Inspire.

Lately, I have been super inspired to read and look and listen and watch and observe everything. To really take it all in and open myself up to every opportunity for more knowledge and information. I know there'll be people out there scoffing like, duh, that's life. True, but don't we all get so caught up in our own little worlds?

I love having that creative availability to really just expand and rather than feel overwhelmed by everything that's out there, to feel bolstered by it, to want to enjoy it and eventually (hopefully) build on it. What's been getting me going lately?

Well, firstly, it's really a who. Once you start reading about one person it's like YouTubing cat videos, before I know it two hours have passed, I have 50 tabs open on my laptop and a dead leg from not having moved in 2 hours. I was scrolling through my newly revamped Twitter feed (long overdue) and saw Lena Dunham (#1) post a New York Times article by Miranda July (#2) about Rihanna (#3). This led, in approximate order into the following use of internet time stalking:

#4 - Tavi Gevinson



#5 - Taylor Swift
#6 - Karlie Kloss
#7 - Oprah Winfrey
#8 - Warren Buffett
#9 - Bill Gates
#10 - J.K. Rowling (from Bill Gates? I know, don't ask me, obscure connection)
#11 - Serena Williams
#12 - Carissa Moore


#13 - Stephanie Gilmore
#14 - Gigi Hadid
#15 - Shonda Rhimes

It's super overwhelming to feel in awe of such a wonderfully, talented, beautiful, successful, wealthy list of people (mostly women!) but instead of feeling belittled or intimidated, I felt really inspired, excited; I felt confident. Their success doesn't lessen the opportunity for others and certainly doesn't make a smaller gap in the market for others to join. If anything, I think it opens it.

I was watching an episode of X Factor the other night (I hear what you're thinking there!) and one contestant was nervous during boot camp. She got to the stage in front of the judges and told them the talent so far was so good, and she was therefore anxious. Simon, ever the comforter, told her that's reality. The show is representative of the real world of show business, especially the music industry, where competing against every other talented, ambitious, driven artist is normal. Her face said, "thanks for the boost in confidence, Simon".

Unfortunately, he was right. It's also accurate in the larger, broader sense. Technically we are all on our own version of bad reality TV because we are competing against every other person in the world. Yes, it's frightening, but it's also exciting. There is so much opportunity. If we are good at what we do, if we are determined to succeed, if we put everything we have and more into it, it is within our reach to achieve it, regardless of others who strive alongside us. There is not a limited number of spots. There is no barrier, no formula, no route. There is no finish line. But the journey is there, the path lies ahead and it may be busy, but that doesn't make it any less possible to do well.

See every chance as an opportunity, every person as a source of information; see knowledge and advice everywhere. See chance. Seek happiness. Follow YOUR journey.

An Advocate For Nice

I realised out of all the quotes I’ve heard and read and the wisdom I’ve received, the phrase or approach to life that sticks out to me is the most simple. It came from my mum, her motto to life, “it’s nice to be nice”. 

Simple is best. 

People say love makes the world go round but I think nice does. Love is exclusive, it’s restrictive. We don’t love everyone. We don’t love everyone equally. We can’t. We don’t love the person in the street we walk past. We don’t love the cashier at the supermarket. We don’t love the person in the car behind us while queued at the traffic lights. We certainly don’t love these people at the same level that we love our parents, our children, or our spouse. We may love our dog even more. 

We can’t approach everyone with the same level of love and that restricts us to treating our nearest and dearest wonderfully, but taking a less emphatic approach to others. My mother is nice to everyone. Her nice is limitless. She says you can be nice to everyone and anyone. Limitless. 

My mother compliments the man that bags our groceries until his eyes twinkle and he smiles a little brighter for the next customer. She used to make entire food hampers for teachers at my primary school. One unfortunate time when my Dad ended up in hospital, she returned after he had left to deliver wine and chocolates for the staff that cared for him, and for those that didn't, "they all work hard", she noted. She buys beer for the builders on a Friday afternoon. The builders on our neighbours property. Get this, my mum met one of her now close friends because she was rear ended by her teenage son. My mother was literally involved in a car crash and it resulted in friendship. 

While this is great, being the daughter of this rarity is no easy feat: I am constantly held to a ruefully high standard of niceness. I am her daughter and therefore I have a level of niceness expected of me. People assume it’s hereditary. It is a blessing and a burden, because I am not as nice as her. Naturally. I don’t mean this to invite pity, I just have to work to see opportunity where nice can be inserted. I have to consciously think how and where and what. My mother does it without thinking. Innate-nice. 

Since high school, my friends have been besotted with my mother and I sometimes wonder whether they visit for me or for her. They labelled her SuperMum. I should be SuperDaughter but I missed the Super gene. I’m working on it. How can you compete with nice? Well you can’t. Nor should you. Just be nice, too. 

