Life is a Dance

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There’s a lot being said lately about the end of the world as we know it.  We all feel it – from the economy to the Antarctic, a world on the edge of meltdown.

It’s almost reassuring to flirt with the idea that the Mayans might be right about The End.  How good would that be?  No Christmas, no New Year’s resolutions to be broken, no more difficult life changing decisions to be made.  Most importantly, no more fear, uncertainty or guilt.

I wonder.  What is it about doomsday prophecies that find us a little unhinged?

Near where I live, there’s a place I like to go and walk.  In many ways, it’s an unremarkable beach in what was once a working class village on the ‘wrong’ side of town.

But at a certain spot, it’s possible to pause and look across the bay, and imagine you are standing on the edge of the world.

No people in sight.

Altona Panorama

It’s like your brain opens up, and all of a sudden, you can breathe again.

In those moments, when it’s all stripped back and there’s nothing but you and the swans who’ve come to nurse their young, you remember.

This tired earth on which we stand – it all comes back to her.

Earth.  Water.  Fire.  Air.

In the flurry of our busy, elaborate lives, sometimes we forget how much we are in need of her.

Need is not a word we like to use.  It connotes weakness.  Dependency.  Responsibility.  It frightens us.

It means there’s a chance we could get hurt.

But it’s also the moment when we acknowledge we can no longer take her for granted.

When we see we have a role to play.

When change and renewal can begin.

Manly

Doomsday prophecies offer freedom.  But they also suggest things may be out of balance, and perhaps we are to blame.  In the words of Buffy’s sister, Dawn…

“The hardest thing in this world is to live in it.”

– (Once More with Feeling, 2001).

As we approach holiday season, and if life as we know it doesn’t end on 21 December, this is the perfect time to begin anew.

To remember the loved ones whom we take for granted.

To breathe in the air, and thank the earth for what she gives.

To see ourselves as one among the elements.  And remember our steps in this dance we call Life.

Do you have any plans to get away this Christmas?  What will you be doing to recharge?

The Origins of Friendship

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This week I am very fortunate to be a guest on Coleen Patrick’s beautiful, inspirational blog, Read. Smile. Repeat.

coleen-photoColeen is a YA author from Virginia who has been with me on this blogging ride since I started back in May.

She is not only a great blogging friend, but also a woman who I very much admire for her ability to see the extraordinary in life’s everyday moments.

Please join us over there today, for an inside look into the origins of Pepi the Dog and the Million Little Things of Friendship…

Sunshine in the Rain

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If you’ve ever visited Melbourne, you may be aware of our obsession with the weather.  Four seasons in one day is more than just a cliché here.

But in the past couple of years, since La Nina paid her visit and ended a decade long drought, winter rains have lingered into murky grey summers, only to return another season of gloom.

It’s been feeling like one endless winter of the sun-starved mind.

With the recent announcement that La Nina is officially over, we were just beginning to believe that summer’s on its way.  But then she struck again.

Without warning, in the middle of the night, we woke to a bone shattering thunderclap.  The heavens opened, and there came the rain.

It poured and thundered through the morning, only to be mirrored in our collective mood.  With one mind, we thought – will La Nina never end?

But then, as suddenly as the storm had come, it departed.  By the afternoon, its traces were erased by gleaming sun.

Sometimes, life is like that.  There are people we meet for whom winter is especially long and cruel.  We witness in their eyes a never ending rain.

It’s impossible for them to see the parting of the clouds, or the shards of sunlight peering through.  And yet, for us, the miracle is plain to see.

This post is written for someone I care deeply about, who this week has been lost within the storm…

For anyone in pain today, I wish you Sunshine in the Rain.

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Credit for images is as follows:

Storm Warning by Katrin Blumenschein, courtesty stock.xchng
Rainbow Field by Jason Wickens, courtesy stock.xchng

The Circle of Change

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As America celebrates Thanksgiving, I can’t help but reflect from the Antipodes the way in which the blogosphere is changing us.

The moment we arrive in this brave new blogging world, the landscape is vast and unfamiliar.  There’s so much to see, so much to read, where do we hope to begin?

