Jack of all trades ...

Zaha Hadid 

Further to last post's contemplations on Clarity, I have discovered many things.

Post-post I went out in search of wisdom. The desire to have one crystal-clear image of what I was to do and be, was tightening my ribs like a concrete straightjacket.  The internal nego-mantra kept brain-circling in every quiet moment  "If I could just see what it looks like. If I could just get a picture of what it is, then it will all come together." (I have read A LOT of self-help and strategic planning shizz, so apparently envisioning your outcome is critical to success. Everybody says so.)

So I went to a psychic. Of course, I did.
She was brilliant.

Wisdom from the psychic-with-the-spiritual-name in no particular order:

• Bring your energy back in from all the people who are leeching it (I don't think she actually said leeching, but I like the dramatic effect of the word and its parasitical inferences) 
• Be grounded
• Listen to your own wisdom
• She had me imagine I was talking to my dad. 'He' told me to let go of fear and take a risk.
• She also commented that just because I am good at stuff doesn't mean it's my calling 
• And she clearly said to me "Let go of the desire to know what it's all going to be and go with the flow".

I can't say I give a tinkling toss whether she was genuinely psychic or not. I wafted out of there like the mother of a toddler leaving a day spa to have a coffee alone before heading back to motherhood. Like any good psychic or psychologist, she had made me feel better about the existential crisis I was experiencing and had offered the illusion of control.  And she gave me a big hug at the end.

So, there I was feeling a little less desperate and a bit happier to sit with my messy mind. But still, the desire for 'an answer' was limiting my breath. Like some religious revelation, I knew it was going to come at me, the big shazaam. Unfortunately, the universe had gone all tight ass with the revelations, and no vision was forthcoming.

Next, I went to a business coach, also with a spiritual name, who is nothing less than human spun-gold. 

She asked me lots of hard questions. Like "What do you want?" and "How does (insert various scenarios and ideas) make you feel". I squirmed around in my comfortable chair, shifting and itching, from sitting arms crossed and legs outstretched, to head in hands and elbows on knees. All the time doing lots of fast-talking without ever finishing a sentence or entirely forming an idea.  

"It's all so, so ... messy." I gacked out like a hairball from a cat. 

And that beautiful, gilded spirit-woman gently asked me this:

"So look at your mess", gesturing in big circles at the circular mat in an invitation to visualise it,  "How does it make you feel when you resist this mess when you just want to tidy its messiness." 

Then she looked up at me and laughed "Look at your body language."

I was as close to the foetal position as the comfortable chair would allow. 

Resisting the mess, I felt tight, thick on the chest. Short of breath. Panicked.  Like when the kids were small, and the housework got so rank you stopped people from visiting wanting no witness to your weet-bix-encrusted shame. 

"Now take a minute" she guides gently, "And see how you feel when you stop resisting the mess. When you can sit with it and accept it."

I tried it on. Squirmed. Exhaled and Answered:

"I feel ... relieved and excited, like the mess is where the gold is, and how it is full of possibilities."

Checking myself, I saw that my body had moved into power pose, hands together gently in between relaxed knees, shoulders soft, heart open.

My life is a messy scramble, just like the Secret Language of Birthdays predicted ( Th ebook tells me I was born on the 'day of the Scrambler'). In accepting the mess, I could drop the shame, stop fighting it and enjoy it. 

An insightful friend quizzed me late on Saturday night about my Clarity post, her bullshit-o-meter clearly registering high levels in the immediate area - "but wouldn't you just be bored doing the same thing forever?"

Yes, my wise and insightful friend, I bloody well would. 

As much as I fight it, I will always be far more Margaret Olley than Zaha Hadid.

So you see I actually have discovered many things. Like did you know that the full saying goes:

"Jack of all trades, master of none is oftentimes better than master of one".

 

Resolve

Yesterday a friend reminded me of my blog, so I came back to visit. 

This archive of blog posts is like an adventure through the wilds of my psyche, my sometimes anxious and often distorted mind. It is a trip through the seeking and questioning, advising and anxsting, through joy and my endless confusion. 

The blog tells one story of a lot of years riding blind on the rough, dark, circular route of the shame train.  

New Year's Day is a classic date for goal setting and resolutions. 

Yeah  ... nah. This year I just want to roll with life and see where it goes. 

The engine has pulled into the 2017 station and I am disembarking sans baggage. 

