Remembering: Radvent Journal Day 1

Much seasonal joy to all! Christmas and New Year were beautiful, busy, sleepy, delicious times for us. I am a big fan of Christmas, and love to live it like a child (a child who drinks booze, that is). This year I helped chop down our own tree, made banana bread and wrapped it in cellophane and red ribbons, watched Chrstimas movies long after midnight, spent afternoons at the beach, and tried out many new recipes (all of them complete successes... what are the chances?). I have found that spending this time with my beloved in our own house has changed the season for me, both forcing and allowing me to let go of some old traditions and hang-ups, and building our own happy, carefree moments that will become part of my memories. Like being woken up at 7am, by a 32-year-old man, because he is so excited to open presents; staying up late playing video games; having him make fun of me while I dance around putting up ornaments; constant giggling at his complete inability to handle the summer heat (through which he turns a nice pinky colour and lays around complaining indignantly and sweating hopelessly). 

 In the spirit of the season, I had intended to attempt Princess Lasertron's Radvent Journal Project, but, as I'm sure it goes for everyone, December is such a short month and things kind of... ran away with me. I photographed a wedding out of state, house-hunted furiously, saw a lot of family, worked as much as I could, and came in to my sixth month of pregnancy; all of the above leaving me with little spare time for reflection or meaningful written dialogue. And so, I will now, in a slightly more laid-back (lazy?) fashion, post my own 25-day (r)advent calendar. 

Today’s theme, “remembering,” is all about giving yourself permission to reflect not only on the awesome things that have happened in your life, but to stop blocking the bad memories and accept how you have grown and learned from those experiences.

________________________________________

What were you doing five years ago today? As the holiday season began? Where were you? Who were you with? What did you want? What did you have?

 _____________________________________

Five years ago, I was 21. I was driving an '85 Ford Laser, dubbed the Little Red Rocket, my hair was blonde and  my jeans were always ripped. I was living with my parents, though was never home, spending a lot of time with my brother (a rare pocket of intimacy in my life to date), and partying a lot. I was still at art school, surrounded by hippies and poets and photographers, constantly involved in projects and neck-deep in paint, and sleeping four or less hours a night.

At 21, I was in love. It was my first serious relationship and it was both easy and hard; easy because it was beautiful, hard because I was young and dramatic and complicated. We were in a whirlwind of friends, and love, and sex, and parties, and adventure, and in the middle of that was just us. It was a very happy time of my life in that sense. My love was grand and sweeping and small and sweet and sacred, it was everything, and it was reflected in the warm glow of friendship and fun that surrounded it. 

I was struggling to finish university at the time, torn between my love of art school and my growing disdain for the heirachial nature and abuses of that teacher/student environment. I had struggled for a while after suffering from a series of deep depressive episodes, kicked off by the death of my grandfather in 2002 and the death of my aunt the year after. The stereotypical "find myself" phase was well under way, and I was learning what it was to be an adult, including forming strong stances against my teachers' abuse of their authority and an increasing take-no-bullshit style of life management that has, in retrospect served me well.

I had a group of friends with whom I was deeply in love - a hodge-podge group of art school freaks who came to shape my views on friendship, love, and sexuality probably more intensely than anything else in my life to date. I was heavily involved in my university's circus society, another group of freaks (assorted), who spent a lot of time nude, drunk and happy. I loved it. It was a time of great exploration in so many fields of my life.

It's funny, looking back at this time, I had to reread some of my old journal entries just to remember; a lot of this time has become blurred in to one complicated, out-of-focus landscape. Pinning down timelines has become problematic for me; I can vividly remember moments, feelings and sensations, but the stepping-stones of the years are more difficult to recall. This is not something unique to these young-adult years, but a recurring issue of mine, and something that plays an enormous part in how I live my life. I photograph to capture moments I feel I am likely to forget; I write on scraps of paper, reciepts, boxes, serviettes, and stash them in boxes and envelopes so that I can have a physical reminder that these events and emotions existed. I am a hoarder by nature. I want to remember. I want to hold on to everything I can, because some things are just so painfully beautiful (or terrible, or significant) that I cannot bear the thought of forgetting.

