Reflective practice in an age of rapid change.

 This morning I surfed at a little point-break down the road from my house.  It’s a beautiful wave, playful, lined up, breaking for a few hundred meters over shallow reef.  

  Fifteen years ago I’d often surf this wave alone or with one or two friends. Rarely did I see somebody in the water who I didn’t recognise. It’s not like that anymore. 

  We live in a designated growth corridor. The population of our town has swelled from 15,000 people in 2011 to over 25,000 in 2025. Not taking into account a massive explosion of new suburbs five minutes up the highway which have also expanded from 0 to 25,000 people in the same time.

  Needless to say, the number of surfers in the water has increased proportionately. 

  When we recall positive past experiences, we run the risk of eliciting nostalgia, a longing for a way of life that no longer exists. This can colour our perception of the present moment leaving us feeling bitter, sad or frustrated with the realisation that we can’t go back.

  On the other hand, we can recollect the past with a sense of gratitude and appreciation.  We can celebrate that we were there, we participated in that experience. 

  There’s a delicate dance between gratitude and nostalgia. Either way a little reflection helps keep us centred, heightening awareness of our values, revealing what is true and important to us.

  Looking back with the intention to live well in the present moment is a helpful practice. It helps us act more mindfully. Are we living in alignment with our values, with our sense of integrity?

Start in Motion

Years ago I stood in a classroom as a replacement teacher and witnessed a young man sit through an entire creative writing class without putting pen to paper.

Looking back I think the task was part of an assessment, so teachers weren't allowed to offer much assistance or encouragement. According to his regular teachers, the young man was intelligent, creative and quite capable.

Ability wasn't the problem. Starting was the problem.

There are a whole lot of reasons why we find starting a new creative project difficult. From perfectionism to overthinking.

Sometimes the more we believe we can do a good job, the harder it is to get started. When we start, when we make the idea into a reality, we run the risk of it not meeting our expectations.

Starting in motion helps us sidestep the internal dialogue. It gives us the momentum we need to slip into flow state, opening us up to the steady stream of new ideas, floating around in the ether, just waiting to be engaged.

Running is easier when we start with a gentle walk. It allows us to warm up, not only physically but also by firing up the neural networks that tune us in to the movement and sensations of the body.

When we start in motion, our nervous system has an opportunity to gradually expand our window of tolerance, to get comfortable with the increasingly complex demands of the creative act at hand.

When a surfer catches a wave, they must first meet the energy of the wave by exerting their own energy. By starting in motion, the surfer's effort is rewarded by an almost effortless ride.

Write nonsense.

Draw without clear direction.

Pick up the guitar and play a note, any note.

Reveal the Trick, Lose the Magic

In an age of endless "How to" guides, the idea that we might choose to conceal our process feels almost counterintuitive.

Almost counterintuitive. On a deeper level we enjoy marvelling at a completed piece of work without understanding how it was created. This is our childlike nature shining through.

My Dad's mate, Dave, used to visit when I was 2-3 years old and on several occasions he pulled a toy motorbike out of my ear.

This trick bamboozled me for years. My toddler brain wondered, "How did he get the motorbike behind my ear so he could pull it out like that? How did he get it to stay behind my ear without me even feeling it?"

Though the trick was simple, to the small child it created a sense of reverence. Who was this magical person with special powers?

Perhaps revealing the trick is appropriate sometimes, in the interest of passing on a skill or tradition.

On the other hand, sharing too much with too many people dilutes the work. We run the risk of losing the magic. If all of the artists and performers in society lose their magic, we run the risk of losing any sense of mysticism in our culture.

Not every trick needs revealing. Not every process needs documenting. Sometimes the gift we give is wonder itself.

Edit the Shit Bits

I saw a few posts recently encouraging people not to compare their lives with the curated, picture-perfect Instagram highlight reels of the rich and famous, or the photogenic family next door.

Of course their lives look great when they only show the best bits: holidays on tropical beaches, freshly decorated homes, healthy bubbly babies.

Of course, comparing their reality with your snotty, grubby toddler in the midst of a Melbourne winter, with damp laundry hung all over the living room may taint your perspective with a fluorescent green shade of envy.

Mindfulness offers us the option to edit our reality.

With mindfulness we move to conscientious curation of both our internal and external world.

