The Life of Pi Review

Went to see The Life of Pi yesterday. Have had one fun time trying to see it. The first day we went, All the features were sold out because of the heat. The second time (yesterday) we got there and just prior to buying our tickets I realized I'd forgotten my glasses. Great! So, back home to fetch glasses and then back to go to the later showing. Finally!

Really enjoyed the movie. Ang Lee did a wonderful job. I was really concerned as to how any film would be able to get across the depth of symbolism or story dichotomy that made the book so good. But I was surprised and pretty well pleased.

The visual affects are stunning. I do believe the 'second story' should not have just been spoken (it was a bit difficult to hear what the boy was saying and it was SO important!). I believe it should've been depicted (perhaps in shorter sequence). That's how you experience it in the book and the rawness of reality is chilling compared to the beauty of symbolism. This becomes a key factor for every reader.

But unfortunately films are limited to time and for the time Ang Lee had to work with he did an very good job. That said, I would recommend that anyone read the book before seeing the movie - or at the very least, after seeing the movie. It is an extremely thought provoking journey.

Excerpt from "Joey"

This week I'd like to share an excerpt from one of the stories included in my anthology of short fiction. I hope you enjoy it - and if you wish to read the rest, pick up a copy in either paperback or digital download by clicking here.

JOEY

by

Maureen McMahon

                I first met Joey Conroy two years ago. I was taking the only official holiday I’d allowed myself since Brad’s death. Matt, my editor, insisted I use some of my vacation leave, complaining that the union would be on his back if I didn’t do it soon. So I packed a bag, tossed it into my old Ford Mustang and drove out of LA with no definite destination in mind.

I still wasn’t sure how I’d cope with traveling on my own. I’d shared every other holiday with Brad and it seemed there were few places I could go that didn’t hold memories.

Since his death, my work at the newspaper had kept me so blissfully busy that I’d been spared the excesses of grief. Now, as my car sped along the straight, unbroken Arizona highway, I began to worry that all that mind-numbing work had merely postponed the inevitable. Already I felt a hard black ball of misery well up inside as though just waiting for the right moment to envelope me.

I’d been on the road for only six hours when the fan belt broke and I had to pull up in a little one-horse town called Dry Bark. The mechanic at the cluttered little gas station informed me that the fan belt was not the only problem. My radiator had sprung a leak and needed welding. Of course, the fellow who did that type of work wouldn’t be in until Wednesday.

I ran a hand through my hair, stared at the steaming automobile, then turned to look up the street of the dusty town.

“There’s a pay phone at the Post Office.” Jim, the mechanic, said. “You might wanna call triple-A or something.”

I grimaced. My roadside cover had lapsed two months ago and I hadn’t bothered to renew it.

Seeing my chagrin, Jim added, “There’s always Ginny O’Dwyer’s rooming house. She could put you up for a while, I reckon.”

I smiled at him wearily. “Yes. Perhaps I’ll get a room. I’m in no hurry.”

He told me how to find the place and I trudged off through the shimmering heat with my suitcase in one hand and my purse slung over the opposite shoulder. At least Brad and I had not ambled this road hand in hand, I thought ruefully.

Besides the garage, post office and rooming house, the town consisted of a diner called Lulu’s, a two-lane bowling alley, a bar, a combination grocer-drugstore and a white weatherboard, single story building with a gold plaque on the front that said, Town Hall. There were a number of scraggly houses ranging down either side of the main street, all with sagging front porches and tin roofs. There was probably a school somewhere, since I noticed a number of children playing marbles in the dirt and I wondered why they weren’t in it on a Monday.

I wiped perspiration off my top lip and adjusted my sunglasses. I could see Ginny O’Dwyer’s ahead, a two-story house with a large sweeping veranda and a picket fence that badly needed painting. There was a wooden sign swinging from a post that said, Rooms to Rent. It did not pretend to offer too much in the way of comfort or congeniality, but I didn’t mind. I’d only be here two days.

I was just about to hoist my bag again when the door to the bar opened and a stooped old man stepped out. The sounds of clinking glasses, a baseball commentator, and raucous laughter spilled out after him. He stood there for some moments as though getting his bearings, then shuffled forward. He must not have seen the step, for the next thing I knew he was falling, grabbing weakly at the handrail as he went down.

I ran over and squatted down beside him.” Are you all right?”

He looked up at me, squinting against the bright sun. “’Becca?” he asked. His voice quavered.

“No. Not ‘Becca. I’m Stephanie – Stephanie Gilbert. Are you hurt?”

 He continued to stare at me for a few moments, then finally shook his head. “Becca’s gone, Joey.” he said. He tried to struggle to his feet and I put a hand under his arm to help him.

Just then the door of the bar opened again and another man came out. He was younger, with sandy hair and brown overalls. He took in the situation at a glance and hurried down the steps.

“Is he all right?” he asked me.

“I think so.” I said,  “He managed to catch the rail as he fell.”

“There, Joey, let’s get you up. How do you feel?” the young man pulled Joey to his feet and began to dust him down.

“Joey feels great!” the old man thumped his barrel chest exuberantly, then he looked at me and nodded solemnly, “But Joey got hurt, once.” he said.

