bone&silver

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If shit goes down, I dance

Published by bone&silver

Sometimes I feel the buzz of the energy in my head so loudly, I want to shake it out. So I do: I dance. I dance 5Rhythms in my bedroom, in the lounge, at the big Hall with a hundred other bodies, or on the empty early morning beach. I’m posting this right now, eating a piece of toast, then going to dance. And I just came across this poem by Jewel Mathieson:

We have come to be danced

not the pretty dance
not the pretty pretty, pick me, pick me dance
but the claw our way back into the belly
of the sacred, sensual animal dance
the unhinged, unplugged, cat is out of its box dance
the holding the precious moment in the palms
of our hands and feet dance

We have come to be danced
not the jiffy booby, shake your booty for him dance
but the wring the sadness from our skin dance
the blow the chip off our shoulder dance
the slap the apology from our posture dance

We have come to be danced
not the monkey see, monkey do dance
one, two dance like you
one two three, dance like me dance
but the grave robber, tomb stalker
tearing scabs & scars open dance
the rub the rhythm raw against our souls dance
We have come to be danced
not the nice invisible, self conscious shuffle
but the matted hair flying, voodoo mama
shaman shakin’ ancient bones dance
the strip us from our casings, return our wings
sharpen our claws & tongues dance
the shed dead cells and slip into
the luminous skin of love dance

We have come to be danced
not the hold our breath and wallow in the shallow end of the floor dance
but the meeting of the trinity: the body, breath & beat dance
the shout hallelujah from the top of our thighs dance
the mother may I?
yes you may take 10 giant leaps dance
the Olly Olly Oxen Free Free Free dance
the everyone can come to our heaven dance

We have come to be danced
where the kingdom’s collide
in the cathedral of flesh
to burn back into the light
to unravel, to play, to fly, to pray
to root in skin sanctuary
We have come to be danced
WE HAVE COME

By Jewel Mathieson

—————-

PUT SOME MUSIC ON PEOPLE, AND SHAKE IT OUT xxxxx

Intentions

Published by bone&silver

So the year has ticked over. And I must confess: it was the first New Year’s Eve celebration I ever slept through. Is that it? Am I officially ‘getting old’? Is it now a downhill slide, from choosing to be asleep in my comfy bed more than any wild partying offers?

To redeem myself, I got up at 5, and drove to the most Easterly point of Australia, in Byron Bay. Specifically, to the lighthouse on that point. There was a steady stream of cars and people heading the same way, yet the Parking Fairy graced me with a miracle ‘rock star’ spot for my car just in time, so that I could slip onto the blanket my friends had saved for me at 5.25, ready for the 5.30 ceremony.

There was crystal bowl sounding, chanting, and a meditation for global peace. Baskets of crystals offered everyone the chance to hold a piece of tangible focus for our intentions for 2016:

Jan 1 2016

As the first rays of the sun sang out, we were singing over and over ‘May all beings be at peace’. It was beautiful, and heart-swelling.

I set three intentions for myself for 2016: To be more Vulnerable, to be Brave, and to be Peaceful (I’m fine with my weight/fitness/lack of smoking or drinking etc); I’ve always leant towards more emotive resolutions.

With those 3 motivations, I think I will have to change this Blog a little. It’s unexpected, and challenging, but easy too: I seem to be falling in love with someone. Who embodies and inspires these 3 qualities in me. Which isn’t easy, cos I’m stubborn, and independent, with a low threshold for boredom! But it seems to be the Universe’s wish.

I will write more as it unfolds…

How was your New Year’s Eve? And how are you going on your resolutions for 2016?

Home for two weeks today, and had a visit from my [dead] Grandma

Published by bone&silver

The jetlag has gone. The season of European winter, chilling my bone marrow, has gone. The tangled history of my childhood and youth has slipped more than 10,000 miles away again. My quiet heart yearning for France has been replaced by the delight of my dear friends, cute home, happy cat, and humid, tropical lifestyle in Australia. Son ‘15’ and I are having a little break from each other’s company (till approx. January 2016 he reckons), which gives me back the freedom I’d missed to just be Me: read, write, garden, walk on the beach at sunset, all without speaking, or providing for/tidying up after a teenager. Bliss.

Can you tell there’s a ‘But’ coming? I remember learning years ago, on some college communication course, that anything positive you’ve said is then negated by the use of the word ‘But’ afterwards…

So everything I’ve said above is actually true, AND YET I’ve also felt misplaced. Rebellious and resentful even. Coming home here is like coming back to your Mum’s house when you’re 23: you’ve been living out of home for a while, used to partying and surviving on cheap food while never washing up, making unpredictable choices and spontaneous decisions without explanation, sharing intimate times with unsuitable, intoxicating strangers with no career paths or five-year plans. Suddenly you’re at home, with a lovely full fridge and clean clothes, this is true, and Mum’s made your favourite dinner, but she’s a bit too cloying and careful, ticking all the boxes of responsibility and reliability. Bills are paid on time; lists of chores are made and crossed off; people remember what you did 10 years ago, and what you’re expected to do 3 years from now. Streetscapes are so achingly familiar that a new garden fence up at number 6 causes your bike to wobble as you ride past.

I’ve settled down now. I’ve accepted that I need to unpack my suitcase, unpack my paper work, unpack my Pilates classes and performance gigs, and basically reintegrate myself into Real Life.

