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.

this girl

She gives me flowers, and her smile is toothy and wide.
She runs everywhere, runs into things. Runs into ideas at a million miles, and then runs away from them again.
She exclaims, loudly "It's not fair!"
And then, with only a little persuasion, she tries again.
Eight will be a year of learning new things, and a year when tricky things become easy. An eight year old brain  will more easily be persuaded to run in straight lines, when she wants it to.
Her present was a bike, a bigger one, a bike suitable for a girl who knows how to ride it, a girl who has places to go to, a world to see.
And the present she chose for herself was a new sponsored child, "a new sister" she said.
Some days she wishes she came in an easy package. Some days she cries tears of frustration that things don't work out the way she expects them too. Some days it's all too hard. The violin, the maths, the holding the pencil with her thumb wriggled back.
But most days she lives in a whirlwind and sings about it. Lives right on the intersection where the ideas whizz back and forth, and dances.
Happy birthday Isobella, we are a year older!

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.

who wants a baby?

I wrote about feminism, sex and abortion today over on my other blog, re-inventing eve.

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.

five

I nearly missed a moment tonight. The girls were late to bed and Paddy was out. I was hustling them along and had already turned the lights out when Greer asked me to read her a book. I was so close to saying no. She'd been reading in bed, we'd read earlier in the day, and she was tired. But then I saw the book she wanted me to read and I relented. It was the book I gave her for her first Christmas. A sweet little book called "Mama Loves You". Each page has a different animal mama with her baby, and each page finishes with the words "mama loves you." The last page shows a woman holding her baby, and reads "you are my moon, my star, my sun, mama loves you, little one." It could be over-sweet and schmaltzy, but some how it manages not to be.

Greer smiled the whole time I was reading. And when I turned to the very last page she wriggled with excitement, said "my favourite page!" and snuggled right up. It's been a while since I read it to her and I was surprised at her response. It wasn't so long ago that it seemed like we were always at loggerheads. If there was anyone that was going to get me to raise my voice, it was her.

Ever since she was an exasperating toddler there have been times when I have wondered how she could possibly be my daughter.  Where I'm keen to please, she is stubborn and defiant. She was born feisty, and I'm still learning how to tell people what I want. If she's not happy about something I know all about it. She is loud, cheeky, and some days it feels like she goes from one whining complaint to another. It used to be common for her to ignore me, in fact, I got to the point where I would expect her to ignore me.

Something happened over the holidays. I'm not even sure what it was. I guess the home-with-Mum days turned into weeks and somehow a new peace reigned. One night she crawled into bed with me, and instead of walking her back to her own bed like I usually do, I wrapped my arms around her and held her tight. The next day we were down at the beach and she came and sat on my knee and didn't want to get off. I buried my face into her hair and the thought of sending her back to school at the end of the holidays made real tears run down my face.

Greer was a big factor in the decision to send the girls to school last year. Greer hasn't got the learning quirks that Isobella has. Her brain runs in straight lines. She's been writing her name since before she was four, doing maths since she was about that age, and she's the kind of kid who when you talk with her you get the uncanny feeling you are talking to an adult in a child's body. Usually by about this time each year we are saying "oh but doesn't she seem like she's already five... or four... or three." In fact we've always ended up treating her like she's at least half a year older than she is.

Except for now. During the holidays I found myself thinking for the first time, "but she's only five." She's only five. I found myself wondering what she would gain by going back to school. I found myself pondering all the things she had to learn that could really only be learned at home. How to ride a bike. How to share and co-operate. How to be a loving big sister. How to use polite words instead of stomping and sulking. And for the first time I realised that I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that those things were more important for a five year old than learning to read, to write or to sit quietly on the mat. And so Greer became a big part of our decision to return to homeschooling.

The battles I faced daily last year have almost gone. I can see now that she actually wants to please me, most of the time. And I see softness not hardness in her face. She doesn't pull away from me when I reach out to her. She wants to be with me.

I can't think of anything sadder than the very real possibility that our relationship could have stayed as it was for the rest of our lives. Sure it would have been warm enough, just, but it wouldn't have been affectionate, and it certainly would have been stormy. She would have grown up seeing me as her enemy, always wanting something from her that she didn't want to or couldn't give. She would have grown up thinking I was never satisfied with her, that she never quite met my expectations. I would have been so used to the battles that I would have been continually on guard, always bracing myself for the fight.

