my Anna

My beautiful friend Anna died a week ago.

She was in pain; she went to hospital; she was diagnosed with aggressive, advanced cancer; she weakened rapidly; and then she passed away.

All in the space of two weeks.


It is a lot to take in.

It is like a hole opening out from under you. It is like the stars being blanked out.

It feels a lot like the end of the world.


But her story is a lot bigger and more beautiful than this.

The story of Anna is about all the ways she lived and loved and inspired and created and healed and connected and transformed.

It is about her last days…and all the days before.

It is about how she is here now, living through us, and in spirit, everywhere.


This is the eulogy I wrote for my darling Anna. I spoke it at her funeral service yesterday.

I called it out, to all the wonderful people who loved her so very much, and to the world she loved back.

Eulogy for Anna

Hello everybody.

Hello [Anna's children, Anna's husband]. Hello dear friends. Hello to Anna's Lay Carmelite family and all those she worked with at [the Hospital]. Hello to those who cannot be here. Hello [Anna’s mum], and all of Anna’s loved ones in Czech and India. Hello rolling hills of Jamberoo, which [Anna's daughter] tells me look just like Anna’s village in Czech, where she grew up. Hello sky, hello trees that Anna walked among, hello beautiful sea. Hello artists and thinkers. Healers, makers, and companions. Hello family.

I have come to tell you a story about Anna. It is my story, but it is also yours, because we have loved Anna together, and we still do. Because we have been lucky enough to share someone extraordinary.

I want to start by saying, that the last week I spent with Anna, was a lot like the hundreds of moments I spent with her over the past ten years.

In those hospital rooms, we spoke as we always had, in words of wonder and love, and delight.

We spoke about how beautiful the world is. She had just told me she was leaving, but in the same breaths she spoke about the sea. And of art and her family, and how fulfilled she felt by the things she had done in her life. We talked about writing, colour, and amazing sunsets. We shared our thoughts, our new ideas and we laughed.

At some point, as we were smiling at each other, feeling so connected and so thankful, I said to her, “It’s beautiful,” and then I paused and said, “I know that’s a strange thing to say right now.” 

But she nodded, and said emphatically, “But it is. It is beautiful.”

That whole last week, all I could feel was Anna’s serenity. Her acceptance, her love, her peace. It radiated from her. Her serenity and her depth of spirit held me every second I was with her, and not just during that last week, but as it always had.

Anna has always been the person who saw further and understood the world more deeply than anyone I have ever met. Anna saw possibility, she made room for hope, she saw endings as beginnings. She was true and real, and she looked for beauty everywhere.

I hope you can feel that and see that with me now.

Anna meant the world to me, and to my children. She was their mentor and our dear, dear friend. We made and celebrated art with Anna almost every week for ten wonderful years. She was our ‘understander’, our supporter, our inspiration. 

She was my kindred spirit, my corner stone. Anna was light, to me.

She was all those changing forms of light, that you can’t always capture in a photograph. You can try; you can get close, but the best way to understand light like hers, is to stand quietly and breath it in.

Anna was that trembling, silvery light that comes off the sea in the morning. The rich, honey light that pours into windows in the afternoon. The floating light of twilight, the kind that feels like you’re suspended when you walk in it. She was the gentle light that wakes flowers. She was the brave torch light that travels into caves, despite the shadows. She was the dancing, electric light that comes with  storms, bright and filled with energy, and she was the searching light that stands tall on headlands, reaching and exploring, illuminating.

She was my laughing light, my true light. She was all the colours that light brings.

One of my favourite memories of Anna was the morning she came to our house with an art therapy idea she had. We were to be her test subjects, she said, to see if her idea would work. So we filled these little squirt bottles with watery paint, which we then squirted onto damp paper, turning the pages into these kaleidescopic patterns of swirls and cosmic colours. We did page after page, and what I most remember of that day was our laughter, and the running outside with our wet pages to lay them on the lawn.

