I Miss The People That Make The Places.

The thing I miss about travelling isn’t so much the places — it’s the people.

I miss the guy I met in Midtown after the Dees pumped the Hawks, the one I got on the Bloody Mary’s at 7am with, and ran around Manhattan alongside, chasing shots and pasta and pastrami sandwiches.

I miss that girl I met in line at the W. The one with the tips for an Aussie in Brooklyn.

I miss that mate I made from Moscow.

Those scriptwriters in The High Line Hotel lobby.

The Cambridge professor I met on the boat four hours off mainland Australia. The way our kids played together.

I miss the stoop hangs with strangers on sweltering nights in the Village. T

hat soldier on the train in Venice.

The bargirl at the Irish.

That muso at the Inn.

Those boys with the tugboats.

That woman in Italy with the big smile and bigger hugs.

I miss Mama Vi at the Harlem Choir.

Those chefs at the Adelaide Central Market.

That winemaker. And that winemaker. And that winemaker.

The guy with the jet, and the sprawling penthouse. The way the crease in his smile sparkled, like he knew he owned everything, including my stare.

I miss the jazz bar owner in New Orleans with the beret and cheeky wink.

Those girls at brunch in Switzerland.

I miss running through the underground tunnels during a layover at LAX to get forty-five more minutes with that gem I bar hopped Stone Street with.

That art dealer.

Her author friend.

Those college grads in San Francisco that I taught how to really dance.

The Wall Street bankers that I only just outdanced.

I like new places, old places, foreign places, familiar places — but what I really love is the people that make the places.

The chance encounters, the serendipitous meetings, the random run-ins, the way one thing connects you and then a million tiny moments fuse you together.

I miss the chase, being chased, the buzz, being the buzz, the turns around wrong corners, the stumbles into right arms, the bumping of shoulders in vestibules, the knocking of knees at barstools.

I miss the way he’d throw his head back when he laughed.

The way she sang.

The way he sauntered down West 10th.

Moment after moment.

Forever etched into my heart, my memory, my skin.

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Thursday Night In The Back Of An Uber And I’m Thinking…

Today at a networking lunch, with the absolute legends from A Positive Move, I was asked to share the most ‘positive move’ I’ve made, and I had the pleasure of hearing responses from other members at the table.

I love hearing people share their stories; little snippets and tidbits of their life that have shaped who they are and what they do. The choices they’ve made, the serendipitous moments of happenstance that have peppered, or changed the entire course, of their lives. It’s the reason I’ll always choose reading a biography or memoir over a work of fiction; people – with all their realness and rawness – are the very thing that inspire me most.

My little tidbit was less focused on a singular moment or event, but rather the attitude I live my life by, which will come as no big surprise to regular readers or those who know me: to not let fear define my life or dictate my choices and to make my own opportunities, as well as take all the ones that come my way.

I shared a few examples of how I’ve applied it to my career so far – like when I was twenty-three and in the throes of my freelance writing career and I was offered a role as Editor of a magazine in Sydney. I was petrified. I had no idea what I was doing. So I naturally said yes. That was the catalyst for what came next, and what came after that, and where I am now.

Right now, in life, there’s a lot of good things happening. Really good things. It’s chaotic and hectic and, as my dear friend Steph has coined it, ‘off chops’, but it’s also wonderful and bold and at least twice a week I’m consumed by the feeling of a million butterflies clogging my stomach. I’m ridiculously content and awfully inspired and overly eager. And with that comes its own level of complexities.

If you ever want to know how good a true friend is, start killing it in life. Then kill it even more. Then soar higher than you ever have. Then get back to me.

I’m only just realising how difficult it is to navigate through the overlapping links of a friendship when you’re on Level 5 and the other person hasn’t even pressed the button to hop in the lift.

I’m only just discovering how crushing it is to watch someone completely veer away from any semblance of a good life and accept the very worst of a false one. It’s like watching a literal train wreck.

It’s harder when you care. It’s harder when your tolerance for bullshit is exceptionally low. It’s harder when you call them out. When you question their pathetic reasoning and falsities. Maybe it’s not the right thing to do. But I cannot do it any other way.

How do you ease the disconnect? How do you get the tracks to overlap and crisscross again?

