Calling all Angels

Some days are dreaded. But I don't think today is one of them.

The early morning sun is shining, golden, on the spotted gums and national park that surrounds me. The winter wind is rustling the trees and chilling my nose, but it's not that cold. There are tears running down my cheeks, for our little friend, Harry, died during the night.

I knew this day would come, sooner than others. I thought it would be dreadful. I thought it would feel like the worst day in the world - which perhaps it does for Harry's brave family. Or maybe, for them, it feels peaceful with a tinge of gold, as Harry's spirit releases itself from his 8-year-old bodily torment, and, once again, learns how to fly.

There is a hole in my throat, and one in my heart, and they feel as though they are bleeding tears down the hill and into the shining waters of Pittwater. But it still feels like a quietly peaceful day, as if I can feel him, hear him whooshing, learning to fly.

My tears are confused tears. They are tears of relief that Harry's pain is over. They are tears of disbelief and compassion for what his family have endured. They are tears of hope that my friends may heal now, and grow and blossom, and remember that they are allowed to have needs too. And they are tears of despair at their struggle and torment.

Jo and Lyell inspire me to be more compassionate; more yielding; to be better. They have sacrificed much that we seem to take for granted - luxurious ways of spending the family income, planning for the future, a road trip, a holiday destination with no thought of stairs or ramps or access to medical facilities - and have sacrificed these things stoically. With the holding of Harry, holding him in his pain, they have truly parented. They have held him. They have held him. They still hold him.

Darling friends, may you know that we hold you in our hearts and look on in awe at how you have done it. The winter sun shines just for you today. It is all for you.

Sweet Pumpkin Bread

(adapted from Nigella Lawson's Banana Bread recipe in How to be a Domestic Goddess. I LOVE that book.)

300g cooked pumpkin, mashed
175g rice flour
60g slivered almonds
2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp vanilla extract
½ tsp bicarb soda
100g pitted dates, chopped
2 large eggs
125g unsalted butter, melted
150g sugar
Loaf tin, buttered and lined with baking paper
½ tsp salt
Handful (or 2) of choc chips
handful of dessicated coconut

Preheat oven to 170°C. Put the flour, baking powder, bicarb and salt in a medium-sized bowl and, using your hands or a wooden spoon, combine well.

In a separate large bowl, mix the melted butter and sugar and beat until blended. Beat in the eggs one at a time, then the mashed pumpkin.
Then with your wooden spoon, stir in the nuts, dates, coconut, choc chips and vanilla extract.

Add the flour mixture, a third at a time, stirring well after each bit. Scrape into the loaf tin and bake in the middle of the oven for 1-1,1/4 hours. When it’s ready, an inserted toothpick or fine skewer should come out cleanish.
Leave in the tin on a rack to cool, and eat thickly or thinly sliced, as you prefer.
Makes 8-10 slices.

Enjoy it warming your heart, with love from me (and Nigella).
xx

more reminding please, and a little bit of Bluesfest

Last winter, I blogged about reminders that I am here, I am real, it's all happening.

This week I'm feeling melancholy. It doesn't happen that often, but at least it does sometimes, you know, just so I can remember how life feels sometimes for those melancholics with their hands in mine. Perhaps it's easier to be gentle with little ones when I remember that life doesn't always present itself easily at their feet, or mine.

Today I'm needing reminding that the world is ok; all is as it should be; there's love and warmth, inside and out. Offer assistance if you like. My heart is open. Let's see how we go...

:: ambulance sirens: I honour the one that is being rushed to
:: Kate Miller-Heidke: this songstress always gives me a chuckle
:: a burning fire. Burn baby, burn
:: a good bum dance at a musical festival
:: blowing my whistle
:: a circle of open-eyed women with baskets of goodness
:: picking apples in crisp, Autumn sunshine
:: a fresh little girl called Juniper
:: ordering whole grains and nuts in bulk (it's the simple things!)
:: reading Alexander McCall Smith
:: little boys when they are soft and tender and open and loving
:: Bluesfest. Ahhhh, yes... Bluesfest indeed. We had such fun there recently. It's been 13 years since the Zimbo and I donned our party boots at a music festival. 13 years! Where have we been? Well, some little people have delicate spirits and weren't quite ready for the throbbing ear-drums, but that only accounts for 7.5 years. Anyway...

Under blue skies, not far from the infamous Byron Bay, we clicked our heels and tapped our toes in the dust (and mud) whilst delighting in sounds of old and new. Our favourite artists were Imogen Heap (freaky fraulein), Kate M-H (see above), Indigo Girls, Blind Boys from Alabama, and Osibisa. And in between songs there was Chai tea to be drunk, Govinda's vegetarian delights to be eaten, so many rainbow flags to be walked under, market stalls to wander through. Noah, I think, is glad to have gone, but did find it quite loud. He likes to be an observer from the side. That little Choochie though, he's got African rhythm in his limbs, that boy. When the right drum beat talks to his ears, his arms and legs start lifting and flying, just like a Zulu.




Ahh, Af-ree-kah. But that's a whole 'nother rambling direction for another day.

