littlewren’s nest

OK. I stand corrected. I no longer believe it is safe to leave the kids in the car while I duck into the shop. Why?

Sigh. Rainbow had a tooth out this morning, and on the way home I parked behind the pharmacy and went in to buy her some paracetamol. When I returned to the car, Rainbow said something like (it was hard to understand her with that big wad of cotton gauze still in her mouth)  ”That lady came over and was talking to me and she said she was going to ring the police.” and then she burst into tears. “Who, that lady there?” I asked her, indicating to a car parked on the other side of the empty place next to ours. Rainbow nodded. I can tell you I was out of the car and in that lady’s personal space quite smartly to inquire what she had done to frighten my little girl. The lady did not hesitate to open her door to address me, and  I saw no trace of fear on her face as you would see on that of someone who knew they had done something wrong.

“Were you just talking to my daughter?”

“Yes.” 

“Did you tell her you were going to call the police?”

“No…”

“Well, she says you did. What did you say to her?”

“You aren’t allowed to leave….”

Oh mercy not this again. “You frightened her.”

“I did not!”

“You did, she is crying.  You should have just left her alone!”

“Oh whatever!”

Whatever indeed. After that exchange, I returned to the car to comfort Rainbow, concerned that me raising my voice at a stranger might have just added to her distress. I calmed down pretty quickly, satisfied that the lady had been just another perfectly ordinary concerned citizen, (POCC) irritating but quite benign.

When I was a kid, no one batted and eyelid if we got left in the car. Any POCC passing by could easily tell if a kid was in need, and would be there to help, not report the parents to the police.

I gather there are probably lots of people out there who would have my guts for garters. You think I am a crap parent for taking unnecessary risks with my children’s safety. I just don’t agree.

However, as I said, I have had to modify my position. Where previously I believed that the overwhelming majority of people will care for and protect any child, (but otherwise leave them alone!) I now find myself having to protect my kids from the POCCs themselves.

You will remember of course, I did say once I wanted to appreciate people for their concern rather than allow myself to become irritated, but that was easier when the only person being harangued was me. Faced with my daughter’s frightened tears, that fierce protectiveness just took over, and I had no idea until I spoke to the woman that it was going to be one of Henny Penny’s sidekicks.

I told Rainbow that the lady meant well, but sitting here now I am not so sure. It feels more to me like she was a person seeking to bolster her own sense of righteousness. It’s my impression that she was less concerned with the safety of my child than with seeing someone prosecuted for failure to conform.

The other day I saw two cars parked outside the supermarket. One had, not a regular bumper sticker, but one of those custom made jobs on the rear windscreen that said “When a law is unjust, Disobedience becomes a duty.”  The other had a very similar one that said simply “She’ll be right!” I thought it was an amusing coincidence, but lately, I am weary with the world, and I don’t know which way to jump. I have neither the heart for defiance nor the will to complacency. But you won’t be seeing my kids in the car any more

“What about when you get out to get the mail Mum, can you leave us in the car then?”

“I don’t know honey, probably not.”

Every now and then I come across a stranger who believes they know about and care for my child better than I do. Like the lady who found Brownie sleeping in his car seat, apparently alone, while I was watching him out of sight of the car, no more than ten meters away. She came by on the street and I heard her say to her companion, ‘There’s a baby in that car!’ I watched her as she looked up and down the street, and had she looked behind her as well, which is where I was, she still would not have seen me. She took a few frantic paces in the direction she had come, then hurried back to the car, checking all around it for I know not what. She began a rather good impression of Henny Penny, for by now she was yelling “There’s a baby in the car! There’s a baby in the car!” and at this point, you would think that I would have had the sense to go up to her and reassure her that the child, in spite of how it looked, was being watched closely, as indeed was she. Perhaps it reveals an aspect of my character that I am not likely to crow about, but instead I continued to watch.

When she finally addressed herself generally to the people who happened to be around me at the time, I raised my hand to let her know that the child was mine.

