a big insight

My family decided to call me on speaker phone tonight. I like that. They were thinking of me while they were together and they wanted to share.

The only problem is, when people call me on the mobile on speaker phone, I can never hear properly. Voices are distant and muffled and fuzzy, and the only thing that comes through clearly is the laughter. And is that laughter directed at me? Are they laughing because they think it's funny I can't hear them? Is it all a big joke to make me look stupid? I feel nervous and embarrassed and I just want it to end.

Of course it wasn't a big joke. My family love me, they were thinking of me, they invited me to join the evening.

Thank you. I love you all too. (That is a very, very, very enormously big display of emotion right there. Read it and treasure it. It may not happen again for a very long time. That is the warped-ness of our family)

Suddenly, in a moment of blinding insight, I realised this must be what it is like for deaf people. Kind of getting the drift of what is happening, not really hearing, lip reading a bit he... damn, they turned away, seeing signs of laughing or sadness but perhaps not quite knowing why. So. cut. off.

A healthy moment of insight I feel. A sneak peek into another world.

So thank you for calling me on speaker phone... but please could you pass the phone around next time. I really did want to talk to you all!

shaping the future

I still remember the day my little brother was born. We called Coonabarabran home. Mum had been wearing pastel Princess Diana style maternity tents for some time and I was in grade 3. I can't fill you in on such facts as the day of the week or the weather because twenty six years are quite a stash to blow the dust from. Besides, I was momentarily disappointed at having a baby brother rather than a baby sister. Tears were shed, and while I think perhaps I might remember grey sky, this probably has more to do with the perceived upset to my sibling dreams than the true state of the weather! Dad collected us from school and off we trundled to the local hospital where we all fell in love with Luke.

Actually I have only the haziest of recollections of the hospital and I cannot remember anything of my first glimpse of Luke. It must have happened, but my memories are more around his impact at home. He was a delightful cutie, more so because I didn't share a room with him - there were some spin offs to not having a little sister.

I remember wondering how Luke would sound when he started to talk. What would his voice be like? It never occurred to me that his gurgles and chuckles and goos and gaas were the precursor to his voice; that gradually the sounds would be moulded into words, then phrases and later, sentences; that his voice had been there all along, if only I had listened.

Twenty six years later and Luke's still talking, only now he sometimes uses a camera as well as words to express himself. My baby brother is a grown man on the cusp of fatherhood, and I'm proud of him. I love our lengthy, spirited conversations on msn and his quirky sense of humour. I'm still coming to terms with his dress sense, but hey - he is who he is, that is part of him as surely as the sound of his voice, and I honestly wouldn't swap him for any sister in the world!

I don't have to wonder any more about the sound of my brother's voice, but I still wonder who people will become in the future, not least myself. Already there are ingrained habits, ways of being, methods of doing I perform every day. I might call myself a free spirit but I like the bed made a certain way, the saucepans in their place and the towels hung neatly. I can imagine myself an old woman not unlike many of the patients I have nursed, fussing over the way my teeth are cleaned or how my singlet is tucked into my undies. Sometimes I allow my wondering to touch more on deeper themes of who I will be. Will I be gracious and gentle, or a querulous old bat, hell bent on making my carers lives miserable?

It seems to me the answer to these musings is found in the story of my brother. Just as his voice was there all the time, waiting to be turned to vowels and consonants, the old woman I will become is already here. The makings of who I will be and the legacy I will leave are hidden in my being. The difference is that while Luke's speech development was guided by genetics, instinct and developmental drives, I hold the keys to shaping who I will become. The choices I make today are the building blocks of the woman I will be. This is sobering and liberating all at once.

There have been a number of occasions recently where I have stopped and thought 'is this who I want to become?' Like the evening at the cinema when the woman behind us complained loudly and clearly 'Why do they have to sit there?' as Frank and I selected seats in front of her. I turned and said 'Because they are good seats. Because we can.' Or the day I observed a school girl throw a plastic bag on the grass at the park - I walked straight over and asked if she had finished with the bag before picking it up and telling her it wasn't OK to just throw rubbish on the ground. When I noticed the lights on at the local sports ground two days in a row I phoned the council and asked why they were on (they were being serviced in readiness for an upcoming football match), since they were creating an expense to both my tax dollar and the environment.

