a tale of woe and joy and greeblies

Far far away in the Land of Us there lived a worn and wrinkly Princess.

Let's call her Helena, shall we?

Princess Helena, or Mum, as the kingdom lovingly called her, was stuck in the Tower of Unwell. She'd been trapped there for ages and ages and ages and ages. Like, for 11 whole days. Her hair had grown longer (at least longer than it had been 11 days ago). She lay in her bed and gazed out at the trees and the clouds. She longed to be free of the dreaded curse that had been placed on her, in the form of virusey greeblies invading her system. Those greeblies were having a full-on extended vacation, it seemed. She swore she could hear them giggling from her lungs and throat where they'd set up deckchairs, where they were drinking pina coladas and doing bombs in the pool.

On day 4, a Monday, she lay on the bed, and called faintly for help. Her voice was trembly, her face pale. Imagine the swoony putting of hand to the forehead and some pitiful moaning.

"How are you going today, Mum? Still sick?" said a fair Prince from the doorway.

"You need something, Mum?" said a wee Princess bounding up behind him.

Both little ones came up and gave Princess Helena a soft peck on the cheek.

Ah, that was nice. Made her feel a teensy bit better straightaway.

Kids decided to keep Princess Helena company that day, and every day. Books were brought up to bed, and read as the hours became days became week-and-a-half. The cats scooched up close, purring and their paws intermingled.

One extra-special day, the maths books were brought up, and the term

Bed-schooling

was coined. Now that was a sweet day.

Princess Helena wasn't always in bed in her tower. Sometimes she had to go out,

to Lego League and to band practice and art class. She brought the tower of Unwell with her—it floated along, with her encased inside. Behind its invisible walls and from its hopeless height she coughed pathetically in chairs and on couches.

Princess Helena even made it to a show on Friday night, to see a music film and concert with her children. It had been on the calendar for months—there was no missing this one. And the film was so magical and so extraordinary she forgot for a while that she was unwell. It was about music and about the Spirit—two things dear and close to the Princess's heart. 

Her children breathed it in. When the Princess brought the little Princess home early, they said together, How wonderful! How beautiful! And that night, her girl fell deeply asleep before Princess Helena had even said a proper goodnight.

On Saturday morning, with the tower slinking along silently, and the greeblies tittering behind their hands, she made it to another concert.

This one, was the young Prince's first solo jazz recital. Accompanied by his father, the King of Tunes and Grins and Assorted Loveliness.

This was worth lifting oneself up from bed for.

Look at the joy on the Prince's face. Look at how he smiles as he plays!

And then the Tower called again, hit hard immediately after the concert.

Straight to bed for Princess Helena.

It was worst on Sunday. Which was the day the Princess felt rotten. And sad too, because it was a day of remembering sad things. She crept into sorrow and sat with it. She allowed herself to feel it, because as the film said, and as she knew, a little, already: 

"On the other side of suffering, is happiness." 

She took her asthma puffer hour after hour and tried simply to breathe. She felt.  Big and deep and oh, so very much. 

And that night? She slept through the night for the first time in days.

Which brings us to today.

Today the Princess is finally on antibiotics.

Today the sun is shining.

Today the young Prince and wee Princess (not so wee; she's almost 9 after all! But bear with me; I'm almost done) are watching Kung Fu Panda on the Tower television. The Prince has a very sore throat (oh no's!) and together they are drinking super juice. Spinach, carrot, orange, pear and apple (or just home-made lemonade if you're a much-bigger-than-wee Princess).

Today the King took the morning off work to do the grocery shopping. (Thank you so much, mr beautiful).

Today the sickness greeblies are beginning to sound worried. Not so much tittering. Not so much dancing by the pool.

Today the Princess imagines them scurrying about. Sorting their belongings, finding suitcases, scrabbling in their pockets for directions to the next Tower, and a tip for the drinks waiter.

Today is day 12. The day after 11 and before 13. 

Or day 1. 

Depending on how you see such things.

:)

10 years

Ten years ago today, we arrived. A little boy, a woman, and a man.

Arriving from the US to begin a Brand New Life in Australia.

Bleary-eyed and plan-less, we were driven to my mother's house up on the hill. I don't remember much about the day except we

went to the sea.

And I have a picture in my mind, of my husband standing there in the water, thousands of miles from home, gazing out.