Nice is free. It is free. It isn’t free when you buy beer for your neighbours contractors and wave a nonchalant hand at car repairs. It isn’t free when you buy the supermarket out of snacks so you can host a sleepover for your daughter and her friends. It isn’t free when you buy chocolates for the “nice men who do a great job at collecting our recycling”. But nice doesn’t have to be all that.

Actually, my mother doesn’t do extravagant. She doesn’t do nice so that there is any expectation of return gesture or guilt. She has measured the nice to fit perfectly to its task. It is not overwhelming nice. It is thoughtful, unexpected. It is nice to those who earn and deserve it but don’t ask for it. Do you think the recycling man went to work every morning thinking “gosh, I hope today is the day that someone gives me something for my effort”? It is his job. He gets paid to do it and most people probably think it’s ridiculous that my mother gave him chocolates. I bet he doesn’t. She made his day. He could have gone home a little chirpier that day. He could have cooked his wife a meal, decided to visit his grand children or spent time with his elderly neighbour. He could have simply walked with a spring in his step. He could have done none of these things, too. It doesn't really matter, because for a moment, he was touched, smiling at nothing in particular, feeling the gesture.

Nice doesn’t mean being easy or being walked over. It doesn’t mean being weak. Nice is the strongest thing you can be. Do you know how hard it is to be nice? Giving in, being rude, ungrateful; that’s easy. How many people have you come across that are like that? A lot. We can all be mean in a heartbeat, effortlessly. We could all be mean all day and not break a sweat. But sometimes putting a smile on your face is hard. Putting aside a hard day to help a stranger across the street is strength. Devoting your time to talking to a lonely elderly man at the grocery store when you’ve working a 12 hour graveyard shift and your eye lids weigh more than you groceries, that’s strength. You don’t complain about your own day, you listen sympathetically, you acknowledge that this moment in this man’s life may make his week. It is a concerted choice of effort. 

Because it is nice to be nice. It is nice for you, to know your day wasn’t wasted because you made someone else feel good. It is nice for the other, to know that someone will listen, will smile. Sometimes it is nice just to know that you’re not alone in the world. To know that someone else sees, and appreciates. If you’re lucky enough to be surrounded by your loved ones, appreciate that. But be strong, be nice. 

My mother knows best: it is nice to be nice. 

Youth is Overrated.

When I was five years old I was asked what I wanted to do when I grew up, I told them “be a shopper”. Evidently I didn’t dream too big when I was younger. Despite those youthful ambitions not starting too lofty, that doesn’t mean they didn’t grow. I’m no longer obsessed with making a career out of spending money to increase my material wealth but age has allowed me to see the importance of other such endeavours (not that aspiring to “be a shopper” is anything to lament but I do think my mother breathed a sigh of relief when these plans changed). 

I now find myself motivated and inspired by women who are at the height of success and loving it. Thriving in their job; making decisions, delegating, proving their worth and maintaining their own sense of confidence and drive in the face of difficulties. I, like media and the many, was infatuated with the success of the young; those who reached the top of their field before they passed through adolescence, or those who age proved no barrier in their determination to prevail. Those who knew young to dream big. 

There is so much focus on the accomplishments of youth, “she’s done so much and she’s so young” which inevitably lends to pressure to succeed quickly, spotlight clambering over tales of overnight dreams becoming reality. But reality is hard work and late nights and missing social occasions and cancelling on your boyfriend on Valentine’s day because projects due the next day don’t finish themselves. Overnight success is rare, as is young success and youth isn’t everything. It can carry the burden of expectation and comparison. It’s lovely to hear the fairy tales of individuals who carry luck on their side and who know they’re “blessed” to be where they are. But the real fairy tales? They’re behind the scenes, not glorified by media or tagging headlines. They’re the ones that are too busy focusing on deadlines and to-do lists and pushing themselves to complete more than is required. They’re the ones quietly making a difference. 

The “you have so much time” line that 20-something’s are fed by elders feels shallow, absent of truth, because the reality is our time passes so quickly; between work, study, friends, boyfriend, family, travel and trying to squeeze social occasions and fun in there is overwhelming and the clock whizzes past along with the belief that we have plenty of time to have a career and a family. 

The idea that there are people younger than us achieving more, and faster is inspiring, until it’s no longer available. Until our youth is snatched away from us between all the obligations we’re trying to fulfill. Inspiration disappears along with possibility. The attraction of youthful success is only encouraging while it is available. Then 25 hits amidst watching teenagers sail past on top of their mountain of accolades, building gadgets worth millions at a time when you were still enjoying life; running wild, acting silly and spending days gallivanting with friends under the freedom of youth. 

