What do you want to be?

What do you want to be when you grow up?  How many times were you asked that as a child?  If you were anything like me, you really had no idea of what the options were, let alone what you wanted to do, beyond be successful and happy in your choice.  I had no idea when I would be ‘grown up’ and with the passage of time, that milestone seemed to keep moving into the distance ahead of me, much the same as a mirage.

Journey

I was also flummoxed by too many ideas.  I toyed with being an actor, a journalist, a psychologist, working in advertising, and perhaps being a social worker.  I definitely knew that I didn’t want to be a teacher, or a nurse (conventional female choices at that time) and although interested in sciences, this was not a field in which I excelled academically.  Actually, my academic achievements were not terribly high in any area by the time that I finished high school and I had totally lost confidence in myself and my abilities, as had done my parents.

There are a range of career advisers available today that didn’t exist at that time.  However, the Commonwealth Employment Service (CES for those who remember) did have an adviser for school leavers and my mother sent me off to undertake their testing and interview process.  From memory, I don’t think that I was handed a career in a box, or given any real practical suggestions.  What stunned me though was the interviewer saying that “I don’t know why you are thinking of social work.  Your results indicate that you don’t like people.”

I was both astonished and demoralised by this assertion and although I thought that she must be wrong, was pushed off balance.  What followed was a period of drifting in and out of courses that I took because I didn’t know what else to do, dropping out, travelling a bit, odd jobs here and there and finally falling into the property industry.  Along the way, I have acquired a few degrees and qualifications, worked in real estate sales, had my own agency, sold and built houses, have been a research analyst and a property adviser for various corporations and government departments.  It just sort of happened.  There have also been some business start-ups in that time, and a lot of lessons learnt.

All along though, I said to myself, I wonder what I will be when I grow up?  I’m a few decades along from when I first posed this question, and I’m still not totally sure when the grown up thing happens, but I have learnt a few things along the way.  Besides acquiring a range of business skills and experiences, (how I wish I’d had those business smarts when younger) I also know that being older doesn’t mean that decisions are any easier.  I also know that circumstances change at any age, whether by choice or factors outside of your control, and know that decisions on what to do next can still be over-whelming.

Friends and family all have different opinions and usually none of their suggestions really light your fire.  It can be easier not to consult them and just to agonise on the options on your own.  At least then you only have your own conflicted voice to listen to and not half a dozen others.

Some of my own experiences in this area Decisionshave led me to pursue training in coaching, focussing on those key transitional times in our lives. It complements work that I have exploring with Life Choices – how to make the decisions that are right for us. I wish that I’d had help like this earlier in life. Stay tuned for further detail that I would love to share with you on my journey of decision-making discovery.

A key area of interest is helping people to make decisions at transitional times in their lives.  It might be having to change career direction or having to re-invent yourself or it may be at other major transitional changes.  The biggies are birth, marriage, children, , divorce, death but there are other variations that are just as important when we are grappling with our decisions.

I’m also really interested in learning how others manage their decision making processes.  If you have time, leave a response and share it with us all.

 

Unsubscribing my LIfe

This is it.  I am reclaiming my life.  By default, I am subscribed to so many lists.  There are supermarkets, wine companies, coupon companies, dress shops, and other retailers.  Some I may have subscribed to and my contact details have probably been purchased by other entities..

Then there are the self-help motivators, business advisers, health and wellness gurus, lifestyle advisers – whatever.  They are the most dangerous.  I tend to scan them just in case there is a pearl of wisdom hidden within the scrolled page, something that is going to make a miraculous difference to my life and that of course takes time.

You know what?  There rarely is.  What these emails are delivering under the guise of valuable content is mostly common sense, general knowledge and sometimes totally whacky.  There’s a lot of woo-woo content that slides through the in-box as well.  It has got to the point where this content is clogging up my screen to the extent where processing, scanning and deleting them is seriously compromising my time to do important things for myself – like write my next novel or work on my new business plan.

Increasingly, business communications are being delivered via email, but I sometimes overlook important information because it is buried in the general detritus. If I don’t pay an invoice on time, that is a problem.  If I miss an appointment, that is also a problem.  I know that applying rules to the in-box can divert identified emails to specific folders but to do that you have to know in advance that it is coming.

Progressively, I am hitting the un-subscribe button.  Restaurant offers – gone; camping gear – gone; travel deals – gone; happiness skills – gone; media skills – gone; the next great business seminar – gone.  It’s too soon to see the effect but I am so looking forward to an in-box that is relevant and dealt with quickly so that I can get on with my life.

I’m reclaiming.  What about you?

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.

Sorting the Linen Press

What do you do on a wet and wild weekend?  OK, stay in bed is one option but this morning I have been sorting and tidying the linen press.  Who would believe that there would be favourite sheets that are still retained when thin and see through?  There is a lot of history in that cupboard, and as I put out the various sizes ranging from single through king single, double and queen size – I remember which bed accommodated those sheets and who slept in the bed and when.  There are so many memories associated with each.

I don’t need so many and it is time for the cull.  Not just because I am running out of cupboard space, but because this is part of the process of de-cluttering my life.  It was started over a year ago (see A life in boxes).  These things take longer than expected, particularly when memories and life in general intervenes.  There is a great sense of achievement however when another sector of the house is reviewed and cleared.

My next question is what to do with towels and sheets that are excess to my needs.  Not all are thin and past their use-by date, but beds have changed and so not all of them are needed.  I am not so keen on the suggestion of giving them away for drop-sheets or similar.  Do I drop them into the charity bin, or would the refugee association or other organisation that looks after homeless people find a use for them?  Is it tacky to give away used bed-linen?  Questions to sort out before the end of the day.  I am just so grateful that my circumstances are such that spare sheets are a problem.

De-Cluttering

The objective today was to start with some de-Cluttering.  If I am going to sell the house, besides the usual painting and gardening and generally making good, I need to sort out what I carry over into the next phase of my life and what needs a new home.  Really, this should apply to my computer, my office, my house and my mind.  Challenges all of them.

This morning, I was looking for a bed on the appropriate section of Gumtree, and I saw a Huon Pine Dressing table advertised – for only $170.  I have a few Huon Pine pieces of furniture and am rather partial to it.  They are all Edwardian, and all dust catchers, but distinctive pieces of Australian furniture.  I didn’t need this dressing table but at that price I couldn’t resist it.  In an antique shop it would probably sell for $500 more. I bought it.

This evening, I have also bought the bed for young Donald – just have to organise a trailer tomorrow to pick it up.  So, at the end of the day, I have two additional pieces of furniture.  So much for the de-cluttering.  However, we are taking two King Single beds out of his room and I will probably sell those, so I guess that will be two pieces of furniture less.