Solitude

Ode on Solitude

~ Alexander Pope

 

Happy the man, whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

 In his own ground.

Whose heards with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire,

Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

 In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away,

In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease

Together mix'd; sweet recreation,

And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;

Thus unlamented let me dye;

Steal from the world, and not a stone

 Tell where I lye.

***

The children have gone off on holiday with their grandparents.  It's strangely quiet without them and there's less structured activity to pad out the days.  It's the catering that I notice the most.  Dinner and washing-up for two.  Cut lunches for two or not at all. Bliss.  No mess on the floor.  No crazy bedtime routine.  No... little faces, little conversations, little books and learning.  No little hugs.  I can't imagine what it will be like when they have grown and gone away.  It's nice for a week but not for an endless period, as it will surely be one day.    Empty children's bedrooms are the saddest places, I think.

Batement Tendu

Childhood

~ George William Russell

HOW I could see through and through you!

So unconscious, tender, kind,

More than ever was known to you

Of the pure ways of your mind.

We who long to rest from strife

Labour sternly as a duty;

But a magic in your life

Charms, unknowing of its beauty.

We are pools whose depths are told;

You are like a mystic fountain,

Issuing ever pure and cold

From the hollows of the mountain.

We are men by anguish taught

To distinguish false from true;

Higher wisdom we have not;

But a joy within guides you.

***

Beautiful end of term open session at ballet this afternoon.  A room full of little girls in lavender, alternately graceful and squirming.    At seven years of age, they are starting 'intensive training' with classic routines at the barre and on the floor.  It's hardly the Kirov, but so sweet to see my girl point her toes perfectly and step out on long, lean but muscular legs.  She can tie a mean bun all by herself in the back of the car too.

Bravo.  Encore!

Lost camera, lost time

In Childhood

~ Kimiko Hahn

things don't die or remain damaged
but return: stumps grow back hands,
a head reconnects to a neck,
a whole corpse rises blushing and newly elastic.
Later this vision is not True:
the grandmother remains dead
not hibernating in a wolf's belly.
Or the blue parakeet does not return
from the little grave in the fern garden
though one may wake in the morning
thinking mother's call is the bird.
Or maybe the bird is with grandmother
inside light. Or grandmother was the bird
and is now the dog
gnawing on the chair leg.
Where do the gone things go
when the child is old enough
to walk herself to school,
her playmates already
pumping so high the swing hiccups?

***

I seem to have lost my camera and have lost my sense of equilibrium with it.  I've had to use an iphone and Charly's little junior Kodak number to capture the moments, and there have been plenty of memorable and beautiful ones over the past few weeks.  The autumn tones in Canberra's old streets, merriment in the backyard over the Easter break and abundant other daily vignettes reminding me that childhood is fleeting. Clothes have become outgrown and conversations more mature.  Decisons about high school loom.  I want to capture every second before it disappears.  Oh, where is Peter Pan?

Oh, where is my Canon Ixus?

Gratitude

Concert Party (Egyptian Base Camp)
-- Siegfried Sassoon

They are gathering round....

Out of the twilight; over the grey-blue sand,

Shoals of low-jargoning men drift inward to the sound—

The jangle and throb of a piano ... tum-ti-tum...

Drawn by a lamp, they come

Out of the glimmering lines of their tents, over the shuffling sand.

O sing us the songs, the songs of our own land,

You warbling ladies in white.

Dimness conceals the hunger in our faces,

This wall of faces risen out of the night,

These eyes that keep their memories of the places

So long beyond their sight.

Jaded and gay, the ladies sing; and the chap in brown

Tilts his grey hat; jaunty and lean and pale,

He rattles the keys ... some actor-bloke from town...

God send you home; and then A long, long trail;

I hear you calling me; and Dixieland....

Sing slowly ... now the chorus ... one by one

We hear them, drink them; till the concert’s done.

Silent, I watch the shadowy mass of soldiers stand.

Silent, they drift away, over the glimmering sand.

***

Still dashing around not getting anywhere fast.  Right from the word go in the morning the race is on.  Trudging over hill and dale in a most undignified fashion to walk to work from a distant car park.  I found a raised mound over a gully/drain to teeter over instead of the usual hazardous uneven tussocks of grass.  I'm forging my own goat track.  It's a twice daily adventure.  I hum as I walk.  Those old piano medleys glide about in my head.  I suspect this derelict public site will be ripe for development one day and Canberra's skyline will become a dense thicket of highrise buildings.  I should enjoy it while it lasts. The children's piano tunes will also be a distant memory one day too.  So while I grumble, I also pause in gratitude. 

