|Posted by Krista Fuller on May 11, 2013 at 8:30 PM||comments (1)|
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
|Posted by Krista Fuller on August 15, 2012 at 11:30 PM||comments (2)|
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.
|Posted by Krista Fuller on August 8, 2012 at 7:25 PM||comments (0)|
I have vacuumed and dusted and washed and hung and polished because I am a mother, not a writer. But I am a writer.
I cannot sit in my dirt and dust filled house with children’s muddy clothes strewn across the floor in a sea of childhood joy and fun, so as to curl up in the corner of the couch and weave my legs around to read. This is being, not doing and I must be doing in order to be useful, though I do and do and do and do and in doing so achieve very little but to create space for more childhood play to take its abandoned form.
I am a writer, though I have done everything in my power to do anything but write, but I am a writer. My soul sings I am alive and I am living when I am doing what I am supposed to be doing, which is being, a writer.
I have skirted around it, avoided it. I get in the way of it and I excuse it. I have sabotaged my gift. I have cleaned and cleaned instead of read and read so as to be able to say I have not read Hemingway, I cannot recite poetry, I do not know the academia of language,I have not read Catch 22, I do not have a literature degree, I did not spend my childhood escaping into books, I am not published. And so, I cannot be a writer because to be a writer one must have done or been all these things. I studied philosophy and psychology so that I would not have to be a writer, so that I could stay in my head and think and ponder and pontificate and make judgements and assertions and constructs around myself - so that I would not have to touch my feelings with words. I busy myself with the running of businesses – mostly other people’s - because I’m told it’s what I’m good at, because I’m told I must, because I’m told it’s my responsibility.
Yes I am busy. I have things I must do. I must fix the dinner and worry. Yet no matter how much I try to distil myself, no matter how much I try to reason it away, or tack it on to something more practical, useful and less risky, I cannot escape that my soul writes whether I am willing to cooperate with it or not, and it will never cease. It will never admonish its own work as I do; it will never compare itself to writing that takes my breath away; it will never lose hope in the face of rejection; it will never stop because it doesn’t make sense to others.It will continue and continue because it is what she is.
I am a writer and I will give my purest passion and pain in the best ways I know how. I will feel and feel the feelings, and ink and chalk and lead and felt them into being, because I am a writer and every day without it I suffocate my soul.
|Posted by Krista Fuller on May 22, 2012 at 10:05 AM||comments (0)|
I am sitting on the back steps with tea steam rising into my nostrils. I am watching the veggie patch soak up sunlight and grow without appearing to do so. I think to myself: Well, what am I doing?
The veggies appear to be doing nothing, but, in reality, this is not the case. They are growing and ageing in preparation for their own, unavoidable, demise. They will either rot by their roots, or, in the giving of their lives, go on to support another. As I sit here undoing, I feel that I am doing the same. I am growing, refining and becoming all that I am to be and when this is done it will be time for me to rot by my roots, giving to the life of another who is not yet finished with their growing, refining and becoming.
At one time, an overwhelming loss ripped grief through my heart so as to make it want to stop beating. There was fear of the void being left behind; there was loneliness and isolation; there was rage and a sense that a part of me had also died. There were days when I could do no more than lie in bed immersed in my fear that it would never end. I fought the process and I let the fear overwhelm me but hovering at the edge of my emotional ledge also brought out the best in me, as it does for many. This is the place where we often most surprise ourselves. This is where we are honoured to witness aspects of each other that were previously hidden, just waiting to be put to the test.
I am organic and cannot escape the laws of nature that govern me. I must take my place in the balance of nature, even in death. But, when I slip from here, seeing the tears and the fears in my loved-ones' eyes, I hope to have found peace within the knowledge that their pain and loss will help them to become all that they were meant to be.
We are blessed in this life to know sorrow and fear. It is sunshine on our leaves and soil within our souls, just as much as our love and our joy. Without it we are at risk of a much more insidious kind of death – the one made from not doing, from not growing – where my tea cup would be empty, instead of sitting beside me, half drunk and cold, next to a new page of writing.
|Posted by Krista Fuller on March 1, 2012 at 9:00 PM||comments (2)|
I have been joyous, but today I recognise the swamp as my knees push V shapes through the woven greenery and its nutrient rich slime. Just stop. Don’t do anything yet. Don’t push.
