Hen & Ink

I spent the last weekend with good friends at their home in Thames. This sleepy little town was once bigger than Auckland, with a huge influx of people swarming in during the late 1800s to find gold ‘in them thar hills’. It once boasted hundreds of hotels to support that sudden population, and now most have gone but for a few, in that old wooden style with verandah and porch. Many Aucklanders have moved across to Thames in recent years, because of the exorbitant housing prices in the biggest city. My friends have taken a lovely old bungalow and transformed it into something special – it helps that Rob is an architect by trade. And Robin has a definite gift for spaces and style.

We had a wonderful time catching up, sitting in many of the numerous areas just enjoying the ambience and each other’s company. The newest addition – the sliding window to the outside – proved more than its worth in terms of allowing the flow of conversation to drift between kitchen and outside. And then we had a delicious meal with some of the produce from the garden in a ratatouille, with noodles and chunky tender lamb chops. I was spoilt.

It was a lazy start the next morning, after a storm had buffeted the area, cutting power to many places in Auckland. I decided to drive up the coastline to a beach that Dad had taken us to when we were all able to cram into the back of the old Holden. He had many hobbies, and one of them was to grind and polish semi-precious stones, and then put them into perspex in a table, or make jewellery from them. It was a favourite pastime for us to come here, and wander up and down the beach, bent double, looking for agates. To my joy, I found some, despite the beach being almost submerged under waves from the recent high winds. I also found two baby hammerhead sharks, swept from their mother in the high seas, sniff.

Now I’m back in Auckland, and facing the grind of working behind a desk in the city. Ah, but those memories are still fresh. . .

I’ve been away this weekend, down in the old gold-mining town of Thames on the Coromandel Peninsula, staying with good friends. Driving through the old Victorian streets of this town, with many buildings from the era of the gold rush still evident, I cannot but be aware of the passing of time. And then I look down at my own hands clutching the steering wheel, and find that small jolt of disappointment upon seeing how very old they are looking. There are spots and blemishes where there once were none, and wrinkles that have replaced the plump elastic flesh. It set me to pondering some things.

It wasn’t so long ago that I was a quite different looking person. A mere ten years between the photos in the pics above if you are merely looking at the external evidence. And yet, WITHIN, I am the same – in fact – I am improved. I’ve had ten more years of adventures and rich life experience, none of which I regret. Personality, spirit, presence, are all quintessentially me, but the outward vessel that contains me, is subject to the ravages of time. To a certain degree I try and stem that tide, but it is a losing battle.

That got me thinking even more (it’s a good hour and a half from Auckland to Thames – plenty of time to ponder.) And here’s where my own expectations of life may differ a great deal from yours, but I’m putting them out there; it’s MY blog after all.

I think of this life on the planet as the visible part – the bit parallel to the pupae and larvae or caterpillar stage. We only ever get to see the caterpillar, and it can sure be flexible and hungry and colourful and moving for much of its life. In fact, in its youngest phase it is the most vital, and then it simply gets slower and fat.

This world is focussed on the youthful stage of that larvae – the agile, flexible and attractive. But inevitably, that caterpillar has had its fill of life and just wants to curl up and die. And that is all we see. Something has gone from our sight and hardened up and simply moved out of our plane of existence. Away.

There are caterpillars of all sorts on this plant, and they each know that at some point they will want to do the same. They sense they will have ‘had their fill’ and slow down, and curl up, hanging by tenuous thread to the life they’ve known. And then quite suddenly they are no more. The rest of the larvae believe what they will about that process. . . and eat and eat and eat, never completely knowing or seeing the end result. (Their eyesight is so poor they use their antennae to ‘see’).

This is where the analogy takes a leap for me into new territory. You see, I believe there is an ‘outside of space and time’, – another realm, as it were. We, metaphorically,  place that chrysalis in the ground and mourn the loss.

But life is just beginning. Something completely new is happening: transformation. And outside of the visible realm, this happens:

The essence that was inside that first wee caterpillar is still there, but there is NO resemblance to the creature that is airing its brilliant wings in preparation for flight. THIS is the creature that was always present, no matter what body it held, however THIS final form is its finest and best.

