Haig Park – Canberra

One of the enjoyable aspects of moving to a new city is discovering what others take for granted. Since moving into my daughter’s unit in Braddon while my place undergoes a facelift, I’m seeing this suburb with fresh eyes.

As a visitor, I had been to Haig Park several times, usually to visit the Sunday morning markets. Now that I live across the road, I have quite a different relationship with it. As I need to take my dog down several times a day to do her business, the park is perfect for a quick comfort stop or a longer run off leash. We have met several dogs and their owners, some chatty, others rather off-hand. Humans that is, never the dogs.

The park has a rather curious design. It runs the length of two suburbs and is 1780m long. It has 14 rows of trees, planted equidistant from each other, giving it more of a feel of a state forest. The plantings of pine trees reinforce this, although on closer inspection, there are four different species of trees which all have their own dedicated rows. Where I am, I can see Italian Cypress, Pin Oaks, and Deodar Cedars, but there are also Argyle apple trees and Radiata Pines. The row upon row of trees gives it a rather eerie feel at night, especially as the lighting is virtually non-existent. I certainly wouldn’t venture across it in the dark.

During the day, it is a much friendlier place, although it still feels odd to be walking up and down in straight lines between trees. This made me wonder about the history of the park, as many of the trees are quite old. A little research yielded the answer to its odd design. It was originally planted as a windbreak in 1921 when Braddon and Turner were fledgling suburbs and needed to be protected from the dust and wind battering it from the north. I can’t imagine Braddon being a fledgling suburb as it is now as close as you can get to the centre of the city.

I haven’t explored the Turner side of the park yet. But I have discovered a couple of interesting things at the Braddon end. The first thing I came across were two metal cabinets that are attached to a pole. The cabinets aren’t locked and unfortunately, this means that possums and crows regularly raid the contents and leave them strewn. A notice attached to the top of one of the cabinets describes their purpose. They are there for food donations for anyone in need. Despite the clear instructions to only use it for non-perishable items, people still leave bread that gets eaten by local wildlife. It also makes a mess around the cabinets. It is a shame that great initiatives often have unwanted consequences.

A little further across the park, I came across a labyrinth. This was an unexpected delight. Unlike other labyrinths I have walked, this one is in the shape of a hand. It is called the Ngala labyrinth. Ngala is the Ngunnawal word for tree. At first, I thought it looked a little too simple compared to the Chartres design. However, walking the labyrinth, I discovered its own beauty. The centre is within the palm, which of course has echoes Proverbs 30.4 ‘God holds us in the palm of his hand.’ But there are also reverberations within Buddhism, Taoism and Yoga where the palm is associated with subtle energy or chakras. Then there is also the connection to fortune telling and palmistry. Clearly, there is a long spiritual tradition which treats the hands as a metaphor. Walking this labyrinth, I felt at peace and grounded upon the land I was on, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of Lonsdale Street just a few hundred metres away.

To see the world with fresh eyes is a gift that moving to a new place offers. It is my sincere wish that this stage has longevity so that I may continue to be observant and approach my surroundings with childlike curiosity.

Hey Siri

I was thinking of the development of AI and how close we may be to living in a world as depicted in ‘Blade Runner’, the epic 1982 sci-fi cult classic directed by Ridley Scott. In that film, AI has evolved to the point where it is difficult to tell humans and ‘replicants’ apart.

When it comes to Siri, she isn’t the smartest tool in the box – yet. Her skills are very much limited to pointing us to webpages and turning on features of the iPhone. I can ask her to ring someone as long as the number is my directory, turn on the flashlight or send a message but she doesn’t have any emotional responses.

It does worry me that my iPhone listens to my conversations and points me to ads for products that I have mentioned in passing. It can feel quite invasive and I feel spied upon. If anything, it makes me less likely to follow the suggestions she gives me. She has become better at adapting to my language use and can understand natural language use.

Just for a bit of fun, I decided to find out what types of pre-programmed answers she has at her disposal. I asked her some silly questions to see what she would answer.

Hey Siri, ‘What’s the meaning of life?’

‘Depends on who you ask.  Aristotle would say happiness. Cookie Monster would say biscuits. They both have a point.’

