(Above: I pity the birds in these ongoing spring storms and winds…losing so many eggs and babies. I found this little blue egg on the footpath.)
I hope everyone got through the strange stormy weather this week. We rushed about taking down bird feeders and moving tall outdoor plants. Our only damage was that our garden water feature fell over and smashed.
Here’s this week’s digest:
A sweet little song by a band that usually makes edgier music: ‘Mr Broccoli’ by Tall Dwarfs
I saw Chris Knox perform several time in the 1990’s. His performances were always electric, captivating. He was very eccentric, unpredictable and the mood swung from hilarity to venom and back in a dizzying fashion.
When I used to DJ on student radio I loved playing this short, sweet and jangly song at the end of my show. I still love it.
I love Joy Harjo’s work. She always cuts through the frills and fluff and gets to the roots of life. I believe in the power of a good kitchen table and this poem speaks to that power.
Perhaps the world ends here
by Joy Harjo
The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.
At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.
This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
(Above: not our kitchen but the kitchenette of a sweet little cottage in the Hawke’s Bay where I taught a creative writing class once.)
Affordable Art: realistic mushroom magnets
I am very taken with these sweet and realistic-looking mushroom magnets that look as if they are growing out of your fridge door. They are just $22 each which isn’t bad for something handmade and something which would give you a little smile on a daily basis.
Although the iconic red Animita Muscaria toadstools are cool…I think I like this little brown cluster the best. I often see ones like these in my garden.
Recently, I stumbled over this sad and beautiful documentary about the ‘hidden’ art of Pat Porter. An artist who painted every day, made thousands of paintings, believed in her work and yet, never showed her work during her lifetime.
The work is stunning. Her family are lovely. It’s a beautiful watch.
It raised all sorts of questions in me about what art is and who it is for and what it means to make and make and make and never share (beyond your family.)
It seems to me Pat was happiest making, happiest in the flow of her work. How utterly inspiring.
You can see peeks of her post-humous exhibition here:
Her son is the writer Charlie Porter. I’ve read both his artist’s clothing book and his Bloomsbury clothing book. His sensibilities make a lot of sense after watching these clips about his mother’s work.
A summer recipe I’m dreaming about making: Croatian Sour Cherry Strudel
I’ve been watching episodes of Tasmanian farmer and chef Mathew Evan’s show ‘Gourmet Farmer’ on YouTube. It’s the perfect relaxing viewing for someone like me who likes local food stories, vegetable gardening and preserving, etc. There’s even some foraging!
(Above: I have no cherry photographs to share…but here are the (non-fruiting) cherry trees in the park near to where I live. They do this each September.)
Croation strudel is made with filo pastry rather than the heavier pastries of Germanic strudels. Apparently, the trick to getting it sweet and light is a sprinkle of sugar and a brush of light oil (instead of butter) between the pastry layers.
I have no idea where I will source fresh sour or Morello cherries…but even if I have to make one with sweet cherries…I plan to make a version of this for Christmas Day. I’m excited.
(Yes, I said the ‘C’ word. Sorry.)
*
Here’s one of my wild and weedy bouquets. Each Friday I try to clear the table of all of the random stuff it accumulates over the week, give it a wipe and polish and pick a bouquet from the garden so we begin the weekend with at least one little spot of calm and beauty.
I hope there are both of those things in abundance in your weekend, friend. Thanks for reading. x
(Above: a freshly foraged brew: plantain and kawakawa.)
Happy weekending!
You did it! You made it through another week. Take a moment to congratulate yourself.
That’s a big achievement, atm, and if you were here with me I would bring you a nice hot cup of tea and pat you appreciatively on the shoulder. Well done.
Let’s digest…
A cleansing, sweet and delicious carrot soup recipe
(Above: not actually the carrots I used for my soup but some baby carrots I grew and then served as a snack a while ago. I was proud of the ‘Frenchie’ way I’d pared them so took a photo.)
It might sound very simple but the result is delicious. The flavour combination is unique and feels very nourishing and pleasing to the palate. The cashew nuts give the soup real creaminess without the heaviness of dairy cream. It’s a soup I revisit every spring.
A wonderfully community-minded chap having fun in his own yard
If only more people were so generous, so creative, so playful…imagine the cities we could have!
The Arabs used to say, When a stranger appears at your door, feed him for three days before asking who he is, where he’s come from, where he’s headed. That way, he’ll have strength enough to answer. Or, by then you’ll be such good friends you don’t care.
Let’s go back to that. Rice? Pine nuts? Here, take the red brocade pillow. My child will serve water to your horse.
No, I was not busy when you came! I was not preparing to be busy. That’s the armor everyone put on to pretend they had a purpose in the world.
I refuse to be claimed. Your plate is waiting. We will snip fresh mint into your tea.
Song for the week: ‘Forever is a Charm’ by Princess Chelsea
A seductive, gentle, music-box-like song by New Zealand Indie-pop darling, Princess Chelsea. So sweet!
Nikki discusses the myth of closure and how messy endings can be.
She says: ‘People want a neat bow tied around messy endings: the final conversation, the goodbye ritual, the explanation that makes it all make sense. Closure is sold to us like it’s a finish line you can sprint across, complete with balloons, confetti, and a medal that says Congratulations, you’re over it now!‘
Do you have ambiguous/strange endings of relationships or situationships that still haunt you?
I know I do. Most of the time it’s okay but then in the wee hours of the morning when I occasionally have insomnia…that’s when those old, confusing, painful endings rise up and loop around my brain…so I really appreciated this gentle reframe about the fantasy of closure and some suggestions about other ways to integrate old grief.
