"take these broken wings and learn to fly"

This island has already taught me much about living. It also brings lessons in dying.

Last week a much loved islander died. Yesterday we celebrated the way he lived.

What I saw was a great big community heart. The fireshed overflowed - bursting at the seams - with people wanting to bring their love and respect for this man, and his beautiful wife. I stood on an upturned milk crate at one of the windows. Cobwebs clung to my hair as I tried to get my ears further inside the window. Even whilst on a milk crate I couldn't match the height of the friend beside me. When the kids weren't shouting and the dogs weren't fighting I could hear most of the tributes, and I could definitely hear the band, choir, and the beautiful lone singer singing The Beatles' 'Blackbird'.

The fireshed kitchen was full of homemade goodness: quiches, tarts, biscuits, cakes, slices, sandwiches, pastries, fruit salad, with the smell of the previous evening's curry still lingering.

We have a few weeks of winter left, and when the wind blew I shivered in my Sunday Island best. We stood in the cold, laughing under the gum trees, sharing stories - as usual. Then we sat at the fireshed bar, drinking tea and wine, eating cake and oranges, still laughing. The kids were handed juices and left with big smiles. Chooch tried his luck: "hey Mama, because it's a special day, can I have a coke?" No my darling. Nice try, but still No.

I love seeing islanders in their Sunday Island best. For me that meant brown boots, my favourite new green skirt with a hint of gold thread, black wool vest and a blue and green butterfly scarf. One old-island-timer wore what may have been her best green velour dress. There was also an electric blue, long velvet coat, worn with fish-net stockings and cowgirl boots. Seriously, life here is LIFE.

I left with two empty baking trays and a pot of left-over curry for our dinner.

Today, life goes on, with a blanket of cloud keeping the chill in, the sun occasionally shining through it. I'm down to our last log in the fire, hoping that our final tonne of firewood is delivered today as promised. I have readings to complete for "Geographies of Global Change". Later I'll bake muesli muffins and wait at the wharf for the ferry to bring my boys home from school.

"You were only waiting for this moment to arise"

Verbal schmerbal

So, here I am, sitting in an unlikely place (the productivity room of a gen Y digital company) in the land of a declining superpower. My body is not reacting favourably to being flung from the glory of that Sydney winter's weekend a few days ago, to the slap in the face of a Californian summer. Summer in Santa Monica is actually looking very pleasant. It's just not where my body thinks it should be, only 2 weeks after a winter festival. 

I miss my boys. I miss my island. I miss my dog. I miss my boys. Away from them is not where their mama should be. They are oblivious (I hope) to the turmoil going on in the heads of their mother and father. Yes, yes, I know kids pick up on these things... but I'm not with them, am I! I should be cautious of allowing too much turmoil though, just in case the Madonna's cloak reaches them from this far away.

There are many many cars here. I am in a state of despair as to the future of our environment when there are so many thousands of cars around me. And rubbish.... the rubbish! It's not blowing down the street like I've seen it in Africa.You can't see it necessarily but everything is prepackaged. Where does all that packaging go? The thought of it makes me feel ill.

Yesterday I found the "Self-Realisation Meditation Lake and Shrine". It was peaceful and quiet, until a limo pulled up at the gate and two rather in-appropriately dressed young skinny things climbed out. They distracted me and filled my nostrils with cigarette smoke. I truly don't know how the Zimbo does it. He's here for 3 weeks, on a work project. I know he aches for his children but he still manages to dive in to work and crack on. I've only been here away from them for 3 days but I feel like crying at every discomfort or unpleasant distraction. With each oddity in my day I think "I shouldn't be here. I should be at home, mothering my children".

I see no child-friendly neighbourhoods. I've seen no children playing in the street, or a dog off a lead looking happy. Certainly haven't heard any cluck clucks of chooks. Perhaps I've just got it too good at home. I already knew that. There's water, but it's not shimmering and glistening and whispering my name. This adventure is looking less enticing.

Time to smile

Life is a struggle for my child. Not in any physical sense of the word 'struggle'. He can run, skid, jump, swim. He reads well, he understands mathematical concepts. He even has fairly good intuition when it comes to observing people and certain situations. 

But he carries a cloud around with him, sitting somewhere near his heart. Sometimes he hides behind it. Sometimes he's engulfed by it. Sometimes I think maybe he even forgets it's there. Most of the time he just brings it with him, like a trusted blanket.

