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Category: inspiration

  • Recalibration and Rest

    Recalibration and Rest

    Weipa was his choice, not mine; but I came along for the ride.  I care little about going fishing or four-wheel driving, but the sunrise and sunsets are divine. The early morning boat ride was glorious. The water mirrored the horizon, and the mangroves that clawed the creek’s bank were not as stinky as I thought. Even the sandflies and midgies stayed in bed as we cruised up and down the estuary, chasing fish, that mostly escaped.  My phone was able to capture some of the moments, but mobile coverage is definitely dim.  This was an added bonus, which meant being in the present, and conversation was on the table again.  I napped like a nanna afterwards; waking in time for dinner at six.  I had no problem with falling asleep again, dreaming deeply in the cabin’s bed.

    I marvel that just one week away from the hustle of home and responsibilities can be so aligning.  Instead of reacting to every interruption, its refreshing to reflect on what is central.  Away from unnecessary routines and even more, the expectations of others; I found the space to reflect on core values and priorities.   For those that speak the language of orienteering, this is the time to get rid of magnetic interference, and recalibrate true north.

    My true north is Jesus, and spending time at his feet.  My values are reflected accordingly. Just being instead of doing allows my soul to catch up with myself; and what a relief!  We only have to be one degree off true north, and before we know it, we can be all at sea.  For me, the rhythm of recalibration seems to be quarterly. I am thankful for a fishing trip to Weipa, that gave me this pause and release.

    A long time ago, I read Stephen Covey’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. He drew four quadrants with two axes that explained time management; one for urgency and the other of importance. In my mind, recalibration involves aligning with what is most important, and kicking to the curb the non-urgent. Instead of living constantly alert in the urgent, I make choices to stay on course with the important. This is my true north.  It is not that the urgent is abolished; not at all! But, sometimes, by focusing on what’s most important, I can resist the unhelpful disruptions. 

    In assessing the critical, in the quadrant of urgent and important, I discover a list of deadlines that can’t be missed.  My stress levels rise. While I cannot cross these off as inconsequential, I realise that perhaps I need to consider if they should even be mine. That may mean delegation, or simply establishing my boundary lines.   

    In assessing the urgent but not important, I recognise places of poor planning, along with troubling distractions and interruptions that have been wearing me down to the grain.   By reflecting and unpacking this dilemma, I was able to develop a strategy to relieve some of the strain.   

    And then there’s the non-urgent and non-important; the timewasters that do little to build success. How can I ignore these or bounce them back to their sender, unless I am clear on what’s best?  Again, I go back to my true north, and remind myself what’s most important of all. 

    Last but not least, is the important and non-urgent.  If I constantly live with stress, this quadrant often feels an anticlimax, and not where my efforts should be spent.  Once I recognised this hurdle, I set in motion my next three months of important, before I schedule another rest.  This next time will be in the new year, and one more opportunity to recalibrate my true north. 

    Not to be confused with traveling to Weipa again!  😊   

  • Emerging from the shadow

    Emerging from the shadow

    Under great pressure in my job and marriage last year I was confronted by a side of myself that alienated me in my relationships with others, spilling over into unprofessional and unloving behaviour.  I was shocked by the amount of resentment, frustration and impatience I discovered that I had towards myself and others when my expectations were not met.  The perfectionist in me was devastated by my imperfections that had surfaced and seemed relentless with their internal pressure.  The ‘good girl’ that I had tried to be for all of my life was not very good at all; in fact, she was ugly! 

    At my best, I have been known as wise, responsible and inspiring; but at my ugliest I am capable of being like a dog with a bone, self-righteous, intolerant and inflexible. None of these qualities I like in others so you can imagine how little I like them in myself. 

    During this stressful and messy time, I discovered that this ugliness of mine- my brokenness, had been there all along, hidden in the shadow. But that was not all that was hidden from me. Unrealised hopes and undeveloped talents were in the shadow too. 

    The shadow self is a psychological term and one that is also referred to by a profiling tool called the Enneagram.  It is a great metaphor for the parts of ourselves that we are not consciously aware of; perhaps even in denial of or blind too.  It is not just the ugly and the offensive that stays in the shadow but there is great stuff as well.