And I would have missed that moment down at the beach when she sat on my knee and the tears ran down my cheeks as I thought about how much I loved her, and loved being with her.

After I'd finished the story we talked about the last page, about how it's a real Mama with her real baby and the Mama is talking to her baby. "And that's me, isn't it" she said, "I'm your baby." I smiled and said yes and she leant into me, and then she added "And you love me, don't you."  It was a statement, and yet there was a question in it, in the way her voice lilted at the end. It was enough of a question that it caught me at the back of my throat, like I'd swallowed a moth or a bug.

"You love me, don't you?"

And I knew in a rush, as I hugged her and reassured her, that she hadn't always got the message.

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.

a hangi for Waitangi Day

 

 

Last Monday was Waitangi Day and we got together with some friends and put on a hangi. I want to say that it started in the darkness of dawn early on Waitangi Day morning, when I got up just after the fire had been lit and the air was filled with the cackle and crackle of flames, but it didn't. It started the day before, when the pit was dug in the heat of the afternoon.

We've done something on Waitangi Day for a few years now, but this was the first hangi. And it was the first time we had this many people on our property, over a hundred. That in itself was exciting, because it's exactly how we see this place working. As somewhere for people to come and enjoy. There were kids all over the place, running around everywhere, in and out of the house, jumping on the tramp, riding up and down the driveway. And it was a good mix of people, many of them from church, plus friends and family. I got to meet a filmmaker from Shanghai, how cool is that. I love meeting interesting people.

But mostly it was about remembering and celebrating the history of our country, something we don't always do well. While angry and divisive voices are still calling for Waitangi Day to be abandoned, we all simply got on with celebrating. Celebrating being us.

homeschooling again, third time lucky

There's a story that needs to be told, because some people won't understand it. They will fear for our children. They will wonder why we have changed our minds yet again. They will scratch their heads and shrug their shoulders in bemusement at the oddity of it. That a mother would choose to be the caretaker, companion, nurturer and teacher of her own children. Every day. That can’t be natural, surely?

But I say that it is natural. It comes naturally to me, anyway. Letters, numbers, sums, words and stories, pictures and plays come just as easily to me as kisses and sticking plasters, hugs and sandwiches. And in the short stretch of time we call a day, these things are all important. None of them can be relegated to back stage. Not the sandwich, not the story.

I feed my children. I slice the cheese and butter the bread, I cut and core the apples. We sit together, we eat together, and while we eat, I read. The words enter the body by a different route to the bread, but they enter all the same. They are savoured, they are digested, they become a fuel of their own.

Will I make sandwiches but not stories? Will I choose the best fruit from the bowl, the bananas not too brown, the tart plums rescued from under the tree, the apples crisp and cold, and not choose the words that open up like doors to the sky, or the numbers that explain the earth under our feet, or the formulae that sit like a magnifiying glass over the world? Would I not prepare my children a full meal?

You may question my abilities in the kitchen. You may look at these hands of mine and say they are too young, or too old, or too tired. You may prefer a menu designed by a qualified nutritionist. You may like to know exactly what your children are consuming, down to the tenth of a gram. To do this you may find it preferable to buy your meals pre-prepared. The exactness of this gives you confidence. You can read on the packet precisely what they will be eating. You are assured, by the slogan on the front, that the meal has been designed according to nationally accepted guidelines. And you see every mother in the supermarket with a trolley full of these pre-packaged wonders. They must be good.

But what if one day your child notices a funny taste while she’s eating? “Was that strawberry, Mum?” she asks quizzically. “It didn’t taste like strawberry.” And what if the next day after eating she starts to look a bit odd, perhaps slightly ill. “I don’t feel well, Mum” she says. “My tummy isn’t right.” What would you say?

Would you say, well you probably ate too quickly and gave yourself indigestion. Or would you say, next time you can try another flavour love, you liked chocolate last time, remember? Or would you say, there’s nothing wrong with it you ought to be grateful for what you’re given. Or you might even say, everybody else eats it, Susie from next door eats it, and there’s nothing wrong with her.

If your child repeatedly became unwell after eating, what would you do then? Would you go back to the supermarket and scour the shelves for a different flavour, something vegetarian or gluten free?  Would you take your child to the doctor, to find out if there was something wrong with her? Would you talk to your friends every night on the phone, and would they agree, the product is unmatched. Where else can you find something that is created according to such rigorous guidelines? Just keep trying, your friends say. The child will get used to it.

