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06/01/2019
Opening to life

Open, it cried, open,

Taste the salty air.

 

Open, it cried, open,

Hear the dark night howls.

 

Open, it cried, open

Drink in the sweet perfume.

 

Open, it cried, open

Embrace the burning fires.

 

Open, it cried, open

Touch the silken thread.

 

Open, it cried, open,

Watch the men dying in fight.

 

Open, it cried, open,

Notice a laughing child.

 

Open, it cried, open,

See the earth’s cracks.

 

Open, it cried, open,

Fall into a soft embrace.

 

Open, it cried, open,

Feel your beating heart.

 

Open, it cried, open,

Flow with the shifting winds.

 

Open, it cried, open,

Walk through the door that shut.

 

Open, it cried, open,

Once you fully open, you can never close.

 

Open, it cried, open, 

Just one more time.

 

Open, it cried, open,

Until all that’s felt is nothing,

but everything.

 

Open, it cried, open.

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31/08/2018
A place where women can be women

“How might your life have been different if there had been a place for you, a place for you to go to be with your mother, with your sisters and the aunts, with your grandmothers, and the great and great-grandmothers, a place for women to go, to be, to return to, as woman?

How might your life be different?

 

– Extract from Circle of Stones by Judith Duerk

The first time I read these words I had flashbacks to little Sharon lying on the newly cut lawn of my grandparents house on Saturday afternoons. Surrounding me were my grandmother and her sisters, my mum and her sister, my cousins, and sometimes,other women from the community.

There was bustle, there was laughter, there were cups of tea and plates of freshly baked biscuits; but most of all, there were stories.

Admittedly some of the stories verged on gossip, yet in the main part they encompassed simple, great tales of love and life.

There were stories of romance, stories of post-war struggles, stories of businesses, stories of motherhood and stories of families.

There were stories of troubles and successes in the community, of those who lent quiet helping hands and of those who required those hands.

There were stories of hard times and good times; of fears and of desires.

The stories weren’t edited for the best angle or sell appeal. They were real and both confronting and bewitching in their honesty.

Perhaps most importantly, in the story telling I found something in me. In the sharing and in the listening I felt the woman within blossom.

I miss those afternoons. I miss my grandmother and her sisters. I miss what I discovered and felt in their presence.

The wisdom imbibed, the nurturing received, the love exchanged, the knowing smiles, the concerned frowns, the questioning eyes and the always understood fact – we were cut of the same.

These are the secrets of womanhood that aren’t what we read in magazines or Instagram posts. These are the secrets that are passed on in gardens and in kitchens; at births and on deathbeds; in sacred sites and in circle.

My whole life I’ve craved these gatherings. These places where women can be women, where women can witness other women being women; where in our commonality we find our beauty and power.

Our news feeds are filled with advice on how we can be better women; the internet is filled with courses on how to become feminine; the bookstores are filled with books on how to improve ourselves.

But what if there is nothing to improve. What if there is nothing to become.

What if all we truly need is a place where we can just be ourselves.

I hold new moon and full moon circles in Melbourne. This is my adaptation of Saturday afternoon childhood parties.

This is not a place to learn; but a place to remember, rediscover and embrace the women we already are.

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12/04/2018
Swimming in the rain

“Do you want to go for a swim in the rain?” flashed on to my phone screen.

I was sitting at my desk, dry and cosy, listening to the constant dripping on my tin roof.

The least sensible thing to do seemed to head outside to get wet. Yet it was also the thing that sent an excitable tingle through my entire being.

Putting on my still damp bikinis, I grabbed a towel and headed out to pick up my friend.

Within half an hour of that message we were in the water.

The sky above us was mysterious in its charcoal cloudiness and there was a mist covering the ocean that made us look as if we were disappearing as we walked towards it.

As we jumped the approaching waves and the water splashed in our faces, we chatted and giggled and nothing felt more normal in that moment than swimming in the rain.

I thought back to the week after my father got diagnosed with cancer. I’d gone for a walk in the rain sans umbrella. I had so desperately wanted to feel life. To know I was here. To experience my humanness.

A friend who knew I was out in the stormy weather, messaged me on my return. “That must’ve been a sodden walk,” he wrote. It was, but as my runners squeaked from the flooding and my t-shirt awkwardly stuck to my bra, I couldn’t help but smile through my tears.

