February 21, 2013 | Hair #2

We had a rather special visit from Jenny Rankin this week. Amongst the delight of swimming naked on the beach where she and her husband lived 22 years ago with my parents (me growing in mum's tum) girly massage breaks and laughter over wine, Jenny encouraged James and I to begin the transformation of our words into images, both moving and still. Now me being a technophobe, I found this rather daunting.

The reason why I am excited, however, is the fact that I often find myself unable to adequately express the reality of our life here simply in words. Each visitor we had had here, including Jenny, has found it pleasantly refreshing to join us in the daily routine of radiation. While the machine is certainly space-age and a little intimidating, seeing the smiles on everyones faces and the evident support of all the staff, alongside our own happiness, the picture of treatment is a lot more encouraging than one may imagine.

It's entirely possible to be happy even when tired, or in pain. I know I've said this before, but now we will begin to show you. The first way in which I'll show you is displaying the issue of baldness and wigs. Now I know that the prospect of having permanent hair loss may seem a little depressing to some, but I've done a cost/benefit analysis and come to the conclusion that no hair is better than hair.

Here are my reasons:

1) You can choose the hair to suit your outfit/mood/plans, rather than having to do the opposite.
2) You will never have a bad hair day
3) If you want to change the colour of your hair, it's not damaging or expensive (or time consuming) to do so.
4) You can confuse people by changing hair secretly at a party
5) It's quicker to shower
6) You hair won't get tangled while sleeping
7) A wig keeps you nice and warm when it's cool
8) You are not defined by your hair
9) You can play different roles
10) You can try different styles and colours than you would usually be afraid to
11) It gives you a fresh perspective of what physical aesthetics really are, and what the value of hair really is.

James took these photos with our new camera that Jenny gave us:

The wig that used to be my cousin Evie's

...and her other one

The wig that the NZ government paid for (thanks!)

Cheapies from the US (everything there costs less)

Evie's again

I had the NZ one cut by a hairdresser as it was too similar to the other. 

Keep an eye out for more photos and eventually video - I promise they won't all be about hair!

March 3, 2013 | Age

Eighteen. It’s my second time visiting the bright lights of Wellington. Mum and I are visiting her new boyfriend, Guy. Guy is the first boyfriend she has ever had that I have thought was adequately suited for her. We’re visiting his house, a nice old villa like none I have been inside before. It seems fancy. We’re getting ready to go out, and my heart is beginning to race. I’ve only ever been ‘out’ in sleepy New Plymouth, which has about seven bars and one club. I’ve heard all the stories about Wellington nightlife, and I simply can’t believe that I’m going to be a part of it. I slip on a tight dress that shows off my summer legs. I’ve heard you have to dress ‘nice’ to get into clubs here, but I’ve also heard that if you’re a girl and show enough skin, it doesn’t matter. Whatever, I do look ‘nice’. I team the purple and blue flowers of the dress with some little black flats – ‘I’ve got to be able to dance,’ I think excitedly.

The drink selection is overwhelming at the first bar we go to. Guy tells me to choose anything I want. I'm baffled. I have no idea what to choose, so just get what mum gets. $15 for a cocktail? That’s ridiculous! How can prices differ that much between cities like that? I hope Guy is okay with that, although I guess he must be used to it. Looking out into the street, music blares from the clubs, smoke pouring out and lights dancing. The night is young. It’s another world, and I can’t wait to explore it. I’m eighteen and finally an adult, out on the town. Here I come!

***

James and I went out last night. It was my first night ‘out on the town’ in Wellington since I was eighteen, and a stark indication of the growth that I’ve been through since last being in the country.

“Isn’t the breeze cold, you should put some clothes on!” a voice says in my head as we wander past crowds of girls wearing dresses smaller than the one I wore over three years ago. I laugh uncomfortably to myself, wondering at how boring I have become. But no matter how I scoff at it, the voice won’t be quieted. I hold in my breath and squeeze James’ hand as we walk through another hoard of them squealing in pitches that transported us to a kindergarten playground. As a high-school aged girl stumbles past almost vomiting, the aged prude in my mind couldn’t help but frown inwardly. Who have I become?

