Tiptoe through the Tulips

A friend sent me some flowers the other day.




It made me cry.

They were to say that she missed me. I miss her too...

It got me thinking about how, in this day and age, with all the technological gadgets at our fingertips, we don't seem to be actually any better at keeping in touch with the people who matter.

When we moved to Australia in 1982, I started writing letters to my cousins, my grandmothers, my aunts. It was a habit I maintained until I was at uni, and so very very busy and self-absorbed. I still kept writing, although to a much lesser extent. I also started writing to my sister who was at uni in Bathurst.

When MrB and I moved to the UK in 1999 I continued to write to friends and family, however I found the homesickness and loneliness to be so great I needed to talk to people, so relied on the phone much more to get that connection. Our One-tel account was our only luxury.

Nowadays I sit at a computer all day, and yet don't utilise it as a tool to keep in touch - I'm happy to madly MSN online friends, but never seem to get around to sending lengthy emails to friends and family overseas. I have a brother who is overseas so often and out of the loop, yet I don't drop him a quick line relating the latest tales of his nieces' adventures.

I don't think it's just me either - I see the emails that pass between my father and his brothers back in the UK. They're often quick one-liners about Nanny or travel plans, nothing like the long letters full of news that we used to get. It's almost like there's an assumption that because the global village has shrunk so much - because we're all just a mouse-click away from each other - we just don't need to put in the effort anymore.

I think we're losing something, I'm losing something... The time spent reflecting and writing a letter has been absorbed into the daily hurdy-gurdy of life. I spend time writing this blog, but it's often done at work, when I don't have to sit and devote myself to the one activity.

Maybe I need to go buy myself a pack of notecards and send my gorgeous friend a thank you card. And I may just relate a couple of twin-related anecdotes, because as their Prayer-Parents I know she'd like to hear it. I'll even go out now, in the rain, to show my new-found dedication to the art of letter-writing.

Be Right Back.

Archie-ing II

We went Archie-ing on the weekend. It has become somewhat of a tradition (ie, we went last year too) for Chesty and I to yum cha and then proceed to the Gallery for some High Brow Art Viewing. With Big Girls in tow. They had been growing increasingly excited about it for weeks.

Which means that the train trip up from Bulli was a little ... squealy. And bubble-y. And chatt-y.

This year, the yum cha experience was improved by the presence of
a) plentiful pork products
b) W, Mex and Scruffy (who's not scruffy AT ALL, but is in fact quite delightful. Though messy. And without the forethought to cover his mess with strategically placed napkins, as per Miss M's example.)

Me, being the famous art critic that I am, heartily concurs with the SMH's reviewer, and can state categorically that this years Archibald Prize finalists were Quite Boring. My fave two were

Ben Quilty by Cherry Hood

Black Sheep of the Family by Darren Crothers

The Wynne prize for landscapes was much better, with some gorgeous luscious paintings.

The Sulman prize for whatever was, erm, well, yeah. Mainly because Miss M wanted me to explain the meaning of the painting entitled 'Pornography of Hope' which featured a lovely depiction of a woman engaged in fellatio. Not the easiest to explain to a 9 year old in a crowded Art Gallery. I tried distraction, but unfortunately it was all she'd bloody talk about. Bugger. She is now telling all and sundry about the 'rude painting' she saw, and how her mother wouldn't explain it to her... And she's going to stay at my in-laws this weekend and I am greatly afeared of what she's going to tell them...

At least Miss H was only obsessed with gingerbread men




Update:

Whoops! Might have been a good idea to check this out first:

[This being, because Blogger has decided to eat my photos, a screen shot from the Art Gallery of NSW, saying, in a bright red border:

Special notice: K-12 Teachers
The Sulman exhibition contains an artwork that may be considered graphic in content by some audiences.K-6 and 7-12 Teachers are advised to preview the painting by Andrew Frost, The Pornography of Hope 2006, in the second last room.Please consider the artwork's suitability for viewing by your students.]

Bugger.

Again.

Love

Last night was RevJen's last day at our church. She was 'de-commissioned' - heh.
Church was a pretty amazing place to be last night, because as well as mourning the loss of our most amazing pastor, we were also mourning the loss of a parishioner who had died last week in quite tragic and shocking circumstances.

