Category: Uncategorized

Bed Rest and Restlessness

I am an impatient patient. Bed rest is agony, not because of the pain but because I am railing against having to rest. Any other time, I long for a sleep in, a chance to have a leisurely morning, just not when I’m sick. Feeling unwell sends me into a spin of (mild) depression, feeling trapped and a sense of foreboding that I will never reemerge into the land of the hale and hearty.

I’ve had the luxury of a week off work. Was I pleased? Not a bit! I lay in bed checking emails, between coughing fits and fits of sleep. Things were happening without me running around. Everyone was coping but me. My colleagues were probably not even aware that I wasn’t there. I was superfluous.

Is this how retirement would feel? No longer needed, no one wondering what I was up to? I have always thought of the moment I leave as entering the land of milk and honey. I’d finally be able to do whatever I liked, whenever I liked. But would it be like this illness, stretching ahead without an end in sight?

Today I finally felt well enough to walk the dog and meet up with a friend. I came home, had a short rest and then proceeded to paint the laundry. First coat done, I had a longer rest before attempting the next tasks on my list. Is this what I have come to? Short bursts of energy to be followed by periods of rest before I can cope with the next item? Surely not!

Tomorrow, the second coat goes on and I have a shelf to assemble before the new washing machine arrives on Monday morning. I may then head out to the Christmas in July markets. I’m already feeling better just thinking of it. That fresh coat of paint will not only give the laundry a new lease of life but will also renew my spirits. Perhaps, I just need to find a new rhythm. One that fits in with what my body is gently trying to tell me. On the other hand, maybe I’ll hold onto that thought until at least Monday and let the sleeping dog lie on the bed. After all, I have a laundry to conquer.

23 Prime Truths My Dog Has Taught Me

  1. Live in the moment, things are much less complicated that way.
  2. It is never too cold to go for a walk.
  3. Always be on the lookout for adventure.
  4. Act first and ask for forgiveness later.
  5. Apologise fast and look sincere.
  6. Lean in.
  7. Abandon yourself to heartfelt Zoomies.
  8. Sleep is a beautiful thing.
  9. Always stretch after you get up.
  10. Being well groomed makes you feel better.
  11. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it keeps me engaged and happy.
  12. Find fun in the small stuff like sticks, balls and play.
  13. Chase after your dreams, even if they are unattainable.
  14. Don’t take your eye off the prize bone.
  15. Loyalty is the most important virtue.
  16. The more you give, the more you get.
  17. Always find your way home to those who love you.
  18. Greet strangers with a smile (or tail wag).
  19. Your bark should always be bigger than your bite.
  20. Learn new tricks, it never fails to impress.
  21. Trust your instincts, they are rarely wrong.
  22. Train your superiors well.
  23. A pee in the bush is better than a UTI.

Low light, low mood

Today is the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. Things are on the way up from here. Don’t get me wrong, I love the brisk, cold winter days but I do get affected by the shorter days. It can be as cold as it likes but I need light. A lack of light can make me feel quite listless and despondent. All I want to do is roll up in a ball and hibernate.

I don’t know whether I truly have SAD or Seasonal Affective Disorder but some of the symptoms fit. Symptoms like lack of energy, fatigue, sleeping too much, eating too many carbs, difficulty in concentrations, physical aches and pains, feeling anxious, blue, restless are all there but doesn’t everyone experience these at some point in their lives? It reminds me of looking at a horoscope and cherry picking your traits. Oh yes, I’m such a Virgo/Libra/Sagittarius because these five very generalised traits apply to me. Is it all in my head?

Well yes, it is all in my head in one way or another. And does it really matter if I can assign a label to my feelings? I just know I feel better when there is light around me, I just don’t like the heat that comes with it. One of the best days I can recall was a mid-winter freezing cold day in the Swiss alps with snow all around me, blue skies and a blazing sun above. I felt on top of the world, full of energy, weightless, content.

It doesn’t help to have to get up before the sun comes over the horizon. I’m gloomy and moody in the mornings until I get outside. Once I’m out walking and the sun appears, I am fine but cloudy days press down on me and keep me downcast.

I now understand why I have always felt depressed when curtains are drawn in summer to keep the heat out. It explains why I have opted for translucent blinds in my current home and why I fell in love with it the moment I walked in. There are large windows on three sides of the main room which not only let in light but the sight of trees.

