Scientific Justification for a Wandering Mind

I’ve always thought that I had a major problem with concentration – or lack of it.  It started in school which I would zone out during history or science, and lose myself in daydreams about endless what-if options, or whichever fantasy was top of my list that day.

Woe betide me of course if the teacher noted my blank expression and asked me a question.  How to be shown up and humiliated before a class full of peers.  I soon had a reputation and it wasn’t for my brilliance.

Then of course there are those team meetings at work.  Over an hour or so, the team discusses goal definition, project progress, moments of brilliance and safety issues.  It’s scintillating stuff. Where is my mind?  Not on the meeting, that’s for sure.

I’m doing a Walter Mitty with my head in the clouds, or dreaming of the next lotto win that will take me away from all this – or would if only I had bought a ticket.  I then have to ad-lib quickly when I’m called upon to contribute to the discussion.  It’s not easy to sound as if you know what you are talking about when you don’t, and I suspect that not many are fooled.

According to Malia Mason of the Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts, daydreaming is a form of mental multi-tasking, when the brain solves problems, contemplates and future and engages in cerebral brain-storming. It seems that the brain is engaged in a lot of hard and potentially productive work.

Dream-PictureSo, to those who have previously thought that I was half asleep, not engaged, or simply away with the fairies, I was in fact not just involved in serious contemplation; I had embarked on a meditative journey of complex resolution.

Sold the Family Home

It ended up being a brief process that was easier than I expected.  I handled the sale on behalf of the family and we elected not to bother with an agent but to make it a sale by vendor.

Front-2

This is the house that Dad built

My first preference was to auction the property, as the land size was highly desirable and the house itself was unusual.  There were not many comparable sales around so establishing a value was not easy.  Auctioneers who I approached to act on our behalf declined to do so, saying that they had to work for licensed agents for insurance reasons.  That being the case, I decided to call for expressions of interest instead, with offers over $550k to be received in writing on the designated form by a specified date.  We had already received a valuation at that price shortly after our father’s death and so that was our base price, allowing for some capital growth since that time.

Before commencing the advertising program, I engaged a conveyancer to prepare the forms that needed to be provided to a purchaser, and a blank contract as well so that I could seal the deal as soon as agreement was reached.  I designed a sign board and commissioned that, organised paper advertising (Mainstream and the local Chinese Property News) and advertised on line as well.  That just left the open inspections.

The interest invoked by the property was good and within a day we had an offer of $600k.  There was a little negotiating with different parties but 8 days after our initial open inspection, on behalf of the family I shortened the sale period and accepted an offer of $612k.  I felt that it was a very good offer and that the purchasers were so intent on buying something – if not our property then something else – that I should take it and not risk losing them.

It sounds easy but there was sadness too.  I grew up in that house.  Here were people pacing around the back yard and working out how many smaller homes they could fit on the block (they could fit three) and asking if there were any problems in chopping down the trees.  In the middle of the yard is a huge olive tree.  It has kept the family supplied with olive oil for years.  It was our playground as kids as we climbed its branches and acted out various games.  That was the first tree that everyone wanted to remove.

I made a conscious effort to dissociate myself from the emotional ties and to treat it all as an arm’s length transaction.  We still told our stories though at the open inspections – about how our father designed and built the house; why he came up with such an innovative and unusual design, the environmental features and what we remembered growing up in what was once an outer suburb.  People enjoyed the stories and appreciated being able to ask us detailed questions that perhaps an agent would not have been able to answer.

There is still another month until settlement day.  I’ll be relieved with it is all over, but there will still be a little part of me that is left in that house and up the olive tree, the ghost of childhood past.  It’s the end of an era.

Fabulous Friday

With the beginning of this financial year (July 2014) I have dropped back from five to four days in my paid job.  Friday was my day of choice to spend at home, but if there is something crucial that comes up at work, I have indicated that I am prepared to vary the day off.

My colleagues have assumed that this is the first step towards retirement as I am the oldest by far in my section and indeed one of the oldest women in the company.  Work it seems is the domain of the 40-year old.  They are right in that I am desperate to ‘retire’ from this soulless and patronising environment.  I hadn’t appreciated when I was 35-40 that this was as good as it got.  At that age I was at my peak as far as workplace relevance goes and since then the opportunities that have been open to me have decreased, with the general assumption that a younger person will be sharper, more edgy, more hungry, and more deserving.  I suspect it is a little different for men of a similar age – they have a longer use-by date but even they report after a while that they start to be sidelined as well.