She was furious with me. ‘You’re not allowed to do it’ she admonished, and then threatened to report me, to which I could only reply, ‘Go ahead.’

We all watched her go back to her car, which was parked behind mine, and very purposefully take down my car’s registration number in a note book. Then we watched as she reached for her mobile phone, dialled and spoke to someone. ‘She’s reporting you.’ observed a lady near me, who, judging by her surprise, didn’t seem to share the first lady’s opinion of me. ‘I wonder who to?’ was my reply. I was delighted to think that I might be welcoming some kind of child protection authority to my door in the near future; if only our society had the resources in place to be so diligent in protecting our young. Alas, having been involved before with families trying to get help for children who are truly in need, I was pretty confident I would be receiving no such visitor.

If the Henny Penny lady was a typical consumer of news and current affairs, and I am guessing she was, who can blame her for becoming alarmed? After all, there are parents out there who let their toddlers expire, locked in cars, while they sit inside the local playing pokies. In her mind, it wouldn’t surprise me, I am probably on welfare, with a spawn of snotty nosed brats to as many different fathers. Probably I am unmarried. No doubt I am cheating the system by living with my de facto while claiming a sole parent allowance, which I spend on poker machines. Clearly I am the sort of person who cares more for the bounteous wealth the government bestows on me for producing babies than I do for the babies themselves. Over time, this kind of thinking can lead one to also believe that somehow all the evils of the world are related, perpetrated on the good by a big gang of people ‘out there’ who are bad. It is ‘people like me’ who are responsible for juvenile delinquency, unemployment, budget deficits, economic recession, the hole in the ozone layer and probably even a war somewhere. The world is going to hell in a hand basket. Of course she is upset.

 She has no way of knowing that all the above inferences about me, except one*, are incorrect. In spite of my poking fun at her, I realise that she thought she had witnessed a child in real danger, and I respect her for her compassion and willingness to act. And since the ruckus caused Brownie to wake early from his nap, I tried to remember that as I laboured through a very testing afternoon with one cantankerous toddler.

Had I broken some law I didn’t know about? I wondered, is there some designated but little known distance, like the number of meters you have to park from a level crossing, beyond which you may not step away from your car with the small’un still inside? Was there some high profile, tragic event that led to the introduction of a new piece of legislation to ‘stop it ever happening again’? I don’t often watch the news or read the papers, so I guess that one could have snuck by me.

Bemused as I was by the incident, I was really miffed by the insinuation that I cannot care for my own child. Much as I was by the teacher aide in Rainbow’s classroom who for some reason feels that I am not up to the task of helping my own daughter practice writing her words in her little book each morning.

“I can help Rainbow with her words if you like.” She sounds like she really wants to do it.

“That’s ok, I have time this morning.” I smile at her. She tosses Rainbow’s book sullenly across the little table. We begin, but the aide tries to ignore that I am there and speaks to Rainbow about her work directly. I bristle a little, but clamp my mouth shut. I have allowed my irritation with this young woman to accumulate from similar instances before. Now is not the time to speak as I can’t guarantee the words which are backing up behind my teeth are coming from a loving place. I let Rainbow take another peek at a word she has already begun to write and the aide, obviously annoyed, corrects me, explaining that the exercise is useless if I let Rainbow ‘cheat’. I know that this is what she has been told by the teacher and that she accepts it as gospel, which I don’t. I am more inclined to accept the evidence I have seen that, much like walking and talking, reading and writing are skills which children are able to learn themselves, when they are ready, and that these exercises Rainbow is obliged to do could potentially do more to delay that process than promote it. But more on that some other time.

More to the point, I know my own daughter, and I am more aware than the aide, the teacher, or indeed anyone else, of her feelings, her needs, her strengths and limitations. I know how she will react to being stumped by a word in the middle, and that she understands we are bending a rule to save her own sanity. She knows that we make a sincere effort to do it the ‘right way’, but that there is no reason to get all bent out of shape by unquestioning submission.

