birthdays and babies

She's two now, that baby of mine. She turned two on Thursday. She was pretty happy about it, she knew what was going on. We gave her some playdough tools and a puzzle. We'll do a joint party with Greer when we get to the new house.

It wasn't long ago that I was lamenting the fact that she was turning one. Well a year, that's not very long, at least it doesn't seem long any more. Back then I was joking about finding a recipe for a bonsai baby. And now she's two.

I didn't think I wanted a third baby. After Greer was born I spent months angst-ing over whether we were "done" or not. Oh I talked and wondered and talked and wondered and cried. It was such a difficult decision. Most people I knew seemed happy with two. Two was such a normal number. And as much as I loved my babies I hadn't overly enjoyed that immediate post-partum period. So, out of desperation to make up my mind, I decided I was done. We sold the cot. Then one day I was sitting behind a woman breastfeeding her newborn. I could hear the baby snuffling quietly as it fed, and suddenly it hit me. I wanted to hear that sound again. I wanted another baby!

I sat behind that woman with tears rolling down my face for an hour. All I could think about was her baby and the baby I had only just realised I wanted. I rang Paddy. "I want another baby" I told him, crying. He laughed and promised me we'd talk about it when I got home. It didn't take much to persuade him. And so we got our precious Abigail Hope.

We have enjoyed her so much I can't believe I ever thought we were done without her. She's such a treasure, and third time around everything was so much easier. She wasn't an easy baby, but I had the hindsight of knowing that the worst times with a baby never last forever.  And now that she's well past the baby stage, we still enjoy her. She makes us smile and laugh all the time. She's the most fascinating combination of sweet and feisty. And she makes me want another baby. She confirms to me, every day, that I am not done.

There is a slight technical issue though. You might remember I had my tubes tied at the same time as Abigail's c-section. Hers was my third caesarean, and I just presumed that was what was expected of me. As I told people who asked, "three is the magic number for caesareans." I hardly gave it any thought. It seemed the sensible, practical thing to do. And I was so blown away to be having a third baby at all, that three seemed like a huge family. I never imagined wanting more.

Then I met someone who had been told by her specialist she could have "as many c-sections as she wanted." Soon after that I found out that the writer of one of my favourite blogs had had three c-sections and was pregnant with her fourth child. I started feeling jealous. Then I read one bloggers' answer to "do you want more children?" and her post about the Catholic teaching on contraception, and I cried. I couldn't believe I had given up the ability to bear children so easily. I couldn't believe I'd done it with barely a thought.

Now I look at pregnant women wistfully and newborn babies longingly. Hardly a day has gone by in the last six months that I haven't wished I could get pregnant. I've had a tiny taste of the longing ache to have a child. And did you know there is such a thing as post-tubal ligation syndrome? I didn't, but it turns out I've got at least half of the symptoms. Sex hasn't been the same either. I've just felt, well, sterile. There's no other word for it.

Last week Paddy and I watched "The Blind Side," a movie based on a true story. If you haven't seen it it's the one with Sandra Bullock as the feisty Southern Mom who along with her family, takes in and eventually adopts "Big Mike." Michael is a boy they find wandering the streets and who ends up becoming a very successful football player. I started crying in the opening scenes, and kept crying, until it got to the point, about halfway through the movie, where I turned to Paddy and said, sobbing, "I can't watch this any more unless you say we can adopt!" He was teary-eyed himself, and he smiled and nodded. 

I don't know what this means for us exactly. All we know is that we are not done! Our hearts are open to the possibility of growing our family. I can't tell you how much this means to me. I don't know whether it means we will definitely adopt one day, or perhaps foster, or maybe even somehow, miraculously, get pregnant ourselves. All I know is I don't feel sterile any more, and that is a very good feeling.

coming up for air

This weekend we were able to start shifting some of our stuff into the garage at our new house. It is great that the owner has let us do this, and it will make moving weekend much more straightforward. We emptied the storage unit we hired when we got the house ready to put on the market, we got everything down from the attic, and we took all the banana boxes you saw empty in my last post, now filled. What is sitting in our new garage looks like a small house-lot. Of course, if you came to visit our house today you wouldn't even realise anything was missing.

We tromped up and down our front stairs carrying boxes and furniture all Saturday and Sunday afternoon. After doing this for the umpteenth time I realised I actually like moving house. When it was just me and my sister and Mum we shifted a lot, sometimes as often as every year. Packing the house up to move became a familiar routine, and looking at new flats was exciting. Even after Mum re-married and we settled down, we still ended up shifting house every few years. I remember one moving day when I was at University but still living at home, I had packed my entire bedroom (minus the bed) into my little banged-up car the night before moving day. I drove to the supermarket where I was working for the day, the car jam-packed with stuff, and then drove to our new house straight after work. I got there well before the moving truck and the rest of the family. I was that keen.

It's a funny process, shifting house. Everything we own will be rendered transportable. It will be wrapped and packed away tightly, or emptied and cleared. Little things will be packed next to other little things, breakables will be wrapped and tucked into other breakables. I can't tell you how many boxes of books I shifted this weekend. Everything in order, everything contained. When I decided that order would be my word for the year, I never imagined we'd be shifting house, and I never would have thought that moving had anything to do with order.

