Why do we do it every year?

The Queen’s Birthday long weekend is celebrated, in Victoria, over the second weekend of June and for all but one of the last 17(?) years I have been heading to the little Bellarine Penninsula town of Portarlington to attend the National Celtic Festival. I am not Irish, Scottish or Welsh, though my ancestry has strong Irish leanings, however we are talking four generations back, if not further, and nobody in my family has a musical bent.

I only attended my first festival because my boyfriend at the time was a roadie for one of the bands, yet I find myself returning year after year. It is permanently marked on my calendar. I organise my Saturday work shift months in advance so that I am free that weekend and I have been a volunteer for a number of years now.

I’m not the only one who returns to this festival every year. There are dozens of us who, even if it is just for one day, make the annual pilgrimage to Portarlington.

Why do I do it? Why do we do it? Why does this festival have such meaning to so many people?

As I edited a selection of the 1500 photos I took over the weekend (I’m a volunteer and an official photographer) the meaning of the festival became clear.

It means friendship.

It means dancing.

It means fun.

It means music.

It means singing.

It means sore feet and losing your voice.

It means learning that you can attend a festival on your own and not be alone.

It means magical moments such as watching strangers lose themselves in movement.

It means a room full of people of all ages and abilities dancing a jig or a reel with joyous abandon.

It means men in kilts and women in hand knitted beanies.

It means fiddles and bagpipes and guitars and flutes and harps and pianos and banjos…..

It means seeing four generations of the one family enjoying a weekend together.

It means finding your ‘tribe’.

It means hearing ‘Whiskey in the jar’ a dozen times and loving every rendition.

It means discovering new artists from Australia and overseas and becoming fans for life.

It means seeing cultures that seem to have no connection come together in music and love.

It means seeing the same faces from last year and being so delighted that they are there again.

It means having bands you know stop their set mid-song to have you take their photo.

It means watching craftsmen in action, passing on their knowledge of the old arts.

It means watching young musicians flourish and develop.

It means witnessing a room of adults sit in silent weeping as a gifted singer/story-teller hypnotises them with words.

It means knowing that we have history and traditions and stories and songs that mean something.

It means that I will be back there again next June.

 

 

Putting it in perspective

Yesterday I had a birthday. Suddenly I am no longer 50. I am now 51.

I began to think about how I felt about being 51 and I wasn’t sure that I liked it. Fifty is such a statement age. “I am 50.”  I owned it.

Now I’m fifty……….one.

I would have to say that my year of being fifty was the best year of my life. As my best and dearest friend said to me as she came to grips with her own fiftieth birthday (I am paraphrasing here as I didn’t record her exact words); “I feel like a fine wine that has been put away till it was ready. And now it’s time to drink it and enjoy.”

By god, did I open my ‘matured’ bottle of wine and drink. I drank with gusto. So much so that the hangover of my excessive exuberance is still pervading my life. I don’t want the joy of the last twelve months to end. There is no reason that it should end, or even diminish, other than my attitude to life changing and I can’t see that happening.

My reticence at turning 51 was put into perspective though when I began to edit the photos from a birthday I was asked to shoot a week ago. The birthday girl was 100.

100

A woman who was born at the end of one world war, who has lived through another world war, a depression, seen a man land on the moon, witnessed the development of worldwide communication through phones and the internet, seen the eradication of polio and is a mother, grandmother and now a great-grandmother…….

I’ll bet my bottom dollar she didn’t flinch when she turned 51.

With that I vow to keep the momentum of the past twelve months going.

I’m 51!!!

Unforgettable

It was a night I will never forget.

Milestone birthdays should be marked with something that will make you smile in the years to come. Some people travel to far-away lands to spend their milestone day doing something they had previously only dreamed about. Some people throw lavish parties and get so drunk that they figure the night must have been great because they can’t remember it. There are those people who choose to have an intimate affair with a select few family and friends. And then there are those who want to hide away and forget that they are having a birthday and the mere act of hiding creates a milestone in itself.

I went all out. “Go hard or go home!” became my motto/mantra. Birthday and debut photography exhibition.

The preparations!!

Sunday……pick up the last of the framed images. Monday………exhibition installation. Friday……deliver alcohol and glasses and assorted bits and pieces. Saturday morning……….deliver balloons. Saturday afternoon……….check-in to my hotel.

Tuesday night…..eyelash tinting. Friday…….mani/pedi. Saturday…..hair and make-up.

But it was worth every second of the pre-event chaos.