Three almost inconsequential moments. Three opportunities to respond. Three events that shaped the woman I am still becoming. Do I like where my responses are taking me? Assertive (yes, I like this); passionate (may I always be someone who acts on the strength of my convictions); making a difference (please, please let me be a woman who makes a difference); gracious... hmmm, maybe not. On no occasion was I rude, but were these points worth making?

I like that these three cameos saw me respond to situations that troubled me. It would be so easy to let life sweep me by, disempowering me in the force of its flow. Here were three occasions on which I chose to respond to my concerns. I had a voice and I like that. But let me not raise my voice for the sake of it. Rather let me become a thoughtful woman who steps forward with ever greater confidence and gentleness, softly but with strength. Those traits are already hidden within. Now is the time to let them grow.

this is a little bit embarrassing

Embarrassing for a couple of reasons:

1. My internet connection stuffed itself up this afternoon. No, really, it did stuff itself up. I came home from work and it was slow as slow as stopped. I confess I may have added to the problem when I started fixing it. And then I forgot how to reset my modem and I flapped around in a state of near panic, because how on earth was I going to NaBloPoMo?!
2. In my state of panic I phoned my computer-nerd brother and got my gracious, kind sister-in-law. I shared my NaBloPoMo fears. She offered soothing, sympathetic noises and (she is so nice and understanding) offered to post for me if it came to that. I cornered my Dad on the phone, but he didn't know how my modem worked. And my brother turned out to be uncontactable.
3. I realised I was skipping a step in the modem resetting process. As soon as I followed the instructions to the letter my connection was restored. I then phoned everyone back to assure them everything would be alright.

My sister-in-law said something very thoughtful though: 'It's a tradition now'. So it's not that I'm crazy or obsessed or anal about NaBloPoMo. Oh no. Not that at all! NaBloPoMo has become a meaningful blogging tradition. No, seriously!

sight seein'

goodbye grandpa

It had all the necessary ingredients for turning into a disastrous affair - ex-husband and wife rubbing shoulders for first time in nearly three years, mentally ill daughter on day release, unforgiving in-laws, granddaughter with a flare for the dramatic. To be honest I was dreading it, and if the last funerals I attended were anything to go by, with good reason.

Take my father-in-law's affair. Old and new families sat in strained silence on opposite sides of the funeral chapel, one nursing memories of an angry, violent man, the other recalling a kindly soul who loved dancing and always remembered their birthdays. The two extremes of experience were revealed in heartfelt eulogies and the tension was palpable. As we stood around the grave and threw down the obligatory flower my heart ached for the losses of the first family - the loving relationships that had never been and now never could be. It was painful, awkward and all together tragic.

Then there was the funeral Frank and I attended almost a year ago for the son of church friends. He had committed suicide following the breakdown of his marriage. Six young children sat fatherless and crying, yet all his friends could offer to one another by way of comfort were memories of a hard drinking man who loved a good party. Despite the best efforts of the minister it was a bleak affair that matched the grey sky and blustery wind outside, devoid of hope and comfort. He was gone and I could not shake the sense of it all being a tragic waste.

Finally in May, there was the funeral for our young neighbour who drank himself into an early grave. As his two year old daughter danced around the coffin, oblivious to her loss and the sadness of those around her I felt overwhelmed. Another life thrown away, another soul unable to cope with life's pain, lost forever.

It is probably not too surprising then that the thought of another funeral was less than inspiring. Never mind that he was my grandfather, that he had lived a long, full life and made it to 95 - the potential for uncomfortable family confrontation overshadowed all else in my thinking. Of course, me being the granddaughter with a flare for the dramatic, I rather played up the possibility of disaster for the sake of a good story. Nevertheless, the potential was real. My mother decided to travel from Adelaide to say her goodbyes despite her recent divorce from my father. I do have an aunt with schizophrenia and I don't like to predict how she might have responded. My other aunt and another uncle have had no contact with my mother since the divorce and the aunt once deliberately told me not to visit before cutting me off in her letter writing. Who knew how the relationships might all play out in one room together?