Truly, I can live with my spots and wrinkles. There is MORE life not less coming. There is bigger and brighter and more brilliant and beyond the imagination better coming. I believe that in a profound ‘its time to cling with a thread to a twig’ kind of way. I know it, like that caterpillar knows that IT IS TIME.

There, I’ve said it. The end. (My blog, remember?)

I painted this ten years ago, feeling as much a slave to time as I do now it would seem. It feels particularly precious to me right now, because I have so much I want to do. . . and my enemy in this endeavour is my old nemesis, the ticking clock.

If, like me, you have set forth into this new year full of plans and dreams, you might recognise something of yourself in the coming paragraphs. I’m someone who enjoys life, and I do know how to relax and take it easy. But I also have plenty I WANT to do, and in between and amongst all that, are things I NEED or MUST do in order for my life to be bearable. They are completed in order of priority, and the bottom of the list never ever gets reached. Way down there at the bottom are things like ‘dusting’ and ‘sorting clothes’. I’ve recently taken myself in hand, and picked up some things I need to do, and put them near the top of the list. You’ll recognise the words ‘My Peak Challenge’ by now; if you don’t, it’s a hugely successful endeavour, spearheaded by Sam Heughan, to raise funds for blood cancer research, and inspire people to improve their lives. (Mostly by detailed and supportive fitness goals, and nutritional plans and help, although by no means limited to that.)

Now don’t laugh. My day now goes something like this:

5.45 am   Alarm. Spend 10 mins in quiet reflection/meditation
5.46 am   Remember to put on face stuff that needs to wait 30 mins before washing off
5.48 am  Back to quiet reflection
5.55 am   Get out of bed, change, and drag mat out on kitchen floor. Warm ups and
exercises as per MPC guide
6.20 am  Go through the shower, dress, change dress, change mind, back to first outfit, put
on makeup, watch it slide down face.
6.35 am   Make breakfast, pack a lunch, eat breakfast while answering emails/facebook
6.45 am   Clean teeth, gather things together, step outside
6.47 am   See it is about to rain, return, collect umbrella
6.50 am   RUN OUT THE DOOR and briskly walk to bus stop regretting choice of clothes
7 am         Catch bus to work, sitting in usual spot
7.40          Arrive in city, have coffee at cafe near work
8am         Be seated at desk, chat to co-workers, think about lunch and look forward to it

I won’t tire you with the rest, but the morning is TIGHT. Now if I were to do ALL the things the health magazines and articles suggested, I would never make it to work before midday. (Truly, HOW do mothers with children needing to get up too, ever get out the door?)

There is a growing part of me that realises I cannot possibly do as much as I would like, and is quietly rebelling. So some pretty obvious tasks remain undone, while I slip outside onto my satellite chair in the fading light, and simply read. It all comes down to being selective – something I struggled to do when I was younger. THEN, if I was asked out, or someone wanted to go somewhere, I tagged along. I wouldn’t have dreamed of saying no. I was pretty driven. But as I’ve gained some wisdom in my later years, I know I don’t have to attend every event, or tick every box on my daily list. I don’t have to chase every distant acquaintance and try to maintain a friendship with them. That all may seem obvious to you, but it’s taken a while for me to loosen my elastic bands.

I took this today, outside with my street bike, newly restored to going order.

I am SO going to waste some happy hours peddling the local streets on this one. See – combining the NEED for exercise, with the joy of adventuring. It’s a win:win. And while I’m on that topic, I started the food plan on the MPC website yesterday, and to my surprise, am finding the meals and food choices great. Here’s breakfast this morning:

I think I’ll go to bed – I can see my blog post is meandering in a very untimely fashion, and I’m wandering off down side tracks. Forgive me for taking up your time (grin).

I painted the picture below just over ten years ago, and it fully encapsulates the post I am about to write.

ALL MY LIFE I’ve loved stories, from the moment my mother turned the first cloth page of a baby’s first book and read to me, and I cannot conceive of how small a world it would have been without them. Neither can I truly grasp what life would have been like had that great door not opened before me. I drew THAT picture over twenty years ago:

The picture was drawn as I embarked on the first of what has become MANY trips overseas, to encounter new cultures and discover my roots. What coloured and thrilled my heart at the traveling, was that many of the stories, histories, and countries encountered throughout my life were to be realised in truth. I couldn’t wait.

