tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21970552075365937072024-03-19T17:39:28.335+13:00Heart and CraftyRachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-13873928805131507392017-12-16T22:19:00.000+13:002017-12-16T22:19:08.706+13:00Anger, the Eating of ItI am angry.<br />
All the time.When I go to sleep at night, falling into bed and dreading already the waking, I am angry. When I am woken roughly in the morning by children's sharp bodies and thoughtless hands, I am immediately angry. When I talk to my friends I am angry. When the children make a mistake, or are slow, or are overly touchy, when they are hungry or tired or squabbling, I am angry. When I laugh, when I joke and tease and imitate, I forget for a second the anger. But I am angry. When I kiss or am kissed, when I fuck or even when I make love, I am angry.<br />
<br />
I eat all the time. Only sweet things. There is never enough; I am never ever ever satiated.<br />
Late at night, after sitting up with fidgeting giggling children for hours(PLEASE go to sleep darling, stop talking, yes stop whispering too) I find myself suddenly, violently cramming my mouth with Christmas mince pie, urgently dousing the fire that is flaring up inside me. A dampener, to stop the vile words come vomiting out of my mouth. Because if I release the anger, then I will be left alone with Sadness, grief... The anger pollutes my very being, making me restless and twitchy and snappy and snarling, it makes me have stomach ulcers and worsens my back pain.<br />
<br />
But it is a welcome, very beloved buffer between myself, my knowing, and the <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">sadness</span></i>. Where the <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">sadness</span></i> is a damp fog that settles, chilly fingers creeping darkly over my heart, blotting out the sun and laughter and all the people that I care about, the anger is light, snapping crackling fire. It gives me warmth, I crave warmth.<br />
<br />
So I eat all the sweet things instead, the chocolate and the Christmas mince pies, sweet rice cakes with dried yoghurt topping, and I sacrifice my body, my stomach, my health, to the anger which squats inside, and I become more angry with myself, and I eat some more. I am angry all the time.Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-50740135339822587312017-07-21T18:57:00.002+12:002017-07-21T18:57:57.636+12:00The Life Cycle of an Airline Passenger<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">***</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please note that this entire cycle can taken an entire human life time of travel, or be completed over just one flight. Humans who choose to partake in Flight can start again at the beginning at any time or completely skip a stage, depending on multiple factors including but not limited to, environment, sleep quality, glucose intake, bloating factors* and general outlook on life.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">* measured on a scale from 0 for barely detectable to Mac 6 which will generate a flurry of false-pregnancy compliments from utter strangers.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">***</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">1) Shiny Child-like: </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shiny faced, everything is new to her. She is nervous but excited, chatters a lot, tries but fails to look nonchalant. Packs everything she might ever need in carry-on, including her own blanket, eye mask, evening gown in case of Events Happening, poncho to look Hip in, or glamorous shawl to drape around her shoulders. Everything has potential. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-38af5146-63ef-2f26-4fc4-122c754fb1bf" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">2) Youth:</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Trying to Stay Cool, maintain a healthy cynicism or attitude of the disaffected. Under super casual countenance there is still excitement, joy, nerves. Carefully selected memories booster a false-positive belief in Good Things Happening category. Packs sunglasses, ind magazines printed on sustainably-forested matte paper, giant headphones, and still with the drapey shawl because underneath it all, flight teens just want to Look Nice and Attract a Sexy Stranger….</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">3) Middle-aged/frequent flyer: </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Engages a healthy scepticism in things Working Out Ok, but still enjoys the lead up to a flight. Wary of the Thing that happened last time, but it probably can’t happen twice in a row, right? Is calm when boarding, patient in queues, and packs genuinely useful items like antacid, anti-diarrhoea tablets, and a good book that they bought 3 months ago and might actually read in the next 10 hours. Likes to order the special meals, to cheat the system. Still the bloody shawl though!! What is this, Paris Fashion Week?</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">4) Senior Wings:</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">World weary, would like to get home but starts to Not Really Care. Generally unflappable but can get crabby in long queues. (Signs of The Emerging Crab stage include muttering, rolling eyes, sighing huffily folding arms. If you really cared about them, you’d pick up these passive aggressive signals and act on them. Oh well.) Packs for most digestive emergencies, buys weird cultural snacks at the duty free and tries to sneak crafting supplies on board. Steals completely useless airline branded frippery such as eye masks, toothpicks and small plastic spoons, because you never know. Achy shoulders, dry eyes and a strong belief that what could go wrong will go wrong are all symptoms that they are close to death, otherwise known as DGAF. Uses shawl to roll up dirty clothes in.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">5) Death throes:</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You’d think that this was the worst bit, but you’d be wrong about that my friend hahaha.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Signs of “Dead in the Air” are clear. Hunched shoulders, blank, unseeing eyes, bags not zipped properly. Cannot stand in queues any more so usually sits on the floor until the place is nearly empty and their name has been called over the PA 3 times. Has given up all hope of making the right flight, and instead stares at the flightboard, noting how the different flags look like Tiny Little Sailboats on a dotty sea. The only thought that fizzes in their silent empty brain is the age old question, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“where was I supposed to be by now?” </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Here the shawl finally lives up to its purpose. Thoughtful passengers or let's face it, the cleaners, will drape it elegantly - oh so glamorous and chic - over the face and body, as a shroud. Just as well you remembered the shawl ay?! </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">6) More Dedder/Zombie:</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sputtering synapses reawaken this dreadful creature. No sign of their previous personality remains. Flight Zombies have no luggage any more, it is probably in Denpasar. Their emotional stability is, well, off the Richter Scale, ranging from gargling and cackling with delirium to weepy and non-verbal. Legs splay in an awkward gait, and their dry lips are flecked with spit. Their eyes are red and scratchy, and unpleasant to meet in a glance. The main purpose of their continued, fruitless journey? Well, just like their less dead counterparts, zombies are all different and unique. They all have something that spurs the disjointed whirring and clacking body forward. For some, it may be the thought of the green IKEA plates in their carry-on, the amazing ones with the ponies and the leaves. One day they might be able to use them, if they ever get home! </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These poor souls will wander the deserted departure halls at night, muttering and groaning, and many will never find their way home. </span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you are alone one night in Sydney airport, and find yourself being lurched towards, quickly peel the shawl off their rotting flesh and strangle them with it. You're doing the right thing, it's what they would have wanted. </span></div>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-54971985831149865452017-07-21T18:40:00.002+12:002017-07-21T18:40:10.896+12:00Water<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The woman ahead of me is tired, I can read it in her face. I feel the knots in her shoulders mirrored in my own.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her daughter yanks on her mother's handbag for attention, and it slides further down her arm. “Ssssshh, hold on love, we just have to wait for a bit.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The customs officials has a blank expression; bored or arrogant, it's hard to tell. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-5e4d7ab2-63df-b5b7-3629-748a0b98b5d5" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He holds up two newly purchased water bottles, still sealed and shiny.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Is this yours or for the child?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She looks puzzled. “It’s for my daughter. it's for the flight.”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He looks even more supercilious. He is better than everyone else here,he is certain of it. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Why? How old is she ma’am?” The 'Ma’am’ is tacked on, a careless afterthought. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Eight” </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Eight?”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Yes.”</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With no reaction on his face, no apology or explanation, he holds them aloft for a second, between fingers and thumbs, and then drops them in the rubbish bin.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Next please” as he pushes the woman’s bags into the Xray, and with no word from either the mother or her daughter, they move quietly through the metal detector, collect their bags and walk slowly off to their gate. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wonder if a 7 yr old could have kept the water? </span></div>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At what age is it still acceptable to need fresh cool water?</span></div>
<div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-16982703325157359932017-04-21T16:35:00.001+12:002017-04-21T16:35:09.442+12:00Three Reasons Trackpants are Amazing<h3 style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">And what your judgement on other people’s clothing choices says about your privilege </span></h3>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-2c1e80a5-8ec7-a618-21fc-11f820ad1e8f" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you know me at all, you’ll know that my sartorial choices swing wildly from child-like to quirky to sloppy joes. And while it would be incredibly narcissistic of me to think that everyone is thinking about and judging me on the clothes I wear every day, there is a generalised aversion out there, a snobbery, towards </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>trackpants</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. A snobbery that I would like to gently crush, piece by piece. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ok, not so gently.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Trackpants </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">are widely mocked for what they ostensibly say about the wearer; slack, lazy, doesn’t-care-about-appearance, unprofessional, unfashionable or downright ugly… the list goes on. Stories abound of people who are horrified that they were spotted by someone they knew, wearing </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>TRACKPANTS</b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, at the supermarket… You know, that one time they ever left the house wearing them… </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Trackpants </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">are the outerwear of dirty underpants, friend only to the infamous Crocs (and yes, I could devote this same post to those comfy-cushioned-plastic-fantastic foot-cuddlers). So why would I defend them? Why do I wear them - not just sometimes but OFTEN?! </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m just going to unpack the genuinely beautiful joy of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>trackpants </b></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">here, and hopefully in the doing, I can perhaps tweak some of our preconceptions about clothing, fashion and disability.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Important Note: this is not to gain sympathy and attention to my own particular story, but as a member of the disabled community, I can hopefully use my experience to highlight what many of us go through.</span></div>
<b><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>1 - Elasticated Waistbands!</b></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Squishy gentleness around the tum makes me want to break out into song embarrassingly often. I have the unlucky combination of a hernia at the front and lower back issues/slipped disc at the back of me. Not unlike a pain sandwich. Any tightness around the hips, lower back and waist can immediately send pain shooting up and down my back, and stinging sensations in my abdomen. It can be bad enough to make me change my pants halfway through the day; when my back pain is bad I can’t sit up straight, and when my stomach is sore I fight the impulse to fold over forwards. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not alone in this, many many people have pain issues around the abdomen and lower back. Nerve damage from C-sections, sports injuries, arthritis, endometriosis, irritable bowel, fibromyalgia and many more often chronic disabilities can make waistbands a no-go for a large section of the community. Even fabric with a bit of stretch in it, like those favourite stretchy jeans, can be tight or non-wielding enough to flare up a previously invisible issue.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>2 - Warmth!</b></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Being cold makes a large proportion of people miserable, for many reasons. From a disability perspective, feeling cold can make pain worse, whether it’s arthritis, fibromyalgia or an old injury(bones with a break in them can often ache or throb in the cold). Those who experience Seasonal Affective Disorder or plain old mental health issues, can be brought much lower in mood from being chilly. For me winter is an uphill battle to feel happy and well, despite being cold. It genuinely kills joy for me. </span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">However it should be noted that warmth is not just a Disability problem, it’s also a Poverty problem. This is an area that I just can’t do justice here, but I’m sure we can understand that with our current Housing Crisis and health problems stemming from damp, cold houses, warmth is a precious thing, not easily got. I have lived in houses where I dressed my children in </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">trackpants </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">and sweatshirts for bedtime, and I am in no way poor by this country’s standards. Next time you see someone wearing </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">trackpants </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">out and about, maybe wonder whether they are experiencing daily, bone-chilling cold rather than just being lazy.</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>3 - Softness!</b></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just as tightness around the waist can exacerbate pain in the abdomen area, tight fitting (‘professional’ looking) pants can send pain shooting up sensitive legs, and aggravate any sensory issues that a wearer may be experiencing. For example, those on the autism spectrum can feel actual pain, from burning sensations to stinging, from the wrong fabric or something too tight. My 2 eldest children have ASD and have both expressed serious aversions to tight, coarse or firm fabric on their legs and torsos. While it’s more acceptable (But of course, not ‘fashion forward’) to dress children in trackpants*, in adults it is often simply not possible, especially if your job calls for a dress code or uniform. My own fibromyalgia pales in comparison, but when I am going through a flare or bad patch, the feeling of these unforgiving fabrics can make my day many times more miserable, and returning home often causes me to fling off my pants and reach for trackies like most women do their bras!</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">*Fashion for kids however, is in some ways much more forward-thinking than adult clothing. You only need to look at the variety of fun and quirky trackpants Cotton On Kids offer, in direct comparison to their adult range. If only we all had access to such colours and prints!</span></div>