Yet, as we sit there, staring into cyberspace, someone takes us by the Avatar and bids us, “Don’t be Lost!”  They welcome us to Twitter, and their sacred Facebook spaces, and pretty soon we find we’re on the inside, looking out.

This place is home.  And our family is diverse.

There are women who explode into our living room – worlds apart and, yet, singing the same tune.

There are men, so kind and brave in their humility, searching for their place on this unravelling path.

There are boys who beam at you from their corner of the globe.  Others who paint moonbeams in the sky.

There are those we cry with, and others we get high with.

And then there are those precious souls who, despite their own tragedy (or perhaps because of it), are always seeking ways to make us smile.  Again.

This is just some fantasy.  It’s not real – they say.

But at the blink of a button, someone close bids us farewell.  And we know that they are more than just an Avatar.  They are people who reached through their world and touched ours.  Uplifted and changed us.  Made us strive for better than we are.

This is real.

This is the stuff they don’t teach you in writing school.

This is the ancients, who by moonlight wrote their futures in the stars.

It all starts with a dream.  And you know that dream is real when it brings you back in touch with people from your past who say, “So glad I found you here”.

But where is here?  It is everywhere and nowhere.  It’s a place where what we have in common is greater than our individual parts.  It’s one looking glass, with a million different points of view.

This place has changed me.  YOU have changed me.

I was that person, at a dinner party, who’d take a breath to say something, and find the moment missed.  Spend the rest of the night clutching my drink and watching other people’s mouths move.

I didn’t believe in the goodness of people or the universe.  Almost never accepted a gift or a compliment.  Even less knew how to say Thanks.

Maybe I’m less afraid to make my voice heard these days.  Or maybe people are listening more.  I don’t know.  But one thing’s for certain – things are different now.

Now I can speak.  Now I have faith.  Now I believe in the principles of give and take.

So today, I’m giving thanks to each of you…

For listening, for sharing, for daring to dream.  And, most of all, for being the change.

Has blogging changed your world?  How?  Or is this just some wild fantasy?

There was a little puppy…

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…With a coat of raven silk,

A lightning splash upon his chest

And paws of peppered milk…


ANNOUNCING

the Release of

Hello Pepi: A Toy Dog is for Real

A series about the special friendship
between a toy dog and his most important person.

Based on a true story.

Books 1 to 3

Out Now for 99 cents on Amazon!

To my beloved followers:

In celebrating Pepi’s joie de vivre, and in appreciation of your support, the first book is Free for You until the next blog post is out.

Just leave your email address in the comments, and I’ll gift you the book from Amazon 🙂 .

Alternatively, email to: alarnarosegray (at) gmail (dot) com.

If you’re new to this blog, it’s okay!  Subscribe now – as long as it’s before the next blog post, the offer stands.

Thank you for joining me in honouring the memory of the little Pepi being.  May his spirit be with you…

This Filly Needs Her Downtime!

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Spring Racing Carnival season is upon us here in Melbourne.  That time of year when we are reminded of Australia’s love affair with horses.

For those of you who don’t know, the first Tuesday in November is Melbourne Cup Day, the day of the race that stops the nation.  This is followed by Oakes Day for the ladies (also known as Blokes Day for reasons I won’t explain) on the Thursday after.

If you’re like me, this simply means the first public holiday since June (yay!!), and the nationally embarrassing cocktail of women, champagne and high heels.

The first time I made a bet on a horse, the name Jezabeel caught my attention for all the wrong reasons.  I won seventy dollars, which was immediately blown on several rounds of drinks.  I’m not sure what happened after that.

Since then, I’ve gone off betting – not just because of the pointlessness of Cup Day hangovers, but because of the uneasy feeling I get every time a horse is shot for broken limbs.

Of course, this immediately labels me completely un-Ostralyin, for which I can only be entirely unapologetic.

But the surprise is when a piece of information actually sticks.

A few months ago I caught a news item about the latest Australian favourite mare, Black Caviar.

As the trainer fervently explained the challenges of international travel and her exercise regime, he almost gave a plea, “People always come up to her and want to pet her and say hi and all that – but sometimes they just got to understand, she needs her downtime!”

It’s a theme we all know well, yet struggle to put into practice: to be productive, we need rest.

