The first day

During the recent process of packing up the family home, mum found a detailed drawing I did for her of my 5th birthday party, which was at the circus. She’d kept the childish sketch, incorporating a colourful clown holding a bunch of balloons, an array of animals, fun fair stalls and possibly a robot, for 45 years. Mum hadn’t been there herself, because she was 7 months pregnant with the twins at the time and under strict instructions to stay in bed. So Dad was my responsible adult. I was allowed to take two friends, presumably because three was the number of small children that was manageable for Dad at that time.

My first day of school was another milestone that Dad and I navigated together. There’s a cassette tape somewhere of him asking me how I felt about this auspicious event. “I feel joyful all over” was my enthusiastic reply. Sadly we never found any photos of me in my school uniform, the type of image that every parent nowadays shares on social media at this important juncture. That step in the process must have been forgotten amongst the hustle and bustle of getting ready and leaving the house. I don’t remember much else about the first day, except that I didn’t cry when we said goodbye. I would tell people this fact very proudly, and often wondered whether not having my primary carer there had made me braver somehow. Harry*, from down the road, did cry. I remember that. Mum told me recently that he cried a lot, that boy, but is now a successful executive or something. 

And so it felt important to me that I was there for Dad’s first day in residential care. We visited 'the village' the day before Dad was due to move in officially, with the plan being that mum and I would set up his room with a few familiar things ahead of time. Just as we were getting out of the car, Dad asked if he could come with us. Nobody could think of a reason why he shouldn’t, and so the three of us signed in at reception, did a RAT test, and headed across ‘the village’ to his assigned room. Dad was pleased to discover that his ensuite was so close to his bed, and he didn’t particularly mind the view of the carpark. Having seen the place for himself, he was happy to go off with Jess while mum and I put clothes in the wardrobe, draped one of mum’s handmade quilts on the bed and placed a few photos and pictures up on the wall. 

The next day, which was the official moving-in day, was a bit more daunting and emotional. When I arrived at mum’s two bedroom townhouse where the two of them had been staying, Dad was sitting in an arm chair all dressed and ready to go, with his hat, walking stick and shoes already on. 

“How are you feeling about the move?” I asked, sliding into another of mum’s arm chairs. 

“I expect it will probably hit me soon enough,” he replied, not nearly as joyful as I had been all those years before. 

As Mum and Tom busied themselves with addressing some kind of bank issue, I suggested a walk and Dad happily agreed. Knowing that it was his last walk of freedom, I felt sad, nostalgic and unsure what to say. So I pointed out what I thought were interesting landmarks, such as a school with a swing providing a view of the river, and a garden with an extraordinary collection of gnomes out the front. I was trying not to be too positive about it all. Dad was mostly silent in response to my babble, with the odd "hmm" or "oh, so it is" added in politely. As we neared the curved end of the cul-de-sac, a car pulled up, and parked hurriedly, with its boot quite a distance from the curb. The driver’s door opened, and a small dog leapt out, quickly followed by a harried-looking woman. 

“Roger” she yelled, “come and put your lead on.” I saw that the dog was wearing one of those cones over its face. “He doesn’t like going to the vet” she said to us, by way of explanation. Sure enough, there at the head of the cul-de-sac was a veterinary clinic, a landmark I had failed to notice earlier.

“She’s parked very badly” Dad said to me, as soon as she was out of earshot. 

One of the nice things about 'the village' is that each resident has a small glass cabinet outside their room, which can be filled with mementos or items that represent the person. Mum and I had put several Commonwealth Bank items including Dad’s old business cards on the middle shelf of his cabinet. On the top shelf were photos of Dad’s parents, Wilbur and Flo, and on the bottom shelf we’d just put a personalised mug decorated with photos of the family. The bottom shelf could be filled properly later. As Dad approached his new room on that first day, he glanced at the cabinet. 

“That’s my parents” he noted, and my eyes welled up with tears.

As we were standing around in Dad’s new room all inspecting the window mechanism, the capacity of the wardrobe and the proximity of the bathroom, I noticed that our small group had increased ever so slightly in size. One of Dad’s new housemates was amongst us, nodding along earnestly as we commented on the features of his new room. And there on her shoulder was my handbag. I have to admit that I panicked and completely forgot anything I had read about how to communicate with people living with dementia. 

“That’s my bag!” I exclaimed loudly. Hannah simply smiled warmly and shared a few thoughts in German. Luckily, one of the staff came to my rescue, and skilfully distracted Hannah by talking in soft tones about something else, then calmly suggested that since we were heading out soon, we’d be needing the handbag for now. Hannah graciously handed it over, and allowed herself to be steered back to the living room, still smiling warmly. 

During the first week, several doctors and nurses wanted to chat to Dad about various aspects of his health. It became clear that Dad was establishing himself as the kind of dementia patient who was easy to deal with, at least for the most part. One particular doctor had quite a long list of questions and tasks for Dad. He had dutifully walked up and down the length of his room with his walking stick and without it, given detail about his recent bowel movements, and answered the mental health questions with as much self-awareness as he could muster up. As the doctor and her assistant were leaving, Dad turned to us and said in a stage whisper “The other woman was very fat, wasn’t she?”

