I know blogging is a lot less of a thing now and everyone's over on Youtube or TikTok, but I'd rather write than do video content, so here I am. I want to start writing again, and this is where I can self publish my content.
I don't know what direction I'll take this yet. Still looking at life and faith and mental health mostly, as those are what my journey has been and still is. Maybe more book reviews too.
And art.
And probably cat pics.
This is Taco Cat.
So, this is an invitation to resume this journey with me. Ready?
Apologies for being missing in action these last few months. The current but of depression I've been battling against seems to have depleted my creative energy in all areas.
However, a new season is coming. The sap of creativity is flowing again.
Here is the result of my reflection on who I am, and what I have received through Christ. (Including, but not limited to...)
She felt the wave of pain spread up over her abdomen, increasing in intensity. She tried to breathe the way her mother has shown her, deep slow breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth. She had to stop walking for a moment, leaning on Joseph’s arm as the wave peaked and passed. He looked at her with concern. She was needing to pause more frequently for the last couple of miles. She knew what he was worried about: this was slowing them down, and they needed to reach Bethlehem before dark.
She rubbed at the small of her back, took a deep, determined breath, and began walking again. Earlier one of the others travelling with them had offered her a ride on their donkey, but the jolting was too uncomfortable, it made her back ache worse .
She could feel the pressure of the baby pushing down into her pelvis. She was tired and sore – her back was sore, her belly was sore, even her thighs were sore. There had been several times this day where she wasn’t sure if she could do this after all.
“I am the Lord’s servant,” she whispered, to remind herself. That day seemed so long ago now, yet she was sure of the vision she’d seen. She’d clung to the memory through the mocking and shunning of the other women and girls once the news of her condition spread through Nazareth. She continued to cling to the vision and the promise now, when it was just so hard.
As she walked, she hardly noticed any more the road and the fields they were passing. She held onto Joseph, trusting him to guide her. Walk, pause, breathe through the contraction, start walking again. If only she could rest. She was barely aware as Joseph knocked on the door of his cousin’s house, the brief conversation, then the turning away to walk once more through the streets. She only vaguely noticed Joseph say something about another relative the could try, a more distant cousin who might still have some room.
As yet another contraction swept over her, she wondered briefly if this day would ever end.
The contractions were consuming all her concentration. She heard voices as if from a great distance. Gentle hands guided her onto a small straw pallet. A woman’s voice, “It’s okay, Mary, I’m a midwife. It won’t be long now.”
A midwife. Mary felt a great tension she didn’t realise she’d had lift suddenly from her shoulders. Tears welled up from nowhere, spilling down her cheeks. The midwives in Nazareth had been among the women who shunned her. She'd only had her cousin Elizabeth, then in the last few months her mother, to tell her about what to expect. But the rumours and whispers had not reached Bethlehem, and Joseph was with her, and now here was an experienced midwife, with gentle hands and a reassuring voice.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” she confessed to the midwife.
“You’re doing great,” the woman replied, “the baby will be here soon.”
Another wave of contraction spread over her. Before it fully passed another started. Mary felt her muscles tighten involuntarily, again and again. “Just keep breathing,” the gentle voice reassured her.
“Good girl, the head’s out now. Just one more push with your next contraction.”
Then it was over, and the sound of a new-born baby’s cry filled the air. “It’s a boy,” the voice said, placing the warm, wet, slippery baby up onto Mary’s belly. She reached down to hold the baby, still partially attached to her body. As she looked at him, his eyes opened, gazing into her face. “He’s so beautiful,” and all the tiredness and pain disappeared from from her mind. She barely noticed the last few contractions and the midwife busying herself with the afterbirth. Everything was about this child, this new life, and the promise and hope that he brought to her.
“I am the Lord’s servant,” she whispered to the child, “Blessed be the name of the Lord.”
A small child, happily playing by herself, inhabiting magical worlds only she can see, is mocked and jeered at for not having any “real” friends.
