I found this marvellous book at Ariel’s Bookstore in Paddington. There was no earthly way it was being left on the shelf.
Let’s start at the very beginning.
1. What can happen in a second?
A life can be taken in a second, or spared. I know of a child who pushed a sibling to safety in a split second, thus saving his life from a speeding car about to make contact. I know a girl who was thrown off a building and went soaring through the air within a second. A moment’s lapse of concentration, a thoughtless word, birth and death… We look for grand gestures and symphonies as harbinger’s of change. We expect earth-shattering changes to occur over a day or week, and to hear the trumpeting of angels overhead. The truth is that it happens within a second. “I’m leaving.” “Will you marry me?” The birth of babies and the final gasp of the dying. To be attuned to the subtle nuances of people and events taking place is to be aware of the shifting of light. It all falls into shadows, then the light appears come morning. Fog lifts, rain ceases. A second is a valuable marker. Use it wisely.
New Life.
We met a dear lady and her little girl, and were strolling the streets of our home town when my daughter asked to visit the local pet shop. There he was. The new life we both craved and needed. I burst out laughing as this little man with a fluffy bouffant and skun-like tail sauntered along his pen. “He looks like Pepe Le Pew!” I said to my friend. “Can we get him? Can we?!” my little girl begged. “Of course my darling,” I said. He was placed in a box, which was unsealed by the time we left the pet shop. The two little girls had turns holding him, and took him to the park.
This six week old gave such joy to both my daughter and her little friend. They played with him for hours in the park, and when we got home, my daughter lovingly fed him. Death and destruction occur, and as much as we try to shield our kids, pets die and pain comes, unannounced and with swiftness. New life and unexpected joy then arrive, like an angel’s trumpet, heralding all that is good. Meeting Peppi was our symbol of hope.
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Navigating your way through Treacle.
My child adored her guinea pigs. We started off with two girls, and after one ran off, we got another, which we were assured was also a girl. Turns out, he wasn’t. They had babies. After one of the boys found his way into the pen holding the girls, we ended up with quite a few newborns. My daughter adored them all, and they lovingly received individual attention. Yesterday morning, my daughter’s father came in with some dreadful news. The mother and baby guinea pigs had been killed during the night, their sturdy pen overturned. My heart sank. I felt confusion, anger and deep pain. He had tears in his eyes after the dreadful cleanup he had to do. Our little girl watched cartoons, unaware. How on earth would I tell her?
I went into denial. Certain rituals had to unfold before I could face this. Coffee, a shower, a lifetime. I was the buffer between my child and tragedy. She made her way to the back door. “I want to see my little ones.” Her daddy was out there in tears, cleaning up. “Come and watch tv,” I said, before taking myself to the shower and crying. We had a drink at a shopping centre, had an eye test and met friends at the park. My daughter remarked to our friends, “I cant wait to get home and see my babies.” We all looked at each other. I found a session for a kid’s movie, and we hurried along to see it. I sat throughout it, knowing that the time was coming. I could hardly bear it. I wanted to be her shield from pain, and keep her safe. As we left the cinema, she asked, “are my guinea pigs in heaven?” “My darling, they are, I am so sorry.” She nodded grimly and walked in silence. We parked out the front, as I didn’t want her to have to see the empty pen. We hugged and talked about the guinea pigs. She asked what I did when I found out. “I cried,” I whispered. It looks like a wily fox got to them. They are a cunning animal, and forceful.
Here I was, stalling for time, putting off breaking the news, and she already knew. My perceptive, sensitive child already knew. I was able to be her strength by showing her my vulnerabilities. I was able to be her balm by holding her close as she drifted to sleep. I underestimated both her ability to cope and mine. We are grieving, but are united in our sorrow.
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Writing 101. Day Seventeen: Your Personality on the Page.
I have been recovering from pneumonia, and have missed quite a few days of the writing challenge. I tuned in today to be asked the question, what are you scared of? I was asked to address one of my worst fears. I don’t have a terror of dying, nor of public speaking. Snakes and spiders don’t scare me. Its heights. That is my Everest. I don’t have the gossamer wings I’ve always craved. I don’t even have invisible wings. In preschool, a group of children dared me to swing upside down (on my coaxing), from the monkey bars with no hands. This occurred back in the good old days of metal cubes soldered together over a pad of cement. None of that springy material as ground-cover. Sure enough, I soared head-first to the cement, and went splat. Concussion and a nose ripped open, requiring stitches. I decided heights weren’t for me.
I had nightmares for ten years about being thrown off a balcony… Then it happened. Even as I was in the experience of being set down on a ledge, I couldn’t quite believe it. It was an out-of-body experience. My nightmare was a reality. When I fell, time and space seemed to disappear and it took forever to hit the ground. I knew it was going to hurt and may well be fatal. Was the nightmare a precursor to this fated event? It seemed too coincidental. It was cruel to be spirited out of the world-siphoned away from your body- by an act that happened to be your worst fear. I survived, and of course, my fear of heights grew. Twice I have fallen and twice have been broken by the experience.
My fear was so great that I couldn’t venture past ground level at the Queen Victoria Building, nor of most places. Anywhere that had an open centre and a railing or balcony, well, I couldn’t do it. I am markedly better now. It has taken a long time. There are some places and experiences I will never allow myself to encounter, and I don’t need to. I have nothing to prove. Walking up a staircase after having been jostled up one, going up an escalator, and walking anywhere near a balcony is triumph enough. I am a nervous flyer. My child squeezes my hand, and bless her, talks me through it. Its the take-off and landing which scares me. When we ascend and are in the clouds, I relax. There is nothing to fear up here. I am embraced by clouds, and can relax, the fine opaque film reassuring me. I am above it all now. Concerns, terrors and nightmares.
