Poem for a Sunny Day

Heliocentric Contemplation

Relentless sunshine

Leave me alone

Your incessant demands for action

activity

joyous leaping.

Can't you see?

My mood requires rain.

Damp, dreary, grey

cool droplets

You shroud me in guilt

How dare I hover indoors?

Fuck you Mr. Sunshine

you and your heliolithic minions

Like an overly cheery morning person

Insistent. 

Annoying.

Take me to Seattle or Vancouver

Dress me in galoshes and hand me an umbrella

Today, anyway.

The Power of Words

"Words have no arrows or swords, yet they tear men's minds to pieces." Tibetan Buddhist proverb

Words. How many of us can look back upon our lives without remembering times when a few uttered words had an impact on us in some way? And it would also be fair to say that more often than not we recall words that were critical or negative or hurtful versus the positive or loving or encouraging ones directed at us. 

From an early age we start to bank them. We store them in our brains and allow them to collect interest. I have a passbook full of them. "You have heavy calves. You have a crooked tooth. Your folks are pretty blue collar. Maybe he cheated on you because you're too independent. (still not sure if that was a criticism or a compliment) Your weight is up again. Don't you regret having only one child? I don't love you anymore. I love you...I am just not "in love" with you. I bet if  we break up, you will get fat. "

Suffice to say, I can still dredge up the hurt caused by these comments. Comments that were uttered by friends or loved ones. The good news is I did not really dwell on them, but clearly, I never forgot them. My self-esteem, although tested over my lifetime has generally allowed me to let these words roll off my back. In fact, I would go so far as to say that my memory of positive, loving and encouraging words have had a much greater impact on my life so far. 

These too appear in my passbook. "You're so creative. You're very talented. You have such an eye for design. Your daughter is lovely. You're doing an amazing job. You look great. Your words have inspired me. I love you. I love you very much."

As much as the negative words hover in the debit column of the passbook of my life, the positive statements far outweigh them and feed me and spur me on. It makes sense to me that they would. Having said all this, sadly, it is not true for everyone. Not everyone is able to set aside the barbs and slurs. This is particularly true in the case of a woman I met yesterday. 

A woman who became obsessed with a few negative words. A woman who allowed a few  negative words to consume her life for several years. A woman who felt compelled to write a memoir to make sure her side of the story was made public. A woman who in my mind wasted several of the best years of her life in mental turmoil over a few words. A woman who could not see she was making a mountain out of a molehill. 

I attended the launch of Committed Undone, by Elizabeth Lowrie at Gataker's Artspace here in Maryborough, Queensland yesterday morning. It was Easter Monday, a holiday here in Australia and a seemingly odd day to hold a book launch, but according to Lowrie, it was the day her swami had advised. Clearly swamis don't give a fuck about holidays.

For those of you who do not know who this woman is (you are not expected to know), she is the ex-wife of Jose Nunes, the man currently married to Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray Love. In that book, he is known as "Felipe", the man she meets in Bali and falls in love with and eventually marries a short time after the book is published. 

Lowrie and Nunes divorced in 2001, years before he met Gilbert. Lowrie is the mother of his two children, so despite their parting, he continues on as part of her life via their children, as most divorced parents do. After reading Eat Pray Love and Gilbert's follow-up book Committed, I came away with the impression that Lowrie and Nunes had a civil and agreeable post-divorce arrangement for the sake of their children. I did not for a moment think that their divorce had been particularly difficult in the way some divorces can play out. I did not think that Lowrie had been painted in a negative light at all. In fact, her role seemed entirely minimal in either of the two books. She was a good mother, a cooperative ex-spouse, and an Australian woman. Case closed. She was in no way central or important to either book in my mind and I doubt that the millions of readers of these books saw her much differently. 

However, after reading her self-published memoir, it is evident that she thinks she was portrayed as a "bitch", a difficult ex-wife. She claims that the words used in the promotional materials for Committed defamed her character. The publishers of Committed used a quote from the book that read (in reference to Gilbert and Nunes) "they were survivors of previous bad divorces". In earlier promotional materials, the adjectives were a bit harsher. In one case the word "horrific" was used. In another, "catastrophic" and in yet another..."very, very, bad". Lowrie objected strongly to these adjectives as she had always thought she had what she refers to as a "gracious divorce".  She hired a lawyer and insisted the offensive words be removed from the ads. 

Now, you would think that this would have been enough to placate her, as the harsher words were consequently removed from the promo materials. As a self-proclaimed "practicing buddhist", she might have been able to "let it go". Sadly for her, that was not the case. She became obsessed with following the internet "hits" and how many people were seeing the words that she felt were defamatory. Each "hit" is taken personally as though the unsavoury adjectives were being absorbed by the public to such an extent that all the readers of these words were interpreting them as direct arrows targeting her character. Really? Throughout her memoir, she updates us on the numbers. With each large increase, her anxiety level seems to escalate. It is not long before she finds it difficult to focus at work. She plans a long holiday, not unlike the journey taken by Gilbert in Eat Pray Love, but at the same time, nothing like it either. 

She heads to the USA to do a week-long river rafting adventure on the Colorado River, spends some time in LA and Las Vegas before flying to Sao Paulo in Brazil for a 6 week meditation retreat at a Buddhist temple. From there, she heads to NYC where she departs by train for Canada and a rail trip from Toronto to Jasper, followed by a car trip from there to Vancouver Island. This part of the memoir reads like a journal and any attempts to make it more readable with forced injections of humourous moments (like she forgot this was a book and was trying to get people to read it) fall flat. What the book is full of are catty passive aggressive attacks on Gilbert and Nunes like this  belittling remark about Eat Pray Love ("Everyone did it in the 60's and 70's, meditating in monasteries is not something new! My friends and I have been doing retreats for years."), to name but one. And pretentious, pompous statements such as her description of her yearly gal pal get togethers where they only drink "quality wines". Or her mocking politically incorrect imitation of a Chinese waiter..."Chineeese boocccali?" 

Change seems to terrorize her as the secondary obsession throughout the book is her fear of retirement. She thinks about it constantly. She observes older people as though they are some sort of strange science experiment she does not understand. She asks them how they are surviving their decisions to retire as though it were not inevitable. She refers to her children leaving the nest as though they were the first ones in the world to leave home. She is clearly uncomfortable with change and the journey through life that all of us take. This is not a woman who rolls with the punches.

The memoir is full of contradictions as well. Her constant references to being a 'practicing buddhist" fly in the face of her often mean and catty barbs. She delights in any criticisms toward Gilbert's writing and is equally deflated when she hears praise. Lowrie says her mother taught her not to air dirty linen in reference to Gilbert's statements...yet her entire memoir is exactly that. Throughout the book she inserts famous (and not so famous) quotes that seem like great advice that she never took. ("Learn to let go. This is the key to happiness."- Buddha) If anything, she gripped even tighter.  She claims she was compelled to write her 'truth' as the only way to "heal" from her trauma. She claims her once 'perfect" life was shattered by these few words. Surely if one's life is so perfect, would you not work to preserve such perfection? Better still. how about realizing that there is no such thing as perfection, aka, "being human 101".

