Me, showing off Infinite Possibilities late in the evening..

I first met Ali when she was young, and blonde, and back on our soils with a hybrid American-Australian accent.  She was a tiny little poppet of sunshine and giggles and I thought her gorgeous, and funny when she stamped her foot when I called her Alison. “My name is Ali!” she said as I laughed and told her that Alison wasn’t that bad, thinking she would grow into the name like I did.

The next time I met Ali she was rebellious and blonde, and back on our soils with a hybrid English-Australian accent.  She was a ray of light and fun and she made me laugh, with her ripped, oversized jeans and bare feet.  I thought it was funny when she stamped her foot when I said she would probably be a great Chiropractor one day.  “I will NEVER be a chiro!” she said as I laughed and told her that it wasn’t that bad, and she would grow into the life like I did.

The next thing I knew, years had gone by and little Ali did all sorts of study and travel and stuff and somehow without me noticing, had gone from being my babysitter, to a grown up woman with a degree, and a shiny new office in a new country, and a fiancé.

I don’t know how or when it all happened, because I know she was only just looking after our kids a minute ago whilst we went out to Sabai Sabai for tea, but here she was in front of me, all grown up and with a ring on her finger.  Some events just jump in your face and force you to feel old, and this was one of them.

I was excited to trot down to the home of her parents and see who she had chosen to hold her hand and her heart, in this next part of the adventures.  This time when I saw Ali she was poised and beautiful without even a hint of a hybrid New Zealand-Australian accent.  We sat on the couch, and chatted about all of the things under the sky and she made me smile with her stories and insights, and this time I didn’t laugh at her at all.  I just sat with her and reflected on what a rare privilege it is to see someone grow into their skin, and become somehow more of themselves.  To observe the changes and the letting-go that happens as we become our true selves.  I listened to the man she has chosen to be the one she lets see all of her, both her fragility and her core of stubborn strength.  I watched him, watching her, and my heart smiled as I knew she has chosen well.

For she is still Ali.  Never Alison.  I suspect that she will still stamp her foot on occasion, but I love seeing that she will also listen carefully and consider deeply before rushing off to catch the next Piscean rainbow she sees.  She came from a home of Infinite Possibilites, which she has gracefully managed to distill down to the ones that speak to her best self most of all.  And that is a joy to see.

Congratulations on your betrothal, Ali.  MWAH.

…From The Ashers xxx

I love wedding photos.

Part of the reason I love them  is because I loved my own our own wedding so much that it is a reminder of our day; the planning, the lists, the creation, and the completion of a cycle- all things that I love.  Couple that with me us being the centre of attention for a whole day, and it’s a winning formula. But more than that, our wedding day was designed to be one of inclusion and fun and love and playfulness, and that is the feeling that stirs in me whenever I look at someone else’s wedding photos.

I love to look into the eyes of the bride, and see her happiness, as it always goes beyond the arc of her mouth: it permeates all of her.  In the curve of her neck, the glimmer of her skin, the gloss of her hair.  She carries a glow with her all day and into night, and the people who love her will come close to bask in it a while, and murmur sparkling diamonds in her ears of how breath-taking she looks, how joyful, how in love.  She will store up those diamonds for years to come, and perhaps they will give her confidence in things new.

The secret thing I love to do at weddings is to watch the groom.  In the moment when all are straining forward to catch the very first glimpse of the bride as she comes into view, I have my eye to the viewfinder, ready to snap the look on his face, when he sees his bride-to-be for the first time.  I am a spy, catching a moment of raw emotion.  A voyeur, watching a private moment, unmasked.  It is such a special thing, to see that look of pure love, laced with longing.

By far my favourite thing is the capturing all of the little moments: the groom with a wisp of a joke that makes her laugh and lean in to him, her best friends making a sparkling toast, the flower girl and page boy clasping chubby hands, a close up of the discarded bouquet.

So many signs of love.  So much hope.  So much promise.

What is your favourite wedding moment?

…From The Ashers xxx

I like us all to have new outfits on Christmas Day, or if not new, then at least Christmas themed, in that they have to be red, white or green, or a combination of all three. Silver and gold are also acceptable.  Many, many things in The Asher home are in the colours of Christmas during December.  Upstairs, the colours are red, white and gold.  I can also allow silver.  In my office it’s green and white all the way.  In Unit One’s bedroom: blue and red.  Unit Two has pink and white.  (Now I know pink and blue “are not Christmas colours”, but: boy and girl.  Plus, the ornaments for their little trees were too cute to pass by.)