There is plenty of shifting happening in other ways as well. Ideas are being packed and unpacked, wild dreams are being made room for. Treasures are being sorted and classified, ready to be put away, their season of use ended. Change is everywhere.

So it's busy inside my brain. I am tired. More sleep would help. But this is the best rest I can give myself. Writing is how I tidy up on the inside.

unconditional

Yesterday afternoon I sat on the couch with all three phones beside me. Waiting for the final confirmation that this house is not ours, and another is.The other house, the big house in the bush, was until yesterday afternoon a dream I have hardly let myself dream. Now it is real.

Space, peace, bush, water. Those things I saw within myself for the first time last year, when that other house in the bush surprised us. I hadn’t realised the longing I had for those things until then. But that property wasn’t meant to be ours, it was simply a place holder. It marked a page we hoped we would turn back to. We couldn’t have imagined how quickly and how perfectly that page-turn would be executed.

Now the book lies open at it. And it is even better than those first longings. Five acres of bush, 100 metres from the water. Bedrooms and useable space galore, and room for Grannie too.  I couldn’t have dreamed it, I couldn’t have even asked for it, it is that good! Wow!!!

everyday resurrections

I took this photo yesterday, although I should probably say chance took it. We stopped at a park on the way home. The carpet of autumn leaves under the trees was calling us to run scrunching. I took some photos on my phone of the girls kicking the leaves around, and then I as I was putting it back into my pocket this happened. A photo-fluke.

This photo looks a bit like my life at the moment. Lots of things going on, balls in the air, my head spinning. Tomorrow our house sale will go unconditional, and our purchase of the big house in the bush will go unconditional as well. When that happens I will tell you all about it! So exciting!! But as you can imagine there has been a lot going on, and all at the eleventh hour.  Not just house stuff either. There have been so many words I've written to you in my head over the last month. So many things I've been thinking about that I just haven't had time to write. So my head feels a bit like that photo too.

Yesterday my Dad fell five metres from a tree he was trimming in my sister's back yard. It is a very large tree, and the huge branch he had just sawn off swung around instead of falling straight. It swung right round to the opposite side of the tree, round to the ladder Dad was standing on. It broke the ladder and sent him flying. How he ended up with nothing more than an enormous fright and plenty of bruising is a miracle.

Then last night I went to Taize Prayer at the Fransiscan Friary. It was a moment of clarity in the midst of all the spinning, like that spot at the top of the photo that's almost in focus. Suddenly everything was still. We met in the chapel, the chairs in a u-shape around a collection of candles and autumn leaves on the floor at the centre of the room. Incense hung in the air. I looked around at the random bunch of people gathered. Some older, some younger, but all at home, all happy to be there. I was a newbie but I didn't feel out of place. It was a sacred hour of sung chants, readings, and silence. It was like sitting down beside a cool mountain stream and taking a big drink.

The readings were for Easter, and the one prayer we all prayed together was this poem by Joy Cowley.

Easter Sunday

This is the day of festival
and we thank you, O God of celebration,
with hymns of praise rising like balloons
and banners of love waving from our hearts.
Today we dance with the angels
round all the empty tombs in our lives,
celebrating transformation,
from grief to laughter,
from darkness into light.
Today we glimpse the truth
of suffering and death
as we move with you in your Jesus song
of resurrections without end.

This Easter I thought of something I'd never thought before. What happened in that moment directly after Jesus' resurrection? When Jesus is standing on earth, breathing our air again. The ground has shaken, the stone has been rolled, the soldiers have fled, and there is no one in the garden except Jesus, all new. What was he thinking? How was he feeling? What did he do? Did he touch his body all over just to be sure? Did he sit and stare at his hands, remembering? Or did he walk through the garden, talking to God, taking a moment alone like all those other moments alone we know he took. How did their conversation go?

I like the line in Joy Cowley's poem about dancing around "all the empty tombs in our lives" and the idea of "resurrections without end." We celebrate the greatest resurrection at Easter, but what about all the other, everyday resurrections? When problems that seem to have no answer are suddenly resolved, when two friends get over a disagreement and embrace, when despair hanging over a heavy heart lifts, and when a man falls five metres and gets up without a broken bone, what do we do? Do we stop and witness these extraordinary moments? Do we stop to breathe again, to sit and stare at our own hands, to see how new we are?

Light and truth, life and laughter. They come to us in spite of our brokenness, in spite of our ignorance, and despite the darkness that threatens. Our own everyday resurrections.

our Little Prince gets married

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?

wednesday things

1. We had sports with our home school group this afternoon. Instead of being inside the gym as it normally is, the girls got to play t-ball and run around outside in the park near the gym and swimming complex that we go to. As they were finishing up I noticed that the trees nearby were pear trees, and that the ground was littered with rotten fruit. We walked down through the pear trees looking for fruit that was decent enough to eat. The pile on top of the buggy quickly grew into a huge pile underneath the buggy. We came home with a huge bag full, maybe even 5 kilos worth! Free! I peeled and cooked them this afternoon. Now we are all looking forward to breakfast. Porridge and pears, I'm thinking.

