Author: vrendes

Hurkle-durkling

To hurkle-durkle is a wonderful old Scottish term which means to lie in bed or lounge about when one should be up and about. It reminds me of words like shilly-shally, dilly-dally, argy-bargy, topsy-turvy and hoity-toity. Their humorous effect derives from the rhyme or alliteration. They are fun to say and capture a sense of their meaning.

I have come across hurkle-durkle from a number of sources lately. I first heard Susie Dent speak about it on the Something Rhymes with Purple podcast, then a friend reminded me of the word not long ago. Since then, I have seen it pop on Facebook and Instagram. It clearly accommodates a need in the English language.

Whether it is driven by jealous parents of teenagers who hurkle-durkle from their mid-teens through to their early twenties, or by blurry eyed workaholics who can only dream of such a luxury, it seems to have touched a nerve in the productivity driven twenty-first century. It is interesting to see the word make a comeback at precisely the time when the double-shot morning espresso has become a badge of honour for many.

As far as I’m concerned, we should all hurkle-durkle a lot more than we do. I’m sure we would be less stressed and more satisfied with life, if we allowed ourselves this little luxury more often. It is difficult to think of a hurkle-durkler committing road rage or being rude to shop assistants. We all behave better when we are well-rested.

We are now entering that crazy part of the year which we euphemistically call ‘the silly season.’ It isn’t silly at all. If anything, it should be called the frantic season. The list of things to get done before Christmas seems to get longer each year. Things ramp up at work as we approach the final weeks of the year and then there are all the social commitments, presents to buy and cards to write. No wonder we wind up cranky by the time we get to Christmas Day. You know my answer to this insanity. Sure you do. Go and spend some quality time hurkle-durkling and ride out the season in style.

Bird Song

One morning while having breakfast, I tuned in to sparrows chirping. They like hiding in an overgrown hedge out the back providing them with ample shelter. It is never one sparrow that sings but a host of them. Their simple song, made up of only a few notes, is sung mainly by the male to attract females or fend off invaders. I can’t help but smile at their incessant bright chirruping. It isn’t very loud and provides a pleasant soundscape as I sip on my cup of tea.

Soon another sound gets my attention. The blackbird’s song is one of my favourites, mainly because it reminds me of my childhood. I even named a dog after this bird. While its song varies for each verse, it always seems to start on the same mellow note. Their phrases are short and often include ‘djuk djuk’ clucks. No other birds have the same slightly melancholic effect on me.

Scientists have found that listening to bird songs is conducive to mental health. It surprises me that we need this confirmed through research. This revelation reminds me of the recent discovery of ‘silent walking’. Those brave enough to try this new trend have reported a reduction in feeling distracted. Who would have thought. It turns out that being in touch with nature is calming.

I can now hear my three tenors warble at the font of the house. This is what I affectionately call the magpies that come to feed on the front veranda. Magpies often get a bad rap for being aggressive. In a small town like Millthorpe, they know all the people and can distinguish between those who treat them well and those who do not like their company. I am often rewarded for being kind to them with their mellifluous warbles as they sit on the railing, necks craned, beaks raised skyward.

Nature plays a vital role in our quality of life especially for those who live in cities. We are seeing an increased willingness to consider the health of urban environments through improving biodiversity. I’d like to see a greater variety of birds in the heart of Australian cities beyond pigeons, gulls, and ibises.

Of course, not all bird sounds have a positive effect on us. Some can be downright irritating. Take the Koel for example. To be subjected to the coo-eee call of a Koel rising in pitch and fervour is akin to torture. The kindest thing I can say about them is that I am grateful that they are migratory birds. I’d much rather listen to a flock of local sulphur crested cockies. Noisy as they are, I have a soft spot for these larrikins. They are mischievous, funny creatures who relish play and pleasure. I love the way they hang upside down from the gutter to look through my window or find novel ways to open my garbage bins to see what is hidden inside. Curious, cheeky and utterly uncontrollable, they are the epitome of the rebel without a cause. Cockatoos often wreak havoc, yet I can never be cross at them for long. Theirs may not my favourite bird call but they make me laugh like no other bird can.

There is so much to learn from pausing to listen to our natural environment. Tuning in to bird songs helps me get out of my head and pay attention to my surroundings. I focus wholeheartedly on listening rather than looking. It’s a skill many of us neglect.

