I haven't wanted to post, because as some wise person once said - If you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. But after keeping quiet for several days now, nothing has changed. I decided to write. Sometimes writing helps.
It's not that I'm snippish, or bad-tempered, or ferocious, like the lion-fighter of my dream. I'm just a bit lacklustre. (Don't you love that word? Let me say it again ..... lacklustre)
I suspect I am grieving a little for my children's babyhoods ..... which I'm perfectly aware is silly and ungrateful, not to mention tedious for you to read about (again!). It's ridiculous to feel maudlin when your children are growing and thriving and happy. It's just that I am sensing the beginning of their breaking away from me, and I'm sad. I wonder how mothers the world over deal with this? How do we each carry these babies in our bodies, feed them from our breasts, hold them, comfort them, sing to them, walk with them, swim with them and throw balls with them....... and then watch as they roll their eyes at us, refuse offers to spend time together and push us away impatiently if we hug them too long? How do we go from skin-close to a respectful distance?
Maybe the answer is - gradually. Slowly. With a few tears, and with consolation and understanding from partners and friends and other mothers. With the knowledge that we have done well to raise children who are independent and resilient.
And, I hope, with the occasional quick tight hug from a growing-up child who still loves their mother much more than they show.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
fierce creatures
The lion padded swiftly towards us. I tried to move away steadily, without running. I herded the children in front of me, urging them on with low, insistent words. My daughter was in front and reached the door of the hut first. She darted inside, and I reached for Ben's hand to pull him inside, too.
The lion snarled and pounced. He seized my son betweeen his jaws; caught my son by the back of the neck as if Ben was an errant lion cub. The beast lifted my son in the air and I watched with a sense of hopelessness, and with a feeling of unbearable loss. In that moment, I felt a chasm of grief open up and I peered down into its depths with mounting horror.
And then I attacked the lion. I yelled, I howled, my rage knew no bounds. I grabbed my son with one arm, and began punching the lion's chest with my free hand. Sounds of such great fury came from my mouth that even I was astonished. There was a brief tug-of-war, and then all at once it was over. The lion released my son, and gave its head a shake, almost as if in disgust. The lion looked at me for a moment. His eyes seemed to convey that he could have taken my son; that this victory was only mine because he'd chosen to allow it.
***********************************************************************************
This was my dream, the night before Ben starts school (today). Do you think I might be feeling a wee bit protective of him?!!
The lion snarled and pounced. He seized my son betweeen his jaws; caught my son by the back of the neck as if Ben was an errant lion cub. The beast lifted my son in the air and I watched with a sense of hopelessness, and with a feeling of unbearable loss. In that moment, I felt a chasm of grief open up and I peered down into its depths with mounting horror.
And then I attacked the lion. I yelled, I howled, my rage knew no bounds. I grabbed my son with one arm, and began punching the lion's chest with my free hand. Sounds of such great fury came from my mouth that even I was astonished. There was a brief tug-of-war, and then all at once it was over. The lion released my son, and gave its head a shake, almost as if in disgust. The lion looked at me for a moment. His eyes seemed to convey that he could have taken my son; that this victory was only mine because he'd chosen to allow it.
***********************************************************************************
This was my dream, the night before Ben starts school (today). Do you think I might be feeling a wee bit protective of him?!!
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
a new era
He's going to school. My baby, my youngest child, my chubby, ever-questioning, dimple-smiled Ben is starting school next week. In his over-large shirt and his shorts almost reaching his ankles, he looks too small to be a schoolboy. He's five, though, and he's ready to fly the coop.
My friend Heather consoled me, "He's going to be fine. He'll love school!"
"I know!", I retorted mock-tetchily. "I'm not worried about him! It's ME who's upset .... don't you realise it's all about ME?!"
Ah, yes, of course," she replied, smiling. "How silly of me. Of course it's all about you."
I pouted dramatically for a moment, then laughed. Because I know it's pure selfishness to be sad about something that will be thrilling and interesting and challenging for my son. School will mean a growing sense of independence for him. He will learn to feel confident with all different types of people. Ben will learn to read and write, and the magical world of books and communication will open up to him. He will hear differing opinions, and begin to evaluate situations himself. It will be the start of his boyhood.
For me, it is a chapter of my life coming to a close. No longer will I be a mother of pre-schoolers; no more will I compare notes with my friends about the drudgery and delights of staying home with small children. I will be working another day as a GP. On my two days at home, I will go about the housework, and grocery shopping without interruption..... and although that probably seemed like bliss when the children were babies, the idea now strikes me as faintly sad.
Others who have gone through this same change of role assure me that within days I will be whooping with joy as I whizz about, unencumbered. They're probably right. I've always enjoyed my own company, and I have plenty of projects - both pleasurable and tedious - to occupy me. It's not that I need the company of a child in my day. It's just that I'll miss it.
So goodbye little Benjamin and hello there, schoolboy Ben! I'm sure your days will be filled with fun, in new and varied ways. I really am excited, and proud, and happy for you to be starting school next week.
I just might need a tissue when I get back to the car.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
awake
I used to be a Sleep Princess. I could only sleep if lying down in a bed, preferably my own. If there was the slightest noise, I had trouble dropping off. Any discomfort rendered me an insomniac. My husband Fatty joked about checking under the mattress for peas.
And then I had children. Since that fateful day, I have found that nothing much deters me from sleep. I become dimly aware of Fatty snoring at 100 decibels, and I turn over and fall back to sleep. I slumber peacefully through storms. Just like 'normal people', I now may drift off whilst sitting upright, watching a movie. My children wear me out, and now I can sleep.
Except that it is 4am right now (or it was when I gave up on sleep after an hour of tossing and turning) and here I am sitting at the kitchen table. I have a wry neck. Not such a big deal. But I am remembering what it is like to be awake through the night, and how isolating it is, and how I used to not like it!
When I worked nights, I hated the feeling of driving in to work to start a 10pm shift. I experienced a terrible sort of jealousy towards all those who were just about to crawl sleepily into bed. Dreading what cases might come in to the emergency department overnight, often having slept fitfully during the day, I wanted desperately to flop into bed, too. I remember driving to the hospital feeling so alone, with a knot in the centre of my belly.
Other times I lay awake the night before an exam, or after a big spat with a boyfriend. Once I was awake most of the night after having a root canal done the day before. Yet I realise I have nothing to complain about, because these are all fairly isolated incidents, like tonight...or should I say today?! Some people struggle terribly with insomnia. Even the simple process of getting older causes a change in sleep patterns such that people in their 60's or 70's begin to sleep in 2 or 3 blocks of slumber, with periods in between where they are wide awake.
A friend of mine who has fought depression and come through it says the worst thing about her illness was the insomnia. I remember her despair at not being able to get to sleep, and she described her terror each time she woke after only a couple of hours' sleep. She was desperately trying to function on a few snatched hours here and there, and the tiredness and loneliness from being awake all through the night just floored her.
It's good to put one night of poor sleep into perspective. And now that the birds are beginning to chirp, and the panadol is starting to kick in, I may just head back to bed. If there are any peas under the mattress, I'll eat them.
Good night, good morning or good day, depending. I wish you a good night's sleep tonight, wherever you are!
And then I had children. Since that fateful day, I have found that nothing much deters me from sleep. I become dimly aware of Fatty snoring at 100 decibels, and I turn over and fall back to sleep. I slumber peacefully through storms. Just like 'normal people', I now may drift off whilst sitting upright, watching a movie. My children wear me out, and now I can sleep.
Except that it is 4am right now (or it was when I gave up on sleep after an hour of tossing and turning) and here I am sitting at the kitchen table. I have a wry neck. Not such a big deal. But I am remembering what it is like to be awake through the night, and how isolating it is, and how I used to not like it!
When I worked nights, I hated the feeling of driving in to work to start a 10pm shift. I experienced a terrible sort of jealousy towards all those who were just about to crawl sleepily into bed. Dreading what cases might come in to the emergency department overnight, often having slept fitfully during the day, I wanted desperately to flop into bed, too. I remember driving to the hospital feeling so alone, with a knot in the centre of my belly.
