Words are not enough…

Thank-you. Thanks. Thanks a lot. Thank you very much. Words are funny things. There’s estimated to be between 175,000 and 500,000 words in the English language, not including slang and jargon, yet when it comes to expressing our thanks to the people who’ve put their lives at risk to protect us and our property, a simple thank-you hardly seems adequate.

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Photo by Skeeze

The Australian bushfire season has arrived in catastrophic fashion. Catastrophic! Now that’s a word that demands attention. Last weekend, the warning went out to our little community of Hill Top, and surrounding NSW villages, for catastrophic conditions. Temperatures, they predicted, would be in the mid 40c range, and winds would be gusting up to 70kph. The Wattle Creek fire near us had been burning on several fronts for almost a month, and now gathered on our doorstep like the terrifying horsemen of the apocalypse. Apocalypse. Another powerful word, conveying what was to come for the neighbouring village of Balmoral, a village struck only days before, as a fire moved in from the surrounding valleys. The loss of firefighters: Geoffrey Keaton and Andrew O’Dwyer, later that day, was a body blow to those left to defend the village and one that would shatter our close-knit communities.

Like the Horsemen of the Apocolypse

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Photo by Erkut2

Planning was everything, they told us, as the weekend approached. We must plan to stay and defend our properties, or plan to leave. There could be no change of mind once the fire front was upon us and the roads in and out of our villages would be closed. The narrow cutting through which the road passes out of town would be a death trap if the fire engulfed it. Each had to assess their situation and make the decision early.

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Hill Top village                      Photo by Rick Lee

A critical morning came at the weekend, and with it, an eerie stillness, as firefighters gathered in the village to receive their instructions. Smoke filled the air like a London fog. Had we made the right decision to stay and defend? Perhaps we were stupid not to go, only time would tell. But I couldn’t help feeling, watching these volunteers disperse, that it was the least we could do for ourselves when others were about to risk everything to protect our community.

As the day progressed, we monitored the situation live, receiving updates on scanner radio, watching those in the air make their sweeps across the skyline, helicopters and planes in a bid to control the blaze. Plumes of smoke rose into the stratosphere, bubbling and boiling on the thermal columns of air. Sparks and embers travelled kilometres on the hot winds, causing spot fires to burst out and flare. We waited in trepidation. Trepidation: a word lacking the power to describe our anxiety as the front moved in closer. Then the text message came on our phones: NSWRFS EMERGENCY WARNING – Hill Top – Immediate danger. Seek shelter now as the fire approaches. It is too late to leave.

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Photo by Patricio Hurtado

As it eventuated, we Hill Topians stayed safe, thanks to the efforts of those who came to our aid. The fire front was halted, for then at least, at the village border. Our neighbours were not so lucky. All in all, the village of Balmoral took several massive hits as the fire came at the community from different directions, the winds swirling in across the hills, devastating the small village. The efforts of those fighting the inferno are nothing short of heroic. Heroic; that’s another word that hardly seems to encapsulate the courage of these selfless people. Volunteers, these courageous men and women have come from near and far to help. Having foregone wages, while away from their work and businesses, their families will struggle to get by as a result. Some will take out loans to get over the loss of income.

I have a couple of other words to consider. How about: ironic. Isn’t it bloody ironic that as these heroes go without while protecting us from fire, our government sends millions of dollars’ worth of fireworks up in smoke during a few minutes of New Year’s Eve opulence? How cruel the irony that they can’t find it in their hearts to compensate our wonderful services, but can find multi-millions of dollars for the firey exhibition. They will spend $6.5 million on Sydney’s fireworks alone.

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Photo by Tom Hill

Here’s another word to consider: Arseholes. A perfect description for the Prime Minister who says that the firefighters actually want to be there fighting fires, as if it’s like a weekend getaway to Hawaii, and the politicians who spend their days in parliament like children. No, I take that back. Children don’t spend their entire workday trading catcalls and insults, sneering and belittling each other, finding fault and blame. No, children spend their time learning and being creative, finding solutions to problems instead of causing them. Our politicians have seen this catastrophe coming; they’ve known what to expect for years. So why does so much of our country reply on community volunteers to deal with this annual crisis? Where are the funds for such critical services, and why haven’t they given our incredible heroes the resources they need to do the job of mitigating these fires before they can reach a critical condition?

