, cream and navy with delicate white porcelain hands sitting pensively in a corner of a quiet cool garden surrounded by white roses.