I read your book because of a tattoo

It has been a cold, wet start to winter and the rain seems unlikely to relent any time soon. We were at the beach this long, wet weekend, with the intention of dancing along the sand and collecting shells and spent much time indoors instead, watching movies on the couch and listening longingly to the roar of the stormy ocean outside. It was so wet that even I, the inveterate rainwalker could not head out through the dunes to splash in the waves.


It was a slightly crestfallen Jenn that woke this morning in the grey wetness, looking balefully at the clouds and wishing for the tiniest interlude, a quick steal onto the sand, as I packed up the detritus from the hotel room and the collected pens and sponsor waterbottles from my conference. The children were in surprisingly good humour, considering the resort pool that they had only seen glimpses of and the beach and playground equipment that eluded them as we set off this morning. Bellies full from the buffet breakfast (the highlight of their trip) we drove North West, into the shadow of the volcano to trip through some of the world's most beautiful country.

The bickering from the backseat ebbed and flowed with the raindrops as we ascended into the Border Ranges and into the forest, watching the ephemeral rain waterfalls off the escarpment that are only there when the rain is heavy. A brief hiatus in the bucketing rain left the leaves glossy and wet, with every breeze dislodging heavy drops that splodged over noses and tickled down collars as we pulled everyone out of the car and off to see a waterfall that had eaten through the rock and formed a Natural Bridge, the cave underneath home to thousands of glow worms, seen only by their glistening silken threads.

The spray off the waterfall mingled with the tangy rain drenched air and tasted sweet as it snuggled down in my chest. The girls racing along the paths, asking with teenaged exasperation why we were walking through the forest on a rainy day just to see TREES. When I asked the Possum, who was holding my hand, he smiled and told me the trees were singing. Whereupon I tumbled him up as he giggled, hugged him tightly until he squirmed and whispered that that was exactly it - I needed to hear the trees singing.

I am glad that at least one of my children has inherited my insatiable need to be out in the green, though to be fair to the other two ratbags, they enjoyed themselves as well, watching waterfalls and trying to catch glimpses of pademelons as they sprung between trees.

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It was the Possum's third birthday this weekend. Three. It makes my heart ache to think of a time when he was not part of our lives, when I did not wake with his feet warming on some part of my body while his body curls with his elbows tucked in neatly. I was afraid that as he grew older my need for another baby would resurface, but he is so much more than enough that every stage of his growing older is more lovely than the last. Being his mother and getting to hold him against my heart is such a massive privilege. I am a very lucky woman. We are all utterly besotted and he is thriving.

On Friday we took his birthday cake into daycare where he solemnly blew out all the candles and exulted in the joy that is quite unexplainable of having a birthday. More than just the attention and balloons, it was his joy in simply being alive in his new shoes that flash as he walks and help him leap puddles in a single bound. Of his skinny little hips in his new jeans and shirt that made him look older, wiser and ultimately more vulnerable than he ever seemed as a newborn. I had to restrain myself from holding him to me, just to absorb through my skin the radiance that lights him from the inside out, exploding through his cheeky grins.

I feel often that I should write more here, about what is happening in their lives, of their stories and their triumphs, but I also feel that many are not my stories to tell; to share with the world at large. Though as the guardian of something so wonderful it feels as though I want to bring that light to others too. Do I sound like every besotted mother, convinced of the loveliness of her own progeny? Of course, and it's how it should be, but I know there is something special about my boy - if only because, temporarily, he is mine.

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The title of this post comes from Vonnegut, who I read on the advice of strangers who commented and submitted to Contrariwise. I was reminded of it as I clicked on a blog I once read miserably, to push the blade deeper into my chest and hope that the fragile creation within it would finally die and stop hurting. And it didn't hurt at all tonight, and I didn't even finish because I was not interested in playing with knives any more. I read a little and all I could think was "So it goes". And while that felt empty and strange for a little while, I was pouring a bowl of cereal later for dinner when I broke into a huge grin and a laugh tumbled forward from my lips. Because the ridiculousness of finding a life philosophy from a tattoo that echoes in all of the secret places of your soul was so delicious that only a squirrel could understand. Or perhaps a tree.

So it goes.

As if there weren't already enough reasons to love squirrels...

2011

2011 wandered in last night, sat on the couch and stared blankly forward. There was no heraldic entrance, no clink of champagne glasses, just the slight slump as it leaned back against the cushions and joined me in watching the terrible movie. I heard the fireworks outside, and wandered out to look at them, because normally I love fireworks, but I felt mostly that I should be enjoying them rather than that deep seated belly twirling excitement that usually accompanies them. And all the while 2011 slumped on the couch, snoring a little bit. And I took a deep breath, looked at it and wondered if that was it.

