Not on His Island.

(photography by Tabitha Bird)

He is not obliged to look at you. Not obliged to be anything other than blind. And he likes it, this blindness. The way his eyes are opened without seeing. The way his mouth can kiss words like, "I tried," when he never moved his feet.

He imagines who you are. You aren't like him.

He likes his walls iced with roof on top and his windows edged with shutters.  The way his house holds him in, tucks him back, and presses around him. The way his mouth can whisper words like, "I didn't know," while he stayed inside and held his own hand.

He imagine who you are. You are outside.

He likes winter's teeth removed by central heating and summer's sticky fingers wiped clean in his pool.

He has long forgotten words like homeless, penniless,  anchor less or voiceless. Because he is not less. He is middle. Middle class, middle age. Middle income. Neighbors are people who park cars in the driveway next door. Strangers are everyone. Even him. Especially him. He has become suburbia. When he walks through the front door he can mute the channel when refugee eyes stare back. He is not obliged to look at them. Not obliged to be anything other than blind.

He imagines who you are. You are not on his island.

What about you? Do you live on the island of House? It is so easy, too easy to lock ourselves in behind picket fences, mowed lawns and automatic garage doors... don;t you think? Is there a group of people you tend to forget about because you are not 'less'? 

Last

(photo by Tabitha Bird)

As the sun fell from its throne in the sky it stretched its arms towards the horizon.
An attempt to catch itself?
Maybe.

It wove its fingers through the leaves of a Morten Bay Fig. The wind dappling the fingerprints of the last sunlight on the ground.
Last?
Maybe.

The grasses rose to meet the light like an animal arching it's back, eager for the stroking hand of a kind master. The sun breathed with the afternoon. I breathed too.
Stillness?
Maybe.

I wondered how many sunsets have morphed into the liquid dark of night without me seeing them. How many before this one?
An eternity?
Maybe.

As I my skin drank in the last light of the year, a new year crouching at the door of tomorrow, I opened my eyes and saw.  Not a last sunset. Not for me. For me, this was a first.
A beginning?
Maybe.

~

What about you? Happy New Year. How did you spend the last light of 2010? I went on a date with my camera. A new obsession. Photography.

For Shame

Since these moments are so small, I might have missed them...
For shame.

Tiny teardrops of water resting on my son's cheek before sliding off into his laughter and bath time splashes.

Fingers of the sun weaving through his baby hair as his chest rises and falls with the softness of an afternoon nap.

A drive to nowhere in particular with my seven-year-old when he looks out at the afternoon sky and says, "It looks like orange peel Mommy, only oranges are too bright. This sky is a smudgy orange, like peach-orange maybe."

The pride in my grandmother's voice from across the miles telling me she has all my letters, every single one. Right back to those I wrote while travelling through Asia.

The way he can't say dinosaur or hospital. 'DiN-a-Nors' and 'Hos-t-ables' make me smile.

His look across the dining room table, over the heads of our sons... over the noise... over the bubbling chaos of family mealtimes... his look that holds me.


Since these moments are so small, I might have missed them...
For shame.


What about you? Do you see the moments? If you are a writer, do you make a point of seeing?

Let It Go

Good reasons to let it go.

Relate this to whatever you like. Maybe a relationship. Maybe something you thought you wanted/needed and now you question. Maybe (if you are a writer) it is as simple as a book that you need to set free to fly. Maybe it is not something simple. Maybe it is something as huge as your heart or as deep as pain. My life started when I gave up. It just depends what you give up on. Maybe just maybe there is something to be gained in letting go. Something you will never gain if you keep holding on?

1. Holding on is killing you.

2. If you keep holding on you will melt it, squash it or bleed it dry.

3. How will you ever discover what someone else could do with it if you don't let it go?

4. There is something more precious to pick up.

5. The burden of carrying it is more than the value of the goods you hold.

6. Your arms ache. 

7. You have it in a head lock against its will. 

8. You can't take it where you want to go the way you are holding it right now. And in some cases, maybe you can't take it where you want to go period.

