Tiny Stories

My heart is pounding, even before I take an illicit right turn into the retirement village from the busy inner-city road. Its iconic buildings and drop-off area are familiar, but this is the first time I have visited this particular one, close to where I now live, back in the metropolis. As I pull into a park marked for the Care Unit, I grab the book I’ve brought – a collection of poems by Samoan woman, Tusiata Avia, a deeply personal reflection about her family as they mourn the loss of her father, the patriarch.  Heading to the Sales Office, I wonder if my mate – who has the gift of the gab - is onsite. He was yesterday, but today he’s further south, though his off-sider is bright and helpful. She guides me to the luxurious reception, where I’m warned there’s COVID in the unit. Hesitating, I pause, quickly weighing up the options in my mind and out loud. It’s now or never I decide, and the receptionist kindly escorts me to the secure building across the flawlessly landscaped entr...

  I am driving home from my occasional on-call work, on a busy and stifling Saturday afternoon, cars and truck and cyclists impatient at the intersection. They have been shopping, desperately needing a new pair of shoes, a bigger screen, fast fashion from the giants that lurk in the mall 300 metres up the road. And then I see it, out of the corner of my eye, as the lights are yet to change. It is in front of the service station, where the price of fuel is eye-wateringly high. High because of decisions made across the seas, where conflict is on-going and devastating, not for the Fat Cats who sit all powerful in their private air-conditioned planes, but for the people on the ground, those whose homes are being destroyed, leaving their lives in tatters. Grief and sorrow like I will never know; grief and anger like I will never understand. The shopping trolley is there, to my left. I have to focus on the road, but I glance over at it. Cardboard, flattened to fit; a jacket or shirt....

It is our second day in India, and I am standing near the shore, hundreds of people milling around me. They are dressed in their best, having come to this place: a place of celebration, a place of horror, a place of remembrance. To the side, there are enormous speakers and the beginning of a stage, technicians preparing for tomorrow’s concert. Further back is the Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, its magnificent architecture in stark contrast to the dirt and dust coating the nearby squalid buildings on this hot Mumbai day. Later, we will dine on fancy food in the air-conditioned restaurant looking out across the harbour, while the throngs below buy bottled water and sliced cucumber to quench their thirst. Over lunch, we hear of the terrorists who came unseen on boats, racing through the corridors, up the exquisite staircase, firing as they went. Across the city, more than 166 people are slaughtered, an attack that lasted for days. I tried to watch the movie once, but recoiled at the violence, no...

I am sitting at my kitchen table. It is mid-afternoon, I think, and the cat is sleeping in the sun. She is my constant companion, the ball of fluff so warm and soft, the purr that drowns out most sorrows. She needs me, especially as the years roll on. It’s a reciprocal relationship, unconditional and uncompromising. Back to the table. My laptop is switched on, and I am perched on the uncomfortable chair that looks good in the shop, but isn’t designed for good posture. I click on the link, and tune in before the livestream starts, seeing the back of heads, a sombre mood in the large space. He was well known, my friend David, so when the MC opens by saying how the skills of Toastmasters will get him through, I’m encouraged. I wear two hats: a curse and a blessing, a distraction and a focus. As a friend, I am gutted that my famous friend has died, so unexpectedly, before I had a chance to say goodbye. And yet, as a celebrant, I am appalled – there is no ceremony, no ritual, nothing th...

It is 1990, the year of the Commonwealth Games in Auckland, amongst the cast of volunteers, my old and vivacious friend, Elizabeth. She’s an ardent volunteer, joining her family at the Mission for Christmas lunch, doing great things that make a difference. Generous with her time, her enthusiasm. She is unstoppable, I think. I am newly arrived in Auckland, and have casual work for a crew who bring exchange students to NZ from my other home, Japan. I’m tasked with finding host families, securing a local venue, creating a programme, and delivering it to the 10 or so students, in a mix of English and Japanese. Friday the 23rd of February, and the kids come to my house, a low-key party for one of the women who is celebrating her birthday, far from friends and family in a foreign land. Lizzy drops by, and true to form, she brings a gift for the guest of honour, even though this is the first time they have met. We take a photo on the bare deck with my tiny camera, long before mobile phone...

