The Weather Forecast
It's stinking hot here. I was going to write another post but my brain is fried. I feel like an overcooked noodle or something. I just want to curl up in an ice cube and sleep until April. It's that heat that just saps you, you know. I've been staring listlessly at this computer screen for the last three hours just feeling the keyboard of my laptop heat to frying point.
My family is so lazy. We kind of have an unwritten pact to give each other lots of movies at Christmas so that we'll have something to do in the heat. Hannah did tons of cooking this year, too, so we kind of dragged Christmas out, eating, sleeping, watching movies and playing games. We don't ever really snap out of it until New Years Day.
But yeah...News Year Day is only a day away now and I'm totally over the Christmas feeling. All I can feel now is heat. Argh. Hot, hot, hot. Sweat in my hair, sweat running down my legs. Please someone send me a breeze. I'm about to go out of my mind.
A Picture Painted in Lipstick Kisses
I get blown away everytime I get lovely shocks like people from my past leaving me comments like this:
~~~
"No harm in being melodramatic Lyd. I'm prone to a bit of melodrama in my own writing at times I suspect though, you're more of a romantic which filters through the sharing of your life journey, bringing the intensity out in some of your writing - far more than I'd say melodramatic. You're beautiful Lyd. Never forget that. Never forget that without a little romance, life would certainly be somewhat bleak."
~~~
This--mind you--from a lady who was the head lady leader on the team I went with to Cambodia four and a half years ago. Lina, you're awesome!
In the main frame of things, however, the current opinion seems to think I'm definately a hopeless romantic and somewhere between somewhat melodramatic and not at all. Hopeless romantic I can take but melodramatic still scares me. Though, I guess, if you're going to tell me Rach H. (aka Crazy Lady) that it's mandatory for good writing then I better get over it. When I die, though, from a bursting of melodramatic writing block in my pen, I'm sending my ghost to haunt you with unrelenting inspiration when you're in the checkout dying from fatigue. Ha.
~~~~~
I love my Daddy (I guess my Mum does, too).
We had such a fun Christmas. Simple--but as I'm coming to realize more and more--very sweet. We have a few traditions we always keep to. We always get up at around five Christmas morning to open all our presents together. We have those fun little cereal boxes for breakfast, a huge Christmas lunch. And then our biggest one of all--our annual family swim. My Mum and Dad hardly ever swim but on Christmas day it's tradition--they do.
I've been thinking ocassions like Christmas are like those lipstick paintings we made as kids. Anyone else ever do that when you were little? I remember we used to beg mum and she would rummage through her make-up until she found the brightest, cheapest tube of red lipstick she had. Then she'd smear it, strong and thick, on our puckered lips and then show us how to make funny shapes on a white piece of paper. I remember we were suppose to give most of our red offerings to the white paper but, if we were lucky, we'd find a chance to land a big red smacker on an unsuspecting cheek.
It came to me the other day that Christmas's are kind of like that. It's the traditions I realize I'll always remember: the way the little boys jump on top of me to wake me up at five o'clock, the way I always want the fruit loops cereal box but because someone else gets it first I always end up with cocoa pops, and how I can never remember which of the drinks at lunch is my favourite and so end up having half a cup of every kind.
It's as if the celebration of Christmas is the white piece of paper and the presents are the bright red lipstick. It's what we make of them--the hugs, the laughter, and the jokes in the giving--that are the true painting. I rather think I wouldn't have anything much to smile about if I couldn't look back and see a lazy day of celebration covered in random, lopsided, smudged kisses. One colour of Christmas is after all red.
Tell Me Truth
A certain someone tells me that I'm melodramatic. That same person also once told me I'm a hopeless romantic.
Five years ago I would have thought she was talking to the wrong person--now I'm just insanely curious.
You guys read my blog...tell me truth.
Am I really?
God Jul
I have an aunt that's Swedish but strangely enough I didn't learn the phase 'god jul' from her. My sisters and I actually learnt it from one of those wonderfully sappy short romance novellas. I can't remember much of the story anymore--I have a feeling it involved a girl and two guys--but the phase has stuck with me.
I love it. I love any two words that signify in another language 'merry christmas'. Two that come to mind are the Spanish: Feliz Navidad, and the German: Fröhliches Weihnachten. Feliz Navidad sounds great with a Jaci V. pop tune and if you want to wish a merry christmas to anyone you don't particularly like all you have to do is utter Fröhliches Weihnachten in a deep gutteral tone and your message should be clear (a scowl at the end works well).
