I'm sitting here watching the royal wedding. There are plenty of other things I should be doing. The kitchen is in a state, and I'm surrounded by piles of the girls' summer clothes waiting to be put away. And we have an open home tomorrow! Still, there is probably nothing more important in the world right now than this wedding.
Thirty years ago on that other, more fateful wedding day, I was six and Mum had got me out of bed late in the evening to watch the live telecast. Tonight, when I saw footage of Diana and her little flower girls I felt a shiver run through me. I remember that night. How she looked more like a princess than I ever could have imagined. How much I wanted to touch her ruffles, that impossible expanse of silk. How I dreamed of being one of her flower girls. She was wonderful.
My girls are asleep right now, I didn't even think of getting them up. Technology has moved on, of course, and the images I'm watching will sit in that little black box by the TV for them to watch in the morning. I didn't tell them about the wedding. Someone else did. They've never heard me talk about the Royal Family. I didn't know where to start. The story of this little Prince is sad.
But once they heard about the wedding, they were keen fans. They found some old magazines from the time of Diana. They've seen her wedding dress, the flower girls, and photos of William when he was a baby on the front lawn of Government House. They've been carrying those magazines around nearly everywhere. They will wake up tomorrow morning early and excited.
On the screen in front of me the final hymn is being sung. The lucky couple are about to walk together out of the Abbey, happy. And they look happy. Unlike that ill-fated couple. I saw Diana and Prince Charles walk back down the aisle in footage replayed tonight. In the moment they turned towards the congregation their faces were drawn and tight. I listened to tonight's vows and thought of Prince Charles making the same vows to Diana. At the time we were happy for them. It was every body's fairytale wedding. Well, nearly every body's.
But this time we've got it right, surely. This one's the real fairy tale. Or maybe not. Maybe these young royals are too sensible and worldly for that. Kate studied PR, she's not naive. She doesn't dip her head shyly when the cameras are out. William and Kate have known each other long enough to know each other, weaknesses, quirks, and all.
The carriage is making its way through the gates of Buckingham Palace. The pair will soon stand on that balcony and kiss while the world watches. Then we'll go back to our normal lives, dirty dishes and bits of food on the table. We will brush our teeth, turn out the lights, and sleep, completely anonymously. Their day has only just begun. They will wave, kiss, live and love while the world watches. Will we be kind to them this time?
Friday, April 29, 2011
Friday, April 15, 2011
Me and Gill Greer
We're still sick, but don't worry, that's not what I'm going to write about. Being sick has meant that there hasn't been much going on around here, except for a bit more time to read and think than normal. Plenty of time, actually, to get completely caught up in this post, the one that followed it, and the debate that ensued. When I say caught up, I don't mean I actually took part in the discussion, but I do mean I read avidly from the safety of my sick-bed on the other side of the world. It was one to watch, I tell you.
Abortion is something I never thought I'd be writing about here. I've been planning on writing about it, one day, when I'm grown up and all, but on a new blog I've had in the pipeline for a while, a blog that will explore some ideas around Christian feminism. So abortion, right, that was going to come up. Just not here.
But last week I read an article in The Listener about Gill Greer, the New Zealander who is Director General of International Planned Parenthood Federation. The article was part of a series which showcases kiwis overseas who are doing good things. Gill Greer was recently named among the "100 most inspiring people who have delivered for girls and women," and by the sounds of it, she's earnt it. She runs one of the world's largest organisations, and is an intelligent, compassionate and vocal advocate for women's health rights. And abortion, did I mention abortion?
Gillian Greer made an impression on me. She is a grandmother, was an English teacher, and seemed personable and interesting, someone I could easily have a coffee with. So I was thinking of her when I read the arguments that went back and forth over in that corner of the internet. She put a face to the political dispute that's been broiling since the Republicans started pushing for the de-funding of Planned Parenthood in the United States.
