Grief Fun?

 Okay, so this post title may sound unconceivable… (how can grief possibly be any fun?) But this weekend I met a character dealing with grief the best way I’ve seen in some time.

The experience began around midday when I hid my tired eyes behind dark shades and headed off to visit my lover. AKA my barista. After whipping my caffeine fix into a take-away cup I cradled lovingly in my hands, I almost ran into a skeleton. Yes, that’s right. A life size carboard cut out tied onto a pole with tinsel. Glued to the ribcage of the figure of bones was the address hosting a garage sale. My handbag was heavy with spare change after buying copious coffee this week, and thought it was about time I bought a second hand book anyhow. So, off I went. Sparkles, skeletons and coffee – I had a feeling it would be a great afternoon.

I followed the arrows tied to street signs like Dorothy following the yellow brick road until the large house on the hill appeared, decorated with more skeletons and a giant skull on the letterbox. I checked the date on my mobile phone – was it Halloween already? From the distance I could see a towering book case and I could already smell dusty second-hand pages in my mind. I dived out of my car and headed up the driveway.  The host was a vibrant middle-aged man dressed in a skeleton onesie. His face was beaming with a smile and he offered his customers sausage sizzle and soft drinks. Looking around at the price tags attached to items, I imagined it would have cost him more to set all of this up than what he’d make in sales.

‘Check it out!’ he trilled, holding up a plastic skull to an elderly lady who winced and backed away. I laughed out loud and he looked at me over the tables of preloved DVDS and crock pots. Our eyes met, and we connected. It didn’t take long until we were chatting about books, movies and death.

‘So, are you moving?’ I asked, sipping my complimentary cola.

‘Well actually, my partner died,’ he pointed towards the skeletons and skulls. ‘It’s the reason for the theme. It’s mostly his stuff. He’d laugh. Oh, some of it is my dad’s too. He died a few years ago.’

‘So, all of this…?’ I gasped.

‘Yes,’ he smiled. ‘Hey, do you like plants? There’s heaps for sale around the corner!’

‘No, I always kill them.’

‘Me too!’ he laughed.

And right there, I made friends with a stranger in the depths of grief but spending his day giving to others.

This wasn’t just any garage sale, by the way. The bookshelves were bulging with classics – I bought an entire collection of Charles Dickens novels, The Diary of Andy Warhol and the original Watership Down. I was in heaven. It wasn’t just the books and movies exciting me, it was the soul of this beautiful man. As more people wandered in, buying a thing here and there for a dollar, he skipped about in his skeleton costume making everyone’s day. His energy was contagious. He was simply lovely.

I tell you this tale about the happy chap dressed as a skeleton with rosy cheeks offering sandwiches to strangers, because I believe his lesson is important. He lost his life partner of 35 years only a few months ago. He had been his hero, teacher, lover, best friend. I knew this man was crying inside, but his way of dealing with this giant loss in his life was to help others and smile, smile, smile.

A lover of literature, history and classic tales, I knew this garage sale was worth a fortune. I bought as much as I could afford. I wouldn’t be able to buy coffee the following week but this man deserved every dollar.

‘Thank you,’ a tear spilled down his cheek and he pulled me in for a hug, one I was unable to reciprocate with the box piled with old books and movies in my hands.

‘I hope I see you around.’

‘You will, I winked. I love skeletons.’

Following my divorce, I remember a great spiritual teacher saying to me, “Time doesn’t heal all wounds, it’s what you do with your time that heals you.” This man was certainly spending his days perfectly. In my rear vision mirror, I watched the tinsel twinkling in the September sunshine disappear over the hill as I drove away. My heart was heavy leaving his energy, and just then, I remembered the message I had received from a listener of the podcast I was recently a part of.

Following the recent interview, I received many messages thanking me for helping them through grief death had brought upon their lives.  I was humbled as I had never set out to be well known, I simply wanted to reach as many people as I could, teaching death truly is the biggest lesson in life and if we remember daily that it is coming for us, (I can’t help but think of the theme song for Bad Boys each time I say that) our lives can be enriched every day.

