Emma Mildon +3465407520

Emildon@gmail.com

www.licensetolove.co

License to Love By Emma Mildon Computer Word Count: 61,000

Thank you to Julie Clayton, Editor, Randy Peyser, CEO, Author One Stop

The book for anyone in life feeling unloved, incapable of love, or unqualified to give it. Everyone deserves the presence of love in their life.

For my two mothers: Margaret and Shalagh. Thank you both for being a loving, supportive friend that only a mother could be. I am so grateful to have you as my mothers.

INTRODUCTION

If you have a gun, you need a license to shoot it. If you have a car, you need a license to drive it. We all have hearts, some more reckless than othersand yet there is no license to love. We can break as many hearts and shatter as many lives as we want, without having to stand charge. With some of my past love life blows, if you had put my exlovers in front of me in a line-up and handed me a gun, I dont know whether I would have pointed the gun at them, at myself, or just shot frustrated holes into the wall. The mother, father, lovers, and friendship relationships in our life each contribute to and deplete from our hearts supply of love. What we learn from what is lost is the key to unfolding the truth within each of us: the real person we were born into this world to be, back when our heart battery was fully charged. It is a scary moment when you find yourself tilting your head sideways and looking at your parents in a different light. That moment of realization when it dawns on you that your parents may not have all the answers about life you initially thought they did. When the everything happens for a reason and the what did we learn? parental pearls stop comforting your new awareness of reality. Their quick-fix band-aid advice no longer heals the deeper niggling queries you have about the meaning of life and your purpose. Its possible too that your parents have just bluffed

their way through parenthood; after all, theres no license for parenting either. This is when it really dawns on you: you are on your own. No one likes outgrowing their parents and finding theyre alone on lifes path. And hows this for an ironic twist: just when you become capable of guiding yourself, understanding yourself, and trusting yourself, you will discover youve come full circle. This is the moment when you are tilting your head the same way you tilted your head at your parents those years earlier, but now you are looking down at your newborn. You are no longer alonebut now you are the one guiding. This is the moment when you are realizing that you will probably repeat the very pieces of advice you received from your parents, and that your children will inevitably be smarter than you and will one day, in turn, tilt their head at you. They will learn, know, and understand a world you have barely touched. Lifes journey is full of unique experiences, each giving us the opportunity to teach others from what we have learned. Sometimes it is not about telling the tale of heartache, loss, success, or griefor merely repeating what has been ingrained from our upbringingsometimes it is the stories about coping, motivation, love, and determination that make the best teaching lessons for those we love. Such lessons can, ultimately, break the loveless cycle plaguing generations of relationships and help reteach how to love selflessly again. This book outlines the ways we can harness our inner intuition and use the events that have impacted, molded, and affected us in life to help others in their own circumstances, and to spread love and inspiration to

those we care about. My personal experiences have been stripped naked within these pages, both for your reading pleasure and so that you can understand how I used my mistakes and lessons in love and life to become more in tune with my intuition, spirituality, and beliefs surrounding love. In other words, how I learned about my license to love something we are each innately qualified to claim. I often scratch my head wondering why my life seems more like an American Hollywood blockbuster film than I would have liked. From adoption to losing my adoptive mother as a teenager, many heartbreaks, and family dynamics of polar opposites, it was as though the universe had put a monkey, a bottle of whiskey, and wax strips into a room together and hoped things would go smoothly. So, think of me as someone you can relate to on some level, laugh with me at my misfortunes, relate to my mascara-stained cries on the pillow, and most importantly open yourself to believe that if even my hard-cased stubborn little heart can learn to give, receive, and experience love, then yours has a shot too. Relate my stories to your love stories and interlink your lessons with mineand use these combined realizations to open your heart. If your heart is already open, you may develop skills to help others open theirs too. Youll find my license to love message enhanced with quotes from other women who throughout time have also been brave enough to speak from the heart. There is no degree or certificate awarded for learning how to open your heart and be more lovingbut I

can guarantee you will feel as though you have a license to love after reading this book. I invite you to join me on this journey by adding a new element of love into your relationships and life, knowing that everyone can benefit from more love, and that your open-heartedness will spill out into the world and help move us all toward a more integral society of heart, body, mind, and spirit.

~ 1 ~ THE PAPERWORK

Paperwork! Few of us enjoy it. But we need to file, organize, and archive our experiences in order to know how they have affected us. I am not asking you to document the time you got bullied when you were twelve, or write a report on moments of enlightenment. I am asking you to dust off your mental baggage, pull everything out of your gunnysack, and investigate your life. What warm experiences, hauntings, or sentimental scars make up who you are today and how have you let them define you? As for myself, I dont need to rummage too deeply to see why I have issues with abandonment. My hang-ups can easily be traced back to the day of my conception! Conceived by accident, growing in the womb of a very worried teenage girl, and upon arrival in this world being quickly adopted out, imprinted me with a fear of being abandoned, which would lurk around the corner of every key relationship and friendship I would have throughout my life. It is amazing how adoption can define you. I remember my adoptive mother Margaret and I were in a busy bookstore one afternoon when she giggled and told me about my favourite childhood book. Emma, she said, smirking and flicking through the

