Author: vrendes

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?

Why I attended a YES rally supporting the Voice

I have to think hard to remember the last rally I attended. I think it was a rally to support the Independence of East Timor back in the late 1990s. I remember pushing a stroller along George Street in Sydney, chanting to the familiar refrain:

‘What do we want?

Self-determination!

When do we want it?

NOW!’

Not long after that, we moved out of Sydney and going to rallies became a just a little more difficult to organise with a young child. Then life became busy and while I supported many causes, I didn’t make it out onto the streets the way I did when I was younger.

This weekend, there were rallies all over Australia supporting the Yes campaign for an Indigenous Voice to parliament. A referendum will be held in three weeks to change the Australian Constitution which would allow an Indigenous body to give independent advice to the government of the day regarding laws and policies that affect Indigenous communities.

It was a beautiful day and thousands of people of all ages attended from near and far. There were people there who had fought for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders to be recognised in the Constitution back in 1967, families, young activists, migrants, Indigenous leaders and more. We marched to Parliament House and made our voices heard, in the hope that Australians will make it possible for Indigenous voices to be heard.

Linda Burney, the Minister for Indigenous Australians and Member for Barton said that the Voice would make it possible to advise on

“Things like incarceration and child removal, housing, health and educational outcomes. This voice is about making sure that what happens in the federal parliament is going to be a positive step forward both in terms of us as a nation, but also the life outcomes for First Nations people in Australia.”

For me, the issue is simple. Do I want to support our most disenfranchised group in society to have a say in what is being done to them, or do I want things to remain as they are? Do I want life expectancy to continue to be approximately 8 years lower for Indigenous people? Do I want Indigenous students to be two and a half years behind their peers in educational outcomes by school-leaving age? And do I want to accept widespread socioeconomic disadvantage and health inequality which is similar to that experienced in Third World countries? If I want to see these statistics to change, my vote must be a YES to the Voice.

Do I believe that giving Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders a Voice will fix all the inequalities outlined above? Of course not! But I do believe that it will make a tangible difference and give the message that non-Indigenous people not only care but are willing to listen. To me, that deserves a resounding YES.

Selling a much-loved house

I am blessed to be able own my own house, or at least a substantial part of it. This cottage is exactly what I have yearned for all my life – an old wooden home with loads of character that greets me with warmth the moment I come in.

It has old, pitted floorboards that tell the story of the many feet that have walked on them, walls that bear the marks of furniture, and windows that creak and groan every time I open them.

Every room has its own story of past renovations which add to its overall charm. It is like an archaeological dig, unearthing the unique stamp of previous owners. I love how the floors tell of walls that have been removed and rooms that once were used in very different ways. And I also have put my own stamp on this place through the addition of a functional bathroom and laundry as well as a kitchen, in keeping with its heritage.

My studio out the back is a real luxury. It is a converted shed but when I open its doors, I am in a light filled space that is bigger than most one-bedroom apartments in Sydney. I have loved working on mosaics or writing in this space and of course my friends have enjoyed the comforts of a self-contained room. I have never had so much space in my life!

The wild cottage garden invites birds, insects and for me, contemplation. While I have never been a gardener, it is a calm place to enjoy. As there are four seasons in Millthorpe, it is possible to grow both deciduous and native trees and roses thrive in this environment. I have loved the explosion of blooms in spring and the colours of autumn. The garden is a testament to the passing of time as different plants take centre stage, depending on the season.

But it is time to move on. Now, I have to convey my love for this place to strangers who will no doubt find fault with what I consider are charming anachronisms. I have to declutter, downsize and get ready to relocate 300km away. It is a daunting task. I am eternally grateful to have spent seven years in a community that has welcomed me into the fold. Together with the friends I have made and the memories of a love that I will cherish for evermore, Millthorpe will always have a special place in my heart.

Central West NSW

There are mornings that take your breath away. Driving through milky fog, ghosted cattle appear and fade into the background. The road stretches no more than 50 metres ahead, a reminder to trust the way forward and believe that the destination will eventually reveal itself.

Trees are cloaked in thick white coats, silver grass droops with dew before it disappears as the car cuts through the landscape like a scythe. Subdued, canola blooms in the next paddock on this cold morning, awaiting the sun to shake off the vestiges of winter.  As yet, the sun is nowhere to be seen.

Thirty kilometres further and the fog has cleared. The sun is out now, but the air still bears a chill. Rows of vines grow along taught wires and they stretch their arms towards each other, as if reaching to a kindred soul. Still bare, the neat rows extend up hills into the distance. It will be several weeks yet before green shoots appear.

Winding through scraggy scrub growing on undulating hills, the landscape now is rocky and the soil poor. There’s more roadkill along this section of the trip as animals look for food along the green verge. There are foxes, roos and even a wombat with its stiff legs in the air. I’m driving through an animal graveyard.

Small villages are scattered at varying distances. Some have freshly painted houses with proud gardens, others are forlorn and neglected. Rusted sheds collapse onto themselves, and ancient farm machinery has been left to decay. Driving through the outskirts of a larger settlement, the aftermath of a deadly flood is visible a year later. Debris from the surge of water still clings onto farm fences, once vibrant shops have been abandoned and brick foundations without corresponding houses point to the slow road to recovery that this town faces.

