Abounding Life in the Backyard

Baby bobtail attempting to camouflage itself - see why they're so hard to spot?

Up close and personal with the baby bobtail

A baby bobtail lizard wandered lazily past the back door two days ago. What did the children do? They called me over to come see the baby. Not because they were particularly interested, new life is par for the course for them. They don't see the delight in sighting a baby of a species so recently under threat. Only a few years ago the population of bobtails in the hills was nearly decimated because of a virus. But for B1 and B2 it's no big deal, we've had a breeding pair on our property since before we moved in.

Magpie preparing for take-off

For me though, it was sheer delight and a sign that my garden is providing precisely the right kind of environment for breeding to occur. That's exciting on so many levels. My garden has become not only my retreat and haven, but that of other creatures too. We have nests galore filled with eggs of Red Wattle Birds, Black Cockatoos, White Cockatoos and Galahs are no strangers, Magpies, Twenty-eight Parrots and Bronze-wing Pigeons abound. We even have interlopers - Kookaburras and Rainbow Lorikeets stop by to eat mice or fruit. But there is something truly charming about having a garden that encourages bobtails and motorbike frogs to breed. And my heart is always glad at seeing them.

Sailing Ships and Sealing Wax and Fashion

Image via WikipediaI was reading about the Princely Treasures exhibit at the Art Gallery of Western Australia today and there are some interesting myths that abound about some of the art works on display. The one that caught my eye most particularly was one about the weaving of objet d'art into the hairpieces and wigs of women's hair in the 1600s, 1700s and 1800s.

It appears that there was a phenomenon of weaving whole model sailing ships (yes, like the ones you find encased in bottles) into wigs for women to wear as high fashion. Bizarre at the time? Perhaps. The reason it caught my attention so vividly though, is that I had indulged myself by buying Marie Claire magazine yesterday and had come across an article about Anna Dello Russo and her apparent slavery to fashion. Lo and behold, what should Anna be wearing in her hair? You guessed it. A ship. wonders will never cease.: anna dello russo for net-a-porter.: 'via Blog this'

Strange but true. Fashion isn't new, it's just a series of repeating cycles (some older and more tenuous than others apparently), cobbled together on a whimsy and sold with supreme confidence.

The M-word

There seems to be a growing phenomenon where I live, of random salespeople calling women they don't know "Mum" as long as they're accompanied by a child. Inevitably, these people are trying to ply their wares. They're snake-oil salesmen in different guises.

Today, a young woman who works for a children's photography company approached me with a chirpy "Hello Mum! Would you like to get some photos of the kids?". I'm sure that this was part of her training; a way to familiarise the target market and an attempt at a psychological inducement, emotional guilt, to capture those precious moments of your child's life before it's too late. I'm fairly certain this chipper greeting resulted from the machinations of a locked room, replete with degrees in psychology and marketing, working on the perfect pitch to guilt-trip parents into the investment of a photo package. No doubt it's part of the corporate training when you join up with the company.

Sadly, all it did was get my gander up. So here's where I need to back-track a little. When I got married, I didn't change my last name. There was a variety of reasons for this, but one was certainly that my name was as much a part of my identity as anything else about me. I have degrees in my name, I had gained employment in my name, I had learned to live with my name (there was a shaky moment when I was 8, but that's a story for another day) and, despite having to spell my name every time I said it, I had learned to love my name. When I stopped working full time, I felt like I had lost an enormous chunk of my identity. It was the first time since I was 15 that I felt an obligation to explain my expenditures. Not that LomL ever required that of me, it is simply what I felt.

When I became a mother for the first time, I was thrilled beyond measure. But the Damocles sword was that I instantly stopped being who I had been before. I became a milk factory, a nurse, a teacher, a guide, a maid... a mother. While a very very small part of me pined for the loss of my old identity, a much larger part thrilled in the prospect of the future to come. When I became a mother for the second time, I was more ready for the the way in which my identity would be subsumed by a child and I think I coped with it better. My children never called me "Mum". That was another stubborn strike for my own identity. I figured that in a playground or shopping centre in Australia, a child calls out "Muuuu-uum" and fifty women turn around. I didn't want to be one of them. So instead, I opted for "Amma" (mother in Malayalam); a nod to my cultural heritage and an opportunity to emphasise my difference in a world of sameness.

Up until the time my boys went to school, it felt like my identity had been hijacked by my role as mother. It has been a long, slow, continuing journey, punctuated by extraordinary friendships that has led me to where I am now; more comfortable with my multiple roles and multiple identities, fulfilled by motherhood, loving the work I do, seeking my more creative, artistic self that has been too long neglected for more pragmatic concerns, being the complex whole that I am.

So when all that I am, all that I hold dear, is reduced to an unimaginative, connotative, reductive "Mum" said by a stranger, my hackles inevitably go up. I don't doubt that it never crossed the mind of the young woman spruiking her company's wares in the shopping centre that she was, by her simple utterance, homogenising me. It is what I rage so hard against, and what I suspect we all rage against... losing individuality.

This is Australia

I drove around the corner on my way to pick up B2 from school when a large collection of animals in the paddock caught my attention. It was sufficiently unusual for me to slow down and pull off the road. I'm pretty used to seeing various animals in paddocks around where I live. There are sheep, horses, dogs, birds, small groups of kangaroos and even a couple of alpacas. But the sheer number of creatures is what stopped me in my tracks.

I drove up a lane that skirts the boundary of said paddock and there they were - masses of kangaroos. There must have been nearly 30 of them, lounging in the sun, munching on the grass and generally doing what kangaroos do best.

