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  • “Vintage, Not Expired”

    “Vintage, Not Expired”

    When did I become old? And, who says I must retire, just because I turn 60 next year?  I do not dispute the tally of birthdays, the development of wrinkles and grey hairs, but I do take exception to being pensioned off like an old nag turned out into her forever paddock. 

    Like most deeper issues in my life, they rattle around the fringes of my subconscious, stealing joy and undermining my momentum, until I can finally name what has been bothering me for some time.  This last month, I finally realised that I was giving up on much of life itself, because I believed that my age dictates, I do that.  Feeling like time is running out, and I am no longer valued I started to believe that that forever paddock was all I had to look forward to.   

    It all started five years ago, when I resigned from my then job, citing I would like to spend a bit more time with my new grandson.  Immediately, people spoke of me as retiring.  I never once said the word. And if you saw my superfund balance, you would know that was not an option at aged 55.  I took on another role after that, initially valued because of my seniority.  When I noticed that my junior colleague was afforded opportunities I was not, my query was dismissed with a conciliatory comment.  When I resigned from that position several years later, rumours circulated that I had retired once again.  Not so!  That superfund has still not miraculously ballooned, I have another decade before I am even eligible for the senior’s pension, and once again who says because I am a certain age I must retire from meaningful work?

    Of course, others have officially retired at this age. Some of my friends are in that category and are traveling Australia with the quintessential four-wheel drive and caravan.  Good for them.  But what has impacted me the most is the assumption that I am close to expiring.  I feel that this tag attached itself to me like one of those pesky, bush flies, as I slipped into the last third of my life.

    Let me start with exercise classes.  Who decided to base exercise around an age rather than ability?  It seems the fitness industry training organisations do. I have witnessed several instructors, studying their fitness certificate, recording sessions with simplistic training protocols specifically for the over 50s. And yet, I go to a gym where most days I work out with other women represented by every decade up to their 70s; lifting the same weights, if not more, and generally keeping the same pace.  One of the fittest, strongest, and leanest women in the gym is over 60!  I love the fact that my gym’s trainers do not look at age as a barrier. Whist I appreciate the consideration to limitations that might come with age, lumping all people into the over 50s feels a lot like simplistic stereotyping.

    This is not new to the workplace of course.  A 2021 Australian Human Rights Commission report found that around 30% of Australians aged 50+ had experienced age discrimination in the workplace. This ranges from assumptions around ability because of age, promotions going to younger workers, and includes stereotype comments, exclusion from workplace culture because of age, and even benefits being denied under the assumption they are “winding down” in their careers.  Yep, I can vouch for that. And then there is the matter of simply being overlooked because one is too old.

    The media often reinforces ageist stereotypes, portraying older people as frail, forgetful, or burdensome rather than active contributors to society. In contrast, youth is often celebrated, creating a culture that undervalues aging. We see this with the way older characters are portrayed in the movies: unrealistic beauty standards, negative phrases used in the news, a lack of diverse, realistic, and empowering representations of aging. 

    Am I alone in this?  I think not.  I have heard it said that other women around my age, who have spent the best part of the past two to three decades caring for others, are only just getting their second wind. I am constantly encouraged by women who the world says are ‘old,’ publishing another book, running their own business, and clearly living purposefully.   

    As a Christian, I do not believe that God attaches a use by date to our gifts and talents.  Nor, do I believe that we are designed to quit all work at a certain age and focus on our comfort and enjoyment.  The idea of retiring into a life of ease with a nice superannuation nest egg, is a modern concept and even then, is not everyone’s reality. There are many of us, especially women, that must stay in the workforce just to live, and certainly do not need the barrier and bias of ageism.   

    So, no—I am not expired. I am vintage. Still complex, still evolving, and yes, still useful. I may be entering what some call the “third act,” but I plan to rewrite the script. Age has given me experience, resilience, and a sharper sense of who I am and what I bring to the table. What I am leaving behind is the tired narrative that aging equals decline. I am not ready for the forever paddock—not when there is still so much to contribute, create, and challenge. If society cannot quite see it yet, that is fine. I will just keep lifting heavy, speaking up, and living proof that purpose does not come with an expiry date.

