As if that wasn’t enough to keep me out of mischief, my third memoir, Twelve Golden Gifts, was released in late August. It seems that try as I might, I can’t write anything other than my life. Perhaps it’s a failure of the imagination. Or that modern Western malady: an obsession with self. It may well be a love affair with elevating the mundane minutiae of daily life into something that resembles grace. Whatever the reason, writing memoir makes me feel that my life, just like everyone else’s, matters.

Twelve Golden Gifts is the story of caring for our mother Chrisoula in her four-year journey with dementia. It is a tribute to her, and a love letter of sorts. It is a wail and a lament. But most of all it is a celebration of all the gifts she gave my family and I when she was alive – and how they helped us care for her and continue her legacy now that she is gone.

Many of the words in Twelve Golden Gifts were written on scraps of paper at stop lights, on my laptop in the snatched minutes before I got out of bed, and on my phone while Mum napped in hospital rooms and care homes. Some were overheard conversations, some intimate diary entries, and many were a record of quirky chats with Mum, which usually ended in laughter.

Writing things down has always helped me process emotionally charged events. Letters to Mum, even if she was never to read them, poems, and journal entries, all served to help me cope during this difficult time. Writing was also a way to capture my mother’s words—and when she no longer had many of these, her spirit.

Deciding to share some of these words, and to write many others for Twelve Golden Gifts following Mum’s death, was not an easy decision to make. Selfishly perhaps, I wanted to keep her alive for longer. I yearned to bed down her sparkling spirit for posterity, a little like a parent hankers to bottle the smell of their newborn. Ultimately, I told myself that if our story could help even one person feel less alone through caring for someone with dementia, then it would be worth sharing.

The first step was to put the scraps of writing together in one document. When I saw that they added up to 80,000 words, I felt I might have enough for a book. During the summer break a few months after Mum’s death, I penned a book proposal. I knew if I didn’t do it sooner than later, I would lose my nerve. I still had a lot of unresolved guilt. I was very sad. I wasn’t sleeping. So even as I sent it off, I was secretly hoping it wouldn’t go anywhere.

My agent Jacinta Dimase pitched the proposal to several publishers. When HarperCollins Publishers Australia/ABC Books agreed to publish, my shoulders sank just a little. I knew it would be a big undertaking, despite the words that I’d already written. Would I have the strength to bring together this incredibly personal, revealing book? And how could I possibly do my cheeky, kind and generous mother justice without overexposing her?

Writer Anne Lamott said, ‘you need to start somewhere’ and so I sat down to try and make sense of the words I already had. Though I had more than most when it comes to writing a book, developing some sort of cohesive narrative was like trying to unravel a tangled piece of string. The timelines were confused, not just from month to month, but even from year to year. Time had elongated and contracted, and these difficult months of loss and fervent activity of caring had their own rhythms. The words I had written during Mum’s illness were all over the place. Putting them in some sort of chronological order in the months after she died was a way of unravelling the string. It was both strangely satisfying and deeply frustrating, therapeutic and triggering. I used documents, diaries and photographs to piece together the events and to clear up the muddled timelines. My work colleagues read first drafts; friends and family read the chapters that involved them; and organisations such as Dementia Australia, Older Persons Advocacy Network, Grief Australia and Palliative Care Victoria helped ensure that some of the advice I provided in the final chapter of the book was grounded and accurate.

As each chapter took form, and as the book miraculously fell into place, I found my way back to my mother: to the gifts she had given my family and I; to her incredible spirit as she battled with the disease that ultimately took her life; but especially to the woman she was before dementia took hold.

While promoting this book in recent months has sometimes felt like yet another emotional chopping block, it feels worth it to get this book into the right hands. I was giving a talk at a local library recently. A women told me she was looking after her mother with dementia. She was halfway through my book, apologised that she hadn’t yet finished it before coming along. With a shaky voice, she said that caring for someone with dementia felt so isolating. That it was validating to have some of her experiences reflected back at her through our story. And that my book was a gift.

Even if I’d made only one person feel this way, then I’d achieved what I set out to do.

Purchase Twelve Golden Gifts in Australia at all good bookshops, or order from Booktopia.

Author Spiri Tsintziras at Readings Carlton.

A photo of Mum in her garden taking pride of place at the launch/fundraiser of Twelve Golden Gifts at Escape Hatch Books. $2855 has been raised to date for Dementia Australia in Mum’s name.

