Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Colenso, Comment, Culture, Daddyhood, Emotion, England, Family, Fatherhood, Goodbye England, Home, Jill, Love, My Fatherhood, New Zealand, Otis, Parents, Paul, Shelly
So today is the 1st Feb.
That means today is the first day of our final month living in England.
Or at least living in England for a period of time.
We will be back for a whole host of reasons, we just don’t know when.
And while I’ll be writing another long, drawn out post listing all the things I’ll miss and all the things I’m grateful for … the reality is there’s a chance COVID will fuck our plans and instead of boarding a plane to New Zealand on the 3rd March, we’ll be in our beautiful home, trying to work out how to get our furniture off a boat and our cat out of quarantine.
It’s a strange feeling to think you have a time limit on what you have come to consider ‘home’.
A mixture of fear and excitement.
Of course we have done it a ton of times – and we’re really thrilled to be off on another adventure – but there’s a bunch of things that have got their teeth into us.
Being near Paul and Shelly after 25 years is a huge one.
Our beautiful new home with our beautiful garden is another.
Not to mention the wonderful new friends we’ve made in the time we’ve been back.
But as I say to many people who ask me about moving overseas, while it is easy to focus on the things you’ll miss, you need to focus on the things you’ll gain.
And we can’t wait for that.
The things we know, the things we hope for and the things that will just crash into our life.
I owe so much of my life to having lived around the World and I’m very excited to discover what new chapters this adventure will write.
So as this is a month where a lot will be going on, this blog will end on Friday till we are either in NZ or being told we have to wait longer to get into NZ.
Though whatever is the outcome, while not hearing my rubbish on here for a few weeks sounds like a delight, let me remind you – when I’m in quarantine in NZ with literally nothing to do, there’s a good chance I may be writing 100 blog posts a day.
So be careful what you wish for.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Comment, Daddyhood, Family, Happiness, Home, Jill, Jillyism, Love, My Fatherhood, Otis, Parents
Yep that’s Jill playing Otis’ Ben 10 game.
Yes, that’s a Macca’s breakfast on the table.
And yes, that’s Rosie and our rocking-horse sheep watching on.
In fact, the only person not in this photo is Otis … who is a bit miffed his Mum has taken over his game.
Of course, Jill claims she’s just wanting to help him past a difficult bit.
But I know that face of concentration.
She’s in deep competition mode … determined to win at all costs … resistant to surrender regardless what she faces.
And right here, is a moment of my family I love.
Doing something [kinda] together and enjoying the ridiculousness of it all.
I love this.
I love that COVID has enabled me to have more of this with my family.
Which is why while I acknowledge the devastating impact it has had – and continues to have – on so many, what it has given to me is an opportunity to embrace and celebrate how precious my family are and how much I love being with them.
Even if Otis feels he’s being ‘game denied’ by his Mum.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Comment, Context, Dad, Daddyhood, Emotion, Empathy, England, Family, Friendship, Fulfillment, Happiness, Home, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Nottingham, Otis, Parents, Paul, Relationships, Rosie
When I was growing up, our back garden was a disaster.
Overgrown.
Tall grass.
Brambles.
Bushes.
Beautiful mayhem.
As a kid, I thought it was amazing.
Me and Paul would run in there and it felt like we were in the jungle.
From playing hide and seek to pretending we were soldiers, it could all happen there.
Then around the age of 5, Mum and Dad had an extension put onto the house and because the loan they took out for it was a bit more than they needed to have it built, they spent the rest on the garden.
Oh how they loved it.
They spent hours there.
Creating it. Cultivating it. Nurturing it. Admiring it.
My god, the way my dad treated his ‘sweet peas’ was enough to make me think he loved them more than me sometimes.
And while I still could play softball tennis with Mum on the patio, I always felt I had had something robbed from me – despite the fact there was a massive park down the road and huge fields of nothingness around the house.
So from there on in, while I could appreciate a nice garden, I always saw them as something that pushed me away rather than welcomed me in.
Until now.
I readily admit I had nothing to do with the garden we have in the home we have just bought.
I readily admit part of its appeal is that it’s mature, so feels natural rather than contrived.
And I readily admit I am still as shit and unenthusiastic about gardening as I ever was.
But my god, I am shocked at how much I love it.
I can stare at it for hours.
