You can learn a lot from your roots just as you can learn a lot from your branches. My childhood friendships are steeped in the soil of my homeland and hold the richness of my beginnings and add colour to my present life.

In many ways, I had an idyllic childhood and in others, it was inordinately tough, but both turned me into who I am today. The beauty of technology and the last twelve months is that I have reconnected with many of my childhood buddies who spend many years with me at school. I grew up in a tiny “Dorpie” in South Africa, where everyone knew everyone else’s business and unlike the world today, no one really strayed too far from home. The village really was a village and we would never have thought of putting the word “global” in front of it. It was as “local” as you can get! Many of us went to the same schools as our mums, were baptised in the same church and played with the children of our parents childhood buddies. Some of us stayed in touch after school, but we lost touch with others and then Facebook happened. Last year, we got together for our 25th school reunion, having uncovered some of our primary school buddies that had moved away. We met with trepidation, wondering if people would recognise each other, whether we would judge each other or not have anything to say to each other. It was quite the opposite, what unfolded was a reunion in the true sense of the word.

What I learnt in this process, was that for half our class, we had been together since grade one. We had spent twelve years together giggling, grazing knees and hearts and dealing with the realities of growing up. We had spent more time together than some of us have spent with our partners. As we reconnected and got to know each other again, I have loved the fact that in the time we spent together there is a huge common set of values, likes and dislikes. We were moulded by the same teachers and experiences and even though we might have all been shaped a bit differently by the experiences, the common ground and values has created a closeness that we perhaps took for granted while we were all together at school.

So twelve months on girls, I am glad to have you all back in the fold. We may not “speak” to each other daily, we may all be scattered around the globe, but the odd comment on Facebook, the email out of the blue and the ability to pick up and leave off and pick up again is beautiful. For many of you when I think of you, I see who you are today, but more often when I talk to you I see spindly legged six or twelve year olds, who held the dreams of my own youth. Thanks for being back in my life, you were never really gone…

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Sure the weather in Melbourne is distinctly distasteful and rather tiresome. Either, too hot, too cold, too wet or too dry. So the city has had to compensate to make anyone remotely want to live here. So why do I love Melbourne?

The amazing architecture, the little laneways that have tiny cafes tucked away with eclectic art and funky decor, the cobblestones, the trams wobbling all over the city, the flower sellers, and the sporting and cultural events that always create a buzz of activity. The streetsweepers that hum through the city before any of the commuters get in and keep it inordinately clean. The trees down Collins St that are currently budding lime green leaves, the bells of St Michael’s at 12 o’clock and the clip clop of horses hooves as tourists (and locals) ride around the city getting a view of Melbourne’s many splendours. The shoe shine man near 101 Collins St, who just musically bellows one word “Shine” all day as people walk past with their heads full of their stuff.

And yesterday when everyone in their Footy jumpers lined the street with religious fervour for to watch the Grand Final Parade. 100 000 people, the City, so organised and prepared, fences up, police marshalling, vendors handing out free soft drinks, kids and grannies, passionately waiting to see their heros float past and hoping against all hopes that their team will deliver today.

When I went home last night, everything was packed away, not a single piece of litter as a reminder of the crowds who had been there. And today, everyone preparing to watch the footy, flare up the barbeque, hang out with their mates and pray that their teams come through and by to tomorrow? Everyone looking forward to next season. The parks will no longer have children kicking the footy, they will have moved on, switched their allegience and be out their with their cricket bats. For Melbourne there is a time and a season for everything and it is defined by the shape of the ball or the car flying around the Grand Prix track. Whether you love or loathe sport, Melbourne is an awesome city to live in.

Go the Saints!

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I live on an island continent some 11 000km’s from my original home. There are people I know who have also uprooted themselves and now live far from where their memories started. On Saturday, while I was the passenger in the car, being driven by my 18 year old learner driver. A buddy from my early home, far away and deep within the memory vault, passed us on the road. It was too distracting to tell my learner to hoot and I said nothing, as I did not want her turning around and going “Where?”

When I got home I posted on her wall of Facebook that I had spotted her ferrying her children to whatever Saturday had brought their way. My friend in the UK, saw the posting. Unbeknown to me, he who also lives 9000 kms away from his home, had spotted someone from his childhood neck of the woods, turning into a roundabout in the traffic!

How many times do we all experience the same things and in all the millions of people in the big cities we live in, is it really random when we bump into each other? I think not…

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Two months ago, if you had said “cadence”, I would have sung you a song; if you had said “cleats”, I would have said “Huh?” and “confidence”, I would have associated with something totally different. Now, when the Spin instructor says get your “cadence” up, my little legs go round in circles. Okay, the legs are not so little, but work with me here…I am wearing cleats for goodness sake!