This also involves dealing with the mundane essentials, like tax returns, car registration papers, and skin checks. I made my choice: I’ve lived here for 30 years next week, and I love this sunburnt country. But floppy hats, long-sleeved shirts, and minimal sun exposure define my months from November to March. Which is why I found myself at the Skin Clinic last week, for my yearly check up (thanks to my matriarchal lineage of moles/lumps/bumps/tags etc). Did you know every year, in Australia:

skin cancers are 80% of all newly diagnosed cancers
between 95 and 99% of skin cancers are caused by sun exposure
we have one of the highest rates in the world, two to three times Canada, the US and the UK.

Yeah, I knew that. Haven’t you seen my photos? I’m as white as a lily! And I like it. Obviously it’s why I enjoy the four seasons in Europe, especially the softness of the spring/autumn/winter sunshine. Unlike the magnifying glass-type sun we have here, flattening us to the ground.

So off I went. I admit I wasn’t in the best of moods. It was hot and humid, the waiting room was full already at 10am, and most annoyingly, all the magazines were at least a month out of date. Not that I could see them properly anyway; I’d left my reading glasses at home (insert wail: “Getting Older Sucks”)

I didn’t want to talk to any of the germ-infected patients anyone, so looked round the room. And saw this basket in the corner:

Such a beautiful idea, I’d love to see it everywhere (plus use of spellcheck)

Ignoring the grammar mistake [generous of me I know], I smiled. Should I do it? I thought I remembered how to knit; my grandma Irene Smith taught me when I was very young. I picked up a long cool silver needle, already stitched with a bright woollen square, and heard her voice say softly:

‘Slide the empty needle in through the hoops of wool, hook the loose thread over it, and slide it off, that’s it.’

The dull grey waiting room and coughing people faded away completely. I held the light blue, knobbly yarn in my 49 year-old hands, and felt awkward and fumbling, like I was 10 again. Grandma’s peaceful presence sat beside me, looking over my shoulder carefully, as I tried to make a new row of knitting, stitch by stitch. My entire world contracted to the unravelling ball of wool in the basket, and the two lines of connected loops strung between the slippery needles. I heard more words of advice:

‘Try and keep the tension even between each stitch… Slide the loops up closer to the tip as you go, but not too close, or they may tumble off… If you make a mistake, it’s OK, we can go back and fix it…’

My visit with Grandma was so unexpected, and completely visceral. I almost smelt her comforting, making-food-in-the-kitchen scent, and felt the warmth of her solid, calm body beside my small one. Her patience and perseverance soothed its way into me, like her fresh apple crumble baking in the oven. I dipped and hooked, slid and pulled, knitting a whole smooth line of blue. Then my name was called out, and I jolted forty years forwards. I must have looked dazed, as the receptionist told me to finish knitting the row if I needed to. I shook my head; the moment had melted, as I remembered Grandma’s passing in 2002, and the tiny baby hat she’d knitted me when I was pregnant with ‘15’. She died peacefully at 89; she’d been saying she didn’t want a big fuss of a party at 90…

I still have her hat. It’s on my ‘precious shelf’, and was the first garment my son ever wore. The stitches are a bit uneven, as she was 88 then, but it’s still in shape, and he wore it a lot for the first few weeks of his life, born as he was into Winter.

It’s just one more tiny piece of the jigsaw puzzle that makes my Home, my Life. Thousands of miles from my birth family, yet also loved and supported by a family of choice here: sisters, brothers, aunties, uncles, and parents.

There’s no Grandma though. She’s irreplaceable.

I love every single stitch, thankyou Grandma x

Ugh. Jetlag. Who needs it? #firstworldproblemsIknow

Published by bone&silver

We’re back in Oz safely. ‘15’ was SO ready to leave Europe, and had become obsessed with Instagram surfing videos, dreaming of his first dive into our warm, welcoming ocean. I had to practice patient acceptance of his daily mantra ‘I just want to go home and be with my friends…’

So now we’re back. We landed early in Brisbane, and high-fived each other. I hadn’t seen such a big grin on his face for a while, and it was delightful to see him hugging his Dad (he and I broke up when ’15’ was about 3; I wouldn’t define us as ‘good friends’, but it’s been a long, rocky road, and this is probably the best it’s going to get, which is fine). They dropped me at my place on the way home (we live 20 mins apart), and ‘15’ ran in quickly to say hello to our beloved cat, plus comment that ‘the house smells different’, then got back into the car saying ‘I’ll probably see you in January some time Mum…’

I smiled at his cheekiness, but it did hurt. God knows we both need a break from each other’s company, and it’s been an intense couple of months, but still: a parent is usually much more attached to spending time with the young adult offspring than the other way round. And I am no exception.

I tried not to cry as they drove away. I tried not to think about all those long, peaceful days at the Barn in France, ending each evening with badminton. I tried not to dwell on his long-awaited immersion in his other home, with loving step-mum and two younger brothers, plus 2 dogs, and numerous ducks and chickens. I tried not to imagine him complaining about how long we were away, and how bored he was sometimes, and how annoying I could be. I lugged my damn heavy suitcase up stairs for one last time, and focused on simply stroking my writhing, ecstatic cat.

The next two days passed in a thin fog of relief, tiredness, melancholy and nostalgia. Yes, of course it’s great to be home. To be safe, to be welcomed, to be familiar. Great to have my car, my home, my whole life back. My three favourite things, in no particular order:

BeachBruns

I truly live in one of the most beautiful parts of Australia- the land of milk and honey. A tropical paradise, where food is organic, the natives are friendly and liberated, and Nature remains ever-present and fairly unpolluted.

