Memories of my Gallipoli Pilgrimage - Lest We Should Ever Dare to Forget

Anzac Day.  A day of National Remembrance.  A day that heralded the beginnings of the spirit of the Anzac.  A day that draws together Australians and New Zealanders alike to recall our birth as independent nations thrown into a foreign war.  A day that serves as a stark reminder that we should never forget those brave men who went boldly before us, blind to the horrors that they were about to see, to live, to experience perpetually, day in, day out, for the rest of their lives.   And also, most importantly, it is a day in which many fellow travellers in the backpacking fraternity make the pilgrimage to Gallipoli to pay tribute to our fallen heroes. 

86 years on from that fatefully still spring morn of April 25, 1915, it became my turn to pay homage and to reminisce, back in 2001.

At 1.30am our bus rolled into Anzac Cove, the surrounding terrain already strewn with  a sea of sleeping bags, humans huddling beneath them, shielding themselves from the biting cold.  By 4.30am, when no more Coaches were permitted to enter this sacred stretch of pristine coastline, there was not a spare pinch of space to be seen on the whole peninsula!

As dawn broke over the Cove that morning, we all stood proudly, albeit stiffly to attention as the Ceremony began, and  I was mesmerized by the enormity of the fact I was witnessing history, there being a record crowd in attendance again.

The minute silence was powerful.  Picture the stillest, prettiest, palest blue sea, the calmest, most serene sky, with a backdrop of 15,000 Australians and New Zealanders silent, standing tall, each of us propelled back in time with our respective thoughts of how utterly horrific it had to have been to look upon acts such your best mate being blown away in a bevy of bullets, or to have helplessly faced imminent danger as you charged towards the enemy, your only weapon some ancient pistol, and your birth certificate vouching for only 20 odd years of life so far.  And when the first strains of The Last Post began to echo throughout the hillsides, it was all I could do to stop the tears from flowing freely.

The exquisite beauty of the morning seemed almost to mock us, and the significance of this day. As I took in my surroundings, I found it hard to fathom such atrocities had taken place in this same spot.  But then again, maybe its serenity was now acting to remind us all how far we had come in the world, and how much we truly have to appreciate today.

On the eve of Anzac Day, I had been lucky enough to properly explore this sacred area.  Doing so, my mind became immersed in the thoughts of this chilling war, and you could not help but question in bewilderment how such enthusiastic youths with a passion for adventure more so than a yearning to show allegiance to their “Mother Country”, with their whole innocent lives stretching brilliantly before them, could have ever been prepared for such sights of brutality and barbarity…. I strolled along the same beach that they had trodden in trepidation, stared in awe at the imposing cliff faces they were expected to scale in the face of certain death, and crouched in narrow trenches that they were forced to call home….

And you cannot help but ponder, how on earth could any of them mentally, physically or emotionally survived?

As the Dawn Service came to an emotional end, my fellow Aussies then made the trek to our country's Memorial site, Lone Pine, to behold another moment of pride for our fallen heroes.

There are almost no words to describe the fervent, patriotic atmosphere present here.

Imagine 12,000 Australians gathered together in close proximity, all unquestionably filled with pride, patriotic juices coursing through their veins, the sounds of exuberant voices singing loud and proud along to traditional Aussie melodies that everyone (sadly) knew the words to (we’re talking Road to Gundagai material here, folks!) , an almost tangible current of electricity permeating the masses. And here was I, lucky enough to be one!

My most treasured memory however, and one that still gives me goosebumps now, will stay vividly entrenched in my mind, reassuring me that the Anzac spirit is still burning brightly. Once the Official Party had arrived, and been seated, an announcement was made by the Emcee that there were still some seats available in the cordoned off area, and if there were any War Veterans out in the crowd, they were welcome to take up the spare reserved seating.

Suddenly, in the distance, a man stood tall and began to make his way to the front of the crowd, then another, who was all bent over with age, came forward, both displaying their various regalia of medals with dignified, quiet pride.

Within an instant, the throng of 12,000 sprang to our feet, and, in an act of unprovoked and spontaneous admiration, we stood and cheered and clapped until our hands were red raw, and our voices hoarse. Then another appeared, supported by a younger lady, and still we stood, applauding, our eyes welling with tears.

It was the single most selfless act of gratitude and awe I have ever seen by a group of likeminded people, and we were all so moved by the impulsiveness that had swept through the thousands assembled, like one of the bushfire infernoes that wreak havoc back home in Oz. It was by no means an outlandish display of behaviour; we were simply, utterly, thankful and wanted these men to know they were appreciated and admired. And at no other moment in my 22 years of life, had I ever been so damn proud to be an Australian, or more certain that the unique spirit of the Anzac had not been extinguished.

