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. 

SPAM: a collection of poems

The doctor's wife

I like what I see so now i'm following you.

Place a bowl of pot pourri on your window sill, so breezes can 

waft the scents around.

Theгe's a fine line between the all-natural sorts of snoring that should 

cause no worries, and the 

consistently habitual type of snoring that 

goes out of control.

When your discs realign, 

pressure is removed from your nerves and 

you will probably feel plenty of relief from lumbar pain.

Also there still may be timing or emotional issues that hold you apart—

this may not be your only Soul-Mate. 

I'm uniquely qualified to say so because I was a doctor's wife in the 60's.

Your ex

A woman could undoubtedly go 

away your ex 

domicile through morning, 

self-confident in your girl manifestation,

 find out through mid-day teas, 

my significant other become tricked.

Exactly. How?

The former individual is equitable of 

more session lessons for the uncastrated case. 

Like if something goes unsuitable, how region can they bank?

Unquestionably unwell

Unwell unquestionably come more 

formerly again since 

exactly the same nearly very often 

inside case 

you shield this increase.

Tough love  

This may sound strange. 

These websites have already been in 

existence for several years. 

Your conversations are mostly small talk.

 Love 

Oh my goodness! 

Awesome article dude!

 Gгeat deliverу. 

Ѕoliԁ argumentѕ. 

Kеep up thе grеat wоrκ.

by

Anonymous

(ps: Thank you, dear commenters of all kinds, 

for the laughter, support, and inspiration you have given me over the years. Much love to you!)

if music be the food of love…

My husband had a really big concert on the weekend.

Every year, he puts together a big band of young people to play with a famous jazz musician (or two, three, or more!). I've written about this band before, here, but that was almost three years ago! Time for a retell, I think. :) Every year, these kids and young adults get together on the day of the performance (for their one and only rehearsal!), get given sheet music they haven't seen before, plus a t-shirt to wear on the night, and get shown where to sit. They rehearse, hard, for 6 hours, then come back that night to perform. It's incredibly exciting for a lot of these kids—there's nothing like it in the area. I suspect there might be nothing like it in the country.

Now, when I say a big band, I mean, a really really REALLY big band. It is made up of 150 people. 150! Yes. All those young people work together to create a concert, led by a man with huge vision and energy (my amazing husband, who is helped by lovely, tireless colleagues), all of them running on sheer exuberance, talent, and courage. Some kids have only been playing for a year, and they sit beside people who are in their last year of highschool (even early university), and somehow, it works.

The only things they're asked to do? To have fun. To either play (or look like they're playing!). And to go for it.

My husband came up with this idea about 7 years ago, and his wonderful Conservatorium of Music has put on six Megaband shows so far. I've designed the t-shirt for every concert, and my son has played four times. We've had jazz, funk, and latin greats all come to play as guest artists, and on Friday night, we had 900 people come to watch. It's a thing now. Like, a real THING, something you might imagine kids remembering when they grow up…like, how maybe they got their guitar or music or drum sticks signed by this awesome musician, or how maybe that was the first time they ever properly performed and they were so nervous but they did it, and this maybe was the beginning of them realising they wanted to be a musician.

This lovely night has become part of our mutual history now, part of my family's and my town's story. It makes up some of the colours, the woven pattern of our place here. What a beautiful thing for people to be part (and proud) of.

For me, however, my favourite part of the night was a small and perfect thing. Something that felt so personal, but was shared with over a thousand other people. And afterwards, I felt all weepy with pride.

You see, my husband directed the band wearing Converse sneakers.

Second-hand ones, at that.

He wore a gorgeous black suit, crisp white shirt, grey tie, and these grey canvas "classic" Chuck Taylors. He bought them from the op-shop the other day, scrubbed them clean, and wore them to this "big deal" event. And the lack of black leather 'dress shoes' was noticeable—so much so that one of our two famous guest artists called my husband on it.

The guest who is a friend of my husband's, made a joke about my husband's tennis shoes. He suggested maybe my husband forgot to change shoes, and perhaps my husband needed to borrow his again, like that time four years ago (when my husband actually forgot to bring his own).

That got a good laugh, and then my husband good-humouredly went to the microphone and said something to this effect:

"These aren't just tennis shoes, man. These are Converse all-stars. These were made with no animal products."

