As I observe the date of today, I am reminded of one of the happiest days of my life. Eighteen years since we moved into our own home, and the fruition of those daydreams spent on the verandah of the rented house (see previous blog). (There's quite a bit of literature about the significance of verandahs in people's lives; that space between what goes on within and what goes on without. I'll tell you about it later if you're interested). If you recall our circumstances at that time, you might remember that the odds were statistically stacked against ever achieving that dream and I recall sitting on the floor of the house on the day of settlement, numb with disbelief. The day that I won the national competition matched it for intensity, though I was still disconnected from my own sense of self, but I am reminded that only approximately 3% of budding writers ever get to be published, so, again, the odds were statistically... (you can fill in the rest now I'm sure, and perhaps start to see a pattern).
So, these are two of the happiest days of my life. Now for something a bit more controversial. As I wrote the above, a voice of motherly (or societal?) conscience gnawed at me. Wouldn't I say that the occasions that I gave birth to my children were the happiest days? In truth, no. Do I hear you suck in your breath in horror? What did I know at seventeen, and at twenty-four for that matter. Were they the most life-changing and powerful moments of my life? Absolutely. They formed me, made me who I am and gave me much of my life's motivation; they just weren't the happiest.