My husband had never been to Australia before, but agreed to move here

because I asked.

Kind of beautiful, don't you think?


We didn't have jobs waiting for us, or a home, or any sense of where in Australia we'd ultimately end up. We just moved here.

And arrived on September 7, 2001.

I remember thinking, Wow. That's so close to my seven year anniversary of being away.

Because almost exactly 7 years before, I'd left Australia and run off to America.

To be with a boy, and to follow a dream of becoming a writer, and because staying felt so much harder than leaving.


I arrived in the US on September 11, 1994.


September 11. It was my arrival date, and 'anniversary-of-being-far-from-home' date, for 7 years.

Every year that went by, I'd take note of that date, and think, Another year! And: "I wonder when I'll ever go home?"

By September 11, 1995, I had travelled through Europe with the boy I'd followed, and was living in Rome with him for three months. I remember feeling lonely more days than not.

On September 11, 1996, I was living in Seattle, trying to make the best of a relationship that was never meant to be.

Just after September 11, 1997—the boy and I having broken up—I left Seattle and headed south-west. Drove across the country in my little VW, with just two boxes and two bags to my name. I had no idea where I would end up. Which was scary and beautiful, both.

September 11, 1998, I was living in San Francisco. I was renting a room in an old Victorian house, writing, studying, working part-time and playing lots. I would ride my bike to the tops of hills and float down.

September 11, 1999, I was pregnant with my son. But I didn't know it yet! I was starting a new job, living in the city, and I was deeply in love. My baby boy was no bigger than a bean.

By September 11, 2000, I was married to my love. We were living in the East Bay, and I spent all my  days with my baby boy. I was also at the beginning of a roller coaster ride with post-partum depression that swept me up and dragged me under. But I loved my son as hard and big as it's possible to feel. And my husband was my lifeline.

So then, September 7, 2001 found us here.

Blinking and newly arrived.

I remember thinking, Wow. It's almost exactly 7 years to the day.

Here we were, starting our unmarked, unmapped adventure. I thought, "September 7 & 11—these dates I will remember always."


Four days later, the world changed.

In the middle of the night (but morning on the 11th in the US), my mum came and said quietly to my husband, Come look at the television. Something terrible is happening.

My husband's home, my other home, was altered forever.


So many sad and shaken days followed. I don't know exactly what my husband felt, but I imagine he felt lost and raw. Unmoored. We held each other and grieved.

And my simple anniversary became another thing entirely.


September 11 represents so much now.

Sorrow, hurt, anger, retribution, loss.

Loss beyond measure

of so much, of so many,
in so many places.

But it represents more than this.

You have to believe there is compassion, too.

Understanding. Connection and kindness in great waves.

Humanity.


And in this moment, four other words call out. I hear them, clear as bells.

     Building.

     Rising.

     Rebirth.

     Joy. (Finding it. Remembering it.)

Those are the words I hear. The words many carry now, and choose to hold close when the date swings by again, again, and we
stop to remember.


And those words

are the ones our 10 years here have come to represent, too.


Building. A new life, a family, a home.

Rising. Out of a darkness that nearly claimed me.

Rebirth. The three of us becoming four; finding my heart, my happy, my words again; stopping to see how the sky turns so many kinds of blue.

And Joy. In being, creating, cherishing, living fully. In waking every single day, so grateful to find

I am, and we are, Still Here.


So on this day, September 7, 2011, a day that is special to us,
I celebrate.

Ten years here with this man, in this beautiful place, with these amazing adventures behind us and new ones waiting.

On this day I say:

Look at these children we made, and the home we created together, and the work we do, and the people we love, and the roots we've put down!

Look at the gifts these ten years have brought us.

Look at the joy.

Honour what it's built on. 


Treasure everything we have.

sickday

I'm sick.

Like,
lie in bed all day kind of sick. Where you cough lots, find it hard to sit up, you nurse a super sore throat, sleep lots, have your husband come home to hang with the kids for a few hours, and have your lunch brought to you in bed by a sweet boy. The kind of sick day you could maybe enjoy,

except for the fact you feel so sick.

I have no idea really what the kids have done today. Other than

make me a sweet get well card/box,

A home-made pill box,
where each pill-looking thing was part of a get-well message written on little scrolls.
Beautiful.

play on the computer, create a paper airplane with a feather attached to see how it flies, practice music, go to band, talk, help, write stories, watch a movie,

and read and read and read.