On Tuesday, when I cast a glance over this year’s Cup Day contenders, I was surprised to see Black Caviar not listed.  What happened?  Didn’t she get enough rest?

That’s when Andrew Hawkins taught me a crucial lesson in Racing 101: the difference between a sprinter and a stayer.

Black Caviar is a sprinter, competing at distances of less than 1,400 metres, whereas the Melbourne Cup is a 3,200 metre race.

Suddenly, it all makes sense…

All I can say is, if Black Caviar needs her downtime, then how much more the stayers in the game?

So this is the part where I acknowledge I’m way overdue in my giving out of blog love.

There are wonderful posts to share, supporters to be thanked, gift cards to be written, books to recommend and blog posts to be read.  And while I’m at it, some conversations I would love to have with all of you.

If you’ve noticed my game slipping, I can only say one thing:

This Filly needs her downtime, too!

With the Hello Pepi launch coming up next week, I am anticipating a return to sanity and blog love soon.

Until then, I hope you will bear with me, and know – I’m with you for the long haul, not the sprint!

What kind of filly (or colt) are you?  A sprinter, a stayer, or a different kind of player? 😉  Ever been inclined to bet, and did you win or lose?

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Credit for images is as follows:

Spring Carnival Ad courtesy Five Starr Photos
Race by Andrew Jabs courtesy stock.xchng
Horse and Girl by Belovodchenko Anton courtesy stock.xchng

Sketching Memories

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Since my loyal blogging buddy passed away, I have to confess to inspiration having been in short supply.

Left to my own devices, I’d have put the fictional Pepi aside for a future never-never date, and wallowed quietly alone.

Instead, I found myself mid-way through illustrations for Book 2, with an artist waiting to be paid, and a crazy goose unleashed upon the world.

The show must go on!

At first, I felt guilty and disturbed.  But as the lines between fiction and reality blurred, there came a peace.

It’s as though he is still here with me, in the fullness of his youth – and I am comforted.

The process of illustrating Pepi has had its challenges.  No matter how many times you rearrange words on a page, all you have in the end is an approximation of the picture you might like to draw.

With very few photos to reference, the question remains how to convey the pictures that exist inside your head?

To this end, I’ve been fortunate to work with a very talented illustrator, who is not insulted by my lame attempts at storyboarding.

Instead, with a little magic, she has transformed the vision of a shy, dorky everygirl and some squiggles on a page…

…into Mona, an unpretentious city girl…

…a peppy little puppy…

…and precious fragments of shared memory.

Anyone who knew Pepi, and cared to see past the exuberance of a little yappy dog, saw in him an undeniable spirit of love and positivity.

It was his sixteen year long gift to me.

Was it unconditional?  Hell no!  Like any feeling creature, he had his pet grievances and gripes.  It’s just that he refused to be quelled.  (And I can tell you, he would not have wanted to be kept inside a drawer…)

So, in honour of his unquellable spirit, I’ve decided to set a date for the launch of Hello Pepi.

Fingers crossed, ready or not, Books 1 to 3 will be out on 16 November.

There will be plenty of opportunities to grab a free copy, for more than anything, I want to share his joie de vivre with you.

If you could sketch a memory of the joy of life, what would it be?

Skeleton in the Closet

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Since many of you in the Northern hemisphere are celebrating Halloween this week, I thought I’d break from the norm and offer up a ghost story.

Sadly, I wasn’t born with a sixth sense, so I can’t really say I know what its like to see ghosts.  However, what I lack in psychic abilities I seem to make up for in my freaky dreams.  If they’re anything to go by, I’m rather glad I missed out on that sixth…

Dad and I arrive at a place a long way from nowhere – bare paddocks of dry grass and thistles.  And as Dad proceeds to share his vision, I feel a rising sense of unease.

It’s not bad…it’s got a good outlook.
The ground’ll need a bit of work, but – bit o’ lime an’ blood an’ bone – away you go!
A market garden here, an’ some fruit trees over there.  Maybe a bramble bush or two…
The house is not too bad, either – a bit of patching up, that’s all.  Good as new…

By now we’re standing among the ramshackle remains of an old farmhouse.  And by that I mean, ruins.