Photo. St John's Anglican Church, Reid, Canberra, Australia.  By me.

Renaissance Family

The Strange Music

~ G. K. Chesterton

 

 

Other loves may sink and settle, other loves may loose and slack,

But I wander like a minstrel with a harp upon his back,

Though the harp be on my bosom, though I finger and I fret,

Still, my hope is all before me: for I cannot play it yet.

In your strings is hid a music that no hand hath e'er let fall,

In your soul is sealed a pleasure that you have not known at all;

Pleasure subtle as your spirit, strange and slender as your frame,

Fiercer than the pain that folds you, softer than your sorrow's name.

Not as mine, my soul's annointed, not as mine the rude and light

Easy mirth of many faces, swaggering pride of song and fight;

Something stranger, something sweeter, something waiting you afar,

Secret as your stricken senses, magic as your sorrows are.

But on this, God's harp supernal, stretched but to be stricken once,

Hoary time is a beginner, Life a bungler, Death a dunce.

But I will not fear to match them-no, by God, I will not fear,

I will learn you, I will play you and the stars stand still to hear.

***

Piano practice is coming along quite nicely. A few rondos rattle around in my head all day. I hum some Edna Mae* drills while buzzing about the kitchen. One of the sweetest sounds on earth is that of your child playing a musical instrument I reckon.  Even the simplest of tunes played faultingly makes me beam with pride. The neighbours may not agree, but to me it is a joyful noise.  With the exception of 'The Entertainer' which is cringe-worthy and so not in keeping with our Renaissance family ideals.  How did that get on the program?

Image 1: Madonna and Child with saints and donors by Gerolamo Giovenone, 1527.

From the Italian Renaissance exhibition at the National Gallery of Australia, Canberra.

Image 2: Edna Mae Burnam* (1907-2007) Dozen a Day series for piano.

Henry King WHO CHEWED BITS OF STRINGS, AND WAS EARLY CUT OFF IN DREADFUL AGONIES

By Hilaire Belloc

THE Chief Defect of Henry King
Was chewing little bits of String.
At last he swallowed some which tied
Itself in ugly Knots inside.
Physicians of the Utmost Fame
Were called at once; but when they came
They answered, as they took their Fees,
'There is no Cure for this Disease.
Henry will very soon be dead.'
His parents stood about his Bed
Lamenting his Untimely Death,
When Henry, with his Latest Breath,
Cried 'Oh, my Friends, be warned by me,
That Breakfast, Dinner, Lunch, and Tea
Are all the Human Frame requires...'
With that, the Wretched Child expires.

***

No time for photos.  Busy as.  The eldest is at school camp.  In the wet and wind.  I'm indulging in some separation anxiety thinking of mud slides, treacherous seas and group tomfoolery.   That is when I'm not being driven into the ground with catering for the remaining crowd.  We got by with Steggles chicken fillets and steamed vegies tonight.  Somebody smuggled the bottle of BBQ sauce to the table.  The feta cheese in the home-made spinach pie did not go down well with the junior brigade.  Little S. was visiting and declared that she only ate peas with mint jelly and roasted carrots.  They're a tougher lot than those Masterchef judges.  Then the dastardly routine will all roll around again tomorrow.  I hope there's bread in the freezer.

A Few Rules for Beginners
by Katherine Mansfield

Babies must not eat the coal
And they must not make grimaces,
Nor in party dresses roll
And must never black their faces.

They must learn that pointing's rude,
They must sit quite still at table,
And must always eat the food
Put before them--if they're able.

If they fall, they must not cry,
Though it's known how painful this is;
No--there's always Mother by
Who will comfort them with kisses.

***

Lesson Number One: These little fellows make changing the sheets a trial.  So I've decreed that henceforth no more soft toys shall be brought into this house.  Enough is enough.  No matter how adorable.  We cannot adopt one more free-loader.   (D'ya hear Daddy?)  Space is at a premium.  Once, it was all Beanie Bears.  Now the lastest obsession is with The Littlest Pet Shop creatures.  One little doggie crept home with us from the Royal Agricultural Show.   He has scored pride of place on the pillow but will no doubt be de-throned in favour of a distant cousin, also made in China as the weeks and months go by.  Affections are fickle when it comes to plush companions.

