Grateful For Boys

This week I posted this photo and comment on my Facebook page.

My daughter Suki. She astounds me daily with her wisdom, beauty, creativity, humour, generosity, intelligence, ingenuity, originality, care, thoughtfulness and OH so many things.

But today I am grateful for boys.  For boys and their untrappable, endless energy. 

At a skating event today the air of anticipation was palpable as the town's boys and young men mulled about waiting to take the stage.  Soaring through the air on thin planks of wood.  Impressing us all with their skill and bravery.  Encouraging and supporting each other through the highs and lows.   

I wanted to bottle the collective spirit and energy in that space.  You could seriously run a small town on the force that runs through boys veins.

Living with boys in your life is often like living with your heart permanently in your throat.  Boys do stupid stuff all the time.  They leap and dive and somersault.  They keep on going and going, often surviving on what seems like little more than air.  But don't get me wrong, at some point the pain in their stomachs will override and they will eat you out of house and home.

I love their vibrancy.  Their vest for life and adventure.  Their curiosity and bravery.  I love their uncomplicated mateship and sense of competitiveness.

There is nothing better than sharing a space with boys doing what they were meant to do. 

And I also love that they all, young and old, still need a hug and a smooch from their Mum from time to time.

This is part of Maxabella's Grateful blog hop, check it out.

Bedtime Stories

Bedtime reading can sometimes be yet another chore to attend to at the end of the day.  All depends on the book really.  We have an overflowing bookshelf.  Books were cheap in London.  Some of these books have been read and read and read.  To death.  In fact a couple of them I can hardly bare to look at.  Not because they are dreadful.  But because I have now been reading them for nearly 10 years.  The old favourites.  I can read them in my sleep, the pictures and words become like a psychedelic experience swirling around in my dreams.

One such book is YOU CHOOSE by Nick Sharratt and Pippa Goodhart .

For anyone who reads this blog and has been a visitor in my home at anytime, there is a good chance you have been introduced to this one, accosted by my children to read this book with them.  Again, again!  Full of colour and quirky drawings, it asks the reader to become involved by choosing their own adventure from a wonderful selection of scenarios.  An exciting book, great for encouraging a love of reading.  The first page asks: If you could go anywhere, where would you go?

It goes on to let you to choose your own character and friends, your home and outfits and jobs.

Every time the book is read you can choose a totally different life.

For my kids this book has never ever lost its appeal, even my 10 year old will still give this one a stab, and it's been hanging around for years.  But there are some days I just can't face reading this one now, the kids understand and graciously put it away.

Another favourite which appeals to my toilet humour is: The Story of the Little Mole who knew it was None of his Business, by Werner Holzwarth/Wolf Erlbruch.

Must be a German thing, as it's verging on rather un PC in our culture.  In fact I read that it was originally banned in the US when it was first published in 1964.  The little mole starts out perplexed and rather annoyed to find something has pooed on his head.

The rest of book follows his journey to discover who exactly has done this on his head.  He asked various other animals: Did you do this on my head?

Each animal then explains that it couldn't have been them, and then follows an explanation of how these animals poo.

Finally, with the help of some knowledgeable flies, he finds the culprit and executes his revenge.  See, it's totally un PC to condone the revenge, but it is brilliant and matter of fact (as only Germans can be) and appeals to the potty humour in us all, young and old.  It is also quite educational .  It was a primary school teacher who gave this book to our family.  I still find enjoyment in this story after all these years.

My most recent favourite is: Beware of the Frog by William Bee.

I discovered this book when I was in London last year in one of my all time favourite book shops, the Tate Modern bookshop.  A place to wile away an hour or two in absolute bliss.  I didn't really read the story when I bought it, I just really loved the retro style artwork.

It turned out to be such a cute story.  Little Mrs Collywobbles lives near a big dark scary forest and only has her trusty frog to protect from all the nasty creatures that emerge from forest to do her harm.  With funny catchy little verses and a surprising conclusion it has become a family favourite.

Lucien took it into school to read to his class and the book stayed for a term.  It was so popular with his class that they turned into a play that was performed in front of the school.

