Live Music, Theatre and Concerts

The theatre almost shook. Several hundred people were clapping, screaming, and chanting: "Lindsey! Lindsey!" And I sat there, soaking up the atmosphere, almost involuntarily smiling, unable to draw my eyes away from the stage.

Yes, on Monday 23rd February, Lindsey Stirling the violinist came to Perth to perform for the first time, and I was one of the lucky people able to get a ticket. It was a hot summer's night. The theatre was packed to capacity. It smelt of body odour, and the noise was deafening. And I loved every minute of it.

It's actually only within the last few years that I've been able to cope with such a stressful environment. Before, I'd have had a panic attack from the sensory overload. But I'm a lucky person now. I can deal with things much better than I used to. And I've made a discovery about myself: I love live performances.

It's hard to describe something so... intangible. How do you explain how a crowd of roaring people and a cramped seat (or shoulder to shoulder standing) make anything better? Especially music? Surely it would be better to hear it recorded in a studio, crystal clear, unsullied by any extraneous noise or discomfort?

But there is an excitement I find from watching live shows. The crowds lend a buzz, a wave of positive emotion, while the music is... somehow more alive. And there is the enjoyment of watching the stage, the dances, the interaction between performer and audience that you cannot replicate with a studio.

It's possibly something else, too, something that cannot be described. It's a sort of magic, fun and positive and borderline addictive. There is just a joy I get from a good concert. And it was there in abundance for Lindsey Stirling.

So, I will continue to go to good concerts, few as they can be in Perth, Australia! (Such a little city gets far fewer performers than a big place like Sydney). Next stop, Futuremusic festival on Sunday with my husband. And I've already planned to go see Lindsey Stirling when she returns to Australia on her next tour - this time, with all of my sisters! Five sisters, all enjoying the same performance...

Now THAT will be magical!

Clucky Like a Hen

I'm turning 28 this year. No big deal. But Graham and I have been married for well over three years now, and we're still childless. And this doesn't seem to be changing anytime soon. 

Am I too old for children now? Are we just being selfish, living without children? How come I haven't followed in my mum's footsteps yet, and had a big family? The answer is this: it is not by our choice, but by circumstance that we have no little McInnes'. And I would give up so much to be able to have just one baby soon.

You see, I have been clucky for years. My sister-in-laws would bring their beautiful babies around to visit, and I'd coo and play with them. Friends would show off their baby pictures on Facebook, and I'd marvel over every one. It seemed so easy to have children! Friends years younger than me were getting married and immediately having babies, sometimes two or three within several years. And they sounded so happy and content (albeit chronically sleep deprived!) that I wanted to emulate them. Oh yes, I'd love a baby.

But, try as we might, I never seemed to fall pregnant. One year went by, then another. Months of waiting, hoping and praying seemed to do no good. So I went off to the doctor.

It seems I have a few things working against me. My weight (which I've discussed in an earlier post; Big Girl... Are You Beautiful?) is working against me. That hurts; to think that a lifetime of eating struggles might rob me of something I deeply desire. Plus, some of my bipolar medications were messing with my hormones. Apparently this is a side effect that my doctors had conveniently forgotten to tell me about!

So I have a plan. Graham and I are eating far more healthily now. I've been seeing a nutritionist, and I'm now far more knowledgeable about what I eat. Add to that a daily swim in the pool, and I'm trying to control my weight. 

Plus, I'm having all my medications changed. We're trying to stop me taking most of them, as many medications are not particularly good for an unborn child. It scared me a bit at first - I've been dependent on these meds to stay sane for years. And while I'm reducing my dosages gradually, it's true that I am wobbling a bit, mood-wise. I guess we'll just have to wait and see what I can do without, and what is absolutely essential for my sanity.

So, you see, while there's obstacles in the way of my dreams, hopefully they're not insurmountable. And I hope that I can use this time to prepare better for an eventual child. One thing is certain though:

If Graham and I have a baby, that baby will be very, very loved.