The entire time I was in the US, I thought the 21-year drinking age was ludicrous, and made it known. I would tell people that a younger age limit teaches people to drink responsibly, and would be amazed to see 21 and 22 year-olds being excited about drinking to the point of endangering themselves. “That wouldn’t happen back home,” I ranted. Nowadays, Wellington has changed my mind. I do think that people should be able to drink at 18, even earlier, but binge drinking needs be discouraged and can be. James and I were talking about the options as we drove in to go to dinner before the concert. Perhaps if 18 to 20 year olds were only allowed to buy drinks at bars, it would fix some of the binge drinking problems here - at least they would be in a supervised place and couldn't purchase packaged drinks for their younger friends. Plus, a basic beer here costs at least $9 at a bar so cost would be a discouragement in itself for the young‘uns. There certainly never was a shortage of alcohol from when I was fifteen, as there were always plenty of people at school (we thought those people were lucky) who had older siblings who were eighteen. Or there were people who were friend with the seventh-formers. And then I was suddenly eighteen, getting together with friends to down cheap wine from a grocery store before heading into town. It’s what we all did. I guess upon reflection, I never saw the drunken twenty-somethings, as I grew up in a town virtually void of twenty-somethings.

As James and I sat in the old Wellington town hall before this adventure, watching the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain play and thoroughly enjoying it, we felt old. In a strangely wonderful way. I know sometimes the tinge of nostalgia can creep up unexpectedly for the old wilder days, as we drink tea after a night of a couple of drinks. In a way, we feel growing pains, but it’s not all that painful at all.

I used to say I felt like I had skipped my childhood, as I was forced to grow up with the death of my brother when I was four and the divorce of my parents at seven. I wasn’t even good at being a teenager – the party stage only lasted a few months before I was sick of it and hit the books again, on a continual and sometimes painful plight for self-improvement. And now I sit in the early days of my twenties and wonder if the typical 20-somethings are already slipping from underneath me. Truth is, I could happily be an 80-year-old, and simply can’t wait to get there. You can trust that I’m going to give it my best shot anyway. It just seems so blissful – a lifetime of wisdom and love behind you, license to do whatever you want, be it gardening or writing or reading. Maybe by that point the back of my hair will also be wispy so I’ll be all matching and could give up on wigs…or simply wear luscious ones!

I guess being forced to think about children in doing IVF and think about mortality more than I would have ever have had considered can age a soul. I know I’ve done a lot for someone my age, perhaps packed a lifetime of stuff into a short amount of time, but it was certainly interesting to feel disconnected from most of the females my age out yonder.

I’ve been thinking a bit about the fact that I did pack so much into my short lifetime, as that was one thing that would carry me into nightmares when I was first diagnosed. I could envisage my obituary – it just seemed to eerily make sense. I worried that perhaps it was my time… that I had had my shot at life and done it well, and now it’s time to move along. But I no longer think this. Sometimes I feel that perhaps my soul was tired. I’m not saying that the cancer was a lesson that I needed, but I do think that I had tried to pack in an incredible amount and I wasn’t stopping there, I had plans.

Perhaps I needed to stop.

***

My friend Nicola, who I will be seeing next week in my hometown of New Plymouth, wrote me a card with this quote on the front:

“Life is what we are alive to. It is not length but breath. Be alive to goodness, kindness, love, purity, music, poetry, flowers, stars…”

I’m sure I’ve already talked about life being the quality of what it’s made of rather than the quantity, but I guess this also applies to growing ‘old’ in soul. Taking a break from all the madness, being alive to flowers, music and poetry. And tea and baking. I think I’m ready to grow up. In fact, I don’t feel that we really have a choice in the matter. But of course, you can either age with sparkles in your eyes, or let them fade. And so, the image of the slightly frail man with long white hair rocking out to ‘born to be wild’ on the ukulele with his hair swinging is a good one to keep in mind. And, as it will always be important for us all to understand the screams and excitement, I now simply hold on to the memories of the days when the bright lights and beats would summon me into a tantalizing trance.

