Love hearts are my favourite symbol- I have them all around me- I love finding hearts in nature (leaves, rocks, markings from the exiting tide on the sand) and I love the word love. I even have a biz with a friend where there’s a love heart in our logo and our website is lovecwc.
Most of my favourite songs are about falling in love, being in love, unrequited love or even lost love.
Movies that hit my heart the hardest are the ones where a love is harmed.
Lately I’ve been finding the world is harder than it used to be. Mostly because I feel like there is a loss of love. Maybe not everyone is as in love with love as me. I see people being mean to each other about things that don’t really matter in the big scheme of things. I notice a shortness in some of the interactions that people have with each other based on whether someone is wearing a mask, getting a stab or standing far enough away. I don’t like it when our hearts harden, or when we choose to see the differences between us rather than the things that bind us together.
When we offer up our heart to another person we are at our most vulnerable and our most trusting. With each quivering beat we are at the mercy of another- it is our most thrilling, exciting and terrifying time. It is also our most powerful. For if we can offer up the essence of our deepest selves for scrutiny and sanctuary we can do anything. We are free.
Hearts are sensitive and soft and need to be held gently. They are also strong and courageous and true.
We have to keep our hearts well, to listen to them and respond to their wants, lest they stiffen or become sharp. The vicious edges of a heart that has been neglected can cut as clean as a shard of glass drawn along the length of a finger, throbbing to death as the life and love pulses out of it.
One day a long time ago my boy and I were talking about war. It was ANZAC Day and I was trying to explain to him why the emotion of the day always overwhelms me. Why my usually stoic lacrimal glands seep with tears for people I’ve never known in places I’ve never been. Why the Last Post causes my arm hairs to stand up like so many soldiers. He couldn’t understand it, my gentle boy, and I watched his brain tick over the thoughts one by one, trying to make sense where there is none. Finally he looked at me and said, “No one would ever go to war if everybody just remembered that everybody else has a mummy. The mummies love them. And the mummies will be really, really sad.”
My boy was right.
These days when I get dressed in the morning, my finishing touch and my fortress is my necklace. It was bought for me by my family and it whispers my favourite word, from my favourite shop. I look in the mirror as I put it on, and say quietly, “I’m just adding a little bit more love.” And then I breathe out, and think of ways that I can make my necklace come true.
The weekend had been set aside for a girls’ weekend with Jen, Jools and Nic, my uni girlfriends, for which over twenty five years and who knows how many kilometres are wiped away like our anatomy lecturer’s overhead projector scratchings (Hi Dr.Chandaraj if you are still around. You were amazing, but I never was able to read your writing.) whenever we get in a room together. Corona and border closures had other ideas, so we added a dash of hope and postponed it ’til later in the year, crossing our fingers more tightly than our pelvic floors when the first bars of ‘Holiday’ blast out. Please let dance floors and karaoke bars and dancing around handbags still be a thing when the virus slopes off to become merely endemic. We can hope.
So I made plans with the girls I am allowed to play with (Mum and daughter) to shop and eat and shop some more in the little smoke known as Brisvegas by mostly no-one other than old people like Nath and I who like to 1. Annoy our kids 2. Think we are a bit funny.
First stop was supposed to be Zara, followed by H&M, Seed and then lunch, but somehow we ended up at Carla Zampatti. Shock. We went for a ‘quick look’ which ended up with me being suitably fawned on by the excellent ladies there, helping with sizing, squeezing, and little squees as they fussed and fluffed and just generally made an old bird feel like her time for a Carla had finally come.
I narrowed it down to two: one much too hot for October in Queensland, but comfortable AF and extremely flattering, and one a bit more directional (and cleverly called “Homage to Carla” talk about tugging the story-strings), and not quite as sexy..but with POCKETS. What to do? Caught between fashion and function, yet again, and with price tags that didn’t allow for both. I decided to ‘eat on it’, and the lovlies said they would hold both of them for me. They were seasoned enough to know what, “I’m now picturing myself with make-up and proper shoes and my husband’s eyes on the night,” looks like- they knew I’d be back.
Over lunch and reflecting on the pros and cons of buying something that looks great, but will wind up being a velvet version of a sous vide* or, something less sassy sweaty and more classy, I got a call from Carla’s Angels: someone else wanted the second one. Did I want it? The seconds passed. Did I?