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Photo by Skeeze

Perhaps someone can create a new word to express our appreciation for the heroes that serve. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious comes to mind. But no, it wouldn’t be right to cheapen our feelings of gratitude with something so glib. Maybe a humble, thank-you, in all its simplicity, is all we can say that truly comes from the heart. Thank-you, each and every one.

Thank-you

Tempus Fugit

What is it about the passing of time that makes it so variable? Yes, I know there are instruments that measure time quite accurately– they’re called clocks– and that every minute that passes is the same duration as the last. Same with weeks, months and years, right? Then why the hell do the years pass so quickly now compared to the days of my youth?

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Photo by Gerd Altmann

When I was a boy, I went on a school trip to Chester where we visited the cathedral among other places of interest. I don’t think I was more than nine or ten years old at the time. On touring the historic church, I was intrigued by the words on a plate affixed to a clock-case in the transept. It read:

When as a child I laughed and wept,
Time crept.
When as a youth I waxed more bold,
Time strolled.
When I became a full-grown man,
Time RAN.
When older still I daily grew,
Time FLEW.
Soon I shall find, in passing on,
Time gone.
O Christ! wilt Thou have saved me then?

Amen.

The poem was called Time’s Paces, by Henry Twells, and I felt oddly affected by the words, as though the message was meant for me personally. It gave me goosebumps and I didn’t know why. The words have stayed with me all these years and the older I get, the more they resonate with me. I’m not sure why the rhyme had such an impact on one so young– a nine-year-old doesn’t normally take in such profound sentiments– and why I’d think of it now all these years later and remember each line. Perhaps through time I’ve found a psychic link with myself, a wormhole through the ages, and it’s actually me, now, that’s sending a chill up the younger me’s spine as I stand before the clock in Chester. Oooo… I’ll have to think about that one; it could be a whole other blog.

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Photo by Gerd Altmann

The way time passes is surely a matter of perception, and depends on all kinds of influences, both physical and mental. The same final two minutes of a football match can be perceived in extremely different ways, depending on your point of view. If your team’s winning (mine usually is these days) by a solitary goal and the opposition is pressing hard for an equaliser, two minutes is an agonisingly long time to hold out. I mean, how can two minutes be enough time to score not one but two goals after playing ninety minutes of football? It happens despite the improbability, and those two minutes expand to a ridiculous amount of time. And if you’re supporting the team that’s losing by a goal (I’ll resist a clever dig at my brothers here), well, it’s like trying to hold water in a sieve, the time goes so fast it may as well not have existed in the first place.

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Champions

When it comes to time passing quickly as we get older, they say it’s because we measure time against our experience, a percentage of the life we’ve already lived. That’s why when we look back at our childhood, summer days were so long and school just wouldn’t end. A year in the life of a two-year-old is half a lifetime. Imagine having to wait half a lifetime for next Christmas, or your next birthday. The time in between those events would seem an eternity. While for those of us who’ve been around awhile, birthdays come by far too often, and it always seems like we just had Christmas. If a year is 50% of a two-year-old’s life, and time accelerates as a percentage of time lived… Sorry, I’ll let you do the maths on that.

A year in the life of a two-year-old is half a lifetime

There is a less depressing theory on the passage of time, other than the one where time shortens as we’re hurtling at light speed to the end of the line. It’s said that our perception of time is shaped by our exposure to new experiences and changes of environment. In other words, time passes more slowly when we are learning new things, taking on new challenges, or going where we’ve never ventured before. Our brains perceive the passing of time according to stimulating activity. When it has new information to process, time goes by slowly. This also explains why time passes slowly for kids, and fast for adults. Kids are constantly learning, and almost every experience is new and exciting. Whereas the older one gets, the less we see and do that we’ve never done before. So, according to this theory, familiarity not only breeds contempt, but it speeds up time.