As it was I am glad I went. I do not feel overly sad Grandpa is gone. Throughout much of my life we lived far apart and I never really knew him. (What was it like in World War II? What did he think about my parents divorce and my father's consequent remarriage?! What wisdom from such a long life could he pass on to me as I make my own way through the world?) During brief childhood visits I remember the unmistakable smell of their home, but my memory is of an austere man intent on disciplining rather than enjoying his grandchildren. Later, as an adult I visited whenever I was in Melbourne and wrote from time to time. Grandpa always replied immediately to my letters and assured me of his love and prayers before tucking in a little snippet of encouragement from a church newsletter or magazine. He had mellowed in his old age into a gentle man who loved nothing better than to talk about his latest readings on God.

It was impossible not to notice Grandpa's increasing frailty - between broken hips, skin disorders and problems with his gastrointestinal tract he felt his age and was ready to go. For some time he had been voicing his desire to join Jesus and my grandmother in the next world. Death was a release. I feel the loss of his love and prayers for my well being, but I am happy Grandpa is now where he wanted to be, no longer struggling with an old body that could barely do what he wanted it to.

And the funeral? Mum and Dad were perfectly civil and polite and I enjoyed spending time with them and one of my brothers on the drive across the city. My mentally ill aunt did not attend. Due to my need to return to Tasmania for an evening appointment, I missed seeing the other aunt. My uncle struggled to look at or speak to me or my mother, but that is his burden to bear. I loved catching up with my other aunt - and my cousins who I have not seen for more than ten years were delightful company.

Despite all my misgivings it was a good day - a fitting tribute to my grandfather from whom we all came.

winded

I shouldn't be surprised - that's how life goes. Someone even captured it in a silly little ditty:

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Mary with a baby's carriage.

Or: first comes love, then comes shacking up, now here's Myrtle with a baby's carriage.

Or: first a one night stand, then a baby's carriage plus a whole parcel of accompanying dilemmas.

Whichever the route, male and female match ups frequently result in children. This is not news. It is not shocking.

But still, I was shocked. So shocked I felt winded. As if I had been punched in the stomach.

Friends unwittingly informed me of three pregnancies in three sentences. And why wouldn't they inform me? How could they possibly be aware of my secret pain when I was barely aware of it myself. I had no idea how I would be affected by the unexpected news. They might even have thought my lack of immediate response could be attributed to concentrating on driving rather than sitting in stunned silence.

I thought I was doing alright with the whole 'we can't have children right now' thing - I've been working on a positive attitude and sometimes I can sense circumstances changing sufficiently that children might happen for us too.

But I was completely unprepared, and I am not alright, and my head is spinning and I feel my world has crumpled a little and I want to cry because my situation seems hopeless while others remain blissfully unaware of the inordinate blessing of being able to conceive without difficulty, because as the ditty says, it just happens.

I'll catch my breath and stop feeling sorry for myself soon. I'll remember the incredible blessings that shower my life. I'll find strength to choose to appreciate the beautiful moments without mourning the empty space where a child might sit.


Just breath Cecily, breath. In... and out... in... and out...

Catch your breath honey, it will be alright.

'fess up you computer geeks

Who writes this stuff?

Roger Federer has no sooner been knocked out of the Australian Open (I know... outrageous) than the result is included on his wikipedia record right down to the scoreboard! Heath Ledger was barely dead and all the sketchy details were written into his wikipedia entry.

I know... I'm googling them, so I have no right to point the finger at such computer geekiness (I only wanted to know who Federer's pretty girlfriend is), but really... have these people no lives but they must take on the responsibility of editing wikipedia pages the moment anything noteworthy (or not) happens?

To rescue myself from computer geek status I must inform you that I spent the last three days (at various times) burning all my files onto CD (twice) in order to ensure a sturdy system of backups. Only after I had completed all this did my truly nerdy brother (seriously, he, like, works with computers all day, every day) start telling me about external hard drives... you mean I could have saved those hours of endless wrangling with a broken burner and dud CDs by just plugging in a hard drive and copying everything over in an instant? You didn't think it was worth telling me about this before all that wasted time? Time is a resource of great value - it would have been worth the investment.