I am certain that most people who hold a driver’s license could not tell you the exact distance the law insists we park from a level crossing, and like most people in such a situation, I don’t rely on some obscure rule to ensure my well being and that of others. I use my common sense. The words ‘You’re not allowed to do it’ rang in my ears. Were they spoken by a person who observed all rules with the same enthusiasm? Had she memorised the traffic code?  Does she know that the distance you must park from a level crossing is twenty meters? Does she know she is not allowed to park over her own driveway for more than two minutes? Is she really always willing to defer her own judgment to an absent authority, just because others act unwisely, as if replacing common sense with rules will prevent others from making mistakes?

I am not one to flaunt rules for the fun of it. On the contrary, I like rules. Rules are my friend. But like fire, they make a good servant, and a poor master. I rarely get around to justifying any action I may take according to my own conscience, however, and so sometimes there are bystanders who feel the need, indeed the obligation, to remind me about the rules, never more so than when children are involved.

How do I react when that happens? How do I want to deal with it? I can acknowledge their genuine concern. I can remember that since they don’t know me, they probably make certain incorrect assumptions which gives rise to the fire in their bellies. I can remember not to take it personally.

I think what will really stop them in their tracks, though, is to thank them, sincerely and with feeling, for their efforts to help. They are people, after all, who have the courage to speak up for a child whenever they see the need. However misguided they may be, that is one thing I cannot criticize them for.

So, the sky may not be falling, but good on them for the heads up anyway.

*If you want to know which is true, keep watching this space. I am bound to get around to writing about it some day.

My dear father once said to me, “all truth is paradox”, and was content to leave me stewing in my confusion, until at last I began to understand.

While the nest still bustles, the number of people who settle on my couch has dwindled a little over the years. We see more of fewer people; mostly family and close friends. The parties are fewer, and though the invitations continue, there is not as much opportunity to attend.

Small’uns. I came to motherhood later, so I am the proud owner of a misspent and protracted youth. I can’t say I miss it all that much. My point of connection with the world has changed from a large circle of drinking buddies to the people I meet at our local school and at the supermarket. I have swapped whisky for strong coffee and lager for herbal tea. I feel the cold more. So I don’t like to be out in it as much.

I have become more inclined to spend time with those who know me well; those with whom I share some understanding. There is so much in the outside world I just don’t really want to take part in, and yet I don’t want to lose touch with those around me just because they don’t see the world the way I do.

So I try to practice fellowship with all who I meet, but still there is so much opportunity for misunderstanding. What I have begun to understand, with the help of a little silence, is that I am just like everybody else.

Plurality contained within a unity: Unity within plurality. (Don’t spend too long trying to say plurality; you will probably never need that word again.) I am mind bogglingly unique and indescribably ordinary at the same time. So are you. It doesn’t matter who you are.

Ethel has gone to a friend’s 50^th tonight. I have elected to babysit, which has of course given me time to write, time to spend with you, dear reader.

So, whoever and where ever you are; thanks for stopping by.

When I spoke to you on the phone the other day, I mentioned a page about nihilism I found while stumbling on the internet that I found amusing and felt warranted a second reading, so I put it in my favourites. You expressed an interest in it, so here is the link to the full text “How does a nihilist live?” : http://www.anus.com/zine/articles/nihilist/

Ok, as I said, this writer is a bit cynical for mine, but there were a few things that gave me a perverse sort of comfort, so perhaps there is a place for a measure of cynicism. At least it gave rise to a wry sort of smile. As is my wont, I began writing to see if I could work out what struck me as significant about this text, and I thought I would share. By the way, having been trained in language by people who come from an earlier time when it was ok to refer to non-gender specific characters as “he” by default, that is what I do, and to hell with PC.