Lowrie's memoir does not read like an inspirational journey. Unlike Eat Pray Love that inspired thousands and thousands of women all over the world to be courageous and brave, Committed Undone is merely a portrayal of how not to cope with adversity. It is an example of how allowing anger and bitterness to consume  you can steal years from you. It does not provide divorced women with hope or consolation as she suggests. On the contrary. After reading this self-aggrandizing, 'woe is me" tale, it only serves to encourage divorced women to bloody get on with their lives and get out of their own way.  

I bought a copy of her book at the launch, but before I did, I approached her with a few questions. I asked her how she ended up in Maryborough and if she enjoyed her tour of Canada, to which she replied..."it's all in the book." Fair enough. I assured her I was planning to buy a copy, since that seemed like the only way I would get my answers.  I asked her if Gilbert was aware of her memoir and she said she "imagined she did". I asked her how her children (whom she claims to be fiercely protective of) felt about her book, and she curtly told me she did not talk about her children (another contradiction). I then told her 'for what it is worth, I never felt she was painted in a negative light, having read both Eat Pray Love and Committed, if that made her feel any better". She said she did not feel bad at all as she was now "healed". 

There was one other question I asked her that may have been most telling of all. I asked her if her book was self-published. Her eyes lit up and a smile crossed her face instantly. For a brief moment, it was as though she thought I might have an interest in publishing her book. She had no idea who I was other than I did not have an Australian accent. I told her I was not a publisher and her momentarily lit up face was extinguished as quickly as it had lit up. I sensed a defensive tension about her. I cannot say for sure what her motivation has been to publish this book, but I am not convinced it is only about telling her "truth". 

I want to believe it is, but she got my $29.99, didn't she?

The "truth" is, despite her best intentions, her self-published memoir may do more harm to her reputation and character than her silence, illustrating once again the power of words. Talk about turning the sword in on yourself. 

Ouch.

There are no Coincidences!

Champagne Pools, Fraser Island, Queensland, Australia

I believe in setting intentions, imaging, and the law of attraction. At one time I might have been skeptical, but as I have watched it work in my own life time and time again, I have all the "proof" I need. I have also been witness to how it has worked in the lives of others. Skeptics will "poo poo" it all as coincidence and I am fine with that. I do believe the skeptics should be a little more open-minded to possibility, but that is their row to hoe, not mine.

Over the last several years, it has become clearer and clearer to me how well it works. Last week I had a real smack upside the head from the law of attraction that I will share with you here today. It will help me figure out what I am supposed to do with it hopefully.

 Shortly after reading Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert in 2007, something started stirring inside me. I became restless. I began to crave change. It was a catalyst toward some serious self-examination that was long overdue. Despite its many critics, the book had a colossal impact on me. I was not alone. Thousands of women all over the world were struck by her words and her journey. Many longed to take a similar pilgrimage. At the time, I did not even think it was possible, but over the course of the next three years, this intense period of soul-searching gripped me, refusing to let go. In many ways, it was as though there was no stopping it. Something was forcing me to take this journey and I could kick and scream and resist as much as I liked. It would be to no avail. I made a conscious decision at one point to just stop trying to swim upstream against the current and go with the flow. In an attempt to help my trip down the river, I decided to work with a bit of imagery and play around with the law of attraction. 

I did some simple things. I changed all my passwords to names of women that I admired, with the idea that daily imaging of successful (in my mind) authors or characters would steer me toward a similar fate. In one case, after about two years of using one name,  it occurred to me that I actually did not want to end up like her, so I immediately changed it to another name and as soon as I did that, a course correction took place. At that time, I changed it to Elizabeth Gilbert, thinking it would give me the strength and courage that she had to do what I felt I had to do. I also changed the screen saver on my computer at work to an image of where I wanted to go. At the time, in my wildest dreams, I thought it would never happen. And then, it did.The image was of the Champagne Pools on Fraser Island. I have been there 4 times since then.  I also created an image board of what I wanted my future life to look like. As of today, at least half of the images I used that seemed unattainable at the time have manifested. 

Which brings me to a recent "coincidence". Last week, an invitation to a book launch appeared in my inbox. It was an event being held at the local art gallery here in Maryborough. Initially I glanced at it, not noticing the details. A couple of days later, I actually opened it, curious as to the book and the author, when the name Elizabeth Gilbert popped up. No, it was not her launching a book in this small town in Australia, but it just so happens, that her husband's ex-wife has written a book that will apparently unveil her "truth". She has used the fame and notoriety of her ex-husband's new wife to promote her own memoir, stating that she was blindsided by Gilbert's suggestion in her follow-up book - Committed, that their divorce had been "very, very, bad", when she felt it had been "gracious". 

Now, of all the small towns in all of Australia, how is it that I end up living in the same place as Elizabeth Lowrie? I did know after reading Eat Pray Love that "Felipe" had once been married to an Australian woman and that he had children with her and it was very likely that he would travel to Australia from time to time to spend time with his kids. But, it certainly took me by surprise to learn that she lives right here in this tiny corner of the world, the same tiny corner I have landed. So, now the question is - Why? Was I meant to meet her? Does she have a message for me? What will I learn at this book launch next week that will impact me? Should I send my heroine a note to tell her I am going? It almost feels like I am cheating on her in some way. Sidling up to the enemy? Should I read her book? Should I remain faithful to Gilbert? Was I meant to hear both sides of the story? Is Lowrie legit? Is she really just wanting her side of the story to be told or is she riding the wave of Gilbert's success to try and sell a few books? What is her motivation? 

There are certainly many questions. There is also an uncanny resemblance between the two. Both blond, Caucasian, same first names and both took healing journeys. Lowrie apparently meditated for 6 weeks in Brazil, rafted down the Grand Canyon and took a train across Canada, in contrast to Gilbert's eating in Italy, meditating in India, and finding balance in Bali. I cannot help but think that the ex-wife is really trying to stick it to Gilbert. There is a sense of bitterness and anger around the description of her story and she has even titled her book - Committed, Undone. C'mon! Surely she could have come up with something better than that! However, since I do not know the whole story yet, I will wait and reserve judgement until after I know more. I will try to keep an open mind and hear this woman out. 

We all know there are two sides to every story. 

For whatever reason, seems I need to hear hers.

I Never get Sea Sick

Looking out to sea from the south side of Waddy Point

After a week of sleeping and  waking up to the sounds of surf crashing on the beach, the silence outside my window last night was particularly noticeable, just as the sound of those rolling waves took a night or two to get used to on Fraser Island, now that I am home, the quiet will take a couple of days as well. 