childrens book The Hungry Caterpillar, while most children would have picked this book up for a bedtime story do you know what you picked every night? I was suspicious of her expression and hoping she was going to say Cinderella or some other classical fairytale, but I knew from the way she was telling the storylike a comediennes opening punch linethat it was going to have a good twist, so I opted for safe silence and a curious shrug, a typical Im a teen and I dont care response. Your book of choice was, Why Was I Adopted? she said, biting the bottom of her lip with a big grin and hoping my reaction would be laughter. The silence held a brief awkwardness before we both dissolved into a fit of laughter. My mother and I had a very open, understanding, and humorous relationshipwe would often laugh at the most inappropriate things. She kept on flicking through other childrens story books, all brightly decorated like sugary cupcakes. You were so funny, she continued. It didnt matter how hard I tried to suggest other books, every night four-year-old Emma would always ask for the same book. She chortled and patted my shoulder. I often think back to this conversation and wonder why I wanted to read that book over and over when I was so young. My parents had always been open with me about my adoption; I had a sister who was also adopted from another family, and as a topic adoption was always something that was accepted, discussed, and in the open, never hushed or ignored as it is in some families.

It wasnt until I zoomed out and took a birds eye view on this memory while asking myself what four-yearold Emma was seeking, that I began to unearth some truths about why this particular book was so important to me. I visualized myself in my pink, frilled, single bed, pointing to my book of choice and wriggling into my mothers embrace as she opened it and began reading "You were adopted not because your parents didnt love you but because they wanted the best for you" It is amazing how this sentence has stuck with me, and once I processed this memory, I realized why. It is the first point of my trying to understand my place in the family and understand the meaning of love. To some degree it has haunted me. As a child I must have thought, Hold on! Youre telling me that even if someone loves me they may give me away and just walk off? Boy life is tough! You can imagine how a four year old might easily think this. When taking care of your paperwork and excavating any buried memories, it is important to not dig for the life-changing, earth-shattering events in your life, but for the things you clung to, that you remember for some reasonthe moments that have stayed with you. This could be a story, a song, a game, a friend, a conversation, something you learned to do, or something you used to love doing. Take that memory, walk yourself back through it, and see if there is a hidden message in that memory. There could well be a good reason why you have carried that memory with you for all of these years, and something meaningful that you can unearth about how you manage your life and loves.

Depending on the what works best for you, find a way to discuss these memories, write them in a journal, talk them over with a friend or life coach, make a scrapbook of images or photos, or jot down the memory and then make a list of the feelings associated with it and how the memory impacts you. You may surprise yourself with what you can uncover just by awakening your childhood memories. Your inner child will be waiting for you. You may remember something you used to like doing when you were younger, something you were passionate about that might have been your lifes purpose, but instead you decided to follow the flock and do something deemed to be more responsible or lucrative. Rather than following your natural course and doing what felt right in your heart, doing something that brought you joy and made you feel good, you yielded to outside expectations. In retrospect, I certainly can raise my hand and admit, Oops, wrong degree, wrong career! When I was younger I use to love writing short stories and keeping a journal, a scribbled memory I can clearly see in my childhood. Instead of following that passion I went on to become a doctora Spin Doctor, that is, doing Public Relations. Only now have I come 360 degrees back to my roots. Which makes me tap my pen and wonder why, out of all the days of my childhood, out of all the moments spent watching cartoons, picking my nose, or jumping on trampolines are my writing memories so vivid? It could well be that I was born to write: retracing my childhood memories and love for writing has helped to open up my heart and allowed me to be here with you today.

One of the most defining aspects of childhood is the role we played in our family and in relation to the character of our parents: the way they taught us love, affection, and communication in our earliest years gives us the first glimpse of understanding our foundational attitudes about love. And once you have that foundation in sight, it becomes a lot easier to piece together the rest of your upbringing, helping you to better understand where and how your views on love have sprouted. I remember once when I was waiting for a flight at the airport. I was in a great mood, especially since my day had been super! I grinned at the strangers sitting in the neighbouring seats, trying to spread my good mood like an affectionate virus and make someone elses day a bit better. I watched as a young mom and her three children walked up to a nearby gate. This woman was a packhorse! She had two big baby bags under each arm. She held a disgruntled baby who was tightly tucked between her elbow and her hip with all its limbs kicking and grabbing, a wild-eyed grubby toddler who was running circles around her ankles, and another little boy who might have been six, standing still and silent with a big smile on his face and a sign that said, Welcome home Dad. I was mesmerized by the commotion: the circus-like antics of the children and the dishevelled mother trying to keep tabs on them all. So too were the strangers I had smiled at earlier, who were peering over their newspapers at the chaos along with me. When the father arrived to the bedlam the kids each took turns having a peaceful time out moment to hug him

