happiness part 2: the journey continues

Ok this is an opening up of the soul even more, which I do in the small hope that someone else out there is going to go "me too!" Either that, or the pointing and laughing - both work for me just fine, because I'm doing this for me anyway, so it matters not.

 

I'm still trying to get to the bottom of what happiness is, where I can find it, how I can get it, am I standing in my own way of it, and for goodness sake why.

 

I still believe happiness can only be found within; I have no control over anything external. Things will be as they will be. I only have control over my thoughts, actions and reactions to everything external. Like the seed of knowledge offered by the Desiderata - change what you can, accept what you can't, know the difference. To let go of the struggle against the unchangeable - let be what is. That is at the core of being happy.

 

Right, so that's how I get to happiness. Sounds perfectly feasible. I have no idea why it proves to be so hard.

 

Next on the agenda then, is to work out why I don't do what brings me happiness in the external world, something to occupy myself while I work on getting to the happiness within.

 

What if I monumentally stuff everything up If I follow my dream? What if it makes me homeless? I detest the fact you have to take into account material concerns. I know not everyone does, but the struggle endured by them seems too much for me to bear. I don't want to make living any harder than I find it at the moment. That's the crux - I find existing in this world too damn hard. It's a chore which I don't have the strength to complicate further.

 

I didn't flap my wings a lot as a kid. Then I moved out of home at 17, straight into an 11 year relationship with someone I was happy to let make decisions and look after the grown up things. At the time I didn't realise how much I relied on this aspect of him until he was gone.

 

So I'm a late bloomer; I didn't have to start relying solely on myself until I was 28. And I didn't cope well at all. I mourned the loss of that relationship for two weeks. Two weeks! After 11 years. Madness. I had two weeks of crying, then no more crying. I knew people who cried daily for a year over similar situations. I just believed I had found the strength within myself. In a way I was right but it was not the right strength.

 

Three years later I went to a naturopath after suffering terribly with digestion problems and a feeling that I was just not getting any nutrients out of what I ate. The naturopath quite alarmingly said it looked like my body had been running on adrenaline for three years straight. My adrenal gland was almost totally depleted. So that's where my 'strength' was coming from - a chemical toxic to the body, only meant to be used in short bursts. Here I was, milking it dry, just to get through normal days.

 

There it is - I'm still a child trying to learn how to be an adult. I find this world a constant struggle, and I'm waiting for someone else to step in and take care of me. That's why I don't believe I have what it takes to follow a dream. Now I understand that, I can start the reprogramming.

 

embracing my disillusionment

No. I’ve got nothing today. I’m meant to be getting into the discipline of writing something every day, and today, I seriously have nothing. Worthwhile, that is.

I even tried to callously milk my friends dry while we sat around enjoying a sunday sesh at the local pub, to no avail. Although the philosophical discussions were exceptional, as were the discussions on farting. Top notch. Seriously. I’m not being sarcastic! I’m sure there’s a blog in there about the philosophy of doppelgangers, or of farting quietly… it’s just that my brain is full of too much beer to process it right now..

So I can only tell you about my day today. Which involves a man on the plump side, in a full length one-piece grey fluffy jumpsuit. I only wish I got a photo.

I threw myself outside into the world today, after spending all day inside yesterday. It’s not healthy to spend two days in a row cut off from fresh air, vitamin D, and other strange people.

I know, I thought, I’ll head into the city to try and find some clothes for winter, seeing as it’s getting cold and I have nothing to wear. I’ll give myself a mission: a) head into the city; b) find warm clothes. How hard can it be?

I hate clothes shopping with a passion. I’m not very ‘girl’ at all. It’s a chore which I refuse to embrace. It’s hard enough getting dressed once in the morning, let alone going to a public place and standing in a change room and undressing and dressing time and time again. I detest it.

It also doesn’t help that I have no idea what my ‘style’ is anymore. A couple of weeks ago I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, wearing one of my many black Emily the Strange tees (one with skulls and death on it, but done pretty-like), dark jeans, heavy eyeliner, slicked limp hair, and discovered I was well on my way to emo, at the age of 34. Nay I say!

