by Krista | Mar 21, 2017 | Summer
So honored to share the following post written by my dear English friend, Katy. Her courage, strength, love, and humor never fail to inspire me, and I’m delighted to share a bit of her story with you today.
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Hating my body is easy. Outward appearance is one thing: all the socio-cultural expectations we women deal with – the too-fat or flabby bits, the lack of a thigh gap, the faint lines and wrinkles slowly etching themselves on my face thanks to the natural (and mostly happy) range of my human expression over nearly three decades of life. They’re the kinds of things that women’s magazines simultaneously instruct us to love and shame us into hating.
But I’m usually able to temper these negatives and remind myself they come from a vacuous media world; they don’t need to register with me. I can find things I love about my appearance to swing the scales the other way, and I’m forever impressed by what a good outfit and a bit of make-up can do in a moment of insecurity.
What’s harder to overcome is the resentment I feel about my body’s functioning, or rather, malfunctioning. When it decides to initiate self-destruction proceedings because it believes that some entirely benign thing I’ve consumed is actually evil, or when my exhaustion and stress levels soar briefly high enough to push my defence mechanisms into overdrive, the results can range from the slightly uncomfortable and occasionally embarrassing to the completely debilitating.
I resent the joints, and even the hardworking muscles, ligaments and tendons in my left leg, when the joints stiffen and become petulantly unresponsive, and the stretchy bits pull unnaturally to make anything work. I am conscious of this leg every time I take a step. Every step. I walk thousands of them a day, and with each one I notice the pushing back of the knee, the dead-lift of the foot, the straining of the ligaments, the overcompensation of the hip. Then there’s the pressure and double-click of the knee every time there’s a forceful bend, such as climbing the stairs or crouching. The occasional, sharp or jarring pain, or dull ache in a joint. The treachery of my foot when I stare at it, willing it into the full rotation it refuses to do.
I resent my brain when it forgets words, or knowledge of the world in general, when it seems to abandon me in a sea of confusion, and I can’t even explain to anyone in the moment what the hell is going on. I resent the impossibility of reading when tired, the miscommunicated messages because I’m suddenly and unexpectedly left to rely on a kind of sonic memory rather than actual vocabulary, the cringe-worthy moments like leaving an offensively low tip in a restaurant because I momentarily lost all understanding of place value.
I resent my gut when it grumbles and rumbles and sends me running for the toilet, as I desperately try to think of what gluten-containing item I could have possibly consumed, and fail to come up with anything. I wonder if that nutritionist was right about the common comorbidity of coeliac disease and lactose intolerance, but not for long enough to make any firm promises to try cutting out dairy, the foodstuff I love the most.
I resent the eye that has no central vision, the lack of throwing and catching ability it may or may not be responsible for, and the consequent humiliation in every PE lesson I ever suffered at school. I resent the maddening, bright, electric swirls that whirl about my iris in the dead of night when I’m trying to fall asleep, taunting me with some spectre of a visual sphere that melts away in daylight.
But then, at the risk of becoming a soul entirely at odds with the body it resides in, I try to pull myself together. I think of those thousands upon thousands of steps my leg takes in its backwards fashion, how the joints loosen with the right exercise, how the ligaments go to heroic lengths to keep me moving, how brilliantly the hip accommodates the strange movement. How, if my leg seizes up, it slowly comes back to life, with no perceptible damage done. I think of the perseverance of my right leg, which uncomplainingly takes up more than its share of the burden to compensate.
I’m humbled by the fact that my autoimmune disease is one largely controlled by diet. Simply from not eating gluten, my body has been able to repair a lot of damage, and keeps itself in pretty good health. Perhaps because my immune system is used to being on high alert, it takes a lot for me to get sick. Coughs, colds, shivers – in my adult life, I’ve suffered those less and less, even when they strike those around me. That’s when I can be proud of my body’s highly-strung defence system.
I’m amazed and grateful that I have pretty good sight, despite only having one-and- a-bit eyes with which to see. The missing circle of vision hasn’t stopped me driving a car, nor limited my depth perception in any crucial way. I may not be the next tennis star, but nor do I constantly bang into things, and I’m rarely aware that some of my sight isn’t there.
I’m slowly learning to understand my body’s flare-ups as warning signs, distress signals. They indicate that I’m pushing it too far, exhausting it too much, and they offer the opportunity to slow down before anything really bad happens. Refusing to read late at night is the sign that my brain needs to shut down and rest. My gut grumbling says that I’m not feeding my body as well and as healthily as I should. This body of mine might be an overdramatic communicator, but it’s an effective one. I just have to learn to listen, and not jump so quickly to frustration or panic.