Abortion has always been a complicated issue for me. My mother had an abortion, and I was conceived in the nine months succeeding. If she hadn't had that abortion, I wouldn't be here writing to you. To me, that's complicated. But it gets more complicated. When she realised she was pregnant with me, it was suggested that she have another abortion. Somehow she knew that this time she wanted the baby.
Someone else made an impression on me this week, the author of the post that started that enthralling pro-life/pro-choice debate. Calah writes about being a young Catholic mother. She's always honest, and often funny. But what she wrote in that post took my breath away. If there's anyone who is entitled to write about the decision to keep or abort a baby, she is.
"Amidst the debates swirling around about defunding Planned Parenthood, some oft-repeated catch phrases are being tossed around like word grenades. One of these are "women in crisis." I'm sick and tired of hearing about "women in crisis" and how they need access to emergency contraception and abortions. That is a huge, steaming pile of lies, propagated by people who like to murder babies. Women in crisis do not need access to abortions. What they need is love, support, a safe place to live, and people (even strangers!) who will tell them the truth: that they are more than capable of being a mother. That they can do this. That their crisis, no matter how terrible, will be healed in the long, sometimes painful, always joyful process of becoming a mother.
Think this makes me heartless, speaking from my comfortable suburban home, having never known trials in my cushy little life?
Think again.
When I got that positive pregnancy test, the one that changed my life, I was addicted to crystal meth."
While I've always been pro-life, I've never felt comfortable with the rhetoric and actions of most of that camp. Placards and feisty arguments don't seem to have won us any battles so far, and I can't see any evidence that they will in the future. Certainly, if all we do is alienate our opposition and make the women who choose to have abortions feel judged and condemned, then we are missing something, drastically.
Gill Greer is quoted in the Listener article as saying "I probably get less calm when people talk about themselves as pro-life. My response to that is - I'm pro-life, I just happen to be pro the woman's life, and I believe if she has the ability to make a safe legal choice as early as possible in her pregnancy, that's saving her life." If you read those words and all they do is make you angry, then read them again. This is a woman who genuinely cares about women and their families; she's just doing it in a way that I and many others don't agree with.
And yet. And this is where it gets even more complicated for me. I was brushing my teeth last night, thinking all of this over, when a realisation hit me with such force I just about choked on my toothbrush. I realised, for the first time in my life, that I'm grateful that my mother had access to a safe abortion.
Life is exquisite. No one can look at a newborn and deny it. For all of us, no matter what culture or place we live in, whether we are a man or a woman, child or adult, a new birth is a holy moment. It connects us with the wonder of this world we live in, it reminds us of the beauty and preciousness of each individual, and it reminds us, if we let it, that there is a bigger story to our lives, that we are part of something bigger than us.
But life is also very complicated. All of us have survived some measure of hurt and dysfunction in our upbringing, and all of us battle with the disappointment of being let down by others and by our own averageness. We've all made mistakes, and we all suffer the consequences. In the complexity that is my own life this is abundantly clear. And yet I look back and see cause for hope. I see a story being woven out of the random and sometimes ugly threads of my life that is ultimately good.
Abortion is damaging, not only literally for the life within but also for the mother. Gill Greer might not believe it but there are plenty of women who say they suffer from Post-Abortion Stress Syndrome. We can't be silent about this. The stories of women who regret their abortions should be respected and listened to. But can we do this without completely alienating our opposition? Is there any way a respectful dialogue can happen between the pro-life and pro-choice camps?
I'd have a coffee with Gillian Greer. I'd listen to her stories and her heart-wrenching statistics. Then I'd talk to her about the stories I've heard, some very close to home. I'd ask her to make adoption an easier and more accessible option for women who come to Planned Parenting. I'd ask her to consider the reality that Post-Abortion Stress syndrome is for many women, and suggest that Planned Parenting be more open about the negative effects some women experience following an abortion. Am I nieve? Possibly. But I'm a dreamer, and where would we be without those?
Abortion is something I never thought I'd be writing about here. I've been planning on writing about it, one day, when I'm grown up and all, but on a new blog I've had in the pipeline for a while, a blog that will explore some ideas around Christian feminism. So abortion, right, that was going to come up. Just not here.
