Looking Back, Looking Forward

In reference to what it was like when I first moved to America, I was recently asked, "What were some things that took getting used to?"

I've been pondering this. There are the obvious things:
+ you drive on the other side of the road
+ your light switches go the opposite way off/on
+ you all have accents (yes all of you)
+ the money is different, and in different denominations
+ your slang is different
etc.

Then there are the more subtle ones:
+ social politeness nuances that offend people before you know they exist
+ finding that most everything at the grocery store has the same name but random small items you need but can't find for months don't, until by accident you discover they've been sitting under your nose all that time disguised as something else
+ realizing that for some reason my accent and the various other accents have trouble understanding each other, even though we know we're all speaking English. it's frustrating for them as much as for me, because they're expecting I'm American
+ random car styles, house styles that have the same name look completely different
+ going into a situation that seems familiar, but finding out part way through a process or tiny aspect is different, throwing you off and making you feel small, stupid and foolish, because it is inevitably followed by an annoyed look, a sarcastic comment, or some other belittling gesture that lets you know exactly how dumb you are for being in your mid-twenties and apparently unaware of a very adult thing
+ having your lack of friends and family, job, church and independence reveal every possible insecurity you have, often to people who don't care about you, as you have to slowly over many years piece back together all the parts of your life thrown open wide by marriage, moving and subsequent grief and loneliness
+ being afraid to go outside because stepping outside your door will only show you again how unfamiliar it all is.
+ being brave enough to step out your door, only to find yourself rejected
+ not being able to recognize yourself
+ constantly feeling like for every step forward, you take two steps back
+ having questions on why people do things the way they do, without being able to find reasonable answers
+ making all new friends, sometimes with people you HAD to befriend
+ going without platonic hugs

I'm sure there are more, but my brain is wrecked.

Oh, and I promise this is not a pity party - and to that end I'm considering disabling comments on this one because I don't want people compelled out of pity or compassion to write something in return. Ok, I've thought about it, and I won't disable them. Just please don't write me because you feel sorry for me ok? I'm just answering the question, as much for that person as for myself, because I am reaching or perhaps have reached something of a turning point, where I feel like I can say these things and realize they are a part of me - a significant part of me - but I'm getting over it. It's time to get over it.

Of course, I say that now and 2 or 3 months from now I'll probably hit some situation and think, "wow, I didn't think that would affect me" or "wow, I thought I was over that", and feel disappointed in myself.**

On a brighter note -

Things I am looking forward to about going back:

+ driving on the right side of the road
+ seeing my family
+ seeing my friends
+ sausages in bread, tasty cheese, instant coffee and biscuits, peter's ice cream, custard in a carton.
+ fish and chips, sausage rolls, chico rolls and dim sims
+ familiar grocery stores
+ my kids staying in the house I grew up in, taking them to places dear to my younger heart
+ funky other little stores that I can't get here
+ having my rings re-dipped in the right carat gold
+ wandering downtown and being a grown up again
+ the Wok-on-Inn
+ passionfruit gelati
+ Guruva
and last but not least,
+ seeing my little sister get married


**It didn't take 2-3 months, it happened tonight.

"Date Night"

I wish it wasn't called this. It sounds so arranged. Like Tuesday I do laundry, Wednesday I vacuum, Thursday is date night.

Well actually Tuesday was date night. We went to BJ's and had a roy rogers and a mini pizza each during happy hour. For those of you who haven't gone there with us during happy hour, happy hour = cheap food.

Can I just say I had a fantastic time? I know you'd probably expect that I should, given the company, but sometimes date nights can seemed so forced. I sit there feeling a bit like, "ok, what are we going to talk about? i can't talk about the kids soooooo.... that leaves, oh right, nothing." I often feel dull and uninspiring on date nights.

But this was different, and I want to say it was because we were both making an effort, only it seemed so effortless, like back when we really were dating, before getting married and it getting all weird ;) We laughed, and joked, and enjoyed each other.