So she learns to leave those worlds for night time dreams and supresses them during the day, learning to smile and be friendly and sociable. Although for some reason she is always left on the fringes, despite her best efforts to “fit in.”
Only when she’s completely alone does she re-enter her other worlds: worlds of forests and mountains, of music and magic, of rivers that sing and trees that whisper secrets if only you can learn to listen.
Over several decades more and more layers of “reality” smother and drown the magic and the music. Walls of protection against ridicule and rejection bury her true self deeper and deeper. As she grows into a woman, she learns to become “practical” and “real” and almost forgets such worlds ever existed, except in the fleeting way one remembers a dream after waking.
It’s a painful process, stripping away the pretence. Aslan’s claws must dig deep to rip away the thick layers of lies. Long forgotten wounds bleed afresh when exposed to the air in order to be cleansed. Yet the truth must be unburied: the Truth that declares “I am unique.”
So the woman, accepting and embracing her uniqueness, learns to hear again the songs sung by wind and river and trees, the warm hum of soft earth, the deep bass of rock, the anthems of the mountains and the soaring soprano of the stars. She learns to find her own voice in the symphony of creation, and her own Heart Song wells up within her of love and worship.
Then she sees her own child playing, inhabiting magical worlds where playmates are unable to follow.
O, My daughter, Do not let the world rob you of the wonder of your own imagination. Do not smother your unique true self, nurture and embrace your creativity so when the time comes your inner light can shine forth unhindered.
Jesus was sitting in the temple near the offering box and watching people put in their gifts. He noticed that many rich people were giving a lot of money. Finally, a poor widow came up and put in two coins that were worth only a few pennies. (Mark 12:41-42 CEV)
The sun was hot and bright. She tucked damp stray strands of hair back under her headscarf and crossed the street to find the shade. The dust was getting into her eyes and the smell of the sweaty sticky throngs of people and animals got into her nostrils. The pushing and shoving of the crowd carried her through the temple gates into the Women’s Court.
She stayed at the edge of the crowd, trying to pray despite the noise. The richly dressed Teachers glared sharply at her, sneering as they strode past. She shrank back into the shadows the best she could, to stay out of the way. She tightened her hand around the coins, their edges digging into her palm reassuring her that she hadn’t dropped them.
She carefully made her way to the offering box. Several times she was shoved roughly by one of the Teachers, their flowing linen robes showing the status of their office. It was one of those very Teachers that had evicted her from her hovel the previous day, after demanding more rent than she could afford, and more than the room was worth. She watched as he made a great show of dropping a fat purse of gold into the offering box.
A trickle of sweat escaped from under her headscarf and ran down her temple.
She remembered previous offerings she’d made. The time when she saw the box after the priests had emptied it and carried the contents to the treasury at the end of the day, and realised her small pennies were still stuck in the grime at the bottom – overlooked and forgotten.
Or the other time when the guards watching the offering box jeered at her as she dropped her small coins in, and cuffed at her to get out of the way of the wealthier worshippers.
Tears pricked in her eyes at the memories. She inhaled deeply, and reminded herself it didn’t matter, she was here to make her offering to God, and not to people. The taunts and jeers and blows were not going to stop her. This was her act of worship.
She’d learned to be as invisible as she could, to creep in when there were fewer people around, or they were looking elsewhere, quick and quiet and not noticed. There was that new teacher on the other side, he was talking to the crowds and everyone was listening to him. Even the guards were straining to hear him. Now. Quickly.
As she was scuttling back from the box, she glanced around to make sure she was unobserved, and to her shock found the new Teacher’s eyes were looking directly at her. But there was no scorn, no displeasure. Those eyes somehow looked right into her heart and soul, and they were filled with only Love.
