A Case for Beauty Over Boredom

This is probably a really illogical post, but hear me out.

I have long had a problem with balancing out the beautiful parts life with the boring realities in a way that is socially acceptable.

For me, it is very difficult to see sense of the proverbial long-term slog whilst watching the plump and luscious fruits of spontaneity fall to the ground and rot for want of takers. I despise that convention cautions me against putting my hand up. It’s almost criminal, and sits very badly with my conscience. This leads me to my second point: I have no discipline, nor the inclination to cultivate it.

I skip work fearlessly to nap on a whim. When in the office, I’ll stare out the window for a full half hour listening to a beautiful piece of music on my I-pod regardless of my co-workers and responsibilities in general. University work takes second place to the charming stories of Woolf, Austen and Rowling. I will give my full attention to animals, regardless of social expectations that I also make polite conversation with their owners. My room is a realm of dreams and closely guarded treasures, and disgustingly messy. My car is a fellow adventurer and loyal friend, and an utter affront to the human eye. Sometimes I don’t make it to the ironing board and conduct my professional day in jeans. Happiness is high when work attendance is low.  A career is a choker around the neck of burgeoning creativity. In short, I’m largely guided by my own sweet will and hate “sucking up” life’s less palatable realities.

Part of it is because I’m part of gen Y, and I want everything now. This is a concept that my patient, hard-working baby-boomer parents struggle to grasp. But it’s the truth. Why shouldn’t I get what I want when I want it, within reason?

This attitude however isn’t entirely a case of greed or ignorance as to “the way things work.” Rather, I put it down to loving the beauty of life and its possibilities too much, and therefore struggling to embrace the duller, more necessary parts. I posit that a life full of perceived exquisitely beautiful experiences is destined to struggle with the counterbalancing “bread and butter” day-to-day happenings.  And that’s what I do. Feel the magic and then lament the reality. To take your understanding further into the realms of Julie Loka (my world), I draw on the following universal experience:

You have gone away on a holiday after months of tough slogging, only to come home feeling bitterer than when you set out. This is because you connected with something joyful and sublime and entirely non-boring on your holiday, and resent coming home to once again resume being easy lackey to “the man.” You then feel guilty that instead of radiating joy and vitality at having 2 weeks away, you’re experiencing horror and dread towards the 50 weeks you now have left at work. This leads you to stare vacantly at stationary items on your desk and wonder what your purpose in the organization, if not life in general, is, and why you can’t be more like Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy from Little Women.

This analogy can be expanded to include massively great life experiences vs. massively boring life experiences. It is this grey feeling neither of elation or gloom that really bugs me. For me though, this feeling is not characterised by disillusionment, but rather, the remembrance of a separate sensation so sweet and profoundly satisfying as to make apparent its absence in all other areas.

It then begs the question: what is this feeling, and why must it be restricted? Can is not be expounded, bled from its source so it may be viewed in its entirety and made to last longer?

Here I am, sitting at my desk in the office, bathed in computer glare and surrounded by desk dividers and staplers and folders, but elsewhere, my thoughts are soaring into the great unknown, and I do not know when they will take rest and nor do I want them to.

I do not mean to colour grey those circumstances in my life which, withstanding comparison, would be considered fortunate – education, a job, a home. I do not mean to appear so entirely self-absorbed and glass-half-empty that I do not see the forest but for the trees. Of course not. But if you were told you could never see the ocean again, would you not pine for it, glorify it even? If you have experienced beauty even for a fleeting moment, does it not make it harder to plug away at that job, save those funds, trod that well-worn path?

I should not do my life the injustice of continually measuring its tolerable sum against the few fleeting yet sublime encounters I have had with beauty. It is neither fair nor wise. But I cannot help it. Once a person has journeyed to a foreign country, their homeland never seems quite the same again, whether for better, worse or indifference.

