Remembering

So, I had a moment during the week with Lyra that made me stop and think about the things we remember from childhood, the comfort of safe, sweet memories, and how they replicate from generation to generation.

I was dressing to go out when little Lyra-Lou, fresh from a bath, wet hair in ringlets and in a bright purple singlet, came marching into the bedroom to see what I was doing. She watched for a while in silence and then began asking questions, wanting to join in too. I put cream on her small chubby cheeks, lip gloss on her pouted lips, and brushed her hair; she looked at herself and at me with a lovely sense of wonder, before declaring that we were both very pretty, and skipping out of the room to show her Daddy.

I remember doing the same thing as a girl – watching my mother dress, carefully applying her makeup. I thought she was the most beautiful woman in the world; I expect most little girls feel the same way. And she would include me in her beauty routines in the same way – cream on my cheeks, brushing my long hair, maybe just the smallest touch of lipstick. And I can see the memory playing before me, and feel that same delight, thinking that she had magically transferred some of her loveliness to me.

Have you ever had a moment like that with your child – where a memory from your youth is played over?

Nat

Ps. I think this is my most favourite photo of Lou, in her beloved Wimcee headdress. When I took it, she was telling me about where things come from – juice comes from bees, yoghurt comes from bees, milk comes from a moo, and apples are from the fridge. Bless.

Grateful #13 - What are you thankful for today?

I remember my beloved grandmother saying, a very long time ago, that life goes by in the blink of an eye once you’re an adult, and to never wish your young days away. At the time, I was in my early teens and impatient for the idea of what being a grown-up really meant; and I wished with all my might for a decade to hurry up and pass, so I could do all the wonderful things I’d been dreaming of.

My Grandmother, Renee, as a young mother in India

I’ve been remembering my grandmother a lot lately; small, wise, softly spoken woman that she was. And she was right – as she usually was – time does slip away from you when you’re a grown up; weeks turn into busy months, and months tumble into years, and things happen faster than you could ever imagine.

With that in mind, this week I’m grateful for:

Timeless-ness. I’ve had to explain to the kids quite a lot lately about doing things ‘tomorrow’ or ‘next week’ or ‘another time.’ It’s still such a tricky concept for them to grasp, because everything is NOW! or in an hour, and the prospect of waiting, even a day, is often met with wails of disapproval.

But goodness, I like their idea of ‘right now’ - it’s so wonderfully spontaneous, and it sometimes makes me wonderfully spontaneous too.

Old fashioned advice. How wonderful is it to be given a good piece of advice?

(Alright, I freely admit that I’m not always 100% receptive to it; but when it’s relevant, done with kindness and in the spirit of genuine sharing, I do love and welcome it)

My Grandma was very good at advising in the gentlest, most considerate way, and it’s something that I’d like to emulate in my own life. Sometimes, I manage quite well; other times I’m so far off and rambling and should just keep my random pieces of advice to myself, thank-you-very-much. But in spite of my bumbling advisory tactics, I’m so grateful for the small tidbits of advice I’m personally given on a week to week basis, from trusted friends, family, chance-met strangers, my partner and even my children (who know all about everything and anything), because most of the time, it’s done in love and given in kindness, which really is a wonderful thing.

What are you grateful for this week?

Nat

Ps. Want to play too? Link your grateful post to the delightful Maxabella Loves, or write your list in the comments section below x

I'll remember you...

Make loving memories wherever you can - That’s what I think every time I look into the sweet little faces of my niece Lou and nephew Judah.  Often, all Lou says to me is ‘no,’ and  I’ll watch Judah bite his lower lip when he’s about to crash tackle me out of frustration, but it’s all those little things and a million more that I don’t want to ever forget. 

    

It’s also one of the reasons why I started a memory book – so that all those quirky things they do wouldn’t be lost in the daily hustle and bustle of our lives; so that we’ll be able to look back in the years to come and remember the funny little people they once were.

The old cliché of ‘time flying’ really is true. After Lou came along, I began to see how many funny, heart-warming little moments with Judah I’d already forgotten; so, to make amends, every time I saw them, I began to write down short anecdotes – something that made my heart melt, something silly we’d had a conversation about, or something that made us all laugh out loud. It’s a record of the memory, of the day, of their age and their very distinctive personalities, and a way to keep it all close to my heart.

