Richard home Saturday after 17 days away.  Didn't think I'd miss him as much as I did.  Have always been fairly content with my own company.  It wasn't loneliness.  That's a different feeling altogether, once experienced never forgotten.  No this was just plain garden variety missing his company.  As much as he occasionally annoys and irritates it is his annoying habits, his irritating behaviours.  Although he, and I won't mince words anymore and pretend that it is something that it isn't or worse, that it doesn't exist, so although he is aging before my eyes and it seems sometimes as though he's 80 rather than 67, beneath the fogginess, the slowness, the shuffling, the dreaminess that isn't dreaming, he is still my Richard. 

Slowly our roles are reversing.  Before he took care of me.  He was the nurturing partner while I faffed about and did my thing at 90 miles an hour.  Now I have had to slow down and nuture him.  Thank god I've finally learned to like cooking!  Making delicious nutritious meals is such a sweet and simple gift I can give him every day.  But the nurturing extends to doing the heavy lifting (not that I'm capable of much either), problem solving, being the instigator of things (something I've always done just more so now). 

It sounds as though Richard is non compos mentis and that isn't true at all.  He's off to town this morning to work through a list of errands.  He still does all the banking and handles the insurance and all those accoutrements of day to day living.  Because he worries about those things and spends alot of time thinking about them he does them well.  He can build anything.  He built the new aviary and has just replaced a rotting railroad tie with boards which blend in perfectly with the deck (or will when they age).  He can do all that standing on his head. Anyway, no matter.  In that cliche'd but perfect phrase, 'it is what it is'.  If I start to worry about the future I am undone. 

And then there are other people's problems.  The Gold Coast has been in the news for all the wrong reasons.  Bikie gangs are making their presence known, intimidating civilians and trying to intimidate the police by surrounding a station where one of their members was being held.  There are several different gangs which are at war with one another.  In the course of this, two men from different gangs were arrested. 

At this point I would like to mention the professionalism of the newscaster.  She reported this story without cracking a smile. 

These two men, from opposing gangs, were arrested for various violent offences.  One of them was 21.  He was shown leaving the watchhouse, black t shirt stretched across a body which is familiar with the weightroom of the gym.  Tattoos everywhere and a big white necklace (of bone?) around his neck.  Aware of the cameras he strutted down the ramp like the conquering hero.  I think he was with the Lone Wolf Bikie Gang. 

The other chap, a Sergeant at Arms of the Comancheros was also shown.  Stocky, bull necked, again familiar with the gym.  A high ranking member of a well known, violent and criminal gang.  39 years old.  Charged with assault and GBH.  I think. 

The punch line?  Both of these tough bikies live with their mommys.  No wonder they're in a bad mood.

As I lay in bed this morning in that halfway state between sleeping and waking, listening to the orchestra of birdsong, I became aware of my breathing.  How many breaths do I take during the night while I sleep?  How fortunate I don't have to worry about it, that breathing is automatic.  Yet, when I want to change my breath, within limits, I can.  What a miracle breathing is.  The basis from which all life flows. 

How easy it is to take everything for granted.  I do.  All the time.  Yet life is a miracle.  The very act of being alive.  I know I've written of this before but it doesn't hurt to remind myself.  Wish I could remind others.   How lightly we view life.  How cheaply we toss it away or maim it beyond recognition.  (Unfortunately read and viewed images about a new drug called Krocodil which destroys flesh so that bone is exposed.  After using it one's life expectancy averages about three years). 

What were the users thinking?

What are we as a species thinking?  We seem hell bent on destroying ourselves and taking every living thing with us.  It's so sad and so unnecessary.  We've forgotten the miracle of the breath.  With it, everything is possible.  Without it.  Nothing.  The door closes so firmly that even the door no longer exists.

Feather Plucking and a dose of reality

Didn't have an epiphany the other day.  How unusual.  Days, weeks, months go by without an epiphany so this isn't 'news just in'.  However, I did have an idea.   No, more of an understanding.  The idea has been around for centuries.  Like most things I can understand it logically but *knowing* is another matter entirely.  So, the understanding was just this - that life is a distraction from reality.  While living is an adventure, a wonder, an enchantment, an education and a damned hard one sometimes, it isn't real.  Or the living of it distracts us from what is real and the realness is to be divined not through living or thinking, planning or remembering but by BEING HERE NOW. 