and then in an instant the anarchy resumed. The father went straight into disciplining the three energetic souls, saying, Dont touch thatsshh, and even the ever-so-powerful sound of a parents Unh-unh, which all children know translates to touch it and die. Watching them I was overwhelmed with loneliness, and before I realized it, tears were streaming down my cheeks. Then I was shocked by how upset I had become, and so quickly, after just feeling on top of the world. I spent my entire plane trip reflecting on my reaction to that family. Was I upset because no one was at the other end of my flight to welcome me? Or was it a fertility clock in me ticking in self-destruction, my ovaries warning me that if I did not sort out my repetitive habit of derailing relationships then I would never get a family like them? Since I was still in my mid-twenties I had plenty of fertility time, so what was it? What it was, in fact, was me wishing my family had been like that: the children all playing together, hugging, tumbling, punching, and the parents kissing and huggingI loved the chaos! I loved the closeness. And I was sad that I didnt feel close enough to my family to have been like that with them. It made me realize how sterile and awkward my upbringing had been at times especially with my father and sister. Yet, how amongst that clumsy home my mother and I were so close, like the family I had been watching. This lack of closeness growing up, and more importantly lack of loving chaos left me questioning my ability to take part in chaos later in life. In the girly

chats where we all lovingly groom each other talking about boys, or the parties where we all drunkenly joke and hug each other, I always found my thoughts ticking awayquestioning myself about how to act. Actually, before our family got its first dose of chaos I had a very normal family in some respects. A white collar father, who was quite traditional and reserved; a sister who was the opposite of mebut that is essentially why we got along, and a mother who was my best friend. I guess, in hindsight, when you mixed all our personalities together it was a pretty good balance overall. But like anything that is balanced, when you take something away, it tips.

THE LOVE ONLY A MOTHER CAN GIVE I had a very open relationship with my adoptive mother. We would chatter about stress, my birth mother, sex, and lifeall topics high on the priority list of any teenage girl. She was always honest and uplifting to talk with and as a parent seemed very qualified. Her life experiences had built her into someone with a great deal of empathy, understanding, and patience, all qualities that are vital in raising children. I was testing at timesto be frank, I was a brat when I was a teenager! Or, A royal cow! as my mother would call me. Margaret was a strong, independent, bubbly character and a great role model for me. She spent a lot of her time bringing me down to earth, clutching at my ankles and asking me to get real and be realistic about life, making me recognize the reality of situations and supporting me as I grew into a woman until she needed

the support herself. When I was fifteen and she was fifty she was told about a monster she had inside of her: Cancer. The next few years would see me grow up and hand back a lot of the nurturing and mothering Margaret had so selflessly given mea healing act in itself, and something that would bind us together and change the direction of my life forever. It was very quick to snap the brat out of me. At the peak of reining my selfish kingdom, otherwise known as teenagehood, my world had been turned upside down. The one person I could always rely on was being taken away from me. There was no fixing her, there was only time to share each moment, and it was during this period I was able to break down my egocentric traits and learn to live with a sense of empathy for those suffering around me. I learned that the world no longer revolved around me! I learned to accept life as a journey, understanding that people would come and go, life had its lessons, beginnings, and endings, and most importantly that everything has its place in the world. I did not, however, accept the loss of love by the people who abandoned me, and the love taken away from me through adoption and death. This loss would disturb me in my relationships for most of my early adulthood. The key lesson I had to learn as a result of Margarets illness was to understand how different people show their love in different ways. And to accept their ways of loving, rather than wish for something different just because their love didnt match my expectations. Which is something I later discovered that many other

people struggle with: accepting that everyone loves differently. This never became apparent to me until our family dynamics had been kicked off balance by her death. Illness is a funny thing; it brings out masked personalities within a family, and we each react uniquely when our hearts ache. In our family we had the doer, the ignorer, the stonewaller, and the emotional wreck. As a teenager these divergent reactions frustrated me. Here I was, the baby of the family, looking up at these people who were trying to tame their emotions, people who were older, and supposedly wiser and more composed then me, and yet I often felt like the only person in the room who was collected and open. I felt like an old soul stuck in a young, pimple-faced body. I could not relate to how selfish some of the reactions of my family members seemed and I struggled to understand why people reacted differently, or in some cases not at all, to sadness and pain. It is only now that I can stand far enough back to reflect on these memories and to fully understand why different people have different reactions to love, such as the hurt of losing the loved one, or the fear of losing the type of love only a mother, a wife, or a sister could givetheyre each just reactions and actions of the heart. My father was the ignorer. He sometimes would not even want to ask how my mothers day was because he could predict the negative answer. Like any loved one in such a situation, it frustrated him that he couldnt find a solution and make her well again. My mother would often use me as a sounding board to share how alone she felt because my father seemed to bury his head in the sand to

