A fortunate event?

Yesterday marked one year since I tore the Anterior Cruciate Ligament (ACL) in my right knee for the second time. A year ago today I was grimacing through the pain as I underwent scans, x-rays, poking and prodding. Last year on this day I spent most of the afternoon in tears, trying to convince myself it wasn't so bad, but knowing in the pit of my stomach that one wrong step would cause months of frustration and anguish.
I wasn't too far wrong. The damage had been done at work - a shoe sales job I'd had for a total of two weeks - but my claim for compensation was rejected on the grounds that the task I was doing - walking from the selling floor to the stock room - wasn't closely enough related to work. I was up for close to $8000 in medical bills and was now jobless.
After seeing a specialist I was immeidately booked in for surgery - I'd not only torn the ACL but severely damaged the cartilage around it. The whole area was already weak from a previous tear to the same ligament twelve years prior, meaning that would also have to be cleaned up and my recovery would likely be slower than average.
Twelve months later and my knee, while stronger than it's been in years, still aches on cold nights, or twinges if I move it at a funny angle. When it does, I remember how much heartache I've been through because of it, and the stress and frustration at having such a small thing cause so much havoc to my life financially, socially, physically, and emotionally. But I've also been thinking lately that maybe, even with all the tears it caused, this whole thing wasn't such a catastrophe after all.
I spent the morning setting up for a gala dinner for 1000 people. A lot of it was hard, hot work - moving tables, setting out chairs, folding napkins, and carting crates of cuttlery, crockery and glasses to and fro. But in the midst of all this, in fact while lugging 10kg of silverware from one end of the room to the other, I realised I was living my dream.
Ok, so not my complete dream. I'd much prefer to not be covered in sweat and dust, and maybe also to be in charge of the event rather than just part of the staff of extras, but the essence of the dream is there. I was part of the process. My hand was involved in creating this thing, this event that, for those attending tomorrow night, will hopefully be something more than just a dinner.
There's this overwhelming craziness that comes from seeing a decrepit cattle pavillion transformed from an empty hall into a 5-star ballroom, and knowing that you were responsible (even in a small way) for that. As odd as it sounds, it's almost like the birth of a temporary artwork, the creation of something for others to share. And pulling something off successfully gives me this incredible rush of ecstasy that I can ride for days!
Sure, there's bits that aren't so fun - the mountains of paperwork, insurances and licenses for a start - but every job has its downfalls, and the good stuff far outweighs the bad stuff.
The good stuff: playing with themes and ideas, creating the most outrageous things you can come up with, transporting people from the normal to the amazing, hearing someone talk about something you helped create months (or even years) later, improvising, imagining and innovating.
This time last year I'd been two weeks in a job I already hated. I was a recent uni graduate with no savings, no decent job prospects and far too much debt. I felt defeated, frustrated and lost. Now? I still have no savings, another year of study to get through and far too much debt. And I've still got a dodgy knee and a lot of things that frustate me. But I've also got a direction, and I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't be going in the same one had I not torn my ACL, and been forced to up-end my whole life and reconsider where I was heading. I don't want to give my knee too much credit, but maybe someday I can say this little drama is responsible for helping me become the Aussie version of Colin Cowie, creator of stuff like this: 


A Wedding in Cabo San Lucas

  

