A Toast

To the beloved dead, I drink a toast 

of gratitude, of thanks, for this life

that you shared, you share 

with me, in land across the ocean from

my home you walk, you fly, you swim

side me.

A toast I drink today in gratitude that

your life touched,  touches me

as writing, dreaming, planning there

you are, the breeze of 

inspiration found. 

A toast to you my ancestors 

of blood, of bone, 

of heart and soul, 

you chose to come, you choose

to stay, connected yet

across the world, the veil. 

gkn October 31 2015 

Changing tides,  changing seasons,  changing life

ancestors presence in all I do

like the seed pods,  the flowers dying, 

the shells filled with life, or death, 

always,  still influencing the thoughts, 

the feelings coursing through

me in this time of

revelations realized ,  mystery, 

changing light. 

gkn October 31, 2015

Babka

And so the day begins, with a walk to Babka, a Cafe on the list of best places to write in Melbourne. Upon arrival I was greeted by racks of bread, freshly baked, a blackboard menu, that was not making decision making easy! 

The choice was narrowed down to two,  corn coconut and coriander fritters served with avocado,  chilli and lime or ricotta hot cakes mascarpone, pistachio and praline with vanilla scented blackberries. The hot cakes won.  Cold water was brought, a glass and a galvanized pitcher for one, then my loose leaf jasmine green tea in a pit strainer on the side with an extra pot of hot water for good measure...

I am beginning to feel like a travel writer, perhaps something to think about, to be considered, yet another, later life career choice, thoughts?   Travel writer for the Zoomer generation from a tea, bakery and Cafe lovers perspective.

In search of cafes for writing ( and good food too :)

The busyness of yesterday's Great Ocean Road tour did not allow time for pen and paper or rather, perhaps what is true is I did not put pen to paper because I chose feet, body in water, parrots eating out of my hands, curiosity peaking conversations, limestone formations to hike to, ...Today, Victoria market will not be seen by me,  I choose instead a continuation of the cafe's to write in tour, followed by time with a not yet met friend,  Amanda, Abby's sister. 

Off I go to CIBI which according to my Cafe tour inspiration is " the best Cafe in Melbourne, not only that, it is in Collingwood, an up and coming neighbourhood in Melbourne, according to the real estate ads. I find CIBI nestled in with warehouses  potters, artists, it is itself a warehouse, studio space.  I step into wide open spaces, an eclectic chair and table collection.  A welcoming space, for sfrollers, and walkers, for toddlers, wobbly legged crossing the floor with adults in action. 

A menu that is filled with options that include fruit and salad, this morning a savoury option wins.

A place of quiet corner space to write, more tea is offered.  I feel the invitation stay, as long as you wish, write, be here chose solitude, a respite from the busy storm of Melbourne city life,  I sit a while.

the best Cafe award in Melbourne understood, and now to try another. 

191 Smith Street calls, Cafe Rosamond,  here I come and on the way I pass the Collingwood gallery, the food co-op, a patagoni store with a winter sell off,  it is a slow meander down Smith Street, through Collingwood, until I find it, (noting first a missing number between boutique not yet open clothing shops) in a side door with Rosamond  graffitied by its door, along with other art work, like that found on Hosier street.  It is a hole in the wall,  with bar for ordering just inside the door and to the left some steps into a "small business big enough to support marriage equality" as the sign on the door indicates on rainbow parchment.  Breakfast already eaten, I resist the urge for croissant, Danish or vintage egg on toast and order tea,  shades of grey is served. A corner table beckons,  I sit and write awhile with tea, white pot and cup and saucer too.  Another best Cafe could be awarded here,  the friendliest award I think, I'd give.

I learn here that one side of Smith Street is Fitzroy, the other Collingwood.  Some writing done, a newspaper partially read and on to Brunswich street again,  no repeat Babka  visit but this time the goal to Alimentari.

I miss the number 251 and am called instead, inside another becoming space by sandwich board that reads "Zetta Cafe now open so stories can continue to be told,". Another heaven offered up to me,  fine stationary, cards, wax stamps for letter seals, calendars, notebooks, and pens and at the back a cafe spacious tables, open light, another one to add to cafes to write in, to be in...