I also heard on a podcast in recent weeks that most adults change their friends approximately every seven years (!) I don’t know if it’s true but it’s a comforting thought if you’ve lost some connections along the way.
Watch: Soothing nonsense
Last week I found at the op-shop one of my best finds EVER but I will have to show you next week because I haven’t had time to take a decent photograph of it yet.
In the meantime, as a bit of a clue, here’s half an hour of soothing nonsense: a sweet mother and daughter team faff about first foraging acorns together and then making a miniature tea set from the acorns. With gentle music and not much happening…this little clip could be the perfect thing to lull you into an afternoon nap…
I hope something there ‘amuse your bouche’, so to speak. (Forgive me, that makes no sense.)
I’m not sure what this weekend holds. Last weekend was full (all good stuff) so I’m intentionally leaving this weekend blank so it can fill itself as we go.
Until next time, may the sun shine on your face this week,
(Above: a spiderweb in sunlight, September 20 2025, Ōtaki Gorge.)
Last Saturday I turned 53. The above photograph was taken on my birthday. The sun came out!
It’s been a crappy spring (weatherwise) so the sun felt like such a gift.
I sat on the porch of the place I was staying and tried to read in the warmth…but the sun felt like such rich medicine I couldn’t hold my attention on my book and just kept closing my eyes and facing the sun like some kind of warmth-starved Tuatara.
We were travelling light so my birthday cake was a supermarket almond finger (one of my faves) with a birthday candle and some dandelion petals:
Article: A frugal and lighthearted person talks about simple living for financial freedom
I always read The Spinoff’s ‘Cost of Being’ series where people talk about their finances because I find it so fascinating. The way we approach money reveals so much about prorities, values and life circumstances.
I immediately sent it to Fraser and said ‘this could be us!’…not so much her particular circumstances…but more her attitude. A little bit broke (compared to many) but with a resilient, light-hearted, resourceful attitude.
This bit sounded very much like our household:
Typical weekly food costs
Groceries: I have no idea but it’s not much. A lot of my work involves food rescue and making community kai, so I’m always taking food home. I also grow most of my veges, and have excellent fossicking and scrounging skills!
A lively read and helped refresh my own commitment to simple living.
Affordable Art: ‘Resist’ by Bread and Puppet Theatre, Vermont, USA
(Above: nothing says ‘resist!’ like weeds which will grow in cracks in the concrete. Image borrowed from Bread and Puppet Press.)
I love dandelions. I love resistance. I love the work of the Bread and Puppet Theatre. I love this postcard and it comes in at a mere $6.00
(& Possibly once you add postage it would be close to $50 NZD, the cut off price for ‘affordable art’…)
A long and fascinating delve into the luddite movement
Speaking of voluntary simplicity, my pen-friend and Wizard of Wellington, Rosie Whinray, published a long, well-researched, fascinating and fun article about the Luddites:‘Summoning Ned Lud’.
It’s not just about the Luddites, of course, it’s about time and labour and music and materiality and injustice and autonomy and so much more.
Make yourself a POT of tea and sit and read this. It will take more than one cup of tea because it has various links to music and interviews on YouTube and no doubt you’ll want to savour them all.
Video> ‘Life is never still’: an inspiring 92-year-old artist and writer shows us all how to live
From the description:
‘His vibrant paintings burst with dramatic light and dark, playing with colour and drawing upon his Caribbean heritage. He powerfully captures the energy of Trinidadian carnival culture, folklore, and the cathartic power that the celebration holds.
Join us for an intimate look inside his studio, writing shed, and kitchen, and experience his unique creative process that blends painting, poetry, cooking – and most importantly – love. Learn why mistakes are essential, why stepping away can spark inspiration, and how collecting objects can fuel new ideas.’
He’s an absolute joy! You won’t regret spending 12 minutes watching his cruise through his day.
That’s it for the week’s digest. This weekend I am hoping the weather will permit gardening. I have letters to write, mending to attend to, a new stack of library books to hang out with.
My nettle patch is coming back to life so I’ve been making simple nettle soups and will make it again this weekend.
I also bought a bottle of vodka so I can make some lemonbalm tincture with the new season’s lemonbalm; it always feels at most potent in spring to me…the leaves bright green and shiny. Lemonbalm is good for stress and anxiety, is known for being a ‘gladdening’ herb. (Now there’s a sweet old-fashioned word.) Read more about it here.
I hope there are ‘gladdening’ things in your weekend.
Thanks for being here and sharing the things that I caught in my net this week.
(Above: last Sunday the wind briefly stopped and the sun came out and so I dressed the picnic table outside for an ‘al fresco’ meal. It was lovely for about an hour and then the chilly spring weather returned. I’m glad I grabbed the moment, though.)
Hey! How was your week?
Sometimes when I am describing to a friend the futility of resisting what is happening in life, I say: ‘Anyway, there’s no point resisting it. It’d be like trying to punch the wind.’
This week, though, I really did feel like trying to punch the wind!
The spring winds here are chilly, mercurial, and strong. Despite my continued attempts to reframe them: they’re ‘cleansing’; they’re ‘blowing out our cobwebs’; ‘they herald the advent of summer’… I landed on Thursday feeling fed up and cranky about the weather. (So pointless.)
There’s just so much I want to do in the garden but I don’t last long out there in these strong spring winds…maybe twenty minutes?