cope with her dying. You could often find him keeping busy in his garden. My mother would talk to me about how my fathers behavior affected her, until she came full circle to justification, reassuring herself that he acted the way he did because he cared and because he was hurt about losing her. From this I learned to accept that sometimes we just cant face hurt and our fears get on top of us. I would often be mad with my father for treating her like this, so listening to Mums reasoning held lessons for me too, which would prove vital to my ability to understand and relate to my father once she was gone. The fact that my father often retreated to the garden is symbolic in itself. The garden is a place of growth and nurturing. The idea of being able to pull weeds out of an overgrown plot represented his desire to pull out the cancerous weeds growing throughout his wife. Mother Nature is also a healer; we feel better after sitting on grass, walking amongst the trees, or planting in the soil. So, while he might have appeared to be the ignorer, with more understanding you could see his love through the hurt and in his garden. My sister was the stonewaller. A quiet observer, she would often shrug off emotion: nothing seemed to stick to her. It was easier for her to cope by washing off the hurt. In her own way, this was her acceptance I think. She had accepted the inevitable and so opted for a what can you do, laid-back reaction to our mothers illness. Sometimes it was easy to imagine that she just didnt care. She never seemed overwhelmed by anything or to be aching about the approaching loss; she always seemed together, but covering up her feelings was just her way

of coping. I, on the other hand, was an emotional riot. Partly because I was simply a hormonal teenager, and also because I really live connected to my emotions. Sometimes, I almost thought I could feel my mothers pain, I felt so connected with her. I felt emotionally safe enough around my mother to share how unfair I thought it all was, starting with not knowing my birth mother and then being adopted to another mother who now I would lose. Plus, she was a young woman who had so much left to give to us all, and to her grandchildren who she wouldnt meet. I felt ripped-off and I was mad. Watching her go through sickness made me feel helplessand helpless to losing love. My reactions, combined with the other characteristics of the familys emotions, proved to be an interesting combination. A recipe for a psychologists field day some might say! But for me there were founding lessons on love in how we all heart-throbbed for the same women. Each of these childhood experiences surrounding adoption and losing a mother in two ways, separation and death, were events that helped me to learn, understand, and finally accept lifes journey. Once I learned to heal the pain and accept my circumstances, I was capable of helping others in life experiencing a loss. In the end, the greatest lesson for me was realizing that when unconditional love is shared with the people in our lives it is eternalregardless of how long they stay.

ROMANTIC LOVE Not only was my upbringing the foundation of how I understood and learned to love my family, but it also shaped my romantic relationships. My friends used to love hearing about my ridiculous soap opera run-ins with men. My hairdresser thought I was hilarious. Every six weeks she would be entertained by a different tale of destruction with yet another potential soul mate waiting to fall victim. I would tell her of my latest heartbreak as though I had watched it all in a movie the night before, re-enacting the funny scenes and mocking the sad ones. In this episode Emma gets cheated on, by a man who gets a girl pregnant from a one-night stand, which took place in the glamorous setting of the toilets of a club where she had originally meet him (true story), I would recite to the audience of ladies lined up like nesting hens in their salon seats, rollers in hair and hanging on to my every word. At the time I didnt realize why all these heartbreaking dramas would magnet to me, why I would always try to reform the guy who had a skull on fire tattooed on the inside of his arm. But now I realize the lessons I learned from meeting these charming characters (please note the sarcasm) are all scars of love that help me teach others from my experiences: to tune into your heart, to really appreciate love when you find it, and how to know when you have found love and how to nurture ithow to get a license to love. I wouldnt take back the bad boy, the selfish boy, the cheater, or any of the men who crossed my path and chiselled off a part of my heart and my sanity, and stole

away with that piece of my heart to keep in a jar with them as a memento. Without them I wouldnt be the person I am today, molded into maturity by these experiences, however testing and aching they were. You might be surprised how many gurus, wise guides, and world healers started their life as an orphan or adopted into a new life. Children who are just setting out on lifes path and instantly have to step over a speed bump. Some of these spiritual advisors will be familiar to you, all of whom were either orphaned, fostered, or adopted at a young age: Dr. Wayne Dyer, Bill Clinton, John Lennon, and Marilyn Monroe for example, are all people who smoothed over their speed bumps and ended up bringing people together, teaching the power and transformational beauty of love. I am just lucky I have healed enough to now laugh at each of the chapters of separation Ive experienced: from being an adopted baby, to losing a mother, to the painful romantic relationships I have had in my life. Looking back now on my painful chapters, I often ask myself, What was I thinking? So, to all the men who treated my heart like a piata, I thank you for the lessons in love. And to all those who loved and left me for whatever reason, I thank you too. Back to you now dear readerplease, for your own sanity, reflect on any reckless lover you have met, think of the most ridiculous thing they said or did to you, and smile. Rewind through the relationships in your life, the people who have helped to define you, and watch as their faces flash past you. All the people who have graced your life and helped you on your path: the good teachers and

the bad ones! I have a sweet tooth and think it would be great if when our hearts broke they spilled out with lollies like a piata. Although, as we know, in the moment it happens there is nothing sweet about having a broken heart.

