Day 54: a measure of road.

There is a stretch of road that runs alongside our farm, between two tiny churches (the Methodist and the Presbyterian). Every time I visit this part of the world I ride up and down it on one of my Dad’s bikes. It has become a homecoming tradition of mine. I have ridden up and down this road a lot of times. I’ve ridden it when my life was so carefree that boys and how fat this holiday was going to make me were my only true concerns. I’ve ridden it wondering desperately what work I should really be doing. I rode it relentlessly in the dark days when my mum was sick and I was afraid of the future because I knew what was coming. I rode it when I had no idea where to go, and I have ridden it in a bikini in the sunshine feeling the amazing warm relief of having survived a storm you feared might beat you. A little bashed around, but mainly recovered; a strong little soldier with scars. And I rode it yesterday and I rode it today and I will more than likely ride it again tomorrow. It’s a very straight, very quiet piece of road. Most of the time you’re the only person on it. And in front of you are corn coloured fields with dotted trees and the odd unruly hedge, animals browsing the grass, a stark range of mountains and the biggest wide-open sky. Maybe not surprisingly, my rides along this road have come to be a kind of measure of where my life is at. It’s a clear space where I report in and find out how I feel about the general state of my world. And today I felt good. Not 100% certain or confident or bulletproof, but good. Calm. Under control. Okay with shit. I still have my insecurities, I still feel lonely at times, I still have things that need to be done, things that make me feel small. But none of it feels like it’s getting on top of me. I feel like I’m getting somewhere, and I’m interested to see where I end up next.

Day 53: keeping things interesting.

Today I went for a ride on the back of my Dad’s motorbike. It’s a red Ducati Monster. That’s what it’s actually called. I wasn’t going to, because I was a bit scared (and am generally of motorbikes), but Dad quickly persuaded me based on the premise that it’s good to experience new things. He was right. Whipping along on the back of the bike, leather jacketed, jeaned and helmeted was an exhilarating ride. When we pulled in to the supermarket, eyed appreciatively by selected males, it felt pretty cool. And seeing the red machine sitting there all mechanically amazing, and then actually being one of the ones allowed to get on it and whizz away, I kind of appreciated why dudes seem to like motorbikes so much. And cornering was wicked. I’m glad I did it because it’s reminded me to be more of a yes person than a no. I have too much of a tendency to shut stuff down before I give it a chance. Over the next year I want to work on changing that. It also reminded me that there are a million things out there yet to do, and you can try pretty much whatever you like. Why restrict yourself? Why not keep things interesting? I mean, not drinking is an exercise in shifting gears, swapping some shit out and seeing where it takes me. I might as well keep applying that attitude to other stuff I encounter. If I’m honest though, today was one of those days when not drinking kind of seemed like a drag. I guess I’m just so used to spending my summer holidays at this house mildly and constantly sozzled that it just feels weird to be straight in the head. What precisely I’m going to do for New Year’s Eve too, is an interesting question. It’s just another one of those little freak out moments where you go, is my life actually boring without alcohol, and therefore boring in itself? I read an article the other day about drinking that said that even very moderate drinkers are using alcohol to fill the emptiness in their lives. Yip, sure, I can see that. But man, with the amount of drinking going on these days, as societies we must be leading some extremely empty lives. You know how you read about people, famous ones usually, who just seem to lead the most action-packed, never-a-dull-moment existences? That’s the kind of life I want. I don’t want to waste valuable moments not experiencing cool things or not hanging with fun, interesting people. But you don’t get that kind of life by sitting around and wishing for it. You have to make it happen. So what can I do to make sure New Year’s Eve is not a bore-fest? Give me a couple of days and I’ll see what I can cook up.

Day 52: happy birthday Jesus.

