Write Then, It's Time to Write Again.

                                        image Susan Smith

There's been a writing hiatus here lately. Events have unfolded in the past month that have kept me away from "Staying Strong" but which have required me to do just that. I'm now chomping at the bit to continue with my memoir, and have had a brilliant idea about another ebook on my "to write" list.

It's on the healing benefits of crystals, but with a clever twist, which I'm not about to reveal, of course.

Many years ago I was a practicing Crystal Healer, along with other natural therapies, and I still use crystals daily. My post from February 2 talks about crystals; Now for Something Entirely Different: Crystals.and my Crystal Healing board on Pinterest, (see it also on the sidebar), has the most re-Pins of all of my boards, making it the most popular. So why not put this book at the top of the list I thought to myself?

Now crystals don't appeal to everyone, I understand that, but I'm not a mainstream sort of person either. I circulate to the left of centre, therefore my interests lie there and so does what comes into and out of me.

Being left of centre also means I'm more likely to to do things my way, rather than follow the crowd, sometimes to my detriment, eg, when I want to make myself known in the literary world but write obscure books on crystals. However, and oh well, at least I write what I love and maybe one day I'll be famous ( laughing happily).

We're told these days to do what makes us happy, write? Do what you love then you'll love what you do.

The same goes for the details. I love writing. At the moment romance fiction is hot, hot, HOT. There's money to be made if you can make it writing in this genre, but I don't think I can. I have to admit I haven't tried and maybe I will down the track, no doubt when it's all over red rover.

I like creative non-fiction where I can tell a true story and dress it up with all the sights and sounds of fiction, that way I don't have to start from scratch with plots and characters and all that. I've already got half the book in my head if I'm writing something from personal experience. Much easier.

So whatever comes out of me will always be different and unusual to some degree.

"Staying Strong" is that. It is a difficult book for me, its finishing point, like many goal posts, keeps moving. I expect it will be finished one day soon.

'Till then, I'll write when I can on "Staying Strong" and get started on the crystal mystery.

Cheers everyone,

Leonie

E is for Eostre, Eastre, Easter, even Ostara. What..?

Goddess Eostre

Wherever you are in the world you may be celebrating Easter, you may be celebrating spring, or you may be in the southern hemisphere like me where it is autumn. All the same, you're probably feeling the vibe.

I'm not celebrating per se. Although I was brought up Catholic, I chose to leave religion behind in my late teens, many, many years ago. As for eggs and bunnies, well, having children and grandchildren means they're still part of my cultural experience.

Many Christian festivals are said to have deep roots in ancient indigenous, traditional, seasonal festivities some people refer to as pagan rituals. Christmas and Easter are obvious and easy examples. There are many cultures globally which have variations on numerous festival themes and a quick internet search on any of them brings up enough results to keep anyone happy.

Back to Easter, and I did just that as I'm interested in the deep roots and origins of things rather than what's put in front of my face. It's a simple assumption that Easter was adopted by Christianity from earlier festivals celebrating the return of the sun: i.e spring, after a long, cold, barren winter, and further to add a young woman (goddess) to the festival. At this time of year birds lay their eggs, soon the chicks are born along with many young animals, flowers bloom, days lengthen, the cycle of life begins again etc.

Yet there's no hard evidence to suggest that there was a goddess associated with an Easter-like festival, and that her name was Eostre/ Eastre/Ostara. Easter Goddess? Have some of us been trying too hard to create something from nothing?

I'm of the opinion that Christianity pinched most of its festivals from older traditions. I hold those traditions in higher regard because they follow natural rhythms and cycles, and incorporate both the feminine and the masculine. In ancient times spring festivals occurred in March around the vernal equinox for you northern hemispherians, as Easter does in some years, but as you can see from the above article, the goddess worshipped at spring time was probably not Eostre/Eastre/Ostara. So where does that leave todays Easter?

Maybe it's a Christian festival after all and maybe it's not linked to earlier, ancient spring celebrations? I'd like to think it's not. I'd like to think they're separate and autonomous, and have their own meaning, symbolism and story.

I like to keep an open mind about, well, everything. That way, life's exciting. That way, I can suddenly be off and running on some never explored subject of extreme interest and fascination, just like this one.

   And that way, maybe myth, magic and imagination can be kept alive and real.

HAPPY EASTER EVERYONE.