William Bee's website is lovely and I am pleased to find he was written a couple of other books I am now keen to track down, especially the one about the little boy who can only say 'Whatever'.  Reminds me of the story of Pierre by Maurice Sendak.  "Even when a hungry lion comes to pay a call, Pierre won't snap out of his ennui. Every child has one of these days sometimes."  Sometimes?  How about everyday in this house!

What are your family favourites?

Grateful For

Today I am grateful for finally getting myself together and completing a little project that's been hanging around for a good 6 months now.  It feels good to finally accomplish a plan.

I bought this sideboard at Vinnie's at least 6 months ago.  I bought it home whereupon it sat in the driveway under the porch for about 3 months making the house look like a junk yard.  I then managed to move it into the garage where it has been for the last 3 months.  In fact it had become the start of a pile of things earmarked for a garage sale. I had practically given up on my creative pursuit to turn this ugly duckling into a swan.

But I don't know what happened.  I had a sudden burst of energy and commitment to the project.  I ceased the day and just got on with it, and I virtually didn't stop till today.

And because everyone loves a before and after photo. Here they are.

BEFORE

 

AFTER

A few little tweaks to go.  I bought some beautiful bone handles for the door and drawer on eBay. The drawer is a bit tricky getting in and out so might need some sanding.  If anyone has any tips let me know.  My inspiration came from here.

So get up and just do those projects you've been putting off, you will be grateful.

This is part of Maxabella's blog hop. Check it out.

Little Buddhas

 Image care of here, where you can purchase and try for yourself.

Fairy Eggs have been all the rage at my kids school lately.  They start life as brightly coloured little beads not much bigger than a grain of rice.

When mixed with water they then expand to about 150 times their original size into wonderfully squishy and slimy balls.  Solid, yet jelly like, and in such a gorgeous variety of transparent colours.  There is something quite sensual about the feel of them in your hands.  The beauty of a bowl full of these colourful eggs is quite charming and magical.

My kids attend a school where Buddhism is offered as a choice for their religious education.  We are not a religious family but both Brad and myself have spent much time contemplating our spirituality and we are both drawn towards Buddhist philosophy.

Brad, more so than I,  has dedicated a lot of time to meditation practice and has completed three vipassana meditation retreats both in Australia and in Nepal.   I had my first foray into vipassana last year at a 10 day retreat in the Blue Mountains. Vipassana means; to see things as they really are.  It is an ancient Indian meditation technique.  A remedy to the universal ills.  A pathway to truth,  to freedom from suffering and misery. 

Last week my son came home with a bag full of fairy eggs.  He had been given them by his Buddhist teacher.  That day the class had done a meditation about fairy eggs.   I was intrigued by the concept.  Later that afternoon I bumped into his teacher at the pool where upon I asked her how on earth you do a meditation about fairy eggs.

She explained: Firstly she had asked the children to think about the fairy eggs and describe them.  They had said things like; they are beautiful and colourful, they start out very small and grow much bigger, some larger than others.  She had asked them to describe how they felt watching the eggs grow.  They said things like; it is exciting and interesting and surprising.  Then she asked how they felt about their own eggs, and they said that they really loved them and wanted to look after them and collect more, that they were precious and lovely to hold.

Next she explained to the kids that just like them, the eggs start off small.  With love and nourishment and care they also would grow into beautiful, wonderful creatures of all different kinds.  From there she lead the children on a meditation which began by imagining themselves as these small colourful eggs.  Imagining themselves being cherished and protected, as precious little eggs full of potential.  Feeling the excitement and joy of the life that love provides.  Growing into a something unique and beautiful and loved by all those around.

I thought it was a truly inspired idea.  By using this popular and coveted school yard item she managed to expand their vision and to help them recognise that those benevolent feelings and thoughts they have towards these fairy eggs can also apply to themselves and others,  and from that, great things will flourish.

Fairy Eggs have since been banned at the school for being the cause of way too much misery and suffering.

MAY ALL BEINGS BE HAPPY.

Grateful for........

Broadway Market Love

Grateful for this wonderful Saturday morning ritual at Broadway Market in East London.  Looking forward to resuming the tradition when we return to London later this year.

This is part of Maxabella Loves blog hop, check it out and enjoy.

