Not domestic, not a goddess: Mary the prophet

The gospel doesn’t show us a domesticated Mary, nor are we shown a heavenly queen. Instead, we are shown a woman, a prophet, who is, quite literally, on the road. We see her walking into the Judean hills, visiting with cousins, or giving birth, not at home but in another town. We see her fleeing to Egypt, or on the road to Jerusalem, or outside a house where Jesus is. We see her at a wedding, at the cross, or visiting the tomb. What we don’t see is Mary at home, engaged in domestic duties.

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Picture by Scott Griessel, found at http://www.huffingtonpost.com/rev-david-felten/oy-vey-maria-the-virgin-b_b_4476301.html?ir=Australia

Do you have any talents, mum?

 

My six-year-old and I were walking along the breakwater: thousands of great bluestones tumbled against the path to hold back the sea. Of course, my daughter would not walk on the boring old path; instead, she bounded across the irregularly shaped sharp-edged boulders. Ten feet below her, the sea surged and sent up occasional jets of spray. Boulders rocked under her feet as she quickly judged which way to jump next, and I tried not to think about what would happen if she slipped.

As Little Miss Mountain Goat leapt along, she maintained a stream of chatter. She asked me why I wasn’t any good at jumping across the rocks, and I admitted that I’ve always had a very poor sense of balance. I didn’t mention my second reason, that too many people had looked at me strangely or, worse, kindly, when we’d walked along a long wall together earlier that week, and that I didn’t feel like exposing myself anymore!

‘I’m very talented at climbing and leaping,’ she said, ‘and also the monkey bars. Those are my main talents.’ ‘You do have very good balance,’ I said. She mentioned some other things she is good at, and wondered whether there was a difference between a talent and a skill. She noted what her sisters are good at and then, just as a couple of older mums walked past with their teenagers, she yelled, ‘Do you have any talents, mum?’

The women paused in their conversation, stopped walking, and turned. ‘I’d like to hear the answer to that!’ said one. So much for being unobtrusive, I thought, as I yelled ‘Reading, writing, and cooking!’ to my daughter, the women, and the sea. The women laughed and kept on walking, and I thought to myself, I’m also good keeping up with the washing, finding children’s gems in op shops, and performing boring tasks unobtrusively year in year out.

Our conversation moved on, but I continued to mull over the exchange. I was fascinated that my daughter needed to ask me what I was good at – but then, she’s only six and has only recently begun articulating the differences between us. Perhaps she’s wondering whether all mums have the same set of skills and abilities, or whether different mums are good at different things; perhaps she simply remembered that I am a separate person to her and was seeking more information on who that person is. Either way, her question was one of many steps as she develops a strong and independent self.

I also wondered what else I’m good at. I was relieved that I could immediately think of a few things but it has taken me a long while to get to this stage. And I wondered how long it will take me to develop a strong and independent sense of self, too. I often look at my kids in amazement; all three are so sure of who they are. I don’t remember being like that. For as long as I can remember I have been full of doubts and confusion, not really knowing what I am good at and who I want to be.

But I’m nearly forty, and I have great faith in that age. All the women I really admire – dynamic, powerful, and grounded – are older than me, and I’m looking forward to being older too. I hope that through learning from my kids, doing more outside the house, and working through the old emotions, I might develop a stronger sense of self and become dynamic, powerful and grounded too. And I’ll keep walking with my kids, and watching them bound along; sometimes, I’ll even get up on the wall and follow them.

Domestic Violence

 

A couple of weeks ago, a woman walking home after a night out with friends was abducted, raped and murdered; the abduction took place near the end of my street. It is, of course, the talk of my social circle; it could have been any of us. Like so many women, I go out with friends at least once a week and often walk or cycle home late. I like to be out alone at night, breathing the scents of the evening. Windows flicker with the light of the television, music drifts through the air, and I move quietly through the darkness, dreaming my suburb.

I have some concerns for my safety, of course; I've had too many encounters to be entirely comfortable. Sometimes I wear a hoodie; I'm always in flat shoes; I never use headphones. I avoid groups of men, crossing the road or ducking into shadows if necessary; and I'm not afraid of kneeing a man in the balls if he gets too close – and I've done it, too. But I also refuse to be confined to my home at night. I don't live in Saudi Arabia, and I won't act like I do.

As I get older and greyer, I take fewer precautions; sexual violence is more often directed towards younger women. Yet the woman who was snatched was not much younger than me, and I am shocked. I'm not the only one: hundreds of people have placed bouquets and candles outside the shop where she was last seen, and on the steps of the local church just down the hill. There has been a march to 'reclaim' the street, and informal nightly vigils as people stand and ponder, perhaps to pray.

This is all well and good. The crime was terrible, and it is right to think about how and why it happened; but I also find myself wondering why this very rare crime has led to such an outpouring of public grief when domestic violence is so common. A friend was telling me of a woman she met last year who was murdered by her partner soon afterwards; and of another woman, whose partner attempted to kill her and is now in prison. These crimes also happened in my suburb, but there were no public vigils and flowers in the street.

On a lesser scale, a different friend lives between two households where domestic violence is a regular event; on bad nights, she calls the police then sticks her pillow over her head to block out the screams. This year, three women I know have left verbally abusive and controlling, if not physically violent, relationships; other friends still live in such marriages.

It's not that I live among depraved people. We're all nice, well-educated, thoroughly middle-class women who know our rights; and the men involved are personable and charming – in public at least. Instead, these glimpses illustrate an awful reality: violence against women is all too common.