Melbourne Cup Day

Sirius, Melbourne Cup winner 1944

Roger could recite every Melbourne Cup winner going back to his birth year, 1944. It was his favourite party trick. Starting with Sirius, he could name them all and knew details about most. He loved horses, had a fervent interest in racing carnivals, but never had a bet. The last horse to be committed to his phenomenal memory was Verry Elleegant, the first horse to ever win the Melbourne Cup from barrier 18.

While I admired his passion, I could never reconcile the love of horses with racing. My heart broke every time I heard about an accident on the field. These horses rarely survive. It also seems to me that we don’t need to encourage betting in a nation that has the greatest per capita losses from gambling worldwide.

The day that Dunaden won the Melbourne Cup is seared into my memory. My husband, Peter, was returning to work after several months on sick leave. He had a part of his lung removed after we discovered that his Melanoma had spread. Things were going well; he felt better and was looking forward to returning to work. We dared to be optimistic.

I received a muffled phone call at about 10am on Cup Day. He was calling from the waiting room of the hospital where he had received his previous treatments. ‘I’m alright,’ he said in the way he did when he wanted to shield me from distress. I had to prise the details out of him, the way I always did when I needed to know the truth.

‘I wasn’t feeling well on the train and when I got off, I collapsed. People helped me up and eventually I had enough strength to walk to the medical centre. They sent me straight to hospital.’

At that moment, I knew. I knew we were at the starting post of a race against time and the odds were stacked against us. It was a race we would never win, no matter how much I pleaded with the specialists. We were riding on their mercy and time was running out. I didn’t believe in miracles, but I dared to hope. I dared to hope for Christmas, then New Year.  After that, I hoped for our daughter’s birthday and our wedding anniversary. He never made it to either. The race had run its course.

Melbourne Cup Day makes me anxious. I am taken back to these dark times of loss. The loss of a partnership of over two decades, the loss of innocence for my daughter, and the loss of a deep love. I am also reminded of a more recent loss, that of losing a second chance at love with a man whose joyful connection to the Melbourne Cup is all the more lamentable now that he too has run his final race. Yet I can’t help but feel grateful to have accompanied both of my valiant men on their final stretch to the finish line.

Poplars

Listening to trees whisper, sigh and brustle as they sing their wind songs is one of the delights of walking in the country. The soughing of the wind through various trees often escapes our notice, but if we listen carefully, there’s much to be learnt about the trees we encounter.

A common feature in rural Australia, the Lombardy Poplar stands tall and erect. They make for graceful avenues and provide useful windbreaks for farmers. As they are deciduous, they look like sad sentries in winter but come spring, they emerge in full verdant glory with thousands of diamond shaped leaves. But it is their susurration that fascinates me. They sound like no other tree I know. Their flat petiole that attaches to the leaf creates a trembling, a shimmy-shamming sound that reminds me of unfolding crinkled tissue paper. I am sure I could recognise a copse of Poplars by simply listening to them.

My late partner once owned a country house in Manildra where he planted a row of poplars on his side of the road to match the ones on the other side. His neighbour scoffed at the extravagance of watering the trees, but he did it anyway. Their slender beauty would have captured his imagination. A lover of gardens, he appreciated a good view. As people drove past, they were enveloped by the poplars providing a change of scenery from the flat paddocks on either side.  They were also heralding the houses on this lonely stretch of road. I can almost hear him instructing visitors, ‘Keep driving until you see the poplars, then turn right into the first driveway. Ours is the Federation house with all the roses along the fence.’

Lombardy Poplars have also been used to complement architectural features of well-known public buildings in Canberra. They were introduced there in the early 1900s, around the time that the house out at Manildra was built. They grace the forecourt of the National Library and can be found in many of the older parks around Lake Burley Griffin even though they are now considered a weed and prohibited under the ACT Pest and Plants and Animal Act 2005 due to their vigorous growth and propensity to invade waterways.

