Tag Archives: Tagore

#AtoZchallenge Reflections…66, 652 Words Wiser.

It’s no wonder I needed an ambulance and a stretcher when I reached the end of the A-Z Challenge. I’d researched and written a staggering 66, 652 words and these weren’t any ordinary words either. They were probing philosophical investigations into the works and lives of over 30 exceptional poets, which were interwoven with my own ups and downs through life’s milestones.

letters-young-poet-rainer-maria-rilke-paperback-cover-art Just to recap, my theme was Letters to Dead Poets. While writing to dead poets does have an air of the macabre, the theme was simply a play on Rainer Maria Rilke’s Letters To A Young Poet. If an old poet could give advice to a young poet, surely dead poets had something to offer!

Each letter explored philosophical questions such as what it means to be a man, how to deal with adversity and a poet’s heart and somehow survive. Many of these poets didn’t.Naturally, I couldn’t write these letters without addressing the tragic nature of their deaths. Indeed, I wrote this post: Dedication To A Poet Dying Young. Emotionally, this was incredibly difficult and challenging, which stretched well beyond showcasing the poets who’ve inspired me through life’s ups and downs.

It is a reflection of my own tenacity that I could grapple with these contentious issues without going down myself. That my feet are firmly planted on terra firma and my head, heart and soul are in a good place. This isn’t something that happened overnight. I have a poet’s heart and have always been incredibly sensitive and know all too well how to dance with the dark side and succumb to its charms. I have survived brain surgery and live with a life-threatening auto-immune disease. Life is no picnic. I’ve gone up in flames and somehow walked out of the ashes. Well, I was actually carried out unconscious but I’m still here.

Not unsurprisingly, I needing to balance out the heaviness and developed a lively undercurrent with the age-old battle between cats and dogs. There were poets who were famous cat lovers like TS Eliot and Ernest Hemingway and ardent dog lovers including Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Dorothy Parker, Virginia Woolf and Sir Walter Scott, Wordsworth and Sir Walter Scott. My two dogs jumped into the fracas standing up for the “pollicle” dogs (poor little dogs …TS Eliot). They were rather unimpressed that there is no Dogs: The Musical!!

Quite unexpectedly, many roads led to Paris. Paris the city of love, which can inevitably become the city of heartbreak. Although heartbroken in Paris myself back in July 1992, I did a solo poetry reading at Paris’s famed Shakespeare Bookshop , which attracted the likes of Hemingway, Henry Miller and Anais Nin when they were in town.Somehow, a 22 year old backpacking Australian with her self-published anthology Locked Inside An Inner Labyrinth, was following in their enormous footsteps. I have since discovered that young poets were considered “audience”. So, I have no idea how this crazed backpacker from the Antipodes slipped through the cracks and up the rickety red wooden staircase to perform.

Poetry Reading

Poetry Reading, Shakespeare & Company Bookshop, Paris 1992.

So, after going through all of this, it is hardly surprising that I staggering across the finish line barely conscious. Every cell in my body was aching and my brain had liquefied into soupy mush. That’s what happens when you try researching and writing faster than the speed of light. You start to fall apart.

By writing so much, I clearly went way beyond the scope of the challenge, which really is about writing very short, sharp posts under 500 words and becoming something of a blogging slut getting around to as many blogs as possible every day to build new connections and expand your reader base. However, I went the other way. Instead of short and sweet, you could say I did the extended version. However, they cover significant psychological and philosophical issues and aren’t simply a handful of words…a throwaway.

So without further ado, here’s An A-Z of Letters to Dead Poets:

A: AA Milne

B: Banjo Paterson.

Banjo Peterson Replies.


C: Lewis Carroll.

Lewis Carroll Replies.


D: Roald Dahl

Roald Dahl’s Reply.


E: TS Eliot.

TS Eliot Replies.

F:Robert Frost: The Road Not Taken.

Robert Frost A Reply.

G:Kahlil Gibran.

Kahlil Gibran Reply.

H: Ted Hughes.

Ted Hughes Reply.

A Surprise Letter From Ernest Hemingway.

Q & A With Ernest Hemingway.

