Tiny Stories

It's been a rough 20 months I reflect, as we near the end of 2021. Me? Ups and downs, but nothing I can’t weather with good friends, my constant companion Skylla, and a little money in the bank. Others have done it hard, and my heart reaches out to them. Significant events for my own two sons, who have drawn on the resources they have to brilliantly manage the shituation. I am proud of them both, in only the intense way that parents are. Serious injury, the death of a pet, moving cities and of course, that which shall not be named. It is raining this morning, after a hot, hot, hot day yesterday in the Bay. I welcome the rain, the dry soil thirstily drinking the nectar from the clouds above. The pied stilts in the wetlands are squawking, a handful of the chicks now heading towards adolescence, despite the odds and night-prowling felines. My mate is coming to visit with his husband, and I’m elated. That’s why I chose to move, out of the rat race, swapping my two-beddy terrace for a h

It is August 1981 when I see the young woman in a vintage poster, an ad for Pears soap, her skin ivory and flawless. It inspires me, and that younger me - fresh back from a year in Japan - is composing a poem. There are no iambic pentameters, no rhyming couplets, just intense emotion and free form verse, a handful of mixed metaphors that don’t sit well with my older self. It is December 2021, 40 years later. My own skin is no longer flawless (was it ever?) but my mind is open, grasping opportunities to learn, again and again. I am in a small provincial town, desolate and desperate as this virus sweeps through the country. My learners are keen - hiding behind masks - as we talk, we share, we listen and we laugh. At lunch time, we head outside, the grey sky reflecting the mood of the town. A young woman, her jeans tattered and torn, approaches and begins to speak to him. He, who was so attentive just 10 minutes before, now applying the newfound knowledge and skills so passionately in the

I wake late, lingering nightmares peppering my thoughts. The recurring fear of no  reception, fingers that can’t dial the number when it is so desperately needed, bystanders who refuse to help. The sun is already high, and it casts bright light and deep shadows in my newly created garden. She is standing there, 21, her head turned to the warmth and the promise of a new day. She is one of many pieces sold by my friend the sculptor, the artist, and has already made her debut on Instagram . She will watch out for me, and I will watch over her. It has been a challenging week, an emotional roller-coaster, with fear and excitement sitting alongside sadness and joy. Income has been sparse but my contribution has been significant, and I wonder if this is an emerging trend. And yet - and yet - this week I applied for a job, something permanent, full-time, veering away from the portfolio career I have nurtured so carefully. I wonder if I am qualified, but my friend assures me I am a good cultura

A golden glow spreads across the horizon, as I shake the nightmare from my head. I can hear her deep purring now, and know my bubble buddy is safe, her fur already carpeting the floor a snowy white. It is spring, and she is shedding the heavy coat I love to bury my face in. Hot, sweet coffee in hand, I am suddenly aware of the rumble, and gaze out my window. The iconic Norfolk pines standing tall - long after they were planted in 1888 - and there, threading between them, the illusion of the train, its silhouette as magical as Hogwarts Express. The road is higher there, and it’s my early morning treat: ubiquitous utes, container trucks, concrete mixers, shadow shapes with tiny drivers at the wheel. “Are you settling in?” they ask, kindness tinged with politeness. I wonder what being settled means, or if I ever want that feeling. I have moved from the metropolis, the busy roads, the crowded malls, to find stillness. The irony of Level 4 Lockdown in Auckland does not escape me, and my hea

I am in the depths of lockdown, and the depths of despair. Cast again, a third time, into isolation, the extrovert in me struggles. My rock lives in another city these days, he and his husband offering support from afar. Last time, he saved my life: my work wife, my buddy who held the key to the safe, the code for the alarm. We were a team, thousands of dollars passing through our hands as we gifted our visitors with the manaaki they so desperately needed. That was then, this is now. I have moved, regrouped, realigned. I am ready to take on the world, when Delta strikes. My resilience falters, but I convince myself I can do this, an hour, a day at a time. I am one of the lucky ones. It is the nineties. My class is full of 18 and 19 year olds drawn from across Manukau, rich and diverse, poor and enthusiastic. My colleagues are men, wary of the tiny woman who runs down the wide corridors, seemingly pleased to be at work. One stops, and claims my class could be renamed: not Organisational

