Our (not so angelic) angel & kittens

She looks like butter couldn't melt in her mouth, doesn't she? All big eyes and blonde hair.
And she does have her angelic moments, when she runs towards us, arms outstretched, face lit up, after we've been out, when she gives big hugs, with comforting back pats.
But this photo was taken when she'd climbed up onto the dining room table (again) and was busy throwing all the Christmas tree baubles on the floor.
These photos are more indicative of her frame of mind. The difference a few seconds makes, hm.

Folks, I do believe we've hit the terrible twos a few months early. It's a bit of a shock, as the other two skipped them. At two both the older two were little cherubs, all the better to lull me into a false sense of smug security.
Giggle-Bear is leaving us in no doubt of her true colours - the glaring, flashing neon of danger, mischief ahead. In no time at all she will be joining her siblings in painting the living room - and kitchen - in potions of red cordial (no, I didn't buy it, do I look like a masochist to you? that was Beloved) salt, and chilli sauce.

 While I take a deep gulp and prepare for the year ahead, let me leave you with some stills from Christmas. And kittens. All is peaceful, all is joy, for a kitten resides in the house, busily purring, and curling up to sleep in various poses of cuteness.

 Henry Thoreau and Jane Austin Candles. Mmm.

playing in a wonderful cafe up in the hinterlands at Maleny - the best kiddy play area - with many toys, high chairs and complete kiddy corner.

 with Aunty Bec

Nativity

Master of his own Destiny. No doubt scanning the horizon for fish. 

by the shore (in the past)

My middle brother and I - on our favourite beach, a long, long time ago.


In a box of old photos, my mama came across this one, of my middle brother and I. It's so strange looking at a photo of us roughly the ages our kids are now. My brother looks so much like his little girl. I look so much like my son.

The photo has been scanned, sent, downloaded, reformatted, uploaded. All things that were unknowns then.

The world has changed so much, and we have changed so much, but we still love that stretch of shore. 

Apple Blossom… Just Because (And the Rose of *near* Death)

I was just going to post some photos of our recent apple blossom - because it was beautiful and I love it - but while I was re-sizing photos some of my roses got added as well. Because. Well. Roses.

Apple-blossom and roses are some of the things that I will really miss about the valley.
I suspect mangos and frangipani will make up for them and you know - air that doesn't give Beloved asthma, Poppet wheeze and Littlest gunk-eye - but I will miss the roses.

And the apple blossom. We're due for a bumper crop - the trees are laden with tiny green apples and it's strange to wonder who will harvest them. The fact we couldn't go out to get the apples this year because of all the toxic smoke makes me quite reconciled to leaving.

But o my roses. The roses of the valley are spectacular. Heady, dreamy, lushly scented, deeply coloured. The girls and I went to the Rose Gardens again yesterday and Poppet and I agreed it was a garden fit for a princess, even a fairy princess. (These roses are from our garden, I brought my camera, but forgot the camera card… duh, so we just enjoyed them.)

It's possible I've been googling and discovered a Queensland rose growing society and a place that sells roses designed for the tropics. But, while I reserve judgement, I've never seen a tropical rose that has the same wild, lush soul as a temperate rose.

Please particularly admire the Rose of Death. The big pinky orange rose is the one that was in the cup that Beloved knocked onto a power board reaching for his phone in a dark room. We don't actually know when the pain in his chest will go away, although they steadied his heart and over the course of a night his heart readings went from saying a part had been fried to normal. All because of a rose. If it wasn't so completely petrifying, it would be almost poetic.

Do you have any Spring Garden love? (Or Autumn?) Or stories of electric shock. (The comforting variety would be best…) 

A Room of One's Own

"Ah. You were reading that feminist book this morning!" my Beloved interrupted my thoughts. 
And it's true. I was. I finally read A Room of One's Own, by Virginia Woolf, which I have been meaning to read for a very long time. Now, as I have less time than ever before to write (o the glory days of high school!) I've finally sat down and done it. With a beloved daughter nursing through most of it.

And... it was fascinating.

A Room of One's Own is an early feminist book about why there were so few female writers pre 1928 (when Woolf was writing). No female Shakespeares or Donnes, no female Miltons or Wordsworths.

This has obviously changed, there are now a lot of female writers.

(And no Shakespeares, female or male. Let's just admit he was one of a kind. Sigh. But wouldn't a cyber-tech style Shakespeare be awesome)

But it was fascinating to read Woolfs reflections on the dearth of female writers through the ages. And I smiled ruefully when I took her point that the main female writers of the 19th century, Austen, Bronte et all were all ... childless...

Woolf's premise was that to write, (and by that she meant write well) you need an income of 500 pounds a year and a room of your own. Something females (and indeed most males...!) in the past were unlikely to get.


A quick google tells me that as of 2001 500 pounds in 1928 would be equivalent to about 200,000 pounds today. That's 400, 000 Australian dollars. With that you truly could devote your life to writing! Cleaners, cooks, nannies and yourself in your own (locked) and book-lined study contemplating the mysteries of the world and the perfect sentence. With occasional jaunts around the world for 'experience'.

My beloved Papa scoffed when I told him I was desirous of reading A Room of One's Own. 


He said Woolf was just another an upper-class snob. (Read in-bred and leeching the life-blood from the working-class.) 


And yes, sharing his background, knowing that when Woolf was demanding a room of her own and a substantial fortune,  most of our folk were working 14 hour days, 6 days a week on hands and knees down coal mines. I know she was writing for a teeny tiny minority.  


Woolf did however, mention Robert Burns as a shining example of someone from the working class producing brilliance -not only male and working class, but Scottish! Woolf admitted it was as hard for the working class male as it was for a female to produce literature. 


And if it was hard for a working class man that would make it near impossible for a working class women. Okay, I can't name a pre 1920s working-class female writer. Let's split the difference and call it impossible. (But please let me know if I'm wrong! I'd love to know I'm wrong!)

Time is necessary to writing, and time it seems, dedicated, private, thinking time, is a product you need to buy.

In the minority world, class has changed. Time has changed. Money has changed.

But to write, you still need dedicated, private time.

And it always has a price. It's still a luxury good.

My time will come. My beloved is studying hard to eventually supply me with 500 pounds a year and a room of my own. I get happy shivers just thinking about it. I can't say I'll produce great literature. But I hope I will produce thoughtful and creative literature. And I hope I remember those who are still waiting for a room of their own. Although to be honest, my  (our - ahum) money will go on schools, libraries and healthcare (particularly maternity care) in the majority world.