month of beauty: someone else's eyes

It's strange, to go from a completely full-on week, of writers workshops and drama group, a big trip out to the Blue Mountains and days of Super Busy,

to spending two days in bed.

Yesterday I was up and about, crackly-voiced but mostly upright, until 2pm when it suddenly felt like a truck had come up and parked on my chest.

Since then, I've slept, coughed, slept, read, coughed, slept. And coughed!

Today was such a beautiful day. I slept the night on the couch downstairs, so as not to keep everyone awake from my coughing, and I heard the birds wake outside. The chook started to pa-cark, and the kitten stood over me asking for breakfast. I moved the blinds aside a little bit later, and saw the blue.

Beautiful sky, a day made for hiking, and a hike with friends was exactly what we were supposed to do. But I'd had maybe four hours interrupted sleep, and a hike was exactly what I wasn't going to do. I didn't just feel sick, I felt disappointed, and a bit sorry for myself.

But only for a second, because then I thought, honestly, of Jennifer. And of the quote I used last night in my blog.

On the one hand, there is the bad. On the other hand, carried tenderly in your palm, is the good. If you look, if you are able and are open, the good is always waiting there. Jennifer always looked, was always open, and she always, always found it.

So I took myself upstairs, and I thought: The bad thing is, I have to be in bed all day today. The good thing is, I get to be in bed all day.

I thought, I don't get to hang out with my kids today, but my husband does. I don't get to play with my kids, but I hear their laughter downstairs. And every minute they know I'm awake, the kids will come (like I'm a magnet and they're the little iron shavings) and lie in bed with me, show me things and cuddle, and want to be close.

I don't get to pull my weight today, preparing lunches, doing the laundry and the groceries, but I have a husband who will, and does, willingly.  I don't get to be up and about having adventures, but I do get to sleep and read my book all day. All day, like I'm at a spa or a hotel, where the staff will cater to my every need—bring me water, medicine, food, and lay cool hands on my forehead. And the cats? Well the cats will come and keep me company.

These are my only photos this weekend—my husband took the rest.

He was in charge of capturing the beauty for our little family, as, from bed,
I captured mine.

view from our minivan early on Saturday morning
as my husband sat and practiced by the beach

a Shmoo

A boy's first "Serious About Circus" advanced class on Saturday (he had a BLAST!),
and straight afterwards,

a boy playing with his buddies in the sun.

Then,
a boy racing into Sunday

with a girl,

making bridges

together,

which turned into dams…

that had to be devotedly maintained.

And a girl ran a rock and charcoal shop,

while a Dad relaxed into

Beautiful

month of beauty: 'til I cried

I spent the whole day trying to organize two bookshelves. Really—it took ages. Taking off all the books, sorting tons and tons of old homeschool Stuff, organising all our information books into categories (Science! History and Geography! Art! Pretty labels, even!), and sitting and looking at old folders of work and art by the kids.

And I now believe anyone who's trying to tidy up should put aside a whole extra day for looking through all the things they unearth when they're tidying up. It's a gold mine, I tell you. 

I found my girl's portfolio from preschool. She looked so cute, and so happy. And I saw just how much work I made my kids do in their first year of homeschool. Wow—it's a wonder they weren't ready for University by the end. And I found umpteen workbooks that I bought in the beginning, when I thought workbooks were the only way to homeschool and I thought workbooks would fit my kids. I found a whole bunch of books that my kids stopped looking at years ago—colouring books from when my girl was 5, and old maths books with those gold stars in them that we haven't used since the Pleistocene era. I even found an Usborne book called "Educating and Entertaining Your Preschool Child." That's like finding a jar of peanut butter in the pantry with a use by date of 1964.

Anyway, the house looks disastrous, as houses always do just before the tidying up is done. Isn't that always the way? You've worked all day and the place looks like a bomb dropped, and then, quietly, voila. Job is done. 

We aren't at that stage yet. We are at Bomb. Dropped. But that's okay. We're okay. I'm okay. Not overwhelmed at all!

So tonight, at dinner, my beautiful husband sat in the middle of the debris, having cooked us an amazing dinner (garlic mashed potatoes with seared mushroom, spinach and veg topping. Yummo).  And he told us the story of his day. 

While I'd been cleaning (and resting) and cleaning (and resting), he'd been out trying to pay some bills, do the grocery shopping, get the car fixed up for registration and find just the right salsa at the fruit and veg shop. It was super fiddly and complicated, and it took him ages to get everything done. 

But when he told the story, it wasn't all doom or gloom. In fact, it was hysterical. We had sound effects, we had the animated gestures, we had his impeccable timing. The guy should have been a stand up comic. He, and everyone who knows him, knows it. 

He had my boy spitting out his drink. My daughter couldn't finish her dinner. I was laughing so hard the muscles in my upper chest started to ache. I was weeping with laughter; bent against the chair, crying and smiling, both. He had us all in the palm of his hand. 

What an insane delight this man is. 

He finished his story. I had a drink. My girl began to eat again. My son just grinned.

Then my husband looked straight at me. "Hey, are you writing a blog post today?"

"Sure am," I said.

He gazed around at the crazy mess all around: books in mounds on the floor, things in wild piles, bits of paper not yet picked up, the desk over by the window looking like it might cave from the stuff stacked on top. 

And with a totally straight face, he said: 

"I wonder what your thing of beauty will be?"

Too funny. 

Brilliant.

