There was a time where my claim to fame seemed to be mother of triplets plus 1 (for a blurry few months all under the age of 2). I say was, because now with 4 young adults living at home, at 4 different universities in their bedrooms (pandemic related), I am probably more widely recognised as the walker of the friendly, green eyed dog.

During that time I needed to

• Change a minimum of 960 diapers in a month
• Trim 80 nails in a week excluding my own
• Cover 60 books in paper and contact (perfectly I must add) by Monday
• Deliver to and from ballet, karate, art, rugby and netball in  different places at the same time

And the list goes on

The most frequent question I was asked, after “how were your children conceived?” and if they (of different genders) were identical, was “how did you manage?” My standard answer, albeit hackneyed, was always that I loved every minute of it, they listened to my every word and I was organised.

I was organised but the real secret lay in my lists.

Lists of:

Things to do;

Things to make;

Things to buy;

Things to pack;

Things to cook

And the lists go on

My love of lists started in my youth. Born and grown in my head, they resided there until memory occasionally failed and I discovered there was something strangely satisfying in seeing the list on paper and marking the items off once achieved. Over the years they have migrated from scraps of paper to a diary to spreadsheets on a computer until reaching their current home in the notes section of my phone.

A manual pencil tick has been replaced with a green tick emoji.

A list (for me):

Breaks down something that feels insurmountable into smaller manageable parts;

Creates order out of chaos;

Directs and motivates when feeling flat or rudderless;

Focuses attention on to things that I can actually control;

Is never-ending, as items are removed new ones take their place; and

Ensures that things will get done.

Listed items supersede all fleeting thoughts and good intentions. If you don’t make the list, execution cannot be guaranteed.

Some things, like toilet paper, are constant on my lists. Others have evolved over the years, diapers replaced by sanitary pads and protein bars instead of Tiny Teddies. The brown bags for school lunch are now obsolete.

A combination of the world slowing down and my children growing up left me listless in more ways than one.

A line from an uninspiring and odd miniseries I watched recently, seemed synchronous and relevant.

“It’s not actually about doing what’s on the list” said the main character, “It’s about doing the list.”

So while my job as ‘Queen of Logistics’ (a title bestowed on me by a friend) was made redundant, leaving me with a few open slots on my list of things to do, I am tentatively taking time to insert a few new items to fill the void.

Now if you check out my notes, in between the dinner, dog and do items, there are a few self-care items just for me and just to be.

A friend told me a story today about her aged, dementia- suffering father who had quite literally fallen headfirst into a man hole. Luckily he was found by a random passer-by (who also happened to be a doctor) and he was able to save him.

I have never met my friend’s father but despite declining the invitation to see the photographic evidence of his injuries, the visual of his accident was immediately painfully vivid in my head.

Saving fathers, specifically mine, was a theme in my life for many years. Through a few suicide attempts, some addictive behaviours and even a catastrophic natural disaster, we (my mother, brother and I and a few passers-by) tried (and for the most part managed) to rescue my father.

The image of a person with flailing arms in the water from Stevie Smith’s poem “Not Waving but Drowning” that I read as a teenager, has popped into my head over the years almost like a scene in a very familiar movie. Wild hand gestures are mistaken for waving as the drowned man tries, even in death, to convey to the living his lifetime of desperation.

For 18 years I was on high alert. There was seldom a time that I was separated from my phone and I would interrupt most situations to take my father’s calls. I never wanted to miss an SOS call, a last call or any sign of a wave.

It took me a long time to understand that you cannot save someone from themselves. Yes, you can suggest and support and shower them with unconditional love but ultimately it is up to the person to grab at any life raft they can reach, with both hands and save themselves.

With little kids I worked hard at preventing a fall or a burn or a break.

With older ones, it feels harder when trying to defend them from disappointment, heartache and life.

I get that but I still try.

There is a Hallmark card sounding slogan that I’ve seen flashed across social media. It says that God could not be everywhere and therefore he made mothers. It does not take into account however, that these mothers are also daughters and a whole host of different things to different people.

So as I leave my family (and dog) for a month and fly off to rescue my mother, I will listen carefully to the flight attendant when she says that bit about in the unlikely event of an emergency.

