Monday, September 27, 2010

competition

Saturday

We are at The Beach House for the school holidays. 

I dropped F off to spend the day with Leroy, a friend who he’s  known  since they were both in nappies. They went to school together for six years when we lived up here.  L and his sister are spending the weekend with their Dad, who is minding a house we used to visit back in the days of the school car-pool. When F and I  arrive, L’s sister is feeding the horse. I remember that horse. Memories wait for you in old places. 

I remember L’s dad, Stretch too. He is down from Darwin on his regular schedule, in between going out on the prawn trawlers up there. He and the kids are going to watch The AFL Grand Final on television.

F and L grin at eachother - they haven’t seen eachother for 6 months and have both grown about a foot taller - they  punch the footy back and forth, and F tells L what a crap AFL team he’s playing for down south. L tells F that the team they both played for up here - the Pomona Demons, made it to the Grand Final. this year. 

“Yeah, they did real well”, says Stretch, who is sometimes their goal umpire. “I told them ‘Youse just have to believe youse can do it’ “He’s got his stash of beer ready for the afternoon’s entertainment. And sandwiches for the kids. We all want St Kilda to win. 

I head back to the beach, for a few hours of sudden, welcome solitude. I read the John Banville book ’The Sea”, lying in the hammock. All wrapped up in the sound of the sea and my love for this place. 

When I drive out to the hinterland to collect F at the end of the day, they are all kicking the footy about rather half heartedly on the paddock next to the dirt road. I hear that the Grand Final has been a draw. “ Must be that frustratin’ “ comments Stretch, “ for the players. And the coach”  Yeah, and all those poor people who bought tickets and went  to Melbourne specially. How disappointing. There is a general mood of disgruntlement, of not having got satisfaction. Left dangling.  

Privately, and not having watched the game, I am unmoved by this unexpected drama, or rather the lack of drama.

But when I’m watching F play football, I  want his team to win. No one wants a 'win-win' outcome in sport.

Or, unfortunately in politics.The way I felt about Collingwood and St Kilda was a bit like how I felt about the two 'major' parties and  the whole ridiculous election business and the ‘hung parliament’ biz. I mean the prospect of Tony Abbott was appalling, but I was hardly excited about Julia - merely the lesser of two evils. 

“A tawdry , media-based popularity contest spun around superficial appearances, catchphrases and...mass deceit’ That’s how Michael Leunig describes what nowadays passes for ‘democracy’. Yet we really need someone to win that popularity contest. 

We don’t like it, do we, when opposing forces are too equally matched?  We feel deprived if no blood is shed, if there are no winners and losers. It’s primal somehow: No matter how thrilling the game, we want some to prevail, others to be vanquished. It’s a gut thing. Equilibium is so dull!






Tuesday, September 21, 2010

echidna and man return

Still raining, raining, raining.

‘I wish we would get flooded in’, says F thismorning. 

‘Me, too’ I say.

We did get flooded in for a day earlier this year. At the place where the water covered the road there was a cheerful impromptu early morning  gathering of stranded neighbours. Stopped in our tracks by the water across our road, we stood around by our vehicles, chatting with eachother in the drizzle, as if we had all the time in the world. Most of us are usually  Much Too Busy for such leisurely socialising. Swamp hens hooted. Ducks swam between fenceposts and  on the newly-formed lake where cars usually zoom up and down. Children in gumboots paddled around the edges.

But it’s not raining  hard enough to flood this time. 

A big dark wallaby bounded across the driveway just as we were leaving for school thismorning. Then went boing boing-ing off up the hill. An auspicious start to the day.

‘It’s good that the echidna came back’ says F, sitting next to me in the car. The wallaby had reminded him of the echidna, who we saw several times a few weeks ago by the crumbling  back stairs - before the stairs were re-vamped. 

We worried that the new steps  down to the laundry (and all the noise during their construction) would scare away  the echidna. We haven’t actually seen it again - just the mess it makes, burrowing its way in the same old place, scattering all the new white pebbles that looked so pleasingly neat. Oh well. I guess a bit of mess is a small  price to pay for the privelege of having native animals on your back door step. 

D comes back from Melbourne tonight. I look forward to our cosy little family being reunited. I also know it will be a bit of an adjustment. F and I have been in a comfortable groove together these last few weeks. There is a certain simplicity about being a single parent - one less relationships to maintain and, strangely, much less washing up. 

Than again, I am looking forward to not having to plan dinner every single night and not having to drive to the bus stop every single morning. And to having my buddy back to chat with at the end of the day.

Monday, September 20, 2010

a day at the fair

On Saturday, Steiner School Spring Fair. Off we go, F. and I, in the car early in the morning with piclkes for the produce stall  and a big  garbage bag full of jasmine vines for the flower garland stall. We are almost at school when F. realises he’s forgotten his clarinet. Back we go, just stay calm.  We both started the day feeling reluctant to to get out of bed at all.  

Every year there is a Steiner School Festival - this is our seventh, and  our second at this new school. Each year I feel a vague sense of  guilt and dread as the day approaches. Weekly pre-Festival Newsletters arrive with their exhortations to bake cakes, make jam, grow plants, co-ordinate stalls, sell raffle tickets, sign up for  rosters, participate in your school community.

And every year on the day itself I end up feeling all mushy and full of gratitude and spend half the day in tears because it’s all so beautiful.

