• I noticed that the dates in the headings of my previous two posts were wrong. I’ve corrected them. Sorry about that. I suppose it’s a good indication of where I’m at, though. I’m tired. Very tired.  I make mistakes when I’m tired. My cold probably has something to do with it. I’m not sleeping well because of the blocked nose, so… there’s that. And there’s the hip situation. Although better, I don’t have full movement yet. Also, it hurts if I lie on it, which inevitably happens when I’m asleep… which means I wake up… which means my sleep is disturbed… which means tired. So yeah. Tired.
  • Holidays are coming up and I thought I’d use the time with Sophia to start a project. A time-consuming, labour intensive project. I’m want to re-organise our LEGO collection by part. We have over 100 sets, easily. See how this is going to take a while? Why, you ask? Because most of our sets are in neatly labelled and organised plastic bags. Sure, this is great if you want to build that set, but it’s not at all conducive to the free building that Sophia is into right now. She’s picking pieces from this or that bag, which means the set is now incomplete. This drives me a little mad because we must have all the pieces in the bag, you know? Yes? (Okay, you don’t care. I know. I’m particular. Anyway. Moving on.)
  • Did I mention that LEGO has brought out it’s latest range? I haven’t looked at the City, Ninjago or Creator themes yet, but I happened to come upon the Elves sets yesterday – and are they cute! Dammit. Now I want them all! (The only LEGO Elves set we don’t have is Naida’s Spa Secret (41072). Refusing to buy it was a form of silent protest on my part. Naida’s space in the mini movie Unite the Magic, which LEGO made as part of the theme’s release in 2015, is a library in a cave, complete with waterfall (because Naida = water elf). How did we go from a library in the mini movie to a spa in the LEGO set? It feels wrong – that ‘girls = beautification’ idea. And a library, people! A library! How can you not include a library? Just… how?)
  • Anyway. Following along the same line of gender specific stuff, and whilst I’m moaning – please tell me: do girls not wear green clothing? I only ask because we needed a green t-shirt for my daughter’s school athletics day (green being her house colour). The only place I could find a straightforward, plain-coloured t-shirt was in the boys’ section. The girls’ section was full of shades of pink, muted tones of blue and lavender, rose gold sparkly polka dots, and the odd black and white stripe, often with a ‘cute’ slogan or picture. Nothing plain. No-thing. Jeez, I’m all for having a sense of style and having fun with your clothing – but can we as girls (women?) have some more colour choices please? And functional pockets.
  • My father hasn’t been discharged from hospital yet. A brief chat with my mother on the weekend revealed that he actually had two drains inserted at his side. Whilst one of the drains has been removed, the other remains. On the upside, the amount of fluid that is draining is decreasing. We still don’t know where the fluid is coming from, not exactly. I’m just glad he’s slowly getting better.
  • I have a cold. It sucks when you can’t breath through your nose.
  • I applied for a part-time position. I didn’t get beyond making an application. At first, I was relieved when I read the email letting me know I’d not progressed to the next stage of the selection process (mostly because the idea of going for an interview makes me very anxious). Then there was disappointment, because I’d imagined myself working and it was a nice feeling. Now I have to start from scratch. Looking for part-time work feels hard.
  • I discovered Shoe School. This is quite exciting because:
    1. I struggle to find shoes that fit well (because broad feet). The idea of designing, making and then wearing comfortable shoes is exhilarating.
    2. I can imagine making miniature shoes for dolls! How cute would that be?
    3. It’s an opportunity to see how I manage my anxiety around going to new places, meeting strangers, and learning new things.
    4. It’s also an opportunity for me to balance the demands of managing a household and being a caregiver (i.e. Is child care after school available? Can I get to class on time in the morning and get Sophia to school too? Can I manage household chores and responsibilities as well as classes and homework?)
    5. Points 3. and 4. are especially relevant because studying costume at Toi Whakaari for two years is still on my radar.
  • My father is still in hospital. His recovery is slow. So slow. It makes me sad that there’s nothing I can do to make him better, faster.
  • I meant to write this blog on the 9th of February 2018. But here we are, three weeks later. No blogs yet. (Sorry Luis*.) Shitty as that is, I’m starting where I am. My intention is to write a blog once a week, on a Friday. Because my brother asked me to and I said I would. (And because I think it will be good for me.) Writing a blog is hard. Structure makes it easier -therefore the ‘five things’ approach. (Thank you to Robynn** for the idea.) Basically, I’ll write about five things. They may be related, or they’ll be random. Who knows. It just has to be five things.
  • I have injured my hip. A weird twisty motion from a sitting position broke my muscles. It’s sore. I’ve booked an appointment with a physiotherapist. It will get better. But. I don’t think it’s just a sore hip. It’s been a sore hip for going on four weeks now. That’s too long for “just a sore hip”. Sometimes it’s not so much about my body as it is about my head-heart-spirit space. Louise L. Hay’s Heal Your Body says: “Hip Problems = Fear of going forward in major decisions. Nothing to move forward to.” Debbie Shapiro’s Your Body Speaks Your Mind says: “Where there is fear of movement – perhaps a fear that there is nothing to move towards …, or a fear of where we are going – then the hips will reflect this. A problem here indicates … a feeling of being unable to stand on our own. Stiffness in the hips is a sign of resistance to change, perhaps in your work or living situation. … When we feel useless, our hips prove that uselessness by preventing us from moving.” (Bold text is mine.) Also, it’s my left hip. Shapiro says “The left side of the body … indicates the ability … to surrender; to nourish and care for others; … to be creative and artistic, to listen to and trust our own wisdom.” (Again, bold text is mine.) It’s telling because this so accurately describes my head-heart-space. I’m stuck, too afraid to take a next step.
  • I’d like to make dolls, and costumes for dolls. I don’t know why. This online course by Adele Po could be a good place to start. Also, whilst we’re on the subject of learning, I think I’d like to explore Druidry through The Order of Bards, Ovates and Druids. Just thought I’d put that out there.
  • Last I heard (about four days ago), my father is doing better. He’s still in hospital, but slowly recovering. I take the removal of the drain from his side to be a good sign. His appetite it back. He is healing. (And I breathe just a little.)
  • This morning, I held Sophia’s*** little face in my hands and I told her that I love her to the moon and back. She responded with a warm hug and a “I love you to the sun and back”. So much feels.