“In the event of a decompression, an oxygen mask will automatically appear in front of you. If you are travelling with a child or someone who requires assistance, secure your mask on first and then assist the other person.”

Somewhere in those words I’ve heard so often, there is a reminder that to save my fellow passengers, I need to save myself first.

It is said that curiosity killed the cat, but as I walk my dog each day it is his curiosity that guides us as we go. Most days we actually take the identical route, the self-same piece of road, yet each time is different depending on what catches his eye or more precisely his nose. During our walk (referred to as W.A.L.K. if he is in earshot) I hold the lead but I am led by him. He dictates our pace, chooses where we stop and when we start moving again. The consequent stop start nature of our journey has been hard on my shock absorberless knees but it is worth it to share vicariously in his curious crusade.

It is a deliberate decision to approach something with curiosity. To see, hear, feel, touch or taste something curiously allows you to experience it as if gifted with it for the very first time. To explore curiously requires a pause and then time to investigate further. All judgement has to be suspended as one tentatively tests (or tastes) what is before them. Curiosity breeds creativity. Approaching something new or from a different perspective makes us question and can inspire us to learn.  Being inquisitive does not allow space for fear or anger or any of the usual culprits that hold us back or prevent us from moving forward.

Teddy goes forward every day, greeting everyone he meets with a wild wag of his tail and I go along for a wondrous walk as I am reminded to be curious.

According to behavioural economists, we are at our most curious when there is a gap between what we know and what we want to know. This is a gap we must always have as it gives us the space of possibility. Psychological theorists add that curiosity reflects our intrinsic motivation “to seek out novelty and challenges, to extend and exercise one’s capacities, to explore, and to learn.”

Curiosity is what makes a grown man venture to a foreign country to learn to kitesurf, a young adult leave home and a middle aged woman release her words into the world.

P.S.  I lived with my family for most of my childhood in an apartment on the 3^rd floor of a 6 story block. My brother had a classmate who lived on the 6^th floor with a cat as a pet. The kitty made the newspaper on one of 2 or 3 occasions when his curiosity about a bird propelled him over the balcony. His survival was miraculous but another strike for those decrying curiosity for felines or perhaps evidence for the group who claim they have 9 lives.

The title of my unwritten children’s book is “There is a special place.” I write unwritten, not to be confused with unpublished, because at this stage it is still just an idea I have. It is an idea plus 4 lines plus an earmarked illustrator.

The thought came to me on the treadmill at my neighbourhood gym. As I tried to motivate myself to run the 5km goal I had set for myself in my mind and on the machine, I had to somehow switch off from what lay ahead. Literally in my line of vision were 3 television screens and a not so clean window showing a brick wall and a web covered air conditioning unit. Each screen was broadcasting a different channel – be it morning or breakfast show – the stories were dismal. Those who know me very well, know that digesting bad news first thing in the morning, leaves me with a bitter taste for the rest of the day. And so, that is how this scene, set against the backdrop of a world-wide pandemic and an international border closure, led me to my special place.

I suppose what I created was a version of Zwift or some other virtual application but inside my head. I ran to a place I love, to a place that I know intimately and where I feel safe (despite being one of the crime capitals of the world). I ran past the lighthouse and past the trees that have withstood the wild winds but still stand and reach for the light. Past the sign announcing a new suburb where you get your first view of the mountains, my heart expanding like it does every time I witness their majestic beauty (and unrelated to my running). I ran past the beaches, 1, 2, 3, 4 and more and I felt the breeze and the salt sundried into my skin. I smelled the seaweed permeating sea air which like the smell of the dustbins there, is unreplicated anywhere else I have ever visited. I heard the seagulls and the friendly “Mornings” greetings. I ran past familiar faces that were old and past memories and my history. Somehow, I seemed to see my special place how it is and how it was, simultaneously.

Then suddenly I was cooling down, my speed dropped and I was back trying not to read the badly spelled closed captions on the screen.

I had reached my goal of 5 kilometres or 110005 kilometres if you count reaching my special place.

As borders promise to reopen, I hope to really get there soon. Until then (and for always) I keep my special place in my head and in my heart.