<b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Society’s snobbish disapproval of the old trackpant extends also of course to leggings (which surprisingly fit the above criteria as well), Crocs and hoodies. For some deeply rooted and disturbing reason, our non-adherence to fashion ‘rules’ seems to speak of ignorance, lack of education, lack of intelligence and a lack of ‘respect’ for others. This last one is perhaps the strangest and most vile. We can all remember being forced to wear clothing we didn’t like, or found uncomfortable, to show so-called respect for different occasions - church, school, older people, celebrations or funerals… Choosing comfort in your outfit each day seems offensive and rude, throwing dirt in the face of customs and traditions. Why is it so upsetting to society which pants I put on in the morning? </span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Luckily, current fashion trends are actually starting to feature smart, even slinky, versions of our favourite old trackies… but we have a long way to go before our privilege stops getting in the way of an individual's clothing choices. It’s easy to laugh behind our hands or silently judge a person walking down the road by their appearance…. But as all of the old sayings in pretty much every culture say - don’t judge a book by it’s cover, or a person before knowing their story. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Kindness wins, always.</b></span></div>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-32619329625701896042017-01-05T14:39:00.001+13:002017-01-05T14:39:12.100+13:00Rat Stew<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">1/1/17</span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-fe4a30c9-6c47-40b2-b0d7-43c0ba537228" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I have eventually crawled out of bed. Dressed myself as loosely as possible, taken some painkillers, Instagrammed my ‘outfit’ to garner sympathy for my current ‘fibro flare’ and poor lifestyle choices. I resolve not to check social media obsessively, so put away my phone rather than check if people like or comment on my post. It’s harder than I’d like to admit.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I have been instructed by F to come outside for some sunshine. She is playing with a nativity book, with cardboard pieces that pop out and fit together. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Once upon a time Mary had a new baby, his fleece is white as snow”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She sits on one of the deck chairs that dwarf her little frame, her legs stuck out in front of her, talking to the pieces of cardboard and asking for help with the camels, which are more stubborn than most to pop out. I sit in the shade, having covered her in sunscreen, and try to read while responding to her questions and commands. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I am reading Lena Dunham, and enjoying it. She is even more self-deprecating in prose, and her honest awareness of her own feelings is endearing, it urges me to write myself out on page. A well-written book always awakens within me the writer’s itch, which I almost always steadfastly ignore, but I still note it when it happens. Buckley wanders around contentedly, by turns trotting out to the deck, gazing forlornly at me, or chewing on lumps of dirt. I feel a mild guilt at not paying him more attention, but he seems happy enough. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> L comes out to play drums on an empty deckchair, adding beats with his mouth, and I try to stifle the irritation that automatically rises when extra noise is added to my environment. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">This is part of being a mother </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I remind myself silently, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">be calm and embrace the chaos. Allow him to express himself. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I grit my teeth. He eventually stops his composition and walks over to look at the garden, his mind who-knows-where. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “A dead mouse Mum!” He states, “There’s a dead rat on the grass!” </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m tempted to leave it there for later, but instead walk over to him on the edge of the patio, the rough bricks hot underneath. It is indeed a Rat, rather than a mouse, and a beautiful specimen. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i> (Am I strange for loving rats and mice? Probably. I love how tiny they are, how their world view is beyond my comprehension…. And ever since I was a child I have loved how they sit in the cradle of your hand, or nestle secretively in your hair. I had a friend with pet mice at Intermediate, who lived a few houses down the road from me. Michelle. In an oddly perfect way, that strange synchronicity that sometimes awakens in the world, she was a genuinely mousey person. Not in that old fashioned sense of the word, that way of looking scornfully at people with plain features, light brown hair, as being somehow less perfect than us. No, she was a Mouse Person. Lithe and petite, light brown hair sleek and straight, a tiny expressive nose, a smattering of freckles. Ballet and gymnastics classes held her body in an upwards floating posture, her hands delicate and emotive, her legs slim and fast. She only came up to my shoulder. And Michelle had wee small delicate mice, I can’t remember how many, but I do remember how they nestled in my hand, their tiny perfect hands and feet scrabbling painlessly on my skin. Their foreign grassy smell not entirely unpleasant. I lived in envy of their smallness - their portability; she brought them to school, curled up in her hair or in a padded pocket, and I imagined they must have been a comfort in what I found to be a bizarre and unpleasant reality. Just the knowledge of them there, secret and safe, their complete dependence on you, surely must have bolstered Michelle. Or maybe she just didn’t hate school like I did.)</i></span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> As we look at The Rat together, lying peacefully on it’s side in the sunshine, I am suddenly aware of the dog lifting his head in interest, looking at us. We have to get rid of this small perfect creature fast. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I grab a plastic bag from my bulging bag drawer, the one that no longer closes, spilling over as the bags rustle and wait for their inevitable recycling. For some reason, maybe science and maybe myth, I am concerned that dead wild animals are more dirty, more disease-ridden than even their alive brothers and sisters. As much as I long to hold it’s softness against my skin, I obey my inner mother and glove my hand with plastic. Tip Top Wheatmeal Toast.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> His body is warm, hot even - is he already breaking down, about to burst hideous gases? Or is he warm from the sun? He isn’t swollen so hopefully the latter.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The Rat is perfect. His few injuries are bloodless and neat; a severed back leg, with clean bone and sinew sticking out, his shortened tail. He holds his gnarled slender hands in front of him, as if endlessly pleading or fidgeting. The fingers are long and slender and pink, with perfectly manicured nails. His eyes are open, unseeing but still black and shiny. The grey fur that covers him is mussed but soft, unkempt in an appealing professor-ly manner, as if he were too absent-minded, too concerned with greater thoughts than his appearance. I hold him in my plastic bag hand and stare at him for far too long.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> L has lost interest, but F is grieving.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Oh poor Rat, is he dead? Oh no, poor Rat. What are you doing with him Mama?” </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What I am doing with him of course is tying him tightly in the plastic bag and taking him to the outdoor rubbish bin, and I tell her as much. My child self thinks this is Wrong, that I am cold and unfeeling, how can I put this creature in the rubbish? But I am the mother now, so I must balance my empathy with logic, cold reason. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “If we bury him in the garden, one of the cats will smell him and dig him up” </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Noooo Mum, don’t put him in the bin!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She follows me through the house, keening quietly behind me, no loud protests like usual. She knows the science is solid. “Nooooo Mum, not in the bin, noooooo!”</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I hold his curved warm plastic form in my hand for a brief extra second before placing him in the bottom of the bin. Hopefully the plastic will contain the smell for a few days before the rubbish truck comes. As I shut the lid, F softly says “No.” </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I am used to her fury and her arguments and her indefatigable belief in her own sense of right, but not this quiet, resigned sadness. So I scoop her in my arms and carry her back through the house and inhale the sharp musty smell of blanket, and I tell her that I am sorry, that it is very sad, that he was a beautiful Rat and it is ok to be sad. </span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.666666666666666px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She forgets within the hour(or does she? Maybe this story will be stored up in her, to revisit later) but I cannot go back to Dunham. I want to stop eating all meat again. I want to step out of the cycle of death once again, my inner self always more dramatic and alarmist at these moments. Well, maybe vegetarian, my restrained mother self remonstrates. You can’t really stick to these extreme ideals you know. You know you can’t carry through with difficult things.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Maybe I’ll just avoid mammals. I know I identify with them more than birds. But chickens have personalities too! Maybe I’ll just eat chicken occasionally. And try not to hold myself to difficult standards. I’ll go with that for now, and hold Rat’s perfect form in my mind. For now. </span>Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-34024022905183744512015-05-02T20:51:00.001+12:002015-05-02T20:51:28.956+12:00A New Journey.<div style="text-align: center;">
Dear lovely people. This is something I have wanted to write about for months, but just haven't had the guts to. I'm writing it now because there are assumptions made that I am tired of, and I don't want to have 300 separate discussions about a decision I have made in my personal life. I don't want your pity, your worry and concern, or your tears. All I want, for me and for anyone who will read this, is to have open minds, be accepting and loving, and respect my life choices. </div>
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I am no longer a 'Christian'.</div>
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That is not to say that I do not believe in Jesus as a divine manifestation who walked this earth 2000 years ago. </div>
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That is not to say that I do not believe in Grace, and Mercy, and Integrity, and Faith. </div>
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And it is not to say that I do not believe in a way of life that says "love your neighbour as you love yourself, give to the poor and the needy, look after this planet that is a gift we must protect".</div>
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Nope.</div>
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I am not a Christian. Because I believe all of those things and more. Because I believe that if you can believe in people being raised from the dead, and oceans being turned into roads, then you can't draw a line. Well I can't anyway. I can't draw a line between <b><i>this</i> </b>and<b><i> that</i></b> and say that I'll believe all of these supernatural things that I was brought up to believe, but not believe anything else. </div>
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To call myself a Christian would be a straight-out disservice to myself, and to those who are Christian. THAT would be something to take offense over. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxwO_PbnKOrvU4NWkT1vSmSrhCljmpwzD28ISrty9X5_jsNZTe3OSr10_9W5aILbjuUgsvTwQUmQ8h6XBhCbKmCxP07gQlWRwyIV_Qjny-COv5j5H9c-RWYrQXVQCe3D7sLOjZwdh8SAn/s1600/206a704844775c83cbb80bd7587d7960.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirxwO_PbnKOrvU4NWkT1vSmSrhCljmpwzD28ISrty9X5_jsNZTe3OSr10_9W5aILbjuUgsvTwQUmQ8h6XBhCbKmCxP07gQlWRwyIV_Qjny-COv5j5H9c-RWYrQXVQCe3D7sLOjZwdh8SAn/s1600/206a704844775c83cbb80bd7587d7960.jpg" height="320" width="219" /></a></div>
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I believe that we are all flesh and blood, sacs of organs and bones, and <b><i>at the same time</i></b>, I believe that we are divine beings, that we are fundamentally made of that same stuff that the very stars and moon are made of, and thus we are powerful, magical and limitless. Our minds, which can be explained and deconstructed down to the smallest cells of brain matter, are capable of both monstrous and miraculous things. Humankind is inherently good, not evil, and we have a spark of starlight in us all that lights our paths and shows us our own way to go. I don't believe in God any more, I believe in gods. I believe in Mother God(goddess). I believe in Spirit and in light.</div>
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I can not go to church any more because that <b><i>building is too small for me</i></b>. My personal problems with church stem from not only hurts suffered at the hands of people I believed in and loved(yes, yes, I know I should have been believing and loving God instead, but when you can't hear, see or feel a thing, you believe and love the representative of that, eg your church leaders and mentors), but from hurt as a woman, as part of womankind, suffered by <b><i>all women throughout the history of the church, and indeed most religious, patriarchal societies. </i></b>'Church' and all similar religious institutions, categorically continue to impose stereotypical gender roles(which oppresses not only the women, but the men, and of course the entire LGBTQ+ community) that brave women fought to overcome many years ago. Even our modern-day Western, secular society still perpetuates these oppressive ideals through many many layers of cultural conditioning and media, but 'church'(and temple, mosque etc) are even a few steps behind that. I would love to write a whole essay one day on how the church hates women, but that will have to wait. </div>
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When I say I can not go to church any more, that is not to say that I am afraid of churches, or angry at them. If you invite me to your child's dedication, baptism or bar mitzvah I'll be there with bells on. Don't be afraid to mention church, God, or your faith, in conversation with me. This is about my personal journey of belief, not about any condemnation or judgement of you. If you are genuinely happy and joy-filled by your church attendance, and genuinely feel a sense of connection to a Judeo-Christian God, don't get me wrong; <b><i>I am so happy for you! </i></b></div>
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At this present time, I don't want to belong to a religion. I am so tired, bone-weary tired, of being told what to believe and what to do and how to feel. I am so over being the odd one out, the outsider, loner and weirdo, standing at the back of church shifting from one foot to the other, wondering why I didn't feel anything that everyone else felt. And now that I've realised that I don't have to keep pretending that any more, it's incredibly liberating. </div>
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Now I am on my Own Heart's Journey. I am actively looking, seeking, hearing. I have both eyes wide open, and it's exhilarating. The world is in the palm of my hand! I am finding all the things that resonate with me, that fill me with pure glee, and make my heart sing! And they are not things that I could ever find in a religion that was laid out for me by someone else, by a man or men who have dictated how my life should be. I am seeing things that I would never have seen, if I didn't know there was more to life!!! More, more, more! I am greedy now, consuming books and texts and articles, gazing at pictures that light up parts of my brain that were never allowed to light up before! For the first time <b><i>since I was a child</i></b>, I am allowing myself to explore faith and belief and spirituality from all different angles. </div>
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<i>(Yes, it's mostly buddhist/new-age/hippy stuff, if you want a name to it. I just don't want to jump from one box into another right now, so I'm not putting a name on it.)</i></div>
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<i>It is a miraculous journey, and I am truly happy to be on it. My only fear is that those who love and care for me will be hurt, angry or hurtful in their reactions. </i></div>
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<b>Please Note: </b>I don't know what I believe exactly, just yet. I don't have a statement of faith. Keeping this in mind, please don't engage me in long conversations or online discussions about theology, divinity, spirituality etc.. I am sure you are all MUCH more knowledgeable than I on these topics, and I am happy for you to know exactly what you believe. All I need and want is your grace, and your assurance of our continuing friendship. If you feel personally offended by my choices, I would ask that before you respond to me, please have a long hard think to yourself as to how helpful it will be to me and to our relationship to respond in a hurt and angry manner. I'm done with drama and guilt in my life, so if you bring those things, I don't want a bar of it. All my love and blessings to you all.<br />