* my dearest brother

** my beautiful friend

*** my beloved daughter



I write when I’m in a dark place. Sorry, but that’s kinda just the way it seems to be working out. (I think of blogs as happy places where people share all the awesome experiences they’re having or show other people how to make all the amazing stuff they’re making, or document recipes; and perhaps (as I’ve discovered more recently) dolls and the making of their lovely clothing. I think of blogs where people document pleasure. I don’t think of blogs as places where people share their ‘profound life lessons’… or darkness. Let’s just call it what it is – their darkness.)

But here I am… feeling dark. I feel a lot of pressure to ‘go out there and experience life because oh my god you’re in New Zealand and it’s an awesome place and there’s so much for you to experience and you simply must tell us all about how amazing it is… and… stuff.’ The reality is I have four hours every week day morning to have a miniature adventure – but I don’t, and I’m frustrated by it. I don’t go out into the big, amazing New Zealand not so much because I don’t want to (the idea is delightful of course!), or because I can’t (I have a car, I have money to put petrol in car, I have ability to drive car… my sense of direction sucks and I mostly have no clue where I’m going and the idea of getting lost is (quite literally, I’m not using hyperbole here) terrifying… but we have GPS now… so… there’s that.

The thing that holds me back most is fear, which manifests as anxiety.

Now, it’s not the sort of anxiety that requires medical intervention (because I can mostly function from day to day). It’s the ‘what if’ sort of anxiety, the ‘I’m not doing this thing called living right’ anxiety. The truth, I suppose, is that I’m feeling very lost and very disconnected – like a little boat out to sea… bobbing about with no sail… no anchor. At its most melodramatic, I don’t know who I am or how I want to live my life.

(I’ve always measured my life based on how I think other people will react. I’ve lived outside of my self. I’m painfully aware of this.)


My sense of self shrinks every day as I convince myself that the ideas I’m entertaining aren’t ‘safe’. Pretty much everything I consider doing feels dangerous because it’s so far from anything I’ve ever done. And I do mean everything.