Other times I lay awake the night before an exam, or after a big spat with a boyfriend. Once I was awake most of the night after having a root canal done the day before. Yet I realise I have nothing to complain about, because these are all fairly isolated incidents, like tonight...or should I say today?! Some people struggle terribly with insomnia. Even the simple process of getting older causes a change in sleep patterns such that people in their 60's or 70's begin to sleep in 2 or 3 blocks of slumber, with periods in between where they are wide awake.
A friend of mine who has fought depression and come through it says the worst thing about her illness was the insomnia. I remember her despair at not being able to get to sleep, and she described her terror each time she woke after only a couple of hours' sleep. She was desperately trying to function on a few snatched hours here and there, and the tiredness and loneliness from being awake all through the night just floored her.
It's good to put one night of poor sleep into perspective. And now that the birds are beginning to chirp, and the panadol is starting to kick in, I may just head back to bed. If there are any peas under the mattress, I'll eat them.
Good night, good morning or good day, depending. I wish you a good night's sleep tonight, wherever you are!
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
dancing around an elephant
One of my patients is dying. Perhaps I should clarify that - given that we all are, in essence, heading for that final curtain. One of my patients is dying, and will die soon.
I still find it disturbing and unsettling, no matter how many times I attend someone in their last months, weeks and days. Dying is such an unknown, and so brutally complete. There can be no encores - at least not in this world. I wonder how the person feels, and if they are afraid. I wonder if they wish they were well enough for just one more stroll along the sand, just one more lazy afternoon devouring a thick novel, just one more animated, wine-fuelled, late-night debate with family or friends.
I'm not sure whether it is coincidental, but my last two terminally-ill patients have seemed, to me, quite withdrawn and distant. Almost emotionless. I asked each lady how they were feeling, mood-wise. Each replied calmly that they had 'come to terms' with their situation. Yet, to me, it felt like more than 'coming to terms' - to me it seemed more like a slow 'checking out'. We discussed their wishes for their last days of life as if we were discussing a grocery list.
It was in this strange atmosphere of disconnected emotions that I visited 'Mrs E' yesterday. She lives alone in a small retirement village unit. She was sitting patiently and uncomfortably on a seat near the front door. Her arms & legs have wasted even more since I saw her last week. Her eyes and skin are turning a delicate lemon yellow. And when I felt her abdomen.... suffice it to say the distortion of her internal organs filled me with horror at the time, and brings tears to my eyes to recall it now.
We sat and talked about her discomforts, and made plans to relieve her symptoms as best we could. Arrangements for assistance in home and personal care were confirmed. I lightly stroked her swollen feet as we discussed the fluid retention - not because it would help, but because I wondered if anyone ever touches her poor puffy feet. Mrs E earnestly discussed a new medication, and mentioned troubles with her phone. And the enormous elephant, the subject of Mrs E's impending death, stood in the centre of the room. We both leaned to look around the elephant and continued to discuss nursing visits.
I know there is a cycle of life and death. I know that Mrs E is an elderly lady, and that this is the inevitable conclusion to her life. I know that she is wiser than I am, and I do believe she is accepting of the fact that she will not live to see winter. And yet her bony arms make me want to weep.
I still find it disturbing and unsettling, no matter how many times I attend someone in their last months, weeks and days. Dying is such an unknown, and so brutally complete. There can be no encores - at least not in this world. I wonder how the person feels, and if they are afraid. I wonder if they wish they were well enough for just one more stroll along the sand, just one more lazy afternoon devouring a thick novel, just one more animated, wine-fuelled, late-night debate with family or friends.
I'm not sure whether it is coincidental, but my last two terminally-ill patients have seemed, to me, quite withdrawn and distant. Almost emotionless. I asked each lady how they were feeling, mood-wise. Each replied calmly that they had 'come to terms' with their situation. Yet, to me, it felt like more than 'coming to terms' - to me it seemed more like a slow 'checking out'. We discussed their wishes for their last days of life as if we were discussing a grocery list.
It was in this strange atmosphere of disconnected emotions that I visited 'Mrs E' yesterday. She lives alone in a small retirement village unit. She was sitting patiently and uncomfortably on a seat near the front door. Her arms & legs have wasted even more since I saw her last week. Her eyes and skin are turning a delicate lemon yellow. And when I felt her abdomen.... suffice it to say the distortion of her internal organs filled me with horror at the time, and brings tears to my eyes to recall it now.
We sat and talked about her discomforts, and made plans to relieve her symptoms as best we could. Arrangements for assistance in home and personal care were confirmed. I lightly stroked her swollen feet as we discussed the fluid retention - not because it would help, but because I wondered if anyone ever touches her poor puffy feet. Mrs E earnestly discussed a new medication, and mentioned troubles with her phone. And the enormous elephant, the subject of Mrs E's impending death, stood in the centre of the room. We both leaned to look around the elephant and continued to discuss nursing visits.
I know there is a cycle of life and death. I know that Mrs E is an elderly lady, and that this is the inevitable conclusion to her life. I know that she is wiser than I am, and I do believe she is accepting of the fact that she will not live to see winter. And yet her bony arms make me want to weep.
Monday, January 07, 2008
old flames, and love in the kitchen
I've been away. Quite possibly this fact has gone unnoticed by all, but nevertheless - I've been away!
While away I spoke on the phone to my friend C. W. Woo. He had news of a fellow I dated for a few years. This Fellow I Dated (who from now on shall be referred to as 'FID') and I were only young at the time, but we were quite serious for awhile there. FID and I were youthfully, naively certain we were in love. In truth I think we were mostly in love with the concept of having a steady girlfriend/boyfriend. In any case, that was a long time ago (17 years, to be precise). We grew apart, we broke up, and although I have some fond memories, I also have plenty of memories to remind me how unsuited FID and I were to each other.
FID is now a politician. He is a member of parliament in another state. He is, in fact, a Minister for Rhubarb and Codswallop (can't get too specific here, for fear he, or someone he knows, discovers this blog!). He is married, with children. I have spoken to him a handful of times since we split up - always on friendly terms, but never with much sense of connection. We have taken different pathways in life; we have differing priorities.
Not so long ago, FID telephoned me at work, wanting to meet for coffee. He was in my city for an important meeting. He sounded lonely and wistful. He wanted to meet that day, despite the fact that I was at work. He seemed strangely unable to grasp the fact that I couldn't simply drop everything and come to see him. "Don't you have have any spare appointment times?", he queried persistently. "I'm meeting Neil & Ruth for dinner, then I have to fly home tomorrow".
I politely explained that I was fully booked, and had appointments scheduled all day. I suggested that maybe next time he was going to be in town, he could let me know in advance!
"Oh, right", he sighed. He seemed to grasp about listlessly for conversation. "So, you're working as a GP then?".
"Yes. I work two days a week", I explained. "It's good. I really enjoy it".
"So...... are you going to specialise?", FID asked.
I felt a rising irritation. Why do so many people assume that GPs are failed specialists? It's insulting, especially to those of us who thought long and hard before choosing general practice as our life's vocation, and to those of us who have done the post-graduate degree in general practice.
I took a deep breath. "No, " I replied patiently. "I like working as a GP. I don't want to look at eyes all day, or hearts, or skin. I like seeing whole families; I like trying to figure out what is wrong with patients of all ages, from all walks of life." Inwardly, I wondered if the question he'd asked was entirely innocent. After all, I have been working as a GP for more than ten years. If I was planning on specialising, surely I would have done so by now. Perhaps FID felt I should have done something more spectacular with my life, like, say, become a renowned brain surgeon, or maybe a Nobel-prize-winning physicist, or ...... a Minister for Something Important?
"Oh, right", FID murmured, disinterested. We talked a few more minutes, and then I had to excuse myself to call my next patient.
That night I told my husband Fatty of the conversation. We marvelled at the social ineptitude of this 'politician', this 'man of the people'. Because although I believe FID to be a good man, with honourable intentions and strong principles, I don't think he is man who truly likes people in a general sense. I think he likes some select people, but I don't get a sense of him caring about we Australians, all us 'great unwashed'. It seems he respects high achievers more than people in general. And if his words to me that day were any indication, he doesn't always stop to consider how his comments may affect others.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I'm not really annoyed with FID anymore. The more I think about it the more I feel a bit sorry for him. Our mutual friend tells me FID has no friends to speak of. He hinted that all was not well in FID's marriage. And all FID talks about is his next step up the political ladder.
