me again. remember me?

Has it been two months already? Really? I guess I should write something down then. The happiness conference went swimmingly, was quite an experience and I'm glad I went, despite the frequent panic attacks and crying that went on behind the closed doors of my huge but fishbowl-like apartment in the centre of Hell - I mean Sydney. And about two weeks later some lovely Buddhist monks came directly to Newcastle to create a sand mandala and spread the message of happiness in a week-long engagement at City Hall - 20 minutes from home. I chose to take this as a sign from the universe that I need not look too far from myself to find that which I am seeking. It shouldn't be that hard. Sometimes it's right under your nose.

There's been a few other things happening of late. Namely, I'm expecting my third child and battling the nausea that I had completely forgotten about - a lot like labour, I'm guessing, but it's a bit late when you're in the delivery room to say "Sorry, hadn't thought this one through.'' I had been feeling comparatively sprightly in the past couple of weeks but in recent days actual vomiting has been involved. Since I'm 12 weeks on Wednesday, I'm assuming the sun will shine brighter that morning, birdsong will ring out and all signs of the sickness will be a distant memory. That's very much the assumption I'm holding onto, actually, if the universe is reading this, and I'll be awfully disappointed if reality doesn't match up. I'm also anticipating a return to the consumption - and enjoyment - of real food. This includes tea of the milky, sugary kind that I have savoured practically every day of my life since I was five. Which I can no longer even smell without wanting to throw up.

the pursuit of happiness

My happiness is a work in progress. I’ve struggled with depression since I was a teenager, hit rock bottom in my early 20s just when life seemed to be giving me everything I’d ever wanted, used medication, found it didn’t have all the answers, had a baby and teetered on the edge of the abyss again, used medication again just to keep my head above water, had another baby and fell so far into the abyss I thought I might never get out, used medication as a lifeline and eventually realised that there had to be more to it than that.

So here I am, more than 18 months after pushing aside the medication option and putting everything I had into the alternative. I’ve learned more about myself in that time than I knew going into it, and while I still have my bad days, they are much less frequent and when they come I am ready for them.

I work at my happiness now, but as time goes on it takes less and less conscious effort. There are things that I know will make me happy, and not in a superficial way. They make my soul happy, and stave off the blackness. It feels like the happier my soul is, the more resistant it is to the blackness. It’s multiple coats of Teflon, every colour of the rainbow. Sometimes it helps to make a list:

1. Go outside. Feel the sun, or the wind or the rain as the case may be, on your face. It’s called nature and some days it’s your best friend.
2. Put some music on. Dance. Sing if you know the words.
3. Learn the words. To anything - Somewhere Over the Rainbow, My Favourite Things, Morningtown Ride - and sing them. Loud.
4. Write it down. All of it.

Next week I’m going to a conference in Sydney called Happiness and Its Causes, mainly because when I saw the flyer for it some months ago I just knew I had to get there somehow. So now I’m going, and I don't want to leave my family for two days and two nights but I have a feeling I will not regret it. Part of me is still frightened by the world out there but I’m on the journey now and there is no going back. Enduring stress to find happiness? Let’s just say it’s par for the course.

The older I get, the more my childhood seems to be like another country. I have the photos to prove I've been there, the crystal-clear memories that allow me to recreate whole days down to the smell and the fabric on the lounge cushions. But I can never go back there, and I will always want to, if only for a few minutes, until the day I die.

The place I really long for is my grandmother's house at Lennox Head, and when I say it was on the beach I mean the front yard was sand. It's not there any more, there's a row of millionaires' beach pads where the nasturtiums used to be, but then I'm not 5 any more either, unless I really concentrate. Then I'm back there, summer holidays, long walks on the beach with the dogs every morning and afternoon, classical music on the radio, storms at sea, Enid Blyton books, pumice stones in the shower, wooden floorboards dusted with sand, shells and driftwood drying on the timber deck. The smell of old books and seagrass matting. The calm.

We've just spent a few days on the south coast, somewhere I had never been before. I found a B&B on the internet and booked it because it looked beautiful and something about it felt right. And because they had a labrador and two cats - the clincher. We have a labrador named Sunday, and I figured we'd be missing him so it might be nice to have another one around as a stand-in. She was chocolate. Her name? Sundae. Universal sign number one, you might say. Turned out this little B&B was probably the closest thing I'll ever get to revisiting my grandmother's beach house, and thus my own childhood. The bookshelves were packed, the matting was seagrass. Shells and driftwood on every flat surface. And calm.

We walked on Hyams Beach on a beautiful sunny day, and I could have kept walking for hours. I only wished I'd had a labrador or two with me. That would have made it beyond perfect. But I was revelling anyway in the knowledge that sometimes roads lead you somewhere you've never been before, and it's as though you never left.

for fox sake

I love foxes, which causes some dismay for my more 'country' friends, who see them as beastly killers, chicken blood dripping from their murderous fangs. Me, I'm not so big on chickens.

