change . grow . thrive . in spite of it all

Is the About page obsolete? When a person is asked to decant an entire lifetime of beliefs into a couple of paragraphs. Impossible, I think! Yet strangely doable. Yes? No? Does anyone even read them?

Jul 12, 2025

If you love visiting me here at the kitchens garden - hit LIKE ❤️.

Why is the like symbol a love heart - maybe because deep down in our like there is a multi faceted Love. Too deep?

For example: If there was a choice between a little like heart emoji and a big like heart emoji - we would never hit the little heart right? We would always leave each other the big heart emoji because it gives so much and costs us nothing. We are Big heart people. We try so hard to be anyway.

It is a big heart or no heart at all.

Because as Hans Jorgensen says: love ripples around me with surprising buoyancy. That whatever success is, love is at the core.

I wanted to talk today about branding ourselves too tightly, folding our wings down too hard, trying to write an about page that pleases others instead of sounding true to us. At our core, we do hold certain beliefs; they’re like magnets, drawing like-minded people in. But all the knowledge and ideas orbiting those core beliefs keep shifting. They grow, evolve, sometimes shrink away. Some of these truths are stories we tell ourselves. Some are so real they change our relationships. And we don’t owe every truth to everyone. And we do get to change our minds.

But when describing ourselves, we want to sound sure. And considered. Committed. Put together. As events fly past our faces at warp speed, we want a testimonial at hand to check, to hold on to. We want to be safely on one side or the other. We want to be safe with a tribe. In fact, I think, we are being trained by algorithms to take sides when, in actual fact , and other than these cut and dried examples of what we will NOT embrace - we are complicated creatures.

If we allow ourselves to sit alone and just think, we realize we are changing all the time and that allowing ourselves to even change our minds is refreshing.

I know this, and I will always try to apply the word kindness. Kindness to the earth. Kindness to my neighbours. Kindness to those who struggle.

Is this really who I am - is this what I am about? You? Who are you?

“Bob?” Called the barista.

He looked around. Bob not the barista.

“Bob! Flat white. Extra Hot. Full cream!” Called the barista again in a slightly louder but even more bored tone than before.

He nodded, then raised his head from his phone. Fingers poised. “That’s me.” He turns to the person at the counter. “I am Bob, though my old school friends call me Bobby, oh and my workmates call me Little Bob Boss - which I am not terribly fond of to be fair but Big Bob is the - um - well he is the big boss - so yeah. My girlfriend calls me,” he laughed, “ah no I am not going to tell you what my girlfriend calls me. My kids call me Father when they are gaslighting me. He reaches for his cup. Of course, my mum calls me Robert James.” He smiles at the barista.

The woman raises her eyebrows. Actually only one eyebrow and ever so slightly. The control was impressive. She could not be more indifferent. The metal in her eyebrow glints as the morning sun reaches the cafe window. Steam belches from the coffee machine. The line shuffles behind him.

“But yeah,” he cleared his throat, put his phone in his pocket, “Bob.”

She passes him his coffee. “Flat white, full cream, extra hot. Bob.”

I cannot go on with our ruminations without saying clearly that what they are doing in the USA to our immigrants is dreadful - camps with 24 hour a day floodlights that fill the tents with bright light that never goes off, no night, no day, no tampons, no doctors, no showers, shit food, mosquitoes eating them alive, no phones, no lawyers, no recourse, toilets without walls or doors in full view - no - no - no. The people who do this to other people are the opposite of my creed and I am positive they are cruel and wrong - someone is making a lot of money out of this shit and I hate them for it and my hatred for them is building.

When I wrote about who I am I have to say loudly who I am not. I am not a part of this group of people. Let my people go.

I try hard not to let this overcome my kindness - but it is hard right? Hard not to give into an impotent fury that goes nowhere but into my own heart and helps nobody. I have to say it.

Said. Life is full of dichotomy.

I was reading a friends writing here in SubStack, Neela 🌶️ was talking about Romans (see below) which made me think of togas which reminded me of this story. A story for those who have only just met me but have no idea of my wild past.

Our histories are part of our About, too.

Toga Story

So we were at a party. A Toga Party. Do you remember those? We used to have theme parties all the time. Any excuse to get together every weekend. Quite the thing back then. I wasn’t wearing a toga - I don’t dress up. Not my thing. Plus, I was the designated driver. (And I only went out on the weekends when my ex-husband would have all the kids so I was not wasting a minute). As usual I was wearing a very, very short dress. Black, of course. Skinny. Ridiculously high heels. I described myself as The Chorus in a Greek tragedy, to anyone who asked. My boyfriend at the time was wearing a toga.