But I’m meandering.

This year, as always I got my Christmas stuff done early (RRs may have noticed me gloating in a previous post or ten), except for MY outfit.  I just haven’t been able to find a thing to wear.  Not in the theme colours at least.  I have schlepped to The Plaza a couple of times, which, shockingly, involves me: 1. Leaving the compound,  2. Leaving The Shire,  3. Crossing the river.

Nothing.

I thought I was going to have to resort to one of the outfits I have worn over the last ten years or so.  First World Problems right here people.

And then there was today, when the first Christmas Magic occurred.

This morning we Ashers were well and truly out of bounds, all the way down there at the computer chop-shop in Mooloolaba.  When we saw this:

Josie Bird… So cute. Flamingos in the window too.

How’s a girl to resist?

We went in, the kids took their seat on the big hand chair, and I began.  I’m not shy to do a bit of shopping or a bit of trying on, so the kids got out their books and settled in for the long haul- they know how I roll.  I perused the area- not difficult, it’s not a huge shop, and it’s not annoyingly cluttered with so much stock you can’t see things properly, but I didn’t see too much in the good ole theme colours.

The chirpy little thing behind the counter, who I shall call Josie Bird, if only because I like the way it sounds, asked if I needed any help.  Now this is where I usually get a bit embarrassed during what I like to call The Season.  I want to ask if they have anything suitable for Christmas Day, but I have so many rules: it must be red, white or green, it must be comfortable enough to encase and erase my Chrissy Day abdominal distention, it must look cute with heels, but not so short that heels are required at all times, it must be cool enough so that I can be in the kitchen (if I can’t avoid it), but warm enough so I can sit on the Top Deck late into the evening, and it must be modest enough that I won’t be flashing my scanties once I’ve imbibed.  And this old girl must look at least vaguely hot.

So I can’t really ask.

Today, Josie Bird was so gosh-darn full of pep, I decided to ask for just one of the requirements: the colour.  Immediately she was up and passing me a filmy little thing, that had a bit of red, and felt lovely in the hand.  I rarely ask for advice in shops (it may surprise you to know I may be a little controlling and opinionated) as I know what I like, but Josie Bird was so sweet I popped out of the cubicle for her to have a squizz, already shaking my head, “No”.

Josie Bird took one look at the Old Bird in front of her and said, “Not Christmassy enough, you need some more red, here you go,” and handed me a necklace that I would never choose with my own mind, and there it was: Christmas had come to The Ashers, or at least to this fussy, grumpy, tired-from-kids-camping-and-not-sleeping-last-night,  Asher.

Thanks Josie Bird.  What a ray of sunshine you are.

And here’s the reveal:

The outfit: sorted

Close up: loving the red

Cue the soundtrack  (Clearly the old Styler doesn’t know the colour-code constraints)

Do you have a new outfit for Christmas Day?  What’s it like? 

PS Not a sponsored post… Just sharing the Christmas Magic with y’all.

This is Santa Chook

Every year on the 30th of November, in the steaming heat of the tin-roofed garage, Nathan teeters on the top rung of the ladder to retrieve two dusty boxes; one massive box, gaffer taped in a way that suggests the heft of it’s contents, containing that oversized tree, and one smaller one- the decorations.

We know they are the Christmas decorations and the Christmas tree because my Dad wrote “Xmas Decs” and “Xmas Tree” on the sides of the boxes all those years ago, in his distinct, back-slanted script, that I no longer get to see fresh.  Back when those things still mattered to him.  Back when it seemed important to know which box was which.

We heave the boxes down and we puff them up the stairs, and we hold our breath a little as we see what treasures reside inside.

There are thrills of delight, and tinkling of laughter and bells mixing, as we remember things we’d forgotten.  We anchor them again in space and time, as we remember making or buying them.  We throw our mind’s eyes and our memories back to the when, of Christmas past.

Amidst the mirth of recollect this year, there was also melancholy, as it came to pass that Santa Chook was not long for this world.

