Antares

The airconditioning is humming tonight, the first in a while that we've needed it to suck the humidity. It's cool enough, just wet and the Possum doesn't sleep well under water. I don't like shutting all the windows for it, I can't hear the night and the wind sulks and won't play but the stillness and the rumbling of the vents make me sleep like the dead.

I have been dreaming a lot lately. Big, colourful, nonsensical dreams. I dreamed of a platypus the other night. Snakes another. Freud would have fun with the snakes, but I'm not sure how he'd react to platypi. The internet is not helpful. One site suggested it represented shyness, depression and negativity while another made innuendo regarding playfulness "downunder". I don't feel shy. Or negative. Or depressed. So I don't know what to make of it, though I remember being both surprised and completely at ease when accosted by a platypus.

I feel, if anything, wistful right now. Thinking of sweet things that tease the edges of memory and make me smile. Little snippets of a life well lived and a vague sense of... something.

There had been, in the centre of my chest, for some 3 years a beautiful bright kite that danced in the wind with streamers behind it against a bright and beautiful blue sky. And after flying high and battling the gusts it would occasionally crash to the ground with a sickening thud, and I would survey the damage, sometimes dispassionately, sometimes heartbroken, before running with the string behind me until the kite flew again. Veering drunkenly sometimes, but still fluttering with its beautiful tail. Then the last few times it fell, pieces were torn from it that can't be patched back, and then a little while ago, I stopped trying to see it flying and instead wrapped it up carefully and placed it away in a cupboard in my chest, leaving the remnants as intact as possible, not wanting to see any more torn off.

For some time, after I placed it in storage, I would have a memory of the bright colours and I would get a burning pain, right in the middle of my chest and I would fight the desperate urge to push it into the sky again, to prove that it could still fly. And maybe it can, but I refuse to tear any further strips off while trying to create something that has passed, I like the memories better.

The sky is very close tonight, and thick, tactile. I think the night gets lonely sometimes in Winter and longs for the endless Summer days when the sounds and the scents and the voices echo through her. Summer is still partying, but it is winding up, slowly. The music is playing but there are fewer dancers on the floor and the cool grey of Winter dawn is creeping around her edges.

I long for cooler days. I love the yellow dawns that wake me with brightness and heat and getting out in the rich sultry air before anyone else wakes and the way the wet humid Earth smells as I cross it, but I want even more the sensation of cool air slapping me awake and the thin cool greyness that slides over bare limbs and strokes it alive. I love the silver of the Winter night and the pure white glow of the stars and the moon. I love my Antares, twinkling away with her ruby glow in the heart of the scorpion dangerous and beautiful.

On a night long ago, I remember being disorientated as I got off a bus near midnight and had to stumble home through darkened streets that passed a cemetery. Being an imaginative 16 year old the sounds of night terrified me and I wished more than ever to be safe at home, not stumbling over the streets of suburban Geneva. But through the clouds that covered the sky for most of the time I was there, the moon came out, and just above the horizon the familiar whip tail of the Scorpion was visible and I was not afraid any more.

Some decade later, climbing off a bus onto a busy side road of another city far from home, the frigid wind curled around my exposed wrists and neck and made me shiver in spite of myself. I felt lost, and discombobulated and not sure which direction I should head, struggling with my internal compass as I crossed the overpass over the steady traffic, avoiding the pool of urine against concrete. As I looked up the sky was clear and in spite of the light pollution that faded the night towards the margins like a streaky watercolour, I still found her in the sky, my red star, following my heart.

I don't need a platypus in a dream to tell me that I feel lost again and in need of guidance, and somehow it feels as if the Winter will provide me that. I feel some sort of hope in my chest and assurance that great things are in store for this year, if I am patient and work hard and am humble. I do not know if I will fly again so high as I used, or if my colours will be so bright, but there is something new in me now, a strength that I never before knew I possessed, and a determination. A thread of something shining, and never broken that keeps on looking forward. And I know, somehow, that that will be rewarded this year, and my star will lead me home.

