Off meat

Rotting, horrid meat.

One of many cute puddings.

We woke early to beat a resentful path back to the Indian Consulate. At some point during the morning before we left the house, Jesse made an important yet rather obvious discovery: the horrible stench that we detected the previous day was in fact the tray of lamb pieces we had bought home after doing some grocery shopping; a tray of meat which to me had looked dodgy to begin with. It reeked. As we got our stuff together, I indicated that I would take it outside with us and find a bin on the street in which to dispose of it. a brilliant idea occurred to me: there were so many cute puddings (cats)

A friend.

around Istanbul. Cats that were friendly, and needing love. I could feed them with this meat! I decided to carry the tray of meat with me to the Indian Consulate building. I had noticed a lot of very cute cats around there the previous day, and felt strongly that I would derive untold pleasure from feeding them all, like some kind of Mother Theresa of mangy street cats.

Off-meat in an internet cafe.

Just to be clear, the meat really, really stank. We had to visit an internet café along the way to print off some documents, and I’m positive the young dude must have been wondering if all western tourists smell of rotting meat.

In prominent public places with the off meat.

Jesse looking soulfully away from the off-meat.

Feeding the precious puddings.

When we arrived at the consulate, I quickly went around the corner to the park entrance where I had noticed some cats. There were three or four hanging out there, including a kitten. I put the meat down, and within 30 seconds close to ten cats had swarmed over, popping out from all sorts of unexpected places. It was delightful to say the least, and yes, I did derive all manner of pleasure untold from this act.

More.

MORE.

Let them come….

Gooood…..

Shoe Shiner

I will shine your shoes!

Shine them! Shine them NOW!

NOT. CLEAN. ENOUGH!!!!!!!

Whilst we were walking towards the consulate (yes, still with the rotten meat), a Turkish man carrying what appeared to be a kit with shoe-shining material dropped a brush out of his case. I picked it up off the street and called out after him. He was very grateful, and insisted on shining Jesse’s beat-up hiking shoes. We thought it was in payment for our being so kind and saving his only brush. He was quite thorough, and even glued some lining back together that had torn away on Jesse’s shoes.Then he mentioned that he has five children. And that one of them needs corrective eye surgery. At that point we both knew we were weren’t getting a free shoe shine. After maybe three minutes, he demanded his payment – 16TL (roughly AUD$8). Jesse gave him 2TL, whilst I shuddered at the boldness of it all. As we walked away, Jesse recalled reading about a scam targeting tourists, which went pretty much exactly the same way.

When we got to the consulate our Estonian friends were there too. And they had a funny story to tell: apparently on the way, a nice man had dropped a shoe brush and they had picked it up for him and he shined their shoes…and demanded some exorbitant amount of money in return. We all sat there and marvelled at the ingenuity of the modern scammer.

 Indian Consulate – Take Two

We didn’t get our visas approved. We were missing MORE paperwork. So we left AGAIN and visited Robert’s Café to use their WiFi and short our shiz out. Apparently, our pages weren’t aligned adequately to the square root of f*ck-off-and-stop-rejecting-my-attempts-to-visit-your-country.

Jesse felt sick, but I felt ravenous. I ordered a Turkish coffee, croissant and an omelette.

Play Shorts

I will BREAK anyone who tries to take these play-shorts away from me!!

Now, this isn’t a phenomenon that is entirely exclusive to this trip, but it is becoming a daily staple of the trip: in my regular day-to-day life, when I get home from work or practically ANYTHING that requires me to dress semi-respectably, my greatest joy in life is to race up to my room and quickly change into my play-shorts. They’re basically a pair of pink and white board shorts that my Mum bought me four years ago, and also has an identical pair of. I call these my play-shorts because as soon as I’m in them I feel free as a bird and just want to PLAY! They go with any basic t-shirt or singlet. Housemates over the years have witnessed me coming home from work silent and surly, only to emerge from my room ten minutes later joy-filled and goofy, racing around the house and singing annoying songs. There is something about these shorts…something that makes me want to play….

ANYWAY – after spending a day in the city not making eye-contact with men and having the entire population of Istanbul look at me like I’m a loose woman because I wear sandles (everyone has covered feet and covered everything here), I like to get home, peel of my layers and scream something along the lines of, “Eff YYOUUUUUUU EVERYONE!!!!” before dancing around as obnoxiously as I can in my play-shorts. This is an example of how that looks:

Letting off Western-woman steam….

