by Krista | Sep 5, 2018 | Spring
I loved wandering through so many different gardens in Tasmania.
From the Australian natives at the Brickendon Estate Gardens and the lavish rose gardens at Woolmers Estate, to the country charms of Armytage House and the staggering scale of the Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens, I enjoyed them all.
Not only for their beauty and inspiration, but for the sheer delight of not having to do any of the work myself.
I love gardening. Hours spent in my gardens are among my happiest moments as I tend and feed and nurture.
But gardening is also a lot of hard work, resulting in blisters, scrapes, aches, and bruises, stings from nettles and bites from bugs.
So it’s awfully nice to stroll along paths I don’t need to tidy, among garden beds I don’t have to weed, under wondrous trees I can simply enjoy without any urge to prune.
The Royal Tasmanian Botanical Gardens are vast and peaceful with meandering trails that curve around reflective pools and beside lacy waterfalls.
The brick-walled sections delighted me so much, seeming to have been lifted right off the pages of A Secret Garden.
The walls make them feel secluded and safe, hidden oases for contemplation and peace.
It was the beginning of Autumn as we ambled through the gardens, and there were signs of the changing seasons everywhere. In fallen leaves that crunched underfoot, chestnuts almost ready to harvest, and flowers transitioning to seed pods.
I especially liked the moss-covered rocks that lined the pathways.
It was the one cloudy, rainy day we experienced in Tasmania, and it made me happy to bundle up in my favourite sweater and pashmina and wander at my leisure, grateful for cool, dampness and lush greenery after a long dry, hot summer back home.
It grounded and calmed me in body and soul.
Where is your favourite place to wander? xo
by Krista | Sep 3, 2018 | Spring
Morning sunshine is streaming through the kitchen windows as I sit quietly with my coffee and listen to the ticking of the cuckoo clock while I think through the last few months.
It has been deeply unsettling for me, in a painful, exhausting, yet wondrously beautiful way. There’s been a massive shift in how I occupy my place in the world, in how I feel about myself, speak to myself, view myself, and how I engage with others.
My foundations not only moved, they shattered into dust then reformed, stronger, so much stronger, than before.
I learned anew that there is a huge difference between believing things and knowing them.
Believing, to me, is mind stuff, head stuff, a conscious choice to force myself into alignment with something. But knowing a thing is so much deeper, an intrinsic gut feeling that “this” is true, good, right…for me…regardless of how things look from the outside.
They’re the inner, deep-seated assurances, the ones that provide the base from which we step out into the world each day. The feeling of being grounded, secure, safe, loved, worthy of being treated with kindness, respect, and compassion.
This shifting began when I walked my anxious self out into our bush and said aloud to Whoever Was Listening: please help me.
I’d reached a layer in my soul/spirit/whateveryouwantocallit that I couldn’t get past. It felt like our soil in this drought: dried out, hard as a rock, with crevasses that plunge down rather terrifyingly into utter darkness.
I didn’t know how to break through.
So I asked for help.
Some people think that you have to ask for help from certain sources, A Deity, an Institution, a Book. But honestly, I’m weary of those sorts of things.
I wince when I hear people say, “You can only heal if…you can only thrive if…” It’s so staggeringly arrogant. I cringe at the notion that there is One Answer, One Source, One Way, and if you happen to find help, healing, and support from anything else, you’re doomed.
To me that is Evil. It removes hope. It squeezes healing into the tiniest of boxes. It slams doors shut on options that may be just what we need.
It’s so easy to judge each other. To look in from the outside and say, “If only they would do/believe/feel this, THEN they’d be OK.” And, honestly, if we got down to the heart of it, what we’re really saying is, “If only they would do what I do/believe what I believe/feel the way I feel, THEN they’d be OK.”
And that’s simply not true.
Sometimes what works for me is just what someone else needs, and that’s lovely. But you know what’s also lovely? When they find something totally different that is just what they need.
It’s easy to celebrate with someone who believes and lives and feels the same way we do, but somehow it’s a whole lot harder when they’ve battled their demons, fought their fights, and healed their hurts in a totally different way.
For a long time it was hard for me when my friends found healing in religion. It was like they were saying to me, “Your abusive ex-husband is the best therapist EVER!” It took all the strength I had to celebrate with them as they found healing through prayer and Bible reading and going to church.