"That's easy," I said straight back. "It's you."

photo by my girl

get your plane right on time

This song has been going through my head for days. It's been popping in, popping out, as my husband has prepared for his trip away.

And on our last afternoon together yesterday, we went to the beach. We were pottering around the rocks and the tide pools, the surf breaking on the rock edges, autumn sun at our backs. All my family close. All mine in this moment, with me…

…and just like that, I broke into song.

This song specifically. Suddenly there I was, warbling away.
I don't know that I could have kept it in!

And at some point mid-song, I realised…we weren't actually alone on the rocks. In fact there was a little family directly behind me…right behind my back.

So I slowly faded out, like someone was turning down my volume. And I then I started chatting to my son, acting all, "Oh, and anyway, look at this pool!" like I'd never been singing at all.

Not embarrassing in the slightest!


But even though it was kind of embarrassing, it kind of wasn't too,

because the song had to be sung.

Because my emotions were buzzing out of me, in that moment, by the sea, with those I love most close by and so dear.

Because my best friend was about to take off over this water. And be gone for some time. And my nerves felt a little like fire at the thought—of him going, away and without us. And I wanted to know he would be safe and I wanted him to be well and I wanted the trip to be a wild and beautiful success. And I wanted him close and I wanted him not to go and I wanted him to go, all at once, in a ball of tangled nerves and fire by my heart.

So I sang. Just like that. Out over the water.


I adore this song. Always have.

My whole life I've sung it, and now I wonder,

have I always sung it when I've felt life—and love—this hard and tender? This pure and this big?

Maybe I have.

I love you, Mr Beautiful. 

how much

I think I've mentioned before, like here and here and here, how much I love my husband, and what a good man he is.

He's a beautiful person. From the inside to the outside, from the tips to the ends. All the way through.

But he's not just beautiful to me, or to my family. He's beautiful, and dedicated, and inspiring, to many, many other people in his life too.

He is a music educator. He lives and breathes music. He shares this love with anyone and everyone. He is music, I think. Take an x-ray, and you'd probably see notes—notes everywhere! Crowding, calling, laughing, singing out.

Two weeks ago, I got to celebrate and share what this beautiful man has achieved.

Two weeks ago, I was at a 10-year reunion concert, marking 10 years of a jazz program that my husband built from the ground up. A program that, before my husband arrived, had one combo with 5 kids in it. There are now hundreds of kids enrolled. There are combos, ensembles, a school bands program, and a killer jazz orchestra that's about to tour the US West coast. Every month, world-class jazz musicians come to perform. My husband has been involved in music festivals, international tours, and jazz camps. He is incredible, devoted and so hard working. He is completely passionate about what he does.

That night, two weeks ago, I was sitting contentedly in the dark of the concert. Tucked high up on the second floor, in an almost sold-out theatre, sitting with my girl (and without my boy, who was away at scout camp).

I suddenly thought, This is amazing. What my husband has done. What he has helped to create. Because now he has an amazing jazz faculty; he has an amazing assistant and co-conspirator; there are now others helping teach in the school bands program, and the program is growing, growing. Now he is building something with others. Now he's part of a beautiful team.

Emotion rose inside me. I felt so moved. I suddenly thought, Someone should say something. Someone should mark this moment. Someone should thank this man.

And I thought, Perhaps they've organised to give him flowers? Maybe someone will pop onto the stage at the end and say something. Yeah, I'm sure someone will. Someone else. I snuggled back in my chair, there in the shadows.

Then I thought, People are busy. Life is busy. This concert is squeezed in between busy and busy. Hmmm. I don't know that anyone's going to pop onto the stage.

I suddenly realised.

It's me.

I'm going to go on stage. Here. In front of over a hundred people. I am going to thank this beautiful man.

Holy mackerel. Instant nausea.

And so, as the music played, I tried to think of what I'd say. Some words came in. Nausea rose. My skin prickled. I felt cold. I thought of more words. My mouth went dry. Over a hundred people were in this room.

Then my husband said, "This will be our last piece for the night," and the orchestra began to play.

I leaned over and whispered in my girls' ear, "I'm going to go on stage to say thank you to Daddy."
Her eyes went huge.
"Really?!"
"Yep."
Big grin. "I'm coming!" she said, and we both stood.

We went down the stairs, into the lower level. We saw my husband's colleague who was videotaping the concert. I leaned in and whispered, "Do you think there'll be an encore?"
He said, "I think this'll be it."
"I want to go up and say something," I said. "When do you think would be a good time?"
His eyes went huge.
The music ended.
Big, slow smile.
"Now, I'd say."

Now.



And here, for the hearing impaired (because even I can't tell half of what I said in this video!) is the text of my speech. Somehow, I found the right words to say.

I haven't the same volume in my voice as my husband, and I don't know how he does this, night after night, but I wanted to say a few words because the spirit has moved me. Ten years ago, or just over ten years ago, I was a very homesick young mother living in California with a music teacher for a husband, and I asked him, would he please, please come to Australia with me. And he said, Of course. And it was uncomplicated for you because you loved us so much.
And so then he came here, to this country, to this beautiful place, and you didn't know anybody. You just knew my family, and that was it. And on day 2 of arriving, he picked up the yellow pages and started looking for work.
And I've never seen anyone more dedicated or more devoted to his job than you. And the passion you have for music and music education and the people that you teach and are part of—whose lives you're a part of—is extraordinary, and it shines in every single thing you do. And you've helped build something beautiful here. And I've never seen anything like it, and I think you're amazing, and I'm very very glad you came here.