It struck me the other day that I have never been as inspired as much by a building or a bridge or anything man made as I have been about a tree, a beach, a mountain or sunset.

I was rattling along on the train, coming home, moving through the concrete, graffitti tagged tunnels that lead me home and I realised that in order to recharge, I think we need greenery and open spaces. There is energy in the daily hustle of business and innovation and thinking, but for me down time needs to be green and blue. It got me thinking about the moments when I have felt “wowed” by something I have seen and although I have been impressed by (and fallen in love with) New York City with its endless bridges or the Petronas Towers in Malaysia, lit up and shooting into the sky – it has been a beach or a tree or a mountain that makes my spirit soar. I wondered why this was the case, as there are things we have built that have taken enormous ingenuity, but I came to the conclusion that it is the randomness of the tree, the beach, the mountain that has the spark of creation that all of us carry either alive or dormant in us, that fills me with wonder. It is the mystery of why this particular hill chose this particular spot to jut out and stare at the ocean, the inexplainable beauty of it all is what recharges me and reconnects me with the spirit of who I am.

I have been blessed with finding a little patch of earth, that has trees that reach into the sky, fruit trees and giant ferns and pockets of shade with mossy rocks huddling under bushes. I was awestruck when I discovered that my new garden held a tree that started to bloom in Spring, with bright pink leaves, that are gradually turning yellow and will if I believe my googling, will be green in a week’s time. I love the fact that I can wander down to my veggie patch and pick some sage and lemon thyme and use them to flavour a roast chicken on a rainy night. I love the return verandah, where I can aimlessly sit and listen to the birds, watching the grape vine and climbing roses do their thing, while my dogs run with boundless joy through the nooks and crannies of the garden. I am finding that weekends in the Cottage of Tranquility feel long and languid and that I am getting back to work feeling like I have been away for a long time. So if you are looking to recharge, as all of us are, I suggest, a tree, a rock, a beach or a hill to connect you back to the source of who you are…

© Tanya @ Ordinary Poetry

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There is a tale of a goat, told to me by Fifi, as I was wont to call my Grandmother, as she curled her hair in tight poodle ringlets. It was irreverent of me, to do this, but it was why she loved me. I would pester her to tell me the tale of the goat. She would sigh and roll her eyes and say “it is not that funny.” I would plead “tell me the tale of the goat.” She would smile and begin. “Once when I was a little girl, I went on a school excursion to a dairy farm and I came upon a goat. It had a friendly face and a stubby beard, so I decided to give it a toffee. It chewed the toffee for ages, like this…” and she would pull an agonised face, contorting her wrinkles and pushing out her false teeth to show how the goat had struggled for ages to chew on the toffee. I would squeal with delight, I could see the goat, straining to take in the sweetness of the sticky toffee and a diminutive version of my grandmother, like Madeline, in her pinafore and boater hat, with her poodle ringlets peeking out from under the rim, viewing the goat in horror as it chewed painfully. And we would smile and flip more pancakes, while we both played with the pictures in our heads.

© Tanya @ Ordinary Poetry

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The deliciousness of finding a new poet. Mary Oliver, where have you been? Look at these…

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”
― Mary Oliver

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save

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This week, we are practicing dialogue. We had to use the same character as last week, and we had to create a scene, where the character meets someone for the first time…Here goes Tatiana again…

June 1976. The winter’s morning on the Highveld is freezing cold. Frost like glazed doughnut icing is thick on the withered lawn. Tatiana’s mother is urgently whispering in the kitchen to her father. She can only hear snippets from her bedroom, “Should we send her to school?” her father’s reply “Soweto riots… not so safe.” Tatiana crosses the freezing parquetry floors on her bare feet half dressed in her winter school uniform. “Why am I not going to school?” she asks loudly.

“Go and get dressed,” her mum says over her shoulder. Tatiana hides in the passage and overhears the whole debate about whether it is safe to go to school. The people in the townships are rioting. She feels her stomach knot around the Jungle Oats, she has just eaten.

Sister Clare stands at the front of the classroom.
“Girls (she pronounces it ‘Curls”)” Tatiana giggles, practicing the accent in her head. “Curls, vee haf a new Curl joining us today.” Tatiana looks up from the nail she has been biting and picking, intrigued. “She veel be vis us shortly. You must make her feel velcome. Tatiana, she vil sit next to you. Curls, remember we are Christians und treat her kindly.”

