Weekend Coffee Share: 26th March, 2023

Welcome to Another Weekend Coffee Share!

Another week has just rushed past like an express train and I’m struggling to remember what happened. Or, perhaps it was more a case of being hit on the head a few times and I’m struggling to get my bearings. That’s probably more like it, because I haven’t exactly been busy in the traditional sense. More like hyper-distracted. Indeed, I’ve acquired a new, and very addictive distraction which involves shopping online at Salvo Stores. I’ve included a few of my more extraordinary finds for you to check out:

To be honest, I’ve needed a fair bit of distraction lately. Or, perhaps the reverse is true and that by distracting myself, I’m only shooting myself in the foot and now is actually the time to be uber-focused, vigilant and pedantically one-track minded. I don’t know but before this cryptic conversation with myself goes any further, I probably should spill the beans and bring you into the picture.

I’m not sure about how much I’ve said about what’s going on with my health atm. I have an auto-immune disease, dermatomyositis (DM) and associated fibrosis in my lungs, which is known as Interstitial Lung Disease (ILD). I developed the DM after the birth of my daughter and have been living with it for 17 years. The ILD developed about 10 years ago and had been largely contained but the fibrosis has gradually increased. The theory is that as long as the DM is in remission, the lungs will be stable. All was going well until a mix up with a script cut my medication in half and unlike many other scripts, I didn’t manage to lose this one. Bugger! Consequently, my autoimmune disease flared up a bit. IN the meantime, I had a respiratory virus in December and covid in January. Yet, I seemed to recover and had a wonderful time in January catching ferries and walking extensively around Sydney. So it’s hard to understand how I came to fall on my sword and end up so sick and desperately short of breath and my lung capacity dropping from 50% to 30% Not only that, I suddenly became my lung specialist’s best friend as he started exploring and sharing my case. That obviously spells TROUBLE!! Yet, at the same time, I’ve set out fiercely determined to heal myself. I’m going for a 10 minute walk most days and using a device called a respiratory exerciser where you inhale and try to raise three blue balls off the ground. At first, I could only raise one but now I’m getting the third one up some of the time and that has to be a good sign. We are also praying. I would probably prefer to pray for God to wave a magic wand and instant make me better. However, he has a wonderful sense of humour and I know I have to do my share too and that’s the exercise. I should also do more singing. After all it’s singers, swimmers and brass players who give me hope because they can end up with above average lung capacity. So, instead of trawling through the Salvo Stores I should be singing all night.

We had a very special day today. Our daughter auditioned for a local youth performing arts show with the dance school she attends and we were able to watch. She appeared in three classical ballet dances: a trio, a duo and her ballet solo. She is always amazing and naturally looks the part with her physique which is a stroke of genetic fortune (especially considering I am about 10-15cm taller than her). However, none of this comes on a platter and there’s a lot of hard work and she lives and breathes ballet with a passion.

I was particularly delighted to see the new duo for the first time which she performs with a young man she’s known forever at the studio and I guess this for me is what ballet is all about and it really is like she’s finally arriving after starting ballet 14 years ago as a three year old and there’s that graduation from flats, to pointe shoes, doing solos, getting your first real (expensive) tutu and then there’s that magical connection in a good duo which is sensational. They might not be Torvill and Dean of the dance world in other people’s eyes, but they were to me and they were spectacular.

After the audition, we went out for lunch across the road. That was also truly special and not something we do terribly often.

Have you read any good books lately? I am currently reading “Seven Poor Men of Sydney” by Australian author Christina Stead. It’s largely set in Watson’s Bay on Sydney Harbour but is quite a dark tale and perhaps not the best thing for me to be reading with the state of my lungs. However, Stead’s characters are generally lonely misfits and I’m immersed in family and community so my lifestyle is very different. The book is very philosophical, which I love and Stead writes beautifully and there’s plenty of underlining throughout which is my mark of a great book. Here are a few of my underlinings:

“Who does not wish to spend his life in communion with himself?”

“You can be absorbed in Nature, as-as in the sea, as if you melted into the sea and were diffused through the oceans of the earth. There is peace where her mysteries are an open book to you; in her inmost recesses she has perfect peace, even for the most fevered.”

I have 50 pages left, which is too much to polish it off tonight but at the same time, I’m on that downhill run where I’m eager to follow all the threads and reach the end, even though I will miss it when it’s done.

Meanwhile, I’ve also been researching her father, naturalist David G. Stead and he led me astray onto a whole different journey as he was a naturalist and conservationist and he wrote a series of articles in the children’s section of a Sydney newspaper which make for interesting reading. His column was called “The Great Outdoors” and was narrated using the voice of an emu called Dirrawan. Stead was rather broad in his understanding of the great outdoors and one of his early columns gives a detailed account of mud sediments at the bottom of the ocean, especially at the deepest part of the ocean in the Marianna Trench, which is clearly well away from the Australian outdoors. Anyway, I’ve managed to download the text from the online newspapers after undertaking text corrections and they’re now getting a further clean up as the analysis begins. This has also been a brilliant distraction.

So, how are things with you going? No doubt, I should’ve asked you that at the outset and offered you “coffee, tea or bonox” as my mother would say. However, I got a bit carried away. So, please forgive me.

This has been another Weekend Coffee Share hosted by Natalie the Explorer.

Best wishes,

Rowena

PS I almost forgot to mention that Miss and I decorated our new phone cases this week. This is an idea she picked up from Tik Tok where you cover the cover the back of the cover in tiling plaster and stick objects into it like a collage. It was so much fun and I was really happy with the results even if they’re not the most practical phone cases around.

My phone case made using shells I’d picked up in Geraldton WA over 20 years ago.

A Visit to Sydney Modern – An Extension to the Art Gallery of NSW.

My goodness! Writing up these posts about our three week stint in Sydney seems to be taking longer than our holiday itself, a situation hardly helped by my knack of over-researching each and every step I take and even taking flight on the wings of numerous stories.

While some would consider delving into the past like this a waste of time or an escape from the present, for me these places really come to life when you find out more about them and their assorted characters. Indeed, even the multifarious fragments of stories I’ve been gathering are riveting and while they might not make a full story in themselves, I’m hoping to join them together into some sort of conglomerate or word collage. We’ll see.

New Zealand artist Francis Upritchard’s Here Comes Everybody

Meanwhile, heading back to the 19th January, I caught the ferry to Circular Quay and the train to St James Station and started walking towards the Art Gallery of New South Wales and it’s new development, Sydney Modern, which is located conveniently next door. Sydney Modern, which is its temporary name, only opened on the 3rd December, 2022. So, it had only been open for about six weeks and it was brand spanking new. Moreover, being our long school Summer holidays, quite a few of my friends had been going and photos were turning up on Facebook which motivated me to overlook the long walk to get there.

And I thought I had big feet…!

My thoughts about Sydney Modern are that it’s massive with vast amounts of space in between works and my feeling was they could’ve moved the paintings closer together and squeezed a few more works up on the wall and there would be more to see. Of course, this is coming from someone whose personal style is “cluttered eclectic” and I’m always trying to squeeze more books into overcrowded book shelves and don’t even talk to me about getting photos up on the walls at home. I have stacks upon stacks of picture frames and I’d probably be able to fill Sydney Modern myself given half the chance. So, I’m hardly one who would leave plenty of room or “pasture” around a painting on a wall. Being a public gallery, I might not want to jam it all in and I’m coming to appreciate the virtues of blank space. Yet, I did feel they could fit more onto the walls without it becoming less.

Darren Siwes: Jingli Kwin

Marlene Rubuntja: “Woman & Dilly Bags Hat 2019

Grace Lillian Lee: Belonging 3

Lin Onus: “Fruit Bats” 1991.

