Holidays!

Aren’t holidays blissful! That photo sums up exactly how I feel. Time off is such a break for the mind. Without the rushing and clock-watching and have-tos and shoulds, life is so much more enjoyable, isn’t it? Stress becomes a minor player instead of strutting about in its usual role of main character. I’ve been amazed at how many nice things it’s possible to fit in when you’re on holiday: writing, reading, knitting, cooking, sewing, catching up with people, listening, noticing, thinking, walking.

It hasn’t all been fabulous: my credit card was hacked, and that saga’s still not over. Then my computer died just as I was finishing an application for a writing mentorship. An aeroplane suddenly took off from within the hard drive and then…nothing, which led to much scrambling to find another writing implement. (Bring back the quill pen! They never crash!) Like Lazarus, the computer rose from the dead just in time to upload the application, but I was on the edge of my seat as it painfully sent packets of data into the ether in tiny increments. It was (almost) as dramatic as an episode of a Scandi noir thriller!

I went to the coast for a couple of days to hang out with a friend, two teenagers and a dog. One teenager was delightfully bossy and organised. She cooked breakfast, arranged cheese platters like a caterer and cleaned up brilliantly, all the while talking a mile a minute. I offered her money if she could stop talking for two minutes so that I could film the peaceful view from the back deck. She couldn’t do it. The money stayed in my wallet. But I did manage to capture ten seconds of serenity.

I was hoping to upload it for you, but I wasn’t able to. So imagine you’re lying in a hammock on a covered verandah, looking out at lush vegetation. The leaves of the palm trees are waving in the soft breeze. Rainbow lorikeets are flitting about. King parrots, jewelled green and scarlet, come and land on the end of the hammock. In the background the waves wash in and out: hush, hush, hush.

All that beauty went unnoticed by the other teen because she was a sulker. If sulking were an Olympic sport, she would win gold for Australia. Sulking is so annoying. I had to keep reminding myself to be nice to her, saying over and over like a mantra: “It’s because she’s a teenager.” I hope she grows out of it. You miss a lot of life when you waste time sulking.

“Let’s go for a ‘splore,” said my friend, so we took the dog and left the teens at the holiday house (one tidying up and one moodily painting on fake eyebrows) to go and see what we could see. We found a sheltered little bay with a dog-friendly beach and perfect water in all shades of blue. From the headland above, we looked out to the deep ocean and saw whales blowing and breaching. They were a long way off, but it was very exciting.

One thing guaranteed to bring a moody teen out of a sulk is this truly excellent chocolate slice:

I’ll include the recipe at the end of this post. It’s from Our Village Table, a lovely book of recipes put together by the residents of Exeter, in the New South Wales Southern Highlands. I got a copy at the Exeter General Store last time I was travelling that way. The store is a cafe/post office that also sells books, gifts and basic groceries, so you can pick up your mail, have a coffee, read a book and buy a pumpkin all in one go. The world needs more places like that.

Back at home it’s chilly but not as cold as last winter. There are jonquils and white violets flowering in the garden already, which must be some kind of record. I’ve started painting the trim on the front of the house. “Am genius painter,” I thought, as I happily slapped paint on to wood. Then I looked down and realised I’d also slapped paint on to my clothes and the ladder.

So far I’ve knitted some socks and done a bit of sashiko embroidery and a bit of sewing. I’ve learned how to fix some sewing mistakes but I’ve also learned that one dress I’ve made is going to have to be repurposed because I will never wear it. It makes me look either like a clown or like a character from Little House on the Prairie. Honestly, when I put it on I couldn’t decide whether to honk my nose or go out to the barn to fetch a jug of molasses. Am definitely not a genius seamstress.

There’s one more week of holidays left—just enough time for a walk along the Murrumbidgee, a bit more house painting, then a quick trip to the Blue Mountains. Hopefully, a little of that holiday bliss will hang around once it’s time to go back to work. Fingers very tightly crossed!