2. Last night was such a bad night with Abigail that I can hardly bear thinking about it. She's been gradually showing signs of growing out of her daytime sleep. Even when she only sleeps for half an hour she's not ready for bed until at least 8:30pm. So we thought we'd try keeping her up all day. Hah, the fools we were. She fell asleep eating at the dinner table at 6pm, and I put her to bed. We were lulled into a false sense of security and celebrated the freedom. Then at 8:30pm she woke up and cried. We thought she'd go back to sleep, so we left her for a while, and then went in and checked on her a few times. A couple of hours later, she still hadn't gone to sleep. I got ready for bed and took her with me. She was so awake she just kept on sitting up and talking. I was so tired I was worried she'd roll of the bed. So I gave up and sent her out to Pat. Long story short, several hours later, after he'd tried everything from sitting in her room super-nanny style, to feeding her, and then rocking her, he brought her in to me again (I'd kept waking up hearing it all) and she finally conked out. He's got a video of her that he took on his phone, at midnight, sitting up at the table eating pears. Cute. Not.

3. Abigail did make up for the grief she caused us by producing her first poo in the potty this afternoon! I know, I know, you don't really want to hear about poo and potties, but I'm sure you'll understand that it was a very exciting moment around here. She's been talking about "ca ca" and "wee wee" for a while, and seems to be aware of what she's doing. She's been happy to sit on the potty for a while, but this is the first time there's been any result. I think she was pretty impressed.

4. Isobella lost a tooth tonight eating dinner, the second this week. The first was on Sunday. She announced that teeth were worth $2 on Sundays and promptly wrote a note to the tooth fairy to tell her so. Of course, the tooth fairy obliged. She's good like that.

5. Speaking of that big girl of mine, it's her birthday next Monday and I've only just organised her party. It's a picnic at the domain outside the museum, followed by a visit to the museum. Mum just informed me that it's supposed to rain all day Saturday. So much for the picnic. I suppose I'll have a brainwave about it at some time. Hopefully before Saturday!
                                                                               

broken city, broken people

I farewelled my sister back home to Christchurch this morning and my heart is still heavy. She heads home to a city that remains broken and to a house that is still recovering from chaos; a constant reminder of the earthquake.  She and her partner are lucky enough, their house was not seriously damaged and they both have jobs. But the earthquake has changed everything.  The way they drive to work, the atmosphere they work in, and what they do with their spare time. Their electricity is back on, but for essentials only. Through a miscommunication it turns out they didn't have contents insurance after all, so three or four hundred dollars' worth of food is lost, as well as some expensive tools. It's not money they can just pull out of thin air. She's been up here for a break, and was happy to be going back to her own bed, but she wasn't looking forward to returning to a disaster zone. Who would?

Christchurch has seen a range of responses to the earthquake. Many families have temporarily relocated to other parts of the country, plenty more have simply packed up and left. Some have gone to Wellington and Auckland, some even to Australia. Whole suburbs have been abandoned; empty houses stand beside roads covered in pot holes, silt and flooding. But community spirit still abounds. Churches all over Christchurch have stepped up to supply free meals, food banks and temporary accommodation. A memorial service was held in Hagley Park on Friday, attended by Prince William and thousands of Cantabrians. Mayor Bob Parker looked tired but resolute. Everyone promised that Christchurch will be rebuilt.

But buildings can be rebuilt. Given the necessary time, money and expertise, re-building will happen. Not so for people. Damaged emotions aren't so easily healed. Time helps, yes, but the other ingredients necessary for healing are not always clear. What will it take for my sister to feel at "home" in her own home? What will it take for those who have fled Christchurch to find home in the places they have fled to? What about those who struggle to sleep? Those for whom fear has manifested as anxiety and depression? And what about those who suffer most of all, those who grieve the loss of their dearest? How will their lives be rebuilt?

When the first earthquake hit last September it was easy to write about angels. We all said it was a miracle that nobody was lost. This time around we are hard pushed to find miracles. No survivors have been discovered since the day after the quake. But there are miracles. Every survivor will tell you there are. The beloved Christchurch Cathedral has been completely cleared with no bodies found, when we were expecting twenty. When rebuilt it will become a place of hope, without any shadow of death. Perhaps they're small miracles, but they're miracles nonetheless.

Still, some will refuse to see miracles at all. For many it is just too difficult to bring God into the equation. A talk back caller was asked how the earthquake had changed his life, and his answer was bitter. "I'm now convinced there is no God," he said. I expect that for him Japan's earthquake and tsunami have been the final nail. Who can believe in a God who allows such things to happen? Yet earthquakes and other natural disasters have occurred relentlessly over the ages, and there have always been believers.

For the first week after the earthquake I found prayer was as automatic as breathing. I couldn't not pray. But at the same time I was keeping my distance from God. Deep down I felt abandoned. I could see God in the earthquake of September 4th, but not on February 22nd. It was too awful. I found within me an endless, anguished "why?" I heard it repeated by others as the days went on. Even the Mayor voiced it, wondering if there was anyone he could ask why these things happen. Then he answered it himself. "I don't think so."