A glance at time piece tells me that this leisurely Cafe morning is rushing to an end,  so off I go back track slightly to check out Alimentari, peak in the door to see a waiting crowd round take out counter with lunch time delights, and in the back a cozy space for eating in and writing, it is true.  No time for me to write there now. 

 I go on to meet Amanda now,  oh what a gift to meet this sister friend and see in her the eyes of light enthusiasm shared with Abby.  Her spirit engaged and open leads us to share a time that quickly passed, connection felt and shared, and then she said before I go, if you like tea I want to show you a tea room, it's just down here. 

How many heavens might there be  We step inside, senses awaken by the the sights, the smells, tea samples white and purple are offered up, beside a counter filled with bread and cakes and biscuits, as they call cookies here.  Open till six she says, I will return, and off we go my new acquaintance friend and I, a hug and then she's gone it's time to write again. 

Tea shops and cafes belong on different lists, my work is not yet done, to Melbourne I will must need to return,  I could use help,  any offers? 

gkn October. 2015

Stories

The great ocean road winds, the city streets call, as two days of exploring history and beauty in and around Melbourne keep me in motion, from early morning to late night.  The aborigine stories and creative expression,  alive still, bring me such hope, cause tears to run down my face, the courage of the human spirit,  faith beyond reason, the bunji ( check it out) stands tall stories of  life to Melbourne. 

 Yesterday  I was blessed to share a great ocean road tour with 11 other story tellers.  They came from England, the United States, Canada,  and  Western Australia.  They came with differing stories and different hopes,  and together we shared a long day in and out of van. 

Together we delighted in the awe at the crashing waves, the picturesque cliffs and the pick axes that created the road we travelled,  together we laughed at the kangaroos escaping golf balls, we debated the value of sport,  we ventured in politics,  we ventured out,  we shared laughter,  dreams, for this day we shared our lives.  We walked cliffs to see cliffs and we waited with one another to share our pictures, our delights,  our fears of dying batteries. We passed seed hand to hand, to make sure everyone could hold the colourful wild tamed uncaged birds,  We pointed eyes and fingers upward at the koala spread eagle in the tree.  We climbed out of the van and watched to make sure the achidna made it to safety on the S turn  road side.  

We shared curiosity. 

It was a day of learning, our tour guide offering some of the tidbits, my fellow travellers offering others. Today, I awake less tired than last night,  so grateful for the adventures I get to share for the individuals whose paths cross with mine for a day and change me for a lifetime. 

Yes, there will be pictures and there are toooo many to post them all I will chose a few 😊

  Swatting flies a pass time here in Australia 😊

gkn October.1015

Porcelain

The full moon reflected brightly on the Victorian homes of Carlton as I meandered down Rathdowne Street reorganizing my next few days in Melbourne.  My first evening had begun a little later than planned with a meeting, between a daughter settled far from her mother's home in Collingwood, Ontario, Canada and me a first time visitor to Melbourne, Australia, for the purpose of a goodie drop off, a care package, filled with love that travelled with me around the world to Rosie.   Drop off complete, a drink shared,  I was left to contemplate next actions in this the most livable city in the world.  The bar tender suggested heading into the city, and then he said, follow it where it leads you.  I suppose you could say I did that,  followed myself around the corner to Elgin Street to study the map, the paper kind.  

Looking around for a stoop to sit and study on,  a sandwich board caught my eye.  Take tea, Take time I read.  I looked in the door and found a comfortable looking couch,  a dining room table, with my grandmother's chairs set around it,  and few smaller tables and chairs, fitting for one or two.  Subduing my temptation to sit on my grandmother's chairs,  I sat enjoying the varied tea pot and cup and saucer collection covering the back wall   A menu was brought to me by a friendly host,  who admiring my map welcomed me to Melbourne.  

