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. 

I'm a big girl

Yesterday I was asked to spend time with Dad and his 96 year old neighbour while her home of 60 years was being auctioned. Dad doesn't have many visitors, so after a few emails back and forth in relation to this event, I brought ginger biscuits and dad made a cake. Together we filled up the kettle in advance, and swept the front porch. 

From the moment the taxi door opened, and two sensible shoes were placed on our driveway amid raised voices and a kafuffle about the walker, it was clear that this wasn't going to be quite the pleasant kind of tea and cakes situation we'd imagined. And not one Dad could have easily handled on his own. 

Greetings were overshadowed by the continued conversation. "He was very rude to me" and "no, he wasn't mum", hung in the air alongside an awkward smile in our direction as Ula made her way to our front door, pushing aside the nearest son and his suggestions about where to put the walker. It seemed that something had been said over lunch, and she was still quite upset. 

Inside our dining room, Ula chose the window bench, where she could see people congregating near her side door below us. Not wanting to sit, she kind of kneeled against the seat, focussed on the goings on next door. Recognising one of the agents, she started tapping on the window to attract his attention, fiddling with the mechanism until it opened. "It'll probably be a Chinese buyer" she commented loudly and with disdain, "and they'll probably fill in the pool. That's what they did across the road". I glanced at dad and he almost imperceptibly rolled his eyes, ever the diplomat. Both sons seemed keen for the window to remain shut. 

A painting of me looking through a window, as a girl

After the sons had left, one of them cheerily kissing Ula goodbye as if she was a child being left with unpopular babysitters, the three of us weren't quite sure what to do. I offered Ula cake and tea again, but she repeated her polite but firm refusal, having only just had lunch. 

A few moments passed before Ula decided that she'd rather go next door and be there at the auction. I made futile attempts to stall or distract, but Ula was now certain. "I'm a big girl, you know" she told me, and I thought of her 60+ years of adulting (as we jokingly call it now); raising three boys, keeping the garden looking lovely, maintaining a marriage for the many decades until her husband's death, managing household finances, driving to fitness classes and the supermarket up until a year ago, reversing her car down the drive effortlessly and navigating the COVID years without a blink. She always struck me as fiercely independant, a clever influencer (she somehow convinced dad to dress up as Santa when her grandchildren were little), and generally cheerful, generous and personable. Yesterday my admiration for her grew. 

How is it, I thought, that a woman who has navigated so much of life's stormy waters with grace and stoicism, was now denied the right to observe the final, momentous, step in her journey away from independence? And so as it began to rain, she and I made our way next door, ignoring the horrified and disapproving glances from the sons who dad had frantically been trying to warn over the phone.

There was a pause in auction proceedings as Ula and her walker squeezed into the very crowded lounge room. The real estate agent took a moment to respectfully "greet the vendor" and an older woman guided Ula to a spot on the couch where she was very much amongst the action. The auctioneer recommenced his enthusiastic description of her decades long home, and the bidding gained momentum. Ula was silent throughout, her legs crossed and wearing a pair of checkered pants that I hadn't noticed before.

After the hammer came down and the unsuccessful bidders dispersed, Dad reappeared with his umbrella, despite the rain having eased off, keen to meet his new neighbours. And there was Ula, over in the kitchen, signing away her life and graciously engaging in light conversation with the new owners. I heard her mention that her boys had gone to Barker College. Thankfully, nothing was said about the pool, but Ula did comment later on that she hopes they maintain the garden. 

Unbiased?

When I was studying my Masters degree, the unit on Peace Journalism had a significant impact on me.  Our lecturer, former BBC Journalist Jake Lynch, explained that wars are increasingly fought as much through the media as on the ground. How do journalists tasked with informing the public about war navigate truth telling amidst nationalist propaganda? How do they find the right balance of professional detachment and human compassion? And how do they decide when to provide analysis and when to simply present the facts?

We learnt that in war/violence journalism, otherwise simply known as Journalism, a situation is presented as having 2 sides or parties, both seeking to "win". It often ignores context and history, and tends to demonise the other, reports reactively on physical violence after it has happened, focuses on elite peace-makers and gives names of the "other" evil doers while dehumanising those most impacted. There is a convention in structuring war journalism where both sides should be represented in the article or media piece, so that the reader/viewer has the experience of: "On the one hand xx, on the other hand yy. In the end, who really knows. You decide. I'm Jake Lynch, BBC news".

