Zoey Martin

Who the bloody hell are you?

Posted on May 25, 2013 3 Comments

If you look at my family tree, it’s pretty standard caucasion stuff.

On my mothers’ side a man stole a horse, and got sent to Tasmania. He had two wives, apparently. Something that was a whole lot easier before the advent of communication.

There is something a lot more mysterious about my Father’s side. There’s a persistent rumour that there was some Chinese heritage And one time when my Dad was working in a surf shop, someone walked in and looked like the spitting image of my Grandfather. My Dad asked him what his heritage was. And he replied ‘I’m aboriginal mate’. Now whether there is actual Aboriginal heritage or not, I’ll never know. Apparently there was a lot of relationships between Chinese immigrants and indigenous people back in the day, or so I’ve been told. And there are definitely plenty of Aboriginal women who have walked up to me and told me I am their sister. But maybe they say that to everyone, I don’t know.

I’ve certainly always had an affinity for indigenous history. Indigenous criminal law and inidgenous land law were by far my best subjects at university It was an uncomfortable subject, I cried a lot. Like how a young indigenous man in Queensland had given a car passing by the finger after they had called him a name. And they ran him over ten times. That kind of thing stays with you. Like how 50 people had seen (and testified) to the fact that an indigenous person had been beaten to death by police after attempting to break up a pub fight and the police walked free, with not even a bad mention on their professional record. That stays with you too.

I’m aware of my racial bias. The way I feel somehow less safe with a dark skinned person walking towards me in an alley. I know how I feel, but I know it’s not real. It’s not based on anything, other than inbuilt racism. Sure, I’ve been mugged (or attempted to be mugged) by people who happened to be aboriginal. But I’ve also been well looked after by aboriginal people. So I know, it’s just that stereotype, ingrained in my brain being reinforced. And I fight against that.

And so when Adam Goodes, after having the courage to point out a racial slur in a game that should have filled him with pride, was called a sook, that ‘ape’ wasn’t a real racial slur; I felt sick.

Sick to my freaking bones.

Let’s allow victims of racism to define what is racist and what is not.

It doesn’t matter whether people from a background of privilege think it should be racist or not.

Let’s allow people who experience racism every day to tell us what it is.

Everyone is racist. Racism isn’t good and bad, or true or false. It’s a matter of degrees. But if you can at least be open to discovering the nature of your bias, then I think that is a start.

And then one day, you might have an experience that will change your world. And that’s a good thing. The world should be changed.

That moment came for me when I realised that the person who had told me he had killed someone was the gentlest person I’d ever known. He was lovely. He had a love of dragons. He had a tattoo on his skull. He was abused by his mother. He was addicted to heroin. In fact, he had injected over a million dollars into his arm. And I always felt safe with him. Always.

I still wonder about him. If he is still clean. If he made a life for himself. If he made peace with his mother. If he killed himself. He always said he would die before going back to Long Bay. I don’t know how his life turned out. I don’t know if he made it. But I do know that my life was better for having known him, even for a short time.

When you work with people like him, you have to look at things in a certain way. Not as life as victory, and death as defeat. Addiction is a war. Winning the war is nothing, fighting the battle is everything. Sometimes, good people fight the battle but lose the war. But it doesn’t matter that they lost the war, because the fact that they were capable of fighting at all is worthy of awe. And sometimes they might just get a few years, before they lose the war. Sometimes a few more. But it’s more than what they would have had.

I had a beautiful man die after several years of being clean. But that wasn’t who he was. That wasn’t the sum of his life. He led a beautiful life. He sung like an angel at St Mary’s cathedral. He looked after people. He loved his family. He did so many things, even if he had a short time to do them. I still think I see him sometimes, but I don’t. He is gone, and I miss him. He was lovely.

And so, the next time you think that someone is being a sook. STOP. And wonder how much you really know about their life. They might not be a sook, they might be the bravest person you know.

The Indignity of Silence

Posted on May 23, 2013 5 Comments

Some people think there is dignity in being silent.

I am not one of those people.