One of the things (among many things) that we talked about was the way we ended up together in the first place... given the circumstances in each other's lives, how remarkable it was how it all transpired. How divine really. And I've been thinking about something he said, about how he felt the day we "broke up" - the day I realized he liked me like that. How could I ever have doubted his intentions? And yet I was so oblivious.
The question struck me last night as he crawled into bed and came and wrapped his cold feet around me to get warm (something which I love by the way) if I'm still oblivious. Am I still so distracted by the children, the house, what I love, what I don't, how hard my day was, who I talked to, my struggles, my hopes, my failures, that I'm still oblivious to how much he loves me? That in the midst of my life, he likes me like that.



There was a hug offered to me last night, the value of which I underestimated. There was a listening ear recently that I abused. There's been time craved that I've been too dismissive of.

Somehow I think that even after 6 years, I'm still as dense as I was.

I want to change that.

The Beginning of it All

Did you know my mother suggests that my incessant watching of the old Mickey Rooney series "Andy Hardy..." is one of the reasons for my wanting to live in the US since I was a little girl?? It was a lovely way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

We found a free one on On Demand tonight. Andy Hardy Meets the Debutant.



I love that they use words like "cogitate".

Blast from the past...

So I'm Taking The Plunge

I'm going to do cloth diapers. ("Nappies" I hear my mother correct in my head)

After three years of being having to go every two weeks and spend money on something that got pooped on and thrown away, now I am going to spend one amount of money, not have to duck out at odd times for diapers, but somehow I'll still end up with something that gets pooped on, only not thrown away... ok so why am I doing it?

Several reasons. But I'm not going to go into that, because this isn't a passive aggressive personal vendetta thing. I'm no cloth nappy nazi.

I'm just excited for this change, for my kids, for me, and so happy that I don't even mind the extra laundry.

For those of you curious, there are many convenient options for cloth diapering now... it's definitely not the cloth diapering of my mother's generation, although after weighing all the options I've chosen a route that isn't too far off. I'm doing all cotton and wool.

Just an FYI "I'm excited".

We were at Joann's and I asked Amelie how her pretzel was...

and she replied to me, very clearly, "hmmm, I've had better."

Well an older lady who was walking out the door near us stopped and asked me, quite amused, "I'm sorry, but did I just hear your little girl say 'I've had better?'"
"Yes, you did," I replied, a little embarrassed.
"Oh my," she said, and turned to her friend, and I could hear them talking and chuckling to themselves over it as they left the store.

Trying To Be Brave

It has been a long, long time since I have had such a period of stirring creativity, and creativity that doesn't disappear at the first sign of a hurdle.

I don't know if it was recent events, or just a turning point, but I think I can honestly say I've not felt like this in about 4 1/2 years.

And yes, for those of you smart enough, that's how long I've been married.

I assure you, my lack of creativity, or its brevity when it's shown up, has not been R's fault. I promise. If anything, I think he's probably been the one person who has believed in its existence, despite a drought of evidence so convincing that even I believed it had disappeared forever.

A friend, I believe totally prompted by God, put a book in my hand last Friday night - Life Artist by Ali Edwards. She said she thought it was "me". It's a scrapbooking book by an amazing artist - Ali Edwards, who takes scrapbooking beyond glue and paper and sparkly things. Her life philosophy is very much like mine, she is a story teller like me... she seems to see things the way I do. It is comforting to feel like I'm not alone in my sometimes disorganized mental polaroids and journals.

The timing has been perfect. I sit and feel like I'm sitting down to a banquet table. I'm starving and yet cannot eat my fill. I read and read and yet there is still more I cannot absorb. I love that feeling with anything... that feeling of complete saturation, and yet craving more... knowing you can have it when you need it... complete satisfaction. There are only two other books I have ever felt that with. The Bible, The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera, and now this scrapbooking book. (Eclectic, 'eh?)

All this stirring, not just idle stirring, not just dreaming but now doing. Looking with satisfaction on a clean room, a completed craft, my smiling child, a new discovery about myself. Finally feeling reconciled in so many areas that have previously only known dissatisfaction and contention.
What is this change? Not the "magic answer" that R says we all hope for but doesn't really exist... or does it?

Perhaps it is both hard work, and that mysterious, mystical, undeserved answer.