A few years ago, the stats for literacy worldwide indicated that 17% were not able to read. And I am well aware that there was a strong tradition in most cultures of oral story-telling. THAT was how many stories made it into the books. The bard of Celtic tradition weaving long tales through music and song, the tribal elders relating the long saga of the clan, the players and caravans traveling the countryside with costume and exaggerated actions. We’ve got it so easy these days, with stories so well captured in CGI and multi-million dollar production, that we hardly need to use our own imaginations to be taken into another time and place. I sometimes long for a moment around a campfire, with hours of stories related in the flickering light by an aged ancient with rasping voice and waving hands. I am a total SITTING DUCK for a story.

Still, the older I get, the more I appreciate the range and scope of all the stories that flood my life, and that I can lay my eager hands upon. To not be able to read, is something I struggle to grasp. As a primary school teacher from years ago, I know the part of the day we (the children and I) loved most was the daily reading of a story aloud. The teachers who received the children I taught in the years to come, may well have sighed at their ineptitude in maths or geography, but I know I sent them out with a love of reading and hearing stories. (Oh, and they could all draw cartoons as well.) Somewhere, out there, around one hundred children are well versed in stretching their imaginations and hopefully, are reading books to their own children. (And grandchildren by now!)

Much as I love the many forms of story-telling, from movies through to plays, it is books that are my first and last love.

Within the IMAX of my own mind, I see all the dimensions possible in Tolkien’s series, along with the sound of the music, and the rhythm of the poetry. Delicious though Peter Jackson’s revelation of those stories in film were, nothing competes with the detail and life my own imagination gave them first. The same is true of Outlander. I am utterly delighted with the series that we are so fortunate to have on our screens – it is beautifully realised from the books. Nevertheless, not for a moment does it get in the way of the glory of the vision I saw played out in my own mind upon hearing/reading the books. Neither does the show detract from them. It would be a poor imagination indeed that could not fill out, amend, colour, compensate, and enhance any digitally realised adaptation of a book. If I am unhappy about any aspect of a screen portrayal of a favourite book, I just revert to reading the book version again, reliving the original vision I hold so dear, and am swept away again. This is the glory of being able to READ.

When I came across this postcard recently, from a great, great aunt – obviously living in the workhouse in London, my heart did go out to her. Oh, I hope she had access to some moments of pure escapism like her many times great niece does! How I hope she could escape the drabness of what her address sounds like, through reading. (And I hope she DID get to meet up with my grandfather – the ‘H’ on the card.) What I wouldn’t give to know her story.

Are we not the most fortunate of beings, to have so much at our fingertips that gives us wide open doors to other worlds? I am so glad that the many authors who keep me supplied are out there, even now, tapping their keys. (My one great nightmare is that I reach a day when I find there are no books I haven’t read.) I cannot tell you how much of my hopes and expectations, language and opinions, have been formed by the countless words that my eyes have sped over. Or how much enjoyment has been derived by reading aloud a choice phrase from a book just read, to someone I know who’ll appreciate it.

I feel I am preaching to the choir. If anyone has trawled this far down on my post, then you must be a reader yourself, and I hope, have had a similar background. I can still remember the day I walked into a person’s home for the first time, and found NOT ONE BOOK on a shelf or table anywhere. It so shocked me, as you see, that I am still amazed by it and typing it up here. I feel the pull of the current novel I am reading, upon me, and so will draw this blog post to a close. THANK YOU beloved authors, for all your labour – keep ’em coming.

. . . and we all lived Happily Ever After!

Tomorrow I am back at my temp job in the city, and will hit the ground running. I just know there will be issues to deal with, and plenty of mail to catch up on. Summer has not really arrived yet in New Zealand. . . well, okay. . . it has been humid and warmish, but we’ve got more rain now and so it doesn’t feel too bad not to be on holiday with the teeming millions.

Which is why the last few days I spent leading up to New Year’s Day were so delightful. This was taken on New Year’s Eve.

I went down south of Auckland – about an hour’s drive – to a large country property (in Mangitangi), belonging to a friend and her husband. I’ve known Beverley for over 40 years, ever since the first day of Teacher’s College when we two newbies met each other over a discussion about where the carpark was. Her father was army, my Dad was police, and we both lived in similar army/police houses, with three other siblings. We have regularly connected over the years, and enjoyed a friendship more akin to being sisters than merely friends.