No one would begrudge that talk back callers' denial of God. On a rational and intellectual level it's completely understandable.  Why would we place our hope in a God who appears to have failed us? Historically we have been seen as a Christian nation.  Missionaries were some of our first European settlers. But who would question us now if we completely turned our backs on any faith at all?

I haven't heard an answer to my guttural "why?" and I can't see anything in what I know of the bible or the Christian faith that gives me a solid answer to that question. All I know is that my instinct tells me something which goes beyond any head knowledge. My instinct tells me that this world as it is, with its earthquakes, floods and famines, is not how it was meant to be.

 There's a mental and emotional leap required to keep faith in God. Those unable to make it often count those who can as lucky. They stand as if on one side of a divide watching the rest of us as we size up and then make the leap. They don't feel capable or even necessarily desirous of making the same jump, so they shrug their shoulders and get on with their lives. Often it's as if we humans live our lives separated by this divide, believers on one side, non-believers on the other. But in times of inexplicable tragedy such as this, the divide is erased. We all suffer the same grief, we all ask the same questions, and for believers and non-believers alike, the answers are few.

Yet there is a difference. Many of the groups serving the practical needs of the people of Christchurch right now are Christian. These are not believers who are providing food and shelter simply because it's what they "should" do. These are people who are moved by genuine compassion, people for whom their faith not only compels them to serve, it gives them the strength to do so.  The bible is not silent when it comes to grief and tragedy. Jesus himself is often described in the gospels as weeping. The words of the Psalms take us as frequently through suffering as they do rejoicing. Think of those words we all know, Psalm 23. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...

I haven't heard an answer to my "why", but that hasn't stopped me asking. My "why" makes my prayers feistier and my tears real. And I've added this "why" to all the "why's" from years gone by which somehow I know I will get to ask in person, one day, on the other side. My "why" finds me here, writing, and as I write I find the heaviness of my heart lifting.

Just as Christchurch is broken, so are we broken. We need hope, peace, and all of us need some measure of healing. We can turn our backs on God if that feels safer, but in doing so we may be rejecting the very thing we need most.

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.

Grannie turns 99

Grannie is ninety-nine! She had a birthday afternoon tea yesterday in the lounge at her rest home. My Aunt organised a display of photographs, letters, old school books, special pieces of clothing and other mementos. It was lovely. Grannie is not always that with it, but she actually seemed to know exactly what was happening. At the end as she was wheeled off back to her room we joked about her next birthday, and what a party that would be. She chortled and said "oh yes!" with a smile. A year and a bit ago we didn't even know if she would make it to ninety-eight. And here she is, on her victory lap towards one hundred.

There are so many things now that she can't tell us. So many memories she can no longer access. So many thoughts and feelings that she hardly had words for before, let alone now. I watch her and I realise how complicated getting old can be. Our past doesn't disappear off into the distance as we age. Often it's the opposite of that. We carry our past with us like an old backpack. Each year it gains a bit more weight.  If we never inspect its contents, or take a stock-take every now and then to discard perished goods, then we end up bent under the weight of it. I don't want to get to ninety-nine and carry that weight. I can't guarantee I'll have the mental or emotional capacity to deal with it then.

Tomorrow at 12:51pm our nation is observing two minutes of silence. We don't need to remember the awful disaster that occurred a week ago, it has not left us for a moment. Our minds will go over the images of dust and rubble and broken bodies. We will think of those lost, those still missing, and those who have been shaken to the core in every sense of the word. We will weep.

In that moment, we would do well to save a few thoughts for ourselves. To be thankful for whatever mercies we have received, however great or small; and to consider how we will spend the rest of whatever life we have in front of us. This is not narcissism, or meaningless introspection. This is a sober, circumspect and entirely appropriate response.

It's the first day of autumn tomorrow. I've been shutting the windows at night as the air cools and thinking of the other side of the world. Spring is theirs. It seems like just the other day that we were complaining of the heat. Summer has gone too fast.

Christchurch tears

If words were tears these words would be as salty and as wet as the ocean. No survivors have been found since Wednesday. There are still about two hundred people missing. The death toll keeps rising.

The bodies that have been recovered, and those yet to be found, they were just like us; three days ago they ate breakfast and had plans for the weekend. They are mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, cousins, aunties, uncles, friends, sons and daughters. Yesterday the coroner assured us that the bodies were being looked after. "I am a mum and a grandma" she said. "There is always someone with them." I've done a lot of crying but at that I sobbed. Those bodies belong with their loved ones. There are hundreds and hundreds of people desperate in their grief to see the ones they have lost. To touch a hand, to hold the corner of a shirt. Who can imagine the horror of the damage that they will see? I can't. Crushed limbs, faces unrecognisable. But something, hopefully something they can touch, talk to. This is what the mourners at Pike River were so cruelly deprived of.

And the rest of us, even those of us removed by distance and with our loved ones safe, even we need something to see, something real to help us comprehend the horror. I feel useless up here in Auckland. If I could jump on a plane and get down there I would. I would sweep up the broken glass in my sister's house. Slowly work with her to pick up and clean up the chaos. I'd put on an orange jacket and walk into the war zone that is Christchurch's CBD. I'd pick up bricks, I'd comb through rubble. I would work all night and through the day to find your mother, your baby. I would sit next to the body of your cousin, sing to her, touch her. These are all things that we ordinary people are not needed to do. Yet this is what deep down we long to do, all of us.