    Image by NoName_13 from Pixabay

  • Finding Grace in Transitional Spaces

    Finding Grace in Transitional Spaces

    Have you ever been in at a time and space in your life, where the past season ended but what comes next is far from clear? Five months ago, I finished up my part time job and left a faith community I belonged to for over twenty years.  I had a sense that I was heading into a new season, albeit unknown, but I figured that the waiting in between would be over as soon as I caught my breath and had a rest. It has not happened quite as I expected.

    Even though I chose this step, not everyone who finds themselves in this space does.  Sometimes it is an unexpected job loss, or a chronic illness that interrupts life, or a divorce that looms through no choice of your own. It might be a stage of life or a stage of faith.   This closed door can bring us into a new space of bewilderment and profound unknowing.[i] Often impatient for the new, and desiring to just move one, this season in between feels like we are stuck, and we are desperate to move on to the new.  Some may numb out, choosing sugar, alcohol, or drugs. But what if this transition space has a purpose all its own? 

    The ancient Celtic monks call these in between times liminal spaces or thresholds. This transitional space is often the result of leaving behind something that feels comfortable and safe.  It can also provide space for God’s spirit to do a deeper work within us.  Christine Valters Painter in ‘The Souls Slow Ripening’, says that in the monastic tradition they have a custom called statio, which ‘is a holy pause full of possibility’ and involves the practice of stopping one thing before beginning another. It is also the practice of pausing prayerfully. This practice invites us to let go of what was behind us, so we can fully step into what comes next.[ii] In a material sense, it is like arriving at the threshold of a doorway, to pause and reorient one self, before moving through.

    What then if this pause is longer than we thought and instead of being wasted time, is a gift instead?  Mandy Bayton suggests that some of the gifts can be found in this space, where we ask questions and wrestle with answers, where we might re-examine faith, or grapple with doubts, or confront fears, and where we get to explore hopes and reimagine dreams.[iii] While we are not to stay in this space, it promises to be transformative space that encourages us with the possibility of the newness to come.

    I’m not done in this space, so I cannot name the gifts I have found – yet.  I have been journeying with others who are guiding me in this space.  What I do know is I would be negligent to ignore its grace and value. I pray that you too will meet Jesus in your liminal spaces, and you too are transformed and encouraged by the gift of grace found here.

    Image by Leonhard Niederwimmer from Pixabay

    [i] Christine Valters Paintner, “The Souls Slow Ripening,” Sorin Books, Notre Dame, IN, 2018, page 3.

    [ii] Ibid, page 9.

    [iii]Mandy Bayton, “How to live in the tension and grace of the liminal space.” 18th May, 2018. Christian Today. https://www.christiantoday.com/article/how-to-live-in-the-tension-and-grace-of-the-liminal-space/129256.htm

  • Birthday Expectations

    Birthday Expectations

    How do you celebrate birthdays?  What’s more important, the present, the cake, the meal, or who is there to share it with you? What do you expect from yourself and others, every year you have a birthday?

    As a child, birthdays for me were simple.  Family finances were stretched, so the present was not grand.  The best part for me, was the home-made cake – usually chocolate, shared with my fam.  Nan and Pop were there too.  Soft drink was a luxury, so a couple of bottles of pop on the table was special. 

    When my children were little, I did the same.  Occasionally, I would throw a special party. Mostly, it was a home-made cake shared with grandparents, cousins and aunties.  As young adults, I determined that their milestones would not pass without some fanfare. My baby turns thirty this year, and she will be celebrated with a Tuscany themed lunch, on the lawn.   

    February is my birthday month. As a child, I shared the month with my sister and mum.  And yes, we had cake for every one!  This year, I shared not just my month, but the actual day with my grandson.  And thanks to his mum, we had cake times two.  He may not remember his first birthday, but photos will remind him who he shared this day with. In attendance were his parents, his Pa and grandmothers, times two.  We call ourselves Oma and Amma.  He will too, one day soon.

