Pictures that hint at stories

It is late and I'm too tired to write, but we are homehomehome and delighted about it. Check out the themes for the day, and you can hear about them tomorrow...

Not Bad

I began this entry on the Milford Mariner sitting in the dining room with Aidan while Naomi showered off the cold Tasman sea in our cabin after a kayak and swim off the back of the boat. The sandflies were hovering near my DEET-covered body, but they weren’t not brave enough to land—good news for everyone, really. We have spent the last couple of days contemplating beauty and marveling at every turn that the beauty scale needs to keep shifting higher and higher. And now that we’re here in Milford Sound, we have found beauty so shocking as to be dizzying—we are wishing for an entirely new vocabulary.

Suddenly I understand why Keith’s language has seemed so off to me these last years since our first visit. He thinks of Paekakariki as sort of “ordinary lovely” which has always stunned me. Then, Kaikoura—which is one of the most magnificent places I’ve ever been, snow-capped mountains falling away to azure seas filled with dolphins—he thinks of as “beautiful, but not spectacular.” It is only here in Fiordland that Keith will finally call the landscape “spectacular.” I have thought of him as deluded in a sort of sweet, understated New Zealand way.

It turns out, though, that down here in the deep south, the Kiwis are all confused about the beauty—how could they not be, really? We have moved from one lake mirroring towering mountains to the next. All of the mountain ranges are different here: smooth ones worn by time, jagged ones pushed by earthquake, and straight-sided sheets of granite carved out by glaciers. All of the lakes are different: massive, with waves like the sea; small with waters stained a deep green by tree leaves, steeping like tea; tiny and so mirror-still that I keep turning and turning the photographs on my computer to figure out which way is up. There are so many varieties of magnificent that the word pales, that we have started to use phrases for different kinds of ugly to describe the landscape when we’re bored with the “beautiful” vocabulary. “Look at that cliff face mirrored in the lack below: that is so unattractive,” one of us will say. “Yes, but that waterfall catching the light and glowing from the inside: that is repulsive,” another will counter. “Ahhh, totally hideous,” we’ll all agree, snapping pictures which will never show the grandeur of the place.

We do this in jest because we’re just visiting, but we’ve noticed that, like Keith, the other New Zealanders down here do these things without seeming to notice. At lunch in Te Anau yesterday, we asked how far it was to Queenstown. “Less than two hours,” the barista assured us. “But it’s not a very nice drive,” she said, wrinkling her nose. We discovered she was delusional in both cases: the drive was three hours and would easily have been one of the prettiest drives we’ve ever taken—if we hadn’t taken those other drives this week. We passed through rolling hills filled with sheep and deer farms, crossed racing, rock-strewn streams, and passed around one mountain range and then through a couple of others. “Not very nice,” indeed.

I have wondered about what it does to the brain to live in a New Zealand landscape, whether the natural beauty which surrounds you releases such huge quantities of dopamine and other happy drugs that the kiwi brain forms differently, swimming in new kinds of chemicals. I don’t have any evidence yet that this release of drugs makes people more smart or kind or loving than people elsewhere (although there is anecdotal evidence to suggest this might be the case). It is clear, though, that living in these spaces changes your ability to recognize beauty when you see it.

Aidan and I walked into the wheelhouse for warmth on a still crisp morning, the fur seals playing in the water, the towering edges of the fjord ending nearly a mile above us in a navy-blue sky. There had been a pod of dolphins—one a tiny calf—playing in the wake of the boat. I sighed with a pleasure so deep it moved through my body and said to the skipper, “This is quite a day, isn’t it?”

“Not bad,” he answered matter-of-factly from his position at the wheel. “Not a bad day at all.”

Pics today are pretty obvious and all from Milford Sound: looking out over the bow of the boat at the sound; Michael and Naomi kayaking in the mouth of the sound in the Tasman sea; one of the many lovely lovely waterfalls--first from close up and then watching the twin of our boat as it gets up close to the waterfall--just for scale (the boat holds about 120 people, or sleeps 66 plus crew--not a small boat).

Just pictures

Tonight just pictures from our time on the way to Milford Sound--notice that these aren't even the pictures OF Milford Sound or our night there. Mostly they're to show how magnificent it is just driving around here: A stop at the mirror lakes (we have pictures of the mountain itself too, but it's cooler in the reflection--click on the picture and read the yellow and green DoC sign); Michael at lunch; Naomi, more interested in the stinky magazine than the beautiful mountain; and the whole family, Aidan, as usual, looking his own way. Wait till you see what's in store for tomorrow!