I will long cherish my unforgettable sojourn to Gallipoli, feeling so lucky to have experienced such bursting pride for my homeland that became irrevocably instilled within me as I stood in the brilliant sunshine at Lone Pine, and Anzac Cove. And I continue to promote to all my fellow countrymen and women that they should see it as their duty to make the same journey, as we cannot let such an integral part of our Nation’s history fall prey to the trials of time passing, and be forgotten. Because truly, if we ever stop remembering why April 25 is so very significant, then that will be almost as devastating and unacceptable as the war itself.

Anzac Day – lest we should never dare to forget....

Remembering Independence Day - A Decade On

April 17, 2001, a fresh faced 22 year old country girl, who’d never lived outside the confines of her comfort zone, let alone the small coastal town of Coffs Harbour that she’d forever known as “home” weaved her way anxiously through the throng of fellow weary travellers who’d disembarked along with her at Heathrow, a 22 hour flight, and many conflicting emotions trailing behind her.  The day before she had kissed goodbye all semblance of the sad little cocoon she’d been cosseting herself in.  London beckoned, and along with it, a bright and bold new universe of adventure.

The emotions swirled so vividly around her largely because of the tumultuous three months prior to this date.  Just as a snake might do its skin, she shed her old life ENTIRELY, commencing a wild rollercoaster ride of giddy highs of excited expectation and equal low measures of dread.    Changing her holiday plans to relocation plans, it effectively entailed quitting her long time employment, applying for a working Visa, selling her car as well as all her worldly possessions.  It also signalled the death knell in a rocky four year relationship, causing her to move back home with her parents until the equally anticipated and feared date of April 16 arrived.  All that was left of life as she knew it was the smouldering ashes of a existence yet to be lived.  And although petrified about farewelling those near and dear, as well as making this enormous leap of faith into the unknown, she had two significant lifelines propelling her onwards.  

With her sister already being based in London, along with a spookily accurate Clairvoyant prompting her to make this move, she garnered up the mammoth amounts of courage required and dove head first into the deep end of the pool.  Oh yes, she floundered and fought hard to swim to safety, but ultimately she remembered the prophetic words the psychic had uttered, to reassure her she was on the right path for her destiny.

Without it, some of the most treasured memories and friendships she will ever have could not have been borne into existence. When you live so far away from home, friends take on a whole other level of importance in your world. Mates morph into family members and you forge unbreakable bonds that carry you through the lonely homesick times, as well as unforgettably mark the celebratory ones.

10 years on and the travel memories are still lovingly cherished & remembered as if they are inked (much like her little "souvenir" from Camden Town!) permanently in her soul.

• Standing tall with immense pride, watching the sun rise over the mockingly still and serene ANZAC Cove on April 25, along with 15000 fellow countrymen;
• Dancing and drinking through Europe on the ultimate Contiki adventure of a lifetime (oh, and taking in some pretty freakin’ amazing sights along the way!),
• Living it up in the beloved Golders Green digs up, affectionately known as “Club 39” with the most amazing assortment of flatmates and fab memories of impromptu and well planned parties (any night of the week!). Special mention to her 23d birthday where her elderly Landlord made an unexpected visit at about 11pm, after complaints from the ultra conservative neighbours
•  Surviving travelling solo from Austria to Sicily and only getting ripped off the once!
• Seeing sights such as the Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum, the ancient city of Ephesus, pretending to live large in Nice, as well as cruising the canals of Venice, the stunning Southern Italian Amalfi Coastline and the Greek Islands.  And drinking in the divine sunsets, such as on Santorini, where people actually reward Mother Nature with a standing ovation..
• Witnessing the spectacle of an Italian Premier League football match at the world famous San Sirro Stadium, Milan, with 80,000 fanatical fans, letting off flares, and chanting, war rally style!
• Meeting wonderful mates Corker, Minol, Shellski, Rach, Al, Byron (& all the Hendon House of Horrors crew!), Johnny & Pete; all of whom rocked her world.  Whether partying in the sawdust strewn Backpacker pub, singing their anthem of "Land Down Under", or hosting family Roast Dinners on a Sunday night, she'll forever be indebted to each of you for making this brand new world feel like "home" 

Although she is guilty of forgetting it far too often, this is the chapter in her life which eventually established person she is today. The gifts have been many: character building, independence and knowledge, all gleaned from this 18month escape from responsibility.  And once she’d completed this desperately overdue apprenticeship of single life, the universe soon presented her with the supreme reward. Her Husband.

