The Haunting Words of Mr F

Artwork by Katie Daisy

I awoke, determined.

I often make promises to myself, many I have failed to keep.

Changes needed to be made.

My intentions are (mostly!) good and pure, in this one and only precious life we have.

While half of me is grounded in the domestic drudgery of cleaning, cooking, shopping, organising things for school, entertaining kiddies and le Husband and just trying to catch up on stuff, the other half of me is soaring in the clouds, dreaming of adventures and Pretty Little Things to create.

I have a special little shelf in my cupboard for my 'When I Have Time...' projects.

Beautiful fabrics, golden threads, bamboo handles, glass beads, earring backings, embossed paper, silk ribbons, watercolours, vintage flowers, nuggets of turquoise, Yiayia's unfinished embroideries. My collection has been sitting there patiently for about 6 1/2 years, since the day my first borns came into this world. My Box of Pretty Things is awaiting the moment I latch onto the Runaway Horse of Creative Inspiration when it hits, holding tightly on its reigns, galloping and yee-haaa-ing with joyous glee instead of shrugging my shoulders and waving glumly as it passes me by, yet again.

My heart cries out as I scrub another crusty pasta pot:

"Oh Spirit of Creativity! Do not abandon me!

We will be together! We will create!

I promise! I'll Try!"

The words of my 4th Grade Teacher, Mr F come back to haunt me. 

Mr F was tall and dandy. He had a head shaped like an egg, bald and shiny on top. 

He had round black-rimmed spectacles and wore pinstriped pants that made him look as tall as a tower. To these pants he would attach silver bicycle clips near his ankles so that his trousers would not get caught up as his long, spindly legs powered his bicycle to school.

Mr F was very Proper. He relished in the Queen's English and rolled his R's when he spoke: (Rrrrrrrodney! Please stop harrrrrassing that poorrrrrr girrrrrrl and rrrreturrrn to yourrrrr seat prrrromptly!). He was very theatrical and was in his element when conducting our music lessons. We would sit on the floor as he took position at the schools piano, under a portrait of HRH Queen Elizebeth II, resplendant in her puffy yellow gown and majestic crown. 

"Zippedy Doo Dah! Zippedy Ay!

My Oh My What A Wonderful Day!

Plenty of Sunshine Heading My Way!

Zippedy Doo Dah! Zippedy Ay!"

His energetic fingers would thump away at the piano keys, like an octopus flailing it's tentacles. Mr F would bob up and down, the piano stool squeaking threateningly. It was a wonder he never broke it or fell off it.

It was the night of parent/teacher interviews and my parents took their places on the little squeaky wooden chairs positioned in front of Mr F's desk. I sat meekly behind them.

"Well!", exclaimed Mr F, "What can I say about Jessica? She is a puuuuuuuuuurre delight!

A's in writing, A's in mathematics, she loves herrrrr arrrrrrrt and parrrrrticipates most joyously in ourrrrr musical prrrresentations".

"Therrrrre is one thing, I could add, howeverrrr....." 

He leaned in closer. His change of position set his spectacles ablaze reflecting the light of the classroom. He looked almost Supernatural.

"She is a most fabulous student, but...... I have neverrrrr seen herrrr trrrrrry....."

I have mulled over those words all my life.

Was this good or bad?

Things would just naturally click in my mind while I was at school.
A quiet achiever.

I loved reading and I loved writing stories. Maths just seemed to work in my head.

My grades were always high (except for Physical Education, but that's another blog post. You'll get your chapter, Mr S).

If I could achieve things without trying, wasn't that a good thing?

" I have never seen her try...."

Mr F was right.

Many things in my life seem to have happened effortlessly.

Whether it's been willing it with all my heart and soul or putting it out to the universe, things just seem to fall into place. But not always. 

In some instances I have tried and failed badly. I have fought hard. I have tried to make relationships work, putting all my heart and soul in them but to no avail. What more could I do? What more could I give? It wasn't meant to be. And in hindsight that was a good thing, the best thing. For I was not being honoured or respected or cherished. Those lessons made me stronger and wiser.

The biggest battle in my life at the moment is balancing the needs of my family against the needs of My Self. Family inadvertently always wins. But maybe I should rephrase that.

It's not about Winning and Losing.

This is about Winning and Winning.

My first pledge is Not To Give Up.