I'm not fond of the cloud. I never have been. I find it difficult to live with, at best. Other times I find it utterly annoying. Most of the time it's this irritation that gets up my nose and under my skin. Sometimes, on days like today, his cloud makes it difficult for me to find his light. And then I can't find mine either. The irritation becomes words leaving my mouth, trying to get a reaction from him. Not kind, loving mama words. My brain switches off, my heart sinks within the depths of me and only the stinging of his latest gripe is present. Each word that comes from me only thickens his cloud, makes it a bit darker, reminds him that he needs it - to carry it around, like a trusted blanket.

So, what lifts his cloud? 

Two things lift his cloud. Being around water certainly thins it. Cleansing, dynamic, powerful and gentle water. Lucky for him, he's learning to be Boat Boy. The only other thing that has lifted his cloud is homoeopathic medicine. Our family homoeopath, Peter Tumminello, has understood him from their first meeting, and his remedies have profoundly influenced me and the boy with the cloud, more than once. I kiss the ground Peter walks on, and feel deep gratitude for his commitment to his work.

I have 8 hours to soften my hard edges. Hmmmm, what shall I do with them? Let the tears escape down the hill to the water. Fill my cup up with some Xavier Rudd. Take a walk with my dog in the sunshine. Apply my mind to an online lecture or two, a bit of work on an assignment, some readings on Liberalism and Justice. Hang clothes to dry in the sun. Meditate. Chant. Bake.

Be brave mama, life is joyous.

Post Script: Life did not turn out to be quite so joyous today afterall. After our rocky start to the morning, I heard from a friend that a 2 year old boy had drowned in a back yard pool in Armidale NSW, next to my friend's parents' house. My friend's Dad had found the little boy and pulled him from the pool. He didn't survive the night.

The pool was in a backyard that wasn't fenced. Apparently neighbours had been fighting with the pool owners to fence the pool - which is the law in this country, well, in NSW at least. All backyard swimming pools must be fenced with child-proof gates. Who was enforcing that law in that particular backyard? Liberalism and Justice indeed.

My heart goes out to those parents who have lost their child. It wasn't their swimming pool. They live 2 houses away from the backyard in question. Community carelessness with the highest cost.

darkness awaits

In small cracks and crevices, darkness awaits.
Behind opague clouds, in the shadows of Autumn, darkness awaits.
O rest assured, I do revel in it. I know it sometimes will come and that is the way it should be.

On this chilly afternoon, darkness has arrived. I have received the sweet phone call delivering bitter news. I hear it and accept it peaceably, surrendering with dignity. It is as it should be.

And now I wallow in the moment of it. I dig out my favourite dark melodies...
The Smiths What difference does it make; and Stop me if you've heard this one before... that's a goodie.
The Cure Fascination Street. O that one is thorough and good. Really. It hits the nail on the head.
the Beastie Boys - that's a bit of naughty fun when the kids aren't listening,
Ani di Franco Untouchable face - so is that,
Sinead O'Connor You cause as much sorrow
U2 So Cruel.

Of course these dark tunes are not holding a message of truth. I don't feel animosity or resentment or any bitterness to the bearers of my disappointing news. I'm simply disappointed for myself. I allow myself to be. I was aiming high, but this time I didn't quite reach. I will in the future though.

So when I've had my time of wallowing moments, I will again fill up my cup. That's when the rejuvenating sounds will fill my home and infuse my soul with love and wellbeing, just in time for my boykaloiks to return home after a day of (hopefully) fun activity.

All is as it should be. All experiences shall be honoured for what they bring to us.

the pain of migraine

As if a wood-splitter has landed on the bridge of my nose, the pain steadily, and often sharply, oozes up through the centre of my skull.
Bicarb-soda and vinegar-like, the sensation of fizzy bubbles swirls up my sinuses and around the back of my eyes.
My eyes swell with watery tears, my nose runs, just a little bit.
My body shivers. My body desires warmth but the head, which I'd like to dis-own today, which already feels like hot, hard metal, wants to be cooled down.
My uterus sheds its lining.
I want to shed the dark, heavy cloak of this entire experience. Hang it on the shelf. Better still, burn it, so no one else will try it on.
The head tells me it must serve a purpose, but my soul does not receive it happily, this cloak.
Stop wearing it then. Take it off! the little voice inside me says. But I don't know how to, I reply.

I contribute to a million memories for my children. One of them will be of Mama writhing, wishing she could chop off her head.

Blessings on the ...

There really are so many people who contribute in thankless, priceless, meaningful ways to the world in which I live.

Today, though, I'm wanting to thank, with all of my heart, the staff of the Sydney Children's Hospital. All of them. Nurses, doctors, ambo's, café workers, cleaners, administrators... anyone of them who goes to their work each day and does their best so that children like my little Chooch receive the highest level of care.

