So Far…

Weird day looming with an equally weird week/month/year/decade sitting palpably on the horizon.

We’ve stated our desire to live a life of service and delight people (preferably from a safe and substantial distance) so often. What does that actually mean though? Well, it seems appropriate to get down in writing what we are doing and what we have done.

This exercise is as much for my own clarity as it is to explain to anyone who is interested in our projects. It is difficult to piece together the vast and varied bits and bobs Damon and I are attempting to breathe life into.

Farm

Our Farm, Matakana Retreat, in 2023.

We have found immeasurable satisfaction seeing the biodiversity thrive at the farm. Food is starting to flood in over every season. Food security, and soil and water health is such a tangible and tactile magic. Our composting queen, Pip B, has been working her magic in building our mostly clay soils into a more arable and friable growing medium with the resulting fruit and veg tasting so incredible.

The farm also has three eco-tourism products that work separately and together. These three sites are helping to pay a small team to supervise and further nurture the farm. We see ourselves as selling privacy and a chance to go off grid and digitally detox. Our amazing guests have given us glorious reviews in return for the favour of 48 hours of radio silence. This is the best feedback and gift for us! One recent guest stayed after having experienced a significant loss and couldn’t thank us enough for this time to process. That’s the magic.

It’s not all a box of roses. There are also many challenges in creating the vision. We are having to realign our driveway and security gate and that goes with insane amounts of red tape and fuckery, but it’s a necessary mountain to climb to secure our autonomy and safety, and the privacy and protection of our guests.

We’ve also nearly completed our first workshop space and wellness room (for guest massages) and we are investigating the viability of a sauna, ice bath (or buckets more likely), and hot tub. All these additions require careful consideration when you are an off grid destination and you need to strongly consider your energy generation options. We’ve learned the hard way from our first hot tub that the energy we take for granted on grid can be the difference between keeping the lights on or not when you are using solar energy.

Heaps more happening, but I don’t care to give more away at this point. Suffice to say we will be carefully guarding the sacredness of privacy and peace for ourselves and our wonderful grateful guests.

We have also expanded our net to include a finishing block that will be developed as a farm forestry and regenerative agriculture project. This block will be developed with swales, resilient water and soil plans, and a fully functioning food forest legacy project. This first 12 months all we will commit to is hosting a small herd of grazing heifers and undertake weed and pest control but the longer term goal is to create a highly functional permaculture paradise. Oh, and with horses! And a range of other four legged friends.

Growing food feels like the most meaningful thing we can do as an act of resistance in a clearly failing system. The farm will be hosting volunteers and enthusiasts soon, and the projects will be helped along with many hands. Finding meaningful and efficient ways of selling and distributing food is a priority as the bounty continues to grow.

Faith

I am a witch. Damon is a neurotic mish mash and failed Buddhist and jazz musician (his words), he’s reasonably good at multi tasking and managing things though which is helpful. The kids (while all incredibly spoilt) are a generally neurospicey mix of rationalism, activism, spiritualism and meme/internet scrolling.

I feel very strongly that faith and spiritualism should provide an anchor and freedom to soar and find community and connection. I love to see people on their paths, and have no desire to steer anyone toward following my witchy ways. But I am also very happy to share knowledge and ideas with anyone who is interested. I am no guru/expert or high priestess. I am just a tired woman who is finding strength and purpose standing in my own power, and learning about vast and varied deities and old gods. My practice is solitary, I have no desire to join or start a coven of any description, but I often find myself surrounded by magical humans and it is welcome when it happens.

We are returning to Bhutan in a few weeks for guidance and calm and to bring my eldest son (who recently graduated University and also turned 21) to experience pooja and learn the magical and mysticism of this kingdom in the clouds, protected by the dragon (druk).

Before we embark on that journey, the annual mom and Jamie birthday adventure will see me and my youngest child winging our way over the Tasman sea and into Australia’s red centre. This is a deeply spiritual journey for him and I as well. Aboriginal knowledge and mysticism is something I do not presume to be able to understand in this lifetime as I navigate my experiences of life in the meat suit of a privileged white woman. My interest and reverence for the ancient and sacred truths protected by and shared among the diverse tribes of aboriginal and Torres straight people gets stronger and deeper with every exposure to Australia. The intensity of this magic is palpable in Uluru.

And I have been called to the path of the solar eclipse in August this year. The totality of that event is only going to be experienced in a sparsely populated trajectory of the earth. Iceland and Greenland are the best places to be so we’ve booked to circumnavigate Iceland in August, and will be on a boat off the South East coast of this island of fire and ice.