But God Jul. There's something about those two words that seems totally different. The first thing that strikes me is the fact that it has the word 'god' in it. I know our version has the word 'christ' in it, but somehow I never think instantly of Christ when I hear it. I see visions of green, red, and tinsel first.
God Jul, however, doesn't hide itself behind a facade of cultural implications. It says it plain and true: God. Any mistakes here what it's about? Then we have Jul. As soon as I say the word I think of 'jewel'. God Jewel. God's Jewel. Jewel of God. Is this a new way to look at Christmas? I'm not sure.
It's midnight here and if tradition is followed to the letter then I'm to be woken by some unmerciful person in five hours. I probably won't be able to figure it out by then--sleep has a way of shutting down my brain--but maybe one day I'll figure it out. Maybe one day I'll ask my aunt for the exact translation.
In the meantime I hope you all have a wonderful day. May you see the glory, the glory of the one and only.
God Jul.
I Poisoned My Brother
It's with a heavy heart that I inform you that the aforementioned brother is now deceased. He died in my a most horrible way. You are all cordially invited to the funeral.
Nah. Just kidding. He is--sadly--still very much alive--even if he is suffering from a slightly upset stomach.
It wasn't intentional--I swear. It began purely as an act of unwarranted mercy. It began like this:-
A couple of nights ago the clock turned midnight. All was quite and not a mouse was stirring. Then Josh came out of the lounge room where he'd just finished watching the directors commentary on the LOTRs. He said 'hello' in an octave too loud and my darling little baby who was sleeping contentedly on the back step perked up her ears thinking, "Yay, Mummy is awake." She proceeded to send up a racket loud enough to be heard in NSW.
Josh growled. "Lyd, won't you feed her!"
"Why should I? You're the one that woke her up."
"My liver hurts." Josh pressed his hand over his lower left rib cage in a gesture probably ment to invoke great sympathy. I had none. It was his fault that he'd eaten those cheap lollies full of sellable poison earlier.
"So."
"Lyd, feed her!"
"No."
"She's giving me a headache."
"Ok, I'll feed her if you'll drink a cup of warm water with baking soda in it." I had previously had an enlightening conversation with my dear mother who had imparted on me the following wisdom: "Norm Grey (our previous doctor) once told me that if you're having trouble with your liver to drink a cup of warm water with epsom salts. It'll flush your liver right out." That's what she said, but midnight fatigue does funny things to my memory and I somehow had baking soda on the brain. Epsom salts...baking soda? It all sounded quite plausible and it appeared to be a great opportunity to show off my medical knowledge and cure his problem all in one hit. I added just to make sure he'd follow through, "I dare you."
I watched him guzzle a cloudy cup of water, fed my baby, and promptly went to bed.
I had no idea what then ensured until the next morning when my mother greeted me. She said none of the usual pleasantries. "Oh, darling daughter how you do light up my day." or even the more subdued, "Good morning." She gaped at me a moment and stated quite emphatically, "Lyd, baking soda makes you throw up!"
I blinked. I wasn't expecting this kind of news on an empty stomach. "What helps your liver then?"
"Epsom Salts!"
"Oh."
One More Thought
I'd like to thank Christine for her comment:
~~~
"It's a rewarding job, on its own. I chose poverty so that I could be home with the kids when they were tiny.
It's definitely a personal choice every woman has to decide for herself, either way!
The world is not big on selflessness, and that's the main requirement for being a good mother and wife.
Knowing when to set aside your own wants and needs, and when to tend to them can be tricky, and most women take it to unhealthy extremes, one way or the other.
I think that finding the best balance between what the mom needs for herself and what the kids/husband need from her can only really occur if the woman turns to God through it all."
~~~
I'd like to think I'm striving for the balance. If there's one thing that ranckles me more than the funny looks is when people then automatically dump me in the pile of extremists. I am not an extremist. Please no. I am not going to wish flames of fire down on your head if you don't have this same desire.
God has individual plans for each of us. I'd much rather you stayed in touch with Him and listened to Him with an open heart than reading every argument for or against motherhood. Just don't disregard any seemingly strange ideas He might implant in your heart. So often I think we figure out what we think we should consider in life, choose a few options and then hold them up like lucky straws before God and say, "Ok, which one do you want me to do?" instead of falling on our knees in total submission and saying, "God, I am so human and frail. My wisest thought is your dumbest. Please prepare me for what You have in mind, and when you think it's time, let me know."
