Where did I come from?

Nowadays, whenever I visit my parents at the family home, mum will show me the progress they’ve made in “decluttering”, which is the term she uses for getting the house ready to sell. A few months ago she gave me a box of books from my childhood collection. I simply added it to the pile of boxes at my place that I hadn’t sorted through yet after a particularly rushed move. When I came back to it, sure enough, there was that 80’s classic in soft cover: “Where did I come from?” This book was how we all learnt about “the facts of life”, and it boasted that this was achieved “without any nonsense and with illustrations”.

No nonsense sex education from the 80s

As we each play our part in the process of determining which items from 45 years of a household should be kept and which ones should be passed on, there have been a couple of trips down memory lane. One particular day Dad asked me, over a well-earned tea break, whether I’d ever lived in this house. “Yes, I grew up here, actually," I replied, as matter-of-fact as I could manage, reflecting briefly on the two or so decades that had shaped my current life; the many arguments about his loud television blaring while I tried to get to sleep and the moments lying in that bed, looking out that window contemplating my place in this life. “In fact, the room that you sleep in was once my room” I offered. Dad was somewhat intrigued by this new information, and what followed was a casual discussion about where I used to have the bed, and how he was now utilising the space. 

Although I’d occupied all 3 “kids” bedrooms at different times, it is now generally understood that the upstairs room was mine, the one closest to the bathroom was my brother’s and the front room, which had a window onto the front porch, was my sister’s. When they were babies, the twins had their matching cots in the front room, and I can remember them talking to one another across the room in their unique dialect of baby babble. They ended up chewing the white paint off their cot rails to reveal a pale, mid century green below. At that time, I was in the room nearest the bathroom, and the busy floral carpet that my brother later pulled up in favour of floorboards offered an opportunity to skip and dance from one hideous flower to the next on the short trip to the toilet.

The other day mum handed me several copies of the ultrasound images from when she was pregnant, dated May 1976. Scientific proof, finally, that I wasn’t adopted. The facts of life, without any nonsense and with illustrations. Mum’s sister, who had also harboured a belief that she’d been adopted, recently did a DNA test, and had to confront the reality that, like me, any feelings of being misunderstood or on the edges of belonging could not be put down to genetics. 

Proof of life

Another time, mum pulled out her journal from when I was 18 months old and began reading from it. According to her notes, it was a worrying time because “A” (as in, me) had been aggressive with other children, pulling the neighbour’s hair and hitting children at playgroup. This behaviour was UNPROVOKED, mind you, which made it all the more alarming. Together with a spate of possibly related nappy changing antics, mum was clearly at her wits end. 

I’m still not sure why the 18 month old me was pulling other children’s hair, but as a rage well known to women in the Autumn of their lives begins to take hold, I have empathy for that little girl. Rage or aggression can appear unprovoked, but really it rises up in response to a thousand tiny cuts, the multitude of micro-aggressions experienced on a daily basis. Almost fifty years later, societal views about the roles and expectations of girls, women and eldest daughters still exist. There is still a disapproval of "strong emotions", and an expectation that we can't have needs of our own. But rage isn't necessarily a bad thing. When channelled with care and purpose, it is the mother of powerful social change. I recently learnt that my grandmother, having realised that she couldn't stay silent any longer, had a quiet (but firm) word with Fred Nile about his stance on abortion. 

On another visit, while making space for a few of my clothes in my brother's wardrobe, I found a photo of my siblings and me in a 3-way embrace. They say that the sibling relationship is the most important and longstanding, because they have known us throughout all our phases of life. When mum’s uncle died a few years ago, his sister, the last remaining sibling, grieved particularly because he’d “left her all alone”. 

Siblings

On yet another occasion, mum presented me with a written exchange with the tooth fairy, from some 40 years ago. They say “Give me the child at 7 and I'll show you the adult”. In a suitably miniature font, the human protagonist has a couple of questions for her winged correspondents. She was concerned that the tooth fairies hadn't taken the tooth, which was their rightful reward in exchange for a gold coin. Furthermore, she wanted to get to know where these little creatures lived and what their names were. Integrity in business affairs and building meaningful relationships were as important back then as they are now. 