Writer Lucy Alexander in conversation with writer Spiri Tsintziras at 2025 Canberra Writers Festival.

Photo credits George Mifsud Photography.

Trigger warning: Please note that the following blog post talks about late-stage dementia and death. Please do not read on if you don't want to.

It’s been nearly three years since I’ve posted on this blog.

I look over the last blog piece, which celebrates Mum bringing joy into our lives.

I scroll through the posts, and the photos, and the articles inspired by Mum. Looking over these brings a knot to my throat.

What to say about the past three years? Mum’s health declined as her dementia progressed. She had several falls. She broke her hip. She spent time in rehab but couldn’t walk again. She went into residential care. And then we moved her to another care facility. On 26 October, 2023, she passed away.

The facts go in a straight line. I state them here in a few short lines. But the emotional trajectory of that time, and the time afterwards as our family grieved, didn’t travel in a straight line. It went up and down, sideways and downwards.

Writing for me has always been about processing what I see around me, and a way to manage big emotions. Writing during Mums’ illness was a way of maintaining my sanity so that I could walk along side her as mindfully and bravely as I could. I wrote words on receipts after seeing her, in my phone in the small hours of the morning when I couldn’t sleep, and in my laptop as a way of processing often challenging experiences when things went wrong. When Mum’s words disappeared as she sunk further into the murky world of dementia, I had to find more words to advocate on her behalf in emails to clinical managers, and to chronical the tragedy of losing her bit by bit. On her passing, I wrote to honour her life by way of eulogy. As time went on, I kept writing as a way of alleviating the messy feelings of guilt on what I might have done better to protect her during her greatest time of need.

Through my words, I found my way back to her, to the time before she got ill, a time when her giggle could set anyone off around her. A time when she would cook honeyed donuts at the drop of a hat when friends and family arrived at her doorstep. A time when she would have a coffee on and the conversation going even before you could protest that you were just passing by.

I started to collate all these words as a way of celebrating memories of Mum. A way of keeping her generosity and spirit alive. I felt that if these words could help even one person feel less alone as they accompanied someone towards the end of their life, then it would be worth sharing them. And so I wrote the memoir Twelve Golden Gifts.

This book is a tribute to my mother. It’s a love letter, a lament. But above all, it’s a celebration of the many gifts Mum gave my family and I during her very special life.

Through it, I hope that Mum can keep bringing joy.

Mum continues to bring joy to so many despite the challenges she faces. Feeling very blessed.

This is an article published recently in SBS Voices.

The gift from Mum's Cypriot watchmaker

Thanking SBS Voices for supporting diverse voices and stories.

Here is a piece they published about my Mum's tselemente, the cookbook she bought to Australia in the 1970's...

Mum's tselemente...

She’s generous.

She’s funny.

She laughs a lot.

She makes you feel as if you are the only one who is important in her life, though you know she makes everyone in her orbit feel this way. You know this because your childhood home was always filled with people, relatives and friends and random strangers too. You know this because when she had her stroke five years ago, people spilled out of her hospital room waiting to see her each day. Her phone still rings constantly, and people check in on her all the time.

Mum has inspired me to write a few stories of late. I’m aware that she is getting older, that her body and her mind are not what they used to be. While I know this is how nature works, and that time spares no one, it fills me with sadness. And sadness makes me write.

I know Mum feels sad about getting older too, especially since her stroke robbed her of her words. It’s meant that she is unable to say what she wants to say in the same way that she once could. For such a social being as Mum, words are the gold with which she makes her everyday transactions, connecting with people, reassuring them, offering earthy wisdom. She talks about the stroke often, this terrible thing that happened to her.

But most of the time, she is stoic, philosophical. She doesn’t avoid the topic of death. She explains she is not really worried about it. What pre-occupies her is becoming dependant as she ages, and about her loved ones having to care for her, but she doesn’t worry about dying. As usual, her concerns are for others, not herself.

‘I’ve lived a good life,’ she often says. ‘Now, let me show you the dress I want you to bury me in…’

And despite ourselves, we laugh. My mother, who is a bit of legend, always makes me laugh.