I realized at that moment that he was probably not as old as I’d first thought – perhaps in his early sixties. He had a large, round head sparsely covered with strands of white-gray hair. His face resembled an irregular bread-loaf – full of pouches and sags, drooping jowls and thick lips, with a huge bulbous nose, splat in the middle that looked to have been flattened on more than one occasion. There was a white scar over his left eye and his ears jutted from his head like doorknobs. But, despite this battered, misshapen countenance, Joey had a pair of beautiful, sapphire-blue eyes that made the rest of him retreat in a blur once you were caught in their mesmerizing glow.

KILLER KARMA - INVASION OF THE ARACHNIDS

I don’t know if I fully believe in Karma, but I'm not about to take any chances. If we get back everything we give, then it’s best to avoid causing pain, death or injury to any living things. Does killing insects count, too?  And what about germs and micro-organisms? Algae on the pool? I’ll try not to worry about the death of germs, micro-organisms and algae, but insects surely must have feelings and therefore register somewhere on the Karma Meter. Why take the chance of becoming a stain on someone’s ceiling in my next life? So, I've made a pact. No personal and intentional killing – and that includes everything as far down the food chain as insects. I've been known to capture mosquitoes, moths, daddy-longlegs, spiders, beetles and flies to release them unscathed.

The other night my husband brought in wood for our wood-burning heater. He brought in some extra logs for later and left them in the wood box next to the heater. We were happily watching our Richmond Tigers get trounced by Collingwood Magpies in Aussie Rules Footie, when I heard a thumping noise.

Upon inspection, we discovered our two Labradors merrily jumping on and eating a couple spiders. Now I’m not particularly afraid of spiders. I just avoid them, or move them if they’re in the wrong place. But this time I was concerned because Bryndal, our yellow lab, is pregnant and I don’t expect that eating spiders could be good for her health.

Then my husband made the offhand comment from the entry hall nearby, “Look at this.”  To my shock there were at least twenty spiders on the wall. Not cute little ones, but long-legged nasty ones that could run like the wind.

It was like a bad horror movie come true. The spiders were all near the front door and moving rapidly into the house. It crossed my mind that the spiders might be seeking shelter from some natural disaster that was about take place. I’d heard insects, birds and animals can sense these things. Was a tsunami on the way? An earthquake? An asteroid about to crash into our backyard, or a volcano erupt nearby? I looked at the crack under the door expecting to see them pouring in, but no, they weren’t coming from there.

There were no lights on in the living room but I could see the carpet moving – shadows running hither and yon. Then I felt something in my hair and brushed out a spider so large it made a resounding thump when it hit the wall.

I think that’s when the panic hit and I started to believe it was an invasion. Karma be damned. This was war.

“Get the swat!” I yelled. “I'll get the spray.”

Together my husband and I went to work. I was even more shocked when I looked at the ceiling. It was covered. They were hanging there – just waiting to fall in my hair again.

It took several minutes and almost a can of spray before the bulk of the killing was done. Dead spider bodies lay shriveled or twitching on the carpet and on the wood of the hall floor. Spider remains were splattered on walls, furniture and ceilings. And just when we thought it was safe to put our weapons away, another would run out from behind a bookcase or the curtains. For hours we were yelling: “Over here!” “Here's one quick!”

At some point it occurred to me that the spiders must be coming from the logs my husband had brought in that day so we removed said logs to the front verandah.

Finally, with our hearts barely beginning to return to a normal rhythm, we collapsed into our lounge chairs and put down our weapons. This was not a movie set and there were no special effects. The death toll was high and we had the bodies to prove it.

Later that night, after cleaning up the carnage, my husband went through the logs we’d taken outdoors and found that one was hollow. After dropping it hard on the ground to break it open and watching dozens more spiders come pouring out, we were relieved to at least know the source of the plague and be grateful we were safe – at least for the night.

Now, however, in the cold light of day, I realize we’ll have to atone for our lapse in caring for other living creatures for at least eighty more lifetimes. I wonder if there’s some Karmic score keeper up there who might understand and give us a break?

Sinking Into The Murky Blog

Blog, blog, blog…Okay, so sue me, I’m not all that sure about blogs. Who knows whose going to read them? What if your blog attracts a cult of crazed mass-murderers? Or suicide prone individuals who need just that one word to push them over the edge? It’s dangerous, in my opinion. That said, I’ll do my best… and with determination not to encourage murder or personal mutilation.

It’s not easy being a writer. People seem to think if you get paid to write you’re the luckiest person alive. But it’s not easy. Of course we have our days when it just flows – when the words just tumble out one on top of the other and it becomes like a stream then a river and you simply can’t stop. But those days are most often surrounded by days when the words just won’t come and we have to pry them one by one from the dark, tight recesses of our creative minds. And then they don’t often fit properly. A hodge-podge of words that just don’t work together the way we want them to. “But,” we say, “never mind. Tomorrow might be better.” It rarely is.