There are days when I’m brave and I do engage in a new (exciting? interesting? beautiful?) experience. But. There’s always an emotional backlash. The doing of the new thing takes so much out of me energetically, I’m left dumb and numb for a day or two whilst I integrate said new experience into my being.

Because everything has significance. Everything. My mind is constantly busy, processing the significance of things and experiences. Walking in the forest is not just walking in the forest. It’s wondering if there really are divas (many call them fairies) amongst the plants… or how the light looks so clean now that the sun is setting… and isn’t it all so bloody marvellous?

And hey – immigrating to a new country is all about new experiences – so imagine how tapped out I feel most of the time.

And oh god, the learning curve! I imagine myself doing stuff, and then I realise I don’t know how to do that thing… and then it dawns on me that I’d have to learn how to do that thing… and oh god, that takes time and effort and a level of commitment and dedication. Can you see how things fall flat? Feeling tapped out most of the time and being overwhelmed by the idea of learning a new thing gets me nowhere fast. Result: frustration.

There’s also the thing I have about living inside my body. If you haven’t figured it out yet, I’m more of an imagination (brain) person than a physical (body) person. I have no relationship with my body. We don’t talk much. Sad really, considering how hard my body works to keep me alive…


The point is, I’m at a crossroads. I appreciate how moving to New Zealand offers me the opportunity to engage with some of the things I’ve always wanted to explore. The ridiculous things is – I don’t know where to start.

That learning curve feels too steep.


In the haze that is death, and perhaps because I’m reaching for something that is hopeful, and holds the promise of creativity (read: life?), I wanted to tell you that I’m starting a thing on the 22 May 2017 – the 100 Days Project NZ.

The 100 Days Project has rules (so it’s very serious), to wit:

  1. I will repeat a simple creative task every day for the duration (of the project) i.e. 100 days.
  2. I’ll record each day’s effort.

The recording of each day’s effort will happen on Instagram, here and on the 100 Days Project website, here. Feel free to follow the creativity. 🙂

What will I be creating? Miniature costumes – period or fantasy costumes for dolls, more specifically.

As to the ‘why’. I’m stuck. I’m hoping this will be the start of me creating stuff; of me making stuff; me tapping into that long-held love of period and/ or fantasy costume, whilst relishing the happy feeling I get when working in small-scale. I’m hoping something shifts, and I can begin to feel connected to this strange place I’m now calling home.

I also have a lot of dolls that need clothing.

I chose that heading because my uncle has passed away. (He was born in Madeira, so something in Portuguese seemed fitting.)

I found out about his passing when I saw a status update on my brother’s Facebook timeline. I then noticed that my brother had tried to contact me on WhatsApp. Although I’ve had a brief conversation with my brother on WhatsApp, I haven’t spoken to my parents yet. I haven’t heard their voices yet. It’s times like these where I fully appreciate how the time difference between Johannesburg (South Africa) and Wellington (New Zealand) makes having a conversation so much more tricky; how it makes connection difficult.

There has been a lot of death lately… I’ve experienced it through friends who have lost their mothers this year.  I have witnessed the loss of family before – a cousin when I was maybe 17 years old and an aunt when I was in my early twenties. The hollowness that I’m feeling today at the news of my uncle’s passing should not come as a surprise.

But it does. It’s a strange heaviness. A numbness. A foggy presence. I’m not altogether here. Willing myself to do mundane stuff is near impossible. Staring out into nowhere in particular feels comforting.

A friend on Facebook put it so eloquently: “I feel like I need to hug everyone but my arms are cut off.”

I wish I could hug everyone.


I want to write about something happy, because I think that’s what people want to hear about. I’m in a beautiful country that still feels like it could be just a little bit wonder-filled. My mind tells me I should be out there exploring it all, and telling you all about it. Because there is magic out there. I know there is.

But here’s the thing. Walking around with an aching heart has become my normal. I can’t put a time and date to when my heart broke, but I think it’s been broken for a very long time. Coming to New Zealand did not break my heart. It has made the hole in my heart more discernible, but it did not break my heart.

I want to be able to phone my family in Johannesburg and tell them about this interesting thing I did. But I don’t. Because I know they miss us. And I know that the conversation will slowly turn to how we miss each other. I don’t want to talk about that anymore. Because it hurts. It hurts more than the joy of doing the interesting things.