Before I developed these theories on gallery hanging space, I visited the Aboriginal gallery within Sydney Modern – the Yiribana Gallery, which actually takes pride of place in the new gallery instead of being shut away in the boondocks like it was in the old building. How could a country marginalise the art and culture of its Indigenous people? I don’t know and I guess it’s just part of a broader picture of things I don’t understand. My thinking is too simple. Anyway, I really enjoyed being able to immerse myself in Aboriginal art there and gain a greater appreciation, even if I have a long way to go. If you would like to explore the Yiribana Gallery online, click HERE

Just on this first visit, I didn’t really get a good feel for the new building and barely scratched the surface. However, if you’d like to read more about it, here’s a link: Opening of the Sydney Modern Project.

An awkward selfie of me with my lump of clay and contribution to the work.

Before we leave Sydney Modern, I’d just like to share one last thing which was more of an experiential or “participatory” artwork. This was Kimsooja’s Archive of Mind. Visitors to the gallery were given the opportunity to make their own albeit small contribution by taking a lump of clay, rolling it into a ball which was left on a large table becoming part of a a community of balls. We could choose from three different coloured clay and it was meant to be a bit of a relaxing, mindfulness type experience and there’s a brief explanation about what the work’s about:

“Each person has their space and time, but the work also creates a communal space. Working towards a certain state of mind creates a kind of cosmic landscape, a mind-galaxy

– Kimsooja, Korea 1957-

Personally, I found it rather exciting to go to the art gallery and make art or perhaps it’s more of a sculpture myself and to be a contributor and not just a watcher of art. I was also reminded of visiting the art gallery with our son when he was just shy of turning five. We were walking back home across The Domain after visiting the gallery and he found a great big Autumn leaf on the ground. Being a preschooler, he knew all about making leaf prints from Autumn leaves and wanted to take the leaf back to the art gallery so they could make one. He was so enthusiastic. I felt a bit too self-conscious to return to the art gallery with his leaf and explained that the gallery displayed art rather than making it there. Had we gone back, I’m sure the staff would’ve accepted his leaf with grace (unlike his mother) and there’s part of me now that wishes I’d turned back and had more belief in him.

Heading home, I decided to walk back to Circular Quay via the Botanic Gardens instead of walking back to St James Station. Transport wise, the art gallery is in a tricky spot and it’s a fair hike to a station. However, I planned to take it slowly, a bit at a time, and rest along the way and thought I’d be okay. I wasn’t and the walk back to Circular Quay was grueling. It felt like I’d been walking for an eternity and then I finally reached a map and it showed I was only a third of the way through and my legs were aching, exhausted, dead weights. However, I’d unwittingly committed myself to coming out the other side and everywhere I looked there were prohibitive flights of stairs. Tall trees towered overhead and there were moments where I was starting to feel trapped, and like I’d never make it out the other side. I also have a pretty poor sense of direction which didn’t help either and with such limited energy, I couldn’t afford to get lost and even take one more step more than required. Indeed, I was looking for the short cut out.

I guess this is what they call biting off more than you can chew. Moreover, the trouble is you can’t always spit it all out and make everything manageable again. Sometimes, you’re caught up in the flow and all you can do is keep breaking it down into smaller chunks, rest, recover and think about all those powerfully motivating words like resilience, persistence, perseverance, determination, never giving up. Another thing which also would’ve helped is planning ahead, and having some appreciation of not only getting to my destination, but also getting home. Sometimes you can push yourself too far, which is actually counter-productive and even dangerous. You don’t always need to be a hero, and some times being a survivor is good enough.

No escape from the Botanical Gardens for those who can’t get up the stairs lol.

Obviously, I made it out alive and didn’t get lost in the Botanical Gardens for eternity either. Yippee! Mind you, I can’t say that I really learned to be more cautious about pacing myself, but more of that to come.

Have you been to the Sydney and what did you think? Or, have you been on a similar adventure over in your neck of the woods? If so, I’d love to hear from you.

Best wishes,

Rowena

A Walk To Cremorne Point Reserve, Sydney.

Last night, I received a sudden wake up call. While writing up about our three week holiday house minding at Cremorne Point, I’d become seriously waylaid in Watson’s Bay consumed by back story after back story after back story, which we writers and researchers colloquially call a “rabbit warren”. I really loved Watson’s Bay and I was also drawn into it’s history via Christina Stead’s first novel Seven Poor Men of Sydney, which was set there. However, it was now time to get back on the ferry and had back to Cremorne Point and onto the next day’s events.

Sydney Harbour Looking towards the Heads from Cremorne Road.

After coffee with a friend and meeting up with our son at Circular Quay and catching the ferry back together, I decided to go for a swim at MacCallum Pool located in Cremorne Point Reserve. However, before we get to the pool, we’re going to walk down Cremorne Road and I’ll share a few stellar views along the way. While I was doing this walk just before sunset on this occasion, I’ve also included some photos from a previous walk so you can see what the reserve looks like during daylight. I’d also like to emphasise that Cremorne Point offers an excellent vantage point to watch the sun set on Sydney Harbour and the reserve itself is a great place to watch it over a casual picnic.

Meanwhile, I’d just like to let you know that Cremorne Point was originally known as Wulworra-Jeung by the Cammeraygal, the Aboriginal people who inhabited the land on the lower northern shores of Port Jackson prior to the arrival of Europeans. Initially known as Robertson’s Point, it became known as Cremorne after the Cremorne Pleasure Gardens which were established in 1856. Although they only survived six years, the name stuck. There were attempts to mine coal at Cremorne Point and to sell off the harbourside land which was declared the reserve in 1905 but thankfully resistance conserved the natural beauty of Cremorne Point for the future and for all.

Magnificence everywhere you turn!

While my photos brilliantly capture and share Cremorne Point’s captivating natural beauty, and sensational views of the harbour and ethereal skies, they fail to relate my personal struggle. As I’ve mentioned before, I have dodgy lungs and 50% lung capacity and struggle to get up hills, stairs or even gentle slopes on a bad day. Unfortunately, Cremorne Point is quite hilly which is fine when I’m walking down to the point, but at best “a challenge” walking back up. I’d had trouble getting back up the hill when we’d previously done the walk to MacCallum Pool.

How incredibly relaxing!

However, I’d been doing more walking and thought I might just pull it off. Besides, the pool was only round the corner. If I took it slowly, I’d be fine. The only trouble is that I wasn’t. I’d got myself into deep water and with no other way to get home, I had to keep going. Every single step at this point was like moving feet of lead and my breathing was very strained. What I also didn’t know at this point, was that there had been a botch up with my prescription and I’d been on half the prescribed dose on and off for a year and the muscle weakness was returning. I was battling extreme shortness of breath on top of muscle weakness and I really did feel like I was about to break down. Although I did make it back, I have no doubt doing that walk was a mistake.

Sunset from Cremorne Point Reserve

Yet, at the same time, the photographer in me not only loves and cherishes the photos I took on that walk, but also the experience of merging with that magnificent sunset over the harbour and becoming one which invigorated my soul as well as my senses.

Hope you enjoy my journey and I’ll be back with a focus on MacCallum Pool in my next post.

Best wishes,

Rowena

Learning to “Dream Again” After “Standing Tall”.

Today, I am standing taller after watching Standing Tall, a powerfully inspiring event geared towards bringing out the best in our youth, helping them soar towards their dreams, and ultimately help them resist the notorious pitfalls lurking around. Acknowledging the “challenges” of the past two years, this year’s theme was “Dream Again”, which was very apt.

Okay, I can hear you saying that even in the wildest realms of my imagination, I am not a 16 year old schoolgirl like our inimitable Miss. “Who do you think you are? Go and take a look in the mirror and grow up!”

