The Calm Before The Storm

There was a big Scorpio moon lunchtime yesterday and boy am I feeling the pull of the sucker.

Jonathan Cainer writes: "This weekend brings the biggest, brightest Full Moon for 100 years. Try to take a look at it when it is first rising up over the horizon around sunset. It seems almost unfeasibly close.... and that's at least partially because it is closer than usual. The Moon's journey through the sky causes it to perform a little dance with the Earth where it regularly steps nearer, then further back. It's now as near as it ever gets... and because it happens to be full, that makes it as powerful as ever gets. People are calling it a 'Supermoon' - although you may want to find other names to call it as you begin to notice how much emotion and intensity it is stirring up in your life!"


Yep. Sums it up in one.


Other than a horrid, persistent headache for the lasted a day, one that had had me reaching for the ibuprofen and stronger, life is okay. Just busy. And perplexing. And a bit harsh.


Saturday night I was out babysitting Bernie and Gaz's twin six-year-olds, who were a delight, teaching me about Star Wars, reading to me and going to bed, teeth cleaned, pyjama-ed and toileted without a boo. All that was left for me was to snuggle up with their chiahuahua cross on the couch and doze in front of the "The Shawshank Redemption". Bernie and Gaz found me fast asleep at around midnight, snoring in time with the dog. A great Friday night, no dramas, apart from the near migraine headache.


Woke Saturday morning after a great night's sleep (assisted  by some lovely panadeine forte). A long meditation session, a wonderful breakfast with the meditation crew at my favourite Caulfield eatery - where due to being back on the hippy diet, a faboulous bowl of bircher muesli was had. Not the normal Challah French Toast or the smashed avocado and Persian Feta on sourdough with roasted pumpkin seeds... nope, lovely, fresh, light bircher muesli with fresh strawberries and natural yoghurt. The headache started to go. 


This was followed by my three monthly haircut. I've been going to the same hairdresser for over ten years. A friend of a friend, she never buggers up my cut - it lasts for ever and keeps it's shape - having wavy hair, it's good to know there is somebody who knows your hair. I don't mind who colours it so much, but Lee cuts my hair. It's worth the half an hour drive across Melbourne to get it done.


Sitting in the chair, reading my book, waiting for the colour to set, the phone rings. It's Mum. News on my beloved aunt. She's not been well over the last few months and there was some suspicion that something more was happening. After tests last week it appears she has bowel cancer, which has gone through the wall of the bowel and metastasised in the liver. She's having a scan done next week, but things do not look good at all. She's also 84, so really, what ever they do won't be trying to save her life, but make sure that either they slow down the decay or keep her comfortable. 


This news rocked me. Not of the diagnosis - this news had been brewing for a bit, more the finality that somebody I love won't be around for much longer. My aunt is a very, very special person, knowing that her days are numbered isn't good - for her or for anybody. I contacted my favourite cousin - her daughter - the spare room is there if she needs to debrief. She said that it may get some use over the next few months.


So now, a day on, I'm sitting here thinking like this is the calm before the storm.


Reading tarot last night at a hen's party, attended by what appeared to be the noisiest family in Melbourne - a large, loving, strange, energetic gaggle of Portuguese women, I wondered if my family would ever be a cohesive group like this - not that it ever really has been like it, but there were days when we were closer. By the end of the night, 20 readings later, a very bizarre stripper who appeared to flap his bits in front of everybody in the room, I'd worked out who go on with whom, who was ill, who was unhappy, who was disappointed, who was avoiding stuff. 


(Maybe I should arrange a group reading for my family - though that would be a bit pointless as many of them are rabid Christians who think of tarot as the devil's pasteboards.)


The last girl I read for the night was a sweetie. She looked tired. Tired, sensible, quiet and frankly, completely bamboozled by this rambunctious mob.


"Why to I get the feeling you want to run away?" I asked her as I turned over the last card.
"I'm plotting it. Next year. Go interstate for university - get away from all of this. I love them, but I can't be around them too much or I go mad."
"You're the academic of the family? The quiet achiever?"
"Yep. I'm the black sheep." she told me. "I love all these people but I don't know how we're related."