We have this tendency to protect ourselves from life. Our metaphorical rooftops and umbrellas come with us everywhere. How often we forget to live in fear of dying, or being hurt, yet when the possibility of death rears its head, all we want to do is live.

We came here to feel the wild winds. To smell the burning fires. To experience another’s soft touch. To breathe the cool air. To hear laughter and screams. To taste the salty sea.

In the 90s movie, City of Angels, the character played by Nicholas Cage decided to give up eternity as an angel for a chance at life; for a chance to love, to embrace, to feel.

Courage in it truest form. The courage to have no guarantees.

As I’ve wandered the streets of my hometown and the memories of my mind in the months since dad’s diagnosis, the things that trip me over, the things that make my heart ache with a mix of pain and joy, have been moments. Simple moments; extraordinary in their ordinariness. 

I’ve remembered touch. Hands wrapped around me. Hands entwined with my own. Hands covering my school folders with perfectly cut contact paper. Hands helping me to climb a mountain. Hands teaching me to drive.

I’ve remembered sound. The loud crack as the fireworks filled the sky at the annual Royal Melbourne Show. The chuffing of the puffing billy train as it came down the track to pick us up for a ride.

I’ve remembered smells. The tall pine trees that lined the road to our summer holiday motel in Phillip Island. The whiff of barbecue smoke as we cooked steak and fried onions by the river bed in the high country of Thredbo.

I’ve remembered tastes. The stringy cheese on our sunday night margarita pizzas.  The unusual grassy sweet flavour of the first shandy that touched my lips at a pub in Wilsons Promontory.

I’ve remembered sights. The vast burnt Australian landscape as we went on one of our regular driving trips. The relieved look in my dad’s eyes as we crossed paths at 5am; me venturing home from a big night out, him going to work.

I’ve remembered the things that made me feel.

Two years ago, for my father’s 70th birthday, I created a book of our life together with all our precious stories. I cried tears of nostalgia as I filled the pages. The night he was diagnosed, unable to sleep, I curled up with the book in my shaking hands, crying again, this time for the pages I’d yet to fill.

He may be here for a short time or a long time. No one knows. None of us really know how long we are here for. But these life-changing events catch us. Make us spot what is real. Make us spot what counts.

These past months I’ve spent more time walking around in my barefoot beauty; savouring hugs and kisses; licking up the sauce on my plate with my finger; gazing into the eyes of loved ones; lying awake at night listening to the crashing waves calling into my room; and eagerly following the moon around the house so as not to miss its glow. Sometimes with such a burning desire to feel that it hurts.

Life is lived in these moments and life is remembered in them too.

The books of my childhood seem filled with more wisdom as I get older. A boy named Charlie once remarked, “One day, we will die Snoopy…” as a sage dog replied, “Yes, but every other day we will live…”

And every other day we can swim in the rain.

 

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18/02/2018
Have you forgotten how beautiful you are?

Have you forgotten how beautiful you are? How powerful, how magnificent, how strong.

I had.

This morning, despite the vigorous strides I took as I climbed the hill to the lookout point at the lighthouse, I was feeling deflated. I was feeling less than beautiful, less than powerful, less than magnificent, less than strong.

And then I saw it. The crystal clear turquoise expanse of the ocean.

I sighed in awe. I felt aroused by its wildness. I laughed as its foam encased a graceful surfer. I was starstruck by its power.

I engaged with it for a very long while.

I love the water. I love how the water makes me feel.

And then I smiled. I remembered. I am water. I am made up of exactly what I am looking at in amazement right now.

If I see awe, wildness, beauty and power in the ocean, am I not that too?

As I walked back down the hill I was lighter, less burdened and more serene.

It’s not the first time I’ve discovered my true reflection in nature. And it’s not the last time I’ll lose it in the noise of the world.

But it was a timely reminder of where to go when I’m a little lost. Where I’ve always gone when I’m feeling stranded, judgemental or less than in any way.

My beauty was not returned to me in a jar or in a treatment or even in a compliment by another.

My beauty was returned to me in a mirror that I didn’t need to see my face in.

My beauty was all around me.

If you want to find your softness, bite into the juicy flesh of a new season fig.

If you want to find your lushness, lie in the thick green grass of a summer field.

If you want to find your magic, fall asleep under the sparkling stars in the sky.

If you want to find your voice, listen to the roar of the ocean.