Applause rippled through the audience, rose like a quiet wave through the theatre.

"So don't be givin' me grief 'bout my shoes no mo'."

And he grinned at the famous jazz man, who grinned back, and my husband turned to the band and began conducting the next piece, and the famous jazz man began to play something beautiful.

And while the night wasn't—at all—about animals or about ethics or choices or beliefs, the night, for me, became in that moment about something bigger than music, bigger than us sitting here, bigger than 150 kids having the time of their lives. It became about standing up for, reaching up towards, something that is as big as spirit, and as deep.

When my husband could have said nothing, he spoke for living things that do not sing or play or have a voice as we do, but feel as we do. He spoke for creatures who might have loved to listen to the music as we did, and been lifted by that music into joy.

a slave to passion: the unschooling way

We started the school year this February…with a timetable.

Yes, you're reading that right! We free and unfettered "life learners," we long-term unschooly types, tried a timetable on for size this term.

Oh, it was so pretty.

I dolled things up by changing the font, using different colours and text sizes, fitting things into coloured boxes, all in the attempt to make the Scheduled Learning Opportunities look enticing and fun.

I printed it out and put it in a plastic sleeve where we oohed and aahed over it. It looked so fancy, so polished, so Sensible and Straight.


And I had high hopes for it, in the beginning. This timetable thing was how I was finally going to fit all the government expectations and requirements into the week, squeeze them in like step-sisters' toes into our glass slipper.

You see, at the beginning of the school year, I suddenly got hit by a fit of the Have To's. The Shoulds, the It's Got to Look Like This'es. My son was going into year 8 this year, and two days before term began, I suddenly thought, "Woah! This is serious! Better start "Doing" high school, then!" I forgot we'd been perfectly happily "Doing" high school all last year, without the sense of squishiness, without feeling the subjects crowding into the week like mad concert goers rushing the stage.

So, I tried to fit all the Stuff—the language, technology, science, maths, literacy, history, geography, all the boxes you're supposed to tick every single week—in around the kids' passions. But these things were bullies…or at least, by attempting to change who we are and how we learn, I turned these Required Subjects into bullies…because they shoved my son's juggling practice to the far reaches of the day. Half an hour in the mornings, maybe. Perhaps an hour or two on a Wednesday, if he was lucky. He had evenings, which I thought were enough, working on his passion before bedtime.

But the problem with (and the beauty of) passion is, it's all consuming. It is your greatest love, your escape; your saviour and your finest hour.

Go without the thing you love for long, and it's torment. You aren't yourself. Everything feels wrong, feels wobbly, like you're not in the right skin, the right life.

I know this, because without my own passion, I get lost. When I'm not writing, everything feels a bit (or a lot) off kilter. There are times I can mask the feeling with more exercise. Magnesium supplements. Extra sleep. And with mindfulness exercises…where I take note, gladly, that I am well and get to hang out with my kids all day.

But if I forget to write, or get so busy tweaking a schedule that doesn't fit—"facilitating learning experiences exactly between the hours of 9 and 12 on a Monday, and 10 to 1 on a Tuesday, etc, etc"—that my writing time shrinks to nearly nothing, then after a time, it feels like a limb is missing.

The last few weeks, I've begun to truly prioritise my writing. Brought my computer everywhere I've gone. Grabbed every spare minute to write, write, write. I've written in the mornings while the kids eat their breakfast, written while they've pottered away at their projects, begun to put my writer self first. I've written 20,000 words over the past month, and it feels beautiful.

And as I've raised my passion up, valued it, prioritised it…well, our timetable has, sort of, um, fallen away.

What has this done to my newly-organised homeschool family? Well, the kids have gone back to learning, exploring, creating, discovering, just as they have been, quite organically (with us as a team, following ideas, suggestions, and desires), for four homeschooling years.

And as for my son's juggling, it is setting up home in centre stage.


The other day, you see, my son showed me yet another Youtube juggling video—one of the hundreds, literally, he has watched over the past year.

He said to me, "Mum, this guy [pointing to the teenager doing mad tricks…] practices juggling for three hours a day, seven days a week."

I said, "Really???" and he said, "Yes."

"Huh. Would you want to do that???"

"YES."

He was so quiet, sitting there at the computer, looking at me with these eyes—the only word to describe what I saw there, was 'Hunger.'