I guess this is something I had to come to myself. I had to realize my decision had to rest on what God was telling me and not on the views held by the women around me.
I also had to realize I saw no justification to join the girls who then take this decision and sit on it waiting for God to forfill it. I'm not going to sit here indefinitely waiting for God to drop a man on my doorstep. I'd have to join the group of level-headed people who term this as extreme.
For a girl to do that is the equivalent of a guy saying, "I feel God has called me to be a pilot." And then when he can't find a job as a pilot, then refuses to consider any other option in the meantime. I believe God does have plans for my life in the 'waiting-time' and it's my responsibility to keep my ears open to His immediate leading. Sometimes, I believe, He leads us to be mechanics first so that we might be better fit to be a pilot later. We need to keep our hearts open--need to seek Him in His wisdom every day.
Serving God is afterall about the now. It's about one day at a time.
My Future Goal/Dream/Hope
Sometimes it's hard to feel romantic in summer--namely the days the temperature goes over 50C (112+F) and your sweat is so sticky you're clothes feel like glad wrap on your skin. But something happened last night--a sprinkling of snow rained down on my world and the flowers in my romantic garden perked up their heads.
If there's been one thing I've been looking forward to more than Christmas lately it's the Winter Olympics in January. I love the figure skating. The spinning hair, the fluid motions, the dance on ice. There's just something about skating. I could watch it all day.
I got especially enamored with the sport when I saw the routine performed by Jamie Sale and David Pelletier in the 2002 Winter Olympics. There was a delightfulness about their performance that outshone all of the others. It was as if all the other routines, no matter how perfect, were photos in black and white, and Sale and Pelletier came out in stunning colour.
I hadn't thought much about the couple since then--I'd even managed to forget their names--until late last night while impulsively surfing the net for ice skating information I stumbled across Jamie Sale and David Pelletier's website. I entered the site and was surprised to find out David had proposed to Jamie and they were planning to get married this December. I smiled and kept surfing idlely around their website. I was about to leave when these few lines written by Jamie stopped me short:
~~~
"What are your future goals/dreams/hopes? I want to be a Mom one day. I think this is the most amazing gift. I would also like to be the best wife and make my husband the happiest man ever."
~~~
Did Jamie Sale, the internationally famous figure skater, just say that? I sat, feeling the sweat run 
down my sides, for a moment. I thought about how it takes guts for a woman to say something like that these days. The modern western world with all it's high ideals doesn't consider motherhood a profession worthy of praise. And they'd certainly be the last to describe it as "the most amazing gift."
I've been surprised myself at the people who, even sub consciously, hold this viewpoint. I was once at my grandparents place sitting around the table with my parents and my grandpa. My Grandpa spun me that ever typical question, "What are your plans for after school, Lydia?"
I told him what I'd begun telling most anybody. I told him I wasn't sure. That I didn't feel that God was telling me to rush off to Uni to sign up for the next course in journalism or even photography. I told him I was trying to rest in the Lord, asking Him to provide the opportunities to learn the skills for the ultimate profession I felt He was leading me to--motherhood.
I didn't pick up my Grandfather's reaction. Sometimes I can be very blind. But a few days later my Dad caught me out when he said, "By the way, Lyd, I wanted to tell you how proud mum and I were of you the other day when you answered Grandpa. You didn't try to mask what you felt God has been telling you, and your answer really shocked him."
I frowned quizzically at my parents, not believing. Why would he have been shocked?
I thought of my Grandpa. He is an amazingly caring, down-to-earth person. He's been a missionary to Africa, a pastor for over twenty years, and one of the best persons I know. He'd never expected Grandma to work; he'd provided for her every one of their fifty years of marriage. When he had asked what I wanted to do, I had told him the utter truth, believing he'd be one of the few people that would understand. It didn't make sense that he should be shocked if I didn't say: "Oh, I want to go to Uni and then get a job."
I wanted to ring up my Grandpa and said, "But Grandpa I only desire to be what my Grandma and Mum are. I only desire to be a mum and support my husband the way Grandma has supported you over all these years."
What is so shocking about this? Why do people give us girls who say this funny looks? Is it really so scandalous of God to lead some of us down this path? Has the concepts of modern thought soaked so deep into our subconscious's that we can't even consider it?
Until the answer becomes completely clear, I guess, I'll keep on as I do. I'll smile when I hear my favourite figure skating pair in the world are getting married. I'll join the Jamie Sales of this world and share unashamedly this one desire God has laid on my heart---"I want to be a mum one day."