None of any of this will happen if the geopolitical uncertainty escalates to the point it is untenable to travel away from the safe haven our Antipodean home.

Family

My daughter lives her very best life as a University student in Wellington. She calls me every day and facetimes every Friday to fit check her costume or outfit for whatever bohemian party or event she’s attending that evening. She has forgiven my bumpy evolution and grave mistakes and character flaws and her and her fabulous friends often talk about me in my absence as iconic and authentic.

The other six kids are all various ages and at various stages of their journeys. We are heading over to Sydney where all seven of the children will have five days to hang out together doing various family and touristic adventures together.

I was not supported or appreciated in my role as a mother in my first marriage. Gaslit and scape-goated yes, supported or respected, absolutely not.

7 years into my new relationship with a supportive and patient partner, I am able to be calm, regulated and present for the kids when they are around.

This is a hard fought and vehemently protected culture of care, consideration, authenticity, and honesty. Shenanigans still pop up and smack talk and manipulation still occur behind our backs occasionally, but building a safe space with clear expectations and boundaries while any or all the kids are in my care is our top priority and, generally, we manage it all pretty well.

Urban Edifice

The Kingston street building manifested itself into our lives a year ago and will be a century old in 2027. While it’s not a historically listed building, it provides one of the few remaining examples of early Auckland in this end of town. We are surrounded by mostly soulless and towering modernist style developments in every direction. But at our wee end of Kingston Street we are fortunate to have 3 original character buildings all lined up.

Inside our midtown building is an ancient witchy elevator and four floors. Every inch of the place is slowly being renovated and upgraded.

We live on the top (third) floor, which is technically the penthouse. The 21 and 17 year old boys live in a two bedroom apartment on the second floor. Next to them is a lovely two bedroom two bathroom apartment which we affectionately call the Resting Witch Place, and where the eldest son and his partner also stay to parent the 17 year old if we are away.

They study, party, and live very happily in this beautiful old building. Its location means we are ideal for hosting their friends who may be stuck in town or need safe place to be for one reason or another.

It is by no means a simple or straightforward situation. Not many people would choose such an unconventional living space. But our kids embrace and understand the vision enough that they are both excited and content most of the time and they love being Centre Ville.

The first floor has recently been cleared as it will become a shared creative space with a studio kitchen, small gym, recording studio, and shared creative workspace.

The ground floor once hosted two restaurants. One of those has become my garage and is being renovated as a speakeasy for friends and family to gather occasionally. I can move my little pink electric Fiat 500e into a nearby car park, and up to a dozen people can comfortably commune for salon style discussions or lounge around listening to records.

The main space will become a third space/event space for magical gatherings. We envision open mic nights and live sing-along-Sunday gatherings. A stage, a bar, a finishing kitchen and enough seating for 50-80 people to gather together for safe and inclusive situations is being discussed and designed.

I hope to find a passionate community minded event manager to fill up the space and lock in and deliver regular events. Mocktail and menopause Monday evenings for example. I have an image of powerful and weary goddesses gathering after work on Monday evenings for fireside style ask anything sessions. These will be facilitated by respected health, wellness and business experts. The doors will open early (like 4pm) and a delightful selection of low and no alcohol beverages and perhaps tapas or cheese boards will be offered.

The food grown on the farm will find its way to the city and people can come to feasts to enjoy the bounty and be among inspiring and safe people for a spell.

The rest of the time the space will be very reasonably priced and available for events and gatherings.

This building will also be the physical headquarters for the Finding Persephone Foundation. That is a whole blog and subject of its own which I might share later.

For now, thanks for reading.

I hope if you have been curious about our direction that this clarifies a bit and piques your interest.

We are going to need an army of passionate and purpose led people to pull this all off.

If you are interested in being a part of any of these projects, please DM me on social media.

Stuck in the 90’s Again

Stuck in the 90’s Again

I truly Love being back at school.  The penny drops and some readings sink in every once in a while, and for just a moment,  I feel like a fucking academic rockstar.

academic-project

I could spend the rest of my adult life languishing in books and journals and online resources all day.  Words are delicious and reading and writing is a special kind of heaven for a logophile like myself.

Being an adult student pisses all over my undergrad and postgraduate diploma experiences.  I actually want to be there now.  It is the least stressful and in some ways most rewarding part of my life (sorry kids, husband, job and activism) right now.  Probably mostly owing to the fact I know it will all be over by August.  I felt the same giddiness about the first few events I managed when I got back to work, and the first weeks of my youngest children’s lives.  I guess I like variety.

Anyway, what was I on about again?

