Book week: Books bored me as a child.

It's book week in Australia.  Book week occurs annually around this time of year: Late winter.  This year it falls between Saturday 22 August - Friday 28 August. 

Book week is accompanied by the slogan:  'Books light up the world'.  I think this is often true.  Books can change the world in a positive way. They can reach out to the masses:  teaching, entertaining, inspiring, providing hope.  The words of authors can also reach down through the ages - alive and dynamic - long after their creators are gone.

During the annual book week, schools and public libraries across Australia spend the week celebrating books, and Australian authors and illustrators.  Class teachers, teacher librarians, and public librarians develop activities, offer competitions, and tell stories

I recall, as a child, having book week in primary school.  Back then, I almost never read books. Instead, I constantly watched television. I was a television-addict. My family even referred to me as 'square eyes'. If I whinged about being bored, during Sunday drives in the car, my father would suggest that I make a 'square' with my fingers (like Madonna did the the Vogue music video) and pretend that the images, racing by outside my window, were on a television screen.  I had to admit that this usually made the scenery far more interesting. 

Michael Leunig once created a cartoon which illustrated my own childhood experience.  He drew a picture of a man sitting in an armchair watching a beautiful sunset on television.  Behind the man was a window with exactly the same sunset outside. Yet the man preferred to view life through a television. Inside. 

As a child, I could relate to this Leunig cartoon. Sometimes I would spend an entire day in my pyjamas watching television from breakfast until bedtime. I also watched hours of television after school every night.  So, unless I was threatened by a teacher with an F-grade, in English studies,  I refused to read books. Watching television was easier than reading a book, I fathomed. Sadly, I continued to believe this until the age of 21, when I met my future-husband, David.

David loves books.  He reads a new novel every week, and, between reading novels,  he listens to audio-books.  His life is stories and learning and words.  And he brought his love of words and literature to me. Soon after we met, David gave me the entire book-set of The Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I loved them!  He then regularly bought me books,  or loaned me his own favourite novels.  I grew to love so many authors:  Thomas Hardy; the Brontes - Emily, Charlotte and Anne; D.H Lawrence; Michael Ondaatje, Kazuo Ishiguro … and many others. 

I realised that books could capture my imagination in a way that television and films never could. The words in the books could be thrilling, funny, and inspiring. The words transcended my own life experience. They clarified and changed my view on the world and the people in it.  Reading allowed me to get into the heads of the book's characters, and walk in their shoes - in a way that movies and television can't. Books helped me to understand the commonality of the human experience: the  struggles, the tragedies, the comedy, the beauty, and the importance of love to us all.

Yet, as a child I didn't like books.  So, when book week came and went each year, in my primary school, I  ignored it.  It was irrelevant to me.  Reading books was a 'hobby' in which I was not engaged.  Just as 'stamp-collecting' week, and 'model-car racing' week - if those weeks  even exist - would have been ignored by me as well.  Those activities, and celebrations of them, would have passed well below my interest-radar.

And, for this reason, it is strange that, at the age of ten, in grade six, I decided to enter a book week competition in my school.  The competition category I entered was the easiest one:  To write a book.  We were given a whole three weeks to write it.  What would I do with the other 20 days, I wondered?

So, I sat down with my pen and paper to write my book:  Right.  A story.  Where to begin?  No idea.  OK, I'll start with the book cover, I thought.  Brilliant!  I knew how to draw - even if putting words on a page in such a way as to create a story was proving more of a challenge than I'd anticipated. I reasoned that  once the cover of the book was drawn,  the story would flow easily.  I'd have the title, a picture of my characters, and my name proudly displayed (the most important part) - as the author - on the bottom right hand corner of the front-cover.

So, what would be the title of my book?  Not so easy if there is no story and no ideas for a story. OK.  Any old title would do …  I considered the kids in my class at school, and I randomly chose the first two names that came into my head:  David and Steve.  Why boys and not girls for my book?  I have no idea.  The whole book writing thing was being rushed because my favourite television show was starting in an hour. 