I now have a better appreciation as to why people worship the sun. Even those of us who prefer to hide in the shade are drawn to her light. It isn’t her heat that I need, just her brightness and clarity. And so, on this shortest day of the year, I look forward to the light returning, day by day, minute by minute until the days are long and bright and my mood rises above the horizon.

The Miracle Morning Missed Me

Why can’t I get out of bed in the morning? Every night, my alarm is set on my phone and placed in the kitchen. I have chosen the most ear-piercing, shrill sound that I fear wakes my entire neighbourhood, but I still manage to roll over and go back to sleep. I have tried going to bed earlier, setting the alarm for as late as possible, setting it earlier to give myself more time, having a thermos of tea at my bedside, all to no avail.

The strange thing is that I’m not even comfortable in bed once I wake up. My hips ache, my bladder protests and still I lie there, convincing myself that ‘out there’ is not only less desirable but downright ghastly. It will be too cold and much too unpleasant. Yet when I finally get up, it is quite agreeable out there. The shower is warm, the world seems benign and when I take the dog for her walk, I can’t help but feel jubilant. The frost and silent fog are achingly beautiful. I wonder why I can’t return to this feeling to get me out of bed earlier. It would be so much more enjoyable to have an extra twenty minutes out in the park instead of lying in bed.

I never thought I’d say this, but I wish I were a morning person: someone who wakes up, jumps out of bed fully awake and ready to tackle the day. The type of person who is bright and chirpy, finds the first is hours of the day invigorating and gets things done before others are awake. It seems to make no difference whether I have six hours or ten hours sleep. I wake up bleary eyed, slightly grumpy and always at least a little more tired than when I went to bed. Luckily, my dog doesn’t mind me being monosyllabic for the first hour.

I have read ‘Miracle Morning’, ‘The Five Second Rule’ and various other books of the same ilk, trying to convince me that it is a merely a question of putting my mind to it. Lord knows, I have tried. I have even succeeded for a week or two at a time, but it was always a struggle, and I never felt full of energy. My rocket booster kicks in about 30 minutes before bedtime, which would be perfect timing if my job were midnight space travel, but not so great for a 6am start in the real world.

Many years ago, I taught English to Chinese students at a private college. It wasn’t a great job and for the most part I was deeply unhappy there. But there was one moment that has become a favourite of mine, an anecdote that resonates with every fibre of my being. A young man handed me his journal to be marked. The first sentence read, ‘I was alarmed at 7am.’  I simply couldn’t bring myself to mark it as incorrect.

From Asters to Astoria

Asters are star shaped flowers with tube like petals that come in a variety of dazzling colours. I was given a bright pink bunch a couple of weeks ago and I delighted in their cheery presence, especially in this bleak and wintery weather. Sadly, their stems soon began to droop, but the flowers retained their sunny disposition. That’s when I decided to cut off their stems and float the flowers in a bowl of water. They have continued to bring joy for two weeks and still look fresh.

Their flower heads remind me of daisies, so I wondered whether they were related. It turns out they are. Like a daisy, the disk florets in the centre of the flower are bright yellow, which is why we think of them as being sunny. Asters bloom late autumn and provide an important food source for bees and when there is little nectar to be found. My pink asters are native to Australia but as a species, there are more than 250 varieties in the world.

While researching the humble aster, I learnt that the Hungarian revolution of October 1918 was also called the ‘Aster Revolution’. The name was derived from soldiers removing the Austro-Hungarian symbols from their caps and replacing these with asters.

The ‘headquarters’ for the revolutionaries was at the Astoria Hotel in Pest, on the eastern side of the Danube of the dual city of Budapest. This stunning seven storey hotel, featuring fin-de-siècle architecture is still one of the best loved hotels in the heart of the city. However, at the time of the revolution, it was only four years old and without a doubt one of the most elegant places in Budapest. It was from one of its balconies that the leader of the First Hungarian People’s Republic, Mihály Károlyi, announced the end of the Hapsburg empire and the foundation of the republic to jubilant supporters below. This was the only revolution that Hungarians have ever won.

