by Krista | Jan 9, 2018 | Spring
My beautiful English friend, Katy, is one of the bravest people I know. Not only in how she courageously loves and lives, but in how she has faced debilitating illness. She shared that part of her story here nearly a year ago, in the beautiful post: Making Peace With A Body At War With Itself.
Last year, Katy and her wonderful hubby, Gez, lost their baby girl, Alma, through a brutally traumatic miscarriage. As I cried with Katy, I wished I could ease her pain, wished I could restore Alma to her, but of course, there was nothing I could do but share her grief.
A few days ago she sent me a poem she’d written about her Alma. I’m so honored to share it here, hoping it may bring comfort to any of you who have lost a baby. XO
Alma
I felt you one morning
In the rush of my blood
In the heat of a Cyprus November
I swam with you
Far out into sea
My little water-baby and me.
You showed up in two pink lines
In a hotel bathroom
In the chill of a British November
You made me sick at breakfast
And forced us out into the frozen morning
To breathe deep and quell the nausea.
At 7 weeks you vanished
Into the black hole of a scan
We panicked
Waited
You kept me fatigued
Nauseated
You were there.
At 9 weeks you were gone
The black hole gaping
Hope snatched away
In a flurry of leaflets
Surgery or medication?
Offers of condolences and cremation.
You were gone
But you refused to leave
And my body colluded with you
Refusing to bleed
Withstanding ferocious pain
And fresh rounds of medication.
We had two more days together
Quiet, helpless days
Outside of time
A place where we could both briefly be
Then the blood
Arriving in a raging torrent
Tore a searing path through me
But still you didn’t leave.
I loved you
Even as they ripped you from me
Put you in a metal tray
And carried you away
I loved you
Even as I continued to bleed
My skin turning the same pallid shade
As the scuffed linoleum
Of the examination room.
I love you still, my little water-baby.
I didn’t decide to call you Alma
But somehow you just were
You flooded my soul
And every atom of my being
With your wonder
For the brief time that you were there.
I will never stop loving you
Even as the grief comes in crashing waves
Even though my heart keeps breaking
In sharp, breathtaking ways
Because you changed every part of me
Irreversibly.
You existed, Alma, my love,
And that is enough.
by Krista | Jan 3, 2018 | Summer
2017 felt like an inordinately difficult year. Not your usual a-bit-of-bad-but-mostly-good year, but a truly, outrageously, you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me sort of year. One where you look back and think, “I’m not even going to attempt describing what happened this year, because nobody would believe it.”
Except, to be honest, I think they would.
Nearly everyone I’ve spoken to had a ghastly year. Tragedies, financial catastrophes, health traumas, personal crises, the works. Nearly every heart-to-heart conversation is peppered with, “Me too! Same here! So did we!”
And I think that’s the loveliest thing about heart-to-heart conversations, they remind us we’re not alone. There are other people who don’t know how they’re going to pay their power bill or if they’ll ever have real friends before they die or when they’re going to wake up without wanting to go straight back to bed again. There is inestimable comfort in feeling understood and loved, especially when circumstances make us feel thoroughly unlovable.
I’ve been smiling a lot this week, not because life is magically easy and perfect and all the hard of 2017 disappeared, but because I’m not alone in the hard.
When the hard comes, the easiest thing for me is to withdraw from people. I don’t want to be a burden or a bother, I don’t want to be the one needing help and extra attention, I don’t want to make anyone else’s life more difficult. It drives Bear crazy. “How can I help if I don’t know?” is his earnest refrain.
So I practice. I practice being vulnerable and real and honest. I practice sending a text message or making a phone call or tapping someone on the shoulder and asking that oh-so-scary question fraught with the possibility of rejection, “Can I talk to you?”
So, back to the whole smiling a lot this week. I’m smiling because over the holidays I reached out again, and people reached out to me, and through that brave reaching out, we comforted each other, we laughed through our tears, we found renewed courage to try again, and we felt understood and accepted as the beautiful messes that we are.
We reached out in our backyard, sitting under shade trees and trying not to melt in the sweltering, pre-storm summer heat as we talked about job changes and crazy kids and bugs devouring our gardens.
We reached out at the picnic table, clinking glasses of icy cold ginger wine as we discussed mothers in rest homes and lack of thigh gaps and fatigue from endless late nights and early mornings.
We talked at the kitchen table, crying together as we figured out how to navigate the depression of a family member, grieve the loss of a loved one, and make time for ourselves in the hurly-burly of life. Cherry-infused port wine calmed ruffled spirits and turned our sorrows into laughter as, once our burdens were shared, they became lighter and we could see the funny side again.
We shared our stories via email and text message, over cups of coffee and around the camp fire, and somehow, even though nothing had changed, everything had changed because we’d connected with people who care. And knowing that we matter to someone, well, that brings light to the darkest places.
I’m smiling too because connection not only brings comfort and light, it also brings inspiration.
All those talks gave me new ideas for food to make and books to read and art to make. I have lists of great movies and good music, day trips to take and cafes to try, new blogs to visit and seeds to plant.
