My last night in Wellington was a very pleasant book party in Island Bay (like a tupperware party, but with my books instead of plastic containers, and no games). Next morning, I set off from the South Coast, the southern most tip of the North Island, and drove north, mostly up State Highway 1. Notable sights on the way included the street trees of Levin pollarded into creepy skeletal hands reaching skyward, a convoy of seven identical white campervans heading south through Rangitikei and a tank bristling with soldiers trundling across the tussock near Waiouru.
I made a fruitless detour to Palmerston North to see if I could find an appropriate gallery to offer my books to, but a circuit of their grim Square in chilly drizzle yielded nothing hopeful. I sat in a cafe to write down the poem I'd been composing since Linsdale (sample: Love leaves, and then keeps going back to make sure the oven really is turned off). And then was reminded that, while intuition is a very good guide for running many aspects of my life, it is not necessarily up to navigating my way out of a strange town lacking in signage. I narrowly escaped a long drive to Napier by asking for directions.
On a rest break in Turangi my cellphone rang and it was my second oldest friend (only Jane has known me longer) calling from her farm in Upstate New York. I don't know how she got the number since we haven't talked for years, but we caught up on the major news in our, and our children's, lives. Like most of my friends in the USA she wants to leave, appalled by their current government and changing society. I've been thinking about her lots these last months because living at her family's farm was the main farm/rural life experience I've had until now. Organic garlic in summer and maple syrup in winter, making brooms, home schooling and home birthing (I was defacto midwife for her unexpectedly swift second birth). It was in many ways idyllic, but I was defeated by the harsh winters there.
Then I drove up the west side of Lake Taupo which I prefer for the many trees, little traffic and
Whakamaru dam crossing with associated lake and crags. The pull northwards to Whangarei is a physical sensation, an elastic umbilicus tugging at my waist, and my mind is full of thoughts of home places and work I will do when I get there.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Home sick
All that I have learned about my 'intuition' boils down to this: if I don't have enough quiet and slow in my daily life to hear past the chattering old recordings of fear/ego/self-deprecation then my soul will start broadcasting its most urgent messages via my body. Little discomforts clamour for my attention and if I am not responsive to cause (rather than just symptoms) then the volume gets cranked up and static blurs the information coming to me in the form of chronic/serious illnesses.
Since I finally figured that out, and gathered the courage and resources to respond appropriately to my real needs, this has become a highly efficient form of communication (it took about 35 years of pointless suffering to get there but I did).
Right now, my soul is crying out for home, for Purua, for the bush and the hills, to be making art in my studio, and for quiet and solitude. I know this by the sore shins from walking on so much pavement (I usually have a lot of stamina for walking), how I wince at every loud sound (and there are so many!) and the general malaise I felt all through Wellington's cold weekend. I have responded by cutting back my social plans so that unless whanau are involved, I am probably not going to be there. I am spending as much time alone as I can, moving slowly through my business tasks (and getting very excited about all the cool stuff I will be taking home to make into books). Consequently, the malaise has receeded and I am facing my last day here in a state of calm equanimity, eager to go, but willing and able to do what I need to while I am here.
Apologies to all my Wellington darlings who I haven't seen on this visit, forgive me, and know that my non-contact by no means reflects my level of affection and respect for you. You are welcome to come and visit me in Whangarei!
Since I finally figured that out, and gathered the courage and resources to respond appropriately to my real needs, this has become a highly efficient form of communication (it took about 35 years of pointless suffering to get there but I did).
Right now, my soul is crying out for home, for Purua, for the bush and the hills, to be making art in my studio, and for quiet and solitude. I know this by the sore shins from walking on so much pavement (I usually have a lot of stamina for walking), how I wince at every loud sound (and there are so many!) and the general malaise I felt all through Wellington's cold weekend. I have responded by cutting back my social plans so that unless whanau are involved, I am probably not going to be there. I am spending as much time alone as I can, moving slowly through my business tasks (and getting very excited about all the cool stuff I will be taking home to make into books). Consequently, the malaise has receeded and I am facing my last day here in a state of calm equanimity, eager to go, but willing and able to do what I need to while I am here.