New Zealand is broken. We have lost the heart of one of our most beautiful cities. Per capita our loss of life is greater than the losses of 9/11.  We are all hurting.

Are prayers and best wishes futile? No. Distance is no hindrance to those. We can sing too. We can let a song rise in our hearts, a lament that is waiting to be sung. As we sing it together, it becomes our desperate prayer.

I've linked it before, but this version of our national anthem was made for now.

Christchurch

Please pray for Christchurch. There are about 200 people still trapped. Please pray that the rescue teams will be able to reach them. My family are safe, thankfully, but so many are not. Please pray for wisdom for all those involved in civil defence and in rescue efforts. Please pray for miracles of survival.
O God come to my aid. O Lord, make haste to help me.

the treasure of home

Sunday was Waitangi Day and I stood at the window at the end of the day and watched the sun go down. It was fiery golden right up until the moment it dipped below the horizon. The girls were in bed and most of the cleaning up from the BBQ lunch we'd had was done. I stood looking out the window at the glowing horizon, the brick house over the road and the trees, green green all the way up to the top of the ridge. I thought about how good it was to belong to New Zealand.

I was born in Spain, but Mum was a kiwi, and Dad immigrated to New Zealand from England as a child. We lived together in Madrid for a few months and then headed to New Zealand via England. I arrived at customs, Auckland airport, still all new at only four months old. There is a photo of my parents walking through the arrivals gate pushing a trundler of suitcases with a woven bassinet perched on top. I was home.

I was home, yet I didn't fully realise it for another thirty-six years. Home is a funny thing. Some people are at home wherever they are. Others can spend years living somewhere and never feel at home. My Grandmother was like that. My Grandfather dragged her to New Zealand when she was thirty-seven, two children in tow. She's about to turn ninety-nine, and she still calls England home. I've never questioned the fact that I am a New Zealander. I have the citizenship papers to prove it. And yet I haven't always known what being "home" really meant. When I was younger I spent a lot of time either travelling or wishing I was travelling. I wanted to go everywhere. I still do.

Then soon after Isobella was born a story was conceived. I don't talk about this story much, but if I'm lucky, you'll get to read it one day. The story was breathed out of the very dust and soil of my mother's home town Raglan. It's an earthy story, with roots that go back farther than I can see. The story made me fall in love with Raglan. It opened my eyes to see that I actually belonged to this place. It was in me.

The Maori have a concept "Turangawaewae" that is sorely lacking in western culture. Turangawaewae means "standing place." Te Ara, New Zealand's online Encyclopedia describes Turangawaewae like this;

"Tūrangawaewae is one of the most well-known and powerful Māori concepts. Literally tūranga (standing place), waewae (feet), it is often translated as ‘a place to stand’. Tūrangawaewae are places where we feel especially empowered and connected. They are our foundation, our place in the world, our home... In the concept of tūrangawaewae, the external world is a reflection of an inner sense of security and foundation. The mountains, rivers and waterways to which one can claim a relationship also express this internal sense of foundation."

I wrote about this a year ago. We had spent a week on Great Barrier Island, and being there I felt the same feeling I'd felt falling in love with Raglan. That same incredible feeling of belonging. The group we were with had gathered to learn and talk about New Zealand History, The Treaty of Waitangi, and the role of the church in all of that. During the week we had a spontaneous powhiri - the welcoming ceremony used when visitors arrive on a marae. Those who were immigrants to New Zealand and those who had never felt like they truly belonged here were invited to be the "manuhiri" or visitors, and the rest of the group were the "tangata whenua" - the welcomers or literally, "people of the land" who would welcome them to New Zealand. I knew straight away I needed to be manuhiri. It wasn't that I was conscious of not belonging, it was that intellectually I have always known I was a visitor. Not just because I was a literal visitor at the age of four months, but because I was pakeha. Deep down I saw myself as an outsider.

The powhiri was the real deal. I joined the group of manuhiri and we stood shoulder to shoulder as the call came out.

"Haere Mai! Haere Mai! Haere Mai!
Haere Mai ra e te manuhiri tuarangi e
Haere Mai! Haere Mai! Haere Mai!"

We moved slowly towards the voice that was calling us and the people waiting for us on the other side of the room. As we walked, I suddenly found that tears were rolling down my face. I hadn't realised I needed to be welcomed. I could have easily chosen to stand with the tangata whenua. The decision to be manuhiri was purely intellectual. But my heart was telling me otherwise. My heart was telling me I needed to belong.

So this Waitangi Day was special. For the first time I actually felt like celebrating. We kiwis are funny about Waitangi Day. Historically it has been a focus for Maori protest. Most non-Maori New Zealanders see Waitangi Day as a holiday and not much else. We turn on the TV news at night expecting to see images of Maori waving placards. A red-necked minority resent Maori and their grievances. Some Maori resent pakeha, understandably. It's a complicated situation, with a history full of tragic injustices and misunderstandings. Not unlike the history of so many other colonised nations.