I mentioned earlier that I feel the magic and lament the reality. Ok, I can see how lame that sounds. No one wants to be that gasping, starry-eyed person. So, to make the most of it I do what I can to change reality a little. I wear jeans to the office and play hooky so I can go nap or read; I luxuriate in the accumulating filth of dream-filled bed room, drive a crap car I adore and delight in the uncomplicated nature of animals versus their annoying owners. I swear no allegiance to my responsibilities, shirk convention where possible and wilfully view circumstances incorrectly. It’s resistance at its best and is ethically, socially and morally repugnant and boarders on being totally unacceptable.

And you know what? It works for me.

Sunday Musings

I live by the sea, in an affluent bay-side suburb called Manly. I do not own a house here; I rent with a friend. I’m that person who has no money yet somehow manages to get around in Louis Vuitton and Jimmy Choos (figuratively speaking). There is a great deal of luck involved. Or a misapplication of funds.

I like living in Manly for many reasons. To begin with, it is idyllic. There are wide streets lined by leafy trees and picturesque houses. You cannot go anywhere without seeing young families together; children play and ride bikes, and people exercise and walk their dogs along the esplanade.

I like it because it’s a place that has grown affluent organically, and the generations of families who call it home are by and large unpretentious and hard working.

I also like it because it is beautiful. It is a township of cafes and boat harbours and yacht clubs, and stunning views of Moreton Bay. You can smell sea air even when you cannot sight the ocean. You can ride your bike along the water front of an evening and be treated to views of tall white sails and islands buoyed in the deep turquoise.

But mainly, I like it because it is so close to the sea, and to me, the sea is all allure and unfathomable mystery. The sea is constant and unpredictable all at once, and speaks a language which both confuses and fascinates me.

How comforting is the utter timelessness of the sea! Knowing that from time immemorial it has looked the same, acted the same, smelt the same. How the sea itself must also keep to the beat of some other drum to maintain its own unbreakable rhythm. For all that it can be wild and terrifying, it is not exempt from the constant, rhythmic laws of nature. It will never do anything which it has never done before. I find this incredibly anchoring.

On weekends, and those weekdays when I am home early enough from work, I like riding my bike down to the water and finding some secluded nook from which to watch the sun set, or rather the effects thereof. The sun doesn’t actually set over the water, but the reflected colours are spectacular. If the moon is rising, it is magical.

It is usually during these times that I cannot help thinking existential thoughts (which I won’t bore you with) and ponder whether the presence of such beauty on earth is meant to remind us of something higher and forgotten. I guess I won’t know for sure in this life time.

It’s also at these times, alone and surrounded by the majesty of nature, that I think most about my family and friends, and wish to be closer and more connected to them,  as though in connecting to the purity of the sea and sky and grass, I must connect to other elements too. What are we humans if not elements of nature? It is so precious to be human and alive and capable of feeling love for each other.

I like that this is a pleasure in life that is free to all, as are the reflections that follow.

The backdrop of picturesque houses and yachts with white sails is pleasant, but for all that it is, it’s just an accompaniment. Like billions before me, my questions fly out to the sea and sky, the great beyond, and I will wait and listen for answers which, in a way, will still come from me.

After all, we are all made of the same stuff.

Book Review: The Highly Sensitive Person - How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You

Chances are you know one. It’s even possible you’re one yourself.

In her new book The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You, author Elaine N. Aron (Ph.D.) discusses what it means to be a Highly Sensitive Person (or HSP) in the 21^st century, and offers scientific and physiological explanations as to why some people are born highly sensitive, and how the trait reveals itself.  

In a culture which values achievement and power, the so called “weak” or “shy” amongst us often lose out. Yet it is rarely understood what makes these people the way they are, nor the special talents they have at their disposal. Elaine Aron attempts to throw light on what causes an estimated 15-20 percent of our population to be classed as Highly Sensitive People.

 I have included an extract of the blurb:

·         Do you have a keen imagination and vivid dreams?

·         Is time alone each day as essential to you as food and water?

·         Are you ‘too shy’ or ‘too sensitive’ according to others?

·         Do you feel overwhelmed by bright lights and noise?

