Doing…….Unto

When we bought our house in Napier, the first question I asked of a neighbour before viewing it was, ‘Is this a quiet neighbourhood?’ She assured me it was, as did some other neighbours. And, once we had moved in, it was true.  No yelling, screaming, parties, boy racers, or loud music. There was a real sense of safety.

And then ‘the others’ moved in.

A teenage mother with a three year old son and a penchant for boys wearing hoodies and baggy jeans down to their knees. Boys who talk rough, and hang out with older boys who drive souped up cars with very large exhaust pipes. A penchant for people who like to stay up partying until 3.00 am and who sleep until 1.00 pm.

We didn’t mind the first time. After all, they had just moved in, and a little party was in order. We could cope.  Then, the parties started coming twice a week, and car doors started slamming.  Tires squealed, fights broke out in the street, and hooded boys in slouchy pants shuffled up and down the street yelling obscenities at one another.

The third time one of the parties woke me, I was angry. My rights to an uninterrupted night’s sleep had been violated. I lay in bed listening to the pulsating of the music and thought, ‘We have to get them out of the neighbourhood.’ I also thought about dark things. The elderly couple living closest to the girl’s house knows the landlord’s telephone number. Turns out she is also the mother of the girl who lives in the house. I fantasized about calling her at 3.00 am to let her know what was going on at her property, and every half hour until it stopped.

Instead, we called noise patrol. They went out, but that didn’t stop a new party the next week.

 For one week there was total silence. Turns out their stereo equipment was stolen, but the boys still came. At 2.00 pm, 5.00 pm, midnight, 2.00 am, 3.00 am, 4.00 am. They sat on the deck talking and laughing, and the sound of their voices carried better than the music. Cars came and went as if a parking mall was in operation. Our other next door neighbours added to the noise by screaming obscenities at the partiers. They came over by day and bitched and moaned.

Finally, after a particularly bad night in which none of us slept, causing Michelle to have to leave for work in a sleep deprived daze, I decided to call the girl’s landlord / mother. Enough is enough.

I asked myself what my response as a Christian should be, and how I should handle it. I’m the mother of an adult, and I know that after some point, we are not responsible for our children’s behaviour, and I wasn’t going to abuse her for the sins of her daughter, nor did I intend to vilify the girl.

 I decided to phone the mother in the light of day and talk sensibly with her. She listened. Finally, she called her daughter who asked, ‘Why didn’t she come to me first?’ Her attempt at diverting anger, or a real complaint about the way things got done? I thought about it. I thought about the scriptures that tell us to approach our brother first if we have a grievance. Well, I had a grievance. I decided to text the girl and ask if we could meet. I didn’t want to come on as some self-righteous fuddy duddy, or as a parent, or as a judge. I wanted to meet with her as an adult, and in a way that would build a bridge and encourage communication. I wanted to come at the situation in the opposite spirit of some of the neighbours, and in an opposite spirit to the behaviour of this girl’s guests.

We met on her deck. I took over a couple of beers and laid it out straight for her. She laid it out straight for me. We agreed that if the noise was loud, I’d text her first and give her the chance to set it right. It was a civil conversation.

Two nights later, all hell broke loose. Drunken boys staggering down the road, cars slamming doors, and the next door neighbours calling noise patrol and the girl’s mother at 1.30 and 2.30 am. The girl’s friends decided they should avenge her, so they backed their high performance cars up to our driveway and revved and revved. They barked at the neighbour’s house, either a sign that they were part of the Mongrel Mob, a gang in New Zealand, or that they thought the nieighbour was a bitch. It could have been either.

I was awakened at 7.30 the next morning by an angry phone call. The neighbour was bitter. The cars revving were the only things I had heard. I’d missed the other stuff. I texted the girl saying that I hadn’t heard much the night before, but would she please tell her friends not to back up to my driveway and rev their car engines? She apologised. Said she didn’t know. I’m sure she didn’t. Which is the issue. She can’t control the people who come to her home.

When this started, I told my husband and daughter that I am determined to treat this girl with respect, honesty and love, because I believe she deserves it. I want her to see how adults do it, and, maybe, model for her social responsibility.

