going oddly bowlo

growing up, the Kiwi knew what lawn bowls was, of course, other people's grandparents played it

she could even recognise a bowling green, from spotting them intermittently while on family drives or, as she grew older, while cycling somewhere new on a mission

the Kiwi's mind equates bowling green with rural settings, nestled beside orchards and market gardens, as that was the environment she grew up in, picking fruit and vegetables alongside cuzzies and extended family

much later, the wonderful mother of a very dear friend bowled, on a lovely green directly across from her home on a picturesque spit of the Akaroa Peninsula. There's a memorial seat for her now in this beautiful tranquil setting. The family were British and bowling seemed a quaint, elderly, white, well-off, still thoroughly Brit thing to do.

on arrival in Melbourne, the Kiwi's eldest sister made her aware that bowling clubs were the place for barefoot bowls, weddings, parties, and anything

then the Kiwi met a guy. A lovely, brilliant, loving and lovable man, whose face lit up when he saw her and who quickly became her sun

he was an active member of a bowling club, and a Brit, but his membership was more the Australian version

they visited often and she quickly came to recognise the players and politics, dramas, scandals and sorrows inherent in any such community - who was in, who was out, who'd been caught red-'handed' out back of the club (picture your school bike sheds but populated with geriatrics who should really keep their privates strictly private)

they even bowled occasionally, the Kiwi more than the Brit-Boy, although he first showed her how to roll

the Kiwi joined the club and subbed in a few games - the two would regroup after and regale each other with new tales to laugh at

the Kiwi wanted to spend the rest of her life gathering stories to make him laugh, and watching his smile migrate across his face

she got to spend the rest of his life instead

in the aftermath, the Kiwi returned to his club a few times but it lacked his heart and presence, and she had been seen there as part of him, not as herself

she returned to the flat she had been in the process of leaving and, in turn, to a bowling club one block away, where they spent their first date sharing stories and laughter

the local bowls community was kind, and brusque, and accepting and she worked for the club during the summer party mayhem

and played a few games for them also over the season

then got a job at a different bowling club, which hosts every event imaginable, and became an ancillary part of that community also

as is known with the Kiwi, it all may have gone too far

last week was a busy one at work, where she wrangled small children and obstreporous adults, served sausages and sympathy and schlepped tables, kegs, supplies and bowls

the Kiwi has decided to play a team sport for the first time since school for one season only this year, so has put Tuesday aside to bowl in the pennant comp, where her baking abilities outclass her bowling. (Tuesday is Pennant lite - more social and fun and less of the sports side of the politics, and if it stops being fun, she'll stop taking part)

she also fell into volunteering on Wednesday mornings when free for Bubs and Bowls at her local club, when mums, dads, grands and other carers bring their little ones to socialise while throwing balls, playing in the bouncy castle and trying to maim themselves on anything handy, while the carers get some non-child conversation

it's fun, especially learning the personalities of both carers and children, and how different siblings can be from each other

the past Wednesday was dismal, so only two groups turned up and both left early for story time at the library. A friend of the Brit-boy happened to pass through on the way to their old club for a social game, so the Kiwi joined for an afternoon on the green

'his' bowlo again, but there now on her terms

the season should make for some interesting stories, as the community is filled with characters, and her work place is set in a St Kilda filled with its own stories

watch this space ...

Permission granted ...

permissionnoun [ U ]US 

 /pərˈmɪʃ·ən/

 the act of allowing someone to do something, or of allowing something to happen:

When I lost my love, I gave myself permission to do whatever I needed for a year to survive that loss, or not survive, if that's what was to be.

If that meant trudging through each day simply putting one foot in front of the other, so be it. I expected nothing of myself, but gave myself a deadline. If I survived the year, I would then give myself permission to start living actively again.

There were times during that year when survival was neither guaranteed nor particularly desirable. Times when my world was reduced to the space of my bed and my plans for the future reduced to how to erase any future. Times I tried to drown my sorrow in a bottle and consciously erase myself in a combination of pills and alcohol.

My body refused to cooperate, but I allowed myself to wallow in despair if I needed, without chastising myself for it.

Last month, the day after the first anniversary of my love's passing, was my deadline. The day I gave myself permission to live again.

I stopped drinking completely, which was surprisingly easy once I remembered I wasn't drinking. The universe being the perverse place it is, the first day of not drinking saw me win (and give away) three free drinks at my local. That week was one in which I was offered free alcohol multiple times, whether by friends celebrating good fortune or customers thanking me for looking after them, and I laughed as I remembered I no longer drink.

I've also returned to regular yoga practice - too regular to begin, my body quickly told me. Note to self: after a year of no yoga, eight classes in seven days might be a little excessive. Particularly if you want to move without pain. Just getting out of bed hurt.

After a weekend off to recover, I took a gentler approach this week and started with a restorative yin class and a meditation session. Being gentle on myself is my mantra right now.

Most importantly, I'm looking for fulfilling work again. It's not that I don't enjoy my current job - I do. I take pleasure in helping people have fun, and that's pretty much the job description I have right now. But I want to take that further and find pleasure in doing good as well as helping people feel good.

If I'm fortunate, I will find a position that allows me to do that while using my writing, editing and storytelling skills, and there are two amazing possibilities that nudged my attention at the perfect time. I hope very much that one of them is the right fit for me, and those making the decisions recognise that I'm the right fit for them, but I'm confident that the right fit will make itself known.

I'm eager for a challenge again, and excited about what that might turn out to be.