We practise reframing our circumstances in light of our deepest values.

We intentionally choose what we do, who we surround ourselves with and where we spend our time.

We learn to catch our thoughts before they spiral into unhelpful patterns that cause distress.

As we develop a mindfulness practice we shift towards a life created out of faith rather than fear. Mindfulness is the edit button, in real life, in real time.

Over the Edge

We have a 12-foot deep skate bowl in Torquay. A giant polished concrete crater in the ground.

At 35 years young, I felt it was time to learn how to skate bowls. Together with a good friend, we kitted ourselves out in all the safety gear, new, bowl-worthy skateboards and embarked on the gnarly path to become concrete shred lords.

I had ridden a skateboard as a kid, but there were very few skateparks around in the 90s. At the time skateparks were considered hangouts for drug-addled degenerates. Mothers groups didn't meet at the skatepark for a picnic while their 3-year-olds cut laps on their scooters. Because of their scarcity and bad reputation I wasn't allowed to go to skateparks until I was in my late teens and I never developed the skills and confidence to ride big bowls.

As an adult, you don't bounce like you did when you were a kid, so progress is slower. I had to build the muscle memory and skill to drop in and carve almost from scratch, starting on the smallest ramps we could find.

As I stuck with the practice, over the course of about a year a few elements conspired to support my progress. In particular was meeting an ex-professional vert skateboarder who took me under his wing and helped me to skate with a bit of style, correct form and most importantly a safe approach to climbing increasingly large concrete walls.

With support and guidance, I was encouraged to consistently confront the edge of my comfort zone. Dropping into larger bowls, riding higher, beginning to carve the coping in bowls I had previously written off as impossible.

Each time I found myself at the edge of a new challenge, I learnt to feel the fear, then systematically work through a process of familiarising myself with the new terrain. I practised bailing out safely to my knees. I learnt to incrementally develop familiarity with the bowl by gradually building speed and height.

Before I reached my goal of dropping into the 12-foot deep end I had a series of mountain bike accidents, broken bones that seriously delayed my progress. But I had already exceeded what I previously believed I was capable of on a skateboard. Dropping into 8ft ramps, carving to within inches of the coping on the 12 footer.

While not exactly a concrete shred lord, I felt competent.

I'm grateful for my middle-aged skateboarding sojourn. I'm grateful for the people who supported the journey. Most of all I am grateful for the gift of learning to push myself over the edge in the face of fear, continually expanding my window of tolerance in the pursuit of what I love.

Your Art, What's Really at Stake?

"Music is pretty low stakes for you, I mean it's not like you're trying to make it," a friend observed over dinner.

This statement beautifully captures the status quo attitude towards creative projects: play small, be safe, don't be a tall poppy.

When somebody says your art is low stakes, they're saying it's nice to make your art but it doesn't really matter because you have another career.

When an artist hears this statement it really hits a nerve. For people who make art, regardless of the medium, it's not just a nice thing to do in their spare time. It's the lifeblood that makes everything else they do possible.

It's the system that allows them to digest life and alchemise their experience.

It's the window to their heart, an invitation to let others see who they truly are.

It may not pay the bills but art is the work we find most satisfying.

An artist doesn't lie on their deathbed regretting the hours they didn't spend at a day job they never loved.

An artist will regret not making and sharing the song, the painting, the book, the play, the photo. Because at least for a little while, art lives on. It's the gift we keep giving even when we can't be there to give it.

To me, making my art is high stakes and if that's not clear to people around me, perhaps I need to change the way I do things.

Keep Going

It feels like a waste of time.  

Resistance rears its heavy head.

Your whole life

A speck of sand on the infinite shoreline of existence.

Your name will be forgotten.

Everything you build will crumble.

Keep going. 

Keep going, not to reach the destination.

Keep going to enjoy the walk.

Chase and It Will Run

"Can you come down to the beach?" Occasionally I'd get a call from my wife, Tilly, when, at the end of her walk, our late dog Marley refused to come close enough to be clipped back onto her lead.

Dogs, with the exception of maybe bulldogs, are generally much faster and more agile than humans. When a dog doesn't want to be caught in an open space, even the most athletic among us will have a hard time catching them.