However, I have potted up my first tomatoes. And I bought some leek seedlings which will be ready for next autumn/winter if I plant them in September. I used to plant leeks in January to be ready for winter…but the last few years I’ve been planting them earlier and earlier. This may be the earliest, however.
Have you managed to start some spring planting yet?
Here’s some things I’ve been enjoying lately:
Dramatic (and philosophical) fire cooking with a charismatic Argentinian chef
This documentary about Argentinian chef contains multitudes. He’s famous for cooking with open fire and there’s plenty of inspiration for that in the film (he cooks a lot of meat…so if you’re vegetarian, take care) but there’s also slow-living philosophy, visible mending and nature appreciation.
He’s quite the charismatic, zen dude and I enjoyed this immersion into his life.
Song for the Week: ‘Under the Sun’ by Mia Doi Todd
Mia’s voice is high and sweet. The lyrics are dreamy. Discovering this song this week was a great antidote to being cranky about things I can’t change, like weather, politics and certain life circumstances. The song has a healing flowing feeling.
A tomato poem: ‘In My Next Life Let Me Be a Tomato’ by Natasha Rao
Because I’m dreaming into summer produce, especially tomatoes, I went looking for a tomato poem. There’s lots to love in this poem but I particularly love this line:
‘I want to be unabashed, audacious, to gobble
space, to blush deeper each day in the sun, knowing
I’ll end up in an eager mouth.’
In my next life let me be a Tomato
lusting and unafraid. In this bipedal incarnation
I have always been scared of my own ripening,
mother standing outside the fitting room door.
I only become bright after Bloody Mary’s, only whole
in New Jersey summers where beefsteaks, like baubles,
sag in the yard, where we pass down heirlooms
in thin paper envelopes and I tend barefoot to a garden
that snakes with desire, unashamed to coil and spread.
Cherry Falls, Brandywine, Sweet Aperitif, I kneel
with a spool, staking and tying, checking each morning
after last night’s thunderstorm only to find more
sprawl, the tomatoes have no fear of wind and water,
they gain power from the lightning, while I, in this version
of life, retreat in bed to wither. In this life, rabbits
are afraid of my clumsy gait. In the next, let them come
willingly to nibble my lowest limbs, my outstretched
arm always offering something sweet. I want to return
from reincarnation’s spin covered in dirt and
buds. I want to be unabashed, audacious, to gobble
space, to blush deeper each day in the sun, knowing
I’ll end up in an eager mouth. An overly ripe tomato
will begin sprouting, so excited it is for more life,
so intent to be part of this world, trellising wildly.
For every time in this life I have thought of dying, let me
yield that much fruit in my next, skeleton drooping
under the weight of my own vivacity as I spread to take
more of this air, this fencepost, this forgiving light.
Affordable Art: Kereru @ Whanganui River
I’ve broken my self-imposed budget for affordable art this week. This beautiful print by Rob Barrington is $95 so almost twice the affordable art budget of $50. Forgive me. I love it so much I had to share it with you.
I live an hour’s drive from Whanganui, know the landscape well and love this depiction of the river, coast and ‘my’ mountain, Taranaki in the background. It has a vintage NZ school journal feel about it that I love, too. My folks gave me a little money for my birthday and I’m pondering this print as a contender for what I spend it on.
(Above: Kereru @ Whanganui River by Rob Barrington. Image borrowed from Kina.)
A meditation I wrote for processing and integrating ‘recent events’
Back in 2020, I wrote and recorded a meditation to offer solace for how unsettling and scary the pandemic was.
I didn’t specifically mention the pandemic in the meditation. I just referred to it as ‘recent events’. This good decision to be a bit vague has meant this meditation is perennial …because there are continual ‘recent events’ for us to cope with. My hope was that a listener might feel a little more calm, less scattered and ‘put back together’ after listening.
(And for my northern hemisphere readers…you can hear the short flat vowels of my very NZ accent!)
Recipe: Twenty Minute Tahini Biscuits
I made these biscuits this week. They are good for if you have someone coming over and you need something to serve quickly. I served some to my friend Kushla and she said they tasted like chewy halva.
They are quick to make (twenty minutes from go to woah) They have just three ingredients and are gluten-free.
Twenty Minute Tahini Biscuits
Mix:
one cup unhulled tahini
one cup powdered jaggery (Indian unrefined sugar)
one egg
It will make a stiff paste.
Roll into small balls. (Approximate a teaspoon full.) Put on a greased biscuit sheet.
Bake at 190 C for 9 minutes. (Keep an eye on them. They cook quickly and burn easily.)
Put on a cooling rack. Enjoy!
*
It’s my birthday this weekend and Fraser and I are going off-grid for two nights to a hut in the bush with outdoor cooking (hence watching the aforementioned fire-cooking documentary!) and an outdoor bath.
The description of the place says there are eels to feed, glowworms to visit and the bridge across the nearby stream is a giant log. I feel confident we’ll have a great time.
(Above: PN’s Te Manawa Museum currently has an exhibition about sunshine and light. Here I am playing with my shadow in the light box.)
Song for the week: Just George ‘Lungs’
This local tune is by my friend Abi Symes. I’m proud to have a little connection to this song, all about the overwhelming nature of grief, because Abi wrote it after we had a conversation about the physicality of grief. Abi got a bad lung infection after going through multiple griefs in quick succession and I told them that in Traditional Chinese Medicine, the lungs are an organ where grief is felt.
Abi sent me the song and I felt all tingly at the way, as creative people, we can cross-pollinate each other without even intending to. I love the song and I love Abi.