There are remnants of an old stone chimney, and nearby, half a house where the roof, in parts, has fallen in.

“Are you sure you want to go to all that work?” I ask.

It had potential, maybe.  Once.  A century or so ago.

We wander through the house as Dad dreams the Great Australian Renovator’s Dream.

There’s a dark dining room, and a servery window to the kitchen – a place for Mum to serve the meals, it seems.

“Where will you live in the meantime?”  I ask.

Absentmindedly, I pull out a long drawer from under the servery window.

“…elp me, help me…” come the pathetic cries of a sinewy body, dressed in a white bonnet and frock, that lies in the trundle shaped drawer.  Boney fingers claw at my face, too weak to lift her frame, “Help me!”

I shriek, jumping back from her reach.  She slumps and rolls her sunken eyes at me, fingers weakly grasping at the air.   “Help m-.”

I slam the drawer shut, unable to breathe.  We have to get out of here.

I rush through a gaping doorway to what once might have been an open, thriving kitchen.

Half of the room adjoining an outhouse is now a weed infested courtyard.

The other half – the corner with the servery window – still has a roof.

Dad stands there.  He talks as if nothing is wrong.

It’s quite alright.  A roof over our heads, that’s all you need…

But in the corner, below the servery window, where a benchtop should have been, is the sinewy body of a woman lying in an exposed drawer, dressed in a bonnet and frock, clawing at the air and crying, “Help me!  Please, help me!”

“Dad, you can’t buy this place,” I say.

Only, in his own trance, he was deaf to the tune that invaded my waking nightmare.

I realised then what happens when we find ourselves trapped in someone else’s dream…

Work your fingers to the bone, whadda ya get?

Boney fingers…
Boney fingers…

–Hoyt Axton, 1974 

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Do you see ghosts?

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Images under public domain by Vincent Van Gogh, courtesy wikipaintings.org, appearing as follows:

Barn with moss covered roof (1881)
Kettle over a fire and a cottage by night (1885)
Head of an old peasant woman with white cap (1884)
Skeleton (1886)

A Pasta Meditation

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I once knew a delightful and eclectic man who had lived a colourful youth in the sixties and seventies – a time when Melbourne grunge earned its reputation.

Living in a hovel with barely two cents to his name, he told me of the days there was nothing to eat but the herbs in his wild, overgrown garden.

From this had evolved a rich pasta sauce made entirely of wine, fresh herbs and garlic.  He had turned it into a Friday night tradition, to which I was now being treated.

Prior to this, I had only thought of herbs as a garnish or a flavour enhancement – never as a main dish.  But I was so enamoured with the sensory explosion, I had to try it for myself.

If you struggle, as I do, to keep your own herb garden alive, this can be a costly affair.  However, the rewards far outweigh the cost.

Now it has become one of my own favourite Friday night rituals, so I thought I’d share it with you.

Fresh Herb and Red Wine Sauce

The dish is less a recipe than a meditation, and as I’m no Masterchef, it probably doesn’t follow ‘correct’ procedures or exact quantities.  But that’s the point.

The beauty of it is allowing yourself to disconnect from phones, emails and blog stats (!), to focus on the task at hand, and see where the flavours will take you.  So view this as a guide rather than a formula, and feel free to get creative and vary the ingredients.

1 cup of red wine
1/2 cup olive oil

1 chopped onion (in this case, Spanish onion)

Large serve fresh (or frozen) basil leaves
1 star anise
1 small strand of cinnamon
1 strip of lemon rind
2 garlic cloves

2 strands Rosemary
6 strands Thyme
20 leaves Oregano
5-10 leaves Sage
Generous handful Coriander
Generous handful Dill
Touch of Tarragon

Heat the oil and wine in the pan.  Add onions, and simmer gently.

The quantity and combination of herbs should be balanced according to taste, and added to the pan in stages, allowing them to simmer for a couple of minutes before each new addition.  This is the order I would add the herbs:

Basil, cinnamon, star anise and lemon rind.
Rosemary and thyme (I leave stalks on and remove them later).
Oregano and tarragon.
Sage and garlic crushed together using mortar and pestle.
Dill and coriander.

