The Colour Purple Shining the Light for Gay Youth

After devouring our delicious meals at 'The Kafe' yesterday, Patrick and I promptly made our way back to our Ubud bungalow. We had a team meeting scheduled with Clare, the tour operator we've been collaborating with for next week's MTB tour, and Pat still needed to assemble his bike.

We dropped into a general store en route to pick up some local incense, which we've since used to disguise the damp smell that our bungalow has acquired over a lengthy rainy period. Whilst in the store, I stumbled across the biggest gas lighter I have EVER seen in my life.

I immediately knew that I had to take a photo of it for my blog and whipped out my iPhone (am beginning to love it more and more). Out of all the colours that lay before me, I was particularly drawn to the colour purple. This is quite unusual for me, as I'm not normally a purple kind of gal (I love the colour as it appears in nature, but rarely wear it - perhaps it doesn't work with my complexion?).

Interestingly, upon returning to our room I received an email from a friend who asked me to consider writing about "Wear it Purple" - a movement created to raise awareness and support for gay youth who are at a higher risk of abuse and suicide. I've never had a blog request before, and was honoured to receive such an invitation over such an important subject.

My friend is the mother of a gorgeous teenager who is not only having to navigate his way through adolescence, but also through the expression of his sexuality. From my memory, the transformation from youth to adulthood is difficult enough as it is without having to deal with those that have an opinion about your sexual persuasion. I think that everybody has the right to be who they are without the threat of violence or injustice.

This post is dedicated to all the young people that not only face the trials of being a teen, but also the tribulations of being gay...

Though the road before you is challenging, know that there are people that love you, support you and cheering you on. Be who you are, ALL of who you are, and do not compromise yourself. Your journey into self expression is more testing than that of your neighbours. Your honesty towards yourself and your sexuality is a testament to your strength and character. You are courageous, you are brave, you are worthy. Do not underestimate how amazing you are. Do not undervalue how important you are. Do not oversee how loved you are.

As for the biggest purple lighter in the world (pictured), I thought it was an apt metaphor for the gay youths that touch our lives. You are a beautiful light - protect your flame and shine on.

Until tomorrow, wear something purple today and spread the love.

Grace xx

If you a. love me, b. love my blog, c. love this post or d. all of the above - please SHARE

My Dad, my hero

Yesterday we celebrated Father's Day.

I realise how lucky I am that my relationship with my father has prospered over the years, though it was not always that way.

My father and I both share a strong will, which at times had us locking horns - especially during my adolescence.

Distance made our hearts grow fonder when, at the age of 21, I moved to London. During the second year of my stay, Dad came to visit me (pictured above) and we had a great time being tourists together. I found it wonderful to connect with him in a way that was foreign to me and made me feel 'grown up'.

At the end of my two-year sojourn, I left London to live in the South Australian country town of Gawler (between Adelaide and the Barossa Valley) for a further six years before returning to Melbourne aged 29. Being on the cusp of the big 3-0, I thought I was well and truly grown up (haha, how wrong I was). So you could imagine how utterly perplexed I was to find myself behaving like I was 15 again.

WHAT THE?

I distinctly remember looking into the mirror and asking myself "What are you doing? Why are you being like this?". Somehow I had regressed. What happened between London and returning home?

I figured that being in new surroundings was like a clean slate. There's no history, no triggers and you can create something new - a bit like building a new home. Find a patch of land and start from scratch.

However I had come home to a place that was steeped in history, old patters, triggers and reactions. My teenage behaviour was as shocking to me as walking into a house with original mission brown cupboards and lime green Formica bench tops - it was SO OUTDATED. I needed to renovate and refurbish my relationship with father.

From that moment I got to work. I started peeling off the wallpaper - the facade of what I saw my father to be, and revealed the human being beneath. I saw a little boy who grew up to be a man. I sensed someone who had dreams and disappointments, elation and sadness, courage and fear, loneliness and joy, mistakes and triumphs. Someone not at all too different to me.

We expect so much from our parents and I don't think many of us stop and realise they are just human beings. We are particularly unforgiving of their shortcomings, especially in relation to us, our family and upbringing. We expect them to be faultless, and yet we begrudge anyone else having such unrealistic expectations of us.

So today, post Father's Day, I'd like to make a special tribute to my dad.