Til Kingdom Come

Today as I pulled into kindy to pick up the Elfling a song started playing and as I switched off the engine, I sat there, in the rapidly heating up car, my chin on the steering wheel unable to move as I listened. It was hot and sunny, and through the windscreen I could see my caramel pigtailed Elfling dancing like the sprite that she is. When the song finally finished, I pulled the key out of the ignition, shook myself, and went to collect the light of my life.

It hit me then, in an avalanche of sorrow and grief and absolute pure emotion how much I love her, and her sister, but above all else how much I love their father. In the last few weeks I have made analogies to being in a turbulent sea that I couldn't get out of. But today, I ran out of the water and straight into the arms of the man I love.

We buried Grandad today, in a ceremony as simple, understated and shy as Grandad was himself. No frills, no tizzy bits. Basically the opposite of Nana's choreographed funeral last year. Even the bouquet on the coffin was pure Grandad - Mum had arranged some boughs from the jacaranda tree, some avocado leaves, some red roses, some red gums all from Grandad's garden and tied them simply with a plain ribbon. And it was so beautifully fitting. A simple good bye.

Grandad laid to rest next to his wife of more than 50 years, calm and peaceful and never alone again. Til Kingdom Come. As the celebrant said the last meaningful words, I stood with my head nestled into LH's shoulder, in that perfect way that we fit together as he gently caressed my back and I was so grateful that he was there. No tears fell there at the cemetary - it was so peaceful and warm with the most beautiful lilting breeze and the trees overhead swaying gently.

Afterwards we wandered around the park that I played in every year of my childhood, smelled the intoxicating perfume of the state's rose garden, and eventually sat and ate and reminisced. Afterwards LH and I wondered around the overgrown garden of my childhood, before sitting under the jacaranda tree surrounded by green with the breeze playful around our feet and teasing our hair. And sitting there, out the front, where my grandparents had sat so many times before, I flashed forward 50 years, where my LH and I would be the ones sitting in the breeze, with our grandchildren dancing in front of us.

I have written before about how much I love him, but today I fell in love again. 9 years almost to the day that I met him.

From June 06

I haven't really talked about DH on here and don't mention him nearly amuch as he deserves to be - usually only when I'm angry and frustrated.

I met DH during my second week at college. I was barely 17 and excited to be living away from home for the first time. I was meeting so many new people and was enjoying my freedom and independence and the fact that no one knew me and hence I got to "start over" with regards to how I wanted to portray myself. The only thing that was slightly difficult was that I had no money and that I didn't drink. Both of which are a bit of a social issue when you're at College.

But I quickly made friends and found myself hanging around a specific wing of college where most of my new friends lived. DH was a second year and I met him in the corridor of Merrington Wing in second week. I would love to be able to say that my first impression of him was love at first site but that would be lying . I thought he was very weird. But he must have made an impression on me because I can still remember meeting him more than 7 years later.

I obviously made an impression on him as well because from that date on he would often spring up beside me wherever I was. He also made it abundantly clear that he was "interested" in me. And being a typical nonsensical teenager I found his obvious interest a complete turn off. Plus he was weedy and weird... not cool boyfriend material. (Ah the shallowness of youth )

As the year progressed I started going out with someone and spending time with our large group of friends (DH was part of the group). I can remember thinking at one stage that I was the happiest I have ever been in years. I was social, I was skinny, I had a job, I could buy my own things, I was happy, I was popular, I had a boyfriend and life just felt fabulous. I think I embodied joie de vivre. And DH was still there. Always around, still making it abundantly clear that he liked being around me and that he wanted more than being friends. And I remember thinking of him like an annoyance, someone nice enough that just did not get the hint that I was not remotely interested.

One night we were watching TV and he reached over and held my hand. I can remember feeling, the spark that flew up my arm and rendered me mute. At the time I brushed it off as annoyance that he was still harrassing me when I had a boyfriend! But even then I remember my subconscious whispering that I should have been more angry at him, and that I could stil feel the pressure of his hand around mine for hours afterwards.

After that incident I tried to avoid DH. Even when my "relationship" with the other guy ended messily and tearfully (I was still very seventeen) I still stayed well away from him. It wasn't just his keen-ness, or hiw weird-ness. There were things about DH that just bugged me like his propensity to say complely inappropriate things at the worst moment and his social awkwardness. He was still a very nice person though and I couldn't bring myself to be mean as others were.

