The Country Mice

Bonjour, Natalie! Aimes-te cette jupe?

Je cherche un ami pour la danse mais c’est difficile!

Il est sept heure et demi vendredi soir

J’ai mis mon souliers noirs.

Did I mention there was a French play? And that more than one parent in the room asked if Homeboy was the gal in the pink Lululemon?

That’s my girl, I bragged.

My brave beautiful completely lunatic girl.

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We picked up our boy for lunch the other day.

What with his Ultimate practice, music practice, religion project, humour project (Perfecting the Pun, don’t you know), “I’ve just got to get my Secret Santa gift finished!” and other bits of preteen ephemera, we fairly much need to make an appointment to see him.

So we made an appointment.

“Can we buy you lunch?”

Cute, isn’t he?

Once upon a time he was my baby. I was devoted to him and he to me.

I still remember those days.

He doesn’t.

He told me today he’d chipped his tooth, biting a wire.

“I didn’t know that was a bad thing to do.”

There’s also the faintest thickening of fuzz now peachifying that upper lip.

It is my intent to be mature about this growing up business.

sniff

Dang.

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The Princess and I decided to take Homeboy out for lunch yesterday. Pics with the lad exist for sure, but let’s just say some judicious editing is in order: With the grimaces, groans, crumbs on chin, smeary glasses and blurry smiles, it was akin to shooting a moving target.

Upon our departure saw this sweet little piece of tin advertising, bearing her nickname.

I love serendipity.

What are you doing this weekend?

After school today we will visit an Island long-timer — raised both her now-adult children here — who will lead us in a Canadian folk-song sing-a-long.

After I’se the Bye that Builds the Boat, I wonder how many we’ll know!

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Much as I love my home country, I always enjoy the ease of public transport in slightly more crowded lands. We easily hopped a train from Ballarat to Melbourne (children ride free during school hours — oops!).

After hurting through the countryside for about 90 minutes the train spat us out at a large public space called Federation Square, a series of public buildings housing, among many attractive spaces, a large collection of modern Australian aboriginal art.

These ‘dream paintings’ typically portray the origin stories of the ancestors, although some modern day artists also use their paintings to continue ancestral stories of music, rock art and body art.

The work is typically painted on the floor and some of the work was displayed horizontally — a different perspective for sure.

The paintings are often aerial views of an area. At the entrance to the gallery was a series of slides of paintings and aerial landscape shots. Sme of them were shown in a transparent overlay — the accuracy was remarkable!

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A pair of elderly ladies on the gallery’s top floor didn’t seem too happy to hear us chatting about the art in such enthusiastic tones.

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So we gave them their own space.

Cranky old ducks.

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*tap*

*tap*

Anybody there?

Forgive my long absence, dear reader, as I have just emerged from the land of Down Under, the place of kangaroos, kookaburras, Vegemite and more, a land of friendly forthright citizens and a place where the wireless computer connection is as elusive as the eucalyptus-munching koala.

And please pronounce that ko-WAH-la, mate. None of your fancy ko-AW-la business.

I will endeavor to fill you in on our 10 days adventures while I also share what I hope will be many posts on the final leg of our journey in the south of France.

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On their first day in the land of Oz the children blurred through the blues and yellows of school clothing, en route to share in a day of schooling down under.

On his return, Homeboy remarked that the day had not been “very exciting.” The comment is either credit to his Island school or it’s been too long since he was in class!

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A weekend spent in silence.
Easier than it sounds.

Rising at 3 a.m.
Easier than it sounds.

One hundred and eight bows.
Harder than it sounds.

***

Opted to spend a weekend at the Buddhist monastery in Haein-sa. To experience, for 24 hours, the life of someone who has chosen to live a life completely devoted to the teachings of the Buddha.

To summarize — a lovely, serene, peace-filled experience.

You can stop reading right now because that’s all you need to know.

But, for more details, peruse away.

***

Arrived back in Haein-sa for 4 p.m. Saturday afternoon. The lady who ran the monastery’s temple stay program greeted us — both Western and Korean — and gave us baggy grey cotton pants and vests and showed us to the small rooms where, by nightfall, we’d sleep side by side on thin mats, with buckwheat hull-filled pillows and cotton quilts, on heated floors.

After changing into our temple clothes we gathered in a small hall and sat cross-legged on square cotton cushions.

The head monk glided in, long grey flowing robes around him as he sat on the floor, and proceeded to inform us on the details of temple etiquette. Of course we Anglos couldn’t understand a word but the temple lady occasionally summarized and the rest we picked up by imitation.

Eyes cast downward when walking around the temple, so as not to be distracted from one’s thoughts. Minimal talking. Always keep with the others — no solo wandering — one’s responsibility was to the group, not the individual. Hands kept clasped at the belly — some special significance there but clearly too difficult to translate. Eat everything on your plate.

How to hold one’s hands to pray, how to bow (not so simple, Dear Reader), how to sit in what you and I would call the lotus, how to meditate in the Korean Buddhist manner, how to stretch after a a lengthy time listening to all the how-to’s.

The monk’s laughter was deep, gentle and often. With his shaved head all one could really notice were his eyes and frequent smile.

Following this greeting ceremony we lined up outside (all travel around the monastery involved finding one’s place in a line, either single- or double-file).

Walked quick-step to the dining hall where we picked up our plates — great platter-sized discs of plastic.

Now, why do you think the plates would be so huge?

Here’s the lesson.

If you are 30 years old you’ve eaten about 10,000 meals — yet you’ve still often taken too much food or too little food (guilty, your honour) and have left food on your plate or have had to go back for seconds.

Having this great big platter forced us to think about how much food we were taking, how much we could comfortably eat without wasting.

Interesting, isn’t it? How much is just the right amount of rice? Faced with that big plate, I didn’t really know.

So we sat with our uncertain quantities of food, chewing in silence, when suddenly everyone else appeared to have finished their plates and were leaving the dining hall. Only us five Anglos were still eating. Looking at each other in some alarm we shovelled the rest of the meal into our mouths to experience what the monks had likely hoped: We’d taken too much food, as the evening meal was just 15 minutes long.

Again, interesting. You can draw your own lesson here — I know I did.

***

I will leave you now, Dear Reader, as you think about your next meal, and I will describe the coming several hours of temple life in my next post.

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