Even as I type, my children are fighting, spilling milk, shredding tissue paper all over my loungeroom floor, my husband is shooing the cat off the kitchen bench, my sister is asking me to drive her somewhere, I have 5 baskets of washing waiting for me in the laundry, the fridge is practically empty, I have no idea what I'm going to cook for dinner, my grandmothers want me to come to visit, I still haven't done our taxes, the plants in my garden are withering, I'm wondering what's going on in Facebook Land, my floors are crunchy, I'm still in my pyjamas, and I do believe I'm due a toilet break.

But look here, Mr F!

I am trying!

I am perservering!

It would be so easy for me to succumb to my Haus Frau Guilt, get off this laptop and tend to Life's Messes like I usually do. Deny my passions, deny my Right to Write.

But I'm not, am I?

Right now, I choose me.

I choose to ride my Creativity Dragon and release these humble little words.

I have created a Blog Post!

And do you know what, Haus Frau Guilt?

I have picked up my Yiayia's unfinished embroidery and I am doing a little section EVERY DAY.

Little by little.
Each little strand I weave makes my heart smile bigger and bigger and bigger.

And next week I am going to make some earrings.
Dangly ones, with gold and turquoise.

And the week after that, a handbag with bamboo handles that I will fill with treasures and carry proudly around with me when I go to the shops to buy more fabric softener and cat food.

I am going to Keep On Going.

And as long as I keep on going,  I am Winning.

What happens when you 'try' in Life?

What would you like to 'try'?
Are you afraid of failing? Or succeeding?

I'm so excited to be nominated for a spot in the Circle of Moms 'Top 25 Aussie Mum Blogs!'.
If you'd like to help me get there, please feel free to click on the link and Vote!
Thank you for your Love & Support, my precious ones!

Oh, Happy Day!

Today we celebrated darling Le Husband's birthday.

(Happy Birthday, agapi!)

We had yummy pancakes for breakfast followed by scrumptious chocolate birthday cake topped with choc icing, candy sprinkles and fresh strawberries (to make it healthy, obviously!)

Waiting for Daddy.

I whipped up a quick batch of spinach, ricotta and feta rolls in the oven for lunch 

and we decided to eat them in the park. 

The sun was shining.

It was a glorious day.

The girls delighted in the swings...

Squeeeeeee!

Higher, Mamma, higher!

Darling Birthday Boy and I delighted in them.

Ssshhhhh! Do not disturb blissfully content child...

Oh, Happy Day indeed!

What made you happy today?

In the Haus of Madam V

Have you ever met a woman who was so extraordinairy, so unique, so perplexing, zany and inspiring, that they've left their mark on you forever? Madam V was one of those very, very extraordinairy ladies.

A bit of an enigma.

Endearilngly eccentric.

One of a kind.

When I was a child, Madam V lived across the road from us for many, many years.

She was a zany Jewish lady aged in her 50's or 60's.

Artistic and Bohemian.

Slightly frightening.

She had a frenetic bob of riotous auburn curls that jiggled as she walked. Her eyes were a searing hazel green that she often lined with kohl liner. She drove a deep scarlet vintage Jaguar with cream leather seats. She always looked out of sorts behind the wheel, as if she should have had a personal chauffeur driving her. She would often wear a big black velvet swing coat in Winter which engulfed her tiny frame. She was so short and petite she looked like a child wearing her Mother's dress ups.

My favourite image of Madam V is seeing her walk to the local milk bar, dressed in leggings, Grecian sandals and a big white man-sized t-shirt emblazoned with the words 'Leave Me Alone'. She walked like she was a woman on a mission, charging down the street. She was never without a cigarette (tobacco or other). A thousand lines etched little paths around her red stained lips.

Madam V lived alone. Her husband had died years earlier.

But her house was always a haven for artists, writers and intellectuals.

When I was 17, my next door neighbour Miss M, who was only a few years older than I, approached me and asked me if I'd like to earn some extra pocket money.

'Sure', I said, 'what do you have in mind?'

'Would you like to help me clean Madam V's house for a few hours every fortnight? She's just fired her cleaning lady and wants someone she can trust' 

'Why not?' I replied. A girl had to earn money to sustain her shoe habit.

And so I journeyed into the Haus of Madam V.

It was a beautiful house. Tinkling chimes and statues of Buddha graced the front door. Sunshine beamed through the giant bay windows illuminating the tiny dust particles that danced about like little fairies doing a jig. Every room was  painted white. The furniture was white, the doors were white. The floors were covered with white flokati rugs, which at first glance for my naive eyes looked like dead polar bears. The house smelled like gardenias and jasmine with a dash of patchouli for that extra touch of exoticism. Vases of white lilies adorned every room. Big bold paintings adorned the walls majestically.