But there's a difference. We have a treaty. In 1840 Britain was being urged to do something about the growing number of English and other immigrants in New Zealand, and the ensuing lawlessness and land-grabbing. The urgency was being voiced by Christian men - the same group that with William Wilberforce saw slavery abolished. Britain was reluctant, not wanting to repeat the past.  However in the end there seemed to be no other path, and she agreed on the grounds that the transfer of power be just.

So the treaty was born. A well-meaning but hastily drawn-up and poorly translated document. We have a complicated relationship with this treaty of ours. We can go through years of treaty history in public schooling and still not understand either its vitality or its uniqueness.  Waitangi Days come and go, protesters come and go, and we remain ambivalent. Yet it is ours.

The Sunday Star editorial yesterday was entitled "Waitangi Day's evolution cause for cautious pride." The editor noted that treaty settlements are now "treated as normal events" and that they have "restored a small portion of lost taonga and considerable mana."  This is good, and the atmosphere of celebration that is slowly coming to Waitangi Day is entirely appropriate.  But it's hard to celebrate something that's not entirely yours. Belonging to New Zealand means sharing ownership with the others who belong here. Ownership comes with responsibility, but it also comes with the many benefits and priveleges of belonging.

The conversation about the treaty belongs to all of us here in Aotearoa New Zealand. If we leave it to those at either extreme of the political debate then the conversation is not complete. More than that, our absence in the conversation is a form of filial laziness. We are the absent adult children, out of reach just when the family needs us most.

Where are you at home? Whose table do you eat from? How often do you stop to appreciate the feast that is laid out for you? What contribution do you bring?

Dorothy says it, Dave Dobbyn sings about it, we all know it, but there's no place like home. To have a home, and to feel at home, is one of the greatest treasures any human can have.

We got a dog just after Christmas. Silas was a rescue puppy, straight from the pound. He's a sweet and easy-going five month old lab-cross and it hasn't taken long for him to settle in. Two months ago he was wandering the streets, abandoned, but now as I write he's sprawled across our doorway on his back, legs splayed. He's at home.

I've got three daughters and they're at home too. They love their country. They get excited about our beaches and bush and birds, and they sing the National Anthem like a prayer without anyone even suggesting to them that it is one. I've been here since I was four months old, but in a way I'm just as new as my girls or the dog. So I'm taking my cues from them and making myself at home. I'm stretching out and speaking up. I'm home.

Thanks to Cindy Ruakere and friends for making this incredible version of our National Anthem. I've been listening to it as I write, and I challenge you to listen and not feel your spine tingle.

wind and sorrows

It's windy today. I'm sitting on my bed looking out through the french doors to the garden where Isobella and Greer are playing with Silas. Everything is moving. The big pine trees towering above us are swaying and the leaves of the jacaranda tree in the middle of the garden are wind-blown and dishevelled. Inside I can hear the click clack clack of the blinds as the wind blasts through the windows.  The air is thick and humid. Everything is rattled.

I'm sitting here thinking about Tucson and this clip from last week I've finally got round to watching;



I'm thinking about the seventy-two year old husband who fell on his wife as soon as he heard the shots and died to save her. I'm thinking of the little girl whose beginning and ending are so much about the complicated and volatile politics of her beloved country. I'm thinking of Gabrielle Giffords; what will she do when (if?) she recovers?

And I'm thinking about floods. Mud, water, landslides. I'm thinking of Australia, my neighbour, and Brazil, that country too full of vulnerable people.

And I can't help but think of these words;

Now as He sat on the Mount of Olives, the disciples came to Him privately, saying, “Tell us, when will these things be? And what will be the sign of Your coming, and of the end of the age?”
 And Jesus answered and said to them: “Take heed that no one deceives you.  For many will come in My name, saying, ‘I am the Christ,’ and will deceive many.  And you will hear of wars and rumors of wars. See that you are not troubled; for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet.  For nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be famines, pestilences, and earthquakes in various places.  All these are the beginning of sorrows.  Matthew 24:3-8

Conflict just errupted outside. The girls were screaming at each other and I called them in. The culprit was Isobella and she yelled like a banshee all the way to time out. I put my hand over her mouth so she didn't wake the baby and she bit my hand. My baby, my dear kind daughter.

I'll blame it on the wind.

Meet Silas

We've been talking on and off about getting a dog for months. Every time we've talked about it we always end up talking ourselves out of it. Until now. The day before Christmas Eve I saw an ad in our local paper for a dog up for adoption at the pound. For some reason I was quite taken with her. I cut the ad out of the paper and rang the pound from the bedroom so the girls wouldn't hear me.

The advertised dog had already been adopted, but I persuaded Paddy to take the girls for a visit anyway. They saw a sweet black lab-cross puppy and, unbeknownst to the girls, Paddy put our names down as interested in him.

Many long and complicated conversations later, we decided we would take him. On Monday we all went to the pound to pick up our "new member of the family" as Isobella calls him.  He sat quietly in the front passenger seat between my legs on the way home, and only threw up once! The girls were completely overjoyed. Isobella, who has wanted a dog for as long as she can remember, kept saying "I can't believe my dreams are coming true today!"

