In the era before Slip Slop Slap

From this week I will be posting some short pieces from my memoir writing. I am choosing pieces that can easily stand alone. This relates to events from when I was 15 years old.

‘Would you like to go to the beach tomorrow?’

‘I’d love to,’ I replied, already panicking about the state of my swimwear. 

Alan and I had not long started spending time together. I was besotted with this tall, gentle Ceylonese boy who treated me like a princess. He was quite unlike any boy I had ever met. Alan had a quiet, measured way of talking and there was something chivalrous about him. For my part, I was trying my best to impress him in the summer of 1976. 

I couldn’t tell him that my summers were mainly spent indoors. Most days I either rode my bike to the St Kilda library, where I experienced the luxury of air-conditioned comfort, or I rode over to a friend’s house where we listened to music or simply talked. The beach was the last place I went to in summer.

Alan had beautiful light brown skin, perfect for a day on the beach. I, on the other hand, had pale skin that was the height of fashion in 17th Century Dutch paintings but definitely not in Australia in the 1970s. To make matters worse, like a lobster in boiling water, I started to scald if I stayed in the sun for longer than twenty minutes.

But back in my mid-teens, I was determined to cheat my European genes. I poured on the coconut oil and headed to the beach with Alan, wearing nothing but an orange bikini and a towel slung over my shoulder. After a couple of hours lazing in the sun, Alan began to look worried.

‘You sure you’re OK in the sun? You look kinda red.’

‘Don’t worry, that always happens when I get hot. I just need to go back into the water and cool down,’ I replied, wishing it were true.

‘If the sun’s too much, we don’t have to stay,’ Alan said gallantly.

’No, no, it’s fine. I’m having a great time,’ I said, and that was true. I loved all the attention I was getting. 

Alan dropped me back home late that afternoon. We made plans to go out the following Saturday to the Palais cinema in St Kilda. There was a rare showing the Woodstock music festival documentary. I was keen to see the film and even keener on spending an evening with Alan in the darkness of the cinema. It sounded promising for our burgeoning romance.

By the time my father arrived home from work, I had a throbbing headache. Every part of my body felt hot and dry. I was trying to suppress the urge to vomit as I felt the room shift under my feet. 

‘Good God, what’s happened to you?’ My father said, as he dropped his briefcase at the door and reached out his arms to catch me. 

I had been holding in the pain ever since had Alan left. Now I just buried my head in my father’s chest and sobbed.

‘Don’t touch me!’ I yelped as he put his arms around me.

‘C’mon, let’s have a look at it,’ he said.

We peeled my top off. I was so sore that the only thing I could do was to lie face down on my bed wearing nothing but my undies. I couldn’t even endure the weight of a sheet over me. My father found some Nivea creme and tried to put some on my back. The pain was excruciating; I couldn’t bear his touch. Somehow I fell asleep lying on my stomach. By the next morning my shoulders, back and legs were blistered and even more painful than the night before. I could barely move.

My father went to the chemist and returned with a burn spray in an aerosol can. It looked like pink shaving cream and offered some welcome relief. I think I must have stayed in bed for two full days and struggled to wear anything but a loose cheesecloth top. By the time Saturday arrived, my blisters had burst and I could sit gingerly on a chair as long as I didn’t lean back. 

‘I don’t think you should go out tonight. Your back hasn’t healed yet and I can see you’re in pain.’ my father cautioned. 

‘I’ll be OK, Papa, I’ll take some Panadol before I go.’

My father just shook his head and didn’t say another word.

That evening, when Alan arrived, I put on a brave face. 

‘Are you sure we should go?’ Alan asked, full of concern.

‘Of course! I’m ready, aren’t I?’ I snapped.

Alan and my father looked at each other. Without a common language between them, they reverted to universal sign language. My father lifted both his hands, palms facing forward and shrugged his shoulder. Alan nodded his head and his gentle brown eyes conveyed that he would look after me. 