<br />Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-60624207194055724192015-03-30T19:19:00.001+13:002015-03-30T19:20:24.363+13:00Saving Grace or Harmful Ideology?<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-529735a2-6955-621f-c359-f618d77d462e" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">First, a waiver - this is my experience alone, and I acknowledge that. This is by no means an attack on any person, friend or foe, who believes differently to myself. This is my blog, which means that this is my journey. Please do not take offense at what I write. Also please excuse the style of writing, this was very much a stream of consciousness that had to be let out! </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Those who would dismiss the idea of God as a man-made construct point to the fact that every ancient civilization has had some process or ritual around looking out and up instead of into themselves, saying that humankind, as a species, have an instinctual need for something external to worship, to point to as a creator or a reason for their existence. Some even claim that this is what makes us human, what separates humankind from the animal.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">While indeed most religious belief systems adhere to a Creator or Creators theme, I can only talk directly to Christianity as the religion I am most familiar with. And at the moment, it is also the religion I am most struggling to agree with. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">One of the key elements on which Christianity is founded is that of the nature of sin. Without the concept that we, as lowly humans, are inherently faulty, we would have no need for a Saviour. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">(Now, there are multitudes of problems that I see in the gender division and sexism within the concepts of Christianity which I am not going to address in this post, but do not doubt that I will!)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">One of the most famous treatises of the Bible-believing Christian is that ‘ALL have SINNED and FALL SHORT of the glory of God’. In the first chapters of Genesis, we are given the story of two perfectly created beings, a man and a woman, who make a fatal error of judgement, thereby tainting all their future descendants, the whole human race, with Sin. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This is my story, my family’s story, the story of my people. This story of sin, of judgement, of everlasting gratitude to a saving God who has rescued us from eternal fire. The concept of a newborn child being born already faulty, with a Human Nature(thus doomed), is an old one that I unconsciously accepted as fact(even as a new mother, all the time staring at this perfect creature and wondering which part was the Bad part??). The disobedient preschooler, the cheeky toddler, even the infant who becomes more wakeful at night, all prove this point. We are evil. Humankind is inherently flawed. The good side of this story then is that we are given a second chance, a chance to embrace the saviour who has sacrificed everything to save us. Christians then supposedly live a triumphant life, yes with it’s ups and downs, but also blessed with the honour of having a personal relationship with the creator of the universe. What is this relationship based on? To me, the basis of this personal, close relationship seems to be a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. We have been Bad from the Beginning, but we are fortunate enough to be saved from this Badness. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Those who we hold up as Excellent Christians, ones who we wish to emulate, are those saints and martyrs who have emptied themselves completely, and replaced all their concept of Self with the Holy Trinity instead. How does one empty oneself of all Self? Well, recognise that you are Bad, replace any self-satisfaction or self-love with self-loathing, and then pour all of this Self out onto the dirt at your feet, and fill up with ‘His’ love for you. ‘His’ gift of salvation. You now longer have your own needs or desires, but are filled instead with ‘His’ will.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Now I want to reiterate here that these are my ideas and my experiences alone. This may not indeed be experienced or felt by any other person on this planet. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Part of my journey - not all!!!(sometimes I have to remind myself that it is not all) - is the story of my lifelong depression. The sense of dissatisfaction, of longing for something more in life, of loneliness, self-doubt and eventually self-loathing, can be tracked back into my childhood. Maybe it was triggered by things that happened or things that didn’t happen, or maybe it was there all along, a seed of discontent in my heart from the beginning. Again, that is a story for another time, not now. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Whatever the reason, this black dog has been my constant partner for all of my conscious life, as far back as I can remember. Despite various medicative measures, prayers for healing, and involvement with mental health services as an adult, it was not until I began therapy in earnest, a few years ago, that I started really unravelling some of the cords that bound me. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Part of this unravelling process was attending a ‘Compassionate Mind’ group. I’ll spare you the intricacies of DBT here(google it!), but there were several ‘A-ha’ moments in it, which made me start to question everything I knew about my faith and how I was brought up. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What if, at the heart of my self-loathing, was this belief that from the beginning I was marred? What if it was actually OK to like myself? What if it was OK to take care of myself, nurture myself, believe in fact that I was worthy of love, by first loving myself??? What a bold and ridiculous idea. It was posited that to </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">truly</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> love others and show compassion, one must first truly love and show compassion towards oneself. This was an uncomfortable idea to me, as I had always thought of myself as a compassionate, kind person. Was I only being kind because that was the ‘Right Thing’ to do? A tiny crack opened in my foundation. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">For a second, let’s be diverted by this idea of self-care, and nurturing. We do hear a lot more about caring for ourselves now, even in Christian circles. Mainstream culture has exerted enough of an influence on the church, that now they run ‘women-only days’, ‘pamper-retreats’ and so on. But there is a difference between the motivation to learn to love and care for oneself purely for the sake of healing and becoming a whole person, and the motivation in christian circles to care for and pamper oneself </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">in order that</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> women can be </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">better mothers and wives…. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">to serve others. Again I digress, I’m getting too far into the issue of gender in the church. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">As I began to look inwards, at how my own beliefs about myself were affecting how I heard and experienced the world, a transformation started happening, deep within. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This transformation is still going on now, as I peel off the layers and look with new, questioning eyes at the world and the people around me. Even in the last few weeks, my life has been full of strange occasions and coincidences, where I have experienced a swelling of human kindness in my world. HUMAN kindness. That is, people without the motivation of religious beliefs who have impacted my own and my children’s lives in such amazing ways, because they are kind, generous-hearted people. Not evil. Not sinners. Throughout history, as much as people have been moved to harm and to hurt, people have also been moved to act, out of a pure and beautiful part of themselves deep within, a spark of the Divine that I believe is in all of us. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I do not deny that there is another realm, of wild and unimaginable beauty and chaos, that we have access to, on a real and daily basis. But I can no longer marry this image up with a harmful ideology that we, humans, are essentially Bad creatures in our heart, that need fixing. I do not deny the huge amounts of hurt, wrongdoing and genuine evil in this world, that we see every day on our streets, in our corrupt governments, in the global news, but I am starting to question whether this is a natural state or a taught/learned state. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">There is darkness in all of us, just as there is light in all of us, and there must be a careful balance. For myself, I believe I MUST be guided by genuine kindness and compassion(that starts within), just as much as I must NOT be guided by guilt, self-loathing and indebtedness. My mental health, and therefore perhaps my very life, depends on it. </span></div>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-13854197117160301222015-03-14T14:51:00.001+13:002015-03-14T14:51:22.567+13:00Dear Last Thursday<p dir="ltr">Dear me, two days ago:</p>
<p dir="ltr">To the brave woman(even though you don't feel it right now) who is beginning to taper off one of her meds. <br>
It's going to be ok. I want you to know that in just two days, you will feel ok again. Yes, you'll have to go through this shit again next week, or the week after. It might feel worse. It might go better. Let next week deal with itself, ok? So here are some truths that you should know, about today, next week and the rest of your life, whether that's medicated or not:</p>
<p dir="ltr">- You are not that person. The one you are so afraid of becoming. You are experiencing withdrawal symptoms and that is all. It's not you, it's them. It's chemistry. You are not an angry person. You are not a fearful anxious person. You are a good, kind and loving woman, who loves her babies, her husband, her cats, her job. You might feel like that was just a hoax, like the drugs were masking the 'real you'. This, my love, is a lie. In just a few days you will again feel calm, content, loving, patient, creative, inspired... The list could go on. THAT is the real you, not this trembling half person that you feel right now.<br>
- Use your net. Call the village. Get in touch with people who have been there, in that trembling half life between medicated and un-medicated. They will know what to do, what to say. They're so good at this stuff, just like you are, when you're not in this stupid place. Get someone else to pick up the kids from school. Get someone to take the toddler away for the day. Cancel your appointments and get back into your pyjamas. This is a type of illness, this half-life, and you should treat it thus. Call your husband, he's used to reassuring you that you're awesome. Write to yourself, write to someone else, just allow the sad angry words to pour out of yourself, it's so cathartic. The words need to come out, or they'll fester and dig their claws down until they become a part of you. Dig them out, squeeze them out. <br>
- You're doing this for the right reason. You might be doubting that right now, you might think "what was so important that I thought I should try this lark?". If there was ever a reason to come off a medication, it's new life. It's the wanting of more new life, wanting to create life. It's the wanting to be there as other lives are transformed. It's that urge, that passion you have to be there for those women, just as you wished someone was there for you, someone passionate and capable and experienced and trustworthy and respectful. You want to be a placeholder, a sacred helpmate, a protector of that precious space where one becomes two. This is a GOOD REASON. Don't doubt it now. And don't doubt for a second that this is not what you were supposed to do... All of the threads of your life have been coming together to weave this story for you. It can't not happen. <br>
- If it doesn't work, it will be ok. Maybe it's not going to work out, this breaking up with this medication. You'll figure something out. There will be other options.<i> </i><i>There </i><i>are </i><i>always </i><i>other </i><i>options</i><i>. </i>If there's anything you care about deeply (when you're feeling good), it's that we all have options, all the time. There are always other doors, other answers. Don't panic. Treat yourself like a client, remind yourself that you are in charge of your destiny (cheese alert!), that you just have to better informed. Be better informed, ok? You love researching stuff, research this. Know your options. Don't for a second believe that you are trapped in anything. <br>
-You'll catch yourself saying a couple of times, <i>it's </i><i>not </i><i>me</i><i>, </i><i>it's </i><i>you</i><i>. </i>That is really good thing to say, say it more. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Dear meds, it's not me, it's you. </p>
<p dir="ltr">Know yourself. Trust yourself. Trust your team. Call the village. Be the village. In two days, you will be feeling so much better, I promise. Xx</p>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-78366958451340247282014-09-18T15:03:00.002+12:002014-09-18T15:03:32.831+12:00In Defense of Depression I guess if you've been reading this blog for a while you know I'm depressed. Yup, that's me. Least cheerful person in the room(except when I'm the loudest one making the worst jokes). It's been bad recently - but then, it's been winter, so it's kind of par for the course. My poor husband has been getting the texts-o-misery. "I'm having such a bad day".... "I don't know what to do" .... "I'm lying in bed and I don't think I can get up"... etc. You get the general idea. And there's this idea, that constantly pervades my life(both my own thought life and conversations with loved ones), which is that I'm <b>Not Coping</b>. This is a fair presumption to make, especially when I'm staring at the ceiling, huddled under my duvet, fighting my own brain to try and persuade myself to get up. But I've been thinking about this today, and wondering why it needles me so, to say <i>or </i>to hear, that I'm <b>Not Coping</b>. Especially given my proclivity for total openness and honesty.<br />
So I'd like to challenge this notion that <i>long-term, chronic Depression = Not Coping</i>. I don't believe that the above equation is accurate, that the one necessarily equals the other. Here's the thing. Are you ready for the thing? Here it is. I've had depression for, like, ever. But I'm not a mess. I'm doing just fine - maybe not great - but fine. Let's look at today's example.<br />
I wake up, as usual, around 7.30; I can hear the big kids playing and pray to whatever deity is in charge of morning routines that they will stay happily playing for at least another 2 hours. I close my eyes tight and try to go back to sleep. At 8 am, the big kids come in and bounce on me and declare their starvation to be at an all time high. I force myself out of bed, trying to ignore the howling sadness in my head at having to leave the blankets, and make them breakfast. I know they will want seconds shortly, but I still go back to bed again, bury my face under the duvet, pull the cat close and try not to think about the fact that it is another day. The alarm on the tablet in the lounge goes off at 8.31, as it has every morning this week... I wonder for the millionth time which evil creature set this random alarm, and trudge out to turn it off. M and L are asking for seconds, and when I say 'asking', I mean of course that as soon as I walk into the room they thrust their bowls in my direction and shout "More Weetbix!!" without taking their eyes off Ice Age: Continental Drift. I ask them to ask nicely and they both shout "more weetbix PLEASE!". At this stage FR is crying, and has been for about ten minutes. I make the kids seconds, FR's first bowl of brekkie, pour soy milk over my muesli and turn the coffee machine on. Like a waitress at a diner I speed back holding 4 separate bowls in my hands and arms, dump them down, and go retrieve the angry toddler. With her on my hip I am back in the kitchen making my coffee, thankful once again that we were given this Nespresso machine(yes yes they're the worst, I'm sorry) that enables me to make a decent flat white with only one hand free. When we used a good old-fashioned espresso machine I used to have to hold the steam button with one hand and the milk frothing jug with the other, with the baby clasped in between my body and the bench.<br />
Fast forward to an hour later, and at quarter to 10 everyone is dressed, including myself, and M is crying about something. But we are all dressed and fed, and not only that but I have managed a second cup of coffee, and semi-folded the washing that was hanging on the airers in our lounge. <i>I find it incredibly hard to stay positive when my oldest is upset, because she is basically a small version of me, and her weeping and wailing over completely irrational things is driving me nuts. And yet, somehow, I don't even feel like crying.</i> I repeat the same phrases to her over and over, albeit through gritted teeth, while I help the almost-2 yr old get the peg basket off the airer. I feel gratitude, yet again, that pegs were ever invented. <i>I use my mindfulness skills, and placing my hand on my chest, observe and describe to myself my current feelings. Frustration, sadness, strength, determination. I let the frustration and sadness just be, and remind myself that, like all feelings, they will soon float away. </i><br />
It is now about 2.30pm. Today I have had a visitor(educational psychologist), navigated two separate tantrums at the same time without losing my temper, successfully ignored a toddlers misbehaviour, taken the kids out to the mall to purchase tea-towels and kids shoes, bought the kids donuts for their lovely behaviour whilst out, come back home, put on a load of washing, fed a toddler her bottle and put her to bed(with her new shoes clasped in her arms, obviously), made myself and the biggies some lunch, hung out the washing, played a game of memory with L while encouraging M to write her little story for our school visit tomorrow, and now I'm writing a freaking blog post.<br />
<i>You guys, this is not what <b>Not Coping</b> looks like.</i> This, to me, is just what every single day looks like. I am guaranteed, today, to feel sadness, grief, anger, despair and frustration - and also to feel joy, happiness, gratitude and love. This is <b>Coping</b>. This has been my life for so long, and while every fiber in my being still longs for a day when I do not face into the darkness as I awake, for a day when the deepest most inner thoughts in my head are a swirl of black that I try to avoid, this is <b>Coping</b>. This is doing pretty damn well awesome. My kids are ALWAYS fed. My kids are ALWAYS dressed. They know that they are loved. My toddler wears clean nappies, has 3 bottles of milk a day and laughs, and makes me laugh a lot.<br />
Yes, some days are really bad. Some days I allow the cloud to overtake me, and I allow myself to grieve for my constant grief. I allow myself those days now, because I know they will pass, and I know that the best way to <i>COPE </i>on those days is to nurture myself as I would a small child, wrapping myself in soft comfortable clothes, pouring myself warm drinks, allowing the children to watch infinite movies, and simply let myself be. This is <b>Coping</b>. I am always glad for my 3 gorgeous children. I always think about wanting more children, that's how much I love them. I always smile when I see the cushions on the couch that I love so much. I always laugh out loud, every day.<br />
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It's really really hard, every single day, and I'm doing just fine.</div>
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My depression is my constant burden, my ever-present darkness, and I do great.</div>