Last weekend Millthorpe hosted a Garden Ramble. It is a much-loved event which brings many visitors to the village. The gardens range from small backyards through to several acres of manicured parklands. Each is different, not only in size but also in aesthetic composition. Some favour the wild cottage garden effect while others are formal and majestic. It was at one of the oldest gardens that Poplars greeted me, sibilating in unison at my sight. Leaves waved like an old friend. These were ancient for Poplars, about forty metres tall, with roots that extended into the pond next to which they were originally planted. Their branches were in part straggly, but new growth was evident at the base of the trees.

Poplars, like church spires, reach to the heavens. I love them for their solemn beauty and wistful songs. Shimmering leaves in shamrock green remind me of the mother-of-pearl curtains of my youth refracting the sun’s rays. I am mesmerised by their wind-dance, their subtle choreography and siren song, drawing me ever closer into their embrace.

Bottled Ink

I have always loved the smell of bottled ink. It has a distinctive acrid smell that takes me back to learning to write in my first year at school. While today I find the smell nostalgic and comforting, the experience of forming letters on a page was torturous. Unlike children in Australia who learn to write using large, soft pencils, in Austria, we were expected to master the vagaries of the fountain pen at the age of six.

My memories of that time are shrouded in tears and ink blots on the page. Did I push too hard or was the pen leaky? Was the nib too thick or did I not hold the pen at the correct angle? Fountain pens can be tricky at the best of times. I don’t think I ever had ink free hands for the duration of my primary school years.

While quills have been used for centuries, the modern fountain pen was only invented in the early 1800s. It continued to evolve, with advances made by Lewis Waterman in America. His pens were able to be refilled and he invented a mechanism to allow ink to flow more freely. To this day, Waterman fountain pens are renowned for their style and reliability.

My pen clearly wasn’t a reliable one. My inky fingers no doubt made their way into my mouth as I turned pages. However, unlike with the forbidden book in Umberto Ecco’s Name of the Rose, there was no danger of any intellectual threat emerging from my scribbles. I was hardly going to be poisoned for my inattention by licking my blackened fingers. The only danger I faced was the wrath of my teacher for messy handwriting and blotting my copybook.

I am heartened that even King Charles has experienced the painful exposure to inferior pens even if he does own a Montblanc Solitaire among other prestigious pens. His outburst at Hillsborough Castle was beamed around the world. The newly crowned king was affronted by a leaky pen and let everyone know it. My own outbursts were met with a dressing down, a stern directive to stop moaning and to try harder. Not that any of this helped.

I don’t quite understand why I have persisted with fountain pens. Mine still leak and from time to time my blackened fingertips take me back to being a six-year-old. While I love all the wild ink colours that are available, I usually stick to black, just in case my signature needs to be validated or a page photocopied. Still, I love my Japanese murasaki-shikibu purple ink, named after the female Japanese writer who wrote the exquisite Tale of Genji in c.1010. This Japanese ink has a much more pungent smell than the inks I associate with my childhood. The shade of purple reminds me of my paternal uncle who would only write with a violet biro. Every time I use purple ink, it is a nod to my Hungarian uncle Lajos and his slight eccentricity which he maintained throughout his life. In a country where only blue or black were commonly available, it is hard to imagine where he sourced his pens.

I, on the other hand, am spoilt for choice. Besides the Pilot Japanese purple, my favourite Lamy colour is turquoise. In the Waterman range I adore absolute brown which is perfect for a nostalgic sepia look, harking back to the early twentieth century. For durability, however, I can’t go past Montblanc permanent black.

There is something almost subversive about writing with a fountain pen in the digital age where uniformity is prized over individuality. Colour is definitely not to be encouraged. But as always, I am happy to be counted among the renegades.

Cut flowers

Since my house has been on the market, I have bought flowers every week before the next inspection. It makes the dining room table look cheerful and inviting, adding colour and a touch of whimsy. I always choose brightly coloured ranunculus in a riot of hues. There is nothing serious about these flowers, and like gerberas, they make me smile each time I glance at them.

The flowers are grown by a local hobby farmer who brings half a dozen bunches to the local coffee shop each Friday. Her smile is every bit as bright as her flowers. The last time I saw her at the shop, she insisted I take a freshly picked bunch, so that the joy they bring lasts a day or two longer. I thanked her and paid my twenty dollars, an extravagance to some, but I love their impact on my house and mood.

As international flights have enabled cut flowers to be flown around the world so that orchids could be enjoyed mid-winter in Canada or Norway, it feels so much more intimate to buy freshly picked seasonal flowers.