Today I got a text from her asking if we would come to dinner with her and her roomate. I can’t, but I know Michelle and Brian will. It’s a beginning. Brian and Mich will make sure our house is locked so we aren’t burgled by her friends when they’re over having dinner, and I do hope ‘the gang’ doesn’t come in when they’re over there eating, but I’m trusting that this is an attempt by this girl at making a relationship, or at least trying to do something right.

Where will this lead? I have no idea. We’ll still do what we have to do, but we’re going to do it with as much integrity as we can muster.

Watch this space.

Sarongs, Vailima and Tsunamis

‘We don’t have counselling in Samoa,’ a dark-eyed beauty told me. ‘Our people depend on God and our Chiefs and the church to counsel us.’

It was five days after the Samoa earthquake and tsunami, and I had been commissioned to provide trauma and Critical incident counselling services through International SOS who was co-operating with my agency, EAP Services.  I had been given one hour to pack a suitcase and arrive at the Napier, New Zealand airport.  Thankfully, I’m the Queen of the Fast Pack, and between my daughter and husband, and between mobile calls from my agency briefing me, we managed to fill my suitcase with all I’d need without blowing out the seams.

A colleague had been in the island since the second day, but was to return to NZ the night after my arrival, so I would be alone there without the rest of the team.

On my arrival, I discovered my mobile phone wasn’t working. I’d paid a lot of money for the thing, and it can do almost anything, including mopping my floor, but it doesn’t have a sim card, so I was left not knowing who would meet me at the airport or where I would sleep that night.

It was definitely a ‘trust God or die’ moment.

I knew which hotel my colleague was staying at, so I figured if I didn’t get met at the exit gate, I’d call her and beg a bed from her. I’d also made the acquaintance of a Paramount Chief on the plane, and he had offered to put me up with his family in spite of the fact they had lost at least 7 members in the tsunami.

As I arrived in Apia, I remembered why I had always struggled with the tropics. The humidity and heat was like a wall pressing against me. The sweat flowed down my neck and back, and as I stood there waiting on my luggage to pop out on the conveyor belt, I asked a man who was bringing aid in from the Adventist Church if I could borrow his phone to find out where I was supposed to go. By the time the watermelons (individually shipped, but not mine) and my suitcase had circled the conveyer belt, it was 11.30 at night.

My contact from International SOS met me outside the gate. ‘We have a 3.3o AM wake-up,’ Scott said, guiding me to the taxi. ‘We’re going to the island of Sava’ii tomorrow. We also have security guys, but they are mostly translators.’

I tried not to moan out loud.

At the hotel, I was afraid I’d sleep through my alarm, so I asked the hotel desk to give me a wake-up call. No necessity. Adrenaline fuelled, I was still bug-eyed at 3.am. Our driver/security/translator was supposed to meet us at 4.00am, but we were still waiting at 5.oo a.m. We took a taxi to the ferry terminal and found our guys sleeping in the van.

I’m no stranger to foreign cultures. In my work with Mercy Ships, I have witnessed natural disasters, political coups, and diverse people groups. I had a fair idea of what to expect from day-to-day living in Samoa, but it was my first counselling experience in a nation ravaged by disaster, and one who didn’t believe in counselling.

I was debriefed by the Senior Human Resources manager for our corporate client while on the 2.5 hour trip on the ferry. I tried to forget that I hadn’t eaten since the day before, and that my stomach was rolling.

‘I don’t know how many people will talk to you,’ she said. Counselling doesn’t exist here, but I wanted my staff to have the opportunity to debrief.’

On the island of Sava’ii, I met with the bank manager and conducted a Critical Incident Debriefing. There were twelve staff members, and some of them were fighting tears. One woman who was 8.5 months pregnant had been forced to flee for her life, clutching her 1.5 year old son in her arms. It was a miracle she hadn’t tripped on her flight to the mountain.

I drank my third bottle of water, and mopped my brow as I was shown into my ‘office.’ It was in full view of the rest of the staff, and the air-conditioning had packed up. There were no outside windows in the room. I checked my back pack. I still had a Cadbury’s chocolate bar I’d bought in Auckland, so I figured if I ate a square at a time, I might live for another three hours.

I sat alone in the room  for a long time. Finally, a shadow in the doorway. The pregnant lady came in and sat. For the longest time, she said nothing. How hard it must have been for her, not knowing what to say, and not knowing if Iwere safe!

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said, her head bowed. ‘I think it would be good to talk to you. I dont’ know what to say to other people.’