Well, in my defence, I want to make it clear that I wasn’t just watching Standing Tall for my own benefit. Yet, my motives were not purely altruistic either. I have a heartfelt passion and concern for our young people, especially after the last two years of covid and extended lockdowns. In that time, so many dreams and realities have sunk like stones, seemingly to the very depth of the abyss never to return. Moreover, two weeks ago, I attended a two day course given by Lifeline covering suicide intervention. As a parent of teens, I did this with particular thought to the young people who cross my path, hop in my car or occasionally sleep on our couch. Yet, there’s a space well before despair sets in where the seeds of self-confidence, hope, and hard work can grow and bear fruit. After all, we might never know what a difference a smile or a few words of encouragement can make to someone else’s life. This is where Standing Tall fits in.

Anyway, although covid is still around and has been joined by a nasty flu, the tide has turned and we have new beginnings. In recognition of these renewed hopes, the theme for Stand Tall 2022 is Dream Again, which is good for all of us.

So, I’m going to recommend straight up that after you finish this post, you go straight to the live stream replay. If you know some young people, especially living in Australia, see if you can get them to watch it too. It will be available free online for the next three months. By the way, if you can’t get them to watch it, watch it yourself and try to drop a few of these golden seeds of wisdom and encouragement into conversation.

“Every student has the capacity to make someone else’s experience of school better.”

Hon. Jason Clare, Minister for Education at Standing Tall 2022

Now turning to Standing Tall, each of the speakers encouraged me enormously. As I mentioned earlier, my interest in Standing Tall wasn’t purely altruistic. I’ve been in a state of extended limbo after having chemo to treat my muscle-wasting auto-immune disease. It took me quite a long time to get back on my feet, the family had been through a lot, and I also wasn’t the same person that I was before. I didn’t want to go back. I wasn’t well enough to move forward, and certainly I wasn’t too keen to fast-forward too far ahead either. I didn’t expect to be here. However, thankfully that hasn’t come to pass, and ironically I’ve actually been a lot better since covid came along. I haven’t caught so many chest infections and I haven’t caught covid.

So, to use Facebook parlance, my journey has been “complicated”.

I have also given a few motivational talks myself. I’ve also written numerous posts here on Beyond the Flow touching on things. However, I haven’t written the book, and considering I’m a writer, it becomes more of a sin of omission than for someone else. Yet, at the same time, as my writing lecturer at university, Michael Wilding, used to say: “writing is a thinking process”. So, when those thoughts are incredibly traumatic, it’s no wonder the writing process pauses or even stops.

“What you are going through doesn’t define you.”

Duku Foré

Now, getting back to Standing Tall, the first speaker, Duku Foré, really hit me right between the eyes. Duku was born in a refugee camp in Uganda and lived there with his family for ten years. His life changed abruptly when his family came to Australia as refugees. However, in many regards Australia wasn’t the promised land. It wasn’t easy starting out in a new country. For many years, he was the only black child in his class and also had a severe speech impediment. He was bullied at school, and also got into trouble himself. Despite all of this, he set out to inspire others through motivational speaking, and at 19 represented Australia at the United Nations. If you would like to hear more about his story, here’s another interview.

“Do something today that your future self would be proud of…”

Michael Crossland

I’m not going to go into every speaker or I’d be writing for a year. However, I also wanted to mention humanitarian and cancer survivor Michael Crossland. His journey is particularly relevant to me as he has overcome numerous life-threatening health issues, and is still here to tell the tale. Although he’s told this story many times before, he spoke with an emotional rawness as though he was telling his story for the very first time. However, his story wasn’t just about recounting his traumas. Rather, he has made what would be considered extraordinary achievements for the average Joe, and yet he has ongoing, diabolical health issues. How is it so? I don’t know but his mother also has this extraordinary fighting spirit. Grit. Tenacity. Supernatural strength and optimism. Michael is also a humanitarian and has given back, which includes buying a house for his mum. My words feel dreadfully inadequate. So, here’s a direct link to another motivational talk which overlaps with his talk at Standing Tall.

Another speaker I found particularly interesting was model and blogger Harmony Butcher. She spoke the dangers for young people about self-image on social media. Indeed, she wrote this enlightening post about self-image on her blog. As she spoke, she mentioned a statistic that 25% of people feel they need to change some aspect of their appearance to be feel acceptable on social media. Being a bit more mature in years, I found this statistic staggering. Yet, I just realized that I’m guilty of this myself. It’s exceptionally rare for me to have any photos taken of me wearing my glasses, although I wear them all the time. Indeed, although I’ve been posting here at Beyond the Flow for ten years and fairly open, how many of you have seen me in my glasses? Sure, it’s only a small alteration, but so is airbrushing out pimples, freckles or wrinkles. To be fair, this what we do with makeup anyway, and who really puts their real, undoctored physical self out there anyway? Well, let me assure you that aside from the glasses, what you see of me here is what you get. I rarely wear makeup in real or online life, but I’m also currently living the quiet life.

“Some people would do anything to have your bad day.”

Michael Crossland

I also wanted to share the story of Danny and Leyla Abdullah. On the 1st February, 2020 their lives were shattered and changed forever when a drunk driver mounted the footpath and killed three of their six children: Antony 13, Angelina 12, and Sienna 8, along with their cousin Veronique Sakr 11. The randomness of the accident and that one family would experience such a catastrophic loss, especially due to a drunk driver, was devastating. How could they go on? Understandably, there was strong community outrage towards the driver. Yet, a few days after the accident, Leyla Abdullah publicly forgave him. How could this be? Indeed, in her talk, she emphasized that she forgave the driver before he apologised. Extraordinary. She also said that “forgiveness is a choice. It’s like a muscle. The more you practice it, the better you get.”

Danny and Leila Abdullah didn’t stop there. They have created a national day of forgiveness, i4give Day, to remember the loss of their children and niece, and for everyone to think about someone they can forgive or ask for forgiveness. Forgiving others is critical, releasing our hearts from the toxic poison of hate, resentment and revenge.

The Abdullahs also had a special surprise at Standing Tall. It was their little bundle of joy and hope…their 10 week old baby girl, Selina. Of course, she doesn’t take the place of her lost siblings, but seeing a new life created out of the ashes was so encouraging. Indeed, I was jumping for joy in my chair.

“You can’t silence fear, but you can turn up the volume of hope and faith and drown it out”.”

Eloise Wellings

Next up, was Olympian and long-distance runner, Eloise Wellings, who is also the co-founder of the Love Mercy Foundation. Eloise had some really good things to say, which focused on overcoming setbacks and disappointment, believing in your potential and to keep going. She also mentioned something I’ve observed, and that some young people had developed a culture where it is better not to try than to fail. That they use the term “to be a sweat” to knock down people who apply themselves. When I was at school, the term was “swot”. Eloise was really encouraging and said: “you won’t regret trying.” She also advised focusing on the process rather than the big goal. “Get the next step done.” Talk about good advice, and certainly applies to me and the book project.

Bella Taylor Smith deserves an extra-special mention as she not only spoke but also performed. For those of you who may not know Bella, she won The Voice Australia 2021. Bella has her own story of overcoming adversity and is now touring with Guy Sebastian.

Think about whose footprints you’re following.

“It’s not what happens to you. It’s who you choose to become”.

Alex Noble.

Last, but not least, there was 19 year old Alex Noble On Sunday the 21st of October 2018 16 year old Alex Noble was doing what he loved best – playing rugby. As a rising sports star he was training with the Under-17 NSW Rugby Sevens youth selection squad. Tragically he was badly injured on the field, breaking his neck and severely damaging his spinal cord. Since then, Alex has poured all the tenacity and resilience he’d applied to his rugby training into his recovery and has made incredible progress. He has also started the Alex Noble Foundation whose motto is “I fight you fight”. (I’m looking back at my notes now and I see the phrase “We are unbreakable” circled. I know from personal experience what it’s like to experience a gruelling physical setback and barely be able to move myself. However, thanks to a reasonable diagnosis with treatment among other things, I am now doing remarkably well!)

