Growing Roots

 

Many times a day I get these questions "where are you from"? Or "where is your accent from"? Or even put in simpler but more resonating words: "where's home from you"?

This is my favourite of the three, for it involves a careful introspection, lots of analysis and reminiscences. Even then, I am not quite 100% sure which one of the places I carry in my heart is my home, more than others.

Nowadays I call The Land Down Under my homeland. And I am even starting to grow roots, enjoying every single moment with my little family. They are the ones who taught me that “freedom” and “belonging” are equally important and that they don't necessarily have to hinder each other.
They are also teaching me how to grow these roots, in my personal quest to gift them their own.

 

The trouble with traveling around the world for so long is that many of the places will leave their mark on you and that you will carry pieces of everywhere within your being.

There are a few "home" fractions I carry with me - they are there to define who I am and it's important to acknowledge them as "me".

 

There is a land far away where I was born and from whose mountains I am still drawing strength. There is a village where I learned freedom, roaming the hills and mountains. Where life was simple and timeless. Where making bread was the existence centre of every household.

I learned meanwhile that "home" is made by more and more layers added on through one's life journey. So, if I had only a question to ask, it would be this: what is the taste of "home" for you? My home is definitely made of dough and baking.

It is now only a memory, clouded by the passing years; but there are fewer pleasures, to me, than the satisfaction brought by the baking day, back in my village. Times and times again I have been writing about what the making of the bread truly meant in those days. About the work it took, to feed the whole house on homemade bread. There were no bread makers, no mixers, blenders or kitchen aids. Just your palms, one big wooden trough and lots and lots of flour waiting to be turned into wonders.

(Click Here for an older writing about my Nana’s bread).

No doubt, that little village gave me great values too; for I have learned that labour is the price for any of the life's little pleasures. Wild strawberries mousse meant that we had to spend hours in the forest to pick the tiny little red dots; no supermarket was selling them. There was no supermarket either.
Much like Proust's little madeleine, the taste of the wild strawberries mousse will bring up vividly so many of my lost memories - the sounds of the woods, the mossy, earthy smells of the land...that delicious tiredness accompanying the happiness of bringing home a bucketful of fruit...the contentment of a job well done...

Beside the fresh bread and wild strawberries mousse, there is another particular taste of my childhood that I consider "home". Whenever my Nana and my Mom used to make this delicious traditional desert, it was a great day. The village was in a mountain area where plum trees and potatoes were aplenty; so plum dumplings were probably the most logical choice. Along the years, it has grown to be one of our main fare staples. I didn’t realise how much I missed it until yesterday, when I asked my mother to make some.

I made it myself before, but it didn’t taste the same. We followed the same recipe, but somehow, only my mother’s hands brought back that magic taste.

 

And just in case you wonder how the dumplings look when they are ready to eat, here is a pic. As for the taste, you'll really have to try it.

 

 

 

 

A Big, Warm Hug

 

A long time ago, when my beloved Nana passed away, I promised myself that I would never go to a funeral again – except mine.

Joke aside; it doesn’t take a Rocket Scientist to figure out that I really don’t deal very well with loss and grief.
A very selfish approach - I came to realise - but my birth day this year has changed it: this year, I chose to spend my 40^th birthday honouring the life of a very brave fellow mother who lost her battle with cancer.
We weren’t very close, but the friendship we struck during the school drop off and pick-up times has left such a strong mark. I feel very lucky to have known her, and maybe we did cross paths for a reason.

While grieving is still a very raw issue to me, I now understand that here are so many other heartaches out there. Like how do you say good bye to your loved ones, especially to your children? How can you keep positive, trying to make some great last memories for them? How do you hide your tears, knowing you will not see them growing and that you will be missing out on everything we otherwise take for granted?

I keep thinking about her randomly. This morning, she popped in my thoughts while I peeped outside, over the grasslands and I was greeted by this view.
I don't easily believe in signs, but fog is very unusual at this time of the year and during the entire period we have been living here, I have only seen this particular type of sunset only once before. today, it really felt like the Universe was sending down a big,warm hug. I thought I'd pass it around to everyone in need of one.

Life's Metaphors

Mother Nature gives the most selfless and unexpected gifts. Our little family got bigger, it seems, as we have new residents.
This little guy is the tiniest blue tongue I have seen to date.
My next door neighbour is a wildlife rescue volunteer and quite a bit of an expert in bluetongues so I followed her advice on keeping an eye on this little guy without hindering him. He seems unhurt, healthy and happy.
By chance, I have also discovered the tiniest snail on the very same spot. They seemed blissfully unaware of each other - especially the snail.
I wondered whether the bluetongue has started to eat snails yet - he seemed totally un-phased that dinner was literally under his nose.

I couldn't help but feel like one of life's big metaphors was right there, in front of my eyes, for me to learn. We are all born unbiased, unspoiled and definitely without narrow minds. All these are acquired much later in life, depending on our personal experiences. As children, we are natural explorers, curious and eager to learn.
Just like the bluetongue and the snail, when we meet other humans, the dialogue could go either way: "Let's be friends" or "Run for your life". It all depends on that starting point that defined our childhood.
 
This was also the first time I have looked so close to a snail "in action". It was quite fascinating to see it moving up onto the clovers and not topple over its own weight.
 
Unfortunately, I didn't have time to switch to a macro lens - it would have been fantastic. These shots were taken long after the sunset, in the shade, under the kids' water play area; the light was beyond sparse. My battery warning was flashing yet surprisingly despite all the odds, I managed to take a few shots.

The Second Sun

It was that second sun who stole my heart;
It wrapped my soul in love and set it free
Embracing me and guiding from the start
Although its shining light was never meant for me.

A ball of orange rays so subtly lit
Shining through dandelions on a knoll
T'was lost to me before I even found it
But it's that second sun who has my soul.