Really, almost nothing, right? :)

On a sick day, when everything hurts, when you can't keep your kids entertained, help them with their projects or get them to places they need to be, and when you can't even look after them, your mind goes to Worry easily. You think—does this count? As a learning day? Am I a good homeschooling mum? Am I failing? Should they be at school? Etc etc and Ugh.

Those are the sounds a sick Me makes. But the sounds a sick person makes aren't reliable. Neither is the Worry we swing to when our guard is down.

Whereas the Happy my kids feel, the kindness they show, the contentment shining out

are all real.

I know it even through the fog.


And a sick day had cats in it. Keeping close. Keeping company. Which I thought was nice.

 

a love letter

to the man who is the father of my children

to the man who listens to every word we say

and lets us know we

matter.

to the man who always puts

family first.

to the man who is endlessly

kind
funny
fascinating
inspiring
honest
insanely dependable AND
exciting (yes, you can be both!)

and the best father I have ever met in my life.

I can't even put into words how lucky I feel, how blessed my kids are to have this man for a dad,

and what a gift he is.

So here's some photos of the father of my children,

opening his Father's Day present…

Happy Father's Day, my love. 

Thank you for being so beautiful. 

running, rising, soaring

Images are flitting through my head in flashes,

like lightning hitting the backs of clouds.


Picture this:

a hill, with ordinary houses dotting down and down the incline. All is quiet—
birds and children dozing.

Then

a rumble. Growing louder, louder, louder. Turning into a roar and you see

a driver-less semi-trailer barrelling down the road. Just like that. The houses blink, astonished and the birds are blown backwards in surprise.

And

right behind that truck, you see

a runner, coming down the hill. Fists and legs pumping, red-faced and barrelling too…so close, so close,

running

until he and that crazy truck are out of view.


Which is kind of how
our days are right now.


Today we went hard from 8.30 'til 7.30. No, we didn't go back in time! (Tho' wouldn't that have been fun?)

We left the house at 8.30 in the morning and returned at 7.30 at night. And the day was like a basket full of fireworks, an apron full of frogs, a day

of running to keep up.


But with such smiles on our faces!


Because it was a day made of

Lego League and brainstorming ideas and my boy and my girl and I showing our very first PowerPoint presentation (about an Invention that is way too Top Secret to share here, for now) and trying new, Lego-y things  and doing a team-building exercise that had children falling over laughing. And fresh-made muffins and tree climbing and children bent over tables with their heads together. Three hours together and we were all of us like photos spread on a table, our corners overlapping.

And then,

staying to have lunch after the meeting, talking with friends,
three kids still not sick of each other, playing and talking, talking and playing, outside.

And then,

going to Homeschool Group, to the playground by the beach. A beautiful combination :)

As we mothers talked there in the sun, warming ourselves like happy cats, we could see

the ocean lying in front and

a pulsing pack of kids playing all around. Playing so deep and so fine, calling to each other, following each other,

so all together we formed the great Us.

We of the Homeschool Wild.


And then,

we went off to the shops to buy pants.

Huh. There's nothing poetic about that!


But wait—it gets more interesting.

Why the pants, I hear you ask?

Because a boy who busked on Saturday got offered a paying gig with his band!

And they were playing tonight.

So off we went and tried for cheap pants, but the cheap pants shops shouted, "It's Spring now; Pants are out! Shorts are in! You snooze, you lose! Suckas!"

So the fancy pants shop was our only, and Last, Resort. And such fine fancy pants we found. (On sale, no less. 30% off. Doesn't get much better than that). My boy looked Slick.

Which meant that
while my girl

did art class,

my boy played in his new fancy pants, with his four friends at an opening for a barbershop/retro cafe.

My girl carefully, intently dabbed colours onto paper, deep in her element,

and

my boy lay into a groove that made the air shiver.


How did I know this? Because I got to see both. Watched my girl paint, then we joined my son and husband at the gig.

Cup runneth over. 

We are so lucky.

We carry art on our backs, in our hearts; we wrap ourselves up in it. It keeps us warm in winter, cool in summer. It makes us rise off the ground as though we have little people firing us up inside, so we take off over the treetops. We soar.


Which means, a day that could have

wiped me out,

fed me instead.