Grrrr

So now I'm ready to delete my entire hard drive and rebuild my computer. Technically ready. Mentally the thought of this scares me silly, so I may well fill my hard drive with another year of useless information before I do the deed. Except my computer is getting slower and slower and slower so something must be done.

Anyway, I've decided to stop moaning about nursing since I've discovered that being an IT consultant would be the most tedious occupation in the world. With my geeky brother's most excellent tutelage I will rebuild my computer myself, but once I've proven I can do it... next time it will be off to the nearest computer shop. Why put myself through this? I'm no computer geek and it just might be worth paying someone else to do this stuff.

But I'll probably keep googling anyone who dies or otherwise piques my interest.

two years today

Two years of wedded bliss.

Well truthfully, it hasn't all been wedded bliss, but it surely has been close.

(Now is not the time to tell me we are but babies in the world of marital conjugation and just wait to see how jaded we feel in ten years time. Living wedged between the jaded feelings of our respective parents provided insights galore into possible ways to avoid this state of being. Whatever it takes)

So, two years. What can I say? There are ups and downs, bumpy patches, delights, treasured moments.

For me, I'm learning to relax and capture those treasured moments. You know, blink and you miss them, and if you were worrying about what to cook for tea, or the gunge in the bathroom... well, the moment is gone and it wasn't even a moment. It was just a tick of the clock. So I'm sitting in the marriage and relishing the good things. And thinking about how I contribute to the not so good things. And reaching towards solutions that might help the not so good things become... well... good things. (Call me idealistic)

And Frank? Well, he still doesn't hang the towels straight, or get every speck of food off the dishes but... who gives a heck?! He's the kindest most patient man on earth.

We're happy. Two good years. The rest is inconsequential. (For today, while the sun is shining and the rosebud is blooming... wink)

Update: The coolest thing is that when I popped into town this morning, I visited the cafe operated by the people who hosted our wedding. While sipping my chai I saw my beautician who did my fingernails for the day, and she was talking to the girl who did the flowers! I love living in a small city.

poop de loop iv

This had me laughing and laughing - a Christmas present from my brother and sister-in-law, who seem to appreciate my fascination with all things poop since they have chosen to feed it. I love the penguin connection too! Thanks guys.

And here he is in action...

(No idea what the extra picture is about sorry... it isn't anywhere in the html on the post. I wish I wasn't so computer ignorant)

dang! i've hit the wall

I think twelve months of neglect have caught up with me. I'm absolutely exhausted, although at least now my grumpiness has been replaced by tears.

I'm a mess. Confused, jumbled, higgledy piggledy, all at sea. I can't work out who I am or what I think or how I feel. I take back everything I said about the lack of poise of the mother in 'Songs of the Humpback Whale' for I have myself lost all my poise.

This I know:

It's my blog and I'll cry if I want to, cry if I want to, cry if I want to...
Life is a journey. This is just a dip in the road.
I do love my Dad. I need to work towards acceptance and forgiving.
Stuffing emotions and reactions down for twelve months is not healthy.
Self care throughout the year is essential for survival.

Here's to a more cheerful post next time. It is Christmas after all.

(Oh. That's something else I know. I don't like Christmas. Too many tricky negotiations)

both/and as opposed to and/or

My Dad phoned last night after I had gone to bed. He was in Darwin and forgot how late it was in Tasmania. Frank took the call and informed him of my whereabouts before coming to bed himself. I fell into a fitful sleep fueled by fanciful dreams of telling Dad exactly what I thought of his remarriage. Our imagined conversations followed the usual dreamy vein of things, never quite going to plan. I woke up muddled and tired.

As a holiday treat I bought a new Jodi Picoult book, Songs of the Humpback Whale. Personally I like it least of all her books I've read. Something just didn't sit right with me; too much sex, overtones of warped incest, too rapid a fall into earth shattering love. The story struck me as unlikely, the daughter was implausibly wise for her years, and while the mother may well have been exquisitely unsure of herself so was the lead character in the last Jodi Picoult book I read. I laid the book aside with a taste of ash in my mouth.