What is it about being near the ocean that is so refreshing and healing? I always come back from these holidays renewed in ways that other escapes pale in comparison. The moment we roll off the barge and onto the beach, something happens. We enter an entire new world, barely 90 minutes from our inland home and everything changes. The sea air and the sound of the surf begin to permeate the physical body almost instantly and it is not long before your mind follows suit. 

It is easy to live in the moment when the distractions of daily life are limited to the nature surrounding you. I once read a TripAdvisor review of one man's trip to Fraser Island and he essentially said he was bored there. He said there really was not much to see or do. I was dumbstruck by his opinions. Clearly he had chosen the wrong type of vacation for himself. It sounded like he had not done his research. Maybe he should have gone to Vegas. I find every  moment fascinating on the world's largest sand island. What may appear as a lifeless expanse of beach as you drive along the sand for 75 miles is anything but. 

Looking south from north of Ngkala rocks

In fact, on this, my fourth trip to Fraser Island, I discovered exactly how much more life there was, that until now, I had been unaware of myself. The last time I was there, I learned how to find pipis beneath the sand. We use them for fishing bait. I had seen others engaging in something called worming, but had never tried it myself. Believe me when I tell you, that you  may think you are walking on nothing more than hardened sand as your bare feet stroll along the beach, but the truth is, there is so much life underfoot, it is incredible. Surely, most of you have noticed little crabs, or seen the little balls of sand created by soldiers crabs, or watched bits of broken shells roll past, but did you know, that lurking just below the surface are thousands of worms? Now, you may be thinking, no big deal, a few little worms. Think again. The worms that are harvested to use as bait are at their smallest about 3 feet long, and as long as 7-8 feet long. I watched in awe and horror as the pros, (and Steve), tempted them to surface their heads with bits of smelly fish, then yanked them from their long and winding holes, sometimes having to fold them up along the way in order to get their entire length out of their cocoon of sand. These monster worms make Canadian earthworms look like beginners. 

In my naivety, I imagined you must need a pretty big hook to affix these fellas, but I learned that you only use bits of them at a time. Gulp! I do love fishing, but there are parts that require me to take a deep breath and wince, as I smack two pipis together to break the shell, then scrape the mollusk away from its home and pierce it with my hook two or three times before casting it out to sea. That took some getting used to, but pinching off bits of worm was pushing me to my limit. It is not a sport for the faint of heart, but the slithery gross parts are worth it when you feel the yank-yank of something unseen under the surf and you pull up and start reeling in. The entire time, wondering what will emerge as your catch gets closer and closer to the shore. It is like buying a lottery ticket and dreaming about what you will do with the money when you win. From the moment you know you have a fish on your hook, you have a period of time where you don't know what you have caught and as I always like to dream big, it is usually something that will be worthy of a prize and I imagine standing proudly as I hold up my awesome catch and photos are taken. However, that has yet to happen in my lifetime. I usually catch small or medium sized fish that are common. On this trip I caught 8 Dart. They are abundant in the waters off the island and are tasty enough but full of tiny bones, so we catch and release. The fun is in the hunt and the catch.

The famous Champagne Pools

When you are not busy fishing, or you want to rinse off the clammy, sticky salty film from your skin, there are many fresh water creeks that flow out to the sea from underground springs. The water is always cool and refreshing and on the move, so you can just plunk yourself down in the creek bed and let the crisp clean water flow over your body. Some are deep enough that if you had a flotation device or inflated rubber tire, you could float along the winding creek beds until you reached the end. These are great spots to stop and enjoy a picnic lunch and clean up before heading back to the shoreline.


Over the course of our week, we saw goannas, rays, dingos,  dolphins, white-bellied sea eagles, ospreys, kites, pied oyster catchers, plovers, sandpipers and many varieties of inland birds as well. I saw my first black snake wind and slither across the road ahead of our vehicle as we crossed the island on an inland road. I saw some crazy-assed spiders and thousands of butterflies and dragonflies. We came across a bizarre little sea creature on the beach, still alive, washed up with the tide. We researched it last night and it was a type of urchin known as a sea potato. There is no end to the discoveries to be made and the vast and varied life to be found on Fraser Island. I cannot help but wonder about the man who said there was nothing much to see or do on the island. Maybe he just had his eyes closed. 

Sea Potato (urchin)

And of course, for many, the main event is beach driving. I had no idea how exhilarating it would be. Imagine driving on the hard-packed sand at 80 kmh, navigating bumps and wash-outs, windows open, sea air on your face and scanning the horizon for dolphins, eagles, whales in season, surrounded by sunshine and blue sky as far as the eye can see and cranking up your favourite music or just listening to the crash of the waves for miles and miles! The word boring does not even enter my mind. It just fills me up to the brim with joy. Pure, unadulterated joy. 

Indian Head in the distance from south of Waddy Point

To immerse yourself fully and wholeheartedly into this jackpot of nature feels like being a little kid again. Spending the whole day outside playing like you did when you were 8 years old, coming home at dusk with pockets full of seashells, sticky and dirty and a little sun burnt, bits of grit and grime under your nails and the worst hat hair you can imagine - that is a typical day on Fraser. If  you are a camper, you continue the adventure into the evening, but for me, I look forward to a nice soak in the tub, a chilled glass of wine, some music on the stereo, dinner and a good bed to collapse in after a full day. Being lulled to sleep with the sound of the surf and waking to the most spectacular sunrises is the icing on the cake.  A bit of luxury and a lot of adventure. 

The perfect combination for this gal.

Can't wait until next time.

Sunrise from Kyeema at Orchid Beach

One Dog's Life

I had never met a dog who would stop and pose for a photo...until I met Broadus (Brody to his friends). It was August of 2008 and my nephew was getting married in Kelowna, B.C.  As I was living in Toronto, I had not yet met his best friend or his bride to be. It was a joyous family occasion and a memorable meeting on both counts. I am not sure whose eyes were more startlingly beautiful, his dogs or his brides, but I came away with lasting impressions of both.

As it turns out, the dog was involved in the wedding ceremony. Not quite the best man, but certainly his role as ring bearer would give him "best dog status" at the very least. It was a casual affair in a natural setting in one of the Okanagan's lush apple orchards. The summer blooms were at their peak, the sun was shining and the cicadas hummed. The groomsmen wore off white linen pants and casually untucked light brown shirts and the groom switched things up with a light green shirt, so Brody, with his healthy shiny brown coat blended in with the wedding party, or maybe the wedding party was meant to blend in with him. Either way, whether intended or not, he was the perfect accessory at this festive occasion. He even had a place of honour on top of the wedding cake. 