I hobbled to the car, sat carefully on the front seat and did my best not to lean back. I held the seatbelt away from my shoulder and asked Alan to drive slowly, especially over any bumps. When we arrived, Alan had to lift me out of the car. At the Palais, we sat in uncomfortable wooden seats with arm rests that jabbed into our ribs when either of us tried to lean across. Alan carefully put his arm around me and I was glad he couldn’t see me wince.

I remember the film well. The music transported me to the long lost America of the late 60s, where a counterculture promised a new age of peace and free love. I wished I could have been born a few years earlier to experience it firsthand. But with my back still raw and weeping from burst blisters, what I longed for most on that big screen was the joyful abandon of naked bodies in mud baths as the rain came down. I so wanted that soothing shower to soak my clothes and feel the cool thick mud cover my sunburnt body as I leant over to finally kiss Alan.

The Blayney Agricultural Show

Before I moved to the country, the only agricultural show I had ever visited was the Royal Easter Show. As a child I went along for the rides and as an adult, I went to take my daughter. I never paid much attention to the agricultural displays and probably only watched the sheep dog trials.

Since I have been in the Central West of NSW, I have been to at least one if not three shows each year. Admittedly, I first started going because the children at my school had entered artwork but once there, I began to understand that each town’s show has a slightly different flavour and that the locals have great pride in the competitions they run on the day.

The Blayney show was founded in 1878 and this year was the 144th annual show. Not even Covid could stop the show. Somehow, they managed to run the event just before the lockdowns of the past two years.

Volunteers run the show year in, year out. I have met members of the organising committee who have committed their time and organisational skills for decades. It is mainly retirees who volunteer on the day, and many are glad to share a story or two with anyone willing to listen.

I missed the sheep dog trials in the morning, but I did see the pedigree dogs lining up to be judged. There were some stunning dogs among them and of course some that I couldn’t quite warm to. What I did enjoy was watching young girls handle their dogs expertly in the ring as they competed against seasoned adults. It must take a lot of work and courage to prepare for such events.

While there were no boys entering their dogs, there were plenty of young chaps handling cattle. They all wore cowboy boots, checked shirts and large hats, emulating their fathers. Even their walk was the swagger of an older man as they made their way to and from the sheds. While amusing on one level, it did display the strongly gendered roles that are still evident out in the country.

There were stunning horses of every colour with coats that glistened in the sun. Their tails were either beautifully brushed or plaited. Horses are magnificent creatures to watch and once again, there were many young people who were entering these events.

I found it fascinating to walk through the wool, vegetable, and poultry sections. There were ribbons on some entries indicating a first or second prize. I often couldn’t tell the difference between one bird or another or one fleece from the other. I don’t understand the judging criteria nor what to look for in these categories. These are clearly specialised skills that people have developed over many years.

I am but an outsider looking in at a tradition which I don’t really understand. I saw people catching up with each other, possibly for the first time since the last show and appreciate that these shows build social cohesion in a community. I also saw many older people volunteering and exhibiting but also some young ones taking an interest in the competitions. I wondered whether the younger generation would continue to volunteer their time and build up the skills needed to run the show.

Judging by the number of cars and the crowds, the attendance was high. But money is tight, and I saw many stall holders without customers to buy their wares. There’s also the issue of a changing population. Some country towns are in steep decline while others have become popular with urban dwellers looking for a different lifestyle. These ‘blow-ins’ are a bit like me, they have come from the city and have made a choice to live in the country where the pace is slower, the air is clean and property prices are still somewhat affordable. I wonder whether they will embrace the traditions of the bush or see them as a quaint hangover from yesteryear.

TABOO

While my father was politically progressive, he held some conservative views about women. For a woman’s life to be complete, she would have to find a suitable husband. This is why he was perturbed that I wasn’t interested in learning to cook. I was also untidy and couldn’t even sew on a button.

‘What will you do when you get married?’ he’d ask.

‘I’ll marry a cook,’ I’d reply or ‘I’ll marry a tailor.’

He’d shake his head and no doubt wonder what would ever become of me. Clearly, I was unsuitable as a traditional wife.

‘You need a mother,’ he’d say sadly. ‘I’m not up to it.’