But this waking up at 3.30/4.30/5.30am, STARVING HUNGRY and restless is crap. I feel like half of me is missing, as my poor spirit struggles to catch up, doggy paddling all the way over from England…

Luckily I can weigh myself down with one of the breakfasts I missed the most while away: free range fried eggs, avocado, macadamia nut butter and chickpea miso on gluten free pumpkin and amaranth toast, all organic, all grown with our particular shade of all-encompassing, all-embracing, all-welcoming Rainbow Love

Eggs

Cutting muslin

Published by bone&silver

Remember when ‘hybrid, multi-arts exhibitions’ were all the rage? Live theatre or sculpture in front of projections, scrolling across tulle or muslin? My life’s been feeling like that lately. So removed am I from the reality of my true work/home balance that I’m starting to feel like a performer in someone else’s show.

Never more so is that true than when I go back to the small seaside town I grew up in (see previous joyful post about it HERE). Last weekend I popped down on the coach for a couple of days, which is a 4-hr trip. We used to call it ‘Little D by the Sea’ in the old days when CB Radio was a brief, furious fad (remember that?) [I can’t believe how old I just sounded]

I left ‘15’ to groove his way round London with his cool cousin and Uncle, our first break since we left home Sept 14.

‘D’ remains the same slightly worn out tourist destination it always was (you really DO need to read about it in my old post HERE), and as soon as I arrive, I feel the muslin draping over me.

What’s muslin, some of you ask? Let me turn to my dictionary: “lightweight cotton cloth in a plain weave, like cheesecloth. ORIGIN early 17th cent: from French mousseline, from Italian mussolina”

It is also an effective metaphor for the old stories and projections that are thrown over me, muffling my way. My Mum sees me through the muslin of our childhood, her motherhood, her memories and expectations. My old friend ‘Sam’ sits weighed down in his chair by his muslin; he rarely leaves the house or street, has not worked for 20 years, and was choking on the cloth of stifled dreams. He and I talked for a couple of hours, and when I walked home in the cold night, I felt like retching, to clear my throat of his clagging doom. He lists all the people we used to know who have died; a thick black thread, with knots of heart attacks, a couple of brain aneurisms, and multiple drug overdoses.

I can hardly lift my arms or head, weighed as they are by the muslin history. I drag myself up through the park, across the muddy grass, gathering dead leaves and twigs on the hems of my cloth, and into Mum’s flat, where more reams of muslin drop upon me. I am defiant, difficult, selfish, bossy, plus noisy… Or is that all just how I wore my fabric years and years ago, when I was 5, 10, 15? Now I’m 49, and am I really still wrapped up tight in that material? I truly don’t believe so. Surely all that therapy, journaling and self-reflection wasn’t for nothing?!

But there’s the cloth, and the projections, and the sculptures of who people think I am, who they are, who they want to be, and who they want me to be. It’s a cheap show in a dusty old hall, and I’m tired of it. I’m ready to walk away from all this muslin; the weaves that cloud my vision, and cloud others’ vision of me. I’m tired of the Gabrielle who lived here aged 10-20, who visited at 25 & 30, who stayed away till she was 40. Get the cloth off me; encumber yourself as much as you choose, but keep it away from me.

I’m so ready to be back in the warm-skied, open land, where my friends and chosen family see Me, faults and all. I’m tired, a bit sad, quite worn out, and needing the clear comforts of Home.

We leave in two days for Australia, and I’m not making any room in my suitcase for muslin.

How to never end up at Shit Creek

Published by bone&silver

Our journey back to London from Barcelona Wednesday 4 November 2015 started OK, got really Good, then went Pear-Shaped, and fell out the bottom of Shit Creek with the most expensive non-existent paddles I ever bought.

It begins with the flight time. I thought it was 10am. That’s OK. We would have to get up very early, but we’d be fine, we’re both good at that. I checked the e-ticket: it was actually 13.50. That’s really Good. Lots more time to negotiate the metro system to the airport, and save wasting Euros on a taxi [insert ironic, manic laughter here, and repeat phrase ‘save wasting Euros’ while frothing at mouth. Oops sorry, *spoiler alert*].

I looked it all up on Journey Planner. Took screen shots of the connections we had to make (walk, metro, change metro, walk, train, shuttle bus). Timed it so we’d be at the airport by 12.30 at the latest, with the Gate closing at 13.30:

See how smooth and easy this is going to be?

Packed the night before. Agreed we’d get up at 8.30, to leave by 10.30. Slept quite well, and was surprised to hear ‘15’ getting up at 8.15 to shower and finish packing (like I said in previous post, he’s great to travel with).

Left the apartment at 10.33. Walked to metro. Caught train. Walked to next metro. Caught train. Got to main train station, Barcelona Sants. Asked official railway employee directions for train to airport and shuttle bus. ‘Platform 9 or 10’ she said, in English. Bought tickets. Walked to Platform 9, and it’s only 11.30 or so. I’m smugly smiling, knowing we only have another 30 mins max to travel, and we’ll be at airport (already checked in online of course, with great seats allocated). There are lots of people with suitcases standing around on Platform 9 & 10. Obviously. We’re all going to the airport right? This is all so Good.

‘15’ says ‘Is it 9 or 10?’ I say ‘Either I guess, that’s what she said.’

