Meeting Makarora

In 2015, on a spur of the moment long weekend across the ditch from home in the New South Wales Blue Mountains, we - Kiwi Tom and Aussie Jacq - were lucky enough to stumble upon our very own slice of heaven in this picturesque valley at the top of the lake.

A field of wildflowers, big summer skies and the endless possibilities of a life on the land in rural NZ had us literally twirling, à la Julie Andrews, on the 2 hectare plot with the "For Sale" sign and obscenely beautiful views (cue The Hills Are Alive...).

The following year, Tom endured several weeks in a freezing 1970's caravan to build our bach, watched over by the imposing figure of Mount Aeolus, Keeper of the Winds. And boy can it blow here. Hence @always_take_the_weather.

Family holidays since have cemented Makarora in our hearts and minds.

It's hard not to feel overwhelmed by the enormity of this landscape which can, in turn and all at once, be sublime and intimidating. And we wouldn't be lying when we admit that the grandeur of the region has reduced us to tears on occasion.

And now our little bach is available to rent for your next truly amazing NZ holiday. For more information or to make a booking contact us at jacqff48@gmail.com or @always_take_the_weather

Turning up

On January 1^st I unwittingly set myself a challenge. “Do more cool things” I decreed as a tongue-in-cheek new year’s resolution. But what did that mean? It seems a dream three-week backpacking holiday in south-east Asia, late 2015, inspired more than renewed travel lust. It re-opened my eyes to life itself. And so “do more cool things” has come to mean turn up. Simply, turn up to my own life because as we all know it’s a fragile, unpredictable thing. (Turning 50 probably had something to do with it too.)

And so, even as an introvert, whose preferred place on a Saturday night - or any other time of the day/week – is at home alone, I’m pretty pleased with my efforts to turn up so far this year. I’ve recently taken part in a political rally for asylum seekers, cultivated dog-park friendships, grooved at a sick hip hop gig, supported Tom’s mid-life awesome in NZ, and carried the banner for a local refugee support group in my first parade.

And though I know I’ll still be riding that railroad of cancelled plans and hiding out on solitude mountain most of the time, right now I feel emboldened and empowered by the act of participation. It also helps that my online community of friends are so supportive. I certainly won’t be drafting an extrovert’s bucket list or putting my hand up for any public speaking opportunities any time soon but I will be looking forward to my next chance to simply turn up.

Illustration by Gemma Correll, author of The Worrier's Guide to Life and a self-proclaimed introvert.

Eulogy

When I die, I hope people remember that I enjoyed life.

That despite the anxious moments I took great delight in foolishness and sunsets and crisp autumn mornings. That I loved animals and mountain views and good food.

That I lived for my children, their laughter and company, our impromptu drives through the suburbs and the way they’d implore “turn the music up!”

I hope they know that I knew about death and what it means to those you leave behind.

I hope they celebrate my little life and eccentricities, and don't mourn too deeply in a pre-fab, cut-cost funeral home.

I hope they get together sometimes to reminisce about funny things I did or said. The way my hair was lop-sided and messy. The way my eye sight was poor, like my judgement and singing. The way I interrupted and day dreamed and didn’t listen sometimes. Infuriating things.

When I die, I hope my loved ones are beside me and all is forgiven.

Me and Mr Darcy

I have a confession to make. I’m not very good at community. You know how we are all supposed to get our jollies from embracing our fellow man/woman, loving thy neighbour, pitching in and stuff for the common good? Well, “community” sort of scares me. I guess I'm just not a joiner. But then I met Helen and Darcy.

Our part of the neighbourhood is quiet. It hugs the precipice that leers over the Jamison valley, is often shrouded in dense mist, and is populated with holiday lets and renovators’ delights. Inside the renovators’ delights dwell old people, eking out their foggy last years amid 70’s décor and day time TV. There are the crotchety ones, the sad ones and the stoic ones like Helen.