‘You are my Mapa,’ I’d say, ‘both Mama and Papa and that’s enough for me.’

Sometimes he would attempt the awkward conversations about bodily functions and sex. As I was equally uncomfortable talking to him about this, I would quickly say that I already knew all there was to know and stop the conversation before it had the chance to begin. I could sense my father’s relief as he returned to safety of discussing dinner or what we would watch on TV.

Menstruation was definitely a taboo subject. I would ask him for money to ‘go to the chemist,’ a euphemism for getting sanitary pads. Nothing more had to be said. I’d go to the local chemist, wait until the pharmacist was busy and then approach the female assistant to ask for the product I was after. Sanitary pads were always wrapped in plain paper bags and sticky taped so that no part of the original wrapping could be seen. This drew as much attention to them as if they had been handed over the counter in their original packaging. Everyone knew what the brown paper bag contained.

After some time, our toilet became blocked we had to call a plumber. This is when I learnt not to flush the used pads. I developed a way of folding them neatly and wrapping them in toilet paper, which I then took out to the bin. I was meticulous about this. Nonetheless, one day, I must have been distracted and I left the wrapped pad wedged between a pipe and the gas hot water heater. I simply forgot about the package.

My father’s face was steely when I came home that day. I knew I had done something wrong but no matter how hard I thought about it, I couldn’t work it out. I went through a mental checklist of misdemeanours, but none would have explained the expression that greeted me.

‘I found something disgusting belonging to you today,’ he said.

I still had no idea what he was talking about.

‘I went to the toilet and found a little parcel. I didn’t know what it was, so I unwrapped it. Let me tell you, no man should ever see such a sight. It is disgusting. And I never, ever want you to leave such a filthy thing in my sight,’ he said.

It felt as if I would die of embarrassment. Boys at school were merciless in harassing girls about their periods and now I was told off by my father for something I had no control over. I wasn’t particularly keen on having my periods and now I had to endure my father’s wrath as well.

‘I just forgot, Papa, that’s all.’

‘I don’t ever want you to ‘just forget’ again,’ he said.

I went to my room and felt ashamed and dirty.

I had forgotten about this episode until I was watching the 2021 Australian of the Year awards. Isobel Marshall, a 22-year-old Adelaide woman was invited to the stage and began to talk. On national television, in front of the Prime Minister and other dignitaries, she spoke eloquently about the stigma of menstruation. She was voted Young Australian of the Year for not only developing ethically sourced sanitary products but also for her work in helping to end period poverty, a term used to describe the lack of access to sanitary products. I felt so proud of Isobel and her friend and business partner Eloise who are challenging society’s views on a fundamental aspect of every woman’s life. As she spoke, I remembered my shame and wished she had been there for me for those awkward teenage years.

Back in class

I haven’t taught a class of children in a while as I now work mainly with teachers. But as part of the government’s Covid response plan, I was called upon to teach in a primary school for a couple of days. I was both nervous and excited, just like I used to be when summer holidays were coming to an end.

I arrived at a beautiful small country school where the principal greeted me warmly and accompanied me to my class. ‘The class teacher is at home in isolation. This class has had a series of teachers all week and we couldn’t find any casuals at all for today and tomorrow,’ she explained. This is never great for young children and even worse when there is a child with special needs in the class. The principal was especially concerned about a child who didn’t deal well with change and really needed structure and consistency. It was at that point, that I decided to follow the teacher’s routine as closely as I could and not deviate too far from her plan. It was more important to keep the class settled than to trial some ideas I have been working on in my role as a literacy specialist. 

A young boy greeted us at the door. ‘Are you going to be our teacher?’ he asked. He couldn’t see my smile under my mask, so I answered, ‘Yes, and I’m going to be here tomorrow too!’  Together, we entered the classroom. He asked enthusiastically whether he could put up a visual timetable for me and proceeded to go through the hundreds of little cards until he found the right ones for the day. I could see that if I played my cards right, he would become my ally and helper. Within a few minutes we became firm friends, and he was as good as gold for the two days that I had him.