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Thanks for asking.</div>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-34894575389802733232014-09-09T20:46:00.003+12:002014-09-09T20:46:30.367+12:00Little House on the.... Ok No. I've always fantasized about living 'Off-The-Grid'... y'know, tapping maple syrup from the trees, setting traps for bears(and then setting them free OBVIOUSLY), wringing out the cloth nappies by hand and slapping them on a rock. Unfortunately for the latter, my knees and ankles, oy, they're not so great, so my squatting abilities are not what they used to be(and I grew up using squat toilets, so I must have been good at some stage).<br />
My Pinterest boards are filled with pictures of tiny log cabins, kitchens with water on pump and giant tree slabs for furniture. I constantly envision peeling potatoes on the back doorstep with my children(again, squatting), or milking a goat, or our family clustered around a small open brazier, warming our calloused hands. I mean, I really want to do this stuff. But it's easy to dream about this idyllic life, while warming our hands by the light of a giant TV, eating takeaways and arguing about Masterchef...<br />
So last week when my friend announced that my microwave had just stopped working, I honestly just shrugged and said, 'ok'. And then when my husband was looking up microwave prices online, and trying to figure out were it would fit it in our budget(quick answer - it doesn't), I told him to settle down. We'd be fine, I told him. And I really thought we would be. I have several friends without microwaves who do FINE.<br />
And we have been, for the most part. One of my go-to, super-quick meals for the toddler is some pasta(precooked, in the fridge) with some grated cheese and mixed frozen veg, with some ham thrown in for protein.... pop it all in a bowl, zap it for about 30 seconds, give or take, stir it up so the cheese melts through, and you're done! Oh, and please spare me the lecture about giving your kids only fresh and organic food. My kids are well taken-care-of.<br />
So instead, Little-House-On-The-Prairie style, I popped it in a wee saucepan and stirred it over a low heat. So cute! So rustic! So time-consuming!<br />
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<i>Curse you cheerios!!!</i></div>
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Fast-forward to 6 days later, and it's taken me a day to defrost 2 tiny cocktail sausages from the freezer(again, spare me the lecture), and twenty minutes to slowly fry them on the stove till they're suitably cooked for a toddler. It's not so cute any more.<br />
<br />
I want to get some bread out of the freezer and defrost it! I want to melt some grated cheese over a bit of pasta REALLY FAST! I want to warm up a bottle of milk in exactly 25 seconds! I want the cuteness of the toddler in front of the microwave, chirping 'beep beep beep' hopefully!<br />
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What I want is a gosh darned microwave. One that whirs and beeps and glows and heats.<br />
Rustic be damned.<br />
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PS let me know if anyone if the Auckland area has a spare microwave! Beep beep beep!Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-78152430260773668802014-08-30T14:45:00.001+12:002014-08-30T14:45:31.271+12:00Why I 'suck' at going to church<i> <span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> They say</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> that if you find the perfect church then don't join it, because it won't be perfect any more. Ouch. <i>'They' say</i> that if you have had problems at more than one church then clearly the problem isn't the church, it's you. Ouch. These charming phrases and all of their less charming cousins should lead me to only one summation: That I am a 'problem child'. That I need to fix myself before I try to fit into another church. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Now, I'm no theologian, but the general gist of the New Testament, back when I read the thing, was that there was no such thing as a problem child. Indeed the whole 'vibe' of the Gospel seemed to loosely be that you didn't fix yourself, but went up to the Son of God and said, "here, work with this! This is me!" and then things fell into place. So this seems to be in contrast to those statements that say: You are the problem. You should not be here. You should just try harder to serve everybody and be happy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> So when I titled this post "Why I 'suck' at going to church", it was not actually me being down on myself or blaming myself. I'm about 75% sure that I don't 'suck' at going to church, and that's a pretty high score for a person with my self-esteem to give myself. But it is one of those areas where I can look back at the last 15 years of my life and say without a doubt that I have contributed to my churches. Countless youth missions and years working in Sunday preschool? Tick. Leadership at holiday programs? Tick. Contributor to and occasional leader of worship music? Tick. Helped start up not one, but two different Mainly Music programs at two very different churches? Tick. Washer of many dishes? Tick. So why haven't I done better at church? Why haven't I been happier? My church history reads like any evangelical 'good kid's yearbook. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The problem, I believe(my opinion only), is that my journey with mental illness has made it increasingly hard to be a fully included member of anything. I get it, it's hard to love someone with 'baggage'. I'm easily hurt, because I love easily. I attach myself unwisely to people who don't care anywhere near as much about me. Is this part and parcel of Depression and Borderline Personality Disorder? Probably. Does this mean I don't get to participate in church? I don't think so. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Having chronic depression, like a swollen tumour across one's shoulders and back, hobbling like Igor, messes with a lot of systems in my brain. Poor brain. In terms of faith, it means(deep breath)... that I have never personally felt the presence of God in my life. I've never felt that buzz. Does that make me doubt Her existence? Hells yeah. Which is why, for me, participation was the way that I felt tangible proof of my faith. I had to DO the thing so that I could SEE that there was a thing. For me, seeing and doing is believing. Maybe this explains why I never doubted God's existence and love for me when I was at a small conservative church where I could do as much as I wanted, no previous qualifications needed. I struggled so much with the politics, with the theology, with the gut content of every sermon at Church No. 1, but I could still sing on the worship team and help out in the creche and lead youth teams and preach at the youth services and help revamp the Sunday School. I could work out the Gospel with my hands and arms, and see it with my own two eyes. I left eventually after my post-natal depression climaxed with an overnight stay in hospital and yet I couldn't tell anyone at church about it. I didn't want secrets like that. I needed to be supported with my mental illness, not judged. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> At Church No. 2 it turned out to be the opposite. I was drawn to it for its content, its slightly-more-liberal-reading of the Bible, its tolerance for different views, its stellar music. The leaders were funny, clever and erudite, yet somewhat unapproachable. What I didn't see at the beginning was that the strength of its purpose, its clever sermons and passionate talk of community, was that as a fairly young church plant, the inner core of about 20 or 30 people(all individually amazing, loving, faithful, awesome people) were close close friends who had long histories with each other. This made for a strong, passionate core from which to spiral off its various ministries. It also made for the most lovable non-snobby clique ever. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Unfortunately, my early involvement with this group, who were welcoming and affable and lovely, was untenable long term because of my lack of history with them, and ended in pain and hurt - for me.</span><br />
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<i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Helvetica, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-align: justify;">"The feeling of being excluded, by definition, creates an intense loneliness... </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Helvetica, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 24px; text-align: justify;">People leave church because they start to feel like an outsider, and that makes them lonely. It is an emotion that is painful, powerful, and given enough time, unbearable."</span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Helvetica, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><i><a href="http://www.patheos.com/blogs/formerlyfundie/10-reasons-why-people-leave-church/">http://www.patheos.com/blogs/formerlyfundie/10-reasons-why-people-leave-church/</a></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 24px; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Helvetica, Tahoma, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 24px;">Now I genuinely do not believe that this was their intention, rather my own, rather innocent mistake. Instead of remaining on the outside, as I should have, being a newby, and making friends with other newbies, I fell right into the middle of the middle. That our friendships never progressed further than they did is no one's fault. I hadn't lived in London with them ten years ago. My children didn't go to the same schools. I didn't live in the central suburbs. All rather trifling details that meant we were never destined to be bosom buddies, but the damage had been done. I attached myself quickly and easily to them, too fast, and fell in love with them all. A more decent bunch of people you will not find easily. And so, my heart started breaking, especially as new people who ticked the right boxes were easily scooped up.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> The leaders and their group were the core of the church, and as such, it became impossible to become more involved. As a slick city church with standards of excellence, my ten years of experience contributing to and leading children and youth ministry counted for nothing, when I didn't have the right university degree. And as I kept pushing and applying and knocking, I began to get the feeling that my mental illness was an issue here too. At a lousy job interview they asked questions about how I would cope under pressure, how I would stand up under the stress of working part time and being a mother, how I would deal with my emotions. I began to also believe, along with them, that the limitations of my mental illness were far reaching. They were probably right, I probably couldn't cope, I'd probably go all mental.... And when they went outside the pool of applicants to headhunt one of the inner circle of friends who was not looking for a job, I knew my fate was sealed. I was just NOT GOOD ENOUGH. I had wanted the job, we needed the job(our income was and still is approximately half the average income there), but I just wasn't good enough. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> In hindsight, at Church No. 2 I began(and continue) to have the opposite problem as at Church No. 1. Denied entry into such a competitive church 'industry', and unable to commit to the huge time involved with the music group(although I did 'pass' the audition - phew!), my hands were tied, and I began to lose my faith. I still sang along lustily to the worship music, but tears poured down my face. Eventually the emotional rawness of exposing myself to that atmosphere - where the melody and harmony soared, scooping you up on a wave of feeling, and then left you high and dry on the beach in real life - became just too much and I stopped singing along. My continuing struggle with depression - and the newly diagnosed Chronic Fatigue - left me unable to keep up with attendance.... and no one noticed... As I wept in the congregation, and then wept at home, no one called or emailed to see where I was. Why? Because I wasn't important. I wasn't part of the essential core. I hadn't been particularly useful or involved, so why would my attendance be an issue? I was - and am - a difficult person, a high-maintenance friend, and a super-sensitive soul. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 24px;"> I recently read this article, on the super-excellent <a href="http://rachelheldevans.com/">Rachel Held Evans blog</a>, about 'Mental Illness and The Church', where the author describes it as "</span></span></span><span id="yui_3_17_2_1_1409361126974_373" style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: 'Open Sans', arial, sans-serif; line-height: 27.299999237060547px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>the ‘'no-casserole' illness, meaning faith communities don’t always rally around a person or family suffering from mental illness the way they might a family walking through cancer." </i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 27.299999237060547px;">She goes on to explain: </span></span></div>
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<i>"When someone comes to us and says, “I have cancer” or “I broke my leg,” we don’t freak out and think, “I have no idea how to fix that, so I’m going to tell the person to get professional help and walk away.” No, we don’t feel a sense of obligation to cure cancer or reset the person’s broken bone. We know what to do. We pray for them. We ask them what they need. We bring meals to their house to feed their family. We give them rides and make sure their kids are taken care of and even do the laundry.</i></div>
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<i>But when someone is having a mental health problem, our first thought is more likely to be something like “I don’t know how to help with that.” We might tell the person to get professional help and figure we’ve done our job and there’s really nothing more we can do. Why don’t we offer casseroles to people who have a family member in a behavioral health hospital or a depressive funk? Why don’t we make sure they and their families are taken care of?"</i></div>
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<span style="color: #666666; font-family: Open Sans, arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="line-height: 27.299999237060547px;"><i><a href="http://rachelheldevans.com/blog/mental-illness-church-amy-simpson">http://rachelheldevans.com/blog/mental-illness-church-amy-simpson</a></i></span></span></div>
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My family doesn't go to church any more. Don't even get me started on the problems we've had trying to attend normally with two kids on the spectrum who hate noisy kids programs. Do I still believe in God? I'm having a hard time with that one. I don't necessarily think that there is no God, I just tend to feel like He or She is rather oblivious and unconcerned with the state of things down here, but again, I know that is just my depression speaking. Do I still believe in Church? Yup. I think when it works, it works good, and its essential. I can't even imagine how people who don't go to church have babies... I mean, who makes their meals? Who does their laundry? What? No.</div>
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Is church for me? I don't know. What I do know is that I need and long for a community that is tolerant, non-judgmental, and approaches you with open arms. I think I am the kind of person who needs church, because I need to feel loved. But it just doesn't always work out that way. </div>
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<i>I have been trying to write this blog post for years now. Because it's my blog, and it's my pain, and instead I've just bitten my tongue, and sat on my hands, and tried to be a good, non-complaining churchgoer. Which is why I'm trying really hard not to feel guilty about having written it now. If you read this, and you've been at a church with me, I'm sorry if you react with anger, surprise or hurt. I know I'm a hard person to love. But this is <b>my </b>blog. </i></div>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-18664032889483999992014-01-30T23:33:00.002+13:002014-01-31T13:40:22.506+13:00Cure or Cope? The Drama of Seperation Anxiety Well my dears, I have had 3 children, and they are in bed right now. And some might say that having 3 children makes me an expert. A parenting pro. In fact, when I mention the fact that I have managed to conceive, and keep, 3 whole beings(and one darling never-to-be-forgotten-'blip'-on-the-screen), I have received many random comments, including those who would flatter me for my apparent parenting skills. So it can be somewhat humbling to realise, every-single-freaking-day, that I am still learning. In fact, some days it can feel like I am totally new to this whole 'having-children' thing. So I do not, for a second, want you to think that I think that I am better at this than you. Because I am so so so not. But we parents and caregivers are a team, are we not? And I think that sharing our newly honed skills can be a good thing. SO.<br />
<b>Separation Anxiety. </b><br />
<b>Dum dum DUUUUUMM!</b><br />
You've heard of it, yes? In fact, you've HEARD<b> <i>IT</i></b>. The crying, the whining, the gently escalating hum of anxious baby noises as they pick up the clues of a departure. The <b>roar </b>down the corridor as you flee the scene, slam the door, drop the keys, pick up the keys, rev the engine...<br />
At times it can be flattering, a sideways glance and two fat-ringed hands reaching for you. Yes you. You're their <i>favourite</i>. And you know you should feel grateful that they love you. Gratified that they <i>need</i> you. But the crescendo of cries twists your gut, filling you with guilt, resentment, more guilt, anger, frustration, concern, a sense of feeling trapped... Oh man, I know it well.<br />
So, separation anxiety. You've probably read a bunch about it. It's generally a good sign. They, our progeny, are strongly emotionally attached to us, their caregiver. If they didn't roar, flap their hands, toddle desperately after you, this would be a warning sign. You, Me, We, are their safe place. So first of all, give yourself a HIGH FIVE!<br />
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Now, how do we stop this craziness from ruining our lives?<br />