What I’ve learned from my cat: Trips to the SPCA on Boxing Day are irresistible to two young boys who are used to cold-blooded fish and frogs Multi-coloured cats leave white fur on black pants, black fur on white shirts Calling a cat’s name only elicits a response near dinnertime Neighbours who bring battered and bleeding cats to your door at dusk are to be revered forever for their generosity and humanity A cat will always seek out and find a sunny spot, but is equally happy to share the space  A ball of fluff can banish the loneliness caused by divorce and shared parenting A cat’s purr can drown out the sound of waves crashing on the nearby beach The vet’s threat of removing the ear of the world’s most beautiful cat will send me into a tailspin of grief, rivalled only by the act of amputation itself If you’re wondering what that strange noise is, investigate, quickly There is no need to photoshop out the tiny tattoo in a cat's ears unless you are selling her images on Unsplash -

There are four books on my shelf. I can’t feel them, these electronic copies, but the pages are shining on my tablet, bright in the darkness of my room. It is cold, spine chillingly cold, as a southerly blows snow from the south, and only one dry-skinned hand emerges from layers of blankets. But the stories are of warmth, of growth, of learning to love again. Three “incredible” books I find boring, self-aggrandising, repetitive; a fourth fills in time during bouts of insomnia. I browse the shelves again, and his name appears, a man whose writing I adore. It is Albert Wendt, now in his 80s, tracing his life in Ponsonby, the garden he shares with aiga and friends. And a cat. Immediately I reconsider this man who I’ve held in awe for years, since I read "Ola" a decade or two ago. Tanoa: an aloof, bird-stalking, pillow-cruising cat. Wendt, writing about hip replacements, friends dying, Vegas losing its pull. Writing about cicadas and sweet tomatoes. There's a tiny slip of pap

Two heads of hair extend from the bedding, one fair and glossy, the other darker. They lie a respectable distance apart, the back door of the van open to the rising sun, the rhythm of waves, the smell of salt. It is early morning, and I am walking with a woman I've just met, our conversation easy and relaxed as we stride it out along the waterfront. Later, much later, I discover she is a palliative care nurse, and I know our meeting is more than chance. The day before, I have taken the car, beach-combing my goal, convincing myself that walking on the stones is giving my calves and heart a workout to counter the shorter distance. There is evidence of an animal, an ivory hip tempting to take. I pick it up, hold the sea-smoothed bone in my hand, and gently place it back when it belongs. A teepee of skinny driftwood is above high tide, and tire marks illicitly cross the grass and the stones. Burnt logs, too big to move, sit high, high up. Here I discover charcoal, and carefully remove

I hear breathing. A slow, resonant sound that moves in synch to mine. It is warm huddled under several layers of blankets, and I know that outside it is icy cold, a frost covering the ground. Yet my curiosity gets the better of me and slowly I emerge, padding through the unfamiliar hallway, towards the living area. It is pitch black inside, as 4:30 a.m. is, and as I slide the heavy curtains aside, a gentle glow from the street lights glides into the room. Sliding and gliding, the door too is now open. And then I listen, to the inhalation, the exhalation. Slow and rhythmic. In and out. In and out. In. And out. The Norfolk pines are silhouetted along the waterfront, even at this early hour, and I know what my gut already told me. It is the sea, the sea. The waves, deliberately and endlessly, rolling onto the unseen stony beach just 500 metres away. This is my new normal, the reason The Tiny Celebrant has been quiet all these weeks. A sea change, a journey to another place. Looking for pe

Sleepless in Stonefields. It is two or three a.m. and I’m wide awake, thinking about Russell Brand. Transformation best describes him, a man whose life turned around 180 degrees. He’s my go-to podcast in the wee small hours, though that harsh “Mockney”accent grates in the darkness. The Under the Skin taster (I have to subscribe to hear the whole thing) is just enough to tempt me, to set the neurons of my sleep-addled brain firing. His guest - a woman whose name I will need to look up - reveals that our metabolism and heart rate is impacted not just by experiences, but by words. Language, that unique, precious and often underrated talent of humans, has the ability to influence our physiological state. She - I cannot find her name - assures me that even a text from across the globe can have significant impact, three little words enough to start the heart palpitating. And then it stops, the podcast preview. I am left hanging. So I create my own, my texts of three little words. I keep it