Be careful, this video may turn you into a total bird nerd
I loved everything about this little clip from Gardening Australia: the birds, the Australian native plants…but mostly, the enthusiasm and nerdy citizen-science of the sweet, sweet couple who are developing the bird garden. They gave me a deep case of ‘elder couple goals’ for me and F.
Watch this and then tell me people aren’t good:
A fun spring challenge: can you find enough edible flowers to make a ‘fairy salad’?
(Above: my fairy salad – all of this was growing in the garden.)
Spring in the Manawatū is pretty horrid. Squally winds, sudden temperature drops, weather that goes from warm to icy within the same outing…leaving me in the wrong clothing…all uncomfortable and cross.
It’s been like that all week….then on Wednesday…there was a brief reprieve and the sun came out. The garden was still. I could hear the tūi. I could hear my own thoughts.
I grabbed the sun-window to play in the garden and I made a fairy salad from edible flowers.
(btw, I’m still not sure about writing in two places. Here and Substack. I thought I’d do it for a year and then reassess. Do you have any opinions? I’d love to hear them in the comments.)
At just $48, I think this vase is such good value. Handmade, rustic, interesting, very original. The inside is glazed to hold water for the little stems you have foraged from around the place. I love it – so simple and eye-catching. The maker, jilly jam pots, has lots of other goodness in their shop, too, including this little vase that looks like a lotus pod. So good.
(*To qualify as ‘affordable art’, the item needs to be less than $50 NZD. Let me know if you’ve spotted anything around the internet you think people might enjoy and I’ll share it.)
Kelly is iconic among my generation of NZ writers. Punky, fierce, funny, no-bullshit, straight from the hip, generous, strong sense of justice and of course, a brilliant writer who didn’t get enough kudos and celebration.
As my FB feed filled with tributes and lamentations, I was again filled with that deep sense of life is so short and random.
Tell people you appreciate them now. If people cross your mind – get in touch and tell them you were thinking of them.
Tell a creaky, broke, vulnerable NZ artist that you love their work TODAY. Or if you can’t be bothered doing that, give them $20 via their online begging bowls or maybe, buy one their creative efforts.
It’s hard being an artist in NZ:
“This fucking stupid milk-loving piece of shit dumbass mean-spirited sale at Briscoes racist sexist 40% off deck furniture piss country.”
This week’s poem, ‘After Work’ I thought would be a good one as we (in NZ) leave winter…
It’s simple, it’s erotic, it’s amusing.
The stew simmering on the fire is not the only thing simmering.
& it reflects his Zen-eyes.
After Work
The shack and a few trees float in the blowing fog
I pull out your blouse, warm my cold hands on your breasts. you laugh and shudder peeling garlic by the hot iron stove. bring in the axe, the rake, the wood
we'll lean on the wall against each other stew simmering on the fire as it grows dark drinking wine.
*
I think that’s all I have to share this week, friends. Soon we are driving up the Desert Road to visit my folks. I’m hoping there will be snow so we can have a snowball fight and I can take photographs of icicles.
I consider the writer, Iona Winter my friend even though we’ve only met in real life once. We’ve exchanged lots of warm and intimate dialogue via email. I read an early draft of one of her poetry books for her. She included a poem of mine in her grief anthology ‘a liminal gathering’ which I wrote about back here.
Iona recently released a hybrid memoir, A Counter of Moons. In it, she writes candidly about the time surrounding the suicide of her beloved son, the musician Reuben Winter.
I recently slow-interviewed (via email exchanges) Iona about her new book.
(Content heads-up: Iona’s book discusses suicide, mental health, grief so, naturally, all of these subjects feature in this interview as well.)
Kia ora Iona, thanks for talking to me about your beautiful new book. I really enjoy your poetry so I am looking forward to reading your memoir.
Can you share a little about how this book came into creation?
Iona: Kia ora Helen, thanks for inviting me along e hoa. I love the idea of a slow interview, it’s like we’re having a cuppa together, fireside, with a plate of delicious homemade biscuits!
A Counter of Moons is part of a body of work that began after my tama Reuben took his life, during Covid lockdowns in 2020. I’m deeply grateful to have received the 2022 CLNZ/NZSA Writers’ Award, that enabled me to complete the initial manuscript. This book and my poetry collection In the shape of his hand lay a river (2024), started out life together, as companions…but the world of publishing had other plans. Writing has been my main solace, while facing into an experience that is, for the most part, wordless.
The first project published was the multimedia grief almanac a liminal gathering (2023) Elixir & Star Press– a small indie press I set up in Ru’s memory. Knowing that grief is everywhere, from sharing my grief experiences, I kept hearing that many people carry their grief alone and feel dreadfully isolated. It was like Ru spoke into my ear then, saying, “You need to create a space for other people’s grief Mā”. It wasn’t really an option, more like an essential thing to do.
After Reuben died, I wrote diary entries, poetry, ranty-af essays and explored literature around suicide bereavement and grief. There wasn’t much, in terms of dead-child-grieving-mother books, and the rest was either academic or self-help. What I needed was to read people’s personal stories – something to mitigate the deep grief that accompanies suicide bereavement. I was active on social media for a couple of years, because I didn’t want Ru’s death to go into a void. It felt important not to disappear either, as a grieving māmā; not to garner attention but to raise awareness. Along the way I’ve attempted to challenge the social stigma attached to being a suicide bereaved mother in Aotearoa. A Counter of Moons is a hybrid non-fiction memoir; a snapshot of my life, Reuben’s life and his departure from this realm.