    I am abundantly grateful that I belong to a loving God who sees all and knows all; including my shadow self.  Filled with shame and self-loathing at my ugliness, I recall praying to Jesus confessing how I struggled to love this self and wondered how others could either? I believe that in my confession and shame Jesus reached down and grabbing hold of my hand he started drawing a shrivelled me from the shadow into his grace filled light. 

    The wholeness that I seek is impossible with so much of me still in the shadow.  To emerge from the shadow, I am to face this unacceptable part that I have previously been blind to. Acknowledging the ugly is not excusing it nor does it endorse it. Trying harder is not the answer either; the more I strive to be responsible the more inflexible and resentful I end up becoming. What I need is the forgiving, healing and redeeming power of the cross; the gift of undeserved Grace and the Good News in Jesus Christ! 

    There could be many reasons for my underlying anger (yes, that is the word that sums up all those feelings). Sometimes my rights have been violated, other times my needs have not been adequately been met and other times it is a warning that I am doing too much.  Harriet Lerner in her book The Dance of Anger says a woman learns to fear her anger because it brings disapproval.  Anger exists for a reason and always deserves our respect and attention.  I readily identified myself with her ‘nice lady syndrome’.  I would rather stay silent, become tearful, be self-critical and hurt than be open to the possibility of conflict.  Being ‘good’ is exhausting work. Life has already disclosed to me that I was an unhealthy peacekeeper and an avoid-er of conflict.  What I did not know was that by ignoring my anger and shoving it down I had also compromised much of my self. Along the way I had lost the ability to know my own thoughts, feelings and dreams. I had put my energy into reading others reactions and keeping the peace. I was good at feeling guilty but evidently not that good at feeling my anger and dealing with it. 

    This road to wholeness and finding my voice requires courage and vulnerability to accept the good, the bad and the downright ugly.  Grace is needed so I do not slip back into old patterns and beliefs. Even more grace is required to dare to be who God created me to be. It is time to find my voice-to speak up, learn to ask and to own my needs and boundaries. Through prayer and a huge measure of God’s love and grace I am trusting Him to lead me in a new season as I emerge from the shadow.    

  • Who am I if not a mother?

    Who am I if not a mother?

    Yesterday I considered adopting a child from overseas. Again!  The day before that I was designing a kitchen table enterprise based around home and hearth. Today I cried when I reread a poem I had written seven years ago, when my son left home.  (You can read that poem at the bottom of this post.) It occurs to me that maybe I have not come to terms with the end of a season of my life:  mothering. 

    It is not that I will ever stop being a mother.  I am just no longer mothering.  I mean the stuff of home and hearth, and life’s reason and season being centred around motherhood. 

    Perhaps it coincides with menopause and the stopping of the biological clock.  It certainly coincides with my feeling middle-aged and what I see in the mirror each day; and dare I say, passing my ‘useful’ date.  Maybe if I had gone on to have more than two children I would still have a child at home?

    Perhaps if my children had made me a grandmother by now I would not be thinking about these things either. But I have let that go.  I am accepting that is God’s will and my children’s prerogative; not mine to request. 

    I seriously did think about adopting from overseas yesterday. Social media brought to my attention a single woman of fifty-three adopting from overseas. She is two years older than me. This was not a new thought as I had earnestly looked into this six years ago.  At the time my husband and I felt led to foster and became the foster parents of a preteen later that year.  For three and a half years I loved mothering another. 

    I have been mothering for twenty-five years in total.  Even though both children left home the same year I managed to be involved in my children’s lives from a distance.  These past six to seven years, I have watched and supported them finishing university, starting a business and finding permanent work; one has partnered up and they both have established their own lives away from me, my husband and the family home. 

    Motherhood is a comfortable and safe place for me. Perhaps not so twenty-five years ago when it first started. Sometimes I would count down the years until it was over when I felt the crushing responsibility of it. But, I did discover my rhythm and joy for this season of my life.  I possibly hid behind it as I have served the family and have encouraged their hopes and dreams. Nothing or nobody has prepared me for the day when I am no longer actively mothering. I never planned for this. 

    My hopes and dreams that have been pushed aside for a long time, now have the chance to flourish. I no longer have parenting responsibilities. With the exceptions of genuine limits, there are new possibilities out there. And yet, I am struggling to overcome a strong pull to go back to doing what I have known for most of my adult life. The landscape is vast and yet my automatic response is to return to what is safe and comfortable: mothering.

