Tumoulin Girl

Anyone remember me?

2007-01-08T21:04:00.000+10:00

So Mrs M does (a thousand hugs Miss Julie!!) but whew life gets full so quick. I'm 18, I have a boyfriend, a car, red nail polish, and my Daddy worries about me when I'm out for over 48 hours.

Anyone remember me?

FOR RACHEL

2006-11-01T11:20:00.000+10:00

I'VE JUST GOT TO SHOWER, GET SOME CLOTHS AND STOP SMELLING SO BAD. I HAVE AN OPTOMETRIST APPOINTMENT TODAY AND I DON'T CARE TOO HOOTS ABOUT IT BUT I SUPPOSE IT'LL BE GOOD TO GET MY TWENTY-FIFTY VISION CHECKED. IT COULD ALWAYS START FAILING ANYDAY. AND I MIGHT GET TO GO TO BIG W WHICH WOULD BE AWESOME COZ I DESPERATELY NEED MORE MAKEUP. SO HEY THIS IS A POST. :P OH, AND JUST IN CASE YOU'RE STILL INTERESTED, I DIDN'T GET TO LEARN HOW TO PAINT SATURDAY COZ WE JUST DIDN'T GET AROUND TO IT BUT WE DID GO TO THE YUNGABURRA MARKETS WHICH IS ALWAYS FUN. EXCEPT THE HEAT. OH MY GOODNESS. EMMA AND I BOTH WORE JEANS AND BY LUNCH TIME WE WERE COOKING. LUCKY SHE'S HALF INDIAN, SHE JUST WENT DARKER FROM THE SUN BUT I GOT SO SUNBURNT THAT SUNDAY I WAS SO BEET RED EVERYONE AT CHURCH WOULDN'T STOP TALKING ABOUT IT. I'D WEAR SUN SCREEN BUT IT'S JUST SO STICKY. ICK. I HATE THAT STUFF. BUT YEAH. I'M SURE I NEED TO GET OVER IT. FRIDAY I AGREED TO PLAY SOCCOR FOR THE CHRISTIAN JULIBEE COLLEGE GIRLS TEAM WHICH COULD BE INTERESTING. THEY MUST BE PRETTY DESPERATE FOR PLAYERS COZ I CAN BARELY KICK A BALL STRAIGHT AND THEY KNOW IT. STILL IT COULD BE FUN. I'M DETERMINED NOT TO GET BURNT AGAIN. ARGH. I CAN'T BELIEVE THE PAIN. ANYWAY, IT'S ELEVEN THIRTY AND I STILL HAVEN'T SHOWERED. YOU'LL HAVE TO DO WITH THIS. LOVE YOU, YOU DAG!

Hey peoples

2006-09-22T18:47:00.000+10:00

As of Tuesday I'm a fully licenses driver.

And now I must away to tea.

Photos for you....

2006-09-14T12:41:00.000+10:00

Sleeeeepy Shelby.

Pwetty waterfall.

Aaaaw...

Yours truly.

Quote of the moment:

2006-09-13T17:40:00.000+10:00

Two reminders for myself for when I'm convinced life sucks and there's no point in trying anymore.

::::......
"I think the thing that really had the most effect on me was early on in my career, when I kind of not really sure what I was in for - I knew I was doing 'the singing thing' and the concerts, and all that stuff. When I really realized that it was way bigger than me, I was doing this show and there were a lot of young girls there - screaming, and all that kind of stuff - and there was this one girl who you could totally tell that she didn't want to be there. She had her head down the whole time - rolling her eyes, and stuff like that. I saw her and I just, kind of, kept looking at her. While I was singing I just started praying, "Help me to say something to really get her attention." So, I just started talking about just a little more personal things for me - about insecurities and trying to find yourself, and stuff like that. And she picked up her head, and she started nodding her head. Then I saw her cry a tear. I was just like, "That's awesome." That's what helps me to put everything into perspective and reminds me of what I'm in this for. "

......

"I've only been in this for five years, but it's so easy to get jaded - in Nashville. Not just musically, but also personally with people. You're like, "Oh, everybody's in it for the same reason. Everybody is stuck in the same mindset." No! Let's lift each other up. Let's talk about real things and be honest and talk about things that aren't so great in your life. Let's help each other out. Let's grow. For a long time, I just kind of cut myself off because I was like, "Oh, nobody really wants to know the real me" and stuff like that. Just recently, God's been like, "You have a lot of work to do on yourself - so let's not be talking about who everybody else is. Just be open, be honest...talk to me." Talk to God, and talk to each other. I think everybody will benefit from being a little more real with each other. "
......:::::

Rachael Lampa

Word Count: 105

2006-09-06T13:17:00.000+10:00

This poem has a prequel but I haven't finished it yet. I need to read through a few more Switchfoot songs first. But this one I needed to complete for my second assignment, thus, to be confusing and back-to-front, this is the end before the beginning.

2) In fewer than 150 words of prose or poetry, describe your heart’s desire for your inner spiritual life.

Consume Me

I’d like to be blinded by Your glory
Lost in the sound of Your voice
I’d like to be filled with Your wonder
Dancing in the land of Your choice

I’d like to be dusty and dirty
Broken and true
I’d like to watch the sunrise
See only You

Lord, you’re all powerful, you’re everything

Take everything I could be
This is my surrender
Won’t you consume me

And I see the sunshine
And I hear the wind
And I feel the heartbeat
Here where you have been

Won’t you take me under, fill me through
This is my surrender
To be consumed by you

I don't like this post...

2006-08-29T00:20:00.000+10:00

Long time no write, I know. I pray ask y'alls forgiveness. I've been busy...thinking, living, getting lost (though, how one gets lost in a ghost town the size of Tumoulin I'm still trying to figure out. Shall get back to you on that one).

In case any of you were wondering what the last post was about, I've signed up for the Christian Writers Guild writing course. Yes, indeedy. They've given me a wonderful mentor and everything. I'll put some of my stuff up as I write it and would love any and all comments. So, you know...comment. Or I'll throw exploding bananas...or something equally expensive. Please =D

And what else was I thinking.

1. Pious people make me want to scream
2. I wish I could eat chocolate mint ice cream
3. Rachel and Shelby are coming to visit Thursday (yay!)
4. "Dare You to Move" by Switchfoot never ceases to get me out of a bad mood.
5. Praying never ceases to get me out of a bad mood.
6. Talking of which, I need to pray more, which leads me to:-
7. I mean to pray more.
8. Daddy made me a swing, my favourite place to pray, so I shall pray more.
9. I need more summer tops
10. I've fallen in love with gypsy/boho skirts
11. I keep driving by police cars.
12. Or police cars keep driving past me.
13. I'm going for my Ps in three weeks.
14. I really should write something intelligent again soon like I used to.
15. Yes.
16. Hmm
17. Did I say pray?
18. Yeah, I think I did.
19. I need to ring Bethy (love you dear! I've been thinking about you.)
20. And this is twenty.
21. Too bad for twenty-one questions. Answers is all I have brain power for.

I hope you all have a wonderful week =) I honestly mean to try to write more, I've just been kind of busy and brain power as been at an all time low. Still, I shall try. And now I'm away---to bed, and sticky dreams of peppermint chocolate. Buenas noches.

So this is what uni is like...

2006-08-18T11:31:00.000+10:00

In case any of you have the boredom and patience to read one thousand, one hundred and sixty-six words, this is my first assignment.

-----
1) Write a letter of no more than 500 words introducing yourself to your mentor. Include such information as your stage of life, employment or family situation, educational background, and church and ministry involvement. Also, let your mentor know if you’ve had any preparation or experience as a writer.

Dear Christy,

Hi, please allow me to introduce myself. I’m Lydia, one of your new students (obviously!). I’ve been dreaming about signing up for this course since I was about fifteen and now that my life has finally hit the stage that I am here, graduated from school and ready for something more, I’m excited to be finally doing it!

I recently turned eighteen, I’m a helpless bookworm, and the third oldest of seven kids. I grew up on a remote sheep station in outback Australia but just of three months ago my family shifted and I’m now cooling my toes off in tropical north Queensland. I don’t have a job yet but on top of this course I’d like to become a part-time secretary or tutor.

Writing wise I’ve done a few things here and there. In high school I won a state writing competition that entitled me to an all expenses paid week long young writers conference. There were about twelve other kids at the conference and the teachers, all published authors, covered all the different perspectives of writing from short story to poetry. That was when I was fourteen. When I was sixteen, my older brother went to Africa on mission work and I spent the year writing and editing his newsletters. I was sending out on average one to two newsletters a month, hard work at the time, but I’m so thankful for the things I learned that year about taking down stories from dictation, writing concisely, and sticking to a set writing schedule (all things I’m terrible at!). I’ve also kept a regular journal since I was about twelve; kept an online Blog for two years; and just last year I wrote my first novel under the National Novel Writing Month Competition.

In unimportant information: I love to travel, I’m besotted with the Spanish language, and my all time favourite authors are Robins Jones Gunn and Bodie Thoene.

I really look forward to working with you.

God bless,
Lydia

2) In no more than two sentences, write your purpose and goal for wanting to become a trained Christian writer.

To encourage and challenge young teenage girls.

3) In fewer than 300 words, describe your spiritual journey to faith in Christ—or, if you came to faith as a child, the key events of your walk with Christ. This will likely take serious cutting and revision.

All the key events of my life seem to occur during the hot heat of summer (maybe living in the middle of the desert had something to do with this?) and the day of my salvation was just one of those events. Technically I became a Christian when I was about five, but I can barely remember it and I’m not sure I knew just what salvation was about. My faith was mostly my parents and I was good just because I couldn’t imagine ever disobeying my parents. Things began to change when I was around eight and my family shifted. I struggled to make friends and I felt alienated and unsure of who I really was. I started getting really scared and I couldn’t figure out if I was truly saved or not. I kept asking God to come into my heart but I couldn’t feel anything and I was afraid He hadn’t heard me. Whenever there was an altar call thing at Sunday school or at church I’d say the prayer in my heart.

I must have done that five or more times until one night I remember lying on my bed. It was a hot summer night, my window was open and there was huge swarms of mosquitoes all around my head. My Dad had just prayed with me. My Dad was a shearer but because he had to be away for days on end he wanted to get a different job. Always my Dad had wanted to have his own sheep station but we didn’t have enough money to buy a farm so he was praying about finding a job as a manager. This was a hard time for my family and that night I must have asked my Dad what was happening because he said he didn’t know but that he wanted things to change and then, right there and then, for the first time, he invited me to pray with him about it. At the end of his prayer he said, “And we trust that you’ll provide what is best for our family. Amen.”

Lying there in the dark, watching the mosquitoes, I thought about what my Dad said. The mosquitoes swarmed up toward the ceiling and then turned and dive bombed straight at my face. What if they could kill me? I suddenly thought. Would I go to heaven or hell? I swatted the mosquitoes away but really I wanted to pull the blanket over my head and hide forever.

Then the words my Dad said repeated themselves in my head: “And we trust you…” What if I said that to God about Heaven? I wondered. Would it mean it could really happen? How did I know for sure He hadn’t saved me? People always said you could tell if someone was really a Christian because they changed. Well, I didn’t feel any different and I wasn’t sure just what I needed to change. But what if I just believed it---what if I just believed he had saved me and then lived as if He did? Maybe then I’d know for sure if He’d saved me. I figured that if I wasn’t saved I wouldn’t be able to change and if I had been saved then I would.

I tried it, I changed, and I’ve never felt the need to say the salvation prayer again.

4) Check your local newspaper or your favourite magazines for an example of persuasive writing. Write one paragraph telling why you found it so.

I found it persuasive because the author used quotes, scripture, and examples of real life people (one from the Bible and others from her own life) to back up what she was saying. I also found it persuasive how she shared her own experience and how it had helped her.

5) List five publications in which you would like your writing published.

Brio/Brio & Beyond, Young Ladies Christian Fellowship Journal, Clubhouse/Clubhouse Jr., Underground Newsletter, National Geographic

6) Write, E-mail, or call those publications for samples and writers guidelines. Begin building a file folder of such material. In a Word document or a spreadsheet program like Microsoft Excel, record: name of publication, frequency of publication, name of editor, addresses (including E-mail), and telephone number(s).

I’ve attached said document with this one.

-----

The Cops Pulled Me Over and Carted Me Away

2006-07-15T22:43:00.000+10:00

Well, I was scared to death and thought they were going to. Seriously they followed me all the way up the mountain. I was just driving home from youth group when passing the turn-off to Herberton, the cops pull out behind me. Josh is snickering in the backseat, "Guess which way they turned." And Dad's all fatherly, "Don't worry. They're nothing to be afraid of."

The first turnoff I had to make turns up suddenly around a sharp corner and it was so foggy I just knew I was going to miss it. I kept asking Dad when it was coming and I was so nervous I still ended up mistakening the turn off three corners berfore it turned up. I indicated for like three quarters of the mountain and I wonder what the poor cops thought of that. Then as I come up to turn a car comes driving up from the opposite direction so I'm just sitting there dumbly in the middle of the road and I thought (ok, was desperately hoping) that the cops would pull out and go ahead but they're just sitting there nice as you please right behind me and I'm so nervous I forgot to dim my lights.

I take the turn and I'm just getting over my dismay and embarrassment and starting to convince myself the cops just happen to be going in the same direction as me when I see these strange lights in my rearview mirror and realize they're flashing me. I'm gripping the wheel in panic and Dads like, "You have to pull over." Oh. So I do and managed to have the place of mind to wind down my window before the guy turns up with his little torch.

He looks at me with this half smile, "Did you realize you just high-beamed someone back there?" Oh, man. He wants to flame me for that? "Nah, it's ok, you're not really in trouble. I noticed your 'L' plates and it must be nerve-racking having a police car behind you." Understatement!

He ended up being pretty nice and only really wanted to give me a breathalizer test. Consumed any alcohol? No, sir. Oh, good. Then he gave me the straw as a momento for my first breathalizer test and drove off. It was all kind of melodramatic. Thankgoodness. He even noticed I can I go for my P's soon.

P.S. By the way, thank you so much to everyone who wrote letters for the notebook thing Stephen was putting together. I love it so much! Thank you! Namely: thanks to Stephen for going to so much trouble to put it all together (and Mum and Hannah who hacked into my e-mail accounts), Rebecca (from the Sunshine Coast), Heidi, Pete H., Rachel and Matt (& Shelby), Matt D., Sarah, Cory, Beth G., Josh, Caleb, Aaron, all the Khus, Naomi, Kyra, Bethany, Melina, and all the others. It's seriously one of the best presents I've ever gotten.

I had an awesome birthday and I'll try to post photos sometime. Maybe late next week. I have a feeling the next couple of days are going to be kind of full. Could be interesting. I hope y'all have a good weekend/week (depending on where you live!).

Nearly There

2006-07-07T22:47:00.000+10:00

Countdown: TWO DAYS until my eighteenth.

Or....(and this sounds way better): 25 hrs and 6 minutes until I become an adult.

What is it about having no parents around that makes everything weird and spooky happen?

2006-07-06T22:08:00.000+10:00

So yeah, our neighbour was nearly involved in a car crash, everyone thought we were burning down the neighbourhood and I wish mum was home already.

Countdown: THREE DAYS until my eighteenth.

...and continues...(with a quick rugby match interlude)

2006-07-05T23:13:00.000+10:00

I'm not sure what you guys have in America (rugby? grid iron?) but we have Rugby League over here and it's kind of a big deal this time of year. There's this one series of matches espeically called the State of Origin that are a huge deal. It's about the state of Queensland versus New South Wales and they face off once a year. The best part is how the players--no matter where they currently live--have to play for the state they were originally born in (hence it's name: State of Origin). I was born in Queensland (go the Maroons!) but my youngest brother Aaron was born in New South Wales and thus it's a real competition thing.

So yeah, my reason for explaining all this. Tonight was the last match of the three, the decider. I'd totally forgotten about it but then after tea someone brought it up and Dad was like, "We have to see it." The three middlers pooped out and voted to watch a movie so Dad, Aaron and I went over to the neighbours. The Maroons (QLD) got the first goal, then the Blues (NSW) the second. It was 4-all at half time. The blues powered ahead at this point, shooting up to 14 points with only ten minutes left to the game. I thought QLD were goners by this point and Aaron was smirking and cheering like a cheshire cat when suddenly Lockyear, captain of the Maroons, thundered through the Blues defense line and ran the ball home. The Maroons got two goals and a few extra kicks within the last ten minutes---and won. Apparently this finally breaks a three year winning streak the Blues had over us.

Today was totally weird in that it was completely boring and I was hating it and then it ends like this. I'm so not a sports nut but this warms my heart. Eat your heat out little brother! The Maroons rule.

Countdown: FOUR DAYS until my eighteenth.

P.S. Another lovely piece of news. Mummy comes home tomorrow.

....and continues....

2006-07-04T23:59:00.000+10:00

Can you believe it. Pirates of the Caribbean 2 is out and I might be able to see it this weekend. I am a happy girl.

Countdown: FIVE DAYS until my eighteenth.

And Continues....

2006-07-03T23:46:00.000+10:00

Today was Monday. I slept in, went to town, drove the car, weeded the garden, took care of my week-after-camp-sick suffering siblings and looked through old photo albums.

Countdown: SIX DAYS until my eighteenth.

The Countdown Continues

2006-07-01T19:56:00.000+10:00

Man, camp fatigue is an exstoridinary phenomenon. We got home today and collapsed into mush. Hannah curled up on her bed with her butt in the air like Sid in Toy Story and was asleep within thirty seconds. I'm not exaggerating. It would have been a cute picture if she hadn't have looked like she was at deaths door.

I slept half the afternoon away myself. Now I suppose I better go rediscover the wonder of running water.

Adeus.

Countdown: EIGHT DAYS until my eighteenth.

The Countdown Begins

2006-06-29T23:41:00.000+10:00

So I'd say something except my brain is fried. Thus lets start something monotonous.

Countdown: TEN DAYS until my eighteenth.

Here, There, Everywhere

2006-06-26T15:42:00.000+10:00

Sorry about all this confusion! The server went down on my old website again and it's annoying me to no end so I'm shifting back to blogger. I might end up paying for a real server sometime but I'm not sure. For the time being I think I'll just hole up here.

Check back at my old address if you want to see anything from my old website (the server just might be working), otherwise most everything (posts and links) should be over here.

Yay, I Always Have Wanted to Go to Sweden

2006-06-24T12:05:00.000+10:00

Your Inner European is Swedish!

Relaxed and peaceful.
You like to kick back and enjoy life.

Who's Your Inner European?

12-Point Ramble

2006-06-20T21:14:00.000+10:00

1. As I was sitting here thinking back over the last week it suddenly hit me that Bethany would already be in Switzerland by now. I've been so busy Friday completely passed me by without me thinking of it. Still, surely it must have happened and if you're reading this Bethy, I'd just like to say I hope you have the most wonderful trip. I'm so happy and excited for you.