It's snuggle weather here with record-breaking rain.  The dams are bursting, sports grounds closed, swimming carnivals cancelled and that twice-daily cross-country walk to the office results in sodden trouser legs, if I'm not careful.  

Now and Then

As from the house your mother sees

You playing round the garden trees,

So you may see, if you will look

Through the windows of this book,

Another child, far, far away,

And in another garden, play.

But do not think you can at all,

By knocking on the window, call

That child to hear you. He intent

Is all on his play-business bent.

He does not hear, he will not look,

Nor yet be lured out of this book.

For, long ago, the truth to say,

He has grown up and gone away,

And it is but a child of air

That lingers in the garden there.

Robert Louis Stevenson

***

So true, my  precious little ones.  The days are long but the years are short.  We watched some of the SBS program, Who Do You Think You Are, tonight.  It's become a bit of a favourite in our house when we manage to catch it. My, what facinating stories they unearth and how it affects people to learn about the struggles of their forebears. Tears well up as the subjects are reconciled with the past and the jigsaw puzzle pieces of their heritage connect.  Some tough lives has been lived. Don't I know this more than most coming from tough Anglo-German-Swedish migrant stock. It taken many generations for my lineage to be able experience the opportunities my children currently enjoy. It's really a gift to know this.  I reflect on it often.

It's Show Time!

Banquet Night  
by Rudyard Kipling

"ONCE in so often," King Solomon said,

Watching his quarrymen drill the stone,

"We will curb our garlic and wine and bread

And banquet together beneath my Throne,

And all Brethren shall come to that mess

As Fellow-Craftsmen-no more and no less."

***

What a day.  If I were Julia I'd need to break my Lenten commitment to forsake alcohol.  I haven't given up coffee though and I'll bet the coffee machines at Parly House were on overdrive today.

I love my new pretend paper cup from the two dollar shop.  I've taken to using the Italian expresso pot on the stove and pouring myself a double-shot flat white.  I can pretend I'm a hot shot executive too busy to breakfast when in fact I'm drinking from it in my jarmies at the kitchen bench while stuffing carrot sticks and frozen banana cake into plastic lunch boxes designed like miniature space shuttles with flaps that open in all directions.  The kids think the cup is 'awesome' too and have visions of taking hot chocolate to soccer in one.  They've got another thing coming.

We had a busy weekend what with a go-karting birthday party, the usual cricket match, World Thinking Day for Girl Guides on Aspen Island (in the rain) and a trip to the Royal Canberra Agricultural Show for the littlest gull and me.   The coffee injections were indispensable to enable me to get from this:

to this:

Fabulous from start to finish!

It's Curtains.

The King's Ring

by Theodore Tilton

I.

Once in Persia reigned a King,

Who upon his signet ring

Graved a maxim true and wise,

Which, if held before his eyes,

Gave him counsel, at a glance,

Fit for every change or chance:

Solemn words, and these are they:

“'Even this shall pass away!'”

II.

Trains of camels through the sand

Brought him gems from Samarcand;

Fleets of galleys through the seas

Brought him pearls to rival these.

But he counted little gain

Treasures of the mine or main.

“What is wealth?” the King would say;

“'Even this shall pass away.'”

III.

In the revels of his court,

At the zenith of the sport,

When the palms of all his guests

Burned with clapping at his jests,

He, amid his figs and wine,

Cried, “O loving friends of mine!

Pleasure comes, but not to stay:

'Even this shall pass away.'”

***

This week I seem to have been pacing through my working hours waiting for the factory siren to signal knock-off time.  It's been tediously slow, and just as well, because we've been captivated by the Machiavellian twists and turns in federal politics.   Good old ABC 24 News live broadcasts have been keeping us informed as we gather around wall-hung television sets to watch the succession of media conferences. 

Lyndall Curtis has been t'rrific on the telly and Latika Bourke unstoppable on Twitter.   There's no waiting for press clips as we've been able to hook-in minute-by-minute with online coverage and social media commentary.  I'm no political junkie, but the outcome of the ballot on Monday will have direct repercussions on my paid employment, being a loyal public servant and all.  So I come at it from the perspective of a Canberra insider (which makes it all the more gripping) and a voter (which makes it all the more tedious). 