I've had 3 different children, with 3 totally different styles of dealing with things. My eldest, M, who is now 8, would cry and cry, heartbroken sobs. Her kindy teacher, grandmother, sunday-school teacher, and whoever else was doing the awful deed would gentle peel her shuddering wiry frame off me, and would then be, in turn, in her death grip. It was utterly heart-wrenching. But M had a helper, a small white soft-toy puppy named, well, Puppy. And when I turned to leave, I would see Puppy clenched in her fist as she reached for me from beyond the bead curtain. And Puppy was there for her. In fact, at one enterprising child-care centre, a special home was made for Puppy, a much-painted and glue-spattered cardboard house, and thus M would leave me for Puppy, and then eventually, as her breathing steadied and the sobs lessened, she would leave Puppy in his lovely box, and venture forth into the sunlight. Thank goodness for Puppy!<br />
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I did not cope very well with M's neediness. I felt trapped, isolated and completely alone in the task of caring for her, despite my husbands desperate attempts to reach out to us, and my depression and her depression seemed to entwine into one mass of sad girl-dom. So I would leave. I had to! I would sneak out during nap-time, leaving hubby in charge and go to the beach and sit, watching the waves for hours. Or I would point at a bird, something shiny over there, or turn on her favourite show, all to distract from the fact that I was running away. I think all of us have probably distracted, or run, or hid... and at times it is entirely necessary. I still mis-direct small people daily, just so that I can run off and speed-pee. But I don't think it's a way to <i>cure</i> or even to <i>cope with</i> Separation Anxiety.<br />
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My second child, L, who is turning 6 in a couple of months, was a different kettle of fish. He attached himself to <i>everyone</i> as a baby, merrily swinging from arm to arm like a hairy little chimp. I mean, yes, he wanted me more than anyone else, but if I wasn't available, he'd just make do. He went through the usual clingy stage, and then eventually progressed onto the separation anxiety. But instead of weeping for hours, he chose to instead roar angrily and tearfully when clawed from my arms, and then, as soon as I was out of the room, he was fine. Like, annoyingly, cheerfully fine. And I would be left with the memory of his tear-stained face, his red open mouth, his flailing hands.... and feel like shit for the rest of the day. And L? He would dig in sandpits, paint anything and everything, swing on tires and generally enjoy an awesome day at kindy. Him I did not distract as much, nor run from. His kindy teacher, firmly clasping his twisting roaring little body, would carry him to the kitchen window where he could see me walking away, and I would always turn at the letterbox, and wave at him, blow kisses, and walk steadfastly away. Did it make it less awful for me? No, not really. But it felt more, I don't know, <i>honest</i>. I wasn't tricking him. I was showing him that I, his mama, was confident that he'd be ok, and I was gifting him my final wave to show: I love you, I'm going, I'll be back. <br />
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My third child, FR, is, again, a different person. Seriously, you'd think by now I'd have this sussed, right? FR was not clingy until about 12 months, a little bit late, and to tell the truth, when she did start needing ME more than HIM, I felt a bit relieved. What was this, an emotional zombie? But then she hit the big SA with a bang. I mean, big bada boom. This child can SMELL my presence, or lack of, even while sleeping... it's the hand-to-heart truth, ANY time I leave the house while she is napping during the day, no matter at what point in her sleep cycle, she lifts her head abruptly, sniffs the air like a hungry lion-cub, and then that's it. Snap. Caught out. Which means that if I leave while she's sleeping peacefully, she will always wake up and spend the next hour or so pacing around the house shouting at her darling daddy, demanding my swift return. Which in turn means that I should NOT try and run errands while she naps, because then her nap is ruined for the day. But you know what? I'm ok with not slipping out secretly. If I have to leave her, I try to make it a time when she is happy, well-fed and generally busy... but I don't hope that her play will keep her distracted. I usually walk up to her, or call her name out, and when she looks up at me, her head cocked to one side sparrow-like, I say to her: "hey FR, mama's just going to go out and do some jobs, nana's here now and she's the boss, ok? I'll be right back in a little while, I love you lots!" And if she starts to whimper or hold out her arms, then I go to her and pick her up and hug her really hard. And then I pass her to nana, or whoever is amazing enough to look after my children for me, or put her gently down at her game, wave goodbye, and leave.<br />
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Does this technique cure Separation Anxiety? Nope. Does Separation Anxiety need curing? I don't think so. It's a perfectly normal part of our children's development, another notch on the chart as their little lines soar upwards, and it WILL NOT LAST FOREVER. I can say that as a fact, because I know it, because I've seen it. There WILL be a time, with all honesty I'm telling you, that you will feel slightly miffed at the surly 'bye', the lack of any head-movement from a book or screen, and you will feel ever so slightly disappointed that your absence causes no pain. And when my big girl was little, I could not see the future, I could not see hope, I could not see that there would ever be a time when she would not need me with every fibre in her strange little self, and I was completely overwhelmed.<br />
But I've seen the future. It's a future where your children, my children, wave merrily out of car windows or at doors, confident in your steadfastness, your promised return. It's a future where they trust you, an ordinary person, so much that they can leave you and step forward, knowing that you will not let them down. You will ALWAYS be there. <br />
So let's do away with curing Separation Anxiety shall we? Let's put the tricks, the magic-disappearing-acts away in a bag for now. They can be used now and then, when absolutely necessary. Let's learn how to bolster up our own confidence as caregivers, how to trust our own decisions of child-care and day-to-day work, so that we believe in what we are doing. So that we believe that leaving our children is necessary sometimes, and we believe it's for a good reason.<br />
Don't hide from your baby, or run out the door in bare-feet, heels in hand, no, turn around, go back and say<br />
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<b><i>BYE my darling precious one! I'm going OUT now, and I WILL be back. I know it is sad my darling, but I promise you I WILL be back. </i></b></div>
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I'd love to hear what your take on Separation Anxiety and Clingy Chimps is... how do you say goodbye to your little ones? Any advice, questions, or sob stories?</div>
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Hugs and kisses.</div>
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PS I am intending to add some links to articles I've found really helpful, but I'm also intending on folding the washing sometime and putting it away, soooo.... yeah....</div>
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Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-76281081057882734862013-12-31T22:31:00.001+13:002013-12-31T22:31:32.187+13:00Authentic Year in Easy Picture FormatOk so after spouting all that lovely prose, here is the year in pictures: what I did, tried, ate, enjoyed, and who I cuddled.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Some of the People I Hugged or saw Hugging in 2013:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQV-mBr7I7u3UB1rHG2tUqKnoSVuDLEU3JeubGbMBlEWVOnT9aVOGMkFEo9p3XFZrgdBGNsRwFoZWeL-C44VNCEXaPbTjE9VG7DAxtSKeeiopuFUfvOMQoQDgjI2qEAsTC7nCtosUYf7Ar/s1600/cuddles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQV-mBr7I7u3UB1rHG2tUqKnoSVuDLEU3JeubGbMBlEWVOnT9aVOGMkFEo9p3XFZrgdBGNsRwFoZWeL-C44VNCEXaPbTjE9VG7DAxtSKeeiopuFUfvOMQoQDgjI2qEAsTC7nCtosUYf7Ar/s640/cuddles.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Brothers and sisters; sons and dad; sisters and brothers; daughters and dads</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Food that We Enjoyed Heartily: </span></div>
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<i>Note: I worked really hard to increase my coffee intake this year. It was really hard.</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Hairstyles that We Tried Out, and You Should Too:</span></div>
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<i> Pink, it was everything I imagined it would be; Buns, because everyone loves buns; Baldness, because we'll all be bald eventually so why not now?; The Mop, but don't laugh like she did.</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">New Things I Tried or Continued Trying:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdl6226z5RpekGz2b7n6rnQkLi9nbzgQI7NSywm_9C4VTEMXkgYUThQBcZoCZ7XV3TmmN5DBhE0LIf_seDD5iReYZDd8i7Reql2E05qu6E-qT9jiqyJdseSmsphdSF5c0C1B_aDTczLYZA/s1600/things+I+tried.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdl6226z5RpekGz2b7n6rnQkLi9nbzgQI7NSywm_9C4VTEMXkgYUThQBcZoCZ7XV3TmmN5DBhE0LIf_seDD5iReYZDd8i7Reql2E05qu6E-qT9jiqyJdseSmsphdSF5c0C1B_aDTczLYZA/s640/things+I+tried.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i> Tattoos, Half-Marathons, Crochet, Clouds, A Weird Kids Magazine, More Tattoos, Sewing with a Baby on my Lap, Having Lots of Flowers, Chasing Uncles and Brothers.</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Outfits We Tried: </span></div>
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<i>Needs no explanation really, just, wearing lots of neon colours and things on our heads and faces. You Should Too.</i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So Long 2013 and Thanks for All The Fish<i> </i>!!!</span></div>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-34726979802323727922013-12-31T21:32:00.002+13:002013-12-31T21:32:45.657+13:00Don't Be Happy This New Years Eve Well the internet is flooded with wrap-ups and highlights of 2013. The Best Of, The Worst Of and the Rather Mediocre of the last 364 days is being picked apart. Even for those who shun lists of all kinds(and bravo to those brave souls), they can't help but look back and wonder - 'What did I do wrong? What did I do well? What's my Big Plan here?' So here I am, throwing my two cents in. You've been warned.<br />
I think the word 'Happy' is overrated. I think we fixate on this Happiness. How to Be Happy. The Happiness Project. Don't worry, be Happy. Here's my take on it. Don't be Happy. Or at least, don't aim to be Happy.<br />
Let's look at the word 'Happy'. Actually I've written it enough now that it's starting to sound weird in my brain. What a silly word. Happy. H-A-P-P-Y... anyway I digress.<br />
Happiness is a Feeling. A mere, fleeting Feeling. What is a Feeling? It's a wave. They come in different sizes, these Feeling waves, some giant and thundering and destructive, some barely small enough to be called a ripple.<br />
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<i>And I don't think, any more, that a Feeling is something to be aiming for. </i></div>
Why do we spend SO much of our time chasing emotions? Emotions don't last, people. They come and then they go. Sometimes those emotions have secondary reactive emotions, you feel afraid and then BOOM you feel embarrassed that you were afraid. Or you feel resentment towards someone and then BOOM you feel guilty about resenting them. It may seem like I'm rambling, and I am, but the point I'm trying to introduce is that Happiness is not something to seek out. Happiness does not last. Happiness is vapid, short-lived and shallow. But if not Happiness, what then?<br />
If we are going to replace this emotion as our goal, what should we be aiming for? Let's try some concrete replacements. Lose weight? Sure, that's measurable, but is it lasting? Will it radically change how you feel about yourself? Science says probably not. In fact, it has been proven that if you hate yourself when you are fat, you will probably hate yourself when you are thin. What else can we aim for? There are many physical, tangible, concrete things that we can measure ourselves by, that we believe will change our status, either within or without ourselves. But do these goals with lots of numbers, do they really make us better people? I don't think so. I've tried, and it hasn't worked. No. Let's scrap those ideas. Let's aim for something trickier than that.<br />
Now, here's a cheesy word: Authentic. Roll it over your tongue, that's right, Authentic. Authenticity. The Authentic Self. Authentic Parenting, Authentic Eating, Authentic Hair-Washing. You've heard it all before, I know, but I'm going to try and trim it down a bit. Make it more, I don't know, grabbable. I'm going to go ahead and suggest, that instead of seeking Happiness this year, we could instead seek Authenticity. And, just maybe, if we unravel this idea of Authenticity out a bit, we might just find ourselves experiencing emotions not dissimilar to Happiness! So then, how to be Authentic.<br />
Grab a quiet moment and a cup of coffee, and if you're like me, a pen and paper(SO old-school I know). Don't write anything down right away. Just sit and think, and watch the coffee and milk swirl slowly around the rim of the mug. Sit and think about what you wish you could be like, if no one was watching or judging you. No one. Bear with me. Just imagine what you would be doing if there was no one else on Earth. Or if you were invisible. Or if you were visible but no one looked at you or saw you. Do you get the picture? What would this 'you' be wearing? What would this 'you' be doing? What do you WISH you could do or be or say or look like or wear, if you didn't care what any one else thought about you?? THAT, that invisible, intriguing, raw, crazy whirlwind of a person. THAT is your 'Authentic Self'. Ok, you can write it down now. Go! Write it! Ok, now, listen up. You can be that person. You can be totally, utterly, 100% you. You Can DO It!!! This Year! Do you want to know why I know this? I'm doing it too babe, I'm on the same train. And, I believe as a direct result, I'm feeling Happier more often.<br />
Here's a brief run down of my journey. 5 years ago, in the midst of a flood of emotions, gripped by depression, I tried to take my own life. It didn't work, duh. I've talked about this before, and I'll probably talk about it again, and that's because it was a turning point in my life. I walked out of hospital(ok, shuffled out, draped inelegantly around my husbands shoulders) and I haven't looked back. I said to myself, that didn't work. THAT, that stunt you just pulled? It's not for you. Living is for you. I don't want anyone to think for a second that I haven't ever been horribly depressed since. Of course I have. Depression is a chronic, long-term illness, look it up. But since that rather dramatic failure, I've been moving forward. One step forward, two steps back sometimes, sure. But I have not, ever, looked back. And part of my new, post-almost-dying journey has been a belief that I no longer have to be ashamed of who I am.<br />
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I do Not. Have. To. Apologize. Ever. For who I am.</div>
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And since then, I've been doing the things I always wanted to do, but was too afraid to. I'd always wanted to shave off all my hair, but was AFRAID of what people would think. So I shaved my hair off. And I loved it! So much I've done it more than once! I'd always wanted to have at least 3 kids, if not more, and after all the discussing back and forth about what was a rather major decision, it came down to this: I was AFRAID of what people would say to me when I said we wanted another. And then we did it. And yeah, people said stuff. And yeah, it hurt. A lot. But I'm so so glad we chose to live without fear in that moment, to take our future into our hands, to claim our dream. And baby, you should see that number 3 girl. Oh man. I'd also always wanted to get a tattoo, but I was AFRAID of what people would say or think. And then I did it, and I loved it, and now I'm addicted! I love having tattoos! Who knew? I love choosing them and dreaming them up and designing them and talking about them and I love the process of getting them(yes, even the pain) and I love the collection of them on my body, the story that I'm building, my gallery. So guess what? This next year I am getting more, because I want to. Because I'm not Afraid any more. Ditto for homeschooling and stretching my lobes and getting a dog and then giving it away. My business, my choices.</div>
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So I guess what I'm trying to say, what has been my experience, is that the more fearless you are, the more you step out on your own two feet and say THAT... THAT is what I want, THAT is who I am, THAT is my future... that is being truly, madly, deeply, Authentic. </div>
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And I really want that for you. I want it for my kids. Heck, I want more of it for me. And as we seek this Authenticity, as we hope and dream and believe that maybe, just maybe, Someone out there is longing for us to shine like the unique, blazing stars that we are, this is where I think we'll find Happiness. Not Happiness an object, a solid blob of shiny rainbow gold. Happiness as a Feeling. As a deep, contented, joyful, lasting Feeling. </div>
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Tell me, what crazy, awesome, ridiculous things have you always wanted to be, wear, smell like, say to people, write down, draw or paint? Muchly Authentic New Year peeps, and many shining rainbows. xx</div>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-35089353267886560992013-11-26T22:27:00.000+13:002013-11-26T22:27:02.188+13:00oh hello there old friendsHEY folks!! I'm so sorry it's been so long(2 months!!) since I wrote you last. I do genuinely intend to write more often, my little crafty friends, and I will! I will! But I don't have the time right now. Again. So I thought I'd just blitz you with photos of the stuff I'm stitching and pondering, and we'll have a real heart-to-heart later. :)<br />