2.My own life has been ever interesting. Matt drove in with Dad Tuesday night and it was so good to see him again. I hadn't seen him in over a year and though the others with Dad and Mum ended up showing him around the most as I stayed home and slept, the time I got with him was wonderful. There's something about catching up with a person face to face that so much better than talking on the phone.

3. There's so many fascinating things around here. On Sunday Matt, Becky and I drove around a bit and Beck was telling me how one of the lakes here actually has an old ghost town in it. Apparently during one drought the lake dried up so much one of the cricket fields appeared and everyone went down and palyed a game of cricket. Crazy, no?

4. And another thing, the pastor's wife was telling me one of the towns around here has a street named 'Lydia'. Imagine that. My very own street. I keep thinking I need to find it so I can get a photo.

5. I love my niece.

6. Next week looks to be good. Josh and Hannah are leaving for camp on Monday and then on Wednesday Mum is flying down to Sydney to see Rachel and Shelby, so Dad, the two little boys and I will be home alone for a couple of days before we go down to pick them up from camp.

7. I’m not sure yet where the rest of my life is going. It's been totally confusing trying to think through everything. To be an author or not to be an author. To be a doula or not to be a doula. Wait, just what is a doula? How about a brain-dead job while I think about it? This would be lovely, but what on earth could I do half sick? Type up articles for the law courts? Be a secretary?

8 I managed to think myself into a real mess.

9. But yeah, finally got through that intact (I think) and seeings as I had originally decided to apply for a writers course I'm going to stick with that. I keep questioning it: like really, how handy is writing going to be getting a job in Europe? But yeah, it’s probably a stupid thought. I need to start somehwere and if I stay doing nothing I'm going to go completely crazy.

10. I’ve just got to get a hold of the Christian Writers Guild office somehow. I’ve signed up twice online for their free starter kit but three months later and still nothing is here. Rachel convinced me I needed to chase it up so I rang them but because their base is in America I ended up speaking to an answering machine. That went well until I hung up and realized I’d given them the wrong phone number. Whoops. I rang them again but somehow ended up talking to a different answering machine. This threw me completely off guard and I ended up rambling on about all the mistakes I’d just made on their other answering machine. Now I’m sure all Americans living in the Colorado Mountains must be convinced Australians are completely off their rockers. I’d try to ring them again but I’d hate to ruin the reputation of all Australians for good. Maybe I’ll e-mail.

11. Job wise I might end up being a part-time secretary. Dad is looking into trading second hand cars on the side and depending on how successful this is I could end up with a job dealing with all the paper work. Already he's sold the truck we used for shifting up here and with the money from that sale bought a van and a ute. How these next two vehicles sell I guess will be the clincher.

12. In the meantime they’ve been just lovely to drive around in. Until last week I’d never driven an automatic before, now I’m hooked.

13. So yeah, that’s my life. I live in a place with underwater cities, I love being an aunt, if I can learn to talk rationally on American answering machines, I might manage to become an intelligible author (well, y’all can only hope).

P.S. BTW, I'm going to be eighteen in two weeks. How bizarre is that?

Round Chairs and Baby Stats Winners

2006-06-15T22:06:00.000+10:00

I'm wondering if any one of you random people could help me. I'm wanting to get a round kind of chair for my study but I can't for the life of me figure out what it's called. I did a Google image search and this is exactly what I'm looking at:

Round chair 1. Round chair 2.

Either like that, with the cane base, or from memory I reckon I've seen them with steel bases and funky fluffy material just like the Butterfly Chairs which you can see here. Does such a thing exist or could I be mistakening it for the Butterfly Chair? Mum and I have tried nearly every kind of name we can think of under the australian google search and nothing seems to be coming up anywhere. There's all these fun round chairs in the display houses but none in the furnitre shops. It's really weird.

~~~~~~~

In other news, I have a better photo of Shelby. Isn't she just the darlingest? I so wish I could pop down and see her. Matthew has two weeks off work and then after that Mum's going to go down for a week or so. Then the talk is so far that around October or September Rachel will come up with bub to see us.

And doesn't she just have the thickest mane of hair? It's quite a surprise as Matt and Rach were both born almost completely bald. Maybe it's some crazy throw back gene or something? My Mum's mum had gorgeous black ringlets so who knows...

I think I can figure out who won the stats competition now. The stats being:

Gender: Girl
Amount of hair: Lots
Date Born: 13th (one day late)
And for those interested in morbid detail-
Labour: 22 hours

In other words Cory and Stephen did win fact wise (but according to the mother-that-is that doesn't count). Andrew came very close. I came kind of close (ok, on the date only) and though Elyse did end up specifying the 14th, she orginally said it would be "later". Thus after much thought, pain, and chocolate eating I conclude that *drum roll please*

Elyse is winner of the CafedeFlores Baby Stats Guessing Competition!

Congratulations to Elyse! She said it would be a girl. She said it would have some hair (a terrible understatement but in this case very forgiveable). And she said it would be born "later" and thus at one day later it was (not to mention the bub in question does now have above mentioned winners name as her middle name. Irony, coindence or not? Who knows).

A thousand cyber chocolate kisses to Elyse. You know have full rights to gloat. Well done.

It's a Girl!

2006-06-13T14:08:00.000+10:00

I have to admit I was shocked. I seriously thought it was going to be a boy. But still. Can you believe it? I'm an aunt!

She is apparently a girl. She has a full head of hair. Her name is Shelby Elyse. She was born at exactly 3:03am this moring the 13th of June and her daddy got to catch her as she came out.

This is her.

This is the happy little family.

Maybe...

2006-06-13T00:02:00.000+10:00

I might have news. In a few hours I might have news. Big news. Historical kind of news. This is a fact. Actually it could be a fact. It will be a fact.

Just know this: entries are now closed for the stats competition. Sorry peoples. Nature doesn't wait around for late comers.

~~~~~~~~~

(three hours later)

No news, not really. But I've just been surfing randomly through old blogs of people I once kept up with more faithfully than I have recently (shame on me) and now, after touching base in these old familiar hangouts, I find myself full of a thousand more thoughts and feelings.

Plus my right hand is cramping with the cold. This is indeed an old familiar sensation and strangely enough, almost comforting. The smoke, however, is new. Half way through one blog post it finally hit me my eyes were smarting from more than just the glare. I got up to investigate, found the kitchen full of smoke and the flu shut on our wood stove. I open said flu and a window besides and things have improved from there. This typing now is helping to warm up my fingers.

One post by a girl I met on a forum upwards of three years ago hit me the hardest. Through events I won't try to explain, I found out about her Dad once...from her. She told me she'd never told anyone, not even her best friend of whom I also knew closer at the time. I'll always remember that. You can never pick them, you know.

I may seem crazy
Or painfully shy
And these scars wouldn't be so hidden
If you would just look me in the eye

It makes me wonder. Leaves me sober. When I was at my sickest and I was fighting the worse of my depression I remember once thinking just how ironic it was how close to a cutter I was without really being one. I didn't have to cut for the pain, I just let myself hurt; the physical was already there for the emotional. In fact, it all happened backward: in my own morbidness I remember thinking I didn't have to think about how to kill myself becaues I knew I was already dying.

I feel alone here and cold here
Though I don't want to die
But the only anesthetic that makes me feel anything kills inside

Then in moments like these I find myself back at Sara. A little more of the life she tried so valiantly to hide is revealed and here, within the depth of a cold night, I realise I know nothing. In light of her shattered world I'm a china doll with barely a crack, living and breathing in a near perfect haven. My Daddy's never been on drugs, he's never stolen from me.

I remember two other girls I've known in real life. One is one of the sweetest girls I have ever met. Her Dad was a salvation army minister. He turned abusive, alcoholic, and emotionally abused each of his children individually through e-mail after being banned by the courts to ever have contact with his family again. For ages they tried to get help but nobody would believe them because her dad was a respected minister at the time. Now her mum is an unstable alcolic and her sister is almost permanently in a psychiatric award.

I do not want to be afraid
I do not want to die inside just to breathe in
I'm tired of feeling so numb
Relief exists I find it when
I am cut

The other girl's father is closer to home. He can see her, she has to see him and even now at twenty-one she's still having to fight the emotional abuse he dishes at her. Both of these girls are terrified of their real fathers. They were on my Cambodian missions team and all the time we were away they lived with the fear their dads would have somehow managed to find out what returning flight they would be on and would be there in the airport upon their return to kidnap or abuse them. What gets me the most is how two of these three men were ex-pastors, the two worst at that.

A fragile flame aged
Is misery
And when our hearts meet
I know you see

If this is reality then the word in and of itself is ugly. I'm waiting to find out for sure that I've become an aunt while, on the other side of the world, a girl one year younger than I is wondering if shoving a knife under her dad's door would be message sufficient enough to let him know of her anger and hurt.

I'm not a stranger
No I am yours
With crippled anger
And tears that still drip sore

A guy once said: "Others keep saying how people now a days need to hear about Jesus so they don't do drugs, go with girls and all that other stuff. And I find myself disagreeing. They don't need to know about Jesus so they won't do those things...they need to know about Jesus because they need a saviour."

All this makes me wonder, you know. It puts my life in perspective. Leaves me sober.

Quick Note of Reference

2006-06-12T14:33:00.000+10:00

I have a feeling this is going to be an historical week.

ONE: Rachel's baby is due today (this is your last chance to get guesses in).
TWO: My big brother, Matt, who I haven't seen in over six months is coming up for half a week on Wednesday.
THREE: One of my bestest best friends from America is leaving for Switzerland on Friday.

Ten Pins Down

2006-06-03T22:52:00.000+10:00

My experience with tenpin bowling went thus:

# First bowl I striked zero.
# Second bowl I striked zero.
# Third bowl I hit one pin.
# The rest of the game and next proceeded in a similar fashion...
# ...ending quite valiantly in two back-to-back strikes within the last four bowls of the last game (just to pile belated success upon belated success, my friend Becky also struck her first strike of the whole night at exactly this same point).

This has led me to two conclusions:

1. I'm really bad at bowling (duh!) or
2. I perform best under pressure.

Either way I'm sure going three years plus between bowling experiences cannot be beneficial to my average (and just for the record: it's really fun to bowl backwards (e.g. facing away from the alleyway and throwing said ball randomly between legs). This style makes above mentioned score look less terrible and, if by luck it manages to hit any pins, it makes the success look all the more spectacular.)

My Anti-Garfield Saturday

2006-06-03T12:18:00.000+10:00

I have high hopes for this weekend. Firstly I woke to the yelling and stomping of half my family leaving for morning tea at the neighbours. Hannah and I revelled in the silence and then, remembering we were home alone for at least two hours, turned the music up as high as the volume would go. I do love listening to music from the opposit end of the house. It's almost like listneing to a CD for the first time, I find myself hearing all the smaller instruments and funky key notes that I haven't heard before.

My hair came out soft and bouncy after I washed it. This bodes well for church tomorrow.

Then I did something I haven't dared do in months: I stepped on the scales and lo and behold that cheeky little piece of iron and plastic tells me I've put on two kilos. I'm not sure I believe it.

In January when I started trying to put weight back on I defied my doctors wish to keep an eye on my weight and quit weighing myself. I'm a scardy-cat. I figured that at the worse if I didn't put any weight on I wouldn't have to know about it and if I did then I'd know the instant my cloths started fitting properly again. I still don't feel like my cloths are fitting any differently. But people keep asking me lately if I've put any on and I decided I had to face the scale.

I felt like the suspicious Garfield when the number of my weight showed up. Two kilos? I've been exercising regularly for at least two months now and I'm wondering if maybe the jelly in my legs is turning back into muscle and thus because muscle is heavier than flab it's pushing my weight up. I guess that either ways it's a good thing.

In other good things: it's beuatifully sunny and warm today; our lovely neighbour Robyn sent home dried mango and the smell is just heavenly; I'm off to watch rubbish TV; and tonight we're going bowling with the youth group.

Wonderful, wonderful. Beautiful, beautiful. Wonderfully beautiful Saturday.

Wake Me Up Inside

2006-06-01T23:59:00.000+10:00

It was strange when we first shifted. I remember feeling like I couldn't think anymore. For the first week I could barely even read a book. It was like the whole inside of me froze and it was just my outside left, walking and talking and doing things.

Now suddenly, after four weeks, it's like I can think again but all is in a jumble and I can't explain anything. People keep asking me how I'm going and I find myself thinking, "You know, I'm not sure. I haven't been thinking about it. I think I'm fine."

Even now I don't know where to go with this post. I'm just sitting here, all these emotions tumbling around inside me. It's like there's something there but I just can't reach it. The real me is there somewhere, lost way down low, and I only wish it would come back.

I don't know anything anymore. I don't know who I am or how I feel. For an afternoon or a day it will be like something familiar comes back, all is well and I'm secure in who I am; and then the setting changes, I'm in the car coming home from church instead of heading towards church and my whole inner self is caving in. I'm living on a merry-go-round where one second I'm whizzing past self-confidence, the next I'm falling off at confusion.

Is this life? Is there anyway to get back on? Is there anyway I can get back to the middle of my being where life spins around me instead of me spinning around helplessly with life?

I think about Europe. I've always wanted to go there. I have no wish to visit as a tourist; I'd like to stay there for a year or two, get a job, meet people and go to church. I'd like to live in Europe and be a part of it. One way I imagine myself doing this is sitting in the cafes. I thought that maybe I could do it here but it doesn't feel right. It has to be a cafe in a big city beside a busy street to work. No one would know me then, the throng would leave me inconspicuous and no passing person would even remember my face. Somehow life seems easier when I think of it in this way. There would be no expectations. I could laugh and cry without having to explain to anyone why.

Whoever said one can be lonely in the middle of a crowd was right. There's a solace in isolation and as I spin and fall so endless the safety of it's animosity beckons. Not so much because I hate right now, I don't think I do. I don't hate that we've shifted; in fact, it's exciting and ultimately I do love it. Maybe it's just overwhelming.

I remember writing a little while ago---probably more recently than I remember--about needing to calm down and simplify my life so I could give the myriade of coulours spinning about me time to meld and join together. Right now I only wish the picture would form. My brain would cease to spin, the random mix of emotions inside would calm, and exhausted I would lay my head down and rest. Maybe then would I be able to find myself.

The Competition is On

2006-05-30T19:05:00.000+10:00

Only two weeks to go before Baby H. is due! Rachel just started the guessing competition for birth states on her blog. I love the idea and thought perhaps we could have our own version over here.

This is where you make your bets.

1. Will it be a boy? Or a girl?
2. Will it have lots of hair? Or nothing at all?
3. Will it come early, on it's due date (June 12th), or late?

Anything peoples. The wilder the better (though, I bet you can't guess what they'll name it).

Here's some statistics to help you decide:

* It's a fifty/fifty chance that it could come out a boy or a girl.
* Both Rachel and Matt were born with hair.
* Matt was induced on his due date.
* Rachel was born naturally on her due date.
* An average labour for a first baby usually takes about 13-17 hours.

Just for the record: I'm convinced it's going to be a boy. I think it'll come a day late (June 13th), labour will be 18 hours long (don't hate me Rachel!), it will have soft downy hair, and will come out screaming it's head off.