When Marley sensed it was time to go home, she would lie down just out of reach, jumping to her feet, moving just a bit further away every time Tilly took a step in her direction. Chasing Marley would only send her darting into the sand dunes where she could hide in the scrub, safely out of reach.

The more of a hurry Tilly was in to leave the beach, the harder it was to put Marley back on her lead. Marley could sense the tension in her movement. Tilly's presence was no longer calm and inviting. As the frustration mounted, Marley became increasingly difficult to cajole back onto her lead or into the car.

Most animals, people and things in life don't like being chased unless it's part of a game. On a primitive level, being caught meant being eaten, killed or domesticated into a life of hard labour.

The animal doing the chasing generally has an agenda in mind that may not align with the plans of the animal being chased.

It's similar with ideas. The more we chase them, the more we need them to conform to the agenda we have created in our minds, the more elusive the idea becomes. The mounting pressure, tension and anxiety we create as we chase ideas shifts our emotional disposition towards fear, shutting down our imagination.

An alternative way of relating to ideas and dogs is to invite connection by maintaining a calm, open disposition. As we relinquish our agenda, relax, smile, slow down, the sense of safety we embody naturally invites connection.

The dog or idea may still choose to rest just out of reach and we learn to be ok with this...

Or we call for backup who arrives with an irresistible treat that the dog just can't resist!

From Creative to Creation

While a tree provides shade to animals seeking refuge from the summer heat, shade is not the primary creative outlet of the tree.

Many service industries are full of creative people. People who choose to remain playful, curious and open to new possibilities in their work.

These are the people who can transform a good cafe experience into a great experience, the doctors who are willing to explore alternative avenues to improve health, the youth workers and teachers who connect with tricky kids.

Creativity in service delivery can be transformational for service recipients. It can shift perspectives on life, relieve suffering and provide moments of joy. Creative services can be a refuge in a stressful world, like shade on a hot day.

While utilising our creativity in service to others is valuable, sometimes our inner artist senses that there's something more to be explored. The ache to create is often not satisfied in jobs that only deliver services. Our inner artist likes tangible things: things we can see, touch, hear, things we can share with others.

Trees are continually producing new leaves, branches, flowers, fruits. Tangible artefacts that can be seen, held and used.

The things we make can be a reflection of the service we deliver. They may carry a similar sentiment, emotional resonance or tone.

As we develop the practice of using our creativity for creation, we may notice a shift in the quality and content of the services we provide. Like a tree producing new growth, we create space for fresh inspiration and learning.

The Role Model Trap

Set a good example for your…
Sister.
Brother.
Cousin.
The little kids.
Younger year levels.
Your teammates.
Colleagues.
Students.
Staff.
Fans.

Okay, maybe not fans…I’d need to have some first.
But growing up, that expectation was served up generously by adults.

Society created the role model as a tool to moderate behaviour. Instead of simply being mindful of others watching us, many of us internalised the responsibility to constantly watch and police ourselves.

The idea that our behaviour could shape the destiny of a younger, more vulnerable person was quite a weight to carry. If little Tommy ends up living under a bridge, it’s probably because he heard you drop an f-bomb when you were twelve.

Influence is real. But behaving in a socially acceptable way just to set a good example can be counterproductive to developing an authentic sense of self.

That’s not to say the world would benefit from everyone acting out their unresolved pain through aggression, chaos and unbridled indulgence. If the only thing keeping you civil right now is your sense of duty as a role model, then by all means, keep it.

But imagine if kindness and civility flowed naturally from a place of safety, self-awareness and confidence, instead of obligation.

When we give ourselves space to feel, think and express authentically, rather than suppressing pain and performative behaviour. The channel for greater love, creativity and joy opens on its own.

Perhaps there are roles you’re still modelling that you’re finally ready to let go of.

I Just Want to Create Things

"I just want to create things."

About 8 years ago, after resigning from a school-based wellbeing job, again, a friend asked what I thought I would do next. I had an insatiable hunger to be more creative, to create things that didn't exist before that could bring joy and delight to others.

It was clear to me that the work I had been involved in, while serving others, wasn't meeting my need for creative expression.

This desire to create, often literally felt as a hunger in the belly, is part of human nature. Rather than embarking on the creative journey, many of us have learnt to:

• Feed the feeling with sugar, fat, salt and booze.

• Find distraction in passive entertainment.

