Morning Pages & Basketball Shots

My friend, KC, is the most optimistic and motivated person I know. We met a few years ago at a beginners’ writing course. While I have remained a beginner (and am actually going to repeat the course this year!), KC has gone from strength to strength. She has had many-a-feature published in magazines and is awaiting the release of her first children’s book (http://www.karencollum.com.au/).

Though KC is (obviously) very talented and dedicated, she once told me about a book which helped release her inner creativity and set her onto a more confident path.

The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron and Mark Bryan offers a 12-week step-by-step guide to becoming more creative and productive – in whatever it is that you want to do. In true ‘me’ style however, I floundered somewhere midway through the book, having not done my homework or followed through on some exercises. I found the book under my bed recently and dusted it off (not sure if it says something about me or my cleaners?!) and put it aside to potentially revisit. I have never been into self-help books and rarely resort to non-fiction of any sort. However, happening upon this book again got me thinking about the usefulness of taking bits and pieces (or what you need) from others’ offerings.

A couple of the key tools in The Artist’s Way are the Artist’s Dates and Morning Pages. I have to admit I never really took to the Artist’s Dates. I live alone and already spend much time pondering my life and doing whatever it is that I want to do. But the Morning Pages I found quite useful. Eventually. That is, when I stopped thinking about whether what I was doing was ‘right’ or ‘wrong’.

The idea behind the Morning Pages is that you are supposed to write three pages first thing each morning. Long-hand. A brain-dump as such. To refresh the mind and find whatever is lurking in there, says Cameron.

Initially I worried that the Morning Pages were akin to a diary for me. I worried that what I was spewing onto the page was a self-absorbed diatribe rather than insightful and poetic revelations.

But I soon came to learn the difference. When keeping a diary, we write what we need to, or want to, and then we stop. With the Morning Pages you have to keep going until you have filled three pages. Having to stretch my mind to think of things to write about meant that my morning blither ended up becoming admissions of things I wouldn’t normally include in a diary entry.

So, while I managed the Morning Pages, some of the other exercises led to my downfall. One of the (many) tenets in the book was that to be more creative, you have to enjoy life and have more fun. I failed miserably in trying to identify things I do now which I would describe to be ‘fun’. I did however, manage to identify a number of things I did as a child. Even at this lofty age, I could remember fun times and how the smallest of things could incite hours of entertainment and interest.

Though formal practice and training became a chore, I identified the ‘act’ of going and having basketball shots something that I found peaceful and cathartic as a teenager. The nearby basketball courts were a place I could be alone with my own thoughts as I threw a big round ball (more often than not) into a slightly bigger, but still round, hoop.

So, the homework exercise should have been easy. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to recognise that the mere act of ‘having shots’ (as I refer to it) could assist in getting me in touch with my inner child, unleashing stifled creativity and lead to a whole new me. Or something.

Day after day, then week after week passed, with me not having bought a basketball or done anything about this piece of homework. Eventually The Artist’s Way (and all it offered) was foisted out of eyeshot under my bed and I retreated back into my uncreative world.

But... Perhaps it is not too late. A month ago (and just over one year later) I found myself in a large discount store staring at basketballs for $20. I tested them all to find one sufficiently pumped (after all I don’t have a pump and if I had to pump the damned thing up, another year may have passed).

Another few weeks passed. But, 5 days ago, feeling unsettled and thwarted-in-every-possible-way (and lolling in bed sulking - about what exactly I don’t know), I jumped in my car and found myself at a nearby half-court. Though I once played and practised a lot, my initial offerings to the God-of-Basketball were somewhat pitiful. I had no ball control. My shooting action felt ugly. But… no one else was around to see. I had music blaring in my ears compliments of my iPod and I was free. Free to play.

I have been twice since. My ball control still sucks. I am incredibly unfit and grapple with the guilt of ‘having shots’ rather than doing some real cardiovascular exercise like trudging up and down hills. But… Today I almost made it ‘around the world’ (shooting from each point of the keyway [key]) without missing.

I hope to continue going. Once or twice a week would be fine. Soon I will feel more confident. I will move further from the keyway; then to the 3 point line. But it won’t be about ‘how well’ I do. It will just be about ‘doing’. About ‘being’.