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Photo by Adina Voicu

As we get older, we generally feel the need to slow down and enjoy life. We’ve earned it after all. But if slowing down to relax means speeding up the later years, perhaps it’s time to rethink how we go about it. We need to fill the days with new stimulation, take up new hobbies, challenges, travel. And next time we slow down to smell the roses, let’s make sure it’s a new variety. Maybe include some freesias and frangipanis, or go visit a botanic garden and learn something new about nature’s gifts. How about a trip across continents to see the great gardens of the world? The point is, if challenging the brain is said to slow down time, then bring on the challenges, I say.

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Photo by Rick Lee

Whichever way you choose to look at it, our lives are short and we have to make the most of every minute. For me, I’ll take new and exciting any day of the week if it helps extend my time on earth. But then again, maybe I can find that wormhole and it will take me back full circle, a loop in time, and I’ll start all over again. I’ll find myself standing in front of the clock in Chester with its verse by Twells, and think: where have I seen that before, as the shivers stand the hairs on my neck, and my skin turns to gooseflesh. Oh, and by the way, it’s nearly Christmas again.

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Image courtesy of PIRO4D and Rick lee

Waifs & Strays

There are pansters and plotters. As a panster, I begin my novels by taking the germ of an idea, a starting point, and just start writing, allowing the story to develop naturally as I go (writing by the seat of my pants). I never quite know where the journey might take me, or what characters I’ll meet along the way. My new novel – Black Bones, Red Earth – started in this way, with just the hint of an interesting tale.

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I never quite know where the journey will take me

The seed from which my new book grew, was, in fact, a part of my mum’s own life story. Mum stunned everyone when well into her eighties, she revealed that she had been brought up in an orphanage, a secret she had kept for over 80 years. Apparently, my maternal grandmother had died of TB when Mum was just four years old. Mum and her sisters, aged two and seven, were sent away to an orphanage on the Cumbria coast, by my grandfather. He was serving in the army at the time, and it just wasn’t done for men to raise little girls. This was the thinking at the time.

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Mum (right) and her sisters, little orphans

It’s hard to imagine how traumatic it must have been for the three little ones to be uprooted, packed away after only just losing their mother, thinking their father didn’t want them anymore, and finding themselves amongst strangers. The orphanage in Whitehaven was run by the Waifs and Strays Society, later to become the Church of England Children’s Society.

But why had my mum hidden her past for so many years, and why had she invented a different childhood that omitted the orphanage altogether? She told us that she had been too ashamed to tell the truth. The stigma of being an orphan in a small English town had been difficult to bear, especially during school years, when children at the local school would make fun of the orphan kids who lived in the home for strays. I can only guess at the cruel taunts from those children. But Mum was a fighter, and she quickly learned to look after herself and her sisters.

Ashamed of being an orphan

Mum survived her time in the strict establishment, where children rose between three and four in the morning to begin chores before school. The home’s overriding mission was to prepare children for employment, and so they were put to work with a lengthy list of daily duties. Mum said she was never mistreated, but that life was hard for the little girls in care. On her thirteenth birthday, Mum had to leave the home and was sent into service, shipped off in the goods department on a train to the coastal town of Hythe in Kent. “I had a name tag hanging around my neck, like a piece of baggage,” Mum told us. There she became the parlour maid for a doctor and his family, and was again singled out as ‘the orphan kid’. Mum vowed from then on that no one would ever know about her past. She joined the army when she was eighteen, her father’s regiment, the Green Howards, and served throughout the Second World War. Mum said she made peace with her father, but I’m not sure she ever forgave him.

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Irene Lee (Mum) 1918 – 2015

Mum’s revelation explained a lot about her character. At five-foot-one, she was as tough as they come. She took no-nonsense and would stand up for, and to, anyone. It also explained why she was so passionate about kids who needed help, working tirelessly for many years raising funds for children’s causes, especially the Church of England Children’s Society, and overseas charities, all while raising five kids of her own.