But last week I read an article in The Listener about Gill Greer, the New Zealander who is Director General of International Planned Parenthood Federation. The article was part of a series which showcases kiwis overseas who are doing good things. Gill Greer was recently named among the "100 most inspiring people who have delivered for girls and women," and by the sounds of it, she's earnt it. She runs one of the world's largest organisations, and is an intelligent, compassionate and vocal advocate for women's health rights. And abortion, did I mention abortion?
Gillian Greer made an impression on me. She is a grandmother, was an English teacher, and seemed personable and interesting, someone I could easily have a coffee with. So I was thinking of her when I read the arguments that went back and forth over in that corner of the internet. She put a face to the political dispute that's been broiling since the Republicans started pushing for the de-funding of Planned Parenthood in the United States.
Abortion has always been a complicated issue for me. My mother had an abortion, and I was conceived in the nine months succeeding. If she hadn't had that abortion, I wouldn't be here writing to you. To me, that's complicated. But it gets more complicated. When she realised she was pregnant with me, it was suggested that she have another abortion. Somehow she knew that this time she wanted the baby.
Someone else made an impression on me this week, the author of the post that started that enthralling pro-life/pro-choice debate. Calah writes about being a young Catholic mother. She's always honest, and often funny. But what she wrote in that post took my breath away. If there's anyone who is entitled to write about the decision to keep or abort a baby, she is.
"Amidst the debates swirling around about defunding Planned Parenthood, some oft-repeated catch phrases are being tossed around like word grenades. One of these are "women in crisis." I'm sick and tired of hearing about "women in crisis" and how they need access to emergency contraception and abortions. That is a huge, steaming pile of lies, propagated by people who like to murder babies. Women in crisis do not need access to abortions. What they need is love, support, a safe place to live, and people (even strangers!) who will tell them the truth: that they are more than capable of being a mother. That they can do this. That their crisis, no matter how terrible, will be healed in the long, sometimes painful, always joyful process of becoming a mother.
Think this makes me heartless, speaking from my comfortable suburban home, having never known trials in my cushy little life?
Think again.
When I got that positive pregnancy test, the one that changed my life, I was addicted to crystal meth."
While I've always been pro-life, I've never felt comfortable with the rhetoric and actions of most of that camp. Placards and feisty arguments don't seem to have won us any battles so far, and I can't see any evidence that they will in the future. Certainly, if all we do is alienate our opposition and make the women who choose to have abortions feel judged and condemned, then we are missing something, drastically.
Gill Greer is quoted in the Listener article as saying "I probably get less calm when people talk about themselves as pro-life. My response to that is - I'm pro-life, I just happen to be pro the woman's life, and I believe if she has the ability to make a safe legal choice as early as possible in her pregnancy, that's saving her life." If you read those words and all they do is make you angry, then read them again. This is a woman who genuinely cares about women and their families; she's just doing it in a way that I and many others don't agree with.
And yet. And this is where it gets even more complicated for me. I was brushing my teeth last night, thinking all of this over, when a realisation hit me with such force I just about choked on my toothbrush. I realised, for the first time in my life, that I'm grateful that my mother had access to a safe abortion.
Life is exquisite. No one can look at a newborn and deny it. For all of us, no matter what culture or place we live in, whether we are a man or a woman, child or adult, a new birth is a holy moment. It connects us with the wonder of this world we live in, it reminds us of the beauty and preciousness of each individual, and it reminds us, if we let it, that there is a bigger story to our lives, that we are part of something bigger than us.
But life is also very complicated. All of us have survived some measure of hurt and dysfunction in our upbringing, and all of us battle with the disappointment of being let down by others and by our own averageness. We've all made mistakes, and we all suffer the consequences. In the complexity that is my own life this is abundantly clear. And yet I look back and see cause for hope. I see a story being woven out of the random and sometimes ugly threads of my life that is ultimately good.