Of horses and hobbits

When we sat on the floor of the hotel this morning, looking out at the mirror-still lake and the doubled mountains, I wondered why we hadn’t made our plans earlier. We passed around the brochures, made phone calls on three different phones, and finally had a plan: horseback riding, a walk on a trail, and then a boat ride to the glow worm caves. This sounded pretty good, I thought. I had no way of imagining how stunning it would all be.

First, the horseback ride. We had chosen to go with the extremely laid-back fellow who had promised us “quiet” horses and lovely views—mostly because he was the one who would take Aidan (the other horse places thought Aidan was too young). We drove up to find our horses saddled and waiting, and the rancher and his teenage daughter waiting for us. The rancher—who seemed overly-quiet and smirking at first—unfolded slowly as we rode across his magnificent lands. He and his daughter—who was leading Aidan’s horse—led us up hills, through sheep pastures, past yearling horses and nursing foals. By the time we rode down the hill at the end of the ride, I was in love with the reticent rancher and his lands. We had talked about his theories of horse raising—gently and with lots of love—and about his wish to sell pieces of the ranch to give himself the time and money to set up a fishing business. Why? “Cause you’re a long time dead,” he explained to me. His horses were the most gentle I’ve ever seen, and the ride the most beautiful. I was so blissed out afterwards that I hardly noticed how sore my ass was.

When we got home, Rob (who had spent the morning mountain biking—he’s not a big horse fan), took us on the short walk he had chosen: the Kepler Track, a 3-4 day walk on which we spent a couple of beautiful hours. Here, although we were next to a lake surrounded by mountains, we saw neither lake nor mountains. Instead we were in the bush next to the lake, surrounded by tall trees and sweeping fern plantings. In this magical grove, we searched for hobbit prints, and we were convinced that some of the enormous beech trees were ents who followed our noisy gang disapprovingly.

That takes us only to the early evening, when things got really good. But now it's the late evening and I can hardly keep my eyes open. So you'll have to wait for the glow worm caves for tomorrow. Just know that here we are, in the most beautiful place I've ever been--and still we aren't to the place Keith tells us is "really spectacular." I will need to learn more words to be able to describe in any way how beautiful this world is

South Island perfection

And so we are off. The kids are tucked next to the window, peering at the south island below. The full moon hovers over the crinkles of cloud-dusted hills. In the very distance, the tops of the highest mountains are still snow-covered. Here, even the plane rides are spectacular.

I have brought this laptop so that I can record the trip and download pictures, but I have not brought any work. Not any. The folders with my NZCER work and my book project are safely inside my work bag—which is tucked next to the desk at home. In my backpack I have only travel guides, snacks, this laptop, and a thick novel. I cannot remember the last time I went anywhere with just a novel in my bag. I feel light and free and thrilled about this trip, to the most beautiful art of the most beautiful country in the world—my home.

Getting onto this 6:50 plane was no great joy. We woke at 4 to shower and finish getting the house in perfect shape for the open home on Sunday. Melissa and Ayla (who was still in PJs) arrived just after 5 to take us to the airport (the definition of true friendship is someone who comes at 5am to take you to the airport). The car ride to town was filled with laugher and attempts at Kiwi pronunciation (modeled by Ayla, the only real Kiwi in the bunch), and once we got here there were English crumpets at the Koru Club lounge (thanks to Jane, who introduced us to the idea of English crumpets).

But now we are here, tucked into a hotel in Te Anau, surrounded by mountains and deep blue lakes. Today we will horseback ride around the lake and see glow worm caves. Tomorrow we will travel north and kayak on the fjords. We are blissed out and awed by both the beauty of this place and by how empty and laid back it is even during its high season. We love New Zealand!

Off

Tomorrow we'll make our billionth trip to the airport this month--this time for the whole family to go together to the south island to have a holiday. If there is internet access over the next five days, you'll see fantastic pictures here. Otherwise, there will be a series of fantastic pictures once i get back. Just don't worry that we've gone quiet--we're adventuring!

