Good morning blossoms

A signs of things to come... a reminder that nothing is permanent.

"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"

Are we there yet?

What was to be a 15 hour flight from LA to Sydney has turned into a 30 hour debacle with a capital D.

I found myself in Brisbane. I hadn't planned to be in Brisbane. Eight hours after I should have arrived home, I received a call from a mother, who lives nowhere near me, to say she had my son (my sun!). He'd missed his bus stop. But I was 1000km away in Brisbane. This tipped me over the edge and tears flowed down my cheeks (may I point out that I'd missed two nights sleep by now). 

I'm in awe at the protection that corporate attire offers its wearer. I observe over and over again the wearer of a corporate suit walking amidst chaos, collected and uneffected by the surrounding environment except for a slight huff and puff if their way is obstructed. They (those in suits) remind me of science-fiction non-humans in metallic bodies. They could so easily add a flurry of humanness - a coloured silk scarf, a peeking hankerchief perhaps. But that might create a weak spot in their armour. Then it wouldn't be so easy to ignore the man in the wheelchair, or the mother with the baby vomit on her shoulder, or the woman who's crying because her sun missed his bus stop while she was 1000km away in the wrong city. 

I snorted up my tears (having run out of tissues) and spent the second half of my flight (where the airline had made the mistake of plonking me in the 'business' section. Sorry for your inconvenience, fellow passengers who are so important you can't see sideways) looking for signs of humanity in the two suits on either side of me. There was a woman to my left and a man to my right. The woman was reading "Soul Hackers". She had a strong Australian accent when she spoke to her driver on her mobile phone. She said "it's all good" and smiled a couple of times as she read her text messages. I dare say she would be more comfortable in her suit if she hadn't polished off a can of lemonade and a block of lindt chocolate. But we all need our vices. Mine are Band of Horses in my ear phones, writing notes and silently chanting Om tryambakam yahamahe 28 times.

The man to my right... well, he was good. Obviously had years of practice at (corporate armour) suit wearing. He couldn't have been more focused if he'd been in a vacuum. He read the John Holland management report from cover to cover, ate his meal efficiently and neatly, and drank black tea. The only chink in his armour was the photo on his mobile phone of him smiling with a smiley woman. A ha! Human found.

Surrender to the Sydney fog. Inhale and surrender. 

Eventually, 14 hours later than scheduled, I arrived back at the point, my island calmly sitting just there across the water. A friend was spotted in the car park. He smiled warmly and gave me a lift home in his blue boat, under the stars, surrounded by dark lulling water and crisp winter sky, back home... where my boys and little dog and fire were all glowing with open hearts.

LAX

Could LAX be the most boring airport in the known world? Yes, I think it is, in my known world at least (and I recognise that this is such a first world problem). Luckily, I have a crochet hook, which should come in handy to crochet the hours away until my little ones are in my arms again.

Hmmm, what facilities should an international airport offer? A music store would be good. A yoga class, a meditation prayer room. How about a hairdresser? Massage, beauty treatment rooms, a library even! Come on LAX... this isn't ground breaking stuff. In the words of one of my neighbours: "I don't think I've had an original thought in my life!"

Ever wondered what's in someone else's cabin bag? Here's what's in mine:

• Afore mentioned crochet hook and 2 balls of wool;
• ipod shuffle (bringing Mumford &  Sons dramatically to the moment);
• iPhone with unheard podcasts: Richard Fidler's conversations with Costa Georgiadis and Dr Karl Kruszelnicki (God bless ABC local radio);
• note book for old-school handwriting;
• 2 blank birthday cards;
• Australian Journal of Medical Herbalism, vol 24, issue 2;
• a toothbrush;
• a pair of batman and a pair of superman converse boots, neither of which fit me;
• some reading matter from the "Worldwide Prayer circle".

With only 18 hours of airport and flying time I'd better get a wriggle on! How will I get through all of that?

One mother's guide to: Venice Beach, CA

I had fairly high hopes for Venice Beach. I do like a bit of street colour and I don't mind it being left of centre.