It was equally hard for them to celebrate with me when I found healing through non-religious things. They felt fear and anxiety and distress as I healed my deep wounds through Inner Child and Journey Therapy, Reiki, EFT, art, and other modalities.
But we learned together. We learned to value each other’s well-being above all things, more than religion, more than politics, more than lifestyle choices.
Basically, we learned to love.
That day I asked for help seems so long ago now. I had no idea the beautiful helpers who would come into my life and restore my faith, my hope, my purpose in this world.
I’m sitting here quite teary now, teary and smiley, because help looked so different than I anticipated. It did not undo the past or fix the present. Instead, help was love. Real love. Love that believed in me, trusted me, forgave me, valued me, and protected me, until I was able to do those things for myself.
It is an amazing thing to wake up in the morning and know that I’ve got my own back. That even if I feel anxious, afraid, or cranky, I still love, trust, believe in, accept, and forgive myself. Always. No matter what. And it makes me smile to see those things naturally spill over onto my people, to know that even if they’re out of sorts, sad, or feeling lost and unlovable, I still love them, I’m still on their side, I’m still here for them. We’ve got each other’s backs.
Today I met with one of the helpers who came into my life and she said, with so much love and compassion, “You can stop trying to heal from the past now. It’s time to live.”
Time to live. Yes. It is. xo
by Krista | Feb 16, 2018 | Spring
Last week I went on my first solo camping trip.
For months I squirreled away a few dollars here, a few more there, scouring thrift stores and sale bins to get a tent, backpack, gas bottles for cooking, all the little bits and pieces needed to make a home away from home in the rainforest.
I worked long hours getting all my writing and photography assignments done ahead of time, spent hours outside making sure all the plants were well-watered and mulched, stocked up on animal feed, and secured my campsite.
Bear made me hardcore tent pegs that would keep me securely tethered in any sort of gale, gave me solar lights to place at the tent entrance so I would always have a beacon to home, and armed me with knives and a walking/beat-off-wild-beasts-and-bad-guys stick to make me feel safe and protected.
I was feeling brave and adventurous, nary a trace of fear, until a misguided soul decided it would be an excellent idea to tell me the gory details of rape/torture/murder-in-national-park stories they’d heard. Thanks for that. So, in spite of those niggling fear-based stories in the back of my mind, I loaded my little car to the gills, kissed Bear good-bye, and set off for adventure.
The fear hit me like a tidal wave at my first stop, Ravensbourne National Park. I swallowed it down, determined to enjoy the spectacular view, gloriously cool winds, and stunning wildflowers that tumbled through the meadow and over fence posts.
Then a car pulled up, and out came two old ladies, grinning from ear to ear as they strolled up to me and started chatting. They were out for adventure too, just the two of them, and when I told them what I was doing, their faces lit up like Christmas trees. “Oh! How wonderful! We’re SO proud of you! That’s fantastic! You’re going to have such an amazing time.”
Their support and belief in me sent those silly fears hurtling away. We cheered each other on, bid farewell as if we were old friends, and I went on my first solo hike down a steep, winding path into the rainforest. I loved it. Streaks of sunlight shimmering down through gaps in the canopy, glistening on lush ferns and verdant palms. I hiked as far as my courage would allow, spoke aloud, “I’m safe! I’m loved!” until I believed it, and finished my hike filled with pride that fear had lost the battle.
My next stop was Crow’s Nest National Park, and again, the fear came like a wave. But I got out, grabbed my camera and water bottle, and headed out onto the trail, only to run into another old lady. She was all alone too, wandering the trails with her trusty camera, having a marvellous time scouting for birds and getting close-ups of tree bark and teensy wildflowers. I smiled so big, and felt a big whoosh of courage and excitement fill my soul. Off I went, discovering water pools and waterfalls, amazing rock formations, and the prettiest little birds flitting along beside me on the trail. I got back to my car after stopping to chat with my hero old lady, filled with pride yet again that fear had not won.
I made it up to the Bunya Mountains, set up camp, and slept like a log. No fear, no nightmares, not even a tremor when wallabies snuffled around my tent in the dark nibbling grass.