    I am pretty sure Harper had no clue that his birthday was an event.  Perhaps he wondered who those old ladies were; grabbing him and cooing, so he would smile for the camera.  My hope is that he will know just how loved he is and that he matters to many.  And that appreciation for butter icing, was first introduced with birthday cake. 

    Having lived over five decades around the sun, many birthdays have come and gone for me.  For some inexplicable reason or reasons, many of my milestone ones have been tinged with sadness.   Mum was in ICU, while I celebrated my sweet 16th.  I lived on the west coast of Australia, and my family and friends were on the East coast, for my 21st.  By the time I was 30, I was a mother of two young children, so this birthday slipped past with a dinner at the local pub.  I planned a party for my 40th, but for a number of reasons, it did not go according to my plan.  My 50th was mostly spent in the air. Sitting beside a stranger, between Brisbane and Manilla – somewhere. There was cake. But that was the day after.   

    Did you know that birthday blues are a thing?  According to Vanessa Van Edwards in “Birthday Depression: Why Birthdays are so Hard”, there are a number of reasons people find birthdays simply depressing.  Birthdays remind us that we are getting older. And what we had hoped to accomplish since the last birthday or milestone, may not have transpired. The celebration itself usually has expectations surrounding it; whether one’s own or others. We are easily disappointed when the celebration falls short.  Sometimes, it is discovering the love and excitement of childhood, is simply not there anymore.

    Van Edwards suggests we reflect on our answers to these four questions. What was the best thing that happened last year? What did I learn last year? What do I hope will happen this year? And, what do I want to learn this year?

    My takeaway, is that others struggle with birthdays too.  Did I say that?  That is true!  And, by remembering someone else’s birthday, and showing love and appreciation on their day; I might just make the difference between a day that’s blue, and their best birthday ever!  So, thank you to my friends and family, who remembered my birthday.  For all those reasons, and maybe more that I don’t know, you make the difference between a day that is often blue, and the best birthday ever!   

    Although, can I say, that having a grandson born on my birthday was the best thing that happened to me last year. And this year. And maybe forever.  And then there’s always cake!   

  • A house is only a home, when it is filled with people

    A house is only a home, when it is filled with people

    ‘Do you want to visit your old family home?’ my husband asked, as we drove past the turnoff, on the remote, dusty road.

    ‘No, I said. ‘I’ve done that before.  What good would it do, to revisit the decay?  Leave it to my memory.’

    Twenty years earlier, an old neighbour had taken me that way. 

    ‘Be warned’ he said.  The last owner stored grain inside, and the cattle have tramped through it.’

    Cow pats lay drying on the aged, grey hardwood of the wrap around verandah.  The homestead was already old before I was born.  The rust on the corrugated roof, and the powdering pastel, green paint was just a bit more. The holes, though, were much bigger. The rain would now fall through and dripping would replace any thrumming.

    It was the size that got me.  I had remembered the verandahs as wide; wide enough for two cars to pass each other. At three, I had a red metal wagon, and my sister, a replica bug of bright red.   We pedaled hard on those wooden boards, keeping back from the outer track and the dangers of the edge with no handrail. The French doors rocking on their hinges were smaller than I remembered.  Dad and I used to stand together under their frame on a dry summer’s night, watching the storms roll across the paddock and the lightning fill up the sky.

    The tank stand that sheltered our children’s afternoon play, now leaned eastward.  I wondered how the tank on the top ever kept enough water to provide for our family.  Any rainfall today would pour through the crumbling sieve that remained sprawled on short, tired stumps below.  Back then, our only water was from this tank or a nearby bore.  Very little was spared for the garden, so the yard did not offer lawn for us children to play on at all.  Instead, there was plenty of dirt to dig holes in, and the clay underneath the tank stand formed the best mud pies. I recalled making bricks for a grandiose cubby house I planned at five. 