Daughter, Sister, Mother, Wife.

Image: Wikipedia

DAUGHTER, SISTER, MOTHER, WIFE

Once, a lady shared my life,

She was daughter, sister, mother, wife.

Far away she came to be,

And traveled long across the sea.

From family strong and loving, kind,

A different life she had to find.

With her husband, soon a child,

She settled in a country mild.

Four years on came baby two,

Her life was full with much to do.

Supremely caring, ever loving,

She gave her all, willingly, smiling.

Patience and kindness were her style,

Never was anything a trial.

Friends and gardens a joy for her,

And creatures great and small with fur.

Love and grace in full she had,

Strength to endure when life was sad.

She the determined and forthright one,

At times was I at odds with mum.

When twilight years came along,

Her man and son had already gone.

The women continued to carry life,

Mother, daughter, sister, wife.

Mother and daughter, four to two,

Family re-shaped, changed, new.

Now mother passed, back to one,

Rust zacht, I love you mum.

My mum passed recently, hence no post last week. I am happy for her, she is finally with my dad and my brother. 

Koffie before the drive Home

Before sitting down today to write, I made my daily coffee. I have a little espresso machine and buy ground coffee which I store in my fridge, except for some which I keep in a small container ready for use. The last time I shopped the supermarket only had beans on special so I knew I was in for a hard road ahead.

So this morning I unearthed one of my treasures, an old 'koffie' grinder belonging to my parents. It came with them from the Netherlands when they emigrated to New Zealand in the 1950's and I recall them using it for many years. I only became a coffee drinker in the past 10 years, but maybe I kept the 'koffie' grinder for more than one reason. After a good clean, I had a great cup of coffee.

The other road traveled was south last week down the Bruce Highway. After a most fantabulous adventure in Townsville my girls and I headed home on Wednesday 19. The trip north from Yeppoon had been 8 hours plus in one day, but going home would be different.

We were tired after our full-on, happy days, but at one point considered heading straight home. Leaving Townsville at 3pm meant we would arrive around midnight. No worries, (Aussie lingo meaning that's ok) been there, done that many a time before. However, the plan was to stay in Bowen tonight, about 2 hours away. So we did.

Erica had booked accommodation weeks ago, and when we arrived at Horseshoe Bay, I remembered it immediately as a very spectacular and charming spot we'd stayed at many years ago, when the children were young, about 6, 3 and 1. What a coincidence. We'd hired a 'tinny' (Aussie dinghy), and motored about for several hours fishing and having fun.

This time the 3 of us arrived in the late afternoon and strolled along the shell and coral strewn beach, and among the granite boulders before taking in the wonderful sunset.

And after having dined like gourmets in Townsville, all we wanted for dinner was fish and chips! So that's what we had.

On Thursday morning, the Autumn Equinox, we were off by 8am. Only 6 or so hours to go now, we were new people.

An hour into the drive and we spot the Spirit of Queensland. It's travelling south, the track running parallel to the road, and in many places within stone's throw the entire length of the Bruce Highway. The Tilt Train also moves along this route, on other days, and it's faster.

Heading towards us are many green and purple Jucy, and white Wicked Campervans. Several were parked near the Strand in Townsville, with young people spilling and milling out of and around them. Ahh, I remember. Been there, done that too.

It's raining on and off now. Mist hangs low in places over the hills. We've been lucky as this is the middle of the wet season but it's been a very dry wet season. The wet season means cyclones and Cyclone Hadi has been lurking in the Coral Sea, teasing us with his indecision whether to make landfall or not.

By midday we need to make a comfort stop. Out in the middle of nowhere is a small 'servo' (Aussie slang for petrol station/roadhouse) Not being hungry, we buy coffee and a sausage roll and sit outside at the picnic table to eat. Ten minutes later we're on the road again, by 2.30pm we're home.

I silently thank my guardian angels for a safe trip as I take my bags inside, and an hour later I'm off to collect Winnie and Hunny.

Hooray!

"A Most Fantabulous Week of Adventures..."

This past week has been made up of fantastic, fantabulous celebrations, adventures and ceremony. It all began early on Monday morning with a road trip up the Bruce Highway  from Yeppoon where I live, to Townsville, a journey of 741.9 km (492 mi) according to one of the many calculators available, and taking 8 hours and 1 minute, rather funny that 1 minute, it seems to me. Now, I've made this trip before and vaguely knew distance and time details, but time always varies according to how many stops you make and whether there are road works. Both are guaranteed. The Bruce Highway is the south-north National Highway in Queensland which runs 1,652 km (1,027 mi) from Brisbane to Cairns close to Australia's east coast, as you can see from the map.

