Dreaming Happy

Saturday. I’m on the Met Line. Somewhere between Finchley Road and Northwick Park. The book I’m reading makes me cry. Like, proper cry. Like all those clichés about waterworks, about torrents, cascades and ceaseless flows of tears. There is an absolute excess of saltwater escaping from my eyes. And for just a minute I actually can’t see the words on the page anymore. They’re blurred. Its like I’m looking at the book through a swimming pool.

Those people across from me must think I’m a lunatic. Especially if they could see what I was reading. Because it isn’t Uncle Tom’s Cabin (one of the few works of fiction to produce significant tears), it isn’t about death or illness or injustice. It’s a - I’m shamed to admit it, but in my defence, its research – self help book, a life coaching book. A book on happiness.

Happiness. And there I am crying like a big fat thing that cries a lot.

Were it not for a writing project I’ve taken on, I would not be reading this book. I don’t think its really my thing, and besides, I don’t think I’m the target demographic. I presumed it may have something useful to say to me, but why was What Happy Working Mothers Know[i] making me cry?

Sure I’m childless and I haven’t worked a full time regular hours type job in four years. But I still have various commitments in my life that all require my time, I have friends and family who deserve a decent relationship with me. Surely, even if this book wasn’t immediately relevant I could still glean some insight from these happy mothers. I’m willing to be inspired as to how best balance work and relationship pressures, how to lead a happy and fulfilling life, how to follow my dreams, and achieve them. Oh wait, right. There it is. Achieve. My angst. My lack of achievement.

I recall being in yr 6 and asked in some stupid subject to identify my goals and finding this a vaguely off putting concept. Yes, there might be things that I wanted. But I wasn’t a goal setter. In much the same way my concept of what a feminist is skewed by some horror of my own inability to be a successful person (it would follow that if I became that I’d also be a successful woman, but dealings with my angst over the F word are for another day), I had a distain for being a “goal-setter”. A goal setter was a competitive, selfish, ambitious thing, who probably played a lot of sport and nothing in common with me, so in my 12 yr old wisdom I developed an aversion to goal setting. Again, when I was at TAFE we had to identify two short term and long term goals, and man, did I struggle. I don’t remember what I wrote. Perhaps something like finishing my apprenticeship. I know that one of my long term goals was to build meaningful relationships with the people I had met leading beach mission at South West Rocks and to see people in that area come to know Christ. Ambitious? In one sense, yes, very, though probably not at all what a career advisor would be looking for.

So somehow I just never really thought about what I wanted. When I was five I wanted to be a children’s book illustrator and writer (I called myself Jo Katar. Katar was an imminent writer of junior fiction. My mother has all the first editions). When I was a teenager I wanted to be a model and I sang into my hairbrush just like so many other girls, because I would join the spice girls now that Geri had quit. But the one small dream I had, to be recognised, to sing, was a dream and a dream alone and I left it locked in, drifting around my purple adolescent bedroom, because as far as I was concerned no one ever became a singer. I never voiced this. Never wrote it down. Never really realised it was what I wanted. It was just this thing that was. That floated about through my teenage and adult existence. What is the point I told myself in chasing a dream. Better off actually doing something, learning something, being useful, making money. I didn’t really see myself as settling for less, but of being grounded and realistic. I have a big fear of one day waking up and being sixty and thinking gosh, I spent my life chasing something that wasn’t mine to have. I had to insure against this. In so doing, was I not being sensible. Was, I not perhaps even being moral, because I was working and earning money and buying a car and paying off the loan and paying my rent. I was leading a youth group and a bible study and a beach mission. And that was me, and my identity and my happiness.

But page 24, said “Ask yourself the following questions; listen to your inner coach, be positive with yourself; and help yourself see how you can achieve the dream”. And I fell apart, then and there, on the Met Line, because I felt so powerless to do any of the things this happiness book suggested. I found myself wondering if I actually knew anything about anything.

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[i] Greenberg, C & Avigdor, B (2009). What Happy Working Mothers Know, John Wiley and Sons, New Jersey

Thirty Things

So I've put together this list of thirty things to do over the next year, before my thirtieth birthday. As I say, its not really an age thing, just an effort to pin down some of things I'd like to see and do, and to have them on a list so I can tick them off and assure myself I've done something.