Once FID told me that the worst thing about being a polititian was having to listen to his constituents talk, whilst pretending to be interested in them. If only he knew how that remark made me cringe. I pictured all those men and women, earnestly expressing their hopes and fears, with FID nodding seriously, as he inwardly wondered whether to have a pie or a smoked salmon bagel for lunch.
My husband doesn't address auditoriums full of people, he doesn't wear snazzy suits, he barely manages to get a haircut 4 times a year. He does not grace the pages of the newspaper and he's uncomfortable at parties. Yet he's kind and respectful to all, and never hints that I am anything less than what he's always dreamed of. He is the kind of man I imagined loving. And, here he is, right now, in our kitchen, loading the dishwasher. I need to go kiss him this minute.....
While away I spoke on the phone to my friend C. W. Woo. He had news of a fellow I dated for a few years. This Fellow I Dated (who from now on shall be referred to as 'FID') and I were only young at the time, but we were quite serious for awhile there. FID and I were youthfully, naively certain we were in love. In truth I think we were mostly in love with the concept of having a steady girlfriend/boyfriend. In any case, that was a long time ago (17 years, to be precise). We grew apart, we broke up, and although I have some fond memories, I also have plenty of memories to remind me how unsuited FID and I were to each other.
FID is now a politician. He is a member of parliament in another state. He is, in fact, a Minister for Rhubarb and Codswallop (can't get too specific here, for fear he, or someone he knows, discovers this blog!). He is married, with children. I have spoken to him a handful of times since we split up - always on friendly terms, but never with much sense of connection. We have taken different pathways in life; we have differing priorities.
Not so long ago, FID telephoned me at work, wanting to meet for coffee. He was in my city for an important meeting. He sounded lonely and wistful. He wanted to meet that day, despite the fact that I was at work. He seemed strangely unable to grasp the fact that I couldn't simply drop everything and come to see him. "Don't you have have any spare appointment times?", he queried persistently. "I'm meeting Neil & Ruth for dinner, then I have to fly home tomorrow".
I politely explained that I was fully booked, and had appointments scheduled all day. I suggested that maybe next time he was going to be in town, he could let me know in advance!
"Oh, right", he sighed. He seemed to grasp about listlessly for conversation. "So, you're working as a GP then?".
"Yes. I work two days a week", I explained. "It's good. I really enjoy it".
"So...... are you going to specialise?", FID asked.
I felt a rising irritation. Why do so many people assume that GPs are failed specialists? It's insulting, especially to those of us who thought long and hard before choosing general practice as our life's vocation, and to those of us who have done the post-graduate degree in general practice.
I took a deep breath. "No, " I replied patiently. "I like working as a GP. I don't want to look at eyes all day, or hearts, or skin. I like seeing whole families; I like trying to figure out what is wrong with patients of all ages, from all walks of life." Inwardly, I wondered if the question he'd asked was entirely innocent. After all, I have been working as a GP for more than ten years. If I was planning on specialising, surely I would have done so by now. Perhaps FID felt I should have done something more spectacular with my life, like, say, become a renowned brain surgeon, or maybe a Nobel-prize-winning physicist, or ...... a Minister for Something Important?
"Oh, right", FID murmured, disinterested. We talked a few more minutes, and then I had to excuse myself to call my next patient.
That night I told my husband Fatty of the conversation. We marvelled at the social ineptitude of this 'politician', this 'man of the people'. Because although I believe FID to be a good man, with honourable intentions and strong principles, I don't think he is man who truly likes people in a general sense. I think he likes some select people, but I don't get a sense of him caring about we Australians, all us 'great unwashed'. It seems he respects high achievers more than people in general. And if his words to me that day were any indication, he doesn't always stop to consider how his comments may affect others.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I'm not really annoyed with FID anymore. The more I think about it the more I feel a bit sorry for him. Our mutual friend tells me FID has no friends to speak of. He hinted that all was not well in FID's marriage. And all FID talks about is his next step up the political ladder.
Once FID told me that the worst thing about being a polititian was having to listen to his constituents talk, whilst pretending to be interested in them. If only he knew how that remark made me cringe. I pictured all those men and women, earnestly expressing their hopes and fears, with FID nodding seriously, as he inwardly wondered whether to have a pie or a smoked salmon bagel for lunch.
My husband doesn't address auditoriums full of people, he doesn't wear snazzy suits, he barely manages to get a haircut 4 times a year. He does not grace the pages of the newspaper and he's uncomfortable at parties. Yet he's kind and respectful to all, and never hints that I am anything less than what he's always dreamed of. He is the kind of man I imagined loving. And, here he is, right now, in our kitchen, loading the dishwasher. I need to go kiss him this minute.....
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Boxing Day bumbling 'bout
Christmas Day has come and gone, and in its wake left wrapping paper, half-naked Barbies, scattered Lego, wilting salads, and tired but happy children.
Boxing Day we spent with family up at Mum's farm, reading multiple sets of instructions. There were instructions for tamagotchis (given to the kids by my sister), and instructions for a game called Hyperdash (given by my mother). We puzzled over how to set up a magician's kit, a science project set and a remote-controlled car. We sat around talking silly talk, eating lychees and rumballs, and then went walking, looking for koalas (from left to right - my sister, Benjamin, me holding hand of unseen niece, and Laura).
This big sleepy-looking guy was more than happy to pose for photos.
This year, I wanted to get through the celebrations without getting frustrated with any relatives. Christmas doesn't feel very loving when you're mentally berating a loved one in your mind! I prepared myself beforehand, reminding myself that we are all different people, with different ways of thinking and living - none of them 'right' or 'wrong'. And miracle of miracles, I enjoyed myself, and enjoyed being with everyone else, and I don't think I drove anyone else nuts either (that I noticed!). Of course, there was the moment when my husband and brother got a bit tetchy with each other, but that's not anything to do with me!
Even if Aunt Sal made a snarky comment about your weight, or the fruitcake you'd slaved over turned out dry; even if you got a little snippy with your mother or yelled at your kids; even if there was sadness or sickness to face - I hope you all had some truly happy moments over Christmas.
Seasons Greetings my friends.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
yuletide blues and gratitude
"I sort of feel disconnected from everyone", Belly said softly. "Everyone's just so busy - I don't get time to talk to anyone."
Another friend wrote a blog post about feeling lonely in her own home, surrounded by kids and husband, despite the rapidly approaching festive season. 'It shouldn't be like this', she seemed to be saying.
I'm also feeling a little pensive. Belly was right - we get so busy attending Christmas functions (during which we buzz here and there, talk to this person and that, but rarely touch on anything more than the superficial) that we get stressed and harangued and lose the closeness to loved ones that we all so desire. We find ourselves sitting on the back deck with our beagles (or labradors, or Great Danes, or whatever!)
I always tell my patients that Christmas is never a good time to stop their anti-depressants. It's just too much. Too much family bickering, too many parties to attend and meals to cook, too much brandy eggnog, too many gifts to buy in crowded shopping malls, too many hours spent together in close proximity. We all adore the idea of Christmas .... it just doesn't always live up to expectations.
So if we aforementioned women - all women who have families who love us, challenging professions, plenty of food, safe homes, decent clothing, and good health - if we privileged and fortunate women feel inexplicably bereft with the approach of Christmas, then how do less fortunate women or men feel? How does it feel when your child asks for a remote-controlled jeep and you know the budget will only stretch to a supermarket Matchbox car? How does it feel to know the only Christmas dinner you'll be eating is baked beans on toast? How does it feel to know that your alcoholism/drug habit/mental illness has driven away everyone you ever loved, including your own family?
I don't know how it feels. I can only try to comprehend. I can try to comprehend, and then I can shake myself a little and put a minor mood swing into perspective. Because even if Christmas can become hurried and hassled, the goodness and giving is in there somewhere to be found. I'm going to sit and write some heartfelt Christmas cards tonight. I'm going to squeezehug my husband when he gets home from playing squash. And next week, Belly and I have a date for coffee, dessert and girl talk. Christmas is going to be flawed yet fabulous this year!
