It was a bright and sunny morning. I can just about endure 10 degrees when it’s bright and sunny outside. The washing was happily drying in the cold wind and it gave me pleasure to see them out of the corner of my eye in the garden. It made me remember my love for a long clothesline tied between two trees in a big garden where every week, sheets will be hung out to dry- big, white sheets billowing in the wind. I think about watching the sheets dance as i prepare lunch or pay the bills online or bake bread or chat with a friend over a cup of earl gray tea. And then i think about burying my face in the sheets when i take them down in the early evening. I think about how they will smell- of sunshine and spring blooms and love. Just the idea of this allows peace to flood through my body.

But yesterday, i had to be content with my washing drying in my very, very little back garden.

The sun was glorious and i took the time to inspect the plants after three miserable weeks of continuous rain. One of my three lavender plants was blooming, the parsley (strangely, the only herb that seems to be able to grow in my garden) was producing huge leaves and going crazy and most importantly, my jasmine plant was sprouting fresh leaves and sneaking its way up the support and onto the wall. I will be plastering my face to that wall in September when spring arrives and tiny white flowers start to appear. When my baby gets here in October, we will both be plastered against that wall, inhaling our jasmine.

And so, Thursday came and went.

Hot tears roll down my cold cheeks and it suddenly seems like nothing is working out. My belly holds a life that is growing without me even thinking about it but my own life seems to require lot of thought and action, too much thought and not enough action if i’m being honest about it. The ‘What ifs?’ and ‘I can’ts’ plague me daily and follow me around, refusing to leave.

The first three months of being pregnant left me with a dread that is taking too long to go away. I don’t dread this baby. In fact, something akin to love is developing with this little human i don’t even know. What i dreaded was the constant nausea and the trips to the bathroom or the kitchen sick. I dreaded falling asleep at 3am and waking up at 2 pm the next day, feeling completely disoriented and sick and a lesser version of my former self. I reluctantly went to sleep at night knowing what was in store for me the next morning. When at 14 weeks, the nausea went away and i could manage to leave the house without a sick bag by my side, i felt a sense of relief- maybe now i could finally enjoy being pregnant. But the body takes time to recover. After not being able to keep much food or water down the first three months, i now felt hungry all the time. Hungry and tired and emotional. I feared that there would be something wrong with the baby. Every trip to the midwife’s office left my heart racing. Some days, i found it easy to listen to the voice that was gentle and reassuring, the voice that told me the baby was going to be just fine. Other days, i could only focus on every thing that could go wrong.

In the shower, i stroke my belly and know that i will love this baby with a love that cannot be described; a love that wants the best for this child; a love that wants to hold and protect and reassure and kiss and feed and change and make better. I know this will happen because i feel it taking root in my heart. But today, i wanted to be honest with you and myself and not feel ashamed of the way i feel. I am not exuberant with joy. What i am is expectant and fearful and tired and emotional and grumpy and grateful.

Our website is sarahandlarsen.com

Yay!! This is such an exciting time for us and we’re taking such a big risk by starting our own business but if not know, then when? Also, we have a blog on the website so i’ll probably be blogging alot more over there now at sarahandlarsen.com/blog. Please update your RSS feeds and i hope you continue walking my life with me over there.

xx Gen

This was dinner yesterday. My special homemade pizza was topped with anchovies, red chillies, olives, bocconcini and parsley and a drizzle of olive oil. Yum! We also had a bbq chicken pizza that i tried for the first time for lunch today and it was amazing- bbq sauce, mushrooms roasted chicken and cheddar. The third pizza you see is hawaiian. I’m not a fan of processed meat so i passed on this one. It was for the boys anyway.

Paris is amazing. What can i say- French women are so chic. The way they dress, scarves effortlessly strewn around their slender necks; their coats fitting them perfectly; walking with such confidence. Ah, to be French.

I have had my share of cafe cremes, croissants and pain au chocolats. I have gotten lost and wandered along chestnut tree-lined streets. The metro has become manageable after just a few days. And tomorrow we go to Montmartre where the Amelie soundtrack will be playing in my mind as i walk up the steep streets.

And just when you start to get used to the French language and trying to order in halting French, you move on. We go to Venice in two days. I wonder what adventures await us there.

Spring is here and it’s so good! I made pistachio and rosewater cupcakes to welcome this beautiful season. It seemed right. Also, a new blog banner to freshen things up a little.

Today, the winds are fresh with a hint of eucalypt and salty ocean- i am breathing it all in.
Only eleven days until we travel the world. It’s all happening.