9. It can walk on its own. It needs to walk on its own. Possibly away from you. Possibly towards you.

10. It is time. The season for holding has past.

What about you? What do you need to let go? Do you ever reach that point in your writing?

And on a really personal note: At the edge of broken I met a very big God into whose hands I finally  Let it Go. And His hands both catch and hold. I even threw my life into those hands and He hasn't let me fall yet. 

[image]

When Slow is Fast

What do you see in this photo? The light post? The puddle? The gutter? The buildings? Or are you much further ahead? Is your mind already peaking around that corner wondering where the street leads?

I am not so great at the Here and Now.

I try.

Really I do.

But I can only manage the present in small doses. After that my mind is already at the edge of the next building, the next day, the next year or an alternative reality. Maybe that's because my Here and Now sometimes looks a lot like sitting in gutter, contemplating reflections in the glassy puddles hoping it won't rain again just yet because I am still sitting outside my life.

My husband is a Here and Now kind of guy. He misses most of the puddles in life and wonders why my feet are wet.

He's the romantic soul staring up at the light post saying, "Tab, you have to see this street when it's all lit up."

"It lights up?"

"Oh yeah, streets always light up."

"They do?"

"Sure they do. You just have to wait."

Waiting...yeah... I am not so good with the waiting...

That would entail Stillness. Reflections need stillness. Ever thought about how little you see of yourself if you are running past a mirror?

Finding things, really seeing things, often requires stillness. And I like to move. Just breathing and being... wow... I find that very hard.

But when I write and I can still me inside. The racing down roads, banging my head against brick walls or trying to slip around corners I have no hope of reaching can be stopped and I am still.

In that stillness I hear myself.

I see myself.

I find the whispering.

And I am able to listen.

A wise woman told me that stillness might really be fast, and fast is often slow. Because sometimes the quickest way to ourselves, to the Here and Now and all the beauty we seek, is in the going slow.

Fast just races.

It doesn't necessarily find what it is looking for. And fast has a tendancy to get lost a long, long way from home.

Fast often needs to back track.

Stillness feels its way down streets and notices the lamp post. It has time to wait for the lights to turn on. It finds puddles, but can also see its own reflection. Stillness has a better chance of finding what it is looking for because it is hard to miss what you are purposefully slowing down to notice.

No wonder I love to write and find myself in words.

What about you? Where do you find yourself on the street of life? What does your writing say about you and where you pull your words from?

With a Grateful Heart

I give thanks for;

strawberry kisses from my fruit lipped boys, blankie cuddles, wake up smiles
sleepy eyes, bedtime stories
soft words bathed in morning light, baby toes and boyhood pockets filled with sand

I give thanks for;

rain and reflections in glassy puddles, the chance to look, the time to wonder, long days and even longer afternoons that don't fade with the setting sun

I give thanks for;

dinner tables filled with chatter, home filled with the sound of them, mismatched shoes, and even missing socks because it means my family surrounds me

I give thanks for;

Him, for be held and holding on, for a reason to continue, a purpose to build hope on, someone who I know is looking for me even before I admit I am lost

I give thanks for;

life and living

for them

for us

and for the ability to stop

and say thank you

with a grateful heart

~

What? You didn't think I was going to miss Thanksgiving just because we don't celebrate it here in Australia did you?Happy thanksgiving y'all. Enjoy the thankfulness.

What about you? Got any simple things or small moments you are thankful for?

(PS- thank you for the prayers for my girlfriend. We are awaiting a positive outcome.

And I think I forgot to tell you all the winner of The Bartered Bride by Erica Vetsch was Shelley. Thanks to everyone who entered.)

[image]

Writing Here and There

There is over There.

Miles from where I am. Here is where I am.

Sitting. Wailing. Pulling out tuffs of grass.

Wondering if I will ever get There.

Because There is where the words come together.

Here is about irratiting things like stillness and balance.

Here is where words skid into sentences, sending dust flying and making me cough. Here is re-writing after the re-write. Head in hands. Then fingers hovering over keys.

Unsure.

Here is about reaching for some place I want to belong if only I could just... move.

There is where glorious paper realities live. My writing sticks its touge out at me. But it won't budge. It likes Here because this is where I am.

