how it is in April

This is how today looked. The water was glistening green, the sky almost clear, and the air was mild. I hung out  washing, cleaned up in the kitchen, and sat talking to Isobella about Anzac Day.

How much can an eight year old really understand war? How much horror can an eight year old take? We read "In Flanders Fields" and read a bit about the Anzacs and their fateful landing on the Gallipoli Peninsula on April 25 1915. We looked at pictures, talked about the first and second world wars. We talked about who went to war in our families, and when. We talked about the Anzac Day ceremony Isobella was part of back when she used to do scouts. We tried to play a recording of the last post but the internet was too slow. I was glad. There is nothing more haunting than that.

I put on my favourite version of our national anthem, with all the verses, and thought of all of us who were thinking of death a little more today. And I found a prayer welling up within me, that our contemplation of death would lead us to think about life, our life. The one we have been given to live. And I hoped and prayed for all of us that a determination to live would grab us by the scruff of the neck and wouldn't let go. A determination to live the one life we have to the full.

Some days this week I've hardly been able to see past the mess in the kitchen. The piles of dishes on the bench, baking trays waiting dirty on top of the stove. It's not because I'm refusing to use the dishwasher, I have been using it when I need to. But even with the dishwasher the piles have taken days to dwindle. There is so much going on around here, and hardly any of it is me writing that novel.

But would I swap my life for anyone else's? Not at all. And would I wish I could live less of a life than this? Not for a minute. The dishes and the washing waiting to be folded and the blocks all over the table and the puzzles on the floor, they are all signs of life. A full life.

Mum is getting married a month from tomorrow. That is another story in itself, and such a good one, just you wait. But for now all I can say about that is that life is surprisingly wonderful, often when we least expect it. I've stepped up to all necessary wedding planning responsibilities, and I wouldn't have it any other way. I love planning a good party, and this will be a very good one.

coming out of rehab

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

alive

There's only one of these every year, a Resurrection Sunday. Just one chance to really let our joy ring out unabashed. All around the planet there are Christians meeting. Some in magnificent cathedrals, some in tiny wooden churches, some in school halls or sitting rooms. Some meet with candles and incense, following ancient patterns; others raise their hands to loud anthems. Where ever they meet, and however they do it, their focus is the same; Jesus.

Our congregation always manages to find a nice groove somewhere between ancient and loud, and this morning we sang the classic hymn "Thine be the Glory";

Thine be the glory, risen conquering son,
Endless is the victory, thou o'er death, has won.
Angels in bright raiment, rolled the stone away,
Kept the folded grave clothes, where thy body lay.


Lo, Jesus meets us, risen from the tomb,
Lovingly he greets us, scatters fear and doom.
Let the church with gladness, hymns of triumph sing,
For her Lord now liveth, death hath lost it's sting.


Thine be the glory, risen conquering son,
Endless is the victory, thou o'er death, has won.


There really aren't any other words better than those for today. It puzzles me that some would say you can have Christian faith without the resurrection. I can't agree. The resurrection, that other-worldly, incomprehensible battle against death is the crux, literally, of everything we believe. If it didn't happen, then we Christians, wanna-be's that we are half of the time, should just pack up and go home.

My good friend Heidi shared her story today in church. She's had her own other-worldly battle against death. A few years ago she became very sick. Mis-diagnosed pneumonia turned into multiple organ failure with frightening speed, and within hours she was in a coma. The coma lasted three weeks, and during that time she died nine times.

She stood in front of us today, her face bright and her smile wide. Heidi walks, talks, works, sings, loves her husband, gardens, cooks, eats and dances. She dresses with spunk and has a great sense of humour. She is infectiously alive.

There was a period of time where Heidi's husband and family were being repeatedly told to expect her to die. They were told this by doctors in such a resigned way that her husband, a normally reticent man, couldn't take it any more. "Stop talking about Heidi as if she's already dead!" he said to them as his frustration exploded. "You are robbing us of the dignity of hope."

The dignity of hope.


We can't live without hope. It's a tangible thing. We feel it, like a light or a flame inside of us. It comforts us and feeds us. It enables us to endure.

Heidi breathed through a tracheotomy while she was in a coma, and even when she woke up, that tube kept her alive. She said today that it's really lonely having a "trachy", because you can't speak, you effectively have no voice.

I think I know how that feels. When it comes to putting words to this faith of mine I've felt silenced. Like I've had no voice. There have been plenty of voices around me and in the public sphere, but I haven't always liked the words they used. They haven't spoken my language. And I didn't realise I needed to find a language of my own.

My faith is nothing more, and nothing less than persistent hope. It's a persistent hope that has never really gone away since the moment I prayed as a four year old asking God to be with me "for all the days of my life." That hope stuck around through a less than perfect childhood and through angst-ridden teenage years. It never left when depression lurked in the shadows of exhaustion, and it wrote itself over my heart while I took an eternity to figure myself out. It never left me through those shocking first years of motherhood, nor through the highs and lows of marriage. My hope remains.

Today, Resurrection Sunday, is my hope. The easily misunderstood, often mocked and barely explainable death and resurrection of Christ is the source of my hope. He lives, and so do I.

a good day

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

where I've been

This is where I went on Friday in the late afternoon, after I'd folded the washing and swept the kitchen floor. I said good bye to the girls and got in the car and drove the hour and a half trip here alone. I walked in the door with only my own bags. As soon as I got here I set my laptop up on that table you see and started writing. It was my first twenty-four hours completely alone for at least eight years.

It was a vague idea we've had for a while, that I could come out here to Mum's bach alone and work on the novel. It was one of those ideas that could have taken forever to make happen, or possibly never have happened at all. I booked the bach for all of us at first, I couldn't quite believe that I was going to get to come on my own. Now that I've done it once I'll do it again. And again.

I only wrote a thousand and something words but I finished the re-structuring I started a month ago and got my head around the part of this thing that I've been most scared of; the historical part. I'm not a natural academic. This is a big admission for me, and something I've literally only just come to terms with. It's to do with dyspraxia and the fact that my eldest daughter is not the only one in this family whose brain doesn't run in straight lines. I faced the fear that I wasn't capable of writing history. I'd had it in my head that I had to have all the facts straight before I could write, that I had to have an arsenal of verifiable and referenced details before I could do anything. But I'm  not writing a paper, I'm writing fiction. I can write whatever I like.

I drove back home with this deep sense of peace. I had spent a day and a night devoted to the the thing I want to do almost more than anything. I felt like a writer.

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.