If you want to find your mystique, bathe in the luminosity of a full moon.

If you want to find your creative source, make love with complete surrender.

If you want to find your openness, watch the delicate petals of a rose unfold.

If you want to reignite your fire, watch the morning sunrise.

If you want to be blown away by your magnificence, watch the evening sunset.

If you want to connect with your heart, open it to all that is around you and breathe.

This morning I breathed in the water, the air, the fire and the earth around me. In that breath I merged with all that is me already.

If I am bewitched by all of this, I am bewitched by me too.

Have you forgotten how beautiful you are?

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02/02/2018
Golden Memories Celebrated in Isolation

“What can we do to make people smile today?” Mum asked on the morning of my parents golden wedding anniversary.

In this one question my mother’s two greatest attributes came together: an untameable creative mind and a selfless relentless care for her fellow humans.

Before I even had a chance to respond she had taken out her half-a-century-old wedding dress. Still hanging beneath the same plastic bag, the bright white fabric had faded to a darker cream, but hadn’t lost any of its style. Elegant with sparkling pearls on the waist band, neck and cuffs, the flowing pleated skirt and long sleeves resurrected a time when wedding dresses revealed less over more.

Being in lockdown, we were all itching for some lightness and a bit of frivolous joy. Plus, we didn’t want to let an occasion that celebrates so much disappear beneath the COVID19 pandemic.

Next she found my father’s black hat, the only remnant of his own wedding outfit.

“Come on Michael, let’s put these on and take photos. Everyone will love it!”

Mum stepped into her dress with ease, although the back didn’t quite zip up so we transformed the tiny beaded belt into a head piece. Dad popped on his hat and a white shirt, coordinating it with casual shorts and runners for a touch of humour and a more accurate reflection of his dress preferences.

My parents were married on Easter weekend so fresh roses weren’t available and my mother had to settle for a paper variety. This time, she managed to have a bouquet of white, delicately scented roses, which had been delivered a day earlier by a friend, unaware they’d later be a key part of our photo shoot.

And how we laughed. Mum and I doubling over in belly fits several times, our mouths aching, our eyes watering and our hearts thumping.

The revealing photos were then shared with friends and family via our sole mode of communication — handheld phones and laptop screens. Tools only imaginable back in 1970. We received countless messages of gratitude for the laughs, realness and sentimentality.

Once our day had passed, I couldn’t help but muse over the threads between our personal experience and the wider experience of humanity right now.

My mother’s zest to make her day special for others is a trait we need in times like these. A human call greater than the individual; exemplifying how one personal endeavour can assist, or hinder, the collective. And the grace in which she undertook the task, perhaps, even more so.

Those of a generation most vulnerable to COVID19 aren’t the forgotten generation. We don’t need to keep them safe because they are weak, we need to keep them safe because they are strong and a much needed contribution to a diverse population.

There is so much to learn from those who have weathered a long life. How often I still yearn for my grandmothers kind words, loving gaze and wise presence. Only the other week I was baking biscuits and talking to her, my eyes searching the sky, desperately wishing for her expert tips when the dough crumbled.

In being forced to stay home at a stage of their life they know is closer to the end than the beginning, our more senior citizens appreciate the days ahead aren’t endless. It’s not all about planning for a post COVID19 world, but living within the COVID19 world. I see this in my mother’s love but also in my father’s angst. This, a valuable lesson for the planners and strategists amongst us, teaching the importance of living in the now, embracing the moment and not disappearing into the future.

On their anniversary, we learnt it takes so little to make a moment memorable. Some fading clothes, a bit of chutzpah, a spark of inspiration and a camera to record the shenanigans. We learnt that magic is made out of the ordinary.

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27/04/2017
Silent-speak

Communication comes in many forms.

It can come on the top of your morning chai. An apology from your barista expressed with a line of cinnamon. A symbol of peace spoken without words. A mutual understanding that needed no nod.

It comes in colour. Gothic black. Virginal white. Peacemaking green. Serene blue. Camouflaged khaki. Dirty brown. Lipstick red.

It comes in seasons. A sprightly step echoing the rising energy of spring. A tear or two symbolising the releasing pattern of autumn. A desire for introversion matching the inwards movement of winter. A joyous belly laugh mirroring the expansive nature of summer.