March 13, 2013 | Farewelling the Old Path

I guess when you look at the facts of it, my entire life as I knew it was suddenly gone.
Gone was the grad school application and plans to move to Maryland. Gone is the
wedding plan. Gone were the hours spent studying – they were suddenly rendered futile.
Gone was the sweet little house we planned to stay in until leaving Moscow, gone are my
friends. Gone are the late nights and crazy morning hairstyles.

With simply the bare facts, I should feel empty.

But I don’t.

There’s something about being home that makes one feel somewhat fulfilled. Wait, that’s
not quite the right word, fulfilled implies going off and following your dreams. Breaking
free. No, there’s something about home that makes one feel somewhat ‘filled’. That’s
better. Whole. Comfortable. At Ease.

James and I are staying at my dad’s house this week, the old country home with
sprawling flower gardens and multitudes of birds singing that I grew up in. That familiar
trampoline that I have spent countless hours flying high above the earth on, into the vast
blue sky that at night is speckled with millions of stars. The lounging cows out the front
that stretch their necks over the fence and nibble on dad’s native trees, the sheep named
Bruce, and my old grey cat daisy who has survived 18 years on only fish and refusing anything else.

While mum and Guy are holidaying at a beach paradise up north, Whangapoua, with it’s
golden sands and perfect weather, I couldn't be happier to sit in the living room writing
this with a few clouds floating around the mountain, black sands and rugged
coastlines just a few minutes away. I couldn't be happier to snack on toast as we always
did, daydreaming and cooking for the guys within walls brimming with memories.

Yes, that old life is gone. But in a way, I’m happy it has. Because it’s given us a clean
slate; a future which we can begin painting once again. It took me a while to come around
to it; for a month or so after surgery, still in a slight state of shock, I would smile and nod
when James would begin talking of future plans. But all I’ve needed was a dash of belief
and a dollop of hope, and we’re back on track. Now, the future is one of my favorite
topics.

I know when we’re on a certain trajectory, it’s so easy to feel locked into that and there’s nothing you can do about it. I wish I had known sooner that no, I didn't have to continue in Anthropology, I didn't have to be an academic, I didn't have to be ‘the best’ at everything I did. Everything was a choice. You see it so often – someone who followed that same trajectory until it wore out, then at 50 realized “I wanted to be a school teacher all along, who was I kidding?”

It’s as if we are laying our entire lives in the hand of the seventeen-year-old us (which we
would never do otherwise), trusting them and saying, “yes, self-conscious, confused teen,
I will follow this choice you made to study at university until it wears me down”.


For much of my degree, I considered myself more of a writer than an anthropologist. I
knew I would write someday, but I had to continue, I had to get a sensible, successful,
internationally focused job. I did all the right things – ticked the international experience
box, work experience, volunteering, grades, whatever they needed. All so that someday,
after multitudes of academic publications, I would have the freedom and respect to write
whatever I wanted.

I've enrolled for a journalism diploma beginning this July. It’s a one-year multimedia
course, consisting of writing, photography, television and film, and radio. I know, I’ll be
in the middle of chemotherapy, but with a cohort consisting of many high-school leavers,
I think I’ll be able to do it. Plus, the medical warnings of side effects are always the
worst–case scenarios. When I told my dad, he was pleased, saying that although
‘journalism’ seems a little below my capabilities and training, I’ll be able to do it well. It’s an
interesting stage in life, this early-twenties thing. Pick a way to go and you’d better hope
you've picked the right path…

Nicola and I were talking about an old friend of ours, Alice, who gave university a go for
a couple of years knowing it wasn't for her, but was too afraid to pull out. Nicola had
signed a lease with her, and a month before they were about to move in together for the
next year of study, she received a call from Alice, in tears. She told Nic that she
was so sorry; she was going to pursue hairdressing and couldn't come back. Nic was
ecstatic, as she had known Alice had always wanted to be a hairdresser, yet had been afraid of
the societal analysis of the job.