Feelings of violence against women, whether or not the feelings are physically expressed, are also common. Our society has a sick desire to see women harmed, and sexually promiscuous women, especially prostitutes, slaughtered; you cannot turn on the television any night of the week without seeing at least one murdered woman. It's gussied up as drama with a few twists to keep you guessing, but the fact that women are killed, and often found dismembered or rotting, night after night for the sake of entertainment is hardly benign.

And so I wonder about the flowers and the vigil. Was it really all about the terrible death of one woman walking home late at night? Or was it a safe way for women to express grief over the violence that so many experience in their own homes? Perhaps it is a bit of both.

I also wonder how much has been spent on the flowers; and how much has been donated to women's shelters, or to men's behavioural change programs? Because if we are truly concerned by violence, we will do more than attend vigils and buy flowers for a dead woman. We will also look closely at our society and what simmers beneath the surface. As friends, we will make safe places for others to talk about what is happening at home, and we will defend and support them if they decide to leave; as parents, we will teach our sons to recognise their feelings and to express anger, frustration and shame in healthy and constructive ways; and as citizens, we will direct resources towards the living women and children who experience violence every day, who dread the sounds of His car rolling into the driveway and His key fumbling in the lock, because He is coming home.

Jones Park / Resurrection

 

When I first moved to Brunswick more than fifteen years ago, I lived in a share house backing onto a dingy oval. The oval was fenced on two sides by an old tip, a great sloping hill of dirt, rubble and weeds cordoned off by cyclone wire. On a third side crouched a shabby playground, but whenever I thought to go there for a meditative swing I felt so nervy and trapped that I left within minutes.

Now I live five blocks away, and it's one of my favourite places. Ten years ago, the council cleaned up the tip and turned it into green space. They refurbished the oval, took down the fences, and turned the two sites into one enormous park.

Let me take you on a tour. At the top of the hill is a platform. The oval and the old playground lie behind us. To the east roll hills, a hazy grey; to the south, city towers stretch up small and hopeful under the wide blue sky.

Heading down the gently winding path, you see groves of young trees. A mother and her baby picnic under the casuarinas, where the breeze flowing through the needles recalls the sound of the sea. To the left, a woman shoots hoops and you can hear the basketball chick! through the net, then thud to the ground.

Further down winds a dry creek bed. But turn towards the new playground, instead, with its concertina tyres; they wheeze notes when we jump on them. Hit the colourful mushrooms with the mallets; listen to them toll. Climb the spider web with me; at the top, hook in your feet and reach for the sky; the spider web gently sways. Below us, the creek bed curves into a large pond; let's run down the steps.

Lie on the boardwalk and peek over the edge. See the water beetles scoot through the reeds, wings flipping so fast they blur! See the tadpoles, with their translucent tails and the bulge of budding limbs! An aquatic ladybug, fat and red, bumbles and rolls on by.

Above us skitter large dragonflies, grey and fat like army helicopters; tiny dragonflies dance, blue as sapphires and impossibly slender. Every few minutes frogs start up, creaking like a hundred thumbs pulled across a hundred combs, then just as quickly fall silent again. Larger frogs add their deep popping bass notes; crickets rasp; the pond sings.

Rushes tower, ten feet tall; and behind them, the Serbian Orthodox Church soars, turrets ablaze with gold.

It will never be as it was two centuries ago, a place of untouched wilderness sloping up from the Merri Creek. But from town dump to this: a place where mothers and babies picnic in shady groves; joggers run puffing up the hill; kids shriek with laughter at the top of the spider web; men sprawl in the grass with books; women shoot hoops; couples nestle in quiet spots; and tucked right down in the far corner lie I, flat on my stomach and peering through the boardwalk at the golden light and watching and listening as the frogs and dragonflies and honeyeaters and wattlebirds and finches and lizards and beetles and countless other small creatures whose names I do not know get on with things -

Life has indeed returned to this part of the city.

Incidentally, in trying to learn about my local corner I discovered there are 324 known species of dragonfly in Australia! Who would have thought?!

More than enough

As I stride along in my big red boots, an early spring breeze ruffles my hair. I swing the bag holding pink and purple wellies, a birthday present for my youngest daughter, and I can't help but laugh aloud. It's Thursday night, and I'm out and about with a bit of money in my pocket, heading to my favourite bar. There I'll chat with the barmaid about her new hat, then order a glass of wine and a toasted sandwich and call it dinner. Warm and fed, recharged by an hour or two alone at the back, I'll wander off to choir and sing.

How delightful it is to have a few dollars in my pocket! How lucky I am to have an hour or two out! How glorious it is to meet up with friends! How fortunate I am to have money, time, companionship, love!

Rockefeller was rich as Croesus; yet when asked 'How much is enough?' he replied, 'a little more, always a little more' or words to that effect. But a good pair of boots and a thick blue jacket; a glass of wine and a bit of toasted cheese; the joy of three daughters; the company of friends; and a husband warming my bed at night – what more could I possibly want?

Whatever was Rockefeller thinking?! So much more than enough, this is life in abundance. In the late afternoon, as the sun dips low and sets the sky alight, even the shabby streets of Brunswick are paved with gold.

