Very superstitious

My Hungarian mother was a superstitious woman who made sure I could decipher the various spirit signs, even as a young child. It was impossible to escape them and they followed me everywhere, contributing to my hypervigilance. Even though I no longer believe what these signs tell me, I will still often name them when I come across them. Then, I tell myself that there are perfectly simple explanations for the phenomenon. I wonder how many of these were part of your childhood?

  • A knife that lands with the blade facing up. Sure-fire sign that there will be an argument. This one had a 99% chance of occurring. Was my mother ready to start the fight the moment my father came home to prove the sign right? There were lots of ‘I told you sos,’ afterwards. Hard to dismiss as a child.
  • Light bouncing off glass onto the wall or ceiling. An imminent death. I was never, ever allowed to play with light or look for rainbows on the walls. This one scared me to death!
  • Spilling salt. I still throw a bit of salt over my left shoulder just to make sure I ward of bad luck. Why for goodness sake?
  • Eating lentils on the first day of the year to attract money. The lentils are like small coins and will bring you prosperity. (I’m still waiting…)
  • Flickering candles signify the dead giving you advice on a particularly tricky decision. This one spooked me every time!
  • Sweeping dirt out of the house rather than picking it up with a dustpan and brush will ensure you remain poor. Oh dear, I committed this mortal sin many a time as a teenager.
  • Sewing a button or anything on an item of clothing while wearing it will also doom the person to penury. I wonder whether royalty was aware of this rule when they were sewn into garments?
  • Crossing myself when I see dead animals on the road. (I admit, I haven’t been able to break this one!)
  • Melting a small piece of lead in a spoon and dropping it into cold water. This is usually done on New Year’s Eve but my mother would try her luck at other times. The newly solidified shape has different meanings according to the shape and would lead to interpretations for the coming year. This one reminds me of reading tea leaves.
  • Bumping the funny bone means that guests are about to turn up. My experience of this has only been blinding pain.
  • A chimney sweep indicates good luck, but only if you quickly get a hold of a black button and turn it!
  • On Easter Monday, a woman/girl cannot leave the house until a male has come over and sprinkled some perfume on her head.
  • Stepping on the heel of someone’s shoe indicates that they will be coming to your wedding. I’ve had so many kids do this at school and none of them were invited to my wedding.

Then there are all the usual suspects, four-clovers (I find many), walking under a ladder, storks for new life, and garlic to ward off evil. Later, I my teenage years, my Indian friend added to the list the counting of Indian Myna birds. Here it goes: one for sorrow (which I change to solitude), two for joy, three for letter, four for boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told, eight for copper, nine for brass and ten for my exams to pass. And yes, I still count them!

The superstitions in our household had the function of keeping everyone alert, to look for danger and always be ready for a disastrous turn of events. I was always on edge, looking for threats whether they were there or not, and this was a heavy burden to place on an already traumatised child.

I eventually learned that knives are dangerous when you cut yourself on the blade but knives per se carry no evil intent. The constant arguments came from elsewhere. I now recognise that my mother’s superstitions were part of a broader attempt to make sense of a world she found frightening and unpredictable. She had survived a war, untold atrocities and men who were equally as damaged and unable to give her the security she needed. Yes, my mother was a difficult woman. At times she was cruel and vindictive, but she was also struggling with demons that none of us understood.

Grandmother Banksia

We were a group of strangers walking silently through the Banksia garden at the Canberra Botanical Gardens. Tasked with following our hearts to the plants that drew us in, we spent half an hour exploring the area. We took photographs and made notes which would later lead into a nature journaling and painting session.

Our instructions were to be curious, examine our plant in detail and make notes about our observations. We were to include the date, time and weather information as well as any other data we could gather. While I loved the idea, my brain took a different turn and I began to think in metaphors and ponder the questions that came to mind.

The plant that chose to reveal itself to me was a Banksia robur. This plant can tolerate a wide range of growing conditions, including swamps and sandy environments. I was drawn to the rhubarb coloured leaves at the bottom of the plant as well as the bright flowers at the top. As the flowers fade, the inflorescence, or cluster of hundreds of individual small flowers, turns grey before becoming the woody seed pods that we associate with banksias. It struck me that every stage of the flowering was not only beautiful in its own right but also contained within it the lifecycle of the plant.

