Follow your truth

Last Monday I did a shop at IBIS and was overcharged $21.  Ho hum, another overcharge from IBIS.  The week before it was $1.80.

     This time, however, it wasn’t a scanning error.  It was human error for a change, but hey, who cares?  It was ANOTHER f…..g error in favour of IBIS.  So I traipsed back and waited and waited for the line at the checkout to thin and eventually claimed my refund.       The staff are so sweet it breaks my heart complaining.

     It breaks my heart that I am faced with repeated pricing errors and other injustices (these are just the current list).

     Why do I have to be attacked so frequently by dogs?

     Why do I have to find the most neglected dog the police had ever come across?

     Why do I have to be overcharged so often at IBIS?

     These things shouldn’t have happened and each one has resulted in me writing, to complain, to the relevant body, ad nauseum.

     Does it only happen to me or are other people simply too lazy or afraid to complain?  Is it because I am a lawyer and must expose wrongs so they can be righted?  Is it because I have a strong sense of justice and don’t want other people to experience the terror of being bitten by an angry dog or the heartbreak at seeing a dog limping on a broken limb and stinking with gangrene?

     As I pondered my predicament Henry appeared.  I gave him the run down.

     ‘Henry, why is it happening to me?’ I pleaded. ‘I just want to live a happy, peaceful life.  I don’t want conflict.  I don’t want vicious or neglected dogs, I don’t want overcharges at IBIS.  I want everyone to be happy.  Is the universe telling me something?  Why me? What do I do?’

     ‘Ask the duck,’ he said and left.

     Aside from the fact the duck has a name, he had a point.

     I went downstairs with a cup of tea and settled on the grass with Pepper Zen.  She’s a neat little unit when she’s not chasing flies.  She sits with a bemused expression, part wonder, part wisdom.  An oblong of pale yellow fluff, her neck curling backwards so her golden bill rests against her chest.

Pepper in her fly-hunting stance.  Few flies escape her stealth and accuracy.

     I related my concerns to Pepper and asked, ‘What am I supposed to do?’

     She quacked, no word of a lie.  ‘Follow your truth.’

     Shit, I thought, I wanted an easy answer.  Pepper Zen was right, as an enlightened being would be.  That meant I had to take ‘the journey.’  Damn it.  I will have to do all the sitting and thinking stuff and get transcendent.  I will have to be and accept.  I am not sure what I have to accept, but I know acceptance is high on the ‘how to become enlightened’ checklist.  Oh, my God, I might even have to accept aggressive dogs.  
     I will surrender and find my truth, but there are a few things I will not negotiate that usually go with treading the path of oneness or to oneness or whatever the phrase is. 

     I will not give up caffeine and powdered milk.

     I am not drinking herbal tea or eating goji berries and quinoa (which is correctly pronounced kwin-oh-huh) or anything that is referred to as a ‘super food’. 

     I will not wear cheesecloth and I refuse to give up Lycra and spandex even if they are hopelessly unsuitable in the tropics.

     I maintain my inalienable right to eat gluten, all things GM and unorganic and salt (except blue salt, red salt, rock salt and Celtic salt). And use full strength deodorant with aluminium, erudium and other iums that mean it prevents foul odours for 24/7 (which I need if I am wearing spandex)

     And finally, I will not detox or have colonic irrigation or juice. 

     Other than that, I look forward to enlightenment.   

One of my first attempts at being.  According to reliable feng shui authorities, water increases chi or qi which is said to be very important in achieving an equilibrium of mind and body.  This is very good for enlightenment.

I shared a navel orange with Pepper.  I don't normally share navel oranges.  

Pepper loved my orange.  I loved watching Pepper love my orange.  

'I'm full. Even enlightened ducks get full, you know.'

Pepper Zen

I haven’t read much Leunig, but before dinner last night, Detta sent me this: 

     I gave it a quick glance just before I tended the yellow rice and coconut curry whitefish (with chickpeas to make it go further for the 12 hungry diners) and waited for Detta and Vic to arrive.  Yes, it was funny and touching.

