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My first Phylosophy…

…found its way to you 840 days ago. And I admit, hand on my heart, that, coming up with something fresh every Friday hasn’t always been easy.

I say all this to share a dubious slice of inspiration that assaulted my ears when the office music algorithm had a momentary lapse of reason; after the aural pleasure of Maxwell, Sade and Soul II Soul, Miley Cyrus slaughtered the vibe with,

“It’s my mouth I can say what I want to!”

Not exactly Shakespeare but I could work with the twerker. What about a riff on free speech and having the balls to truth bomb your beliefs?

But La Muse cared not for Miley. And instead, my mind landed on a force that lives in whispers, tears and questions, as well as joy, clarity and courage.

Beyond a passion, ambition or goal, your Calling arrives without warning. You have no choice. It keeps you awake. Haunts and excites you. It probably ain’t pretty. And you’re more likely to feel your calling before you hear it.

On a soul level, to follow your Calling is to be in divine service. Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s confronting. Even if it’s terrifying. Especially if it’s terrifying. It defies dogma and worships freedom in every shape, colour and expression.

I’ve always imagined a glam calling. Sequins a-dazzlin’. Red lips a-lippin’. An adoring crowd. The whole shiny shootin’ match.

I guess I haven’t really been listening. But I’m all ears now.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

It’s almost midnight…

…and that censor in my head who judges, restricts and makes me ‘think better of it’, is falling asleep so, I’m letting rip. Buckle up.

Last week on Love Soul I felt ‘The Sisterhood’ looming over me, spectre-like, as I asked my learned female guest, 

“Is feminism broken?”

My guest replied instantly, “Yes.”

But that I was even slightly fearful – as a feminist – to question ‘the matriarchy’ reflects the charged, eggshell climate we live in.

Our discussion was centred around an increasingly dangerous societal narrative predicated on keeping our men, brothers, fathers and sons contained, lampooned and fed a diet of condescension – mansplaining, manosphere, even man flu (!) – ill-informed, dull, divisive rhetoric.

It’s toxic masculinity from dusk to dawn; (most) men are buffoons, abusive, born with an inbred predatory on-switch.

Meanwhile, the girls and women with narcissistic, coercive, sociopathic drives go unchecked as they slash and burn their way through intimate relationships.

I quote, verbatim, from a series of domestic violence lecture notes shared at a very prominent Sydney university this week.

“Feminist theory acknowledges that women can also be violent in their relationships with men, however it does not see the issue of women abusing men as a serious social problem and therefore not deserving the same amount of attention or support as violence against women.”

So, listen up little boys, teens, young men and old… you don’t matter. Just man up. Shut up. Or sit down, ‘cause my trauma is bigger than yours.

Feminism. Broken.   

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Time to jot down…

…the random, the intentional, the rants from my week that was.

Sydney has been a hectic, storm-lashed town, for days. Umbrellas have failed and conquered. I wrote to the deafening thrum of raindrops crashing on our tin roof – comforting, loud, relentless – a sound for all sensations.

On a film set this week, a wardrobe mistress looked down her nose at my sparkly boots and smooth, claret velvet suit. Dressed me in an ill-fitting Chanel-dupe jacket; grey, boxy, dumb. Had to grin and wear it. The film’s star and writer blanked us – the mere, inconsequential extras. She clearly couldn’t spare a spec of thanks for the extras who shivered in an icy, outdoor scene so her story could be told.

And I’ve felt the aftershocks from a ‘run-in’ with a sociopathic teacher, as a tender-faced eight-year-old, when she grabbed my shoulders and shook me like I was a tree that would bear her fruit.

Maybe that’s when a stutter settled on my tongue because I recall a time as a little girl when my speech was bump-free. Did that bitch bring it on? She was tall with brown, pock-marked skin and spiky black hair. I hated her.

She silenced my voice for decades. 

Meanwhile, the rain hasn’t abated. Some rush to avoid the deluge, others revel in it? I watched a man stroll unfussed, pelted by fat drops, sans umbrella. Mad? Or assured by the knowledge that eventually…

‘…the storm will run out of water’. Maya Angelou  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

I had lukewarm KFC…

…for breakfast one morning this week. Not my finest hour, health-wise. 

And as I tucked into the mass-produced grease and salt (a green tea on standby for my atonement), a positively splendid idea popped into my head… 

I should post a pic of me grinning wide and with a cold, fatty drumstick in hand! Yes! I could make some kind of obscure, painfully witty but deeply relatable comment about rejecting high falutin wholefoods for a fowl jacked up on steroids. Yum.