The rest of the class arrived, all eager, wondering who this new person was. It is a hard gig being a casual teacher and it isn’t one I thought I would like. The kids, however, were very well-mannered and keen to show me how their class worked. Of course, it didn’t take long for some of the children to see how far they could push a ‘newbie’ but all I needed to do was to look sternly in their direction or make a stop sign with my hand for the message to get through. My behaviour management bag of tricks came flooding back – stand in silence and wait for the class to settle, count backwards from five, use clapping rhythms and stand in close proximity to a child. It all worked like a charm.

On Friday, I was asked to choose two children for assembly awards. It was a difficult choice to make. This was to be their first assembly together as a group since some of the Covid restrictions had been lifted. The excitement was palpable as they stood for the national anthem and said one of the most heartfelt Acknowledgements of Country I have ever heard. A teacher had clearly worked very hard to come up with a meaningful Acknowledgement in child friendly language. I stood straight and tall, proud to be part of this community, even if only for two days. It confirmed, once again, my staunch support of public education.  

I even enjoyed going out on playground duty again. Within a couple of minutes, I tied a shoelace, something I haven’t done for quite some time. There is so much to learn about the culture of a school out in the playground. At this school, there were painted markers on the trees to indicate how far students could safely climb. They were even allowed to build ‘bases’ out of fallen branches and twigs. What a refreshing idea! I remembered working at a Sydney school where the large playground lacked even the barest vegetation and climbing anything was strictly prohibited. There was no playground equipment (too dangerous), no shade (a branch may fall from a tree) and out of sheer boredom kids found their way into all sorts of mischief.

I admit I was dreading the sport session on Friday. It really isn’t my strong suit. As it turned out, the children were good humoured about an activity I had chosen and then suggested a game they called ‘castles’ which was clearly much more fun. They taught me the rules and off they went, organising themselves. I did have to intervene occasionally as the game became too intense, but mostly they had it all under control.

Friday afternoon came quickly. I waved the kids goodbye as they ran into their parent’s arms or waited for the bus to arrive. I recalled what it was like when I had to leave my class in the hands of a casual. The good ones cleaned up, marked their work, and left me a nice note. The others left the room in a mess with a stack of marking for me to complete. I wanted this teacher to have a positive experience when she came back. So, I returned to the class, marked the books and homework, and wrote a friendly note.  

I love my job as a Literacy Specialist but sadly, in the past two years, I haven’t spent nearly enough time in schools. It is always a great privilege to observe how different classrooms operate and see firsthand the pressures that teachers face daily. In my position, I encourage teachers to question what they do and promote a change in pedagogy, if required. I may suggest trialling new ways of working based on the latest evidence. Yet there is often little support to allow this to happen in a busy workplace with no additional staffing resources. Spending a couple of days in the classroom brought home some of those pressures. I have nothing but respect for teachers who work hard each day and often late into the night not to mention weekends. I honour their commitment to the children they teach, often at the expense of their own families. For this and many other reasons, I was glad to be able to help a school, and by extension a teacher, in need.

Unravelled

My partially completed project

Patience is a virtue, but it isn’t one of mine. I’m impatient with anything that doesn’t move swiftly: queues, customer service, furniture assembly and meetings are at the top of my list. Waiting to be served I fidget or jingle keys, but when I catch myself, I offer a fake smile not to appear rude. Yet within me, a war is raging. I’ve learnt to stop, observe, and breathe. While this helps, it doesn’t stop the impatience rising the next time I am triggered.

It’s not a character trait I’m proud of. I worry that with the build up of pressure the cork with pop and the banshee will be released. The handful of people who have come face to face with this unbridled demon will attest to its horror. I’m impatient with almost everything, but most of all I am impatient with my own shortcomings. Yet there are situations where I act completely out of character and display the patience of Job.

Take a shamble of tangled wool for instance. Without the slightest hint of irritation, I search for the end of the yarn and slowly begin to trace the strand through one loop after another to set it free. I don’t tug or pull, display no frustration, just a clear focused mind to get the job done. I don’t profess to understand this inconsistency of my personality. I just see it as one of my more likeable quirks.  