I- A Letter to Issa- Japanese Haiku Master.

Issa: A Reply.

J-A Letter to Jim Morrison-The Doors

Jim Morrison Replies

K-A Letter to John Keats.

Keats Replies

A Letter from Rudyard Kipling including the poem: “If”

L-A Letter to John Lennon

A Reply From John Lennon.

Lao Tzu: A Poem about The Journey.

M-Dorothea Mackellar: Australian Poet.

Dorothea Mackellar Replies

Mary Stevenson “Footprints”.

A Letter from Mary Stevenson re “Footprints”.

Maya Angelou

Dr Maya Angelou A reply.

N:Oodganoo Noonuccal: Indigenous Australian Poet

O-Oscar Wilde

Oscar Wilde Replies

P-A Letter to Dorothy Parker

Dorothy Parker Writes to the Poor Little Dogs.

Dogs Accuse: “Dorothy Parker Is A Fraud!”

Dorothy Parker Defends Dogs’ Accusations

P-Sylvia Plath

Help Me Dorothy Dix: What to Write to Sylvia Plath.

A Letter to Sylvia Plath

Q-Qu Yuan Chinese Poet

A Letter From Qu Yuan: Chinese Wisdom.

R-A Letter to Rumi

Rumi Replies

Rilke: Letters to Young Poets

Rilke Replies: Advice to Modern Poets.

S-Percy Bysshe Shelley

Advice from Percy Byssche Shelley

William Shakespeare

I delayed writing my letter to William Shakespeare by a day to coincide with the 400th Anniversary of his death on 23rd April, 1616. By the way, when Shakespeare woke up, he found his head was missing.

Despite writing some of the most loved and recognised love sonnets of all time, Shakespeare admitted that his track record with love wasn’t a commendation. So, he introduced me to poets Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning.

Shakespeare Time travels 400 Years

Shakespeare on Love 400 Years On.

T-Letters to Rabindranath Tagore

Wisdom of Tagore: Love, Children and Dogs.

U-A Letter to John Updike.

John Updike: On Dogs

V- A Letter To Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf Replies…Letter to A Young Poet

Poetical Dogs Unite…A Letter from Virginia Woolf’s Dog

Elizabeth Barrett’s Love Poem to Her Dog.

W- Letter to William Wordsworth

Wordsworth I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud

X-Anon: Unknown Native American Poet.

Y- Letter to William Butler Yeats.

Yeats: Easter 1916.

Yeats: Sailing To Byzantium

Yeats On Life

Z-Xu Zhimo: On Leaving Cambridge Again

ZZZZ: A Letter from Xu Zhimo

We Are Donne: Donne

I hope you’ve enjoyed the A-Z Challenge and are returning to life again after a week’s R & R.

xx Rowena

A2Z-BADGE 2016-smaller_zpslstazvib


ZZZZZZZ…The End: A Letter from Xu Zhimo

Dear Rowena,

Every journey reaches an end. Not a dead end but a place of transition, rebirth and a turning inwards before turning outwards again. This is a place of rest, sleep and ZEDs.

You have worked hard. It is now time to recharge your body in the pauses in between words and ideas and listen to the whisperings of your spirit, the tinkle tinkle of the winds blowing through the leaves and the twittering of your colourful lorikeets and hold your family close. Walk along the beach with your dogs and cleanse your being in all that healing sea breeze and just be. You can not be a non-stop human doing without breaking down.

Too many poets fly straight into the candle flame without taking due care. Poets don’t have to die young. Unfortunately, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time but although I had a short life, it bore fruit.

I will leave you here with the wisdom of a man who greatly inspired me, Rabindranath Tagore:

Tagore Portrait

Rabindranath Tagore.

The Wisdom of Tagore:

“Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf.”

“Faith is the bird that feels the light and sings when the dawn is still dark.”

“The small wisdom is like water in a glass: clear, transparent, pure. The great wisdom is like the water in the sea: dark, mysterious, impenetrable.”

“Everything comes to us that belongs to us if we create the capacity to receive it.”

“I have become my own version of an optimist. If I can’t make it through one door, I’ll go through another door – or I’ll make a door. Something terrific will come no matter how dark the present.”

