Spring is here

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Is it possible that the fastest route to happiness is creativity?

Is it possible that when we’re feeling frustrated it’s because our creativity is being squeezed or restricted in some way?

I know the joy creativity gives me, both my own and others.

Watching and listening to my daughter planning and creating a new fairy garden.

Creatively solving a problem. Even those problems on spreadsheets!

A beautiful photo.

Posting here on Tiny Garden 🌱

A chef’s creation that awakens taste buds long forgotten, a movie that makes you belly laugh, written words that paint the picture so clearly you’re there, feeling the fear, hurt, anger, disappointment, a water colour painting that transports you to the country road where you can hear the cows bellowing from the far paddock, feel the coolness of the late afternoon and smell the smoke from the farm house…

Spring is here! 🌱

Have a wonderful day!

 

The woods

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Lots of talk about the woods on the weekend.

Into the Woods, the musical.

Out of the Woods, Taylor Swift.

What does ‘out of the woods’ mean?

I tired to answer, relationships, bumps, troughs…

…but the important thing is to come out of the woods together…

…and to learn from the woods…

Did you make it out of the woods with…?

No, we didn’t make it out together.

What about us?

Yes! We go in and out of the woods together all the time! That’s what makes us such a good team.

Quiet now.

Content. Me too.

Grateful for everything the woods have taught me.

Have a wonderful day!

 

Singin’ (and dancin’) in the Rain

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A rainy Wellington day.

Drenched garden.

Reminds me of our new favourite movie, Singin’ in the Rain.

Just a sprinkle of rain…singin’…

…and dancin’ in the rain, images of my daughter dancing, pretending to tap, and singing.

Gene Kelly has inspired my little girl, I think she’ll take up tap next year 🌱

To look at, Gene reminds me of my father, the rolled up long sleeved shirts, slacks, his dark hair and boyish handsome looks, the cheeky sparkle in his eye…

Isn’t it curious that sometimes all it takes is flicker of recognition to pierce through into locked away memories, causing them to leak and sting. Ouch, why were things the way they were? Quick, lock them up again.

The past is past. Today is today, and today it’s raining!

Singin’ and dancin’ in the rain.

What a glorious feelin’…

I’m laughing at clouds.

The sun’s in my heart.

Come on with the rain…

I’ve a smile on my face.

Just singin’…

Singin’ in the rain…

Dancin’ in the rain…

I’m happy again.

I’m singin’ and dancin’ in the rain!

With joy in my heart.

I’m singin’ and dancin’ in the rain.

The last remnants of autumn.

Our Golden Delicious apple tree.

Autumn and rain. Favourites.

Have a wonderful day!

(This post is dedicated our friend Mark, we hope you’re having a wonderful time in the Big Apple!)

Protected centres

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I started to write this about a month ago, our brassica’s have grown since then…

Our young brassicas.

I love their centres.

Young fresh leaves, protected by the older leaves.

Baby leaves protected by toddler leaves, protected by teenage leaves, sheltered safe in the arms of their parents.

Surviving a New Zealand winter.

My nine year old daughter wrote a shopping list, a menu and cooked a three course meal tonight. She set the table, waited, tidied everything away and washed the dishes!

Yum 🌱

Our first lemons!

Have a wonderful day!

 

 

Bare boughs

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Our trees are bare.

End of Autumn.

Winter is here.

Chilly.

There was snow on the Orongorongos yesterday!

Short days.

The time of year when it’s a bit more of a struggle?

There was a time on the mountain when it became a little bit more of a struggle. I was fifteen, my little sister two years younger.

Just three of us left on the mountain, Mum and us two girls.

At this time we didn’t have a vehicle, a working washing machine or mower or generator.

The little creek had washed out, now a crevasse, too wide to jump, the walls too steep and too deep to step down into to cross.

With no car to drive across it anyway, we lay down planks, a makeshift foot bridge.

Everything we needed, we’d carry up the mountain.

Gas for the stove, petrol for the generator, food.

We’d bring groceries home with us on the school bus.

At the bottom of the mountain the bus would deposit us at the side of the road surrounded by our bags of groceries.

We would fill our back packs and distribute the remaining groceries to evenly weight our arms and, with our shoes switched out for gum boots, we’d head toward home.