It’s ya birthday, it’s ya birthday, gonna party like it’s ya birthday. Or… gonna get up and eat crepes for breakfast. Make a coffee and open some presents. Scrape some spuds and go up to my Aunty’s. (Actually Dad scraped the spuds.) I don’t know if fiddy cent would approve of my new lyrics. Anyway, Christmas Day is almost over. It was the kind of lush yet pleasantly relaxed affair I thought it would be. The food my Aunty put on was freakin delicious and we managed to stuff ourselves without making ourselves sick. I got some great presents, people liked the ones I gave, and Dad and I are about to sit down and watch some of the Alistair Cooke America DVD set Dad got from me. All in all it’s been an enjoyable and stress-free day. There have however been many moments today when I thought a drink would be a damn nice idea. Not to get through any stressful moment, or boring conversation (all the conversation was really interesting and the whole event was perfectly chilled) but just because it would have been nice. A nice glass of Veuve Cliquot would have been decidedly better than my sparkling grape juice (way too sweet). An ice cold beer would have been nice on their verandah as the temperature started to climb (it was uncharacteristically hot in Christchurch today, at 29 degrees C). And right now a glass of chilled sauvignon blanc would go down a treat. But these are the moments that abstaining, or one’s commitment to it, are all about. Aren’t they? Or maybe not. I mean, it’s not like I’d be using Christmas Day to work on the music project under any normal circumstances right? And chances are Boxing Day would usually be out too. So would it really hurt to have an alcoholic beverage or three across the course of a day and an evening? Probably not. Except that’s not the deal. Not this year at least. Maybe though, we will make a note that Christmas is one of those occasions where a little tipple seems entirely appropriate. Not a big honking munt fest, but a clink and a sip or two to celebrate the day and the generally relaxed and free status of a human on holiday. In any case, another hulking event has been survived. Onward sober soldiers.

Day 51: twas the night before Christmas

and all through the house, not a thing stirred, not even a mouse. Well actually I can hear Clyde (arguably the best cat in the world) miaowing. And I’m tapping away too. But it is definitely very quiet out here. I just spent a very pleasant evening in the city with a group of my best and oldest friends. They are always such a joy to behold, their awesome faces so beautifully familiar and at the same time completely refreshing. It’s like drinking a big glass of water hanging out with them; it fills you up with pure goodness, and fortifies your ability to keep on living and doing what needs to be done. They are good peeps and I love ‘em. One had a bit of disturbing news though: apparently Angostura Bitters has gone out of business. And apparently they are the sole owners of the famous bitters recipe, and indeed the only people who know what’s in it. Could it be that another drink is off the menu? Jesus H. Speaking of whom, it’s almost birthday time. Better get some zeds so he can come down the chimney and give me presents (that’s how it works right? Or have I got things mixed up?).

Day 50: homeward bound.

7.50am Waiting at the gate to board, I’ve already been stung for a mediocre latte. Over five bucks for any coffee not containing alcohol is a rip. I hate airports. No actually, I love them. I would be loving this one a lot more if it wasn’t in a state of under construction flux, and if Macca’s was anywhere to be seen. Don’t they know that eating a McDonald’s Bacon and Egg McMuffin pre flight is a sacred part of my travelling ritual? Now I’m hungry as hell and a bit pissed about my exorbitant coffee. Never mind, I’m about to get on a plane! I love planes. LOVE planes and anywhere they want to take me. Of course, another part of my travelling ritual is also drinking alcohol and buying it duty free. It’s early, so not drinking is no problem. And frankly, not having a bunch of clinking bags to lug is suiting me fine too. I always end up feeling like a packhorse in airports. I need to work on carrying less. Anyway, so far feeling fine. And hell, I’m on freakin holiday!
6.55pm NZ time. I am back at the farm. This place is some kind of rustic wonderland heaven. In summer it stays light way into the evening, sometimes until about ten at night. Right now the sun still feels hot and like you could almost burn. But that’s New Zealand for you: the land where things are so pure and raw they hurt. From where I’m sitting, outside on a gentle hillock beside the farmhouse, I can see a sun-filled meadow of overgrown golden-hued grass, backed by big, old, sprawling pine trees in dark green, the mauve-grey mountains behind and a huge, clear, Canterbury planes blue sky. I love it here. But I always find my first few hours after arrival confronting. Coming home to the city where I grew up and spent some of my early adult years, always floods me with an unprepared for spray of memories. I feel vulnerable because I’m not sure what will come to haunt me. It’s hard to ascertain which visions of my many former selves are fact, which are my own rose-coloured versions. I can’t remember everything that went on here, and I know I may encounter people who know bits I don’t necessarily want to be reminded of. It’s okay. It’s a classic case of the wandering small town kid. You go away and build a new self in a new place, but when you come back, the you that was there before is still somewhere around. You just kind of hope you don’t bump into it too often. I don’t know why though really. I had an awesome time in this town. I guess you just keep moving, and looking back or reliving the past isn’t always useful. And of course, when I return to the farm, I am always hit with the loss of my mother. The house and this place pulses with her for me. It is full of her touch – certain books, pictures, rugs, the way things are put together. There is a definite sense of her energy. And there are so many memories. So it is also a ritual when I arrive in this place that I cry for the mum that is so much here but isn’t. Then I clear the tears and enjoy being back in the presence of what she was, and back in this beautiful, honest part of the world, surrounded by the stories lived by the generations of our family that were here before us. Oh yeah, and I usually crack open a bottle of one of my Dad’s selection of crisp New Zealand whites, or a beer from one of NZ’s impressive little boutique breweries. Not this time. Today I toast the holidays with a glass of clean, pure Christchurch water; the best tasting stuff you’ll find anywhere, straight from the tap.

