The Other Side of the World

Skipping Town

2008-04-13T13:53:00.005-04:00

Only in the on-line sense - otherwise it would hardly be news-worthy, would it? Skinny-armed baby, travelogue, birth, milk, midwifery musings and other flotsam and flora to be found at our very own cozy spot on-line: www.durafemina.com Come visit . . and change your blogroll. . . we like your company! (and shortly, individual posts will red-direct)

how to take up space

2008-03-22T08:00:00.002-04:00

what goes on

2008-03-20T13:51:00.014-04:00

I knit soakers, which are then grossly misappropriated

we wash lots of diapers and then bask in their post-dryer warmth

homemade pizza dough is perfected by the LD

sometimes we sleep

and sometimes, we sleep on each other

trifecta of danger

2008-03-10T02:19:00.008-04:00

I woke up yesterday being eye balled by these giant specimens and I had to quickly go back to sleep for a minute. The cuteness, it is overwhelming at times. There was snow smashed into every crevice of our street today making for an exhilarating automotive thrust through the ice ruts not to mention a thrilling bout of morning labour for the lovely daddy (I wonder if he'll dig my car out in the future when I get called out at 4am? is this an unreasonable dream?)Red.skirt.lust. Please, someone, contrive for this skirt to enter my life in a more visceral way than me clicking on the Etsy store from whence it comes 18 times a day (it's handmade! of recycled material! by a struggling artist! there is so much good to add to the world via this skirt!). To sum: baby googlers, snowstorm # 28 of the season and Etsy.com . . . dangerous things all Also: to the person that stole my bag of groceries, or perhaps contrived to evaporate it unbeknownst to me, or who finds it in a deep snow drift: enjoy the prune juice and chocolate pudding!

sleep

2008-03-04T02:49:00.003-05:00

I am not sleeping this night-time because we, this elegant little dyad of us - can sleep any time. Can curl up and sink our noses into each other's folds that are scentless in their familiarity. Custard-silk creases. Luxury trimmed in richness. I am also not sleeping because I'm not at home and everything is a quarter-turn past perfectly comfortably familiar. The realization of this is tedious because it reminds me how hard and long it feels before things settle into home-ness. And this, of course, juxtaposes with the back-to-other-side-world-ness that is forthcoming. And the thought of reworking that transition, yet again, is a little achey and sharp. Perhaps tacking on an entourage this time around will rub the edges some. I'd like that. And I'd like sleep.

snow bebe

2008-02-20T14:01:00.003-05:00

because today is Bach's concerto for two violins on repeat, hand-knit socks, chicken soup - and this is what you do for some vitamin D in mid-february-canada

bright & shiny

2008-02-17T17:52:00.007-05:00

Four months of sweet, tumultuous, time-blurred mundane perfection. If I was more prone to be less cerebral, I'd spend my days with a blissful grin plastered on my face, expressing my joy and contentedness out loud. However, since such acts would likely cause me to disown myself - not mention bewilder the people around me, I will stick to measured bursts of syrup en ecrire. So, time has passed, the idea of a complete person inhabiting my innards becomes more and more impossible to contemplate, and is replaced by a sense of wonderment that a shiny little love-nut has managed to implant in the universe, like an overnight cherry-tree-blossoming or a sudden thunder storm. How, I have to ask, does one sit down, ever, and write what is termed a 'birth story'? How to ever make a sheaf of words into something explanatory, descriptive, memorable - when the very thing it puports to discuss is still being lived, breathed, absorbed and fragmented. With every bright and succulent day.

sucked dry

2008-02-13T20:08:00.003-05:00

I fell asleep last night in my usual way - with a baby suctioned firmly to my nipple. Five hours later I woke up in the exact same situation with those little lips determinedly pulsing away. I felt like I'd spent my night in a Saharan noon. It was all I could do to stagger out of bed and throw my face into the nearest container of water - a cup in the hallway that has been there who-knows-how-long. Dehydration, the new love.

anatomie

2008-02-06T17:55:00.000-05:00

Strange; that those membranes, clots of flesh and delicate filters - fibred and affixed themselves together while I dizzily wandered through gestation - through the bitter-iced winter and the sharp-sunned summer, the curdled damp winter and the amorphous humid-massed summer. Two continents - 9 months - go figure. So what shall I do with my placenta? No ancestral land (without the impossible human-remain import laws, anyway) in which to bury it . . . it remains solid, irreverently squeezed between the plentifully hoarded meat cuts of my mother's freezer. When spring - finally, that misplaced season - arrives . . . let it melt into dark-earthed oblivion, twisting veins collapsing into hard-wire tree roots? Which roots where? With which roots shall I share my blood, my viscous, jellied crimson-purple, careful child-holding, vital and disposable - my anatomy?

notwithstanding

2008-01-29T15:55:00.001-05:00

Somehow I have managed, in an exhilarating bout of obliviousness, to completely miss the local screening of The Business of Being Born. Local as in right in my neighbourhood within walking on a -25 c freezing cold night distance. Clearly I have been spending too much time doing the photographed above (i.e. being leeched upon) and not enough time reading posted flyers on street corners, or attending LLL meetings with well connected birth advocates. Although, you know, I really thought I was doing a decent amount of that. This realization (made upon reading a review of the bloody screening in the community paper) has caused much wailing around here - because, man! I really wanted to see that movie because it was all birthy and politic and the trailer made me get all weepy at the end even after I'd watched it 17 times in a row, and now I'll have to wait forever and ever for it to make its way up to Canada. Sigh. I think I'm itching to indulge my inner birth junkie, midwifery style. Watching that trailer reminded me how ridiculously fantastic it is to be studying a profession in which I frequently cry tears of uncontained joy. Present incomplete essay notwithstanding, as usual.

snippets

2008-01-28T13:21:00.000-05:00

hoods hair cuttery squish!

the day of screaming

2007-12-28T02:01:00.000-05:00

I've listened with a sort of bewildered sadness, to women (including both the piglet's grandmothers) speaking of how they birthed quietly, mutedly, how they were "good" and "didn't bother the nurses" and held it all in. I'm not sure I'm hearing a story of peaceful birth from them. . . in fact, it seems restricted and repressed more than anything else. When it was my turn to usher in the first of the next generation - I did not labour peacefully (although I suspect there were peaceful moments). On the other hand, repressed as a concept has no place in my birth story: I screamed - and so long and deep and hard, I felt exhausted as the sound wildly shot out across the room and through the neighbourhood and the entire cosmos. I roared because the power surging through me insisted on bursting right through my vocal cords. I kicked the lovely daddy and snarled and shrieked and moaned and wailed and commanded and promised him I was dying for hours on end. I pleaded with my baby to come down! come down!. . .down! I swore in several languages at my patient, calm midwives. I ran, naked, around the kitchen amidst the pale morning tableau of birth supplies and clean dishes - roaring and banging my fists into the wooden cabinets, thrusting suddenly into deep squats and grabbing violently, blindly at my midwife's legs perched upon a tall stool. I was miserable, and I was exhilarated. and I am everlastingly proud and honoured and grateful that everyone present, and especially I, knew enough to trust the power of the screaming. Look what it did! Look what my beautiful, wild, wonderous screaming did! - really - don't let the sweet innocent look fool you, I'm a roaring mama!

froglet

2007-12-26T13:31:00.000-05:00

I have an essay due in 2 days

the good: it's 1/8 done and 100% researched and straight forward

the bad: 1) it's the middle of the freaking holidays and I don't know what kind of insanity posessed me to leave it until now to do (except perhaps my persistant last-minute-minded-ness)

2) the lovely daddy is at work until tomorrow and I am at my mother's house ostensibly 'visiting' although everyone has left to go paint the rental house. Read: no one to pass baby off to. I regret that my mad mama/student skills do not encompass writing an essay and breastfeeding (although strangely enough they do encompass blogging and breastfeeding)

3) In a fit of idiocy I chose to write the essay on SIDS so now am in a constant state of anxiety everytime I contemplate the topic at hand. Helpful, really.

ah well. maelstroms are my specialty.

. . . and of course, there is the pacifying thought that if I could write (and pass!) an exam, breastfeeding a 2 week old non-happily-latching baby whilst ensconced in the swankily important offices of the New Zealand High Comission in downtown Ottawa (replete with dumping breast-milk that had collected in my nipple shells into a severe looking potted plant) - then I can do anything. . .

I think I sort of understand better why Morag's blog is titled such. Hey. . . at least I'm not on call. Yet.

Happy Holidays!

mild obsession

2007-12-06T12:06:00.000-05:00

babymooning

2007-11-29T12:36:00.000-05:00

in an idyllic little haze here. . .

- of note the crib full of not-baby that she never sleeps in - and the bit of the belly cast behind us on the wall

slightly over-sized snug-ness (and mama's studying on the side)

the lovliest daddy shares his shower

Born

2007-11-01T13:29:00.000-04:00

October 16, 2007 10:40 am roared by her mama into a perfect sunny autumn morning after twenty-four hours of labour dance

right into our perfectly waiting arms

our family

our home

our birth

The Angry Bus

2007-07-26T06:50:00.000-04:00

Am presently milling around Vancouver (though leaving ever so soon) - an experience I'll post about later when I find myself berefit of all other activities (and let history show, this will happen). Anyway, I had to mention, of note, the fact that I just took a ride on the angriest bus of my life today in Downtown Vancouver. I am not a soft suburban bus-riding debutante having ridden on buses shrieking down the 1/4 lane highway in Vietnam replete with 5 people one seat, 4 of those people throwing up, and the back windshield (definitely not safety glass - only the jagged deadly kind, of course) flying out mid-journey. And no, I didn't look behind onto the crowded, dusty road full of unprotected motorcyclists. Call me cold. That being said, today's bus ride was impressive given that, by the end of about 14 minutes on it, I had heard about 20 different people scream angrily for several different reasons, including transit fraud, slander associated with alleged transit fraud, general undirected anger and a minor catastrophe involving someone's repeated inability to open the back door. Oh, and someone told me to "take the drugs!" (although I suspect if I bothered to place that within its correct context that might be less random). Love the bus. Highly amused. And here I thought the West Coast was laid back? Bonus travel anecdote: On an AirNZ flight: hostess (handing out immigration forms): what nationality of passport are you travelling under? me: Canadian hostess: Great, so you're a U.S. citizen me: no, Canadian hostess: right. Here's the form for U.S. citizens Apparently international travel has done nothing for this woman?

what else is there to do?

2007-07-16T03:14:00.000-04:00

When not being midwifish - for example this week - I:

Am compulsive: --> ate homeade chicken soup for 8 meals in a row. Not from one batch. Nor from one batch of groceries. ahem. Is it a bad sign when the cashier at the checkout notices you've bought the same ingredients twice in one week?

Am literary: --> read several books, only one of which was on breastfeeding. So there (unless you count Christina Rosetti's Goblin Market as breastfeeding, which you really, really shouldn't).

Am slothful: --> 11 hours is a nice length of time to sleep. Plus the naps of course. Especially the ones in the bath. Prunily pleasant. Am thwarted:

--> despite excellent attempts, my track record for re-selling uselessly expensive textbooks remains at universe: ad infinitum, me: 1. Furthermore, the one victory can't even be enjoyed properly because it wasn't my textbook; I just sold it to be spiteful (justified!). Am productive: --> so it appears you're supposed to actually run those errands. Intriguing.

Am feverish: --> if I knit all the wool I own into things, it will take up less space in my suitcase. Right? Am pressured:

--> my lovely (male) relation claims "if you can convince me, i wont buy a gun". Splendid, I needed something to get all soap-boxy and critical about in my time off. Am irresponsible: --> where is my cell phone? who knows! Why is there a giant daikon radish on the backseat of my car? probably because the creepy man at the grocery store suggested I buy it and I did so in an attempt to evade further conversation with him. . . he has white clown hair! Am vastly complex and fascinating: --> or, well, you know. . . I like to think my inner machinations are thusly. Ca va? Ah, see. . .there is plenty else to do

even if it is all a little lacking in bodily fluids

Unaccountable

2007-07-05T06:15:00.000-04:00

On June the 28th I stomped into my midwife's kitchen after an all day induction (which had all the markings of doom and ended beautifully - humbling my cynical self nicely) and announced that June was officially over for me, because I refused to participate further in the nerve-grinding schedule it was throwing at me. Since then, life has cooperatively lulled off and been an unremarkable series of cleaning, packing, sorting, paying bills, visiting the recently birthed and pilfering food from aforementioned kitchen (and the kitchens of her family). Throw in a random Canadian visitor who hustled me off to the 'big' city of Wellington (half a million people, maybe?) - with the resultant effect being the number of shirts that actually cover the intended anatomy in my wardrobe doubling - and there's two weeks going by. Which is good. . . because I'm counting them.

knowing at 24/24

2007-06-23T07:22:00.000-04:00

I woke up the morning after my last exam (a brutal 19 page thriller that had me in near hysterics as all good lastest/hardest exams do) a trifle surprised to be conscious. But there you have it, I am (all hopeful pass marks considering) half a midwife now. Mid-midwife? Some sort of strange crossover mark has been reached somewhere between wringing the cramps out of my writing hand and gently slipping the umbilical cord around the body of exam-time baby number seven (born at home in what I can only describe as the most normal of family evenings complete with matching striped pyjamas, prime time television - Medium was on, if you must know - and mama on the lazy boy calmly having a baby in 30 minutes flat).