One significant weakness of war journalism is that it ignores power imbalance, positioning two seemingly equal parties up against one another as if we are at a football game. When we had the marriage equality plebiscite in Australia, it was often considered "fair" to include both a LGBTQI+ advocate and a religious conservative in the same discussion panel. Seems "unbiased" to have both sides represented, right? But, in a country that ended up voting overwhelmingly for marriage equality, why did we need to continue to give equal voice space to religious conservatives who have historically held the microphone anyway, and have caused significant emotional harm to vulnerable people?  

With the current situation in Gaza, I see all the same hallmarks of war journalism cropping up again. The media in the first days since 7th October was using language that positioned Israel and Hamas as two seemingly equal parties, failing to acknowledge that one of the two has the support of powerful allies, and has the most military might. It was as if 7th October was the "start" of the war and nothing that happened prior mattered. There is also the "atmosphere of doubt" about who is to blame for the hospital destruction, and our own Government endorsing the flying of the Israeli flag colours on the Opera House. There was significant pressure to condemn the actions of Hamas, but not the same pressure to speak out about the lives lost as a result of decades long military occupation and brutality. One of my Palestinian friends shared the image below, pointing to the ways that the media can present only part of a situation to create a false impression. 

In contrast, Peace Journalism looks for context, history and nuance. It notices and names structural violence and gives voice to the voiceless. It names all deplorable actions and evil doers. It explores and highlights nonviolent solutions. Stories of churches, hospitals and schools and how everyday people are desperately working to protect and care for civilians remind us of the compassion and courage and resilience of our fellow humans, re-humanising them. I also appreciated this article from an Israeli perspective, which understands the actions on 7th October as part of a much larger context. Breaking the Silence also shared about what they, as former IDF soldiers, were sent to do, and why they have courageously told the truth about harm they caused. 

When I returned from Palestine, I tried to incorporate these same principles into the stories I told. I met so many people who were engaged in their own nonviolent resistance against the occupation; Dar Zahran who opened up his family home as a museum in Ramallah to acknowledge and increase understanding about historical Palestine, the Nawaja family who continue the vigil on their land despite the regular threat of violence and home demolition, Gibreen, who took his sheep out to graze on his land situated on the other side of a settler highway as a statement of sumud (steadfast resilience) and the children who do their homework alongside the family sheep and goats, huddled in a cave to protect themselves from regular army incursions into their isolated home. They are all heroes in my mind.

Retreat

Gazing out past the forest of gum trees I can just make out the blue of the river and pick up the intermittent sound of canoeists making their way from the bridge to the dam. It’s a beautiful, warm day, with just enough wind for gum leaves to fall at times like very gentle rain, but not so much that my water colours or novels are affected in any way. I’ve set up the hammock and taken a couple of swims in the river. Water has been boiled and chilled for drinking and the biggest tragedy of the holiday is that I forgot to bring any chai. One smallish table fashioned from a 3 legged tree stump provides the single point of Telstra reception. Just enough to let people know I’m okay, but not enough to do any of the non-retreaty things like check facebook or emails. 

This beautiful spot has been a special place for me for most of my life.  Usually I’ll be here at this time of year with a group of friends, and there will be games of 500, codenames, mafia, and small groups will take responsibility for each dinner. Lunches will be a consortium of whatever everyone brought along. Someone will have brought chai or an exciting snack, or the makings of pancakes. And the sense of community that this place facilitates will abound. Over the years there have been many deep and meaningful conversations over the campfire, or in the river, or atop the “throne” rock formation above the cave. 

This time, though, I’ve come on my own. Because this past year has been demanding. And through a mix of COVID fog, work pressures, a break up and family commitments, I hadn’t got my act together to invite others. Also, a retreat felt like a nice way to end the year. A time to read, reflect, and rejuvenate. Whenever I arrive, it's as if the trees are welcoming me back. A warm glow envelopes me as I walk down the hill to the hut.

A few Quaker friends were talking about personal retreats when we met just before the holiday break. One person intended to visit the local Botanical gardens every day for several days and use the time to be in silent retreat, in nature, without having to travel to a special retreat venue. That got us all thinking about how we might achieve “retreat” in different ways. 

