coming out of rehab

Finishing up Lent was like leaving rehab. A few weeks before Easter I realised that we weren't going to be able to stay completely sugar-free. It's complicated. I already knew that both Greer and I couldn't eat too many salycilates, but then Abigail woke up one morning with the most hideous bright red nappy rash and I knew what it was. It was the honey they'd been eating every day on their porridge, the dates I'd been adding to the porridge, and the sultanas I was putting in those porridge muffins, not to mention the sultanas and cinnamon in the hot cross buns. Every natural sugar alternative is high in salycilates. (Except maybe stevia - I haven't figured that out yet.)

There's a reason that we had become so dependent on sugar, and it wasn't just the little quiet sugar addiction I had going on under the radar. Sugar is completely salycilate free. It contains no artificial colours or flavours, obviously, and it is completely neutral as far as Greer's asthma goes. Sugar is also an essential ingredient in most gluten-free baking, because it masks the strong flavours of the gluten-free flours. That pear cake I told you I made that weekend I decided to go sugar free, it takes TWO cups of sugar, plus one cup of pear syrup as well! But although that seems terrible to me now, I was so grateful for the recipe. Everyone loved that cake, and most people never even guessed it was gluten-free. So other than perverting our taste buds and filling us with empty calories, sugar was fine. Sugar was our friend.

That's why going sugar-free really was a revolution. To say "no" to sugar took a lot of gumption, and once I'd done it, as you know, I didn't want to look back. I felt amazing. I had visions of health and well being for all of us. When Abi woke up that morning with terrible nappy rash, my heart sank. We were not going to live happily off honey and sultanas forever after.

Interestingly, though, I had packed up all of our sugar and given it to Mum just the day before. The white sugar, the brown sugar, the icing sugar, the castor sugar and the golden syrup. I had smuggled it out without anyone seeing, and in the empty containers that were left I loaded up all the bread flours I had started using in the breadmaker. It was a good trade, and as much as I had to face the fact that some sugar was going to be part of our lives, there was no way I was letting all of it back in.

So this is where it stands. I am so scared of what chocolate can do to me that I don't think I'll be touching it for a very long time. The girls know why giving up sugar for Lent was good for us, and they know that as a family we now try to avoid it when we can. They like the muffins I've been making with only THREE TABLESPOONS of sugar in them. (If you'd told me three months ago that I'd be making muffins with only three tablespoons of sugar in them I'd have scoffed!) The pantry is now almost sugar free. After the nappy rash incident I added back in a small glass jar of raw, organic sugar. It's sugar, yes, but it's expensive. I won't be dishing up cups of the stuff in anything. The girls get a small sprinkle on their porridge, and I use it in the breadmaker and in those muffins. That's it.

I was worried about Easter. How can you do Easter without chocolate? How could I do Easter without chocolate? Then I saw some small Easter gift bags at the supermarket, and in a flash I knew I could do it. I bought a bag of dried apple rings, a bag of cashew nuts and a pack of Easter stickers. I bought the girls one tiny chocolate rabbit each, and I took one marshmallow egg each out of a bag I'd bought before Lent, and then gave the rest of the bag to Mum. I packaged up the dried apple and the cashew nuts, and tucked them under the chocolate. The photo doesn't really show how small it was. The rabbit was 35g of chocolate. I think we can manage that.

Me, this was my first Easter without chocolate. My first Easter in maybe thirty five years that I haven't eaten significant amounts of chocolate. I lived to tell the tale. I was tempted, but not tempted enough. There was no spare chocolate anyway. Once upon a time I might have sneaked some of my children's chocolate when they weren't looking, but this time they had so little that there was no way I would have gotten away with it!

But I got the jar of homemade strawberry jam my dear friend Amy had made for me for Christmas. I spread it thinly over cream cheese on a piece of toast, for the first time since before Lent, and I was happy.

I know a little bit about addiction. I know that for those who suffer the weight of an addiction, one of its worst curses is a self-hatred that's suffocating. Nobody feels good if they can't control their own behaviour. My little sugar addiction may have been small-fry amongst the hideous spectrum of addictions, but even still, I like myself better now. I can say no to sugar. I'm very proud.

a good day

I went in to the girls' room this morning and I said "it's a good day girls, it's a very good day." And it was.

I spent most of it in the kitchen. Making hot cross buns for the first time, cleaning up from making hot cross buns, feeding people, cooking dinner. The sky was blue and clear and the sun was warm and the girls spent most of it outside. My thoughts were constantly turning back to this day two thousand years ago. That day, as I told the girls at breakfast, which was so sad and so wonderful.

We finally sat down to eat late. I put out green salad and potato salad to eat with schnitzel and lit a candle. It was haphazard, hardly planned, but beautiful. We prayed and ate together, and then Paddy decided to pull out his phone and read from John. It was about the time of the afternoon that Jesus died, way back then. When the sky grew dark. It wasn't dark here as we listened to those words, so familiar and yet new all over again, but our hearts were heavy.

I noticed something I'd never noticed before. In John 19 the narrator describes how one of the Roman soldiers was ordered to break the legs of the three crucified, so they could hurry up and die. Jesus was already dead, so his legs were not broken, and the passage goes like this;

But when they came to Jesus and found that he was already dead, they did not break his legs. Instead, one of the soldiers pierced Jesus side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water. The man who saw it has given testimony, and his testimony is true. He knows that he tells the truth, and he testifies so that you may also believe.  (John 19:32-35)


And it hit me that this is why I live the way I do. Because I believe the testimony of those people, all those years ago. Ordinary people who lived ordinary lives until they met Jesus. And then they witnessed the strangest, most unexpected series of events.

