Beautiful day

Another year new year has rolled over.  I hope you've enjoyed the end of yours and the start of the next.  I am thankful for what 2012 brought me.  And I am excited about what 2013 has in store.  Each year brings more focus for me - focus on the things that are important to me and focus on what I need to do to achieve them.  This last year didn't finish as well as I had hoped for reasons of no interest to anyone apart from me.  So I feel I'm starting this year on the back foot a little.  Which is a good thing.  Because it means I don't casually saunter into the new year, thinking "yeah, I'll do a bit of this and I'll do a bit of that", and vaguely get on my way.
Instead this year I am grabbing it, looking it dead in the eye and giving it the "game on" face.

I have goals, dull, specific but important to me.  I have priorities, I have simple needs.  I'm the kind of person who randomly lurches along from one thing to the next, I've always joked that this is how my creativity works, lurching and random.  Who am I kidding, it's just laziness (and I like to think something not quite wired right in my head).  My husband is the Ying to my Yang.  He writes lists, he has focus and plans in every area of his life, he writes them, reads them, actions them.  He is continually frustrated by my ability to live by vagueness.  I've always secretly believed that we get to the same place in the end, but I'm starting to doubt this is true.  He carries us, he carries me.  We have moments of clarity when I go "I want this and I want that!!!" and he goes "well write it down, make it happen", but I don't and then I forget, and then I lurch a little more.  I make excuses for myself - not enough time, too busy with the kids, the house is too messy, I'm on deadline -  but everyone, especially me knows this is bullocks.

Well that was then, and this is now.

And 7 days into the new year, I'm feeling the old routine starting to get in the way of my drive.  I faff around the kitchen, I empty beach bags, I fold clothes, I pick up stuff, when I should be writing, or planning, and with the Husband back at work today and a house full of kids, I can't see how this can change.  But it's going to.  Because 2013 doesn't start in January 30 when my kids head back to school and I have my friend Solitude back keeping me company.

2013 starts now.

Game on.

Can you feel it?

I generally start my blog posts in my head while hanging washing, emptying the dishwasher and all the other mundane tasks that consume the bulk of my day, and tonight I started one about how The Husband and I leave for India in 4 weeks and all we have managed to book so far is our international flights and nothing in between, including transport and accommodation, shots or visas.  We're squeezing in a maniacal amount of places inside India within a 16 day stay, but *imagine me writing blog post inside my head* this is a trip we'll probably only get one shot at.  In our lives.

I stopped dead in my tracks and thought "Fark, this is likely to be the only time IN WHATS LEFT OF MY LIFE that I'll get to India.".

Now in reality, there's simply too many other places I want to see in the world to warrant a repeat visit to, especially when India is going to be so ....colourful/traumatic/friggin filthy (select one).

But still, nothing disturbs me more than the thought of my own mortality.  The thought that this could be the last time I (insert anything).....I'm not sure if my rampant need to acknowledge my life and the fact that my life clock is ticking, is due to my Mum's early death at 56 with a life time of dreams unfulfilled.

I want to create dreams and live them, then talk and laugh about them, then go and create new dreams and go crazy living those ones as well.
There is nothing more confronting and stop-dead-in-your-track'ing than really, truly grasping the idea that this...is...it...

The Sister and I have battled with and accepted the way our dear dad lives his life, he lives with complacency and simplicity that we have unfairly labelled "apathy" even though simplicity and happiness is all he wants. We've accepted that he has no need to trek through streets thick with sewage so he can stand amongst the greatest mass of people on earth, nor to dip his toes in the southern most point on the African continent, nor to crawl through mud, nor to wake up to a daily sunrise.  He has no desire to dance drunkenly with old friends to old songs, to get a tattoo nor to hover over the edge of a live volcano.  His worst nightmare would be to arrive somewhere new not sure where to stay nor how to get there, he is happiest at home amongst what he knows and loves.