     But during dinner, Pepper, who sat beside me in her box, was behaving like a Buddhist guru.  Tony was making derogatory marks about ‘the duck.’

     I said, ‘SHE has a name.’

     Someone said, ‘roast duck.’

     During dessert, everyone was praising Dr John’s chocolate cake.  

     ‘It tastes better this time,' he said, 'because I didn’t use butter, I used duck fat.’  

     The men and boys laughed.  I fumed.

     I turned to comfort Pepper.  To my surprise she maintained a demeanour of knowing calm. She didn’t squirm, chirp or quack which I wanted to do in defence of her good character.  Don't think for a minute she wasn't following the conversation.  Oh, she was. But she accepted the pejorative comments and let them go on their way.  

     In fact, she gazed up at Dr John with an expression of loving tolerance.  She was at peace. She was PEACE.  She was LOVE.  I was enveloped by a strange, warm, fuzzy feeling.  An epiphany, perhaps.  I wanted to take Pepper in my arms and kiss her, share the love she was emitting like a navigational beacon.  Except she is still a bit small.  I learned patience in that moment.  I would be able to embrace Pepper soon enough.  I needed to wait.  To BE.

     I thought, I will learn a lot from this feathered teacher.  The people of this world can learn from Pepper.  Peace, acceptance, tolerance, love, being.

     While the dinner conversation buzzed, I thought about the late afternoon when I had a cup of tea in the garden with Pepper.  As I was taking the last few mouthfuls, I was thinking, Gotta cook the curry and take the dogs we are babysitting down for a wee because they are locked on the veranda, I forgot to reply to some emails and I need to check the rhythm of my latest complaint to the council about the dogs on TI, this time as a poem, the curry, more toilet paper for Pepper, ask Nicola for coconut milk, don’t forget kaffir lime leaves.

     Then it occurred to me I was actually focusing on what I had to do, not what I was doing.  I was ahead of myself.  Pepper was doing something entirely different.  She was chasing flies and ran in what appeared to be figure eights, snapping at the little black dots.  She covered a small area, a metre and a half squared max, but she did it with such focus, such intensity, that she was totally oblivious to what was going on around her.  She was IN THE MOMENT.  Where as I was in the future.

     It wasn’t until our conversation unfolded during dinner that I realised Pepper had been sent to me to teach me to slow down and be.  She is an enlightened being who has appeared to end my suffering, my eternal rushing around in figure eights (and circles) while I think of what I have to do, what I’d done, possibly badly and how I could fix it, what I wanted to write, what I’d written that needed tweaking.  Never being in the moment.

     I am convinced Pepper is a Buddhist duck.  I have struggled with Buddhism.  I have tried many times to explore the faith, but I don’t get it.  I have read the Dalai Lama and his words are too simple.  I reckon without kids and work and a mortgage and animals and boats, I might be able to sit in an elegant position and contemplate the vicissitudes of life and sprout some simple words.  

     I used to have his book, Daily Meditations.  Someone gave me a copy then I tossed it, not satisfied with his cursory approach to life.  Then Tony was cleaning a yard of a vacant house, a Gadin Ninja job, and he found another copy so he brought it home thinking it was something I’d read. I groaned when he handed it to me.  It appeared I wasn’t going to escape Buddhism as easily as tossing it in the garbage bin!

     Anyway, I made a truce with the religion.  I didn’t need it and at the end of the day, I can’t wear maroon (it’s not a flattering colour for me) and I can’t have short hair (I was taken for a boy too often when I had cropped locks).  And that was it.  I tossed Daily Meditations a second time.

     Then Pepper arrived.  It seems God wants me to explore Buddhism and I think Pepper is going to help me make sense of it.  

