One of my goals for this year was to take a long, hard look at my communications company, Paper Plane Communications, and make some important decisions about direction, appearance, and how to make big magic happen.
As with most major projects, energy, momentum, and motivation tend to come in bursts. Big at first, and then incrementally smaller thereafter–particularly if you let a pretty little thing called life get in the way. And so, for the past few months I’ve been a communications consultant without a website. Sacrilege, I know.
The reason behind my business facelift was simple: as I looked around at the virtual ecosystem I’d created, I realised that while things weren’t broken–in fact, they’d been ticking along quite nicely–they were on the verge of becoming stale. The solution? Pivot.
DISCLAIMER: I’m about to get uncomfortably real here for a second. Bear with me.
Today, I am not okay.
In fact, I feel about as far from okay as a person can get.
I’m homesick for a place that’s 14,397 kilometers away; I’m struggling to sleep and eat; and I’d like nothing more than to give the world and my new ten-second rule a callous middle finger.
Should I really be blogging then, if I’m feeling this disconnected from myself? Yes, for two reasons.
Originally, I planned to title this post “Ten Seconds to Happy,” but later on I make reference to one Ms. Kimmy Schmidt, and the jarring visual of a salty stick of meat draped in crinoline was too good to pass up. (Titus, you legend.) And besides, I’ve been hard at work channeling strength and self-love, so a metaphor for tough and beautiful seemed apropos.
So here’s the thing: happiness is only ten seconds away. Less, even. This might sound farfetched, but neuroscience and Netflix suggest otherwise.
The photo might be a dead giveaway, but if you guessed that I’m about to talk about travel insurance (which I’m sure you did, because you’re a smart cookie), well… you’re right!
Remember when I said I’d joined a netball team and that epic athletic fails were on the horizon? It turns out I’m a bit of a prophet: it only took three games before I was being helped off the court by an ump, my ankle (and my pride) battered and bruised.
You may be wondering: what the heck is netball, anyway? I’ll tackle that in a future post, but here’s the Reader’s Digest version: netball is basketball without dribbling, backboards, or (much) contact.
Friends and healthcare workers alike have since reassured me that “doing your ankle” in netball is something of an Australian initiation, proof that you’re successfully integrating into local culture.
I must say, my fat ankle and I are feeling mighty patriotic… and a wee bit pathetic.
As I’ve mentioned before, a writer’s homework is reading.
Since moving to Australia, I made the conscious decision to incorporate more Australian literature into my homework routine. This also doubles as a measure of my cultural competency: where once I used to trip over “textas” and “trackie dacks,” I’ve now mastered many of Australia’s colloquialisms. (I think) thats a good thing.
At the recommendation of one of my housemates, I dove into Jennifer Down’s Our Magic Hour, an aerial view of life after loss.
In an exchange between the protagonist, Audrey, and her partner, Nick, Audrey is scolded with a hard-hitting metaphor:
“Your religion is other people’s happiness. It’s absurd.”