It comes in choices. In opting to stay or opting to go. In answered calls and unanswered calls. In making the first move or waiting for the first move. In the food we choose and in choosing no food. In a cold drink on a summers day and in a hot tea on summers day. In the savoury or the sweet.

It comes in movement. In slow steps and long strides. In pacing and in standing still. In hunched shoulders and in downward facing eyes. In pouts and in crossed arms. In looking into another’s eyes and in looking away.

It comes in sound. In silence or in noise. In whispers or in shouts. In pitches or in monotones. In too many text messages or too few.

It comes in all the things we say and all the things we don’t. In the labels we give ourselves and the labels we don’t.

It comes in languishing caresses and in quick pecks on the cheek. In a hug or a handshake. In touching thighs and thigh gaps. In turned heads and heads leaning in. In smiles and in smirks. In wrestles and in tickles. In jest and in seriousness.

It comes in barefoot and in stilettos. In sweaty palms and flushed faces. In red eyes or white eyes. In the flicking of one’s hair and the wearing of a hat.

It comes in billowing sentences and short, sharp phrases. In a monologue or a dialogue. In a stutter and a clearing of the throat. In talking fast and talking slow.

That morning in the cafe, I nearly missed my peace chai. If I hadn’t decided to look down before taking a sip, the strokes of cinnamon would’ve melded with the creamy milk and the communication would’ve gone unnoticed.

Although the barista’s playful drawing was merely delivering a serve of morning smiles, that blink-of- an-eyelid moment made me think: how much silent-speak have I missed in my life?

How much anger was sitting beneath an ‘I’m fine’ response; how much nervousness was hidden under poor pick-up lines; how great a fear of confrontation was lurking behind a friend’s disappearance.

How often did I miss shaky fingers or a brow-line sweat; the losing of weight or the putting on of weight; the unusually quite voice…

And, equally, how many of my communications have gone amiss.

Who noticed the watery eyes and the deep breathing behind the nodding head. The foot holding tight to the floor as the other tried to move forward. The crossed fingers praying for a different outcome.

A line of cinnamon reminded me that communication comes in so many forms. Yet if we’re not present enough, or only searching for the words, we risk missing the message and the opportunity to connect.

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20/03/2017
The nose knows

During my years of working in downtown Melbourne, I had one pet hate: the entrance to the Myer department store. I’d literally hold my breath as I walked through the doors. The mix of warm air and scents of perfume and sprays coming from the ground floor cosmetic counters was nothing short of suffocating, leaving me feeling nauseous and as if I’d been literally intoxicated.

I’d look around at other shoppers and wonder, ‘Is it just me?’

At nightclubs I’d often have to escape for air and close encounters of the ‘fragranced’ type in an elevator or on a plane were some of my worst nightmares.

Again I’d look at others and wonder, ‘Is it just me?’

At that point, circa 15-20 years ago, there wasn’t much talk about the difference between natural and artificial scents, so I chose to suffer in silence. I’d been called ‘too sensitive’ my whole life; I took it that this was just another one of my sensitivities…

Things have evolved since then and I’ve come to appreciate it wasn’t just me. I’ve watched with great interest the growing number of research studies on the impact of fragranced products on our health, such as the one referenced in an article in the Sydney Morning Herald/Age this week.

With this increased awareness and the range of fragrance-free products flooding the market, I’ve been able to basically eliminate most of the synthetic stuff from my day-to-day life.

The benefits of ditching these have been much more than just being able to breath easier. No longer drowning in a sea of artificial scents, I found my sense of smell heightened.

My sensitivity was always a radar. One screaming to me that what I was smelling wasn’t good for me.

All animals have this radar. They sniff out their food, where they’re going to sleep for the night, another dog’s backside.

The nose knows.

We as humans have the same capacity, but in some ways it’s been dulled by overwhelming our senses with synthetic scents.

One of my all time favourite David Suzuki-ism’s is his boiling frog analogy. Essentially if you put a frog in boiling water, it will jump out. If you put a frog in water and then boil it, the frog will slowly die.

 

 

Now my sensitivity and nose could do its innate job of seeking out ‘real’ pathogens and also taking in scents of benefit to the body.

When I was suffering from extreme brain fatigue, one of my practitioners suggested that I go out into the garden, smell a flower or herb and write about what it conjured up for me.

While synthetic smells dull our brain, natural smells can invigorate it.

They also help stimulate our memory.