But, I have no other style. I’m not fluffy, or frilly, or (thank christ) ra-ra skirty, I’m just me a-la casual (with an apparent dash of emo).

So, the mission underway, I’m strolling through the city, connecting in milliseconds with casual glances at the people around me, when a thought pops into my head which I have to write down in my moleskine: ‘Shopping. I’m in the valley of the damned, embracing my disillusionment’.

I stop at a bench to write it down (my writing is atrocious – doubly so if I write when I walk), and I’m joined by a fairly large, possibly out of a mental hospital man, wearing a one piece, full length, grey fluffy jumpsuit slash body blanket slash wtf is it?

He’s dragging heavily on a cigarette and decides, since my head is buried in a notebook and I’m obviously engaged in intense personal thought, to strike up a convo with me. “I see that your writing is very small. You write very small. And you have small lines in the book. I can’t write small” wherein he pulls out his own notebook and displays it proudly, for me to acknowledge.

“I try, but I just can’t write that small, on the lines.” I think he’s going to open up his notebook to provide an example. I write faster, adding ‘sitting next to a guy in a 1-piece jumpsuit – grey, fluffy and he’s talking to me about writing in books. Funny stuff.’ I offer him a verbal critique of my horrendous scrawl, chuckling in that ‘don’t hurt me’ way.

It was truly bizarre. But I’m glad I’m not the only one walking around with a notebook of some description, writing down random thoughts on the fly. I wonder how many of us are out there?

A notebook in the bag is like a Harry Potter Pensieve – a place to pull out the threads of our random thoughts to review in a third-person perspective later down the track. I highly recommend it. Although if you’re wearing a one-piece at the time, and look a little like the crazy guy from The Simpsons who thought he was Michael Jackson, I may not acknowledge you while you do it.

Oh and in case you’re wondering, I failed on the clothing, but managed to find some fairly respectable winter boots. Much better than my last effort when I went looking for clothes, and came home with three new books instead.

belief (or, the philosophy of horton hears a who)

Belief is a funny thing. Some people need an arsenal of beliefs to be able to function in the world with any semblance of sanity. Others, like philosophers, toy with the idea of fundamental beliefs until everything becomes a “why?” or “what if?” (guaranteed to turn the brain into a tangle of noodles, believe me. Yeah, pun intended).

Why is it so many people get worked up over someone else’s beliefs? If that’s what gets them through the day, what harm is it to you? Unless their belief is that they should immediately harm you, I guess.

I started thinking about this after a post from a fellow blogger who can often be found reducing someone’s spiritual or religious beliefs down to a belief in pixies. It’s like everything is divisible by pixies with him. That right there, is his belief.

I find it fascinating how often this occurs in life – one person believes something, another person believes the opposite, both are convinced they are unequivocally right.

But here’s the problem: the word “believe” has an element of doubt woven into it. The definition is given as “accept as true; take as true; have faith” (ref: the little blue beat up Collin’s Dictionary next to me). To believe is not to know; to believe is to think something may be a possibility. As in, “I believe that’s right” – the word ‘believe’ could very easily be swapped out for the word ‘think’.

So what’s the point in attacking another person over a ‘belief’ that doesn’t mirror your own? Both of you are, in essence, just guessing anyway.

If you hold onto a stoic belief so tight you’re adamant the other person’s wrong and you’re right, and they’re on the other side holding onto an equally stoic belief that they’re right, and you’re the one who’s wrong, you’re both so closed off from what if’s, and possibilities, and maybes, neither of you will ever discover anything new in the world. You’ll never end up adding any more colour and knowledge to your life.

There’s no way to grow if your fists and mind are closed.

It’s like being on a path with blinkers on, never being able to see any of the other paths around you, some of which may actually have better bitumen, better lighting, better other metaphorical things I can’t think of right now… you get the picture.

While I was chewing over all of this, I happened to watch Horton Hears a Who and it explained what I was trying to make sense of, in full technicolour glory. This is a great movie. Dr Seuss is a legend. Go see it pronto (and then we can discuss what the tribble on acid was meant to represent…).

