The wondrous Nerd in the Brain has started a blog party, and I thought it was a lovely idea! Put a link to a recent post on your blog in the comments, so we can all come and enjoy your writing!
You Sent Butterflies.
Serena, I remember when you won the pair of purple boots. You were so thrilled. You used to win everything you entered, though in the end, you lost your life. You had an eventful life, and some parts of it were bitterly unfair. You found comfort in butterflies. They were your totem, fluttering about whenever we walked or sat at the park. I gave you a purple butterfly mobile on your last birthday.
Every year we did the Challenge Walk together, me complaining as we reached the peak which held a painted blue tree. Dead, yet alive. You would laugh, and point to the wrong flag, convincing me that I had done more km’s than I had. I fell for it every time. 2014 was to be our last year together on the walk. If I had known that, I would have hugged you tighter upon meeting, shouted you lunch afterward and organized a band. This year, one of our beautiful friend’s and her girls joined us. We acutely felt your absence, and I kept looking for you. So many women with cedar hair looked like you from the back. The girls and I chatted, and we laughed. We fell silent and then talk turned to you. We were followed by butterflies the whole 6km’s. I wanted to cry, and scream at the unfairness of a young woman leaving this earth halfway through her life. I did so inside my mind; silently, respectfully. As long as butterflies remain in the world, so shall you. I anticipate bumping into you wherever I go. Instead, I am surrounded by butterflies and memories. I signed up for 12km’s by accident. You would have found that hysterically funny. When the time came to continue on, or pull out, I hid my registration details under the bag I was carrying, so I wouldn’t be forced to go around again. I had seen my butterflies and that was enough.
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Health food, enough already!
I worked in two health food shops as a youngster. One was in the heart of Sydney. The fellow who ran it had a toupee, and an eye for the ladies. I grew to loathe oat bran, after lugging five kilo sacks into the shop. I would sit out the back, and bag up 250gm of the wretched stuff. It was the hottest item around at the time, sold to executives in need of fibre and the miraculous lowering of their cholesterol. Little effort required and so much gain!
The sack cost around $8 per 5 kilo, and was sold for $10 per 250gm bag. You do the math. People felt devout and in control as they obtained their stash. I went on to work for a naturopath who drove a gold Mercedes at sixteen.
She owned a health food shop, consulting out the back. I first saw her as a patient, and she diagnosed me as having candida, ordering a plethora of expensive remedies. When I started working for her, I noted that 100% of her patients were diagnosed with candida, and given the same costly script. I questioned her on its prevalence. Big mistake. She blew like a loose lid on a slow cooker!
I had been helped by natural therapists at times, and they certainly aided me in my recovery from the fall. However, I did not in fact have candida. I had raging endometriosis, which, if treated at the time, wouldn’t have become the monster it did. I consulted a women’s health clinic some time after, and they failed to diagnose it too. I was given generic bottles of uterine tonics which did nothing. As the disease progressed, and the pain and infertility issues became intolerable, I became desperate. If you had told me to coat myself in cow dung, I may well have. Endometriosis was then diagnosed. By then, it was the size of oranges, adhering to scar tissue from my various surgeries. There is a time and place for alternatives. My advice is do your homework, seek recommendations, and go to someone who doesn’t want to commandeer the show, nor make elaborate claims. Do you know what happened to the revered oat bran? Neither do I. It was a craze. We would sell out by the end of business. It has been replaced by other remedies.
I weaned myself off the oils and potions. Some had been costing $400 a month. You know what happened? Nothing. I felt no different (only richer). I eat well, ensuring I get enough fruit and vegetables in my day. I walk and drink water. Simple and realistic. I am doing okay. Once you have worked in the places who make a living out of the health food industry, it is rather akin to seeing behind the wizard’s curtain. A bit disappointing. As I am maturing, I have come to understand that it is imperative to partake of things which make you feel good, not because you feel you should. Health is partaking in a hearty meal with friends, and going for a stroll in the sunlight. I like my quinoa flakes and peppermint tea, but then again, I also adore coffee and dark rum chocolate. Enjoying your life is paramount. Do what makes you feel good deep into your bones.
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Stained Glass Wolves
In my travels, I met an extraordinary young lady called Celia. She started Stained Glass Wolves on Facebook. It is for ‘victims and survivors of abuse, homelessness, domestic violence and the people who support them.’ There are two projects on the hop at the moment, Basic Love Packs and Knitting to Spread the Love and Warmth. The mascot is The Mistress of Awesomeness and she certainly is! Apart from everything else she does, she is also a singer-songwriter.