As it happened, a week or so ago mum and I visited the Botanical gardens and the Art Gallery of NSW. We followed the rainforest path mum had trodden many a time in the years following grandma's death, as she was seeking ideas and creating her own garden at the rear section of the family home. These escapes into town on a Sunday afternoon were a part of my mother's life that I hadn't  been aware of. 

At the entrance to the new North Wing of the Art Gallery was a welcome committee - a collection of blue statues who might be from the past or future, some with long arms and others with long legs, who were cooperating to get daily tasks done. These creatures were a highlight for both mum and me, and reminded me of the way the trees welcome me home to that special place.

So, as I attempted to wind up the hammock and sweep the fallen leaves into a sense of order, turned off the fridge, put away the cups and bowls, and brought the last of my bags up to the car, I considered how I might bring retreat into daily life during 2023. While nothing beats actually getting away, I know from the past 3 years that it's not always possible. So, I'll take time to read (I now have a decent pile that people have lent or given me recently) and maybe join a group to continue with water colour or try pottery. Swims at the local pool or beaches will be energizing. As for the lanky limbed welcome committee, they will remain in my minds eye, able to surface as needed. And there's always chai at my place. 

Breadcrumbs

We look at one another in frustration and sadness before she gets up and leaves. We've both just aired our grievances. There's not a lot more to say, yet it still feels abrupt. It's the most recent in a bit of a string of awkward goodbyes over the past few years, and I wonder again if I could have done anything differently.

Lately I’ve been getting into the Saturday morning habit of stopping at the local bakery on my way back from the gym and waiting in line with other Marrickville locals and their dogs for a kim chi scone, a chai brew and a seeded loaf. Back home, the seeded loaf always needs to be sliced and somehow that means that I’m sweeping up crumbs for the next few days. 

My therapist has been talking about breadcrumbs lately as well. Not the seeded loaf type of crumbs, but more the figurative type - times when I am willing to accept scerricks of others' time, or mere morsels of their emotional support or when there isn't reciprocity. She thinks I need to develop a bit more of an intolerance for crumbs. 

This is a good challenge for me. It still feels unfamiliar to me to set a boundary, or articulate my needs. As someone who is "other" focused, I have tended to think about what the other person wants and try to see their point of view, which can lead to resentment if they're not doing the same. But in recent times when someone has been flaky a few too many times, or disregarded my needs, or crossed a boundary, I’ve talked about the impact on me, or simply made a request about future behaviour. I've also been able to reflect on my own behaviour and come back later to apologise when I've been out of line. This feels like progress, and most of the time leads to a deeper connection with the other person.

Thanks to facebook memories, I'm reminded that this time two years ago I was staying at a friend's place while I processed the infamous "tea towel incident". I was deciding whether to leave or stay. Able to pretty my temporary sanctuary up with flowers, plants and a couple of cute homeware items purchased from Vinnies, I realised that I was starting to restore a sense of self. Part of me had been tempted to believe a narrative that I was too sensitive, that I was running away, and that I should consider more fully how my leaving would negatively impact on others. A friend recently reassured me that I wasn't running away so much as removing myself from a dynamic that wasn't safe for me. Sometimes communicating needs, setting boundaries or being vulnerable doesn't lead to a deeper connection and the best outcome for all is to walk away.

This year I had an odd birthday. There had been a death, and work had been stressful, and I'd ended up crying a lot. When it came time to join the evening gathering I had organised as a celebration, I worried that I’d still be sad. But I was surrounded by friends; people who show up even though there's stuff going on in their lives, who enjoy spending time with me, and who value the qualities in me that I value in myself. I came away feeling good about the nourishing friendships that I’ve cultivated over the years. 

This helped clarify for me that from now onwards I want to focus on those relationships where I feel valued and safe. For the others, I can appreciate their wonderful qualities, and be grateful for what I've learnt about myself from the relationship, but I've recently developed a mild intolerance for breadcrumbs. So, I've decided to choose me. I choose the whole loaf. I choose another slightly abrupt and awkward goodbye. 