Coming home on a jet plane

I do not think I’ve ever been more excited about an airplane than I was today. The problem was that we weren’t quite sure which plane to be so excited about. On my way out the door to get Naomi, I stopped to check her flight to be sure it was on time. I looked at the Girl Guides letter to get the flight information. Only one problem—there was no flight by that airline with those numbers. Or at that time. We tried to research the whole thing by calling various airlines, but they wouldn’t disclose any information (of course). So we found an airplane with the same times from to same departure city (although with a different airline and flight number) and we went to that gate to meet her there. We figured that we were in the right place by the vast numbers of families waiting outside the gate. I was all aflutter.

The plane was late, and I kept sneaking towards the security guards who had a better vantage point to see if I could watch it pull up to the gate. Finally one of them called out to me: “It just pulled in—she’ll be out in just a minute or two.” I suppose I had Nervous-Girl-Guide-Mother written all over me. Eventually the passengers started to trickle out. The first set, led by a grandmotherly-type, looked at the mass of families gathered and laughed. “They’re coming!” she told us. “There are Girl Guides on the plane?” I called after her. “You better believe it!” said another disembarking passenger, rolling his eyes, “And I’m glad they’re going home with you and not me!” The hallway, filled with people who were also glad the girls weren’t going home with this strange man, laughed appreciatively at his joke. And then there were Guides. They, who had gotten on to the plane ten days ago bright-eyed, their mint-green fleeces pristine, were now a motley crew. They tumbled off the plane in small packs, rumpled and exhausted, to pour limply into the arms of waiting parents.

I scanned the crowd, waiting waiting. And then there she was—bleary eyed and stumbling under the weight of a too-heavy back pack. My eyes filled with tears and I held her and held her (terrible pictures today, but check out Aidan’s face in the first picture). Exhausted, she mumbled a couple of words of greeting. “Would you like to tell us stories or would you like to just be quiet together for a little while and get used to being home again?” I asked her. She wanted quiet and fresh air so while Michael waited for the luggage, we went outside to breathe in the crisp scent of taxi fumes and cigarette smoke. These must have been just what she needed, because in seconds the silence was broken in a major onslaught of words. Stories poured out in a torrent that didn’t stop for several hours. Every word was a jewel, a reminder of how much I loved this child, how much I had missed her, how interesting her perspective was, how lovely and idiosyncratic her vocabulary.

I have loved my time alone with Aidan. I have loved watching him as the center of attention. At a barbeque last night, he held court and amused all the party-goers, who flocked around him (mostly women in their 50s and beyond) and gleefully repeated some of his particularly clever phrases, rolling his words and ideas around in their mouths. He has done well as king of the castle and has survived his longest separation ever from his sister. I worried that he would resent his sister’s return as she knocked him back into little-brother status. Great was his joy at seeing her, though. He listened intently to each story, occasionally asking a question or asserting her intelligence/ skill/ courage/ luck or other forms of excellence. It wasn’t for several hours that the general bickering began.

And now, after a walk up the beach to the pizza shop and a slice of Jane’s birthday cake after a bubble bath, Naomi is tucked up into bed for the first time in ten nights. She is weary and pleased to be home, with none of the post-vacation blues she has tended towards in the past. It is, in fact, the perfect combination—a little girl who was delighted to be away when she was away and is delighted to be home now that she’s home. And me? I am the mother who keeps stopping in her tracks and holding her big girl in a full body hug for minutes at a time.

Picking paths

When does it get less hard to know what you want? It is the middle of the first month of the year, and I’m already confused about what things to say yes to and what things to turn away from. I have gotten a follow-up offer from the folks who want me to teach a leadership development programme. The programme still looks fantastic; the pay is still just terrible. Part of me thinks I should reject it out of hand for being out of the ballpark financially; part of me thinks I should suck it up and know that I very rarely make decisions about things based on money and it’s probably late to begin. My friends sit on those sides of the fence, too (with more of them on the Walk-away side than the Take-the-job side).

They want 30 days of my time in 2008. That’s 6 work weeks. They want it, of course, spread across the year in one- and three-day chunks. The work is really good. I really like the people.

Ah, but there are so many good things to do in the world! There is so much bounty, so many choices. I sometimes actually weep with joy and astonishment over all the wonderful things which are available to me in this life. Look at me. It is almost impossible to count all of my blessings. So do I take this job to be another blessing in my life? Or do I find that actually there are better options ahead and to take this job would be to foreclose on important and delightful possibility?