To all of you who take the time to read and to comment here - to leave witty, inspiring, empathetic or just plain silly comments on my blog .... thank you. Your support and friendship to me is one of the most truly Christmas-y things there is! And if any of you have been struck with a touch of the Yuletide Blues - fear not; you are not alone. I propose we all drink some spiced cider, hold hands in a circle (swaying a little from the cider), and sing "Auld Lang Syne" kind of off-key but spiritedly.
You are some of the most funny, interesting and kind people I have met. I am grateful to 'know' you.
Another friend wrote a blog post about feeling lonely in her own home, surrounded by kids and husband, despite the rapidly approaching festive season. 'It shouldn't be like this', she seemed to be saying.
I'm also feeling a little pensive. Belly was right - we get so busy attending Christmas functions (during which we buzz here and there, talk to this person and that, but rarely touch on anything more than the superficial) that we get stressed and harangued and lose the closeness to loved ones that we all so desire. We find ourselves sitting on the back deck with our beagles (or labradors, or Great Danes, or whatever!)
I always tell my patients that Christmas is never a good time to stop their anti-depressants. It's just too much. Too much family bickering, too many parties to attend and meals to cook, too much brandy eggnog, too many gifts to buy in crowded shopping malls, too many hours spent together in close proximity. We all adore the idea of Christmas .... it just doesn't always live up to expectations.
So if we aforementioned women - all women who have families who love us, challenging professions, plenty of food, safe homes, decent clothing, and good health - if we privileged and fortunate women feel inexplicably bereft with the approach of Christmas, then how do less fortunate women or men feel? How does it feel when your child asks for a remote-controlled jeep and you know the budget will only stretch to a supermarket Matchbox car? How does it feel to know the only Christmas dinner you'll be eating is baked beans on toast? How does it feel to know that your alcoholism/drug habit/mental illness has driven away everyone you ever loved, including your own family?
I don't know how it feels. I can only try to comprehend. I can try to comprehend, and then I can shake myself a little and put a minor mood swing into perspective. Because even if Christmas can become hurried and hassled, the goodness and giving is in there somewhere to be found. I'm going to sit and write some heartfelt Christmas cards tonight. I'm going to squeezehug my husband when he gets home from playing squash. And next week, Belly and I have a date for coffee, dessert and girl talk. Christmas is going to be flawed yet fabulous this year!
To all of you who take the time to read and to comment here - to leave witty, inspiring, empathetic or just plain silly comments on my blog .... thank you. Your support and friendship to me is one of the most truly Christmas-y things there is! And if any of you have been struck with a touch of the Yuletide Blues - fear not; you are not alone. I propose we all drink some spiced cider, hold hands in a circle (swaying a little from the cider), and sing "Auld Lang Syne" kind of off-key but spiritedly.
You are some of the most funny, interesting and kind people I have met. I am grateful to 'know' you.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
good dog
Now that she's middle-aged, bordering on elderly, my beagle is sweeter to me and nastier to others. She reminds me of those eccentric older women, who get softer and more generous with their children and grandchildren, but increasingly cantankerous and demanding with the rest of the world.
Rather like a human, Millie was all for cuddles and snuggling as an wee thing. She would lie on my lap for hours; she would follow me around. She loved pats from anyone, and would wag her skinny little tail in delight. But soon enough she became irritated by affection. She would wiggle away from pats and hugs - off to follow a likely scent. I would find her and come sit with her, only to have her spring up and run away. I jokingly described my dog as a cat to anyone who would listen (and apologies here to all cat-lovers, because I know that many cats are in fact affectionate!)
As time has passed, though, Millie has become both more loving and more snarly. She would let me rub her tummy until well into the next century. She would taste a small morsel of anyone who stuck their hopeful patting hand through our front fence.
I sat, just now, at the top of our back steps. Millie sat beside me, and leant into my side. I patted her tan fur, and scratched just behind her ears. Millie lifted her muzzle and turned towards my fingernails. I rested my chin lightly on her soft small head; "Good girl Millie", I crooned. I sat by my beagle dog in the dense and balmy evening air until mosquitoes began to bite me.
I reluctantly came inside. I sat down to write about the comfort of a warm dog, leaning.
Rather like a human, Millie was all for cuddles and snuggling as an wee thing. She would lie on my lap for hours; she would follow me around. She loved pats from anyone, and would wag her skinny little tail in delight. But soon enough she became irritated by affection. She would wiggle away from pats and hugs - off to follow a likely scent. I would find her and come sit with her, only to have her spring up and run away. I jokingly described my dog as a cat to anyone who would listen (and apologies here to all cat-lovers, because I know that many cats are in fact affectionate!)
As time has passed, though, Millie has become both more loving and more snarly. She would let me rub her tummy until well into the next century. She would taste a small morsel of anyone who stuck their hopeful patting hand through our front fence.
I sat, just now, at the top of our back steps. Millie sat beside me, and leant into my side. I patted her tan fur, and scratched just behind her ears. Millie lifted her muzzle and turned towards my fingernails. I rested my chin lightly on her soft small head; "Good girl Millie", I crooned. I sat by my beagle dog in the dense and balmy evening air until mosquitoes began to bite me.
I reluctantly came inside. I sat down to write about the comfort of a warm dog, leaning.
Friday, December 07, 2007
tinned sardines
Sometimes I forget how odd we humans can be. I fail to see the strangeness of a situation, because it has become so familiar.
Last night I was washing my face in the bathroom when I heard beside me a low, restrained cough. It wasn't an intruder. It was our neighbour Keith, whose master bedroom is a mere four metres from our bathroom.
All at once, I felt the sheer ridiculousness of urban living wash over me. I felt almost sheepish, thinking about my home. It struck me as fantastically bizarre that, with all the space on Earth, I have chosen to live in a wooden box, next to hundreds of other wooden boxes, in the middle of a veritable ocean of wooden and brick boxes. I live so close to the nearest house that I can hear my neighbour cough quietly in his bed. It's ludicrous.
I understand why, from a practical point of view, we humans have tended to congregate together. Now that we no longer till the soil and raise livestock to be self-sustaining, most of us need to live near other humans for employment. And with people grouped together comes the infrastructure we have come to rely on, such as roads, power and water. In cities and towns we find schools, law enforcement, welfare agencies, hospitals and many other important services. I also know that to own more than a standard block of land in the city costs a great deal - both in purchase price, and in annual rates. The larger city blocks have steadily been subdivided, until we are all living on tiny pieces of land, our houses teetering precariously close to each other. We live our lives scrunched closely together, witnessing each others' lives whether we like it or not.
I actually don't mind living near other people. I find people generally quite interesting, and I like our neighbours. I love living four streets away from my dear friend Belly. It's good to be close to shops and schools. And when I want some open space, I can retreat to Mum's sweeping acres of countryside.
I still find it strange to consider the closeness of city dwelling. Last night I could have piped up and offered Keith a cough lozenge.
I reckon I could have even chucked it in through his window.
*****************************************************************
N.B. - I suspect 'chucked' may be an Australian slang word, so for those non-Aussies - 'chucked' as we use it here means thrown or threw. For example:
"I got chucked out of class"
OR
"I am going to chuck it all in and run off with my gym instructor"
OR
"She got drunk and chucked up in the taxi"
OR (my personal favourite)
"If someone doesn't help me with this soon, I'm going to chuck a wobbly!!" (translation here - throw a tantrum)
As you can see, 'chuck' is a versatile and descriptive word. Try to use it at least once today!
Jelly
Last night I was washing my face in the bathroom when I heard beside me a low, restrained cough. It wasn't an intruder. It was our neighbour Keith, whose master bedroom is a mere four metres from our bathroom.
All at once, I felt the sheer ridiculousness of urban living wash over me. I felt almost sheepish, thinking about my home. It struck me as fantastically bizarre that, with all the space on Earth, I have chosen to live in a wooden box, next to hundreds of other wooden boxes, in the middle of a veritable ocean of wooden and brick boxes. I live so close to the nearest house that I can hear my neighbour cough quietly in his bed. It's ludicrous.