Now that their two delightful daughters have fled the nest, I get my pick of which bedroom to stay in – and we have more time to do things together again. You should hear the wisdom expressed and the wide variety of world issues that get discussed and dealt with over endless cups of tea! She read Outlander books before me, but of course, once I got hold of them there was no stopping the deep and widespread involvement in all things associated with the show and books. She and I went (with Rhonnie Brinsdon) to the Kiwi Outlander Gathering this last year, and both of us loved it.

But I digress. . .

Imagine leaving the busy largest city in New Zealand, driving south over the Bombay Hills, and into a rolling countryside of green pastures, hidden valleys, and the serenity of that landscape. It was bliss!!

I lost track of time, we got up when we felt like it, and my closest neighbours were these critters:

Those three days passed very quickly, nevertheless. How very fortunate I am to have such good friends, and to feel so welcome with them. I shall always remember seeing the New Year in as we did, having fish and chips on camp chairs down at the local beach which is Kaiaua.

And waking while it was still dark to see the gorgeous countryside slowly waken to a rosy dawn. A great start to 2017! May  your year be as promising as this one seems to be.

Right now, three days from Christmas – (the largest festival on our Kiwi calendar) – the world outside is, well, lively. As if there are not enough usual things rocking the global boat at this time of year, it feels as if all hands are on deck, the seas are turbulent, and the sails full and straining to rush us to an unknown destination; one not really of our choosing. A lucky few (and I count myself one of them this year) are down in the galley chatting or picking at the meal on the captain’s table. We are all just coasting past the ‘political continent’ and found it erupting and earth-quaking, and no safe place to land. We’ve lost a few overboard in the last year; big names, huge losses. There’s bewildering numbers of people in crisis and it is hard to know how to come to terms with it all at a personal level.
And I know that at THAT level, the personal one, everyone has their own burdens and joys.
I wanted to write a blog that was positive and hopeful, whilst acknowledging that for many, if not most, life can be more difficult at this season particularly. It’s not all tinsel and pretty lights. When I sat down to write, I realised that what makes the difference to me and gives me hope, has to do with my own faith and experience. It would be impossible to encapsulate in a short blog post without cheapening it somehow. But there’s an aspect of it that I can confidently write about because it has been written about much more eloquently by a far greater writer than I.
These words send a shiver up my spine and return my turbulent heart to a place of peace:

‘The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.’

Which to me, means: one of the most godly attributes – that of receiving and forgiving another – is not forced and constrained, but is as freely dispensed as the very rain that waters everything it falls upon. Another quote comes to mind: “The rain it falleth every day upon the just and unjust fellow, but mostly on the just because the unjust has the just’s umbrella.” (I can’t help my sense of humour).

My toes curl up at the first quote because I am very aware of the many times I have been the one who most needed mercy, and without deserving it, received it. If you have never known the feeling of that grace in your life, then you haven’t been watching/listening. It has fallen upon us all at times, and not usually when we think we need it most, but unexpectedly and uncalled for. By its very nature it is freely and without measure given. Those who spend their time counting their losses and grievances, are the least likely to know that it exists.

The second half of that small quote (taken out of context of course) is also true. Having received uncalled for mercy, and acknowledging it has happened, it is easier for one to extend it to others. Or put another way, being more and more aware of the mercy under which I myself am living, I can increasingly open myself up to letting it flow through me to others. It has nothing to do with my worthiness, and everything to do with the quality of Mercy itself.
Since we are caught up in a season of giving and receiving, I can think of no better subject than that of Mercy to offer you. There is no sadder trait I can think of in another person than that they are holding grudges against people, often for years. A constant diet of bitterness and regret fails to bring relief. If, like me, you find yourself facing another human being who has caused you pain/frustration/annoyance/anger, and you can take a breath before reacting. If, then, you can see them as needing as much mercy as possible (and remember, it is unconstrained) and you turn from what you ‘justifiably’ would do, and offer mercy instead, then I know both of you will be better off. Just like it says in that fourth line:

‘It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.’

Well, bless you William! I do believe you were right. Here endeth the lesson for the day.