Abortion is damaging, not only literally for the life within but also for the mother. Gill Greer might not believe it but there are plenty of women who say they suffer from Post-Abortion Stress Syndrome. We can't be silent about this. The stories of women who regret their abortions should be respected and listened to. But can we do this without completely alienating our opposition? Is there any way a respectful dialogue can happen between the pro-life and pro-choice camps?
I'd have a coffee with Gillian Greer. I'd listen to her stories and her heart-wrenching statistics. Then I'd talk to her about the stories I've heard, some very close to home. I'd ask her to make adoption an easier and more accessible option for women who come to Planned Parenting. I'd ask her to consider the reality that Post-Abortion Stress syndrome is for many women, and suggest that Planned Parenting be more open about the negative effects some women experience following an abortion. Am I nieve? Possibly. But I'm a dreamer, and where would we be without those?
Thursday, April 7, 2011
thursday things
1. We are all suffering, to varying degrees, from our first bout of cold weather sickness. Greer has a horrible croupy cough which seems to have brought back the asthma we were hoping she had grown out of. Abigail has asthma too, and although not as bad as Greer did at that age there's been a fair bit of coughing over the last couple of nights. Greer is tired. She had a meltdown this morning because I asked her to brush her teeth so I put her in bed with a tray and some puzzles. It reminded me of how much I loved staying home sick as a child. This was not a privilege earned easily I should tell you. We had to either be throwing up or have a scientifically confirmed temperature to get a day off school. One day I remember I was feeling the need to prove my sickness so I could stay home. I was in bed with the thermometer, and Mum had kindly given me a cup of tea. I had a brainwave and immediately dunked the (mercury) thermometer into my cup of tea. Oh dear. The thermometer broke, of course. At a loss as to what to do, I lifted the cup to my lips and was about to sip. My sister, who though three years younger than me was always the more practical of the two of us, quickly piped up "stop!" and saved me from drinking mercury-laced tea!
2. Greer has her last day at kindy (pre-school) next week. She's not actually five until July, so she's finishing a term early. She's super keen to join Isobella and start homeschooling. She does enjoy kindy, and especially loves her teachers, but she also loves staying at home with her sisters. I'm looking forward to not having to go anywhere on two more mornings in the week. I've been thinking about our morning rhythms and how they still need a bit of tweaking. With kindy finished we'll have four mornings a week that we can just stay home.
3. Family rhythms are something I've been thinking about lately since I was recommended a new blog by a homeschooling friend. The Parenting Passageway is a lovely, thoughtful Waldorf homemaking and homeschooling blog. This was the first post I read - "An Ordered Outer World for a Peaceful Family." I found it very inspiring. Then after thinking about order and rhythms in the home for the last week or so, I only just remembered the other day that my word for this year is ORDER. I'd forgotten! And the funny thing is that the process of having the house on the market, while being extremely consuming and exhausting, has resulted in a pared down, pleasantly ordered house. And I hadn't even thought of the word order once while we were doing it all. You don't need to know about the storage unit we've had to hire to shift half of our STUFF into to achieve this domestic nirvana though. Neither do our prospective buyers!
4. Speaking of the house, this Saturday is our auction. We have a hunch it won't sell at auction but we are expecting to have some negotiating going on next week. Once this house is sold we will let ourselves get very, very excited about the new one. I am so looking forward to having no more open homes. Two every weekend for the last month has been tiring.
5. And speaking of tired, I am. I'm really tired at the moment. Isn't it lucky I decided to go to bed early for Lent. Even though I haven't been perfect at it, I've been going to bed a lot earlier than I was. I hate to think how tired I would be now if it wasn't for Lent. As you know, I'm a novice when it comes to observing the church calendar. But it seems to be a natural and good thing to observe spiritual seasons as well as earthly ones. It makes sense to me to have a season where we consciously restrict activity. Restriction of activity does not have to be viewed negatively. If it's an unhealthy activity, such as a bad habit, then restriction of activity is going to actually bring freedom. If it's restriction of activity that makes room for rest, then ultimately it's life-giving. Looking at Lent in this way makes me think that observing a rest day or a sabbath in our week could be like having a mini-lent every week. Paddy has worked on Sunday nights for most of our married life, so Sunday as traditional rest day has never worked for us. But I've been longing to find our own rhythm for rest despite this. At the beginning of the year I decided to make Sundays a no-internet day for me. It's been amazing how this one small thing has really made Sundays feel different, and somehow restful. I look forward to it. The culture we live in would have us believe that restriction is bad and that more is always better. Most of us know too well how untrue this is.