What I found was a grey promenade with aggressive street art, crocheted beach dresses, a real live freak show (the smallest woman in America, the hairiest boy, the turtle with 2 heads etc), some very leathery residents artists, an outdoor gym complete with muscle-man posing for photos - he made me laugh out loud. After the 17th sign threatening bruising and broken bones if I took pictures, there are no photos to back up my vague descriptions. 

My favourite stall sold old teapots, lovely decorative mobiles dangling silver cutlery from the teapots. I do wish I'd bought one of those for my island abode.

We lunched at Local 1205 on Abbot Kinney Boulevard. My turkey sandwich was delicious and my tea had a smokey edge to it, which I reveled in as we walked north, up to Santa Monica. I would definitely recommend eating there.

What do you think we saw on our walk north? If you answered "a yellow transformer, calmly walking the back streets of Santa Monica alone?" you'd be right.

I will not be taking my children to Venice Beach.

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.

Saturday is Rugby Day

The Zimbabwean is up a tree or on a mountain or walking over hot coals or something. That leaves me, Boat Girl, to be Rugby Mama for the weekend. Two kids, a dog, a boat, and 2 rugby games to get to. It would have been a better start if I had not slept in but - heave ho - we all made it in one piece to game one...

Choochie's game. The mighty Under 6 Whites
The game was a bit messy. They didn't look like a cohesive pack. Their usual 2 coaches, one being the missing Zimbabwean, were absent. There were little legs running this way and that, backwards when they should have been forwards, sideways when they should have been "behind the line!". Who can tell where they should be? I don't know the rules. All I know is that my little Chooch doesn't look so little when his hands are on a rugby ball. He looks impressive. When he has the ball he runs with commitment. He looks the business. He scored 2 tries and Man Of The Match. Yippeeeee!

game two...

Noah's game. The Under 9 Stripes
Noah's game was rough. Big tough tall boys on the opposing team, lots of illegal high tackles from both teams, me on the sideline screaming out "that was a high tackle!" (I want them reprimanded man! The whole point of allowing my feisty little No-No on a rugby field is that there are rules and a referee with a whistle who has the power to SEND PEOPLE OFF (I think I'll be a professional ref in my next life). Anyway, back to my impressive sport reporting... there were elbows and clenched teeth and grunting and quite a bit of attitude coming from one of the smallest kids on the field (ie. mine) but believe me, he possibly has the BIGGEST attitude on the field, which was still simmering when the game came to an end. That boy of mine was right amongst it. At least he's got fire in the belly. O yes. One of his team mates pulled off a movie-like tackle... one minute a red jersey from the opposition was running, running for his try line, the next he was flying sideways through the air. I was glad that wasn't my skinny-legged love.

Well, after all that excitement I needed a little time to breathe. My lovely mother-in-law took over the role of referee back home on the island for a couple of hours while I went to gather food supplies for the coming week. I snuck off to the nearest beach to soak up the last of this Sydney winter's afternoon. Peppermint tea in hand, I watched surfers and listened to crashing waves as the sun warmed my back and I breathed in the essence of the Pacific, remembering all the times that I've done that in this lifetime. I closed my eyes and remembered my favourite rock under a lighthouse and all the times I sat there and watched the ocean as I grew. When I opened my eyes there were two whales breaching in front of me. Right there! Just like that! Two powerful, calm, gentle whales. Tails flicking, leaving a trail as they travelled north, up the coast.

Later the same day, we were headed up the hill of our island for dinner with friends. The sun had set in the most breathtaking winter's dusk, slight breeze coming across the water. Now, as I walked alone up the hill, stars shone above me and up ahead I occasionally caught a glimpse of the flash of my boykies torches. There are no street lights here. To the east and south of the island you can see flickering night lights of neighbouring suburbs, across the water, but on the island, houses hide amongst trees and a blanket of darkness. The dirt road led me up to a house with fire burning, lights glowing, friends speaking light-hearted rubbish and laughing into the night. My boys had found their own way there, reveling in the freedom of running through the dark, away from my gaze. I like finding my own way there through the dark night too.

Yesterday my cup was full. The glory of Sydney winter.