Something School Doesn't Teach You

There are very few right answers. Sure, when the test is given, the capital of Burma may be Rangoon but give it a couple of years or even weeks, and it's not Burma anymore, it's Myanmar (regardless of what the US chooses to call it). There are very few right answers in school, and outside school there are even less. Be that as it may, the satisfying shuffle of a or x or y from one side of the equals sign to the other will stay curled up in your shoulder blades somewhere, coming out randomly to s t r e t c h luxuriously when a plan comes perfectly together, like the first bite of a cake fresh out of the oven, or seeing your son fall into space, delivered by a book you read when you were about his age, and you find it as hard to get his attention as if there actually was an entire atmosphere and shiny vacuum of space between you.

Pythagoras' Theory can help you pass the test, but school doesn't teach you life has its own answers. I know how to pronounce cos, sin and tan, while cheerfully having no idea anymore of how they relate to anything. You can't get all the questions right. Often you have no idea what the question actually IS, or who is going to teach you whatever it is you should be learning. It can be a long, painful fall from being a straight A student to just an ordinary human living the life you've been given, the life you're trying to build and decipher and push the boundaries a couple more galaxies outwards.

There are very few right answers. Life's algebra doesn't make sense. But there will be moments when you understand a concept, a person, a sunrise, situation, recipe or metaphor, and the entire sky will change colour and shout in celebration. There will be crushings that will plummet far into the abyss inside you, and dark will be the only sense you can make of any of it. But it's those moments - of dying and clarity and sapphire sunbursts and the sudden smell of mustard or cinnamon - that will become part of your own answers, to the questions you were looking for all along.

A Final Thought For The Evening

Some days - some minutes even - the very best of intentions get smacked upside the head with a grand piano, pushed off the edge of the world or simply left alone, quietly in the corner, forgotten and weary.

Some days (some weeks or alternate Thursday mornings even) ordinary routines can fizzle to vagueness and drift absentmindedly away, or show you their teeth when abandoned.

Some days, even a crisp edged Tuesday, can be so simply exhausting that saying "Good night" gives you the feeling that either a parade should now be held in your honour somewhere, or you've broken the laws of physics in not having broken down in tears hours beforehand.

Some days hold the proof that you should have been looking after yourself better, that gentleness doesn't necessarily mean weakness, and that sometimes the best part of the day is when it is over.

The Liebster Award!

Nearly a month ago, while I was skittering impatiently in the hospital waiting for the MRI room doors to open and return Wong to me, my phone pinged with a message.

Can't wait for you to check your email :-) it will cheer you up a little!

A while later, while Wong thankfully dozed, I did check my email and found that Tracey, from Carpe Librum, had nominated me for the Leibster Award. And Trace was right - it did cheer me up, and more than a little! Life has obviously been a bit chaotic since then, so my response has been delayed until now (as with my return text - sorry Trace!), but I have given the questions plenty of thought.

To start, the awards works as follows:

• The nominated blogger has to list 11 facts about themselves
• They need to answer the asked 11 questions posed by their Awarder
• Then nominate another 11 bloggers for the Award with a different 11 questions
• Link to the bloggers in the post
• Let them know you've nominated them
• Don't renominate the person with impeccable taste and discernment who nominated you ;)

So, 11 Facts About Me

1. I hate having sticky fingers. Glue, mud, egg whites, whatever - GET IT OFF GET IT OFF RIGHT NOW!
2. I love eating food with my fingers where possible (except where this conflicts with point #1).
3. I speed-read. I'm self-taught, very fast, and can usually remember which side page a quote or reference was on. 
   
4. I have less than six shirts that don't have something written on the outside.
5. I know - by memory - all the lyrics to Vanilla Ice's "Ice Ice Baby".
6. Science fiction is my drug of choice.
7. There are always at least two of the three essentials in my fridge: milk, cream and butter.  
8. I try to get a camel ornament every Christmas.
9. I will never have enough books.
10. I dream of firing a bofor gun. 
    