Celia is 28, and lives in Sydney. She is currently an AIN, working in a nursing home, and is also studying nursing at university. She believes in true equality, love, loyalty, compassion,truth, genuineness, dignity and justice. She has three specific missions in life:
1. To run her charity, Stained Glass Wolves, and reach out to the broken.
2. To sing and write.
3. To be a qualified nurse educator specialising in brain trauma and also making specific care plans for individuals; working with families, carer’s and the client to make a manageable plan to give that person the best quality of life.
Celia has qualifications in mechanics, and in the hospitality industry. There is nothing she can’t do, teaching herself to knit via YouTube. As a child, she was abused in every way a young girl can be, and was told that she was worthless. She refused to believe it. How she healed, and what she has done, are truly inspirational. She has suffered depression, nightmares and flashbacks, but miraculously survived. The heart seared with great suffering often becomes the heart with the greatest capacity for love and compassion. Nobody came and rescued her from the thatch of thorns where she lay. She retrieved herself.
She found her calling in nursing after encountering a 104 year old lady in a nursing home who inspired her. She applied to study, and a letter arrived from the ACU. She reluctantly opened it, thinking it was a rejection letter. They instead wanted to know why she hadn’t accepted her placement. She checked her spam, and there was an acceptance email! Check your spam, people! At university, she noticed there was a scheme, offering placement overseas to the student with the highest mark. She applied and was accepted! She went to Cambodia, volunteering in health camps, and also travelled to Georgia College in Atlanta. Like I said, inspiring. She is the rainbow after the darkness dissipates. A survivor in every sense. If you would like to learn more, visit Stained Glass Wolves.
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Summer didn’t want to let go.
After a particular mum (not mentioning any names), mistook boy guinea pigs for girls, two ladies became mums! My daughter is an adoring aunt, whereas I am apparently a grandma! Nine little ones in all.
Homeschooling is amazing! Munchkin is progressing extremely well, and has a passion for learning that is an honour to witness.
We went to the library the other day, and she read a chapter of her book all by herself. She was excited, and I was overjoyed. This particular book is from her I Can Read program, and has codes at the top of each sentence, so she can easily decipher the words. Afterward, we went past a factory seconds store, and found a beautiful guitar. It is the right length for a child, and in her favourite colour! It was cheap, and the fellow said he could re-string it for my left-hander. I felt privileged to witness her excitement. She is learning guitar, and has often said that she didn’t mind not having her own. She rarely asks for anything, so this guitar shall be valued.
Saturday night, went to The Sound of Music Sing-A-Long at the State Theatre in Sydney. It was particularly special as it is the 50th anniversary of the movie this year, and I got to dress up as a nun! We happened to bump into a teacher from my daughter’s former school. This lady has inspired my child in so many ways, instilling a belief in herself and to think outside the box. For that, I shall love her forever. We became friends on the playground, and I am sure Mrs Z shall always be in our lives. You never forget the teacher that goes above and beyond. I find it quite moving, especially as Lizzie was never in her class.
Sunday, I went to Catalina for a friend’s birthday. This lady doesn’t usually celebrate her birthday, so this was special. It was a lesson to me that you are worth celebrating, and that life is far too precious and short not to gather friends. 
It was the first day of Autumn in Sydney, but the sun beat down mercilessly, pushing the temp up to the high 30’s. Summer stubbornly refused to release its grip. My daughter found these gorgeous floral displays abandoned around the side of the restaurant, and after gathering a few blooms for herself, we delighted in watching parents pick their children a flower or two.
As we left the city, the storm clouds gathered, and a torrent of raindrops thumped to the ground. The last grand summer storm before autumn colours the landscape in crimson and rusty hues. There are challenges, for myself and my loved ones, but when isn’t there? All we can do is stick together, embrace and love, and eat good food and ride it out. Winter is coming, but then, so is spring.
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Thought for the Day
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Graham Moore, thankyou!
This picture of an extremely talented man, and the condensed version of his inspired acceptance speech have gone viral. Thankyou, The Bully Project, for framing this heartrending speech. Thankyou for the work that you are doing.