Bishops and televangelists and soap-box preachers alike all want you to believe that the story of the Christian faith is a seamless narrative. That it begins at the beginning, moves through to a second beginning, and will finish in good time and in a manner that can be predicted, if you read the clues right. They think their job is to convince you by making it all seem reasonable, believable. And right there is where they fail.

There's nothing reasonable about the story of Christ. It's hardly plausible, barely possible. It is filled with mystery. I can't give you scientific evidence for my faith in those witnesses of old, but I can tell you about the mystery. I can tell you that I felt my spine tingle as I listened to this song while I was busy in the kitchen. I can tell you that my heart warms when I pray, that the whisper I often hear is not my own. I can tell you about growth, and I can tell you about hope.

There is plenty of evidence that the gospels can be read as history, as reliable as any of the texts we have from those far away days. Sure there are discrepancies between voices, and some of the details get lost in translation. But many of the facts are confirmed from sources outside of the bible. It's a story that has more than a ring of truth to it.

After dinner we left Paddy at home perfecting another batch of hot cross buns, and went to visit the favoured brand new cousin. The late afternoon sun was still warm and the sky still blue. We took hot cross buns, of course, the best of them, and we cuddled and fed and doted on that precious boy. There was washing to fold, and stories to hear, and a family to watch as they tried on their family-of-six-ness for size. It was good.

Nothing is easy, and nothing is perfect, not on this side of things. But there's a sense of motion and growth amongst the Christ-followers I know. They believe the ancient testimony, and it changes them.

slowing to notice

This is what I've seen lately, on the days I've slowed down enough to notice. I posted an article on facebook a friend had shared a couple of weeks ago called  "Slow Down to Save Time" , mostly because I liked the title. Slow down to save time. It resonated with me. Some how, intuitively, I knew it was true.

There's not much logic to this habit I've developed of washing the dishes by hand. It definitely takes more time than loading up the dishwasher and only hand washing what won't go in.  It's been nearly a month now, and the repercussions are obvious. The house is messier. Paddy doesn't get it. He uses the dishwasher at the weekends when I try to bow out of the kitchen. He thinks I should give up so I can get on with everything else, and he'd like me to hang out with him. I'd like him to hang out with me, in the kitchen. I like a man with a tea towel. It's not that he won't help when I need it, it's just that he can't see the benefits.

The girls are really getting the hang of washing and drying the dishes. They do it most days, at least once or twice. It's a fantastic way to get us hanging out altogether in the kitchen, and it's a nice uncomplicated job for them to do, in chunks if necessary. Sometimes they just need a bit of focus, they just need to be reminded that we are all in this together, and the dishes do that perfectly. We have fun in the kitchen. When they are in there with me doing the dishes they often get to help me cooking or baking as well. We talk. I'm not saying it's all Little House on the Prairie and there's never any complaining, not at all. But once they get over themselves and get on with the job we enjoy being together, and I really appreciate them.

But I'm actually doing the dishes by hand for myself. I find this space when I'm washing the dishes that I don't find any other way. My hands get on with the cleaning, and my mind is free. I think, I pray, I sing, I write... all in my head. I process the events of the day, or go over what's ahead of us. I can't rush, there's no point, I'd only break something. I get into a slow rhythm. I notice things.

In the evenings when I'm tired I find washing the dishes by hand easier than loading up the dishwasher. I know it sounds crazy, but I think it's something to do with that dyspraxia story that's brewing. Washing a bowl in one sink, and then slipping it into the rinsing water in the other requires hardly any conscious thought. I find myself at peace. My breath slows. I enjoy it. And when the job  is finished (even if sometimes it's not finished till the next day) I'm satisfied. The dishes are often cleaner than they were out of the dishwasher, and sitting on the dish rack over night they are drier. And a bench of dishes is easier to put away than a whole load in the dishwasher. I used to get the girls to unload the dishwasher in the mornings but that was a big task, and I had to keep them focused the whole time. Now I do a bit, and they do a bit, and before we know it it's done.

The fact that the house is messier hasn't bothered me, and that's a surprise. I've realised how many hours, literally, I would spend tidying up each week. Perhaps I've dropped my standards, but I think actually it's more that I've found a truer, more genuine standard, one that reflects what's important to me. And it's been very clear to me that I was obviously doing too much of this tidying up business on my own. It was time for a bit more labour division.

I had a talk to the girls last week about the bomb site their rooms had become. I got a big storage container and "paid" them in stamps on their stamp charts to put as many of the messy, clutter-creating toys in it. I encouraged them to put in the plastic ones especially. We filled an 80 litre box easily. I told them we'd get it out at the end of Lent and then decide what we'll keep and what we'll give away. At that point it will be high stakes. I will present them with a bowl of gold coins and pay them for each toy that stays in there.

I've cleared out their rooms before, but I've never done it this thoroughly. Isobella especially seems to produce "stuff" on a daily basis. Notes and letters and plans and creations and random treasures from all over the place. They gather on her desk, in her drawers, on the shelves in her cupboard, they spread everywhere. And once they are there, she doesn't know what to do with  them. She can't order or classify them, and asking her to decide what she wants to keep and what she wants to throw out pushes her over the edge. That's another story too, about the hidden dyslexia that we've discovered she battles with.  I've taken out the shelves from her cupboard, and removed a whole piece of furniture from her room. And there's been a fair bit of rubbish smuggling going on, I can tell you that. But the girls are happy with the result. Their rooms are so much easier to tidy. And they are more peaceful, easier to play in.