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British child migrants, courtesy Molong Historical Society

The idea for my book started with an English woman, like Mum, in the twilight of her years, her secret orphaned childhood revealed. That’s about where the similarities end, but it set me on a path that eventually led me to explore the traumas of child migrants, orphaned children shipped to Australia after the war. During this line of research, I also discovered the hardships suffered, under the name of child protection, by Aboriginal children – The Stolen Generation – who were separated from their families and placed in mission homes. These two stories came together to form the backbone of my novel.

Black Bones, Red Earth, is in the final stages of editing and should be released before Christmas.

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Sweet Sorrow

I remember sitting with my young son once, watching a movie, a sad movie about a dog. I knew the scene was having an effect on him because it had a similar one on me. I watched him for a moment, feeling for him as the tears began to flow. When he realised I was watching, he turned and said he had an onion in his eye. It’s an excuse I’ve used myself since then.

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Photo by Steve Buissinne

Sometimes, emotions get the better of us, even when we try to control them. They set the tone for each of us in our daily lives. We wake in an emotional state, be it happy, sad, stressed, angry or relaxed, and head out into our day, reacting to the world and coping with our many moods. But these feelings can change in an instant. You awake to the sun shining through your window; the birds are singing; life is good. But then you glance at the alarm. Why didn’t it go off after you set it? You’ve overslept for crying out loud, and now you’ve missed the bus to work. Disaster has struck, and all because you lay there thinking happy thoughts. We’ve all been there. A letter in the mail to say you owe back-taxes just after getting a pay rise. A bump in your brand new car even though you never got a scratch on the old one. Emotions have a way of swinging with the breeze and with the events surrounding us. And, of course, they can play out in the opposite direction; you start off irritable but the day keeps getting better. By evening your floating on air. Bring on that bottle of wine before dinner; life is great. (might not be in the morning when you regret the second bottle of wine) Emotions play a significant part in our decision making; they affect everything from impulse buying to picking a partner, job decisions to which shoes you should wear. It’s impossible to go through life without experiencing an emotional response to everything in it.

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Photo by Gino Crescoli

There are generally recognised lists of emotions that include all the usual suspects. Anger, joy, sadness, fear, disgust, surprise. There are others like embarrassment, shame and pride. And what’s clear is that we can experience different, even opposing emotions simultaneously. The anxiety we feel on the first day of work, for instance, is usually accompanied by excitement, perhaps even pride, along with terror at the thought of failure. Scientists have all manner of explanations to tell us what, how and why emotions evolved in humans, and why they play such an essential role in daily life. Many of those explanations go back to basic survival instincts, like fight-or-flight, getting pleasure from eating certain foods, or the need to jealously protect your mate from intruders. Science can explain the physiological responses by talking about neurotransmitters and chemical stimulation. They’ll highlight the importance of hormones like cortisol, adrenalin, and melatonin. These all play a part in our emotional state. To most of us, however, it’s merely a question of how we feel at any one moment and how we interpret the emotions. We also need to react to the feelings of those around us.

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Photo by John Hain

Understanding body language is vital in our interactions with others. How we express our emotional state helps us communicate our state of mind. A smile can bring instant ease when confronted with a stranger. But subtle changes in that same smile can turn it from a greeting to a smirk, and in an instant to an aggressive warning of contempt or bravado. Tears are a display of pain, but also a way of saying to others that we may need help. We learn these cues from birth.