Three Funnys and a Laugh

2006-05-25T19:19:00.000+10:00

Hey, sorry about all this hopscotch. Hopefully this is the last shift. If not and the website ever goes down again, wait a few days and check back. If it's not back hop over to my usual blogspot address. Hopefully it'll never go down again for so long but if it does, I'll either get off my lazy butt and pay for a real server or I'll switch back to blogger for good.

~~~~~

But yeah, on another subject. Check these out. I found them in the country newspaper last night.

New Zealand Not for Sale
You can buy anything on the internet, even New Zeland apparently. Somebody in Australia tried to offload our neighbour - a naiton of four million people - to the highest bidder on the internet auction site eBay. From a one-cent start, 22 brisk bidders took the price to AUS$3,000 before the "sale" was pulled from the website.

Watermelon Warning
A farmer has a watermelon patch and upon inspection he discovers that some local kids have bee helpng themselves to a feast. The farmer thinks of ways to discourage this profit-eating situation. So he puts up a sign that reads: "WARNING! ONE OF THESE WATERMELONS CONTAINS CYANIDE!" The farmer returns a week later to discover that none of the watermelons have beeen eaten, but finds another sign that reads: "NOW THERE ARE TWO!"

Rain Gauge Competition
After five years of drought the people of Cunnamulla are finding new uses for their rain gauges. One local horse trainer used his to measure his liquid horse feed. A local "cocky ' who has been on the land for 40 years uses his as a port glass. The federal Member of the Maranoa Bruce Scott reckons his is put to good use measuring bulldust. The Cunnamulla and District Show Society is running a competition to find the most innovative use for a rain gauge. The winner will be announced at the show on May 20. To enter contact the Cunnamulla Visitor Information Centre.

Puppy Love
The Ringer stumbled across this list of why men have two dogs and not two wives:
* The later you are, the more excited your dogs are to see you.
* Dogs don't notice if you call them by another dog's name.
* Dogs like it if you leave a lot of things on the floor.
* Dogs find you amusing when you're drunk.
* Dogs like to go hunting and fishing.
* A dog will let you put a studded collar on it without calling you a pervert.
* If a dog smells another dog on you, they don't get mad. They just think it's interesting.
* If a dog leaves, it won't take half of your stuff.

Rain Down On Me

2006-05-24T20:14:00.001+10:00

I think this is stress. Everything in my life is new and amazing and scary and exciting but somehow I've only managed to make a total of three posts within four weeks. Even now after I've been able to find my underwear on a record five consecutive days without having to pull my room apart I still can't seem to hold onto a thought long enough to write it down.

I was going to say something about rain, this I know. I'm sure I even told Rachel about my idea. She suggested I write down the thought into a Word document even though our internet hadn't been connected yet, and now as I sit here in befuddlement I realize in retrospect she was right.

One should write down things about rain. It might be important one day.

Yes, I remember reading a line in one of my journals about rain that stuck with me for days. It's a pity I can't remember it now. Maybe rain is like that. It comes and it goes, stealthily and silent. Sometimes it's an onslaught of slicing ice and at other times a gentle whisper of renewing mist.

Ultimately I guess life is like rain. Right now I'm slipping around wildly in a deluge, wondering if there's a way to get the clinging tendrils of wet hair out of my face long enough for me to find shelter to hide under. I'd say it's intolerably cold except I'm not sure it is. I keep dreaming about how wonderful a cave would be hide away in but then, as my other self dreams along these tantalizing lines, my realistic side remembers the dryness of the desert and the death of bordeom it brought.

Thus if life may be like rain then, though, I may fear drowning at the onslaught of stress at least I can say I'm not thirsty.

End Thy Silence

2006-05-15T21:34:00.000+10:00

The last post is a little old but not much is new since. My website hasn't been working lately (not sure what's up with the serving) and I've decided to switch back to blogger until I can get ahold of the guy who lets me pinch off his server download.

Life is crazy. Life could be good. Sleep might help me decide.

NOTE: Please forgive the fact all the inter-website linkds and the majority of the photos won't work at present. If it starts to bug me enough I'll work on getting the top picture to display later.

Otherwise, I hope all is well with y'all. I've missed my little internet world and it feels so wonderful to be back blogging again.

A Whole New World

2006-05-02T23:32:00.000+10:00

Thank y'all so much for all your prayers. I've felt a lot like I've needed them lately. Mentally the stress is really getting to me. There's a lot of new things I need to adjust to, the biggest one being surrounded by other people 24/7 that I don't yet know very well. Dad is still back on the station and without him things feel a lot less secure. Hopefully he'll be back early next week.

I'm over the worse of the wog I got. I spent a few days in the bath with a tissue box beside me, but with that over it's not so bad. I just hope I don't get the vomitting wog that is now also going around. If I catch it I have this fear I'm going to find myself ringing up my doctor in tears. One more thing would be just too much right now.

Still, I'm trying to hold onto my orginal optimism that this is a good shift.

1. I am liking that I do at least have the opportunity to meet and see people.
2. The consistancy of the weather is really helping health-wise. I'm keeping a consistant temperature much easier and my legs haven't once swollen up.
3. There's so much cheap fruit and veges around here that were nearly impossible to get out west. Friends especially have been piling us high with produce from their own farms and gardens.
4. It's great being closer to a supermarket where I can get specialized food items I wasn't able to buy before.
5. It's fun having an opportunity to wear all my dressier cloths on a daily basis.
6. My hair is loving all the rainy weather. In face, it's gone completely wild.
7. I like Pastor B's preaching.
8. It's new.

A whole new world
Don't you dare close your eyes
A hundred thousand things to see
Hold your breath - it gets better
I'm like a shooting star
I've come so far
I can't go back to where I used to be

We Survived Three Days of Driving

2006-04-25T11:58:00.000+10:00

Hey y'all. This will have to be quick. A darling lady from church has kindly let me overtake her computer for a few minutes to relieve my internet withdrawal symptons.

WE'VE SHIFTED.

Can you believe it. None of us have really figured it all out yet. One minute I think we're just visiting and the next I find myself planning activities with people as if I've been here since forever.

Physically it's been kind of miserable. The stress is getting to me, all the people and trying to unpack and stuff. My room is still a total bomb and I have the worse case of the wog.

Still, I'm trying to keep with Rachel's advice and take it as it comes and enjoy as much as I can. The weather is nice the way it's so consistant and the people here have been so sweet. Most of them have known about my health problems and stuff for months and have been praying. I thought it would be really disquiteing meeting people who knew half of my life story but it's actually been ok.

Oh. Must run. Hopefully we'll get internet connected soon.

The Run Down

2006-04-16T18:06:00.000+10:00

Please excuse the fact that this post could come out totally warped and unintelligible. I'm exhausted and my mind is totally fried.

We're all ready to shift. We finished up the last of the boxes and packed the truck yesterday. Today we went through cleaning all the cupboards, vacuuming the carpets and all that wonderful kind of stuff. I spent half the day with huge hankies tied around my mouth and nose and rubbers gloves on my hands, looking like a brain sergeant. This afternoon I exchanged the rubber gloves and duster for a roll of toilet paper. Alas, the boxes of tissues got packed and this nose just won't just running.

It's going to take us about three days to get north. We're doing this whole shifting thing by ourselves (e.g. no removalists) and so we've got our own truck. All but my Dad will be staying up there once we get there. After we've unloaded the first load he's going to come back to spend a few last weeks here finishing everything up and then bringing up the second load. It was the cheapest, most practical way we could think to do the whole thing.

Um....what else must I tell you. I won't be on the net. Not sure when I'll be able to get back on. You'll still be able to send me e-mails (and I'll love you if you do) but don't be surprised if it's at least a week or more before I get back to you. This shifting business is taking a toll on my body and depending on how stressful for the unpacking thing is, I might end up having to put my feet up for a while.

Prayers, thoughs and lovely comments would be most welcome. I'm about done in and sleep seems so very far away.

Happy Easter.

Silly City Slickers

2006-04-16T10:38:00.000+10:00

NOTE: This came out all funny when I copy and pasted. I'll be back when I can to fix it up.

It's only 10:37 on my last day in the outback and already it's turned out interesting. I woke to gunshots. Well, actually the commotion it caused between my mum and brothers. I roll over and hear my Mum's voice first, "Can you hear that noise?"

Josh’s deep voice answers in typical male form, "Nope. I can't hear anything."

"It's something,” Mum’s insistant, “It sounds like the thump of the washing machine but that can't be, it's already packed on the truck."

"Maybe it's the bass beat in the music.”

No reply from my Mum on this one but I can just imagine her pursing up her mouth in stubborn refusal at Josh’s non-dramatic conclusion.

“It sounds like gunshots,” pipes in Caleb, “just like the pistol.”

“Hey, you’re right, “ agrees Josh. Mum’s heart beat goes up at his quick admittance of her fears. “Is Dad around?”

“No, he said he was moving sheep from Warden into the Lake Paddock.”

“It really sounds like his pistol.” Caleb isn’t into soothing nervous female nerves at all this morning.

“Well, maybe he did get back early.” Mum is grasping at the loose dirt in the air now, eager for any kind of answer. She calls up Dad on the two-way radio. He answers almost immediately, “Hey, darling. How’s it going?”

“Ok. Are you outside shooting off the pistol?”

“No. I’m on the Warden fence pushing the sheep into the Lake Paddock.”

So much for nice endings. These strange booming noises are getting creepier every moment. I sit up in bed, wondering whether to join the debate, when I hear my Mum trying to calmly send everyone back to their jobs. Just as she’s instructing the boys to move the last desk out of the school room, I look up and see a strange maroon 4WD sedately driving past the front of our house. Are we expecting visitors today?

The boys see the car and within minutes everyone is hiding behind the front verandah curtains, peering out the windows like nervous jews in a german raid. Could it be shooters? People the boss has sent out to see the place before we shift? We hope not. Shooters tend to be heavy on the bottle and tipsy men with guns are never a good combination. Mum, Hannah, and I aren’t leaving our curtains. Josh sets out bravely to investigate.

A curious minutes goes by. A tense one follows. Another five minutes and he’s back. He looks intact. The car is driving away. And is that a smirk?

Hannah demands he tell us everything. Josh takes his time teasing us with his silence, “They were lost.”

Lost? But what about the gunshots?

They were looking for the highway, he says. Turns out they were a bunch of city blokes trying to cut through the back road from the small town of Eulo, a few hours from our place. In the confusion of a back paddock they’d taken a right turn when they should have taken a left and spent the morning wandering around all our back roads. This has happened before, though, never quite as dramaticly as this. Usually a local tries to draw these kind of people mud-maps but these guys had tried it blind. And what was the point of panic? They had their guns. They had time. When they saw a group of emus on the road they decided to take a shot, not realizing our house was only a hundred yards behind the trees.

Josh says they looked pretty sheepish when they came to confess. Obviously afraid their sins would be found out by a higher authority, they offer to leave their number plate details with us “Get it checked if you like.” The burly guy in the passenger seat suggests hastily, “We swear we’re clean.”

Josh takes them at their word. Besides what’s the point. Policeman have heard these stories all before. It would only make another good story to circulate around the pubs.

Just to clinch their place in pub story fame, one of the guys breaks off in mid-sentence and asks excitedly, “Hey, is that a fox?”

Josh looks and sees our orange cat walking by. “Nah, mate, that’s a cat.”

“Man, you guys have big cats out here.”

Our cats look pretty average to me. But then I’ve been here for eight years. Once we’re north I’ll not longer be “bushy”, but this is my last day and until my times up I’ll shake my head in country bewilderment and say, “Silly city slickers.”

Where's the Sticky Tape?

2006-04-14T13:51:00.000+10:00

I never knew a house could get so messy or that packing could be so intense. Somehow I thought packing would be a tidy business where all the clutter would magically tidy itself into neat little boxes. Suddenly I find some of it's packed, some of it isn't, and all I've succeeded in doing is building a mini wall of china at the foot of my bed--the only thing it being useful for is to hide behind so I don't have to gaze despairingly at the clutter still taunting me from the other side.

I'd hold out hope that the other end will be better but I have a fear it's not. We're moving to a smaller house.

This could result in therapy.

Or I could wake up to find myself crushed to death beneath the mini wall of china.

Whichever comes first.

Memories of Sydney

2006-04-11T23:48:00.000+10:00

I love how Rachel condensed my whole visit down into one sentence on her blog:

"We did all the girly things like shopped a lot, ate food, talked, watched movies and stuff which was so lovely!! :)"

It was lovely. My whole trip was just...what's the word?...good. The whole way down I kept thinking how much it felt just like my first ever Sydney trip four years ago. I was barely a fledging traveler then. I tagged along behind Rachel in her escapades and in the overwhelming noise and lights of the city would hide behind her back.

This trip was different in that I'm beyond that. I feel different now that I've been sick. It's as if in the last two years I've found something of myself I never knew I had. I still stumble over my shoe laces a the stupidest of times; I still even find myself looking in a changing room mirror wondering how on earth Rach let me out of the flat wearing un-ironed jeans but somehow it doesn't matter so much anymore. I see everything differently.

We sat in the car and talked. I think that was one of my most favourite things. I was exhausted from traveling, Rach was exhausted from carrying around baby and with all the groceries we had stashed in the back seat we dreaded the climb up four flights of stairs. So we sat in the car. I love moments like that. We sat there, staring at the falling down fence behind their apartment block and chatted as if we were back in our beds talking through the darkness, four years younger.

We did other things. We shopped, we ate food, we cooked muffins (well, actually I cooked muffins; Rach ate them), and then when Josh flew down a few days later we dragged him around the Saturday markets and bored the poor guy to death. He turned sixteen that Saturday and Matthew took him out to a Mahler symphony at the Opera House for his birthday. A very sophisticated thing to do. Going from the grins on their faces three hours later they had a good time. Rach and I stayed home. We made chocolate slice, changed into our pyjamas and watched a chick flick. I suppose that marks us as uncultured females. The classical lovers of this world will just have to get over it.

After that was Sunday. I went to church, slept, went to church again, and somewhere in that day felt again like I was returning to something I had done before but differently this time. Something has changed in me and in walking out of a long dark tunnel it's like I've arrived on a sun-drenched beach. I went to Sydney intrepid, a mixture of fear and longing churning in my gut, and I came back knowing I'd proved something to myself.

I know now that I am truly getting well. I know now there's a huge world out there that I have the strength to face. I know now I can sit talking with my sister in a car and not have a fear I won't be able to climb the stairs. I did it. I walked everyone of those stairs and even now, two weeks later, I have not crashed. This is the miracle I barely had faith to believe would ever come true.

I have memories of Sydney and they were lovely.

If you'd like a few photos, you can find them here.

Want a Postcard?

2006-04-11T13:52:00.000+10:00

Just a quick note. I was just going through my writing stuff today, preparing to pack it when I realized I have a whole stack of outback postcards. Seeing as I can't exactly send them after I've shifted I thought I'd offer them up for grabs. If any of my international friends would like one (I guess you Aussies can put up your hand if you're really that desperate) drop me your address before Wednesday night (e.g. American Tuesday).

Elyse doesn't qualify. Sorry, dearie. I've already sent you three!

Don't Trust a Skinny Cook

2006-04-10T16:39:00.000+10:00

I can't believe I'm doing this. I used to skip over the recipes people posted on their blogs, muttering to myself oaths and promises to never put my blog readers through the same boredom.

Then I started cooking. Now suddenly every recipe catches my eye. I find myself flicking through the cooking magazines in waiting rooms just looking for ideas. And alas, I've only been cooking for two months. Does this obsession get worse?

My favourites, of course, are mexican dishes. If I can find an excuse to put corn, tomatoes, avocado and chillis together, I will. One dish in particular I made again tonight and it turned into a fight between my Mum and younger siblings who would get the last scrappings out of the dish. It surprises me how a corn and sweet potato pudding seems to have turned into my trade mark dish.

To anyone interested, it's made like this:

Corn and Sweet Potato Pudding

Preparation time: 20 minutes
Total cooking time: 1 hour
Serves 4-6

Ingredients:
375g can creamed corn
1/2 cup cooked and mashed sweet potato
1/2 cup milk
1/2 cup cream (or plain yoghurt)
3 eggs, lightly beatened
1 teaspoon salt
1/4-1/2 teaspoon cumin
1/4-1/2 teaspoon nutmeg

1. Preheat the oven to moderate 180C (350F).
2. Stir together ingredients in a large bowl.
3. Pour the mixture into a lightly greased 1 litre capacity ovenproof dish and bake for 45 minutes-1 hour, or until puffed and golden. Serve with a salad and bread or as an accompaniment to meat dishes.

Note: I've found it goes well with both grilled or baked fish and mexican chicken salad with rice.

Update: Oh, this is great. I had noooo idea sultana was an Aussie word. Just for the record, Cory, a sultana is like a raisin. They look like this and here's more info on them here.

Sunny Saturday

2006-04-08T11:53:00.000+10:00

Packing, packing, ever packing. Things have gone into full throttle here. I'm making muffins today which I plan to freeze to eat on the drive up, and last night I bought a discman online. It turns out Dad wanted me to get all that practice driving so I could help Mum drive the van up north. We've got three long days and without music or something to occupy my mind I can't imagine how I'd managed hours of driving in a row without crashing. I usually beg Josh's disman off him at times like these but it turns out Hannah dropped his in the bathtub (who knows why?) and it is now offically frizzled. The price of discmans on ebay surprised me. It seems their prices have dropped dramatically with the uprise of MP3 players.

Anyways, I must run. I need to wash my hair today before it gets so grotty the hairs start standing out straight on end. Buenos dias.

Mail Day

2006-04-06T12:32:00.000+10:00

Sick of me raving about mail day every week? Well, here's a few photos so you see what I'm always talking about.

P.S. Sydney photos next.

P.P.S. It feels so strange to think we've only got one more mail day left before we shift.

Road Trains, Cyclones, Lipstick & Labour

2006-04-04T12:57:00.000+10:00

Two days until I can post photos.

A few odd things that happened while I was away.

1. I drove for the first time on a bitumen road. Laugh if you have to; I know how country that statement sounds. I've been driving since I was twelve but never on anything other than bumpty dirt roads. The bitumen sensation was totally surreal. The speedometer shot straight up with the gears and the whole way Dad had to keep reminding me to get off 110kms. For the record I drove 70kms, passed seven cars, and two road trains (e.g. 16-18 wheelers). I was surprised at how un-scary passing the road trains was. I remember stories of Rachel being absoltuely pretrified of them and I had this preconceived impression I was going to be dragged into a G-force and spat out mangled and bloodied with the first road train I passed. Happily that wasn't so.

2. The biggest cyclone in Australian history nearly wiped out our new house. I thought I was being kidded when Rachel and Matt greeted me in Sydney with the news. On the bus on the way down I remembered vaguely hearing commentators on the radio talking about this cyclone about to hit Australia that was as big or bigger than Hurricane Katrina. It sounded so far-fetched I went back to my book, thinking they were exaggerating. But no. I get into Sydney and my brother-in-law is like, "So did you hear about the cyclone?" And Rachel pipes in, "Mum rang and said they can't get a hold of anyone up north. They don't know yet if your house is still standing." Talk about ice blocks down my back.

I rang my Mum and she told me all about it. Apparently the cyclone came in and hit just below Cairns. It took our a little town called Innisfail and flattened it completely. For eight weeks it was predicted they'd be out of power and in the first couple of days half the population had to sleep in army tents on the airstrip all the while waiting for the second cyclone to hit. I can't imagine what it must have been like. The most amazing thing is that despite all the damage the cyclone did to Innisfail, Cairns and the Atherton Tablelands (where we're shifting) nobody was killed. Not one. It's quite exstroidinary when compared to the devastation Hurricane Katrina did to the southern side of America.

All the fruit and vege farms have been totally wiped out. Atherton grew 95% of the banana crop for Australia and overnight of the cyclone wiping all the trees out, the price of bananas tripled. It's quite insane. They say it's going to be at all eleven months before they'll have their trees big enough to produce crops again.

After a long silence, the pastor of our new church finally rang up (him being one of the very few up north to have an old telephone stashed away that didn't need power to work), and let us know everyone was still alive. Apparently the majority of our house is still standing, the worse being the water that flooded the downstairs. They pulled the carpet up for us, and seeing as my bedroom is going to be downstairs I could be running around on a concrete floor for a while.

Our place fared remarkably well compared a lot of other places. Mum says she was watching interviews they did of people online and the interviewer asked one police man, "Why on earth aren't you home trying to fix up your own place?" The guy replied, "I don't have a houes anymore. It's completely gone." For weeks apparently the counsel forbade anyone to send their kids to school because the ground was so soggy all the trees were falling over at the most random times and they couldn't guarantee one wouldn't fall on a school kid. Most places have power now, ours will have it back by the end of this week ready for us when we go down the week after.

What amazes me the most is how if we'd gone with our original shifting date we would have been shifting the exact same week of the cyclone. Mum reminded me of this and I was like, "I'll never complain about how long it's taken us to shift again!"