The classroom door opens, the principal, Sister Sylvia enters followed by a girl in exactly the same blue school uniform Tatiana is wearing, she looks like everyone else, except she is clearly a Zulu. The girls all stand as they have been taught to do, when the principal enters, but their mouths are open in surprise. Tatiana is wide eyed as Sister Sylvia walks the new girl over.

Sister Sylvia says “Bongiwe, this is Tatiana, Tatiana this is Bongiwe.”
“Hello” each girl whispers as they each stare at their shoes. Tatiana is in shock, she is twelve years old, was born in South Africa, has lived in there all her life and it is the first time she has spoken to a black child her own age.

The class starts.
Tatiana sits very still in the shared bench. She is scared to move, she is scared to frighten her new friend. Fascinated, she stares out of the corner of her eyes. Finally, she gathers the courage to whisper:

“…where you from?…”
“…Soweto…”
“…Wow…”
“…Why you here?…” she asks gingerly, holding her breath, the chalk scratching on the board.
“…Big trouble…tanks and guns…”
“…Really…” Tatiana frowns, there is no reality of this in her peaceful, white suburb.
Silence
“…How did you get here?…”
“…My father drove me here…”
Tatiana nods
“…You like it here?…”
Bongiwe looks around the classroom. She seems wide eyed as she takes in the unreality of the situation. The only dark skinned student in a sea of blonde and brown heads. She nods, slowly.
“…You got lunch?…”
Head shakes.
“…My mother always makes too much. You can have some of mine…”
Tatiana’s hand slides across the desk and touches Bongiwe’s, she is mildly surprised to find it is as warm as hers.

© Tanya @ Ordinary Poetry

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Last week’s writing assignment…to create a character who is about aged 12. The task is to write about her “autobiography” as homework for school. She will have to read it to her class. Meet Tatiana…and if you recognise any characters or events, just like in the movies, all characters and events are fictional…

Assignment 2:

My name is Tatiana. Tatiana Valente. I am twelve years old. I have a younger sister Katja. She really is a pain. She is five years younger than me and she gets away with MURDER. She has long curly, brown hair that everyone says looks like “Shirley Temple Curls.” Who is Shirley Temple? I mean, like, der? Just because her hair is curly does not mean she is the best thing in the world! She is forever messing up my room while I am at school and then I have to come home and clean it all up and get into trouble for being untidy. I also have a dog Schnoekie. He is fluffy and brown. I live in a tiny town in South Africa and I hate writing English assignments. The End.

I should have written better, I know I can, but last time I got creative with a story was in Standard 1 and grumpy Mrs Lincoln wrote in red pen “What rubbish.” We had to write about “My Horse.” I wrote about my horse that was abducted by Communists and was caught in a fire and he kicked the barn door down to escape and he was awesome. He bolted down the road and left those communists in the dust. He hid on a boat and came all the way from Russia, back home just to be with me. Mrs Lincoln says horses don’t have communist adventures and I should have written about riding my horse in a paddock. Well, I don’t have a horse. We live in a small house in the suburbs of Springs and it is 1977, no one has horses in the suburbs. My dad loves Communists, he talks about them all the time, but everyone says he should not. He is Italian and came to Africa when he was 29. It is from him that my sister gets her curly hair. Everyone says “Oooooh, you look just like your dad.” when they see her. I have straight blonde hair, just like my mum’s she is from Holland. Our hair is not thick. My friends laugh at it because my one ponytail is as thick as my pinky. I like my hair though it is as straight as my nose. My friend Amy, says my nose is the straightest she has ever seen, she even put a ruler against it in Maths the other day and I made squinty eyes that made her laugh but she is right. It is very straight. We laughed so much, because a ruler can’t go straight against her nose, she has a bump and Sister Clare turned around said “I don’t vont zeez behaviour of bebies” in her German accent and now we shriek that on the top of our lungs whenever someone is rowdy on the bus home. We really laugh a lot. I love doing accents and acting. My mum is really funny too. She never just sweeps the house like a normal mum. She sweeps it and then does a Zulu warrior dance with the broom. I guess that’s me.