When I linger no longer

It would seem to most quite morbid to think about your own death in detail. In particular, to prepare arrangements for your funeral when you're perfectly healthy. But it's something that has always been on my mind, and something I think is actually quite important.
As a kid I was surrounded by death quite a bit. My childhood home was right next to the town cemetry, so my brother and I would spend afternoons and weekends wandering the graves, making up life stories for the brave soldiers, beloved grandparents, and sweet children 'sleeping' next door.
But it wasn't just the neighbours that kept death in the forefront of my mind. My family has long had a history of illness - my nanna had breast cancer and suffered a number of strokes, my granddad was run over by a tractor and suffered mental illness, my mother has been pronounced clinically dead on 8 separate occassions - meaning we frequented hospitals quite often as kids. As a result the fickleness and fragility of life was never something I was shielded from.
I watched as my mother suffered through heart and brain surgery, as her best friend fought off breast, throat, lung, skin and finally bone cancer, as my nanna spent the last month of her life in a medical coma after a severe stroke. And then I stood by as, one by one, we buried each of my grandparents, boxing up their lives as though they were a theatre production that had run its course.
The thing that stuck in my mind, even at thirteen, was the agony, the distraught emptyness that seemed to hang in the air as my mother chose hymns for the funeral, or my uncle struggled to write a eulogy that could honour my Granddad when all he wanted was to have him back.
Funerals hurt. That doesn't really need to be said. But the thing is we - living, thriving, breathing human beings - avoid that pain until it hits us, or our loved ones, square in the face. I don't want that. I don't want that for my husband, or my children, or (God forbid) my parents. So I've planned my funeral as I'd plan any other event in my life. I know that I want to be cremated, and that I want my funeral in the early evening. I am adamant that Amazing Grace would be the absolute worst choice for my funeral song ever. Instead, I'd like something that celebrates the people who have come to see me off. That thanks them, and offers them joy and peace. And, most importantly, something I would have listened to myself, if it were them and not me no longer here.
I heard The Parting Glass the other night while watching some late-night TV. The gent singing is Luke Macfarlane whos voice, I think, makes this version more beautiful and haunting than any other I could find. I knew immediately that this was the song I would like playing as I say my final goodbyes. It is sad, true, but it speaks of a full life and bequests love and joy to those remaining.
I will smile from whereever I end up to know my life is toasted with a good whiskey, a smile, and this song:

Bag lady

I'm going back to study. After a year of desperate job searching, six months of unemployment, and far too long feeling utterly useless. I decided this about a month ago and started seriously researching courses, finally getting up the courage to apply about two weeks past. I found out two days ago I had been accepted into my first and only preference, and have been thinking non-stop about it ever since.
While I'm thoroughly excited at the thought of moving back to Brisbane (where the course is run) and catching up with old friends and favourite haunts, I'm also sad to be leaving the comfort of my family and the newfound closeness I have with Miss V and Wabi. I also have to admit to some trepidation at the thought of being a new student again.
I decided I should find a way to make the transition back to studentdom a bit easier. And what better way to do that than with a fun vintage bag that says "I'm smart, I'm sassy, and I'm super sure I'm going to ace this class":

1. Houses are fun, especially if they look all Hansel and Gretel like. And bags that look like houses, well even better! This one's from Cosas Raras etsy shop.
2. I'm a bit of a tan leather fan so this handcarved satchel tote from Bags Babylon is top of my list so far. What do you think?
3. A Swiss military fly-fishing bag as a uni tote? Why not. Although I also like this, and this from Meatbagz. 
4. Ok, so I wouldn't use this for uni but for storing my needles and yarn. Although Aunt Carrie says the insert is removable so it does have the potential to be a cute wicker picnic basket, right? 
5. Um...I need somewhere to store my sewing stuff as well. Yeah, so I got a bit sidetracked, but this sewing caddy would totally keep all my bits and bobs neat. And dirty birdie's basically giving it away.

All items courtesy of my Etsy obsession.

Words in the winter wind

Two men I have loved all my adult life are two men I will never meet.
The first of these is a love I learnt of from my first real love. He sent me a poem which made me both cry and smile and which, even now, after hundrends (if not thousands) of reads, I still discover anew each time:

Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town
(E. E. Cummings)
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did


Women and men(both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain


children guessed(but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew
autumn winter spring summer)
that noone loved him more by more


when by now and tree by leaf
she laughed his joy she cried his grief
bird by snow and stir by still
anyone's any was all to her


someones married their everyones
laughed their cryings and did their dance
(sleep wake hope and then)they
said their nevers they slept their dream


stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember
with up so floating many bells down)


one day anyone died i guess
(and noone stooped to kiss his face)
busy folk buried them side by side
little by little and was by was


all by all and deep by deep
and more by more they dream their sleep
noone and anyone earth by april
wish by spirit and if by yes.