Jesus told his disciples to gather around him. Then he said: “I tell you that this poor widow has put in more than all the others. Everyone else gave what they didn’t need. But she is very poor and gave everything she had. Now she doesn’t have a cent to live on.” (Mark 12:43-44, CEV)
Who am I To come into Your Holy Presence What have I To bring as my offering All those around Offer gifts of shining gold All I have Are these two copper coins
Here am I I bring myself to Your altar All of my heart All of my life I pray You’ll find my gift worthy Here at Your altar With my two copper coins
Here am I I’m kneeling in Your Holy Presence Here I come Bringing You this offering All those around Offer gifts of shining gold Here I bring You these two copper coins
Here am I I bring myself to Your altar All of my heart All of my life Your Love has found my gift worthy Here at Your altar With my two copper coins
Holy Ground (C) Claudia Mcfie and Louise Edgecumbe, 2014
When the walls come crashing down I'm left alone on shaking ground You are here. Your promise is unchanging You're still here by my side You are here.
In the clouds of your glory This world falls behind me You are here.
This is Holy Ground, Holy Ground Here on your presence. This is Holy Ground, Holy Ground Here in your presence, Holy Ground.
On my knees I'm crying out My praying words are failing me You are here. You carry me through darkness Holding me at all times You are here.
In the clouds of your glory This world falls behind me You are here.
This is Holy Ground, Holy Ground Here on your presence. This is Holy Ground, Holy Ground Here in your presence, Holy Ground.
First performed at Westside Church, Christchurch 27 July 2014 This recording 15 October 2014. Many thanks to: Vocals: Hannah Powell, Claudia McFie, Jairus Robb Keyboard: Hannah Powell Guitar: Jairus Robb Trumpet; Louise Edgecumbe Bass: Amy Scott Drums: Rebekah Wain Recording and production: Mike Young
"A prayer sung is a prayer prayed twice." (St Augustine, my paraphrase)
It's been a battle against discouragement to get to this point, with lots of bouts of “Not good enough”s. In February, near the anniversary of the 2011 earthquake, I was writing a poem of my prayer, a "Psalm" of my journey through the last few years through post disaster trauma. Reflecting that when I was not able to pray, to "feel" God's presence, there remained a certainty within me that He was there, and bringing me through this time.
As I reflect on His presence, I've become aware that even in the worst moments, when I was running for my life as building and masonry crashed to the ground around me, He was there.
As I praise and worship in the Now, the memories of That Moment become part of this worship. Somehow at the same time His presence reaches back into past and redeems the source of the pain, making that very moment when the world was lurching beneath my feet a Holy place.
It doesn't matter what you're circumstances are, what you're facing, even in the worst of all times: Right here, right now, in this time and this place, God is here. This is Holy Ground.
I’ve managed to avoid having much to do with Halloween. Until now.
The children were quite comfortable with being told “We just don’t do Halloween in our family, because Mummy doesn’t like it.” Until now.
Young Lady asked to go trick-or-treating with her friend. I said no.
I sat down with her and explained why I don’t like Halloween, that I feel uncomfortable with the emphasis on ghosts and ghouls and scary creepy things. I explained why I dislike trick-or-treating, (going up to strangers doors to ask for lollies when the rest of the time we tell children not to accept lollies from strangers, the potential for sugar overload, the implied encouragement of extortion and the commercialisation of the whole event.) Young Lady was unconvinced. “I’ll be with my friend, and I could find a nice costume not a scary one.”
No. It’s just not Kiwi. (Any stray trick-or-treaters that venture down our driveway are offered fresh fruit instead. I’m not a complete spoil sport.)
But I’ve nothing against children having fun. So I found a “Spring Party” hosted by a Church in the next suburb (Dress up but no scary costumes). I encouraged the children to think of a mini-wearable-arts project we could make (in three days with a tight budget). They sat down with pencil and paper and designed some ideas, I spent more than I intended at the local craft shop, and headed over to L’s to use her sewing machine and expertise.
“I’m not having fun!” grinned L as she gleefully snipped and sewed. Yeah, right.
We created a white dove, a black cat, and a blue space-man.