She had lost everything. Home, clothes, furniture, her ‘laundry machine,’ and she was thanking me?

I was humbled.

‘I’ll miss my laundry machine,’ she said. ‘With another baby due in two weeks, it will be hard to wash clothes by hand.’

I thought of my washer and dryer in Napier, and felt ashamed that I’d griped because I’d had to do without machines for two weeks while we were looking for a set.

 She talked and talked. When she was done, she said she’d name her baby after me if it was a girl. I dont’ know if she will, but the idea made me laugh.

All day long, the scenario repeated itself with the rest of the staff members. For a nation that doesn’t believe in counselling, the people kept coming, and they kept talking.

I lamented my hunger. How many of the people I was sitting with had eaten recently? I had no  idea. Finally, I went across the street and bought a bottle of Sprite and a can of peanuts to keep me from perishing.

The rest of my trauma counselling days were spent in Apia.

I was told that I’d be seeing the top managers of the bank. Four New Zealanders, and one Samoan. None of the NZ managers felt they needed counselling, but that didn’t stop them from telling me their stories. The Samoan manager was a Chief, a man responsible to the bank, his family, and his village. He had lost three nieces in the tsunami, and the was exhibiting signs of shock and grief.

I listened to him and normalised his feelings, then I prayed with him. He hugged me, sobbing.

 ‘I think this is a good thing to talk with you,’ he said. ‘No one knows how I feel. I must be strong for the village.’

At 1.30, my counselling schedule was disturbed by a tsunami warning. We all climbed to the top of the hill. It was too much for some staff who were serving temporarily from Australia, and for those with already jangled nerves.

I witnessed panic, crying, and listened to a job resignation while standing on the hill watching to see if the sea would receede. Once the alarm was cancelled and we had returned to the bank, my major task was to soothe jangled nerves.

At the end of the day, the HR Manager called out. ‘Drinks at Eden’s after work. The bank will shout.’

My training has taught me that socialising with clients is a no-no. However, in this community oriented society, I decided that the best part of valour would be to go with the staff to the restaurant. I also had been asked, a sign of inclusion. Over Vailima beers and greasy fries, the staff talked about their earthquake and tsunami experiences, their fears, their thoughts, and their ideas. It was a bonding experience. All I did was listen and reflect. They were conducting their own debrief.

On my third day, my phone rang incessantly. Would I go to Pago Pago if necesary? Could I support the staff at the NZ High Commission? I had clients scheduled at half hour intervals. I had to counsel one while we both ate lunch. Not optimum, and certainly not in the training manual, but appropriate for the culture and situation.

On my final day, I was told I’d been made an honorary staff member. I was invited to a party on the bank roof. There would be a pig roast, dancing, singing, and drinks. The community aspect was the place I’d meet the rest of my clients. Samoans operate in the ‘we’ of family and community as opposed to the ‘individual I’ of western society.

On the roof, I was pulled onto the dance floor by the women, who convinced me to dance the siva and to sing with them. We danced, sang, hugged, and laughed. The other staff roamed in my direction and stopped to talk. For a nation not given to counselling, I couldn’t shut them up,k nor did I want to. It was an unconventional ‘room’ but it worked.

I didn’t want to leave Samoa, because I had fallen in love with the people. I’d shared their collective and individual grief, their hopes, and their losses. I’d danced and sung with them, I’d eaten and drunk with them, and I’d climbed the hill hoping not to be washed away with them. I’d visited their tsunami ravaged places and seen their defiant ‘we will build again’ spirit. I’d listened to the mass funeral service. They are not defeated. They are resilient.

I might be sent back in a few weeks. I hope so. If so, I’ll be looking up those women with whom I danced and laughed, and I’ll be praying and drinking water, and I’ll remember to take granola bars so I don’t starve.

Oh, and I’ll definitely bring a sarong.