A train pulls in on 9. The intercom makes a slurry announcement in Spanish that makes no sense to me. Lots of people with suitcases get up and start getting on; there’s a feeling of excitement in the air- the train is here!

So we get on too, hauling our heavy cases up the high steps. Everyone is on, piling on big and small cases, scruffy and full cases, backpacks and holdalls.

Everyone except that rich-looking, Spanish-looking older couple, standing in the middle of the platform with their 4 cases around them like a moat round a castle. They don’t budge. And I wonder why.

The train begins to move slowly. I ask ‘15’ if he heard the word ‘airport’ in the slurry announcement. He says no. My belly starts to sink. The train’s interior looks like a regional, long distance, comfortable luxury liner, not a quick, well-used tourist rattler to the airport.

Shit. Are we on the wrong train? And here, dear Reader, is where I should have done what I instinctively wanted to do. At this exact moment, which is literally making me feel sick to write about again, I looked up at the Emergency handle. You know, the red one up on the wall. I wanted to pull it. My desperate inner mother wanted to pull it. My drama queen wanted to pull it. My efficient perfectionist wanted to pull it. My naughty inner clown certainly wanted to pull it. My rebellious, determined, self sufficient Firehorse almost pulled it…

But I didn’t. We were now moving too fast, and perhaps this was in fact the train to the airport, and it was all going to be OK? At worst, we could just get off at the next stop along and go back, and re-try… We had loads of time…

And so began the descent into Pear-Shaped. It was an express train to Tarragona. Express as in ‘non-stop’. Non-stop as in ‘travelling for almost an hour and a half in the opposite direction to the airport’.

F*ck. F*ck. F*ckitty f*ck. I said it 10 times in 20 seconds. I saw our smooth, organized trip home to London dominoeing over before my eyes. ‘15’ was naively unaware of what it could all mean (hence my delight in educating him with such salubrious sleeping accommodation in the photos further down).

We confirmed it all with the conductor who came along to check tickets. If we got off at Tarragona, a place I hated already, could we possibly get the next express train back and by some miracle make it to the airport shuttle bus?

No we could not.

Just let that feeling sink into you for a moment. “No, we could not.”

Nothing we could do but sit down, and say F*ck heaps more times. But without the star symbol.

How can I shorten this Pear-Shaped bit for you, dear Reader? Well I can’t really, so I won’t. Come, suffer with me, so that you will learn the lesson we all need to learn…

Got to Tarragona. Rang British Airways on my mobile (please add ‘expensive, 30-minute data-roaming phone call’ to the final expenses at end). Could they get us on the next flight to London today? Sure: it’s at 17.30. Perfect. Any seats? Sure. Perfect. How much? Only an extra 900 pounds each. Oh, let’s put that into Australian dollars shall we: $1,903AUS. Each.

Well that’s not an option! The helpful operator suggested we get ourselves to the airport, and search out better fares there in person. Ok, that makes sense, and anyway, here comes the train back…

Except they won’t let us on it, because we haven’t pre-booked our tickets. Or I think that’s why, seeing as it’s all happening in Spanish, of which neither ’15’ nor I can speak a word.

Off goes the train. I hold back tears of rage frustration. Buy two tickets ($67AUS). Wait 30 minutes for next train, waving goodbye to the tiny, miraculous hope that we could in fact have made our plane. Catch the next train. Wave goodbye to Tarragona, (which I now hate so much I am even going to throw out my tarragon herb jar when I get home), and share a special moment at 13.50 together, waving goodbye to our two seats on the pretty, shiny, expensive British Airways plane, where people speak the same language, give out free food, and Life flows smooth and easy.

We step off the shuttle bus at 15.00. But unbeknown to us, someone has removed Barcelona airport, and replaced it with Shit Creek.

British Airways can’t fly us to London till 22.00 tonight (Weds), seats $1031AUS each. Vueling Airways can do London on Thursday 17.30 $500AUS total. Ryanair can get us to London Thursday 18.00 for $450AUS each (I thought you’re meant to be a budget airline!?). EasyJet offer us Paris Thurs 16.00 $500 total. It’s Wednesday people, Wednesday, and Paris is not London. How can everything else be booked out, or ridiculously expensive?? We’ve gone between Terminal 1 and 2 (good airlines/cheap airlines) for 2 hours, pulling 20kg bags each plus backpacks. We’re drinking water, but no food since breakfast at 9am. There’s been no tears, no yelling, no fights. We have taken notes on my phone of all the options (genius move on my part, as god knows how else we’d have remembered everything), and have discussed staying in Barcelona another night…

But you know what? More than anything, we wanted to be back in England. Barcelona had been beautiful, but rocky (see previous post HERE). We’d both had enough. And poor ‘15’ had been in foreign countries for 6 weeks, unable to speak naturally with anyone except me, missing the company of his friends and family. We planned the whole trip to Spain around being back in the UK for tennis and soccer practice with his cousin ‘S15too’ on Thursdays, plus dinner in their now-favourite hamburger café…

Which is my disclaimer for doing what I did next, in deciding to buy two very expensive, non-existent paddles: the last 2 seats on Ryanair Barcelona to Paris 19.20 that same evening.

I left ‘15’ eating a chicken schnitzel burger and chips, and did the deal with the devil at the ticket sales counter. She was very sweet, and actually charged me the cheaper online price, even though we were doing it face to face. She rang ahead to the check-in counter, who let ‘the Australians’ off with 2 kilos of overweight bags (not much, but it all adds up).