A few days ago, I realised something, perhaps rather selfishly: it’s not up to me to sort out someone else’s life. And I definitely shouldn’t have to apologise for mine.

Last week, over a long lunch with a friend, I uttered something along the lines of ‘yeah, but we’ve designed our lives…’

And have I.

I recognise the ability to even do that in the first place comes from a position of privilege; privilege of being born in the best country in the world, privilege of being educated, and having opportunities, but here’s the thing: privilege only gets you so far. It doesn’t get you out of bed at 5am. It doesn’t make your choices, or your sacrifices. It doesn’t drive you, or motivate you. Privilege, if anything, cocoons you, it entitles you, it keeps you safe.

Should you ever have to apologise for being brave enough to trudge through your own muddy path?

I think not.

And maybe it’s the dry prosecco swirling about, or the gin, or the fact I’m typing this in the back of an Uber, but I’m not going to apologise for who I am, or what I’ve done, or the fact that everything is maddeningly, wonderfully, fabulously magic.

I don’t know how the tracks are going to crisscross over each other again. I don’t know how to make someone see that their misery is theirs to own, in the same way my happiness is mine. All I know is that it’s not really my problem – not for want of trying, not for lack of effort – and there’s something delightfully liberating about that.

Sandi Sieger4 Comments

Why I Love Him

This morning I read this beautiful piece, written by Malcolm Turnbull, to his wife, Lucy.

And I loved every line. It’s about real love; the kind that is enduring and somewhat rare. It’s about honest love; love that has grown, with people that have grown.

My favourite lines are these:

Yet, truthfully, we have been so lucky in so many ways. To meet the love of your life at all, let alone at such a young age, is such a blessing.

Over the years, we have grown together. It is almost impossible to imagine, let alone remember, what it was like not to be together, so much so that I have a much clearer sense of “Lucy and me” than I do of “me”.

I think I love this piece so much because it reminds me of my great love.

I met my husband when I was 17. He was 19. We have grown and evolved and changed but we did it together, teetering a fine line between growing and thriving personally and staying together, on the same path, walking beside each other but never for each other.

We did it, truthfully, without great effort. Without trying too hard. Or being too conscious of it.

I know people, couples, that have been wonderful but they met and then grew and then grew apart.

I’m not sure why we didn’t grow apart. Life has pulled us in different directions, it has sometimes even chewed one of us up and spat us out, somewhere far away, but together we have stayed.

I also don’t remember what it’s like to not be with Kaz. Even though we both have separate interests, and do things together, but often apart, I know he is always there, somewhere, metaphorically hovering around.

Perhaps that’s where our strength has been; being together whilst also remaining ourselves, pursuing our own interests, whilst supporting and fiercely defending each other.

Perhaps it’s because, before anything else, he is my best friend. And that has never waivered.

Perhaps we are lucky, but I don’t particularly believe in luck. Perhaps we have worked hard at it, but I know that hasn’t been the case, at least not most of the time. Or perhaps it’s because it just works, without too much effort, and maybe that’s the most important part.

Kaz and Sandi Sieger

On our wedding day 

There are so many reasons as to why I love Kaz; because he is kind and caring. Because he is funny and witty. Because he is talented and modest. Because he is fair and clever.

But maybe, and maybe somewhat selfishly, I love him because of how he makes me feel and how he improves my life.

Because he makes me laugh, when I need it most. Because he finds humour, and beauty, in things I would sometimes ignore.

Because he pushes me to be better, when I think I am, or have done, enough.

Because he makes me happy.

Because when I was in labour with O, he was brave, when I needed to be brave, even though he was more frightened than me.

Because he teaches me things, all the time, probably without even knowing it.

Because he makes me more capable than I already am.

Because he is my greatest cheerleader.

Because he usually makes me see the other side of an argument, or issue, and even though I usually fight the point, or disagree, I am later thankful. Sometimes I even change my mind.

I don’t remember ever thinking, or believing, that we’d never end up together, forever. I never saw my life without him in it. I still don’t. It’s unimaginable.

I know what we have is special. Sometimes people tell us that, and it’s a nice reminder. Sometimes we recognise it ourselves. Sometimes, I see a film, or read a piece like I did this morning, and I think, ‘I have that. We have that.’

And it’s all kinds of wonderful.

Sandi Sieger4 Comments