 

 

Love Is A Paper Mask

This week I had an asthma attack. It wasn’t a status asthmaticus event; it was a gradual build up to a two day wheezing and coughing marathon that left me sore and breathless, not to mention raw throated and exhausted. It came two days before I was to see my GP to discuss a new way of managing my asthma since I had noticed I was using my relief inhaler more than ever. The causes are varied. New environment, a woodburning fireplace, wind, perhaps the birds. At any rate, it happened, and no one was more surprised by it than I.  My best friend died from complications of asthma, another friend of mine, a former respiratory therapist struggles with it, and I was once a nurse, so I know what can happen. Compared to severe asthma sufferers my attack was mild, and the  acute phase was relived by nebulizer treatments, steroid meds and inhalers. The prevention and management plan will come when my lungs have settled. The doctor told me I needed to get rid of our woodburning fireplace, an expense we don’t need, which means the $120 worth of wood Brian just stacked out in the shed will also need to go. We’ll need to research the benefits of a pellet woodburner vs. heat pumps. We still have two months or more of winter, so the electric ceramic heather is getting a workout.

After I got home from the GP, my daughter cancelled an appointment that she had been looking forward to, and which may have opened some doors to here here in Hawke’s Bay.  She didn’t want to leave me by myself while Brian went bowling with his men’s group. He offered to take her to her appointment, but she deferred. Secretly, I was grateful. I was still struggling to breathe, and I was coughing so badly I couldn’t eat. I wasn’t sure what the next step should be if the bronchospasm didn’t break. More meds or what? I knew if Mich were here with me, at least I’d have some support.

Which brings me to Brian. He is a wonderful husband, but he isn’t a nurse. He will do as asked in a medical situation, but cups of tea and warm blankets and hand holding just aren’t his style. He cares, but the concept that I might be feeling a bit fragile isn’t one that will often cross his mind. Probably because I am so buggerishly stubborn, independent and willing to push myself until I fall down. But he cares. Deeply. How do I know?

This morning I heard him leave the house before 8am. I thought he was taking some courier packages to be mailed. He returned then left again. I wasn’t sure what was happening. I got up, took my meds, and was having a cup of coffee when he returned. In his hand was a large package of paper dust masks, the kind that painters use.

‘I got you these so you could wear them when you look after the birds,’ he said. ‘You’re in the cages with them and their feathers and dust are right in your face. I don’t want your asthma triggered by your birdies.’

He knows I love those birds.

And that package of paper masks on the dining room table tells me that he loves me.

How Did This Winged Explosion Happen?

At the moment, I have 31 birds. How did this happen?

Apart from the fact that I am slightly obsessive-compulsive, and I am an all or nothing person, I have to blame it on my daughter. Well, for the first bird, at least. See, she loves feeding birds, and when she decided to move to NZ to live with us, the only birds that hung around our house were sparrows and thrushes. Forget the native Tui or Wax-eyes that I love, these sparrows are like locusts with large wings.

I thought it would be nice for my daughter to have something to look after, seeing as she had left her adult son behind, her two cats, and her partner.  

 In an effort to give my daughter something to look after, I went off to the pet shop for a smaller, gentler bird. The canary I bought was slim, yellow, and lovely. She came with a petite cage, and I named her Paris, after Paris Hilton. Paris turned out to be a slob. Seed and feathers exploded from her cage daily, and in spite of my efforts at playing canary music from YouTube, Michael Jackson, and other offerings, Paris never sang.

No one told me that Paris needed to be male to sing. How come they get all the good jobs?

The only other bird venture I had engaged in occured several years ago when my husband and I re-homed a Rainbow Lorikeet who we named Rambo. His name was fitting. He was a commando in multi-coloured feathers. Not only could he poop a stream of liquid feces two feet out of his cage, he would let us hold him in our hands, and while we were stroking  him, without warning, he would attack us and savage our hands until we bled. We sent him off to another home with more lorikeets, and we decided that perhaps we weren’t bird people.  

Until we moved to Hawke’s Bay, we never looked for another avian.

So, as Paris sat silently, I decided to buy her a friend. Milan came along happily, but she didn’t sing either. Chirping was on the menu, but those high, rolling trills were still in the refrigerator.

I decided to change genre.

I purchased Pepper, a grey and white cockatiel. Pepper turned out to be one of the world’s great screechers, and the cockatiel I got to accompany him isn’t. Mostly, BJ and Pepper sit on their top perches suspiciously eyeing any new item put into the cage.

My pet shop owning neighbour showed up on my porch one chilly night holding a budgie which had been attacked in the aviary. ‘Pancho’ was stubby and looked like 2 ounces of raw hamburger meat. I didn’t know if he would live or die, but I took him on, and three months later, he’s regained strength and feathers, and I’ve discovered that ‘he’ is a she.