Then it turned out Young Lady’s friend didn’t really want to go trick-or-treating either (it was big sister’s idea) and was quite happy to join us in a non-scary event.
They had such a good time they all want to go back again next year.
Collect on the Eve of All Saints’
Almighty God,you have knit together your elect in one communion and fellowship in the mystical body of your Son Christ our Lord: grant us grace so to follow your blessed saints in all virtuous and godly living that we may come to those inexpressible joys that you have prepared for those who truly love you; through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord, who is alive and reigns with you,in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever.
I've been spending some time this year on a completely new direction for me. Or to be more accurate, re-awakening a very long dormant one.
Most musios I know have been involved with music since their youth. I'd also been musical from a young age, but for me it was a private sort of thing. I learned recorder, and developed a love for baroque music. But when I went to High School the music department considered the recorder to only be a beginners instrument (Not so! Listen to these guys), so I was discouraged from pursuing it further.
Then I took singing lessons, but can't recall ever performing in public. My position at the bottom of the school pecking order suggested any attempt to do so would be a potentially humiliating experience before singing a single note. I lacked confidence back then.
So I quietly played my recorder in my own room, just for my own enjoyment. And sang in the middle of the congregation at church. Somewhere I'd filed music as being for other people, even though I'd been told by my music teachers I had good tone.
Roll forward several decades. I was organising music lessons for the children, and their teacher suggested I give the worship team at church a go. Deep withing my spirit was a little nudging to just give this a try and see where it leads me, so with much trepidation I went along.
It was really hard overcoming a lifetime of burying that side of myself. On more than one occasion I had a real battle inside of myself to silence the negative voice telling me I wasn't really good enough and didn't really belong here. (Aww, crap, I'm trying not to cry just writing this story).
It's been hard coming into this as a newbie in my 40's. But I'm following that litle nudging in my spirit, and all the feedback I'm getting is positive.
So last Sunday found me on a stage singing with a microphone in my hand in front of the congregation as a backing vocalist. And once I got past the first song I felt really good about it.
For your summer reading pleasure, here’s a short story I wrote for a Creative Writing class about 14 years ago.
For Miss Boo (because I’m pretty sure she can see the fairies too).
I hadn’t seen Susan and Jim since their wedding 15 years ago. I'd gone to live and work in the city, while Susan and Jim went farming up the coast, about 2 hours drive away from the nearest town. I was needing a break so I invited myself up to see them for a week.
After following Susan's carefully dictated phone directions I found the place, and parked under a drooping pohutakawa behind the house. As I was walking around to the front, I became aware of being watched. I turned, and could see a girl peeking out at me from under a bush, with the sunlight behind her, picking up the highlights in her short bobbed hair.
She had a cheeky grin wedged between deep dimples that lit up her whole face and made her eyes sparkle and shine. Before I could say or do anything she was gone, scampering away and out of sight, like a small rodent.
When I met Cassie later at the house, she still had a slight, restless edge. But she shook my hand with poise beyond that of her 10 years, met my eyes with hers and glowed with an inner secret laughter.
“She’s got a wonderful imagination," sighed Susan over the mugs of tea at lunch. “But I’m worried about her growing up out here so far away from any friends her own age."
Susan volunteered Cassie to show me around the farm after lunch. I set off, expecting the usual tour of animals, paddocks, and tractor sheds.
“Follow me!" Cassie called, giggling as she skipped on ahead of me, “Come and see where the fairies live."
“Fairies?” I asked, “Are you really lucky enough to have fairies here?”
She only laughed in reply, and showed me a small gravelly beach beside the stream. The dappled sunlight sparkled in the water, bouncing reflections off Cassie’s face.
“See there, at those holes in the bank.” I squinted, and could only see a few insect-sized holes in the clay bank opposite. “The fairies live in there, Cassie explained to me, "they only come out when no-one’s there, and paddle leaf boats in the stream. Come on, I'll show you the eagle’s nest!”