I think of you as a writer who can’t be confined to one genre so it makes sense the memoir turned into a hybrid book. It also makes sense in terms of how grief feels, right? You never know how you’re going to be one moment to the next.
Now that it’s out, how has it been (so far) having it out in the world?
Iona: Yeah, grief is hybrid by its very nature, as is love. I guess you’ll never find me writing something straightforward, probably because my brain doesn’t work that way, but also because I don’t see life, or death for that matter, as linear, formulaic or clearcut. Everything is interconnected and interdimensional. I’ve crafted a hybrid book because that’s how grief is for me – all over the freakin show, intermingled with moments of clarity and belonging, and at others feeling desperately alone and silenced.
It’s been odd since the book came out; a mix of relief, exhaustion, and flatness. Reuben used to say that too whenever he released a new album, and how it often felt ‘over-cooked’. Truckloads of energy went into these grief projects, but putting everything into grief-art, despite being purposeful for myself and others, has taken a massive toll on my wellbeing.
The feedback from those who’ve connected with A Counter of Moons has been potent, heartfelt and moving. To date, I’ve been blessed with generous and hearty responses; yet alongside this I’ve noticed the same pervasive silence that accompanies suicide. All I can do is trust that it’ll make it into the right hands. As a bereaved mother, I saw a major gap in the literature and have attempted to place a signpost there. I’m under no illusion that this book will be a bestseller, because most people seem reluctant to engage with the subject matter; including those who’ve said they can’t because they don’t want to feel sad. I say in the book, “We are expected to get over grief, not wallow in it, and to hide our teary-eyed sleep-deprived faces. Except if you’re me, and these days I say, bugger that. I’ll be real about this, even if it kills me.” It hasn’t killed me yet, and I’m pretty feisty about everyone’s right to do grief in their own way.
In making these three books, I do wonder if there’d be more engagement if I was a shouty wahine standing on the steps of the Beehive! The silence with suicide and difficult emotions, I believe, speaks to our collective fears of going there with our own grief and internal pain. Heaven help us if we are triggered into feeling something other than the socially prescribed or accepted norms.
Here in Palmerston North, a well-known local writer, Paula Harris killed herself in 2023.
Paula was very open, very vocal about her mental health struggles, her suicidal thoughts, her feelings of isolation & her despair at her treatment by mental health professionals.
She wrote about being sectioned in essays published on The Spinoff.
It seemed to me that there was often silence after Paula spoke out on social media or published one of her essays or poems. Not total silence, some people would response and try to say supportive, buoying things, however, it was to little effect.
Whenever suicide features in an art work, there is a often a list of links afterwards and a statement like ‘if you are struggling…help is available.’ In Paula’s case, though, ‘the help’ seemed to make things worse…and with mental health services so underfunded…IS help available, really?’
I’d be interested in your reflections on this, not Paula’s case so much, but more the ‘help is available’ phrase we see/hear so often.
Iona: Thank you for mentioning Paula, and naming the silence.
Last time I saw Paula was at the Verb Writers Festival, we’d followed each other for years on social media. It was great to have a hug, put a face to the name and have a shared rant about the state of the world. It’s important to mention Paula, because she’s just as ‘with us’ as Reuben is. Our dead don’t go into a box, as I’ve mentioned in the book.
Canadian artist Tanya Tagaq says in Split Tooth, “We carry our dead with us like helium ballons. There is no breaking the umbilicus. They have always been with me. They are me.” And it’s up to us to keep their names in the conversation, rather than not. Less avoidance would go a long way towards developing more honest kōrero in our communities.
While I have theories about why people are so afraid to speak about suicide, grief, mental health; when there have been decades of awareness-raising, it still doesn’t make sense. I’ve written about my take on this in A Counter of Moons. The ways we speak of our dead varies a great deal, is often dependant on how they died, and their death-stories seem to have a hierarchy. It’s like I can’t celebrate Reuben’s life, because he took himself out of that life, and the lives of everyone who loved him. It’s as though I must feel ashamed as his mother, for not being a good enough parent. There are many shitty things people have flippantly said to me, about Ru’s suicide. I understand the anger about being suicide bereaved, I’ve been like Mahuika or Kali at times, but beneath any anger are myriad emotions (as we well know). What if we looked inside ourselves first, before opening our māngai to comment on things we know nothing about? What if we made more time for one another without time limits (frankly a preposterous idea when it comes to any kind of grief)?
The silence when we have been open about what’s really going on for us, is palpable. But I reckon the ‘what’s really going on’ is what the general populous find repellent, triggering or easy to avoid. Reuben was often met with silence, as was Paula, and I’ve experienced this in life too. The ‘afterwards list’ of people to contact is probably a way of covering butts, as if to say, “I’m sorry that happened but we did make a list of people for you to connect with.” It’s like there’s even less responsibility taken because of that. I’ve spoken for years about the lack of resources and the lack of funding – and I promised myself not to be political today – but can see that it’s never been high on any politician’s list of priorities. It’s as though we don’t want to see what’s going on in our own backyards; the many dire situations including suicide, homelessness, poverty, and the ways these are spoken to with an increasingly more tokenistic vibe.
In terms of ‘Help’ being available; it can only be available if you are willing and able to access it and there are enough people to provide it. I remember working at Youthline in the 90’s, and how many people would call up simply to have someone on the end of the phone, to combat loneliness. Perhaps we need to attend to the ways we silence one another, and the subsequent loneliness and isolation first?
Can you speak to this? What do you think it is about writing / creativity that has kept you going?