Aden never went to University, in fact, he never finished high school. Yet here he is,
doing his grocery shopping with us and talking about his saving goals in his job, which he loves.
Yes, he picked fruit and trapped possums for a while, but I couldn't have been prouder.
It’s so important to do what fits you well and not cave in to judgment, and my little
brother has taught me this.

We’re also working on a short film for a festival at the moment, which has a deadline of
just before the journalism course begins. I won’t give the plot away now but plan on publishing
the script and film here once we have submitted it.

With these new directions in jobs, plans and lifestyle, I guess ‘fulfilled’ is the right word
for this unexpected stage in life. Although not as 'successful' by societies standards, hanging out with my parents while on the sickness benefit and wanting to write, it just feels right.

March 26, 2013 | The Perfect Sunset

James and I spent the last week staying in a little bach[1] on the northern shores of lake Taupo. “This is the life,” George says to us honestly, as the three of us walked barefoot up the track that leads from the sandy beach to the house, with dripping togs[2] and once-bright 90’s patterned towels draped around our necks. “Get home, swim, have a hot shower, cook dinner, read, sleep…this is my life,” the man who introduced us back when the world was a different place said to us.

Kiwi George was working with a logging company in northern Idaho called Northwest Management back in 2011. Alone in a new world, 27 and free to roam, the adventurer decided that the hotel provided by the company was too…dull for him. One evening he found himself telling this to a young man he met at a party. Funnily enough, this young man was a traveler also, and had been taken in by many a person in his gallivanting days. And so, he offered to have George stay on his futon.

“James, do you remember when I was staying at your place and the only groceries I contributed was a 24-pack of Budweiser[3] cans, and a pack of rice crackers?” James laughed at Georges question as we were heading down to the beach the next evening. I quickly figured that the single, stale rice cracker that James kept in his cupboard and was going to keep it for years for sentimentality was the last of George’s household contribution.  He must have missed George when he took off to Europe – took off to work in various odd jobs, blow his savings, live in tiny apartments in France and eventually have to return. I chuckled, it was clear that these two guys like something about each other, despite their nonchalant masculine exteriors and being close to opposite in their mannerisms.

George is back in the land of the long white cloud,[4] now, and each night when he arrived home from work, James and I would have dinner all prepared and in the oven, and the three of us wandered down to the lake and swam the 200 meters[5] to the buoy as the sun set. Each night the sky was painted different colors; from bruised, blue-grey skies as we ducked through choppy swell, to the perfect pink skies that framed the halo of the sun on the other side of the distant hills in flat, crystal clear waters. We felt cold, tired, hungry and exhilarated. Bare feet up the path and we arrived to the smells of dinner oozing from the oven walls, and we cracked open the wine and dug in.

I can’t express how lucky I feel to have had these few weeks of normalcy between treatments. Even in the few days after radiation finished, while the fatigue still plagued me physically, I felt enthusiastic and like all this cancer stuff was just a dream. A simple thing like not having to go into the hospital each day made me feel like I was no longer a patient. As the days wore on, the hospital grew more and more distant until it was simply a half-bald head in the mirror.

I stand at the starting line of chemotherapy with swimmers legs and a singing heart. I’ve never been so determined to over-perform in something – and I’ve had my fair share of that pursuit in the past. The four-week gap was supposed to be physical recovery time, but in a way it’s also been a time of spiritual strengthening. I realize that things as they are at the moment aren't everything, only a bump in the road, and I am infinitely lucky to be in the land of the long white cloud and silent, saturated skies.

---

[1] A small holiday cabin near a body of water, generally the ocean

[2] Swimsuit

[3] A cheap, crappy U.S. beer

[4] The Maori term for New Zealand

[5] Or, ‘metres’

April 3, 2013 | To Jen

Oh Jen…

Here I am. You’ve caught me in a good time to write to you, because I’m feeling shitty. I know that’s a weird thing to say, but I know when I’m feeling good I have a tendency to glaze over things and tell you that life is wonderful and fabulous and every moment sparkles with the sheer joy of being alive.