Smell the flowers

Our lunch bowls of boiled vegetables and pasta with tomato sauce sat empty in front of us; an adequately filling and nourishing meal. The luncheon had been produced using a combination of the stove, the microwave and Dad’s special touch (which is to say, a firm belief that there’s no need to heat pasta sauce if the pasta is going to heat it anyway). Peering out the window, I commented on the break in the rain and it being a good time for a walk. “Yes, I’ll get my umbrella” agreed Dad, plodding off in search of an umbrella and a plastic bag to put it in. I decided to wear a hat as rain protection, and after some back and forth with options hanging on the back door, we set off with me sporting a smallish cricket hat that nobody remembers belonging to. 

Reaching a juncture on our journey, I asked Dad whether he wanted to venture down the lane, or continue along the footpath. Despite previously expressing strong misgivings about the lane, due to it being too overgrown and tree root-laden, he chose the lane, and we carefully navigated a couple of rebellious treeroots and were able to stop and smell the jasmine which was flowering at the southern end.

Later on the same walk, which is really just one block (or 1,000 steps according to the step tracker on Dad’s phone) that Dad treads so slowly that we can be gone for at least 30 minutes, Dad pointed out some bright red flowers. They were the same type that he’d found thrown into a neighbour’s front garden a couple of walks ago, rescued and placed in a vase on the kitchen table. Dad also likes to rescue discarded work gloves on his walks, of which mum, hearing about it from her base in Hobart, doesn’t approve. 

Cleaning up after lunch was a fairly simple process, although there was the matter of the leftover pasta sauce. We agreed to freeze it, which meant searching for a suitable container. The next task was labeling the container, which was complicated by neither of us knowing where any tape was. After searching dresser drawers and a funny little shelf where bread used to be delivered 100 years ago, Dad eventually found some sticky tape in the cupboard above the microwave. He carefully wrote “Tomato sauce, October 2022” with a black marker, which then almost immediately began to fade on the sticky tape. “Masking tape would have been better” I noted, without being prepared to look for any. Dad felt that it was really the year that was more important than the month, and a flash of a memory came back to me. After Grandma died, the aunts were cleaning out the freezer and found some unlabelled wedding cake. The last wedding had been Jane’s about 10 years earlier, so it was assumed that it must have been hers. Anyway, I think it was Dad who thought of putting a second piece of tape over the first to reinforce the writing, and after searching again in the dresser drawer and bread shelf, he found it in the cupboard above the microwave, and was pleased with the result. 

Recent visits to Dad have been quite enjoyable. When I was a teenager and he was busy “providing for a family”, our paths only really crossed when there was conflict - his TV too loud just outside my bedroom, his socks going missing and ending up mistakenly in my laundry pile, or times when I wasn’t allowed to go out. Now, both of us in different stages of life, there isn’t the same clash of wills, and we can take in the simpler things in life together - an impressive flower, daily walks, and the changing seasons. Dad, who rarely prepared a meal in our 20 odd years of living together, (although that is partly because his pizza a la peanut butter remains on the veto list) now even bakes (from packet mix) if I give him enough notice of my arrival.

So, Dad continues his daily walks and dutifully calls mum each morning and night to assure her that he’s alive and well. He occasionally accuses me of being bossy, and other people of interfering, but mostly he's placid and agreeable, and chats away pleasantly with the community drivers who take him to appointments. When I asked Dad if he felt resentment towards any of us he thought about it and said no. He didn’t feel resentment towards any people, just about the aging process. At which point his voice wobbled ever so slightly. 

Mothers Day

This year I found myself accepting a “Mothers’ Day” massage invitation from the local urban health retreat, and a rose from my gym instructor. The pink thornless stem was thrust into my hand as I was leaving the gym, sweaty and tired. “Happy Mothers’ Day” he said with more than enough cheer for both of us, dutifully wiping his offering with hand sanitiser. Walking home with the ill-gotten gift that was too long to fit easily into my tote bag, I started to feel that my hasty reply “Oh, I’m not a mother” might have been a little too self-effacing. He had insisted I take it anyway.

While Mothers Day has come to be a time of commercialism whereby we bestow gifts and praise upon women who have borne children, Mothering Sunday was apparently an early Christian tradition where workers returned home to their “Mother” church, meaning the village and church of their childhood. We talk about our mother tongue to mean the language of our childhood, and the mother country to talk about one’s native country. So, it seems mothering can have a broader meaning. But there’s a reason the word Mother is used figuratively in this sense. Mothers have traditionally been so integral to those early memories.  