Realized I spend most of my time in distractions whether it's here on the computer, reading a book, watching tv, even listening to music.  What is so hard about being here now?  Why do I find it so difficult?  It's as though I must continually tempt my mind away from its own reality.  Even while meditating (and I use the term in an offhand manner as my meditations are studies in trying not to try not to think), when I do touch upon that other reality (and I only say other because it's so foreign as to qualify for another dimension), I retract from it like a hand from a hot stovetop.  It's almost as though there's a vortex yawning before me, willing to suck me away if I will only yield and the desire to yield is why I meditate and my ego the gate of fear which keeps me stranded. 

Some housekeeping:  Richard is in the States. I suspect he's homesick but that's just a feeling I had while lying in bed listening to the morning melodies.   Mallory has a little green friend.  It's spring and I hear baby birds everywhere; some mickey birds in the big gums to the east of the horse yards, some lorikeets in the blooming silky oaks.  Bittersweet to see him being courted by a bird when there is no possibility of their being mates.  She even followed him to the deck late yesterday afternoon.  Have to put him into a cage and bring him in every night as his aviary isn't snakeproof.  She perched on the top and sang sweet songs while he made goo goo eyes at her - and peered around the edge of the drape to plead with me.  Wish I could be a buddy and help him out.

The biggest bird news is the sudden decision to feather pluck by Obama.  He's always been a very nervous bird.  He's the one that screams the most, that exhibits neurotic cage behaviours like weaving, that is the most frightened of me and the one that panics first when anything unusual happens.  Had noticed a few pink feathers on the bottom of the aviary but didn't think anything of it except that the birds were starting to moult.  Then went out on Tuesday afternoon and there were drifts of pink feathers everywhere and a poor denuded Obama.  He's plucked all the outer pink feathers from his breast including his legs, his shoulders and the grey scapular and median covert feathers.  Why after 5 years he's decided to pluck now is a mystery.  I've separated him and his mate Fern into the other half of the aviary.  Every other day I'm putting in fresh branches to chew and every other day they are allowed out for morning pick.  Can't have all of them out at the same time as it would be too difficult (read stressful) to try and return them to their correct aviary.

Don't think he's picked much since the changes so I am hopeful.  He really had only 2 days of determined picking so am trying to discourage the behaviour  before it becomes a habit. 

Richard is in the States.  I suspect he's homesick but that's just a feeling I had while lying in bed listening to

The most marvellous dream this morning.  Long convulated story involving work and workmates at the surgery, my boss' house, the boss's mentally unstable son getting married and stabilizing, nudists, a toilet that sprayed mud and urine when flushed (won't even attempt - it's too scary - to decipher what that means) and finally winding up volunteering to help organize books at an opportunity shop.  Richard volunteered first (how like him) and I waded in after.  The woman in charge, all high energy and talent (she carved these extraordinary sleeping horses from wood) soon had us sorting books alphabetically.  I was going great guns until I came upon a box, an ordinary wood box but filled with art nouveau treasures in the form of carved perfume bottles.  A frosted glass one with stylized deer, one a cobalt blue, another amethyst.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  They were so beautiful and they were at an op shop.  Asked the woman what was the procedure for volunteers buying what they'd found.  She said the bottles would have to be sent to Melbourne to be priced and then volunteers would have to pay twice what they were worth.  Thought sending them to Melbourne was a bit inefficient, especially if they turned out to be worth less than the postage but otherwise fine. 

I awoke with a smile on my face.

Every day I think of things I want to write and every day I do not write.  Today I write.

Just looked up the quarry, the one we are going to move away from.  It's for sale for $9.5 million.  We have entertained the fantasy that if we won the lotto we'd buy it, thinking it'd be worth just a couple of million. Now know we'd have to win the big $20 million which is offered occasionally to even come close. 

Thinking about moving house is frightening.  I used to be so brave.  I can prove it as I'm writing this on an island continent in the southern hemisphere, tens of thousands of miles away from my birthplace.  I made the move in my twenties.  I had a large soft bag of clothes, a tackle box full of pastels and bucket loads of courage.  Now I have much more 'stuff'; a husband, animals and a crushing sense of responsibility and anxiety.  We wouldn't be moving except that I have made such a stink about living next to a quarry. If it doesn't work it will be my fault.  Part of me knows it will be fine; tiring, stressful, scary but fine.  Another part of me screams failure, regret, disaster.  I try not to listen to it. 