Simmer until wine is reduced.

Add approx. 350 g Passata and 200g crushed tomatoes.

Simmer low until flavours are infused (15-20 mins).  Cover and leave to sit.

You know you have succeeded when the flavours are so well harmonised that it is impossible to identify the individual herbs.

Cook enough fettucine for two.  Add the herb sauce and some parmesan cheese – and your meal is ready to enjoy!

Accompaniments

Serve with a glass of red wine (or a martini!).

Add some lamp or candlelight (a real fire, if you have one), and your favourite person.

Some fine, mellow music.

Let your tired soul be nourished for another week…

What would you add to this ritual?  Or maybe you have a favourite ritual of your own you’d like to share?  Feel free to leave a link if you have a post on it…

Ooroo, Grandma

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The gulf left behind by Pepi’s passing has been so much greater than I expected.  It’s made me realise how lucky I am that, of the many goodbyes in my life, few have been permanent.

The only person I’ve lost that mattered to me was my Grandma, when I was eight.  She was seventy-one.  Defeated by cancer.

I remember being woken by my older brother and sister, and delivered the overnight news; their worry, and the feeling of numbness that gripped.

It was only as the coffin lowered, to the solemn recitation of “Ashes to ashes…”, that the numbness turned to grief.

After that, fragments of memory.

My other Nanna, the one I didn’t care for, making a triumphant show of comforting me.

At the wake, the older kids across the room staring at my reddened eyes as I refused to eat.

The feeling I was the only one crying.

The vow never to let them see me cry again.

I was her favourite, they always liked to say.  But that wasn’t how I saw it.  She was simply my favourite.  My most important person in the world.

Grandma was the only person I was allowed to escape to visit for a sleepover – which I did as often as I could.

She’d let me sit up with her in bed and watch A Country Practice.

Afterwards, I would kiss her goodnight and tiptoe off to my own room filled with the scary shadows of overstuffed brown wardrobes.

I’d wake to the sound of ABC wireless news, the smell of porridge and warm toast and wood smoke.

She’d talk to me as I followed her around in the garden, and take me visiting with her friends, where I’d be offered tea with Iced Vovo.

There were the precious moments of laughter and consternation that we shared.

The night she dozed off, falsies  in the glass beside her, when my light goodnight kiss provoked a startled gummy scream.

The morning she couldn’t get the potbelly burning, and smoke billowed, and the comedy of it all tickled me with unappreciated giggles.

The day, as we walked on the beach, Grandma stumbled in the sand and we were uncontrollably struck by the moment’s hilarity.

But, perhaps best of all, was Trudy – the fluffy, yappy Pomeranian.

The rest of the family hated how she doted on that dog.  How Grandma talked to her (as if she understood!).  How she hand fed her human ‘tidbits’.  And cleaned her teeth.  And gave her the run of the house (not to mention everybody else’s).

But it all seemed perfectly natural to me.  And so I found myself idolising the ground my Grandma walked on.

I dressed myself in my signature yellow-rimmed spectacles (glass removed), and marched about with a stuffed toy dog under my arm, parroting Grandma’s every word.

“Ooroo,” she would say from her back step, Trudy under arm (‘Ooroo’ is ancient Aussie for goodbye).

Much to everyone’s irritation, I also honed a perfect imitation of Trudy’s bark.

To this day, whenever I say something not to my sister’s liking, her favourite refrain is “Oh, you old Grandma.”

Perhaps, if she had lived long enough, I might have come to see her as the crotchety old bag the others always claim she was.  But, from the rose coloured perspective of an eight year old, I can imagine worse things to be called.

Once, a local Aboriginal elder explained to me how children inherit the totems and characteristics of their grandparents.  It is this relationship that shapes them, and is considered much more important than the child-parent bond.

As I look back, this seems to resonate.  My independent Grandma and her little dog.  Is this why, as a young adult, I found myself bringing home a Pepi pup?  A replay of that little girl running around with a stuffed toy dog under her arm – only this time for real?

It seems silly, but I am strangely comforted.  As though she’s with me as I say “Ooroo”.

Do you have a special Grandparent?  How have they left traces of themselves in you?