I don’t think life is dignified. Or maybe, I just don’t think it should be.

I make mistakes. Sometimes they are small, inconsequential things. And sometimes they are big, with far reaching implications. Sometimes they are so big that I fear I will never live it down. That the mistake will stick to me, like a scar. And people won’t see me, they will just see the scar and everything it says about me.

But I don’t see it that way. The scar just means that I did something, that I took a risk and that I came out the other end. And hopefully I learned from that scar.

Too many people are silent. Because of decorum. Or niceties. Or fear. There is no dignity in that.

Change is hard. Really hard. Most people are not really capable of change. Because to be capable of change you have to actually allow yourself to be criticised. To be capable of hearing it. Without defending it. Or explaining it. Or giving a reason as to why it’s ok. And if you are silent, and dignified, well you can’t do any of those things.

Everything in the human spirit will fight criticism and fight change. It will tell you that those people are just jealous, or hateful, or wrong. That they don’t know the first thing about you. And the end result of that is that you don’t have to change, you don’t have to evolve. You can defend your position, and stay exactly the same, just as you are.

Silence is much the same. It allows you to stay as you are. And never even countenance the prospect that other people might have something to say. Something that is worthwhile. Something that maybe you should listen to. Or talk about. Or even, do something about.

And so I am not dignified.

I am not silent.

I make mistakes, sometimes huge ones.

When people call me names, I listen to the pain behind that.

I think about could I do it better or wiser or just plain kinder.

But I never let it paralyse me into being silent.

I don’t do silent.

I don’t do dignity.

I do real.

I do fallible.

I let all those criticisms in and I sit with them, sometimes for a long time, to see how they feel. And if they feel uncomfortable, then they are probably right. And I have to do something about that.

I love what Ernest Hemingway said, even if he was a drunk misogynist.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills.

There is no dignity in death. There is no dignity in life. There is no dignity in silence.

But there is something to be said for allowing yourself to be broken and then getting the fuck up and being exactly who you are. Being more brave than you could ever possibly feel and making the mistakes that are necessary to be brave, be risky and be exceptional.

Just as long as after all of that you evolve, you change and you get up and try again.

Escape

Posted on May 18, 2013 2 Comments

In a little less than an hour I will be getting in the car and driving down to Sydney to pick Kate Says Stuff up from the airport so we can celebrate her Voices of 2013 GLORY.

And I get to leave my decidedly emo children in the capable hands of their father tonight. Perhaps because they sense my impending departure, they have spent this morning reminding me of just how much I like a break every now and then. Thoughtful creatures.

I have two phones, two portable chargers and I am ready to annoy you with incessant photo taking. You’re welcome.

And Kate and I get to test out our barefoot trainers together because although we are training partners she lives in Ballarat, Victoria and I live in Central Coast, NSW. Awkward.

When I told my husband we would be running together, he looked at me like I was MAD and said ‘a night away and you’re RUNNING?! I’d be having something to drink.’ I wouldn’t worry about that. I have a bottle of wine in the car. I am nothing if not prepared.

It will be too short. These things always are.

But the next time I’m having a rough day I will remember blogger SHENANIGANS and I will smile.

That negative self-voice that says unspeakable things

Posted on May 17, 2013 8 Comments

One of my favourite people, Nat from Easy Peasy Kids, tweeted tonight about negative self voice, and how it’s a bit crap.

And she’s right. It is a pain in the freaking ass.

I replied that it is. I knows no reason, or logic or kindness.

But it got me thinking about my own negative voice. The one that tells me everyone is mocking me. The one that tells me I’m not good enough. The one that tells me I’m a shitty writer. The one that tells me I’m a bad mother. The one that tells me no one really likes you anyway. That one. It’s a bad friend. But it’s hard to shake that bitch loose.

When I was a teenager simple interactions with shop assistants would haunt me for days. Thank you, negative voice. If I misheard them, or fumbled for my money, or missed a joke. Ridiculous things. That said shop assistant who sees a gazillion people every day would never give a second thought to.