It's nice to be reminded that nature still abounds despite the creep of development. There's certainly very little that's more pan-Australian than a mob of kangaroos.

There has been plentiful rainfall and it's heartening to see the local wildlife flourishing. There are birds aplenty visiting the garden (including some finches I've not seen this far north before) and we continue to have breeding pairs of bobtail lizards around the house. All in all, it's shaping up to be a glorious Spring.

My "Like Water for Chocolate" Moment

It was Father's Day today here in Australia. A difficult day for me. My father died 14 years ago and every year since, Father's Day and his birthday have been days on which I fall into a terrible funk. I remember him and miss him always, but these two days are the ones I set aside for truly indulging myself. I allow myself to feel completely sad and bereft, only pulling myself together on Father's Day for LomL's sake. My darling, long-suffering and patient husband knows how I am on these days. He allows me the latitude to miss my father, to feel sorry for myself and wish for what might have been. He understands, he checks on me and he leaves me alone to weep at the sink.

Usually, I skip the Father's Day gathering with the in-laws. It's more than I can handle. The blatant reminder that my father isn't here. This year, I found myself there and offering to make food for the occasion. I woke early, helped B1 and B2 to make LomL's Father's Day breakfast in bed, then got on with making pies for lunch. I was washing spinach when it happened. I made the mistake of thinking about the fact that I was making these pies for LomL's father, but would never again have the opportunity to do this for my own father. It occurred to me that I had only one year with my own father after I married. The pain was visceral. A tear escaped my eye. That one tear seemed to give permission to all the others waiting just behind. I couldn't stop. I found myself weeping uncontrollably into a sink full of English spinach.

Ironically, in the middle of my weeping, I couldn't help thinking about the Laura Esquivel novel, Like Water for Chocolate. The image of Tita, grief-stricken and weeping through the preparation for Rosaura and Pedro's wedding feast, and the magical effect of her sadness transported through the food, leapt to my mind. In the midst of my sorrow, I couldn't help but wonder if my emotions would be contained in the food.

I was too tired and caught in my own thoughts to really notice whether that was so today. I wonder still.

It's a Conspiracy, I say!

Image via WikipediaThe world appears to be conspiring this week. No, I haven't fallen into paranoid delusions. But what's a person to think when events and people collude to force one's hand? What is she talking about? I hear you ask...

I found myself shuffling my work engagements around for two days this week as our ceilings were being repaired and I needed to be home to let the tradesmen in. We live in the hills where the ground is clay and rock, and shifts with the regularity of the seasons. So it's the norm for houses to develop cracks and creases and weather like the faces of old peasants who've worked too long in the sun. Our house decided to go one extra step and require a proper facelift. She fell into her palsy, loosening her grip on sections of ceiling, sagging and waning in various places until finally we were compelled to provide her with the care she required. Yes, I do think of the house as an old lady. She has all the creaks and groans, joint pains and temperament of an old lady who has sat too long in one spot. And so, I was forced into a hiatus.

I spent the two days catching up with reading that I've been putting off for rather too long. A dear friend had had her grandfather's writing translated from Greek into English last year and I've been encouraging her to add to the writing, building a history of her grandparents. She has finally managed that and has completed a draft which she had sent me. So finally I was able to devote the time to sitting and reading this beautiful work. It's rough, it needs editing, but it is lyrical. She has a delightful style and a wonderful turn of phrase. She has yet to decide whether she'll publish the work or whether it's a piece of writing that she keeps for herself and her family. I think it has merit as a published work... but I'm no publisher. All I know is that I would read it and enjoy it. So in the process of reading her work, I stumbled upon phrases that were utterly delightful and I felt compelled to tell her immediately (I'm impulsive - I'm pretty sure you've worked that out already). Our conversation quickly turned to what was happening with my own writing and I had to shamefully say that it's on hold. Time has been snatching its wispy tendrils away from me again. I find myself running from task to task and feeling like I'm standing still. My beautiful friend nudged me gently, then less gently into making more of a concerted effort to focus on my own writing, focus on the thing that makes me truly happy... and frustrated.

I spent most of yesterday thinking about that conversation and how I should and could be writing more. Then this morning I woke to find an email from one of the most beautiful, loving people in my world, shoving me unashamedly in the right direction. She is a writer, a blogger, a gorgeous and supportive friend, and has a competition running on her blog. Now when the universe, or God, or the Great Oneness, or serendipity, or whatever-you-like-to-call-it speaks quite this loudly, I figure it's time to listen. So this blog post is my kick start to my writing.

I have a plan. A simple plan. I'm going to make the effort to write every day. It may not be beautiful prose (and I will find it hard to let anyone see that), it may not be lyrical (and I can live with that), but it will be daily and I hope that it will force me into the habit of writing consistently, of honing what I write, of finding my voice and releasing it on nervous, nascent, fluttering wings into the world.

Wonder boys and an Amazing Amma

Image courtesy of http://superflykids.com/solid-color-cape

In case you were wondering what my alter ego is like, here are a couple of pages from one of the stories my boys and I invented (together) about our super-powered alter egos...

Once upon a time there lived two super brothers; Wonder Nik and his little brother Super Mili. The super brothers had many wonderful powers, but they still enjoyed doing what other little boys and girls did.

One day they were playing in their backyard at home.  Wonder Nik was freezing the dogs with his ice-breath while Super Mili thawed them out with his heat vision.  Finally, when the dogs began to yelp because they’d really had enough of being frozen then thawed out so many times in one day, Amazing Amma (Wonder Nik and Super Mili’s mum) came out and told them to find something else to do.