11. I believe dessert is acceptable fare for breakfast and dinner.

Tracey asked me the following questions:

1. Can you tell us a little about your blog? It has chronicled the end of my marriage, the subsequent divorce, my rantings, fears and attempts to be a decent human being and good Mum to my sons. Basically, it's where I pour out my head to work out what I'm thinking.
2. What's your most popular blog post to date? This one, about my tattoo.
3. How do you increase your followers? I don't. The majority of people who read my blog I'm pretty sure are word of mouth referrals.
4. Where does the inspiration for your blog posts come from? Whatever crazy thing is going on in my life or head is what ends up on my blog.
5. A little about you now.  Can you name your favourite book? Ugh, such a cruel question! Fine, it'd have to be Old Man's War by John Scalzi. But I'm happy to offer other favourites in any and all other genres.
6. What song has the most number of plays in your iTunes? (Or, what's your fav song?) iTunes tells me the boyos have corrupted my play listings, so after some sleuthing it appears at the moment it's Hero: Overture, though outside of iTunes it's Feeling Good by Nina Simone.
7. What's your all time favourite TV Show? Firefly, no contest at all!
8. What was your favourite game to play as a child? Climb A Tree With A Book And Hide From Everybody.
9. Do you have a second hobby, other than the one your blog focusses on? Um, my crazies aren't a hobby, I promise! Favourite hobby/pastime is reading!
10. Stationery lover or iPhone / online all the way? Stationery, absolutely, though online for actually getting stuff SENT in the same calendar year.
11. Funniest comment left on your site? Definitely from Erik, lovely Michelle's husband, in response to my 'If You Miss It Then You Should Have Kept A Ring On It' post, namely:

Great writing! I feel your pain and am clenching my fist in solidarity with the impending punch to the "cake hole". 

Actually, on face punching, I have heard that it is better to do this with an open hand. I have never actually taken or given this kind of affection but the experts say that if you want to enjoy the use of your hand in the weeks and months after delivering such a blow use the base of your palm in a short upward punch. I would hate for you do to this and then not be able to write about it.

 I don't have 11 bloggers to tag, but should they choose to accept, I'd love to award the following:

1. Where's Marnie?
2. Scenes From The Wild
3. Compulsive Writer
4. Beehive and Birdsnest
5. Angry Baker
6. Wild N Precious

My questions for them:

1. What movie or book is guaranteed to make you feel better by the end of it?
2. Which fictional character would you invite to a party/dinner/island/breakfast/event?
3. What has made you laugh lately?
4. Name an actor/actress you would want to cast as a particular character in a favourite book.
5. What would you happily pay $50 to someone to do for you?
6. What's the answer to the question you wish someone would ask you?
7. Three things that you need to have close to hand?
8. How do you decide what to blog about?
9. What's something you've always wanted to do (but haven't yet)?
10. What's something you would love to discuss with great friends over amazing food?
11. What's something you are happily surprised about being you right now?

Thanks for the nomination, opportunity and fun Tracey!

Favourite Friends On The Interwebs

Today's post prompt is my favourite blogs I read, and why. I'm going to go with blogs of people that I either have met in person, or who I've gotten to know via the miracle and wonder of the internet, email and their blogs. I'm hoping that I'll meet two of these lovely people in person when I visit the States this year!

So, in no particular order:

Where's Marnie?

Well, unlike Waldo, Marnie can generally be found in Melbourne, Australia. She and I met about ten years ago, when we were both called into Primary - she as the music director, me as a wary and terrified counsellor. Primary gave us quite a chunk of time to chat and get to know each other. Our eldest kids were in Primary (Hatro and one of Marnie's daughter in the same primary class), and it quickly became apparent that Marnie was a remarkable woman. When I moved from Melbourne a couple of years later, I knew I'd miss her. Thankfully the web has made it possible to keep in touch, and I love her blog. Marnie has an eye for colour, design, style, and I admire the honesty with which she writes about parenting, life, extended family, self-improvement and the beauty in living. She also shares my love of sci-fi and geekery ;)

Jennie aka Hildie

Don't let the title "Beehive and Birdsnest - Amazing Feats of Domesticity" lull you into a bored coma - Hildie writes with wit, snark and is hugely entertaining. Some of my favourite quotes from her blog include:

"$1600 for a cake stand??? For that price I expect it to be painted with the tears of 18th Century Chinese concubines. I think I’ll stick with the ceramic version from Pier One that costs 97% less." (Read the whole post, both for the hilarity and pretties she was looking at.)