Since I seemed to be in feathers up to my knees, I figured I might as well aim for my neck, so I added more budgies, canaries, four grass parrots, a few finches, and two lovebirds. I rounded out the feathered mix with a diamond back dove whom I call ‘Diamond Lil’, and a pair of Chinese button quail, named after former vice-president Dan and Marcia Quayle.

Last month, Paris laid 4 eggs out of season. They were infertile, and she kicked them out of the nest. Her sister, Antiqua, laid 3 which were also infertile, but she sat them like a champion until I knew I needed to take them away because they would never hatch.

This month, my finches, Mombassa and Sahara have mated, much to the chagrin of their finch friend, Ivoire, and they have built two nests. Again, they are out of season. At present, there are two eggs in there, waiting on their parents to sit on them.

Only time will tell if they are fertile.

Today I noticed our budgie Verde, nosing around the nest box in her aviary. I hope she’s just inspecting open home options.

How DID all of this happen? I’m not certain.

November is breeding season in New Zealand. I plan to pair up my grass parrots. The finches and canaries will carry on without my intervention. It will be all go.

Just call me a birdie fertility specialist.

 

 

Birdkeeping As A Spiritual Practise

My friend Christine Sine (www.godspace.wordpress.com) is running a series on spiritual practise. I’ve been following it and thinking of my own spiritual practise. The other day when I was talking to a couple of women in my dreamwork group, I said that I often felt God’s presence when I was out in the aviary tending to my birds. I’ve since done some thinking about what it is that touches or comes from the godspace in me.

The first thing to enter my consciousness is the calmness and quietness entering and working within an aviary requires. Sudden movement and loud noise alarms the birds, sending them into a blind panic which can drive them into the sides of the aviary, which can, on occasions, result in death. Being in the aviary forces me to stand still, to move slowly, deliberately and with thought. I have to slow down, watch, and listen. When I do this, the birds calm, sing around me, come close, and on occasions, allow me to touch them. This is the way I imagine God would like us to approach Him, and how I  best experience His working in my life. Slow, steady, quietly, but with purpose and presence. 

My second awareness is the birds’ quickness. Anyone who has ever tried to catch one in a bird net in a large space knows those little avians can really dart! They don’t want to be captured. Nevermind that I’m moving them to a better location, or treating a wound or a parasite, they’d rather be free. I must stand patiently in the middle of the aviary, birdnet in hand, tracking the bird until it lands. It requires patience, something I am fairly short on. Often, it take many attempts to capture a fleeing bird. I must be careful that I don’t injure it or another bird in my effort. Once in net, most birds screech like banshees. And this reminds me of my own avoidance of God. I don’t always want to be captured. I flee, I hide, I screech. Even when I know I need Him to tend to my soul, I still want my freedom. So God stands, waiting, and he makes continual attempts until He nets me into his loving snare.   

My third awareness of God concerns feeding. Birds need balanced diets. Seeds, grains, greens, fruits and veggies. Fresh water. If you want them to breed, you have to give them lots of protein, water, light, and care. When I take food into the aviary, I feel God’s loving care toward me. As God feeds me, I feed my birds. I nurture them. In doing so, I nurture my own soul. There is a deep contenment in knowing the bird is getting what it needs. It’s exciting to watch a bird take its first taste of apple or egg, or to watch as it sits on its eggs, knowing I provided some of the right conditions  for it to reproduce. I am part of the continuation of  the life cycle. The words, ‘It is good.’ come to mind.

Lastly, birds are infinitely different. In my aviary I have finches, canaries, quail, dove, and two breeds of Australian grass  parrots. Each has its own unique makeup and personality. Each has a name. I inspect each one visually every day, watching its traits, looking at it, enjoying it. I delight in those birds, from the Rosa Bourke bobbing its head to the splashing canary in the water pan. I feel the connection of God’s delight in me, and me in him as I watch these critters flying around their aviary. I wonder ‘Is this how God feels when He watches us?’

And so, never having thought it would be, I have found birdkeeping as a spiritual practise.

 

Lionel Ritchie Doesn’t Love Me, but Mitre-10 Wants To Marry Me.