Jen preached on 1 John 7-21, focusing on v. 10

In this is love, not that we loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the atoning sacrifice for our sins.

The church was filled with a great sense of love - for God, for Jen, for Mark, and for each other... trying to care for one another in the confusion that we all feel at the moment. You see, Mark committed suicide, having battled mental illnesses for most of his life. He wasn't that old mad man shouting at the clouds, but a young-ish guy quoting great chunks of the bible, and blessing all and sundry. He could be as frustrating as hell, but we just kept trying to love him, and always welcomed him as a fellow worshipper on Sunday evenings.

Anyway, Jen quoted a poem from here. It is about an amazing minister in the UK, but I think it can be applied just as much to the amazing RevJen.

Rob's God
I want to follow Rob’s God;
God-the-goal of my soul’s education.
Rob’s God is approachable, articulate and artful,
A glowing God, of graceful inclination.
Rob’s God snowboards cloudscapes
And paints daisies on his toes,
While watching Chaplin re-runs
On his i-Pod.
He smiles at cats and children,
Jumps in puddles with his shoes on,
A ‘where’s-the-fun -in-fundamentalism?’ God.
Rob’s God doesn’t shoot
His own wounded,
Or blame the poor for failing
At prosperity.
He doesn’t beat the broken
With bruised reeds from their garden,
Or tell the sick that healing’s their
Responsibility.
Rob’s God is a poet,
Painting people as his poems;
A sculptor shaping symphonies from stone
A maker of mosaics
Curator of collages
Woven from the wounds and wonders
We have known
A furnace of forgiveness;
Rob’s God radiates reunion
Pouring oil on every fight
We’ve ever started
A living lover
Loving laughter
Lending light
To the helpless and the harmed and heavy-hearted
Other Gods may claim more crowded churches
Higher profiles
Better ratings
Fuller phone-ins
But in the contest for commitment
In the battle for belief
In the war to woo my worship;
Rob’s God wins
In the fight for my faith’s fervour:
In the struggle for my soul;
In the race for my respect
Rob’s God wins.
Absolutely.
Gerard Kelly May 11th 2006

That she quoted the poem, talking about her discomfort at the gratitude being showered upon her, when really last night should have been about mourning Mark, just further underscores what an amazingly gracious and humble servant of Christ she is.

I'm losing her sermons and her ministry, but not her friendship, which is the only way I held things together last night!

And I've been thinking that there's probably one very good thing that will come out of Jen going... I no longer have any links with the hierarchy of the church - I resigned from Parish Council about 6 months ago - so I go back to being a punter in the pews and not let anger and frustration at Church politics impede me from worshipping God. Because, as John continues...

20 Those who say, "I love God," and hate their brothers or sisters, are liars; for those who do not love a brother or sister whom they have seen, cannot love God whom they have not seen. 21 The commandment we have from him is this: those who love God must love their brothers and sisters also.

Pity Party

I apologise in advance if the following post makes little sense... Or littler sense than usual. I'm all groggy with a cold, and have that disconcerting 'head is twice as big as usual' feeling. But I'll soldier on...

I've been thinking about friendship recently. The further into my thirties I travel, the less 'Real Friends' I seem to have. And yet conversely, due to the wonders of technology (ie the Blogosphere), I have many more 'imaginary friends' than I would have considered possible... These faceless friends, with their witty one-liners and heartfelt suggestions actually know more about the day-to-day crapness of my life than my oldest and dearest confidantes.

Of my friends who I am able to have and to hold, only two read this blog. This may be because they're the only two who have regular access to a computer, or maybe it's because they're the only ones I want reading this crap. Who knows? Hey Sarah! Hey RevJen! *waves madly*

When we were at school, there was always clear delineations of friendship... there were 'bosom buddies' within subgroups, within larger 'classes' of kids... For instance Cath & I were bestest friends from Year 7, and generally hung out with a subgroup of KindaNerdy girls, who would socialise with the larger Band/Music class. Yet, after high school, I maintained contact with only 3 of these girls, and they were members of the Band, not the close little subgroup I was part of.