 Nihilism is discerning what is real from what is unreal. We do (my emphasis) exist in reality. In it, some things actually exist and others are phantoms of our mind. Strip away the latter and focus on the former. Truth doesn’t exist. Truth is our perception of what does exist; our assessment of it. You will have to find the truth that’s appropriate to your own life.

I cannot remember if this explanation of nihilism gels with the one I got from my philosophy friends at Uni all those years ago, and probably no one in the room at that time really understood the concept. I probably don’t care to understand. Philosophy as a subject mostly does my head in. Do I exist? Well, yes, hello, I am here. Pursuing the idea that I don’t only results in nonsense as far as I can see. Some philosophers maintain that we cannot know this for sure, and I agree; some very interesting anomalies arise when we try to prove our own existence, this much I have learned from my scant philosophical studies. I just can’t see the point of that line of inquiry. “For the purposes of this play, we do indeed exist”. I understand what is said about other things not existing, these “phantoms of the mind”, and yet these phantoms have their own kind of existence, and as such are as real as apple pie to those who embrace them.

It is not really my intention to dwell on the philosophy, but I will say it surprises me that I have never read anyone with a clear understanding that we must depend on words to philosophise, so we are doomed from the start. Words can never completely express reality, or even our perception of it, any more than I can take a photo of myself and say that it completely expresses who I am. You will notice that he says “truth does not exist” and in the very next sentence gives truth an existence, albeit with limitations. Such are words. Arbitrary symbols of something we have perceived. Philosophy always boils down to an argument about the meaning of words, and so, I think it best if we leave it to those who like that sort of thing.

I may not be a nihilist after all, but here comes the wry smile:

 As becomes obvious, the people around you are tools; that is to say, they are grateful followers who passively lap up the rancid semen of industrial society and are grateful for the “opportunity.”

I remember once you asked me to explain why I felt so different to practically everyone I have ever met. As I recall I struggled, in part, I think, because the question took me by surprise as it was not something I thought I would have to explain to you. (and also because I was three parts pissed.) Still, it’s cool to be challenged. The quote above and all of what follows goes some way to providing the answer that I struggled to find on that occasion, which in turn goes part way to explaining why this piece wound up in my favourites. He goes on:

Most of your toolish coworkers, neighbors, people you meet on the street, etc. are capable of two modes of conversation: entertainment and personal situation. (…)They cannot talk about ideas. Therefore, reserve ideas as the grounds on which the few smart people meet.

Now, you and I have covered this ground, I believe, so it probably requires no further comment. But he goes on to talk about “groupthink”, and while I am not about to disagree, I think there is more to it.

Normals also have a tendency to express groupthink sentiments, and then test others with them. Such things as “Isn’t it terrible about that genocide in Darfur?” are probes to get you to either conform or be identified as a lone wolf. 

I think he and I agree that “truth” can be described as a subjective construct, based on our perceptions, and I think people behave in this way, not simply to establish an “us and them” mindset, but to create and maintain their connection to reality, if not to create the actual group reality itself. I don’t really see this as the product of people’s ignorance and stupidity. Without it we would all exist in isolation, probably without a sense of self, and as far as I can tell, that would kind of defeat the whole “purpose” of this great game we call life. Of course, that doesn’t mean we have to like, or even accept, the reality that others co-create. On reading this comment, I confess I am still at a place where expressions of this kind of sentiment make me feel a little less alone. But what I also appreciated is the sense of defiance, which probably appeals to me as the kind of energy that might make this feeling of separateness easier to bear.

Finally, don’t accept their view of reality. They’ll blather on about “progress” and other inventions of the human mental phantasm, but if you recognize these ideas are basically junk food for the mind, you can bypass it and focus on other things.

Lately on the journey I have been discovering that I am not so different to everybody else after all. I liken it to a case of having tidied up every room in my house only to open a door and discover a hidden disaster area that I had been ignoring. I too, can be materialistic, superficial, judgemental and even a little bit conformist. I too have attachments to the transient things that cause our suffering, and I am not always able to rise above them.