But what is really bothering me this weekend, getting down in the micro-world of my daily life (!), is the choice of blinds for the "side room" (pictured). I never like the fabric samples I bring home to suspend from the window sill on their coat hangers. They looked so promising in the show room. I don't know whether to go custom-made with exquisite Warwick materials or buy ready-made from BQ Designs. The proprietor of the local curtain shop must despair of me as I've been on her books since 2008, unable to make a decision.   Like the Labor Party, I just need to get it over and done with, make a choice and accept the consequences.  There seems to be a strangely apt analogy here!

 

It will all pass ... eventually.

Berry Delicious Summer.

Blueberries 

by Robert Lee Frost

"You ought to have seen what I saw on my way

To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day:

Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,

Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum

In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!

And all ripe together, not some of them green

And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!"

***

What is it with berries?  The supermarkets are full of them.  Raspberries, blueberries and blackberries are standard fare in the big chains not just the farmers markets or roadside stalls.  Not so when I was growing up.  There was a time when they were a rarity. I'd pick mulberries from the tree in my grandparent's back yard and we had a few measley strawberry plants in our own vegie patch.  These days however, we can recreate some an English pastoral scene in the kitchen with bountiful punnets of berries... at three dollars a pop, or less.  (Perhaps not so cheap for raspberries, the most delicate of all the Rubus genus.)

In fact, our 2011-12 summer dessert hit has been pavlova shells stuffed with mixed berry goodness and chopped kiwi fruit, topped with Gippsland double cream and syrupy passionfruit.  Look what Not Quite Nigella has to say on the topic.  I haven't been brave enough to make my own pavlova just yet but I feel the need to do so some time soon.

Our smoothie of choice this season has been a creamy concoction of frozen berries, milk and yoghurt.  It makes an impressive sight in a long, tall glass with a couple of bent straws and a parfait spoon.  Yum.  Sluuurrrrp-able! The folk at Creative Gourmet (Australian suppliers of frozen berries)* have a neat website with plenty of mouth-watering recipes the kids would go ape over.   Just as well we keep the freezer well stocked with the frozen variety so we always have a box on hand when we feel a berry craving coming over us.

* Not sponsored.  My own views. :o)

School

Gratitude To The Unknown Instructors 

by William Butler Yeats

WHAT they undertook to do

They brought to pass;

All things hang like a drop of dew

Upon a blade of grass.

***

Parent Information Night.  It's amazing how, still, to this day, teachers make assumptions about what parents know about school routines, reporting, educational acronyms and the curriculum.    Bless them though.  They probably rightly focus on communicating with the children and do it very well. But my impression is that they aren't great shakes at communicating with parents.   It's a tough ask, I know. There are lots of diverse opinions, needs and interests.  As an old primary school principal once said to me "there are as many hats as there are heads".

Love 'ya. See ya'.

St. Valentine's Day

By Wilfred Scawen Blunt

TO-DAY, all day, I rode upon the down,

With hounds and horsemen, a brave company

On this side in its glory lay the sea,

On that the Sussex weald, a sea of brown.

The wind was light, and brightly the sun shone,

And still we gallop'd on from gorse to gorse:

And once, when check'd, a thrush sang, and my horse

Prick'd his quick ears as to a sound unknown.

I knew the Spring was come. I knew it even

Better than all by this, that through my chase

In bush and stone and hill and sea and heaven

I seem'd to see and follow still your face.

Your face my quarry was. For it I rode,

My horse a thing of wings, myself a god.

***

Valentine's Day is no big deal really in this household. An imported custom that doesn't seem authentic and besides, there's no-one here experiencing the first blush of young love.   Yet. Thanks heavens.

No time for luvvy-duvvy stuff either between the old marrieds, what with an early start and late finish respectively.  His steed is a hulking late model SUV. She canters in a city runabout with a child-proof rear seat protector.  The 'chase' is a drive up and down a major city thoroughfare multiple times to deliver and collect children.  Phone calls are made, not to whisper sweet nothings, but to synchronise transport arrangements. 

A love affair of a different sort. 

In two acts

Alone for a Week

By Jane Kenyon

 

I washed a load of clothes

and hung them out to dry.

Then I went up to town

and busied myself all day.

The sleeve of your best shirt

rose ceremonious

when I drove in; our night-

clothes twined and untwined in

a little gust of wind.

For me it was getting late;

for you, where you were, not.

The harvest moon was full

but sparse clouds made its light

not quite reliable.

The bed on your side seemed

as wide and flat as Kansas;

your pillow plump, cool,

and allegorical. . . .