The New Year arrives and my web feeds race past with memes and goals and resolutions, screeching and blaring out announcements through the loudspeaker of 'should':

Eat this. Make this. Work this. Plan this. Wear this. Lose this. Say this. 

You gotta do more, you gotta be more you gotta get more, you gotta have more.

And never forget that your fundaments are flawed so fix yourself, fix yourself, fix yourself...

  

Enough ... enough. Fuck it ... enough. 

 

Silence the soul bashing screeches and blares. For me, its time to look in the mirror and say:

"I am ok."

My life is not a fantasy, it is a reality and its ok. Actually, it is grouse. 

I am fat, but I am phat. 

A bit dishevelled, a bit broke and neck deep in the motherload of love-and-family-mess I am, and I would rather be here than anywhere. 

I don't know which train I want to get on next.
But truckloads of opportunities are arriving and departing all the time.  Turns out, they had been queuing up at the self-doubt barrier the whole time, waiting for the wall to come down. 

It is unnecessary to endlessly travel around the same circle of demented track and mourn the tragic loss of hours and tears to anxiety and self-decimation. Plenty of other trips to take. 

2017 is a mystery ticket to life. I am gonna jump on board, relax, look out the window and just see what happens.

Hello, Gorgeous!

Today I am going to write the words "Hello, Gorgeous!" on my mirror and let it be the first and last thing I say to myself every day.

Fuck self-hatred. 
It is the prison gates of my own making, stopping all progress on the superhighway to where I want to be.
These days I can even see the vision of my destination through its bastard blockade. 
It is the only thing barring my way forward and I am the only thing holding it in place.

Today I am grasping the iron with both hands and I will cast it down,
to present myself to life with a visceral, heart strong - "Ta -dah!"

Then I will step over the gate and keep on walking.



What is the first thing you are going to say to yourself today?
When I see you I will say "Hello, Gorgeous!"


Thank you for the inspiration and generosity I have so gratefully received this week:

Christine Storm: Chrysalis Business Consulting
Perfect PItch : Natasha Cica and Rosalie Martin

and Elizabeth Gilbert

Things I have learnt from Musical Theatre #1: the hardest working kids in town

Five months of my recent life have been consumed and invigorated by "Evita". A local theatre company gave me a shot at performing in the ensemble of their production and it has been my making.

I like to think that this blog, while often seemingly random and themeless, is a place for me to share what I learn. Evita has been an education.

The cast was made up of around 50 people aged from 11 to 'a lady never divulges her age'. Most of the cast had a teen in their number. I'd like to share with you what I have learned about these young people.

First I would like to ask you: When was the last time you committed to something, something outside of full-time work or study and committed to it for up to 12 hours a week for 5 months? A commitment that required focus, discipline, mental, creative and physical challenges and constant connection and interaction with 50 people working as a team. When was the last time a commitment like this required a final week of 50 hours in confined space with those 50 people you have spent 12 hours a week with, plus crew, and this was on top of your full-time work/study?

And in particular, when was the last time you did all this with professionalism, commitment and focus? Striving for excellence, all the while keeping your humour and squeezing the most fun that could possibly be squeezed from every second?

(I know, right? I couldn't do it. I was stuffed. I needed days off work and a lot of naps.)

So this is what I have learnt about young people in theatre.

These young people are responsible, committed. They turned up sick. They turned up exhausted.  They were vulnerable and anxious. They were kind and caring to each other. And so bloody funny. They turned up and turned it on every day.

Parents of teens who say they want to pursue a career in theatre or music or drama, can I just say to you, encourage them. Care for them. Please don't tell them they need something sensible 'to fall back on'. Acknowledge their dedication and hard work as well as their beauty and talent.
You know, with support, they might just crack it.

Or they might not. They may get to 25, be broke and decide that they haven't made it and that its time to do something sensible. (oh my god, so many years to be sensible.). At least they would have spent their youth working their arses off, surrounded by creative, stimulating people, pushing, challenging and exposing their vulnerability every day and having a fkn good time doing it.

If they can do that, lets face it, they can do anything.

Better to try than to get to 25 having done 'the sensible thing' and being broke anyway.
Better to try than to get to 25 and feel that you lost yourself on the way.

Better to try than get to 42 and grieve for a version of life unlived.