I’ve secretly wanted a Carla for years. I know this one looks good and I finally have somewhere to wear it, in fact once outfit the cards were on the table, I quickly invented three more places to wear it. Did I want it? Did I mention it’s called Homage to Carla?
Of course I did. I told them I’d be there shortly, but I understood if they wanted to sell it to the decisive lady in front of them. They declined. Carla was mine.
Of course when we got to the store the ladies were as lovely as ever, and I thanked them for keeping their promise to hold (what was soon to be) MY Carla. But it all felt a bit off. Some of the shine was taken off the purchase, in knowing that me getting this piece meant someone else missed out. You’ve probably seen the videos; the ones where the marathon runner is about to cross the line in second place and the person in front of them collapses, and rather than running on by, they pick them up so they can cross the line together. I love those videos and I bloody love a good win-win. It’s unlikely that I’m ever running a marathon, so this was my chance. I got the ladies to put the search out for another Carla, just like ‘mine’. Yes there was another, they said, but it wouldn’t work for the other lady, as she needed to have alterations done, and the times wouldn’t match up. She would have to miss out.
What to do, what to do? Should I give up what was fast becoming my beloved third child to bring another woman joy? Should I just shelve my Carla-owning dreams and buy something more sensible? Should I get the velvet sauna after all?
In my endorphin-fuelled almost-purchasing inner monologue I’d forgotten one thing: I didn’t need the damn thing for months. I could just drive back to Briso and pick it up another day. Facepalm. I told this to the Angels, and they quickly agreed to an even better plan: through the magic of Australia Post they would simply ship it to me. Amazing. Technology, ‘eh? I was laughing to myself as we completed my purchase and they called the other lady (who I’m pretty sure did a little squeal when they said she could come and get HER Carla), at how when we open our minds to the win-win we can almost always find a way. Sure it felt a bit weird and kind of sad to spend a whole bunch of bucks on an outfit that I couldn’t immediately go back home and try on (which is what I always do with new clothes), and sure it gave me waaaay more time to have buyer’s remorse, but there was something fun about how it all turned out. A kind of fashion solidarity that could be vapid or bullshit or nothing at all, depending on your view. But I like to think that story is important.
I know the brand of Carla Zampatti was forged through passion and tenacity and a desire to make women feel beautiful. I also know that things don’t have any inherent meaning, it’s just the meaning we bring to them. My Carla will arrive soon, and I will have some material with a meaning. Something that reminds me of what strong women can do when they put their heart into a project. Something that reminds me that finding ways to support each other rather than compete will always feel better. And I will be glad that even though I might look not-quite-as-hot as I could have, I will for once have chosen something that fits the function required.
I can’t promise the same thing for my shoes though.
* The process of vacuum-sealing food in a bag, then cooking it to a very precise temperature in a water bath. I hear it’s delicious. Not sure if it is recommended for fifty year old women.
Do you care about brands? Do you have a timeless item with a story? Do you have a Carla yet?
Yes, this is a Jac Pac… Oh how I wanted one of these.
I’m not a fashionista or even that knowledgeable about brands, but I do love brands with great stories. Even more, I love brands that are named after the owner (Hello Veuve Clicquot) and even more when the name becomes synonymous with the thing (Hi there Mr.Biro). The story behind the brand is interesting as we get a little peep behind the curtain, looking backstage at what they were trying to achieve and the reason why they were compelled to get off the couch and press play on a new business. Which is probably never as easy as that first ‘entrepreneurial flash’. Knowing the why behind the what.
Growing up in the western suburbs of Melbourne I didn’t have much call for fancy clothes or designer tags. Mum always made sure we had the latest clothes ‘for good’ and we were always nicely turned out in something from Just Jeans or maybe even Rip Curl, but full designer wasn’t a thing on my radar. I don’t even know if I knew such things existed until Mum decided I could do with a little rounding-out and enrolled me in a course of “junior deportment and modelling” at Suzan Johnston.