    What next?  Who am I when I am not mothering?  That is the big question? Ahead of me, God willing, is another 25 years. It is time for me to grieve the loss of my season of motherhood. It is time for me to take courage and dare to risk for my next season.  We have a divine priority for life to risk and grow and yet our feelings are saying, be comfortable and safe. (© David J. Riddell, Living Wisdom)

    What about you? Do you know who you are if you are not a mother?  Are you like me and have this pull back to what is comfortable and safe? What does it look like to risk and grow: to dare to dream of what life is like after motherhood?  Who are you when you are not a mother?   

     

    See Ya!

    He left for the next chapter of his life with an uncomplicated “See Ya!”

    Fresh places beckoned his passage of rite along with promise and fervour.

    His Ute filled with luggage and golf clubs; the fuel tank full for the journey in front.

    Without even a kiss or hugs, he left our home empty of his presence and stuff.

     

    I had tried to get a life before the family spread, thinking I had it all considered.

    Nothing could prepare my heart ahead; the emptiness too big to be covered.

    It feels like the heartbeat has stopped in our family home, his absence tangibly evident.

    Now barely a retreat for mum, dad and the two dogs, the house and my life-desolate.

     

    Is there life after motherhood, when it seems as if one’s purpose has runs its course?

    I wish these feelings away if I could, as few understand my unhappiness.

    It’s easy to feel worthless when one’s apparent use has expired in a sense.

    The future seems so pointless, when a home has lost its reason for existence.

     

    Unprepared in spite of nine months warning; before there were only two of us.

    As was his departure Tuesday morning his entrance was as raw and rushed.

    Again only two of us, just as before; unprepared for each other’s company.

    Conversation is now difficult and unsure. What do we have in common? Anything?

     

    The lounge chair he plopped in each night is as free as the outside car park.

    No books to trip over piled alongside, the stool vacant at the breakfast bar.

    The house has never been cleaner or the grocery bill so small.

    This is healthier for my demeanour as there’s nobody to nag or be anxious about at all.

     

    He has been on loan to us for nineteen years; a gift from our Creator and Saviour.

    He goes blessed and leaves with few cares; his future sealed with sovereign favour.

    God made him like no other, unique and full of potential to be discovered.

    Our job as father and mother was to prepare him for the destiny yet to be uncovered.

     

    Its time to look backwards and rejoice in the highlights of the life of a son becoming a man.

    His preschool stuttering voice outshone by the eloquent toastmaster he has become.

    His home-schooled math a year behind and now he tutors others as its master.

    And sieving gems in his uncle’s sapphire mine; a prelude to his mining future!

     

    He was mobile at nine months although he did not learn how to fall on his rear.

    He had a head full of bumps as he fell frontward onto the coffee table and floor.

    Fast forward fifteen years; he seemed happy to fall for the game of rugby league.

    This time grunts but no tears; as well as corked thighs, busted eyes and bumps on his knees!

     

    I remember him as a gentle kid, not liking dad’s company and preferring mine.

    He would rather stay inside he said, preferring quiet activities to his father’s life.

    It started with football and progressed to fishing, before they took hold of diving gear.

    Bungee jumping, paragliding and spear fishing, something they both shared without fear.

     

    No partner for fishing, footy or diving; Dad will especially miss his best mate.

    No more rivalry or card playing?  What will happen on Friday nights?

    No socks or thongs to go missing, nor eskies left behind somewhere else.

    Dad is going to miss him and the pain of his absence perhaps yet to be admitted to self.

     

    We will miss his easy-going manner, his wry grin and peaceful presence;

    And I am beginning to miss his clutter, his unwashed laundry and kitchen mess.

    His room is ready and his bed sheets laundered, for whenever he returns for a weekend.

    The kitchen’s clean and pantry replenished; almost ready for the messy gourmet again!

     

    A text, an email or a phone call, should easily keep the family connected.

    If only he liked to talk, however small, this mother would be glad for a few words said.

    He’s so busy now and so grown up; we seldom see glimpses of the boy who used to be shy.

    He is responsible and has stepped up; time to release the parent strings and let him fly.

     

    We miss you son!  See Ya!