Well, we’ve arrived in Hawke’s Bay, (I’m told NOT to say ‘the Hawke’s Bay, just ‘the Bay or Hawke’s Bay’. To do otherwise advertises my Auckland refugee status.) and it is fantastic. We settled into the house within a week, which means the furniture was in place, the pictures were hung, and the inflatable pool was sitting under the pergola.  The dogs were contained in their section of the yard, and one cat adjusted while the other suffered a nervous breakdown. A breakdown severe enough to require cat  prozac. She has yet to spend more than 3 minutes in the yard, and has taken to sleeping under the sink in the laundry room. We’ve already had more visitors in 4 weeks than we had in 14 years in Auckland, two of them relatives who lived in the same city.

Because we decided to forgo our annual holidays in favor of moving, we decided to splash out and buy tickets for the Lionel Ritchie concert at the Mission Winery. Rather, I decided to buy tickets. I hadn’t seen him in Auckland. I was too busy packing boxes. So, when the opportunity to buy two seated tickets at a reduced price on Trade-me came up, I snatched it. And won the auction.  Hooray! I was going to be dancing on the ceiling. Or in this case, under the stars. I couldn’t wait.

It was hot and sunny for a month leading up to the concert, then the Great Dark Cloud of Doom blew in from the South.

The morning of the concert was only slightly wet. There was hope. The afternoon was wetter, but hope still survived. By the time we left to go to the shuttle bus, it was pouring, and only grim determination  demanded, ‘Say you, Say me.  Get on that bus, that’s the way it will be.’

Just as we arrived at the concert venue, Brian decided he needed to go back and make sure he’d turned the car lights off. I forged ahead, flashing my wristband, clutching my tarpaulin, umbrella, blanket, and my Grain Wave Sour Cream & Chive chips. The cooler of wine and food would arrive with my Beloved.

 People were wet  and loopy, but they were cheerful, and the variety of wet weather gear was inspirational. We had the ‘Australian’ look, that Man from Snowy River Bone Dry slicker and hat combo, there was the flourescent rain jacket genre, a look to which I subscribed, and there was the black plastic garbage bag and Subway sandwich wrapper around shoes fashion. Gumboots were everywhere. The most inventive outfit was worn by a woman sporting dive goggles and swim flippers. The fans were anticipatory. I wondered what was taking Brian so long. The rain continued to pour. Then came the announcement:  The concert had been cancelled. Lionel wasn’t Easy Like Sunday Morning, he wasn’t even showing up.  Safety reasons, the organisers said. Too many drunk people in danger of slipping down the hill and wiping out the entire seated section, I guess.

Back to the bus. Pure chaos. One group of women had set up a sidewalk pub, and were commenting on the shuttle bus schedules. Another man offered to pour me a glass of wine if the next bus took more than 30 minutes. The woman in the swim fins tripped on the curb. Later, she sang, ‘The Wheels On The Bus’ for 45 wet and soggy passengers. At least it was a concert.

I’ll never see my money again. The man who sold me the ticket bought it from someone who bought it from someone, and the refund was only guaranteed at the point of purchase, wherever that is.

Lionel, you broke my heart. I hope you read this and refund my money out of the goodness of your own heart and pocket. But if you don’t just remember that I’m Three Times A Lady, and Mitre-10, with whom I am developing a relationship, will marry me if I buy the electric start lawnmower.

Relocation

There’s a lot happening around here these days. Since the house sold it’s been a flurry of activity ranging from calling the movers to throwing out hoarded items. Having lived on board a ship for 6 years has trained us not to collect much, the size of our house has reinforced the need to keep it simple. I’ve said goodbye to my hairdresser, my counselling supervisor, my dearest friend, and there are others who will be contacted, there will be a couple of farewell dinners, and then I’ll be on the road with my car trunk filled with the things we can’t put in the moving van. The woman buying our house is lovely, we’ve had her for dinner to help her with her transition to living here. The person we bought our new house from has helped us by selling us her picnic table and breakfast bar stools, and has stored a bed for us that we bought on an auction site. I have the promise of work one day a week, and I’ll explore some creative outlets for myself that will bring in income and artistic satisfaction.  It’s all happening, and I’m ready to go.

Our daughter, on the other hand, is scared stiff. She called the other night, and while we were on the phone, she booked her tickets for that one-way immigration experience to New Zealand. It’s been a long time in the making. Once she punched the final button, she burst into tears, sobbing the words, ‘I’m scared, Mom.’

Oh, how I know it.

A colleague of mine who burned all her counselling books and left the field after 13 successful years told me, ‘You will land safely , but it sure doesn’t feel like it when you are in freefall.’ 