Is youthful success all it appears to be? The media sensationalise and simplify the notion that we all can create such opportunity. Youth does not equal success. Hard work, determination, motivation, ambition; these are part of the equation that perpetrate success in youth, not something born out of the simple naivete that dictates our age. 

Thankfully, I find myself inspired by the women who lived their youth; recklessly, full of mistakes and joy rides, of late nights and too many ciders and endless experiences and continued to work hard when pregnant, with toddlers looping circles around concentrated faces as the coffee cups stacked up began to seem depleted of caffeine. Or powering through nap time for the opportunity of quiet. Of women who maintain relationships; intimate and friendly, the upkeep of a house, of a family dynamic and of financial stability. Women who continue to put food on the table, glistening, young eyes to bed with a bedtime story, and they still find time to build careers, to use the powerful female mind to build companies, to make a difference, to follow a passion that didn’t die when puberty passed or when their success story can no longer be glorified for happening “so young”. For me, inspiration is that; hard work, determination, perseverance and triumph through failure; achieved in longevity, a story that lasts the distance. 

"To be successful, you have to be out there."

What's the one thing stopping you from doing what you want, from achieving those things that you only think about at night, in the dark, when you know for sure that no one else can see or hear the reality of your desires?

Probably you, and Richard Branson agrees. The one thing stopping you from living out your inner most, wildest desires, is you. 

It can be confronting and overwhelming to actively pursue your goals; as if someone entered you into a Fear Factor competitions without your consent, and suddenly you're buried up to your neck in a horrifying form of beetle trying to recite the chronological order of England's monarchists in order to escape. Thankfully, both reality TV and ambition are optional pursuits. 

The Kiwi mentality is a good one, we are down-to-earth, hard working, easy-going and friendly; we are always ready to lend a hand and will give anything a go. We are progressive and thoughtful; we were the first to let women vote, the first to legalise gay marriage and we even let a woman from Gore rule the country. We are nothing if not open-minded. But we are also afraid to put ourselves out there. It is not in the NZ mantra to step forward willingly or clap yourself on the back, we don't sing our own praises and we are terrible at accepting compliments. The last time someone told me I'd done something well, I apologised and baked them a cake. It was my mother. 

I was recently living in America and they are our loud-talking, gum-chewing, unapologetic antithesis. We are sweet and obliging, afraid to make a scene, while they can be outspoken and confident, unashamedly honest. They tell it like it is, including their ambitions, what they want to do with their life and how they're going to get there. Their certainties made me feel lost, and intimidated. They had just told me all their plans, what they were going, what they wanted - isn't that taboo? Don't we keep those things to ourselves in case they don't work out? 

There was one time years ago when I told a friend I was going to go for a run, and then meet her for dinner afterwards. I got so distracted by doing other things (there was probably a great episode of The O.C. on) that I didn't have time to go for the run. I turned up to dinner and when she asked me how my run was out of politeness, I freaked, lied and told her it was fine. I couldn't own up to the fact that I said I was going to do something and I didn't. Not going for a run wasn’t intentional and it certainly didn’t matter to her whether I went or not, yet I couldn’t face telling her that I didn’t follow through with my plan. And here were my American friends doing the same thing, on a much larger scale! I was listening along thinking, you just told me you want to be a doctor? A doctor! What if it doesn't work out? What if you can’t get into a course? What if your grades aren’t good enough? There's so many uncertainties that can be prevent this from happening! 

But these questions were really mine. General questions I asked myself constantly. I was more than happy to confidently ascertain my goals in my head, but telling others was a no. I was passionate about my plans, I was actively working towards them and had even written them down in a little notebook I often kept on me with steps I needed to take. I was not shy in admitting to myself what I wanted, but telling others wasn’t an option. It would come across bashful, conceited, self-centred. Making outward steps forward to ensure these goals became a reality was not necessary, or was it? If I couldn't even tell others what I wanted, how could I actually go ahead and do it? 

Being around Americans and their reversed sense of ideals (at least to me) was fascinating. The NZ mentality of being bashful was seen as strange, almost cowardly. The strength and surety my U.S. friends showed was eye opening to me. Like the obsession my 10 year old self had with buying a furby, I was completely drawn in to this new confident, proud way of thinking. Was talking about ambition out loud part of the success in making their dream a reality? By confiding in others were we cementing our goals more firmly and thus holding ourselves accountable to making things happen? If I told myself I was going to do something and then I didn’t, of course I could make up ample excuses for why it didn’t happen! I am an expert at lying to myself and I am also completely gullible; tricking myself would be no problem. But lying to others? That wasn’t something I wanted to get into the habit of. Ever.

A long-running internal conversation has been happening in my head since I was young enough to read. I was a sucker for words, even when I didn't know their meaning. Wonderfully strung words were like my drug; I always wanted more. I knew I wanted to write, but I was constantly nervous about putting my words into the world without anonymity. People could read my thoughts! My feelings! Writing is such a personal and vulnerable place, was I willing to let others, strangers, in? I had long known I wanted to write, but my outward attempts were feeble. I was scared. 