I am skilled at closing the heart. I find myself contorting again. Bending, holding. Waiting. Waiting to exhale.

More than anything else, I know Sophia is missed (very much so). Her stories, her laughter, her curiosity. Her playfulness. All of it. I know they wonder if she will forget them.

I know I made holes in their hearts. I know I made a hole in her heart. She misses her family. She misses her Caity and Madrinha, her tio Luis, avô and avó, nana and grandad. Her Peyton. She wishes they’d come for dinner. (And I wish I could make it so.)

It’s difficult finding the joy in this adventure. Because creating this adventure also created holes in hearts.

People will tell me, no doubt, that I do need to find the joy in things. And they’re absolutely right. But…

…when your normal is an aching heart, joy feels strange. Foreign. Invasive. Guilty. I don’t know how to hold all of that in a fractured heart. Not yet.

I am an immigrant. With immigration comes a period of adjustment, of reorientating one’s self in the world. It’s bittersweet – because there’s so much to explore and experience, but I’m doing it on my own. (One wants to share the excitement, I suppose.)

Thoughts and emotions present themselves, and it’s in my nature to have a conversation with these thoughts and emotions. Me talking to myself. My Roman Catholic upbringing, and the gift of a vivid imagination, taught me that things (gadgets, contraptions, stuff) can ‘hold’ a feeling, a thought, or a concept. An invisible thing can become manifest. So it’s with this in mind that I made a list of things that would, perhaps, make settling easier; things that would make navigating my new world a little less terrifying, less complex.


To remedy the thought I feel vacant and a little stupid a lot of the time, a pin badge that I’d wear wherever I go. It would read: “Hello. I’m new here. I don’t know what I’m doing. Please be patient.” Such a pin badge would facilitate interesting conversation (perhaps?), and it would help people to understand that the vacant expression on my face doesn’t mean “I’m ignoring you”, it means “Please be patient with me. I’m creating a new synapses in my brain that remembers how to do this new thing; whilst simultaneously retiring a synapses that is no longer relevant to my life. This may take a while. Sorry. (and wince)”

To remedy my sense of awkwardness, a read-o-matic. I never really know if I’ve inadvertently offended someone by saying or doing a thing. This contraption would read those around me, and glow purple whenever I made a faux pas. We could then laugh about it. “Oh look, it’s glowing purple. Did I offend someone? Terribly sorry. Please read my pin badge,” I’d say.

To remedy my feeling of invisibility, a teeny-tiny, real-live bable fish. Often, although we’re both speaking English, I have no idea if people understand my meaning, if they see me. I appreciate that I have an odd way of putting things sometimes, but the dim light I see in peoples’ eyes is perplexing. My read-o-matic would probably be glowing a stunning purple at that point. I’d laugh, point at my pin badge, hold my finger up as if to gesture “please wait a moment”, insert the little bable fish into my ear and repeat what I’d just said. Instant clarity. I’d suddenly be visible.

To remedy the mental fatigue that comes from doing mental gymnastics all the (bloody) time, a ‘how-to-adult-in-a-big-messy-complex-world’ guide. Meh. If I’m honest with myself, this is a thing all adults could use. Not because adults are stupid, but because navigating the world is hard (regardless of whether or not you’re an immigrant. Being an immigrant just adds another layer of complexity to daily life because there’s so much more mental gymnastics involved. And there’s more mental gymnastics involved because there’s so much that’s unfamiliar, too new. Until it’s not.)

People tell me to give it time. And they’re right. Time.

But what do you do with all the thoughts and emotions that crop up in the meanwhile?



Today is my father’s birthday.

I’ve only ever seen or heard my father cry twice in my lifetime.

The first occasion was at a family wake when we lost a dear cousin to a freak car accident. The memory is faint, I was young and I didn’t understand what had happened. I didn’t understand the sense of loss that was being expressed by the entire family.

The second occasion was on the day we left Johannesburg for Wellington. I knew my father wasn’t coming to the airport to see us off. I called from my sister’s house to say my farewells. There was the usual superficial chatter about how we were, the weather and if were all packed up and ready for the flight. Deep conversation has never been something we do, mostly because we don’t have a common language with which to express complex ideas and feelings. My Portuguese is rudimentary at best*, and my father’s English is a charming mix of odd words and expressions that he’s picked up having lived in South Africa for 40 years. Also, my father isn’t good with expressing emotion of any kind. That’s just how he is.