This is me as a baby! Doesn't my mum look beautiful?!

Like Mother, Like Daughter

This is my lovely mum!

If you had met me when I was 6 or 7 years old, and asked me what type of hair was the best in the world, I would have answered: "Red hair. Red hair is the best and most beautiful hair ever. I wish my hair looked just like Mum's."

My mum had then, and has always had, the most gorgeous natural red hair, cut into a flattering chin length bob. It frames her heart shaped face and makes her look elegant. Even at that young age, I loved it, and I wanted to imitate it.

But it wasn't just my mother's hair I wanted to imitate. I have always loved my mum. More than that, I have always wanted to be like her, to share those qualities that I admired in her.

As I grew up, I tried to imitate my mum. I was the eldest child, and I tried to have the same good influence on my siblings as my mum did. I wanted to be a good housekeeper, just like her, so I became a good cook (even though, despite all efforts, I never had a tidy room!). I saw how much she was interested in learning, and also gained interest and respect for learning. 

By the age of twelve, I was doing my best to be just like mum. I even had my hair cut in a similar bob to hers and wore long skirts and shirts just as she did. I thought it was a compliment when someone said they couldn't tell the difference between my mum and I from behind.

After the age of twelve, I had some very difficult years. It was also then that I found my mum imitation failing. I began to think that I was never going to be like my gorgeous mum, and, worse, that I was never going to make an acceptable woman at all. 

If I had described myself, I would have said I was lazy, undisciplined, messy, fat and sulky. I constantly compared myself to my mum. How come she could get up at 6 am and keep house, care for the baby, teach everyone, pray, make sure the house was clean for dad coming home, and stay cheerful, when I seemingly couldn't even wake up at 7.30 and complete my relatively few tasks?

Maybe it wasn't fair of me to compare myself so closely to my mum. Maybe it was a symptom of mental illness that kept me from seeing things clearly and realising that it was ok to be different. Maybe I was just a confused teenager who took criticism way too seriously and used it to beat herself up instead of motivating her to do better.

But whatever the reasons, when I found myself starting to want to break away, to dress differently, listen to different music, do different things, to, in short, form my own identity, I thought that was terrible. I felt guilty about it, and I was sure my mum wouldn't approve. Maybe, for all I idolised her, I had put her in a box.

When I was 18, I left home. I left my mum's care and went to a convent. I went from seeing her all day, everyday, to writing her a weekly letter, and seeing her once a month for a few hours. I missed my family. I missed my mum. But I didn't think I was allowed to talk to her about anything really important anymore, so I didn't. I was to become a nun, and nuns didn't talk to their mums about their lives and problems.

But I was always reminded of my mum at the convent, mainly because their lifestyle, while different to home, had some similar values. I was at home with a large group of nuns only because of my family, and I excelled at my studies because of my mum's influence. I never forgot her, and at night, when I was at my lowest, and I cried into my pillow, I would tell myself how much I wanted my mum. Not Mother Prioress, not anyone else, just my mummy.

I eventually left the convent. It wasn't the place for me. I felt like a failure, a loser so terrible that even God didn't want me. Anxious, depressed and guilt-ridden, I felt I couldn't stay at home. I felt I had no place anymore. I ended up going to Perth, on the other side of the country. I think I was hiding away.

I ended up renting a little room, alone, while working full-time at a cafe to support myself. I was lonely. But I didn't forget to call home every couple of weeks, and I didn't stop visiting when I could. For all my shame, I couldn't cut myself off from my mum and family totally. And I lived by the standards I had been taught.

It was only until after I met my now husband that I was able to really start talking again to my mum again. So much had happened since we had last really spoken, that we had to rediscover each other. I had to tell my mum about my new diagnosis of mental illness, about Graham, my husband, about the things I had learnt and the struggles I had had. And I found I had been right to admire my mum so much. She really was intelligent and thoughtful, feminine and wise.