I was thirteen years of age, when I tried to die. I felt different, and had the sinking feeling that I might never find my home in this world, nor a place to belong. I almost succeeded. I look at my life now, and you know what? Every day I feel like kissing the earth over the fact that I am still anchored here. To every kid that doesn’t fit in, and worries that they never will, the good news is that you don’t have to! There is a world out there wanting to embrace you. People needing your gifts and anxious to hear what you have to say. There are ideas waiting to be born, and places to visit. Adventures to be had. To concur with Graham, “I would like this moment to be for that kid out there who feels like she’s weird or she’s different and doesn’t fit in anywhere. Yes, you do. I promise you: You do. Stay weird and stay different.” It has worked for me! Those dark years gave way to a future I could only dream of. People that love and “get” me; a job I love. I am now home schooling my daughter, and seeing her flourish is one of my greatest joys. Thank God I am here. If all you have to hang onto at the moment is an audacious belief in yourself, it’s enough. It’s more than enough. I don’t know where my fellow classmates are now. My path dramatically diverged from theirs. I have found my tribe, and a place to belong. Hold on…You shall too. They are out there waiting for you.
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Education and Dyslexia
I asked on a home schooling dyslexic forum what they wanted educators to know about their children’s struggles. The response was overwhelming.
One parent talked of the lack of understanding that a dyslexic’s brain is wired differently and that it’s a good thing! It gives them great advantages to be able to think outside the box, but the trade-off is that language is harder to grasp. There is great concern regarding the ability of school’s to correctly diagnose dyslexia. One mum asked every year from kindy to Grade 4 whether her child might have dyslexia. The answer was always “no,” and he was never tested. Private testing confirmed he was. He has now been home schooled for five years and has no belief in himself, and sadly has a massive resistance to learning. He was one of six children in his year who weren’t diagnosed at school.
Another mum said that her child started having anxiety and low confidence. She is now home schooling and has happily discovered that there is a lot less stress. Her seven-year old son has many strengths, but at school he was constantly told what he couldn’t do. One lady mentioned that her mother fought the fight with dyslexia 50 years ago. Her husband’s aunt, 45 years ago, and her MIL 40 years prior. This lady suffered throughout school 20 years ago. “Its getting worse instead of better…and still they do nothing.” One mum stated that there are “accusations of laziness and lack of effort of child. Very little actual positive help. Little understanding of dyslexia and the anxiety it produces. I am now home schooling due to dyslexia and anxiety-anxiety greatly worsened by a system unwilling to understand or help, just blame.”
Another lady said, “isn’t it fascinating how curious they are? My kids are all clever in their own ways, but it is my dyslexic girl who is the most curious…Always asking why? How? What?Where? That’s why home schooling is working for her…She is always exploring and searching for information on any number of topics. ” One mum said, “I had my son’s teacher tell me that I never read books to him.”
Tara said, “Schools should know that more time without explicit MSL instruction or doing still more of what doesn’t work will not get a different result. It will create learned helplessness. That all their collective experiences don’t add to squat in relation to my child if they haven’t ever researched and successfully transitioned a dyslexic child from non-reader to reader. A child is always doing the best that they can and if they are not fully participating, that is a flag that there is support needed.”
This from a student teacher, “This is my fourth year of a B.Ed Primary. I struggled at school, but always wanted to be a teacher. I found that I learned better at TAFE than at Uni. Why? Because it is hands on. First year of Uni, I discovered that I have mild dyslexia and dysgraphia. Finally I knew why I had struggled. However, I feel Uni and especially schools (as I do pracs each year), do not comprehend what dyslexia is and how a dyslexic person learns!”
I loved this encouraging post from Homeschooling Downunder
I will end with one of my heroines, Jackie French
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Homeschooling and Dyslexia
The mother would never forget the moment she realized our education system had few resources for dyslexic kids. She was talking to the teacher, her daughter outside, swinging her little legs to and fro. “Did I do okay Mummy? Are you proud of me?” Her mother smiled and replied that she was very proud of her, and that she had done very well. She could see the big picture, as parents are privy to. She could see her daughter being broken and scarred by the labels already stuck onto her skin, like a crude tattoo. If a child with dyslexia isn’t given adequate assistance by the time they reach adolescence, their view of themselves can be tragically aligned to their ability to learn within a system that won’t cater to them.
The mother enlisted the private tutor, and along the way, found another remarkable mentor. Elizabeth was an art teacher within the education department for a very long time. She resigned, and went into private practice, using a variety of modalities. She asked the mother to observe where the daughter’s eyes travelled when asked a question. “To the left,” her mother replied. Elizabeth explained that the little girl began to process information from the upper left of her eyes. “Does she have difficulty copying notes off the board, and does she have messy handwriting?” “Yes,” the mother replied. “She is having trouble coordinating what her eyes are seeing with her body movements. Reading off a board or piece of paper in front of her is bound to fail.” She put a coloured piece of paper-a complex word written on it- to the left of the child’s vision, and the child sighted it. Elizabeth then turned it over and asked the child to say the word. Not only could she say it, but she spelt it backwards and forwards! How can you adequately thank people who are giving a child the gift of self-esteem, dignity and a passion for learning? Elizabeth gave the mother exercises to do with the child at home. Even crawling around the floor would help.