Miniature correspondence

As the trip down memory lane inevitably comes to a close, and the house mum and dad called home for almost half a century is gradually emptied of its “clutter”, the place feels more and more spacious. And with spaciousness, it's possible to  see things more clearly. I can embrace the aggressive toddler, the inquisitive child, and the loving sister as all true parts of a whole person. So, where did I come from? I believe we all come from ourselves, are shaped by our environment, and eventually return home to who we really are.

The filing cabinets

Sometimes when I visit mum and dad, there’s not much happening. Other times they’re in the middle of a “project” of some kind. Yesterday was a project sort of day. I was chatting to mum as she heated lunch on the stove when Dad’s voice called out from the verandah “Where’s that sewing machine oil?” Mum headed off to get said oil. “Your father is trying to get the bike pump working again” she explained upon return, as if that provided clarification. With imaginings of Dad taking up sewing now adjusted to the prospect of him dragging a disused bicycle that nobody remembers owning out of the garage and incorporating cycling into his daily exercise routine, I suspected I still didn’t have the full picture. 

“It’s the trolley” offered Dad, “the tyres have gone flat”. A trip downstairs further enlightened me. There, in the middle of the table tennis room, was one of Dad’s old filing cabinets with the base of a removalist-quality trolley under it. The trolley tyres were indeed quite flat. “It doesn’t work with the tyres all flat. There’s no momentum”. Dad was disappointed, but undeterred. Dad had always been able to solve practical problems like this, even if his solutions were sometimes a little “unconventional” and definitely always low cost. Inevitably the end result was highly embarrassing to us as teenagers because Dad valued function over form. Dad’s ability to find workarounds for problems that arise has been an asset along his journey with dementia. 

Now that I understood the end-of-project outcome and the intended theory of change, we returned to Step 1 (resurrecting the bike pump) with renewed enthusiasm. Mum and I were given the task of testing the freshly oiled pump. Sadly, regardless of whether the little plastic lever was up or down, no air was flowing and the dial on the little glass face wasn’t moving either. But this was not an insurmountable problem, as Dad soon emerged from the garage with two more bike pumps to try. “That one’s ancient” mum scoffed, looking at the rustier of the two “it’ll never work”. “It’ll probably be the one that does work” was Dad’s indignant reply, and sure enough the most rusty and spider-web-covered pump was the one that sprang into action with a satisfying burst of air and the dial jumping about with vigour. 

Once I’d pumped up both trolley tyres (Step 2) we were ready for Step 3, which was to wheel the now-empty filing cabinets out to the front of the house ready for council cleanup. Assessing the combined physical capacity amongst the 3 of us, I decided that it would be better to open the glass doors at the back of the table tennis room and guide our consignment up a few very gradual and manageable outdoor steps and along the driveway beside the house rather than trying to get them up a flight of internal stairs and through the house. The glass doors hadn’t been opened in possibly a couple of decades, so there was a bit of a process of finding the keys, wiggling the bolts back to life again, and moving a few pot plants out of the way. 

We just needed to fashion a ramp at the step from the room to the patio, and mum solved that problem with a piece of wood that happened to be hiding behind one of the filing cabinets in wait for such a moment as this. We then settled into a rhythm of me wheeling each filing cabinet past the table tennis table to the ramp, and guiding it down the ramp with Dad stationed outside ready to “catch” it. Then Dad manoeuvred it carefully up the garden steps while mum or I held on to the bottom of the filing cabinet and the other carried Dad’s walking stick in case he needed it for the walk back. My phone was within reach, poised ready to capture this momentous achievement on film. 