Writing has always been my go-to, when life has overwhelmed me, or when I’ve had nobody to share it with. There’s something incredibly immediate about writing whatever’s in my head down onto the page.
Much of how I defined myself (aka society’s labels) has been stripped away over the last decade with a brain injury, a mesh injury from medical misadventure, being unable to work a normal job ever again, and Reuben’s death. There’s been a great deal of grief and loss to attend to, and with limitations on ‘help’ and a lack of financial resources, I’ve had to dig deep in my own soul and find ways to navigate this.
Poetry, either reading another’s or writing my own, creates space to express what’s going on for me internally. I don’t think we have many options these days, for this kind of expression, that feel safe. The good thing about writing on paper is that you can always use it as a firestarter if you don’t like it! When there’s more space in my head and heart, after expression of intense emotions, I think it leaves space for something new to emerge.
Thank you, my friend, do you have any final thoughts you want to share?
If people want a copy of A Counter of Moons, or the other books I’ve mentioned, I have copies and am happy to post anywhere. Or if money is a barrier, perhaps people could request their local library gets copies? Alternatively, copies can be purchased direct from Steele Roberts Aotearoa.
My hope is that these books will start and continue conversations around suicide bereavement and grief, perhaps even making these conversations more commonplace and without fear or avoidance. As I’ve written in this book, death is a part of life and we need the same village that raises our children, to wrap around us when we face death.
Thank you, Helen, for inviting me along, and for being unafraid to go there with me. Thank you for not joining in with the silence that pervades our society, and for meeting me in a beautiful heart-space, I’m very grateful.
(Above: resident garden Buddha at the bach I stayed in at Ōtaki.)
I’m back from my residency in Ōtaki.
How was it?
Well, all these things are true at once:
It was a wonderful experience. Parts of it were challenging. I got sick. Woke up sick on the first morning. A nasty dose of ‘flu – fevers, sweats, body aches, etc. I managed to do all of my public-facing things but I did not manage to sparkle. I’m a bit sad that I was a depleted version of myself when I was so keen to converse and connect. I was too sick to catch up with my local friends. The beach was stunning. The beach was my new best friend. The cottage I was housed in was wonderful. simple, sweet, one block from the beach. The organisers of the residency are warm, generous, kind people. Once my eyes stopped stinging and streaming, I read a lot. I did not manage to work on my manuscript…too ill to be generative or analytical. I did keep a journal about the whole experience so maybe there’s something in there? Or possibly it’s a load of feverish waffle. I can’t face looking at it right now but will crack it open when I’m all the way recovered and fully landed back in normal life. It was weird. It was confusing. It was perfect.
I know I go quiet when I’m feeling overwhelmed and I observe that many friends do, too.
Let’s try to be there for each other…even when it feels hard.
A recipe for a very weedy pie: ‘Hortopita’
Last week in Ōtaki, I chatted all things winter forage-able weeds with some lovely locals in the beautiful Ōtaki library. (We had planned to do a foraging walk in a near-by park, but rain stopped play so we talked weeds indoors in the warm and dry.)
In every season, something in nature is thriving, and winter is great for fresh, bright green greens, well-watered from all the rain. Here is a recipe which calls for 11 cups of weeds! It’s a wild weeds version of spanokopita, ‘Hortopita’.
I think a lot about food as love and food as care because I’ve had 25 years of cooking for a family.
I like the simplicity and poignancy of this poem about a small moment of a food offering spurned.
(+ Lehndorf-trivia: I flatted with Therese when we were in our 20s. Back then we were part of a performance poetry group called ‘Poetry For Real’.)
By Sunday
You refused the grapefruit
I carefully prepared
Serrated knife is best
less tearing, less waste
To sever the flesh from the sinew
the chambers where God grew this fruit
the home of the sun, that is
A delicate shimmer of sugar
and perfect grapefruit sized bowl
and you said, no, God, no
I deflated a little
and was surprised by that
What do we do when we serve?
Offer little things
as stand-ins for ourselves
All of us here
women standing to attention
knives and love in our hands
Affordable art: original moka pot linoprint
We have a big espresso machine. F is a coffee aficionado and roasts our coffee. Coffee is a big part of our daily ritual.
When I got home F surprised me by telling me that while I was away he didn’t turn on the big noisy coffee beast and just made stove top for himself each morning.
Stove top is what we used to have before we had fancy espresso machines and it’s what we have when traveling.
There’s something so handsome about the classic Bialetti moka pot and it has so many warm associations for me.
I’ve followed Faythe’s creative life since falling in love with her film ‘Handmade Nation’ 16 years ago! (I was part of that wave of renaissance of handmade things and used to make a bit of money selling at Indie Craft Fairs. It was a huge and exciting scene at the time. It’s hard to convey the unique vibe of those first fairs now but at the time they were very fresh and exciting.)
In the article, Faythe finds a very charming hand-illustrated book at a second hand shop and then follows her enamouredness into a research side-road.
The book she finds is charming, Faythe’s writing is so good, the whole premise is very entertaining.
‘The Candy Factory’ – a charming short film
I can’t find the words to express how beautiful this film is so just, please, trust me and watch it. (Content warning: heartbreak.)
*
OK, that’s the digest for this week. Did you miss it last week? & If you’ve read or watched or listened to anything you think I might like, please share in the comments.
Last night I got my 100th subscriber on Substack which is so lovely. If you didn’t know, I write over there about permaculture, radical reciprocity, attempts to live in gift economy, voluntary simplicity, permaculture, foraging & more. I’m still finding my way there, to be honest…but trying not to apply feelings of urgency to things that don’t really need it.
