Worth living

I chanced upon this in the course of my workday. I know anything related to suicide is never going to be an easy discussion but I'm looking at the article more from the quality-of-life-in-chronic-illness point of view.

The two lines that caught my eye:

". . . despite my MS, my existence has never been richer, surrounded by a loving family and friends."

"Assisted suicide would create a climate of fatalism, a loss of hope. It is [a] sickening world where individual life is devalued and where only the fittest are regarded as contributors of society."

I think we already do live in that world. A glance at the economy, at most social events, at popular entertainment is enough to prove that point.

How do we make it less sickening?

Crickets? Cobwebs?

I know. It's been quiet (again) around here. I just thought I'd pop in and write something so as not to give the impression that I have spent three months -- really? Three??? -- languishing in concussed grouchiness.

I have not. Indeed, as I did mention at the end of that most recent blog post, the grumpy spell ended before I'd hit "Publish".

Life is good. I found a home to rent in preparation for the cousins/house-sit hosts' return, although the process by which it was secured was so improbable that it seems more as if the home found me. Said home is so "me" in so many more ways than I could list offhand, and here I had been thinking I'd settle for anything that had a working lock. Preferably without a verbose landlord living on the same premises, but when you're desperate...

I have been learning -- and that is part of the reason for this season of blog silence -- the fine art of being blessed. To be precise, I've been learning how to stand there and let the blessing drench me, instead of bolting like a startled pony or starting to pare down what my heart desires until it more closely resembles "what I will only just live with because I think I have no choice". Learning to wait, learning that as I live in my Creator and him in me, our wills come together and what he gives me is what I always wanted.

It is a scary thing, knowing that the One who blesses knows exactly where you live. Physically and metaphorically. For most of my life I have not been able to handle that knowledge. I didn't know the proper protocol for dealing with someone who relentlessly pursues you with goodness. In this life where the mail rarely holds something more exciting than bills; where even friendships too easily turn transactional and some only reconnect with you for the sake of using your social networking contacts to expand their business, how foreign is the concept of someone who gives perfectly.

Some are better than others at the fine art of resting by the mailbox. Image by RJ Roth.

Yet this is who he says he is, and who he demonstrates himself to be. So I believe. And I rest in believing.

Although I don't quite have the photogenic light-capturing attributes of certain grey felines.

I'm grumpy and I know it! Growl, grimace, grumble, etc, etc.*

I was told yesterday, for the fifth time in six consecutive years, that I have a concussion.

I was also told yesterday that I "need to be more careful on the road", because apparently it is somehow my fault that somebody was reversing out of a parking lot and didn't check his blind spot before smashing right into the car I was driving. Fortunately, I was belted in. Fortunately, he wasn't going that fast. Only fast enough to put a big dent in said car and, it seems, a not-too-serious-provided-I-rest-quietly-for-a-few-days bruise in my head.

And today, because I finally have the time to investigate ways to get all of those beautiful photographs from my super advanced camera phone onto my blog without involving Blogger's decidedly primitive and user-unfriendly app, I find that I am still unable to do so in a way that suits both my schedule and my aging but still stable laptop, which is why you will find this post devoid of pictures because I am determined that there is more to life than Instagram and I will not inflict any more of those painfully hip, artfully filtered square photographs on you, my gentle readers of my gentle blog that has seen me through nearly seven years now of Life. Blog is blog and Instagram is Instagram and I will not, will not allow the two to merge as so many of my blogging friends have done. So there. And if I cannot get any pictures up here other than my Instagram shots, well, that'll be that for now.

But I will find a way to master you yet, phone-picture-camera-cranky old computer conundrum. Oh yes, I will. Maybe another day, when this great hulking piece of Life Challenges I see hurtling towards me has hurtled itself away.

While I'm in a ranting mood, just a couple more... don't take it personally, now, dear reader. Most of you have been very kind to me, and the people who do the sort of thing mentioned below most likely never come here so I might be preaching to the choir, or maybe to the native wildlife skittering about in the bush out behind the church (I mean that as a compliment; native wildlife in Australia tends to be ah-dorable), but still, I gotta say it.

Kindly refrain from telling people to "be more careful" when they are already nursing head injuries from accidents that were in no way their fault. It does not help with the inherent grumpiness that tends to come packaged with head injury, and it does not give them automatically warm, appreciative thoughts towards you. Oh, I appreciate the concern; just not the assumptions. Have I ever mentioned before that I detest assumptions? I'll say it again, bearing the risk of repeating myself. I hate assumptions. Get the facts before you make your conclusions. Makes you look that much more deserving of your IQ score.