***

 

Parenting around these parts is a two-person act but sometimes. I confess, when there is only one person it goes more smoothly. There are no assumptions about who will wipe the bench or clean the children's teeth.  One can hog the electronic devices to one's heart's content, there are no bathroom queues or collisions in the kitchen.  The bed is a glorious expanse of space that can be filled with a soft, little cuddle-able body.   We live in a state of suspense waiting for your return.  It is quieter and noiser at the same time.  We seem to talk more loudly.

 

It's not the same without Dadda.  Things go bump in the night more than usual. A halogen light bulb always blows when you are away. Some chores are more easily done by someone tall and strong. Books about the minoans and gladiators need a masculine narrator.  We cry when we hear your voice on the phone.  We are glad you are home.  A restive peace returns.  

 

Jane Kenyon, “Alone for a Week” from Collected Poems.

Kairos Moments

Solitude by George Gordon, Lord Byron

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,

To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,

Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,

And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;

To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,

With the wild flock that never needs a fold;

Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean;

This is not solitude, 'tis but to hold

Converse with Nature's charms, and view her stores unrolled.

But midst the crowd, the hurry, the shock of men,

To hear, to see, to feel and to possess,

And roam alone, the world's tired denizen,

With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;

Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!

None that, with kindred consciousness endued,

If we were not, would seem to smile the less

Of all the flattered, followed, sought and sued;

This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!

***

I know I'll miss the children when they are grown and moved away but there is a lot to be said for a few hours respite from the rabble.  No catering, cajoling or castigating. Just blissful peace and quiet.  Time to sort, spruce the place up and accomplish some chores without interruption.  Think.

I've copied the following article in full from Huffington Post because it spoke to me and I may want to come back to it if I get some time uninterrupted. It's written by Glennon Melton.

Don't Carpe Diem    

Every time I'm out with my kids -- this seems to happen: An older woman stops us, puts her hand over her heart and says something like, "Oh, Enjoy every moment. This time goes by so fast."  Everywhere I go, someone is telling me to seize the moment, raise my awareness, be happy, enjoy every second, etc, etc, etc.

I know that this message is right and good. But, I have finally allowed myself to admit that it just doesn't work for me. It bugs me. This CARPE DIEM message makes me paranoid and panicky. Especially during this phase of my life - while I'm raising young kids. Being told, in a million different ways to CARPE DIEM makes me worry that if I'm not in a constant state of intense gratitude and ecstasy, I'm doing something wrong.

I think parenting young children (and old ones, I've heard) is a little like climbing Mount Everest. Brave, adventurous souls try it because they've heard there's magic in the climb. They try because they believe that finishing, or even attempting the climb are impressive accomplishments. They try because during the climb, if they allow themselves to pause and lift their eyes and minds from the pain and drudgery, the views are breathtaking. They try because even though it hurts and it's hard, there are moments that make it worth the hard. These moments are so intense and unique that many people who reach the top start planning, almost immediately, to climb again. Even though any climber will tell you that most of the climb is treacherous, exhausting, killer. That they literally cried most of the way up.

And so I think that if there were people stationed, say, every thirty feet along Mount Everest yelling to the climbers -- "ARE YOU ENJOYING YOURSELF!? IF NOT, YOU SHOULD BE! ONE DAY YOU'LL BE SORRY YOU DIDN'T!" TRUST US!! IT'LL BE OVER TOO SOON! CARPE DIEM!" -- those well-meaning, nostalgic cheerleaders might be physically thrown from the mountain.

Now. I'm not suggesting that the sweet old ladies who tell me to ENJOY MYSELF be thrown from a mountain. These are wonderful ladies. Monkees, probably. But last week, a woman approached me in the Target line and said the following: "Sugar, I hope you are enjoying this. I loved every single second of parenting my two girls. Every single moment. These days go by so fast."
At that particular moment, Amma had arranged one of the new bras I was buying on top of her sweater and was sucking a lollipop that she must have found on the ground. She also had three shop-lifted clip-on neon feathers stuck in her hair. She looked exactly like a contestant from Toddlers and Tiaras. I couldn't find Chase anywhere, and Tish was grabbing the pen on the credit card swiper thing WHILE the woman in front of me was trying to use it. And so I just looked at the woman, smiled and said, "Thank you. Yes. Me too. I am enjoying every single moment. Especially this one. Yes. Thank you."

That's not exactly what I wanted to say, though.