We arrived in Beauvais Paris airport at 21.20, and caught the shuttle bus for 90 mins into the centre of Paris. We shared a ‘Hello Eiffel Tower’ moment together from the front seat of the bus, and it was lovely to feel almost at home together in France again, so unexpectedly. We trekked across to the Metro with numerous other weary, bag-pulling travellers, caught 2 trains and a bus to Charles De Gaulle airport, arriving at midnight. My LEGEND of a cousin ‘G’ had texted back and forth with me during the ordeal (please add ‘multiple expensive data-roaming text messages’ to the final expenses), and I’d asked him to buy us two flights to London as early as possible: he’d come through with the goods, and we only had to wait till 5.30 to check in, flight at 7.30.

Did you know there’s a website called ‘sleepinginairports.com’? Tells you good quiet places to nap, techniques for keeping your luggage safe, remembering to set an alarm, and how to make snug beds. Turns out I’m a natural at all that anyway, so ‘15’ slept while I dozed:

Used with permission

I then made myself a great bed on the 2 cases, which ‘15’ took when he woke up, and slept once more:

Used with permission again. And yes, he’s wearing an eye mask like some damn levitating guru

But I didn’t mind. Because for the rest of his life, he will be able to say:

‘Yeah, I travelled in Europe with my Mum when I was 15, and we missed a flight, but we sorted it out together, and found joy in it, being a team. And I was so proud of her because she was determined to get me home to hang out with my cousin, and I told her I loved her a few times, and I held her hand a few times, and I looked at her with great respect a few times too. And yes, I’m quite prepared to sleep in airports to save money, and go without dinner if I have to, and I don’t make a fuss, and I’ve discovered how resilient my Mum and I can be, despite stress. And that sometimes, credit cards are an essential gift you’ve just got to use, without regret or fear, and be completely grateful.’

Or something like that anyway.

I’m typing this from bed at my cousin’s in London the next day. I’m staying here all day, in my pyjamas. That’s my reward. We got ‘home’ at 11am Thurs, instead of 5pm Weds. We went via Paris (which did give us the chance to eat more pain au chocolat and croissants).

Here’s me expressing my relief on my cousin’s doorstep, in the cool drizzle:

Here is a selection of the tickets we used to finally get here:

Here is the lesson we learnt, and which I want you all to say out loud right now, and promise to practice for ever and ever and ever, as we have done:

NEVER EVER GET ON A TRAIN UNLESS YOU HAVE CHECKED THE SIGN, AND DEFINITELY KNOW EXACTLY WHERE IT IS GOING!

And I know you’re dying to know exactly how much were those 2 paddles I bought? $923AUS altogether. €608. $660US. Plus the two flights Paris to London at $254AUS altogether. Plus the train tickets, phone calls, text messages… Let’s just say GRAND TOTAL approx. $1300AUS.

€855.

$929US.

£611.

So please repeat after me: NEVER EVER GET ON A TRAIN UNLESS YOU HAVE CHECKED THE SIGN, AND DEFINITELY KNOW EXACTLY WHERE IT IS GOING!

Mum vs Teenager & Teenager vs Mum

Published by bone&silver

Let me start by saying son ‘15’ is awesome. 90% of the time, he’s smart, funny, pretty thoughtful. But oh boy, that other 10% is so stubborn, so critical, so dismissive! And of course, that’s his job: he’s being a Teenager, which involves the rejection of, and rebellion against, parental control, advice, and even experience.

I get that. I did that. I did that massively, and my Mum (who turns 80 next year) would probably add that I still do. But when we’re in Barcelona, a place neither of us has ever been before, and a place I’m pretty certain I’ll never come to again, and it’s our first full day here, and I’ve bought tickets online worth $80 to get into the Gaudi-designed ‘Park Guell’, and we need to be there by 10.15am for our entry in the 10.30-11 time slot, and you, dearest ‘15’, want to watch surf movie clips on Instagram while dawdling over getting ready to go (me having been up for nearly 2 hours already, and gone to get the necessary breakfast supplies needed to fuel you), THEN I WILL GET THE SHITS (which is Australian for ‘more than slightly annoyed’, dear American readers).

And that’s after quietly and calmly asking you to hurry up a little. Three times already.

So then of course, I’ve given ample reason for the complaint about ‘How annoying you are/you’re such a stresshead/there’s no rush, we’re on holiday/relax Mum’…

Which is in direct opposition to the complaint about ‘Why do you just want to wander around, looking at stuff & wasting time/where are we going/this is taking ages/I’m bored’…

Conflicting again with the ‘How do we get there/why don’t you know the bus/train timetable?’…

Sigh

I could go on. As could he against me of course. But mostly we’re not really on opposite sides, we ARE a great team. He’s great to travel with, and has been since he was very small. He will always get up instantly, no matter how early, for travel commitments like plane or train. He amuses himself with reading, playing cards, or listening to music. He usually remembers how privileged we are, and thanks me for the experiences.

But today, I’m having my whine (and no, I don’t mean ‘wine’. Though maybe I need some?)

On the train here from France 4 days ago, I shared with him that I felt most anxious about getting from the main train station to our Airbnb place (there’d already been some snapping at each other, plus we’d been up since 6.30).

