Tag: love

Love, Without Anaesthetic

Over the past year, I have replaced all my amalgam fillings. My dental visits from now on would consist of a clean and polish. Or so I thought.

I became aware of a rough edge on a back molar. No matter how much I tried to stop my tongue from exploring the area, it always returned to it like a homing pigeon with poor judgement. On closer inspection, I saw it was my favourite filling.

In December 1987, I was living in Berlin. I had met the man who would become my husband in August of that year, just before I was to fly to Germany for a year. We wrote to each other daily on blue aerograms, as thin and brittle as onion skin. Back then, the postal service worked and I received my replies within a week.

Peter was coming to visit! I began to count down the days. He was taking a train from Frankfurt and would arrive at Bahnhof Zoo in the evening. Unfortunately, I had a scheduled appointment with my dentist, Frau Dr Quast that afternoon. When I arrived with my throbbing tooth, I explained that I would be seeing my lover for the first time in months that night.

‘You can’t arrive numb and dribbling!’ she said. ‘How will you kiss him? We’ll do this without anaesthetic. Tell me when you need a break, Ja?’

Frau Dr Quast kept her word. She drilled, took a break, drilled some more, took a break, until she could finally fill the tooth. It was meant to be a temporary solution until I could go back to have it capped. I thanked her for her forethought and gentleness. This was to be my first non-metal filling. Then, as the tooth stopped hurting, I never went back. That temporary filling has lasted 37 years.

Last week, I kept the appointment with my current dentist, Dr Park. That filling needed replacing. I recounted the story of that December afternoon appointment with Frau Dr Quast. He was impressed. ‘That’s the best dentistry story I’ve heard in twenty years,’ he said, ‘but the love filling will have to go.’

One word to guide me

We had a little laneway gathering just before Christmas where a good many of neighbours came out and mingled, bringing food and drinks for everyone to enjoy. There were people I knew reasonably well but also neighbours I had only seen from a distance. The ones I knew were the dog owners whom I had met at the park or had been introduced to previously.

We blocked off the lane so kids and dogs could run up and down to their heart’s content. When an unexpected downpour threatened to end our gettogether, we simply moved into one of the garages and continued there until the rain stopped. We visited each other’s gardens to see what people had planted and admired some clever renovations. It was a convivial and relaxed celebration of the year we had traversed.

Most of the conversation was small talk, focusing on questions such as how long someone had lived in one of the two streets that abut the lane, and whether there were animals or children in the household. There were pets to adore and babies were passed around that we cooed over. About an hour into the festivities, a neighbour’s son initiated a conversation with me. He asked whether I had chosen a word for 2026. I admitted that I hadn’t thought about it and we continued to chat about a range of subjects. He moved off to talk to other people but I kept coming back to his question and began to wonder whether a single word may not be a better talisman than a new year’s resolution.

I thought about choosing a word for the next few days and realised that I had in fact done something similar in the past. The difference was that I always chose three to five things to focus on and unsurprisingly, I’d forget by February. The only time I remembered was one year when my phrase was ‘Just do it’ and this was ruined for ever when Nike adopted it as their slogan. It doesn’t help to jump up and down and cry ‘I used it first!’

I tossed around quite a few words, synonyms for words, words that focused on intention and words that act as a charm. I remembered a bracelet I was given for Christmas years ago that had the word ‘fearless’ etched on the band. The colleague who gave it to me recognised that I was often acting out of fear and she wanted me to learn fearlessness.

I played around with this word but recognised that it wasn’t quite right for me. It is not so much an absence of fear that I need but the courage to face it. That’s how I came to my word for 2026.

I want to have the courage to speak up for myself and others, the courage to initiate instead of waiting, the courage to say no and the courage to say yes to what I want out of life. One word held lightly, to guide me through the year. Surely, that is enough.

A shared flame

Photo by Sixteen Miles Out on Unsplash

In the Christian tradition, Jesus is referred to as the light of the world. His birth, which is what we celebrate at Christmas, is heralded by a bright star showing the way to Bethlehem. During Advent, the four weeks before Christmas, a candle is lit on each Sunday in anticipation of Christmas. In Scandinavian countries, the Feast of St Lucy on December 13 is celebrated with the wearing of candle crowns, bringing light into the Advent season. Similarly, Yule, the pagan festival marking the return of light, is celebrated in the Northern Hemisphere at the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year.

In the Hindu tradition, the festival is called Diwali and it occurs at the beginning of winter to symbolise the triumph of light over darkness, good over evil, and knowledge over ignorance. Buddhists celebrate Vesak, marking the birth, enlightenment and death of the Buddha, with the lighting of lamps and lanterns. While there is no official festival of light in the Muslim tradition, lights and lanterns are prominently displayed during Ramadan and Eid.