I worked myself out of that paralysis through self CBT. Or my version of it. Which was basically me repeating the logic of how my feelings weren’t based in reality, until I believed it. Almost. And it helped. But the remnants of it linger on still. And it doesn’t take much to cast me back into that place.

I remind myself of things, often.

A lion doesn’t lose sleep over the opinion of sheep.

I don’t worry about what other people think of me, because I don’t think of them at all.

What other people think of me is none of my god damn business.

And it works, mostly.

But I wonder. I think that in all of that negative voice, there is a combination of what is neurotic crap and what is self doubt. And while I could live without the neurotic crap, I think I’ll hold onto the self doubt.

If you never question yourself, you never change. You never want to change. If you have no self-doubt then there is no reason to evolve. To aspire to something a little bit greater for yourself. A certain amount of self doubt is necessary. Up until the point when it paralyses you, and then it is no good.

I’m poor with taking criticism from others. Not because I don’t see it. But because I do. And it’s nothing that I haven’t said to myself a hundred times and my version was crueler, nastier and less diplomatic.

A long time ago, when my blog was still very young, I wrote (for another site) about how you needed ego armour. And you do. You need to have an unwavering belief that you can offer something unique. But in the long run self-doubt will make it better. That negative voice? Will make it worse. That negative voice will make it paralysed. That negative voice will make you second guess everything. That negative voice will stop you from being who you are.

Sometimes, the line is hard to find. Like self doubt is in cahoots with your negative voice and they are plotting together to throw you off the scent.

But the upshot of the negative voice is that no matter how cruel someone on the outside is, I’ve already faced it. A hundred times. And my negative voice has been far more vindictive than any other person could ever be. No matter how hard they tried. They can’t really get in my head, because a mean ass bastard already lives there.

There’s no room for anyone else.

More than you can handle

Posted on May 15, 2013 3 Comments

The theory is you will never be given more than you can handle.

You might think that you can’t cope with it, but given the challenge, you will rise to the occasion.

It’s not always the case.

In the Bhagavad Gita Arjuna begged Krishna to show him his true form. Not his human form. But his true form of God. And he did. And it was so overwhelming, so awe inspiring, so horrifying that Arjuna, the great warrior, fell to his knees, pissed his pants and begged Krishna to show him his human form again. It was too much. It was beyond his ability to cope with it. To appreciate it. To understand. To be at peace with it.

And Arjuna was his greatest disciple. You can only imagine if the awe and horror of God had been shown to someone else, who loved him a little bit less, who followed him with a little less devotion, someone who was less of a warrior.

I like to think that all I need to do is remember my spine of stainless steel, straighten it, be who I am and I can handle anything. Sometimes it’s true, sometimes it’s not.

But sometimes it’s ok to be like Arjuna and be perfectly human and fallible.

First you trust, then you forge forward.

Today I wanted to crawl into a warm corner and hibernate. I wanted to hide under my blanket of depression warfare. But instead, I giggled with my toddler, I got my work done, I snuggled with my preschooler and kissed her grazes and I laughed with my friends.

And tomorrow, I will straighten my spine. And I will imagine that the spirit of Arjuna flows in my veins.

Like you mean it

Posted on May 14, 2013 1 Comment

Say what you mean.

Expect others to do the same.

I have no time for lowest common denominator.

No time for it.

Lowest common denominator is a waste of everyone’s time.

Better to aim high and fail big than to aim low and succeed.

Failure has been my biggest teacher. Everything that I have learned that was worth it, I learned from failure.

Failure taught me that perfectionism was bullshit.

Failure taught me that I was human.

Failure taught me that I could do better, try harder and aim higher.

Failure taught me that I could change.

That I could change something core. Not something ancillary. That I could take something and be a better person, instead of a mediocre one.

And people. Infuriating, frustrating, perfectly human people. Some will tell you that you are a bad mother. That you are a bad person. That you are worth nothing, except mockery. That you are a joke. An inconsequential footnote. And some will lift you up when you can’t stand. Some will understand when others are too intent on being obtuse. Some will always get your jokes. Always. As if they can see deep inside, in a way no one else can.