Dad, thank you for not being so hard on me as I have been on you. Thank you for forgiving me, loving me and accepting me, despite my many erroneous ways. Thank you for giving me a second, third, fourth and fifth chance (and any more I may have missed). Thank you for enabling our relationship to grow. I am so proud of you, for all your inventions, your creative solutions and all that you have achieved. You are a genius, you are my hero, and I love you.

Until tomorrow, remember that your parents are human beings and we didn't come with an instruction manual.

Grace xx

If you a. love me, b. love my blog, c. love this post or d. all of the above - please SHARE

My Lucky Number

Today is Friday the 13th. It is also my husband Patrick's birthday.

Up until meeting him, I believed 13 to be an unlucky number. Oh how wrong I was.

Patrick is more than my husband. He is my mentor, confidante, best friend, sidekick, travel buddy, counsellor, business partner and of course, my most desirable lover.

He is also my No.1 fan, so I know he'll be reading this (won't you?).

Patrick believed in me when I had lost all faith in myself. He reminds me of my greatness - who I was and who I want to be, which makes me who I am. He shines the light when all I see is darkness. He gives me strength, courage, confidence, balance and a fair share of belly laughs. Patrick is my hero, my love, my saving grace, my lucky number.

So today, on this birthday, I want to dedicate this post to the man behind the woman...

Thank you Patrick for noticing that I was miserable living a life that I thought I 'should' be living. Thank you for liberating me by supporting my transformation and self expression. Thank you for your endless encouragement as I create a life that is authentically me. Thank you.

Until tomorrow, take time to give thanks to your lucky number.

Grace xx

PS. This photo was taken in front of the world's most famous love monument, the Taj Mahal, in 2006. I thought it was appropriate for my personal monument of love.

If you a. love me, b. love my blog, c. love this post or d. all of the above - please SHARE

Happy 100th Blog Post!

This is my 100th post - can you believe that?

Today also marks 101 days since embarking on Project Grace 2010, which I think is equal cause for celebration, albeit a virtual one.

In case you're thinking this doesn't add up, you might recall I took the first weekend off, then did a catch up post called The Polyfilla.

So how do we virtually celebrate?

We could eat virtual cake and not have to worry about sugar, wheat, gluten, fat, dairy or how high's the GI (Glycemic Index).

We could virtually drink the finest French Champagne - how about Krug? or Louis Cristal? Why not both? We don't have to worry about the price, getting tipsy or waking up with a hangover.

Sometimes it's nice living in this virtual world. Perhaps that's one of the reasons I love blogging so much. Right now you're in my world and I'm in yours. Physically, we could be a gazillion miles away and yet virtually, we couldn't be any closer.

As with all celebrations, it's time to say thank you speeches at the end. I'm all for short speeches, so here goes...

Thank you for joining me on my journey. Thank you for being by my side. Thank you for standing up for me when I was beating myself up. Thank you for showing compassion and love when I was going through hardship. Thank you for your suggestions and ideas. Thank you for contributing and allowing me to realise I am not alone... and that I'm not crazy.

Most of all, thank you for allowing me to be the full spectrum that makes me - Me.

Until tomorrow, and the next hundredth post, thank you for being You.

Grace xx

PS. Since starting Project Grace 2010 I've completed a web design course, studied French level one and two, learnt Bollywood dancing, attained my First Aid certificate and lost over 22cms (8.8inches) from my body. All in all, a great result from such an inspiring project. I leave for France next Monday, which I'm sure will launch an exciting start to the next chapter - the second 100 days.

If you a. love me, b. love my blog, c. love this post or d. all of the above - please SHARE

Honouring those at Stage III - Bargaining

So my tribute idea is not going as I thought it would go. I had grand visions of opening up a global conversation as we progressed through the five stages of grief.

I imagined people opening up and airing their experiences, thoughts and feelings, albeit anonymously, to help themselves and others heal. Contributors and readers alike would have felt important, considered, acknowledged, supported and loved.

Oh dear, I'm such an idealist. Is that pathetic? Is it time that I learn once and for all, that it's safer to be a realist and stop trying to be a hero.

I am a little person with big ideas. Too easily discouraged. Too often full of fear. It makes me wonder, who do I think I am?

Until tomorrow, keep going because you said you would.

Grace xx

PS. The answer to Saturday Quiz No. 1 was EARWIG and the winner is... Garrie, the iron commentator. Congratulations Garrie, you have a virtual set of steak knives coming your way. These imaginary knives will have you cutting rubber tyres, Reebok runners and aluminium cans in no time.