Her house was always spotless. All Miss M and I would do was vacuum, clean the bathroom, dust and mop. Classical music always greeted us when we walked in. My time cleaning the Haus of Madam V educated me in the soulful melodies of Bach, Mahler and Saint Saens.

My favourite room in the house was Madam V's bedroom with its white walls, white linen drapes, a soft woollen throw strewn over the white sheets of the bed. A vintage dressing table gleamed with little crystal bottles of perfume that I would so lovingly and delicately dust. French doors opened up to a private little courtyard bursting with roses. The most striking feature of the room however was a beautiful mural painted on the wall at the head of the bed. It was by one of my favourite artists, Mirka Mora, who Madam V happened to be very good friends with. It was at the Haus of Madam V that I was exposed to such beautiful, vibrant art that touches my soul to this very day.

Artist extraordinaire, Ms Mirka Mora in her studio
Image source here

The mural featured whimsical angels (like the ones below). The angels warmed my heart and kept me company as I beat the dust out of the flokati rugs with a rattan racquet.

''Two Angels' 1970 by Mirka Mora.
Image source here

 Madam V would never be home when we cleaned. She would leave money for us on the table with a note of thanks. Though there were two occasions I remember when she arrived home early.

On the first occasion she had been to an event that commemorated the Jewish Holocaust during World War 2. She opened up to me about the time when she was a little girl in her homeland. Her family were hiding in secrecy, trying to avoid Nazi capture. What stayed with me was what had happened to her father. She told me that there was not enough food to feed everyone so her father sacrificed his portions. When the food was close to running out he decided to go in search for more to feed his precious family. He never returned. Was he captured? Killed? No one knew.

On the second occasion Madam V burst into the house dancing. She had drunk in the joys of champagne and was feeling festive. I was packing up the mop when she called me in her thick, Jewish accent.

'Tzesika! Come here! I have somethink to give to you!'
She held out a lovely handkitted purple scarf.
"Zis is for you, darlink girl. I vant you to vear it vith Suffragette Pride!" she exclaimed as she wrapped it around my neck. She'd been to a luncheon celebrating the anniversay of women getting the vote and was high on the glories of Sisterhood.

I cleaned Madam V's house for almost a year and then stopped when I got into University.
She moved house not long after, taking her magnificent Jaguar and Bohemian-ess with her.

I think of her often and adore her for living her life so openly with her free-spirit and 'Who Gives A &*^%' attitude.
And come Winter, I dig out my purple scarf and wear it with great big, glorious Suffragette pride.

************

Linking up with the lovely Jess from Diary of a SAHM for 'IBOT'!

Wild Orchids

Before I begin, if this post's title has excited you and you have stumbled across my humble little blog expecting some saucy action between Mickey Rourke and Carré Otis, I'm sorry to have to disappoint you. I will, however, compensate by sharing this quick pic just for you:

There. Happy now? 

That's as raunchy as this post gets but you're more than welcome to stick around and read on x

Now, back to the Orchids.

In my back garden lives a terracotta pot. From it's heart grow the orchids. They grow wild, for I never tend to them. I keep meaning to, and one day soon, I will.

My father brought home this pot over 15 years ago. It was a present from the college where he was teaching architecture. My father had decided to resign from his position to pursue his real passion, performing and composing music. In this pot stood one lone orchid, straight and proud. I, too, was proud of my father. He had made a brave decision to be true to his heart and live his passion. This inspires me everyday.

I never really remember noticing the orchids again until 7 and a half years ago when my father died.
We were having a clear out of the garden when I found the pot. It was filled with grey shrivelled stalks and weeds. I was going to throw it out when I noticed a shiny purple stalk. Hope in the darkness. It was alive.

I watched over the next few week as the stalk grew, producing little buds. One morning while taking out the laundry I noticed the first bloom. It was glorious. Nature's beauty. The bloom was joined by others. I revelled in their magnificence. I cut some to take to the cemetery on Dad's birthday.

 I am not a gardener. I can't even keep a pot of parsley alive. How do these orchids grow so majestically, year after year? I want to be like those orchids. We all should be. They shed all that no longer nourishes them and are reborn. Life comes from the light and warmth of the sun, the drops of rain from the sky. They live simply. All that they will ever really need to be magnificent is already lying within them.

The old terracotta pot is struggling to contain them. The roots and stems are bursting out the top. But the orchids are not struggling. They are climbing higher and higher reaching for the sun, bowing their heads in reverence. I like to believe that they're paying homage to my Dad.
We should all be reaching for that sun and living with passion. I'm trying to. x

Are you letting your Magnificence shine?