How fun, how fashionably self-deprecating, how, how…who cares.

Thankfully, I came to my senses. But. For a lost second or three I contemplated subjecting innocent by-scrollers on the Gram to a pointless image of me and my mornin’ chicken. This got me to thinking about my brain – and yours. And the rewiring we’re already neck-deep in.

We’re living in a time where it’s okay, heck, it’s even expected that we share gratuitous captures of vacuous, materialistic mayhem for people to chuckle at, judge or emulate. 

Ignorance is bliss.

You’re not meant to know everything about me. Nor me, you. And we’re also not meant to know about every act of horror and even triumph unfolding on our beautiful planet as you read this Phylosophy. 

I have ancestor-envy – those smartphone-free folks were… free. They only knew what was going down in their village, their tribe. And it was enough. 

Life and love and stories flourished not in spite of blissful ignorance, but because of it.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

You know that feeling when your…

…to-do list taunts you? The last thing you feel like to-doing is…that. So, this morning, I sought mindless solace in a scroll-hole or two. 

I found a divine rendition of Seal’s Kiss from a Rose, sung by the supernatural commUNITY choir from Atlanta. And then I watched the story behind that 70s soul track, I Can’t Stand the Rain. The gifted folks who brought this song to life were on their way to a concert when the heavens erupted and a storm dowsed their plans. 

The singer, Ann Peebles, snapped, “I can’t stand the rain!” And a hit cracked open.

Apparently, the song was written as an antidote to the drippy, sappy R&B hits that romanticised umbrella weather with sugary ditties like, In the Rain by the Dramatics and Walkin’ in the Rain by Love Unlimited.

The songwriters screwed with conformity in soulful fashion and penned a melody that’s been covered by Tina Turner, sampled by Missy Elliot and loved by Lennon who called it,

“The best song ever.” 

I can’t adore this origin story enough because it embodies the magic you and I can conjure when we ignore the norm.

I celebrate the mavericks, the misfits, the artists, the brave hearts in our tipsy world right now who are rejecting the narratives society is insisting we worship based on algorithms and bots, politics and celeb rhetoric. It’s a perfect storm of unchecked madness. 

No. You don’t have to stand the rain.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Writers, unmarred by A.I, are magic.

They have a surgical ability to slice in on life’s delights and agonies so finely you either want to beam or sob in a dark place. Or both.

This morning, I finished a book by Pulitzer Prize winner, Michael Cunningham. As I read the final pages of, By Nightfall, 21 words leapt out at me, unexpected, sneaky and quietly cruel – hiding a bitter truth. 

“We build palaces so that younger people can break them up, pillage the wine cellars and pee off the tapestry-draped balconies…”

For me, Cunningham’s words stab at the core of what it means to mother. To parent without expectation, enjoying, suffering the thrills and spills. Since, to love your child unconditionally is to climb blindly onto a rollercoaster ride of vertiginous joy and sour disappointment a million times a day. 

Your adoration for the life you helped create is in perpetual ‘bounce-back’ mode. You band-aid your sorrows, then reconcile ‘em, stand up, hug and love again.

Beyond the toothless grins and candy-scented land of kids say the darndest things! lies a wild terrain of hormones, identity crises and evolving brains. And there’s no GPS on earth that will help you navigate this wild west. 

Parenting is not for the fainthearted. It is a love like no other, capable of devouring your intellect, logic and peace. And we wouldn’t have it any other way? Hm. 

Is this when martyrdom leaks into motherhood? Answers on the back of your ticket to ride. 

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Messy, divinely intelligent humanity is under fire by...

…automated perfection — that greasy salad of aluminum, silicon and copper, gallium, palladium and computational power designed to fulfill our need for speed.

My artist’s heart quakes and I wanna shake (an impotent) fist at CGI skies, shrieking profanities at a pixel-stuffed entity, but I’m delighted. 

Even though a world is coming where 10 people will soon be doing what 500 once did… even though ‘white collar knowledge workers’ — copywriters, designers, accountants and more — are destined for the scrap heap thanks to the busy bots so well briefed they’re taking over the boffins who gave them life. (Mary Shelley called, she wants her IP back.)

Even though an existential crisis isn’t just looming, it’s set up a franchise in every city. I say…

Let’s dance, artificial intelligence. This is simply your honeymoon phase, darling. And as any lover of limerence will tell you, unlike the power of humanity to pivot, the first flush of romance was never built to last.

This is a reckoning.