And so we come to the Jewish celebration of Hanukkah. The eight days and nights of Hanukkah commemorate the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem and the miracle of the oil used for lighting that lasted eight days, while the temple was fought for and won back from the Greek Syrian Seleucids who had defiled it. Over the years, Hanukkah has come to symbolise resistance against injustice and oppression or, to put it another way, good vanquishing evil.

As humans, we are drawn to light for safety, warmth and the provision of food. Is it any wonder that light, especially candlelight, is a shared symbol across cultures? Light has always been a metaphor for all that is good and just in our world. This is why the murderous acts at Bondi Beach were such a shock for us all. Both secular and religious Australians wish each other joy and peace for the year ahead. We believe that good will triumph over evil and, as Martin Luther King Jr. said, ‘darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.’

This Christmas, let us all light a candle for our brothers and sisters as a sign that we will not allow darkness to prevail.

It takes a village

My granddaughter was born two and a half months ago. She’s generally a ‘good baby’ (as if any baby could be bad), but she does struggle with sleep. In this regard, she reminds me of my daughter as a baby. She was a wakeful child, who would become overtired and then unable to sleep at all.

Now, of course, my daughter wishes she could sleep. Even a ten-minute nap is bliss, and she catches rest whenever she can. Her husband is a hands-on dad, which means both of them are running on empty. Nothing can prepare you for parenthood. It can only be understood through living it. I look at them and marvel at their resilience, but I also recognise that fine line between coping and breaking point.

One unfortunate inheritance I’ve passed on to my daughter is chronic migraines. She remembers me lying down with a bucket beside the bed, waiting for her father to come home and take over the evening routine. It probably happened once a week, certainly often enough to leave an imprint. Like me, she can only lie down, hope to sleep, or ride out the waves of pain. I know what she’s going through, but all I can really do is empathise, bring her medicine, prepare food, and care for the baby so she can rest.

Today she called me in desperation, asking where I was. After hours of trying to settle the baby with multi-day migraine, she had reached her limit. She did the wisest thing she could, put the baby down safely and walked away to her bedroom. I remember the guilt of those moments, when I too had to step back. Yet that distance, that breath of space, is what saves both mother and child. No-one can prepare you for motherhood and the contradictions it carries: joy and frustration, love and exhaustion, light and shadow.

She’s fortunate to have a close friend nearby who stepped in until I arrived. Together we cared for the baby, giving my daughter the reprieve she needed. Watching her, I thought about how difficult it can be raising a child in a nuclear family. How much gentler it might be if grandparents, aunts and uncles lived nearby, ready to lend a hand or a listening ear. There is much to be said for the extended family networks that are woven naturally into other cultures. As for us, we simply muddle through, doing our best, one tired, love-filled day at a time.

What Might Have Been, What Still Is

It is seven in the morning and I’m walking my dog. There are a few people about; a Border Collie here, an Oodle there, a Kelpie in the distance. As I come to cross path, an older couple appear without a dog in tow. This seems odd. At this time of the morning, most people walk briskly with their dogs, giving them a quick outing before work. Over time, most of these people have become familiar faces which I acknowledge with a nod and smile, or with whom I exchange a comment about the weather.  

Ever curious, my eyes follow the older couple as they walk in-step, hands in pockets, elbows lightly touching. As I watch from a distance, my heart aches for the familiarity and affection I sense from their movements. In their steps, I glimpse the path I imagined for myself long ago. This is how I always wanted my old age to be; my husband and I, walking along with a dog running ahead, enjoying companionable silence, or the conversation that makes up a lifetime shared.

Watching them, my heart aches but there’s also joy in my sadness. Joy, because they beat the odds of divorce, death or the malignancy of indifference. They have not ended up in a law court fighting out a bitter dispute or learned to loathe each other in silence, bickering away the fleeting moments of their lives. I celebrate this couple and all those who stood the test of time, those who have learned to love through pain, heartache and oh so many joys that life has to offer, to finally arrive at old age together, whether it be by luck, good fortune or good health. And as I watch them go, I know without doubt and without sentimentality that this would have been us, had death not severed my beloved from my side.

Three Beating Hearts: The Making of a Family

Some women are naturally clucky. They coo over babies, look at them wide-eyed and are in awe of the miracle of life, so tiny and perfect. I am not one of these women. I am much more likely to coo over puppies to reach out to stroke them than I ever am to hold a baby in my arms. Hard to admit but true.