In the past two days, I have felt more like myself than I ever have the entire year. I am not sure what sparked it off. Actually, no. I do know. Last Wednesday, I visited one of the biggest libraries I had seen to date, spanning three levels. This wasn’t my local library, which although very adequate could never measure up to this one, a stately building a few metres from the harbour. Even my first few tentative steps into this relatively new domain were laced with wonder and possiblity- all those books just waiting and calling out to be touched and admired and read; all those worlds to step into.

I went to the computer and typed in ‘Elizabeth Berg’, my favourite author, hoping yet not expecting that she would have a new book out that the library carried. And then I saw it- ‘Home Safe (2009) On Shelf.’ My heart leapt.

I walked slowly to the A-F fiction section and went to the B aisle. I looked at the BERs. Berger. Berg. A few Elizabeth Berg books I had already read. I continued searching and my spirit drooped a little wondering if someone, just five minutes before me, also an Elizabeth Berg fan, had done the same search and got the novel. I straightened my back, which had been bent over looking at the bottom shelf, and contemplated going to the librarian for assistance.

And then I saw it. On display on the topmost shelf for everyone to see- Home Safe. I hurriedly snatched it held it close for protection. It was as if I had found a treasure.

I planned the circumstances that would facilitate the reading of the book. I couldn’t start at night, nor first thing in the morning; I did not want this to be the sort of book that I took along with me on the bus ride nor the sort of book that I would start reading peacefully only to be interrupted five minutes after by the telephone. It had to be the perfect time.

I recalled all the other times I had sat down to read an Elizabeth Berg book. These other times were before I had moved to Australia and where all I dreamed about was being somewhere else, somewhere I could be myself. I recall starting her books in the late afternoon where I would sit in the chair and devour her words- so lyrical, so true. As the sun began to set and the smell of dusk perfumed the house, I would be well into the book with a strong cup of tea in my hand, the lives of the characters enmeshed with my own- the line between fiction and reality blurring. Yes, late afternoon it would be.

And so that was how it came to be yesterday as I found myself with a cup of tea and a muffin on the table, Home Safe in my hands. The winter sun was streaming through the glass doors and I knew that in an hour, darkness would start to settle in and the mood would be broken. But at that very moment, it was so perfect that I could not even start on the book for a few minutes.

All I could do was think back to the times when another of her books would be in my hands, when I would sit in the chair and wish I could be someplace else- anywhere really, where I would be able to strip off all that was holding me back and be myself. But as it turned out, that girl back then was me. That was more me than I have ever been in recent times. The ability to find a beloved book and be enchanted by words and stories to such an extent that my whole being would be lifted- that was me. The girl who would stare out of the window as the sun set, book very momentarily placed aside to appreciate the glory that was taking place right outside but where characters were still talking away, that was me.

I had lost sight of her for a while. But now, she is back.

At the end of the day, it had very little to do with the book I was reading. It was all about the moment. Often, only the big moments are remembered- the day you got into the university of your choice, the day you got married, the birth of your child, the death of a grandparent. But somehow, the seemingly insignificant moments are the ones that define you and make you you. For me, it was the act of reading a special book. For you, it could be the mornings where you are up before anyone else enjoying a cup of coffee in the kitchen while the world slowly awakes. It is the normalcy and ordinariness of the moment that would pass someone else by but which makes your soul sing.

But she is not those people; she is her odd self. The kiln has been fired; she is a person persnickety about keeping her house clean but not above spitting on her desk to rub out a coffee stain; she will never be an athlete or a mathematician or a skinny person or someone whose heart isn’t snagged by the sight of fireflies on a summer night and the lilting cadence of a few good lines of poetry.

- Elizabeth Berg, Open House, pp.133

Allow me to show you the house i spotted last Saturday on our drive to Freshwater beach. Jon was driving and i was gazing out of the window when i spotted this particular house. I didn’t tell him to pull over so we continued on our drive to the beach. But i just could not stop thinking about this house. On our way home, Jon asked if i wanted him to drive past the house again so i could take some photos. That husband of mine- he knows me well!

And so we drove. And drove. And drove. We went in circles, made wrong turns and still couldn’t find the house. I was so frustrated. But then we spotted it. I got out of the car and very shyly took some photos. I am convinced this is my house. If i could transport it to a cliff overlooking the ocean, it would be perfect.

Oh yes. Saturday was a very good day indeed.

Oh, this song brings back memories! I was lying in bed this afternoon and going through songs from yesteryear. This wasn’t on the playlist but Bruce Horsby’s ‘Mandolin Rain’ was. That prompted me to go on youtube and search out all the songs i grew up with and still listen to. This one is a gem.