I've never owned a dog before, but Paddy had a family dog as a child.  We were concerned that it might not be the right time for us to become dog owners, with Abigail only nineteen months old, but it turns out that our Silas is a very mellow puppy. He has barely barked since we got him, and is not as boisterous as I feared. I don't let Abigail outside without me, as his friendly licks are a bit too much for her, but she's not too scared of him. Even the cat seems to be putting up with him.

To be honest I think part of the reason I was so taken with the idea of a dog is that I'm actually very clucky at the moment. I'd love another baby. But I've had three caesareans and I was under the impression that I would be advised not to have any more, so I had my tubes tied during Abgail's birth. Since then I've met and heard of plenty of women who have more than three caesareans, and I feel a bit cheated. I've also done a lot of reading and thinking about contraception in the last few months and I now have a completely new perspective. As well as that I've found three children is not much more complicated that two, in fact in many ways it's easier. And then there's Abigail. She walks around the house singing in baby talk. She's adorable, and I'm smitten.

Actually, we're all smitten!

So will Silas fulfill my baby longings? Probably not. But he's lovely. He really feels like part of the family. We'll get out more and do more exercise, and that's a good thing. We'll also acquire some new skills as we train him, and maybe even learn a thing or two about parenting in the process!

Any dog stories to share? Or hints for handling a puppy and a toddler?

me, heels and the new year

So here we are looking at 2011, all shiny in its newness and barely unwrapped. How does it feel to you? In our corner of the world it is hot and dry and the sky is clear blue. Perfect for dreaming under. I’ve been thinking about the year, flicking ahead through the pages of days in my mind. Wondering what shape those days will take. Just like I did last year.

I’ve got a few ideas, as I always do. But this time they feel more concrete, more practical. I’ve got a word too, and again, it’s very practical. I didn’t have to go searching for this word. It was waiting for me. But before all that, a story.

I was a bridesmaid for my good friend Allie at the beginning of December. It was a wonderful wedding. Allie looked gorgeous, and she and Glen were completely chuffed with each other. Isobella and Greer were very lucky to be flower girls. They were the first of the bridal party, and they scattered rose petals on the ground in front of us. I was worried that Greer would freak out at the last minute. After all, she's only four. But I needn't have worried. Greer was fine. It was me I should have been worried about.

You see, I'm not a heels girl. When it comes to fashion, comfort is a high priority for me. I've long passed the stage where I would sacrifice comfort for fashion (and that stage never lasted long for me anyway!) I like my feet to feel good in the shoes I wear. They do an excellent job of carrying me around and I respect them for that. I've also got scoliosis, so my back is crooked enough without the rest of me being thrown forwards by the effect of high heels. When it came to choose the bridesmaid’s shoes I was hoping we’d find some nice flats, but in the end, heels were what we ended up with. The silver ones you see above, next to my obliging feet. Cute.

The wedding was outdoors, on a beautiful early summer’s day. As the bridal party we had to make our way from the function centre down across sloping grass to where the guests were seated, then down the aisle at the centre of the seats almost to the edge of the point, overlooking black sand and faraway surf. It was magical.

Back to the shoes. Cute? On someone else's feet they were. On my feet they were a recipe for disaster. Those shoes had to carry me, wobbling, all the way down the slope, on grass, with eighty pairs of eyes watching. This is where you sigh and say “come on, you were only a bridesmaid. Everyone was just waiting for the bride.” But you don’t understand. I cried during the wedding practice. I did! Hidden behind my sunglasses were tears of pure distress. Distress at the very real possibility that I could stumble on my way down, and distress at my inability to be the kind of girl who sashays around with ease on heels. That afternoon, the afternoon before the wedding, I had to decide whether I was going to crumble or fight back.

You know which it was. I’m a fighter, no question. I got Paddy to buy me some heel-grip inserts, got some tips from the girls, and told myself I could do it. And that was my mantra for the next twenty-four hours. It was my mantra as I practised alone during the morning as we were getting ready. It was my mantra as I stood waiting for the cue to begin my descent. It was my mantra as I walked the long walk down the slope to the front of the guests. And I did it. I didn’t enjoy it, but I did it.

I won’t be signing up for any more heel-wearing opportunities in the near future. I think I’ve done my dash with those for now. But if the necessity ever arises again, I know what I’ll do. I’ll grit my teeth and I’ll do it, because I know that I can.

And it’s with that same raw determination that I’m looking 2011 in the eye. I’m very aware of my short-comings. I can see exactly where 2010 did not measure up to the dreamy ideals I envisioned last January. 2010 definitely had its moments. I could put it simply by saying I’ve got plenty of growth potential! But I’m ok with growth. I’d rather suffer a bit of discomfort than let status quo reign.

What about you? When you face your equivalent of wearing heels in front of a crowd, what will you do? What will you tell yourself this year when things get difficult? Will you be satisfied with the status quo to save yourself a bit of pain, or will you grit your teeth and fight back?

Think about it. And then come back in a few days. I’ve got some questions for you. Questions I think you are going to like. Questions that you might just find you have answers to already, somewhere inside you. And there’s that word too...

to read with your cup of tea

Here are a few interesting tid-bits I've read and enjoyed over the last couple of weeks. I thought you might like something to read with your Saturday morning cup of tea!

"A Life Beyond Reason" is a very moving story of a father's experience caring for his highly disabled son August.