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"Do you have children?" she asks as our gaze is drawn to the rainbow unicorn birthday cake. Standing amongst the group of mothers, who I haven't actually been introduced to by the harried host, I keep my response brief. "No". We stand there in awkward silence for several more moments. At another child's party I am introduced as "the other person without children", as if that in itself ought to be a conversation prompt, like "you both play tennis". These days I carefully manage how and when I attend children’s birthday parties.

In another scenario, I was sharing a drink with a friend, a woman who I admire greatly. She's incredibly funny, compassionate and creative, has a heart for justice, and is nobody’s fool. Yet, it was only after the second glass on an occasion several years into our friendship, that she gave any indication of how the grief of childlessness had affected her. It occurred to me that while a miscarriage brings unimaginable grief, at least it's a grief that has a moment and a form. It’s a known quantity. People send flowers. Grief of childlessness is less tangible, and the way childlessness is understood has less “form” as well, as another blogger reflects. 

A few years ago, during a weekend away with several amazing childless and childfree women, a friend recommended a book called “The life unexpected: 12 weeks to your Plan B for a meaningful and fulfilling future without children”. The author, Jody Day, weaves her own journey of coming to terms with childlessness into a book which explores the experiences of countless others. She offers examples of role models; childless women who have lived well and made significant achievements in their lives. It occurred to me reading this book that I wasn’t alone or unusual in my sadness, nor would I always feel this way. And the negative labels of childless and non-mother now have permission to evolve into positive, life giving descriptions. Now, a couple of years later, I can speak more openly about the subject, which back then was just too painful. 

Women with children regularly remind me of my good fortune. “Oh, I’d give anything to have a night at home alone on the couch watching tv” they gush at me, or “I wish I had the time to paint my nails”, or "you're probably busy partying". While my day to day life doesn’t look quite like how they imagine it to be, I have come to see the advantages of the dependant-free lifestyle I find myself in. I actually love being the fun aunt, having time to create a deep connection with nieces and nephews both biological and chosen, and the space to think deliberately about how I want to set boundaries with these small people, show love and model living with courage, vulnerability and integrity. I enjoy being involved in voluntary activities, and cherish the way I can spend a Saturday morning sitting in a cafe writing if I wish, or enjoy live music of an evening. 

I also wonder whether hiding behind the comments about toenails and couches is perhaps a voice that is as silenced and frustrated as mine. Mothers who want to talk about regrets or loneliness or a yearning to live out broader dreams than motherhood might be worried about being judged as ungrateful or “bad mothers”. Where is the space to talk of such things? Is there a way that we can be present for one another in our regrets, and yearnings, and moments of joy, without it being a competition as to who is most hard done by or most successful?

There’s also a cynical part of me that sees Mothers Day accolades as tokenistic. Our society idolises mothers, but does it really respect them? When people wax lyrical about how much they appreciate everything that their mothers and wives do, I can’t help but think “why don’t you just do your share of the work, mate?” Our national household survey indicates that even when incomes and paid workloads are even, women in coupled households with dependent children (as in Mothers) do 23 hours of housework compared to men, who do 16 hours. And that's a significant improvement since the early 2000s.

So, yes, it is important to acknowledge mothers and motherhood. And I am ever grateful for the ways my mother’s care has shaped the trajectory of my life, and what she gave up to be my mother. And there is room, I hope, to acknowledge broader notions of mothering such as nurture of communities, and the birthing of new ideas. My adopted aunt, who has several more decades of navigating the childless scene under her belt than me, reflected today that Mothers Day doesn’t have to be a time of exclusion or loneliness for those who are not Mothers. The intent is evolving, she believes, to include recognition of those who nurture others in a multitude of ways, and those who would have liked to have been Mothers but couldn’t or didn’t. When I skyped with family on Mothers’ Day a couple of years ago my nephew wanted to wish me a Happy Mothers Day as well, but then remembered that I’m not a mother. After a short and slightly awkward pause while he contemplated this dilemma, he announced that there should be a “Ladies Day”. Cute. And luckily there is an Auntie's day in July, so he can make me a card then. But until July rolls around, I’ll unapologetically take the rose and the massage, thanks very much.