    (©Angela May, January 2010)

     

  • Oh Mary, what must it have been like early this morning…

    Oh Mary, what must it have been like early this morning…

    Oh Mary, what must it have been like for you early this morning to find his body missing from the tomb? I think you were so brave visiting the garden in the dark and by yourself.  Only a few days before, your friend and teacher had been unfairly tried, publicly humiliated and crucified as a common criminal.  How dreadful that another very close to him betrayed him to the very religious leaders who had been plotting to execute him.  

    I can only imagine how devastated you must have felt to arrive in the garden to discover that his body had now disappeared.  How Mary did you manage to focus through all those tears to notice the two sitting inside the tomb where your friend’s body had previously lain? Where you frightened when the two-angels dressed in white, spoke to you? I am curious: why didn’t they appear to Peter also when he peered into the empty tomb?  

    I can only imagine the shock Mary when the presumed gardener turned out to be your very-much-alive teacher, friend, Lord and your God.  I get goose bumps when I imagine what his voice must have sounded like when he greeted you by name.  Mary, you were the first to see the resurrected Jesus Christ, with his nailed scarred hands and hole in his side. His suffering was not an aberration; neither was his presence this morning. 

    I can only imagine how afraid you were and how much joy you were filled with when you realised you had seen the risen Lord.  What an amazing morning Mary.  

    — 

    Today is Easter Sunday.  Christian churches across the world celebrate Jesus Christ’s resurrection.  The same God that created the world loved us so much that He gave his only Son to die (and rise) for us.  Anyone who believes in Him will not die but have eternal life.  (John 3:16)

    The message of Easter is not restricted to a long weekend filled with chocolate bunnies and eggs. It is a message for all year and all of life.  How wonderful that the same risen Lord Jesus Christ, that called Mary by her name, can be our friend, teacher, Lord and God as well. 

     

  • What homeschooling taught me

    What homeschooling taught me

    I had the privilege, the pleasure and the challenge of homeschooling our children for two years.  While I felt led to do so, this was also somewhat necessary and practical for our family of four as we embarked on a season with lots of changes.  This included a three month stint living in Vanuatu villages. 

    I say privilege because of its higher calling as well as wonderful familial connections that resulted from the experience.  As a Christian I was impacted by verses in the Bible that reminded me that my children were a gift from God (Psalm 127:3) and as parents we were responsible before God for raising them; especially teaching them God’s commands (Deuteronomy 6:7). 

    The revelation for me was that up until this time, I had abdicated my responsibility to others.  My children had been receiving a private Christian education along with after school music lessons; sporting activities along with church youth group and Sunday school-by others. These were undeniably good things and I had no doubts that teachers were better educated than me to teach our children.  This homeschooling journey taught me that it would have been okay to delegate but I had been abdicating. The pendulum had fully swung to the other side and I was now wholly responsible. It was a timely intervention and helped rebalance my responsibilities and attitude towards parenting.

    My automatic response to squabbling siblings in the backseat of the car on school holidays usually started with a reprimand and finished with “I can’t wait until you two go back to school”.  On the first day of homeschooling I caught my myself in time and my response changed to “You two are going to have to learn to get along.”  And get along they did; and we did.  For those two years we learnt to be a family and enjoy a shared life together instead of being a bunch of individuals cohabiting.

    I confess there were challenging times; quite a few actually. I regularly doubted my ability to do this well.  I sometimes wished it was another and not I who was responsible for handling one child’s headstrong personality or the other’s procrastination tendencies.  I learned how different and unique my children were.  I discovered some of their strengths and weaknesses; likes and dislikes.  I came to appreciate their created uniqueness and was a part of the journey to foster that. I was able to do that as a parent who was involved in my children’s life twenty-four seven.

    I feared I was doing it all wrong, even though the curriculum was set out by a distant school.  I worried that my children were not doing enough when they finished all their school work by lunchtime. I worried when my son was behind in his mathematics.  Five years later I trained to be a teacher and chided myself for having worried at all.  Our son, who was behind one year in his mathematics units caught up with his homeschooling lessons overnight and went on to get A’s at high school. The same child is now an Engineer with an uncanny ability for mathematics. In hindsight I wish I had trusted God with His leading and enjoyed the journey more.  Perhaps I could have learnt this lesson better. 