And her response to my comment asking for her special brownie recipe that begins with:

Dear Selwyn,
Sorry things are so yucky for you right now with the ex being a douche bag. Here is the recipe for the amazingly wonderful Cream Cheese Brownies to help you drown your sorrows. I would send you some but you live in Australia and they would taste wretched by the time they arrived.
Love,

Jennie 

 Those brownies are now one of the ultimate dessert rewards here, hands down. I read Hildie's blog because it's funny, and she tells life exactly as she sees it. I can't wait to see her in August! (And I'm doing a "How To Make Pavlova" post just for you, JennieHildie, soon!)

Chaos Theory's Angry Baker

I want Angry Baker to take my photo, and some at home shots of my boys. Actually, I'd love to just hang out with her for a couple of hours to eat amazing food, take poser shots in front of crazy city walls, and let our love of FNLs, Tim Riggins, and snark have free reign. I think I found her blog through one of her comments over at Segullah, and lurked for some time before commenting on something she wrote. Her photography is brilliant, her Instagram roll is stunning and I am a devoted fan of her blogged honesty, snark and appreciation of desserts. Our time in Utah isn't going to coincide in August, which kills me, as I'd like to meet her for real. (Note to self: get quote for SLC-Angry Baker flights).

Wild and Precious

"Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" - Mary Oliver

That quote is at the top of Cath's blog, and Cath writes of the wild precious moments in her life, particularly as they relate to her mothering of her five kids (including two sets of twins). What I appreciate most about Cath's blog is her determination to choose better, to become more than she is, and deliberately become the example she wants her children to see. Again, this is another blog that is honest in the trials and exasperation of life (parenting is full of those!), while also frankly addressing the hard work and wonder that comes from being a woman, a mother, a wife, a friend, understanding the preciousness of life and our loved ones. One of her recent posts includes her address at BYU's Women Conference, and I don't know how many times I've reread it. Cath is part of the Segullah staff, and I'm looking forward to meeting her in just a couple of months in real life.

Scenes From The Wild

I found Michelle's blog through one of her Segullah posts. That was years ago, and thanks to Michelle's encouragement I wrote more, was invited onto the Segullah team and had a fantastic time when the boyos and I visited the States spending the time with Michelle and her family. What I love most about Michelle's blog is her focus on her loved ones. She is present for her kids, open to seeing flowers and new love and enduring dedication in everyday situations and special occasions. Her photography is breathtaking (she did a series of photos of the boyos and I that continue to bring me to tears of happiness and disbelief) and her faith spills out of her blog as much as her love of family and friends. She has opened my mind about parenting in ways I'd never have thought of, to my sons' benefit, and her blog is a marvel of deliberate, present parenting.

A History of Water

T3 inlet pipes, now fenced for stupidity's sake. (Source)

I’m maybe nine years old and wearing a nightie, Minnie Mouse grinning out at the world from my belly as I pop the bitumen bubbles on the road with my toes. I remember my name being called, looking up, squinting against the glare towards the camera. The photo shows it was the eighties, the brown and orange tint doing no favours to the brashy red of my hair. I’m standing with some family, and we’re all sweating in the heat of summer holidays, showing my grandparents around the hydro-electricity scheme my father (and other grandfather and uncle and entire town) worked on. I remember wanting to climb back into the car, have the vinyl seats sear the back of my thighs and the dust and wind tie knots in my hair as we drove back home, away from the water behind us, water black and stubborn against the light.

We do get in the car, but instead drive towards the huge pipes soaring up out of the ground and curving straight up to the top of the mountain, too far for me to see. I try yet again to climb up the concrete sides, then accept defeat by trying to stretch out my biggest hug around the exposed pipe's impressive girth. Eyes closed against the white-painted glare, I listen to the low grumble of the water inside, feel the vibration sink deep into my gut. I peek every now and then to watch my dad, the sullen grind and growl of his moods nowhere near as contained as the tonnes of water surging beneath my ear. I’m eight,  or nine, and still trying – just as uselessly – to get my hugs around my father’s barriers as the belly of the thick, bus-wide water pipes.