• Focus on busy work that helps others.

• Fill our time with social obligations.

And all of these distractions work, they dull the sensation, the hunger for creativity. Until one day, a string of events strip back our ability to hide from the creative call any longer. We find ourselves faced with the time, resources and skills to tune into our creative work.

When blues legend Robert Johnson sings, "I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees. Asked the lord above, have mercy, save poor Bob if you please."

Johnson is singing about the creative call, at the crossroads between repeating old patterns and stepping forward in faith.

Which way are you going to turn?

Reframe it with Reverence

Can you remember the joy of making art at primary school? The smell of paint and pottery clay as you pulled up a stool to address a table full of feathers, pasta, white glue and glitter? Pure joy.

Now can you remember what happened to the glittery, feathered, pasta, paint masterpiece when you arrived home?

Was it affixed to the refrigerator with a magnet from the local pizza joint?

Perhaps it was framed and proudly displayed in the living room?

Or was it quietly tossed in the garbage?

The joy of creation for the budding young artist is quickly amplified or muted by how their creations are treated.

As an adult we may come to understand that how others treat our work has no bearing on its value. We come to the realization that everyone has different taste and while some creative work appeals to one group of people, it may not appeal to others.

But kids don't have insight into the nuances of art appreciation and the subjective valuation of creativity. Particularly when the ones doing the valuing of the child's artwork are their parents, teachers, trusted adults whose opinions they hold in high regard.

Whether our artwork was tossed in the bin, magnetised to the fridge or carefully framed and displayed can have a significant impact on our creative confidence.

The antidote: We learn to create 'frames' for our work as adults. Frames that honor our creativity with dignity and reverence.

How will you choose to reframe your creativity today?

Start with How, Not Why.

Working in schools with adolescents for 15 years as a counselor, I listened to hundreds of young people talk through what they wanted to do with their lives.

Particularly when selecting subjects or preparing to leave high school, my office would fill with senior students seeking a listening ear to talk through their choices. Many of the students presented with two beliefs that clouded their ability to see a path forward.

Two motivating beliefs that frequently emerged in these conversations:

• One: "It's important to help people."

• Two: "It's important to get rich."

The trouble with these two motives, which are not mutually exclusive as many students presumed, is they focus on outcomes, not action.

While focusing on your why when pitching a product or service may be effective marketing, it's not particularly helpful for making career choices.

Knowing why you want to do something is not nearly as important as knowing what you love doing.

If we start with why, it's easy to become trapped by somebody else's idea of what it means to help. In an effort to appear virtuous and please people around us, we may inadvertently squeeze ourselves into a career path that doesn't fit, and we join the multitude of miserable workers afflicted by Mondayitis.

On the other hand, if you start by tuning into your heart and identifying what you love doing, you'll be fueled by intrinsic motivation.

When we work from genuine joy rather than obligation, our impact is more authentic and sustainable. The love, joy, and satisfaction you find in the work will spill over, and you won't be able to stop yourself from helping people.

Ballpoint Pen Art: When Simple Tools Beat Complex Technology

Last week the internet in Torquay shut down for a day, so I went to the local library to upload a few blog posts. While there I picked up a book, "The Art of Ballpoint" by Matt Rota. I didn't go looking for it. The book was placed on display directly opposite the elevator doors where it caught my attention.

Most people have access to ballpoint pens. Cheap, accessible, reliable.

Most of us have some experience doodling with a ballpoint while listening to a lecture or drawing in the margins instead of writing an essay. Outside of being captive in an educational institution, or perhaps the workplace, most of us wouldn't think of the humble ballpoint as our primary art-making tool.

With the invention of the camera, taking portrait and landscape photos quickly diminished the value of realist painters, who could not compete with the speed and accuracy of the camera.

Similarly, AI has rapidly accelerated the capacity of individuals to create images based on their imagination without learning to draw, use graphic design software or even take a photograph. Instead, creators can use plain language to describe the image they wish to see and AI does the rest.

But there is something rewarding about slow image creation.

About starting out, not knowing how the image will develop.

About tuning in to our emotions and communicating through the act of drawing rather than filtering that emotion through rational language.

When we slow down, draw without thinking and really engage with the process, we don't just create a drawing.  The drawing creates us.