And so, when you cross over, I suspect it is a human reflex to look back over your shoulder. Perhaps assessing the terrain from a new and hard fought perspective. Last night, my classmates and I went out dancing until the hours when we'd normally be measuring newborn head circumferences - I arrived home just before torrential rains descended at 3am. The stress and struggle flittering away with each bump of our hips and arms. But below that desperate need for pseudo-reckless diversion we held tightly to the things we now know:

If you go to bed with dirty hair, you will get called out in the middle of the night and you will feel skungy and unkempt the entire time even when up to your elbows in everyone else's body fluids.

The minute you are on call, you will receive repeated, aggravating phone calls from people you don't want to talk to at all hours of the night, however, you will be forced to pick up the phone each time they ring anyway - just in case.

You do not actually need sleep, caffeine, or sanity to function.

Coming home to a warm bed at 5am is far more important than who is actually in the bed making it so.

You will only be asked to find the item the hospital store room has run out of when it's 3am.

One day you will be really thrilled that you just did your first vaginal exam. And then you will be slightly mollified that it was thrilling.

Popcorn will fix anything.

Human flesh does not feel like lamb hearts from the grocery store when you are sticking a needle & thread through it. Try not to look so surprised when you realize this. Someone's husband may be watching you and wondering why you are making that face in that particular situation. The minute the midwife leaves the room, the woman in labour will start to push the baby out (note: this is actually ok!). Listen. When a woman says "I'm having this baby on Thursday" she probably is, and you waking up every 16 seconds on Wednesday night will be fruitless, not to mention make you very tired on Thursday when she is actually having the baby.

Sometimes "I feel like pushing" means the baby will shoot out like a bullet 3 seconds later. Sometimes it means that you will not be going home for the next 6 hours. Sometimes it means both. Don't even try to guess which.

Somewhere, someone will think that you are Normal, and will gasp in relief that they have found you amongst a sea of bizarre freaks. Be sure to revel in the moment.

Don't be surprised if, at the end of your semester you have forgotten what looking human is like and you stare in awe in the mirror for 20 minutes after the application of eye-liner.

Birth is the everday miracle

And when you leave your stunningly ordinary few hours spent amongst the striped pjs, cups of tea, bad American tv, a newborn baby and lots of questions from the resident seven year old, what will actually ring in your ears well into the next morning is - "hey, thanks for being such chill midwives"

Hey, thanks for getting me here.

really, Thanks.

* as in years/weeks - me

don't be so reckless

2007-06-14T02:03:00.000-04:00

the week before exams finally ends with a total of 6 births. First exam in the morning. I'm overwhelmed and strangely calm. people talk about being 'called' to midwifery - perhaps the same bruising directive force will thrust my brain into the direction of concise and intelligent exam reponses.

or perhaps my week of breath-holdingly clutching at suture-needle-clamps, swinging lusty newborn bundles under fish scale hooks and feeling the pull intensify just a fraction stronger with each nose slipping from the last fold of flesh. . . perhaps that's enough motivation to keep going long after sense would dictate.

so long you've been away - I miss our early morning wrestle not a very happy way to start the day

it may be reckless, but I think the end is in sight.

mental wards

2007-06-09T09:05:00.000-04:00

This evening I found myself running somewhat inelegantly through the dark, eerie and fairly maze-like hallways of the psychiatry wards at the local hospital.

but let me backtrack -

Thurs morning I leapt out of bed at 7:30 am, raced to the hospital (noticing my car was on empty) and barely had time to snap on some gloves (certainly the midwife didn't) before my hands (and as later examination of vernix-smeared black shirt showed, my arms and shoulders as well) were fulll of squirming fat baby girl.

Once they were all settled in and the interminable hospital paperwork dealt with, I raced home to study for exams. Fri morning I ran around trying to finangle a passport (the only highlight of which was a nice home-sickness inducing rendition of the french/english answering service at the Canadian High Comission in Wellington). I studied (briefly) for my clinical skills exam. I raced off to the university (Jane driving) to sit the exam & pay my incredibly overdue tuition (apparently otherwise you can't sit your exams. well-timed, that). As soon as the exam was passed, the phone went off again - a nice long juicy (read: complicated) labour waiting for me. Actually, the message from the midwife read something like "are you coming to keep me company?". Raced from the university to home to get my car (still on empty) and then rushed off to the hospital (stopping to throw hummus in another classmate's fridge - see, if you give me your house keys, I will creepily leave homeade hummus in your fridge on dark rainy nights). Arrived at the hospital at 6pm. Baby sliced into the bright lights of the operating theatre at 6am. Home in bed by 8:30am. Woke up, studied, ate, ran bath. Took off one sock. The phone goes off again. I think I swore very loudly. Pulled plug on very deep, very hot bath. Wept inwardly. Raced up to the hospital yet again (car still running like a menorah). Arrived at 8pm, baby was imminent. Sent to get something from the midwife's car. Took wrong staircase. Ended up in random pitch black, well shrubbed courtyard. Found a door. Entered. Ensuing gallop through mental wards. Ended up on the street on the far side of the hospital. Ran all the way back around, grabbed item out of car. Bounded back up the stairs, cursing decreased lung capacity. Baby slid happily (and sunny side up) into my hands a short while later. The father handed me chocolate while I was carting the placenta out the door, which led to the fascinating experience of tasting chocolate, smelling blood & feeling warm, raw flesh all at once.

As my midwife says. . .who would be a midwife?!

clearly, it's the people running through the mental wards on a Saturday night.

Casting

2007-06-02T02:01:00.000-04:00

off to the rural parts (again) tomorrow with my midwife to drape her little sister in plaster and gauze. I've heard of one family who lined their belly cast with a lambskin and put their baby in it to sleep. How fitting. . . (see, who needs a crib?) And - it's June! the end is in sight - in 19 horrible days I'll be free of exams. What bliss. . . . speaking of - my bed is beckoning with perfectly piled covers & a hot water bottle & ginger tea & a good book. But of course, it's raining tonight. . .so who knows how long I have until the barometer tempts the next squirming small person down the birth canal.

twenty three

2007-05-23T01:19:00.000-04:00

May 23rd marks the beginning of the last month of my twenty-third year. Somewhat complicated, a touch of crazy and on the odd occasion, peacefully mundane. Overwhelming moments, immense satisfaction and pure, unadultered delight. And even moreso than usual - the unexpected (I have never been genuinely surprised so many times in one 335 day period). Perhaps a little grittier than usual too. Altogether, an impression of slight awe; that one year can be so saturated with complex, trying, exhilarating experience.

See, I knew twenty three would be a good year. . .

and I still really, really, really like my life.

May the twenty fourth be just as lovely (in my personal sense of the word - absolutely not the hearts & flowers definition).

my inner victor trumper

2007-05-21T21:59:00.000-04:00

My little brother (traipsing quintessentially around Europe with his girlfriend these days) responded to my latest e-mail with:

What a way to enter the world, ensconsed in green feces, and into the arms of the least sure-bet backcatcher in history... nevertheless, A+, well done, you ought to be proud. Perhaps its just when things are more meaningful, when more is at stake that your inner... victor trumper? comes out. Thanks for not sparing the appetizing details, I would have wondered all night whether the accompanying fluids were yellow, green.. runny or congealed. It's true, I can't catch a ball to save my life (in fact, to many people's amusement, it will probably hit me in the face if thrown in my direction) but apparently I can catch one fast, slippery baby. I even have the stomach-churning pile of filthy laundry to prove it!

(and if you're wondering who victor is - one word - Cricket)

when half spent was the night

2007-05-18T11:05:00.000-04:00

and then there are the nights when you find yourself standing on a dark residential street at 2 am wearing your favourite little black dress next to a woman in silk stockings. . . holding a placenta.

(yes, the little black dress has blood on it, and the silk stockings a run in the big toe)

Under a stunning Southern Cross studded sky, the world's latest mother was born in a dark and quiet room of the house, farthest from the door, in the safest corner she could find; in her partner's arms.

Birth, like life, is risky and unpredictable and interupts your friday night. But, like life, doing it without trying to control all the variables from your position of precarious, human fallibility. . . is often stunning, simple, monumental. . .better than anything we might dare to concoct.

Certainly, in my humble book of opinion, the best way to spend half your night.

G1P0

2007-05-12T02:08:00.000-04:00

I ate homeade chocolate brownies for breakfast, delivered to my bed via NZpost, my 3 year old housemate, and a very sweet friend in the US of A.

It is now 6p.m. and that's all I've eaten (but never fear, there's a banana/blueberry/yogurt/rice-milk smoothie, carrot/cauliflower/advocado oil soup & a grilled cheese sandwich on sunflower seed/barley bread in the works. Yes I am half health-insane, half insane. It makes for a great combination)

I have also accomplished an insanely long bath, which, thanks to the sugar high from aforementioned baked goods was resplendent with raucous singing and the blowing of bubbles.

Which is all to say, I'm having a day OFF. I should probably be twitching with guilt, but I'm already twitching so much from the sugar that additional twitching would ricochet me off into full-blown dervish-ness.

Plus this week, I already wrote an essay, did my first VE (9cm, fully effaced & station +2!) and caught a slippery boy in what his father described excitedly over his cell phone as "an unbelievable rush".

that is all. really.

for those of you who understand ob-speak, yes that title means what you think it means. no leaving public comments now!

my little pink bum

2007-05-08T18:13:00.000-04:00

One of the best things about studying in New Zealand is that there is such a large community of midwives. Case in point: although the town where I study has about 1/3 of the population of my hometown, there are about 10x the number of midwives practicing independently (nevermind the university lecturers, students and midwives employed by the hospital). This photo is from an New Zealand College of Midwives 'meeting', and appropriately we are all learning optimal practice of pelvic floor exercises (Kegels for the North Americans). And it all looks so innocent. (for reference, my housemate Jane, the head of our program and my midwife are all in this photo) Oh, and my essay is done and ready to be e-mailed off to my inifinitely understanding lecturer sans late-deductions. Making the current tally: 2 (somewhat more minor) assignments and 4 exams left to go. morbido!* *as in 'soft' in Italian, not 'morbid'

tragedy, revenge & essays

2007-05-06T04:51:00.000-04:00

If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may slumber in eternal sleep! Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands Have lopp'd and hew'd and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments, Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a happiness As have thy love? Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath.

Act II, scene iv, Titus Andronicus, Shakespeare

This merry month of May: -- the thought of writing one more word of one more essay makes lobotomy sound like a distinct relief --going to class results in the ownership of a lurid green book titled "A Guide to Certifying Causes of Death" and more rapid-fire sharing of dead baby anecdotes than I can safely squeeze from my consciousness in a sanity-keeping period of time --it becomes irritatingly clear that it's possible for some people to regard vast periods of silence as invitation to continue doing the opposite --I become so incredibly feeble-minded that I cry watching America's Next Top Model vote out another contender so devoid of admirable characteristics that it's actually extremely embarassing I even sat through 3 seconds of the show at all. --my classmate washes my dishes, massages my back with lavender/orange/chammomile oil and makes favourable comments about my mammary glands, all in one night. She's a keeper. At least I end things on a less gruesome note? (my apologies for the grisle, but I do love Titus - I reccomend you go watch the movie if you're feeling bloodthirsty and literary at the same time)

Rapture

2007-04-30T12:02:00.000-04:00

Their house was the sort that matches my much-loved idea of home - well worn, oddly shaped, bare boards, random instruments littering the corners, barefoot children and strange cats and cloth diapers strewn about, a deep ancient bath and a kitchen crammed with glass jars that holds everything else together in a warm and thoughtful embrace. Walking calmy in out of the foggy mid-night, my midwife and I were audience to a nativity of three (give or take two sleepy girls tumbling out of bedsheets to tentatively brush their hands over their newest sister) - deep in the awed glow of birth as it was surely, truly, deep-in-my-heart-seated meant to be. And from there we wrapped up warmly, embraced, laughed deeply and slipped into the joyful simplicity of a family so clearly at home in every aspect of those words. Home is friends in the kitchen cooking soup children poking at the placenta in awe Papa catching a baby and then lighting a fire good conversation and dried apricots and genuine warmth that can never exist anywhere else a placenta in the kitchen bucket curling up in your own big bed while a rapt midwifery student gently leans in from the corner to give you one last check oh and rapture? Rapture is a homebirth

Officialis

2007-04-24T04:27:00.000-04:00

The hospital computer records use the most abhorent language - please know that I would never claim to have conducted a delivery .