Then of course we have editors waiting and tapping their feet. Will we have the story finished in time? Will it be any good? So on top of our own pressure to perform, we have the added responsibility of a deadline. After all, it’s not just our story anymore, it’s meant to bring income to a great many people. No dilly-dallying! Evolving creativity can’t hold a candle to the push and shove of the giant publishing machine.

But, okay, let’s face it, making money from our thoughts is one of the best ego-trips around. IF you make money, that is. Gone are the days when publishing a novel will put you on Easy Street. Publishing a novel every six months might make life a little more comfortable, but it’s not a ticket to the limo and prime seats at the opera.

This is not meant to put anyone off writing. On the contrary, if anything it’s meant to encourage writers to follow their hearts. Don’t get caught up in the glamour or glitz you may think goes along with writing. Stick to your personal voice and style. Keep learning. Like what you write. When those days come along where the words simply don’t want to come, keep writing anyway and know it’s natural. And if your work is accepted by a publisher, enjoy it - but don’t lose track of the real reason you started writing in the first place. Most of you will realize in the end that you write because you love it. It’s part of you. And without it, you simply wouldn’t be the same.

And if you’re a mass murderer, or suicide prone, please take up knitting instead of reading blogs. G’day.

HOLIDAY TRADITIONS?

We all have holiday traditions, some universal, some personal. Some years ago I started a tradition of painting an egg each Christmas – to give a picture-image of what happened in that particular year. Some are more creative than others – like the one with all eight of our very first chickens, or the one with our first protea bush.

The tradition of making a New Year’s resolution is universal. Don’t we all see many more joggers, bike riders and gym attendees after New Year? Cigarette companies probably see a massive drop in sales for the two weeks after New Year. Of course, resolutions rarely succeed, but it’s a nice tradition.

This year, a couple days after New Year’s Day, my husband and I went to a house-warming for new neighbours. It’s one of those events you automatically think: “How can I get out of this?” Since it was an unexpected invitation, and since it was delivered in person, and I had no immediate excuse on hand. So we went. It was wonderful. We spent a great evening communing with many neighbours we’d previously only waved and smiled to in passing.

Unfortunately, as always, I managed to do a bit of entertaining I hadn’t intended to do. This time it was taking a nosedive off the small step from our neighbor’s entry hall into their living room. Thankfully, I wasn’t carrying a glass of red wine or strawberry punch to stain their brand new, light-blue carpet. But I did manage to badly sprain one wrist, bruise the opposite hand and wrench a knee.

Not wanting to embarrass the hostess, however, I leapt up and assure her I was “…just fine!”, hoping blood wasn’t spurting from severed arteries to stain their couch. Every part of my body throbbed and I felt as if I’d need a gurney to get me out to my car. But I smiled, and chatted and nodded inanely for another ten minutes before I was able to make my escape.

While I couldn’t use my right hand and was hobbling on my left knee, I was happy enough and certain everything would be fine by morning.

Unfortunately, in the morning, the previous evening’s ‘anaesthetic’ (read: wine) had worn off and I could barely move. I couldn’t use my right hand at all. This is not good news for an author and online instructor with a slew of 10,000 word assignments coming in for critique. We managed to get in to the doctor, and he sent me for x-rays of my wrist. While the hand wasn’t apparently broken, I was to wear a splint for at least two weeks. So much for my New Year’s resolution to swim daily.

Last year at this time, I fell and broke my left elbow. I’m thinking perhaps I’ve inadvertently started a new ‘holiday tradition’.

Skinker, Slinker, Shrinker and King

My favourite cat, Sibyl, is a skinker. That’s right, skinker. Unlike our other three cats, she doesn’t stalk birds or rabbits or mice or rats. No, she spends her entire day with her nose firmly embedded in the dirt searching for skinks. I’m forever finding skink tails here and there – minus the skink. Sometimes we find the skink under the mat in the laundry – of course, by then, it’s too late. Today she brought one in, and as usual, let me know in no uncertain terms. “Mffflllrow!” The sound of a cat crying with a mouthful. She lets it go in the laundry and it promptly runs under the washer. Great! With some well-appreciated help from my daughter’s boyfriend, we managed to capture the poor thing and release it – still with tail intact. I have no idea what makes Sibyl a skinker. Her nose is forever dirty from snuffling in the dirt, so I have to clean it. But she seems very proud of her achievements, so I won't complain.

It never fails to amaze me how different one cat can be from another. They all have their own little personalities. Another weird thing about Sibyl is she hasn’t quite figured out that our labrador, Jasper, can’t feed her. She’ll come in and head-butt him continually to try to get him to get up and go to the refrigerator. He’s a bit worried about this, since our other cat, Percy, will come in and lick him as though cleaning him, then unexpectedly take a bite out of him. Sibyl’s sister, Piper, has her own little oddities. She's a slinker. She doesn’t like her head touched by anyone but my daughter and her boyfriend – her true owners. This despite the fact she’s lived with us for almost all her adult life. Once she went missing for over 9 days. We were sure she was gone for good – even had a small funeral service for her. Then one evening there she was, up on her perch looking for food. We still have no idea where she was for all that time, but aside from looking slightly skinnier, she’d come to no harm.