In my twenties, as a student living on a small allowance in Berlin, I bought flowers each week to conjure up the sun in the eternal twilight months of winter. This small weekly ritual helped to soften loneliness and feeling lost in a new city. It brought hope of new life to come in spring, when the clouds would clear, and days lengthen.

Today, I am buoyed by the same message of hope. This period of my life will pass – clouds will part to reveal whatever comes next. I don’t need to know the details yet; all I need to do is to invite grace. And if flowers are to bring me hope and joy, they are worthy of a special place at my table.

Courage to share his story

Photo: Andreas F. Borchert

He approached us after casting his vote. A stranger who needed to share his story, to explain himself and his actions. A stranger who trusted that two women supporting an Aboriginal Voice would listen as he gave voice to his own story. 

He began to tell us of his Irish mother, a woman he loved dearly. She always claimed he was ‘fey’, alluding to his intuition and ability to sense things from beyond. He showed a keen interest in his Irish roots and had wanted to take his mother back, but this was not to be. After she died, he decided to make the trip on his own.

He sought out the places that were dear to his mother and met long lost family. The more time he spent on his mother’s Country, the more he felt the place holding him, welcoming a lost son. This feeling finally overcame him when he entered a small church in the village where his mother was born. As he stood at the baptismal font where she and generations of her family had been baptised, he succumbed to a flood of tears, held back for the longest time.

A gentle hand touched his shoulder. It was the parish priest.

‘Welcome home, son,’ he said, and our traveller felt he had truly arrived.

It was a moment akin to transcendence, a knowing that this was where his roots were, no matter where he would live out the rest of his life.

I too have experienced this sense of homecoming. A homecoming to a place that I can no longer call home, but a place where I feel the pull of my roots stronger than any other place I know. It is a feeling of merging and becoming one with the land, the trees and the birds that roost within them. I expand to take in all that is and experience both rapture and rupture between me and what lies beyond. Words cannot capture what happens in these moments, they will always stay ineffable.

Like my stranger, after experiencing what the Irish call ‘Thin Places’, where the veil between heaven and earth momentarily falls away to reveal the transcendent, I have but an inkling of Aboriginal people’s connection to Country. But like the man I met ever so briefly, I know where I stand and why I have chosen to take that stand.

Preoccupied

I’ve been too much in my own head to pay much notice to the world around me. I’m anxious about the sale of my house, the upcoming move, and the demands of my job. My nervous energy has no place to go now. I have done everything I can to display the house in the best light. It is fresh, clean and utterly appealing. I am spring loaded and restless. My energy needs to dissipate, so I take the dog for long walks around the village.

Recently, I’ve barely been able to keep in touch with friends and have not contacted family overseas. I know I should pick up the phone, but I am too distracted. When friends call, all I can talk about is what is happening in my life. At present, I am not a good listener. I am much too preoccupied.

An old friend called me this morning to see how I was travelling. I must have spoken for at least ten minutes about all my petty concerns before he said that he too was finding it difficult to concentrate. He mentioned his apprehension regarding the unfolding situation in Israel. I had no idea what he was talking about but, with a sense of foreboding, made a mental note to follow it up once the conversation ended.

I checked the ABC website and noted what had occurred while my own thoughts were spinning out of control. I read with increasing dread about the aftermath which will surely follow the Hamas strike. Regardless of the side you are on in this conflict, no good can come out of this unforeseen attack. Innocent people have paid and will continue to pay the price for this offensive. Opinions will be hardened, and the two sides will not be able to negotiate a viable settlement for years to come. There is a very real possibility that war could erupt, drawing in players from surrounding countries.

I am dismayed. I think about two incredible fathers I recently read about. One is Palestinian, the other is Israeli and both have lost young daughters due to the violence caused by this long-running conflict. Bassam Aramin and Rami Elhanan choose to build bridges rather than burn them down. They advocate dialogue instead of gunfire. Over the years, their grief has led to an unlikely friendship through which they are able to put their differences aside and show the world that reconciliation is possible on a personal level. As Rami put it, “instead of sharing the land that God gave us, we will share the graves underneath.” If two enemy ex-soldiers who can find their way to friendship through shared grief, what is holding us back from reaching out?