"And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope. Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit who was given to us." Rom 5:3-5

Because I've realized again, as I pray for a dear friend whose mother has cancer, that God did not promise me the "princess" life that so many proclaim. There is no glory for myself, no guaranteed perfection in this earthly life. I am not entitled like I was taught at church as a teen. He has told me to expect suffering and persecution - those things are a promise and I have tasted a little. Anything I have that is better than that, is such an obvious manifestation of an abundance of mercy and grace, that I am giddy with a happiness that lets me rejoice at the most simple moments of my day. Things that may seem dull to others make me deliriously happy.

I am also finding that if I make the distasteful things smaller in my mind, they can pass by without wounding me so. I can use them to bolster the things I crave. I can give myself the gift of knowing I have been obedient, instead of bucking against the instruction and subsequent discipline. I can obey because I love Him who requires these things of me.

And so I move on. I have a new courage. I will be brave, and creative, and rejoice in the smallest things, and celebrate my life and love and give generously of myself to the ones around me. And I can do it all because He first loved me.

Daily Bread

When I was a little girl, we lived in Townsville. It's way up on the north east coast of Australia. Think Florida like. Humid, tropical, giant bugs and ripper cyclones that destroy entire towns... that kind of thing.

I have many memories of that time, which is unusual for some people. My first memory is from that time. I was 2yrs and 9 months (a milestone which I eerily realized Amelie has reached). Clear as a bell. I got in trouble for putting my hand in the ice pit at my father's workplace Christmas party. I just loved the feeling of my hand going in under the ice cubes, so dreamy and divine, but apparently wrong. The man dressed as Santa gave out barbie dolls that year. I didn't get one. But I did eat ice cream. I think it was Pixie, the ones that came in little cups and you eat it with the little wooden stick. I think my mother fed it to me.

Anyway, one of the other memories I have is of my mother making bread. She was like mother earth to me. All things good and bountiful and womanly I saw in my mother. She would make it and set it in this giant (or what seemed giant) maroon coloured tupperware bowl, and put a tea towel over it and set it on our front porch step to rise in the sun. I remember playing outside and seeing it sitting there and knowing there would be fresh bread for dinner that night. I remember that peeling back the tea towel when she brought it inside was like hoping for Christmas, and finding the swollen dough inside had grown was like finding treasure.

So, in my never ending project of getting it all together, I found that on Friday I was able to enjoy my clean house so much that I baked bread with Amelie. It has been a long time goal of mine to start baking my own bread. There is something so deliciously homey about it, not to mention that the eating of fresh baked bread and butter is one of the smallest yet greatest experiences known to man. It is as universal as love.
Amelie was very excited, but as per usual, loses interest after she is not able to interact as much as she'd like. Too much for her not to touch, too little to keep her interest. Even measuring and stirring is a little dull for her. What facinated me the most took too long for her... I love the way you put the yeast into some warm water with a little sugar, and the yeast comes alive. R says it's like playing God. It starts bubbling and giving off the most unique odour - both delicious and offensive all at the same time, and yet you can't stop wanting to smell it.
Well, it was that very smell that brought all those hidden childhood memories flooding back, and the weight of the nostalgia made me just want to sit and remember. But I pounded that dough, until it was stretchy and smooth, happy just to have those memories at all.
I was covered in flour, surrounded my music and memory, my children sleeping and playing and I was happy as a clam.
Brought a little extra delightful meaning to "give us this day our daily bread".

Thanks goes to...

Stephanie Thompson for the Heima pictures, taken on her camera phone. You should see what that girl does with a real camera! She has the most stunning awesomeness!

I'm writing this now so I don't forget how this feels...

So we went to see "Heima" (Hay-mah) tonight. The showing where Sigur Ros came and did an acoustic set first.

... and I'm stumped. As Ryan and I agreed, "There are no words."

But I do want to at least try and let you know why there are no words. It will be a vain attempt.