But I am stressed; like I am pushing, a whole lot of life through the spout of a funnel. Remember Krista, you’ve got time to go through the transition. There is no rush. Deal with what you feel.
I sit far to the outside of all things; I am so much the observer that I have stopped being. I look on today, and don’t know how to approach.
Central aspects to my existence have fallen away and I am in disconnection. My world appears shrunken. Limbs and skin buckle and crumble and bones heave against the weight of new beginnings.
From what was to what will be with a full vessel of cans and maybes and should-bees to guide my hand shakes with fear and potentiality screeches and screams within the tin. You would do well to get comfortable with the mess. This could take a while.
Transition made inside nightmares. The body breaks down, the soul wide, the mind having nowhere left to hide, and eyes of shattered glass feels surely like seven years bad luck.
Momentarily blind I can no longer see in the same way what was behind, but I return time and time again to find comfort in the familiarity that is really no longer there, and I choose to ignore the shards and cracks that come and go with the sweeping of my lashes. How can you stand in the past expecting a present?
Now I must choose whether to persevere in this dangerous safety or whether to be willing to go a new kind of blind - the one made from new light; the one made from unfamiliar sunrises; the one made from the forging of precious things; the one made by and old star dying and a new one being born.
|Posted by Krista Fuller on February 16, 2012 at 3:00 AM||comments (0)|
I will never forget the day I met an openly gay man for the first time. We became friends in five minutes flat. It was instant, the way he turned my head. He stomped and shimmied up the back steps of my house, landed at the kitchen table and with a penetrating laugh and a long, soaking look in my direction, made himself right at home. We spent a lot of time sitting around that table telling our stories and getting a feel for each other’s contours and shadows. He delivered the often outrageous and camp stereotypes and tantrums together with wonderful masculinity, competence and humour. He could bake a cake and drive a forklift. I was impressed.
I didn’t realise or understand the long-term occupation and dominance of my heterosexual consciousness until I noticed its fading, and eventual passing, within this profound relationship. Watching him embody and express his own sexual identity slapped my mind about, blurred my vision. My preconceptions stood stunned and slack-jawed as they received this almighty shaking. Not because I had previously been homophobic—I have never cared for prejudice or discrimination—but because every minute spent with him showed me, taught me, that I too could take charge of and own my sexual identity. It had never before occurred to me that I had that right.
Until I was given the chance to absorb the depth and spaciousness of my new friend’s sexual identity, mine was based upon a body that believed it was an object, a heart that was drowning in shame and a mind that was programmed to operate under the stereotype of feminine weakness. His refusal to adhere to social dogma and childhood programming meant that he did not attribute much at all to my sex or gender. Of course there were slight variations with my fallopian tubes and the like, but as far as he was concerned my weaknesses were personal flaws in character (of which, I assure you, there are few), and my strengths were attributes of my skill and talent (of which there are, of course, a great many!). His self-definition as a gay man and his openness to see me through the filter of person instead of woman showed me that there were possibilities for myself far beyond what I had ever imagined. I was much broader than I had realised myself to be.
This is an extract from my new book "The Outsider's Inn - Saving Lives with Conscious Living", Chapter 3 - Sexual Identity.
|Posted by Krista Fuller on February 2, 2012 at 6:40 PM||comments (1)|
Noooooo! Don't switch out, log off or get up to make a cup of tea. This is a short poem. I promise.
While its contents are minimal, I hope there will be a lengthy discussion to follow. If you sit with it for a moment and allow your mind to reach for the heart of it, I hope you will feel its depths, and fall into a quantum field that you've not visited before.
THIS LIFE'S WORK
when all is said and done
of the revolution
so fearless and daring
as to nourish motive
upon the first question
of all time.