He tutted loudly, rolling his eyes, & told me there was nothing to get anxious about, that I was being ridiculous- we had the directions from the host, we had plenty of time, it was lunchtime not dark, & although neither of us had the language, we’d already seen in France that lots of folk speak English. I was really hurt by his assessment of me, & fought back tears and anger for a few minutes, looking out at the distant Pyrenees, feeling rejected and criticized. I angrily asked him why he couldn’t react more supportively, more compassionately? He just shrugged, in that particular teenage way, & said ‘Because I don’t believe you need to be anxious, so I don’t want to encourage you’.

I gazed out of the window again, feeling swamped with lack of understanding and, quite honestly, a dose of ‘poor me’ victim hood.

Minutes passed. My jaw clenched, and teeth were softly ground.

Then out of nowhere, a small voice inside asked ‘what if he’s right? What if it DOES all go smoothly and easily, & this stomach- churning anxiety has been for nothing?’

Ok. Deep breath. How can I change this? How can I support myself, & also give him the freedom to be right, & learn to be responsible?

In a flash, I decided to offer him the chance to guide us to our accommodation. He shrugged and said ‘Sure’. I wrote out the directions from our host on 2 pieces of paper, so we wouldn’t have to use my phone (warnings about pickpockets were in my ears both from several people and online). He had his, and I had mine. He seemed calm, so I felt calmer.

I stood quietly and let him make decisions: he asked at the Tourist Info where to get the travel pass we needed; he got us to the right platform; he followed the directions to both exits from train and metro smoothly. We were happy! Then there was a hiccup finding the exact street (and lugging 20kg suitcases each doesn’t help), but we did it, eventually:

But we do need some space: we’ve been travelling together for 6 weeks, sometimes sleeping in the same room, twice even the same bed.

Two days ago we had a massive blow up. Swearing, tears, hurtful things said by both of us. He said he wanted to go home right now, could I change his flight, and that he hated Spain- pretty much the worst thing I could ever hear.

The small sadness I felt at being at the Gaudi Museum in the morning by myself while he slept in and talked with friends on Facebook (as I try to respect his needs for privacy and socialising) simply exploded, and I ended up sobbing.

I felt small, and terribly sad. Like I’d done the wrong thing bringing him away overseas. Like I couldn’t cope with his demands; that I wasn’t good enough. I felt like a loser-Mum.

I also felt like an angry-Mum. Part of me wanted to slam back out the door, enjoy Barcelona, come home late at night, and leave him to work out his food, accomodation, and entertainment. I admit I even yanked his beloved Wifi out of its socket during the fight.

I thought desperately of the dear, kind friends I could call in Australia who would bolster me up…

And then I remembered the drama queen/victim tendency I can have sometimes- she doesn’t come out often, but I do know she’s there- I inherited her- when younger, I battled her daily- so I took a deep breath and then a shower, blew my nose, and settled down to just write.

We were two caged tigers: powerful, self-determined, independent, yet forced to live in too-close proximity.

To cut a long story short, 2 hours passed in silence, and we both got very hungry. I said nothing, and did nothing. Eventually, ‘15’ asked what I was doing, then apologised, sincerely and in detail.

I quickly replied, and we reconnected over ideas for a very late lunch… Later, he apologised again, affirming that of course he was glad to be here, and wanted to be, he was just lashing out. [Note to Self: try and remember ‘15’ is super smart, and accurate as hell with his emotional barbs- do not overreact.]

*Phew.

My sadness lingers, but I think it’s symbolic of being the parent of a teenager- they HAVE to grow up and move away- they HAVE to do their own thing, which often unfortunately involves massive criticism of the way we parents do things… It’s a challenge not to overreact, but we both needed to explode and let off steam I think; travel IS stressful, involving as it does being away from support networks and comfortable familiarity- I have to remember that ‘15’ is under stress too. There is also sadness in realising that he really does have a life of friends and connections that don’t involve me anymore, just as my own mother is not a huge part of my social circle. I want him to be an independent, gregarious young man, surrounded by those who love and appreciate him; by necessity, ties between the two of us must be cut, and the remainder must be loosened off. That hurts. But it hurts me way more than it hurts him, and I mustn’t lash out just because I’m in pain. As an educated adult, I also need to try and observe when he is lashing out, and not escalate the tension. Last year I did a ‘Parenting a Teenager’ 2-day course, and one of the gems I came away with was as follows: “They react 9/10 to everything. Your job as parent is to try to react 4/10 most of the time, and only do the 9/10 reaction when it’s REALLY necessary (like drink driving).”

This post has a happy ending: we found a great Paella restaurant and pigged out, then rode the final leg of the tourist bus around the port, hillside, and Gothic Quarter. We wandered down Las Ramblas, and ‘15’ ate gelato.

Yesterday we did another almost 12 hours of tourist stuff, including the Aquarium (his idea- seems like he is still a boy sometimes 🙂 ), and Gaudi’s home, plus an epic trip across town in the rain and dark to an English cinema, where we blissfully vegged out watching a great movie ‘The Martian’.

All’s well that ends well. But it’s been a roller coaster few days, and I’m exhausted- goodnight all, and thanks for reading ❤

With his tail tucked down

Published by bone&silver

So we’re getting on the train at St Astier, ready to cross France for 8 hours to visit with an old family friend, and there’s some kind of problem on board with one of the other passengers. A young man, perhaps 25, dressed in black hoodie jacket, loose black pants, with a big, scruffy black suitcase. He’s white-skinned, sunken eyes, sweating slightly. He reminds me of a nervous dog, who got that way by being beaten.