But what if one day you suddenly decide that you don’t want your child to get used to it. What if one day you are reading the back of the packet while the meal is in the microwave and you notice ingredients you hadn’t seen before. Numbers that were unexplained, by-products that don’t seem to belong. What if something takes over you in an instant and you open the microwave, grab the packet and throw it into the bin? What if you open your pantry and there like a dream sits a loaf of bread and a plate of butter. In the fridge you find cheese, just sitting there. And on the bench a bowl full of fruit. You hadn’t noticed it before.

And what if you find your hands taking on a life of their own? Slicing the bread, spreading the butter, cutting cheese, even though you had not done these things for so long, or not ever. What if you suddenly found yourself making a sandwich, a simple sandwich. It goes on a plate, the plate goes on the table, and before you know it your child is eating. “Can I have another one?” she says.

I could get used to this, you think to yourself.

To say that everybody is different is a truism. And yet we constantly gloss over it. We think of people collectively. Women, mothers, children, students, fathers, teachers. And we think of these groups as homogenous, more or less. It’s easier. It lets us say children need… children should…. children must… mothers are…. mothers must….  We have never forgotten the very first lesson we learnt at school, that the group has the power.

I love teaching my children. It’s an adventure. I learn as much as they do, about myself, about them, and about the world. I also happen to enjoy their company, even on the bad days. You might want to tell me to get out a bit more, to get a life. But I have a good life. I know what makes me tick, I know what I want to be doing when I’m sixty, and I know what I want to be doing tomorrow. We are a team, my girls and I. We live our lives side by side, watching each other closely, learning how to live. They watch me as I struggle and hope, and I watch them as they throw themselves at the world without apology. They will be who they are, as I am who I am. It’s a knitted together, symbiotic kind of thing. Like cells and seeds and all small and hatching things. We grow together.

how it is in january

At the beginning of the month we had a lovely visit from my good friend Marita who lives in Sydney. I got to meet her husband and gorgeous baby girl for the first time. We walked down through our bush to the beach, and then back up and along the bush walk that follows the cliff at the edge of the beach. I still pinch myself sometimes. I can't believe that we live so close to all of this.

I've been taking the dog for a quick walk along that bush walk most mornings. I can leave the kids watching TV for twenty minutes, (which doesn't seem too much like neglect when there's usually at least one other adult somewhere in the building!) and get a brisk walk in the bush.We walk along a winding path and then up a steep set of stairs to get to the view you see in the third photograph. That's a stand of young kauri trees right on the edge of the cliff. They are so small, they really look like they've only just begun and yet they could be one hundred, two hundred years old. Then we walk back down the stairs again and as we descend it's like entering a vast room, with the green canopy above us, and the morning sunlight streaming in, the gaps in the trees our windows.

It's really only just started feeling like summer. It rained for the first half of the month. We are going away to Mum's bach on the Manukau heads today, our first holiday. If we had a boat, we could boat over there in about twenty minutes. Instead we will drive back into town and all the way around this enormous harbour, and get to the other side in about an hour an a half. It seems funny to live on one side of the harbour, and holiday on the other, but would it matter if we spent our lives exploring and knowing only one small part of the world? Would that be any less fulfilling than knowing many places superficially? Actually, I want both. I want to know my corner of the world so well that I can read the land, the water, the trees like a book. And then I want to go everywhere else at least once.

I wrote last time about the madness of cleaning this huge house with the girls home on holiday, but mostly it's been anything but mad around here. The girls have got into this lovely groove of playing together and exploring and making things. They are more content and happy with themselves than I've seen for ages. I know most other mums will be saying that their kids can't wait to get back to school, and that they can't wait for them to go either, but I'm just not like that. The girls are are supposed to start school next week but to be honest, I'm having trouble drumming up any enthusiasm for it. The holidays have left me wistful and wondering, and that's all I have to say about that, for now.

monday

I had a bit of a melt down on Monday. Monday is the day I try to get most of the cleaning done. As a teenager and young adult I resisted my mother's weekly cleaning schedule kicking and screaming all the way, but as the years have gone by and I've added on a husband and children, weekly cleaning has seemed more and more reasonable. Now that we are out here in this enormous house in the bush, it's a necessity. By the time a week rolls around you can see the dust piled up in the corners, and the dog hair and the sand, and the mud and the dead insects. So Monday is cleaning day, and that's just how it is.