Sit in it for days.
Doing nothing but looking at it’s beautiful vibrancy and shades.
Seeing Rosie the cat stretch out on the deck like she has just hit ‘peak cat life’.
Watching Otis play on the swing hanging from the tree then looking at Jill picking up all the apples that have fallen from Otis’ adventure. Turning them into pies that we scoff or give to the neighbours in an blatant attempt to mitigate the mayhem we’ve caused in the first few months of living here with huge moving trucks blocking the road and electrical blackouts that we absolutely, definitely did not cause.
The idea of all this is about as foreign to me as you could get.
I’m a city person.
I like noise and bustle not nature and quiet.
Yet … yet … this is something very special.
Something I feel a real privilege to experience, which I acknowledge is only possible because of the privileged position I am in.
And while all these feelings could all be because of my age or because this house is our family home – regardless of the incoming NZ adventure – the impact of a simple garden has been far more than I ever imagined.
Which makes me think it could also have something to do with making me feel closer to Mum and Dad.
You see while our little garden at home was nothing like this, it was incredibly special to them.
Sure it was beautiful. Sure it was the fruits of their hard work and care. But it seemed to be a place that let them feel everything was going to be OK, regardless of the challenges.
And over the years, our wonderful little family faced many – but that garden always gave them comfort and joy.
A little piece of heaven.
Blossoming into radiant beauty and colour even after the harshest of winters.
Reminding them that the darkest times will always welcome a new spring.
And while as a kid I didn’t really like how that garden had robbed me of my jungle, I grew to appreciate it.
I saw what it did for my parents.
I still remember how my Dad stared in wonder at it after his stroke.
He’d been in hospital for months and was finally allowed home.
And while he needed a lot of care from Mum, that garden was like medicine for him. Helping him forget the pain he was in. Helping him forget the turmoil he was going through.
No longer able to talk.
No longer able to walk properly.
But here, facing the fruits of his love and labour, all was forgotten.
He was safe.
He felt nourished.
He was connected to something his body was not able to let him enjoy anymore.
He and Mum could transport themselves to a time and place where everything was OK.
And while I hope I never face the tragedy my Father suffered – and acknowledge this garden is from the toil of others hands – I feel I get what nature was able to do for Mum and Dad.
Because it isn’t just what grows in the garden, but what it helps blossom within yourself.
Filed under: Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Dad, Daddyhood, Emotion, Family, Fatherhood, Happiness, Hong Kong, Jill, Love, Mum, Mum & Dad, Otis, Parents
So it’s 5am on the day of the US election.
The results are far too tight than anyone would hope – which means the US population have far too little empathy for their fellow humans, given Trump is still in with a good chance.
I know. The lying, cheating, bullshitting, racist, hate-monger is still adored by around 50% of the US population. Nothing shows how sick that country is than that.
So because of this, I thought I’d write something that may momentarily take our minds off hate. One that is inspired by the post I wrote yesterday for Mum’s birthday.
It’s about death.
Yes, I know that sounds a terrible thing to do, but it won’t be.
Or I hope it’s not.
[I’ve turned the comments off so I’ll just have to assume it’s the case]
You see death is utterly horrible.
There’s a chance it might even be worse for the people left behind.
I’ve written how long it took me to get over Dad dying.
10 years. TEN YEARS.
And part of that is because I had been denying Dad was ill for almost the entire duration of his illness. Thinking one more stroke would bring him back to ‘normal’, just as quickly as that one stroke had robbed him of it.
It is what led me to talking about the need to talk about death.
I get it’s not a subject anyone wants to talk about, but as we’re all going to be going through it – it’s better to have a healthy relationship with it rather than a bad one.
By doing it, I was able to deal with Mum dying with far greater balance.
Of course I was devastated and ripped apart …
It was not meant to happen at that time.
But because the door to discussing death had happened when Dad passed, it meant we were in a slightly better place to deal with it.
The problem with ageing is that it happens more around you.
It will force itself into your life, whether you like it or not … so talking about it, as uncomfortable as it may seem, actually helps everyone.
But … and there’s always a but … it doesn’t mean you are able to just move on after the event.
It helps you deal with the event with more clarity, but the emotions never really go.
Even if years have passed.
And it’s normal.
In fact, it’s beautiful … because it means the people who mattered most to you still matter.