The primary school children sing songs to celebrate the coming of Spring. The fantastic music ensemble plays a rollicking version of ‘Sweet Dreams’. Everyone sings ‘Shower The People You Love With Love’ And  dozens and dozens of kids get up on stage and perform  -  from little seven year old angels with wobbly voices, through to teenage boys with hair over their eyes, thrashing electric guitars. 

There are some pretty talented kids performing, but what  really touches me is their poise and confidence, their obvious enjoyment of what they are doing, their comfortable sense of themselves. And their supportiveness of eachother. 

‘Lovely young people!’, I cluck, like a doting grandmother.

Small children in white dresses dance around a maypole and young girls in their first bloom with flowers in their hair giggle innocently together. All the food is home-made. There are no advertising slogans from sponsors, just colourful handpainted signs and rainbow flags and flowers. No blaring canned music or jumping castles. Who needs the so-called ‘real world'? Not me. 

Kids can do craft activities like making candles, felting or silk-painting. There is a rockclimbing wall, skateboarding and a soccer shoot out  down on the oval, where F spends most of the day kicking a footy with his friends. That’s when he’s not stuffing his face with pizza, home made icecream etc.  

People sit around in the Spring sunshine chatting over coffee and cakes, or lying on the grass, or dancing to the music. Even the teenagers look happy.

There is a songwriting comp with performances judged by the director of The Blues Festival. The contestants are mostly aspiring popstars ( some with very silly hairstyles, and black holey stockings) aged 13 to 17. I’m amazed by how good they are.

I have an easy roster this year, making flower garlands. I have some nice conversations among the flowers, with mothers of boys in F’s class, about how our boys are suddenly different, on the threshhold of young manhood.

And an intense little chat with S. & R. about  parenting and boundaries for teenagers. And  about  how our kids’ creativity blossoms with encouragement, not criticism. Etc.

Last year the fete was just a couple of weeks after F. had started at the school. He skulked around miserably, saying that he didn’t have any friends, and wished he was back at his old school in Queensland.  D & I felt much the same though we tried to put a brave face on it. We were among strangers. 

This year the  crowd was full of familiar faces - other parents from school, people I know from choir, book club, people I have interviewed for the paper, even therapy clients. Our new community. I guess that’s the real reason I’m waxing so lyrical. 

doing nothing

MONDAY MORNING

A cold wet stay-at-home-in-pyjamas sort of day. It crosses my mind that I could give F the day off school and give us both the Day of Rest that we need after our hectic weekend. We could pretend it is Sunday. 

I wrestle silently with this idea over breakfast.  In favour of staying home: he is tired and so am I and school is so unrelenting and we need time to Do Nothing.  On the other hand, he doesn’t really need to stay home, and he’d probably get restless and cranky by lunchtime. Also floating around in my head is the idea that It’s a tough old world and we all have to get used to it, and that means tromping off to work or school whether we feel like it or not. Life wasn’t meant to be easy etc. I reckon that lot came from my puritanical old no-fun Scots ancestors.

I abandon the internal debate and  off we go, to the school bus, to collect the mail, to Get On With the Day. To Do Stuff.

On the subject of Doing Nothing: I was in  Israel  in 1974 on Yom Kippur, the ‘Day of Atonement’. I’ve never forgotten it. For 24 hours, from sunset to sunset, almost all human exertions ceased. The streets were empty of vehicles and  all shops, and businesses were closed. There were no radio or television broadcasts, no newspapers. Yom Kippur  is a day of fasting, prayer and repentance, a day of making amends.

My memory is of strolling around Haifa - down the middle of the road - with other young volunteers, and some Israeli boys  from the kibbutz; The traffic-less streets were full of people taking leisurely strolls, indulging in the delight of Nothing To Do. 

We sat on a cliff top by the sea. The young Israeli men with us - I guess they were twenty, though they  had already been to war - told how on this day a year earlier the Yom Kippur War had started. Egypt and Syria made  surprise attacks on Sinai  and the Golan Heights.  Apparently the first messengers bringing news of the attacks were abused - or even had their cars stoned? -  for not respecting Do Nothing Day...

I don’t want to talk about war or politics or religion of the awful endless sibling fight between the Arabs and the Jews. ( or how hurling abuse or stones seems rather against  the whole idea of atonement)

But it’s good to remember how extraordinarily peaceful that day in 1974 felt to me. A day of publicly, politically and religiously sanctioned inactivity. It is decreed you must Do Nothing Today. Almost unimaginable in this world of 24 hour shopping  and electronic communication overload.

Yes, I long for peace and quiet  - but then there is the problem of Not Wanting To Miss Out on Things. And there being so very many attractive distractions on offer...

Friday, September 17, 2010

freedom from icecream

Friday 17th
.
Driving home from the acupuncturist, I saw  a snake. It was sunning itself on the road at the bottom of our drive way. I swerved to avoid it. ‘Summer is coming’ I thought as I watched  it squiggle away, off into the long yellow grass down below the house, where we planted the trees last autumn. I looked it up in the book. An Eastern Brown I think, which we haven’t seen here before. Dangerous, says the book.

The acupuncturist tells me that I give my power away, that’s why my kidney energy is low. He also  suggests I stop eating diary. It causes damp and cold in the body, he says.  

He himself eats no diary, gluten or sugar. It’s simple, he says, it’s about loving your body, it’s about freedom, not deprivation. 