3. I plastered lipstick all over Andrew's face. In self defence I must say I was obligated to do it. Josh and I went to youth group and one of the preliminary games involved a tube of bright pink lipstick and a blindfold. I'll leave the rest to your imagination, though I must say, squiggly lines of pink lipstick all over a guy's face is quite a fashion statement.

4. A friend of Rachel's went into labour. It was one of those weird experiences. It was Sunday night and I was just getting into bed when Rachel turns from the computer and says, "Rachael in America just went into labour. I'm talking to her on IM." I've read quite a few birth stories within the last few months but never, from any of them, was I prepared for the thought of imagining my sister taling to a woman currently in labour over instant messenger. It was just one of those totally bizarre moments. Weirder yet is the knowing now that she was in labour for 52 hours, the whole time I slept Sunday night, went shopping Monday morning, watched a movie Monday night, and started packing Tuesday. I'm convinced labouring woman are a group of heroes all their own.

Falling Like Rain

2006-04-03T21:30:00.000+10:00

You know what I feel like. I feel like walking out the door of my little mansion on a secluded island, pulling a snuggly toweling robe around me and breathing in the cool sea breeze. I won't have on any shoes. The sand won't be hot and I'll skip down to the beach, my long wavy hair flowing behind me. There I'll wander along the shoreline, let the waves flirt with my toes and think about every little nothing that has become everything to me. That's what I'll do. I'll sing to my creator in silence, feel the moist air on my skin and glory in the wonder of his touch.

Well, if I had a mansion and if my hair was that long already, that's what I'd do. As it is it's Autumn here and the cooler weather has chased away the lethargy of summer and mentally and emotionally I feel so refreshed. I'm guessing this is something of a calm that's finally hit after the storm of emotions I've been wading through since January.

As I look back I'm seeing how it's probably all tied in with my health. I've had a huge leap in my health upwards since January and no longer being sick full-time has suddeny sent me through a whole wave of emotional and mental hurdles. For years I didn't dare to dream, now suddenly anything seems possible. For years I barely ever had the strength to get through a day, now suddenly I have spare energy on my hands leaving me listless and bored.

We're about to move, too, I think that helps. After six months of waiting it's nearly here. The date at present is set for the 18th of this month, the Wednesday after Esther. Since getting back from Rachel's I've managed to pack seventeen boxes of books. I still have a whole another bookshelf to go, making me wonder where on earth we managed to get this many books from. I know I'm a bookworm, but twenty odd boxes? It's quite sobering. Maybe if I stopped buying books I might be able to afford that mansion.

Four Times Eleven

2006-04-02T18:12:00.000+10:00

Yay! The month is up, I can finally fill this in. Thanks to Andrew for tagging me.

1. Four Jobs I've Had:
- Mustering sheep
- Sorting sheep
- Rouseabout
- Secretary

2. Four movies I could watch over and over:
- Sweet Home Alabama
- Life Is Beautiful
- Ocean's 12
- LOTR: The Two Towers

3. Four places I've lived:
- My Mummy's tummy
- On the coast (Gladstone)
- In a little town (Crookwell)
- On a big sheep station

4. Four TV Shows I love to watch:
- Getaway, the travel show
- Hogan's Heroes
- LOST
- Home improvement shows (I'm an interior decorator nut)

5. Four Places I've Been:
- Singapore
- Cambodia
- Melbourne
- Sydney (Brisbane, Dubbo, Bourke, etc...etc..etc...)

6. Four favourite Dishes:
- Lasagna
- Sweet Potato Pudding
- Spicy Chicken Stir-fry
- Anything Mexican

7. Four sites I visit daily:
- My blog (so I'm a comment junkie)
- maybe a few blogs off my links list
- occasionally Ezibuy.com to check for sales
- Google

8. Four Favourite Drinks:
- Water
- Peppermint Tea
- Drinkable yoghurt
- Hot chocolate

9. Four places I would rather be:
- The bathtub
- An airport
- My doctor’s clinic
- Europe

10. Four transport methods I often use:
- Piggy Back Rides (thank you Daddy)
- Ute
- Bus
- Plane

11. Four people I'm tagging:
- Rachel
- Heidi
- Cory
- Stephen

Bother It

2006-04-01T20:43:00.000+10:00

April Fools indeed. My first planned action was to show you all photos of my Sydney trip and then I found out we're over our internet download for the month. I won't be able to really post for yet another five days.

Cruel, cruel world!

I'm back...

2006-04-01T00:56:00.000+10:00

Mwahahahaha

Facts and Figures

2006-02-25T01:10:00.000+10:00

After re-reading my 1,195 word long metaphorical post I realize I managed to avoid talking facts and figures. I'm so terribly bad at doing that.

Josh saw my post and was like, "It takes you that long to say, 'hey guys, I'm not going to blog for a month, see you later?'.

I have no defense. No matter how short I write a post in my mind it always takes on a completely different form when I write it. But yes, facts and figures (yet again my muse is trying to deviate from responsibility).

I'm not going forever. My current plan is only to run away for the month of March. Rachel thinks I'm crazy to try this cold-turkey, but it's the only way I think it will work. I find that if I allow myself little threads to hold I end up just hauling back the whole blanket.

I'm not going off writing (Rach H. rest assured). I bought a new journal last month and all those lovely white pages beg to be filled. Strangely, however, there seems to be a deffirence between blogging and journaling pen and ink style. Mentally it's less consuming. With a lot of prayer I'm still trying to figure out how to make blogging like that.

On a really earthy practical level, there's also another reason why I need time out. On Monday night I made tea (dinner) like I commited myself to doing and it just felt so good to have been able to it and still have strength to go for a walk afterwards. I had to sit on a stool while I cut up the meat and veges and while I was doing most of the cooking, but I still managed to get through it. This is just such a big step for me. I haven’t really cooked anything like a whole meal for seven people in two years.

To keep the momentum of good things like this coming I realize I need to concentrate more effort on my health than I have been the last few months.

I need to work specifically on my sleep routine and my meals. I’ve been eating ok, but I know my dietitian, Jo, wants me to work on getting some new foods into my diet and I always lose a bit of strength trying to do that. I’ve just been skimping a bit too much with my meals lately, eating too many of the "get me through" ideas.

Too boot my sleeping routine is wacked. I’m going to bed at two in the morning and getting up at twelve. I've kind of been putting up with at the moment because I hate having to stop and have three or four terrible days where I can't do anything to try and fix it up. I dread how half way through I could have one big allergic reaction that will just muck it all up again.

But I have to try. Now that I'm less consumed with being sick, it's been nice to get out of it for a while, but I need to stop ignoring it. My body is such a disobedient child it never gets far unless I push and prod it.

Having said all that I'll still be online. Well, e-mails mostly. Write me! I love e-mails and I do reply. Cross my heart and hope to die.

Slow Dance the Day Away

2006-02-24T22:40:00.000+10:00

The melodious melody of a song from the Life is Beautiful soundtrack plays through my speakers. An old jounal of mine from three years ago lays open on my lap. I read the words: the short snippy paragraphs, the long rants of confusion, and I marvel at how the things I wrote so long ago come back to me at the most random of moments.

I sat down to blog a moment ago and a line came to me, a title I believe of a song: slow dance the day away. I can't remember the band. I can't even remember the song. But somehow the title had struck me and in my collective habit I had written it in my journal.

Out of the blue it came back to me. I went searching through my journals and there it was. One line. One thought. One moment.

Slow dance the day away.

I love the sensation such an image brings to me. I love how words do that. To me words are pictures and feelings and struggles. I see the word dance and I don't feel dance, I don't even hear dance; I see eyelashes lying in sleep upon flushed, creamy skin, I see laughter and kisses and shades of pink and blue flittering back and forth like breaths of light through the wonder of spinning gozemer scarves.

In essence I am not a poet. I can't spin the words in endless images of disjointed descriptions to tie in matrimony at the end of the piece. I don't live in abstraction; I live in clarity.

One lady once recalled, when asked about her cousin's friendship with Margaret Mitchell, author of Gone With the Wind: "My cousin always said that when Peggy would spend the night, she would get up in the middle of the night and write things. She was always obsessed with expressing herself." I find myself the same. My greatest desire has always to be understood.

I'm not very eloquent in voice and terribly out of tune in song, but words--words are my love and my hate. Many a time they are my friends, I write the lyrics and they sing the songs. Then the song gets louder, the words build in tone and strength until all else is blotted out and life is no longer life anymore. All my living becomes words; anger is no long just anger, pleasure is no longer just pleasure, my life no longer becomes life but the expression thereof. Things like love are no longer just love, they're words and posts and thoughts.

Lately this has been my curse. My blogging has become my life, a hobby that has blotted out my living.

I'm a nostalgic kind of person. I hold onto the past and never want to let it go. Lovely things will happen to me and all the while I'm in it I'll be longing for a camera to capture it or searching for the metaphor to describe it.

I can't find the direct quote, but I remember reading an interview with Liv Tyler once where she mentioned a similar thing. "Special moments are so precious to me." She said, "I find myself forever taking lots of photos and then having to remind myself I need to stop being afraid of losing the moment and just concentrate on enjoying it."

I'm having to learn that myself right now. Sometimes writing about a moment or a feeling (and I'm not just talking about the good ones) doesn't actually make them any better. Lately I've found it makes it worse. When I write things down I remember them, even five little words from three years before.

I've found some interesting verses in the Bible lately, two that especially jump out and grab me:

After Job fell sick at Satan's hand, three of his friends came to comfort him. The author of Job says that upon seeing him they began to weep and tore their clothes and covered themselves in dust. "Then they sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great his suffering was."

Further on in the Old Testament I came upon Ezekiel, the prophet in exile with God's people in Babylon. After five years of their capture, God revealed to him an "appearance of the likeness of the glory of the Lord." Only an appearance mind you, this was not the full power of the real thing, this was only the sensation, the feelings and images like that which come to us when we read words. However, after seeing this incredible portrayal Ezekiel says, "And there, where they were living, I sat among them for seven days--overwhelmed."

It's the two words "seven days" that strike me. When have I ever let a sensation overhwhelm and forfill me that long? When have I ever swept away the clutter from my life and enjoyed, unadulterated, the simple joys and trials of life without having to explain or express them? When have I ever learnt to just be?

As I mentioned in a recent post, I struggle with just being. I'm not very good at just letting things be in whole what they are. If I'm angry I want to know why. If I'm happy I want to know why. If I'm sad I want to konw how to fix it.

Slow dance the day away.

There are other reasons why I need to leave blogging for a time but in this moment this is the biggest one. I have been reading a book called The Road to Reality lately and realizing just how far from that reality I am. The largest point of that being my new years conviction to work on praying more. My prayer life barely limps along when I've been blogging as intensely as I have been.

Rachel suggested I try blogging just once a week but I just couldn't do it. If I know I can blog a little I still spend just as much time thinking about blogging as I did before. It ruins the whole purpose.

I haven't wanted to come to this point. The last few weeks I've been fighting it, praying, "Do I really have to give it up?" I love blogging and since my readership has gone up after getting the I Want to Be a Mum post "published" I almost feel a responsibility to post.

But prayer was my new years conviction, I realize, not blogging. Blogging is expentable, prayer is not. Nor loving, or laughing, or obsorbing life to the fullest. I have been living in two disjointed worlds, reality and description, and in this moment I've come to the conclusion that to find complete peace I need to leave one of them.

I need to, I realize, turn down the bright lights of whirling thoughts and take a moment to just breath and spin in effortless wonder at the sensation of happiness. In all essence I need to to just be, allowing the laughter to intertwine with the spinning blues and pinks of time.

Slow dance the day away.

Another Funny

2006-02-23T21:49:00.000+10:00

Just to continue the scandalous connoltations of late I have to show you this.

The Big Ad.

It's so funny. Matt rang the other night and was raving all about it when I remembered this must be the exact same ad visitors we had earlier had told us about. It seems the whole continent is talking about it.

Alas, Australians have a thing for beer.

Oh, and see the "This is a beer ad that should only be viewed by adults 18 and older" warning? That cracks me up the most. This, an ad, they've been playing on prime time TV for months.

Apparently it's been such a hit they've made an even bigger one now.

Shop 'Til You Drop

2006-02-23T13:24:00.000+10:00

In my frustration I went surfing online last night. I typed "modest clothing" into Google and more links came up than I expected. There was a fair amount of Jewish and Islamic links but surprisingly an almost equal amount of Christian ones. Not that I necessarily have anything against buying off a Jew or Muslim, but their clothes usually portray a middle eastern or Kosher feel about them and if possible I'd prefer to avoid that image.

My favourite website by far would have to be the Modest Clothing Directory. It took all the click and back click out of shifting through the links that Google brought up.

In the way of styles I love what Shade Clothing offers. I remember finding their website through the YLCF website a while back and their idea of undershirts to enhance modesty is ingenius. I've tried camisoles to fill in long 'v' necks before but a whole top under a sheer top, wow, it's so effective. I'm currently waiting for them to get back to me on whether they ship to Australia. If they don't I found Impel Clothing and Down East Basics to sell similar tops.

In the way of general: Below the Knee has some really cute denim skirts and Funky Frum has some cool designs. The problem in most cases is the jolly prices. Specialty shops are so expensive.

I've thought before about dwindling my wardrobe size and buying more expensive items, just owning less. I'm thinking I'm probably going to have to invoke that thought a little more than I have. In almost every case that I've paid a higher price I've always been happy. They feel nicer, they wear nicer, they last longer. In most cases that actually end up as cheap or cheaper when compared to how often a cheaper item has to be replaced.

Then there's always sales and Direct Factory Outlets. Yes, yes. I'm currently eyeing off this long brown Bohemian Skirt from Ezibuy, hoping it'll hit the clearance section soon.

Scandal

2006-02-22T19:14:00.000+10:00

Oh my goodness, my darling brother flamed the new jeans. Big time. That little "um...ah...nah." If he thinks they're really bordeline what's my Dad gonna think.

Now I'd hate for anyone to get the impression that I begrudge the responsibility to dress modestly, I really don't, I find it a challenge, it's just I'm completely and utterly frustrated with my last year of clothing experience. I doubt you guys can relate to this at all but I'm sick to death of having to look just one more time, having to find just one more shop. It is impossibly hard to find anything anymore.

Well yeah, sure you can find anything, but stuff that's cute and trendy as well? You might as well look for an excellent movie that doesn't have at least one swear word in it. One of the best movies ever, in my opinion just happens to be Schindler's List and that movie has swearing, violence and sex.

Rachel, I tell you, I don't care if it kills us I'm going to every place that sells jeans when I come down. I'm determined there has to be a pair of jeans out there that have cute flares, that aren't too tight, that are high enough but aren't frumpy. I'm convinced.

And let's look at skirts while we're at it. I saw the best one ever in Colorado while I was in Dubbo. I just hope the end of summer sales have hit by the time the end of March hits. Long denim skirts. I need to look at those. Hannah is going to ship me off to be massacred by the indians if I "borrow" hers much longer.

I wanna try that mini skirt over jeans thing too. I like what Rebecca St. James (who incidently just happens to be Aussie) did in her Expressions of Your Love music video. I've seen a few Muslim girls do the mini skirt over jeans think and it looks really effective. I had a dream once where I saw such a girl and asked her where she shopped and she took me to this huge shopping centre of cloths that magically fitted perfectly, looked great, and were all modest.

If only...

I'm discouraged. Completely discouraged. I know there's a few guys who just happen to read my very girly, rambly blog. I have a few questions.

1. Immodesty is so rampart is there any point in me even trying?

2. What do you personally find immodest.

3. What's one thing the modern girl wears that you wish could be outlawed?

4. And lastly, this is a complicated question, but is there any extreme you've seen any girls go to for modesty that you think is unnecessary?

In Which I Talk Girly

2006-02-22T13:14:00.000+10:00

In general I enjoy shopping but sometimes I detest it with a loathing so bad I almost begin wishing there was such a thing as a girl-only island upon which I could unashamedly wear bikinis all day. Such radical dreams usual begin to taunt me on the days I order an item of clothing from Ezibuy and it arrives looking or fitting much differently than the catalogue led me to believe.

Today was almost a bad day. I say almost because I put the jeans on and they did fit. This is a small miracle in and of itself (I'm so thin jeans usually fall off me or are, at the other extreme, fit but end up five inches too short for my long legs).

Today the height problem was on the other end entirely. They were hipsters that ended up being less than promised. I stared at my reflection questioningly. When on earth did hipsters stop being on the hips and ended up under the hips? I honestly thought it hadn't been that long since I'd bought jeans.

With much intrepidation I showed my mum. She leaned back, told me to turn around, lift up my shirt, then pursed her mouth in that little 'um' expression and announced forthright and blatantly, "I saw Eleanor wear jeans like that once. She looked like she was trying to seduce every man in the room."

Bomb shell. Trust mums to state the truth. My cousin Eleanor just happens to work as a door girl at a strip club. The reference did not bring up nice, cute, modest images, all of which in my clothing choices I try to portray.

All my hopes of upgrading my wardrobe from one nice pair of jeans to two plummeted. Where does life get the right to be so cruel? Finding jeans that look good on me is like trying to find an elk with only one antler. It's long, disappointing work. I have three pair of pants I did buy that sit dejectedly on the bottom of my draw and countless others I've tried on and returned to the rack.

I thought I'd be in luck with this pair because I just happened to have bought the same jeans from the same shop three years earlier. I love them to death (here's a shot here) and I've spent all of the last three years looking for a similar pair but without luck. When a pair of jeans with the same name came up in the Ezibuy catalogue I thought my stars had changed. The price had gone down but surely that couldn't mean they'd changed that much about them.

Word to the wise: price does matter. Ten bucks can mean three extra inches.

I learnt this the hard way once before. We were away on holidays when I ran across a pair of cute turn-up three quarter shorts. They looked great on the rack, they were cheap, and they were just what I'd been looking for. We were in a hurry and I didn't get a chance to show either of my parents so I just picked them up.

The next morning I walked into my parents hotel room with them on. The reaction was not good. "um...Lyd." My Dad's tone could only mean one thing. I tied my jacket around my waist for rest of the day and at the first chance I got listed them on ebay. Thankgoodness on ebay it's easy to get your money back on items that are vertally brand new.

With the possibility of such a repeat ending echonig in my head I went back to my cupboard to ponder my dilemma. It wasn't that they were too tight, it wasn't that they were uncomfortable, it's just they were too low. Well, too low for this shirt. What others did I have? I scavenged around, finding two that might work. I put the red one on and showed my mum. "Is it at all feasible?"

Mum took a double take, "That actually works."

"Yeah?"

"Hiding the belt loops makes it look less obvious how low they are."

"I have two shirts this long. Know the white one with the pink beading? That one and this one. Is it worth keeping them just for two shirts?"

"How much did you pay?"

I stated the very reasonable price I'd bought them at.

"It's worth it."

I dearly hope they are. I'll give my dad a showing and wear them around a bit before I decide for good. It's insane how jeans can change with just a few wears and a wash. In the meantime, I wish I could put on weight (and so widen my choice of jeans) or find a shop that sold mid-rise jeans as cute as Ezibuy's. Maybe then the ridiculous girl-only island idea wouldn't sound so enticing.

I Find This Funny

2006-02-21T13:42:00.000+10:00

I did a search under "ice skating winter olympics". Nothing I liked.

I did "worship". Nothing nice at all.

I did "funny". Corbis threw me a whole page of old fat ladies in a swimming pool.

Admit the Truth

2006-02-21T00:53:00.000+10:00

I got an interesting e-mail tonight. Someone I've never met wrote, asking a very simple question. "I'm a friend of such-and-such," It began. "I was hoping that you could give me some advice on how to best help her through this time, any books to read, etc, as she struggles with M.E."

I was completely blown off my feet. This is the sweetest thing I've seen someone do for someone else in a long time.

It got me thinking about all of the doctors I wish would have said that to me--how many people I've wished would just say, "I have no idea how to help you but I'd like to try."

So many of the doctors I went to over the years have just taken one look at me and given me that dubious look that I knew ment they weren't going to take serious a word I said. There seems to be some unwritten rule in the medical world that if nothing shows up on the blood test then the patient must be lying. I used to get so angry when yet another test came back 'normal'. The doctors would shift impatiently in their big, high-backed, padded chairs; they'd clear their throat in that apologetic little way, and no matter how many evasive phrases they used I could see the truth in their eyes.

"It took me six years to become a doctor," I could hear them saying, "Four years studying, two years in field practice. I know everything there is to know about the human body. Your symptoms don't correspond with any disease in any book I've ever read. If I don't konw about it then it mustn't exist. Baby, go home. Snap out of it. It's all in your head."

By the end of the first year I didn't care so much anymore about finding a doctor who could help me as much as I just wanted to find one who had the guts to admit they had no idea what I had. I have a friend who has had severe Fibromyalgia, a form of M.E., for over thirteen years and she said she got to the same point. In the end we know the system can't help us, but oh, how nice it would be if the modern medical system would just shut it's big mouth and admit it.

