Tag: life

Three Women, Some Paper and Sheepdog Whiskey

I never imagined I would become interested in arts and crafts. Sure, I may do a mosaic or two, knit a jumper or a baby blanket, but that doesn’t make me someone who would join a crafting group. God forbid I turn into a granny who foists pastel coloured booties onto babies! That’s about as likely to happen as getting a blue rinse.

But the truth is that I do at times dabble in these dark arts. I have been known to crochet bits and pieces at times (I’m never satisfied with the product), and I have even tried painting with watercolours (even less satisfied with the product). Hypercritical and lacking in skills, I get embarrassed and easily discouraged. So, when a friend asked me to come to a ‘craft afternoon’ at her place, I was both cringing yet eager to spend an afternoon with three close female friends.

Some months ago, three of us had attended a Japanese bookbinding course together. The process is relatively simple; choose some nice paper for your cover, mark where the holes need to be, punch the holes and then sew the papers together, starting from the centre of your ‘book’. I enjoyed the course and bought some basic equipment to practice the craft. Did I make any more booklets after the course? Of course not! This craft afternoon was a chance to redeem myself.

For the first hour or so, we ate lunch and chatted. It felt as if no-one was prepared to jump in and start. Eventually, I brought out my project and each of us began to show each other what we intended to do. What struck me was the generosity of the afternoon. We admired each other’s work, offered suggestions and helped where we could. I was given some Korean paper to use for one of my booklets, we played with some fountain pens and inks, and picked up ideas from each other for projects we may like to attempt in the future. It wasn’t at all the way I imagined a craft afternoon to be with pumpkin scones and billy tea. Instead, I was introduced to Sheepdog, a peanut butter whiskey that went down a treat.

The final verdict? Don’t disparage things you haven’t tried before and a shot or three of whiskey softens the contours of your work. Best of all, it quietens that pesky inner critic.

Moments of Grace

Why does beauty matter to me? From an early age, even in the least favourable situations, I would attempt to create an aesthetic with toys, placing them in a pleasing order, putting those I considered beautiful at the front while relegating others further back. I had no words for this, only an inner compulsion to create something that made me come alive. Once I was happy with my arrangement, I cared for it in a way that I didn’t care for the individual items when they were simply strewn around.

My first introduction to aesthetics was through the church. Old Catholic churches, in particular, are rich in colour, symbolism and beauty. They embody the pre-Enlightenment conflation of truth and beauty: the belief that true beauty is God-like and that it is our duty to strive for and emulate the beauty found in God. As a child, I loved the stained-glass windows, the light they cast across the floors, the gold chalice, the frescoes and the intricate carvings on the sides of the pews. Walking into a church took my breath away. It struck me with awe and allowed me to access a place beyond the mundane realities of everyday existence.

I feel something akin to this when I walk into an art gallery or a well-tended garden. Even seeing an unusual or brightly coloured bird brings with it a sensation of grace descending upon me through the simple act of witnessing beauty. It is as if my very being yearns for these aesthetic experiences so that I can feel truly alive. They remind me that there is more to life than being an economic entity whose sole role is productivity.

Listening to live music also has this effect. Last Friday, I felt elated as I listened to Salut Baroque perform a selection of pieces they had collated under the title Bohemian Rhapsody. The music reverberated through my body, making it feel lighter. A series of tingles travelled up my spine and, over the course of the concert, I entered a state of total relaxation. Transformative is the word that comes to mind to describe the effect of the music, and the feeling of wellbeing stayed with me throughout the night.

To feel whole, to thrive and to be content, I need beauty in my life. Daily encounters with beauty provide nourishment for my soul in the same way that food nourishes my body. It provides inspiration much as breath sustains life. I simply cannot imagine my life without it.

Very superstitious

My Hungarian mother was a superstitious woman who made sure I could decipher the various spirit signs, even as a young child. It was impossible to escape them and they followed me everywhere, contributing to my hypervigilance. Even though I no longer believe what these signs tell me, I will still often name them when I come across them. Then, I tell myself that there are perfectly simple explanations for the phenomenon. I wonder how many of these were part of your childhood?