It's still holidays of course, so getting the house cleaned with three tag-alongs is an undertaking, even in the best of circumstances. I decided to turn it into challenge for the two big girls, with manageable tasks, and plenty of rewards. We started off really well. They tidied the floors of their bedrooms, cleaned the vanities in the two bathrooms, and had a go at cleaning the toilets too, after I'd done most of the job . They were pretty happy, but I hadn't even started the vacuuming, because I had to manage them all the way, and we were more than half-way through the morning. I started vacuuming while they carried on in the bedrooms and unloaded the dishwasher, and then it all fell apart. Abigail had turned the dishwasher on while we weren't looking, and it had run long enough to make all the clean dishes wet again. So Greer, very gallantly at first, had to dry everything before she could put it away. Ella was supposed to be carrying on tidying up the piles of chaos in her room where she'd cleared the floor by just picking stuff up and dumping it somewhere else, but, as usual, her tidying kept turning into playing or reading. Greer was slowly getting the dishwasher unloaded, but she had Abigail as a very keen helper, and by the time I went to check on them a bit later, unloading the dishwasher had become a vast picnic game, with every single dish from the dishwasher laid out  in an arc on the floor. The floor that hadn't been vacuumed yet, let alone washed. I think you can imagine.

I stayed calm, at least I thought I stayed calm, and left them to undo their playing, because all I really wanted to do was get on with the vacuuming. I like vacumming, as long as I don't get too many interruptions, but here it takes hours, so I really had to get on with it. A few minutes later Greer was standing in front of me, telling me that she had been carrying some plates and one of them had tipped onto the floor and broken. My heart sank. I followed her to the kitchen. Sure enough, one of my favourite plates was lying in pieces on the floor. I walked out with tears in my eyes. I didn't want to talk to them, and I couldn't face cleaning it up. I walked down to the hall, shut the doors behind me, sat by the bookcase and started putting the books that were on the floor carefully back on the shelves. The tears kept rolling.

I wasn't sad, and I wasn't stressed, but my brain felt like it was full of exploding fireworks, and I was exhausted. Micro-managing three children while trying to clean the whole house had done me in. I sat on the floor crying over the books for ages. The girls kept coming to see how I was and to ask when they could have their next marshmallow. All they wanted was ticks and rewards and a prize-giving and it just made me feel small and tired and taken for granted.

I managed to pull myself together, but I was quiet and slow for the rest of the day. I told the girls I wasn't ready to do ticks on the chart or marshmallows, and so they eventually stopped asking and went off to play. I sat and ate lunch by myself with a good book, and then I read something that was a revelation.

I'm reading "Intimacy and Solitude: balancing closeness and independence" by Stephanie Dowrick. I'm reading it with a pencil for a book mark and I'm underlining and scribbling notes everywhere, because it's that good. The part I was reading was was about the development of "inner security" through a child's early relationships. This was what jumped out at me;

"When things are going well for an infant, the mother stands in for the parts of the infant which are helplessly immature, and comforts the infant through the stages of learning which teach the child that although need is felt within, it must be met from without."

I realised in a flash that what had worn me down wasn't the cleaning, or trying to do it with three children tagging along; it wasn't the broken plate, or the fact that the day was more than half over and I still had so much to do, although it all contributed, it was Isobella's room. Isobella is a whirlwind, her brain is like a whirlwind, and her room mirrors this exactly. For her, tidying up is torture. It is nigh on impossible for her to sort through her chaos and create even a modicum of order. I have been her chief tidy up-er for nearly eight years. I never expect her to tidy up completely on her own. I always have to make her tidy up, and always micro-managing. "Put that there, move those over here, throw those things out."  And I always carry on where she gives up. I have been "standing in" for her need for order her whole life. And for the first time I admitted to myself that this causes me to feel a constant low-level, often unnoticed, stress. It was time to stop "standing in."

I know I am making this out to be simpler than it is. There are all sorts of questions that arise, such as, does Isobella really have a need for order, or am I projecting my own need for order onto her? But the fact of the matter is that I need her floor to be clear so that I can vacuum it, and she needs to be able to clear her surfaces so that we can dust, mostly because Greer is allergic to dust, but also because I think it's important for her to have use-able space in her room and for her to learn take care of her possessions.