Strangely enough, it hasn't been the other people with M.E. that have helped me the most but my closest very healthy friends who have said, "I have no idea how to help you, but if there's anything I can do please tell me." Words like that mean so much to someone who is chronically ill.

The one friend that has helped me the most was in fact the one who, in physical terms, never did anything. She told me straight out she could never give me advice, but that her inbox was always open to me and that whatever I wrote to her about she'd pray. She never told me what to do, she never told me how I should feel. Most often her replies were usually one line, "Know that I've read this and am praying."

In the end, though, it was her friendship that got me through the darkest times. Knowing she admitted she'd never be able to really understand what I was going through gave me the security to pour out my little heart and know I wasn't going to be ridiculed. I knew she loved me enough to listen, enough to admit she didn't understand, and enough to admit she'd give it all to God.

So often this is all that any of us ever need. We don't need someone with all the answers, and we especially don't need someone who thinks they have all the answers. Often all we need is someone who has the wisdom to hold us close and just listen in simple silence.

I find this especially hard myself. I'm a perfectionist, someone who is always trying to second guess meanings and questions. For a long time I've struggled with learning how to just let things be. When someone asks even simple questions I like to have an answer, to think I know something they need to hear.

"I don't know, please give me advice." He said.

I think about how those words make me feel and I wonder just how many hurts in this world could be avoided if you and I, and every other person, could just swallow our pride and have the guts to admit once in a while, "I don't know."

Be Happy

2006-02-20T13:11:00.000+10:00

They come out of the woodwork. Thank you nice people for consoling my nerves. I'm sure the self-doubt meltdowns must be a writer thing. It's a lonely, fearful world we live in, vulnerable to the ever cruel whim of a temporamental audience. Indulge us. We need reassurance.

I need to remember Mr. A's advice, "They come, read and learn . Keep on writing. Don't worry, be happy! Adeus."

Yes...happy, happy, happy.

I'm moving on in my life at the moment. I feel I've finally conquered the emotional cock-and-kabuttle I was fighting and it feels like my life has finally come back to simple plain living. I've heard people talk about being on holidays and wishing morbidly for the routines of home. Right now I'm emphathizing with that thought. Though I wasn't on a holiday per say I was on a tangent of wild emotions and it's reassuring right now to be waking up, eating, and getting on with my life.

What is it the ever-wise moderator of the Sonlight Teens Forum, Mrs. A (no relation to the Mr. A of above), kept saying? "Pick up the broken pieces of your life and move on." I need to remember this also.

I've taken three steps to implement this new direction in my life:-

1. Send away for the Christian Writer's Guild Starter Kit. I've been thinking and praying about this one for a while and so far the door seems wide open. I'm not sure exactly when I might be able to sign up for real but I like the idea of having the forms to which I can gaze lovingly, show my parents, and dream about.

I'm hoping I might be able to sign up once we've shifted up north. I don't know how I'll cope physically with the shifting and settling in, so I'm kind of dubious to commit myself to a two year course before I really know. The course is by correspondence, though, and is designed to be done part-time for working adults. I'm hoping this will give me enough lee-way to be "sick".

The other big thing I love is the two annual writing conferences they hold in America every year for their students. They look so utterly tempting, not only for writing purposes, but as an excuse to get on a plane to the states. And, dear American friends, this is no promise but trust me a very, very big hope. Pray, ok? I'll need a big leap forward in my health before I can seriously consider the thought for 2007.

2. Book a trip to visit Rachel. I love my older sister and I just couldn't conceive the thought of not being able to see her until after the baby was born. I haven't, either, traveled by myself for almost two years. I've been back and forth, intrepid about the idea, but with enough talk I've convinced myself I should be well enough and even if I'm not I don't care. I'm still going. I need this trip to convince myself I'm getting better as much as to see Rachel.

I'll be going for ten days at the end of March. The weather sounds just delicious and I can't wait to get the chance to run around town with my to-be-very-pregnant-sister (keep growing Bub!).

3. Commit myself to cooking tea every Monday night. This one has been a year in the waiting (actually, make that two) and I finally decided I needed to believe I'll be strong enough and make the commitment. It was this or be dragged back to the washing dishes roster by my very indignant-at-big-sisters-being-sick-privileges brothers and sister.

Making dishes sounds a whole lot more enjoyable. And tonight on the menu is chicken stir-fry (pray the fox hasn't gotten to my chicken before I can employ a younger blood thirsty brother to be-head it).

Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Please

2006-02-19T21:46:00.000+10:00

I have a grave problem. You see, Mr. Holmes, I have a report card that hits my inbox once a week, bearing facts I cannot comprehend. First it says I have fifty visitors a week. Then it says hundred. Now it says I'm averaging fifty hits a day. Where are these people coming from? More importantly I want you to find out why they aren't commenting.

Now I know you're first thought is to accuse me of obsessively checking my blog for comments. No, I outlawed that habit. In fact it wouldn't matter if I hadn't. I made sure my counter ignores my visits, I even gave it my IP address.

Are these just random Google people? I really didn't think my blog could turn up on that many searches. My friends alone have a hard enough time remembering how to spell "cafe de flores". My mother, in fact, still makes me e-mail her my blog address everytime she wants to read my posts.

Am I famous? I can see you're smirking already. I don't write political or controversial stuff. I'm not even humorous enough to be counted a regular humour column.

What then, you might understand, I wonder. Am I a curiosity? This could bear thought, but only if the general lay people are so short on life they find it comforting to snicker over the misfortunes of a toilet-paper-sample-collecting fruitcake.

No, there must be something more. I'm sure of it. The FBI must be tailing me, drenched in belief I must be an undercover Russian spy. Or it's MI6. Mr. Bean has been into their records again and mistakenly mixed my files up with those of a notorious French bombing agent.

Me? Throwing bombs from the middle of nowhere? I tell you, sir, it's preposterous. I can't even throw a cricket ball straight.

No? You think I'm a paranoid toilet-paper-sample-colleting fruitcake? Ok, I admit it...the impulsive blog checking goblins from the INGOC support group must have targeted my blog again. Dang it. I would have liked to have been famous--or a Russian agent.

Wriggles, Wobbles, Crashes

2006-02-17T22:37:00.000+10:00

This is a strange feeling. I can't see my blog at the moment so writing like this I feel like I'm throwing words into a gaping black hole. I'm in the mood to write, but somehow in one of those moods where I don't feel like saying anything.

I saw the Winter Olympics Opening Ceremony tonight. Yay for us! My Grandma is a legend, she sent us the opneing ceremony and the first day of highlights in fast post.

What can I say about the opening ceremony? It was kind of cool, somewhat very weird, and kind of lacking in something I can't yet figure out. The best bit was probably when they did that human skiing thing, that was the best. I can't imagine how they managed to do that.

Now I have an idea...maybe the whole ceremony felt kind of dettached and wanting because it just didn't seem like a winter ceremony. Ok, yes, everyone was rugged up to the ears looking like seal pups with wild hair does perched decoratively on top, but there was no real skating. At Salt lake city they were pumping out the skaters as fast as the musicians and it was much more emotional.

Maybe I'm just picky. I did enjoy it while I was watching it. But I feel like I do after reading a mediocre book, it's good, but not striking; pretty, but not beautiful.

The first day of highlights was fun, the watching of which I've concluded must not be undertaken without the riotous company of siblings. Because Australia is so lacking in the face of Winter sports, whenever a competition came up not featuring an Australian we all chose a different country to barrack for. I chose Canada (no prizes for guessing why), Hannah went for Russia, Caleb turned traitor and cheered the Americans, and Aaron and Josh turned completely Nazi and barracked for Germany (the which of who--lamentably--won two gold medals wherease Canada didn't even get a showing. Bother it. Canada will rise to glory yet! *throws exploding bananas at Caleb*).

I'm determined I shall learn to skate yet. I don't know how this will be achieved. My family has a history of weak ankles (going by my experience with high heels I conclude I am not lacking in this gene) and despite my best efforts my determination to learn how to roller-blade landed me flat on my back with a cursing tailbone. That was not a nice day.

Ice seems nicer than concrete. I'm not sure yet why this is. Perhaps the cold environement dulls nerve endings? This could be a valid point and one I will consider worth celebrating. That is if I can get rid of my bambi legs. My last glorious display on ice also landed me flat on my backside, certain body parts smarting despite the overlaying of thick, cushiony clothing. What hurt more was my wounded little pride having to watch my two youngest brothers scooting around on the ice like ice hockey gurus. Now why can't I have that gene?

I Don't Want to Post

2006-02-15T21:58:00.000+10:00

Before I go into a lengthy grumble about my present life I'd like to bring up a dear friend of mine, Heidi. She's going through a lot of really hard stuff with her parents and her health at the moment. She's currently having to work through the possibility of having M.E., the same disease as me. If you pray at all for me, then please pray for her. I feel she could really use a lot of extra prayer covering at the moment.

Talking with Heidi lately has brought up a lot of painful memories of the emotions I went through early last year. The last few days I've been trying, line after line, to articulate what all these feelings were like, but it's as if I'm so overwhelmed with a whole different set of emotions right now that my internal word processor can't process or organize the thoughts into readable metaphors.

Right now I'm feeling very, very confused and very, very lost. I'm battling a whole heap of normal day emotions that I can't seem to disengage from my currently messed up M.E. hormonal ones.

When I'm upset I strike out, hurt the people closest to me emotionally, suddenly see all my blessings and end up overidden with guilt. This once sparked a good thing, the writing of my poem I Saw... One day, however, I'm certain my muse is going to abandon me and I'll end up writing a guilt-induced song as odd as Rich Mullin's Screendoor.

"It's about as useless as a screendoor on a submarine
faith without words, baby, it just ain't happening
one is your right hand, one is your left
it takes two strong arms for you to hold on tight
some will cut off their nose just to spite their face
well, I think you need some works to show you're not a fake."

I remember last time I got like this I started collecting toilet paper samples. I'm serious. I started this "collumn" in my pen and ink journal titled Simple Pleasures. Whenever I came across a cool roll of toilet paper I liked I teared off a square and glued it in my journal. I have a few that still make me smile: one from my grandparents house featuring cute pictures of a little dog, and another from Rachel's place covered in purple flowers (it still smells of lavender).

I haven't found myself stealing toilet paper squares for years but now, in it's place, I find myself writing about things that embarrass me no end just so I'll have something to laugh over when I'm eighty.

Do other people do stuff like this--or am I just strangely morbib?

Japanese Moon

2006-02-14T02:09:00.000+10:00

I saw the moon today. We went walking at dusk and in the late light it sat, heavy and orange on the horizon. I saw it and--in that strange abstract association that sometimes happens--I exclaimed instantly, "A Japanese moon!" I can't really guess why I thought that.

Despite having never seen a real Japanese moon, my sub-conscious has somehow managed to erect a predermined image of what one should look like. Glowing like a thousand party lanterns on low, I see it looming behind the spreading branches of a cherry tree. The ice blue of it's glory shows up the fragile blossoms like sugar-tipped fairies dancing demurely across it's graven face.

Our moon was orange and there wasn't a pink cherrry blossom in sight. A band of sheer cloud floated across it's glowing ochre middle, sultry like a veil, and stark like muslin cloth. It might have been an Arabian moon for all it's flirty look, an African one for the earthy glow; but no, see the trees, imagine the majestic white-capped mountains frowning stately from the background. It's a Japanese moon.

I think I like moons. I've never really thought about it before, but I always do like it when I can't sleep in the wee hours of the morning and the glow of the full moon lights my wandering way, keeping the cheeky chair legs and table corners at bay.

There's something companionable about the moon. It's just there. I forget it exists for half the time but come once a month, my toes aren't smashed and red for lack of sufficient illuminating light and I notice it's there.

Isn't this so true in every part of life? I've been thinking a lot about "simple loves" the last few days, and remembering the moon, I wonder how many other simple things I'm forgetting. Is there friendships I'm taking for granted? Late night movie watching I'm not appreciating?

I'd hate to think about this in a guilt-induced kind of way, but seriously, thinking of the olympics that line from a song in the Sydney closing ceremony repeats itself in my head: "I believe you don't know what you've got until you say goodbye."

Elephant Dung Message

2006-02-12T19:52:00.000+10:00

That, dear blog readers, is processed elephant dung in all it's glory. Looks awfully white doesn't it?

It carries no germs (thank goodness). It's apparently been boiled for five hours and going by the colour I hope it's been bleached. Interestingly enough, it doesn't smell. My first thought was to check for squashed flies, but there doesn't appear to be any of them either.

I found a wonderful page explaining the whole lovely elephant paper product making process. It seems the Thai's have it down to a fine art.

Changing topics here. What on earth was I doing lamenting about not having a boyfriend while the Winter Olympics were beginning? I need help or something.

Note to Self: Next time you want to have a pity party remember the Winter Olympics only come every four years--surely the other three years and eleven months are sufficient time to bemoan your lack of marital status.

*bangs head on keyboard*

I can't wait to see the opening ceremony. After making such a hype about the whole thing y'all are going to laugh at me now when I tell you I won't be able to see it for at least another week or two. We don't have TV channels so I'll have to wait for my Grandma down south to finish taping the highlights and send them up.

This is me. Writing love notes on processed elephant dung and waiting--ever waiting for mail day to come.

Save Me from Myself

2006-02-11T15:52:00.000+10:00

I decided one thing when I came back to blogging, I told myself I wouldn't write about what I felt I should write about, I'd write about what I wanted to write (meaning it could be my Dad's birthday and I could talk about chipmunks eating mangoes). This I decided and this I'm going to do. I've primed everything up to talk about Thailand or the Winter Olympics, but I don't feel at all like talking about either of them right now.

I haven't been thinking about them. I've been thinking about everything but them. Isn't that strange? I find myself talking about everything but what I want to be writing about sometimes often, I think, because I don't know how to talk about it. I've been living in a whirly-wind of emotions lately, knowing what I should be feeling, but ending up angry at myself because I can't feel it.

I haven't been able to feel content.

Rachel rang today and sitting in my big old chair on the front verandah I gushed my little heart out. I've felt so disconnected lately, like I'm just sitting here waiting for life to start. As I sit here I've been thinking about all that I want to be. I've been thinking about wanting to travel, wanting to write, wanting to be able to get up at the same time every day, but most of all I've been thinking about wanting to be married.

I thought I wasn't like those girls that set their minds on being a wife and mum and then consume themselves with it. After my post in December I wrote about not being that. I talked about how that's so unbalanced and how walking with God is after all one day at a time. When it comes to the crunch I don't think I am that, but unawares of how it really happens, I became it.

I began reading blogs by older women I highly respected. I don't think there is anything wrong with this, but somehow these people post more than others and so I've been reading a lot about this stuff, about them being mums and wives and because my reading has been so limited latley, this is what is filling up my head.

I love what they write but at the same time I've been thinking so much about the future that I've started worrying about it. Fretting. Seriously, fretting. What if I never get married? What if some guy never comes along? What if I'm not pretty enough? What if the guy I'm destined to be with meets me wearing my drabbiest clothes, smelling like I haven't taken a shower in two days, and my face is all red and oily? What if I analyze him too much and write him off as no good instead of really praying about it? What if...what if...what if...

I've started freaking myself out. A mutilated line from the Evanescence song "Bring Me To Life" keeps going over and over in my head.

"Wake me up inside. Wake me up inside. Save me from myself. Bid my blood to run before I come undone. Save me from the nothing I've become."

Those of you who know the song are going to laugh at me because that's not the real lyrics and that's not at all what the song is about, but that's what keeps singing over and over in my mind. I keep thinking, "Wake me up...wake me up...save me from myself."

What kind of a fruitcake am I? I don't want to become like those girls. I don't want to become like that. I don't want to turn obessive, I don't want to turn so narrow minded. I dont' want to think of every new guy I meet as a possible husband instead of a possible friend. Save me. Quick.

The other night I pulled out a little book I bought ages ago called "A Maiden in Waiting: cultivating contentment in the season of singleness" and flicking through it, a few words by one girl really struck home with me. She wrote:

"I know that like me, many of you have a deep heart's desire to be a wife and mother. Each of us needs to take this desire and lay it on the altar of sacrifice...I am particularly fond of the following definition of contentment: realizing God has provided everything I need for my present happiness."

I ran my finger across the page...I wanted to crush the little book in my hands, hide my face in the pillow and scream my heart out. I had not done this.

Last year I came to a point where I had to give up my desire to get better to God. I remember I had to admit that maybe I'd be sick for life and asked myself if I could live with that. Eventually I thought I had and in that thinking I somehow thought I'd never have to do it again, that sacrificing all my dreams and desires once took care of it for life, but it seems it doesn't.

I've begun getting better and I've begun pulling my dreams back out of the mud, wipping them off and shining them back to their former beauty. It seems I've spent so much time on the motherhood one lately that it's come to this point where it's glow has consumed and blinded me.

I couldn't figure out how I could be getting physicaly better and yet be so unhappy. I was praying so hard to God, but I wasn't finding any peace. Why wasn't He listening? Why wasn't He talking to me? Where was the joy He promised?

I went to Isaiah chapter 59. I wasn't looking for an answer, I was almost doing it out of obligation, only expecting the words to blur in my head like everything else was.

Surely the arm of the Lord is not too short to save--it began--nor his ear to dull to hear. But your iniquities have separated you from your God; your sins have hidden His face from you, so that He will not hear.

This made me angry. Ragingly angry. God has felt so far away lately and misinterpreting my discontent, I thought it was because He's been hiding. It was His fault, I sub-consciously accused, He's let me be so sick the last two weeks and filled me with all this brain fog and pain so that I haven't been able to read his word and understand Him, or sit down to pray and be able to train my thoughts into sayable words.

It definitely wasn't my fault. Oh, no. What have I been doing? Planning for the future. Thinking about the things He's said He has planned for me. Trying to get better. Trying not to get too angry or irritated with anyone. No, it couldn't be me, I decided in my heart. I definitely hadn't murdered anyone.

Isaiah ignored my outburt and kept speaking--no one calls for justice; no one pleads his case with intergrity. They rely on empty arguments and speak lies...the way of peace they do not know; there is no justice in their paths. They have turned them into crooked roads; no one who walks in them will know peace.

I felt instantly admonished, like Paul says God's word often does. I had no peace. I definitely had no peace, but I had never imagined it was because I had been pleading my case without integrity, relying on my empty arguments that were filled with more rage at His seemingly injustice than a contrite spirit and a broken heart. I have been behaving like a spoilt little child, angry I can't have my lolly, when first I need to delight myself in the Lord, sacrificing all my desires to His time and plan.

I'm note sure yet exactly what this all entails, I really don't. I said earlier that I don't believe reading blogs by older women that I respect is a sin, but obviously filling my mind with all they write right now has set me thinking too much about the future. Could it really be this one thing has consumed me so much it's separated me from God? Can I really be that shallow, can I really be that blind?

I hate how this thought blows my pride, how it reminds me just how humanly frail I am. I thought knowing of a sin could keep you from it, but it seems it makes no difference. I'm as human as I was before.

Wake me up inside. Wake me up inside. Save me from myself.

I Was Counting, Wasn't I?

2006-02-09T23:15:00.000+10:00

Terribly sorry to have missed a day. Here's to make up.

It Was Once: 3 days to go until the Winter Olympics.

My excuse?

1. I went to town.
2. I got my Learner's License.
3. My brother missed his plane.
4. We had to wait in a motel room all day waiting for him to arrive on the bus.
5. I drank lots of wildberry yoghurt and ate half a roasted chicken (Serious, I have trouble finding things I can buy read-to-eat from a super market that I'm not allergic to).
6. I had a lovely time at the library.
7. Dear Josh finally arrived at 7pm.
8. We left town for the two hour drive home.
9. I learnt lots of wonderful things about Thailand.
10. We arrived home at ten.
11. I was very cranky.
12. I went to bed.

Now after 12 hours sleep and a whole day of reading you'd think I'd be better, but no, Mr. M.E. has the upper hand this time. I had to get up at 6.30am for the trip to town and I had such a migraine the night before that I didn't get anything more than a noninconsicental cat-nap.

I'm very, very tired. I'm very, very irritable. And I'm going to bed. Adeaus.

Countdown: 2 days to go until the Winter Olympics.

P.S. Would you believe me if I said my darling younger brother bought me a notebook made out of elephant dung?

