Mother.

The worries of the day cling to my mind.
Dallying children at play are they, ignoring their Mother's call to bed.

Many are the faces of my little worries.
The hot-tempered, cheeks a-flush, defiant fists clenched.
The moody, arms tightly crossed, eyes unsurrendered.
The whiney, full of pleading negotiations, empty.

Mother of mine, sweetly do you tend these.
With resolute patience, you calme and bed the terrors in me.

They may wake in the night, at morn I'm sure, at least.
But tomorrow Mother, we shall meet.
Though the day will storm, at dusk we'll greet.

As I recline, teach me your patience; your lullaby,
to send my mischiefs to sleep.

Wonderful Waiheke

two days of island bliss with the Kuperus clan.

 

Old paper

Went for an explore under the house on Sunday, and uncovered some delights.
A radio gram.
A set of drawers.
A tiny box containing three silver cake forks.
Drawers full of manilla folders.

Our flat is really old.
Like, probably well over 100 years old.
I've often thought how amazing it would be to have a sort of guest book for it. For all the lives that pass in and out these doors. All the adventures, dinner parties, laughter and mishaps that have taken place here.

There's something splendid about catching a glimmer of someone else's life.
The manilla folders contained this.

A huge stack of typed up newsletters and flyers is now sitting on my ironing board, after I had a good old look through them today.
Most of them being material from the New Zealand Marijuana Party from around 1978-1980.

A lot of it is a good laugh.
Tips for not getting busted trading in a pub. The fact that the police can legally tap phone lines.
Advise about hiding any supplies and ensuring that you don't leave finger prints on bags.

But the opening comment of the January 1980 newsletter got me thinking.
It reads:

1980 has arrived and still found us living under repressive laws. We must continue our struggle for basic human rights...this campaign is not just simply about marijuana but it is a campaign against the ever increasing encroachment of human rights

Really?

Human rights confuse me. Water? Shelter? Freedom from violence? Freedom of association?
Where does the line get drawn?

Apparently for these guys the line is drawn just on the other side of the legalisation of weed.

Choice. Freedom. Law. Rights applicable to all people.
-Can these things ever be worked out?

I don't think they can be.
Though I don't really give a toss about marijuana's legalisation, I do really care about people getting what they need, and having agency.

So to this end, the fact that the people living in my flat some 30 years ago were passionate about challenging the status quo, about revision of what is a 'right', inspires me.

Maybe things need to be challenged? Even if they are to be again proven right, perhaps this process of critique is what allows us to continue to engage with what it means to be human, to be free and to live together as a people.

The wood from the trees

I love sayings.

Vocabulary. 

Slang.

Colloquialism.

Those hazy pearls of wisdom which are somehow bundled up in a mystifying sequence of words. 

Hearing a new saying for the first time is one of life's little delights.

These well worn little phrases evoke for me the kind of old worldliness and nostalgia as the cause me to think about where we come from. 

Those little things that make us up, from the quirky Christmas traditions and those old family recipes no one writes down or uses measures, through the finicky way someone likes their washing folded. All these things we have been taught. 

All these things we have observed and been introduced to and taught to see life through. 

As we grow the strings of words we have been given link together, sculpting frames for us to look out to the world. 

Though I spend much of my day busy looking out through these frames, talking, listening, writing, thinking, it's a joy to be reminded to take a step back and see where these words come from.

To see my heritage where these words have been before, rebuking, teasing, teaching, caring; alive.

Not only this, but taking this step back gives me a glimpse forward; my future in the words I gather, and the words I give.

Sometimes, as they say, it's hard to 'see the wood for the trees'.

By taking a step back from my close-range inspection of life, to see my life as part of the narrative of those past, and those future, I'm challenged to use my voice, my ears, my thoughts, my words as best I can today.

old and new

C.S Lewis
I will always delight in the stories you have to share with me.
Of far away places and peoples, of ideas and values old and new
Of a bigger story that we all take part in.

I also like the little oddities of your vocab, which is already so far from mine.
Here are a few faves from A Horse and His Boy.

rum -adjective ( rummer , rummest ) Brit., informal dated

odd; peculiar : it's a rum business, certainly | they were a rum bunch.

adjective

august |ôˈgəst|

respected and impressive : she was in august company.

All

I will say over and over, all the things that I’ve meant before,

All those things which tell the truth,

Of I am,

To let go the words

I’ve held back,

Taken in by the Word

All, all, all, all will be well,

All, all, all, all will be sure,

To be found is to go astray,

To leave, to return one day

Essential as one foot before the next,

As sure as the coming tide,

As near as a breath,

Eternal I am,

All I confess,

To live who You are

Sunday morning

Matthew Greener's voice is so heartbreaking, in a pleasant, swoony sort of way. 

Overcast Sunday. 

Reading the news. 

Playing this on repeat. 

Gold.