Jesse even got in on it!

Fuck yeah, shorts!!!!!

Shorts make me move like THISSSSSS..!

Then things got a little weird:

The main thing is that we are comfortable expressing our weirdness in the confines of our own home.

Amazing Burnt Dal

Jesse had a spew in the afternoon (thank goodness) and then felt achy and sleepy. Whilst he slept, I tried to navigate around the apartment in semi-darkness (the one main light is fluorescent and would have been a bitch to sleep with on). I pulled up all the blinds for extra light, and also because I secretly love being so close to all the action on the street. Still ravenously hungry (I can only assume from all the walking) I set about making myself some dinner. First I had a coffee, with some grapes and a little bit of chocolate while I did some stuff on the computer. I drank a bottle of water and then some kafir (which we bought on our first day, thinking it was milk. It tastes disgusting with coffee). Then I fried four pieces of bread in oil and salt and ate those (proper loaf bread, not packet bread). I had been soaking some red lentils and decided it was time to cook them. I chopped half an onion roughly and put it in a saucepan with plenty of oil and salt. It cooked for about two minutes, and then I added the lentils to fry for a couple of minutes. This is to crack them and make them cook quicker. And this is where I made my first mistake. Instead of gently monitoring and stirring them, I put the lid on, walked away, and logged onto FACEBOOK. Yes, Facebook, the harbinger of doom to most well-intentioned cooking ventures.

Needless to say, when I checked on the lentils in five minutes’ time, they were burnt, and an inch of singed lentils coated the bottom of the pot. Second mistake: I should have tipped the good, not-burnt stuff off the surface into another pot. But I didn’t. I just added water and prayed that by not scraping the burnt stuff off, it would not tarnish the whole batch. It was a bitter-sweet result. By the time it had cooked, the dal itself was really, really delicious – except for the aroma of burning through the whole batch. But it was only very mild. So I still ate it and quite enjoyed it.

Some More Random Photos…

The Indian Consulate

Aussies, Londoners, Estonians.

At Taksim Square. It is very quiet because, apparently in Turkey, 8:30am is the butt-crack of dawn.

We had an appointment at 9:15am the next morning at the Indian Consulate to apply for our visas. We  left home around 8am and managed to find it OK – it was maybe a 20 minute walk from our apartment. We got there early, and met with some other travellers – a London couple and an Estonian couple.  We thought we had the many thousands of documents needed in the correct numerical and alphabetical order required, as well as a sound knowledge of the secret hand-shake required in braille – but none of us did. We all ended up having to go to local cafes to hook into the wifi and complete what was needed. The consulate closes at11:30am each day, so we decided to try again the next day.

I drank a lot of beer (well, I had to buy something…) while Jesse did the necessary paperwork. Hey, we can’t all be heros. The Londoners managed to get it all done, but apparently the Aussies (well, me) were big fans of f#cking around. Oh well, life continues.

Tear Gas

When this happened, I told myself I wasn’t going to blog about it, as I didn’t want to worry family or friends. A day later, after the shock had worn off, I thought, “Nah, it was real and part of my story. And – what an amazing story.”

We were relaxing in our apartment in the afternoon, when we suddenly heard a series of loud bangs. We both assumed they were gunshots. We rushed to the windows to have a look outside. The human fixtures of the street were unmoved. The old Turkish men seated outside the café opposite barely looked up from their chais (cays). We shrugged it off and, knowing it was a public holiday, said, “Fireworks.”

The bangs continued to go off intermittently throughout the afternoon and early evening, very close to where we lived. Jesse and I were meeting up with our new London friends for dinner around 7:30pm at Taksim square. We didn’t realise it at the time, but Taksim is like the Times Square of New York. We got ready and left the house at 7:15pm and walked up the hill to the main road. We turned left, and started walking towards Taksim square. It would probably be a kilometre walk.

About 100 meters into our walk, we noticed something was wrong. The riot police, who we had noticed earlier in the day, seemed more active on the street. Then we noticed we were walking against the crowd – everyone seemed to be walking towards us, coughing. We got too close, and sure enough walked into a fog of tear gas. It really, really stung. I couldn’t imagine being in the thick of it – it seemed like enough would kill someone. There was a lot of shouting. Of course, not speaking the language and only being in the country for less than two days, we had no idea what was going on.

