Home Sweet Home

 

I cried for days the first time I returned home from Europe.

Sitting on the floor next to my unpacked suitcase, I pictured getting up at 7am for the bus tour, strolling through museums, sipping wine, photographing cobblestone alleyways.  My soul longed to be back in Italy and I was only 18 years old.

It was the same after many stunning vacations and even 13 months working in Germany, The Netherlands and Finland.  Depression inevitably followed.  None worse than the time I came home from South East Asia, where I met Matt.

International travel is different for me these days.  I’m always schlepping the 24+ hours to the exotic Buffalo, New York.  Collecting stamps from my two homes, Australia and the USA.

The first few times I arrived back in Aus from a visit to my native land- I felt a little lost.  Homesick for my people.  However, my most recent return to Melbourne felt much different.  I arrived chattier, brighter, excited.  Suitcases were unpacked within 24 hours.  Mind clear, I slept through the night.

Was I revived by an injection of Buffalo Summer?  Maybe.  Or perhaps this is what it feels like to be really, really happy where I am present? 

Yes my new home is a very far distance from where I grew up, the place where my feet were always itchy.  The sheer expanse of the distance has it’s negatives which I can distill down to two basic things:

1. I cannot get home in an emergency.
2. I cannot go home spontaneously. 

Yes, these two things suck.  Sometimes more than others.  Guilt is a weight I’m trying to release yet will always carry with me (especially as long as my Mom is around).  I won’t be there to see my nieces and nephews grow up or visit my grandmothers when they’re sick.   My parents will only have planned visits with their grandchildren.  I feel bad for all of this, I do.

But in trade you all get a healthier, more at peace me.  Someone who is so much more capable of being that friend, daughter, sister and soulmate.

I value and cherish my roots yet I think when I feel like a visitor in the place that raised me- it means I’m where I belong for now.

Pear

Matty + business dinner= mac and cheese for dinner and ME time.

I rescheduled my personal training appointment, put Adele’s new album, on repeat and set out my newly purchased acrylics.

Not sure why I chose the pear as my subject. I bought two lovely ones last week. Matt stayed home from work on Monday and I took one of the pears to work. I sent him a text saying “It’s alright if you already did, but could you not eat that pear cuz I want to paint it.”

His response “You’re going to paint on a pear???”

My literal thinking man. Our kids will be lucky because if they are dreamers, or somewhere in between-I'm pretty sure we've got the range covered.

The easel Matt give me for Christmas is like a work of art in itself, or at least a fancy piece of furniture. I actually tried to avoid spilling paint on it.

The result of my evening and three rounds of Adele- a pear study in shapes and colors. Very abstract- unavoidable really when using brushes from the Chinese dollar store. My professional easel makes me embarrassed for using such crappy brushes.

I ate the pear for breakfast today. It felt kind of wrong but delicious at the same time.

Writer's Block

Not sure if most writers have this problem or if I’m especially more constipated by fear than most. But when I sit down to write, I just think up any excuse not to- for example at the moment I’m looking for birthday presents for my brother. He’s 26 on the 26th this month.

Writing is my love, fear and hate all wrapped up into a burrito which I avoid like I’m on a diet. See, I’m even really struggling for a decent metaphor here.

The feeling and sounds of my fingers as they trip across the keys, watching words appear and disappear as the courser zooms back and forth on the screen. I love it all. Honest. Even as a child, when I wrote stories, I never finished them. What to do?

In college I took a creative writing course taught by an ageing poet (by that I mean he was like 100 years old) and short story writer who coughed so hard that each time he gasped, I held my own breath and waited for him to collapse in front of the U shaped table where we all sat.

I had immense respect for this man ever since he read aloud some of his published beatnik poetry, I could imagine myself being in love with his all-black, beret-wearing self in the 1960’s. Or if I were about 50 years older.

Before the class, coincidentally, I had read a few books for fun about writing- one by favourite childhood writer, Stephen King called “On Writing.” In it King wrote about how to avoid becoming attached to your own words and how at times, even the greatest paragraphs are better off deleted. I understood.

For this reason, I was better able to take criticism than most of the students in class. The elderly-cougher, he was tough but honest. When he said something was not genuine, or made no sense, that was the truth. The other students would get pissed off at the criticism and start defending one another.