  • A knife that lands with the blade facing up. Sure-fire sign that there will be an argument. This one had a 99% chance of occurring. Was my mother ready to start the fight the moment my father came home to prove the sign right? There were lots of ‘I told you sos,’ afterwards. Hard to dismiss as a child.
  • Light bouncing off glass onto the wall or ceiling. An imminent death. I was never, ever allowed to play with light or look for rainbows on the walls. This one scared me to death!
  • Spilling salt. I still throw a bit of salt over my left shoulder just to make sure I ward of bad luck. Why for goodness sake?
  • Eating lentils on the first day of the year to attract money. The lentils are like small coins and will bring you prosperity. (I’m still waiting…)
  • Flickering candles signify the dead giving you advice on a particularly tricky decision. This one spooked me every time!
  • Sweeping dirt out of the house rather than picking it up with a dustpan and brush will ensure you remain poor. Oh dear, I committed this mortal sin many a time as a teenager.
  • Sewing a button or anything on an item of clothing while wearing it will also doom the person to penury. I wonder whether royalty was aware of this rule when they were sewn into garments?
  • Crossing myself when I see dead animals on the road. (I admit, I haven’t been able to break this one!)
  • Melting a small piece of lead in a spoon and dropping it into cold water. This is usually done on New Year’s Eve but my mother would try her luck at other times. The newly solidified shape has different meanings according to the shape and would lead to interpretations for the coming year. This one reminds me of reading tea leaves.
  • Bumping the funny bone means that guests are about to turn up. My experience of this has only been blinding pain.
  • A chimney sweep indicates good luck, but only if you quickly get a hold of a black button and turn it!
  • On Easter Monday, a woman/girl cannot leave the house until a male has come over and sprinkled some perfume on her head.
  • Stepping on the heel of someone’s shoe indicates that they will be coming to your wedding. I’ve had so many kids do this at school and none of them were invited to my wedding.

Then there are all the usual suspects, four-clovers (I find many), walking under a ladder, storks for new life, and garlic to ward off evil. Later, I my teenage years, my Indian friend added to the list the counting of Indian Myna birds. Here it goes: one for sorrow (which I change to solitude), two for joy, three for letter, four for boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told, eight for copper, nine for brass and ten for my exams to pass. And yes, I still count them!

The superstitions in our household had the function of keeping everyone alert, to look for danger and always be ready for a disastrous turn of events. I was always on edge, looking for threats whether they were there or not, and this was a heavy burden to place on an already traumatised child.

I eventually learned that knives are dangerous when you cut yourself on the blade but knives per se carry no evil intent. The constant arguments came from elsewhere. I now recognise that my mother’s superstitions were part of a broader attempt to make sense of a world she found frightening and unpredictable. She had survived a war, untold atrocities and men who were equally as damaged and unable to give her the security she needed. Yes, my mother was a difficult woman. At times she was cruel and vindictive, but she was also struggling with demons that none of us understood.

The Power of Small Conversations

A deliberate effort to engage in conversations with strangers has enriched the past week in ways I would never have predicted. Each encounter, however small, stayed with me and made me think more deeply about the inner lives of people we rarely come to know.

Lining up at the chemist, I heard the woman say, ‘I’m such a luddite.’ I couldn’t help myself. ‘Do you know the history of the Luddites?’ I asked. She did, and we had a slightly conspiratorial conversation about the Industrial Revolution and the loom weavers who sabotaged machinery, some by throwing wooden clogs into the works. We walked away with a hint of mischief between us.

While walking the dog, a woman I vaguely knew said hello. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’ I said. ‘I’ve had some surgery and I can’t do much exercise until it heals,’ she replied. She then told me about her nightmare of having to remove breast implants and how she wishes she could warn young women about the very real dangers that can follow. It was a completely honest conversation that allowed her to be vulnerable with someone she didn’t know. She acknowledged her insecurities had led her down the path of cosmetic surgery and recognised that the only person who benefitted was the surgeon. It takes guts to be this brutally honest, and I don’t even know her name.