2. Greer has her last day at kindy (pre-school) next week. She's not actually five until July, so she's finishing a term early. She's super keen to join Isobella and start homeschooling. She does enjoy kindy, and especially loves her teachers, but she also loves staying at home with her sisters. I'm looking forward to not having to go anywhere on two more mornings in the week. I've been thinking about our morning rhythms and how they still need a bit of tweaking. With kindy finished we'll have four mornings a week that we can just stay home.
3. Family rhythms are something I've been thinking about lately since I was recommended a new blog by a homeschooling friend. The Parenting Passageway is a lovely, thoughtful Waldorf homemaking and homeschooling blog. This was the first post I read - "An Ordered Outer World for a Peaceful Family." I found it very inspiring. Then after thinking about order and rhythms in the home for the last week or so, I only just remembered the other day that my word for this year is ORDER. I'd forgotten! And the funny thing is that the process of having the house on the market, while being extremely consuming and exhausting, has resulted in a pared down, pleasantly ordered house. And I hadn't even thought of the word order once while we were doing it all. You don't need to know about the storage unit we've had to hire to shift half of our STUFF into to achieve this domestic nirvana though. Neither do our prospective buyers!
4. Speaking of the house, this Saturday is our auction. We have a hunch it won't sell at auction but we are expecting to have some negotiating going on next week. Once this house is sold we will let ourselves get very, very excited about the new one. I am so looking forward to having no more open homes. Two every weekend for the last month has been tiring.
5. And speaking of tired, I am. I'm really tired at the moment. Isn't it lucky I decided to go to bed early for Lent. Even though I haven't been perfect at it, I've been going to bed a lot earlier than I was. I hate to think how tired I would be now if it wasn't for Lent. As you know, I'm a novice when it comes to observing the church calendar. But it seems to be a natural and good thing to observe spiritual seasons as well as earthly ones. It makes sense to me to have a season where we consciously restrict activity. Restriction of activity does not have to be viewed negatively. If it's an unhealthy activity, such as a bad habit, then restriction of activity is going to actually bring freedom. If it's restriction of activity that makes room for rest, then ultimately it's life-giving. Looking at Lent in this way makes me think that observing a rest day or a sabbath in our week could be like having a mini-lent every week. Paddy has worked on Sunday nights for most of our married life, so Sunday as traditional rest day has never worked for us. But I've been longing to find our own rhythm for rest despite this. At the beginning of the year I decided to make Sundays a no-internet day for me. It's been amazing how this one small thing has really made Sundays feel different, and somehow restful. I look forward to it. The culture we live in would have us believe that restriction is bad and that more is always better. Most of us know too well how untrue this is.
Monday, April 4, 2011
early morning
It was daylight savings this weekend. I've been awake since before 5am, lying in bed with my head buzzing but not quite feeling like I'd had enough sleep to get up. The big girls woke up before six. I sent them back to their room and now they are lying in Isobella's bed together talking and telling stories.
This is so much easier than a few years ago. I remember a time when a week of 5:30am wake-ups was de rigour for daylight savings change-over. And you can't just send a toddler back to bed. I used to dread daylight savings.
But I actually love being awake at this time of the morning. It's my favourite time to write, and in the past I've managed periods of time where I went to bed early enough to get up at 5am and write. That's my dream. I can't tell you how many times that husband of mine has heard me say "if I can just start going to bed earlier I'll be able to get up early and write." He'll believe it when he sees it.