One in every five people is born with a heightened sensitivity; they are often gifted with great intelligence, intuition and imagination, but there are also drawbacks. Frequently they come across as aloof, shy or moody and suffer from low self-esteem because they find it hard to express themselves in a society dominated by excess and stress. The Highly Sensitive Person offers effective solutions to those feeling overwhelmed. With numerous case studies, exercises and advice, Elaine Aron focuses on the strengths of the trait, teaching HSPs that their sensitivity is not a flaw but an asset. This book  also offers great insight into raising a sensitive child.

The book is a must read for anyone who can personally identify with being a HSP, or knows someone who is. It aims to abolish many of the old ideas of people needing to “toughen up” or “being a whimp” and identifies the inherent intelligence and often intuitive qualities these people have.  The book is particularly useful as a tool for identifying highly sensitive children, and putting to rest your own demons of being an unacknowledged HSP, particularly in childhood and infancy. It acknowledges the challenges faced by HSPs in the modern world, and offers strategies to overcome them.

I didn’t always like the tone of the book, nor the amount of time the author spent dwelling on just how special these people are, but her theory and research into HSPs has an undeniably important place in the understanding of modern psychology  and, hopefully soon, the world at large. If you wish to broaden your understanding of some of your more sensitive bedfellows, I guarantee this will more than help you.

3/5

Waity Katie Gets Her Datey

It came as a shock to no one, yet the news sent media outlets (and supporters of the British monarchy) into a feeding frenzy.

The bait? The highly digestible news that Waity Katie has finally been given a wedding date - and a ring - by her long-time beau, Prince William.

Princess Diana's engagement ring, no less.

I suppose this is a big deal, and an important moment in British history and all that. But honestly, I just can't get up the energy to care.

Don't get me wrong, I love the kids. I think they make a very aesthetically pleasing couple and would rather see their profiles on Commonwealth currency than, say, old Charles. And while we're on that topic - I do hope they beat old Charlie to the crown, and have a blast ruling. Can't you just picture the pair of them mixing it up in the throne room with Harry and Chelse? Hectic.

But it must be said - even in the early moments of the story breaking, it felt like old news. Let's face it: the utter predictability and lack of scandal with which this couple have conducted their public life pointed to only one conclusion - eventual marriage. William himself was even quoted at one point saying he wouldn't marry until he was at least 28. It's no surprise that he's popped the question to Kate in his 28th year.

The media has spent the past 8 years canvassing this story up to pussy's bow and back. Now that the anticipated outcome has actually been reached, there's really nothing new to talk about, except the usual discussion of wedding plans, costs and the dress make etc. Even the vague speculations on whether it's appropriate for William to give Katie his mother's ring (which is, of course, a ridiculous question) seem hackneyed and old hat.

In fact, it's my belief that the only refreshing part of this fairytale is Katie herself. She presents as a poised, unselfconscious young woman from a working-class family with no pretensions to pomp and grandeur (except for marrying the heir to the British throne) and whose status as a commoner seems to be embraced by the public and royals alike.

If William, Harry and Denmark's Fredrick are anything to go by, the new generation of princes like their princesses common and without pretension (clever boys!).

And now that Katie has ensnared a ring and date out of her prince, and the scent of scandal remains as elusive as the crown on Chuck's head, a fresh topic must be introduced. My bet is that a new wave of Diana-esque nostalgia will ensue, with endless comparisons being made between the young pair and William's parents.

Good luck to you, Katie and William. And while I don't really give a fig about your wedding, I do hope you have what your predecessors never had - a long and happy marriage.

The Ramblings of Sicko

Well.

It’s been a long four weeks. That’s how long I’ve been sitting at home doing nothing, since my doctor diagnosed me with glandular fever and told me to take time off work.