After all, you don't know for sure that the runner won't catch that crazy runaway truck. When the hill flattens out and the truck loses steam… There our runner is, slower now, but calm. Looking around, a little, a lot. Knowing that

it's not the catching, but the running (or walking, strolling, skipping),

the keeping going,

and the living

meanwhile,

that matters.



Don't you think? :)

credit

seamless

Today feels like the weekend! she said.

Which didn't surprise me,

because today was filled with the same Flow and Good and True,

as the weekend was.

The weekend was made of

busking

(again!) 

(where a boy made more than double the money he made last week. He is now saving for an iPod touch—which, if he ends up buying it, will be the only electronic game-y thing in our whole house! He has the taste for the good life, now. Tomorrow an iPod touch. Next month, a Porsche :) )

playing at the beach

(with a very old school friend my girl hadn't caught up with in weeks, maybe even months. They picked up right where they left off. Which made me so happy. Creaking inside happy—you know the kind?)

performing

(with friends and a dad, in front of about a hundred people. I think I'd better get used to this, our weekends filled with my boy following his passion)

washing

(a dog on Sunday morning. Who then had to, just had to, roll on the grass. Don't you wish you could do that after a bath?!

And I should mention: it was just my husband and I who popped down the road, to the dog washing station at the pet food store. We left the kids at home alone for the first time ever. Both of them were contentedly reading and didn't want to come. I showed my son where the phone was. Reminded him where our phone numbers were on the fridge. We were back within 20 minutes, and they were fine. Right there, another milestone was reached in the journey—the one that is us raising our kids, then letting them fly. WOW.)

playing

(a new strategic card game created by my girl. Think Yu-Gi-Oh, or Mythmatical Battles, but with kittens. Very cool… It wasn't simple—there were a lot of rules to learn. There were power food tokens you could earn to claim back a defeated kitten. And you had to play smart—these little darlings had some serious attack and defence powers and could take you down. )

learning

(how to work our new sewing machine. It's finally out of its box! Hurrah. We learned to fill the bobbin thingy up and thread the needle. We even sewed. We went crazy with learning.

Though I have to admit: at one point we nearly gave up—the bobbin thingy filling part was kind of hard. We thought we'd have to wait and ask our trusty sewing teacher/neighbour/friend for help. But then, we found an inner strength. We persevered, and figured it out. Boo Ya!)

reading

(all Sunday afternoon—one boy and one girl crawling completely inside their books. My son is re-reading the Percy Jackson series. My girl finished with Artemis Fowl (about a 12 year old criminal mastermind who befriends the world of fairies as you've never imagined them), then moved on to Little House in the Big Woods. Kind of a funny transition, don't you think?)

riding

(by me. Just me. On my bike because I had to. Because the sun and Outside and the beach called. I rode along the bike path that runs along the water, all the way into town. Where I stood by the ocean. Just me. Breathing.)

watching

the chooks wander about. Looking for grubs. Scratching. Free.

the flowers blossoming on the peach tree. Must be Springtime… Lovely.

Ah.
Our weekend.

You could measure each fine moment in dollops. Like

honey. Like fresh whipped cream
plopped on scones you've just pulled out of the oven.

Delicious.

And today? 

Well, it was more of the same :) 

My girl reading an Australian history book at breakfast, about indigenous life before white people came.

My boy practicing piano and drums, then working through his maths textbook, the one he loves. We're up to angles now. He drew his answers in the shapes of fish and 3-D pyramids… As you do!

My girl drawing more pictures in her Book of Creatures. All original, and gorgeous. I will have to ask her if I can share them with you.

My girl and I reading a maths story book together on the big bed upstairs. The cats coming to join us. The two of them licking each other, then sleeping nestled in each other's paws.

My girl going to practice piano and finding dad had run off to work with her music. Not to worry—more time for sewing!

(We're sewing toys, using the sewing machine. We thought we'd have one finished today, but need to fix a few things. Bigger legs! Sew the legs on first, then stuff body! Go bigger all 'round! Be prepared for a nice, steep learning curve! Breathe.)

My son, designing and building a bird feeder. Lots of trial and error there too. Best thing was looking out at him, sitting on the back verandah, drilling and carving with his pocket knife. The chickens roamed by periodically, to check whether the wood chips were worms.

Then the beach.

The beach. The beach!