And how do I know all about her dreams and discoveries that were unearthed on this personal tour that became the making of her?

Because this girl was me.  And I say to her, Happy Birthday –I feel but only 10 years young after being reborn on that day a decade before...

Oh the Irony...

It is one of life’s little ironic jokes that at the very time the Doctor is ordering you to take your stress levels down a notch, that of course more curve balls get throw your way.

Last night I was relaxing on the lounge with a glass of red and feeling as though I was winning the battle and feeling fine.  Until I heard an unusual cough and cry from the toddler’s bedroom. 

Upon inspection, I found him swathed in a sticky pile of his own spew, covering half the confines of his bed.  Ushering him half asleep into the bathroom, where he stubbornly refused a bath or shower, I commenced scraping the vomit, which was thickly plastered all through his hair, face and top half and cursing silently under my breath.  A few hours before we’d been laughing hilariously as he danced naked in the lounge room, full of vim and vigour, to the tunes on MTV.  And now he was about to hurl all my Monday plans out in the same fashion his dinner made a re-appearance on his dinosaur bedspread.

So instead of curling up and watching the end of my show, come 10pm on a Sunday night I was forcibly clogging the drains with the contents of my son’s stomach and planning to do two loads of washing. And because I was erring on the side of fear I bundled the boy into my bed for the night to keep an eye on him. And what with his penchant to sleep in a diagonal fashion and apparent early signs of restless leg syndrome I wore my fair share of kicks in the back during the long night.  Though I should have been thankful for those as at least they meant he was asleep. Unlike 5am. Wide awake and demanding (illness aside) that the day begin.  After a futile 45 minute fight, he won his way.

And did I mention that while this was going on The Husband was blissfully tucked up in a posh Hunter Valley resort?  Ironically (again),  we’d also been invited along but feeling as weary as I had of late I’d declined, thinking a easy weekend at home was exactly what H & I needed, especially considering we’re due away this coming one too. Not such a smart move on my part afterall…

So my plans dispose of the child to an extra day of daycare so that I could get my high blood pressure testing done in peace (you know, without the toddler accidentally inflicting said high blood pressure), as well as enduring the 12 hr fast (easier feat to undertake without a child underfoot) were well and truly thwarted. Can you also believe it is also the only time I’ve known my son to want to share his beloved (and also mine) Vegemite Toast with me.  And I had to decline…!

So the terror toddler trundled along as they extracted litres of blood from my arm. Which was fine except for the fact he proceeded to tip the contents of his sultana packet across the pathology room floor.  That and he announced loudly to the whole waiting room outside “Mummy, why are you weeing into that cup?” when I was in the bathroom collecting my other required sample… It was head down all the way out the door for me!

One crisis was avoided however (Thanks Be To God!) when I rang to inquire if there were any cancellations so as to come in earlier for my blood tests – my appointment could not be found! And then after rushing in as soon as a free spot showed up, I was forced to wait 35 minutes for my turn.  After 12.5 hours of no food crossing these lips it was all I could do not to faint.

Finally, as I was given the all clear to stuff my face, the muesli bar I’d brought along to eat was accidentally propelled from my hand when the pram hit a bump, mere metres from the Surgery door…

And to top the day off in a supreme fashion there were wees on the floor and poos in the underpants just prior to bedtime. Because clearly the last 24 hours had not seen me scrubbing soiled materials enough.

In theory I guess most of this is that “small stuff” I referred to in my previous post.  Still, you can’t help but want to scream just a little; but the soothing voice inside your head reminds you it’s all part of the bumpy path of life.  So no, the million and one chores I’d planned to get done today have not been crossed off the To-Do List, but at least the boy has bounced back to good health.  In fact, in a further twist of irony, he announced, as he woke from his lunch time sleep “I feel all better now Mummy, take me to school.”.  If only buddy, if only….

I can only hope too I bounce back with the same resilience as he! Onwards to tomorrow; a brand new day.  (My birthday, even)

Babies, the Movie - Your Chance to Win!

To know me, is to know my glowing subsequent endorsement of anything the Divine Ms Oprah Winfrey has pressed her gold seal of approval to. So when I sat down to watch an episode dedicated to the lives of four newborns, found from the four corners of the globe, in the fascinating new documentary “Babies”, I knew this would be a movie I’d also put on my “must see” list.