Reading about the significance of the Astoria took me back to the 1980s, when during a particularly cold winter, I arrived in Budapest to find the transport in the city had ground to a halt. Metre high snow lay frozen on the side of roads; there were abandoned cars and trams everywhere, and the occasional taxi or bus that was still operational wouldn’t stop.

I stood at a bus stop with dozens of commuters needing to get out of the cold. They were locals, while I was a tourist with a 30kg backpack that I could barely carry. When a bus finally stopped, they roughly pushed past me to get on board. I slipped on the ice, fell on my back and was transformed into a giant beetle, like Gregor Samsa in Kafka’s Metamorphosis. By now the bus had left, and I lay on the ground, legs in the air, crying, asking for my father’s intercession to get me out of this mess. After all, I was in his hometown, chasing ghosts.

Getting up seemed to take an eternity. I was cold, miserable and lonely. My only contact was my aunt who lived in a Soviet style high-rise in Buda. It was miles away. That’s when I spotted the Hotel Astoria on the other side of the road. Surely, someone could help me there.

I trudged across the road, entered the building and was greeted by a friendly face. I wiped away my tears. The woman behind the counter took pity on me and called my aunt who immediately took charge of the situation. All I had to do was to wait outside until she bribed a taxi driver to drive back into the city to collect me. Within half an hour the taxi arrived, and I arrived safely at my aunt’s place fifteen minutes later.

The weather improved the next day. I took the bus into town, found a florist and bought a pot of chrysanthemums. These I delivered to my saviour at the Astoria. At the time I had no idea of the hotel’s history. Nor would I have known that chrysanthemums are closely related to asters.  

The Quiet Cost of Disconnection

A few weeks back, I drove 330 km to attend friend’s birthday lunch. I hadn’t seen her for about six months and was delighted to surprise her on the day. I also caught up with a couple of friends I hadn’t seen for years on that weekend. Since then, my life has revolved around work, and I have barely seen anyone. Usually, I don’t mind at all, I’m a bit of a loner and rarely feel lonely. Lately though, there’s been a niggle gnawing within me, a slight feeling of dissatisfaction, which I’m finding disconcerting.

I talk to lots of people during the day, so it isn’t a lack of contact. However, most of my interactions are transactional and I don’t feel connected in any meaningful way. Today, it occurred to me that I know very little about the private lives of my colleagues and they know very little about me. Whilst I don’t expect to have all my social needs met at work, it is where I spend a large chunk of my time.

We always think about the quality of our diet and exercise as the main risk factors for our health. Recently, studies have identified another risk factor, which could be equally as important to longevity and health – the importance of social relations. This may be because the support that friends offer can lower our stress hormones, it can even help regulate insulin and help with our gut function. It reminds me of studies that have been done on positive coronary effects of purring cats on laps. We all need companionship and physical touch.

What matters most is the quality of our interactions. Happy marriages can help prolong life; unhappy ones can lead to poor health outcomes. While not causal, there’s a definite a link. This also applies to friendships. The stronger and more harmonious our friendships, the happier and healthier we tend to be.

But it isn’t just the social interaction that’s been lacking from my life. I haven’t done much of the two things that keep me centred. The first is walking and the second is writing. Before work, I only fit in 15 to 20 minutes of a walk and, now that winter has arrived, I mostly get home after dark. I miss my hour-long stroll after work and so does the dog. No such excuses for my lack of writing.

After a few weeks of missing the online London renegade writers’ group, I finally logged on today. We wrote, we chatted, we laughed and cheered each other on. Such a simple step and I already feel better. Two hours later, I’m buoyed, smiling, and content with my lot once again. And here’s the blog post to show for it.

Music in the Margins

Dickson is an inner-north suburb of Canberra, well known for Asian restaurants and specialty grocers. The shopping precinct is also known for people sleeping rough, alcohol and drug problems as well as boarded up shop fronts. Coles and Woolworths are two retail giants competing against each other, but small shops struggle to make ends meet. It is a mixed bag.

In the centre of the shopping precinct is a plaza with a public library servicing the surrounding areas. At night, the covered entrance way provides shelter for the homeless. Vinnies does a night patrol in the area, providing food, jackets, sleeping bags, and offering non-judgmental social interaction. There are many who would like to clear out the poor and ‘improve’ the suburb. They speak of a clean-up as if it were a matter of getting some mops and brooms, sweeping away unwanted people.