He didn't just want to throw objects into the air for every waking minute of every day. He needed to. He was unmoored without it.

Something clicked. So this is what passion looks like when it's outside your own body.

We talked for ages about how to make this love an actual, honest to goodness priority. He had his circus classes, yes, but needed practice time too—hours and hours. And practice space—he needed tall ceilings. He needed time to watch videos, to make videos, to think about juggling, to breathe in circus arts like oxygen.

So we're doing it. Going for it, jumping into the deep.

We've set up open training at his circus space. Two hours here, three hours there, almost every day of the week. I've talked with his teachers and they've told me what he needs, to get into university to study circus arts. They're setting higher goals, harder tasks, because they take this thing seriously. They will take it seriously for as long as it's my son's dream. I've even booked my boy into ballet class—he can't wait to start.

I've rewritten a timetable he might never see. Great swathes of the day are filled with the words, "Circus Training." Our classes—art, tennis, writers workshop, music and more music—are marked down too. But the "Official Stuff?" The boxes filled with labels like "maths"? Gone. I've rewritten the timetable…for me. Now that it's been written, with all the right bits in, I'm not sure, honestly, if I'll look at it again.

Passion is valid, vital, alive. It's okay…it really is…if it is everything and all the other Stuff fits and flows around it. I've read articles about unschooling and kids having consuming passions and how this all can work…and I am finding my way again.

Which brings us to today.

My son made juggling videos, all day. He filmed his training yesterday, edited and formatted the movie, added text and music. Together we created a Youtube account for him. He worked his way around the site for hours, adding a profile pic, creating a cover image for his Youtube channel, subscribing to his favourite jugglers. He uploaded his first ever Youtube video. Hurrah! And then…he went and made another.

A Tale of Acceptance, Surrender…and Ed Sheeran

I wrote the text of this post almost exactly a month ago but didn't post it 
because life just swept on, 
kept on coming and coming, all tangled and complicated,
curious and delightful, 
and I couldn't get back here to finish it up.
Which says something about the the month I've had!
Full of adventure, delight, novel writing, sorrow, worry, 
sleeplessness, novel writing, joy, novel writing, spontaneity and passion. 
But I still want to share these words, late as they are. 
They still mean something to me, all these days later. 
•

Before I begin my Tale,
I have to tell you something astonishing.

Something Mind-boggling and Wild. 

I have come to realise (and I suspect I've said this before, in other words and with other posts, but bear with me here because I need to say it again),

the more I accept, the happier I am.

I know—who'd have thunk it?!

It's crazily simple.

I've discovered that if you spend your life resisting LIFE (with all its awkwardness, chaos and surprise),

      if you choose to meet life events with frustration, resentment, anger, and complaint,

              your happiness decreases.


And yes, I know other people have figured this out already…!

Michael J. Fox, for one, captured this idea beautifully in his quote:

“My happiness grows in direct proportion to my acceptance, and in inverse proportion to my expectations.”

It's true.

The fewer expectations I have

(Like, Oh, this will be great! At least, I hope it will be great. Well, it will be great if x, y, and z happen. So, I'd like the path of Great to look like this…(x) and this…(y) and this…(z), thank you very much), 

and the less attached I am to a certain outcome

(Okay, I will be really happy if x, y and z happens. But I'll be bummed out if N happens, and I'll be really bummed if B happens. Also, I'll be miserable! with P, outraged! with M, and destroyed! with S, so please…let life be filled only with x's and y's and z's.)

the greater my joy is.

But what is joy?

What has joy become, for me?

At its most basic level, my joy is the kind that makes me smile. Sometimes it brings a spontaneous happy dance, a fizzy feeling in my chest. It might even bring singing.

But, sometimes the joy comes more quietly than that. It comes in the form of deep contentment. A sense of peace.

And most importantly, my joy doesn't hurt.

Come again? Joy…hurt? How can that be?

Well, joy hurts when you are so aware of how fleeting it is, you spend the whole time holding it tightly against your chest instead of letting it Be.

Joy hurts when it becomes more like catching than watching. You run with your butterfly net waving, desperately trapping all that flying colour and when it's caught, you try to pin it, keep it, bind it into books and frames.

Joy hurts when you want to freeze it so it doesn't end.