Down through the pine forest out into the open, sharp eyes peeled for the killer cows, across the big creek, through the gate into Billy’s property, safe now from the killer cows with their knarly Brahman horns that could, in one swoop, impale you, expelling your final breath. Yes, we had active imaginations, but they were truly terrifying. They would come toward us with their big eyes and scary humps and horns…and the bull! We could never shut the gate with them on the other side quick enough, though we would never run, they would run after us and they could run faster…those horns at speed?! It was a flat peaceful forest walk through Billy’s property, only having to contend with the wildlife, snakes and goannas that would dart away at the mere crackle of our footstep. Up the first big hill, down through the bush, a gentle slope at first with a steep drop into a valley. A flat walk along the base of the valley to the little creek, across our makeshift foot bridge and then up the final long steep hill. Home at the top.

It was during this time that a very kind uncle of ours, who had once owned a bicycle shop, designed a person powered cart for us. Two mountain bike wheels on either side of a large square basket (about a metre square), with a sturdy extended padded trolley handle. You could push or pull it. Or, as we did, on the steep hills, with heavy loads, one would pull and the other push. Or if the three of us, two pull and one push, or vice versa.

It was with this trolley that we carted a washing machine up the mountain, a lawn mower, (a new second hand generator?) and once, with the help of our visiting brothers, a gas bottle, one of those ones almost as tall as you and unbelievably heavy, if you tried to budge a full one, you couldn’t (well, I couldn’t). I’ve just looked up the weight of a full one, about 160kg, I would have been about 50kg at the time. If I remember correctly we had both our brothers helping us, mum and us two girls. We had to take the basket off, lay the gas bottle down, strap it securely and then up long steep climb to the house, two pulling and three pushing? Regular rests, all hands and legs holding it tight, careful to not let it go shooting off down into the valley to explode spectacularly.

Those were the odd occasions, our regular week was just carrying school books, life’s essentials, groceries and petrol.

We’d carry half filled (full was too heavy for us) five gallon plastic containers of petrol on our fronts in our arms, was it because we failed to bring the empty trolley down the mountain on those days?

We were fit and strong.

Every day when I come home to our little cottage and there is electricity, light at the flick of a switch, a gas fire to warm us, a short walk (to carry groceries) from the garage to the house, I am grateful.

Though I still wash the dishes by hand 🦎

Fridays harvest 🌱

Have a wonderful day!

After the storm

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We had a wild storm last night, rain and 100km/hr icy winds from the southern alps.

Disjointed sleep.

Scary dreams, on the front line, in a forest on a steep slope, tall dense grasses, violent sounds, guns, explosions, thuds, crackling, whispering stealth through the grass, silent breath, afraid.

Unarmed, hiding, until my spot came under fire, ducked, ran and made terrifying leaps down the slope, pause, check, I’m okay, scramble for cover. Over and over.

Every return from broken sleep, I’d find myself right back there, trying to survive.

Finally the familiar tune of my alarm called me safe into my chilly bedroom.

Morning bought icy cold sun.

We were surprised to see our young celery survived 🌱

After the storm, driving to work, first glimpse of the water, framed by the pohutukawa trees at the end of the road, was shimmering gold from the morning sun.

Out from beneath the pohutukawa trees to the shoreline, huge God rays filled the sky, a freight ship vivid blue in the light. The size of the clouds and the expansive God rays made the boat appear huge and close.

A silver ribbon of light glistened along the coastline on the other side of the bay.

High tide, no pebbly beach, just water lapping the road. Evidence of the waves lapping over the road during the night, pools of water, debris and sand. Scary for the houses on the beach front to have the waves so close to their front door, grateful that our cottage is nestled safe within the village.

Always sad to turn away from the water, final glimpse back at the rays, the glistening silver ribbon, the golden pathway to the sun. Focus turned to work, up over the hill.

Winter is here?

Our most recent harvest 🌱

Have a wonderful day!

Peas flowering

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I’m not sure if we are going to get any peas before it gets too cold.

They don’t look as happy as our summer peas.

But we have some flowers.

Maybe.

It’s dark when we get home now. The winter months are hot (cold) on our tail.

There is a chill in the air.

Snowing somewhere?