But I can only hope that I will never be afraid to fail. That I will always reach for far more than I could ever possibly achieve.

Failure is an old friend of mine. I hope we keep one another company for a very long time. Because it’s not how many times you fail, it’s how many times you straighten your spine of stainless steel and get back up.

I’ll be getting back up. And I will say what I mean. And I will expect the same from everyone else. Lowest common denominator is not something I do.

Failures are trophies.

Reflection

Posted on May 13, 2013 8 Comments

I believe you can see photographers in their photos. If you can’t see them, I think they are probably doing something wrong.

Leaving a piece of yourself is important. To tell a story. To leave a moment of truth in your wake. To leave something behind in the image. To invest something of yourself.

Life is about risk taking, I think. Anything worth doing, is worth taking a risk for. Including leaving pieces of yourself behind in your work. Sometimes imperfect work. Sometimes it might not say something fantastic about you. But leaving a trail. Leaving a touch stone. Well, that’s worth it.

Down at the lake there used to be this reflector on one of the bridges. And when Riley was little she used to touch it every time she passed. It’s gone now. I don’t know why. But Piper often touches the mark of where it was. It left a piece of itself behind, even after it was gone.

I leave pieces of myself all over the place. It’s not for other people. It’s for me, to remind myself, that I was there. That I invested something. That I risked something. That I was able to find a tiny bit of faith.

Because faith is like falling in love. You can’t prove it, but it’s palpable. And it is. And it doesn’t change. Faith is underrated. Sometimes too much stock is put in what you can see, and touch, and prove. But I put my stock in faith. That thing that you can never prove, but you feel it in your bones. Like a promise that can never be broken.

I’ve been on the other side too. Shattered faith. Broken promises. And a world turns on its head and is black and lifeless and pointless and ordinary. But I choose faith. I choose to hope for the best, even if makes me foolish. I’d rather be foolish than cold. I’d rather be foolish than resigned.

Some things are worth the risk. If you are not willing to fall flat on your ass and look like an idiot, then maybe the thing that you are working for isn’t worth it. Or isn’t worthy of you.

Sometimes you just have to fall. Someone might catch you. You might save yourself. Or you might hit rock bottom and build a fortress. Or you might find out who you really are. But first you have to fall. First, you have to risk all those broken bones. And trust, that the fall is worth it. The pieces of yourself that you leave behind are worth it. The fall is everything. Without it, you are just standing still. And nothing good will ever come from that.

Alone

Posted on May 12, 2013 7 Comments

Yes. Alone time was my present on Mothers Day.

I went walking, took photos, watched a movie. ALONE.

I always enjoyed my alone time before children and I enjoy it more now because it’s so rare.

I’ve heard people occasionally say about mothers who stay at home ‘you won’t know what to do with yourself when they are at school’

To which I respond. Bwahahahahahahahaha

Don’t worry. I’ll know EXACTLY what to do.

Light Bulb

Posted on May 9, 2013 7 Comments

blue-sky

The other day when I was procrastinating on Facebook, Five Frogs Blog shared this great article. It’s called 6 Harsh Truths That Will Make You a Better Person. It’s well worth the read. Well worth it.

It was a bit of a light bulb moment for me. I won’t do it justice by summarising it here, but the crux of it is that it doesn’t matter how nice you are, what your intentions are, what kind of person you are – all that matters is what you actually do. And that everything in you will fight change, fight to keep the status quo. All those defense mechanisms are primed to reject criticism so you can stay exactly the same and never improve. And after all of that what are you left with? All the excuses in the world to do nothing, interpret all criticisms as insults so you can reject them and reassure yourself that you don’t have to do anything because you are a good person.

So what do I do? It’s an interesting question. It’s not about money or work. It’s about what do I offer, what am I actually good at?

I have a very strong lazy streak. If I can find an easy way to do something I will. But I also have a very strong persistent streak. I do not accept that I can’t do something I put my mind to. Even if I suck at it. Because for most of us we all suck at something in the beginning. Persistence is worth far more than talent.

So what do I do?