The brown paper package is lying on your doorstep, and a shudder of excitement goes through your body as you anticipate opening it. The courier came half an hour ago, but you were in an online meeting, a hui about a hui, a discussion you needed to have, as unresolved tension threatens to destroy the team. Today you’re WFH, and you’ve boiled the jug, a steaming cup of Earl Grey waiting for you on the table, a single square of chocolate your morning treat. There’s a certain heft about the package, a weight you hadn’t anticipated, as you gently slide a knife through the tape that holds the cardboard together. You’ll keep the sturdy box, storing it beside the toolkit and the family history, old photographs of the kids when they were young and cute. The curly strips of wood fall onto the floor as you lift out the crystal ball, its surface shining, specks of glitter embedded into the pale blue glass. It seems to hum with an energy, as the warmth of your hands clasp the ball, embracing it, ...

We’re sitting in the sun having a cuppa, a couple of chipped teapots and brightly patterned cups scattered on the table. The scent of freshly baked gingerbread hangs in the air, while I pick at a few of the sweet crumbs on my plate. “You’re much more than just a babysitter,” he says, and I smile. It’s been 40 years since I babysat the children, who now have children of their own, young adults who travel the globe, off on their own adventures. In that time, I have married, I have had children, I have divorced, I have loved, and I have cried. Christmas cards and the occasional visit didn’t breach the gap, but now we live in the same suburb, a sleepy coastal village, just a ferry’s ride across the water to the capital. I’ve been here just five months, trying to find my feet, as paid work evaporates and illness floats around me. Yet all the while, my old friends are here, good people who know the value of connection, of whanaungatanga: "Come for dinner," she says, and it ...

I wake early, the waves crashing outside my window. It is early morning, and the salt-sprayed double-glazing struggles to keep the sound out. It is overwhelming, thunderous yet rhythmic, like the train that no longer runs on the track, its bridge destroyed by the cyclone. I open the doors and look into the sky, littered with stars, a lone truck or seabird punctuating the inhalations of the sea. This blog is “Tiny Stories” but there has been no room to write, no incentive. All the stories have been big: Gabrielle, bringing destruction and heart-break; weddings and funerals, laced with sorrow and joy; rising prices and frugal habits. The safety net is torn, and people are retracting. Or fighting. Energy wasted on competing when collaboration is the key. Library books on grief and poetry collections litter my house: the words a comfort for me and those I tend to. Lucy Hone , New Zealand’s own resilience expert; a tiny guide to sit in the palm of your hand or gift to a friend who need...

“Have you got sun over there today?” he asks, texting from Taupo. “Not if shadows are a measure of sunshine” I reply, the cloud cover keeping the rays hidden from us. My friend used to live an easy two hour's drive away, the state highway now a mass of crevasses and broken bridges, an impossible journey. The ground closer to home is both vibrant and sodden, silt and rotting vegetables in contrast to our normally parched summer landscape. Sunshine is what we need here in Hawke’s Bay, the idyllic region devastated by Cyclone Gabrielle. The fruit bowl of New Zealand, the resort town, the Art Deco hub, a destination for wedding parties and retirees. Too much water, in too little time, has wreaked havoc, taking lives, destroying livelihoods. Heavy rain on my roof nearly a fortnight after the event has me on edge, the adrenalin pumping through my body. I dream of throwing bags into my tiny car, of searching fruitlessly for my passport, of forgetting important things. Yet I am lucky –...

  We are rehearsing for the memorial service, a tribute to all the people who have been in the care of this incredible funeral home over the last year. I am confidently reading the names, most easy to pronounce, a few tricky when the origins are unknown – is it Hine (like pine?) or Hi-ne? It’s why we rehearse. That, and to test our speed. There are names on the list I know well, people whose families I have comforted, whose final ceremonies I’ve created, who I have only met after they have passed. It sounds trite, but it is a privilege, this mahi. And then I read the name. It is his, my friend, the one I have been meaning to visit, ever since I arrived here in winter of 2021, the winter of discontent; the winter I carved out a new life for myself. Later I ask the team: when did he die, and the answer is July, just four short months ago. But it is too late. I am too late. Too late to say I’m sorry you’re sick; too late to say I like your art; too late to say goodbye. Two days ...