The listener mentioned he has already planned his funeral, even though he was only in his forties. Don’t expect Wind Beneath your Wings by Bette Midler and black suits! This fun-loving man wishes for a jumping castle, a smoke machine and hopes his farewell is the happiest on earth.

Once I got home, I resisted the urge to dive into the hardcover diaries of Andy Warhol I picked up from the garage sale for two dollars, and wrote to this man named Chris* instead.

Our conversation so far had gone like this…

 Chris– Hello Emma Jane,

My name is Chris and I have just finished listening to you on the Andy Social podcast. I loved the show…

I have started planning my funeral even though I’m 47. My family think I’m strange Ha Ha! I am a DJ, so I want disco lights, smoke machines and great party songs as well…

When I rang the funeral home, the man on the phone said to me “This is a funeral, not a nightclub!” I was so disappointed but hearing your story has given me hope to be able to share my own life story with my friends and family in a way that I lived my life.

Thank you again,


Me- Good morning Chris,

My heart is full that you reached out to me. I apologise for the brevity of this message as I am heading into work but thank you so much again and you’re wonderful.

A few weeks later, I am on my lap top writing to this fascinating man asking if he would be interested in answering a few questions about his colourful life and plans for a funeral that may very well make headlines in some decades time. He agreed and here it is…you heard it here first!

I wondered if he was also wearing a skeleton onesie, except a glow in the dark version. He is a DJ, after all.


So, you’re a DJ! Tell us a little more about that! What is one of your most memorable gigs?

I have been Djing since 1986. I started out at the local roller-skating rink, moving onto mobile discos, engagement parties, corporate functions, Halloween parties (dubbed Boo Bashes) and more.

One of the most memorable events was a Pre-Wake. (The client asked me to DJ his wake before he died), I originally thought how morbid is this?

The disco was absolutely fantastic as guests wanted to celebrate his life, enjoy themselves over BBQ and beer. The speech was a little teary but the party, scheduled to finish at 10pm, went on until morning.

The music for this wake was extremely lively, not depressing. The client told me he wanted to be at his wake to ensure people had a good time and remembered him for his outlook on life.

You mention you would like to bring to life your love for music through an amazing farewell when it’s your time! Can you describe to us what you have in mind?

Here are my thoughts. First and foremost, please come dressed as you normally would in life. Black suits are welcome if you must, but not compulsory. First song, Alice Cooper’s I Love The Dead, (‘cause this is one of my all-time favourite songs and artist). While this song is playing I would like a smoke machine underneath the coffin and disco lights in the background. A jumping castle for the children so they can play while the service is taking place – they can remember me by having fun themselves.

Other songs I would like is dance music, lively and happy as this represents what I actually like in life. I would like to be cremated, not buried.

You’re still so young, only in your forties. Where did this idea for a great funeral come from? Did you attend a service you weren’t particularly happy with?

I have attended many funerals with depressing music and the service becomes predictable. I find most funerals are not a celebration of life. Our culture is somewhat afraid to celebrate a person’s life at the time of their death.  This is a culture that can change if people choose to make it happen. Yes, I am only 47 years old, and some people think I’m weird for considering my own mortality and funeral at such a young age, but I believe it’s more practical to let people know now, helping my family and friends prepare the party to celebrate my life.

You mention most people you know think you’re weird for considering your own funeral at this age. I too get called morbid for applying death to daily living. How do you feel when your loved ones say this to you?

When people call me weird for thinking about it, it simply makes me want it more.  I don’t want an average run of the mill service!

My philosophy is to live life to the fullest every day, as you really don’t know when you will die. Enjoy your friends and family, don’t be afraid of living!!! We only get one life, then we die.  I am going to make this life memorable for myself and those I come in contact with.


So, there you have it. Smoke machines, jumping castles and all.