The party was up on the hill. The hill in Napier (NZ) has steep roads and old deep elegant old art deco houses tucked in with big trees and gardens and long pathways to french doors. This one had a stunning view being so high on the well populated hill. So there we were, right at the top of the world. Him in his nominal sheet toga. Me in my black dress and bright red lippy.

The party was great. The boyfriend got pretty tipsy. Actually really tipsy. It was after midnight, time to get back to the warehouse for the next more mellow party. (We both had studios in a big old abandoned railways warehouse - everyone was re-grouping back there because we were close to the sea for walking and the space was huge for dancing and our friends in hospo were joining us there with leftovers). You remember those days? I almost never got to bed before the dawn birds started singing.

On the hill we stepped out of the house and into the fresh air. Me in my heels pulling my skirt down over my thighs. Him in his unraveling toga. The sounds of the party slowing down. Still dark. Still summer.

The cold air hit him and he went downhill fast becoming super drunk in seconds. He laughed loudly like he always did and shuffled along the path pretending he could not find the gate - maybe he couldn’t. I caught up with him hitching him onto my shoulder and we tried to walk out the gate and down the steep road to the car but he was too heavy and it was too steep. We only just got out the gate and I had to lean him on a post. In my minds eye I could see him literally rolling down the road like a thrown stick. I propped him up against the telegraph pole. On the high side of the pole. Using gravity.

I needed to think.

He leaned back, slid to the ground, smiled and promptly fell asleep.

So there we were. Me in my short black dress and high heels. Him in a stripy sheet toga leaning drunkenly. Happy. Asleep. No cell phones. No Ubers. I looked at him for a few minutes - nodding and smiling to the others as they surged past walking down the hill to the warehouse. Yeah. See ya soon. Need any help? No, we’re good.

How about you sit here and wait for me, I said. To the slumped snoring figure. I’ll go get the car. He said nothing. Just burped politely, oops pardon me, then in slow motion rolled around the lamp-post slumping onto the footpath. Then he began this weird slow creeping roll as the steepness of the road gathered him in.

I decided to tie him to the pole. Well you would wouldn’t you. He might roll into the gutter or over the hill or down the road while I went to get the car. It was a quiet road. Late at night. It did not seem cruel just sensible. It seemed perfectly reasonable, actually. But what to tie him with - I was wearing one tiny dress which I was not going to sacrifice and he had no belt on his pants because he wasn’t wearing any. So I took off his toga which was just an old sheet. That would do just fine. He was in boxers, socks and sandals — part of his “dress up.” He was an up-and-coming abstract artist. Incredibly talented. A lovely fellow. Called me his muse. Bit of a drunk - but there you are.

I wrapped the sheet around his chest and belly and the lamppost. I tied it in a big knot behind him then I dug round in my bag and found sturdy baby safety pins in my bag to secure the ends. He slumped into his bindings and seemed perfectly happy. I did not feel bad. In fact I dug deeper into my voluminous handbag and pulled out my Nikon D60. I never went anywhere without my camera back then - The Boyfriend was a painter and I was a photographer and we were known for mounting exhibitions of our work and the work of our friends who were poets and sculptors and line artists and actors and musicians, in the most unlikely places, empty shops, abandoned work sites, rooftops, bars, beaches. We made no money at all of course. But good art is never about money.

I leaned on the fence and took a few quick low light studies - shots in the softest midnight light - him under the light of the telegraph pole. Slumped. After Party I would call it. The film was black and white. I would print them in my dark room. Then I slipped off my heels. Popped them in my bag with the camera. Kissed him on the top of his sleeping head then fled barefoot down the hill to my car.

After finding the car and loading a few loitering friends in we drove back up the hill. Untied The Boyfriend from the safety of the lamp-post. Folded him like a wooden puppet into the car. Belted him in. Threw the toga in the back. Put my shoes back on.

And drove to the next gathering.

What does that tell you about me? Not very much. Nothing good probably. But it is a memory that always makes me laugh. It may not appear in my About page but it is part of the fabric. Making do, maybe.

What questions should we ask ourselves before writing our About pages. This is not a rhetorical question. Write in the comments the questions you ask yourself that help you describe your mission. Your testimonial. What you do.

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