Toodle pip! Bye for now. And here’s that slice recipe for you:

Chocolate coconut slice

Slice:
2 tablespoons cocoa
1 cup self-raising flour
1 cup soft brown sugar
½ cup coconut
125g melted butter, slightly cooled
1 egg, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla

Icing:
1½ cups icing sugar (sieve it if there are lumps)
2 tablespoons cocoa
1 tablespoon butter
2 tablespoons boiling water
extra coconut to sprinkle on top

Preheat oven to 180°C. Grease a slice tin and line the bottom with baking paper. (My tin was a 9-inch square.) Combine the dry ingredients then add the butter, vanilla and egg and mix well. Press into slice tin and bake for about 20 minutes. It will feel springy on top. Cool for five minutes.

Mix the boiling water and the butter then add the other icing ingredients and mix well. Add a bit more water if you think it’s not spreadable. Spread on top of the warm slice and sprinkle with coconut.

Wait until the slice is cold before you slice it! This is important because it might fall apart when it’s warm. (Also, patience is a virtue.) Put the kettle on and make a pot of tea, then cut the slice into small squares so that you can eat several pieces and not feel like a greedy guts.

The Spiegeltent of the mind, and other life rafts

A few weeks ago, a whimsical structure appeared in the square next to the building where I work. Its curved walls were made of wood, painted a dark green. At the top of each wall panel was leadlight glass in red and green. Its roof was a dome of stretched canvas. At the front of this makeshift structure, spanning the entrance, were painted Art Nouveau panels, drawing you in. A glimpse inside showed booths, a bar, columns and a stage in warm polished wood. It was a Spiegeltent.

Inside, every night, cabaret artists performed or acrobats tumbled in spangled costumes or soulful singers sang their hearts out. I think there’s a little part in all of us that loves sequins and spectacle and fancy lighting. One of my great-grandmas was a Romani, so a desire to run away and join the circus or to trundle about in a painted caravan is in my DNA. I’ve loved walking past the Spiegeltent every day because of what it represents: creativity, freedom, self-expression.

That Spiegeltent has been a life raft for me in recent weeks, because bereavement is hard and you need life rafts to cling to while you’re swimming through the sea of grief.  I think the way grief was dealt with in Victorian times was much better than the way we deal with it now. The Victorians had set mourning periods, signified by the colour of their clothes. They started off by wearing black then moved to purple and grey as time went on. It was obvious to everyone when a person was in mourning. The bereaved weren’t expected to fully participate in society for a year or more.

In our shiny, clever, modern world, you get a week off work when a family member dies, two if you push it. So you go back to work and try to act like a fully functioning human being while inside you’re all colours of mourning: black, purple and grey, like a bruise. Because there’s no obvious outward sign, people forget. You can ask for help or extra time but in the working world patience extends only so far and then you’re expected to be all right again.

This is not meant to be a whinge. I’m just documenting my observations. Every damn day I’m creating new coping mechanisms and giving silent thanks for small things, little life rafts of distraction, inspiration and hope. In case you’re going through something similar, I’ll share those life rafts with you. The first one is, of course, the Spiegeltent and all it represents. The next one is this: Detectorists. It’s three series of gentle story lines and subtle comedy set in beautiful countryside, and for half an hour at a time it makes your poor heart happy.

Soup is another life raft. A friend who now goes by the nickname of Soup Ninja keeps making me soup and just bringing it over, no questions asked. She knows that if she did ask I’d probably say she shouldn’t bother, so she just brings it. And it’s always delicious and enormously comforting.

Poetry can be a life raft. Another friend sent me this book: Evidence, by Mary Oliver. The poems in it are exquisite reflections on the natural world and our inner worlds, and some are about the way we try to grasp at the things we know we can’t keep. It’s the kind of book you hug to your chest after you’ve read it.

Here’s another life raft: Hyperbole and a half. It’s a blog, it’s a book and it makes me Laugh.So.Much. Even when I don’t want to. The dog sections of the book especially crack me up. It’s Allie Brosh’s cartoon account of her life and I love it.