This weekend I’ve truly found my tribe. From skeletons and tinsel to DJ’s with a dying wish. I’m certainly not alone when I suggest, let’s work together to make grieving a little fun. Grief shapes you as person, strengthens your soul… and can be the catalyst for one hell of a party.


Late Nights Early Mornings

I know it’s morning because the birds are chirping, just a few as it’s also raining. I’ve otherwise lost track of time but I do know it’s Sunday. I feel quite delirious now.

I make my way to the bedroom and lean on the bed for support as I undress, throwing my soiled suit to the floor. After three consecutive house calls I have sweated my blouse into a stinky mess and my white collar is make up stained. My jaw cracks with a yawn as I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. I hardly recognise my reflection- I think I looked better when I used to stumble in at this time from a nightclub marathon in my twenties. Mascara smeared and red lipstick on my chin was a far better sight than the  fright that peers back at me now. I appear pale, lines under my eyes and my Botox has worn off completely – I look haggard. The rain batters down heavier now as I roll into bed without taking off my two day old makeup and knowing I should shower but I simply can’t stand on my feet any longer.

As I pull the covers up to my chin and pray the work phone also takes a nap, I revisit my time on the road overnight. The dead I collected from beds.

I’m so grateful to feel this tired, weak, exhausted. 

And as I decline yet another Sunday coffee date via text before I close my eyes, I know that right now- in his time of my life, I live for one thing and that is helping the dead any time day or night.

To take helpless bodies into our care.

I feel myself drift off to sleep and my tummy grumbles.

On second thought, I really could have gone a good smashed avo on toast and latte….


Dreadlocks and Dragons

I nursed Brad* on my lap in the passenger seat of the van as it climbed higher up the mountain. Brad wasn’t a baby or child. His cremains (cremated remains) were sealed in a lovely oak box with his name carved in the wood. We were en route to his funeral service. Normally a body would be cremated AFTER the funeral and the last ride is always a hearse. Today was different. EVERYTHING would be different.

We brought the van as we were carrying half of the funeral home up the mountain, from a lowering device to an empty coffin in place of stretchers. I began to think we should have also packed a tent, food and water as we had been driving for quite some time now, and the winding road seemed neverending. My ears began to pop like on an aeroplane and noticed just how high we were, taking in the extraordinary view. There were green-blue mountains for as far as the eye could see, we were level with low cloud and felt the drop in temperature even with all windows closed.  ‘Feel that?’ my work partner chuckled as he shifted gears and the van heaved uphill further. ‘I can feel the cold through my suit!’

In a mountaintop cemetery overlooking the country side, Brad would be farewelled by friends and family. His death was a coroner’s case- it appeared the twenty six year old had died at his own hands. And made quite a mess while he was at it…of himself. His mother had requested we cremate him and during the funeral she would place the ashes inside the coffin with some of his favourite belongings. It sounded rather straight forward but as soon as things sound simple, a funeral director must be prepared for the opposite.

‘Apparently he was quite the gypsy,’ my partner began his brief as we turned onto an unsteady dirt road. ‘There may be quite a few things going in the coffin. Who knows what is going to happen up here. The locals are a little different in these mountains!’

Usually a lowering device is fitted before our arrival. All we need to do is place the coffin on the straps and at the appropriate time, flick the lever and the decedent is lowered into their grave. 

Not up here!

We were required to bring our own that had collected dust in the work shed. Now I would learn how to actually set one up!  I felt a flutter in my stomach- this service was going to be one to remember, I could feel it. My intuition was screaming at me, hope you’re ready for a banger!

I held Brad’s box of ashes tighter.

We finally pulled into the tiny cemetery with only a dozen headstones peeking through the fog. There was no time to appreciate the scenery- we had twenty minutes to set up all of our equipment before the family arrived! I climbed down from the van onto the dewy grass and placed Brad on the passenger seat where he would wait until it was time. Our hands aching from the cold, my partner and I unloaded the empty coffin, set up the chairs, sound system and lowering device. It’s amazing the strength and energy a funeral director can muster in challenging conditions. The icy air burned our skin, but ensuring Brad’s goodbye was perfect mattered more than a little windburn…or frostbite. Once all was prepared, we straightened our ties and waited. 