There have been some minor glitches – you know, not having sick pay, having to move house, pay every conceivable bill within that four weeks without borrowing from my parents (I sold my liver instead). But it hasn’t been all bad. I’ve been installed on a black leather couch for the past two weeks, firmly ensconced in front of the TV and feeding myself up like a prized pig. No carbohydrates after 9pm? Please. That’s the ONLY time I eat my carbs, and let me tell you – I eat plenty of ‘em. Mmm, spaghetti, garlic bread and homemade chips in the dead of the night with a fresh coffee chaser. Bring it on.

My flatmate has also been away in Brazil for the last couple of weeks, so I truly am on my lonesome. Oh, but don’t worry. I have Facebook and a DVD player. I’ve also had a rocketing temperature, which has lead to some pretty wacky dreams, let me tell you. So you see boredom is not an issue either. Quite the opposite in fact. I think I’m having a little too much fun existing in this base, directionless state.

This has been a really great opportunity to reconnect with some of my –well – not real friends. I’m talking about the kids from High school Musical (I love the way they end up banding together no matter what!), the lovable Mighty Boosh lads, the f***ing annoying Walker Clan from Brothers and Sisters, a star-spangled British cast from The Forsythe Saga, Beatrix Kiddo from Kill Bill, Sheldon and his band of Geeks in Big Bang Theory, and the girl on every literature lover’s hit list – Bryony from Atonement. Ridiculous little brat. You didn’t atone for shit.

That’s not even half of it. I guess the point I’m trying to make is: when you’re sick, and have a great deal of time on your hands, the rules change and life is not viewed through its regular lens. For example, pressing tasks such as deferring your uni course, lodging Centrelink application forms and supplying paperwork for your doctor to fill out takes a back seat to blogging, napping, eating, cooking, and staring vacantly at the wall. My pair of eleven-year old board shorts recently sustained a series of tears on the seat, yet I continue to wear them daily, without concern that guests might drop by and register abhorrence at being exposed so unwittingly to my underwear.

 It’s almost as if, my some magical turn of osmosis, the world says it’s ok to let things slide, because you’re sick. You expect complete strangers to give you the same latitude you’d get from your mum. Your outlook becomes skewered and narrow, concerned only with events pertaining to your minute sphere of existence. I forgot I owned a car. And you start to look forward to small, simple things. To demonstrate: my week is based around watching the Brittney episode of Glee at my best friends on Wednesday night, and supplying some “B” food. It’s actually going to be more of a party. THRILL! The dozens of small, urgent, day-to-day tasks I am required to complete to perpetuate my legal existence continue to take a back seat.

Today has been a good day so far. I got up at 7am, ate two freddos, watched Karl and Lisa for half an hour, then went back to sleep. I rose again at 1pm, ate two freddos, watched High school Musical 2, made coffee and ate mixed berry yoghurt. Ascertained my passport number from my mother, so the day is in the early stages of productivity. It’s just grown dark at 2:30pm and started to rain. Excellent, good DVD weather (LOL!). The only thing I’m lacking is a cat, which would be heavenly to cuddle up to at this point.

The conclusion of this post? There is none. I’m low on coffee and wanna watch some Mighty Boosh. Sequential plots and conclusive summaries are overrated.

Check ya later!

The Yoga Family

Those who can’t do, teach. 

This refrain is surely to the infuriation of competent teachers everywhere. 

After all, if they couldn’t do, how could they teach? I couldn’t think of anything more terrifying than putting my hand up to teach something I have absolutely no idea about. It’s tantamount to social suicide. Such self-sabotage can hardly be so main-stream as to apply to all teachers.

 I pray I never encounter, for example, a body-attack instructor who has no idea what they’re teaching. Can you imagine the entire class jiggling around like a bunch of incontinent wallies for an entire hour only to find their teacher was a clueless poser and they’ve gained next to no fitness benefits?

No, I think we need to make the concession that teachers, occasionally, do know what they’re on about.

And moreover, it isn’t due to failure at “making the big time” that they teach.  In fact – call me crazy – I find it conceivable that some people are simply passionate and generous enough to want to share their time and experience with others – and sometimes for free! Could it be that they encounter some type of – what is that phrase – personal satisfaction from what they do?