    There was pleasure in homeschooling. I enjoyed the absence of the morning chaos, which included searching for clean and paired socks, ironing uniforms and making lunches that would not be eaten. Instead I enjoyed a calm start to the day with morning devotions and reading a chapter of their favourite book.  Some days, school work was completed under a tree and other days at the kitchen table.  We had fun together growing veggies and flowers, incubating eggs and raising chickens; and selling them onto Granddad.  We baked together, we had morning tea with grandparents and we visited science fairs together.  When overseas, the children spent their afternoons swimming with the island’s children, kicking a soccer ball or playing marbles in the village. 

    This season of our life ended and our children started at local State schools.  I grieved for months. It was right at the time, as the extroverted child was seeking friendships and the introverted child, I had noticed, was getting shyer. I was not their tutor anymore however I was still their parent. I did not let go altogether this time.  All during the following years of high school and university I remained interested and supported their education and their teachers.  I had learnt to delegate not abdicate.

    The wonderful bonus is that shared family holidays and activities remained and developed.  We learnt to enjoy each other’s company during this season. We learnt to be family. Given the choice again, I would do it in a heartbeat. 

  • The benefits of being inefficient

    The benefits of being inefficient

    A little while ago I started wearing a fitness tracker. To my dismay I discovered I hardly moved all day. No surprises really, as most of my work is done at the desk and on a computer.   I set myself up so well that I had everything within my seated reach.  I am the sort of person that would feel guilty walking from my desk to the kitchen to fill up my water bottle without also taking out the rubbish and collecting up any dishes on the way.  I had also begun to purchase my groceries online so I could achieve more at my desk. Someone else ran the aisles for my groceries, packed them in their truck and delivered them to my front door.  I had efficiently and effectively made myself sedentary.

    There has been lots of chatter recently about sitting being the new smoking.  Under advice, I purchased my first standing desk so I can now alternate between standing and sitting. (I could not afford the treadmill desk.)  While this has health benefits it did not really address my inactive lifestyle. If I was going to add more steps to my days routine, I realised I had to give myself permission to become inefficient.

    Along the way I have discovered the surprising benefits of becoming inefficient.  Previously the visitor at my door was an interruption to my workflow. Gulping coffee and snacking at my desk was preferred to taking a break. Now I delight in chance meetings. My digestion is better for eating slowly. My new attitude to life has opened the door to new adventures.   Hyper-efficiency I discovered is the antithesis to spontaneity and serendipity.  It is also bad for my health.

    I am also enjoying kicking the addiction of multi-tasking. Just because I can does not mean I have to.  This type of juggling is not much fun and is stressful.  If this is inefficiency then it has provided a surprising tradeoff. Instead of being breathlessly busy and constantly planning I am enjoying the new singular focus and rediscovered what it means to be present in the moment. 

    I do not think I will ever become totally inefficient and nor am I advocating laziness and disorganisation.  However, in a world that prides itself in fitting more into the day’s schedule I say “At what cost?”  There are benefits to inefficiency.  It took my fitness tracker to remind me of that.   

  • It’s raining it’s pouring…

    It’s raining it’s pouring…

    Do you know the rest of this nursery rhyme?  “…the old man is snoring…”  

    Rain takes me back to my childhood.  I hear old nursery rhymes. I take a long deep breath through my nose and fill my lungs with its scent. First drops of rain on the dusty earth is a such a sensory experience. I travel back in time to the farm of my childhood when the smell of first rain heralds the much awaited watering of a crop. 

    As a child lots of rain usually meant slippery roads and flooded creeks.  My very first day in school was during floods and away from home.  The weekend before school started I boarded the amphibious Army ‘duck’ for the township;and school on the other side.  I crossed the flooded river to stay with a local church family who would take my nearly five year old self to her first day of school.  Floods came the next year too but this time my mum and a new neighbour were ahead of it and rented a house in town so we kids could get to school. 

    Another memory is heading home from the local picture theatre to our farm house one dark night. Our family station wagon slid all over the black mud that replaced the dusty road.  With no seatbelts in the vehicle my siblings and I had to hold on where we could, while Dad’s strong hands gripped the steering wheel extra hard. He managed to keep the car away from the edge of the road . He avoided getting the car bogged and manoeuvred the sedan through and around the ruts and the potholes that had multiplied.