I understand why, from a practical point of view, we humans have tended to congregate together. Now that we no longer till the soil and raise livestock to be self-sustaining, most of us need to live near other humans for employment. And with people grouped together comes the infrastructure we have come to rely on, such as roads, power and water. In cities and towns we find schools, law enforcement, welfare agencies, hospitals and many other important services. I also know that to own more than a standard block of land in the city costs a great deal - both in purchase price, and in annual rates. The larger city blocks have steadily been subdivided, until we are all living on tiny pieces of land, our houses teetering precariously close to each other. We live our lives scrunched closely together, witnessing each others' lives whether we like it or not.
I actually don't mind living near other people. I find people generally quite interesting, and I like our neighbours. I love living four streets away from my dear friend Belly. It's good to be close to shops and schools. And when I want some open space, I can retreat to Mum's sweeping acres of countryside.
I still find it strange to consider the closeness of city dwelling. Last night I could have piped up and offered Keith a cough lozenge.
I reckon I could have even chucked it in through his window.
*****************************************************************
N.B. - I suspect 'chucked' may be an Australian slang word, so for those non-Aussies - 'chucked' as we use it here means thrown or threw. For example:
"I got chucked out of class"
OR
"I am going to chuck it all in and run off with my gym instructor"
OR
"She got drunk and chucked up in the taxi"
OR (my personal favourite)
"If someone doesn't help me with this soon, I'm going to chuck a wobbly!!" (translation here - throw a tantrum)
As you can see, 'chuck' is a versatile and descriptive word. Try to use it at least once today!
Jelly
Sunday, December 02, 2007
seven years ago
When they laid her on my chest, all bloodied and limp, I felt concerned and protective. I prodded her gently, and said, "C'mon .... breathe, baby, breathe." I waited anxiously to hear her cry, but once she did, and the nurse had taken her to be wrapped, I felt not profound love, but relief.
After relief came fatigue, and giddy excitement, and pride, all intermingled. But within a day or so, no more, came love.
There came a love so all-consuming that it left me sobbing at the end of each day, because never before had I known a love so blistering. I was blindsided by emotion. Suddenly I knew that my life would never be free from fear again, even if I pushed my fear to the deepest recesses of my mind. I had a daughter. I knew I must protect her for years to come; I knew I would love her as long as I lived.
That baby has grown into a brown-eyed, pony-tailed, soft-hearted girl. She is different to her mother - she is more confident, less impatient, kinder - but she thinks like me. I understand my daughter in a way that bonds me to her, far beyond any genetic connections. I love her not only because I am duty-bound to, but because I see in her something recognisable and warm and familiar. Just as I am drawn to my oldest, closest friends, so it is with my daughter.
It has been seven years since this girl baby came into my life. Still I am blindsided.
Happy Birthday Laura. You are a wonder and a delight.
After relief came fatigue, and giddy excitement, and pride, all intermingled. But within a day or so, no more, came love.
There came a love so all-consuming that it left me sobbing at the end of each day, because never before had I known a love so blistering. I was blindsided by emotion. Suddenly I knew that my life would never be free from fear again, even if I pushed my fear to the deepest recesses of my mind. I had a daughter. I knew I must protect her for years to come; I knew I would love her as long as I lived.
That baby has grown into a brown-eyed, pony-tailed, soft-hearted girl. She is different to her mother - she is more confident, less impatient, kinder - but she thinks like me. I understand my daughter in a way that bonds me to her, far beyond any genetic connections. I love her not only because I am duty-bound to, but because I see in her something recognisable and warm and familiar. Just as I am drawn to my oldest, closest friends, so it is with my daughter.
It has been seven years since this girl baby came into my life. Still I am blindsided.
Happy Birthday Laura. You are a wonder and a delight.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
thank goodness for rhubarby friends
I was around at Susan's blog the other day, and I loved the words of this poem she posted. The poem is all about being grateful for our many different types of friends. My favourite line was about being thankful .....
"For crotchety friends, sour as rhubarb and as indestructible"
I have a gal pal I have known since high school days, who is definitely one of the rhubarb friends. Not that she's nasty or always gloomy - just that she likes things the way she likes them, and she's not afraid to tell others precisely how.
If we plan to see a movie together, the options are quite limited. She only likes sweeping historical romances or quirky English comedies.
If we go out for the day, the schedule is entirely dictated by her stomach and its need for fuel every two hours.
She terrifies the younger nurses at work with her abrupt manner. KP once walked up to a nurse (who KP had heard had been scratched on the nose by a patient) and wordlessly began rubbing the more junior nurse's nose with an alco-wipe. The terrified younger nurse remained stock still, silently submitting to the nose-wiping, until another nurse came by and murmured, "Her elbow! Not her nose! The guy scratched her on the elbow!". KP told me this story with barely repressed glee - such was her delight in her ability to strike fear into the hearts of others.
When she orders a meal at a restaurant, she asks for so many ingredients to be removed that I'm sure the chef whips off his hat and stomps on it, out back. She has given me a list of foods she doesn't eat, for when we invite her family over. There are 19 or 20 items on the list.
My other friends think KP is fairly weird, and I know they wonder why I like her so much. Fatty calls her a 'crazy woman'. But I'll tell you why this woman is so dear to me.
She sends me cards for no reason.
She makes me snort laugh.
She cooks roasts and invites us all over (roast meat and certain veges are on the acceptable foods list!)
She asks me how I am, and actually wants to know.
She hates to kill anything, even spiders.
She bosses me into doing things I wouldn't have ever tried without her urging. (Not that learning to knit, wearing green or eating high tea are world-changing events, but they've been fun!)
She offers to give me a neck massage before I've given her one. She offers to mind my children. She brings lavish pavlovas when she visits. She lends me books she thinks I might like. She nurtures me like no other friend does, my sweet/sour rhubarby KP.
So charge your glasses please, for a toast - to all those pernickety, feisty, difficult yet spectacular friends......
and to KP!
"For crotchety friends, sour as rhubarb and as indestructible"
I have a gal pal I have known since high school days, who is definitely one of the rhubarb friends. Not that she's nasty or always gloomy - just that she likes things the way she likes them, and she's not afraid to tell others precisely how.
If we plan to see a movie together, the options are quite limited. She only likes sweeping historical romances or quirky English comedies.
If we go out for the day, the schedule is entirely dictated by her stomach and its need for fuel every two hours.
She terrifies the younger nurses at work with her abrupt manner. KP once walked up to a nurse (who KP had heard had been scratched on the nose by a patient) and wordlessly began rubbing the more junior nurse's nose with an alco-wipe. The terrified younger nurse remained stock still, silently submitting to the nose-wiping, until another nurse came by and murmured, "Her elbow! Not her nose! The guy scratched her on the elbow!". KP told me this story with barely repressed glee - such was her delight in her ability to strike fear into the hearts of others.
When she orders a meal at a restaurant, she asks for so many ingredients to be removed that I'm sure the chef whips off his hat and stomps on it, out back. She has given me a list of foods she doesn't eat, for when we invite her family over. There are 19 or 20 items on the list.
My other friends think KP is fairly weird, and I know they wonder why I like her so much. Fatty calls her a 'crazy woman'. But I'll tell you why this woman is so dear to me.
She sends me cards for no reason.
She makes me snort laugh.
She cooks roasts and invites us all over (roast meat and certain veges are on the acceptable foods list!)
She asks me how I am, and actually wants to know.
She hates to kill anything, even spiders.
She bosses me into doing things I wouldn't have ever tried without her urging. (Not that learning to knit, wearing green or eating high tea are world-changing events, but they've been fun!)
She offers to give me a neck massage before I've given her one. She offers to mind my children. She brings lavish pavlovas when she visits. She lends me books she thinks I might like. She nurtures me like no other friend does, my sweet/sour rhubarby KP.
So charge your glasses please, for a toast - to all those pernickety, feisty, difficult yet spectacular friends......
and to KP!
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
in my dreams last night....
I was a tobacco lawyer. My job was purely to defend cigarette manufacturers against lawsuits. I was striding through the city streets, not ever reaching a destination. I came across an old school pal of high integrity, and she frowned and avoided my gaze. I was accompanied by my fat beagle dog on a leash. The dog snarled savagely at anyone who came within a few metres.