Well, how Kiwi. This mind process was lost on my American friends. They’d call it “cute” with a smile reserved for a baby who regurgitated his pureed peas. But it's not cute, its simply who we are. We refrain from putting ourselves out there for fear we'll be seen as arrogant, or conceited, or dare I say it, confident. As if willing ourselves forward could in some way be taking the position of someone else, stealing another person's opportunity. What makes us think we deserve success over someone else?

Well I think as a nation we need a new mantra. The world is large and the spaces are endless; by striving forward we are not preventing another's success, we are helping it. Providing an example, showing hope, displaying the outcome of perseverance for others to follow. There is never "too much" unless it's a substance with warning labels on the bottle. There is always room for more music, more movies, more education, more businesses; we need to stop limiting ourselves. We need a mantra of opportunity. A mantra of confidence. By being honest and focused, it doesn’t mean we can’t be kind, thoughtful and selfless. It certainly doesn't mean that we are limiting the opportunities of others. With the right mind set, we can create something wonderful. By writing this, I'm attempting to create mine. Listen to the Branson, "be out there", and don't think twice. 

I think, most of the time, it's not that we can't focus, it's that we don't know what we want.

"Chance favours the prepared mind. The more you practice, the luckier you become."

Richard Branson, my daily reminder.

Warren Buffett.

If you do nothing else today, read these quotes.

Feeling like you are one step closer to achieving your goals is optional.

http://www.businessinsider.com.au/warren-buffetts-greatest-quotes-2015-10

The Question of Female Surfing.

Watching women's surfing, one of my passions and all-time favourite pass-times, and being confronted with the terrible irony of a sport on the crest of a boom, yet responsible for its own (inevitable?) downfall.

Perhaps the most glaringly obvious, and topical, case in point? Two words. One woman.

Silvana Lima.

Have you seen her surf? Probably not. Should you have? Yes. Definitely yes. I can bet you've seen Alana surf, or even Coco, but Silvana is down in the depths of YouTube, almost unsearched on Google. The truth for anyone, new to surfing or not, is that she rips. Full stop. She puts her 4'9 body into contortions I've never even imagined. Her board goes places most girls (seriously, most) can't fathom putting theirs. Regardless of wave conditions or size (a component of women's surfing that is absolutely mandatory if you ever hope to do well on the WCT), she can surf better than most of the girls on tour.

Then, BAM. Reality happens.

Reality means Lima doesn't have a sponsor. Travelling and competing on your own buck across vast expanses of the globe, not to mention the transport, accommodation and board costs that come with professional surfing, and Lima is struggling.

The one place she doesn't struggle is the surf. Surely this should speak for something. Surely there is a Billabong, Roxy, Rip Curl, heck a Target sponsor-head out there watching this shining beacon of elite female thinking "now she can surf. I want her on my team."

You would think so. But reality proves that this mustn't be the case. Silvana is sponsor-less.

When the board flies through the air with her body following in an unbelievable showmanship of just how good females can surf, the stickers are missing. When the photos of her come out, soaring through the air and blasting giant-sized chunks, throwing spray many times larger than her, we see blank empty space on a board begging for a sticker.

2014 saw Alana Blanchard get the wild card. I have seen many attempts to grate on the ASP for giving Blanchard the spot over others, it is not only Lima that is missing out on a well-deserved place. However, I don't whole-heartedly disagree with their choice. Blanchard has more Instagram followers that any other surfer. She has almost 200,000 more than Kelly Slater. Blanchard could possibly hold the crown for most heard of surfer, certainly the most recognisable. That long blonde, surfer hair and the come-hither puppy dog eyes. That body, right? That arch in her back that leads the voyeuristic eye to her most valuable possession. Not her surfboard, her derrière.

Regardless of whether she can surf (if I'm going to talk personally, I actually think she can. WCT worthy? Debatable), she brings a huge viewership to the sport, particularly the female side. How can you argue with the ASP for wanting to capitalise on that? It is marketing 101.

However, the irony is wrapped up in the pretty parcel of Alana herself. Watch or read an interview with her (I will not be surprised if almost all of you are yet to hear her speak) and she comments on the state of women's surfing, as do all the female surfers these days. The current crop of female surfers are blowing the minds of the viewers, it is an understatement to say that the surfing we are seeing from women at the moment is the best we have ever seen. Fact. But to hear Alana say that the women are surfing better than ever, and that the girls on tour are doing better cutbacks, airs and radical manoeuvres that ever before is confusing.