We first met Helen not long after moving in. Helen liked to take her daily constitutional past our house and it just so happened, being a bonny Scottish lass, she loved border collies. She fell for our Sam and the feeling was mutual. It wasn't long before we also fell for Helen with her canny knack of showing up just when Sam was due for a walk and her keen observations on neighbourhood goings-on. She knew everyone, and had perhaps lived here the longest. She loved that we were renovating Mabel’s old place. She didn't love the way her legs got tired climbing Gordon Road but she tried to keep up none-the-less. At 90-something years young she took it upon herself to look after some of the other less mobile folk, dropping in for a chin wag and a medicinal each afternoon with Darcy and Cath. (She had a seemingly never-ending stash of her father’s Glenfiddich.)

But time ran its course for Helen and in early 2014 she died.

Helen’s passing left Darcy and Cath at a loss. No longer had he an afternoon drinking buddy or she someone with whom to disagree with on religion and politics. Age began to tell more visibly on them. Real frailty set in.

One afternoon I noticed the octogenarian struggling with his wheely bins and offered to help. And so began my weekly pilgrimage to see Mr Darcy.

I often scuttle in between work deadlines and loads of washing to rush the near-empty bins to the curb hoping not to be noticed so as to avoid conversation. But occasionally I am stuck, invited inside to hear the latest about Cath’s heart condition, their goodly friends from the “church” and snippets of neighbourhood gossip. I’m sure Darcy would like to offer me a drink.

I received a card on my birthday that Darcy made on his computer, and in return delivered a box of chocolates to celebrate his 90^th. In our letterbox this Christmas was a jar of home-made marmalade, the same sort Helen used to give us.

They have our number should anything untoward happen that doesn’t require an ambulance.

I guess you can’t help but get involved in other people’s lives.

Precious cargo

A parcel arrived today post-marked Phnom Penh, Cambodia. The return address was Top Banana Guesthouse on the corner of Street 51 down by the riverside, and it was sent by my daughter Indi, aged 18, travelling solo around South East Asia since early November.

Inside were presents, collected treasures, market finds and some books and magazines that were weighing her down. A note addressed to “My team members,” made us smile. As did the thoughtful gifts, because knowing Indi, much deliberation and sincere intent accompanied their purchase.

What was also enclosed in the bubble wrap and newspaper but clearly not labelled on the customs document was much less tangible.

How did my little girl get so worldly and wise as to spend this long away from home and not only navigate her way through four different countries and cultures with aplomb but thrive on the experience?

This is the letter I wrote to her when she left on her adventure:

“You are young and brave (often impulsive) and that scares me sometimes but I’m also immensely proud of you and I have a lot of faith in your judgement. I know we romanticised travel for you with all our stories and silly journals but backpacking is hard work at times so expect some down days among the amazing memories you are creating for yourself.

I suppose I brought this on myself naming you after Indiana Jones and Sir Edmund Hillary but I haven't been apart from you for more than a week or two since March 1996 so I've kind of got used to having you around.

May the universe be kind to you and show you many wonderful things.”

I also gave her a list of "don'ts" because Mum.

When she walked through the departure gates at Kingsford Smith airport her dad remarked that it was a watershed moment. I guess he was right. She was always going to leave one day and so will Jaya.

I just hope they go knowing how loved they are and that they can always come home.

About the weather

Sometimes I wonder why I live in the Blue Mountains. Seemingly endless winters that seep into your bones and incur extortionate heating bills; a four hour return city commute to work and the cultural cringe afforded regional towns can take its toll. But every time that commuter train chugs its way across the grimy plains and begins the climb back up the mountain I feel a certain world weariness slip away. As the terrain outside the window gets progressively greener and more wild, as views expand to reveal that timeless stretch of valley and ridge dissolving into a purple horizon where golden evening light magically anoints cliff-faces and treetops, and when the dizzying altitude allows me to breathe deeply once more, I know why I'm still here after 13 years. Someone said recently that they didn't choose the mountains, but rather the mountains chose them. Perhaps they chose me too.

I wrote the following piece about leaving the city many years ago but it still resonates with me, particularly as we hurtle headlong into another summer, when spring’s brief bolshie burst of fecundity will be all but silenced by the shimmering heat. Or not.

Weathering the Blue Mountains

Windscreen wipers on the taxi scrape back and forth.  A grim driver peers past them through dense fog to barely visible traffic lights.  Outside ghost trees shiver and cars around us splutter white steam like dragons.  In the distance an ambulance siren wails down the highway.  “Some weather we’re having,” I say.  “Yep,” the driver sighs, summing me up in the rear vision mirror. "That’s the mountains for you.  Up here, it’s either paradise or purgatory.”  The cabbie’s ominous observation irks me.  Does he mean the weather or life in general in the Blue Mountains? 