Over the last few weeks, my posterior seems to have adjusted to a seat. I know to set the saddle to the top of my hip and to look down at my feet to see that just the tops of my toes are visible, when my knees are bent. I know the difference, between “ride easy” and “attack”. I can go into a class and not feel like a Bambi in the headlights and I have even mastered “push pull” on one side and then switching to the other. All of these things I would have thought impossible, especially for a girl who used to be terrified of exercising. I am not sure why, but my self esteem was not robust enough for PE classes as a young child in primary school, and often I was reduced to girlie sniveling in a PE class. This somehow, developed into never liking exercise and avoiding it as some people avoid a spider. I have never really sweated in an exercise class, today, a tiny bead of sweat hit my top lip, after 43 years people, I can confirm sweat is salty!

At the end of the 45 minute class, I had done what all the fit people in the class had done, I felt strong and confident. Probably the first time ever in an exercise sense…mmmhhh…maybe you can teach old dogs new tricks?

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I am a dog person. Sorry, Fred, the household Feline. It is true. I love you, but if my heart belongs to any group of furry mammals it is the Canine’s – with their silly smiles, their wild enthusiasm and their utter unconditional love. How can you not love a dog?

Today my friend Anne, has the terrible task of taking a beloved pet Roly, to the vet to put him down. He was born of a litter of pups with long, spindly legs, a mixture of too many breeds to mention. She still has his mum and two of his sisters. Roly has lived with her mother and has been a friend, guardian and companion to an 82 year old woman who lives alone, has a stainless steel version of independence and is still as smart as a rising Executive in a corporation. It got me thinking about dogs. What do they mean to us symbolically and what do they teach us as human beings?

I am not traditionally religious, I would consider myself spiritual, but not of the church going variety. I believe that we should live our best lives, do no harm, leave a legacy of love and the world a better place. I am somewhat of a Catholic Buddhist hippie. I have always thought that “dog” is “God” backwards, and I believe that in sending dogs to this sometimes loveless, angry, crazy planet, God was trying to create a physical manifestation of unconditional love. No matter what, a dog always love you. Cats to me are humans, they can be arrogant, self centred, sweet, changeable and selfish, but I think they have evolving to do when it comes to unconditional love. They are sometimes scornful and contemptuous of the canine, hissing at and misunderstanding that the dog’s tail wag is friendship. Rather interpreting it as their own version of tail wagging, which is anger. No matter how much our cat, Fred hisses at my own dog, she looks at him with soft, brown eyes and wags her tail gently and with anticipation of a different reaction. Unconditionally she loves that feline. Similarly it would seem to me that a God, whoever, he or she is, does with us humans. Looking at us benevolently when we fail to see what we should be seeing, that life is not meant to be hissed at, that every situation should be approached with love.

So today as my friend has the horrific task of taking unconditional love and saying goodbye to it, I feel for her across the miles. I shed a tear for her and her mum, that their friend and guardian will leave them, never having asked for anything, but having given so much.

Rest well, Roly, you were a good boy.

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I love the feeling of completeness when you have done what you have needed to do and the weekend stretches ahead of you like a lazy cat in a sunny spot. This Friday, I managed to get home at about five o’clock, an unusual event.

Melbourne’s weather was cold and grey. If Spring had sent a text, it had been rejected by Melbourne’s servers. She was ferociously hanging onto her reputation of miserable weather. By this time in Johannesburg, the sun is being a real show-off, flaunting himself like a Latino dancer to a group of gorgeous girls. It is the time of year, I wonder why I moved. Cold and rainy, when I know that elsewhere on the planet…so what do you do?

You can sit around and mope that weather is awful. Instead, I gratefully ran a bath at 6pm. Lay in it and read a magazine with a cup of tea. When I got out, I put cream on for dry skin, not the expensive one that is lovely and luxurious, but Nivea that reminds me of being a six year old and being cuddled by my grandmother, I popped on the fluffy dressing gown and the slippers and settled down with the dog at my feet. It may not be anyone else’s idea of a fantastic Friday night, but to me it was the perfect beginning to a relaxing weekend.

Monday, I am going to look you square in the eye and say “Bring it…”

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Memories are made in momentous moments, but most are are a collective of the mundane, ordinary days that our lives are made up of. Today is no exception. It is Sunday, a day that stretches ahead of you, delightful in its lack of obligations. Today was wonderful in its nothingness.