This class taught me that writers were more sensitive to critique than our drama major counterparts. How could this be? We English students were supposed to be open-minded intellectuals.

But with every craft, I suppose the creator feels a certain amount of attachment. It’s this umbilical cord that sometimes gets in the way of seeing the big picture. The danger is in having the cord so tight that it barely allows breathing room between you and the page- you can only see one sentence at a time, let alone paragraphs or chapters.

In that creative writing class I wrote what I knew; boys, school and waiting tables. Practically turning journal entries into fiction simply by changing names, the results were descriptive and surprising.

One story (about a guy who said he’d call and didn’t call and gave me some lame reason for which I forgave him) our professor saw in it irony and naivety. I was embarrassed because I didn’t realize at the time that I’d been duped by Italian Chuck. When I reread the story later, I saw the tragic narrator for who she was, and it actually made for a good read!

One day while gathering my notebooks to leave class, the Professor asked if he could speak with me. I immediately panicked, which is always my reaction. I really wanted an A in the class.
“Did you ever finish the story you started about that waitress in the deli?” The professor asked (of course I had not.)

“No, not yet,” I said shyly.

“Well, you should,” He said. “You should write…. (the pause was deafening) A lot.”

My eyes probably popped out of my skull. That was seriously by far the BIGGEST compliment he had given anyone all semester long. I was floating on air all the way to the parking lot.

The moral of the story is, I should write. A lot. Even when I don’t think I have much to say.

Another day, Another Existential Crisis

This has been my last 10 months:

Moved to Melbourne permanently, found and set up an apartment, worked 4 different jobs, endured guilt-driven emotional warfare from Mom, travelled overseas to Buffalo for Christmas, got engaged, celebrated, helped Matt renovate his investment property, painstakingly prepared documents for a partnership visa…

It’s no wonder I’ve lost track of myself in recent weeks.

A lot of it comes on the cusp of that final separation from parental praise- by that I mean, my Mom completely disapproves of me living in Australia so for the first time in my life I've stood my ground and barely emerged alive from the battle.

I read this quote today, which helped:

“A joyful life isn't about others; it's about the brightness that is associated with being alive. Your path to it is through anything that replaces thinking with pure flight, pure joy.”

I can no longer rely on "others" to validate my life choices and it's time to readjust my focus on what makes me happy.

And now, being forced to changed jobs again it’s like someone is in my face demanding to know who I am and where I see myself in five years. Without anyone else controlling the validation, praise or judgement there are almost too many options.

Yes I come from a culture where what you do is who you are, but I don’t personally buy into that theory- so why is it so daunting to pick a career? Or even a direction?

So it must be fear of success- or is it fear of failure? Unfortunately completing one undergraduate class in abnormal psyche means I’m no expert on psychoanalysis. (A little knowledge about lots of subjects.)

"Can’t someone just tell me what I’m supposed to do?" But of course not, that would take all the fun out of it.

I wrote an email discussing the topic of work/ life purpose to Sara. She nailed it when she wrote back:

“For a really long time I wanted someone to tell me what to do. I thought if someone could just tell me what direction to head in I could go and do it and do it well. But I know that would never make me happy nor would it you. I think part of the problem when you are smart and talented and good many things the idea of choosing one and heading in that direction is scary what if you fail what if you succeed? They are equally scary.”

Sara should start an advice column. And Oprah should have her own religion.

And today I read another brilliant article discussing how sometimes, when your path ahead looks fuzzy- all you need to do is adjust your lenses. Simple and true.

http://www.oprah.com/spirit/Are-You-On-the-Right-Career-Path

This article hit me right between the eyes.

After work, I bought some paint. When I got home I downloaded some new music. Matt and I went to the gym and out to dinner and talked about wedding venues. It's a successful start.

Food for Thought

Cooking is the one thing I look forward to all day.

This has been my creative outlet among the many highs and lows of the past few months.

Matthew asked me to marry him- yay!

Not everyone in my life was thrilled about this. In fact, one key person was downright depressed, hurtful and angry over it.

Clearly this was not my dream of how engaged bliss is supposed to feel. But my non-traditional life choices have typically been wracked with guilt.

The proposal happened in Niagara Falls- on our trip to Buffalo for Christmas. Even though he is a meticulous planner, Matthew was thoughtful enough to pop the question on my turf so I could celebrate with friends and family.