After wishing us well, he began to cry and he said in a choked voice: “I’m going to miss you.” He spoke in English as if to impress upon me his meaning.

Today I miss my dad. I miss that we won’t be going over to my folk’s place for lunch in celebration of his birthday. I miss that he won’t sweetly chastise me for giving him a present instead of saving the money for something ‘more important’, and yet he’ll be smiling so broadly because I remembered. I’m sad because we won’t gather around the table to eat my mom’s roast chicken, and he won’t pour a straight whiskey on the rocks for my husband and brother, even though they object a little too much. He won’t offer my mom, sister nor I a tot of aniz**.  We won’t eat too much, and then an hour later have coffee with a thick slice of my mom’s bolo de laranja***. And just when we’re about to leave, my daughter won’t take a little walk with my dad down to the spaza shop and help herself to a little chocolate, a bottle of bubbles, and a packet of chips. My dad won’t absolutely insist that we take some pimpinela or couve from their garden, or leftovers from Sunday lunch, home with us. And I won’t stand outside with my mom and siblings, hovering at the car doors, having one last conversation that lasts 45 minutes whilst my dad darts in and out of the house gathering more food to send home with us. None of that will happen.

And I am sad for it.


*we were never formally schooled in the language

** a traditional aniseed liqueur made in Madeira; each bottle typically contains a dried aniseed stem with lovely crystals that form around it.

*** bolo de laranja = ‘cake of orange’; this is a recipe of my mother’s making. pimpinela = chayote. couve = collard greens.

The committee living inside my brain has gone back and forth, considering the killing of this blog, or its resurrection. It’s been a good four years since I’ve posted. A lot has changed.  Perhaps the most significant change is our immigration to New Zealand. That happened in April 2016. Somewhat rather by accident. Or not. The Universe is weird that way.

Obviously the committee decided to resurrect the blog. Why? Simple answer really: I still like the idea of ‘The Life of a Forest Wife’. I thought to delete the older posts, but a) I can’t be bothered to figure out how, and b) maybe keeping one’s history is a good thing. (The idea of a clean slate is seductive. But… I don’t know that there is such a thing as a clean slate. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you, right?)

Being true to my nature, I’ll probably want to organise posts. But I get the sense as I’m writing this that things are going to get messy. Maybe really messy.

My dear friend Ilonka said “Right now your new life is a blank canvas and you can paint it exactly to your desires.” She’s right, of course. I hate that she’s right – because it implies that I have to show up. Me. The woman who likes hiding and playing small. I’m brilliant at that. I suck at showing up. Showing up is hard. Being present is hard. Being the ‘creator of one’s magnificent life’ is friggin’ hard a lot of the time; largely because it’s up to me – it’s all up to me. The shitty stuff and the magnificent stuff is all of my making in some way, shape or form.

The committee does not like this. They feel very uncomfortable with this idea because it implies ‘taking responsibility’ and ‘having courage’ and ‘overcoming one’s demons’ (or sitting apprehensively with them) and ‘stepping into the arena’* and… stuff.

Of course, it probably doesn’t help that there’s so much about my personality that makes leaning into change and the ‘creating of one’s magnificent life’ complex. It really isn’t as easy as stepping out into the unknown, exploring and ‘having cheerful adventures’. Adventures freak me out. Completely. Mostly because I can’t control the outcome, and I don’t have faith in my ability to figure out things as I go along. And (cough) I’m an awkward perfectionist.

Believe me, I’m very aware of the paradox in that. No one can know what will happen, what they will experience, from moment to moment. No. One.

But Fear is real. I feel it choking me a little as I step outside the perceived safety of my little cocoon. Every. Day.  Fear is cruel.


(and deep breath in. and exhale.)

The committee is currently trying to figure out how it’s going to invite my demons over for tea. Invitations will go out to Fear, Anxiety and Slow Painful Death, no doubt. I’m considering an invitation to Self Compassion too. I’m told she’s kind.


* If you have no clue what I’m talking about, have a look see here, or  watch this TED talk, from about 12:12.