I first took my daughter skiing when she was four.

Flying into Queenstown we were greeted by The Remarkables, snow covered, towering behind the airport and crisp snowy air.

We jumped into our hire car, put on Justin Berber, made a beeline to the supermarket, filled the car with food and headed off to find the cabin. A wee bit terrified.

Before we headed out toward Cardrona we drove into town to say hello to Queenstown. Beautiful lake, bustling street mall, bare trees, warm shop lights, cold, exciting.

With brave hearts and Justin Beeber, our backing track, we headed off to find our cabin. Up the Crown Range, down into Cardrona.

Up on a little ridge, snuggled into a private corner of rugged high country beneath the beautiful Cardrona snow covered mountain we found the cottage. Complete with a little creek and forest!

Our little hearts relaxed. Safe.

The house. Perfect. Cosy.

We filled the fridge.

Lit the fire.

Unpacked our clothes. Set everything ready for an early morning skiing adventure.

Cooked a yummy dinner. Could it be that the food tasted better down there?

Snuggled watched a DVD. Dare I tell you that I pulled out my knitting? Okay, now in heaven!

He he, I’ve knitted since I was a little girl, I recall at primary school someone calling me Grandma! In fact I quite like crocheting too 😃.

Precious memories, when I was pregnant, the evenings after work, comfy on the couch with my feet up, knitting my daughters baby blankets, but I diverge, today I’m wanting to take you skiing with us.

The next day, beautiful blue sky, perfect!

Not sure how it would work, but with the knowledge they had a childcare centre on the mountain, off we went.

It took us a little while to figure it all out but finally I got my little girl, with all the ski gear she needed, checked in and safe and sound in the hands of her instructor, Lorna. My brave daughter, so cute decked out and ready to hit the slope.

Me, I was now free to ski my heart out! Quick, to the snow!

The icy cold on the chair lift, alive. The cold air whipping my face and filling my lungs on the way down, happiness.

Tired, I love to find a quiet spot in the sun on a pristine patch of snow, nibble on almonds and sultanas (or vegemite crackers or chocolate), surrounded by sparkling snow, mountain fresh air and a sea of snow covered mountains. Easier to remember to breath up there?

I headed back to the resort to have lunch with my little girl.

We filled our tummies with warm food and then out we went to find the sleds.

He he, now that is fun, sledding with your four year old! Sore stomach!

Then it was time to return her to the daycare, more learning how to ski on the little slopes.

Back to the mountain for me.

Since then we’ve found a snow covered mountain every year, jumped into our snow gear and kicked on our ski’s.

My little girl came up with me on the mountain on our second trip, on the chairlift at the end of the day, I have a video of her zooming down in front of me, no poles, like an expert!

The last three years she’s spent whole days with me, no lessons. Just us and the mountain (and chairlifts of new friends).

We have named the little monster that sometimes appears, the abominable snowman. She usually appears if the slope looks too steep or hunger or fatigue sets in. But before long the little abominable snowman is laughing again after she’s been fed or fired snowballs in my direction.

We’ve built snowmen and given them sultana and almond features.

We’ve enjoyed hot chips and meat pies in the warmth of the mountain cafes.

The days finished snuggled warm in the cottage in front of the fire.

Always sad to say goodbye to the mountain and the cottage.

’til next time.

Have a wonderful day!

Ripening Tomatoes

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Our tomatoes are ripening.

On our window ledge.

Waiting for the red that means sweet and delicious.

When I was growing up on the mountain, we went to a tiny country school in the next valley.

We would clomp down the mountain in our gumboots and, careful not to slosh water into our boots, wade across the creeks. All the while watching for any little passengers, leeches, “quick can you get it off!”.

The dusty gravel road to school took us across several old wooden bridges. They were made up of hefty sleeper like planks butted up against each other, bolted into place. As I write this I can hear the sound of the bus hitting the bridges at speed and feel the vibrations.

Our teacher loved music and sport. When he first started, we’d play sport every afternoon after lunch. Every day! Outside. Heaven. Playing rob the nest, Aussie Rules (football), soccer, softball, cricket…

And music? He played the guitar and taught us songs, “Horse with No Name”, “Sandman”, “California Girls” (though we changed it to “Collins Creek Girls”), “Muscrat Love”, “Christopher Robin”, “Di Di Di Di”…I loved the singing. I’ve always loved to sing.