The roller coaster began. Claws were out. Familiar territory.

We arrived back in Melbourne, shell-shocked. I turned 30. We went back to work.

Wound so tightly I could not breathe or laugh I needed something. Going to the gym helped but I craved creativity. With work and social life in the warped-speed mode that comes with an overseas proposal- I had little time betwixt the schedued smiles and appearances.

I always finish work before Matt so I found myself stopping in the grocery store on the way home (this is usually a loathed-chore we share). Rather than turn on the TV or taking a nap- I found myself preparing complicated recipes while waiting for him to arrive home.

Cooking Light is now a site I'm obsessed with to get great vegetarian and clean-eating recipe ideas.

Being able to make a delicious, healthy meal for myself and my fiance every night is something I take pride in. If I were on my own, I'd be far less interested. Cooking for an 'us' is something I am able to relish and develop and I'm happy to think about how this is going to become our little family tradition.

Last night for Valentines Day Dinner I made:
prosciutto-wrapped broccolini spears (they were out of asparagus- how trite), topped with a fried egg, extra virgin olive oil, Parmesan and a balsamic reduction.

I marinated and tenderized Organic Scotch, Eye-Fillets in garlic/ chilli steak seasoning and sauteed a few shrimp to make it surf and turf.

For dessert, quinoa, chocolate-chip peanut butter cookies. They were a bit crumbly so maybe next time I’ll add an egg.

None of the recipes were followed exactly- I like to get ideas and act on instinct. It was delicious and satisfying in more ways than one.

Now if I could just figure out a way to slice through all this family drama.

Whole Career Soul

Things change.

As if I haven't had enough change this year. This statement is meant to be sarcastic, not negative.

The company I worked for (the promotion/ sponsorship) has gone down like the Titanic. Looking back, I saw signs of financial difficulty- none of us knew how bad it was. Unfortunately the business, wonderful concept as it is- just did not work. I clung on as long as I could afford to before jumping in to the icy waters of unemployment. (I'm aware of the shameless metaphor).

The job gave me 6 weeks of success and confidence not to mention experience in the Australian market and a wealth of contacts.

There must be a reason this happened. Maybe something was missing the entire time. By that I mean- I took on this role for many good reasons, one not-so-good one being that it was a band-aid over that hole in my Career Soul.

My work-life kept me busy enough that I had an excuse to put away those paintbrushes and stop thinking about how little my family communicates with me.

The second I lost my job I felt like I lost my identity. Even though logically I know that what you do is not who you are. Alas, that is the American culture I was raised in.

So here I am. In a much better position than my arrival nearly 9 months ago. I'm slightly more comfortable leaning on Matt financially because I know I'll find work again. It shows me how far our relationship has come- aka I'm less of a control freak.

One of my work-related contacts is a lovely person who happens to be a kick-ass immigration lawyer. We are defacto-visa-paperworking our faces off. Another is a recruiter who is working hard to find me some temp work.

I've even slunked back to the catering company I did one gig with for, months ago, for some extra cash.

The journey is far from over. Christmas is hanging over my head. I'm worried my mother will kidnap me and not let me leave- Flowers in the attic style. Arsenic laced doughnuts and all. But that's another story, another battle.

For now- Must. Remain. Positive.

Dreams are Coming- Fast

Allow me a 'grandfather moment' if you will: All that hard work will pay off- especially if you are in the right place at the right time.

Our National Sales Manager quit. It took me 24 hours to put my hand up and offer interem assistence until a new one could be found. Why didn't I jump on it right away- not sure. Maybe it was my own insecurity, feeling invisible or being self absorbed.

Oh, but they had noticed me! I was offered the position on the spot. It would take 4 weeks just to train a new person about the product. I knew it, and our procedures inside and out. I would actually be selling something I endorse and I'd write the marketing copy. Hello raise and comission!!

The ever wise hindsight tells me that had I not slaved for the first few months that this news would surely not be as sweet. Being handed this first thing- there would even be the danger of taking it for granted.

Thank you kind universe for continuing to teach me these lessons. Thank goodness I'm a faster learner these days.

And Mom is literally on a flight that will be touching down in Melbourne in 1.5 hours. We will be toasting to my new life tonight as she sees with her own eyes just how much of a gift it really is. <3