Apologies to all my Wellington darlings who I haven't seen on this visit, forgive me, and know that my non-contact by no means reflects my level of affection and respect for you. You are welcome to come and visit me in Whangarei!
Under the Weather
So far my stay in Wellington has been preoccupied with getting/staying warm and dry, no easy feat in the biting wet Southerly that blasted through the city over ANZAC weekend. I have limited my activities, as far as possible, to those taking place in proximity to heaters. The highlight of my trip to Wellington was an afternoon in Karori, drinking tea in front of the gas heater with my adorable nine-week old neice keeping my lap warm (if slightly damp from time to time).
I have also managed to stay pretty warm at the enormous dinner parties I have attended every night so far: Passover Seder for 20 in front of a roaring fire in Eastbourne on Saturday, second night Seder for 100 tightly packed bodies at the synogogue on Sunday, and my daughter's 19th birthday on the floor of a Japanese restaurant (party of 12 including the Japanese mother of her best friend who gave me a miraculous disposable heating pad from Japan).
Thankfully today has dawned clear so at least I won't get slashed by horizontal rain while I tromp around town selling books and buying things to make them with. And when I finally get around to changing the flat tire (noticed in the dark cold rain last night and consequently procrastinated on) I will only have to contend with the vertical slope on which I am parked, not a gushing torrent in the gutter.
I have also managed to stay pretty warm at the enormous dinner parties I have attended every night so far: Passover Seder for 20 in front of a roaring fire in Eastbourne on Saturday, second night Seder for 100 tightly packed bodies at the synogogue on Sunday, and my daughter's 19th birthday on the floor of a Japanese restaurant (party of 12 including the Japanese mother of her best friend who gave me a miraculous disposable heating pad from Japan).
Thankfully today has dawned clear so at least I won't get slashed by horizontal rain while I tromp around town selling books and buying things to make them with. And when I finally get around to changing the flat tire (noticed in the dark cold rain last night and consequently procrastinated on) I will only have to contend with the vertical slope on which I am parked, not a gushing torrent in the gutter.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Torah Scroll
I arrived in Wellingon on Saturday morning, just in time for the Saturday morning service at Temple Sinai, my old synagogue. I was invited to come up to the front and say one of the blessings for the Torah reading. Every week a portion of the Torah (the five books of Moses (more or less the same as in the Christian's Old Testament) handwritten onto a scroll, is read out to the congregation. Between reading the blessings, I got to have a good look at the scroll through my bookmaker's eyes.
The Torah scroll at Temple Sinai is an old one from Czechoslovakia hidden during the Holocaust, along with others that after the war were repaired and sent out to far flung Jewish communities around the world. It is big and heavy with beautiful Hebrew calligraphy.
A Torah scroll is handwritten and made by a sofer (scribe). He (I doubt that women get to do this work) prepares the parchment using the skin of a kosher animal, usually a cow, by soaking it in limewater for 9 days. Then he stretches it on a frame and scrapes it until it is dry and sands it until is a flat smooth sheet for writing on. I don't know how many cows it takes to make a Torah scroll but I'm sure it's a lot!
The sofer makes the ink by blending nuts, copper sulphate crystals and gum arabik with water to make it very black. He only makes two teaspoons at a time so it is always fresh. He also carves a sharp nib on a goose feather quill.
When the quill, parchment and ink are ready, the sofer goes for a ritual bath to purify himself, seeking to become a human vessel for Divine words. If he makes a mistake the parchment is buried and the sofer starts that section again (no pressure). It takes a year to write a scroll. After checking for accuracy, the sections of parchement are sewn together using the leg sinews of a kosher animal.
The sofer doesn't finish writing the Torah though, the last few words are saved to be written in when it is dedicated to a community, a very joyous occasion. Being up close with a Torah scroll, I am always awed by the immense project and immaculate handiwork that make it a holy object, a repository for Divine words that is not a neutral medium as most codex books.
Thanks to Joellen, for sharing this information about scroll-making with me.
The Torah scroll at Temple Sinai is an old one from Czechoslovakia hidden during the Holocaust, along with others that after the war were repaired and sent out to far flung Jewish communities around the world. It is big and heavy with beautiful Hebrew calligraphy.