Some recent articles about Mum on SBS Voices

Going through my parent’s possessions reminded me of the sacrifices they made

Cooking for my mother now that she can no longer do it for herself

These are strange days with the global crisis around COVID-19 and I’ve been feeling compelled to write it out (as I ride it out).

This is what I’m worried about as we go into lockdown:

• The elderly and vulnerable in our midst getting sick and dying, the health care professionals getting burnt out and ill, and the health system totally collapsing.

• People having to shut down businesses, losing their livelihoods, and becoming vulnerable and destitute.

• People stripping the supermarket shelves and being arseholes to each other because of (an admittedly understandable) fear.

• Getting bored and grumpy and restless and anxious and slightly purposeless as the social isolation measures kick in. This is at least something I can control. Trying to look at the positives, set up rituals, and give myself a stern talking to when I catch myself spiralling down. About to dust of Parlour Games for Modern Families; planning to watch more cheesy movies with the fam that involve 70's music, daggy dancing and bad acting; hope to read lots of books; to keep writing that novel I’ve been talking about for a decade; cook lots of improvised meals from what I have to hand…oh, and keep working remotely and finding ways to be kind to my fellow human beings!

What I’m not worried about:

• Toilet paper – if all else fails, there are leaves, newspaper, soap and water and even rocks (yes, my dad said he used to wipe his bum with rocks out in the fields). I think we will manage if the soft stuff runs out. Amazing what we are choosing to focus on in times of uncertainty…

• Running out of food – been cooking a little extra, shopping a little extra and stocking up slowly and surely for a month or more now – felt a bit strange at first, but now feels like it was the right thing to do. Avoided the big supermarkets and shopped at the smaller providers. Bought staples like beans, canned tomatoes and some rice/pasta. Been cooking up all the odds and sods of vegetables into stocks. Lots of prepared beans in the freezer. Slow and steady. Hope that by thinking laterally and improvising and sharing and maybe even bartering if all else fails we will be good. If my grandparents survived wars and a depression, surely we can survive a few months (fingers crossed) of adapting.

• Losing touch - phone and internet means we can still talk to the people we love - not the same, but hopefully it will do for the short term.

• Staying active – put the gym membership on hold and enjoying lots of brisk walks by myself and with various members of the family (with smiles and nods to people as we pass each other at a good distance on the street). Sun and air and movement critical to a strong mind, body and spirit. This one's not negotiable in my book.

• Getting sick – don’t want to be flippant about this but feel strangely resigned that if this happens, my family and I will try and weather the storm. We are doing our best to avoid it, as well as do all the right and sensible things to stop spreading infection but if it happens, it happens...

As I write, I’m reminded of what 4^th Century philosopher Heraclitus wrote, “There is nothing permanent except change”.

And what my beautiful late friend Katerina used to say when she encountered difficulties – “This too shall pass”.

Sending best to all to find ways to weather the storm.

My one-day intensive 'Write your life' workshop plus traditional wood-fired oven lunch is back.

It's designed for budding and emerging writers who want to start or progress a life writing project.

It promises to be yummy!

More information in the flyer below.

Life Writing Flyer February 2020

221KB ∙ PDF file

Download

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Being interviewed for, and writing such articles reminds me what a pivotal experience going to Ikaria was - and how it helped me create some sustainable and healthy changes to my life.

My one-day intensive 'Write your life' workshop plus traditional wood-fired oven lunch is back by popular demand.

It's designed for budding and experienced writers who want to start or progress a life writing project.

It promises to be yummy!

More information in the flyer below.

Life Writing Flyer February 2019

222KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

So you want to write about your life, but you’re not sure where to start? Maybe you have a few ideas, a bunch of notes, or perhaps even a few chapters? Now is the time to get the skills under your belt to finally write that memoir or life writing piece.

This one-day intensive workshop will include practical writing exercises to release memories and get words on the page.

Help the creative juices flowing with a traditional Greek wood-fired lunch.

For more information:

Life Writing Flyer July 2018

251KB ∙ PDF file

Download

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Even more encouraging has been the wonderful response from readers. I’m loving the enlightening discussions the book has sparked about what it means to live well – these have affirmed for me yet again how small lifestyle changes can reap big rewards. Top points for enthusiasm goes to 60-year-old grandmother Mrs Poulos from Sydney. She wrote to me to say that My Ikaria inspired her to clear out her pantry post-Easter, helping her avoid eating all those leftover chocolate eggs. It also made her realise that her crazy, people-filled life was totally normal (and actually good for her). When she finished the book, she wrote:

Spiri, thank you for your beautiful book. Experiencing Ikaria through your words felt very real to me. You managed to capture the true heart of the Greek spirit and have given me many things think about to have a fulfilling life, to live and not to just exist.