This weekend I am going to:
continue getting better, clean! (house is looking a bit end-of-winter-ish), in the garden, all my rocket is ready at once so I might make a rocket pesto, read more of this book and I’ve been doing some Japanese-inspired visible mending of pants…so I might carry on with that. It’s slow work but looks so great.
(Above: my beloved Buddha statue in our back garden . F imported him from Thailand (!) for my 40th birthday. (So I’ve had him 12 years.) He’s made from volcanic rock and was very black when new. Now he’s faded and mossy…but still serene.)
Hello!
I’ll be taking a break from the digest next week because I am going to be away for ten days being a resident as part of this new artist residency programme down in Ōtaki.
Ten days is the longest I will have been away from my family in 25 years! I feel a bit anxious about who or what or how I will be outside of the braid of my family.
Who AM I when I can think long, digressive thoughts without interruption?
When I only have to worry about feeding myself?
When I don’t have to try to keep everyone’s appointments and life-admin in my head at all times?
When I can utterly design my own schedule each day?
I don’t know.
I’m curious to find out.
Do you think I’ll be okay?
But for now, here’s some thoughtful, calm things for your slow perusal.
A list of genuinely beautiful compliments
Do you ever want to express how much you enjoy or like or care about someone but struggle to find words that don’t feel clunky or inadequate?
Here’s a list of excellent compliments to inspire you. I tend to fall back on the same superlatives with my friends: love love amazing incredible talented strong beautiful…like too much sugar in a dish I worry I become cloying…that it sounds insincere because of the volume. I think they possibly stop hearing me? So this list was inspiring to me.
A song (and an introduction to an amazing person)
‘The heart never tires / the heart is tired all the time’ sings Meg Vellejos McCoy, (formerly Meghan Yates) in this beautiful song.
In 2021, I worked with Meg in her capacity as ‘art monk’ and community pastor. She ran a peer support group…essentially for tired artists to listen to and support one another. To tend to our sadnesses and darknesses so we could move through them and begin to find fresh ground for inspiration. We met via Zoom.
The rest of the group were all in the USA. I was the only southern hemisphere person. That suited me at a moment of despair and burnout when I didn’t want to know anyone or be known in that way that is unavoidable in New Zealand > our tiny floating hobbit village of interconnection.*
Meg was an amazing facilitator, deep listener and reflector. I got so much from the sessions. I feel like she (and the group) gently helped me to put myself back together.
I also feel like they helped tend the ground for magic in my life because while I was in her programme I found out I had gotten the contract for ‘A Forager’s Life’.
I also love her music. I don’t understand why she isn’t more well-known as a musician because I think her music is incredible with very unusual vocalising style, powerful lyrics and a unique voice. You will think I’m exaggerating but I mean this … I think she’s as good as early Joni Mitchell.
If you’re curious about her music there’s a whole live concert here…poignant for how she can hold silence and pause in a live setting where she is the sole focus. Courageous!
It is ridiculously simple to make but sometimes the best dishes are the best because they are simple.
It’s a macerated dried apricot stuffed with an almond and then served with a little whipped cream or rich yoghurt. That’s it! It probably doesn’t sound very impressive. You’ll have to trust me. Tell me in the comments if you try it and what you think.
Affordable Art for the Week
I love the soft light of candles. I love fruit and vegetables.
Usually I prefer plain beeswax candles. I’m not a huge fan of soy or scented candles or novelty candles…but this fig candle looks so much like a fig! I dunno why. I just like it! It amuses me.
They also do apple candles, orange candles, pear candles…even a flat peach! But it was the fig that caught my eye.
A very calm video where a fibre artist lovingly mends some tattered textiles
The combination of her sweet voice, gentle ruminations on ‘make do and mend’ philosophy, her focussed attention, the satisfying mends and upcycling is entirely calming.
If you’re feeling at all frazzled, stop, drop and watch and let the calmness soothe you.
Poem for the week
In this poem, Eddie Krzeminski captures so vividly the impersonal, over-stimulating bamboozlement of the modern supermarket.
The poem floats through random observations and there’s a real sense of his urban isolation and craving for more connection …to both people and food.
‘Daydreaming in Publix’
by Eddie Krzeminski
I’m tired of Apple Jacks, Apple O’s, Apple Crisps,
Apple Cheerios, Apple Cinnamon Toast Crunch,
Apple Chex (Gluten Free), Apple Pebbles,
Apple Raisin Bran, and Apple Frosted Flakes,
but they are always, for some reason, on sale.
*
Standing in the pink menagerie
of meats, I realize that at twenty-five
I still don’t know the difference between
ground chuck and ground round.
I scry my future
through the expiration dates
on milk cartons:
hundreds of empty jugs
towering towards the sky,
surrounded by the shadows
of seagulls.
*
I know there’s a man in a mint green shirt
standing in the darkness behind these shelves
in the milk crate city.
I’ve seen his phantom hands
pushing new cartons out.
Why this urge to reach
and embrace them?
*
Crisp cold bags of butterhead lettuce,
big-stalked celeries, savoy cabbage
rimpled like the folds of a big emerald
brain, yellow and orange bells.
I don’t have enough money
for any of these.
*
O red-haired girl
leaning over
the freeze-dried plums,
blouse drooping
like a night-worker’s
eyelids,
can you teach me
the intricacies
of prunes?
*
I hate the way my hair looks
in the stale white light
of 600 LEDS.
* Charon hauls the carcasses
of spoiled fruit-stuff
behind the swinging double-doors
and down into the underworld.