Jessica, our long-haired tabby, is a shrinker - overly skittish. If there’s the slightest sound while she’s on someone’s lap, she’s off like lightening; usually leaving welts and screams of pain behind.

Percy is the king of the house – though I’ve never seen him swipe at, bully or abuse any of the females. He must have some secret code that keeps them all subservient. But I do believe he teaches them bad habits. As a kitten, Percy brought in frogs and crickets and moths. He quickly advanced to mice, then rats and finally large rabbits. I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find the remains of a cow in our living room one morning.

Daily I’m bemused by the foibles of all our felines. I don’t think I could ever live without a furry four-legged friend in my life.

Our Planet in Peril

At the moment we’re experiencing the worst drought we’ve ever had. We’ve been short of rain for over ten years, but now it’s becoming an emergency situation. The reservoirs here in Victoria are less than a third full. We live in a country renown for its dry climate, but, until now, there’s always been water to sprinkle our gardens, wash our cars, shower, do laundry. In some areas they’re trying new recycling plants. These plants actually recycle sewage for drinking water. It sounds foul, but the end product has been tested over and over and no signs of any toxins or organisms are evident. It’s pristine. But it just goes to show how desperate the situation is.

Melbourne has a population of roughly 3.6 million people. Already the city is on stage two water restrictions. An expert has been quoted as saying by the year 2010 we will be out of water completely. What will happen to these 3.6 million people? And the other millions living in rural areas, like us?

We all take many things for granted. We take it for granted the sun will come up each morning, the moon will come out at night, the seasons will change. Man can’t change these things – at least not yet. However, we can change our planet drastically so people, animals and plants will suffer.

Treasure your water, your food, your shelter and be pro-active in saving our planet from a slow death. One day, if things don’t change, many of the things we take for granted will no longer exist.

Cat People and Dog People

Are you a cat person, or a dog person? Why is it cat people can be dog people, but dog people rarely want anything to do with cats?

Cats are independent. Dog people call cats ‘sneaky.’ They don’t like the idea cats can figure out how to get up on the kitchen counter while you’re not looking and make off with the entire fish you were preparing for dinner. They also don’t like the fact cats are nocturnal and can actually see pretty well in the dark. Fear of the unknown leads dog people to mistrust cats. “Will that damn cat decide my bare feet are prey on my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night?” or “Why do cats have to terrorize their victims to death?”

Dog people are offended at the thought of a creature enjoying the torment of another. But cats don’t consider this one way or the other. To them, it’s just another wind-up toy to chase. If there’s a God, then God made them that way. Perhaps mice are really people who’ve terrorized others in a previous life and must now reap their just rewards. The next cute, furry mouse you see may, in fact, be the reincarnation of Hitler.

Dogs. Well, what can I say about dogs? They’re blissfully ignorant side-kicks who don’t really care about anything except their reproductive organs, where and how often they can urinate, food, a chewed, slimy rubber ball, and their unfounded adoration of two-legged creatures they don’t even understand. Most people say dogs aren’t sneaky. This may be because they make enough noise to alert an entire neighbourhood if they get up on the kitchen counter to steal the fish. What’s worse, if they do manage to grab the fish, they’ll end up having to be rushed to emergency before they choke to death on the bones. They’re not nocturnal, so if they try to chase your feet in the night, they’re libel to run into the wall instead. And they don’t terrorize their prey, they simply rip them to shreds or leave them maimed and wishing they were dead.

As you’ve probably guessed, I’m a cat person. That said, I do have (and love) dogs – but I don’t expect them to be as smart as cats. Cat’s can look after themselves. If they aren’t fed on time, they can find some small creature to eat. If they’re dirty, they give themselves a bath. A dog would starve to death or die of filth without us.

But whether you’re a dog or cat person, we all still have one thing in common: Having a furry friend to love when we get home makes life a lot more pleasant.

Motherhood

Mothers down through the years have been lauded, applauded, pedestalled, crowned, sung of, painted, poemed and enshrined all in an attempt to show we recognize the enormity of their influence and responsibility. There is no pre-requisite for motherhood. One does not have to pass exams, or be of a certain ethnic background, religion, financial status or temperament. The only requirements for motherhood are those dictated by mother nature herself and even these are no longer hard and fast. Basically, the traditional requisites for becoming a mother are:
A. Be of the female sex.
B. Be reproductively mature.
C. Have had at least one sexual encounter with a male of the same species.
All of which can go without saying if one has:
D. Given birth.

Nowadays, however, many of these requirements have been adapted to our own needs. No longer is physical femaleness as important as MENTAL femaleness. There are thousands of mothers out there stuck in a male body! And as far as physically giving birth, well, many people find the whole process either too disgusting, too inconvenient or just plain impossible. These people can still attain motherhood through adoption, surrogacy or kidnapping. In the end, it all comes back to the fact that motherhood is a state of mind.

This is the universal link between all mothers, regardless of their individual personalities or conditions of life. Mothers all have one goal in life: Control.

In the beginning a mother must control her child simply for the child's well-being. The innocent little dears would certainly never survive without a mother's controlling influence. One would think, however, that once that child reaches adulthood the instinct to control would diminish. It doesn’t. Instead it merely assumes a new name: Manipulation.