The time I spent away from my family, while being the hardest times of my life, did shape me into an individual. I learnt about myself, and I became my own person. By going away from my mum, I found out good things about myself, that maybe I wouldn't have at home. I found I was strong-willed and resourceful, that I had strong principles and a big heart. I found it was ok to be myself.

But its also been amazing to come closer to my mum again. We are both adults now, and I can admire her without needing to try to be her. We still share many, many things in common. Now I am more stable, and have a better idea of who I am, I can talk to her without feeling guilty that I need to be something or someone else.

I love you, Mum. Thank you for always loving me!

The Long Distance Wedding

I knew soon after Graham proposed to me in October, 2010, that I wanted to get married in my home state of New South Wales, in the little village church of St Michaels in Mittagong. Perhaps this was silly. I have written before about my ridiculous lack of organisational skills. How was I meant to organise a wedding from across the country? 

I live in Perth, WA, and that is a huge distance away from NSW. It is a 5 hour flight from Perth to Sydney, or a week's drive across a desert. For my international readers, that's the equivalent to flying from London to Greece, or from New York to the Caribbean! I would have to organise everything long distance, as well as organise flights and luggage for myself, my husband, his groomsmen, and his family. How on earth was I to manage?

I quickly found myself bogged down in tasks. Wedding dress shopping, invitations, guest lists, reception venues, catering, booking the church, bridesmaids' and groomsmens' attire... the list seemed endless. Faced by a gargantuan collection of jobs, I felt like cancelling the whole thing. It all seemed too hard, and too expensive. 

Who on earth has the money to pay for a wedding these days anyway? With the average wedding costing around $30,000 Australian, I knew I couldn't afford the sort of wedding presented as "essential" in all the wedding magazines. Apparently you need professional photographers and cameramen, rented wedding cars, professional hair and make-up artists, DJ's... the list seemed endless. Even if I had the money to pay for all of them, how would I ever coordinate them all?

The answer came in the form of family and friends. When I confessed to my mother and some close friends that I was overwhelmed, they stepped in and helped in so many ways. Firstly, they helped me understand what was necessary, and what could be safely dropped. The most important thing was to get the ceremony right. Then the reception needed to be organised. And then flights and accommodation. All else could be dispensed with or left to others to do.

And the amount of help I got from other was amazing! Julie, my good friend in Perth, gave up 4 or 5 afternoons to help me create gorgeous hand-made invitations and mass booklets. I paid only for the basic materials, and ended up with gorgeous professional-looking invitations. She helped me make sense of the ceremony, and was a great source of support and advice from her own lovely, low-budget wedding. Many days when I would have rather forgotten about the whole thing, Julie made me feel like I could manage.

My mum found the site my bridesmaids could get their dresses from (especially helpful when they lived in three separate states!). On my sisters' request, I selected a short sleeved, high-waisted style of dress. Each bridesmaid got one made in her own measurements and in the colour she liked best, so that I could have a rainbow of bridesmaids. My mum then found two darling flowergirl dresses in white with bright sashes for my younger sisters.

My sister Imogen made my wedding cake - a beautiful cupcake stack decorated with white edible flowers. She also volunteered her exquisite singing voice, and sang the Panis Angelicus and Ave Maria solo during the ceremony. My brother Callum cleaned and organised his car, and acted as my chauffeur for the wedding day.

An old friend offered to pay for and arrange my wedding flowers. Mrs H. took me down to the flower markets in Sydney the day before the wedding and allowed me to pick out the flowers I wanted. I ended up with a gorgeous bouquet of white tulips, roses and lilies, while the bridesmaids and flowergirls got bouquets of multi-coloured tea-roses. She even squeezed her supply of flowers far enough for button-holes for all the men, and corsages for my mum and Graham's mum!

