Tag: writing

Cut flowers

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

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

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

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

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

Courage to share his story

Photo: Andreas F. Borchert

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Preoccupied

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selling a much-loved house

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

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

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

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

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

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

Central West Sunset

Dusk at Millthorpe is enchanting. The western sky, dappled in mid-level cloud, plays with a palette of yellow, orange, pink and bruised plum. The colours layer on top of one other like an extravagant celebratory cake. The initial yellow and orange hues are followed by an intense pink reminding me of specimens in the Bathurst begonia garden. In part it is like pink tulle draped across the sky, lifting in intensity, and for a few glorious minutes, the sky lights up just as its embers are about to die out.

The soft duck egg blue above this showy palette is slowly transformed to lavender, plum, mauve, and violet before the sky changes yet again before my eyes. Blues now dominate the sky. Moving from azure to cerulean, delft and finally to navy before turning into an inky black sky, I gaze as if into the eyes of a lover. Slowly, stars emerge, first one then another, and before long hundreds fill the night sky. Away from the city lights, they illuminate the firmament and light the way, even on this moonless night.

I have long been fascinated by celestial bodies and as a child could name many of the constellations until my northern sky was replaced by the southern cross and new shapes for which I had no name.

I am intrigued by the Australian Indigenous way of viewing the stars. The images I look for are formed by lines connecting star to star while they look for images in the spaces between. This reminds me of those optical illusions where you see either a young or an old woman depending on your perspective, until you can see both images and move between them with ease. I’d like to learn more about Indigenous astronomy and move between the two skies with ease.

It is too cold to stay outside. The temperature drops fiercely once the sun withdraws. I shiver and take a last look at the night sky and still can’t tear myself away from the spectacle before me.

Unsolicited Advice

I’ve just returned from a trip down south to see my sister. We haven’t seen each other often in the past thirty years, in part because of the long distance between us, and in part because we have been busy with our own lives. Lately, she hasn’t been well at all, and I knew she was looking forward to my company.

My sister lives alone in a substantial three-bedroom house which has an additional formal lounge and dining room as well as a study. She keeps the whole back section of the house closed off to save on heating and spends most of her time in either her bedroom, eating alcove or family room. She is surrounded by a lifetime of memories, enormous collections of blue and white china and heavy wooden furniture that fill the sizable rooms. Once a keen gardener, her backyard is overgrown and inaccessible, especially now that she has great difficulty walking unaided. It was hard for me to see the enormity of what faced her day in, day out.

While out for dinner at her son’s place, she brought up the subject of the upkeep of the house and garden. Would he be able to come and prune the trees and weed the garden? Maybe even paint the house sometime? I immediately knew this wasn’t a viable solution. My nephew works full-time, has his own family and a house to maintain and certainly doesn’t have the hours on the weekend to do it all.

I had brought it up in conversation before, but it seemed like the perfect time to say it again. The house is simply too big for her to manage, and she ought to sell and downsize. Unbidden, my advice fell on deaf ears. When my nephew joined in with the many advantages this would offer, she picked up her bag, tried to rise from the chair and said, ‘Let’s go!’

I didn’t respond. I let her calm down, changed the topic and enjoyed our dessert. I wasn’t going to let this outburst spoil an otherwise enjoyable evening.

I stayed with her for another couple days before heading home. I never broached the subject again. I still worry that she will have yet another fall and that no-one will be there to call an ambulance. I’m concerned about her heating costs and her steep driveway which most days keeps her marooned in the house. But I also acknowledge that it isn’t my decision to make.

The saying ‘Don’t let anyone who hasn’t been in your shoes tell you how to tie your laces,’ echoes in my ears. I realise I’ve been treading that fine line between concern and meddling.

Buying a fountain pen

I promised myself upon finishing writing my memoir, I would reward myself with something extravagant. Something that would last and be cherished, an item of beauty. I decided upon a fancy fountain pen to mark the occasion. It seemed a fitting purchase for someone who loves writing.

I finished the memoir six months ago now, but the time never felt right to spend money on an indulgence. Something more pressing always came up. Then, about two months ago, I took the plunge and began to research the pen that I would eventually buy. I looked at a number of luxury brands and chose a slightly lesser-known English company which offered a range of limited-edition bespoke pens. The one I eventually ordered had the advantage of offsetting some of the profit to a charity I was keen to support.