© Tanya @ Ordinary Poetry

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I am doing an online writing course. Here is a piece I wrote in response to recalling your first childhood memory…

She takes down the box of memories stored in the seldom accessed part of her brain; they are not categorised, but stored in a shoe box of Clarke’s Jack and Jill shoes that her mother favoured for her little feet. She sifts through to find her earliest memory. Is it the red tricycle, with its white seat and its steel “Triang” badge that said “Made in England,” with its smell of oil and rubber and its strong, white painted spokes? She puts that aside. Is it the blue swimming pool, the plastic square, with its poles and legs that folded to contain the water and joined the hose-pipe to create a summer of fun? The smell of grass and mud and the intrigue of the earthworms that somehow always ended up in the pool after a deluge on a summer afternoon. She decides it is not the tricycle and not the pool. She flips through the box, the dust motes of memories floating in the sunshine.

She lands on the dark blue dressing gown, thick winter dressing gown, that has little bumpy balls from being washed, that she rubs her fingers on when she is anxious. The large embroidered cat on its pocket, with its permanent smile, holds no vague consciousness of her anxiety as it smiles mutely at the world. She has worn the dressing gown a lot, she has had tonsillitis repeatedly and although she is only two, the doctors have said that they should remove them. Her parents mirror her anxiety, but smile like the cat on her pocket, to make sure that she does not see their worry. But she knows. She may only be two, but she feels as old as the sun and while she may struggle to articulate it, she knows. Her parents buy her a plastic “Doctor’s Set” to help her assimilate the hospital visit and procedure. She makes them read the packaging to her, even the part that says “Made in Taiwan.” The plastic stethoscope, the kidney bowl, the tweezers, scalpel and blunt nosed scissors join her in removing bear’s tonsils. “See Bear, its not so bad”. Her mother smiles the anxious smile and twirls her long brown hair as she always does when she is unsettled.

The hospital smells of disinfectant, sterile cleanliness. No mud and earthworms would survive in the huge, scrubbed building. She looks down at her slippers, with their silver thread that form patterns of tiny flowers, they are peaking out from beneath the blue dressing gown as she climbs the concrete steps into the hospital. “Why must I wear my pyjamas out?” she asks crossly. “Mmmh,” her mother answers “it will be alright.” She frowns, that is not the answer to the question. She likes the proper answers like “Made in Taiwan” answers that have stories behind them. But she has no time to tug her mother’s sleeve and ask for more as she is now standing looking into a desk. Just a blank piece of melamine, her mother leaning over the counter top, talking in whispers to a nurse and filling in forms. She is irritated. She wants to be picked up to see what is going on at the desk. Not be left to wonder.

The operating theatre is cold, it smells like a scientist’s chemistry experiment. There is a steel kidney bowl. A steel stethoscope. She says “Look, kidney bowl.” The nurse laughs. “How does she know?” she asks her mother. Her mother shrugs and smiles. They tell her to count to ten, that the needle wont hurt her. She screams hysterically, kicking and flaying in anger against the nurse and the doctor. Three people and her mother hold her down. She puts up a strong fight for such a little girl. The needle hits her vein. One, two…she is gone. She wakes up with her tonsils staring at her from a tiny glass bottle next to her bed, she wonders what the writing on the bottle says.

© Tanya @ Ordinary Poetry

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Twelve years ago, I took a skipping seven year old to the pet shop. We were petless, having emigrated two years prior. The deal was we were going to get a budgie. It seemed at the time the biggest commitment we could make given our new country and new responsibilities. The pet shop was stacked in every conceivable corner, with fish tanks, hamsters, rabbits, birds, guinea pigs and some kittens. My daughter gave the birds a cursory look and then became mesmerised with the kittens, playing with them through the mesh, their antics making her smile.

It was about then that I realised we were not going home with a bird, but rather a larger, fluffier animal than I had intended. My husband, a long fan of the feline race, was not perturbed. I, on the other-hand, had been a canine worshipper all my life and was not as certain that I wanted a cat at all. I looked at the litter and said “If we must get one, it can only be that one” pointing to the only one who had slept through the entire playing session. Everyone asked “Why?” “He seems calm,” was my reply.

We gave the petshop the $30 and left with a kitten in a cardboard box. I had no idea what would happen next and how the next 12 years, he would be the glue that bound our laughter and stories as a family. We walked into the house, opened the box and he was out and flew around the house like a bullet! The sleeping in the petstore had been a total ruse. My daughter, spent the next three days, debating names for the feline that still had not grown into his ears. She tried “Fluffy, Whiskers, Cuddly” and a variation of other similar names, in the meantime, I named him “Fred” as a placeholder. I should have not taken my tongue in cheek approach that far with a seven year old, because when I finally said “What is the cat’s name please?” she answered “Fred”. I had some explaining to do to my poor father-in-law who is the real, original “Fred” and not fond of cats at all! Luckily he took it all in good humour and was grateful for having at least one “grandchild” named after him.