     And how fitting.  I mean what does a celibate, single guy draped in a crimson and yellow curtain with a number one haircut who comes from a landlocked province in central Asia have in common with me, a cynical, white, middle-class housewife with many children and animals who lives on an island close to the equator (the temperature absolutely rules out wearing drapes and I will not cut my hair).  I relate to Pepper and everything about her.

     Pepper is my teacher.  I re-read Leunig's words.  He is right.  Pepper will lead me into ‘wisdom, joy and innocence.’

     She is my Buddha.  I am the student.  My HECS payment will be devotion to Pepper.  Pepper Zen.  I AM.

The Duck Treatment

Years ago when I was full of energy and running around with my little brothers, Dad once told us to settle down.  

     We ignored him and he said, 'I'll give you the duck treatment.'

     'What's the duck treatment?' I asked, hands on hips.

     'I nail one of your feet to the floor.'

     We thought about that.  'But we won't be able to move,' I said.

     'That's the idea.'

     Dad has threatened my children the same thing when they are verging on hyperactivity.  They stop, have a good, hard think and give the same responses, despite the thirty odd year passage of time.

     Now I am experiencing my own duck treatment.  If I move around, Pepper cries.  If I stay still, she 'nails' my foot to the floor and she's quiet and content.  I need to find some way to deal with pins and needles.

Mango madness in our Yarducopia

We are harvesting more and more produce from our back yard.  The total block is only 674 square metres, but it is jam packed with edible plants such herbs, salad greens and tomatoes and fruit bearing trees such as mango, pawpaw and banana.  Our very own Yarducopia.

     This morning I considered breakfast while I was watering the garden and decided on a Mad Mango Green Smoothie.  I collected some fallen mangoes, some green salad stuff (don't know the name, but we've been eating it for three years and so far, no twitches or third nipples) and mint.  Whir everything in a mixer.

Cheers!

No, Pepper.  You've had breakfast.

Duck Power

All the strength of a duck and a half in every 500 ml bottle

The half Leunig and the duck

Our family, including Pepper and Dr John, went to a friend’s place for dinner last night.  Pepper was the perfect guest and sat quietly in her box, leaning against my left foot.  She loved the nannygai Tony brought up for the barbecue and wasn’t too keen on Vic’s potato salad which was delicious.  Towards the end of the evening, Pepper and I went to help with the washing up, just as it was wrapping up. So I stood at the bench chatting to Detta and Mary while Pepper relaxed in my hand.

     Detta had a light bulb moment.  She marched to the coffee table and returned with a book, The Essential Leunig.

     I raised my eyebrows. 

     ‘The duck,’ she said.  ‘You’ve got the duck.’

     Of course.  I was holding the duck. 

     ‘Let’s get a photo of you with the duck and the book,’ she said.

     I can tell you it takes a bit of muscle holding The Essential Leunig and the four week old duck, but I was thinking about a distant memory.  I had some connection with The Essential Leunig and it wasn’t only a gentle and comical creature.

     Aaah.  I remembered. I am half Leunig.  My mother’s maiden name was Leunig.  There was something else I was trying to remember and it came to me.

     In second year uni, I was most concerned, for approximately ten minutes, about the loss of the family name, Leunig.  McKenna, my surname, was common, but Grandpa Leunig told me all the Leunigs are from the same stock, German settlers from the Black Forest region and there weren't many of us.  Mum had one brother and he had one son.  It was up to me to preserve an endangered surname.

     So, the next day I wandered into the JD Story building at the University of Queensland and changed the name on my enrolment, Catherine McKenna to Catherine Leunig-McKenna.  A simple step to a significant gesture. 

     Perhaps I had given this Leunig-McKenna business a bit longer than ten minutes considering I had to walk from Landsborough Terrace in Toowong where I lived near The Regatta all the way to St Lucia (I had crashed my van at the time, another story).  Anyway, fairly soon after I left the JD Story building, I had completely forgotten my new surname.