Women and men(both dong and ding)
summer autumn winter spring
reaped their sowing and went their came
sun moon stars rain

The second is a man I discovered accidentally, flipping idly through a library book in a thirteen-year-old angsty haze. He was simple and yet profound. The way we often forget life is:

 Winter Trees
 (William Carlos Williams)
All the complicated details
of the attiring and
the disattiring are completed!
A liquid moon
moves gently among
the long branches.
Thus having prepared their buds
against a sure winter
the wise trees
stand sleeping in the cold.




The Red Wheelbarrow
(William Carlos Williams)
so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens.

*Poems courtesy of FamousPoetsandPoems.com

The lurgy

My flu has finally cleared up and, for the most part, I'm feeling a lot better. Except for the cough. I joked to a friend that I sound like a walrus on heat. So in an effort to avoid becoming Seaworld's latest attraction, I headed back to the doctor. He did the mandatory chest-test, checked my glands, and took a throat swab. Today I have to go back and have a blood test, but he's pretty sure I have Whooping Cough. Whooping Cough - or pertussis - is characterised by uncontrollable coughing fits followed by a high-ptiched "whoop" as you struggle desperately to breathe again. The ever-wise Wikipedia informs me that these fits " can occur on their own or can be triggered by yawning, stretching, laughing, eating or yelling". Excellent. As it's highly contagious and can lead to all sorts of other complications (pneumonia, seizures, encephalopathy), if the bloodwork comes back positive everyone I live with has to be treated for it.
I remember having Croup (as my mother calls it) a few times as a kid. Waking up in the dark, struggling to draw in breath while my chest exploded. My whole body would be wracked by such violent convulsions as I coughed that after a few days I would cry in pain, only adding to the agony as I tried to breathe through the tears. I remember being shuffled into the bathroom, mum cranking the shower as hot as it would go, and sitting with me on the bath mat as I inhaled the steam, trying to heat and clear my airways. There was a time or two I would cough so badly mum and dad would bundle me off to the local hospital where I'd be shuffled into the humidcrib for the night. With sleep out of the question I would sit reading, the nurses bringing me lemonade and lollies, playing board games and cards with me, until dawn broke and the warmth of a new day warmed my lungs and allowed me a small window of respite.
Having been there with me as a child my mother was immediately sure what was wrong. Stubbornly I denied it, knowing full well the hacking pain in my chest and back each time I coughed could only really be one thing. Even with the medication Whooping Cough usually last six weeks. Six weeks of hacking cough and strangled breathing. And six weeks of chest, back, neck, ribs, all aching constantly from the exertion. Needless to say, today I'm feeling a bit sorry for myself. I'm also hoping I haven't infected anyone else. I have no idea where I picked it up, but Whooping Cough is something I wouldn't wish to share with anyone.  
Fun note: My cousin suggested I make the best of the next few weeks and contact the BahaMen. Turns out I do a damn fine 'Who Let the Dogs Out'. 

Too cool for school

Two posts in one day. Hurrah!
This is just a heads up for you to check out an awesome blog. Style Rookie is an incredibly witty, intelligent, and rediculously cool blog all about fashion and fun. And the coolest bit. The writer: fourteen years old!
Dear Tavi, if you ever read my blog, I think you're awesome. Can I be you for a day?