My daughters Erica and Fini and I were travelling to Townsville for Erica's Ph.D Graduation Ceremony on Tuesday afternoon. We were understandably super excited about the upcoming ceremony, not so much about the forthcoming drive of 8 hours, and 1 minute, which could quite easily become 9 hours.

Predictably for Queensland, Monday morning was bright, clear and warm, and the further north we went the warmer it would be, so we had packed lightly for the 4 days we would be away. We were taking Fini's car, so she drove, Erica was the front seat passenger and I had the back seat to myself. I was grateful for this as I'd only slept 2 to 3 hours the night before due to excitement and anticipation, funny that. I don't get away much, so when I do, it's a big, beautiful deal! I could relax, close my eyes and tune out in the back seat and regain some lost energy for the days ahead.

"Our" stretch of the Bruce Highway - Rockhampton to Townsville - would take us through Marlborough, Sarina, Mackay, Proserpine, Bowen, Home Hill, and Ayr. Mackay is a city about half way, 4 hours or so, otherwise most other places are small towns with an occasional settlement interspersed like Ilbilbie or Gumlu.

There's not much to see for the first several hours before Sarina other than cattle country where there are white Brahman cattle  in their fields of light green grass (not the photo above) sprinkled with Eucalypts and Wattles.  Paperbark trees with their soft, peeling, paper-like sheets of bark flourish near rivers and creeks. At this time of year, most of the vegetation is green after the (unfortunately not enough) wet season.

As we near Mackay we pass into sugar cane country, established in the 1860's shortly after the founding of the then town. Kilometres and kilometres and hectares and hectares of sugar cane plantations spread out in almost continuous rows on either side of the highway, sometimes as far as the eye can see. Harvesting time approaches and most of the tall, lush green cane stalks look to be 3 to 4m tall as we rush by. In fact some of the cane is already being processed as evidenced by the occasional brown, stubbly field, and smoke rising from the stacks of local mills. The unique cane trains are nowhere in sight, but there are many empty bins waiting along tramways which frequently cross the road, bins to be shortly filled and hauled to the mills for round the clock sugar processing.

We'd made lunch and coffee and bought fruit and snacks for the journey, but nature called so we make a quick stop on the outskirts of Mackay, just beyond the turn off north. It's around 11.30 am and Erica takes over driving. About an hour in, Fini changes our entertainment from music to Deepak Chopra's "The Book of Secrets". I settle in for a session of deep learning, ahhh, excellent.

I listen, but also notice changes beyond the car. Traffic volume has increased, particularly heavy traffic like freight haulers. Small settlements and towns are more numerous. There are older types of houses here, Queenslanders, (image Abandoned Queenslander farm house in sugar can fields by teejaybee) square shaped timber dwellings of often only 2 bedrooms, set high with wide verandas all round to catch the breeze as much as possible during the long, hot summers in the days before air conditioning. I imagine the women 'glowing' in their long dresses and the men, dust covered, tanned and sweat stained, at the end of their day from the labour of hand cutting the cane...
Eventually the countyside becomes less flat, there are hills and ranges of hills to pass over or through, and the more hills, the less cane, until there is no more. Deepak's words are still sinking deep into my subconscious as we reach the outskirts of Townsville.  Don't ask how long the trip took, I'm not interested. All 3 of us are too happy to be out of the car. Needless to say, we'll have an early night, for tomorrow will be a double day of celebration. Ethan, my oldest grandson is turning 3. We'll phone him at some point in Yeppoon.

.
Wreck Point, Yeppoon, looking towards Byfield.

Tuesday, and first things first; breakfast. Erica knows all the good spots as she has lived here for nigh on 4 years until December. Her apartment was close to the northern area of "The Strand", Townsville's fabulous foreshore recreation and dining precinct. Her favourite brekky spot had been Odyssey, so we head there. After Bircher muesli and coffee, the day is ready for me and we stroll back to our motel. The girls need some last minute supplies for the ceremony later so go shopping then swimming. I simply rest.

