25. Not Ready Yet.

 A few months back it felt like my return to NZ was an age away and I wondered if I would survive such a long trip, both financially and emotionally.  Now that I’m less than two weeks away from returning, I have been wondering how I’d survive back in NZ.

Don’t come back yet, I’ve been warned by several friends.  The economy is still shite.  At least the days are getting longer, my mother remarked after saying the winter had been colder than usual this year.  

I looked up at the cloudy sky above and then down at my legs and longed for some Italian sunshine on them.  Just as my memories are lightly fading of the travels across Europe and beyond, so is my golden tan sadly.

The UK summers are a lot cooler, which puts the country in good standing should the earth really heat up and Europe melt away.  Needless to say, I’ve not donned my bikini since leaving Italy, and given the way I’ve been comfort-eating lately, it’s just as well!

The cooler weather suits the gardens here as flowers remain blooming from their hanging baskets in late summer.  It’s quite beautiful.  

That’s the theme for the annual September Art Festival here in Melbourne, and I’ve been helping by painting blooming scenes on boards that will be in gardens, aimed to draw young children into the spaces and participate.  

Some of my work

My brother volunteered my services and it’s helped fill up some occasional quiet days.  It actually feels nice to contribute in the community where my brother and his wife have raised their family.

Stay until the festival, my brother insisted.  I was tempted but then I calculated the cost of changing flights and extending insurances as too much for my limited budget.

I have spent many days here in heavy contemplation as to how to move forward once home, only to circle back to where I started and feeling overwhelmed.  I’ve even taken to mindful drawing to bring down any feelings of anxiety.  It works.  

Squiggling

If there is one consistency through all of this it is that ART MAKES ME HAPPY.  Art doesn’t pay the bills however, I quickly conclude before drawing more squiggles into my mindful picture.   

Each squiggle represents a thought that I have attached to, pondered over, or believed. 

I could lose many hours when drawing mindfully like this. It must be like taking LSD… sure feels weird as time quickens then empties into a vast black hole as I fill the page with squiggles.  I haven’t been in the healthiest mindset of late so space   starts    expanding    around    each    squiggle-thought, a full-stop. after.  each.  word…. then time warps as if floating inside a electron cloud of nothingness.

H.  E.  L.  L.  O.  ?

Clearly too much time on my hands lately and mindful drawing sends me to the weirdest places.  I will build a new life once back, I tell myself, but carefully steer away from anything that causes me any angst, sadness or pressure.  

My watch alarm suddenly sounded so I walked down to the local hairdressers where I had an appointment to rid my hair of its peppered dark roots after four months of neglect.  Josh spent time chatting to me as he foiled my hair before cutting it into whatever style he liked - I told him he could.  

I walked out of his salon looking like Princess Diana so went straight to the supermarket and bought myself a bottle of red wine and chocolate.  

Bullring

It’s not his fault.  I now just look like all the other older ladies here in Melbourne.  It’s just a hair style, albeit a very conservative English one.  

Selfridges

Earlier in the week I caught up with an old friend who moved here over 30 years ago.  I met him in Birmingham after I had spent an entire day at the Bullring, a large shopping mall in the centre of the city.  

A Cotswolds village 

I had made a few cheap purchases, mostly replacing what had worn out, but really I just walked around admiring the beautiful retail displays. 

New Zealand lacks sophistication, my old friend announced, as he tucked into a plate of pretty food at a pub we were visiting in the Cotswolds.  

Honeycomb Limestone

I remember calling my father unsophisticated once and it really upset him.  He didn’t want to be that and always dressed up in the neat 1980’s office-style clothes of the day, regardless of what he was doing, whether he was mowing the lawn, driving the boat, or packing honey.  

He took me shopping once, and bought me some beautiful expensive clothes, much to my mother’s distress.  For the first time I saw how beautiful things made you feel beautiful inside and it would later influence my purchasing decisions.  (Who doesn’t love GUCCI?).

Main Street of Melbourne 

In the Melbourne village there are many second hand clothes stores and I’ve bought a few items from them, like a fabulous tobacco-coloured trench coat worn almost every day because it’s not that hot here.

When I was younger, I refused to wear anything that wasn’t new, mostly because I could smell the people who last wore them. 

A house in Melbourne

I’d never go into secondhand or antique stores for that reason, the smell was incredibly strong for my delicate senses.

You’re a super-smeller, my sister-in-law exclaimed after I identified the smell of pine in her lounge room the other day.  She said that each year in December the family went out to chop down a Christmas tree and it would be placed right next to where I was sitting.  

I still recalled the smell my late father left after he took a bite out of my apple over 40 years ago.  I have never liked sharing my food because I could smell breath on my food.  

Like evaluating a wine, I’d describe it as either musky onions, stale garlic or wet bear fur.  

The Late Minnie 

After I had got home from the hairdressers, I opened the door and heard the vacuum cleaner going.  I watched as my lovely housemate came down the stairs, sucking up the last of the cat fur.  

Sadly the elderly cat here died of a suspected stroke a few days ago.  In fact it was on the 13th of August… a date known to me for its endings, like when my Dad died on 13 Sept 1992 and my marriage in 2013.

 An English Lady!

Your hair looks nice, she exclaimed, her voice lightly tapering off as she spoke the last word.  Do you like it?   

She has been living in my brother’s late mother-in-law’s house for a couple of years or so.  It’s just a few houses down from my brother’s family and she often joined them for dinner.

Originally from the Ukraine, she has been trying to make a new life here while the war continues to destroy her country.  

All my silly troubles seemed insignificant compared to all she has had to endure, leaving her old life to make a new life in a new country with a new language and without family.  

She’s only in her mid-20’s but has a maturity about her that I could only hope to achieve in this lifetime.  

Her voice carries cheerfully like summer wildflowers and I found myself wondering how and when my voice changed into the deep echoes left behind in an old coal mine. 

I’ve become cynical, haven’t I, slowly pondering as I sipped the wine and bit off another piece of belly-building chocolate.  

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, trying to get used to this look that wasn’t me… and Princess Diana scorned back, at least you are alive!

Yes, yes, yes.  I know!  I’m just procrastinating, not wanting to face the inevitable return to New Zealand and I’m sure arriving at its shores won’t be like the bleak 1990’s Jane Cameron movie, The Piano.

Now I’ve dug myself into a mental hole deep enough to burn any remnants of confidence I had left.  It’s not easy being a solo, good as invisible 50-something empty-nester, and now I have this Diana haircut to contend with.  

I haven’t travelled much since staying with my brother.  I wanted to feel what life was like in a small English village… and it’s lovely.  

I told the hairdresser that hopefully I’d be back in a year but honestly, who knows what lies ahead.  

Hopefully something nice.  

Before I leave, I will try and do some day excursions to Manchester and nearby places by train.

I can’t believe I’m leaving soon. 

I’m not ready!