It is early Spring, a time of new beginnings.  Daffodils and jonquils brighten skeletal gardens but it is still cold and will remain so until November.  I have recently joined the exodus of tree changers fleeing the big smoke for some fresh air, a change of pace and a mortgage break. I choose to settle in the Blue Mountains - an idyllic World Heritage listed address only 100 kilometres west of big bad Sydney.  But I soon realise there is more to this move than a new postcode.

Initially, there are phobias and misconceptions to overcome.  Snakes and bushfires aside it is the born and bred mountain folk that scare me most.  Goaded by city friends to purchase the correct uniform – ugg boots and flannelette – we are warned of bikies, druggies and rednecks. What we discover is a mixed bunch of artists, greenies, travellers, young families and life-challenged individuals, united by a common bond – climate.

For most people discussing the weather is polite conversation.  For mountain dwellers it’s up there with politics and religion, often controversial and always opinionated.  Perhaps that’s because the seasons are so palpable at 1000 metres above sea level, unlike Sydney’s terrarium-like atmosphere.

Adjusting our lives to mountains time we watch leaves unfurl after Spring sun-showers.  No traffic or large shopping malls, instead just a breath of fresh air.

Finally Summer arrives.  Packing woollens away we revel in the warmth of sunshine on pasty, naked limbs.  Christmas tinsel shimmers in shop windows and blue-tongues smirk when mistaken for snakes under the clothesline. Soaring temperatures keep tourist buses on the coast and locals complain bitterly about the heat.  The bush begins to crackle with drought and the incessant shrill of cicadas.

The almost inevitable bushfires keep everyone on edge.  Unable to sleep we listen as sirens approach then fade into the night.  With morbid fascination we watch the fiery red glow of neighbouring hilltops, creeping across the valleys and gullies, drawing ever closer.  The blow-torch heat from gusty nor-westers whips up blackened gum leaves, scattering them in backyards like sooty confetti. And an eerie quiet descends with the dense smoke shrouding our valley.

Concerned friends ring from the safety of the city offering prayers for rain as overnight fireys and Elvis the mega-chopper become super heroes.  Tuned to community radio, I pace the deck, scan a hazy horizon, cough and wonder how to pack a life into the boot of a car.

Bushfire season passes.  A brief but blistering summer subsides into the glorious, golden hues of Autumn.  A fairyland of falling leaves in blindingly beautiful shades of red, orange and yellow adorn roadsides.  Crisp air and clear skies are ideal for long, restorative walks.

A group of ferals move in next door.  All hair and flares tumbling from a clapped out combi plastered with sentiments that read “Save the Reef”, “No Nukes”, “Sorry” and my personal favourite “Magic Happens”.  They mostly keep to themselves but occasionally the beat of conga drums wafts on the breeze along with some suspicious scents.

By May preparation for Winter is well underway.  I purchase my first proper coat and seriously consider thermal underwear.  My partner re-discovers a long-lost pioneering spirit and is busy chopping wood and collecting sticks, taking great pride in neatly stacked piles of kindling.  The Weather Channel becomes prime time viewing in anticipation of our first frost and I secretly squirrel away marshmallows, cocoa and tins of soup.

It occurs to me that I had developed a peculiar trait inherent in true mountain folk, a pre-occupation with the weather, the more inclement the better.  Bragging to Sydney friends that their minimum temperature is our maximum.  Rubbing numb fingers together with glee whenever the thermometer sinks to 0 degrees!  Wistfully watching clouds, searching for the band of cumulonimbus that will herald the elusive, snow-laden low-pressure system I crave.  I become obsessed with snow.

Winter solstice approaches and residents make ready for a unique local celebration.  The Winter Magic festival boasts street parades, food stalls and fireworks.  Enchanted by the heady aroma of wood-smoke, roasting chestnuts and incense in the chill air, we rug up to watch with parochial pride as fairies cavort with African drummers and circus performers make way for wizards and wanderers.  But still no snow. 