How two chicken-loving enemies became neighbours once again

Not so long ago, I had a bit of a rant about our unfriendly neighbours. We have one spectacular neighbour, but most of the others are cool veering on cold. And for years, our most immediate neighbour has appeared to hate us. When I greet her, she ignores me; when I see her in the street and smile, she turns her back. It has made me scared and fearful and anxious and angry and defensive. I have always tried to acknowledge her even when I feel bad; and I have always spoken well of her in front of our kids, but it's really ground me down. I have thought, from time to time, of dropping in and asking what the problem is, but I have been too cowardly. It's hard to know how to ask someone why she hisses through her teeth at you; and it feels slightly pathetic, like a jilted teenager begging 'But why don't you like me anymore?'. So the frostiness has continued.

Then something happened that made me furious: we had a visit from the council about our lovely chickens. Apparently, there's been a complaint. Now, we have met the council guidelines listed on their website and when I spoke with the officer she said they were satisfied – for now – but I was really angry. It's not the first time that we've had a complaint against us, and always from the same person, our neighbour.

But I don't want to be like her; I want to be an exemplary neighbour. So while I simmered, I asked people I trust for the support I need and thought about what to do. As much as I wanted to throw eggs and shout and yell, I'm tired of living with a sense of deep hostility bristling from next door, a house which is so close we can see in each other's side windows. I couldn't bear to make it worse.

The next morning I had a few hours without the kids, so I took myself out for a fast wintry walk. I marched around and found myself heading to our local hill, built over the old rubbish dump; it felt like a fitting place to yell. I did a few muttering laps of the oval first, then up the hill I went to say my piece to the wind. When I was done I ran down the hill like a little kid, loose and gangly and arms windmilling through the grass. The rage was abating, so I strode homewards, still wondering.

I passed a centre for spirituality, and in the window were the usual accoutrements: gentle words in flowing calligraphy, soft scarves, and candles. All these things may be helpful to a regular spiritual practice, but it suddenly occurred to me that any spirituality that runs deep will be nothing like a beautifully draped silk scarf. Instead, it will be hard and messy; and it will be about the most mundane areas of life: how we act when we're afraid; how we respond to people when they are cruel or rude or thoughtless; how we meet a thousand different challenges in the small exchanges of the household, the playground, or the local shops. And I realised that, no matter how afraid I was, I had to go talk with my neighbour.

So I went home and collected the day's eggs, still warm. Then, feeling sick to the stomach, I boxed them up and headed next door.

When my neighbour answered, the first thing she said was 'We are enemies.'. I wanted to cry. Instead, heart thumping, I asked why. It turns out that she perceived a serious slight five or six years ago, and the council and her son did their best to maintain that slight - the story is long and complicated, and the details are irrelevant. Enough to say that, at the end of it, we had unravelled a serious misunderstanding, and I apologised profusely for my part in the episode; then we talked for a good ten minutes about this and that, like normal neighbours do. She started to smile and then laugh, and finally, finally she agreed to accept the eggs to feed her grandkids who, she reckons, have never tasted really fresh ones.

Ironically, when I asked her if she had any concerns about the chickens she said 'I like the chickens!', and that's when her face really softened. Apparently they remind her of her childhood; she enjoys hearing them move around our garden. So for all my fear that it was one more thing she didn't like, I was wrong about that; and for some reason, I am not worried about who else objects to the chooks – as long as it is not her.

Before I left, she said that there is nothing to be enemies about; and I begged her to drop in if anything ever bothered her - or even if she just wanted to join me in a cuppa.

I'm sure this is not the ending. Something else will come up – we are all so far from perfect – and I will need to work to maintain this new civility. I still don't know if the council has anything further to say about our hens. But I feel like a scouring wind has swept through the street and made it clean. A once frosty neighbour smiled at me and told me a few stories, and I felt my fear slowly trickle away; for now, that's ending enough.

A Thursday ritual

My husband is in charge on Thursday afternoons. He comes home early from work; collects the kids from school, always remembering a snack; takes them to the park of their choice for a long play; then brings them home and cooks dinner. Later, he reads them stories and puts them to bed.

Because I can't keep my mouth shut, can't stop myself from taking over the kids and the cooking and the shouting if I'm at home, I agree to be banished from the house. I head to a local bar, buy a glass of wine, and settle down at 'my' table to read or write. Later, perhaps, I might meet a friend and grab a bite to eat; then it's off to choir to sing my heart out and sit round gossiping with a group of mums. It's a highlight of my week, the evening I look forward to from sometime early Wednesday. Sure, most weeks sparkle with small good things; but this ritual feeds my soul. And what is good for my soul is good for my kids; without it, I have a tendency to become tyrannical.

What intrigues me is how easily I will jeopardize, even cancel, it. Last week, there was no choir; instead, our choir director held a concert of her piano students, which include my daughter. Meanwhile, my husband had not been able to be home for dinner yet that week. Because there was no choir and my husband hadn't been home, I thought I should stick around; even so, my husband urged me to go out, then meet us at the concert. But I decided that would be selfish; that we needed to eat as a family; and that I should stay.

When my husband and the kids surged in the door from school, at least one person looked disappointed that I had crashed their only weeknight together. I began to worry about dinner and what we would eat even as my husband heated pasta water. One kid shouted, another shrieked, I yelled, and my husband looked at me. 'Maybe,' I said, 'maybe, I really should go out? Would you mind?'.

'Go!' he urged me, 'please go!' and gave me a big hug. So finally, an hour later than usual, I pulled on my boots, packed my bag, and toddled off, wittering and apologising all the way – and feeling so selfish. Extraordinary, really, given that I had done the whole kiddie food – story – bed routine three nights in a row, and would do it again on Friday; Fridays are always a late night for him.

