Sarah Wilson

This week I get some dream coaching

Is there anything more spleen-twistingly, incisor-grindingly tedious than listening to other people recounting their dreams? I don’t think so. Which is why I won’t share how two nights ago I dreamt I was flying, but not really flying, more falling and desperately breaststroking though the air trying to gain traction, while being chased by a faceless swamp-thing. And wearing no underpants.

But this week I did share the dark side of my id with Australia’s leading dream coach Leon Nacson, who also runs Hayhouse Books. To see if pausing to understand the symbols and meanings in one’s dreams has any worth.

Back when we were all suppressing twisted oedipal urges, dreams were interpreted as a revelation of our subconscious (and often sexual) desires. A Jungian lens saw other people (and objects) as representing aspects of ourselves. So that swamp-thing? He’s some dank part of myself that’s holding me back from flying freely. Which makes surprising sense, actually. As does the fact he’s a masculine presence.

This week I talk deep

Remember the 90s? Ah, yes, they were such earnest, toe-gazing, reflective times. Folk would Quick Unpick the Nike logos off their sportswear (making branded statements was so tawdry), and debate whether you could wear lipstick and still be regarded a feminist.

Gosh, we cared back then!

In the 90s we’d have D & Ms. Which are not the same as DMs. Indeed the latter (a 140-charcters-or-less “direct message” on Twitter) is the antithesis of the former. Which, for those who weren’t there for the fun, stood for “deep and meaningfuls”, referring to the kind of conversations we liked to have. We’d also say “deep”, as kids today might say “fetch” or “amazeballs” or “hectic”.

Deep was good. Deep had currency.

So you can probably guess where all this is heading. As a paid up Gen Xer, I take great delight in signs that we might be harking back to “my day”. Or that the way we used to do things, I’ll have you know, was better. So of course I’m going to share with you news that deep is back.

This week I give the Pomodoro Technique a crack.

On this bumpy road to a “better life” that I ride week to week, this much has become abundantly clear: it’s very hard to make self-discipline sexy. As I read on some blog or other recently, you don’t get excited about a party because you’ve been told all the self-disciplined people will be there. Now, do you.

Although over the past 12 months writing this column I’ve given it a good crack. At making self-discipline sexy, that is. At parties I hold court by the buffet and impart fascinating productivity stories to captivated friends, while sipping on my one glass of pinot gris for the evening and urging myself not to grab another handful of Burger Rings.

My favourite is the one about Ray Bradbury. Ray was a broke freelance writer. Unable to afford an office, he’d go to the public library to write, where he’d queue to hire a typewriter in the basement for 30 minutes at a time.  It cost a dime a pop; he had to get value for money (and time). So he’d write in efficient bursts.

This week I get godmotherly.

Hands up if you’re a godparent. Leave your hand up if you’re a good (as in, functioning) godparent. You know, you impart upon your respective godchildren sage spiritual wisdoms from time to time, send a card on their birthday…heck, you even know their birthday!

Hmmm, thought so.

I’m godmother to Jamie. Jamie is a great kid. Actually he’s a fully-fledged adult now. I know what he’s up to because he friended me on Facebook and I read his updates. This is mostly how I know he’s an adult now. In one of his wall photos he’s drinking beer. And has a moustache. I’d feel worse about my godmotherly failings except James’ dad is my godfather. And let’s just say, well, we know each other is still alive.

This week I queue in New York*

(You might want to play this while you read!)

My Friday went like this: ensconced in a blunt, jet-lagged haze I wound my way through Manhattan’s Central Park to the Museum of Modern Art on 53^rd. , whereupon I queued for five hours to sit opposite performance artist Marina Abramović. And stare at her.

This Friday marked Abramović’s 72^nd full day of sitting and staring at strangers, one at a time, not moving even to eat or wee. In total, 1500 New Yorkers have queued – most of them from 4am – for this peculiar experience. Including, yes, Bjork. Marina is the one in white, below. Stacks of people cried, by the way. It was a big, beautiful experience to be in the room.