My hat is off to you, young people of musical theatre. You are brave and bold.
Seize it, relish it, pursue it now. Being 'sensible' is highly overrated.

Parents of young people who want to pursue a career in music, theatre and the arts, please don't fear for their future. You can have faith and be so proud of them. 

They are the hardest working kids in town.

Photo courtesy of Encore Theatre Company
 

And Still I Rise - Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.


Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.


Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.


Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.


Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.


You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.


Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?


Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise. 

Maya Angelou

Catching Breath

The last few months have brought subtle shifts, big moves and epic events to us Smiths, as most 'few months' in a family seem to do.

A little home renovation that choked us with plaster dust and paint fumes, has now sent a breath of fresh air into our wee house. The clean,newly painted bedrooms and hallway, a luthier-made wardrobe and a new spot for our beloved art, has gifted some organisation, peace and ease into our sleep spaces. 

A 12 week transformation, meant planned meals and regular exercise and a commitment to self-care on a scale never before successfully carried through, by this master-excusemaker. I am not sure I can say that my body was 'transformed' exactly, but what it did for my spirit has been remarkable. Who knew self- love lay in the increasing kms on a treadmill or that extra weight on the bar in a pump class? That's not where I expected to find it, that's for sure. I though it only existed in the reducing number on the scales.  But as the fitness numbers went up, what had been the dreaded weekly weigh in mattered less and less.  But I do know that everyone likes to see the numbers, and if I helps to convince anyone to take such a programme on I'll tell you mine: 

I've lost 7.5 kilos, 48 cms, a minute from my 1km run time, I have gained the ability to do push ups on my toes and now I miss exercise when I don't do it and best of all, I like myself a lot more.) 

Shift again. This is the shift to working 5 days a week again. It's a good job working with nice people, but damn!-work sure gets in the way of an exercise program. However, needs must when you throw financial caution to the wind, and commit to sending your 3 kids to a private school. Mind you, its a commitment worth every hour of work and every penny, in my opinion, to have my kids in a school where they are known, recognised and cherished. And it is an easier burden to shoulder when you work for someone who thanks you every day. 

My beautiful J performed in his drama school's production of 'The Music Man' this week. I am constantly overwhelmed at the commitment of teachers and parents to make stuff happen for kids. All those sporting coaches, little athletics timekeepers, eisteddfod organisers etc who give their time and energy so that children can have opportunities - they are incredible. 'The Music Man' saw the kids involved in a gruelling rehearsal schedule, giving up entire weekends and late nights, but it was all worth the pre-teen grumbling, it was a hit! And J has made new friends for life. 

The smalls are chugging along with their usual mess, hilarity and bickering. Soph fell through the unzipped trampoline in the school holidays which left her with a greenstick fracture to her right wrist, a brother-assisted accident, which didn't slow her down much. Her writing from both hands is now impeccable. (She certainly doesn't get that from me. I take after my GP father in the illegible handwriting stakes.) 

The luthier's genius is becoming more widely recognised. His work schedule now extends well into next year and musicians from around the country are seeking out his work. It's a slow and steady business, the work of the violin maker and it is  so gratifying to see his efforts praised and loved. 

So now, here we are, lying in bed,healthy and strong, with a little less time but a bit more comfort, breathing in the cool winter air and wondering what shifts the Spring breezes are bringing us. 

Being the Mother of a Son

Being the mother of a son, or sons in my case, I have found, involves lots of dirt, action heroes, big collections of collectibles, a lot of video games, sports gear, food preparation and more Adam Sandler movies than I care to mention, 

It's a big job. Don't you think? To mother a son. To bring up a man. Hopefully a good man? 

Good. 'Good'. I am rolling the word around my tongue and brain. 'Good'... really? I am not sure that 'good' is my aspiration for my sons. What is 'good' anyway? 

Apparently, according to a random on WikiHow, being a 'good son' involves being nice to your siblings even though you hate them, doing all your homework, being loving towards your parents and not using bad language.

Bollocks!! 

Not 'good' then.  Particularly in view of that criteria, as I consider it an essential life lesson for my children to learn the art of contextual swearing, and am proud to say that their skills are coming along nicely.  

Anyway, my boys are better than good, my boys are gold. But they do know how to be good, which I think is very important. My boys do behave well ... at school.  At home things get a bit more loud, messy and swear-y obviously. 