Hmm...why does just thinking about this make me want to run to the kitchen and eat icecream?

the secret to happiness

September 16th 
Thank God for Michael Leunig. I got a book of his out of the library called ‘The Lot’. It’s words - articles and essays - not cartoons. A lot of ‘The Lot’ is about how  f***ked-up contemporary consumer culture/politics/art/media is. How corrupt and hypocritical and dull and tragic so much of human life has become. His observations are as bracing a blast of fresh cool air in a room stuffy with too much hot air. ( I picture a room full of men in suits...) 

A lot of what  Leunig reflects  upon is profoundly depressing. Yet I feel exhilarated reading it. I think it is the power of truth-telling. His personal truth. He’s not trying to impress anyone, sell anything, or make you think he’s a nice guy. 

I loved the very depressing movie Sampson and Delilah for the same reason.  It tells it like it is - neither sensationalises, nor sentimentalises, just calmly tells the truth.  

( Though I  saw  described somewhere as ‘black comedy’...Huh?) 

I will say no more about the Gardener, the garden, the endearing 'alternativeness' of the  Rainbow Region etc.  Except that the workers have gone and I am very relieved. The job, however is not quite  finished. As a parting gesture, thick brown soil (“topdressing’) was spread all over the lawn, which makes it impossible to walk from house to car without collecting mud all over your shoes. 

I can’t resist adding that after what turned out to be the final blow-out (How come you are concreting that path when I never said I wanted it concreted?), one of his sweet offsiders offered me a hug and then inquired ‘ Are you a Virgo by any chance, because you know he’s a Pisces and....”

I  am not a Virgo. And I prefer to diplomatically call it an old fashioned ‘personality conflict’  I have to say truthfully that the whole thing has laid me very low. I hate conflict and generally manage to avoid it.  This one came from such an unexpected  direction. 

Absolutely enough about this whole sorry scenario. I am going to return to Books, which is where I hide, if possible, when real life is feeling too hard. I get some of my best reading done when I am feeling miserable. It’s my guilty addiction. I reach for books  like other people reach for the bottle.  

I’m about two thirds through the Hardy book. Enjoying visiting  the long ago English country side. I’m  hooked in. Now Bathsheba has married the dastardly Sergeant Troy and we can see that things are  going to  end badly.  It is a bit of a soap opera really. I read in the intro that it was originally published in magazine instalments. Every so often I read a really excellent sentence and that keeps me going. I’m also interested and annoyed simultaneously by the authoritative way in which he tells us just exactly what sort of person each of his characters is. ( Forget ‘show don’t tell’)

I woke up at 3 a.m.. last night, worrying about the garden, the mud, and the preserves I’m meant to produce for the school fete next weekend. I know, it’s hardly life-threatening is it?  Amazing what we can find to feed our sense of suffering, in the absence of actual pain, poverty, disease, homelessness or starvation etc.

Both Leunig and Hardy got a look-in, in the wee small hours.

What’s great about Leunig is that he’s also so open and alert to to beauty & simplicity anywhere he happens to find it in among all the crap. 

Today, among the greyness:

- a flock of little birds (Scarlet Honey Eaters?) that suddenly appeared in the bushes next to the verandah flashing red and twittering and flittering then disappearing. 

- masses of pink azaleas

- a grey egret strutting across the driveway

And a woman in purple hippy-chic clothes, including a hat with flowers on it. She smiled at me at the school bus stop this arvo as I was waiting for F, and said ‘I love your colours’ and I said ‘And I love yours!’

( Is this all just too Pollyanna?, always finding 'something to be glad about'? No, I think it may be the secret of happiness...)

Late arvo I used some of the left over flagstones to make stepping stones across the muddy lawn. They look rather good. 

My new friend came over for dinner with her 10 year old daughter. We drank some red wine and talked about Gestalt therapy and Central Australia, and death, and relatives; and  the kids went off and played Monopoly, and somehow by the time I went to bed the ripped-apart feeling was healed up again. The scenic railway ride continues. 

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

HSP

Tuesday September 14th

D’s birthday. At 8 a.m this morning . F rang  him  in Melbourne to say Happy Birthday Dad, and also  to tell D.  how much money he'd earned busking at the market on Saturday; and to have a little chat about The Footy and who’s in the finals. 

I’ve had a mixed day. It was nice going to the bookshop after school with F. He counted out  forty dollars in small change - his  busking earnings - and bought three books. Dragons, man-eating tigers, boy-heroes etc. Playing ping pong with him when we got home was good too. 

Low point was the computer suddenly quitting the application and not saving my changes - just as I’d completed what I thought was the final version of the Nature Writing piece. Aaaaaargh. I’m so sick of the thing, just want to send it off. 

Chatting with the tuesday morning marimba girls is therapeutic. This morning we discuss whether our male partners are getting grumpier as they get older. On the basis of our informal survey, I’d say at least two out of three husbands get grumpier after turning fifty. Of course we Girls have our own sort of grumpiness too, we admit that. But all it takes is a hug, a sweet self-effacing joke, a bit of a laugh and we lighten up and  let it go! Whereas they hang on and sulk for days.

Is this true? I don’t know. But we have a  laugh. 

Talking of grumpy men: The interminable garden saga. Well at least it is starting to look quite good out there. Although they seem to work awfully slowly - but I daren’t mention it because, well you know why. 

I just wish they’d hurry up, finish, and get out of my space. I  think the reason why I hardly ever get any home maintenance done and the place is falling down around me is because I find it so hard having strangers here in my home and  refuge. Just having a cleaner come every two weeks for a couple of hours is excruciating enough for me. Three workers for  two, nearly  three weeks: I am a wreck!

