The Coach House

A week or two ago we went to stay at the Coach House in Napier. It was perhaps, the loveliest holiday we've ever had.      

Just like this old dwelling, our lives, have so many layers and stories woven through them. Napier was a profoundly different place back a century ago- the Coach House belonged to the grand home on the hill and housed the horse, the gig and the coach "man".

Eventually, the whole horse and coach (or gig) carry on slipped in to obsolescence, the land was subdivided, the catastrophic earthquake of 1931 changed history for all of Hawke's Bay and the Coach House eventually slipped in to disuse and disrepair.

It has now been skillfully renovated and made in to a charming little cottage, sitting within the grounds of Jan's home and cleverly dovetailed in to her Mediterranean garden.

The colours and details are gentle and kind and evoke memories for me of my grandmother Edna- her pastel palette and warm hospitality.

Good old human nature- don't you just want to pull that ladder down because it says "Please do not lower ladder. Private storage only" and climb right up there to see!

A mixture of vintage and contemporary elements 

are found through-out the cottage.

Our own vintage baskets, blankets and tablecloths enhanced our comfort and the charm.

 None of us knows quite how our own story will unfold, in fact, it's probably just as well that we have no idea how it's all going too end up!

We start out thinking that our lives and stories belong to us and that we are free to chose. I was so often told by my parents that "the world was my oyster", perhaps that is true for some, but for many of us, no matter how hard we try to build and weave and learn and grow, it just doesn't work out that way. Not because we've failed, but because we are not always truly free- when the previous generations are not able to reconcile their own journey, traumas and experiences well, the burden and the consequences get passed on and on. But here we are coming up to our 40th wedding anniversary and looking back over those four decades wondering how we ever survived- we both brought so much grief, confusion, abandonment and other people's baggage to our union- it's amazing there was any room for our love. No one talked about dysfunctional families back in those days- there were no tools and no useful outside help. In church they told us emphatically we must honour our parents no matter what. How grateful we are to be living in an age of knowledge- eventually we did find the tools to navigate ourselves to safety; to learn about boundaries, to tell the truth and tell our truth and be open to heal and reset a million things, but it's taken 40 years! People often tell me that I should write a book- I think those people may be waiting a very long time. I am never going to write a book- ever. And I am especially not going to go to all that trouble just to tell the stories of people who nearly destroyed us and whom I hold accountable for some pretty appalling and unacceptable behaviour. When you are almost 65 you really should not be hamstrung by your own mother. That is plain wrong. 

With a bit of luck we're nearly out the other side of it all.

I learnt this simple practise (from a river) a while back- it's called washing and weaving and it's given us fresh perspective and huge armfuls of hope. I've always known how to weave a good life- the first thing I did when I left home was to go to a whole foods shop and a Chinese warehouse, I went to markets and libraries, I walked for miles, I climbed hills to see the view, I bought an old treadle sewing machine and started to sew my own clothes. Over the years we have learnt all kinds of new skills, we're still mending an old imperfect house and we've planted a garden- over and over again. Gardens are never done- they're a living thing! We've just re-roofed our house. Rob did all the supervising and skilfully managed all the building repairs. We are learning about herbs together every day and we go out to the land to wildcraft and visit whenever we possibly can. Warp and weft, on and on we weave...together. But then there's the washing- that removes the sediment and the crap. It's an essential art. Sometimes, with my hands in the murky water, I wonder what has become of our weaving, but when the water washes clear again I see that it still holds. Sometimes, you just have to flush!

It really helps to take a a day or two away from your own life periodically. There's a momentary release from the daily patterns and habits; a necessary refreshing of perspective, a healthy resetting.

It's such a treat to spend time in someone else's pretty garden- this rondoletia amoena thriving on Napier Hill.   

The old tennis pavilion of days gone by revived.

This old-fashioned rugosa rose Roserie de L'Hay has the most glorious Turkish delight fragrance.  

A vista to the past.

Sitting in peace, wrapped in beauty is a weaving of goodness but also a washing of the detritus of the past.

This year has seen us continuing to explore all the spaces of our lives and clearing out that which no longer has any useful service, offends unhelpfully, or plain weighs us down.

There is rest in clearing out the rubbish- spaces are harmonised or soothed and so are we.

Attics are fascinating places- holding momentoes, ephemera, awkward stuff we're not sure what to do with, junk, and sometimes remnants of the toxic kind. The hidden family secrets often cause the greatest disruption- usually for those left behind.