    It has been raining here this past week.  The rain is very welcome after a painfully long, hot and dry summer in Central Queensland.   I sort of wish it would go away. We have had a week of rain now and our tank is full, the dam too and the back yard, the gullies, the creeks and the rivers are flowing.   The grass once brown is now green again and more has emerged from the hungry ground that soaked up the water. Too much rain and our roads start getting cut off and our highways fill with potholes.  

    One weekend we were sitting on the back deck of our home with good friends when it started to rain.  A local festival was underway. We had just finished dinner and were planning to head out for the evening.  I sighed and announced it looked like we weren’t going out that night. Our friend, a European girl by birth, was so surprised.  “Why?” she said, “if we had that attitude in my country we would never go out!  Let’s just dress for rain.” Well that there presents another dilemma. I do not own wet weather gear.  A pair of rubber thongs (not the underwear type) is the closest I own to waterproof wear.  We spent the evening in.

    Rain for me now is snuggling weather;  reading a good book and listening to the rain fall on the ‘tin’ roof.  And maybe even a little snoring.  It is not weather for going outside. I have yet to purchase my first rain jacket and have never owned a pair of gumboots. I bought our children gumboots once and the spiders built a home in them before the children outgrew them.  We own a few cheap umbrellas but they are not much good in a tropical downpour or horizontal rain.  Our rain is usually so welcomed we don’t mind getting a little wet; or we just stay out of it! 

    It has stopped raining now and the sun is out.  Time to go outside. Perhaps you know this nursery rhyme:.  “Rain, rain, go away; come back another day.” 

  • Big thoughts and small talk

    Big thoughts and small talk

    I like to write and am very happy speaking from the front, but take me to a party and I’m rubbish at small talk.  I am comfortable with asking people deep and meaningful questions but out of my depth with light and entertaining conversation.  Sit me next to a stranger on a plane and I will bury my head in a book and put earplugs in to avoid having to make conversation.

    For an introvert-as I am, this is quite normal; though not always helpful. Hiding is not always an option.  Nor is it particularly good mannered.  Evidence points to the fact that not everyone welcomes deep conversations. So small talk is necessary I am lead to believe. 

    Weather gets a bit ho-hum.  Surely there are other people like me that have zero interest in sports.  There is only so much we can tell people about others or our family without breaching their privacy or being a gossip. Too many holiday dialogues sound like a bragging festival or a travel documentary. Does that only leave cute kitten and puppy stories?

    Good small talk does not have to be shallow. Our social media habits have done little to enhance good conversation with their practice of superficial and brief messages.   Perhaps it is time to rediscover the old art of a good conversation. 

    One aspect of making good small talk is preparing and telling a short personal story.  Much the same as preparing and practicing one’s elevator pitch.   Where an elevator pitch might be 30 seconds long, a small talk story can be a minute long.

    Small talk, I have deduced is harder than my big thoughts.  If I opened my mouth and let my thoughts tumble out I reckon I have zero chance of engaging someone in conversation or of being considered interesting. The quality of a good story is as much dependent on the words left in as the words left out. 

    Telling a good story and engaging another person in a light and entertaining conversation is an art.   It takes skill and it takes practice.  How many people do you know that do this well? Possibly very few if you count them when sober. Perhaps that’s why so many people hunch over their phones to tweet or post selfies whilst at a party.

    No matter how ordinary or routine our lives are, no one else has the same story or stories to tell.  Ordinary stories can be interesting if told well.  It is time to harness those big thoughts and create an interesting short story for making superb small talk.  Join me at the next party and let us practice the art of a good conversation together.

  • Kind words are like honey

    Kind words are like honey

    In our land down under where sarcasm is de rigueur I am often left wondering if kind words are considered to be only for the soft and the foolish.   

    The Bible says kind words bring sweetness to the soul and health to the body. (Proverbs 16:24) They sure do to me. Some days I reckon all I hear is criticism, sarcasm or silence.  It feels as if a little more of me shrivels as a result. It is as if my soul and body ache with the pain. 

    I recall some ten years ago after a close relative completed suicide that many people were especially kind to the spouse when they heard. They were generous in business dealings where they had previously been indifferent and hard nosed. They said kind words and were understanding when previously they had been otherwise.  At the time I struggled to understand why they could not do that all the time.  Is tragedy, I thought, the only invitation they have to speak words of kindness?