The back-story here is that a couple of months ago I figured out I am pretty dyspraxic. That's another story for another post, but I'll tell you this much. It means that I have enough trouble keeping my own stuff ordered and organised, let alone anyone else's. So my daughter's chief tidy up-er is, by nature, an average tidy up-er herself. And Paddy is no more skilled in this area than I am. I tell you, it's the blind leading the blind.

I've written about my struggles with chaos before, and order was my word for 2011. I wrote about chaos and order, and sought to find my own version of order, well before I even knew what Dyspraxia was. I was searching for some kind of ordered nirvana, and yet, instinctively, I knew my order was never going to look like any one else's.

If tidiness is just not on your radar, or you're happy with whatever level of tidiness is achievable on any given day, then you might have come to my house as a visitor and thought it looked pretty tidy. If you are a sworn and proud tidy person (like my sister and Mum are) then you'll have come to my house and seen that there is always something that needs doing. Always a basket of washing sitting somewhere, dishes on the bench, a cupboard in disarray, or a bedroom down the hall that hasn't been tidied for a week. And this is my reality; I actually like a certain amount of order and cleanliness. Clutter and mess for me are like visual white noise. So whatever tidiness and order you see on any day, it will be the best that I could do, and was probably hard-won.

This is quite an admission. I spent the first part of my life trying to rebel against my mother's strict sense of order. I was labelled the "messy one" in the family. As I grew older I realised I wasn't that messy at all, and decided that I had been unfairly labelled. Nevertheless, chaos was always my default setting. I never could quite understand why no matter how hard I tried to be organised, chaos was only a scratch under the surface. I partly came to terms with this last year, when I wrote a post about having grown up living in two worlds. That was really a breakthrough. As soon as I admitted I had my father's relaxed and anti-establishment home-making genes, as well as my mother's, I somehow gave myself permission to be tidy, as contradictory as that sounds. I gave up my rebellion against order once and for all, or so I thought. The house was definitely tidier.

Then we moved here, where it takes half an hour just to vacuum the lounge and dining room, and where dirt, in every form, is a daily part of our lives. The girls spread out from one bedroom to three, and for the first time Isobella had her own desk, her own bedside table, her own dresser, and her own wardrobe. You might think that would make it easier for her to keep her room tidy, but it's actually had the opposite effect. She now has three or four times as much surface area to spread out her creations and clutter, piles and treasures.

Right now I'm writing at the dining table while the girls play around me. I'm not ignoring them, but I am getting the words out while I can, because this story is good for me to write. They have taken out pretty much every puzzle we own, and have spread the pieces around on baking trays and tins as "biscuits" and put them all in the oven. They are happy, and they are occupied. Right now I don't care about the inevitable chaos. The puzzle pieces that will be strewn from the kitchen and down the hall to the lounge. I don't care that the puzzles will be all mixed up, and I don't care that someone, probably me, hopefully with helping hands, will have to sit down and re-order it all. I'm happy because they are happy, and I'm happy because I'm getting these words out.

You see, I can handle chaos. I've grown up with it close, either from within or without. I've learnt to control it, and when I need to I can. But my brain is like a tight rubber band that has to let go with a ping and unravel regularly, and that's exactly what my environment is like too. Chaos and order come and go like the tide. It's the two worlds of my upbringing, it's my wild brain, and it's the dyspraxia. It's just the way I am.

I can't expect any more of my eldest daughter than I expect of myself. Her brain is even wilder and harder to control than my own. But I don't need to take responsibility for something she's old enough to take responsibility for herself, even though she may seem to be less than capable in that area. So I am resigning as her chief tidy up-er. I'm not saying I don't care how messy her room gets, not at all. But the micro-managing is over. I am making peace with her precious chaos.

a for app, b for book

I went book shopping last weekend. It's funny how that doesn't have a ring to it in the way that clothes shopping does. Book shopping. But that's what we did. I got a few Whitcoulls book vouchers for Christmas, one from my little sister Esme, and the others from the girls. I didn't want to go to just any branch, partly because I wanted to have a good selection, and partly because I spent three years working at the big store in Queen St what seems like a lifetime ago, back when I wondered what on earth I was going to do with my life.