Thirty-five km on, my destination comes into view. A large inland town, it is a rural hub servicing farms and smaller settlements. The town is known for its grand heritage buildings and splendid parks along the river and a short lived gold rush back in the 1860s. Its roads lead to towns much further afield – outback NSW and eventually Queensland to the north. It is a place where trucks rumble along a highway which dissects the town more efficiently than its river ever could.

It has taken two hours to drive no more than 140km through this part of the Central West. It is a region known for its excellent food and wine production as well as agriculture. To me, it has been home for seven years and I know it best for its crisp winter mornings and bucolic beauty. I shall miss it when the time comes for me to leave.

Atzgersdorf, Vienna

I have returned to Vienna several times since I left it as a child. One of the most memorable visits was in 2010 when I took my husband Peter and our daughter Ella, then 14. We made our way by public transport to the place where I used to live. It is an outer suburb bordering the state of Lower Austria called Atzgersdorf.

When we arrived at the station, I still knew exactly which way to go. It had been 42 years since I had lived there but I could find my way home. To my surprise, the suburb hadn’t changed much at all. It was still a working-class suburb, down at heel and drab. When we arrived at my old address, Endresstrasse 5, I took an obligatory photo and was ready to keep walking. 

‘Don’t you want to go in?’ Peter asked. 

‘You can’t just go into a block of flats,’ I replied, ‘the front doors are always locked.’

‘Ring a bell to one of the flats and explain that you have come all the way from Australia,’ he said.

I shook my head. It was such an antipodean response. No one would do such a thing here, I thought. You don’t just barge in. Seeing that I was about to walk away, my husband went over to the large wooden door, pushed down on the handle, and found it open.

‘We’re going in,’ he announced.

As we entered the building, we saw how dilapidated it had become. Patches of mortar were missing, and curled layers of peeling paint drooped from the walls. I could just make out the year 1908 above the entrance. Nothing had been repaired in over forty years.

We made our way up the staircase to the first floor. The central toilet block servicing all the flats was still there.  So were the two antiquated taps on either side with marble sinks below them. I wondered whether people were still filling up buckets for cooking or whether there was at least running water in the apartments.

Then, as we rounded the corner, I saw the door to our old flat. It looked as if no-one had lived there for quite a while. Dozens of official envelopes as well as yellowed catalogues spilled out from under the door. It was as if the tenant had left one morning and forgot to return. I looked away. 

            Ella was the first to speak.

‘You lived here?’she asked in disbelief. 

I wish I could have answered her with more than a single syllable. Yes, I lived here and yes it was shabby even back then. But it was also home. It was where I discovered worlds within worlds through reading, where I began to write, where I made friends and lost some. It was where my mother tried to make the best of a broken marriage and where my father gave up on life.  I couldn’t understand these things as a child and maybe I will never fully understand them. But this place was so much more than a shabby building in need of renovation. Archived within its walls are the many years of memories. As a mark of respect, I reached for the smooth, wooden banister and imagined all those who had gone before.

We continued our walk through Atzgersdorf. We walked to the church where I had my first communion, but it was locked. I tried not to let my disappointment show. I love going into churches in Europe where even the small parish churches are richly ornate. I love the smell of frankincense and the candles with the honesty box next to them. I always light a candle for someone in need, for someone who could use positive intervention in their life. It felt wrong to have come all this way and not have a brief chat with God, considering that this was where I had first encountered him through the many rules and rituals that I internalised at Sunday mass.

Next to the parish church buildings we found a small bookshop. As no one in my family can resist an interesting looking bookshop, we found ourselves browsing through the shelves. A young man came to see if we needed assistance. I was interested in buying a book by a local author and he suggested a couple of names. As we began to chat, I confided that I had spent a part of my childhood just around the corner and that I had attended the local school. 

‘You really should go and see someone at the school. I am sure they would be very interested to meet you,’ he said.

I wasn’t so sure but thanked him for his book suggestion and bought a novel set in Vienna. 

When we left, Peter suggested we go across to the schoolhouse. I stood in front of the large wooden entrance and had my photo taken. 

‘Why don’t you go in and say hello?’

‘It would just be an awkward moment. I’d tell them that I used to be a student here and they would be obliged to feign interest.’ 

‘No, you need to tell them that you grew up here, went to Australia and have become a teacher yourself. They would love that story. The prodigal daughter so to speak.’  

I shook my head and wouldn’t budge. I couldn’t explain my reluctance to him or to myself for that matter. 

‘A photo in front of the building is good enough for me,’ I said. 

Peter took out the camera and suspended the moment in time. I wish I could adequately explain why I couldn’t go into the school that day. Or why I couldn’t bring myself ten years later to go into another school I had attended. When faced with the past, it feels as if I am in front of a window looking at a scene that no longer belongs to me. I am the outsider, the intruder, the one looking in and I can’t jump over my own shadow to claim the right to enter. The boundary is invisible to everyone but me. I stand on the threshold, usually on stairs, which can lead me in or out. I’m on the verge and then a strange paralysis takes hold. When my feet finally move, they go in the wrong direction.