I have learnt to unravel wool early. When a jumper became too small, my mother would unpick it. I had to sit, arms outstretched, shoulder width apart for the yarn to be wound around them. This helped to unkink the wool. I was told to stay still, keep the tension tight until the last strand was passed to me. I then laid the wool down carefully and began to roll it into balls, so my mother could knit me a new garment.

All this came to mind this morning when I was greeted with yarn from one end of the lounge to the other. I looked at the culprit but recognised it was my fault. I should have known. My dog finds wool irresistible, and in the past, I have found dismembered skeins winding through the kitchen and out the doggie door, as if attempting a futile escape.

I felt irritation rise as I picked up my latest project from the floor. Luckily, it was still attached to the mangled skein. It took some time to find the loose end. Slowly, I began to wind the wool over three middle fingers on my left hand. I wondered at that moment how many people would still know how to turn this mess into a ball, ready to start again. I prised the tightly wound strands from my fingers and began winding the wool vertically, making a small cross. Then, moving the fledgling ball a quarter of a turn to the left, I wound on more wool, moved the ball another quarter of a turn and repeated the process.  Eventually, a perfect sphere of wool emerged. This ball had to be passed through the many twisted loops it encountered, one after the other until it arrived back at the last stitch of a completed row ready for the real work to commence.

The secret to unravelling tangled wool is to loosen the knots one by one until there is space for the ball to pass through. This may sound easy but requires considerable patience. It occurred to me that this process is a template for unravelling any messy situation. The key is gentle prodding, teasing, and pulling at the knotty problem, this way and that, to allow enough space for a solution to emerge. Even the smallest gap allows the golden thread to pass through until the next blockage is encountered. Then, it is a matter of repeating the process until there is enough leeway for the resolution to be able to surface. Slowly but surely, the gentle art of unravelling creates the space to solve even the curliest of problems.

My half-completed blanket is now safe atop a chest of drawers. The crochet hook awaits my hands. This project is going to take longer than I expected. Much longer. Yet I don’t mind. I marvel at my inexplicable patience and wonder what I can learn from this experience. Maybe it is as simple this: Whatever unravels in my day has a thread I can follow. If I can find the patience to approach the task with an artisan’s sensibility, I don’t have tie myself into a Gordian knot.

Mosaics

Recently, I completed a mosaic tray, a bright little piece to give me cheer. As grief strikes, and I am once again drawn to mosaics to make sense of my world – piece by piece, working at ground level, only understanding what emerges from a distance. I am keen to start a major piece, one that will absorb me within it. It is slowly taking shape in my mind and one day will emerge in fullness to adorn my home. It will, once more, be a testament of love.

Mosaics are time consuming. From drawing the pattern, through to cutting or smashing tiles and then finding the pieces that fit together, it is a labour intensive process. Not every fragment fits neatly, and there are always pieces left over. I never discard these, as they may become invaluable in a future project.

In some ways, mosaics are similar to jigsaw puzzles. You always have to find the fitting piece for the picture to emerge. You also need concentration, turning the piece this way and that to see if it works here or there. Tile cutters can help with nibbling away at a piece which is too big but glass tiles easily shatter, which makes the process a painstaking exercise.

While smalti glass is my preferred medium, I also like working with bright ceramic tiles. Smashing these with a hammer can be therapeutic. It is ironic that a perfectly good tile has to be broken to be reassembled in new ways for a picture to reveal itself. No wonder I am always drawn to mosaics when life has dealt me a blow. At first, I am in free-fall and then, crashing to the ground, I lie broken, contemplating the pieces, wondering how they will fit back together in a new life I will fashion.

There are pieces I will always keep, pieces I discard, and slowly a picture emerges, full of new possibilities and promise of beauty. These pieces are ephemeral, their existence attested by words and sometimes not even that. They are elusive, passing through my mind, waiting for my next move in their reassembly. Is it any wonder I am drawn to mosaics? Holding a tile, I can feel its shape in my hands and my eyes can see the image emerge. I like that I am working with something concrete that has both contour and weight.