Fred knew I was not a cat lover. Every night, I would place him on Jess’ bed, get into my own and settle down. He would be back within thirty seconds and sleeping at my feet. I would get up again and take him to Jess’ room. Sometimes this would be a ritual of ten times a night. Eventually after about two weeks, it was different, I was getting into bed saying “Where’s Fred?” Somehow, he had crawled into my heart and habits and I liked him at my feet.

Fred grew and grew. Eventually he was no longer just a cat, he was a mini-panther. Not only was he a big boy, but he had a big personality. When he used his litter box, it was not enough for him to just cover up his business. He was fastidious. He covered his mess. He wiped the floor, he wiped the walls and in a final state of ablution cleanliness he waved his paws in the air to get rid of any lurking smell that may be hanging in the air. He would then give a satisfied sniff of the air and mince away with his feet flayed outwards in a classic ballet position, like a Nureyrev with cattitude. He also had a habit of wanting to go outside first. No one was allowed out of a door before him, if you dared step in front of him, you were greeted with his biggest, most ferocious hiss and he meant it. He was obsessed with food. If you could not find him you just had to click open a can of food and in Pavlovian seconds he would be there, ready and waiting. He was also playful and charming, chasing shadows on the floor or trying to pounce on you if you wiggled your toes under a blanket.

When we were posted to America for two years, Fred had been with us for about four years and already he had a following of fans for his curious habits and his loveable nature. There was no way, we could leave him in Australia. The company I worked with agreed to ship him over. We were petrified about him being in the cargo hold, but he minced off the plane at JFK like nothing had happened. He did, however, get jet-lag and was totally disoriented for a few days. We called it “pet-lag”. He was also so big that he had to fly across in a dog container. We told him it was “business class”.

He experienced his first snow storm in Connecticut, walking gingerly and shaking his paws in utter disgust at the cold white stuff. He even, on a summer night when we had, had a lazy day and the fireflies were flitting across the garden, encountered a skunk. This was probably the first time in his life that he came off second best, with the skunk squirting him with its hideous smelling gumph and my husband rushing him off to bathe him in tomato sauce to neutralise the smell. His white fur was pink for a couple of days, but he wore that stoically.

On return to Australia, I once again waited to hear that he had arrived safely. I called Quarantine Services to see that they had collected him. I knew they had when I said “I am calling about Fred.” The man on the other end of the line laughed and said “Mate, I went to pick him up. I did not look in the cage, I just picked it up off the carousel. I knew it was a cat I was picking up and then I went ‘Man, that ain’t one cat, cor blimey it’s so heavy, that’s three cats’, I looked in the cage and said ‘Man it’s a lion!’ He nearly broke me arm, he is like three cats, Mate. Whatcha feed him?” I knew he was safe. I knew it was him.

He spent every day lounging around. He always slouched and draped himself in the most obscure positions, often looking as satisfied as if he had just had a glass of port and Cuban cigar. He was an integral part of our family every single day. Every night before I went to bed, I would say “Where’s Fred?” and when I was satisfied that he was safe and indoors, we would all go to bed. On Saturday after being diagnosed with cancer in January, we took Fred for a final trip to the vet. He was no longer the fat boy with attitude, he no longer loved his food and no longer had the energy to hiss at anyone who dared to step in front of him. He was spent and we knew there was only one alternative for him and the kindest thing to do was to let him go. I held his head and patted him while he took his final breath and then I let him go and he went first, like he liked to do, without a hiss, but with a look of gratitude. The gratitude is ours for this cat who travelled the world and made so many people laugh. At night I am now going to bed, not sure exactly where Fred is, but knowing that no matter where he is, he will always be a core part of our family’s best memories.

We love you Fred, you were a good boy!

© Tanya Southey @ Ordinary Poetry

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I am all for telling people to push themselves out of their comfort zones. Yet, it is a very different story when you have to do it yourself. It is so much nicer to stay where you are and pull the doonah (duvet, if you are not an Aussie) over your head. We all pull the duvet over our heads all the time. The last few days have had the duvet pulled right off and my world has been exposed to different ways of managing your health, wellbeing and longevity.