Tumbling into the car after Saturday morning softball, we would trek from the west to the centre, as I scrubbed the dust of the industrial wastelands from my legs, and shook out the blobs of dried blood or sweat collected in my mane, to arrive at Collins Street less feral, more fancy. Physically. But it’s hard to wipe the west out of a gal, and some days the switch from being down in the dirt to dressed on the dais took some time. I was a catcher back then, so I spent most of my games in a deep squat, with an umpire’s thighs pressed right in behind me. The catcher’s role is to control the game, set up the pitcher, and legally intimidate anyone you can. It wasn’t uncommon for the umpire to whisper “That’ll do now,” if I got on a nice little sledge-roll about the batter’s mum/dad/brother/boyfriend. I’d always smile to myself when that happened, because it meant I’d come up nice and close to the line of social acceptability. I like knowing where that line is, and how much to stretch it.
Which is why I like brands that do that. Ones that have a story of adversity and triumph, of meaningful contributions and of challenging social norms. A couple of days ago a chick I follow on the socials told us she’s in a throuple. I’ve never heard of it before- turns out it’s just three peeps in love- but she immediately lost 18000 followers, and gained a plethora of negative comments, which is probably more interesting than what she does in her own bed. To be honest, my little old menopausal self admires her verve. I can’t even muster up the energy to cast a sleazy side-eye perv to the surfers getting changed at the beach carpark these days. Good for her love, and even more, thanks for the show and tell. I like knowing more about the person behind “The Holistic Psychologist”.
Over in sky-high heels in the skyscraper Sportsgirl building that housed Suzan Johnston I learnt that there was more to branding than buying Adidas Romes because that’s what my cool-crush was wearing, or getting a Jac Pac because everyone at school was wearing them to the Blue Light Disco on Fridays. Branding was about identifying and then isolating a target audience, figuring out what they needed, and then selling them that very thing in a way that lifted their hearts. So as we sat and listened to the model-teachers telling about this product or that, we were buying brands within a brand who fed back into brands. Genius.
We all knew it was genius because any time we told our friends that we went to Suzan Johnston’s classes, or even on one occasion to her house for a photo shoot, we were met with a kind of half-envious awe. To those who knew what SJ was of course. Those who didn’t weren’t our targets anyway.
Over the years Suzan’s gals introduced us to the work of the fashion icons of the 80’s, and one of them was Carla. I don’t know what Carla Zampatti was known for to the adults back then, but we all knew she was an Italian migrant who came to Australia as a kid, and created a beautiful business as a divorcée and a single mum. Gold on all fronts, for kid from the west from one of the very few ‘broken families’ in school.
Back then Carla’s designs weren’t something I wanted to buy for myself, but rather something to aspire to. I thought one day I would have the means and the need for a Carla. Perhaps I’d own a medical practice and I’d swish past my staff smiling with a whisper of chiffon and crepe. Or maybe I’d tell the women in the typing pool to, “Keep up the great work, ladies,” as my clicking red-soled heels kept time with their staccato keystrokes.
Those things never happened. My life went in different directions as I found my true calling, and such outfits were never required. And yet, I’ve always kept a little imagined snapshot in the deep recesses of my brain, of me in a Carla.
This year, Carla Zampatti died, after a whopping fifty six years in the fashion industry. Women turned out in their fave Carla Zampatti designs to honour a woman who made good. There are rumours that the purchaser of her very first design has the outfit still, and wears it to ritzy Sydneyside functions. (Don’t tell me if that’s not true. I like the story.) Carla’s daughter quipped that her mum would have called the funeral the best dressed function she’d ever attended. That makes me smile. And not a modelling smile either, a nice big real one.
So when Carla died, a little part of me was sad that I’d never owned one of her designs. I’d always meant to go to her boutique in New Farm and get kitted out, but days get busy and the need for flowing fashion can be offset by offspring and functionality and Queensland heat. The cape-like folds I fancy the most don’t really lend themselves wrangling a toddler into their car-seat or keeping the draping fabric free of mashed up banana.
Recently my days have changed a little. The kids don’t eat mashed food any more, and one of them even drives himself. I have more time to shop carefully and take my time with my purchases, and I even have a fancy formal function to go to this year, thanks to said offspring.
So this weekend it was Carla Time. Time to (perhaps) get myself something before the essence of her has left the brand. I don’t know what’s next for them, and maybe the look will remain timeless and essentially Carla, but I didn’t want to risk it. I wanted to get something that may have even had her stamp of approval.
