Naszti, Palma, Pam

My sister died suddenly but it was not unexpected. She had a series of health issues that plagued her but none of them were necessarily fatal. It was both the combination of these ailments, and her stubborn refusal to do anything about them, that led to her passing. It is easy to say that she chose the path to self-destruction but of course it was much more complicated than that.

Born in Hungary in 1950, she was a post-war baby in a ravaged country where everything was still scarce. Her father had left while our mother was pregnant and by the time she was born two months premature, my mother did not want her either. ‘Throw it against the wall,’ she’d say, then throw her head back and laugh. This was how she always recounted the birth of my sister. Her aunt Vicki, who acted as her midwife, did no such thing. Instead she stoked up the fire and kept the room hot so that the little girl would survive.

True to her word, my mother did not want anything to do with her daughter. She left her in her aunt’s care, where the young child was loved and treated as if she were one of her own. I don’t know whether my mother visited often or at all but in the meantime, she met my father who had lost his wife to tuberculosis in the late 40s. The chemistry sparked between them and during the 1956 revolution they decided to risk their lives and flee the country. It was at this point that my mother returned to Aunt Vicki and took the child from her.

My sister was christened Palma Anastasia. Nobody really knows why. Both are unusual names in Hungary. She was always known by a shortened version of her middle name, Naszti, which later caused her to change her name to Palma and eventually to Pam because she was tired of people getting her name wrong. This was yet another layer of her identity that was stripped from her.

Little Naszti went from a stable loving home to running across mountains with a people smuggler, gunshots echoing behind her. Once ‘safe’ in Austria, she waited in a refugee camp with her mother whom she barely knew and a man she had hardly met. Eventually they were resettled in Luxembourg where she had to learn the three official languages, French, German and Letzeburgisch. Then, when she was ten years old, I was born.

Unfortunately for her, the chemistry that sparked between my parents soon became explosive and my mother often used her to create division between them.

‘He doesn’t love you the way he loves your sister. You’re not of his blood.’

I am surprised she was able to love me as much as she did, considering all the things she was told. My sister, however, was a gentle soul then and wanted to protect me above all else. In fact, as a ten-year-old, she took on much of the mothering responsibilities while my mother worked.

Her world was once again turned upside down when she was fourteen. After a disastrous business venture, my parents fled to Spain to escape bankruptcy. Another language to learn, new school, new friends to make. She was also watching my parents’ marriage implode. When my father and I disappeared one day, she was left with my grieving mother. She searched everywhere for her second daughter and when she found me a year later, my sister was left behind in Madrid to fend for herself at sixteen.

After another ill-fated reunion, this time in Austria, she left for London to work as an au pair at age seventeen. There was another language to learn and she couldn’t keep her name which sounded too much like ‘nasty’ to the English. She began using Palma and eventually Pam to fit in. At eighteen, she met her husband, a Sicilian chef nine years her senior. They married and within a year, I was sent to them for a year so I could learn English. They paid for my private school costs, all other expenses and put up with a miserable homesick child who really didn’t want to be there. My sister wasn’t equipped to look after my emotional needs, but then she was barely more than a child herself. At nineteen, I didn’t do any better looking after the younger siblings of my friends. It wasn’t my sister’s fault; my parents should have known better.

We migrated to Australia in 1971 and she followed within a year with her husband and baby son. While my family life unravelled amid my parents’ ongoing fights and eventual separation, hers seemed to flourish. They moved to the outskirts of Melbourne and life seemed to be going well for her. They built a house, had another child, bought a business and began to establish wealth. I didn’t see her for about six years during this period as I chose to stay with my father. We didn’t have a phone or car and I am not even sure that I had her address.

When we finally re-established contact, she was a mother of two living in suburbia. We didn’t have much in common but we loved each other. I became more involved with her daughter whom I regularly took to my place for sleepovers and ballet lessons. My sister took on more and more of the Italian traits of her husband’s heritage. They spoke Italian at home, she saw herself as the matriarch but was never really accepted by the broader Italian family. No matter how much she tried, she could never become one of their tribe.

I didn’t see everything that happened behind closed doors. My brother-in-law was loud and demanding. He always got what he wanted. I know he didn’t treat his wife kindly. He worked hard and she was expected to do whatever had to be done behind the scenes for his businesses. If anything was not to his liking, she would know about it. I never saw him hit her but his children did. I think she just got tired of a transactional marriage and saw no way out for herself.

