A sock in the face …

Sometimes something happens that causes you to question your life, and how you live it. This last week, with almost unbearable pain and the potential of a diagnosis looming over me that could subject me to such pain frequently or constantly, I have been afraid. Afraid for my current lifestyle, afraid for my ambitions, afraid for my relationships.

In particular, I was worried because I couldn’t sit at my computer. But much of my life is based around my computer. I volunteer via my computer. That’s a big part of my week. My working life, both self-employment and company directorship, are managed via the computer. I was able to complete only five hours of work this week, because unusually I had a consulting job based on assessment of documents sent to me hard-copy, and a teleconference. That is unusual. Usually, 90% of my work is via the computer.

My creative life also is via the computer. I write online, get my feedback online, get my motivation online. How can this continue if I can’t sit at my computer? Even my other creative life – putting together my own photobooks or making cards out of my photographs – is on hold until/if I can begin working at the computer again. I used to paint. I enjoy it, and have been meaning to get back into it, but I’m not very good at it. It can’t replace my computer.

Eating anything hot or anything that required chewing brought it on. And I love cooking … and eating food that can’t be consumed through a straw. I couldn’t drink coffee. What do I do when I meet people. Drink water? I guess so. I couldn’t drink wine either. Horrors! More water I suppose. Lime and soda’s not so bad.

Sitting for long periods, or even short periods, brought on the pain. Watching TV or DVDs was out of the question. Sitting reading was impossible. I even had to finish my sudoku puzzle walking around. So for the first time in a long time, the ironing is almost finished. I have even started cleaning my office. But what would I do when the house was clean? How could I live without reading?

The combination of eating and sitting difficulties meant for the first time in 26 years, we didn’t go out for our anniversary. We toasted with fruit juice. Perhaps we’ll have to get used to this.

Then, blessed relief, the pain stopped. It still flickers, reminding me it could return. And I realise how incredibly lucky I have been so far in my life. The diagnosis wasn’t what I wanted, but some hope was offered. We don’t know when, or – and this is the good news – if the pain will return. If it doesn’t, of course, something else might arrive in its place. We’re getting to that age when things like this happen. So perhaps this is simply timely reminded that I should be living my life the way I really want to, right now, before I can’t.

Happiness is …

• the third warm sunny summery day in a row, for the second week in a row. Anyone would think summer had finally arrived. But we Wellingtonians are cautious souls, and won’t count our chickens just yet …
• a useful meeting over and done with, with good plans in place for the next month.
• yummy Japanese food for lunch on the harbour’s edge, the sea calm, tourists (from the two cruise ships, and those in town for the AC/DC concerts) everywhere. Oh, and good company (my husband) too.
• a visit to my favourite gourmet grocery store. Why is it that when I pop in just to pick up some Turkish bread and eggplant, I end up with two bottles of champagne and another bottle of wine, my favourite brie, a new washed rind cheese that was irresistible, porchetta, a roast capsicum/almond dip, smoked mussel dip, lemon curd yoghurt, freshly squeezed orange juice, and passionfruit sorbet? Dinner’s going to be good tonight.
• Friday afternoon.

Baring Flesh

In an effort to remind the country that it is supposed to be summer, last night on the TV news, there was an item about a woman who was lobbying for toplessness to be acceptable on New Zealand beaches. She didn’t realise that toplessness is not in fact outlawed in New Zealand, and spoke passionately (and toplessly) about her desire to be able to swim and walk and sunbathe au natural, free of criticism. The TV report was adolescently gratuitous with lots of shots of her resplendent on the beach. The next item was about naturalists and how their average age is now over 50. The item showed the by-now compulsory shots of men and women – appropriately blurred – swimming and playing volleyball in all their wrinkly splendour. One of the spokespeople for the local Naturalist group works at a company where I used to work. After first seeing him on an item about ten years ago, I could never look at him the same way when we were in the lift (elevator) together.

As you can see, toplessness is rare enough in New Zealand to receive (I refuse to use the words “warrant” or “merit”) some comment by the news media. For whatever reason, it has never really caught on here. Maybe it’s our conservative, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant heritage and cultural influences. Maybe it’s the ozone hole and high skin cancer risk here. Maybe it’s because breast implants haven’t really caught on here either. I don’t know. But it does always surprise me that our attitudes to our bodies are so vastly different to the European cultures.

This was highlighted once again for me on holiday at a beach in Malaysia. A lot of the guests were European, and so we had the not so delightful prospect of seeing European men of all ages and sizes in their Speedos/budgie smugglers, some of them were even high cut at the butt, to show even more. I was particularly delighted at the men who, in deference to the request of the resort that swimsuits not be worn in the restaurants, thoughtfully donned T-shirts which covered their stomachs, but stopped short at the Speedo. And of course, we were equally delighted with the obligatory European women in their bikinis, regardless of age – 10 years old, 20, or 50 it doesn’t seem to matter – or shape. One very large, round woman in her 50s (at least), so tanned she looked like a crocodile skin handbag, wore a tiny orange bikini, and lay in the full sun as the Asians and I stayed in the shade under the trees. I recall seeing dozens of similarly clad and shaped women on a beach in Spain. I confess to being slightly envious at their high degree of comfort with their bodies, if not with the desire to turn your skin into leather. (There is a reason it is called tanning).