Sometimes we cry for no reason at all

Of all the physiological responses to emotions, tears are perhaps the most telling, but once again, they can be the result of very different emotions that can run side-by-side. We cry for many reasons, and in recent years, we’ve been encouraged to use tears freely as a vent for our emotions, especially when it comes to men. There are still those alpha-males who think tears are for the girls, but more and more men feel free to express their feelings by letting the tears flow. It’s long been known to have a therapeutic effect, a powerful way to get past grief. Sometimes laughter brings us to tears, and again, this brings conflicting emotions into close relationships. We cry when we are overwhelmed by emotions at either end of the scale; joy vs pain, despair vs happiness. We cry at weddings and funerals, at winning and losing, and we sometimes cry for no reason at all. I recall a moment when driving alone one day. I switched on the radio just in time to hear a boy chorister singing a requiem at Westminster Abbey, the sound so pure, I felt suddenly overwhelmed and brought to tears. I’ve heard of such instances before, but to be affected to such extreme emotion, purely by the beauty of sound, was indeed something I’ll never forget. I’ve been reduced to blubbering many times in my life, times when nothing could hold back the need to weep, though I’ve often felt the need to hide it. Perhaps the younger generations will feel less inhibited, but I’ve a feeling they’ll have a lot more to cry about.

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Photo by Cheryl Holt

Loss is a common reason people tear up and bawl. Like most people, I’ve lost family, friends and loved ones who’ve passed away, and, my family and I have said goodbye many times when we’ve migrated around the world, leaving behind those we hold dear. But the loss of those close to us is when those darned emotions start playing tricks again. Our tears are full of mixed feelings, and sadness is tinged with the happy memories we’ve shared. In grieving a loss, we experience all manner of emotions, and they are often at odds with one another. This is because you can’t have grief without knowing the joy of love, and if you never had love, you can never know the real tragedy of grief. That’s why parting is such sweet sorrow.

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Photo courtesy of S. Hermann & F. Richter

 

That’s why parting is such sweet sorrow

A Special Kind Of Lady

When Gundungurra Aboriginal Elder, Aunty Val Mulcahy, describes her life growing up on a mission reserve, she’s not complaining, she’s merely telling it how it was. And neither will you find her feeling sorry for herself; she’s a fiercely independent and proud Australian woman.

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Velma (Aunty Val) Mulcahy at the Order of Australia Awards

I first met Aunty Val after seeking help with the cultural aspects of my new novel, Black Bones, Red Earth. Set in 1950s rural Australia, the story follows the life of Katherine, an English child migrant and her relationships with Aboriginal station hands. I never intended this novel to be about black Australia; it is, after all, the story of an English orphan. But I soon found similarities between Katherine’s story and those of the Aboriginal stolen generation, and that led me to learn more. As the writing progressed and characters emerged, I found it impossible to overlook the hardships suffered by Aboriginals as a result of government policies. As a result, the novel delves into a traumatic period in the lives of First Australians who were taken from their families and separated from their ancestral homes by British and Australian governments.

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Aunty Val (right) with family at La Perouse mission

Eighty-four-year-old Aunty Val was born and raised under protection law on the Aboriginal mission at La Perouse, south of Sydney. After being taken to live on the mission, the Protection Board separated Aunty Val’s mother, Ida, and her children from her husband, Reg. He was arrested and beaten every time he tried to see his family. Val saw her brother ejected from the mission when he reached 18 years of age. Life on the mission was difficult, and racial prejudice rampant when the residents strayed beyond the reserve.

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La Perouse mission reserve south of Sydney

‘We had different rules to white Australians,’ Aunty Val told me. ‘We didn’t have freedom of movement. We didn’t have a vote. We weren’t allowed to go to see a doctor or go to the hospital until Thursday. If you were very sick and it wasn’t Thursday, you died.’

If you were sick and it wasn’t Thursday, you died

Aunty Val says that babies died in numbers on the reserve because of gastroenteritis. ‘Women were not allowed to breast-feed on the mission. Instead, they were given bottles of milk to feed their babies. But they didn’t teach them how to sterilise the bottles, so babies got sick and died. Schooling was inadequate. We got to paint pictures, listen to bible stories, and sing hymns. There was no reading or writing, and we were not allowed to talk our own language or talk about traditional ways.’

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Aunty Val’s parents Ida Amatto and Reginald Russell in the 1930s.