It’s so full of philosophy that you can google ‘philosophy of horton hears a who’ and get some pretty interesting pages out of it (albeit, not as many as ‘philosophy of the matrix’, but still impressive all the same. Hmm, given me an idea for a title…).

The philosophical grain I’m interested in though is the one posed by the kangaroo, who refuses to admit that Horton may be right and a whole world full of people does actually exist on a speck of dust. Horton asks her to consider the ‘what ifs’ – what if we’re likewise travelling around on our own speck of dust in someone else’s universe? She claims “If you can’t see, hear, or feel it, it doesn’t exist”.

Putting aside all the religious goodies in that (because otherwise this would go on forever), it highlights her close-mindedness. She refuses to accept it, and does everything in her power to make Horton refuse it too. His belief isn’t harming anyone, although she feels it’s harming the children (heaven forbid they question their own existence) and uses that as an excuse to take a moral stand and put an end to it. There’s no logical reason for her to say Horton’s wrong in his claim; her only reasoning is that her beliefs tell her otherwise. Silly kangaroo.

Letting someone else’s beliefs in for your mind to chew over can take you on journeys you might not have otherwise taken if you had just dismissed them outright. It might even lead you to a better place, and closer to the goal of not believing, but knowing.

friday fluff – full moons and freaks

Well two days out from a full moon and everyone’s gone trippy it seems. I can almost feel the crazy in the air. Ohhh, it’s a Sagittarius full moon – that explains it. Being a crazy saggi myself, I now understand…

It’s almost like every full moon has its own flavour. Sometimes I feel super-sensual around a full moon, sometimes sad, sometimes full of energy, sometimes wacked-out. This one’s definitely of the psycho kind.

I don’t think it matters if someone doesn’t agree with the moon’s influence on us in this way; to me, many people just seem to act noticeably different around a full moon, whether they’re aware of it or not.

It certainly explains my day today. Crazy came to town and everyone bought fairy floss. And truth be told, now that I’ve finished working, I’m starting to tingle a little with the crazy myself. Yeeeeaaaaahhh!

Therefore my imaginary (sorry, ethereal) friends, let’s put away the thinking thing for today and ponder the awesomeness of the moon, and what in the world this picture might possibly be trying to say -

It’s a gigantic billboard spied on my last trip to Melbourne. Can I get a ‘say what?’ brother?

rant (or, the philosophy of STFU)

Ok. I started writing a different post but I have had to put it on hold because I can't freaking concentrate! The reason? I forgot my earplugs today. I am forced to listen to the crap conversations going on around me and they are driving me insane.

 

All of this noise is drawing my mind away from itself and into conversations about farting on things, and shopping lists, and what someone did this morning on their walk, and what they did last night, and what they're going to do for lunch (what do you think maybe a chicken wrap or should i just cut up the steak i have in the fridge and make a steak salad?). I really, really, and make sure yunnerstand this, don't give a toss.

 

So many egos trying to clamber for top spot that everyone gets louder and louder with their talking, trying to talk over everyone else. So much "look at me. laugh at me. admire my wit." It's driving me so crazy I can't concentrate on anything. I am boiling like a cauldron about to spill over. I can't hold anything in my head.

 

I have to listen to the exploits of people I don't know and from the sound of it don't want to know. Blow by blow descriptions of tv shows full of more crap that I didn't watch for a reason. Words repeating over and over! Now it's a conversation about grug. All I can hear is grug grug grug.

 

(do you know grug? who? do you remember grug? grug? yeah grug. no. well google grug and tell me if you remember grug. it was the best show ever. no i don't remember grug. but it was the best! no, i don't know grug. jo, surely you’ve heard of grug. what? grug? yeah grug. no, never heard of it. ask bob. bob, do you know grug? what? do i know what? grug. grubs? no, grug! the tv show! grug? yeah. nope. hey i feel like potato cakes. nunnoh they're called potato scallops here. you don't sell them as potato cakes they're potato scallops. but the fish and chip shop across the road from me sells them as potato cakes. but i worked in five fish and chip shops and they're potato scallops. are they? yeah they’re scallops. yeah scallops. see jonno agrees. i'll ring dave and ask him. ok. i'm gonna go find someone who's heard of grug)

And on, and on, and on, and shoot me now. Quick, before I have to listen to anymore of the one-sided convos.

