Like thistle spores in the wind....

Rooted.....hmmm, an unfortunate word within the Australian vocabulary. I won't explain it, but the Aussies among us will understand.....

"Roots", of course has other connotations, neither vulgar nor offensive, and it is within this context, that the dear folk at Sunday Scribblings have proposed the word "Rooted", along with its contextual variants, for this weeks writing prompt.

Actually, I really would like to feel "rooted". I haven't felt rooted in a really long while...ten years, in fact. Please allow me to explain.....

My husband works away a lot. The company for which he works, runs its operations internationally, for the most part. As the company grows, so too is the need for positions in new regions. Most of the time he is told, with little notice, that he is to be sent to such and such a base in Whoop Whoop for X number of weeks. We could live with that arrangement, that is the way of the world, according to his particular line of work.

A couple of times though, he has been told, that he was to move permanently to another country, to run a base. Twice this has happened. Twice our world was rocked by such scenarios. Twice it fell through at the eleventh hour, leaving us writhing, depleted, and clutching for something hidden in the nothingness; a strange feeling, especially given that nothing fundamental seemed to have really changed, at all.

Rootedness is a state of mind, but it is also wrapped up in issues concerning identity, belonging and ones sense of stability. One's culture and country, along with the memories connected to those concepts, are generally things that remains firm, sturdy and steadfast, in ones life. That being said, I know this is not the case for all. I have worked with enough refugees and immigrants, to know that country is really just as impermanent as everything else in this life, but for the most part, it is the most enduring and stable of the things and ideas that sway and teeter precariously in our lives. A sense of home is essential to rootedness, birth country or not...we all must feel we belong somewhere.

In 1997 we were told we were going to Myanmar (Burma). We had no choice. I have nothing against the place, but I had just started a path of higher education. Education, at that point in my life, was akin to an inner calling; one that was more to do with healing, than simply learning stuff. Needless to say, the decision to journey down that undulating educational road was not made lightly, so the possibility of abandoning such dreams was thwart with much nonsensical angst. My head was filled with questions, "why now, when this education journey felt so right?" These questions led me on to another path, such as wondering about opportunity, and ideas about that which lays in wait for us in Myanmar; "what if we were MEANT to be there".
The deal eventually fell through, but the process made me question my studies, interests and focus, resulting in me ditching my ambiguously defined Arts degree; two years in, and commencing a Social Work degree instead; a four year commitment.

The first year of my SW degree was fantastic, and I met a wonderful friend at the new university, who I now consider one of my soul sisters. At the end of that first year, the company Ashley worked for, suffered a major contractual blow and laid off a large number of people as a result. Ashley's position vanished from under his feet and he was told the only position for him, within the company, was in Thailand...we had the weekend to think about it, though it was hardly a decision really, it was a forced situation.

For months we made hasty logistical arrangements to leave; letting go of certain things around us. Suddenly, the life we had always known, could not feature within our immediate plans, and we had to try to imagine a different reality.

After four months, and no word of exactly when we were leaving, we were told, once again, "the deal was off", while initially relieved - this degree thing felt constantly under-threat - the company had a dilemma on their hands - what to do with Ashley. This type of uncertainty carried on for a year, resulting in an inability to plan ANYTHING, for we were assured we were being shipped off "somewhere", just as soon as a position became available. It was a most unsettling time, with out lives feeling stagnant and stalled.

In the end, Ashley was re-titled back into the same job that had been made redundant a year before. The same job Ashley had been doing the entire year, in an unofficial capacity. Once again, nothing changed...but I did.

The energy that swirled during that time, uprooted me. I had spent such a long time floating, like a thistle spore in the wind, that I just wanted the breeze to carry me where I needed to go, and lay me down gently on a new patch of fertile earth. I guess I was yearning for the energy that had so violently uprooted me, to run full circle, but I would have to wait another 6 more years for that part in the process to take place.

When the opportunity arose, we applied to move permanently with the company, to Canada; and in doing so, the proverbial monkey was off our backs. I think our little corner of Canada is beautiful. Daily, I stand in awe of my surroundings: the mountains, the islands, the greenery, the water, the animals, but as enchanting as it is here, it actually feels like we are just on one really long holiday. We have no family here. The politics of this country are foreign to me, although I have tried to get into it, the background of the issues are missing, and so I largely feel ignorant to it all. My friends are in Australia, and they are creating lives and families of their own. A dear, dear friend of mine rang tonight, to tell me she had her baby - a healthy boy, her first. I can't believe that I am here, missing such a momentous event. She was the first of my visitors for each of my children, and yet, I am not there, for her glorious moment. Hey, I can't even get into hockey for Gods sake, and it is THE PLAYOFFS (go Canucks!) See, even THAT wasn't convincing. My husband has been terribly homesick; pining for his Aussie rules football and his cricket (yawn). As for me, I am not really pining for anything, other than people.