Subscribe to my site or join the members area and you can leave your comments! Where does this take you?
|Posted by Krista Fuller on January 12, 2012 at 10:30 PM||comments (0)|
As I am dangling upside down, still strapped into my seat belt, on the wrong side of the highway, down an embankment, and almost embedded in a tree, I am thinking about my life. Said life has just flashed before my eyes, is in sharp focus and has my full attention.
My mind shows me a picture of the Story Bridge, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia. Yes, I agree. It is time to head to that bridge whereupon our first meeting, only two months ago, my eyes filled up and my heart called out.
I packed up my secretarial life in Adelaide, learned 30 songs and headed to Brisvegas to become a singer. I had no family here, no contacts and no history. I had never been a singer before, never run my own business and never been away from home. But Adelaide had spun me around at high speed. The Story Bridge had called out to me. So I listened.
Fifteen years on and I have spent enormous amounts of time going over the glorious bridge that brought me here. I walked it day and night. I drove it summer to spring. I took photos of it. I even broke down on it. Eventually, I fell in love beside it. Greg, my husbanda to be, and the father of my two children, lived beside the Bridge, high up in a residential tower, all the while looking down, never knowing that his one true love was hooning back and forth, back and forth, back and forth in a bright pink convertible Volkswagen.
Eventually we did meet. A rampage of passion ensued. Two months later, a pregnancy! A guy I hardly knew. A comedian no less. Me up the duff.
Now, I have always been the kind to push. I try really hard to make things happen. I frequently organise the life out of my life and I tremble in the face of uncertainty. But in this, and for the second time, I let go of control. I saw myself hanging upside down in the car. I saw the Story Bridge. I saw Greg. I jumped in.
Brisbane brought me the love of my life, it brought me motherhood, it brought me a university degree, it fostered a writing career, it connected me to my spiritual family and it taught me how to sing! And then....as if it hadn't already done enough, it introduced me to Northern New South Wales.
I got that Story Bridge feeling as I drove through the Northern Rivers about eight years ago, and I know well enough by now not to ignore it. Everything that has ever really mattered, everything that has ever changed the course of my life in unprecedented and unexpected ways, has come when I have bypassed the masterful logic of my mind and surrendered to my feelings.
At the moment Greg is underemployed due to a recent change in radio contracts. My book isn't out yet. In order to move we will most likely have to pack up and relocate inside a 3 week whirlwind.
Yep. It's time again. Time again to surrender to that Story Bridge feeling.
|Posted by Krista Fuller on January 11, 2012 at 10:50 PM||comments (0)|
Why are the best songs always the shortest? I know some are in fact the longest - Pink Floyd comes to mind. So often, though, I feel that I have only just begun to understand the rhythm, that I have only just begun to understand the words, and then suddenly it's all over. So I go back to the beginning of the track hoping to find some unforeseen error within my iPod, some glitch unknown to me that will rectify itself so long as I turn it off, throw it against the wall, yell at it, stomp away, shout at it with suitable annoyance and an indignant attitude. When I return to the vessel that holds all of my emotive musical memories I find, yet again, that the best song is always the shortest.
Makes me think of time: all the time I have lost; all the time I have gained and not respected; all the time I have wasted; all the time I have not understood; all of the time within which things have happened, the nature of which I barely come to recognise; and all of the time within which things have seemingly not happened, the nature of which I often understand all too well.
Time itself is a mystery to me. It appears to carry my life within its palm. It appears that I am my own time's breath. It appears that within it I exist, without it I am timeless and, therefore, outside of it I am conscious of all that is within and without.
And so, looking to reignite the relationship, I again press play. The song begins another time from the beginning and I am witness, within my own mind, to the same tune, this time with time passed. I do not hear it in the same way that I did before because too much has changed. I have a preconception, a primary belief, about the lyrics, the melody and the beat. I have a timeline with this song, and yet I wish for it to to play out anew. I want it to be longer. I want it to give me more than it already has, to reveal more to me that it did the first time.
I am a hungry beast for time and yet I still show little appreciation for its Majesty because I am forever wanting more, forever searching for that perfect moment in time, instead of learning how to love her just the way she is.
(This Blog was inspired by a song called 'The Village' by Australian band 'Boy and Bear'.)