So my little Mr Happy Face Cloud cushions are hopping along nicely, but I am running dangerously low on my blanket stock, so I'll be hitting Le Opportunity Shops tomorrow for some bargains... But here's a little squiz of some of the little cloud friends.<br />
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Now my next crafty venture is once again a case of desperation spurring on creativity. I've been looking for cute pillowcases for ages, colourful ones, so as not to show up the smeared mascara and fading hair dye(charming!!) and I really wanted some sort of vintage-y/floral themes. As is my wont. So after looking for months in random homewaresy sort of shops, and finding nothing I liked, and then looking online and finding nothing in my price bracket(gulp!) I thought I'd just rustle up some of my own. Of course, then I went and embroidered little critters on them. As is my wont. And I can't stop making them! They're straight forward and easy(ish) and fun. I was going to give them away as Christmas prezzies, but I'm having my usual oh-my-gosh-no-one-will-want-this-crap panic(and just to prove it's not in my head, I got given back one of my 'precious creations' from last year's Handmade Christmas, so this year I'm buying everyone stuff from a Westfield affiliated mall!), so I thought instead I'll see if I can flog them at one of the various Christmassy markets. So you might see them there, or if not, online at Felt. I'll let you know when/if I'm listing any. :) Or you can request them of course. Anyway, pillowcases, a sample:<br />
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Secret Squirrel: there are also some pacmen and little pac-ghosts sketched up ready for stitching, so they'll be joining the pillowcase ranks soon!<br />
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Alright girls and boys, that's all I have time for tonight! I have to plan some lessons for the kidlets tomorrow(well, not really 'plan' so much as print out huge amounts of Christmas Tree and Gingerbread Men resources from the interwebs HURRAH), have a shower(it's been, you know, a few days...) and crash into bed, to sleep for a couple of hours... As is my wont. Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-77088401041808058972013-09-23T22:57:00.001+12:002013-09-26T13:47:11.276+12:00Homeschooling Thus Far.... Baby Steps!When I started homeschooling, I had a vision in my mind. I'd read so many different blogs, and they had fully prepared me, I knew, for what was to come. I would rise early, no longer dreading each morning, and get up before the kids, have a shower, perhaps lay out some activities, perhaps a few interesting pieces of wood, leaves, and a pine cone arranged in a basket to pique their curiosity, and fire up their imaginations.They would get up to the sight of me smiling, with my hands wrapped around a coffee, wearing my soft dressing gown, welcoming them to the table for breakfast.<br />
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We would sit around that same table, talking and laughing about the day before, excitedly planning the day ahead. Then each and every person would dress themselves, because they have the time! No more hastily tugging at pajama buttons, no more wrenching of hated uniform t-shirts over heads... no no, my children would carefully choose clothes that they loved, assembling outfits that expressed their individuality and cute quirks, yet reflected an innate sense of style and aesthetics...<br />
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Etcetera etcetera. Well as we all know, the best laid plans of mice and men... something something... never work out. I think that's how it goes.<br />
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Umpteen times already, in the last two months, I have decided to admit defeat, own up to my terrible mistake, and made plans to enrol the children in the closest school asap. Just last week I actually emailed the principal of our new local primary school to let him know we were interested in enrolling our kids and could we come and have a look? And yet, here we are, still sitting around in our pjs, doing nothing of the sort.<br />
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So what do we do instead of school? Not much, to tell the truth. I'm often embarrassed when people ask me what we do, because it really feels like nothing. Certainly compared to the infinite tales online about raising livestock, learning scientific facts through amazing experiments and hands-on experience, children who can count to a million and play musical instruments and contribute to their community... well nothing! And yet I know it is important to look back, to reflect and take stock, and see that slowly, quietly, something is unfolding.<br />
Nothing dramatic.<br />
Nothing to write home about.<br />
Nothing mind-blowingly inspiring.<br />
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Just little tiny steps... the pitter patter of potential as it were...<br />
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Like my 5 yr old seeming to know how to write letters, out of nowhere. He has longer periods of concentration(very remarkable for an ADHD/ASD diagnosis) at the table, whether it be an activity book or intricate drawing. He's so careful. So focused. He keeps on trying new things. He plays computer games - and he plays them WELL; what seems like 'mindless' repetition of a difficult level, upon reflection, turns out to be careful practice and perfection - a dogged determination to learn this new trick, to not give up. He's not afraid to fail as much any more. He doesn't get as impatient or angry with himself... still sometimes, yes, his frustration bubbles over, but oh boy is he trying!<br />
He puts his on shoes on, he makes his own breakfast(with some help when the milk bottle is full), he makes up his own games and draws new, bizarre creatures. He is more accepting of real life; of the fact that you can only take one toy with you when you go out, and not only that, but it should be a toy of a certain size, not too small that it could be misplaced or too big that it might become difficult to carry. He accepts that we play computer games after lunch, never before, and that we take breaks when we're asked to, and that when we're told our time's up, it's really going to be OK.<br />
Could he have achieved some of this at school? Probably! But at home, we have the time(endless infinite hours it can feel like) to do this at his pace, without fear, with as little stress as possible. At home you can learn something new, or 2 things new, and then you can decide your brain is full and you can go and jump on the trampoline until your cheeks are flushed red and your fingers are stained black and your mind feels clear again.<br />
And if you're suddenly overwhelmed with emotion or exhaustion or excitement, you can tell someone, and you can work out how to make it better. Both the kids at times will say they 'just need to be alone', and they'll wander off and have some quiet time. For my big girl, she's got a favourite tree stump that she calls her thinking spot, and she plods off like Pooh Bear to think about ... who knows? I don't! Sometimes I wish I did but mostly I'm just glad that she knows when to take a little time out, and be in her own company.<br />
Other things my 7 yr old is doing? Asking to do pages in her exercise book. Trying things that are hard, even things classed as Too Hard... she tries them anyway, because, like her brother, she's not afraid of failing as much as she used to be.<br />
We don't fail here.<br />
We don't do much, it is true. But we learn in little, quiet steps, sometimes so light that they don't make a sound. And we think we're going nowhere, until we look back through the trees and see the path along which we have come.<br />
And I've written this to remind myself more than anyone else, that this is a journey. And we are gently ambling along. Later we might run, but at the moment, slow as it may seem, we ARE learning. We ARE growing. We ARE changing.<br />
And that's quite a lot, wouldn't you say?Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-81427857605602136442013-08-04T16:33:00.001+12:002013-08-04T16:33:52.071+12:00Unschooling, Formula and Faith: 10 Things I Wish You KnewIt's so much easier to put things up on a blogpost that is available for anyone all over the world to read, and yet I <i>cannot say these things out loud</i>, even to near and dear friends. Here are some slices of truth that I am always too afraid to just tell people, but wish they knew anyway.<br />
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1 - I have and may always have, a mental illness, but I genuinely believe that I am still entitled to a full and amazing life, with children and goals and a career and anything I want!<br />
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2 - I am a committed Christian who struggles to belong to a Church, because I believe in evolution and because I believe the way the Church treats the LGBT community and other minorities is unethical and un-Christ-like.<br />
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3 - I am an advocate of unschooling. If you ask me how 'homeschooling' is going, don't be surprised to see me blush, stammer and try to change the subject. I don't know anyone else who is unschooling, so it is at times lonely and frightening. Please don't arrest me, or take away my children.<br />
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4 - I am a staunch feminist, and yet I am sometimes so ashamed of how hairy I am that I struggle to leave the house.<br />
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5 - My kids play on the computer or XBox for HOURS at a time, and yes, I permit it and yes, they are learning stuff from it.<br />
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6 - I have tattoos and piercings, and I plan to get more. I love them. Deal with it.<br />
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7 - I am a hippie and I parent my children gently and I am a homebirth advocate and yet I am also a proud and Fearless Formula Feeder, and were I to have more, I would feed them formula too.<br />
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8 - I love blogging, and writing, but I also feel like it's just one more arena in life in which to feel isolated, alone or left out.<br />
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9 - I say rude or inappropriate things at times, because I am trying SO hard to hide the fact that I am hurting.<br />
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10 - I may love you dearly, but I have zero energy to spend time with you.<br />
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<i>Do you find it easier to write things down than to say them? What do you wish I knew about you? </i>Thanks so much for stopping by! Love and hugs<br />
<br />Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-54393400477241360132013-07-04T13:52:00.000+12:002013-07-04T13:52:10.630+12:00Ring a Ding Ding<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Latest Rings up on <a href="http://felt.co.nz/shop/heartncrafty">my Felt shop</a>:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://felt.co.nz/listing/162029/Glass-Dome-Adjustable-Ring-Curious-Christof">Curious Christof</a>, <a href="http://felt.co.nz/listing/162032/Glass-Dome-Adjustable-Ring-Skeptical-Simon">Skeptical Simon</a>, <a href="http://felt.co.nz/listing/162027/Glass-Dome-Adjustable-Ring-Sour-Sophie">Sour Sophie</a></span></div>
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$18 each + $5 postage. Cute gift box included. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">xx</span></div>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-63344471671775466692013-07-03T18:44:00.001+12:002013-07-03T18:44:54.665+12:00Make It - Mend It: Easy Peasy Boho Bead NecklaceHappy Wednesday my loves! Here's a wee tutorial on making(or re-making) a boho knotted-bead necklace... the knots help to keep the beads in good shape(not rubbing off against each other), and if it breaks when someone small is chewing on it, only one bead will come off, so there is less general chaos and danger! I've never stopped wearing jewellery when I've had littlies, I think there is something so beautiful about their little fingers exploring the different colours and textures, and their little eyes lighting up as they spot their favourite bead or button. FR(9 months now!) is at that lovely stage of coming into my arms for a cuddle, then glancing up to my ear to check which earring I am wearing... and then peering round the other side to eye up and fondle the matching earring. Oh the cute! I've always found that if you keep wearing jewellery and encouraging them to touch it gently, they will learn to treat fragile things with respect. So, without further ado, the necklace.<br />
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1) You need some of your favourite beads. For me, a necklace I made years ago that was ABOUT to break.<br />
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I just love the colours so much, I was desperate to preserve the 'feeling' of the necklace, while also re-stringing it and making it much longer. Don't be afraid to cut up or otherwise destroy something you've bought in a shop or been given, in order to extract the pieces you love the most.<br />
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2). You need a necklace, or picture of a necklace that you want to model your new necklace on.<br />
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I made this blue strand out of a combination of several different necklaces last year, and I want to use the same method for starting and finishing the necklace; a 'clasp' if you will, although I intend to make this new one long enough to just pull over my head.<br />
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3). If you want to make your new necklace longer than the old one, you will need some extra goodies to fill in the spaces. I had this pack of cheap plastic beads with a gold finish, which seemed to fit in(although I don't want this necklace to look all shiny and sparkly, I think the boho look has room for bits of treasure here and there!), as well as some new beads that my parents brought me back from Murano, Italy(again, I was careful not to choose the really glassy, sparkly or metallic options).<br />
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You also need thread or cord to string your new necklace on... I always prefer a waxed or otherwise coated cord, which will prolong the life of your necklace.<br />
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Make sure your cord is thin enough to go through the holes of the beads you chose, or that the beads have a large enough hole. If they have very narrow openings, you will need to use embroidery thread, but then you will also have to use a needle - and make sure the beads can fit over the needle... yawn! Very tiresome. So I prefer a thin-ish cord and beads with larger holes. Use a large quantity(at least 2m) of cord or thread, as this design knots in between each bead for safety ... you will be surprised how quickly you will go through a couple of metres of cord!<br />
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4) Start! You need lots of room - preferably a tray on a table, but I usually do mine on the couch in front of the TV, so I choose one with a big lip so that the beads won't scatter on the couch. Begin by tying a loop - not too big, just large enough to slip over a small bead - into one end of the cord...things will be a bit fiddly at the beginning because you will be looping a long long cord through everything(I had a length of 5 metres which I then cut in half).<br />
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Then you're away... just remember to tie a juicy little knot after each bead, or if the bead has a particularly giant opening, knot it several times on the same spot to make a larger 'bulge'. If you'd like to include a button that has 4 holes, criss cross the thread through firmly so that it sits flat against you... does that make sense? I hope so!<br />
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I love the combination of sizes, colours and materials, but you may prefer a more uniform look. For this necklace I am 'vaguely' following a pattern of alternating smaller sized beads or buttons with larger sized ones. It can be genuinely difficult to make something that does not have a pattern or repetition to it; because I like the hodge-podge patchwork effect of different kinds and colours of beads, I have to always check that I am not repeating myself!<br />
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5) Keep holding it up against yourself to see how long you'd like it to go(or, if you're an organised person, figure that out beforehand and have a measuring tape handy to see when you've hit the middle), and make sure that you are placing things just right. Because I prefer the organic, step-by-step approach rather than planning the whole piece, I have to check when I get to the centre that the bead in that spot is nicely weighted and shaped, and if you are alternating sizes like I am, that it's a larger sized bead. This will help to hang better. Then just keep on going, till you get to the end...<br />
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6) To finish off, you want to tie a knot after your last bead as per usual, and then leave a little space(about 5mm) before tying on the bead that you will use to 'clasp' or shut the necklace. After tying the clasp bead on, tie three or four knots directly onto the cord, in that space that you left. Then tie a knot in the flyaway cord, as close to the other knots as possible, and snip the end.<br />
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If you like things to look tidy, you could try and thread the flyaway back through the last bead before trimming it, so that it's partially hidden. You're done! Fling it on, and you're away.<br />
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Any questions?<br />
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<br />Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-71773437147368896552013-07-02T23:39:00.001+12:002013-07-02T23:39:41.395+12:00Energy + Make-Up = Win I feel intimidated by people with <b>energy</b>. People who go out at <i>night</i>, or socialise at night. People who, like me, have babies, and yet have inspiration, ideas... and the all important self-motivation to go through with things. You scare me, people. You make me feel anxious. You make me feel tired, and then feel <i>guilty/lazy/crabby</i> that I feel tired. Seriously? People who put on make-up everyday. Like, not just a slather of mascara to distract from the dark under-eye circles, nor that vital last-minute swipe of balm when you realise that whole swathes of dry skin are <i>crunchy chewy falling </i>from your tender lips. I've seen you, people. You get up in the mornings and have a shower. Like, everyday. And you cleanse tone moisturise and then apply MAKE-UP?!?! How can I not feel intimidated by that, I ask you? And let me guess, you probably use deodorant. Like, <i>lady </i>deodorant. I can tell just by looking at you that <i>you </i>didn't run out of roll-on a week ago and then just start using Man Deodorant. You probably brush your teeth <i>twice </i>a day. I feel intimidated by you. And yet, oddly inspired.<br />