The tray I have made is simple and naïve. It suits the season and my mood. The childlike simplicity allows me to play for a while and contemplate what will come next. Within it is the promise of growth. It allows for something larger and considered to emerge in my mind.

And it will, when the time is right.

Aphantasia

https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/articles/Q8SnmF33gpBNtpYWLMx806/aphantasia-what-its-like-when-you-cant-recall-mental-images-in-your-mind

Aphantasia is a pleasant-sounding condition except that it isn’t. It refers to the inability to make mental images. If you close your eyes and can picture your bedroom, you are part of the 98% of the population who can create mental images at will. I belong to the other two percent.

When I close my eyes, I see black. I am unable to call to mind my daughter’s face, my house or even what I am wearing. This also feeds into my inability to recognise faces, especially of people I don’t know very well. I make up for it by smiling and never using people’s names. I have had many a conversation with people who clearly know a lot about me while I remember nothing about them.

Professor Adam Zeman who coined the term aphantasia, described it as a “fascinating variation in human experience.” This may be true for an academic looking in dispassionately, but it isn’t how I feel about it. I experience it as a loss; a door shut to a world I would love to inhabit. Imagine not being able to recall the face of your parents, people you love, loved ones who have died. Without a photograph, I am lost.

Strangely enough, I dream in technicolour, and it is the only time I can see loved ones in my mind’s eye. I do wonder why I can access images in my sleep but not when I am awake. I even will myself to dream about a lover I miss, just to see his face once more. It never works. My subconscious is random access only.

I first realised I had no mental images when a friend at high school showed me a piece of art she had created. I couldn’t work it out. ‘This is what I imagine the inside of my mouth looks like when I am kissing,’ she ventured. ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, confounded. She patiently explained the range of images that went through her head, while I saw nothing but black.

In my twenties I went to ‘relaxation classes’. I became increasingly frustrated when the instructor said, ‘Close your eyes. Now imagine walking along a sandy beach. Waves are gently lapping at your feet and there is a cool breeze caressing your face.’ While I love beaches, I can’t form an image of the sea, nor can I hear seagulls or feel the sand under my toes. These exercises served only to make me feel frustrated and tense – not the intended outcome of the class! When I tried to explain my problem, I was told to try harder. That’s like telling a blind person to look more carefully next time.

Aphantasia does have its funny moments though. Once I called home for a recipe I wanted to pass on to a friend. ‘It is in the red ring binder on the right-hand side of the page’, I said confidently. It wasn’t. The folder was blue, and recipe wasn’t where I thought it was. Then there are times when people ask me to describe what something looked like. I just stare blankly, and they inevitably get frustrated with what they perceive is my lack of attention. I sincerely hope I will never be called up as a witness in a court of law.

Since my memory has no pictures at all; everything is stored in words. I am always amused when people tell me that my writing is vivid and that they can see exactly what I am describing. I wish I could. For me, words evoke feelings and that is what I get out of reading a descriptive passage or a well-written novel. I have no idea what the character may look like but I am invested in their personality or how they react to situations. Sadly, I forget a lot of what I have read but I always remember the feeling I had when reading the book.

As it is with many long-term conditions, the brain learns to compensate. Mine has allowed me to gain a rich vocabulary to make up for my non-existent visual memory. I love words, playing with them and rolling their sounds around in my mouth. I will search endlessly for an appropriate synonym, checking nuances before choosing the right phrase, for I paint pictures with words for others to see. I just wish, for once, I too could have access to this miracle of the mind.

Memories of love

My father in the early 1940’s – he would have been 99 on Feb 4, 2022

My father was a good-looking, debonair man. He flirted with ease and knew how to flatter women. He liked telling stories of his youth’s exploits. For him, women represented a source of fascination, conquest, and pleasure. The exception was Agnes, his first wife.

Throughout my childhood, a slightly tattered, black and white photograph of Agnes leant on a mirror in my father’s heavily draped room. She was a slender woman with shoulder length wavy hair who was destined to have her smile set for posterity. The photo was taken in Budapest, sometime in the late 1940’s.