Then a beautiful thing happened. The sun broke through the clouds and the harsh wind settled. With the light I noticed we were surrounded with avocado trees and the cemetery had a view that gave Sydney Harbour a run for its money. The family began to arrive in droves- the mother greeting us behind large dark sunglasses. She acted strong, not a quiver.  Too many people refuse to shed a tear at funerals, and while I understand no two people grieve the same way, I sometimes long for them to take advantage of the reason for funerals. Funerals are a time to cry, scream, shout! It’s a launching pad for the grieving journey. However I could not imagine what it would be like to bury your own child and the pain a caliber of its own.

‘I have so much to set up,’ The mother pointed towards the family members approaching us holding large boxes. ‘I’m sorry it’s not the traditional way…’

‘Please,’ I placed my hand on her shoulder that I noticed was trembling beneath her coat. ‘Don’t apologise. It’s perfect and very special.’

‘It will be special,’ the mother agreed. ‘But I’m not allowed to cry just yet. I’ll set it all up and then I can deal with it.’

I nodded. 

‘Please let me know if there is anything I can do.’ I leant forward and hugged her and I heard her sniffle.

My partner and I stood back to supervise as the family set up a table by the open grave with the most beautiful belongings- spell books, crystals, incense, dragon ornaments, candles…so many candles! His favourite chocolate biscuits were set up by a canvas of photos and for the first time, my eyes met with Brad’s. Prior to this moment I had only known him as the cremains in the box with a glossy finish. In the photos he was laughing, pulling funny faces with a head full of long purple dreadlocks. A lip piercing sparkled on his smile and he wore trendy fur coats.

‘He loved dragons,’ his mother busied herself with his shrine, placing so many crystals and dragons around the grave I thought I had stepped onto the set of a fantasy film. His friends began to arrive, all dressed gothic style and glitter patterns on their cheeks. I could see in the photo collage Brad enjoyed glitter with much of his clothing sparkling with it. I felt a lump form in my throat and suddenly felt an intense connection to the  young man as if he were friend.

FINALLY! A service that was brimming with the deceased’s personality. No somber black suits and depressing music! Fleetwood Mac floated on the mountain breeze as his friends placed mementos by his coffin from witches brooms to more dragon ornaments. A stunning velvet cloak was placed in his coffin along with his spell books and letters… it was endless.

Before too long the cemetery was busy with eccentric characters, dancing and crying, hugging and dancing, throwing glitter in the air and dancing, sharing stories and you guessed it…dancing. You’d think you were at a dance festival if it weren’t for the coffin which was now loaded with all that made up the story of his life.

There was one thing missing.


‘I would like to see him now,’ his mother approached us a few minutes before the service was scheduled to start.

‘Certainly,’ and I led her to the passenger side of the van and opened the door. She began to cry now, reaching forward and hugging him. ‘Oh my baby!’ she sobbed. ‘My dear boy. This world was never for you. I’m so sorry!’ She cradled her son in her arms before taking him over to the coffin. On sight of the box holding his ashes, his friends and family began to weep. 

The eulogy connected me even closer to the young man, learning he was a creative, a misfit, a writer, a poet, a stargazer. He had no time for social norms, for politics, conformity. His personality was described to have been ‘haunted’ by his inner demons, but my intuition told me they weren’t demons at all. He knew he didn’t belong in this crazy world- he wasn’t the crazy one at all.

Driving back down the mountain I felt changed. I was moved, challenged, unsteady in conversation with my colleague. I couldn’t think clearly, I felt foggy. A speck of glitter twinkled on my knee.

When people find out I work in the funeral industry, a common question I get asked is: “But isn’t it depressing working around death all day?”