So, what were the take homes from this extraordinary day?

I think the bottom line was that even the most extraordinary dreams are possible if we work hard, persevere, and develop the resilience to be able to bounce back from setbacks. At the same time, we might also have to find a new pathway when our dream sinks, regroup and find another. Secondly, we are not alone in our triumphs or tribulations. When we triumph, think about others around you and pitch in. If you’re at rock bottom, you are not alone. Help is at hand. It is also possible that while you’re at rock bottom, you will meet others who aren’t being reached. So, even in the depths of your own despair, you can offer hope to others. Well, I added that bit, but I know it to be true. This is another of my own observations… we need to keep ourselves in good physical, mental and spiritual shape because we don’t know when adversity is going to hit and the bumps will be less intense if we’re in good shape. As the Scout motto says: “Be prepared!”

Standing Taller after watching the live stream and going for a walk along the beach.

I hope this encourages you to check out the live stream so you can absorb and apply their wisdom and zest for an abundant life, and I would personally like to thank everyone who contributed towards the day for having such a big impact on me and my family.

Meanwhile, I’d love to hear from you, especially if you attended Standing Tall or like me tuned into the live stream.

Best wishes,

Rowena Curtin

Kayaking in Lockdown…A New Beginning.

These photos of Geoff and I kayaking in lockdown are living proof of just how deceptive a photo can be. There we were floating on a magical, diamond carpet as the radiant Spring sunshine cast its magic over the water. It’s absolutely beautiful, and would make for a perfect postcard. There’s the bright blue sky dotted with a couple of woolly white clouds. There’s also the radiant Spring sunshine which isn’t hot enough to burn , but warm enough to defrost the Winter inertia. Indeed, Spring is something you feel right throughout your mind, soul and spirit; and you just feel invigorated. You don’t need flowers in the frame to know it’s the season of rebirth.

What the photo doesn’t say, is how hard it was for us to get there, or how long it’s been since Geoff and I went kayaking together. To be perfectly honest, I can’t remember. That’s despite having the kayaks sitting in our backyard, and it’s something we both love doing. I last went kayaking with friends back in January, but Geoff was at work and he went out with one of the same friends on a night kayak run without me. Meanwhile, our friend kayaks several times a week, especially during lockdown. Indeed, pre-lockdown, he used to kayak across Broken Bay to Palm Beach using a head torch to guide his path. Of course, I’ve told him he’s mad. His mother has told him to phone a friend and report in. Yet, at the same time, he’s like an age-old adventurer, and good on him. Yet, at the same time, I cry out from my chair in the loungeroom…”Me too!”

Don’t you love my dreadful kayaking hat!

Unfortunately, it’s not so easy for us to just grab the kayaks and run. For some reason, we need to paint the house first. Research and write a series of books. That’s on top of the usual stuff like going to work, looking after the kids and throwing the ball endlessly for the dogs. For us, getting the kayaks on top of the car and down to the wharf is like packing up for our annual holiday and what with paddles, life jackets, water shoes etc we almost need to pack as much gear too.

Geoff’s Kayak.

On top of this, there is also my health and physical disability issues. When you struggle to walk and it doesn’t take much to have a stumbling fall, it doesn’t seem logical that paddling might actually be easier than walking. I don’t feel very competent at paddling because I’m a novice and my husband used to do white water kayaking in the Tasmanian rapids and also played canoe polo competitively. Our friend has also competed in the Hawkesbury Classic. The two of them could well and truly paddle off into the sunset at quite an enthusiastic pace together, while my kayak might drift round in a circle, and I might just enjoy floating for a bit. In other words, I’m not even trying to keep up unless it’s for conversation, which case they need to go at my pace which they do quite happily without complaint.

While I absolutely loved our paddle today and found the exercise and sunshine exhilarating and loved just drifting along like a cloud on the water, there were quite a few reflective moments.

The last time I was kayaking there, I was at a picnic with a group of friends. We had such a wonderful time out on the water, and as I said, unfortunately Geoff had to work. My friend Lisa was there with her son and I went out on the kayak with him. He’s ten years old and loved diving off the side and was full of such energy. Lisa was much more serene. She was like a beautiful swan gliding across the water as she paddled and her smile lit up the sky. It’s the truth. No exaggeration. Anyway, she passed away a few months ago after a long battle with breast cancer. I’ve mentioned that before. As much as you can try to convince yourself you’re okay and that you’re back on your feet again, I really missed her. Missed her deep inside my bones type missing her. I also miss being able to hang out with our friends in person as well. That hurts at a really deep level as well.

Mister kayaking along with all 40+ kilos of Bilbo our Border Collie…the calm before the splash.

Then, there were also memories of going out kayaking as a family when my parents had a beach house at Palm Beach. It was a short season, but they had a jetty and a boat shed and it was so easy to get the kayaks in the water as long as it was high tide. The kids were much younger then, and Bilbo our beloved Border Collie (who some of you may remember), was there along with Lady and we’d paddle with the kids, paddle with the dogs. Paddle alone. I even went paddling when I was going through chemo to deal with a flare of my auto-immune disease. I loved kayaking that much, and yet now I rarely go.

Out on our kayak adventure.

Why is it so?

Well, Geoff was grateful I talked him into going today, and decided that the kayaks are going to stay on top of the car. That’s a statement, isn’t it?! It’s like having your sword drawn, and being ready for action.

Move over Huckleberry Hound. Lady enjoying her kayak adventures.

That’s particularly important during lockdown. Somehow we need to find things we can do within the scope of the restrictions, while acknowledging but not dwelling on all the things we can’t. We are very lucky to live in this beautiful part of the world and be surrounded by beautiful beaches, and still waterways. It was also a choice.

Miss pretending to be out in the kayak. It’s a beginning.

Do you enjoy kayaking and have any stories to share? I’d love to hear from you.

Best wishes,

Rowena

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An Empty Harbour – Sydney.

Yesterday, my husband and I went down to Kirribilli for lunch after the first appointment I’ve had with one of my medical specialists since Covid started ravaging our world. I usually go on an outing after these appointments as a much needed pick-me-up, and often end up at Kirribilli by the harbour, where I might catch a ferry into the city (and by city I mean Sydney and yes I’m coming to you from Australia). The other place I end up is Surry Hills, which is also characterised by the terrace house, but is more inner city than harbour if that makes any sense.

There’s a lot to dazzle you in Kirribilli. Obviously, you need to go no further than the Sydney Harbour Bridge whose Northern arch is parked right in its front yard. Across the harbour, the Sydney Opera House is smack bang in your face. You can’t miss it. Although I’m Sydney born and bred, I never tire of these monumental architectural feats. Yet, there’s still the beauty of the harbour itself, which is usually a hive of activity.

Selfie.

So, I was rather taken aback when I was down there yesterday, and the harbour looked “empty”. There was water without boats. No cruise ships were parked across at the International Terminal. Of course not! Could you imagine the huge public outcry??!!! Yet, only twelve months ago these cruise ships were simply part of the scenery. Of course, I photographed them whenever I was in town, because they’re still a novelty to me and they’re absolutely massive, and almost unbelievably big, glamorous and totally dominated the waterfront. However, they’re now gone, and I wonder if these super-spreaders of disease will ever be back, or at least in quite the same way.

However, this emptiness isn’t just confined to the water either. The harbour foreshore is also conspicuously empty. There are no armies of tourist ants marching around the usual suspects. Indeed, in hindsight, it sinks in that we were alone and didn’t see anyone else posing in front of anything. The SLRs, phones and selfie sticks were all gone along with all the people. Not that Sydney’s become a ghost town yet, but she’s not what she was.