If we want to uphold life solidly and well- best we clear out the spiders and the skeletons from the familial cupboards. Taking sins and secrets to the grave may save the squirming one discomfort but frequently off loads the crippling, pain and consequences to their offspring.

We have been diligent in our opening of the cupboards and our determination to use a truth wash on the family linen and it's made all the difference in the world. Finally the spinning has (almost) stopped and the consequences of other people's choices no longer rule our lives. It turns out that we're pretty good at making fabulous choices about our own best interests and how we look out for each other.

The thing that has really sideswiped us though is that the weird stuff has kept coming- in full colour! Just when we've thought- surely there can't be any more!

We are constantly learning new ways of being, of eating, growing and knowing. This sushi salad is our most brilliant discovery of late.

It's such a satisfying way to live- slowly and simply. 

It also means we're not easily fooled.

So when we were sent a message by a friend back in June to say that Rob's old family home 20 Sunray Avenue was for sale, we were completely flabbergasted.

At 91 and a half that is quite an undertaking- to clean up, sell up and move.

To chose not to tell your eldest son (and have no intention of doing so) is just plain weird.

Rob's elder brother died abruptly 3 1/2 years ago, his much younger brother recently remarried and together (along with Mum & step-son) they all planned to sell the house that had been the family hub/home for 54 years. Wild dreams of escaping to the "country" outside of Auckland, with the now pregnant new wife and elderly mother in tow, were clearly vivid and all consuming. No one thought that it might be nice to send Rob a quick message and let him know what they were all up to. When he finally phoned his mother to ask her what was going on, there were elaborate and fanciful stories told as subterfuge...until he asked about the house being on the market- silence, dead silence "Oh....you know".

I just love the resilience of this centranthus ruber growing in the wall. Sometimes we adapt and even thrive where others never would, sometimes we don't.

The story continued- "We don't know what we're doing, or where we're going, it's all in God's hands, we're just moving to the country" became the family mantra.

That's interesting because we saw the house near Cambridge on line- yip they bought it for around 1.3 million. Times running out to tell the truth- ah, well that may be a little tricky because no one will reply to Rob's questions and he is not allowed to have his mother's phone number- that is reserved for friends only.

We comforted ourselves with such thoughts as "Well at least Rob doesn't have to help clean up the property and the 5 or 6 dead cars and truck loads of crap"- a nightmare waiting to arrive in his lap for decades.

Ah, digitalis- foxgloves. Yes, Felicia had a quadruple heart by-pass some 20 years ago- almost total occlusion. Now she lives on warfarin and some kind of biltong-like spite.

Every move she makes is directed by God. She won't ever explain the directions given because "you wouldn't understand"- such missives are only for special people like herself. Never mind the lies and the slander that leak out through the half baked tales the rest of the time; the gossip that has divided and broken the family. But, of course, it's all my fault. She's been talking to the Lord about me apparently to see what he'll do with me since I have said dreadful things and she's quite sure I should be punished!

I'm not quite certain when she climbed in to that high tower of specialness, but she's never coming down. All the money lives there with her- that's how you get what you want of course- just withhold or dispense as you wish and that way you're always in charge, especially with God one your side. "Money's your medicine, but you're sick all the time". I'm also not certain when Rob got stepped down from the family- We are The Family...and you, are not. One day just like a lavatory door, the sign suddenly said "Uninvited", and that was that. This stuff messes with your head. So it is not the slightest bit surprising that when asked when they were going to tell Rob about selling the house, they said of one accord- "We weren't!". Fair enough if that's the way things have drifted over time, except... when you then decide to go to Stuff an on-line national news service to broadcast your story. The article is still here: Auckland's 'hottest do-up is a Mid-century time capsule with same owner since new. And then, for the icing on the proverbial, they went to Seven Sharp and were both interviewed for a slot on Prime Time national television. Rob made it to a vague wafty photo on the wall holding his baby brother, otherwise he never existed.

One morning as we were walking back up the hill and I was just admiring a delightful garden, I spied the gardener at work. I wandered up the drive way to speak to her and to tell her what a pleasure her garden was to passer's-by. Right about then, I looked down at my feet- what could not be seen from the road was this vast and glorious bed of my most beloved lily of the valley. 

The flowers Helen gave me lasted a week- that's surprising really as I thought they may have been sniffed away long before then.

Presently, we are pondering the strange but helpful message we received through the title of a book I saw in the library: "Holy Disunity". There will be no resolution to these peculiar events- only through death, I feel. So we will learn hand and hand, to dance along our own sacred path and not look back.