There was a famous writer who, when asked if he loved writing, replied, "No. but I love having written." What I wanted to say to this sweet woman was, "Are you sure? Are you sure you don't mean you love having parented?"

I love having written. And I love having parented. My favorite part of each day is when the kids are put to sleep (to bed) and Craig and I sink into the couch to watch some quality TV, like Celebrity Wife Swap, and congratulate each other on a job well done. Or a job done, at least.

Every time I write a post like this, I get emails suggesting that I'm being negative. I have received this particular message four or five times -- G, if you can't handle the three you have, why do you want a fourth?
That one always stings, and I don't think it's quite fair. Parenting is hard. Just like lots of important jobs are hard. Why is it that the second a mother admits that it's hard, people feel the need to suggest that maybe she's not doing it right? Or that she certainly shouldn't add more to her load. Maybe the fact that it's so hard means she IS doing it right...in her own way...and she happens to be honest.

Craig is a software salesman. It's a hard job in this economy. And he comes home each day and talks a little bit about how hard it is. And I don't ever feel the need to suggest that he's not doing it right, or that he's negative for noticing that it's hard, or that maybe he shouldn't even consider taking on more responsibility. And I doubt anybody comes by his office to make sure he's ENJOYING HIMSELF. I doubt his boss peeks in his office and says: "This career stuff...it goes by so fast...ARE YOU ENJOYING EVERY MOMENT IN THERE, CRAIG???? CARPE DIEM, CRAIG!"

My point is this. I used to worry that not only was I failing to do a good enough job at parenting, but that I wasn't enjoying it enough. Double failure. I felt guilty because I wasn't in parental ecstasy every hour of every day and I wasn't MAKING THE MOST OF EVERY MOMENT like the mamas in the parenting magazines seemed to be doing. I felt guilty because honestly, I was tired and cranky and ready for the day to be over quite often. And because I knew that one day, I'd wake up and the kids would be gone, and I'd be the old lady in the grocery store with my hand over my heart. Would I be able to say I enjoyed every moment? No.

But the fact remains that I will be that nostalgic lady. I just hope to be one with a clear memory. And here's what I hope to say to the younger mama gritting her teeth in line:

"It's helluva hard, isn't it? You're a good mom, I can tell. And I like your kids, especially that one peeing in the corner. She's my favorite. Carry on, warrior. Six hours till bedtime." And hopefully, every once in a while, I'll add -- "Let me pick up that grocery bill for ya, sister. Go put those kids in the van and pull on up -- I'll have them bring your groceries out."
Anyway. Clearly, Carpe Diem doesn't work for me. I can't even carpe fifteen minutes in a row, so a whole diem is out of the question.

Here's what does work for me:

There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It's regular time, it's one minute at a time, it's staring down the clock till bedtime time, it's ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, it's four screaming minutes in time out time, it's two hours till daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.

Then there's Kairos time. Kairos is God's time. It's time outside of time. It's metaphysical time. It's those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day. And I cherish them.

Like when I actually stop what I'm doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the perfect curves of her teeny elf mouth and her asianish brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving but I can't hear her because all I can think is -- This is the first time I've really seen Tish all day, and my God -- she is so beautiful. Kairos.

Like when I'm stuck in chronos time in the grocery line and I'm haggard and annoyed and angry at the slow check-out clerk. And then I look at my cart and I'm transported out of chronos. And suddenly I notice the piles and piles of healthy food I'll feed my children to grow their bodies and minds and I remember that most of the world's mamas would kill for this opportunity. This chance to stand in a grocery line with enough money to pay. And I just stare at my cart. At the abundance. The bounty. Thank you, God. Kairos.

Or when I curl up in my cozy bed with Theo asleep at my feet and Craig asleep by my side and I listen to them both breathing. And for a moment, I think- how did a girl like me get so lucky? To go to bed each night surrounded by this breath, this love, this peace, this warmth? Kairos.

These kairos moments leave as fast as they come- but I mark them. I say the word kairos in my head each time I leave chronos. And at the end of the day, I don't remember exactly what my kairos moments were, but I remember I had them. And that makes the pain of the daily parenting climb worth it.

If I had a couple Kairos moments during the day, I call it a success.

Carpe a couple of Kairoses a day.

Good enough for me.

Photo: By me. Bert Flugelman Cones 1976/82 polished stainless steel. Sculpture Garden, National Gallery of Australia.