The friends that I made at uni - a close-knit group of four - they're the stayers. I guess the difference between school and uni is that the first is a group of kids thrown together with only geography as the unifying factor. At uni you have the experience of sharing interests and passions and discovering yourself. Of our little group of friends, we each had friends outside, although even then there was a subgroup within that group, as Jude & I had been at school together, and went to church together. She is still, to this day, my best and closest friend. I adore her. And yet, it's Sarah - the only one of us not 'Married with Children' - that I share this blog with. She's the only one I can trust to read this and not immediately become concerned for my spiritual well-being! She's the only one to whom I can expose certain parts of my soul, simply because I know she gets it. I love her too.

Yet, with our busy busy lives, we have such little time for our friends, and even less time for acquaintances. It's sad.

Now finally, the reason for such navel-gazing and reminiscence, is that my beloved RevJen is leaving the Illawarra.

And I don't know what I'm going to do....

I just can't express what a great gaping hole her absence is going to leave in my life. I mean, it's not like she's being swept up to heaven on a cherub-borne cloud, she's only going to *gasp* the North Shore, but as far as I'm concerned she's crossing oceans...

I may be being just a tad melodramatic here.

But only she & I know just how much I depend on her - she knows all my dirty secrets, and still loves me. She keeps me grounded, and keeps me sane. And will only very occasionally put on her dog collar to make me accountable...
Her move is going to be so good for her, her career and her family, and I'm so conflicted because I want the wider world to recognise her utter brilliance, but I also want her to stay put. But for the selfishest reasons in the world. We love her and want her amazing mind and heart and sermons all to ourselves!
And I don't want the CleryWife's little mini-me (aka Baby A) to grow up without me. I love that all my girls, even though they see her every week, all squeal and run to throw themselves at her. Well all except Miss M, who's now so grown-up she'll just go 'huh. hey jen' and then wander off...

And if you knew just where she's going, you'd want to slap me for being a complete idiot. Seriously.

I just hope there'll be someone at her new church that is happy to call a spade a spade, and not indulge in that earnest passive aggression that is the hallmark of church politics. I need to know that someone will look after her, because He knows she needs it.

Pah! Sappy crappy girly stuff.

Jen - just don't pack my mother's flan tins because she's getting well pissed!

Forever Friends?

I've been dwelling on the issue of friendship lately. What is a friend? What's the difference between friends, acquaintances, colleagues... When does a friend kinda stop being a friend? When does a mate become a Best Friend Forever (TM)? And if you are a BFF, can you ever unbecome one?
Also, if you share friends with your partner, when does the pre-existing relationship take precedence over the tacked-on friendship?
Hmmm... The dilemmas...

I don't have any friends left from primary school, but that doesn't worry me at all. And I am in awe of people who have managed to keep friendships going for that long. The shared experience of an entire life, it's kinda cool. I do however have a few friends from High School that will remain in the BFF section of my heart. And it's Cathy, my BFF that I met on the first day of Year 7, all those long years ago (OK, scarily, it was 20 years ago) that I've been thinking about a lot recently. I got the new Dixie Chicks album, and the title track 'The Long Way Around' just says 'Cathy' to me:-

My friends from high school

Married their high school boyfriends

Moved into houses

In the same ZIP codes where their parents live

But I. I could never follow

No I. I could never follow

I hit the highway

In a pink RV with stars on the ceiling

Lived like a gypsy

Six strong hands on the steering wheel

I've been a long time gone now

Maybe someday, someday I'm gonna settle down

But I've always found my way somehow

By takin the long way round.

She's over in Marjorca now, doing, um, stuff. She's worked on the huge yachts that berth there, working as a chef. She's taught English in China. She's been married and divorced. She bought a place in Little Eveleigh St. She just did, does, whatever the hell she wants. I admire that in a girl!

We were inseparable throughout high school, provoking the usual Shire suspicion that we were in fact... (whisper it) Lesbians! We weren't, of course, but it kinda amused us that our classmates just didn't have the same depth of friendship with each other. And of course, we had a MASSIVE fight just before the HSC, mainly due to the fact that we would shortly be headed in very different directions... We didn't speak for about 8 years. Then I rang her, while I was living in the UK. She was in Spain. We caught up, and it was like... it was like nothing had ever happened. We slipped back into the knowing exactly what each other thought, picking up on every little nuance of character. I played 'Articulate' with her, and we blitzed it! One word could convey a multitude of things between us. So much more so than between MrB and I.

I need to email her... I miss Cathy.