How on earth could it be depressing when you’re standing on a mountaintop with glitter on your suit and your head held high knowing you’re helping someone in their time of need?

I was meant to conduct that service today. It was no coincidence that a glitter loving, dancing funeral director landed on that mountain.

Brad chose me.

RIP beautiful soul!

If You’re Trying to Lose Weight…


Become a funeral director! You may get to eat once a day when you’re on call- maybe not at all!

You run on coffee but work these off racing a zillion miles an hour & exposed to human fluids that you’d expect only to see in movies! 

You lift weight you had no idea you could manage until confronted with it and heaving coffins become part of everyday.

Salads look more appealing when you’ve seen a body in a sad state (bless their soul) & you stay away from anything that gives you gas. (I’ll leave that one there but fellow funeral directors know what I mean).


Funeral Flowers, I hate you (erm…I mean I love you)

F3E2CB95-34E1-47E8-A763-780C31528E78So, I have a love/hate relationship with funeral flowers. Some days they are my friend as I spritz the casket spray with water to freshen the petals before placing them on the coffin. They smell amazing- the white lily my favourite, while other funeral directors sneeze and splutter at the strong scent. Once at the church or chapel it’s an honour to place the flower arrangements on the altar artistically so the guests can see all the wonderful work florists spent their time creating. 

These dear colourful blooms have also had me wishing I could jump into the burial plot myself. 

In the early days while in training, my conductor explained that prior to the service we would be doing a drive by.  A drive by??? We weren’t gangsters! Were there guns hidden in the under carriage of the hearse? ‘What exactly is, erm…a drive by?’ I whispered to him, and he looked at me as if I had just asked if he would care to drive off a cliff together.

‘You don’t know what a drive by is?’

‘Well, I am a fan of hip hop, I know some great music artists who have been wounded in drive bys.’ The expression on his face had me wanting to melt into my polished shoes. Turned out a “drive by” entails driving to the decedent’s home on route to the funeral. The hearse stops outside the home and the conductor takes a moment to put a rose in the letterbox, bows respectfully then returns to the hearse. I shed a tear the first time I witnessed this. We see so many bodies get rolled into our facility on stretchers and while we care and respect every single one of them, we don’t have much of a back story of their life besides what disease or accident snatched them from life.

“Drive Bys” became special to me. You had the opportunity to see their home, the gardens they once watered, the patios they swept. When I became a conductor I felt blessed to stand at the front of the deceased’s home to place the rose in their letterbox which I’m sure was usually filled with utility bills- envelopes they needn’t worry about anymore.

So now Drive Bys are important to me, but that very first day I learnt about them I felt excruciatingly embarrassed. 

Then there was the time I had to carry a flower arrangement twice the size of myself down the (very long) aisle of a church before the family arrived. It was an Italian service- fellow funeral directors know just how extravagant these services are! 


Hardly able to see over the flowers in my hands quivering with the weight, I tripped and face planted into the arrangement. Pollen on my face and swamped beneath flowers, I envisioned my headstone: “Death by flowers at funeral. Please do not gift flowers as they were her enemy.”

Theeeeen that day. THAT DAY. The family had requested they would like to take the casket spray home with them. At the burial there is a crucial moment prior to lowering the coffin into the earth when the funeral director skilfully removes the casket spray and places them to the side on the flower grate. I forgot to do this because, well… it’s me. And as I pushed that lever, the coffin descending into the ground, my face burned with shock as I watched in terror-the flowers were lowering, lowering, lowering, six feet under. Thankfully the family were okay with my error, and still gave us a great review and even sent a thank you card. Phew! I later discovered the cemetery staff could have retrieved them. 

There are too many cases to count how funeral flowers can stress a funeral director. From placing the wrong arrangement on a casket, to the florist not delivering them at all. From forgetting to check the flower-room at chapels for flowers that may have been sent by family members unable to attend, to having them slide off the casket while driving the hearse around corners because someone forgot to put flower matting beneath the display to prevent them moving.

Aaah. Funeral flowers.