The conductor is standing in front of him, arms folded, legs wide apart, telling him he needs a ticket to travel, and where is it? A younger conductor is standing further along, in exactly the same pose, blocking the exit down the carriage. There’s only the door to get off, and the tight corridor surrounding us. Other passengers are looking over and away, then over again.

Son ‘15’ and I are each lugging big suitcases, a small backpack, a bag of food, and my handbag, plus a 5 litre bottle of water. We are now in the middle of the action, burdened and stuck.

Another woman got on with us too, black-skinned, thirty-something. She hastily got out her ticket to show the older conductor, then squeezed on down the carriage. I felt him look at the two of us, then become disinterested, turning back to the young man with no ticket.

And thus I felt the instant shock of ‘white, middle-class, middle-age privilege’. A silver-haired, respectably-dressed woman, clearly travelling with her teenage son: no fare dodgers here!

I looked at the black female passenger who’d got on with us, and wondered about her history? She’d seemed really anxious to show her ‘papers’ to the authority, and then get out of harm’s way. Or had she heard something in the interactions that I just hadn’t understood? The air felt thick with struggle, and it sank into us.

I watched the young man, as we struggled to stash our luggage, and work out where to sit. He was shuffling through papers, clearly looking for something, and seemed quietly distressed. His hands were shaking; was he coming down from drugs, or had the flu? How was his mental health, or did he perhaps have a disability? He wasn’t talking back, just looked confused.

The older conductor told him if he didn’t get off here and now, the police would greet him at the next stop (my French comprehension is getting pretty good). Still he shuffled through his papers, and my heart tugged. What if he was trying to get home to see his family, and they’d sent him a ticket? What if he had no other money? What if he couldn’t speak the language, and didn’t know what was going on? Ten possible stories ran off him, like waterfalls, and I felt pulled to help.

But my spoken French isn’t yet strong. And no one else was jumping to his aid; perhaps he’d been disruptive, and everyone was glad he was being dealt with at last? I could feel ‘15’ wanting to get away, sit down, stay out of trouble.

All I knew was that I’d had 2 strong feelings tumble on top of each other: the supreme privilege of white, middle class, [assumed] respectable heterosexuality, and the simple, aching compassion for a stranger apparently in trouble, like a stray needing safety, with his tail tucked down.

I could do nothing about either insight, not on this train trip. The young man got off, and I watched him standing on the platform as we pulled away, taking the light and warmth with us, looking up and down the line, working out what to do next. I thought of all the refugees moving across Europe now, literally running across countries without tickets, without destinations, without families to welcome them in. Not knowing where they’re going; having no money, no plans, no safety. We’ve seen clumps of them under bridges, in dirty tents squashed together for shelter. How the hell does one build a life after that?

I just want to weep, feeling my massive privilege, grateful for it of course, yet trying not to also feel ashamed…

5 things we miss, and 5 things we’ve learnt to love and appreciate

Published by bone&silver

Tonight is the Last One of Everything. Our last fire. The last dinner. Our last evening of badminton. Tomorrow we pack up all the furniture, empty the fridge, drain all the pipes of water (so that they don’t freeze and crack during Winter), cover the mattresses in plastic, and go stay with the neighbours up the road for a night (very kindly taking in the 2 cold Aussies, and asking us genuine questions like ‘Are kangaroos everywhere? Do they attack you?’)

I feel melancholy. I know I’ll never have this time again. Not with ‘15’. Because soon he’ll be 16, then 18, then 20, and [hopefully] travelling the world by himself, or with mates and a girlfriend [I’m not assuming heterosexuality there, by the way; I’ve been referencing ‘boyfriends and/or girlfriends’ since he was about 9, and he finally sat me down firmly and told me he was definitely not gay, which I was very disappointed about- no marching proudly in the Mardi Gras with my child sigh].

ANYWAY, back to feeling sad by the Last Fire. I know I’ll never have this time again. To be able to carve out a whole month from my life, with a mortgage to pay, Pilates clients to train, a cat to serve, and household to maintain, and just sit quietly here in the Barn, has been amazing; the blessing of taking ‘15’ out of school, and having a lot of undivided attention with him, has been nothing short of a miracle. Not to mention playing so much badminton together every evening as a ritual that I think we’ve permanently worn away the grass:

Admittedly, we did go in hunt of Wifi every 2 or 3 days, so he did at least stay vaguely connected with his buddies on social media, but the chance to read together, shop at the various markets together, cook feasts together, and just hang out, has been such a joy.

I asked him a few nights ago what are the 5 things he’s missed the most so far:

His dog ‘S’
His family (Awwww)
Surf in the morning
Doing shits on a nice toilet (don’t even ask…)
Friends and Wifi

Mine:

My cat ‘Y’
My bamboo top mattress and latex pillow (Awwwww)
My veg garden
My regular dance classes (Swing and 5Rhythms)
Friends and Wifi

What we’ve learnt to love while being here, ‘15’ going first:

French surf
Sleeping in till 9.30
Renewed love for reading
Going for long forest walks (although the hour-long one we did 2 days ago which involved 2 dogs chasing him kinda put him off again)
Badminton and card games

Here’s mine:

Maps (real, paper-foldy ones- we could not have found either the Quiksilver Pro or the urgently-needed petrol station without them- RESPECT)
Badminton
Flushing toilets (don’t even ask…)
Driving on the Right side of the road
Relying on Alby (inextricably linked to both #1 and #4)

I’ve read half a dozen thick, serious books, including a new addition to my Top Ten Books Ever: Neil Gaiman’s ‘American Gods’; ‘15’ has read 14- there’s a lot to be said for Kindles I must admit. I’ve also posted 15 times on my Blog here.