A helicopter hovers high above me, the buzzing dot juxtaposed against the clouds edged with sunlight, reminiscent of the Ascension. I am not Catholic, but even I am surprised when I recognise this term and share it with my husband all those years ago. I am even more surprised to find that - as we attend a friend’s wedding - my responses are automatic. “Peace be with you,” he chants, “and also with you” I reply without hesitation. A suburban chick in the country, we pile into the car with his endless siblings, off to the early morning mass, my first foray into ritual and ceremony, my own family devoid of such things. I watch The Virgin, the pressed robes of the priest, take in the smells of humanity and incense, the shuffling as he genuflects in the aisle. I absorb more than I know. © S andy Millar - available on Unsplash Back in the moment, I watch the helicopter, framed with heavenly light, I wonder about their rituals, these pilots. Getting the call, the adrenalin starts pumping thro

I am eight or nine, in Standard 3 in a tiny rural community just out of Gisborne, still years away from being a famous wine region. My new teacher is very hip - long hair and long legs, culottes and very sporty, a talented hockey player. I adore her, and her husband, tall and handsome and so chilled. When they offer to share photos of their trip overseas, I join the older people in the room, mesmerised by the atmosphere, the anticipation.  Slide after slide is full of colour, of dust, of intrigue, of flowing robes. I remember three: a vehicle (car, truck, bus?) stacked high and overflowing with people and baggage; intricate prayer wheels; and women in burka. It is 1973, and here in Aotearoa, these full face coverings are yet to be seen. Later - much later - I will help women in the early morning corridors of Middlemore Hospital, their polished English accents emerging from behind their Muslim robes, their fear and anguish clear at that hour of the day. I digress, as I am wont to do, me

“He’s your favourite,” he moans, looking distraught and hurt. I laugh. No, not out loud, but the laugh that only parents know, maybe only mums. This is not a zero sum game. Every child is precious, welcomed to the world with open arms. As I write this, I realise it is true in my privileged corner of the world, unconscious bias raising its head, as it does. There are many babies that come forth unwanted, but today I will write of my experience, my aroha, my life. I remember Sofie’s Choice , a movie so powerful, so raw. I see Meryl Streep, beautiful even in her gauntness, standing in the dark by the grimy railway track, the soldiers demanding she must decide: her daughter or her son? An impossible choice, and one I hope never to make. (Photo: Rob McEldowney, circa 1999) But this post is not about favourite children, (except that it is). It’s about favourite books, favourite songs (strains of Julie Andrews ring in my ears - “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens”), and favourite foo

While the rest of the country is being shaken awake by a 7.1 earthquake, I lie sound asleep in my bed, two consecutive night’s of decent slumber tucked away in reserve. I finally rouse at 5:00.p.m., checking my phone, reading the news, a sense of relief that no-one is injured in this scary natural event. Sans reading glasses, I swipe across to my email, and my heart flutters when I see a message from my website, a sign of work, of income, and a sense of something worthwhile. My expectation turns to dismay, as I read the message from Mel White, purportedly a certified illustrator. I like the name Mel - the Mels I know are lovely people - and I already trust this woman. And yet the message quickly turns nasty, accusing me of stealing images. The language is passive-aggressive, an attempt to be simultaneously engaging and threatening. “Breaching copyright”, “previous email,” “sued by the creator.” Yeah right. I’m pretty confident I have the permission to use these images on my website, th

My mother leaves in autumn. It is not text book dying, pain carefully managed in a contemporary setting, but a struggle for her to go. The nursing staff are kind, but there is only so much you can do at the end without breaking the laws of our country. I think about birthing, the intense but somehow worthy pain of labour, and wonder if death is the same, hard work to let ourselves go, stubbornness and fear slowing the process. We drive across the region, wineries and orchards marking the space between the twin cities. He chooses the Cadillac, mum’s last ride the classiest of her life. There are just the three of us: me sitting oddly on the right minus a steering wheel to hold; mum in the back, her koru-crested casket a nod to simplicity. When we arrive, I place the flowers from my friend’s garden on top of the poem, grateful for their colour and compassion. “If I die in autumn”, I begin as I stand beside her at the catafalque. It’s a couple of days short, but she wouldn’t mind. Already