These adventures aside, have you ever wondered why there are so many darn flowers at a funeral?

Historically flowers were placed around the casket to ward off the smells that emanated from the decaying process of the body. Clearly we now have better techniques to deal with a stinky corpse than using flower petals, but a lovely way to mask decomposition all the same.

There was once even the role of the Flower Lady. The flower lady was similar to the pall bearer role but instead of carrying the casket, the ladies carried the flowers from the funeral service to the flower vehicle then set them up graveside.

Today this role is called… ALL OF US! The  FDA – Funeral Director’s Assistant does this – hence why I had a face smothered with pollen.

Whether the fragrance makes you sneeze or the heaviness of some arrangements boosts the chiropractic industry, funeral flowers are sentimental for many reasons. It can be difficult for mourners to put feelings into words, and flowers show sympathy and express love. 

I do believe flowers should sent to the grieving AFTER the service also, once all is buried and done with. Grief outlasts sympathy so take the time to send a bunch once in a while to someone who lost a partner, friend, child- anyone! Flowers brighten anyone’s day – unless you’re falling into them or accidentally putting the incorrect arrangement on a coffin.

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said “Earth laughs in flowers.” This quote sure does describe my humorous experiences with funeral flowers but when it comes to grieving, I like to say “The Soul is Smiling in Flowers.”

And here’s to the whole darn team being The Flower Lady!


Zebra Print & Champagne

On my recent travels I discovered the cutest funeral home. Okay okay, so a holiday is meant to be abundant with coconut trees and sand between the toes, not headstones and funeral chapels. Don’t get me wrong- I love a cocktail (or five) by swimming pools but this road trip was all about funeral homes and learning different ways other companies do their thing.

So while driving through the countryside I came across a company with the greatest uniform. No somber black suit, these ladies had zebra print material threaded in their Akubra hats and pink blouses beneath their jackets! What a wonderful way to celebrate life- with colour, patterns and warm smiles? I did also wonder, would the uniform be overwhelming to a family who have tragically lost a child? Had a partner killed in an awful accident?

Oh the Death Industry. A crazy world of controversy! 

It had me thinking though – how great it would be to develop a funeral home serving those who leave this world between 80-100 years of age. Of course it’s devastating to lose someone whether they’re 12 years old or 100, but when someone has conquered life and made it to age 99- now THAT’S cause for celebration! It’s awful to lose anyone!!! But how great it would be to honour lives who have outlasted generations- wiser than most of us, taking stories to their graves we can’t even imagine!

Someone close to me, 85 years of age, has never been in hospital. And over a few strong whiskeys she tells stories of the days she partied with rock stars and watched the construction of the Sydney Opera House so many many years ago. When it’s her time to leave this world, free of disease and a heart full of gratitude, her farewell will indeed be a celebration of LIFE. 💞

I daydream of a funeral home where the staff wear zebra print vests, bright shoes & serve champagne by the coffin as family celebrate a life well lived. 






Cloud Bling

Writer Florence Scovel Shinn once said “Prayer is telephoning to God and intuition is God telephoning you.” I’m not a religious person but I’m really into spiritual shit, and last night I received the most wonderful phone call.

‘Beautiful night,’ I grinned at the truck driver jumping down from his giant machine beside me at the fuel station. ‘I have NEVER seen lightning like this!’ I pointed up at the clouds glowing with the forces of nature. No thunder or rain, the sky was showing off with a silent light display. If you were inside at home you’d have no idea of the spectacle taking place above you without the usual stormy companions.

‘It sure is a special sight,’ he agreed, gazing upwards. ‘We do see it a lot though, late at night in the distance. The open road makes it easier to see. Kind of a shame really, what people miss out on when in bed.’  I felt the smile creep across my cheeks. That’s what I always say. Well, to myself anyway. Nature is at its best at night. Moonlight, stars, the cooler breeze, and if you’re out and about expect adventures.