I have been trying to look back at decisions I regret. My regrets live in the time when I’m packing a suitcase at 11:30 at night, printer still humming from the workshop I’ll lead or paper I’ll present. Then the what-made-me-think-I-could-do-all-this regrets come to mind (sound familiar, Carolyn?). When I put one foot in front of the other and slog, zombie-like, through my work. When I come to the startling realisation that I cannot actually do a good job at ANY of the things I’ve agreed to and thus will do a crappy job at all of them. These feelings have been my close companions these last decades.

When do I regret not doing something? This is a less familiar category. I felt pangs of regret when the Kenning boondoggle came up on my calendar and I pictured my partners/friends on a beach on the other side of the world. I regret that I can’t see Emily Saliers at St John next week (ARGH!). I have felt lots of regret that I don’t make time for being a fuller participant in the kids’ school like lots of the other mothers. Notice that none of these are about turning down work.

That might be because I say No so rarely that I don’t know what it feels like. Or it may be because when I say No it just slides off me and I don’t mind it at all. Knowing which of these was true would be a help.

I made a rule a couple of years ago that I would be clear about what I loved and say Yes only to those things which brought me joy. That rule is a perfect introductory sorting mechanism. Saying No to those things which don’t bring me joy has become fairly obvious—there are so many lovely things to do in the world, why would I want to involve myself in the not-lovely ones? But there are so many lovely things in the world that I hardly know how to choose among them.

Last night for dinner, I made panko tofu (which you should try, even though I can tell you’re doubtful), Michael made garlic mashed potatoes, and Rob made grilled zucchini. We sat in the sunshine on the front porch and listened to the birds and ate the food and it was so good I couldn’t stop. The food was magically good. Even Jane, who isn’t a tofu girl, couldn’t stop eating it (only Aidan, who isn’t a zucchini boy, could resist the lure of all three dishes). Thank god we ran out of food because otherwise I would still be there, still eating the food because I loved to have it in my mouth. I feel this way about my life choices—they’re all so good that even when I’m stuffed (=full in the American way), I can hardly turn down another mouthful. And so when I’m a little hungry, and I am at the beginning of the year’s buffet line, how do I know what to put on my plate? How do I know how to know? Each decision comes with its own joys, it’s own miseries. Each decision opens and forecloses. And all along, the time is hurling by us, kids growing, renovation bills mounting, interesting work everywhere I look. You won’t find me complaining about this as an issue, but you will find me walking on the beach, faced furrowed, as I try to figure it out. There are worse problems to have.

PS Pictures today are random: of the Whanganui River Road sign, beautiful Aidan, and the house renovation. And just so you know--I turned down the job.

Guided

Friday was the day. Naomi finished putting the more than one hundred required pieces (of clothing and gear) into her enormous duffle and staggered out the door and to the car. It was time to head to the Girl Guide Jamboree.

Michael needed to stop by his office on the way to the airport—pure torture for Naomi. She got tired of asking how long he would be and then wandered forward in the minivan, first to pretend to drive the car (which she did with the zeal of a 6 year-old) and then to cuddle in my lap with the sweet attention of a tiny child. We practiced her breathing exercises for when she got worried or couldn’t sleep: big belly breaths with something like a mantra: on the inhale “I breathe in my mommy’s love for me” and on the exhale, “I breathe out my daddy’s love for me,” (or switching them if that wasn’t working). I told her as long as she paid attention to her breath, we would be as close as if we were in the next room. We breathed together, my hand on her belly, until Michael came back to the car. Then we were off.

The airport was a seething mass of little girls in mint green pullovers. They were nervously holding their mothers’ hands, clustered in giggling groups, feasting on sugary snacks and drinks as their last indulgence for a while. A knot rose up in my throat looking at them—so many of them were bigger than my little girl, with the figures and attitudes of young women. And some of them were littler than my big girl, too, waist high and wide eyed; how could you send that tiny person on a plane and away for ten days? We were, as commanded, at the airport two hours before the plane (an absurdity here in Wellington where you don’t even go through security until you board). We wandered through the airport shops until Naomi had had enough—she wanted to sit with the other girls from the Kapiti coast troupes. So we went to where one of the billions of helpful adults had sent her, a cluster of girls playing cards and sitting on the floor near the window. Getting near the girls was enough, though, as it turned out. Naomi didn’t know any of the girls well, and she didn’t want to actually sit with them. So we sat near them and Aidan ate lunch (Naomi was too nervous) and she and I played double solitaire and chatted. We talked about how she would be in communication with me, and I gave her a lovely stationary set and stamps. As I held the package and talked to her about writing to us, I remembered the hundreds of times I had been given stationary, the imploring letters which had been attached to them. I heard come out of my mouth my father’s words, “I don’t care what you write to me—tell me anything at all about what’s going on for you. Just write, ok, Jenny?” Naomi smiled—as little Jenny had done—and promised. I can only hope her promise has more substance than mine ever did.