Spooning

I'm sick. I have some kind of flu. Usually when I get a flu I wait it out and let it get better on its own, which inevitably leads to a trip to the doctor two weeks in and an endless round of medications and return visits. This time I figured I'd be good and catch it at the start, so off I trot to the doctor expecting a pat on the back for being so health conscious. Instead she tells me I'm not sick enough. Not sick enough! So I trudge home and deal with it by downing panadol at every opportunity and emptying tissue boxes with rapid succession. And still I feel sick and miserable.
The miserableness comes less from being sick, and much more from just being cold. Winter is settling in slowly, and as it does the nights become less and less comfortable. I hate winter. Well, not completely. I love winter clothing - patterned stockings, soft scarves, beautiful leather gloves, and lovely jackets. But the cold wind, the dry air, the dark mornings and early sunsets? Yuck.
For me the worst part is going to bed. I hate having to get into a cold bed and lie, shivering, by myself while it warms up. I love having a warm body to snuggle into, to wake up with warm breath on my shoulder. For me, winter is the time when being single means being alone the most. It's the time when I pine for a someone to steal covers from, to keep me awake with their snoring, and to huddle with under the covers giggling about the silly things that happened in each other's days. Winter is the time when, more than anything, I want this:

Picture ripped from a bedding catalogue via Google Images. Was looking for a fantastic artwork but nobody seems to like spooning as much as me.

Fanta Pants

Last night two of my favourite Darling friends likened me to Botticeli's Birth of Venus:

They claimed, in all seriousness, that my hair was luxurious waves of copper-gold, or some such frippery. Now, I can't deny that the resemblance to venus in body is possibly there - Miss Venus certainly wasn't all skin and bones - but, being a redhead, I had difficulty believing her beauty or mine, lies in our shared hair colouring.
That said, I've spent most of the morning trolling sites devoted to redheadedness, feeling an homage to my fire-headed sisters and brothers is deserved.
You see, us redheads are a special breed, a race of our own, if you would believe Jonah from the hilarious Chris Lilley's Summer Heights High:

Doug: How is it ok for you to bully Ben?

Jonah: 'Cause he's a Ranga.

Doug: A what?

Jonah A Ranga sir. 'Cause he's got red hair. Orangutan, that's what we call him.

Doug: And does that make it ok for him to be bullied, because he has red hair?

Jonah Well, people are racist to FOB's...

Leon: To us.

Jonah So, so we can be racist to Rangas.

Doug: But red-heads aren't a race, Jonah.

Leon: But sir, there's heaps of them. They're everywhere.

Taken from wikiquotes

 
But we're also, it seems, a thing to be sacrificed, feared, and revered. Throughout history people with red hair and green eyes were said to be witches, warewolves or vampires, the Greeks sacrificed us to the gods to create fertile land, while a long line of esteemed leaders in history - including Queen Elizabeth I and the Celtic Queen Boudicca - were redheads. 
Botticelli, Modigliani, and their fellow artists throughout the centures have painted their fascination with flame-hair, the colour 'titian' deriving itself from the painter of the same name who often coloured the locks of his images in shades of red and copper. 
Literature delights in redhead rogues and burnished beauties also. Lucy Mongommery's Anne of Green Gables bemoans her tresses, stating "you'd find it easier to be bad than good if you had red hair...People who haven't red hair don't know what trouble it is". Mark Twain believed that "while the rest of the species is descended from apes, redheads are descended from cats". 
And even facebook can't deny a strange obsession with our kind. There's the Humans Against Redhead Extinction (HARE), The official Hug a Ranga Day page, and even a fella willing to legally change his name to Ranga (apparanlty he went through with it). 
Even with all the nicknames - carrot top, ranga, ginga, ginger, fanta pants, firecrotch, gingernut, just to name a few - it seems that everone either wants to know us or wants to be us, and who can blame them when we have the propensity to look this good:
 

1. Aussie Actress and Borat's wife, Isla Fisher. 2. The ever-handsome actor, Damien Lewis. 3. Prince of Gingers, Prince Harry. 4. Timelessly beautiful actress, Julianne Moore.
Of course, I have to acknowledge the most famous redhead of them all, the one and only, Ronald:
 

And the Legend who allegedly declared, "once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead" - Lucille Ball:
 

And, just in case you still haven't got enough fire in your life, and you think us bloodnuts good enough to eat, you can buy our sauciness in a bottle to slather on all sorts of things.
 