A Torah scroll is handwritten and made by a sofer (scribe). He (I doubt that women get to do this work) prepares the parchment using the skin of a kosher animal, usually a cow, by soaking it in limewater for 9 days. Then he stretches it on a frame and scrapes it until it is dry and sands it until is a flat smooth sheet for writing on. I don't know how many cows it takes to make a Torah scroll but I'm sure it's a lot!
The sofer makes the ink by blending nuts, copper sulphate crystals and gum arabik with water to make it very black. He only makes two teaspoons at a time so it is always fresh. He also carves a sharp nib on a goose feather quill.
When the quill, parchment and ink are ready, the sofer goes for a ritual bath to purify himself, seeking to become a human vessel for Divine words. If he makes a mistake the parchment is buried and the sofer starts that section again (no pressure). It takes a year to write a scroll. After checking for accuracy, the sections of parchement are sewn together using the leg sinews of a kosher animal.
The sofer doesn't finish writing the Torah though, the last few words are saved to be written in when it is dedicated to a community, a very joyous occasion. Being up close with a Torah scroll, I am always awed by the immense project and immaculate handiwork that make it a holy object, a repository for Divine words that is not a neutral medium as most codex books.
Thanks to Joellen, for sharing this information about scroll-making with me.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Auckland's bottleneck
The vivid memory of my long communion with the sunrise proved invaluable for coping with the crawl down the bottleneck of Auckland motorways between 4 and 5.30pm. The reason I was so foolish as to let myself get entangled in the rush hourS was that I delayed the start of my drive South so as to connect with the Mobile Library on its monthly visit to Purua School. It was worth it as my delight in the experience continues.
Glenn the librarian had brought interesting CDs and books based on my requests last time which, together with my browsing added considerably to the load I am driving to Wellington. But the biggest thrill was being invited, by one of the other library users, to come along to the Country Women's Institute meeting next month! I'm so excited that I will meet more locals, and finally get to see inside the old Purua Hall.
Glenn the librarian had brought interesting CDs and books based on my requests last time which, together with my browsing added considerably to the load I am driving to Wellington. But the biggest thrill was being invited, by one of the other library users, to come along to the Country Women's Institute meeting next month! I'm so excited that I will meet more locals, and finally get to see inside the old Purua Hall.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
Walk Purua Hills
Having heard Alan Waddell (a delightful sounding gentleman of 90) interviewed on National Radio about his famous website archive of walks I am considering changing the name of my blog to Walk Purua Hills.
This morning, waking at 5.30 and realising after 15 minutes of churning through 'things to do before I leave for Wellington at noon', that I wasn't going back to sleep; I opened my eyes to see the skylight turning grey above me. Idea and action were simultaneous as I leapt out of bed and threw on clothes to go watch the sun rise. I set off up the farm track in the dark, the sky lightening behind me to illuminate various tricky gate latches. Heading up hill I waded through knee high grass sodden with dew. Coming round the slope the sky was beginning to cycle through its morning colours, silhouetting my destination: three trees atop a windswept grassy peak. I call them the Grandfathers, two totora and a taraire, and visit them often.
Dawn is a long time to stand still in a brisk autumn wind but my stillness allowed a hare to come bounding past me and six turkeys to awaken gradually from their roost high in a tree just downhill. I watched the wind pull the mists out of the hills and off the flats up into a grey cloud which hovered over Riponui valley as the sky behind it was gilded with blinding gold light.
Sunrises both demand and defy reproduction or interpretation. I think it is their universality that makes cliches out of all possible descriptions and images. I know that their fast changing beauty is best appreciated by stilling the hand from pen, paint or camera, and just being fully present as each pink and gold moment bleeds into the next. Eventually though, I succumbed to the temptation pull out my little camera, and take this inadequate picture.
This morning, waking at 5.30 and realising after 15 minutes of churning through 'things to do before I leave for Wellington at noon', that I wasn't going back to sleep; I opened my eyes to see the skylight turning grey above me. Idea and action were simultaneous as I leapt out of bed and threw on clothes to go watch the sun rise. I set off up the farm track in the dark, the sky lightening behind me to illuminate various tricky gate latches. Heading up hill I waded through knee high grass sodden with dew. Coming round the slope the sky was beginning to cycle through its morning colours, silhouetting my destination: three trees atop a windswept grassy peak. I call them the Grandfathers, two totora and a taraire, and visit them often.