“But there is nothing else, Amazing Amma!  We’ve played with all our toys, we’ve painted the cubby house, we’ve thrown weeds to the chickens and we’ve even played Battleship and Uno said Wonder Nik.

“Yeah,” said Super Mili.

“Well, what is it you’d like to do?  Because you certainly can’t go on tormenting the dogs,” said Amazing Amma sternly.

“Well...,” said Wonder Nik, leading up to something he wasn’t sure they’d be allowed to do.

“Yes?” asked Amazing Amma very patiently because she was an amazingly patient type of mother.

“Well...,” said Wonder Nik yet again, hesitating nervously.

“Yes Wonder Nik?  Just say it and we’ll see if it’s possible,” said Amazing Amma still being amazingly patient.

“We’d really like to go to the zoo,” replied Wonder Nik nervously.

“Yeah,” chimed in Super Mili.

“Oh that sounds like a great idea,” exclaimed Amazing Amma enthusiastically, “but I’m afraid I won’t be able to come with you.  You two will have to go on your own.  I have great faith in you being responsible, and you have your super powers to help you out if you get into any bother.  Would you like to go?”

“Oh yes please!” shouted Wonder Nik.

“Yeah!” enthused Super Mili excitedly.

“But how will we get there?” asked Wonder Nik practically; he was a very practical super-boy and liked to know the details like how they were to go somewhere or how long it would take to get there.

“Well,” said Amazing Amma, “you could take the train, bus and ferry, or since you do have super powers, you could just fly there.  All you need to do is think about where you’d like to go and your super-flying-power will get you there.”

So Wonder Nik and Super Mili set off for a day of fun at the zoo.  Within a few seconds of closing their eyes and thinking hard of the zoo, they were soaring through the air.  Super Mili opened his eyes, smiled a broad smile and said,

“Yeah!”.

Pretty soon, they could see the zoo up ahead.  They started to think about landing and before they knew it, they were getting lower and lower, and closer and closer to the ground.  Amazing Amma was right, they thought, this flying business is not so hard.  She was often right, but the super brothers still couldn’t help questioning what she said.

Now that they were at the zoo, they had to decide which animals they would visit first.

“Let’s go see the tigers,” said Wonder Nik eagerly.

“No,” said Super Mili.

“Let’s go see the rhinoceros,” said Wonder Nik still eagerly.

“No,” said Super Mili who didn’t really talk a lot.

“Ok... let’s go see the monkeys then,” said Wonder Nik slightly less eagerly as he was starting to get just a little annoyed with Super Mili continually saying no.

“No,” said Super Mili.

“Well what do you want to see at the zoo?” asked Wonder Nik, getting quite exasperated now.

“Crocodiles,” said Super Mili calmly.

“Oh!” said Wonder Nik.  He didn’t like to admit it to his super little brother, but he did want to go and see the crocodiles and he did think that was a good place to start their adventures at the zoo.

“Oh, ok then, we’ll go see the crocodiles,” said Wonder Nik, trying to sound like he was only doing Super Mili a favour and didn’t really want to see the crocodiles himself.

“Yeah,” said Super Mili confidently.  He wasn’t fooled by his wonderful big brother.  He knew Wonder Nik loved the crocodiles, that’s why he suggested starting there.  He loved his big brother very much and loved to do special things that made him happy.

Suddenly, they heard screaming coming from their right.  They knew the lions’ cage was that way, and the screams told them that something was definitely wrong.  Wonder Nik looked at Super Mili and they both knew at once that they had to go and help immediately.  They ran as quickly as they could, and that was pretty fast because they did have super powers after all.  When they got near the lions’ cages, they came to a screeching halt.  Someone had let the lions out!  There were lions roaring and people screaming and running in every direction.

Wonder Nik and Super Mili knew they had to act fast.  Wonder Nik flew straight up in the air while Super Mili ran into the lions’ cage.  Wonder Nik used his incredible-electricity-gaze to shoot electricity bolts into an enormous fence around the lions.  Meanwhile, Super Mili used his magnificent-meat-fart-power to make the lions’ cage smell so enticing to the lions that they would want to come running back.

Sniff, sniff.  The lions could smell the scrumptious meaty smell coming from their cage.  Peeeuw!  So could all the people who had been running away.  The smell was so strong that the people all fainted, which was quite handy really because it meant that Wonder Nik could round up the lions and herd them back into their cage without having to worry about what the people were doing.

Once all the lions were in, Super Mili shut the cage and used his super-hot-snot-power to seal the cage door shut, just as all the people started to recover and cheer.

“Great job!” exclaimed Wonder Nik.

“Yeah!” agreed Super Mili.

Rainy Saturday music

Some music from the Dum Dum Girls to get a rainy Saturday under way...

"Coming Down" by the Dum Dum Girls

Finding an image for my alter ego

I have admired Amazing Amma (my fictional character alter ego from stories I used to tell B1 and B2) for some time, and now I have finally found a website that can create an image of her. It's a bit of silliness to start off the week with. Head over, have a play and see what your superhero image would look like...

http://cpbherofactory.com/

The Chicken Thief - Author Interview

Today I'm taking a bit of a departure from my usual topics. I'm talking to author and blogger, Fiona Leonard about her first novel, The Chicken Thief published to Kindle. Fiona's self-confessed gypsy soul has taken her from a career as an Australian diplomat to foreign and trade policy consultant to freelance writer, blogger, home schooler and author living and writing in Ghana.

Your first novel is an extraordinary ride of emotions, quirky characters and wonderful telling. I found that the voice of the protagonist, Alois, was so strong that I often forgot that it was a white Australian woman who was the author.