Take the case of the 15 year old daughter going out with her friends wearing something her mother considers inappropriate. Mother can control this behaviour by saying: "You will not leave this house wearing THAT, my girl. Go up and change immediately!"

Then look at the same daughter 25 years later going out for her 20th wedding anniversary, once again wearing something mother doesn't approve of. Mother smiles sweetly and says: "Oh my, I thought those fashions went out of style years ago! DO have a good time, dear. Are you going somewhere dark?"

Mothers don’t acknowledge adulthood in their children. When Mom comes to visit her 40-something year old son, she will still covertly check his fingernails, hair, ears and underwear – if she can get her hands on them. Anything amiss will automatically be blamed on his wife, who obviously wasn't raised well enough to know how things should be done.

When Mom comes to visit her 40-something year old daughter, she mutters things like, "I see you've forgotten everything I taught you." or "In my day, we took pride in our work!" as she interferes in every facet of the household duties. Daughters and daughters-in-law apparently become threats to a mother's sense of autocracy. How dare they be able to cope with things differently? Sons, on the other hand, will always be pitied, clucked over, coddled and lovingly chastised for trying to manage independently. They can never pose a threat, for they were kept blissfully ignorant of anything remotely resembling domestic duties. We don't want to make sissies of them by having them do women's work!

Mothers learn to adapt their control messages to suit the age of their child. What once were out and out commands become subtle hints, martyrdom and/or reverse psychology as their child matures. Some key manipulative phrases are:
"When I was your age..."
"I'm just too old to argue with you."
"Your poor, dear father would roll over in his grave..."
"This is all the thanks I get after all the things I've done for you."
"I don't want to interfere dear, but..."

Mothers use their seniority like an atomic bomb – bringing it out as a last resort. There is nothing you can do to win your point once Mother starts dropping lines like:
"I've been around a lot longer than you."
"When you get to be my age..."
"You can't put an old head on young shoulders..."
"You young kids these days...!"
This seniority excuses any amount of tactless behaviour. Mother is the only person in the world who can say to you:
"When are you going to lose all that weight?" or
"That hair colour looks hideous with your complexion." or
"Ever since you married that horrible person, you've just let yourself go."

Mothers develop selective memories once they acquire grandchildren. You will be told things like:
"I was in labour for ten days with you and was out picking cotton on the eleventh!" or:
"When are you going to toilet train that child? All of you were out of diapers by the time you were five months old!" or:
"The trouble with your generation is you don't discipline your children. No wonder there's so much crime these days!"
Of course if you take exception to any of these statements Mother will simply say: "Don't argue with me. I've been on this earth a lot longer than you." So don't bother.

I suppose, if the truth be told, motherhood is a position that demands respect, and it’s not fair, and can be somewhat dangerous, to criticize too much. Luckily, after pondering all the annoying indiosyncracies that accompany motherhood, I feel I have a more open mind. I can look my own children straight in the eye and say:
"Despite the fact that I am your mother, I will hereafter try to approach every situation in a fair, unbiassed and calm manner, and if your rooms are not immaculate in one hour, I will set fire to them."

Australia in Oz

The weather here is still pretty cold, even though it’s now officially Spring. I’ve lived in Australia for 24 years, and have become somewhat used to the odd switch in seasons. But Christmas is still not right. For 30 years I lived in Michigan, and winters were fraught with snow-drifts, ice, blizzards, freezing winds, road salt and all the other hazards of a northern climate. The perfect Christmas there included mounds of pristine snow covering the ground and tree limbs outside, with frosted windows, a toasty fire and a Christmas tree glittering with lights and ornaments inside. Under the tree there’d be all variety of winter gifts – mittens, boots, coats, sleds, ice-skates. There’d be warm drinks or eggnog, and always a sprig of mistletoe.

Here in southern Australia Christmas is very different. December is scorching – and usually dry. School holidays bring thousands of city-dwellers to the coast, to enjoy the sandy beaches and splash in the clear waters of the Southern Ocean. Department stores still have fake snow decorations and Santas in heavy red suits and long, white beards. It all seems incongruous considering the climate. Christmas dinner is often served on the patio, a barbecued ham, accompanied by a variety of salads, and the inevitable plum pudding or fruitcake. Gifts consist of summer things – beach towels, swim-fins, pool toys, tanning lotion. Fruit baskets abound. Christmas trees still twinkle with lights and ornaments, but seem oddly out of place considering all the greenery and flowers abloom outdoors.

I love Australia – the people are wonderful and the land is beautiful. But I can’t deny I occasionally miss a good old Michigan Christmas. Still, this year I’ll go for a dip in the pool before dinner and we’ll sit on the back deck and enjoy the summer breezes as we have our meal al fresco. Christmas isn’t just about the weather, I suppose – it’s about good company. I hope, wherever you are, you have a holiday filled with joy, contentment and the company of family and friends.