It’s all too easy to fear that things might get worse. I might lose language or other mental capacities, and never recover them (that’s a dark fear reserved for late, language-less nights and strange, surreal moments when the world slips away from me, and I from it). My joints might stop responding to exercise, or the ligaments might give up. My body might damage itself so much that certain things are beyond repair.
But the resilience of this flawed, sometimes infuriating, body takes some reckoning with. It faces every problem with a lot more strength and courage than my soul often has. It instinctively knows when to rest, when to fight. It keeps going. Step after step, day after day, night after night. Even when I rail against it, my body carries on. Lungs keep breathing, heart keeps pumping, nerves keep firing.
There’s a lot this body can do. It can dance, jump, perform short bursts of what might kindly be described as running, contort itself into yoga positions, heft weights at the gym, climb mountains, swim, windsurf. It’s slowly learning how to tip-toe again. It can see, hear, taste, smell, respond to the slightest of touches, balance, anticipate, and it delights in making the most of each of those senses.
It improves, repairs, and heals itself. It can even occasionally catch a ball. For all of those things and more, I love it.
My body is far from perfect. It’s a body in constant war with itself, a long, drawn out war, in which there are sometimes long ceasefires, but never a total peace deal. Yet it’s a courageous body, a problem-solver, a source of unimagined strength, even when it seems weak. Especially when it seems weak. How can you not love a body like that?
by Krista | Mar 13, 2017 | Summer
Rain is falling gently, making our world quiet and peaceful. I have an unexpected day off and am basking in the utter novelty of a day to myself. Bear and I had a leisurely breakfast, I watched Miss Marple and Poirot, and sipped tea on the veranda then hot chocolate in bed as I basked in the richness of stillness.
It’s been an intense week of hard physical labour in addition to my regular work. After several months of chiropractic work and physical therapy, my body is finally able to handle the demands of getting our farm back on track. I’ve loved every second of strengthening my muscles again as I hauled wood, piled trash, carted rocks, shifted furniture and equipment, dug some holes and filled in others, swept, shoveled, and raked. I could barely move at the end of each day, but it was good pain, the pain of a job well done and a body doing what it is meant to do. By next morning I was ready – albeit creakily – to go again. It’s a lovely, amazing thing to have strength and endurance again, and I’m cherishing it.
After so much work it was sheer bliss to clean off the dirt, straw, poop, and sawdust of the farm and get dolled up and head to the Empire Theatre in Toowoomba to watch the Moscow Ballet perform “Swan Lake.” It was exquisitely beautiful and inspiring, and especially fun shared with Oma and her grandson, Alex, who are always jolly company and great conversationalists. I returned home with visions of sumptuous costumes and soul-stirring music to send me off to sleep.
Next morning it was back to work as we bustled about getting ready for the arrival of our English friends – Gary, Lorraine, and Leah.
I had told Bear I needed a place on our farm where I could sit and only see beauty – no tasks to work on or projects to complete – just peaceful respite. I needed a pretty place. It would never enter Bear’s head to need a pretty place, but he’s a luv and helped me anyway.
We set up a campfire area with logs and stumps for sitting and one of our old medieval fire pits for cooking. We pulled in tables and chairs too because, I don’t care how spry you are, a fallen log is only comfortable for so long, and then you want something with a bit of squish to sink into and a solid back to lean against. We set up a bin to collect and hold firewood and then it was ready. It is a truly happy place for both of us where we can rest and look out on unencumbered views of trees and fields and goats grazing on a nearby hill.
I decorated simply with cheery tablecloths and a cluster of marigolds given to me by Shadrach, a lovely Congolese man I interviewed last week. They make me so happy.
Our friends arrived and we had such a jolly and peaceful day, the sort of day that leaves you totally tuckered out but with a big smile on your face.
We walked around the farm, saying hello to dogs, geese, pigs, bees, chooks, turkeys, and goats, before making a beeline for some shade and cold drinks. We visited long over lunch – slow-roasted beef on soft, buttered bread rolls and potato salad with capers, red onion, and paprika – all of us letting the cares and stresses of the last few months melt away as we laughed and told stories and decided that next time we were going to pitch tents and make a weekend of it.
When we found out they were keen to learn archery, Bear and I hauled out our stash of medieval bows, arrows, and a thoroughly modern target for some training and practice.
It was so much fun, marked with much hilarity as initial attempts sent arrows flopping and dipping wildly. Bear is a great teacher though, and soon arrows were thwack-ing into the target one right after the other, followed by whoops and hollers from the peanut gallery.
The afternoon flew by and before we knew it the sun was setting and it was time for dinner.
I built a fire and let it burn wildly for a bit until there was a good bed of coals. Then we set a grate above the hot little beauties and put sausages on to cook.