When my daughter was born, I was completely in love the moment I set eyes on her. Finally, I understood what came naturally to other women. But for me, I only had eyes and love for my daughter. She was the most perfect creature I had ever seen, and I was instantly filled with a love so strong that I knew I would do anything for her. That feeling has never left me.

When my daughter fell pregnant, I wondered how I would react to the baby once it was born. Would I be as madly in love with her as I was with my own daughter? I honestly didn’t know. Of course, I knew I would love and protect her, but would it be the same as when my own child was born? After many months of waiting and wondering who this new member of the family would be like, the day came quicker than any of us anticipated.

I arrived at the hospital just before my daughter was brought back to the ward, baby against bare chest, vernix protecting her daughter’s delicate skin. She looked so peaceful and beautiful, angelic even. Yet my eyes moved quickly to the face of her mother, my own daughter whom I love above all else. In turn, her eyes were fixed on her baby daughter and I recognised that fierce look of love, a feeling we now both share, generations apart.

She was looking out for her daughter, while I was looking out for mine.

Later in the week, I stayed at the hospital for a night so her husband could get some rest before bringing his family home. I am ashamed to say that I was of very little help that night. I heard the baby cry but could not rouse myself to get up. My darling daughter, however, was awake and doing all the things she had only learnt in the past couple of days. She was a natural. At six in the morning, I finally picked up her baby and settled her next to me so her mother could have a rest. For two blissful hours, I dozed with my granddaughter in the crook of my arm.

Her father came back in the morning and at first couldn’t find his baby. When he saw her snuggled into my arm, he laughed and came to retrieve her. He is besotted with his daughter, proud and protective. I see my husband’s love for our own child reflected in my son-in-law’s eyes. He will be a perfect father.

I am so proud of this little family. They work together, look out for one other and wear their boundless love with pride. And so, my own love expands beyond what I ever felt possible to envelope these three magnificent individuals who have become their own little family.

The Quiet Cost of Disconnection

A few weeks back, I drove 330 km to attend friend’s birthday lunch. I hadn’t seen her for about six months and was delighted to surprise her on the day. I also caught up with a couple of friends I hadn’t seen for years on that weekend. Since then, my life has revolved around work, and I have barely seen anyone. Usually, I don’t mind at all, I’m a bit of a loner and rarely feel lonely. Lately though, there’s been a niggle gnawing within me, a slight feeling of dissatisfaction, which I’m finding disconcerting.

I talk to lots of people during the day, so it isn’t a lack of contact. However, most of my interactions are transactional and I don’t feel connected in any meaningful way. Today, it occurred to me that I know very little about the private lives of my colleagues and they know very little about me. Whilst I don’t expect to have all my social needs met at work, it is where I spend a large chunk of my time.

We always think about the quality of our diet and exercise as the main risk factors for our health. Recently, studies have identified another risk factor, which could be equally as important to longevity and health – the importance of social relations. This may be because the support that friends offer can lower our stress hormones, it can even help regulate insulin and help with our gut function. It reminds me of studies that have been done on positive coronary effects of purring cats on laps. We all need companionship and physical touch.

What matters most is the quality of our interactions. Happy marriages can help prolong life; unhappy ones can lead to poor health outcomes. While not causal, there’s a definite a link. This also applies to friendships. The stronger and more harmonious our friendships, the happier and healthier we tend to be.

But it isn’t just the social interaction that’s been lacking from my life. I haven’t done much of the two things that keep me centred. The first is walking and the second is writing. Before work, I only fit in 15 to 20 minutes of a walk and, now that winter has arrived, I mostly get home after dark. I miss my hour-long stroll after work and so does the dog. No such excuses for my lack of writing.

After a few weeks of missing the online London renegade writers’ group, I finally logged on today. We wrote, we chatted, we laughed and cheered each other on. Such a simple step and I already feel better. Two hours later, I’m buoyed, smiling, and content with my lot once again. And here’s the blog post to show for it.

A bubbly legacy

For 20 years, I didn’t drink a drop. Then, out for dinner with a man who would grace my life for four short years, I succumbed to a glass of red. It was delicious. Tart, intense and astringent, I enjoyed every mouthful.

I have never been a heavy drinker. Admittedly, I went through episodes of binge drinking in my early twenties, but that was mainly to overcome social anxiety. Once inebriated, I took advantage of my impaired control and began to enjoy parties, rather than be the wallflower hanging out in the kitchen counting tiles. But that was a long time ago.