Yes, I can attest to the problems in the area, but I also see a richness and community spirit. While waiting for a prescription to be filled, I sat on a bench opposite a muralled wall where an upright piano stands under the eaves of a building. It is old and weather-beaten, but its keys are intact. Playable, even if most likely out of tune.

A man in his 40s, wearing a black backpack, sat down, rolled a cigarette and began to play. The music that flowed from his hands was enchanting. As it was a public holiday, there were very few people about. Yet those who were about to walk past, stopped, took videos or simply listened before continuing on their way. I stood up and commented on the soaring melodies to a woman with a pram. Her toddler was transfixed. Soon, someone else joined us and we were strangers no more. The pianist had brought us together to enjoy the moment, doing what he loved best, awakening within us the power of music.

At the end of a song, I approached to say thank you. He was rather bashful, telling me he was self-taught and had only been playing for two years. He could only play by ear, and as he hadn’t worked out how to use the black keys, he could only play in C major or A minor, the two scales that can be played solely on the white keys. He probably wasn’t aware of that. Nevertheless, he sounded accomplished, and his repertoire was extensive.

This man, rich in spirit but poor, had transformed my trip to the chemist into deep appreciation for the gifts that people can offer each other. He touched the hearts of everyone who walked past and allowed people to connect who would otherwise not strike up a conversation. All because someone had leaned an old piano against a wall in the mall.

I have seen the architect’s impression of a precinct, a master plan of hundreds of new apartments and clean, green public spaces. The language of conservation (zero waste) and Connecting with Country (green corridors) are present, appealing to our middle-class conscience.  No doubt the suburb will enjoy a process of gentrification and it will be prices rather than the broom that will eventually sweep the suburb clean of people like the piano man.

Smitten and Smote: Biblical Ponderings with Shampoo

Does anyone else think too much in the shower? I lather my hair and my mind wanders down odd side tracks and into cul-de-sacs. A quick rinse is never enough. Even on busy mornings, I stretch time to follow my thoughts.

This morning, my mind began to wonder about the American pronunciation of the word ‘herb’, which is ‘erb. Was this an older form of the way we say it, fossilised from when America was colonised? Most likely, I thought. Does this mean that they would say an herb rather than a herb? Again, I answered in the affirmative. If we say an hour, it makes sense that they would say an herb. After all, we sometimes see a history and an history in printed form.

How did I come to mull over this word? I have been hearing it a lot while listening to both podcasts and lately, when listening to the Old Testament as an audiobook. I don’t know how I came to buy an American version rather than the one narrated by David Suchet of Poirot fame. However, I am used to the American woman’s voice by now and will have the pleasure of listening to her for the next 65 hours.

I decided to listen to the Old Testament because I have only ever known fragments of it. The classic stories like Adam and Eve, Noah’s Ark, Moses and the Exodus, the Ten Commandments and Lot’s wife turning to salt were about the extent of my knowledge. And some Psalms of course. I wanted to go deeper to understand more of the foundation of the three Abrahamic religions, namely Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Of these three, Islam split off quite early, following the lineage of Ishmael, son of Abraham, while Judaism from whence Christianity originated, followed the lineage of Isaac, Abraham’s other son. However, in Islam, Isaac, Moses and Jesus are still acknowledged as prophets.

I was thinking about these things and the language used in the translation of the Old Testament from Hebrew. There’s much begetting, smiting and going in under women. Smite, smitten, smote. I have only been smitten in the positive sense. But I guess that too has the implication of being inflicted a heavy blow, like being hit with Cupid’s arrow.

There are a multitude of abominations and even more circumcisions. King Saul demanded that David bring 100 foreskins of Philistines as a price for Michal, his daughter. How did he carry them back, I wondered. In a bag or perhaps pierced on a stick? I did squirm a little at that thought.  I’m only part way through and I’m already desensitised to the brutal killings, wiping out of whole towns including women, children and ‘sucklings’.

Words have always fascinated me. To tarry for example. In the bible it means to wait or to linger for longer than intended. It has a sense of being delayed by someone or something. Nowadays when we tarry, we are slow in action or in departure, but it is rarely used in everyday speech. I can only imagine it used satirically as in, ‘tarry not, young wench!’