At the end of that first year he left to go to the USA to teach skiing and snowboarding in Colorado. And before he left he basically let me know that he was still interested. And I brushed him off.

So the new year started much as the first year of uni had. Fun, exciting and full. With the added bonus that I was now 18 and could go out on Thursday nights with everyone else and get stupidly drunk, dance and sing around the piano bar at the top of my lungs. I was also in the grip of a pathological desire to make my ex-"boyfriend" fall in love with me and spent far too many hours wondering about how he felt about me. I corresponded sporadically with DH with light, fluffy and inconsequential e-mails and life just moved on.

DH came back to college but I saw him much less as my popular friends and I had moved to a different wing of the college and life was full on with the social whirl and studying and classes etc. Wasn't quite as happy as in first year what with the unrequited love and all (looking back I still have no idea what I was thinking!) but still enjoying life.

Then Nana got sick. At first it was just sick, something that happens when you hit your late 60s, things get worn down, colds and flus can be serious and Nana was always healthy, it obviously wasn't a big deal. Life continued on pretty much as normal.

Then she started deteriorating. She was sick, she was in pain and there was no diagnosis. Her face changed as it became thinner and paler. Her mannerisms changed, her very person seemed to be ill, her stuborness and opinions began to be less prominent. To me that was when I knew she was sick. She just didn't seem to be Nana any more. And suddenly my light fluffy social world didn't seem quite so fun any more. And my friends were for the most part as light and fluffy as my life was at that point, that was one of the major reasons I loved being around them - they were so happy and positive.

I withdrew a lot. My friends to be fair didn't abandon me or anything, but they didn't understand and to be honest they had their own lives. They helped, or at least tried to, but they were still having fun. And their grandmother's were either fine or had died, afterall - it's kind of an expected thing.

Then Nana was diagnosed. I was still living in dream land where even though she had metastatic, indolent, late stage T cell lymphoma that you treated that and she owuld be OK. Only a month or so ago she'd been fine. She was going to be OK. That's why we have doctors and hospitals.

It got worse.

Then on my 19th birthday my Aunty called to let us know that Nana was in palliative care. I didn't really understand what that meant - they were giving up? How does that work? Does that mean that she was going to die? She was perfectly fine3 months ago...

She died 3 days later with everyone there with her exactly as she would have wanted.

I was a mess. The day of her funeral I barely remember, but I turned to one of my (male) friends to try and cheer me up. His method of cheering me up is one that I will not talk about here. The fact that I still had my virginity afterwards though is something that I will thank God for for the rest of my life however. My brain was not in gear at all that evening.

After that day, I was very flat. I associated with my quieter, more empathetic friends. And one night while I was wandering around at some stupid hour I noticed DH's light was still on. I chatted inanely for hours with him while he maintained a somewhat bewildered expression on his face. But I had not felt so safe and at home as I did that night in months. I eventually fell asleep on his bed - and unlike my other "friend", DH tucked me in and kissed my forehead - aside from that he didn't touch me.

A few weeks passed with DH and I spending more and more time together. I didn't think that we were starting a relationship at all - just that he was such a good friend. And that I just relaxed in his presence. He made me feel happy again. He made me smile. And he made me feel special and important and loved.

Our other friends were watching this with smug amusement and waiting for the moment when we'd announce that we were "going out" (Hey we were only 19 ) but I still was just coasting and enjoying feeling comforted. Til one day another friend pulled me aside and asked me how I felt about DH. Until that moment I hadn't honestly thought about it. And it wasn't until my friend smugly declared that I was in love with him that it dawned on me that I did care about him. And not just as a friend. I will never forget how surprised I felt at that moment. IT felt like the twist in the plot that king hits you because it was so glaringly obvious.

And from that day we were a couple A very cute, very highschool couple. I didn't sleep with him for months. We did fun things like go to the beach and build sandcastles. He took me to meet his parents in northern Qld and we went fishing.