Nevertheless, there it is officially - not one, but two slippery, squashed, exquisitely upturned faces (both mamas on hands-and-knees) in the space of one long Sunday night. Awe-struckly passed under to their families by my proud and exhilarated hands that stayed where they were to gently receive their placental homes as well.

Hands hot and wet with blood and vernix. Annointed hands. Midwife's hands.

I went to class and cried quietly with totally overwhelming joy.

Life into my hands. What could be greater?

[I also really like that there's a space underneath for Assisting Doctor, and that this space is blank!]

what's petty?

2007-04-22T00:35:00.000-04:00

Two big, fast boys both wiggling past anterior lips, within 24 hours of each other since I last wrote. I'm beginning to think my midwife plans educational theme days for me. Or the universe. Or whoever's in charge of these things.

Since then I've played the much-loved midwifery game called cross-fingers-and-tempt-fate by travelling 2 hours away to entertain visitors. I was packing to leave as I got a call that someone was edging their way into labour. So now I'm safely back at home eating risotto and waiting. Round one, me. As I was sitting here, Jane came by with a birth annoucement in the newspaper thanking her, and one thanking me right next to it. Lovely synchroncity, that.

You know what's petty?

. . . . here's a hint. . . If I'm ever your midwife and you want to thank me publicly. . . you might want to spell my name correctly.

(note to self, do not give future child name with silent h at the end)

in which we wait

2007-04-11T02:00:00.000-04:00

(and also gamble)

lounging in the autumnal late afternoon sun in between ante-natal visits yesterday my midwife and I scribbled on slips of pink paper who we intuited might be called upon by the moon-pull of the child-bearing tides first. There are eight of them in the next few weeks, and by the next full moon, I will - with all sorts of hope - have seen their slick, new little selves slither, ooze and wrench themselves earthward in the calmess of their home, in the stillness of the hospital right before dawn, in the held-breath-cradle of whatever entrance they choose (and we guard).

but for now we wait, laughing at the little numbers we playfully assign each unique unfolding of events. charging our phones. watchfully moving our hands over bellies writhing with eagerness from within. and being very patient. Because birth always has her own rhythm. We are merely here to hold the space - and let it carry out its dance.

Academia

2007-04-02T02:22:00.000-04:00

Studying to be a midwife in New Zealand is -

my entire class and the head of the program bursting into tears during a meeting in the middle of the day

my placement midwife and I doing clinic in our barefeet (not to mention traipsing around the hospital delivery suite in flip flops and jeans and still being very respected by the obstetricians - her, not me, obviously)

two of my classmates bringing their sons to class today, prompting us all to suddenly glance around at their whereabouts when our lecturer suggested someone investigate, and report back to the class re: whether or not you can actually feel your cervix bob up and down in the aftershocks of an orgasm (they were asleep, and apparently yes, you can)

cutting my finger today whilst thrusting it into a plastic vagina

dry & academic it is not.

hurrah.

[sympathies extended to my tender-bellied male friends and relations who will no doubt send me e-mails of squeamish protest and have to go lie down for the afternoon with smelling salts upon reading this post]

moment of grace

2007-03-29T20:13:00.000-04:00

Although I'm sure there are several people who would be willing to attest to my soup fanaticism (and should this subsequently mean skill?) I have had a very disheartening run lately, of disasters running to the inedible. Yes, sacrelige, I know. At any rate, to celebrate the first deliciously decent bowl of soup this month (year?!) - I will regale you with instructions.

everything roughly chopped -

half onion in butter+/olive oil

add - carrot x 2 potato x 2 half a butternut squash a few spring onions

healthy pinch of smoked paprika handful of torn basil leaves cup and a half of red lentils

water, just to cover (more if you insist on thin soup)

salt to taste

bring to a boil

let simmer until all squishily tender

blend

yellow soup happiness. a moment of grace?

learning to be weary

2007-03-29T06:22:00.000-04:00

This week has been nothing very profound.

Driving interminable times across town (home-hospital-clinic-random houses of the child-bearing-repeat) I have reached some very trite conclusions:

I really like roundabouts, negotiated with one hand on the steering

I really do not like rooms in houses that are still and quiet because no-one ever goes in there

And I am learning - What the curve of a spine feels like - curled every which way beneath secretive folds of skin and liquid

That, eventually everyone unfolds the corner of their quietly remarkable self. And if you are there to see it as they breath newly-expanded-love over 3500g of recombinated genes, then you are a priveliged human indeed.

. . . and I'm learning to be weary because even that, can, every so often, catch you a glimpse of something profound

Palarrer*

2007-03-22T02:14:00.000-04:00

Wednesday brings - 1. . 2. . . 3. . . .

one frantic pre-clinic grocery shop of apricot granola bars and a giant bag of apples on an oddly premonitic whim

one phone message from delivery suite waiting when I arrived 2 minutes late

and then -

two women with two classic (different) presentations of a gestational condition

two obgyn consults

two inductions of labour

two dire predictions of instrumental/surgical births (um, the obgyn obviously)

and 18 long midwifery hours later -

two perfect, pink girls mewing contendly past their mama's intact, self-stretched perineums.

welcome back to midwifery said the world.

and I said -

many, many, many thanks.

perfection, by the way, is the face - eyes tightly pressed closed - of the slightly-born. . . still lingering for a moment in some other place before sliding completely into the world.

* say with an asian accent

a little company

2007-03-19T01:23:00.000-04:00

As fun as it is to make insane decisions to study midwifery 2 million miles away from home (and yes, that is the scientifically accurate distance) it's always nice to know that other people are like-minded (only not too many, because we wouldn't want a trend). Anyway, here is Nicole, testing the first year waters last weekend at our (second - see a trend of weekend school? trends as I said, are not good. . .)Lactation course. I'd like to think I was particularly helpful and persuasive over the last 6 months via phone and e-mail in luring her over here. . . but actually she's just as passionate about it, all on her own. In other news, I think I may actually get to unpack my suitcase this week as my flat renovations are finally done and my transient period has come to an end. Perhaps someone could remind me not to gypsify as a matter of habit. . . I haven't gotten dressed out a closet since early November, and it all feels a little unsettled. Me and my nesting habit. . . . .albeit messy nests where the clothes are never in the closet anyway. . . .

breasts, needles, becoming

2007-03-10T02:55:00.000-05:00

. . . and that sums up my week a day's seminar up in Wellington (ah, road trips with 5 very confident, very opinionated, very funny women) on acupuncture, homeopathy and osteopathy. I love the paradigms these alternative healing modalities take. The way they view the body as an amalgam of energies. The way they respect the work that is done in pregnancy, labour, breast-feeding - without making us feel weak or injured. I'm itching to know everything it seems. . . I want to not only be alternative (lip service?) but to also offer something real, tangible, supportive, empowering. Healing midwifery style. Offering a woman a way to heal herself, through herself. and then the breast-feeding All day seminar today with the head of our program (who I wish I could kidnap and permanently install in my brain with her soothing South African accent). I must ask this question - why do so many breast-feeding (etc) videos depict mothering (and how we get there) in such an inane, dull, drab, passive and frankly ugly way? It hardly seems a celebration of. . . life itself and certainly I know, have seen, and whole-heartedly believe that you can become (and be) a mother with strength, creativity, character and probably a helpful dose of joyous insanity

heck, even if it's a maelstrom

at least it's your maelstrom

And I for one say. . . we women, should own it.

oh, and breastfeeding is fantastic!

and so is bed time!

happy wild things

2007-02-26T01:03:00.000-05:00

Exibit A, my friend's organically cozy bed in Vancouver (complete with Perrier, chocolate almonds that apparently scent detecting kiwi airport dogs don't give a flip about, and an anxiously slow cab ride back to the airport. for a late flight. of course.). So, after a variety of adventures including cramming all my luggage into the handicapped washroom stall, fantastic congee in Auckland, and no less than 4 silent seat neighbours (I think they could smell the murderously foul mood I was travelling in) I arrived to familiar chaos bathed in 5am, musky, sweet, warm & moist New Zealand darkness. And now, 3 days later, I sport a darker shade of brown, a knapsack emptied of novels and mints and crammed instead with papers and textbooks, about 80 pounds less of outerwear and a thrilling case of insomnia/exhaustion. Today I walked home through 45 minutes of towering bamboo stands, screaming cicadas, enormous whispering ferns and everything dark and leafy and ripe. 8 hours of class today, and my first clinical day is tomorrow. And I am happy as a wild thing.

Jet

2007-02-20T02:54:00.000-05:00

So, I may have been a little reticent of late. Causation analysis reveals that either my life has been indescribably boring, or overwhelmingly complicated lately.

I'll leave that to you to decide. In the meantime, the news of the morning (4 minutes to 3 am) reads that I am about to undertake the arduous chore of hopping back over the. . . whatever ocean escapes my geographically ambivalent brain at the moment. So, here we go again. And it all feels a little familiar, and a little vague and a little like hiding in clothing and making creepy faces at the world.

nous sommes tous montrealais

2007-01-10T21:03:00.000-05:00

The ice-city herself (between a swishy Christmas and a straining New Year) eclectically presented: A large elegant dog to lust over (only in the sense that it's large and elegant and I want it standing watchfully over my door)

Institutions of meat & smoke & frenzied eating amongst the elbows of strangers (and industriously large kosher pickles and deep purple sloshes of wondrous, rare, black cherry cola) and charming clusters of grey vermin backdropping for the skiiers on Mt. Royal

I must say. . . I like it a lot better when I don't have to write exams with snow in my shoes* *pysch exam at McGill circa Dec 2004

** nous sommes tous montrealais = banner campaign in the city attempting to soothe the english/french friction meaning - 'we are all montrealers'

The Other Side of the Year

2007-01-03T12:46:00.000-05:00

A whole round, swollen, bursting, voluptuous year. . . 19 take offs and landings please let that be a not-repeated record 8 steaming, bewildered new heads 2 very different sets of what these words mean. . . . friends, school, jobs, cars, winter, home chips And I must say - I love my world. Both sides of it. How they fit together in a confusing jumble of incongruency suddenly matters less, And what matters more is that I can stretch happily awake between warm tangles of sheets is that I have an amazing life is that it gets more complicated, and more wonderful from every side of the world, of the year and apparently KT Tunstall has decided to write just for this blog

Other Side of the World

whence the magi came

2006-12-23T04:35:00.000-05:00

It's 4:30 am and I can't sleep. In fact, I just woke up. This is what I look like: Christmas is wonderful - my dear family becomes about 10x more manic than usual (which pushes corresponding levels of nerve damage somewhere into the stratosphere). There are 6 different kinds of cheese in the same fridge. Life is a crazy whirlwind and I enjoy alternating between being a wide-eyed, mute, panicked observer & shrieking in the melee. It is certainly not hours of quiet, solitary study. Strangely enough though, both secnes stem from hype around someone or another's birth. Perhaps Christmas is just a time when everyone else realizes the outrageously miraculous spectacle that being born is. Yeah, amazing, isn't it? . . . it's enough to keep you up at night

off the books

2006-12-14T16:47:00.000-05:00

I mentioned to a couple of friends before I left NZ that it would be strange to come back to my life as an unattached 23 yr old with no outwardly identifiable links to child-bearing whatsoever. And it's true - I often find myself at work waitressing, or out with my peer-age friends, or doing xyz and catch myself in the laughable thought "Is *this* what a midwife looks like??". Although as one of my profs always says "There's a midwife for every woman". Once again I'm grateful that I can both adore and reject the stereotype. Back to my point, however. What I have discovered, is that even when I'm so far removed from anything birth-y (barring my fantastic intact perineum dream of last night!) birth comes to me. It comes in the stories of anyone who has been born and who has given birth, in anyone who has seen it, or never seen it, or been in awe of it, or never given it a second thought (until they run into me, hehehe). It's such an honourable role to be a guardian of birth *at* a birth - and yet when you find yourself becoming the guardian of birth in language, conversation, the open public space, it is a profoundly deep, weighty, proud mantle to be wearing. And this is one of the reasons I love midwifery and why it rings true to my vision of a well-lived life - because everyone has to be born and, so birth is for all of us

Switch

2006-12-06T22:45:00.000-05:00

A scant few weeks ago I was on a remote beach in New Zealand dodging sand fleas and marvelling at the great big beauty of it. Today I woke up late, scrambled to get dressed (clean underwear shortage already?!), feed miscellaneous cranky dogs, grabbed a cheque that needed to be taken to the bank (late!), found my name tag and dashed cold and crampy off to race around a restaurant for 5 hours. I wonder how long I could keep doing the same thing before I started craving this switching nonsense? They say birth is the great humbler because you never learn to anticipate what it thrusts your way. I prefer to think of it as the great entertainer. . . . . and switch. So, I'm practicing on my holidays. . . . . and switch.

of one's own

2006-11-28T02:18:00.000-05:00

Being at home is Surreal. Delicious. Sad (because it seems so short a time) But As I am (fairly enough) displaced from my Canadian bedroom, I did have a shaft of longing twinge through me when I got this photo in my in-box. Doesn't my NZ bedroom look so cozy and inviting? Don't you just want to curl up in the middle of that spiral on my big bed and read with the warm sun streaming down on your pages and a good friend curled up in the comfy chair to read aloud the best bits to? I always, always, always wish I could combine places. because as Sarah in Sarah Plain and Tall says - No matter where you go, you will always miss something Which I think, is the saddest, and most beautiful part of it all.

allow me to introduce myself...