Alexandra Kennedy’s articles on grief are very helpful. I’m finding this one in particular to be a life raft: Ten Steps to Grieving the Loss of a Parent.

Friends are a life raft, especially when they can give you space and a bit of time and aren’t offended when you don’t feel like talking or when you can’t really be there for them. A dog walk or a quick chat over a cuppa or the occasional trip to the movies is all I’m able to do right now. And I just don’t remember anything anyone tells me. But thank you, my friends, for still being there.

Sophie Hansen’s newsletter, which you can sign up to on her Local is Lovely blog, is a life raft. Most Mondays she sends out reasons to be cheerful: links to lovely recipes or interesting podcasts or groovy architecture and interiors. It’s such a cheery thing to find in your inbox on the least cheery day of the working week.

Home maintenance can be a life raft. I’m ridiculously pleased with the curtains I put up the other week, even though I haven’t yet re-hung the bedroom ones. I think it’s to do with being completely focused on the task and having to figure out little puzzles to get something right. And then you end up with a new colour or texture or arrangement of furniture to look at, which can change your outlook too.

Trees are a life raft. We’ve kind of skipped autumn this year. April was unseasonably hot. Now we’re into fog and frost. The trees are confused and so am I. They’re changing colour one day and dropping all their leaves the next. Michael Leunig’s cartoon “Interview with an autumn leaf” made me gasp when I found it on the wall of Dad’s study. Now I see all the leaves letting go and I think of that cartoon.

Booking a holiday can be a life raft. I ummed and aahed about this one. I didn’t want to go too far. I didn’t want to go anywhere unfamiliar, not just yet. So I booked a week in a posh hotel in the Big Smoke. And I booked a seat on a plane to take me there, rather than the squashy bus or the slow train. That’s what credit cards are for. Now I’m glad I did. It’s not till July but it’s a treat to look forward to.

Community is a life raft. Mum and Dad live in a small town. In the days after Dad died, I was driven a bit mad by the phone ringing, ringing, ringing and the doorbell chiming, chiming, chiming from all the people who were in shock and wanted to express their sorrow. But when half the town turned up at the funeral I was so moved. Dad knew he was lucky to live in a supportive community and now they’re a life raft for Mum.

Movies can be a life raft. I went to see the bittersweet film Aurore recently. Perhaps it appealed to me so much because I’m une femme d’un certain age. Also, the French have the best names, really they do. It was written by Blandine Lenoir and stars Agnès Jaoui. See what I mean? And it’s also got Thibault de Montalembert in it, which I think is my favourite name ever. I can’t stop saying it.

There’s a scene in the film where Aurore dances to a song that, if you’re grieving, will probably make you cry. But I’m going to share it here anyway because it’s sung by the incomparable Nina Simone. When someone dies, I think those of us who are left behind feel somehow guilty that we’re still here. It feels wrong to laugh or to sing or to be able to appreciate beauty at the same time as being incredibly sad. So this song might stir up all sorts of feelings, but listen to it anyway and let them all out. Here’s Nina, wearing a fabulous crocheted dress, in a spliced together film clip from 1968: I got life.

On Monday morning as I walked into work, the sun was shining down on the Spiegeltent, illuminating the beautiful Art Nouveau decoration at the entrance. I thought about taking a photo, and I wish I had because the next day they took it down and the weather changed. Now there are only office workers clutching their coats around them as they walk across the grey, empty square. And I can’t find a single good photo of that particular Spiegeltent on the internet. There’s just a grainy one taken by someone one evening before the show started. So it exists now only in my head, as the Spiegeltent of the mind, a fanciful distraction. Like the other life rafts, it’s a safe place to rest, briefly, on the unavoidable voyage through the sea of grief.