As we draw, the brain creates new pathways, improving emotional regulation, sensory integration and enhancing our capacity to think more creatively.

All that it takes is a ballpoint pen and the back of an envelope. So what are you waiting for?

Some Things Don't Get Easier with Practice, They Get Easier When Your Nervous System Is Regulated

"Practice makes perfect." This idiom was a household staple for my family growing up. It applied to all the fun stuff like math, essay writing and ironing school shirts.

Luckily I can't remember it being associated with activities I really loved like skateboarding, playing guitar or riding my bike.

Perfection, an unattainably high level of performance, was held in high regard by parents and teachers in the 90s. The perfectionist mindset presumed there was a correct way to think and act, leaving little room for creativity or personal style.

The pressure to meet this extremely high, yet undefined level of perfection creates all sorts of anxiety in the young mind. What if I'm not good enough? What if I disappoint my parents?

All of this anxious striving only serves to stifle curiosity and creativity in the desperate quest to meet expectations, to be good.

Skateboarding in the 90s was still emerging, particularly street skateboarding with its emphasis on breaking the rules, finding new places to perform increasingly impressive tricks.

The point of skateboarding wasn't to just perform a perfect set routine, it was to push the limits of imagination and physicality through play, curiosity and experimentation.

When we operate from our playful nervous system state, a mix of ventral vagal and just enough sympathetic energy, we are more likely to keep going.

To get back up when we fall. We develop intrinsic motivation. We learn to love the process and let go of the results.

Where in your life could the game change if you moved from practice to play, from perfection to joy?

The Role of Fighting on the Road to Wholeness and Regulation

Saturday evening, the Melbourne Pavilion filled with fight fans for Roots 30, 'Slings and Arrows,' a Muay Thai fight show.

Bright lights warmed the canvas of the elevated boxing ring, the thump of a reggae bass line from Fat Freddy's Drop reverberated through the pavilion. Friends, training partners and family gathered around to watch as their loved ones prepared to climb over the ropes to do battle.

Professional Muay Thai; kicking, punching, kneeing, elbowing, is a violent sport. A violent sport with virtually no money involved. So what motivates people to subject themselves to this extraordinary experience?

The capacity for violence is a trait observed throughout the animal kingdom. Birds peck each other, fish eat each other, toddlers with no exposure to violence will pick up a block and whack another kid if playtime isn't going their way.

I grew up in a culture where violence was generally frowned upon, "love your neighbour, forgive your enemies," that sort of thing. But most of us have some experience of wanting to hit someone. Perhaps as a child we experienced injustice, or wanted to protect a friend who was being picked on.

Our body sent very clear signals to our little clenched fists that said, "it's your time to shine."

However, the adults around us told us, "it's bad to hit." This mixed signal between our body and the adults in charge led many of us to push down and suppress our violent impulses, perhaps even to judge ourselves as bad or naughty for having these very natural urges.

Generally, what we resist persists. Every time we resisted the urge to express ourselves violently, those feelings were bottled up, gradually accumulating as tension in the body. While whacking people every time we feel like it isn't a great solution, neither is suppression. So what is the healthy option that serves both our inner emotional health and the people around us?

Martial arts give us an opportunity to release that tension, to befriend the part of ourselves that has the capacity for violence.

They give us a safe enough space to intentionally experience our capacity for violence so that we can choose peace and non-violence in our lives.

While it's not the only way we can learn to regulate our nervous system when we have the urge to lash out, learning to fight can be an incredibly helpful tool to support our journey toward wholeness and regulation.

Watching the fighters on the weekend embrace each other, grinning from ear to ear at the end of each fight, I was struck by just how transformative participating in martial arts can be.

What suppressed energy in your own life might be asking for healthy expression?

AI is the invitation to put down your acoustic, pick up an electric guitar and play it loud.

An acoustic guitar with a single person's voice will not project enough sound to be heard in a noisy environment like your local pub.

So what's the economical solution to share your music?

Buildings like old churches used to be designed with acoustic amplification in mind. The building itself was designed to have resonance, to allow sound from the front to be heard by everyone in attendance.

There was also a deeply ingrained etiquette in old churches. Attendees in the pews were taught from a young age to be quiet and listen. The old fellas at your local front bar are not under similar social obligation.