When our mother became old and disoriented, my sister took her in. She looked after her for years with the patience of a saint. Our mother had never been easy but in her old age she became ever more demanding, nasty and often drunk. No matter where the alcohol was hidden, she would sniff it out. It became a constant source of friction between my sister and her family yet she could never find the heart to put her in a home.

Food became a source of comfort and over the years she gained a great deal of weight. She always loved fried food, bread, pasta and sweets. About three years ago, she was diagnosed with diabetes. She struggled to manage her diabetes and often forgot to check her levels.

Like her husband, she was a chain smoker which eventually led to emphysema. Smoking helped her regulate her mood. She continued to smoke even after her husband died of lung cancer. She probably had a smoke in bed the night before she died. ‘What else do I have left?’ she would say to herself.

I’m not sure when she discovered poker machines. She certainly kept it a secret from us all. I used to get frustrated with her stories of break-ins, cleaning ladies stealing jewellery, people stealing her bag or wallet out of the car, often with the weekly takings of the shop in her possession. How could anyone have such bad luck, I would think. At times she would ring in a panic and ask for a loan for something she couldn’t tell her husband about. Whenever I could, I obliged, never thinking that there was another reason behind her constant bad luck with money.

Once the truth came out, her relationship with her children was damaged and her husband was furious. She had lost well over a million dollars and suddenly they went from being well off to having to work to keep the roof over their heads. The last time I saw her she told me that gambling blocked everything out of her mind and for the hours she was there, she did not think about how miserable she felt. In the end, it left her asset rich in a large house without the money she needed for its upkeep. She relied on foodbanks to get her through to her next pension cheque.

She discovered love about four years ago when she met a much older man. He is in his 90s and has outlived her. While they seemed happy in each other’s company, her daughter had concerns about the relationship and did not approve. As it turned out, he was too frail to look after my sister or to live on his own so he moved to Gippsland to live with his daughter. He kept in touch over the phone and occasionally would visit her. My sister confided in me that he was the first gentle man she had encountered.

It is painful to admit that she was never truly happy. Our phone calls were always about the latest aches and pains, the terrible state of affairs in … (insert the latest hot spot), and how ungrateful her children were. I dreaded these conversations. Her hearing aid never worked well, the TV was always on high volume in the background and I had no chance of getting a word in. She stopped going out and her world shrunk to her four walls.

I tried to talk to her about our family but she steered clear of painful memories. As with so many members of my family, whatever she knew is now forever lost. I have come back from Hungary with photographs I have never seen before, and I was looking forward to asking my sister who these people were. I was hoping to drive to Melbourne in late September to talk to her about my recent trip. Now there is no one left to ask. The people in those photographs will remain unnamed, another missing piece in the puzzle that is my family.

Following Her North

My daughter loves Norway. She visits whenever she can. For a while now, she has asked me join her on a trip as she wanted me to understand her deep longing for this country. The opportunity finally came this year when I started thinking of visiting friends and family in Europe. With the efficiency of a seasoned traveller, she booked the accommodation, organised the car hire and presented me with a two-week itinerary. All I had to do was get on a plane to Bergen.

My first impressions of Bergen were of charming timber houses painted red, yellow, blue and green but mostly an ochre red. Much later, I discovered that the prevalence of red had an economic reason; it was the cheapest house paint to produce. Now of course, it has become a tourist drawcard as people from all over the world admire the brightly coloured houses.

We began our trip in earnest following fjords along the coast, going through mountains or under waterways using the extensive arrangement of tunnels along the way. We began to count them and after a while we rated each one from 1-5. My favourite was tunnel number 14, which had an elegant entrance and a stunning view at the exit. It was a fun activity discussing the merits of each tunnel as we drove north through spectacular countryside.

Norway is exactly as you expect it to be from the photos you see. Majestic mountains, fjords and off shore islands wherever you look, dear little timber houses dotted on grassy slopes, virtually 24 hours of sunlight in summer. What you don’t expect, even when you have been warned, is the high cost of living as virtually all consumables are imported. Unlike in the rest of Europe where you can save money by going to supermarkets and cooking your own food, in Norway, even supermarket items are ludicrously expensive. Pretty soon our mantra became, ‘oh, it cost $100’, for it seemed impossible to buy anything below that price.