One of the major changes in my life this past year has been the development of a home life. Two jobs and full-time university forced me away from the social flurry of my previous years and in to the necessity of cultivating an intimate life at home with my partner. And although times I resented my new-found lack of social freedom, I discovered that a home life is one of the absolute best things about living with your bestest friend. Small things begin to take on larger joys, and suddenly home was somewhere I couldn't wait to return.One of the largest joys has been the having and loving of a dog - something I haven't had since my old friend CJ died when I was nineteen years old. The addition of Harvey, our foster pup, was the true cherry on top for our cozy little ice-cream household; he taught us how to love another dog besides Tank, and how to love so hard that we still miss him months after he departed. Surrounded by my three red-headed boys, home became somewhere tangible again, and the sweetness of that time together in our run-down little house is something that I never want to forget. Harvey has moved on and we are adding to the human side of the family (in, oh, TEN WEEKS), and I feel our home becoming homier with every passing day. For that, I am so grateful.

This year, I want to do a better job of remembering. I want to take more photos, write more, and share more of my life with the people who matter.

In that vein, and with Harvey in mind especially, a very few images from my year, of sweet moments worth remembering. 

 

Tank and Harvey's first ever trip to the beach

First time playing golf

 

My grandmother turned 90

 

 

 

xoxo

Long time

I have been un-blogging for a long time now. It's a shame, really, but you know how things just get away from you sometimes... and the truth of it is, I've simply had too much to say. My beautiful life is running at a mile a minute, and with the good comes the bad and with the bad comes the complicated... dealing with those complications and life-changing decisions has been my priority and so now I am here, where I am, who I am, armed only with what I have and what I know, running headlong in to new adventures. 

Terrifying and exhilirating and wonderful and comforting and natural and oh so sweet. I'm gathering up blankets of love and suits of armor. 

I am so humbled and excited. 

Today

Sometimes you need a pick-me-up... some days you are tired, and distracted, and nothing seemed to work exactly the way you want it to. Some days the roads are full of crappy drivers, and the offices are filled with annoying gossips, and the dog digs a hole that is just a liiiiiiiiittle too deep... Today is one of those days, the kind that would be greatly improved by a big glass of wine, a bowl of spicy noodle soup, and a looooong bath with a fabulous new (or old) book. 

But since you can't have that every single day that needs a bit of work - wouldn't it be great if you could, though? - these soft, sun-kissed blooms will do the trick.

xoxo

Joel

Many more to come of this sweet little man. 

xoxo

Funny I should mention it

So I really shouldn't write things like, "Come at me, world. If I can do all of this, I can spend my spare five minutes a day handling whatever  else you want to throw at me...." on a blog that clearly World reads religiously.

Everyone give me a high five for good luck (and a kick up the ass for good measure) on three - 

 - ONE, TWO.... 

xoxo

Sometimes life gets in the way of life.

My cathartic ritual of posting my mind's eye here has been stalled somewhat, as all of you have so gently pointed out via email, facebook, and one particularly abusive text message that I could never show to my mother because she'd cry with the knowledge her baby girl knew language like that.

My head is a whirlwind and my imagination is running wild, as ever, but the ability to do anything even vaguely recreational or creative is being hindered by that thing - that gorgeous thing - life. Between two jobs, full time uni, insomnia, a committed relationship, the horribleness that is winter, organising my grandmother's looming 90th birthday party, a backyard that is so full of mud it is actually flooding - flooding! with mud! - and two needy, destructive dogs who just so happens to love mud... I am too busy after handling all of that to do anything other than thank my lucky stars nothing else is coming my way. And that, of course, is tempting some serious fate, and I should spend the next twelve hours knocking wood. But you know what? I don't care. Come at me, world. If I can do all of this, I can spend my spare five minutes a day handling whatever  else you want to throw at me.