She dragged on my arm, then kept telling me to hurry up as she ran across the paddock ahead of me to her favourite climbing tree. At the fork in the top lived an eagle, who wore a faded orange tee-shirt, denim shorts, scuffed mud-brown sneakers, and just happened to look like Cassie.
“Come on, come on, come and see my house." Cassie showed me where she had her very own cottage, built with manuka sticks and a ponga thatch.
“Come on, come on..." We explored the patch of bush behind the tractor shed, where Robin Hood’s merry men still roamed, fighting with supplejack bows and flax swords.
“Come on, let’s go see..." We climbed up to the rocky bluff, where cave people live and hunt with toi-toi spears, and slings made with scraps of denim. We visited the knoll where it's really cool to come out at night, and lie on your back to watch the stars. We visited the rock pools at low tide, where a whole world of little people live among the forests of mussels and sea anemones. We scrambled up the stream to the pool with a waterfall, where a beautiful water nymph lives, with light brown hair and a pink swimsuit.
By the end of the afternoon, I could almost see the fairies too, superimposed on an innocuous wooden gate. They were hiding among the clumps of lichen, giggling among themselves and pointing at us before ducking back out of sight. They all had the same laughing grin, the same dancing eyes, the same cheeky dimples as Cassie did. Maybe they're kin.
I told Susan that I didn't think she needs to worry too much about Cassie. I think she'll grow up just fine.
At last, with 10 days to go before Christmas we finally have a Christmas Tree up.
I assembled the “tree”, then left the room while the children tackled the box of decorations. I think they did a particularly good job. My favourite bit is their use of a “Happy Birthday” crown that Miss Boo brought back from a birthday party earlier in the week.
I pulled out the nativity scene I’d hand made from modelling clay back last century. It’s showing a little bit of wear and tear, but I just love the expressiveness of these figures.
When I first made it I always had in mind to go back and make more figures in later years, but when I tried my hand at a shepherd the next year I just couldn’t get it to work. The knack or muse had passed.
If I don’t see you again before then, may you all have a blessed Christmas.
I’d heard stories about these crafty swaps… but usually after they happened, when I’d read other people’s blog posts about all the lovely treasures they’d made and received.
When Leonie posted about a Dishcloth Swap, I thought “Why not?” My crochet hook had been idle since I’d finished my shawl earlier in the year, and a dishcloth seems about the right size project to get back into it. I’d never made a dishcloth before, but I figured it couldn’t be too hard.
Most of the patterns for “Dishcloths” on Ravelry seemed to be a variety of mostly square shapes. I decided to improvise. I consulted with a couple of crafty friends. One person said it needs to be a double knit cotton, in a chunky thick kind of stitch to make it nice and absorbent. The other said that a finer cotton, and open stitch would work better, and it was the spaces between the stitches that did the cleaning work. So I decided on a bob each way and to make one of each.
Then October suddenly got rather busy on me. Our family had a trade exhibit at a local A&P show, and by the time we got organised for that, then recovered from the exhaustion afterwards, suddenly it was 24th October, and I was only a quarter of the way through this square. “I’d better get on with this,” I thought, “I should be able to whip this up in a couple of evenings.”
But when I got it out, I decided I didn’t really like how it was shaping up, so unravelled it and started again. Then about half way through it wasn’t sitting right, so unravelled and started again. By the time I’d finished the first dishcloth, it was Labour Day, and only four days before it was supposed to be in the hands of the recipient.
For the second dishcloth, I decided to use some cotton I’d bought intending to make a placemat/potholder for Mum’s Christmas present (I didn’t specify which year… it’s taking a bit longer to make than I thought it would). I’d chosen colours that reminded me of Paua, and the combination of them seemed very aquatic.
I thought a scallop type pattern would work well for this, and got started. Then I found my sides were too rippled – I was increasing too many stitches. So I unravelled and started again. This time, about half way though, it was bowing up, too few stitches each increase. So I unravelled and started again. I finally got it finished on the 30th October.