Rattled, we turned around and went back down our street. Home to roughly 14.5 million people, Istanbul is an almost incomprehensible maze of laneways and back alleyways. It is more common to get completely lost than not. I pity the poor bastards who have to Google Map it.

Needless to say, we got very, very lost and were walking for a very long time. We had not wifi access and couldn’t pull up a map on either of our phones. When we finally reached Taksim Square, it was 8:25pm and our friends were nowhere to be seen. We were both disappointed, but decided to go for a wander around and soak up the atmosphere. There were thousands of people about. We found an amazing street that had an impressive array of shops and malls on either side. There were plenty of Western shops – McDonalds, Starbucks, Burger King, Sony, Adidas, Gucci, Gap, etc etc etc.

We didn’t talk much as there was so much to soak up and take in. We wandered along, two in the throng of thousands, when something scary happened.

Somewhere in the crowd ahead, there was shouting, and then screaming. And then people began running fast back towards us. And then – the whole crowd turned, and suddenly hundreds of people were screaming and sprinting back down the street towards us.

We had no idea what was going on. No idea. Were there guns? Were there bulls? At the time, I felt very much like I was running with the bulls – not that I’ve done it, but it seemed to have a similar, desperate energy of getting away as soon as possible from an unpredictable yet potentially deadly danger. I desperately prayed that neither I nor anyone else would trip and fall, as the likelihood of death by stampede was fair. We managed to dart down an alleyway off the main street, and then jogged away without looking back. At that point, my sense of adventure was nil and I just wanted to get home as soon as possible. As we continued through the back lanes, we heard people saying the word, “Gas.” So the police had discharged more tear gas canisters into a calm and peaceful crowd filled with couples, families, and children, and then risked a stampede. Smart.

It took us a long time to get home. There was a lot of action around our area, and more than once we wandering into the tail end of a tear gas cloud. It f#cking hurt. Some nice local men warded us off a couple of times, by waving us away and saying, “Problem, problem,” in a very heart-felt way.

When we arrived home, we could still hear explosions very close to our house – just at the top of the street. They were very, very loud. We closed all the windows just in case any tear gas wafted our way. The explosions and yelling went well on through the night. As I lay in bed, I got a sense of how petrifying it must have been for citizens in Europe during the second world war, and how easy it would be for the military, police or unruly mobs to invade people’s homes. We went to sleep quickly and didn’t say much: I think we were both in shock. The next morning when I woke up I was still jittery.

As with most of my previous travel ventures, I approached my take-off date in a combination of whirl-wind and haze: I could tell you all of the boring details about everything that had to get done before I left for my adventure, but that would be, well, the opposite of interesting. Something less boring to know is that I have approached this trip with a feeling of destiny: there is something at play here, pushing me in this direction. This feels right; like a segue to a new and exciting chapter of my life. Turkey, Iran, India and Nepal: all foreign, exotic lands which promise to take me as far out of my comfort zone as possible, which has been the whole point.

My first flight was with Virgin Airlines from Brisbane to Sydney. Despite the frantic and at times sleep-deprived nature of the past few weeks, I was finally feeling very light and clear. Everything had been done, and even if it hadn’t – I was on a plane, and on my way regardless. I had the window seat, and there was a young couple sitting next to me. We didn’t talk at all, (apart from a rather perfunctory hello) and I spent most of the short flight reading my book (To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf). However, what was to be a very short and uncomplicated flight turned out to be one of the scariest I’ve ever been on.

We were told the weather was sunny, gorgeous and clear in Sydney, which by every appearance it was as we flew it. The sun was setting, and from my window it was a beautiful red above the clouds. We started our descent and it was all very routine. The sun had set and the sky was beginning to darken. We had our seatbelts on. Suddenly, what seemed like only ten metres away from touchdown (but in reality was probably more) the pilot suddenly pulled up the plane it was seemed to be an emergency manoeuvre – a very shaky and frightening manoeuvre. We then headed out to sea and into a bunch of clouds where we couldn’t see anything. There was no announcement for a long time, and from the nervous chatter and laughter that suddenly broke out, I could tell everyone was thinking the same things as me: the pilot’s gone rogue and we are being hijacked.

