Better late than never?

April. A month in transition. This year winter still hasn’t arrived, but summer’s not here any more either. That was hard to accept a few weeks ago, when I was sitting outside at a vineyard* enjoying a 25 degree day with my mother and sister and niece and brother-in-law. The mountains in the distance were capped with snow, but we were inland in the South Island, so that’s not so unusual. The day before, driving south from the airport in shaky old Christchurch in the late afternoon, winter was hovering ominously – the sun low and the shadows long.

I’d forgotten too how big the sky is out on the plains, and the simple beauty of green pastures, a blue sky, silvery clouds, and trees with turning leaves, yellow and orange and the occasional red. We don’t see the turning season in Wellington, the green city, so it is always a pleasure to come across willows and poplars and other exotics with their fiery colours protesting the move into autumn. Not native to this land, and rare in Wellington, but these immigrants – like the farmers farming the land I drove though, and my own ancestors – have been here so long. They are now as much part of this landscape as the white, woolly sheep and those mountains to the west, and are as dear to my heart.

Our changing landscape

What Charlie Taught Me

(the fifth in a continuing series)

I recently spent some time with Charlie again.  Her lessons this time:

• The climbing frame is really fun for a five-year old.
• If you sleep past 8 am you’re a sleepyhead.
• Penmanship is important when signing your name.
• Being tricky will always backfire.
• Five year milestones are huge.
• Delayed gratification is over-rated*, especially if you’re waiting for your birthday present.
• Imaginary friends are good. So are imaginary monsters. And they’re not scary. Because they’re imaginary.
• Fruit is good, but ice-cream always wins.
• I need to watch my language.

* oh wait, I knew that!

Join the Movement – Look around you, we’re everywhere

I blog, I blog in English, and the blogging community is dominated by Americans. So it would be impossible for me to miss that it is National Infertility Week in the US.   This week, they are trying to promote awareness by getting bloggers to “Join the Movement” and talk about how we are making a difference in ways large and small in the lives of people with infertility.

Now, my fertility issues have been resolved. I mean I’m 50, so I’m past all that now anyway. (I’m not a big supporter of women getting pregnant in their 50s and beyond). I’ve found resolution, but not in the way most people assume, ie by having children. Nope, no kidding, that’s me. And that’s okay. So in one way, I struggle with the exhortation to “join the movement” and make more people aware of the fact that 1 in 8 people will have fertility issues. After all, right now, I just want to be me. I don’t want to be defined by anything, certainly not the issue of whether or not I have children. Or more specifically, whether or not I could have children. This blog is not about infertility.  It’s about my life.  The one I just happen to be living without kids.

Consider too that up until last year, I volunteered for an ectopic pregnancy organisation, and I know what a difference I made in the lives of others going through pregnancy loss and those who then faced infertility.  And I write in another places about infertility.  I don’t think I need to be exhorted to do more.

Yet, 1 in 8 couples have difficulty having children.  Between 30-50% of pregnancies end in miscarriage.  Infertility is a very real and quite common part of life.  Everyone knows someone who has been touche by infertility.  And yet these topics are not talked about, instead they are hidden away, rarely acknowledged.  We live in a world that assumes everyone will have children, that idolises the state of parenthood, and that often looks on those of us with no kids as lesser, or lacking, regardless of why we don’t have children. So I do really support the principle of raising awareness. The more people who are aware that fertility isn’t a given, being a parent isn’t a given, the better. In fact, the more people who realise it isn’t required, the better.  It will mean that people will feel freer in their choices not to have children, or the circumstances they found themselves in.  And it will mean those of us who tried, but couldn’t (or those who are trying right now), will not feel judged and found lacking.

And perhaps maybe, just maybe, someone reading this will think before they  ask someone “do you have children?” And it might stop them (or you) – forever – asking the follow-up question that almost always sounds like an accusation, “why not?”

For more information, follow these links:

• http://www.resolve.org/infertility101  (Basic understanding of the disease of infertility.)
• http://www.resolve.org/national-infertility-awareness-week/about.html (About NIAW)

Delayed gratification is over-rated

My parents’ generation here in New Zealand adhered to the principles of the Protestant work ethic – and I can point to one elderly gentleman I know  in particular. He believes the point of life is to work. Your duty is to work. Leisure is just an excuse for laziness. Extravagance is wicked. Etc etc. I have watched him work, and retire, and don’t see that this belief in these principles have brought him much happiness. Perhaps they did when he was at work, and had children at home. But not in the last 20+ years. Despite that, delayed gratification is always portrayed as a noble state. Not just by him, but by a lot of society in general.