There are no failures, only lessons to be learned. Oprah Winfrey

~ 2 ~ RULE BOOK

Some of the rules I live my life by: Treat people how you want to be treated. Everything happens for a reason. If you don't have something nice to say, don't say anything at all. Judgment is a waste of your time and everyone elses too. There are always two sides to the story.

Every family and relationship has a set of rules they live by. Spoken or unspoken, the code is there: the things that are acceptable among you, the limits to which you can each be pushed, the humor, and the familial behavior. Your family may have an obvious secret that no one ever addresses, like an unspoken no-elephant-inthis-room family rule, which sidesteps any type of conflict and masks any issue. You may have an alcoholic, a control freak, a manipulator, an abuser, a user, a parent who feels hard done byall of which will impact your life rule book, and combined with your personality will help shape your code for life. The rules are simply what you want them to be. You need to first decide what rules are important to you before you can drive your life anywhere, let alone love your life or others. In other words, cement your ethics to your life. Make them a part of your relationships and

day-to-day living, recite them to your loved ones, and remind yourself of your code whenever you feel you are in the presence of derailing behavior. Close your eyes for a second and take yourself back into your family home. Pick any age that comes to mind, sit with your family, and meditate on your familys energy. Imagine yourself being there with them. Sit in that moment. Which family member makes you happiest? Who makes you feel frustrated? Why? What qualities about these symbolic life characters do you love? What traits have you added to your life skills satchel and what traits have you thrown back into your familys shadow? What rules have you taken from being around these people? What mottos dont you agree with and why? When I was younger I used to love visiting my girlfriends homes. Each friend was so different; we each came from a fusion of personalities and upbringings, but once I could see that person within the element of their family something about them made more sense. Among the cross-section of my friends families was the successful family, who produced a very driven and focused young woman. There was the down-to-earth farm family, who raised a settled, peaceful woman. There was the traditional husband and wife team who raised a woman inspired to be a domesticated adventure-seeking teacher. It became quite obvious to see how family plays a major role in molding who we are and who we do or dont want to become. My mothers ethics have become the backbone of my life. She was just as inquisitive about looking at the

grey areas of life with me as I was, and we both understood that life wasnt always black and white. She was very accepting of the life she lived and the cards she had been dealt. She had grown up in a country town with two sisters and a brother. She was always the plumper girl, which she was okay with: she still considered herself beautiful and sexy, and she had accepted that she was never going to be stick thin. She had overcome adoption herself from the other side of the fence, having to adopt a son out when she was younger, and now she was accepting of her fate with Ovarian Cancer. Everything happens for a reason Emma, she reassured me, even if it is for a shit reason! She would say this lifting her wig up like an Englishman would tip his top hat. Even with a scarf on her head and her skin turning Marge Simpson yellow she still had the most radiant, inspiring smile and uplifting laugh. That is one thing the cancer never gother sense of humor. Do you think I am being punished for giving my son up? she asked me one day, looking toward the floor at her swollen ankles that only just managed to squeeze into her once well-worn loose winter slippers. The cancer was making her swell and bloat like a sponge with water. I pulled her chin up and looked in her eyes. How can you think like that when you gave people like me and my sister a Mother we didnt have? It balances out, Mom. She smiled at me lovingly. But I could see in her eyes she wasnt so sure. That was the only time I ever saw her doubt what the universe had served her.

Throughout my mums cancer journey I had one rule with her: cry when we needed to cry and laugh when we needed to laugh. It was my way of adopting my mothers ethic of acceptance and the emotions that accompanied it. We would often begin crying together and then end up in fits of laughter about the horrible reality. We would talk about other loved ones who had passed, her mother, her life, what she was afraid of, what else she wanted to do in life. As she got heavier into her medication the discussions became even more humorous. It became routine for me to jump onto her creased bed after school, listen to old classic songs from the 60s and 70s, and talk about her life. The music was like the background soundtrack for her adventurous tales. I often would fall asleep snuggled next to her, listening to her talk to the ceiling as the Moody Blues Knights in White Satin song lullabied me to sleep and away from the painful reality. We would frequently have visitors calling in to see her. She could normally only handle a cup of coffee and an hour of chatter before she tired. It took a lot out of her pretending to be normal, happy, and healthyyou could see she had to consciously try to stay awake just to listen, let alone respond. There were signs she was tired, some obvious, some subtle, and I was very familiar with them. I became very good at ushering people out. Would you like a piece of cake? she would occasionally offer her guests. The guest would momentarily freeze in bewilderment, their teacup in midair, as my mother held out an empty palm like she was having tea with the Mad Hatter.