My friend Francis generously agreed to take my wedding photos, and brought, not just his professional camera, but a colleague to help. Another friend, Joshua, brought his guitar all the way from Adelaide, and played and sang at the ceremony. And so many people put aside their time and made the huge effort to get to the wedding, especially my two bridesmaids from Melbourne, the groomsmen from Perth, and my maid-of-honour from Albury.

I could go on describing the gifts of time, effort, money and support we received, but I think you understand just how much help I received. After all this, my own efforts seemed insignificant - as if, knowing I didn't have the skills necessary for organising our wedding on my own, my family and friends decided to do most of it for me.

I guess this is a "thank you" post. If you read this and see your name here, or even if you helped me and I haven't acknowledged you by name, please know how grateful I am. What seemed like such a mammoth effort became a work of love, as so many people made sure our wedding day was special. 

I am glad we didn't have the money to afford a "normal" wedding. How could a wedding organised by distant professionals and paid for out of a large bank balance ever be as intimate and special as our little wedding? It may not have felt like a "professional" event, but it felt better - a celebration with those people who love us best. 

I love you all so much, and I look forward to when I can next celebrate with you.

Who Am I, And To What End Do I Live?

I think I became a stoic by accident at the age of twelve. I had heard of the philosophical views of the Stoics (I was quite a reader), yet I didn't decide to live like that. It just happened. My brother died one day after birth, and I needed to survive somehow. While most of my family went through the natural process of grieving and healing, with the exception of my siblings who were too young to understand, I wanted to be strong. I wanted to be dependable, in order to help my family. So I denied my grief, squashed my emotions down as best a 12 year old can, and plodded on, determined to be a good, helpful child.

My family are devoted Catholics, and I know that their faith was, if shaken at first, only deepened by the experience, as they worked through their shock and grief to find healing in prayer. Grief tends to do that to people; either they find greater meaning in their faith through it, or they abandon faith altogether. As for me, I began thinking about God differently. I didn't ever doubt He was there, nor did I feel tempted to turn my back on Him. Instead, I told myself God did everything for the best. I didn't feel loved by Him, so much as I felt I needed to be strong to endure whatever else He had to throw at me. I gave up on trying to make sense of the whole situation, and just concentrated on enduring.

As I grew older, I ceased to feel as if I was loved by God and others just for who I was. Instead, my belief that God was distant led me to believe that if I could just become virtuous enough, maybe He would come to love me. I guess I thought I could achieve peace through practising religion. So I would pray and try to conform my life exactly to the rules of the Catholic Church. I became set on obedience, and I was ready to sacrifice whatever it took. I think I began to consider myself as more of a thing than a person, something that could achieve recognition through successes, but that had no intrinsic value of its own. 

I've mentioned often before that I found my emotions a hindrance and an obstacle as I grew out of being a teenager into young adulthood. I found negative emotions driving me to do things I logically didn't want to do. I perceived my emotions as being unwanted, a barrier between me and my ideal identity, that of an in-control, virtuous, rational woman. So I crushed them down. If I could have had them surgically removed, I think I would have. I prided myself on being unattached to physical things, and on having a clear and logical mind, and emotions just seemed like unnecessary baggage to carry around.

While I was in the convent, this desire to be emotionless, a person driven by logic and obedience, only seemed to be reinforced. I did my best to ignore the needs of my body and emotions, driving myself to the point of physical collapse in order to do everything prescribed by the convent Rule. I never considered that God might not want me to hurt myself in order to obey, but simply accepted the rigorous life as another God-given suffering to endure.

My body didn't really cope with the physical demands of religious life, but I took that as a necessary suffering. I used to look at one sister who had very plain signs of a mental illness, and I would think that I could accept any physical suffering, so long as my mind never went. I was absolutely fine with the idea of physical disability or death, but to lose my mind? I would think of my deceased grandmother, who eventually lost the ability to remember certain words, and who would forget to check the use-by dates on packets of food, and I was terrified I would one day lose control of my own mind.