I have free fallen faster and further than this relocation, but it is our daughter’s first foray into serious lifestyle bungee jumping.  I’d like to tell her it won’t jar her or make her eyes bug out, but I know it will. It’s a brave move she’s making. It will be hard for her to wave so long at the airport.

My husband is relocating his work and his work habits. It will be the first time he’s worked alone without a group around him. Part of me wants to say, ‘Welcome to my world for the past 12 years,’ but that’s just unhelpful. I hope he’ll love it, and find his way, and that the relocation will be a good thing for him and his company. 

When we lived on board the ship, foks were always leaving, and because we were long term crew, it seemed we were the ones always saying goodbye. It was hard to feel as if everyone was moving and we were stationary.

Anyhow, it is exciting. I wish it were done already, the move, Michelle’s arrival, the new lifestyle. But, it’s something to look forward to, something to plan for, something to watch unfold. I’m grateful for it.

Watch this space.

Roller Coaster

2008 was quite the year.  In January, we decided to sell our home. Not much later, the market bottomed out.  We stuck with the plan, and our agent, dedicated and loyal took us through 12 straight weeks of Sat/Sun open homes. Every weekend we’d be found vaccuuming, staging, scrubbing, and dragging the dogs out of the yard, hopeful that an offer would be made. We drank coffee in the McDonald’s parking lot, waiting for the open home to finish, while the dogs slobbered down our necks. During the week, the house had to be up to par before we left for work. I never let my guard down. We brought in reinforcements from the same agency, but he  couldn’t be bothered to make follow up calls. We ended the contract, dropped our price, and switched agents. The new ones told us they’d only do three open homes. The new agents were on the ball. Marketing, signage, the works. Several folks came through. No offers, though.  I thought if I had to hear ‘they loved the property, but want to look further,’ one more time, I’d barf. All we needed was one person who loved it enough to fork out cash.

I despaired. Brian was philosophical. ‘Que sera sera. Trust God. Trust the timing. ’

I wanted to put a fork in his forehead.

I wondered why I couldn’t process the stress as I had done when I was younger. I prayed the right person would come along. I obsessed over real estate sites looking for the right house without knowing what our price range would be. I made notes, sent emails, and talked Brian’s ears off.  Frenzied by the feeling of being stuck, I drove five hours to the city we want to move to, and spent three days looking at homes. At night I’d collapse on my friend’s mother’s guest bed exhausted, asking myself if I was crazy to be doing a search. Faith without works is dead, and this was my act of faith. Brian came down and we made an offer contingent on the sale of our house .

It was refused.  Back to Auckland.

On Christmas Eve, just as we were opening champagne, an offer came through. It was way below price.  Brian refused it. The agent pushed, Brian swore, and I drank most of the champagne. The investor invited us to a Christmas BBQ at his house.

I demanded on Christmas morning. ‘Take our house off the market.’  Brian refused.  ’That’s a knee jerk reaction. Leave it until the contract ends.’ We went to the Christmas BBQ. Nice people.

I hated the ups and downs the real estate process created. As a kid I rode mild roller coasters. No mile-high, g-force, neck dislocating, vomit bag stuff for me, and this real estate stuff reminded me of those big rides.

Then along came Martha. A young, sweet, anesthetic tech who had once been a vet nurse. A vet nurse at the biosecurity headquarters where our Beagle, Cody, had worked while he was a sniffer dog. She remembered him. She loved our colours which are bright. She loved the angles of the house, which allow her to place her fish aquarium. She loved the back  yard. She adored the shower curtain. She made an offer. Brian haggled and got his price.

I called the agent. ‘Resubmit the offer. Make it unconditional.’

The vendor, who had said she’d take an unconditional cash offer refused. The agent told her off. The vendor took her house off the market. I said, ‘Let’s walk away from it.’

I booked a plane ticket to go down and start the hunting process all over again. I wasn’t looking forward to it, but I knew I would buy a house that weekend. I said to Brian, ‘I will buy one of these 20 houses I’m looking at unless I get a call saying, ‘buy me,’ or someone comes to the front door with a flyer saying, ‘I’m the one.’

The day before I was to fly to Napier, I was driving from the mall when the agent called. ‘You’re not going to believe this. The vendor says the house is yours if you want it. She’s found another house she likes.’