Aunty Val had no idea why she and her family had to live on the mission. ‘My mum told me we had to stay because we were special. It was only when I was older that I learned the truth and that we had been forced onto the mission. I was sent out to work when I was thirteen, and that’s when I discovered we were treated differently to white kids. Even at work, we had different rules; we had to give all our wages to the mission, and they gave us sixpence back.’

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An early photo of the La Perouse mission house

Despite coming out of the mission, ill-equipped for the world, Aunty Val vowed to gain a university education. She was fifty years old when she achieved her dream, studying at the University of Sydney for her degree. Aunty Val worked in Aboriginal health and services and is passionate about educating others. ‘Education is the key for our people if they are going to thrive. If you’re not getting children educated, they will always be disadvantaged.’ Aunty Val has seen too many kids coming out of school, unable to read or write. ‘They need jobs, but they don’t stand a chance if they’re not getting educated.’

My mum said I was special

Aunty Val was awarded the Order of Australia for her work in the community, but she says there’s so much more to be done. I asked her if she was bitter about the treatment she and other First Australians have suffered. ‘I’m not bitter,’ she says. ‘but I get angry at governments that refuse to move the country forward. We can’t change the past; what’s done is done. We’re not stupid; we know we can’t turn the clock back. But Australia needs to recognise the truth and admit what happened in the past. This land was not empty when the whitefellas came. It was our country and had been for thousands of years. What happened was an invasion, followed by genocidal attacks on our race, segregation and outright discrimination. The protection laws were brought in to breed out our Aboriginal blood. Until Australian history recognises what really happened, and until we start teaching it in schools, we can’t move on, and our people will continue to suffer. We need a treaty, and we need to be recognised in the constitution. Then, maybe, we can have a chance at reconciliation and start to heal.’

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Having a yarn with Aunty Val at the community centre she helped create

Aunty Val would be the first to say her story is unremarkable; she’ll tell you that every Indigenous Australian has a story to pass on and that there were a lot worse off than her. But after listening to her tales, and learning of her past and her accomplishments, I can say without a doubt that her mother was right, Aunty Val is indeed very special.

Big Little Lies

without so much as a game of whack-the-piñata

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Photo by Hello I’m Nik

Little lies, white lies, little untruths, have a habit of becoming big lies when they’re repeated and spread on a wider scale. Dig yourself a little hole and pretty soon you’re preparing your own grave. I remember going away on our family’s summer vacation–I was about ten years old at the time. We returned home two weeks later to find a number of neighbourhood kids and school friends, waiting on the doorstep. Dressed in party frocks and Sunday best, they had arrived, as invited, to my birthday party. It was a surprise party! Mum and Dad were not impressed as they were the ones surprised. I had to watch in total misery, as my guests departed without so much as a game of whack-the-piñata, taking the gifts they had brought with them. I was in the dog house–paddling in doggie doo–for weeks. What was I thinking? Well, it started out as a little lie; I was having a party, I told my best friend, then very soon… Well, you know how it goes, and give me a break, I was only ten. The least Mum could have done was to let me keep the presents before sending everyone home.

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Photo by Social Cut

Of course, there are bigger little lies, conspiratorial lies deliberately spread until they become the truth–Just ask Donald Trump–and these lies can have a serious effect on our lives. Take this one for instance: Fat is bad for you, sugar (refined carbohydrates) is good. Who wouldn’t believe that one; everyone loves carbohydrates, right? And dieticians told us to eat them in bulk; just take a look at the dietary pyramid they’ve been using for decades. Except, this is a lie that became so big, it’s lasted for fifty-odd years. And there are still some who try to keep the lie going. What’s worse is that this one kills people by the thousands. If you wanted to find a way to kill off half the population, this would be the perfect weapon. I have a picture in my mind of Dr Evil, sitting in his secret hideaway beneath a Pacific Ocean volcano, saying, ‘Let’s feed them sugar and say it’s good. Ha, ha, ha, ha!’ Cut to his evil grin. The worst thing about this lie is that as conspiracies go, this was probably the most successful conspiratorial lie of all time. Dr Evil managed to brainwash all the doctors, dieticians and researchers to go along with his evil plan. Some didn’t even need brainwashing, because they did it for payoffs, bribed by the drug companies who were part of Dr Evil’s secret empire. Profit above all else is his motto.