I was looking at my eighteen-year-old self.

The other strange event at this tarot job - I ran into an old work mate there who was attending the party. This has never happened before. I like to keep my tarot work and my day job very separate - people are aware that I read, I just don't want to read for them. She came up, said hello and that was it, thankfully. Being eight months pregnant, I think she went home early.

To top off a hard, surreal day, I dropped in at the service station on Hoddle Street to fill the car - I wasn't tired - it was something to do with all the energy floating around me. As I started to fill the car and ancient Magna pulled up behind me. Out poured three drag queens, each at least six two, dressed to the nines, heels like daggers, though you know that they probably wear steel caps by day, especially going by their gait as they went inside for cigarettes. They were search of some club in Collingwood.

Of all the juxtapositions. It topped the day off beautifully.

So a day on, does it still feel like the calm before the storm. Yes. There are no answers as to what will happen with my aunt, other than she will die at some point sooner rather than later. Things still feel intense. The headache has passed.

One thing that's taken my mind off all the things going on - my great friend Geetangeli and her husband Bill will be in Sydney on the first weekend in June, over from New Zealand for Bill's work. They've asked me up for the weekend, so arrangements have been made - go up for the weekend and go on foodie expeditions around Darling Harbour (though I think I've talked them into taking the ferry out to Manly to experience the creations of Adriano Zumbo, and maybe go try Sydney's Chinatown. Geetangeli and Bill are foodies extraordinaire and are happy to try new things. This I will enjoy immensely. Along with catching up with one of my oldest and dearest friends who I haven't seen in about four years.

But still, I reckon this is the calm before the storm.

I'm wondering what else might happen. For the moment, I think taking to sitting under my snuggie and reading a book - a Pandora form of putting my hands over my ears and singing 'lalalalalalala' is in order.

Pandx

Imperfect Pictures

One of my greatest dislikes, along with bananas and lasagne, is having my photo taken. Loathe, loathe, loathe having my photo taken.

I'm the first to admit that most of this comes from having zero self-esteem or self-worth over the years. Thinking that you are the ugliest, smelliest, most useless person that ever walked the planet doesn't do great things for you when it comes to making your mark on the world. Knowing that you're not particularly photogenic doesn't help either - but I've had a pathalogical fear of having my photo taken for many years. I liken it to being from a long lost tribe who believes that the camera steals your soul - which has been a short story idea for a long time too.

Because of this irrational fear, with the exception of the odd school photo, and the odd sneaky shot, I have very, very few photos of myself for the last forty years. Unfortunately, the bulk of the photos of me taken before the age of seven were destroyed in a caravan fire - my grandparents had taken the photos on a grey nomad trip around Australia - they were all destroyed. Years of dodging the camera have meant that there are next to no shots of me though university, my twenties or my thirties. Never getting engaged or married or having children or going on holidays with anybody means I've escaped the camera for the most part - actively, vocally avoiding I them for what seems like ever.

I also don't have photos around my house. I have a couple of photos of my nieces on my book case taken a few years ago and there are some shots of friends on the fridge. From what I know, my mother has one shot of me on the side board. I've tried to steal it away on many occasions because I'm embarrassed about the monobrow...

I'll also admit to having a real hatred of seeing myself in photos - so much so that I've been known to rip them up, detroy the negatives and burn the evidence or throw tantrums until friends get rid of them - yes, it was that bad. There is a part of me that just didn't want to face the truth as to how big I'd got, just as there was a part of me who felt like my existence wasn't justified.

Thank goodness that has changed.

Another incedent in my twenties has made me reticent to go anywhere near a camera. Having your work head shot plastered onto hard core pornographic shots and distributed around the company didn't do anything for my liking of having my photo taken either. The incident nearly had somebody fired (if it wasn't London in the 90's and in today's politically correct world the consequences would have been far more severe) and left me scarred for life. I still refuse to have my photo taken or published in any sort of corporate capacity other than ID cards.

It's only in the last few years that I have got a little better about having photos taken. Not much, but a bit better. I've been known to untag photos on facebook, rather than demand that they be taken off entirely, and I've even posted the odd photo of myself - though I do vet them carefully. I'm still not really that taken with being photographed, but it's not something that sends me into a mad, tear-filled frenzy any more.

