Gardening - The Growing Hobby.

A year ago I began a garden. It was an attempt to see the good in life at a time when I was feeling pretty flat. I'd just come home from an amazing world trip, had to leave my beautiful Niseko and my relationship was failing. I had not managed to secure work and was floating around as a casual teacher; a position which is pretty much 'minding' children. As things went from bad to worse I tended my garden more carefully. Many of the plants were already established by my mother. I inherited it as such. The winter grew darker and my garden, less demanding. I spent a lot of time inside or running the streets to warm my blood and keep my heart pumping.


Then spring came. My head was bowed from months of sadness and despondency. With eyes downcast I noticed the seedlings as they sprouted up from between the flagstones. All kinds of majestic trees in their miniature forms reaching up towards me with their tender fronds. I dug them up from my yard when I found them, potted them and held for them a tenderness I had not felt in a long time. I sought out seedlings; found a field I ran past regularly filled with tiny natives and incy-wincy chinese elms. I remember finding some maple seedlings when walking a class of children back from the tennis courts. I dug one of them out with the corner of my medicare card and carried it in my pocket. The children glanced at me and took no notice, what comes from action packed television I guess. I tried my hand at creating cuttings and graft plants together. I feel that may be for a gardener a few years my senior.

As spring melted into a hot summer I watered my plants daily, draining the water-tanks. Less and less often I watered them with sorrow, more and more joy was fed into those little pots. Christmas rolled around and a sparkling New Years Eve with beloved friends. A New Years I chose without any consideration for anyone's birthday or other obligations. It was a turning point for me and suddenly I shot up. Like my tiny grove I shot towards the hot sun, nourished by the fertile soil of family support and kind hearted friends coming out of the wood work. I was spun on my heel and onto a plane, on a ticket I booked the moment my world had fallen apart. In a leap of faith I was flung back into a nest of deeply emotional memories. Well, that's a bit of a flourish. I went back to where I lived and loved with whats'is'face.

Three weeks in Niseko and I found I owned it. I had the time of my life flying through the powder, dancing on tables, face shots and jager shots, freezing fingers and toasty warm restaurants. Within days of arriving my only thought of home was for my plants. Were they being watered? I was certainly getting enough liquids. I felt brave and strong, happy and glad to be alive. I came home and was happy to find that they were all alive, well mostly. Naturally, when you try to take care of living things they sometimes die.

Other things die too. In this whole process I have sloughed off whole layers of dead skin, parts of my life that died long ago and needed shifting. Likewise I have revitalized parts of me that had forgotten what it is to flex and stretch. On the most recent long weekend I did something that took more courage than I knew I had. I stepped away from my past, from what I knew and took for granted as part of my being. I chose who I gained strength from, some old friends and some new, and I had the most wonderful time.

I've come home a new person. Or rather a newer person as this past year has been filled with newness. Creativity is just flowing from me with images and imagery and for the first time in years my mind and my body seem to share their strength. Then on top of this I have a crush. Of course it's a fairly impossible situation, as I always seem to enjoy that, but definitely a crush. So things are actually golden. Shining and crystal clear, like the beautiful autumn mornings and the brilliant turning of the leaves.


And of my garden? Well the irony is, when I turn to look at my garden, all their little leaves are dropping off and I'm watering a whole lot of sticks.

Merivale. A fair weather friend.

On Thursday evening I stopped by the Establishment Hotel. I had just concluded a civilized evening of Annie Liebowitz followed by rich and delicious foods with a couple of glasses of red. Some old friends were at the bar and as it was on the way to the station, I couldn't see the harm. I walked around the bar and found my friends. I said my hellos but was quickly pushed aside.

What was going on? A short, drunk man had been harassing some girls. Tension was brewing. That particular episode settled and we all got on with catching up and singing along to Belinda Carlisle ( classy joint). I eventually got a champagne. A man had to order it. It's impossible to get service there as a woman.

A moment or two later the short man in the pin striped suit stroked my hair. I tried not to flinch as I knew he was just trying to get a rise out of my friends. He gave up and walked away, grabbing another girl and making her dance with him in a close embrace. He finished with her and a passing security guard rubbed him on the head, a familiar grin, good friends. Smelt like trouble to me.

