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I’m talking, tattling. Dishing the dirt. 

Spilling tea and beans. Yes, messy – but necessary.

Many millennia ago, gossip was simply fireside storytelling – for warmth, connection, for show. My Hellenic Ancestor, Homer, kickstarted the trend. This dude’s Illiad is history’s biggest, fattest tea spill about the bitching that ripped through Greece post-Trojan war; love, sibling rivalry, control, pissed off parents – a typical Friday night in my childhood.

I grew up among gossip; a cloying, annoying oft-repeated round of she said, he saids. Add the nausea of regurgitating old gripes and …

Little did I know this was building my story muscle.

Gossip inspired my first recorded ‘talk show’ – Phyllis’ Opinions to Family Problems (sic). I was 12 and my grandmother, my (reluctant) guest.

Decades later a famous screenwriting teacher shared this priceless gem with me,

“Gossips make great storytellers.” Was this permission or, validation?

George Harrison scolded, “Gossip is the devil’s radio.”

Truman Capote fired back, “All literature is gossip.”

But US columnist Liz Smith, (aka The Grand Dame of Dish) dropped the mic,

“Gossip is just news running ahead of itself in a red, satin dress.”

Like stories, gossip isn’t going away. So, get good at it. Choose vital facts, over vitriol. Tell the truth, not tales. The purest form isn’t about belittling behind backs. It’s your ancient instinct to connect, share, entertain, love and be loved.

Am I an advocate for gossip? Sure, if it does good and feels good.

And forget about the red, satin dress – mine’s, silk.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Who’s your guru? 

Who are you outsourcing the getting of your wisdom to? And, crucially, why?

I was at a yoga retreat recently and on day two we were told a Yogi was gracing us with her ‘unfiltered presence’. And then there she was….

A silver-haired crone with a hook nose, broken leg and a demeanour that snap crackled with humour, nous and zero f**ks.

“You are what you worship.”

“Being yourself is the most liberating thing you can be.”

Then she gleefully regaled us with technicolour tales from her rock star yogi life… luscious affairs with younger men, the natural altered states 4,000 hours of meditation can bring and that one time a bendy friend popped a line of coke under her nose while she was doing a headstand.

Her cavalier attitude to perfection, intoxicating. Her truth bombs, sublime.

“Our only duty is to become transparent.”

The influencer types around me nodded in earnest, absorbing the gospel. But the night before they were sharing their unresolved traumas (while their websites hawked $1,000 coaching sessions on mastering your power).

Wanna really harness your fire? Ignore the gurus. They’re unlikely to give you their warts n’ all wisdom like this Yogi,

“Life is your guru.” She said before describing her prolapsed bladder and the plug she used to keep it in. The chick beside me asked her what the plug was made of, and the Yogi didn’t miss a beat,

“I’ve got no idea. But it’s not made of wheatgrass.”

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Adolescence is the latest TV show… 

…that’s scorched column inches everywhere.

Technically, the series is flawless… from a soundtrack that includes the haunting reimagining of Sting’s, Fragile to the way each episode unfolds as a single continuous shot, dragging you into the family’s nightmare – without respite. And the performances? Well, now you’re a voyeur with a front row seat to all the terror.

From a parent’s perspective, it’s bile churning stuff. All the superlatives are deserved… ‘outstanding, exceptional, groundbreaking’. And for the detractors who criticise the slow pace – please, stop. Not all stories need to pelt you with guts and action to pin you to an armchair.

I’m clearly waxing lyrical here, so what’s my problem?

One word, nuance. Or the lack thereof.

Yes, Adolescence does a stunning job of demonising the boy and his ‘toxic masculinity’, but the victim’s toxic femininity was glossed over in a fleeting line or two. Why? Are we assuming she was completely blameless? Is victim consciousness rearing her ugly head again?

No, she didn’t deserve her fate. But neither did he.

I’m glad some of the series’ editorial has contained phrases like,

“…the topics raised in the show are not just a conversation for men and boys.”

I don’t know. Why can’t we reframe the narrative that seems to consistently batter males into submission like they are the only villains of the piece?

Call me a dreamer. I just think that equality is the tonic, toxic needs.

But that’s just a philosophy. My Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Writer’s block, who me? No. 

I don’t block.

Okay, maybe once in my very early 20s I experienced the very foreign – and thankfully, fleeting – sensation of not having anything to write about.

I remember being gripped by panic, thinking, will I ever write anything again? But the block lasted about as long as it took for me to write that last sentence.

Why? My Muse and I are, tight.