All my favourite people were there. My son, my parents, my brother and sister and their family, my best friend, my aunt and uncle, my school friends, the mums I am still friends with from mother’s group, the friends I made when my son started primary school, work colleagues, past work colleagues, photography friends, surprise guests from Tasmania…………

The food was devoured, the wine and bubbles flowed, laughter and conversation filled the gallery, the birthday cake was delicious and many of my images will be going to new homes at the conclusion of the exhibition.

My one stroke of genius was booking myself into a hotel room for the night. I cannot even begin to convey the satisfaction of walking into my hotel room, having a shower, putting on my pyjamas, making a cup of tea and sitting on that king-size bed opening my cards and gifts before falling into a coma of post-party exhaustion.

Crisp, white hotel sheets…………….

No dogs jostling for prime position…………

No-one knowing where I was……………

No demands……………

Unforgettable.

What the hell am I doing!!!!???

 

 

You may have noticed that I have been more than a little slack in the blogging department over the past few months and I feel terrible about it because I really enjoy the opportunity to write. Fortunately the reason for my literary tardiness has nothing to do with me falling into a dark pit of despair, but my mental state has been one of heightened angst.

I have, for the past few months, been eyeballs-deep in the organisation of something that is the scariest thing I have even attempted. Getting married and having a child were scary, but they pale into insignificance with what I’m doing now.

I am having an exhibition of my photos. A real exhibition. In a real gallery space.

And just to make things even more ‘interesting’ I’m combining the opening night of this event with my 50th birthday party. (as you do)

Yep. No pressure there.

What the hell am I doing??!!!

Someone posted on Facebook the other day: “Go hard or go home.”  I’m going hard. After all, I have never been one to do something half-baked. I’m a ‘boots and all’ kinda gal. Anyway, I figured that by doing it this way I could kill those proverbial two birds with the one stone. Having the birthday celebration takes some of the exhibition pressure off me on the night and having the exhibition takes some of the major-number-birthday pressure off me as well.

Hahahaha!!! I’m going to be 50 in 11 days. And I don’t give a shit.

I don’t have time to give a shit.

There are lists to make. Items to cross off those lists. Framed images to collect from the framer. I’ve ordered the balloons, the birthday cake, the alcohol, the food, the glasses…………

The invites went out weeks ago. The exhibition advertising has all been done. The Facebook groups have all created an event for me……..

My biggest dilemma is whether I should try to make time to get my hair done on the Saturday morning. And what will I wear?

What the hell am I doing??!!!!!! This is insane.

 

 

I’m not old enough!!!

 

It snuck up on me.

Surely I am not old enough to be the mother of a 21-year-old person?

But the evidence is irrefutable.

There is my birth certificate and there is his. When you do the math it is clear that I was a 29-year-old woman and I had, on this day in 1996, delivered, via caesarean section, a healthy and happy male child.

Matthew Dean Balding.        #1 son.     My reason to get up every day.

When I wrote this blog in my head last night it was full of emotion and tears. But today that wave of nostalgia fuelled emotion has subsided, because turning twenty-one is but one more step in a lifetime of milestones for my not so little boy.

The first milestone he was not even aware of. I’m not going to mention the milestone of his conception because he was only a collision of two cells and knows nothing of it. I, on the other hand, knew the precise moment he was created. I ‘felt’ it. Possibly too much information………but I don’t care.  🙂

For Matthew, the first milestone was his birth. Then there’s the first tooth, the naming day, the first Xmas/Easter, the first solids, the first steps, the first birthday, the first words, the first sleepover away from mum and dad, the first day at kindergarten, the traumatic (for mum) first day at school, the first dose of chicken pox, the first injury………..

There are just so many milestones along the path of a little human. And then these little humans grow up into bigger little humans and they go to high school, get their learner’s permit, buy a car, get their licence, fall in and out of love, get drunk, get jobs, get attitudes and get to be taller than their parents.

I have been incredibly fortunate that my little human turned out to be a lovely young man. He is not perfect…….. He could do more around the house that he likes to call home, but it is his heart that I adore. He is a good kid. He can be a blokey bloke and watch sport till the cows come home but this is balanced by his truly caring and compassionate nature. He has a wicked sense of humour and a quick brain and has left me speechless with his wit on more than one occasion.

So, Matthew Dean Balding………….. Happy 21st Birthday to you. I don’t know how you got to be this age so quickly because I’m sure I only finished high school a few years ago. Which means that I am far too young to be your mother.

But the paperwork doesn’t lie.

I am your mother, you are 21 and I am therefore nearly 50!!!!!!!

Give me sunshine

Today, the sun shone brightly in my marvellous Melbourne.

Of course it did.

A beautiful girl was letting her friends and loved ones know that she was still spreading her light and warmth on her birthday.

So as I walked back to my car at the end of a long Tuesday, I soaked in the warmth of the late afternoon sun.