How you feel about that, probably depends on your perspective. Less humans is always a good thing for the environment. We are a destructive breed. However, the economics must be tough. I don’t know to be really honest. We live in a protective bubble both thanks to me needing to social distance and my husband needing to work from home to protect me, but also because he has a good job, and he managed to survive the extensive staff cut backs at the university.

There’s been much to lament about covid, but environmentally speaking, it has eased the pressure a little, and perhaps also reminded us of what we’re doing to the planet. That maybe we don’t need to go, go, go quite so much and that we cause pause, slow down and connect more with each other, and it’s not the end of the world.

Geoff in shadow and a glimpse of Kirribilli. This is the chopped off version of the covid beard.

Obviously, our lessons here are quite different to places overseas where so many lives have been lost, and there is so much grief. It’s hard for some of us to grapple with that, but we also struggle with the effects of isolation, or being jammed in together with no escape. I think for many travel offers something to truly look forward to, and also allows many to keep in touch with close family and friends. So, the very tight travel restrictions are really being felt. Last year, our son was booked to go on a six week history tour of Europe, and instead he ended up in lock down with Mum, Dad and his sister and doing school at home. Not only that. We were also living in sheer terror of seeing another human being in case they might secretly, unknowingly have the virus, and particularly that I of reduced immunity and shitty lungs would die. The fact that storm has seemingly passed, doesn’t negate what it was like to live through it, and that until we are vaccinated, the risk, however minute, is still there.

Florist window in Kirribilli.

We wait.

Well, some of us wait.

Others are invincible. We’ve had over a month since there’s been any community transmission here in NSW. It’s very tempting to throw caution to the wind, and get out there and party.

However, our defences at this point are not infallible. One slip up in hotel quarantine, and it’s out. Moreover, we won’t know where it is until someone symptomatic is infected. Yet, does this justify such caution? So many restrictions?

Here we were late last year trying glasses on over our masks.

Given our current status, it’s not something to lose sleep over, but I’m still largely social distancing, trying to remember to wear my mask in high thoroughfare areas, washing my hands more than I’ve done in the last ten years, and won’t set foot on a train. If I’m in a small group, I’ll give my friends a hug, but I don’t shake hands. I think of it as insurance. Moreover, I don’t blow the sacrifices I’ve made through the last year, by not seeing this through to the end.

Meanwhile, close friends of mine have barely made any changes. Life’s gone on. However, we respect each other’s decisions. Well, most of the time. I do like to see people comply with the government’s restrictions, particularly as organizations. Do the right thing. After all, to use a phrase borrowed from World War I, we need to do “our bit”. Moreover, for those of us who are more susceptible, we need to go the extra mile which might seem unnecessary, but for us it might not matter. For us, the risks are still too high.

Loved being able to have lunch in a cafe in Kirribilli, and that the table was cleaned when we arrived and great precautions were maintained.

Meanwhile, Geoff and I enjoyed a wonderful lunch in Kirribilli and soaking up those magnificent harbour views on a perfect, sunny Sydney day.

How is covid impacting you where you live? What are you going through? I would love to hear your stories and hope you and yours are keeping well and safe.

Love,

Rowena

PS The vaccine roll out has been slow here in Australia. Given the low incidence rates, there understandably wasn’t the urgency and it was good to wait and see how it went overseas first. However, now that I’m hearing about friends with my auto-immune disease being vaccinated overseas and responding, I’m keen to line up.

Vaccination began on the 22nd February, and we’ve barely scratched the surface of the first category, which includes frontline medical and nursing home staff. he urgency wasn’t here and they’re just starting to vaccinate health workers and frontline staff. These people fall into category 1a, where I’m in category 1b. Although the TV is looking promising, it could well be more than a month before I get my first jab. Again, I’ve got to talk myself through the anxiety and be thankful the vaccine has been developed so quickly or at all. I’m not really suffering or doing it tough, but who isn’t hoping the mass vaccination is going to help restore some real sense of normality. Who wants to live in covidland, even our covidland of very low incidence for any longer than we have to? No! Of course not. We all long to escape. Go back and just enjoy walking down the street, stopping off at a cafe or browsing through a shop without thinking, logging in, wearing a mask and being able to shake hands with a mate.

Thursday Doors – Kirribilli, Sydney.

Welcome to Another Thursday Doors!

Today, we’re heading down to Kirribilli, located smack bang on stunning Sydney Harbour. Indeed, the Sydney Harbour Bridge is parked here with one foot in Kirribilli, and the other planted across the water in Miller’s Point. Not unsurprisingly, the Bridge dominates Kirribilli with its sheer physicality, but also in terms of sound, whenever a train rumbles across all that steel with its echoing, idiosyncratic roar.

The Sydney Harbour Bridge viewed from Kirribilli today. In so many way, the bridge is the gateway (or door) into Sydney.

In a sense, our trip to Kirribilli represents the opening of an invisible door. This door marks the dividing line between the safety of home, and the more risky context of Sydney and Covid 19. Although there hasn’t been a case of community transmission for over a month, clusters have seeming sprung up out of nowhere, but usually connected somehow to the hotel quarantine program. While contact tracing does a fabulous job of identifying potential spread, it doesn’t actually prevent you from catching it. It only tells you after the fact. Due to my auto-immune disease and associated lung fibrosis, I am at a heightened risk of catching the virus if it’s around, and also having a more dire outcome. So, for me, caution makes a lot of sense, especially with the vaccine around the corner so I don’t have to lock myself away forever.

However, there’s also a risk that avoiding medical treatment for these conditions could also be harmful, and all my specialists are located at Royal North Shore Hospital about a 15 minute drive North of Kirribilli, and I often go to Kirribilli afterwards as a reward.

So, that’s how I ended up having lunch with my husband, Geoff, in Kirribilli and comin across this really beautiful and richly ornate door as we walked down to the water’s edge.

Isn’t it something?!!

However, even to the most one-eyed door lover around, it still couldn’t compete with this…magnificent Sydney Harbour.

The thing that particularly struck me about Sydney Harbour today was just how empty it was. It’s usually a hive of activity with ferries criss-crossing the waterways and people moving around on the foreshore. There could well have been one of those towering cruise ships in port, as was often the case before covid. Sydney Harbour isn’t usually this empty, even on a weekday.

Anyway, I hope you’ve enjoyed our trip to Kirribilli, and I apologize for being a one-door-wonder this week, but hopefully this is a sign of things to come and I’ll soon be able to get out and about more and venture further afield.

This has been another contribution to Thursday Doors hosted by Dan Antion.

Best wishes,

Rowena

Our Spiritual Journey…

It’s not very often that I even touch on the spiritual side of my life…my beliefs, my faith or Christian community. That’s not because they aren’t an important. Rather, it’s just that I often see too many shades of grey, and wrestle with so many aspects of my own faith, that  it’s not easy to package it up and present it to anyone else in a vaguely coherent state.

I guess that’s what happens when you’re “beyond the flow”. You’re not usually the sort of person who walks into a place and immediately feels comfortable in that empty seat. Indeed, you bring your own. Ask questions. Wriggle. Don’t quite feel comfortable and look around at all the people who belong and ask: “What about me? Where’s my place? Will I ever belong?”

Above: Barney’s back in my day before it was destroyed by fire and rebuilt. Although I really struggled within myself while I was there, I was very happy there too if that makes sense. Found my place for awhile.