Maybe like me, the rest of us are too preoccupied with our own small problems to see beyond securing our own backyard. But the time has come to reach over fences and begin a genuine dialogue. Let’s engage in this radical act: listen to understand and allow for space to pause before responding.

Every new start is difficult

I sat on the floor with my back against the windowpane, feeling the warmth of the sun wash over me. It was mid-morning, and all was quiet. Two dogs were sprawled out dozing in front of me. I closed my eyes and joined them for a delicious short nap.

When I woke some minutes later, I gazed around sleepily, enjoying the strange sensation of having nothing to do. I was dog sitting in my townhouse in Canberra where my daughter currently lives. It will eventually become my place of residence, but for now, I am a visitor. Unlike back home, there is nothing that beckons to be done.

I began thinking about what life will be like living there. The nature reserve across the road is inviting as is the café which is a short stroll. What else? Sure, I could list the many attractions of living in a city again – the galleries, bookshops, markets, and events I could attend, but it all seemed rather undefined. While these are pleasant outings, they won’t define my life.

These concerns took me back to my first few months in Sydney. I was twenty-eight, hardly knew a soul in the city and was looking for work. I moved into a share-house with a young couple and spent days looking over the rooftops of Glebe. Frangipanis were blooming and scented the streets. Everything was verdant, fresh, and perfumed, a complete change to the European Plane trees of Melbourne. I spent hours sitting in my room, reading, and looking out onto an as yet undiscovered city.

Waiting for the phone to ring after applying for jobs meant I couldn’t leave the house. Mobile phones may already have been invented, but they were only accessible to well to do business types. I had only ever seen them in movies. Our phone was still the corded variety stationed in the hallway and I prayed for it to ring.  Lonely and bored, my days stretched out ahead without purpose. I was lost. These feelings were completely at odds with the life I had led in Melbourne. There, I had been busy studying, involved in university life and I had friends that reached back to my childhood. What had I done? As I sat on the floor feeling sorry for myself, a thought came upon me. Up until then, I had always been busy. Too busy in fact. I finally had a moment to stop and evaluate where I wanted my life to go. Given time, I would make new friends, get involved in the community and be busy again. I would look back on this time of inactivity and marvel at the opportunity it had afforded me. And as it turned out, that is exactly what happened. Within a year I had a group of friends, a job and social commitments galore. I longed for the days when I had nothing to do but look out the window…

My move to Canberra will follow a similar trajectory. Every new start is difficult. It will take time to find my tribe. This time, I have a job lined up which will make it all the easier. Within a year I will be bumping into friends, going out to dinner or concerts and I will reminisce over the time when I had nothing to do but sit with back against the windowpane and feel the warmth of the sun.

Bibliophile

I am a self-confessed bookhound. I cannot walk past a bookshop without browsing and buying at least one book, even when I have no intention of a purchase. Sometimes I enter a store with a particular title in mind, but most of the time a book will call out and attract my attention before my rational mind can produce a scintilla of common sense. It doesn’t matter that I have thousands of unread books on my shelves, another one is added on a whim.

The last time I moved house, I counted well over 50 boxes of books. I packed them with a close friend at my side. I was glad to have her there, not only for the purposes of packing, but also to stop me from looking at each one to lovingly remember how it came into my possession. Had I attempted the exercise on my own, it would have taken days to complete the task.

This time, I know I will not have enough shelves at my new place to house my collection. Not only that, but there won’t be the wall space either. I am already investigating rotating shelves and other innovative designs. Regardless, I will have to downsize.

Today I set myself a target of reducing my collection by a mere 50 books. The first ten weren’t hard, but as I kept going, the task became increasingly difficult.

“But I haven’t read this yet!”

“I may not have enjoyed it, but it is a classic.”

“What if I want to revisit this passage and find the book is out of print?”

I listened to all the irrational arguments and kept adding books to the out-pile. It felt good to reach my target, even though I knew I would have to be more rigorous in my next cull.

Luckily for me, there is a street library down the road and its shelves were looking decidedly sparse. My contribution of 50 paperbacks has now filled all those empty spaces. I know my books will provide hours of pleasure to the readers of Millthorpe.

But will I resist the call next time I walk past a bookshop?