Finding the joy

This gorgeous photo is of my aunt, I wrote about her here, do have a read, she's very special to me for many reasons, but when I saw this photo of her, for me, it  summed up the way she's chosen to live her life.  Because this is a photo of a woman just turned 70 who is having a moment of joy.  And my aunt has gone chasing joy in her life.  Only recently she married her extremely long term partner and took themselves on an extended honeymoon to Paris, where they explored, they found new friends, they drank red wine in cafes while people watching and they immersed themselves for a few weeks in a life different to their own. They were newly weds and they were 70, and they were having an adventure.  A joyous adventure.

There are only some people who hunt down joyous moments.  For many of us, if we serendipitously stumble across such a moment, we cherish it, and breathe it in, but it's a happy happenstance we've found  it.

But joy comes from the soul, it's felt rather than experienced.  Everything needs to be aligned for it to be "just so", it's not just the event, it's about your attitude and your willingness to embrace this with happiness and excitement.  It's all in your head.

You see in this photo, my Aunt could have chosen not to stick out her arm, she could have wanted to, but decided not to, or she could have watched others and envied them for doing so, or she could have stuck it out but been terrified. Instead my Aunt would have stuck her arm out roaring with laughter (I'm guessing that was fact), and embraced that moment.  And then moved on to the next event to experience another moment.

Joy needs to be hunted down with passion.  The mundane can transform into something special with a mere twinkle of an eye, and your head being in the right space.

I play a little drive way basketball with my littlest fella.  We all do.  It's just what we do at the moment. The passion which he throws himself into the game makes me chuckle and warms my heart.  He walks around with a joyous spring in his step, his joy is infectious.  My husband and I talk about protecting his joy, of nurturing it, of not shutting it down with our need to rush, and do stuff.

And my Aunt is an inspiration.  Because if you believe in joy, you will always find it.  Whether you're 7 or 70, it's always there if you want it to be.

Memories

Lordy it's hard writing a blog when you have a rodent issue.  I've had my life on pause until it's sorted.  However when the very nice Pest Extermination man came today to sort out my (ahem) small problem, and advised me that it was of biblical proportions then I knew I needed to face reality and push play again.  Especially as I write this I know they're munching away on an evil feast, before taking themselves OUTSIDE to die a humane death (actually sorry animal lovers, I don't give a toss if it's humane or not - it's a RAT OK???).

So another Mothers Day has been and gone, my 12th as a mum and my 18th as a motherless daughter.  I usually write a wee something for my mum each year such as here and here.  Memories will be forgotten if they're not dusted off every now and again and remembered.

I think about what my boys will remember about me.  Sometimes I shudder a little when I realise I've been too stuffy and unfunny, and too focused on getting stuff done.  I'm always so frustratingly focused on getting stuff done rather than just being.  I think this is an inherited thing.  I worry for myself that the cycle is repeating. I certainly don't have memories of my mum being fun, and silly and giggly.  I don't have memories of my mum being random, of letting things go, of being carefree.  And this isn't meant as a criticism of my mum.

It's a cautionary tale for me.

I'm not there, but I could be if I don't watch myself, or maybe that's stop watching myself and just be.  My eldest did one of those beautiful cards at school where they thank you for things you've done as a mum.  You know the kind that sometimes says "thank you for always making sure I get my homework done", or "thank you for keeping my room tidy".  My son's card wasn't like this, it was beautiful and made me cry in the mothers day mass I went to with him at school.  But it could have.  And in my eyes that would have been an epic fail.

I need to remember to keep young and playful for my boys, to do silly, to do random, to parent responsibly and irresponsibly.

I need to remember to do this for them.  But more importantly I need to remember to do this for me.

And so another mothers day, and another year to remember what it means to be a mum, and to have had a mum.  Last year, almost on this date, a dear friend built a cairn for my Mum in her memory at Mount Everest Base Camp, later that year, I built one for her on a stunning beach in Goa in Southern India.  On Saturday, my husband will be in Angkor Watt in Cambodia, he's going to build a cairn for her there.  This is how I like to remember my mum, for her uncannily wide general knowledge (my sister has inherited that bit), and even though she didn't have adventures, she would have appreciated the fact she can be remembered in these countries, even if it is a pile of stones, built from love.