The next morning, I headed out for my first big solo hike – 14 km through rainforest, meadow, and up and down innumerable mountain trails.
It was stunningly beautiful with great swathes of ferns, massive vines twisting up into the treetops, and wallabies bounding off into the undergrowth. I hiked and hiked, stopping to take pictures of fallen bunya nuts and colourful fungi, heading deeper and deeper into the mountains.
About half an hour in, the fear started up again. Thanks in no small part to not meeting a single soul on the trail and the appearance of birds whose calls literally sound like the scream of a newborn baby. There’s nothing quite so creepy as hiking alone through the forest with random baby cries echoing out of the bushes.
The fear burbled up, but I pressed on, speaking truth aloud, patting my trusty weapons for reassurance, and plotting out how I’d defend myself if a bad guy really did jump out of the bushes to drag me off to his evil lair. And suddenly, I was angry.
Angry that this beautiful moment was scarred by fear. Angry that bad guys weren’t afraid at all. They just merrily went along creating fear, pain, and mayhem, while us good guys have to plan defensive manoeuvres just to go for a walk in the woods. I was angry that to do something I loved, I had to plan for the possibility of evil. It didn’t seem fair.
Then I was angry at all males. (Sorry, good males) Angry that if a guy wants to go camping by himself, travel by himself, hike by himself, he literally just goes. He’s not worried about getting raped, murdered, assaulted, or harassed. He’s not worried about wearing the right thing so he won’t be blamed for any bad thing that might happen. He’s not worried about telling people what he’s up to, for fear that some creep will track him down and harm him. He just does it.
Fear. Anger. They took turns bursting to the surface, while I kept trying to yank my thoughts back to, “Oh look! Pretty flower!”
And then I rounded a bend and saw her. Another old lady. This one was at least 80-years-old. She wore pink and white striped socks, a jaunty hat, and wore a massive camera around her neck. She didn’t have knives or a knobbly walking stick that could double as a club, she didn’t have defensive manoeuvres worked out in her head just in case I was a bad guy instead of me, and there was no way she could outrun anyone. No, she was happily and peacefully doing what she loved. That’s it.
I stopped and we chatted about birds and the forest, and as we bid each other good day and I headed back down the trail, I started to cry, for I finally understood these amazing, brave, wonderful old ladies.
They lived in love, not fear.
They didn’t hike alone because they were strong enough to take on any bad guys they might encounter, they hiked alone because they loved it.
They didn’t hike alone because they were swift enough to run away from any bad thing that might happen, they hiked alone because they loved it.
They didn’t hike alone because they’d worked out every possible bad situation and had a plan to deal with it, they hiked alone because they loved it.
In that moment, my fear and anger disappeared. It was like someone had scrubbed me clean of all those awful feelings and thrown away the scouring pad.
For the next 5 days, I had no fear. Not one smidgen. I hiked all over that park by myself, slept in a tent by myself, cooked meals, watched the sunrise and sunset, and created art and read books under the trees all by myself. I chatted with men and women alike as I met them on the trail, I gave directions to German tourists, and listened to the cute elderly couple camping next to me sing Beatles songs in perfect harmony.
By the time my friend Sallie arrived to hang out with me for the last couple of days, I felt like a new woman, a strong and fearless and filled-to-bursting-with-love-for-life woman. I will treasure those days forever.
In the days to come I’ll take you along on some of my adventures, but I couldn’t begin a record of this trip without paying homage to the beautiful old ladies who were lights of courage to me along the way. May we all be those lights to each other, spreading courage, hope, and support like fabulous, cheerful lighthouses wherever we go. xo
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 | 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 | Nov 14, 2017 | Spring
“We do not believe in ourselves until someone reveals that deep inside us
something is valuable,
worth listening to,
worthy of our trust,
sacred to our touch.
Once we believe in ourselves we can risk curiosity, wonder, spontaneous delight
or any experience that reveals the human spirit.”
E.E. Cummings
I spent much of my life in a wonky religious world where we weren’t supposed to choose friends who made us feel good about ourselves, who supported our dreams and believed the best of us, who loved us no matter what.
No, we were told to choose friends who would sharpen us, refine us, and chisel away at our rough spots to make us better.