One step at a time.  The birds are off the verandah.  The verandah has been thoroughly cleaned and is ready for undercoat.  When the final coat is dry and  the windows have been washed, we ring the realtors.  Can't believe we'll do it.  Was watching tv last night and there was a shot of people sitting on a queensland beach.  That could be us I said.  And it could.  We can't afford to live on the beach but we can afford to live within easy driving distance.

I do believe that it is time to embark on the next chapter in our lives.  We need other places to explore, other people to meet.  Being closer to the the populations centres does have disadvantages - more people, traffic, crime, etc. but it is also ripe with opportunity. 

Letter to a friend:

Won't get into a competition with you about who is worse : )  We are equally bad ... and equally good, methinks.    Suspect we're both subject to that continuously criticizing voice within  (where did that come from?  My parents, although not perfect, didn't belittle me.  Is it our western christian, therefore guilt-based society which gives birth to the inner critic?.... and does it matter?)

Met the little guy when Richard and I had lunch with them last week.  Hadn't seen P in such a long time.   He looked well.  Lunch was great as always.  Loved the pond.  Donated a few goldfish which promptly went and hid under rocks.  Caught up with Jack the cockatoo.  Still miss him but so glad he's glad.  He's a happy bird now.  Great to see Cambridge on 'this side' of the aviary rather than always at the far end.  Richard and L talked Tai Chi (Richard has been to his second class.  He also fasted with me that Monday.  He won't admit something's going on but his openness to trying things which might help brain function is telling).  Anyway, the property looked stunning as always.  Wattles in bloom everywhere.  Was a lovely couple of hours.

But it isn't the same without you there.  P's stamp is more visible, as it should be- but sad all the same.  And sadly you sound somewhat melancholy, G.  Wish I had some wise words to help you through this but only you and P have the answers, if answers are even needed.  Perhaps living day to day IS the answer.  If you need to do something you'll know it.  And act upon it too.  You don't lack courage. 

Had occasion to reflect upon the nature of grief and guilt the other day.  We lost our little cockatiel Tachimedes.  Noticed he was a bit lacklustre and his poos had gone green and runny so put him on coccivet.  Worse the next day so direct dosed the coccivet.  The following day acutely ill with gurgly breathing.  Rang Karen and put him on Baytril but he died late morning.  The guilt stems from hindsight,  from not noticing little things which I should've paid attention to but that I didn't SEE (not being mindful, aware, HERE).  His death was unnecessary.  He was only 5 years old.  The grief, well you know far too well the grieving part.  So while crying from shame and loss a part of me stood back and watched and thought completely unrelated thoughts, like when will I have cried enough to assuage the guilt I feel.  When will I have cried enough to meet the inner criterion of grieving?  It was quite an odd experience.  Having grieved so many times over so many things...the feelings were real yet also just a familiar process that didn't touch the true reality of things - does that make any sense at all? 

Hours later:

We went to Spring Bluff for coffee.  Richard ate a caramel macadamia nut coated bit of slice with whipped cream and is now sick in bed.  Too rich.   Odd how one's digestion becomes used to good food and can't handle the other stuff anymore.  He'll come good in time. 

Ah, the ballet.  Ah, Warhorse.  Ah, David Helfgott.  Lucky you.  Especially the ballet.  I love ballet.  In my next life I'm going to be small boned, petite and live near a ballet school.  Took it up at age 44 but couldn't handle the leaps.  Dang.

Anyway, best go and do some chores, quietly, while Richard recovers.  I hope you come see us when you're at Long Grass for those 3 days (or before!).  Richard goes to the States on the 21st September, returns October 2.  Not much time but as he's going with Anthony, that's all the time he gets.

Saw an old Errol Flynn movie, Robin Hood, the other day.  In it he laughs at the Sherriff of Nottingham, a big rollicking hands on hips, head thrown back sort of laugh.  What a great laugh at life sort of laugh.  I'm working at cultivating it.  You too?