Our sense of smell is highly linked to our memory, perhaps more than any other sense. Smells get routed through our olfactory nerve, which then analyses these in our brain. The olfactory centre is closely connected to our amygdala and hippocampus, brain areas that work with memory and emotion.

I’m sure we’ve all experienced the link between smell and memory recollection.

A couple of years ago I had one such episode. I took out my fennel seed spice jar and felt instantly sick in the stomach, so much so I had to keel over and hug in my tummy. Not long after I had a flashback to being 17 and drinking Slippery Nipples shooters (a combination of Baileys and Sambuca) and having my first very messy experience of alcohol. Fennel has an aniseed flavour, as does Sambuca!

The nose knows.

When I hugged a guy after not seeing him for seven years, he said to me, ‘You’ve still got the same smell. Patchouli. I remember it.’ We hadn’t seen one another in so long but he recalled my smell.

A friend tells me that when she walks through the front door of her house, she knows her partner is home just by the smell in the air.

The nose knows.

We’ve probably all kept an ex lovers t-shirt or a deceased person’s favourite hat just for their smell. I still have my grandmother’s beloved scarf lurking in my cupboard. And I take it out often.

 

From Mail Online. Photography by @Jacques Matthysen

 

Smells are powerful. Essentially by smelling things, we have a potential inbuilt reminder of whether something is good or not. We also have a way of navigating the world.

That’s how animals find pathogens and so can we. That’s how we used to find our mates in cavemen days and so can we still.

Today we mask our natural scents with synthetic fragrances, thinking they smell better, but really taking away our uniqueness and our ability to ‘filter’.

From my own personal experience, I believe we can make smells work for us in so many ways. But first we’ve got to remove the hindrances to this  – the artificial stuff!

Once we’ve done this, we become more attuned to the ways smells can warn and protect us, just like animals.

I can smell rain coming. I can smell my food when off. I can feel cleansed by a sage stick. I can be cooled my mint and warmed by ginger. I can stimulate my saliva by cutting open a lemon. I can be uplifted by a gardenia and I can be calmed by a whiff of freshly baked bread. I can use sandalwood to nourish and jasmine to soften.

In an odd ironic way, true smells, even cooking smells, can be overpowering at first when you’re accustomed to synthetic ones. Kind of like getting used to the taste of real sweetness after you’ve consumed white sugar for so long. If this is the case, slowly introduce them.

Let’s get rid of the rubbish and allow our nose to do what it does best. Smells are our personal bodyguard and compass packaged into one.

The nose knows.

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A Seasonal Life with Sharon Sztar, Australian writer, trainer and facilitator in Byron Bay.
06/02/2017
How to keep cool in summer without putting out your fire

“Summer breeze, makes me feel fine, blowin’ through the jasmine in my mind.” (Seals & Croft)

Ah, the summer breeze. The one that makes me want to while my days away under a big willow tree and sleep outside under the stars. Kind, caressing and so inviting on the skin.

Mother Nature in all her magnificent glory knows to give us this beautiful breeze to counter the otherwise sometimes unbearable summer heat.

Heat in moderation is a wonderful thing. It energises us and brings out our passion and zest for life.  Creativity and growth flourishes during periods of our life when heat and fire is in abundance.

Doing anything introverted and indoors is challenging for me during these months of the year; I really struggle to sit at the computer and write. No wonder most of Europe closes shop for August.

This is because summer is really happening on the outside and all of our own energy is moving outwards to match the heat in the environment. So we also want to be out there. Whether it be days at the beach, barbecues in backyards, lazy afternoons by a pool or socialising at eateries with friends and family; we simply just want to play!

 

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Frangipani love

 

In Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) summer is known as the ‘Big Yang’. The time of the year characterised by fire and heat. Both feed on our bodily fluids and harm our Yin, which is our more receptive calming nature.

This is where heat in excess can make the joyous feel of summer turn into something more aggressive and/or exhausting.

As someone who has a bit of ‘fire’ ready to flame up in her, I’ve learnt to balance the Yang of summer by working with it.

I get up early and spend the first couple of hours of the day walking on the beach, followed by an ocean dip and a laze in the sun. All of this awakens and enlivens me and makes me feel as if I’ve had a dose of external life before I settle down to do some work for the morning.