You know what kind of person does those things? Mean ones. Cruel ones. Harsh, manipulative, controlling ones who like nothing better than to cut you down, crush your spirit, and make you believe to the core of your being that you are worthless, evil, and worthy of hell and damnation.
They are not friends. They are enemies. Enemies of all that is good and right and joyous and creative and beautiful.
They are the enemies of our souls.
When I moved to Australia, I didn’t know how to choose friends. I simply latched on to whoever showed me the least bit of kindness. It wasn’t a very good plan, and I made some colossally bad judgments in the whole friendship thing. Thankfully, I didn’t stay there, but I had to go through a time of intense loneliness while I sorted through the friendship lies I’d believed my whole life, and figured out what truth to replace them with.
All that sorting came down to one thing: healthy friendship is only possible when it comes from a place of self-worth and self-acceptance. If we don’t love and value ourselves, there’s no way we can love and value others, no way we can build friendships that are equal, supportive, caring, and honest.
As I healed and nourished my own soul, I found kindred spirits coming into my life. I began to feel safe and secure in my own skin, so I could risk reaching out to others, knowing that even if it didn’t work out, I’d be OK.
I was able to set boundaries with the dreadful people, and let go of those who wanted to fix, change, and mold me. That freed me up to open my heart to the lovely ones, the treasured ones who love, celebrate, and support, who apologize when they stuff up and forgive me when I do, who genuinely care about the little nothings that make up most of our lives.
Friendship, for the sheer delight of it. Such a beautiful thing still amazes me.
Investing in the relationships that bring me joy, has helped me invest in other good things too.
I no longer ask, “What should I do?”
Instead I ask, “What brings me joy? What delights me? What thrills my heart?”
I started small, doing one thing each day that made me smile.
It was so lovely that I kept adding more, asking myself, “What can I do today for the sheer delight of it?”
- Pull out a packet of markers and a notepad and draw pictures.
- Walk in the bush and take photos of every wildflower I see.
- Garden in the rain and get thoroughly drenched.
That question morphed into this one, “What can I do today to make ‘this’ more delightful?”
‘This’ could be exercise, writing work, chores around the house or farm, art projects, laundry, etc.
- Today I had to crack open dried radish seed pods and save the seeds for planting, so I used pretty plates and bowls instead of utilitarian ones, then brought all my stuff onto the back veranda and sat out there chatting with Bear while he painted and I podded.
- I had heaps of articles to write, so I lit candles and made hot chocolate and felt cozy as can be.
- I had laundry to do, so I put on old episodes of Hercule Poirot, made tea, and before I knew it the laundry was done, and Poirot’s little grey cells had won the day yet again.
Living, for the sheer delight of it. How precious that is to me.
One of the things that delights me is foraging for edible plants and foods in our meadows and bush. Whether it’s picking buckets full of wild bush lemons or gathering armloads of plantain leaves, it always gives me a thrill to use what’s growing around us to make delicious food.
A few days ago I’d gone for a walk in the bush, and on my way back spotted a huge patch of white clover growing in one of the paddocks. Usually we have goats in there who snaffle up every last bit of clover, not leaving me a single flower to dry for tea. But this spring we have them in a different paddock, so I got my very first clover harvest in Australia.
I pulled on my boots, put on my hat, and out I went into the glorious late afternoon sunshine to pick white clover.
I loved being out there, sunshine warming my bones, cool wind sweeping over the lush stretches of clover, making the blossoms dance.
I grew up using red clover, making a strong tea to help ease cramping, but white clover is useful too. In Turkey they used tea from the flowers to treat pain from rheumatism and arthritis, and the North American Indians made tea from the leaves to lower fevers and ease the symptoms of colds and coughs.
As I meandered through the paddock, pulling off fragrant blossoms and smelling them happily, it didn’t take long to get a bowl full of white clover.
Even after I was done harvesting, I lingered awhile, basking in the light and warmth, smiling at how it reminded me of summer in British Columbia, where I grew up.
It only took a few days for the white clover flowers to dry, and tomorrow I’ll put them in an air-tight container to keep them fresh until we’re ready to make white clover tea.
What are some things that you like to do for the sheer delight of it? xo