After maybe ten minutes’ of conspicuous silence from the cabin crew, an announcement was finally made: there were strong winds around the airport, making it difficult for the pilot to land the plane. He was in communication with the flight tower to get the all-clear for making another attempt. We cruised the Sydney airspace aimlessly for twenty minutes and then made another attempt. This time the pilot was quicker to back out of the descent. We cruised again for another 20 minutes or so. But this time, people were freaking out. It became very clear that whether we like it or not, we were trapped in a very unpalatable situation over which we had absolutely no control. How long would we keep circling for? How much petrol was left? What about connecting flights? Etc, etc, etc.

At one point before the third attempt at landing, I made friends with the couple sitting next to me. The guy (who was seated in the middle) was a fairly solid, calm looking dude whose arm I instinctively wanted to grab every time there was bad turbulence. We started making small talk. I told them how I kept visualising a particularly strong gust of wind picking up the plane and flipping it over. The guy laughed out loud, and I felt better knowing that my fear was actually laughable. The girl told me about a friend she has who fears flying and throws up every time she’s in a plane – and whose job, unfortunately, involves flying several times a week, and often to other countries.

The pilot landed the plane on the third attempt after some hairy turbulence, and the plane erupted in joyous cheers and applause. Everyone was just so happy to be alive. If the pilot had been around when we disembarked, I would have slipped him a tenner. I was super grateful he paid attention at flight school, and knew enough not to crash our sorry asses into the ground. At Sydney I had a fairly uneventful transit to the International Airport via bus. There was myself, and one other woman and a man. The guy immediately looked familiar to me. Stocky with a shaved head and wearing jeans and a caramel-coloured t-shirt, I immediately started racking my brains for which personal-development course I’d met him at. He had an air of kindness and trustworthiness about him. We didn’t speak, but then saw each other again at customs. I asked where he was going – Dublin – and told him I was headed for Turkey. He was very friendly. We separated shortly after to be grilled by immigration.

I was flying with Etihad Airways to Istanbul, with a five-hour layover in Abu Dhabi. There were A LOT of people on the plane, which was to depart at 9:50pm. I hadn’t thought about it too deeply, but as I was boarding started to ponder: where would I be seated? What kind of seat-mate would I have for the next fourteen hours? Would I have easy or awkward access to the toilets? I arrive at my seat (aisle, yay!) to find that my neighbour is – bald man heading to Dublin! He looked up at me blankly when I said accusingly (but in a fun way) “You! What the heck (sic) are YOU doing here?” Of course, there is no correct way to answer that question when posed by a complete stranger, but from memory he answered appropriately enough. There is too much information of a detailed and personal nature to describe in a blog post, but we had a very lovely, heart-felt and transformative fourteen hour conversation. And the universe, no stranger to finding ways to indulge me, saw fit to delight me ever further. Ian (his name) lives in Melbourne and works for Cadbury as quality control. Yes, he has to eat chocolate for a living.

We hung out in Abu Dhabi airport during our lay-over, and drank some beer and ate chips. In honour of my departure from Australia, I order the dirtiest beer I could find – a Fosters – and Ian made it very, very clear to the waiter that the beer was for me. Yes, even in an ultra-conservative Muslim country, Fosters is a stain that most normal people do not ever want associated with their good name.

This beautiful man exchanged ideas and life philosophies with me for fourteen hours…and then bought me a Fosters and pretended he didn’t know me. To be fair, he did let me smother our communal chips in tomato sauce! Thanks Ian, you’re a prince amongst men!

I would like to go into more detail about the people and how I perceived them – but ignorance regarding their dress, religion and culture prevents me. Suffice it to say that there were many men and women in traditional/religious Muslim garments, and they all seemed to be respectful towards people of other cultures. Some of the women were very beautiful and regal. I noticed they had what looked to be henna tattoos on their hands. Many of them had exquisite jewellery, handbags and sunglasses.

The four hour flight to Instanbul was not nearly so enjoyable, as I got moved around several times so that a group of Muslim women could all sit together and not have to sit next to a man. I got redirected to another seat (next to a man) who stated loudly that he did not want to sit next to me. So I ended up getting an entire row of four chairs to myself and having a sleep. By that stage I hadn’t slept in nearly 40 hours.