How did you find the voice of this young, black African man – a bureaucrat who left his job to be a chicken thief?

Ironically, in many ways Alois (pr: Al-o-is) is a very autobiographical character. I drew on a lot of personal experiences to make his emotions ring true. For example I confess to mining many of my own feelings about being a bureaucrat to help Alois articulate his desire to leap out the window and run away! (I should note I never considered turning to a life of crime though!) To give him an African voice I drew inspiration from African proverbs. Alois uses a lot of proverbs about chickens to explain what’s going on in his life. That language and sentiment gave me a starting point to find my way into his head.

I notice that while the protagonist is a young man, he is surrounded by a group of strong women.

Why did you choose to make the protagonist male? And then surround this young man with so many women?

For a long time I thought about this book as a very male story. And I think when I first started writing it, it was. But then over the years more and more women have appeared in the story. Rose, the love of Alois’ life, stepped out of the shadows very late in the piece, and demanded to have more of a say! I liked being able to use all of the women as a mirror to different aspects of his life.

I tend to come to stories through characters, rather than having a plot I need to fit people into. I had Alois as a character and I had Gabriel, and I was really drawn to both of them. The more I got to know them the more the other characters and the plot grew up around them.

While your novel is set in an unnamed African country, the political machinations are broad enough to for readers to find parallels in other nations.

Where did you find the inspiration for the political events of the novel?

Some of the events are drawn from specific events in southern African history, going back to the Independence struggles. Some were more current, drawn from events that occurred while I was living in Zimbabwe in the late 90s and more recently.

There’s even some Australian political history in there – when I was developing the relationship between the President and his Finance Minister, I often looked to the Howard and Costello machinations for inspiration!

The novel is littered with wonderful images of Africa and Africans that ring true, and contains some terrific metaphors that seem entirely African in their nature.

Do you think there is an international market for such specifically African content?

When you are writing about one country/continent and then marketing it internationally you need to strike a balance between making it true to the setting and also making it accessible to the reader. I like to think that if a reader picks up a book set somewhere unfamiliar then they already have a sense of adventure and curiosity that makes them receptive to exploring somewhere new.

It’s an exciting time to be writing about Africa. With the events unfolding in northern Africa, there is considerable media attention focused on the continent and a genuine interest in the hopes and aspirations of the region

Self-publishing has been around for as long as the publishing industry itself, yet it has been slow to gain mainstream popularity. Despite authors like Oscar Wilde, Irma Rombauer and Christopher Paolini choosing to self-publish, many authors today seem to prefer to duke it out for limited places with large publishing houses.

Why did you choose to go down the self-publication route?

Cold calling has never been my strong suit. I would rather establish a relationship and see what evolves, instead of the first words out of my mouth being ‘please publish my book!’ So I’ve never felt comfortable with pitching to agencies (and have not been particularly good at it to date!). On the other hand, I really believe in this book and wanted to find a way to get it into readers’ hands. E-publishing felt like the right way to achieve that goal.

With so many options for self-publishing available, why have you chosen to e-publish with Kindle?

Quite simply - location, location, location.

Plus, Kindle Direct Publishing makes the mechanics of actually getting your book into the marketplace incredibly easy. There is also a very strong author community behind the scenes at Amazon where authors can exchange ideas and information. That’s an attractive support mechanism when you’re starting out.

Are you planning to publish through other means in the future?

I intend to publish in hard copy later in the year, but that will take a bit more time as it will involve sending proof copies around the world. One of the things I like about Amazon is that they offer print-on-demand, which is great for self-publishing because it means you don’t have to carry your own inventory.

What do you think are the advantages for aspiring authors in e-publishing?

I think pricing is a huge factor. Because you don’t have the overheads that publishing houses have, you can keep the price of your book right down. Many first time authors are e-publishing at $2.99 or lower. This puts you into an accessible price bracket where readers are more willing to take a risk on an unknown author because they can buy a book for the price of a cup of coffee!

I also think being forced to do your own marketing is a fantastic experience. Being your own publicist means you have to be clear about what you are selling and who you are selling to. It’s a steep learning curve but helps you to develop incredibly valuable skills whether you stick to self-publishing or approach publishing houses.

How do you think e-publishing, specifically, is useful to aspiring authors from countries in Africa, Asia and so on – countries outside of what would be considered the western world?

E-publishing, especially through a platform like Amazon, gives you the opportunity to put your writing on a shelf alongside everyone else. You don’t have to wait to be discovered, you can discover yourself! And as long as you have an internet connection, you can do it from anywhere in the world.

Social media also offers an unprecedented marketing opportunity for new authors. Apparently 70% of Facebook users and 60% of Twitter users are outside the US so these really are global platforms that are there to be capitalised on.

If you could go back six years, what advice would you give yourself with regard to writing and publishing?

It’s funny, on one hand I would like to go back and shake myself and say ‘Stop worrying and just write already!’ (with a few expletives thrown in for good measure!) There’s a part of me that is frustrated that I took so long about it. But on the other hand, I think I needed to take six years to write this story. My plot and characters needed time to evolve, I needed to grow as a writer, and I needed to find the burning desire to write.

So perhaps I would say ‘Relax, go live a bit and come back when you’re really ready to enjoy it.’

So what’s next for you? Can we expect to see another novel from you in the near future?

One of the people I had reading drafts of my novel, asked early on in the piece whether there would be a sequel. At the time I had no intention of writing a sequel, but when it came time to write the ending, I specifically left a door open just for her! I will be sitting down to start writing again in a month or so, but whether it’s a sequel, or whether I finish one of the many half written novels I have lying around, I’m not sure yet! Either way, my aim is to have another novel ready to publish by the end of the year.