What drew me in was the greying flower at the bottom of the plant with the brighter flowers above it. It reminded me of an upside down family tree. I identified strongly with this greying flower, nurturing the youthful generations above it. I called the flower Grandmother Banksia, in recognition of my recent transition to this stage of life. This greying flower exuded a beauty of its own; no longer radiant in its vivid colouring, yet soft and solid. There at the base of the shrub, it would eventually transform into a pod that held within it the possibility of rebirth after a future fire event released the seeds to germinate.

Looking at Grandmother Banksia, I felt at peace with the process of ageing. There is so much that I can still offer to the generations that come after me, as well as to my own generation. I may no longer attract bees with my sweet honey, but there is a strength and solidity that only age can reliably offer. This is my gift.

The Secret Language of Feathers

White cockatoo feathers adorn a row of trees on my daily walk. They sit slightly below shoulder height, which makes me think they were placed there by children, perhaps eight years old or older. They have intrigued me for a while now, appearing along the path and then closer to some fences, as though marking something only a few people can see.

I have asked several adults with children whether they knew anything about the feathers, but none of them had even noticed them, despite their prominence. Once I point them out, they too begin to see them everywhere, though they seem less curious about them than I am. Most agree they are probably part of a game some children are playing in the park.

I remember playing cowboys and Indians as a child. No doubt, if there had been cockatoo feathers to be found, I would have made them part of an Indian war path. Of course, I had no understanding then of cultural misappropriation or the colonial stories I was absorbing. I simply liked running around with my pop pistol, shooting into the air and pretending to be a cowboy. I even had cigarette shaped lollies that I pretended to smoke. Dear Lord!

I wonder what these children are playing. Are they marking the way to a clubhouse? Do the feathers carry meaning, like a white flag for peace? I doubt it. That feels like a very adult reading of the symbol. It is more likely to be something enchanting, a secret pathway leading somewhere only they know and understand. Perhaps the feathers are signs left for other players to follow, guiding them towards a place that looks ordinary to the rest of us but has been transformed entirely by imagination.

I like the idea that they are not only playing with other children but also with adults who cannot decipher the code. Could the feathers be territorial markers? This is our place. Do not trespass. Or perhaps they protect the magical world the children are about to enter, charms that keep adults and other dangerous creatures away. Then again, maybe it is simply a treasure hunt. Follow the feathers and you will find the prize.

For me, the real treasure lies in the imagination of the children who created the game. They are outside amongst trees and dirt and wind, inventing meaning from feathers and pathways. They are transforming an ordinary suburban park into another world entirely. There is something deeply hopeful in that in an age dominated by screens.

Getting children (and adults) outside allows for exploration of the natural world, which has a calming and centring influence. It improves fitness through walking, running and jumping, movements often missing from our sedentary lives. I believe it also feeds the imagination. Watching birds, finding feathers, collecting interesting sticks and leaves, all invite children to invent stories and find possibilities through play. Adults don’t do this often enough, even though research tells us imaginative play is crucial for cognitive and social development. And let’s not forget, imaginative play can bring immeasurable joy.

The Power of Small Conversations

A deliberate effort to engage in conversations with strangers has enriched the past week in ways I would never have predicted. Each encounter, however small, stayed with me and made me think more deeply about the inner lives of people we rarely come to know.

Lining up at the chemist, I heard the woman say, ‘I’m such a luddite.’ I couldn’t help myself. ‘Do you know the history of the Luddites?’ I asked. She did, and we had a slightly conspiratorial conversation about the Industrial Revolution and the loom weavers who sabotaged machinery, some by throwing wooden clogs into the works. We walked away with a hint of mischief between us.

While walking the dog, a woman I vaguely knew said hello. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’ I said. ‘I’ve had some surgery and I can’t do much exercise until it heals,’ she replied. She then told me about her nightmare of having to remove breast implants and how she wishes she could warn young women about the very real dangers that can follow. It was a completely honest conversation that allowed her to be vulnerable with someone she didn’t know. She acknowledged her insecurities had led her down the path of cosmetic surgery and recognised that the only person who benefitted was the surgeon. It takes guts to be this brutally honest, and I don’t even know her name.

Later in the week I braved the city mall to replace my phone’s screen protector. It had been shattered for months. At the Apple Store I was greeted by a woman in her thirties who asked about my granddaughter and then started to tell me about her own family. She spoke about the complexity of the feelings she experienced leaving her two-year-old after returning to work. She seemed to recognise in me an older woman who would understand the inner conflict she was navigating. We chatted while she fixed my phone and by the time I left, we had established a real human connection that is rare to come across.