Honouring those at Stage II - Anger

Today I received a rather abrupt email that ended in the words:

"I was always told that I was born with very few eggs and that's why I went through POF. As a result, my ovaries became small. Did I/they miss something? Thoughts?"

I have just finished writing my response and after sending it, I started to wonder - am I in stage 1 denial and is she in stage 2 anger?

Here's my response:

"When I hear the 'theory' that women are born with a finite number of eggs and that when they run out, it's all over for them (in terms of procreation), I get a deep feeling saying 'that just doesn't make sense'.

Perhaps Christopher Columbus had the same gut feeling when he sailed out into a world that was supposedly flat.

I just don't buy it, it seems illogical when you look at how procreation works in nature. I have seen apparently infertile plants (i.e. grape vines and two lemon trees) unable to bear fruit for years and years and years, suddenly bud and sprout fruit again (as a result of careful nurturing and a change in their conditions).

This is what makes me think there's something else going on in our bodies that human beings haven't quite figured out yet. There's already evidence of POF women who've had shrivelled up ovaries and /or no visible follicles in ultrasound that go on to have babies. This in itself negates the theory.

A friend that I met via a POF support website nine years ago is a living breathing example of this (as are her two miracles born a few years apart). I think it's just a matter of time before we read an article that says science has been getting that one wrong.

It's only my view, but it is my view.

In the meantime, I think it's really important to be supportive of those who are in the early stages of their POF journey... all I'm saying is that we have to be sensitive to them and their feelings.

For many the diagnosis will be like the death of their babies, for they would have imagined them, dreamed of them and named them (I know I did). I understand there are other ways of becoming a parent and that it takes more than a biological link that makes you a mother. I know all that and I get it. But it wasn't an overnight insight.

It took me time to get over the devastation and initial sense of loss when I first received the news and I'm sure there are many women who are still in that devastation stage. That's who I'm appealing to."

So today is dedicated to all those who are in the anger stage of their grieving. Whether that's you, or reminds you of the unspoken anger you once felt - please feel free to express yourself below. Today is about you.

Until tomorrow, create space to vent anger - it is better out than in.

Grace xx

Honouring those at Stage I - Denial

Yesterday's post broke all records.

I have received so many comments, calls, emails and SMS messages from family, friends and strangers from all over the world. It has completely overwhelmed me.

It also made me realise that the sensitive subjects of grief and infertility has struck a chord with a number of people for a myriad of reasons.

As a result of all this, I want to dedicate the next five days to support and honour those who are at different stages in their grieving process.

If you are grieving, or have grieved, I invite you to express yourself and share as much or as little of your story about your first stage - Denial (remember you can preserve your anonymity and post as a guest).

The purpose of this is not about dwelling in grief, but to help those that are in the midst of it to move through the five stages. It's about opening up a conversation, extending a hand, heart, shoulder and ear. It's about letting them know they're not alone. It's about hope.

Until tomorrow, help our friends move through to stage two.

Grace xx

PS. I extend my hand in friendship and support to those who are grieving no matter what the cause. If you are moved to say something, please do.

ANZAC Day

We honour you.

We thank you.

Lest we forget.

The most inspiring family I know

Yesterday my friend Ryan celebrated what he described as his 34th lap of the sun.

Though I must confess, he didn't do it all by himself; he was riding on the coattails of planet Earth that did most of the hard work for him.

Ryan and his clan are currently doing a six month sabbatical in Spain. This is not the first time the family have uprooted themselves from the comforts of their own home to experience life elsewhere.

In 2004, they relocated to Nanaimo (Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada) for a period of two years. It was during this time that I realised the only thing stopping me from being anywhere in the world, was me.

If anybody could find an excuse not to travel, it would surely be a family of four with two children under the age of six. What might appear as insurmountable odds for some, turned into comic challenges for these transient vagabonds.

At the end of their sojourn, they spent three months travelling around the north American continent in 'Wicket', their beloved Dodge mini van (aka caravan of courage). With tales of freezing overnighters in the back of the car (a result of boycotting overpriced holiday parks) combined with their staple diet of porridge (which Jesse fought against with dry retching horror), loaves of bread, roast chicken and ranch dressing, one might be inclined to ask "Why do all that again?"

The answer is simple: Adventure.

Life is made up of experiences, which transform into our most potent possessions - our memories.

When it's time for us to go - we cannot take our house, our cars, our jewellery, our 'toys' and our collection of worldly objects. All we are left with, and what we leave behind, are memories. Our memories belong to us and those we share them with. We cannot be separated from them, they are ours to keep. They cannot be stolen, traded or sold. They remain with us till our final hour.