So, the title of my book became: David and Steve's Adventure.'   It would be an adventure. It had to be because of the 'title' I'd chosen.  Now, who were David and Steve in my story?  What adventure would they have?  I asked myself, what would I like to do if I was on an adventure?  Easy. Camp out under the stars!  And not just in my backyard - like I often did on weekends.  Out in the bush.  In a tent with a campfire.  And a horse. No, two horses - one for my friend as well. There's an adventure right there.  But was it enough for an entire book? Possibly not.  But, it was enough for me to draw the book cover.  So, I did.

I cut out two rectangles of cardboard, about the size of a largish novel, and I wrote my book's title in texta on my front cover.  I then drew my characters:  blonde David and dark haired Steve, both about ten, leaning over a campfire while toasting marshmellows on long sticks. A tent was set amongst the bush land, in the background, and a crescent moon shone down from a navy-blue night sky - filled with thousands of stars. Well, about eight yellow stars.  That's all I could fit in. And there were two horses, looking more like large dogs, drawn in a corner. 

The cover was done.  I'd been working flat out on it for at least twenty minutes.   Now for the actual story. To put within the cover. To make it into an actual book. And, keeping in mind that my favourite television show was starting in about forty minutes, it would need to be a short story.

Once again, a blank sheet of paper stared defiantly back at me.  I had absolutely no idea how to even begin to write a story - especially because I had almost never read any books.  So, I returned again to my book cover. I could write a brief synopsis of the story - not that I knew what it was - on the back cover.  Like I'd seen during my few fleeting encounters with books:

'Two boys camp out and find a robber and bring him to the police and bring back the jewels he stole'.

My synopsis was done.  My book cover was well and truly done. And that is as far as I ever got with that book for the 'book writing' competition when I was ten years old and in grade six.

Obviously, even I knew that a 'book' with entirely no contents was not a book.  Not even by the loosest and most generous of definitions.  Half a page of writing - maybe.  Two pages of writing - excellent.  No pages of writing -  

So, I shoved the whole thing into my bottom drawer, under a whole pile of miscellaneous stuff.  And that is where it sits to this day.  All these years later.  For some reason I kept it.  Possibly because I forgot about it for a few decades - hidden under junk which simply got moved en masse with every house move I made. And, now I've kept it because … I don't know.  Making it was not a happy memory.  It was more a frustrating failure.   And it still is.  A failure.

The following year, aged eleven and in grade seven (my final year of primary school), I decided to enter a book week competition again.  This time, however, I decided that I would enter the competition category:  Design a book poster. 

The book I chose, for my poster design, was not literature, or even a novel.  In fact the book was one of the few books I'd managed to read, in its entirety, during  the first eleven years of my existence:  The Best Nest - written by P.D Eastman - from the 'I Can Read It All By Myself Book Series.'

I was an intelligent eleven year old.  I was a student in the final year of primary school.  I was even top of my class - academically.  But, as a reader, I was in the  non-reader-unless-absolutely-forced-to category.  I recall my teacher telling my parents, that year,  that I had an 'advanced reading-age' of 13.  My parents told me this many times.  Possibly they hoped it would inspire me to read.  It didn't. 

However, I was determined to win a prize for book week before I finished primary school.  I'd never before won a prize in the school.  This would be my last chance. This would allow me to finish my primary school years with a triumphant bang. I could see myself walking up the stairs, at the school assembly in book week, shaking the hand of the principle, receiving my prize - a book - which of course I'd never read.  But it was the principle of the win.  Not the prize. I wanted to win a school competition. And not be bored to death, like every other assembly during the past six years, when everyone else seemed to be winners.  And I never was.

The decision was made.  I would win this thing.  Three weeks notice was again given for the event.  I would create a winning poster.  Cardboard.  Check.  Textas and colour pencils.  Check.  Glitter.  Check.  Only three weeks?!  This would be tight.  This would require sun up to sundown effort and determination and hard work. 

The three weeks, to make the poster, overlapped with two weeks of school holidays. That was a blessing and a curse.  Obviously a blessing - because I needed all the time I could get to create a winning poster.  However, it was also a curse because for the first and only time during my childhood I had been invited, along with my two siblings, to stay on a farm belonging to a family friend.  But, I couldn't go. I had to make my award-winning poster. There would be no time to do that on a farm.  And my cardboard would probably get dirty.  My parents tried to convince me otherwise.  But the book week competition was too important.  I would never get a chance to win something at primary school again!