There are two other celebrants in the room, as guests settle into their seats, music playing gently in the background. One sits in the front row, just an arm’s reach away. He is tall and handsome and suited, a visitor from Auckland, the city I have abandoned. The second is at the back of the room twiddling with the technology, my script at his side. He is also suited, a silver fox whose voice you’ll hear on the radio, honeyed and inviting. Today he is the funeral director, alongside a woman I’ve got to know well these last few months, as we bow reverently to the casket at the front of the chapel, eight, nine, ten times together. One is open; one is homemade, a lilac so pale and cool; one is adorned with a sword; one is smooth and curved. I am thankful there are none that are tiny, a task I’m unsure I could carry through. I am in the middle of the eulogy when he walks in, catching my eye. He is also suited, this special man that knows my family, has held my parents as they lay silently ...

I’ve woken early, and before I let the cat into our room, I lie there wondering. What would make me change my mind? There’s a message from a connection on LinkedIn, asking me to join him for a Zoom. Not another person persuading me to buy something I don’t want or need, I moan silently to myself. But I pause: there’s something about the message that resonates, that piques my interest. The cat is in. She stands on my hair, paws my pillow, and purrs loudly. She’s a creature of habit, and 4:30 is time to get up and moving. Other habits – the way she eats her food, responds to toddlers, snuggles in at night - are a part of who she is, this ball of fluff who chose us nearly 17 years ago. Like her, I’m a creature of habit. Coffee (hot and sweet) and toast (homemade nut butter), Wordle (share it with my friend), before the day begins proper. But sitting here this morning, I wonder what it would take to change my mind, to persuade me to try something different. Do I listen to reason, or am...

  There’s one small, cheap bedside unit, its handle replaced with copper buttons, giving it a vintage look. As I move it - and me - to the other side of the bed, I wonder why it’s taken me a year to try another position. And yet my sleep is tormented. Outside, heavy rain soaks the already sodden ground, the incessant sound keeping me awake. I’m hot, I’m cold, I’m dozing, I’m alert. What is it about this side that’s so different to the other? I can’t say I’m new anymore: 12 months have passed since I moved south, away from the madness and excitement that’s Auckland. The buzz of the metropolis, crazy drivers who own the road, endless restaurants and Two Dollar shops in the burbs. I miss my son, I miss my friends, I miss Pride, and the colours of the rainbow. Thank goodness for Auckland Libraries online catalogue. “The Gift” is open on my tablet, and also “Bonk: The Curious Coupling of Science & Sex.” These days, I’m not compelled to finish books, or even to read every word....

I gasp as I open the magazine - a gift from a friend - its plastic wrap carefully removed this time. It’s been sitting on the kitchen bench for a couple of days now, waiting for a space, a time to unfurl when the monotony of life needs to be banished. My gasp turns to palpable excitement, as the face of a woman I know graces the page.  It is Noline, and memories flood through my brain, simultaneously vague but strong. I am ready to read, but I change tack, flicking a message to her: “OMG Nols, I’ve just seen it,” my delight heightened by the discovery on a dull grey Sunday morning. Jumping online, I send a message to The Kids, a tiny group of four, my sons and their gorgeous and talented girlfriends. Sharing this news right now is important, a thread that runs through all our lives, defining who we are. When my oldest son explains she is “the principal” I say that is not enough to describe a woman that is such a force of nature.  She was a co-conspirator, mentor, and friend, I...

She asks us to write, as we sit alone in our kitchens, our bedrooms, our cupboards, the glow of others’ laptops beaming through our screens. I shuffle, I stand, I adjust the lighting, not sure that I like what I see reflected in the glass tonight. It’s been a tough day, and I am bruised, deeply. The irony strikes me like the freight trains I hear at night when the prevailing wind blows. My kindness, my diligence, my attempt to support others’ well-being has ended in my own being irreparably damaged. The world is hurting right now, so I am right at home with millions of others, just when I thought I was immune. Let me tell you about marriage. This is our prompt from the gentle woman who is leading the creative writing webinar. “Just let it flow,” she says, as my pencil hovers above the untidy scribbles on the page. I cannot write about marriage. There is nothing in my head, nothing of value. For who am I to tell you about marriage, a woman without a husband? I feel disingenuous, a phony...