I was surfing the net, and came across a comment on another blog left by the delightful fifi. She signed off with her last name, which was filiaria (it has a certain ring to it, right? Fiona Filiaria?). I was thrilled to discover fifi's full name, and decided to look her up in the phonebook when next I visited her city.
I was shopping, and came across an older couple who are both patients of mine in real life, in the car park. "Wait, Bessie!", I beseeched the lady. "I want to show you something beautiful I bought. I'll just go to my car and be right back." But instead of going to my car, I got distracted and went back into the shopping complex. Two hours later I emerged, to see the sweet older couple still sitting in their car, waiting. I bolted over, and breathlessly apologised, mortified and desperately sorry. Bessie calmly replied, "I am extremely angry with you. What you did was terrible." They drove off.
There were other dreams, too, but more jumbled and nonsensical and incomplete. I am a profuse dreamer, and can recall at least one dream from every night, often many more. Other people I know, like Fatty, say they rarely recall their dreams. What about you?
I was surfing the net, and came across a comment on another blog left by the delightful fifi. She signed off with her last name, which was filiaria (it has a certain ring to it, right? Fiona Filiaria?). I was thrilled to discover fifi's full name, and decided to look her up in the phonebook when next I visited her city.
I was shopping, and came across an older couple who are both patients of mine in real life, in the car park. "Wait, Bessie!", I beseeched the lady. "I want to show you something beautiful I bought. I'll just go to my car and be right back." But instead of going to my car, I got distracted and went back into the shopping complex. Two hours later I emerged, to see the sweet older couple still sitting in their car, waiting. I bolted over, and breathlessly apologised, mortified and desperately sorry. Bessie calmly replied, "I am extremely angry with you. What you did was terrible." They drove off.
There were other dreams, too, but more jumbled and nonsensical and incomplete. I am a profuse dreamer, and can recall at least one dream from every night, often many more. Other people I know, like Fatty, say they rarely recall their dreams. What about you?
Sunday, November 18, 2007
sinister
It's unusual for me to be frightened. Not because I'm especially brave, but more because I'm not one for taking risks. There'll be no bungee jumping, paragliding or skydiving for this little black duck.
Calculated risk I'm comfortable with. At least - calculated risk where the risk is predetermined by myself to be very low. I'll happily fight an opponent at karate (knowing I'm wearing a chest guard, mitts, mouth guard and shin guards), I'll loop the loop on a rollercoaster (knowing that death by rollercoaster is not a common event), hell, I'll even occasionally NOT FLOSS. I am woman, hear me meow. This afternoon, though, I was genuinely afraid.
I was at the movies with Fatty, my husband. As he juggled drink, chips and tickets, I wafted off across the foyer to use the bathroom before the film began. Trudging ahead of me was a young man with scruffy hair. His jeans were so long that they trailed along the ground, obscuring all view of his shoes. He turned to look at me as I fell in behind him, both of us heading down the hallway to the toilets.
We came level with the women's facilities, and the man turned to look at me again, this time more of a stare than a look. I ducked my head and headed into the women's, noting with a feeling of disquiet that there was no main door - only a corridor that hooked around. Just before I disappeared from view, I glanced down the hall again. The long-jeaned youth was standing just outside the men's room, his eyes accusatory and suspicious, pinning me with a glare of pure malice. It was evident to me at this moment that the guy was not well.
The women's toilets were empty. For some reason, despite my unease, I went ahead and entered a cubicle. I was listening all the while for the sound of footsteps, knowing that if this mentally-ill man tried to harm me, there would be no-one to hear me yell. I was across a carpeted foyer, along a hallway and around a corner from my husband. This knowledge did nothing to calm me.
I was out of the cubicle in record time, washed my hands nervously and sped back to Fatty. I told him the story as we walked to our movie. I explained how threatened I had felt. I had to force myself not to twist around when, in the almost deserted movie theatre, someone came and sat in the seat just behind me. Fatty replied airily, "Well, really, you could be killed in lots of places." Thank you, my sweet.
So all's well that ends well (as they say), and I was not stabbed to death by a psychopath. It's all good. I'm happy. I presume my family are happy to still have me around. It's bound to be a relief for the cinema cleaners, too. But if I should fail to post for more than a week, you'll know what's happened.
I'll be in a psychiatric ward on account of my persistent delusion that someone is trying to kill me in a public toilet.
Calculated risk I'm comfortable with. At least - calculated risk where the risk is predetermined by myself to be very low. I'll happily fight an opponent at karate (knowing I'm wearing a chest guard, mitts, mouth guard and shin guards), I'll loop the loop on a rollercoaster (knowing that death by rollercoaster is not a common event), hell, I'll even occasionally NOT FLOSS. I am woman, hear me meow. This afternoon, though, I was genuinely afraid.
I was at the movies with Fatty, my husband. As he juggled drink, chips and tickets, I wafted off across the foyer to use the bathroom before the film began. Trudging ahead of me was a young man with scruffy hair. His jeans were so long that they trailed along the ground, obscuring all view of his shoes. He turned to look at me as I fell in behind him, both of us heading down the hallway to the toilets.
We came level with the women's facilities, and the man turned to look at me again, this time more of a stare than a look. I ducked my head and headed into the women's, noting with a feeling of disquiet that there was no main door - only a corridor that hooked around. Just before I disappeared from view, I glanced down the hall again. The long-jeaned youth was standing just outside the men's room, his eyes accusatory and suspicious, pinning me with a glare of pure malice. It was evident to me at this moment that the guy was not well.
The women's toilets were empty. For some reason, despite my unease, I went ahead and entered a cubicle. I was listening all the while for the sound of footsteps, knowing that if this mentally-ill man tried to harm me, there would be no-one to hear me yell. I was across a carpeted foyer, along a hallway and around a corner from my husband. This knowledge did nothing to calm me.
I was out of the cubicle in record time, washed my hands nervously and sped back to Fatty. I told him the story as we walked to our movie. I explained how threatened I had felt. I had to force myself not to twist around when, in the almost deserted movie theatre, someone came and sat in the seat just behind me. Fatty replied airily, "Well, really, you could be killed in lots of places." Thank you, my sweet.
So all's well that ends well (as they say), and I was not stabbed to death by a psychopath. It's all good. I'm happy. I presume my family are happy to still have me around. It's bound to be a relief for the cinema cleaners, too. But if I should fail to post for more than a week, you'll know what's happened.
I'll be in a psychiatric ward on account of my persistent delusion that someone is trying to kill me in a public toilet.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
heart and soul
I know I wrote a morbid-sounding poem last week, but I haven't fallen into a pit of despair. It was a bad case of Mondayitis, with a bad little haiku to mark the occasion. (Thank you, though, for the supportive comments and bloglove you sent me! I took a great deal of comfort from them all)
Although I'm not sad, I have been feeling very emotional. I've been gazing at the tiny freckles on Laura's nose, with sheer adoration. I've been thinking of my younger brother and sister, and how I love them more than they may ever know. Benjamin's cheeky attempts to boss me around have made me grin, and tell him, "Good try!", while we both fall about laughing. Tears run down my face when I watch news items about tragedy and loss. Every emotion seems intensified just now, but it's not unpleasant. It's like my world is programmed for high definition.
In a music store today, I listened to the album recently released by the Choir of Hard Knocks - an Australian choir comprised of homeless and disadvantaged people. Many of the choir members struggle with addictions to alcohol and other drugs; many have mental health problems. I had seen programs about this choir in which I heard them sing, and have read articles about the group. Yet despite this, I found myself listening today, transfixed, with goosebumps rising all over my arms. The music wasn't technically perfect, but it was sung with such intensity. And when the soprano soloist's voice rang out, the notes were so true and clear and unadorned that my throat went tight with the beauty of it.
I know the world can be a nasty, scary, awful place. Things happen that are sickening, sad and soul-destroying. And yet ............ flawed though we may be, we as people also have the most incredible capacity to bring joy into each others' lives. It doesn't take much to make another person feel cared for, feel loved, feel noticed. A wave, a brief conversation, a smile of commiseration, or lending a hand for a moment - these small acts become amplified, like ripples on a pond, radiating outwards and spreading happiness to all those around.