I don't know if I'll keep up washing dishes by hand after Lent. I hope so, because it feels good to me. But it does mean it's harder for me to get to bed, and if I don't get to bed early, I can't get up early and write. I really want to get the first draft of that novel finished this year. I have to write.

But I'm wondering whether, as time goes by, I'll be able to find a rhythm for myself that will include washing the dishes. There's something that makes sense about what I've been doing, as crazy as it sounds. My world has shrunk, in many ways. It has shrunk to this big old camp kitchen of mine. I cook, I bake bread, I feed the girls, I wash the dishes, all in this one big space with windows overlooking the garden, and an opening into the dining room where I can look out to the bush and the water. Time slows when I'm in the kitchen. Whole mornings go by when I haven't ventured any further than this one space. There's something very good and simple about that. And when I slow and time slows, my mind expands. Stories brew, sit bubbling away on the stove in my mind. Their ingredients laid out on the bench, being gathered and prepared, bit by bit.

sweet like a fig

These figs are from the tree in our orchard. The tree is laden with them. I've had them lined up on the window sill, turning and watching them, then squeezing them open and eating them when they are are as ripe as they can be without starting to spoil. Then they are the sweetest, most delicious thing I've been eating these days. And so sensual. The way the smooth soft skin yields under my fingers as I bite in. I'm in heaven.

I wouldn't be appreciating these figs right now if I hadn't gone sugar-free for Lent. I'd have enjoyed them, yes, but I wouldn't be anticipating them, wouldn't be relishing them the way I am. Sugar deadens our taste buds. It sets us up to want more, and sweeter, and now.  Sugar makes the sweetness of the fig seem ordinary and bland, when really the truth is the opposite. Sugar is predictable, it hits the same outrageous high every time. It has no complexities, no surprises.

I want to be like a fig. I want to ripen softly, to open up when I'm ready. I want my words to be sweet but not cloying; attractive, but not irresistable. I don't want to woo with unsustainable highs, I want words that are ordinary yet when put together create something unexpected.

And I want to be soft. I want to be soft for my people. I want my softness to protect them, to nurture them, to rub off on them. I want to be sweet for them, to taste good to them. 

The outer membrane of a fig thins and softens as it ripens, and eventually the flesh within bursts through. Until then the skin is surprisingly firm, for something so thin. The fig holds its package tightly, hiding it, tucking it in, pregnant with sweetness. I'm pregnant, we all are. We're all pregnant with something. With words or images; or acts of service, courage or discovery. We might be pregnant with kindness, faith, or hope. Do we let ourselves ripen? Do we allow our skin to soften, to be firm yet yielding? It's not easy.

how it is in March

Monday was the first day in months that the girls spent completely inside. It rained all day, and it was grey and dull until late in the afternoon when the clouds lifted a little and the light was brighter. I looked around and noticed the brightness streaming through the windows in the dining room and lounge and turned the lights off. I thought about this light and how good it felt to have it back, but I knew it wasn't for long. Soon the months of muted light will be with us. The light we had that afternoon when the clouds lifted is the light that we will celebrate at the end of winter, when it finally stops raining. And that is a long way away.

Tuesday was the first day I actually felt cold. I wore a jumper all day. The girls have started talking excitedly about winter, and how much they love the fire. I'm settling in to the shorter days, the girls are easier to put to bed, and the darkness helps me get to bed too, but I know what we are in for. Our first winter in this house last year was dark and cold. We haven't had the roof fixed yet, and there's already a bowl out in the hall for the leak. But it won't be like that forever. We have plenty of plans, plenty of work to be done.

I've been so happy to be sugar-free. I found a recipe for muffins that uses left over porridge and only a smidgen of sweetener. I didn't believe it would work, and when it did, I was ecstatic! I've made them four times now with honey and sultanas. And then I realised that I'd eaten way too  many salicylates. And I was hoping Greer would be ok with them but she's not. We've both been eating too many salycilates. I'll try the muffins again another day with Maple Syrup, when I get some of the real stuff, but there won't be any until then.

I thought I was onto a good thing when I decided to start using the breadmaker again too. I got all excited, and made my own gluten free bread as well. I thought baking bread could be just the thing to do when I'm hankering to bake something sweet. But Isobella has declared she "hates" every batch I've made of wheat bread, because I've been making it wholemeal. And the fresh gluten free bread I made last night was so irresistable that I ate way too much of it and felt yuck. I knew what the culprit was; fresh yeast. I thought I'd found myself some new comforts. But there are no comforts here. I can't hide.

But there are two cupboards that are nearly all cleaned out and re-organised. The sleeping bags are all packed away, and I pulled out the girls' winter shoes and they pranced around in their slippers. Their dressing gowns are out too. They'd have worn them non-stop if I'd let them. Are we ready for a new season? Maybe we are.

restraint and freedom

Meet our sink. Two stainless steel bowls in a stainless steel bench. Possibly circa 1960. The bowls are wide and deep, and they do a great job. I can't remember if I've told you but this house used to be a camp, and this kitchen is totally a camp kitchen. I love it.

This is the third week I've been washing the dishes by hand, with help. I'm saying it's for Lent, but I kind of like it. I can't even remember exactly what I was thinking when I decided to abandon the dishwasher, but abandon it I did. The girls have been taking turns washing and drying when they can, and even on the days when I've faced a mountain of dishes, I haven't been tempted to use the dishwasher. Some how washing the dishes has become meditative for me. A slowing down.