My joy used to make my chest ache. 

I used to spend most of a concert or a visit by the sea thinking, "This is so beautiful. But this won't last. Take a photograph, quick, quick, with your camera, with your mind, because soon it will be over."

I'd give myself special time, a day off when the kids were young, and when a friend asked about it, I'd find the things that went wrong and detail them. Sure, I'd paint the whole picture, show the good and the bad, but I'd focus on the bad; I wore it like a little coat over my heart.

I used to be disappointed if a life experience went differently to my Plans. Even if the new outcome was fun, filled with laughter and everyone around me seemed to have a good time, I'd see where I'd failed, or where others had failed, where the moment was Less than it "should" have been.

If result wasn't x or y or z, I often saw only the letters that weren't there, instead of the letters that were.

I could spend time worrying over and explaining the Why of this, but I don't need to, because that was Then. And this, of course, is Now. Somewhere, at some point, I made a choice to see things differently and Now began.

It came slowly.

It came steadily.

Now, it's (mostly!) here.

"It is what it is." 

This is my husband's constant mantra. It's a very wise mantra!

(And I should say, that as silly and goofy as my husband is, he's actually an incredibly sensible, solid person. He's become that cheesy thing people write songs and Hallmark cards about—my "rock.")

I have come to absorb these words so completely it's my mantra, too.

It is what it is. 

In other words:

The things I would like to change (in me, in society), and can change, I work on. 

The things I cannot change, I do my best to accept…at least I try to accept without becoming a miserable mess.

People do things I find difficult. People make choices I wouldn't. The world has muck in it: it's heavy, hard, impossible. Sometimes this gets me down.

But what rises always, is hope. I try to live the change I would like to see in the world, and that buoys me. I let kindness and compassion be my guide, and that keeps me steady.

And, as best I can, I try not to let my hopes, wants, or desires decide my emotional well being, or affect my mental health.

I tried life the other way, and it didn't work—sadness always seemed to stick and cling.

Now, I choose to simply BE. I do my best to be open to whatever comes and to accept whatever is. This might bring joy or sadness, and the great range of feeling in between, but doesn't change who I am.

Nothing clings to simply Being. "Being" is like duck feathers, don't you think?

The water beads and slides off, in rain or shine, puddle or pond. And no matter what, whatever the state of the water, the duck stays a duck. The water (soft or hail-hard, warm or needle-cold) doesn't change that.

Which brings me to Ed Sheeran. 

That is, 
The Tale of Acceptance, Surrender…and Ed Sheeran

(Of course it does. That makes total sense.)

Ed Sheeran is great. Like, really great and stuff, and I'm not just saying that because I'm a teenage girl, 40-something-year old woman.

I've liked his music for a while—mostly from watching videos of him playing live. The guy takes his guitar, a loop pedal, and two mikes, and makes incredible, intricate melodies from his voice and guitar alone. He turns his guitar into a bass drum, into a snare; he layers his voice into four part harmonies; he beat-boxes and sings jazz with the clearest, cleanest voice. It's dazzling, the things he does. Plus, he sings lyrics and tells stories that matter. And, from what I've seen, he's also a really nice guy. Which makes me like him even more.

I knew he was coming to Australia, to my town; I also knew I couldn't afford to see him. Over the past few months, I'd think, 'Hang it, I'll just go.' Three times, I logged onto the ticket server thingy only to change my mind at the last minute.

I said to myself, 'You can't afford to go. And your husband isn't even that into Ed Sheeran, so you wouldn't have a date. So it's decided. You aren't going. You can accept this. You can watch him on Youtube; it's no big deal.'

But I kept thinking about it. The concert. In my town. Coming.


On the morning of the concert I thought, 'Well, I sure would like to go see Ed Sheeran.'

I thought, 'But you're not going. And it's sold out. And you can't afford it. And that's okay.'

I thought, 'Yes. That is okay. But I sure would like to go see Ed Sheeran.'

I thought, 'Remember you don't have the money. And you wouldn't have a date. And that's okay.'

And I thought, 'Yes. But I sure would like to go see Ed Sheeran.'

And so on!


At some point in the day, though, a new thought came into my mind. It was clear and distinct. It came with the quietest voice.

It said:

If you are meant to go, you will. You either will, or you won't. 