Today I went to explore an upmarket second-hand clothing store at an Anglican church. They were having a 50% off sale I had read about in Region Canberra. I found three items and when I went to pay, I struck up a conversation with one of the volunteers. They were making room for winter stock and needed to clear the leftover summer items. She explained that the summer clothes would be sent to Maningrida, in West Arnhem Land. ‘I’ve been there!’ I exclaimed. This was all that was needed for her to tell me about hosting a young Aboriginal woman from Maningrida for a week. Years later, she still remembered her with great fondness.

Each of these encounters reinforced our shared humanity. We participated in telling authentic stories that made our experiences feel valuable. As people, we make sense of the world through our stories. We create empathy by sharing what matters to us. When used in this way, stories serve to unite us.

Perhaps this is our superpower.

Remembering, and Who Is Remembered

Today is Anzac Day. I have always felt some ambivalence about this day. As someone who abhors violence, war and nationalist rhetoric, I feel uneasy when it is framed as a great patriotic occasion. I do want to honour the fallen soldiers and the sacrifices they have made, especially as the impact of war extends beyond the military to families and communities. I am just not sure that Anzac Day, as it is often observed, is the best way to do this.

For too long it has been used to stir patriotic sentiment and, at times, to encourage young men to enlist. It is also a contested space when we consider who is, and who is not, included in the nation’s collective memory.

The sacrifices of women and Aboriginal servicemen have only relatively recently been recognised. While Aboriginal men were often among the first to enlist in the world wars, they had to overcome the colour bar, sometimes by denying their heritage. In the army, they were often accepted as equals. This changed upon their return to civilian life. During the war they could share a beer with their mates and eat at the same mess, but afterwards they were prohibited from setting foot in pubs or RSL clubs. Their contribution to the war effort went unrecognised for far too long.

It is against this background that I read reports of today’s Anzac Day ceremonies with dismay. I feel appalled, and deeply saddened, that white nationalists have attempted to hijack the day for their own purposes by booing Aboriginal elders as they Welcomed attendees to Country.

A Welcome to Country is a gesture of goodwill. It is an act of respect, inviting all of us to share in an ancient tradition of acknowledgement and belonging. Honouring Aboriginal service, and recognising the full truth of our shared history, is part of that same work. It is a necessary step towards reconciliation.

Lest we forget.

Markets, Maple Syrup and a Wide Open Mouth

Saturday mornings are for going to the market. Even when I don’t need much, I go because I enjoy the ritual. Many people need to change things up to find their vitality. I need repetition and ritual to feel grounded and truly present. It is the simple acts such as putting the harness on the dog, getting the bags ready and choosing to walk through the park that make the trip joyful. I pause to say hello to strangers and listen to snippets of conversation as people pass me with their bags or trolleys, all heading to the same place. Passing us on the other side of the narrow track are the early birds returning with their bounty.

Today, my aim is to buy fruit and transform it into delicious baby food for my granddaughter. She has become a voracious eater. Rather than buy processed food with additives, I have taken it upon myself to cook and bottle food that contains only fresh ingredients and an extra large dollop of love.

The dog is used to the routine. I tie her up to one of the posts as she looks across at all the other dogs, patiently waiting, tied up along the fence. Then I disappear into the fray. I already know where I will buy the apples and pears but, as they will be heavy, I leave that purchase until last. Before I buy anything, I walk down every aisle, getting acquainted with what is on offer and which of my favourite stallholders has come this week. Among the many bread stalls, I find my favourite sourdough halfway down on the left. Tempting as they are, I only look at the native plants. Maybe next time, if I manage to get on top of the weeding in the meantime.

After succumbing to Greek ricotta donuts, I head to my favourite fruit stall. It is run by an elderly, weathered woman with long grey plaits, who comes every week from Batlow on the south west slopes of NSW. Unlike supermarkets, she sells a wide variety of apples, some that haven’t been seen on shelves for years. She also sells cheap, misshapen fruit that tastes just fine and is perfect for stewing. She drives two and a half hours to get to Canberra, starting her journey at about 4am to arrive in time for the market. I am in awe of her stamina and her commitment to come each week.

The dog is on the lookout, searching for me as I come out of the hall. The rucksack is heavy and I feel my centre of gravity shift as I bend down to untie her. Our walk back is slower, but it still only takes ten minutes to get home. After a cuppa and two of the delicious ricotta donuts, I am ready to wash, core and slice the fruit. To give it a little zing, I add a generous amount of cinnamon, strawberries and some maple syrup. Once soft, the mixture is blended and poured into sterilised jars. It is delicious.

