Bali Healing

What a week I've had!

A last minute trip to Bali for work (sucks to be me), but actually right now, it does suck to be me. I lost my mum a few weeks ago and I wasn't sure being on this trip was going to be right.

With a last minute trip, that means last minute scheduling which makes it all a bit more stressful. For me though, this is the last week I could make this trip before March 2016, so it had to be done and I decided to view it as a nice distraction from my sadness.

And it worked.

Bali has been the most healing place for me to be this week. Not only have I ticked off my work schedule with honours, I've had the time and distance to heal.

Like so many Australians, I cut my teeth on overseas travel by coming to Bali when I was 18. I came with my bestie Kylie and we partied hard after getting over the culture shock. I've been returning back for work or play for the past (cough cough) 20+++ (++) years

I love Bali. I love the burning smells of incense and the earthiness of everything. I love the humidity. I love the gentleness of the Balinese people. I love the motorbike noises. I love the tripping hippies (but not the bogans). I love the frangipanis in the swimming pool. I love the sunset on the beach. I love the heady fragrance of holidays.

When we landed on Sunday, it felt like home. I felt wrapped in comfort.

And even with my heavy schedule of appointments, and sitting in traffic jams for hours - I was surrounded by truly kind and nurturing souls who kept an eye out for me.

I detox'd from caffiene, carbs and sugar (and still allowed myself some decent cocktails). I was massaged and skin-loved and had my nails done beautifully. In black - to honour my grieving.

I was checked in on. I was talked to. I was looked after.

The inner hippie chick has surfaced once again. I'm zen and blissed out.

My heart is in a good space.

Dedicated to a beautiful and nurturing nurse (Tamara) who accompanied me.

Grief, Distractions and Healing

Grief sucks. 

Its irrational and unpredictable and unreasonable. 

My mum died two weeks ago and I don't think it's hit me yet. I haven't sobbed uncontrollably or broken down on public transport. Sure I'm deeply sad, but I haven't consumed my days with looking at photos of her, rehashing old memories. Listening to music to remind me of her. Listening to my voicemail to hear her voice one more time. 

I haven't sobbed until my eyes were dry and my ribs were aching. I'm not filling my days with thoughts of the future without my mum. 

I didn't go out and get a tattoo. 

The taste of my tears is not a constant. 

This is what grief is like in the movies and I haven't done this and yet I'm not the same as I was three weeks ago. My mums death has shifted something so deep in me.

I've changed. I'm different. 

I've had conversations I wouldn't normally have had. I've used language I wouldn't normally use. I thought things I've never thought before. I've felt things I never felt before. I'm not even making sense to myself most of the time. This may be all a distraction to avoid the process, but I have no idea why I'm being like this. 

I'm in Bali for work, only a couple of weeks after my mum fucking died. How is that normal? Who goes overseas after just burying their mum? 

What the fuck is wrong with me? 

Being in Bali feels so zen and peaceful and right. It's work, but my downtime is nice. I'm being kind to myself. I'm being healthy. I'm focusing on only me. I'm ok with swearing. I'm ok with my thoughts. I'm ok with where I'm at and what I'm doing. 

And yet it all just sucks and I'm preparing for the flood of grief. 

Sitting in the front row.......

I never want to sit in the front pew of a funeral ever again. 

I never want to write a eulogy ever again. 

I never want to stand in front of a crowded chapel and read heartfelt words through tears, struggling to breath as I say goodbye in an honourable and dignified and graceful way. 

I never want to be that kind of "strong" ever again. 

I never want to see the last rise of a chest. The last struggle for breath. The last undignified ugly process of death. 

I never want to say goodbye to someone that I love. Ever. Again. 

But I know that I will have to go through all of the above at some point in my future because I am surrounded by people I love and who love me back. I know that death is a part of living. I know this, but I don't like it. 

It hurts like hell. Death is more painful for those left behind and my heart is aching for everyone who loved you.

I know that time will heal the pain and my heart will not be heavy when I think of you in the future. I know that over time I'll stop thinking "this time last Christmas, this time last birthday, this time last...". I know this will get better and it will stop aching. 

And I know this because I was given the most beautiful parents a girl could ask for, who taught me how to be compassionate and caring and love people with all my heart. 

It's time for healing now, for being thankful that you lived and loved. 