I recently encountered such a person.

I recently spent six months living in Maleny and, being the new kid in town, I was keen to extend my social network.  A friend invited me to join her women’s yoga circle, which I gladly accepted. The cost?  Nothing. Should I bring a plate? No. My city-bred alarm bells begin to sound. Something for nothing?  Hmm. I rationalized that perhaps the quality of instructing wouldn’t be anything fabulous.

The class was held at the instructor’s home, and was attended by about six other regulars. By the ease in which they performed the various poses or ashtangas, it became apparent these were no amateurs. The instructor, who resembled an ideal of feminine physique, effortlessly moved into poses that would strain the most rubbery yogi.

My clumsy attempts were given warm praise, and I was eagerly embraced into the Yoga Family fold. I was emailed class times, missed when I didn’t attend, and encouraged to come whenever and however possible. People who barely knew my name literally felt sad if I didn’t show up.

The instructor, who is waiting for her own studio to be built, puts considerable effort into sharing her knowledge with a bunch of strangers twice a week. For the love of it. At no cost. She is sad when people don’t attend.

I don’t know if yoga is for me or whether I will continue. But knowing the noble art of teaching and giving is alive and well did my soul the world of good. It was a relief to be reminded that greatness can be found in ordinary people who succeed in doing small things greatly.

Kudos to the Maleny Yoga Family.

The Acumen of Paddington

                              

I have always had a fascination with language.

The power of context, style and content over a reader has always excited me, and driven me to want to learn about it more.

I consummated this love recently by applying to be accepted into a Communications postgraduate course – while never having completed an undergraduate degree.

There was, of course, challenge in this pursuit – essentially, employing my treasured skills to concoct a letter fabulous enough to convince professors that I should bypass an undergraduate degree.

It was fun, cheeky and incredibly irreverent. And it worked.

Once the novelty of my acceptance wore off, it was replaced by a harsh reality: I actually had to complete the darn thing. 

And for anyone who has done postgraduate studies, you’ll surely agree: you cannot fake it.

Not that I faked the letter – but there was a certain element of “sleight of keyboard” involved.

Faced with producing evidence of my knowledge in the form of references and bibliographies, I began to feel bitter and trapped, and lament the narrow edicts of modern academia which makes me prove my knowledge. The cheek of them.

If only my professors subscribed to the writings of the great Swami Vivekananda , whose teachings on man’s pursuit of knowledge purports that all knowledge is inherent to man (and presumably woman), and that the infinite library of the universe is inside your own mind.

Come on. You can't get any more cutting-edge than that. But alas, it isn’t enough to persuade the referencing-dragons at my university.

So, I do the only thing I can do to feel better of the situation. I shut my laptop and read Paddington Bear.

Do not be fooled into thinking that such tales are only for the simple-minded (although I won’t deny I’m often incredibly simple-minded). I’m not the first and won’t be the last to suggest children’s literature conveys concepts of profound wisdom to the reader.

Take The Adventures of Paddington Bear. What a clarifying tale, and one which celebrates human nature at its simplest and most natural. The Browns see a lost Bear at Paddington station. They like it. They adopt it. Paddington begins a new life. He makes amusing mistakes. He does his best to put things right. The Browns love him in spite of the fixes he gets in. They have many adventures together. Oh Paddington! The End.

What themes are apparent in such a book are: unconditional love, spontaneity, acceptance, celebration of the spirit, simplicity and joy in small things.

And overall, an unshakable belief in happiness.

Sorry, I haven’t referenced these findings.

So whenever I’m feeling the weight of being a contributor to the sum of human knowledge, I read Paddington Bear and immediately feel humbled and gladdened that wisdom can be found in the  most simple and delightful things; the wisdom of a Bear who carries leftover breakfast bacon in his suitcase and unwittingly worries the life out of poor Mrs Brown.

That, and develop an immediate craving for sticky cream buns.

After all, a Bear has got to eat.