We finally touched down in Turkey, and the first thing I noticed was that the ground crew all looked like sixteen year old boys. It wasn’t long until I found Jesse sitting at the baggage claim (distinguishable by the fact that I know him, and also his trademark fedora) and we sat on the floor with our backpacks heaped around us, and laughed and acted like shitheads while people glared at us. It was fun.

We first have to take a stupid photo…

Then we take a semi-nice one…

We were both extremely tired, so we got a coffee and quickly found a bus to take us to our accommodation (an Air B n B place). We probably carried our back packs (20 and 25 kilos respectively) for 25 minutes once the bus dropped us off. Which, might I add, in the grand scheme of things isn’t too bad (we’ve come to realise). had an early night: we went out for a wander, ate dirty street kababs and then went home and slept. It had been a big 48 hours!

Spoken words cannot do justice to the rich inner lives that each of us live.

No matter how politely or sincerely delivered, the words, “good” or “fine” or “interesting” are just utterances; accepted tender in an exchange which demands a particular kind of rudimentary currency.

Words are symbols of our feelings and thoughts, but they are not our feelings and thoughts. Our feelings and thoughts are too rapid, too complex, too subtle and nuanced to ever be fully understood through language. Each of us.

People who are intuitive have an edge. Somehow, such people can look and feel and sense the life behind the speech and limiting language. They dip into the sea and feel for themselves what it is like instead of reading the weather report.

Sometimes the best kind of empathy and understanding occurs in silence. Through deeply feeling and hearing what a person is saying on a different level, and not being concerned with having an appropriate response, or acting a certain way.

And in our own minds – remember too, that words are just symbols. Symbols which have been created to give life and coherence to our existence and what we think and fee. It’s easy to over identify with words – can’t, should, happy, sad, big, hate, love. But if words had never been invented, if we had no framework for our thoughts, we would be left with a sense of being and perceiving. Not labeling and judging.

I believe that in being and perceiving we can learn the most about ourselves, and the world around us. We are free to see our own judgement and short-comings, and how we cause ourselves to suffer. We can see the world in its boundless glory, everything beautiful and miraculous and perfect how we find it.

It was long and soft and slipped like silk through my fingers. Of all the saris I had worn up until now, this was my favorite – this faded, baby pink sari, gifted to me by a girl I barely knew, but had admired from afar. A jagged splash of deep rose ink and a small knot tied in one corner were the only signs that it had not always been mine. The end part, or the pallu had ornate brown and gold leaves stitched into it. It was seven meters long but felt like nothing, like air; a gorgeous celestial garment woven from ether and dreams.

Up until then I had only two saris of my own: one (also second-hand) was white with burned gold, brown and grey leaf-like patterns on it. It had a two-inch brown trim on the top and bottom length of it and was so light and fine that I had to wind it an additional time around my slip, just to be sure that nothing was revealed. This was my first sari. The second one I sourced for myself at a shop in Brisbane: it cost $30 dollars and was made of a heavy, non see-through fabric. It was gorgeous in its own right – a dark emerald green, emblazoned with bright gold stitching and an intricate, gold-patterned pallu. It was striking.The pallu had not been hemmed, and there were thick strands of loose material hanging down from it which I never did get around to fixing.

It took me a long time to achieve mastery in dressing myself in sari, as it was an intricate business. However, I was told that gradual mastery was quite common. For the first few months, I would stand in the Centre bathroom in my long white cotton slip (made specifically for saris) and blouse, waiting for my friend to rush in while disciples started to gather outside for the meditation. She would wrap and pleat my sari around me, talking all the time so that I could learn. The blouse sleeves stop a few inches above the elbow, and the bottom of it sits just under the bust, so the midriff is exposed. The blouse is buttoned from the front and scoops down below the collar-bone. The slip was tied high around the waist with a sort of draw-string, and had to be secured tightly in order to support several yards of material that needed to hang off it. Two large safety pins were used to secure the thick fold of pleats at the front, and to secure the layers of pleated material on the left-hand shoulder.

It did indeed take me a long time to “get it”, including one trip to New Zealand and one trip to New York to see my master. In the end though, like any good mother, my friend had to stand back and let me test my wings. There were many botched attempts, some occurring in my home-town Centre, and others in more exposed forums. These, however, were an accepted part of every females disciple’s initial years on the path. Saris were to be worn at the twice-weekly formal meditations, and during business hours for those working at disciple enterprises. The boys were required to wear all white for purity.