“You can’t cross the sea merely by standing and staring at the water.”

“The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.”

“Love is an endless mystery, for it has nothing else to explain it.”

“A mind all logic is like a knife all blade. It makes the hand bleed that uses it.”

“I am restless. I am athirst for faraway things. My soul goes out in a longing to touch the skirt of the dim distance. O Great Beyond, O the keen call of thy flute! I forget, I ever forget, that I have no wings to fly, that I am bound in this spot evermore.”

“Reach high, for stars lie hidden in you. Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal.”

eagle zoom

Australian Golden Eagle: Photo Geoff Newton. Tasmania 2005.

Take care of your dreams. Sleep on them but don’t leave them under your pillow. Let their wings grow and carry you up to the stars.Yet, never lose touch with the Earth. You don’t want your dreams to burn.

Now, it is time for you to go.

Good bye and Goodnight.


Xu Zhimo

Z- Xu Zhimo, On Leaving Cambridge:#AtoZchallenge

Taking Leave of Cambridge Again

Softly I am leaving,
Just as softly as I came;
I softly wave goodbye
To the clouds in the western sky.

The golden willows by the riverside
Are young brides in the setting sun;
Their glittering reflections on the shimmering river
Keep undulating in my heart.

The green tape grass rooted in the soft mud
Sways leisurely in the water;
I am willing to be such a waterweed
In the gentle flow of the River Cam.

That pool in the shade of elm trees
Holds not clear spring water, but a rainbow
Crumpled in the midst of duckweeds,
Where rainbow-like dreams settle.

To seek a dream? Go punting with a long pole,
Upstream to where green grass is greener,
With the punt laden with starlight,
And sing out loud in its radiance.

Yet now I cannot sing out loud,
Peace is my farewell music;
Even crickets are now silent for me,
For Cambridge this evening is silent.

Quietly I am leaving,
Just as quietly as I came;
Gently waving my sleeve,
I am not taking away a single cloud.

Xu Zhimo

(6 November 1928) See Note.



Dear Mr Xu,

For the last month, I have been writing Letters To Dead Poets.  At last, I have finally reached “Z” and in a sense, my journey is over. You are: “The End”.

This means that I am also doing my own leaving. At least, that was the plan. However, this has become the first step of a much longer journey, which has unceremoniously been labelled: DRAFT.

Of course, “DRAFT” in no way reflects this gruelling, personal odyssey. Indeed, rather than “DRAFT”, it should be stamped “VICTORY” instead. After all, I’ve been working on numerous incarnations of The Book Project for 9 years and now I’m finally on my way.

Moreover, “DRAFT” fails to reflect how much I’ve grown and changed in the last month. Indeed, I’ve left a flat, hollow version of myself back at the start and at least now, I’m more aware of my ignorance. I don’t know whether my writing has improved from all of this reading and research but I have. You could say that I am the New Improved Version or in modern lingo I’ve been relaunched as Rowena 2.0.

This journey has been superfood for my soul!

However, as much as I would like to believe you could write a life-changing book in 30 days, I know it’s been rushed. Unfortunately, this is but the tip of the proverbial ice berg of what lies ahead and much of this work will also be going on underground, which is neither glamorous or exciting.

Anyway, this letter is not about me. It’s about you.

I’m here to ask about how you become a poet. Do you feel there was something inside you, some kind of “poet seed”, just waiting for the right time and that mix of sun and rain to germinate and grow? Or, were you made? If we took a humble lump of clay and processed it through a poet-making factory, could we pump out: “The Poet” where you turn the handle and poetry flows out, like an electric mincer?

Given that so many poets seem to go through the proverbial mincer themselves, I also have to wonder whether we should be watering poet seeds or manufacturing “The Poet” anyway.

I don’t know whether it was just bad luck that you died in a plane crash when you were 30 and Shelley drowned in a yacht at much the same age and Sylvia Plath also took her own life at 30.

Being a poet, really does seem to turn you into an endangered species. Wouldn’t we be better off in a much safer line of work such as becoming a stunt person? I think even they outlive us poets.