I wake, fragments of my dream swirling in my head. I want to capture it before it escapes, and there it is: crockery, chocolates, my family and an odd feeling of frustration and discomfort. Later I realise the images have spiralled into my mind as the anniversary nears. No, not the 10 year anniversary of the Christchurch quakes, though they fall on the same day. Mine is less public, a private commemoration after a year of great loss. Grief is not what I thought it was, and I wonder why it’s taken me so long to understand this. Anniversaries are tough, the first the toughest. Each year, a little less, with perspective, with gratitude. We fight to remember, and yet we begin to forget. At times, grief hits us with a force greater than gravity, the sternum painfully radiating the hurt. Other days, we are calm and still, a peace descending. But anniversaries - yes, anniversaries are tough. She makes suggestions, my friend, an experienced celebrant, a woman of compassion and practicality. P

  Warning: death and dying are covered in this blog. Please look after yourself and those around you. If you need help, free text or call 1737 anytime within Aotearoa/New Zealand.    It’s a balmy summer afternoon, and I’m heading to my friends for dinner, where Korean Chicken will salve my growing hunger. Fur Elise starts to play gently on my phone, the tune a memory of the days I had an old piano. My son is calling, distraught, an accident with the cat, an injury, the vet at Carrington. Cursing at insolent drivers and praying for green lights, I arrive, forgetting to scan in, rapidly hugging an unexpected friend in the waiting room who has her own tragedy to deal with tomorrow. I stroke Thunder, the diminutive Co-share Cat, who is lying peacefully in a box. My son, his friends, me - we weep. Deep belly weeps, blue eyes stained with tears, sobbing from the soul. Later, I watch them. Sam’s hands are bandaged, the wounds Thundy inflicted in fear and agony now treated with a tetanus jab a

It is You I sprawl in the grass looking up at the clouds A skylark hovers above, a dot in the blue I wonder if it is you I sit on the beach The black sand warming my body A gull squawks overhead I wish it is you I lie in our tent, my clothes scattered around Darkness pressing against me A morepork cries out I know it is you. (Sandy Millar, 1 January 2019) The ruru or New Zealand morepork. Image by Don Millar (my dad) circa 1960.

It’s the 1990s. We live in a quiet cul-de-sac in suburbia, a new home and a new baby, my heart full of love, my bank account stripped. We know our neighbours, a wonderful mix of families with kids and grandkids, divorcees and immigrants. We wave to a nervous Tracey as she drives off on her wedding day, her father pleased as Punch, her mother’s eyes wet with tears and pride. Less than six months later, we are in the chapel. Tracey is in her wedding gown, but we cannot see it, even though she takes centre stage. Her husband is distraught, a lifetime of hope gone. Celine Dion plays in the background, a song that I will forever associate with this beautiful bride, It’s All Coming Back to Me Now. As I sit at my computer today, listening to this long, dramatic ballad, I’m transported back to the chapel, to conversations, to happiness, to the intense grief. ~ The amygala, the hippocampus, the adrenal glands - these are all parts of our bodies which kick in, responding automatically to our en

My mother tells me I turn Japanese when I meet her friend in the sleepy streets of Taradale. Her friend, a diminutive, black-haired woman is a company wife, marooned in a strange company. But she is strong, and shares her love of embroidery and quilt making with my mother, language less important when the hands are busy.  I am 30 or 35, or maybe 40 years old, and yet I immediately go into role, bowing, covering my face with my hands, so unlike the Sandy that is bold and assertive. I chuckle to at myself, knowing that empathy and mirroring are part of my skill set.  Ah, this blog is starting to take shape. Tiny Stories is for me, for you, for us. My stories, a channel for creativity, a chance to share. But also a learning place, a place to discover new things. The world is endless, the stories of others so rich and free. I have midnight musings, and Japan is on my mind ... Mastuo Bashō  is famous, the haiku his genre of choice. I search him out , and find hundreds of haiku. A lot resona