Just surrender. 

It will be what it will be.


Huh…
Interesting!

I've never exactly been a "meant to be" kind of person. I've always thought that was something other people Said.

Did I believe it? Do I have the beliefs and particular faith to support this kind of thinking? Well, I do… and I don't…and I do, in my own way…and…

the things I believe are actually deeply felt, personal, intensely spiritual, beautiful things. And all that's for another post, perhaps a different conversation, or maybe it's actually private?

All I know is, I thought the thought…or the thought came into my head…

and I surrendered.

Not the kind of surrender where you give up—where you wave your white flag hopelessly, in tears.

Rather, the kind where you wholly accept.

It felt really, really peaceful.


So, cut forward about 9 hours to that night—the night of the concert. It was seven o'clock, and I was making dinner. My husband walked in the door from work, and within five minutes gave me the news.

The t-shirt I always design for the big Megaband concert he organises every year, the one over 100 kids wear…well, I would be paid for designing it this year. I would be paid. Like, in real money!

Enough money to go see Ed Sheeran.

No way.

Yes!!

Yes!!!

But the next hurdle came quickly:

You see, I had no ticket.

And the concert was sold out. (Except for the nose-bleed seats with completely obstructed views—which would mean I'd be paying to not watch a dot on a stage moving about behind an enormous pole).

So I said to myself, 'Well, I'm going to give it a try. By myself. I'll see if someone is standing outside selling a ticket, for a reasonable seat. If there isn't a ticket, I'll just come home.'

And I thought, 'And that will be okay. I will have tried. It will be what it will be.'

I showered and zipped off, through the rain and into the city.

Where there was no parking! And time was running out!

The concert was starting in an hour and I had no money. I found a 15-minute parking spot outside the stadium—enough time to go to the ATM and buy a ticket, if a ticket was waiting to be bought.

I stood in the rain, in a queue for the money machine. The line was soooooo long, like a thousand people long. (Not really, but close)

I thought, 'This isn't going to work. This is a sold-out concert. No-one is selling tickets outside in the rain. No-one is selling tickets, full-stop. Hmmm. Perhaps I should go home.'

The quiet, determined voice from earlier popped into my head again.

Wait, it said. You haven't seen this out yet. Wait.


Huh. All right, "Persistent Voice of Acceptance and Surrender": I'll wait.

I stood in line and finally got my money.

Then I stood outside the stadium in my hat and snug coat as the rain came down, comfortably warm and not very wet, watching to see if a person might try to sell a ticket they didn't want. I stood there for five minutes. My parking time was almost out.

I thought. 'Ah. So that's how it will be. No concert tonight.'

It was as though I was watching myself from far away—a woman waiting calmly in the rain, accepting whatever outcome might happen, truly at peace. How funny, thought my watching self. You've taken yourself right to the heart of wanting; you've walked right up to it, and you are okay. This doesn't hurt. You aren't anxious. What a change.

And I thought, 'Right-o, I'll go home.'

The quiet voice came again.

It said, You haven't tried the Box Office yet.

'But those are the Obstructed View, Nose-bleed seats,' I thought. 'I can't justify spending this kind of money on those kind of seats!' (Because I might be a fan, but I'm a sensible, 40-something-year-old woman who knows about the cost of groceries, and books, and shoes…the curse of being a Grown-Up).

The quiet voice said, You haven't tried, though. Just try.

So in I went.

Me to the box office girl: "Hi, just wondering if you have any seats left?"

"Yes!" she said cheerfully, "We do!"

"Ah…are those the full-on nose bleed seats with the obstructed view?" (Yes, I really asked that question!)

"No. Actually they aren't," she said, smiling. "We've just released some new seats, down at the front."

Like at the front front? Like, first row of the seats? Like, directly beside the stage?

YES.

No way.

YES!

I handed my money. I got the ticket. I gave the girl the biggest grin.

And, Weeeeee! I went leaping back to my little car.

So. Exciting!

With only half an hour to go, I drove through the rain, drove around looking for a park. Of course, just before a big concert in a small city, there was nothing.

I thought, 'Huh. Maybe I should park kind of far away and catch a cab? Maybe I should drive quickly home and get my family to take me in?'

And I thought, 'This will be interesting,' I thought, 'if I miss the concert because I can't find a place to park.'