Winter sport and changing rooms

O those 2 little boys. We're well into the school holidays but I took some time out today and had 3 hours to myself, off the island and away from housework. As a result, I'm now feeling particularly appreciative of those 2 little boys.

Here they are, Chooch in rugby mode and Noah in soccer gear.

The following photo was taken on a recent Sunday evening, during a neighbourhood celebration of the first eggs, with a first eggs pancake eating session. There is always a bit of chaos when these 4 little boys sit together at our table. Note the yellow wall im hintergrund.

And now, here is the beautiful new wall. O my goodness. I had not expected the change of colour to make such a huge difference to my happiness in this room. I already loved our house, but now it really does feel like OURS. No more insipid buttercup in the middle of the living room.

And, although blurry, this shares the evening glow of the fire and lanterns.
When you come here, may you feel warmly embraced, and welcomed.

in the big smoke

The Zimbo and I are recently had 2 nights in the city, ohne Kinder! It was deliciously luxurious. There was some drama at the end, which is why it's taken me this long to bring you the one and only photo I snapped from the entire weekend.

We stayed at the Sheraton on the Park. You know, previously I haven't been a fan of hotels like that one. I generally prefer to be in someone's loved home, or to at least travel with one of my favourite enamel mugs. However, I'm now in my mid-thirties and like to think that turning that 30 corner has introduced me to slightly more sophisticated things. I do now enjoy a haircut every couple of months, for example. One of the other things I also now enjoy is swanky hotels with king beds, crisp white linen, and... walk in wardrobes! Within minutes of arriving, my bag was unpacked and I was taking very happy snaps of the wardrobe.

The bathroom was also quite impressive but the buffet breakfast really was the icing on the cake: bircher muesli with yoghurt, fresh fruit and pastries, an omlette made to order, and pot after pot of tea. Ahhhhhhh.

We had such a fun time. I joined the Zimbo and Ross at the Different Drummer in Glebe for a drink (they had already had many, while I had been unpacking and admiring the wardrobe), had a very late dinner at the dodgy-but-delicious Barbeque King in China Town (The Z's favourite late-night dodgy dinner in Sydders), spent hours the next day strolling through shops and admiring musical instruments, a long lunch in Potts Point, a Sydney Theatre Company production at the Opera House (In the next room. If you are in Sydney, go see it. It was hilarious) and another midnight dinner at the Quay. O the luxury! Who gets to have midnight dinners after seeing a play when they have children? We do, occasionally, thanks to Nana and Grandad. And the boykies and grandparents get to have the island all to themselves, with games of chess and monopoly, fishing, too many treats, too much dessert... just as life should be when Mama and Dada are having a weekend retreat.

A group(ish) photo

Peg, Sugarplum and Fido (not necessarily in that order)

Crayon and Chalkey

Ruby Tuesday Nandos (the pretty little thing)

the night the old girls met the new girls, under the mulberry tree.

One of the first eggs, just before I rolled it up in rice bread and gobbled it for breakfast. (Chicken knitted by Noah.)

Bowaarrrk Bowaarrrkk Bowaarkkk

Chooks in transit

How to efficiently load a subi...

and a boat.

Sugarplum (aka Sugar Ray)

Last week, the little boys and I had yet another adventure of the "island transit" variety.

The lovely Gillian parted with her 3 chookies, which she lovingly hand-raised, and donated them (along with their chook accessories: house and run) to the Island Chook Coop Co-op (an island community initiative). I first met these girls when they were just tiny tots in a box in Gillian's dining room. It is with gratitude that we humbly accept them to add to our young girls.

Now, some would hesitate to transport 3 grown chooks, a chook house and a chook run to the island on a somewhat stormy-looking Monday afternoon after school... complete with children and all that comes with them. But no. I strive to be a girl with guts. So it was, with great guidance and reassurance from Robin (he who can transport just about anything and inspires me in the guts department) that we loaded said chooks in to a box, and tied rather large items to the roof of my trusty subi.

To date, I've found that the Zimbabwean handles arrivals to the commuter dock best if he doesn't have to think about them too much beforehand. That's why I rarely tell him all the details (if any) about what's coming. He's beginning to sigh a whole lot more often, roll his eyes, even place his hands on his hips so perhaps it will soon be wise to change my position on disclosure. Anyway... we all arrived at the commuter dock (Robin had followed me through several Sydney North Shore suburbs to make sure I didn't lose any feathers etc.) where said Zimbabwean was patiently waiting. All was creatively loaded into our boat and off we sailed. The only seat Noah could find was actually in the chicken run. As we pootled to the island, a rainbow quietly positioned itself above us... surely a sign that all would be well and the girls would like their new home.

One week later and they do indeed seem pretty happy with island life. There's the odd scuffle in the chook yard but we do receive eggs every day. Usually only 2 (from 6 chooks? Which four of you are not earning your scraps?) but still, they are lovely, welcome gifts.

Our chook tribe now consists of: Chalkey, Ruby Tuesday Nandos, Crayon (the most odd looking chook), and now also Sugarplum, Peggy and Fido. Tomorrow I'll see if they'll consent to a group photo (don't hold your breath).