Anyway, for those of us too far down the poet path to turn back, it’s 1928 and we’re returning with you on a brief tour to Kings College, Cambridge. You were there as a literary researcher 1922-1923. Hungrily devouring a rich poet soup blended with Shelley, Keats, Hardy, Tagore and the French romantics and symbolists, must have nourished you like a super food. You translated poems into Chinese. In 1922, you returned to China and became a leader in the Modern Poetry Movement. In 1923, you founded the Crescent Moon Society, named after an anthology of poetry by Bengali poet Rabindranath Tagore and in 1924, you worked as a translator on Tagore’s controversial tour of China. In 1928, you briefly returned to Cambridge on a tour. That’s when you wrote: On Leaving Cambridge, which is now learned by children throughout China.

Reflecting back to Virginia Woolf’s investigations into what it takes to be a woman writer, did you have a room of your own and independent means? Is that what allowed you to flourish? Or, was it something else?

Anyway, what Woolf forgot to mention, was that you also need to survive. Being a poet almost seems synonymous with tragedy. Even when such tragedy seems accidental, random, pure chance, that there’s no chance about it. Of all the millions of people living on this planet, once again the lightning bolt has stuck the poet…not someone else!

I thought you might appreciate this verse from Yeats and you can just substitute “lad” with “poet”…

“A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him up for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.”
― W.B. Yeats

Anyway, I should be safe. I’m working undercover driving Mum’s Taxi and posing as a suburban “housewife” (not my words, I can assure you!! Actually, our poor house has been orphaned…especially through the last 6 weeks!)

I am truly sorry that you life was cut so tragically short and you journey came to such a sudden, horrific end. It doesn’t seem fair that you didn’t get to finish your story.

Well, speaking of journeys drawing to a close, my trains due to depart, heading back to the shed. Indeed, the train whistle’s blowing right now.

Yours sincerely,



This translation is taken from Peter Pagnamenta (ed.) “The University of Cambridge: an 800th Anniversary Portrait”, (London: Third Millenium Publishing, 2008), page 29.

The featured image shows a memorial stone at Cambridge featuring the first and last lines of Xu’s poem.


T-Rabindranath Tagore: Letters to Dead Poets #atozchallenge

Dear Sir,

How are you? I hope my letter finds you at peace and feeling content. You are now one with the air we breathe, the earth,  the sun, the moon wherever it is your spirit lives. While I have my own views about what happens to us after death, I’m not so sure about the itty bitty details and I’m not about to tell a person of vast wisdom who already knows the answers in detail what may or might not be. You could even tell me the colour of the carpet.


Writing to you has somehow transported me far beyond the bounds of these four walls and I’m down at the beach writing by candlelight chilled by the sea breeze. A full moon shines and majestic clouds charge like ancients chariots through the shadows and I fixate on a distant star and make a wish. The muse whispers in my ear and rather than tending to earthly concerns, I write. I read. I write. Indeed, lately I’ve been shut away in my writer’s cave.

While you can chop and change the order of things, every story has a beginning. So, that’s where we’ll start. Not at your beginning back in 1861 but going back to when we first met.  It was my grandmother’s funeral and the Priest read out one of your poems. To be perfectly honest, I couldn’t be entirely sure which one it was and after much searching, I’ve never found anything which quite matches up to those threads of memory.

In any case, I found this:

The Gardener Lxi: Peace, My Heart

Peace, my heart, let the time for
the parting be sweet.
Let it not be a death but completeness.
Let love melt into memory and pain
into songs.
Let the flight through the sky end
in the folding of the wings over the
Let the last touch of your hands be
gentle like the flower of the night.
Stand still, O Beautiful End, for a
moment, and say your last words in
I bow to you and hold up my lamp
to light you on your way.

Rabindranath Tagore

Meanwhile, as the older generation passes onto the next, the seeds of youth sprout and reach steadily skywards towards the sun, soaking up the wisdom of those who have been while pursuing youthful follies with great vigour.

Kids Angels Uniting Church 2008

The kids dressed as angels for the Christmas Eve Service, 2008.