 
  

The flipside of Easter

Easter has always represented a bit of a mind-fuck (excuse the french) for me. See, easter is all about the birth of new life, specifically Christ dying and rising again. But it's also represented by the birth of spring - eggs, bunnies, spring flowers, etc. The thing is, on my little scrap of the earth, as I'm sure it is for most in the Southern Hemisphere, it's nowhere near Spring right now. And so I find myself - as I do at Christmas with the snow/blinding heat paroxism - finding easter's acoutrement of all-things-spring somewhat ironic. And then I find this little gem and have to take a photo, because apparantly even the mushrooms are getting into the swing of things:

It looks like an egg, no?
I snapped that yesterday, while wandering around my Uncle's farm in the mountains behind the area I spent much of my childhood. I also stumbled across this perfectly framed glimpse of the endless hills ambling along the horizon:

This year easter is a little less ironic for me, and not just because of the mushroom. With the rains we've had over the last few months, and the fires of last spring, these hills are greener than I've ever seen. They've found new life in the last moments of summer and, with that, brought new life to a once dead valley and all its flora, fauna, and peoples. The easter message - from death springs new life and hope - seems to resound around this place, even without spring on the doorstep.

Here I am

Here’s what I am. I’m 25. I’m Caucasian. I’m 165cm tall (although my license reads 168cm). I hover between a size 12 and a 14, usually closer to the larger end. I have red hair and milky-white skin swathed in thousands—if not millions—of pale chocolate freckles. I have small breasts and large, slightly manly shoulders. I have toe issues, foot problems, a dodgy right knee, a crooked pelvis, bad vision, cold sores, and endless teeth dilemmas from clenching my jaw while I sleep. I’m a catch, right?


You’ve picked yourself up off the floor, grasped your ribs in agony, and wiped away the tears of laughter? Well done. I’m sure there are hundreds of others who didn’t survive the torrent of incredulous guffaws produced in response to that last quip. Because, who are we kidding, I’m not exactly pin-up girl material. In fact, as far as 20-somethings go, I’m probably well below average when it comes to physical make-up. But here’s the kicker. I’m mentally and emotionally a bit under par too.

I have a quick temper. Yep, say what you like about stereotypes not being true, but this redhead has more fire than the aptly named matches. But I don’t just get angry. Oh no, I run the whole gamut of bad moods: melancholy, morose, discontent, disjointed, confused, and just plain lost. I’m can’t make decisions. (That’s not completely true, I can’t make decisions about my life—others’ lives on the other hand, I’m all over that.) I like control, but I don’t want it. I love spontaneity, but it terrifies me. I hate being stagnant, but change unsettles me too much. I want everything now, not tomorrow. Don’t get me wrong, I want that sense of achievement that comes from working hard, but do I really have to get up before nine?

So what about the deeper me? What are my hopes and dreams? What do I really believe in? What do I love to do? I want to travel. But I don’t want to just see the world, I want to take it by the hand and say “how do you do?” I love to cook and I want to be able to do it well. No not just well, amazingly well. I want to effortlessly rustle up the best damn soufflé you’ve ever eaten, or the most mouth-watering roast duck you can imagine. I want to create stuff. What stuff? I don’t know. I can knit and crochet. I (occasionally) make my own clothes and jewellery. I just need to create, damn it!

You know what I want most. I want to have some kind of purpose in my life. And that’s what this is. It’s about finding a purpose. Something more than just a lifestyle, a dream, or a career. I’m not searching for my real self—I’ve already got enough personalities fighting for control. What I’m hoping for is to slowly untangle the hopped-up, flipped-out, craziness that is me. And take you along for the ride. Now I’m warning you, on any given day this may involve absolutely nothing. But it may also involve high-strung excitement at completing a knitting project, the blissful calm that comes from producing a perfect chocolate tart, desperate anxiety over another failed job/interview, and even complete and utter depression when everything just falls apart.

Welcome to the ride of my life. Strap yourself in, it is going to get bumpy, but I’m sure (I hope) we’ll all survive.