Barbeque chicken on fresh rolls with salad is for lunch, then it's suddenly it's 1pm. Yikes! How did that happen? The mad rush is on to be ready for arrival at the Townsville Entertainment Centre by 2pm. Unlikely methinks, 2.30 probably. Erica needs to collect her gown, hood and bonnet by 3, for the ceremony at 3.30.
Finally, dressed "to the nines", we make our way, in bright sunshine under palms, over sole-deep, carefully tended grass and concrete paths to the entrance area of the Centre. Erica disappears, to return a glorious sight in royal blue bonnet trimmed with gold cord and tassel, royal blue gown lined with red, and a royal blue hood also lined in red which is draped over her arm. WOW, WOW, WOW! My daughter looks so deeply happy, and beautiful. Someone told me once that doing a Ph.D is one of the most stressful times of your life. Erica can vouch for that, but oh so very shortly she will be duly awarded her prize and rewarded for her focus and persistence. And when her turn comes, the hood she's been carrying is placed around her neck and the bonnet reset on her head. Doctoral Degree in hand, she can now say the 8 years it has taken to get here have been worth it. And I am a very, very proud parent :).

By the time we've taken photos it's 6.30pm. We'd made reservations in the morning for 7pm at A Touch of Salt, a great restaurant with delicious food situated on the Ross River. We have a table outside on the terrace right next to the river. The sun is down and the balmy evening breeze blows gently, just perfect. We order mojitos, a martini and a whiskey sour, all with a twist, then wonderful mains consisting of Duck, Moreton Bay Bugs and Aubergine Lasagne. We're even brave enough to have chocolate dessert and port after. Yum, YUM. Whist at dinner we ring Ethan and sing him Happy Birthday. Nearing 3, all he wanted was Ninja Turtles, so that's what he got. At a "non party" event for him on Saturday afternoon, he was showered with all things NT, including a TMNT cake to round off the day. We too are well rounded off this day.

Wednesday morning breakfast found us at the C Bar, also on The Strand, and another round of Bircher muesli and coffee for me. I don't vary my breakfast menu often, even when away from home, preferring a light start to the day. The C Bar sits right on the water's edge, with rocky foundations keeping it steady from whatever weather events come ashore, and cyclones regularly do. In February 2011 Severe Tropical Cyclone Yasi crossed the coast at Mission Beach, about 250 km to the north, and still left Townsville and surrounds battered, bruised, snapped and exfoliated. Erica was here then and and was evacuated from her apartment to higher, safer ground. Even Yeppoon, 980 km's to the south experienced strong winds from that storm.

Back to our motel after breakfast to pack up before 10am and begin the journey home. We're not travelling the full 741.9 km today, but only going a few hours down the coast where we'll spend 1 night, then continue home on Thursday.

Before setting off, Erica goes out to the uni to say goodbye to some friends and Fini and I relax on the foreshore of The Strand. Before us not more than several km's offshore is Magnetic Island, and behind us are joggers and walkers, grandparents with their grandchildren and fur babies with their mums and dads, and in the background stands Castle Hill.

This is quite likely the last visit I shall make to Townsville, and indeed up this stretch of the Bruce Highway. Driving long distance is not my thing, I prefer to fly. Tomorrow afternoon I'll see Hunny and Winnie again hooray! They've been boarding in kennels, and even though I explained everything clearly to them, I couldn't help but feel sad to leave them, hoping they would be happy.

(They had a ball).

Now for the return.

"Staying Strong": 2.

Wednesday 12th of March marked the 16th anniversary of the breakdown I experienced, the subject of my memoir "Staying Strong". It's not an anniversary I usually notice, but since revving up the writing of this story, it is one that's in front of me much of the time. Two weeks back I posted a snippet from my upcoming "Staying Strong", and this week and next I shall post further insight.

In 1998 I went through 9 long months that were dark, painful, frightening and full of despair. There are no fancy words or lively phrases to describe those months because there was nothing in my life then that came close to fancy or lively. There was only pain, fear and despair. That was it. NOTHING else existed, everything else was too difficult to cope with since my mind and body overloaded on the 12th March from staying strong for too long.

Now I was paying the price for what I previously thought utterly necessary. If only, if only...If only I had been able to de-stress sooner, or feel less guilty, or not be studying and working or, or.......It went on and on.

