by Krista | Jul 12, 2020 | Winter
“Hope is being able to see that there is light, despite all of the darkness.” Desmond Tutu
It has been raining gently off and on through the night and this morning turning our hard-packed land into glorious mud. The brown, brittle grass is already turning green and the dogs are having a glorious time splashing through the puddles in the farmyard.
Physically, it’s been a painful week. Some days were spent in bed with eyes covered and ears plugged because even light and sound hurt, but today is a better day, a wondrous day when our drought-ravaged land gets luscious rain and our weary hearts receive a boost of courage to keep on hoping.
I’m on month 7 of Post Viral Fatigue Syndrome (PVFS), and my world is small and quiet as I wake up each day and try to do what the doctor ordered: rest, drink lots of fluids, and above all, don’t lose heart.
Don’t lose heart. That’s the hardest part because I love my life, so much, and I miss it terribly. But each day, even though most of my choices have been taken away by this illness, I still get to choose what to do with the time and energy I have.
I try to make good choices.
I choose to cry when I need to cry.
I choose to be gentle with myself and let go of shame and guilt and unrealistic expectations.
I choose to give and receive love.
And, when I have the energy, I choose to do things that bring me joy.
I have a list of things that I love to do, all requiring varying levels of energy so that even when I’m at my very worst, I still have something happy to look forward to. It never ceases to amaze me that just having one happy thing a day makes all the difference in the world.
Sometimes I have hot chocolate and sit on the veranda with Bear to watch the new baby goats and sheep jump and leap around, others I get warm under a blanket and do wood-burning while listening to Harry Potter audiobooks, and other times I’ll go outside with my camera for a few minutes and take pictures of beautiful things like my gardens covered in raindrops.
They’re little things, so little, but they keep me going and give me courage.
One thing I really love is writing here, sharing pictures and stories and thoughts. So, I hope to do more of that in the months to come.
What little things make your hard days easier to bear? xo
by Krista | Aug 28, 2019 | Winter
It’s raining.
Just saying those words aloud has made me cry a few times this morning. And laugh with unfettered joy.
It. Is. Raining.
It’s not enough to break this hellish drought, not near enough, but it IS enough to grant us a reprieve, to give us hope, to bolster our spirits with rain-washed air and that luscious smell of damp earth.
It’s enough to wash dust-encrusted leaves and give new seeds and seedlings a boost.
It’s enough to add some precious water to our rainwater tanks and maybe enough to grow a little grass to keep our animals and local wildlife going a bit longer.
It’s cold outside, but our windows are flung open to welcome in the freshest air we’ve breathed in a long time and let us listen to the glorious symphony of raindrops falling on our tin roof.
Thank you, dear rain. You are so very, very welcome here.
This morning we celebrated the rain with sourdough French toast and huge cups of coffee and by declaring a holiday. We have solemnly sworn to only do fun and happy and cosy things today: great books read under the covers, old movies that make us grin, walks in the rain, hot chocolate, and the most comforting of comfort foods.
We’ve been celebrating a lot lately. Not because life is consistently jolly and celebratory, but because it’s been ridiculously hard, scary, stressful, awful, no-good, exhausting, and yucky, and at such times celebrations are vital to survival.
The last time I wrote to you I had returned home after nearly a month in the hospital. It was a traumatic time, to say the least, and we were looking forward to peaceful, pleasant weeks of recovery while we planned for a brighter future.
Then my doctors found cancer on my head, and our peaceful, pleasant world lurched to a standstill.
They said things like, “We think it’s malignant, but we’re hoping it hasn’t spread to the skull or the brain,” then booked me for surgery and the waiting game began.
We were scared and sad and tired. We’d already faced and made peace with the possibility of my death while I was in the hospital, and here we were, only a few weeks later, facing it all over again and trying not to live in fear. But that’s the thing about cancer. It is scary. Especially during the we-know-you-have-cancer-but-we-don’t-know-what-type-so-we’re-going-to-cut-open-your-head-and-hope-for-the-best times.
So we did the bravest thing we knew to do: we talked about it. All of it. The sad, the scary, the what-ifs. And we let ourselves feel. All of it. The sadness, the fear, the hope. When we caught ourselves stuffing things down trying to put on a brave front, we stopped and un-stuffed those things and brought them back into the light where they could be processed and released.
We also hibernated and took the best care of ourselves we possibly could. We rested and read beloved books, watched favourite movies and had cuppas on the back veranda, looked for treasures at second-hand stores and ate the foods we like best.