Then there's Lent, and that very appropriate intention to be in bed early. Nine-thirty in the evening actually. Which is a lot earlier than the eleven o'clock or later I had been going to bed ever since Abigail was born (and she's nearly two!) At first it was survival with a windy baby, and then it just became a habit I couldn't get out of.
Go on, ask me how I'm doing with that Lenten intention. The answer is, if you are judging purely on the actual time I've been getting to bed, I'm doing pretty averagely. But if you could some-how see into my heart or read my mind you'd realise there's been a change. Going to bed is a priority now, rather than just something that eventually happens after everything else at the end of the night. I start thinking about going to bed as soon as dinner is over. I sometimes leave dishes, washing, and blogging to the side in order to get to bed. The girls are often not in bed themselves until 8:30pm so that doesn't leave much time. And given that we have our house on the market and have two open homes every weekend, and had Isobella's birthday last weekend, there's been plenty of necessary work that has meant that a 9:30pm bedtime has sometimes been unrealistic.
Enter daylight savings. Last night the girls were in bed by 7pm. It was nearly dark and I found myself getting tired and thinking about bed at 8pm. It has been light until eight or nine in the evening since last September. Summer days are lovely and long but they give a false sense of endlessness. They call us outside with promises of hours and hours to play and work. They give us the thrill of possibility, they ignite our dreams, and they spur our industry on.
Now the slanting autumn light is a constant reminder that time is passing, slipping between my fingers. Yesterday went so quickly. Dusk settled as we ate dinner and then without us even noticing it shifted to dark. Cold weather is still months away, so cosy is not needed, and yet the darkness still comforts. It gently shrinks our world until the only thing that matters is the pile of dishes in the sink, the apple cooking on the stove. Anything else belongs to another day.
This is so much easier than a few years ago. I remember a time when a week of 5:30am wake-ups was de rigour for daylight savings change-over. And you can't just send a toddler back to bed. I used to dread daylight savings.
But I actually love being awake at this time of the morning. It's my favourite time to write, and in the past I've managed periods of time where I went to bed early enough to get up at 5am and write. That's my dream. I can't tell you how many times that husband of mine has heard me say "if I can just start going to bed earlier I'll be able to get up early and write." He'll believe it when he sees it.
Then there's Lent, and that very appropriate intention to be in bed early. Nine-thirty in the evening actually. Which is a lot earlier than the eleven o'clock or later I had been going to bed ever since Abigail was born (and she's nearly two!) At first it was survival with a windy baby, and then it just became a habit I couldn't get out of.
Go on, ask me how I'm doing with that Lenten intention. The answer is, if you are judging purely on the actual time I've been getting to bed, I'm doing pretty averagely. But if you could some-how see into my heart or read my mind you'd realise there's been a change. Going to bed is a priority now, rather than just something that eventually happens after everything else at the end of the night. I start thinking about going to bed as soon as dinner is over. I sometimes leave dishes, washing, and blogging to the side in order to get to bed. The girls are often not in bed themselves until 8:30pm so that doesn't leave much time. And given that we have our house on the market and have two open homes every weekend, and had Isobella's birthday last weekend, there's been plenty of necessary work that has meant that a 9:30pm bedtime has sometimes been unrealistic.
Enter daylight savings. Last night the girls were in bed by 7pm. It was nearly dark and I found myself getting tired and thinking about bed at 8pm. It has been light until eight or nine in the evening since last September. Summer days are lovely and long but they give a false sense of endlessness. They call us outside with promises of hours and hours to play and work. They give us the thrill of possibility, they ignite our dreams, and they spur our industry on.
Now the slanting autumn light is a constant reminder that time is passing, slipping between my fingers. Yesterday went so quickly. Dusk settled as we ate dinner and then without us even noticing it shifted to dark. Cold weather is still months away, so cosy is not needed, and yet the darkness still comforts. It gently shrinks our world until the only thing that matters is the pile of dishes in the sink, the apple cooking on the stove. Anything else belongs to another day.
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