Day 1 also involved meeting some of the staff, and it was in these interactions that the matter of the 'extras' kept popping up. Mum had been sent several informational documents about 'life at the village' and one had detailed the basic package, and then itemised the optional extras. We needed to decide whether we wanted all of the extras for an extra $31 per day, or just a few of them for the individual rates indicated. Extras ranged from household items like the King Single bed and smart TV with Wifi, to monthly outings, coffees in the café and a weekly ice cream. They didn’t do a very good job of promoting the outings, because on further enquiry it turned out that the location wasn’t revealed until just before, and residents didn’t actually leave the bus! Given that we intended to take Dad out from time to time and he’d be able to leave the car, we didn’t see the need to pay for additional outings. But Jess put forward a strong case for the weekly coffee club and ice creams. 

“You don’t want Dad being the only person not allowed to have ice cream, do you?” she implored, and mum begrudgingly relented. When Mum asked about what would happen if we chose not to go with the King Single bed, Lucy, the intake coordinator, thought for a moment and then said that this had never come up before. 

“I mean, the bed is already there in the room”, Mum said, exasperated, and Lucy said she’d have to get back to us on that. 

“The outings and the King Single beds are what makes the village the village” Lucy assured us. 

“Then why aren’t they part of the basic package?” I thought, but just glared at her instead. 

“What a lovely smile you have” mum exclaimed to one of Dad’s housemates when we arrived with Dad. Sue appeared a bit taken aback at first by such attention from a stranger, but quickly became comfortable with our attempts at conversation. Later on, I asked Sue if she was going to the afternoon activities being held in the community centre. 

“Oh, we just don’t have time for all these activities, dear” she gushed “we’re terribly busy as it is, what with all our blah de blah blahs and our wooty woots”. Sue’s explanation then continued as a stream of gibberish, accompanied by flamboyant hand gestures and interspersed with recognisable phrases that normally punctuate an animated conversation between friends such as “it’s just outrageous” and “she’s got no idea” and “darling, what lovely skin you have!”. When Sue’s friend visited, we learnt that she had been a theatre performer in her younger years. 

Dad and me on a walk in the 'village'

I asked Dad a few days later how he was going with his housemates. 

“I just ignore them” Dad told me, and sure enough when Sue tried to engage him in seemingly nonsensical conversation he just turned away. When she approached him with a more pointed question, he replied quite firmly with “I’m sorry, I don’t understand”. She eventually gave up. 

“Just go along with it, John” urged mum from the other end of the dining table. 

“Will I end up like that?” Dad asked me during a subsequent walk around the village. 

“Well”, I reflected, “you’ll probably have your own particular quirks and eccentricities.” And Dad seemed okay with that. 

Dad’s first day happened to be 'Coffee club' day, and so we all headed over to the café to join in the fun. The café is in the centre of the 'village', a 2 minute walk (at Dad's pace) from his house, and is right near the hair salon and the community centre. The ‘village’ had been designed to mirror a normal village, but without cars or the risk of getting lost. Jason, the barista, knows all of the residents by name, and, more importantly, their coffee orders. Residents gradually arrived, some accompanied by staff, some with visitors, and some wandered in with other residents. Several staff were there greeting residents and assisting people to find a spot to sit. The atmosphere was warm, up-beat, and everyone seemed happy. This, I thought, is what makes the village the village. Not the size of the beds or the stupid, boring bus outings. 

By 4pm, the coffee club was wrapping up, and residents were heading back to their houses. Tom’s family had joined us and then gone home and the rest of us were pretty tired. I offered to stay with Dad so that Jess and Mum could go home and rest. He and I sat in relatively companionable silence at his dining table for a while, before I suggested a walk. I’ve realised that a walk is a good way to distract both of us from any feelings of frustration or sadness. So we made our way around the four cul-de-sacs of the 'village' and were back in plenty of time for dinner. Dad elected to eat his dinner in his room that first evening, and, since we had set up the TV and Netflix earlier in the day, we turned the TV on and settled (he in his armchair and me on the edge of his bed) into an episode of 'Long Lost Families'. Dad quite likes this show, as my older brother Andrew, who was adopted out at birth, is frequently at the forefront of Dad’s mind. 

‘Long Lost Families’ finished and we were well into ‘Antiques Roadshow’ when Dad’s dinner arrived. Once he had eaten, I thought it was probably time for me to say goodbye. 

“Thank you for staying with me” Dad said quietly, and I felt an enormous surge of grief, guilt and angst. I wondered if he’d be okay on his own during his first night, and whether he was going to be happy there longer term. What must have been going through his mind as he climbed into his new bed (a King Single, don't forget) for the first time? 

Saying goodbye on the first day of kindy is always hardest on the parents, people have said. Having never had children of my own, I only had this day with Dad to compare with my own first day of school. As I did the sign out process at reception and organised my transport back to mum’s, the tears began to fall. But by the time my ride arrived, I’d pulled myself together. After all, I had to be brave for mum, who again was waiting for me back at home, but not bed bound this time at least. And I wondered how Dad had felt after saying goodbye to me at the kindergarten classroom all those years before. 

*names changed

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

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.