Where are you now, Grandma? I see you softly drifting on the brink, curling into the filmy line between this world and the next.

Today I said good-bye to you for the last time. Inadequate and impossible.  How does anyone express the enormity of a lifetime of love? The vastness of gratitude? All whittled down to tender whispers and gentle teardrops.

Nothing is enough to describe how extraordinary you were. You cherished us like no other, you were blind to our faults, and you lavished us with affection. Your signature embrace was fierce. We were squeezed so tight there was never any doubt we were loved. We were loved to the core.

You lived a full and generous life. Overcoming the hardest start, resolving to mend it all with love. If I could unstitch time, I wish I could have changed your beginning, and given the dignity and love you deserved. I hope in some small measure I have given you this at your end.

Today I kissed your pale cheek and remembered the joyfulness of your spirit. Today I looked into your nearly closed eyes and remembered the sparkle they once had. Forever you are my beautiful blue-eyed grandma, beaming with joy.

Today as you moaned I longed for your comfort. I barely caught your last words to me. A mumbled sentence. But I heard you. I don’t want to be in pain any more.

Grandma, we are calling to you in the half-light. Can you hear us? We love you. But you can go softly now. May you be greeted with warm arms of magnificent love. Beautiful strong Joyce, sweet relief is on its way.

I’m a  lover of  sunlight. The way it illuminates the details. The way it heals a broken spirit. The way it arcs across the earth, into fields, into houses, into windows, into hearts.

I never tire of observing it. Maybe that’s why I’m a writer and photo-taker. I’m on a neverending quest to capture the light.

I wrote about light in a post awhile back . I described my love for it then:

“It’s the way a chink comes through the curtains, hinting the glow of dawn. It’s the way it filters melodically through stained glass windows, dancing on my skin. It’s the way it skims on water like steamy breaths, skipping into infinity.”

Two weeks ago we took a little trip to the country. We visited my in-laws’ dairy farm. There were two things I loved about our weekend.

1. Seeing my kids have a ball. Seriously, this is the kind of joy that bursts my heart.
2. The sunlight. The sun shone down on us with radiance. Everywhere.

The sunlight was so nourishing. So awakening. So sharp.

Have you noticed my blog title? I’m trying to record the bright and the precious. The things that are meaningful. The things that light brings into focus.

And because my ability to use words is sometimes feeble. I am calling upon my photo-taking ability to tell the rest of the story. Behold, a weekend of radiant sunlight.

The thing about Mother’s Day is that people get annoyed by all the hype and commercialism. I do too.

But this doesn’t make me want to boycott it altogether. Because the idea of Mother’s Day is actually a lovely one when you think about it. One day a year to celebrate mothers in the world. Old mothers, tired mothers, single mothers, lonely mothers, deceased mothers, superb mothers. All of them.

Celebration is about having a ritual that brings meaning to how we live. That’s it. That’s it.

You can buy gifts and cards and go to a lot of fuss if you like. Or not. It really doesn’t matter. The essence is this:  we take a deep figurative breath and go “Well done mothers! We appreciate you today as we do every day of the year!”

Why do they deserve celebrating? Well, for one thing, most of them have achieved that death-defying, mind-bloggling, love-infused feat of birthing human beings into this world. I say most, because there are also mothers that have been given their children through adoption – and they are equally worthy of celebration.

It’s not hard to pitch the case for how awesome mothers are. They work damn hard. They sacrifice sleep and sanity and self-interest. And they devote years to nurturing their young. And even if you have a not-so-awesome mother, chances are she was just trying to do the best she could with the not-so-awesome mothering she had. Perhaps Mother’s Day is a day for compassion for not-perfect mums too.

I feel lucky to have a husband who doesn’t have to work on Mother’s Day, who earns enough money for us to enjoy treats, who delights in helping my kids celebrate me. Not everyone has that. We are privileged white middle-class people. But we are mindful of extravagance, and mindful that not everyone celebrates like we do.

I also feel lucky to have a mum who is still alive. A mum who nourished me with her love from when I born. A kind, affectionate, and generous mother. I hope I am modelling that rich love to my children too. Mother’s Day is about acknowledging her especially. Do I need a special day in the year for it? Not really. But it’s lovely.

So today was a celebration day for us. A day of rituals and reasons. A day like any other day, but with that extra feeling of fullness.