But you deserve more than that. 

No, I am alone in this house I don't feel at home in, staring at my computer, and I had to force myself to open it to do things because all I really feel like doing is lying on the nice, big, fluffy rug. 

I know I should listen to music or something to uplift my spirits and chase away the silence that surrounds me, but honestly, I can’t be bothered getting up to get headphones or turn the stereo on.

So, silence it is. Sprinkle in some distant car and chainsaw sounds, people preparing for winter. Ralph just barked. Little laptop keys tip-tapping away to you. A bird just sang – they like to do that. (Yeah, I just said that.)

The ‘sickness’ I feel from chemo is so hard to describe. Usually when I’ve had something wrong with me in the past it was something you can put words to, you know? Like a sore stomach, or head, or itchy something-or-other, queasiness, or period cramps… but this is so hard to describe. My body just feels worn out, like it’s falling apart. It's an assortment of little complaints (the very word makes me wince): aching jaw when I eat, a bit of a headache when I move my head, some light sensitivity, feeling nauseous with sudden movement, tingly fingers, slightly yet eternally sore muscles, always being a little tired, mouth stinging from anything acidic, sensitive teeth. 
But everything is so minor they're not worth complaining about. So shitty will have to do as a descriptor. 

James is at work today – it’s his first day. Yes, he got a job!!!! I can’t explain how excited I am for him. It’s hurt me to see his frustration in being idle and not having a social life here. It hurts me because I see it’s hard for him, but I think the worst part might be my guilt. I’ve watched his struggle and my mind whispers to me “this is your fault”. Constantly. I don’t know what to do to remedy it sometimes. Being positive doesn’t seem to work, because who wants someone being smiley and upbeat when you’re feeling frustrated? It just makes me seem annoying and insensitive. I just don’t know what else to do or how else to be.

I got distracted. Sorry. I was talking about his job and thinking about when he didn’t have it. It’s so silly to mope about the past isn’t it? But so easy to do. Anyway, why I’m so excited about this job is that it’s his first serious job if you don’t include restaurants. I mean, not that I think hospitality isn’t very important (it is!), but I’ll admit to being a bit relieved that he’s not working late nights/early mornings, especially full time. He is working for the Ministry of Business, Innovation and Employment in the IT department as a Project Analyst, which sounds super technical but they say the most important thing is people skills, which fortunately enough he’s got! It’s not minimum wage either (minimum is $14.50 an hour here, so do come!), which is sweet, and there’s room to grow. Ooh, I’m so happy for him!

It made me so warm and fuzzy inside when you told me you had got to know James a lot better when he came back last time. It makes me think back to that time in Togo when we were staying in that weird house in Accra at the start of the whole thing, and you told me you were unsure about him not because you didn’t like him, but that you couldn’t help being protective of me. I get that. But I’m so glad you were finally able to experience how fabulous he is, and how you really can trust him to take good care of me while not taking me away from you and my friends. Well, I guess I am away from you and friends. :(

Did I tell you I have some friends here now? You can probably count them all on one hand, but still, it’s an improvement! James and I had a dinner party last weekend, and I can’t begin to explain how lovely it was. We had over Joe, an old family friend (he was one of the two brothers I was supposed to marry, but he's into boys so there’s a pursuit saved, haha!), and another couple of girls with a boyfriends who were from New Plymouth and are in the theatre world here. 