My surgery was August 9. It took 2 hours longer than anticipated and left me with a partially shaved head and a 10 cm incision that was held together with a dizzying number of staples. Last week the staples were removed and the doctor gave us the good news: they got all of the cancer and I was officially cancer-free.
We cried. We laughed. We hugged a lot.
And I realized my hibernation time was only just beginning. It turns out that when you go through one physical trauma after another, your body finally says, “Hey mate, let’s rest, OK?”
So I’ve been resting as a happy little hermit, treasuring the gift of life, knowing that this year has changed me deeply, knowing that is a wonderful thing.
Yesterday something happened that still makes me smile. I was pottering in my gardens, planting purple snow peas, cucumbers, and French beans as an act of hope that rain might fall today when Fezzik started barking and jumping around madly. I looked up and there was this chap sitting contentedly in the branches of the golden rain tree that overhangs the garden.
I could hardly believe it! In my eight years on our Australian farm, I’ve never seen a koala. Not once. I’ve seen a giant goanna clamber up the gum tree outside our bedroom window, found an echidna waddling through the bush, spotted innumerable kangaroos and wallabies in our fields, but never a koala.
Bear helped me set up a tall ladder and I stood up there for ages watching this beautiful animal. He watched me too, not nervous or angry, just curious. We knew he couldn’t stay – koalas do not eat golden rain trees – so we enjoyed his presence as long as we could before tying up the dogs and leaving him alone to mosey along to his next destination.
We’re so glad he stopped in for a visit to brighten our day.
by Krista | Jun 25, 2019 | Winter
It’s cold and blustery this morning, winter winds howling through the trees and sending us scurrying for flannels and slippers the moment we wake up. Boeuf Bourguignon and Chicken Curry are warming our bones on these frigid days even as they fill our tiny house with wonderful smells and make everything feel cosy and homey.
I’m so happy to be home. So happy. I’ve been here a full week after spending 27 days in the hospital while a team of doctors tested and consulted, trying to figure out what was making me so sick. 12 days ago they gathered solemnly around my bed to let me know that they believed I had something incurable, untreatable, and that I would be in the hospital indefinitely. I was devastated, scared, and so sad.
But that wasn’t to be the end of my story.
The next day my friend Farina came to spend the day with me and advocated for me fiercely. Within a few hours, a visiting neurologist who specializes in seizures agreed to see me. After a series of tests, he explained that I did not have the incurable, untreatable, stuck-in-hospital indefinitely thing. Instead, I had a severe virus that had attacked my neurological system causing seizures and all sorts of mayhem, but he had every confidence that with rest, patience, and continued care through an out-patient clinic, I would recover fully.
By the end of the day, we had an accurate diagnosis, a treatment plan in place, and within 5 days I was home again, recovering in the place I love best with my Bear, our animals, and most restorative views of trees, fields, and gardens.
Recovery is slow but steady, and we’re celebrating every little bit of progress, from being able to walk unaided and driving again, to going grocery shopping for the first time and getting to pick out all my favourite things I missed while in hospital.
It’s been a big lifestyle shift for me in so many ways. I know I will get back to full health and strength, but in the meantime, I’m learning to ask for and receive help, embrace consistent self-care routines that support my healing, and learn contentment and happiness in a much slower way of life. Bear is steadfast support to me, making meals, feeding animals, accompanying me on walks to rebuild my strength and endurance. I’m so grateful for him.
I’m also deeply grateful for the support and care of the dear folks who have visited, called, texted, brought food, flowers, and books, and showered us with love and care. My friend Molly set up a GoFundMe account, and I cried and laughed and cried again, so thankful for the kindness and thoughtfulness that enables me to truly rest and recover while our bills are paid for, animals fed, and fridge filled. Thank you. XOXO
The wind is really picking up now, howling around the eaves. Fezzik is curled up on the floor, toddling over often to check on me and get a scratch and a cuddle. It’s time for a bowl of hot curry, a cup of tea, and maybe an old movie to make us laugh. xo
by Krista | Aug 6, 2018 | Winter
I always like doing herbal workshops. Whether it’s a demonstration at a medieval festival or gathering around the kitchen table in someone’s home, the camaraderie, sharing, and tactile activities of chopping, stirring, and tasting are a delight.
Yesterday I got to spend several hours with a fabulous group of folks from all over the district who wanted to learn and share and connect with kindred spirits.
