Ma Wa Gray

Yesterday I was in the St Marys parking lot loading Eva up after her first piano lesson. My brother Tom happened to arrive to watch Holly play hockey.  We both had other places to be.  But for a good 10 minutes we spoke absolute crap to each other. Every possible irreverent inside joke was thrown, relics from our childhood were dredged up and anyone who didn't share the same home with us growing up might had thought we had actually lost it.  I haven't laughed that much in a while. A laugh where none of the humour needs to be explained because it is literally in our DNA.  I know Tom has had a hectic week. I know I have had a hectic week. Being an adult is hectic.  But the blessing of siblings is that we carry in ourselves safe places for each other. We carry all our shared experiences together. And sometimes a brief moment in the past is all we need to feel safe in the present. 

Stephen is going on his annual fishing trip with his good mate Andy, who also happens to be a botanist.  While other men plan their golf trips, and their hunting trips, and the bars they're going to hit, and the fines they're going to give each other, my Stephen is planning which ready made soup to buy and which flies to pack and which dam to hit first. Bless him. 

Gray and I love a good house hunting show. He doesn't like the British ones because it seems that the inside of every British house has a fairly cramped TV room, with a half baked greenhouse conversion off the pokey kitchen, that leads on to a small block of grass.  I like the house hunts where the top of the list to look for is a house with a view. I am happy to live anywhere as long as my windows face the expanse of the world.  Gray however will be happy to live anywhere modern, grey or black with clean lines and a lot of masculine heaviness. There's no room for brookie lace on his house.  Come to think of it I suppose the houses we look for and like are pretty accurate reflections of who we are as peoole. I need to see everything and know what's going on for everyone, everywhere. And my Gray needs a big strong fortress where shapes make sense and the frills dont matter. 

The skeleton of a trampoline lies below our bedroom window. The sides that hemmed our children in, giving them the freedom to first fly, have tarnished ripped and torn. This weekend we got rid of the supportive structure altogether. Now its just the frame and the actual trampoline. No safety net. And I suppose that's parenting in a nutshell, the slow removal of safety nets until one day they will fly. 

Its Saturday afternoon. Warm winter sun streams across my bed. I've slept, undisturbed for over an hour. The laundry is drying. The children are somewhere. We have no plans for Sunday. 

 A veil of mist lifts itself off the frozen landscape. Mountains are resplendent in snow and we are approaching the last warm outfits in our cupboards. A new season waits in the roots while the queen of winter takes her final bow. 

 Last night I watched my brother's daughter on stage with my daughter while my sister's son, who was sitting next to me, shouted loudly, "That looks like Hopey!" I will never get over this blessing. 

Sometimes after a season of dramatic change comes a moment of introspection where one can sees the the way God lines up disconnected things to make them hugely connected. We look at the one section of our spider web lives and all we see is cords, and sticky stuff amd capture. And then when we take a step back, breathe, and zoom put we see that the cords that we thought were chocking us were actually the threads that anchor us to a far bigger and more beautiful picture. Intricate, woven and divinely made. 

You know you're getting old when the thought of your newly installed linen cupboard gives you more joy than the thought of a rip roaring party. 

  The man who made a play about a man who made silent movies met the nurse who cared for the man who made the silent movies when he was dying. In their meeting she remained silent for her own reasons. But sometimes silence is all that matters. 

Why is it that no matter how many percale 100% Egyptian cotton pillow cases you buy you'll always end up with the torn pillow case that your sister used when she was in boarding school?

Junior school play dress rehearsal day. The makeup schedule arrives late on the day of the first show. People forgot the slots they had booked and are halfway to work.  Chaos.  Mothers run from the coffee shop in their active wear to lend a hand. Hair nets are flying. Kids look jaundiced in their mother's foundation. Childhood freckles disappear. Lipstick is applied and eyeliner runs across lids. Little bodies squish into leotards. Its show time. 

Today I am chosing to trust that the only expectation God has of me is to have faith like a mustard seed. One doesnt have to force faith. One doesnt need to be overwhelmed with trying. One simply has to have a small fragment of the star dust faith from which God made us to know that we are linked to an infinity larger universe and a Creator who is infinitely larger than it all. 

 In the busyness of lunchboxes, PE kit, lifts to hockey games and missing school ties its easy to forget that this is exactly the life I prayed for. 

 Last night I went to watch our choir perform. It's the final choir performance for our current matrics. I don't think it was planned but both Bjorn and Liam's younger brothers happened to be standing next to them in the choir rows. As they took their positions on the stage for a final time both sets of brothers cast knowing, naughty smiles at each other. A smile that doesn't need words, or an explanation. A smile of secret jokes and shared memories. A smile that tells you that you belong.  Yesterday I wasn't home and Stephen was working and so Gray took it upon himself to do Eva's homework with her. And this morning he made sure she had her tennis racquet. And he does a great deal of small interventions in her day to make it joyful and fun. When she hugs him she says he smells like safety.  When I hug my brother I feel the same.

Its snowed the other day. From our verandah, with the use of binoculars, we could see the white tips of the Drakensberg.  A few days later Stephen used a clever app to work out which mountain is which. The mountain we could see covered in snow was Cathkin. My home.  On a normal hazy day we wouldn't be able to see that far but on that magical morning, when the world was cleaned of all its grime and the frosts blanketed the Midlands with their crisp, I could see home. Heaven is home. If we are wise we build our houses to face it, focusing on a place that we know in our heart exists, even if we cannot see it. And on some miraculous days we catch a glimpse of that beloved place. And we are reminded of the homecoming that we live for. 

  Eva bought herself a beautiful crochet set. The box said it was suitable for ages 3 and above. I would argue that it isn't even suitable for ages 42.  I thought it might be a lovely Sunday afternoon activity with her. It wasn't.  After trying to read the very spartan instructions on how to do a slip knot I eventually found a video. I had to watch the video twice to master the art of tying a knot. I then thought I was doing well by not even trying to read the instructions on how to do a simple stitch and went straight for a video again.  You would think that people doing instruction videos might slow things down given that the people watching their videos are me. Needless to say rather than getting zen with my daughter gently stitching in the winter sun that kak crochet set got swiftly reassembled in its box with the promise that we'll take it to granny's house.  I have recently been diagnosed with chronic sensitization. I also actually qualify as having fybrom...