"Right Intention vs Simple Intention" is a simple but meaningful take on doing the "right thing."

This is Betty Duffy's beautifully written account of an interesting experience she witnessed during Eucharist - a story in its own right.

Here is Erica Jong's editorial "Mother Madness" and her daughter's response "Growing up with Ma Jong"  I know I've linked these already in those posts about mothering I wrote, but they are interesting.... so if you haven't read them already, go on.

Enjoy your day!

we went to the ballet

We went to the ballet and two girls came home dreaming of dancers and dresses. Just like I remember doing at their age.

The ballet was The Nutcracker. A wonderful first experience of the ballet for those two lucky girls. They sat enthralled through the entire performance, mostly still and mostly quiet, (which I thought was good enough!) They loved Clara, and loved to hate her naughty brother. They were captivated by seeing children their age dancing on stage. It's a beautiful ballet, perfect for children. And the cast from the Royal New Zealand Ballet did a very good job of entertaining the grown-ups too, oh yes. The three patients in dressing gowns and dancing on crutches were genuinely hilarious, and Sir Jon Trimmer stole the show as the hurrumphy large-bossomed Matron. I laughed and laughed!

It was also a lovely escape, a treat to be able to suspend our disbelief and enter a world where tiny snow flakes fall on ballerinas in perfect tutus, and hospital beds float suspended above swathes of blue. We need as much of this as we can get, us grown-ups. We don't dream as easily as our children, tied to our calendars and cell-phones and self-importance as we are. And we aren't so easily mistaken about what is real and what is not. Four-year-old Greer kept asking if the dancers were "real people," yet at the final curtain she was one of the first people to start clapping.  She knew, instinctively, that the story had come to an end.

So we bundled ourselves out into the city at night. Surrounded by people walking and talking and going places. I remember how this feels to a child. Like realising that another world exists, outside, after bedtime. This is the world where anything can happen. Where shop lights and street lights shine against the dark sky. Where cold water and cakes quench thirst and fill tired, hungry tummies. They are dreaming it all right now in their beds, in the heavy sleep of exhaustion. Living it all again, this time with themselves as protaganist and star - dancing, floating, applauded.

sadness

We have just found out that there is no longer any hope for the twenty-nine miners in the Pike River Coal Mine disaster. Their families, friends and loved ones were informed today that there has been another, larger, explosion. It would not have been survivable. We cry for the children who will not see their fathers, the wives who have lost their husbands, the fathers who will never again embrace their sons, siblings that have lost brothers, mates that have lost mates. There are no words for this, but to say nothing would be unthinkable. There are so many questions, and right now, few answers. I offer this passage for the comfort of those who grieve, and for myself. I do not offer it out of presumption,  or because there is any way to lighten their darkness, but in sincere faith. This is my unshakable belief.

Behold, I tell you a mystery: We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed - in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.
1 Corinthians 15:51-52

My thoughts and prayers are with all who are mourning.

hello from the madness

We are on the last leg of our mad dash to finally get our renovations finished. We had already booked in some time off for us to get started on the painting, but we were launched into action when we saw a property out west that we fell in love with. The possibility of putting this place on the market got us moving like I've never seen us move before! We painted, got the floors sanded and polished, had carpet laid in the bedrooms, and finally got the tiling finished in the kitchen. And, just as we were almost finished, we missed out on that house we loved.

It was a disappointment and a relief at the same time. If you'd seen this place yesterday (I tried to take a photo but I couldn't find my camera, ofcourse) you would agree with me that the vague plan we'd had of putting the house on the market yesterday, the same day the carpet was laid, was completely ridiculous. Which brings me to facebook and the myers-briggs personality profile application I signed up for. Every couple of weeks it sends me a pithy little tip based on my personality profile. This is what I found waiting for me yesterday:
"You may create overly optimistic plans without considering all the details. Realistically estimate how long a task will take."

I think my dad would have a good chuckle over that one. He single-handedly saved the day yesterday when he turned up at 7:15am to finish the job he was doing for us. He got Paddy out of bed (no mean feat) and then helped him move the last of the big pieces of furniture that needed shifting before the carpet layers turned up at 8am! And when I say the last of the big pieces of furniture, you should probably read all the big pieces of furniture.

I am very happy that we managed to get it all done. The house is looking lovely already, even with boxes and piles of stuff all over the place. We were crazy to attempt to do it in such a short space of time, and at such short notice, and we did need a lot of help to do it. The girls and I turned up at my mum's on Sunday night at 7pm because our place was too chaotic and dusty for the girls to stay there. My dad, as I've said, came up trumps. Other family members and friends helped out not only because they love us but also because our ridiculous plan left them with little choice! We were on a mission, and there was no stopping us.

Now that we're almost finished I'm so exhausted I can't believe I actually know what day it is! We've shifted almost the entire contents of our house at least once, if not twice, so it kind of feels like we've moved house, minus the truck drive. But I guess if we were hankering for something new we've certainly done it the easy way. Sure, our little back yard is nothing like the 2 acres of bush we were looking at in that property we missed out on, but we do like our little backyard, and our little house with it's shiny new floors and white tiles. After all, it's home.