today is a day of zen.
we are having a sunday.
what does that mean asks Greg?
well… Jess and I look at each other.
we are weeding around the east verandah and kitchen steps the common entry to our house.
it was overgrown and fat with leeches. the asparagus is running away and hosting snails.
the rue was engulfed in giant grasses.
it wasnt on our to do list for any day but we started and now it is zenned.
so to Greg we say Sunday is the day to rest to play to do your own thing, to let go of jobs, to eat and cuppa, to read and laugh, to be quiet and reflect, to give thanks for all the other days of the week in which you have been busy.
and this week has been sooo busy.
have a break today babes Jess says to him.
he stands firm. I want to keep on with the ‘cupboard’.
On monday John and Greg began work on a storage cupboard /wardrobe/ bookshelf in Jess and Greg’s bedroom which used to be Elsie Roses room which used to be ‘the girls room’.
it is remarkable how they have taken a plan a family discussion and turned it into a wall of shelves that divides the room effectively separating the bedroom space from the studio.
and now john is still in his jammies and lightly snoring on the couch.
Greg is putting the shelves up, baby is asleep in my bed along with a zillion teddy bears. Jess is into one of her photo projects.
today is the first day we have seen blue sky and sunshine, the forest glistens after the drenching.
and sunday is the day for pikelets for elevenses.
blackberry jam and cream, maple syrup and mango, coffee tea.
talking of the play Blackbird we saw last night at the Murrah.
and it was good but; has left me wondering this, do 12-year-old girls really lust after middle-aged men?
before puberty has grabbed her hormones and rattled them around the body and confused the mind
is she really into the older man? Or is this just a male fantasy?
I did note that the play had been written by a man .
and so I ask my 12 year self and my daughters 12-year-old selves and other friends 12-year-old selves .
so far they shudder and recoil with distaste but can remember a ‘boy’ in the same year or at high school who they were keen on.
or they were focused in their own world and boy girl stuff had not emerged.
some fantasies are like leeches sucking the blood of truth from reality.
I would choose a reality where 12 year old females are allowed to be undefined by the sexual ideas of the male mind.
and yeah leeches have their place but I can weed and reduce the chances of them hanging around our doorway.
just like ideas can be challenged before they take root in our belief system.
the baby is cryinghe woke up in a right snit I tried to take him but he rejected me soundly with ‘real’tears on his cheeks, only mum would do. and that is life is it not? sometimes we just want what we want even if we dont know why or what that is and sometimes, nothing, not even mum can make it better. and then suddenly out of the blue a water skink ducking behind the stove or snitching a crumb off the floor or the sharp crack of the whipbird just outside the window breaks the spell and he is chuckling again, the torment is forgotten. there is exclamation,wonder arises. a squatting to see, a head cocked listening, an engagement again with the world. all is right and sometimes we never know what the problem was. the art of wonder what is this thing we call wonder? eyes as big as saucers , mouth open struck dumb, spellbound, gob smacked, lost for words, beyond words, awed surely a transcendent moment but maybe not, maybe a point of surprise maybe just something really ordinary but out of context. and then there is the verb form of wonder I wonder what is going on for the bebe to cry so hard and not want my loving attention I wonder why he is out of sorts. I also wonder why people poison blackberries when I have just made 17 jars of wild lush as jam. So on the one hand I am filled with wonder lying against the trunk of the kurrajong looking up thru latticed branches to a star studded night sky, and on the other, I wonder how people can mine the hills and valleys, shoot the wallabies and wombats and woodchip our forests. I wonder when we will grow up, collectively speaking and safeguard our nest, but mostly , I wonder how the spiders build such finely embroidered webs. this morning we walked with baby thru the early misted forest, sun beams casting shade and highlighting the millions of webs strung in branches and grasses, some circular and some heart shaped some tattered like old lace and others perfectly wrought. It is all a wonder to me this planet and so are you…