Thank you mum. For everything. 

Maureen Fryar

26th Feb '49 - 5th Oct '15

Open Letter to a Pervert......

Dear Dude with the smallest penis in the world, 

Monday was my birthday and I truly I love my birthdays. Unlike many other middle aged women, I celebrate every birthday and embrace getting older. 

I love my birthday so much that I put reminders everywhere - colleagues outlook calendars, post it notes around the house, messages on my husbands phone. My closest friends usually message me nice and early to wake me up because they know how much I love my special day (thanks Ky). 

This birthday (14th Sept, just in case you want to put it in your phone for next year), you were the first person to send me a message! How cool is that! And you don't even know me. 

I also get that you didn't know I was on-call, which meant my phone (my work phone) was beside my bed, ready to take your 1:30am phone call. 

And call you did. But you hung up before I could work out who you were. 

So you sent me a pic of yourself. 

Now because I wear glasses and it was the middle of the night, I didn't quite understand what you were trying to achieve and I innocently thought you were sending me a picture of Pinnochio (not quite at the lie telling stage). 

But then I realised you were sending me a picture of your little penis. 

Dude, this is what Snapchat is for. Snapchat means it disappears after about 20mins. Which in your case would have been a really nice way of disappearing into oblivion and not remaining on a strangers phone. 

But then you called me again! Some heavy breathing on the other end, and me threatening to report you to the police probably resulted in you "losing" the loving feeling. 

But being the zen chick that I am, I forgive you. 

I didn't report you to the police. I wanted to, but then I saw the funny side. You sent a pic of your tiny penis to the wrong number. You didn't get as lucky as you'd hoped, but I've dined out on your story all week. I reckon I have a months worth of story telling.

In fact, because  of you, I rated my 46th Birthday an 11.5 out of 10. It started with a dick, and it ended with the end of a dick (Tony Abbott). 

Thanks for making my birthday pretty bloody fantastic!

Lisa. 
(PS, dont forget to put my birthday in your diary for next year!)

Saying Goodbye to my mum

I'm currently in the throws of watching my mother die and it's horrible. It's undignified and ugly and hard. And in our Western culture, we don't have a 'nice' process for it.

My mum is one of my greatest mentors. Despite extreme adversity, she educated herself and worked her way up through the corporate ladder. So proud of her job, she remained humble in her achievements and always delivered her tasks with integrity and professionalism. Her big ticks in life came from everything she achieved. A loving successful family, a beautiful home and a wonderful career.

Her early beginnings were purely to survive - she would work menial jobs just to clothe and feed us and yet she did this with pride and grace. She cleaned houses and took in ironing, all the while maintaining a clean and safe home for us, and being there after school to make sure we were looked after. We were loved without question, and we always knew it. Such a strong lady who taught me the value of working hard and keeping those you love close.

She loved to shop. Oh My God! Did she love to shop! Every one of the bedrooms in her home has a wardrobe full of her purchases. Lovely clothes, jewellery, shoes and handbags.

She loved to decorate her home. Her home is impeccable and could be photographed for Vogue at any time of the day. Beautiful furnishings and floors so clean you could eat off them.

She loved to spoil her offspring. There is nothing she wouldn't do for her children and grandchildren (and now great grandchildren). Her time was her most valuable gift and she gave it with so much love.

And now she is dying a slow and horrible death.

My father is now her primary carer, and she needs help doing every little thing; bathing, toileting, feeding, breathing. She can't shop anymore. She can't decorate her home. Nothing.

Just watching her be so dependant on those around her is heartbreaking and cruel. You can see the indignity in her face when she asks for help for the simplest of things. Her brow is constantly furrowed - her life has been reduced to a social pariah as she sits in her chair all day in her bed clothes. It's obvious she's angry for her "End of Life". Every little thing upsets her, and it's understandable that she resents that the world is still spinning for everyone else but her.

We visit. We talk. We sometimes laugh and we cry when she is not around.

I decided to take a week off work this week (which is hard because my mother also taught me the terrible "joy" of being a work-a-holic), and I decided not to go away, something I have never done! I spent time with my mum and I am so grateful for the opportunity. Whenever I visit, I try to get her to remember those beautiful moments that make her smile so that she can go off to the next world in peace and with lovely memories. I get out photos, I started a family tree, I ask her questions. Most importantly, I listen.

