"Ideas are overrated"

So said the brooding badlander Mr Nick Cave in a recent interview. I reckon he’s had a few so I listened up. He qualified it with this: It is the hard work behind ideas to make them happen that is important or something like that.

And I agree.

Ideas are never a problem for me. They come thick and fast, usually around 3am when my brain is awash with anxiety reliving the preceding day’s events and expected outcomes of the next 24 hours. Storylines, business ventures, problem solving techniques all filter through the insomnia. But by the cold light of day those nuggets of genius pale in comparison to the deeds of the real movers and shakers of this world. Because it’s not the thinkers, dreamers or list makers (a group to which sadly I am a card carrying member) that win my admiration but the doers - the activists and volunteers, the entrepreneurs, scientists and community workers.

And so this post is dedicated to the Live Below the Line challenge participants (including my socially conscious teenager). A great idea that not only raises much needed funds for the poverty stricken but teaches a valuable life lesson in empathy.

If you would like to sponsor said socially conscious teen please click here.

Four funerals and a wedding

Not long after the flowers began to fade and list in their permamoist foam containers she began to notice things. Like shafts of light through summer mist after thunderstorms. Or the way the bowerbirds descended on her garden in fleeting olive-green drifts, cocking their hen-like heads, ever alert for the signalling call of the handsome blue-black fellow with his penchant for azure pegs and drinking straws. Maybe it was the bottled-up emotion curled like watchful cats inside her chest. Maybe it was the dreams that woke her with a start in the deep dark of night. But she noticed that the world was lighter and quieter. And she was set adrift in it – reeling and anchorless.

I never realised that losing my mum would make me feel so alone. So insecure. I feel it most keenly as the seasons change, as my girls grow, and our home renovation takes one more step towards completion -  things we will never share. Agonisingly, I feel it in my father's hollow voice down the telephone line.

I’ve been to four family funerals in four years. Each one different and yet the same. So inadequate the send-off for such intricate beings. And such an unfillable person-shaped hole in the universe when they are gone.

Perhaps we need death to make us take stock and dare to ponder mortality.

And then there is always joy. Birth, music, beauty and a perfect day.

That syncing feeling

After succumbing to smart phone envy at work I decided it was time to get one myself. The kid in the phone store was very considerate, gently guiding me through the purchase, correctly assuming I was a first time user. Slowly, I have grown fond of my phone. It’s very pretty, with bright lights and all the bells and whistles. I can see what the weather’s like in Istanbul, record voice memos a la Agent Cooper (“Diane it’s 9am and I’m heading out for coffee and a slice of pie”), take new photos then download apps to make them look old, access recipes so I'm never all lost in the supermarket when it comes time to make dinner and pinpoint my exact location on mobile satnav for when I do get lost in the supermarket and can't remember where I parked my car. Oh wait, that still won't help me find my car but it is quite fun. When I plug my phone into my computer it synchronizes my life with little whirling cyber dervishes. But while I’m not a total Luddite I am afraid this and other tech gadgets fail to get my heart racing. 

Call me old fashioned but I like the feel of books, the smell of stationers and second hand shops, the thrill of receiving snail mail (that isn't a bill) and the possibilities of a new black pen. Likewise, when it comes to social media I'm a late adopter. Facebook and twitter leave me cold. It's all too immediate and bolshie, with too much margin for error, ill-conceived opinion and hastily cobbled together sentences laden with typos and bad grammar. IMHO - to use the vernacular. Never mind the gratuitous product placement. I like the safety net of editing.That’s why I chose this little blog by which to whisper to the world. (I'm ok if no one is listening.) And though I have every intention of penning witty weekly posts, reality is that unlike Kim Jong-un I'm  hesitant to push the (Publish) button. Besides, I'm not sure I've got a handle on the technology. So bear with me while I read the manual to see how it all works. Failing that I’ll contact the nearest teenager – oh look here comes one now...

PS: What is it with followers? Sounds like some doomsday cult of zombie-like religious zealots. Either that or a bunch of lemmings.