I have internalized so many ideas of what makes a good mother; one of them is about being present. A good mother doesn't go out for no reason; and she certainly doesn't squander money on wine in bars and a meal out! And yet, is this really true? Surely after seven years I have learned by now that without this sort of activity I become lonely, bored, ground down and angry; going out gives me the fillip I need to enjoy my children and to want to be with them most of the time.

My life revolves around laundry and floors, playgrounds and dishes; my Thursday ritual gives me a bit of structure, a bit of adult input. I get to walk at my speed, chat with adults or sit quietly. It's the only meal I eat in complete dignity, with no need to discipline anyone, no complaints about the food, and nobody's crusts ending up on my plate. Even without choir, just two hours alone out of the house far from the jobs that perpetually nag me is profoundly life-giving.

I may not be able to claim it for myself every week, but I give thanks for a husband who is wiser than me, who can gently nudge me towards the front door. 'Go!' he urges, 'Go!'. Obedient wife that I am, I nod my head, pull on my shoes and pack my bag; and dutifully I walk right out that door.

Photograph shows my middle daughter 'flying' to Mousehole in Cornwall - it's how I feel when I leave the house on Thursdays!

House Hunting

From time to time, quite often actually, I think about moving house. I flick through the real estate ads and try to find a house closer to school, with fewer roads to cross and bounded by quiet streets. Or I dream about living on a hillside somewhere damp and fertile, somewhere with a view. I check out houses in country towns or on their outskirts; and occasionally I even go to inspections, and imagine living here, or here, or here.

Earlier this year, my partner and I so thoroughly investigated one country town that we even checked out the primary school, the yoga studio, and the train times to the city; and dragged our kids and a friend to inspect a romantic-looking cottage. Perhaps fortunately, the house backed into a mine; it was dark and poky and stank of cigarette smoke; the bathtub was not plumbed; the lounge was lit only by a candle chandelier; and the 'orchard' was a single tired quince tree standing in a field.

It wasn't quite what I wanted – but what, really, was I looking for? The thing is, there's nothing wrong with where we live, and so much that is right. Sure, the traffic's heavy, but other than that, it's perfect. My husband can cycle to work downtown in twenty minutes. We are serviced by ample public transport. We have a supermarket at each end of our street, and an organic market a mile down the road. We can buy anything we need, from almost any country on earth; we can buy many things made locally. We can walk or ride to the library, the pool, the kinder, the school, the gym and most of our friend's houses. We have a hundred restaurants or coffee shops nearby; half a dozen bookshops; a dozen op shops; and several ethical clothing studios where garments are made on site.

Our neighbourhood is dotted with guerrilla street art: brightly coloured pole warmers; a life-size stencil of Red Riding Hood feeding the wolf; snatches of poetry scribbled onto walls; trompe l'oeil gardens painted onto brick; and up a nearby laneway, a large blue dinosaur.

Our across-the-road neighbours give me lemons and the kids cuddles; the guys at our veggie shop laugh at my jokes. Our Lebanese pastry shop is decorated by pictures drawn by my daughters and the guys there wave as we walk by every day. My four-year-old buys pita bread by herself while I stand around outside; she chats with the owners who have watched her grow up. The men at the hardware store give free advice and carry stuff to the car when I cannot wrangle it into the pram; the ladies at the Italian wholesalers admire my toddler's cheeks and offer bread and olives for her to snack on. The waiters at our favourite coffee shop kneel to chat with my children before taking our order. This is our neighbourhood; in a quiet way we are recognised, and we belong.

And our house is wonderful. We chose it for the block – small for our city, but large for our suburb – and have been working on the garden ever since. Now our study is shaded by a ten foot high tamarillo tree, its leaves like elephant ears cooling the room. We have a dozen fruit trees, and in the pantry lies a sack of almonds that we picked. My girls spend summer afternoons on the trampoline nibbling on grapes from the vine that insinuates itself through the netting; I come home, wheeling my bike down the path, and pause to snack on figs plucked from overhanging branches. We have just acquired four chickens, who happily scratch and peck at the bottom of the garden under the old pear tree – and right now the tree is covered with blossom like a bridal veil. In just over a week, the crab apple will bloom and the air will be filled with drifting petals.

We live in a bountiful garden only five miles from the CBD among shops and services many can only dream of. Why, oh why, would I look to move?

I suspect two things are going on.

For one, we live in a deeply consumerist society. The constant message is that we never have enough. If we have three t-shirts, why not four? If our jeans are unfashionable, why not buy a new pair? If our house is a mile from school down a busy road, why not move? Forget travelling the long way – just upgrade, update, renew! Make it bigger, better, more convenient! Amen!

Yet while a new house might be closer to school, it will be further away from everything else; any imagined convenience, and its transforming power, is an illusion. And as for moving to a house in the country – well, living in an Australian town is like living in a spread-out suburb; living on a hillside means a twenty mile drive to school. Two weeks ago I spent the day in a fashionable town where the traffic noise was louder than where I live, and we couldn't cross the road for the cars. If I want peace and quiet, I'm better off sitting in my own kitchen, where during the day I can hear the wind sing through the sheoak and listen to the chuckle of happy hens.

I wonder too whether, if a house is like a skin, then perhaps I am trying on different skins, different ways of being. There are days when I'm uncomfortable in my skin. I'm tired and grumpy and fed up with the drudgery of being home with kids. I'd like to work again, and be paid for it; I'd like a little less vomit and a little more dignity.

I suspect that I look at houses because, at some deep level, I imagine that if I lived elsewhere then things might be different. If the walk to school were easier, or the house a little smaller or arranged a little better, or the street a little quieter, then perhaps I'd feel more at home – in my skin and in the world.

