Tag: writing

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?

Country life

Seven years ago, I moved to a small country town in the Central West of NSW. Initially, I had preconceived ideas and prejudices which have mostly turned out to be, well, preconceived ideas and prejudices. I had no idea what it would be like. I freely acknowledge that each town is different and, honestly, some I really wouldn’t want to live in at all. However, if you choose the place carefully, it is a delight to live out west.

Millthorpe, where I chose to live, is a gem of a town. It is located between Orange and Bathurst which makes it a much sought-after address. It has quaint cottages which give it that old-world charm and the functioning railway station makes it one of the more accessible villages to reach. Our hatted restaurant, Tonic, attracts people as far away as Sydney and weekends can feel a tad busy down the main street. On weekdays, however, the place reverts to a sleepy little village where people walk dogs, chat to one another, and enjoy the slow pace. People look out for one another here and no one is considered an outsider. It is genuinely one of the most welcoming places I know.

While most shops and amenities are further away, it doesn’t take long to get to them. Traffic is mostly non-existent. I drive 20 minutes to get to work which for most people in the city is considered a short commute. My drive is scenic and I am blessed to be surrounded by nature. Whether it is cows on a hill, frost on the grass or swans in a dam, the bucolic charm never fades.

Another thing I appreciate is the quietude. I am one of those people who needs oceans of silence each day. I can listen to bird song, the rustling of leaves or the occasional bark but I don’t cope well with traffic noise or loud people. Here, my nights are dark, silent, and restful. Now and then, there is a storm with heavy thunder and lightning, but I find that a welcome release.

When there are no clouds in the sky, the stars are so much brighter than in the city. Even the moon seems bigger. It comes over the horizon as a large, illuminated ball breaking through the purple, orange and pink sky that heralds our sunsets. Dawn and dusk are magic in the Central West and makes even the most unsentimental among us gasp in awe.

While I know that I will probably not stay for ever, the Central West will always have a place in my heart. I love the quirky, earthy humour of the locals, the defined seasons, my gorgeous worker’s cottage. This is a place where I have felt more accepted than anywhere else I have lived and I have made life-long friends in a short time. It is the place where I have been given the freedom to write, where I have found love and where my soul has been given time to heal. Looking back, it is hard to understand why it took me so long to make the move.

Two mothers

Taking a shortcut through the back lanes of Adelaide, an Aboriginal woman approached me holding two paintings. It was late afternoon and she looked tired as if she had been waiting for someone for a long time.

There was a hopeful look in her eyes, but her body language radiated defeat. I stopped, knowing full well that she was going to ask for money, but I couldn’t walk away. I needed to bear witness to this woman’s story. She began by telling me about her son whom she needed to visit, a good man, now in need of money to pay some bills. What I heard was a plea from one mother to another. It didn’t matter how old her son was, as his mother she would do anything for him in the same way I would do anything for my daughter.

She offered me one of two paintings she had completed; I could choose. She wanted a fair exchange, her pride demanded that. When I told her that I had no cash – who does these days? – she suggested an ATM not far from where we stood. I assured her I’d return but she walked with me anyway, making certain that the exchange would take place.

It was hard to choose a painting, they were so different to one another. One was of animals on an ochre background while the one I eventually chose, was painted in vibrant colours and depicted meeting places and possibly a ceremonial site in the centre. I felt the one I chose was the more feminine and would remind me of her strong character.

The painting and that tiny glimpse into her life is now hanging in my bedroom. Mother to mother, I think of her often and wonder how she and her son are getting on. And I wonder whether she knows that she has touched my heart.

Tempting Lollies

While paying for my groceries at the local corner store, I noticed a tiny tot, no more than two years old, jump off his tiny bike, and head into the store as if on a mission. He was wearing his helmet as he strode up to the lolly section checking the goods on offer. The shop assistant and I couldn’t help but smile; the boy had the swagger of a cowboy in the body of a wee pixie.

I was just receiving my change when I noticed the boy leave the shop with a packet of sour chews in his hand. He jumped on his bike and rode off, just as quickly as he had arrived. The shop assistant and I looked at each other.

‘Did that kid just walk out with the chews?’ he asked.

‘He certainly did,’ I answered laughing. Our eyes met and we both smiled.

‘I’ll have to run after him,’ he said. He was clearly amused.

As I walked out of the shop, I could see the little kid next to his mother.

‘Did he not pay for the lollies?’ she asked as the shop assistant approached.

I could see that they were talking amicably so I turned and left them to it.

I know this story has turned out well for the little boy. The shop assistant was kind and the mother sympathetic. They both understood that exchanging money for goods is an abstract concept which a two-year-old can’t possibly grasp. Mum would have taken the boy back to the shop to hand over the coins and he would have been handed the lollies in exchange.

This incident reminded me of a similar story which did not end so well. I must have been about four years old when I was shopping with my mother at a market in Madrid. We walked from stall to stall buying vegetables when I spotted some delicious strawberries. As we walked past, I helped myself to a large juicy one that beckoned to be eaten. I have always been attracted to red as a colour, and this strawberry was a deliciously passionate, vibrant red. Just as I bit into the forbidden fruit, the grocer yelled at me, calling me a thief! I had no idea what this meant, only that he was shouting, angry and threatening me with a crooked finger coming towards me. My mother shouted back and pulled me away hard, which hurt my hand and shoulder. Tears welled up, and I could no longer enjoy the fruit I had so desired only moments earlier.

I won’t claim that we live in more enlightened times. To debunk that myth, you need only to look at the juvenile justice system where ten-year-old children can be locked up for shoplifting. But maybe there are an increasing number of people who understand that most children go through this stage and the best way to treat them is to approach with the love and compassion that all young children deserve.  

And so, I hope that the little boy enjoyed every last mouthful of his carefully selected lollies after handing over the cash.

The stick library

We have become familiar with street libraries which have popped up in the most unlikely places providing a much-needed community service. People take books that pique their interest and bring back ones they have read, but no longer wish to keep. There are no forms to fill out, no due dates nor any fines to worry about. It is a self-regulated system that works because everyone who uses it benefits. It only takes one person to start it, keep an eye on what comes and goes, tidy up every now and again, and occasionally cull. No wonder they have become such a hit.

Yesterday, as I was walking two dogs at a local park in Watson, Canberra, I discovered a variation on the theme – a stick library. My first reaction was joyous laughter. Such a charming idea matched with a quirky sense of humour, and a doggone purpose. In its vicinity, I spied four people and at least double that number of dogs. I should also mention that there was a lagoon nearby. The humans were standing at its edge, throwing sticks into the water for the dogs to fetch.

I walked up to a man whose Border Collie ran towards us with two sticks in his mouth.

‘What a great idea,’ I said, pointing to the stick library.

‘Yeah, whenever we used to come down here, no one could ever find a stick to throw,’ he said. ‘Then some guy decided to do something about it and since then, people bring sticks back for others to use.’

‘I love the community here in Watson,’ a younger woman chimed in. ‘The stick library speaks volumes about the kind of people who live here. It’s such a friendly place.’

‘Someone called ABC radio the other day to say thank you for the stick library and the switchboard lit up,’ the man added. ‘Now they’ve tracked down a guy called Tom who’ll give an interview at the local radio station.’

I nodded in appreciation and could immediately see the appeal of this good news story. After all, we are a dog loving nation. One in three households in Canberra owns a dog. You don’t have to walk very far to encounter a pooch with its special human beaming with pride as they make their way to the nearest off-leash area. Exercise is essential, especially in a city brimming with apartments. And what better exercise than to fetch a good old-fashioned stick?