    I dared not go inside for fear of falling through a rotten board or encountering one of those snakes my mum would chase with her rifle.  I would rather remember our family home filled with people, rather than mouse droppings, cow dung, and the webbing of now dead spiders. By staying outside, I could smell mum’s baking, hear my brother’s laughter, and pretend I was waiting for my dad to come in from harvesting.  And that old rope spinning in the rafters that would unravel with the tiniest of tugs? Well, I pretended that it was still attached to the wooden swing, that was the joy in my sibling’s laughter.    

    The yard looked much the same as I remembered.  More dirt than green, and more prickles than grass. The wisteria was still there, draped over the sagging, training wire on the verandah; a touch of lilac on a sepia backdrop.   Every now and then, a breeze picked up a bundle of chaff that would tumble over the yard, like the ghosts of my childhood memories.     

    The drum halves, used to pot Mum’s red and orange geraniums, were twisted like the front stairs they accompanied. These rusting relics were from a time before recycling became trendy. No one else came after us to fill them with flowers, and this old Queensland lady was too far gone now to ever belong to another family. 

    I could not bring myself to walk out back.  I suspected the cast-iron, clawfoot bathtub had long been prised out of the lean-to. With the water dried up and the taps rusted shut, I daresay the green frogs who shared this wet room, had long hopped away.   I did not need to see the old thunderbox to know that families of red back spiders had taken up residence.

    Instead, I remembered our Teddy, the black and white Collie dog snoozing in the sun. I saw cats and kittens, guinea pigs and chickens.  Kangaroos and emus.  And wheat in the paddock beyond.  I heard harvesters and diesel generators. I smelled kerosene, the wood fire burning and the lingering scent of first rains on the dust of the freshly plowed paddocks.

    ‘Let’s go’, I said, coming back to the present.

    I left as I came, down a graded track, winding over the creek and through a gate.  As I said to my husband, I would rather remember this old lady as a home, than a derelict house and a hump of corrugated iron and timber.  I agree, that a house is only a home, when it is filled with people.

    To paraphrase a proverb: timber and iron makes a house, but the laughter of children makes a home.

  • Choose Joy!

    Choose Joy!

    If you were asked to describe an experience that brought you great joy, what would it be? 

    In a small group discussion, I was asked a similar question.  “Describe an experience in which God did something for you that gave you great joy?”  I have to be honest, this question really stumped me. If you asked me about my struggles, disappointments, my hurts or my regrets I could list them straight away.  Why then, did such a simple question bewilder me?  Especially, since experiencing joy was at the top of my 2019 list. 

    So, I did what I often do these days, I googled it.  I found an excellent little YouTube clip of Brene Brown with Oprah Winfrey on her “Super Soul Sunday”. She said joy is an emotion many seek, but it’s by far the most terrifying feeling that we face. “We are afraid joy will be taken away, so we beat it to the punch.”  “We are trying to dress rehearse tragedy to beat vulnerability.” 

    How many of us have had our joy taken away, maybe even stolen by hurts, regrets or disappointment?  Perhaps we have become worn down by life’s challenges and when we get a glimpse of joy, we push it aside fearing that something bad is going to happen instead.  We are waiting ‘for the other shoe to drop’, as if we deserve suffering.  In doing so, we lose our joy.

    What if suffering and joy can co-exist? And, what if joy is something we must choose? It is an act of the will to pursue joy…and if suffering does follow, as in this life it surely will, we deal with that when it happens. (I would say ‘and with God’s grace’.)  We must hold precious moments as sacred and push aside our fears and anxieties about what might ruin this moment.   

    Richard Foster says “Celebration brings joy into life”. That’s why I did not hesitate to commit to driving ten hours to attend a family wedding in a few weeks’ time.  I am prepared to drop everything to attend a funeral, so why not grab hold of the invitations we are given to rejoice.  What could give more joy than to celebrate the marriage of two beautiful young people in love.