And, I am going to dust off The Artist’s Way again. Work through it. Do what I like. Skip over what I don’t. Who knows what will come next?

Borrowed time

Nine years ago someone died. I don't know how or why. I don't even know who. But I do know that their death benefited my family in a way that we will never forget and in a way that we can never repay.

My father has had heart problems for as long as I can remember. I vaguely recall his hurried trips to Brisbane from regional Queensland when I was a youngster. Not to mention the regular check ups which, to my mind, always seemed tokenistic and the rotating array of interns, fairly disinterested.

He was an unlikely candidate for early-onset heart problems as a non-smoker and non-drinker. As a child and young man, he was an athlete - reportedly excelling at most sports he played, before settling into rugby league. And in those days he was as close to 'professional' as you could get.

So, he was a fit and healthy bugger. But, his heart wasn't. For most of my life I had known that - at some point - my dad would need surgery to make it all better. The doctors just needed to wait until it was bad enough to do something about it. I was overseas in 1996 when they finally discovered that the problem was worse than they initially thought. The wall of the pumping chamber of his heart was damaged. It seemed that the rheumatic fever he had as a child was more brutal than anyone realized and it meant that the valve replacement they had always planned wouldn't make any difference. Then came the news patients and their families dread… The only option available to him was a heart transplant.

Devastating as the news was for my family, we took solace in the fact that we still had time. He was only 57 years old and still quite healthy. The life or death wait for an organ donor and transplant surgery seemed a long way off.

His only grandchild was born later that same year. Always good with kids he was a devoted grandfather and 'Tinkers' seemed to revel in the attention. But as 60 approached his health worsened. I was overseas (again) and insulated from the stress when his pacemaker failed and he had a cardiac arrest. He was in hospital at the time and easily resuscitated, but my mother was jarred. But defibrillator installed he was again sent home. To wait. Not for a donor, but to be sick enough to even make it onto the waiting list.

Only months later, in December 2000, he was again admitted to intensive care. My mother's correspondence had become filled with increasing stories of his deterioration. A man, who had very recently played an excellent game of tennis now had difficulties walking around the yard. Worse still, there were comments from others. My once-upbeat mother sounded worried. I was wracked with guilt at being so far away - with my father so ill and my mother obviously needing support.

After being in hospital for a week and undergoing a barrage of tests there was little else the doctors could do to improve his condition. My father was officially added to the organ donor register. It was Saturday. The transplant team delivered a sad message for others, but a good one for us: that it was a time of year when more lives are lost and more donations (inadvertently) made.

I arrived home from overseas late the following day and was surprised to see my recently-active and healthy 61 year old father looking old. He had always looked so young for his age. That night, on Sunday the 10th of December, my father called from hospital to say he had been told they had a donor heart for him.

We raced up to the hospital. It was 9pm. The next 12 hours were surreal. Though the donor heart was a match, we would not know until about 3am if it was undamaged. My mother and I waited overnight with my father as he was prepared for surgery. It was an emotional night, but what I remember most now, was how resolute he was that he HAD to have the transplant. He didn’t seem to consider the alternative. His only fear was that the transfer wouldn’t take place. Never once did he speak of possible repercussions of having the surgery – death – either during the operation or shortly after. So then, it was only joy that greeted the witching-hour news that the heart was good and the operation would go ahead.

We walked him to the theatre at 5am before leaving him in the hands of green robe-clad surgeons. As the rest of the world awoke, we started making calls to tell friends and relatives. And then waited.
Four hours later dad was out of surgery. He woke later that day. There were a few early hiccups, but these related more to the enormity of what had happened and the emotional rollercoaster that accompanied it. The concoction of drugs he is on prevents his own body rejecting the interloping heart. As yet it hasn’t.

He was as good as new. Still is. Almost. My father used to be larger than life. He loved, played, worked, stressed and obsessed with passion. Whether it was battling illness for years before the surgery, the surgery itself, or the concept of living on borrowed time, he is changed. He isn’t the same. I suspect that there are some emotional scars that could only be understood whose heart was stopped, removed and replaced by a stranger’s. His confidence has diminished. He often talks about feeling unworthy. Undeserving. But I think, ‘If not him, then who?’ But despite this, there are still glimpses of the old dad and we treasure them.