What did pique my interest was the way both the main character and her daughter had no love in their hearts for their fathers.

Is this possible? With enough provocation, do daughters just stop loving their fathers? Or do they carry around in them a buried love that is almost impossible to locate, a forever longing for a connection not marred by violence or sex?

I don't know... for me, I still love my Dad. I also long for a better connection.

hair through the ages

I've had a few hairstyles in my time...

Sweet bowl cut...

Big fringe...

Little fringe...

Long hair...

Short hair...

Pefect bob...

Crazy mess...

But in all that time I don't think I've tried anything like this...

In truth I always saw it as poor taste to put your hair up in a pony tail while it was still very short - as if you were impatient for it to grow and had gone to ridiculous lengths to prove you were getting somewhere.

And now?

Well this is the latest look. In Tasmania at least.
And it does cover up a less than perfect cut by the local apprentice... I really must remember to book in advance in order to access the pro cutter! Not that I'm a hairdressing snob or anything.

(Thanks to my Mum for the photographic record of each and every do I ever had... in fact, thanks to my Mum for the majority of the dos!!! ;)

green tea toothpaste

I've been to Armidale and back, but it feels like I've been to hell and back.

Oh, OK. Maybe that's too dramatic... but there's no escaping the intensity.

This was my second trip to Armidale for residential school. Both journeys have been quite surreal.

I jump on the plane, land in Sydney, hire a car, hold myself tensely as I drive through a busy, unfamiliar city to Newcastle where I reconnect with a family I hardly know now. After late night conversations spent attempting to recapture our commonality, I slide behind the wheel and drive six hours into country New South Wales. There the magpies woo me as I tumble backwards to a time when my family was together. Mother, father, sister, brothers. It wasn't always happy, but we were together.

In class I slide further into the depths of what once was. Trauma, violence, grief, loss - the topics of a counselling course. The subjects of a lifetime. And so I sink still more into the past, trawling through the detritus of what was. Of what might have been. Of what never will be.

On the final day of school I start ascending to the surface. The deconstructed pieces of my soul slide slowly back into place before I slip behind the wheel once more and drive back the way I came. Back to the family I know a little better now. Back to the busy city. Back to the plane that takes me homeward. Back to Frank.

As I step out into the wintery sunshine that glints and glistens on the snow capped mountains I break through the surface of the past and gulp in the air of the present as Frank pulls me back from where I've been.

Drained, but in one piece. Bruised, but not destroyed. Glancing over my shoulder at the hazy skid marks of a road trip that wrung me dry.

Nothing much is clear about the last few days. It's all a murky memory. Except for the green tea toothpaste. A relic from last year's trip to China. ("Try this green tea toothpaste Cecily, it's interesting!" So interesting I left it untouched in the vanity cabinet drawer until the tube of Macleans Extreme Clean was discovered split in it's box as I scrambled with last minute packing) It's acridic taste curled my tongue and etched itself onto my brain. Perhaps forever.

So Armidale? Res school? Oh yes, I remember. That's when I journeyed back in time and into myself. When I sampled that awful green tea toothpaste. Yes, I remember Armidale.

What a trip!

five years of love

On this day five years ago, Frank and I went on our first ever date. It was a rather awkward affair in which I attended his house for a brief viewing of Jag before we timidly headed out to see Minority Report. I remember loving the movie but hoping there would be no rude scenes as I did not want to sit through that embarrassment with a strange man beside me.

Ah, so much water under the bridge since that night, but back then we were both just testing the waters. I was fairly intent on heading overseas to tell the world of Jesus. Frank, apparently having never expected me to say yes, was convinced we'd never make it past the first date. How wrong we both were. How delightfully wrong!

Not that getting together was the simplest thing that ever happened. It took us a whole month to organise that first date.

