A Heart That Loves Is Always Young

True love is the best thing in the world, except for cough drops. - William Goldman, The Princess Bride

I will freely admit, before you get too far into this post, that it is, to paraphrase THE BEST MOVIE OF ALL TIME (see above quote if you are one of the ignorami)...

A kissing blog.

Strictly speaking it is about love, but there is some kissing in here, so if the thought of puckering up, buttercup, makes you want to avert your eyes in horror, then turn away now and read something else.

Maybe something about footy. Or Gina Rinehart making the Forbes Most Influential Star Wars Characters List. Or Tony Abbott and Christopher Pyne (if that mental image doesn't help you stop thinking about smoochy stuff, nothing will).

For those of you who would rather begin the beguine, here goes.

The title of this blog comes directly from a Greek proverb. It is probably not an accurate translation; there probably isn't an accurate translation. Much like Catullus's odi et amo, it is a phrase which really only resonates in its original form. But for those of us who love to love, we try to put at least a poor shadow of meaning to it in whichever tongue we embrace as our own.

Too often we see those whose hearts have grown old. It is an inexplicable sadness, because a heart that loses the ability to embrace others loses elasticity. It becomes hardened and coarse; its walls thicken and atrophy. It becomes deaf to the voices of those who would wish to see the beauty of its beat.

A heart which only knows how to say 'I hate' or perhaps even worse 'I don't care' builds a thick shell of hurt and apathy which ends in youth and summertime disappearing - and winter cold setting in.

A heart that does not love ends up dying.

I think I wrote on Valentine's Day, which usually fills me with horror and dread, about the fact that maybe as a day it provided people who find it hard to say 'I love you' out loud with a chance to - well, keep their hearts young. A Hallmark Holiday was perhaps an outlet for them to express themselves because for some reason, ordinarily, it was too hard for them to find the right words, or the right time, or the right place.

The more I think about this, the more I call 'bah humbug'.

If you have a heart that loves, show it. Give of your all. Don't hide behind convention and a sense of embarrassment at actually admitting you genuinely care for the person you're with. I'm not talking about taking each others' clothes off in public (well, in daylight at least) - but you know what? If you feel like disco boogying down the aisles of the local Coles, then go for it. Throw in a kiss or two while you're at it.

A heart that loves is always young. And quite possibly perennially stuck in the 70s, but that's a personal choice.

Hug each other like you will never hug again. Kiss deeply and kiss often (here's the kissy part). Throw your partner down towards the ground like the fab 'end of World War Two sailor pashes girl' iconic image. Write bad poetry. Better yet make use of the infinite resources of the interwebs and find good poetry and spout it.

Keep your heart eternally young.

Whether you are 18 or 80, if you are lucky enough to know that bolt of lightning, that kick galvanic - don't waste it. Otherwise you will end up with something tragic.

A muscle which does nothing more than pump blood around your body and keep you alive. With no kisses.

What a tragic fate that would be.

Twisting By The Pool

““Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.””

— William Goldman, The Princess Bride

It has been, to put it mildly, a very trying week. I am not even going to pretend otherwise. There are times when it is better to lay down one's arms, stop trying to rule the known world and simply admit defeat; to say to the dragon 'come out, come out wherever you are' and let it flame you for a few moments before taking up shield and sword again.

Even princesses in shining armour need a break every so often.

I was talking last week about not sucking it up. And yet again, I may sound as though I am having a bit of a whinge. In a way I suppose I am, because I am talking about being in physical agony. But I am also talking about gratitude, and how I feel about normally having it - well, normally having it pretty damn good.

Planet Pain. It stinks. It is not a nice place to be - at all. I don't like visiting, and I cannot believe that I used to basically live here on a full time basis.

What I also cannot believe is how much I take for granted now in terms of how well I am generally, and how grateful I am for the progress that I have made, and continue to make, in terms of staying healthy and fighting what my body and brain would quite like me to give in to at times.

I am also grateful that I know the reasons behind my pain this week, and that I know there is a 'most of the time I am fine' end in sight. For so many people whom I know who have Parkinson's or Dystonia - or both - they are not so lucky. They hurt all the time.

All. The. Time.

Imagine being 30 years old. Or 35. Or 40. And you wake up in the middle of the night and your back is twisted, and your feet are in cramps so severe that they form circles, and your jaw is trying to make its way through your collarbone just for the hell of it. And it just won't stop. Not just for minutes, or hours; but days. Or weeks. Or months.