I’m looking forward to starting on a new novel though. Plotting and writing is the part I really love doing, and I’m itching to get back to it.

I can't wait to see what comes next from this clever author and wish Fiona all the best luck with her current novel. I urge you to head over to Amazon and have a look at The Chicken Thief - with a free sample and at only $2.99, it's a bargain!

Shining a Light in Dark Places

Image via Wikipedia

A Picture of [Mental] Health - Images | Nyani Quarmyne

My amazing photographer friend Nyani Quarmyne has recently done a photo essay and accompanying exhibition on Mental Health in Ghana. The images are evocative, technically stunning and beautifully understated. It's a powerful series of images and the stories behind each of the individuals is tragic. These are people who have been treated in ways we, in developed nations, would consider hideously cruel even for animals.

It reminded me of a story from my own family. My mother's uncle was said to have gone mad after practising a complex form of breathing and stotras in yoga without the guidance of a guru. The story goes that his arrogance led him to believe he was sufficiently versed in the practice of yoga to attempt these techniques unguided. In yoga, there are stotras that can lead either to growth or deterioration. Even those conducted for growth, if done incorrectly, are said to lead to disaster. Apparently, my great uncle thought it wise to defy popular belief and attempt these practices on his own. It led, in turn, to his downfall. The poor man was said to have gone mad and begun attacking those around him including his own family. He was chained to his bed in due course and remained there for many years. His wife was the only one who could enter the room to bring him food. He would attack his own children and the rest of his family could only peer at him through slits in the door as his mental health rapidly deteriorated. Healers were brought to the house and a variety of traditional remedies were tried to no effect. Through all of this, he remained chained, unable to leave the room or even reach the door. Eventually, his attacks diminished, he was deemed cured and released from his chains. But I wonder how he reconciled that period in his life. I wonder if the chaining made him fall further into his mental illness and how he endured that dark period.

It also leads me to ponder how societies deal with deviance from the norm. It would seem that we humans have little tolerance of deviance and little capacity to deal with it in respectful, humane ways. We're getting better at it I guess, but it's definitely a work in progress. The shunning, hiding, disenfranchisement and mistreatment of those with mental health issues is decidedly something to be castigated. But what is the way forward? I believe we can only move forward by shining a light in dark places. This is what I think Nyani is doing with his expose of the conditions endured by those Ghanaians with mental health issues. I hope you'll take the time to look through his powerful work.

Shouting from fast cars...

Catapults ready for firing

I was standing out the front of B1's school earlier this week watching the boys fire their catapults. Now I know you're thinking of little hand-held weaponry or modest structures that fire marbles, but no. These were huge and potentially lethal. They were truly awesome and I think I was saddest of all when they were taken apart.

Anyway, as I was standing out the front of the school waiting for fine adjustments to be made, a car drove past quickly. As it went by, the driver and passenger felt, apparently, an uncontrollable urge to stick their heads out of the windows and shout something. I'd like to say it was a profanity and I was outraged. I'd even settle for being able to say it was words of encouragement for the boys. In truth though, all that could be discerned of the utterance at speed was a primal grunt. It brought to mind a story that LomL had told me about going riding on his bike and being shouted at by passing motorists. I made the mistake of asking what exactly they shouted.... "Baaamaaahmaahbaaa" was the response. LomL's response to my confused looks? "Well that's what it sounded like to me as they drove by".

I always wonder what drivers in these cars are thinking as they shout. Do they expect to be heard clearly? Do they believe that their rants are articulate and clear? Do they not see the looks of utter confusion on the faces of those they're shouting at?

Me and Julia...on the Kindle

Cover of My Life in FranceThanks to my wonderful and much adored Kindle, I had the opportunity to read Julia Child's autobiography, My Life in France. Her writing is both passionate and revelatory. The book is a testament to both her passion for food and the wondrous love and acceptance that existed between her and her husband, Paul. At no point does she exclaim her adoration for him, nor he for her, but throughout the book it is patently evident that theirs was an extraordinary love story, filled with complete respect for each other. They obviously gave each other the space to be exactly who they were.

I had previously seen the film Julie and Julia and had fallen deeply in love with Julia Child through Meryl Streep's portrayal of her. The autobiography has only served to enhance that. Mrs Child's telling of her story is charming and humble. Her enthusiasm and wide-eyed wonderment at all she encounters is positively infectious and her humility at what both she and her husband achieved is, in itself, humbling. She is truly inspiring and has become something of a hero for me. I love how she conveys both her passion for and determination to master food (particularly French cuisine) and the extraordinarily subtle way in which her adoration for Paul intertwines itself throughout her story.

The story fills me with passion for food and a terrible wanderlust. This was a woman long before her time. A pioneer in her own way and definitely an exceptional advocate for strong women everywhere. I love her descriptions of herself and her sister. What a accepting family she was raised in. One that placed almost no importance on beauty and a great deal on learning. I like Mrs Child. If I could have a dinner with anyone, past or present, she'd be at my table and we'd be sniffing and tasting everything and comparing notes to try out recipes later.

Another bit from a story I'm working on...

This is a section of the story I particularly love...