I don't want my boys to remember me with rocks.

 I want them to remember me for the adventures I had with them, and not the ones I didn't.

Are you creating the right memories?

Marathon Day

I wasn't sure about joining the groundswell of blogposts, Facebook posts and tweets about this tragic day.  But the thing is I can't not, because this one is very real to me.

There has been a lot of bang on commentary about the amazing , selfless acts of bravery, as people ran towards the site of the blasts to help those in need. Who ran towards potential danger, with no thought of their own safety.  But then, perhaps this nation has learnt from the heroic acts of those who ran into the burning Twin Towers, and who fell to their deaths with those they were trying to save. Of those that run into schools with armed kids trying to kill other kids.  Heroes.

I want to write about those you saw running.  Those people who were almost at the end of a huge physical and emotional effort, those who were in such a mental  "zone", it probably didn't register that they were in danger, that their lives were at risk.

I ran the Sydney Marathon last year and bored you all rigid with it for a good 6 months, finishing off with this .  My marathon experience was joyous.  I ran with all shapes and sizes, all ages, all states of mental and physical fatigue.  And I ran joyously.  Not one moment wasn't.  I flung my arms in the air and crossed the finishing line of my marathon, joyously.  And then I put it in the file called "Highlights of my life" because it was one.  Running a marathon isn't about tying up your shoes and pinning on a number.  It's months and months of lonely hours, just you, the footpath, and your own thoughts and doubts.

Every person who lined up at the start line of the Boston Marathon did so as winners.  They had done everything they needed to be there.  They had everything they needed to cross the finish line.  For many this may have been their "Everest", it may have been the hardest thing they'd ever do in their lives. Yet that was taken from them.

Four years ago, I watched the end of a marathon, gulping back tears and with a fierce determination that I'd do that one day.  I had stumbled across it, and stood transfixed, watching the wave of determined and focused faces as they stumbled their last few hundred metres.  Then only a few years later, my family and friends waited expectantly at the finish line waiting for for me.

I don't want to take away attention from the tragedy.  Because this is a tragedy.  But these people running and those watching expectantly and supporting the runners, have had something taken from them, their joy, their trust, their achievement and in the 143 tragic cases (and counting) so much more.

Precious

Half the walls in our house are solid concrete.  Which is a pain in the bum when you're trying to hang art work.  The Husband employed the same hanging techniques as our tenants who used to live here, but maybe their artwork was paper backed onto cardboard but the system isn't working for us.  And this has been a slow dawn on us as the occasional canvas has dropped to the ground.

But yesterday was different.

When my mum died she left her collection of art to the Sister and I.  Mum was many things, and she had an incredible eye for art.  It was brave and contemporary and well.... Mum.  Her art was her signature, and there were many works she snuck into the house, daring Dad to comment on the new acquisition and dent on the credit card.  With my Dad happily alive and kicking and with both the Sister and I living in Australia, it's been a slow transition from his walls to ours, and there are some that will sit snugly on Dad's walls until they are no longer needed there...

And the art is like a roving collection - neither The Sister or I have laid claim to anything - it's shared, we have an understanding, we own it together.

But yesterday one of mums favourite art works, and one of mine, for this reason, came crashing to the ground.  The glass was shattered but the artwork thankfully untouched.  It will be reframed quickly and hung properly by someone with a concrete drill and hangy thing.  Or else it will head north to the Sister for her turn.  I was gutted.  And had a revelation in my fright as I discarded the glass painstakingly from the frame.

See here's the thing...

When you have lost someone, there is suddenly a finite number of "things" as in physical possessions that they have left.  Memories and feelings are infinite, and we can nurture them and revisit these at our pleasure and leisure.  But actual physical things are different.  It is something that can be touched and is physical evidence that the person we lost, walked the earth, made decisions, decided to buy that "thing".  It's a physical reminder of that person and it's irreplaceable.
And for me, I just put at risk, not just something worth a little money and that is beautiful, but something that my Mum coveted and opened her wallet, swiped her credit card for and proudly took home.