When I went for my first trip to New Zealand, I was not prepared for how many other female disciples there would be, or that they were all relatively young, like me. I was the exception at my own Centre in Australia.  Here, I was one of many. Nor was I prepared for the awe I would feel at meeting so many of my sister devotees. Their devotion, their poise, their inner beauty seemed to radiate outwards and make everything and everyone around them sacred and pure.

There were many functions and meditations to attend in New Zealand, and I only had two saris. At some point, I was gifted with the beautiful pink one which was to become a favourite. I also purchased another brand-new sari whilst I was there. This one was a deep midnight blue, beautifully hemmed and had gold embroidery on the pallu and edges. It was magnificent, and everyone exclaimed when I wore it for the first time, although the material was crisp and slightly coarse from never being used. It was to become my “good sari” for the first couple of years.

I found it difficult to buy saris in Brisbane, my home town. The shop that I initially purchased from closed down, and it would seem that I had to wait for overseas or interstate trips to bring some variety into my meditation wardrobe.

I visited my master many times in New York, in the suburb of Jamaica, Queens. Some of his students had set up businesses there, which were chiefly supported and sustained by other students. One shop on Parsons Boulevard primary sold garments for female disciples. During my first couple of trips to New York, I was too shy to go in there for any longer than a couple of minutes. The lightness and purity of the space were somehow both dazzling and overwhelming. The staff were like celebrities in my eyes: women (or ‘girls’ as we called them) who had spiritual names; who had been with the master for many years, decades even. Women who lived in New York, and who I had only seen from afar when someone had pointed them out and whispered something to me about their greatness or special connection with our master. I felt out of place and inferior around them.

When I finally did work up the courage to enter the store (usually dressed in my standard sneakers, cargo pants and t-shirt) it took more courage not to leave; not to feel like an alien in this heavenly realm, where the colour black did not exist; where celestial music played, and delicate trinkets, incense and gorgeous arrays of fabrics colluded to impress upon the customer that they were no longer in Jamaica, Queens, or even on Earth.

Over the years I purchase many of my favourite saris from this store, and all of them were beautiful. One which I became renown for was a power-red sari with bright silver spangles and embroidery around the pallu and hem. People always commented when I wore it that it suited me, and that perhaps it reflected something in my aura. Some called it “Kali red”, after the Indian female deity Maha Kali, who transforms through death.

Another favourite was a gorgeous hot-pink sari with swirls of light and dark toned pinks running through it that always made me feel vibrant and girly and empowered. I purchased a few that were very fine and ethereal – one was field-green with big rose-coloured lillies on it, and tones of burnt gold. Another was like something from a dream or lofty meditation – dark blue, purple, light blue, merging into creams and whites and golds. I didn’t wear that one much, on account of it being very fine and often slipping out of place. I had different coloured blouses to match with all of them, but would wear white as a staple.

I always loved wearing sari. To me, it heightened my aspiration, invoked purity and consciousness, and inspired reverence. One “boy” disciple gamely ventured to a group of girls one day in New York that saris win over street clothes any day; that shorts or skirts or pants can never compete with the long, flowing garments that make women look like goddesses of the utmost purity.

When I left the path, one of things I missed most was wearing sari. I kept my saris for years until, in a time of upheaval and uncertain of what to do with them any longer, I gave them to a friend who said she would like to have them. This is a vague recollection, and I am not even certain of who this friend is. If I am meant to see them again, I am sure they will find their way back to me. Each one has special memories attached to it. The midnight-blue sari I wore with a white cardigan when I first met my master, on a crisp New York day in April. I was twenty-one. From hundreds of onlookers sitting on the bleachers, I answered the call for any “little” girls to race down to him and arm wrestle with another girl to see who was the strongest. I competed against an eastern European girl and won. The master took a photo of us from his seat, and I am grinning cheekily back at him, still locking hands with my competitor, both of us lying across the ground in sari, oblivious to the dirt. Then there were the saris I always wore to work in the disciple-run cafes in Australia and America – there were many, but a series of them were fluroescent and floral patterned. There was the pastel violet and sky-blue sari I usually wore on my birthday, or “soul-day.” The white sari I usually wore on my master’s soul-day.The white sari I wore with layers of jackets after he died, and I watched him being buried in New York one freezing October.

