Live, love, life...

...for Knots in the String

(Quick apology for dumping this into your inbox early but we hope to go on our first boating trip of the season tomorrow, which necessitates an early start without going online. Meanwhile, onwards…)

The thing with autumn and winter is that they cover up a multitude of sins.

In spring and summer, there’s no cover-up. Literally.

I made this discovery to my horror last week when the weather warmed enough for short-sleeves, and if one lived on the coast, shorts.

(This pic was 3 years ago. Things are changing!)

There it was as bright as day!

Cellulite, wrinkles, sags, age-spots. Undeniable and all due to birthdays, of which my 72^nd is rapidly approaching. By golly, those signs of age have exploded this year!

In the cool seasons, I cover up like anyone else, and if I use decent facepaint and groom the hair into tidiness, all is tickety-boo and perhaps age isn’t quite as obvious. But in the warm seasons, when the river and ocean are de rigeur – there’s no hiding the downhill-slide.

There are some who will see me in shorts and swimwear and say, ‘Cripes, she’s aged…’

Um, yes. I have.

And whilst I don’t particularly care for the visual reminders, they’re a fact of life. I can’t reverse the process and why on earth would I waste time and money trying? Every line is an expression of my experiences, every freckle and age-spot a marker on the map of a well-lived life. If I have any concern about ageing, it’s that various parts of the body are approaching a use-by date. I have regular motor services – a grease and oil change to joints and ligaments, cataracts dealt with, teeth cared for, vaccinations, but by and large my body is beginning to rust.

My biggest fear is losing locomotion. I love to dance, to walk, to swim, to garden – to move! Despite a dodgy knee, strange feet, torn ligaments and sundry other issues, I’ll push on until the end if I can. After all, there’s an old saying: Use it or lose it.

My Time

*Galeforce winds and unseasonal warmth turned nasty. I left the ballet studio on Tuesday and it was 24 degrees. In September. (Southern hemisphere spring for anyone not in my global location.)

Later in the day, warnings went out for bushfire evacuation down the east coast of the island and for an area a few kilometres away from the farm.

(September…)

This bodes badly for summer. After three years of La Niña and massive bush-growth, and with an El Niño now declared, we know we are not just due for horrible heat but also disastrous fire. We think of drought, of our livestock, of all those lambs who struggled to be born and who survived the vicissitudes of a crazy late winter/early spring.

And so part of the week we spend talking Emergency Plans – what to pack, when to leave, who will stay and fight. I am so anxious at the thought.

*Ballet class. Oddly coincidental that I’m learning the Spanish Dance (ex-Swan Lake) when an El Niño weather event establishes itself over the Australian land and sea mass. It would be comforting to think that the dance could be a gift to the weather gods and that they could be propitiated.

*So I dive into the garden headfirst as an escape…

At this time of year it’s all so lovely, but as one would expect with the warmth, the spring plants are blowing out so very quickly. Still, always living in hope, I decide to plant white cosmos and white petunias amongst my perennials, because on summer nights there is a moonlit feathery glow around the garden.

*I receive a letter from my dear friend, award-winning writer Anna Belfrage , from Sweden. It’s what I need to read right now, and I can’t wait to sit with pens, paper and cards. My handwriting is, of course, awful. Did you know that illegible writing is called griffonage? Neither did I. And I love the word because it sounds heraldic and historic and Anna and I are enjoying keeping something truly historic alive. I take time to think, to express and emote, to deeply share, to use a skill we were taught, to look for cards and writing papers.

(A Nick Bantock collaged illustration)

I also have a hankering to send Anna a homemade collaged card that has faint echoes of Nick Bantock, whose books I love. My daughter could do this really well.

Me? Not so much…

Reading:

Kindle: Fiona Valpy’s The Season of Dreams; as undemanding intellectually as one can imagine. But set in a chateau somewhere in contemporary France, it suits. I keep waiting for Dick and Angel to pop up.

Print: My humungous black file of research papers. It’s only part of what I need for Peregrinus II, there are monographs and research papers as well.

Audio: Ben Kane’s Crusader. Still excellent.

Substack:

Mike Sowden

A Wave Big Enough To Slow The World

Anything that elucidates on tide and wave is fascinating. But I’m really excited about what’s to come - the science (and everything else) of islands. Being an islander is a unique state - sociologically, mentally, physically. Hopefully Mike will reveal the why’s.

Lindsay Cameron Wilson

How to Be Perfect

Lindsay’s essays are so much more than food. They have a lyricism that positively chimes with me.

And so finally, the Terrier and I decide to hotfoot to the beach to see a rainbow.

I think wearing shorts would be character-building despite the chill southerly breeze, because who really cares about a multitude of sins? I dig down for the energy of a 40-something, put a smile on my face and think grateful thoughts.

As my peers pass away from ill health and as even younger folk receive diagnoses which are terrifying, it’s a big enough message to say:

‘Love your family and friends, breathe the air, walk each day and have consuming interests. Be grateful that you can because many cannot and will never.

As my son said from a place of poignant wisdom the other day, Live Life.’

The music this week?

This. Just because it sounds cool and calm and is filled with the sound of living and loving life.