Once the task was completed, and the glass doors pulled shut again, it was time for a cuppa and a sit down. Even mum decided to have a cup of tea, given the significance of the moment, and we exchanged stories of one another’s efforts amid moments of challenge and uncertainty. Buoyed by our recent achievements, mum thought we could also deal with a letter from council about a new way to pay rates. And so it was that by the time we embarked on our afternoon walk, we’d solved two significant household problems and had zero injuries to report (notwithstanding Dad’s near miss when getting a bit too confident with the final filing cabinet). It felt like there was nothing we couldn’t do. 

Surrender

This year Dad made the decision to fly to Hobart for Christmas. The plan was for me to travel with him on the way down, and mum to join us on the way back. After a bit of back and forth about how to best handle the logistics of the journey, I ended up driving to Gordon, spending a couple of hours with Dad having lunch, checking the letterbox and putting final touches to his suitcase before I drove us back to my place and then organised an uber to the airport. 

Throughout the various journeys, Dad pointed out interesting landmarks or points of curiosity. We passed more than one Bunnings, a diverse array of street art and quite a range of petrol prices. 

All went smoothly until we went through security with our carry-on-only bags. We wondered if his hip, or belt, or like last time a small crumpled piece of fishermans friend wrapper, would set off the alarm. But, happily, Dad went through with ease. However, we were pulled over and the security staff lifted from my handbag my house keys complete with the engraved swiss army knife that I’ve had for almost 20 years. 

“You could check it in”, the kind woman on the other side of the bench said “or you could surrender it”. I looked at Dad, not bearing to make him trudge back out to the check-in counter with me, and then bear witness to the expense of checking in a very small item when no checked bag had been booked or alternatively be an accomplice in me hiding it in a pot plant, a trick that had worked about 15 years ago. 

So, reluctantly I surrendered the pocket knife and Dad and I continued with our relatively incident-free journey. Later, Dad asked me if I felt sad about losing the knife, and I honestly replied that I felt okay. I had accepted it. As the week continued, I kept going back to the word surrender. Usually associated with battles, I couldn’t help thinking that it was a strange word to use in relation to a small pocket knife, and yet it was fitting for broader questions of letting go. 

In recent battles of an interpersonal nature, I’ve struggled to find the balance between backing myself and seeing the other person’s perspective. When do I choose to go into battle on behalf of myself or others who have less power, and set clear boundaries and expectations of behaviour I will not accept? And when do I choose to surrender for the sake of harmony, acknowledging my part in how things might have escalated? 

There are insights from the arts and spirituality. The serenity prayer reminds us to know what we can change and what we can't. The song "the gambler" talks about knowing when to let go, how to make the most of the hand you're dealt and choosing to be careful with your vulnerability. 

There have been several moments, both during the Christmas trip and before, when Dad has modelled surrender to me. On the physical front, he has surrendered his license and car, and happily lets other people drive him places, graciously saying “thank you” when they help him with his seatbelt. During the Christmas trip he wanted to know in advance what will be happening, but other than that tended to go with the flow, surrendering control over decision making to others. 

But perhaps the most important lesson he is teaching me is a deeper surrender. As I watched him gazing out the airplane window, intrigued with how things look from above and pointing out interesting cloud formations and the changing landscape, I realised with a lump in my throat that he is savouring all of these experiences. I remember his reply when I asked how he feels about his diagnosis. He can’t do anything about it, he acknowledged with a shrug, so may as well accept it. Surrender again.

My journey with surrender is slightly different to Dad’s, and yet there are similarities. For me, it’s about letting go of certain outcomes, and choosing to live with some decisions even when I don’t fully agree with them. It’s also about accepting that none of us can control the way people see us. Let them misunderstand me if they want to. I know who I am and what I stand for. 

And, most importantly, the past couple of years have been a gift for me. My relationship with my father is stronger than ever, and we've shared some hilarious, beautiful, and poignant moments together. I know he has appreciated this time as well. If he’s taken away sooner than I’d like, he will teach me how to surrender to that too, and I will remember him fondly as he wanted me to do. 