Together, the expensive architectural design of churches, combined with the entrenched reverence for authority, served to amplify the power of those who were sanctioned to perform from their sacred altars.

Advances in technology have continued to shatter barriers that prevented ordinary people from sharing their voice, restoring a sense of power and autonomy to the average person.

I don't have a team of employees, marketing experts and minions to help me with creative projects, but I would like to share my work, to let it be heard. I'll use the tools available to allow the creative signal that chooses to flow through me to be heard.

The invention of the electric guitar was pivotal in shaping the experience of live music.  Similarly AI offers us an invitation, an invitation to amplify our creativity, our music, our voice.

To be heard in a noisy place, you can either build the place, as well as the social hierarchy to drown out the noise.

Or you can plug in your electric guitar.

What creative force within you is ready to be amplified?

"This hamster shaped my approach to mindful communication for life."

"Lord, let my words be sweet and tender for tomorrow I may have to eat them."

These words were emblazoned on an A3-sized photograph of a hamster that hung in my childhood bedroom. I read those words every time I walked into my room for years. I can still picture the little black, white and ginger rodent staring out at me, chomping on that sweet juicy grass.

While an unusual choice of artwork, I am certain the frequent exposure to those words fundamentally shaped the way I have approached communication (and my inclination to chew grass as a kid).

The Buddhist eightfold path focuses on right speech as a fundamental skill to end suffering on the path to enlightenment. Similarly, there are numerous proverbs in the Judeo-Christian tradition reflecting on the significant power of speech.

The power to tear others down, or lift them up. The power to divide, or the power to unite. The power to perpetuate lies, or the power to amplify truth. The power to destroy and the power to create.

Our words reflect our personal, internal 'recreation' of the world of experience around us. When we are grounded in a sense of calm safety, our words reflect this. When we are caught in anger or fear, our words can reflect this also.

The moment between emotion and speech is the opportunity to reflect, regulate and speak loving kindness into being. As we practice mindfulness of speech, we gradually improve our capacity to notice impulses to use hurtful speech.

We slow down. We breathe. We regulate our emotions.

And this allows us to speak from the heart.

This week, may our words be sweet and tender. For tomorrow we may have to eat them.

Weeds are leafy and green, just like plants.

Actually, weeds are plants, they're just growing in places where they don't belong.

As we cultivate gardens, we tend to select plants based on their properties.

Do we like the color of the flowers, the shape of the foliage?

 Perhaps we plant seeds in the hope that one day they will produce fruit. 

We choose companion plants that will complement and balance each other both aesthetically and ecologically.

We consider plants weeds when they disrupt the balance and harmony of the garden. 

Weeds may consume disproportionate amounts of resources, choking out the desirable plants.

Once the weeds are visible, the conscientious gardener removes them. 

The weeds aren't bad, they may just be better suited to a different ecosystem where they belong.

As we embark on a creative pursuit, many ideas will take root, spring up, begin to grow together. This stage may feel quite chaotic, exciting, disorganized.

Then gradually we start refining the ideas, we begin choosing what belongs and what doesn't. With each choice, our creative garden takes shape.

We may not know exactly how it will grow, what fruit it will bear. 

As we learn to choose faithfully from our heart, we do know it will flourish into something uniquely ours.

How driving old cars helps keep our relationships on the road

For most drivers, knowing the basics is enough.

Push the accelerator to go.
Apply the brakes to stop.
Turn the wheel to hit the neighbour’s cat.
I mean, to head toward your destination.

Drivers of modern, reliable cars rarely contemplate how the car works. The series of mechanical components connecting their hands to the tyres on the road, remain a mystery.

Car enthusiasts who choose to drive “classics” (a polite word for vehicles well past their prime) are different.

They embrace the old, the worn, the imperfect. They trade the ease of modern transport for the visceral experience of actually driving.

With hundreds of thousands of kilometres on the clock, imperfection is expected. Parts wear out requiring regular maintenance and repair. So the enthusiast learns to pay attention,
to the sound of the engine,
unusual smells,
the subtle changes in feel that indicate something requires attention.

It’s a kind of intimacy. A relationship built on presence.

Now imagine bringing that same mindful attention to your kids. Your partner. The earth. Yourself.

Things last longer when we notice the little shifts before they become big problems.

Mindful awareness keeps what matters most on the road.