On the other hand, instant gratification has always been portrayed as being selfish, or rash, or extravagant, or indulgent. All very negative connotations. Yes, I know all the arguments, and all the research about the advantages in store for the child who chooses to wait for the marshmallow. But you know, I’ve waited for the marshmallow long enough. I waited for the marshmallow children, not rushing into anything, waiting till we were financially stable, and until everything felt right, only to find that I’d probably waited too long. As a result, I’m no longer a fan of delayed gratification.

My ectopic pregnancies reminded me that I am very mortal. Infertility and subsequent health issues reminded both my husband and I that, whilst we have been very fortunate in life, we are not invulnerable. Anything could happen to us at any time. I see that in the lives of friends and family, and every night on the evening news. We never know when that texting driver is going to ram into us, when an earthquake or cancer or something we’ve never heard of might strike, when our lives might change irreversibly, or end completely.

So whilst planning is still important to us, we don’t defer our gratification to some distant time when we will have more money, better health, more time etc. Because we know that we might never have more money, time or better health than we do right now.  Sometimes we succumb to the instant gratification = bad pressure, and feel guilty. We look back at our international travel the last ten years, and shudder when we work out how much it has all cost us. But we also know how much it would have cost to raise children, figure that we’re breaking even, and shrug and book another trip! But I know others consider us to be extravagant. After all, we’re not rich.  But are we extravagant? Maybe. But does that mean we are bad, selfish, indulgent?  I don’t think so, even if others do.

But the work ethic proponents also believe that we should “never put off tomorrow what you can do today.”  So I want to argue that, within reason, we can apply that to leisure and lifestyle issues as well as hard work (or doing my taxes, sigh). Shouldn’t we appreciate what we have or who we have in our lives today, rather than waiting till tomorrow to appreciate them? Or worse, to tell those we love how much we appreciate them? Shouldn’t all of us  embrace our lives today, rather than waiting till tomorrow, next month, next year?

I’ve been thinking about this because my husband is being made redundant. We have two choices of action.  We could run around furiously and get jobs or contracts that make us miserable but bring in some cash. We could worry, panic, and stress about the future. We could choose to hunker down and be conservative. We have friends who have counselled us to do this. My in-laws will definitely counsel us to do this. (Or they will gossip about our recklessness behind our backs).

Or we could say “let’s make lemonade” and take the opportunity to do something completely different, even if just for a few months.  And that’s what we’re most likely going to do.  Because ultimately, we are now more comfortable with the present than the future.  We’re not actually reckless, and we’re not terrified of the future either.  But we acknowledge that the future might not come as we plan it, and the present is here and now and needs to be lived.  And so that’s what we’re going to do.

And I look back, and know that my infertility history, as well as more recent difficulties, helped me come to this position. I’m comfortable with it.  I’m going to take my gratification now, thank you very much.  I am not going to wait.*

* All will be revealed, once decisions have been made.  

Men in trees

There are men in trees outside my window. Strapping young men, swinging from the branches in the rain, wielding chainsaws, systematically disposing of one of the macrocarpas at the corner of our driveway. One of the features I’ve always loved about our house is the presence of these four giant trees, sheltering us from the cold and strong southerlies. There used to be another tree directly south, but a former neighbour took that out about 15 years ago. Now the neighbours below us have decided to remove the tree at the corner. It was necessary, I will admit that. A huge branch extended out over the roof of their house, and especially the room their daughter occupies. They lived in fear that something might go wrong in one of Wellington’s storms. Not to mention that as the tree grew, it was starting to lift our concrete driveway, cantilevered out from the hill. It had to go. And so yesterday, today, and probably the rest of the week at least, I sit in my office, and listen  to the high-pitched noise of the chainsaws and the great roar of the mulcher machine that chews these enormous branches, and I cringe as they drop, bit by bit, great logs of wood that must weigh a tonne on our poor little driveway, shaking the house, but hopefully not the driveway supports.

And so the view out my office window changes day by day. Though to be honest, it is the changed view through these windows (below) that I will notice more often.  And I worry about the tui.  Did they have nests in that tree?  I do hope not.

The view from my bedroom

Our house and driveway, and my lovely trees, less some of the branches in the first photo. It is the tree on the far left that will soon disappear

And bit by bit, the tree comes down

Change can be good. But this makes me feel that too many things are changing at the moment.   Little things, and big things, good things and bad things. Changing technology. The drought has broken, and autumn has chased summer away.  Employment situations are changing, and that is scary.  Elderly parents are deteriorating, and need more care.  And we’re getting older too. So right now, my husband and I are forced into embracing the belief that change can be good. But it also brings some sadness at what we’re losing.