We met at a farm way out in the hills, and arrived over gravel roads, passing adorable little rock wallabies and the occasional cow foraging for grass in shady nooks on the sun-baked hillsides.
It was such a lovely spot for this sort of thing. We were surrounded by trees and beautiful gardens, and the owner’s grandchildren shyly brought us welcome cuppas before dashing off to hang out with their mates.
There were good visits around platters piled high with chocolate desserts, group Reiki sessions that left every one of us feeling calm and cared for, a lazy lunch around a big wooden table, and my workshop on medieval folk medicine and herbal remedies.
I loved it. All of it.
I loved meeting such delightful people who not only shared generously of their knowledge and experience, but received the care and input of others with open-armed welcome and deep respect.
Everyone represented unique walks of life, distinctive paths of healing and belief, yet there was no competition, no one-upmanship, no looking down of noses towards those whose experience or beliefs veered in a different direction.
It felt safe, loving, caring, and peaceful, and I felt teary more than a few times as I reflected on what a gift it is to find so much kindness in people who were strangers to me and each other.
I returned home bursting with things to discuss with Bear. My experiences that day confirmed some hopes and dreams I’d been squirreling away, hoping that one day I’d get the chance to bring them to fruition.
Sometimes, when it comes to dreams, we press on without any support or encouragement, and sometimes, just when we need it most, folks come along to give us precious nudges that give us that last needed push to step up and do it. Whatever it is.
So today, as I plant herbs and water gardens, feed animals and put away all my herbal regalia, I smile and breathe deep and give thanks for beautiful connections with good people and hope that comes when you least expect it.
Do you have a dream you’ve got tucked away? Is there something you can do today that will take you one step closer to bringing that dream to reality? xo
by Krista | Jul 30, 2018 | Winter
On my holiday in Tasmania, one of my favourite things was learning about the history of the people who settled there.
Even though I grew up in Canada, a Commonwealth country, I knew very little Australian history when I arrived here. It’s been such an adventure reading historical books and watching historical movies, and now, visiting historical places to learn as much as I can.
Outside Launceston is the incredibly beautiful Woolmers Estate, a stunningly preserved 19th century rural estate that was continuously occupied by the Thomas Archer family from 1817 to 1994. It is located next to Brickendon, a lovely colonial farm village still managed by the descendants of William Archer, brother of Thomas.
For much of its existence, Woolmers Estate was home to nearly 100 people who lived and worked there. It houses a dazzling array of artifacts collected and stored by the Archer family for over 180 years. From restored automobiles and exquisite china to handmade furniture and lavish paintings, they provide a detailed glimpse into what life was like for the early settlers, from the convict laborers to the wealthy landowners.
The rose gardens alone are breathtaking, with 5000 rose bushes from 30 unique rose families. Crunching along the gravel pathways, stopping to smell the lush blooms, was an inspiring way to begin our tour.
I’m always fascinated by gardens in mainland Australia since they have to be so hardy, able to withstand extreme heat, drought, and frost in winter. The gardens in Tasmania reminded me of Canada and England, for they benefit from ample rain and cooler temperatures.
Wandering through old buildings is always a delight to me. It doesn’t take much for me to start imagining the inhabitants, and what it would be like to call such places home.
The buildings felt a bit Italian to me, and it was only later that I learned the architect had been inspired by Italian design.
Little sun-drenched nooks like this feel so warm and peaceful, especially on a cool Autumn day.
This was near the original kitchens, and I got to clamber down some very steep steps into the dark stone cellar. It was so deliciously cool down there I wondered why every Australian home doesn’t have one. Seriously, I’d happily live in a stone cellar all summer long, only emerging for morning and evening.
This is the main house, and that sprawling veranda delighted me no end. I could well imagine spending happy hours out there, chatting with neighbours dropping in for tea, watching kids gambol about on the lawn, rocking gently and enjoying the glorious views of the valley.
In summer this would be my favourite spot. Shady and cool with ample breezes blowing through.
The house doesn’t look very posh from the outside, but inside is a different story. Intricate woodwork, elegant furniture, and exquisite silver, crystal, and china make it feel like you’ve stepped into the home of an English aristocrat.
This little building made me laugh. It was the colonial version of a man cave where the man of the house and his male guests would gather for smoking, drinking, and whatever it is menfolk get up to when they’re out of sight of the ladies. When their booze supplies ran low, they’d run a flag up the pole and attentive servants would hustle out with more bottles.
