Okay. So here I  am five years after my cancer diagnoses and my authentic self is still lost. I've gone  from being a middle-aged doormat to a neurotic whinger sitting on my mother’s old armchair in my grandmother’s little unit on a busy main road in Tauranga  surrounded by photos of my children. Four generations of memories  merged  into one small space. And I’m bored! For the first time in my life I have nothing pressing its need upon me, in line for my time and attention. The move is over, every box unpacked, every possession neatly in place, dishes done, washing up-to-date, micro greens planted, kombucha tea brewing, dust eliminated.

For the last twenty -eight years I have struggled through motherhood, longing to reach this place of quiet soltitude, to think my own thoughts uninterrupted in a house that stays tidy. But now I’m here every thought stops at ‘what now?’ and the tidiness, well that’s just plain freaky. It speaks of life unlived, a waiting room to goodness knows where.  I am only forty-nine years old and not ready for the ‘chuck out’ pile yet.

“Write a book,” my daughters, ex husband, friends, family therapist and even almost strangers have been saying for years – as though it’s no harder than getting in the washing or feeding the cat. And always I’ve said, “maybe, when I’ve time, when I’ve stopped living my story, cleaned the garage and weeded the garden, then I may record it. At the moment even a short story is impossible”

Except now it is. I have no more excuses; nothing but my little dog waiting for her walk and my lack of grammatical knowledge to stop me. Nothing that is - except I can’t seem to think of anything to say. After years of writing and rewriting stories in my head, recording experiences in words instead of pictures, organising my thoughts as though I’m reading a book, now the time has come my mind is as quiet as the life I’ve stumbled into.

To be quite honest, I’m a little shell-shocked. This change has been sudden and unplanned. I am meant to be back in my old house, in Kawerau, surrounded by work that needs to be done, my friends, my daughter and her five foster children. I had planned to get into my poor neglected garden, visit my dad more and support my overwhelmed, but kind hearted daughter. It is where my heart longs to be. And that’s the trouble. My heart still longs to be there and I can’t understand why I’m not. Why I said ‘yes’ to staying here, in this tiny house, listening to the never ending drone of the traffic, without enough to live on.

I am melancholy. I am lonely. I mope around, dragging  myself through daily errands, chores, appointments and visiting my grandma.  My body hurts and I am tired. I worry about my health and have panic attacks over money, especially in the supermarket, where I spend more than I can afford. It’s not hard. I’m only left with $40 a week, after all the bills are paid, to feed two people. Every time I think of getting a job I remember how sick my body feels after only a few months of working and how long, after stopping, it takes to feel well again. I am ashamed of my body’s weakness and trapped in its sickness. I see no way out.    

Okay. So here I am five years later and the search continues. I'm sitting on my mother’s old armchair in my grandmother’s little unit on a busy main road in Greerton, Tauranga, surrounded by photos of my children. Four generations of memories  merged  into one small space. And I’m bored! For the first time in my life I have nothing pressing its need upon me, in line for my time and attention. The move is over, every box unpacked, every possession neatly in place, dishes done, washing up-to-date, micro greens planted, kombucha tea brewing, dust eliminated. For the last twenty -eight years I have struggled through motherhood, longing to reach this place of quiet soltitude, to think my own thoughts uninterrupted in a house that stays tidy. But now I’m here every thought stops at ‘what now?’ and the tidiness, well that’s just plain freaky. It speaks of life unlived, a waiting room to goodness knows where.  I am only forty-nine years old and not ready for the ‘chuck out’ pile yet.

“Write a book,” my daughters, estranged husband, friends, family therapist and even almost strangers have been saying for years – as though it’s no harder than getting in the washing or feeding the cat. And always I’ve said, “maybe, when I’ve time, when I’ve stopped living my story, cleaned the garage and weeded the garden, then I may record it. But the time is not yet.”

Except now it is. I have no more excuses; nothing but my little dog waiting for her walk and my lack of grammatical knowledge to stop me. Nothing that is - except I can’t seem to think of anything to say. After years of writing and rewriting stories in my head, recording experiences in words instead of pictures, organising my thoughts as though I’m reading a book, now the time has come my mind is as quiet as the life I’ve stumbled into.

To be quite honest, I’m a little shell-shocked. This change has been sudden and unplanned. I am meant to be back in my old house, in Kawerau, surrounded by work that needs to be done, my friends, my daughter and her five foster children. I had planned to get into my poor neglected garden, visit my dad more and support my overwhelmed, but kind hearted daughter. It is where my heart longs to be. And that’s the trouble. My heart still longs to be there and I can’t understand why I’m not. Why I said ‘yes’ to staying here, in this tiny house, listening to the never ending drone of the traffic, without enough to live on.

I am melancholy. I am lonely. I mope around, dragging  myself through daily errands, chores, appointments and visiting my grandma.  My body hurts and I am tired. I worry about my health and have panic attacks over money, especially in the supermarket, where I spend more than I can afford. It’s not hard. I’m only left with $40 a week, after all the bills are paid, to feed two people. Every time I think of getting a job I remember how sick my body feels after only a few months of working and how long, after stopping, it takes to feel well again. I am ashamed of my body’s weakness and trapped in its sickness. I see no way out.