Annoyingly, my siblings returned from the farm, two weeks later, with tales of the best holiday they'd ever had! They apparently got to milk cows, ride horses, round up sheep, eat home-made ice-cream (they went on and on about the ice-cream), and toast marshmallows on long sticks at massive bonfires ( a bit like my 'dream adventure' from the book disaster of the previous book week competition.  Only, probably even better than that).

I remember my parents watching sadly as I listened to the farm stories.  But they knew me, and they knew that once my mind was made up I could not be persuaded from whatever course I chose to follow. As I listened to my siblings, I never once regretted my decision to stay home to make my poster.  I wanted so badly to hear those wonderful words:   'And the winner is …  Robyn Potter.' 

Eventually, I finished the poster and entered it in the competition. I'd done my best.  I could do more.  The first week back at school, after the holidays, was book week.  The winners for the competitions would be known on Thursday,  the day before the school assembly, when the winners would be individually called up, onto the stage, and presented with their prizes.

The days dragged by.  Sleeping was a big problem for me that week.  Nerves and anxious thoughts about the competition filled my head. My stomach was tied in knots, and I was filled with both excitement and dread. 

Finally Thursday came.  The book week posters were displayed on cork-boards in the corridor of the school's main building. Coloured prize-ribbons had been attached to the winning posters. 

As I walked towards the posters, around which a pile of my peers were aggregated - chatting and laughing, I felt ambivalent about discovering the results.  My dreams for a prize would be made or broken with the presence or absence of a ribbon.  My heart pounded, and my chest felt tight.  My legs were like jelly.  They felt near to collapsing under me.  The corridor was unusually long that day.

Finally, I was close enough to see my own poster: A large white sheet of cardboard on which I'd drawn a bird house with a bird on the roof.  It  had a ribbon attached!  Did I win, though?  I still didn't know if I'd come first. Time stopped.  Everything around me faded away.  All I could see was my poster and the ribbon. I leaned in and read the words on the ribbon: 'Second Prize.'

The other kids were patting 'Linda S-' on the back.  Linda's poster was covered in a mass of colour and wax!  She'd melted coloured wax over the cardboard of her poster!  Why didn't I think of that?!  Linda's poster was all 3-dimensional … and her poster had the 'wow' factor that my pencil and texta drawing didn't.  I knew that she deserved to win.  Her poster was better than mine.

Still, before finishing primary school I had won a prize in the book week competition.  That had been my goal.  Second prize was OK.  At least I'd placed.  And Linda was clearly better at art than me.  Linda was also better at running than me.  And, a few years early, when we were seven years old, Linda had 'stolen' my best friend, Patricia, from me. But that's a story for another time - maybe.

Friday came. It was the day of the book week assembly.  And the day of the presentations to the book week winners. I'd imagined this day for so long.  The end of my journey to win a prize in primary school.  A two year journey - sort of.

I sat in my classroom, before the assembly, watching the hands on the wall-clock  crawl slowly around the dial. The assemble would start at eleven o'clock.  An eternity away.  I watched the clock and those hands:  second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour.  Finally, the school-bell rang out. We all jumped up and walked outside to the quadrangle.  Each class lined up in two long rows - from the youngest students at the front, nearest the stage, to the the oldest students, the grade sevens, at the back. 

The principle arrived soon after we'd arranged ourselves - standing on our spots.  She was a tall, thin woman in her sixties. She was holding with clip board and smiling as she climbed the stairs of the stage. An assistant followed closely behind her, carrying a large box filled with the book week prizes.  

My heart began to pound, my stomach twisted into a tight knot, and my skin tingled - in anticipation and excitement.  Yet, I knew that it would still be some time before I would be called up onto the stage. My award would be the last one for the day. Partly, because I was a grade seven, the oldest group in the school and therefore the last to receive prizes; partly because the  book poster winners received prizes after the book writing winners; and partly because I only came second. Linda came first, and she would therefore be called before me.