So our sojourn at the Barn has been even more of a success than I dreamt possible. The weather has been generous: although it has been cold at night, we’ve usually had sunshine during the day, and only 3 days of rain, none of them very heavy nor consecutively thank goodness, or it would have become a drag (I do count moisture coming up through the floor as a bit of a drag- call me fussy).

Today, our last full day here, was glorious, at least 22 degrees. I aired all the rugs, quilts and blankets, did 2 final loads of washing AND got them dry, plus finished the ‘creping’ on the living room wall (which involves cleaning out the 300yr old loose mud, dirt, cobwebs and dust from between the rocks, then literally throwing a mix of sand, lime and cement at them, like a massive vertical mosaic project).

Before- whole wall- 300+ years old, rocks stuck together with local mud

After- detail

We drove to our favourite local, café to watch the Rugby semi finals, in between frantic Facebook surfing and WordPress posting, then home for our Last Evening. Sigh

It’s tempting for me to dwell here on the End of This, the End of That… But many years ago, when my Dad visited me in Australia, he took a photo of me in front of a large hippy sign that said ‘Every ending is also a Beginning’; I kept it on my fridge for YEARS (and note to Self “I really must dig that out again”).

So while it IS the Last of Everything, it is also the Beginning of a new adventure together, as we travel across France, and then down to Barcelona. I’ve never been to Spain. And our apartment there has Wifi. There WILL be more times here in front of the fire, perhaps with his friends and girlfriend, perhaps one day with his children… Who knows? Dad first brought me here when I was 15, and look at me now- a seriously groovy dancing performing Mama, with a gorgeous 15 year old son!

Here’s to the future: unknowable, and unfolding, with love and gratitude.

“France is a desperate party girl.”

Published by bone&silver

I thought that yesterday, as we drove home from the local village with fresh bread. Autumn is really here: all the trees are red, gold, yellow, throwing their leaves onto the road in front of us. France has become a fraught, older ‘woman of the world’, throwing one last drunken ‘soirée’ before the lonely slam of Winter. She’s piling on her jewels, strings of rubies and gold chains, wrapping round and round her big bosom, as she leans forward into our space, spilling cheap champagne, desperate for us not to leave yet. She’s talking too loudly, her perfume’s too strong. She’s painted her toenails Tangerine, clinging to the last cotton dress of summer, her last green lace petticoat.

She’s straining to throw bright sunsets, ignoring the bite of chill in the air, laughing hard at our more introspective moods, which lower on us as the darkness comes sooner.

France has a population of 60 million, and her visitors number 76 million a year. She’s busy, receiving them all, mostly from June-September 30. And now her season is over. Shops close, restaurants close, hotels close. You can’t hire a canoe, a horse, a caravan. It’s done. Shutters are being locked shut, signs brought in, tables outside wiped and stored away.

But part of France staggers on, wobbling in her high red suede heels. She wants more fun! She wants more people, more noise, more love! She throws her thin, fire-coloured confetti, and watches it whipped away by the wind. Her streamers are damp, hanging low between the lampposts, and the runs in her stockings are worse than ever.

But she wants to go on. She’s still beautiful, still tempting, yet the effort is almost too much. Her trees are such a perky red now, and the yellow is almost neon; every day the view seems brighter. But there’s an edge to it; greys, browns, even blacks are creeping in from the side, as last crops are gathered, and soils are turned and left bare for Winter.

We can feel the season changing, slinking lower. The sun isn’t warm till midday, then cooling again by 4 or 5. The fat ponies next to the supermarket carpark are hairier every day, while the last geese have flown past us to Africa (something so mournful about their sound):

A fortnight ago there were flocks every 30 minutes in the late afternoons, calling out their farewells; today was the first time we’d seen any for days. But no honking. They knew they’d left it late.

Tiny birds are flying in and out of the Barn eaves, searching for a sheltered nook. ‘Barry’ the resident bat hasn’t been around much- has he hitchhiked with the geese? Smart bat.

The old farmer down the lane has spent days gathering up his walnut crop; I watched his knotted hands struggling to transfer the small nuts to his basket. He’ll wash them and dry them on racks, then either press them for oil, or eat them during the coming months, like a squirrel. His neighbor further along has piled higher than his head the timber he’s gathered from the forest. In fields all around us, stacks of wood remind me that the temperature gets down below zero; while we two can survive for now, hugging up to the draughty fireplace, feet up on the concrete hearth, it’s not much fun. ‘15’ is beginning to rebel against the leaking bathroom, the weak shower you take sitting down in the cold metal bathtub, the hopeless toilet cistern. Hot water pipes bang, moan and knock; a poor soundtrack to the party the French slut is trying to coax out of us.

We’re sleeping a lot, under two quilts each; lights out by 10.30, cold noses tucking under the covers, not awake before 8.30 or 9. France wants to dance, but we’re beginning to hibernate. I can’t believe my Australian friends are swimming in the ocean! And neither can She. Clad in rusted velvet, rings of crimson, flashes of brass in her décolletage, France is desperate to celebrate one more time, with wine, cheese, and smoky kisses, trailing up to an unmade bed at dawn. But it’s almost over Honey, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

C’est la Vie.

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