And secondly: would it take so much effort, really, would it take so much effort to dash off a one-line note to accompany things you send in the post? Whether it's a DVD-ROM of your wedding photos or my reusable grocery tote that you neglected to say had been accidentally packed in your luggage following your visit here, a note would be good, because we're not all mail-opening machines and sometimes it's nice to see a few friendly words in another human being's handwriting.

I used to expect stickers, and hand-drawn smiley faces, and beautiful penmanship. The fact that I've ceased to, well, I guess means that I have officially given up my passport to Snail Mail Never-Neverland.

I wouldn't be too alarmed, though; it seems I might have found a porous border to slip through, and I am far from alone there.



*I have not been so grumpy in a very, very long time. I expect normal transmission to resume... oh hello, wait, about five minutes ago. But I was already nearly through the post by then, and the blog could use an update, so I'm just going to post it, but really, I'm all sunshine and rainbow sprinkles again by the time you read this. So please don't picture me as Grumpy Ren, all right? Because I've been told the sight of her inspires nightmares in young and old alike.

I'm still here

I have not spent the past month and a half in shock over a broken two-hole punch.

No, I'm ashamed to say it's happened again: I've allowed this blog to grow quiet, deserted save for perhaps the occasional scuttle from a virtual spider. Although it seems people are still visiting, in trickles. Thank you for keeping the blog aired out; it's so unpleasant when spaces acquire that musty smell of forlorn neglect. Even if it is a virtual musty smell of forlorn neglect.

Unfortunately, in large part my silence here is due to the fact that I've taken to microblogging. I upgraded my phone at the end of last year, downloaded Instagram and whoosh, suddenly I was getting my pictures and (brief) thoughts out into cyberspace practically as soon as they'd formed. I, who had been so disdainful of those people who update their Facebook with news of what they'd eaten for breakfast,

morning tea,

lunch; I have become those people.

But I hope I'll still have things to say here, because sometimes a picture -- and 160 characters -- doesn't explain what 200 well chosen words can. Besides, I know many of you don't use Instagram and I will not become one of those people who adopts a new platform and abandons all those who don't have access to it. I have a great deal of sentimental attachment to this blog and the people who've faithfully, if silently, read it all these years.

If you're on Instagram too, please follow me if you like. I'm -- who else? -- royalshyness. I post about things other than food. For example:

Sharing the beach at sundown;

completed craft projects;

the perpetual goldenness of the hours in some places.

If not, we'll just keep meeting here: brushing past each other soundlessly, unaware of each other's presence except that you know when I've posted and I know when my stats are telling me that I have readers in the Ukraine.

Seriously???

I've been told I don't know my own strength but this was a shock.

Bye, hole punch. You were one of my first purchases when I arrived four years ago. All those reams of notes, archived assignments, logs and bills and statements and letters you helped me organise. I wonder what my Master's journey would have been without you.

Looks like the seasons really are shifting over here.

Diverted

I had every intention of going to church that Sunday morning.

I had every resource I needed for going to church.

I had every reason for going to church.

What I did not have was the foreknowledge that the usual route to church would be blocked, necessitating a detour so big that I'd miss half the service by the time I got there.

So I swerved away from the road to church* and spent the morning letting leafy shadows shift over me as I sat and read. Waterfowl squawked, sputtered, splashed nearby. Children raced past on foot, on scooters, on shoulders, urging fathers faster.

(I can't say that last sentence fast out loud. Can you?)

Diversions happen. They can frustrate, confound, delay... or they can lead us to conclude that if we're going to end up somewhere else anyway, we might as well make it somewhere nice.

*A decision rendered much easier by the existence of a fledgling evening service; I am so, so thankful for the women and men who put much of their lives into the health of this congregation

While away

A few notes about getting away:

If your destination is not too far from your place of ordinary residence, making travel time negligible and maintenance of food freshness not impossible, you can pack a light meal or two in anticipation of wanting to do nothing that evening but stay in and watch DVDs in bed. Of course, if you're at all like me, it might mean you pack a varied and detailed salad but forget all cutlery, resulting in your having to rip a tomato apart with your bare hands and eat dinner with a teaspoon.

This didn't diminish my experience in any way but if you think it might do yours, then by all means: don't forget the cutlery.

Being away, you might also find yourself spending more time on handwritten text than you would back in your Ordinary World: curlicues make a return, and the signature lavender sprig that was on your plate at breakfast enjoys a short-lived modelling career before returning whence it came.