I read a cool blog today from my friend Esyltt Graham (Vitality With Esyltt) where she spoke about the importance and power of the pause. Of stopping and sitting to just be.
I know I haven’t always been one to embrace the pause. My mind pings from one thing and pongs over to another in rapid and relentless layers. I can’t even say “in succession”, because some of the thoughts don’t even wait for the one before to be finished before they are off, racing to the next destination. Which means I can look like I’m in quiet repose, when really I’m busy with all manner of thoughts and internal conversations. I don’t think I’m alone in this, which made me think about how important the pause actually is. The lack of pause could even be the real pandemic. Or is it endemic: a condition that we know is there, but have decided we will just live along with? Do we live in some kind of symbiosis with it, perhaps even addicted to its presence- this lack of pause- until the day comes when it overtakes us and we are forced to take the time to succumb or rejuvenate?
I have created a whole slew of procedures in my world to stop the mental ping-pong. I have a five-step morning ritual that centres me, and gets me ready for the day. I have ‘day dreaming time’ in the diary, where I sit on the couch and let the pings pong at will. I set aside time every day to read. I meditate daily (sometimes for tiny snippets of respite, and others to take in the wild expanse of the unified field) and of course I love to write. Some of these things are more effective than others at creating opportunities to pause, and I guess they could sound like a lot of work, but they actually do the opposite for me. They are the things that bring me the most joy and the most delight. De light. They bring me to the light. You know that sense of fizzy fun that coaxes the edges of your mouth up into a crescent, no matter how deep that valley between your eyes is? (Fun fact: Liam once said to me on a particularly fraught day “Your valleys are deep today Mum.” Thanks kid, I’m aware.)
So yes, I can see the value of the pause. Of that ability to take a break from the busyness and the scrolling and the information overload, and to simply allow. To sip a cup of tea. To feel the warmth of the mug on your hands. To watch the dust motes dancing on the sunbeams. And perhaps to do even do a little more than a pause. To actually put in a full stop.
For it is in the stopping and the sitting and the space between the notes, that the true symphony of our life is played out. Perhaps it is in these pauses- these narrow crannies between one task and the next- that if we tune in our ears, and open our hearts we will see the thing we are looking for, find the light that we most yearn to bask in. It the stops we might have the mysteries of the universe revealed to us, or maybe we will just get clear on what to cook for dinner, but I have a feeling that there is something just there, just on the other side, that would love to show its shy little face, if we can just stop long enough to glimpse its presence.
Maybe the pauses are where the meaning lives.
What do you do to pause? Is there anything in your pauses?
So here they are, the hits of the week… (I’d love to hear yours as well you know- sharing is caring, after all).
1.Bringing back blog. I had a funny start to the week- a bit wobbly in some ways, and I realised I wasn’t taking enough time to do the little things I like. Nothing astounding, just a bit more water, a bit more sun on my skin, and a bit more mucking around on the keys. Not piano keys (I won’t torture you with my rendition of Ode to Joy, which is the only song I know), but the keys of this little golden MacBook. It has a way of pulling the truth out of my fingers and I didn’t realise how much I had missed that. So “hi”.
2. RIP kettle (yes the little fucker is almost brand new), so hello warranty claims and all that happy crappy. (That’s a lie, that stuff is never happy is it?). The upside- and there always is an upside isn’t there- is that I was “forced” to go out for a coffee which slowly grew into a second breakfast, perched up in the Noosa treetops at Peppers. Big high ceilings, the chirp of holiday-makers, and staff that let you savour your moments. Five stars.
3. Heres’s another double-edger: a girls’ weekend away at The Goldy with The Heathers (I’ll tell you about them sometime- maybe that’s a story for the Secret Asher Stories?) canned due to Rona, so for once I’ve decided to gift myself the weekend off. So Cokesi and I will trundle down the Big Bruce to BrisVegas for some gyoza-fuelled shopping time. You’ve gotta grab your moments these days, don’t you? We are grateful that we are able to drive more than ten kilometres for something that some would consider non-essential (those someones clearly haven’t seen Coco after a Bubble Tea, diving into Zara Teens.