When we first met, my children were only five and three. My son was in his very first year at school and just learning to read and write. Indeed, his work was little more than a blank page with his name written in huge uneven letters at the top with an equally catastrophic sentence chaotically splattered down below. I think my daughter was just starting to read and was drawing people with huge heads stuck on stick legs but she knew who each and everyone was.

You captured that wonder of small children in your writing in a way that’s all too easy to miss when you’re living in it day by day.


Clouds And Waves

Mother, the folk who live up in the clouds call out to me-
“We play from the time we wake till the day ends.
We play with the golden dawn, we play with the silver moon.”
I ask, “But how am I to get up to you ?”
They answer, “Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your
hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds.”
“My mother is waiting for me at home, “I say, “How can I leave
her and come?”
Then they smile and float away.
But I know a nicer game than that, mother.
I shall be the cloud and you the moon.
I shall cover you with both my hands, and our house-top will
be the blue sky.
The folk who live in the waves call out to me-
“We sing from morning till night; on and on we travel and know
not where we pass.”
I ask, “But how am I to join you?”
They tell me, “Come to the edge of the shore and stand with
your eyes tight shut, and you will be carried out upon the waves.”
I say, “My mother always wants me at home in the everything-
how can I leave her and go?”
They smile, dance and pass by.
But I know a better game than that.
I will be the waves and you will be a strange shore.
I shall roll on and on and on, and break upon your lap with
And no one in the world will know where we both are.

Rabindranath Tagore

As much as I love the idea of going to the edge of the Earth, lifting up my hands and going up into the clouds, Come to the edge of the earth, lift up your
hands to the sky, and you will be taken up into the clouds.”

“Come to the edge,” he said.
“We can’t, we’re afraid!” they responded.
“Come to the edge,” he said.
“We can’t, We will fall!” they responded.
“Come to the edge,” he said.
And so they came.
And he pushed them.
And they flew.”

― Guillaume Apollinaire

Colored Toys

When I bring to you colored toys, my child,
I understand why there is such a play of colors on clouds, on water,
and why flowers are painted in tints
—when I give colored toys to you, my child.

When I sing to make you dance
I truly now why there is music in leaves,
and why waves send their chorus of voices to the heart of the listening earth
—when I sing to make you dance.

When I bring sweet things to your greedy hands
I know why there is honey in the cup of the flowers
and why fruits are secretly filled with sweet juice
—when I bring sweet things to your greedy hands.

When I kiss your face to make you smile, my darling,
I surely understand what pleasure streams from the sky in morning light,
and what delight that is that is which the summer breeze brings to my body
—when I kiss you to make you smile.

The time that my journey takes is long

and the way of it long.

I came out on the chariot of the first

gleam of light, and pursued my voyage

through the wilderness of worlds leaving

my track on many a star and planet.

It is the most distant course that comes

nearest to thyself, and that training is the

most intricate which leads to the utter

simplicity of a tune.

The traveler has to knock at every alien

door to come to his own, and one has to

wander through all the outer worlds to

reach the innermost shrine at the end.

My eyes strayed far and wide before I

shut them and said, “Here art thou!”

The question and the cry, “Oh, where?”

melt into tears of a thousand streams and

deluge the world with the flood of the

assurance, “I am!”


However, as a writer myself and having spent years trying to juggle writing and loving and spending time with my husband and kids, when I’m in writing mode and the muse is stuck on overdrive, it’s very hard to strike a balance. Writing these Letters to dead Poets has become some kind of madness because writing to over 26 poets in a month and trying to squeeze inside a different poet’s skin, mind and shoes every day is incredibly hard work and very intense as I try to let go of myself and drift into my role for the day. Moreover, as the poets are in alphabetical order, they’re not conveniently clustered together in groups or flowing in time from one to the next to the next like an orderly London bus queue. I am out there in the ocean every day in my little paper boat trying to navigate my way.

woman writing

The way I see it, this journey lasts a month and things can be put aside and the kids are now old enough that they shouldn’t fall in a screaming heap if I’m busy. Indeed, I feel like I’ve put so much of myself on hold for so long and for such a multitude of reasons, that now when it’s very evident to me that my time has come, the rest can wait. Not all of it but surely nothing is going to fall off the side of the earth if heaven forbid I focus on my writing for a change.

