If I Ever Feel Better

I had a nomadic upbringing, with my family up-and-moving every few years, so for me the idea of dramatic relocations is appealing and completely natural. It’s always seemed the perfect way to filter your life - cut ties with the bad, add more of the good. Somehow that seems harder to do when you stay in the one place.

And my move to Sydney has worked out quite well (after only a month…) so I’m hardly the person to write these thoughts, but I will anyway.

For much of my time in Canberra, I imagined that moving back to Melbourne would be the ideal life-change for me. I had been desperately unhappy when I left in early 2004, but I managed to convince myself that it was where I belonged; where my future life would be. For the first two years, I didn’t feel ready to move back yet I remained certain that the right time would come.

Then some time late last year, it hit me that the old saying is true - you really can never go back.

Places change, people change. That perfect time in your life is just that - a time, an event, a moment. You can remember it, but you can never recapture it. All you can hope for is that the future will be full of good things.

I’ve seen a few friends leave Canberra to return to their home cities, full of big hopes and dreams. And almost all of them have turned around within months and realised that it wasn’t all they’d hoped. The jobs they took to move back were disappointing, their lives less fulfilling than in their imaginings. Some are even now talking about where to move next, as if happiness is just a function of latitude and longitude.

I’m as guilty as anyone of this thinking and I firmly believe that moving can sometimes be the best move. But moving back is never actually back - it’s just a more familiar kind of forward.

Even moving to a brand new city brings with it difficulties - the challenges of establishing a new life, the personal issues that follow you everywhere. So I am starting to wonder why we do it - why we try so hard to find the perfect environment.

And a few synapses connected last night when I remembered the CS Lewis description of the feeling of anticipation that never delivers - how that anticipation is actually a thirsting for something that the things of this world can never deliver and how it’s a foretaste of the eternal.

A few months ago, I read Martin Seligman’s Learned Optimism, something of a classic in the world of pop psychology. I was hoping, in my cautious, skeptical way, that it might change my life.

The reason being, of course, that I’m a natural pessimist of a high order - and I want to change that. Throughout the book there are tests to see whether you interpret setbacks as permanent, pervasive and personal. It seems I interpret almost everything in the worst possible way.

The book doesn’t propose little mantras or words of affirmation to try and change you. Because any pessimist knows that “I am a beautiful and unique snowflake” is a load of bollocks and that you’re not fooling anyone. Instead, you make yourself aware of the pessmistic interpretations you make as you make them. Then you deconstruct your interpretations and correct them with cold, hard facts.

In the months since reading the book, I’ve caught myself thinking the kind of self-defeating things I know I shouldn’t. Mostly it’s not even fully conscious. But awareness brings these things into the light and you start to realise how silly they are.

I’m not an optimist yet, but I know that I’m moving in the right direction. Which is kind of optimistic, when you think about it.

A strange weekend has just been and gone. Just to give you an idea, I spent my Saturday night serving drinks behind the bar at a 21st birthday that looked like something out of Beverly Hills 90210. Really.

Of all the jobs I’ve done over the years, bar work has never been one of them. And I can only say that standing on your legs for hours, dealing with drinks rushes and constantly having to explain that we were out of beer but more was on its way are all things that can tire you out. So I’m pretty glad it was a one-night-only thing.

That said, it was good fun - mostly because of the opportunity to observe the party as a complete outsider. No worries about where I fit into the picture, no angst as the girl I like dances with someone else, no morning-after-regrets from abusing my best friend after one drink too many. Just sheer social voyeurism.

My only regret? I still can’t spin a bottle of Sambuca like in the movies.

Sam de Brito over at The Age can be a bit of a boofhead sometimes, but when he’s on the money…well, he’s on it. His post the other day when he mused about the insecurities and blunt-edged self-medication that cause twentysomethings to waste an entire decade of their lives when they have everything going for them.