Crunching through brown leaves and duck poo on the lake’s edge, I pause to study the blackening sky, greeting an elderly mountain woman feeding the birds.  The thin winter sun illuminates her lined face.  “Do you think we’ll get any snow?”  I ask, almost pleadingly, nodding skywards. She looks at me curiously, “Not now love, Spring’s on its way.”

I glance out over the lake and spy cherry blossoms on the far side. “But don’t worry,” she smiles patting my arm, “there’s always next year.”

And the year after that…The beauty and drama of the Blue Mountains has taken hold of me.  I can’t wait to see what next year will bring.  

First published in The Australian newspaper

My (spiritual) island home

My connection with New Zealand started well before I understood that the Australian suburb where I attended primary school, Waitara, was named after a place of historical significance in New Zealand and is in fact a Maori word that means mountain stream (according to Wikipedia).

It existed earlier than my teenage crush on the new wave stylings of bands such as Split Enz and Mi-sex. Went beyond a devotion to big-hitting Lance Cairns and Sir Richard Hadlee's defiant underdogs in the exciting early 80’s new form of day/night cricket (despite their beige strip). Outlived the fully fabricated Kiwi persona I adopted when forced to change high schools and impress new friends. (Sydney obviously wasn't as exotic as Auckland back then.) And was present an eon prior to meeting and marrying my Christchurch-born husband with his outdoorsy good looks and English enunciations.

Somehow it seems inherent, seminal even, which may be closer to fact than fiction. It is well recorded in family folklore that my great grandmother, being a lively lass and one of 26 siblings (yes you read correctly), ran away at age 16, to avoid the drudgery of life as a dairy maid that had killed her own mother (never mind the child rearing) with the first handsome man to ride by on horseback. This swarthy gentleman was rumoured to have travelled from across the ditch. A New Zealander, a Kiwi, a cad! A subliminal connection to the land of the long white cloud? Perhaps.  A growing love affair with Aotearoa? Definitely.

I've only visited New Zealand’s south island twice, once in early 2011 a matter of days before the earthquake that levelled Christchurch’s CBD and forever changed that genteel city’s heart, and again in April this year to revel in the autumnal splendour of Queenstown and surrounds. But what strikes me about the country and its people is the down to earth, no bullshit genuineness of the place. Like Aussies, Kiwis call a spade a spade but there is something else, a quiet confidence and sense of place seemingly absorbed from the land itself: the wild rivers, mountains, forests and beaches. And then there is that rugby team. Both annoyingly and admirably, Kiwis are a hardy bunch of parochial over-achievers.

This is an excerpt from my travel diary on that first trip:

“I feel like I'm trespassing on this island’s grief – welcomed open-heartedly by a people still reeling from the tragedy of the Pike River mine disaster and a destructive series of earthquakes and after-shocks that threatened to flatten NZ’s garden city. But nowhere have we found the depressed or down-trodden, in fact the opposite. The mood is buoyant if not the economy.

As we batten down the hatches and prepare to be lashed by the tail end of tropical cyclones Vania and Zelia which combine with a low in the Tasman to produce a storm system/rain event that will see 90km winds and over 100ml of rain dumped on the top of the south island I am quietly confident that we too will weather the storm.”

You can read my piece on Kiwi earthiness "Bach to the Future" in the spring 2014 issue of Slow magazine.

My shadow

I’m ironing my husband’s one good shirt, the one reserved for weddings and funerals, when it hits me.

A tsunami of grief that knocks me sideways, washes over me and holds me under until I fight my way back towards the light and surface, god knows how long later, in foetal position on the couch, grief all cried out.

But this is not what happens.

Instead, I get on with it. I continue with the everyday. I remain calm and carry on.

I endure and even enjoy work. I set my alarm and greet each morning with optimism. I make polite conversation with colleagues, strangers, shop assistants and close family members alike. I clean and cook and clean it all again.

I risk delight in sunshine and autumn leaves.

Perhaps if I pretend it didn't happen then maybe grief will go away.

But grief is sneaky.

It catches me unawares at school assemblies and in the car at traffic lights.

Grief travels with me on my morning commute.

It ghosts me in supermarket aisles and stares back from the bathroom mirror.

Tiresome grief will not be silenced.

I am intimate with grief, we are on first name terms and somehow I think I’ve known grief, in one guise or another, all my life.

