Tag Archives: honesty

three hundred and forty nine

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29 December. The gratitude I feel towards my parents knows no bounds. I am grateful I grew up with them as an example of how to be and sometimes how not to be. Today we celebrate 50 wonderful years of a true partnership, an authentic one, where ups and downs were shared. Where life was celebrated and conflicts were aired and resolved. With passion. And in fact still are. I am grateful for the lessons learnt. That life is messy, and messy is good because messy is real, and messy teaches you to appreciate the rosy. That honesty is what matters, and that love truly does conquer all. I am grateful for the example set but mostly I am grateful to my parents for our family, my brother and sister and our partners and our children and especially the bond that exists between us all. We are because they are.

happy families

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My mom and dad just celebrated 50 years of marriage, my father just turned 75, I am 46, my elder brother 48 and my baby sister 42.  We are all blessed with wonderful partners and daughters, we have forged our own way in this sometimes challenging but always wonderful world. Being together for Christmas is always a highlight, especially as we are all spread far and wide. So, why is it that within less than a day, we revert to our familial role? I become the cheeky opinionated outspoken controlling quite emotional and actually quite insecure middle child, my big brother lovingly puts me in my place with a slightly superior smirk, which just pisses me off, my mother puffs out of frustration and my dad gently keeps the peace. My baby sister chuckles quietly from the safety of Oz. Don’t get me wrong, I love it.  Feeling safe enough to just be less than perfect. I love being loved no matter what. I love that no matter how old I am, it seems I am always someones daughter, someones sister and secure in the knowledge that no matter how hard I make it to love me, they do. It is a rare gift. I hope one day I get to spend christmas with my daughters and their partners and their families, seeing how much they’ve grown but knowing at heart they are still our little girls. But also not.

three hundred and thirty one

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11 December. I am grateful today is nearly over. And for the most beautiful  flowers thoughtfully chosen especially for me from those I love. Both near and far. They and the sight of my gorgeous daughters, their cousins, my sister and B made the day more than bearable. You guys, all of you, really do complete me.

vanity

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I am trying not to be self absorbed. Surrounded by all the beauty here we all do pale by comparison. But I have become obsessed with my face. The bugger with beautiful photography is you can’t escape yourself. The reality of you. And especially with B. Always with a camera, a lingering loving camera. Not so much. I look, and try as I might to focus on the entire shot, my gaze finally settles on me and how I look.  Everyone does it, and lies if they say they don’t. And then invariably never mind how gorgeous the view is if we look crap, the shot is deleted. I see it with my girls too. A gorgeous pic of Queenstown, but the first thing they look at is themselves. Okay, I admit, it is more a girl thing but still. I so wish I could lead by example but oh my word, my face has suddenly collapsed. It feels like it happened the past month. I have become completely obsessed by it. By the lines and furrows down the side of my mouth. Those ones that make you look like a puppet. I’m suddenly a little bit less dismissive of major intervention. Growing old gracefully, accepting the beauty of age and wisdom and experience etched in deep grooves on your face? Sounds wonderful and noble and true and no doubt I will get there because ultimately I do believe it. But right now there is nothing beautiful about seeing my granny’s mouth on my face. Especially when I feel twenty nine. Max. Shit. So, whilst surrounded by heaven, I have become a little obsessed by my face. Damn photography. I was loving the illusion. Less so Kate and Jem tickling my wattle. Very funny girls. Leave mom alone, she’s having a moment.

two hundred and forty eight

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Today I am grateful for a talented friend who totally got my verbal, just a small retro something, brief for a last minute cake for Jem’s birthday tomorrow. A lovely lovely gracious lady who seldom says no and means it too. I am grateful for authentic genuinely kind friends who teach me to be better. I’ll always be a last minute queen. But better.

cynic

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There is a lot of focus on breasts right now. Yes because of poor Kate Middleton but also because of the approaching plethora of pink month. I don’t mean to come across as cynical but I am a little. That’s why I love the scar project so much. Breast cancer is not pretty and pink. It’s not about what we share, its about what we don’t often share. It’s sore and ugly and about survival and beauty because of it. I went to a breast cancer fundraiser on friday and had a chat with a lovely woman who when discovering I had had a mastectomy queried why I hadn’t had a bilateral done and had two lovely matching boobs. Seriously. Pretty and pink it’s not. They are lovely to me because of what they represent, but not as she thinks. They have no feeling. They are scarred. They are not a choice. They are because we might have died if not. I asked her if she realised a mastectomy means removing everything. Nipple and all. I think I over shared before how my nipples and the sensation of them matter to me. She mentioned how yes, she understands, her friends boob job left her with no feeling too. No, sweetheart you don’t understand. I don’t mean to be mean but wearing a pink ribbon on your chest does not mean you understand. And I really hope you never do. It reminded me of a dear friend who in trying to make me feel better when I was still trying to make sense of my diagnosis, said, her husband had said something which made sense to her. He had said, well at least its just her boob, its not like its a limb that she needs. Again, seriously? Anyway cut Kate Middleton some slack. If I had her boobs, no matter who I was, I’d bear them for the world to see.

two hundred and forty

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I am grateful for a quiet moment of contemplation, a moment to pause, reflect, remember and give thanks. And for friendship and laughter and shared experience and understanding, which so beautifully filled the space left by contemplation.

one hundred and ninety seven

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I am grateful to be living in a town where I am constantly amazed by people’s honesty, care and concern for others. For the pattern of people who put themselves out for others. For no gain. I am grateful my friend got her purse back, especially as our fun evening contributed to its loss. But mostly I am grateful for the fact that I can now stop harassing all the local cab drivers. I’m sure they are too.