Santa Chook came into our lives on Coco’s first Christmas.  We went to a work Christmas Party at a time in our lives when things weren’t easy or settled or at all party-like.  Coco was nine months old, and we were far, far from being at peace with her diagnosis.  I felt like life was careening around like a cheap plastic spinning top, the swirly picture on it moving faster and faster, rather than calming down, and I was dizzy with the vertiginous emotions of testings and procedures beyond my sphere of control.  Transfusions were unpredictable and often.  Procedures were unfamiliar and frightening.   Sleep was fractured and elusive, and I grasped the relief of forget that it gave, whenever it deigned grace me.

We took Coco to the party with us- it was that or not go- because it was the only way I could hold onto an atom of that adult I was trying to remember to be.

We played a silly game: The Present Game, whereby you can steal someone else’s present, or take a mystery parcel from the central mother-lode.

Randall unwrapped Santa Chook.  He was jaundice-yellow like my golden child, and his coat and hat glowed red with a sheen that only cheap plush made on foreign shores, with no concern for inhaled particulate matter can produce.  And when Randall The Mighty pressed the “press here” button, it was like the angels spoke to me, and me alone.  Santa Chook crowed his morning doodle-doo and broke into The Chicken Dance.  He was the first of that glut of animated toys, a wonder of 2007, and I knew I must make him mine.

I stole him-legitimately, and within the rules of the game- from Randall The Mighty, and Randall stole him back.  I stole him again, and again Randall stole him back.  And again.  And again.  And again.  Long after the other participants had lost interest, Randall the Mighty stole that Santa Chook, and I stole him back.  Until eventually the yelling and the raucous music woke Coco up.  She was screaming, in the piercing way that only the simple and the very sick are able to do, so I bought her down to the arena, and held her in front of Randall the Mighty.  He “pressed here” and Santa Chook burst into his song.  Coco was transfixed.

Randall The Mighty became Randall The Vanquished, bowed his head, and handed Santa Chook to me.  Randall The Saviour.

All of that long hot Summer of Coco’s first year, Santa Chook distracted her when she was fractious, soothed her for a time, when what she really needed was blood.  The blood-red of his suit substituting, momentarily, for the life-blood.

Eventually, we put Santa Chook back in the box marked “Xmas Decs”, and we moved forward into a new year.  I would often consider getting him down from those dusty rafters, when days were difficult, when my arms ached to put that child down, for just a moment, without that persistent wail.

I never did get him down, most days just the thought of him would bolster me.  Knowing that I had him there, if times got too tough, that there was respite.  A potential.

This year, when we opened that box with all of the ‘xmas decs’ inside, I grabbed out Santa Chook and ‘pressed here’ like I always have, expecting him to herald the start of the season with his crackling warble, only to hear a tiny “crrr”.  Then nothing.

I’ve changed Santa Chook’s batteries twice.  I’ve cleaned out the craw that was half full of battery decline and salty moisture.  I’ve stroked and pushed and heimliched him, but Santa Chook is no more.  Oh Santa Chook, you saved my sanity, little mate.  You were worth every one of those nine hundred and ninety-nine cents that you probably cost.

Vale Santa Chook.

Yes, I know he’s either a chook (no cock-a-doodle-doo) or a rooster (and not a chook), but Santa Rooster sounds wrong.

We have three bottles of sparkling in our fridge.  One is a vintage Moet, a gift, that shall be kept for good.  One is a mid-range bottle that a friend left here almost two years ago.  One is the derro bottle.  We found it one early morning at New Farm Park, just sitting there all by itself, waiting for someone to adopt it.  We looked around, saw no owners and eventually bought it home and made it our own.  And there they sit.  A trio of suppressed revellers.  Chilled.  Waiting.  For a day when things feel special enough for “champagne”.  A day befitting of sparkling.

Last night we finally had a good bit of rain, and today I woke up to a sun that had been washed clean, and crunchy grass flexing and stretching, and tinging to green.

Today I opened my eyes and looked around at my world and saw a flat, flat, blue sea, fine yellowish-white sand, plump red tomatoes and sweet emerald basil.  I saw the the lime green of my office, the silver of my sign; the freshness of my work.

I saw the many hues of my patients, all shimmering and glimmering and reflecting their own unique shades.

I saw the white rendered walls of our house, filled mostly with laughter and love.

And when I looked in our fridge at the end of my day, I saw three bottles of celebration, primed golden bubbles, subdued by a cork.

Today was a sparkling kind of day.

Cheers

I hope your day sparkled too.

“Come quickly, I am tasting the stars!”
–Dom Perignon

Do you drink champi on a school-night?

What defines a celebration in your house?