Old mate

I looked up an old friend on facebook the other day. Actually my teenager did after I recalled yet another story from the past about “Parky”. He accepted the friend request within hours and I was able to greet him in the ether.

A phone call ensued.

It had been years since we’d last spoken and I was grateful that we were both still happy to hear from each other, shoot the breeze and catch up. There were no awkward silences, it was as if we talked every other week. Don’t get me wrong we’ve got history, purely platonic, including an 80’s share house in Woolloomooloo and a 72 hour return bus trip to Mackay to visit his old girlfriend, but I was unsure if the current Parky would still be the same.

Of course we change, life changes us and there’s no denying mortgages, marriages, kids and the politics of first world problems take their toll, but essentially we remain the same person inside. It was refreshing to hear about his life and interests. To learn he’s a devoted dad, a National Parks worker, a motorbike enthusiast, an organic gardener (who’d have thought) and a triathlete! But most of all, after the considerable loss and grief I’ve experienced over the last few years, it was good to know he wasn’t divorced, widowed, suffering from cancer or staring down the barrel of addiction or mental illness.

I’d like to think that after our conversation we both went back to our separate lives comfortable in the knowledge that somewhere out there, in the midst of our ever-changing, unpredictable, fragile existence, an old mate was doing alright.

The kids are alright

There’s been a lot of bad press about teenagers and young adults of late, and I would like to rebut the argument that these ne’er-do-wells the media like to brand ‘Gen Y bother’ are a bunch of boozy, parent-bludging narcissists.

If my daughter’s peers are anything to go by our nation is in safe hands. These kids are politically aware, philosophically enlightened, caring, tolerant, intellectual and creative.

HSC results come out today. But do they really count in the big life picture?

No matter the score these kids will travel, have careers, invent things, slack off, fall in and out of love, solve problems, plant seeds, fuck up, make art and eventually become parents themselves just like, and probably more spectacularly, than any generation before them.

The worst thing about your kids growing up is not the parties, the obsessive attachment to technology, the lack of respect for authority or tradition; it is the realization that you need them more than they need you. 

Sistahood

I'm the red head

When I was growing up my siblings were my best friends. And being a middle child I had it good. My little bro provided escapism and adventure, outdoor games til sunset and someone to lord it over. He possessed a remarkable ability to make me laugh at the silliest things, and still does.

But when I wanted so badly to be grown up my big sister was the one I looked to. She was my staunch defender when schoolyard bullies threatened, my leading light academically and, I guess, a bit rad for the late 70’s. She was the dungaree-wearing, roll-your-own smoking, Ry Cooder-listening, scare the pants off Mum and Dad with a motorbike-riding boyfriend type of big sister and I idolised her. Perhaps for all the wrong reasons given that list of descriptives.

She was the one who sneaked me into my first under-age gig*. She was the one who convinced our parents to let her paint our bedroom teal green, including the ceiling. And she was the one who saw me through those angsty teenage and tough early twenty-something times without judgement. No wonder she was the one I wanted at the delivery of my first born and, 17 years later, at that child's high school graduation.

Today, nothing has changed. When I’m down or stressed I look to her for guidance, a shoulder to cry on, a laugh over a glass or three of wine or a spot of cleaning. Did I mention she’s a domestic goddess?

She was the rock when Mum was diagnosed with cancer, travelling miles weekly to attend appointments, decipher medical and legal jargon, provide companionship and ultimately nurse Mum in the final weeks. For that I owe her an unfathomable debt of gratitude.

Although we are chalk and cheese, in so many ways, the bond we share will never be broken. Happy Birthday Bec!

* it was Mental as Anything at the Manly Vale Hotel

Greensleeves

It's not summer yet (and mountain summers can be underwhelming) but the shrill of cicadas has got me feeling nostalgic...

In my childhood memories it is always hot.  Nothing ever moves quickly and even sounds are lazy and low.  It’s about summer and fibro.  Long weekends, blowflies and pink zinc.

About Dad wrangling the Victa through the backyard.  Purring, spluttering past the wading pool littered with jacaranda confetti.  Around the outlawed incinerator, then stalled, swearing and sweaty under the Hills hoist.