Our school, little and country, maybe 25 children?, kindergarten to year 6, large grounds, surrounded by huge luscious camphor laurel trees, with an ‘out of bounds’ forest down the back (that we’d play in anyway). The front gate, in those early years, I remember an arbor with a ratty climbing rose that hadn’t climbed very far and the cement footpath that lead to the front entrance of the little weatherboard school, first opened in 1918.

There was a little fish pond on the left as you walked toward the school (covered with chicken wire) and a large tree, its canopy had a weep, a beautiful pink/purple flower and big fat rounded love heart shaped leaves that started their life folded perfectly against each other down the spine and would open with age. I remember a goanna up that tree one day and our teacher going off to get his gun.

At that time the school had a verandah and inside, a wood burner, “don’t stand too close or you’ll get chilblains”. A pile of shoes & gumboots at the entrance.

There was a school house, where the teacher lived, up the ridge a little, across one of the playing fields.

One lunch, I think I was about 9 years old, I walked out of the class room to the front steps, and there at the bottom of the steps, on the cold hard cement, was one of the boys with blood pouring out of his mouth.

Red.

Not a sweet and delicious red. A scary red.

I didn’t take a breath, I just ran (to get the teacher from the school house). Or was it flew? I didn’t know I could move so fast.

Watching that little girl running in my memory, my heart tenses, I choke up and tears sting my eyes.

Words tumbled out on top of each other when the teacher came to the back door. And we quickly headed back to the school.

There was no one at the bottom of the steps.

We went around the back of the school to where the water fountains were, he was leaning over a bubbler, some other children were hanging around but they quickly made themselves scarce. The boy looked up from the trough. He smiled.

I felt confused.

He’s okay now?

I know words were spoken but they all jumbled up in my brain.

It was a trick?

Fake blood. What was that? There was such a thing?! Where did it come from?

I know all was being answered with the words coming out of his mouth, one minute loud, the next quiet, and then no sound at all but his lips still moving, the world didn’t feel steady.

But it did slowly sink in.

Fear turned to mortified embarrassment.

Enough adrenalin pumping through my little body to last a lifetime. Maybe that’s why I have never felt the need to jump out of an aeroplane?

The saddest part of this story is that we lost this friend, at just sixteen, a terrible motorcycle accident on their property. I wasn’t there, but if I was, I would have done the same thing, run with all my heart and soul to get help, my legs would have found that same mysterious power to move at a speed not usually possible.

He was a trickster and cheeky. He made people laugh. And scared the jebezzies out of them!

He told me once he didn’t need to learn to sew, “when I grow up I’ll fix my clothes with a stapler”.

It was a sad day when we lost him.

Favourite moment at our house this morning. My daughter put on “Eye of the Tiger”. We turned it up loud (and even louder). I followed her moves. Her smile and laughter filled me up (he he, to bursting!).

Wishing you a wonderful day!

 

Our cottage

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We inherited these flowers.

They came with the little cottage.

Ours since 2004.

I remember when I first saw this little house.

I knew immediately I wanted it to buy it.

I called the agent that very afternoon and she popped over for a cup of tea to do the paperwork.

I had stepped off the plane just three weeks before.

When it became mine, I picked up the keys, drove over after work, it was dark, it was empty, it was cold, I was alone in NZ, I sat on the carpet in the living room and cried.

Big tears.

Just a couple of days ago a dear friend was telling me about her mothers idea about our book, the idea is that our past is written on the pages already turned, and what has been written can’t be changed, but every fresh page turned is blank, it’s yours to write on, yours to write anything.

Anything.

But that night, the first night in my new little cottage, in a brand new country, I was too busy re-reading pages that had long been written and couldn’t be changed.

I couldn’t see the blank page in front of me. A page that, even as I was sobbing my heart out, was being written. All those heartaches from the past were articulating themselves as hopes and dreams for the future. And those hopes and dreams filling this little cottage with every tear.

And over the years, one by one those hopes and dreams have come true.

Love. My greatest love, my beautiful daughter, joined me in 2008.

