Zen and the Art of Baking

To borrow the term of a friend of mine, I've been in a bit of a funk this week. There's no good reason for it: Emotionally, nothing has changed from last week, I had a perfectly delightful weekend, in fact, filled with sunshine, wandering, walks, wine and wonderful chats with friends. 

The only thing I can pin it down to is that I did something rather stupid. I've only recently joined the ranks of the multiple-medicines-per-day brigade thanks to a surgery that seems to have not quite gone to plan and adjusting to how that fits into your life takes a little work. It's been made markedly easier by the good folk at Douglas Pharmaceuticals and their Medico Pak, but that's not much use when you leave it at home and you are not there, as I did on Sunday. I've paid the price all week, feeling rather more miserable than I have in recent weeks, although it has helped me to understand a bit more about precisely what those particular drugs help with, so at least there is some small benefit, I guess.

Still, feeling a little (more) off-colour has made me a bit grouchy, which after the cheerful zen-ness of the past few weeks is most unwelcome. To top it off, I had some news yesterday at work and I can't yet decide if it is good or bad. There's still a few puzzle pieces that need to fall into place for me to get the full picture and to see how it affects me and my rather tenuous position.

I left work feeling fuzzied of head and wanting kittens to cuddle. The delightful Annette offered hers, but sadly the North Shore at peak hour on a bus was rather more than I could cope with at that point. A kitty-cuddle-rain-check is definitely in order, however. In lieu of kitty-cuddles, I resorted to baking to clear my head.

The response to that sentence is invariably is one of two things: A satisfied, nodding "Ah, yes", in understanding, or a look of sheer horror crossing the face of the person I am speaking to, followed quickly by he or she questioning my sanity. Note: The questioning of sanity is usually not phrased in such harsh terms as to preclude the expresser from requesting a share of the baked goods. 

I am, quite possibly, the world's messiest baker. I learnt to bake at my Grandma's knee, with her big, flowered apron folded up several times over and tied under my armpits, standing on a kitchen stool, in her big, old Remuera kitchen.  I can still picture the chopping boards that my Grandpa made for her and see the passionfruit vines out the windows if I close my eyes tight enough. 

Grandma's baking philosophy was that you should bake by feel and with love. The recipe was there, of course, but it was merely a guideline. If the mixture didn't seem right to you, add a dash more of this, a pinch more of that, if the scoop wasn't quite even, who cares, bung it in! There was no fear when you were baking with Grandma, a wonderful thing for a child like me, who routinely tiptoed through a landscape of terror at home. It didn't matter if you did something wrong, or wanted to try something different, she was wonderfully patient and understanding. 

It's probably why I have such a fondness for baking to this day. I set out a mixing bowl and spoons and a little part inside of me just relaxes and smiles. I still follow her baking philosophy, at times it rather befuddles people who know me and my otherwise logical and structured thought patterns. Baking is an area where I demand no precision, it's about feel.

Strangely enough, much of the childhood magic and wonder remains. Despite studying a fair bit of the chemistry of baking at high school and university, I often still sit in front of the oven door and watch the cakes, muffins and cookies rise with a sense of awe (and trepidation). I love watching the goopy mess transform into tasty deliciousness. 

In fact, I love the whole process, from the moment I decide to bake, to the moment I deliver the finished product to the recipient. 

It's incredibly therapeutic for me, even when, like last night, I wasn't paying attention and tipped a whole can of condensed milk in, rather than 2 tablespoons. Were it not for my Grandma and her lessons, I probably would have written the whole thing off and dived deeper into my funk. Instead, I looked at it as an experiment to play with. I chucked a few extra bits and bobs in and figured I'd see how the cookies came out. 

They're probably not the most amazing cookies I've ever made, but they worked and they're still tastier than most ones you'd buy in a supermarket (in my highly qualified, highly biased opinion, of course). And the whole time I was making them, I was smiling as I thought of my wonderful Grandma and the lessons she taught me. I miss her dreadfully, even now, 7 years after she died. She was the most amazing woman. 