Perhaps the best I can say for myself is that I number among those who have some awareness that there is more to me and life than this.

For a while now I have been trying to avoid talking about “most people”, based on intuition and not fully understanding why. It becomes clearer is that by mentally separating me and the people in my very select inner circles from “the great unwashed” I am buying into the illusion that we are not all one, and that our similarities are not far more significant than our differences. We are all in this together.

I notice too that many of the people I would otherwise class as “aware” are reluctant to embrace this idea, and prefer the illusion of “us and them”, just like our present writer. Others seem keen to preserve a kind of reverence for each person’s unique individuality, and while that is fine by me, I think there is a danger that we can overlook a deeper truth.

So, while I take everything he has to say about truth, illusion and reality as read, there remains this one sticking point. This writer rejects some of the more stupid ideas contained in our shared reality, and as I say, it is comforting to know that I am not the only one who cannot get my head around the way “most people” seem to think. In his discussion of what it means to live as a nihilist, he offers a way of dealing with “normals”, which, while it made me smile, is still not exactly the way I think I would like to tackle it myself. Yes, I have long ago recognised my own arrogance towards others, but I think I stopped short of this kind of defiance. It is tempting to emulate it, but I am still looking for another way.

And yet the cynicism has its attraction. I have tried it before actually, and failed. The word “strength” comes up for me. How do I nurture the strength of my own convictions without metaphorically shitting on everyone else? I see now that these weaknesses I have perceived, and despised, are part of the human condition, and are as much a part of me as anyone else, in spite of my best efforts to ignore them. I cannot rise above them by pretending I am somehow immune. Perhaps my most significant lesson in humility to date is learning to accept that I am as susceptible to the delusions I have decried as any human being. Maybe my delusions are different to those of others, but that is hardly to be considered a source of pride.

I am indeed a unique individual, and I am probably never going to be the sort of person this writer labels “normal” whether that is a compliment or an insult. But I kind of hope I am beginning to truly see myself as I am, the good, the bad and the ugly, and see others as they are, and find acceptance. More importantly, I see more clearly that to do this is not an example of my cleverness or superiority, but of my surrender. I would like to talk of surrender to a “higher power”, “something greater than me”, “the universe” or even “god”, but there is something pulling me back. Yes, it is about these things, but the list above is just a list of words, and they do not, can never, fully represent what I am experiencing in my consciousness.

On first reading I identified with so much that this writer said that I thought I may have become a nihilist without knowing it! On closer reading I realised that what he did was illustrate the arrogance of the partially enlightened. In the subtext, he is rejecting not just people’s perceptions, but the people themselves, and this I will not do. In the end, to reject others is to reject a part of myself, which will get me nowhere, as I am discovering. Even as others reject me as a “lone wolf”, there is ultimately no refuge in branding them as the enemy.

I would like to send a thank you to the writer of this piece, for the wonderfully serendipitous lesson it has brought me, but alas, I can find no link. Isn’t that just ironic? I shall take that as a tantalising introduction to my next lesson, and content myself with spreading the fruits of my gratitude a little closer to home. I am going to bake cookies with Rainbow.

