The Gift of Giving

I have two brothers and no sisters, at least not ones by birth. But I have been lucky, my soul search, my quest for identity, has been guided by two amazing friends. They are my soul sisters. Both are natural givers. I realise what I admire most is their natural gift of giving. I’ve found, when givers unite, they share, and wow is it powerful.

I discovered my community is a community of the present and, of my deep past. I recognise being part of a community of women. Wise women, sisters in spirit who worked toward healing the earth and serving the people. I am a giver. I feel happy when I am being a giver. I feel content and peace at heart level, when I give.

Problem is, there are many in the commercial world who don’t get it. They devalue givers and ‘sell’ the concept that being a giver is a negative because people take advantage. They claim being a giver means you are not taking care of yourself, or that being a giver means you’re not making choices for yourself or not doing what you really want. They say we all need to be at least a little selfish. After many years of soul searching, I can finally say, for me, that’s bullshit!

Natural givers are nurturers because that is ‘who’ they are. It is their natural state and mother nature, karma, law of attraction, life forces or whatever you call that intangible force that surrounds, loves and guides us, takes care of us. We can be ourselves, we can be givers and we can be proud of being givers.

I think the people who try to encourage givers to ‘think more about themselves’ may simply be projecting elements of fear within themselves.  I question if they are worried that if they give, people may expect more of them and, in that case, they are scared they won’t have enough to give. Maybe they feel guilty because they are not natural givers. Non natural givers may be looking for validation for their own behaviour by telling people who give, not to ‘put others first’. Perhaps they haven’t realised it is ok not to be a natural giver – because, whether we’re a giver or not a giver, we each need the space to be ourself.

I guess the reason for sharing this is to encourage the natural givers of the world. Embrace who you are, see the gift you offer the world and allow, gratitude. Please listen to the voice of your heart when it says “yes” – even if it means ignoring the voice of the head when doubt creeps in and you start to wonder why you do what you do. Trust in the power of being your natural self. Remember your soul self and, if you feel tired, have faith in the community of givers. When givers unite, they share.

My Grandmother, My Idol

Grandmother, think for a moment, what does the the word mean to you?

What is your first thought, your first emotion? What do you think when you hear someone say… grandmother? To me, grandmother is more than a word, more than a title, more than a label that defines a familial relationship. Rather,  it is an aspiration.

Please, let me explain.

To be a grand is to strive to be the best. To be a mother is to be nurturing, protective, supportive and to love unconditionally. That is what my Grandmother is to me.  An inspirational nurturer who guided her family to freedom – physically, mentally and emotionally.

My Grandmother always understood, it seemed she knew me better than I knew myself. She saw, even when I didn’t. My Grandmother introduced me to a world of grace and innate nobility. She was a lady, not the pampered, vacuous kind, but a real lady, one who held herself with dignity, pride and compassion. A graceful individual who shouldered her responsibility and did what needed to be done.

Throughout my life, my Grandmother has been my mentor. She is the person I look to for hope, guidance, support and knowing. She is the person I look up to. She is the lady I want to emulate.

In fact, it was her story that fuelled mine.

I’m a writer because my grandmother made me so. I’m a strong, because my grandmother taught me how, I am focused because my grandmother led the way.

So whenever I fill in one of those personal development style surveys that ask ‘who do you admire’, my answer is always the same. I don’t write the name of a facile pop-star, hollow movie icon or ambitious sports hero. No, my idol, my hero is and always will be, Anyu – my Grandmother. I admire her indomitable spirit, her irreverent view of authority – a perspective that that paradoxically meant following rules … albeit tweaked to her satisfaction. I treasure her perseverance, her dogged determination, her grace, her poise and her beauty. A beauty that came from deep within.

My aunt recently reminded me that a tree is as strong as its roots. My Grandmother gave our family its roots and boy, are they strong. Roots steeped in love, commitment to family and a determination to be the master of our own success. She was the matriarch of our family. She gave us hope, independence and courage.

That is what I think when I hear the word, Grandmother.

 

I am a Positive Person

I feel a tightness in my chest and an overwhelming urge to run. To run and run and run until the emotional vortex stops spinning.

The tightness moves to my throat and I have an urge to scream. To scream and scream and scream until someone finally hears.

I am a positive person, I am, I am.

I was.

Mental shake.