2006-11-27T16:00:00.000-05:00

Hi everyone, I'm Jo. This is me, in Wellington. And guess who is behind the camera! It's Mianh, who it was my joy and delight to spend 9 days with recently. Here's Mianh at Owlcatraz, after I had gotten over the flu, and before we set off on our road trip. As you can see, feeding ducks out of her hands agrees with her. Just like miniature canoe paddles beating at your hands...how...soothing? Here is the lovely bed, where the lovely Geraldine had to put up with my ill self for a good 24 hours. Thanks Mianh, for having such a comfy bed for me to lie in for an extended period of time. Finally, here's Mianh, in what I think of as a quintessential Mianh pose. Seriously, if you are a person who's seen lots of pictures of Mianh, haven't you seen her in this position before? Its nice to know that wherever Mianh is in the world, no matter what swanky haircuts she has, no matter what she's holding in her hand, you can still find her wearing black and making this pose.I'm tempted to put up all the rest of my favorite pictures, but I feel like I should leave some for Mianh...like the sheep on the road, and the cows on the road, and the giant cow, and the dead lamb...precious moments all of them.

here, there, everywhere

2006-11-22T13:58:00.000-05:00

Extracts of the last 2 weeks: writing an explanation of placental separation on an exam, drenched from hair to jeans in NZ spring rain scrubbing my floors throwing beer cans at a theatre in Wellington wandering blindly through a cave of glow worms dipping in the cold Pacific driving 200km in 8 hours along NZ's Eastern Cape (read: winding, hilly, animal herds) reading picture books in German to small children who appeared in my bed (pre 8 am) dipping in the warm Pacific watching the sunset on the beach under a palm tree whilst eating shaved ice & coconut explaining Midwifery to every random person who sat beside me in airplanes/ports all over the world (THEY ASKED!) eating a bagel from Tim Hortons whilst driving down the 401 (quintessential) curling up with my mama & the dog & lentil soup in front of a woodstove as they would say in The Idiots (read:obscure film reference) - Quite. A. Lot. No wonder my head's twirling. And I'm having a nap. pictures & stories to come

the last month

2006-11-03T04:09:00.000-05:00

of New Zealand. (For this year) and only 17 days of it under these long white clouds the weather has turned her kind face towards us. Last night I ate charcoal-oiled onions smelling like cool summer dusk, and watched fireworks spinning from behind a friendly wooden pole, and wrapped my arms around people who know me well enough to brush the hair out of my eyes. A little boy took off my socks and shoes. and put them on the floor, next to his. and then I washed them all, and they blew wet cotton flags outside my door. a vibrant and lovely expression of humanity and today I chose to cry for good reasons, instead of bad ones. Last month. and with it the certainty - I made something here and I will be just fine

Are you reading this?!

2006-10-28T07:32:00.000-04:00

In a desperate last-ditch attempt to procrastinate before my midwifery-knowledge-and-prac exam tomorrow, I started persuing my own profile just now. That the # of hits is above 400, combined with the fact that yesterday I got a resounding endorsement of my favourite meal [apparently transplant coordinators also like weird green concoctions] makes me wonder who is reading this? Leave your name cryptically if you must, but let me know. (if only to aid the procrastination attempts - inarguably a worthy cause) and hey, thanks for reading. . .

my favourite bowl

2006-10-28T03:32:00.000-04:00

If it's just my favourite green bowl and I sitting down to dinner, hardly anything else can makes me as consistently happy as this: fry 1/2 an onion gently in some olive oil add in 1 small can tomatoes [or 1/2 can tomato paste, or 4-5 chopped tomatoes, etc] bring to a boil add any or none of: a few mushrooms, sliced fresh chopped parsely and salt to taste, or a spoonfull of stock powder let boil for 5 minutes longer add an entire bunch of one or combination, finely chopped: kale swiss chard/silver beet pea greens spinach (a bit much all on its own) collards etc let cook for a minute reduce heat throw in 4-5 finely chopped/smashed cloves of garlic put on the lid, take off heat and leave for 10 minutes good with a bit of smoky hot sauce on top. . . . and I suppose if you must you could eat it over rice or pasta. I have, at times, eaten just this for days on end. obsessive?

Smemos

2006-10-27T21:23:00.000-04:00

I've been getting strange flashbacks to my arrival here, I think because the weather is painstakingly heating up to the sort of mild, breezy summer it was when I first arrived. It's sort of hard to tell exactly, because there's no frostbite to sear off under the sun, but my greatest clue is that it smells like that crazy, bold loneliness I remember so acutely. Except I'm not crazily lonely anymore, thank goodness. I've put so many solid, plodding-along hours of bum time in my swively black desk chair this week that I feel quite unlike myself during exams. Read: calm rather than hysterically twitching and writhing under the strain of a thousand neuroses. It sort of feels like tiptoeing around myself. Dare I say, that if this calmness continues, exams might not be so bad anymore? Do I detect some maturity in my scholastic approach? *shudder* Anyway, I have spent the morning ditzily purchasing supplies at every possible grocery outlet in town so that I can make spaghetti tomorrow (hey, it's not my fault that I need to buy organic pasta because the thought of fields of wheat getting doused in chemicals constricts my brain after watching a documentary on birth defects the other night, alone and petrified in the dark). So I think my point is - tomorrow, my tendency to burn everything in an impatient indifference notwithstanding, - it'll smell like home. Which is probably good because I need a reminder - 25 days is it? As Mr. Buble put it so succintly over the PA at groceteria numero quattro today - I'm going hoooooooooooooooooooooome! just for the record, I don't actually live in a green barn - it just happens to be in my backyard

photo evidence

2006-10-21T06:53:00.000-04:00

Remember that chicken sandwich of some enormity I mentioned the other day? All credit due to intoxicating invention of the camera phone.

growing up midwives

2006-10-20T21:14:00.000-04:00

Sometimes its very easy to get your head stuck in a book. Which isn't always a bad thing (says she of the childhood spent 99% thusly). Only, it is truly important to raise your head and let the rest of the whole wide world pour in as well. Which is what I spent this week doing at the New Zealand College of Midwives conference down in the South Island (yes, more unfortunate plane trips. I have outcapacitied myself this year, I'm afraid). Despite the fact that I am unashamedly not the schmoozing-at-large-events type, it was the perfect peek into the world that I, as a midwifery student, as a young & future midwife, am inheriting. (my spine trickles up and down my back as I write that) My professors & preceptor midwife greeted me joyously and supportively as we passed in the convention centre halls - welcoming me to their sacred professional space. And if there was any doubt that this profession is uniquely fixated around some incredible sense of awe with life, it has all been displaced in a wave of deeply moved tears expressed by some 600 midwives, students, and the people that uphold us. From ecstatic hormones (that actually make so much more sense when you see them playing out on a woman's face in 3rd stage* than when you're trying to memorize their bizarrely spelled epithets from a textbook) to stories of relationships with birthing families that spanned decades, the progressive, woman-centered, open-minded and hands-off messages being brought forward made me fall in love with New Zealand midwifery culture all over again. And apparently I'm not the only one that think this way - the woman I went to suck the brains of at the MSF table said "oh MSF always wants the kiwi midwives; they are always the best". But I think the most important words spoken: When midwives are strong, women are strong and the loving, yet firm reminder that one day I must be their defender too. guardian of birth. What humility under which I become woman. and simultaneously with woman. *3rd stage is the delivery of the placenta/afterbirth

Gone South

2006-10-20T06:12:00.000-04:00

to Christchurch. Back Tomorrow.

if drinking coffee's your idea of really cool

2006-10-15T01:55:00.000-04:00

Left my last barista shift stuffed with an enourmous chicken sandwich (encompassing the entire life span of the chicken really, as the chef managed to ram in an egg as well), enough lattes to last me an average year of personal caffeine consumption, a very dirty black cafe apron, a red rose and a unicorn card. Apparently I appeared to them to be a unicorn type of girl. People's interpretations of me never fail to amuse. Memorable moments from eight months of carrying 3 coffees at once to the lovely kiwis (if only because I feel the need to monumentalize the end of another service industry era) *- "How are you today?" "a flat white." "excuse me, we're having a bet about whether or not you're Canadian. If I win, I get this peanut slab. So are you?" (he gave me the chocolate bar he won) "I'm from Canada" "but where are you *really* from?" "what are you studying?" "midwifery" "are you CRAZY?!" "why aren't you married yet? you really should be married!" [15 minutes later he was asked by the manager to leave for grabbing my bum. twice. he was around 50. he was not intoxicated.] "the artichokes are missing from my meal!" "the ones right there on your plate ma'am?" "those are artichokes?" "yes." "where is the almond tart I ordered for my father?!" "it's coming; I actually only have two hands" [the elderly man at the table laughed heartily for the next 3o seconds while his annoyed daughter glared after me] "you are our particular favourite waitress" "thank you ever so much" In truth, I complain just as heartily as every sane waitress. But in the end, when it comes down to it - thank you too. * I won't actually quote any of the amusing lines from the staff at the restaurant because it would instantly rocket the content of this blog to an x-rating. and I have my squeaky clean image to maintain after all ;)

we have a little desert

2006-10-11T06:00:00.000-04:00

New Zealand quintessentially captures the heart of the small because almost everything herein is on a microcosmic scale. Much like my family owning a 6 pound dog, here we have our tiny little desert, situated about 2 hours north of this town. And yes, there is snow on that mountain. A miniscule dusting, to be sure, but all things relative, it is a perfect amount. Exams are looming up over the delicate heads of the cherry trees blooming here, and therefore a veritable desert of joy looms concurrently. It will be gloomy, densely packed with bristly discomfort and inescapable, but also small enough to mercifully zoom through quickly. Sensing the metaphor yet? Today in class we reflected on our year - one of my favourite (pregnant!) classmates sat belly-rounded with an enormous flower draping over her head like a crown and read us a list of our names with reasons why we inspired her. I was touched (to the core of my little pre-menstrual heart) as she mentioned things about me that I aspire to (and lately have felt tragically off the mark with). Quietly intelligent and natural May I quietly, intelligently, and naturally make this last little desert crossing with speed, grace and perhaps, if I may be so greedy with life's resources, sanity. After all, I only need a little of it, n'est-ce pas?

don't be so reckless

2006-10-02T00:23:00.000-04:00

Here is my sweet cousin Sam sporting a precision haircut gifted to him by his mad-skillz-with-sharp-objects-yours-truly (please excuse my gloating: I successfully, read: painlessly, did some more venipuncture and injecting today). I hope the familia back in Oz are not too incensed that he lost some length during his two week visit over the Tasman sea. Anyway, that may offer yet another explanation as to where I have strayed to lately. We've reached a crunchy time of the school year - one of those moments I contemplate self-flagellation for not taking more accurate notes during the last 60 hours of sleepy-eyed early morning lectures and then desist, because the pile of paper on my desk is threaening to fall over and flagellate me all on its own. But! This also means the end is near - that I am nearly 1/3 of the way to being a midwife. Ask me what I know about women, child-bearing, birth and life and the enormity of that gapingly empty space will engulf us both as well as the three neighbouring postal codes. Ask me what I have learned, and the spilling over of honey-suckling-sweet exhilaration will waft like a funeral's worth of lotus up the Mekong. Pre-dawn walks to the hospital where one is faced with the incomprehensible swirl of life-death-life-life-life-life and love and pain mingling like the New Zealand meterological habit of sun-drenched rain makes me metaphorically drippy. Also tired. so, back to the paper conquering; so that I'll be back next year. so that no-one can ever say - . . . don't be so reckless

blurry days

2006-09-24T02:37:00.000-04:00

I've decided it would be amusing to write a post whilst in a mental state that finds me with a 5-10 memory span (my dear cousin who is patiently hanging around in an attempt to visit me this week claims I am acting like one who has smoked a lot of pot). This weekend I worked for 19 hours, did 2 hours of ridiculously concentrated school work and slept for 4 hours. Just for the statistical record. At my hospital placement this week I saw a lot of women with a lot of c-section wounds and a lot of empty arms. Emptiness in such a strange place. I suppose these things come and go in waves. Or so says the hospital staff. I'll be home in less than 2 months. Such a strange idea - I am caught between settling in deeply and comfortably, and the jarring notion that the home I love - the one that feels like it is so far away as to be lost forever - is really right there waiting for me. You know why I love being small? Because, every once in awhile you can still recapture that priceless feeling of security you had as a child - you know - the one where you are completley bundled up and held by someone as you fall asleep. That feeling that produces the look of utter serenity I envy in the newly-born, wholly-loved babies. My housemate/friend just came back from a birth this morning - to hold a body while it still somewhat un-born and yet, already a whole-person; alive and well. The utter complexity and amazement of it is still on her face as she sorts out the mundanities of life that unravelled in her absence. And this is how the days pass, in a happy, fascinating, confusing blur.