Grateful For

This week I am grateful for the almost lost art of letter writing.

For boxes full of old letters and notes and photos and  the places those memories can transport us.

For the interconnectedness of our past and present and future as told through the trinkets collected along our path.

Read here for more.

Have a lovely Weekend.

This is a part of something altogether much grander, please check it out at Maxbella Loves.

Box of history.

I found something in the garage the other day.  It stopped me in my tracks.  A mighty can of worms.  Not the slimy dirt pooing kind of worms.  But rather like a bag of those brightly coloured sweet and sour candy worms.  Too hard to resist for their promise of pure sugary indulgence, and highly addictive for that exploding sensation of pleasure and pain that unleashes itself upon the taste buds.

A treasure trove of nostalgia right there in a shiny silver box.  Every letter ever written to me by anyone of note in my life (and in fact many of a little less note too).  The good, the bad and the ugly.  There are all sorts in this box.  Mouth wateringly alluring, and addictive once you start.

Why I have kept hold of some of this stuff I really don't know , but I was certainly glad to see them all the same.  These things have a power to transport us back to a time and a place.  To ignite old feelings and dangerous amounts of sentimentality.  A friend said to me today: We are the sum of all we have ever known and been.  And here in this box are many clues to who I am and who I have been and who perhaps I will be.

There are notes that were passed to me in the back of class at high school whilst the teacher attended more dedicated students.

One of my most prized letters from school is this one.

I think I might frame it one day.  It is from the Head Mistress at my private girls high school.  It was my life's obsession at the time to make regular yet subtle jabs at the establishment and my uniform provided the perfect vehicle.  I am so glad I have a letter to prove my success.

I have letters from my Mum written throughout the teenage years.  Clearly the only way she could communicate with me.  I treasure them now, although I am sure at the time I tossed them aside in disdain.  Perhaps I can draw on a little of her wisdom through these letters when it comes to dealing with my own teenagers.

I have kept all manner of silly little notes from my flatmates after I left home.

And of course quite a few love notes and letters too.

All the years I spent in Europe during my twenties (the 90's) are marked with letters from friends and family.  Some written in curly artful fonts and others with drawings and photos included.

 

How much time and effort went into writing a letter,  into making it a piece of art, into something you want to keep forever?  I am astounded now by all the beautiful things people have written to me over the years.  Of all the stories of adventure and love and disaster held upon those pages.  All crafted by the hand, straight from the heart. 

Brad found a similar box of his own.  And we sat there side by side, silently emerged in our worlds.  How quickly life has changed over the last decade.   I no longer have a box for letters, purely as I do not receive them.  There is something really quite intrinsically sad about that.  The loss of this beautiful art form.

A favourite story Brad likes to tell, to anyone who will listen, is of his time as a backpacker in Europe and receiving mail via Poste Restante .  Arriving in Rome and locating the main post office to find you had mail waiting.  How romantic that sounds now.  Back then it was the only way to receive messages from home.

How about those light weight air mail letters that came already stamped.  You'd spend a day or two in various bars and cafes watching the world go by whilst drafting the words in your head.  Then using the teeniest script you could manage you'd fill up the pages with as much information as possible.  It could take a few days to write a good letter, it was a timely and creative pursuit.  I think about travellers today all crammed into Internet cafes connecting through the screen via short tweets and quickly typed out messages. It's a different world.

My relationship with Brad started with letters.  We'd been friends at Uni and he wrote to me on his first European adventure.  The occasional postcard.   

Much later when he returned and we lived in different states, we would write to each other regularly, it was our only communication.  It now seems an utterly romantic old-school kind of  courtship.   They weren't really love letters because we weren't really in love then. But I think we really wanted to be in love and therefore the letters were some kind of a test.  A test of each others intelligence and our skills in esotericisim.  

They were just as much fun to read and decipher as they were to write.  I am glad I still have them.

As we both sat on the floor of our garage immersed in our history, reminiscing the memories and enjoying the very tangible remnants of the life we've lived,  it occurred to us that our children may never have this privilege.  Never know how to really write a letter, nor the excitement and anticipation of receiving one.  What a terrible shame that will be.

Do you keep your old letters?