Directed by award-winning filmmaker Thomas Balmès, and not surprising hailed as the cutest film of the year, we meet Bayarjargal from Mongolia, Mari who resides in Japan, Ponijao who’s home is the dusty desert of Namibia, as well as the blue eyed girl Hattie, who hails from the USA.  Free from subtitles and translations, it focuses on their individual journeys “from first breath to first step”.

It is compelling viewing, giving an amazing insight in to the vastly differing childhoods these lifestyles offer. And while we all may have varying methods of parenting our precious newborns, the common denominator is love.  It is present in beautiful abundance no matter if you live in a thriving metropolis or an isolated safari plain.

As Thomas articulates, "What I realized, and you realize in the film [is] whatever the environment is, the basic needs are fulfilled. As long as there is love, the baby goes well."

So, now for you Sydney based readers, the good news.  Thanks to Madman Entertainment I’ve five family passes (admitting four people per pass) to give away to a special preview screening of this masterpiece movie, being held on Sunday May 1 at Event Cinemas Macquarie Megaplex.  All you need to do is be a follower of my blog, and leave me some comment love telling me one of your own all time favourite memories of that first year of your child's life.

The winner will be selected by Random.org at 1pm Monday April 18, 2011.

Until then, check out the too cute trailer here – www.babiesthemovie.com.au

Time to be Grateful - lets take the pressure down...

Sometimes in life we are recipients of bad news that we may not enjoy at the time, but ultimately are grateful for.   I’ve felt the dawning of it for some months now, as if a huge wake-up call was looming, creating a shift that was going to re-shape this stressful little universe of mine.

I’d been feeling “off” for a while, and without pinpointing the exact cause, I thought I knew enough to put it down to part of being a tired Mummy with a child who no longer knew the meaning of the term “sleep through the night” and who seemed to be ambitiously overcommitting her energies in far too many directions.  The feelings of dizziness, the headaches, at some moments wanting to scream and at others to simply cry or hide; I assumed it was self-inflicted, thanks to the overcrowding my life of late.  Too many appointments in the calendar on weekends, too much going on during the week  when my husband I were but ships in the night, taking turns to travel 8 -10hrs a week for work, and seeming like single parents the rest of it.

My desire to “get up and go” was already gone.  I felt I was running on empty, but all the while still pushing myself to meet all these commitments, and trying to ignore the ball of anxiety that was taking up permanent residency in my chest. And instead of having full momentum to face each project or appointment, I was instead trying to muster the strength to plaster the smile on my face and push down on the lethargy and pressure I was enduring. Factor in the guilt that I was not being everything I should be to everyone I love and I was a ticking time bomb.  Literally.

Stress and I have always been acquaintances; this was nothing new.  But when you finally decide you need to make that Dr appointment, because you can no longer deny that niggle in your mind telling you all is not well, and are feeling increasingly highly strung, dizzy and faint, you never quite know what news might rock your world.

Hello high blood pressure, at only 31, and no significant family history of it, its apparently become my new best friend.  No wonder my head has felt like it’s about to explode of late. Or that my chest might spontaneously combust.  With stress levels through the roof and a life which has left me with no real time to dedicate to exercise, and a diet in strong need of an overhaul, I’ve felt like a balloon who is creeping too close to the sun. Waiting for that moment when its just all going to go bang.

While I still face tests on tomorrow to see the underlying issues that have caused this, I’m also taking matters into my own hands.  Immediately I knew things had to change. I am the loathed person who sweats the small stuff, who can let a trivial little matter colour her whole world.  Sometimes I just internalise it all, other times I find myself taking it out on the ones I love the most by being half the person I should be.  On that note I should issue humble apologies to the Husband and son for being so cranky of late, and heartfelt thanks for still loving me unconditionally! As I kiss each of you goodnight, I’m always overcome with how lucky I am to inhabit your worlds.

So I am reinstating my meditation breathing, reminding myself to live with an open heart (Oprah style!) enjoying a hearty red before bed each night (medicinal purposes only, naturally!) and attempting to refocus my rose coloured glasses outlook on life. Because although I forget in the hurricane of everyday life, I’m actually very blessed.  And I am going to try so hard to tell myself  it doesn’t matter if it takes 17 times to ask my son to clean his teeth, pick up his toys, do his wees and poos on the potty or go/stay in bed (ok, so clearly it still does, but I’ll work on that, promise); I’d do far better by directing my energies into being the sort of Mummy he deserves.  A healthy (and happy) one.

I’m grateful for this wake up call to alter my way of life.  Stress, and the resulting trauma, is truly not worth the health hassle.  