We stayed at a variety of Airbnbs, some of which will stay with me for the hospitality and kindness of the host. Two farm stays were the most memorable in part because of the surrounding countryside. We did small hikes, went up 1000 metres in one of the steepest skylifts at Loen, where the incline at times was 60 degrees. From there we marvelled at the mountain vistas with glaciers in the distance.

We followed the road to the mountain plateau at Stigrøra, from which the descent was along the famous Trollstigen or Troll’s pass. While it looked hair-raising from atop the mountain, the actual trip down was quite enjoyable, but then I wasn’t driving down the hair-pin bends. Surprisingly, it wasn’t at all terrifying as I had feared.

Our trip ended in Trondheim, where we stayed for a few days. After spending time in the countryside, it was refreshing to get to a city with some cultural places to explore. I visited museums, churches, a synagogue and took a lovely walk through the old part of the city with my daughter and family before returning to a patisserie and treating everyone to a kanelsnurr, a delicious, twisted cinnamon scroll which I am determined to learn to make.

I am glad my daughter convinced me to go as I would never have gone on my own. There is definitely more to write about this trip but for the time being, this is enough. This holiday has brought me closer to my daughter as I have a deeper appreciation of her love of Norway now that I have walked along some of her favourite places.

Foraging for mushrooms

Mushrooms are popping up everywhere. In parks and gardens, you can find them under trees and sometimes out in the open fields. There are quite a few types I have noticed. Some that look like the edible field mushrooms, others that are brown and crinkly and others still that look like orange peel. There are also plenty of signs warning people of the death cap mushroom which is prevalent in Canberra. It is the world’s deadliest mushroom, with a mortality rate up to 50% for those who have consumed it.

I have become wary of foraging for mushrooms but this has not always been so. As a child, living in the Vienna woods, I learnt to distinguish edible from inedible mushrooms. My guide was an old stick of a man called Poldi, who spent much of his day sipping beer at the train station kiosk. I’d pick all the mushrooms I could, carry them to Poldi and spread them out on the wooden table where he sat. He would patiently sort through them and teach me what to look for. In a short time, I was a competent mushroom forager. I had to be.

There was never much food on the table at our house and in late summer and throughout autumn, mushrooms became our staple diet. It was my job to find them. I would head into the woods with my trusted dog Rigó and keep my eyes to the ground. It was rare that I’d go home without a full basket; the consequences meant going hungry. Oddly, I don’t remember these times as drudgery or deprivation, no, I remember them fondly through the rose blush tint of nostalgia.

Ten years ago, I went back to those woods and looked out for mushrooms. I was trying to recapture my childhood but soon came to understand the futility of this venture. It was lovely walking through the woods and I even recognised some of the paths I used to take. The mushrooms, however, were foreign to me. I could no longer distinguish the edible from the poisonous. I even went to a farmer’s market to buy local mushrooms only to find them chewy and far too strong for my taste.

Strangely, I still love mushrooms. I now tend to stick to the ubiquitous supermarket variety which I could eat daily cooked in a variety of ways. You’d think I would be sick of them after my childhood years but they have stayed a comforting staple of my diet. Despite evidence to the contrary, I still look back to that time as my golden years. And perhaps, viewed through the eyes of a child, they really were.

Softening the edges

I am drawn to the fog the way some people are to the sun. I revel in it, rejoice in its arrival and gladly slip into its cloak. It is a snug garment to wear that allows me to blend and fade, removing my sharp edges and those of the world around me.

When I walk in fog, I feel I am the subject of a drawing where a skilled artist using only black and white pastels renders the scene. My figure in the distance is finger smudged and blends with the light grey surrounds. It is hard to make out the shapes but they are there. Look and you will find them.

A copse of trees takes on a mystique, sensual and unattainable. Their beauty can only be captured from the distance, come too close and the fog dissipates leaving only a group of ordinary trees. Move back into the distance and the intrigue returns.

For some years I worked at Blackheath, a village atop the Blue Mountains. Fog accompanied our days in both summer and winter. You never knew when it would appear. Many a time I stood in the fog shrouded playground knowing that somewhere beyond the white sheet that enveloped me, were over 300 children. I reasoned they would find me should they need me.

It was at Blackheath that I saw a phenomenon that I could only describe as poetry come alive. I watched the fog roll in from the valley, slowly making its way up the main street. It rolled like a haybale, gathering up people, cars, buildings until I too was swallowed up in this rolling ball. It reminded me of the line in T.S. Elliot’s poem The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock where he describes The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes. The fog curled and settled on every object in its way.

