I am From

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee

Calls back the lovely April of her prime.
~William Shakespeare

Today is my mother's birthday.  She is away visiting her sister who is also celebrating her birthday today.  My aunty is 80 years old, she is 13 years my mother's elder.  Knowing they are celebrating getting older makes me reflect and think about where I am headed and where I am from. 

I recently read this post of Kellie's on Don't Look Now!  I thought it was lovely that she was from a similar place to me but never thought I'd write my own poem.  Then, at times unsuspecting, the poem sprouted and before I knew it my poetic juices were flowing and I had my own history penned.   So if you think you cannot, you will not, I encourage you to let go and see what might flow.  It is actually quite cathartic.  If you do write your own "I'm From" poem please let me know so I can join you in learning more about where you're from.  If you follow the links from Kellie's poem you will find the original from whence it came.

So here's a sneak peak of some of me.

I’m From

I’m from tireless pioneers, hard-working farmers and long dusty trails. From blacksoil plains, deceptive mirages and vast, tree-studded horizons.  From small country town, regional farming community and “townie vs cockie” the former is me!  From Mehi River, Gwydir River, where rivers meet. 

I’m from maternal ancestors trekking across seas, across lands; from England to South Australia, into northern New South Wales, up to central Queensland.  From sheep grazing, wheat farming then cotton as well. Corrugated iron sheds, blue-topped cotton modules, and seasonal “snowy” cotton lined roads.  From worshipping in a country church built by relatives of friends.

I’m from aesthetic beauty: flowers in the garden, arranged in vases, floral shows as well.  From cakes carefully decorated by my mother’s own hand, from embroidery, crochet, sewing, handmade.  Fixing loose threads on my clothing, “not the good scissors!”, stashes of fabric, buttons, binding and ribbons.  Always dressing well to go out.  From Sylvia’s fabrics, pattern hunting and fabric matching.

Paternally from Denmark to Australia, right into Queensland, freezing to heat.  From food production, apple orchards, vegetable growing and home baking.

From awkwardness, confusion; leadership and faith.  From silliness and laughter with my treasured brother and sister.   From independence and competence, achievement and success.

From “hugs and kisses”, “hugs and kisses” among siblings at the end of car journeys, upon arrival at our holiday destination, the “Uh-oh better go to bed” and “I wear my sunglasses at night, to keep my panties on tight” fun play with siblings.

Photo found at  www.Redbubble.com

I’m from the bright yellow daffodil, pretty pink poppy and rich red rose, the calm Carbeen tree, breezy Belah and the beloved, guarded unique Leopard Tree.

From the smoking besa block incinerator in the backyard, the besa block “barby”, begrudged family trips to the dump.

From oranges, mandarins and almonds in the garden, lawns always watered through hot summer months.

From home-sewn school uniform and Dad-knitted navy cardigan, from tights keeping legs warm from pesky, shivery Jack Frost on our front lawn

From Sunday roast dinners and baked beans on toast, salad plate lunches, toast fingers with soup.  From Potatoes La Jolla, Herbed Chicken pieces from “promite, not vegemite” or “vegemite not promite” sandwiches in lunchboxes.

Piano lessons during lunchtime, then through swimming lessons in high school. Piano duets in my best friend’s Mum’s bedroom on weekend retreats from boarding school.  Boarding school challenges, fun and successes.  Singing and singing, and singing some more, “Yes, Jesus loves me”, Christmas carols and rhymes.  Renaissance polyphonies, madrigals, and contemporary and sacred choral works.

I'm from sharing my music, from teaching tiny littlies, imparting my intuition and knowledge to the families I meet.  From meeting my beloved and sharing in our union, from bearing two treasured, precious daughters who now ofttimes lead me in my journey.

And now I am me, here today, returned to the start, growing veges and living down south in South Australia from whence my ancestors came, living and loving creatively, following my Creator.

Farm photos courtesy of my brother and sister-in-law. 

First Steps

pitter, patter...

These tiny feet have taken their first steps.

It was a few days ago on Friday 13 February.  Do you have any idea how hard it is to take photos of little feet that are now on the move, very rapidly, albeit not always walking yet, but always toddling somehow somewhere? Finally I have managed to get a few photos which are not too blurry to recognise.  I  have the utmost admiration for people, like Kirsty of Appleseed Photography, who specialise in photography of children.   Her photos of newborns are stunning and she also captures the very special gentle innocence of young children.  Our walls are graced with her simply stunning photographic art showing the superb way she captured the essence of our family last June.