I didn’t really know them in sweet little NP, but I prefer being able to start afresh and not have to deal with fleeing the remnants of my old self. That's probably why I'm not in contact with many folks from the hometown. It was Easter weekend (well, obviously, you know that part) so we cooked a massive meal for them, and set up an Easter egg hunt around the house for between courses. We had the fire crackling and all sat around with wine on the rug by the fire…

Yeah, that nice big fluffy rug!! I just went and had a lie on it and talked to Kot (who is sad she didn’t get to say goodbye to you) on Skype (which we will have to do)…oh what a nostalgic, heart-aching day! I may talk about how much I enjoy dinner parties with new friends, but nothing can compare to the friendships I had in Moscow. I miss feeling like I’m part of a community. Talking of Moscow, you must have left by now… tell me all about it! How do you feel?

I know feelings are so fickle, but I think sometimes in our distrust of them we can overlook how much wisdom they actually contain. Like, if something doesn’t ‘feel’ right, it probably isn’t right, you know what I mean. Probably more than I do, as you’ve always been far more in tune with yourself and your feelings than I have. How does it feel being back with family? I wish it were as easy as it seems like it should be. On the surface, and to other people, it may look like it would be super easy for someone our age to re-integrate our selves back with our parents, but it’s not exactly an "aaaah, so good to be back" experience. It feels like it takes more effort to be ourselves, the selves we spent the last few years getting to know. I wish you and your lovely parents all the best (I miss them!).

Talking of family, how is Molly? You know, I have always thought of her and care about her. Like you with Aden! Who, I must tell you, is getting on fabulously in Stratford, as much as he can. I love him for the person he is and has become. I love that he catches up with dad all the time. In a book I was reading the other day (which you will like and relate to, it’s called ‘Sister’ by Rosamund Lupton) the older sister realizes that although she had always thought she was being the ‘responsible sibling’ by going off to the US and being the over-achiever, she realizes that her younger sister, an aspiring hippy artist who stayed near her parents, was really the one who was taking on the burden (in a good sense) of their parents. I can see now that it's not intrinsically glamorous to take off into the world. 

It’s funny how so often what society views as ‘success’ can be at odds with familial bonds. It's a great big balancing act, isn't it - happiness, values, community, success...

Anyway, I’ve been rambling. Sorry for talking so much. There’s just not much else I feel like doing today to be honest. I hope you will forgive me for posting this publicly. I know you said to me that I should be totally honest with you and say things I wouldn’t say on my blog, but as I was writing this I realized that this is just what I want to be sharing with people. I want to write honestly, in fact don't really see the point in anything otherwise, yet it's a struggle not to put on a brave face, and you know it. You’ve helped me immensely, in so many ways.

I love you and I miss you,

B.

P.S. Here is a picture I thought you would find funny. I saw it on the wall of a fish n' chip shop. I've been trying to do some push ups every day so this is what I look like!!!

The Do Good dilemma

We all want to be ‘good’. Good friends, good lovers, good husbands and wives, girlfriends and boyfriends, good parents, siblings and children, and good global citizens.

Okay, we all want to... in some sense. To some extent. 

But no matter how much we desire to be good people – to “do good” – it can feel like there are millions of others doing “better” out there. Continue >>

The Magnolia Experiment

I’m conducting an experiment beginning today. Can I get away with documenting a project on a public blog and keeping it a secret from my husband?

After arriving home from wandering the hillside around 6pm (wow! Daylight saving is amazing!) I found myself gazing up at our beautiful, resilient magnolia tree, covered in spiky and choking creepers, yet still flourishing and flowering when nature calls its name. 

“Why am I not compassionate towards these suckers?” I wondered at the spiky mess, teetering at the tip top of the tree on groaning branches. "They’re just doing what nature also calls them to do, as it calls all life to survive, finding ways to climb higher and higher, grow larger and larger. Wha makes the magnolia tree's molecules so much more superior than the ivy's?". I swallowed the guilt, reminded myself they were mostly lifeless, and with exhilaration embraced my anger at these snakes suffocating an innocent tree of such beauty.

This is something James has talked about doing for a while. How much can I liberate the magnolia before he notices? 

