The steady rapid beat of a cicada thrums outside my windows and I can hear DH with his power drill, continuously constructing the shade house, piece by piece. It is hot out there and he must be dedicated to his task, he’s been at it several hours now. You just can’t keep him away from a job. And there’s always a job to do around here.
I, on the other hand, have managed, guilt free since lunch, to: lay about on the sofa reading a book; slope off to the cool downstairs spare bedroom for a nap, and muck about with some water-colours (the art therapy I have taken up in the last fortnight). It is now almost 7pm and I feel like writing something – but what? I still don’t know.
The festive season has slowed after a relentless start and it is nice to have some space to relax. Christmas day at DH’s sister’s place went off better than anyone expected and we all had not only a stress free event but found it actually quite enjoyable. No family drama, no tantrums or sulks or miscommunications or snide remarks or sideways looks. Just even conversation, nice food and drink, pleasant present opening and a few laughs. That was probably the best Christmas present I received. (Apart from AF not showing up as scheduled, but arriving 2 days later when social activities were on the wane).
As far as more tangible gifts go, the asparagus cutting tool MIL brought back from her trip to France won the most thoughtful and interesting award. My Dad made my DH a birdbath and gave him a hybrid lime tree. I got some nice soap and some interesting cooking ingredients including some strong mustard powder which you use as the base to make your own batch. A pair of stainless steel ice jugs that hold their cold temperature well were a joint gift from my sister and brother to DH and me and we used them straight away with much success. FIL gave me the autobiography of David Attenborough, which I am saving and DH bought me a French cookbook, which, upon closer inspection, primarily contains recipes including far too much offal, tripe, pate and other unmentionables for my liking. I think I’ll use the omelette and dessert sections, but otherwise…
So then we got home boxing day morning and awaited the arrival of my family, who came about 2-3pm, enabling us to unpack, tidy up and have a short rest in the meantime, which was lovely. Turned out we needed the rest because it was one game after another for two days: quoits got the major look-in, with a round-the-world-darts comp for the hard core Harries who stayed up partying on. The following day contained a boules comp and then a wander round the lawn with croquet gear and gin and tonics. This game remained incomplete due to an engagement at our neighbour’s place, where he has the most amazing arboretum and beer (the best in the state) on tap. Needless to say we dallied a while there and it was 10pm upon our return. Too late to watch Kung Fu Panda. We saved that for the following night when everyone had suddenly left us (the youngest in a flood of tears and cries enough to rent your heart. He was having such a good time he couldn’t bear to be parted from the gang).
We had been expecting another couple and their two kids but they cancelled at the last minute. DH went back to work today and I went to a much needed yoga class and a reflexology session. We are valiantly attempting to reduce the amount of food in the fridge (I bought nothing for Christmas besides 4L of milk, and asked everyone to bring only their leftovers, and we still have enough to feed the proverbial army) and starting to get really sick of meat. I’m thinking of corn and zucchini for dinner tonight, fresh from the garden. Skip the ham, turkey, silverside, chops, sausages, etc et al. Seriously time to go on that diet.
Perhaps the cob building workshop we fly off to next week will shed a few pounds. Bashing around in the mud for 8 hours a day for a week ought to do something, right?
Other upcoming events of the early new year include a visit to the reproductive immunologist in Sydney on the 14th of Jan, and an appointment with a GP who is also a yogi – Dr Swami Shankardev– for the following day. THAT was DH’s idea – can you believe? He came across an article in his yoga magazine and rang up for an appointment, since we were going to be in the neighbourhood. I did say no more kooky stuff after Dec 31st 2008, but since I had no hand in that, I’m not counting it.
The kooky art therapy I mentioned earlier, will also continue into 2009, as I began the 21 day program late December, and I always finish what I start. It consists of 3 paintings a day, working wet on wet, with whatever colour takes my fancy at the time. First I imagine my grief (whatever form that takes, doesn’t even have to be specific) and choose the colour/s that feels like. Then I feel ‘what is missing’ and choose the colours for the second painting, ‘breathing in’ those missing colours as I work. The third piece is a combination of the first two – the transformation of my grief as the ‘missing’ is included. I don’t really get it, I just do it, and maybe that’s the point. Then after 21 days of that (or realistically when I get back from NSW) I make another appointment and take along my pictures. I am assuming they will then mean something to her, and we go on to do further work. But who knows? I’m not sure it is much actual counselling, but maybe this is just the first step. I’ll have to wait and see.
After the 3 pieces I usually do a couple of fun paintings on dry paper. They aren’t actually ‘of’ anything, just colour and brush strokes really, but I like the peace it brings. While painting I’m not actually thinking ANYTHING and there is no other state I have found in which to achieve this. Not yoga, not meditation, not even sleeping. So I’m liking it for the process rather than the outcome, which is a novelty for me.
However, writing has been the main casualty as time is not unlimited, and to fit another activity in means some other activity gets left behind. I’m undecided on whether to take my water colours on ‘camp’ with me. Perhaps I’ll take my journal instead, and do some writing. I guess the painting can wait, just as the writing has. Ebb and flow. Flexibility. It is all good practice for trying to achieve that elusive balance. I’m glad to be alive and have the opportunity. Each year since the horror that was 2005, I have said “next year will be better” and it never has been. I kept trying to make babies, and kept losing them, in 2006, 2007 and 2008.
Next year WILL be better. Because I am changing my focus, my intent, my attitude. I will not be trying to make babies in 2009, I will be re-creating myself. Concentrating on thoughts and actions that fulfil me, instead of dwelling on absence and lack. Giving myself over to the here and now instead of the imaginary future I thought I was entitled to. And if I can have one year free of pregnancy loss it will be the most enormous gift I could think of.
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