Lent is not lying low around here at all. Since I decided to give up sugar, Paddy has followed suit. It's the closest thing to a family revolution we've had since he came home from his last ever overnight shift. I can feel in my bones that this is going to be good for us. It's been a week for me with no sugar, and as the days go on I feel better and better. I've got more energy, I'm feeling healthier, and I'm more in control of what I eat. The cravings are gone. I own my body and I'm over the moon about it.

I've had a feeling for a week or so that one of our Lenten sacrifices will be renewed post Lent. I'm kind of curious to see which it is. I've got options to choose from. And that's not to say I'm some kind of Lent perfectionist. Not at all. I'm a novice when it comes to following the church calendar. But this year Lent has completely taken me by surprise by offering so much opportunity for growth. Growth I just couldn't pass up on.

At the beginning of Lent I wrote about our new rhythm and the un-learning that I knew was in store for me. At that stage the only thing I had decided to give up was complaining. I may seem like a nice person, but over nearly eleven years of marriage I had developed a very unattractive habit. I understand where it had come from. Disappointment, a mixture of unmet and unspoken expectations, and the idea that grew along the way that I am some how hard done by. Complaining was my right. One of the few ways I really let it all hang out. To the one I love. It was the first shadow I faced.

The moment in darkness was uncomfortable, embarrassing even, but it was short. Like a quick cut with a sharp knife. At first I had to bite my tongue, then there were moments where I covered my mouth with my hand and turned away, and then it became as simple as a smile. A wry smile at the words I knew I couldn't say. Paddy and I know how to fight, and that's not all bad, but as Lent went on it was like we had no energy, no need to be combatant. There was restraint when before there was none.

Restraint has been the word that has resonated with me this Lent. Restraint with words, restraint with foods, restraint with media. Restraint is not a popular concept. We are conditioned by every thing around us to want more, to need more, and to shout it to the rooftops. We are owed. We have rights! We must be heard! But restraint goes against all of that. Restraint says what you have is enough.

I've been honest here at times about this marriage of mine. One day I'll tell you the whole story, and I can assure you, it will be good. I have looked at the end of it with such petrifying clarity it was like looking down the barrel of a gun. I know how things could have gone. As you can imagine, I've developed some strong opinions about marriage along the way. I'm not an advocate of just keeping quiet and "putting up" with average-ness. I believe we should have high expectations of how we are treated and how we treat each other.

And yet in restraint there is a holding back. At the right time, and not if there is abuse involved, but at the right time, restraint is stepping back rather than stepping forward. It is keeping quiet rather than letting words fly like volleys. It is stillness rather than aggression. It is patience, it is peace. It is trusting that I have the resilience within me to resolve the conflict within myself, regardless of the outcome. It is being able to let it go. It is saying to myself what I have is enough.


I'm sitting here writing to you as a person who has less than they had three weeks ago. I've given up a language, the vernacular of complaint. I've given up my favourite category of food. I've given up the labour-saving device I used most often. I'm gluten, dairy, fat and salycilate intolerant, and now I don't eat sugar either. Does that sound unnatural? Insanely restrictive? I promise you, it's my freedom.

precious

It was this little guy's first day in the world yesterday. He was born on Tuesday night and I got to be the lucky photographer. I can't think of anything more special than getting to see my newest nephew make his unforgettable entrance into the world.

I don't do pushing, I do caesareans, and that breaks my heart.  My sister, however, is the full monty birthing mama. It was her fourth, and she went into labour in the afternoon, got to the hospital after dinner, and gave birth in the pool at quarter past eight. She had a bit of help from the gas, but it was all her work. This precious boy came out in one push.

I think they're both incredible. The photo above is testament. Literally minutes before this photo was taken that boy was inside her, tucked up in darkness. Then together, a team, they propelled him down and out into the bright light of life on the outside. She held him close, the cord that fed him still attached, and in that moment you see there, he opened his eyes.

What's even more amazing is that this little guy might not have been here at all if my sister and her husband had taken popular opinion into consideration when they got pregnant. Popular opinion would have said that it wasn't the right time, that another baby would stretch their already limited resources just too far. I'm so grateful that they made up their own minds. I can't see anything but hope and new beginnings when I look into the face of that little boy. As well as an entire person, a whole world of thoughts and dreams and talents hidden within.

I'm not saying it's all perfect. My sister is heading down into the shadow land of life with a new born. Where days can be as dark as they are filled with light. She doesn't need to do anything for lent, she will be living it, twenty four hours a day. Every bit of her strength and sanity will be tested, over and over again.

And then, before she knows it, she'll be planning his twenty-first birthday party. Just like that.

breaking up with sugar

It's time to go down a bit further. The big girls and I have been lenting sweet treats during the week, Isobella's idea. She keeps asking people what they are giving up for Lent, and half of them have no idea what she is talking about. I haven't been doing much more than that as far as food goes, although I was trying to keep off the sweet things through the weekend as well, more or less. Then last night I knew I had to do more.

Isobella had her eighth birthday party yesterday with some school and church friends. It's not her birthday till the end of the month, so we'll celebrate again on her actual birthday. We decided to grab the good weather while it was still around, and we put out a big waterslide on the hill sloping down to the lawn. The kids went mad launching themselves down and running around with waterguns. Isobella didn't go down the slide once, she was too scared, but she was happy, she got to do art inside. I bought some watercolour pencils and good paper, and while most of the kids were outside, a few of them stayed in at the table and painted.