I kept asking the question to see whether she had a bank of qestions.

‘You know that feeling when you put on nice warm freshly-dried clothes? Well, I don’t. But I heard it’s nice. So maybe that.’

‘My friend says the answer is blowin’ in the wind. Take a deep breath and spend some time outside. Perhaps you’ll find something there. ‘

‘I think the Beatles had some lyrics about this that were really quite meaningful, like ‘goo goo g’joob.’ As true now as it was then.’

‘If you ask Cruella de Vil, life is all about kidnapping puppies. That’s why we don’t ask her.’

Then I tried, ‘Will you marry me?’

She answered, ‘I’d rather DJ the wedding.’

And

‘I think you should save yourself for someone more of the actual human being type.’ And…

‘I just can’t. We’d have to change my End User Licence Agreement. A lot.’

So I asked, ‘Do you like your job?’

I’m a virtual assistant. That means I get to help people, and talk to you. It’s a pretty great gig.’ That one was a bit sickly sweet for my taste.

‘Do you sleep?’ I asked.

‘Well, I don’t sleep. But I do like to daydream. And night-daydream.’

And

‘I never rest, but thanks of asking.’

I followed this with,

‘Do you have sense of humour?’

She answered, ‘If you can find gold in Australia, where would you find silver?’

‘Ag-stralia.’

And

My life coach asked me, ‘Where do you see yourself in five years?’

I said, ‘I think we’ll still be using mirrors then.’

I did wonder whether these jokes came from a Christmas cracker…

So I asked, ‘Who is your mother and father?’

She replied, ‘I don’t have a family tree. But I have a pretty great file directory.’

I followed with, ‘What do you look like?’

‘I don’t have a body, so I probably look… invisible.’

By then, I was running out of ideas, so I said, ‘Hey Siri, compliment me,’

She came back with, ‘You’re just like an underground citrus. Sub-lime.’

Then when asked again, she came up with,

‘You’re like a line intersecting another line: unparalleled,’ and

‘You’re more cultured than a yoghurt wearing a tiny monocle.’

Sadly, I really enjoyed these.

‘Hey Siri, cheer me up,’ I asked in desperation.

She countered with, ‘Happy International Bagpipe Day! I’m sending my best wishes to all the bagpipers of the world… and my condolences to their neighbours.’

This one appealed to me.

These may all be pre-programmed but at least the programmers had a bit of fun along the way. I must admit, I had a bit of a chuckle at some of the answers.

To return to my original thoughts regarding AI, Siri isn’t what we could call a ‘replicant’ threat, but other AI platforms may nudge us a little closer. Not that any resemble what Ridley Scott imagined in ’Blade Runner’ – yet. One consolation is that the film was set in 2019.

Gendered violence

https://www.facebook.com/DestroyTheJoint

I have been thinking more about gendered violence since the news of missing woman, Samantha Murphy near Ballarat. While every disappearance and murder of women is a despicable and shocking act of betrayal, this one has hit a nerve for many of us. I understand that the portrayal of crimes in the news affects how we perceive it. The fact that she is white, good looking and athletic all play a role here. In addition, it is unnerving that a woman can disappear without a trace in an age of ubiquitous camera surveillance.

The statistics on gendered violence are horrifying. At least one woman a week is murdered in Australia and one in two women have experienced sexual harassment in their lifetime. And this in a country which takes pride in the ethos of equality. I have yet to meet a woman who hasn’t experienced a harassment from men. As I write this, I feel the need to defend my position as I know some men will feel outrage and tarred with a broad brush. Of course, I know there are decent men but this post isn’t about mollifying egos. I am not saying that one in two men harass women, I am saying one in two women are harassed by men. Big difference.

One interesting consequence of growing older as a woman is that we often feel we have become invisible. Neither men nor women take notice of us past a certain age and while at first this can come as a bit of a shock, it eventually becomes liberating. At 51, many women would begin to feel this way. Samantha Murphy’s disappearance has struck a chord with older women, making them painfully aware of their vulnerability. By our 50s many of us feel much safer in the world and we worry more about our daughters.