Jumping the dunes. Striding with the dog (well, he lagged to sniff and poop and say hello to the other dogs). Sitting while the children played.

Floating in Time.

And band practice for my boy, and maths talk with my girl about making change and her Getting It! and dinner all together at the table… my husband making us laugh 'til we pleaded for him to Please, stop being so funny. :)

And a movie date with my husband as the kids read in bed.

And
now…?

Quiet.


This is how a Monday can be

just, and exactly,

like a weekend.


Open. Full. Of wonder. Of discoveries and delight. Of adventure and simplicity, both.


Just and exactly,

(and so very simply)

a life.

linking, as I do, with Owlet 

and her unschool Mondays…

and for the first time with Amanda, 

and her lovely weekending series. 

:) 

this week

What a week it has been.


So busy—so up and down

and down and up.



This week,

in the spirit of More! that I referred to in my last post,

I learned to program a Mindstorm robot

with my girl and her friend.

(The Lego League coach did a Girl's Only training session just for us.
Wasn't that lovely of him?)

I felt the sparks of my brain light up,

as we went through new step after new step. It felt kind of fizzy and delightful :)

In the end I watched, as my girl and her friend got the robots they'd built and programmed (with my help!)

to complete their first obstacle course. They looked at each other and beamed.

This week, in the spirit of More!

I did art class with my kids.

(The art teacher always says Of Course, when I ask to join in.
Isn't that lovely of her?)

We did a still life, with pots and pans, painting only in shades of grey. Looking for the light, the dark and the in-between.

At one point I thought, This is terrible. I'm doing a terrible job. I'm going to take this painting down and throw it in the bin.

Then I thought, No. You. Won't!

Remember, I told myself. It is the staying, the doing and the being here in my body in this moment that truly matters.


This week,

I went to a funeral. For my uncle who'd died suddenly on a ferry. Just like that.

The moment in the service that did me in was my aunt,

standing before the packed room saying,

'I didn't get one second. Not a single moment, to say goodbye.'

So she asked that we say goodbye, together.


And it struck me,

that out of a life this adventurous, this full, a journey filled with Go! and Do! and Change!

the greatest legacy my uncle left,

the feeling that was the strongest—so vibrant it shimmered in the room—

was how much he was loved.


Then,

I planned my own funeral

(…doesn't everyone? Or is it just me…?).

I wanted it filled with colour.

I told my beloved sister and husband so.

I told them: I would like ribbons. And bright flowers and music. SO much music!

And people beside an ocean
with gulls catching the wind.

That's all.

So if I have no words and no time to say goodbye,

the colours, the music, and the sea can do it for me.

This week,

it's been kind of quiet here, in my land of words,

as I've tried to sort through some Stuff.

You know The Stuff, don't you? It's different, but so much the same, as other people's.

The Stuff that blocks, trips, leaves you hollow. The Stuff you try to shift.

Which means I've been quiet in the spaces of others too. I am sorry for that. I love coming by to see you. When I stop by, I truly feel like I'm popping in for a cup of tea.

Though I haven't written, please know I still love being with you. Please know that I come by.

While sorting my Stuff out, I've felt alternately busy and blank. I've been weepy and muddled, and

distracted best by all the amazing kids I spend time with in the week,

and the kind grown-ups.


This week,

well, I suppose right now, actually,

I feel like

I am the still field.

Waiting.


Healing.

All around, in the fields to my north, my south, my east, my west, 

—the fields that are my kids and their friends,
their projects and their happy lives—

I can hear bees buzzing.

I hear the thick swish of someone walking through corn.

The crick crick of crickets and the peeping of birds.

I can see bright colours, wildflowers everywhere.

I can hear the push of green up through the soil, blades of grass and new shoots.

I can see sunlight streaming.

I see children running,

doing a dizzy twirl that eventually tilts their laughing bodies onto the ground.

I hear their laughter like bells. 

I see

a swallow swoop down low.

So low I see its eyes

and soft edges.

How funny, it must think,

to see a lady in a field, sitting so still with her face up to the sun.

Waiting. 

This week,

I wanted to share the music that has been my week's soundtrack. 

With all its downs 

and glorious ups.

The whole album is SO beautiful,

in every way uplifting and wild, 

strange, sorrowful and true, 

it might just be the entire playlist for my funeral.

:) 

especially 

this one.