To give some history, as I realized about two thirds of the way through, this is exactly what God does. Right when I feel like I am at the brink, there is a breath, a beam, a whisper, and there is a reprieve. Why did I think that this time there would be none? There are times when you grieve so, your soul shifts to this place where no words, no touch, no bible verse, no hymn can possibly reach you. The only way I can explain it is a plane where you are completely desolate and alone, and, confronted by your maker you do battle - not with Him, but with yourself in light of Him. Like Jacob's wrestling with God. Yes He fought God, but I believe there was an aspect where (as he was confronted by his worst fears and insecurities) he was also wrestling with himself, and sometimes the only safe place to do that is in full sight and supervision of Him who understands and can break us best. This place is very private, and as much as we might crave the understanding of others, no one else can or should be able to understand it, as it is solely between you and God.
And like He did before in my life, as I was crying out to Him in only ways He could understand, He gave me this:

I was standing in line alone, in the cold, wondering. Life in this strange place, how far I was from home, how strange it was to be here, in this line, surrounded by strangers - interesting people, funny people, and my how different we all are. Girls trying too hard, guys feeling insecure but acting brave. The butchest looking man sucking on a lollipop. The people getting high in front of me in the line. Cussing, coolness, and the crazy man with his hands down the front of his pants. The awkward five street intersection where, if one thing went wrong, a chain reaction could occur and some car would go veering off up the curb to the corner where I sat and end this whole bizarre train of thought - but I didn't want it to end squashed against the wall of a vacuum cleaner store that sold dusty pink and purple dysons.

When we got inside there were ten identical women draped in gold fabric staring down at me from the walls, and I realized my fly had been down since I left home. I'm such a dork.

So,

You have to know something about Sigur Ros fans. They're insanely passionate. I don't know a one that isn't. I think that's because Sigur Ros' music resonates so deeply with people, it strikes chords deep in your psyche that unravels you. It, if you let it, reaches into you and draws you up to adventure through the most incredible aspects of your life, views you may have never seen in yourself, stunning to behold. I think that's what art is really supposed to do. Beauty, yes, Creativity, yes... but this emotional journey, this exploration of everything. The perfect, glorious reflection of deep, hidden and unspoken things... that is why when confronted by art at its best, there are no words. So, with music like that, what might the documentary hold? The room held its breath.

I had prepared myself for the fact that "Njósnavélin" wasn't in the film. That was ok, it had been a long time since I'd listened to it. For those of you that don't know, I can't listen to it very much because it is so special to R and I. It is "our" song. I walked down the isle to it.
But they start the acoustic set, which was just amazing... a piano (big black baby grand) a guitar, a bass guitar and a drum kit.




Stunning sound, and then the third song comes up.. and it's "Njósnavélin"... and hearing it, the warmth of the low drum sounds with the beautifully rustic sounds of the acoustic guitars, and the perfect twinkling of the piano and I just start weeping... weeping and weeping. I had tears dripping off my chin. It was beauty.

And then Jón says, in that remarkable Icelandic accent of his, "Tank you. We hop you like da film."

Some people laughed, in such a way as to say "Are you kidding? How could we not??"

And then it started. Let me just say, I can't "review" this film like a critic, although I defy any reasonable man to be able to find fault with it. It's so carefully and meticulously pieced together. I say "film" but it's actually a documentary, a bit of a look at when the band went back to Iceland and did free an unannounced shows for people all over their home country. Heima actually means "Home".

As a whole, it's a breathtaking experience. Breaking it down, it's music, photography, and film all brought together to lead you through an exquisite series of glimpses... Iceland is an incredible country.. the people incredible, the music incredible. There were so many fine details I did not want to close my eyes even to blink, for fear I would miss some glance or look or moment of stunning story-telling.
Because a picture really does speak a thousand words... So for every picture, the words - how many volumes of them after the film was done? - meant that there was nothing that could be said.

I could only shake my head, grateful (but not surprised) that as the end credits rolled, there was complete silence. Not one person moved.

(but then, when asked if I liked the film, I responded like the socially awkward idiot that I am and very sarcastically, "No, I hated it. I thought it was the worst film ever." Why oh why oh why do I do that to myself..? Magical one moment, moronic the next. My gracious husband tried to lend a hand to save me from myself, but with that one there was no going back. All in a silly attempt to try and fathom my own journey and protect myself from the recent rawness.)

Even so,

As I had said earlier, about two thirds of the way through, realizing that every cry I'd uttered had been answered I started weeping again. Oh! The love that would reach down to some dorky, awkward girl with her fly down, writhing in her own wretchedness and begging, in the midst of her despair, for something better... that is an amazing love... love that transcends. At the end of my struggle my wounds were soothed, my tears wiped away, my bruises bandaged, my hoarse voice calmed... and instead of chaos and ugliness, there was peace and beauty. He knew the perfect thing. The one thing that would reach me when nothing else could.