This is in fact the first step towards the rest of my life, which is going to be more satisfying, more challenging and more rewarding.  I am working towards self-employment and so am doing some study, am honing my writing skills and repertoire, am using the time for lots of research and am planning future travels.  The diminished income is a bit of a fright but I have done my sums and I know that I can manage.  It also makes the week much more tolerable as well and by Thursday I am positively delighted, knowing that the next day will be all mine.

Today -yay it’s Friday – is part work and part pleasure.  To start with I am setting up a separate blog for my author identity.  I have recently published a novel under the pseudonym of Emily Hussey (more of that in another post) and have been most remiss in not establishing the relevant blog.  Looking around my office, there is a bit of filing and sorting that needs to be done as well.

Then will come the haircut in a new salon that I am trialling and late afternoon I will join a group of friends for afternoon tea that will incorporate champers and chocolate and a discussion on my novel.  This will be at the home of a 95 year old who is a wonderful woman.  She has such a questing mind and is so supportive or my writing and all endeavours really.  If you can get her talking about her life, she has had some fascinating experiences as well, and looking at the paintings and items around her home gives some indication of the journey that she has travelled.  We all appreciate the pleasures of these rare afternoons, very conscious that with Lorna’s age and declining health, there will not be so many of them.

Afternoon tea - plus a few strawberries and chocolate

Afternoon tea – plus a few strawberries and chocolate

When I think of my day, why would I be doing anything else?  What do you do with your Fridays?

Six Word Saturday

I am a little confused about the mechanics of this but have agreed to link to Cate and the 6-word Saturday task.  OK, it’s Sunday now now Saturday but I have only just found out about the link-up.  My six words are more of a reflection of what is going on in my life right this minute, rather than describing my Saturday, which was quite a different experience.

Cleaning, thinking, too many ants.  Damn!

If you want to read more about the Six Word Saturday, there is more of an explanation here.

Random Compliments

Late today, I was walking down North Tce in the city, after enduring a whole day in a team planning session;  the sort of day in which you examine team values and make pledges about future behaviour and how as a united team, you are going on to bigger and greater successes.  I loathe these events and rarely fully participate with all the group hug activities, etc.   It is a day to be endured.  Consequently, I was relieved that the tedium was over and to be outside in the fresh air and sunshine but was still mulling over the events and processes of the day.  A woman passed me, turned briefly and said,

“I like your outfit!”

before spearing off  in a different direction and crossing the street.   I was really chuffed.  I wasn’t wearing anything special; it is an outfit that I have worn to work many times, but I was delighted all the same.  I called out a ‘Thank you’ and smiled to myself.  It quite lifted my mood and the frustrations of the day.  What a nice thing she did.

Last weekend, I was at the Central Market, doing the weekly shopping – buying  500gm of turkey mince to be exact.   As he casually weighed out my order, the man behind the counter looked over and said,

“I like your hair”.

I was astonished in a nice way.  There was nothing particularly special about my hair that morning; I hadn’t just washed it or come from the hairdresser’s.  It was just my ordinary hair.  I was not expecting a compliment and it gave me a lovely emotional lift.  I smiled and thanked him, and probably had a spring in my step as I continued with my shopping.

Then there was another occasion.  Not long ago, I was walking through the city, and at a set of traffic lights, a man turned to look at me and said,

“That’s a really lovely broach that you’re wearing.”  I have to agree that it was.  Vintage and antique jewellery is one of my passions and this was a lovely American piece, probably from the thirties.  My black jacket was a great foil for the delicate colouring.  I was impressed that this man noticed it and made the comment.

Since today’s interaction, I have been turning over the issue of random and spontaneous compliments.  Are they better when they come from strangers who have no vested interest in your reaction or is it better to receive them from nearest and dearest?  Those random comments have the benefit of being totally unexpected and also convey greater sincerity.  It seems that they do anyway.

Sometimes I give random compliments as well.  I may see someone wearing something that I admire or doing something that impresses me and I will tell them so.  I have not expected to be on the receiving end however and I like it.  It is such an affirmative action, far more so than my team building session of the day.

Do you give random compliments and have you ever received unexpected  compliments yourself?  How did it happen? I would be fascinated to hear.  Did receiving a compliment make you feel like passing it on to others?

Stupidity

I have had a  week to contemplate this.  A week in which I have howled when trying to dress myself and whimpered when rolling over in bed.  If I can’t get my son to pull me out of a chair, I have to take a couple of breaths before I tackle it for myself.