The quiet voice came again.

It said, It will be okay. Just keep driving.

It was like having a spirit sitting beside me, in lotus position, floating. Or sitting on my shoulder, watching the road. Or curled like a wise cat in my lap, his paws tucked under.

Or something inside my own self, speaking sense.

Or something else entirely.

I kept on driving. I turned right and saw, waiting there, a parking spot. Two blocks from the stadium. An easy, five-minute walk.

Everything clicked into place.


Off I went to the concert, by myself.

Sat in the front row, just to the side of the stage.

Watched Ed Sheeran do wild and fantastic things with his guitar, his voice, two mikes and a loop pedal.

Yelled and carried on with all the teenage girls.

Sang along, harmonised, laughed at Ed's stories.

Gave myself to the moment without reservation.

My happiness didn't hurt; it felt, simply, like happiness.

I didn't think about the concert ending.

All I did was BE.


And along with simply BEING came:

Deep contentment.

Amazing peace.

Beautiful, in-the-moment, tip-to-toe, joy.

I was so glad to be there.



Thank you, Quiet Voice of Acceptance and Surrender.

Thank you, Spirit…within and without.

I am so glad I found you.

I am so glad you found me.

This, is what it means to live

The room is dark, but for the lights on the faces of the players,

on their hands as their fingers move
over the keys of the accordion,
the clarinet
the strings of the violin
the skin of the drum.

Their eyes are closed

as the notes lift, into
a tumble a line a swirl,

as the notes make stories,
vivid things I see with my own eyes shut.


I sit
hands folded in my lap
and see

a figure on a dock looking over wild water
the water slate-blue and wind-whipped
no boats or ships in sight

the music changes
and I see

a man struggling up a hill alone
through white-swirled snow that makes
his old cloak flap
he is a cloud, walking

the music changes
and I see

three girls spinning
skirts fanning out in circles
bright red, yellow, stripes of blue

the sight becomes sound becomes the music becomes one

And now my body moves
not consciously
not intentionally
not the toe-tapping, foot-stomping, body-shaking groove of me
rising to dance or doing a jig in my chair
but the here-and-not-here of me,

soul moving.

I've been taken
it seems
in this space,
through and to a dream;

my body follows the spirit it
hears
and I am not here
but floating.

I am in the note
the song

the beat
the drum.

I am in the mist outside
in the sea just below the hill
in the wet sky as it leans
down to kiss the grass.


This.

I see,
suddenly

know,
vividly and feel,

to the deep to the light to the bone,

this, this,
this!

Is what
it means (it must),
to live.

I'll be back…soon!

Oh, I have so much to say, I really do, but I don't know how to find the time to say it—do you think we could ask the Powers That Be for more time?

I sure hope you are all well out there…I hope your days have been a whole soup-pot full of goodness. I haven't been here in ages, but it's not for lack of wanting. I think I have written a blog-post in my head every single day.

In the meantime, we have been so well here, what with all the learning and the doing and the getting to places and being really very busy since the 'school' year started again, and the being happy.

We're walking on the beach (lots). We're cuddling cats (even more lots). We are writing and juggling and playing music and doing science and seeing friends and learning about Everything and Anything and writing some more (so many stories!) and eating scrumptious food (lots of it—these kids just keep on growing) and running workshops (at least I am—three writers workshops now!) and grabbing life and kissing it. I am even back to writing my novel. There. I said it. I am. It feels…beautiful.

And my girl was sick, but fell deeply asleep last night as I was sponging her fever away, and that was a gift. She slept for 9 hours straight after that. I kept reaching out in the bed and touching her skin with my hand to see how she was. Sometime in the night her fever broke, her skin was cool…and so I slept.

Life has been like that, this last month. I've stayed close by my kids. We have spent every second, it seems, together, and we keep our hands on each other all the time, to see how we are.

There's a lot of love going 'round in this house.

But not much blog writing!

While I've been away, lots of spammers have stopped by to say hello.

Here's a note from one of them:

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Isn't that a lovely note? Thank you, quick cash loans website!

There were other notes like this, but this one was my favourite.

I can't wait to post again here, a nice long blog post filled with photos. I can't wait to share lots of news. I can't wait to say hello.

I can't wait for the next moment and the next. I wonder what each one might bring…?