It is true, I don't disagree with her. But the question lies there begging to be answered, if this is the case - why is Alana on tour? I don't mean this crudely, as I said before, I think Alana can surf and she is certainly better than me and probably 90% of the female surfing population. But she is not in the Top 17 on tour. There are the Silvana's, the Justine DuPont, Felicity Palmateer and half of the girls in the water in Hawaii watching her on tour, thinking.. what? They are mind surfing the waves she is attempting to tear apart, and they are surfing their home breaks when she is gallivanting around the globe posting butt-laden photos to her biggest sponsor - social media.

She brings eyes to the sport, and unfortunately, this still has more value than good surfing. However hard the ASP tries to show their changes, there is irony in their word. Women's surfing is getting better and better, FACT. But viewership is what remains most important at its core. Viewers mean people, people means money. Money means everything.

Alana hasn't made it to the quarters once this year, and I don't believe she belongs in a jersey. I think she can bring just as many eyes to the sport while not on the tour. While she may brings eyes to the sport, I don't think that those same eyes are going to stay in on a Saturday afternoon and watch a live stream of her surfing a mushy onshore. Those eyes will be out with a pint of lager, and will later retreat home in the early hours of the morning merely hoping to see a Blanchard upload grace their social media.

Alana will bring eyes to the sport on the tour or off, and I think those 17 precious places on the tour should be given to those deserving of making it further than the quarters, and to entertain the viewership of the rest of us who are actually watching the women's WCT to see them surf. Because yes, we're still here.

Now, I've just gotta go check my Instagram.

Visions.

I feel like I am duty bound to show them a good time.

My eyes, that is. After having laser eye surgery I can see everything, perfectly. I can see better than 20/20 and compared to before I feel like I put on Spiderman binoculars. My vision is crystal clear. Stars that didn't used to be there now appear in the sky.

So now when I spend my days inside looking from left to right within the 6 inch screen of my computer, I feel guilty. Like Spiderman probably does when he doesn't scale walls, or swing from his webs to save unsuspecting humans.

As I ride the train to work I have to look out the window. I have to. I sometimes look around and everyone else shuffling into empty seats in the morning rush and whipping out their phone which they then plug their eyes in to. The heat from the phone in my bag burns a hole into my conscience and knocks on my mind throughout the journey. I wonder what's happening on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. I wonder if I have any emails or messages. Was that my phone ringing? Is someone trying to contact me?

I let my eyes roam the visions rushing by. The trees are so crisp, the rising sun is a sweeping blanket across rooftops and apartment buildings and glows for attention on fellow passengers downcast faces, their electronic screens masking its beautiful beg of recognition. They don't know the sun is rising, that a new day is fresh and uncertain and just beginning. They're checking their tweets.

I love watching the harbour bridge and the skyscrapers appear across the skyline. I love that so much metal can be so graceful, maybe thats the act of the morning sun. A golden bath on concrete. I love how clear it is, no fuzzy edges or blurred guesses. The train passes apartment complexes bordering the tracks and I can see in the windows and glass doors, some place my eyes wouldn't take me before. Can they see me? How good is their eyesight? Do they know I'm not looking at Instagram? That I'm peering  in at their morning rituals?

I wonder what other people can see. I used to look over people's shoulders to try and read their phones, see what they were doing; it was a test for my eyes. Now I realise they would have thought I was just another one searching for clues of who they are. They didn't know that I couldn't read what they'd written, they didn't know my eyes wouldn't let me understand.

Everywhere I look I feel as though I see everything. I'm so lucky, what can others see? Some are just as lucky, naturally. Do most see blurred lines? Do many trace fuzzy outlines? Or does everyone just see Facebook.

1989: A T-Swift Ramble Disguised As Album Review.

Slowly discovering that Taylor Swift is the best thing since sliced bread. She's like sliced bread that comes ready packed with melted butter drizzled all over it, and maybe a slick of avocado, or pesto, or heck pop a juicy, ripe tomato in there.

I didn't use to like her. Actually, initially I liked her. I thought she was a great new addition to what was then a struggling country music scene. Well, I assume it was struggling. To a country music fan it was quite possibly booming, but to the general public, also known as those whose days weren't occupied by riding horses bareback and daisy duke shopping, it was relatively quiet bordering on non-existent. Then I became tired of her heavily documented antics and seemingly endless string of 'height-of-their-fame' males. Her talent had been swept out of the picture and was replaced by her latest male arm candy (a term I'm not fond of but find appropriate in this scenario). I was being handed a way to think by the media, and it wasn't the reality.

Let's take it back to the struggling country music scene. Enter Taylor. With a swish of those bouncing curls, radiating her youthful likability and a shining smile gleaming All American wonder-talent she was the precocious teen siphoning her bullying experiences into a powerful, vocally-pleasing melody. This was a beautiful, talented teenager who wasn't the 'popular' girl, a cheerleader or a member of the high school 'in' crowd. She was like us. Relatable, authentic and with a buttery personality that suited parents' apprehension of what was consuming their children's time and energy; she created her own void that entertained and pleased an unprecedentedly large audience.