I have a daughter who adores climbing. I watch her at gymnastics, climbing up the rope, all the way to the ceiling. I attended a playgroup party at a softplay centre when she was three. I heard a little voice call out “look at me!” I looked up to see my child waving. She had crawled through three levels, found a gaping hole in the mesh, and had pulled herself through it. She was now standing on top, with nothing around her. “Stay still! Mummy is coming!” I called, in my best sing-song voice. My heart thudded as I made my way through the hellish levels of toddler fun. She thought it was hilarious, and I needed a stiff drink. Somehow we survived the experience. Its amazing what you can do when adrenaline kicks in. I have gotten used to seeing her climb at every opportunity. I may not have wings, but will do everything in my power to ensure whatever I have ever been through holds no tool that could clip hers.
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Whispered Secrets #10
Just beautiful.
It is possible
to be among chaos
and be serene.
Go to your
innermost being
where only
Light can exist.
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It Will Get Better
I am recovering from pneumonia, and per chance, had a brand new book to read. It piqued my interest when I read the title, promising, It Will Get Better.
It has been a challenging year, and I accidentally (oops), put a dear little boy guinea pig in with five little girls. The result being that I have been kept rather busy throughout my convalescence. I finished Stella Gibney’s book in a night. Stella, you and I would be great friends if we met in person. If I can be half the lady you are, I will be happy. In some respects, I am at the beginning of a journey, and your book has become my guide. I am humbled and I thankyou. You are a survivor, a heroine, and have given me light. Thankyou Stella Gibney. It will get better, kids! Stella has declared it thus.
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The IVF Support Crew
Eight years ago, I discovered endometriosis had robbed me of the ability to conceive naturally. When one hears the dreaded words, “you will need IVF,” one reels. They rattle on about syringes and doses, and side-effects, and you freak out some more. I went searching for my tribe and came across an IVF support group on Yahoo (those were the days), and found no topic off-limits. Nina, the moderator, was the guru of IVF. If you wanted to know anything, you asked this chick. A veteran, as were many others. They had battle scars, but they weren’t done fighting. I shared that the doctor mumbled so much at appointments that it rendered him incoherent, and I would have to beg the secretary to come in to translate. We laughed about the “wand monkeys,” and the hideous internal ultrasounds, and how big our bazooka’s got on the drugs. We laughed at having to take an esky everywhere we went, and regaled each other with stories of having to explain why we were snorting and shooting up in public toilets. They became my advocates, and my battles with beastly staff were theirs too. “I would have blown a gasket at the rude bitch! Demand your money back love, and charge them 10% interest if it’s late like Brenda did. Build up those little arms so you can sock her,” wrote Shell. I typed back, “My plan is to make millions, invest in the fertility industry, and send free drugs to everyone.” I had three disastrous cycles in a row, and the girls urged me to swap clinics. “Don’t give up!” they begged. We left the first clinic, and they were with me all the way. Finally, I was able to go to egg pickup. My girls, not demure in the least, had this reaction, “I don’t believe it Raph, you are finally having a trigger shot! Holy Shit! Sending you the stickiest, bestest, growingest, great-fertilizingest thoughts I can.” We all wondered what it would be like to simply pee on a stick to confirm a bit of horizontal folk dancing had worked. I got advice on what level I should spin the drugs to, in order to get the best follicular action. I felt rather naughty, upping it from what the experts advised, but it felt so right. I got one follicle, but it was a good one, housing an egg that became my daughter. I am still in touch with my mad mates. Emails with titles like ‘We found the sperm!’ after surgical extraction were commonplace. They wanted me to write a children’s book about the amazing travelling sperm, after I shared the adventures my husband’s three sperm went on after we swapped clinics. He strapped the large canister into the front seat, stopping off at his building site, on the way to the new place. If you are going through IVF, find yourself a support group, and you will have best friends for life.
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Lived to Tell
My book, Lived to Tell.
I have loved the stars too fondly…
I have loved the stars too fondly…
This is exquisite.
Originally posted on Cristian Mihai:
Though my soul may set in darkness,
it will rise in perfect light.
I have loved the stars too fondly
to be fearful of the night. – Sarah WilliamsWords are our most important discovery. Forget about fire, forget about all the places we’ve been to, and all the places we’ll reach. Words allow us to see farther than any telescope.…
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Songs.
I am reflecting on three songs that were significant in my life. Only three?! Songs have nourished my soul, sustained my broken heart and have kept me alive. The first would have to be Live To Tell by Madonna. I first heard this song when I was on the brink of adolescence. “Hope I live to tell the secret I have learned, ’til then, it will burn inside of me.’ It certainly did, and I did live to tell, which is why I named my book after this song. At the time, it was a whisper of hope, that I may survive. At my book launch, some dear friends presented me with a music box which plays Lived to Tell. True Colours by Cyndi Lauper has to be included. I love this song’s imagery. I have always been a colourful character, and felt out of place in the world. I had no idea where I belonged. This song provided me with comfort, and allowed me to believe in the power of my wild imagery and dreams. Precious Little Angel by Annie Lennox is my third choice. I listened to this song for over a decade, and it sums up why I was determined to have the little girl I kept seeing in my dreams. When I was without hope in my infertility, I leant on this song. When I went into labour, and was in the car on the way to hospital, what song should play as the radio came on? This one.
RAPHAELA ANGELOU 