Me on a rusty swing, creaking to and fro, back and forth, bare toes tickling the buffalo grass.  Running back to the house trying to avoid the biting black ants.  Cool, lying flat out on the linoleum floor.

The radio’s murmuring that steady, reassuring rhythm of cricket.  And a whirring fan pushes warm air around the room.

Mum’s upside down.  I watch her walk into the kitchen, taking in her long legs first, then that spotty, lime green dress she made herself.  Even upside down she looks beautiful.

Dad’s in the kitchen now.  Big brown back, droplets of perspiration.  Flag ale – ah that’s better.  They smile.

It’s lunchtime.  Our legs stick to orange vinyl and my brother makes squeaky fart sounds with his.  We all giggle.  There’s tepid cordial and ham left over from Christmas.

Mum makes a salad with tins of Golden Circle pineapple rings and beetroot.  

After lunch my brother and I escape.  We put T-shirts on and rubber thongs, cause mum said to, and slip through the broken paling fence.

“G’day Bluey,” says Mr Farley ruffling my orange hair.  “Hello little man,” he says to my brother.  We grin.

Mr Farley takes photos.  He invites us inside.  Spooky and quiet in the dark red glow we watch as our mum appears, slowly, like a ghost floating in the developing tray.  I like the acrid smell of the chemicals.

“Don’t touch now,” Mr Farley warns but he’s not angry – he likes us.  He likes my mum too.

We come out into the glare and shield our eyes for a moment.  Waving goodbye to Mr Farley we return to our world on the other side of the fence.  Dad has the hose and a smile in his eyes.

We know what’s coming next and pretend to run away screaming as delicious spurts of water fall on backs, heads, legs.  Soon we are soaking.

Dad turns the hose off.  My brother goes inside and I go back to the swing.  Overhead grey-black clouds are creeping up on our Sunday.

The air becomes thick and sweet, heavy with the smell of rain not too far away.  There’s a distant rumble of thunder and for some reason I think about loneliness.

Then I hear something.

“Alas my love you do me wrong…”  The sad, melancholy tinkling of Greensleeves.

“Come and get an ice cream,” calls my brother from the back door.

We swing our legs on the banana lounge; happy, gripping sticky, drippy Mr Whippy ice-creams as fat drops of rain from the afternoon thunder storm splat on the concrete path.

Sky Burial

(a poem for Gary Tweddle)

For two days helicopters buzz the cliffs and ridges like metallic lammergeiers

Aiding and abetting the grisly retrieval work of the police ground crew.

Our very own Broadchurch unfolding on the pretty streets of a tourist town

The decomposed deceased, missing for six weeks, putting paid to delight in an early spring.

And yet here comes another unwitting victim, map and Mars bar in hand, gob-smacked by the sun-drenched sandstone edifice

Pondering misadventure in the depths of the Jamison valley.

Old school ties

At the end of September my first born will walk out her school gates for the last time (until a brief stint in the HSC exam rooms come Oct/Nov.) Sniff...pass the tissues please...

Remember leaving school and those mixed feelings of sadness, uncertainty, exhilaration and new found freedom?

Some kids can’t wait to get out into the big wide world and embrace adulthood, others would like to remain cocooned in the familiar routines and privileges of classrooms and adolescence.

It’s a long time ago now for me but I think I sat on the fence – loved not having to get up early, do homework and wear a uniform but hated the lack of opportunity a poor HSC result and geographical isolation dished out in spades.

But being a glass half full sort of gal I got myself out of those doldrums and have survived to this very day proving that school exam scores and report cards certainly don’t define you.

Although I think dear old Miss Timmins had a fair go at it in class 4.

Disgraceful Ageing

I am unapologetically middle-aged. And although 48 may be the new 12 I think it is time I started acting my age. But what does that mean?

I like gardening and punk music. I wear skinny jeans and drive a station wagon. I love food, wine, theatre and staying in on Friday night. I may have a mortgage but it doesn’t mean I understand it. I still feel the same as I did 25 or 30 years ago, it’s just that the crow’s feet and tuck-shop arms give me away.

So I guess I’ll go on badly dyeing my hair, listening to Triple J, loving John Green novels and dressing inappropriately til the day I die. The last thing I want to do is have a mid-life crisis and discover tantric sex or turn vegan or join a cult or become a crazy cat lady.