No one can work this hard and live here forever right? Like wind through trees. Leaves rustle. Moments. Pass.

Waves roll up on beaches. The moon draws the tide.

And I am going to find my legs.

One day I might be There.

Where I thought I'd die if I never arrived.

But then of course when I am There, then I am really again, Here again.

Because life is fluid. And the future is never home.

Here becomes home, every time you get There.

One day I hope we will go There together. My writing and I. We have dreams. Don't you? And when I knock on the door of There I will laugh and say, "Oh, so Here we are."

Magic. Hey presto. The joy of living in the now. The joy of finding joy half way up hills. Where ever your feet tread. Not easy... but I am taking in the surrounding landscape of Here.

After all There will always be There.

What about you? What do you do to enjoy Here while longing to be There?

If you knew you wouldn't fail...

What do you say when fear demands a face off?

Are you the bird who has something to say to the cat? Or do you take flight, nothing left behind but feathers...?

About two years ago a good friend asked me a question.

"What would you do if you knew you couldn't fail?"

I knew. But I'd wallpapered over the desire long ago.

"I'd write," I said.

But it took me another six months to face my fear of failing.

Now I can't imagine my life without words. What if I never answered this question? Would I have missed a large part of the fullness of my life?

Now I ask myself that question all the time. Is there something else I am not doing because I am afraid of failing? Then that is just the thing I need to be doing. I admit. I am the smart mouthed bird that has something to say to the cat... what is the worst that can happen, hey? :)

So what about you? "What would you do if you knew you couldn't fail?"

Most of you are already writing... so I am banning that answer. But I'd love to know, what secrete passions or "maybe I'll try that one day" things have you locked away inside?

Dear Old Age

Dear Old Age,

I am dying to know (pardon the pun) did we make it? Did we do everything we said we would? Bucket lists, shopping lists, to-do-lists, wish lists... forget the lists, girl!

I wanted to learn that it was the living that counted.

You remembered the writing, right? Tell me you didn't forget the writing... I don't think you did. It is who we are. Did we see the book in print?

Did we did we did we did we did we...

Okay, don't answer that. I want to live the moment, whatever it may be.

What about my boys? They're amazing, right. Cyrus, my monkey man, dancing on the back table with his fire truck, singing Baa Baa Hoo Dee Haa at the top of his little voice. Remember that? Cute. Let me guess... he grew up to be.... a stunt pilot? A formula one driver... no, no ...I have it... he is the first man to spider climb up the outside of the Empire State building. I knew it!

And Isaiah.... my story telling, clover picking, sweet heart. The boy who corrects my spelling already at age six and argues bedtime and bath time and, well, any time really... He grew up to be a.... lawyer? Doctor? The next Dr. Phil? What then?

No, you are right. I already know.

He followed his heart. He's content and settled. Loved. Making a difference. Especially to those around him. The one his little brother rings from Thailand asking to borrow money to buy an elephant so he can tramp through unknown jungles. Isaiah lends the money too, I bet. Laughing. "Take photos bro. I want to see the trek."

But I have to know... how many kids did I have? Two? Did I stop at two? Two seems like enough... but then... Baby fingers. Oh, sweet little baby fingers and toes...

And Matt, how is he? We are still blissfully wed aren't we? He stayed and I stayed and no body else came between... right? That's what I want. Love. When the hands of time crease our faces, I still want that giddy roller coaster ride. Don't you forget that. Don;t get stuck on the damn carousel. Can't stand the carousel. Same ole same ole. Round and around. We didn't let our selves get stuck on the carousel, did we? That's not Matt and I. Maybe we found a certain quietness, but not boring... don't you dare be boring!

And about that girl.. the one I ache for and miss. Did we find each other? Did I get to tell her that her name means sister. That I never forgot. That I held her close... that she is loved and we belong together...

Old age don't forget that I wanted to number my days and live each second. Each maddening change of wind, each beat of a butterfly's wing... I want to be there. Fully present. Known to those who love me and seen by those who care. You still live with passion, right? And even when your body can no longer fight, you don't lose the spirit that held you together through all that darkness. Don't you ever lose that girl. I wont be pleased and I'll have to come whoop your ass...