I mother. I’m not interested in diminishing that. I make two little people feel loved and safe and cherished. I play games with them that I freaking hate, because they love it. Probably my most despised part of the parenting malarky is the whole cooking business. Feeding them EVERY DAY. Which is obviously one of the most basic things, feed them. If anyone has had their cooking spirit crushed by a fussy eater you’ll know what I’m talking about. I teach them. That’s probably the most fun part for me. And I watch them grow away from me into their own self.

I write here. In a way that is wholly myself. It feels more that way since I ditched the commercial aspect of my space here. And I try to be as honest as I can be, even when it doesn’t necessarily make me look good. And I try to make the words sing my song for me. I don’t explain the song. But I try to sing it.

I started an online magazine called The Shake. With a lot of help from my friends. A lot of help. People who do all sorts of things just because they believe in my vision. That’s a pretty amazing thing. It’s not something that I could ever take for granted. But I can see it growing and building and developing and it kind of takes my breath away.

But you know what the best part is? I was inspired by what I read. This is the beginning.

And as far as The Shake is concerned, I haven’t even warmed up yet.

True North

Posted on May 5, 2013 6 Comments

Home has always been a strange place to me.

I moved around a lot.

People ask me where home is and I don’t know what to say. I was born in Byron Bay, before it was popular. I lived in Sydney and Melbourne and Fiji and Northern California. So when people ask, I don’t know what to say. I’d like to have a place that was home. But I don’t think I’ve found it just yet.

Time passes, as it always does. I hear the wind in the trees. Telling me it’s Autumn. And time slips away from me as it will. I see my babies grow gangly and tall in front of me. The bottom of their feet knocking my knees as I carry them around when they are tired or just wanting to be held.

I wonder if they will know where home is. I wonder if I have done enough to make them feel that we might not have a home just yet, but I am their home, forever. I hope they know that, as they grow. And are embarrassed by me, and resent me. One day they won’t tell me how much they love me. They will say how much they hate me. That’s the trade off. They won’t need me as much. But they probably won’t realise how much I gave to them until they have children of their own. And if they don’t have children, they will probably never know. And no matter what happens, what choices they make, I hope I can be an ever fixed mark.

When Riley first started to walk she would touch a reflector down at the park every time she passed it. It’s gone now. For some reason, it was removed, I don’t know why. But I see the shadow of it there. And I remember how she used to touch it as she passed. I hope I can be that touchstone for her as she grows. I hope she can tell me the truth, even when it’s ugly and uncomfortable and know that some things never change.

I hope that her and Piper grow together and not apart. Riley has a hard time calming down when she’s upset. Always has. Perhaps, always will. She bemoans the fact that Piper can calm down so easy, and she can’t. But Piper can turn that around for her in a matter of seconds. Their connection is not something that I understand always, but you get to glimpse at it occasionally. I hope they get to keep that. Or at least, hold the knowledge in their hearts that it was there. I hope that I can remind them that they cuddled one another in their sleep when they were both just babies. And if they were sleeping on opposite sides of the bed, they slowly move closer until they were sleeping together in a sisters’ embrace.

I hope that they are home to one another, when I no longer am around to be their home. I hope that they know how heart-breakingly kind they were to one another as babies.

And if I could do that for them, well I think I could be happy with what I achieved as a mother. I wasn’t the best at playing. I wasn’t the best at cleaning. I wasn’t the best at cooking. But if I could give them their true north, like my mother gave me. Well then, that would be truly something.

True North.

Not a place. It’s just people. People are home, more than any place could ever be.

My brother is true north. My mother created that. Even though I didn’t grow up with my brother. She created something beautiful in the face of adversity.

Imagine that. And on mothers’ day I will probably get her something meaningless, that falls horribly short of everything she’s done. But she created a home, where there was none. A permanent home. An ever fixed mark. I wish I could give her something more worthy, more substantial. Something that says I know who you are, and I know what you did.

And one day, I hope that my girls will give me something meaningless that belies the truth of how they feel. But more than that, I hope they find their true north, wherever that my lie.