Lots of people don’t seem to mind this sort of thing at all. People, especially rich people, have nannies and stylists  and gardeners and personal assistants.  Even cooks and maids. I’d be no good as a movie star. And I  would have made a lousy aristocrat because I absolutely could not stand all those maidservants and butlers hovering about the place. Polishing the silver and helping me into my gown for dinner. Erk.

I think I have already admitted here that more than once in the last fortnight I hid out  with the laptop in a corner of  my favourite cafe in town  for hours on end  because I just couldn’t face going home and having to relate to the men in my front yard. Two of them in particular, are always keen to chat. About anything from astrology to ‘the dance between male and female energies.’ (that was today, as I tried to sneak out to the car.)  Oh and occasionally about garden design. I have to walk past them to get to the front door.  The third one - the  quiet, hardworking one - is my favourite.

I’ve wondered at times if there is something a bit pathological about my desire to avoid contact in certain situations. I’ve worried that I was a difficult sort of person - pernickety,  oversensitive, intolerant, aloof. And a terrible procrastinator when it comes to ringing Telstra or going into Harvey Normans. Out in the vexatious noisy, clamouring, high pressure world. I'd rather stay home and read a book. 

Then the other day I came across something on the internet - an article  written by some psychologist, about ‘Highly Sensitive People’. I did the online tick-the boxes ‘Are You A Highly Sensetive Person?’  test. 

Other people's moods affect me, yes, My nervous system sometimes feels so frazzled that I just have to go off by myself, yes, I startle easily, yes, I get rattled when I have a lot to do in a short amount of time, yes, I am bothered by intense stimuli, like loud noises or chaotic scenes, I am conscientious, I make a point to avoid violent movies and TV shows.. Yes, Yes
etc. etc.

According to the article about 15% -20% of the population are HSPs - too many for it to be pathologised, not enough for it to be widely understood. So there, I’m gonna stop beating myself up for being  wimpy. I’ve  re-framed. I’m merely  HSP.  Oh and by the way , us HSPs also have ‘rich,complex inner lives’ ‘are aware of subtleties’ and are ‘deeply moved by art and music’.

Monday, September 13, 2010

Hug

September 13th

Back home, monday morning  get up, cook porridge, make school lunch, say “Hurry up Darling” a few times, bundle F into the car, drop him at the bus stop.

Then face the Gardener. 

The Gardener and I had a fight on Friday afternoon. I had hoped he and his helpers would be gone by the time I got home because I felt too tired to talk and certainly too tired to make descisions about where certain rocks should go etc. it could all wait till Monday. 

But his ute  was still here as we pulled up in the car. Hi...  And I noticed they’d marked out a new garden bed a different shape and size from what I thought we’d agreed on. Somehow this easy-to-fix problem escalated into a ridiculous exchange of accusations and counter-accuations about who didn’t communicate properly and who should have been here to discuss it, and various protestations about our respective decency, integrity etc. He left in a huff. Aaaaargh!

All of which left me feeling so cranky and shaky and mad with him that I couldn’t  think straight. So I  rang up poor old D in Melbourne and ended up being cranky to him about it, like it’s all his fault somehow, for not being here. After I hung up I felt  like I was a really awful person. 

Then F said, “ I feel sorry for Dad. He’s down in Melbourne, cold and a bit sick and you call up and dump all your problems on him”

I called back, apologised, was forgiven etc. But it took quite a few hours for the gutted/furious/shaky feeling to subside. Then F & I  took off for our weekend at the beach.

I didn’t hear the Gardener arrive this morn, but I saw him out of the kitchen window over the sink, as I washed the porridge saucepan. He was stomping about and frowning heavily at the flagstones laid out on the ground. Out I go. ‘Hi, how was your weekend?’ I ask, attempting breeziness. 

“I felt bad about Friday afternoon” he says. “Me too”, I say, “But I’m over it now, let’s just move on” No, he wants to talk some more about it. I’m thinking how the hell have I ended up having this intense exchange I don't want  with this guy who I am paying to do the paving, like we’re in some personal growth workshop or something. I guess both of us have been in plenty of those, which is perhaps why I eventually hear myself saying, “Lets just  have a hug”. So we  hug and that seems to fix things, so he can get on with the paving. And I can go back inside and do the tax stuff I’ve been avoiding for weeks. 
..and figure out how to upload a photo

beach house weekend

September 11th, The Beach House

I wake to a perfect morning. Last night's grey drizzle has miraculously  evaporated into a morning just like all those other perfect Spring mornings when I have woken up here over the last thirty years. Postcard blue and radiant. The birds are tweetling and cheepcheeping  among the banksias and sheoaks as they always do. The familiar birdsong spirals me me into a sort of endless present moment charged with memory.

The sound of the sea permeates this place. Beneath an unblemished sky, the ocean heaves & thumps dully against the land, a sound that’s both restless and peaceful. There is a bright  glare of white light off the water from the recently-risen sun. And the silhouettes of spikey pandanus. I sit on the verandah in the sun at the outdoor table in my usual spot

When I am here I never wish to be anywhere else. This is my place. Last night  at dusk  as we crossed the Maroochy River and saw Mount Coolum from the car, F said: ‘I feel like we are going home’. He was born in this house. When we finally arrive, unlock the door and walk in, he says ‘Ah, the familiar smell’

On the bench there are notes, thankyous, small gifts from various friends who have stayed here during the five months since i was last here. People now back in Melbourne, Paris, Maleny.  A little painting from S of her family frolicking in the waves. I’ve put it up on the wall. 