But whatever constitutes this idea of home, I reckon that the dream of finding it in a different house is just that: a dream. Our suburb is terrific; our house is comfortable; our garden getting better all the time. There is no perfect house, or perfect life, waiting for me to slot in to. Instead, this is my house, this is my life.

And when I pull my eyes from the real estate guide and draw a deep breath, when I look around and notice the delicate stars of jasmine flowers clustered on the fence, when I realise that the pear tree is in full bloom and the almond's heavy with nuts; when my four-year-old walks around with a chicken under her arm and my two-year-old finds an egg, then I have to admit that, from where I'm sitting, it's a damn sight more than good enough.

Right here in my own backyard, for all its messiness and imperfection, we have life in abundance already.

Worth getting angry

From time to time, questions like mantras come to mind. They stay with me for several months, perhaps a year, turning up unexpectedly when I most need them, and then, like Mary Poppins, disappearing when they've served their purpose. A few years ago, the words "Why not love?" sprang up. At a time when I disliked almost everyone – myself especially – time and again those three little words came to mind, soothing my response to people and giving me a choice about what sort of person I wanted to be. Softer now, in love with life and most people I meet, I almost never think them any more – they've done their job.

These days, I have a new question. When my daughters whinge and argue and stall; when friends or family let me down; when a toddler kicks a door or arches their back as I'm trying to strap them into a pram, I find myself wondering, "is this worth getting angry about?". Even in the midst of a swelling rage, even when I've already begun shouting, I hear the question. And most of the time, I can answer: it's not. I take a deep breath, the rage dissipates, and I try something new: a joke, a song, a quiet reprimand, a blind eye – whatever comes to mind, which is why you'll so often find me singing loudly as I wander down Lygon Street. It's the way I dispel my rage at reckless drivers on the walk to school.

But today my daughter was brushed by a car. Our little procession – me, the pram, and two girls on scooters* – were crossing with the traffic at a green pedestrian light. A stopped car facing the red light suddenly rolled forward half its length while we were in front of it. I simultaneously screamed and yanked the pram back and tried to grab at my four year old; the driver slowly braked, brushing my daughter's dress; and my family staggered to the curb. I turned back, still shouting, and the driver looked right though me. And I thought, now that's worth getting angry about.

And then I burst into tears. Weeping, I walked to school, all the while thinking of a walk we did in England and envying a friend who was reminded of her daily walk to school by my story.

But is it worth staying angry? Hours later, after my husband came home from work and I had another big cry, I'm not so sure. Getting angry is great when it fuels creative work, or provides an impetus for change. But getting angry at the way people drive in our suburb? Unless it leads to a social movement, which I lack the time, energy or heart for, it will eat me alive.

Of course I was justifiably angry – and terrified and panicky – at the moment of the incident, but there is no point carrying the rage with me. It doesn't change anyone's driving habits; it only poisons my relationships with husband, children and friends – and any other cars which cross my path.

So instead I weep, and I write. I'll probably drive for the next few drop offs; or, if the weather fines up, go the long road again. And tonight I'll go to choir and sit with friends and drink too much red wine and sing loudly and swear outrageously as I tell the story and then someone will say something utterly ridiculous and we'll all laugh our heads off like those bold scary women we just love to be. As my eyes fill with tears, of laughter this time, the weight of anxiety pressing down on me will vanish like an evening mist; behind it, I'll find stars.

*We never did get that courier bike. We planned to buy it ready for this school year, but the older girls shot up so much over the summer that it was no longer worth it. My advice is don't leave it too late!

Postcard: Black Crag, icy wind

UP>> I'm cold where are my gloves what can I eat why do we have to do this it's too muddy dada carry me mama hold my hand slow down my feet hurt isn't there anything else to eat I have a runny nose my hood came off you're too fast my legs are tired sore aching when are we going to be there why can't we go hoooooome???

DOWN>> running laughing leaping flying skipping jumping tumbling falling giggling yelling: There's a dog! It licked my face! There's a waterfall! And another one! A kissing gate! Two ponies! One sniffed my hand! The river! The waterfall! The village! Chocolate!!!

Please can we do it again?

Into the Clouds

My six year old grumbles most days on the way to school. It's about a mile, longer when we take the quiet way. She's tired, she's bored, why can't we drive? And I can't blame her. The traffic is deafening, the footpaths are hard on her feet, and the quiet way is loooooong. So we look around us, trying to notice the small good things: the Borzois running at twilight, the setting sun illuminating their flowing fur and transforming them into fiery angels; a fallen nest lined with down; a pole with a neck warmer (guerrilla urban landscaping at its best). But often it feels like slim pickings.

Happily, though, we've ditched school for a while and are roaming around the UK instead. This week: the Lake District. Our house is in a tiny village, surrounded by fields and woods and rivers and mountains. So I dragged my reluctant daughter out for a walk. She grizzled as we put on her waterproof pants and snow boots, and stomped out the front door. 'Think of it as a treasure hunt,' I suggested. 'We have a map, we'll follow the clues, and we'll look for treasure: views, rocks, leaves – whatever is interesting.' She rolled her eyes and sighed.

So we headed down our street, over a river (saying hello to the ducks), past the pub, under the railway bridge, through a kissing gate (mwah, mwah), down a path between two dry stone walls, through another kissing gate, across a field, over a steep stone stile, down a driveway, and along the street home.