We have the loveliest plans for our 40th wedding anniversary coming up in a month's time. We are off to Tiger House!

Weaving a Nest

I have long been fascinated by the idea that we perhaps, have 12 senses, rather than just the 5 that we are all so familiar with. It was Rudolph Steiner that first proposed this intriguing concept. I just love this post here at Fairy Dust Teaching that explains it all so beautifully. Having been raised in very conventional ways, myself- this news is thrilling to me. Suddenly, everything makes so much more sense, now that the missing bits have been delivered. It's like only ever having a set of five primary coloured crayons, kept in a very skinny pencil case, with which to colour in the world- so limiting. And then, quite suddenly, being presented with a complete rainbow box of delicious pastels to work with- everything changes.
I really like this homeschooling diagram as it puts the development of the 12 senses through childhood in to very helpful perspective.

And this is why I believe that a "good" childhood is so vital, a child's well-being is woven strand by strand with fine threads & teeny stitches in to a belief & value system that will travel with her the rest of her life. It may seem a very strange metaphor, but this belief system is much like a healthy pelvic floor- elastic & supportive & beautifully constructed to hold all the vital organs of creativity in place- effortlessly. The fabric of childhood values, is in fact, not crafted by the child, but woven by others around her. She may offer small snippets to be added in to the creation, but she is not the architect, nor is she in charge of the project. Some of the materials used are imperceptibly passed on by other generations, others are absorbed in to the fabric simply through the close & seamless bond with mothers & caregivers, as for some long time the little one does not see herself as separate from the mother, but as one & the same. Which is why I inadvertently absorbed so much of my mother's self hatred & melancholy. As a child you have no idea what is normal or healthy, or if it is not, it's just your life. Some of us are offered beautiful life blankets woven with love, richness & great skill, that we carry with us in to the adult world gratefully. Others are offered blankets of discordant colours & materials that may be scratchy & itchy & cause us no end of trouble & discomfort & do not serve us well. It is a very difficult thing to find yourself with a dumb life blanket. And the truth is, we are not at liberty to just throw the thing away, it's ours whether we like it or not & we must figure out for ourselves how we will re-craft the offering, in to a support that will more graciously sustain us. This work may mean a life time of unpicking.
I have come to observe that many people receive perfectly fine life blankets, others have a good bit of work making do & mending theirs, and then there are the others- the scapegoats & black sheep who have to face the truth that what they have been offered will harm, kill or disable them if they don't deconstruct the blanket almost entirely. The reason that we are not at liberty to simply burn the offensive thing is that by now it has also become part of our emotional & physical body.
I have become very aware of a troubling phenomena of recent times, as I observe many people around me suffering- really, really struggling with unsolvable, incurable health issues. And in every case I note that the life blanket given to them in childhood is a toxic/scratchy one. I  have struggled for the last 30 years with a lack of vitality & an inability to resolve health issues & become fully well myself, no matter what I have done to try & help myself, until now...now that I have fully separated myself from a father who intends me nothing but ill-will & has done so for over 40 years. You see, it never stops in childhood- the toxic thing, it goes on & on- sticking to your life life like dog poo on the bottom of your shoe. You cannot just simply, pull your socks up & get over such things.
Those who are so damaged that they have nothing to offer their offspring other than life blankets embedded with utterly inappropriate poison apples, are to be pitied.
Their legacy to their victims is a perpetual & gnawing sense of un-belonging & abandonment that follows us in to every nook & cranny of life, never allowing us rest. As a consequence we end up in a state of heightened anxiety & nervousness, struggling to trust others & the goodness in life- we long for even a little of the happiness & sunshine that others seem to so readily gather around themselves. Once activated by the life threat, we come to discover that the panic switch is set to always on & alert, & our rest & restore function is rendered faulty or broken.
So, how do these parentally disordered human beings come to be this way?
I cannot tell you.
All I do know is- that when you reach old age you have a lived your life daily, thirty thousand times over, making one choice, one response of love or contempt, kindness or selfishness- one decision at a time. How we came to have three such people within our family life, I also cannot tell you.
It has been a long 30 years of suffering the consequences, but we have done the work, we have used the tools that we have managed to dig up or find for ourselves & we have methodically bent our heads & worn down our fingers as we unpicked the corrupted & ugly threads & we have rewoven them with feathers & usnea & sheep's wool & joy. Snip, snip pull. Warp, snip, pull, discard, weft. Snip, snip pull, discard. Warp & weft.
It's not enough to proclaim "tell me if I ever start to behave like that!" the ink is indelible- the threads must be cut & pulled.
At various times through the years we have looked up from the work- to rub our aching necks & pause to consider what home means to us, what love means to us, what feeling safe means to us & what would healing from it all really look like.
Well it looks like this: photo credit: Linda Hallinan