Prolonged severe stress for too long has a way of breaking the mind and the body. It does so to stop the prolonged severe stress, and it does so in dramatic style, one way or another. I slam-dunked into a breakdown and shut down.

There are lots of analogies for something like this. Anyone who has ever been through major trauma knows the same. There's the incident itself, the trauma, the realisation of what this means, then the road beyond. It's the road beyond where things become interesting because it's here where reality of the situation kicks in. Do I cope or don't I? Can I cope? There are physical, mental and emotional sides to trauma which become very raw and remain so for a long time, not just a day or so.

A breakdown is COMPLETELY OVERWHELMING. I was b r o k e n  d o w n. I wouldn't start, couldn't. Parts of me were so worn from over use I malfunctioned and simply stopped on March 12th 1998. I slowly repaired and 9 months later I was able to go again, slowly.

"...Bone weary, I headed to my bedroom, so happy I was still at home and able to lie down. I thought for a moment that I may be coming down with the flu as I did have some of the symptoms.

I lay on my back, closed my eyes and tried to relax.

“If I give myself 5 minutes I’ll be OK”, I thought. I was expecting the light headedness and queasiness to pass, but they didn’t. Instead, my legs began to tingle. It was as if I had pins and needles, so I flexed and relaxed my feet, thinking that would help. It didn’t. I began to feel very hot and started sweating profusely, even though it was cool in my room from the fan. I was very restless, moving my legs and now my arms because they too were tingling. It was if a change of position would relieve the weird sensations. But there was no relief, no matter what I did.

By now I was becoming scared. This, whatever it was, was escalating and I couldn’t stop it. Extreme nausea took over so I began breathing deeply, hoping it would improve my situation and cause the sensations and feelings to subside. I was also breathing deeply to try and get more air. I just couldn’t get enough air! Seemingly immense pressure was bearing down on my chest as well as building from within. My heart was pounding wildly, my head felt about to burst. Nothing I was doing to calm myself was working.

“I must be having a heart attack! I’m going to die” I thought, which was a reasonable conclusion given my situation. “What the hell is happening here? Why can’t I control this, and what is it anyway?”

Everything hurt so much. It seemed as if every fibre of my entire being was in pain. I was terrified. Petrified! NOTHING like this had ever happened to me. I was always a calm, cool and collected person. This was off the planet stuff and that scared me even more..." 

from "Staying Strong"

Next week I will be travelling but should be home in time for Friday's post. 

Have a great weekend everyone,

Leonie.

The Crafter's Graft: The Labour of Love.

I've always crafted, but only recently started writing again on a regular basis. Over the years I've crafted many things, clothing, jewellery, gardens, poetry, nik-naks. I've sewn 'till the cows came home and crocheted 'till the chickens came in to roost.

The 'work' we do as craftspeople is a labour of love. I loved every stitch I sewed, loop I crocheted and word I wrote and write. I love it when the Pantster in me takes over and I'm off and flying with the sheer joy and freedom of my project when it's fresh and new. I'm like the kid in the candy shop, forever young with no constraints on my imagination and all the potential fun I can have.

It's true! This to me, is what crafting is all about. We are the lucky ones. We are writers able to craft and create whatever we want. Only crafters can do that. Our 'work', our labour, is what we love to do.

Yet 'labour' and 'graft' denote hard work. And let's get real here ha ha, crafting, be it writing, crocheting, woodworking or whatever beautiful we create, can be long, arduous and frustrating, and not worth the time and effort we put into it. All the same, ALL the craft I have ever done HAS been worth while. I have never made much money from my craft, it has always been because I loved what I was doing.

Likewise writing. It's a long and frustrating road at times. There are days and days, weeks even of sunshine and roses when inspiration flows and everything goes right. Then follows, for some odd reason no-one can ever explain, those brick wall days and weeks when there is no end of problems - no flow to the story, the computer dies, the perfect book you worked on for so long is actually crap etc, etc.

Many years ago I crocheted a beautiful but intricate round tablecloth for my mum. I can't recall how many times I had to undo it because at some point I went wrong. There was no option but to undo it to the mistake and start again, and again...but because I loved the 'work' so much, I finished it. It was truly a work of art and worth all the graft.

So it is with writing. It is a beautiful work of art, a craft, a labour of love. At some time we are all apprentices, like I am now. We do our time, learn our trade, always keep learning and never give up.

Through this process do we become Master Crafters.