Ah, yes, so I seriously love being back at school.  I was in the library all day yesterday and today, and I’m up on the all but abandoned 4th floor that smells of books, and ink, and laptop fans and coffee.  This is lucky, as the main floor smells of young people.  You know the smell, like the 7th form common room.  Lynx and sweat and raging hormones.  So much yuck.  Much prefer the musty smell of books to that of millennials.  Nothing wrong with young people, we were all young people at one time or another, I just rather prefer being a feisty middle-aged mother of four.

I have earned my stripes in this life, and have crammed a decade worth of living and adventure into each and every year since striking out on my own (mostly) at the age of 16.

One of the nice things about getting/being older is the reminiscing.  I wouldn’t want to do my teens or twenties over again for all the tea in China (China, CHINA… can’t help myself… Trump memes are like brain worms) but I do like thinking back on my incredibly interesting coming of age.

You’ve heard the saying “youth is wasted on the young” well I think that’s stone cold bullshit.  Youth is not a waste.  It is very important.  Doing dumbass shit and becoming self aware and connected to a bigger purpose than ourselves is a destination only possible through the trials, heartache, laughter, tears, dramatics, awkward sex, fleeting first kisses, epic adventures and learning how to be resilient through all of this shit.

quote-it-s-a-pity-youth-is-wasted-on-the-young-george-bernard-shaw-53-27-79

Youth is best spent in a body that can handle the punishment that comes with making many bad (and some fabulous) decisions.  So, it is not wasted on the young.  It is perfectly suited to them.  And they can fucking HAVE IT!

So today’s soundtrack was exclusively 90’s fare.  I listened to Counting Crows, and Lisa Loeb, and then the COMPLETE Third Eye Blind collection.  I was transported to the University of Calgary and our four bedroom apartment in Castle Hall.  They’ve since torn that whole complex that was built for the 1988 winter olympics down.

castle-hall

Chain smoking, beer for breakfast and working a full time job at a coffee shop on campus called (ever so originally) The Coffee Company.  I Loved that job.  I got another “foreign” student friend a job alongside me there.  We’ve all but lost touch now.  Her name was Sarah and she works as an events manager or something in Queenstown.  I see her shit come up on Facebook or Instagram occasionally, but we’ve taken very different paths and don’t have mutual friends anymore.  I see the other fabulous Australian Jess online a lot, we share a lot of political views so I like reading her status updates and shit.

So this trip down memory lane got me thinking. If I could go back and give skinny, insecure, campus bicycle (just about everyone had a ride) Dee some really solid advice it would include:

  • Listen, like ACTUALLY FUCKING LISTEN to that voice that says “that isn’t a good idea Dianna…” but listen MORE to the voice that says: “HEY!  You should DO THAT!”
  • STOP SMOKING.
  • Give less fucks about what people think, most people whose opinions matter to you today will fall into obscurity (even with social media) and be replaced with people who are smart, kind, caring, quirky, wonderful and treat you with Love and respect.
  • Definitely go out with the sweet short guy you’re going to meet in a few years named Steve, and definitely do tell him that you can’t be bothered dating anyone who doesn’t want kids (together you’ll have four)
  • Love the shit out of everything and do not be ashamed.  Your passion and enthusiasm will take you all over the planet, and it will be amazing.  It does run out though, so use up every morsel while you can before it does.
  • Dance and sing and go on a lot of road trips.
  • The freedom you have right now is something you’ll not think of as a gift until it is replaced with the trappings of being an adult and all the responsibilities contained therein, so be free (and wrap up every single time if you’re feeling randy)
  • Enjoy your own company.  You won’t realize how precious and wonderful being by yourself is until your mid 30’s and you almost NEVER get to be by yourself for any length of time ever.  Seriously.  Even going to the toilet will include an audience when you have four fucking kids, so go sit under a tree somewhere and just fucking be, because you won’t be getting a lot of those moments with a young family in tow.
  • Be confident and humble.  You’ll figure it out…

So, seeing as I do not have a time machine to go back and tell me these things, I will instead hope that my kids benefit from the wisdom bred from my many adventures.  Sprinkle on top of this Phteven’s own vast and varied life experience, and the kids will have a lot to draw on if they ever need advice.

So I am going to leave you with a song that my husband and I listened to on countless road trips and adventures together (before and after we had kids) from one of my top three favourite obscure Canadian bands.  Do yourself a goddamned favour and listen to the whole thing, because it is CRAZY how history repeats and some things do not change, while others totally do.

Here’s “Stuck in the 90’s Again” by my main men from Eastern Canada (who are WELL over 30 now BTW)

MOXY FRUVOUS!

Thank you for reading.

Goodnight.

It’s Beginning to Look A lot Like… Fuck this shit.