 A work of art & perfection. Cleverly, beautifully crafted, little by little until the very best nest is formed. And it always fits the family, the person it is made for- just right.
I love too, the way that my beloved Wild Carrot (Queen Anne's Lace) mimics the nest- flowers giving way to seed & closing in on themselves to form a beautiful, natural womb of protection for the mature seed of her making. One of the golden threads of nature is the miraculous- humans don't always know that they can be part of the same lovely plan.

When we came across that lovely Danish concept of Hygge- making life cosy & warm, we were so delighted & we set about infusing our lives with as much Hygge as we could muster. Recently we came to see that the fundamental thing that must be in place before Hygge makes any difference at all, is the state of The Nest. We each get to craft our own nest through our adult years, but we will only do a fine job of this creation if we have truly assessed & dealt to the state of the life blanket we we've been given so long before.
The first of the 12 senses is The Sense of Life, or The Sense of Wellbeing.
Fairy Dust Teaching suggests that one of the fundamental things that children long for is a rhythmic life-
"And it is the rhythms that hold life- rising and setting of the sun, seven days a week, the cycle of the moon, the twelve months in a year- that we build our rhythms upon. Children require rhythm and actually long for it!! The more rythmical the life of a child, the healthier that child."

Here in this home we return again and again, as beloved children to the basic threads, materials for building a cosy nest- the scents & the beauty of seasonal flowers growing in our garden.

 The wonder of lettuce going to seed.

 The gratitude for the delicious Red Shiso that volunteers each summer in cracks all about the garden.

 The medicinal plants like yarrow...& the visitation of bees.

Seeing once again the wonder of the process of metamorphosis right before our eyes.

 Knowing, always knowing that Lucy is just there, keeping company with the hydrangea Bloody Marvellous. Lucy feels like home- always.

 Eating a rainbow from the garden- because there's nourishing magic in such food.

 Standing in awe before an echinacea flower- such astonishing form.

 Gathering so much glorious summer produce from our little community garden down the road, then sharing it with others.

Harvesting Kawakawa fruits from the school down the road & eating breakfast with joy.

 Gathering wild flowers for their colour explosion. Wow!

 Picnicking by the river at Sacred Hill in the heat of summer, having taken the time to prepare delicious food for our dinner.

Marvelling at the setting sunlight through double Thalictrim blossoms.

 Holding the nourishing gift of red clover blossoms- also offerings from the summer garden.

 Bothering to peel the mountain pawpaws & making Nan's old Fruit Delight dessert recipe with them.

 Taking the time to carefully collect one of every begonia blooming in pots. Their petals are tangy & lemony & so much fun in salads.

 Sitting a sunflower head on a wee seat- like an important visitor.

 Reading snippets of fabulous books like Apples for Jam to each other, warms our hearts & makes us feel loved.

Memories-
"There's children's laughter escaping through the iron gates & past the oleander, and the daffodils, sprinkling on the just-cut lawns that line the road and fluttering up to me through my open window, falling over my shoulder's like fairy glitter. And that atmosphere of sleeping head to tail in trains and on holiday, and knocking on walls to see if others are still awake". Tessa Kiros

 Staying to watch the moon come up even though it's long past tea time & then running to the car 'cos we're freezing.

 These are the threads of life that we now weave- rhythmically, daily, joyfully.
Vintage French enamel bucket- op shop find.

Because all that really matters are the moments- knowing that you are loved, will always be loved & you are truly, fully awake & alive.

The moments...

"Observing freedom" 

 Captured in a split second by David (son). Click photo to enlarge
 Life. Gift to see.

Moulin Rouge sunflower in Matthew's amazing, productive garden.
Photo- Matthew (son).
Life. Gift to see.

Also snapped in a moment of time. Setting sun. Effects- produced by Australian wild fires.

Photo- mother. Life. Gift to see.

Photo- father. Me age 59. Life. Gift to see.

When The Nest is woven with threads of love, kindness, care & acceptance...warmth naturally comes to fill it & grace abides.

Life

All is well.