The Day My Eye Socket Fought with a Lamb Roast

I've had a litany of operations in my life, but only one started with the carving of a lamb roast.

Sunday afternoon and not much was happening but for the smell of roasting flesh filling the kitchen, lounge, dining room, bedrooms, laundry, tightly woven plaits, shower stall and memories. The brown, sizzling leg was proudly laid on the kitchen bench and I innocently hovered over it with a gigantic kitchen knife.

Some may begin to think that in the not too distant future of this story my clean, youthful blood would be raining down upon our carefully prepared lunch and flowing like murderous, oozing icing on a Halloween cake - unfortunately not.

I tentatively and gently approached, setting out to glide the knife across the meat. In a fit of resistance the lamb leg flung a piece of itself at me, or so I thought, and landed right in my eye socket.

A quick dash to the bathroom was followed by useless poking around at my eyeball, trying to move it out of the way of my eye socket so as to recover the offending article. What I found was a small, firm piece of white material that I presumed was a little ball of baaaah fat. I tried to gouge it out with my fingernail but it held firm.

I staggered out to the kitchen, eyes bloodshot with distress, to declare my predicament. Once the remainder of the household had finished their own poking around it was decided that I ought to see a doctor.

A few days later, and after much more poking around, it was decided that this was a piece of the remainder of my identical twin who died a wee pea in the womb… obviously. I was startled, surgery was booked and before long I was flat on my back on a theatre table, wide awake, with a huge syringe heading for my eye socket twin. The last remaining speckle of her life was about to be wiped out.

As I lay on the table, conscious and awake, after being stabbed in the back of the eye with a needle, the surgeon began scraping around to cut it out. After one broken scalpel and almost cutting off the circulation in the attending nurse’s hand, my twin’s attempt at re-birthing was finally thwarted.

And so the theory goes that when I was conceived so was a copy of me, that she didn't have the gung ho attitude required to birth into a world where having smooth skin and a fancy car was more important than integrity and spirituality and, as a result, jumped ship. So I am told, as her body decomposed in our shared bath my body absorbed a bit of her bits and, thus, I became a host to her ambivalent quest for life.

Since then I've had two different coloured eyes so I can only imagine that her ghost lives on in me. As such, I now wish to declare that for everything I've ever done wrong…IT WAS HER!

Happy Mother’s Day 

AUTHENTICITY

I live in an area where I can express most any version of person I would care to and no one would bat an eye. The variety of expression in the Northern Rivers is breathtaking – rednecks, rockers, surfers, Sanyassans, café society, farmers, hippies, polyamorists, healers, Rastafarians and every imaginable kind of artist from the very rich to the very poor. We are all here with our beliefs and dreams, so different from each other and drawn equally to the pulse that is distinctly Northern Rivers.

To what degree does this diversity speak of a place where we feel freer to express ourselves? I know that diversity of expression also resides in Brisbane, where I lived for fifteen years, but it seems to clump together. The West Endians would not usually be found in a Westfield shopping centre and the Ascott wealth would not often be seen walking the streets of Logan. But here, in my small community, we are all going about our lives side by side. I don’t have the opportunity to ‘blend in’ because no such thing can really be done here, which is a new experience for me.

I have often a bit of a chameleon– not unauthentic, but consciously not wanted to offend or upset. Having been emotionally punished and ridiculed for most of what came out of my mouth during my formative years I learned to censor myself. I was coerced into believing that I have the power to control other people’s feelings. I was taught that it is my responsibility to ensure that others are not upset and if they are then the crime must come to rest on my shoulders. Consequently, when I have been wholly and humanly imperfect and hurt someone’s feelings or behaved with fear and cruelty, I have carried great guilt for many years. So, I have spent most of my life using my best efforts at intuition, empathy and emotional intelligence to weave myself through my encounters so as to please or placate and thus avoid many months of self-recrimination. Sounds like a blast doesn’t it?!

The fragments of my whole self on offer at any one time are part of my authentic self, but it is a whittled down version of a woman who loves to laugh loud, shout from a soapbox, dance and sing, and who has the outlook of a child and the ability to take it all too seriously. I cannot express it all at once or my electrics would fritz. Where I feel I lose my authenticity, however, is when I show you a side of me that I think you want, instead of the one that authentically feels right for me in that moment.

I’m not talking about saying whatever comes into my head, or not taking other people’s feelings into account, or thinking my beliefs are more important than anyone else’s or having an indignant “I’ll be my whole self whether you like it or not” attitude. It’s about having love in my heart and the courage to show myself without fear of pain or rejection.

It takes time for me to trust enough to show you the breadth of my authenticity, but here in my new home, as I wave and smile at strangers with costumes so varied and different from mine, it’s becoming less about trusting others and more about trusting myself. As my environment continues to reinforce the message that there is room enough for us all then my truth and my place feels more assured.

When we mix outside our norms and leave the comfort of our tribes, it is possible to experience a wonderful feeling of freedom that comes from being seen and enjoyed by those who do not reinforce us because of our similarities, but who help to strengthen our own authenticity through our bountiful and beautiful differences.