It is, on one level, gratifying to know that my boys can behave well, can 'be good'.  My boys, they are not very boys-y boys. They are definitely boys, but they are quite gentle my lads, most of the time. And funny, they are really funny, by accident and on purpose. One is also intolerably messy and inclined to pick up dead animals with his bare hands and the other loves hockey and skateboards and cartooning and they dig music and dancing and are loving and kind. I think all that is good. 

We have brought our lads up to work hard and be kind, and to tread through life gently with consideration, but as we have seen all too much lately, the world, still a man's world, often doesn't play that way.  So have we really done our lads a disservice? We often watch our gentle boys railroaded by their alpha peers, particularly our eldest. He has been pushed around a bit by boys who have been encouraged 'to be boys', in that rough-and-tumble-wrestle-and-shout-playing-violent-video-games-and-calling-girls-'bitches'-kind of way. These boys leave my boys a little knocked around and a bit confused.

My first son has had to pick his way through a minefield of bullies and more alpha males in his classes and I am impressed to say he has started to figure it out. He has the gift of perseverance, my boy, dogged persistence, and he is using it to find his place in the world of boys. He is figuring out when to stand up for himself, when 'to hold 'em and when to fold 'em'.  (And did I tell you he is the lead in the school musical this year? Thought I'd just drop that in.) 

With the second son, just as if he was born with wings, he has fallen on his feet. He is in a class with lovely boys who, while they themselves are gung-ho crazy, give him no grief for sitting out of the lunchtime football tussle in favour of going to play with the Preps, as is his want.  There were a few issues with argy-bargy in the playground recently and I asked his teacher if my quiet little lad was ok, if he got caught up in the rough and tumble of his peer group? She assured me that he was very good at being clear when he didn't want to get involved in the other boys' shenanigans and that the other boys always accepted that. If only life always worked out that way. He is lucky, my lad. 

I love the gentleness of my boys and that they will review one of their little sister's drawings earnestly with  "That is beautiful, Sophie" and that Joshie has been known to brush her hair and read her a story at bedtime. I love that they get angry and scream and swear but rarely raise a hand to each other.  I love that they don't define feminine and masculine in the same way that tradition or society does. I love that they can run around, dig holes, hit balls, build stuff, be noisy and tell each other to 'get stuffed' (in the contextually appropriate moment, of course), and that they can be quiet and creative, affectionate, sweet and soft, at least some of the time. 

Sometimes, though, I wonder, should we have taught our two little men to wrestle and wrangle and be tough? Should I be concerned that my number two son, stands in the back of the soccer field during a match, ignoring the ball as he is too busy re-enacting the entire choreography from the Bellas "I Saw The Sign/Turn the Beat Around" mash up  routine from 'Pitch Perfect' while his team mates are hell bent on the ball and the goals? That in the school nursery rhyme play he wants to audition for the part of  "Jill"? Should we berate ourselves for not pushing our sons towards a more traditional masculinity so that they can mix it with the big boys when they are men? Naaaah.  I never held much respect for the 'boys wiill be boys' philosophy.  And, no matter what philosophy I hold, my boys can only be themselves. 

But its not easy for the gentle guys in a world where the alpha man (and woman) is still such a dominant force. So what have we set our sons up for? Happily, I have faith that our generation and the younger boys, like Sacha's friends, are much more accepting and comfortable with making room for difference than the generations that have gone before. But then again, I am not sure that most men aren't in fact just like my boys, pretty lovely: kind, committed men who love their families, friends and communities. Most of the men I know certainly are. But sheesh, the ones who aren't so kind sure make a lotta noise, don't they? 

There is nothing I can teach my sons about becoming a man. What I can teach them, I hope,  is how to look after themselves, how to live and love wholeheartedly and what it is to be loved wholeheartedly by their Mum, (and, of course, the right moment to use the words 'shit, bugger and douchebag'.)

My aspiration for my golden sons is not to be 'good', but to be themselves and to live their lives as they see fit. To be wholehearted men of joy, kindness, pride and passion. 

I wonder if my mother-in-law realises how lucky she is? 