In the words of my favourite Artist Whisperer, Amie McNee, 

A.I. is going to make our human mess a precious commodity.

A yearning for deep soul over deep fakes won’t just be the idyll of dreamers anymore but a generator of wildly imperfect, soulful, heart-hewn art, services and careers. 

The sky is not falling. The sky is the limit when you lean in to what your soul has been pestering you to do since you were in utero.  

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

The topsy-turvy, poo cyclone of war...

….maniacal oligarchs, questionable tech and rampant celeb culture continues to soil planet Earth. But havoc has always been ‘a thing’ in our world, no?

Chaos keeps the 24-hour news machine lubricated, provokes storytellers and continues to put a 522-year-old gloomy soothsayer named Nostradamus in the headlines – no pricey plastic surgery necessary. Quite the feat….

We interrupt this transmission to bring you a word from our sponsors, and my default setting, Ms Eternal Optimism. I can’t turn this bitch off. No matter how miffed, rejected or blue I might feel – she brings the love-stuffed moments in spades…

Picking up breakfast from a city café morphed into a priceless moment when the owner gave me a free serving of pasta ‘for being a regular customer’. I’ve only bought from him, twice. On a bus stuffed with bowheads*, a baby played peekaboo with me – his gap-toothed smile lit with new life fire. Sydney’s winter has wowed us with impossibly perfect blue skies. Mum wrapped her wet hair in a towel turban and beamed at me after I helped her shower.

Love hides in the cracks of routine. It taps you on the shoulder. Pushes you to smile. And love is always looking for you – even when you don’t care to notice.

Sure. Free pasta, flawless winter skies, baby and mother joy are simple flashes of love, childish even. But so, what? They trump the poo.

* Humans with bowed heads, nose to phones. Commonly spotted… everywhere. 

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

This week I stepped back into the…

…sizzle of a Bikram Yoga studio – my first class in 11 years.

For the uninitiated, this class consists of 26 poses in 90 minutes. And the room is heated to a Faust-friendly, 40° Celsius.

Taking us through our paces, was Darren – a ridiculously bendy and upbeat Bikram veteran who knows how to soothe tired bodies and monkey minds. 

With mats unfurled and the mercury rising we began, pushing, balancing, bending way back, more back. But no hack in the world was going to calm the mind chatter that insisted I was going to hurl bile at my sweaty neighbour if I sipped more water.

Still, as we lay in corpse pose (or ‘savasana’ for the fancy), Darren dropped a gem that landed like a delicious bucket of ice on my head. 

“You’re doing something special here. Something extraordinary. Out of your day-to-day existence where…” 

You wake up. Stretch. Maybe jog. Or walk the dog. Grab breakfast. Start work. Then lunch. Work’s done. Dinner follows. You watch TV. Scroll. Go to bed. Wake up. Stretch. Jog, dog. Breakfast. Work. Lunch. Home. Dinner. TV. Scroll. Bed. Wake… 

Lost in the fog of routine is the stuff that makes you feel extraordinary. It’s where you shine, shatter an expectation, detonate your comfort zones. It’s something, anything that circuit breaks the treadmill so many of us pound daily. 

And no. You don’t have to look like a human pretzel in a giant air fryer to feel it. 

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

I own a v-neck, black cardigan...

…punctuated by a row of ten tiny buttons. It’s 86% silk and 14% cashmere. None of these details are as significant as the big, fat and beautiful red love heart that takes up space on the back of this cardigan.

But I’ve rarely worn it the way its designer intended.

You’re right. I wear my heart on my chest. Fashionably. Emotionally. Not for me, a sleeve.

But, like most mortals, allowing the world to know – and show – my heart when I write, when I speak, can feel terrifying. So, sometimes I hide behind clever word play or glib remarks to avoid truly ‘being seen’. Which is effectively what I’m doing now as you’re reading these words. Know why?

Because it’s late. I’m tired. Miffed at myself for not managing my time better this week and reading far too many sample chapters of soon-to-be-released books… salivating over the authors’ turns of phrase, their prose prowess… no, I’m not penning nonsense just to make up the word count. 

The truth is, my muse has changed into her pyjamas and I can’t think of anything witty or even mildly incisive to say … well, I can pull a stubborn rabbit out of a hat and regale you with gratuitous details about being called a Yuppy and a Milf in some online comments this week… outrageous! Didn’t the term ‘yuppy’ die with leg warmers and big hair?
 
Hand on my heart. I wrote this Phylosophy at the last minute.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025