The mother knew what she had to do. She studied the curriculum and designated outcomes for her daughter’s year, and developed a lesson plan, using resources and tutors she had uncovered. A home schooling mum she was blessed to befriend helped her. The education department came out and interviewed both her and her daughter, and she was given the go-ahead. Her registration came through toward the end of last year, and then it became real. She was terrified. Frightened of failing her daughter, of the enormity of the task ahead. She had to do it. Local schools weren’t equipped to accommodate dyslexic students. The competition started early, being judged by their class on their ability to write out their own speeches, then recite them publicly. After a month of home-schooling, her mother can already see the benefits. The child speaks with ease amongst adults and children alike. Her self-esteem has been lifted, and she is eager to learn. She often gets to her workbooks before her mother in the mornings. When she is stuck on a sentence, her mother is right there, to read it out. Able to learn on her terms, and in her own time. She has a full social life, to the extent that a day at home with just her mother is factored in. Rather than witnessing the reducing of a child, her mother is watching her grow.
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Once Upon a Time… A Dyslexic’s Tale
Once upon a time, there lived a little girl. She created stories in her head, and regaled the class with her imagery and passion when relaying the tales. She found writing frustrating, and often wrote words backwards. She couldn’t spell. She fumbled along, until a private high school deemed her intolerably stupid; irretrievably incapable. She was broken by fourteen. She knew she was intelligent, not least because of all the dragons she outwitted, laying in wait along her path. At fifteen she resumed school via distance education. Able to learn in her own time, she excelled. She could look up words, and go over her writing until she felt it was right. She went on to write books, and edit other people’s essays. It made her angry, that people had labelled her and deemed her to be unteachable.
The years passed, and she went on to have a daughter. Determined to do all the right things, she ate well whilst pregnant, and offered her unborn a plethora of baby literature. By the time her daughter drew her first breath, her mother had a library of children’s books waiting for her. She read to her day and night, and her daughter loved the puppets and actions her mother performed to go along with the story. Her mother took her to the Opera House regularly, as well as the Sydney Theatre at Walsh Bay to see those books come to life. This child was so active, and so very curious, her mother felt assured that she would have no trouble when she started school.
It became clear early in kindergarten that this child was struggling. She wasn’t “getting” her phonic words, and was struggling to read whilst other children soared through the levels. Prescribed glasses were not to be the answer her mother had hoped. Alone and concerned, her mother sought the help of a private speech therapist. Dyslexia was suggested. Comprehensive testing occurred at the start of Year One, and it was confirmed. Her daughter’s language skills were above 95% of her peers, thus she had advanced language skills for her age. Her auditory memory was also excellent. The brain just had difficulty deciphering the information the eye was receiving. Her daughter’s self-esteem plummeted. She was offered a place on Reading Recovery, but it came to an end after a few weeks. School days were represented by frustration, and a weariness descended on her daughter. She had double the work of other children as she needed to complete set work from the speech pathologist as well. Headaches commonly came upon her. Her mother didn’t make her write out Christmas cards, as it proved too tiring. She would stand near her and whisper what a sign said when they were out together with other kids on outings and excursions.
Year Two began with the teacher remarking that they couldn’t help a dyslexic child. She said this child would always struggle at school, and would have a hard time with all sound words. She said she would get a job of some description later in life, as she had an agreeable personality. When the possibility of home schooling was mentioned, it was dismissed. The mother must keep her at school for the social aspect. The child had another assessment, and the results were marked dyslexia. The report insisted that the school and this centre must work together to support the child. The mother researched on her own, a lonely and frightening responsibility descending on her shoulders. She found an excellent program, her daughter eagerly rising each Saturday morning in anticipation. At her first assessment, the little girl cried, feeling exposed. The tutor was so very compassionate, having had over twenty years experience as a teacher. The mother and tutor had to start back at kindergarten level to teach her the basics. The child was so tired. Triple the workload of other kids. Sometimes she cried from the frustration. Sometimes her mother did as well. She worked so hard. The teacher approached the mother. She said the girl was doing extremely well with her reading and writing. She was beyond a basic level, but indicated that in her report she would mark her on the bottom rung so her third grade teacher would have no expectations of her. “No!” her mother screamed inside her head, “I want everyone to see who she is, without labels. This child was born to soar!” History repeating itself. This mother would be damned if she was going to let that happen…
RAPHAELA ANGELOU 