Racism, Intolerance and Prejudice - Alive and Thriving

Last week I received one of those emails sent from one group of people to another that end up finding their way all around the globe. This one was in regard to a postage stamp the USPS is purportedly going to introduce. It had a Muslim symbol and the word “Greeting” at the bottom. The email ranted and raved in huge red letters – saying this stamp must not be allowed. It said that Muslims had killed thousands of Americans and to ‘honor’ them in any way would be to denigrate the loss of the many lives. It called on every recipient of the email to boycott the stamp, to show their hatred of Muslims.

Normally I’d just delete this sort of email, but this one made me very angry. Why should I hate all Muslims? Were ALL Muslims responsible for the terrorist attacks listed in this email? Could it be possible that there were some Muslims living their lives, raising their families and trying to survive on this planet just as me? Could it be there are Muslims, living in Western countries, who are trying to exist peacefully, yet are faced with generalized hatred of this sort daily? I questioned my ethics. I questioned my silence on this matter. Sure, it would be easy to simply delete the email and forget about it…cause no waves. But something in me made me hit the ‘reply-all’ button and voice my opinion:

“I don't believe ALL Muslims were responsible for the attacks mentioned - just as I don't believe all Americans were responsible for the war atrocities committed by certain U.S. soldiers in Afghanistan, or that all Americans were responsible for the genocide of Native Americans in their own country, or that all Germans were responsible for the death camps, or that all Cambodians were responsible for the genocide there, etc. etc. Before we paint a race with one brush, we need to remember we are all citizens of the planet Earth, first and foremost. Some of these 'citizens' do evil things, some do good things, or simply trying to live their lives honorably, raise their families and be good neighbors. This sort of email is how we promote prejudicial thinking and cause even more terrorism and evil in the name of some warped sense of revenge.”

Well, the list my view of the email went to was far-flung and many – and I knew no one on it except the person who sent it to me. Opening a can of worms is an understatement. The next day my inbox was filled with emails regarding my stand on this matter. Some were in total agreement, but many accused me of a lack of patriotism, blindness, stupidity and other things not mentionable here. I was shocked and horrified. One particularly vitreous fellow – who had MD after his name – told me I was all of the above, and I should ‘remove my head from my ass.’ Another wrote to say he was glad someone said something. He said he’s worked at a Mexican mission for years, and the prejudice against Mexicans is appalling …but no one who hasn’t been there understands the conditions they live in.

I responded to the medical doctor’s rude and insulting email by saying I noticed he didn’t address any of the atrocities committed by the U.S. and Western countries. His reply? “The United States of America is one of the most moral countries on this planet.”

Well, that’s his opinion. My question is: What about the attempted genocide of Native Americans? What about the centuries of abuse and torture meted out to Black Americans? What about the rounding up of Japanese Americans during the war to be placed in camps? What about the bombings of innocent civilians in the Middle East? The list goes on and on.

I am a U.S. citizen and proud of it. I’m not, however, proud of everything the various U.S. governments throughout the years have done. I also don’t agree with a great many things that other governments or radical sects around the world do, or have done. But to blame an entire country and all its citizenry – to blame a race – is and always will be bigotry and prejudice.

Some of the emails I received asked me: “What would you do if your daughter came home and said she wanted to marry a Muslim?” Is this not reminiscent of the old question: “What would you do if your daughter wanted to marry a Negro?” or “What if your son wanted to marry an non-Catholic?”

Prejudice and intolerance is alive and thriving. It is evil – and evil breeds evil. The terrorist activities in the world are abhorrent, but let’s place blame squarely where it should be placed: On the perpetrators - NOT the race and NOT the country we believe these people are from. It’s time the silent masses of citizens in this world spoke out for peace and unity and a belief that we are all made from flesh and blood and all intrinsically the same. I’ve heard people say the horror that occurred on 9/11 helped to unify the world against terrorism. Did it? Or has it, instead, driven a greater wedge between East and West? Is this not exactly what terrorists want to do? The bigots and racists who are rife in every country are overriding the silent majority of fair-thinkers who wish only for peace on this planet. Please don’t promote racism by forwarding prejudicial emails. Speak out against them and become active in healing our planet.

THE TRIALS OF MENOPAUSE

I’m going to talk about menopause, so all you men out there can go: “Eeeeuw!” and run away, or maybe you can stay and learn a thing or two about what your wife or partner is experiencing, or may experience.

Prior to menopause I can’t say I was a perfect, happy-go-lucky person, but I was tough, resilient, enjoyed life, had no qualms about trying new things, could eat, drink, dance until the wee hours, was a good mother and managed my home and family well. I exercised daily, and laughed a lot.

Then peri-menopause hit…well, it didn’t really ‘hit’ as much as it ‘snuck up’… I began to notice I was feeling lethargic – apathetic. Nothing really excited me, and I found myself totally unenthusiastic. I went to a doctor who decided I must be agoraphobic and gave me antidepressants. One pill later and I was a total basket case. I had my first panic attack. It was that pill that sent my ‘apathy’ over the edge.

Who says panic attacks only affect mentally disturbed people? This first panic attack, since I had no idea what it was, sent me into a tail spin – foetal position in bed for nearly two weeks. I was lucky to have a friend who was also a counsellor for women. We began having sessions and she suggested I read a book called: “Complete Self Help For your Nerves” by Dr. Claire Weekes. That book saved my life then, and continues to do so during this unbelievably difficult transition.