It wasn’t the special hand-made cards or kindergarten craft that made it complete. It wasn’t the pancake breakfast or special lunch that made it spectacular. These were all good. But the best thing about today was a sentence from my four year old girl. A moment that summed up why I love being a mother. And a moment that reduced me to a sobbing mess of happy tears.

“Mum, whatever you need today, I will be your assistant. Don’t do a thing, I’ll get it all for you.”

Everyone has a story.

It’s a little light in our souls, like a flickering candle that keeps reminding us we’re alive.

Some people are happy to keep their stories to themselves. And then there’s writers, artists, bloggers… the people who express their stories to the world.

This time last year I read a blog post that gave me the balls to enter one of my stories into one of the biggest blogging competitions on this planet. BlogHer Voices of the Year 2012 honoured 110 blogging voices from around the world. I was thrilled to be chosen as one of them.

When I wrote my story I had no idea how far it would travel. It was a story so raw, about the darkest time of my life. But Blossom Bomb was also my redemption. It showed me how beauty can come from pain. It also showed me how sharing our experiences, no matter how small we think they are, can be extremely powerful. I was just telling my story. Letting my little light shine.

Are you a blogger? Do you have a story to share? Well, it’s that time of year again. BlogHer Voices of the Year 2013 submissions are open right now.

And do you know the best bit is? You don’t have to have a pretty blog. You don’t have to have a popular blog. It doesn’t matter what gender you are. It doesn’t matter if you’re a fast blogger or a slow blogger. Just let your voice be the light.

This competition is purely about your unique ability to communicate your story. It’s about finding just one post that stands out. There are four different categories to choose from. It can be a narrative from your heart, a passionate opinion, an inspiring message, or you can make us laugh.

Maybe your story hasn’t been written yet. There’s still time. Submissions close on May 15th. Any post from the last year is eligible to enter. You can enter as many posts as you like, or it can be just one.

If you need a little bit of inspiration, here’s a short video clip from BlogHer.

This year the lovely people at BlogHer have offered to giveaway an eBook of the Voices of the Year 2012 Anthology to one of my readers. It’s a collection of the Voice of the Year stories from last year – a damn fine read!

This post is not sponsored by BlogHer, and my opinions and words are entirely my own…. clearly! It was my idea to do this post regardless of the bonus giveaway.

If you want to enter the giveaway, simply leave a comment and I’ll choose a reader at random at 8pm (Melbourne time) on May 15th. And if you don’t want that eBook, please leave a comment anyway! (And let me know if you don’t wish to enter).

In the meantime, don’t miss out on this opportunity to submit your story to the Voices of the Year 2013 competition. You can enter by clicking on this link.

You never know where your story will take you. Beware the power of your light.

If it wasn’t for her request the night before, we wouldn’t have gone. My four year old daughter wanted to go to an Anzac Day parade.

I had not attended anything Anzac before. No soldiers in my family. No huge feelings of patriotism. And being a pacifist, I confess to not really being interested in anything to do with war – even past wars. Still, my daughter was interested, so we did a google search and found there was a parade and memorial service in our town.

The next morning we ran late. We arrived to see the tail-end of the parade down the main street. So I took my girl’s hand and we dashed through the crowd. We followed the drum beats of the band towards the cenotaph across the village green where a memorial service was about to start.

As the ceremony began, so began the questions from the four year old. Opening with: What is war?

And then: Why do countries fight each other?… Do people die even if they don’t want war?… Will there be any wars tomorrow?

I whispered my answers into her ear:  I really don’t know why countries go to war… Most people want peace… And do you know the best way to stop wars from happening tomorrow? It starts right here in our hearts, It’s about how we treat our friends, it’s about being kind and caring for other people’s feelings.

As we sat there, listening to speakers, surrounded by a silent crowd, I felt a strange welling up of emotion. It made no sense at all. I fought those damn tears back. Is this who I’ve become? A 41 year old mother with post-traumatic disorder and a propensity for public weeping? Probably, yes.

As people and community groups went to lay wreaths of flowers, they announced into the microphone who they were. Towards the end of the procession, a young man spoke. He said he was there for his father, Graeme. He marched forward, wearing his father’s badges on his jacket, and rested his flowers down. Well, at that point I bawled. I also have a father named Graeme. Our shared humanity hit me. We were honouring his father. And it could have been any of our fathers.

It was only then that I realised that even a non-Anzac pacifist can pay respect to soldiers. This day wasn’t about war, it was about being human. I’m a slow learner sometimes, I know. I know.