Thank you to Lexi from Pottymouthmama for inviting me to join in on blogging about 'Being the mother of a son'. Other great blogs participating are:

PottyMouthMama <http://www.pottymouthmama.blogspot.com.au>

Checks and Spots <http://www.checksandspots.com/>  Kootoyoo <http://www.kootoyoo.com> Sadie and Lance http://sadieandlance.blogspot.com.au/

One Flew Over <http://www.oneflewover-oneflewover.com/> 

Pigeon Pair <http://www.pigeon-pair.com/> 

Mogantosh <http://www.mogantosh.blogspot.com.au/> 

Hugo and Elsa <http://www.hugoandelsa.com/> Gourmet Girlfriend <http://www.gourmetgirl-friend.blogspot.com.au/> 

Great Things

Walking to Duck Reach on your own on a sunny Autumn morning.

Walking and listening to podcasts.

Finding art on a rusty door.

This speech made by David William on the Future of Creative Arts Education in Australian Universities.

This workshop given by Marcus Buckngham on Oprah. 

Spotify.

This podcast from ABC's Life Matters "The 91 Year Old Midwife'. 

The luthier's Camerata Obscura and their beautiful, sell out concert last Sunday. 

Trusting your instincts. 

Dad coming home from hospital yesterday.

Luthier - Go Behind the Scenery

Keep your eye out for the Luthier's Violin No. 3 on this excellent ad selling our wee state.  How exciting to be included with icons like MONA, Cradle Mountain. David Foster and that dude with the alpaca. It fills my heart when the luthier gets a bit of love for the work he does. It took more than 300 hours of hand making passion and an incredible amount of skill to make that beautiful instrument.  A little love for the work goes a very long way.

If you can't see the YouTube screen, click in the link
http://youtu.be/eziM99bFSj0

Casual

Today I cease to be a permanent employee and become a casual employee.
This decision feels so right, I can't even begin to tell you.

I went to visit my Dad last night and, while he struggles to articulate, he made the effort to say to me "You have a business brain."
Lets hope so Dad. lets hope so.

This last week has seen family arrive from interstate and overseas, coming to see Dad after his fall and support Mum and be together. That is good.

I look at my neice and nephews and think again how time is really speeding past. A nephew we met as a boy is now a handsome young man.  The twin small boys are now school boys and world class minecraft experts. And Sophie cried when they left.

And my brother taught me about these, he has purchased a few.

Laugh?

I nearly ...

Still, even if its buying ostrich pillows that floats your boat, it really is too short not to live it just exaclty as you mean to.

Happy 2013!

Passion, love, laughter and fun, may this  new year overflow with it.

Happy 2013!

Merry and Bright

Stockings hung - a Santa, a Christmas tree and a hot pink high heel shoe, of course.
Ginger shortbread biscuits with lemon icing and mince pies baked for the big man are set on the table with a note of thanks and a glass of milk.
Carrots and water for Dasher and Vixen and all their prancing mates.

Each Smith takes a turn to blow out a wedding candle with a Christmas wish.

They rumble into bed with love and kisses and Mum and Dad's silent hope for swiftly sleeping babes.
Childrens' sleep means parents' action.
Presents wrapped and piled under the tree - an unfeasible mountain glittering in the fairy light

Early morning a blur of paper and squeals,
noise and construction.
Coffee, croissants and hand picked raspberries.
While the children revel in their loot, the cooking begins - ham is glazed, potatoes are roasted,

The family roll in laden down with booze and food - champagne, turkey Ballantine, quail and salads, and King George's own pudding.

The sun is shining on the new deck, so the tables are moved under tree shade,
leaving free the perfect stage for the Annual Christmas Concert.

Lunching in the late afternoon, commences with a toast
'Welcome all and Merry Christmas!'
Like Christmas itself, its over too fast after the hours of prep.

Wine is drunk.
The concert begins and tears are wiped as beautiful children sing beautiful songs, and more songs from mothers with daughters, fathers with sons, aunty and nieces, into the night.

We end with 'Christmas Bells' by Wadsworth and family love for our ageing Dane, whose hugs now speak so much louder than his whispered words.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.
May all our Christmases be so merry and bright.

40 is awesome!

Today I turn 40! Hurray!

I have never been so filled with the joys of love, life and the world.
I have fallen deeply in love with myself and it all. Blessed and in love.

This age, this 40,  has given me a little whiff of mortality.
An awareness of the ticking of that clock. And its a good thing, this new urgency.
The mind whispers "Time is there for the taking. Fill it up.  Overflow it. Do what you love and do it as much as you can. Sista,what are you waiting for? "

And, even though I am humming along to this refrain, I have not turned my life upside down,


In my new wise, mature and joy-filled head, I have decided instead, to be happy and wait. Everyone knows that good things are destined for waiters. I'll cast my eye around for opportunity and be ready to pounce.