(Like this: I remember the day I held Judah in my arms for the first time; I was stunned firstly that he was a boy (as we had all convinced ourselves that a little girl was on her way), and then completely amazed that this little person had in an instant become such a huge part of my life - and I knew absolutely nothing about him yet)

These two little souls (and hopefully some more in the future) have taught me how important it is that we smile, giggle, and love each other, growing closer all the time - and my little memory book helps me document that journey.

How do you remember and celebrate family?  

Kim

The Sentimental Relatives

I love the art of collecting, don’t you?

I’m a bit of a fair-weather collector, only adding to the pile once every few months; but I love that thrill of discovery, of finding something that perhaps no one else has seen in decades.   

I collect old portraits, both posed and informal, from the turn of the century. I have quite a sentimental reason in doing so – as daft as it sounds, I often feel bad that their images have been left behind, whether through a deceased estate, or by distant relatives who have no idea who they are, and who then pass them on to antique stores with other semi-precious things. They sit in dusty boxes, hundreds crammed together, without a place to belong. So, I find out the portraits that are hidden amongst hundreds of others, the small one of a freckled-faced girl or a faded mother and child, and add them to my box of sentimental relatives.

Old photographs definitely have their own breed of charm. I love the posed sepia toned family portraits, the children (especially little boys) donned in ribbons, lace and buttoned leather shoes; the stern, wide-eyed faces of bearded men, sitting straight-backed in fancy parlours; and the daguerreotype miniatures of black clad bonneted grandmothers, curled, ribboned, and often stony-faced. I imagine that I can see hope on the faces of the young couples - the stylish young women standing at a noticeable distance from their formally seated husbands.

The photographs I save speak to me about the idea of family, heritage and history; I like that these unknown people loved, laughed, lived and died somewhere in the world, and now, by being added to my own small collection (and even though I don’t know a thing about them) they won’t be forgotten.

Are you a collector?

Nat

Diaries, journals and childhood keepsakes

Lately I’ve been reminiscing about my child/teenage-hood diaries.

Most of them had cheap locks on them, that if you pulled with even the smallest amount of force, it’d practically fall open. I’d also often only write on half the page, or until I made a spelling mistake; and then frustrated with myself, I’d either tear the whole page out, or start again a few pages along.

I was a girl obsessed with perfection, and to some extent, I still am.

And the content? When I was young, it was random rememberings of beautiful days; as I grew, it became a collection of crazed rantings in which I fixated on the unfairness of situations and things, or in rare entries, the boys I liked.

There is one thing that I’m sure set me apart, in terms of journaling - that is, once they were full up with all my secrets, I burned them, one page at a time, in a stone furnace in our backyard. For some reason, I remember looking forward to this (almost) yearly cathartic burning – it was almost like by doing it, I was able to shed the skin of the previous year, leave behind all the nonsense, worries and craziness of the previous months, and start completely anew on paper.

And in terms of journals, starting anew is the best, isn’t it? Crisp blank pages, sometimes a brand new pen, neat orderly writing, and wild stabs at being poetic and/or imaginative.

I just loved those new journals; they each had such possibility.

As I got older, the burnings slowed, then stopped altogether – and now I have a small collection of journals that I don’t think I could part with, each one wrapped in tissue paper and stored carefully in a huge box in my closet. They’re sticky-taped shut, dated, and brimming with secrets and forgotten parts of my life – almost like mini time capsules. I like the idea of opening them up again when I’m wrinkled and grey and rediscovering my young, impulsive self.

Because I’ve been remembering journals and diaries, it’s made me think about whether my two little munchkins would be the type to keep them as they grow up. Granted, they’re still very young and can’t even write their own names; but if I can think of them as pseudo time capsules, it may just give me an opportunity to start a wee bit earlier.

And then, as if it was all meant to be, I stumbled across this blog post by Katie Rich, a Brooklyn based creative mum-extraordinaire, and promptly fell in love...

Ruth's journal entry from April 21, 2009 from Katie Did

Katie’s two girls, Eve and Ruth, illustrated the best part of their week in their own journals every Sunday, and with some explanations from mama Katie, produced something so beautifully age specific and special – an treasury of the best bits of their life over the course of a year, as seen through their own eyes.

Isn’t that just precious?

So, I thought I’d give it a go with Judah. At two-and-a-half, he’s able to tell me about what he’s drawing, and loves pencilling intricate spiralled objects, which could turn out to be our dog, a blue truck, or his little sister. I’m hoping that it’ll be an evolution of drawings over the next however many months and years, and an opportunity for me to pass on something I loved as a girl.

Nat