The ceremony ended with the national anthem. My daughter loves this song, she can recite every word. But she’d only ever sung it alone. Her eyes lit up when she realised she was singing it with the strength of the community around her. Yes, this is what anthems are for – for making us not feel alone.

As the anthem finished she looked up at me and said “Mum, I don’t want to be at war with anyone.”

And I imagined for a moment all four year olds in the world telling their mothers the same thing.

I am not at war with anyone – Luka Bloom 

They kept asking to go there.  But I made excuses. The truth is, the thought of such things overwhelmed me.

In their short lives I had managed to take my children to the beach only once. My boy was only a baby then. He doesn’t even remember it.

But there we were, a few weeks ago, right next to it. We’d spent the night in a hotel nearby (so I could go to a concert). And as we headed home, we heard the beach calling. The comforting hush of waves.

With a luminous blue above our heads and a whispery breeze beneath our feet, we hit the beach running. Rolling into the arms of the sea.

Sunlight fell in satiny drops.

Water rushed over our toes.

And we were alive. Really alive.

Is this the purest form of joy? Children splashing in waves.

Swimming in the sea.

Collecting shells.

Making sand castles.

The answer was so simple. It doesn’t get better than this.

And I silently vowed to never leave it so long again.

As I watched their beach-longing souls awaken, I realised how much I needed this beach too.  The brightness, the rhythms, the swirls. A healing balm. Waking me from my foggy sleep.

Awake my soul!

We weren’t there for long, an hour at best, but it doesn’t take long to feel restored again.

Hearts pumping. Bones strong. Heads clear.

Homeward bound in a salty sweet bliss. Sand stuck between our toes. And between every corner of our dreams.

Awake My Soul – Mumford and Sons

When the music started I sank into my seat in the dark. It only took a second for my heart to unhinge from its axis. From there I was free.

There’s something very liberating about going to a concert alone. I saw Luka Bloom play two weeks ago. It’s the treat I give myself every two years when he tours. Twenty years later and I keep going back for more. There’s something so soothing about this Irish man. If you’re open to it, his music is like a soft caress.

So there I was, being caressed and soothed. Metaphorically and figuratively. And suddenly the wall that holds in all my neat piles of chaotic emotions simply collapsed. Right there in the darkness I had the permission to feel anything I goddamn wanted to feel.

So I bawled. And as the show went on I laughed, beamed, applauded, and then cried some more.

Music doesn’t mess around like that. Unlike the written word with all its complicated symbolism, music is a pure force that injects directly to our senses, bypassing all the analytical brainwork. It’s also the reason I’m envious of musicians. God, how I’d love the power to move people like that.

Luka moved me from Love is a Monsoon to As I Waved Goodbye. He took me all the way from The City of Chicago and over Diamond Mountain. And when he sang I’m On Your Side, I was slain. This song about solidarity, about supporting the ones you love, this was the moment of my undoing.

I see a warrior who’s walking in light
I see poetry and songs sung true
I see courage in the darkest of your nights
I see armour of love draped around you
I saw you almost not go
I saw you breathe deeply and know
Black dogs whisper lies
You, you are ancient and wise

I pretended Luka sang it for me. But he sang it for all warriors, for anyone who is struggling towards the light.

The good thing about a Luka concert is that it isn’t just about sobbing to myself in the dark. For two hours on that Saturday night the world seemed bigger. And sharper. For two hours I remembered there was a world beyond my own inner cosmos. The universe expanded in one glorious crescendo.

And then the universe contracted again as the house lights came on. Back to reality. Back to being the exhausted 41 year old mother of two young children. The wall went up. I armoured myself for the grind of existing.

But as I stepped into the cold night, I felt a little warmer. And I carried out a pocketful of courage.

Come with me… let’s talk of happy things.

You may have noticed I write about sad and heavy things quite often. It’s what I’ve needed to do. I’ve had a lot on my mind in the last few years. I didn’t set out to be a sad blogger – just a real one.

But there is light and fun and good things in my life too. I just find them harder to write about. Why?  I really don’t know. When you figure it out, can you tell me?

So, today shall we dance around a little bit? Let’s blast the house with rockin’ music, have cups of tea, eat hot cross buns, and ignore politics! I’ll tell you about my day if you’ll tell about yours?

Well, my day HAS been full of good things. Small incidental pleasures… like the blustery breeze sneaking through the kitchen window when I walked past…. and the milk/sugar ratio of my cup of tea was just right .