I am.

Writing is a form of meditation, at least it is for me. It keeps me mindfully in the present. Thoughts and emotions are recognised, recorded and sent on their way. I guess that is why I like blogging so much. The reflective sharing allows me to process and progress through my own world of expression.

I am a positive person.

I am, I am,

I am 🙂

Where Are My People

Where are ‘my’ people? Where are the like minded souls who share a commitment to quiet contemplation, lively discussions and a desire to tickle the edges of conformity? I am sure they exist; either that or the media and blogosphere are generously writing a plethora of articles just for me.

Sam de Brito’s column in today’s Herald is a case in point. This week De Brito explores the notion ‘We’re all busy doing Nothing and all the Poorer For It’. I was particularly interested in his assertion that contemplation, “extends far beyond Facebook-forwarding photos of porpoises subtitled with the Desiderata. It’s examining your beliefs, what it means to be a good person and how to live a meaningful existence.” This is a man I could really ‘chat’ with, at least I think I could … If only I could meet him in person and find out for sure.

This is my dilemma. I read hundreds of articles and blog posts written by people who seem to share similar ideas about life and living yet, I do not meet these people in person. I chat with ‘virtual colleagues’ (in Australia and all over the globe) yet, our conversations remain locked in a techno ether. However, I am a social being who craves face to face connections. So, as much as I appreciate the connective width of today’s internet enabled world, I miss the depth of physical relationships. Put simply, I miss that potent cocktail of cognitive stimulation, emotional stroking and spirit provoking awe that results from full engagement of all senses.

When I wrote Is This MyStory, my aim was to help young adult readers find their place and discover their voice. I hoped to build a space for people to come together to share a love of learning. I thought I would meet other writers and coaches who were on similar paths.I dreamed of creating opportunities for physical connections.

I am patiently waiting and actively searching.

My people are out there, I simply need to discover where.

In A Stranger’s Classroom

As the tap of finger upon keyboard falls into a gentle rhythm the boys descend into the world of Whitlam and I gaze about the room. It is a space consumed by memorabilia. Leather lounges form a perimeter, dispelling the myth of classroom order … or containing it.  Single desks join in the traditional English U – two rows at the centre cater for those who prefer looking straight ahead. The walls  compel. Faces peer from posters arranged with careless attention to detail. I notice how their eyes follow my movements … or is it the students they watch?

Defiantly, I look beyond  to question, ‘who ordinarily stands here’? Clearly, they are not ordinary. Even though books dominate, it is the collection of typewriters I notice most. They sit in ancient silence watching their modern descendants suffer the assault of nimble fingers and partially attentive minds.

Tap, tap, tap, the movement of finger upon keyboard continues.

Who are they? Which soul  so lovingly gathered these monument to the writers craft. Why did they place a cricketer in the corner and suitcases by the whiteboard. What message does the ancient camera contain and why do bronze lamps droop and flower with impotent  grace.

Upon the filing cabinet, flanked by a Dictionary of Modern Slang, an Ode to Art and the Compete Works of Shakespeare, lays a spent cricket glove and dull red ball. Hidden behind   a towering note stack is a box of coffee bags. More clues. Strange clues.

Are you a master of expression, an organized philosopher,  or a trapped intellect with a gypsy’s heart. Or, are you simply and proudly, a teacher.

A welcome to the world of expression 🙂

A World Without Scammers

Wouldn’t it be nice to live in a world where people did not scam one another or seek personal gain by exploiting someone (or something) else.

I am having issues with my computer (or perhaps as a friend would rather I say), my anti-virus software is causing compatibility problems with my email programme.  My outlook doesn’t load properly because the anti-virus software has detected a dilemma. I think my anti-virus software is being a tad over cautious, and as much as I appreciate the protective cocoon, it can be a little stifling.

The thing is, I wouldn’t need anti-virus software, if I could trust the virtual word. If I wasn’t concerned about identity theft, malware, viruses, worms, cookies and whatever other invasive force seeks to control, steal, monitor or manipulate, I wouldn’t need to install a ‘security’ system that in itself, can be controlling and manipulative.

Actually as I type this, I marvel at how much the virtual world mirrors the real. Cake anyone?