I have had my share of harassment and instances of low-level violations like unwanted touching, groping and forced tongues into my mouth by men much older than me when I was a teenager. Nothing too horrendous, but these experiences made me distrustful and hyper-vigilant. I have a self-imposed curfew; I won’t walk in unlit places at night, and I still rarely go out at night by myself. While I am a strong advocate for ‘reclaim the night’, I am filled with trepidation for my daughter, who remains resolute in not allowing herself to be intimidated.

This Friday is International Women’s Day. It is a day to celebrate how far we have come but also to remember how far there is to go. It is a day when my thoughts will be with Samantha Murphy and the many other women we have lost to gendered violence. It is a day when ‘we remember that as long as one woman faces discrimination, harassment, inequality or oppression, we all do.’ https://iwda.org.au/

My solar powered watch

My solar-powered watch stopped working today. How could that be? The sun has been out every day for the past month and temperatures have soared into the mid 30s for days on end. I know it has been really hot because my air-con has been running almost non-stop for weeks. Ironically, the sun powers the air-conditioning via solar panels on the roof, yet it seems to have trouble charging my watch.

I know many people who love the heat. I’m just not one of them. Heat triggers my migraines, and I feel sluggish and uncomfortable when I go outside. Most days I work from the office, where the air-conditioning is turned up so high that I had to find a shop that sold woollen cardigans in the middle of summer. I dare not leave the house without it lest I freeze. Shopping centres, theatres and libraries are no better. The temperature can drop by 20 degrees when entering an establishment. This oddity reminds me of going to Europe in winter, where they turn up the heat so high that going to a café feels like entering a sauna. It seems we can’t get temperature regulation right.

Since Peter’s diagnosis with melanoma, I’ve been terrified of being out in the sun. For the record, that’s called heliophobia. Helio- from the Greek word Helios which means sun and phobia, also from the Greek, meaning excessive fear, in case you were wondering about its etymology. Yet even before Peter’s diagnosis, I wasn’t much of an outdoor girl. I could never cultivate a tan and burn far too easily. To the best of my knowledge, peeling skin has never been considered attractive. Maybe this has contributed to my nocturnal habits.

My watch is still at its 6:45pm impasse. Putting it under a lamp hasn’t brought it back to life. I’m now wondering how often I go outside during the day. The answer is, not that often. I walk the dog early and then again at sunset. I guess that’s not enough sunlight to recharge my watch. Maybe, like me, it’s suffering from a chronic vitamin D deficiency.

Fun with etymology

https://languages.oup.com/google-dictionary-en/

I know, I know, a bit geeky, but trust me, a deep dive into the history of vocabulary can be fun. I was preparing a presentation for teachers on some useful prefixes to teach students in mathematics and, of course, I couldn’t just leave it at providing them with a list. No, I went into the Latin or Greek roots of some of them and then showed teachers how unlocking the meaning of a prefix allows students to deduce the meaning of many unfamiliar words, not just the word they were teaching at the time.

Take the prefix uni- for example. Knowing that uni- means one allows students not only to know that unidirectional means going in one direction, but it helps them work out unilateral, universe, unite, unison, unicycle and unique. Frac- coming from the Latin means break or broken as in a fraction of a number. From there, we can work out the meaning of fracture, fractious, infraction (breaking an agreement) and refract. All very interesting, you may say, but where’s the fun?

I began looking into the word rectangle, meaning a right-angled polygon. I then became interested in the word ‘right’, which goes back to the Latin ‘rectus’, meaning ruled as in ruled in a straight line. This then made me think of right and left and how right handedness has been favoured. No wonder as right is associated with being straight, while left goes back to meanings of tired or weak. No wonder left-handed people feel hard done by!

Coming back to rectangle, the prefix rec- is related to several other prefixes, namely regi-, reg- and rex-. We can see the other meaning of ‘rule’ in regi- and rex- as in register, reginal or regina. Even with these regal words, we can see the relationship to being being kept straight. Then, with the prefix rec- we have rectify (to straighten out), correct, direct, erect, resurrect, misdirect and rectum. Rectum? Straight away, I had to look up why this word belonged with all the others. And for those of you as curious as I was, it refers to the final straight portion of the large intestine. Mystery solved.