watch the rain fall

2006-09-14T04:11:00.000-04:00

Pulling up the long gravel hill-road that is my midwife's driveway I was warmed by the wide expanse greeting me. No car at this time of night meant only one thing. The night was dark and inviting as I re-entered the intimate held-breath of birth. It sang me a welcoming lullaby of tires scraping around corners and the muted click of the door handle to the birthing room. It held my eyes calm and steady with the power of every good midwife gone before me as I took one crying mother's arm, whispered "be strong" and then released it back to hold her child; bringing forth her own child. The circled knot of women surrounding that circled knot of skin, bone, blood. The holding and releasing of awe rushing out and receeding with one beautiful round head. That moment when everything is still. and then there is a new daughter to whisper secrets to. and a new mother to whisper them. - then suddenly - tubes, suction, monitors, brain-scans, helicopters - and all around me, the scent of love, liquid dripping, and a gentle reminder - sometimes all you can do, is watch the rain fall.

September/Silvana

2006-09-03T02:46:00.000-04:00

In the past 2 weeks I've written 2 tests, an essay on political theory, a presentation on skin changes in pregnancy and been flung back into that eerily familiar role of daughter (my mama came to visit). So the birth stories that are lurking back in the sleep-deprvied cracks of my mind are going to have to wait awhile longer. However! We are driving up to Hawkes Bay on our little tour-o-the-island and stopping in on my midwife, who has promised, guest-on-vacation-or-no, to wake me up in the middle of the night, should the situation arise. You see, in all this rush and excitment of life, I miss that birth high. Which I think, is rather appropriate. thank goodness that all works out nicely.

Long Live Fair Oriana

2006-08-14T02:59:00.000-04:00

Ok, potentially I may be the kind of renaissance-lit studying, mechanical-phobic sentimentally-quirky kind of girl (er, woman!) who may have named her car. After one of Queen Elizabeth the 1st's nicknames. Try not to be too appalled. At least I finally bought a car! it felt really weird.

And then I drove it the 2 hours home, by myself, on the rain-wind-fog buffeted highway.

durafemina, indeed.

Here's to hoping for some inspiration from her namesake - that redhead virgin's steely longevity. . .

Live a little

2006-08-13T02:40:00.000-04:00

I know I whined in one of my last posts about having to get up so early for my hospital placement, but I was unprepared for the universe to prove me so bloody wrong about my reluctant attitude last week. Thursday morning after an hour's full-moon-flooded walk to the hospital I spent most of the day with a delightfully sage midwife (dare I say the grandmother archetype?) and the most glowing new mother I have ever clapped eyes on - who just happens to have an inoperable brain tumour. There is something inexplicably potent about being around people who are exuding a sort of awareness-of-life that you can't quite grasp at yourself, but that you get a sense of, as if it was passing by, just out of reach. It wasn't sappy, nor even emotional, and if there were any cliches being tossed around (O, the miraculous perfect baby that was-not-meant-to-be-medically possible. Score one for the non-medical!) they were so appropriate as to be matter of fact, and nothing more. It was just one of those days that makes days seem less complicated and more austerely beautiful. "I realized", the woman told me, as she patiently withstood my doubtlessly clumsy poking around her body, "that a midwife doesn't need to be maternal to matter, only that she has to be there. With you. For as long as it takes, for whatever it takes. The whole way, without glory, without needing your praise". There seemed to me a spiritualism in her philosophy that sat nicely with us in that moment together, mutually smeared with blood and cotton wool and surgical tape. That whole day made me breathe a sigh of relief; that my life (by all appearances) will be long, that gloves and antiseptic soap are plentiful here, that I don't have to worry about being wise and maternal before I am ready to be, and most of all - relief that there are still days where all is raw, and painful, and new, and wise, and perfect.

Jacob's House

2006-08-04T02:58:00.000-04:00

Just a side note to say - life with the constant option (key word) of a 2 year old and a big black dog that eats whatever aforementioned child drops on the floor and two suspcious-eyed cats and a generous man who brings me popsicles and a computer chair on wheels and my funny, smart, gorgeous soon-to-be-a-midwife-with-me friend Jane is great. Especially on a friday night spent re-discovering the delights of operating the height adjustor on that computer chair. But we already knew I was cool like that. eh?

ordinary threes

2006-08-03T07:41:00.000-04:00

I had the day off today because my hospital placement for the semester doesn't start until next week. Much as I miss the smell of liquor (amniotic fluid), I am not looking forward to waking up early enough to walk an hour across town and make it by 6:45 a.m.. I have definitely decided that there are only three things worth waking up that early for: watching the sun rise with a big bag of cherries & good company woman expelling life an extraordinary snuggle I'm hoping for some of #2 chez l'hopital, because, realistically, the other two are pipe dreams. But I digress. After productively running a bundle of errands, I stopped in at work to procure a big, fat, crunchy-topped banana-studded muffin and ended up getting coerced into working a 5 hour shift. Which wasn't so bad because waitressing makes me very reflective and I made a compedium of ordinary things that have the ability to totally win me over: people that buy me popsicles, unasked people that safely escort me home people that manage to cram untold depths of wonderfullness into packages of mail and now to round off the list of threes - a third list. The most mundane of the lot. Three things I purchased today: a long(er) ethernet cable [wherein I found myself uttering the insanely ditzy sentence "how long is 5m?"] a bitter concoction that is supposed to make me the nauseous feeling of the last 10 days go away [and for the last time, I am NOT pregnant!] the erstwhile banana muffin. yum. Apparently ordinary days put me in the mood for compilations. Are y'all asleep yet?

Waterbaby

2006-08-02T00:35:00.000-04:00

Trying to sidle my way into an intuitive relationship with the forces of nature that start uteri contracting I decided that W would call us between 3 and 7 that day. At 7:30 exactly, the universe winked and nudged me reassuringly and the phone rang. I think one of the things I love most about attending a birth is that absolutely impossible moment when the will of the woman reaches its threshold. When she meets the ultimate physical certainty that the bones and meat and sinews of her body will not stretch any further and there is nothing that will separate a space for another life to fit through hers. When her face is deep in the agony of struggle with a physical body attempting an unworldly act. Because it is in this moment that the act of Life occurs. It comes from nowhere and nothingness and yet is everything truly beautiful about the world. Birth is the meeting place of normal, impossible. Loving arms wrapped around and over the swollen brown belly - Reaching down through the water and into the newest space in the universe - "Hello Simon" Daddy, and water, and his mother's blood roaring past his ears.

don't go away!

2006-07-23T06:36:00.000-04:00

I'm still around - just trying to finangle a broadband connection for myself, which apparently is the Kiwi equivalent of trying to heist a Klimt. Luckily for us all (ha!) the internet ranks up around food, water and compliments about my hair in my hierarchy of needs, so I am making good progress. In fact as soon as my feet are able to propel me once more (taking 5 weeks off work and then working back-to-back waitressing shifts is not overly wise) things should be good to go. Until then - prepare your minds for a feast of bodily fluid soaked tales! (I'm not kidding - there is a sweatshirt in my laundry drenched with amniotic fluid & meconium, and a person in the world who - outside his mother's body - felt my hands on his head first).

(each of these, my) Three Babies

2006-07-02T05:18:00.000-04:00

In 24 hours. July 1 2006 6:13 a.m. baby girl, 7lbs3oz (quietly pushed out on hands & knees) July 1 2006 9:21 p.m. baby boy 5lbs11oz (emergency C-section, cord prolapse) July 2 2006 4:18 a.m. baby girl 8lbs6oz (high shoulder dystocia, ventouse) and another very precipitous birth on the toilet; July 2 2006 11:07 a.m. that I was asleep for, but assisted the repair of the 3rd degree tear (that's all the way down to her bum, boys. . . ) How's that for an induction to midwifery? It's Sunday (July 2) at 10 p.m. and I've slept about 7 hours since I woke up Friday morning. Including a nap snatched on the antenatal clinic examing table at the hospital. At one point I'd been at the hospital longer than the medical resident on-call for the floor (who was coinicedentally the Uncle of the first baby). And yes, it was amazing, overwhelming, intense, beautiful, slow, fast, powerful and sometimes a gory, bloody mess. It hasn't all hit yet, but as I was speeding down the road to #4 in the perfect brighter-than-blue morning I very suddenly found myself pouring tears all over the steering wheel so hard I could no longer see the road. And I didn't have a clue why. . . except that life is just. . . Life. Off to shower & bed now. Did I mention # 5 is in early labour. . . . ?

oh, this is NZ

2006-06-28T07:31:00.000-04:00

A woman who had recently lived in NJ for seven years sat down in Antenatal clinic this morning and began to discuss her birth plan. She went through a fairly extensive list of things she explicitly wanted in her birth plan such as: no routine epidural actual delivery of baby in water eating/drinking during labour baby not separated from mother baby roomed with mother and not in nursery baby not offered/fed formula no routine IV insertion In response to all of this, my very blunt midwife preceptor responded incredulously - "But these things are all normal! Why wouldn't you be able to eat/birth in water/be with baby/exclusively offer breast. . .!" She was truly confused as to why these requests were being made, since these things are so far out of her scope of experience (and this is a primip* hospital birth). The mama-to-be and I had a good laugh, in that smug sort of we're-on-the-right-side-of-the-world way. Also, circumcision here is virtually unheard of, there is only one Doctor (GP) in the whole region who will do it, parents have to pay $200 out-of-pocket (all other maternity care is free) and nurses refuse to hold babes during the procedure so parents must be in attendance. Pretty darn enlightened if you ask me! Not that it's perfect here, but today was a good dose of perspective.

P.S. Still waiting on that birth from last. Anyone want to bet she goes tonight? *primipara - first time giving birth

little beats

2006-06-22T19:30:00.000-04:00

my birthday morning and I am woken up by my midwife singing in her heavy Dutch accent and bearing a tray with tea, dutch chocolate toast and tiny wrapped presents. Way off the prescribed curriculum I'm sure, but a perfect addition, nonetheless, to a plethora of birthday-breakfast-in-bed memories from the last 23 years. to be honest, I feel as though I have landed unexpectedly in an surreal idyllic retreat - the large beautiful house perched on a tall green hill with snow-capped mountains, waving toi tois and woolly sheep bounding around the horizon. The agenda of the past week can be sumarized as: sleep, palpating pregnant bellies, and consuming vast quantities of hollandaise sauce. even the drive up was only traumatizing for the 8km through the steep, winding gorge in an absolute downpour of rain (thanks New Zealand for that opportunity. . . ). But as the realization that I was alive sunk in at the other end, the breathing/swallowing/muscle-relaxing eventually kicked in and I merrily zipped the next two hours East in the lovely Gertrude (on loan). still no babies born, although the first one is due today (and seven more in the next three weeks!) and I am quietly sending it reminders that being earthside on this particular day is a wonderful thing. . . yesterday, the midwife urged me towards an enormously swollen belly and I placed my hands gently-deep into its tense, quivering bulge, cradling the round hardness of the head, the firm curve of the back and the soft knobs of feet and knees that glided beneath the layers of flesh and fluid. I found the right place for the doppler and for the first time, I brought to open air the steady, determined flick of a heartbeat. Little beats, that for a moment, seemed to overwhelm everything else in the whole wide world.