So into town we went. It rained all weekend, it was raining when we left. The drive right into town takes about forty minutes, and we drove in with the tires hissing on wet road all the way. I was really looking forward to having a nice time browsing and then coming out with a handful of treasures. I have good memories of working there all those years ago, and I remember clearly the layout of the fiction section where I spent most of the three years I worked there. It had a wall of fantasy and sci-fi, half a wall of classics, three stands of what we called "contemporary fiction" and a long wall filled with bestselling, money-making paperbacks. I spent my days dusting and tidying shelves, bringing armfuls of books down from upstairs and re-stocking, helping customers find or choose books, and serving at the counter when it was busy. The fiction section was tucked in behind at the back of the store, and it was a quiet oasis.

But I knew something was up as soon as we walked into the store. I could see cards where there used to be books, and cook books where there should have been NZ fiction. I walked around to where the fiction section should have been and my heart sank. It was a funny mix of business, craft and reference which melded around the corner into fiction. The entire fiction section fitted into the same floor space that the greeting cards used to take up. I found a few books I was happy with, but I didn't want to browse. It just felt wrong. We went upstairs and my unease grew. Stationery was spread out unevenly over the top floor, and sidled up to it were rows and rows of a complete mix-up of books, all with coloured stickers, most of them blue-stickered, meaning 75% off. I felt like I was at the bedside of a terminally sick relative.

Then we went up to Borders (now owned by the same company as Whitcoulls.) It was the last day of their closing down sale. If being in Whitcoulls had been like being in a hospice, then being in Borders was like standing in the desert and watching vultures consume the remains of a carcass. The once grand three level store had been reduced to one small level, and what books there were scattered on tables and stands there were random and dog-eared. I found a few things, but everyone was hungry and Abigail was starting to lose it, so we left.

I remember being horrified when I first heard about e-readers and the prediction that one day real books would be a thing of the past. I couldn't think of anything worse than no real books. How could you be truly reading without holding a book in your hands and feeling the weight of it? What was a book without pages, spine, cover?

Just before Christmas I read this post at Gluten-Free Girl and the Chef. It's about a recipe and the gorgeous Holiday Food app that the recipe came from. And it's about iPads and the creative potential that exists with apps. I was completely taken. I've got an iphone but I never used a reader on it, and I've never been interested in having an e-reader. But something in my brain came alive when I read that post. I spent the day with this bubbling going on inside, this incredible sudden alive-ness in my brain. I couldn't stop dreaming about apps.

So when Paddy came home with a surprise Christmas present for the both of us, I was petrified and desperately hopeful that he'd gone out and bought an iPad. And when my hopeful fears were fulfilled, there was no way I could tell him off for spending so much money because I was too happy. We bought the Holiday food app that introduced me to iPads, and it was even better than I imagined. It is luscious. Beautifully designed, easy to use, and full of recipes and how-to's. It has crisp, vivid photographs, and video too. I would never have thought that anything could be more beautiful than a beautiful book. But this app is even more beautiful than a book.

I can't believe I just wrote that.

At the end of our book shopping expedition I didn't feel sad any more. By the time I'd made my way round two stores, one trying to re-make itself to survive, the other already dead, I'd worked through my grief. E-books are here to stay. Within twenty years I expect that most of us will read more books in electronic form than we'll read printed on paper. But that doesn't mean it's the end of books, and it certainly doesn't mean it's the end of writers. Digital publishing means that more books will get to more people more easily. And writers will still get paid. But I don't have the same confidence for the publishing industry as we know it. Publishing survives on paper and ink and mass production and will have to re-invent itself several times over to avoid becoming a relic.

I'll tell you what I do have confidence for, and that is for small publishing houses who specialise in very special books, treasures that will be works of art in themselves, and the small but clever book stores who will sell them. I don't believe we will see the demise of all booksellers, but I do think the bell has tolled for supermarket-style booksellers, the ones who think they can sell lots of everything without really knowing the books they sell or the customers who come to buy them. The kind of stores who have no idea about range other than to make sure that they have a good stack of bestsellers and a handful of whatever has been recently published.

I hope I get more book vouchers next Christmas, but this time I'll ask for vouchers for Time Out or The Women's Bookshop, both veritable institutions who have weathered the rise and demise of the supermarket bookstore. They both have a loyal following of customers, and both have a genuine online presence. In the future stores like these will become treasuries and precious links to the past. Books will be collectors items, and families will pass them down like heirlooms. And writers? We'll keep on writing.