Wild and precious day

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean —

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down —

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

- Mary Oliver

Each year in early August all staff at my workplace are given a day off - a gesture of appreciation for our hard work throughout the year. And I wondered, as the day approached, how I might spend my one wild and precious day off. Although mid winter for me, I still wanted to create space for a bit of idleness, perhaps a social catch up, reading in a hammock or painting or watching passers-by. I also wanted to reflect on the year so far.

On a rainy day in late December last year I attended a collaging workshop. Sheltering in a small marquee with rickety card tables and milk crates for seats, my fellow participants and I flicked through magazines and vintage picture books in search of appropriate images while the rain continued to pelt the roof and form puddles around the perimeter of our tent. I somehow found myself drawn to several different pictures, reflecting aspects of myself and how I wanted my next year to be. A New Year’s Intention collage, if you will.

The image of a child, looking very much like me as a girl, sits at the centre of the final piece. I wanted my inner child, often present even in my 5th decade, to feel safe, considered and heard. And the outdated, dinosaur part of me is there too. I wanted to challenge myself to embrace change, growth and fresh perspectives even when I feel resistant. There’s a sense of colour, playfulness, beauty, sexiness and celebration throughout. I wanted to give space in my life for the intellectual, the creative, and the absurd. The word “power” appears, superimposed upon a large gathering of people. 

So, in our line of work we sometimes conduct a mid term review of a project. We want to know what's worked well, what hasn't, and what needs to change so we can meet our objectives. So, how have my New Year's intentions measured up so far? 

In the relational facets of life, there have surprises, disappointments and several opportunities for growth, strength, and to “listen to my gut”. I haven’t always listened to that niggling voice, but she’s usually right and I’m getting better at trusting her these days. I continue to express my perspective with truth and kindness, know my worth, negotiate better outcomes for myself and others and walk away from what isn’t working. By introducing playfulness, humility and vulnerability amongst colleagues earlier in the year, there is now a much stronger team collaboration that I’m really excited about.

As I made my way down leafy tree-lined streets towards the café where I was to meet a friend on my wild and precious day, I stopped to smell and take in the flowers. A small gallery in a suburban corner shop-front displayed a glorious autumnal felt coat in the window. Fascinated by the deep orange tones, and the large buttons, I gazed in awe. Unusual pottery dotted throughout the front window display caught my eye, and a woman waved at me almost imperceptibly from behind a sign saying “open by appointment only”. 

One subject that troubled me earlier in the year was a lack of unity amongst Quakers about Palestine. Through offering my perspective and inviting Friends to a conversation, I was part of a really powerful gathering in July where Friends opened up about fears, frustrations and deep heartache, leading to some strong statements being made publicly. It felt like the Spirit was moving amongst us as we listened deeply and were vulnerable. These are the moments and changes that feel most significant to me and we now have the momentum to shift more minds and hearts. 

And there have been changes to do with family. As Dad increases the frequency of his walking to twice daily, he’s found that he can make the trip up the street to Woollies with his newly acquired canvas shopping trolley, a venture that until a couple of months ago he hadn’t attempted for almost five years. The reward of a skinny cappuccino in a nearby café follows a now weekly shopping venture. Yet, as his memory for PINs, and online payment processes and his breakfast routine wax and wane, his appreciation for the important things in life seems to steadily grow. Dad expresses touching appreciation for visits and I've come to also enjoy sharing stories of the past week, and the distant past. We’re getting back into writing up his stories, reflections and perspectives, which will form a lovely memory piece once completed. There are also elements of the absurd that become exaggerated in the re-telling, and I realise that I’m just as fascinated with how our brain works when it slows down as when it starts up. 

I’ve been watching “The Marvellous Mrs Maisel” over the past couple of weeks, and I admire the self-confidence and vulnerability of the witty protagonist, a fictional woman in the late 1950s (said to be based on a real person) who discovers in herself a comedic talent at a time of great adversity and pursues this unusual, playful and bold direction with hilarious results. Drama ensues. Perhaps there are possibilities and lessons for my life in that example.

