This was my awakening for 2018! There were a few books that helped me overcome my love of the vino and this one helped me overcome the fear of remembering who I was – other than an extraordinarily talented boozer. It fell from the heavens into my lap!
All the quotes that follow for some reason say it’s by Oprah Winfrey – she writes an amazing foreword – but the book is by the inspirational Dr Tererai Trent. What a beauty!
Go to Lewis Howes site and listen to this interview for inspo. It’s lovely and engaging. My kids AND my husband were intrigued and trying to keep their attention on anything other than a screen is nothing short of a miracle, so there must be some kind of magical pull involved!
I won’t even bother revealing how each quote below helped, the bookmarks speak for themselves and every second paragraph has exquisite gems like these. This book is worthy of your time.
What an amazing woman and an amazing tale. Tererai has definitely been a big influence on my dream chasing, getting this blog up and running, writing my truth as well as encouraging fearlessness to have a crack.
While her focus is on women across the world to take up their calling, discover and live their purpose, this is definitely one for men to read too – for their own understanding and for their own calling so that we can move forward together – bullshit-free.
There is nothing hippie-dippie about any of it. It’s raw, truthful and real. The takeaway’s are awesome.
The Awakened Woman came at a time I was sick to death of losing my shit and feeling like a failure in my forties and STILL lost. It helped me eliminate the distractions and crap in life and move forward.
Her words and her story pushes you to get out of your head, be brave and follow your path – even it it’s an isolating one. Even if you are the only one who believes in it. Even if others judge, poo-poo and think you’re insane. Her words gave me the strength to listen to my gut and to the signs and to the woo-woo – and just effing do it!!!
This was the tonic I didn’t even know I needed.
Eternally grateful and highly recommend The Awakened Woman, By Dr Tererai Trent and everything associated with this empowering woman.
…said my 6 year old son. Ah, from the mouth of foul mouthed babes.
As bed time drew nearer and my sober hands became a little edgier, a knot in my daughters ridiculously long hair was unyielding. The bewitching hour was nigh and I had managed to keep the plot loss to a minimum with every tool in my dysfunctional parenting belt. But then I hit a snag. Literally. Krakatoa erupted shriekingly so.
A bit of hairy history. My husband and I both come from thick crop growing stock (to clarify – upon our heads) and subsequently have bred little hair farmers of our own. My son was born with receding black tresses which randomly grew into the most majestic honey curls. The Balinese would call out to him with glee “Mee Goreng! Mee Goreng!”
I never set out to be a long-haired-hippie-boy-child kind of Mum – it kind of took on a high maintenance life force of its own. Chewed through a lot of hair product too.
He made for quite the pretty toddler who was often confused for a girl. It wasn’t a big deal until someone called him a her in front of my husband. That combined with photos from a dodgy dress up day of our bouncing baby boy was enough to tip the shears. So with much manliness, father and son swaggered to the barbershop for a chop-chop and it was farewell forever to our beautiful Blue Curly Sue.
The daughters hair took over from where the sons was hacked off and has grown into an irrational hybrid of Rapunzel and Medusa. It was okay when I had a shred of control. Now it’s like hunting down a hairy monsoon for a brush every damn day. And god forbid I plait it like Elsa when it should be like Anna and vice-bonkers-versa. But I digress.
So I’d managed to secure the target for a few minutes thanks to some strategic tv plonking. All was well until the knot I’d been working on fought back and the abnormal peace was disturbed by tangles and screeching. I jumped and before I could beseech calm my son channeled my thoughts. Verbally.
It’s funny when you hear a profanity come out of your child’s mouth, clearly and in context. It’s funnier when it’s an entire sentence you know has come out of your own mouth many times before. Not so funny when you do the sums and realise how many of those times have been in front of said child.
“Holy, moly…that scared the shit outta me.”
The reaction. Hysteria, tears of hilarity from me and absolute mortification from him. Poor little man. He had no idea what he’d said but immediately knew it was wrong.
I think I was more in shock that the day had finally come. There had been minor moments in the past six years where a few fumbled “truck”‘s, “spit”‘s and “banker”‘s were corrected and innocently brushed off.