I went Spinning and actually kept up without dying! The chicken I threw in the oven, with sweet potatoes, came out succulent and just spiced exactly right. The broccolini and the rice were good. The salad, just right. Connections with people felt right. The walk with the dog and a couple of buddies was great.

Then the topping, sitting on my daughter’s bed for a couple of hours, she was painting her Year 12 final piece. We slipped in and out of conversation, me watching TV, surfing the net on my Mac and writing, and she painting and creating the beautiful work she does. The silences still connected us, the conversation lapsed in and out of the future, her dreams and views. These are the moments of memories, and when I hugged her and said good night, all was right in my world for those few seconds and tonight will be a night I hold onto when I am old and grey and reflect back on “those were the days.”

Make your moments memories…

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What I love about the human spirit, is that if you are connected to someone you really love, it does not matter the time or the distance, you just pick up where you left off. You dial a number, the person answers, mutual delight in both voices on the phone and time and distance mean nothing. It is a miracle that in the millions of people out there, you never forget a voice or a face, and no matter how many millions of people you see every day, there are the ones that you will remember forever.

We should all be grateful for technology and how small it has made the world. I remember when I emigrated 13 years ago, my grandmother saying how hard it was when she emigrated in 1937 from Holland. She would write a letter, it would take six weeks to get to Holland by boat and then if, her parents replied and posted the letter straight away, it would take another 6 weeks to get back to her. No instant status update!

So today, I am grateful, for phones and computers and how they have kept people I love close by when they could feel so very far away. It is not the same as a hug and a cup of tea together, but it is so much better than the alternative, nothing.

Elaine, it was good to hear your voice and your laugh. Ray, the “capitalist witch” still loves you and wears the “Noble Trade” beanie on cold mornings when I walk the dog. I am sure there would be union officials very confused by that! Oh, Canada! It would be good if you were closer…

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Usually at a point like this, I would turn to the demi-god of Lindt or Toblerone and seek comfort. I don’t do emotions, well not ones that hurt. Not ones that make your mascara run or your green eyes red (although for colour blind people that would be good right?) See how easily I can distract myself when it comes to emotions, look a bird… a colour blind bird…

OK seriously, my sadness is heavy and raw. Why does no one tell you the roller coaster of emotions you will feel when your children grow up? Why does no one warn you of the sorrow you feel? Yes, there is joy, the joy of being able to shower without someone whining pitifully outside the door when you are missing for five minutes, with dad holding the baby up to the steamy shower door to show her that you are not gone. Why do I now want to stand outside her bedroom door and check that she has not grown that five minutes older that allows her to leave, finish and be done with her childhood? Leave it discarded on the floor like a wet towel? I want to yell “Pick up your childhood! Don’t leave it on the floor where I can trip over it!”

In truth, I am tripping over it and so is she, as we battle to hold onto it hard, when the wind of young adulthood is tugging the kite of her childhood right out of our hands.

What does that mean? Lately, we have railed over tiny things, her and I, who never really argue, we have made mountains out of silly arguments because neither of us want to face the elephant in the room, that she is no longer a tiny girl, whose hand slots around my fingers as we cross a road; that she no longer has a heavy, fuzzy head that falls with a weight into my hands as I look down and feed her.

We have argued hard about tiny things, things that never were an argument before because we can’t acknowledge the one thing that is wounding us both, that this is done. That we will transition to a new space. And when we are done snivelling and asserting ourselves, we have a cup of tea and smile at each other. We sit on the bed and giggle at how silly we are. We have battled for a new more equal relationship and while it still feels like strange and foreign land, it is the beginning of the next stage forged in tears, not unlike her birth. We have a sense of anticipation and beauty that we both know we will rise to, but in the meantime, we forge our way to this new equilibrium, sometimes with tears, sometimes with laughter.

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This weekend in Australia, we celebrate Father’s Day. I often ponder the way men are maligned in today’s society. You see TV ads, mostly making men out to be stupid bogans, who don’t know the first thing about feminine hygiene products and stick them on their heads to look like Darth Vader or having the emotional intelligence of gnats. True, there are some men, that are just like that but the general stereotype does not hold.

So this weekend, as we celebrate Father’s Day let us be grateful for the men who are not afraid of intimacy, who are there supporting their children, taking a keen interest in their families’ lives and who want the very same things that women do, but may not articulate it in quite the same way. They may hide behind their macho facades or they may not even have macho facades. In my time working with many men, most of them miss their families, want to spend more time with them, but carry the mantle of supporting their families seriously and don’t always express it just the way we women think they should. So to all the dads, like mine and my husband, who look after their families and do their best for their children, thank you, happy Father’s Day!

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