I have tarried too long under the shower. Time to rinse off the ‘erbal conditioner and seize the day, lest I be smote for the abomination of wasting precious resources of this dry country.

Missing the Date, Catching the Moment

My mind is scattered. The other day, I drove to Sydney for an appointment on the wrong day. That’s a six hour round trip I could have avoided. I have a bad habit of skimming emails and assuming details. It has got me into trouble before. But I decided against self-flagellation and make the most of a day in the city.

Although there were many options to get into town, I chose to take the light rail from Dulwich Hill. Not the quickest way but I wanted to see what it was like. Having grown up with trams in Melbourne, I have always had a soft spot for them. I much prefer them to trains and buses. I like that I can see the driver, that they are smaller and more intimate than trains, and travel at a slower speed. There’s a human scale to them, almost a little quaint now, yet efficient at moving people from one suburb to the next.

The track goes along a narrow goods train corridor which hasn’t been used for years. For most of the journey, there’s vegetation on both sides of the track, making it a pleasant ride through a green corridor. On this particular day, the leaves of the trees we were dappled in sunlight, giving the effect of passing through an arbour. I was captivated by the changing light and shadow on the various shades of green. Yet when I looked at my fellow passengers, hardly anyone noticed. Familiarity breeds contempt.

As I began to observe the commuters, I noticed two women reading a book, maybe three people sitting quietly and the rest were either scrolling on their phones or wearing earbuds. In the past, commuters may have been reading a newspaper or book, knitting or striking up a conversation with someone nearby. People would have made eye contact with each other or even given a slight nod. I remembered a TV show aired on SBS called ‘Going Home’. We used to watch it regularly after the news. Filmed in 2000-2001, it followed the lives of a fictional group of commuters on their homeward train journey. The characters shared aspects of their lives with one another, noticed if someone was missing and discussed current affairs. This series could not be made now. Who would watch a group of commuters staring at their phones for 20 minutes a day?

Once more, I focused my gaze outwards as we passed Jubilee Park, Wentworth Park and then made our way into the city. It had been a pleasant trip, musing about the nature of change and the joys of travelling along a green corridor. Did it matter that I arrived on the wrong day? Not really. I spent the day doing a bit of shopping and surprised a dear friend, turning up unannounced. A perfect, unscripted day.

A School Life, A Full Life

We are approaching the end of the term. I can tell. My floors aren’t vacuumed, and the bed is overdue for clean sheets. Lots of little jobs are falling by the wayside. I tell myself that I will get to them next week when I finally have some time.

Today, I arrived home after 7pm and my number one priority was feeding the animals and then cooking my own meal. My poor dog didn’t even get out for her customary walk tonight. I’ve snuggled into my dressing gown and I have no desire to brave the elements.

To be fair, not all of it has to do with working at a busy school. Last week, I had several engagements that left me with little time at home. The first was a delightful dinner on Friday night where good company, a bottle of bubbly and the funniest conversations made me laugh so hard that I had to hold my sides. Both food, and company were outstanding.

Saturday, I drove back to Millthorpe where I used to live to catch up with dear friends and get a haircut. It is a three hour drive one way. That’s quite some distance to travel for a hairdresser. While I like the Salon and the quality of the cut, my main reason for not swapping over to someone else is that I enjoy catching up with friends. As we move away, it is harder and harder to keep in contact. ‘We must keep in touch,’ is a common refrain but life gets busy and after a short time the connections are weakened until they are completely severed. I didn’t want that to happen.

The downside of being away for a weekend is that the washing, cleaning and weekly preparation doesn’t get done. I went headlong into this week without much of a plan. I’m feeling the effects of it now. My Monday has been taken up with reactive tasks and the important items on my to-do list never got a look in. When I packed up in the afternoon, I discarded a full cup of tea I had made myself at midday. I hadn’t been near my desk since then.

Am I frustrated? Maybe just a little. But life is more than just the tasks we feel we have to complete. I’m glad that I went to the dinner with good friends on Friday, and then off to see more lovely friends on the weekend. The washing can wait. I still have plenty to wear. While I may be tired, I am also incredibly grateful for my full life in loving company.

I’m grateful for friends – old and new, grateful for shared laughter, and for the chance to be of service, even on the messiest of Mondays. The to-do list can wait. For now, my dressing gown, a warm meal, and a quiet moment are exactly what I need.