My reliance on swearing as a means of communicating has always been an Achilles heel. If there is ever an opportunity where I can write over speaking I’ll take it every time to avoid exposure of a speech impediment I’ve developed because of it:
It’s totally a thing. Watch this space for fundraising merch available for purchase soon, all proceeds go to the cause. Signed note of appreciation from my children for every donation over $10. They thank you.
Once upon a time there was a young woman named Molly. Molly would drive to work every morning through the grey and sinister suburban streets and despair. She was several months pregnant with her first child and every day grew in girth and grimness over the sketchy state of the area her little love would grow up in.
One particularly gloomy morning she was stuck in traffic – adjacent the school her unborn academic would one day attend. It was a fairly unassuming school and was in the process of an upgrade. Molly had driven past a hundred times paying no notice – until this day.
As she wound up her window to silence the decoratively coloured banter coming from commuters, workers and randoms – she noticed something shimmering brightly from afar. The day was sunless and not much shined in this place. Molly was intrigued. She honed in on the object being dragged along the asphalt.
Glimmery and new and rolled atop the cyclone fence, wrapping around the entirety of the school like twinkling Christmas decorations – for a prison.
Molly reached for the flip phone and called her husband.
“I think we need to move.”
“As soon as possible. I’m not bringing a child into… this.”
“Is ‘this’ one of those crazy hormone things, or just a you thing?”
“Not sure. By the way – rude. Regardless, I’m over it. I think we should move to the hills.”
“I see. Do I dare ask why?”
“They don’t have barbed wire in the hills?”
“Not on their schools, at least I hope not!”
“They’re rolling it out on the school our children will eventually go to. It’s serious.”
A long pause. Molly could hear her husband dissecting the information and coming to his own level headed conclusions minus the irrational madness she often brought to his table.
“Alright, that seems fairly alarming, not sure it warrants a total upheaval of our lives…”
“…and with global warming being ignored, we need to get to higher ground… you know, tsunamis and stuff.”
“Aaaand there it is. Can we discuss this tonight when I’ve got a beer in my hand?”
“Sure. But I am serious.”
“I know, that’s why beer.”
Nearly a decade later the pair managed to pull it off. Sort of. Molly and her little family set out on their barbed wired, tsunami free path to the hills.
While they may have escaped the fear mongering life Molly had imagined – the cost of hills living would stunt things for a bit. Living on the flats had its advantages – the main one being – a wayyyyyy smaller mortgage.
So they kissed goodbye – holidays involving planes, buying things they wanted over needed and other extravagances like liquid soap, trips to the hairdressers and real fancy stuff – new underwear, shoes, linen, occasionally petrol… And said hello to much canned food, a shell for a home and a bra that really did its brand proud.
The sacrifices were worth it. The kids would awaken to the sounds of kangaroos booming past their window down the same path they’d taken for twenty thousand years. Molly refused to put fences up just in case it confused them – the roos, not the kids. Hubs shook his head. He’d be shaking his head far more frequently over the following years.
The majestic forest and the valley seemed like a painting. None of it felt real and Molly kept waiting for a letter in the mailbox explaining there’d been a mistake – you don’t belong here – time to leave. But as wild, unruly and echo-y the family were, thankfully the letter never came.
As Molly stood high on the deck of her half finished home in a polyester knitted coat from Millers that her Nan gave her seven years prior – she pulled the collar over her shoulders that kept slipping because there was a hole that she fiddled with, making an even bigger hole and then she had to pull the entire edging off and even then she would not throw this raggy looking thing away – and inhaled the never-ending sweet, earthy air in and smiled.
This crazy life in the forest would be all her children knew. This would be their childhood. Greens and golds and clean air would be the hazy memories locked somewhere in their make-up. That alone would be worth whatever struggles came. That alone was fCking mint.
Molly is a pen name.
Molly is a character.
Molly is sometimes real.
Molly is a writer.
Love letters to her favourites.
About her nutso life.
About her mental state.
Of being out of her tree house – constantly.
And trying to remember how to write…
About the struggles she faces dipping back into the writing world…
About the writing path she abandoned twenty years before.
These are her mad musings.
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