And then it was time to go. We inched our way toward the departure gate in a snaking line of mint-green. Naomi found the only girl from her troupe who was also going—a girl Naomi finds too clingy regularly but who, at this moment, seemed to be just right. We shuffled slowly to the edge of the security screening, to the PASSENGERS ONLY sign. “Do you have your boarding pass?” I asked. Of course she did. “Do you have all of your things? Your money? Your stationary?” Yes yes yes. Pose for a picture, last one—ok, one more, one more one more. And then she was through the gate and I watched her put her backpack on the belt, walk through the metal detectors, pick the bag up on the other side, and walk onto the plane. She didn’t look back.

I stood there and watched her grow blurry as my eyes filled with tears. Was I crying for all the times I had gotten on a plane to go from one parent to the other in the past? Was I crying for all the times she’ll get on the plane without me in the future? Or was I crying because at that moment, my precious first-born was fully out of my care and out of my company? This is the beginning of the next place for us, a place where her body and mind change from being a little girl to being more and more ready to go off into the world. I am a developmentalist; I love the way she is growing, love the big girl she is becoming. I love everything about this time with her. And, as it marks time for me, I miss what I’ve lost and all that won’t come again. Time rushes forward, beautifully, horribly, and we are swept into the stream of it. The alternative is stagnation and denial and a world I don’t want to live in. But for these ten days (now half way gone), Naomi and I are caught in different jetties and pulled by different currents. My heart pulls towards Sunday afternoon when I get to go and be caught up in the mint-green flood again as big and little girls are welcomed home. I breathe in my love for her. I breathe out her love for me. I hold Aidan tightly and count the minutes until my lap is overflowing again with two children, and I try not to count the years until my lap is empty.

PS:

Two emails from Naomi today:

The first one:
Dear Mom,
Please do not return this email. Please send me aletter instead.

The second:

Dear mom,
sorry about the last email. someone next to me pressed send. but please don't
reply to this email. i have not rieceved any mails from you. have you gotten
anything from me?
I have to go.
I love you.
Love,
Naomi

Friendly perspectives

My friend Jane has come from the US to hang out and study with me and marinate in the beauty of this place instead of the bitter cold of a typical Boston January (although there have been record highs in Boston this year—go figure). She’s a doctoral student, studying in the same field as me, and doing similar work. She’s come to learn more about the Subject-Object Interview and how to use it with coaching clients, but she has also been soaking in what it means to have young children around and also what it means to live in this beautiful place. It’s always funny to have others in the house because I learn so much about myself as I watch them watch us. I’ve learnt, for example, that kids are full-on and take heaps of time. This is not an unexpected discovery—I live it each day. But watching through Jane’s eyes, I think about how very full on it all is and ask myself again why it is that people have children. And then, watching Jane play with Aidan or cuddling in her lap and I come to have a surge of love so strong it takes my breath away, and I wonder how anyone can do without them.

Last week I took the excuse of having Jane here and invited a handful of really interesting colleagues to come to my house for a day’s discussion about leadership development. And although I gave folks less than a week’s notice, and although it’s a season where most people are on holiday, and although three of them had to take planes to be here, nearly everyone showed up. It was an amazing day, sitting in my solariage and feeling the wind blow through, having people from different parts of my New Zealand and US lives mingle and spread into one interesting conversation, and feeling astonished that at last I could be the one introducing people together, that I could be building networks rather than being always the new girl who is being introduced. And in addition to the wonderful coming together of these different people from different parts of my experience, there was a moment where the different pieces of my work came together too.