No one in my house can truly understand this.  Nor understand the dark and sad mood that descended on me for the rest of the day.  I only have so many possessions of my Mum's left.  Once they're gone, that's it.  That's it.

Do you have precious possessions of someone that you've lost?

ps.  Sorry Sister.

Walking the walk

It's a period of firsts for my family - first day of high school, first school bus trip, first high school camp, first time of being at school more than a few blocks away from home, and I couldn't be more prouder of how my family is handling ourselves.  But even though I'm doing a lot of hands-on parenting at the moment eg "mate is your science book in your locker and do you have time to get it and do your homework before class starts?", the relief my son feels once he realises he's got the right stuff for the right class and has done the right homework, is palpable.

And I can help with the stuff that needs to happen to get my kids to school, but once they're there, well it's game on.  They're on their own.  This morning in a 45 minute window before 8am, we've had two significant firsts.  Two of my boys started two new bands.  Both of them can play their instruments comfortably, but going into a room or hall full of new kids, and standing their twiddling your drum sticks while everyone else chats can be a little mortifying, terrifying challenging.

And as I drove away, after one of my boys had mouthed "GO AWAY" at me when I'd snuck back into the hall to see if he'd stopped twiddling his drum sticks yet, I realised that I am not managing to mask my own insecurities at the moment.  I would be shared absolutely shitless to walk into a small room with a small band already practicing because you're mother left home too late for the first time and hear the conductor call out a "Hello?" who are you (see I did it again!).  I couldn't bear to sit amongst a crowd and not have any "safe" person to talk to.

But these are my insecurities and not my kids and I sure as hell shouldn't be passing it on to them.  My eldest sucked in his breath and walked in to the room this morning, my middle son mouthed GO AWAY at me, so I would take my nervousness and introverted'ness away with me so he could get on with sitting with a group of 30 kids he didn't really know.

And I went home and gave myself a good wrist slapping.  I'm going to let my kids form their own neuroses and not inflict mine on them.  Because being a good parent means we don't give anxiety an inch to sneak in, we are the gatekeepers of their innocence in all walks of their lives, even the stuff that scares us.  They don't know any difference and it's my job to keep it that way.

Do you find yourselves passing on your fears to your kids or are you doing a better job than me?

Changes

Last week was a big week in my eldest's boys life and that of many of our friends kids, as they all headed excitedly to high school.
Big changes.  I think for one brief moment, when I was in a stationery shop again, buying the wrong stationery again, I wished he was back at primary school, because I knew how that all worked, and I had a multi-leveled system of friends I could call  if I didn't know what book to take in, or what uniform they were wearing, and if that failed, I could call the school office, and apologise profusely for my failings as a mum, as they filled me in on what I should know.
But high school?....oh no no no.  We only have a minor role, we can't prevent the screw ups, nor sort them.  But I only thought this for a moment, because he has been so pumped about school, although to be fair, the excitement levels are dimming on a daily basis, as the reality of this new world sinks in.  His favourite subjects seems to correlate with the niceness of the teacher, and also the chance of overseas travel.  So on Day 3 his career choices may be changing to accommodate Italian as the Major for whatever he wants to do.

And even though I have done some incredibly dumb stuff in my frazzled state (see picture above) and attempting to give him a kiss before he headed into the school hall on his first morning, I love that the prize for the funniest parental incident goes to a very dear friend of mine who has generously agreed to share this cautionary tale with those who may find themselves in a similar situation.

So my friend is just about to head out for a swim, when she gets an urgent text from her son asking her to bring in his sports gear, he needed it and had forgotten it.  The text came at 8.29, with school starting at 8.30.  There was no time to make a plan with her son, she'd have to wing it.  She headed to school with the bag, and pops into the school office, who tell her to drop it into class as they were in changeover time, so there was a good chance she could sneak it in under the radar.  In her swimmers with a see through beach dress over top.  Now if you knew this friend, she is always immaculately turned out in the most gorgeous of clothes, she just has the knack of looking fab at all times.  Perhaps apart from when she's just about to head for a swim.