Tagore-mother and child

Why should writers be made to feel guilty when we work? I never query my husband’s right to work or complain when work calls in the middle of the night and his off to spend the night with his “harem”…an entire network of computers all bickering with each other and refusing to talk.

Is that just because he gets paid for his work? Or, because his work is somehow more tangible than mine? He actually leaves the house, goes somewhere called an office and doesn’t tap away on a computer in his pyjamas.

Anyway, for all of these reasons, that’s why I loved your poem Authorship and I was thrilled to stumble across it again now. Even though the kids are that much older, it still very much applies and bring a smile to my heart:


You say that father write a lot of books, but what he writes I don’t
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can’t father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father’s room, you come and call me,
“What a naughty child!”
If I make the slightest noise you say, “Don’t you see that
father’s at his work?”
What’s the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father’s pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don’t
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
“Child, how troublesome you are!”
What do you think of father’s spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?

Rabindranath Tagore

Lastly, no discussion of your work would be complete without mentioning your homeland and your love for India and Bengal. I think you would enjoy reading Racism by Oodgeroo Noonuccal and the works of Maya Angelou. People who see the unity in humanity and want to tear down all the narrow-minded barriers which divide us.

Where The Mind Is Without Fear

Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high
Where knowledge is free
Where the world has not been broken up into fragments
By narrow domestic walls
Where words come out from the depth of truth
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection
Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way
Into the dreary desert sand of dead habit
Where the mind is led forward by thee
Into ever-widening thought and action
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake

Rabindranath Tagore

However, as much as I could immerse myself in your poems forever and don’t want to say goodbye, I have to leave. I need to get some sleep and a dose of the much needed “balance” you prescribe.

I’ll be back.

Love and warm greetings,


Tagore-Dancing Woman.jpg

Dancing Woman by Tagore


Our Son. the Organist and the Funeral.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

WH Auden: Funeral Blues

Revisiting the old photos of the kids playing the piano, reminded me of a hilarious anecdote from my grandmother’s funeral when my 5 year old son spoke with the organist.

“I remember I laughed so hard I cried. But my response was half appropriate, because I was at a funeral.”
― Jarod Kintz, This Book Has No Title

Funerals are funny things because, although there’s the obvious grief and solemnity but they also end up becoming something of a party. After all, you only ever seem to catch up with this veritable melange of family, friends and the outer layers of the onion on mass at weddings and funerals. So, there’s usually not only the opportunity to reflect on old memories, anecdotes and photographs but also create new ones. Something to recount at the next wedding, funeral or even over Christmas.

My Grandmother at the Australian Embassy in Washington, 1948.

My Grandmother at the Australian Embassy in Washington, 1948.

My grandmother, Eunice Gardiner, was an Internationally recognised concert pianist. So when it came to her funeral, my uncle arranged for Bernard Kirkpatrick, who had played the organ for the Pope’s Sydney visit in 2008 to play at the funeral. Although the funeral was only held at our family’s Parish Church, the organ had multiple layers of keys and really looked and sounded very impressive. This grandeur all culminated with the recessional, which was Bach’s Great Fugue in A minor. My grandmother had played its piano transcription at her London Debut at Wigmore Hall in 1937. Although the Parish organ wasn’t the Sydney Town Hall’s, the music truly was incredible, even ethereal.

Say not in grief that she is no more
but say in thankfulness that she was
A death is not the extinguishing of a light,
but the putting out of the lamp
because the dawn has come.
Rabindranath Tagore

Not unsurprisingly, 5 year old Mister was captivated by the organ and was just the sort of kid, funeral or no funeral, who would start tinkering on the keys. Afterwards, seeing his interest, the organist casually started talking to him, asking him whether he plays the piano. Given my grandmother’s career and reputation, I’m sure this was more along the lines of learning the piano. Mister, who couldn’t sit still and hadn’t had any formal lessons replies: “Yes”.

After all, at this point of time, he could do a fabulous imitation of someone playing the piano. He’d stick the music up and move his hands around the keyboard with almost professional skill without playing any notes. Sure, he might have showed a strong Liberace influence but he really did do an exceptional job.