I woke up this morning and the funk was gone. I know if she was still here, she would smile.

Unplanned Adventuring

I went for a walk in Auckland Domain today. I woke up feeling sore and horrid and very, very grouchy and decided attendance at work was a less than intelligent plan, given the telling off that I get when I show up in a sub-optimal condition, so I went back to sleep. But one of the generic benevolent deities must have been smiling at me, because by about 10:30, the pain had subsided. Not only that but, miracle of miracles, that rarest of circumstances was upon us, a beautiful, warm, clear, sunny Auckland winter day.

To not take advantage of such fortuitous circumstances would be foolish in the extreme, so I dug out my camera, brushed off the (many) layers of dust and forcibly ejected myself from the house. I wasn't sure quite what my plans were or where I was going, beyond running a planned errand to St. Lukes (gak), but it felt like a day for adventure.

Errand duly completed, I decided the order of the day was to go where the wind blew me, so I walked out of St. Lukes and caught the first bus to arrive at the stop. That bus happened to be the new Outer Link, and it carried me on a weaving journey through Auckland's inner suburbs, in search of inspiration.

A few things tickled and teased at my attention, including a tea shop in Mt. Eden Village, which requires a visit in the not-too-distant-future, but nothing really grabbed at me until we passed the entry to the Domain at the top of Parnell Rise. What better way to spend the afternoon, I thought, than frolicking in the park in the sunshine?

My camera and I disembarked with alacrity and I spent the next few hours happily meandering around taking photos of decidedly average quality and enjoying the warmth of the sunshine. Eventually I found myself sitting outside the Museum, at the recently redone war memorial, thinking how very lucky we are to have, and to have had for so many years, such a beautiful resource so near the centre of the city. As the thought went through my head, a smile spread across my face, as it was followed by another, very different, series of thoughts and memories.

As a child, the Domain was often the venue for special occasions: Extended family picnics, Christmas parties, weekend outings. Birthdays.

It was the last of these that caused the smile to come to my face. Without warning, as I sat there, I was assailed with a wave of vivid memories; tiny glimpses of a past day in that beautiful park. The crisp cotton of my dress contrasted with the smooth satin of my sash as I stroked it between my fingers. The smell of the homemade sausage rolls mingling with the blown-out birthday candles and icing. The taste of Grandma's angel cakes. The sounds of laughter. Of happiness.

My mother and I have what could politely be described as a tumultuous relationship. The reasons for this are long and rather complex, but underneath it all, there is love. We did, however, have some rather enormous fights, several years ago. During one particularly nasty one, I told her that, try as I might, I could no longer seem to find any happy childhood memories. All that was left was the hurt, the sadness, the anger. It was all tainted. I could feel the pain that my words caused her. I could see it on her face, in her body. My words were not a deliberate intention to wound her, but in a fight like that, intention very quickly becomes irrelevant, and words said in honesty, with neutral or even good intention, can cut just as deep, if not deeper, than those said with deliberate intention to hurt.

Today, I rediscovered a memory of pure, uncorrupted childhood joy and it was a beautiful feeling. I owe my mum the gift of these words, in the hope that it goes some way towards apologising and helping to begin to heal the wound that I inflicted upon her. 

If my life is mine, what shouldn't I do?

Sometimes, somebody else's words just say it best. So today, I'm borrowing the lovely words (and music) of Metric. It sums it up rather nicely.

Metric - Help, I'm Alive


I tremble
They're gonna eat me alive
If I stumble
They're gonna eat me alive
Can you hear my heart
Beating like a hammer
Beating like a hammer

Help I'm alive
My heart keeps beating like a hammer
Hard to be soft
Tough to be tender
Come take my pulse the pace is on a runaway train
Help I'm alive
My heart keeps beating like a hammer
Beating like a hammer

If we're still alive
My regrets are few
If my life is mine
What shouldn't I do?
I get wherever I'm going
I get whatever I need
While my blood's still flowing
And my heart's still
Beating like a hammer
Beating like a hammer