It’s Beginning to Look A lot Like… Fuck this shit.

We have officially reached December and the undeniable start of the seriously silly season.

This is my devil’s advocate blog to counter the usual sickly sweet bucket of rainbows and unicorn farts you will find on my other blog page. I totally believe in holiday miracles and the triumph of the human spirit and shit… But I also want to share with you just how tired and disillusioned I am with the commercialism and unreasonable expectations at this time of year.

fuck_this_shit-575838

I urge you to consider joining me, as I take it all with a grain of salt. Feel absolutely free to say fuck it to the holiday season. Or go ape shit and put tinsel in your hair and sing Christmas carols at your desk all day long. Do what feeds your soul, but know that there is no law that states you have to abide by any of the traditions or buying mountains of stuff.

This time of year drives stress levels sky-rocketing. Families fight, friends feel lonely, left out or overwhelmed. Older people can feel isolated. Finance companies prey on people who have been fed bullshit and believe they are failures if they can’t provide a Christmas with all the trimmings to their family. That kind of scavenger mentality sends my blood boiling in a big way.

So I generally like to lay low and get a lot of rest and peace while the world around me goes bat-shit crazy in a commitment to commercialism and conspicuous consumerism that crosses cultures and borders around the planet.

Malls are adorned with holiday decorations, playing locally unseasonal and also an entirely unreasonable amount of Christmas songs featuring snow and sleigh-bells and so forth. These trite tunes waft through speakers while mildly to morbidly-obese post-middle-aged men are donning sweaty satin santa suits and scaring children for hours each day. Those poor fuckers who sign up to be a mall Santa spend weeks in the trenches and I am thoroughly impressed with their patience.

And don’t get me started on the poor bedraggled parents. Nervously waiting to see if their little bundle of joy will sit calmly or lose their shit completely at the sight of Santa. Especially the first timers. I can spot them a mile off. Their dewy skin and rosy cheeks caused from all the rushing about, and their saucer sized eyes, wanting so much to make magic moments happen for their offspring. The whole mall Santa gig seems to be a somewhat sadistic right of passage to me now. By the time you get the fourth kid, chances are you will be happy to give the whole ordeal a wide berth.

Meanwhile, in the homes, offices and workshops of New Zealand, workers are working longer hours building momentum that will climax in chaos and failing to meet countless unrealistic expectations from a variety of sources. Parents and caregivers who have foregone financial recompense to raise the next generation or care for family or friends are on the front line of this stressful season. They are braving supermarkets, toy-sales, and Christmas wrapping queues across the country. I salute you! And I won’t be joining you.

We also get to run the gauntlet of Christmas parties (and subsequent hangovers), BBQs, parades, pageants, pleading for pointless playthings and emptying out of pantries across the country. I had several years of being the drunkest girl at many of these parties because I have issues with moderation, and ended up looking like a right twat.

We are all rushing headlong toward the nationwide commercial lull that happens between Christmas Eve and sometime in mid-January.

We do this every fucking year, and then just when we have thoroughly recovered we have to start the whole sordid ordeal over again.

I say fuck this shit. Fuck it right in the most consistently conspicuous corner of the corporate cluster fuck that has been bringing us to our knees and making us all feel inadequate for decades.

Who said we had to do this shit anyway? I can celebrate my spirituality and spend time with my family like a boss, with or without spending a fortune.

The reason I sound like such a sour bitch about the holiday season is because I am in recovery from a serious and stifling Christmas addiction.

I used to hoard the 75% off Christmas decorations from boxing day sales and dream of getting them out of the box and decorating my home and welcoming people in for eggnog and perhaps a cheeky mistletoe snog.

The turning point was, strangely, having children.

The first Christmas with my nearly one year old baby boy disappearing under a mountain of gifts with a look of confusion on his beautiful young face broke something in me.

He crinkled up the discarded wrapping and played in boxes and basically ignored the expensive and educational goodies we had lovingly chosen and wrapped for him over months and months leading up to Christmas morning.

Kids don’t give a flying fuck about your ability to buy them shit. At least mine don’t. They want you to watch them do tricks on the trampoline and climb trees. They want mid-week morning snuggles and days off work spent playing on the beach or in the snow or even just staying home and mucking in around the yard.

So put down the fucking credit card, close the fucking laptop, turn off those social media apps and chill the fuck out. Sit your seriously tired ass down for a quiet moment with someone who makes you laugh, phone someone you love and tell them you appreciate the shit out of them. Do the kind of shit that feeds your soul but keeps your bank balance in check. If you want to go all Martha Fucking Stewart, knock yourself out. But please don’t feel like you have to.

D.

p.s. Merry Fucking Christmas