When I was in my twenties, I moved from the small Lutheran Church where I’d grown up and didn’t have many people my own age, and started going to St Barnabas Broadway. “Barney’s” was the Anglican Church aligned with Sydney University, where I’d literally swung from the chandeliers as an undergraduate, loving and being fully immersed in virtually all aspects of campus life. Barney’s was jam-packed with hundreds of young people, and I thought I’d hit the jackpot. That was until I struggled to run into the same people week after week and missed the intimacy of my home Church. Yet, I persevered and went to home groups and formed a really tight group of friends who were also mostly on the fringe of things to some extent. For example, the women among us weren’t real good at wearing floral dresses, which were a kind of uniform at the time. Over time, we came to see ourselves as the “black sheep”.   Indeed, a friend of mine and I wrote this incredibly sad, cynical story of sheep drowning in their own tears abandoned by the shepherd. This wasn’t so much a comment on Barney’s, but more a sense of the individual getting lost and overlooked. Of course, that’s nothing new, but when you feel yourself drowning in sorrow, it can feel like you’re the only one who has ever been there. However, with the exception of mental illness, it is often something everyone experiences from time to time. Moreover, your teens and twenties can be particularly turbulent as you try to launch yourself out into the so-called real world and search for love. It is difficult for most people to respond to drowning souls. However, if you know anything about life saving, you’ll know that you’re not meant to drown yourself saving someone else. Rather, they recommend using props like a broom, which enable you to save a life and not go down in the process.

Anyway, as it turned out, my sense of drowning in my own tears, wasn’t far off the mark. While I was turning to spiritual and psychological sources of help, I was actually battling the effects of undiagnosed hydrocephalus (or fluid on the brain) where the cerebral spinal fluid (CFS) was building up inside my head and squashing my brain. I didn’t have trouble with headaches, but I was clumsy right through high school  and with the pressure on my frontal lobe, wasn’t just extroverted. Stress was also quite disabling. After all, my brain was already under the pump.

When I was 25, I moved to Western Australia thinking a more relaxed lifestyle would be better. However, I was diagnosed with the hydrocephalus a few months later when I couldn’t touch my nose in a basic medical check up. Six months later, after a serious and sharp decline, I had brain surgery in 1996 where they inserted a VP Shunt from my brain under the skin through to my peritoneum. I moved back to Sydney to recover. The shunt blocked and it was decided I had to stay put and I moved back home with mum and Dad and did six months rehab to get back on my feet. I was off work for six-twelve months and went from being a Marketing Manager in a serious relationship to moving back in with my parents with my life squeezed into my bedroom cupboards. While I was grateful for their support, becoming a dependent child again was devastating. It wasn’t part of my plan, ambition and contradicted every little aspect of how I saw myself as a intelligent,  independent career woman.

Then, the shunt blocked, and my bad luck appeared terminal. Not in a life and death sense, but in terms of my morale. I remember talking to a friend and thinking I’d never get married and have kids. That I “couldn’t even take care of a goldfish”. These were gruelingly difficult days, extending into months which kept crawling along. 

Clearly, I’ve come a long way sense then. I met my husband Geoff on NYE 1998, while I was still in the recovery phase from that surgery. He took me on when I was still pretty much a rough diamond, and loved me regardless. Was part of the ongoing journey which saw me continue to recover and extend myself even to the present day. Thanks to what we are still finding out about neuroplasticity, I started rising back up and getting back into the land of living, even if I wasn’t quite back in the fast lane.

Anyway, I’ve taken you on a massive detour from where I intended to take you today.

Praying for our son after the baptism.

The reason I’m touching on the spiritual, is that our fifteen year old son, who is known as on Beyond the Flow as the inimitable “Mister”, got baptised yesterday. When I asked him why he got baptised yesterday, he told me today that the baptisms were on so he might as well do it. However, his face told a different story yesterday when he was bursting with excitement, glowing and clearly being touched and immersed not only in the water, but also in the Holy Spirit and God’s love. Please don’t ask me for an explanation. This was clearly supernatural. I live with this character and experience the ups and downs, highs and lows and the clean versus messy bedroom. I know he’s not a saint, and yet he is. Somehow, so am I. Yet, I feel incredibly ordinary even if I’m no longer that lost, black sheep drowning in my own tears.

I am incredibly proud of our son for choosing to get baptised now. He turned 15 on Friday, and clearly this is an age group renowned for making other choices. Fantastic!

Our family after the baptism

The other thing I was really stoked about, was that despite the last minute notice, we had a good contingent of family there. That even included Geoff’s sister and her boyfriend from Queensland, who just happened to be down. It was actually a very rare situation where Geoff’s family outnumbered my side. With my Dad being one of seven, that doesn’t happen often. Mister also had a few of his friends along and our Church (Hope Unlimited Church) also has a strong youth group and they were there literally cheering him along. Indeed, four of the youth were baptised yesterday.

 

Lastly, although it spent the service out in the car, the family Bible made it inside afterwards and I managed to share it with a few people. It was published in 1872/74 in Philadelphia and originally belonged to my grandfather’s grandfather, Heinrich August Haebich who was a blacksmith in Hahndorf, South Australia. His wife’s family included the Hartmann’s and Paech’s who were among the first German immigrants to come to South Australia. They migrated to under Pastor Kavel, because they didn’t believe in changes to the liturgy back home.  On one hand, you could say they were very devout and fought to defend their faith (which for Pastor Kavel included going to prison at the time). On the other hand, you could describe them as stubborn and resistant to change.

My grandfather photographed at his retirement service.

My grandfather became a Lutheran Pastor. A shepherd in the very meaning of the word, he told stories of driving out through the mud to reach families and connect them with Church and salvation. He and my grandmother worked tirelessly in a ministry capacity, but also as what we’d today would view as social work. While serving in Wollongong in the 1950s, their congregation was mostly made up of European migrants known as “New Australians” who were struggling to adjust to a new country, language and culture and deal with having to start over again with perhaps little more than the shirt on your back. These legendary heroics of migrant Australia, didn’t come without a cost. My grandparents and their kids, lived in a tiny matchbox-sized manse next to the Church where their door was always open and they gave more than really was a good idea. My grandfather would marry a couple. My grandmother would be the bridesmaid and my mother or aunt would play the organ. At the larger weddings, the family would have to leave before the dancing could start. These were interesting time, so different to how I have grown up.

The Walker Family after their release from the Japanese. 

This is just my Christian and spiritual legacy to our son. Meanwhile, Geoff grew up in a Seventh Day Adventist Family in Scottsdale, Tasmania. In his twenties, he moved to Sydney where the home group he attended broke away, becoming Dayspring Church. Going back in time, his family included a Methodist lay preacher and another branch of his family, the Walkers and Brookers were active in the early days of the Salvation Army. Indeed, his grandfather Herbert William Brooker played the cornet in the band which we’ve inherited. Actually, I just found out last night that Herbert William’s cousin, George Walker, was a Lieut.-Colonel in the Salvation Army and was interred by the Japanese during WWII while serving as a missionary in China.  Geoff’s Great Great Grandfather, Robert Sleightholm,  actually built much of the historic Church of the Good Shepherd at Hadspen in Tasmania. I know that’s different to pastoring a Church, but he was still a Church builder. Incidentally, that’s far better than being a Church seller and wrecker. The Anglican Church has put  the Good Shepherd up for sale. Read here. What did I say about the shepherds and the sheep?

While we are very proud of our strong Christian heritage, that is not to discourage people my kids refer to as first generation Christians. While it can be quite encouraging to come from a Christian family and there can be that internal cohesion, it can also be quite different if your Christian walk goes off on a tangent to your family. Christian communities have seemingly become more tolerant in recent years, there are tensions between different expressions and interpretations of faith. This legacy might not always leave you with a blank slate or room for your own faith to grow unimpeded and without perhaps being pruned too harshly. So, whatever your family situation might be, that’s okay. We are all God’s children and valued members of God’s family. Jesus loves us.