If, dear reader, you actually identify with me, rather than, you know, those OTHER people, read on.<br />
Here's some inspiration for me, and for you other squalor-loving bottom-dwelling scum, from the ever-helpful Youtube:<br />
- <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/sharonmakeupartist?feature=">Sharon Farrell</a> shows you <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VpMZ1bpAb60">how to put make-up on when you feel like crap</a> and everyone keeps asking if you're ok....<br />
- The same lovely lady goes further to inspire us with <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7G3Aqn4LXUQ&feature=c4-overview&list=UURwfCEHTlQ6txQ3MSh4BY6g">how to look pin-up glam.</a> Yes, aim high, friends, aim high.<br />
- Here's the gorgeous wee <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/taliajoy18?feature=watch">Talia </a>with her Covergirl demo on Ellen, for a fancy-schmancy <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lw7nobm9qGI">going-out-at-night look </a>.. because IT JUST MIGHT HAPPEN YOU NEVER KNOW<br />
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Yes, those looks are pretty magniflorious, and not your everyday-face look, but sometimes it can help to just peep at the horizon with your tired wee droopy eyes and see a beam of light... of hope...<br />
And maybe, just maybe, if I did apply some amount of make-up to my splotchyscratchypaledotty skin in the morning, or take some similar steps to nurturing and caring for myself, I might feel a little better about the day? Or even want to do things in the twilight hours?<br />
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Your thoughts? To paint your face, or not, and why? Do you have any little morning rituals to brighten the spirit?<br />
<br />Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-80715098932502583922013-06-22T22:18:00.000+12:002013-06-22T22:28:46.380+12:00The Gosh-Darned Feminists<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>"</i><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"><i>Consider that any word that(is)feared and derided has incredible power. And how beautiful and strong that makes it."</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">- <a href="http://www.salon.com/writer/mary_elizabeth_williams/">Mary Elizabeth Williams</a>, on how and <a href="http://www.salon.com/2012/12/03/why_are_women_scared_to_call_themselves_feminists/?source=newsletter">why women are scared to be called feminists</a>.</span></span></div>
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So here I am, laying it out there. I am a feminist. And that's not a thing to be scared of. I'm not out there, roaming the night, hating the menfolk, imagining a world that is run by women. No. I am out there (hardly ever roaming the night because let's face it, I'm in my pyjamas by 8pm), hating the chauvinistic <i>attitudes </i>of many menfolk and the institutions they've created, imagining a world where men and women co-exist and share equal levels of independence, power and autonomy. A fine line, maybe, but there is a line.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feminist">Feminism</a></span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feminist"> </a>is a collection of movements and ideologies aimed at defining, establishing, and defending </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feminism_and_equality" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0b0080; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">equal</span></a><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> political, economic, and social rights for women...</span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-12ff534b-6b1f-a5e9-84c8-74bedc8ba21e"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Today the Oxford English Dictionary defines a </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">feminist</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> as "an advocate or supporter of the rights and equality of women".</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #0b0080; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feminist#cite_note-8" style="text-decoration: none;">[8]</a>"</span></span><br />
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I get a bit tired when gals like you and me shy away from the word 'feminism'... a lot of people believe, mistakenly, that feminism is about getting rid of all men, and making women in charge of everything... about women being more important than men. That's not the case. Feminism seeks to right the wrongs, to redress the imbalance of power that has been in place in most patriarchal cultures since the beginning of history. Do you think we women should have as much rights as men? Yes? You're a feminist. Do you think that women should be treated with as much respect as men? Yes? You're a feminist. Do you think that a woman should be paid as much as a man? That women are as valuable as men? Yes? Well congratulations, you're a feminist. It's not hard.<br />
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And yes, men can and should be feminists.<br />
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And I'm a Christian. We were created equal, men and women, in God's own image. Therefore, God has both male and female aspects. God cannot be described in solely male terminology if He created women... Women who reflect HIS IMAGE. And I absolutely believe that the gospel is pro-woman; the gospel is about cutting down the barriers, about the good news that is for ALL PEOPLES, regardless of race, gender, employment status etc... (here's a super duper photography project on equality, and how, deep down, <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/frame?post=1179569325&group=0&frame_type=a&blog=4123915&link=aHR0cDovL2ZlZWRwcm94eS5nb29nbGUuY29tL35yL1RoZUdpcmxXaG8vfjMvNVZUMVB6NEkyRlkvY3JlYXRlZC1lcXVhbC5odG1s&frame=1&click=0&user=0">we are all the same</a>)<br />
I don't have a lot, <i>personally</i>, to say on this topic right this second, because the inspired-side-of-my-brain is notably absent... so typical! But I am constantly composing feminist tirades in my much-beleaguered head as I go about my daily business, and I'm sure one day soon, the stars and the moon shall align <i>just so </i>and I will actually be able to write something right then, in the moment of inspiration! It'll be amazing!<br />
But in the meantime, because I'm so desperate just to start this conversation, here is a wee round-up of some of my favourite links on feminism and sexuality, feminism and weight(sigh), feminism and beauty and... how having a period is actually pretty hardcore.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><u>Body Politic:</u></span><br />
Lena Dunham, the talented, funny and smart writer of HBO's Girls, is unswerving in her <a href="http://www.salon.com/2013/02/09/naked_if_i_want_to_lena_dunhams_body_politic/?source=newsletter">commitment to appearing nude</a> - in all her normality - in the show, and there's always a bit of a fuss in the media about it, because, well, she's NORMAL....<br />
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<i><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px;">Carolee Schneemann: </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px;">“Men can use beautiful, sexy women as neutral objects or surfaces, but </span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 20px;"><span style="font-size: large;">when women use their own faces and bodies, they are immediately accused of narcissism."</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; line-height: 20px;">As women, weight loss, or general thinness, is often the only way we can make up for our perceived flaws: </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The thinness was supposed to make up for my other beauty failures. I felt that I always understood Sarah Jessica Parker's extreme thinness because of this. Her face was a target for disdain, dismissal, mean humor, even loathing. It wasn't the face of a model or a TV star, even though she was a TV star. So, of course she was intensely thin. It made sense to me. I wanted to be thinner to distract people from the rest of me.” Kate Fridkis, in <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kate-fridkis/body-image_b_2783335.html?ir=women&utm_campaign=030113&utm_medium=email&utm_source=Alert-women&utm_content=FullStory">Thinness as a Disguise</a>....</span></div>
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<i><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Really, it's winning, on some strange, highly-present level. Winning, somehow, at being a girl...</span></i><i style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> the unspoken rules for girls strictly demand body compliance. </i></div>
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<i style="background-color: white; font-family: Georgia; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;">Where being thin is women's law, and that law is wringing girls out, pressing them into exhausted quiet.” </span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 15.199999809265137px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Georgia;">In this </span><a href="http://www.salon.com/" style="font-family: Georgia;">Salon</a><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> article on how </span><a href="http://www.salon.com/2011/08/12/is_gaining_15_pounds_really_torture/" style="font-family: Georgia;">actresses complain about having to gain weight,</a><span style="font-family: Georgia;"> Mary Elizabeth Williams asks </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">"</span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Does the world really need another slender actress moping about she had to put on — and I’m quoting directly here– “all this weight”? Especially when her supposedly beefed-up version is still so damn slim?" Williams goes on... </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There’s something about moving up or down the scale, in and out of a pair of jeans, that brings about an intense identity shift. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>But there’s something even odder about the media and audience</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"> obsession with </span></i></span></span><i style="font-family: inherit; font-size: x-large; white-space: pre-wrap;">weight gain and loss.</i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 16px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> It’s the congratulatory magazine covers when a celebrity mom gets back in her “bikini body,” the way that US gushes that “Fortunately for [Jessica] Chastain, she was able to get back to her trim figure quickly,” as if being slightly curvier was such a freaking hardship, that are the really tortuous, disgusting things here. Gaining weight for a role may be a job. That doesn’t make it an ordeal. And dropping it shouldn’t automatically be a cause for celebration.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: large;"><u>Gender Marketing and Children:</u></span></span></div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Tom Burns talks here about how <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/01/22/buying-boys-underwear-for-my-daughter_n_2526847.html?ir=">he bought 'boys underwear' for his daughter</a>, and why:</span></div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">"</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15.333333015441895px; line-height: 21px;">And I had to stand and tell her that no, no, they didn’t make girl versions of these brands of character underwear and I didn’t really have a good explanation why....</span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-12ff534b-6b46-4a5d-673c-c886ca4c0657"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">In her mind, "Star Wars," Pixar, and superheroes aren’t just for boys, so wearing them on her underwear doesn’t feel odd at all. But, thanks to stupid gender marketing,</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 15px;"> </span><i><span style="font-size: large;">there are whole generations of girls being told that these creative properties that they love </span></i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">are not</span></i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"> for them. </span></i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: 15px;">And, again, that’s sad and strange and seems to be leaving a whole lot of money on the table for the underwear manufacturers.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-size: 15.199999809265137px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Last year Gwyneth Paltrow, of Shakespeare In Love and (dubious) GOOP fame, released a line of </span><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/23/gwyneth-paltrow-kids-bikinis_n_3137837.html"><i style="font-size: 15.199999809265137px; white-space: pre-wrap;">bikinis</i><span style="font-size: 15.199999809265137px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> for </span></a><i style="font-size: 15.199999809265137px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/04/23/gwyneth-paltrow-kids-bikinis_n_3137837.html">little girls</a>....</i><span style="font-size: 15.199999809265137px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Now I'm not against fun swimwear for kids, and have on occasion bought two-piece 'togs' for my daughter... as in, singlet and pants combos, or tankinis... but there's something inherently repellent about little triangle bikinis that try to emulate and suggest something sexual... </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia;"><span style="font-size: 15.199999809265137px; white-space: pre-wrap;">"</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15.333333015441895px; line-height: 21px;">A representative of a child safety charity Kidscape </span><a href="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2313199/Gwyneth-Paltrow-Star-facing-backlash-grown-bikinis-girls-aged-four.html" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #c72175; cursor: pointer; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 15.333333015441895px; line-height: 21px; list-style: none; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_hplink">reportedly told the Daily Mail</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-size: 15.333333015441895px;">, "We remain very opposed to the </span><i style="font-size: 15.333333015441895px;">sexualisation of children and of childhood</i><span style="font-size: 15.333333015441895px;">. The dangers have been discussed at length, so </span><i><span style="font-size: large;">it is a great pity that such trends continue and that they carry celebrity endorsement."</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; line-height: 21px;"><u><span style="font-size: large;">The 'Perfect-Face' Pressure</span>(or Make-up as a tool of the Oppressors)<span style="font-size: large;">:</span></u></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">If you have been reading my blog for years, you will know - oh wait first THANK YOU - that I have an issue with my skin. As in, I have skin. And it is yuck. I have adult-acne... in fact it looks like I have meth scabs. My skin has been a major issue since I was young, and will probably continue to be so for years and years to come... So I have been a big fan of make-up, and have definitely been through phases of not-leaving-the-house-without-it... but it's a love/hate relationship, because of course it is my own issue of self-esteem and self-loathing... and a societal issue of expectations put upon women(by women as well as by men) of needing to look lovely. I could devote a whole post on this topic(as well as the others) but it basically boils down to strategic marketing by giant pharmaceutical and beauty conglomerates. Obviously. :) But in the meantime:</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">- Why this mother has said <a href="http://naturalparentsnetwork.com/going-make-up-free/">goodbye to make-up</a>... for her daughter:</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 21px;">"</span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></i><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I have to ask myself what is more important: that my daughter sees me as physically beautiful, or that <span style="font-size: large;">she sees me as confident and comfortable in my own skin?</span>” </i>- Destany Fenton</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">- How come in the Dove Bear-faced campaign last year where a number of <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b008dk4b/profiles/cin-bearfaced-2012">celebrities posed with no make-up</a>, all the women had perfect skin? That doesn't make me feel like I can 'bear' faced at all.... </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">- <a href="http://izismile.com/2013/03/08/porn_stars_before_and_after_their_makeup_makeover_93_pics.html">Porn Stars before-and-after Make-Up:</a> </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ok, I don't want to put as much make-up on as these women, nor do I want to be a porn star... but I am amazed at how</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">a) TRANSFORMATIVE their make-up is and b) how underneath their amazingly made-up faces they look really ordinary... </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; white-space: pre-wrap;">And I don't know if this a) inspires me to try and up my skills in the make-up department, or b) feel happy in my skin knowing that everyone is equal.... (see my previous link on <a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/frame?post=1179569325&group=0&frame_type=a&blog=4123915&link=aHR0cDovL2ZlZWRwcm94eS5nb29nbGUuY29tL35yL1RoZUdpcmxXaG8vfjMvNVZUMVB6NEkyRlkvY3JlYXRlZC1lcXVhbC5odG1s&frame=1&click=0&user=0">being created equal</a>) Hopefully the latter, because it would save a lot of time and effort if I could give up my make-up habits!</span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And finally, to wrap things up, here's </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><u>A Lighter Side To Feminism:</u></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">-Why do women have to pose the way they pose in photographs?? Here's what it would look like if men also felt <a href="http://imgur.com/a/SDOtk#0">the pressure to pose sexily</a>...</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">-Why do men joke about periods as a really wussy, pathetic excuse or symbol of weakness? Here's why <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/hnigatu/having-your-period-is-actually-pretty-metal">periods are actually not for the 'weaker sex'</a>(warning: naughty language and some pictures of horror movies involved) You're welcome.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>UPDATE: I got through that entire piece and didn't mention vaginas once. Except just then. </i></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Here's a cat puppet telling us that we should not be ashamed of the word 'vagina'(oops, that was twice) </i></span></span><br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=vkCLeeP3E8w">https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=vkCLeeP3E8w</a><br />