Having it allSeptember 1st, 2008 by littlewren I dropped by my friend Hope’s house today, and we got to talking about feminism. There was an article she had clipped from the weekend paper we both like to read, which posed the question whether feminism was dead, or just badly in need of a revamp. It stated that women today are blaming the feminist movement for encouraging them to pursue careers, only to find they had left motherhood too late, and they feel cheated by the promise that they could have it all. While my heart goes out to any woman who finds herself in that position, we both agreed that blaming it on feminism is a bit lame. Hope asserts that she and I are both feminists, and if that means I believe women are entitled to all the rights that previous generations of women have fought so hard to win, then I guess I have to agree. But I cannot get fired up about feminist issues the way that others do. We owe those who fought for our rights a great debt. But we are sadly mistaken if we believe that to repay it means to devote our life to “having it all”.In my humble opinion, the issue of sexism is only one aspect of the problems that women face today. And probably not a very important one. What is important now is that we, both men and women, all take a serious look at what we believe about parenthood, family, work, and what it means to live a good life. What do we really value? I never want to detract from the tremendous sacrifices and suffering women have endured to produce the relatively free and opportunity-rich society I grew up in. I believe that there is still work to be done, even more so abroad, and the time for banner waving is perhaps not quite past. But it seems we are all suffering from wild delusions. Did we think that by setting our standards by equality with men, it would bring us a completely fulfilled life on a platter? I mean, if you think about it for just one second you would realise that men did not, never have had “it all”. Why the hell would we? Sure men had money and power, prestige…there is no doubt the list of privileges was and still is extensive. But we had the family. We had the children. We had the relationships and we had the time. My gosh what a terrible loss to all the women in thrall of the glittering prize of “equality” with men. We bought into the idea, lock, stock and smoking gun, that what the men had was where it was at, and the children got left in day care. We became confused. The idea that women are suited to no other work than in the home is demeaning, the work itself is not. No honest work ever is. But we shouldn’t be all that surprised if we find we are still holding the mop. Our bleating about domestic drudgery has drawn little sympathy from the men folk, and has done nothing to encourage them to do their share. We will all survive. The children in day care will survive. I don’t agree with those who condemn anyone for the choices they have made. But what a loss. What a loss. I think in the society where I live we have dispelled the idea that a woman’s place is in the home. Sure there are plenty of places where you will find the patriarchy clinging to the wreckage, but when will we see it is just that? Are we still fighting for a place in a system that dehumanises everyone, regardless of their package?The idea was discussed in the article that feminism has suffered from the reputation of being combative. Maybe we had no choice but to be confrontational, to drag men kicking and screaming to the bargaining table, but meanwhile, in the world of family relationships, men are suffering incalculable losses, and I personally believe that they have been routinely discriminated against in a way that seems shockingly invisible to most of society. We must become committed to freedom for all, and I honestly don’t know if jumping on a feminist wagon will carry us in that direction.I think we are working it out. It can be a painful process, but in living rooms all around the world tonight, in the wake of all the changes the last century of feminism has brought, men and women are facing up to each other and to the challenges they encounter as they try to build their families and their lives. It is beginning to dawn on us that we have had our priorities mixed up, our values distorted. Maybe the feminist movement has a case to answer on that point, and maybe it’s all just part of growing up. I am an optimist, but when we all begin to elevate the work of caring for a home and family to a role esteemed as one of the most rewarding and valuable jobs a person could ever undertake, I will know we are really getting somewhere. 

Every morning, after I drop Rainbow off at school, I spend half an hour setting the house to rights. I fire up the media player on my computer; I have a special playlist for this particular set of chores. Ten rooms in our house, ten songs on the playlist. Change rooms with the music.

That I am a rather untidy person who dislikes mess and disorder is perhaps an unhappy combination of character traits. I found I had to use this playlist if I was to ever get anything done. As I have said before, I am a bit of a day dreamer, and easily side tracked. Over the months that I have been bopping about as I tidy up I have become quite quick; so efficient in fact that sometimes I even do it without the music.

Occasionally, though, the flying clean up is disrupted.

There I was, congratulating myself on what I housekeeping machine I had become, when I saw it. The big, red scribble on the brown leather couch. Brownie had got hold of a felt tip pen. Again.

Now I remember seeing it before, lying on a counter somewhere, was it me who left it on the sideboard? Why can’t Rainbow keep track of her stuff? I dash for the baby wipes. It is not the first time this has happened so I waste no time. The sooner I get to it, the better.