Where is yours?

Years ago when I gave up smoking, the hardest thing about stopping for me was not the taste or smell or even the breaking of an enjoyable,  despicable habit, but contrary to any medical advice ever given, it was the way I felt smoking helped me to breathe. I smoked when I studied or wrote papers for work as I felt that the act actually helped me to think. Yes, I am full aware that every inhalation of the poisonous stick was filling my lungs with toxins but as I puffed, I consciously took the time to inhale and then to exhale.

Years later I breathe in and breathe out through my nose at Pilates and I huff cathartically as I run. In between there have been times of holding my breath and not being able to get to the bottom of it. I breathe through pain and a loud combination of ‘Phew, Shew & Hoo’ has become one of my child-friendly, trademark sounds.

My late father, (a chain smoker as an aside), used to phone me in the middle of his night when he couldn’t sleep. He would share his news of the day which more and more frequently included a list of people who had died, people in his community and famous people from yesteryear. When I used to enquire about how or why they had died, his standard answer was always “they died from lack of breath”. Many a true word said in jest.

A chance invitation to a zoom lecture last week inspired my theme of respiration further.

The speaker explained the difference between the physical body and the soul, describing the soul as one’s essence, who we really are. He went on to describe this essence as a spark igniting a drive to seek meaning and purpose.

He quoted from the book of Genesis saying how when God made man “he blew into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living soul.” It was when he made the clear connection between our breath and our soul that something in my understanding shifted. Our breath is our point of connection to our soul.

The Hebrew words for breath and soul are almost identical

Our breath connects us to our life force and to our purpose and our passion.

That is why I felt I needed to inhale to think creatively.

That is why women use their breath to birth a new life into the world.

Breath is cleansing

That is why I exhale loudly when stressed.

The rhythm of life is really the sound of the taking in and letting go of our breath, connecting deeply to our soul with each movement of the chest, belly or whole body.

Without it, there is death.

This breath soul connection explains why when we aren’t in touch with our essence, living a life without purpose and passion, people do die from lack of breath.

You can feel the anticipation in the summer air. Changing the clocks for daylight saving literally and figuratively turned a switch. You can see the excitement even in the nameless, faceless, masked people who are slowly emerging like bears after winter or like Rip van Winkle after his 20 year nap.

Whatever your race, 70, 80, or even booster, the finish line is now in sight.

Remember when we used to say ‘stop the world, I want to get off?’ Well, it listened for a while, but now our world is revving up again.

I was given a birthday present this year by my family which I took up belatedly between two lockdown periods. I spent three days alone, being nourished and nurtured, pampered and revived. Against a backdrop of natural beauty, I was still enough to hear my own thoughts and move to the beat of only my heart.

During a healing massage, after introducing herself, my therapist worked on my body in silence. When she finished with my right arm she let it go but still it remained exactly where she had left it. My arm was raised, as if in ballet’s first position, almost as if I was reaching upwards, holding onto something. My biggest birthday gift was the lesson she taught me when all she said was ‘you can let go now’.

Living in the time of Covid has shown us all, both mice and men, that even the best laid plans go awry. It has made living in the past painful and planning for the future almost impossible. Letting go of what was or may or may not be, has forced us to just be. And just being when the world slows down can be peaceful, despite being stuck where you are. No more chasing timeslots, people or even cars in the traffic. It feels liberating to dress down instead of up, casting off, when you don’t have to be put together. As a ‘human be-ing’ you somehow feel more authentic and more in touch with who you are.

Letting go has also meant relinquishing control.

11 October 2021 is ‘Freedom Day’. One race is almost won. As the rat race begins and diaries fill and we look to the future again, I will try to remember and internalise the lesson that this time in history (and a masseuse) has taught me. It is the letting go that ultimately gives us our freedom.

If you are expecting a blog on a quick fix to a summer body, stop reading here.

Yes, this is about losing weight but not the kind that congregates around my thighs or the type measured by kilojoules or lumps of fat.