Nine years have passed since the stranger’s death. My father has seen his only grandchild grow from a toddler to a beautiful teenager. He has (to date) had nine extra years to wander this earth, spending time with his family and friends. And those of us who love him (and there are many) have been blessed to have him for almost a decade more (so far) than we otherwise might…


The night before the operation, as we stalked the corridors of the hospital, another family was echoing our actions. A 21yr old man was to receive the lungs from the same donor. His wife and parents were there. At the hospital. My mother and father saw them often during regular transplant checkups. Never responding as well as dad, the young man died one year after the transplant. I often wondered if his parents resented the fact that my then 62 year old father was still going strong. But, they did get an extra year with their son and in a lifetime of 22 years, 12 months is a hell of a long time.

Do-over

I used to think it was very strange that my brother had an uncle younger than himself. Even stranger, the fact that my grandmother had her last child (at 40 years of age), after her eldest child – my mother – gave birth to her first child (at 20 years of age).

Now that I have reached the meteoric heights of my 40s, it seems less strange. Well, not the 20 year gap between my grandmother’s first and last child, or the notion of becoming a grandmother at 40, but having a child at 40 doesn’t seem strange at all.

What IS strange to me, is the concept of people still having kids in their early 20s, which means that by the time they reach my age, they could well be a grandparent. When I see shows like Australian Idol or the like, I am shocked that the performers’ parents look my age. I wonder how someone my age could possibly have almost-grown children when I, myself, am still contemplating (only now) embarking on the parenthood journey.

Today I received the quarterly magazine from the college I lived at while I attended University. Each time I one arrives, I scour the pages, considering the photos of current college residents. Unlike the broader and more diverse University population, they are usually fresh out of school and in their late teens or possibly their early 20s.

I try to remember my own face at 18 years of age and wonder how I compared to the bright-eyed enthusiasm beaming back at me from the Alumni magazine. Putting aside the fact that the college did not print a newsletter when I attended, I cannot reconcile the fact that 24 years have passed since I first entered the musty and unwelcoming corridors of what-was-to-be-my-home for a couple of years.

Even as I typed that line, I thought that surely it must only be 14 years. Surely my subtraction has gone awry somewhere? It means I have to wonder what the hell I have been doing for the past 24 years! It means I look at the current shiny batch of collegians with envy, and – worse still – regret.

Why can’t that be me, I wonder, wishing more than anything that I could live the past 20 years again. Differently.

I want a do-over. I want to hit the “Undo (Typing)” button and be 18 years old with my whole life ahead of me.

I cannot begin to even think of the number of things I would do differently. And that’s sad. There are so few things I would do the same. And that’s even sadder.

I remember my brother surprising us with a visit home from university when I was in my final year of high school and sitting exams. He picked me up from school and though I wasn’t one to stress about exams in those days, I was probably complaining about what was expected of us. I still remember him telling me to make the most of that time. High School. He said that everything gets harder after that. University. Work. Life. He was right.

My niece cringes when I try to offer her ‘life lessons’. Usually about important issues – don’t start shaving your legs unless you really have to; don’t over-pluck your eyebrows; white heels are never a good look etc. But, there are some lessons I wish I had paid more attention to when I was younger.

I recall being at basketball training one day, at a time when I was only 15 or 16 but playing in a senior women’s representative team. A teammate, who seemed old at the time but was possibly only about 30, told me how much she envied me; how much she wished she were me. To her, I had all of this potential and my life ahead of me. To me then, in the throes of a battle with anorexia and life seemingly bleak, she made no sense. And yet, I have remembered the incident. The conversation.

I feel the same when I see a group of young women – fit, healthy and alive. Before life’s pressures start to wear one down. Before bits start to sag. Before exercise becomes a chore to fit into a busy day. Before you suddenly realise you are in your mid 30s and single and wonder where the hell life has gone.

My life is (I hope) far from over. But there are so many things I should have done, that I didn’t. Decisions which should have been different. Rules obeyed and dreams deferred. There is some saying about how you should regret only what you have done. Not what you haven’t. I would like to think I could live by this tenet in future, so that I am not sitting here in another 20+ years, writing of my regret.

So then – if they would listen - I would be saying (to these collegians staring back at me as I turn the magazine’s pages) to make the most of what you have. You only get one chance and life is shorter than you think.