Broadus sat through the ceremony next to his much loved owner. He did not slouch or whimper or try to run off. He stood proudly with the best man and calmly witnessed Johnny and Gayle's wedding vows, as any good dog would. He held the bride's ring fastened to his collar waiting for his moment to shine. Afterall, he was not just any old dog that day - he was the only four-legged member of the wedding party. The flower girl only had two legs, and besides, she seemed unable to sit still like he had. Hmmmfff! Humans!, he must have been thinking. 

After the ceremony, it was time for him to really strut his stuff. Photo time! Now, I am not really sure how it all started, but since he was a pup, at the sight of a camera appearing, Brody would jump into action. I reckon he must have been a celebrity or a male model in a past life, but this dog LOVED working the camera. He had this crazy innate sense to pose at the sight of any lense, big or small. He knew how to look directly into the lense, cock his head a little as though he knew his best side and hold still until after the click. He was a pro, through and through. Maybe he just knew how handsome he was, or was  not keen on having bad photos of himself swirling around the internet - who knows? All I know is that he was the easiest dog to photograph that I had ever met and likely ever will. 

Photos are a wonderful thing. As we move through life capturing moments and making memories, we are creating little visual treasures that can be revisited time and time again, whenever we get the urge to go back to a time that made us happy. And so, today, the morning after his passing, I am sure there are many who knew Broadus who are doing just that. Reliving past moments and smiling and remembering a good dog. 

A very good dog. A  much loved dog.

RIP Brody. You will be dearly missed.

Can you be Brave?

One of the most inspiring songs in terms of lyrics that I have heard in recent years is "Brave" by Sara Bareilles. It is intended as encouragement for anyone who is afraid to "come out". When I listen to this song, it always stirs some deep emotion within me that moves me to tears as I know there are so many people in this world who are fearful of living their truths. The song could just as easily apply to fear in general. The kind of fear that stops anyone from being who they truly are. The fear that lurks in just about everyone in one way or another. The kind of fear that requires being brave to conquer.

I know many people who live in fear. So, when I read this quote on Facebook today - the one you see above, it really struck a chord with me. It was the perfect summation of what I wanted to say to so many people, myself included. I felt my heart race as I read it. I wanted to shout it at the top of my lungs, because to live life any other way just seems like a waste to me. What is up with "settling"? Or not speaking up? Or working at a "job you hate"? Take the leap! "Be fucking brave."

Take all your excuses and toss them in the rubbish bin. They are just that. Excuses. If you truly believe that you are here in this one short lifetime to be happy or share your gifts or talents with the world before you die, there really is very little time to waste in fear. Quit hovering there. What are you afraid of? What other people will think? (that is usually a biggie) Afraid of failure? (the second biggie) Ask yourself one simple question. IS IT TRUE? I guarantee you that 9 times out of 10 it is not.  It's never too late. You always wanted a degree or doctorate? What is stopping you? Your marriage is a sham or abusive or dead? Leave it. You would rather be anywhere on earth than at your workplace? Quit. Find a new job or start your own business. Take risks. Experiment. Show some fucking enthusiasm for life. Please, just BE BRAVE! 

Brave

by Sara Bareilles

You can be amazing
You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug
You can be the outcast
Or be the backlash of somebody’s lack of love
Or you can start speaking up

Nothing’s gonna hurt you the way that words do
When they settle ‘neath your skin
Kept on the inside and no sunlight
Sometimes a shadow wins
But I wonder what would happen if you

Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave

Everybody’s been there,
Everybody’s been stared down by the enemy
Fallen for the fear
And done some disappearing,
Bow down to the mighty
Don’t run, just stop holding your tongue

Maybe there’s a way out of the cage where you live
Maybe one of these days you can let the light in
Show me how big your brave is
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave

And since your history of silence
Won’t do you any good,
Did you think it would?
Let your words be anything but empty
Why don’t you tell them the truth?

Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
See you be brave

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you

I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you

A Perfect Day

Lychees ready for picking

Ever notice how the universe often delivers just exactly when you need it to? I do. It happens regularly for me. At least that is how I see it.

On Saturday night after dinner, I was whining a bit about the town I live in. I had held back as long as I could, trying week after week, month after month, to embrace the positive attributes of this small town in Queensland, but suddenly it seemed that the negatives had just been outweighing the positives more and more lately. I was no longer capable of keeping my opinions and thoughts about this town silent. 

My approach to expressing my thoughts and feelings about this place we call home now came spewing forth in a slow and steady flow like hot lava down the slope of a Hawaiian volcano, slowly and thoughtfully, but stinging and hot nonetheless with the potential to do irreversible damage along the way. I said this town had no life force, no energy, there were no good restaurants, no interesting shops, too many dilapidated houses, too many miserable, scowling faces. It feels dead to me. There is no forward movement here. There is a dull, lifeless quality that permeates everything. There is a stubborn stuckness (my new word) in attitude. I went on and on. 

It was probably hard to hear. Even if most of it is or was true, nobody wants to hear this kind of criticism of the town where they have spent most of their life. He listened. He heard me. I got it all off my chest. It was only the beginning of what is sure to be further conversation about the future and where we will end up. It should not come as a surprise to either of us really. One does not move to a town of 25,000 from a city of 2.5 million without a few hiccups. As much as life in the big city was wearing me down, the scale and contrast of "downsizing" was pretty drastic. It would take time. 

I do like several aspects of small town life. It's not all bad. Traffic is a non-issue. I still find myself arriving early for everything, never really believing it will only take 5 or 10 minutes to get from one end of town to the other. There is something to be said for limited choices. You don't waste much time dithering over unlimited options for everything from which shop to go to or which restaurant or which concert or which movie...you are lucky to have a choice between two. Pollution is not an issue. Overcrowding is non-existent. It is quiet. It is safe. 

So, Saturday night turned into Sunday morning and life went on as it does. We were up for a walk at the crack of dawn, said g'day to a mob of roos up the street and over at the park, came home, made breakfast, enjoyed the gentle breezes that blew through the house, did a few domestic chores and then I suggested we go out for lunch. This is fairly rare as I have come to the conclusion that there really are no good spots in town for this. I kid you not. Not a one. However, about 3 weeks ago, I had noticed a new spot opening on Wharf Street and was curious. A couple of the gals I play tennis with had heard it was pretty good and I was eager to check it out. 

It was a newly renovated space in one of the town's old historic buildings. As soon as we stepped inside, I knew things were looking up. The decor was instantly appealing - all black and white with splashes of bright citrus green, banquettes lining the walls against the windows and an open kitchen, a beer garden out back and a larger room for big parties - the Forest Room - decorated to reflect the name. It was really well done. Was it possible they had actually impressed me? Indeed they had. We sat by the window in a cosy corner and the food was not outstanding, but it was fresh and more than adequate. The service was a bit wonky but given it is early days and they were short-staffed, all was forgiven. The menu had several things that seemed interesting, so we will return to try a few more things. This little jolt of newness was right on time. 