Later in the afternoon, I deliver the goods. The hungry little possum is rapturous. Her mouth opens wide as the loaded spoon approaches. She repeats the wide gape again and again until the contents of a large bowl disappear. Her delight is all mine.

Through the simple act of preparing freshly sourced food, I am strengthening the connection between myself and my daughter’s family. These meals provide sustenance for the body, but also carry care, intention and love. Making and sharing nutritious meals has always been my love language.

The shape of a morning

Walking in the park across the road is a daily ritual that offers both quietude and community. This suits me well. I have never been drawn to binary thinking, dividing everything into rigid oppositions. I need the nurture of nature and that of people. It is this interplay that holds my days together.

Some mornings I choose the short circuit, aware of time’s fiendish presence urging me to hurry so I can get to work on time. Yet the moment my feet touch the earth, I resist the urgency, keen to be present to whatever nature offers that day. It may be the sound of a dry stick breaking underfoot, the squawk of a parrot, or the swishing and swaying of stooping gum leaves.

Autumn approaches and the weather shifts. The cool air on my face awakens me to the beauty of the moment. A long blade of bent grass, the smooth bark of blue gums, and Majura mountain framing the vista quicken my spirits. A slow breath in, a pause, a slow breath out, and I feel lighter, part of this landscape, not simply an observer.

In the distance, I see the wave of a hand, and a dog I recognise bounds towards me. I wave back to a fellow dog walker who has, over time, become a friend. Morning hellos have drawn me closer to the people who live in this community. We exchange a few words, learn each other’s names, tentatively invite one another in for a cup of tea, and a friendship forms. Friends introduce friends, and a small community expands to take in another kindred soul. I feel privileged to be included in their company.

As I near home, my thoughts turn to work and the day that awaits. I feel the urge to stop, to look back, to take one last glance at the pond, the trees, and the ever-present mountain. I feel held in its ambit, and it is this feeling I carry with me. It will guide me through the day. And if not the whole day… then at least until my first break.

A Threshold Moment

The mother of a Tamil girl whom I tutored invited me to a coming of age ceremony on short notice. I was off work, so I accepted the invitation. When I asked about its significance, she explained that when a girl gets her first period, they have a special ceremony to acknowledge her new state. While in the past this marked a girl as being of marriageable age, it is now seen more as a rite of passage on the journey to becoming a woman.

Out of respect for the family’s privacy, I won’t be sharing their names or images.

I arrived earlier than most guests, with no preconceived expectations. The house had been decorated with garlands and there were fruit offerings in front of the door. Once inside, I sat on a sofa and watched the adults hurrying to and fro, getting things ready for the priest and the guests who were yet to arrive. The girl was nowhere to be seen.

When her sister came out to greet me, I passed on my present, which I had presumed, correctly, should be jewellery. When the girl first appeared, she was wearing a lovely embroidered dress. She then sat on a stool and was blessed by various family members using coconut milk and a herb on her head. I too was invited to come forward and place some on her head. Several other rituals were performed before she disappeared to be washed. She later emerged wearing a half sari, symbolising the bridge between childhood and adulthood.

At this point, she had haldi kumkum applied to her forehead and other sacred pastes of turmeric placed onto both her arms and cheeks. Once more, close family and elders were invited to apply the balm and offer their blessings.

When the priest arrived, he performed a long ceremony, reciting Vedic prayers for well over an hour and a half. During this time, various members of the family were called upon to sit beside the girl, using incense, fire, leaves and flowers to purify her and shower her with blessings. While I sat transfixed, others in the room continued to talk, take photos and move about. This was something I found quite unusual. I was brought up to make a clear distinction between the sacred and the everyday. I wouldn’t dream of talking in church while the clergy performed their duty, yet here it was quite accepted that people talked and laughed while the ceremony continued not more than two metres away.

One of the guests streamed the event live to Indonesia, where the girl’s aunt lives. The family had visited her during the Christmas holidays once their application for asylum had been granted and they were assured of re entry into Australia. They now have Australian citizenship, which must feel like winning the lottery after years of living on a bridging visa.

When the ceremony was over, everyone shared a feast of vegetarian curries and special sweets. The food was delicious, albeit quite hot. I chatted to the only other older woman there, who also holds a special place in the heart of this family. She is a Christian Sri Lankan who has worked tirelessly with Tamil refugees in Canberra, helping them connect with organisations that support their settlement and sense of belonging. She was pleased to hear that I too would be attending the Palm Sunday Rally for Refugees.