Dawn is a long time to stand still in a brisk autumn wind but my stillness allowed a hare to come bounding past me and six turkeys to awaken gradually from their roost high in a tree just downhill. I watched the wind pull the mists out of the hills and off the flats up into a grey cloud which hovered over Riponui valley as the sky behind it was gilded with blinding gold light.
Sunrises both demand and defy reproduction or interpretation. I think it is their universality that makes cliches out of all possible descriptions and images. I know that their fast changing beauty is best appreciated by stilling the hand from pen, paint or camera, and just being fully present as each pink and gold moment bleeds into the next. Eventually though, I succumbed to the temptation pull out my little camera, and take this inadequate picture.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Dry North
Today I had to sneak out for my walk so Jet, the neighbour's dog who recently figured out how to escape his garden, doesn't follow me. Since he is alert to any human activity on the tracks across our valley floor, I went down to the peacock's creek. It was my first visit there in 2 or 3 weeks and I was struck by the impact of our indian summer.
It is crispy dry in the warm sun, the morning mists having come to nothing wetter. It is dry enough to sit on the grass in places and under deciduous trees are carpets of crunchy leaves. Where last time there were boot-grabbing swamps, the ground is now just springy, maybe slightly sticky. Where there were muddy puddles the cracked earth has crumbled to inch-deep dust. The dramatically ox-bowed creek is low and sluggish, exposing weed, rocks, a previously hidden cave carved under the roots of a totora. The sultry stillness of the afternoon is broken suddenly by a cool breeze, rattling the yellow leaves of the tree above me.
I am grateful that I have had such a warm welcome to the North, but I am looking forward to spending winter making books in my cosy studio while outside a steady rain soaks the ground.
It is crispy dry in the warm sun, the morning mists having come to nothing wetter. It is dry enough to sit on the grass in places and under deciduous trees are carpets of crunchy leaves. Where last time there were boot-grabbing swamps, the ground is now just springy, maybe slightly sticky. Where there were muddy puddles the cracked earth has crumbled to inch-deep dust. The dramatically ox-bowed creek is low and sluggish, exposing weed, rocks, a previously hidden cave carved under the roots of a totora. The sultry stillness of the afternoon is broken suddenly by a cool breeze, rattling the yellow leaves of the tree above me.
I am grateful that I have had such a warm welcome to the North, but I am looking forward to spending winter making books in my cosy studio while outside a steady rain soaks the ground.
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
Rainbow Connection
One of my favourite memories of being a little girl was mum driving around the Waikato with my brother and I in the back of the car, chasing rainbows. It must have been before the first oil shocks of the seventies; certainly I never felt I could justify such joyriding with my daughter- sorry Louise. In retrospect, she was escaping the claustrophobia of a rainy day at home with two bored kids. But I loved the romance of our quest, even though we never managed to find the end of the rainbow and its promised pot of gold with leprachaun.
Until yesterday I thought it was actually impossible to find the end of the rainbow- it's always going to be at a distance because of angles and refractions and other things I learned at school but immediately forgot.
But yesterday my neighbour, Sean, had a rainbow in the car with him as he drove to work! He was driving out of our drizzley valley with the sun still low in the sky. A rainbow arching from the road in front of him caught his eye and as he drove towards it didn't behave like rainbows usually do- hovering tantalisingly in the distance. He looked out his window and could see the other foot of the arch in the paddock beside him. Then he drove through the road end of the rainbow and for a few seconds the car was filled with colour.
Until yesterday I thought it was actually impossible to find the end of the rainbow- it's always going to be at a distance because of angles and refractions and other things I learned at school but immediately forgot.
But yesterday my neighbour, Sean, had a rainbow in the car with him as he drove to work! He was driving out of our drizzley valley with the sun still low in the sky. A rainbow arching from the road in front of him caught his eye and as he drove towards it didn't behave like rainbows usually do- hovering tantalisingly in the distance. He looked out his window and could see the other foot of the arch in the paddock beside him. Then he drove through the road end of the rainbow and for a few seconds the car was filled with colour.