“All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy;
for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves;
we must die to one life before we can enter another.”            

                                                           Anatole France

But I guess we have to heed  the words of Bowie,

“Ch-ch-ch-changes,
turn and face the strange.
Ch-ch-ch-changes …”

Ten (Possibly Surprising) Things I’ve Never Done

(The result of a  blatant dare from Indigo Bunting)

1. Cooked a lobster 
2. Plaited my hair
3. Gone to church (when it wasn’t a special event  - wedding/funeral/christening/Girl Guide visit – or  not as a tourist)
4. Had a threesome
5. Sung willingly in public
6. Been on a ski-lift
7. Gone skinny-dipping (with anyone other than my husband, or the women in the spa pool at the gym)
8. Owned a dog (my father’s farm dogs don’t count)
9. Tramped* the Milford Track  – or any other track for that matter (Cinque Terre doesn’t count)
10. Had a stand-up yelling argument with anyone not married to or related to me
    AND
11. Remembered the brilliant item for this list that I thought up on Wednesday evening and promptly forgot.

* Hiked (for North Americans)

Lost my mojo

I’m a reader. From the time I learnt to read, I’ve read as much as I could. The neighbours used to call me my father’s “little shadow” as I was always out on the farm with him. I can’t remember that – because then I learnt to read. And once I learnt to read, poor old Dad was out on the farm on his own.  (Well, until little sister came along – though she is also a bookworm.)  We didn’t have many books at home, but those we did have I read over and over again. The town library was my saviour – but we were limited to only two books a week. I’m not sure if that was a library-imposed limit, a financial limit (ie did more books cost more money?), whether it was an age-related limit (kids under 18 only allowed to books a week?), or whether it was a parent-imposed limit (mother knowing that if I had more books to read, I’d never do anything else). We’d go to the library on the weekly shopping trip. Mum would pick us up from school, and do her shopping whilst we were at the library. If her shopping took time, or she ran into Mrs Buckingham (who could talk the hind-leg off a donkey), or if there was a big queue in the fish and chip shop (in the days when we went shopping on Fridays then had the customary kiwi Friday night dinner), then we would read our new books in the car, waiting. (I’m talking small-town 1960s New Zealand. Cars were left unlocked, and children were left alone in the car.) It was always a major disappointment if I finished my book (or books) before we even got home. Imagine having to wait a whole week for a new book!

But now I’m in a reading slump. I’ve lost my reading mojo. I set myself a reading challenge this year of 45 books. It’s only March and I’m already seven books behind. Seven! I completed this challenge last year, but that was only because I downloaded a couple of series of very light books, a long way from my usual diet of literary fiction. In the time it would normally take me to read one book – or maybe half a book – I had finished six. It was a bit like eating junk food. Strangely compelling, but I hated myself afterwards!

My reading slump seems to have continued into 2013. I’ve been dabbling with non-fiction books, and tend not to record them on my Goodreads list.  And books I dip into and out of don’t usually make an appearance either.  So they’re discounted.  Still, I should be reading more. Part of it is because I read on the iPad, where I find there are always other distractions. I’ve started teaching myself Spanish again, and dabbled with brushing up my Mandarin too. More recently Italian and French have made an intrusion. Studying languages before you go to sleep at night has actually been proven to be more effective than studying during the day. So a few Spanish verbs or Chinese characters before I go to sleep can move me along in leaps and bounds. Addictive games also distract me. I’m too embarrassed to confess more about these.  Of course, the computer, blogs, blogging, other writing, looking for work, travel planning – yes, all the things I listed here.  They all interfere with reading.

I also blame Guilt. I have a healthy share of guilt, and often feel that reading is a guilty pleasure. Perhaps it is a throw-back from when I was a child; I was always shoo-ed away from my book, time to practice piano, go for a run, set the table, do the dishes, etc. So as a result of the almost constant presence of guilt, I don’t read during the day on a week-day, and then in the evening, the other distractions intervene to ensure I can go days without reading. Last weekend I devoured a book (Ann Patchett’s State of Wonder) in 24 hours. It was wonderful.  I had new hope I’d get back into reading again.  But I have hardly read since.

Except in coffee shops. I don’t know what I’d do without coffee shops. Reading over a latte or flat white is my post-gym treat, healthier than a muffin, and usually more satisfying. Even in places with wi-fi, I ignore the temptations of email/blogs and the internet.  I take some moments, breathe, and sink into another world.  I need to do that more.