Hello, sensation.

Dominating airwaves consistently, she was making the previously high expectations placed on her by top level executives look like her preschool sandpit, she was gliding into every success story you could think of; there were no longer any 'Swift' puns left. After maxing out all country music media, she soon began to dominate the mainstream and the public consciousness. As celebrity exposure increased, focus quickly turned to her personal life and the interest was rising as speedily as her record sales.

The narrative smoothly begun to steer away from her meteoric rise in the ears of the public and turned to the famous male cohorts she's seen with. She appears on talk shows, in magazines and on radio shows promoting her music and every single interview will question her relationship status, like shameless Facebook stalking squeezing out any juice left. Her private life becoming public in order to sell CD's, but the demand never ended. Nothing was sufficient. If she mentioned a boyfriend, they wanted his name, if we got that, we weren't satisfied until we knew where he was from, or his job, or his parents ages.

The talent she possesses was replaced by entertainment fodder, "she's dating who this week?" and we forgot to appreciate that Taylor is a singer and not a character placed in trashy magazines for our Friday night reading pleasure; she is a person, but we forget to treat her like one.

This is where, almost most impressively, she hasn't been wiped out. She didn't fade into a recluse, dress in spandex and gain 20 pounds. She hasn't started replacing her studio time with visits to night clubs or pouring R-21 substances into her morning coffee before spending her entire day fighting the complex mind games that being so powerful so young can unleash; the demon of success.

Instead she triumphed. She has become articulate, confident, engaging and more upfront, raw and honest with the public, but most importantly her fans. She has kept her fans number one, and perhaps this in part has helped her sanity. She looks better than ever.

She has openly sworn she's single and focusing on keeping fit, her new home in New York and her girlfriends. I can't think of anything smarter. And this is why Taylor is such an anomaly. She seems to know what she needs, and places it in front of what she wants; both of which take precedence over anything anyone else says; not in an arrogant, A-lister way, she does it with aplomb. She is considerate of others while promoting a sense of self that remains endearing and sincere and is inspiring to every generation.

She has started answering questions thoughtfully, and has been gifted with thoughtful questions in return. She's growing up. And thankfully, she's maturing along with that; something many a teen celebrity has failed to do.

I used to be lost in the string of guys she was leaving in her wake as my eyes devoured the dating tales delivered hot from 'sources' to pages of the latest mag. I was coddled by the magazines; treated as literate but brain-less and concerned only with my latest taste of Taylor tales, placing her love life as an undercurrent of entertainment to my work-eat-sleep reality.

Then her new album, 1989 was released; and so was I; released from the cyclic track that seems to plague women in the entertainment industry, that leads the public to believe they are our amusement. Our toys to play with; rather than heroes we can admire. People with stories; rather than personalities, with faces rather than feelings.

Taylor shows they can be our heroes with hearts. Women that work hard, are good at what they do, ambitious without arrogance and dignified. She has released a pop album, her first album straying from the genre in which she found her success. She has paved her own terrain by spreading her wings further than many ever do and in doing so, has shown her level of talent and her fearlessness (album irony not intended, but the hindsight is metaphorically delightful). In breaking out of her comfort zone she has zeroed in on the reality that society doesn't define just how far we can go, we can dictate our own borders if we want and we can break through them if we want. We arbitrate who we are, tossing societal dictations and public conventions aside; beating to the march of our own drum.

Train Life.

I am sitting on the train when an older Asian lady sits down in the seat next to me. At least she tried to sit in the vacant seat next to me, instead I found her occupying most of the right hand side of my body.

I am tempted to stay in the same position and perform a personal medical experiment to see how long it takes for me to completely lose any sensation of my limbs, but decide against it for the embarrassment bound to ensue when it comes time to disembark.

Instead I practically raise her off the seat in the process of extracting my boy from under her, shifting myself even further against the window on my left.

She is now occupying over 3/4 of my seat as well as the entirety of hers (keep in mind she is of a normal size so if my mind wasn't preoccupied with my rapidly decreasing blood circulation I might find this particularly impressive) and my legs are resting awkwardly on top of each other in their competition to evade touching her.

She tilts her head ever so slightly in my direction and a murmur of "thank you" omits from a space that was until seconds earlier occupied by my face.

I'm not sure she experienced the same situation I just did.

Um, "you're welcome?"

The Priority List.

Apparently when you find out that the many years which you had previously assumed to span out ahead of you infinitely, are suddenly brutally and terminally ripped away from you, this is the ideal time to pen a book. Or at least reflect on your life's endeavors in written form and publish for public consumption.

