Remember joy? It was a thing we used to have a lot of, and we talked about it heaps, back in the day. Then over the last year or so; not so much. So many new words and phrases have jumped into our vernacular that it seems we have forgotten some of our old faves.

And we’ve stopped writing and posting about our favourite things too. At least I know I have.

Things have gotten so serious and scary and strange, that telling you a story about how yesterday I thought I’d like to move to the country, so I drove for over an hour, some of it on dirt roads, to get to the old Kandanga School, a property that I thought I’d buy. When I go there, I realised: it was IN THE COUNTRY. Which meant there was country things like flies and dirt and cows, and not so much non-country things like cafes and homewares shops selling pinch pots and Witchery stores. It turns out that I don’t like the country quite as much as the romantic part of my brain thinks, and Country Road is really nothing much like country roads.

With the world doing weird-world stuff I feel a bit frothy talking and telling about the millions of things that go through my head (why does Woofa the shitcat sit on the back of the couch instead of on the couch, how did that wispy white cheek-hair grow to five centimetres when I only plucked it yesterday, should I start a combined chiro-cafe-bookstore called Crooked Spines, or should it be Aligned Spines, or should I also sell records and call it A Few of My Favourite Things and be done with it?)

So on my drive to the country I played Dan Zanes tunes on the way there (from when the kids were little and Hayls was alive) and Hamilton on the way home (now that the kids are older and Hayls would have loved the MadKing songs) and I remembered a little of who I was before the crazy stuff began. I remembered that I liked to go to cafes and drink coffee (only one or I can’t sleep) and write stories. I remembered that I liked to breathe deeply, to look a the sun shining on peoples’ faces and to talk to strangers about unimportant issues. I remembered that I am not a scientist or a researcher or a biochemist, I’m just a Mum with kids that I want to hold close for as long as I can, and take care of them the best way I know how. I remembered that I like it when people are kind.

So no, this blog doesn’t tackle the big issues. It doesn’t tackle any issues. But it does carve out a little space of joy for me, and so that’s what I’m doing from now on. Bringing back the joy.

Joy to the world.

What brings you joy? I’d love to hear…

…From The Ashers

Today, as I always do on your leonine birthday, I woke up feeling a bit perturbed. Nothing specific, it’s just that when you die you really die don’t you? No matter how much I try to trick my mind to believe that we are just busy in our lives right now, and that I’ll probably see you on the weekend (of course you’ll want to celebrate, you big show-off) I still know. Somewhere back in there, nice and deep, is a box with “Hayls” engraved on the lid in fancy-as-fuck script, and mostly I prefer to keep it shut. It’s not dusty though, I pick it up and turn it over in my hands often. I stroke the grain of the wood and trace the lock with my finger. I smile as I think of some of the treasures inside, and as long as I don’t open it, all is well.

But some days I am brave enough to flip open the latch and open that box a tiny crack. Snatches of conversation sneak out and hit the air and my heart. I might hear one of your catch-phrases (cats of Australia, vertebone, heeeeed, muff ’em Liam, big girl, a Billy Ray Cyrus) or maybe I’ll hear you laugh. I’ll definitely hear you laugh- you were always laughing weren’t you? Perhaps you’ll call me waif. I know I wasn’t called waif  in a good way, but I liked it anyway. You’re the only one who ever called me that (for obvious reasons), and I felt very Kate Moss. (I could use a bit of that now that I have an expanding menopausal arse, thanks.) Maybe you’ll call me a bogan for one of a myriad of transgressions, tell me how to eat my meal (chef has already seasoned that) or instruct me to drink some kind of weird cherry beer.

Some of our ill-thought out, fanciful plans might slither out, or if I’m lucky I might get an image- one of you prepping a meal, trying on a new A-line “cutesy” skirt, or getting ready to jump in the pool for our laps.

I might get your smile.

The thing is, I know exactly what’s in the box, so I don’t know why opening it is so scary.

Maybe it’s because even after all these years, knowing what’s in it and keeping it pristine-closed is safer than admitting that all I have left of you is some ashes and the contents of the box. I guess I want something more, which seems both selfish and just right at the same time.

I’ve been waiting all day today for someone to post on your page. I wanted everyone to remember that it would have been your birthday and you would be expecting presents and phone calls and cakes, but I wanted them to remember all by themselves. I wanted them to miss your smile as much as I do.

It seems they do. Is it weird or cruel to feel comfort in that? I don’t know any more.

Kaye posted a pic on Insta and you’d love it: you look both happy and hot (not in temperature). I think you’d rate yourself. Your hair looks fab.

Happy what would have been your birthday Hayls. I guess it still is your birthday, but it doesn’t quite feel the same saying that without you here in person. I ate cake. It was too sweet, but I put it on top of the weird stomach-wrench I already had, and it sat on top. I guess it will cover up the ache a bit shortly, the sweetness mixing with the sad and making something digestible. I guess that’s why you nourished so many people. You were healing them. Healing us.

Thank you for all of the times you did that. Even when we didn’t know we needed it.

Luv ya.