It was ironic, therefore, that my desire to be a stoical, intellect-driven, successful person was shattered when my wayward emotions asserted themselves, pushing me into full-fledged mental illness. All my self-worth, based on my mastery of myself and on the achievement of religious life, was destroyed. I was asked to leave the convent, and worse, I found myself at home with no identity, no path in life, and a mind that was fractured with violent emotions I had seemingly no control over.

I think I spent some time just trying to endure this new pain. I felt broken, a shell of a person whose main purpose in life was simply to survive each coming day. Instead of being proud of my achievements, I slipped into self-hatred. I suppose I still thought of myself as a thing, and a thing that had out-lived its usefulness at that. I felt I had used up all of my energy and resources, only to be cast away because I couldn't live up to this perceived ideal. I was mentally sick, and I couldn't think clearly like I used to. I was battered by emotions I couldn't control, and therefore I found my physical self also out of control, one day full of boundless nervous energy, and the next day lethargic in the midst of deep depression. I had nothing left to take pride in, and I wanted to die.

There were two things that helped restore my self-worth. One was medical help, where through a combination of counselling and medication, I was shown how to gently control my emotions and to listen to what they were telling me. As I began to heal mentally, I found my mind growing clearer, and my health improving. On top of that, I found myself enjoying so many things I had simply ignored before; the sun as it dipped below the horizon of the ocean, the enjoyment of waking on a weekend to find that you can sleep in as long as you want, the fun of playing with a dog. Life was fuller, and I appreciated it so much more than I used to.

The second thing was the entry of love into my life. A nice young man got to know me, began to love me for who I was, not for what I could do, and decided he wanted to spend the rest of his life with me. I could hardly believe at first that he truly meant it. But he did, and the feeling of being wanted, just for who I was, was incredible.

I said before that I used to have an ideal identity. I wanted to be calm, rational and unaffected by emotions or physical needs. That identity was crushed when I became mentally sick. So who am I now? I'm still not sure, but I think if I want to be anything, I want to be a whole person. I want to be at peace within myself emotionally, physically and intellectually, able to reconcile those different facets of myself into one whole. I want to be someone who is able to enjoy both the emotional and physical enjoyment of eating cake, and the enjoyment of expanding my mind. I want to be happy with who I am, just as I am. I'd like to know that I am a worthwhile human being, not for anything I can do, but just for being me.

I doubt I can ever achieve all of this fully, but it is an ideal. In the meantime, I am quietly trying to start over a new life as a wife, and one day, maybe a mother. I bet there will be times when I love sight of who I want to be in the pressures of what I feel I should be doing, but hopefully I never forget for long.

Finally - God. I think it took the love of my husband to really drive home to me that God loves me. If Graham can care for me just as I am, broken and sick, then God must also do so. So I am much happier when I pray now. He is not just "up there", sending trials on us randomly. In fact, I can see that without trials such as my mental illness, I would never have grown past some very harmful attitudes and beliefs. So I guess I finally learnt the lesson my family learnt back when I was twelve - that God only gives us suffering we can bear in order to help us grow. It only took me around 10 years to learn it, but at least I got there in the end.

Guilt

The jokes about Catholics often revolve around their sense of guilt - that, of all religions, Catholics are the ones wallowing in a sense of failure and guilt. I don't know if that's true - as far as I can see, Catholics are exactly the same as everyone else when it comes to guilt. But today I am feeling down, and with that comes my guilt.

I have a crushing sense of guilt, one that seizes on any occasion to make me feel sad, worthless and powerless. I don't quite know how this all started. Maybe it began when my brother Thomas died? He was one day old when he died of a birth defect. I remember how we found out he had a birth defect before he was born. I remember how upset my mum was. I even remember lying in bed, unable to sleep, trying to bargain with God. If He took me, maybe he could heal Thomas? I wanted more than anything else to have my family happy and whole again, and if that meant me dying so that my brother lived, I was ok with that.