Peri menopause and menopause can create such a that. It’s like a horrible tunnel of terrors. You burn with hot flashes, then you shiver with cold flashes. You can be in the middle of baking a cake and suddenly a wave of panic will flood you and you’ll descend into a fiery pit of fear. You have no idea what you’re afraid of, but your adrenals are telling you to run or to be very afraid. Along with this, you’ll have muscle spasms – tension that comes like a squeezing fist, making it feel as though your neck, shoulders, jaws, head and face are being stretched beyond endurance. Your ears begin to ring. This is frightening in itself, since you automatically assume you’re going deaf. Some days you’ll have heart palpitations (erratic heart rhythms) that lead to anxiety over heart problems. Some days you’ll have headaches – and some headaches last for weeks or longer. Exaggerated fears are rife. You will wake up mornings thinking you’ve got a brain tumor – or a heart condition. When you’re at your worst, you may believe you’re truly losing it – and end up at the ER. Inevitably you’ll be sent home with nothing truly resolved, other than reassurance you’re not physically dying.

In between all this, when the anxiety, tension and/or temperature fluctuations have decided to take a few days off, you may descend into depression. Again, for no apparent reason. Depression is like a dark pit where you’re looking out at the world, instead of actually being part of the world. You feel isolated and alone…and very, very confused. Doctors will want to put you on anti-depressants, but, if you’re like me and they make things worse, you persevere by finding support. You’ll read lots of books on menopause. You’ll refuse to listen to so-called medical experts who tell you menopause doesn’t cause mood fluctuations or all the symptoms you’re having. Proof of this is a visit to the Power Surge website (http://www.power-surge.com) Literally thousands of women post on the message boards there and describe an enormous variety of like-symptoms as they journey through this tunnel of terrors – and they receive many messages of support from others who truly understand.

If any of you are wondering if your symptoms might be due to menopause, here is a list of the 34 signs of menopause: http://www.power-surge.com/educate/34symptoms.htm. Keep in mind that many menopausal women will not experience all of these symptoms, but many will experience most of these and more. I developed Burning Mouth Syndrome and it took me some months of anguish to find a specialist in Melbourne who knew what it was and knew how to treat it.

I would like to add that am disgusted and appalled at the medical profession in general for being so blasé about the suffering of so many women. I feel it’s a sign that they just don’t know what to do, so they ignore it. Some say if it’s not life-threatening, then it’s not worth researching. I believe that the significant removal of at least ten years of a woman’s life is more than worthy of research and assistance. One of the most helpful things for a menopausal woman is validation – knowing that what she is experiencing is real and not ‘something in her head.’

I want to end this blog with encouragement for those who are suffering with menopause or peri menopause as I am. I want you to know that this DOES end. That one day you’ll feel better and you’ll see the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel. Ask a woman in her 70s and she will probably not even remember her menopausal symptoms.

Here are some books I’ve found helpful during my menopausal journey:
1. Complete Self-Help for your Nerves by Dr. Claire Weekes
2. The Seven Sacred Rites of Menopause by Kristi Meisenbach Boylan
3. You Can Heal Your Life by Louise L. Hay
4. The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle
5. From Panic To Power by Lucinda Bassett

I’m sure there are many more some of you could include. Please add comments to this post if you’ve had difficult menopausal symptoms and have found relief. Or if you just want some support. And be sure to visit Power Surge – I guarantee it will help you feel less alone.

Lost Smiles

Lost Smiles by Maureen McMahon

When do children stop being children? When do we put away our sandcastles, skipping ropes and giggles? When exactly do we change from ‘being’ a child to having an ‘inner’ child?

I remember lying in long grass, the sun warm on brown limbs, the coolness of the earth against my back, my older brother next to me as we watched in awed amazement as the cotton ball clouds changed ever so slowly into a myriad of new shapes – a dog, a bird, a ship, a fat lady…Giggling over the fat lady who became fatter and fatter, then seemed to twist herself into first a cupcake, then an elephant.

And when we got tired of watching clouds, when our energy surged, we’d be off, running full-tilt through the fields in anticipation of our next adventure, perhaps to make boats out of walnut shells, sticks and leaves to race down the trickling stream in the forest behind our house, perhaps in search of crayfish and frogs or perhaps to climb the old mulberry tree so we could look out over the beauty of our world.

There were afternoons in the summer sun gorging on wild dewberries or strawberries. Watching storm clouds gather, sensing the electricity in the air, awed by the approaching flash and rumble - waiting just that little bit longer before dashing for the security of home as the rains broke. Raking leaves in the autumn so we could leap into a huge pile and lie cradled in the brittle crispness, nostrils filled with the acrid, pungent smell. In winter, lumbering as fast as we could through knee-deep snow to the pond next door, ice-skates clutched firmly.

And when we were called to come in for dinner, we’d moan and plead, “Just a few more minutes?”