    Of course, not every day involves a wedding invitation, but there is plenty that we are invited to celebrate and give thanks for.  Whatever happened to the family meal where people paused long enough to give thanks for their day and shared that together?  Should thanksgiving be only a once a year event?  What about the sheer joy of being alive and watching a sunrise or a sunset? What about the joy of being “rooted and grounded in God?” (Richard Foster, Celebration of Discipline p 252)

    So, this week, I have made it my commitment to celebrate the good things in my life.  I must start with being thankful.  Brene says “cultivation of gratitude is the way home.”  Scripture says “give thanks in all circumstances…” (1 Thessalonians 5:18) This week, I choose joy.  Will you choose joy too?

    “What if it’s not the circumstances that creates joy? It’s you!” (author unknown)

    Photo by Ben White on Unsplash

  • Hope and the first Sunday of Advent

    Hope and the first Sunday of Advent

    Today, Sunday, is the first day of Advent 2018. Maybe you recognise the word ‘advent’ from those calendars , of which you pop one square open every day until Christmas Day. Some calendars have a chocolate for everyday. I saw one today on a box of beer. It had a craft beer for everyday- and two for Christmas!

    What does ‘advent’ actually mean? Apparently, it is a version of a latin word which means ‘coming’. Yes, it is the coming of Christmas, but more importantly it is the coming of Christ; both his birth and anticipated return. 

    I grew up in a traditional church where candles placed in a wreath were lit each Sunday until Christmas. These candles symbolise Jesus Christ being the light of the world. And each of the four Sundays of Advent and the corresponding candles symbolise something more of our anticipation of the coming of Christ.

    My memory of tradition is a little rusty. Research reminds me that the first candle represents hope. It is also called the ‘prophecy’ candle. 
    Hundreds of years before his birth, the prophets foretold of the humble birth of Jesus.

    “Therefore the Lord himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel. “(Isaiah 7:14, NIV)

    I love that word ‘ Immanuel’. It is the Hebrew word which means ‘God with us’. Imagine the presence of God living with his people?

    One of my favourite Christmas carols is ‘O come, O come Immanuel’; written in the 12th century and based on the prophets words found in the Bible. It reminds us of God’s promise of a Saviour. 

    Does our world need saving? Can we save this world by ourselves, or in spite of ourselves?

    Sometimes the brokenness of this world and the brokenness of people’s lives around me can be hard to bear. I know some even say “where is God?” 

    But what if He is here-in our midst, weeping too for the brokenness and hopelessness of so many people. 

    I believe, that He alone has the power to save and turn around even the most hopeless and broken of lives. 

    What are you anticipating with the coming of Christmas? Where does your hope come from? Will you light a candle today and consider the Christ in Christmas? 
    #writer #speaker #speaker

    photo @andresuran on unsplash.com

  • Measuring Success

    Measuring Success

    How do you measure success? Is it about progress or is it perfection?  What if we are looking for things to measure when we should be looking for what is meaningful? 

    Returning to teaching this year, I am working with youth that have more challenges and obstacles to academic success than most.  I am challenged by own internal assumptions and beliefs around measuring success; both for myself and for others.  Should it even be something that is pursued?  

    I can fill my walls with every inspirational quote under the sun, but how then are these relevant when we insist on planning and measuring achievement by a yardstick that is different? 

    Even professionals are challenged by the pursuit of success.  Peter Pregman states “Pursuing success is like shooting at a series of moving targets. Every time you hit one, five more pop up from another direction.  Just when we’ve achieved one goal, we feel pressure to work harder to earn more money, exert more effort, possess more toys.” 

    An article by Laura Nash called “Success that Lasts”  offers a possible way forward with the kaleidoscope approach. This complex and complicated approach has the four components of happiness, achievement, significance and legacy.  If we ignore one of these components then we will not feel ‘successful’. 

    I do not have any conclusions to this question-yet.  If I am to offer encouragement and opportunity for success as an educator I am going to have to think a little deeper on this matter.  What do you think? 

    Photo by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash

     

  • The sacred ordinary

    The sacred ordinary

    ‘I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast and when I run, I feel his pleasure.” I first heard this quote when I watched the movie “Chariots of Fire”; a movie based on the true story of Eric Liddell, a Scottish athlete and Olympian Gold medallist born in the early 1900s. 