When I began to drink again, I would only do so at dinner and never at every dinner. Then Roger introduced me to the glass of champers on a Friday evening to celebrate the passing of another week. His philosophy was simple – celebrate if you have had a good week and celebrate if you made it through a tough one. Either way, you are a winner.

When he ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’, as he liked to quote, I was left with an unusually large glass vase filled to the brim with champagne corks. It was years’ worth of good and not so good weeks he had lived through, with and without me. I neither wanted to keep them, nor throw them away. In the end, I reached a compromise, took a photo of the full vase and kept perhaps 30 of the corks. They remind me of a life well-lived.

Now I carry on the tradition, at least most weeks. I can’t drink a bottle of bubbly on my own, but I can enjoy a piccolo, which is 200mL or almost two standard glasses. It is a perfect amount. I raise my glass and salute Roger, and the passing of another week. Cheers!

Christmas Cake Pt 2 – recipe

(Based on David Herbert’s fruitcake)

Ingredients:

250g block of unsalted butter

1 cup brown sugar (adjust to taste)

¾ cup of brandy

½ cup of water or orange juice

1 kg of mixed dried fruit

100g mixed peel

100g of crystalised ginger (if your recipient likes a bit of a bite), if not, replace with 100g of more fruit or glace cherries or whatever you know your recipient likes

5 well beaten eggs

2 decent tablespoons of treacle

Zest of one lemon and two oranges (you can use the juice instead of water)

1¾ cups of plain flour

½ cup of self-raising flour

1 teaspoon of bicarb

2 teaspoons (or more) of mixed spice

200 g almonds (half to go into the cake and half to decorate)

A heaped cup or two of love and appreciation

Method:

Bring the person to mind for whom you are baking.

Use a large pot.

Chop the butter and heat with sugar, brandy, water or orange juice, mixed dried fruit, ginger, and mixed peel. After it comes to the boil, simmer and stir. Cook on gentle heat for at least 10min.

While mixture cools, preheat the oven to 150 Celsius. Grease or spray a 23cm round tin or use a square tin of roughly the same proportions. Line with baking paper and leave a generous amount extending above the tin.  Chop about half of the almonds.

Once the mixture is cool, add eggs, treacle, lemon and orange zest. After stirring, sift in the flours, bicarb and mixed spice. Stir until all the flour is absorbed. Add the chopped almonds and stir. Add the heaped cupful of love and appreciation and keep stirring.

Spoon the mixture into the prepared tin. Make the top of the cake nice and flat and decorate with the remaining almonds. I usually make a flower pattern. Fold some brown paper into thirds and wrap it around the cake tin so it sits a good 5cm or so above the top of the tin. Tie with twine. Bake for 2 to 2.5hrs. Turn the cake after about an hour so it cooks evenly. Check with a skewer after 2hrs. Cool on a rack and wrap in foil. Write the person’s name on the foil and give thanks for their presence in your life.

Christmas cake

My mother-in-law, Jean, introduced me to fruitcake. I had tried it before but could never quite understand what the fuss was about. The fruit cakes I had eaten up to that point were shop bought and mass produced. Pretty ordinary, I thought. And they were. When Jean began sending us fruit cakes several times a year, I began to appreciate a good fruit cake made with brandy, soaked fruits and nuts. She liked to experiment with various recipes, and I loved them all.

One day, Jean announced that she would no longer bake cakes. She was getting old and found the process increasingly difficult. I decided to step into the breach and began sending her the cakes she had taught me to make. In time, I perfected a fruit cake with chopped almonds that is just perfect. And so I carry on the family tradition of making and giving home-made cakes.

This year, I decided to bake fruit cakes for many of my friends. Over a period of about a month, I made 11 large cakes and more than 20 small, muffin-sized ones. The only restriction I placed on myself was that I wouldn’t post any. The cost of postage has become prohibitive over the years.

Making one cake after another took on a rhythm of soaking fruit, zesting oranges and lemons and watching the mixture froth when I added bicarb. I stirred in the flour and poured the mixture into baking tins which I then surrounded with brown paper and tied with twine. This helps to cook the cake evenly and stops the top from burning. Finally, it would go into the oven for a couple of hours during which I had time to start the next cake.

What I enjoyed most about this process was that I always had the person in mind for whom I was baking. I thought about each individual, their special qualities and the joy they brought to my life. It felt like a version of a Buddhist loving kindness meditation practice. I dedicated time to think about each person, added a little more of this, a bit less of that to suit their taste and wished them well for the coming year. I found it a lovely practice to think about each person, rather than bake all the cakes and allocate them randomly. This way, I could add a couple of magic ingredients to the mix – gratitude and love for recipients of each cake.