The Forest Room at Alfresco on Wharf St

After lunch I suggested a drive. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. We decided to pop in on some friends just on the outskirts of town. They live in a charming old Queenslander house on a large acreage. When we arrived they were entertaining another couple on the wrap around porch for lunch and they insisted we join them for a cup of tea, so we accepted. It was really lovely to sit and chat and look out at their expansive lawn and all the surrounding trees and birds and butterflies flitting about. The couple we just met were interesting and chatty having just spent two years caravaning around the country after selling their house and all their possessions, then set off to explore the entirety of Australia. I wanted to hear everything, to feed my soul with tales of their adventures and discoveries. Again, just what I needed. 

After tea, we were invited to help ourselves to mangoes and lychees that were growing on the property. I picked both for the first time and although for many it is just an ordinary experience, it occurred to me that even this simple act of picking and peeling and eating a lychee off a tree was something I had never done before. In Canada, the only lychees I have ever eaten were purchased at a grocery store and they were brown on the outside. These lychees were red on the outside and sweet and juicy on the inside. Had you asked me minutes before if they grew on a tree or a vine or came up out of the ground, I would not have been able to answer you. But now I know they grow on trees and taste a whole lot better right off the tree, much like any fresh fruit or vegetable.

The day was unfolding nicely. They then invited us to join them on an excursion to the riverbank next to the Brolga Theatre where a late afternoon concert and twilight market was taking place. I had heard something of these monthly events, but had not been to one yet, so this was a welcome invitation to check it out. We all met shortly after for drinks and some live music set before a backdrop of the Mary River with a few sailboats and small yachts, anchored intermittently and  bobbing softly on the water. 

The entire day was really unplanned and spontaneous. Each segment presented itself effortlessly and simply and we went with the flow and it took us on a perfect little journey that filled all of  our senses. The unexpected visuals at the new bistro, the delicious tastes of freshly picked fruits, the sound of live music, the balmy breezes of late summer on our skin, and the smell of gardenia blossoms and mock orange near the river. 

Borrowed Gardenia Blossom ;-)

My complaints of the night before dissipated as I recounted my day and I felt grateful again. It felt like the universe had provided me with a reminder and it shifted my thinking back to a more positive outlook. I can choose to focus on the negative or I can choose to focus on the positive. 

And it is indeed a choice. It is presented daily. The trick is to choose wisely.

I'm working on it. 

Planting new Seeds

I remember my last semester at Ryerson and the stress I experienced. The final papers. The final exams. The pressure (mostly self-imposed) to complete and pass all my courses so I could earn my degree. It was weeks and weeks of high anxiety. I recall I gained about 10 lbs. and even started smoking cigarettes after having quit for 6 years. I took up drinking Scotch at the bar at Oakham House next door to the Journalism building. I did not even like Scotch but it seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, what journalist worth their weight did not know at least a little something about the varying degrees of peat in a dram of good aged single malt Glenfiddich or Macallan? 

Somehow I managed to get through it. In the end I collected my piece of paper that proved I did the required work, quit smoking again, stopped drinking Scotch, found a real job and as for the 10 lbs., well they stuck around for awhile. No one is perfect. 

Studying and deadlines have never been my forte. There are days when I still find it hard to believe I got through. In fact, I still have a recurring nightmare that I did not get my degree. That I am clamouring to find my way through the hallways of the school, cannot find my locker, have not studied or read any of the course materials and the underlying fear throughout these nocturnal journeys through hell is that I will have to explain to my parents that I did not graduate. That I failed. Failed myself. Failed them. Simply fucking failed. When I wake up from these sweat-inducing dreams, for a brief moment I believe I did not succeed. I screwed up. I blew it. As I come around, open my eyes, shake it off, I am always so relieved to realize it was just a dream.  How is it that I am still plagued with these nightmares 30 years later? What part of me still needs to please mommy and daddy? Do we ever feel we have done enough or been enough in their eyes? Why do we allow our failures (seeming or otherwise) to outweigh our successes in their eyes? As much as I know mine have been proud of my accomplishments, I still fret over their opinions of my downfalls. 

The need to please. That bitch has to go. She simply must because the truth is, she will never be enough. Even in the past when it seemed she may have had their stamp of approval, the problem was that she did not have her own stamp of approval. She was too busy trying to turn herself into something that would make them happy, all the while sacrificing  herself to the cause until the day came when she knew she could not go on with the facade her life had become and it required such a dramatic upheaval of change that it made her anxiety-stricken final term of university seem like a walk in the park compared to what she had to do now.

She is not even sure where she summoned the strength and courage it took to turn her life upside down and venture down an entirely different path. One of uncertainty. And as much as she knows intellectually that nothing is really certain in life, hovering in it for the last four years has been the biggest challenge of her life so far. The question of why is ever present. Why did she have to do it? Why upset the applecart? The apples were all piled up neatly, unbruised, attractive, ready to be eaten and enjoyed but now they are spilled and rolling all over the ground, getting dirty and battered and landing on their sides, or upside down, some getting lost under the cart, some snatched by birds, others gnawed on by rodents, but some actually surviving in tact. 

And it is in those, the intact spilled apples where she is finding her strength. The parts of her that were there all along that have survived the spill. And they are perfect and ripe and juicy and their seeds are healthy and alive and she will devour the fruit as it falls and then plant the seeds and start over again and the fruit she produces will be of her own making and she won't try to squeeze them into a cart again. She will eat them as they ripen and let them land where they may fall as nature intended.

Nothing will be certain. And that will be OK.

Choosing Beauty

Orchard Swallowtail Butterfly in my Garden

Lately, my thoughts are being challenged daily between either focusing on beauty or ugliness. It can encompass any and all subject matter from world politics to the daily minutiae of my life.

From the horror of another massacre or terrorist attack one moment to the uplifting efforts of an individual or group to help humanity in some way. From the sight of yet another flattened and rotting cane toad carcass on the road to the graceful sway of a horse's tail in the paddock. This constant barrage of blissful awe versus grotesque actions and visuals takes its toll some days. However, what I am getting better and better at, is moving on quickly from the negative thoughts and images and lingering on the positive ones. 

For starters, I pretty much stopped watching television a few years ago. In particular, the news. I still enjoy the odd movie or sporting event, but weeks can pass without ever turning on the TV. What this does for me is quite empowering. Instead of someone else deciding what I will see, I get to choose what I want to see. I am able to limit the effects of marketing and advertising that permeates the masses with their mostly inane commercials. You need this. You need that. You will be more beautiful if you use this. You will miss out on this if you don't do that. You get my drift. Instead, I am able to read and watch what interests me versus wasting my time being bombarded by the drivel of commercialism. I have chosen enrichment over banality.