It took three days to get ready for this party. One day to clean and tidy the house, and two days of cooking and baking and then tidying the house all over again, with all the ordinary interruptions of life in between. It wasn't the tidying or the cleaning that got me, it was the baking. The two layers of vanilla sponge for the birthday cake, the butter icing using a whole block of butter. Gluten free chocolate brownie made on the Friday night, and then gluten free pear cake made on Saturday. Lent went straight out the window. How could I bake without tasting?

I've been eating gluten and dairy free for over ten years now. Let's just say I have a high maintenance digestive system and leave it at that. I don't miss the things I shouldn't eat, well, not much, but when there's something I can eat, I really don't give myself any boundaries. If it's gluten free it must be good for me, right?
By Sunday night I had consumed way too many sweet things. I knew because something else wasn't right, and it wasn't my digestive system. Let's just call it women's troubles, and again, we'll leave it at that. My body was not happy. I heard a firm whisper in my heart. "Give up sugar for lent."

I couldn't ignore it. I knew it was the smartest, bravest thing I could do. I've battled my love affair with sugar many times, but I've never really been able to get much control. Sugar is my friend. Especially if it comes in the form of chocolate or baking. I'm sure it has something to do with the fact that there wasn't a lot of money for treats when I was growing up, but I think it's mostly just that like pretty much everyone, I'm wired to respond to sugar. Sugar makes me happy.

So this morning I made peace with porridge, rice milk, and sliced banana. No brown sugar, not even a sprinkle. And you know what? It didn't kill me. After every meal today I've wandered back and forth across the kitchen from the fridge to the pantry, looking aimlessly for something sweet. But there was no sweet thing for me today. And I lived to tell the tale. I gave the rest of that gluten free pear cake to Mum today, and she took it out with her for dinner. I couldn't trust myself with it in the house.

I'm not excited about having porridge without sugar again tomorrow, but I am excited about being healthy. When it comes to food, self control and I have never really been friends. Maybe I'm in the process of leaving one bad relationship for a better one.

pause pt 2: driftwood, feathers and treasures

"driftwood, feathers and treasures"


This is what Isobella made with the treasures she brought home from the beach on Monday.


In her words:
This is my art. I made it.
From left to right: bark, driftwood, pheasant feather, bone leaf, seagull feather, mangrove seed with roots, tui feather, driftwood, bark, and same for up and down - driftwood and bark.
I found them at the beach yesterday and it was fun. Me and my sister Greer played in the sand at the beach and then we walked home. At the beach we saw some birds flying and Mummy took pictures of them. The end.


This is the fruit of our pause, this is what freedom and fossicking bring.


She's a contradiction, that girl of mine. Brilliance and difficulty wrapped up in one. Her assessment put her in the 98th percentile for verbal comprehension, and the 21st percentile for processing speed. I'm not telling you this because I think she's unique, on the contrary. I'm telling you this because there are thousands of kids out there like her. Inside their minds is all spark and connection, but put a pencil in their hand and suddenly the fire goes out.  At school Isobella looked normal. Her teacher kept reassuring me so. But deep down I knew that something didn't add up. And so we got the assessment done. It put words to the instinct I'd had all along, the instinct I'd feared to act on, not confident enough in my own appraisal of my daughter. I'll never hold my tongue again.

pause

I took the girls down to the beach yesterday in the late afternoon. The tide was out and the air was full of sea birds circling, searching for food. I sat watching them for ages. There was a strong breeze coming off the water and the birds were coasting down and back up again, around and down and back up again. The big girls were playing separately, but I heard them both singing about being a bird. I want to fly in the sky like a bird, way up high like a bird. 


We stayed down there for nearly an hour. Everybody just kind of sighed and settled down. As if our brains all let go and started coasting. We fossicked about, we day dreamed.

It was a gift to us though, because we wouldn't have got it if we hadn't changed our eating pattern a week ago to eating our main meal in the middle of the day. We've been eating dinner at lunch time since the beginning of Lent. It was Paddy's idea, and it seems to have stuck. We're so lucky to all be at home at lunchtime most days. So yesterday at five o'clock I was down at the beach, instead of rushing around trying to get dinner ready. It's another tweak to our rhythm, and it works.

When we got back from the beach the girls played outside while I did the dishes and got their tea ready. The big two rode their bikes up and down the driveway while Abi ran beside them yelling "ready set set go!" I stood on the deck watching them for a while and saw Greer come racing down the driveway at top speed, grinning from ear to ear. It was that kind of face that means this is the best thing in the world I could be doing right now and I am happy happy happy.

I see that face often, more often than when she was at school. Sure she was proud of herself at school. There were times where she would go up a reading level nearly every week. She smiled about that. But it wasn't the same smile as the one I saw yesterday as she raced down the hill with no training wheels, the wind whistling past her face and her bare arms.

I'm doing a secret experiment with Greer. I'm not encouraging her to speed ahead with writing and reading, I'm letting her set the pace. She does one thing from the school cupboard in the morning while the candle is lit, her choice, and after that she is free, more or less. We read together every morning, there's violin practice, and plenty of helping to be done, but I'm not forcing her to sit down for more time than it takes to finish one thing in the morning.