Each sari has special memories and special meanings. For me, they were sacred garments. I hope that wherever they are now, they are bringing joy to their owner, and filling the space with their sacred memories. They were truly blessed, from years of meditation and aspiration and selfless-service, as I was blessed to wear them. They kept me safe and now I pray they are being kept safe in someone else’s keeping.

Even before my feet touched the floor this morning, my mind became bogged down with the things I thought I “had” to do today. My Sunday sleep-in was spoiled as soon as I woke with feelings of dreaded duty.

The seconds, minutes and hours slipped by as I procrastinated doing what I felt I ought to do. I was grumpy, resistant and filled with criticism. Most of my thoughts were negative. Tired and feeling hurried and busy from the last hectic week, my thoughts were still busily zooming around and colliding with one another. My week had been busy. My thoughts were busy. There was a distinct lack of spaciousness in my life.

Eventually, I dangled a carrot in front of my own nose and went to my favorite coffee shop to read, have a coffee and relax for a couple of hours before doing the things I was so distinctly not looking forward to doing.

After chatting on the phone with a few people who reminded me I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t feel like doing, and really starting to appreciate the atmosphere of my favourite hangout, my whole body began to relax. My thoughts, previously inflexible, rapid and focused on a single, distasteful outcome, were now expansive, positive and spacious.

I sipped my coffee, ate my Huavos Rancheros, played with my phone and then stretched out on the couch to read my book. “The Places That Scare You” is written by the famous Western Buddhist nun, Pema Chodron. In the twelve years that I have been studying meditation and spiritual philosophy, this is the book that speaks most clearly to me. Instead of resorting to positive affirmations, striving for higher and loftier goals and endeavouring to always be upbeat and happy, it encourages readers to sit with their pain, their discomfort and their suffering without judgement.

Once we stop running from our pain and can be still with it and view it with compassion, we can begin to show more compassion, love and non-judgement towards ourselves. There is nowhere to be, nothing to do, no outcome to be achieved – only acceptance of our own moment-by-moment existence, with all of its pain and suffering and joys – and a warrior’s ability to be present with all of those things.

With my body stretched out and feet pointing towards the road, I was in prime position to watch the cars go by, the birds flying in the distance, the clouds moving slowly, and the way the light shifted as the sun began its gradual descent behind the townhouses and office blocks lining Wynnum Road. Someone had hung a dream-catcher on the front awning, and it spun and moved and reacted to the flow of traffic moving past it.

And suddenly, I fell into myself, felt peaceful and happy, and wondered why I was placing so much pressure on myself earlier in the day. I realised that it was only now that I had the opportunity to visit the place between thoughts; that hallowed place where, once noticed, a person can dwell in peace and equanimity and budding awareness of their own self. Relaxation, enjoyment and fun creates space in our lives, and in our minds.

In what could be considered the negation of my responsibilities, I spent nearly five hours at the coffee shop, the last hour spent playing cards with a friend and drinking beer. Then we left, went to another coffee shop, had hot drinks and treats, and then played in the local park.

I came home and didn’t have any regrets about my day. My anger, resentment and feelings of pressure from the morning had disappeared and were replaced by ease and calm and the beginnings of a more loving and compassionate outlook. I never did the thing I was dreading, and didn’t feel bad about it.

It is only when we show love and compassion and understanding towards ourselves that we can then show it towards others. We can’t fill our neighbour’s cup from ours if there is nothing inside of it. So first, be good to yourself. Then, be good within yourself. And then lastly, be good to others.

I love to write. When I write, I come alive and feel as though I can do magic; that anything’s possible. All of the wild thoughts and imaginings and creations in my head clamber to take form and rush from my mind down to my fingers almost quicker than I can assemble them.

Yet I have found far too many reasons not to write over the last couple of years. Consumed by doubt, my words – still swirling around in my mind; still vivid and colourful – refused to be channeled for anyone else to see. They grew shy, and unsure of themselves. In they end, they hardly knew how to come out at all, even for me. When they did, they were hesitant, and disappeared quickly. My spring of creativity dried up, or perhaps it was dammed. The words no longer vied for my attention. They hid, impervious to coaxing, and took solace in the fact that they were safe and comfortable.