I've Been Published!

2006-02-07T22:18:00.000+10:00

Well, kind of. Sort of. Maybe...

I submitted a post to Crystal's blog and she posted it. Some of you might remember the post (I wrote it just before Christmas about the figure skating in the winter olympics and wanting to be a mum one day).

I totally did not expect her to post it but she did! I can't believe it. I had to show my Mum straight away; she read it, and gave me one of those I'm-smiling-'cause-I'm-too-choked-up-to-speak kind of looks. I so love my Mum.

You can see the post here at Biblical Womanhood Online.

International Nuances

2006-02-07T14:58:00.000+10:00

Elyse and I have had an interesting time communicating lately, bringing to a light a lot of Aussie slang I didn't know existed. I thought I had the worse of them figured out, but today Jolene and I had what has to be the ultimate international miscommunication of the month.

I woke up feeling wonderful that's how it began. A miracle had occurred over night and the raging temperature had dropped from a frightening 47 to a lovely 39. The breeze is cool, like a breath of life, instead of the furnace blast of oven-hot gales it has been the last week; and as I sit here now the wind chime in our patio is tinkling it's little heart out, making me think of autumn, spring, and all things that aren't right now.

It was early, that was the other miracle. I was awake at ten thirty and actually really awake. I've been meaning to ring Jolene for weeks, but with my sleeping routine being so messed up, by the time I got up she would have already been in bed and fast, fast asleep (or so we can only hope. Late night sojourns for both of us mightn't have been a good thing for the world at large).

So I rang. I jumped out of bed, ran for the phone still in my pink cookie monster pj's (so I dream about food in my sleep, leave me alone), and dialed darling Jolene's number. Good days deserve a cherry top, and laughing with Jolene is always a cherry on top of any lovely large-bowl-of-ice-cream day.

We got to talking about furniture. I can't remember how that happened. But somehow we did and Jolene says off-hand, "My Dad bought this wooden rocking bench for my mum once. I think it was for her birthday or an anniversary or some such."

Now I'm Aussie (duh), and I didn't associate rocking bench with the right object (we call kitchen counters benches over here). Immediately I invisioned a kitchen counter rocking back and forth like a rocking chair and screwing up my little nose I exclaimed gullibly, "I don't think I've ever seen a rocking bench."

"Are you serious? Well, this is just lovely. It's made of this wood that smells beautiful."

"What on earth do you use it for?"

"You sit on it!"

"What? Why would you do that..."

"Because it swings and..."

"Oh! Do you mean like a swing? Like a porch swing? I thought you were meaning a bench like a kitchen counter! I was thinking of a kitchen bench and I couldn't figure out why anyone would want a kitchen bench to rock. Just imagine, you're chopping onions and it rocks unexpectedly and whoosh! off flies the chopping board."

Like I said, it has to be the ultimate international mess-up of the month. I thought it was funny the first time I rang her and her Dad answered the phone and couldn't understand my accent and nearly hung up on me. But this is almost better. Who on earth has ever heard of a rocking kitchen bench? Maybe I should Google it.

Countdown: 4 days to the Winter Olympics.

The Bulldozer

2006-02-06T13:57:00.000+10:00

There is a beast hiding in our back paddocks. It has two siblings. They're all ferocious. They belch, they bellow, they crash and bang. They sound like some vampire combination of schreeching train wheels and the roar of half starved prehistoric beasts. If you want to win a war, buy a couple. Otherwise, I wouldn't recommened meeting up with one in the dead of night (Unless, of course, you were under a bet to win a million dollars. In which case, I'd volunteer to drive).

My Dad has spent the last three years of the drought rattling around in these huge contraptions, pushing down mulga trees so the sheep have feed to eat. Just yesterday Mum thought we'd better get some photos for our "historical records", so we braved the 46 degree heat to bring you these.

>>>It's, um, big.

>>>This is the huge bar used for pushing over the trees. The bar on this one is 25 feet long and so heavy it's constantly snapping off the holding pins. One of our other bulldozers is even bigger and has one that's 30 feet long, the length of two normal cars.

>>>An interesting shot of the windscreen. The trees are meant to fall in front of the bulldozer but sometimes they manage to fall onto it. It's a wonder the one responsible for the windscreens current condition didn't go all the way through.

>>>Maybe we're looking wistfully at the clouds?

Tell Me What You See

2006-02-06T00:14:00.000+10:00

First of all I have to say a big thank you to AC from Portugal (!) who kindly sent me screen shots of what my blog looks like interpreted by Mozilla and Internet Explorer. It seems that the writing is white when viewed by IE and black when viewed by Mozilla and a few other browsers. All very interesting.

Secondly, thank you, thank you so much to Andrew who galantly dove into my HTML mess and came out victorious. You're my hero! I've changed the HEX code you pointed out. Could everyone please tell me it's all fixed? Please, please....

NOTE: If the problem is not fixed, please send me the message by snail mail with chocolate attached.

Say To the Prince

2006-02-05T00:39:00.000+10:00

First of all, a quick note for Elyse. Sooking, I've concluded, is much the equivalent of griping. Dictionary.com terms 'griping' as: "Informal: To complain naggingly or petulantly; grumble." I looked up the aussieslang.com site and according to them the word 'sook' is an Australian term. Sorry for the confusion there.

This whole website colour thing is really depressing. I had no idea it was so widespread. Is it like that throughout my whole website? I have no idea where to start to fix the whole problem. I've waded time and time again through all the base HTML jargon in my main page, but the problem, wherever it is, it's well camouflaged.

I'm barely HTML literate. I have bandaids over bandaids in my CSS codes which I realise if I had a little extra knowledge I could have done a much better job, but being the lazy person I am I just bluffed my way through. I remember I did make a point of choosing to use the colours they recommended as being readable on any and every computer and browser. What baffles me is how something so strange could have then happened. How is it some silly browser can't interprete the universal HEX code for white?

It's late. It's 2am here and I'm more than a little riled. My sleeping pattern has gone completely out the roof the last two weeks. I had some huge migraines and a few cases of really bad insomnia. Last night was my third 4am night, so I guess I should accept the fact that I probably still have two more hours of my day to fill.

I hate this sometimes. I don't hate it like I used to do because it doesn't affect me emotionally like it once did. I haven't sat in the corner and cried myself to sleep for months. Sometimes now it's almost fun. I'll put on the movie I've been dying to re-watch for ages or use it as an excuse to serf brainlessly across the internet. But it grows old, you know. This is the second week and I'm sick to death of waking up after lunch.

I can never get much done in half a day, and even though I might be awake half the night it's hard to do things under the glare of a bright fluro light when you're really trying every trick in the book to get to sleep early. Then of course the original reason why my sleep is so botched is because I'm having some major allergic reaction. Lately this has involved migraines, brain fog, hyper-tention, bloating, hypoglycemia reactions and it's really hard to read books when I can't focus my eyes straight or process what I'm reading.

I want to write. Maybe this is half the reason why the last two weeks have upset me so much. I can't write when my brain is exploding like this. I can't think straight or visualize what my characters might be doing.

I was laying in bed just before trying to get to sleep when a scene from Meet Me in Arabia began playing before my eyes. It was strange really. This was a scene I'd left off writing because I couldn't see it and suddenly, randomly, here it was.

It's an intriguing scene, a rather pivotal one, where the main objective is for Rebrina to have a complete breakdown in the backseat of a white convertable in the prescence of an arabian prince, a Texan, and the rather rogueishly cute guy she's already made a fool of herself more than once in front of before. I skipped to writing a later scene simply because Connor was being way too jovial, the prince wasn't saying his lines right, and Rebrina wouldn't stop crying.

It was nice when the scene came back to me with an opening line from the prince that was dripping in just enough leer and sarcaism. I could see the arabian dust swirling up behind the back wheels of the car to settle in Rebrina's flying hair and her eyes were flashing with anger instead of pooling with incontrollable tears. This was good. I could see it--then it went blank. I hate how late nights, migraines and brain fog do that.

I could begin the scene and suck the words out, but I'd hate it more than I do right now. I've tried writing through the fog before, but the lines only come out smudged and blurred.

If I was to write anything I probably should go back to Liana. I swore solemnly to Rach H, my writing partner, that I wouldn't even read Meet Me in Arabia for a year. I wanted to have the rough drat for Liana almost finished by the first week in February, which was probably a most unatainable goal, but in December I was on quite a roll. I left Liana on the brink of the most pivotal scene in the whole story and I feel almost bad for leaving her to wander the shelves of a cold Organic Dairy for so long.

It's funny how I can talk about my stories and they sound almost cool. The thoughts and connotations are much more impressive than the actual reality. I want to go hide my head in the sand when I think of my characters who repeatedly say the most piously inappropriate lines, my descriptions of arabian desert villages that make sandcastles look good, and this one British dude who's most atrocious swear word to date is "damn". I write the most inconsistent, unoriginal rubbish imaginable. I should be dragged out and hanged as the worse writer of this modern millennium.

What The?

2006-02-03T12:53:00.000+10:00

What's with everyone telling me I've got black on black? I'm totally lost. Is this only when I change the font colour to highlight a line or two, or is this all my main writing all the time?

This is what I see when I look at my blog.

What on earth are you guys seeing?

Why I'll Never Be a Checkout-Chick

2006-02-01T20:26:00.000+10:00

The verdict is in; the truth is out--it seems I shall never be a checkout-chick. This not because any stories by Rach H. have necessarily scared me senseless (though some of her experiences leave me viewing my fellow shoppers in a anger paranoid kind of fear). No, it seems more is at stake here. If I was to become a check-out chick my legs might explode.

Some of you might remember me sooking a few posts before about my legs swelling up in the heat. It was really bothering me and I wrote Jo about it. Turns out it's probably more a problem with my blood circulation. It comes on worse when I'm more active and walking regularly. Jo reckons it sounds like my heart is having trouble pumping my blood back up into my body so it's getting stuck in my legs. Sounds gross, no?

Apparently vitamin C is really good for blood circulation and in the last few days that I've been taking more my legs haven't been anywhere near as bad. It sounds like it should improve the more I exercise. I've just been sick so long that all the muscles in my body have deteriorated badly, including my heart muscles.

'Tis a nuisance, but it seems to say once and for all that I'll never be able to get a job that intails a lot of standing up. No behind the counter jobs for me; no checkout-chick positions. Frankly I like the idea. Being a checkout chick never appealed to me and, to be truthful, I can't wait for the day someone suggests to me a behind the counter job and I get to reply, "Um...no...that's probably not a good idea. My legs might explode."

If I Was to Be Stranded On an Island...

2006-01-29T00:26:00.000+10:00

A totally random memory crossed my mind today. I was out swinging on the swing when I rememberd this column I read once written by a music editor. Someone (presumably the producer of the magazine) asked him the question, "If you were to be stranded on an island, what five CDs would you want with you and why (choosing 'best of' albums is cheating)?"

Of course, being the creature of imitation I am, I instantly wonderd what five CDs I'd want with me if I ever got stranded on some lonesome, desert island. What five CDs have meant that much to me? What five CDs--if any--would I most likely be able to listen to repeatedly without getting sick of them?

Now presuming I wasn't going to be stranded on the island indefinitely and presuming the people I was stranded with (if any) didn't have copies of the same CDs with them, this is what I'd choose.

The Jesus Record - Rich Mullins.
This was a hard one to pick. I have all his albums and I unashamedly consider them the backbone of my CD collection. I'd want this one, I guess, because it was the first of his I heard and ever since I was twelve it's grown on me more and more. My top favourite songs of his are on other albums, but when I look at it objectively, this is the only album of his of which I like every song.

Shelter - Sons of Korah
A recent favourite when compared to how long I've had The Jesus Record. The first time I heard this album a year ago I just knew it was going to stay in my collection forever--the psalms just never grow old. The unconventional folk music Sons of Korah put them to is beautiful. This is probably the only worship album that I've been able to listen to when really angry. I'm amazed at how many die-hard rock fans I know that love it.

Offerings-a Worship Album - Third Day
Nothing beats live Third Day worship albums. Seriously. Some of their normal studio albums annoy me but this one is something of a classic. It was my first introduction to how good a P&W album can be when done right. The songs they chose are deep and strong and I love the emotion in Mac Powell's songs Thief and Love Song. The live crowd just makes it even better.

Anna & the King-Original Motion Picture Score - George Fenton
This CD holds a special place in my heart as being the score that got me hooked on soundtracks. Whereas classic music bores me, the music in this took me in and pulled me under. The sheer simplicity and grief in songs like The Execution is something I can connect with. The lighter songs on the album are beautiful and calming and I love how the whole album reminds me hauntingly of Cambodia.

Llegar a Ti (Arriving at You) - Jaci Velasquez
This was another hard one to choose. I swung back and forth for ages trying to figure out just which fifth album really special enough to include. I eventually came to the conclusion it had to be this one for two reasons. Firstly, it was the first album of my spanish collection; and secondly, it has all my favourite Jaci V. songs. I grew up listening to the english versions of A Little Bit of Heaven, Like a Flower in the Rain and Look What Love Has Done and now that I'm desperately trying to learn just how to sing them in Spanish it's been like discovering them all over again.

So, now that I've finally concluded that, I bet it would be just my luck to never get stranded on an island. Or--irony of irony--I bet I'll get washed up to shore with only my underwear left to claim as mine.

Huskies and Cheescake

2006-01-27T23:36:00.000+10:00

I feel completely uninspired at the moment. *yawn* So I just went serfing the net for photos. I'm so like that. I'm one of those lazy photographers who couldn't be bothered reading photography books, so I just serf the net for photos I like and steal the ideas. I tried to read a photography book once--I swear I did--but it just went in one ear and out the next (or in one eye and out the other, however you want to put it).

I love huskies. I was delighted to find that my favourtie photo hide-out, Corbis, has not one, but three pages of husky photos now. Very accomodating for my little obsession.

A late night MSN conversation with a girl friend also got me craving cheesecake. Why is it we always crave things when they're the least excessable? I'm excited about shifting north in that respect. I can't wait to scout around for a little hide-away cafe that serves cheesecake up and beyond the call of coffee. I just know I'm destined to write a novel in a quaint little cheesecake cafe one day. If my experiences with fudge during the writing of Meet Me in Arabia have any indication of how the novel will turn out, I'm bound to have my heroine hooked on cheesecake by the end of the book. I'm convinced this can't be a bad thing.

Happy Australia Day!

2006-01-26T17:29:00.000+10:00

A few random facts you mightn't have known about our happy little island country:

*Australia is the largest island in the world.

*Australia is the driest continent and boasts the second largest desert area in the world.

*The first Europeans to discover Australia were actually the Dutch, not the English. They landed on the North Western tip of Australia where it's driest, saw the desert, and sailed home declaring Australia uninhabitable.

*The area of Australia that is covered by snow in winter is larger than the area of Switzerland.

*Since 1896, the beginning of the modern Olympics, only Greece and Australia have participated in every Game.

*The mining town of Coober Pedy got it's name from the local Aboriginals. It means something like "White fella down a hole".

*The common refrigerator's system of cooling was invented in Australia, in the 1850's, by James Harrison.

*Australia is one of the safest places in the world, with a murder rate of 2 per 100,000 people. The US is up around 8 per 100,000.

*The most dangerous ants in the world are the Australian Bulldog Ant, (it grows up to 4 centimetres long). It stands responsible for at least three deaths.

*If you are driving a car in New Zealand, you are twice as likely to die from a car accident than you are in Australia. In the USA, you are roughly 1.4 times as likely than you are in Australia.

*The Utility--or as it's called in Australia the 'ute'--was invented in Australia by Ford in 1932. The legend has it that it that a farmer came to Ford looking for a car that could "work on the farm all week, and then take the wife to church on Sundays."

*In the mid 70's, Australians were the 3rd biggest beer drinker in the world. (behind Germany and Belgium) In the late 90's, we didn't even get into the top ten.

*70% of the world's wool comes from Australia. We have over 126,000,000 sheep, which use fully half the continent for grazing.

*The longest fence in the world is in Australia (it runs for over 5,530 kms). It's designed to keep dingo's away from the sheep.

*The so-called 'dingo fence' in Australia is almost twice as long as the Great Wall of China. It has a gate every 19kms.

*The kangaroo is unique to Australia and one of our most easily recognised mammals. There are more kangaroos in Australia now than when Australia was first settled. Estimates suggest around 40 million.

*And last but not least, Australian's use the term "g'day" as a greeting and never as a leave-taking.

Happy Day

2006-01-25T21:31:00.000+10:00

I wake with that knowing, I sense there's something waiting and I instinctively know to look at my sidetable. There they are; pre-loved treasures sitting demurely one on top of the other. I smile and my reaching hand is slow and unsteady with sleep as I touch each one wonderingly. What friends do the musty pages hold? What words of beauty hide coyly behind the untouched covers, waiting to be discovered?

I pull them off one by one and read their invitations. Outbacks, riverboats, and South Australian vineyards. I will start one now, taste the sweet nector while the anticipation is fresh, for I am still dreaming and to this dream I shall hold.

This is how it begins--my happy day.

I love mail days. I'm sure I've said this before. My week revolves around this one day; it's either about to be mail day or it's just been mail day. To me it's like waiting in anticipation of a mini birthday once a week. Sometimes I can guess at what's coming and sometimes letters and parcels come totally by surprise. Today a whole stack of books by my new favourite author Nancy Cato arrived.

I fell in love with her writing a few months ago when I found her book Brown Sugar tucked away, covered in dust on a top shelf of our nearly-ceiling-high bookshelf. She writes the most amazing Australian historical fiction. She's almost the Australian equivalent of the American Margaret Mitchell, author of Gone With the Wind.

Strangely enough, her book Brown Sugar didn't completely seize me after I first read it. I appreciated it, but it wasn't until I was talking with mum about looking for more Australian fiction books when I remembered how much I'd enjoyed Brown Sugar. I showed the book to my mum and darling that she is, she spent the next few days that I was away in Dubbo scouring the net for second hand copies of Nancy Cato books.

My Mum is the coolest. When I awoke to see the books stacked high on my side table I was so excited. I started one right then and there and finished it just a few moments ago. I love how the richness of Nancy Cato's language wraps around me and makes me feel like I'm breathing and tasting the very dust of the land on which I live.

The weather was perfect today. Perfect for snuggling up in a chair and getting lost in a world of times past. Anyone else know that weather? It was rainy, the sweet smell of moisture was heavy in the air and the powerful, reassuring tread of thunder thumped back and forth across the sky.

Yes, rain! We got almost a whole two inches. Can you believe it. We haven't had a rain like this in nearly four years. It was so much fun watching it blow and swirl around out the door and wonder from every five minutes to five minutes whether it will blow over like it has so many times or stay and drench the ground as we've dreamed it would.

It was also Caleb's birthday today. He turned the grand old age of eleven. Because of the storm, the power went out and so we spent the whole afternoon battling each other in a game of Risk. As it would happen, Caleb won. Birthday luck.

Now I'm pondering the thought of rummaging around in the grocery box that came today in search of the avocadoes I know must be there. I'm so obsessed with avocadoes at the moment. I love how they're so soft and smooshy and--get this--good for putting on weight. After that I might have a shower and curl up with another of Nancy Cato's books. I love happy days.

A Baker's Dozen

2006-01-23T22:09:00.000+10:00

I have a new favourite blog. The last couple of weeks I've been searching high and low for blogs by older women that I enjoyed that I could also look up to as mentors. My Mum is at the top of this list--but, alas, my mum doesn't have a blog--and seeing as I enjoy the blog world I thought it might be a good idea to find some blogs that I don't read just because I know the person, but because I truly enjoy what they write about. I found such a blog.

I spent hours last night dancing my way through Kim C.'s blog, Life in a Shoe. It was delightful. She didn't pull her punches; she does write about the hard things like having to wake up seven little girls at two in the morning to pick up a husband who's been stranded in a parking lot two hours away. She wrote about those things, but in such a humble, loving way that I left her blog with a real sense of peace and joy. I have never gotten those feelings from someone's blog before. Books, maybe, but never a blog.

Over six months worth of posts a person can't pretend that kind of an attitude. I've noticed that in other's blogs. Some people might talk about being humble and joyful, but read their blog long enough and their true heart will come through. I can't remember any posts Kim wrote specifically on heart attitudes, but something still came through her writing that reached out and touched mine. It's really inspired me to look at my own attitude when I write. Just what legacy of feeling do I want to leave behind in my blog?

I was wondering about it absentminedly the other day. I wondered how it would feel to one day have my own daughter read my blog. Would I want her to? Is there things I've written she might enjoy? Is there things she might learn? Will I even one day have a daughter? There is always the possibility I could have all sons--or the possibility I won't have any children at all.