When the sun is at its peak at midday and beyond, and therefore our own heat is at its peak too, I try and take some time to siesta and enjoy that tantalising feel of the summer breeze. Time spent under a big tree, amongst the lush greenness of a forest or by the soothing blue of the water helps counter the propensity for heat and outbursts of energy.

 

A Seasonal Life with Sharon Sztar, Australian writer, trainer and facilitator in Byron Bay.

 

It seems logical to also consume cooling foods and drinks to disperse the heat and replenish body fluids. This is why nature’s bounty provides us with an array of delicious, juicy summer fruits and vegetables such as tomato, cucumber and zucchini.

But, and this is a big but, we all need to be very aware of not overdoing the cooling, especially cold, foods. This is where I personally became unstuck as the main challenge for all of us over the summer months is how to keep our body cool without putting out our digestive fire.

This is because the Yang of the body is more on our surface during summer, meaning that there is less heat within to light our internal digestive fire, in turn explaining why many of us simply feel like eating less.

Each of us will have differing strengths of digestive fire so it’s important to observe our own needs. In the most, a poor appetite, lethargy and fatigue, fluid retention, bloating and digestive concerns, together with a swollen and pale or white coated tongue is usually a good sign we’re stretching ourselves.

 

A Seasonal Life with Sharon Sztar, Australian writer, trainer and facilitator in Byron Bay.

 

 

I can overheat in summer but also have a tendency towards a temperamental digestive fire, so I’ve spent a few years tackling and mastering this quandary of mine.

It was that sensual summer breeze I adore so much that gave me my initial lead on how to address this.

The breeze is cool, but not cold. Unless you live in my hometown of Melbourne, where seasons change in one day, generally speaking the summer breeze is of a temperature our body nicely responds to.

So too should our food. Not too hot, yet not too cold either.

Refrigeration was created so that our foods could last longer, not because it’s better to eat food at that temperature. It takes a massive amount of energy to breakdown and essentially ‘cook’ cold food in our stomachs. Extra energy we don’t necessarily have in the midst of raging summer heat.

By keeping our food warm, whether it be lightly cooked or at least returned to room temperature, we’ll ensure we keep our digestive fire lit.

Likewise the breeze is light and airy, so should our food in the main. Heavy foods and big meals that nourish us in the colder months tend to weigh us down in the warmer months.

Lots of cold and heavy foods will not only burden our already weaker digestive fire, but in some cases put it out all together. This is most common with elderly, young children and those recovering from an illness, but it’s also happening more often today with people of all ages due to the added stresses of the environment and foods we eat playing havoc with our digestion.

The main lifestyle change I made to deal with this was that when I get hot, rather than indulge in cold beverages, I opt for an ocean swim, cool shower or even splashing water or placing cold towels on my pulse points, back of neck or feet. This way I keep my digestive fire slowly humming away but manage to also soothe the heat on the surface of my body.

 

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Summer plums

 

 

Here are some of the other things that particularly work for me in terms of diet:

  • Choosing a warm drink that cools and cleanses the body, such as green tea. It has become my summer elixir. Known in TCM to disperse heat, cool heart fire, calm the mind and expel toxins, it really knows how to take the edge off a summer fire and eliminate damp-heat.  Other good options include mint and camomile teas and squeezes of lime or lemon in your warm beverage of choice. I also wait for the warm drinks to cool slightly so that I’m not getting a rush of heat in.
  • If I’m really craving a cold drink, I have it between meals and drink it slowly. This way there is time for the digestive fire to recover and re-boot before needing to digest food again. And I always avoid ice.
  • Including a nourishing sweet element to every meal to help warm the centre. This is something we ought to be doing all year round, but the key difference in summer is to just reduce the quantity. It could be adding a few pieces of roasted chicken, pumpkin or sweet potato to a salad, or even a trickle of honey into a lemon drink. A bland, bitter meal of steamed vegetables on its own may seem light for summer but will not keep our centre burner firing.
  • I always have a warm breakfast, or at least the major component is warm. This is when we want to be moving in line with the Yang and rising sun. Starting the day with cold food is like putting out a fire before we’ve done the cooking.
  • I eat raw food or salads at lunchtime when the digestive fire is naturally at its peak, but I will never have it on its own – there always needs to be a warming element.
  • I enjoy fresh seasonal fruits that add fluids to the body but also give it a bit of an energy boost at the same time.
  • The way I add ‘air’ into my meals is by including delicate and light foods such as herbs and green leaves or ones with a slight bitter or astringent bite. And wherever possible I like to bring that summer breeze into my meals by sitting outside or by an open window or door.