Who turned out the lights?

This week I am in mourning; grieving for an end of daylight savings that feels like it is gone too soon, far before its necessary time… And as a result it seems to have set off some sort of seasonal jet-lag within me.

Last Daylight Savings Beach Trip

The first week after the clocks change, I feel like I’m forever playing catch up with my body clock.  And yes, even though we theoretically gain an extra hour sleep, when you have a child who is not old enough to understand the joys or mechanics of sleeping in, it’s but a wasted delight.  The knock on effect continues with me wanting to be in bed ridiculously early followed by being wide awake far before I’m obliged to be.  And don’t get me started on the child, who suddenly thinks it’s acceptable to be awake at 4am, thinking its 

5am (his apparently preferred time to rise).

We also lament the loss of long lazy evenings of sunshine; of late day dips at the beach, or childhood twilight antics in the backyard.  No more hanging my washing out at 4pm and having it dry the same day.  Then there’s the arrival of the non-existent level of enthusiasm in which to exercise (and somehow avoid putting on all that winter weight).  But most mournful of all, no more daylight to greet me as I return home from work at 7pm.  Now the sky is cloaked in its inky blackness, making the weariness more acute and the impetus to get my evening jobs done even less appealing.

As you can tell, I don’t do the dark well.  Once the sun skulks off to bed, my motivation mopes off right along with it. I long to curl up on the lounge in my most comfy clothes and eat hearty foods and make our home “sloth central” headquarters.  Of course this is but a futile fight to undertake; responsibilities sadly don’t end to coincide with dusk.

The change in season seems to have crept up on me; the crisp cool air biting at my face as I wait at train station, being wrenched from my warm bed as I try to soothe my child back into his slumber.  Plus I can’t help but feel we were royally ripped off this Spring just gone, my balmy days of perfect temps being replaced with an unseasonably long wintry presence.  The result of it is I am just not an Autumn or Winter girl.  The sunny seasons are what sustains me, and allows be to breathe. I feel as if I hold my breath March through August, willing that warmth to seep back into my icy bones.

Perhaps I was a bear in a former life, such is my strong desire to just hibernate away these wintry months.  Oh to find a sunny spot filtered from the chills of cold and snooze the 6 month stretch through until the days become lighter and longer again…

I know I ought to be thankful that the NSW Labour Government got something right and lengthened the blissful daylight savings period in recent years (and I am also grateful I don't reside in QLD where apparently this phenomenon is responsible for fading the curtains and therefore unable to be implemented...) but oh, extended sunlight I do miss you so.  I shall be counting down to October when we let there be extended light in our lives once more. 

What I Know For Sure About The Blessings of Failure (via the Weekend Rewind...)

There’s a place in cyber space that we bloggers like to hang out come the weekend, and its affectionately known as the Pink Fibro.  The lovely Al hosts a “weekend rewind” where old blog posts are showered with new love.  For bloggers, its like lovingly dusting off an old memory and re-sharing with the world.

The theme for this weekend relates to November posts, which for me was when I was exploring my obsession with all things Oprah Winfrey and all the things I know for sure.  And one of my most treasured is the Ms O interview with the inspiring authoress JK Rowling.

Week 9, Winfrey Watch - What I Know For Sure About JK Rowling and the blessings of failure

It was June 2008, Harvard Commencement Speech, where arguably the world’s most successful author, JK Rowling imparted some of her most powerful words of wisdom – those that were not in print on the pages of her equally famous books – to an enthralled audience:

“It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all”.  She reveals, “My greatest fear had been realised – and I was still alive”.  You see, the woman christened Joanne Rowling, faced rejection 12 times with her wonderful tale of wizardry.  But thirteen soon proved a lucky number and Harry Potter was to be in print.   Now, 400 million books sales later, translated into 69 languages in 200 countries, the final book in the series has the auspicious honour as the fastest selling book of all time.

Rowling is, as Oprah announces, “the first self made billionaire author in history”, who went from utter obscurity, living in borderline poverty, and dealing with clinical depression and life as a single mother; a time where she acknowledges she was “barely hanging by a thread”, to being hailed as “the Queen of the Publishing World”.  She can now lay claim to an enormously successful literary empire, the likes of which has been responsible for reignited a passion for reading, an imagination, amongst the world’s youth.  Indeed, its no stretch to proclaim that one-day, every child in the world will know the name Harry Potter.