Today Chooch and I made the trek, about an hour and a half (including boat trip) to Randwick for his final (YIPPEEE!) appointment with the Brain Injury Outpatients clinic after his fall a year ago.

Let me just add a little perspective here. When our little 4 year old pole-jumper fell 3-4 metres onto jetty steps below, he did receive a very nasty gash on the forehead, and a small bruise on the brain. A very small 1cm bruise. He has shown no signs or symptoms since then, whatsoever, so he hasn't needed any form of rehabilitation. But, just to be thorough, we needed to go for follow-up appointments, to keep all abreast of whether or not anything has developed.

I'm so grateful to say that he is a strong, fit, thriving boy. He jumps again (and again and again) from just about anything he can find. He rides bikes and scooters with great gusto. He swims and dives and wrestles. He moves so much that he often falls from his seat (just because he can't sit still). He sings at the top of his lungs when we pootle around on our boat together. He tells the most ridiculous stories. When I went to bed last night, he was leisurely reclining back on MY pillows, hands behind his head. He smiled at me and asked "Which side shall I lie on?". And next week our little Schamoocha starts school. And for that we are also very grateful (because he often drives us crazy at home).

Charlie grows where he can be wild and free. It was tricky to explain to the team of people interviewing us today (neurologist, psychologist, intern neuro, intern psycho) just what kind of beautiful childhood he lives amongst right now... where he is encouraged and celebrated just as he is, within both his school community and his island one.

May all the children we shared space with today, grow strongly, beautifully, and recover fully.

May all the staff of the Sydney Children's Hospital know what good and noble work they have signed up for, and that the likes of us, sincerely thank them... from the depths of our family heart.

January 2011
(whilst in hospital, this child drove me to serious nervous breakdown territory by pretending to bump his head against the wall while chuckling, "Whoops! Gave myself a brain injury!")

New Year's Day, January 2012
The only time he stops is to bask in the sun after a swim.
Bless you Chooch.

The third light of advent

We've had the coldest start to Sydney summer in 50 years. This allows for unusually cosy nights snuggled under the doona, and our little ones are insisting on still wearing winter pyjamas! We have been madly preparing the house to receive some old friends... one of the Zimbabwean's African brothers-from-another-mother (!) is arriving tomorrow, with his wife and 2 children. They currently live in Dublin, Ireland, but seem to be quite home sick for South Africa, so it would be sooooo nice for them to enjoy SUMMER! Not winter, this Christmas. Fingers crossed that the rain dripping down our windows and filling our watertanks kindly holds off a bit over the next 10 days.

The second Advent has come and gone, and tonight we've lit the 3rd Advent candle. Our nativity scene is growing, slowly, slowly. There is a lovely space waiting for the appearance of Mary and Joseph next weekend, when they will commence their trek to our stable.

Our basket for decorations is slowly being filled as the Christmas angels bring us their gifts for our Advent's calendar. Occassionally, those party-girl angels stay out too late and forget to come until the following morning, but they never forget completely. Noah knows that they are invisible so of course they are able to deliver their magic unseen, while we're having breakfast. Ahhhh, years of mischief is paying off.

The second light of Advent is the light of the plants
that reach up to the sun
and in the breeze dance.

The third light of Advent is the light of the beasts
the light of hope that we see
in the greatest and least.

We've added some gumnuts and a tree to our scene for the light of the plants. Our tokens for "beasts" include a felt bird, a knitted chicken, and some yellow feathers. Mental note: must make felted sheep and donkey for next year. More appropriate than chooks, I think.

Tonight I made a rather large error. For the last few days, Noah and Chooch have been turning a very large, sturdy box into a laboratory cubby-house. I, not realising that they had taken such ownership of the box, ripped the box up this evening, to be put out for cardboard recycling. Three quarters of the way through my arduous task, I discovered the crayon lab drawings on the inner walls of their cubby-house. O dear. O big fat dear dear dear me.

There was so much cardboard (did I mention that it was a LARGE box) that I had to walk up our muddy (dirt) road, in light drizzle whilst wearing a head torch, to look for other household's recycling crates to take my excessive load. And now I prepare for the morning of disappointment when my loved ones discover what I've done.

The only thing for me to do is to tell them as soon as possible, apologise profusely and ask for appropriate ways in which I could redeem myself. This is what I (usually rather loudly) demand of them when they damage something of mine. And I really am (unfortunately) Volcano personified, if I find something damaged and they have neglected to tell me that the damage has happened. Have I already said O Big Fat Bum Bum Bum?

Suck it up, Girl. Take it like a good Mama should. Another lesson to be grateful for.