Thirty Things to do between 10^th November 2011 and 9^th November 2012

VISIT – places and people

1. visit Salisbury and Stonehenge, Angel Corner Tea Room
2. go back to the Mucha Museum in Prague
3. climb a mountain in Wales. Tryfan, with Laura
4. Visit Rachelle in Israel
5. visit the Lake District and the Beatrix Potter House
6. Go to Lyme
7. Go to Edinburgh
8. get the eurostar to France or Belgium
9. visit the Cadbury Chocolate Factory
10. go to Dover
11. Visit Jeordis and Tineke
12. Ride a bike on the towpath in Newry (because I never learnt to ride a bike)

WATCH, LISTEN, DO – cultural type things

13. Watch an Opera at the ROH
14. Listen to a Symphony Orchestra
15. Go to Lates at The Science Museum
16. watch November 5 fireworks
17. Watch Les Miserables (from the front!)
18. hear some proper folk music crouch end
19. read Daniel Deronda, George Eliot
20. read A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, Mary Wollstonecraft

CREATE, write, sing, bake etc

21. have at least 10 singing lessons (before I throw out my voice once and for all)
22. bake (gluten free) panettone
23. write 10 000 words of the 'novel' I started last year
24. write a complete first draft of Krista's story by June
25. Go to rock and roll dance classes.
26. make fudge. (I’ve been saying I’ll do this for months now)
27. be drawn as a 1940s Hollywood pin-up. (oh yes!)

EAT

28. eat a at a Michelin starred restaurant or some such thing. (you can see my fanciness absolutely shining through!)

VOLUNTEER, serve

29. for a charity
30. become involved in a ministry at my new church

He gave me a heart and he gave me a smile...

Matthew asked me if I would ever post something on my blog that I didn't label as a rant. If the genre markers of a rant are angst and the phrases "can I just say..." and "at the end of the day..." and "I'm not racist, but, then this is not a rant. If a rant is a declaration based on the individual's life experience, then maybe it is. At any rate I have tried to branch out and today I am mixing up my genres a bit and colouring my post/rant with some positivity and a sprinkling of a bible study...

I stumbled across Isaiah 54 the other day. The opening verses were well known to me. The call to :

¹ “Sing, barren woman,

you who never bore a child;
burst into song, shout for joy,

you who were never in labor ,

has always both comforted and terrified me. Comforting because God has love for those the world forgets, because he has other plans and other blessings. Terrifies me because I think what if I'm too secure, to fortunate to really rely on God and experience the joy of his love. What if I have to be broken and desolate, rejected and remain childless before I truly value my salvation. Because a significant part of me, perhaps all of me, doesn't want an uncomfortable life. I wonder which of my securities I could survive without. Which of my possessions are actually luxuries and if I would ever be willing to let them go, should I be required to. But a willingness to submit to personal hardship, to make a sacrifice, great or small is not my thought for the day.

My thought for the day is am I in love with God. Don't get me wrong, I love him very much, and I am very thankful and I plan to ever be developing my understanding of him, through his word. But am I in love with him? In my academic, intellectually leaning Sydney Anglican heart/soul/mind, is there any room for emotionalism, for passion and excitement. Because this week I as I stumbled actross Isaiah 54 on Monday night, attended my pastorate at HTB on Tuesday, and a lecture on William Tyndale and the English Bible on Wednesday night at Christ Church Kensington, I've become (re)aware of the fact that both these things, a biblically informed understanding and a healthy dose of emotions need to be apparent.

Leaning too much in either way isn't really going to be helpful. In the same way that marrying someone and saying "well I'm in love with this person and our marriage is going to be grand because we're in love and will be for the next 50 years" is probably a bit naive, or that it would be a little cold hearted and odd to say "well, marrying this person is mutually convenient, because its much easier to shop and cook for two and have this person around to share the housework with and having someone to help me fill out my tax return would be a bonus, and of course we'll hang out occasionally because its good to have someone to chat to", it would be naive and weird to treat God and my relationship with him like that.