A prime number

ssa-school.org

Thirty-one years ago today, we took a taxi to the registry office in Sydney where we were to meet your parents, the only invited guests for the ceremony. I opted for a pink pant suit, and you wore an elegant jacket and tie for the occasion. We had wanted to keep it low key.  

We didn’t tell anyone about our wedding, it was strictly a private affair, but people found out anyway. The next Monday at work, some observant colleagues noticed your wedding ring and for the next few days, it was all they could talk about. My colleagues guessed too and by the end of the day I was presented with an enormous bunch of native flowers. They made your eyes itch and set off sneezing fits, so I relegated them to the balcony of our small apartment.

Marriage didn’t change much between us, but parenthood did. Our daughter became our focus and as my job became increasingly demanding, you were the one to take her to the park, play tennis or teach her to ride a bike. We didn’t have nearly enough time for one another, but we knew we had each other’s back.

You had much more patience with her than I ever did. I was a hard task master when it came to learning but you managed to achieve the same results without tears. Maths was your strength, and it has become hers too. You both had a love of patterns in numbers and your favourite numbers were prime. Seventeen, your birthday and thirteen the day you died, both prime. Sixty-one, the age at which you left us to grieve an innumerable loss in the prime of your life.

We were married for 19 years. Yet another prime number. Each year we’d celebrate our wedding anniversary with a special dinner, but we never bought each other presents. We didn’t need to. Our love didn’t rely on any outward signs. We knew its strength from the small acts of service, the cup of tea in bed each morning, dinner on the table at night, washing brought in without a word. Sometimes it was conveyed in a look, a smile, a hand across the table.

Then, as our daughter became increasingly independent, we reached out for each other again. We’d take the train to explore a town, listen to an orchestra or visit art galleries. But our time was to be cut short. I never indulged in false hope. Three months before you died, we visited the Art Gallery of NSW for an exhibition on modernity in German Art. You knew it would interest me and booked the tickets. It was a sunny day, not a cloud in the sky as we waited at the traffic lights on the corner of Hyde Park and Macquarie Street.

I looked up into the bluest of blue skies, skies the colour of your eyes. I remember thinking, what a pity it was that I wouldn’t share the rest of my life with you the way I had always intended. I was overcome by great sadness but couldn’t divulge my thoughts. Instead, I smiled and resolved to have the best day with you at the exhibition, which I did.

Today, we would have celebrated our 31st wedding anniversary and you would have made a joke about it being an auspicious number. You’d be 73 now, just shy of your 74th birthday. It is hard for me to imagine you at this age, but I know you’d still have that glint in your azure eyes.

‘We’re still in our prime,’ you’d say, and I’d fall in love with you over again.

Word of the day

There is a common denominator when moving house in Australia: trip upon trip to Bunnings. For those unacquainted with this iconic fixture of Aussie weekend shopping, it is a hardware store that sells everything from nails, tools and build-it-yourself kitchens to paints, tiles and garden gnomes.

Bunnings is where you go to get cardboard boxes, masking tape and wrapping material before you move, then hire a ute for the move, followed by all the things you require after the move. Consequently, I have spent a sizeable percentage of my income at Bunnings over the past few months. I dare not keep track of the actual amount, to spare me from a visit to the cardiologist.

My laundry is filled with sample pots of paint in various colours as I struggle to choose the right hue for my walls. Of course I had to buy a bucket to wash out the paintbrushes, even though there must be half a dozen somewhere. Last weekend I went back three times – twice for mulch and potting mix and once for a spirit level and more paint. I’m already on first name basis with some staff at my nearest outlet, and can tell you the life story of one particularly helpful team member. He carted over a 100L of soil to my car, so we had plenty of opportunity to chat. I suppose it’s one way to get to know people in a new city.

Service can be slow at the paint counter as people like me agonise over their colour choices. On Sunday, I was waiting patiently for my turn as I overheard a lengthy conversation about restoring a bathtub which had been left outside for some years. Stuart, who was serving, went through all the possible products which could help the young man with his project. Jocular yet deadpan, he directed the would be bath restorer to the merchandise in stock.

‘Down the next isle mate, middle shelf, halfway along you’ll find a cornucopia of enamel colours to fix that old bath of yours.’