I've been watching her, waiting to see if she will get bored, and I'm amazed that she hasn't. She enjoys the work she does first thing, and often carries on at the table doing colouring in or something else quiet after she's finished. She's good at violin, and she's learning to wash the dishes, taking turns with Isobella to either wash, or dry and put away. And then she slips into playing seamlessly. Her babies need plenty of looking after. They get changed and dressed and fed and walked in the toy stroller. They get packed in a back pack to come to the beach, along with a bottle and a few books to read if they get bored. And then when the babies are sleeping, or playing happily, she's outside in a flash, on that bike. It's bikes and babies that make Greer smile.

We're not getting the end of day madness we used to get when she was at school. She's not ridiculously tired every night at dinner time. I haven't seen any of the defiant outbursts that seemed to happen just because.  Because I've been trying to be good all day and I'm home now and I just won't. She's setting her own pace.

This is the beauty that finding our own rhythm is. This is how we get all the pause we need. The moments of letting go and coasting, of fossicking and daydreaming. This is the kind of time we are rich in.

"only if you tell the truth"

My Grannie turned one hundred this week. Last year we finished her ninety-ninth birthday on a high, wondering if we would get to celebrate her one hundreth, and today we did. My Aunt told us that she'd asked her yesterday if she could talk about her at the party, and Grannie had replied, "only if you tell the truth."

It's been a weekend of telling the truth. I've been dishonest for more of my life than I'd like to admit. I've lived constantly conforming myself to other people's expectations of me. Always making sure that I didn't cause offence, going out of my way to keep everybody happy. I've been aware of this in part, but never as fully as I was aware of it this weekend. This weekend I decided to be honest. I wrote a letter to some one I love and took it to them. We sat together and hugged and talked and cried. It was the best night I've spent in ages. I drove home lighter, elated.

The issue that was the catalyst seemed so complex, and yet as we talked it became so clear. And the truths we uncovered together have reverberated in me all day. Things in my life that were not clear are now suddenly clear.

Clarity is life-changing. It enables us to see our enemies for what they are. It dispels confusion, and it cuts fear off at the knees. Some times all it takes is for us to name something for what it is, and the fear that was enlarging and exaggerating it goes. Clarity enables us to do the naming. It shines the brightest light into the dingy corners of our hearts.

But it's the turning inwards that allows the clarity to come. And this turning inward is the gift that Lent gives us. It's the photo I would have taken in the bush on Friday, the image of the stairs descending into the darkness of the bush at dusk. We don't always like turning inwards. We fear what lurks in darkness. We don't like to acknowledge our shadows.

And yet that is the most truthful, most powerful thing we can do.

what I see

I've just got in from taking the dog for a walk, and this is the photo I brought back for you, so you could see where I've been. It was dusk, and the sky white, all colour drained. Under the canopy of the bush it was almost dark, and a morepork called, heralding in the night. I'm not as scared of the dark as I used to be, but I was still on guard, my ears pricked. I walked as far as the stand of young kauri trees that tower above the beach, and then turned around and walked back down the stairs and into the bush again. I tried to take a photo then, of the stairs leading into darkness and the nikau palms framing them only barely visible in the grey light, but the camera wouldn't let me. That would have been the photo, I'm sure. A perfect image for Lent. Lent, the going down to come up; the going out to come back. Preparation for the eternal return.

I've left behind my comfortable routine of waiting for an entire story before I sit and write here. It's the moments I'm aware of now, the moments that are tugging at my attention. And they are leading me to a wider view, to a story more vast than I've seen before.

It feels good, this wide-angled story. Full of kindness and hope. I'm being led down by a gentle hand.

I have loved you with an everlasting love, 
therefore with lovingkindness I have drawn you.
Again I will build you, and you shall be rebuilt.
Jeremiah 31:3-4

finding our rhythm

It starts the night before, when I measure two cups of porridge into the pot and cover it with four cups of water and a splash of vinegar. I set the table then too, just the placemats and spoons usually, and then the candle in the middle of the table. The floor around the table may be covered with toys, there might be books all over the couches just out of frame, and there's often a load of washing drying in front of the window, but the table is clear. The book is the piece de resistance. It sits invitingly at my place setting. The girls know what it means now. In the morning I cook and then pour the porridge. Both kinds of milk go in jugs on the table, as does the brown sugar. I serve the sugar, they serve the milk. I light the candle, we pray, and then we eat, and while we eat, I read.

This isn't anything like how we used to do homeschooling. I longed to find a rhythm for our days but it eluded me. I was too busy trying to "fix" my biggest girl, convinced I could get her "ready" for school, whenever that was going to happen. But I realised while she was at school last year that there is no easy fix. Her brain is brilliant and wayward, usually at the same time. This was confirmed by the assessment we had done just recently. So we have returned to homeschooling again completely free. There is no fixing needed.  What is needed is what we have in abundance; time and freedom.

I read this incredible post about rhythm and order in January, just at the time we decided to give up school for good. It baffled me and wooed me at the same time. Candles at breakfast? We never eat in darkness, not even in the middle of winter. Setting the table so it looks beautiful? We had eaten breakfast in the kitchen pretty much the whole time the girls were at school last year, them at the little kids table and chairs, me standing up, yelling at them to hurry up between mouthfuls. But the author's thesis was simple, and it rang true; "...stop trying to order the child, and bring order and beauty to the environment."

I don't know how to express to you that I've never seen myself as one of those mothers. One of those mothers who make beautiful things and have beautiful things and have children who make beautiful things. (That's another story in itself.) I looked at that table set with candles in the post linked to above and half scoffed. Me? Create something beautiful? That was the kind of thing those mothers did. But then I found myself putting my favourite candle in the centre of the table one night before I went to bed. The table was clear, and I realised it would be so simple to lay out the place mats now, that I'd be silly not too. We'd already started reading together at breakfast time, but putting the book at my place setting, well, that came in an inspired rush and before I knew it I had made something beautiful. A place for us to gather at the start of the day, a place that would draw us, woo us in. And it does.