DIY for the delusional

 

Are you good at home improvements? Can you stand on a ladder with a pencil behind your ear and a drill in your hand and make something stay on the wall? If so, can I just bow down before you. (Imagine deep bow.) I’m pretty handy with a paintbrush, which led me to think I would be good at home maintenance generally. The small, quiet, pretty house is in need of some cosmetic assistance and I’m planning to do it myself. But after this weekend I might have to rethink that. Here’s the story of how I put up curtains…

Measure very large windows by stretching up on tiptoes and wrangling with bendy tape measure. Tape measure flips all over place like metal serpent, threatening to take out eye. Manage to save eye. Write down dodgy measurements on scrap of paper and shove into handbag.

One month later, discover scrap of crumpled paper in handbag. Resolve to go to IKEA to buy curtain rods and curtains all at same time.

Another month later, find time to go to IKEA. Walk into IKEA clutching scrap of paper with measurements on. Look up directions to curtain section. Become instantly distracted by discovery of shortcut to cafe. Follow shortcut to cafe. Buy coffee and gluten free cake and feel very pleased with self.

Set off again for curtain section. Pick up coffee pot and mason jars on way. Arrive at curtain section with hands full. Temporarily detour to find large bag. Return to curtain section. Discover have misplaced important scrap of paper. Backtrack to find paper. Return to curtain section.

Realise must also buy brackets and ends for curtain rods. Feel relieved at in-store realisation, resulting in no need for second visit to IKEA. Stare for long period at measurements on curtain rods. Sigh at own mathematical and spatial awareness inadequacies.

Decide on curtain rods. Clank over to curtains, carrying rods, mason jars and coffee pot. Discover that curtains in shop aren’t same as curtains online. Touch curtain in shop and recoil from nasty nylon material snagging fingernails.

Clank through remaining sections of IKEA without curtains. Become distracted by nice mirror. Attempt to look up number and price of nice mirror on warehouse computer. Wonder why touchscreen not working. Try another computer. Touchscreen also not working. Give up and go to checkout. En route, realise computers were mouse operated.

Steer self across windy car park with curtain rods acting as rudders. Attempt to fit rods in small car. Try from several angles. Fold down back seats and retry. Success!

Two weeks later, feel icy wind blow through sliding doors in bedroom and living room. Read in paper about snowfalls in national park. Decide today is thermal curtain day. Remove old, broken wooden blinds from windows by standing on chair and sliding knife into various metal parts until blinds give way. Discover big blinds very heavy. Call friend to come over and help.

Meanwhile, carry small blinds across golf course in freezing wind to dump in skip. Bump into neighbour. Go to neighbour’s house to look at double glazing. Marvel at warmth and quiet of neighbour’s house. Plan to save bazillion dollars and buy double glazing.

Friend arrives. Drive to nearby town to good curtain shop. Friend disappears in curtain section. Decide on curtains. Friend reappears carrying exact same curtains. Laugh. Both stand in front of curtains trying to do maths. Realise measurements on crumpled piece of paper are inaccurate. Use phone calculator to do more maths. Purchase curtains and hope for the best.

Back at home, friend helps carry large blinds across golf course, through sleeting rain, to skip. Both scurry back inside, put fire on, have tea and chat.

Several hours later, stand on chair to fix curtain rods to bedroom wall. Realise part of wall is hardwood beam. Peer at various drill bits and wonder which bits work on hardwood. Get lucky and choose right bit. Drill holes. Almost step back to admire handiwork then remember standing on chair with drill in hand.

Attempt to screw in brackets. Realise have wrong screws. Notice that sun is setting and temperature dropping and have no curtains at windows. Hang bedroom curtains anyway, with brackets only half screwed in. Realise brackets are too high. Curtains look like boy with too short trousers. Briefly consider making embroidered bottoms for curtains. Acknowledge to self that winter will be over by time finish embroidery. Decide to re-do brackets and re-hang bedroom curtains another day when have right screws.

Go into living room and temporarily pin bits of material up at windows like in student days. Spill drawing pins all over floor. Glance at packaging of living room curtains and wonder why bought extra wide curtain for smaller window. Feel suddenly very tired. Resolve to deal with it tomorrow.

Post script: Next day buy right screws, install brackets lower down and successfully hang curtains. But only in living room. Bedroom windows still have too short trousers.