I couldn’t wait for the pen to arrive. As each pen is individually crafted, it took over six weeks to make and then I had to wait for the shipment from London. I was so excited to pick it up from the post office I wanted to unpack it there and then. But reason prevailed and I carefully unpacked my treasure at my desk. It came in a stunning black leather box, complete with a certificate of authentication, ink, and detailed instructions. When I removed the pen, the first thing I noticed was its weight. It felt very light and small in my hand. The body was made of resin, yet in parts it looked almost translucent. I felt a little disappointed, as I was expecting something akin to the sturdy Bakelite pens of the 1920s. Then I filled the pen and began to write. The 14c gold nib dragged across the paper and at times the ink didn’t keep up with my writing. I could hear it scratch along the paper and I knew the sound itself would be enough for me never to want to use it.

I swapped over to my trusty Lamy Studio fountain pen which I bought in Zürich about 15 years ago for about quarter of the price. It floated effortlessly across the page. I enjoy writing with it, and it has never let me down. Sure, it looks well-worn, and the patina of the bronze coating is clearly visible, but I love this pen. Why did I think I needed a replacement?

I think my motivation was that I wanted something new and shiny. Yet I love every old piece of furniture in the house with a unique story that can be traced through marks and stains. I still use the fifty-year-old pencil case my father made and every time I hold it in my hands, the worn leather fills my heart with gratitude for this object. Surely, my old Lamy is no different.

Once I realised that I was both disappointed with the new pen and with myself for not questioning my motivations, there was no other choice but to send it back and request a refund. I am not good at doing this. I was very factual and clear with my feedback and returned the item. I have lost some money on the postage, but I have gained a valuable insight about myself. This experience has taught me that I already have what I need, and that it is enough. More than enough.

Radical Gratefulness

Gratitude has become trendy with the positive psychology movement. You can always find something to be grateful for – be grateful for your breath, a pretty flower, a kind word. While I agree with the sentiment, I wonder whether the next generation who hear this mantra will grow up like I did, having to eat everything on my plate because I had to think of all those starving children in India. I am quite sure none of my Indian friends ever benefitted from the extra mouthful of cauliflower or cabbage I forced down my throat and it created a very skewed relationship with food for me which has lasted a lifetime. Waste not, want not…

Don’t get me wrong, gratefulness is a beautiful state and I do believe that we need embody it much more than we do. My gripe is the glib statements that often sound forced and obvious.  What I have been grappling with is what we do when things go wrong in our lives. How to be grateful when truly terrible things happen. This is what mean by radical gratefulness.

When I watched Peter die, struggling to take his last breaths, in those moments, I felt grateful. Not for the intense sunny morning that seemed so incongruous with what was happening, nor for the 20 or so years I had spent with him, but for those awful moments where I watched him suffer and that I could be there to share them with him. As my dear friend Janet said at her husband’s funeral, ‘Today is a beautiful, terrible day.’

Ten years later, I sat with Roger as he took his last breath and once more, I was grateful to have had the honour to sit with him in that beautiful, terrible moment. To bear witness to someone’s final moments is to be filled with deep sorrow, pain and beatitude. Radical gratefulness is the only way I can describe this. It is the experience of two opposing feelings in visceral communion through grace.

And so it was this week when I experienced a major setback. It was my fault – I missed a crucial date, and it has cost me dearly. My first reaction was to be annoyed, frustrated, and to be honest, gutted. But as time went on, I was able to find my way back to radical gratefulness. I didn’t accept the ‘it happened for a reason,’ ‘something better will come your way,’ comments, although I truly appreciated the love and empathy I received. No, I forced myself to look at the situation deeply, accept it fully, and be grateful for the lesson I have learned about my chronic inattention to detail. It simply matters, and I’ve stopped making excuses about being ‘the big picture thinker’.

I can now say with conviction that I am grateful for the mistakes I’ve made, for they have enabled me to learn and grow. As Alex Elle explains eloquently, ‘Gratitude practice isn’t about pacifying our painful or challenging times —i t’s about recognizing them and finding self-compassion as we do the work.’