After years and much head bashing we've accepted this.  But I will never choose that for myself.  I need to know my highs will roll over from one adventure to the next, and that in between time, I will relish the simplicity, and happiness will be a constant in whatever I'm doing. I'm fighting complacency and mediocrity, not by being dramatically amazing, but just by the mere act of doing.

I may not ever return to India, or the last country I've been to, or the next one I visit.  I may not do many things again, but that's ok, because I'm 100% positive that will be because I'm doing something new that reinforces that I am alive, and I am living this life.
I am living this life.

What makes you feel alive?

Laugh

Every couple of years Katie, one of my BFF's (actually my very longest serving BFF - she showed me to the girls loos when I started a new school age 7) and I find an event to do that's about us, about pushing ourselves, about connecting - it needs to have some sort of physical challenge involved and hopefully a smidge of intrepidness.  So far we have done the 100km Oxfam Trailwalker, Mototapu, an offroad marathon in NZ,and this weekend gone, we competed in Tough Mudder.  I know many of you have seen photos and news stories about it, and yes, it really was as wickedly fun as it looked, as well as a physical challenge with electric shocks, mud and high things to climb while on a 20km run.  My marathon weary legs were a little weary, but managed even though I was always a few paces behind Katie.

And we ran, and chatted, and freaked out, and asked strong guys for help, and got muddy, and patted ourselves along the way as we realised that we were passing people who'd started an hour before us.  And we laughed.  At some points, we laughed so hard, we had tears running down our mud smeared faces.  One of us may or may not have  ripped the butt out of their pants resulting in an extra challenge when climbing up and over obstacles with their arse hanging out but it would be wrong for me to mention it here. This one will be long remembered for being fun.

Which got me thinking.  As we get older, how often do we have that kind of fun which makes you feel ageless.  Which makes you feel like you have no burden of responsibilities.  Which makes you feel light and blimmin joyous just because of the sheer fun of it all.  And I'm not talking about the kind of fun you have after that extra half bottle of wine - which is never quite as fun the next morning, (although Sister, the "flag dance" will be longstanding in our family treasure chest of happy memories). I'm talking about those moments that brighten your soul a little, and make you doggedly determined to do MORE OF THAT soon, ok, before you forget how good it feels?

Because I think in our busy lives of responsibilities, of raising children, of paying mortgages, of making our mark on the world, we forget to have fun. Or we have redefined fun as something that is really only a satisfactory attempt at "fun".  It's a little safe and a little controlled, and in my world, usually revolves around my kids and their version of fun.

I'm guessing that there are some of you reading this, who are happily shaking your heads thinking "nup, not me", well I say hats off to you, and I bow deeply, because you are my role models. Don't change a thing, just sit there smugly, because you can.

I ran over a marathon finishing line with my arms in the air and my face fill of joy last Sunday, and on Saturday, I ran laughing with my bum hanging out of my ripped pants, mud smeared all over my teeth, and a light heart.

It feels good to have fun.
When was the last time you had belly-laughing, pants-wetting fun?

The only way to start is to...start

Once upon a time, there was a girl who liked to write but her writing was all stop start like a bus trip that keeps stopping to pick up and drop off passengers .  It was a friggen pain in the bum. Every time she thought she was a writer, she'd stop writing and then she'd think that she was a stay at home mum (nothing wrong with that, unless of course, you think you're a writer).  She kept getting stories accepted on spec which in editor speak is like "Maybe?".  But instead of writing the stories, she'd just pitch more stories and get them accepted, until she had a whole lot of stories and one teeny bottle neck to squish them through.

But then she got the mother of all excuses - she had a long run planned.  And she decided that instead of confronting her procrastination demons she would blame her non-writingness (she made up that word), on this excuse.  She was training  (blahs blah), she was nervous (more blahs), she was tired...she was flat...she was NOT WRITING.

Instead of spending her hours productively writing, she'd sit at the computer reading trashy British newspapers about celebs she'd never heard about nor cared for, and then she'd feel stink about herself.  And you can't possibly write when you feel stink about yourself.  Relieved, she'd find another excuse.