Lastly, tell me about Happy? Did we get there in the end? Was the road long? Too long? It wasn't all for nothing was it...? I did eventually stop beating me up, right? Tell me I don't do that anymore. Tell me I looked in the mirror and discovered who she was. You tell her she is beautiful now, don't you? Please oh please...

Never forget who she is... even now, when the lines are deep around your eyes, remember life the way only age and wisdom can.

Be you. Be free enough to be you. I know I will love you for it.

Kiss the stars when you get to heaven. Your babies will be watching the skies. Just like they do now. "Tell us Mummy, what lives up there?"

Remember what you said?

"Dreams. Dreams live up there. And in here too." And you pointed to their hearts.

Never forget, girl. I know they didn't.

Love Tab

(the oh so much younger than you Tab at just 32! Sorry Old Age, but remember how Sassy you used to be too. And don't loose that either! Don't go all Jane Austin on me, ya hear? )

What about you? What would you like to tell yourself in Old Age if you could go there and come back here and live towards that moment?

And Stuffed

Jazzed...

We have a winner! Congrats to Jessica of Bookin It. She is the winner of KM Weiland's latest book Behold the Dawn. (Email me Jess, I can't find your email address) Thanks to everyone who stopped by and left comments for Katie. Promoting author's work is important to me. (I promise the competition was fairly drawn. I wrote down all the names of everyone who left a comment on this post and then Matt (husband) drew the names out of a box.)

And Stuffed...

Right on cue she showed up again today. Miss Tired. Bang on 12:30pm everyday Miss Tired is lounging in my office chair looking up at me with big coffee brown eyes and saying things like, "You don't want to write. Come have a nap with me. Aren't you tired? You look tired?"

I take her hand and lead her out of the room, but five minutes later she is back and climbing on to my lap...

Not five minutes before I was bouncing off the walls with energy, putting my son to bed, racing into my office so I could start writing, and then there she is. She isn't even my kid. Though she hangs out at my place a fair bit. Do you know her? Miss Tired? She's sweet alright. She wants to be held, cuddled and rocked to sleep. But I if I give in, when would I ever write?

Today we had a little chat. Miss Tired and I. "It's the middle of the day. I need to write now or forever hold my peace because this is the only space in my busy day. Miss Tired I need you to go home, or go play or whatever it is that metaphorical children go and do..." (you didn't think I was really talking about a read child did you???)

Miss Tired was obliging, at first. Until she could see I was really going to ignore her and write. Then it was a full meltdown on my carpet. I called her mother, Mrs Motivation.

"Come get your daughter. I can't get anything done with her hanging around. Honestly how could such an inspirational couple like yourself and Mr. Motivation have managed to birth a Miss Tired?"

"Yes, we wonder the same thing. I blame his side of the family. There is the odd Mr.I-Don't-Feel-Like-It on his mother's side. Not a lot of dream chasers among that lot. Either that or Miss Tired is just going through the terrible twos."

"Have you considered a name change?"

"Hmmm..."

"Something along the lines of Miss Sleep-Later or Miss Rest-for-Five minutes? Or even Miss Put-me-to-bed-and-get-on-with-it?"

"Interesting... Redefining the problem... why didn't I think of that?"

"Because I rock and this is my blog."

"I'll let you have that one."

"Thank you."

Within minutes Miss Tired had been collected and swaddled off to the local name registry. I think. Actually don't call me heartless, but I could give a damn where she went. I need to get some work done...

What about you? Miss Tired and Parent often walk hand in hand. Miss Tired and Full Time Job live together. It's her elder brother. And Miss Tired and Mother with Full Time Job make for a house stuffed to the seams. Add Writer to that mix and you have... well, the need to call Mrs.Motivation.

What do you do when Miss Tired comes calling? (I have her mother's phone number if you want it...)