I know that it's an irrational fear. I know that it's stupid - but having my photo taken still fills me with dread.

So this week has left me feeling rather rattled. I know that my passport needs renewing - the sooner the better. I also got notification that my driver's licences is also up for renewal. And starting a new role in a secure building meant a new photo for a new ID tag - another photo.

Three of the buggers.

The familiar feeling of horror has been sitting with me for a while. Two of these photos will last ten years. Not that anybody really sees them or looks at them, but the thought that they will be around to haunt me fills me with dread.

Okay, my last passport photo was tolerable, even I can see that. I know how much I weighed when I had the photo taken - a strange fact since it was some ten years ago - and I'm happily six or seven kilos lighter now. My last licence shot was a complete dog. Almost at my heaviest, I look miserable. I'm really thankful that this licence shot is being retired. It's truly dreadful. I think I can count five chins.

Then today, on entering the new building, for the new role, after walking the three kilometres to work, somewhat red faced and sweaty, the security guy said I needed to have my photo taken for the new pass.

I was flummoxed. No getting out of it. Argh. Everybody working in this building needs this pass to get in and out of the building, which has two sets of air locks to get to the main lifts, to the loo, to the canteen - it's like working at the Royal Mint or the Pentagon. If you don't have this pass with you they wont let you in without and escort. Fun.

After a minor silent grumble, I did what I was told. I went and stood in front of the third chair and looked at the security camera dome. After looking the two wrong security domes, I was finally standing in the foyer looking like an idiot for what felt like an age - and then I was summoned.

And what would you know - on my new pass, a very acceptable likeness of me. It's okay. I'm not scowling. I'm not frowning. I'm not looking like I'm about to murder the photographer. It's okay.

Lets hope the passport short and the driver's licence go as smoothly.

It's only just dawned on me in the last few months that I don't have this photographic history of myself. I'm not sure how I feel about this at all. Part of me is very sad. Part of me is trying to rectify the situation to a point.

My friend Gloria, a very good photographer, has been at me for years to take my portrait once again. I let her do it a few years ago when I was ten kilograms heavier. Though I can see the merits of her photos - I look at them and still see a moose - the photos are in a drawer somewhere, never allowed to see the light of day. Maybe this is another thing to work on - try and get over this fear.

Or maybe I should leave it. I think I needed to write about this after dream group left me rattled last night. My dream. Not a great or positive dream. The conversation was pointed. I'm in constant competition with myself. It's almost cellular.

I'm still processing all this. I just know I'm in for a rocky few weeks.

Pand 

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Days without ice cream - 12

I'm not a photograph
An image without soul
A test shot, paper thin
Without substance or depth.

I don't want to be taken
Or shaken or made
Left on show to collect
The dust that will only collect

For images change with the wind
And the tides and the seasons
Capturing a moment
Feels so futile.

I Moved My Cheese

The one book on the planet that has changed my life for the better is Dr Spencer Johnson's "Who Moved My Cheese?" It seriously has more of an effect on my life than any other hundred pages ever written.

I came across the book many years ago - and dismissed it, before that time as a bit of corporate wank.

But I remember the afternoon too well.

After a good day at work, an annoucement was made. The facilities manager at work had passed away. Suicide.

This guy's death left a hole. It was just before Christmas. He was popular, fun, had a kind word for all. Divorced and a father of a young girl, he seemingly had everything to live for. Now, about a fortnight before Christmas 2002, here we were in the offices of Merrill Lynch confused and bereft. Coming back from checking my mailbox I stopped in at a book shop and the book caught my eye. I purchased it.

Something made me stop on the walk home. I lay down on the grass in Fitzroy Gardens on this balmy December afternoon and read the book cover to cover.

In just under an hour, my life had totally changed.

This little book that goes on about the simple facts of change management. Looking for change, anticipating change, searching out change, embracing change.

And the big message, the big writing on the wall that sank in immediately.

"What would you do if you weren't scared."

My life changed for the better from that day.