When we saw the ducks, she cheered up immensely. And from thereon she was exuberantly happy. She waded through the deepest puddles and sloshed in the mud, made kissing sounds at each of the gates, and clambered up the stile even though its height gave her pause. A train went by, and she waved. We saw sheep and a tractor and heard water everywhere – a tiny stream running beside the road and tumbling over a ledge; the drip of a misty rain; and of course the river. Mosses and ferns grew out of the stone walls. We inspected the fallen leaves (mostly oak); we looked at algae and the colours of the stone; we saw footprints in the mud and counted how many different shoes we could find. I read out the directions bit by bit, so she could locate the stile, the gates, the yellow arrows showing the way. The distance – longer than the school run – felt completely insubstantial. She raced home, described every step of the way to her father, and asked to do it again.

The next day, she begged to go for a longer walk. So while my husband and our middle child caught the train to Liverpool, home of Anfield football ground (motto for LFC and all families with young children: 'You'll never walk alone'), I strapped our toddler onto my back, took my six year old's hand, and headed out. Nothing heroic, just three miles. Our path took us past the cemetery (hello Elizabeth, there's always an Elizabeth), along the river (with a view to the weir and its endlessly fascinating falling water), across some farm land (investigating molehills and sheep poo, as one does), then straight up a hill into the twelfth century woods. After climbing for 45 minutes, we reached the ridge. We hung our jackets on a tree, sat on a damp bench, ate a chocolate digestive and admired the view: miles of rolling fields and hills, patterned by walls and hedges; sheep on a slab of rock, looking startled; patches of snow in the folds of the nearby mountains; and everywhere moss, fallen leaves, and trees. We saw and heard no one. It was just us, and the world at our feet.

Rest done, we rambled on. To my delight, I found Yggdrasil. Then, in a clearing, Yggdrasil again, but from this tree's massive branches hung rope swings. My daughter shouted and ran, leapt on and flew through the air; the ground sloped away. The trees were ancient; the view was glorious; the ground was covered with soft leaves. We had climbed a small mountain, and were so pleased with ourselves. And then this, an unexpected gift, treasure indeed. Heaven on earth in a rope swing.

After a while, we followed the path out of the woods and into the clouds which had rolled in below us while we were on the ridge. We walked through mist across the fields: up six foot high ladder stiles with slippery rungs, through kissing gates so narrow I could barely fit with the baby backpack, and over a stone stile which landed us in a stream. We learned more about how to read directions on a map, and how to find those little yellow arrows in the landscape which show where to go. (Rule One: It's always more obvious than I think.) All the way, we were engaged, talking, energised, relaxed.

As we trotted down the final hill, negotiating our way over a cattle grid (bypass gates are for wusses), I reflected again on the walk to school. It's a big issue for us, a long and often exhausting part of our day. How can a mile at home be a gruelling slog, when three miles here are pure joy? What makes walking in our suburb so hard?

If only our daily walk went over a stream, into the woods, or through a kissing gate; if only it had a slightly dangerous rope swing or a stile too high for comfort; if only it were quiet enough I could hear my children speak; if only there were no traffic and they could run ahead at will; if only...

If only our path led us into the clouds.

***

PS – We do plan to buy a courier bike, which will carry all three girls to school and back, but even so I will still need to negotiate traffic in a big way – and the girls will get no exercise.

PPS – The walk was such a hit, the whole family did it again the next day. My not-quite-four-year-old, who demands to be carried for any distance longer than a block, ran, leaped and climbed the entire ramble. Every time she began to lag, I'd point out the next stile and she'd shout with glee and sprint across the field. Joy.

PPPS – Incidentally, this walk is a simple loop around a town that barely features on a map. It isn't one of the Great Walks of the Lake District, just one of thousands of rambles in the area. Yet it was so beautiful and satisfying that I'd happily do it every day for the rest of my life – and I haven't even begun to explore the other walks in the local photocopied guidebook.

Growing up, moving out

My daughter just turned six. When she's good, she's very very good. And when she's bad, well... But yesterday, as we were ambling home from school, she was good. More than good; she was farsighted, thoughtful, generous, compassionate.

We were walking and talking, when she suddenly leaned into me. 'I love you, Mama,' she said. She went on to say that when she gets older, she might go and live near the beach for a while, or perhaps go away and 'have some adventures'. But, she warned, even after she left she still wanted her father and me to stay in our house 'because we're doing such good things with the garden' - and because after her adventures she'd like to come home and live with us again and look after us in our old age.

Only a month ago we visited my grandparents. They live in another city, so we rarely see them. My grandfather is very frail; my grandmother has advanced Alzheimers, and scarcely moves, let alone speaks. She sits in a dream, flashing out a random smile now and then on a good day, but otherwise completely passive. My daughters watched me feed her with a spoon, and wipe her nose, and clean up her dribble. And my six year old notices and remembers everything.

I found myself wondering, does she mean this? even this? would she really want to feed me and wipe at my snot and dab at my dribble? Even if she imagines a more benign aging process, will she really cook for me one day?

And it raised other memories, painful memories. My mother had a very aggressive form of multiple sclerosis and was quadriplegic for a couple of years before she died. She needed people to brush her hair and clean her teeth, wipe her nose, wash her, dress her, and do everything else. My father and a carer did most of the work, all praise to them.

My mother and I had a fraught relationship; always at war, I had moved out. Even then, we struggled to negotiate the most basic aspects of care. If I came over and brushed her hair, I'd do it too soft or too hard or in some way other wrong. I couldn't even wipe her nose right. I fled to the kitchen and cooked, instead.