It hurts watching my mother die but I also know that I have been given the gift of being able to say goodbye to her, a luxury that many people don't get to have.

Mum, Hunters Hill 2013

I'm Breaking Up with You.

It's over, Eddie. I found someone else and I cant see you anymore. 

You and I started out great. You made me feel like a princess after our first meeting. I was beautiful. I had finally found the one! 

You threw diamond cut compliments at me. Praise. Laughter. Promises. Attention. 

The colour was awesome. The cut was amazing. I swished my way back to the office and was buzzed for four days until the blow-dry finally dropped. 

The compliments from friends and colleagues kept me high and I was in total awe of your talents. 

I looked past the gaudy salon of gold and marble. I looked past your ponytail and forgave your hairy chest in your open silky shirt. 

I returned for the next fix. And even though the price had somehow gone up an extra $100, I still felt great. My bank account was suffering, but I justified it by feeling so lovely. 

Looking back Eddie, it was the third visit when the gloss started to fade. 

Before our appointment, I called and got a quote. You knew I hated surprises, and I needed to know I could afford to keep seeing you. 

So I came in. Our last time together. You didn't even cut my hair but sent me to some junior for a quick trim. He tried to up-sell me eyebrow threading. 

You threw some sarcasm at me for waiting longer than 6 weeks. My greys were showing, and you were less glowing.  

Your colourists didn't even bother to enter conversation. 

There was no cup of coffee. No glass of water. No massage at the basin. 

Your front desk lady charged me more than your quote. Two. Hundred. Dollars.... more!

I felt ripped off. I was charged a mortgage payment for a basic cut and colour, I was paying for your garish salon on George Street. You wouldn't even look at me when I questioned you about the cost, and you walked away which has given me the right to publicly shame you and never come near your salon again. 

Your staff are rude and evasive, and your senior colourist needs some conversation skills. 

And, to quote my friend Aurelie - "I've had better"

So - I found someone new. 

He's awesome, and honest, and makes me feel beautiful. He listens to me. He laughs with me. He cuts and colours my hair and brings out the best in me. 

He's funny. 

He's talented. 

He knows how to hold a conversation. 

He know's how to make a woman look amazing! 

AND, I dont have to sell my soul to look and feel this great.

Stear clear of Eddie Azziz and his Cheating Ways (Le E'Toille in George Street, Sydney)

I'm not telling anyone about my new guy Craig Roach in Surry Hills! 

"Before"

So much stress, so many greys.

"After" 

Loving myself sick with the colour and cut and blow dry by Craig. 

POST SCRIPT: My friend sent me this link after reading my blog about Eddie Azziz - no wonder I felt a bit creepy about him: Eddie is a Pervert!

Fair Go Fairfax....

My Australian childhood is rich with images from amazing photographers who put themselves on the line to capture a moment. Being so far away from the rest of the world, us Aussie's relied on the photo-journalists to let us in on what was going on.

Kampuchea held images of children with distended bellies, heartbreaking scenes of families being torn apart. 

East Timor, and Papua New Guinea - our neighbours who I would know little of it it were not for the journos and photographers who bring home that story. 

Bali paradise, American baseball games, African sunsets, Middle East conflict, human tragedy after global crisis. 

These images evoked my passion for travel, and inspired me to get out there and experience life beyond my imagination. These images have led me to places to work as a volunteer, and also to get into the industry I am in - emergency assistance for travellers.

Closer to home, the images of outback Australia, politicians, every-day Australians have provided the visual of whats happening in my neighbourhood. Bushfires, festivals, politics, tragedy, celebrations. We need to see these clever, funny, beautiful and sometimes cutting images of the my country. 

I'm proud of being Australian, and I love the images from home broadcast to the masses. We have an amazingly diverse nation to celebrate. 

With sadness I learn today that one of a major Australian media is considering ditching our Aussie photographers in favour of..... what? who? 


Come on Fairfax, lets not go down the path of bringing sub standard, cheap images of Australia. If we do that, we'd miss the amazing images like these from award winning Dallas Kilponen 20 Years of Australian Photographer for SMH


Keep our Photo journalists. #fairgofairfax

Please sign the petition to keep 30 Australian photographers employed: Sign Here