Sometimes I know I've been scared of too much emotionalism, too much of things that seem like superstition. Sure, God gave me a brain and I didn't sign over my rational capabilities in return for salvation, but he also gave me heart (and he gave me a smile, he gave me Jesus and he made me his child etc). So I hope as I indulge the part of my brain that likes to learn and know, that I will, as a result, keep falling in love with the God of the bible.

⁴ “Do not be afraid; you will not be put to shame.
Do not fear disgrace; you will not be humiliated.
You will forget the shame of your youth
and remember no more the reproach of your widowhood.
⁵ For your Maker is your husband—
the LORD Almighty is his name—
the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer;
he is called the God of all the earth.
⁶ The LORD will call you back
as if you were a wife deserted and distressed in spirit—
a wife who married young,
only to be rejected,” says your God.
⁷ “For a brief moment I abandoned you,
but with deep compassion I will bring you back.
⁸ In a surge of anger
I hid my face from you for a moment,
but with everlasting kindness
I will have compassion on you,”
says the LORD your Redeemer.

Birthdays & Achievement

Its got nothing to do with age. The fact that I don’t like birthdays. I don’t have a problem with getting older in itself. I have a huge problem with possibility of wasting time, of not doing anything, of realising that time has gone by and I’ve not used it to do something. That I’ve not achieved, not created, not made, not done anything that has significantly altered my life or the small percentage of the world I’m in contact with. And birthdays you see, serve as a reminder of the passing of time and a lack of significant achievement. Every birthday, because its celebrated, is remembered. I can remember where I was on the 9^th of November a year ago, two, five or ten years ago, what I was doing, what I had hoped for then, and I see how I’ve changed and how I haven’t, and mostly I see another year gone by in which I’ve still not done anything.

There are a few ideas then at the heart of my birthday angst. Firstly this angst could stem from the fact that I undervalue the things I have done, because the truth is, I haven’t been sitting entirely idle for 29 years. Secondly it could be because I want other people to recognise what I have done. Thirdly it could be that I have a misplaced or warped perception of the importance of achievement and recognition. Chances are its all of those things.

Let’s look at the first aspect. Have I actually done things that could count as an achievement, and do I therefore undervalue who and what I am, the result of which being that every birthday I’m convinced another year as gone by and been wasted. So, Miss Rosie Clare, CV, education, summary: HSC with UAI over 90 (just). Diploma of Make-up Artistry. Cert III hairdressing, Bachelor of Creative Arts. (Question I’d love to have answered: do you actually write the ‘of’, or is it invisible like the ‘of’ in 9^th November). Counteract by stating, I achieved my results in highschool with very little effort – in fact when it was my turn to have morning tea with the principal I proudly told him of how I’d done the least work in my school career in Yrs 11 & 12 – and therefore my marks were nothing to write home about as by rights I should have done a lot better, if only I’d actually pushed myself and done some work. The Make-up diploma? Well, most things about how I do make-up now are the result of hanging out in the wig room at the Opera House, not the year I spent going to college. Hairdressing? I did win an award at the end of this course. For coming first in the subject known as physiology, in which we looked at some very basic biology and chemistry to do with skin and hair. It was on a par with things I’d learnt at age 15. To be fair a lot of the girls in the course were only a bit older than that. But I turned my private school girl nose up at the prize thinking, and all though I would have been mortified had I not won it, I handed the tacky trophy straight to my dad, and smiling, I told him it should go straight to the pool room. And then finally I did get tertiary educated, and I got my BCA and with surprisingly little effort maintained a distinction average, but seriously big deal. I wrote essays on whether or not Madonna had been a blessing or a curse to feminism (I fence sat), and on Little Red Riding Hood, and then at graduation they made us accept our bits of paper on the same day as people who had completed post-graduate degrees in Policing, Intelligence and Counter Terrorism, and if that doesn’t make you feel like your Bachelor (of) Writing Short Stories and Making Hypothetical Grant Applications to the Australia Council is less than meaningful, then, well, I envy your self assurance.