He phoned me one Sunday evening to 'run a few things by me', but my flat at bible college was fill of giggling girls, so he decided to phone back later. We held our first conversation to the back drop of several girls quietly staking out my bedroom in order to hear exactly what 'running a few things by me' might mean. Of course it meant 'How old are you?' and 'Where do you see yourself heading?'... asked far more discretely than that of course, but I got the gist and went into shock. I had absolutely no idea where this call came from!

My strongest recollection of the whole affair is the trembling that overcame me for the next few days. And journalling into the deep of night. I was heading overseas! I was following God to the ends of the earth. And suddenly this. this. this man was asking me out?! And he was fifteen years older than me to boot, so he was Serious about the asking.

Or was he? It was trickier than that. Of course! No, Frank didn't just phone me up and ask me out. He left me hanging, trembling, anxious to know if 'How old are you' might progress to something more. I shivered for a week, overcome by the sense that this was something Big, before a little letter appeared amongst all the other mail on the college dining room table.

"I've heard Minority Report is in the same genre as the Matrix. If I asked you out, what would you say?"

I wrote back a postcard with only "I'd say maybe" written on it.

The next letter from Frank formally asked me to join him... he couldn't resist my 'deliciously tantalising response'.

And so, five years ago tonight, we mustered up all our courage and started out on the journey of growing together. It's been a hard, convoluted road at times, but after three years we got engaged (yes, that's two years ago tonight but that story will have to wait until next year!) and in two days we mark our eighteen month wedding anniversary (I know, I know... get over it and stop counting!). Not bad considering we didn't really intend for any of this to happen!

And how did we celebrate? I packed my bags to head to Armidale for another residential school. Exciting huh?! I did buy some yummy mini berry cheesecakes. Delicious. And the best bit was sharing them.

I love you Frank.

may I recommend... (or 'redeeming the cultural void')

Life in my childhood home consisted of silence, intermittently broken by arguments. Or was it arguments intermittently broken by silence? I'm not exactly sure now. Whichever it was, there wasn't much in the way of music to be heard in our house.

What music there was was only heard after careful censoring by the parental watchdog. (Think Kid's Praise. I can probably still sing every song in the purple book word for word if you asked me nicely!) The music censoring went hand in hand with careful censoring of any book I borrowed from the library. Of course they only saw the books I thought they'd approve - the rest stayed well and truly hidden under the blankets!

So while other kids were into... um... heck, I don't even know what they were into! Aside from big fringes (and let's not go there), my teenage years were a cultural wasteland that left me blushingly ignorant of anything typically eighties or nineties. Heaven forbid that a secular song should vibrate across my eardrums and pollute my soul.

Maybe I didn't miss much (how will I ever know?!), but I feel the loss now in the deep void that passes for the sound of my childhood. Each generation has a trademark sound, but mine is forevermore unknown to me - even if I bought every eighties compilation CD available to humankind it would make no difference. That era has passed and cannot be inculcated into my social history at this late stage.

Which all goes a long way to explaining why I like classical music. (That intro turned into something bigger than Ben Hur - am I carrying a chip on my shoulder here?!) Not at the expense of all other music of course. I have fairly eclectic taste extending from Country to Trance to International, but if my soul is in pain, nothing soothes it better than a piece of achingly beautiful classical music.

And now I'm delighted to report another soul-soothing addition to my classical CD collection: Wild Swans by Elena Kats-Chernin, performed by the Tasmanian Symphony Orchestra and Jane Sheldon.

I'm not a huge fan of contemporary classical music, but this CD is wonderful, all Australian and, delightfully, I found out about it by accident! When I joined the TSO mailing list they sent me an email boasting about the success of their CD in the UK Classical Charts. One track has recently been used in a Lloyds Bank advertisement and the whole country seems to have fallen in love with Elena Kats-Chernin. I hurried off to iTunes to have a listen and fell in love myself.

What an absolutely beautiful CD! I'm no great writer of reviews, but the music lifts my soul to another place with its soaring, wordless soprano. Light, uplifting music that utilises every section of the orchestra is mixed with rich chord progressions, and the contrasting darkness of some pieces makes for the perfect telling of a musical fairy tale. When I listen to this music I smile.