I wrote yesterday about Lent, the journey I have set off on. Even since I wrote those words a picture is becoming clear. The fruit of this journey I am on will be seen in the rhythm we find, and the freedom that waits. Lent for me this year is my un-learning. Un-learning the habits gathered like dust under eleven complicated years of marriage. Lent will be my re-building. Which will become the re-building of us all.

Ashes

I'm marked.On my forehead is the rough shape of a cross marked out in ashes.  A sign to myself that I am signed up for Lent.  I've thrown the gauntlet down.

It's not so much the fasting I've decided to do, or the gut-felt determination I have to adjust some specific behaviours, but the message I am sending to myself in the process.

I'm not satisfied with status quo. I don't want just more of the same. I am fully aware that 'if I always do what I've always done, I'll always get what I've always got.' (David Riddell)

Last year I didn't observe Ash Wednesday (the first day of Lent), but I went to The Franciscan Friary in Hillsborough for a solo retreat the day after, and as I popped into the chapel to pray I noticed the bowl of ashes sitting at the front of the altar. I looked at those ashes and instantly knew they were for me, that they belonged to me. It took all of my will power and respect for the traditions of the place not to walk up and put my finger in the bowl and wipe the ashes on my forehead myself. Instead I got as close as I could to them without touching, and on my knees I prayed a silent prayer.

The ashes are a symbol of repentance and mourning, and a sign of the wearer's intention to participate in the season of Lent. I didn't grow up in churches that observed the church calendar and yet, when I saw those ashes at the altar, they made sense to me. I understood them.

And I understood them today, because today I began a forty day commitment to myself, I embarked on a forty day journey. And I also understood them today because today is the one year anniversary of the February earthquake in Christchurch. Today is the day a year ago that one hundred and eighty five people lost their lives. All their hopes, plans and dreams crumbled in a moment. Ashes.

movement and rest

Yesterday it was exactly a month until moving day. While the house was on the market we lived in an unnatural state of order. I had a genuine fear of "stuff" the whole time. Nothing came in, plenty went out. I didn't let the girls bring home so much as a piece of paper! Once the house was off the market, we more or less got back to living like we normally do, and now, with four weeks ahead of us, the house is already filled with boxes.

Moving house is one of the most stressful things we can do. There's a list that counsellors and psychologists use, that list of the ten or twenty most stressful things a human can go through. There's tragedy and disaster in there, and a bit of the ordinary too. New job, moving house, that sort of thing. Moving house.

What state will I be in, in a month's time? Will I be beside myself with exhaustion, mumbling and incoherent, about to curl up in a hermit's ball for a week?  Or will I be tired, relieved, but calm? This is where reality TV meets the voyeurism of blogging. As long as I stay sane enough to put a sentence together, you will watch the drama unfold. I could even add a little poll to my sidebar. You could click "yes" if you think I'll survive, or "no", if you think I'll be a blubbering mess at the end of it all. Let me just see about that....

I was going to write a post about rest a couple of months ago. You might remember I decided to go to bed early for Lent. This was a very genuine intention, and it counted for a lot, as far as I'm concerned, even if sometimes real life got in the way. What that intention did was change the way I considered bedtime. Before Lent, bedtime had just been the thing I got to eventually when everything else was done. During Lent it suddenly became the focus of my evening, the goal I elevated above every other, once the girls were in bed. For almost the first time in my life, bedtime was important.

There's a context here. I've got a history of overdoing things. I know the taste of burn out. I've spent most of my life so intent on making other people happy that I didn't know how to look after myself. "No" was a word I had to get married to learn to use. The day I decided to go to bed early for Lent was the Sunday before we put the house on the market; after three manic weeks of  painting, cleaning, tidying, sorting, and shifting whole rooms around. I was so tired I was shell-shocked and tearful.

That's what I don't want to be in a month's time.

But when it comes down to it, I'm not sure I know what to do to avoid it. I mean, we have a whole house to pack and move, as well other deadlines for some really exciting projects.  And then there are all the ordinary things which carry on regardless, like homeschooling, and the fact that there are five of us and we all like to eat, wear clean clothes, and see the floor we are walking on. These things alone take up most of my time.

One day at the beginning of Lent I read Psalm 127 in the afternoon prayers of the Liturgy of the Hours.

It is vain for you to rise before dawn,
and go late to your rest,
eating the bread of toil - 
to those he loves, the Lord gives sleep.


I imagine the bread of toil like a slice of stale bread that's been sitting on the bench all afternoon. It's dry, chewy, and curled at the edges. Some of us are better at eating the bread of toil than others. Some of us are probably just like our mothers, who ate the burnt chop and shouldered most of the work around the house simply because there was nobody else to do it. To us there is something safe and familiar about the bread of toil. We've spent so long eating it that the taste of anything else is foreign and extravagant. The bread of toil seems to take the moral high ground. Work is valued, and inactivity discouraged, right?

I've always struggled to see value in rest. For me, real rest is something I've come to as a last resort, and often with a sense of failure that I can't carry on. It's not something that I've been able to see as valuable in its own right. It's not because I think I'm invincible. I think it's just that activity has been such a big part of my identity. I achieve, therefore I am.