I have played a small part in helping this family feel welcome, supporting two of their children with English and other school related learning. What I have gained in return is something far richer. I was welcomed into their family and given a glimpse into a culture very different from my own. And yet, I was also struck by what connects us.

For my First Holy Communion, I wore a white dress reminiscent of a wedding dress, not so different from the half sari. On Ash Wednesday, a cross of ash was placed on my forehead, while this young girl had white, orange and red markings carefully applied to hers. The meanings are different, shaped by different beliefs and traditions, and yet the gestures feel familiar.


I know they serve different purposes, grounded in their own histories. Yet I am struck by how instinctively we mark these moments in the body. With cloth, with colour, with touch, with ritual.

Across cultures, we seem to reach for the same things when something matters. We pause. We gather. We mark the moment. We acknowledge what matters.

An Invitation

The news from around the world has been nothing short of depressing. Despite my efforts to stay in my circle of control, my mind has wandered to dark places where I feel ineffectual and untethered. Unlike other conflicts, this one is affecting us all, even if only psychologically or via our wallets. At least for now.

I was out with my granddaughter the other day, making our way down a trendy café lined street in Canberra, when I noticed a message written in chalk on the footpath. It was somewhat faded, but I could still make out the words.

What mini
adventure
could you
go on today?

Having stopped to read it, my first reaction was to laugh. Not because it was laughable, but because it challenged me to look at the day differently. I decided to take up the invitation and embarked on a mini adventure.

Haig Park was only a few minutes away. It was an obvious place to start. I pushed the pram along the path and noticed an adventure playground for kids. My little possum is too young for such adventures, so we kept going. Next, I saw a dog agility course. Who knew? Unfortunately, I don’t think my dog would be very interested, but it is good to know it is there. To my right, I saw a building I have often walked past. What was its purpose, I wondered? It turned out to be a community centre with a lovely garden, BBQ area and seating for a large group of people. I took some photos and continued the quest.

On my way back, I came across what looked like a street library. It wasn’t. The small, bright yellow wooden structure was in fact ‘The Teeny Weeny Mini Museum of Art.’ At first glance, I didn’t see anything special in the display case, only some pine cones and bits of paper. Then I saw a stack of yellow cards and had to find out what was printed on them. I opened the cabinet and, to my delight, found a card that on one side had this quote:

‘Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.’
Less (sic) Brown

A lovely sentiment, but it was the other side that stopped me in my tracks. It was another invitation to many mindful mini adventures for each day of March. While Mindful March is almost over, I intend to keep the card and do each of these ‘Actions for happiness’ in April. My favourite one is: ‘Discover the joy in the simple things of life.’

And so I have come full circle. I was attentive to the call and followed the invitation to go on a mini adventure. As a reward, I have been offered 31 additional opportunities for joy. I share them here so you may be enticed to go on your own mini adventure. You never know where it may lead.

Small Enchantments

This month I have been thinking a lot about my locus of control. Like the rest of the world, I have spent far too much time in the circle of concern, worrying about the war in Iran and what another conflict might mean for the world. The reality is that, as distressed as I feel by these events, I have no control over what will happen next. Spending time in that sphere leaves me anxious and full of despair. Yet ignoring it completely does not feel right either.

For the sake of my own sanity, I have been walking more mindfully and finding joy in small things. Watching my dog leap through the tall grass without a care in the world. Smiling and waving at neighbours. Remembering to send messages to friends. I have been revelling in the birds I notice along the way and the quirky things people do to bring a little joy to others.

On a recent visit to Sydney, I took my dog down memory lane in Annandale. Thirty years ago, I used to walk another poodle along those same streets. The street I loved may have had a few more renovated houses, but essentially it was still the same.

Then I came across a concrete pillar box that someone had decided to paint, for no reason other than to provide a little magic for young children and for those of us who are still young at heart. I am quite sure they did not seek permission and probably would not have been given it, but they did it anyway.

It may have taken them an afternoon to paint the top like a toadstool, then add a tiny window and surrounds so that the pillar box looked like a fairy house, complete with a little garden at the front. In the midst of all the crazy things that humans do to each other, here was a small offering to the neighbourhood. An invitation for children to use their imagination and be enchanted by the world.

I took a photo so I would remember that moment. A reminder that even though adulthood can sometimes leave us disenchanted, a little magic still exists if we choose to notice it. And that brought me back to my locus of control. I could have walked past thinking about all the misery in the world. Or I could stop and admire someone’s small gift to their neighbourhood. That choice, it seems to me, is available to us all.