To Ryan, Jo, Zach and Jess, thank you for being a huge part of my life. Our amazing adventures are now some of my most fondest memories. From our time together in Canada (namely Stobie Pole, Fengi and ice cream the size of babies heads), to our Nubsical journey with our buddy, Mr. Tingwell - not to mention last night's hilarious long distance video call (pictured). You guys rock and continue to be an inspiration to me. Olé!

And to you, reading this blog... be sure to create great memories, for they will surely be the most valuable treasures of your life. Start a new adventure today.

Until tomorrow, "¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!"

Grace xx

ps. If you want to follow this family's adventure blog, just click here.

BTW did you know that it's 17,310km (10,670miles) between Madrid and Melbourne? Our 'space age' technology never ceases to astound me;
N-V-T-S nuts!

Does every cloud have a silver lining? In memory of James Williamson

I'd planned to write a light-hearted upbeat piece after yesterday's pensive post.

I was looking at my current state of affairs, trying to find the funny side of having a parking ticket, overdue bill notice and a sink full of dishes.

No sooner did I come up with the title 'Dark side of the spoon' (which I thought was a stroke of genius) when I noticed Patrick staring at his phone, his face depleted of joy.

"James Williamson died at the Cape Epic" he said in a stunned, monotone.

"James? The same James we met at the Greek restaurant?"

"Yes, same James"

"WHAT????????"

Both in complete shock, our hearts sank. We were, and are, in disbelief.

Patrick and I met the wonderful, friendly, down-to-earth, sweet James one week before he was to fly to South Africa to compete in the Cape Epic. We were moved by James' gentle and joyful nature, vowing to catch up with him when he returned (you know when you meet someone special and say "I'd like to be friends with that person" and then imagine how you would form such a friendship? Well, that was our experience with James).

James (it's so hard to say) was 26 years of age and editor of Enduro magazine. He'd been a World Champion mountain biker, which I only found out today after Googling the cause (which is still unknown - he was unable to be roused by his team mate in the morning). James was so unassuming I had no idea he was a champion, and yet I'm not surprised that he was.

James was so, so, so lovely... and so, so, so young.

What I want to know is, does every cloud have a silver lining?

As much as I've searched, I just can't seem to find it today.

James was excited about his trip to South Africa, it was something he'd looked forward to for a long time. While we're expected to 'look at the bright side' of the situation and be thankful that he was happy and got to live out his dream, I can't help feel that this is all too premature. Someone so lovely is surely needed on Earth a little bit longer (if not a lot longer).

All I feel is sadness. Sadness and loss. Remarkable considering I'd only spent a few hours sitting across the table from him; such was the impression he'd left on me (I feel indulgent expressing my upset and cannot fathom what his girlfriend, family and friends are feeling right now).

Do we always have to see the bright side of everything? Can't we just be sad because some things are just plain sad. I totally appreciate how we don't want to get bogged by sorrow. I know we're encouraged to move on. I can see how being 'stuck' can play havoc with our lives. But surely it's okay to be sad when something like this happens, isn't it?

Sometimes I feel that constant optimism can be tiring and, to be honest, a little fake if we can't honour the times when things upset us.

While many new age dialogues are worthy of consideration, I question the subject of death. We're told that sadness comes from our attitude and the stories we tell ourselves. That by changing our meaning of death, we'd somehow change our emotional response to it. We're told there are cultures where death is celebrated - where are they? I've never seen them and wonder if it's all a myth.

What I have seen, are dogs lamenting over the loss of a loved one. I have heard their weeping wails, I have seen their long faces and I have felt their distress. I ask my self - is that because they have a negative attitude? Are they just responding to the stories they tell themselves? Do they need to change their meaning of death? My answer is - I think not.

I've concluded that it's okay to be upset by death. Dare I say, it's normal.

Sometimes, I think it's okay to not feel you have to be strong. I think it's okay to cry. I think it's okay to be sad. I think it's okay not to have explanations or answers. I think it's okay if things don't make sense. The secret is, not to get 'stuck' in the weakness, the tears, the sorrow, the unexplained un-knowingness and the senselessness.

There is a time for grief, a time for mourning, and a time for moving on.

To all the family, friends and colleagues of James Williamson, and to Niki, I feel for your loss. I hope your path to healing and resolve is swift. To James, may your spirit ride on forever.

Until tomorrow, a place in time where we assume we'll be...

Grace xx