The sun was so rich that day, and Anna kept opening and shutting the sliding door, keeping an eye out for our indoor cats, as we leaped out and in, out and in, laying the pages on the singing grass.  The day felt filled with dancing. I can still see it, in technicolour. Anna’s smile was so wide you could have fallen into it and been happy forever.

And Anna was peace.

She was my safe space. She was that pocket of time every week, for years, that I could rest in, where I knew I would be heard and loved and valued.

She was the same for my children.  And she was a safe space for all the people she taught and shared her creative energy with, all the lucky, lucky people who were guided by her. We all were safe in her hands.

This is what my son wrote about Anna, and shared with me last night: 

“Anna brought with her peace, safety and joy, and an infectious excitement for art and creativity. She taught me the technical skills to draw and paint, and gave me the courage and inspiration to use my imagination.”

Yes. YES.

I remember early on, when my children were very small, she told them, “There are no wrong lines.”  

And because there were no wrong lines, they could go anywhere.

With Anna, you could do anything.  You could be truthful, strange, and fearless. You could experiment, you could imagine beyond, and without borders. You could go way past your comfort zone because here, walking or flying beside you, was Anna. Your own personal guiding presence, your calm fellow traveller. Always offering encouragement, suggestions, ideas. Telling you that you mattered, that your ideas were bright, good things. And that your journey was your very own.

Can you imagine the feeling this brings? The gift this is. I know you can, because I know she gave that to you. In her friendships, in her work, in her parenting, and in her marriage. She gave us all space to breathe. She gave us moments of inspiration. She delighted and energised us. She held us, and gave us room to be. She gave us the tools to see and love ourselves, and to heal.

And, very importantly, she gave — to herself, and to us — her art.  She shared her truest stories. She told, through her art, of her exploration of the world. She documented, more and more deeply, her contemplations and discoveries, her loves, her memories, her emotions, her celebrations. She painted her special connection with the world, physical, intellectual, and spiritual.

Here, in Anna’s art, lived, and lives, spirit and shadow, light and earth travelling side by side. Everything sacred. In her life-long work, Anna poured out the deepest parts of who she was. She lay down, on page after page, her soul self.

Anna’s spirit, her soul self, was and is, immeasurable. It reaches out far beyond anything the eye, or even dreams, can see. Her spirit is a singing note, resonating through every one of us. How extraordinary. How beautiful.

One of the last things Anna wrote to me, is something I would love for you to carry out with you today.

I’d love for you to keep it in your pocket, sew it into the inside of your shirt, write it on your skin, weave it into your hair like ribbons. Wear it. Hold it close.

Anna wrote:  

"Take care, and let your heart be not troubled, but filled with colours."

So today, I say her words to all of us who are here, walking this new path together, we who love her so very much:

Remember to take care. Let your heart be not troubled. But let it be filled with colours.

'happy brain'

peace to all

Hasn't it been a strange and imperfect week?

You look at the newspaper and it's heartbreaking—ranging from difficult to impossible—all around, in country after country.

And you sit with your boy as he struggles through pain and you feel it as though it's your pain.

And you're tired and you'd like life to be simple, but it isn't.

And the laundry pile is huge.



I was sitting on the edge of my bed this morning, thinking, "Today isn't going to be easy."

Once upon a time, I would lie down on days like these, and let the hard take over.

I looked at the sky and the trees and heard the birds. Sky was a cloudless blue. Trees were green and wild. Birds were talking, telling each other stories.

And I got up.


Today I got up and took some laundry downstairs and that was a small, good thing.

Today, my son, who just got braces yesterday morning and was up all night in pain, just put on some Miles Davis. I'm writing to the music that makes my son happy.

Today I read a blog post where the person suggested we focus on being kind. Being patient. Breathing deeply. Yes, I thought.



I've had some strange times this week, interacting and, for the first time, debating/respectfully disagreeing with people online. I am usually very agreeable on social media, so this felt new for me: kind of fiery and peaceful at the same time. The people I have "debated" with I respect hugely, and I have not wanted to seem argumentative. But I have wanted to share an alternative view: my view, my truth.