This is going to take ages. This scribble is at least twice the size of the last one, oh look, he even decorated the front of the couch. Good on you Brownie. The music changes, I am still in the family room scrubbing frantically, half growling, half whining at Brownie who stands there watching me as though butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. And though part of me is thinking how enlightened he is not to be so emotionally attached to blemish free furniture, the louder part is wondering how much he understands of “you must not draw on the couch”.

Baby wipes are not cutting it, and I remember Ethel’s mum suggested eucalyptus oil. I try that and find that it works better. A little too well in fact. The cloth is a blackish red, not the colour of the pen. I stand back and look at the leather, and yes, the colour is a little patchy. Arguably less disfiguring than the red scribble, but with a sigh, I know that Ethel is not going to see it that way.

Will he notice? We are speaking of a man who stood outside the door of the doctor’s office and read the printing information at the bottom of the eye chart for his physical at work. Bloody show off.

We are speaking of a man who, for many months after he buys a new car, will spend several minutes every night when he comes home squinting at the paintwork, cataloguing every new flaw, totting up, I doubt it not, the cost of depreciation of each, grumbling. This couch is still relatively new.

He will notice.

I have a brainwave. I go to the laundry and get the box with all the shoe polish and related items and rummage. A twenty year old tube of “leather dew” that a clever salesman once sold me with a pair of brogues back when brogues were all the go. I unclog the opening with a paper clip and squeeze out a thin, yellowish coil of the stuff onto the leather. I buff it up but there is not enough in the tube. I hope vaguely that it may limit any damage that the eucalyptus oil may have done. I rummage again. Brown shoe polish makes no difference to the light patches, and Brownie has hold of some stuff out of the box. Black shoe polish. I take it off him and try to open it, but fail. He wants it back so I give it to him and he rolls it around on the floor, delighted. Good, I need him out of the way. Will black shoe polish fix it?

I find another tin that I can open and carefully dab a bit on. After a bit of effort, I stand back and look at it again. Well, I think it is better. But that doesn’t mean much. The diametric opposite to Ethel, I rarely remove my rose coloured glasses, and when I do, my eyes aren’t that good anyway. The playlist finished long ago, and there are still three rooms to be done. It will have to do.

Sometimes I dream of a different life. One in which everything is clean and ordered and I have everything under control. A life where I find time to be something other than mother bird.

I finished my morning chores and then Brownie looked up at me saying “car” and pointing at the back door. Time for your nap already little man? Sometimes I strap him into his car seat and we take a little drive, maybe to the shops, maybe to the lookout at the top of the hill where we can see all up and down the valley, and after a little while he nods off. Today I went a little further and discovered a road ten minutes from here that I had never seen before. Beyond the soothing green of the farmland the road turned up through forest and down into the next valley, where it was unsealed. It was beginning to feel a bit remote, and Brownie was asleep, so I turned for home, but if I still had my old four wheel drive I think I would have kept going.

I put Brownie in his room and came into the office to write, as I had promised myself I would, and for once, I did not feel that odd, nervous feeling that I get when I think about “all the stuff I have to do.” I sat quietly for a moment and looked about the room and knew that in truth there was absolutely nothing that I absolutely have to do, and that there is a kind of order that runs through my life no matter how chaotic it may sometimes appear. With steady application, things get done. It really is easy.

Today everything is different. Our little nephew died. We are still preparing for Christmas. Nothing here has changed, except his little soul has left us.

A child free window opens as Ethel takes Rainbow to see the Boggas. Ethel let me have a sleep in this morning, and hung a load of washing out. I spent the morning in CyberSpace until I was called upon for hairdressing duty. The world of the nest seemed partticularly vibrant and brash after the drone of my computer. Always this tug between inner and outer worlds.  This screen is like a portal of other-worldliness to me. When I am not peeking my nose into all that is flying across the globe every second of the day, I come to this place to work with my own imagination. Always it is quiet. For the moment the nest is quiet and I yearn to be out in the sun, and yet I know this is an opportunity not to be missed, here in my office, with my computer. I am moving from steady to clear. Soon it will be time for celebrations. I need to prepare.