A long boring speech about books and reading ensued. I  heard little more than a few words - partly because it was boring (it concerned books and reading), and largely because my mind was focused on my soon-to-be journey up those stairs. Hours passed, or maybe it was only about ten minutes and it just felt like hours, but finally the names of the book week winners were called out, and the award presentations began.  First the junior school.  Names.  Waiting.  Hands shook.  Waiting.  Prizes presented. Waiting. More names. Waiting … 

Finally, after waiting forever  … the principle came to the grade seven winners.  First, the book writing competition winners.  Then the book poster winners.  My heart was pounding.  My legs felt like jelly again - and she hadn't even called out my name.  Linda's name was called out, and she walked up to received her prize for first place in the book poster competition.  Finally … finally … the principle looked down at her clipboard.  I would be the final prize for the day. I'd dreamed of my name being called out in this assembly for so long - and now it was about to happen.

The principle looked down at all of the students watching her. She opened her mouth and spoke the words that I will always remember: 

'That will be all for today's assembly.  I hope that you all enjoyed Book Week and congratulations to all the winners.'

What!?

She forgot my name!  She hadn't read out my name.  How could she miss my name?! My anxious anticipation turned instantly to disappointment and anger.  I'd missed out on a once-in-a-lifetime trip to a farm for this!  This was my dream - before I finished primary school forever!  My last chance to ever walk up on stage and win anything!  I watched her begin to pack up and adjust the microphone and walk down the stairs.  All of the students had fallen out of their lines and they were preparing to leave.

I couldn't let the principle go without asking her what happened to my name.  My prize.  My chance to feel like a winner. I left my class-mates and I ran toward the stairs of the stage.  I met the principle on the stairs and I stood directly in front of her.  This was not how I'd planned my win.  This was all so disappointing.

'You didn't call out my name!' I cried, puffing  after my sprint to head her off before she left for her office.

She looked down at me with a partly confused and a partly annoyed expression.

'I'm Robyn Potter! I won second prize in the poster competition!'

She looked down at a clip board, which she was carrying still.

'Oh, yes', she said, as if it didn't matter and it was only a minor technicality. 'You can pick up your prize from the library'.

And that was it.  She left.  And it was over.  And  I never got to fulfill my dream of walking up onto the stage and everything.

I got my prize.  It was a book about Australian animals.  I never read it.  I kept it, though, for a few years.   I looked at the inside cover where a small piece of paper had been glued.  It read: Robyn Potter.  Second Prize.  Poster competition.

Later, in my life, I learned that my talents lay else-where.  Later, I won many first prizes.  I came dux of my high-school, and I got to walk up onto a stage to receive an award.  So, before I finish school I did get to hear my name called out at a school  assembly; I got to walk up onto a stage and shake hands with a principle; and I got to receive a prize in front of the whole school - and many parents.  And, it wasn't as great as I thought it would be. 

Even later in my life, I got to learn that being first didn't really matter. It made me no happier in the long run. In fact, needing to be first made me very unhappy and ill.  I eventually learned to be less competitive. And, along the way, I learned how to be happy. 


So, this week is book week in Australia. And my six year old son, Ollie, went to school dressed as a book character today, Friday, as did the rest of the junior-school and the junior-school teachers.  My Ollie went as a knight.  He'd been really looking forward to the dress-up day.  So much, in fact, that he'd been counting down the sleeps until today -  for the past two weeks.  Just like he does before birthdays and Christmas. He even went to bed last night wearing his costume. I drew the line at him wearing the knight head-gear to bed, though.

As we walked into the school, I admired the costumes of the other children. So imaginative and so many wonderful stories represented by the costumes: Harry Potter, Dorothy from The wizard of Oz, Lions, Frozen-characters, Cinderella, Action figures - Captain America, Superman.  But the clear winner, as determined by the reactions from the children, went to a little boy, aged around eight, wearing a simple blue skivvy, blue track-pants and a painted box over his head: Minecraft Steve.

Apparently, minecraft is the biggest craze amongst the primary school children - boys and girls.  The little boy in blue with the box on his head looked nothing special to me.  However, the children love the game and the books with it - and so this little character delighted them the most. By far. Shrieks and delighted cries of 'Minecraft Steve!'  followed the little boy in blue wherever he walked in the school yard.

Book week in Australia has also coincided with some fun activities for adults. In Adelaide and Melbourne we had writer's festivals during the week.  A writer's festival, which I attended last year at the same time, was held in Salisbury - one hours drive north of my home near the beach.  I saw some wonderful speakers - including William Mc Innes - who is an award-winning actor of the stage and screen,  and also a writer. He was also a very humble man, he seemed very kind, and he was a wonderful speaker. Incredibly funny with some marvellous anecdotes. 