Oh, I am sorry! shed realize, pulling in her palm and shaking her head in embarrassment. She always looked so disappointed in herself after these Wonderland moments. Morphine really did take her to some beautiful places, and when she went there I held her hand and always kept her company. She had spent so many years trying to bring me down to earth and teaching me to ground myself, I felt as though I could repay her by teaching her my talents for chasing dreams. One evening I walked into her room and placed a bowl of jello and a tall glass of water with a long straw on her bedside table. I sat on the edge of her bed, which stirred her sleep. I stared at the assembly of things she had started collecting next to her bedframed photos of the family, tissues, books about cancer, nutrition, healing, heaven: there was barely room for the cup and the bowl. Pass me the microphone please, she said, shocking me from my curious gaze at her bedside collection. I stood up to help her readjust her pillows and sit her up, and I couldn't help letting out a chuckle. I dont know where you are but it sounds as though it is much more fun than here. She giggled to herself, still in a sleepy state, with no clue about what she had just said or whether she was dreaming, in a nightmare, or in normal reality. The irony about sitting with her in this dream state is that it deepened my reflections about our daily state of mind. Some of us are awake to reality; others live in a constant dream world, almost too afraid to wake up to their spirituality and to their life and the choices

awaiting them. There were so many times watching her I just wanted to cry, but I learned it was better to laugh. Because I knew if I laughed it would bring a smile to her disoriented face. Even after she passed I use to wake up from nightmares thinking I could hear her calling out for me. Lying in the dark, my mind would scroll through memories, the sickness, her deterioration, her final goodbye, and finally after all the painful thoughts I would rest on a moment of us laughing together. I am sure my mind tried to hold onto these few pleasant memories with her because we had agreed to make it a rule to laugh in acceptance.

DIFFERENT FAMILIES LOVE IN DIFFERENT WAYS My birth mother Shalagh and I became best friends in the years following Margarets death. Both of my mothers had kept in communication my whole life, both women had experienced the loss of a child through adoption, so they could relate and connect to each otherresulting in my being lucky enough to experience two mothers, two very different relationships, and both very special. Not only did the two women have adoption in common, but they ironically also based their life around the same rule: treat people how you want to be treated. This rule was essentially teaching me the laws of karma, the goodness of treating people with love whether they deserve it or not. By giving to others who need it more, by doing good things for others, good things will naturally come to youas long as you dont expect them to

as your right. That defeats the intention of simply doing good things because it is the right thing to do and the best thing to do. I will always remember Margaret smiling at me and saying, "When you give beauty, beauty comes back to you." So naturally, this philosophy is the first line in my rulebook. In the Western world we live in a frenzy of hot-headed corporate road rage and online clicks of a button that allow us to share positive and negative communication instantly, making it a struggle to always stay disciplined with our ethicsbut I am sure you can cut me some slack. We are all guilty of beeping a horn or winding down our windows and cursing a truck driver or twowhich doesn't exactly stack up in the treat people how you want to be treated category, but sometimes life deserves a sneaky flip of the bird. This ties in with another rule of mine: there are two sides to every story. Yes, even Bin Laden or George Bush should be allowed to tell their side of the story without the mediator standing puffy-chested and arms crossed in judgment. Everyone is entitled to have their perspective and say their piece. Now, I do need to qualify what I just said about nonjudgment. As you will soon find out, judgment is something that makes me wild, and there was a lot of judgment in my family, so it needs to be said that I love my father and sister very much. And while we may have different ideas on life, different opinions, and see the world from different angles, it doesn't mean I would change families for the world and doesn't mean I don't appreciate their perspective. The lessons, experiences, and love I have received from them is the reason I am the

person I am todayand I like to think I have turned out to be a warm, loving, open person so they must have done an OK job. I believe I was put into this family for a reason. And although I am a definite blonde-haired black sheep of the herd, I am grateful for being part of our clumsy family. Getting back to the rule of judgment, so many people let past experiences dictate how they respond to conflict: this seriously makes me sick. Just the thought of judgment while writing this rubs me the wrong way. It is the quickest button you can push to get me red hot and standing up for the underdog, the person not getting to have their say because of prejudice. I know that the reason for this is again rooted in my upbringing While I was a sneaky, dramatic teenager (like a lot of us were) after my mothers illness and passing I was a much more centered, grounded, and sensitive person. However, any element of emotion from me as seen by my father or sister (the ignorer and the stonewaller) was depicted as an overreaction. They kept seeing me as adolescent Emma, not the corporate career-minded, complex, and concrete Emma I had grown to be. This prejudice and judgment made it at times nearly impossible for me to want to be around either of them, especially when I was the youngest in the family and was in some ways more mature than they were in making sense of how they handled grief. Their narrow-minded projection meant they never were interested in hearing anyone elses side of a story, which became rather frustrating for me personally. And although frustrating at times, Ive learned that I can love them just the way they are, and that the

behavior I perceived as judgmental has taught me so much about myself, so much about my rule book, and whats important for me to live my life. And, that in my family everyones voice will be heard and listened to fairly. There will be no ready-made expectations put on my family not like the family of a solider I once dated, which you will be shaking your head at shortly. My partner, Nick, on the other hand, was brought up with the family motto, If you dont have something nice to say then dont say it at all. Which itself is a lesson in love: if it isnt a nice thing to say it isnt from the heart, so its in everyones best interest that you dont say it. His parents were very down-to-earth, nurturing, and supportive, which has resulted in a very grounded, sensible, loving man. (No bias here, of course.) Your rules can sprout from anywhere you like: the pieces of advice you took from your parents, a nice message from a movie, another familys rule you admire...you can add to the rulebook throughout your life, and no doubt your partner in life will have their own set of rules that they carry with them. My favourite rule I have at the moment is simple: everything happens for a reason. This a common enough saying, one which nearly all of us have chirped at some point of our life, but when you actually use it in a situation that calls for tolerance, acceptance, or understanding it is a catalyst for calm. It is also the perfect way for me to justify my awkward family at times!