Or years.

I have only faced days at a time.

My beautiful Rogers - and in fact so many people I know - face, and have faced, the latter.

Sometimes I underestimate her bravery because of her silly sense of humour and because she is so gorgeous that you forget about the lean-over. And she doesn't talk about the pain.

But then whenever I end up as a pretzel I remember.

And I think all over again about how amazing she is. How amazing all of the wonderful people that I know are.

And how grateful I am for their strength.

I will say this, and it is something it has taken me a long time to learn; if you are in physical pain, don't be afraid to admit it. I am not talking about sitting there and  constantly griping 'I'm hurting', because believe me, people will get sick of it pretty bloody quickly. But - if you don't speak out, then nobody will understand just what is going on, and when you are irritated, or sharp, or simply aren't coping, they will be puzzled, and perhaps angry, because it will be out of the blue. If you are factual and admit to what is going on with your body, then understanding from those who care about you will be there. Not from everyone - but from those who care for and love you, yes.

I am constantly and consistently grateful for those who express empathy to and for me. Not in a 'keep me in an illness box' way, or a pitying way - but in a 'let's get you better, constructive, slay that goddamn pain dragon' way. Particularly the Dread Pirate who has been very good (in a piratey fashion naturally).

It helps me put the armour back on, however heavy it may feel, and get ready to fight the good fight again.

Mistress of the Universe?

You bet your sweet... donkey.

Works for me.

Not Waving, But Drowning

“Inigo Montoya: I donna suppose you could speed things up?
Man in Black: If you’re in such a hurry, you could lower a rope or a tree branch or find something useful to do.
Inigo Montoya: I could do that. I have some rope up here, but I do not think you would accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you.
Man in Black: That does put a damper on our relationship. ”

— The Princess Bride

This may seem initially like a very depressing post, and nothing at all to do with gratitude, or even shoes for that matter (and when shoes aren't helping it means it's a bloody great beast of a black dog kind of day). And you would be right in some ways. It isn't a happy, marshmallow-filled, fluffy bunny kind of entry. But that's OK. Because sometimes, life just isn't like that - which is one of the reasons why I write about shoes some of the time (see Heel Thyself for background on that one).

I have been having what I tend to term a Long Dark Teatime of The Soul, or as I also call it, A Need To Give Myself A Good Slap Around The Head And Sort Myself Out. I am aware that the latter is not a technical psychiatric or psychological term, and quite possibly is actually frowned upon in said circles, but it tends to work for me most of the time. And one of the ways I deliver said Slap is to write down what is wrong - and also what is right. Having now done that, things are seeming to make a lot more sense.

Nobody can be happy one hundred percent of the time. That would make them robots. But sometimes - well, sometimes the happiness quotient slips below the acceptable mark to a point where it's hard to get the energy to come back to the median point on the table. And this is where the Slap is so important - and also hard to deliver when one is physically and emotionally tired.

Please be aware that I don't go around physically hitting myself in the head - I may be depressed but I am not masochistic (those who have witnessed me wearing shoes that are vastly uncomfortable but incredibly gorgeous please hold their tongues. Oh - I just mentioned shoes - see, writing things down does help!).

What I am talking about with the Slap is recognising that something is wrong; that you are perhaps caught in the UnderToad of Life and are being swept out from the shore. That the frantic hand gestures are not a sign of buggerising around in the waves and having a good time but are actually a gesture for help.

This is where the gratitude comes in. And it takes two forms.

I am grateful that I have incredible people around me who both are close enough and intuitive enough to recognise when I am in fact flailing and coughing up salt water. They are supportive and empathetic without being sooky-la-la (which they know I can't stand above all else) and they reach out to grab me without my having to reach for them first. They are all incredibly busy people - some in massively stressful situations or even outright dangerous occupations - but they support me, and in the right way. And secondly - I am grateful to myself. Which sounds supremely egotistical I know; but once upon a time I would not have had the strength to admit I was going under the water; and would instead have just let it take me out to sea and ended up who knows where for who knows how long.

So you see, this is about gratitude. As it turned out, it was also a little bit about shoes.

Mostly though, it's about not going under.

Because the School of the Slap doesn't believe in that.