That love is worth everything.

I do not expect everyone who sees this will have the same experience I did. If you love Sigur Ros then you will probably find this film holds a special place in your heart. This experience was just God's gift to me - a respite in a life that is groaning for His return...

But what I do want to encourage you with is this:

Even if you feel like there are places in you that can't be reached, ask Him to reach them, because...


He loves you

He loves you

He loves you

Recently

Wow, I am so delighted that so many people have commented to me about the blog! And said such lovely things too, thanks everyone! It definitely motivates me to keep going.

Someone said I need more pictures on my actual blog. True dat, and there was some coming with my little halloween blog (saved but waiting for pictures to upload).

So here are some to tide you over...

Trunk or Treat

(note: this is just my own journey and thoughts and ramblings, please remember that before i find my inbox filled with hate mail. i'm not trying to destroy anyone's childhood memories here, just trying to figure out how to live and raise my kids in this crazy world.)

I kinda wound up at our church's one last minute and under a mild protest (because by the end of yesterday I was wrung out. I have a fervent dislike for days like yesterday).
I still don't know what to do with the whole Halloween thing here. Is it a cultural thing for me, and if so, is it exempt from biblical examination like so many Christians think? I've read article after article and I still don't know. Some seem to be full of excuses, "this is bad BUT.." or some kind of weird "we'll just do the 'christian' version of whatever they do" or "just preach the gospel". Nothing seems to jive with me. I've held my daughter, trembling with fear at the store because of the images and sounds around her, trying to talk her out of a conniption, and the most sincere explanations sounds hallow to me.

Anyway, I'm trying to come up with some kind of balance... the whole in the world/not of it thing. In the end there were some stores I just could not take her to, she would freak out so much. And that wasn't some kind of religious stance (I still went to those stores, just without her). It was a mothering stance. I couldn't keep putting her through that when she clearly did not have all the mechanisms to deal with it. I did try and use it as a teaching tool, and we learned some lessons, but some of the bigger lessons she isn't ready for and so I felt it best to protect her, rather than make her tough it out. (and by tough it out I mean trembling, crying, hysteria to the point of choking and almost throwing up).

One of the stores, and I won't mention it by name, had halloween stuff up from September 1st. In the beginning it wasn't too bad, but in a couple of weeks they had a soundtrack going that sounded like Saw III. I'm not kidding, it was gruesome. In another couple of weeks, they had another track running over the top of the other one. It was of a man making noises like he was being smothered or choked, crying out for help, sobbing in despair as (it appeared) he was being murdered. And this was a craft store.

Should I have written a letter to the manager? I hate to be one of those people, but I did feel that was going a bit too far.

Now they're playing Christmas HYMNS!!! Saw III to Christmas Hymns... incredible.

Anyway, the girls dressed up as fall butterfly princesses. It was a bit of a last minute mish-mash, but I'll put some pictures up.

I was curious about our church's trunk or treat. I wanted to see what the deal was. One thing I liked was that people did some lovely themes to decorate their trunks, like butterflies and fall. I was a bit disappointed to see spooky themes on others. Amelie was very uncertain about it all, but seemed ok once we weren't around those ones. Some of the teenagers costumes were also scary, and I wondered about that. They had a cake walk and a few other games.
I had read articles talking about how trunk or treats, or church events for halloween could used as evangelistic outreaches, but honestly (and I am not trying to bag our church at all) it just felt like a 'safe' place to do all the regular halloween stuff. I don't want to see that. If church desires to be different from the rest of the world to draw others to Christ, you have to BE different. Not just a sanitized version of whatever the others are doing.

So I'm thinking, how could our church do this differently? What could stay the same? I don't want to be a halloween nazi, but at the same time, this holiday really bothers me. How do I teach my kids some balance in this wildly unbalanced world?

Comments, thoughts, how have you figured this out?? Would very much appreciate your opinions...

In the meantime, (and give all of the above) here are photos of my hypocrisy...