Of course, life doesn't stop just because I’ve released a book, with family activities going at top speed as per usual, and my writing and teaching projects becoming even more plentiful. Despite the quickening pace, I have managed to keep up my Ikarian-inspired lessons: I’ve kept my task lists focused on the important stuff; I’ve still been connecting meaningfully with those close to me; I’ve managed to keep moving lots as part of my daily routines; and I’ve tried not to sacrifice sleep. Thus, I have been successfully juggling the balls. But this girl needs more than just to juggle balls. She needs to cook. And not just cobble-together-cook. I mean large-and-in-charge-comfort-for-the-soul-cook.

For some weeks now, my kids have been asking for rizogalo (rice pudding). Perhaps it’s the onset of the cooler weather at nights. Or the smell of lemon peel and vanilla that wafts through the kitchen when I cook it. Or perhaps the comforting starchiness of the rice, the creaminess of the milk. Whatever it is, they wanted it. Years ago, I discovered (and have since adapted) a recipe from a delightful book called Mamma’s Kitchen. And so, I made a big batch for our family, and another for my mother and brother. Judging by the fact that neither lasted more than a few hours in either household, I'd say it was a hit yet again.

Lately, I've been hankering for another Greek comfort recipe – Gigandes (baked lima beans). Thankfully I had a packet of these little dried white beauties in the pantry. I promptly boiled them and mixed the cooked and strained beans in with a cobbled-together sauce of vegetables, some herbs from the garden, a few cans of chopped tomatoes and a generous glug of olive oil – straight into the oven it all went. Teamed with crusty homemade bread, it’s the ultimate vegan feast. A glass of wine and I couldn’t wish for more.

Hubby George hasn’t been idle in the big batch cooking caper either – he’s been picking, baking and freezing quinces for a few weeks, making great big meat and vegetable stews for us and his parents, and bringing out the last of his homemade bread (he made 16 loaves for the book launch!) from the freezer.

All I can say is that while it’s been fun being on a bookish high this past month, it’s even more fun coming back down to Earth.

Download Marias-rizogalo (rice pudding) recipe adapted from Mama’s Kitchen: Recipes and Stories.

Marias Rizogalo

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Read a Better Reading excerpt or buy My Ikaria.

Fast forward and today I’ve taken myself to a morning belly dancing class at my local suburban gym. I’m still rushing; this time to get a load of washing on, shooing my teens out the door so that they get to school on time, thinking all the while about the work tasks I need to tick off when I get back to my home office. Belly dancing is an indulgence. But I know it will make me feel good. And feeling good means being more productive. A ‘win-win’ in business parlance.

When I walk into the class, I note the fit-looking instructor. The pile of colourful hip scarves on the stage. And the forty or so people of various ages, shapes and nationalities. Most people in the room are chatting, laughing and already swaying their hips. They’re all barefoot. I make a beeline for a red scarf and once it’s on, and my shoes are off, I’m transported back to the pub. I feel confident. Younger. And a little bit sexy.

As the music starts and the instructor takes us through our paces, I quickly realise that I can’t hold a shimmy as long as I used to. That my diaphragm doesn’t pop as strongly as it once did. And that my joints creak a little when I try a full body undulation.

I look around me at everyone shaking and shimmying, popping and undulating. Several people are laughing. Many are encouraging each other through the unfamiliar moves. I lock eyes with an elderly gent who’s giving it everything he’s got. We smile at each other. Soon, I close my eyes. It’s not long before my head stills and I feel the music beat up through my feet. My body starts to move without thought, without consideration of its limitations, doing its primal, joyful thing. And I can’t help but think that this is the perfect place for me to be.

This place would have once been rocking at this time of year as older Italians and Greeks stocked up on its wares to preserve their late summer produce. An elderly shopkeeper is chatting in Greek with a bloke at the front of the shop, but otherwise, the shop is empty. She gives me a cursory glance, doesn’t bother asking if I need help. I’m sure she's sized me up as a tourist to the art of mass home preserving. I’m about 30 years too young.