I’m going to close with a picture of the four of us watching early television in total escapist mode (which is also a cunning way of avoiding stress). How lively were our imaginations then, and what a rollercoaster we put our mother through. She knew a lot about mercy that one.

I’m sure I am not the only one who is caught up in the motions of keeping the odd seasonal tradition alive. And I mean the ones our own family know and love. Whether you celebrate Christmas, or Hanukkah, Diwali or Chinese New Year, it’s hard to avoid choosing the things YOU love and making a regular thing out of them.

I’ve been thinking a lot about it as summer approaches for those of us who live in the southern hemisphere. All my life I’ve known about snowmen, and Santa coming in his sleigh, and snowbells, and ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’ – despite the fact that nothing could be less likely. It HAS given as a very broad view of Christmas though. We can enjoy the IDEA of those things, whilst basking in the sun on a hot summer day, by the beach. Best of both worlds really.

My family has always celebrated Christmas, and my earliest memories involve trips to Grandparents’ orchard, and my Grandmother’s no frills but plentiful feast, cooked hot and served at lunchtime. Dinner was always a chicken, with gravy, potatoes, peas, carrots, and stuffing. Dessert was always her homemade steamed plum pudding, with hidden sixpences in it to be discovered after plunging through custard and cream to the fruity cake within. Presents had already been unwrapped – usually outside on blankets if it was a sunny day, which it unvariably was.

As we grew older, we continued the same tradition: stockings left by our beds for excited dismantling in the early hours. Presents unwrapped under the tree in the morning when all were up. Then a trip across to the grandparents for midday dinner.

(You’ll note the homemade ornaments adorning the Christmas tree, many of which survived to be pride of place in my parent’s tree decades later.)

As time has gone by there have been the usual comings and goings, additions and subtractions, but the core of the day has stayed the same. Naturally, as an adult, I’ve more than my share of work/friend Christmas parties to attend as the year draws to a close. Here in New Zealand, where we don’t have Thanksgiving, Christmas is a celebration that happens as the summer break begins, and work for many closes down between Christmas and New Year. This year I have attended the larger University Christmas Party, a huge multi-floored event, with band and seething masses of people in 80s outfits. Last night a small group of my good friends got together and had a barbecue, with the sun going down late and twinkling lights all around the garden. There are at least two more parties to go before the actual Day. For the last decade or so, we’ve met with a few extended family to have cold meat and salads outside on the verandah.

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In the afternoon, we generally depart for our own homes or hang out just relaxing in the sun.

I’m going to miss my Mum this year. She was the reason for all the music in our lives growing up, and why I can still – just – play the cello, if only for Christmas carols.

That’s my sis and I playing with friends, at a Christmas party about 6 years ago.

Not sure what we’ll do this year – there being only four of us. (Sister and her two adult children, and me). It might be time to make a few new traditions. . . I’m open to that. Whatever we end up doing, I’m very grateful to have friends and family still, to enjoy the season with. It does make me very aware that for many, that is not so. Perhaps THAT is the old tradition that will go through a transition – looking outside of my own family to see how to spread the cheer. Anyway, wherever you are, and however you celebrate life this season, I wish you well, good health, and the comfort of good company.

I walked my old favourite pathway beside the inner harbour again this morning – for the first time in two months. And it FELT like the first time in a while too. Sad to say, I’m still pretty stiff in the legs after all that sitting on the plane, and er, non-exercise in the States. However, after briefly touching down in Atlanta and then Houston. . .

. . . I arrived on Saturday morning at 5.30, missing Friday altogether, and spent much of the day up and about. Then out to a party for a friend that night.

 I’m not sure how I did it, but I’m still feeling pretty perky. The thing I’m NOT feeling is pretty fit.

Which is why I am going to start My Peak Challenge in earnest from this moment on. Yes, you read it first here. I have actually put on a chunk of weight since my sturdy footprint landed on American soil. Having a propensity to enjoy life, and all the experiences it brings, food included, I did not expect to actually LOSE weight, but I was hoping to maintain. Huh!

My main reason for taking myself in hand is that I want to continue to travel. It becomes harder and harder to do so with an expanding waistband and the ensuing health issues that come from being overweight. So, I’m putting it out there now, and you can all watch and critique my attempts. (Please – I hope you will.)