I also attended a work-shop on editing.  We were given a number of 'first lines', in one exercise, to identify from famous novels.  One 'first line', which I recognised immediately - was from a novel which changed my life - and that of my eldest daughter, Bella.  The opening sentence from the 1951 novel is as follows:

'If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.'

Many people will recognise this as the opening sentence of the novel:  The Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger.

How did this book change my life, and that of my daughter?  Well, I'll tell you.  My last true story for this blog about books and book week.

The year that I began to read The catcher in the Rye was 2012.  At that time, my daughter was very ill with anorexia nervosa.  She'd been ill for around two years, and she'd spent the previous eleven months in a large tertiary hospital in Adelaide. She was being fed via a tube in her nose (a naso-gastric tube) and, she spent much of her days sitting or lying on her bed in a ward.

Before her illness, Bella loved reading novels. Like her father, she would read a novel every week or two.  Yet with the illness - and with the associated depression and anxiety - she could no longer hold the train of thought required to  read and understand a book.  She told me that the words jumbled and the plot line quickly became muddled and forgotten. So she abandoned books altogether, and spent most of her time just staring at the walls, or the ceiling, or at the clouds through the window on the other side of the room.

Her father and I visited her everyday, often alternating visits so that we could continue to earn a living, and look after our other three children.  We would watch television with her.  Read the newspaper to her.  Sit beside her - as she slept.  And we would wait and hope and pray - for her to one day recover and come back to us; healthy and happy like she was before she became ill.

Bella's siblings also visited her a few times each week, and occasionally, one of her old friends from school would visit. However, most of Bella's friends became  upset when they saw her, in the hospital ward, because she had changed so much from the girl they had know before the illness.  Before anorexia nervosa smothered her personality and buried the 'real-Bella' under its heavy shroud.

The medical staff were wonderful and very kind to Bella.  Everyone was very kind to her. But no-one knew what to do to help her get well again. So, the hospital staff decided to simply keep her alive, with nutrition and water through the tube in her nose, while they tried to think of something new to help her.  They'd tried everything that they could think of - up to that point.

We'd all stopped trying to push Bella to recover.  We'd learned the concept of 'patience' from her illness. As written in the Chinese proverb:  Don't push the river; it flows by itself.  We knew not to push her too hard.

Each day I would sit with Bella, and when she slept I would read a book next to her bed.  I was reading The Catcher in the Rye, when I noticed that the character, in the novel, was experiencing many of the issues that Bella was:  feeling misunderstood, having problems with school, and friends, and life, and emotional problems.  I thought maybe the words in the novel might reach down to Bella, imprisoned within  her own mind - below the horrible illness which controlled most of her thoughts.

So, without having yet finished the novel, I began to read it to Bella. From the beginning.  Those opening words to the novel I will remember always. The words were simple.  The sentences were easy to follow.  The language was that of a teenager; someone fifteen year old Bella could relate to. Yet while the words and sentences were simple in structure; they were complex in meaning and so deeply insightful and poignant. 

As I read a chapter or two to my daughter, each day, I noticed a slight change in her.  Instead of seeing a vacant sadness in her eyes, she began to sit up in bed and really listen to the words.  She asked questions about the character. She asked me to stay a bit longer, each day, and  read an extra chapter or two.  Eventually, she asked to have the book … and she finished reading it herself! 

And then she began to read novels again.  From that first novel, she began to read again. And then she began her path to recovery.  That was the turning point.  That novel.  Those words.  J.D. Salinger. 

Twelve months later Bella had completely recovered from her eating disorder, and a further two years on, she has not ever relapsed.  She's finishing year 12 at school, with plans for university next year. She plays a guitar, like her dad, and she loves politics.

It wasn't just the book which led to Bella's recovery.  But, the book was the turning point.  Books can change the course of our lives - sometimes.  Their words can be powerful.  Bella now says that the words of Salinger's book changed her life.  His words  pulled her back into the world.  The words resonated with her.  They validated her own feelings and worries:  Life is not easy for anyone.  And, yet, people don't give up.  They persevere. 