Funny I should write all of this, because I usually don’t speak up and it’s been really hard for me to feel an ongoing sense of belonging and commitment to Church. As you’re probably aware since my battle with the hydrocephalus, I was dealt another whammy when I became progressively immobile following the birth of our second child, Miss, and was diagnosed 18 months later with dermatomyositis. For awhile there, I felt like God didn’t love me any more and had channelled his wrath my direction and was zapping me with thunderbolts. I was really angry, hurt and just bereft that I had a second very rare, unpronouncible disease and I hadn’t even turned 40. Of course, I was mad. Mad with God. Mad with life, but mostly petrified of dying and leaving my then three and 18 month old children without their mum, especially when they were too young to even remember their mother or what it was like to have a mum.

My ongoing struggles with chronic health and disability also made it difficult to get to Church regularly and build those ongoing, continuing relationships where I could be a part of things. Me being me, I was also radically overthinking everything. Plus, I was fighting to stay alive, particularly after the dermatomyositis started causing fibrosis in my lungs. I developed bronchitis, pneumonia. I really should wear a mask out in public during fly season, but I am who I am and that isn’t me. I want to be with people, not behind a wall of any sort.

So, life is complicated and as frustrating and exhausting as it might be, I have to keep rising back to the surface and being not only part of community, but being something of a shepherd and caring for the flock from my seat somewhere out the back and not quite out the front. That’s my place. Meantime, Geoff can be found either up the front playing base, setting up and packing up chairs often with our son in tow. Our daughter went to her first meeting of Church dancers last week. That’s quite development compared to when my Mum was growing up.

Well, although this is the extended version of the baptism, it really is very much a fleeting overview of our spiritual journey and we’d love to hear from you. Moreover, if you have written any posts along these lines, please include links in the comments below. I’d love to read them.

Love & God Bless,

Rowena

Lt-Col George Walker Dies

Lieut.-Colonel ‘George Walker, commander of the Newcastle Division of the Salvation Army, died in Newcastle last night at the age of 61. Lieut.-Colonel Walker became an officer in the Salvation Army’s Burwood Corps 37 years ago, and then joined the China and India mission service. During the Second World War he was interned by the Japanese, and is remembered by many prisoners as welfare officer in a number of internment camps around Peking. After the war, he served as a travelling evangelist in New South Wales and Queensland, before taking up his Newcastle post a year ago. Newcastle Sun (NSW : 1918 – 1954), Wednesday 16 April 1952, page 3

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hospital Cheer…Thursday Doors.

Welcome to Another Thursday Doors.

This week’s Featured Door is attached to the Respiratory Investigation Unit at Royal North Shore Hospital, Sydney.

When you think about having a Merry Christmas, the last place you want to end up, aside from the local morgue is in hospital. That also applies to the weeks leading up to Christmas where it seems like the rest of the world is floating in bubbly and doing the Christmas party circuit, while you’re shuffling from appointment to appointment. That’s not all bad if it’s all routine, good news and you can wipe all that off your radar.

However, it doesn’t always work out that way. Six years ago, after my auto-immune disease flared up again and was resisting conventional treatment, I found out that they were bringing out the big guns and I was having chemo for Christmas. Yet, while this might seem like the worse Christmas present EVER, we actually viewed it as a blessing, a heaven-sent answer to prayer, and not a curse. They could do something.

I wasn’t intending to revisit this journey today for Thursday Doors. Although I had lung function tests followed by an appointment with my lung specialist, I was intending to focus on my apres-appointment trip into the city (Sydney) where I photographed oodles of intriguing, eye-catching and even historic doors.

However, before I sorted them out, I wanted to acknowledge the efforts hospital staff have made to brighten up the place, trying to lift your spirits through what are often very traumatic, bleak and desperate times. News you don’t want at any time of year, but especially not at Christmas. Bad things aren’t allowed to happen over Christmas. That should be written into the fine print. Moreover, you wouldn’t be the first person to try to sue God either. Do you remember Billy Connolly in The Man Who Sued God?

Anyway, when I turned up for my lung function tests today, they’d decorated the doors for Christmas and clearly I had to take a photo for Thursday Doors.

I still remember when I walk out of those doors when I was first diagnosed with the fibrosis, and was absolutely distraught. My kids were only seven and five at the time and obviously needed their Mum. I felt bad if I was even five or ten minutes late to pick them up from school, and it was incomprehensible that I wouldn’t be there to pick them up at all. I left the lab with a single tissue and ended up in the hospital chapel sobbing my heart out, and there wasn’t a single tissue in the place. As hard as that tissue tried to cope with the deluge, it was overwrought. I ended up having to sneak back into the hospital toilets, get myself together and buy some tissues. I distinctly remember saying I had hay fever. What a duffer. A year or so later, when things deteriorated, I burst into tears in the hospital shop and the pink ladies rallied around me with such love. They were beautiful.

Christmas Decorations in the Northern Cancer Centre. I think they’re Santa Kangaroos.

Anyway, as I mentioned, my specialists decided to treat the flare up using a chemotherapy drug called cyclophosphamide, which then introduced me to the Northern Cancer Centre on level 1 for my treatments. While I was there, I found out they had a resource centre and I came across a series of work booklets put out by the Cancer Council. These were really helpful for dealing with those really hard questions around death and dying, especially for families with kids. I was mentioning these booklets to a friend recently and that’s what brought me back to lvl 1 today.

Christmas Raffle at the Northern Cancer Centre downstairs.

Having photographed the doors upstairs, I asked the staff if I could photograph their Christmas decorations. I felt like a bit of an idiot, but I wanted to back up the doors upstairs with a another example of how the hospital was getting into the Christmas spirit. Anyway, much to my delight, they upped the anti and asked me if I wanted to have my photo taken in their elf frame. Being an irrepressible extrovert, of course, I jumped at the chance. It was a lot of fun.

 

 

Before I head off and while we’re talking about the hospital’s Christmas celebrations, when I was there on Tuesday, a jazz band was playing the foyer and it’s something they’re doing during December. I couldn’t thank them enough. I’d actually just been to see a friend and it was an emotional time. So, it was really therapeutic to listen to the beautiful music and feel soothed. It was so thoughtful!

Well, I realize that talking death, dying and hospitals is a rather gloomy subject at this time of year, when I reflect that I’m still here six years later and in reasonable health, it actually becomes a celebration. A good news story which might touch somebody else’s troubled heart with a touch of hope. After all, as much as we might not want to be in hospital, the alternative is far worse and rather permanent.  So, I’d better close off this Thursday Doors with a huge shout out to all the doctors, nurses, physios, OT’s and support staff who help get us back on out feet and out the door.

This has been another contribution to Thursday Doors hosted by Norm 2.0. Why don’t you come and join us and share a few of your favourite doors. It’s a lot of fun and helps you see parts of the world you’ll never get to visit.

Best wishes,

Rowena

Our Tenacious Little Dancer.

“I think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why or being able to explain them.”

Louisa May Alcott

Today, our beautiful daughter suddenly grew a couple of inches taller when she stepped into her very first pair of pointe shoes and she was up en pointe. This has been something she’s been aspiring towards ever since she first started ballet as an almost four year old eight years ago. Indeed, I remember a time when she was very small and she stood in a couple of plastic cups to get the look (and a bit of added altitude). In hindsight, I probably should’ve got those cups off her feet and been more safety conscious. However, she was so happy, and it was too good a photo opportunity to miss.

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Beach Ballerina

Our Dancing Queen

Cartwheels in the sand.

In typical Rowena fashion, this pointe shoe fitting demanded a bit of pomp and ceremony. Indeed, quite frankly if she wasn’t twelve years old, I would’ve popped the  champagne, even though I’m not that partial to the taste. Even as a child, I was mesmerized by the theatre of it all what with popping the cork and all those bubbles shooting out like stars across the room with unbridled joie de vivre. Bubbly encapsulates the excitement, the celebration the exquisite preciousness of the moment in a way that nothing else does. You don’t even need to drink the stuff.