Just as we all once bathed in the warmth and light of her beautiful soul.

Happy birthday, Annabelle.

It is my birth anniversary

Thank you for the awesome photo Kathryn. xoxo

 

Birth anniversary. I like it. The anniversary of my birth. So much more formal and grand sounding than ‘my birthday’. Thank you to Cecilia for giving me a new name for the day. 🙂

Today is the 49th anniversary of my birth. The day a daughter was born to Reg and Lorraine West. Their first child. (Their best child I might add.)

It is Friday and because I don’t work on Fridays I have been able to sleep in, eat a leisurely breakfast, take calls from friends and family, relax, read and reply to the birthday messages on Facebook and think about the dinner I will be enjoying later on this evening.

And I have been set a challenge.

I have a friend who has demanded that I email her one massive challenge that I want to accomplish. She wants it to be something that will make me squirm. And I must complete this challenge by my next birthday. She thinks it sounds like fun. Just wait till I make her do the same. Then we’ll see how much fun she thinks it is.

Of course, my next birthday is considered a big one. It has a zero on the end. Sounds ominous and somewhat daunting. I’ve toyed with the idea of running away on my own and marking the milestone somewhere exotic. I’ve considered ignoring the day. I’ve thought about whether I even like the idea of being the age that I will be, while totally ignoring the fact that I’m now 49.

How the hell did I get to be 49???? I can’t possibly be 49! Let’s just ignore the little fact that I am the mother of a 20 year old son……….Surely I’m still in my early 30’s and I only left high school a decade or so ago??

What has happened to those years between HSC 1985 and now?

Now I have a friend challenging me…….daring me………..to push myself out of my comfort zone and do that ‘thing’ that I’ve wanted to do but have not yet achieved.

As soon as I read the text message the (most likely) idea came to my brain.

The idea will satisfy everyone. I will be squirming uncomfortably. My  parents will be happy. My friends will be happy. It won’t matter who is involved because there will be a common theme.

The question now is…………Do I make my thoughts public??

 

 

 

Who’s a naughty………….?

There are so many words that I could use to complete the title of today’s post.

Who’s a naughty………….. blogger? ME! Because I cannot stop. Ten days after I could have packed up my keyboard and camera and headed off into the sunset I am still here, every day, posting a blog.

Who’s a naughty………………. girl? There were five of us tonight. All 40+ naughty girls who decided to have a ‘girl’s night’ and watch both Magic Mike films. Woo Hoo!!!!! Channing Tatum we love you. 🙂

But the winner of today’s naughty is a very cute but incredibly naughty Pembroke Corgi named Dougal. I met him at a nursery in Mt Macedon and was taking some photos when he treated me with the most opportune moment of mischievousness.

Lucky me was there with camera at the ready.

Who’s a naughty………….puppy?

It takes a village to raise a child

The first child of our ‘village’ to reach 21.

“It takes a village to raise a child.”

This is never more true than when you are a sole-parent. This is when the assistance, help and guidance from your village of friends and family becomes the lifeline that keeps you from sinking to the bottom of the ocean of fears.

That ‘village’ is the platform from which the children of sole-parents can reach out, learn from, gain knowledge and wisdom from and rely on.

Once I became a sole parent I joined my own village of women who were in the same situation as I found myself in. We knew exactly what the pressures and problems of being on our own with young children were. We were able to help and guide each other through the sole-parenting pitfalls. We were there with tissues, chocolate, alcohol and reassurance.

This village also encompassed our extended families and friends. They were also there for our children with support, love and friendship. It is often the uncles, the grandfathers, the brothers and the husbands who become the male role models for our boys and girls. The ones who teach our little humans the ‘boy’ stuff. (Though I am here to say that the women are pretty bloody good at some of this boy stuff)

Yesterday, one of the children of our village attained the milestone of his 21st year. Needless to say we of the village are pretty proud. Not as proud of his birth mum, but pretty chuffed that together we helped to get him to this point.

When asked by one of the party guests where we fit into the picture, I replied that we are his other mothers. And we are. We all helped raised him. We all helped to raise all the children of our village.

We were all in attendance to celebrate.

“Green door, what’s that secret you’re keepin’?”

Song lyrics jumped into my brain.

Like a fellow blogger I follow, redstuffdan, I like doors. I love to see a door with life….. a door with a story to tell.

I passed this fantastic green door the other day and was immediately captured by its decrepitude. This was a door that could tell a story or two.

I’m sure that it had once been a lovely door. Bright, fresh, emerald green paint. Shiny brass knocker. Now this door, like the building that it protects, is faded, peeling, cracked and neglected. Both the door and the building are calling out for some love and attention, but if either one were to receive it, I don’t think that they would have captured my attention.