    I long to hear kind words.  I want to speak kind words to others.  Sometimes I have to tell my inner critic to shut up so I can speak kind words to myself.   

    If the Bible says kind words bring sweetness to the soul then perhaps it is possible we can entice a bitter soul to become less so.  If kind words bring health to the body, why not speak kind words then to others and to our self to bring health and vitality?

    What does it cost us to say kind words?  Is it our cynicism and defensiveness the reason we withhold kindness and opt for sarcasm or silence?  Perhaps we are reluctant to be kind in case the other person is not kind in return.  Instead of practicing our wit and our banter why not practice kind phrases.  Instead of recognizing faults why not look for beauty and good things in a person. Instead of being silent why not be vulnerable and commend another; maybe speak kind words to a stranger.

    Let us be honest, kind words do not cost us money.  Kind words are like honey. Why not spread a little sweetness and good health to another and make kind words de rigueur tomorrow.    

  • An Extraordinary Life…

    An Extraordinary Life…

    Is your life ordinary or extraordinary? I suspect that most of us would say our life is rather ordinary. Given the choice I reckon most of us would rather an extraordinary life.

    What if it is possible for all of us to have an extraordinary life? What if it is not out there as a vague dream of riches and fame, but rather right here; in the midst of the ordinary life? After all, the word extraordinary is made of two words: EXTRA and ORDINARY.

    Perhaps the extra is there for us every day; we just have to look for it, listen for it or accept it! And perhaps we can make it for someone else; by creating it, speaking it or giving it! The it being the EXTRA in an otherwise ordinary life!

    One of the pitfalls of an agenda filled busy schedule is that we do not always provide the space or create the opportunity for the EXTRA to be noticed. The extraordinary is there every day!  Perhaps we overlook it as we go about the ordinary!

    Take my roses. I am always amazed that something so beautiful would bud on such a lanky, thorny and ordinary bush. (Well mine are!) Roses are my favourite flowers and it always brings me great joy to pick a new bloom and place it in a vase inside.

    This concept of extra in the ordinary challenges me often. Many years ago, our little family of four used to walk and rollerblade around the bitumen walking track of a nearby public park. I asked my neighbour one day to join me on my regular walk. She declined because she said it was “ordinary”. That irritated me. She had dismissed the park and its walk before even giving it a go. When I set off on my next walk, I looked a bit harder at the park and started to feel that she was right and it was rather ordinary; ordinary people, ordinary dogs, ordinary grass, ordinary trees, ordinary sky, ordinary playground. It was an ordinary park. As I walked past the ordinary pond, with its ordinary ducks I noticed for the first time a rather ordinary nest of twigs and branches floating on the ponds edge. The water was an ordinary brown as were the twigs and the reeds around the pond.  As I paused a little longer, I spotted something contrastingly red and black. A waterfowl with its glistening black plumage and a bright scarlet beak was busy around the ordinary nest of twigs. I watched in fascination as three or four little heads bobbed out of this nest. “Extraordinary!” I thought. I had just witnessed the first of spring’s hatch in this otherwise ordinary park. For several weeks after that ordinary day, I especially looked forward to my ordinary walk in the park, because when I spotted those little chicks, my life became extraordinarily richer.

    Have you paused recently, long enough to listen to a bird’s call, a tune playing, and a child’s laughter?

    Have you paused to take in a sunrise or sunset, the cloud pattern in the sky, a flower as it blooms, the antics of a puppy or kitten?

    Have you paused to accept the smile of a stranger or the genuine compliment of a friend or colleague, the cuddle from a child or a lick from a puppy, the generosity on the road from a fellow driver or thanked a cheery and helpful shop assistant for a job well done?

    Have you offered a kind word today or filled the air with beautiful music?

    Have put flowers on your desk at work or gone the extra mile with whatever you do at work to make it look good ‘just because’?

    Have you ever surprised a stranger or a grumpy shop attendant with a cheery “Good morning!” or stopped to compliment someone with something positive you have thought, but never been game to say?

    Have you stopped at all today to look, to listen and accept the extraordinary in the life you live?

    When I next see you and ask “How’s your life?” Will you be able to say “I have an extraordinary life!”