In the meantime, there is fun to be had. Joy even. And please do remind me of this the next time I fall into the pit of depsair and frustration, as history would indicate I am bound to do. For now, I'll ride my 40-year old Pollyanna-wave for as long as it lasts.

My mind has trapped and tricked me into negativity, depression, fear and resistance for the last 40 years.  Too many life years spent locked into a tiny box of earnest, self-consciousness. 
A keep it small box. A keep it safe box.

This 40 has sprung the lock.

Fear of life is redundant. It is no more than an imaginary obstacle to living.

My brother just sent me this as his welcome-to-the forties-birthday wish
"You will be healthier, wealthier and wiser and probably braver than ever before."

What's not to love about that? And I want to spread the love.

Lots of love to you, my family and friends.
Thank you for your love.
I hope I am around to give you all back all the love for the next 40 and more.

And the biggest love to you, especially to you.

Garden

Spring draws me out of doors and into the garden. The promise of blooms and growth lure me outside to stand, arms crossed, in deep meditation, staring, staring at the flora.

My gaze, having rested intent on a yellow-centered daisy, self-sown, now shifts to scan the fairy magnolia's lilac blossoms, searching, as if all the answers to life's questions are certain to flit past.

We stand, me and my folded arms. We are alert and poised - ready to pounce when enlightenment inevitably alights on the pretty petals.

Rewards

Despite some nasty coughs continuing to play havoc chez Smith and a very ordinary Father's day that saw the luthier and I take it in turns to retreat our sorry sick selves to the bed all day, this week has been full of rewards.

The sun came out.

The magnolia in our front yard is in full bloom.

The fairy magnolias we planted last year have finally blossomed.

Sacha made this awesome Father's day card complete with Dali-esque mo for the luthier.

And on Sunday morning I watched my 11 year old son gently and patiently brush his truculent 4 year old sister's wild mop of hair.

Read

This week the lurgy was rife chez Smith. A nasty, chesty cough laid the luthier and I very low. But good things come from everything and my ills gave me a day in bed alone, so I took the opportunity to read a book.

I caught sight of this particular book last Sunday in our local bookstore. The cover photographs of shoes, vegies and a weatherboard house looked somehow familiar. Then the author's name drew my attention and I cried out in delight 'Look Soph, it's a book by the lady who delivers our vegies.' Sophie was fairly non-plussed, but I was well-chuffed to be leaving the store with a copy of 'A Story of Seven Summers' by Hilary Burden.

On my sick day the book was a welcome distraction. It drew me in like a warm hug and snuggled under my new doona cover, I devoured Hilary's memoir so voraciously that I didn't notice the morning slip away until I turned, sadly the final page, left wanting more.

I could describe Hilary's tale here, her move from being a single woman living a glamorous life creating new magazines in London, to building a beautiful life on the island. And I could tell you how she moved to a Nuns' house in Karoola (one of the most beautiful places on Earth) and, with her gorgeous island-discovered love, Barn, created a business sourcing and delivering incredible local produce to lucky people like me. I could also mention all the local island producers who benefit so much from their work. But I will leave the details for you to discover in the book, because you must read it. You must.

You know how some books change you? You read them and the message they give you stays with you and becomes a filter for your way of thinking. This book was not like that. This story did not change me, but did something much more profound that will certainly stay with me for a long time. This book made me more certain of who I truly am.

You see, what I took from this book is that bravery, the courage to follow your heart and instincts, even when they fly in the face of convention or of your own past desires and behavior is essential to making a great life for yourself. As is the courage to open up to possibilities and to back yourself all the way that you know what you need to do and that you can make your dreams a reality.

Hilary and her partner,Barn, have created an enviable life. They have created a stunning simple life where work, family, love, passions and life-at-large are intertwined. They are not separate states, one having to be put on hold, in order to attend to the others.

That is what I hope for. The connection of passions and work that don't detract from family but are just an extension of it, of me . 'A Story of Seven Summers' reminded me that this way of being may take some hard work, but that it is totally possible.

Hilary's words reminded me of all the things I love about this small island - its beauty and it's possibilities. and that there are many people who have lived huge lives around the globe and have returned, with all their stories and experiences, for the love of the lifestyle Tasmania can provide.