The future can be brighter, because we all can be kinder to each other. We may show kindness towards our own family and friends (well, for the most part!), but what about the mother who no-one ever talks to at school pick-up, or the cashier who looks exhausted, or the elderly man who looks unsure of his bearings on the street? There are so many opportunities for us each to make a difference. I'm trying to remember this.
It seems to me that life can get so busy, it is easy to race along in the current, never stopping to consider where we are actually going, or even to notice about what we are doing, day by day. So I relish these days of high emotion. Because what could be worse than not feeling anymore? What could be worse than ceasing to weep at sadness, ceasing to hoot with laughter, and ceasing to tingle at every nerve-end at the sound of voices sung from heart and soul?
Although I'm not sad, I have been feeling very emotional. I've been gazing at the tiny freckles on Laura's nose, with sheer adoration. I've been thinking of my younger brother and sister, and how I love them more than they may ever know. Benjamin's cheeky attempts to boss me around have made me grin, and tell him, "Good try!", while we both fall about laughing. Tears run down my face when I watch news items about tragedy and loss. Every emotion seems intensified just now, but it's not unpleasant. It's like my world is programmed for high definition.
In a music store today, I listened to the album recently released by the Choir of Hard Knocks - an Australian choir comprised of homeless and disadvantaged people. Many of the choir members struggle with addictions to alcohol and other drugs; many have mental health problems. I had seen programs about this choir in which I heard them sing, and have read articles about the group. Yet despite this, I found myself listening today, transfixed, with goosebumps rising all over my arms. The music wasn't technically perfect, but it was sung with such intensity. And when the soprano soloist's voice rang out, the notes were so true and clear and unadorned that my throat went tight with the beauty of it.
I know the world can be a nasty, scary, awful place. Things happen that are sickening, sad and soul-destroying. And yet ............ flawed though we may be, we as people also have the most incredible capacity to bring joy into each others' lives. It doesn't take much to make another person feel cared for, feel loved, feel noticed. A wave, a brief conversation, a smile of commiseration, or lending a hand for a moment - these small acts become amplified, like ripples on a pond, radiating outwards and spreading happiness to all those around.
The future can be brighter, because we all can be kinder to each other. We may show kindness towards our own family and friends (well, for the most part!), but what about the mother who no-one ever talks to at school pick-up, or the cashier who looks exhausted, or the elderly man who looks unsure of his bearings on the street? There are so many opportunities for us each to make a difference. I'm trying to remember this.
It seems to me that life can get so busy, it is easy to race along in the current, never stopping to consider where we are actually going, or even to notice about what we are doing, day by day. So I relish these days of high emotion. Because what could be worse than not feeling anymore? What could be worse than ceasing to weep at sadness, ceasing to hoot with laughter, and ceasing to tingle at every nerve-end at the sound of voices sung from heart and soul?
Monday, November 05, 2007
Thoughts on a Monday Morning
Monday
Monday sidles in
Makes snide remarks and sniggers
Hopes to see me weep
Monday sidles in
Makes snide remarks and sniggers
Hopes to see me weep
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Giant Bug
Children take time to notice their surroundings, and mine are no exception. I can't count the number of amazing sights I've seen because my of my childrens' powers of observation.
Benjamin wandered out onto our back deck earlier this week, only to come shrieking back, exclaiming, "Mum, Mum! You have got to see this!". I lugged myself up and away from my coffee and paper, and was rewarded with the sight of this huge Titan stick insect.
As fast as you could say 'enormous bug', Fatty had a wildlife book out, and we identified the insect. Although the blurb says the insect is around 25cm, our Titan stick insect measured 36 cm when I held the ruler directly next to him. We grow 'em big on our back deck!
As the Titan stick insect is the biggest insect in Australia, and as OURS (well, OK, the one on our back deck) was sooooo long, I informed the kids this morning that we may well have been visited by the longest insect in our entire continent. "Really?", Laura enquired in hushed tones.
"Really", I replied, smiling - glad that it's a Saturday, glad that such a small thing can enthrall our whole family, and thankful above all for children - the most astonishing creatures of all.
Friday, October 26, 2007
in which I record my dumbass tendencies for posterity
I never claimed to be clever. My dear friend Mr Woo doesn't call me Jellyhead for nothin'. It's just that sometimes I go months without doing something majorly stupid, and I convince myself I'm just middle-of-the road silly.
I went to the shops today on an present-buying errand. Gift purchased, I left the shopping mall to go fetch my daughter from school. I headed for where I recalled having parked my car. No car.
After wandering that parking level for awhile, I decided to try the next level up. Feeling a lot like Jerry Seinfeld, except without any friends, I strode anxiously around the top car park. No car. I began to feel panicky. Time was ticking away, and even if I found the car immediately, I was going to be late to collect Laura. I tried phoning the mobile of another school mother, to see if she could help. No answer.
Now sweating in the heat, and with tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, I headed down to a lower level. Except, in my haste, I went down three levels, effectively skipping the actual car park where my abandoned car lay waiting. Half running, I scanned the basement car park as I jogged. No car. By now the tears were leaking out my eyes and running down my cheeks. I finally came to my senses and phoned my best friend, Belly, who lives not far from Laura's school. Belly promised to go meet my daughter, and to let her know that she wasn't forgotten - that she merely has a hare-brained mother.
With shaking voice and tear-stained face, I stopped an elegantly-dressed woman to ask her if she knew where there was a taxi rank. Kindly, and without further questioning, the lady explained how to find a cab. Running now through the shopping centre, I ignored the heads turning my way and prayed that none of these spectators were patients of mine. If any were, they probably wouldn't be for long. I wasn't a sight to inspire confidence - professional or otherwise.
It's a worry when your doctor can't find their own car, cries about it, and then runs erratically through a public place.
I found the cab rank. There were seven people waiting ahead of me. With quavery voice, I asked the elderly couple in front of me if they minded if I jumped ahead of them in the queue. The husband calmly suggested I take the same cab as they did - after all, they were going to the same suburb. I gave up on my queue-jumping plan, and stood meekly next to the very short old couple. I hoped fervently that Belly had managed to wrangle her two small children into the car, find the school gate, find a park, and meet my daughter before she became upset.
A taxi-driver leapt out of the next taxi, and spoke with the passengers ahead of me. The waiting crowd frowned, and the driver spoke with the old couple ahead of me. The small, round old man turned around. "He says he's not going to take passengers for any long distance trips," the old man informed me. "These others want the airport. You go with him".
With grateful thanks, I leapt into the cab, and we drove to Laura's school. My daughter stood chatting happily with Belly and Belly's daughters. I burst into fresh tears, before quickly controlling myself again. Laura looked puzzled. She tells me she's only ever seen me cry once before. She told me she'd been 'not one bit' worried when she'd had to wait back with the 'uncollected' children. "I knew you'd come, Mum", she soothed.
I thanked Belly for saving the day. Fatty came home and we drove to the car park. We found the car. We came back home at last. I apologised profusely. And Fatty neither laughed nor grumbled, but instead went and picked up pizza for dinner. The man's a keeper.
As you can tell, I'm feeling embarrassed and dopey. So if you have any stories you'd like to share involving lost cars, crying for no good reason or neglecting to care for your offspring properly...... this is the place to do it. Ready, steady, go!
I went to the shops today on an present-buying errand. Gift purchased, I left the shopping mall to go fetch my daughter from school. I headed for where I recalled having parked my car. No car.
After wandering that parking level for awhile, I decided to try the next level up. Feeling a lot like Jerry Seinfeld, except without any friends, I strode anxiously around the top car park. No car. I began to feel panicky. Time was ticking away, and even if I found the car immediately, I was going to be late to collect Laura. I tried phoning the mobile of another school mother, to see if she could help. No answer.
Now sweating in the heat, and with tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, I headed down to a lower level. Except, in my haste, I went down three levels, effectively skipping the actual car park where my abandoned car lay waiting. Half running, I scanned the basement car park as I jogged. No car. By now the tears were leaking out my eyes and running down my cheeks. I finally came to my senses and phoned my best friend, Belly, who lives not far from Laura's school. Belly promised to go meet my daughter, and to let her know that she wasn't forgotten - that she merely has a hare-brained mother.
