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.

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.