Actually, the other day someone gave me a cure-all that can bust any block, large or small, wide open delivering a veritable cascade of inspiration. It’s that online, rapid-fire, faceless, plagiarising, pilfering pal called, AI!

Say hello to your ready-made, would-ya-like-fries-with-that block-buster! Now why didn’t I think of that?! Oh yeah, that’s right – because AI is a soul-less excuse for original idea generation that has NO PLACE IN THE CREATIVE ARTS.

Now. Where was I? Oh yeah, my generous Muse.

In this last week alone, she has been working overtime bestowing insights, ideas and revelations stoked by the fires of family life, misbehaving hormones, a wise-cracking, coke-sniffing Yogi, observations from a luxe retreat littered with influencers, (yeah, littered) and even a Netflix series of all things!

Whew. Truly an embarassment of riches. I guess you can consider this missive a trailer of sorts for future Phylosophies.

Just for today my friend, I needed a break from scribin’ and stuff.

Right here, right now, I wanted to write about nothing – which, I guess, is still something… of a Phylosophy, for you.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

The following words might seem…

…femme-scented, on the surface. But this is also about how definitions can mean the difference between defeat and defiance.

Like a lot of my female peers, I am in hormonal flux.

This is a delightful time of heat surges, mood merry-go-rounds and even some ear buzzings which feel like my brain is trying to pick up an obscure radio station in Latvia.

Throw some formication into the ‘meno mix’ and you’ve got all the ingredients for what I call, The Hormone Apocalypse. Yes, formication, that sensation you feel when you’re convinced tarantulas are browsing up and down your skin. (After many jump scares, I’ve learnt to look first, panic later.)

But back to the Apocalypse. It’s easy to shake, be rattled and recoil at this.

Catastrophes, damage, destruction, oh my! But the Greek word apokálypsis means a revelation, to uncover, disclose, reveal, oh yes! ​

This dynamite definition​ feels so right because alongside the nuts symptoms I’ve also felt a ‘take-no-prisoners’ fearlessness I’ve craved forever. My decades of people-pleasing and caring what the entire solar system thinks of me is disintegrating to reveal, The Real Me.

So, if you’re wrangling with your own Hormone Apocalypse, take heart.

You are walking into a deeply powerful chapter in the story of YOU. And it can be a bold ass STRUT… if you let it.

“Aging is an extraordinary process whereby you become the person you always should have been.”

That’s David Bowie’s sage philosophy and My Phylosophy too.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

In this age of loud (and necessary)…

…feminism, I ask you to get quiet and open your eyes because… walking among us are the faux feminists.

Oh sure, they’ll regale you with endless tales of silly men and their ineptitude, they’ll even ra-ra about absolutely, positively having your back, but when it comes down to it, they’ll revert to husband house rules or worse, play dumb.

In recent months, my world has tilted slightly on its axis a.k.a hitting the pointy end of parenting teens. I’ve cried harder than I did when my father died. It’s been very tough and I’ve never felt so powerless, or alone because…

I’ve been abandoned by the Sisterhood? No. The Motherhood.

This is the group of women I’ve desperately needed when the words, “Have I failed?” threatened to unravel me.

If your once adorable offspring has morphed into an inexplicable manchild or womanchild overnight and now you’re clamouring for the manual that will help you navigate this mindf*ck phase – I need you.

I’m not dismissing the incredible child-free folks who have offered their shoulders for spontaneous sobs. But. The mothers who I thought would reach out have taken one stance.

Heads. Buried. Sand. You know who you are.

And the phenomenal mothers who showed up with love and lattes, you know who you are too.

Am I being too hard? Too needy? Maybe. But this is my Phylosophy and I’ll vent if I want to. Feel free to do the same.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

In a week where Oscar winners…

…flung their gum to girlfriends, here’s my nuts International Women’s Day tale.

It began with a message from a former colleague.

“I have an invitation for you I’d like to talk about.”

He was planning an IWD event and wanted me to facilitate an all-female panel discussion. After encouraging me to lower my rate (his big corporate outfit clearly cash-strapped), I was tentatively booked.

That was late January.

Mid-February dawned and the crickets descended. No emails. Calls. Texts. So I messaged, voicemailed. But, no reply. I made a million excuses for the man whose LinkedIn profile heaves with ‘strategic insight’ rhetoric.

So why ignore me? Amnesia? Stupidity? Or just small balls? As a Boy Mama, I am not about crucifying the straight white male – only dumb humans bereft of EQ and courtesy.