I thought I’d give the coals a little nudge with a few bits of kindling when WHOOSH a billow of flame instantly charred one side of the sausages. Thankfully Gary came to the rescue and managed to salvage my burnt offerings and turn them into something edible and downright tasty.
We filled our plates, toasted each other with red wine and cold beer, and sat around the fire visiting and eating and watching the sun sink lower and lower.
At last it disappeared and a luminous moon appeared, casting a pale, magical glow over the farm. As the stars came out we hugged each other good-bye with promises to get together again soon.
It was a good day. xo
by Krista | Mar 6, 2017 | Summer
The late afternoon sun is casting long shadows through the trees, illuminating vivid green grass that sprang up since we had luscious rain a few nights ago. I’m sitting in bed in front of a fan, sipping apple wine, watching the day wind down in stunningly beautiful fashion.
I worked hard on the farm today, weeding and watering, transplanting and mulching, transforming overrun gardens into orderly patches again. I tidied up the farm yard, collecting fallen branches and leaves blown in from recent storms then hurtled willy-nilly around the place. I cleaned out the sheep pen and set the manure out in the sun to dry a bit more before it’s ready to spread on my gardens, then started the mammoth project of the goat yards. A freak wind storm flattened one of our sheds and the goats had a marvellous time spreading everything they found, and I do mean everything, all over their yard. Ayiyi. I’m about half way done and although every bit of me aches, it feels absolutely fantastic to see order restored, bit by bit.
It’s been a really rough week for me, so I treasured this day outside in the gorgeous late summer sunshine. My doc says healing from trauma is like peeling an onion. Sometimes the layers come off easy-peasy, but others, like this latest one, are downright awful, stubbornly sticking, and making your eyes water and nose run.
I’m learning to make peace with these layers, the ones that tear me open and wrack my body with pain and make night time a scary place because that’s when the bad dreams come. The layers that make me feel vulnerable, scared, and too messed up to be loved. I’m learning that it’s OK to not feel OK, to feel the darkness close in and remember that it won’t stay dark forever.
I cried and took naps. I downed my supplements, stood in sunshine every day, and got extra chiro treatments so my body would be especially cared for while it processed this layer. I let Bear know I was wobbly and might need more hugs than usual. I said sorry when my inner turmoil spilled over in ugly ways. And I took my pen and camera and recorded the good things that were around me, even in the darkness.
Like glorious sunsets.
And purple and pink skies.
Five cute new piglets named Crackling, Porky, Parma, Prosciutto, and Pancetta, and episodes of Psych that never fail to make me laugh.
Rain to make our world grow again, healing words from dear friends, and clean flannel sheets that feel like a hug when I climb in bed.
It is OK to not feel OK, but it sure helps to remember that even at our worst we are still loved, still wanted, still believed in and cheered for. We’ll get through this and the light will come. xo
by Krista | Feb 23, 2017 | Summer
We’re easing in to my favourite time of year in Southern Queensland: Autumn.
I feel it in the mornings as I wake and reach for a pashmina to pull close around my shoulders until the sun comes up, and at night when I climb into bed and actually want the covers snug around me. It’s glorious.
I love going for walks on these pre-Autumn mornings when our world is aglow and everything shimmers and sparkles.
The geese have their morning ablutions in the water trough, splashing about making a right royal mess and having a marvelous time before they amble off to nibble new grass under the trees.
The goats take their time getting up, soaking in the warming rays of sunshine before getting to their feet and looking for sunny patches to graze in.
I let the dogs out for a run and they gallop across the farmyard, saying hello to everyone they meet, piddling happily on fence posts, car tires, and gates until they feel their territory is securely theirs once again.
Chooks and turkeys are out already, looking for bugs in the tall grass of the orchard, trying to pinch Freja’s dog food when she’s not looking.
My gardens are happiest this time of day, perky and alert after hours of cool darkness and good drink of water the night before.
I like brushing past the overgrown lavender and rosemary bushes, for their scent lingers on my skin and I catch whiffs of it throughout the day.
Yesterday I planted red carrots, creamy white parsnips, purple-topped turnips, leeks, and heaps of borage. Borage was used to make a restorative drink in medieval times, and knights would drink it before battle believing it gave them extra courage. I want to make my own brew for medieval events this year. I’ve tried growing borage in summer, but the days are simply too hot and they die quickly. I’m hoping Autumn might work better.
It’s lovely to see my winter garden taking shape even as my plucky summer one continues give out a steady harvest of eggplants, chilies, capsicum, asparagus, and a few beans. I was excited to find a few apples on our small apple trees, and look forward to the day when the trees are big and strong and covered with crisp, ripe apples for eating, making hard cider, wine, and vinegar, and plenty of spiced applesauce and apple butter.