~~~~

My sister, Hannah wants a baker's dozen. I love how she says this. She tilts her head to one side and lets her hair fall half across her face. Her turquoise eyes sparkle and one corner of her mouth curls up playfully, "I want a baker's dozen," she says mischieviously.

I hope she gets her wish one day. When she first told me she wanted a baker's dozen I thought she was being fastecious. I thought instantly of her disorganized tendencies, of her emotional vulnerability, but then I thought further and saw how silly my thinking was. Despite her weaknesses she has strengths I don't come anywhere near matching. She's the most loving, dottering dear person I know. She cooks up the yummiest storm in the kitchen and she'd gladly give up school if she could to just sew all day. If any girl was to have thirteen kids and enjoy every minute of loving them it is going to be Hannah.

I'm not sure how I'd feel about myself having thirteen kids. What's right for each family differs so drastically sometimes. Rachel and Matt are still debating numbers. Matt likes the number five, Rachel the number eight (she wants to beat mum and dad's total).

I love the idea of being pregnant one day, but then again I almost think there's going to be something different for me. I love the thought of adopting. I don't think this in a romantic, or even an obligatory sort of way. There honestly is something about dirty brown feet and little black smiles that has wriggled it's way deep into my heart.

Right from when I was little I've had a soft spot for orphaned animals. My Dad got me my first baby lamb when I was six. My Mum would make up the bottles for me and I'd get them out of the fridge to feed my baby every four hours. I turned into the orphanage mother after that. I had baby goats, baby kangaroos, and even once a baby swan. After I hit fifty, I lost count of how many baby lambs I'd raised.

Loving another woman's baby doesn't bother me. I know there are some ladies who just aren't made to do it, and I don't think anyone has a right to hold that agains them, but for me it comes naturally. I'm not a gushy, emotional kind of person, my family will testify to this, but when I read stories and when I see pictures, a swelling of longing rises in me. I want to hold that baby and I want to take that little boy home.

~~~~

Physically I could probably never bear thirteen children. Though I am getting better, my body will never be as robust as my sisters. I'm going to have to face the possibility one day that a stress like childbirth could trigger off a major relapse I might never recover from. I know a woman this happened to.

I'm not angry anymore at having gotten sick, though. I've learnt a lot of things about health and emotions that in the close loving family I come from I never would have leant about normally. Many, if not all, children to be adopted from overseas suffer from major health issues, the least of these being malnutrition. I know what it is like to be dizzy and weak from malnutrition. I lived two years with a digestive system that wouldn't digest the food I needed, losing weight I didn't have in the first place.

Strangely enough, I even know how it feels to be unable to receive love. The disease inside me not only affected my physical body, it messed with my emotions as well. There were times I physically could not stop crying. I know this it hard to understand; before I became sick this is one thing I never would have ever considered possible, but it is possible--I lived it. Things can get that chemically messed up in your body.

I once cried for three days straight. I'd be able to stop for a few hours here and there, then in the middle of a movie scene or a flicking of a switch, it would start up again. The last of my resilience was breaking. If I was the suicide kind this was where I would have pulled out the razor and ran it across my wrists. But I didn't have to--deep down I was convinced I was dying already.

I've read of the terror people go through when they can't breath in that moment between their lungs stopping and the lung machine taking over. The three days I couldn't stop crying were like that. I was frozen stiff, unable to breath, wishing for a breathe but almost hoping the dark would just swallow me whole.

I longed for love so desperately. I knew people loved me, but as hard as I tried I couldn’t feel it. The disease controlled my emotions and I was starving in the wasteland. It was at this point that the rage hit. I hated the disease, I hated myself, and in the end I almost hated God.

The circumstances that produce the same emotions in orphans is totally different I know, but in the end I almost don't think it matters. I know about the despair and the rage. I could hold a lonely child and understand how they felt.

I'm willing to understand, too, that this might never happen. I don't know yet who I'll marry and I can't pretend God would tell me everything before first laying things on my husbands heart. I'm going to admit, though, that I don't think God has made me sick for nothing.

I'm curious to see just what He will do with my desire to adopt. He sees so much further into the future than I. He has healed me when the statistics said I should have been sick for life, and He has loved me when I've had no love of my own. In that light I guess anything could happen. I could end up with ten kids, I could end up with five. But then again just imagine--I could end up with a baker's dozen, too.

Currently 30°C (86°F) at 12:58am, Monday 23th, '06

2006-01-23T00:29:00.000+10:00

I can't believe this heat. It's one thirty a.m. in the morning and I still feel overheated. My face is red and it feels like every pore in my body is wide open waiting for the sweat to start flowing.

I was going to write about movies. Actually I was going to write about movies, music, bright lights and something else equally as attractive...but this heat. I've been mulling this post over in my head for days, but I just can't stand to sit at this laptop with the keyboard adding yet more heat to my body.

You'd think the temperature would at least drop after midnight, but sheesh. If I stay here much longer my legs will swell up again and then I definitely won't be able to sleep.

I didn't get to sleep until four thirty last night. It wasn't wholly because of the heat, I was having a majorly bad reaction to rubber. Hannah reckons I was dead to the world from six am to lunch time; she testifies to having cleaned up her side of the bedroom without me having twitched an eyelid, but you know, I woke up in a sweat and that counts as the equivalent of waking up on the wrong side of the bed.

Today wasn't bad, though, as bad goes. I loafed around--wait, I do that routinely--hoping the temperature would go down. I dusted and vacuumed Josh's bedroom. I've slowly been working on his bomb of a room as his welcome home present, because yes, as many faults as he has, I do love the schmuck. I know he's a guy and all but I can't believe how thick the dust was on his side-lamp. My goodness. I had an asthma attack dusting his shelves.

My legs didn't bother me so much today, which was nice. They've really been driving me nutty lately because the veins running down behind my knees into my lower legs keep swelling up with the heat. My whole leg goes red and it feels like it's going to explode. The pain gets especially bad behind my knees, like the pain you get in your neck when you get a 5-grade migraine, and I can't stand up on them. The only thing that really helps is when I lay on the couch and swing my legs to rest over the back--seems to run the blood back out of them.

I should go try to get my temperature back down. Maybe sit in front of the kitchen air conditioner. Yes, sir. Tell me about your ice fishing. I'm jealous.

The Girls (our grand photoshoot)

2006-01-21T15:34:00.000+10:00

Ever since Rachel left home we've been a pickle. We're had photos of Rachel and Lydia; photos of Hannah and Lydia; photos of Mum, Hannah and Lydia; photos of Rachel and Mum; photos of Rachel, Lydia and Hannah, but never--never photos of Mum, Rachel, Hannah, and Lydia all together.

When Rachel came up for Christmas we saw our chance. We grabbed our red shirts and went crazy with the camera. Her's a few of the photos we got:-

1). The Girls Inside

2). The Girls Outside (unanimously voted the best shot)

3). The Boys (minus Matt and Josh)

4). Mum and I

For those of you who might be confused: Hannah is the one with the long hair (she's almost 14), Mum is wearing the black cardigan, Rachel is the one with the 3/4 sleeves (she's 23), and I'm, um, the other one.

The Day Before

2006-01-21T15:05:00.000+10:00

Photos from our grand photoshoot featuring Rachel before she left are coming next. But first I need to take you back a day, back to the day we got off our lazy buts and turned productive.

We finally did make jars and jars of homemade salsa. Indeed, we did. We chopped, sliced, and smushed over 24 red, juicy tomatoes.

This is what we--and the kitchen--looked like after the grand undertaking.

For full effect (tomato juice goes everywhere).

While I cried from chopping chilies; while Mum cried from chopping onions; and while Hannah cried from squeezing lemons (lemon juice goes everywhere, too), Rachel sat gracefully composed at the table scrapbooking.

Witness Rachel attempting innocence at our pain. (She did, however, a lovely job of scrapbooking Matthew's baby photos).

And in case all this production wasn't enough, we also celebrated Dad's birthday. Yay for us!

Dad turned the ever-wise, glorious age of 47.

I Need a Life

2006-01-18T11:02:00.000+10:00

A real post coming soon--I promise. But in the meantime, I thought you guys might like this. I signed into MSN and saw that Bethy--who is never on MSN--was signed in and had her status to "ON". This is what transpired:-

< .begin >Naturally Nine - Conversation< /begin >

Lyd says:
Why hello
Lyd says:
this is a surprise
Lyd says:
*nudge*
Lyd says:
Bethy darling, I'm tired
Lyd says:
if you stay silent I'll fall asleep
Lyd says:
*1*
Lyd says:
*2*
Lyd says:
*3*
Lyd says:
*yawn*
Lyd says:
*4*
Lyd says:
*5*
Lyd says:
would you like a photo?
Lyd says:
we got some photos of all us girls before Rachel left on Sunday
Lyd says:
it was sad to see her go
Lyd says:
though, I did get to go in the airport
Lyd says:
I love airports
Lyd says:
there's something about them..an atmosphere, a smell
Lyd says:
*yawn*
Lyd says:
Where on earth are you?
Lyd says:
I'll keep rambling
Lyd says:
I've developed this undeniably bad habit of rambling lately
Lyd says:
*6*
Lyd says:
*7*
Lyd says:
*8*
Lyd says:
*9*
Lyd says:
counting makes me tired
Lyd says:
*10*
Lyd says:
I think you must have forgotten you're signed in
Lyd says:
don't tell me Fletcher has a hole in his shirt again?
Lyd says:
heh
Lyd says:
I want to steal your little brother
Lyd says:
he sounds so adorable
Lyd says:
*11*
Lyd says:
*12*
Lyd says:
*13*
Lyd says:
Aaron said the funniest thing the other day
Lyd says:
Rachel asked him, "So Aaron, do you feel ready to become an uncle?"
Lyd says:
He replied, "I don't want to talk about it."
Lyd says:
Rachel: "Why not?"
Lyd says:
Aaron: "I don't feel ready for a child."
Naturally Nine says:
little brothers and freind ask why are you taking to your self
Lyd says:
*14*
Lyd says:
*15*
Naturally Nine says:
talkking
Lyd says:
Because this certain somebody has nothing better to do
Naturally Nine says:
16
Naturally Nine says:
17
Lyd says:
*18*
Naturally Nine says:
18
Naturally Nine says:
21
Lyd says:
whoops
Lyd says:
*crash* *bang*
Lyd says:
you broke the system!
Naturally Nine says:
i am the systom
Lyd says:
haha
Lyd says:
so is this you, Bethy?
Naturally Nine says:
hello, Lyd
Lyd says:
hello dear
Naturally Nine says:
it's Bethany now, but my brother and his friend have been messing with your head.
Naturally Nine says:
and denying it
Lyd says:
haha
Naturally Nine says:
they want to know if you eat Vegemite.
Lyd says:
lol yes

< .end >Naturally Nine - Conversation< /end >

My Favourite Foods

2006-01-12T20:00:00.000+10:00

I love long phone conversations. As far back as I can remember, I never felt I'd had a real good chat with someone unless I'd talked with them for at least two hours. A few more years on my age--namely five--hasn't changed that feeling.

I love to kick back, gaze sightlessly through a window and picture the person I'm talking to on the other end of the phone. In this world where all is imagination and all is private almost anything can be said. Much can be said in one hour, but I don't think the truly profound and serious topics come out until the sixtieth minute has passed.

What I love about Bethany is that with her the serious subjects start right off the bat, and somehow, because of that, an even deeper level is reached in the second hour. Not many people can reach that second level and still be laughing, it takes a great sense of humour to do that.

Somewhere in the discussion of sweet older women and grandchildren, Bethany declared quite ruefully, "I'm terrible like that. I always forget to ask people the normal questions like 'what's your favourite foods?' " We talked for another hour and a half and never did return to the question.

So--just in case we never get around to the topic again--this list, dear Bethy, is for you.

* Youghurt:- I literally eat this all day. It helps my stomachaches and always tastes so yummy.

* Mangoes:- Oh my, yes. My whole family is obsessed with mangoes. I especially love them in smoothies.

*Lasagne:- My favourite birthday meal. Nothing can beat my Mum's lasagne.

*Salsa & Guacamole:- Or Mexican food full stop. I could happily turn completely mexican. Turn my tongue to Spanish; feed me burritos; dress me in a long red skirt; and give me gorgeous black hair.

*Peppermint Chocolate:- I'd eat more of this if I hadn't fainted last time I did. One day...write it on the list. One day.

Mail Day

2006-01-12T10:22:00.000+10:00

I got the most unexpected letter in the mail today. A friend I had off-handedly sent a Christmas card to wrote back to say she was in Thailand. Thailand! On a short term missions trip. What a coincident, no? I just bet Josh runs into her.

You know, I was just thinking last night after I finished posting that I don't write a lot about what I'm expecting to happen in the near future. I seem to spend half my time wallowing in the past. Sure, I talk about big future stuff, but even then I seem to manage to make it into a past story thing. Strange. I think it's a bad thing. I should work on it.

Starting with this....I'm ringing Bethany in an hour! I can't wait. I love talking with my dear Bethy.

Another thing that's swiftly approaching is Sunday--the day Rachel leaves. I can't say I'm as excited about that one. It's been so much fun having her around for a month. I can see how Bump has already grown. Apparently it can now hear and even suck it's thumb.

Making Headway on New Year's Resolution #3

2006-01-11T22:55:00.000+10:00

I rung and had my first long chat of the year with my naturopath/dietitian today. I enjoy ringing Jo (or Dr. Dzung for that matter). I've known both of them for so long now that it's almost like ringing up friends. When I was really sick, my monthly chats with them were almost exclusively my social life. Sad, I know, but the truth was, when emegencies arose it was them I rang. I always found there was a satisfying sense of thank-goodness-not-everyone-believes-its-all-in-my-head when I rang freaked to death, but in a dead-calm, and had them panic for me.

I remember once I rang up in a tizzy. I had begun passing blood and I had this sudden fear that maybe my stomach was bleeding. I knew Dr. Dzung was on holidays, so I asked to be put through to Jo.

"Um..no, sorry...Jo is away, too. Let me see who else is in." The voice of Shelly, the receptionist, trailed off and I knew she must be reading the days appointment schedule. "Is it urgent? Would you like to specifically talk to someone you've seen before?"

The main doctor I see is the founder of a large clinic of various doctors. Over the years I've seen a few of them for different things. I knew that as close to tears as I was, I'd much perfer to choke up with someone I knew at least a little. "Yes, someone I know would be good. Is Yvonne there? I've seen her before."

"Yvonne....Yvonne...Wednesday is Yvonne's half day off. She would have left half an hour ago. If you like, I could try to get a hold of her on her mobile. Why don't I give her a go and call you back in ten minutes?"

"Ok, that would be great. Thanks." I hung up the phone and tried to tell myself I was probably overreacting. These things happen all the time remember, I told myself. You always think the worse and it always ends up being something much minor. It's probably just a tear. There'd be lots more pain if it was your stomach. Besides, who dies of a stomach homorrhage when they're sixteen?

I waited and hoped Shelly was able to get a hold of Yvonne. I waited an hour; no phone call. By one and a half I was half way through a funny movie and had calmed down enough to believe I was panicing over nothing. At two hours Shelly finally rang.

"I'm so sorry, Lydia. I've been trying Yvonne every twenty minutes and she's just not answering. She often turns her phone off." I said a few nice phrases at this point to reassure her that I wasn't about to send goblins to take up permanent recidence in her kitchen bin. She continued. "I just found out, though, that Dzung just got back from her holidays and plans to pop in this afternoon to see a few patients. I could put a note on her desk and she should ring you the instant she gets in. Is that ok? I'll say it's urgent."

Shelly is a darling. She must have said more than urgent on that note because my mum reckons she has never heard Dr. Dzung sound more worried than the time she rang that day. Dzung is a very practical, laid-back kind of lady--the kind who, one morning when I went in to see her made a face at me and complained about being tired because she drank too much coffee the night before. The first time I'd rung her for an emergency she'd rung me back sounding quite calm and almost annoyed. It was a year and a half and many, many complications later and since then her view of me had obviously changed.

According to my mum, when she picked up the phone Dr. Dzung sounded almost distraught. "This is Dr. Dzung Pri---what happened? Is she alright?"

In the end it turned out that everything was alright. A small blood vessel had ruptured in my large intestine and not my stomach, an easily treated problem and not at all life-threatening. But her reaction to a note with my name on it that read "urgent" stuck with me. So often I knew she had always endeavoured as all good doctors do to stay calm about all my problems to try and allay my fears, but when one little note after a long abscence triggered such a panic, I suddenly knew just how sick I was.

Things have changed. The last time I talked with her I remember laughing 'til I nearly choked. I can't remember what it was we both found so funny, but if nothing else, we both finally knew I wasn't going to end up in hospital for life and--if nothing else--I guess that's always worth laughing about.

Like I said, it was good to talk with Jo today. I still have a long way to go, and where Dr. Dzung is a big picture person, Jo helps me with all the nitty-gritty details of my daily routine and diet. I thought she'd laugh and tell me I was hoping for miracles when I declared I wanted to put on weight this year, but the optimism seems to have struck her too and she said it sounded like a great idea.

Earlier this year when I first began seeing her, I remember her looking at the long list of tablets I was taking and saying, "Whew, this is a lot. My first goal with you is to get this down. I'm going to have to add a few more for now but I promise you this is going to become less." It's taken a year but it is finally down. At one point I was taking over thirteen supplements and tablets. Today it dawned on both of us that we've finally whittled it down to five. Jo put on her how-could-you-have-ever-doubted-me voice and declared loud enough that I could almost imagine her putting her hand on her hip, "I told you it would happen!"

Heh. So it did.

Accident Prone Josh

2006-01-09T22:48:00.000+10:00

I'm surprised at the random chaos that has been occuring in my comment box recently. As of yesterday I never knew there was such a term as emo and I had never in my whole life invisioned catching a man through garlic bread being first stuck in my "big bush of hair". Now that I think about it I'm sure my hair must be emo. It definitely tends toward the emotional (or expressive if you're into diplomatic sounding descriptions).

My day began with...well, waking up in a sweat and moaning about the heat, but I'm sure y'all are sick of my griping by now....actually it began with the eavesdropping of a very interesting phone conversation.

My Dad picked up the phone, "Robin D****." A pause and then a light of recognision in his eyes, "How's my man?" He asked. Ok, I figured, it must be Josh.

Another pause and then a slightly incredilous look passed over my Dad's face, "You sprained your ankle? How did you manage that?"

Apparently Josh managed it in the way all sprained ankles come to be--he slipped over. Now not in Thailand, he hasn't got there just yet. He was first to stay a day or two with Trevor, our pastor, for a quick time of preparation and briefing.

As the story goes, Josh apparently woke up early this morning and, having nothing better to do at six o'clock when all is quiet and one's hosts are asleep, went out for a walk. Nothing out of the ordinary happened until the return journey when he went to walk down a muddy hill. It was then, in the placing of one foot in front of the other, that the inevitable happened. Swoosh! Bang! Flat on his bum. A sprained ankle was born.

He went to the doctor and found out he had torn a ligament. We were a bit worried that maybe it would be broken and he'd have to back out of the trip, but it turns out that if he promises to use his crutches he can go. It just means that he's going to be hobbling around Thailand for a week. The imagery such a scenario creates is simply devilish. Just imagine lanky Josh swinging around on a pair of crutches, herding together cheeky toddlers with a tap on their well padded bottoms. I can't wait until he gets back home with photos.

Bad Hair Day

2006-01-08T18:01:00.000+10:00

Rachel makes me laugh. She--who incidently has dead straight hair that is rarely rebellious--descended upon me with the camera just before, giggling loudly.

I looked at her wryly, "What?"

A giggle, "You're hair. It's such a rats nest!"

Indeed. We lived in the same room for fifteen years, haven't you ever noticed it before?

Like I said...she makes me laugh. She reckons her hair is boring, but sometimes I wish I could live with her assurance that her hair wasn't about to start doing cart-wheels at any and every inappropriate moment. Usually if my hair looks kind of cute I don't care what it's doing, but even then, I don't think I'll ever get over the spiral of terror I get every morning just before I look in the mirror. Some thing are better left unknown.

Spanish Salsa and Thailand Babies

2006-01-07T17:05:00.000+10:00

Today has been good in a lazy, happy kind of way. I got a decent nights sleep last night and I've had less allergic reactions. The heat wave is also over, so it's not like I'm gasping for a breathe of cool air anymore. I can sleep when the temperature drops below 30 at night. When it doesn't I'm still sweating at midnight even with the air conditioners on.

I didn't do anything much, but I did kind of think about doing things, which is always a step up. I pulled out my Spanish course and played around with it for a few minutes. I've spent the last six months randomly watching my favourite movies with the spanish audio and I'm surprised at how much I picked up through just doing that.

Mum and I actually had plans to create a stylish mess in the kitchen yesterday making homemade salsa, but when mum went to get the ingredients she found we're out of onions. So, you know, we're trying to do stuff, but it's just not happening. *roll*

Januarys always seem to be like that. We usually take our family holiday in January to escape the heat, but because we're shifting mum and dad decided we wouldn't do it this year. Now we're banging our heads on the table wondering what kind of fools we are. It seems ironic that we should sit and swelter in the heat and then move after it's over.

Josh is lucky. He's going to Thailand for four months starting tomorrow, and the temperatures up there are perfect. Talking of which, it seems strange that he's leaving tomorrow. There just hasn't been a whole lot of excited fuss about it.

Rachel, Mum and I were talking about it and we figure it must be because we're so used to overseas trips. Matt has been to over eight countries; Rachel not much less than that. I feel almost cheated that I've only managed two so far. Well, actually more only one, but my team did spend one night in Singapore. I say it counts.

Josh is going with a church team to spend time babysitting the babies of missionaries attending an international, week-long missionary conference in Thailand. After that they'll spend a few weeks doing manual work in the outlying villages. Josh and I were talking about the trip one day when he turned to me and said, "It's weird, you know. I asked God to teach me the stuff I'll need to know about being a dad, and now I'm signed up to babysit toddlers for two weeks." He's so funny sometimes.

Suspended in Time

2006-01-06T23:20:00.000+10:00

I don't want to write.

I've written that line so many times in my pen and ink journal lately. It's like I get to this point where all I can see is a blur of blended colours and I can't make out any bright points to write about.

It's probably a combination of things. Everyone is on holidays at the moment, so besides my Dad who goes out early for work every morning, no one is following a routine at the moment. Plus I've been eating a few things I shouldn't have lately, and when I have an allergic reaction my brain shuts down--I find myself floating around in a fog.

I feel a lot like that with everything at the moment. We're shifting (moving, that is) this year.

I've got totally mixed feelings about the moving thing. You know, way back at the end of last year I was the one who first started thinking about it, and I was ready to pack up and go anywhere right then. At the beginning of this year when I was so sick, it hit a peak. I had to shift. I was in such fear and everything was so hard because Dr. Price couldn't see me. Mentally I had no hope and I had to escape. My room was my prison, the night my keeper.

April came and the month in Brisbane. When we got home, I was still a total emotional wreck and Mum figured that maybe I could change rooms. Hannah and I swapped with Caleb and Aaron, and it was like we'd shifted. It was beautiful having a new spot, waking up and seeing outside the window and not the bookcase.

Psychologically swapping rooms really rescued me. I also did some serious praying, and slowly I got a peace about maybe staying here for the next three years. I kept asking God to please give me a calm bigger than all my hormonally messed up emotions. He did, and for a time I was in joy.

It was a real shock, then, when suddenly Mum and Dad sat us down at the table one day and said, "We want you all to pray with us about shifting."

The thought was exciting. Up north we'll be able to go to church, I'll be able to get involved in things, go shopping, and there'll be all the special foods that I need available right there.

Then the terror hit and I felt terribly homesick just at the thought of moving. I've always loved living out here in the bush. I was the tomboy when I was younger and I spent years tagging along behind my Dad, first rouseabouting in the shearing sheds and later mustering sheep. Plus I have so many memories here. We've been on this station for over eight years now. This is where I had my first motorbike accident, where I found God, where I turned sixteen.

For I while I felt like I was living on a see-saw. First I wanted to shift only to find out it just wasn't to happen, then right when I finally came to a peace about not moving, I suddenly find out we are. When I finally got readjusted to this new idea, reality hit and I discovered that things won't suddenly be perfect when we shift--it'll just be different. That upset me for a while.

But that was two months ago. A lady has been sending us a few photos everyday of the house we're shifting to and the more shots I see the more I can envision ourselves shifting. Slowly the reality of it has crept up on me and my initial excitement is back. I want to shift. I'm ready to shift.

But of course the see-saw had to tip. I finally get to this point only to find out that we've still got four months to go before we shift. Somehow I had been thinking it was only two, but alas, it's not. Over Christmas I've been tieing up the loose ends of projects I've been working on, and now I find myself at the end of it all.

It feels like I'm suspended between this time of what was and this time of what will be. It's like the night is finally over, but now that the day is here I find myself overcome with the length and brightness of it. The endless possibilites of what will happen this year scare me and I don't know what to do.

I know I shouldn't live waiting for the day we shift, because as my Mum said, "You'll only find that we'll get up there and it won't be that different. We will be the same, our routines will be the same...we'll just be in a different place."

But, you know, sometimes knowing doesn't change anything. I learnt that last year. I found out that knowing the answers doesn't necessarily make you feel them. I am going somewhere, this I know. But right now I'm floating around in a fog--right now I'm suspended in time.

Three Pinches and a Punch

2006-01-03T17:26:00.000+10:00

I like quoting people...