How wonderful is that.
There’s been a number of times this has happened to me.
And while in the moment it is an emotional tsunami, it’s something you find yourself treasuring.
Because for a moment, you’re back together.
And that’s when you realise that while you thought you had everything in control, the reality is you’re just trying to control everything around you – so when something comes from left field, your walls are unable to hold anything back and the raw emotions come out with a force that takes your breath away.
I’ve had these situations with both Mum and Dad.
With Dad, it tends to be people who have eyes similar to his.
He had the most beautiful blue, expressive eyes I’ve ever seen.
I remember when I was living in Singapore, I was waiting for the lift in the lobby of the building I worked in.
Suddenly this man I’d never seen before came around the corner and waited at the other end of the lifts.
He was older, dressed smartly but his eyes were identical.
I kept looking at him – trying to remind myself it wasn’t actually my Dad while feeling it was.
And then, as quickly as he appeared, he was gone … never to be seen again.
I have a similar sensation when I see the actor Anthony Hopkins eyes … not just the colour, but the wrinkles around them.
Whenever he is on TV, I stare at him because it feels – even if for a moment – it’s like my Dad is starting back at me.
But the experience that got me the most was when I was living in LA.
I was at the local Thai restaurant in Manhattan Beach … waiting by the till to pick up my order.
Out of my eye, I saw an elderly woman sitting down waiting for her food as well.
It’s not that she really looked like my Mum, but there was something about her energy that felt like she was there.
Like the situation in Singapore, I found myself stealing glances while telling myself it’s not her.
And as much as I knew it wasn’t, it felt like it was and as much as I tried to stop looking, I craved that chance to be close to Mum again.
It was such a powerful sensation that I felt tears in my eyes. It was both a mix of the sadness she was gone and the happiness she felt like she was there.
This lovely lady noticed and asked if I was OK.
I apologised and said I didn’t mean to make her feel uncomfortable, but she reminded me so much of my Mum and I miss her.
And that’s when she said something I’ll remember forever.
“Would you like a hug?”
Oh my god, I did … but I also didn’t want to look like a total weirdo so I thanked her for her kind offer but said no.
As I said that, her food came and as she left, she told me it was so lovely to see someone love their Mum as much as I did.
And she walked out.
And I watched her.
And then I went outside and said …
“Excuse me, would it be possible to have that hug after all?”
She put her food down and opened her arms and I rested my head on her shoulder and she hugged me and I cried my eyes out.
Seriously, I think about it now and I’m amazed the restaurant owners didn’t call the Police.
We were like that for a minute, but it felt like hours and it was liberating for me … a release of all the situations I had try to control to ensure I didn’t lose control.
And like the man in Singapore, I never saw her again, but I’ll remember her – and him – forever. Because while they weren’t my parents, they let me feel – for a second – they were still here and that was the best feeling in the World.
Filed under: A Bit Of Inspiration, Attitude & Aptitude, Childhood, Comment, Corona Virus, Daddyhood, Emotion, Empathy, Family, Fatherhood, Jill, London, Love, Otis
I found this photo recently.
It’s a few years old, when we lived in London … but there’s something about it that just warms my heart.
Not just because it features my son – though that helps – but because it in a period of pandemic chaos, it shows how love can make everything OK.
Covid had just taken hold.
We were all confined to home.
No one was offering any clarity.
People were dying at unprecedented numbers.
And Otis desperately needed his hair washing.
However …
… he was also playing a video game he absolutely didn’t want to stop playing so – because his world had been turned completely upside down – his wonderful, kind, considerate Mum found a way for him to keep playing while she could do some hair washing.
Obviously it is an utterly ridiculous way to do things, but it’s my ridiculous.
A moment of twisted normality at a time where nothing felt normal whatsoever.
And while I appreciate this is an utterly indulgent photograph, I love the way he seems oblivious to his surroundings. His little legs stretched out to the tip of his toes. And a kitchen that has been rapidly turned into a school, a playroom and a hairdressers all at the same time.
While we were painfully aware of the privileged position we were in – from having an income to having a teeny garden to escape in – the fear of COVID was starting to take a hold which is why, as I look at that photo today, I realise how much my ridiculously beautifully family let me feel we were strong together at a point where everything was feeling like it was falling apart.