Monday, April 18, 2005
Rural Delivery
One of the highlights of a day at home in the country is the post arriving. I'm pretty certain that at 4.30-ish, when the postie does a U-turn at our neighbour's letterbox on the other side of the one-lane bridge, she's finished for the day. That's how far out into the wopwops I live- at the very end of RD 6.
I like the whole ritual of leaving the flag up when I have mail I want collected. But of course, the best thing is how often I get exciting mail.
Naturally, because I spend so much time online I mostly get emails instead of personal snail mail. But among the bills and junk mail (and I love the glossy junk for using when I glue books), I get thrilling cheques for books sold, and orders for more. Those are definitely red letter days.
I also get lots of fun parcels crammed into the little arched box. For one thing, dear family members have taken to sending chocolate every now and then. This is much appreciated and all I can say is please continue! And last week mum sent me a little box of passionfruit from her Hamilton garden-yum.
When I lived in Wellington I was about 10 minutes walk from Gordon Harris- a big fabulous arts supply store that we all liked to complain about because it is so expensive. From up here, in the arts supply wasteland of Northland, GH has become my pilgrimage destination for visits to various Big Smokes. But I am doing more and more of my shopping for materials and tools on line. Paper, card, book cloth, blades, adhesives, swatches and samples have all come my way via New Zealand Post in the past couple of months.
Last week the Association of Book Crafts sent me a big roll of paper and cloth, and under separate cover, a kilo of EVA (the environmentally friendly version of PVA glue). These unweildy objects were not going to fit in the box so the postie drove up the rutted drive and delivered them into my hands. Remember, this is the last stop on her long working day. So I just want it on record that I love Rural Delivery.
I like the whole ritual of leaving the flag up when I have mail I want collected. But of course, the best thing is how often I get exciting mail.
Naturally, because I spend so much time online I mostly get emails instead of personal snail mail. But among the bills and junk mail (and I love the glossy junk for using when I glue books), I get thrilling cheques for books sold, and orders for more. Those are definitely red letter days.
I also get lots of fun parcels crammed into the little arched box. For one thing, dear family members have taken to sending chocolate every now and then. This is much appreciated and all I can say is please continue! And last week mum sent me a little box of passionfruit from her Hamilton garden-yum.
When I lived in Wellington I was about 10 minutes walk from Gordon Harris- a big fabulous arts supply store that we all liked to complain about because it is so expensive. From up here, in the arts supply wasteland of Northland, GH has become my pilgrimage destination for visits to various Big Smokes. But I am doing more and more of my shopping for materials and tools on line. Paper, card, book cloth, blades, adhesives, swatches and samples have all come my way via New Zealand Post in the past couple of months.
Last week the Association of Book Crafts sent me a big roll of paper and cloth, and under separate cover, a kilo of EVA (the environmentally friendly version of PVA glue). These unweildy objects were not going to fit in the box so the postie drove up the rutted drive and delivered them into my hands. Remember, this is the last stop on her long working day. So I just want it on record that I love Rural Delivery.
Friday, April 15, 2005
Happy birthday boots
It is almost exactly two years since I celebrated a substantial pay rise by buying some expensive Italian boots. They were on sale, but still cost considerably more than any other footwear I've bought before or since. Not fashionable high heels, or indeed fashionable in any way: they are Scarpas, quality leather tramping boots.
At that time, I had no idea when or how I could overcome the obstacles then standing between me and my long held desire to live in or near Northland bush, but by buying the boots I was making an investment in the future I longed for. I was living in innercity Wellington, working full time, and without a car. Access to any bush at all was a rare treat and I hardly ever got to wear my beautiful boots. They remained unscuffed and not-quite-broken-in until early this year when I finally made my move north.
They are now looking satisfyingly well worn (see below) and are comfortable enough for increasingly long walks several times a week. Locations that I thought of as distant destinations when I first arrived are now launching pads for my explorations further and further into the hills. I guess I am getting fitter too, but it is curiosity that takes me further, sometimes so far that I return home exhausted and filthy with mud and pittosporum tar.