Yet here I am, writing this now and yes: it feels clunky and base and contrived. Like I’ve lost my rhythm, my treasured flow. Like I’m cutting coarse fabric with blunt scissors. “Use it or lose it” – the perfectionist in me says I’ve lost it, and cringes at the idea of clicking “publish” and sending this into cyberspace to be met by you. But I’m determined to write it, because today I promised myself that I would start to do just one thing differently in order to change my life for the better, and give life to my precious words again.

That one thing different is this: instead of saying “no”, say “yes.” Instead of finding reasons to stay safe and comfortable and right, find reasons to do that which burns to be done. Feed the aspiration, not the fear. Find reasons to do the undo-able, speak the unspeakable, and say, “yes” to what is in the heart to do.

It is hard. It is hard being a perfectionist and offering up imperfect words. It is hard to feel that something which was once light and easy and fun is now hard and sluggish and requiring conscious effort. It’s harder to have no words; to have only the yearning for words, and the regret at all the words that have gone unwritten.

I am determined to feed my aspiration. Today, imperfect words. Tomorrow, imperfect words. In ten years’ time – more imperfect words. Because there is no such thing as perfect words. There is only what we want to do, and whether we have the courage to manifest it – to say “yes” to our aspiration instead of our fears.

So this is my one thing different. Choosing “want” over “don’t want,” and “yes” over “no.” Thank you for reading these imperfect words. I hope very, very much that there will be more to come.

Being thoroughly exhausted by the festivities and merry-making of the Christmas/New Year season, I requested to have this Monday off work as Annual Leave. The day was a success in the sense that I did absolutely nothing and rested myself in every possible way (I even ate soft food).

A couple of highlights from my day: I went to the Southside Tea Room in Morningside, a grungy little establishment bordering on hipster and located only two minutes’ walking distance up the road from me. There, despite the sweat dripping off my face, I denied the waiter’s offer of a cold drink and ordered coffee instead. Now, I love this place with a fairly sizable portion of my very sizable heart, but this jury is clear: the coffee is consistently shite. To be fair, I believe this has more to do with the actual coffee blend used than the waiter’s technique of making it.

I also ordered a breakfast burrito and this made up for the less than this drink put a sizzle in my pants performance of the coffee. It had chorizo (my favourite), mexican black beans, avocado, tomato, cheese, sour cream and a fried egg. It was topped with sour cream, red onion, diced tomato, a sprinkle of pepper and a wedge of love, I mean lime. It was as big as a tall man’s shoe, and I couldn’t finish it all in one sitting. However, a favourite habit of mine lately at restaurants and cafes is to ask for a doggy bag – waste not, want not!

After having a read and updating my Facebook status I paid, and the guy at the counter randomly started up a conversation about haunted houses and I suggested that they should host a ghost story-telling competition there one night. Alas, I am behind the times – they already did that for Halloween! I left feeling slightly disappointed that I had missed out on such a fun night.

At home, I settled in with two good books – “Beyond 2012 – A Shaman’s Call to Personal Change and the Transformation of Global Consciouness” by James Endredy, and “Susan at School” by Jane Shaw. Susan at School is part of the Susan series of books written in the 1960s and passed on to me by my mother, whose name is also Susan. The books follow the misadventures of the loveable Scotch school-girl, Susan Lyle, who goes to live with her cousins in London whilst her parents are abroad. There, her natural curiosity and penchant for “helping” lead to many comical, trying and heart-warming situations. “Susan at School” tells of Susan’s first term at St Ronan’s boarding schools with her cousins Midge and Charlotte, and the many scrapes and triumphs she encounters.

At 3:30pm this afternoon, as I was heating up the remainder of my burrito, the world seemed to go dark as a massive storm loomed over Brisbane. I enjoyed reading curled up on the couch with the air conditioning oozing sweet coolness into the room, whilst outside Mother Nature’s oppressive heat reached boiling point and erupted with heavy rain, lightening, thunder and wind.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in a slightly less self-indulgent manner – giving a lift to my house-mate whose train was delayed, taking a few calls from friends, doing my washing, watching the storm, journalling, imagining that I was communing with a gecko, playing rhyming games with my house mate, and discussing hilarious and implausible scenarios involving me pretending to be blind and dumb and attempting to get my favourite dog who happens to look like a guide-dog into an office space.

And then blogging! That’s pretty much it. Here are some photos for your enjoyment.

Julie x