Acha had left Kerala as a young man of 24, with a bachelor's degree, a little work experience as a taluk officer and five hundred rupees in his pocket. He had gone directly to Malaysia. Acha's oldest sister had married a man from Malaysia and Acha was convinced that he would have better prospects of finding a job and helping his own father to support the family there. Acha was determined and clever. He changed his accent by teaching himself English using the pronunciation guides inside the Random House Dictionary. He applied to become an English teacher and quickly gained his certification. It didn't take him long to secure himself a job first at the technical college and then at the University teaching English Literature. Pretty soon, his younger brother joined him in Malaysia. They were gregarious men and quickly made friends with the other bachelor teachers there. This was the part of Acha's life Sumi knew so little about. There were tantalising snippets of stories, beer and pigeon hunting, billiards and wild boar, fishing and crabbing and a care-free existence. Acha rarely spoke about these times, and when he did, Amma seemed to sense it somewhere deep in her soul. She would magically materialise and Acha would clam-up. No amount of prodding or cajoling on Sumi or Shalu's part would get him to open up again. Sumi liked to think of this time in Acha's life as his secret treasure box. The treasure he kept guarded from everyone - even Amma. The part of himself that was truly him. The only part of himself that he didn't share with Amma.

Fairy Princesses and GI Joes

Image by Cayusa via FlickrI was reading a blog today by Candace Lindemann about our progressive move as a society to limit the choices of aspirational goal/hero for our girls and it set alarm bells ringing for me. I've long thought that the choices we offer girls is woeful. In no way is this the fault of parents. When there is little variety on offer, there is little scope for parents to make choices that don't disenfranchise their children from friendships or exclude them from the norm. And we all want to fit in. Next time you go clothes shopping, turn the aisle into the children's section and take a peek at what's on offer for girls. Though not a parent of girls, I do have a niece and do periodically wander bug-eyed and bamboozled through the array of attire for girls. I'm constantly horrified. If it's not pink, frilly and princess-like, then it's something that's too adult, too revealing and positively salacious. Something that in my worst, most critical moments I think of as appropriate work wear for a full-body masseuse. These are not the clothes I wore as a child. Especially since I was the classic tomboy, happier up a tree or playing with my train set or cars in the sand than playing at fairy princess. Don't get me wrong, I loved the idea of magic and witches, but I was always more attracted to the darker side - Macbeth is still my favourite of Shakespeare's plays and the weird sisters, Hecate and Lady M are my favourite characters. I love these women. They are strong and wilful and ambitious. They live their lives as they please (in the case of the witches) and don't let any men tell them what to do. But pink and frilly was never me... and low-cut, leopard print and lustrous nails are not my idea of the alternative.

Image via WikipediaSo having vented my spleen on the pitiful choices available for our young girls, let me turn to what's on offer for boys. I started my parenting adventure believing that I was going to be different. I would raise children who didn't feel the need to conform to the norm. I would provide my boys with as many alternatives as possible and nothing was off limits. The toy room was filled with cars, trucks, planes, soft toys and dolls. Many many dolls. Of many many skin colours and national dress. Despite the concerned looks from LomL and the obvious discomfort of the in-laws, I persisted. Thank goodness for a loving family that support me in all my mad schemes. My baby boys were dressed in bright, happy colours. Bright blues, greens, yellows, purples and even pinks adorned them regardless of the tutt-tutts and dire warnings of retinal damage from all the older Aunties in the community. Not a single pastel passed my boys' bodies. And I was proud of the start I was giving them. Vibrant, full of choices to be who they wanted, uninhibited by the demands of peer pressure or societal norms, accepted always. But the baby stage doesn't last long. Pretty soon my boys grew into toddlers and the cute baby suits in bright colours had to be replaced with more age-appropriate clothing. But what was on offer? Gone were the bright colours. Gone were the purples and pinks. Gone were the sex-neutral baby suits. Replaced with khaki greens, navy blues, browns, blacks and greys. The colour and wonder of babyhood was rapidly replaced by an increasingly dull, monotonous (and it really did look like one tone when you squinted), drab wardrobe. This was depressing for me. It made me wonder whether this would start my children down the path of becoming another depressed teen boy statistic. Is this how it starts? In tiny, drab, monotonous choices? Do we wear our boys into depression by making them wear the colours of it? Perhaps I'm being a little hysterical, but for me colour and music are always key catalysts for my mood.

And what of the choices of toys to play with? Gone were the options for dolls and soft toys. That was all very well when they were babies, but now it was time for them to be proper little boys. Flooding in came trains large and small, planes and automobiles. I held off on the weaponry for as long as I could, but it was like holding back a tidal wave. Once the first knife appeared, it was quickly followed by bows and arrows, spears and eventually my greatest hurdle, guns. I finally gave up on resisting guns in the house when my boys started making guns out of sticks, coloured markers and even toast. I had to admit defeat. They had been enculturated and there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't blame the media entirely since we didn't watch a lot of TV and what we did watch was almost exclusively on the non-commercial broadcaster or on video. But I realised quickly that I couldn't keep them away from the inevitable draw of the blinking box forever. So what was the alternative? Send them uncritical, unquestioning to face the onslaught of sophisticated and insidious marketing on commercial television? That was not an option I cared to consider. Instead, we've watched TV with our kids, commenting on the advertisements as they appear. We critique them, talk about how they make us feel, examine whether or not we want to buy the product and why. We talk critically about marketing strategies, times of the day that certain advertisements appear and why. We listen to the music used and explore why that choice was made. We talk about the choice of actors or characters in the advertisements. All in all we aim to make our children critical viewers of the media images they're exposed to.

I don't think it's realistic to believe we can shelter them from all advertising forever. So instead, I'd rather aim for developing a sense of critical viewing of the advertising and an awareness of what it's trying to do. I hope that this will equip them to protect themselves from being led, nose-first into making poor financial and life choices.