Welcome to a World of Expression

A Sea Place

I feel a bit rebellious, I swore I’d never take my IPad to the beach, but here I am, tapping away with the soothing sound of the ocean ringing in my ears. I should have known better, every time I say ‘I will never’, never finds me and I end up doing  exactly what I said I wouldn’t.

Yet, this is a magic place to write.The wind is gentle, the sun a light blanket of warmth, and the waves … well they are the most alluring sound in the world. As I type, I watch an endless parade of wanderers. A young couple gazes reverently at each other, middle age joggers fix their eyes firmly on the future and an elderly man strolls in peaceful contemplation. The life guards are watchful, but only gulls brave the swirling water. Humanities noise is consumed by the rustling wind and roaring waves. It is as if nature claimed this space and shares it only grudgingly with those  who ventured onto the sand.

Still, I wonder where my people are. Not the dreaming writers or idealistic seekers, but those who … even a name is elusive. Where do I belong? Here feels right, but is it home?

It is times like this that my mind ventures toward fantasy. I question what it would be like to walk 3 steps and find myself on a different beach, in a different place, on a different earth. Would the sand be as golden, would the sea be a sapphire beset with white diamonds?

As if in answer the sun slips beneath thick grey cloud. The kind wind strengthens and turns ice cruel. The parade of people becomes a trickle and suddenly, I am alone.

Nothing to Report

I am in the middle of writing reports. Next to me sits a mound of completed exams papers. Once crisp and inquiring, they now seem wilted; a stifled reminder of what has past. Even so, they are demandingly hopeful. They want results. So, as I move away, they nudge forward – as if to remind me of their presence.

Why?

I remind myself to stay focused to concentrate on the tasks in front of me. Write the report. Mark the paper.

Yet when faced with a computer screen; keys waiting patiently beneath my fingers tips, desire stirs me along a different path. I long to write, to escape deep within the folds of imagination and explore the far shores of reason.

I wish I could tell the story. Later, I remind myself. Soon, I promise. Smile.

Return.

Teachers Need Time to Think

I love being back in the classroom. Let me repeat, I love being back in the classroom. However, and yes there is a but … I bemoan the amount of time I have lost. The dearth of time to pursue my own research and writing is a like a knife to my heart. And it is killing me.

I take solace from the recent Grattan report which recognizes that effective teachers need time. They need time to think, reflect, research, experience collegiate discourse and to write (see Grattan Institute for details).

Therefore in this necessarily short post, born from post Glonski debris, I dream. I dream of a place where learning is viewed as the key to a critically literate future. A time where those who build and support learning, those who are physically in front of learners and those who are actually learning, have a voice that is louder than those who once taught, or those who believe that being a learner years ago, qualifies them to decide what today’s learners need.

I dream, I read, I write and this process fuels my creativity, it infuses confidence and supports the courage and compassion I require to continue dreaming, reading, writing and, learning. Today’s learners deserve the support of teachers with learning energy. Today’s teachers need access to renewable energy sources. They need time to be learners – perhaps this is something we all need.

Inspired by ….

I feel like I am on the precipice of something big… excitement, wonder – pure white light echoes through my veins. Concentrating on the mundane is difficult; I want to fly into the space that is before me. I want to feel that enveloping black space which is simultaneously devoid of colour and brilliantly vivid.

Why is black is feared? Why have social preconceptions painted black as malevolent or evil?

I see black as the free space where love, faith and trust combine; the space of freedom, the space of creativity. When I finally realised negative perceptions of black were social perceptions rather than a truth, I felt free.

So come black!

The confusion which clouded my brain, blocking my path has a physiological term. It is called cognitive dissonance. This is the condition which provokes discontent.

But, it does not have to!

I love contradictions; they occupy the space of Possibility, where there are no right or wrong answers. Here I feel comfortable because it is here that freedom dwells and the guilt associated with expectations is slain. Those interminable musings  – ‘I should feel x, I should be doing y…, but I don’t want to because it contradicts what I feel is right…, but can I trust my own feeling…,  but if I can’t trust my own feelings whose can I trust…?’ But…? But…? But…?  In the darkness of contradictory acceptance, expectations disintegrate and become nothing, revealing a void, a black peace.

Space

Feel welcome, visit my home, take comfort within the rooms. Rest for a while, I can offer respite, a cool drink, a chance to breath. Now return to your own home.

We may share aspects of ourself, but we need to sleep in our own place.