My daily walks even present me with the need to choose. The town I am living in is a perfect example of economic diversity. Many once lovely homes have fallen into disrepair. The charming "Queenslander' homes that populate this area are the epitome of shabby chic...except when they are more shabby than chic. The ones that have not seen a fresh coat of paint since 1962 or the ones that have undergone addition after poorly executed addition and leave but a trace of their former bones make me feel sad. I walk past these beaten and battered, shells of their former selves, and can almost feel their despair, their shame. I have to consciously stop myself from lingering too long in their dilapidated energy. I increase my pace and look for a more pleasing facade, knowing there are some ahead. When I reach a cared for property, I am filled with relief and an appreciation of their tended gardens and inviting verandas. My pace slows and the fresh image restores what the previous visual assault wreaked upon me.

If I were to allow the ugliness to trump the beauty, it would depress me. For anyone who is familiar with the daily photos I take, it is clear that I choose to focus on the beauty around me. The beauty of nature is my religion really. It is not always in my immediate field of vision, but I do make a continual and constant effort to surround myself with things I find visually pleasing. My eyes are always looking for a fix. My heart can skip a beat when I see a shocking pink bougainvillea tumbling over a fence, or a mob of grazing kangaroos. A spectacular sunset can connect me to my source as intensely as the most stirring piece of music can move me to tears. 

Stopping to smell the roses is a way of life that I have chosen. It does not cost anything. We are surrounded at all times with nature, whether it be a pot of herbs on your inner city window sill or endless views of rolling hills surrounding your country house, it's there. No pot of herbs? Look out your window. Notice a cloud formation. Watch the wind carry a scrap of paper past your window - the simple elegance of that.  Find a snippet of beauty in the seeming mundane. Every time you practice these small moments of conscious awareness, you are feeding your soul. 

And what soul does not need a little fuel? I don't know any. Do you?

The third Set

Time. Too little time. Too much time. Where does time figure into your life right this moment? Do you feel like time is running out? Or, do you feel like you have all the time in the world? If you are over 40 and reading this, my guess is the former. Time is a luxury after 40. Before that, it seems like there is a never ending supply and flitting it away is no big deal. I have done my fair share of flitting.

Nowadays I am conscious of my flitting. There is an underlying fear around it. And it is not a fear of death. It is the fear of not having enough time left to do all the things I still want to do. The only thing that really bothers me about dying is that there are a few people that might suffer when I die. The thought of their pain and grief around my dying is the part that saddens me. I see dying as a transition into another realm. Another energy form. The next big adventure. However, if all that turns out to be bullshit, as it could, then that is why I figure we really need to make the most of this lifetime. But what does that mean really? 

There are days when I think I am living up to my own expectations. And then there are days when I am clearly flitting away my precious days. I am quite certain I could be doing more in terms of contributing to the world. But it is so easy to justify our existence even if we are not doing as much as we could. My personal favourite is that I have exceeded a few benchmarks in my lifetime in contrast to my family history, so that in itself is a contribution - sort of.  I can proudly say I am the only member of my generation on the paternal side of my family to have earned a university degree. That's something I think. The next generation has fared better in that department, so perhaps I was the initiating force behind an evolution of education in my family. 

Tied in first position with that achievement is the manner in which I (and her father) raised my daughter. It may even exceed the education badge when I think about it. I raised her without any physical discipline. This was not learned because gawd knows I was subjected to it countless times as a child. It was the most important thing in the world to me. From the moment she was born, I promised myself I would never spank or hit her. In addition to that, I was always very careful to avoid shaming or psychological abuses. Words were chosen consciously and carefully and raised voices were rare.  So, I broke the cycle of physical and psychological abuse in my immediate family and my hope is that, should she have children of her own one day, she will carry on in the same fashion. I am pretty certain that previous generations of my family were never able to break that pattern. 

So, there are two examples of how easy it is to rest on one's laurels. Gee, I think to myself, if I never accomplish anything else in my life, at least I did a couple of things to improve the future generations. Yet, still, I beat myself up. It's not enough. I need to do more. Stop flitting. Sometimes I can even talk myself into thinking my job here is done now. I am tired. Those two tasks were exhausting. I just want to flit now. However, what I really think is happening is that I have been on a break. A much needed break before my next contribution. It does feel that way. After all, if I live to the average expected age for a woman in Canada, I have almost another third to go. 

The last third. The big one. The final curtain call. The "go big or go home" third. The one that requires the most energy. Perhaps it is why the time in between the second third and the last third required so much flitting. I was storing up for the finale. 

2015...the beginning of the third and final set. 

And I plan to win the match. (With the odd flit between games.) 

WE ARE NOT AFRAID

And you will never silence us.

My Daily Laugh

One of the most wonderful parts of my daily life here in Australia is the nature and wildlife that surround me. Not just the adventures away from my house, but the everyday relationship I have developed in my own back yard. For instance, just now as I was about to sit down at my desk and start to write, I looked up and out as a flash of something caught my eye and was thrilled to see a fairly large Kookaburra glide through and land on the Hills Hoist. Now, for those of you who are unfamiliar with a "Hills Hoist", here in Queensland that is what they call a clothesline that spins around on a central pole. In Nova Scotia, in Canada, they call them Whirligigs. This is actually the first time in my life that I have had one in my backyard. 

As a child, my mother had a T-clothesline until we got a new washer and dryer when I was about 8 years old. Prior to that big advance in our domestic technology, she washed our clothes in a ringer washer and hung them to dry. I will never forget my awe when the temperature would dip below freezing before she would get the clothes off the line and they would be frozen stiff as boards, taken down and brought inside to dry on racks by the gas furnace or near the stove in the kitchen. I can still recall the smell of damp as they thawed. However, back to the Kookaburras. They love the Hills Hoist. They seem unperturbed when a breeze causes it to spin slowly, which is good news for me, as I then get to observe them from various angles, not unlike, chickens on a rotisserie. 

For some reason, this morning, they allowed me to get closer than I have ever been to them before. I spoke softly to them the whole time and just kept taking careful, slow steps until I actually got closer than I actually felt comfortable. It was as though they were completely unafraid of me and I was now afraid of them. They are, as you can see, a fairly large bird and their beaks are formidable. I have never heard of it, but should one of them ever decide I was a threat, a peck from one of them would no doubt cause some pain. So, I stopped and just talked to them for a moment or two, snapped a few shots with my phone and turned and headed back inside. They remained for a time until there was seemingly nothing more to hunt on my patio and it became clear that I was not going to feed them. I do feed the parrots as they eat a wild bird seed mixture that I buy in bulk from the local farm supply here, but the Kookaburras and a few of the other birds, like the Butcher birds and Magpies prefer their meals to be more meaty. 

My neighbour feeds them ground mince, but I have read that is not really healthy for them, so I refrain. Sometimes, I think they come and sit on my clothesline thinking they may be able to get a free meal from me. I must be a disappointment to them. They do seem to find beetles and worms and other squiggly, flying insects at my place though, so it isn't all bad here. I just love them. They have such a majestic air about them. They seem royal to me. They are also such a gorgeous colour combination of browns, greys and cream and black with that bit of robin's egg blue...they would have fit in perfectly with that colour palette that was so popular for so long in interior design in the last decade. 