Some more personal writing

I'm working on many projects at the moment. This should come as no surprise to those of you who know me. I'm notorious for juggling many balls in the air at the same time... or as my mother would say starting a million things and never finishing anything.


So instead of my usual rant about a random topic, here's an unedited (very raw) section of a story I'm working on.

Every day of Sumi’s childhood was laced with some mention of Amma’s dream. It could be as innocuous as Amma showing Sumi how to cook fish molee and throwing in an unconscious comment about how she would cook that dish for her husband one day. Rarely did Amma overtly say to her girls that she expected them to have an arranged marriage. It was assumed by everyone in the house. So much so that Sumi had not even thought to fight the idea. She had always assumed that that was how her life would pan out. She never questioned that that was what she wanted too.

Sumi had never disappointed her parents. She went to Bharata Natyam classes because Amma had not had the opportunity in her childhood. As it turned out, Sumi excelled in dance class. She quickly became the teacher’s pet and with Amma’s strict overseeing of her practice sessions, she learned more and more complex dances. She learnt to swim because Amma had not. She went to Carnatic singing classes because Amma had missed that opportunity. She learned the violin at school because Amma had always wanted to learn a musical instrument. And in all of this, she was expected to bring home nothing but As on her school report. Acha was a teacher and had been a brilliant student in his time, so he would accept nothing less.

She had started uni with high expectations of continuing her demonstrated academic performance to date. She hadn’t expected to be distracted by boys and knew she was perfectly capable of having a friendship with a boy that didn’t automatically transform into a relationship. She’d watched friends fall into and out of some teenage approximation of love all through the summer holidays and knew it wasn’t for her. She was a sensible, practical young woman and had no intentions of finding herself entangled in some tawdry, love-lorn liaison. But then, she had not expected to encounter someone quite like Michael.

A Quick Sunday Haiku

TV, sound up
Boy watches mindlessly
Does not engage

An indulgence

Excuse my indulgence today. This came to me and I felt the urge to write it down. It feels right, so I'm going with that.

One Way Love

Their eyes met, her heart beat a little faster, “hi” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“You’re the one. The one I’ve been searching for all my life,” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“Don’t you feel the same? Don’t you feel the ache of it?,” she breathed.

He smiled quietly.

“You’re kind and sweet and gentle. I think I love you. No, I’m certain of it,” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“We’ve waited long enough. We’ve waited too long to find each other,” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“Let’s make the most of every second. Let’s dance and sing and love,” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“I’ll give up everything I’ve built for you. I’ll move, I’ll change,” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“I’m happier than I’ve ever been. My dreams have finally been realised,” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“Can life get any better? Is it greedy to want more?” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“You seem distant now. Have I asked too much? Is it me? Is there another?” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“When did it start? Who is she? Am I not good enough?” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“How could you do this to me? After all I’ve done for you? Is there no hope?” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“Is there nothing you can say in your defence? Can’t you be braver?” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“You’re not the one I thought you were. You’ve lied to me all this time,” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“I can’t continue with this charade. Let’s end it and go our separate ways,” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“How can you be so impassive? So heartless? So untouched? So cruel?” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“How could I ever have loved you? What did I see in you? Why did I let myself fall?” she said.

He smiled quietly.

“You’re unkind and cruel and heartless. I think I hate you. No, I’m certain of it,” she said.

He smiled quietly.

Their eyes met again, for the last time, filled with emotions old and new, words never said.

Her heart beat a little faster, “goodbye” she said.

He smiled quietly.

Friendships: New and Old

Image via Wikipedia

It's been an interesting year so far, this 2011. Here we are mid-way through March and it's shaping up to be the year of relationships. Perhaps all those crazy rabbits (B1 included since he was born in the year of the rabbit too) have been running a little too amuck. Perhaps there have been a few too many full moons already. I don't know what it is. Relationships have been waxing and waning with irritatingly persistent frequency of late. Interestingly, some of the relationships that have been re-ignited have been with old friends.

Friends I had lost contact with more than 20 years ago are suddenly, surprisingly, deliciously popping back into my life. Bringing with them a tingle of excitement at the prospect of revisiting memories, the mild nervousness of facing the reality of now widening and sagging bodies and the joyous expectancy of forging new friendships with these old friends, on new terms, with new-old bodies and more learned minds. This has been a wondrous experience for me, this forging of new-old friendships. Knowing each other as we did as teenagers, but having missed so much of our growing and learning, having missed marriages, children, separations and so much of the waft and weave of our lives since then, it is an extraordinary journey that we now embark on.

There is less of the circling of each other, sniffing out what's appropriate to say, how much is appropriate to reveal than in the making of new friendships, and for this I'm immensely grateful. I've grown impatient with the process of developing new friendships. Though I remain polite and even congenial to people I meet, I really can't be bothered with engaging in social niceties or feeling out the emotional lie of the land. So I'm enjoying this new kind of friendship. I know who these women were and I'm loving who they've come to be. I'm excited at the prospect of knowing them into old age and of intertwining our families.

And I'm immensely grateful and appreciative of all my friendships that nurture me, sustain me, inspire me and push me into the world, more confident of who I am and who I can be.

The Future through an 11 year old's Eyes

While driving to a friends' place for a party to meet her, her husband and their 5 month old baby girl (who all live abroad)...

B1: Amma, you know it's funny to think that one day we'll be at a picnic with Dannie and Maria and their families and I'll be there with my girlfriend and all those little kids will be just coming into high school.

Me: Really? Will you bring your girlfriend along to family picnics? (notice that's the highlight of the conversation for me, not the fact that he sees these family friendships going on forever).

