Then I woke up...

Then I woke up, and life happened.

We have annual leave, holiday leave, carers, study and sick leave. We have moving leave, religious leave cultural and traditional leave. We take leave for public holidays and special occasions. We thrive in a world where the consensus to stop, breathe and be present falls into the selection criteria of an 'assigned holiday'.

How often do we give ourselves permission to stop, breathe, and make the choice to leave what we have become, in order to move through and beyond? When do we give ourselves permission to mentally filter through the thoughts, what if’s, pressures and goals, to re-evaluate, surrender and momentarily sit in the shit of what do we need, in order to honour what we deserve, or merely reassess if we are living how we would be living if we knew tomorrow we would not?

So I’m a therapist, sexologist and aspiring novelist. In other news, I can communicate laughably through a mouthful of water, I go weak at the knees to G & T’s and I often ponder on returning to music journalism just to ascertain if I’d be happy living out the ‘Almost Famous’ idea of endless noise, skinny sex and liquid breakfasts.

I’m also a junkie for present living.

And I am currently nursing a tired and wounded brain.

Recently my brain felt like it had been in a hit and run. I was resourcing empathy like I was a ‘feelings factory’. My body would still entertain the idea of a jog through Glebe, a night on the booze and an hour or two of boxing, yet my brain was a murky and forgotten puddle on the path. There was no reflective ray of warmth from the sky, no reflective prospect of a dog walking through following his tail, not even a curious shadow to dance with.

And then I woke up, and life happened...