We were talking about leadership development for the future, about what it is leaders might need to be able to do and how they might need to be able to think (in more curious open ways with less attention to single answers and more attention to the process of helping people work better together). And someone asked a friend from NZCER about schools and teachers—the other half of my work. She described what teachers and principals are going to need to be able to do in the future (think in more curious open ways with less attention to single answers and more attention to the process of helping people work better together). And you may notice that those are the same. There was this sharp intake of breath around the room as we all came to the same discovery: we’re not talking about just what one group or another needs to be able to do but rather about what all of us need to do better as a species, about what the world is demanding from humans at this point in history. This makes leadership development a schooling issue and makes schooling a leadership development issue. All of the streams braided together and suddenly my work was a single path instead of these two separate roads I keep trying to walk on at the same time.

So that’s one of the gifts of Jane’s presence, the new perspective her eyes give me on my own life and my own work; in addition to learning about her and what matters to her, I can also learn about me and what matters to me. Another key gift is that Jane and Rob together took care of Aidan for a day and a night so that Michael and I could have our first overnight alone in this country—only our second since Aidan was born. Most of the pictures today are from our journey, which I’ll hope to write more about in the next days (the first picture is of Jane, blissed out at the beach).

So on this Monday morning train ride with an out-of-school Aidan by my side, in some ways I feel more whole and complete here than I have yet. And in other ways, the job in Auckland is still up in the air, my work for the next six months still undefined, and a variety of life crises are happening in the lives of dear friends which brush up against and change my life too. The house I live in still hasn’t sold and the house I want to live in is still a hard-hat zone. So there’s no supposition that it’s all sweetness and light. Wouldn’t want to be too comfortable.

Inside out

Last week I went to my second education conference in a month here in this new land (note to self: two conferences in one month is at least one too many). This one was quite different from the last in that it is an international conference: only 30% of the 500 people here are kiwis. This puts me in a space I’ve never been to before. Generally, I’m the American in the midst of New Zealanders. At this conference, my name badge said NZ, my colleagues were New Zealanders, and I understand the NZ context and acronyms. I presented about NZ schools in groups of New Zealanders. I wasn't a native like the kiwis but I was also not a foreigner like the other 70% of attendees.

Six months ago this neither-here-nor-there place would have made me feel really uncomfortable. (You can check the blogs from June to see.) Last week, I was having fun with it. All of us from NZCER went out to dinner after the conference opening. We gossiped about the others we had seen there, and I heard stories about people I didn’t know—as usual. But I also heard about people I do know, and I got to catch up with friends I’ve made who don’t live in Wellington. We talked about major ideas in NZ education and I could engage at a whole different level than I have been able to before. We drank lovely NZ wine in the warm summer sun and watched the ships come and go in the Auckland harbour. "I love it here so much!" I called out to the delight of my colleagues. When the obviously-North-American waiter came to take my order, I asked him where he was from. “A little town in the US called Annapolis which most people haven’t heard of here,” he told me, and we chatted mid-Atlantic news for a few minutes. I complemented him on his pronunciation of “fillet” (which he said with an “et” ending instead of the “ay” ending we’d use in the US). He said, "No one understands what I'm saying if I say it the regular way," and the kiwis at the table were mystified at our union about that—what other way would you pronounce fillet?

On the second night of the conference, Robyn took me to her son’s flat for dinner. There, I glimpsed inside my friend’s family and met the lovely grown man she raised. Again, I was an outsider—had never met S or his partner before—but I was welcomed inside, an outsider-friend. Together we poked at the fire and cooked corn on the cob over open flames, and I laughed and laughed at the pukekos climbing up out of the estuary (it’s worth a look at these fantastic birds: click here ). We talked about what we do for a living and what we do for joy, and I suddenly felt more family than foreign on the whole scale of things.

The next morning I sat down next to an American at the opening symposium. We were supposed to turn to a neighbour and explain a particular piece of our school system to this international colleague. She explained something about the Florida system and, after a glance at my name tag, asked me about New Zealand. I opened my mouth to explain that I was from the US, but then it turned out that I really did know the answer to her question from the NZ context. So I explained that and then she carefully explained Florida to me and the particulars of her part of Florida—as though I had never heard of Florida before. I told her I knew Florida, that I was from the US, but she glossed over that and continued on. My name tag said New Zealand, and so it was. I was from a country around the world from Florida, and I needed the context! I smiled to myself, and when she asked questions, I gave more context from my part of the world, this little island nation I call home.