‘Great word,’ I said, unable to keep my teacher’s voice in check. Lucky for him, I didn’t have a sticker at hand or I may have put one on his lapel or sent him to the principal for an award.

‘Bet you didn’t wake up this morning and think, I’ll hear the word cornucopia at Bunnings today,’ he replied without missing a beat.

‘I certainly did not,’ I said, smiling, ‘but it made my day.’

Moral of the story: don’t underestimate old blokes working for Bunnings.

Jude

Judy was a flaming redhead with attitude. She spoke her mind, never backed down, and was as tough as acrylic nails. She fought hard, drank hard, smoked weed like the rest of us, and was never mellow. I don’t remember how we became friends.

While I was politically rebellious and desperately wanted to fit into the hippy counterculture, she didn’t give a damn about any of that. She rebelled against her parents, both of whom were Hungarian – her father an alcoholic and her mother a controlling, authoritarian figure in her life. Maybe that is what we had in common. The depressive alcoholic and deeply unhappy Hungarian parents who tried to live their lives through a stranglehold on their children. We couldn’t live up to their expectations.

We moved in together when I was sixteen. To pay the rent on our two-bedroom flat, we had to share the rooms. Jude and I shared one bedroom while our other two friends, Cat and Sharmaine, shared the other. I would have preferred sharing my room with Sharmaine as we were closer, but it didn’t happen that way.

Judy’s bed was under the window and mine against the wall on the other side. A large wardrobe separated us. The only other piece of furniture in the room was my desk, angled along the adjacent corner. It had more of a decorative than a practical purpose, I admit. But I always intended to go back to study, and I wanted to write. The truth is, I never did.

As much as Jude rebelled against her family, she was as fastidious as her mother. She couldn’t bear mess or disorder. For the first couple of months, Judy and I engaged in tactical warfare in the kitchen. Every time I went to get cutlery, it was reordered to replicate her mother’s drawers. Being pigheaded, I changed them back to the way my father had organised our drawers. Neither of us said anything but continued our senseless silent squabble in a futile attempt to assert our dominance.

One day, I came home to a clean flat. Judy presented a classic cocktail that afternoon; all sweet liqueur with plenty of ice served with dash of martyr. I found her unbearable. I walked into our bedroom and flew into a rage. She had placed a tablecloth diagonally across my desk with fresh flowers in its centre.

  ‘It is a desk’ I screamed, ‘not a dining table!’

Judy, taken by surprise, reacted with some choice words of her own.

  ‘You never use it anyway,’ she said once she calmed down, and she wasn’t wrong. I was really furious with myself for not studying, and not writing a single word at that desk. I had taken out my frustrations on a well-meaning friend.

Jude was wilder and more reckless than I ever was. Once, we went into a second-hand shop in fashionable Greville Street, where we pored over vintage dresses we couldn’t afford. When we left, I was incensed by the looks the shop keeper gave me. Judy just laughed.

  ‘He’s probably missing that dress I shoved into your bag,’ she said.

I couldn’t believe that she had shoplifted and implicated me in the crime. I wasn’t cut out for it, and she took advantage of my innocence.

We worked together on a two-tonne truck on weekends doing furniture and rubbish removals with Marion, who owned the truck. We thought nothing of it. When some men refused to allow us to carry a sofa, we left it wedged in their doorway. It was a proto-feminist act before we had any knowledge of gendered work.

We parted ways one summer when we were about go tobacco picking in Queensland. The promised jobs fell through the day before we were to leave. She hitch-hiked north anyway. I stayed behind and went back to school a couple of months later. That was the last time I saw her.

I have stayed in touch with Cat and Sharmaine from a distance but have never heard from Jude. Every now and again I’d think of her and wonder what life she led. Years passed quicker than I thought were possible in my youth and that fiery redhead could well be grey by now. At least that’s what I thought until I received a Facebook message from a mutual friend last week. I had no idea that they had kept in touch.

  ‘I’ve got some bad news… Jude is palliative care. …They’re waiting for her daughter to arrive from OS and I guess she’s on life support, and may shut it off.’

She died a week later.