I read an article about how middle-aged women feel invisible in today’s youth-worshipping society and frankly that’s fine by me. Ever since the shiny new megamart replaced my local corner shop I feel that if I haven’t had a manicure, a facial and a nose job before I go out to buy milk I’ll be committing social suicide, because invariably as I’m wandering the aisles vaguely, in my slippers and daggy old pilled jumper, without a shopping list wondering what the hell I came in for I’ll bump into my daughter’s favourite school teacher, the local member for parliament, my sadistic ex-boss, the kid who works in the video store where I still haven’t paid the overdue fine for Eat, Pray, Love and the bloke who fixes my car. Eventually, after I hide in the frozen fish section to avoid the militant wing of the P&C, I’ll end up buying 24 rolls of toilet paper (because they are on special) and I'll forget the milk.

My dad, who is 81, is reading The Hunger Games trilogy. He loves Katniss, Peeta and all the crew. It takes him back to the Depression days when hunting small wildlife and bush survival skills were the norm (not sure about murdering other kids). Only problem is he’s still waiting for the third book to be released. 

He has a saying which I like: “there’s no future in growing old”.

The Crying House

Recently I commiserated with a friend who was packing up her family home as it had been sold. (Cue audible sigh) It’s always hard moving house, physically it’s a nightmare and emotionally it’s just plain tough. So many memories, not all of them good, but all of them particular to the lives that are played out within those walls.

It didn’t help my friend that it rained for an entire week during the packing and detaching process. 

I was reminded of an art installation I saw last year as part of Sydney’s Art and About festival.  The installation, called I Wish You Hadn’t Asked by James Dive from The Glue Society creative collective, was a fully furnished house, erected in the middle of city, that rained on the inside.

For two weeks, furniture, bedding, appliances, toys, artworks, books and clothing deteriorated as 200 litres of recycled water rained down on them – gradually destroying this little time capsule of family life; symbolising a relationship falling apart.

To experience the installation you donned a raincoat and entered through the front door. At the time I visited it had been raining on the inside for over a week. I found the surreal Dali-esque scene of molten belongings - the ruined trappings of a familiar life - and the stench of decay extremely confronting. I couldn’t get out of there quick enough; tears streaming down my face by the time I exited the back door.

Of the project, artist James Dive said: “From the outside everything looks normal – it is only once we go beyond the exterior normalities that we become witness to a private world slowly destroying itself. As the water continues to rain down, and as your shoes fill up, we gain empathy for a private world which time cannot mend.”

I know it's not material possessions that define "home" but after the boxes are filled, and you’ve dealt with the dust bunnies that remain when the furniture is removed, somehow an empty house doesn’t feel like home any more. It took my lot six months to come to terms with our latest move. (Or was it just me?) Eventually we stopped calling it “that house” and now we belong (albeit in a state of flux for the last year - see Cabin Fever), the sounds and smells and chaos of family life - arguments and laughter - filling the spaces up.

Offspring

I may sometimes allude to the fact that I share my life with children. And while they fill my world with joy I don’t want to harp on about them. I can’t imagine growing up in the digital age and having every little success or failure plastered all over the interweb by my loving mom. Thankfully, back in the day mothers were way too busy to engage in banal status updates and children were seen more as a duty than inspirational blog fodder.

It’s not that I don’t cherish them it’s just that I don’t want to be typecast as a mummy blogger and alienate the demographic that choose to steer clear of the mental, physical and fiscal cliff towards which offspring seem determined to drive their parents. I have born and bred two daughters – no biggie – they are long out of nappies anyway so I’ll let them make their own online faux pas. But did I mention they are incredibly intelligent, gorgeous human beings?

I recently had the pleasure of interviewing Carl Honore, author of Under Pressure – How the epidemic of hyper-parenting is endangering childhood. Carl has some sage advice for would be tiger-mums about letting children just be children. (Cue the beautiful Jonsi.) It's all about the slow movement which includes education. Slow education lets children explore via an emergent curriculum that is lateral not linear. And slow schools don’t hothouse or teach to exams - I’m looking at you NAPLAN!