The last few walks I have been trying to find a track that will connect two ridges at the end of the back farm's valley. This search generally commences an hour or so's walk from home, at the top of the ridge where I found the dead kiwi on my first weekend. I have followed half a dozen tracks, often into DOC 'Kiwi Zones', which either fizzle out into dense undergrowth or veer off in quite the wrong direction. I know this loop exists because my neighbours walked it at Easter, but from the other hill top. Next time I go out I will take their route, which I have resisted thus far because it is steep track without any shade. I will pick a cool and overcast day and set off early, with a packed lunch and my expensive Italian boots. I'll let you know how I go.
At that time, I had no idea when or how I could overcome the obstacles then standing between me and my long held desire to live in or near Northland bush, but by buying the boots I was making an investment in the future I longed for. I was living in innercity Wellington, working full time, and without a car. Access to any bush at all was a rare treat and I hardly ever got to wear my beautiful boots. They remained unscuffed and not-quite-broken-in until early this year when I finally made my move north.
They are now looking satisfyingly well worn (see below) and are comfortable enough for increasingly long walks several times a week. Locations that I thought of as distant destinations when I first arrived are now launching pads for my explorations further and further into the hills. I guess I am getting fitter too, but it is curiosity that takes me further, sometimes so far that I return home exhausted and filthy with mud and pittosporum tar.
The last few walks I have been trying to find a track that will connect two ridges at the end of the back farm's valley. This search generally commences an hour or so's walk from home, at the top of the ridge where I found the dead kiwi on my first weekend. I have followed half a dozen tracks, often into DOC 'Kiwi Zones', which either fizzle out into dense undergrowth or veer off in quite the wrong direction. I know this loop exists because my neighbours walked it at Easter, but from the other hill top. Next time I go out I will take their route, which I have resisted thus far because it is steep track without any shade. I will pick a cool and overcast day and set off early, with a packed lunch and my expensive Italian boots. I'll let you know how I go.
Free Kiwi Sex
One of the things I enjoy most about both of the local free weekly papers (The Whangarei Leader and the Report) is that pretty much every issue carries a story about kiwi. I love it. I would much rather read about what's going on in the kiwi world than most of the human world.
But the best kiwi story I've read was in the local free glossy magazine, Scene. The story subtitled "Kiwi wife-swapping and burrow hopping on Matakohe-Limestone Island" by Tristan Tuckey revealed the soap operatic romantic lives of four kiwi with wonderfully tawdry and sordid anthropomorphism. I laughed out loud. More than once.
But the best kiwi story I've read was in the local free glossy magazine, Scene. The story subtitled "Kiwi wife-swapping and burrow hopping on Matakohe-Limestone Island" by Tristan Tuckey revealed the soap operatic romantic lives of four kiwi with wonderfully tawdry and sordid anthropomorphism. I laughed out loud. More than once.
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Peacocks and Pears
Today I scared (not on purpose) six peacocks out of a pear tree in the orchard. I've seen them around in twos and threes before and for a long time I thought they were peahens because they don't have tail feathers. But it turns out they are males leaving their tail feathers under the totora trees by the creek, where I have been collecting them to use in my books. Peacocks look too fat to fly, but when they do their wings are a brick red as the light shines through them.
These ones are fat because they are frequent visitors to our overgrown and neglected, yet fecund, orchard. Right now it's hard to begrudge them the fruit because the pear tree in question is defiantly producing an outrageously heavy crop of russet pears despite having fallen over. The trunk is broken most of the way through near the root and the whole tree is propped precariously on a buckling fence. But still so many pears I hardly know what to do with them. Not being a bottler (despite my interest, I have no experience and no jars), I have mostly been making them into pear cakes. I'm onto my third variation of the original recipe and think I have it just about right.
These ones are fat because they are frequent visitors to our overgrown and neglected, yet fecund, orchard. Right now it's hard to begrudge them the fruit because the pear tree in question is defiantly producing an outrageously heavy crop of russet pears despite having fallen over. The trunk is broken most of the way through near the root and the whole tree is propped precariously on a buckling fence. But still so many pears I hardly know what to do with them. Not being a bottler (despite my interest, I have no experience and no jars), I have mostly been making them into pear cakes. I'm onto my third variation of the original recipe and think I have it just about right.
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