Until the day came, when she remembered that she actually loved to write, and that she loved the feeling of writing good stuff.  And that if she didn't get going, then everything would freeze up even more than it was already.

And like the sun popping out from behind a cloud, she realised that to start writing again, she actually just had to start writing.

And so she did......

It's a new dawn .....

If I'd written this post yesterday it might have started off with something like "moving house is a shitty, shitty, thankless job", as I burrowed into boxes full of half used post-it pads, paper clips, empty CD cases, fluff, old glue sticks and lego pieces and vainly tried to find a home in my new home for all the stuff that used to have a home in my old home....it was just that kind of day.

And everyone ended up wearing my frustration/boredom/stress...I'm sorry family, and I know you shouldn't follow a "sorry" with a "but", but I'm going to, because there are 5 people in this family, and 5 pairs of hands make the job sooo much more pleasant than 1.  Still, everyone had excuses, however The Husband's excuse of just trying to put food on the table is the only one that I accept.  Minecraft, Lego, playing with sticks and sitting looking into space doesn't count - get into a box and get busy!

It didn't help that I'm a bit swamped with unwritten stories and my marathon is only 11 10 days away, and I know my sports nutrition lady did not have strawberry liquorice on the list of suitable lunch foods. So internal stress levels are nudging towards 'danger".

However that was yesterday.

And what I've discovered about our new home is that every day literally dawns with a perfect daily sun rise.  And yes, there are boxes, and the house is a hideous creamy yellow colour and I'm running a marathon in 10 91/2 days, but what's not to feel thankful for when each day starts like this.

Growing up

My 11 year old is growing up.  I know this because there are cracks appearing.  They were tiny to start with a "don't Mum", but have got bigger "Mum, don't say that kind of stuff" to finally a fault line is forming in his childhood "Mum, I HATE it when you say that" (spoken in annoyed voice in front of his friends.)  And buddy, if you're reading this you are still a "child", officially ok.  THATS why I used the world child, not pre-pre-teen or whatever.

I just make lame jokes that I think are very funny.  And I'm sure he'll think are funny in 10 years from now.  I say things in front of his friends, I try and talk with his friends (Mum, why did you say hi to them, they don't know you at all). I try and include myself in his conversations (never again, last time I included myself, I was met with a stoney silence, and they changed topics)
And yesterday, I think we inadvertently crossed a line.  And it wasn't even my fault.  I was embarrassing, even to myself, and certainly to an 11 year old.  I'd had a long hot run that ended at a beach.  The Husband had forgotten my swimmers.  But I was hot and needed a swim.  "I'll just go in my running gear", I said as The Husband was apologising.  "All good, no probs".
Will was horrified "No Mum, you can't do that, that will just look weird. Don't Mum"  Admittedly I wasn't looking my finest, but I was hot godammit, so in I went in my shorts and sports top.
Then as you do at the beach, you sit around a while, throw the ball, dig holes, and all of this I did in my wet running gear.  Surrounded by gorgeous beach bods in bikinis and other beach attire that wasn't running gear.

I was a little mortified and a whole lot of embarrassed.  Not sure why, I think I was channeling my son's vision of me.

I think what I am experiencing is a transition from participant to non-participant in some situations.  I am the driver of the car, I am the pizza maker, the movie orderer, the clean uniform provider, the note signer, the sleepover arranger, the homework nagger, the PS3 turn-off'er.  I have a cool factor of zero.
I'm often a non-entity in his eyes, especially in front of others.

But that's ok, I knew this was coming.  And I know he still adores me.  And that I'm the person who he wants to kiss him good night.
And that he'll come back to me.

Wanting what you've had

Don't you sometimes feel that you haven't realised how much you've loved something until it's over.  It's almost as if when you're actually doing it, you're not aware of how much you're loving it.  And of how much you've missed something when it's over.

Any kind of hard, physical event is like that for me.  I always enjoy the training, and endure whatever the event is, but it's not until it's over do I really miss it.  And want to relive it, and the memory of it.