Later in the week I braved the city mall to replace my phone’s screen protector. It had been shattered for months. At the Apple Store I was greeted by a woman in her thirties who asked about my granddaughter and then started to tell me about her own family. She spoke about the complexity of the feelings she experienced leaving her two-year-old after returning to work. She seemed to recognise in me an older woman who would understand the inner conflict she was navigating. We chatted while she fixed my phone and by the time I left, we had established a real human connection that is rare to come across.

Today I went to explore an upmarket second-hand clothing store at an Anglican church. They were having a 50% off sale I had read about in Region Canberra. I found three items and when I went to pay, I struck up a conversation with one of the volunteers. They were making room for winter stock and needed to clear the leftover summer items. She explained that the summer clothes would be sent to Maningrida, in West Arnhem Land. ‘I’ve been there!’ I exclaimed. This was all that was needed for her to tell me about hosting a young Aboriginal woman from Maningrida for a week. Years later, she still remembered her with great fondness.

Each of these encounters reinforced our shared humanity. We participated in telling authentic stories that made our experiences feel valuable. As people, we make sense of the world through our stories. We create empathy by sharing what matters to us. When used in this way, stories serve to unite us.

Perhaps this is our superpower.

The shape of a morning

Walking in the park across the road is a daily ritual that offers both quietude and community. This suits me well. I have never been drawn to binary thinking, dividing everything into rigid oppositions. I need the nurture of nature and that of people. It is this interplay that holds my days together.

Some mornings I choose the short circuit, aware of time’s fiendish presence urging me to hurry so I can get to work on time. Yet the moment my feet touch the earth, I resist the urgency, keen to be present to whatever nature offers that day. It may be the sound of a dry stick breaking underfoot, the squawk of a parrot, or the swishing and swaying of stooping gum leaves.

Autumn approaches and the weather shifts. The cool air on my face awakens me to the beauty of the moment. A long blade of bent grass, the smooth bark of blue gums, and Majura mountain framing the vista quicken my spirits. A slow breath in, a pause, a slow breath out, and I feel lighter, part of this landscape, not simply an observer.

In the distance, I see the wave of a hand, and a dog I recognise bounds towards me. I wave back to a fellow dog walker who has, over time, become a friend. Morning hellos have drawn me closer to the people who live in this community. We exchange a few words, learn each other’s names, tentatively invite one another in for a cup of tea, and a friendship forms. Friends introduce friends, and a small community expands to take in another kindred soul. I feel privileged to be included in their company.

As I near home, my thoughts turn to work and the day that awaits. I feel the urge to stop, to look back, to take one last glance at the pond, the trees, and the ever-present mountain. I feel held in its ambit, and it is this feeling I carry with me. It will guide me through the day. And if not the whole day… then at least until my first break.

An Invitation

The news from around the world has been nothing short of depressing. Despite my efforts to stay in my circle of control, my mind has wandered to dark places where I feel ineffectual and untethered. Unlike other conflicts, this one is affecting us all, even if only psychologically or via our wallets. At least for now.

I was out with my granddaughter the other day, making our way down a trendy café lined street in Canberra, when I noticed a message written in chalk on the footpath. It was somewhat faded, but I could still make out the words.

What mini
adventure
could you
go on today?

Having stopped to read it, my first reaction was to laugh. Not because it was laughable, but because it challenged me to look at the day differently. I decided to take up the invitation and embarked on a mini adventure.

Haig Park was only a few minutes away. It was an obvious place to start. I pushed the pram along the path and noticed an adventure playground for kids. My little possum is too young for such adventures, so we kept going. Next, I saw a dog agility course. Who knew? Unfortunately, I don’t think my dog would be very interested, but it is good to know it is there. To my right, I saw a building I have often walked past. What was its purpose, I wondered? It turned out to be a community centre with a lovely garden, BBQ area and seating for a large group of people. I took some photos and continued the quest.