La Narcisse

2006-06-15T22:02:00.000-04:00

As if every single word on this whole entire site wasn't already devoted to me, myself and I (and related matters, but it all comes down to me eventually. . .) my friend whose awe-inspiring chronicles of Midwifery apprenticeship in the Western United States can be read here http://midwiffleseed.blogspot.com has 'tagged' me, meaning I list eight or so previously unmentioned things about myself, and then pass the privelige on. In other words, an excuse to talk about me. Which is already the whole point here, but nevermind about technicalities, on with the list: 1. I have a severe addiction to granola with plain yogurt and even though I dont believe it's the healthiest thing to be eating (really!) I have sometimes allowed this to be the entirety of my food consumption for the day. 2. I love words and use them excessively, a practice exacerbated by several people I regularly converse with who support and feed the habit. 3. I often wish smoking wasn't bad for you because I would love to do it - the action of it is so soothing. 4. I am a physical affection whore I will use whatever means possible to touch as many people as possible whenever possible. I sometimes wish I was a cat so I could twine myself around people and get away with it. But this only applies to people I get the right 'feeling' from. 5. I like to do almost everything obsessively, compulsively and with absolute disregard for schedule, routine, spacing-things-out or what is polite and acceptable behaviour. 6. I have frivolous tendencies towards organic lip balms in tiny metal tins, European sparkling water in small glass bottles and stretchy black cotton shirts. 7. I find immense satisfaction in wearing untoward amounts of black eye-liner and then staring people in the eye. 8. I absolutely love: being small, my name, my long, wild hair and the freckle on my right pinky finger. And since the tag came from an internet friend of long-cherished-standing, I will pass it on to another long-cherished-standing friend from, as they say, *the real world* who has a rather brand-new presence on the internet http://www.jo-joanna.blogspot.com/ and now, back to the exam studying (thanks for the procrastination!)

British Boys

2006-06-14T05:40:00.000-04:00

"Your pride is permanently stomach-based" Well the boys visiting from London seem to think this is an appropriate (and even brilliant) title for this photo, but in reality, swallowing my pride of late has nothing to do with my fingernail size. We were all quite amused though at the comparison between my pinky and their corresponding thumb nails. Shoes sizes 12, 4, 11 respectively. Actually, my knee even looks quite small in this photo. . . Evidence that the lads do laundry. Although apparently not often enough: "how do we make the water come out? What do all these dials do? Why does nothing happen when we turn it?". And for the convoluted record, Joe's mother taught my neighbour (back in Canada) Art when she lived in London, then she moved to Canada, invited her former teacher and her family to visit, I met them, they let me stay in their house in London while they were away, and now Joe (on the left) is touring the world with his friend Edmund and they stopped by my humble little town to say hi. And I think do some laundry.

21 years of gratitude for a cleared birth canal

2006-06-13T10:29:00.000-04:00

I would like the world to know I made some decent attempts at calling my little brother for his birthday. Attempts that included e-mailing him for his phone number. Also sending him telepathic messages asking for his phone number. Also creating positive imagery that his phone number would come to me in a dream. There are limits to the contact you can force upon your family whilst on the other side of the world and buried in looseleaf paper upon which is scrawled words like "antenatal assessment of the breast" and "belief that birth is a normal physiological process". It's all becoming a massive blur right now. But where was I? We should be talking about my brother's birthday and not female reproductive issues! Luckily for the subjective continuity of this blog I discovered the perfect intersection of these two topics some time ago, and it has been my pleasure ever since to (occasionally) point out to the dear boy that I dealt him a great kindness in life by clearing the birth canal for him*. I'm almost positive my actions reduced the impact on his tender pre-natal fontanelles. And so, in honour of that (nevermind my mother who actually birthed him, or his own efforts) I will wish him the happiest of 21st birthdays. Much love to my oldest and dearest friend. Who is now really old. Gah! *the hazards of having a sister in midwifery school. He also knows more about the placentas and the merits of homebirth than any other guy his age that I know. Pretty darn cool, eh?

Jaded

2006-06-08T12:23:00.000-04:00

Mon Pere, being the man he is, thoughtfully slipped into the boxes of daily mundanities (ah, that's where all the grey cotton underwear was. . . ) something a little more practical. Practical in the ancient customary sense, that is. The accompanying e-mail states "it will protect you, so you must never take it off". I think this was also in reference to my previous 'cheating' of wearing my jade loose enough to slip off. Of course, toying with the ancients like that resulted in it getting kicked off in two pieces by my little brother's bare foot. An un-aimed kick, in the dark. I know. Before taking it off became an issue, however, the *putting on* of it was addressed with plenty of freezing cold running water (can't have the tissues swelling), friction-destroying lather and a peverse desire for encirclement that managed to momentarily overwhelm all innate pain-avoidance mechanisms . Given the drama of this event, however, I will be leaving it on for my own protection somewhere in the time frame of forever. May the ravages of aging be kind to my wrist circumference. . . And now, like my mother before me, I can 'accidentally' deliver bone-cracking raps to unsuspecting people who think they're cozying in for a hug. Ah, tradition! [and as for the photo - you try taking one of your dominant hand!]

sticky date pudding

2006-06-03T20:54:00.000-04:00

as requested by the boy who last consumed it whilst doing me a scope-ful favour: Makes - an industry-standard sized amount? 1 1/2 C butter 3 3/4 chopped pitted dates 3 tsp baking soda 3/4 C caster sugar 6 eggs 3 3/4 C flour 1 1/2 tsp salt 1 1/2 tsp vanilla 5 1/4 tsp baking powder Place dates in saucepan, cover with cold water. Boil. Reduce and simmer 3 min, add baking soda, set aside. In mixer: cream butter and sugar. Add eggs one at a time. Gently fold in flour, salt, vanilla. Slowly stir in baking powder and about 1/4 C liquid from cooking dates until mixture resembles thick pancakes (note: NZ pancakes are like Place Milton i.e. thick, crepes, so take that as you will). Drain remainder of cooking liquid off dates, stir dates into batter. Bake for 40 min or until cooked in center (except that it was written 'senter' so perhaps that's a key difference?) Happy puddings!

Last day of school!

2006-06-02T19:08:00.000-04:00

Our last day of school for the semester, giddy on a bag of sweets and not enough sleep (Karen had been at a birth all night), we take some liberties with the lab on reflexes (especially the one where the pupils dilate if you stroke the back of someone's neck). But, see - we can be serious midwifery students when we try! Tracey actually looks uncharacteristically composed in this photo. And now on to exams, and then moving, and then driving up to Hawke's Bay to be immersed 24/7 in the life of the midwife for an entire month. It's all a bit head-spinning (in that feels-fantastic-but-you-might-be-sick fashion). Wish me luck!

Ouch!

2006-05-27T12:42:00.000-04:00

Well, it seems it is that time of year again. The time when (for the last 6 years running) my wisdom teeth make a paltry, angst-ridden attempt to surface and jaw-clenching agony ensues (I mean honestly, when I can't bring myself to eat or talk, you know it's a big deal!). I spent half the night at work nosing around in the kitchen with one of the kitchen hands (Jo) and the dishwasher (Bo) looking for relief. By the way, I kid you not about their names. Only Bo is his Chinese name and he goes by Eric - but still!! Anyway, together we went through the following list: - a frozen fava bean (tasted disgusting, and I accidentally started talking to a customer while the ungainly lump was wedged in my jaw, so I had to do an abrupt turn-and-spit that I hope like crazy wasn't caught on the video cameras) - a frozen coffee spoon (you'd think I wasn't Canadian - I got it stuck to my tongue. Twice) - frozen orange & pear pieces (actually a very nice dinner and even nicer as Jo was sneaking them out of the kitchen supplies for me illicitly - hehehe) - cloves (meh, mediocre results) - salt, applied straight (caused such pain I was attempting to dig my fingers into the stainless steel countertops and my eyes rolled back into the nether regions of my head) - Eric allegedly had a wonderful idea, but unfortunately, his translation skills did not enable him to share it with us. We will dub this "the chinese cure" and it will remain enigmatic, but still an integral part of the list of attempts. I also burnt my hand on a hot pan that was by the dish pit and my thumb on a hot plate that the bloody chef neglected to warn me about. Learned how to make frothy hot chocolate on the espresso machine, had a bread fight with the chef & the ass't chef versus the waitresses, and told my boss I was going to be away for a month because I had to go do some hands on learning about breast, vaginas & placentas (well, he asked! and I have the time off now!). So that's pretty much a tally of my adventures in the pain department today (with a smattering of work silliness thrown in for brevity & distraction).

The (totally irrelevant) picture is of Lake Taupo - NZ's "Great Lake". Ha! These people have obviously never seen Ontario. . . .

One Happy Me

2006-05-26T11:11:00.000-04:00

My room is chaos - my boxes have arrived! And my jeans still fit! At 2:30 a.m. after 15 hours of work/school, it doesn't get much better than this!

oh, and

2006-05-23T20:11:00.000-04:00

Today marks the beginning of the last month of being 22 years old. It's been one of my favourites. Lots of stretching in weird & unexpected ways, and lots of growing into ideas I'd lovingly clung onto since childhood. May the last month be the sweetest yet. . .

kiwi-ness

2006-05-23T19:53:00.000-04:00

Went to see a funny little kiwi/samoan film last night [http://www.sioneswedding.com]. I felt quite smug in my comprehension of 55% of the slang used therein. Actually, I had a very kiwi-ana weekend; in addition to eating icecream cones repeatedly dipped into popcorn at the movies (actually disturbingly delicious) I also had rugby strategies painstakingly explained to me and a long drawn-out discussion on the relative merits of eating canned spaghetti on toast (I was threatened with a sample, but in the end mercy prevailed). Oh! and speaking of toast, I had marmite on mine this morning. I *am* becoming a good little kiwi-pretender (if only I could stop throwing in the occasional francais that is repeatedly met with very blank stares).

The Last Remake..

2006-05-17T20:33:00.000-04:00

The remainder of the unpostable photos. You'll have to click on them because they only worked as small thumbnails. The one on the right is the view from inside the hostel in Rotorua, Mianh was playing with her cameras features because it was too stinky outside to do anything else. Below is a view of the closest two turbines and a panorama below that, which I feel is the quintessential New Zealand scene: Green fields, Huge sky, Sheep, and something indicative of a progressive social attitude (in this case a wind turbine). I have also uploaded the video, it gives a better impression of the turbines, so I hope you'll be able to load it up and watch it.

On a final note, thanks to Mianh for letting me post these things here, hopefully I did our shared experiences justice and Mianh, feel free to ammend or add. Yes there were many references to disturbing films and too many inside jokes and silly laughter. At any rate, I had a great time, it went by fast, which is always a sign of just that, and I certainly intend to return oneday soon. Ciao, -Kien

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3qEbMufloek

Awaiting a Guest (see post below)

2006-05-17T00:18:00.000-04:00

The Brother has been dispatched back North today (and in other news my midterm has been written) and he has promised to use his 10 hour stop over at LAX to guest post here. In the meantime I'll just share with you that thanks to his visit, I can now quote far more lines from Matchpoint than I ever imagined (read: wanted to). For example, in this random scene pictured above, he's saying "Just say your number! Say your number!". Just heard the daily plane departing from Palmy fly over my house. Thanks for the healthy dose of fraternal harassment Moa (does that work?!).