Most importantly, I'm open to opportunity once again.

Hey Y'all

Damn!

It's been a hard year.

For those out of the loop, I met the most amazing person, fell head over heels giddily in love, then lost him.

I think I've written about that before, but can't face reading it yet.

ANYWHO, it changes a person.

More than I would have imagined.

It affects you mentally, which affects you physically. There is trauma involved.

Then there is the challenge / trauma of dealing with the other people who have loved your loved one, and being pushed aside because you were only new in his life.

I understand that - I do. It doesn't make it easier.

I'm blessed that his sister and mother do understand how much I loved him, and care for me for that.

But, damn, I miss that brilliant boy.

melbourne

I worked today

I enjoyed working

but I had to get home afterward

in Melbourne, Australia, a city that should be safe, but a city where we have buried too many women recently who were not safe here

raped, bludgeoned, murdered

when I was a kid at high school, I learned not to put my hands in my pockets, because I needed them to protect myself from kids who wanted to bully me

when I sailed the Indian Ocean, and hitchhiked around Kenya, I learned to open my Swiss Army Knife and have every sharp object available to attack an attacker

I should not be fearing for my life getting home in Australia, but I am

I, and I have to say I am not a wimp, am afraid to take public transport in Melbourne, am afraid to wait for a bus alone, am afraid to be a woman here

because?

Pick an answer ...

Eight weeks ...

grief

it's a rollercoaster, and having experienced it before doesn't make it any easier

when you only have a short time together, every minute, hour, day and week matters

today, tonight, is the eight week anniversary of the last night I saw my love alive, the night I went to sleep with my head resting on his chest and woke to him gone, and all that entailed

it is also the eight week anniversary, prior to that, of the first time I fell asleep listening to his heartbeat, and woke surprised and stunned that I had met him

because we had such a short time together, the reaction of others to my grief is amplified, as they expect me to "get over it" or assume my pain doesn't matter, because they knew him longer

his UK family has been incredibly kind, and understanding

others, less so, but we also process our grief in different ways, and I need to honour my love by honouring others' passage through this

he would expect me to be better than I often feel as I go through this

Six weeks out ...

... or is that six weeks in?

Six weeks out from losing him, six weeks into life without him.

Six weeks since I lost my love and the pain is still razor-sharp and raw.

I am sleeping better, finally, and talk with him before bed each night and awake accepting that he is no longer there but feeling blessed to have known him.

He was the gentlest, most generous, loving and empathetic person I have ever met, not just to me but to all he met, and I would gladly have given my life in place of his.

That's not a deal I was offered.

I feel honoured to have been with him in his last days, to have brought light and laughter back to his life and to be moving with him toward health and happiness. To have cooked together for each other and our friends, to have amused those same friends with teasing each other and them.

And as hard as it was, I'm glad I was with him at the end, to know he passed so peacefully and without any pain and to be able to assure his family of that. I hate to think of what would have been if we had not met.

But the knife stabs of missing him are continuous - each time I type the day's date, as I do multiple times each working day, I think of the date we met, the date I lost hime, the dates of his funeral services here and in the UK.

The knife twists savagely each evening, as I leave work and realise freshly that I am not going home to meet him, and never will again. The emptiness of evenings and weekends is a yawning and inevitable void that I have to consciously cross each day, each week.

I'm doing my best not to fall into that void, as I know that is not what he would want.

I'm spending evenings walking on the beach, or sitting watching the waves, or walking beside the river on my way home. I haven't done that in a while, being in a hurry to get to him instead.

I'm doing yoga, and checked out a gym nearby where I'll probably start a six-week kettle bell challenge next month. That will give me a positive focus for my evenings and  weekends as well as tiring me in a way yoga doesn't.

I've stopped drinking for now - I was being careful not to drink much after he passed but was going to my local simply for human company. I've always been content with my solitude but since losing him, I've needed kind words and friendly faces.

I'm still stopping by those places, but ordering soda water instead of wine, as I know alcohol won't make me feel better. But I still want to see our friends, to laugh with them and share stories of him. I don't think I'll ever tire of that.

As much as I grieve for him, I grieve for our unrealised future and unfulfilled plans. I know he is at peace and suffered no pain, but I also know how much it would pain him to see how those who love him are suffering.

I'm trying to respect those who were part of his entire life, and and those who shared much longer parts of it than I but find myself inadvertantly bumping up against them at times as we all negotiate our way forward while not knowing what that entails. The lines of communication are unclear and it is my nature to ask for clarification when that occurs, but that is not the way of those he has loved far longer than I.

I'm doing my best to move forward carrying his wairua with me and and to honour him by doing so.

Step by painful step, day by painful day.

Others' reactions ...

When my love and I had been together a few weeks and were already deeply in, he mentioned that he was getting approached a lot more by other women, "hit on" as he put it.

His rescue greyhound was a great conversation starter and I seldom walked him without striking up conversations with others, but these were more than just conversations, he said.

I replied that I wasn't surprised, that when one is loved and in love, their whole demeanour changes. Confidence increases, there's an air of contentment that was previously missing and a new spring in the step.

It wouldn't have hurt either that he had this constant, slightly goofy grin after we got together that made his already handsome face even more lovable.

One's whole demeanour changes with grief also, but not for the better, I would say.

So I'm surprised to find myself being hit on a lot lately, as if there's something attractive about my new vulnerability. The flirtation usually stops as soon as I mention my partner recently died, but it's something I never expected.

Also something I don't understand.