Someone has left a shaving brush in the bathroom and there is a bottle of shampoo labelled in German in the shower. Somebody’s forgotten board shorts hang in the laundry. There is a chip in the glass shelf over the sink  ( which E called to apologise about) Peanut butter and coffee, not brands we buy are stored on a shelf where I never put them. And someone has tidied up my saucepan cupboard, and the shameful drawer full of plastic containers. Thankyou, whoever you were. 

We are only here for the weekend. Now it’s 9 p.m. Dinner dishes are washed, bench wiped, day’s busy  activities finished.  F is in bed. He earned $ 35 at the market busking. All in small change , which he has organised into neat piles on the table. 

I lie in the hammock under the stars out  on the deck, bathing in the sound of that big old ocean. That wild, eternal, mysterious, watery womb, for which I can never find words that don’t sound cliched. 

My mother wanted to die here in this house because she had heard that the last of the  senses to fade away when we die is hearing. She wanted to die with the sound of the ocean carrying her off into the great mystery.

It didn’t turn out quite like that for her, sadly. Though she did  quite a bit of her dying process here - up until the last couple of weeks.

Lying out in the hammock, looking back at the house, it’s lights glowing,  it occurs to me that  this has been my place now, for longer than it was  Mum’s.  Swaying in the hammock as the breeze barely touches the banksia leaves around me, I have the thought that this is where I would like to die. I’ve never considered the question before, of where I’d like to die. It feels slightly spooky. And of course the decision may not be mine to make. Oh dear, I’m talking about death again...

Chatting with someone at Eumundi Market  this morning, we talked about how people our age are starting to feel that the upkeep of their large rural properties is too much. ‘Downsizing’ and ‘Moving closer to town’  is a bit of a trend.  We are starting, in our fifties,  to map out the path between here and ...the end of the path. 

Walking around Z’s property with her after the market, looking at the trees she planted ten years ago, which now form a small shady  forest, I say ‘ It’s a miracle, isn’t it , when you think about it, how the life energy just surges up from the earth’ I’m always ready with such  words of wonder, but  rarely found with  hands in the dirt. I’d like to get my hands in the dirt more often  - they seem to end up at his keyboard instead 

A blue/ purple/white/black velvety butterfly lands on my wrist for an instant then flitters off into the foliage. A blessing! Later in our walk, down along the billabong we chat about husbands, children, trees.  Past the paperbarks and back up to the open green paddock, we come across  a dead ibis lying on the grass. Freshly killed and bloody. A fox perhaps, or a wild dog. Death again, after only two paragraphs. Our children rush down from the house  to inspect. 

At the juice stall at the market today I thought of Jen who started the business and worked there for many years. She died suddenly a few weeks ago. Mid fifties. I felt sad, standing there waiting for my juice, remembering her.  

The new people who bought the business a year or so ago offer new combinations like watermelon strawberry and orange. They do not know my face or my name or that I never have ice.  Waiting for my carrot and apple juice & F’s watermelon strawberry and orange juice  I see Jen’s bright face, her purple and pink and orange clothes, and hear her croaky voice. She came to one of  my writing courses and surprised me with her sensitive turn of phrase.  I want to say to the new  people, ’Isn’t it sad?’ and ‘I miss her’ etc. 

But then I remember not everyone wants to chat about death, especially while they have a queue of people waiting to be served. I take our juices back to the table where our friends are chatting and laughing and getting outraged about various political things in the Sydney Morning Herald, just like they always do. 

Back at the beach house, F spends hours after dinner putting all our photos of Europe into an album. I went out this arvo to the awful big convenient shopping centre and got them all printed. I’ve always been the one who puts family photos in albums. Now I’m happy to hand the job  over to him - he embraces the project with enthusiasm, including  hand written captions  (The feri driver let me steer. A narrow ali in Venise, the cabel car, the wite peacocs) There we were in Rome, Paris, by the lake, in the chateau etc. In the middle of a heatwave, in the middle  of northern hemisphere summer, which is now winding down. 

 F & I have agreed that  we will go nowhere tomorrow , spend all day ‘just lazing about’ 



Sunday 12th

Some of the big rocks on the little goat track up to the top of the headland have fallen and broken in two. The familiar handholds and footholds are gone. The new configuration is rubbley, raw, exposed. There is  fresh yellow and pink inside the split rocks. I guess the big rains made the earth  soggy, the rocks loosened... Why am I so surprised, so put out? Had I forgotten that everything changes, mountains crumble, and cliffs are always in a slow motion process of tumbling into the ocean?

The headland, where I have sat a thousand times in the last thirty years is at the top of the track. I sit in the sparse shade of the sheoaks. Today I do not meditate or focus on breathing and sensation, or visualise anything. Today I just sprawl on a warm rock in the early Spring sunshine and  hang out  and  try  not to ‘do’ anything.

I don’t scramble down to the pool and the cave, because my lower back has been giving me a bit of grief lately. I imagine getting stuck down there, unable to clamber back up, tide coming in. Like an old person. Then I think ‘What if my back never gets better, and I never feel confident enough to go down there again?” A sobering thought. Meanwhile, I try to move my body in a wholistic non-effortful Feldenkreis-y way. 

I’m experimenting with not pushing myself. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to be good, trying to make things happen. Being disciplined, making myself do stuff. I feel exhausted just thinking about  all that bloody effort.  

Even as this wise old me knows all  about ‘trusting’ and ‘allowing’ etc, there’s another desperate, driven lunatic part that believes the world will end, I will die, everything will fall into chaos and disaster, if i don’t go on exerting myself ..sigh...