And I have never felt as at home as I have with my DH. He is the most beautiful person I've ever known in my life. And he loves me. Deeply, wonderfully, completely. He is my safe place to fall but he is also the one who lifts me up and inspires me. He is the one that makes me shine. He held me as I brought the most precious light into our lives and will be there when we go through it again in September.

I could write for hours in here and I still could not convey how much I love my husband. And right now I miss him so much it hurts.

Sweet Peas

This afternoon, almost as I hit "publish post" I got a phone call which meant that instead of my cosy evening that I had planned of sitting back, maybe with a drink, some leftover lamb korma and some mindless television or computer games, I got in my car and drove into the sunset. Directly into it actually, its orange glow half blinding me under the very heavy rain clouds that were dumping their bounty on my car at the time. As I navigated the Friday afternoon gridlock, and then later the trucks and the incredibly irritating leftlanephobics I had the CD player blaring and I sang along loudly to distract me from thinking and allow me to concentrate on the driving which was a bit more involved than usual.

It wasn't until I actually pulled into the carpark that I actually thought about why I was there. I was going to see my last remaining grandparent to say goodbye. As I walked through the now dark and relatively deserted carpark I was feeling relatively calm and resolute. Have done this walk a few times now - 3 other grandparents, and with Grandad himself a few times. Walking in it was deja vu. There is something about a person who is on that fragile edge between life and beyond that is unmistakable. The way they breathe, the way they sound, the way their spirit is somehow diminished. I felt all that as I walked in. And it hit me - saying goodbye for the last time means no more hellos.

I never thought I was as close to Grandad as to my Nanas. But as I was sitting there alone clasping his cold and swollen hands, my chin propped on the bedrails watching his sightless gasping face I started remembering.

A few posts ago I mentioned that I'm not touchy feely - that no one hugs me. Grandad always did. Always hugged me, always stroked my hair (I love love love having my hair stroked) as he called me little pet or little darling. No one was or is prouder of me than Grandad.

Grandad who built a put put golf course in his prized back lawn for us, and welded the putters so we could play.

Grandad who would take us to the park to collect bucketloads of macadamias and then teach us to smash them on the cracks in the concrete with a hammer to get the milky white nuts.

Grandad who would cut up rockmelon for us to have with icecream.

Grandad who made us breakfast when we stayed with him and Nana - hot English breakfasts, tins of spaghetti boiled on the stove.

Grandad who planted the avocado tree that was my second home.

Grandad who looked after Ochre and Allegro, the fattest, best cared for ginger cats (the size of Shetland ponies) that ever were.

Grandad who taught me how to use a yabby pump and catch blood worms.

Grandad who taught me how to make a kite and took me to the park so that I could fly it.

Grandad's walk around the aeroport - just that little bit further - while I collected flowers the whole way and wove them through my hair and he called me a woodelf.

Grandad who was the avid and gifted gardner, who would take us down the back to pick beans or chokoes or peas or gourmet tomatoes and taught us that nothing tastes better than fresh off the vine.

Grandad who planted the passionfruit over the shed, who turned his one cymbidium orchid into 6 floribundas, who planted shasta daisies that massed in his garden beds and proud arum lilies and hydrangeas.

Grandad who every year would show me how to take the smooth, hard magic little brown beans and sew them at the base of the trellis so that come spring time there would be a mass of sweetpeas that perfumed my very soul.

As I sat next to Grandad I could smell those sweetpas: their delicate fragrance; their fragile blossoms; their vivid but never ostentatious colours; feel their raspy stems and the feel of the smooth dark seeds between my fingers. Then the tears rolled down my cheeks. I couldn't stop them, sitting in the ugly hospital room, smelling sweet peas and hearing the oxygen hiss the silent tears came and came and came.

I listened as the breath rattled in his chest and thought of how no one again will stroke my hair and call me darling. I flashed through every memory I have of him shaping my childhood. And as I was watching with big salty tears falling I realised something else - I always thought I had my Dad's chin, but I don't. The Elfling and I have Grandad's chin. I have never noticed before. And I don't know why but that made me feel better - that I get to keep something tangible of him. A love of machines, the smell of welding, gardens, a chin and sweet peas.

It's just past midnight and Dad has called. Goodnight Grandad.