 

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First blooming of Gardenias

 

Sleep can become an issue during summer. Not just hot sweaty nights when you really want to throw off any cover and take your bed outside, but wild dreams that wake you at regular intervals and leave for a restless night. I’ve known these only too well over the years…

Once again I like the TCM explanation for this, which essentially says our spirit, which resides in the heart and blood, is unsettled. Our spirit’s home gets harmed by excess heat and unless we do things to balance that heat during the day, our spirit will have nowhere to settle calmly at night.

Keeping hot, spicy food to a minimum, finding time during the day to rest, revive and do some heart-centred activity, such as meditation, singing or dancing, or even deep breathing, all helps.

For me, the colour white settles my spirit. I’m always opting for white sheets, white clothes and white flowers, such as jasmine, gardenia and frangipani, in my hair and house during the heated heart-centred summer.

And, for a little bit of alternate (even controversial) thought, one of the best foods to calm the heart-mind in summer is wheat! Both TCM and Ayurveda recommend it as the summer grain of choice, together with long-grain rice.

If we manage to keep excess heat at bay, summer can truly be the most luxurious, heart-warming and joyful time of the year. Enjoy its gifts!

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30/01/2017
Life after a death sentence

My father has been given a second chance at life. He is one of the privileged few to have come out of a cancer battle minus a tumour.

In January last year I was sobbing into the pages of a book of his life I had compiled 18 months earlier for his 70th birthday. These were the pages I’d left to be filled. The years we’d yet to experience together. The moments that were still to be created.

“Sharon, next time you need to buy a car, get a Japanese one. Enough of the European cars. More trouble than they’re worth. Promise me.”
Silent tears streamed down my cheeks as he uttered those words.

He wasn’t planning on being around for my next car purchase.

I’d dragged out chunks of the memoir I am writing. Chapters where I’d mentioned him. The episodes of our life shared. The words that meant so much to me when I wrote them, but now seemed somewhat small against the enormity of what we faced.

Yet I still was determined to show him a paragraph or two. Wanting so much for him to be proud of me. Wanting so much for him to know I cared. That I loved him. While quietly petrified that he would now be my dedication, instead of my reader.

He won’t be around for the book launch.

I’ve said goodbye to my dad. It was June 2018 in a dark cubicle in the intensive care unit of the John Flynn Hospital on the Gold Coast. He was about to be rushed to another hospital for emergency lifesaving surgery, a complication of an aneurysm that developed during his cancer treatment.

He was bleeding to death and it looked grim.

Mum and I were busy making arrangements to transfer him back to Melbourne. The wise, kind and supportive intensive care doctor gently, but demandingly, placed his hand on my shoulder.

“Go sit with your father. Everything else can wait.”

I froze and sweated simultaneously. He’d obviously been there many times before. He’d obviously seen others miss precious seconds. He obviously knew what he was doing.

He won’t be around for my birthday later this month.

I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready to say farewell. He needed to read my book. He needed to see me get married. He needed to be here to help me buy cars.

But it’s amazing how you become ready. And in that moment, only three words count.

“I don’t want him to be in pain. I’d prefer he go in peace,” Mum barely murmured to me as we left the hospital for our hotel room in the early hours of the next morning.

Where it came from, I’m not sure, but my response to her gave me the first glimmer of hope I’d had in months.

“If he does live, each day will be an additional blessing. We must live in the now; it’s the only thing we can do.”

“I don’t want to,” she cried, “I want to know there is a future.”

But none of us do. Ever, really.

He may not be here tomorrow.

But he was. And he is. The things I thought about when we were initially told of his prognosis are both odd and insightful.

I drove past Movie World theme park on the Gold Coast and burst into tears (again) as I remembered us driving our hire jeep in the car park some 30 years ago. I even saw the soft pink tank top I was wearing.

I sat outside the ’60s style brown-bricked home we lived in when I was born and I imagined what it was like for the three of us in that tiny, first-floor flat.

Essentially, I recalled the stories from those pages of life.

So where to now. Where do you go after a life sentence has been lifted.

The interesting thing about all of our appointments with the doctors is that not once was there ever a discussion about the root cause. Nor what happened if he survived.

The first always just went back to genetics or luck of the draw. The second probably assumed impossible.