When the disease became acute, I suggested that I move home to help out in a bigger way. It seemed the only thing to do. But she, very rightly, refused. We had never got along when she was well; the chances of us negotiating her dependency were close to zilch. More importantly, for her, she believed I had to become fully adult and would be warped by returning home. It was crucial to her that I had space to expand and grow, and she couldn't see that happening under her roof.

My daughter's comment yesterday recalled all this. And it made me wonder, will she and I end up in a fraught relationship, too? She is brittle and fragile, like me, and could easily freeze over for a decade, like me. I already see the shoals ahead. Then again, I have learned some things my mother never knew: that when my daughter's aggressive and rude, pushing me away, the best thing I can do is give her a hug. She thaws every time. Maybe, just maybe we can negotiate a softer, more generous relationship. Maybe she could brush my hair, and I could enjoy it.

We've often made jokes that when she grows up, she and her family can live downstairs and cook for me, and I'll live upstairs and play with all the babies - she says she wants five. And I'm touched by her suggestion, and thrilled that she thinks of me as a person who ages and changes and will one day need care. It means that I'm not just mum to her.

Given all this, if we can find a gentle way to be together, would I want her to look after me? Would I really want my daughter to move back home to cook, clean and attend to my personal needs? And I realise that, at this stage, I wouldn't. No matter how bad things get, and I've sat with my mother through years of pain and suffering so I've a fair idea, I can't imagine I would want my daughter to shrink her life back down to me.

Like my mother, I want my daughter to grow up and out. I want her to explore the world, ever expanding her circles of experience. I want her to go live by her beach, or travel and 'have some adventures'; I want her to form independent relationships and build her own tribe; I want her to move out from under my shadow and grow tall and true. When I enter my doddery old age, I don't want my daughter to be warped, submissive or thwarted by me. I prefer to think of her picking grapes on an Italian hillside, or hiking through the jungle, or sitting on a mountain top, reflecting. And as I sit in my quiet room, I will flick through her postcards and smile.

Music lessons

Other parents manage it. They have the job, and the kids, and they still find time to run their children to this class and that. I don't know how they do it. My kids walk to school and kinder and the shops, and then flop at home while I cook dinner. There's never enough time to do anything else.

What the hell are we doing? I wonder. The days are slipping by, one blurs into the next, and suddenly it's almost the end of the year. I was meant to arrange music lessons; our play is so unstructured that I'm not quite sure there's anything there; in fact, all we ever do is moon about. Where does the time go?

I think I blame the school run. Or, in our case, the school dawdle. It takes hours every day - especially when it goes wrong.

The other morning we were ready early enough to take the long way to school. We left at 8, in time to visit each of the two playgrounds, and arrived at school just before 9. Then I stood around chatting with parents while my preschool children played with other younger siblings. My plan was to rush home after and do a heap of jobs. But as we were leaving the school gate I noticed my three year old's jumper was missing. So we searched the school and the grounds, and found nothing. With sinking heart, I realised it may have been dropped on the footpath or left in a playground, and we'd have to walk the long way home again. So off we went, with the double pram, back through the side streets and the playgrounds. And just a few blocks before home, there was the jumper lying on the footpath, where the one year old had pulled it out of the pram basket at her feet and discarded it.

We staggered in at 10am, two hours after we left. We could have driven there and back in less than half an hour. Dammit, I thought as I flopped into a chair, tired and thirsty. What a colossal waste of time.

But later, refreshed, I found myself wondering, Or was it? On the way, my children played and swung and climbed and noted the new spring growth on the European trees. They picked a few flowers, sniffed every rose they saw, and called out the names of all the plants they recognised. We checked out our favourite front gardens, especially the veggie patches, and saw that someone else's rainbow chard, growing in a shady spot, wasn't in seed yet. Other families rode past, calling greetings from their bicycles; and old friends from kinder waved from their cars on their way to the local Catholic school. We saw a few dogs, and practiced ignoring them. My five year old tried out a new trick on her scooter. We greeted half a dozen fellow walkers, and chatted with the crossing ladies.

My house may be messy, but my kids don't care. They need trees and gardens and friendly neighbours. They need to climb on things and run and balance on walls. And most of all they need a sense of belonging. On the walk, we meet people and travel with them for a while, building relationships. We work out which street connects to which park, and develop a neighbourhood map. We observe the changing seasons, and find favourite gardens, which become personal landmarks. We discover small laneways - some, only slightly wider than our pram - and sneak through them, with a cheeky sense of delight.

Much more fun than hanging round while Mum puts on another load of washing. The dishes can wait. Only yesterday, my three year old discovered a whole block of musical railings - every fence in the street had metal pickets. She moved her hand as she walked along, playing up and down the scale. And as the notes rang out, my daughter began to sing.

My hard heart

A block down my street lives a woman I'll call Jenny. It's hard to tell her age, maybe 35, maybe 45. Her face is ravaged. She's a heavy smoker; she's had a stroke, and now she lives in supported accommodation. As far as I can tell, the stroke wiped out mood inhibitors, as well as some motor control. Jenny spends her days sloping along the streets, bent like a question mark, muttering. She repeats phrases obsessively, 'need money, need money, need money' for blocks on end. When she sees a passer-by, she stops in their path and, almost incoherently, demands change. She uses it to buy more cigarettes. On bad days, she shrieks and wails and moans as she walks. Some days, she sobs.