Of course, God notoriously doesn't do bargains, and I found myself stubbornly alive while my brother died one day after birth. In the time that followed, I tried my hardest to hold the family together, to be a good big sister and daughter. I remember trying to take over as much cooking as possible, trying to keep my siblings happy and trying not to bother my heart-broken mother. I resolutely crushed down my own feelings of grief out of a sense of responsibility towards my family.

All my efforts seemed to be in vain however. I couldn't mend broken hearts, no matter how much cooking I did. I felt guilty that I couldn't do more. And, as I grew up, this sense of guilt grew and expanded. Looking back, I realise I was developing bipolar disorder, which was causing havoc with my emotions. But at the time, all I could see was me betraying my stoic, responsible ideal with these stupid emotions. I wanted so much to be good, to be the perfect daughter, but I felt so bad.

Eventually I started using this sense of guilt as a motivator. Any time I found myself oppressed by sadness, or tired, or sick, I would beat myself up mentally. I would remind myself of every failure, mocking myself until I would go and achieve things out of a sick sense of guilt. It worked, to a degree... until I found myself just too overwhelmed by these feelings to do anything but cry. And when the tears subsided, I would begin the cycle all over again.

I can't remember exactly when I realised this, but eventually I internalised this feeling of guilt to a point where I was no longer consciously mocking myself. It came naturally, a little voice that nagged and nitpicked every action, every thought. I thought, however, that it was just how I was, that this was what adults lived with. 

When I was 21, I began going to a counsellor. She helped me realise just how hard I had been on myself, and explained that it was much healthier to be gentle when it came to my emotions. She encouraged me to acknowledge emotions such as sadness without repressing them, and tried to make me understand that it was normal and healthy to feel them. I was told to treat myself like I was a hurt little child - with gentleness and patience.

Sick and tired, I agreed and tried my best to change my patterns of thought. It was difficult. I would find myself subconsciously acting in ways I was used to, and I would have to try to change my thoughts. But it felt good to allow myself to cry, to feel sad, and even to feel good on occasion.

But I found something happening that scared me. That little voice of guilt never left. No matter how much I tried to be positive, that voice was at the back of my mind, mocking and hurting me. And as I tried to ignore it, the voice got louder. I had thought this voice was part of me, under my control. But it wasn't. And as I tried to let myself heal, I found my mind was constantly under attack. 

At one point I went on a weekend retreat. I thought the peace and quiet of some time out would help me. But what I had intended to be a weekend of prayer turned into a hell. That little voice of guilt started shouting at me. I would be trying to speak to people, only to have a voice in my mind telling me: "I hate you! You are worthless! They hate you too! Go and die!"

I knew I shouldn't listen to it, but it was so loud and frightening. I didn't know what to do about it and I was ashamed to let anyone else know, so I retreated to my room. I needed something to block it out, so I got my iPod out and listened to music, turning the volume up to ear-splitting levels. I listened to one song over and over.

I woke up in a dream today
To the cold of the static, and put my cold feet on the floor
Forgot all about yesterday
Remembering I’m pretending to be where I’m not anymore
A little taste of hypocrisy
And I’m left in the wake of the mistake, slow to react
So even though you’re so close to me
You’re still so distant
And I can’t bring you back

It’s true the way I feel
Was promised by your face
The sound of your voice
Painted on my memories
Even if you’re not with me

I’m with you
You
Now I see keeping everything inside
You
Now I see
Even when I close my eyes

(Linkin Park, With You)

Anyone looking in on me would have seen me, crouched on the bed, muttering to myself: "I'm not bad... I'm ok... No! Be quiet! I'm not listening to you!"

By the time I got home, I was ready to kill myself, to do anything to shut that voice up. Eventually I rang my psychologist and poured out my heart to her. She listened, and she said she could help me. I needed medication. Relieved that she believed me, I filled in the prescription and took the tablets exactly as directed.

Gradually the voice subsided, and the weight of guilt it had put upon me started to lift. I was able to admit I had some good in me, and that I wasn't a complete failure. I was able to see that the voice was probably psychotic. It wasn't me, it wasn't normal, it was a symptom of sickness. With an anti-psychotic medication, I was able to to start healing. 