She heads up to the class.  But to her horror, class changeover is over and as she knocks on the class door, the kids are all sitting quietly at their desks.

"Boys we have a visitor, please stand up".  The class stands, she enters.  With her son's sports bag.  In her swimmers and see through top, the story is better without that part though.  Some survival instincts kick in and she turns to the class and puts on her best school teacher voice and thanks them, tells them to be "at ease soldiers" (ok I added that part), and I'm guessing throws the bag at the teacher, then runs.  She hears the teacher calling her son up, "Mr XXX, please remember your own bag next time", so the mortification is even worse as not only has she embarrassed herself and her son, but he's just got a bollocking.

Now even though this story is very funny, it's also very sobering, as I can imagine it's only a matter of time before I find myself in this situation.

And always trying to find the bright side, there is one in this story.  It was line ball whether she took the bag in before the swim rather than afterwards.  When she would have been in her wet swimmers, and see through swim dress.

You have been warned.

I could have had a whole lot of fun with this, but I think I've been quite kind.

Life Lesson

Late yesterday I did that 6.30pm dash to the local convenience store to buy something for dinner and cleverly avoid the supermarket, which we all know is anything but a dash.  It's the kind of place that's not a corner store and occasionally has specials.  Although sadly not the Taco kits which at $9.20 I wisely decided not to buy.  I'm standing in a pseudo queue of three people with three people serving like in the good old days, when a young girl goes and stands behind someone being served.  Now even though she appeared to be a queue jumper, she had the hall marks of someone who's Mum had asked her to rush in and "pick up "x" for me", and had thrust $5 in her hand.  She had that look, as well as the fact she looked about 12 which is an age I am very sympathetic towards.  As it's the kind of thing my son does often for me.

We all know a queue jumper when we see one, and don't get me wrong, I'm the first to give them the evil eye and the sigh.  But this girl simply didn't meet the brief.

"Excuse me there's a queue", the man in front of me loudly barks at the girl.  "WTF Grumpy Man" I think bemusedly, "we're all about to be served and out of here within the next minute and half, we're not talking Coles on Christmas Eve here".  She seems to have not heard him.  The man arranges himself a little more (as he moves up a spot in the queue), and calls again "You're pushing in" to her.  By now she is blushing as she's been served.  He turns around and says to no one in particular "I have old fashioned values".

As if that gets him off the hook for embarrassing a young girl with no ill intent, nor knowledge of what she'd actually done.  I thought how my fella would feel if that was him. And I sneered down my nose at that man and his sense of indignance.

Old fashioned values would have shrugged shoulders at witnessing a small mistake and ignored it.
Old fashioned values wouldn't have made a fool of someone on purpose.

We all have a legacy of lessons we've learned that we try and pass on.  I was brought up by a mother who was a stickler for table manners and decorum.  The Sister and I ate our Saturday night fish and chips off a silver tray containing plates, a cut crystal vase which had our dessert of half an orange each and a Denby jug of full cream milk.  To this day, eating fish and chips from the paper still feels a little naughty.  The Sister just posted a Facebook picture of a china gravy jug she took camping which would have pleased our mum immensely.  So table manners are a biggie for me, it's kind of ingrained.

And as a mum, and an adult I try and pass on what I believe in to my kids, although getting 3 hot and tired boys to give up their hard won seats for adults on a packed Melbourne tram wasn't really worth the scene I was causing.  Still....

I think intuitively you know what's right and wrong, you know the biggies and the ones you can let slide every now and again.  And yes, it's our job to live the values we've learnt and pass them on to the next generation, but times are changing and sometimes some of that old fashionedness has to change with it.

Because sometimes the way we teach the lesson is how the lesson is learnt.

What old fashioned values do you have?


Image found here - thanks for the borrow