*
I think of pushing
my bum-wheeled cart
into the stacked pyramid
of Budweiser cases—
the implosion, fugitive cans
bursting against the dur-a-flex floor,
spinning and shooting foam
to the tune of Enrique Iglesias.
*
The fourth grade in me wonders why,
with so many pounds of gelatinous cuisine,
nobody’s thought of starting a food fight.
*
My father taught me
what the color
of the bread ties mean
but among the whole grains
I remember nothing.
*
What did you think of the supermarket poem?
What’s your relationship with supermarkets like?
Have a restful weekend, hey?
Think of me away from home…finding my feet in Ōtaki.
Recently, a new local friend, Kaydee gave me some beautiful small ripe lemons.
I’d been wanting to make some salted lemons so they seemed perfect for a smallish jar of those. Salted lemons are used a lot in both Middle Eastern and Indian cuisines.
On the weekend, I judged them ready. I was going to a social gathering that day so I took the lemons out, scraped away the flesh*, and put the preserved rinds through my blender to make a salted lemon paste.
(*some people use this part too…but it didn’t taste very good to me. I did use it to clean the inside of my sink before I put it in the compost.)
I know my friends are busy people and I figured the preserve was more likely to be used if they could just scrape out a bit with a spoon rather than having to take it a lemon, rinse it and finely slice it.
Even a small jar of preserved lemons makes a lot...too much for our household to get through in the six months they last. So it was helpful to me to have some people to share it with.
This is how it looked blended & before I labelled the lids.
Something I’ve learned from attending Crop Swaps is that making signs is super helpful. Then anyone interested can just take a photo of the sign and the gifter doesn’t have to answer the same questions many times.
So here’s the little note I made when I put the containers of lemon paste on the table to be shared:
I think he’s kind of a nature-writer’s writer, in that not many people seem to have heard of him yet his way of life and his nature writing (he only published one book in his lifetime, ‘Waterlog’ and two were published post-humously) are seminal in their influence on writing and eco-memoir, kind of like how people say about the Velvet Underground that they weren’t very big in their hey-day but they influenced thousands of people to become musicians. Nature writer Robert McFarlane remembers him here.
I’ve learned about the fascinating back story of Caspian Sea Yoghurt, because my friend Bev gave me some of her starter. It’s very easy to make, no heat needed, it ferments whilst just sitting out on the bench.
I’ve now made my first batch and it’s so good! It has a mild, sour flavour that is very satisfying. I’m a convert.
I op-shopped this vintage-looking (not sure if it is, though) cushion which I just love and have been enjoying gazing at.
If it IS handmade, the embroidery is so detailed and beautiful. Check out those french knots in the centre!
I’ve been making variations of this winter tonic each morning, but I often throw in a garlic clove (doesn’t taste great but excellent for gut health and immunity) and a kiwifruit as well.
I’ve been watching Wolf Hall and loving the costumes, the intensity of the wranglings of the court and Mark Rylance’s incredible, nuanced performance as the lead character.
This brief but darling song is so sweet and captivating. I confess I’ve been adding it to various playlists for years now, but I just don’t tire of it.
An exciting new resource for vintage imagery free of copyright
Public.Work is a very cool new resource for sourcing copyright-free vintage imagery which you can use for creative projects. It’s really nicely designed and fun to use.
A painting which I saw in real life back in 2023 which has stayed with me
In 2023, I saw this painting, ‘Merville Garden Village near Belfast’, by English artist, Stanley Spencer, at the Dunedin Public Art Gallery when I was down there for an event at the Dunedin Readers and Writer’s festival for ‘A Forager’s Life’. (I wasn’t new to Stanley Spencer. I’ve read books about him and admire his work a lot so it was a real treat to see this IRL.)
I looked at it for a very long time. It’s even more beautiful in real life. It resonated for me as someone who likes to lurk around marginal spaces and does a lot of gazing over back fences and sideways vistas. On the Dunedin Public Library website they say of the painting,
‘Painted on-site while Stanley Spencer stayed with his elder brother Harold near Belfast, this painting compels us to emulate what this great British painter loved to do: climb up and peer over at ‘ungetatable’ places. (…) he brings the richness of the everyday to our attention. (…) The unpromising view is full of promise.’
That latter sentence captures so much of a forager’s approach to life!
Something to watch: a peaceful, inspiring tour of the Mahara Sculpture Garden in Coromandel
I’ve added it to the list of places I’d love to visit in the Coromandel. (Holidays are tricky for us with a disabled (now adult) kid who can’t cope with being away from home for more than a couple of nights…but I trust I will get there one day.)
A rebel 74-year old living off-grid in England
Speaking of potters, I enjoyed this article on World of Interiors about a potter, George Upwell, who was still living off-grid at age 74. I love the photographs of his simple, artful house and rebel spirit. (This article was first published in 2013.)
(Please comment below if you have any suggestions for the affordable art part of my digests. I’d love any leads from you.)
This simple and beautiful lino print of our native eel, by Carrie Dingwall is just $40.00. There’s only ten available, so if you share my love for eels, get in quick!
Today, my son Willoughby and I weeded, pruned, fed and mulched the raspberry patch. There’s something about doing tasks in deep winter that are about looking ahead to summer eating that make me feel so satisfied.
We also planted a weeping Kowhai and some more kawakawa…slowly trying to add more native plants to our small urban garden.
I hope your weekend is a pleasing mix of attending to tasks, resting and topping up your inspiration cup.
Helen Lehndorf 