In a shopping mall later in Kuala Lumpur, we saw a swimsuit shop. I was intrigued with the swimsuits provided for the Muslim women, with loose coverage from the ankles to the wrists, and with a hood. Protection from sun, mosquitoes, and self-consciousness. That’s what I’d like to wear at the beach.

The End of the Sun?

Warning: I am fully aware of how self-indulgent this is about to sound. Please don’t abuse me. If you have a weak stomach, you may need a bucket.

As readers of my Travelalphablog know, I love to visit overseas beaches. Let’s face it, New Zealand waters are just too cold for me. Going numb before you can enjoy your swim is not my idea of fun, especially not that painful stage of getting wet, not to mention the stress of that unsolved dilemma of whether to go in gradually, or jump in and die of shock. So every couple of years, my husband and I pick a location and resort, fill our bags with books and swimsuits, and head off for a week. Often we try to do this in New Zealand’s winter, when the Pacific Islands or Queensland are an easy three or four hour flight away, and are still warm and balmy. But even in the summer (and this summer in particular), New Zealand’s weather is variable, and a tropical beach, with that freedom and happiness that comes with warmth, is always inviting. My favourite location is Thailand. The combination of the sea as warm as a bath, Thai food and the Thai culture of sanuk (joie de vivre) can’t be beaten. But we’ll try other spots.

We recently spent five days and nights at a beach resort in Malaysia. We slept late in our villa on stilts above the Malacca Straits, enjoyed long, late, breakfasts from an enormous buffet selection, read and slept again in our room and on the beach, swam in beautiful, buoyant Emerald Bay and lazed on loungers with a cool beer, enjoyed a fabulous bath house spa experience, swam later at the pool with an aquatic monkey then enjoyed an icy lime juice or cocktail whilst watching hornbills and bats fly in and out of the palm trees, and finished the day sipping wine on our deck watching the sun go down, before an exotic meal at one of the resort’s (overpriced) restaurants. It was a wonderful opportunity to read, to relax, to talk, and just to be together.

But we also spent half the time uncomfortably hot and sweaty, and my hair frizzed up like Basil Brush in the humidity so, frustrated, I abandoned my useless hair straightener. Having read in the local newspaper about a dengue fever epidemic, I spent half my time checking that I was covered by insect repellent, but still managed to get a number of bites. I’m waiting another week or so before I know I’m out of the woods for another (more dangerous) dose of the disease. I also spent the other half of the time ensuring I was completely covered by SPF 30 or above sunscreen, wearing a hat (one of the only people I saw doing so), and keeping out of the sun, but still frustratingly managed to get a bit of colour on one shoulder. Given that sun and mosquitoes are such an integral part of the whole beach resort experience, I am starting to wonder if this is the right holiday for me.

Perhaps I should be searching out a mountain lodge, where I can curl up in front of a fire with a nice red wine with my book and some good music, where we can take invigorating walks, and then soak later in a hot tub. Where I can bundle up, and don’t have to worry about whether I’m showing too much flesh, or what condition it might be in. It does sound appealing.

But a long winter is coming. And a niece is planning a wedding in Rarotonga. Seems I’m not done with beaches quite yet. And right now, in the midst of the worst summer I can remember, that doesn’t sound so bad.

2009: A Tally

• A new brother-in-law in the family. I hope he’s a keeper, we really like him!

• We’ll finish the year having seen ALL my husband’s siblings and their children. That only happens about once every 7 years.

• Two weeks with my niece in July, all to myself!

• At least two new friends –okay, so they’re in the UK which means who knows when we’ll see them next, although they have offered us their flat in South Africa whenever we want to stay (except around the Football World Cup of course!). A good year is when you have more friends at the end than at the beginning.

• Reconnecting with my three adult nieces, and dozens of old friends, mainly fellow AFS exchange students from 1981, not to mention (of course) some blogging friends, through Facebook. Facebook rocks.

• Like Bridget Jones, I have gained and lost this year … but sadly, the gains were more than the losses. Maybe 2010 I’ll work on the bikini body. Once the Christmas cake is finished.

• We still don’t have a deck, though we have a few more foundations than we used to. We’ve chopped our trees, and can safely leave our car outside in the wind. But the driveway is dire (no heavy trucks or fast braking on it please), and the heating needs fixing. On the bright side, the windows on the west face of the house are clean. (Thank you Mother Nature).

• Financially probably not much difference to the way we started at the beginning of the year, but after an extravagant trip to South Africa, and in a recession, that’s not so bad! Saving for retirement? Bah!

• A lot of unpaid writing: 157,648 words on blogs and works in progress, and at least 668 volunteer related posts/emails. Not counting emails and blog comments and Facebook. Obviously I live a life misspent on the computer.