Here comes the sun

He's six now, this sun bathed baby. My first born. My breath of air right from the blue sky above. I look at this photo and remember that his brother wasn't born yet. I was five months pregnant and yes, in a bikini at the beach. That's my butterfly tattooed ankle there in the background. I can taste those fish and chips, no they were not fries... chips people, chips. And feel the baby squirming beneath the already taunt skin across my belly. There in that moment I felt like the mother I always imagined, my hopes immense like the sea beneath the warmth of that sun. Happy and settled. The new year just begun and summer in full swirl of sand and beach picnics...

September in Queensland (which is a state in Australia if you aren't too sure) is the beginning of the season of seagulls and sun, water babies and bare feet. How I love bare feet. We live but 35 minutes from the Gold Coast and 5 minutes from local beaches.

Today my youngest, the one I am pregnant with in this photo who is now two, was watching kids programs when a song came on that made me think of finding this picture. The song talks about the sun coming out after a long winter and the edges of ice melting...

That's how I feel today. Like the sun is coming... in many ways, the sun is coming. I feel like I have waited a life time. Maybe I have. And in many ways those rays are already touching my life. "Here comes the sun, little darling..." You know the song? I can't think of the name..

Just wanted to share the happy thought. I love summer in Australia. Wood burning BBQs and seafood and the promise of lots of drippy ice-blocks. Happiness. I am glad seasons turn. Especially those of the heart.

What about you? Does your season have sunshine, even if you are heading into winter?

Home

Where is home for you? 

Is it nestled in his favourite armchair, or beneath the throw rug that the two of you bought when you were newlywed? Does it sound loudly in the silly sayings that only the two of you understand? Do you hear it in the rain on your roof when you lay awake together just to listen? Do you feel it when he reaches for your hand or in the way he says your name? Are lead down the path to home every time you walk along that beach, through his park or beside your river? 

Is it a place beside a window where sunlight can hold you while you snuggle with your children? Is it seen in the scuff marks down the hallway from new leather shoes bought for the first day of school? Do you find it in the pages of your favourite book from childhood, or in the picture books your babies are now too old to read? Do you hold home in the softness of your newborn's fingers wrapped around your thumb? 

Do you hear it in the song you first danced to? In the music that made you sing when you were a teenager or in the lullabyes you hummed during those first wakeful nights?  

Is it in the yellowing photographs that take the hands of time back to when your grandmother was just a girl or your father just a boy? Is it in the scent of her perfume, in the way she brushed her hair, in the little movements her hands used to make when she talked? 

Do you find home in the garden that you planted to grow tomatoes just like you used to do when you were a little and your grandfather showed you how? Do you find home when your fingers trace the script of your great aunt's recipe for leek and potato soup? Is it there in the birthday cards from friends of all the years gone by? 

Do you taste home in your family's favourite meals or see it in the games you play on clover filled days under blue skies in the backyard? Is it in the squealing and pounding of small feet, far too early on a Saturday morning?

Is it beside him late on a Sunday night?

Where is home? 

How many people does it hold?

How many places has it known and how often do you live there?

Mine is all around me when I look when I choose to see. It is on the face of everyone I keep close. I have many little homes tucked away in all the thousands of memories that connect me to both my past and my future, but most importantly to my present.

What about you?

Where is your home?

Per Second

Is It My Time?

Sold, produced or cut down every second some where in the world...

150 trees cut down

9 computers sold

168 tones of food produced

27 mobiles sold

1.6 cars produced

3.5 bikes produced

Written, created or printed every second...

19 blogs created

17 books published every hour in the US alone

1 new book published somewhere in the world every 30 seconds

And somewhere out there in the cosmos...

200 stars are born somewhere out there beyond the moon

4.2 babies are born

1.7 deaths

Just Statistics. Meaningless... unless it was your blog, your book, your baby or your life.

It helps me to put things in perspective. Somewhere around this world there is husband who lost his wife. Somewhere there is unbelievable suffering. And somewhere joy just bloomed. A new mother holds her infant, a scientist discovered a new star, a writer just became an author...

Time and seasons ebb and flow, even sadness and joy. Some day maybe I will understand the meaning behind it all. But right now I am content to know that I am where I should be, doing what I should be doing... simply because this is where I am and this is who I am.

Perhaps I believe my time will come?