When the gent leaves, I approach her.

'How much are your sauce tomatoes out the front?' I ask in Greek.

She raises an eyebrow. Maybe she might make a sale after all.

'$22 a box.'

Too much, I think. I’m becoming my mother.

'Will you still have some in a few weeks?'

'I can’t promise. If we do, they’ll be more expensive. It hasn’t been a good season for tomatoes.'

I nod. I don’t believe her. She wants to offload several boxes right now. I’m not quite ready, haven’t yet mobilised the family to sit over the ruby red orbs for a whole day making sauce. And I can probably get them cheaper if I wait.

A few weeks later, a date is set, the family booked in to make sauce. It’s Friday, and the long weekend looms seductively ahead. I make my way to Oakleigh, where I know there are several greengrocers. I’m there by 8 in the morning. Apart from a few groups of old men playing cards and smoking, the cafes are quiet on the main drag. I turn into one of the smaller streets to try my regular greengrocer.

'I’m after sauce tomatoes. Do you have any?' I ask an older bloke who's making a tower of eggplants.

'We ran out early this morning. The phone has been ringing hot and I’ve stopped answering it. It’s a long weekend. Everyone wants them.' He shrugs. 'You could come back next week...'

'Oh. Will I find some anywhere else?'

'I don't think so but you could try down the road. But make sure they don’t sell you romas, which growers cut off the vine too early and are green in the middle. Useless. You want the rounder, small sauce tomatoes that are red all the way through. And make sure you run the skins two or three times through the press. That makes the thickest sauce...''

I don't dare tell him we process the tomatoes through a food processor that we bought at the school fete a few years back, and that it always splutters to a stop about halfway through the day. It's not exactly the most professional of methods.

‘’Do you make sauce?' I ask him.

'Nah. My Italian friends used to make it. But they’re all dead now.' He laughs. 'That’s what happens when you have grappa with coffee in the morning, wine with lunch, and beer and scotch with dinner.'

We talk some more, but in the end stories aren’t going to get me my tomatoes. I had better get a move on.

At the next greengrocer, I can’t see any on the shop floor. I ask the guy in charge if they have any out the back. He tells me there should be a shipment in an hour. $25 a box he says. Yes, they’re expensive. Don’t I know it’s been 50 degrees in Echuca and Shepparton this year, burning the vines? Horrible year for tomatoes. I tell him I might be back later. It's going to be a long morning.

I try greengrocer number three, where I paw through a box of overripe romas. They’re cheap, but rotten on the outside, and green on the inside. A middle-aged woman stands beside me, looking the way I feel. Forlorn.

'Mmm, they’re not very good…' I say.

'No.' She sighs. 'I should have done this a few weeks ago. I might try the place down the road…' We walk together, two strangers on a shared mission.

'I don’t know why I make passata. It's so much work. Every year, I threaten to stop, but my kids won’t let me. They love it, the ritual of it. As it happens, now they've got other things to do and it looks like I’m on my own with it…' I make sympathetic sounds.

When we get to our last resort greengrocer, it's the same story. No tomatoes. They ran out last week. I suggest we go back to the greengrocer who is expecting a delivery but we both know it’s not looking good. She says she might try Dandenong Market. I wonder if it's not too late to trek across town to Preston Market. As we walk, I take out my phone and we google an out of the way place she knows. It’s just a shed at the back of a house in an outer suburb I’ve never heard of. An Italian bloke. She can’t remember his name. He’s been selling tomatoes and wine grapes for decades. When we enter the scant details she knows, a boutique winery comes up but no Italian bloke in a shed. I hope he's not dead.

Back at greengrocer number two, we’re in luck. A shipment is being unloaded downstairs. A few sample boxes have been bought up. My fellow searcher thinks she’ll be able to find cheaper – she’s going to drive out to her Italian bloke. I’m not taking the risk. The shop owner assures me I'll be happy - he gives these very same tomatoes to his family. I pay at the till and am told to take my car down to a dark loading bay where men in high vis vests are doing secret fruit business. A beefy bloke loads my car with several boxes of tomatoes. I keep my distance. It feels like the set of The Sopranos, where dead bodies may well be kept in cold storage. When he’s done, I furtively snap a pic and send it to my husband with the heady words of success: Mission accomplished!