Tearing at 'weeds', no matter how philosophically questionable the concept is, gave me a feeling of (perhaps long lost?) strength. I love the slight fear, those times you forget you’re up high and you’re focusing on reaching out to unhook some stubborn old vines from a fork at the top of a tree…then look down and realise a fall would mean a broken limb - at least. Then carrying on. I'm a warrior for the magnolia (so as when people fight in wars with the chance of losing their lives for a 'greater cause', in my case the greater cause being life itself? But what about the weeds? Us humans are so good at finding justification for our biases). 

So all the thoughts I've had today about happiness, all the times I felt so utterly grateful for life and moments that had me burst out laughing culminate in learning how damn good it feels to climb a tree and tear down ivy. Compassion can sit on the balcony and watch me – I’m going to keep tearing till it’s gone, and keep loving every minute of it.

Sometimes you’ve just gotta clear away things to allow the real beauty and strength beneath it all to flourish.    

Is that a tree in front of the Magnolia? The sheer density of my newfound enemy, now down to a tangled ball, is illuminated by its own silhouette. 

The secret to happiness...

A merchant sent his son to learn the Secret of Happiness from the wisest of men. The young man wandered through the desert for forty days until he reached a beautiful castle at the top of a mountain. There lived the sage that the young man was looking for.

However, instead of finding a holy man, our hero entered a room and saw a great deal of activity; merchants coming and going, people chatting in the corners, a small orchestra playing sweet melodies, and there was a table laden with the most delectable dishes of that part of the world.

The wise man talked to everybody, and the young man had to wait for two hours until it was time for his audience.

The Sage listened attentively to the reason for the boy’s visit, but told him that at that moment he did not have the time to explain to him the Secret of Happiness.

He suggested that the young man take a stroll around his palace and come back in two hours’ time.

“However, I want to ask you a favor,” he added, handling the boy a teaspoon, in which he poured two drops of oil. “While you walk, carry this spoon and don’t let the oil spill.”

The young man began to climb up and down the palace staircases, always keeping his eyes fixed on the spoon. At the end of two hours he returned to the presence of the wise man.

“So,” asked the sage, “did you see the Persian tapestries hanging in my dining room? Did you see the garden that the Master of Gardeners took ten years to create? Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my library?”

Embarrassed, the young man confessed that he had seen nothing. His only concern was not to spill the drops of oil that the wise man had entrusted to him.

“So, go back and see the wonders of my world,” said the wise man. “You can’t trust a man if you don’t know his house.”

Now more at ease, the young man took the spoon and strolled again through the palace, this time paying attention to all the works of art that hung from the ceiling and walls.

He saw the gardens, the mountains all around the palace, the delicacy of the flowers, the taste with which each work of art was placed in its niche. Returning to the sage, he reported in detail all that he had seen.

“But where are the two drops of oil that I entrusted to you?” asked the sage.

Looking down at the spoon, the young man realized that he had spilled the oil.

“Well, that is the only advice I have to give you,” said the sage of sages.

“The Secret of Happiness lies in looking at all the wonders of the world and never forgetting the two drops of oil in the spoon.”

*

My weeks of research into "happiness literature" have  been summarised by a simple fable found in a favourite story, Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist. 

Happiness - oh, that elusive happiness -  is being truly grateful and living in the moment, yet never losing sight of our purpose and goals we're working towards. Sounds pretty simple, huh?

Yeah, about that...

And what the heck is that "purpose" we are supposed to strive for? How do we know where to head? 

Well, the old king in the story has an answer for that, too. In his easier-said-than-done, airy-fairy fable type way...

"It's what you have always wanted to accomplish," he says.  "Everyone, when they are young, knows what their destiny is. At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is possible. They are not afraid to dream, and to yearn for everything they would like to see happen to them in their lives. 

"But, as time passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be impossible for them to realize their destiny... It's a force that appears to be negative, but actually shows you how to realize your destiny. It prepares your spirit and you will, because there is one great truth on this planet: whoever you are, or whatever it is that you do, when you really want something, it's because that desire originated in the soul of the universe. It's your mission on earth."

What else is really obvious that needs learning?