A browse on LinkedIn revealed a post he’d made two weeks ago, promoting the event – with another panel facilitator. I’m certain the room was filled with chicks oblivious to the impotent machinations of a disingenuous man behind the scenes. This fires up my fury but I’m grateful for the emotions that seethe and retreat inside me. They give me a level of unf*ckability that makes the people-pleaser in me shudder.

Embrace your ire, ladies, don’t hide it. There’s profound power in you this International Womens Day – and everyday.

As for the man who essentially stole my gig without explanation, I say thank you. Your cowardice became satisfying fodder for this Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

Losing my labyrinth virginity was…  

…meant to be seamless. That’s spirituality, right? No mess. So, when Tourist Sneakers stood on my path, I was miffed. And territorial.

The Park Guide stepped in,

“This happens. There’s only one path in and out. Just step aside and carry on your way.”

So, the woman walked around me and a few twists and turns later when someone else blocked ‘my’ path, we side stepped each other, smiled and moved on.

Eventually my fellow ‘lab walkers’ had left the path leaving me alone with the labyrinth.

I arrived at the centre, and promptly sat in a lotus pose on hot concrete. Serenity was a little tricky. But I tried to squeeze some zen outta the moment by counting backwards from 100 to feel the … force? Or the pain in my butt. I couldn’t decide.

A couple days later, I posted the lost wallet to its owner. And on Valentine’s Day, she sent me… A little book of haiku poetry wrapped in butterfly gift paper. And when I opened the tiny book at a random page, I saw –

Those falling blossoms all return to the branch when I watch butterflies.

The Divine is some kinda spectacular.

I realised what the words ‘end of life directives’ meant for me…

Maybe it’s kissing one way of living goodbye and embracing the beginning of another that requires, bold, fresh moves in spite of life’s mess and … because of them.

But that’s just a philosophy. My Phylosophy.

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

‘End of life Directives.’

I stared at the haunting words written in half-hearted cursive.

Capital E. Capital D. Apparently ‘life’ didn’t need the emphasis?

You don’t expect death to cross your path on the way to a labyrinth – do you? I glanced at the wallet owner’s birthdate. Yep, I hadn’t misread it. We share a birthday.

Shrugging disaster thinking away, I pocketed the wallet and walked on. A few metres later, there it was…

A giant flat engraving in stone. Kinda unremarkable for a spiritual tool but I was ready to tread every twist and turn, wide open for…?

Five people were already walking; silver-haired chicks in tourist sneakers and creased linen. A dude in a designer t-shirt.

The volunteer guide approached, smiling.

“Have you walked the labyrinth before?” No.

“Well, you can’t get lost if you stay on path.”

I devoured these words, delicious. And he continued,

“I need to bow you in,”

After our heads met briefly (the reverence delightful), I stepped into the labyrinth.

Walking slowly, peace wrapped me up with every step, heel, toe, heel and then… hello… little butterfly? What? Swapped petals for concrete? Why?

I studied her bright, orange wings. Her cameo appearance pushed me deeper inside. I walked faster, with more purpose. Even comfort.

Everything that came before, lost love, trust and deadly directives disappeared.

I exhaled, looked up and almost bumped into ‘tourist sneakers’.

She blushed, “I don’t know how this happened!”

I don’t care. Get off my path.

To be continued…

© Phyllis Foundis 2025

My first brush with a labyrinth…

…came when I saw Jim Henson’s 1986 movie starring David Bowie and his magical balls.

But I digress.

After facing off a few fire-breathing dragons so far this year, I figured it was time for an emotional reset. So I decided to walk the labyrinth in Centennial Park.

Little did I know the ensuing magic would rival anything Bowie, Henson and his muppets could ever conjure up.

Unlike a maze, a labyrinth only has one path. There are no dead ends. No traps. It’s an ancient meditation tool for contemplation and spiritual transformation. So, it ain’t just a walk in the park.

Armed with a notepad, pen and water, I set off on my journey – sans phone. But five minutes in and my monkey mind had swung into action.

I’m going to be late. Distance too great. Too many dogs, toddlers, prams, power-walking gossips, joggers, scooters – blocking my path. Turn back. Don’t bother. No point. Too hot.

Five minds full of crap later and I found myself on (Charles) Dickens Avenue – the writer’s path, 50m from the Labyrinth.

Going barefoot, my toes sank gratefully into the dew-drenched grass. Up ahead a couple helped their little girl, Page, balance on a log.

Staying focused on my path, I looked down and spotted a small black wallet. I flicked it open and saw the words, End of life directives scrawled on thick brown card.

I pulled out the driver’s license – her birthdate, mine.

To be continued…

© Phyllis Foundis 2025