4. The Joe Dispenza course I completed this week. Thanks Hay House for marketing like MoFos until I finally signed up. The learning and the mediations are ace, but most of all, Joe got me clear on me. The Mind Movie “memory of the future” is a deal-breaker for a visual learner like me, who also loves some groovy (yes, I said groovy and I’m standing by it) music, and some words of affirmation. Hit me up if you want to know more. Bloody gold.
5. Old records. I reckon they hold some magic in their ridges. Telling stories of tunes past, each jump a reminder of a time when I danced too hard and too close to the needle on our old floorboards, or carelessly shoved a record back into its sleeve, rushing for the next song, the next song. Today I’ve got this one on rotation. I’m pleasantly surprised about how many of the spaces between the mondegreen of words I actually get right. Good songs get into your pathways don’t they? And they know how to take you to that place.
Hello old friend, I remember you.
So that’s it for my hits… What are yours? Did you have a moment of “Lively Up Yourself” this week?
Look Ma, no watch.. Is it just me or is it funny that a timepiece is called a watch?
This week I have been delving into what I really love to spend my time on. And I mean spend. Mitch Albom reminds us that humans are the only species who divvy up and measure time a structured way, to divide and divide and divide until even a long exhale, a sip of tea or a glance to the horizon are allocated a moment. All of the other creatures who inhabit this planet measure time otherly. By the scent of the breeze, the crunch of frost on the morning grass, the ebbing of the tide or the smile of the moon.
Time is a currency that we spend and save through our days. We throw it away with wild abandon as we gaze into the eyes of our babies, and tap tap tap away when we are far from the people we love. We let it fly freely as we cartwheel and sprint through our childhoods, sleep and grumble it away through our teens, and try to hoard it as the menopausal pull of gravity sags our stomach skin and jowls, and we finally admit that just as time is starting to speed up, we want to take more of it, in bigger and bigger chunks, for ourselves. To fill it with things that make our hearts beat more resonant and deep, and if we are truly lucky; skip a little every now and then.
The places we choose to spend our time on don’t notice us at all, so it is us who must do the noticing. It is us who must approach our spending with care and attention. To make our investments count. Moment by tiny moment. Or so we believe.
The cult of busyness has fed into this trope, adding a sense of guilt, making us like ticking-eco-warriors (worriers) constantly finding ways to save, share, reuse and recycle our time so that an indolent hour in the sun is something akin to putting the plastics and glass in with the regular garbage. A small thing for one, but with a callous flow on effect that could jeopardise more than we planned. Or does it?
What if the flow on effect of us taking time to centre ourselves does the opposite of destruction? What if, instead of wasting and destroying, it soothes our cells in a way that they are free to bathe in moments of expansion? Of rejuvenation and clarification. Of love.
And what if this sensation creates the space for us to just simply care? For ourselves. For the things that blow our skirts up. For the hearts of those around us. For the minds and bodies of all humanity. What if by the simple process of spending some of our minutes and hours on something that allows us be present and listen to pull of our yearnings, we are able to be more present to give our presence? Being careworn is something that happens with time and weather and experiences and love and grief and life. The care will be worn into us, and we to it, holding hands through the rest of our days.
I think today is a great day to spend some time with care. Holding hands with her. Seeing what she can show us when we show up.
kidzta on Lessons From Lego (and Liam): “Liam’s insight is refreshing – instead of decluttering, he suggests expanding, embracing new ideas and opportunities. A youthful perspective on…” Dec 21, 16:08
kidzta on Lessons From Lego (and Liam): “Absolutely! It’s akin to acquiring a larger handbag – you end up filling it with more things to lug around…” Dec 21, 00:17
Alison Asher on Something Delicious: “Thank you! That’s such a nice thing to say… Happy writing!” Aug 31, 07:30
Tracy on Something Delicious: “I love your style (writing in particular) and you inspire me to develop mine too. Love the “new” words and…” Aug 30, 23:20
Alison Asher on Change It Up: “I will. Reminds me of the good old locum days. Maybe that will be a thing again soon??” Aug 27, 11:01
Alison Asher on Change It Up: “Yes, as if people “have” a panel beater on call… Well I do, but…. Lucky it was you, is all…” Aug 27, 10:59
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