On my way back, I came across what looked like a street library. It wasn’t. The small, bright yellow wooden structure was in fact ‘The Teeny Weeny Mini Museum of Art.’ At first glance, I didn’t see anything special in the display case, only some pine cones and bits of paper. Then I saw a stack of yellow cards and had to find out what was printed on them. I opened the cabinet and, to my delight, found a card that on one side had this quote:

‘Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.’
Less (sic) Brown

A lovely sentiment, but it was the other side that stopped me in my tracks. It was another invitation to many mindful mini adventures for each day of March. While Mindful March is almost over, I intend to keep the card and do each of these ‘Actions for happiness’ in April. My favourite one is: ‘Discover the joy in the simple things of life.’

And so I have come full circle. I was attentive to the call and followed the invitation to go on a mini adventure. As a reward, I have been offered 31 additional opportunities for joy. I share them here so you may be enticed to go on your own mini adventure. You never know where it may lead.

Small Enchantments

This month I have been thinking a lot about my locus of control. Like the rest of the world, I have spent far too much time in the circle of concern, worrying about the war in Iran and what another conflict might mean for the world. The reality is that, as distressed as I feel by these events, I have no control over what will happen next. Spending time in that sphere leaves me anxious and full of despair. Yet ignoring it completely does not feel right either.

For the sake of my own sanity, I have been walking more mindfully and finding joy in small things. Watching my dog leap through the tall grass without a care in the world. Smiling and waving at neighbours. Remembering to send messages to friends. I have been revelling in the birds I notice along the way and the quirky things people do to bring a little joy to others.

On a recent visit to Sydney, I took my dog down memory lane in Annandale. Thirty years ago, I used to walk another poodle along those same streets. The street I loved may have had a few more renovated houses, but essentially it was still the same.

Then I came across a concrete pillar box that someone had decided to paint, for no reason other than to provide a little magic for young children and for those of us who are still young at heart. I am quite sure they did not seek permission and probably would not have been given it, but they did it anyway.

It may have taken them an afternoon to paint the top like a toadstool, then add a tiny window and surrounds so that the pillar box looked like a fairy house, complete with a little garden at the front. In the midst of all the crazy things that humans do to each other, here was a small offering to the neighbourhood. An invitation for children to use their imagination and be enchanted by the world.

I took a photo so I would remember that moment. A reminder that even though adulthood can sometimes leave us disenchanted, a little magic still exists if we choose to notice it. And that brought me back to my locus of control. I could have walked past thinking about all the misery in the world. Or I could stop and admire someone’s small gift to their neighbourhood. That choice, it seems to me, is available to us all.

The gift

My sister gave me a gift the last time I saw her. She handed me a little red felt box and said, ‘I know this isn’t your kind of thing, but I want you to have it. And don’t sell it.’ When I opened the box, it contained a small brooch, possibly made of ivory. I recoiled. She knows full well what I think about the ivory trade. What to do?

There is a ten-year difference between my sister and me but it has often felt more like twenty or thirty. From a young age, she had to mother me and although we lived apart for many years of my childhood, she still sees herself in that role. I cannot see that ever changing. This has made situations like receiving unwanted gifts difficult between us. I did say that while it was beautifully carved, I would not wear it, but she still pressed it into my hands. So now I have it, along with a large gold pendant with a silver coin from my birth year, and a couple of German porcelain figurines, apparently collectors’ items, stored away in a cupboard.

I keep reading about baby boomers wanting to downsize and give their precious belongings to the next generation, to no avail. Nobody wants the things we have loved and cherished and it breaks my heart to think of my beautiful mahogany chest going to an op shop one day. Of course, I am aware that I will have no say in the matter. My daughter will have enough of a headache going through my books and personal belongings. Why should I burden her with ivory and kitsch figurines as well?

I am loyal to a fault and will probably keep things I do not like because I do not want to offend the giver. Or maybe I keep them because I really do not know what to do with them and cannot make the decision to try to sell the items or give them away. To whom? Many of my friends are of a similar age and certainly do not want anything else to add to their stash. They too are at the ‘Do you want this?’ stage of their lives.