And who made my purchase possible? My mum! She gave me an ABC Shop gift voucher for Christmas and this is what I bought.

There's a nice symmetry contained here don't you think? At the hands of my parents I experienced a teenage cultural void, and now my mum contributes to the redeeming of my past by enabling the purchase of delightful music that soothes my mind, feeds my soul, and creates a new cultural space in my life. And to be perfectly honest, this beats eighties music hands down!

Thanks Mum.

sleep in the family bed

Two nights ago I woke around midnight to a rapidly beating heart that no amount of deep breathing would steady. I lay there tense as a set mousetrap ready to spring, vainly attempting to calm myself before finally admitting defeat and getting up to read the bible and complete the hardest Sudoku puzzle ever. Eventually I closed my eyes and slept.

I suppose it could have been indigestion from that amazing chicken vindaloo I consumed at high speed earlier in the evening that woke me. However I think it more likely that stress wrenched me from my dreams because, come to think of it, I haven't been sleeping well for the last few nights.

I'm not someone who normally lies awake for hours trying to nod off. Sheep in the backyard or not, I rarely resort to counting how many times they jump in and out of our yard. Nope, my head hits the pillow and I'm away to the land of sleep and fantastic fantasy, and not much will wake me.

Yet here I've been, night after night lying in bed unable to fall asleep. And, come to think of it, there have been significant stressors to weather in the last few days: Frank's birthday, for which I procrastinated so long over the choice of present I ended up with nothing; my new job; adjustment to shift work (I swear it's not natural to run around on cement floors until 10 o'clock at night); and... the visit of the mother-in-law.

Bingo! I think we're onto something here.

I don't go for all those stereotypical relational patterns, so I always imagined that when I obtained a mother-in-law I would just be my usual cheerful self, chattering away with disarming amiability and all would be well. We would get along nicely and in the process blow all those in-law fables out of the water.

It is with much sadness that I report it IS NOT SO!

I was naive - those stereotypes exist for good reason. They are not fables. Mother-in-laws are not nice. Or at least mine isn't. I do not have a good relationship with her and I confess I do not want one. She is a hard, humourless person who spent four days dishing out insult after insult. She invaded my space, passed subtle judgement on just about everything Frank and I do and scrubbed my stove.

OK. The stove was a good thing. It needed scrubbing.

Without consulting me, the cake-baking-queen, she went out and bought Frank a birthday cake and insisted that it was for him and not to be shared with anybody. At one point I became so angry I heard a distinct buzzing noise in my ears as the scene before me moved in and out of focus. It's really no wonder I wasn't sleeping!

Where does this all leave me now, with the mother-in-law gone and sleep covering me like a blanket once more?

Sad. I feel overwhelmingly sad. For myself, as I lay my pleasant mother-in-law dreams to rest. Sad for my mother-in-law, who has chosen hardness of heart over deep relationship with those she loves. Sad for my husband, who loves his mother and his wife, and is torn between his own dreams and the reality of in-law relations.

I'm also thankful. Thankful for the strength to hold my tongue. For increased awareness whereby we strive to understand ourselves and others and so work to build more meaningful relationships with one another. For my husband, who sees where he came from and longs to be different. I'm thankful for the relationship Frank and I share, a relationship that is ever developing into something more deep and caring.

Yes, it was a tough few days, but all is not lost. While we're apart I'll work up the courage to keep holding out olive branches of peace to my mother-in-law. Hopefully we'll learn to understand each other better. Over time, maybe we can move closer to that pleasant relationship I once dreamed of. Maybe.

the legacy

I've been thinking quite a bit about legacies lately. Not legacies in a money sense, but more the legacy of life that I've been given. I'm talking about my childhood. What is the legacy I have been left by the environment I grew up in?

It's a little bit like culture I suppose. I grew up in Australia, generally oblivious to all the values and beliefs that make us culturally unique. Sure I knew meat pies could almost be considered our national dish and tall poppy syndrome remains as a lasting relic from our convict past, but I couldn't have elucidated much more than that if asked what made us Australian. Only when I went and lived in a different culture did I become aware of our willingness to embrace anything new, our casual attitude to life, our persistence in the face of adversity. Once exposed to a culture that clung to old ways of doing things, and approached life very seriously I began to recognise my uniquely Australian view of the world.