Five Days 'Til Christmas
Would you believe it? It's come so fast. Last year it didn't feel like this. The whole month of December dragged like cold honey through a tube. But this year...this year has been delightful. I just kind of woke up three days ago and realized, "Wait, it's Christmas in seven days!"
I watched a Carols by Candlelight show taped from four years ago, wrapped my presents, and got Mum to take a Christmassy shot of me and my latest baby.
Now that my mad dash it over I've arrived a little winded and slummed at the other end. You mean it's not Christmas yet? I feel like Aaron, my nine year old brother, I'd like to pull those last remaining five rings off the count-down chain and make it come faster. Pity it doesn't work like that.
In other non-important news: I've graduated grade twelve! Yes, officially. I received the certificate in the mail last week. It's strange seeing it. School seems like some weird memory long ago. It has to be over two years since I "officially" sat down every morning after breakfast to do two-four hours of uninterrupted school work.
It was also weird when I received a letter from the Australian Electoral Committee. I stared at the letter a while thinking, "But I'm still only seventeen." Then I realized it's only six month before I'll be voting age. Eighteen? When did that happen? Here we are going back to the Christmsa thing again. Life has suddenly pounced on me with a surprise, "Hey you're not looking where you're going." party.
Yeah, well, I like my life slow and simple.
Trying to figure it which balding male I think should govern Australia is a little out of my league. I say John Howard, but that can only be because he's the only name I know. I heard he goes for a run every morning and that reporters have to run with him to get their interviews. That sounds like a man with a determination to have control of his life. Is that enough reason to vote him in?
I'd leave the decision to all the people wiser than me except for the little fine print at the bottom of that letter from the Electoral Committe that reads, "Failure to cooperate in these matters could--and will--result in a substantial fine." Nice people.
Can't I just have Christmas? I want my pressies now.
Welcome to the Desert
Without dust:
With dust:
We've been having a lot of dust storms lately. Usually we might only get one or two every summer, but so far this year we've been averaging one a week.
We have three big lakes on our place and all of them have been dry now for over two years because of the drought. The winds blow up huge waves of dust across the lakes, hurtle them along the dirt roads, and throw them into the sky.
As soon as someone notices the cloud of dust thundering across the paddock, a cry like hot potatoes, is thrown around the house, "Dust!" A panic ensures. Everyone--whether talking to someone important on the phone, gluing together miniature sets, or catching falling pots off the stove--abandons their current occupation and runs to shut every door and window.
Even then the fine dust seems to find it's way into every crease and crevice. It covers the desks, so that everytime you touch it or pick up a loose piece of paper you find your hands covered in grit. The worse has to be if you get caught with your undried washing on the line. I once had three brand new white singlets on the line when a dust storm hit. I still don't think I've got all the red out of them yet. It's imbedded in the lace trim like dye.
It's like living in a bull ring. The wind rages and stomps and the dust billows. We had one particular storm a few weeks ago that was so thick we couldn't see our shed, 50 metres away. My Dad was down at the shearing shed, an open structure, and he says he couldn't even see out the door.
We sent photos of one recent dust storm to a pastor up north who we know has been praying we would get rain. His reply made us laugh, "I saw the title of the photos and rejoiced. I should have read the letter first. Maybe I just prayed for storms. Will have to be more specific and ask for rianstorms. How prone to floods are you?"
Quote of the Moment
I know I've talked a lot about prayer and the many different people praying for me this last year. But this one--wow--has to take the cake.
~~~
"You are also on our prayer chain at church. Just think: one of the guys in the band Third Day is on my church prayer chain so who knows??? Maybe even he and his wife are praying for you!"
~~~
Jodi
One November Month
It was a hot, that first day of November when I sat at the keyboard, put my fingers on the keys and typed the first word of my first novel. It was hot that November. It's the heat I remember most. The cool air from our struggling air conditioners never seemed to quite make it to the verandah where our computer was situated, and every word I typed, I typed to the taunting roar of gushing air in the rooms behind me. The computer would overheat, so hot you wouldn't dare touch it, and the heat from the keyboard would become intolerable on my palms.
When the air conditioners are first turned on in summer I'm always transported back to that November. When the keyboard of my laptop starts to burn my palms I think again of the pain each of those words was to write. Yes, I'll always remember that November month. Of the dreams I held of becoming a famous novelist--of how all my dreams came crashing down, like stars shaken loose from God's hand to fall, spent and lost, into the ocean.
I entered the valley that summer--the valley that almost consumed me whole.