I felt a little resistance to going for my morning walk this morning. Staying in bed, reading Thomas Hardy was quite an attractive alternative. Yes I’m ploughing my way through Far From the Madding Crowd. Quite enjoying his prose, in a slow,  curious sort of way. 

Thismorning, the beach wins over the book in bed.  I’m down there at 7.30. Thirty years ago it was an almost deserted beach. We swam naked here. I always tell people that, we used to swim naked.

This morning there are a lot of  pairs of women with blonde pony tails and running shoes,  doing that purposeful pounding walk along the beach  that is all about Keeping Fit.

I miss coming to this place more often. Now that we are living four hours drive away.

But I’m glad not to be living in this area any longer. Those blonde pony tails and designer running shorts. And a glance at the Noosa News, which is full of  nauseating ‘lifestyle’ & shiny new real estate, it all reminds me why we wanted to be somewhere earthier. 

At the end of my walk, just before going back up to the house, I plunge into the waves. I dive under three times. 

Once, a few years back,  a house guest  came down in the morning and saw me. He said,
“It’s your Ganges, isn’t it?” in his cockney no bullshit accent.

Sitting on the deck eating breakfast,  F spots dolphins, a big pod of them. Runs for the old binoculars. 

Now he’s reading Simpsons comics, swaying in the hammock. He’s been wandering around on the deck in his pyjamas playing his clarinet. 

A good day. Wish we didn’t have to go home tonight. 
  



Thursday, September 9, 2010

reclusive extrovert

I’m sitting here with the laptop on a sagging old sofa on a tumbledown verandah while F is inside having his clarinet lesson, after school. 

His teacher G is a groovy young guy. He's the one I heard busking at the market, whose  clarinet sounds like heaven.  I seem to be completely invisible to  him  -  I'm a grey, middle-aged parentish sort of person of no interest whatever. Not that I  care, as long as F is having a good time in there. 

I can hear the two of them jamming inside the house.  The Pink Panther. 

This sofa smells of dog and beer and  old ashtrays. I suspect G smokes dope and drinks a lot of  beer, but no matter. Now I can hear them discussing which are the best songs for busking. F has mentioned that he plans to busk up at Eumundi Market this w/end. 

G is advising  him on ‘songs old people like’  - old people being the most likely to throw money in the hat. Well I’m glad we are good for something.  

Apparently ‘old people’ like a song called  ‘Strangers on the Shore’.  G is telling F he doesn’t really like the song that much, but old people really love it....

No, they’ve abandoned that tack, thank goodness, and gone back to The Pink Panther & Girl From Ipanema.

Yes, I am eavesdropping.

I’ve been eavesdropping half the day. The only client I had today cancelled, so I sat  at the cafe sipping green tea & working on the laptop. To avoid being at home and having to interact with the gardening crew. Ridiculous huh?

In the cafe I overheard two lots of  latte-sipping people referring to  the fact that Mercury is Retrograde.

Last night we (F & I)  went to a share dinner  for M’s birthday. When we arrived there was someone else getting out of a car in the dark, fumbling around like us with a casserole etc. We reached the lit up front porch of M’s house together. Where do I know you from? Oh, yes, the gym, different context...

She is one of the people I doggedly ignore every morning at 6 a.m.. ( or used to ignore,  when I still went to gym). Of course it has to be admitted that  I ignore pretty much everyone at gym. Because I just want to pedal my bike and listen to my podcasts and not talk. There’s a  chatty early morning gym camaraderie from which I hold myself  firmly aloof. Quick hello then on with the iPod ear plugs.
I also have to admit it, I have had a vaguely irritated feeling towards this woman, the way she lifts weights and uses those stretchy leg-extender things so energetically. 

You know what I’m going to say, don’t you? Lesson one thousand and one about making judgements about people who subsequently turn out to be nothing like what I’d projected onto them. She’s nice. She’s sitting next to me at  the long candlelit dinner table;  and if she is a little less than hugely friendly towards me I can’t say I blame her. I’m aware of myself trying to somehow compensate for my previous unfriendliness. I am a nice person too, honestly. 

Hmm. I’ve just noticed a little theme here. Hiding in cafes, plugging in the earphones.  The reclusive  extrovert.

Lesson’s over,  gotta go 

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

some words from a no-toes

September 7th

Tuesday are always good because The Girls come over to play marimbas in the morning.  (Yes I’ve become one of those more-than-middle-aged women who refer to their women friends as The Girls. Funny that  in our serious-feminist twenties we insisted on being called women. Or even wimmin for goodness sake). 

Marimba-playing is one of my few sure-fire remedies for depression, and much more fun than dragging myself off to the gym to get the endorphins  going. Until a coupla months ago I was up with the kookaburras every morning, putting on my trainers, off to sweat &  pump iron. That person has gone, at least for now. And been replaced by a slightly plumper reading-in-bed and eating-chocolate sort of a person, who sometimes feels a diffuse sense of dread first thing in the morning before getting up.  

Whereas when I’m in the  gym bunny phase of the cycle I’m out of bed and busy before I have a chance to fall into existential angst.   

Cycles, interesting to observe. Since starting this blog I’ve watched my moods move up, down and all around. I think that is just what they do, all the time. All I need to do is remember the mantra, ‘Everything Changes’. Like the weather. 