And that is an example of how books light up the world.  They can light up our lives.  They can change us and help us to grow and become better people.

And that is why I now really enjoy book week.  As I child I never thought that I would say that.



Final comment:

I read these two quotes in a lovely book 'Poinciana' by Jane Goldsmith this week:

1.  Ni moi sans vous - ni vous sans moi

This is an old French phrase which means, in English:

No me without you - no you without me.


2.  Deux couleurs de peau - un meme chagrin

There was no English interpretation with this - but I think it reads, in English:

Two skin colours - one single smile. 

Lovely.

Update:

I just asked my French-speaking friend to check my interpretation of this French phrase.  Sadly, it does not read 'one single smile'.  It reads 'one single problem.'


So the English interpretation is now:

Two skin colours - one single problem.

I prefer my first interpretation.  I'd prefer to think of all races and people united as human beings - sharing the commonality of love and smiles.

Two skin colours - one single smile. 


What a difference a single word makes.  Words can be powerful.  They can change the world and the people within it. For the better, I hope.


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Sunday: Reflecting on a day.

It's 10 pm on a Sunday night and I am finally sitting down to write.

I have given myself a fun little project for this blog entry.  I have decided that whatever I write tonight - I will finish and post it within 30 minutes - before bed.  It will my shortest and fastest blog entry. I will trim my usual verbiage.  I will discuss nothing deep or researched or planned. 

So here goes:  A thirty minute blog.  Unedited.  Spontaneous. My subconscious will say a few words - and I will type them. (Oh-Oh. I hope my subconscious edits itself at least a bit).  

So, what shall I discuss?

I know.  I will reflect on my day. Sunday. Today.  Just this once.  I won't make a habit of this - discussing the minutiae of my life - with all it's banality. And most of my life is pretty banal - as is life for most of us. (This is in spite of the amazingly exciting lives many individuals profess to have on their social-media sites - as I discussed  in my blog: Social media - a potential Pandora's box).

It has been said that writing fiction is really writing about life - with all the 'boring' bits taken out.  However, I think that I will review my 'un-special' day because it was nice. So, this time, I'll write the 'boring bits' in. As John Lennon once wrote: 'Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans'. 

I think that's true.  I think that our lives are simply the summation of all the tiny, banal experiences that we have.  Like pieces of a large jig-saw puzzle. So, today was a single happy piece of the big-picture which is my life.

Some pieces of my life-puzzle have been sad and dark.  Although, I know that I have grown the most, in wisdom, from those pieces of my life picture.  I know that we all endure sad experiences.  But that is not a piece of my life which I wish to reflect on in this 30 minute blog.  Those are the pieces I usually try to forget. 

Today, banal and pointless as it may have been, was happy and fairly 'typical' of where my life is right now:  Late forties.  My dear husband, David, with me - as he has been throughout our 'life-adventure' - as he calls our marriage.  Our four children, aged between six and 18, still living at home - and happy and healthy (touch wood).  And no work. Well, not today at least. Today was a relaxing Sunday - sandwiched between two 12 hour work-days.

There will be other days in my life which may be more interesting and exciting than today.  I will be older.  The people in my life, now, may not all be with me then. I may have even met some new people. Time waits for no-one.  But, for today … some of the people I love most were with me. And we had a lot of fun.

So, here in this blog entry, I will paint a little picture of my day for posterity.  For me to recall some day - if I ever choose to reflect on parts of my life.  My paint-brush will be my words.  My art will be my writing.  Like a painter I will inject passion into the images I create, and I will put myself and my heart into the colours of the words I choose.
 
My Sunday:

Firstly, I woke late.  And that was lovely right there.  No alarm clock to shock me out of an interesting dream and demand that I get out of my warm bed into the cold reality of a working day - during winter!  No, it was a late sleep-in (well, 8.30am) and it wasn't cold when I finally got out of bed.

It was 20C!  The warmest day in so very long. 

I had almost forgotten what life felt like without the cold dominating my existence.

Australia has just emerged from the coldest July month in eighteen years.  It even snowed in Hobart - down in the city - not just on top of Mount Wellington.  And, it snowed in Queensland!  I didn't even know that was possible!