It didn't take me long to share with her that I had come to write,  continuing to claim, tentatively it's true, my writer self.  The menu invited it.  I sat with delight reading a menu item tea and post, with an invitation to have the ingredients for " the fine art of letter writing complete with, in country post" with your tea.  What a brilliant, creative entrepreneur had come up with this Porcelain tea room, I wondered.

What I did not have to wonder any longer was what to do with my evening,  a pot of oolong tea brewed to perfection,  some cheese and crackers, a clip board with embossed stationary, a fine black tipped pen,  another piece of magic on this highly probable journey of mine.  As I prepared to leave, this another sanctuary,  I was given a list of all the best cafes for writing in Melbourne. 

Do I dare dream it probable to find porcelain tea rooms as easily as McDonald's?   I do believe I'll continue joining Alice in believing six impossible things before breakfast, and this shall be one of them. 

gkn October.2015

The Sanctuary

Set apart from tasks 

cooking, television news, showers,

 toilets to be cleaned or

a book to write, 

in the corner of the garden, bamboo

frames, glass doors sliding, for entrance into

a world of white couch, purple cushioned simplicity, 

Shawls draped to wrap the one enconsed in cozy comfort, 

while gazing out at fountain pond, a monk at peace, with ferns, 

verdent and abundant, while etched in stone, fire, river, heaven, wind, 

water, mountain, earth, thunder, rest by 

a dry river bed created by garden's artist.

Calls come, come rest a while.

from the corner 

 this windy rain blown day, 

from blustery shore, to quiet stillness.

Be.

gkn October.2015

Another Conversion Experience

When I was a child,  I learned the Biblical story of Doubting Thomas.  He was a disciple of Jesus, and he did not have enough faith.  Thomas would not believe that the man he saw after Jesus death was truly Jesus, unless he saw the nail prints in his hands.  As a little girl, I was told that we need to have faith, believe in God even when we could not see him.  This also meant that I should be good very good, because God would know if and when I was bad, and if God knew I was bad, this was BAD very bad.

I went to tent meetings, these were meetings where huge tents were put up, and important men came to preach to us.  To tell us to repent of our evil natures,  to accept Jesus as our personal Lord and Saviour.  If we did this, then Jesus would live inside us, and help us to be good.  He would help us to have faith.  There were altar calls, mostly while we sang slowly very slowly,   "Just as I am without one plea,  but that thy blood was shed for me,  and now though callst me come to thee, oh lamb of God I come.."  at least I can hear those words, I can hear them slowly being sung, over and over, until I thought enough people had gone up.  Sometimes the man, the preacher said, I know you are out there,  I know you are feeling called, come, come now before it is too late,  and we would go.  I would go.

I would go to the front, to be saved.  I got saved many times.  Sometimes I got saved and felt hopeful that maybe this time it would take, maybe this time I would be saved enough, acceptable enough, not too evil anymore.

Somewhere along the line,  I got to know this Jesus who was going to save me from my "badness".. I got to know him as a wonderful role model of social justice.  I got to know him as someone who had been imperfect, had suffered, was despised, like me, I wondered,  for not being right.  He was killed the stories say for not following the rules of the men in power, for not accepting the rules that he saw hurt vulnerable people.

Somewhere along the line,  I learned that I was one of those he accepted just as I was human, imperfect and all.

I learned that another conversion was called for a conversion to self love, to compassion not only for the other, but even more importantly, perhaps, for me.  I understood in a new way the story of the cross and Jesus crying out in compassion for himself and his suffering.  I came to understand another verse from my childhood, the one that said " love your neighbour as yourself"  and I was surprised that  I had not learned the love yourself part in Sunday School.

This conversion has taken a long time, is still happening.  I know that if I see myself as a part of the whole, if I show compassion to myself I am more compassionate and open hearted to others.  I know many things and I am beginning to feel them more fully.

This conversion calls me to see the interconnectedness of all beings,  to see that I am one with the earth, with the animals, with the Syrian people, with you.

The other day as the dolphins, swam, walked beside me on the shore here in Somers,  they invited me to notice just how connected we are.    Today as I walked on the beach and long to see them, they remind me to continue to believe even when I cannot see the nail prints.

gkn october 2015