For me, becoming uprooted was emotionally painful. It could be likened to a young child being ripped from the arms of a panic stricken mother, and never feeling the enveloping reassurance of her loving embrace again. It is difficult to give in and trust being touched the same way, since it felt so traumatic to be plucked from the soil of ones own sense of self, the first time around.

It would be nice to settle and embed oneself whole heartedly into the process of building a life. I seriously want to shout at myself - "for God's sake, GET ROOTED! "

The Last Supper

This is my first submission for Sunday Scribblings. The prompt for this week was: Yummy or Yum. I actually wrote this post on Thursday, after reading a section in a book called Fruitflesh, by Gayle Brandelis; a book to inspire writing. It is actually really very good, even if I did happen upon it in a bookshop bargain bin.

The section I was just reading asked the reader to think about what one might request, should one know they were about to chance upon their final earthly meal. Boy, the thoughts that rained from that one.

My late father-in-law loved food. He was a big man and proclaimed to love REAL food, none of this quick fix dial-up pizza rubbish. “That’s not a meal, that’s a SNACK!”

In November 1999, it was discovered that he had a brain tumour. He died in September 2002, five weeks after my son was born.

He actually lived long after his original, dismal prognosis. He was a fighter. He had surgery to remove the tumour. The biopsy and MRI scan revealed that the brain tumour was a secondary form of cancer, and his body, even at that stage, was riddle with the disease.

Unfortunately for my father-in-law, the price he paid for a few more years, was the loss of his ability to swallow. Never again was this man, who loved food, able to eat as we do. Instead he consumed a liquid and vitamin enriched “meal” that entered directly to his stomach via a peg in his navel.

Sometimes my father-in-law would snatch a piece of food from the table he insisted upon sitting at, while others ate their meals. He would throw the food into his mouth and chew in a frenzied, angry fashion, while we all watched in horror, knowing he would inevitably choke, and could possibly even die, should he attempt to swallow it. But he just wanted to taste the food; enjoy the experience and social aspect of a family meal, like he used to. He wanted to sit at the head of his table, and he was frustrated that his body simply could not perform this seemingly simply function - swallowing, like it had previously been able.

And of course, he would choke whenever he did this, and panicked family members would scold him for attempting to eat. It was scary to witness the drama of it all, but I did not blame him. It was such a cruel fate, and food with the in-laws became a tense ride paved with guilt, after that. It seemed so unfair, that we sat eating a sumptuous meal, when he could not.

I wondered what he would have chosen as his last meal, if he had known his fate in advance.

In stark contrast, I attended a class with a woman who really appreciated food. At the end of our course, the class went out for a farewell dinner, at a local restaurant…nothing fancy, but still nice.

This particular woman was unabashedly sensory, which became evident as I sat, curious and enthralled, as she demonstrated her appreciation for the food presented before her.

I watched as she closed her eyes, and inhaled the curling aroma that exuded from the freshly cooked meal; and then her slow and contented exhale; a thankful breathing out like another might, in savouring the fragrance of a bunch of roses given by a new love.

I watched her pick up her utensils and contemplate the meal in its entirety, before she began to slice it up; her hesitation akin to a prayer. Mindfully… respectfully, she began to arrange small portions of food on her fork and as the food entered her yearning mouth, she closed her eyes again, only opening them once the empty fork was extracted from clutching lips. She chewed slowly, eyes in a meditative glaze as she pulled and dissected each tantalising ingredient, with her tongue.

She ooh’ed and arr’ed like she were making love to her meal. She appeared to be in gastronomic heaven, and the rest of us sat, feeling slightly uncomfortable by the enthusiastic display of her satisfaction.

This chorus of mindful feasting lasted her entire meal, and with every course, and when the wait staff appeared to remove her polished crockery, she made sure she told them how much she enjoyed the experience, insisting her compliments be extended to the chef.

I, along with others at our table, sat mesmerised by the concentrated appreciation she showed for her food, but she cared not and declared to us, unperturbed and unapologetically, “I love my food” – indeed she did. Her appreciation for food certainly made me think about how I mindlessly shovelled edible objects into my mouth – the contrast was glaringly obvious.

So, what would I choose as my final earthly meal?
Well, I think I might choose a basket of hot grainy bread to start off with, and a steaming bowl of New England clam chowder to go with it. I would indulge in a bottle of my favourite wine – Grant Burge Pinot Noir Chardonnay NV and a simple pan seared Atlantic salmon with a hint of lemon, served with a plate of steamed vegetables.

Now for dessert….hmmm the choices. Oh, the choices…
I think, above all else, I would choose my Mum’s homemade hot chocolate pudding; on its own, no ice-cream or cream to take away from the rich bitter-sweet chocolately goodness.

I would then pray to God I were not too full, but then again, it is my last earthly meal, so what the hell, because I would LOVE a latte to finish…with a side of peppermint chocolate truffles! Mmmm MMMMM!

What would you choose?