So much of the time, we are marketed to, told something is good for you, yet evidence to the contrary is suppressed for whatever reason. We complicate our health by processed foods, fast living and convenience. In the busy worlds we live in, it is easy to fall into bad eating habits because it is just to hard to put some planning and thought around it. We have the knowledge a lot of the time, but creating the habits is challenging.

What I have learnt on the last few days is that I eat the wrong things, not hideously, but the margins do make a difference. I don’t need nearly as much food as I think I do to keep me energised, in fact some of what I eat is making me tired. I have been amazed at the energy and changes in my body after 4 days. What could this look like if I managed to stick to it?

It is 9:30am, I have done a 5 km walk, a stretch class, had the most amazing healthy breakfast…I guess I should sign off and go into the steam room, so that I will be in time for my clay wrap…aaah, bliss!

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The year started with a lot to deal with. My normal carefree family, slightly thrown by unexpected illness. I knuckled down to what I was supposed to do, care and work. Everything else fell by the wayside. You do what you need to do, when you need to do it. Then things began to turn around and I decided that for all of us, I was going to get healthier and learn to cook better. We face so many onslaughts of toxins in our daily modern lives, that I decided to get better educated. So since Sunday, I have been flying solo at the Living Valley Springs Health Retreat in Kin-Kin, Queensland (http://www.lvs.com.au/).

The Health Retreat principles are simple, fresh air, good water, sunshine (well, there has not been much of that), nutrients, exercise, rest and finding your spirit. So far, it is Tuesday morning and I have not eaten a meal since Sunday lunch. Let me be clear. I LOVE food. I NEVER skip a meal. I make sure that I don’t faint, don’t get low blood sugar and don’t go hungry! I am a foodie. I seriously have few addictions, don’t drink coffee, don’t drink alcohol, don’t smoke or do drugs…but gimme a cuppa tea and a meal and I yours…so how is this girl going having no tea and no food?

It is easier than expected. Besides a small headache and some nausea, which lasted for about an hour after I woke up on Monday morning, it has been fine. I have had juices and protein shakes and my body has been left to heal itself, from the daily onslaught of modern life. I have been surprised that my blood sugar has not gone awry, like I thought it would. I did briefly contemplate rugby tackling the man on the ride on mower and taking off on the little machine in search of “civilisation” and a burger! But I restrained myself, held back my primitive urges to be a carnivore and continued strolling up the hill in search of my personal trainer…

The days go something like this – wake up at about 5:30am, get up and go for about an hour’s walk, attend a stretch class, breakfast (aka Protein shake for the first three days), treatments – massages, facials, lymphatic drainage and others during the day, more juices, more protein shakes, steam baths, dinner (known as broth! My father would die laughing!) and then a lecture. Bed by 8:00 and generally straight to sleep. Starting to feel ok…I can do this. Who would have thought!

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Isn’t it funny the different roles we end up playing and the habits we end up creating? My dog is indiscriminate in who she loves. She is a humanophile. If it has two legs, hands to pat her, can feed her or walk her, her love knows no boundaries. In fact, one of the latter is enough to buy her undivided loyalty. I seem to be her ultimate object of affection because come rain, shine, light or dark, I attach to the lead to her collar and take her out for her daily dose of what I call “Doggy Facebook.” It involves her checking out the neighbourhood, by sniffing all the “status updates” left on the base of trees by all the other dogs in the neighbourhood. I love walking with her, her funny trot when she is walking fast, the way, she grins into the wind and her ears flow back. But, I like doing it when I am ready. She is always ready. From the moment I get home, she is within five inches of me, no matter where I go. She does her doggy-pant of “Are we going yet?” If I sit down she does too, but if I just move slightly she is up and ready to accompany me wherever I go. She is so conditioned that if I touch my runners, she is even more animated. Tonight, she had finally given up on me because it was already 9pm, she had slouched on the couch next to my husband. I took off unbeknown to her and came back into the room wearing the prized objects of conditioning – the runners. I did not have to say “Do you want to walk?” I did not have to look at her, she levitated off the couch and was next to me before I could say “Walk?”

With all this unconscious conditioning, it does become slightly annoying to live with her constant attention and vigilance. I could try extinction to cancel out her association with my iPod, the runners and the lead, but I would be missing out on her affection and the huge laugh we all have from just how conditioned she is, so we live with her exuberance and her learned responses, and I end up walking and walking, even when I would rather do my beached whale impression 🙂

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