Now the marimba girls have gone and I’m writing here partly to avoid the tedious tasks awaiting me, tasks to do with bits of paper on my desk, and the accountant requesting I send my 09/10 tax stuff soon. I suppose I’ll do what I usually do, which is put it off and off and off till I feel sick thinking about it. At which point I’ll sit down, deal with it all, and feel better.

Although there IS often a very grumpy moment in the middle of it all, when I can’t find what a certain cheque was for etc. And I get into a rage about the whole horrible greedy hypocritical  system. Even though I am essentially one of the winners in that horrible greedy system. Aaargh, the unresolveable  moral squirminess about all of that is another reason to procrastinate. 

The three guys are still out there, mixing cement, moving rocks. Earning an honest living. The flagstones look pretty good. One of the Marimba Girls, as I was waving them off,  recognised one of the gardening guys. Turned out they lived next door to eachother years ago out in the hills  near Nimbin. We all stood there in the spring sunshine chatting by a pile of  jasmine  prunings. 

When he’s not pulling weeds and mulching gardens, the ex-neighbour of J’s is an astrologer. He tells us he has  "a particular interest in Chiron". And that he  runs “experiential workshops, Mars and Venus stuff.  Which is you know, lots of fun”  
‘‘Oh...’’ I say.  I’m wondering vaguely if there’s a connection between the Mars and Venus experience and the boss’s sex therapist wife. 

And I do just have to mention that the other gardening guy  ( the hard-working, less chatty one) spent the weekend as fire-keeper at a women’s sweat lodge.  I love it!

Later I was out in the garden talking about payment and online deposits etc with The Boss (after he’d talked me into cutting back the purple bougainvillaea). I was ranting on  about all the new online bank security measures where you have to get a secret code number sent to your mobile every time you want to access your account, or else have a special e-tag thing. Spooky.

The Boss is more paranoid than I am: He wants me to remove his account details after  final payment because he reckons there are ‘gangs of hackers’ who come from Russia and somewhere else, especially to hack into low-security  online Aussie bank accounts. 

The world really is completely mad, isn’t it?

Anyway,  he doesn’t do any online banking himself,  “But my wife does all that sort of stuff on the computer, because she’s got a shop” 

” A shop?..Oh, I thought she was a...I mean, whereabouts, what sort of shop?”

“Well”, he says, “She’s Sex therapist, so ...you know (wink wink) it’s an online sex shop” I say “Oh...” again  and then go inside, now revising my image of The Sex Therapist Wife to include naughty lingerie and dildoes and dirty magazines. I think I’m secretly scared she’ll come around  and  ask me about my sex life. 

I’d been imagining her more along lines of  sacred tantra, chakras &  tapping into the Divine Feminine etc., the sort of stuff  that’s popular round these parts. Usually offered by someone called ‘Ocean’ or ‘Shakti’

Still, as we all agree over morning tea ( the Marimba Girls) we’d much prefer to live among  colourful hippy crackpots, than among the real estate agents and  stockbrokers  of Noosa or the Gold Coast.   

I got a thing from Get Up about what’s happening in the north of Western Australia, how the Big  Business Bullies (Shell, BP etc) want to build a gas pipeline across Aboriginal land and aren’t prepared to wait for a proper indigenous consultation. Bastards!  The Aboriginal land has been earmarked by the W.A govt for ‘compulsory acquisition’ This enrages me.

Interestingly, I hear a farmer on the radio thismorning who is up in arms about land clearing legislation enacted few years back. He says it is tantamount to ‘compulsory acquisition’ by the government, of agricultural land and he should be compensated. He sounded well-educated and articulate and he’s managed to get the case to court. 

sigh...endless squabbles...

L.  tells about an Aboriginal man she used to know out  in that beautiful wild region of W.A. Jimmy Pike, the artist. She said he grew up in the desert, and the first sign of whitefellas he ever saw was their footprints. Or rather, their shoe-prints. He thought we had no toes.

Well last night, I finally hit the email send button to tell people I’ve got a blog. Today, nice emails  from friends. My little cave out here in cyber-world is warmed by the knowledge that others have visited. 

A big fragrant vase of yellow lilies from the market, a bunch of intense blue irises in a black vase; and a lovely big messy bunch of home-grown roses from J - My house is full of spring flowers.


Monday, September 6, 2010

Sanskrit names etc

Monday night 6/09/10

Is my  commitment to blogging already waning? Is my blog doomed to become another of those abandoned sites? Possibly. I’ve been scribbling in the old pen-and-paper diary. Sigh. What to report? So much happens, all the time. People coming and going through the front door. Thoughts. etc

There is the garden renovation, the three blokes here all day for the last week, ripping out weeds, rebuilding the broken steps down to the laundry, laying down flagstones on the north side of the house, a little spot to catch the winter sun. 

They are nice guys. But I still find it hard having them here, in my space. When I expressed this to T the other day, she said ‘sounds like heaven to me’. She couldn’t afford such luxury. Yes, I should be grateful!

The gardener told us that his wife is a sex therapist. I love that sort of thing about living in this area: The electrician has a sanskrit name. The guy who came to sort out my computer  is a Zen practitioner and has set my home page so that it keeps popping up sayings about emptiness and the false self and reminding me I am God etc. 

Then there was the cleaner who came for a while - she had an Indian name too - who told me that she couldn’t remove cobwebs, because there are enough homeless creatures in the world and she didn’t want to destroy spiders’ homes. Her  commitment to all life unfortunately  seemed to exclude the possibility of removing even the  oldest dustiest cobwebs. 

The gardener’s two young offsiders play gentle meditation type music while they work. 