So I’m sitting here in what feels like Wellington’s eternal summer. Okay, maybe there is an eight-degree wind gusting, but I’m still able to be topless. Waiting for a tui to fly onto the tip top of the pine tree in front of me to take a picture for you. Just as a lovestruck pair of them did a few minutes ago, inspiring me to write this.

Today’s Growth Lesson was a toss up. On my daily wander (just after sunrise this morning), I was thinking about things I had learnt from my tenth reading of the Alchemist. There are plenty more, but the simplest lesson that I found to echo the realities of life was about moving on, of life’s phases.

As I said yesterday, putting these things out there, in all their simplicity, makes me feel a little vulnerable. I am admitting I am only just, truly learning these things.

Sometimes I find myself wishing that I could just stick with one thing, to not be forever changing my mind, changing my identity. Like Julia the weed lady – she’s chosen her identity (it’s pretty cool), put it out there, and now sticks with it – or has to stick with it. (And yes, this partially comes out of the frustration I sometimes feel towards the constant evolution of our business ideas.)

Anyway, I realised this morning that this constant ‘evolution’, which often feels like ripping yourself away from a life that could have been nice, is all part of what Paulo Coelho considers part of the journey towards our ‘personal legend’. I have no idea what my ‘purpose’ is, my role to play in the improvement of our world, but I see so many parallels with Santiago’s journey towards his own personal legend.

I could have (and planned to) stay an academic – I was good at school, it was easy, and so it was an easy choice. Researching, interviewing, travelling. Helping the world by increasing our understanding of it. Or, I could have remained a traveler, constantly searching the world for happiness and new experiences. Then came the patient phase; the identity to rip all past identities away. Then there was journalism, or a 9-5 government career in the social development field… each had their own future.

Or, I could remain here. I love this little flat, love the music we listen to and the food we cook. Although recognizing it’s at James’s expense, it’s joyful. I want to stay comfortable. It’s nice (I used to detest that word). The prospect of giving up the niceties of being a yo-pro couple without kids and living on a tight budget in order to try to start businesses that could fail is scary. I’m scared. But it’s the next step – it’s what we have to do to keep growing.

Phew, that was a bit long-winded! Sorry. There’s today’s Growth Lesson for you though – it will usually take being uncomfortable and vulnerable to failure to keep growing. Heard that plenty of times before? Yeah…me too. Here we go again…

So why on earth did a pair of tuis flying to perch on the very top spire of the pine tree inspire that? Well, I watched them thinking ‘they must feel like they’re at the top of the world, what a perfect spot for them’. But of course, they soon took the leap into the air again. 

(Cute!)

Growth lesson #1

These may sound silly, but I had the idea today to begin posting about one Growth Lesson I learn from life each day. Usually, the things we learn in life are so simple, and we've probably heard and tried to practise them a thousand times before it sinks in. So bear with me as I explore the simple secrets of life.

Today's Growth lesson I dedicate to Adriene, with whom James and I have begun doing yoga with before bed and when we wake. Here she is in one of her masterpieces:

Adriene's motto is "find what feels good". She's all about listening to your body and personalising your life. If you've never tried yoga before, or are cynical but secretly think it would be good like I used to be, then this girl is the one to check out. Especially this one, but make sure to brush your teeth first because you'll want to fall straight into bed!

Anyway, a while ago I began my (other) wonderful daily routine of going up to the top of Te Ahumairangi hill here in Wellington, wandering slowly around the top soaking in the 360 degree views, and heading back down. How fortunate am I! This soon evolved into running, partially to make it more time efficient, but also for the new challenge it presented. I had a goal - to run to the top. I never made it. It's a seven minute run. 

On this beautiful morning, I felt a tiny speck of a sinking feeling in my heart as I headed out, a tiny whisper of dread about the inevitable gasping that running uphill brings. It's such a small thing, but I decided to walk. And give up my "goal" of running to the top. Happily. Because for me, in nature, that's what feels good. So there's today's lesson for me: find what feels good (not what society tells us feels good) and listen to my body.