I arrive early for the wedding, on a hot summer's day in Hawkes Bay. It's an auspicious date - or at least a memorable one - a palindrome and an ambigram, I'm told - the same backwards and upside down: 22022022. It is early, so we hide inside, the aircon buzzing, a few guests waiting under the trees outside. A name from the past shoots past my ears, and my subconscious starts ticking over. I look at the man, his height, his laughter, and it clicks. We were school mates, 46 years ago. We hug, we laugh, and he reminds me my hair was jet black back then. It is two years since my mum died. She was a gentle woman who loved pansies.  After my gorgeous brides say their vows, I drive to meet Mary for a commemorative afternoon tea. I have promised I'll bring the crockery, and she is puzzled to say the least. When I unpack the fine bone china from the bag, in mum's favourite colour, she gets it: it's our way of celebrating the Life of Joy, her crafty friend and confidant....

It is 1980, and I am sitting in the picture theatre with two excited young boys, a mystical blend of their Welsh mother and Indian father. They are my charges, and in the darkened room, the smell of popcorn wafting around us, the music begins. Words start to float away from us on the huge screen, already iconic and highly anticipated. Leaving our once plush red seats, we are transported into outer space, enough familiarity to make this real, to identify heroes and the enemy, good and evil. Later, in the brilliant sunshine, we fight with light sabres, we deepen our voices, we build the Death Star. We are hooked. I am back in the city, 40 years of living separating me from the movie. For once, the cat hasn’t woken me, but it is the witching hour, 4:00 am. My powers are many, but I am not a witch. The scales in the Netherlands, the home of my children’s ancestors, proving that I am without sorcery. I part the curtains, the still night offering a glimpse of the skies above. I push the wind...

On a thoughtful Thursday afternoon, I am grateful for:  A cat to pat   An afternoon nap   The Stuff Quiz - twice a day, or legitimate binge if I’ve missed a couple   My meditation stool (even though I rarely sit on it, I love the concept, the design, the form, the discipline)   My lemon lime dracenas … and all the babies I’ve propagated and gifted to friends and family   The Canon Prime 100mm macro lens, you will always be my favourite, I can love no other   Creating - even if it’s just lists like this (thank you Austin Kleon for the inspiration today)   Water - to drink, wash in, cook with, swim in, sprinkle on the garden   My Kindle Highlights, a library of the best bits and a source of inspiration for my ceremonies   Summer fruit, the stones robbed of all their succulent flesh    

The bird is tucked hard up into the corner of my house, and I know straight away it is dead, murdered by a night-wandering cat. I reach down, and gently pick it up, nestling its feather-weight in my hand, as the tears begin to fall. It is evening, and I hear tapping outside the window. I quietly open the window, as the setting sun streams into my house, dust motes floating on the cooling air. It is then I see it, camouflaged against the stones, a baby thrush searching for snails under the pittosporums. I throw a tiny piece of bread, a peace offering, my cat securely locked inside. I am re-reading What Remains , the debut novel by Aussie writer, academic and international traveller, Denise Leith. A love story interspersed with war and conflict and the unimaginable things that we humans do to each other in the name of race or creed or politics. It is strangely compelling and deeply disturbing. Last time, I read the stories with distance, my own troubles seemingly large. This time … this ...

I share Austin Kleon’s post, 100 things that made my year , and one person challenges me to write my own, and encourage others to do the same. But I like Austin (from Austin) - he’s young (it’s relative!) and playful and bold and scared and real. His ezine and posts have kept me going this last year, as I pledge to create a habit, a habit of creativity . Never one to let a challenge go by, or follow the rules (100 is overwhelming), I start writing, and generate a list. So here, in no particular order, are 27 things that made my year in 2021. Twenty seven into 21 - that's 1.285... Bunnie: notoriously hard to photograph but fun to try. Being bold enough to ask for a piece of art in exchange for a funeral, the heavy cast bunny a tribute to a special woman, a kindred soul who left too soon. And - as if it comes with a bonus - the forging of a friendship with her long-time friend, another who makes the journey far from home, and needs company and time to build shared memories. Walking t...