Mmm, now it’s time for breakfast. Bear has been cooking away while I write, making a scrumptious hash of leftover potatoes, roast beef, slow-roasted carrots, caramelized leeks, and a few eggs. There’s nothing like a hearty breakfast to start the day off right.
What is your favourite hearty breakfast? xo
by Krista | Feb 19, 2017 | Summer
It’s my favourite kind of Sunday morning. Quiet, dark, and cool with gentle rain falling. It rained all through the night and our parched farm is soaking up every drop. I was up late working when the first drops began to fall, and when I finally crawled into bed I couldn’t sleep for the sheer delight of listening to the rain splash against our tin roof. I’m so thankful.
February has been a month of good things, wonderful things, with big changes that are breathing new life into me. My contract with the law firm ended and I started a new job as a Virtual Assistant for an Australian company that I absolutely love. Each day is a surprise filled with interesting tasks that stretch and intrigue me. This week alone I’ve planned a client’s month long holiday to India, started managing another client’s rental property in Sydney, and developed a marketing strategy for yet another client’s stock brokeridge firm. Add that to my writing, photography, and art work, and my heart is full to bursting with happiness that I am doing work that I love and am excited about doing every day.
With Robbie getting steadily better, my health improving dramatically, our farm transitioning to a more manageable hobby farm, and our medieval family making plans for the new season, we have so much to celebrate.
So celebrate we did.
Friday I finished work early so we canceled the rest of our plans and took ourselves off to Toowoomba for a Day of Doing Happy Things.
We had brunch at our favourite deli and had a good visit discussing medieval projects and the next steps for developing our farm. We picked up a luscious triple crème brie and freshly baked sourdough kalamata olive bread to take home with us, then went treasure hunting at every thrift store we could find.
It was so much fun, especially since we’d purposed to only get things that made us feel happy inside.
It was splendid fun. We went to our old favourite shops and chatted with our lovely mates who always give us special deals and extra discounts just because.
Then we asked Google for suggestions and found so many thrift stores we didn’t even know existed! What a jolly time we had rifling through stacks of books and piles of linens, perusing racks of dishes and shelves of dvds and sorting through a hodgepodge of who knows what until we saw something that gave our heart a lurch and we knew it had to come home with us.
We found glass bottles I can use for my medieval potions and skincare products I make at home, gorgeous old plates and aged silver that will be perfect for food photo shoots, and wonderful books that will inspire and delight me for years to come.
Bear found just what he wanted for some a medieval projects and I spotted a lovely wooden board that will be perfect for displaying medieval herbs and spices. I found beautiful crisp linens as props for photo shoots, and, my favouritest treasure of all, an exquisite hand-crocheted, hand-embroidered tablecloth. The lady at the shop told me it was so precious they wouldn’t sell it for ages, just had it on display in their window. But the day we arrived they’d decided to sell and I brought it home where it will be dearly loved.
We ended our lovely day out with cake and a visit with Oma, then returned home with full and happy hearts, excited about this next phase of our life together.
Rain is falling again, so thankful, and bread is almost ready to take out of the oven. I think I’ll make a pot of soup then snuggle down on the couch on the back porch with one of my new books to read until I fall asleep on this Perfect for Napping day. xo
by Krista | Feb 15, 2017 | Summer
I’m writing by lamplight tonight, windows flung open to welcome rain-washed breezes.
Rain finally came today. Not a lot. Just enough to clean the air and release the scent of damp earth, but we treasure it all the same. Our poor sun-baked ground is covered in massive cracks, most of them big enough to slide a hand in, and the blistered grass crunches underfoot when we walk across it. Smelling the soggy leaves and moist dirt tonight brings tears to my eyes. It’s been so long.
I was outside calling in the goats when it began to fall, raining through sunshine, glittering and dancing. Is there anything so glorious as cold raindrops on hot skin? I stood on the veranda as it pelted down, loving the splatter of water on my bare feet, then went for a walk as it slowed to a misty drizzle, in awe of the play of light and shadow where the water droplets clung to the grasses of the dam yard.
I crouched down in the midst of it, letting the wet strands of grass wrap around my legs and dapple the hem of my sundress with water. I felt transported to a fairyland of sparkles and shimmers that swayed in the wind.
It did me good to see such beauty, to be surrounded by glimmers and twinklings of light.
The glowy feeling stayed with me as I put the goats away for the night and let Luna and Solar out for a romp, as I took Kebab, Anni, and Emma out to the paddock for their late afternoon nibble. It stays with me now as I snuggle into our doona and cozy in for a good read before bed.
Gnite. xo