There's a tension here, of course. Necessary work is exactly that. It has to be done and there's no avoiding it. Work that is associated with fruitfulness is exciting and often a pleasure.  The work for a project that is finally getting off the ground after years of dreaming is a miracle in itself. And then there's the old proverb about work being its own reward. The feeling of a job finished and done well; there's nothing like it.

But if we just keep on going, we gradually become less efficient and less productive, and eventually come to a grinding halt. I like what Ovid wrote about rest:
Take rest; a field that has rested gives a bountiful crop. 
And then there's what Jesus said about rest:
Come to me all you who are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. 

 I've read those words of Jesus countless times, I've meditated on them and I've tried to apply them. But I know now that I've never understood them. If I had, my life would have looked very different. Let's see how I go this time around.

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.

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.

Japan and St Patrick's Day

I was going to write you a lovely post on St Patrick's Day. I was going to tell you about our impromptu St Paddy's dinner with mashed potatoes and just enough green in it to do St Patrick justice. Isobella picked some clover leaves from the garden and put them on a little plate, and then wrote a sign saying "Happy St Patrick's Day" for the table. This was all while I was quite pre-occupied getting dinner ready, and tired because we had just got back from the bach the day before. (We stayed longer because Abigail got chicken pox) Still she ignored my grumpiness and carried on with her sweet plan regardless, including getting her and Greer dressed in green! So we celebrated St Patrick's Day after all, thanks to my quarter-Irish girls.

Then I watched the news. Japan, Japan, a week later and we are still crying for you. I watched a news story about a husband looking for his wife. He looked through list after list, read hundreds and hundreds of names. She wasn't on the list of the dead, and she wasn't on the list of the living. He told the story of how she had driven away from the Tsunami towards her cousin's house with their two children, and jumped out of the car just in time to hand the children over before the wave swept her away. What a mother. Did she have time to feel even a moment of relief? She did what every mother hopes to God they would be able to do in such an awful moment.

So that St Patrick's Day post was overtaken with tears for a country who needs as many St Patricks as it can get. It's not very postmodern of me to say so, and I know most of you don't want me to get all fundamentalist on you, but I can't help it, it's my heart's cry. St Patrick for Japan.

St Patrick wrote a prayer that he apparently prayed every morning. I love this prayer. If I was only ever going to pray one prayer, this would be it.

The Lorica of St Patrick

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through a belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
Of the Creator of creation.

I arise today
Through the strength of heaven;
Light of the sun,
Splendor of fire,
Speed of lightning,
Swiftness of the wind,
Depth of the sea,
Stability of the earth,
Firmness of the rock.

I arise today
Through God's strength to pilot me;
God's might to uphold me,
God's wisdom to guide me,
God's eye to look before me,
God's ear to hear me,
God's word to speak for me,
God's hand to guard me,
God's way to lie before me,
God's shield to protect me,
God's hosts to save me
From snares of the devil,
From temptations of vices,
From every one who desires me ill,
Afar and anear,
Alone or in a mulitude.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks of me,
Christ in the eye that sees me,
Christ in the ear that hears me.

I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through a belief in the Threeness,
Through a confession of the Oneness
Of the Creator of creation.

This excerpt is from the Catholic website EWTN.

lent and peace

These are the gluten-free pancakes we had for dessert on Shrove Tuesday. As you can see, we are pretty happy about the pancakes. Actually, I'm pretty happy that it's Lent, although happy is not quite the right word for it. After all the sadness I've felt for Christchurch, when I realised that Lent was approaching I felt my heart lift. It seemed entirely appropriate and almost a relief to be entering a season of soberness and contrition, given the awful event two weeks ago. A little bit of sacrificial suffering on behalf of Christchurch would be the least I could do.

Lent is the season in the church calendar that leads up to Easter. It lasts forty days, mirroring Jesus' forty days in the wilderness. This is a time of sacrificial fasting and of acts of penance. Historically Christians would fast all rich foods, such as meat, eggs, sugar and dairy products. (Remember the movie chocolat?) Many Christians nowdays choose to fast by "giving up" something for lent, such as sweets, alcohol, or television.

We've got some big news. The week that the earthquake struck we had a conditional offer accepted on a property that we will be buying jointly with Mum and my sister and brother-in-law. It happened so quickly it's crazy, but it feels very good. It's a huge house with two self-contained flats. It's on five acres, mostly bush, and it's about 100 metres from the water! Last year we dreamed of owning a house in the bush in a different part of town. It didn't happen but it made us realise how much we'd love a bit of land and bush of our own. We never imagined that dream could be realised this quickly.

So we are putting our house on the market! The last two weeks have been a whirlwind of painting, cleaning, weeding, tidying, sorting, and shifting stuff out to the storage unit we are renting. Thankfully last year we got the floors polished and finished most of the painting, but even without those big jobs I never could have imagined how much work there was to do. It got to the point on Sunday where I was so tired I couldn't stop crying. So I've decided to go to bed early for Lent, among other things.  I often keep going when I'm tired because I think that I'm the only person to do things right, or because I simply think I'm the only person to do things at all. Well neither of those statements are true, and I've realised I need to let go of some self-sufficiency and pride. Going to bed early will be one small way I can do this.

The girls and I are about to leave to go to our family bach with Mum for the weekend while Paddy finishes a bit of painting round the house in time for our first open home next weekend. I am practising some letting go. (You have to believe me that I'd almost rather be here doing it myself!) I'm also going to get some precious peace and rest. Just what we need.