And so, to Melbourne.
There is some debate about how much of yourself you should reveal on your blog. Some blogs are like magazines, all airbrushed and styled to within an inch of their lives, reflecting perfect lives of perfect women with perfect homes and perfect children. And I say bollocks to that, because it’s not real. I dislike dishonesty with a passion. I’ve been contemplating how much of myself I should reveal on this blog. There are times I’ve been deliberately obtuse about the direction my life has been taking. And I don’t want to do that anymore. I’m tired of lying about who I am, and the life I lead.
I started blogging at the end of 2007, six months before my life was turned upside down, and my marriage of 18 months ended, when I asked my husband to leave. And for two years I battled it out, I did everything I possibly could to make my marriage work. Until I realised nothing I did would make it work, and no matter how hard I tried, Lawrence was always going to leave.
And the light-bulb went on above my head. It wasn’t about me.
And so I filed the papers and cried for two months until I found myself on the runway, on Virgin flight 868, wearing my lucky charm earrings and completely off my face on Bach’s Rescue Remedy, destined for Melbourne.
I bloody hate flying.
I fell into the arms of my lovely friends, who made the most nuturing space for me, and spent 4 days wandering around my Beloved Melbourne, finding my way again. Lovely Pene sent me an email that made me realise it was time to walk another path, and I found myself doing things I don’t normally do, going to places I’d not been, and staying away from my usual Melbourne haunts.
And it made me feel whole again.
Over those four days I discovered a new path, and realised that for me, Love is not about grand gestures.
Love is the small things, love is in the detail.
A comfortable bed, a fluffy doona and space to just be.
Daisies & lavender by your bed, and books that feel like they were written just for you.
Discovering there are no porcelain coffee cups to be had in the whole of Melbourne and putting yourself down as no 20 on the waiting list for new stock. Then Zoe calling you to tell you a cup has been found and it has your name on it.
Queueing up for 30 mins for the Tim Burton exhibition, having the coffee hit your teaspoon sized bladder, and the couple behind you holding your place in the queue, pointing out the quickest way to the loo, then greeting you like a long lost friend when you made it back, instead of the stranger with a bladder made of perforated-paper.
Meeting someone you only know via the bloggy world, being welcomed into her space with a cup of tea and something sweet. Doing your bit to keep the Melbourne Craft economy going, then coming home and finding a gift amongst the tissue.
Welcoming hugs from three women, who couldn’t pick you in a line up, but know your voice over the phone and like the silly emails you send.
I ran away to Melbourne partly because I didn’t want to face Friday October 8th, but mainly because I knew I needed to take care of myself. I’m really good at meeting other people’s needs, but I’m crap at meeting my own. It’s a habit I’m furiously trying to change. Going to change. And while I got a little emotional when I saw the Laurent bloody patisserie, I was ok. It was a good day. A really good day. It’s a choice, isn’t it. Happy or Sad. Love or Hurt. Joy or Anger.
I saw Eat Pray Love with Sasha last Sunday. And it was better than I thought it would be. Really moving in some places, extremely uncomfortable in others. There are some profound moments and some great lines.
“I had willingly contributed to every moment of this life that we’d created, yet I could not find myself in it.”
And I look at the piece of paper that declares my marriage over, and I read between the lines at the hurt and pain and unhappiness and love. I’ve never been as lonely as I was in the six years I loved Lawrence. And I suppose he would say the same. And it hurts like nothing has ever hurt me before, and some days I wonder if the grief will ever leave, and I wonder if I will ever experience happiness again. And love. And trust. So much goes out the window.
But it’s a choice. You can chose to walk across the hot coals of hell and face your demons, or you can choose to hang on to your pain and your resentment and your hurt and stay in your comfort zone because you know those coals are going to burn your feet off.
“This is a good sign, having a broken heart. It means we have tried for something.”
I just have to walk a different path and pay attention to the detail.
And of course, craft my ass off!