What about you? A book every thirty seconds... that's a lot of smiling writers!

(stats taken from http://smas.studiludens.com/ http://www.theherald.co.uk/features/2557-print.shtml http://www.BIGS.org )

Waiting

I am waiting.

Waiting to creep out from under my parent’s words that rain over me like hail. For the finger prints of their holding to be released and the bruising to heal.Waiting for the cocoon to open, for the wings to emerge, for the wind that dries them and for the hope that strengthens their veins.

I am waiting for the boy I have met to become the man I will marry.

Waiting for the years we will travel. The years when no place is home. The times when the only place that is home is the blueness of his eyes and our hands entwined.

I am waiting for the day we decided the two of us should become three. Waiting to be blessed. Waiting to be told I cannot. I should not. What sort of a mother would I make? Waiting to tell those doctors they were wrong. I can. We did. I will be.

I am waiting to hold him. Little fingers wrapping around mine. A glimpse of his father and touch of me. The breath of my future when I am long gone.

I am waiting to take him home. To wrap him close beside me on the plane as we travel the millions of oceans back to Australia. Waiting for his daddy to join us. Waiting to go back to the place where the two of us started, and the three of us will make a life.

I am waiting for his first words, first steps, all his firsts and my firsts, and together, our firsts. As a mother, as a family and as us.

I am waiting for the music that plays when he’s asleep and we have just each other to hold again. Waiting for the father’s day when I tell him we are expecting another. Waiting for the Christmas morning when we find out that our baby will be a little brother.

Waiting for the night we almost don’t make it to the hospital, and all the days after that I struggle with two boys and no sense of me.

I am waiting for the year I do not cope. Waiting for the unraveling. For the year I finally curl around myself and say enough, I need help.

I am waiting to find her. That voice like surging water that speaks into places others have not. For the ears that finally hear what I have been screaming my whole life. Waiting to peel back the times and memories.

I am waiting for the woman inside me to emerge, and for the man who lays beside me to stand.

I am waiting for the day we lay in bed, quietly tangled in each other’s arms, long after the storms of that previous year and look back and say, “Not everyone has this, do they? What we have… not everyone has this.”

I am waiting for that feeling of flight that comes when you finally see those wings hanging on the end of you bed. Waiting for the morning I get up and know how to put them on. Waiting to be me.

I am waiting for the day I look at my sons and can say with pride in myself, “I am their mother.”

I am waiting for the moment I realize we have had our last baby and our family is complete.

I am waiting for the words I write to be birthed into this world. For the things I feel to have meaning for someone other than me.

I am waiting to see my family holding my writing. I am waiting for the day my little ones can read it. Can understand for themselves. Can see how long the fight was, how trying the anticipation, and how determinedly I said, “I am waiting.”

What about you? What does waiting look like in your life? What are you waiting for? And why do you bother?

imperfectly perfect

This is dinner at my house...

"Boys! Dinner!" Me with polite first request. The term 'Boys' includes husband.

Hear nothing in response and yell sweetly again, "Boys! I-SAID-IT'S-DINNER!"

This time mummers come from the six-year-old who is busy writing Australia's next best novel or working on some mathematical equation he isn't supposed to come across until eighth grade. I'm joking. He's bright, but he's more likely to be drawing Ben-10 characters over and over again. You know Ben-10 right? Course you do!

Husband appears at the back door with a sodden toddler tossed over his shoulder.

"What happened?" I ask. I shouldn't have.

"He might have found the hose and wet the dog and then buried the..."

"Okay, okay, I changed my mind. I don't want to know."

"Should we bath him before dinner?"

Me looking at dripping sand and diaper hanging down between the toddler's knees...

"Yeah, that could be a good idea."

I sigh because I had high (if not naive) hopes of a hot dinner served straight to the table.

But I see the grin on the toddlers face and the smile on husband's.

Imperfectly perfect.

"Cool, does that mean I get to draw for a bit longer?" six-year-old head appears from the office.

"No, go have a bath with your brother."

"Ohhhh! I don't..."

"I don't want to hear it!" I finish for him, re-guiding the misguided sentence that was about the leave his mouth.