Starry-eyed

The Evening Star

~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Lo! in the painted oriel of the West,

Whose panes the sunken sun incarnadines,

Like a fair lady at her casement, shines

The evening star, the star of love and rest!

And then anon she doth herself divest

Of all her radiant garments, and reclines

Behind the sombre screen of yonder pines,

With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed.

O my beloved, my sweet Hesperus!

My morning and my evening star of love!

My best and gentlest lady! even thus,

As that fair planet in the sky above,

Dost thou retire unto thy rest at night,

And from thy darkened window fades the light.

***

The first week of school, day two and it's merry mayhem around here with a special soccer training program twice weekly, a mid-week ballet lesson and a host of other extra-curricular activities to schedule.  How on earth can I focus on the paid job when there is so much fun to be had after 3.00 pm every day?   How can I concertina up those office hours to spend more time with the children?  I'm trying.

The children go to bed plum-tuckered-out under the evening star and thr full moon last night.  Not I, of course, because I'm still up covering books (last minute creative attempt), thinking about packed lunches (but deciding against preparing the night ahead as it most items won't stay fresh) and devising complex transport arrangements (with all the precision of a LinFox freight truck). 

Summer Refrain

 

"Mother, may I go out to swim?"

"Yes, my darling daughter.

Fold your clothes up neat and trim,

But don't go near the water."

***

Let's get a pool!

We could put a pool where the grass is!

 

 

Can we go to the pool?

 

 

If we get a pool we can't do the nature strip yet.

 

 

I really want a pool.

 

 

A pool would be good.

We wouldn't have to drive.

I'm hot.

Can I get in my swimmers?

Poem: Mother Goose Rhymes.

Image: Australian Institute of Sport, by me.

February's here.

Pinch and a punch for the first of the month.  Deadlock.  No returns.  Of any kind.

A brutal awakening by two children (one in particular) keen to get in first with this monthly ritual.  Ah February.  All 29 days of you. 

Class lists come out on Friday, sticky-taped to the front glass of the school office.  We have to be down there checking at the earliest opportunity.  Charly is hyper-jittery about which of her friends will or won't be in her class and which teacher she scores.  The list looms larger in her imagination than in previous years and takes on far greater significance as she marks her final year of primary school.  It has to be a fabulous, memorable year.  Like the arrival of February, this milestone has crept up quietly.

Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November;
February has twenty-eight alone,
All the rest have thirty-one,
Excepting leap-year, that's the time
When February's days are twenty-nine.

***

The Banksia Walk and Fishing off the Jetty

"Not very far way a number of Banksia men were sitting
in a Banksia-tree, basking in the sun and planning mischief.

'Bunch and scrunch 'im!' shouted one.
'Hit and spit 'im!' growled another.
'String and ring 'im!' snarled a third.

Then they all jumped about, grunting and chattering
and shaking the bough till the leaves rattled."

May Gibbs, The Adventures of Snugglepot and Cuddlepie

***

On one of our day trips from our base at Malua Bay, we took a detour to do the Banksia Walk at Guerilla Bay.  It was a pleasant, easy stroll until the sharp grasses (under the malicious influence of the Banksia Men) started scratching our legs.  Little Wanna moaned and I had to admit that wearing a sarong and thongs on a bushwalk was not the most sensible form of dress.  (It was only meant to be a twenty minute leisurely stroll.)

We found some strange man-made edifices amidst the natural beauty. 

One of the most special excursions, full of nostalgia for me, was our fishing expedition off one of the Bateman's Bay jetties along the Clyde River.  The quintessential Canberran experience, I suppose.  We motored around everywhere to find a sandy expanse ripe for fishing, and even asked at the Bait and Tackle shop, but couldn't any spots other than the jetties, that didn't have treacherous rocks.  We weren't so concerned about falling in; it was more about losing our lines on snags.  There is only so much re-threading of swivels and hooks that one parent can endure (and it wasn't me!).

Even with our five dollar fishing rods from KMart and a packet of frozen prawns, we managed to catch some under-sized perch and leatherjackets.  We threw them back of course.  That made the whole exercise seem pointless.  The children loved it though.  The thrill of the chase evoking some primal hunter instinct.  The quiet contemplation. All part of the holiday experience, but not a sport I'm about to take up seriously. 

We weren't the only mugs throwing out a line.  There was a fair bit of competition to find the right spot on the jetty.  But as we didn't catch our lunch, we retired to the fabulous Innes Boatshed Fish and Chip Shop.

It was truly scrumptious.