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Mike Myers as Dr Evil

You don’t need to be a health professional to understand the effects this lie has had, in fact, it’s probably best that you’re not in the health industry, or you’d be feeling the guilt by now. Dr Evil–better known as Big Business–has profited from making us sick, and just like the cigarette companies of the past, they knew exactly what they were doing when they told us they knew best. Food companies have consistently laced our food with sugary poison; to the extent that–unless you have raw produce–it’s in everything we eat; just look at the labels. Then there’s the drug companies, multi-billion dollar organisations, reaping the profits by treating the addicts they helped create. These mega food and drug companies fund all the health research so that the outcomes favour their vast commercial interests. And when you have organisations like The Heart Foundation and Diabetes Foundation (receiving funding from big business) towing the company line, you know you have a big, big problem. Just drop into their websites to see that they are still making excuses to justify sugar (refined carbohydrates) as an essential part of the diet, despite proof to the contrary. These are the organisations supposed to protect us.

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Photo by Freestocks.Org

Then there’s the other half of the same lie, cholesterol is the cause of heart disease and other medical conditions, and is caused by fat in the diet. Ask a doctor, she’ll tell you. But in reality, just like cholesterol itself, fat is essential for our health. It promotes satiety and protects against heart disease, the exact opposite of what they’ve been telling us all these years. Refined grains, on the other hand, make us want to eat, eat and eat again, play havoc with our blood sugar, and make us store fat by the bucket full. Meanwhile, these same health experts have been selling us cholesterol-lowering drugs to the tune of billions of dollars in profits. Add to that that they promoted so-called good oils in place of natural fats–margarine, canola and corn oil–all of which have a toxic effect on the body, and they had even more reason to dish out the drugs to correct it.

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Photo by Victoria Shes

Why has it taken over half a century to wake from our sleep and start discovering we’ve been lied to? The answer is that we trusted those charged with our welfare. When doctors and dieticians blindly aid in promoting the lie, what chance has the truth? When research is funded to make us believe in false data, are we supposed to know any better when even the doctors are fooled? There are those better positioned than me to sift through the disinformation and find honest answers. People like the Canadian, Dr Jason Fung, who brilliantly talks about the obesity problem, hormones of the gut and the conflicts of researchers and doctors who promote the lie. Ivor Cummings talks about cholesterol and how hormones form an essential part of the picture, and Dr Michael Mosley’s Blood Sugar Diet, explains how things can easily be improved by how and when we eat, how we can take back control of our health.

There are better ways to look after our health

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Photo by Jafar Ahmed

Listening to these people with an open mind quickly brings any rational person to conclude that we’ve been living a huge lie, while all the time the truth has been right in front of our eyes. The proof is in the pudding–literally–and living a healthy life is sustainable once we’ve broken free of the sugar addiction (easier than you could imagine). Eat fat, cut out the sugar. I’ve seen the proof first hand, where the right change of diet and lifestyle has reversed medical conditions, brought weight back to healthy levels and allowed drugs taken for years to be discarded. We don’t have to give up the sweat treat completely, but like any drug, we have to recognise its power and understand that there are pushers ready and willing to kill us for profit.

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Photo by Katie Smith

Our weekly shopping trolley now looks much like it would have done in the 1950s; it’s full of fresh produce, meat, fish, eggs and dairy. It’s a Mediterranean diet; and oh, I’ve got news for you; the Mediterranean diet is not bread, pizza and pasta. I went to see my doctor to get the results of my latest blood tests after months of cutting refined carbohydrates out of my diet, eating within an eight-hour window, and cutting out snacks in between meals. ‘Good news,’ she said, ‘you won’t be needing that cholesterol-lowering medication after all. All your results are excellent.’ I wonder why?

