I can’t even say that, when the matriach died, the family ripped apart at the seams. It was more like a disintegration. Like a pie thrown against a wall sliding down slowly. Big fat mess that no one took responsibility for cleaning up. Just left the room and kept walking.
The siblings are just so different – conversations might as well be in four languages.
Soon after my mother died, a friend of my sister’s came to visit me. She was worried that we wouldn’t have a focus. ‘You need a hub’ – I believe she was projecting as she tangent-ed off to talk about her own siblings, their mother still alive but leaving this mortal coil as fast as she could. By the time W left she was smiling and seemed totally at ease. ‘You’re the new hub’. We clearly don’t know each other well, it was a duty visit, and so she had no idea during her middle of the night worries about this family, not her own, that I could possibly have the capacity to hub it. She left relieved.
Thanks W but I ain’t no hub, no intention of glueing that lot together.
I went out with a lovely guy today dear readers, but he is not for me.
Even before we met, my daughter said ‘he’s your pigeon man mum’…you know, sex in the city reference.
He was late. And while I waited I counted six people I knew at the coffee shop. I was feeling uncomfortable at the sight of the first few but by the time I saw my cousin drive past I just burst out laughing. Would anyone else like to join me on my first first date in a long while?!
Cappuccino and latte later I’d had a great conversation with a gorgeous man and that’s enough to be happy with for today. First dates – not for the faint hearted😉
Looks like a painting doesn’t it? Australian colonial bush…
That’s the view I woke up to last weekend. We spent three days two hours up the road, in the vineyards, and woke to that view and the sounds of birds I didn’t recognise. Those bird calls must have woken me as a child but I don’t remember…perhaps I had no interest then.
The cottage is in a little valley of peace. I walked, breathed slowly, and just was. Time moved very slowly. The hill out front, beyond the vines, close enough that you could make out specific trees. So many varieties. Kangaroos and wallabies in the paddock behind – statues, so nearly camouflagued as the tree stumps and rocks they posed beside.
At night we cooked outside, sang, danced, and gazed at the stars.
We took long drives during the day, on windy dirt tracks, past farms we can’t afford. A strange encounter with a Hare Krisna devotee. Yes, in the middle of nowhere he stood in the middle of one of those dirt roads and flagged us down. We were invited to a lunch celebrating Krisna’s wife Radha’s birthday. Thanks but we had vineyards to visit, books to read (no internet/phone reception!), country air to breathe without conversation…
I think I want to live there. At least part time.
I came back from the beach last month serene and resolved. I knew what I wanted to do.
It didn’t last.
Confusion was only playing hide and seek, and laughing at the game. Now it’s back full strength and no amount of pondering shifts it. Should I leave my job? Should I apply for others, or retire? Would I even get another at my age? And by retire do I mean move into full time grandmother/childcare mode.
I keep waiting to just Know the answer.
At the beach I woke up to, if I’m even thinking about it there is my answer! And so I applied for a new job. Not having been called for interview probably helped confusion to escape it’s hiding spot.
Is this inner conversation palpable? The boss has requested time next week to ‘discuss my future’ – will at least part of the decision be made for me?
Once I overheard ‘you’ll find forced change can be a good thing’…
I know you can’t let your ‘sorry’ out.
I’ll pass you one of mine anytime you like. You can pass it back…or keep it, as you wish. You don’t even have to tell me what I’m signing. Whatever it is though, I am so, so sorry.
You know the door is always open – metaphorically.
I’ve just spent a couple of days at the beach house. It instantly comes to mind when I see the word sanctuary. In reality though, we carry our sanctuary around inside our own heads, don’t we.
It seems like, almost every day this month, there’s been bad news story after horrifying news story. I went to the beach to clear my head but why should I be able to escape hearing about the pain, and fear in the world that others are living?
Last night in Australia the news was all about our appalling juvenile justice system, and, warning the vision is disturbing. Prior to that, on four separate news breaks throughout the day I heard the Health Minister apologising for the tragic error that caused the death of a newborn boy – nitrous oxide instead of oxygen pumped into the little fella. I felt like throwing up, not just at the story, but the ineffective ‘apology’.
Where is their sanctuary? This mother…and those young boys.
Sanctuary|The Daily Post
One weekend, when we were here together, Ali painted the view. I wish I’d asked to have it. It wasn’t as if we didn’t talk about death, her death, but it didn’t seem appropriate to say ‘when you die, can I have that painting?’!
Today the sea is flat and grey. The sky light blue, with a white streak as though someone has dragged their paintbrush across the canvas. No boats out, other than two tankers on the horizon. And helicopter count 1.
No birds on the deck the last two days – is it too cold despite the sunshine? From time to time though, a unseen family of kookaburras cracks up about something.
I’ve got less than 24 more hours to contemplate my future – but that’s another post…