All those ideas sent me on a mission of inspiration this week.
I’ve been spending so many happy hours down in the granny flat, parked in front of the fan, surrounded by books and magazines, markers and notepads.
It’s not a time for doing, it’s a time for filling up my imagination with good things: gorgeous pictures, creative blog posts, recipes and gardening tips and historical narratives.
I’m loving it so much, and feel deeply thankful for my loves who so wholeheartedly share their lives with me, and would be miffed if I didn’t share mine right back. xo
by Krista | Jan 2, 2018 | Summer
Our little world is dark and still this morning, barely a murmur from wind or animals as we wait and hope for more rain.
Our New Year was marked by wild storms that toppled one tree and hurled branches, leaves, and bark from the gum trees all over the farm. It looks like a woodland fairy went a mad-crazy with confetti, and I love it. Ground that was bare and cracked two days ago, now has bright green grass an inch high. Vibrant spears pushing up through a veil of gum nuts and twisty branches, shredded leaves and gnarled strips of bark. What a beautiful way to start a new year.
This morning I’m hibernating in the granny flat, a fan blowing air cool enough that I can actually curl up under a blanket. That, my friends, is rare bliss in a Queensland summer, which usually has me comatose in front of a fan with a wet towel around my neck to keep from melting. I’m cherishing it.
Recently I realized that I was finally ready to go through my old journals, letters, and photographs, ready to work through those still-buried moments that needed addressing and healing so I could move forward in peace.
It has been horrible and beautiful. Going back to those days of darkness and bondage and abuse, facing the brain-washing and paralyzing fear and deep insecurity, reliving the crushing of all that was me, it is hard stuff. I’ve sobbed for her, the Back Then Me, trying not to be sick, wishing I could reach into those pages and photos and snatch her to safety, and make a safe place for her to heal, a safe place like the farm is for Now Me.
The lovely part is, I can do that. I can revisit those moments with the strength and courage and love that I have now. I can address those lies with searing truth that shatters them into pieces. I can face those bullies and abusers, and tell them exactly what I think of their cowardly cruelty. I can feel those feelings in absolute safety.
Face what happened. Feel the feelings. Speak the truth. Then the healing happens.
Now I can pick up letters or pictures that only recently had me sobbing and all I feel is love, and incredible pride. I talk to Back Then Me and tell her how sorry I am that I couldn’t keep her safe, how proud I am of her for keeping love and light in her heart no matter what hell they put her through, and how happy I am that we are safe now, surrounded by good people who love us even with all our crazy bits. We’re pretty lucky.
And when I’m ready, I do it all over again. Another story, another time, another moment, knowing that the painful part won’t last, that soon it will be scoured clean and filled up with love and gratitude.
As I work through these memories, I’m finding a lot of healing through drawing. I draw what I feel, what I need to express but can’t find words for. I have a goblet full of markers and a blank notepad nearby, and as I work through each situation, I start drawing.
It was awkward at first. I am not a natural at drawing, and had this wonky idea that I should only draw if I was good at it. Voicing that showed me the lunacy of such thoughts, and I embraced the freedom of being a bad draw-er. The drawings come more easily now. Bear, who has his degree in fine arts, cheered me on. When I bashfully showed him my childish efforts he beamed and said they were perfect, for it was my childhood experiences that were being given a voice, and it only made sense that they would be from a child’s perspective. That made me smile and picture my inner child scribbling away, telling her story through stick figures and primitive, um, everything else.
So I keep drawing, and each one lightens my heart and frees my spirit a bit more, and untangles feelings and thoughts that would otherwise stay hidden and unexpressed.
I’ve also been making things. The hard work of healing is only effective for me if I am equally passionate about the fun work of play.
I love playing. I love making things and mucking about in the garden and nailing bits of wood and painting old furniture and cutting out pictures for scrapbooks and hiding away with stacks of books to inspire even more play.
This week I harvested rosellas and made bottles of gorgeous ruby red syrup to add to chilled prosecco or icy cold sparkling water.
I harvested the last of my red carrots, striped beetroots, and a huge cucumber from my friends, Paula and Nikolaj, and made jars of pickles flavored with caraway seeds, peppercorns, and cumin. They’re so delicious served cold on our sweltering summer days.
Soon Bear and I are going to reupholster some old chairs in heavy weight linen, and put the second coat of bright green paint on my medieval chair.
Healing. Drawing. Creating. It’s a beautiful start to 2018.
What type of play is your favorite? xo
by Krista | Dec 23, 2017 | Spring
It’s a soft and quiet morning on our farm, animals snoozing in the early sunshine, chooks and geese up early looking for insects in the grass.
Last night I finished my final writing project of the year, sent it off to England, and felt all the stress of deadlines melt away, replaced with near giddiness because it’s finally time to celebrate. And that is a gift in itself.
Merry and bright. These are words that I treasure. For many years Christmas has been a sad time for me, one fraught with anxiety and deep grief and loss. I merely went through the motions, stuffing down the nausea and panic attacks that were brought on by near-constant triggers.