The poor girl came back over and scolded her friend for not rescuing her. I butted in, "Do you know him?" "No, no, no!" He exclaimed. I just met him tonight. Moments later the drunk little man came up behind me and blew in my ear. Not gentle and creepy, but so hard it hurt and my hair flew about everywhere. I flinched and hunched over. People asked if he'd hit me. He hadn't, but who does that? My friends took the bait and an argument broke out. I had had enough and called for security. They didn't come quick enough. The little man got on the phone and was heard to call for friends to help in a fight. Apparently he asked for five.

Eventually a tall, skinny man in black appeared behind the bar. He looked harangued and out of control. He demanded the short man, "talk outside". I tried to grab his attention, "excuse me, I need to tell you something.""Not now ma'am." He said, as though I was a child. He said it as he walked away, pointing his finger at me. Couldn't the short man wait outside for a moment while I spoke my piece? I wanted to mention the call for friends. A few moments later he was back. This time he asked my friends outside. Suddenly it was urgent that I speak to him, but again he brushed me off. He took my friends outside to "talk" but they never came back. They had been asked to leave.

When the head of security came back past I asked to speak to him. He told me he was busy and would come back. I waited a while then looked for him. Spotted him flirting and laughing with an attractive blonde. He caught my eye and reluctantly came over. I carefully went through the events as I perceived them. I mentioned how I had twice tried to tell him about the call for friends to participate in a fight. How he twice refused to take the time to investigate properly, and even now how he was treating me like a nuisance. Then the bombshell. He told me he knew about the call for friends.I was stunned. He knew that the short, drunk, un-hinged little man had called for backup in a fight and had thrown the people he was planning to fight with out as well, despite the fact that those people had not been antagonizing or intimidating him. He explained, in a very patronizing manner that it was 'policy' to remove anyone involved in an aggressive dispute. I said it how I saw it, the Establishment didn't want to take on the responsibility to care for it's patrons, to protect them. He replied that it was policy. I asked his name and told him I would email Merivale about this policy. He told me to go ahead.

In my eyes a venue having such a policy is how we hear about bashings outside the front door, stabbings out the back or even the occasional drive-by shooting. Some poor chump gets stirred up by the back end if a donkey, kicked out by an arrogant, overworked security guard who won't listen to reason or divert from policy. Then the poor sod gets attacked by a group of 'friends' waiting outside for some action. Not the pubs problem anymore.

As it turns out nothing so extreme happened in this case. The worst that happened was that I decided The Establishment is well past it's hey day and I won't be going back. Aside from playing eighties classics and having over priced drinks, the bar staff are sexist, the security pig headed and the patrons down right annoying.

And as a final kick in the teeth, as I walked out the door I spotted the short drunk man at the bar. Security, for whatever reason, had let him back in.

Welcome Back.

Last Sunday night I tied on my joggers and ran up to Hornsby for a Chinese meal with the family to learn some more about my birthday surprise. You see my sister-in-law is pregnant and the sweet little thing is due on my birthday, August 25th. We were gathering together as a family to discover the sex of the little critter.

As I ran along I contemplated how strange life is, how it moves along. Hardy, my younger brother, seems to have the more 'adult' life. He works in a company and has just finished his MBA (graduation this Friday night - hooray Hardy!). He has a house and a family, a mortgage and a tool bench all of his very own. As the older one I have set a fine example of how to study and travel, establish a mortgage and travel, go to music festivals and travel, maintain a full time job and travel. If there is one thing I could help my younger brother with, it would be how to shrug off the constrains of everyday life and skip off around the place. He is happy though. More than happy, he is fulfilled. He built a set of stairs on his own, including the welding. He created one little life (not on his own) and here was the second one... about to be revealed. I have a sense of longing for little ones, as most women my age do. Actually, a friend of mine corrected me the other day, it's not just the over thirties...some girls have that longing as much as a decade earlier. But I am lucky. I do not live my life sans sprats. In fact I have a very gooey head cold as a result of all the time I spend with small children. In addition to my chosen career, I have a lovely brother and sister-in-law who are producing delightful little children that I am able to spoil terrifically.