Help I'm alive
My heart keeps beating like a hammer
Hard to be soft
Tough to be tender
Come take my pulse the pace is on a runaway train
Help I'm alive
My heart keeps beating like a hammer
Beating like a hammer

If we're still alive
My regrets are few
If my life is mine
What shouldn't I do?
I get wherever I'm going
I get whatever I need
While my blood's still flowing
And my heart's still
Beating like a hammer
Beating like a hammer
Beating like a hammer
Beating like a hammer

Help I'm alive
My heart keeps beating like a hammer

Gifts of words and acceptance, empty boxes and past monsters

Perhaps without the giver even realising it, I was given a beautiful gift the other day. It was dropped into my lap, perfectly wrapped and formed, quite accidentally; a gift of words, and the acceptance that came with those words.

I hope that the giver of that gift does not mind me borrowing some of his words, and the courage that came from that acceptance,  in order to write about them.

Life, unfortunately, for whatever reason, does not deal us all an even hand. When something traumatic happens to someone as a child, it can dramatically alter the way in which they experience parts of their life. It altered mine.

When we are young, we are gifted a box, a wonderful empty box that we can fill up full of all those things that spark our curiosity, large and small. Young people, through childhood and early adulthood, spend time filling up that box full of things that interest them, that define them. They spend time expanding their minds, examining their interests. They pack that box as full as they wish.

For me, I did not. I could not. My childhood and teenage years were a combination of mental numbness and physically exhausting myself so as to be able to sleep through the night. It was a time for existing, not exploring. It was about enduring. I was aware of that box, I knew it was there, but it was brushed past, caressed sadly with a tired and longing finger at the end of another exhausting day.

When I turned 18, I escaped NZ. It was the best thing I could ever have done, but it wasn't a magical fix for that which had come before, and it didn't fill that empty box. It just gave me the space to be, before coming back to begin to deal with what I had left behind. And since then, bit by bit, piece by little piece, i've worked through the mess of that childhood.

But that box of things, the box of things that should have been full of what interested me, of what defined me, remained, for the best part, pretty empty. There were traces of things in there, things that I had dropped in in passing. Little post-it notes, stuck on the side, of things that had appealed, things about which I had said "Yes, I like you, but right now, I cannot take the time to seek more".

The wonderful Bee described it to me as reclaiming our lost childhood joy, which I think is a beautiful way to describe it. I have always adored sitting and listening to people speak about something they are passionate about, something that sits inside their personal box. You can feel that childhood joy and glee when they speak, the pure energy that rolls off them. 

I can't wait to start expanding out more of those post-it notes. There are quite a few of them. Writing this is the start of fulfilling one of them. I feel like I'm ready to start exploring.

The Strange Lightness Inside that Comes with Making a Difficult Decision

The human brain is a strange thing, indeed. I've been struggling with a somewhat difficult decision for some weeks now. It's something that has been niggling and irksome in my life, but not something that I thought making a decision over would have a huge resultant mental impact, one way or another, purely because making the decision does not directly link to an immediate action. 

The decision is, quite simply, a mental declaration, and the physical aspects that embody it will come into place so slowly, so gradually and over a relatively long period of time, so as not to play a part in the mental impact directly related to the taking of the initial decision (beyond, of course, that attached to the consideration of their implementation).

It turns out, however, that I was completely incorrect. The decision, once taken has resulted in the strangest lightness and feeling of calm. I can look at this two ways, I suspect it's a little of both. Firstly that the subject of the decision was more of a mental burden than I had previously suspected. And secondly, that simply the act of deciding, independent of action, can be, in and of itself for me, enough sometimes.

If you had asked me that about myself before, I would have resolutely denied it. I am well known for my dislike of "faffing about". A decision, once taken, is generally organised and implemented as efficiently as possible.

I suspect I learned something fairly valuable about myself, in that lesson. The next challenge will be figuring out how to execute a more restrained implementation strategy. 

In the meantime, I'm enjoying the feeling of lightness, it feels good, it feels healing, it feels...happy. It feels free.