Reading that hit hard, because every now and then, I wake up to myself and realise that I’m doing just that. Somewhere at the back of my head has always been the thought that eventually I’ll be comfortable enough in myself to be truly happy - probably in my thirties or forties. Which isn’t too late by any means, but it would still be a crying shame.

I’ll never be this young again. I’ll never again have this amount of energy. I’ll never be this free of responsibility and able to chose my own life and projects and outlets. With my twenties more than half over, I think I’ve reached a point when I can shut off my head most of the time and just live.

When I moved to Sydney a few weeks ago, I made some decisions - constructive choices about how I was going to approach things like my new job, making new friends etc. And I think they’ve been the right ones. I’m putting myself out there, being spontaneous and enjoying myself. I haven’t been this uncomplicatedly happy in almost five years.

Started work on Monday. Became a member of the rat race commuter class the same day.

It’s not hard to see climate change in action when stuck in kilometres of near-stationary Sydney traffic. In fact, less than a week has been enough to convert me to the hybrid car cause. I’ll be just like all my favourite quasi-left-wing Hollywood celebrities. Yes, I will.

Interestingly enough, change is already occuring beneath our noses. The petrol price hikes of recent years have made the classic Aussie car (read 6-cylinder Fords and Holdens) extremely unattractive and the “girly” hatchback a lot cooler. If every big car on our roads got swapped for something smaller and more efficient, I can only imagine the impact would be big.

Of course, this is no news to people in Europe who are used to prices way in excess of what we Aussies would consider grounds for booting out the government. A British friend of mine tells me the average UK car is little more than 1L, whereas we consider 1.4L “gutless” and all but impossible.

Not sure how quickly you can change a rev-head over, though.

I made a trip out to the big Christian bookstore in Sydney yesterday with Andy and Emma and we were delighted to find the usual amazing trash - including Bible character action figures! Still, my favourite moment was discovering that not only does Jesus have that younger Baldwin brother on his side, he also apparently has Chuck Norris. Emma was equally thrilled.

It was my B-list blogger wannabe friend Andy who alerted me (given that I am without reliable internet at the moment) to the latest Mark Driscoll shenanigans including his call for more male church planters. I followed this up by reading the Internet Monk’s thoughts on the matter, especially his response to Driscoll’s once-a-day shagging plan for pastors.

Now, like the Monk, I think daily sex would be an awesome thing yet as he points out, this isn’t always possible for a range of reasons. Strangely enough, he misses the reason that resonates most with me - singless.

Because just about any Christian in ministry is going to tacitly assume that a pastor means a married person. Hence, the reasons for non-daily boinking are going to be marital in nature.

It’s odd, because a lot of pastors are more than willing to trot out the noble example of Paul and his commendation of the single life. Yet the ministries which we permit single people into are severely limited. Missionaries, ok. Singles ministries, ok. Even home group leading or music can be acceptable. Senior leadership? Pastoral ministry? Maybe not.

I’ve ranted elsewhere at length about how uncomfortable the Christian church is with singleness. And nowhere is it more apparent than in leadership. You can probably count the number of single senior pastors you know on one finger and still have room to pick your nose.

I can come up with a few reasons for this discomfort but none of them are particularly good. We might assume they’re gay (like the married Ted Haggard) or that they might be susceptible to sexual temptation (like any disgraced married pastor you can think of) or that they are too immature given their unwillingness to enter into a marital commitment (because it’s always a simple matter of choice, natch).

Is this ever going to change?

After a busy week of packing and farewells, I arrived in Sydney on Friday afternoon. I dumped my stuff and headed back into the city to meet some friends. As my bus crossed the Sydney Harbour Bridge, fireworks exploded in the sky. The coincidence was amazing - like a scene in a movie foretelling some kind of life-changing experience.

I’m not sure what my new life is going to bring me, but I’m excited nonetheless.

The weekend and last few days have been busy. I have friends here already and the change from saying “goodbye” to saying “hello” has been a relief.

So, a toast to new beginnings!