As little lies go, Fat is bad, sugar is good, is a DIRTY GREAT BIG ONE!

Unconditional Love

I started to write a very different blog

I started to write a very different blog but was distracted by the tap of a paw on my knee. My ever-present writing buddies wanted my attention. Whenever I sit down at the computer and start writing, it’s usually a signal for Charlie and Ruby–our King Charles Cavaliers–to stretch out and sleep, only to stir at coffee time, when they know they’ll get their morning treat.

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Photo by Rick Lee                                                                        Charlie and Ruby

They don’t need to smell the coffee; they don’t even need to hear the coffee machine buzzing or the fridge door slapping shut; they have an impeccable built-in clock that says, it’s bikkie time. It’s incredible that they can tell to the second, just when they should be eating, sleeping, or going out for walks. Not only that, they are psychic, knowing long before I don my coat and grab the car keys that I’m planning to leave without them. Try sneaking out of the house; it’s impossible. Not only are they psychic, but my furry friends are mind-benders. They sit and stare for hours if necessary just so I’ll get up and clean the dinner dishes of potential food scraps. Look into my eye, my eyes. The movie can wait; you will get up and feed me. Look into my eyes; you are mine to command. And it works. I find myself drawn to those big baby browns and the sad, neglected expression. Who could resist? It’s like I’m sleepwalking to the kitchen.

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Photo by Paolo Nicolello

People like to own pets and they come in all shapes, sizes, species and breeds (people and pets). Some keep reptiles, snakes and spiders. I know people who love mice, ferrets and rats. There are even people who keep cockroaches, though I’ve got to say, that really bugs me. I’ve got four chickens, and they have a special kind of character, and I’d love to keep horses. I wouldn’t have pigs; they live like animals. I like cats. We’ve had plenty over the years. But dogs are different, aren’t they? Once you’ve had dogs in your life, there’s no going back. So what is it about dogs that makes them man’s–or woman’s–best friend?

I wouldn’t have pigs; they live like animals

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Photo by Rick Lee                                                                                      Charlie & Jay

 

Unconditional love; that’s what dogs give that other animals–or humans–don’t. They’re there when you call–even when you don’t. They’ll risk their lives for you, and you for them. I remember the time they pulled me from a burning building… Okay, maybe I dreamt that one, but they would if they could. Dogs never judge you, even when you feel judged by everyone else. And they make you smile, even when you don’t feel like smiling.

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Photo by _-Drz-_

Dogs will sit for hours, waiting at the window for your return. Give you cuddles when no one else understands how you feel. They do poop a lot, and I am their faithful pooper scooper. It’s like that Last Emperor movie where the loyal servant stands waiting for the poo to arrive, picking it up and inspecting it for irregularities. And talking about poop, they love to indulge. Total bliss for Charlie is a good roll in a pile of Wombat poo, just to get rid of that nasty rose shampoo smell. Ruby, on the other hand, enjoys nothing better than a good munch on chicken poop. It sweetens her breath before she showers me in licks and kisses. Sorry if you’re trying to enjoy breakfast while reading this post.

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Photo by Rick Lee                                                                                      Ruby

Total bliss is a good roll in a pile of Wombat poo

Like most who have dogs, I find myself talking to Ruby and Charlie like they’re humans and understand every word. But it’s always in a squeaky voice, like when you’re talking to a baby.

“I’ve had a bad day today,” I say sometimes.

“Ruff,” they answer sympathetically.

“Yes, it was,” I reply. “A dog of a day.”

They understand what I’m going through, and when I need to take a break. Which brings me to that tap on the knee. It’s Ruby, and she figures it’s a good time to shut down the computer and enjoy the day while the sun is shining and the sky is blue. Both she and Charlie will curl up contentedly at my side, with one eye on the world passing by, the other on that internal clock that says when it’s dinner time.

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Photo by Nathalie Spehner

Dogs; you’ve got to love em.