THE MERGER

So how do you merge your familys rulebook and the foundations you have been brought up with into your partners rulebook? Simple. With a lot of compromise and understanding. Nick and I have a similar morality, which makes our relationship a lot more free-flowing since most of the time we expect the same ethical treatment from each other. But not all of my relationships have had an ethical backbone. One man in particular pushed me to define my rulebook very early on in my romantic life.

THE ARMY GUY The Army guy had a bit of a beer gut, a skull-onfire tattooed on his arm, and an overindulgent pride in his West city heritage; youd think I should have been wise enough to see the warning signs before he even opened his mouth to lure me in, but instead I opted for learning the hard way. I remember looking around his bedroom walls and putting my face right up to his army medals to read the rusty engraving. There was a beautiful picture of him in a remote village in East Timor, holding a local child with other children playing and smiling around him. I proudly grinned. It must feel good to do this sort of work in the army, I beamed.

Nah. My mate handed me the kid and said, Heres a photo for your grandmother, George, he replied. Then he tossed his head back and roared with laughter. I looked out of the corner of my eye at him thinking to myself, What a public relations nightmarethis guy is a clown. But at least he was honest about the photo. Georges family were all intertwined with the army, it was drilled into them in their upbringing when they were dressed in camouflage and given GI-Joe toys. The women of the family stayed at home to raise the children while the men went to war. I have no problem with people choosing an Army life; in fact, I admire people who can love someone enough to let them go and whose love can withstand that level of stress. It wasnt the army lifestyle I had the problem with, it was the rulebook that some soldiers assumed came with their dog tags. Its the what goes on tour stays on tour mentality that I struggled to get my head around. The surprising thing was that George was a noble and honest man who eventually opened up and was candid with me when he ended our relationship. Still, this man who was brave enough to run through bullet-raining deserts came to me with his tail between his legs, which may have only been to cleanse his conscience, feeling like he was caught between a rock and a hard place. His weapon of choice was email: what a cop out! And because of his ingrained code of secrecy from childhood, what goes on tour stays on tour, he only came clean because he had to, not because it was morally right. And this was his moment of truth: Emma, I dont know how to say this, I am sorry it is in an email, I just want to be able to speak to you so you can hear me

without getting mad. Before we got together there was a girl, and I have just heard from her that she is pregnant. I am so sorry this has happened, I am going to do everything I can to fix this, but nothing needs to change between us. Suckered in by his candor my first thought was, Why am I not mad at him? Then I started doing the math, ticking the months off on my fingers. We had been together for ten months. So it was physically impossible for someone to have only have just become pregnant if he was with her more than ten months ago. Plus, now, he would have a child. A call would have been great, I emailed back. Can I put this to youHow can this girl you were with before you met me be pregnant if we have been together 10 months? Basic math, George. Maybe it will help you to count your losses. Goodbye. Turns out one of his bar missions had resulted in a one-night stand and a pregnancy. He eventually came clean with me about the details, maybe thinking that a revolutionary streak of honesty would make me see what a good man he was. All it did was shine a comic light on the heart-breaking act of stupidity. And there it was. A baby to another woman, his family wanting him to step up and take on the responsibilities for the child, and all this to digest while hes fighting a war in the Middle East. Poor George didnt know what to do. I knew straight away that I was opting out of the relationship. Not only because of the cheating and the inventive lie, but also because I wanted an untangled

family. My family already consisted of an adoptive nucleus, birth parents, half-brothers and sistersit was a mess. I owed myself a good shot at having a whole, natural, normal family, and there was no chance I was going to get it from polygamy. George hid away in the Middle East for another four years. I guess he found it easier to live life in a desert away from modern reality and with little pressure to face lifes intimate complications. I have heard that he has since met his daughter and is playing a small but present part in her life.

How true Daddys words were when he said: children must look after their own upbringing. Parents can only give good advice or put them on the right path, but the final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands. Anne Frank

~ 3 ~ PUTTING THE RULES INTO PRACTISE

My nana once said to me, "Love and magic are very similar Emma, they both can bring a smile to someones face but both take a lot of practice." She couldn't be more right. Think of how many times you have rolled your eyes, sighed, or given an exhausted nod to shut a loved one up. When really, we should practice our rules. Would I like it if someone did this to me? Is this treating someone fairly? Love is an action word, a verb. It doesnt just happen, and it does take effort. We have to actively choose to love someone, to offer our love, to express a loving comment. What a difference it would make if we each took the time to tell our friends how much we appreciate them: Hey, I like you, you are warm and confident and I love spending time with you, we could say. How infrequently we do this, even though most of us would like to give and receive such kindness. The truth is, we do not have to physically say the words, we can think it while rubbing our friends arm, we can think it while smiling at a colleague, we just need to mentally send love to someone for the message to be received. We can smile with our eyes and hold someone with our smile: it just takes practise. After my mother passed away I looked to my father for

additional love. I longed for him to be like Margaret, something he was never going to be, and something I struggled to accept. You see, I always had something to say. There was always something that could be discussed, talked through, pondered over, but Dad was a man of few words. We were complete opposites. His common response to my initial attempts at conversation was, Okee-dokee.