As for getting into and out of the car – do you have any idea what that twisting motion can do it you?  I rode to work on a scooter for a couple of days, as sitting upright as though riding a kitchen chair was preferable to the slouched position in the car – once you had actually levered yourself into it.

Wearing trousers is a problem, and even threading feet into knickers is a challenge.  I just throw food at the cats now – I can’t bend over to nicely dollop food in the bowls.  They seem to cope.

It’s frustrating when I thought that I was going to do so much this weekend.  Finish the weeding for a start and perhaps plant some tomatoes.  I can crawl around on my knees, but how will I get up afterwards?  I had to drive up to the Barossa Valley today to conduct a wedding ceremony.  At least I do that standing up but unwinding myself after an hour travelling in the car was not a pretty sight.  Didn’t feel good either.

Putting the lawnmower into the boot of my car was probably not the smartest thing, but trying to lift it on my own with a convoluted lift and twist action defied not smart.  It feels as though my sacroiliac joint will never be the same again.  Yeah I know.  Stupidity.

Walking with my shoes, talking with my heart

It really is time for a parting or the ways.  There is little sole left between us anymore, but I still hold on to the memories.  We are moulded together, you and I and have that comfortable relationship that doesn’t evolve over night.

It is approaching ten years since my mother died.  Breast Cancer.  We knew it was aggressive; we knew what the outcome would be but there was still the shocked disbelief when it happened so quickly.  I found myself wandering around wearing the purple floppy hat that she used to wear while hanging out the washing in the summer sun, clinging to that vestige of contact with her.  I even used to ring her mobile to listen to her stating her name, clearly and precisely.  I was never sure whether to talk to her during those calls or not.  Would she get my message?  I was desperate for those connections not to disappear.

The clean-up of clothes and possessions was one of those tasks to be endured.  Lots of stuff went to the local charity shop, and other bits and pieces were claimed by family members.  Other things, we simply didn’t know what to do with – too good to throw away but perhaps too old, too out of style or just simply not needed.  A conundrum that is no doubt being addressed by so many right at this moment.

It was during one of these sessions that I encountered you.  You were not really my type, with me favouring options that were more open and less restrained, but probably still seeking that connection with mother I gave you a try.  Oh how comfortable.  To my surprise, the fit was good.  I rocked backwards and forwards, testing the cushioning and support  and after a few tentative steps, we walked out together.  It was the beginning of a dependent relationship and I soon fell in love with a pair of black Rockport walking shoes.

***

Mother had done the hard work for me, with her feet moulding the soft leather and creating a comfortable cocoon across the toes.  The back was softened too, so that it embraced and shielded rather than abraded my heel.  I was so delighted that I even wrote a poem entitled ‘Walking in my mother’s shoes’.  I liked the support that they gave me and the ability to walk and walk and walk. I guess that is why they were called walkers. 

I wore them to work and on field trips – even times when I should have been wearing a steel-capped variety.  Regular polishing maintained the soft leather and I took pride in their gleaming presentation.  I am not sure how long mother wore those shoes, but as the years of my custodianship passed, the soles took a battering and in time began to separate from the uppers.  I flopped and flapped around for a while, walking with a strange strut because of it but finally presented them for inspection at the shoe repair booth.  There was a lot of umming and ahhing, but eventually I was told that they could be re-soled.

This involved slicing off the old sole and gluing a replacement in place.  It worked – for a while and then either left or right would become loose again and I would carefully reglue.  The gaps between gluing became shorter and shorter resulting in more flipping and flapping.  In the end I had to accept that the re-soling had not been a success.  They were retired to the shoe rack in my cupboard.  I was not ready to let them go, even if they were not wearable any more.

It has got me thinking about shoes and the connotations that we bestow upon them.  I have tarty shoes and practical shoes; dancing shoes and running shoes; working shoes and playing shoes.  Each pair creates a mood and ambiance with which I have a co-dependant relationship.  I both create it and assume it on wearing the shoes.  They don’t quite have a life of their own like the red shoes of Hans Christian Anderson but they each have a personality none-the-less.

***

A couple of weeks ago, I had a bit of a clean-out.  It is part of the de-clutter program that I wrote about here.  You smiled at me gummily from the rack, with your soles clearly separating around the toes.  I knew that I had to act quickly before you talked me out of my resolve.  I felt such a traitor and kept my eyes averted from your lolling tongue.  I hope you understand but it was time.  I had to do it.   The lid slapped down with finality, not just on you but yet another link with my mother.