Woolmers Estate is a peaceful place, quiet and serene. You can take an informative guided tour full of fascinating history and family stories, or wander about at your leisure.
We arrived at just in time for the last tour, and I’m so glad we did. Although we couldn’t take pictures inside the buildings, I really enjoyed learning how the posh Tasmanian settlers lived, loved, and worked.
We wandered back through the rose gardens, soaking up more of that glorious Tasmanian Autumn sunshine, then headed on to another garden down the road. I’ll tell you more about that next time.
Is there a history you would like to learn more about? xo
by Krista | Jul 28, 2018 | Winter
It’s incredibly still this morning as I sit on the back veranda, bundled up in my red, wool, medieval cloak, watching the magical eclipse and waiting for the sky to lighten in the east. There’s no wind, no birds calling, and the dogs are sound asleep after a night of vigilance.
So much has happened in recent months, good things, hard things, things that have healed me in new and lovely ways. I will tell you more in the months to come, but for now I’ll focus on the most recent.
Abbey Medieval Festival.
This place, this event, is really special to me. Bear and I go a week early and spend Sunday with our Blackwolf members getting every tent erected and as much done as we can before sunset and everyone else has to go home.
Then it’s just us for 5 days. We work hard during the days, getting all the little bits and pieces of our medieval encampment in place, but early mornings are all mine.
I slip out of bed before Bear wakes, brew a big mug of coffee, and hunker down in our Gathering Tent surrounded by books and notebooks, markers and pens, and a cozy blanket to keep me warm. I write and draw, read and think, write some more, draw some more, then tell Bear all about it when he gets up.
It’s the one time of my year when I don’t have any demands on me. There are no animals to feed, no gardens to water, no articles to write or photo shoots to set up, no clients to meet, no phone calls to return, no emails to answer, and no meetings to attend.
I get to just be. And that’s a precious thing.
It’s always a bit weird in the beginning. I feel fidgety and distracted, my body certain that there must be something I should be doing and looking after. But soon the silence and morning light, the smell of gum trees and damp earth, the sound of fires crackling and cows lowing, they calm and settle me and I begin to truly relax.
Abbey is always a time of healing and growing for me. As I mix my medieval remedies and hang fresh herbs above the market stall, cook over the fire and sit by the dancing flames at night with a glass of wine, visit with dear friends who stop by and slowly transition from modern to medieval life, my brain calms and spirits settle and I’m able to focus and work through things.
I make time to be alone, to heal the things that need to be healed, and spend happy hours planning and dreaming and clarifying what’s important to me.
I make time to hang out with Bear and talk or read together, sharing our latest medieval research, figuring out ways to support our people and make our group stronger and better.
I make time to connect with others, old friends and new ones, never failing to find kindred spirits among enactors and public alike.
We had a wonderful time.
I loved doing my demonstrations on medieval folk medicine and medieval Bedouin food, and made some great connections with people who want me to do workshops in the Brisbane area. I loved wandering through everyone’s camps and seeing their amazing tents, garb, food, and crafts, and I loved learning about basket-weaving and medieval farming practices and the history of henna.
My favourite memories are those shared with my loves.
Early mornings around the campfire frying bacon, eggs, and sausages, everyone huddled in their cloaks, hands clasped around steaming mugs of coffee as we visited and laughed and told stories from the day before.
Dessert and cold beer in the afternoons, talking for ages about everything from history and our daily lives to genealogies and gardening.
One of the best moments was at our feast Saturday night, 18 of us gathered around long tables aglow with candlelight, sipping wine and clapping along to live Celtic and medieval music provided by our neighbours. I loved looking around at the light flickering on so many dear faces, hearing the whoops and hollers, clapping until our hands hurt. It was a great night.
We returned home sore and tired, so excited for hot showers and our electric blanket, full of great memories with the best of people.
I kept lists and sketches of all the things I was inspired by at Abbey, and I’ve been making them happen one by one.
I redesigned my gardens, making more room for the healing herbs I love so much, completely cleaned and organized one end of one shed, and brewed big vats of elderberry cordial spiced with black pepper, cinnamon, and star anise and elderflower tea with yarrow, spearmint, hibiscus, and peppermint.
It’s lovely to get away and restore our spirits and invigorate our zest for life, and it’s equally lovely to come home again and add in the things that make life here even more special.
Where is your favourite place to restore your spirits? xo