• My book of the year = along with half the world, this was actually not one but three books. The Millenium Trilogy by Stieg Larsson. I pity my US friends where the third book hasn’t been released yet. People are reading it everywhere – several with it at the beach in Malaysia, and one man walking onto a Qantas flight unable to put it down.

• My movie of the year = Departures, the Oscar winner best foreign language film, was an absolute gem. That a movie that needed as many tissues as this one still has a very warm spot in my heart stands testament to its beauty.

• My achievement of the year = my NaNoWriMo book. Although managing to teach my 76 year old mother how to email was pretty darn good too.

• My discovery of the year = no doubt, the bush and the sky of South Africa. If nothing else happened in 2009, that discovery made my year amazing. I smile every time I think of it.

• My success of the year = not losing my temper at my last two Board meetings. How my ambitions have shrunk!

• My embarrassment of the year = oh god, there are a lot to choose from. First Runner Up has to be falling down the stairs at the department store, but wearing my dress inside out at my sister’s wedding probably takes the cake. Supposedly no one noticed. I certainly didn’t anyway!

Happy New Year!

Goodbye Gershwin

On Tuesday morning, suffering from jetlag, my body telling me it was only 4 am in Malaysia, I drove to the cattery where we had left Cleo and Gershwin for their annual holiday. But I drove with only one cage in the back seat of the car. Whilst in Malaysia, we learned that Gershwin had made it into 2010, turned 17, then went to sleep and didn’t wake up.

We knew it was coming, and so I was okay when I was told. Gershwin had been diagnosed with advanced renal failure about six or seven months ago, so we’d discussed arrangements with the cattery before we left. The cattery was to bury him, under the trees, in their peaceful green valley. But we hadn’t really expected it would happen in the two weeks we were away.

Driving home though, with Cleo crying plaintively and alone in the back seat, I realised we would both be forever without Gershwin’s quiet presence. And I cried too.

A Christmas Eve Moon

Ten things I like about Christmas.

1. My tree decorations. I remember where I bought each one, or who gave me them.
2. A quiet, peaceful Christmas Eve.
3. The pleasure of giving, and the fortune of having the ability to give.
4. Raspberries, strawberries, and cherries.
5. My mini mince pies. (I’ve made the mince, just need to pop them in the pastry and in the oven this afternoon).
6. Knowing I have at least 9 more days before the rat-race begins again. (Although this year we are heading away, and won’t be back till the 11th Jan!)
7. Silent Night.
8. Usually, a clean house. (I’m working on it, it’s half-way there, I still have 12 hours left!)
9. Summer usually finally arrives. (And it is predicted to be a pleasant 22 degrees on Christmas Day).
10. Champagne.

View from the cafe

From the cafe in Oriental Bay, the city seems so close you feel as if you can reach out and touch it; touch the tall buildings of the CBD, their glass shining in the morning sun, reflecting clouds and vapour trails, seagulls swooping in front of them, stark white against the glowing brown or green glass.

The hills behind are a piebald of green, curved against the square, straight lines of the city. Gradually the hills are being harvested of their exotic interlopers – pine and macrocarpa – and the hills will return to their original state; replanting has begun, and eventually the wonderful totara, rata and pohutakawa will reign supreme. When fully restored, the city will be backgrounded by a brilliant deep red in the summer, a deep green in the winter, and the birdsong, oh, the birds will sing hallelujah every morning, a true dawn chorus. But as the cheesemakers say, good things take time, and I won’t see it completed in my lifetime. But that doesn’t make me sad. On the contrary, I quite like the thought of the forest growing, reddening, for all the people who come after me.

Roses by any other name …

I live in a very windy, hilly, green city. The view of our valley from our house changes little season to season, except for the tree beside our deck, which is one of the few that lose their leaves in the winter. Sure, the pohutakawa flowers at Christmas, bright red and festive and promising warm weather. But delicate flowers don’t fare well here. So we’re most accustomed to seeing shades of green.

This week I’ve been in a town in the South Island, a gentle rolling town on the edge of the Canterbury plains and the Pacific Ocean, with views of the snow-capped Southern Alps. The streets are wide and straight, and the houses sit on large sections, with green lawns where children play or barbecue guests relax, or where the owners cool their feet in the summer in the soft, green grass. The green lawns are invariably surrounded by large gardens. With the exception of the ubiquitous cabbage tree, the gardens in the south are not filled with the native, evergreen plants we see here in Wellington. Rather, they are filled with traditional flowers in a more English tradition. And right now, at this time of year, the roses are out. Everywhere I drove this week I saw roses, pale delicate pink roses, deep red roses proclaiming their love, white roses spilling over fences and pink roses climbing trellises and chimneys, and bright shocking pink roses blooming brightly in pots and containers and by driveways. The colours entranced, and the scents soothed.

My mother’s maiden name was Rose. If only tradition were different, I could have been a Rose too.