Little Eee, you strode out at about 5pm.  Fortunately Daddy was home and both Mum and Dad watched you take your first half a dozen steps, before Ess raced in to hug and applaud you as well.  You were so cute and so proud of yourself to be independently walking.

Not a lot of that has happened since, as you still like to scoot around on your bottom.  The scoot has become more of a bounce these days as you pick up speed.  So cute! 

These little feet will pick up speed as your confidence grows and I know that in no time at all they will be wearing through shoes as you walk and talk and grow just so quickly.

Ess Goes to School

Making the decision to have a child is momentous.  It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.  ~Elizabeth Stone

Today is Ess' first day of school.  Such a momentous and an emotional time with feelings of pride, excitement, sadness and achievement all mixed in together.

She is very ready to go and was prepared at 8am this morning.  I am so glad that she is ready to learn and to meet new people.  It gives me a sense of achievement at the work I have carried out over these last five years.   Work which I value so highly.  It has passed so quickly.  It does not seem that long since we put your feet in these tiny little Baby Paws to pad around the place.

Then pretty little baby feet were fastened into these sweet shoes to wear with all those adorable little baby dresses.

I have many memories of tying the laces of these gorgeous little Elefanten boots on your chubby toddler feet.  Particularly after all our Kindermusik Our Time lessons with Mr Geoff.

These little boots, of course in your favourite colour pink, walked you to Kindy last year.  You were quite surprised when the new shoes for this year's education could not be pink.  No complaints however - such is your motivation to be at school and hence wear your uniform.  I am so glad.

Shoes have a special way of showing the passage of time.  I have many images of your growing feet in these various shoes participating in so much over the few short years of your life.

Now school has commenced and we are walking off to education again, in uniform and sandals. I hope the motivation to wear it doesn't wane as it is now very easy to choose what to wear in the mornings.

There is a heat-wave here.  The whole week is due to be over 35degC at least. Yesterday the guage at the Central Markets (celebrating 140 yrs coincidently), and on my car, read 45degC at 3pm.  Today is forecast to be 44degC.  It was 39.8degC at 10am this morning after I arrived home at 9.30am ready for my second shower of the day.  No worries about any hot water this morning. The cool was definitely needed.  Overnight it dipped only to 27degC.

So against my principles, but going with my better judgement, I will drive to collect you this afternoon and hope your cheeks are not too red as they were when I left you this morning.

Enjoy your first day, my dear girl, I know you will.

Going Grey

People in this country are starved for the truth
~ Harry G. Frankfurt,

author of On Bullshit and On Truth

Anne Kreamer

No, I am not going grey…not yet! But have you considered whether or not you will allow your hair to grey? I hadn’t. (After all, I am still only in my mid-thirties). At least I hadn’t until I heard an interview with Anne Kreamer. She was inspirational. Anne has embraced going grey and turned away from dying her hair, and she lives in the States where pressure to “colour” seems overwhelming. Is it similar in Australia? Do we experience the same pressure?

Personally, I have never dyed my hair. My 4yr old daughter has coloured her hair more than I have in my entire life. It’s not been something I considered – even in my teens. I guess I’ve always embraced the way I look. I love my natural blonde highlights, which were more prominent in my youth (I have to say). So I guess I am going to go grey. Colouring is not an option I’ve considered and I don’t want to present myself as anything that is not me. A different colour simply wouldn’t be me. It would cover me up. “Colouring hair” said Anne’s husband, “is to do with the difference between rebuilding and ‘upkeep and maintenance’". He goes on in the following vein, the beautiful essence is somehow lost when something is covered up. The beauty and the essence of something is how it looks as it ages, consider how we love old European cities such as Paris and Rome.

I like the idea of rebuilding ourselves. To me it speaks more creatively about who we are and how this changes and transforms yet is always positively challenging. Upkeep and maintenance to me is tiring and annoying, am I allowed to say even boring. It shows little value in what is becoming and holds in high esteem that which was; and in the case of dyeing hair, of valuing youth more greatly than age and experience. Somehow we have become colourers of our hair so that we (and others) can’t see that we are getting older. I must question, “why do we not want to get older?" Ann Richards concluded her conversation with friend Anne Kreamer saying, “wisdom and age have value. It’s really important and if all we do is continue this whole business of focusing on youth, we’ll miss that all ages can be wonderful, not only personally but the culture will miss that ingredient as well.” Can we afford to let that go? Do we want to let value in wisdom and age disappear?