However, contrary to his great ideas, that’s not actually “playing the piano”.

Anyway, his conversation with the organist is deepening and I was starting to feel just a little concerned.

“Would you like to play?” asks the organist.

Now, his father and I start choking, almost dying on the spot thinking about Mister letting loose on the mighty organ. As a 5 year old boy who made wild horses look restrained, anything could happen. I could just imagine all the mourners leaping out of their skin as the mighty organ let out some kind of almighty scream as it reacted to his touch.

Under the circumstances, it wouldn’t have surprised me at all if my dear grandmother had  leaped out of her coffin and whacked him over the knuckles with both walking sticks. Not that she’d actually do something like that but I do remember her feeling justifiably “concerned” when we were taking the obligatory Christmas photos  and the kids were rather rambunctious.

This photo was taken at Christmas Day 2006 right next to my poor Gran. You can see the edge of her skirt but she valued her privacy.

This photo was taken at Christmas Day 2006 right next to my poor Gran. You can see the edge of her skirt but I’ve respected her privacy.

However, in what was possibly the greatest surprise of his early years, Mister mysteriously declined the offer. It seemed that somewhere, deep inside our young man there was some discernment. This was the very same little boy who usually bolted in where angels (and the much more tentative Miss) feared to tread.


Perhaps, my grandmother did tap him on the shoulder after all.

You just never know.

Mister took my grandmother's obituary into class for news. Whiteboards in classrooms were quite a novelty at the time and it was so exciting that we could beam her obituary onto the screen.

Mister took my grandmother’s obituary into class for news. Whiteboards in classrooms were quite a novelty at the time and it was so exciting that we could beam her obituary onto the screen.

Here’s a link to her obituary: http://www.smh.com.au/comment/obituaries/a-musical-career-honed-in-the-laundry-20090823-ev2w.html

I must say I find the title rather sexist and offensive. Made her sound like a washer-woman….humph!

Yesterday is a memory, tomorrow is
a mystery and today is a gift,
which is why it is called the present.
What the caterpillar perceives is the end;
to the butterfly is just the beginning.
Everything that has a beginning has an ending.
Make your peace with that and all will be well
Buddhist Saying

xx Rowena

Giving My Kids the Spirit of Tagore.

“Children are living beings – more living than grown-up people who have built shells of habit around themselves. Therefore it is absolutely necessary for their mental health and development that they should not have mere schools for their lessons, but a world whose guiding spirit is personal love.”
― Rabindranath Tagore

Last night, I was trawling through Tagore quotes when I stumbled across this gem.

Actually, “trawling” is the wrong word because reading Tagore is so effortless and an incredible joy…very much like collecting stars from the night sky and somehow sneaking them them into your pocket and even your heart!

Each and every quote I read was incredibly inspiring.

This quote particularly resonated with me because it goes against the grain of practical, pragmatic parenting.

My kids are incredibly creative but this very creativity generates a veritable cyclone of inspiration all over my house, which is all too easily reclassified as: “mess”!

Moreover, when we go out, my kids are NOT those kids politely sitting in their chairs conforming to social expectations. Consequently, they can attract more than their share of disapproving glances.

Indeed, yesterday at a family party they were attaching pegs to all the guests clothing in the most sneaky and stealthy ways. However, instead of disapproval, they became a hit. I have never seen my kids laugh so much and my cousin said the pegging had become quite the “ice-breaker”. They were like the comic jesters they used to have in Medieval times and were very much loved and appreciated.

It warmed my heart!

So often, I feel like I’m trying to force my creative, exuberant kids into some kind of straight-jacket to somehow keep the show on the road. That it’s very hard work for us to reach “the norm”, even though it’s quite evident that’s never going to be our path.

Reading this quote from Tagore has let us off the hook. It is more important to break those shells of habit, than to be spotless. Moreover, this is the only way our kids will ever reach for the stars and and live and breathe the spirit of Tagore.

I don’t know how all this works in with getting to school on time. Doing their homework and keeping the house in some kind of order but without passion, without inspiration, can we truly say that we are even alive?

What are your thoughts?

Mister painintg himself.

Mister painintg himself.