With shaking voice and tear-stained face, I stopped an elegantly-dressed woman to ask her if she knew where there was a taxi rank. Kindly, and without further questioning, the lady explained how to find a cab. Running now through the shopping centre, I ignored the heads turning my way and prayed that none of these spectators were patients of mine. If any were, they probably wouldn't be for long. I wasn't a sight to inspire confidence - professional or otherwise.
It's a worry when your doctor can't find their own car, cries about it, and then runs erratically through a public place.
I found the cab rank. There were seven people waiting ahead of me. With quavery voice, I asked the elderly couple in front of me if they minded if I jumped ahead of them in the queue. The husband calmly suggested I take the same cab as they did - after all, they were going to the same suburb. I gave up on my queue-jumping plan, and stood meekly next to the very short old couple. I hoped fervently that Belly had managed to wrangle her two small children into the car, find the school gate, find a park, and meet my daughter before she became upset.
A taxi-driver leapt out of the next taxi, and spoke with the passengers ahead of me. The waiting crowd frowned, and the driver spoke with the old couple ahead of me. The small, round old man turned around. "He says he's not going to take passengers for any long distance trips," the old man informed me. "These others want the airport. You go with him".
With grateful thanks, I leapt into the cab, and we drove to Laura's school. My daughter stood chatting happily with Belly and Belly's daughters. I burst into fresh tears, before quickly controlling myself again. Laura looked puzzled. She tells me she's only ever seen me cry once before. She told me she'd been 'not one bit' worried when she'd had to wait back with the 'uncollected' children. "I knew you'd come, Mum", she soothed.
I thanked Belly for saving the day. Fatty came home and we drove to the car park. We found the car. We came back home at last. I apologised profusely. And Fatty neither laughed nor grumbled, but instead went and picked up pizza for dinner. The man's a keeper.
As you can tell, I'm feeling embarrassed and dopey. So if you have any stories you'd like to share involving lost cars, crying for no good reason or neglecting to care for your offspring properly...... this is the place to do it. Ready, steady, go!
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
longing
It seems to me that the wanting of something can become an entity all its own - that even when we no longer desire a certain object, a hoped-for-outcome, a special person - that the yearning itself lives and breathes still.
As a schoolgirl of fourteen, I had a silly crush on a dark-haired boy in my music class. He seemed to be universally liked, he was handsome, he was friendly yet somehow maintained a slight reserve. I was angular, pale and had a tendency to blush. I had plenty of friends, but wasn't wildly popular. I was desperate to be noticed, hoping fervently to be adored.
The boy was nice enough to me, but never showed any interest beyond friendship. I don't blame him in the least - I was so insecure, so hopelessly romantic, so doey. I think back to how I gazed at the boy adoringly, and it induces waves of nausea.
After a couple of years of being politely dismissed, I stopped the gazing. I still thought the boy was a decent guy, I still thought he was cute, but I didn't pine for him any more. I developed some self-esteem, and I realised there were other boys who actually did think I was attractive. I dated a couple of guys. The boy was just another school pal. One day I saw him on campus at my university. He had grown a beard, and I teasingly told him he looked like a terrorist. There was nothing left of my past hankerings for the boy.
And yet....... at least once a year, I dream about this boy. I dream that I am young and fresh-faced and a single girl. I dream that we are talking. Sometimes I dream that the boy says he wants to be with me; mostly I dream he tells me he feels nothing for me. I am overjoyed, or wretched with sadness. I wake from the dreams and shake my head in disbelief. I haven't seen this boy, now a man, in years. I rarely think of him in my waking hours. I am married to a man who I respect, admire and love passionately. It seems ridiculous that my mind would return to this 'boy' who is of so little consequence in my life. I can only surmise that my dreams of the boy recur because he represents my first experience with longing. The boy means nothing, but the yearning he invoked goes on and on.
In just over a week, I'll be attending my school reunion. The 'boy' will most likely be attending. I am somewhat ambivalent about the possibility of his presence. After all, I spent the final two years of high school being underwhelmed by him. But I cannot deny a degree of curiosity. I wonder what he'll act like, look like, be like.
Mostly I wonder if seeing this relic from my past will flush away these dreams of inadequacy and rejection, and the rarer dreams of mutual puppy love. It's a waste of brain space to dwell on this rubbish - even if it is during sleep!
Maybe the dreams will disappear like so many strands of old spiderweb. But maybe they won't. Maybe my secret heart will keep on longing aimlessly - like the long-ago girl who wished for love but believed herself unworthy of it.
As a schoolgirl of fourteen, I had a silly crush on a dark-haired boy in my music class. He seemed to be universally liked, he was handsome, he was friendly yet somehow maintained a slight reserve. I was angular, pale and had a tendency to blush. I had plenty of friends, but wasn't wildly popular. I was desperate to be noticed, hoping fervently to be adored.
The boy was nice enough to me, but never showed any interest beyond friendship. I don't blame him in the least - I was so insecure, so hopelessly romantic, so doey. I think back to how I gazed at the boy adoringly, and it induces waves of nausea.
After a couple of years of being politely dismissed, I stopped the gazing. I still thought the boy was a decent guy, I still thought he was cute, but I didn't pine for him any more. I developed some self-esteem, and I realised there were other boys who actually did think I was attractive. I dated a couple of guys. The boy was just another school pal. One day I saw him on campus at my university. He had grown a beard, and I teasingly told him he looked like a terrorist. There was nothing left of my past hankerings for the boy.
And yet....... at least once a year, I dream about this boy. I dream that I am young and fresh-faced and a single girl. I dream that we are talking. Sometimes I dream that the boy says he wants to be with me; mostly I dream he tells me he feels nothing for me. I am overjoyed, or wretched with sadness. I wake from the dreams and shake my head in disbelief. I haven't seen this boy, now a man, in years. I rarely think of him in my waking hours. I am married to a man who I respect, admire and love passionately. It seems ridiculous that my mind would return to this 'boy' who is of so little consequence in my life. I can only surmise that my dreams of the boy recur because he represents my first experience with longing. The boy means nothing, but the yearning he invoked goes on and on.
In just over a week, I'll be attending my school reunion. The 'boy' will most likely be attending. I am somewhat ambivalent about the possibility of his presence. After all, I spent the final two years of high school being underwhelmed by him. But I cannot deny a degree of curiosity. I wonder what he'll act like, look like, be like.
Mostly I wonder if seeing this relic from my past will flush away these dreams of inadequacy and rejection, and the rarer dreams of mutual puppy love. It's a waste of brain space to dwell on this rubbish - even if it is during sleep!
Maybe the dreams will disappear like so many strands of old spiderweb. But maybe they won't. Maybe my secret heart will keep on longing aimlessly - like the long-ago girl who wished for love but believed herself unworthy of it.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
flora and fauna
I'd never visited the South-West of Australia before, and I savoured the sights everywhere we went. Here are a few photos to entice would-be visitors, to bring back memories for previous visitors, and to allow others to live vicariously
This was a treetop walk in Walpole, where you can stroll along (or wheel yourself along - the walk is wheelchair friendly) 40 metres above the ground. Talk about having a bird's eye view!
This peacock boldly waltzed through the beachside cafe, unperturbed by the attention he received.
Flowers in the wildflower section of Kings Park, Perth.
A quokka, sitting pretty. These small hopping marsupials are found only in Western Australia, and mainly on Rottnest Island.
A red tingle tree, showing the staining patterns that make these trees so eye-catching.
Laura, feeding a Western Rosella with wild birdseed given to her by another tourist.
This was a treetop walk in Walpole, where you can stroll along (or wheel yourself along - the walk is wheelchair friendly) 40 metres above the ground. Talk about having a bird's eye view!
This peacock boldly waltzed through the beachside cafe, unperturbed by the attention he received.
Flowers in the wildflower section of Kings Park, Perth.
A quokka, sitting pretty. These small hopping marsupials are found only in Western Australia, and mainly on Rottnest Island.
A red tingle tree, showing the staining patterns that make these trees so eye-catching.
Laura, feeding a Western Rosella with wild birdseed given to her by another tourist.
Happy Weekend to all!
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