    He was a fast runner and a man of faith and he did not separate the two.  He not only found personal pleasure when running but he also felt God’s pleasure when he did it too.  I am reminded that there is no separation between the sacred and the secular; nor should there be between who we are during the week and who we are on Sundays.  Eric loved both God and his running and he took delight in both; and sensed God’s delight too. 

    Growing up, I often struggled to find congruence between the church service I attended on a Sunday and my life for the remainder of the week.  I grew to associate Christianity with church activities and a place rather than a 24/7 spirituality that involved all of life.  I now know that this is not the case and that my faith can in fact translate to the remaining six days of the week. 

    I am thankful for the classic “The Practice of the Presence of God” written by Brother Lawrence.  Here was a Christian brother who knew God’s delight and presence while doing his daily chores.  I drew much strength and comfort from his reflections during times of what often feels like domestic drudgery and ordinariness. 

    One of the most sacred times in my life is the week leading up to Christmas, when I listen to Christmas carols and spend the days baking.  I bake for our family, I bake for my extended family and I bake for others.  It is one of those times that I feel both personal pleasure and God’s pleasure in what I do.  Why is it that I do not find the same pleasure every night when I cook dinner?  Maybe I need to work on that!    

    Like me, you may not be a famous fast runner nor live in a monastic religious community.  Perhaps, like me you are an ‘ordinary’ woman-or man.  Our ‘ordinariness’ does not exclude us from living a sacred life, every day of the week.  We too can find pleasure and know God’s pleasure doing what he has created us to both do and enjoy.   What is that you do that gives you a sense of pleasure AND a sense of God’s pleasure?

     Photo by Elijah O’Donell on Unsplash

     

  • The importance of disruption

    There is something soothing about a retreat held seaside. This weekend I had the privilege of sharing this view with a bunch of other women- and God.

    My first morning started with a walk on the beach at sunrise. The second I chose to catch up on sleep. 

    I often find going away to be a disruption to routine and wonder if staying home would not have been easier. Certainly I wouldnot have eaten quite as much, I would have slept better in my own bed and I would have caught up on housework. However, I would not have experienced the moments of deep reflection, of loving sisterhood and would not have been as challenged for growth as I had, if I had stayed at home. 

    In business, I have always been a believer in stepping out of the business in order to work on the business. I think the same is true for our personal lives and growth. Sometimes we are so engrossed in the minutae of the daily grind that we forget the importance of getting a bigger view; and the importance of working on our life. 

    I have still to process what I have taken away from this retreat. And there is much. I know the real results will be determined by my actions afterwards. This disruption was indeed a gift. 

     

     

     

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  • Running for my life

    Running for my life

    In the absence of inspiration, and in desperation to share something on my blog today, I have resorted to sharing a current picture of myself!  For the past five weeks I have woken early on a Saturday morning to join others in a 5 kilometre Park-run at the local park.  As my girlfriend phrases it, we ‘jalk’ or ‘wog’ around the course. That is to say we mix it up and do not actually jog the course but pick our pace up at times so we do not walk either.  It is my goal to be able to say one day this year that I jogged the full course!  

    As you can see, I am not an athletic woman.  I have lots of curves and extra padding.  I have struggled all my life with extra weight and have preferred sedentary pastimes to active ones.  Hormones, auto-immune disease and a love of good food has conspired to keep me everything but thin.  But,  I refuse to let that stop me from working towards a healthier me.  

    I have always enjoyed walking and have progressively built up my morning routine to longer walks.  Two years ago I received the sobering news that my bone density was progressing into the dangerous zone.  I saw this as incentive enough to join the gym and lift weights to strengthen my muscles but also positively impact my bone density.  I am hooked and now visit the gym three times per week. I love how I feel afterwards and the habit has now been established.  

    I approached the parkrun with the same attitude. I would establish another habit in my week that would contribute to my wellbeing.  And so here I am. Still a long way to go before I run the full course- but I have started.