Away is where there's time aplenty, and space to enjoy that time unhindered.

Away

"Self-care is essential," I have heard from every one of my lecturers and supervisors in this my latest (and, I'm hoping, lifelong) career. "Get away as often as you can," many also said. Enjoy the change in surroundings. Catch a break from containing other people's anxieties. Immerse yourself in beauty.

I ignored them. The excuses fell thick and fast. "I don't need to get away because I love where I live and it's pretty peaceful." "I can't spare a few days away from home." "I have too much to do." "Even if I am stressed, I let it out through baking and craft." "I'm fine. I really am."

I'm glad this time around it didn't take too long for me to realise that the above isn't always enough, that I needed to believe that people with decades of experience know what they're talking about -- and more than that, I needed to go away. Indecisive though I still am, the need to go was far greater than the fear of committing to the one choice. So it is that I ended up in that magical spot not too far from home, yet far indeed.

Where welcome was expressed not only in words and a lift up the stairs for my overnight bag, but in a pair of lavender biscuits and the offer of the programme for the local outdoor cinema.

Where a sandwich, mundane no-time lunch back in my ordinary world -- the very same sandwich! -- turned into a magical meal to the music of galahs and cockatoos conversing as they swooped down to the pool. Eaten here, eaten thus, it was fuel enough for the next few hours' wander through the lavender and through my raggedy, neglected soul.

Where discarded old things aren't made to feel worthless, or at least that's the impression I got. You can't feel worthless, can you, if you're given a place like this to continue your existence?

Where en route to the bridge I could press close to a tree, tracing the story of its years through its resin-coated bark.

Where indoors, too, had many wonders to be appreciated: a thimble-sized couple shyly courting on the windowsill (I gave them their space when taking this picture),

the stage set for that old, old battle between light and dark,

and a former inhabitant of this house reclaiming his favourite spot on the spiral staircase, lying in wait for the odd unsuspecting foot.

And so it was, my first day away.

I'm quite pleased with myself, writing this post only two weeks after the fact. My blog posts are usually so delayed that seasons change and cobwebs form in between.

One of these days

Yes, one of these days...

When I am not at work, talking to people in one of those snug double-lit rooms with the armchairs and the ever-changing number of water glasses and the non-lockable cabinets and the one fuzzy wall each, on which I have been tempted to stick a life-size camel made of felt -- except where would I find one? -- just to see who would be the first to notice...

When I am not outdoors, listening to the swish-swish of a playful summer breeze and observing what it is that sunlight does to leaves and vice versa...

When I am at home but not reading, watching a DVD, cleaning house, hanging out laundry, ironing, writing or otherwise Busy...

Yes, one of these days, I shall take out yarn needle and stuffing, and I shall make small, even stitches attaching ears and nose to head, head to body, body to tail end and so on, and then there shall be nothing lying about in pieces in my home.

 

Nothing that I'd want to know about, at any rate.

Another dream come true

So maybe we're a rare breed, the people who dream of making tau sar pneah. And maybe rarer still, the ones who actually reach for it, but Google would show you more than a handful of food/baking bloggers who have.

I'm neither food blogger nor baking blogger -- and there are frequently times when I can't be referred to as a blogger at all, times when my life is so busy being lived that it won't sit, stay and be documented for public consumption -- but here's my experience of it.

But first. Remember a few months ago, when I posted that tribute to the superlative breed of friends I have? I could add another point of thanksgiving here: For giving me company to make these labour-intensive biscuits with. On my own, it would have taken me at least another year to give them a try and even then, would have been weeping from the monotony and fatigue by the time I reached for the 50th lump of dough. (For anyone who's keeping track of these things: the recipe is supposed to yield 100 biscuits. We made 88.)

I arrived after church, after the doughs and filling had been prepared. This meant I was just in time to sit down to a quick lunch before the assembly began: first the weighing and the rolling into little spheres of the filling,

 the oil dough,

 

the water dough. 

Then the rolling and combining and rolling and rolling and rolling of the two doughs (not pictured, because by then it was all hands on deck and nobody had a non-oily hand for taking pictures with).

Then the egg wash and the baking,

and the laying neatly in rows for cooling and being admired and attracting longing gazes and finally

the being bitten into; the collapsing into layers of light, thin flakes; the revealing of crumbly-soft seasoned mung bean; the bringing of childhood memories and adolescent reminiscences and early adulthood nostalgia into present day.

It's nice, the feeling you get when dreams come true.