So I arrived at the restaurant excited for my brother and his lovely wife. I could see them through the window with both of the Grandmothers and my little niece, Baby. They were all smiling and chatting, champagne in their wine glasses (cheap and cheerful chinese restaurant...wine glasses is the way to go). I burst through the door panting and sweaty with endorphins pumping through my veins. Nannie looked surprised to see me that way and I explained. She said she knew I was running already...I guess she didn't think I would put such oomph into it!

A quick freshen up and change and we were at the table. Mum had arranged to have the fortune cookies first, so we could try to guess our surprise. I grabbed at them, eager. The gold foil tore away and the biscuit cracked open. My small strip of paper read,
"Something you lost long ago will soon be found."
Emotion welled up in my throat, excitement in my heart. Possibly due to dehydration combatted with a gulp of champagne I felt a huge wave of joy.

"It's a boy." I said, certain.

Natalie and Hardy smiled at me serenely. The others opened their cookies. All completely irrelevant. Mine had a connection. The others couldn't see it, but I could.

"Yesterday Baby and I made cupcakes as a special way of telling you." Natalie said, fishing around under the table. She pulled out a tupperware and handed mum and I a small cake each. Pulling down the paper revealed a greeny blue sponge beneath the icing.
"I told you it was a boy," I laughed.

My brother looked at me puzzled. How had I known? What was the clue. I explained that long ago our father was lost and seeing as their intention had been to name a son, in part, after our father then it must be a boy. The table smiled and laughed, and we tucked into our lemon chicken and sweet and sour pork whilst discussing football practice and music lessons.

Welcome to our family little Jonathan. It's going to be as though you were never gone.