My daughter is twenty-one. When she was young, her laugh made us laugh, her smile made us smile, her giggle filled us with joy. Now she doesn’t laugh or smile very often. And her giggles are no more. I see her struggling under the heavy demands of university, work, personal demands and relationships. It saddens me to know that the child she once was is no more. She’s now an adult with all the attendant responsibilities and worries.

When does it happen? When do we “put away childish things?” And more importantly, why do we put them away?

When was the last time you built a sand castle? When was the last time you lay on the ground and watched the clouds? When was the last time you fell into pristine, sparkling snow to make an angel? When was the last time you giggled? When was the last time you woke in the morning anticipating all the fun the long day would hold?

When was the last time you looked into the mirror and smiled?

Four times trouble

It seems that things come in multiples when they're bad. Feeling ill...like I had a flu...so went to the dr. and he did blood tests. Turns out my thyroid hormones are off the chart. My pulse was up to 150 bpm. So now am on meds to keep the pulse down and the BP down, but it doesn't work all that well because I still get terribly out of breath just doing the least little thing.

I always thought it would be wonderful to have a hyperactive thyroid! I thought: "Wow! What an easy way to lose weight!" Well, just my luck, I caught it early so I didn't lose a pound and am still fat but with a rotten thyroid. How annoying is that?

So the thyroid goes bad which causes my TMJ to act up. Great! So now I'm unable to do much but sit and endure the horrible aching in my jaw, neck and shoulders. What did I do to deserve this?


Then my daughter and her first-ever love, both 20, broke up. She's totally devastated - crying all the time..can't eat...can't sleep....I can tell her over and over that things will get better - that she'll have a life again, but what good does that do now when her heart is broken into tiny pieces and she sees only black emptiness ahead?


As if that wasn't enough, my cousin called to tell me my aunt died yesterday. It was a shock. The funeral is in 3 days. Her death is bad enough, but the thought that I might not be able to attend the funeral due to my STUPID thyroid makes it even more upsetting. Will the rest of the family understand? Probably not. It seems when you have something wrong with you, everyone will tell you that it's 'nothing' and that they were able to scale Mt. Everest while suffering from bubonic plague.


Sometimes it's so hard to find something to look forward to each day. I want to be able to exercise again...to go fishing...to travel - but something always seems to happen to prevent any of it from happening.


But, I'll take one day at a time and try to believe that things will get better. It's all I can do for now.

A Bright Winter Day

It was sunny today. Certainly not warm, but sunny. Winters in Victoria are very different than winters in Michigan. The gum trees keep their bluey-green leaves throughout, and the grass and weeds grow lusher, probably due to the increase in rainfall.

In summer, the lawn can become a dustbowl very quickly once the hot northerlies start to blow. In winter, however, the wind most often comes from the south. There is no land between the Antarctic and southern Australia, so these winds are frigid - the air pristine.

I remember in Michigan how the snow would insulate, keeping warmth in the house simply by amassing on the roof and piling drifts against the walls. Here there is no such insulation. Despite the less than freezing temperatures, it sometimes feels much colder.

Here central heating is not the norm. We have a Coonara - a wood-burning enclosed fireplace. It heats some of the rooms, but we rarely get heat down the hall to the end bedrooms. Thus it's imperative that we have feather 'doonas' (quilts) and electric blankets.

Speaking of electric blankets, in Australia we put them UNDER us, not on top, as in the U.S. Who's to say what's best? I suppose that heat rises so maybe having them under is better?

Anyway, today was lovely despite the chill wind. The maples and oaks in our yard still hold an array of orange and yellow leaves. With the rosellas pecking around beneath, the world seemed full of color and light.

They're predicting rain for next week and lower temperatures, so I suspect soon we'll have to dig in until Spring.

Sadly, though, the Richmond Tigers lost tonight. If we keep it up, we may not make it to the finals again this year.

Getting older

What is it about getting older? I don't feel any different in my brain than I did when I was in my 20s, but my stupid body keeps finding ways to torment me. Menopause has not been kind. I developed BMS (burning mouth syndrome) last year, and after trying to find someone who cared or could help for nearly 8 months, finally came across a lovely dental professional/doctor in Melbourne who prescribed clonazepam in small doses.

Okay, so that's under control. Now I'm painting my bedroom and trying somehow to keep my body from totally succumbing to the slow, incidious increase of fat by walking and using weights. First my upper back goes into spasm, then when that's under control, my knee decides it doesn't like to carry around my bulk up and down hills anymore.

Diets! HAHAHA! You name them, I've tried them. I've lost heaps over the years, but always end up putting it back on...plus some.

So now I'm not so young anymore and seeing the weight as not so much a cosmetic problem as a health one. Do I starve myself once again for 2 years, and risk the stress that naturally accompanies it? Or do I try to cut out little things and feel I'm getting nowhere?

Well, today I'll simply try not to succumb to comfort eating. That's one step, I suppose. But will I succeed? Sometimes I remember the pain of truly bad health and am simply thankful to not feel that anymore. Other times I find things to worry about - weight, age, children, animals...

I've always been told I'm a deep thinker. I used to be proud of this in my youth. Now I think that maybe it's not such a good thing. What is it about getting older?