My children are terrified of her. For all my words about illness, and acting with sympathy and kindness, they tense up when they see her, hide behind my leg, and beg to cross the road. Jenny's clothes hang in loose folds around her warped and skinny little frame. When she sees the kids, she swoops towards them like a slow ungainly bat. She stands too close, way too close, and jabbers her almost unintelligible demands: 'money, money, money'. No wonder the kids are frightened; she scares the bejeezus out of me.

Sitting at home, I hear her go past shouting, shrieking, sobbing several times a day. This is a wreck of a woman, physically and mentally devastated, driven to pound our footpaths and scab cigarettes.

And do I have pity? No, I do not. Instead, I think, For goodness' sake shut up already!

My hard heart frightens me. Jenny frightens me. Every major faith tradition tells us to love our neighbour, and care for the outcast. I find this easy enough with the retired midwife across the road: she's playful, sensible, and she gives us lemons. But the neighbour who stands at our gate, wailing and moaning? Who veers her path to intersect ours and block our way? Who curses me when I say 'no' and refuse to open my wallet? Who makes my children cry?

What do I do with a neighbour like this? How do I love her? Give her money so she can smoke herself into oblivion? Invite her in for a cup of tea? Or, as a warm hearted woman at the tramstop once said, do I 'sedate her, and give her a great big cuddle'?

Instead, 'No, Jenny,' I say. 'No.' I don't want to give her change and thereby cigarettes; my kids are anxiously hanging off my legs; we have places to go. But I hope that one day, maybe when my children are older and I don't feel so protective, I can find a way to become less scared and more open, and turn that 'no' into a 'yes'. For now, however, the best my hard heart can manage is to look her in the eyes, say 'no', speak her name, and move on.

Going the distance

School's straight down a busy road. We walk there almost every day. It takes about half an hour at a fast clip with kids, or closer to an hour at the end of the day when everyone's tired, and there are railings to play on, phone boxes to make phantom calls in, and bread to buy.

The theory of walking is good. We walk to minimise petrol use; we walk so we can share our car two days a week; we walk to keep our car off the roads. We walk to contribute to a cheerful human presence on the street, with our bright red pram and the burst of colours that young girls wear - pink, orange, and green. We walk to make time to talk about the day ahead, or the day just gone. We walk to catch up with other families on our way, and to chat as we go along. We walk so my kids experience heat and cold and wind and rain, and notice buds and blossoms and browning leaves. We walk.

But most people drive. They drive to go fast, and to get there quick. And time and again, I have to pull my children back as a car accelerates to turn in front of us. For all the nice theory, the walk to school is stressful, care-ridden. I can't relax; I'm always on alert for a car shooting out of a side street, or turning across us at speed. We can never assume that a car will give way; we always assume that they will cut us off. And they usually do. Trucks make deliveries, parking across laneways and side streets so we cannot cross safely. From time to time, forklifts careen around; cars parked at the various mechanics abruptly reverse across the footpath in the eternal car shuffle. Despite the many walkers, drivers here don't look for pedestrians.

The traffic is heavy, and thunders. Trams roll past, rattling and clanging, and cars speed up to undertake them. There are always road works somewhere along the way. Jackhammers jabber. A fourteen story building is under construction; as the foundations are being dug, dump trucks are filled and roar out. When my children speak, I have to stop and bend down so I can hear them.

All the way, I shout like a segeant-major: Stop! Look! Wait! Very good... Remember the laneway! Stay with me here. Let's cross together. Are we safe? Good, walk! walk, don't run. That's right...

Every day, I get home exhausted, ratty beyond repair, often close to tears. But I want to walk. I want to create a street presence for more than just cars. This city belongs to me, too, even when I'm on foot. But it's so draining.

Just last week, after six months of this, I finally tried a new route. It's longer, by another half mile or so - a big ask for a five year old. But on the way to pick her up, I saw a car with a trailer turn at speed across two lanes of traffic into a street where girls were crossing with their mother; the car slammed on its brakes and skidded; my heart stopped; the car came to a standstill; the family finished the crossing; the driver shouted abuse and drove off; everyone was fine except their mother and I, who had aged about fifty years in that instant... and after that, something I had seen a dozen times this year, but which really got to me that day, I asked my kids to try a different way home.

The new route runs along side streets, through laneways, and across a large park. There are two playgrounds, and, well beyond my wildest imaginings, there is almost no traffic at all. Perhaps two cars drove past the first time we walked it. We stopped in each park for a play with school friends, and swapped phone numbers with one family. The streets were so quiet that we talked all the way home. It was what I had hoped for in the daily run, but which had proved so elusive.

My kids loved it. They decided that as long as I pack a bite for them to eat, then they want to walk it every day. Now, in the mornings, we scramble to get out the door fifteen minutes earlier so we can go this way. In the afternoons, I take a couple of bananas or a sandwich, and we have a picnic and a play in the park. All of us arrive home much more relaxed, and I realise what an ordeal the old walk has been. Sure, we still walk it when we're running late - but breaking it up, so that it's not day in day out, has made an enormous difference.

It makes me wonder what else I am doing the hard way. Where else is life difficult because I only see the road straight ahead? I was reluctant to try the new route, because of the extra distance. But I had not registered just how draining the noise and the stress of the busy way were. The longer quieter walk, through a large park and playgrounds, and under mature street trees, is restorative.

Which other parts of my life are so hard, so dangerous, I wonder. What else drives me to the brink of tears? Where are the better routes? If I am willing to give up the convenience of the main road, are there meandering paths, longer, narrower, but more kind and gentle by far, which will lead me into quietness and show me the way home?

Post script: I've commented on some books about street presence; if you're interested, click here!