Happy Birthday to Me: (Almost) Wordless Wednesday

The day began with me finding a silver hair in my eyebrow.

Ah, 36.

Am off to a great start.

Darling Le Husband ushered the girlies into the kitchen where I was presented with a beautiful bunch of hyacinths, a voucher for a pampering facial and massage,  and a pretty little box wrapped in glittery gold paper. Katrushki proudly gave me a drawing crumpled around a 20 cent piece.

Inside the box was a lovely necklace enscribed with my name, "Jessica".

You see, I'm 36 now and am renowned for bouts of forgetfullness ('Mumnesia', I call it). 

At least I'll never forget my name.

My mother popped round and surprised me with some cookbooks. 

(Need a bit of help in the culinary department, do I, hey Mummy Dearest????)

Mother Dearest then took me out to brunch for some delish  Ricotta and Blueberry Hotcakes. Yum!

Katrushki and I snuggled up by the cafe's warming fireplace.

I am now deliriously happy lying in bed while fabulous Mr WhoaMamma does the grocery shopping and school pick-ups. My birthday wish was to have a day off cooking and cleaning. So far, so good.

Darling sister has offered up her babysitting services so I foresee lots of sangria and cocktails in Mr & Mrs WhoaMamma's future tonight. Olé!

I have a feeling 36 is going to be the best year yet!

What's been your favourite birthday so far?

Linking up with My Little Drummer Boys  and Twinkle in the Eye for Wordless Wednesday!

Oh I Do Like To Be Beside the Seaside...

It was one of those magical Winter days, all sunshine.

Darling le Husband and I gave each other a knowing look:

"Let's escape".

We pried the children away from the laptop and television (sadly, they have inherited their mother's addiction) and rounded up the 3 Barbie scooters.

With sunshine as glorious as this, it was too good to waste in front of a screen full of pixels.

Daddy with his Beach Bunnies

Katrushki in the Sun

Twin Bookends

Barefoot and carefree

"Mummy, the water is tickling my toes!"

"Can we do this every day?!"

Ahoy, there!

We collected some shells to remember the day

It was a very good day.

What do you like to do to chase the Winter Blues away?

Under the Winter Sun: or : Good Things Happen When You Run Away from Laundry

It was a morning just like any other manic school morning.
Day in, day out. The same.
Always the same.
A frenzy of locating boots, library books, permission slips, slicing bananas, burning the toast, plaiting braids, settling arguments, wiping away tears.
The walk to school was brisk, hurried.
Through the school gates, "Bye darlings. Kiss, kiss. Have a great day. Mummy loves you".

I turned my heels to return home.
I paused.
Home.
What was awaiting me?
Unmade beds, dirty dishes, mountains of laundry, floors littered with toys.
Bugger that!

Time to get out of the Routine Rut and have a spontaneous adventure.

I was On The Run.
Running Away from Domestic Drudgery.
Having a Spontaneous Adventure.
And loving every single thrilling moment of it.

First stop, coffee.
Aaaaah!
With a deliciously hot latte in hand I let my soul guide me.
It followed the rays of the sun and led me to the glistening horizon of the sea.
The Beach.
If there is a place on earth that can cure any of my soul's ills, it is the beach.
I am blessed, blessed, blessed to be living 5 mins walk away from it.

I breathed in the salty sea air. Rejoicing in Rejuvination.

I made my way to the pier, seagulls dancing overhead.
I heard a most beautiful voice chanting in the wind.
A man dressed in a yellow fisherman's hooded jacket was standing on the pier, his arms outstretched, the sun's rays making his face glow golden. He was oblivious to me as I timidly and respectfully walked past him. I did not want to disturb. He sang to the sun. I could make out some Spanish words. Was it a lament? An ode? It was beautiful. I found myself tearing up. I wanted to know his story. The mysterious singing stranger dressed in yellow singing to the Sun. I walked on as his soulful chant was carried by the wind.

The sun's rays glistened on the water like jewels, they were the diamonds of my day.

A little empty boat rocked gently. I imagined laying in it and napping, like a baby in a cradle.

A self-portrait, of sorts.

Serenity

Suede winter boots amongst shells and sand

I left my mark by the Sea, just as it had left its beautiful mark on me.

When was the last time you had a spontaneous adventure?

I'm linking up with the gorgeous Jess from Diary of a SAHM for 'I Blog On Tuesdays', yee-ha!