When I first arrived here, it came as a surprise to me that so many people hung their clothes out to dry. In recent decades in some parts of Canada, backyard clotheslines were banned as crazy as that may sound. It had become what some folks deemed an eyesore. Only poor people hung clothes to dry outside. That perception developed around the time indoor clothes dryers became popular and initially only the well to do could afford them. Those same people did not want to have to look at their less than affluent neighbour's laundry flapping in the wind next door, so bans were put in place all over Canada. In fact, it was only in 2008, that Ontario lifted the bans as more and more people wanted to save energy and money by hanging their laundry outside. It has become a domestic ritual I have actually embraced here. Sure, there are times when it is not exactly convenient, but I like the way the clothes smell of fresh air afterwards. I do not even own a dryer. I had planned to buy one when I got my new washer, but thought I would wait and see if I really wanted or needed one, and turns out, I am fine without one. I suppose if I had kids, I would feel differently, but with just two of us, I manage to live without one.

But, once again, I have digressed. Back to the kings of the bush. They alone are reason to own a Hills Hoist. In fact, all the birds seem to perch on it at one time or another and as it is in clear view from all the windows at the back of my house, it is like having an outdoor bird sanctuary all the time. Believe it or not, I have not experienced a single bird pooping on my laundry either. Perhaps they only really enjoy sitting on it when it is empty. At first, I thought it might become a problem, but so far they have only once had an "accident" on a piece of clothing. So, not a big deal. Maybe it is karma. I keep most of them fed, and they repay me by finding another place to crap. For this, I am grateful.

In Canada, it was always exciting to see a Cardinal. No matter how many times I spotted them, it was always a thrill to see their vibrant red against the green leaves of summer or especially against a snow-covered evergreen bough. Here in Australia, I now get the same kick from the Kookaburras. They are part of the Kingfisher family and this particular species was once known as the Laughing Jackass or Giant Kingfisher. They wake me early every morning with their laughing. They can be counted on like a rooster at the crack of dawn, in fact, even a bit earlier than that...usually around 4 am. I have grown to appreciate their wake-up call. They don't annoy me like crows or roosters for that matter. They greet me in the morning and they say good night just after dusk. They are a constant reminder that I am "not in Kansas anymore".

 I know. Let's declare Kookaburras to be the new Owls in home decor. You read it here first people! 

Who's in?

Even the Strongest Armor...can fail you

So once again, two innocent people are dead as a result of a deranged, angry, sickened mind. I am referring to the hostage taking here yesterday in Australia at the Lindt Cafe in Sydney. This country waited and watched yesterday and into the night as these events unfolded. We are still waiting for details and answers, but we do know this. The outcome was tragic for the families and friends of the two hostages that did not come out alive. Our hearts ache for them. 

And what of the man, the perpetrator who held these people against their will inside that cafe? Why do I not feel bad about his death? Does anyone? Should we? From what we have learned about him so far, he was not a law-abiding citizen. He was known to police and was involved in an ongoing legal battle and has been charged as an accessory to murdering his ex-wife along with his current girlfriend. He was convicted of writing offensive letters to the families of dead Australian soldiers, among other offenses. Clearly Man Haron Monis was a loose cannon, who finally came unhinged yesterday in Sydney. It is almost impossible not to judge him.

This sort of event is not unique. People come unhinged everyday all over the world. They do not necessarily act out in such a violent manner, but often they do. As I sit here in the peaceful comfort of my home and tranquil life, it is difficult to fathom the minds of these lost souls and relate to them in any way whatsoever. While I am tending to my flowers and herbs in the garden, or creating a healthful recipe for dinner, or walking through the park and appreciating the beauty of nature around me, there are people all over the world on the brink of madness. The contrast is so vast between people like "them" and people like me. When we are jolted out of our peaceful existence by events such as this, it is easy to allow the actions of a few to weigh our hearts down with sadness, anger and grief. It is as though suddenly, all the negativity that has led a man like that to such a severe state of hatred and anger begins to cross over to us, like an energy transfer.  It is difficult to feel any compassion for him or to feel sorry that he too died. We tend to see him as a worthless human being. Maybe he was. 

Maybe. I do doubt however, that he emerged from the womb as the evil perpetrator he grew into. What led him, or others like him down the wrong path? These are the questions I cannot answer. What is our fascination with these murderers and criminals in our midst? It is as though if we can have some insight into their inner workings, maybe we can spot it in someone and then avoid them, or get them, before they get us. I suppose it is a form of self-preservation. Know thy enemy and all that. But, no matter how much we may step out into the world with all our armor on day after day, you never know when there will be a mad man standing next to you in line at the coffee shop. The two innocent people who did that very thing yesterday, despite any armor they may have been wearing, are still dead. It could have happened to any of us, so all I can suggest is we all just better embrace every minute, every hour, every day and let go of the endless list of worries or grudges or fears or whatever negativity you may be hanging onto and go for the joy...

...whatever that means to you. Today. Tomorrow. Next week. Next year.

Right now. 

Look in the Mirror, who do you See?

I woke up in the wee hours this morning and like a minor epiphany, it occurred to me that I am always fascinated by the same sort of woman. As I laid awake thinking about my most recent heroine, it came to me. 

It started in the early eighties after I saw the movie Out of Africa. I was smitten with the character played by Meryl Streep - Karen Von Blixen. She was exactly the sort of woman I admired. Strong, quirkily beautiful, courageous, adventurous and hopelessly romantic. She was a writer, a business woman, an advocate for the local people and a poet all wrapped up in one dynamic woman. The movie was based on her memoir written under the pen name Isak Dinesen. 

She became Baroness von Blixen-Finecke when she set off for Kenya to marry her Swedish second cousin, Bror von Blixen-Finecke in 1913 at the age of 27. She wrote of her 17 year adventure in British East Africa (as it was known then) in the memoir published in 1937. Her years there were not without hardships including her struggles with her coffee plantation, her failed marriage, the shame brought upon her by her philandering husband and her less than popular views of how the Kikuyu ( the local tribespeople) should be treated. 

She was determined, tenacious and fiercely independent. 

In Baroness Blixen’s descriptions of the Africa she knew, a note of mourning for this irretrievably lost world frequently colours her stories of magnificent isolation and the redemptive qualities of a life lived in partnership with nature.^[13]

The quote above struck such an enormous chord with me when I read it, as I have always felt that no matter how difficult your life can get, the "redemptive qualities" of nature can eventually heal even the deepest wounds. 

After her, it took years before I came across anyone who even came close to her ideal, until I read Eat Pray Love and Elizabeth Gilbert joined her in my mind and heart. She did not face the same sort of adversity, but she had followed her gut and lived her truth and it required courage and soul searching and several missteps before she came out the other side knowing her most authentic self and is/was determined to live that way.