Today, that little voice of guilt hasn't quite gone away. It's always there, ready to mock and guilt me if I fail at something. But it is much quieter now, and I don't listen anymore. I know how to distract myself from it, and there are even periods of time when it goes away altogether. 

I have failed at a lot of stuff in life. But while I can feel remorse for what I have done badly, I don't think I am meant to live my life crushed by my guilt. So much of my guilt was for things I had no control over, or for things I couldn't change. So today I live my life without guilt. What has happened is in the past, and I can't change that with all the guilt in the world. I do take things I do wrong seriously, and I will ask forgiveness from any person I think I may have hurt, but afterwards I try not to dwell on it. My voice of guilt has taught me just how dangerous it can be to hold onto these feelings, and I am determined not to listen to it again.

Human Contact

All humans need physical contact. Physical touch has been linked to all kinds of health benefits, from relieving depression, stress, anxiety and pain, to actually healing a person physically. Premature babies grow and thrive better when regularly touched, while it has been found that a baby left untouched will become very sick, or even die.

Growing up, I never had any problems absorbing the love of my family through physical contact. There were always siblings to be hugged and babies to be held. We would cuddle, wrestle and kiss.

This all changed when I left home for the convent. This very strict convent had all kinds of rules limiting communication, from a rule of silence, to separate rooms (or "cells") for the sisters to sleep in, to barriers between sisters in their pews, to a huge gate barring the sisters from the public. There were rules for everything, and most of them seem to have been designed to make each sister as invisible as possible.

I actually didn't mind being silent. I understood that to foster a prayerful environment, there had to be rules (even though I broke them often). I saw the individual cells as a privilege (I couldn't remember the last time I had a room just for me!). I didn't even mind the huge bars between me and the public, making me look like an animal on display.

What I found myself missing was human touch. Whether it was by accident or design, the sisters did not touch each other. No hugs, no touching hands or shoulders, nothing. I would go to bed at night and yearn even for the brief hug and kiss I used to get from my parents before bed. I didn't want much. Just a hug. And I never got one.

Eventually I realised the only time that the sisters ever touched was during Mass. The priest would invite us to exchange the Sign of Peace. Where most people would shake hands or kiss, we had a ritual. The junior nun would put her hands together in the gesture of prayer, and the senior nun would put her hands over them. Then both nuns would bow their heads as they exchanged the words: 

"Peace be with you." 

"And also with you."

It was all rather stylised. And it certainly didn't make me feel very loved. I felt lonely.

I left the convent, and in time, travelled across the country to Perth, Western Australia. Again, I found myself very lonely. This time, however, I was lucky enough to be part of a church community where physical touch was welcome. I remember going to prayer gatherings, where I had made friends with a little girl named Bridget. She used to ask permission from her mum, and run over to me to sit in my lap, hugging me while everyone sang.

This little girl made me feel so loved. I don't think she ever realised that often when I held her, I had tears in my eyes. The unconditional love, expressed through a hug, made me feel better when everything else in my life seemed to be going wrong.

Today, I have an inexhaustible source of comfort from my husband, who never seems fazed when I demand a hug. Sometimes I wonder if he knows why I prize our hugs so much, that because I had been deprived of human contact, I now crave touch. It probably doesn't matter. Graham gives amazing hugs, and I am able to just relax and enjoy the moments I spend in his arms.

My littlest sister Gemma-Rose is known in our family as the best kisser and hugger. I remember reading a story of my mother's where Gemma-Rose protested that she was dissatisfied with this role. She wanted to be bigger and have more responsibilities. I only wish I could let her know just how important her role really is, that everyone would find themselves sad and lonely without her enthusiastic hugs and smacking kisses.

Yes, Gemma-Rose has the most important role in the family. Because cuddles are all about sharing love, and that is the most important job of all.