However, instead of a champagne celebration, we met up with my Mum for lunch and coffee and then the three of us headed off to Bloch’s for her 3.00pm appointment. By the way, our daughter wasn’t the only young dancer who had to get that very special pair of first pointe shoes on the very first day of the school holidays. The fitter had been flat out all day and we were something like her 11th fitting. Yet, she seemed just as excited for my daughter and for us as the first. As a dancer herself, she knew what this moment was about and really helped to make it special and informative. If there’s one thing I now know about pointe shoes, it’s not to get them wet. I also confess that I’ve also seen my daughter’s feet in a new light.

We really appreciated the care and assistance we received at Bloch’s Hornsby with the shoe fitting. Naturally, the staff are dancers themselves and I felt that our fitter was handing down the mantle to our daughter. They actually gave her a certificate. She’d joined the club.

Our daughter has been learning ballet for eight years now and she’s worked very hard for the last 12 months doing all sorts of stretches to prepare her feet and toes. Indeed, she needed to have a physio consultation before she could go for her pointe shoe fitting. By that stage, her teacher already knew she was ready. However, she likes her students and a parent to be aware of the physicality of ballet and how the muscles bones and other bits and pieces come together to to produce your swan. Through being more conscious of this physical element and looking after your body, dancers can help prevent injury, wear and tear. Given the difficulties I have with movement, I have appreciated these physical realities through a different window, which has given me an insight into the physical demands of dancing. That it isn’t only about costumes, makeup and hair. After all, injury and being on the sidelines is not just an inconvenience for a dancer. It can mean The End, or simply the end of  dance as they know it. When dance is your passion and raison d’etre, that can feel like surviving your own death. (I’ve gone through that with my own battles.)

There was so much to learn at her fitting and you can see here that Miss is very focused taking it all in. She hasn’t been swept away by the excitement of it all.

For every young dancer along with her birth and dance families, getting their first pointe shoes is rightly an incredible achievement and time for celebration. While you might see those beautiful pink satin pointe shoes and immediately think of the likes of Degas and his dancers and the professional stage, these young girls are still within cooeee of being the “awkward duckling” who started out. There were no guarantees back then and for us, there were  certainly no expectations. I just dropped her off for her first class and the mysteries of dance went on behind closed doors until open days or the concert. From where I sat, ballet was just a part of childhood for a little girl. A bit of fun. An activity. It had nothing to do with my dreams, unless it came to taking her photo. Now, that was something I understood.

Edgar Degas, The Little Dancer. She reminded me of my daughter until I found out she was quite distorted.

Although I wasn’t so conscious of this at the time, seeing Miss in her pointe shoes really brought home what we’ve all been through to get her there. I don’t think anybody’s road is easy, but everybody’s road is unique with their own particular reasons why getting into those pointe shoes is a personal miracle and a triumph over adversity. Most of you will be aware that I live with a life-threatening auto-immune disease which affects my muscles and lungs. However, Miss has a rare digestive disorder called gastroparesis, which particularly flared up a few years ago and she was barely able to eat. Indeed, she was struggling to get to school or to ballet and she missed months of classes.

Miss in hospital waiting for her endoscopy. So brave but she also loved having her own remote control TV!!

As you could imagine, it was very difficult to know quite how to manage the situation. We were very concerned about her actual health and it would’ve been quite a logical decision to cut out dance to focus on her schoolwork. Yet, we’re fighters. We might be holding onto the cliff face by our fingertips and kicking and screaming, but we don’t give up. Indeed, it was only after missing a couple of terms and feeling like all my motivational strength had run out, that I truly started thinking it was time to pull the pin. Her teacher was also very patient. However, dancing is a team sport and it’s hard to manage a team on three legs. So, with the end of year concert rapidly approaching, it was crunch time. As a possible way forward, her teacher suggested that her friend came over and they practice the dance together. I’m so thankful because her friend saved the day. That was the turning point. She picked up the dance. Was in the concert and was back on her dance feet again. Then, the following year, she had a friend at her new school who was a passionate dancer and she also a tremendous encouragement. By the end of that year, Miss decided to audition for Dance Team at the studio and was accepted. She hasn’t looked back and with the incredible training and support from her teachers, is growing from strength to strength. Clearly, with all these dance angels working flat out with her on multiple fronts, our daughter must’ve been destined to get up on those pointe shoes today. It’s been a real team effort.

Afternoon Tea.

By the way, while we’re talking about life lessons from the road, organization has been another hurdle. While other girls have managed to get to class with a perfect ballet bun and all components of their uniform, all too often Miss could only find one ballet shoe and her ballet bun could well have been reinterpreted as a bird nest of its own unique variety thanks to her superfine hair, where getting the knots out produced spine-chilling screams. Yet, somehow or another, all of this has mostly become a thing of the past.

After explaining some of the hurdles we’ve had to overcome, perhaps you’ll understand why I thought this moment might never come and the tears of joy I held back while we were there as I felt like the happiest Mum alive. Back when our daughter was struggling, I remember seeing a group of older girls who’d just got their first pair of pointe shoes. They were exuberant and clearly this meant the world to them not only as individuals, but as a group. I felt so privileged to catch a glimpse through this keyhole and get an insight into just how important this moment is to a young dancer and what it would mean to my girl. Whatever happened with my daughter and dance, I wanted her to hang in there at least until she’d gone en pointe and  been a part of that bubble. Not for me, but for herself. I could could sense something in her soul, which is becoming more apparent with every passing year. Dancing is her thing. It isn’t her only thing but it lights her fire.

So, now we find ourselves at a new beginning. Once she goes en pointe, she has to learn to dance all over again. Although it is tempting to try to fast forward and think about where all of this is heading, he’s only 12 years old. The world is her oyster and there are still so many forks in the road. She doesn’t need to choose one yet. However, it can be difficult to maintain a balance and keep an open mind when you fall in love with such an alluring juggernaut that you could easily sell your soul to dance in ballet’s fire. Somehow, we just need to keep a level head and maintain a balanced path…at least for now.

After the fitting, she went to stay with my parents for the week taking her beloved pointe shoes with her. If they weren’t so precious, it wouldn’t surprise me if she slept with them under her pillow or close to her heart. They meant the world to her and I’m so proud of her for all she’s overcome, her hard work, dedication and most of all her passion for dance. I am also very grateful to all the people who have helped her along the way, her teachers, my parents but also very much her friends who have been so supportive and encouraging and that’s not something you hear much about in the dance world. She has some incredible dancing mates.

That is also why I am sharing our journey via the road less travelled for our daughter to get her pointe shoes.  That parenting isn’t all about bragging rights and showing off about your kids’ talents. It’s also about sharing about the hurdles and difficulties so other girls don’t give up along the way because they feel they don’t measure up. Aren’t good enough without giving it all they’ve got. I belong to the Muscular Dystrophy community and not everyone can get up on pointe shoes or dance in a conventional sense. However, that doesn’t have to stop you from finding a way. Indeed, I’ve done some adult classes myself and have my own pair of pink satin ballet shoes. I think it helps to understand that you’re not the only one who might be going through difficulties and wondering whether to persevere with dance or whether it’s all worth it. No one else can answer that on your behalf. However, we are meant to encourage each other and dance is such an exhilarating experience. It’s worth fighting for.

Do you have any dance stories you would like to share? Or, a story of triumphing over adversity? I’d love to hear from you.

Best wishes,

Rowena

PS I have a strange sense of humour. However, after hearing about how her pointe shoes have paper mache in the toes and are very sensitive to moisture, including sweaty feet, I found I found a great deal of humour in this quote:

“Growing up, I had only one good pair of shoes. So on rainy school days, my mom would slip plastic bread bags over them to keep them dry. But I was never embarrassed. Because the school bus would be filled with rows and rows of young Iowans with bread bags slipped over their feet”

Joni Ernst

So, if you see a dancer with plastic bread bags over er pointe shoes, you’ll know that’s our daughter!