Elegant Lady Joan

She lives two doors down and owns a small black dog. I'd never seen her before today but mum had spoken of her often.
"I saw her heading for the shops. I'll ask her in for coffee."
Mum waited until she saw the snow white crown through the leaves of the Japanese maple.
"If thats her, she's lost weight." Mum hurried down the drive, with her slightly twisted gait, to catch her as she passed. I overheard the invitation and acceptance. I felt terrible for having eaten all my morning tea, not anticipating a visitor.
They made their way slowly up the drive, both pushing the walking trolley up the curved slope.
"I have brakes on this one. Not the one in the car though. People can see the sparks from my heels at times."
I helped mum help her up the stairs onto the porch. We seated her on a comfortable chair and mum went to get coffee and cake.
"Lovely day." I soon felt embarrassed of my boring opener. She humored me for a moment and then proceeded to tell me with wit and class her tales.
"My husband died in December. Sixty years we had been married, you couldn't ask for more. We had three children. We are all very close. Well, one lives in Canberra and two in Port Macquarie. They had the doctor come around with the old age assessment people, to see if I can manage. Well, I told them I could manage just fine. Of course a week later I broke two of my vertebrae. They will go to any lengths to prove a point won't they."
Her blues eyes sparkled and danced at her mischievous comment. My face opened in obvious surprise at her candor. Mum returned with the refreshments and rescued me from my goldfish impression.
"How is your little dog?" My mum loves Joan's dog.
"She's an excellent companion you know. I can't walk her anymore so I pay a young man in sixth form. I used to have boxers you know. When the last one died my vet told me perhaps I was too old for boxers. When i asked him what he recommended he told me a great list of dogs. I said Bob, they're all gun dogs."
Her wide mouth laughed at the memory. Her teeth, all clearly her own, were gently discoloured against the red of her lipstick. "So Bob gave me the address of a place, a farm, and I drove out there to find a dog. There were two gates. You closed the first behind you and opened the second. As I did so there was a great baying as a pack bore down upon me. A golden retriever, a couple of others and a pointer who came up to me and ever so gently took my hand in her mouth. Well, it was clear then. She had been sent to the farm after a hip reconstruction, well suited to breeding. A very intelligent animal she didn't like to walk the same route each day. There would come a point when she would just make it clear she wanted to go in a new direction."
My mother chortled and looked at me amazed. We both sat there being washed over with these never ending, quite fascinating tales.
"I had her five years and held her while she was put to sleep. The hip you see. So I checked the book and that's when I decided on a miniature staffy. My husband would walk her. He was a man of routine, and so is she you see. I wouldn't walk her often but when I did she would stop at the place where they would usually cross the road. Just stop and look at me."
Joan stopped and looked out at the garden. Her face dropped ever so slightly. Her papery skin folded and white, her hair thin and clean. She was beautifully groomed in her camel shirt, decorated with a faux necklace. Mum began talking about the garden and the conversation burbled along without reminiscing for a moment.
I told the story of the little girl who came by selling girl guide cookies,"Do you have a fairy garden?" she asked my mother as she surveyed the piles of moss covered sandstone, tree ferns and over grown orchids. Clearly she could see past the cement mixer, pile of rusted iron fence pickets and other construction materials.
"If a child recognizes it Lenore, you're most of the way there." Joan stated, taking a sip of her coffee.
She told us other tales. Of her being a girl and finding a calf that the mother had dropped on the cattle run and left. She rescued it from dogs and raised it three months before giving it to the milkman. A lovely memory of lying in the grass with the calf's head on her shoulder. Of the frogs in the horse trough on the street, how she would pick them up and have a little chat, say hello, before putting them back.
All too soon she decided it was time to go. We helped her over to and down the step. As we made our way slowly across the balcony, "I'm not a race going lady but I do like to watch. That black caviar, what a fine beast."
Joan began talking to mum about fillies and mares, the derby and such. I was too busy enjoying the timing of her opening statement. An elegant comedienne.
As we walked to the pavement she told us of how she had been driving seventy years."Not one speeding fine and I used to put my foot down. I had a monaro in those days, never once was ticketed. Only a few years ago they caught me on The Pennant Hills Road. By this time I had a pulsar. I expect they get people all the time saying it wasn't them. So I wrote them a cheque and enclosed a letter. It read,
Dear speed camera, I've had this vehicle five years and thought I had broken it in. It must have got the bit in it's mouth and away from me though. I've kicked it's tyres for it, don't tell the NRMA... Well, they sent me my money back"
We wished her a lovely afternoon and laughed happily together in our goodbyes. A lady of 87 and a true pleasure to spend time with.
"I hope I'm as with it at 87," mum whispered as we watched Joan return home.
So do I mum, so do I.

All the single ladies....put your hands up.

If you like it then you should'a put a ring on it. A song adored by single women all over dance floors across the world. Until this year I have never really contemplated what those lyrics really meant to me. I was jogging through St Ives the other day when a different song lyric made me laugh out loud. "I caught a woman with a diamond ring." The man crooned in my ear. He was boasting of how he secured a lady friend with the gift of a polished stone. I think I startled an old lady with my burst of surprised laughter.

All sorts of things about the choice of marriage have been catching my attention lately as I have begun questioning my own thoughts on the subject. It's not like I really have to think about it. It's not like buying a car; will I, won't I. It's certainly not something on the horizon for me, but being a planner I like to know what I want out of life. It's certainly something I always thought would come along for me. I guess for little girls it's a given. I never imagined my fluffy white dress, but I certainly thought I would be buying one someday. Friends have said in the past they actually thought I would be one of the first. Without questioning, I think I thought I wanted it. But do I want it anymore?

I think it all really began when I read the sequel to "Eat, Pray, Love". The book that followed is called "Committed" and it follows Elizabeth Gilbert's own journey through the question of marriage. The difference is she was questioning it from within, jaded from a terribly unpleasant divorce and contemplating a new engagement. I am now questioning it from the outskirts. Completely unattached, (having recently escaped a long term relationship relatively unscathed) irresponsible and ferociously independent. A lady in Gilbert's book said for her it was all about being chosen. I can really see it too. The happy couple, selecting each other to have and to hold for the rest of their days. A promise of unwavering, unfailing fidelity, security, companionship and love.