~~~~
Two years ago, a friend told me about this wonderful event called National Novel Writing Month. According to the FAQs on the website, the idea of the whole month was for amateur writers to band together and support each other in writing a 50,000 word novel in one month. Anyone who hit 50,000 words was a winner, no matter how rubbishy their novel. And apparently rubbish prose was mandatory. If you were a writer wanting to write the perfectly written best seller you'd always dreamed of writing then this wasn't the month for you. Quantity over quality was the motto, they said.
At fifteen, the idea of writing a 50,000 word novel in one month seemed impossible. Writing terrified me. I liked to write, I dreamed of one day writing, but as soon as I went to put one word on a page my internal editor flashed out his fire breathing tongue and burnt it. Writing had to be perfect, and thus I couldn't do it.
The challenge of NaNoWriMo appealed to me instantly. Terrified me, yes, but appealed to me at the same time. The little being inside me that truly wanted to write began dancing up and down. Maybe this was it's time to shine. It always had hated that fire breathing internal editor.
The first two weeks I steamed along full throttle. Every word I wrote was like sucking sap out of a cold tree. But no matter how painful the process the words were coming and there was nothing in the world that was going to keep me from hitting that 50k finish line.
I knew I wasn't well even then, but the doctor's didn't know what I had, and seeing as I had been doing school ok I thought I could write a novel. But something went seriously wrong in that third week. I got a continuous, highest-grade migraine you can, the kind pain killers couldn't over-ride; my brain shut down to the point where I couldn't even participate in a conversation; and I collapsed, trembling, sweating, and running a fever. The characters in my book were finally getting things together, but at 30,784 words my own world fell apart.
I went to bed and cried for a week, promising myself that one day when I was better I’d finish it.
As you all know my health only went down from there. In January I found out I had Glandular Fever and two thyroid disease. Then my doctor told me I had Adrenal Fatigue. Then Myalgic Encephalomyelitis and a chronic digestive problem bordering on Crohn's Disease.
The dream of finishing my first novel seemed as unattainable as catching a star. I was lost, beaten under the relentless storms of my life, and my dreams were as equally lost, sunk forever in the deep depths of the ocean.
~~~
This year I hadn't planned to finish it. At the beginning of November I just mooned around on the NaNoWriMo forums dreaming about all the novels I’d one day write. Then I stumbled across a thread in one forum for the chronically ill. As I read through their posts of woe and triumph, a small wriggle of something scary began to grow, slowly, ever upward into the very pit of my gut. Could I do it? I did after all only have 19,085 words to go.
I went back to bed and told myself I was silly. But there was this whirlwind in my gut and though I tried to ignore it, it just got bigger until I knew I had to let it loose.
A week before, I had just begun scribbling extensive story ideas for a wonderful story I desperately wanted to write. But somehow the fact that I hadn’t finished my first novel, scared me from starting. I knew to get it written I had to first finish that first novel. If I didn’t, I had no assurance I could finish this new one. I couldn’t take that thought because I love this story too much. It’s beautiful and I have to write it.
It was like the whirlwind. I knew that if I didn't let the first one out, the second one would only get bigger, until in the end I'd choke with the story inside me. I've heard authors talk of this strange phenomenon--of these stories some of us have to write because we simply can not.
So I jumped in to NaNoWriMo half way through. I wrote, I panicked, and somehow in the miracle of a late night, I hit 50k. I can't describe the feeling that washed over me. It was three a.m. in the morning, my eyes were shrouded in fatigue, and I barely had the strength to move the mouse, but the little number was there on my screen. I had reached 50,000 words and gone streaming by laughing myself silly. This was life, this was glory, this was--dare I say it--a novel?
It's been almost two weeks since that night. I look at the thick stack of papers on my desk and I wonder if I really did write every one of those words. It seems impossible. But then I hear the gush of cool air in the room behind me, the keyboard is hot on my palms and I tell myself it must be real.
The ocean is deep, but God's arm even longer, and this one falling star he caught for me.
My Sister Said
This is silly really. I was on the phone with Rachel a while back and she was like, "Lyd, write it in your blog."
I was like, "I don't think anyone reads it anymore."
"You wanna bet?"
"Well, why would they? I haven't written on there for ages."
"I bet they do." Rachel has that chloric way of always sounding completely certain.
I'm interested in writing more posts. My life has come full circle and as I slowly climb out of this valley, I keep recogninsing new colour rings in the cliff showing me old things that I'm returning to.
Maybe writing in my blog is one of them?
You tell me.