When I think of our house when I was growing up, there were probably no more than a few hundred items in the whole house. I would have more items in my kitchen now than we had in that entire house. My wardrobe consisted of two pairs of jeans, maybe three blouses, a couple of windcheaters, two jumpers, a jacket and a parka. Footwear was a pair of sandshoes, a pair of leather shoes, sandals and a pair of treads. I wore them day in and day out as we had no uniforms at school. Now we would call that a capsule wardrobe.

Reminiscing about times gone by does not help with my present-day quandary. Do I keep the brooch, do I sell it, or take it to the op shop? I am not a Marie Kondo who can say arigato, think nice thoughts and then send it on its way. I have much more in common with the hamster I kept when I was eight. Keep stuffing it in even when it seems no more can possibly fit, then run furiously on the wheel, hoping that if I run long enough, I will arrive at a decision.

Arriving Home

Recently, I had to spend a couple of days away from home. Not for pleasure, although I did catch up with a couple of dear friends while I was away. As always, I enjoy their company and feel looked after and enriched by their presence in my life. Good friends know how to hold you gently. They also know when it is time to let you go.

The drive back home was long and uncomfortable. I stopped at Eling Forest Winery to stretch my legs and have a cup of tea. How many times have I driven past this little gem? If it hadn’t been at the behest of a friend, I would never have stopped. How well she knew that I needed a rest in picturesque surroundings.

The rain pelted down, allowing only brief glimpses of the road ahead. Wind gusts pummelled the car while large trucks barrelled down menacingly from behind. Clenching the steering wheel, I drove on, my shoulders inching steadily upward. There were moments when I dared not breathe. Then, as I crested a hill, we left the wet road behind and were greeted by blue skies. I relaxed my grip, returned to my audiobook and breathed steadily.

There is a particular point on the Federal Highway where Telstra Tower appears in the distance atop Black Mountain. I can’t help but rejoice at that moment. It is as if a banner were stretched above the road declaring WELCOME HOME. My heart quickens every time. There is still another ten or fifteen minutes to go, but my heart has already arrived.

As I park the car, reach for my keys and walk towards the front door, I notice myself exhaling. The key in the lock, the small click as it turns, and I step inside. I am home. There is still washing to do and emails to answer, but for a moment none of that matters. Arriving is enough.

Manna from heaven

It has rained steadily all night and day. Not the heavy torrential type of rain but the soft, calming mizzle that settles on gently on leaves. I woke to the sound of rain pittering on the window and instinctively pulled the blanket around my shoulder. Cozy and snug, I lay listening to that blessed sound, so tranquil and serene.

The past couple of months have been savagely hot and dry. Scorched earth comes to mind. Burnt and withered plants have not survived the heat or ferocious winds. I have pulled out many of them and have limited pot plants on the balcony to four survivors. I had to get used to walking on tufts of grass that crunched underfoot, strangely reminiscent of snow. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine being rugged up and walking along snow covered paths in Europe. Then as I opened my eyes all I could see was tufts of brown baked native grasses stretching ahead of me.

I had been watering a small section along the side of my house where I planted citrus trees. This little patch of green is where grass and weeds have thrived over the past couple of months. As the long dry and heat persisted, I began to notice kangaroo scat close to the trees I had been watering. There hadn’t been much for them to graze lately.

The rain has been a blessing. When I walked the dog, people commented on how wonderful it was to have everything smelling so fresh. No-one grumbled about getting wet. The heady smell of eucalypts was what I noticed first. The rain releases the plant oils together with organic matter in the soil to give that wonderful fresh slightly lemony smell. I took deep breaths, letting the cleansing aroma fill my lungs.

Then the sound of frogs bouncing off the pond like popcorn. I hadn’t heard any for weeks! Even the lone shag on a dead branch overhanging the water seemed to be more alive. Muted birdsong could be heard as they came out looking for worms. A slight drizzle never stopped a hungry bird from foraging!

At first, the paths were filled with puddles as the compacted earth was unable to absorb the water. As the day progressed, the ground became softer and the rain began to seep in more easily. By day two, everything looked refreshed like a house after a spring clean. The dust that had settled everywhere has been scrubbed away. Sometimes, all we need is these small acts of grace.