I would look at this picture for hours and wished she had been my mother. Instead, Agnes died of TB. Penicillin could have saved her, if only the drug had been available in post-war Hungary. In the picture she is in her early twenties, full of life and pregnant with her first child.

Agnes was the only woman who had rejected my father’s advances. I don’t think she was playing hard to get, she just wasn’t interested in his games. They fell in love, married, and started their life together in a city that lay in ruins. In their short life together, she doted on him. Whatever wish passed his lips, she would try to fulfil. My father recounted a story of craving doughnuts in the middle of the night. Agnes got out of bed to make yeast dough so he could have his favourite jam-filled, fried doughnuts for breakfast. I wished I could have had a mother like her. And he did too.

She fell pregnant and they were looking forward to starting a family. Agnes loved the feel of the child growing within her but developed a persistent, blood speckled cough. Doctors confirmed the worst but only to my father. He set about trying to get penicillin from the West. Relatives who had emigrated were begged to help. None did. The cough persisted and she grew weaker. It became clear that she would not see out the pregnancy. The doctors enlisted my father to persuade Agnes to abort the child they both longed for. I don’t think my father ever forgave himself for that treachery. Agnes couldn’t understand why he was so adamant but yielded to his wish. This may have extended her life by a few short weeks.

My father described his anguish when she died. He walked out of the hospital and straight into oncoming traffic. He didn’t notice the screeching cars or people yelling at him. It is hard to know how he went on with his life. He had lost his son and his wife within a few short weeks of each other. No-one would ever be able to fill that emptiness. Only drinking somewhat numbed his pain.

My father died a long time ago and Agnes is suspended in an eternal autumn day. She is a hand-me-down memory, a two-dimensional figure etched on brittle, glossy paper. Yet I think of her more than I do of my father. Or maybe I think of my father as I struggle to be the woman he wanted me to become. Agnes is the looking glass, the flawless woman, the perfect mother, the ideal lover, the unattainable Madonna. The mother I never had. The mother I still strive to be.

Zoe

Zoë and her bunny

‘No, she’s not a groodle, or a cavoodle, she’s a standard poodle,’ I explain patiently as someone stops to enquire about Zoë’s breed. ‘I always thought poodles were small dogs,’ is the usual reply. I sigh, go into detail about the different poodle sizes and temperaments before concluding that the standards are the best poodles by far. They are.

I have had minis and even a rescue toy poodle. Except for one of the minis, none of the other dogs have come even close to the intelligence, elegance, and devotion of the standard. Zoë is not a lap dog nor is she particularly cuddly, but she is constantly by my side without getting under my feet. If I’m working in the kitchen, she leans into me. It is her way to claim me as her own. Her bark would deter most people from entering the house, but she is friendly with strangers, as long as I am relaxed in their presence. She is the perfect companion.

Zoë is well known around the village. People may not remember my name, but they know hers. If we stop at the corner store for milk, she is often rewarded with a piece of bacon from the proprietor. Children come and pat her and visiting tourists stop to have a chat. Zoë knows how to wheedle her way into most hearts.

One of her endearing qualities is her love of toy bunnies. Whenever I bring a new squeaky animal into the house, Zoë leaps with joy and plays for hours, biting obsessively until she finds the squeak she is looking for. We then play a game of fetch which will be repeated every morning until the squeak dies and it is time for a new bunny. She is like a young child at Christmas taking her toy to bed and protectively putting a paw over it. Her devotion to her bunny melts my heart.

A less endearing quality is her love of chasing real bunnies. Selective deafness is a well-honed skill and when she sees a rabbit, no amount of calling, cajoling, or yelling will stop her. She is off through the thick scrub but she ain’t never caught a rabbit…  What she does come back with is a coat full of burrs which take the best part of an afternoon to remove – one by one, tugging them loose from her woolly coat. Zoë is never sorry for her disobedience; she always returns with her tongue out, eyes sparkling and tail wagging. It is hard to stay annoyed with such a display of exultation.