With ailing limbs and a mind declining so rapidly you feel like you are in the ironic reversal of your "terrible twos", it is necessary to sub in someone with less urgency to document the life they've had and aid the quest to halt your departure. David Menasche did just this.

A powerful teacher with a gift of insight and support he dedicated his life to using on his students, this book is the result of how much one can change the lives of many, in the routine of the mundane; school.

This little treasure of a book I picked up off a windowsill. It was sitting in the corner of said windowsill so fresh and pristine, yet forlorn. Oblivious to having one of the best views in Sydney, it was almost crawling off its perch to find a home with someone else who would love it and benefit from everything in it which it couldn't enjoy itself. At least temporarily, as is the optimal love of literature; a token for passing on experience and the 2D wisdom that sits hidden beneath its folds.

So I did, and four train rides home (fastest journey's yet!) later, I was closing the back cover with a perspective touched by someone who I would never know. I devoured it like I did baguette's when strolling Parisian Rue's; with only an aftertaste of wisdom, and no lasting stains or crumbs sprayed across my trousers (nor the remnants visible for weeks building around my middle.)

Like Randy Pausch's Last Lecture, I seem to be drawn to the idea of how people use their time when it suddenly becomes precious, and doesn't spread out ahead of them, as if a Yellow Brick Road of endless capacity. Perhaps an unjustified approach to life, unless we really are told the use by date for our lives, but an informative and uplifting read through the most unlikely of situations. A lesson in how to approach life, not just when you're told your end is nigh, but for everyone, everyday; a reminder of how lucky we are to be here.

I recommend the read, Blogosphere; with some lasting anecdotes that stay with me (at least this week) such as the pure, simplistic and natural beauty of a breeze on your face. It is something that I have rued before, temporarily forgetting that it is these moments which we should appreciate, not because we never know if it will be our last; we simply don't. But because they're special, and felt, and the world is an endlessly mysterious place that we're just lucky to be wholly inhabiting.

Thanks Menasche, for following your passion and your purpose, and for teaching to the very end.

Cruising Lessons.

Recently, I went on a cruise. 

Yes, truly. I finally succumbed to the promotional emails that flooded my inbox, deciding that the best way to get rid of them was to enter my credit card details at their demands and choose a week where dry land no longer tempted me. 

I bragged at work that I was “taking my boat for a spin” and would come back relaxed on ocean views and seeping the smell of sun screen and salt water from my freshly tanned pores. As a cruising virgin, I was going off the TV adverts that almost carried UV through the screen between my Housewives marathons. They also told me I would spend the whole time in a bikini, carrying a pina colada and when I wasn't in the pool, I’d be dancing under the sea-reflecting moonlight to a live band who eye flirted in time with my sashaying hips. 

I know this is a collective belief, who could see those adverts and think otherwise? It’s an inherent truth, and why would they lie? There is nothing more glamorous than being able to tell people that you didn't see land for days at a time and only disembarked to feel golden sand beneath your toes and sit on a texture other than your sun lounger. Despite this, the motion of the ship and the mid-ocean air would actually contribute to your weight loss plan, and your bikini would perfectly complement your rock hard abs.   

You’re with me still, right? Days confined to rolling buffet leads to sculpted bod? Yes. 

Now, I don’t mean to crash your party, but this is not so accurate. From the moment I boarded my personal (plus 2000) luxury floating home, it was clear my stay would revolve around something else entirely. 

Food.

It followed me. It harassed me. It would not leave me alone. Even when it wasn't time for food (e.g. somewhere between 10-15 minutes after my last meal and 5 before my next), not only would I think about it, it would find me. Soft serve machines popped up, sweet treats were handed out; bars with eye-watering (that’s how powerful they are) cocktails would interrupt my path and force my presence into them. Just like a tornado, there was no way around, but through. 

I would close my eyes and attempt to block out the barrage of edible visual splendour but the delicious cacophony of smells attacked my other sense. The only logical way to deal with this dilemma was to give in to it entirely; to wave the white flag while strolling through the buffet and piling ridiculous mounds of food onto the plate and ascertain how on earth so much food could legitimately and consistently appear in the middle of the ocean without the mid-air wave of Harry Potter’s wand or the earnest, muggle hands of a dozen house elves. 

As the days floated by (that pun took a long time to come up with) I found that the women on my TV screen who flaunted their picture perfect bodies with a cocktail in hand and a stream of well-oiled, topless men behind them, were beginning to feel further from the truth and more like the myth; like when I found out that the guy who landed on the moon wasn't the same guy that cheated his way to a number of Tour de France cycle race wins. 