A Second Opinion

2006-05-16T01:09:00.000-04:00

For some reason it is impossible to upload more of the large panoramic photos which are some of the most interesting from the adventure, so while I work on getting them into the blog (and the video), here is the remainder of the entry. You will have to scroll to the bottom of the entry and read up. Regrettably posting it in reverse order was too forboding a task for me. Finally, you can click on the photos to enlarge them. Enjoy... -K Below, the views from the top, and above a cow on the side of the road and our sheep friend. So, we drove back stopping in the unimpressive '12 times NZ's most beautiful town' of Fielding, got lost courtesy of M's navigation and headed back to Palmy with one last stop at the wind farm on the top of the adjacent mountains. Going back a moment, the whole reason for getting lost was because we were trying to get to the turbines without having to pass through the Manawatu Gorge, a terrifying lick of tarmac that snakes through the mountains right at the edge of a cliff which drops into a roiling river (see previous posts). Unfortunately we didn't manage this, and so spent another frightful 6km driving through once more on the way to the mountaintop. From here we took a sharp right and headed down a small road before turning right again onto a single lane dirt road that led to the top of the mountain. My nerves were already slightly rattled from the gorge, but that was nothing compared to this beast. It was a 40 minute drive up hairpin turns that would make Alpe D'huez look straight, with rockfall on the road and no barricade between the outer wheels of the car and a cliff that led right back down to the gorge or a timely death somewhere in the middle. M wasn't hysterical, but she was far from relaxed and I was quite tense by the time we made it to the top. However, it was well worth the effort because the view was astounding (on a clearer day you are said to be able to see both sides of the ocean and the south island of New Zealand from here). The wind farm was also beautiful, the turbines were all over the place and we were right at their bases along with a bizarrely located sheep farm and the odd cow. One sheep managed to jump the fence and looked down on us from the side of the hilly road fulfilling my desire to look a sheep right in the face (I didn't know what they really looked liked, since my only exposure was the woody allen vignette with Stavros Milos and Daisy the sheep). The wind was also quite strong and cool where the turbines faithfully churned while emitting a shrill whistling sound on every rotation. I took maybe 50 photos and a few video clips, one of which I will try to post somehow. You can clearly hear the whistling, but listen for mianh making some kind of warble near the end. It basically sums up all that was terrifiying about the trip up the winding road. On the way to Rotorua we came up to kerosene creek which her friend Karen recommended. To get there you drive down a gravel road and park in an unassuming lot by the side of the road which myseriously had a rooster clucking about. We walked down a path a ways and ended up in this lovely slightly saline hot spring water. If you buried your feet in the fine gravel bottom it got progressively hotter until you felt as if you might encounter magma. We stayed in there for a long while as it rained a bit and was otherwise freezing above the surface. The only thing that wasn't very nice was the sulfurous odour that accompanies volcanic activity, but obviously this was par for the course and wasn't hard to deal with. Rotorua was a different story altogether.. We stayed at a hostel near the city centre and were affronted with a foul and unjustified stench which had no apparent reason for existing. It struck us as soon as we left the car, and wherever we walked subsequently. It came in waves of intensity but the whole experience left me delirious and after a mediocre dinner at a psuedo sleepless goat type place with horrendous service and a mislabelled 'lasagna' (which was more mousakka), whilst trying to see if there was a movie theatre there (it was raining), I ended up driving back onto the highway several times. We decided that we'd rather just pack it in early and leave earlier the next day, such was the stench of the place. Anyway, on the way to the craters of the moon (an area of steam emissions caused by volcanic activity) we chanced upon a place that we had seen mentioned in the aforementioned lonely planet book that offered horseback riding tours of the 'craters..' area. We decided to try at the last minute as we came upon the place to do it, and it proved to be quite a bit of fun. Since we had been talking in depth about what types of properties and property we intended to own once we had grown up and married our current or hypothetical partners it was fitting since owning horses featured on both our lists in spite of my attempts to 'shotgun' horses categorically and hence take them out of contention. A further bit of discussion saw a shared interest in owning sailboats, an assertion which I challenged on the grounds that M had not shown any enthusiasm for the Swallows and Amazons books which defined childhood sailing adventure. Anyway, the riding was great fun. M's horse Jake was a bit stubborn and would periodically stop or take a wrong turn until the guide gave mianh a switch to smack him with. My horse was named Bob and was quite lovely although he clicked his heels when walking leading me to believe that he was tired and about to keel over at any moment. Between our horses was another ridden by a girl who was on exchange from Columbia (the school) and who lived in the thousand islands. Her horse kept crapping and farting every time we went uphill, so perhaps some of Bob's lack of enthusiams stemmed from an uninspiring odour at his nose level. After we saw craters of the moon (the steamy wasteland above) we were given the opportunity to trot and canter on the horses which was fantastic, even though we both felt like we were falling off our horses, and mianh will tell you she only prevented a disaster by clutching the big beasts thick torso with her short legs. From the horse riding adventure we headed north again to Rotorua. From Napier we drove up to Taupo, this shot is of Lake Taupo. This float plane was just landing as we parked and walked to a cafe to have some breakfast. It was one of those situations where I was trying to see it touch the water but the damn thing kept skimming over the surface, close, but not touching. So we had to keep running toward it to prevent our view from being obscured by the buildings on the street. We ate after that, a steak and cheese pie and some spirulina and feijoa drinks, and then headed north toward the 'craters of the moon'. M, as was the case for the previous legs of the trip was the 'navigatrice' which she fulfilled most ineptly giving no useful directions whilst demaning to listen to 'Bad Day' and 'Nine Million Bicycles' on my mp3 player which I had to set up (knee steering). The north island is extrememly hilly and the highway twists and turns like a child with ADD flits about. All the highways are one lane shindigs with the occaisional passing lane. We noticed a lot of motorcycles and I took to testing M whenever one passed to see if she could discern between a harley type bike, a dirt bike, a racing bike or a touring bike. It wasn't very official, but she did well, and long after I had stopped asking I would hear periodically ...'racing!'..... We headed back for the night to our hostel which was the building to the left of the above picture. It was a charming place with free TV which I started to watch. Luckily for me the remote cacked it just as I was flicking past 'what not to wear' so you can imagine how much fun I had with that. We also went downstairs and bought some dessert pizza's from Hell's Pizza a chain of pizza stores which was recommended (in a way) by M's housemate. That night after I went to sleep mianh went to check her emails and upon returning a white (but siamese formed) cat snuck into the room with her. It jumped up on the bed and curled up on my chest (rather like a dog) which was fine but for my allergy to cats. I finally cursed at M enough for her to remove the cat but she 'accidentally' let it slip back in soon after. I must not have noticed this happening because I woke up with the cat there once more, but this time it was coughing up a hairball. So I picked it up gingerly with a shirt (so I didn't have to touch it) and deposited the package outside the room. In the morning I saw the cat as we checked out, and gave it a little scratch on the head to make ammends for the difficulty it no doubt encountered being left in the cold hallway. This is indeed Vidal, where the wine is lovely but disqualified on account of their use of screw top caps. I read on the flight from Auckland to LA in the in flight magazine that 90% of wineries in NZ use the screw top now, a disturbing trend that can only be kicked by putting a self imposed embargo on any foolhardy institution that follows the trend. It was unfortunate though, because their Sauvignon Blanc was almost juice like in its refreshingness, strong hints of passion fruit and kiwi [fruit]. We ate there anyway, and had a huge small sized antipasto plate which the waitress kindly recommended on the grounds that the large plate was too much for two people despite the on-menu recommendation ("for two"). This view is 90 degrees to the previous one, looking back at Mission Estate and their swanky grounds. The building is the chapel and store, and there's a restaurant nestled in between the two. We had intended to eat there, or at the place next door, but I think the alcohol made decision making sloppy and instead we ended up eating fish and chips at a dingy pub in town, before heading off to Hastings for a run at Vidal Estates, where we eventually ate properly. This was the stunning view from a veranda type protuberance jutting out of the lawn at Mission Estate winery, the source of the lovely looking but less than delicious wine. We were taught some things about winemaking and had an otherwise lovely chat with a Sommelier there who was bound for an unnamed Niagara Peninsula winery for the next vintage (maybe an ice wine?). M will recall his name, all I recall is that he told us about the dark side of Palmerston north, girls beating each other up over boys, and other such drama. I thought it was just an exaggeration until I read in the newspaper some days later that some teenage girls had put a bus driver in a coma after attacking him, and had paralyzed a cab driver (although it was in different towns than palmy). And I was worried about getting shot in LA... After a week and a few days in town, reading, drinking coffees and trying to conquer AFS with the odd glass of wine, we hit the road in a rented car. I was launched into left hand side driving with no practice, in a car with a hypersensitive brake, but I managed to lurch myself into the flow of traffic and in a few short hours we were happily cruising toward Hawke's Bay. M perpetually refused to capture the magnificent countryside from the window of the car, and to this day I still have no picture of the rolling hills or foxtail growth on the side of the road. New Zealand is comically small but it has very varied climates and leaving a rainy and freezing palmerston found us in bright sunshine on the coast, a mere three hours away. The photo above was from a beautiful hilly street in Napier where the buildings are meant to all be Art Deco in style, and where cats act like dogs. This is New Zealand wine country and we made the most of it, although the limiting reagent as it were was the missing enzyme which was prohibitive to tasting at more than a few wineries. I learned a hard but important lesson in the world of vintages, a strong aesthetic presentation of a bottle of wine does nothing for its flavour, unless of course the finest wines are meant to smell like fish with subtle notes of cabbage and a flutter of barf... all that this means is that my desire to buy a crate of wine bottles from the source has gone unfulfilled. I should note that this section (from here, above) comes to you courtesy of the JAL wireless internet connection in LAX intended for their first class passengers, and that I just got off a looooong flight, the majority of which was spent trying to pin down the culprit in a stinky foot (shoes removed) international incident of epic proportions (a funny spanish man was even more disturbed than I was, and he went to great lengths to source the stink, stopping just short of demanding a lineup of peoples socks, although he did continue to investigate well beyond the immigration cue). In fact, whoever it was that was reeking up the cabin with their putrescence managed to get the odour into the first class cabin, according to the head steward, and all attempts to spray down the aisles with air freshener were in vain. So, as I mentioned, I am in LAX now sitting at a table half covered in green tea which I just bought and subsequently capsized in my computer-opening enthusiasm (before a single sip), with napkins covering the spill courtesy of a girl who came up to me two or three minutes later (as I sat procrastinating) and said 'I saw you spill your drink, here you go'. Now that i've set the scene, i'll get back to the photos... It wouldn't have felt like a vacation without a little bit of golf, I had my heart set on some pretentious recreation afterall... I managed to wake mianh up early enough (we actually had quite a nice routine of early morning wakeups) that we could make it to the course and be the first on the grounds. This was important because our pace was embarrasing and the ball refused to stay on our fairway. We coined the term arboreal golfing as a celebration of this style. Try to ignore the fact that the ball in the above picture is happily seated on the ground although the club has been fully swung. I should also note that we finished the game having lost only 2 balls (although I did have to jump one fence to retrieve a wayward shot), and that on the first putt M sunk the ball from some 25 feet out in one stroke. Sunset on one of the four choked arteries into the city centre (not really, although people do love to give cops reasons to believe their cars have been modified for the purposes of street racing), the 'square', which is decidedly un-WWI like (if you've ever played the game online) and a rather beautiful area to frame with the main shopping streets. Palmerston is a rather small city however, and it is just coincidence that I have captured here two of only four or so tall buildings in the city. If you walk straight along the picture above and turn left at the lights, you'll hit george street running parallel with this one and the café cuba and Barista. My second local destination on a daily basis was the palmerston north city library 'the livingroom of the city' they say. It is a lovely sunlit place with a senseless cataloguing system which makes it impossible to find books, but this wasn't such a bad thing because it made racing for a Lonely Planet New Zealand that much more interesting. The library also had a healthy stock of foreign (mostly british and australian) newspapers which I read, and some decent internet access. Oh, and if you're ever in need 'they'll have a decent opera section'. Clearly that much walking (a herculean effort by my standards) is deserving of some good grub, and thankfully the proximity to the ocean equals good sea food. The menu tonight was steamed fish, Tarakihi and green lipped (?) mussels (the flesh of which is about the size of an ear), cooked in a proper wok with a good flame below. After being white-fish-less in Montreal for two years now, it was nice to find a proper product and possibly have the chance of making some people jealous. M down the path a ways, not far from where she decided to laint the river. Its an obscure word, but look it up anyway, I promise if will provide you with many future laughs. Above that I am set next to a palm plant. This felled tree was almost passed by without a second glance but in my manic inspection of dead matter for the aforementioned insects, I happened to catch this gem of a cross section. The colours in the photo are truly representative of the trunk itself, if anything they are less vibrant. I'm not sure what type of plant this is or what caused the pattern and colouration but it was worthy of presentation. I'm not sure what motivated this photo, but it did look cool at the time and I maintain that it still does today. At any rate it confirms what many of you must be wondering, New Zealand does have fungi. Another day we opted to walk to the esplanade, a conservation type area with dense jungly growth and some recreational facilities like tennis courts. On the way we argued over whether Tom Hewitt was pretentious, and once there we walked through the bush in a fruitless search for Mantis insects or Locusts. That may have been a failure but we got a few snapshots that were worthy of sharing, a fern unfurled and one unfurling (perhaps a silver fern?) which is one of the most common symbols of New Zealand. Moving further down George street (to the left in photo above) M and I ordered those small Italian bottles of concentrated fruit juice (below), the type that I was expecting when the 'Next' juice fiasco occurred. For all the connoisseurs out there, this is the peak of juice perfection. I also recall that we ate corn fritters and then decided the only suitable course of action to chase that type of meal was to make molotov cocktails out of our drink bottles and make a run for it. A beautiful morning on M's easily remembered street [confidentiality barrs me from naming names] which was a fitting start to the café lifestyle which ensued. Above you will see the Café Cuba, my adopted watering hole for the duration of the two weeks; a fitting place to be introduced to the unique vernacular of Kiwis with respect to their beverage names. Forget about ordering coffee here, you'll probably just end up with a quizzical look and a stronger thirst than you started with. To my understanding you can only order espressos (long or short black), cappucino's, flat whites, cafe lattés (which it turns out may actually only be warm milk) and so forth. I found the flat white to be the best choice, a manageable amount of dense froth and a quality espresso based brew below, [sweet as!]. One final note of regret, the policy of the café cuba is 7 cups for the price of 6, but I repeatedly failed to fill out a frequent drinkers card and forfeited what must have been at least 3 free coffees, such was my prolific drinking. Anyway, I digress, the point is that travel makes you hungry, and cooking is classically the second best form of relaxation (much like a land war in Asia is the first classic blunder), so after walking to the grocery store to pick up some produce, it seemed appropriate to make some kind of feast. Lamb, and various roasted vegetables were the order of the day, the veiny looking pale thing in the picture below is Kumara (white kind), and the rest you can probably guess. The grocery run also proved to be eye opening, self scanning groceries with small handheld devices and mysterious new fruits were also discovered. Unfortunately, the second of the new fruits proved to be rather un-delicious in its raw form and because it would bring back terrible memories of bizarro flavour country, I have left out a depiction of the tamarillo, although I invite you to seek one out on your own (apparently they are popular in South America). The last post which M put up some 2 weeks ago outlined the evening following my arrival in Palmerston North, camera shenanigans ensued motivated by jet-lag fatigue. Because it wasn't immediately clear to all viewers previously, and because my desire is to bring you all closer to understanding the motivation for each picture's posting (not further and further..), I thought it might be interesting to have a picture of M and I with serious expressions mostly because I am known for being over formal in photographs, and secondarily because I wanted to see if M was capable of complying. Indeed she was, although it took a second effort, and the experience seemed to validate my subconscious impression that it would precipate some kind of amusing banter or produce interesting pictorial fodder. Please direct further questions to my phone number or email address [you know who you are...]. After considerable difficulty bring this post to fruition, involving four computers and many frustrating hours cursing New Zealand's primitive internet infrastructure (in an otherwise astoundingly tech-enthusiastic country), I finally have something to present, albeit with some ommisions. Please note that if you have read this text last, you have in fact proceded 'ass-backward' but hopefully you got the broad strokes anyway.. well, without further delay I present to you another snapshot of Aeotearoa (tangata whenua of...). Best, -Kien