I’d heard stories about these crafty swaps… about how much extra stuff sometimes gets included in the parcels beyond just the crafted item. Not wanting to be caught out, I added a bar of my favourite goats milk soap, and a hand written letter, and sent it all away on the very last day of the month.
Okay, next are two ladies I met at a bloggers' conference this autumn: one's Rachelle and the other's Claudia. Neither seemed particularly captivating over the internet when I first saw them register for the conference, but boy did I like them both in person! And now as I keep reading their blogs, I have the same feeling I sometimes get with Treena: how is it that I'm not getting more of that awesomeness across from the screen? It's like I feel a little cheated even, like there's so much going on in their heads and in their lives, and I'm just getting little measly snippets here and there.
So basically, there’s not enough of ME coming through in my blog.
Sorry about that folks, it’s not my intention to deprive you of my awesomeness.
When I’m sitting here alone with the thoughts in my head, writing them down, there’s no interaction or dialogue happening. It’s just going onto a screen then out into a void of the blog-iverse.
Otherwise, when I’m sitting having a conversation with a friend, it’s a different dynamic. There’s instant feedback, and the conversation will go in all sorts of different directions. My thoughts will go to different and (if it’s the right kind of friend) deeper places.
So a lot of who I am is sort of defined in interaction with other people. Which is not always possible to write about because it’s as much about the other person as it is about me and not always appropriate for a public forum.
The challenge for me is to work on that part of my writing. To let more of myself show. So you all get to see my awesomeness too.
I first fell in love with this pattern when I started to learn to crochet. It was my goal and ambition to learn enough to be able to complete it.
Big Sister managed to source me some Australian wool at far more affordable prices than NZ wool. This project takes a bit. So I started hooking it in January.
It’s taken six months, and I’d set the target of having it ready to assemble in time for the annual Hanmer Craft Weekend.
Now they say that what happens in Hanmer stays in Hanmer, so I won’t offer any further detail, but let you imagine what 15 crafting women in one house for a weekend could be like…
There’s something about having snow on the ground outside, and a view straight up to a mountain, to motivate me to finish a shawl. I just wanted to be able to wear it and get out there to play modelling with the camera.
“Hyperactive children were often given porotiti to play with during the time of Matariki, when they were required to be still and listen to their elders. The calming sound of the instrument enabled the children to be more receptive to learning.”
I remember having a plastic one of these at once upon a time, and I remember I could get some good whirling out of it. The cardboard struggled to get the same amount of rotational momentum, so was more difficult to spin and the wasn’t as effective at making its whistle. I think some more experimentation is needed. (Geek Girl surfacing).
Update:
We go much better performance by gluing two discs of corrugated cardboard together.
Matariki is the Maori name for the constellation of the Pleiades, and the celebration at mid-winter lends itself to the theme of stars and starlight. This year I recruited our family friend Louise, a student of Raranga (flax weaving), to help with this year’s craft activity of making stars from flax.
We said a Karakia (prayer) to give thanks for the day and for the flax, and carefully harvested from our flax bush in the back yard.
The flax needed stripping, Wiping clean,And scraping.
Even the furry family members got involved.
We also wanted to boil the flax, so just for fun took the opportunity to “christen” the thermette we’d bought for camping and haven’t had an opportunity to use yet.
and there was plenty of boiling water for hot drinks too.
We put the pot on the stove to maintain a rolling boil, then put each bunch of flax in for 1 minute
Then dunked it straight into some cold water
Spin cycle
Then hung to air.
When the flax had dried, we used this pattern from the Christchurch City Libraries to craft it into stars. The younger children found the flax tricky to work, so made theirs using strips of coloured paper.
(Sorry about the photo quality in these last two shots – the flash on my camera wasn’t working so I had to resort to the phone camera.)
Wiping clean,
And scraping. 