 

(yeah, the boys. what? you know. do you want me to get some spinach onna way home? or do you wanna do the fried rice thing. yeah. so, two noodles? no no. ok. so i get two noodles? yep. yep. yep. three. yeah. nah. yeah. but you can have steamed rice. i think there's steamed rice. i don't know. so i'll get the three. ok. yeah. nah nah. so... two noodles. what? nah she's got a thing with that guy. huh? lasagne? no don't worry about lasagne. like vegetables?)

 

Oh for the love of god.

 

What makes us do this to each other? Do I do this and I've just never noticed before? Do I talk crap about nothing on and on to my friends, trying to entertain them, just trying to inflate the air around me?

 

If you're talking, you're not listening. We don't listen to each other enough. Probably because, going by what I'm hearing right now, if we did, we'd be bored shitless.

 

How the hell are some people able to screen this out? How can I choose not to hear? How can I develop such precision focus to enable me to turn my ears on and off at my command? More investigation required, obviously.

 

It's at times like these I'm almost kiss-the-ground thankful for introverts.

 

Ok. End rant.

a sigh …

the morning fogged over in sympathy.
you’re gone again.
i’m alone again.

stretched thin
as i face another round
of self-reliance,

i curl into myself
trying to find
some comfort.

i am internal, quietly still,
waiting for what was
to be again.

i am one long sigh,
i am hugs on hold.
hurry up world, and turn.

a holiday vibration

I’ve just gone through silent hysteria, and after showering and ensconcing the feet in my blessed ugg-boots, I’m onto phase two: morose melancholy. Holidays will do that to you. The ending of holidays, that is.

No, there’s more to it than that.

The holiday: a blissful three days in the arms of the elements of nature – fire, earth, air, water – and nothing else. A beautifully sleepy and magical town called Denmark, 4 1/2hrs south of Perth, where ancient forest meets the majesty of the Southern Ocean. A chalet constructed by hand out of its surrounds, with water in front, and karri trees and granite boulders behind. No phone, no tv, no internet, no neighbours. No stress. My lovely man, and I.

We climbed granite rocks as old as time and let the wind blow through our being, hugged trees, and hiked hours through bushland to stand at the top of a rocky cliff to feel the power of the ocean converging from around two bends in the coast. We spent evenings watching the log fire instead of the tv, listening to each other instead of an electronic stranger, and listening to the birds sing the day to rest.

The hysteria: set in as soon as I hit the city limits. My Denmark vibration was gone. Cars were driving aggressively all around me. Traffic lights. Grey asphalt everywhere. No trees. Ugly ugly ugly.

I don’t know exactly what set me off, but it took all I had to stop myself collapsing into tears. I couldn’t breathe. Fight or flight kicked in, without my command.

So now, as has become my way, I’m trying to make sense of it. I’m poking it with the “why?” and a bit of the old “how?” for good measure.

Denmark really is a place of magic. I don’t mean the flippantly used idea of ‘magic’, I mean real ancient down to your balls magic. Magic vibration. You can feel it among the forests of karri trees, and emanating from the granite boulders when you touch them. You can smell it in the leaf litter, and the salt spray of the ocean. It’s a hum that works to renew every fibre of your being; immersion in something altogether magical - an imprint of magic incarnate.

In contrast, the city is a man-made environment; the antithesis of nature. The smells are vile, the sounds grate. The hum toxic and foreign.

This toxic hum affects us and we don’t realise it – we acclimatise. We make do. We escape it in our heads, online, watching movies, holed up with friends pretending it doesn’t exist, but it’s always there, and it affects us like a mobile phone in a low-signal area – our batteries deplete quicker.

We speak of going on holidays to ‘recharge’. Is this perhaps a subconscious awareness of how depleting the toxic vibration of the city is?

Personally, I’m now more aware that I have to recharge in nature; in the same vibration from which I was made. Nothing else will help me hold on to my sanity.