And, like most people I talk to these days, I am entirely sick and tired of winter this year:  the biting-cold air;  the wind and rain; the mud; the gloves and scarves and heavy coats and dark colours. And when I say 'dark colours' - I mean the weather and the scenery - as well as the clothes. Dark colours - other than red - that is.  Red is the only splash of colour we see much in winter clothes in Adelaide.  However, I now associate red with winter - so I'm tired of red as well. 

Enough cold!  Bring on the warm weather!

So finally - today - it was warm.  A balmy 20C.  A prelude to the spring, which is due to arrive in only 22 days.  But who's counting? Today the weather was lovely. No coats required!  No scarves, or gloves, or dark winter clothes.  Today it was all warm balmy happiness.

I jumped from my bed - warm and cosy - even without my doona, and three woolen blankets, and a thick dressing gown, and bed-socks, and bar-heater. I skipped over to my wardrobe (sort of - it's only a couple of steps away from my bed.  But in my mind I skipped and frolicked and cartwheeled over there). I swung open the wardrobe-doors - and I extracted a pretty aqua, cotton blouse.  To wear.  Because it was warm and lovely.  Wonderful!  Today, with all the 20C weather and everything, I was able to wear a happy and colourful and cottony item of clothing!   And a shell necklace - which reminded me of a summer day at the beach.

And no watch. It was my day off work!

Then, in this cheerful spring attire, I wandered out into the garden to soak up a few rays of the glorious morning sunshine.  Bliss.  I could feel my soul begin to defrost. I could feel my joie de vivre defrost as well. And my toes … defrost.  And, in this happy, warm state I  sat on a garden bench and immersed myself in the great, warm out-doors - into which I have not ventured - unless entirely absolutely necessary - for such a long time.

I noticed the birds. So many of them.  Whistling and flapping and darting above me in a gum-tree. I savoured the warm breeze which drifted, at intervals, across the garden, and my face, and through my clothes - carrying with it the heavy scent of  spring flowers.  I realized, for the first time, just how many cheerful blooms had already painted my muddy dormant yard in vibrant colours:  yellow, pink, orange, white, purple. Daffodils, daisies and irises had surreptitiously crept into the garden - while I had been shivering indoors.  A lovely and cheerful vision to behold. 

After some time (I had no watch and I was 'blissed out' in the timeless right-brain anyway) I wandered back into the house and suggested to David that we might round up the kids - and go for a swim in the local swimming-pool.  I refer to an in-door swimming-pool of course. 

Actually, the pool to which I refer, is a beautiful and huge Aquatic centre - only 100 meters from our house.  We can see the massive building from our driveway at the end of our street.  It's new (only about five years old) and it happens to be one of the best and largest Aquatic centres in the country: The Olympic swimming trials for Australia are hosted there - along with a number of other National swimming titles. And - most importantly - they sell great coffee, and steaming hot chips covered in chicken-salt - for only five dollars a bucket.  The chips are in the bucket.  Unfortunately, for now anyway, the coffee is not.  A large cup of the brew - the largest they have - currently suffices as my morning caffeine hit.

David agreed to the swimming idea - and we were soon at the pool - with our tribe of kids.

Swimming with the kids at the pool is something that David and I do almost every week.  And, in between these family-trips, David and I swim around three or four times each week.  Even in the winter.  Although, when it's cold we simply drive there instead of walk.

This morning David and I swam our laps for about half an hour - before we joined our kids in the warmer family-friendly pools at the other end of the centre. The ambient temperature in the centre is always warm and humid. Tropical. And, related to this, I always feel like I'm in far-north Queensland when I'm there.  No matter which season it is.  

The kid's play areas also remind me of the 'Wet-and-wild World theme park' on the Gold coast - with its huge buckets of water which fill and then  tip over  the children waiting beneath - ready to scream with delight.  There are also imitation palm trees for the kids - which adds further to the tropical atmosphere. 

Swimming for me is like I imagine meditation would feel like - if  I had the patience for it.  I glide through the water and it is so freeing. I become lost in the moment. I stop thinking so much, but, in doing so,  I find that I can think more clearly.  I'm more focused.