This weight is the heaviness that you feel sometimes in your stomach, lately more in my chest, spreading to my shoulders and sometimes settling in my heart. It is a dis- ease, worrying kind of weight that you feel for those you love. You can feel it for an elderly parent who is lonely and frightened, for a child on the threshold of adulthood in an unrecognisable world or a friend who is making bad life choices. Sometimes when you love and care for many, the weight becomes especially hard to hold, heavy and also needing to be balanced. You almost need a scale for this kind of weight to make sure that it is distributed evenly and equally. No one should feel left out or neglected. Attributing this extra load to being stuck in the ‘sandwich generation’ or just between a rock and a hard place is perhaps a simplification. Wait for it, here is the link between the weight and the loss.

Years ago I bought a book that has travelled with me to all the places I have lived. It stands on my bookshelf, still relevant and poignantly beautiful to me, despite its yellowing pages and broken binding. ‘Necessary Losses’ by Judith Viorst is a truly authentic ‘how to navigate all stages of your life’ book. She writes about ‘the loves, illusions, dependencies and impossible expectations that we all have to give up in order to grow.’

Re reading excerpts, my thoughts become clearer.

When I think of my mother, I mourn how she used to be and what she was capable of, at the same time I take on more and more of what she used to do.

My children are all of legal age, they are all at home (one leaves for college next year) but still, across the hallway of our bedrooms, I miss them terribly. I miss playing with them and teaching them and them not thinking about ‘wtf is wrong with me’.

Yet even as I ignore the midlife niggle in my left knee and ankle as I run, I appreciate so deeply each and every time I can still pound the pavement.

And that is the message of the book and hopefully this piece of writing. These losses at all stages of life, the ones that make us feel weighed down and heavy, are also linked to our gains.

I cannot wait to hold my mother in my arms again and support her to stand for as long as I can. I will savour every second we have.

I would have been ‘a good enough parent’ if I’ve taught my children to be self -sufficient and I will be there to help them up should they fall along the roads they take. Else I will be standing and cheering them loudly and wildly from the sidelines as they sprint to their futures. No doubt they will be muttering as they run ‘wtf is wrong with you?’

And as for the middle aged me, well, that is a topic for another time.

Hair has always been a big feature in my mother’s life. When I picture my mom through all the ages and stages of our lives, I can see her with big hair. My earliest memories are of outings to the hairdresser where I would be treated to the same luxury as the “grownups”. A wash (propped up on cushions to reach the basin) and a blow dry and style of some sort to emerge “done” – a mini me worthy of accompanying my mother and being proudly shown off by her.  

From the start my hair was straight, or dead straight as language dictates. My mother tells the story of how she wanted my hair to have some body or life in it (explains the usage of dead as an adjective) and so whisked me off to the hair salon to have my hair set in tight curlers. If that wasn’t enough I was also to leave the place in the curlers where I would leave them in overnight. For those who have not tried it, sleeping with a helmet of metal cyclinders is not conducive to a good night’s sleep. Fast forward to the next day when I got to let my hair down so to speak. After the set and no sleep and the spray, my hair remained spirit levelish straight.

Then came the Eighties and my teenage years. Big, curly hair was in and so I spent almost a day every few months back at the hair salon. This time foul smelling lotion was applied to my hair which was then bound up in small curlers to ensure that the curl held. And it held. The tightly wound curls stayed with me until the Nineties when I left home and made my way alone to the big city. Now I was the ‘grownup’, independent, somewhat ambitious and together. Holding it together in every sense became synonymous to me with smooth, severe and you guessed it – straight hair. Up and down styles, weekly standing hair appointments, being teased not playfully but with a special teasing comb and allowing my hair status to dictate my plans has been part of me for many years.

Enter a world-wide pandemic, enter lockdowns where hair dressing is not defined as an essential service. Enter me, into the shower, washing and styling my own hair for the first time in decades.

My hair is thicker than it used to be because of the fast growing grey, it is long without being cut and it has developed a life of its own. Left untouched it has body and movement and after a swim in the ocean or strenuous exercise it actually forms perfect ringlets all on its own.

From 11 October hair salons are opening again. And yes, I have confirmed my weekly appointment.

In between though, I will remember the feeling of the hair on my back, the wind in my hair, the curls that sometimes frame my face and not allow myself to be smothered and suffocated in generations of hair spray to secure every hair in place.