This week I annihilate my unfinished tasks

I call it the Un-Albumed Photo Problem. In households around the world, shoved at the back of some cupboard, is a box of old photos with negatives that have come loose from the packet. This box elicits much guilt. It probably hasn’t been touched in years; I mean, who gets photos printed these days? But rarely does a week go by when someone in said household doesn’t say to themselves, “I really should put those photos in albums”.  I had dinner this week with a frazzled TV executive toying with taking extended leave so she can regain control of her life. “If I could just get time to put the baby photos in albums,” she said. “That’s all I need.” The “baby”, by the way, is now 18.

This week I eat mindfully

Now here’s a thought: what if all those folk who take photos of their every meal and post them on their blog/Twitter/Facebook were actually onto something? I’m sure you’ve seen them about. I was at lunch recently and watched a table of six whip out their iphones as their food arrived, repositioning the Maldon salt pot artfully and angling the lighting all Petrina Tinsley-like.  In a flurry of thumbs they then tweeted the images on to their cyber followers replete, no doubt, with foodie-ese captions (“River Café-inspired mascarpone-stuffed chook with intriguing heirloom tomato smear”; “Well, if those toffee shards don’t take me straight back to 1992!”).

I’ve previously found such faddish behaviour bewildering. But this week I discerned a point to it all. Fastidiously honouring your food in this way is mindfulness in action.

This week I choose to not be right (and find beauty in a field beyond right and wrong).

Ever been stuck in a toxic relationship rut? I mean really stuck.

Perhaps it was with a spouse, a partner, or your boss or neighbour.  An issue arises, they react aggressively, you react just as primitively to their reaction, and so on and on in a spiral of right versus wrong.  Soon, you’ve both sunk into a festering quagmire of codependent hurt. You might know better than to descend like this; perhaps you’ve had therapy. But each time the scab’s knocked off the wound, you retaliate like an old lizard. You’re that stuck.

It’s rotten, this quagmire. Blame and shame turn rancid very quickly. And the detritus of old pain gets awfully sticky and suck-holey. So it’s hard to leave, or to shift the energy in a new direction.

But what if there was another path?

This week I give gifts

There’s this thing I do in cab queues at airports. I don’t find it weird. Although you might. When I get to the front of the queue I sing out to the crowd to ask if anyone would like to share a cab to Bondi (which is where I live). Or Downtown (when I visit New York). Or Rundle Mall (when I find myself that way). At first people are affronted by such an invasion of “stranger distance”. But then they soften. Especially when I offer to pay.

Of course, the practice is efficient (it shortens the cab queue for all concerned), and saves carbon emissions in it’s own modest way. But mostly I do it because it feels good. And a bit daring. And, golly, if this world doesn’t need an injection of daring from time to time!

Seth Godin does the same. Seth is one of the most prolific marketing experts in the world. He’s written 100-plus books, invented genius online businesses well ahead of the curve, has a blog following of 500,000 and is responsible for terms such as “permission marketing”, “idea viruses” and “purple cows”. And, truthfully, I think he’s the most authentically impressive person I’ve ever interviewed. And not just because he shares my penchant for cab queue bombing.

This week I see a psychic.

Actually, in the past two weeks I’ve seen a sum total of five psychics: Mitchell Coombes, the guy from TV series The One and author of Sensing Spirit (which made it to the top of the self-help bestseller list a few weeks back), Colette Baron-Reid, a prolific American “psychic to the stars” who’s conducted more than 50,000 readings over 22 years, this sweet woman up the road with a sandwich board out front offering 15 minute readings for 20 bucks (perfectly, she works from a card table draped in purple crushed velvet), Kristine Fry , the psychic all my friends’ friends seem to have on speed dial, and “Hope”, the 1800 soothsayer who said my career will either, um, stay the same or – wait for it – change direction in July. And that if I get pregnant next year, the baby will most likely “appear “at the end of the year, not the beginning. Um, Hope, that would be called a gestation period.