I’ve been sitting at my desk plotting out the draft of a book. Those stunning ideas that were swishing around my brain at 2am? Sadly they’ve disappeared into fog outside my window. I’m hoping they’ll find their way home soon.

For every minute I’ve dedicated to writing, I’ve matched with hours down in vast rabbit holes on Pinterest and Trip Advisor. My secret fantasy holiday plans are going nicely. Huge achievement! (And on the serious side, I’m hoping the fantasies come true in the not so distant future… but more that kind of talk later).

I’ve also been listening to this song… a blast from the early 90′s. I’m bummed there’s not a YouTube version of the original clip, so this will have to do. Those harmonies in the chorus? All shades of awesome.

And my four year old’s reaction to the song?  ”Mum, is this olden days hip hop?”.

Sure, let’s call it that.

Good things. Yes, there are definitely good things to write about. It just takes practice.

February bulged at the seams. It bulged so much that the writing part of my brain didn’t have room to move. There was the usual busy stuff – like dashing around with my kids, paying bills, and trying to remember the birthdays of 8 important people in my life. (Because clearly they must be born all in the same month for no compelling reason).

And then there was the SOS. It was my body. Waving flags madly at me. It’s been trying to get my attention for awhile now, but in January it was sending off flares.

So in February I knew it was time. I started a rescue mission. And I went in hard. I saw doctors, specialists, naturopaths, counsellors, and weight loss people. I googled exotic ailments at 2am. I got blood tests and ultrasounds. I joined the gym, drank green smoothies, and swallowed a trillion vitamins. The veins in my leg were mapped. My liver was investigated. And finally my body wrote in the sand: WHAT TOOK YOU SO BLOODY LONG?

But all this rescuing took time. And that was okay. Because nothing could happen until I helped myself. I missed writing – gosh how I missed this creative space. And I missed many other things too. But without a healthy body, what good is anything else? It’s easy to get caught up in what we miss, even if we are being handed a life rope.

And thus some truths remain:

When you don’t write on your blog for 4 weeks, the world keeps spinning.

When you’re not reading other people’s blogs, people will keep writing them.

When you’re not on twitter, the universe will keep talking without your assistance.

Do you know what feels better than ‘not missing out on things’?  Not lying awake worrying if I’ve got cancer again. Loving myself enough to rescue myself. And knowing today is better than yesterday, and tomorrow will be even better.

I’ll get back to my writing in good time. The salvage has begun. The mission continues. I will take all the time I need.

Do you know this picture? It’s taken by wildlife photographer Amos Nachoum. A leopard seal and a penguin in the Antarctic Sea.

I find myself having so many reactions to it. In awe of the power of the leopard seal. In grief for the fate of the penguin.

I showed it to my daughter. She’s only four. I explained the photo might be a bit scary. But she loves marine life and talks every day about being a scientist. I thought she would love it.

And she did. And then came the questions.

“Leopard seals are very dangerous, aren’t’ they?”

Yes.

“That water must have been very cold!”

Yes.

And then,

“Mum, do we know if someone took a photo of the penguin swimming away?”

No, no we don’t know.

I answered as honestly as my sinking heart could. I didn’t want to crush her innocence.

I was also a little jealous of her innocence. I hadn’t thought of that possibility. Is this what it is like to be young? To be so hopeful about every situation?

I looked again at the penguin. What was he thinking? Did I detect a posture of resignation? Did he accept his fate? Or was he about to swim for his life?

The truth is the penguin was already dead. When I investigated further, the penguin had been chased, dragged into deep water, and drowned – as is the nature of attack of leopard seals. In the photo, the seal is ‘playing’ with its prey.

But it’s still a powerful photo. And I still find myself thinking about the penguin up until this point. Because right now I AM that penguin. Tired as anything, being chased by a monstrous beast. Does anyone else feel like the penguin? I hope I’m not alone.

The beast is different for us all. For me the beast is actually the tiredness itself. If I could just get on top of the exhaustion… What I wouldn’t give to have energy again… My beast has been created by many things. Most days it feels like I’m spiralling into the jaws of the leopard seal.

The question is: do I accept my fate? Or do I dash through the water and hope for dear life the leopard seal is having an off day? There’s a microscopic chance I could make it. A speck of hope.

I think I’m going to cling to that speck. I’m going to think like a four year old.

Get your cameras ready. I’m about to swim away.