My grandmothers to me, and my belly drops with the water as she beckons me across the grass, the bubble-thick bitumen road, to the viewing platform. I hate this particular water with all the bottomless, unspeakable energy of my newly emerging self. My feet are sticky and scalding again with hot tar, but icy fingers troll through my hair and stunt my breath as I draw closer. I love my Grandma - the soft bounce of her thinning hair, the Oil of Olay lotion scenting every memory of her, the comforting depth of her bosom rich hugs – but the water drowns out her warmth, eats at the heat and fire of the day, refuses to let any sunlight into its selfish, sullen depths. The water is the colour of death, and it wants to eat me.

The water glares at me.  I can feel it sniffing the air, sucking the clues of the gangly little redhead down to the rocks and flying things at its murky edges, waiting. I stare back, caught in the thickness of the dark lying so still and patient metres below, tangled with the rocks and dead water lying so still and wasted far from the shine and burn of the sun. I don’t understand how this water can be so black, seething and greedy for me – water so different from the bass roar and energy coursing through the tunnels just a dozen skips away.  A gentle hand cups my shoulder, and as my Grandma murmurs “You’re so far away right now!” Dad yells “Get in the CAR, already, Kellie!” and I can feel the pressure of my family and the water against my skin, insistent, the moss and slimy weeds deep in the belly of the dead pool coating my teeth. The water avalanching through the pipes vibrates the air and ground, and my hatred and panic bounce through my veins, keeping pace.

#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*#^*

A childhood memory, which is demanding to become a full essay.

What The Hell Am I Doing?

This week at work, amid the several hundred trucks delivering and loading goods, I wrote up receipt of something brought by a new freight company. The name was a weird one, but I knew it was a Greek god, and found it entertaining that a. a business had chosen that name for transport, and b. I recognised the odd name and could place it, even dressed in high-vis clothes and with dirt crammed under my fingernails. Then I realised that I couldn't share the joke with anyone at work, because I'm so much different than everyone else there.

I'm the only person who reads while on break. I'm the only person who doesn't swear at work, to the point that even the site supervisor apologises to me for his language when he lets rip/slip. Outside of management, I'm the only person who has attended university, and often recently it's popped into my head at work - while someone is swearing at having to write a damaged stock report, or the strutting Machiavelli of a transport manager is micromanaging the positioning of pallets -

WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE???

My brain is practically rotting in my head during the day, and while I am excellent at what I do at work, and love careening around on a forklift and having the trucks I load fit as smooth and tight as tournament level Tetris, I know I am wasting my intellect. My role at work has changed somewhat, with more administration and being the 'roustabout' because the higher ups know I have a brain and ability and I will get the jobs done. But what am I DOING? Sometimes doubt gnaws at my ears, making my brain itchy and sleep gallop away towards sunrise.

Maybe I should go back to uni, I've been thinking. I'm an excellent student. I was an Honour Roll student, for crying out loud. Stressed, yes, and fightingdrowningstomping through some awful years at the time, but I was phenomenal academically. But thinking of returning to study makes two monster heads rear out of the inky, unsettled ocean, with neon blue eyes boring into mine. The first giant head asks "To study what?" And I have no idea. Convert my credits to another health discipline, but this time last year when I was investigating my transfer options I knew I'd hate being in all of the professions. Not because they weren't nursing, but because I had no interest. I've thought seriously of becoming an occupational therapist, or physiotherapist, but that's a four year degree. FOUR YEARS. At which realisation the second huge head, seaweed and seashells draping from its jaws, nods and casually states "Because it's not like you have any other responsibilities, do you?"

The sarcasm stings like the salt water my thoughts are drowning in. I need to work. University was incredibly difficult financially while studying full-time, and working part-time still didn't ease the load that substantially. When I did my taxes last year, I was actually nauseous when I saw what my taxable income had been. How on earth had I managed on so little? While the cold, obvious facts made me yet again realise just how wide the windows of heaven had opened on my tithe-paying, and giving my testimony and understanding of God's love even more depth and nourishment, it was just as obvious that a huge part of my stress came from budgeting everything so closely.