It’s different now. So different.
The journey I took this year has healed me so deeply that Yule is sheer joy to me.
I’ve loved figuring out a Christmas/Yule hodgepodge that truly reflects what brings me joy.
I’ve been reading fabulous children’s books and watching beloved old movies, for they are full of imagination and creativity and sheer fun. They highlight the magical, loving goodness in the world and remind me that I get the chance to create that in my life every single day.
I’ve been embracing my inner child by making art, so much art, drawing pictures, making stars out of rosemary sprigs, and decorating fallen logs with armloads of elder flowers for the unfettered happiness of it.
Bear has joined me in the simple pursuit of doing things that make us happy. He’s been painting medieval helmets, making medieval shields, and building the most gorgeous medieval high-backed chair. In between writing articles I go out there with him to design, wood-burn, and paint my own high-backed medieval chair, and we have the nicest time just hanging out with each other making cool things.
We bought a macadamia tree and a cherry tree for our Christmas trees, and today we’ll trim them with shiny baubles. Later we will plant them in the orchard and reap harvests of fat cherries and scrumptious macadamias for many years to come.
This afternoon I’m teaching him how to make Canadian butter tarts and he’s teaching me how to make Australian mince pies.
It makes me smile so big to see us not worry one smidgen about musts and shoulds and have-tos, just focusing on good, soul-nourishing things that delight us.
We’ve also loved spending time with our beloved medieval friends. Last week we got to spend a wonderful day with our Danish/Aussie Viking mates, Paula and Nikolaj. They made us a veritable feast of Danish Yule treats – spicy peppernuts, butter cookies piped in swirls of crunchy goodness, heavenly white wine glogg full of almonds, raisins, and whole spices, and bowls of creamy rice pudding with cherry sauce. It was just fabulous to sit outside on a hot Aussie summer afternoon, talking for hours about history and travel and gardens and building things and food, glorious food.
This week we get to spend Christmas Day with our Canadian Viking friends, feasting on home-raised turkey with all our favourite Canadian trimmings and desserts. Cannot wait!!!
And next weekend we’re having a whole gang of medieval folks over for 3 days of camping, bonfires, archery, medieval combat, a Middle Eastern feast, and our very own Yule Goat to hand out the pressies.
Merry and bright. Yes, at long last, it truly is. xo
Wishing you a beautiful holiday, dear ones, and much joy, real love, and deep peace in the New Year. xo
by Krista | Dec 4, 2017 | Summer
It’s a stormy afternoon, rain falling gently as I watch the old school version of Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer and have soft ginger cookies.
I like old-fashioned Christmas things, moments and experiences that remind me of good memories and jolly times with my loves. I’ve pulled out my collection of Christmas movies, and have been watching them one by one, feeling warm and happy inside as I see beloved characters and story lines that never fail to cheer me.
Earlier I took a few of my Christmas decorations for a walk, setting them up in truly Australian settings instead of the pine trees and snowy fields of my Canadian childhood. It made me smile to see them perched jauntily next to peeling bark and lush green grass. It’s not the Christmas setting I grew up with, but it’s still special.
It’s been a quiet few weeks for me here as I took time to care for myself after some intense healing sessions.
When I started on this healing journey several years ago, nothing prepared me for the aftermath of healing. Those days and weeks and months when the raw wounds have been scrubbed clean and healed over, leaving gaping holes that need to be filled with new things, with good things.
I’ve felt like a garden plot after all the carrots have been pulled out. Quiet, peaceful, but barren.
I felt strangely still. A bit fidgety. Not quite sure what to do with myself now that the big battles were over, and the time of rebuilding had arrived. When you’ve been fighting for so long, regular life does not unfurl naturally.
So, I’ve given myself time. As much time as I need to figure out what to put in those gaps that have been occupied by pain and grief and loss.
I’m waiting still. And that’s OK. I don’t want to rebuild with just any old hodgepodge of stuff. I want to deepen my roots and feed my soul with nourishing things so I can grow strong and resilient.
I haven’t been able to put things into words or clear plans of action, so I’ve just been preparing for words and actions.
I’ve been clearing spaces around the farm where, when I’m ready, I can create and make and build again.
I cleared out the granny flat and made it into a cozy place where I can do my writing and editing and reading and artwork, and also where guests can have a comfy cave to hide away in when they come to visit.
We started a man cave veranda for Bear where he can do all his painting and leather work and chain maille and store his swords and other medieval bits and pieces.
I made three work stations in the breezeway that will be perfect for our wine-making, preserving, and butchering projects.
I’m not sure what I’ll be doing next, but it feels good to know that when I do know, the spaces I need will be ready for me.
I’m so thankful for this time of quietness and rest and hope too. I don’t know what the future holds for me, but I’m excited to see it unfold in good time.
Now it’s time to heat up carrot ginger soup for dinner, and join Rudolph in his adventure at the North Pole. xo