As my wild and precious day draws to a close, I’m glad to have had time to be social, to reflect, to read and to write and be idle in the corner table of another local café. In the next half of the year, I want to explore more of the creative and absurd - they are going to be my lifeline as other facets of my world will demand increasing portions of my mental and emotional resources. I’ll need to continue to listen to and trust my instinct, recalibrate continually so that the “other focussed” dominant gene steps back from the automatic mode of accommodating others’ needs and demands and lets the “self" aware part take centre stage. Laughter, time with friends, and hugs will all have a part to play in Act 2.

Connected

My sister recently recommended “Better date than never” as a feel good reality show. And, as it happened, after a particularly challenging day at work, I plonked myself down on my couch, turned on the tv, and discovered with delight that an episode had just begun.

Approximately 30 seconds into a simple scene with one of the dating hopefuls, a middle aged trans woman called Di, I had tears trickling down my face. Di was eating scones with her mother and discussing why it's been so hard to find her person. Suitably captivated by Di's story, I started watching from the beginning and met Charles, who gets hopelessly tongue-tied during his first ever date, and dancing queen Olivia who is brimming with excitement on a second date. I find myself cringing, smiling and celebrating along with them. My heart is full. 

Screenshot of Better Date than Never on Iview

Each of these people speaks openly and with vulnerability about their yearning for connection, and equally powerful fear of rejection, a tension that is such a relatable part of the human condition. Sometimes we humans act on that fear, either clinging to something not quite right because we are afraid of being alone, or sometimes we pre-empt and avoid rejection by quickly ending things ourselves. Sometimes we act with love, either letting someone go because we know the vibe isn’t right and then celebrating when they meet someone who truly sparks joy for them, or we lean in and explore what might be possible when a new and surprising connection forms.

I begin to think of my own life in relation to the highs and lows of the age-old search for love, connection and belonging. I've somehow ended up in a couple of back to back breakups lately, with each one being painful in its own way, regardless of whether I made the decision or the other person. I can relate to Olivia as she struggles to find the words to tell her first date she isn't romantically interested, and Charles as he accepts that one of his dates isn't interested in taking things further with him. I also think of other, non-romantic relationships where things have suddenly become awkward or tense. I have tended to reflect later that they might have been in the pain of feeling rejected, or been hoping for a stronger connection but haven’t known how to ask for it.

The other morning I was reminded in a facebook post (one of the ones that are “suggested” for me) of Rumi’s message that the wound is the place where the light can enter. I’ve resonated with quotes along similar lines - that cracks are what let the light in, or that pain and discomfort are our teacher. I am inspired by the phrase “Broken and Tender” used by Quaker theologian Margory Post Abbot to describe not a person in pain, but a community that is thriving, nourishing, open and connected. The broken part talks of breaking open our hearts enough to allow the light to shine in, or breaking the earth in order to allow a seed to grow. The tenderness is about tenderness to the spirit, or an openness to being led in unexpected directions. A broken and tender community contains people who have “broken apart the bounds of the ego”, and experienced pure love. It is ready and able to be tender in the care of its members and more passionate in its concern for the wellbeing of the world. 

Art by Annie Hanman, part of "suggested" facebook post

As I tend to my own thrice broken heart, I can see the opportunities for learning, growth, tenderness and courage. I’m grateful for friends and communities who remind me of the abundant, beautiful and nourishing connections that have been so important to me in my life. 

And, as the courageous characters in Better Date than Never are finding, disappointment is a natural part of the journey towards connection. Sometimes our spirited seekers experience the pain and disappointment of things not working out and sometimes they find themselves surprised and delighted with a new connection. They manage to handle these situations with grace, kindness and a sense of gratitude for the learning experience. They are an example to the rest of us.