So when - definite miracle of miracles - I got my current job, the sudden, welcome, drenching influx of money made an incredible difference in life, in our home, on my stress levels. The payoff being long hours away from my boys, traffic, tiredness, but I can see how the boyos are also learning from my working. You work to support your family. Everyone needs to work to support the family. Work is hard. Work can be fun and satisfying. You do what you need to do for your family.

You do what you need to do for your family. It may be buying carrots, it may be listening to yet another excited rave about the wonders of Minecraft or Pokemon, it may be waiting up way too late doing dishes, mopping the floor, cleaning up spew, staring at the ceiling praying through everflowing tears. Tonight Hatro went to a Stake Youth Dance. He was dropped off just before midnight, and was beaming.

"You had fun, then?" I quizzed, shutting the door behind him, unable to wait.

"Yep!" he grinned.

"Did you ask anyone to dance?"

"Yes, Mum," he mock rolled his eyes at me, "There weren't that many slow songs which was annoying.." and suddenly I was breathless, trying to equate the tiny baby staring at my face fifteen years ago to the tall, rangy individual an arm's length away patting the dog "... but I asked two girls to dance."

My baby is slow dancing with girls. My baby. Who in a couple of months will be old enough to date (though hopefully much more interested in studying for his drivers licence), and - a heftier, thuggish thought looming over my planning sessions recently - in two years will be submitting his mission papers. Two years.

What is two years? In three months time, it will be five years since George broke my heart and our family. Five years. How can it be five years already? Surely it was two minutes ago and seven hundred years ago simultaneously. Five years gone. The coming two years are so incredibly, terrifyingly short. Two years until I'll be sending Hatro to places and people and situation unknown, and will pay for that opportunity, whatever it takes.

This is the main reason I'm not looking at uni classes, or even TAFE courses. Work is putting several of the guys through a Cert III in Transport, and I wasn't even asked (which bugs me like crazy, because I want a qualification, dammit and already!) I could study online, or one night a fortnight, do something that would be aiming higher, leading to a better job with increased whatevers and whatsits.

But time at home is already at a premium. I'm torn, trying to work out what I should be doing. I need to work, to make sure food's on the table, shoes are on feet, that there is the opportunity for fun and books and baking. I need to work to send my son on a mission.

You do what you need to do for your family. I have a job that I enjoy, that is happy to give me two weeks paid leave to go to the States this year. I have a job that provides - and will continue to provide - the funds for carrots and a myriad of shoes for growing feet and books and plans and a mission then another.

So what the hell am I doing? I am working. I am a weird red duck in the middle of a squabble of seagulls at work, and that's fine. I get satisfaction from my work, and the pay packet is greeted with satisfaction and thanksgiving every week. I am wrestling with my demons, to make sure I am doing what I should be, for my sons and myself. I want to study, to graduate with some sort of qualification, but that will come. I wrestle my demons, arguing, pulling hair, locking nasty armbars and choke holds. The monster heads can rear up and turn their spiky, clear gazes on my thoughts, but sometimes the monsters and demons bring clarity amid the bruises and sleepless nights.

I can get a qualification, find a job that stretches me intellectually, but it can wait. It's going to have to. And for now, my monsters and I are satisfied with that decision, sprawled inelegantly and dripping on the floor after the judge rules a tie. You do what you have to do for your family, despite and because of it all.

In the meantime, I can write. Which is a whole other brawl in itself.

Quotable Quotes

I collect quotes. Sometimes not even full quotes, but the half end of a sentence or a misread couple of words. The collected words puddle together, trickle down through my thoughts and live deep underground; a subterranean pool ready to be divebombed, or paddled across in a dugout bookcase, or lifted in a glass for a long, calming drink, the then-empty glass held carefully against my pounding forehead. Often they are used to wash away the dust and stink and embarrassment of yet another failure, or catastrophe, or simple, ordinary wretched day, sometimes to rinse the fur and seething from my mouth like mouthwash, so I can go forward, stronger.

A couple of my favourites:

And my favourite of all time:

(Still blogging from this list of prompts for May).