Super heroes, conflict, cups of tea and why those things all need to be in a painting together

On the weekend, my lovely friend Bee took me expeditioning to a craft market. I have a (well known) fondness for all things pretty, and she and I spotted the most adorable child's cape. It was almost enough to make me want to spawn a miniature-Nat, just so I could dress her in it. Common sense, of course, dictates that this would be an otherwise idiotic idea. In any case, Bee tried to coerce me into buying it, on the grounds that I am almost child-sized and therefore ought to be able to fit it. Naturally I disagreed with this assertion.

After leaving the craft market, we met Rob for lunch. Bee recounted the tale of the cape, which somehow (perfectly reasonably, in my opinion) segued into a conversation about superheroes. Rob turned to Bee and me and said "In my dream, Nat's superhero power is the ability to solve any conflict in the world via the power of the tea party. She would swoop in, attired fabulously, with a cape, of course and some of her heels, and, depending on the level of conflict, enforce resolution via conversation over tea and teeny, tiny food. Small scale conflict may just require a thermos and a few biscuits. Large scale conflict would need the full silver service high-tea treatment. Damask table cloths, fine china, 3-tiered stands, the works".

The sheer absurdity of the image delighted me entirely. Imagine a silver service high tea in the middle of a war zone with a bunch of generals sitting down sipping delicately, forced to discuss the root of the issues whilst keeping to the bounds of polite table manners. I am woefully out of practice with both my drawing and my painting, but the image in my head that I have of it is almost enough to make me want to attempt to capture it.

But more than that, I loved how accurately he had nailed my personality. I hate conflict, I hate arguments, and I would love, ideally, for them all to be resolved quietly over a cup of tea. It’s pretty much the *perfect* super power for me. AND it has The Pretty.

There are small moments in time, tiny moments of happiness that, for whatever reason, when they happen, resonate within you, and you know that without consciously trying or even knowing why, your mind has packed them away into a little box, wrapped in scented and patterned tissue paper, for safe-keeping in your memory. I don’t know where those moments come from, sometimes they are the tiniest, most insignificant things, but each one feels like a warm ray of sunshine on a freezing cold day.

As I sat and listened to Bee and Rob discuss the detailed costume requirements of such a superhero (broderie anglaise dress and ruffle petticoat were amongst the requirements, for those who were curious), I knew that, for whatever reason, at the end of what had been a monumentally shit week, I had been handed one of those moments.

Side note: If you have not yet watched BBC’s ‘No Heroics’ and you can appreciate the ridiculousness of the above, then you should most definitely remedy this at the earliest possibly convenience.

Inspiration and Izy

Inspiration is a strange thing, and sometimes life gifts it to you in the most unexpected of ways. I have the most marvelous friend called Izy. I have known Izy, on and off, for several years now. We don't speak all that often, maybe once every few months and I could count the number of times I have met her, in person, using just my two hands. 

But every time I meet Izy, every time I speak to her, the strangest of things seems to happen. It feels like, for that moment, time stops. There is something about our chats, about the interactions we share that make me feel hopeful and connected to life and the world around me again. I can be in the very darkest of places, my head can be a jumble of lost and messy thoughts, but when we sit down to chat, even when she is on the other side of the world, it all becomes clear.

In a strange and odd coincidence, the bond works the other way as well. Izy often seeks me out when her soul needs soothing and clearing, and in soothing and clearing hers, she does the same for mine and re-inspires me, simply by virtue of being who she is.

It is rare to find people who are truly beautiful, inside and out. Izy is one of those. She has had a far from easy ride in life, but she has an inner strength that is utterly awe inspiring to see, especially in one so young. I love her determination, her passion, her positivity, and the way she looks at life through her lens to find the beauty, rather than to seek out the ugliness, despite being presented with more than her fair share of it on occasion.

When we spoke yesterday, I talked to her about soul-healing moments, those tiny moments in time when you feel a little piece inside of you that was broken click into place, settle and heal over, moments that, however small, you will remember forever. And I as spoke to her I realised that talking to her yesterday was one of those moments for me. And she inspired me to move forward. And I thank her, and realise, once again, how fortunate I am to have such a person in my life.