Fifteen minutes later the oven dial is still switched to 'keep warm' and when I peak in dinner is looking dry and more unappetising then it was prior.

But I hear the gleeful squealing as the dog joins the splashing in the bubble bath... and close the oven door. Even though I don't think husband has a lid on the bathroom shin ding...

                                                                                                       Imperfectly perfect.

Twenty minuets later and the bathroom floor needs mopping. Two boys are running down the hallway butt naked and Matt

 (husband I included with yelling for boys earlier) is chasing their giggling right down to their bedrooms and all the way back again. I am wondering if we are ever going to eat tonight.

But I see the chubby little legs running faster than they really should be, followed closely behind by the gangly boyish pair and their daddy chasing them with  arms snapping like a crocodile... and I smile.

Imperfectly perfect.

Then the phone rings. It's my mother. No, it's not a good time right now. Can she ring back later? 

When the toddler finally has his footsie jammies on and the six-year-old has the buttons on the front of his shirt nicely mismatched we attempt dinner. But I don't get the first bite in my mouth before a child dying of thirst needs his drink refilled. The dog takes advantage of me turning my back and eats the food the toddler was offering and the six-year-old delights in showing us how milk can come out of his nose. But we are all laughing. Even me.

Imperfectly perfect.

Eventually, food is eaten. Well, Matt and I eat, we bribe the toddler with the promise of ice-cream and the six-year-old takes the last piece of meat off my plate while I retrieved the toddler's spoon from the floor for the hundredth time. But the dinner table is full of cute toddler mispronunciations in attempts to talk that make us giggle. It is full of school day recounts involving a sand castle that Jimmy knocked down. How dare he?! And a rather teary tale of  losing a ball over the fence, yet again.

Imperfectly perfect.

"Glass of wine?" Matt asks when they run off to play until bedtime.

But he doesn't need to ask. I'm just getting up to find a bigger glass.

Family. 

Imperfectly perfect.

Self included.

Just the way I like us.

What about you?

What's imperfectly perfect in you life?

Good Thing, You Make my Heart Sing, You Make Everything Groovy.

Too many Pears! picture book by Jackie French

Pamela likes pears... the way that fish like water, mosquitoes like to bite me and the way that I like to read books. Only she's a cow who has found something better than the grass addiction so common to her kind.

One pear is good. Two pears is twice as nice.

A library is lovely, a book shop is fun and an open credit limit is priceless. Debit is not. It has a cost. So does overindulgence.

Pamela is about to find that out. She's a pear glutton. Pamela likes pears even more than Amy.

Pamela likes Amy's lunch pears, her picnic pears, her dessert pears and the pear pie she baked to replace the dessert that Pamela ate. Poor Amy.

I like books. Books in the bath, books before bed, books before morning and books with dessert. Books in the bath with dessert is even nicer. Books, bath, dessert and a glass of wine... heaven!

Poor my husband Matt. When I was not at uni, not at work and not out with friends, I was reading. I had yet to discover writing. Matt did not know about my reading. We had only lived together for a short time before we were married. Not long enough for him to discover.

Pamela liked pear picking. Poor Amy's pear tree. Amy picked lots of pears. Pamela picked more.

Matt tried to get into the reading thing once. He read one book, yah him. When he finished, I'd read three.

Grandpa fenced off the pear tree. Pamela crawled under. Who knew cows could crawl? See why I love to read. The things you learn.

Grandpa tried tying Pamela to another tree. Pamela learnt to pear pick with a tree dragging behind her. Amy bemoaned ever getting another pear to eat in her life.

Matt tried ignoring my reading. I didn't notice. Matt rolled over when the bedside light was still on. It was still on at 2am. Matt had fallen asleep. I had finished yet another book.

Then Amy had an idea. She laid on a pear feast for Pamela's pear fetish. Chocolate pears, baked pears, cream and pears, pears and cake, pears of all varieties and colours and shapes.

Matt had ideas too. He found my library card. I wondered where it was! He came with me to borrow books. We were newly wed. We had no cash. We were saving money. Then he watched me pay the replacement fees on all the books I lost. Now we were not saving money.