I have so much in my mind to create... I have gorgeous bodies, glorious smiles, heartbroken landscapes, and so much beautiful depravity to capture... 

But first, I need to curl up and do this.

xoxo

Isabel and Jeremiah

xoxo

Sundays

Two boys, a couch, soft afternoon sunlight, and a laid-out coat for warmth.

Lazy Sundays in our house look like this. And that's how we like it.

xoxo

Mother's Day

I do love Mother's Day. I spent the day at my aunt's house with the family, eating and drinking and laughing and all that good stuff. The morning at home had my house smelling gorgeous as I baked a Lasagne Pie to take, which got snapped up faster than I could have imagined, and I ate far too much home-baked cheesecake and marinated tofu. Oooooh, baby.

My mother is a really funny person. And I mean that in a funny ha ha kind of way, with maybe a little bit of funny peculiar on the side. Okay, a lot of it. Okay, fine. She's about 65% funny peculiar, 30% funny ha ha, and 5% black coffee.

For example, my mother saves lives. She goes to work every day and because of her, sick and premature babies get to go home with their mothers in a bassinet instead of a casket. She does it as if it's the most natural thing in the world and when she gets home at night you ask her how her day was and she says, "Oh, good. Bit of poo, bit of placenta. What's for dinner?" I don't even think she knows she is actively practicing medicine on babies and saving their lives, because sometimes she talks about it like she's just happily changed the oil in someone's car, or done a nice big pile of paperwork. 

That's the funny peculiar part. The funny ha ha part is that even though she spends all day, every day, burping and cleaning and intubating and resuscitating and basically being neck-deep in nothing but babies, and remains a consumate unflappable professional the entire time; but the second someone outside of work brings a baby anywhere within a five hundred metre radius of her, she starts to coo and blush with excitement and demands immediate cuddles.

See? Funny.

My mother is also funny in other ways, but aren't all mothers, really?

I love to make fun of my mother, not only because she's several kinds of funny, but also because she is a real conundrum. I'm not even sure my father understands her completely; she is an oddly rolled combination of fierce, whip-smart, and butterball soft. But I can never make fun of her too much because no matter what, my mother is always painfully sincere. And also because when I look at her, I see some of what I'd like to be in 25 years. And I'm okay with that.

I love my funny mother.

xoxo

Sprung

This is Tamati, my godson, stealing a handful of my masterpiece cake for my cousin Mitch's twenty-first birthday party, hours before the party started. Tamati is three, and super sneaky, but luckily, my trusty Canon and I are sneakier. So what did young Mister T get for his troubles? 

Well, the usual. A big sloppy kiss and another slice of juicy cake to stuff into his wee mouth while giggling with his cousins. 

What can I say? I'd rather enjoy any party that comes my way, and who doesn't like cake? Let's face it. The kid's got moxy.

xoxo

Dance with bubbles

It feels so good. I promise.

xoxo

Reminisce

My grandmother Marjorie and my grandfather Herbert. We all miss him.

xoxo

Tomatoes

We went for a drive last weekend. It was the kind of drive that I love, the kind that relies only on the simple things - cold mountain air, singalong radio, hopeful conversation, and a picnic lunch of vegemite sandwiches and milk arrowroot biscuits. We drove all the way to Bathurst past endless farmland and eucalptus forests, with my feet up on the dashboard and the sun shining down as if it always knew we were going to be on that road that day, and was glad to see us.

On the way home, we stopped at a roadside tomato stall and scraped enough change together from our pockets and the nooks and crannies of the console to pick up a bag of organic, farm-grown tomatoes. I've always had a tedious relationship with tomatoes - I used to refuse to eat them altogether because I hated the texture and bland squishiness (they used to be referred to as the "red devil" in my house)... but slowly trained myself to incorporate them in to meals because I felt I was missing out on too much by not enjoying anything with fresh tomato in them. Even so, it always has to be prepared very specifically - thinly sliced, paper-thin if possible, all soggy innards removed, and peppered within an inch of its life. This is not negotiable. There are only two choices: peppered thin tomato, or death.