I've done a couple of bush events over the years, and have spent many, many hours walking or running in the bush trails of Sydney.  It's usually just been with one of my friends.  Her and I train together and we compete together.  When we train, we chat and laugh and encourage each other on.  During our events, we knuckle down, we talk a little, we're focused.  But it's not until after where done and dusted do we reminisce and pat ourselves on the back, for all our training, and hard-arse'ness.  And then I really start to miss it, to miss the bush, to miss the focus.

Am I just loving the memory of something rather than the reality of it?

I don't think so.  I think it's a case, that maybe you're not in the moment when you're experiencing it, rather you're letting it wash over you, engulf you, surround you, and it's not until it's over, and with clear eyes you look back, and say, wasn't that incredible.

Holidays are like that sometimes.

The Husband and I went on holiday to Thailand earlier this year.  We had an awesome time, had adventures, had a little luxury, had a lot of relaxing and had a lot of us time.  It's only afterwards that  I realise how amazing that  holiday was.  I yearn for it again.  A family holiday in Fiji last year, was the same.  We all talk about that holiday with yearning.  Wanting to repeat it but knowing there was just a little something that made that time so special.

I'm not sure where this is coming from - I think my point is, do we need to be more in the moment when we're having what will become a personally "significant experience'.  Or will this take away a little of it's magic by analysing and labelling it.  Will it put too much pressure on that time to be "significant" rather than just be.

Are you getting me?

Have you had any experiences like this?

Thank YOU

There are many fabulous bloggers out there with hundreds of followers, massive stats, competitions, ad's and probably a bit of a revenue stream.  They are brilliant and funny and savvy.
I'm not one of them.
I'm random, I sometimes put too much out there (although I do have my own rules about what's ok and what's not), sometimes I lose my mojo and don't write for a bit.  But I always try and write about stuff I care about.  My own internal quality control is always "am I proud of this piece, is it 100% me?"  If it's borderline crap, then I'm not in my zone, and I have a break.
I could take a chance and get amongst it a bit more, get busy, get more public.  Maybe I should.  Maybe I will.

What I know is that I'm so lucky to have you guys.  I will always be massively grateful for the fact you stop by my blog for a few mo's and have a read, and keep me company.  I know some of you have been with me since the start (hi Kate!) and I know some of you are new to my blog.
I am deeply thankful to you all.

I have just reached a baby milestone with my blog and I'm going to take a wee breath and a moment.
Seriously, it's all because of you.  Because, when I write, I picture you reading this.  And I'm hoping that you feel a little of whatever I have felt when I've written it.
It's all for you.

Pike River Mine

My Mum

On July 8th 1995, at around 11.30am in Dunedin Public Hospital, New Zealand, my mum died.  She was 56.  I didn't make it.  I was in the air flying to be with her.  I miss her daily.  She never met my children nor my niece but the love she showered on my nephew was enough to give The Sister and I all the reassurance we needed to know she would have adored each of her grandchildren.  Mothers Day is no different than any other day for missing our mum. 

Our Dad is an expert at forgetting birthdays, the fact that The Sister and my birthdays are on consecutive days doesn't even seem to help. But he always remembers Mothers Day and he always calls us to share a moment of collective love for our Mum and recognition of our loss.

Happy Mothers Day.   Enjoy and cherish your time with your mother.

A moment

School drop off has, and always will, be an interesting time of day for observing behaviours, especially that of the school mum brigade.  In fact I've written a few here and there. 

So this morning, I was hovering in the Drop Off zone, and as Rafe was getting out of the car, and I was turning back to chat with him, I noticed in the car behind me, a son was leaning over into the front seat to give his mum a cuddle and she hugged him tightly back and they both kissed.  They were bathed in sunshine and love.  It was such a special moment, and I can't really capture the magic of it.  But it made me feel goose bumpy.  When I saw who it was, it came as no suprise.  Just one of those lovely, special mums that are as nice in the school yard as they obviously are at home.

I tried to give Rafey an even squishier hug when he left, but he wasn't having any of it. 

Still, a lovely moment and lesson.