And we have a local paper that describes itself as  ‘insouciant since 1984’

I’ve found a great acupuncturist. Though he has a tendency to deliver lectures while I’m lying immobilized  and pincushion-like  on his table ‘We have to let go of dogma’ he said the other day, while stabbing a couple of needles into my calves. 

He himself spent decades of his younger life practising extreme martial arts disciplines in Japan. Bare-chested in the snow with ice on his chest hair. Now he’s given it all up. Let all that folly and striving and illusion fall away. 

Heard a young guy busking on clarinet at the market the other day. I went up and asked him if  F. could come and get some lessons from him. Had the first one last week. Now F is suddenly playing all this jazzy bluesy stuff.  Tonight after dinner he put on a Ray Charles cd and played along. 

D phoned from Melb. Its cold and dreary down there, he says, though conceding that coffee and bookshops are good. He reckons it’s making him appreciate the nice life we have here. 



Sunday, September 5, 2010

sunday soft grey morning with birds warbling and muted in cotton wool silence. when I woke there was a wash of golden light  hitting all the contours of the ranges outside the bedroom window. Now,  crisp three-dimensionality has dissolved into flat smoky forgetfulness. Not even 7a.m and I am lieing in bed, sunday morning indulgence, reading. 'Far From The madding Crowd' Thomas Hardy. From the library. My girlfriends and I when we were about 13 adored the movie - handsome rakish Terence Stamp, gorgeous Julie Christie. She's nothing like the dark-haired Bathsheba in the book. Don't know if I'll get right through it.

The weekend has been a tumble of activities on top of eachother - market, soccer club end-of-season break-up, book club, lunch with jenny at the art gallery...

when I arrived to collect F. from the under 12 soccer team get together he didn't see me arrive. So I got to spy on him and his mates for a few minutes. A mob of 12  year old boys - noisy, self conscious gawky creatures, on the cusp of puberty. When I'd left a couple of hours earlier they were playing a gentlemanly game of backyard cricket. Now all of them were drenched, all of them were shreiking and yelling and jumping on and off the trampoline.  A couple , including F,  had enormous bright coloured plastic water pistols and were ejaculating long hard streams of water on their friends.  Like machine gunners in a Hollywood war movie.

I don't often see the Rambo side of my son. It was a good reminder.

tomorrow is monday, too soon, I want a Day Of Rest

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Spring In The Garden

September 1st

A Spring Is Sprung kind of day.

Sitting in fave cafe with laptop after dropping F. at bus stop,  before going to meet L., the seed-saver , at the Community Gardens. Gonna do the usual interview/ article/photo  for local paper.

this blogging thang, been doin it just over a week now, a good discipline, to write every day...BUT...there is something a bit weird about it , a bit deathy about being so engaged in cyber-space. I miss my old friends, the paper page, the pen.

And of course I have not emailed my blog address to one single  person because...why? Well because of my never-ending fear of making an idiot of myself. I mean So What  if my friends think it’s  a load of drivel, or can’t even be bothered looking. They’ll still love me.

I recognise my old familiar polarity ie ‘I’m Great’ vs ‘I’m terrible’ ( runs right through on lots of levels, but right now will just stick to the blogwriting biz). Most of the time, like most people, I’m just muddling along in the middle zone somewhere, neither a genius or a moron. 

Of course the Dharma take on all this is that it’s all an illusion anyway, and one that causes endless suffering. This identification with a constructed ‘self’, an ‘I’ that is somehow solid & permanent etc. 

Even as I write that, I hear another part of myself protesting, “I do so exist, ...” - off it goes again on it’s endless tape-loop.

P, the meditation teacher at retreat a couple of years ago when I complained to him that ‘My mind is driving me nuts, I can’t shut it up’ etc, replied, ‘ Not your mind, just Mind’.

So I try to think of Mind a sort of vast ectoplasmy thingy , that we are all plugged into...hmm

Time to go interview the SeedSaver.

Later:

Well an hour or so  at The Garden has got me back in perspective.  As L.said, ‘It’s real’ Yup. We sat in the spring sunshine among marigolds, poppies, and bushy gone-to-seed masses of broccoli with many bees and white butterflies among the little yellow flowers. ‘This is a healing place’, she says, and tells me about people who come here and find new purpose for their lives, growing things. Unemployed kids, retired people. 

There are little hippy purple signs up ‘Food for all’ indicating greens and pumpkins for anyone who needs them. As I walk around the couple of acres before L arrives, I’m thinking , why the hell don’t I spend more time gardening and cooking?

I have to admit to a sort  feeling of inadequacy and guilt: I should be a better gardener, I’m slack. And of prejudice I have - I don’t know why, about permaculture and sustainability stuff. As if it is all very worthy but kind of dull. All those earnest people. 

Then I step into a garden, this garden and it’s a magic place and it feels more important than anything else I can imagine, reconnecting with the earth, growing food together, tuning into the cycles, witnessing the miracle...

I hear all sorts of sinister stuff from L about big seed banks in the Arctic which will be used for the profit of Big Business etc. Guarded by polar bears. Nowadays nothing seems too surreal to be true!

Mainly, though , she’s focussed on just doing stuff. Growing medicinal herbs to treat sick people. Cataloguing seeds.  I glimpse something in her eyes that makes me think of the long ago healers and midwives and herbalists, some of whom were burnt at the stake for witchcraft...

I leave feeling lighter, more alive, excited. Later in the day, as my therapy client leaves after a session, she says ‘I feel so much lighter’  Yup, that sort of day. Spring is sprung.