So Matt bought me books for my birthday, books for Christmas and books for Easter. Then he bought me books because he loved me, books because it was the weekend, books because it was Friday, then Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. It was no longer fun to buy me books. So I bought myself books. Just because. And I read.

Pamela ate and ate.

I read and read.

When Pamela got to 600 pears she turned a nice shade of green.

When Matt and I had been married about a year he turned a nice shade of green too. And I noticed the widening gap between us. I didn't know how his day was, didn't see him come home, didn't see him go to bed. We chatted at the dinner table, but then I went back to reading. Okay, it might not have been this bad, but it was not much better.

Pamela wasn't smiling anymore.

I wasn't either.

The very next day Grandpa took Pamela out into the garden to show her the pear tree. Pamela wasn't interested.

Matt bought me another book. I bought me another book. But I also wanted to share me with the man who still ventured to buy me books. These days I am just as likely to read to 2am as I am to talk to Matt until the wee hours of the morning. We know each other. Very well.

Pamela discovered apples.

Matt read another book. His second. Yah him. Again.

Then I discovered writing...

We'll work it out.

To purchase your copy of Too Many Pears, a must read for anyone who understands the belly aches of an overflowing, slightly out of balance life... or anyone who just wants to laugh with their kids about crawling cows that turn green after consuming 600 pears, click here.

To read more about author Jackie French and her whacked sense of humor, click here.

Of course there are libraries... for those of you who know where your cards are and would spend less in library fees than you would just buying the book outright.

Whatever. Enjoy :)

Simple Things

I made a monumental error in mummy judgement. In my defense, I was tired and the boys (2 & 6), were happily watching a DVD.... time for a short rest on the bed?

( I know. I know.)

And for five minutes there was silence.

I was just stretching out when sounds of rustling and cupboards banging reached my ear. And then came the giggling....

And I discovered that...

1. when two boys are playing, silence means they have discovered something.

2.when two boys are playing giggling means you should quickly go discover what it is that they have discovered.

AND

3. Happy is made up of simple things.

My boys found a roll of trash bags and... well, the photo tells the rest of the story.

I thought I'd share, because today sucked, and I need to remember where happiness lives.

So here's my list of five simple things that take me straight to happy every time.

1. butterflies, dragonflies, things that fly...

2. been awoken by rain in the middle of the night

3. the silence of snow falling ( I haven't always lived in sunny Australia :)

4. letting myself be held

5. and my giggling boys...yes, even when they unravel the trash bags.

What about you? Where does your Happy live?

Writing Blabber- Happy?

"Mediocrity is the best camouflage known to man." Bryce Courtenay

As a teacher I heard a lot of parents tell me that all they wanted for their children was for them to be happy. And I applaud them. Really. After all, what I want for myself is happiness. Writing makes me happy, water skiing makes me happy, boxing makes me happy, running makes me happy, being with my family makes me happy... but I am wondering if that is enough?

Happiness is a wonderful thing, I could use a bottle of it tucked in my back pocket some days just so I could take a swig every now and then, but ultimately what's going to make me happy is being more than a walking smile. I want to be the best I am able to be under the might hand of God. I am not shooting for 'middle of the road' or 'enough to get by in life.' I want more. I ache for more.

I want to know that I did everything I could with the strengths and weakness I found in my life. Maybe that's a bit of the perfectionist coming out in me, and I am sure I could do with letting up on myself occasionally, especially when I really am doing all I can. But I don't want to fall in a rut. Easy Street has lots of hidden heartbreaks. Not in the least the real big one 'regret'. What if? I wonder? I want to minimise regret in my life.

I think those writers that 'made it' had to make a decision somewhere along the way, that whether they got published or not they were going to keep writing and perfecting their craft for as long as they were going to call themselves serious writers. I don't think being published is the mark of success. I think knowing you are giving your writing your utmost and following your heart is a better bench mark. I think that's a pretty damned good bench mark for most things in life.

Every time I put a word on a page I risk failing, but I am hopeful that the person I am underneath my words eventually shines through to be all she can be.

Now that WOULD make me happy!