Joining Karen and Liz currently in my list of admired women is Cheryl Strayed, author of Wild. Another brave and courageous gal who faced her demons and came out stronger after hiking the Pacific Crest Trail following the death of her mother and her own downward spiral of self-abuse. She stepped off the beaten track and endured hardships of an entirely different nature alone and unprepared. She did it with nothing more than sheer determination to face herself and consequently save herself. 

All three of these women have resonated with me on a level that feels eerily personal, as though their stories are now carried within me and have become a part of me. I may not be alone in this considering their stories are available to anyone who wishes to explore them, but it is clear to me that their adventures have had an impact on me. They have buoyed me when I felt like I could not move forward and put my obstacles in perspective.

My epiphany regarding these women and my admiration for them was interesting in its simplicity. They seem like me. Or rather, I seem like them. And by loving them, does that mean that for once and for all, I really love me? Have I finally forgiven myself?  Don't get me wrong here. I am not comparing the scale of their accomplishments with mine. No. What I am comparing are some of their traits. And not just the admirable qualities. As courageous as they were they could be stubborn. As adventurous as they seem, they were oft filled with fear. As romantic as they were, they failed as often as they succeeded with love. As strong as they were, they could be weak. They faced financial adversity as well as abundance. They questioned their motives as often as they felt assured. But in the end, they were all perfectly imperfect.

And it was OK. 

More than OK.

So, I will leave  you with this, one of my favourite poet's quotes, another voice that often rises up in me at just the right moment...

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do 

with your one wild and precious life?”

― Mary Oliver

Dusky Senses

Oh you

mellow moments

Wash me with your

cool, calm ambiance

Fill my vision

with rich amber light

My ears

with birdsong

My body

with release

Fiery skies sink into

mauvey grey horizons

Crickets begin their

one note chorus

Relieving breezes introduce

the evening star and its

sidekick,

Blurry Moon

Snippets of aromas

Wafting roasts

Spicy curries

The neighbours prepare

their feasts

Do they smell mine?

Soon it's time

to light the lamps

plate the meals

Share our day

Clink a glass

Give thanks

But for a moment more

I bask

This dusky peace

A gift,

An honour, to receive

Again today.

Red and White and no longer Blue

December. It is here again. You would think I would be ready. After all, I have been around for a few of them by now. And, like snowflakes, there are no two alike. There have been small pockets of Decembers in my life that have been fairly reliable in terms of how they played out. When I was little, when my daughter was little. That was all about Santa and candy and magic. I have always leaned toward a fondness for tradition and that is what makes my new Decembers a bit difficult.

Any vision I used to carry about the big family gathering around a long table with a giant roasted turkey being carved by the patriarch of the clan at the head need to be put to rest now. That is not likely a scene that will ever realistically play out for me in this lifetime. Those dreams died with the end of my marriage a few years ago and thinking back, they really never even came close to the vision then either. There was no large clan. My family was dispersed across the country. There was only one child. None of it conducive to that Walton's Family scene I kept in my head for so many years. 

The loss of that dream can still sometimes cause me to feel sad. As this festive season starts gearing up here in tropical Queensland, it is easier to put that vision aside. They still blair Christmas songs in the malls and it always catches me off guard. Why the hell are they playing this music in the middle of summer? That is my initial thought, before I realize with a heavy heart that Christmas is coming again. The traditional Santa themes are present here too. I see the Photo with Santa area in the malls set up much like it would be in Canada and I wonder how jolly that poor fellow must really feel in that get up when the mercury is hovering in the thirties just outside the doors. 

I am slowly adapting to the differences, but this one is going to take some time. I quiz my partner about growing up here. What was it like for him? For his kids? What did they eat? What did they do on Christmas Day? Did they hang  stockings on the barbeque? Did the patriarch of the family demonstrate the art of peeling prawns at the head of the table instead of turkey carving? I am trying to understand. To assimilate. When in Rome....and all that.

Thoughts of recreating my northern hemisphere festivities swirl around in my head, like visions of sugar plums, but then they melt away as fast as an early snowfall. It would be like moving to an English speaking country not knowing the language and refusing to learn it. So, I observe. This is my second go round now. Still early stages. Last Christmas we entertained his whole clan. We were house sitting a friend's ranch and all I can say is thank gawd for walk-in refrigeration. I spent a bit of time in that fridge. Every time I could no longer bear the trickles of perspiration running down my spine and legs and brow, I would step inside that chilly Nirvana and close my eyes and imagine Canada. How we used to chill our wine bottles in a snow bank outside the back door, or sweep the snow off the front steps for the third time that evening to keep them clear and safe for guests. How the oven would be working overtime in the weeks leading up to the big day with all the baking. BAKING! Forget about that now. Turning the oven on here is to be avoided like the plague. As much as I would love to regale my new friends and family with my Christmas baking and my grandmother's genuine Tourtiere recipe, it just ain't worth the pain.

Last year I attempted a real Christmas tree, but it did not really work out, its thirst was unquenchable and the needles dropped faster than a hooker's knickers at a bachelor party. No, this year, I have gone with fake trees. One home made from pallets at the front door and another inside our small lounge. It is actually one of those cherry blossom trees with lights that you see everywhere now in the shops. I decorated it and arranged the branches into a more conical shape and turns out I like it. It suits the room and my inability or desire to care for a living tree in this climate. 

Last night as I lay on the lounge after dinner staring at the twinkly lights and reflecting colours, I got the notion to put on my favourite Christmas music. A wee voice in my head told me that might not be a good idea, but old habits die hard. I got about halfway through the CD - A Charlie Brown Christmas before my heartstrings were about to burst and turned it off. There is something about music that just transports me to other places and times. In this case, to Christmas's past and my beautiful memories of my sweet Emma's childhood years. You know, those moments that remain in your mind and heart forever. The ones that you wish you could hold on forever and repeat again and again. But that is life. Constantly moving forward no matter how much you wish you could freeze frame the moments. 

It brings to mind a quote I read recently that said "Don't look back, you're not going that way." Memories are wonderful things, but best not linger there too long. In that vein, I bring myself back into the now, this moment, and see I am surrounded by many beautiful things. The Agapanthus is blooming beside my front walk, the Poinciana trees are a riot of reddish orange blossoms, the Oleanders are peaking and the Frangipani trees are a sight to behold in the most glorious colours imaginable. None of these grow in Canada in December. This my new reality. And just when I think that there really are no comparable colours, I notice a vine in bloom right outside my window here in the most perfect red and white, like it was made for Christmas.

It is as though it was placed right there, right now, to appease my soul. To offer me a small token of my past and remind me that although this new version of Christmas is vastly different than what I am accustomed to, if you look around you eventually find what you are looking for, without even realizing you were.