A little while later I crawled into bed, turned off the light, pulled up the sheet and lay there in the darkness. 2011 was still on the couch, uninterested in much, just there. Sniffling in the dark.

I woke reluctantly this morning; it was grey again and bed was cool and soft. And the pervasive ennui that 2011 had brought on his wonderings sat around me in a cloud as grey as the mist outside. I got up reluctantly. I showered reluctantly, letting the water seep into my skin. Tasting the first day of the new decade and wondering that it was exactly like the year before. Feeling my belly rumble from too much rich food in the last week and the protestations from my intestines that enough was enough. No excitement though, no dash to get up and meet the new year as I slumped on the couch next to 2011 in my jeans with my hair over my shoulders and no make up. Conversing in painful small talk as I pulled on my shoes.

I headed to work in the pervasive mist and parked the car and just sat. Waited for a few minutes before turning off the radio, pulling out the key and locking it with that smug click. Wandering up to my ward and doing my thing. Answering pages. Healing the sick. Eating the occasional lolly from the nurses station. Working hard because it passes the time, not because I had to, and looking at apartments in Paris in between the times when I couldn't even manufacture things to do.

It ticked onwards, one of those shifts that neither drags nor races. No special standouts. No miraculous hospital dramaesque episodes. Lots of fluid orders. Someone with indigesiton. Someone feeling a bit nauseated. The usual. I ate my over boiled canteen dinner (healthy but tasteless) and sat facing the stars as I clicked through Parisian lofts and waited for the flash that would tell me that this was where I'd go.

I chatted to a few friends, some in Cairns, some in Sydney, some in Melbourne. The magic of facebook pushing the hours to a close as the calls wound down in preparation for the night staff. I was vaguely unsettled, not quite grumpy, because I kept laughing at myself everytime I became so, but uncomfortable. My skin irritated from the tag on my sweater and my soul irritated by some soul sweater as well. Not letting me get comfortable, but not making me grumpy either.

And in the last 20 minutes I sighed, and wondered if this was a prophesy. A tribute to how 2011 would be. Mild and bland and insipid. Slouched on the couch and snoring, just a little bit. I leaned back in my swivel chair and swiveled from side to side. Occasionally spinning 360 degrees just for the fun of it. Dragging my toes along the carpet in a circle, a five year old with a stethoscope and a bic pen shoved in her jeans pocket.

And then, unbidden I swear I laughed out loud. It rumbled deep in my belly and tumbled out of my mouth before I could catch it. I wasn't alone, and a few people looked over to me bemused, swinging on my chair and laughing, a burst of silliness from my lips as the sky outside exploded. I can't tell you why, but for some reason outside there were fireworks. Beautiful fireworks that boomed and sparkled. Fizzing fireworks that spiralled upwards in an ephemeral minaret. Glacial fireworks. Bright red berries of fireworks that exploded into the sky. As the smoke hung over the stadium the sparks glowed and I climbed a low wall to watch them, the bubbling laughter in my belly delighted.

I stood there for 20 minutes, until the last spark was out and the smoke had started to drift. Watched 2010 sail off as 2011 jumped up on the concrete wall beside me and nudged me, winking out the corner of its eye. Curled its fingers into mine until we stood there, interlocked, watching the trails of smoke peter off into the distance. It started to mist again then. Just a smattering of the tiniest drops hitting my cheeks and bared skin. Warm and humid and damp. And I looked at my watch and realised it was time to come home.

So I did.

I am ridiculous.

Ever feel like you're having a totally pointless conversation? One of those ones where you think you're expressing yourself clearly, but it's patently clear that with every response, the person you're talking to is misinterpreting everything you're saying? The rotation I've just started is rife with this. Circular conversations that make you want to bash your head against the wall at times. Even though I know it's not deliberate (in most cases) it is still something that makes my stomach churn with irritation. I hate repeating myself, I hate feeling like I'm repeating myself, and I absolutely loathe it when I keep on doing it and being misinterpreted in the process.

In fact, this afternoon one particular conversation bugged me so much I composed witty, cutting replies the whole bus trip home, and enjoyed myself stamping my feet in a temper as I stalked home, the warm evening air and my ire raising a film of sweat over my bare arms. I was so comically pissed off, that with one final hill to get home I started giggling, the ridiculousness of it all tickling me hugely.

I've lost my sense of humour a bit lately, and the inability to find the funny side of things has been pricking uncomfortably at my sides. Usually I can find that dark bit of comedy in everything, especially when it comes to things that are getting me down. But lately I've been enjoying being wrapped up in selfish sadness too much to bother thinking about the ludicrousness of wandering around limply and wringing my hands.

Life's truly too short to be miserable, and there's no point to me to continue with it when I know that I can laugh instead. It might be slightly hollow laughter at times, but it's still better than misery.