You can see standard poodles are hardly lounge lizards. While they don’t need a huge amount of exercise, they do love a good run. They will chase balls, their favourite human, and of course other animals. I have seen Zoë keep up with kelpies and border collies at the dog park. There’s an elegance to her run, a regal poise, and a graceful stretch of the legs as she flies through the air, ears flapping behind her. Out on a field, she is cheeky and playful, bursting with energy and joie de vivre. Poodles are quintessentially effervescent party animals. They are a pure joy to watch when playing with other dogs.

I never have to worry about doggy smells in the house, nor are there any dog hairs to sweep. As poodles don’t shed, even people with allergies can safely own one. They are clean dogs but do require regular clipping. If you don’t, before long, they will resemble your favourite reggae singer without any of the musical talent. I don’t recommend home haircuts; dog clipping is much more complicated than you think. It is well worth the money to employ a groomer every six to eight weeks. Zoë isn’t ever coiffured to resemble topiary at Versailles. After a trim, she simply looks like a well-heeled, short haired dog.

I can’t imagine my life without Zoë. I never feel lonely with her in the house, and she motivates me to go for long walks which are good for us both. Zoë can read my mood and responds accordingly. I would go so far as to claim that she has more EQ than most people. I have often thought, she would make a great therapy dog. But then, I believe that every dog has the capacity to be a therapy dog. Zoë just happens to be mine.

Meditation upon my daughter

Sydney, 1996

I wrote this 26 years ago when my daughter, Ella was 9 weeks old. As her birthday approaches, I thought it a fitting tribute to her. It also is a fitting tribute to Thich Nhat Hanh, the revered Zen Buddhist monk, who passed away today, aged 95. I wrote this piece to read at the Lotus Bud Sangha in Sydney all those years ago.

There is nothing like having a little baby to look after to bring you back to the present. Her thoughts and actions are fixed in the present moment; this moment and this moment alone is all that matters. Show her a new object and she will delight in it, seeing it with a freshness we cannot conceive. Shot it to her the next day and the freshness remains – she is able to look at it as if for the first time, even the twentieth time. She delights in the small things in life. A breeze on her cheek can make her face light up and smile. It is a fleeting moment, but she enjoys it fully, unencumbered by ‘rational’ thought. She does not have to think ‘present moment, wonderful moment’ to meditate upon it. She does it automatically – without words, without thought coming between herself and the here and now.

She is not aware that she is a separate entity. The notion of ‘I’ and ‘me’ are alien to her. She is part of me and part of the rest of the world around her. She is part of space and knows no boundaries. Where she ‘stops’ and otherness ‘begins’ is something she will learn over a long period of time. At this moment, she truly ‘inter-is’. As she grows, she will have to learn other ways of seeing herself and the world. She will move from being a creature who fully feels connected with her surroundings to one who becomes increasingly egocentric. She will recognise familiar objects and no longer see them as if for the first time and she will develop a sense of a past and the knowledge of a future. Her ability to stay in the present will diminish accordingly. In the meantime, however, she is teaching me to look deeper at everything around me. As for my part, I hope someday to encourage her to see things with that same freshness she now takes for granted.

My daughter has taught me very quickly to be mindful of breath. In the past when I have tried the mindfulness of breathing meditation, I knew intellectually that breath equals life, but I never felt it the way I do now. My daughter was born limp and blue, her heartbeat the only sign of life. She was quickly suctioned and given oxygen. With that first breath her existence in the outside world started. Her life will go on as long as she keeps breathing. Is it any wonder that I regularly check her breath? I now see that meditating upon the breath is not simply a device to concentrate on something that is common to us all. Nor is it just a physiological phenomenon which can usefully be employed for relaxation. Meditating upon the breath is nothing short of meditating upon the sanctity of life itself. I now not only understand but feel why it is such a powerful meditation.

These past nine weeks have flown. Every day brings something brand new. While with adults we feel that there is a constant, that people ‘don’t change’ at least outwardly, with my daughter I realise that all of us grow and are forever changing. The baby I held in my arms three weeks ago isn’t the same baby I am holding now and yet clearly, she is! I am learning to enjoy paradox and I am learning to keep my mind open so that I can observe the world with the freshness she has brought into my life.