Day 49: happiness is…

It’s just past midnight and I am finally finished packing. I seem to be physically and mentally incapable of doing things like this any earlier than the last possible moment, although compared to other years I’m doing pretty well. My cab arrives at 6.30am. Plenty of time for shut eye yet. Part of the reason I started packing late-ish was that I had to do my Santa Claire rounds, dropping off presents to my beloved family members who will not be in NZ for Christmas. I did it on foot, as that’s how I get around mostly, so it took a little while. Ahh but what pleasantness. I started by visiting my little brother. I adore my little brother (all my siblings actually). I always have a fun and funny time hanging out with him. Tonight we watched the tail end of New Zealand’s Next Top Model together, which I kind of love, but which also triggers flurries of cringe-waves through my delicate cultural constitution. It was a perfect pocket of bro/sis happy hang time. Expectant nieces however, waiting patiently in the next neighbourhood with a fast approaching bedtime, meant I had to push on. There is nothing better at Christmas time, in my opinion, than a family home geared to kids and festivities. My sister’s house was the picture of pleasant pre-festive buzz. House guests with same-age kids, and other drop-in visitors gave the whole place a nice relaxed sociability. The children themselves had that magic only just contained excitement that specifically accompanies things like Christmas trees and presents wrapped up under it. It was one of those scenes where you feel so warm and at home and appreciated and just gosh darn happy… I felt like a very lucky girl. In particular, my sister and brother-in-law have really respected my decision to not drink and embraced the possibilities of the whole project. That kind of positive support really strengthens what I’m doing, and I’m really thankful to have people who are that cool in my life. On top of it all, I get to fly home to the farm tomorrow. Although if I want to make my flight, I’d probably better get snoozing right about now.

Day 48: Christmas cheers.

This will sound weird to any northern hemispherers, but in Sydney one of the key things that makes people (me) feel Christmassy, is having drinks or boozy lunches in the sunshine, usually by the water, of a working afternoon. It's that whole end of year wind up, festive buzz; the delicious let-go of work responsibility and the keeping of normal hours, made concrete by how many wines or beers you've downed: I couldn't work even if I wanted to! I'm simply too pissed! And it's only three in the afternoon! Sweet. Of course though, the reality of this time of year is that work is as busy and mental as ever, made more so by staff shipping out all over the place. And all the boozy lunching really doesn't help. It is a solid tradition of mine to be working my last day at work before flying out to New Zealand, on a dizzying mudge of a hangover, fielding new jobs that need completing before end of play (HAAAAhahahahaAHahahAHHahAha! Are you caRAZy!!??), and with a silly to completely incomprehensible list of other errands to run before some sparrow's fart check in the next morning. This year, I break with tradition. I still have the ridiculous deadlines, but my brain is in perfect (ish) working order to handle them so no dramas there (at least none that can't be happily handled by flipping the bird in my mind's eye to anyone causing them . My head is a veritable menagerie today.). I still have a tonne of things to do before I hit the airport, but not to the pure stupidness extent of previous years. Having my head together in the lead up weeks has helped me there. And as a result of all this I will not come through the arrivals gate looking like a dehydrated zombie for my adored Dad. So even though it might have been nice to join my sauvignon sipping colleagues and clients this afternoon as we sat betwixt the dual icons of Opera House and Harbour Bridge gazing dreamily across the sparkly water, I am also perfectly happy to have sacrificed some of the festive fuddle for a clear head in the morning. And you know what? Wines or not I'm still feeling Christmassy. So cheers to that.