Last week I went hunting, Ikea-style, and I wasn't on horseback but this handsome devil just had to come home with me. I bought one for each of the girls but Freya, having spent just one night with hers, informed me she did not care for him. Maybe because he is not wearing pink and he is not a cat, but I'm only guessing.

So I claimed him for my own, what else was I to do? And now he sits beside my computer, his sly eyes following my every move. I throw him a live chicken every now and then. He seems happy.

as pure as the driven snow

This conversation took place yesterday as we (more specifically, I) tried to rationalise the glut of Barbie dolls and other plastic paraphernalia that has found its way into our house. In the process, Elsa rediscovered her two Snow White barbies and all seven of the freakish little dwarves, which she mercifully reunited with their clothing.

Elsa: Can you put these undies back on Snow White? The other Snow White already has undies on. Snow White always has to wear undies.
Me: Of course she does.

I figured it was a little too early to start talking reputations with a six-year-old.

no, he wasn't wearing a kilt

I haven't been to the dentist for a very long time. Just how long became apparent today, when I finally fronted for my half hour of torture and realised that some things have actually improved. The place itself was more airport lounge than dental surgery, although that old familiar smell - equal parts fear and fluoride - left me in no doubt I was in the right place. The 'nurse' (actually she used that word, not me) looked roughly 19 years old and seemed a little embarrassed, or maybe just perplexed, at her role in proceedings. I was a tad perplexed myself. How can somebody born in the late 1980s be saying things like: "I'll be your nurse today''. Yes. And technically I could be your mother.
Enter Mr Dentist, who unlike any dentist I've ever encountered, was relatively young (though thankfully from Gen X, not Y), had a dazzling smile, was really quite cute and was Scottish. Tick, tick, tick. Let's just say he had me at hello.
There have been quite a few dentists in my past, through no fault of my own since I just happened to grow sub-standard teeth and far too many of them to fit comfortably in my mouth. Almost all my dental visits were arranged, attended and paid for by my mother, because I was too young to have a say. Thank goodness for mothers.
When it fell to me to arrange my own dental hygiene, brushing twice a day was generally the maximum commitment I was prepared to make. I had the odd check-up here and there, but aside from the general hideousness of all dental surgeries, there were the old, balding dentists with bad breath, the uncomfortable eye contact, the maniacal buzz of the tiny drill ... it is no accident that people hate going to the dentist. When I say people, I mean me.
But today I was in for a treat. Not only did Mr Cute Scottish Dentist wear a surgical mask while he stared into my gaping mouth, thus sparing me any shattered illusions should his breath not smell like 12-year-old single malt, he also issued me (should I say ''the nurse'' issued me) with sunglasses. Apparently for the glare from the overhead light, but I've stared into enough of those babies to know there's not much your eyes have to worry about, it's your teeth that need to be afraid.
My stunning aviator-style black plastic numbers (no, they could not have been less flattering) enabled me to avoid the awkward scenario where you try not to look directly into the eyes of the man who is looking directly into your molars. Let's just say there's not much else you can focus on when their entire head is obscuring your view.
So there I was, shades on, thinking: "This is not so bad''. Even the fluoride treatment, which used to contain a ''flavour'' that instantly induced vomiting, was bearable. Could it be I'm turning into a grown-up? Needless to say, I didn't ask my nurse.

the art of self-preservation

I’m not so much avoiding my children as practising self-preservation. It’s a new thing to me, the whole ‘live in the now’ concept, but I have to say it makes sense. Do not fret about what’s for dinner, what dreadful future emotional suffering you’re putting your kids through by letting them watch four DVDs in a row on a day not unlike that on which the Ark was first considered. Forget about it. Let it rain. Let their eyes go temporarily square. Let your awareness rise above the fact you are wearing a 10-year-old cardigan that’s seen better days, tracksuit pants that are clearly not in any way flattering and may be one size too small and ugh boots (enough said). If you look within yourself, you will see the real thing. This may mean removing yourself, if not physically then at least psychologically, from the room. Even from the building. Do not feel guilty about this. It’s in everyone’s best interests. Find your centre and focus on it for a few minutes. Breathe deeply and concentrate on feeling good about yourself. Not about exterior sensations or kind deeds or even perceived character strengths. This is not about any of that. This is about the blood that’s pumping through your veins. The air in your lungs that keeps your heart beating. The essence of what it means to be alive. You have all of these things and you need to be aware of them, even if it’s only for a fraction of time. As long as it’s enough to get you connected again to that which is truly you. Say hello to your higher self and remember they are always with you. Mentally puff our your chest, put your chin up and resolve to carry on. You are never alone and you are always strong and wise and doing what you’re meant to be doing.