I dislike those blanks. They would tell us to indulge him occasionally with sweets or a shot of vodka, just because “he still had to live”.

They never told us to ensure he breathed fresh air or saw sunsets or felt the touch of his family and endearment of his friends.

When I look back, the underlying theme in all of my tearful moments and memories was love. It wasn’t our disagreements, our differing life philosophies or our annoying habits. They were simple everyday moments.

How do we live now?

I have taught my dad to chase the moon. One Sunday morning, not long after he received his reprieve, he woke me early.

“Come look at the moon,” he shouted like an excited child, literally dragging me out of the bed I was sleeping in at their place.

The moon was fading across from the smaller light of Venus, but it was bright and still prominent in the sky.

As I stood next to him observing the magical scene I realised this is where we go now. To filling those empty pages
of my book with more memories. With more love. With more presence. With more living in the moment.

We live to love and be loved.

To know life’s fragility; to know life’s beauty; to know life’s pain. And, to live.

Sharon Sztar is a writer, blogger and women’s wellness educator based in Byron Bay

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05/12/2016
The blessing in a black eye

I recently experienced my first black eye.

Before you presume, no, I wasn’t bashed, nor was I in a car accident or on a sporting field. Rather I was sleeping in a strange bedroom where I’d somewhat stupidly decided to leave the door half open.

Can I emphasise: NEVER do that. Doors are meant to be open or closed, not somewhere in between. This is especially pertinent when you’re used to sleeping in a room with no blinds, where the moonlight naturally creeps in.

So it happened on a semi-conscious approach to the bathroom around midnight. Basically, I ran straight into the corner of the wooden door!

The pain was excruciating. I yelped and then fell to the floor, where I stayed and sobbed for the next hour. While holding an ice-pack to my brow, I snottily went through half a box of tissues.

I cried for the pain of the bang, yet I also cried for what I suspect was a backlog of emotions that finally had consent to come streaming out.

In the previous weeks I’d got into an old (tiresome) habit of spending too much time in my head. I’d been analysing ‘life-stuff’. When I get into that space I know it’s usually to avoid the accompanying emotions that come with the very experiences I’m trying to analyse. Not to mention all that upward-focused activity leaves you a little uncentred.

When I told a close friend about the incident the next day, she kindly suggested that it sounded like exactly what I needed.

The silly idea of leaving the door half-open was most likely the consequence of not really being present. It was as if I needed a literal hard knock on the head to get me crashing back down to earth; an angel whispering, or rather screaming, into my ear, “Sharon, get out of there!”

Sometimes we need a bit of physical pain to get us back in touch with our body. Many people even self-inflict in order to feel something, anything. Personally I know my own chronic illness, with the associated pain and symptoms, was a larger version of my black eye incident; an opportunity to get me out of my head where I’d spent most of my life to date.

Street Art by Mark Samsonovich

Street Art by Mark Samsonovich

 

Over the pursuing week as my eyelid slowly changed hue from a blush pink to a deep purple, I had regular reminders to step back into my body. The area was so sensitive that I’d flinch whenever I aggravated it. Interestingly, on top of annoying buggers like blinking or chewing, the things that irritated it the most were thinking activities or frowns – head stuff!

I too found it a tad ironic that the accident happened on the eve of the AFL Grand Final. Just the previous week, as I watched the end of the Preliminary Final match, I found myself feeling grateful for the football field; giving young men the ‘permission’ to shed tears when they may otherwise not.

There is something about a good cry and the subsequent emotional release that helps us move through stuck energy. The key though for me is that I move through it, rather than use it as an opportunity to indulge in the pain and victimhood.

I’ve discovered when I ‘allow’ a wound to be, rather than fight it,’ I somehow deal with the pain differently and more swiftly. In the past I may have resisted the black eye, complained about it and ruminated over the ‘potential’ permanent damage it would create. Instead I chose to embrace it and see it as the somewhat strange gift it was.

On returning from Melbourne to Byron Bay, I proudly displayed my wound and shared my war story; I took memento photos, after all I wasn’t planning on doing this again; and via a compliment from someone I worked out that purple colouring actually amplifies the hazel green of my eyes so I went and purchased some make-up in that shade. Added bonus indeed!

By the time the wound healed, I’d also reclaimed the more centred approach to life I prefer to take these days. The bang had literally worked its magic.

 

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