THE FIRST MAN IN MY LIFE TO LOVE ME The best teacher for me in practising the rules of patient engagement is my relationship with my father. It is only recently that we have found some sort of middle ground, since my over-opinionated stance on life does not fit well with his stubborn traditional outlook. In fact, sparks have flown in the past and it is amazing that we have any relationship today, since at one time our relationship almost resembled a magic trickas in, when the cute bunny vanishes from the magicians hatour relationship almost went poof! I am proud to say we managed to crawl our way through the trenches of opinions and step over our stubborn views, and it is solely due to that golden rule: acceptance, with a dash of tolerance. Yes, we all clench our teeth or roll our eyes at our parents at some time, and this is normal. This is simply how we grin and bare it. Buddhism has wise practises to emulate. When you allow yourself to calm down and look at someones view

that you may not agree with, from a distance it suddenly seems less threatening. Even if you find another persons opinion feels like wearing a straight-jacket, and you mutter to yourself and go crazy trying to be accepting and tolerant, you can still realize it is OK for them to feel like that, as it is OK for you to accept it. Now, we arent all expected to have the tolerance of a wise monk who can smile and nod through trial and tribulation, but training your mind and heart to be even just a pinch more accepting and tolerant will change your relationships. And believe it or not, the more we practice tolerance the easier it becomes. After all, how we react to something is entirely up to us. If someone says something that offends us, we have chosen to be offended. If someone has intentionally targeted a laser and shot you some purposeful negativity, is it really necessary for you to get upset, or is it smarter to accept that they are projecting their struggles onto you? Im not saying go and give the crazy cock-eyed twitching man in the bank holding the gun a hug and tell him you accept him, but simply realize that people are not perfect and that we all have our days. I remember when my father tried to teach me to drive. I was a hot-tempered teenager fueled by hormones, with a short fuse and a sharp tongue. The idea of not being good at something did not sit well with me, and my father knew that teaching me how to drive was not going to be a smooth ride. Overall, he endured the driving lessons with the patience of a saint. He mostly held his tongue, although I could tell by the sweat beads on his brow, his white-

knuckled grip on the handrest, and the occasional outburst of Jesus! that he was uncomfortable, especially when the car made a sharp jolt, bunny hop, or stall as I fumbled with mastering the clutch and gas pedal balance. Alright Emma, I think we have had enough for one day. My neck has taken all the jolts it can handle and youre just going to get more frustrated, he said on one of our driving sessions, and stiffly stepped out of the car rubbing his neck. We will come back next weekend, he stated decisively. I looked at the road ahead, still determined, still gripping the steering wheel. I wanted to learn how to drive so thats what I was going to do! Click. My fathers head snapped around just in time to see the automatic door locks go down. I will never forget the ghostly look on his face in that moment. I raised my eyebrows and gave him a mocking look of shock through the car window and then smugly tried to take off down the road. Needless to say, I gave up after a few lurches and stalls as I struggled unsuccessfully to shift into second gear. I could see my fathers face in the rear view mirror and it was red with anger. Giving up, I got out of the car giggling, but quickly put my head down when I saw my dad glare down his nose through his glasses at me, his signature dont push me girl, look. We got back into the car, both slamming our doors and with me in the passenger seat this time, and clicked our seat belts. As he smoothly put the car into gear and eased us onto the road he said calmly, Another stroke of genius Emma; you cant rush these things, they take practise. Very restrained.

Everything we learn in life is hard to begin with: walking, talking, driving, love. My relationship with my father has never been particularly easy. My mother was always the mediator and so after she passed on we really did enter a cold warpatiently but barely being tolerant with each other. My father and I managed to walk the tightrope of common ground. There was a bit of tongue-biting, moments of teeth grinding, and amidst the balancing act came smiles, laughter, and understanding. I have accepted that my father and I are two different people, but he is the man who has loved and raised me, and from his opposite ideals about love I would learn a lot about myself and essentially grow into the woman I am today. And even though we havent always seen eye-to-eye he has been the best father I could have ever dreamed of; he has taught me tolerance, acceptance, forgiveness and a new way to understand and appreciate that love comes in many forms.

Our egos tell us were the only ones that have any kind of feelings. Were the only ones with a relationship. Were the only ones with family. You know, I think that if you kill a spider, there is a relationship that youre ruining. Ellen Degeneres