fratello games

2006-05-05T03:29:00.000-04:00

My attempt at making a very serious facial expression as per brother's designs. Aside from the insistence we make grandiose plans (wild boar shooting? car buying?) it's been a wonderful 12 hours of having him around. And now jet lag and studying-instead-of-sleeping is infectiously filling the room with its sweet, drowsy aroma. Oh, and like the new hoodie? I feel like a tourist. . .

Geraldine

2006-05-04T08:11:00.000-04:00

I have a great love of beds, especially being curled up in them, free from the pressure of having to fall asleep. The true mark of comfort in a new home is whether my bed invites me to strip off all my clothes, dive in, and stay for a day. I must say, this one is coming along nicely (especially since the duvet cover stopped being as literally as it is figuratively crunchy). There is one thing missing though - a gross oversight of my packing job 4 months ago. Actually, the entire packing job was executed without any sort of vision at all, which is why I find myself presently with hardcover editions of Shakespeare and children's fiction and not enough underwear. But, in about 8 hours, at least one of these disasters will be rectified, as I am promised my dearly ragged little teddy bear is "safely tucked away" in my brother's carry-on bag. This is Geraldine; one-eyed, very flat and very wise (she is even puported to speak to my mother, - either evidence of her real-ness, or a familial legacy of auditory hallucinations). And I am entirely pleased about this whole business, because at the end of the day, under the covers, are you ever too old for comfort?

what's good

2006-04-30T21:27:00.000-04:00

*that cleaning your room only really takes 20 minutes even though you have built it up to be a monstrous undertaking *that laundry dries beautifully in the bright NZ sun *that there are people who you can talk to endlessly, for years and years, and still have much to amuse each other with *that small generosities return to you in the form of an extra bed and bedding and . . . *that little brother decides to stop by this friday (thanks for the loan miss L) oh, and being ready for capture. That is good as well.

little bits of farm

2006-04-29T08:30:00.000-04:00

Help Exchange!

2006-04-28T21:39:00.000-04:00

So, I spent a lovely week on a farm just outside of town with lots of apple-canning, raw-milk-guzzling, baby-pig-feeding, blackberry-bush-scratching, home-birth-discussing, music-making, movie-watching, novel-swapping, river-bubbling, windmill-whirring, big-family-dinner-eating, carrot-planting, sunny, warm, happy days. More pictures later, when technology co-operates. www.helpexchange.net

North Island - Day 1

2006-04-28T21:01:00.000-04:00

Scenes from the ride up to Auckland - 10 hours - with a stop in every tiny nowhere-ville. And Auckland harbour - taken from the balcony - when I finally arrived and was happily fed with noodles and chicken and smoked oysters.

North Island - Day 2

2006-04-22T17:55:00.000-04:00

Day two began in Auckland with Karen and I waking up in this HUGE bed in Tania's flat overlooking the harbour. I mean literally HUGE - we could barely see each other across the expanse of sheets. Also I got to sleep with about 6 big soft pillows, so I was one happy traveller. Funnily enough, when the bed is too comfortable I like to lie in it revelling in the goodness of it all and it takes ages to fall asleep. The spire of Sky City rising over Auckland (I believe it's a casino. . . and possibly some other things. . . and that's where the bus station is as well). And then eyebrow threading! When I walked in the first thing the woman said was "oh! are you Indian? You look Indian!". Huh? The only other people I have gotten that from were my cousins in Vietnam. I love how my ethnicity constantly provokes comment/foils people. Sort of. Then we began the drive up North. On the way we stopped at Goat Island, a fish reserve, where the water was teeming with bright blue fishes. Unphotogenic ones, unforutnately. Then we noticed a sign for 'hot hangi' by the roadside. Hangi is the traditional Maori dish where meats and root vegetables and pumpkins are buried in a giant pit in the earth and cooked together. This hangi had been transported to the roadside in this little oven-trailer-contraption. . . . and inside - lamb, kumara, pumpkin, potato & stuffing. . . delicious. Also not very good 'car food'. I ended up covered in hangi-gravy from head to toe. As evening hit we drove through Daggarville and stopped into the forest reserve there to see the largest tree in New Zealand (13 metres around). We got a great photo of all of us in front of it, but it's on Tania's camera, so it will be posted at a later date. On the other hand, here is a great photo of a kiwi-zone. I didn't see any. . . but I was in the zone. . . A shot of the forest. Karen remarked "it looks like something out of Jurassic Park!" and I was inclined to agree. Everything was dripping and ferned and enormous and very awe-inspiring to walk through in the near-dark. and now I have to RUN because I'm being picked up to go stay on a farm for the rest of the week where they have goats and ducks and sheep and chickens and horses and dogs and cats and lots of people and music. What more could I ask for? . . . oh . . . maybe clean laundry?! Ahhh!

North Island - Day 3

2006-04-21T08:43:00.000-04:00

View off the point at Mangonui - a coastal village on the north end of the north island. For the record, it's only rainy/cloudy here every second hour - the sun just has a personal vendetta against my camera and so disappears when I try to take photos. a waka - traditional Maori boat. This one is said to be very special. It travels around to all the Pacific islands every year with no modern navigational equipment on board - the crew uses the stars. Also, the day it arrives and the day before it leaves Mangonui harbour, wild dolphins come and swim around it. Mangonui View off the porch at the marae (Maori meeting place/village) I stayed at. We hiked barefoot up those mountains, crossed an icy stream, drank from an underground spring and picked watercress for breakfast. The archetypal Maori village. [as per Whale Rider] Karen in the kitchen. The house used to be a cow shed and the floors are original and gorgeous. freshly caught Parore fish from off the pier (Tania & their other housemate from Denmark went fishing at sunset while Karen and I stayed at home, napped and had one of those nice long midwifery themed chats . . . )

North Island - Day 4

2006-04-20T19:33:00.000-04:00

My Easter-Holiday-Part-One was amazing. Just posting one day at a time to avoid overwhelm-ment (of me moreso than you). . . Looking Southwards to 90 mile beach (where there was reportedly a great white swimming by the other day). View South from Cape Reinga - the Northernmost tip of New Zealand If you look straight out at the point on Cape Reinga you can see the meeting of the Pacific Ocean and the Tasman Sea. The waves are actually going in opposite directions. View down from the path we walked barefoot along. Running down an enormous stretch of secluded dunes . . . and sliding down them on boogie boards. They were so steep I caught air and shot through the water at the bottom! Karen my friend from school on the left, and Tania her flatmate on the right. Tania introducing us to the wonders of smoked fish roe (still whole - you scoop it out and spread it on buttered bread with lemon juice, salt, pepper and hot sauce). The most amazing Bluenose fish & chips with enormous succulent oysters. I would seriously drive the 16 hours for the purpose of having these again (future visitors be warned!).

Big B

2006-04-14T19:35:00.000-04:00

In honour of my passionate Uncle - http://www.theage.com.au/news/education-news/a-light-extinguished/2006/04/08/1143916724769.html

La Richesse

2006-04-12T08:29:00.000-04:00

The week is simmering along nicely. Essay handed in (and yes as per usual operating standards, it was printed out 3 minutes before class started, and no I could not find a stapler, but red paper clips are very very nice, I think). Easter holidays loom 3 short hours of class away with lots of explorative adventure contained therein (in the holidays, perhaps not so much in class). And I realized this afternoon that I've had lots of good conversations this week and that has really been important to my psychosocial health (excuse me, the psychology-degree sliver of my brain has been dying to use that word). My midwifery lecturer stopped by my placement for a long chat over coffee (and when I say coffee I mean she bought me a nice slimy green smoothie). It's wonderful to be taught by people who are actually interested and invested in your education and well-being (for a change, argh!). Then this morning, having woken up in an extremely out-of-character happy and energetic mood, I was pleasantly surprised by a phone call from my neighbour (in Canada) who was in New Zealand. It made the world seem smaller and cozier all of a sudden. And I also had an unexpected conversation with a friend that resolved some lingering concerns I'd been holding onto for a few months. And yes, that is my newest collage that always hangs over my bed and gets puzzled over by everyone who happens upon it. Life is good. Vive la richesse.

here i am

2006-04-09T17:53:00.000-04:00

This week has been a blur. A satisfying and useful blur, but one all the same. I studied, wrote tests, hacked at bones (dissection lab!), waitressed like crazy and finished my essay. If that's not getting-stuff-done then I resign myself to a life of inadequacy! Oh, and I also had a few good conversations with friends and a good hair day thrown in there for measure. So you seen, things are happening, only of the less exciting variety. On the other hand, I have only 2 more days of class and then it's Easter break and I am hopefully heading up North with a friend. If I ever leave the cocoon of my bed and put my laundry on and do *something* about the massive piles of papers/books on the floor and go out into the rain and pay my bills and buy more whole wheat flour and post some mail AND get a bus ticket to Auckland. Mmmm, warm bed . . . .

addendum

2006-04-04T07:39:00.000-04:00

no births. lots of tiny babies. lots of being thrown in head first. lots of bodily fluids. everywhere. I need lots of sleep. But, man, that was cool. . . .

Poised

2006-04-03T20:05:00.000-04:00

I have this rather poetic notion that with each new being I see entering the world, I'll fold a paper crane. Each one strung below the next in long lines of memories and awe. I've never seen anything being born. My first placement begins in exactly two hours. So there sits on my bedroom floor a delicate piece of green, gold-flecked Japanese paper (a gift from the other participant in the only birth I've been a part of). Green for new growing. Gold for everything special and rare and tremendous. Poised. Waiting to be creased and bent and folded into wings.

love on my doorstep

2006-04-02T00:11:00.000-05:00

I was the delighted recipient of not one but Two packages this week. One even in the proverbial brown paper. In case you were wondering how much I appreciate little bits and pieces tucked up with a couple of stamps and tossed Southwards, let me make it clear now - More Than Words Can Describe. So, consider this a thank you to anyone who has sent mail, and a gentle hint to anyone who has not (I miss the crossword from the Whig Standard), and a little heartfelt Sunday afternoon sappiness thrown in for good measure. And as for life currently - things are excellent, diverse, engaging and with far too little emphasis on sleep and recreational computer time. In that good way. I promise a real update soon.

it's an honour

2006-03-26T02:24:00.000-05:00

The other day in class, our Instructor mentioned she'd run into an Honourary midwife at a conference who wished us all the best in our beginning studies and expressed her admiration for our endeavours. That would be the Prime Minister, Helen Clark. As the story goes, Helen Clark was the Health Minister when the legislation to give Midwives autonomous practice in New Zealand was created. Thanks to her, it was passed through at 2 a.m. when most members of parliment couldn't be bothered to attend (or oppose) and she managed to slip in some key elements that give us the wonderful scope of independent practice we have today. To be fair, I would probably be livid if I heard that my government was passing bills in the middle of the night when hardly anyone was paying attention (sounds like something out of a Michael Moore movie). However, I can't help but celebrate her deviance in this case. In other happy news, we were also informed that the acceptance rate for our program this year was under 16%. Somehow essay-induced-headaches are more palatable when you've been especially chosen for them. And speaking of essays - I've written the outline and the intro and it's only 7:30 p.m. There is still hope in the world yet.