I am proud to declare that all the ladies in my immediate family have gone grey – very gracefully I must say. Although let me clarify,…my Mum tried to colour her hair once and the three of us kids laughed voraciously and questioned her “What on earth have you done that for?” That was the only colour I ever saw in my Mum’s hair. She let it grey (starting very young, when she married, with her “Mrs Ghandi streak” as she called it) and it looks lovely.

Our image is important. We want to portray ourselves in a certain way and this clearly speaks reams about how people see us. When I first saw Anne’s book "Going Gray: what I learned about beauty, sex, work, motherhood, authenticity, and everything else that really matters” a friend and I noticed how much more presentable she was with her grey hair than she appeared before she experienced the whole “going grey” process. Even my own Ess agreed. She clearly chose the new and grey image of Anne Kreamer when asked to point to the ‘best lady’.

Anne was surprised when she visited three Image Consultants in New York as an experiment for her book. She expected them to tell her to dye her hair but all considered grey hair was a very distinctive and strong statement. It’s the clothes, not the hair they suggested. Do you have a wardrobe full of unnecessary emotionally-laden familiar baggage? I look forward to being able to discard mine. The sense of liberation will be profound when I can purge myself of these. I’ll feel nimble and light like having my hair cut, or indeed like having definitely decided that my hair will go grey. We are all constantly in need of changing. We need to make advancements and adjustments to the way we look and to our hair and clothes. What works once may not work again later.

Anne also tested responses to grey or non-grey hair online by presenting herself as each (using the wonders of Photoshop) on Match.com. Interestingly she received more interested looks as a grey woman. I think she was seen as more authentic as a grey-haired woman.

So what are the pressures we experience which convince us we need to dye our hair? Is it to be able to further our career, or simply re-enter the workforce, to feel sexy for our men? Is it to maintain some semblance of youthfulness? Do we succumb to the pressure of marketeers who make a bucket-load out of hairdressing practices? Does it become habit to dye our hair and something which we simply do? Almost like my own habit to not dye my hair. Not quite so simply. This is a choice for me. It is a choice about living simply, presenting myself in truth and telling more of the plain truth hoping to encourage society to be truthful. My hair is a symbol of what I am trying to be. Anne says it beautifully for me, “The more we tell the truth in the way we look, maybe, the more we’re inclined to tell the truth in other ways and thus encourage other people to be honest with us”.

And what about men going grey? One man, a CNN anchor, once considered “give in to grey”. I think we can all do better than that – embrace the grey. It shows honesty, authenticity, maturity, confidence, self-control and a willingness to embrace the changes and challenges which life brings.

A French-born Manhattan hairstylist says “Grey makes a statement. It stands out.” He regards “showing your silver as a choice and one of the few truly exciting things a women can do with her hair. A way of breaking taboos.” That’s exciting. Maybe a few of us are changing the world a little and breaking taboos together. I think it will be wonderful when the world realises that experience and authenticity can be attractive. We are all experiencing an intensifying hunger for authenticity. I see this also in the way we are increasingly embracing ‘all things organic’.

Yet how we choose to grow older is deeply idiosyncratic and we are all individually responsible for finding our own comfortable place.

Ess' Rite of Passage

Late January 2008

As I stood vehemently discussing excess water leakage from our evaporative air conditioner running down the road with an SA Water Rep, I curled my fingers under Ess’ hair, her beautiful bob. Only it was not there, not entirely, it was thinner, wispier and coming away in bunches in my hand. For a fleeting moment and thinking “Oh my goodness, what’s going on?”, I moved inside with her seemingly to get her out of the sun, the heat of the summer, as if she was unwell. As we moved I realised that she had cut her own hair. Just prior to our visitor arriving I had been resting along with Eee. Ess had been quietly playing. Mmm, yes, very engaged in playing hairdressers! On entering the house she showed me where her hair was, some of it bundled together, some of it taken outside, some still in the scissors. We gathered it, not only to tidy, but also to keep and remember this day. A day of ritual, yes is it not almost a rite of passage for a little girl to enjoy cutting her own hair? I must ask my mother…

Now we enjoy her gorgeous little elfin cut, revealing the beauty of her young innocent face.