While I know that this is a very romantic view of fog, I acknowledge the hazards it brings. Generally, I don’t mind driving in fog but once, when driving in Canada on the other side of the road in mid-winter, I lost my nerve and had pull over. Logging trucks rattled past on that purblind night and fear clouded my judgement just as the fog had clouded the alpine road ahead. My daughter took over and steered us safely to our destination, a picturesque log cabin blanketed in snow.

Back in Australia, fog is a friendly companion on winter mornings. I enjoy getting lost within it, the anonymity it brings and the delight in discovering a dog on the path that was invisible only a few seconds ago. I enjoy the softness it brings to an otherwise bleak morning. Like those trees in the distance, some things are at their most beautiful when not fully revealed.

Three Women, Some Paper and Sheepdog Whiskey

I never imagined I would become interested in arts and crafts. Sure, I may do a mosaic or two, knit a jumper or a baby blanket, but that doesn’t make me someone who would join a crafting group. God forbid I turn into a granny who foists pastel coloured booties onto babies! That’s about as likely to happen as getting a blue rinse.

But the truth is that I do at times dabble in these dark arts. I have been known to crochet bits and pieces at times (I’m never satisfied with the product), and I have even tried painting with watercolours (even less satisfied with the product). Hypercritical and lacking in skills, I get embarrassed and easily discouraged. So, when a friend asked me to come to a ‘craft afternoon’ at her place, I was both cringing yet eager to spend an afternoon with three close female friends.

Some months ago, three of us had attended a Japanese bookbinding course together. The process is relatively simple; choose some nice paper for your cover, mark where the holes need to be, punch the holes and then sew the papers together, starting from the centre of your ‘book’. I enjoyed the course and bought some basic equipment to practice the craft. Did I make any more booklets after the course? Of course not! This craft afternoon was a chance to redeem myself.

For the first hour or so, we ate lunch and chatted. It felt as if no-one was prepared to jump in and start. Eventually, I brought out my project and each of us began to show each other what we intended to do. What struck me was the generosity of the afternoon. We admired each other’s work, offered suggestions and helped where we could. I was given some Korean paper to use for one of my booklets, we played with some fountain pens and inks, and picked up ideas from each other for projects we may like to attempt in the future. It wasn’t at all the way I imagined a craft afternoon to be with pumpkin scones and billy tea. Instead, I was introduced to Sheepdog, a peanut butter whiskey that went down a treat.

The final verdict? Don’t disparage things you haven’t tried before and a shot or three of whiskey softens the contours of your work. Best of all, it quietens that pesky inner critic.

Moments of Grace

Why does beauty matter to me? From an early age, even in the least favourable situations, I would attempt to create an aesthetic with toys, placing them in a pleasing order, putting those I considered beautiful at the front while relegating others further back. I had no words for this, only an inner compulsion to create something that made me come alive. Once I was happy with my arrangement, I cared for it in a way that I didn’t care for the individual items when they were simply strewn around.

My first introduction to aesthetics was through the church. Old Catholic churches, in particular, are rich in colour, symbolism and beauty. They embody the pre-Enlightenment conflation of truth and beauty: the belief that true beauty is God-like and that it is our duty to strive for and emulate the beauty found in God. As a child, I loved the stained-glass windows, the light they cast across the floors, the gold chalice, the frescoes and the intricate carvings on the sides of the pews. Walking into a church took my breath away. It struck me with awe and allowed me to access a place beyond the mundane realities of everyday existence.

I feel something akin to this when I walk into an art gallery or a well-tended garden. Even seeing an unusual or brightly coloured bird brings with it a sensation of grace descending upon me through the simple act of witnessing beauty. It is as if my very being yearns for these aesthetic experiences so that I can feel truly alive. They remind me that there is more to life than being an economic entity whose sole role is productivity.

Listening to live music also has this effect. Last Friday, I felt elated as I listened to Salut Baroque perform a selection of pieces they had collated under the title Bohemian Rhapsody. The music reverberated through my body, making it feel lighter. A series of tingles travelled up my spine and, over the course of the concert, I entered a state of total relaxation. Transformative is the word that comes to mind to describe the effect of the music, and the feeling of wellbeing stayed with me throughout the night.

To feel whole, to thrive and to be content, I need beauty in my life. Daily encounters with beauty provide nourishment for my soul in the same way that food nourishes my body. It provides inspiration much as breath sustains life. I simply cannot imagine my life without it.

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.