HOW am I going to do it? It’s going to be mostly about the food habits and indulgences initially: NO sugar, lower carbs, and I’m taking various aids for the digestive system. My sis makes a great Kombucha. I’m making myself some sauerkraut (sp: pickled cabbage). I’ve got digestive enzymes, good bacteria, green tea extract, and make up a turmeric-rich almond milk shake every day. The more help I can give my digestive system and liver the better I think. I am also convinced that merely cutting sugar out will be the best thing.

Aside from that, I am picking up the pace again. I don’t know why it’s so hard to do when travelling. . . but I get out of routine and start taking short cuts or end up sitting around chatting to whoever I’m with, or watching movies, or eating out. I must have very powerful dorsal muscles by now. Have charged up my fitbit, and set up Map My Walk on my new iphone, and so it’s a happening thing. I know it will all make a difference when I set off for the UK again next year (May).

It HAS been a wonderful holiday, both catching up with cousins and rellies in PA and NY, and then friends in the far south. I’ve loved every single minute, and done all I wanted to do. NEXT time it will be about meeting up with more Outlander friends, promise.

We came up to Savannah, Georgia, for my last weekend here – I’ve never been here and always been curious about this very old, steeped-in-history town. Unbeknownst to me, when I booked a place to stay I chose Hilton Head, which just happens to be above the State line in southern Carolina. The huge billboard that stands in a swamp north of the elegant bridge leading out of Savannah reads ‘Fire an Automatic Machine gun! Details…’ Soooo bizarre. 

Anyway, back to Savannah. We enjoyed a drink on the deck of a hotel overlooking River Rd, the old port of the city. 

Then we continued our journey north into South Carolina, out along a string of arched bridges into a very classy holiday area – Hilton Head. After dropping our bags at the Park Lane Hotel, we set off and researched the eating establishments whose lights gleamed beguilingly through the trees on the road leading in. Eventually we found one called Porter & Pig, an upbeat bar with a ‘Cheers’ style central bar stool area and tables around the side. Naturally we both tried an Irish ale, and ordered some very passable tapas. 

This morning we set off to properly explore Savannah. It seemed the best option initially would be to take one of the many trolley bus rides on offer, and indeed, it was a great way to hear the history of the central historic district. So many fabulous old homes – from the 1700s through to Victorian times, all situated in leafy splendor around a number of green parks. The trees are all old and gnarled with spanish moss trailing lacily from their boughs. 

Our driver was most informative – not at all put off by the fact that the bus broke down and remained motionless for about 15 minutes. Down on River Road, the cobbles are authentic, and the Factor’s homes with their iron walkways at the back where they bid and bargained for the bales of cotton on the walkway below. 

We were dropped off at the Market square, and had a lunch of steak sandwich and blackened groper that we relished. After walking down River Road and sampling fudge and wandering the open markets, Marcie and I took the free Red Dot bus back to our car. I drove over the State line again and this time we went to find the sea front of the island we were staying on. The beach is gorgeous with fine white sand…and a long twisting ugly pipeline running its length. If anyone can explain what it’s doing there I’d be most grateful! 

Yep, I was here on this day of all days. I held some fairly strong opinions when I ventured over here fron New Zealand. Our media and Trump himself, have been filling us with mingled awe and horror in the leadup to this election. HOWEVER, I had the very great privilege of staying with friends and family from both sides since I got here, and my voice has grown much less strident until I actually stopped to listen to what the dear souls who live here had to say. The general feeling has been that there are two weevils …

… neither one much better than the other. Today’s outcome was a shock to many, but the people around me right now, are quietly relieved that a republican congress has replaced the much more liberal democrat one, and perhaps – in the long term – the VP will be more than he presently is. 

I don’t know. I am glad I got to hear so many sides expressed without needing to push my own views. If indeed, the lesser of two weevils has been picked, then I hope everyone in supporting roles in this government manage to keep the ship afloat, and Americans cling as hard as they can to the freedoms and spirit that made them who they are. It matters to those of us in the far out reaches on the corner of the world map a great deal, too.

That’s it from me. I barely have a political bone in my body so don’t tear me apart for expressing something here. I felt that since I was here in Florida on THIS day, I should. God bless America!