I always attributed this to an old rant of my father's, in which he constantly pontificated on the blandness,  flavourlessness of modern tomatoes and bemoaned their pale, wimpy colour. If I was ever to taste real tomatoes, he informed me, I too would feel a deep soul-wrenching disappointment in what our supermarkets dole out as passable ripe tomatoes.

With this in mind, and with a love of rustic farm-fresh vegetables already established, I leapt barefoot out of the car and selected a bag of beautifully red, tender fruits, and with some trepidation accepted a small taste of one of the samples offered.

Oh. My. Gawd.

It was unlike anything I had ever tasted before. Fifteen minutes later I was still raving about the lingering taste in my mouth - and this was raw, squishy, unsalted and unpeppered tomato I was talking about. I couldn't wait to get home and see what I could do with these babies. I was not disappointed. For lunch I tossed together several cubed tomatoes, thinly sliced red onion, basil, fresh salt and pepper and a splash of olive oil, then stirred it in some hot wholemeal spaghetti - heaven. For breakfasts I sliced it fresh and had it with a poached egg on garlic-rubbed toast and some cottage cheese - divine. For dinner I roasted halves with chunks of eggplant and garlic and tossed it with some coucous, chickpeas and green beans - wow. I ate tomato in every meal for days and then when the remainder looked like they were on their last legs, I threw them all in a pot with some oil and a bit of chilli and simmered for hours then pureed - so sitting in my fridge now is a jar of rich sunset-red sauce that will be put to glorious use tonight in a Sunday night lazy pasta extravaganza.

One day I am going to go back up those mountains, pick up a bootful of these buggers, and spent a whole week perfecting The Art Of The Tomato. And then, when I'm grown up one day, I will grow them in my own garden and have years to continue my quest. I wonder how they'll taste in a moroccan-style eggplant feta stew? Or on bruschetta? Or, the pinnacle of them all, my Aunty Sue's egg and tomato pie (of which I will have to share the recipe on here one day)?

xoxo

Aidan pie. That's what I want to bake.

I have this thing with baby feet. Which is weird because I absolutely detest grown-up feet - but what can I say? Baby feet are such soft, chewable little sausages, and all I want to do is squeeze their little toesies all day and all night.

And the most delicious feet of all belong to little Aidan. Could be because he hates me (his lip starts wobbling whenever I approach him, and sitting in my lap is more terrifying than a cage full of hungry velociraptors) and I quite admire that, since most babies succumb to my charms in mere seconds. Could be because he has look about him that is reminiscent of an eighty-year-old man; a little wise, a little serious, a whole lot cranky. Could be because his mother is one of the most fantastic people I know.

But I think it's because he's a man of so many expressions.

There's something special about seeing Aidan and his mama together. Mel makes it look so easy; every time I see them I come away yearning for little toesies of my own to nibble on, and little blue eyes of my making to look at me with so much wonder and glee and love. 

Then I get home, and the dog tries to jump straight in to my arms while I have hands full of bags, and ends up bouncing off the wall and crying, and I end up in a disheveled puddle on the ground swearing my head off and cursing every deity I can think of, and I remember, oh yeah, this is why I leave the child-rearing to professionals like Mel. Because my dog takes enough care and attention, and we're still working that out.

It must be amazing to be a mother. And it must be amazing to be Mel, a woman so fantastic she should be run through a juicer and bottled. A beautiful girl, beautiful mother, and, lucky for me, a hell of a talker. One day I will live on the same side of the city as Mel, and I will force her to become my best friend, and I will strap her to a chair and make her talk to me for days on end. 

In the meantime, she'll have to make do with Aidan. I'm sure it's tough.

He is so lovely. 

xoxo