This morning over breakfast my dad was telling a story to a group of spear-fisherboys and my cousin. It was about when I got drunk and took the 40horsepower boat to Vatulele island. And how I ran out of juice on my cross-pacific journey home. They all laughed and so did he. He then went on to talk about how I kick like a horse and how he knows this for certain. Because it says so on a police report. Of course.
He then proudly exclaimed… “I taught her”.
The actual day that I did steal his boat (and his tequila) he wasn’t too impressed. The day I had to call my parents and tell them I probably needed a lawyer because I had Kung-fu’ed a police officer in self-defence…. they weren’t too impressed. (Not on the surface anyway)
But somehow now… The purple tattoo.. The sneaking out of boarding school… The old hidden cigarette packets… The stories are told differently. They love all of that stuff just as much as they loved their baby in denim and fairy wings.
And I know why. I can see it their eyes.
They aren’t worried about me anymore.
They know my heart sings … and so do I when you give me a guitar or 2 glasses of wine.
They know my arm is inked … but so are years and years of journal journeys and sketches from Vietnam to Rome.
They know my feet have found a happy home. And it’s in the sanctuary they built, they country they gave us.
And most importantly.
They know I’d still pick denim and fairy wings any day.
(And now… Thanks to Christmas… I have a tiara to match.)
Happy Two thousand and Fourteen everyone.
Here’s to loving your life and the people in it.