I am finding that I'd like to speak, and speak, and speak my truth more. And, of course, let people speak theirs in turn.

Already I write about animal suffering a little on this blog, but not often. I "like" things that relate to animal rights on Facebook, and every now and then, I share information I feel is important to read. But there are more things I care about. Things I am quiet about because I don't want to push an "agenda" or have this blog become political or be about "causes." But what I care about, and the change I want to see in the world, really matters to me. People are making huge changes happen in the world by speaking out. Why don't I, more?

For some reason I've been thinking about Gandhi a lot recently. What would he do? What would he say in the face of the NRA's agenda, and bombings in the US and drone attacks in Pakistan, in the face of factory farming, hunting in National Parks, of people living lives of judgement and hate… all things I find difficult to bear?

I believe he would speak, and speak, and speak, his truth.

He would BE the change he wished to see in the world.


So this is the change I wish to see in the world. The change I try to live daily:


People putting kindness and compassion above all.

People living in, and accepting, equality.

People prioritising peace, and the lives of others, over "centuries-old rights" and "this is how things have always been."

People seeking non-violent solutions for conflict.

People protecting the voiceless.


It's not how a lot of the world is right now, but I keep hoping. And getting up in spite of things. I keep choosing kindness, compassion, positivity. And writing my truth.


Here I sit, on this day that's turning out to be not so hard after all…with a cat on my lap, listening to jazz. It's just started to rain and I can hear it pick-pocking the verandah roof outside.

I will write words I care about. I will feel sadness and confusion for the people of Boston. I will feel joy that marriage equality has been recognised in New Zealand. I will mourn another bombing in Iraq in the days leading up to their election. I will be baffled and deeply disappointed by the Senate choosing not to change gun laws in the US. I will march against live export when Animals Australia brings the rally to the city of Sydney. I will hug my children.

I will get up in a minute and put the laundry on. Give my son some more pain relief. Make him some more soup. Listen to the rain.

And send, as always, love and peace, to all.

People in the public gallery of the New Zealand Parliament, 

singing the Maori love song "Pokarekare Ana" 

moments after same-sex marriage legislation was passed. 

Beautiful. 

in this we are all connected

Our ginger cat made the strangest sound tonight…while squatting over our brand new day-to-a-page diary where we've just begun to write the many, many things we have planned for the coming homeschool year. You see, Term One is about to begin, and all the kids' classes are about to get going. Circus class and Band and Piano Lessons and Tennis are in their flashy shorts, some jogging in place, packed with the others at the starting line, their toes against the paint. People in this house are getting pretty excited about that.

"Woah," we said. (About the cat noise, I mean, not about the classes, although I know they will be fun)

Then, "Ohhh…"

And we whisked the cat to the floor and watched as he upchucked all over the tiles.

Afterwards, he repositioned himself and went for Puke Number Two. And then he just kind of sat there, in that post-upchuck daze we all know (don't we?) and really, really don't like.

I said, "Huh. I bet you feel better now, buddy."

I am sure he did, poor guy. But then…my husband and I looked at each other. This was the special moment one of us got to put their hand up. Who'd be so brave?

Well, my husband, the hero, went for it. He grabbed the paper towels, and with a swift and practiced motion, began to unroll great reams of paper for the Mighty Clean-Up.

But! Then!

With the swift and practiced thinking of a lifelong environmentalist, I said, "Hey. Why don't we just use the dustpan instead? And maybe the litter scooper thingy? That should work."

(In real life, I called it the Poop Scooper. But I wouldn't like to cheapen this blog by calling it that here).

My husband was fine with that. With a swift and relieved motion, he put the paper towels down, stepped (far) away from the puke, and let me do my Save The Planet One Paper Towel At A Time thing.