Okay, there are times I use the excuse that I'm scared - but not often.

If I'm brutally honest with myself, half the reason I haven't finished the job of losing weight has been because I was scared. Scared to get out there, scared to know what it's like to feel attractive. Scared to take on the full possibilities of my life.

So now, when I find myself fearing something, I step back, look at whatever it is I'm doing - and try and think about what I could do if I wasn't being fearful.

Like yesterday, looking at the Thousand Steps in the Dandenongs, the fear set in. Standing around with the posse from the Biggest Loser Club, my online and real life support group (and I really wouldn't be doing this as well as I am without them) the thought of scaling the mountain set in.

Acknowledge the fear. Then do it anyway.

It's a silly fear, that one. I've done the thousand steps four or five times now. I went up in January with Laura and Trish from the posse early in January. Laura, now training to be a personal trainer romped it up. At the time I was nearly ten kilos heavier and not as fit - and my knee was still being difficult. Together, Trish, who's fitness levels were similar to my own, and I encouraged each other up the hill. It wasn't easy, it took us a bit over half an hour - but we did it.

And it felt fantastic.

Yesterday, the same fear set in. A few more people joined us - including a mother and daughter, Tracey and Sienna.  This time Trish and I made it up in under half an hour - lighter, fitter and the climb was a little less intense. Of the mother and daughter, Tracey made it up a few minutes after Trish. Sienna, who suffers from asthma, walked back down after getting halfway up - she'd left her puffer behind - but full points for trying and giving it a red hot go. Next time we do it, she'll be fitter (and have her ventolin - and she'll be fine)

We also had a couple join us - they'd come a long way to come on the walk. They were late for the start - which coming from a distance, was forgiven. But after they got ready, they walked about a hundred metres up the hill, not even to the start of the steps, before retreating. The reason given for the back flip was that one or other of them felt ill.

Why couldn't the well one continue on the path up the hill? Why didn't they both take a leaf out of  15-year-old Sienna's book and give it a bit of a go? Why did they come in the first place?

At the top, once Tracey had joined us, we pondered the dilemma as a group. Laura, in personal trainer mode, said if she'd known, she'd have run down and kicked their bums up that sodding hill. Others of us were really disappointed that the two of them had bailed. We also noted that two or three years ago, all of us would have considered piking out at the bottom. None of us were fit then. None of us would relish climbing up a big hill for half an hour. Our former selves would have struggled. Some of us would have given it a go, puffing, panting and trying to haul ourselves up those steps - embarrassed by the sight of ourselves.

One of the lovely things about the 1000 Steps is no matter how often you go, people coming down will give you encouragement. People who are passing you will give you encouragement. The people you are with will give you encouragement.

How to you get that if you don't even start?

So here I am, on top of the hill, knowing I moved my own cheese. I'm making my own changes. I'm looking for change and loving the challenge. I'm working out what I really can do when I don't let fear get me.

And hell it feels good.

Thing is, for all the exercise I'm doing at the moment, there are more fears to be faced. This next one's going to be a doozy.

What am I, Pandora T. Behr, going to do with a three-year-old for a few days? In Canberra? Exercise challenges are a doddle compared to this.

Pandxx

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Project Pandora Report - Day Seven

Well, seven days in to the 12WBT, I'm not wanting to chew my arm off at 3 pm through hunger, I'm exercising for at least an hour a day, burning 500-700 calories a session and wonderfully, I lost 2 kgs in the first week. I'm not missing sugar, the recipes are wonderful (the eggplant parmagiana was a revelation - actually all the food has been brilliant) and having the posse about who are all doing this is making this a good experience. One week down, eleven to go. Will just have to work out how to do this properly in Canberra when that occurs.

Oh, and re did my fitness test run with Trish on the flat of the Tan. I ran alongside her encouraging and yelling at her all the way ("watch the breathing, lengthen the stride, come on, nearly there" sort of stuff.). Six minutes eight seconds - nearly a clear thirty seconds quicker than on the tready. And no knee pain.

Pandora the runner is back.

And I have to look at what I could do if I wasn't yelling and talking and encouraging as well as running. What time would I make? Hmmm....