So I’ve decided to take a more hands-off approach to parenting. I’ve always encouraged individuality in my daughters – not that they needed it – and given them freedoms that some parents may feel unwise, but I feel they need to be able to think for themselves and learn from mistakes. Of course they know they can always call home and although it sounds counterintuitive, (my new favourite word), like slow education, hopefully a bit of freedom will help establish sound boundaries for learning and growth.

Blindsided

At a routine eye check-up (I’ll qualify routine later) I was told that I was legally blind in my right eye. Immediately my devious mind thought of any benefit I could claim - financial or otherwise – then the reality of the diagnosis began to sink in. Can I keep my driver’s license? Wow I’ve only got one eye left? Blindness is such a freaky thing for sighted people to imagine. I remember as a kid playing that party game pin the tail on the donkey and how we laughed at the near misses and hilarious places we’d stuck the tail.

Doesn’t seem so funny now.

My eyes are what you might call my Achilles heel. When I was in kindergarten, circa 1970, a routine school check up found I had myopia (short-sightedness) and a lazy eye with a slight turn – just for effect. For a year after that I wore glasses with a patch on one lens to try to strengthen the lazy eye. It’s called occlusion therapy. The cat-eye glasses had cream frames and the patch bore a Disney Bambi motif. Remember that kid at school with the patch? That was me. And though I can’t remember the taunts of ‘Cyclops’ it did make me look at the world differently. Besides, being a ginger I was no stranger to name-calling.

The best part about the diagnosis was that I got to go to a specialist in the city every month for eye exercises. This meant a day off school YES!, lunch at the Grace Bros. (now Myer) cafeteria - chocolate milkshake and a cheese sandwich, and one on one time with Mum.

Years later another diagnosis of congenital cataracts saw me in surgery – a routine procedure for octogenarians but not 20-somethings. But maybe my biggest fail optically was when I detached my own retina chopping wood. I’m too ashamed to go into detail but yes it did hurt and no I don’t fancy myself as a lumberjack anymore.

So here I am contemplating another ‘procedure’ to remove the rubber band that has been holding my retina in place since that fateful axe wielding day and that makes my kids look at me suspiciously when they see a glimpse of silicon in the corner of my eye (they think I’m some sort of Replicant), and trying not to consider the possibility of sympathetic opthalmia. 

Get real

As a rule I don’t watch reality TV – I can’t stand the squirming embarrassment I feel for each and every participant as they try to engender love (but more frequently loathing) through the various traumas and triumphs that take place during their sordid little 15 minutes of fame.

But lately I’ve found it useful.

It has become a way of connecting with my pubescent daughter before she plummets into the abyss of teenage angst and shuts me out completely. We can connect over America’s Next Top Model, The Voice, The Block, Four Weddings and possibly most distressingly Dance Moms. I draw the line at Wife Swap.

And while we don’t always see eye to eye on the content or contestants, at least it opens a dialogue about touchy issues like body image, self esteem, etiquette and most importantly – hair and clothes.

I only hope she doesn’t aspire to appear in a reality tv show or worse still, start living vicariously through these dunderheads.

All the shows are pretty much the same and attract a similar bunch of narcissists who willingly subject themselves to a series of often particularly cruel humiliations in their quest to win, win, WIN. Petulant behaviour, screaming and tears are par for the course. It’s all great fun until someone gets hurt.

And maybe that's the lesson we take from 'reality' tv - real life isn't a competition.

"Ideas are overrated"

So said the brooding badlander Mr Nick Cave in a recent interview. I reckon he’s had a few so I listened up. He qualified it with this: It is the hard work behind ideas to make them happen that is important or something like that.

And I agree.

Ideas are never a problem for me. They come thick and fast, usually around 3am when my brain is awash with anxiety reliving the preceding day’s events and expected outcomes of the next 24 hours. Storylines, business ventures, problem solving techniques all filter through the insomnia. But by the cold light of day those nuggets of genius pale in comparison to the deeds of the real movers and shakers of this world. Because it’s not the thinkers, dreamers or list makers (a group to which sadly I am a card carrying member) that win my admiration but the doers - the activists and volunteers, the entrepreneurs, scientists and community workers.

And so this post is dedicated to the Live Below the Line challenge participants (including my socially conscious teenager). A great idea that not only raises much needed funds for the poverty stricken but teaches a valuable life lesson in empathy.

If you would like to sponsor said socially conscious teen please click here.