It was so easy, two swipes with the scooper and dustpan, and a quick scrub of the floor with dishwashing detergent and the job was done. Voila. And the roll of paper towels lived to see another day.

Which got me to thinking!


About how easy it is to grab a paper towel to wipe a mess instead of a sponge you'd then have to rinse or a dustpan you'd have to go and clean.

How easy it is to throw wet clothes in a dryer instead of stepping out to the line to dry them in the sun.

How disposable things are, mobile phones and television sets, junky toys and all those bottles, cans, jars and plastic tubs. How easy they are to buy, and replace, and buy, and replace.


And that got me to thinking some more…

about where everything, all these Things, come from. And how we are connected to them—sometimes only distantly, invisibly, but still and always, connected.


How a paper towel comes from a tree, a lot like that one on the street or in your back yard or the one in the Amazon Basin that helps you breathe.

How the sun is always there, constantly shooting down heat like a dare devil, blasting wild uv rays on our skin, and absorbing moisture magically from clothes without a second thought. How easy it is to use this Great Ball of Fire, the thing that gives us sunshine and makes the daisies bloom.

How someone made that phone, the phone we all seem to carry these days. In a factory, somewhere, someone with worries and wants put the pieces together.

And someone operating a machine somewhere created that glass bottle.

And that bottle, well, it came in part from sand, shaped and turned somehow into glass…

and that sand came from years of shells or rocks, rubbing against one another in a simple silence.

And we walk on beaches and trust those beaches will always have that sand, those timeless tiny rocks, that, if you're lucky (and the sand is fine and white enough), will squeak under your toes as you walk.


It is all connected.

Bottles and sand…connected.

Cute kittens and cute lambs… connected.

Canned tuna and those mega-fishing trawlers…connected.

Plastic and pollution…connected.

Trees and paper…connected.

Choices and consequences…connected.


Sometimes it makes you want to sit down and take a moment,

once you see the tiny lines,

the spider threads that interweave between you and me and him and her and it and that and those.

When you see how each action, each choice you make contributes to that web.

It's dazzling. And it's beautiful.

And it's scary and it's sad.


But once you see,

it's hopeful, too.


Because the Earth is an extraordinary, living thing…and we are part of the Earth.

We are the living web. The trees and lambs and daisies and rocks and the vibrating worries of a woman on the other side of the world?

Connected, incredibly to you, as you sit here, reading these words. And to me, as I write them and breathe the air we share.

the magic of Being

Somewhere along the way
to Getting and Staying Better,
I began to live.

I began to exist
in the moment,
for the present,
noticing the small seconds ticking by,
the way my breath went out, came in, went out, came in.

I found myself taking moments,
micro-meditations
where my hands would settle at my sides
and I would notice

a cloud drifting
the sun on my skin
a slow blink
the sink of soft sand as I stepped forward
a spoon in a pot, stirring
the purr of a cat
the curl of a wave
a bird in a tree, dipping its small beak into blossoms
a snoring dog, legs twitching as he ran in his dreams
a wooden floor on bare feet
children talking
children laughing.

I found I spent more time making eye contact
saying thank you
saying thank you
saying thank you.

I noticed the power of a hug. How two can become one, and how—whether it's a friend, a child, the love of your life—a hug can realign your spirit into Better in the space of 2-10 seconds (the approximate length of a regular hug, not counting those long hugs on couches with a beloved child on your lap, still smelling of sleep, their hair tousled and tickling).

On this path to Being Better,
I have
woken up.

And my favourite feeling?

The feeling when you notice,
you are still here.

You get to be alive
on this breathing, feeling earth.

You get to share and give and care and love and breathe,
for as long as you are here.

The feeling
is miraculous and divine.

It hits me,
each and every day now.

In the smallest moments, and in the large,
in the moments I share with others,
in the things I get to give
and in the slow sweet seconds I spend
on my own.

I feel it,
and tears come to my eyes, all the time,
all the time.

I am so
grateful,

and
there is
so much peace.