Fuel began leaking from the pump and down my hand. I was so mesmerised I almost forgot I was filling up. It didn’t matter. I was in the middle of the most beautiful road trip and the funny thing is, I was meant to be asleep in bed.

I’ve been on the road for some time now and planned to get a nights sleep before continuing the drive. But I was restless. I brewed some tea, stared at my open suitcase on the floor, peered over at the bed. I moaned thinking how boring bed was going to be. And something told me to grab my toothbrush, zip up the suitcase and skip it altogether. I felt a sudden surge of joy zap through me like the lightning illuminating the sky. In no time, the car was packed and I was singing out aloud to James Blundell for good measure, as I drove through the country. Huge trucks were the only vehicles sharing the road with me and some honked their horns to say hello. (Or to tell me to get to bed like everyone else, I’m not sure.)

The trees stood out in silhouette, hauntingly beautiful with the backdrop of lightning as if the Universe was releasing fireworks in the clouds just for me. I felt a sneaky little tear. Not many people know this about me but I have actually travelled the open road extensively in the past. I witnessed some incredible sights on my travels but nothing quite like this. For hours and hours the lightning played with the clouds, sometimes rolling from one cloud to another like a synchronised routine, other times lashing out and splitting the sky with bony fingers of blinding light. I felt so incredibly blessed to witness the magic. As well as the unforgettable light show I was captivated by the enormous trucks on their overnight journeys, with number plates different to ours. No plates identifying which State they come from, instead they read “Federal-Interstate.” I thought how great that would be, to belong to the entire country. Some trucks had what looked like a nightclub attached to them with flashing lights and even their giant wheels were decked out with twinkling bulbs. I pulled over at a rest stop and text my friend who works in the truck industry.

Hey there- sorry for the late night text. Just been driving the country, sharing the open road with giant trucks with what looks like a disco attached to them and thought of you! Just wanted to say hi and hope you’re doing well.

Almost instantly my phone beeped with a reply.

Hi. Yes, it’s a term known as ‘Night Bling’.

 I laughed. A bit like myself!  I replied, referring to my addiction to sparkly heels after dark.

You know what they do compared to the trucks without it?  My friend wrote.

 The same thing I asked.

 Exactly. If not, less. They spend tens of thousands extra on that stuff but it doesn’t do anything  was his reply as another truck spruced up with ‘Night Bling’ blasted past me.

 A bit like people  I found myself typing.

 Night Bling, I like that, I thought to myself as I veered back out onto the highway. Even the clouds had bling tonight. I suddenly realised I was not alone late at night when I couldn’t sleep. Whenever my insomnia would strike from now on I would think of the dedicated drivers out on the road delivering goods to help the world go round. I usually thought about fellow funeral directors out on transfers caring for the dead (taking the deceased from place of death into the care of the funeral home 24 hours a day) but now I would also think of the hard working truckers so we can be fed and provide products to make our life easier. While most people slept, they worked- but I began to think they may have the best darn job in the world. (Besides a funeral director, of course.) They get to drive all night under lightning skies, listening to late night radio where the most interesting characters call in to take part in quiz shows. (Where I learned, I might add- the only fruit specifically mentioned in the story of Adam and Eve is Fig, referring to the fig leaf used for modesty.)

I was so grateful for my intuition in this moment. The “Phone call” from something bigger than I.

You see, there’s this thing I do. I can’t make an important decision on rational judgement alone. I don’t write a pros and cons list, ask my friends for advice or research products before buying. I rely on intuition. That’s right, I can safely say someone makes the decisions for me, and while I carry out the actions physically with my own arms and legs it certainly isn’t me who governs them. Sometimes I come across crazy to those closest to me, but while I frighten the bejesus out of people with my ideas, these experiences enrich my life and make me the happiest little human on this planet.

Intuition is everything xoxo

When I got back in that car and witnessed the magic in the sky –  the Cloud Bling – I blew a kiss to the heavens for making me… Me. Crazy little messy me, who never misses the phone call.

Image Stormvisuals