CV, summary, work experience: Seven and half years of wigs and make-up at Opera Australia, Wardrobe Maintenance at Belvoir St (My first job after leaving a wig making trainee-ship, where I did four loads of washing per shift and was paid about $21/hr to do so, and consequently earned my previous weekly wage in half the amount of hours. It was grand), an awful lot of wig making for various people both in Sydney and London, some events promotion, an admin internship, some casual work as an untrained childcare worker when I was 19, voluntarily leading youth groups and camps. Its just what I do. And I do it competently, cheerfully and diligently. Reliably, consistently, independently but also in a team, respecting the work of others, taking responsibility for my actions and following the direction of my supervisors. Don’t we all.

So, these are the things I’ve done. Which perhaps I don’t see enough value in, while simultaneously, and maybe paradoxically, wish other people saw more value in, or something. But just two days ago, I heard my own voice saying, I think its important to remember that praise from people is nice, but not necessary. And really, I ought to listen to myself. Because I’m not existing for the sake of hearing other people saying ‘well done’. I began my first un-finished novel when I was about 16. And in it, I have one of the characters, a girl who is very much me, but of course we don’t admit that because fiction is not autobiographical and to read the author into an invented character is bad analysis, is having an existential crisis in the way only 17yr olds can. She is sitting at her desk, her head down, thinking things over, churning over the dictionary definition of life - Capacity for growth, functional activity and continual change until death - and getting lost in the questions for which she has no answers. And then she pauses. And looks up, and:

Stuck on my wall, on faded pink paper, and written in purple, are the words: “here is the conclusion of the matter: Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man. For God will bring every deed into judgement, including every hidden thing, whether it is good or evil.”[1] And then I knew. I knew that all I had ever been taught to believe was true. I knew what to write…

I need a bit more of her clarity. Because deep down I know my issue with achievement or the lack of it is also a tension between a desperate need I have to feel noticed, and a belief I hold that the worth of my life is not found in what I have achieved or not achieved, or in who has praised me or thanked me or given any type of affirmation for any small thing I’ve contributed, but that my worth is found only and always in my relationship with the God who has saved me. The God who has seen every deed, all I have done and not done, both the things I’m proud of and ashamed of, whether they’ve been public or hidden, good or evil, and who considers me worthwhile not because I have a particular UAI or degree or a growing number of half written novels, but because I am his. I know this. I believe this. But I forget this. And I start to feel that praise and recognition from people is necessary, that when I do something worthwhile then I’ll be significant, then I’ll be happy. And when I get published, or famous, or noteworthy, then I’ll have achieved something. When I’m influential on a scale bigger than I can now imagine, then I’ll be important. But should any of those things happen, they won’t make me anymore special to God than I already am. And they probably wouldn’t make me any more content with my achievements, because I know I’ll always be left thinking I could have worked harder, could have achieved more.

This is why my angst over achievement and birthdays is hard to explain and hard for me to move on from. Its just such a wide angst. An angst that is personal, and about self image and self worth, but one that is also about theology. And probably I need to change the way I view the things I have done, but also I need to change my need for significance based on achievement. And remember that praise from people is nice, but not necessary.

But back to my initial complaint, my dislike of birthdays and the fear of wasted time. In order to counteract my feelings of not doing anything and my fear of wasted time, I’m taking a light hearted approach, and doing that stereotypical thing of creating a list of things to do before the next birthday. My list[2] – entitled thirty things, because I’ll be thirty this time next year – is not about career advancement or getting married or going skydiving, but just a list of things I’d like to do, places to visit, cultural activities to take part in and a couple of creative things, like actually finishing one of those novels, things that I can take responsibility of and do so that next year when I’m swamped with feeling like I’ve not done anything I can look at the things crossed off the list and think, well at least I’ve done those things, and what fun it was.

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[1] Ecclesiastes 12:13-14

[2] The list is still being composed. When I have thirty things on it I will publish it on this blog and I shall make it my project throughout the year to document and review my progress through the list.

Can I just admit failure now?

Its 12:14 am Friday morning London time so whatever I post now is not technically going to be a Thursday thought. So, given that I'm tired I think I might just go to bed.

It is a shame, especially as I started thinking about today's thought on tuesday, and earlier today I wrote 718 words on Hope, how I'd lost it, but was working to regain it. But the irony or whatever it is continues, and I know I'm too tired to polish up those words and post them at a standard that Miss Mediocrity will be happy with.

So yes. I'm done. I may or may not be back next week.