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 we're all using 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 orangey-brown 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, as it were, 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. In amongst carefully documented details about meal times, delight in nature, visits to grandparents, nappy changing antics and surprising greeting rituals we learn of some troubling behaviour. Our young heroine had developed a tendency, of late, to pull the next door neighbour’s hair and hit children at playgroup. Unprovoked, mind you. With these snippets I am gifted an intimate insight into the wonder and frustrations of a new mother. 

As I tried to adopt an attitude of curiosity about why an 18 month old was pulling other children’s hair, a rage well known to women in the Autumn of their lives begins to take hold, and I have empathy for that little girl. Rage or aggression can appear unprovoked, but usually there's a reason, or a thousand tiny reasons that build up. Almost fifty years later, there is still a disapproval of "strong emotions" in little girls, and an expectation that women, and perhaps particularly eldest daughters, don'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, a little older than I am now and 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 is beginning to feel more and more spacious. And with spaciousness, it's possible to see things more clearly. I can embrace the aggressive toddler, the inquisitive child, the frustrated teen and the loving big sister as all true parts of a whole person. So, where did I come from? I believe we all come from ourselves. We are shaped by genetics and our environment but the essence of who we uniquely are is always there within us.

The Way It Is

There is a thread you follow. 

It goes among things that change. 

But it doesn't change.

People wonder about what things you are pursuing. 

You have to explain about the thread.

But it is hard for others to see. 

While you hold it you can't get lost.

Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you suffer and grow old.

Nothing you do can stop time's unfolding. 

You don't ever let go of the thread.

William Stafford

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.