Strength. It took me three long months in 2005 to paint the exterior of this little house, one wall at a time, I scraped off ancient flaking paint (probably lead), filled holes, sanded, coated rusty nails, puttied windows, washed and painted. Mr Miyagi (The Karate Kid, 1984), was right, the focus, the repetition, the meditation, the challenge, the achievement of painting a house made me strong, both physically and mentally.

He he, I remember one day I was up the scaffolding with the sander and a courier appeared, delivering a parcel to my neighbour. Being on my own, there was no one to take photos of me working, blushing to my toes I asked the courier if he would be kind enough to take a photo of me. He happily took my camera and I went back to work with the sander. He took some great photos.

As he headed off he said something about hoping more parcels needed delivering around here.

That put a smile on my face and I swear the sander took the layers of ancient paint off with less effort that afternoon.

Calm & peace. Our beloved garden, a perpetual work in progress.

Giggles and laughter. Tripled since my daughters arrival, January 6, 2008. Best day ever!

He he, I like to think of every giggle as a little shiny wriggling transparent string of energy (like a happy wriggly worm, but see through and glittering and in constant motion) filling nooks and crannies of our little cottage. Finding their way into and filling the wall cavities, the best insulation a house could ever have!

Our little cottage is old, built 1910. Only 60 years after the first settlers arrived in Wellington. I think it was built for the nearby military camp (which has now disappeared and been replaced by a school), for a soldier and his family. It was a simple square four roomed house, no fancy features, just standard sash windows and two fireplaces. Built strong with beautiful native hard wood timber. Still standing firm through all the years of gale force winds and earthquakes.

The years have bought additions and modifications.

It’s still petite, perfect for us.

Friends. The love we have been graced with from friends found here in Wellington defies words. It fills our hearts and is the sparkle that lives in our eyes.

Our little cottage.

Have a wonderful day!

 

Another rainy day

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A rainy Sunday.

Today I want to tell you about another birth.

Mine.

Two mountains featured in my childhood. The mountain on which I was born and the mountain on which I was bought up.

Today I want to take you to the mountain where I was born.

But first let me set the scene.

Australia, 1973.

The Vietnam War still raging, more than 17 years after it started.

The Age of Aquarius in full swing, large exoduses of people from cities to the country, looking for peace and a self sufficient existence.

Afraid of a nuclear world war?

My parents, no exception, on their exodus they found a mountain and made a home.

The mountain they found was scrubby and dry, west of Sydney, near the Hawkesbury River. The forest eucalypt, the ground, leaf covered and tinder dry, clumps of dry brown grass. The earth, solid sandstone with patches of sandy soil. The only water to be found, if it had rained recently, collected in little pools in the sandstone outcrops, a bit like rock pools at the beach.

They called this mountain Magic Mountain. There is probably a story behind the name but I’ve searched my memory banks, it’s nowhere to be found.

Not another soul on this mountain. Just wilderness and wildlife.

My father worked on the Wisemans Ferry down on the river, we lived at the top of the mountain.

No car, no radio, no clock.

I was born sometime in the middle of the night, between January 5th and January 6th, 1973.

Dad lit the fire to heat some water.

I was born by candle and fire light.

Dad tied my umbilical cord.

Years later we visited Magic Mountain with our father. I remember a small cave in a sandstone wall and scant evidence of people once living there, a fork, a broken bowl?

What did the house look like? Built in my imagination from snippets of what Dad told us and knowledge of the house they built on the next mountain, I picture a small rustic house constructed out from the cave. Handmade, a panel front door with a love heart cut into it, a stone chimney that attempted to guide the smoke from the house. Windows? In my mind I see two little four pane windows on either side of the door, a bit uneven, giving the house a friendly lopsidedness, winking, welcoming. Made even more so by colourful handmade curtains.

Outside, chickens and a goat roaming free?

I imagine some rocky flower gardens and a little vegetable patch but I’m not sure how they survived the chickens and goat? Or how they grew in the sandy dry soil?

An old forty gallon drum collecting rainwater.

One week old, no one knew I had arrived.

Mum, keen to show me off, her newborn daughter, strapped me to her front and walked me and my brothers down to the ferry.

At the ferry I was introduced to the ferry master and the passengers.

My beginning.

Have a wonderful day!