Hilary Burden's 'A Story of Seven Summers' brought me to tears, in a good way. It certainly made me feel better. I hope you love it as much as I do.

Love and Lemon Cake

Last Monday evening I raced home to bake a cake for the staff lunch on Tuesday. It was my debut baking contribution at work so I was hoping to pull off something good, something maybe even a little impressive? One could only hope. It was going to be the pear upside down cake. I'd made it a few times before and it always worked. A nice spongey cake topped with a lemony caramel syrup and thin pear slices.

I had a two hour window of baking opportunity before French class so went to work. I knew the danger of baking to a deadline. Cakes often don't take kindly to it. I knew that the best baking is always the result of entering a weird baking zen mode, with no pressure or performance anxiety. Unfortunately these conditions could not be manifested on this occasion, but bake I must.

All went reasonably well, although the cake batter looked a bit curdled and runny, but in the oven it went, while I made, served and ate dinner with the Smiths. At the halfway check, the bottom looked a little black - the oven was too hot.
Damn!

I was getting a bit antsy by this stage. I had no more time to make anything else so this had to work. Oh well, a little extra 'caramelisation' on the bottom wasn't the end of the world. I turned the oven down and hoped for the best.

With five minutes to go till I had to leave to parle francais avec mes amis, the oven timer rang and the cake came out of the oven. It looked ok.

'Thank God.

Now you have to turn these cakes out while they're still warm, don't you?

Here's my fancy cake plate. Its a nice big,flat, white one. A bit slippery on the top, but she'll be right. I'll just put it over the cake tin and flip ...

Fuck.'

That was the moment that the tin slipped off the edge of the cake plate and half the cake splatted onto the kitchen bench.

I removed the tin quietly, lay down my tea towel, walked to the armchair and sat down.

Not only would I NOT be impressing the staff with my baking skills, but I would be that knobber who promised to bake and didn't deliver.
The baking-under-pressure curse strikes again.

It was time to go to French.
I picked up my books, despondently hugged the luthier and smalls and left the ugly cake scene behind.

Halfway through French class I received a text with this photo and the message 'lemon cake'.

The luthier, known for his superb craftsmanship of stringed instruments and the occasional maker of an excellent custard, who has not often before made a cake, had come to my rescue. Covered with lemon butter icing, it was the toast of the staff lunch.


My hero
It must be love.

 

Oh What a Beautiful Morning!

After a full, yes, I said it, a FULL night's sleep, this morning is looking pretty darn rosie! I'm not saying its the first in 11 and a half years, but damn, it feels like it.

Not only a full night of sleep was had, but when I woke up I was in bed alone. Luxury! I lay in the grey light listening to living room rumbles and the 'Yo Gabba Gabba' theme tune, meditating and recalling my whacky dream.

I dreamt that we lived at work and my computer and phone had been stolen. We raced off to find them and as we drove the environment changed from suburban Launceston to a tropical coastline with us riding scooters on roads curving between jungle and the turquoise sea. I was a bit sad to have lost the photos of the kids on the computer, but apart from that, in the tropical sunshine, I couldn't care less.

Hmmm, there something in that for all of us.

Happy Saturday to you!!!

Pinned

Today I think I started something.

I pinned it.
Then bought it.

This Pinterest addiction I am forming could begin a descent down a very slippery slope.

Day tripping

Yesterday, the luthier needed to drop off a violin in Swansea, a gorgeous sea side village on the East coast of the island, so the rest of us thought we would tag along for the ride. Apart from the usual kiddie car shenanigans that required pulling over only once and a few refusals to walk, it was a truly grand day out in the clear winter sunshine. We hit the beach and built a flowerpot sand flower and met this smiley gentleman.

Swansea is a very sweet old town, with lots of stunning colonial architecture. This shot is of the building that began life as the town's general store and still houses the local supermarket. 

To the east are magical views out over the sea to the mountains on Freycinet, and to the west, rolling hills and lush green farmland. It sits near the Wye river, and as the road sign reads "Wye River - because it's bigger than a creek." A superb bit of local Island wit.

The light was so clean and crisp. The beach is right in the town. There is an ace playground, loads of beautiful spots and things to do close by.  And the bag of hot chips from  the local chippery, 'The Horny Cray', went down a treat on the road home. Its definitely top of the list for our family summer camping holiday destinations.