B1: Of course. Why not? Is that ok?

Me: Oh yes! I'm thrilled that you'll choose a girl who would like to come to family events. That makes me very happy. I would like your girlfriend to be part of our family.

B1: Not now. I don't have a girlfriend now, but sometime in the future. When I'm older.

Me: That would make me super happy.

B1: Yeah, it's funny to think about... I'll be able to tell all those little ones what it's like to be in high school and what having a girlfriend is like.

*silence for a while*

B1: But that's a long time away. I don't really want to grow up too quickly. I really like being a kid.

Me: Oh I am glad. Enjoy every second of it. It's such a great time in your life.

This brought tears to my eyes and joy to my heart for ever so many reasons.

Future possibilities for new old tribe in Brazil (click here to link to article)

I read an article in The Independent today about the finding of a previously uncontacted tribe of Yanomamo people with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Excitement that a group of people had managed to survive without coming into contact with any of the rest of the world in what has become a highly populous and industrialised area. How have this tribe of the Yanomamo people, a people studied in incredible minutiae over the decades, managed to escape anthropological scrutiny? It is both wondrous and thrilling; particularly at a time when most of us have assumed that all the world's peoples and cultures have already been identified, studied and impinged upon in some way.

It is, however, an excitement tinged with fear. Fear for these people who have known no other way of life. Fear for the potential loss of their traditional ways, their language, their traditional associations and practices. I hope that history has taught us something. I hope that we have learned from our mistakes with other cultures in other places. I hope we are not destined to repeat the foolishnesses of the past in trying to assimilate these people into dominant cultures before they are ready. I hope we are more clever in our approach to these people, more cognisant of our potential impact on them and their future generations. I have minimal faith in our inherent ability to contact this previously uncontacted tribe without causing intentional or unintentional harm. However, I remain nervously optimistic that we have learned a thing or two.

Amazing name change

At the end of last year, we had occasion in our house to change our ISP. With the resulting change, I had to think about what I wanted my new email address to be. I had used various permutations and combinations of our collective initials over the years, but this time, I wanted it to be more personal. Finally, I lit upon using Amazing Amma.

Amma means mother in Malayalam (my mother tongue) and in other Indian languages and I thought that most clearly reflected where I was at at this stage in my life. It's the role that most clearly defines me and about which I am most passionate. It's the role that fulfils me, stimulates me, engages me, frustrates me, poses the most challenges for me and satisfies me the most. You'd think the "amazing" is self-explanatory...and in fact, many of my friends and contacts did. But things are not always what they seem, and they are rarely straightforward in my world. I decided on Amazing Amma as a epithet because a few years ago, in an attempt to engage B1 and B2 in story telling and story writing, I had created a series of adventures featuring them as super heroes. They fought crime, evil and general naughtiness aided by their super powers (repulsive ones, of course) and their super best buddies. Every now and then though, the super boys would be overcome or undecided about what to do next, at which point, they would consult with their super mother.... Amazing Amma.

Amazing Amma always seemed to know what to do, where to go and how to approach a problem with calm, logical, practical thinking. That's the nice thing about fictional characters, they always know how to fix a problem and they never get angry or upset or lose sleep over stupid things they've said or done! I liked Amazing Amma. I think she's the Amma I aspire to be in many ways (except she doesn't have quite as much fun with her kids as I do with mine). I particularly like her calm self-assuredness. She always seems to have the right answers. I'm fairly certain that's why I used her as my email address... but, like I said before, nothing's ever straightforward in my world, so who knows?!

A new adventure

B1 and B2 started back at school yesterday. B1 is now in high school. A momentous occasion in our family, as it is in families everywhere. B2, on the other hand, has moved into his penultimate year of primary school. There was a heady mix of excitement, nervousness, jealousy (on the part of B2 who thought it was "totally unfair" that B1 got to wear a special tie and do neat stuff in classes) and hopefulness in the car on the way to school.

I was as excited for them starting this new adventure, as they were themselves. I know that B1 will thrive in high school. It feels like he's been in a holding pattern for the last seven years, waiting for something or someone to tell him it's ok to take off. Now it feels like he just got the go-ahead from air-traffic control. He was up super early, had organised lunch boxes for himself and his brother (except the sandwiches, which he left for me to do), made his bed, ate his breakfast, got dressed and was ready to go half an hour early. This was no one-of event either. This morning he had gotten himself organised and made my coffee (he let me do the lunch boxes this time).

B1 has always been an amazing kid; surprising me at every turn. He's always been involved in whatever I'm doing and always been keen to help. There are pictures in the family album of him at 2, standing on a step ladder, making salad. In so many ways, he's braver than I am. He faces the world with a mix of nervous excitement and self-assuredness. I've spent most of his primary school years worrying that he doesn't have enough (or any) friends, only to find that nearly every child in his year is saying hi or bye to him when I pick him up from school. I think I've spent more time worrying about his friends than he has. I admire him that ability to be so self-contained, so happy with who he is, so unquestioning of the love he's surrounded by.

It set him apart in primary school, I think. That was a time when being sociable and gregarious was everything. When having friends, making friends, being friends and losing friends was the raison d'etre. B2 does and will flourish in that environment. He's the gregarious one. He's the one who has inherited those traits from me; the oh-too-noisy-talker, the class clown, the joker, the performer, everybody's friend who is horribly insecure and uncertain of his own abilities. I'm grateful that B1 is more like his father in that way and terrified for B2. Insecurity has stopped me being my best, doing my best and giving my all in so many circumstances. I hope I can help B2 overcome the crippling inaction that accompanies this insecurity.