I'm loving going to weddings and celebrating the loving of others. I'm loving cooing over the product over those lovingly lovely weddings. I am loving sharing the loving with lots of loving congratulations, gifts, photos, smiles and dancing. Let it be known I have love embracing the joy found in celebrating the love of those who enter into marriage.

I know those moments of pure golden love. They are beautiful and not to be denied. However, for me those shimmering moments of clear happiness have always faded and reality come a tapping at my window. Love, for me, has not yet lasted.


A fantastically unique friend of mine, for the purposes of this piece I shall call him Dre, won't let anyone around him say the word 'married'. That may even extend to the word 'marriage'. If ever he hears it, even over the phone, he promises that person a nipple cripple. A this point, I would like to impose a caveat that in writing about marriage I am not saying the word marriage and therefore protect myself from the dozen or so pinches he would try to inflict. When we were younger I used to think he was being silly and Peter Pan-esque. These days I'm not so sure I can't find a valid point in his objection. It is taken to be such a matter of course. People talk about it all the time. Our kitchen installer asked me flat out the other week (in his thick German accent with his large gnarled hands waving about emphatically), "What's the matter with you? Don't you want to get married?"

Well, yes, I do. Or I did. But can you want that with no prince charming. Shall I hunt him out with an ad in the paper? Do they do mail order husbands? Am I so old that I should hurry up about it? Do I need a husband?

Ahhh.... that's the question. That's the real question. Do I need a husband. For anyone who knows me it is well known that I can fix a leaky tap or a blocked sink, light bulb, broken plaster, uneven paving or anything else around the home. My darling brother comes over to help with the super heavy stuff (at six foot-something-ridiculous so he blooming well should) and little mum and I take care of the rest. Many don't know that I am financially independent, despite living at home (yes, I am a bit old for that... but I really like it!) so I don't need a husband to take care of me. So two counts out for hubby darling.

Perhaps I need a husband to escort me to things. That would be nice... sometimes. Although I know what it's like when a fella doesn't want to go to things. It's like dealing with an obstinate five year old. Trust me, I really know what it's like dealing with them during the week and I don't appreciate it when I'm getting ready for what is promising to be a fabulous party with truly exciting people. I used to squabble with my old what-sis-face about him coming along to things. The arguments became too much and I simply stopped inviting him. I have become very good at going to things on my own and have actually come to quite like it. I meet some terrific sorts who I probably wouldn't have if Mr Handbag-Sourpus was scowling beside me and checking his watch. It's actually come to a point where I can't find time for a lovely guy who has being trying to take me out on a second date for weeks now. No luck buddy... don't you know April is the busy time of year?

So there it is. I don't really need a husband. I don't really need to get married. There's no point thinking about it anyway because I'm not even making time for dating, let alone making some guy a happy home. I'm being completely selfish and loving it. Never before in my life have a been in such a place of independence and freedom. I literally have choices arising for me every day and I can say yes or no on a whim. Do I want to spend an extra day at Bluesfest? Yes. Do I want to go to Ben Folds? Yes. Do I want to go to bed without anything for dinner but caramel filled chocolates? Yes. Do I want to spend time with who I choose? Feel joy and love, share happiness and companionship, with whomever I like, whenever I like? Yes.

For now.

One day someone will come along (a phrase I hear sooooo much these days) and I will fall in love again. At that point I will probably read this passage and shake my head. I will probably think myself a bitter fool for not craving the highs of swooning adoration. But in the meantime I am a single lady and I will put my hands up. Not for want of a ring or to flaunt that someone should regret not securing a ring on me. But I'll put them up to wave them about as I dance to the beat of my own wild, fun filled, single, single, single life!

Don't go over there...

Driving along the Wakehurst Parkway this morning, enjoying the clear crisp day I was flung back through time to a night long ago. I had been driving in the other direction through the night when I saw smoke bounding up through the headlights before me. I thought it was a fire at first, but as I got closer I realised there had been an accident. The streams of light silhouetting the scene were casting in odd directions as the cars had spun across the road. I pulled over into the gravel and parked my car. I hesitated before getting out, but when the man before me leaped out of his car and ran to the victims, leaving his door ajar, I swallowed my fear and opened my door.