Jo, who was requested to make her pen name the initials JK, so as to also appeal to the male readership market, was, surprisingly, like many wannabe writers, also one to suffer attacks of self doubt.  She acknowledges being a writer was “all [she] ever wanted to be” – deep down she knew there was the undeniable fact that she could tell a story – it was just a small process of finding the right tale to tell.  And when she did discover it, aboard a train en route from Manchester to London, the floodgates opened.  “It was the thing I was meant to write”, she recounts with a sincere simplicity, even though she admits writing for children was never something she had given much thought to.  Little would she know that it would be many generations who would lose themselves in her magical make believe world of wizardry…

We share quite a few similarities (one unfortunately, is not our bank balance!) and appear to have harboured so many of the same dreams.   We’re both been rather terrified of cars, previous to being published she was, as Oprah tells us, leading a“modest life as a secretary in London”, and most compatible of all, we both share a love of words.  But where the similarities end, is that she conquered her fear of failure and finally found success.  Many of us (ok, ME) are living “in a straightjacket of our own making”, scared to dip our toes into the rushing waters of life, lest we don’t manage to swim to shore.  She happens to think failure is a beautiful, blessed thing, because it makes the reward, when it finally comes (as long as you have the self belief and resolve), all the more worthwhile.

So what I know for sure, during this most memorable of hours spent ensconced in the delight that is viewing the Oprah Show, is that JK Rowling can be an inspiration to anyone who feels they too have a tale to impart to the world, yet still struggle under the murky depths of self doubt. 

And what she knows for sure, as she recounted to Oprah, during the final minutes of the enlightening interview (of which Oprah announces with heartfelt honesty, that she just has had so much fun chatting to one of the most respected women in the world – it was a dynamic meeting of mutually great minds) is that love conquers all.  And that is some sort of rich belief to cling to, when you have beared your soul to God in the face of utter despair, many, many years before.  “Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life”: a simple, yet profound statement that furnishes for so many of us, a hope that we too can overcome our own personal obstacles in our individual pursuits of success.

You're The Voice?

If there was a recurrent theme that seemed to continually materialise during the recent Aussie Bloggers Conference, it was the importance of unearthing your unique blogging voice.

And here in lies the rub… because everyone else seems so sure of their passion, purpose and plan. Yet I’m floundering like the US currency!

I used to think I was a “mummy blogger” (and proudly so) and that was all the categorisation that was required of me.  Naively I now see there seems to be some sort of backlash against that term - no one likes to be pigeon holed I guess.  I do also wonder if you can be considered a successful blogger and still hold something back?  Because if you are not in the business of being confrontational or controversial, or painfully honest about some of your most significant struggles in life, can you still provide riveting posts to your readers?

Raw honesty abounds in blogland.  It is quite a privilege to be invited into someone’s inner sanctum and have his or her experiences shared.  My admiration for these bloggers who have the courage to tell it how it is, and refuse to paint with pastels any situation that might just be black and white, is endless.

How then, to be an engaging, insightful and entertaining writer, when you still keep some layers tucked away behind a wall of privacy?  Offering the Gods of cyber space the sacrifice of any personal struggles for the whole world to see would not just affect me; and hence I am not willing to take that risk.  Indeed the few times I’ve inadvertently pushed the boundaries and accidentally inflicted unintentional hurt its ended up causing me just as much pain.

Perhaps of late I’ve just lost sight of the reason why I blog.  True, it was born for posterity; to hand to my Harrison a bound book; a treasure trove of memories that most likely would have gotten lost in the modernity of life.

But then a funny thing happened along this little journey – I reignited a long lost love of all things literary.  I’d look at the world a little differently, and often stumble upon little triggers that would see me start to wonder “is there a blog post in that?”

And so I began to stretch my voice.  Its malleability was a revelation.  Perhaps I did have more to offer than stories centred purely on my offspring,

After my first “break-out” post, I started to receive comments from complete strangers.  I discovered there was a whole other blogging community out there (stupidly I thought I was but an island!) and eagerly immersed myself in the business of becoming a regular blog reader.  And whoa, what a realisation that has been.  You suddenly realise that your words, which you humbly thought carried some polish, truly has nothing on some of the shining gems out there in the big black hole of cyber space!

But after almost two years blogging (which is no time at all compared to others) I have arrived at a point where I must make some decisions.  Do I put my all into this and build it to be the best it can be, or distribute my writing energies so that my fiction and plans to tackle the freelance market also come to fruition?

Time to determine the purpose, passion and path I am on – hopefully that will then help the elusive “voice” I seek (like a Oprah “A-ha” moment) to shine.