~~~~

I'm a gentleman, so, even though the ladies may punch and kick, I'll
restrain myself. Three big hugs for the third of the month...???

-Stephen

~~~~

And seeing as it is the third of the month, here's 3X2 my goals for 2006.

1) Grow Out My Hair - There's a few people who have strongly disagreed with my latest hair cut, myself included.

2) Concentrate on Learning Spanish - I'd love to speak it fluently one day.

3) Put on Weight - Don't laugh, I'm serious. I haven't put on weight since I was thirteen--actually I've probably lost some--and next to getting better, there's nothing I'd love more than to put on five kilos or so. You wouldn't believe how impossible it is to find clothes in that size between girls and women's cloths that doesn't exist.

4) Work on Consistently Praying Every Day - I like to pray while I'm walking or swinging on the swing, but the around the clock heat wave lately has canceled both forms of exercise. I'm yet to figure out an alternative.

5) Finish My Second Novel - I made a deal with myself: I'm not allowed to buy any of those lovely looking books on writing until I've finished "Liana". I'm too much of a perfectionist. I fear I'd read all about how to write and then be too scared to actually write.

6) Be Less of a Know it All - Heh. This one could take a bit of work.

And just in case I don't succeed in meeting any of these goals, here's three things I know will definitely happen that I'm especially looking forward to.

ONE - Getting my braces off.
TWO - Becoming an aunt.
THREE - The release of Pirates of the Caribbean 2.

Happy New Year

2006-01-02T21:32:00.000+10:00

I got up early and watched the sunrise this morning. I haven't done that in such a long time. I've seen the dawn many times this last year, but it was always at the end of a night of no sleep and never at the beginning of my day. It was special in that sense.

We have a tall water tank tower in our back yard. I climbed up there and hugged my knees to my chest. The surnise was kind of melodramatic--it never is really spectacular in summer, but there was this soft breeze. It brushed across my cheeks and around my neck and carried with it the innocent smell of morning.

I thought about the candle and as I did I remembered this one thing I read once. A lady who had recently found out she had a chronic illness wrote about how she had at first really struggled with not being able to do what she had managed quite easily to do before she got sick. She shared how, in the process of accepting her limitations, she would get out a candle and light it.

She said she'd think of one thing she wished she could still do, tell herself she was thankful for the time she was able to do it, and then reaching forward, she said she'd blow out the candle. She said it was the one thing that really liberated her. She was admitting her limitations and in blowing out the candle she was saying goodbye to the hold they might still hold on her.

I realize that in blowing out my candle I'm in an essence having to say goodbye, too. I'm having to say goodbye to the rage and fear and hurts. I'm having to say they are over and not going to come back--I'm having to say, "Here Abba, they're yours."

There's another Rich Mullins song I've thought a lot about lately. One line from the song goes, "I can't see how You're leading me unless You've led me here to where I'm lost enough to let myself be led." I realize now that's where I came to last year. I had to be screaming, lost in the dark completly before I could give up all that I thought I had a right to. To surrender I had to say goodbye to all that was and, in turning my back on them, raise my eyes to rest only on my Saviour.

I prayed for a long while sitting up there on the water tank stand. I revisited with God all that has happened in the last year. I went over the tears, the anger, and the fear. I felt the soft, warm kiss of the sun on my face as I thanked Him for never giving up on me. I gave him last year; I gave him this year.

Then, taking a deep breath of the fresh smell of morning--I blew out the candle.

Where Once Was Light

2006-01-01T15:14:00.000+10:00

Home

I see the morning moving over the hills
I can see the shadows on the western side
And all those illusions that I had
They just vanish in Your light

I can feel the warmth of morning on my face
Though the chill in the night still hangs in the air
Though the storm had tossed me
'Til I thought I'd nearly lost my way

And now the night is fading and the storm is past
And everything that could be shaken was shaken
And all that remains is all I ever really had

What I'd have settled for
You've blown so far away
What You brought me to
I thought I could not reach
And I came so close to giving up
But You never did give up on me
I see the morning moving over the hills
I feel the rush of life here where the darkness broke
And I am in You and You're in me
Here where the winds of Heaven blow

And now the night is fading
And the storm is through
And everything You sent to shake me
From my dreams they come to wake me
In the love I find in You
And now the morning comes
And everything that really matters
Become the wings You send to gather me
To my home
To my home
I'm going home

Copyright 1988 - Rich Mullins

~~~~~~~

I found this song a little over a year ago. When I first read the lyrics I copied them down into my pen and ink journal. Underneath it I wrote: "One day I'm going to claim this song. One day it's going to happen and these words are no longer going to be a mockery at what I can't reach."

The day seems to have finally come, but now that it's here I'm not sure I have the faith to claim it. I'm scared.

At the beginning of this year I thought transcending into the new year would be like closing up and filing away the hurts and pain of the year before. I thought that I could move beyond the grasp of their reminders and with words spoken to me by my doctor, I thought it would be the year I'd get better. I held out my one last hope and I held my breathe.

If you hold your breathe, though, the punch hurts more and when it came I had no desire left to resist it. I know most of you think the treatments I received in April helped me...and in the long run they did. But at the time they made me sicker then I'd ever been. I never told any of you, but nearly every time I left the house that month I was in a wheelchair.

Most of you never knew because that's about the time I disappeared from online. I was badly allergic to the radiation from the computer, that was the truth, but more than that I was falling apart completely and I couldn't keep up a masquerade anymore. I'm not very good at being vulnerable. I'm one of those people that instinctively hides away until I'm ok. I share about it later.

I had learnt how not to hope anyway. Daring to hope was as vulnerable as I could get. I had learnt that everytime I hoped I only got smashed in the face. What then would happen if I was truly vulnerable? I don't think I ever really thought about it that plainly, but somehow I knew and in that knowing I knew I couldn't afford to try.

I learnt how to cry. I don't think I ever really knew what real tears were before getting sick. Before a bout of crying came rarely and I always felt better afterwards. Suddenly I found out there was another kind of crying that wrapped it's arms around your throat and choked you. I don't know how to describe the despair and fear except to say it's like getting shown a window into hell. The terror consumed me.

I remember one day night I just sat in front of the mirror and watched myself cry for two hours straight. By that time I was almost flirting with the depression. I knew when he came, how long he would stay, and in taking him in, I in my obstinance dared him to destroy me forever.

That's why this Christmas was so important to me. Last Christmas is something I don't want to remember. I was in so much pain and I was such a mess I had to go to bed after lunch and I slept while my family was out swimming in the pool. I had held out a hope that at least Christmas could be a good day, and yet again I'd gotten smashed in the face.

It was almost like I was Gideon this year as Christmas approached. I've slowly been getting better and when I realized there was a possibility this Christmas could be good I made a subconscious bet with myself. If it was good then it ment the fleece was wet and the ground all about it dry--it ment I was getting better.

Well, it happened. I had a wonderful Christmas. I got five hours sleep the night before. I had only a headache, and I only had to take a short nap before lunch. It seems that I've gotten well enough to control my symptons enough to pull out a good day when I need it.

That ment a lot to me. For so long I've felt so helpless, at the mercy of the disease inside me. When three months ago I had two good weeks in a row, I pulled out the song "Home" and wondered if maybe the time had come.

But something went wrong. My Mum went away down south for ten days, and a new pain I hadn't had before hit me. For seven days I didn't get any sleep, and by the time my Mum rang Saturday morning I was crying before I'd even gotten out of bed for the day. I didn't know how I could take anymore. I raged for days at God for letting me mistake the feeble yellow flame of a candle for the glorious warming rays of the sun.

But though it was tiny I held onto that little candle. Every now and then I got a good day and when it came I'd hold the candle and tell myself that at least I had this one light. The candle became almost like my belated hope. I lived believing there was nothing between me and the darkness--it was the only way I found not to get hurt--and so when the candle came I believed and hoped in it only on the days I had it in my hands.

Then this month happened. I remembered the song and now that the end of this year is here I want to believe that the dawn as really come. I need to know next year will be a new day. I can't keep on as I am, I know that. But when I think about it I realize that to find out if there is shadows on the western side of the mountain I have to first let go this one little flame--I have to first dare to hope the dawn is there to keep the dark from consuming me.

I want to believe it could be true, but then I remember how cold the dark can get and I discover anew just how real the terror is. I'm not sure I have faith enough to blow out the candle.

The Weather Forecast

2005-12-30T14:28:00.000+10:00

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

2005-12-29T15:59:00.000+10:00

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

2005-12-28T12:02:00.000+10:00

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

2005-12-24T23:57:00.000+10:00

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

2005-12-23T15:36:00.000+10:00

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

2005-12-23T10:48:00.000+10:00

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

2005-12-22T16:22:00.000+10:00

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

2005-12-19T23:59:00.000+10:00

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

2005-12-17T16:24:00.000+10:00

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

2005-12-16T14:28:00.000+10:00

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

2005-12-12T14:10:00.000+10:00

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.

On the Subject of My Sister

2005-12-09T12:18:00.000+10:00

Before I delve back into the world of rambling blog posts I should tell you this. Rachel is pregnant! Yep, throwing-up-in-the-morning, craving-watermelon-at-2am kind of pregnant. Very exciting really. She's due in June, and so far doing wonderfully. I can't wait for her and her hubby to come out for Christmas. She'll be sixteen weeks along by then and hopefully sporting a cute little belly bump.

Mum and Hannah think I have 'Aunty Syndrome' bad. I thought I had it cured then one day it got the best of me...

My favourite baby song:

With Arms Wide Open by Creed.

My favourite Anne Geddes photo:

My favourite maternity top:

My favourite birth story:

http://www.pregnancy.com.au/flynn's_birth.htm

And my favourite thing of all:

My Sister Said

2005-12-07T22:09:00.000+10:00

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.