Similarly, since Frank and I established our own home last year I've become acutely aware of the way of life in my childhood home. As we seek to establish a culture of respect within our own four walls I can recognise how little my family was characterised by respect. It hasn't been a particularly pleasant awakening.

Frank must be the sweetest man on earth. He is generous, patient, and kind. He offers me unconditional love and acceptance. I am forever amazed by his willingness to forgive my continual failings. (Most of the time!) Despite growing up in a broken home that wounded him deeply, he made a choice to look for the value in people and respect them. In Frank there is a depth and beauty of character that touches my heart in its simplicity. (He unfortunately begs to differ over my glowing report)

And me? Well I am the most curmudgeonly, selfish person on earth. I pounce on anything that does not align with my idealistic picture of how things should be. I hone in on the tiniest annoyance and tear the perpetrator to shreds. (Slight exaggeration for literary effect) Unconditional love? Only when you meet my conditions! Acceptance? After you've become just what I want you to be! Generosity? If you give me something I might return the favour!

Marriage has highlighted the worst in me. With a husband who is nigh on perfect I can hardly ignore my failings.

What is more troubling to me than my acerbic wit or cutting tongue is the way my behaviour goes against what I rationally believe. I believe in the value of people. I hold generosity, patience and kindness close to my heart. I want to pour out unconditional love as a soothing balm on wounds of the soul. I love my husband and want to cherish him dearly.

So why is my behaviour so abominable? Why do I lash out at a moments notice over the most trivial offence? Why don't I turn a blind eye to the every day irritations of life with another?

It is here that I return to my legacy. My childhood held little of respect. I was never good enough. My words and actions were critiqued or worse, criticised. There was scant generosity or helpfulness. Patience was in short supply.

I'm wary of blaming my sinfulness on my childhood - I know I have choices about the way I behave in the here and now. But somewhere deep inside, my soul has been seared by the harshness. My desire to be kind and gracious is too often short circuited by the past. Before I know it, I've followed the time worn path of meanness, and venom spills from my mouth just as it did all those years ago.

Oh what a legacy. I shall battle it all my life. (And if I'm not battling that I'll be battling downright sin!) But beat it I will.

One day I will find healing. One day I will be beautiful, generous and kind. One day I will encourage and build up the people in my life. One day I will cherish and nurture those around me. One day I will pour out love on wounds of the soul. One day I will have a family and leave them a legacy of love. This is my dream.

another ugly betty moment

I was starting to get a bit tired of Ugly Betty. It filled in a pleasant enough hour but it was predictable. It stopped touching my heart and I began to contemplate giving it up - of what benefit was watching it?

And then I cried. Again.
Caught unawares. Again.

It all started when Nico stood in the cavernous foyer of the Mode building, protesting against fur in fashion. Enter Wilhelmine wearing nothing but a fur coat, her winning words leaving Nico deflated and humiliated. It was a classic case of dysfunction - two people loving each other but with no clue as to how to express their love.

It struck too close to home, and the tears trickled freely down my face. Again. Frank did his best to cheer me in the ad (I'm sworn to secrecy on his methods - it included singing) but I couldn't brush off the spectre of the past hovering over me.

I liken my family to a giant onion - in the very centre is the love we hold for each other. The love is real, but it's buried beneath multiple layers of faulty communication - terse words, denigration, argument, manipulation. We don't know how to express our love because if we ever knew how to communicate in a healthy way, we've certainly forgotten now. I stumble and trip over the words "I love you", instead resorting to time worn patterns of blame and resignation.

So when Wilhelmine and Nico collapsed into a heap of recriminations and anger, I understood exactly where they were coming from, and their pain was my pain.

One day I hope to peel back the layers of the onion and find the love we hold in our hearts for each other. One day I hope to say "I love you" to each member of my family without feeling self-conscious and false. One conversation at a time. One layer at a time. I will get there.