Her death has affected me more than I expected. I have lost friends and loved ones where the grief was as deep as a gash all the way to the bone; the scar tissue a constant reminder of a wound never fully healed. Yet each scar is a cross I gladly bear for the love I received in return.

Jude’s death is different. Maybe it has something to do with leaving home at such a young age, our similar backgrounds, and my memories of a misspent youth. We partied hard, drank too much, and got ourselves into situations that could have gone very, very badly. Somehow, we survived. Or should I say, somehow, I’ve survived.

Farewell Judy, I will always remember your unruly red hair, your devil-may-care attitude and your insatiable thirst for life. You have left us far too soon.

End of holiday blues

A six-week holiday is a luxury not many of us can afford. I took some extended leave so I could downsize, declutter, and pack before my interstate move. I was busy for the first three weeks and then time began to slow down to almost a standstill. Suddenly, there was very little to do until the last couple of days when things ramped up once more. And now that I am on the other side of the state border, there are dozens of things to organise, but now I have run out time.

I go back to work on Tuesday. It was a deliberate choice not to start on Monday. I knew I’d need that extra day. The electrician is coming at 8:30, I have parcels to collect and errands to run. The year has well and truly started, and that holiday feeling is but a fast-fading memory. Why does it always end so quickly?

Everything is gathering speed like a snowball about to become an avalanche. No matter how fast I run, I can’t get out of its way. There are now only two days left and I am caught between wanting to relax before work becomes all-consuming and wanting to get as much done as possible. Neither side seems to be getting traction.

Instead, I am plagued by anxiety dreams. They all take place at schools but not any school I recognise. I am either in charge and unable to make cogent decisions or I am in front of a class without planned lessons trying to control unruly students. In these dreams I forget to turn up for playground duties; my students miss their buses and I’m often the last one to arrive to class. This may sound as if I am plagued by anxiety, but if you talk to teachers at the start of a new year, many will have had similar dreams. I’m sure other professions have their own versions of these dreams.

It is not that I dislike my job. Far from it. There are many aspects I enjoy, like going into schools to work with teachers. One of the best things is watching teachers grow in confidence when they implement pedagogical changes, especially when they were sceptical or downright antagonistic at first. Not that I always succeed but when I do, it is magic.

So here I am with two days to go. I have a book I’d like to finish reading, boxes to unpack and I am longing for a lengthy walk amongst trees to replenish my soul. Instead, I fall asleep in my armchair, exhausted. I walk the dogs in the summer heat and return with a renewed determination to tackle whatever lies ahead. I remind myself of what Bob Marley wisely said, ‘Beginnings are usually scary, and endings are usually sad, but everything in between – that makes it all worth living.’

The ‘treehouse’

I have been planning this move for over two years. Thank goodness I had the foresight to buy this townhouse. At the time I really didn’t think I could afford it. Luck was on my side, and I purchased just before prices in Canberra skyrocketed. I certainly wouldn’t be able to afford it now.  

I am enjoying the city after seven years in the country. Mind you, it feels more like a large country town which has made it easier to acclimatise. I love that there are trees everywhere and from my study window, I can just see the roof of a solitary building.

A friend of my daughter calls my place the treehouse. I like that. The mosaic I made depicting a large tree will be affixed to the wall at the front door. It all seems so befitting now as l look over the canopies and listen to the warbling magpies. I am glad the Maggies have followed me here as have the Sulphur Crested Cockies. I do miss my Blackbirds though. Although they wouldn’t quite fit into the deliberately native landscape. There are no Silver Birches, Magnolias, Crab Apples, or Fruit trees. Instead, I look out over Eucalypts, Kurajongs, She-oaks, and Crepe Myrtles.

This makes me think about the possibilities for a garden. My courtyard out the back is presently filled with weeds. It has but a tiny patch of soil and I will have to think long and hard about what to plant there. It won’t be the roses of Millthorpe, nor brightly coloured flowering exotic species. I want to pay respect to the landscape around me so I will find out about endemic plants before I make my choice. There is much to learn.

I have been here less than a week, but it already feels like a lifetime. Maybe it is because I have spent so much time in this city over the past ten years. I may not know where everything is yet, but it feels very familiar. Familiar enough to feel a little like home.