My waist band was ever expanding but I couldn’t say no to the smorgasbord of cheesecakes, or the pudding that featured at every meal. Damn these people for knowing that my willpower is lowest when I’m fresh out of bed and with an energetic night’s sleeping to fuel my appetite. Plus, I've heard the horror stories of cruise food wastage and I wasn't about to be an accomplice in that. I would reduce the wastage if it was the last thing I did before the boat literally sunk under the gulf of my wake. People may think this is counter-productive but I have a public duty and I understand that it has repercussions. This is what selfless people do, and I am not about to be consumed by the rise of vapid entitlement. 

In writing this I hope to prepare you and to warn you, but certainly not dissuade you out of doing a cruise, that is not in the least my intention. Rather when you do cruise (it’s a when not an if with the abundance of mega-sales they have and the inability to unsubscribe from their emails without hopping aboard), consider it a task. Go into it as if you’re on a mission and the only way out is making the number on the scales climb higher. 

Post Camp America Thoughts.

“The BEST experience of my LIFE!” is often shouted loudly in your direction when you ask how their camp counsellor experience in America was. More often than not, it’s followed with tales of hilarity, inside jokes with campers and counsellors not present, and is bound to finish with a “I wish I was there now” or an “I miss it SO much”, with little consideration for the human that asked the question, and who time is currently being spent with. It’s a one sided conversation that ends in double-sided misery. 

Camp America is a popular experience for teenagers and young adults (18+!) to do during an American summer. Living in America and experiencing the various traditions, cultures, food and people is almost a growth right for young Kiwi’s, and it seemingly splits the young population down the middle, those who have been and those haven’t. The camp t-shirts, many transformed with tie-dye, are a giveaway, as are watch tans, hair braids and a longing look in the eye that can only be daytime dreaming about returning next summer. 

Late night skinny dipping, off-day craziness, food fights, secret hook-ups and free green cards, camp is not. It’s not where you find your long-lost twin that your parents failed to mention, it’s not a summer long party designed for counsellors to unleash and unwind. It is not ‘Wet, Hot American Summer’. 

The one reason I would warn you not to become a counsellor at a camp in America, and one I urge you to consider with great thought before applying, is that you HAVE to leave. And leaving is the worst part. Those friends you just lived with and almost on top of (but not like that) for 9 weeks are not hopping in your suitcase and coming home with you. They are going to be on the other side of the world. The friendships you make at camp are almost tailor-made. You are hand picked for camp and for this reason the other individuals you meet at camp are bound to be awesome people that will contribute to the summer of your life. Camp directors want individuals that they think will have a positive impact on the campers and match the style of camp they have, for this reason the counsellors you meet are literally designed to get along with you. It is like a strange form of safe internet dating done by someone else for you. Counsellors are often selected from around the world and the connections you make are instant. You are in a foreign place with foreign people and foreign food (”what are s’mores?!”) and this displacement and unique experience only lends itself to stronger, deeper bonds. The necessity to be a united front for hundreds of children has a way of creating understanding (much like marriage, supposedly), not to mention the fact that everyone volunteered their summer (or winter, depending on their hemisphere) to spend at camp. Joint desires go a long way in building friendships, not to mention physical isolation from the outside world. 

You’ll miss, intensely, the other counsellors you “work” with. You’ll feel a gaping hole of absence at bed time when you don’t have a multitude of children hanging off you and jumping on your bed in attempt to avoid sleeping. You will miss the constant hugs, smiles and the fact that no matter where you go, when you see someone, you will know their name. You will miss the traditions that form a routine and which in tiny parts will contribute to your wider understanding of life in America. You will miss the people. Every single one. It is a certain type of person who signs themselves up for a whole summer with children in a secluded location and it becomes impossible to imagine life without these individuals in your life. They may be far away, in another country and with different priorities and responsibilities on “the outside”, but you will always share camp. It is not only a life-changing experience, but it changes you as an individual in other ways, giving you a wider understanding of others and the delight of life that children can impart. Yes it is about responsibility and independence and teaching what you’ve been assigned to, but it’s also being a role model, a mentor, appreciating the unique outlook that children have on life. 

9 weeks of your life seems like a small fragment of your time, and while at camp it flies by; mixed in with daily activities, numerous sports, arts and crafts, performances, music nights, camp fires and cabin nights. What you don’t realise as it happens, are all the little lessons, the daily moments that make the deeper memories. We talk about camp incessantly, unfailingly, con-stant-ly, because those 9 weeks had a bigger impact on us than we can easily move on from. It’s like it was a summer of adrenaline and it’s still coursing through our body. It’s not a Contiki tour or a sail Croatia, it’s not an OE in London or a semester abroad; it’s a summer of unbelievable friendships built on a shared 24/7, laced with gathered memories and inspiration. It’s where people go in as one person, and come out another; a fabric of invisible, sacred network beneath.  

"We never forget the things that scare us." Me, musing.