 “Joy is what happens when we allow ourselves to recognize how good things really are.”

– Marianne Williamson

Sounds like gratitude to me. I have been reading, or skimming, rather, a lot of writing on ideas like this one. The so-called “New Age”. Is there really such a thing? I don’t know. I don’t find much except messages to those who have only begun to seek, and somehow that path is not for me any more. I no longer hope to find answers to any such questions I may have outside myself.

The kids and I finally managed to make our trip to the Big Smoke and spent four lovely days with Finesse and her brood. On the final evening, in that last conversation, we managed to sum up where we find ourselves on our path, and we came to the topic of the communities we live in, and their effect on our experience of the journey. I commented on the clarity that I feel whenever I get to reconnect with her world, and observed, a little wistfully, that my own community does not always produce the same effect.

Once home again though, I realized that there was another way of looking at it. It is very grounding here, in the nest, in the Valley and in the Town, and for someone like me, with her head forever in the clouds, that is not such a bad thing.

It isn’t just that I am a dreamer. I “live in my head” for want of a better expression. I do not always fully feel my emotions; I don’t observe them in my body – the physical experience of living.

When I recognize how good things really are, I see that the humble daily routines of the nest are just what I need to develop that clarity. To practice what I know, rather than merely think (or write) about it, takes over from the process of seeking, it becomes the question and the answer all at once.

And so, when I ask the question, “where should I be?” the answer is “here”, and when I ask “what should I do?” the answer is always, “exactly what you are doing”. I guess that is something to be happy about.

Boy, where is my head at today? Was a time when this frame of mind could have sent me into a tail spin. Not today however. Instead I am observing. I observe how my thoughts gradually grew darker. Nothing too serious. Poor Rainbow’s incessant cough began to grate. Brownie demanding constant attention. Even Ethel quietly going about a bit of housework set my teeth on edge.

I don’t lose my patience. I don’t snap at Rainbow when I remind her for the hundredth time to cover her mouth when she coughs.  I remind myself that it is not Ethel’s fault if I interpret his helping out as tantamount to saying I can’t cope. I think back to yesterday, and remember the feeling of love when I saw his face appear at the back door when he came home from work.  I am no longer waiting.

Now I have somewhere else to go. I used to lose my temper. Once upon a time I had no defenses against life’s trials. When things went wrong, I would feel beaten, and the whole world was a dark and dreary place. I had no happy place to go to. Now I live there. What changed?

Small’uns, that’s what. Beautiful creatures that barf on the rug, and me.  Back when Rainbow was a bump in my belly, I knew that I would have to grow up. I knew the way that I was dealing with life was not working entirely, and there was no way I was going to let my child grow up watching me be angry and combative and sad.

It wasn’t all that easy. Once it dawned on me how I was creating my own circumstances, I had to work out how to change.  Through practice I discovered my own rhythms, my own wisdom, and slowly, piece by piece, I built my own nest.

Change is unavoidable. Every moment will pass. And every moment I make another choice. If I pay attention to my choices, I make better ones. The trick is to take responsibility for every, and I mean every negative emotion that I feel, every negative thought, and stop projecting my problems out into my environment. After that, though, I still needed a soft place to fall, and we each have to provide that for ourselves too. I learned to be kind to myself, and to expect kindness from others.

It is funny how things begin to change when you let go of your demands and start to think differently. We don’t need any self help guru to know that this is true. What I never realized though, was just how much power I can wield with my own thoughts. And of course, my own two hands.

It’s a good time to remember this, caring for a six month old baby. I feel tied down and not very useful. And tired, did I mention that? Very, very tired. But as this is my second time around I know already how fast it goes, too fast to waste on any kind of regret. So I make Ethel a coffee, I read a bedtime story to Rainbow and rub eucalyptus gunk on her chest. I do little things, whatever I can. And when my feathers drop out from all the stress, at least I can use them to line the nest.