The car closest to me was on the other side of the road, facing the bushland at an angle. The woman in the seat was grey faced and sweating. Her skin looked as though it was made of plasticine. She didn't look at me. She was looking through the windscreen. She asked me who she was, where she was going. I asked her the same questions. Her eyes darted as though taking in the scene but she seemed to be a long way away. "What happened?" she asked, over and over again.

Her leg was trapped beneath the steering wheel. A deep, bloodless gash decorated her knee. I stared at it, mindless. The man who had hurried to help came running back from the other vehicle. Parallel to the woman's car but about 30 metres away. It seemed as though they had caught the front panel of the drivers side. A momentary lapse of concentration, a slight loss of consciousness. Perhaps adjusting the radio or maybe a sneeze. A Saturday night meant there may have been wine involved, the hour meant exhaustion was likely.

"Don't go over there," the man panted when he reached me, "that man is dying."

I looked at him. That man is dying.

The fire brigade arrived and the police asked my name. I stayed with the woman, trying to keep her awake. Numb to the events I left when they told me I could. Drove past the mess, tyres crunching over broken glass, heading for home.

The police called a few days later for a statement. I couldn't tell them anything that was useful. The man had died. His wife had watched. Somewhere in their 60's their life together was over. I hung up the phone and did the laundry.

Today, years and years later, I cried for that man. A beautiful, sunny Autumn day, safe and content, I wept for the man who lost his life in the dark on Wakehurst Parkway.

Satan Returns

It's a weird thing to be a full grown adult and find yourself floundering aimlessly to choose a choice, to name a path. It would be like I was 21 again; copious opportunities, life full of joy, little responsibility, tonnes of fun. But at 21 I honestly had more direction. Educate, accumulate, adventure. That's all I wanted to do. Now I don't even know what I want to do. I put it out on facebook and a well meaning friend offered me the google grab of 'Satan Returns' and though confused, I googled it. It was no help, obviously (if you're curious follow the advice of my friend Tanya, JFGI) What was a help was the outcry from other thirty-somethings with the same little-girl (or boy) lost sensation as me. Friends from all over sharing my inability to find a golden calling... Something they simply want to do, forsaking all other options. Turns out my dark demonic friend was really a white witch, had mis-typed and meant Saturn Returns. For those who have managed to live between the ages of 28 and 32 without hearing this little phrase here is a brief version of what I know. Please bare in mind I have only heard it through the grapevine and have never looked it up (Satan returns, yes... Saturn, no.) It is when the elusive Saturn is in approximately the same spot as when you were little and so you go through a similar formative process. Life changes rumble through your being and you have an opportunity to change who you are. Not only that, most people find themselves doing it out of instinct. If I look at it I guess when mine started I stopped being so serious about myself, found a younger fellow, rediscovered music festivals and ditched night-clubs and finally ran off around the globe on an 18 month (what is work anyway?) holiday. By the time my period of change was beginning to end I realized where I wanted to be, who I wanted to be with (or not be with) and now I'm beginning to realize who I want to be. Who do I want to be? Devoted kindergarten teacher on north shore of Sydney? Interesting foreigner teaching in Japan (in spare time skiing in winter or running in summer)? Smarty pants with a masters in geology like many members of dad's side of the family? Someone's girlfriend? Someone's landlord? Someone's aunt? Someone's mum? A singer, a dancer, a seamstress, a bum? My sage like friend Lisa reminded me on Saturday night who I was at uni. I was someone who wrote. I felt strong in my writing. I felt creative through my writing. I hoarded it; unfinished scraps of creative excrement. She suggested the artist's way... But I'm way to indecisive to commit to a six week daily writing session. So putting my blog on my iPhone is my compromise. Considering my relationship with my iPhone is as about as committed as I will get to anyone or anything at the moment it's a safe bet I'll be writing a bit. Well, until some other endeavor ignites my imagination.