Swimming is a lovely mix of floating and gliding through water, which is smooth as silk.  I love the swish sound my arms make as they slice through the water. Like the oars on a row-boat: rhythmically splashing and dragging through the water.  I also love the smell of the pool-chlorine - which lingers on my skin for the rest of the day.  It all reminds me of summer holidays as a child - swimming and playing in my friend's pool until it was dark on most hot summer nights. 

The whole process of swimming is wonderful for me: Refreshing. Invigorating. Timeless.

Later, around midday, after returning home from the pool, I drove my 12 year old daughter, Liana, to her friend's place.  My daughter's friend's mother is also a friend of mine.  She had kindly organised a lovely afternoon for our girls:  Science fair in the city followed by ice-skating on the Glenelg beach foreshore (a winter phenomenon in Adelaide).  We chatted briefly, when I dropped my daughter off at her place, but arranged for a longer 'coffee, cake, and conversation catch-up' next week. We never run out of great conversation. This is all another 'typical' activity for me - although lovely and a joy in my life. 

Typical of most women - I have a number of women friends - and we all enjoy a strong social network - with frequent 'coffee-catch-ups'. Chatting over coffee is a big thing for us - as it is for most women.  I don't think that men really understand the concept of women chatting together for hours at a time.  Apparently chatting is important for women and it increases oxytocin, as well  lifting mood, and having a number of other positive health-effects.   Plus it's a heap of fun!  'Women and chatting with friends': A topic for another blog, I think.  

Finally, before my thirty minutes expires, I'll recall a couple of other fragments of my enjoyable Sunday.

Firstly, while my friend was busy planning outings - for our girls - I planned a lie-down and a nap - for myself.  A little siesta.  A luxury not to be enjoyed only on rare 'holidays in resorts' far from home. Why not a lovely siesta whenever possible - in the comfort of one's home. On a Sunday!  

So, this afternoon, for an hour or so (who's watching the time? Not me - it's Sunday!) I lay on my bed watching the leaves on a gum-tree, outside my window,  flutter in the breeze.  I marveled at the way the olive gum-leaves contrasted so  beautifully against the azure sky beyond. 

As I relaxed I could hear my six year old son playing with the six year old boy next door.  Rat-a-tat-tat.  Rat-a-tat-tat.  I realised that they were playing with professional drums.  It took me a while to notice the hollow drum sound - as opposed to the sound made when one hits a solid object with sticks.  Next the cymbals were jangling and then the drums again.  I wondered if they were allowed to play with the drums.  However, it was all invisible to me.  Physically invisible - as it was all next door and over a fence.  And figuratively invisible - as in the 'SEP invisibility shield' (in the novel: A Hitch Hikers Guide to the Galaxy.  SEP: 'Somebody else's problem').  The boys were not on my turf - so it was a situation of being 'SEP invisible'!  Once they came back to my place - then that would be different.
 
I noticed that the boys were soon laughing and playing in the cubby-house up in a tree. The father of the child next door has been working on the cubby-house for months - on his Sundays.  The boys, like me, are clearly enjoying their Sunday, with all the timelessness of living in the moment which children know so well. 

I have savoured my day:  My family around me. My friends.  The spring-weather.  The swim.  The flowers and the birds and the coffee and the bucket of chips.  The beauty of Australia.  

None of  this has escaped my notice. I do notice these things pretty much everyday.  But only in short fragments of time. And only superficially. In those fleeting moments when I stop rushing.

My thirty minutes is up.  I doubt that I needed to record today. My memories have documented it all anyway. I know that this will be a snapshot of happiness which I will pull from my file of happy memories some time in the future. Life is not the big things; it is a collection of these little banal things. My grandmother used to say - happiness is learning to enjoy the little things in life.

I never actually got to speak to my grandmother.  She died when I was very young.  But she wrote so many things in her journal.  This was a journal she wrote for my mother - her daughter.  And my mother gave the journal to me to read once - long ago.

My grandmother recorded so many lovely days - just like mine - today. And she spoke of things like I do:  How much she appreciated her life, and the small things around her.  And from her words I got to see her world, her garden, her life … and her.

Thank goodness for words. They paint a picture just as lovely as any painting by a master.  Yet, in addition, words can be a window to the soul.  That is how I learned so much about a grandmother I never met. 

I feel connected to my grandmother through her words: She left a reflection of her soul behind - on the pages of her journal.


My thirty minutes is up.


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