Driving without a phone

I was in a hurry. It takes three hours and fifteen minutes to drive to Canberra and I had precisely three hours and twenty-four. Doable but it was cutting it fine. I couldn’t get stuck behind a cattle truck, come across road work or, dare I say it, hit a roo. I threw everything I needed to stay the night into the car and did my final check. Keys, wallet but where was my phone? I ran back inside calling ‘Siri’ but there was no answer. Frantic now, I began turning bags inside out. I was wasting precious minutes. It occurred to me that I might have left my phone at work. Could I drive back to the office and take a different route? No, there wasn’t time. I had to jump in the car and leave.

I was beginning to sweat. Waves of panic came over me. What if I were to break down? The sun was reaching the horizon and the roads were empty. What would I do in an emergency? Then I remembered the long stretches in the journey where there was no reception. My phone was useless in these dead zones, so why should I worry now? I thought back to journeys of the past. I often drove long distances then and mobile phones only existed in our collective imagination. My cars were much less reliable and from time to time, they did break down. The difference was that I remembered many more phone numbers back then and I probably carried a small address book, just in case.

This time, I could only remember my daughter’s number.  It happened to be fortuitous as I was driving to her place. She had managed to get last minute tickets to a show and knew I’d be up to the challenge of getting there. But I knew she would be tracking my journey on her phone and would worry that I hadn’t left yet. So, when I came across a public phone in a deserted small town, I called her. Of course, she didn’t answer. A strange number was most likely a scam caller, so I called again and again. Finally, she picked up.

‘Your phone is at work,’ she said. ‘How are you calling me?’ Clearly, she is too young to have ever relied on phone booths.

The next couple of hours did have their moments. Thunderstorms, pouring rain, potholes and road works all slowed my journey. Still, I arrived with twenty minutes to spare, and we made it to the theatre in time. I could finally relax. By the time I was to return home, I had embraced the experience. I didn’t miss my phone once.

The following day was a Sunday. Could I wait until the next day to retrieve my phone? I thought about it. I really did. But the truth is, I enjoy the many benefits of the twenty-first century and nostalgia for simpler times has its limits, even for me.

Photos on my phone

Fifteen years ago, I had to remember to take a camera if I wanted to take a photo. I may have remembered to take it along to special occasions or when we went on holidays. I chose my subjects carefully and tried to take the perfect photo in one shot. Before digital cameras, the roll of Kodak film often sat in the fridge for a year or two before I remembered to have it developed. The result was either joy at remembering a forgotten moment or the disappointment of a badly executed composition. Usually, it was the latter.

Now that we all have a camera in our pockets, it is easier than ever to take bad photos. The only difference is that we don’t have to print them. We now store these along with the thousands of other photos on our phones, computers and of course the cloud. We keep it all because we can. We have photos of wi-fi passwords, breakfasts we have consumed months ago, screen shots of travel arrangements and of course thousands of photos of pets and the occasional human.

By the time we have several thousand photos, culling becomes a chore best avoided. There’s always something more important on the to do list.  Who wants to spend hours making one decision after another? Generally, this task is only attempted when we are running out of memory on our devices. Even then, people will go to great lengths to avoid pressing the delete button. The number of photos slowing down a device is often the excuse for buying a new phone or iPad with bigger memory and better camera to continue our bad habits.

I have recently updated my computer and decided it was a good time to do some digital culling. I deleted thousands of files and even made a start on the photos. My worst offenders were images of work-related PowerPoint presentations that reminded me of my good intentions to revisit them. Of course, I haven’t looked at them. Not once. This was followed by random photos of cute dogs, hundreds of photos of my daughter at graduation, catching each expression milliseconds apart. I do it because it is easy; just a slight push on the glass screen and I have a memory that is less likely to fail than the memory stored in my mind. At the same time, I realise it is another version of mindless consumerism. I can now outsource remembering to my phone.

My friend Lizzie once gave me some advice when I felt overwhelmed with my (lack of) filing. The piles of paper were screaming at me every time I entered the room. I felt shame and a good measure of embarrassment whenever I glanced across at the papers. She suggested spending no more than 15 minutes on the task each afternoon. It worked. Slowly the pile began to recede and as I acquired stamina, I could face twenty minutes or even half an hour to get it done. The problem I have always faced is all or nothing thinking. Either I sort through the lot, or it isn’t worth starting. Yet the reality is that deleting 5 photos is better than deleting none.

Currently, I still carry 5 838 photos and 132 videos in my pocket. What about you?