<i>I promise, there are no dirty pictures, and no dirty words...</i><br />
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I'd be really interested to see if this generates some conversation... Who among my readers would call themselves feminists, and who wouldn't... and why?</span></span></div>
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<br />Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-4656202713035328742013-06-22T16:37:00.000+12:002013-06-22T16:37:02.350+12:00(the) Magic (of) MushroomsWe went for a walk. We hardly go for walks, which is a crying shame because we live in the perfect area for walks. But it's so cold, and dark so early, and blah blah blah, there are lots of excuses. But one day, we went for a walk. Just me and the two biggies, Daddy was home sick so we left bubs with him.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLuL6RyMttnMDzeuBta4uG7_MXNRavb5czVB2zYSEN0Ph9AaDwec-orlncjwdDbAUhxWOCSovxmiBKjI_X2UPNeonCy-AAniz6bIR2vfP81MH40LhNSqLwvasrXCwARoXv4e62oMbw7MY/s1600/maddylewiscollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSLuL6RyMttnMDzeuBta4uG7_MXNRavb5czVB2zYSEN0Ph9AaDwec-orlncjwdDbAUhxWOCSovxmiBKjI_X2UPNeonCy-AAniz6bIR2vfP81MH40LhNSqLwvasrXCwARoXv4e62oMbw7MY/s640/maddylewiscollage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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We put raincoats and gumboots on. </div>
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I'm always aware that we are very lucky to have the money to buy clothes for our children. And although it makes me sad mad and bad that I don't have the money to buy all handmade or local/ethically made children's clothes*, I have to remember - at least I can keep my kids warm! </div>
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<i>(* and before you tell me that if I saved up all the money I usually spend on cheap clothes from Kmart then I could buy something well made that would last longer etc etc, it's all very well but when your children don't have warm clothes and it's cold RIGHT NOW you just have to buy their clothes RIGHT NOW with what you can afford. Trust me, I'll devote a whole NOTHER(not an actual word I'm aware) post to that topic...)</i></div>
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I'm super happy and grateful looking at these photos and remembering how nice it was to have a raincoat and gumboots for each of them, and how smug I feel at having got both the raincoats second-hand on Trademe. </div>
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Our walk was not just a casual stroll; we had a clear mission: To see up close, and photograph, the mushroom forest that we had seen from the car multiple times...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2GG62sJq0fZxZZS6Eg6V3HSARBOk7mUwklH6SMTrlgOR_xD09g8EKaLcjJloelslVVG0167hiDVaGKLQny3jszCc7ifj2o_jidoe-fjQnQbV-iYsPyx7x10ubqPTcYy-zD4ejVGwiG8hh/s1600/shroomCollage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2GG62sJq0fZxZZS6Eg6V3HSARBOk7mUwklH6SMTrlgOR_xD09g8EKaLcjJloelslVVG0167hiDVaGKLQny3jszCc7ifj2o_jidoe-fjQnQbV-iYsPyx7x10ubqPTcYy-zD4ejVGwiG8hh/s640/shroomCollage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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There were thousands of them! They are in a pile of woodchips left over from when The Tornado whipped through our little locale, and the giant beautiful trees started toppling. It was so sad at the time to see all the destruction, not only that of the houses and buildings, but the trees that have stood for so long, ancient pines on the ridge top... all crushed and ripped up. But of course nature doesn't let things go to waste, and here is the living proof. A glorious, orange mushroom forest. I have restrained myself from looking up what type of mushroom these are, saving that one for the kiddies internet research skills... </div>
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And then we walked home in the clouded, damp dusk.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPY0iFtAl6cDqs3-OxPSlC9dXKhH5aQu5tTztOwWuiSSd1Fl4fhVql_1-MXG0cyn80yKP2SJZZJK5Rg18RBOaaNamDUJWkJRykalAbID7Xe5WGc4UQGd9-7WD0LRnGIkK_aVEbmofJ2SYK/s1600/dusk+collage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPY0iFtAl6cDqs3-OxPSlC9dXKhH5aQu5tTztOwWuiSSd1Fl4fhVql_1-MXG0cyn80yKP2SJZZJK5Rg18RBOaaNamDUJWkJRykalAbID7Xe5WGc4UQGd9-7WD0LRnGIkK_aVEbmofJ2SYK/s640/dusk+collage.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Have I mentioned how grateful I am for the time we've had living here? We won't be here for much longer(our kick-out date is the 1st of December but hopefully we'll be moving sooner than that), but we are so lucky and blessed to have had this almost-two year period in Hobsonville Point. We agreed right at the beginning, when it was possible that we would only be here for a year, that instead of feeling gloomy about the short-term-ness of it, we would view it as a 'gap' year. A break from the monotony of the city and suburbia. As if we were house-sitting for an absent professor. And we were so lucky to have an extra year. It is the biggest house we have ever lived in, and probably will ever live in, in the foreseeable future... and at a price so far below the current rental market... So instead of feeling mounting doom, fear at the looming move, overwhelmed by all I have to do and sort through and throw away(and all while my baby naps - oh wait - she doesn't!), I am trying to live each moment in the present, with my feet firmly planted on the polished kauri floorboards, looking out at the ancient pohutakawa, feeling the history of Hobsonville seeping through.....</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzN15r6dXBzee49HYfeQY87CDsFGGU4z6jSTqjdkWcyQ5BrUQGVwVqGGRCmuEsxECm45tIbsSzBmu_Lj3_-aJd0qS3lzxfv6wewbG9C9Byp4UN-xsftg7RRjBbkwN26qA3YZX9D-GFKMP7/s1600/sheds+dusk.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzN15r6dXBzee49HYfeQY87CDsFGGU4z6jSTqjdkWcyQ5BrUQGVwVqGGRCmuEsxECm45tIbsSzBmu_Lj3_-aJd0qS3lzxfv6wewbG9C9Byp4UN-xsftg7RRjBbkwN26qA3YZX9D-GFKMP7/s640/sheds+dusk.png" width="480" /></a></div>
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And going for lots of walks.</div>
Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-78296159861398521952013-06-18T16:02:00.004+12:002013-06-18T16:02:57.934+12:00The wildernessSometimes it all feels like too much. Too much, and yet <i><b>not enough</b></i>, at the same moment.<br />
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Too many obligations, expectations(both real and imagined), chores, too much to sort through and clean and get rid of, too many possessions, too many clothes, too many friends to keep track of and catch up with and too many people to worry about whether or not they actually like you... I make the same mistakes over and over again, trapped in a demo level of a game where I can't actually win. And yet, at the same time, I feel like I don't have enough - enough time, enough clothes, enough friends, enough freedom, enough boundaries....<br />
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I don't feel like everyone is out to get me.... instead I feel the opposite, constantly putting myself out there and not being scooped up. And I wonder whether I am fading - whether when I am standing next to you, in certain angles of sunlight I am actually slightly transparent? My hold on the world, my stake, my 'mark' that I am trying to make... it shimmers and shifts, it is not solid.<br />
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I am wondering about the purpose of my 'work' - do I even have any? I am passionate about my blog, but why? To what end? Do I want people to read it? Yes! Do I want people to engage? Yes! Do I want the number of readers to increase exponentially until I'm so famous that I can write books and get asked to speak at places and have sponsors and get paid..? Yes yes yes! But if that is what I'm aiming for, then of course I'm going to end up disappointed. So is it worth it? To write things, and send them out into the void that is the internet, and watch them drift, lost at sea... Is writing a blog merely another way to feel lonely and rejected? Yes! But only if we let it, right? A lovely friend of mine actually just wrote something really similar, about wondering <a href="http://networkedblogs.com/MhAfW">what the purpose of her blog was</a>, and it echoed my own feelings well... so I am therefore not alone, if at least one other kiwi mummy blogger is in the same boat...<br />
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I am also wondering about the purpose of my crafting. I love making things. I love love love the process of inspiration, sketching ideas, drafting up creations, problem solving the nitty gritty details, and then perfecting the product. And I rarely ever make something just for myself, or my children. Instead I make Something and in my head I wonder how I can simplify the process, how I can speed up the process, who would like this kind of Thing, what they might pay for this Thing, where I should sell this Thing, how many more I should make, whether or not they should be similar or all different... and so on. I am constantly coming up with ideas of Things to make and to SELL. And yet, when nothing sells in months and months and months, you start to wonder why you are making this Thing. Is it in fact just a Sneed? Am I hopelessly out of touch with what people like and want? Apparently!<br />
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I don't want to <b>stop </b>creating. But I need to find some way of re-directing my focus. Re-purposing my Thing-making energy. Maybe I shouldn't be trying to sell things, which is all well and good, but what to do with all the energy and ideas whirling around inside my head? I have SO many ideas, but if no one else wants them, why do I have them?<br />
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All I have is questions I'm afraid. I hope that no one was reading this far because they thought there was a moral of the story! :) No moral, no solutions, no decisions, no resolutions. Just lots of swirly question marks, floating out into the dark empty universe.<br />
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????Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-28618692442663173972013-06-14T16:42:00.000+12:002013-06-14T16:42:02.634+12:00We Have a Winner!<div style="text-align: center;">
And the winner of our fantastic Stuck-On-You giveaway... is.... (giant drumroll).... Kirsten! Congratulations lovely lady, you've won a $25 voucher!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdP9YRCH2n12lbY62GDhUROzGi-1c3OCC_8Rr0PfkwbbPZh9ud2PAK4j0jqVikPe4wPtQkGK67IouShvgWlpTHhYZUvfIod_5rJglVN3EngahMZfW50wZmg9XRmE9NDloTxkgWs5E8kDf2/s1600/Win25voucher_250x250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdP9YRCH2n12lbY62GDhUROzGi-1c3OCC_8Rr0PfkwbbPZh9ud2PAK4j0jqVikPe4wPtQkGK67IouShvgWlpTHhYZUvfIod_5rJglVN3EngahMZfW50wZmg9XRmE9NDloTxkgWs5E8kDf2/s1600/Win25voucher_250x250.jpg" /></a></div>
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Thanks everyone for your entries! Have a lovely Friday afternoon.</div>
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Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2197055207536593707.post-76837841000995398052013-06-12T13:59:00.000+12:002013-06-12T13:59:00.151+12:00Party Time!! You might remember a while ago on this blog I hosted a <a href="http://heartandcrafty.blogspot.co.nz/2013/04/emotional-eating-chewy-gooey-caramel.html">wee giveaway</a> with some of <a href="https://www.pennyscallan.co.nz/">Penny Scallan's </a>great goodies, which Tina won - yay Tina!! I love giving stuff, and thanks to <a href="http://www.stuckonyou.co.nz/">Stuck on You</a> we have another super-duper giveaway.<br />
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Now, if you are a<a href="http://pinterest.com/"> Pinterest </a>user, or indeed have your head screwed on at all, you will know that increasingly nowadays the pressure to throw the perfect party is ON!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOe0Abd-vNTuVvkWZ1uZNLITi05i55vc0nn6QnMqjM7DgbGT2tGx2a317CLn890FQ3Br51gBvhdcl7BOY5JlO45rfKcO1FvTWR7F945EtHBDvUhZN5ZH-mEaaMaE44tICRomY_H1u6DPk/s1600/f770a309092415463fe1c1b31fd24642.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTOe0Abd-vNTuVvkWZ1uZNLITi05i55vc0nn6QnMqjM7DgbGT2tGx2a317CLn890FQ3Br51gBvhdcl7BOY5JlO45rfKcO1FvTWR7F945EtHBDvUhZN5ZH-mEaaMaE44tICRomY_H1u6DPk/s320/f770a309092415463fe1c1b31fd24642.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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If you follow <a href="http://pinterest.com/rachosborne/boards/">me on Pinterest</a>, you'll know that every time we have a party coming up, I'm trawling the depths of the interwebs, looking for inspiration. In fact, I found so many great ideas and pictures that I made a board for grown-up parties as well, which I look at occasionally and wonder whether this will be the year that I actually have a party - for ME!!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-o8E82Xr1O-Uh3Vv8CSbTCV-uU9jwGtWo9rHU_T2daExoIlCQicoBzDQ_TaOX9oDwoCVuhekp30qJiEIu8YZv_4OYpu1Z604PlwqYnkTMC2QPujuC3nXd47y6JA8rM5eJTXW4ugtkLxyH/s1600/2a35a215ae61e9712f108b5a8673b42c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-o8E82Xr1O-Uh3Vv8CSbTCV-uU9jwGtWo9rHU_T2daExoIlCQicoBzDQ_TaOX9oDwoCVuhekp30qJiEIu8YZv_4OYpu1Z604PlwqYnkTMC2QPujuC3nXd47y6JA8rM5eJTXW4ugtkLxyH/s320/2a35a215ae61e9712f108b5a8673b42c.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<i>Maybe this will be the year...</i></div>
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But personally, despite my best intentions, I end up dreading the party season, and wracking my brain as to where to find all the ingredients necessary to make the perfect party.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw4UZp8VXcyGgDQPrCDFkwvIvetFECR4oZcTh0vzzwuYbaCay2tujR7jBohqRc5Ldtom-3gl44QvDCZz3DacOoqnFk0iM8Aw-cT_eK-IKRJs5KWa4_OD6jTGrykx46DwetNoSQZH5YOUlX/s1600/perfectparty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw4UZp8VXcyGgDQPrCDFkwvIvetFECR4oZcTh0vzzwuYbaCay2tujR7jBohqRc5Ldtom-3gl44QvDCZz3DacOoqnFk0iM8Aw-cT_eK-IKRJs5KWa4_OD6jTGrykx46DwetNoSQZH5YOUlX/s320/perfectparty.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Oh Pinterest, you are a cruel mistress!</i></div>
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Well the clever chooks at Stuck on You have got help at hand, with their new range of super-cute personalised <a href="http://www.stuckonyou.co.nz/party.html">Party goodies</a>. And we get to have a little sneak peek!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2VnbmbCreVf9t4DuvrsLXBT65E0znBL6zyFeMFxS4lFdlrW1VrIYD57xa3Z3HHGwKvP1WftiFPl8KWlGQ0K1R3ZyjZM7dm2sQEmLf6VQTIHyV8n1oS3BPnsQs5P2VfuCIHFZsjC-kARsJ/s1600/pirates+and+dinosaurs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2VnbmbCreVf9t4DuvrsLXBT65E0znBL6zyFeMFxS4lFdlrW1VrIYD57xa3Z3HHGwKvP1WftiFPl8KWlGQ0K1R3ZyjZM7dm2sQEmLf6VQTIHyV8n1oS3BPnsQs5P2VfuCIHFZsjC-kARsJ/s320/pirates+and+dinosaurs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Pirates and Dinosaurs - Woohoo!</i></div>
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They've got your invitations covered, as well as personalised labels for all the food and goodies - totally solving the problem of goody bags(Goody bags are my nemesis!).</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmKSOrlvXXm_z4SzOBlo9FRHap7i8im_lJLINx9_e82SbjvjR95hZQuKsymUuIW6uNQoarUkXr3TG8lUGduNfsXS0FONOCKnL6muxhnjeeI0JLy1ctgmRATCHdqRCn635-FpI0T2gACKm/s1600/pink+party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZmKSOrlvXXm_z4SzOBlo9FRHap7i8im_lJLINx9_e82SbjvjR95hZQuKsymUuIW6uNQoarUkXr3TG8lUGduNfsXS0FONOCKnL6muxhnjeeI0JLy1ctgmRATCHdqRCn635-FpI0T2gACKm/s320/pink+party.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>Pretty in Pink</i></div>
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The personalised drinking cups are so cute! And the little straw-toppers - fun! Maybe I really should have a party for myself! My all-time favourite has to be the red and white polka-dots though, seriously sweet!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXtzx6yi-UEH3tCTP0BPVO-CItVnx0y5KIvgJdvViwBhaVnwbxinCXkDe5S1SgCvPh9SkTrimTCWrtJVABDewbNscU__Ak2H3TdIMETjidCgYtFlR1xiIllT5nmP5fAlx-Kk98HJVJNN6R/s1600/Party_Dots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXtzx6yi-UEH3tCTP0BPVO-CItVnx0y5KIvgJdvViwBhaVnwbxinCXkDe5S1SgCvPh9SkTrimTCWrtJVABDewbNscU__Ak2H3TdIMETjidCgYtFlR1xiIllT5nmP5fAlx-Kk98HJVJNN6R/s320/Party_Dots.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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The best news of all is that one lucky reader will win a $25 voucher to grab some of the goodies from the Party Range! Yay! Thanks Stuck On You!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijknD3BGR056sQzfTnc_cjy5qX62Hc_kfstqZ48bwZfe7XRAfUAhA_mHO9Rv6sq9S_gi2Zq6QXXOylqvMQJifa0I07F52iA6NQZh9txr-Q22zuy8QJvQ9VsR-SwB47LFxVni8GKTNL1Qmn/s1600/Win25voucher_250x250.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijknD3BGR056sQzfTnc_cjy5qX62Hc_kfstqZ48bwZfe7XRAfUAhA_mHO9Rv6sq9S_gi2Zq6QXXOylqvMQJifa0I07F52iA6NQZh9txr-Q22zuy8QJvQ9VsR-SwB47LFxVni8GKTNL1Qmn/s1600/Win25voucher_250x250.jpg" /></a></div>
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To enter, comment either below or on my Facebook page telling me about your best party memory, from either a party you had for yourself or for your kids. You have until Thursday evening, 7 pm, to enter.<br />
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Good luck, and God speed.Rachel Osbornehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06927377988184622887noreply@blogger.com2