So, I had a two day holiday in Napier. My plane ticket was unrefundable. Now it’s packing, phoning, cleaning, and getting ready to move in one month’s time.

Other things happened in 2008, but this was the major event apart from Brian’s 50th and our grandson’s high school graduation.

 In 2009, it will be the move to Napier. I have a gut feeling 2009 is going to be a contemplative year for me. Don’t know why, just do.

The moral of my story?  None, really, unless I listen to Brian’s ‘told you so’ telling me to trust the timing and that things will all fall in together.

The Shoulders of Giants

Sir Isaac Newton once said, ‘If I am able to see further than others, it is because I have stood on the shoulders of giants.’

I know a pair of giants. Neither of them are very tall.

He is slim and gray, and deaf as a post. His humour is as dry as the desert, and his punch lines are delivered deadpan as his blue eyes sparkle. She is round and jolly, like Mrs. Santa Claus, and she has a propensity to shout out information at unexpected times. Both fall asleep in their chairs several times a day, and have been known to watch television at full volume at one end of the lounge while the radio blares  at the other.  

They have a cat he calls ‘girlfriend’ who she feeds tiny cut pieces of whatever dinner she’s cooked. He has noontime dreams of a  black hulled ship whose mutinous crew  refuses to secure the gangways.

They work together, an unbreakable unit, supporting and helping one another. They hope to die within hours of one another, and she wants lots of people to cry when she’s gone. 

They are devout action figures who live out their beliefs. They have sacrificed more than most.  They gave up home, finances, and comfort for uncertainty, hard work and sleepless nights.  They’ve lost two of their children, one a child, the other an adult, dead and buried while they were out of telephone and telegraph contact, her exact burial spot is still uncertain.  They are parents to hundreds of spiritual children, young and old.

Giants, they are, and had they not made the choices for their lives that they did, my life would not be as it is today. Had Captain Ben  Applegate and his wife Helen not followed a call that led to a ship called the Anastasis, I wonder how far I would have been able to see.

Because of them, I see further. And to them I say thank you.

The Surprised Gardener

No one was more surprised than I when the thoughts of starting a garden entered my mind. As one of my best friends said when we were walking by a row of apartments with brightly coloured spring flower baskets on their porches, ‘Sheila’s is that one.’ ‘That One’ was an empty spagnum moss basket with one dead tendril hanging from its side.

Maybe it is the recession that got me thinking about gardening, maybe it’s the need to nurture something, perhaps it’s my need for change, but out came the pots, the shovels, the growth spray, and the gloves. Off to the seed store and back with lettuces, radishes, silverbeet, spinach, eqqplant, bell peppers, red mustard, sweet and round beans and tomatoes. Parsley and green onion followed shortly. Up with the electric fence to keep the dogs off, and all over, the snail bait.

This morning I was picking greens from the garden for the salad I’ll make tonight. I felt a great tenderness toward my plants, and noticed that I need to weed and turn the pots tomorrow. I checked to see if the sun would be too bright on the lettuces, and made note to raise the wire around my bell peppers.

Later, as I stood at the kitchen sink rinsing lettuce leaves and washing the soil away from the radishes and green onions, I felt a deep rootedness to the earth. I liked the way it felt to hold the vegetables in my hand, to caress them as I rinsed, to gently pat them dry, and to treat them with respect. It was satisfying to know they had come from my garden, not the grocery store.

There was a time I looked in puzzlement at people who would say, ‘I can’t take a holiday right now, the tomatoes are coming ripe, and they’ll need to be picked.’ I couldn’t understand being bound to something like a garden. Although I still wouldn’t give up a holiday for a tomato, I can understand the commitment to those that have been planted. I surprised myself by feeling pangs of loss realising that if our house sells, I’ll have to leave behind my radishes and sugar snap peas, not to mention my native trees. Who wants to watch the cycles of seed-sprout-plant-vegetable die due to neglect or abandonment?

Not me.

And that surprise pang made me ponder whether or not the whole gardening thing is a way of nurturing ourselves, a way of connecting to something bigger than us, to our roots, so to speak, to creation. Gardens force us to recognise cycles. What works in spring won’t in winter. They force us to slow down, to learn how to wait. And for me, an impatient and jittery waiter, that is a good thing. (I think)

So, here sits the surprised gardener blogging about her veggies. Who would have thought? Not me.