(pictures today are mostly from the conference opening at the Orakei Marae which is also worth a look: http://www.ngatiwhatuaorakei.com/Orakei_Marae.htm. The picture of me with the kids is in a rose garden in Wellington.)

A thank you for Dad and Jamie

Aidan opening your Christmas present:
(but nobody got a better present than me! THANKS!)

a whole new year

The blog has been a quiet space these last weeks, and it’s because I’ve been percolating. And I’ve been sitting on the beach. I’ve gotten fundamentally relaxed about some things and wound up in a knot about others. That’s actually a better record than I might have had before -- I didn't used to ever get fundamentally relaxed. A couple of stories.

First, the week before Christmas I flew up to Auckland to meet with some people there who are doing leadership development. I loved these people and their mission and everything about them. I was totally excited about the chance to work with them. And then they offered me a role in the organisation. It could be part time, and I could do it from Wellington. Those are the beautiful upsides. There is quite a bit of travel—small trips, but still several days at a time away from home. And the pay is seriously bad. Seriously. These are major downsides. I have to say that this combination spun me out. I have spent the last three weeks going in circles and questioning everything. How much do I want to travel? How do I want to spend my time? I work two days a week at NZCER. I want to leave some time for unpaid writing work as I write this book which was due so long ago and write on this blog and maybe even get back to some fiction. But I also really miss teaching and leadership development work, and here there’s a door open right for it. But since time doesn’t expand to fit the available opportunities, something has to go. I have been several weeks alternately lounging on the beach and spinning over that question. I am still spinning on it, amazed that one small job offer for one small job could put everything into question. Life is like that, though. When elements come in or out of focus, they change our relationship to the other things we see in our picture. This element changed my sense of things and left me wondering. Why do I do what I do? Who cares? What is the biggest difference I can make in my life? What brings me the most joy? I am still pondering.

Christmas and New Years were both jewels. On Christmas day my family of five plus my friend Karen and Melissa and Ayla and two of her dear friends piled into our house to fill it with laugher and fantastic food. The chefs cooked (nearly all of the adults have been cooks professionally), the children and I made Christmas Crackers (not the ones you eat but the ones you pull and make a big popping noise and get a toy and joke), and the house was cozy and magnificent. It felt like a postcard family Christmas, with laughter and children and feasting. Only it was a postcard some-other-holiday with our shrimp barbeque and the sound of the sea in the background. I thought about how lonely I was last year at this time and breathed in the difference a year makes. And ahhhhh, the food! (Reread Ode to Rob if you don’t know how lovely the food was!)

On New Years eve, Melissa took us to a party with some friends of hers who live up the street in the village. This is New Years, Kiwi style. There was a barbeque and kids playing on a water slide and climbing trees in this huge section of land. We struck party gold and met some couples who might become friends for us. And then, after the boys went home (Michael, Rob, and Aidan were all tired), Melissa and Naomi and I sat with her guitar in a little circle of people, and we sang songs in the late evening dusk. We watched the stars come out one by one until there were billions, and we sang songs I used to sing with my dad, his guitar in his arms, in the stairwell of the dorm we lived in in NY. And like those times, the circle grew and grew. Children who had been nestled into tents on the hill brought sleeping bags down to lie in the circle. Grownups pulled up chairs. Everyone tried to remember the words as Melissa struggled to read her songbook, candle held high above her. People hummed and laughed and sang the wrong words to the right tune or the wrong tune to the right words. By now it was dark and I couldn’t see any of them, and just felt enveloped in a circle of singers who were including me in their midst. The songs were punctuated by fireworks being set off in nearby houses, and so the stars would get momentary extra sparkle. I breathed in the beginning of the new year in a chilly summer’s evening, the southern cross blazing out of the other, still unknown constellations. Naomi and Melissa and I walked home hand in hand, singing The Circle Game as I thought about the seasons of my life turning.

And the seasons, they go round and round

And the painted ponies go up and down.

We’re captive on the carousel of time.

We can’t return we can only look

Behind from where we came

And go round and round and round

In the circle game.

Looking behind from where we came, things look pretty good here at the beginning of 2008.

(pictures today: the pohutakowa tree, the kiwi symbol of Christmas; a gray but fantastic afternoon during the Christmas holidays; Christmas morning and evening.