     Fast forward to exams at the end of the year, the whole five of them, all year exams.  I wrote my student number 116992868 in the boxes on each answer sheet and scribbled what I needed to secure a pass.  I skipped out of the last exam into the late November heat and over the shrivelled remains of the jacaranda flowers in the great court.

     I didn’t fly home till just before Christmas because I was keen to earn some money and a great employment opportunity presented itself.  I was to become a professional ironer for four weeks.  The pay was good and the conditions were bloody fantastic. Here's why.

     During second year I developed an interest in soap operas.  It was a way of coping with studying law when I wanted to do almost anything else and a career like ironing hadn’t come my way. Committing myself to four hours daily of soapies in the AV room near the main refec achieved a balance that sustained me through my studies over the next couple of years.

Midday.  Santa Barbara

1 pm.  The Bold and The Beautiful

1.30.  The Young and the Restless

2.30.  The Restless Years

3.30 till 4  General Hospital

     Professional ironing ticked all my boxes.  I got paid to iron and watch my favourite shows and develop a new talent.  It turns out I was a mean hand with an iron.  My only regret about the arrangement was that The Bold and The Beautiful screened for half an hour only and less credible shows got an hour of viewing.  That aside, it was one of the best holiday jobs.  There were three or four of us, good mates so before and after the soapies started we engaged in serious conversation about what happened last Friday night and what we were doing next Friday night.  We were 19.

     Underlying this student nirvana was the mild anxiety relating to the impending release of my exam results.  The day was fast approaching, a Saturday in December.  It would happen at the Courier Mail premises in Bowen Hills.  Car loads of students would rock up to wait for Saturday’s paper to be released minutes after midnight.

     A group of us jumped in my 1984 Mitsubishi Starwagon (neatly repaired), more of us than there were seats, and headed to Bowen Hills.  We waited in the dark, along with what seemed like hundreds of dilapidated student vehicles, for the paper to be released.  The moment we were waiting for arrived.  A door opened, a flash of light silhouetted a man holding a pile of papers and one of us jumped out and bought one.

     By the dim interior light, Pam turned to the exam results pages and searched for our names in alphabetical order.  One by one she called out everyone else’s name, the subject code and the grade.

     ‘LA202, 5, LA204, 6 …’ and so on.

     But my name wasn’t there.  Each of us checked, several times, without success.

     At home, I examined the print under the fluorescent light of the kitchen, then the lounge, even the bathroom.  My name wasn’t there.  I had failed FIVE subjects.  I crawled into bed with a heavy heart.  It would have been much heavier had HECS been introduced, but that was two years off.  Put simply, I had spent too much time watching American soap operas and this was my punishment.  I had to cop karma when it was due and fair.

     The matter wasn’t mentioned in the morning.  I sulked around.  I cried.  I threw my hands in the air and asked the ceiling, 'Why me?'  

     I decided not to tell Mum and Dad.  I’d simply repeat the year and they’d never know.  Then again, I could explore a career in ironing and maybe do an MBA with a view to establishing an ironing franchise.  Sob, sob.  Why me?

     I can’t remember what prompted my friends to come clean.  Perhaps it was the irritation they felt following a couple of hours of my wailing and snivelling and questioning the ceiling.  And INXS and Paul Kelly don’t mix well with hysterical grief.

      ‘Didn’t you change your name?’ said Pam as she held the crumpled paper to me.  ‘Does that ring any bells?’

     Of course.  I wasn’t a McKenna.  I wiped my runny nose on my bare arm and ripped to the Ls.  There I was, LEUNIG-McKENNA, CM.  

     Aaah.  I was saved.  I’d just forgotten I was half Leunig.  

     Doesn’t Leunig have a character who is a fool? 

Dealing with ducky do!

Take a young duck and an old sock (preferably in a gender appropriate colour which was not possible in this case as the boys out number the girl)

Cut the old suck in the right places and thread through a strip of Chux cloth

Ducky diaper!

Back view

'I'm a pretty girl'