Sunrise, Sunset

Today I learned the tragic news of a colleague's passing. My heart is heavy as I imagine the shock and grief her family and loved ones are feeling; my own shock initially numbed me of emotion, and the reality is only just starting to pierce that part of my mind that refuses to accept that she is gone.

Grief can either be immobilising or galvanising. Her passing has roused me from the numbness of routine and reminded me how precious each breath is, and how quickly all that we take for granted can be snatched away in a heartbeat. As I sit in the haven that is my backyard, I have a new appreciation of every sound and sight: the music of birds calling to one another; the thump of our pet dog's tail against my chair; the way the sunlight filters through the translucent leaves of my red cordylines; even the incessant hum of the traffic reminds me that I'm alive.

I should be marking schoolwork and planning my lessons for next week; instead, I've taken today off and plan to spend it with my loved ones. We won't be doing anything special, just hanging out, perhaps kicking a ball around the backyard or taking an impromptu picnic lunch to the local park. We might even dip our toes into the ocean, squealing at its icy touch, laughing at our silly shore-side tap dance. But I will suck in each breath with appreciation, and savour each embrace, cherish every smile.

I guess we will be doing something special, after all.

I want to thank Leanne, who in her passing has given me an irreplaceable gift: as the sun has set for the final time on her lifetime, it has reminded me to treasure each and every sunrise I am fortunate enough to witness. Thank you for reminding me what it is like to live, Leanne. God bless.

Alice’s Wunderland

“Take my hand,” whispered the White Rabbit

  as he led you down the Hole.

“Don’t go!” I warn as you pass me,             

   “He only wants control!”

But you ignore my pleas and reasoning,

  your head full of colourful dreams.

I try to quell my sorrow,

  knowing soon I will hear your screams.

You left me wailing and drowning

  in a growing Pool of Tears.

I warned you to avoid that White Rabbit,

  now you’ll be bound to him for years.

Don’t grind him into the Looking Glass -

‘twill be you who is crushed, not he.

You’ll be caught in the current of addiction

  as the Pool becomes the sea.

The slippery bank will prevent you

  from finding a safe haven to dry.

The Mouse and the Dodo can’t save you,

   - that Bunny, he is way too sly.

He’ll grasp you and pull you back under

    making you beg for relief.

Don’t accept it from the blue Caterpillar,

  it will only end in grief.

The Magic Mushroom he offers

  will only make you feel tall

  for the shortest of times,

  Alice,

  before ...

  you begin to fall ...

    back 

          down 

  that wretched

  Rabbit Hole

  with 

grinning Cats

  and March Hares,

  and Tarts,

  and funny men

  in Mad Hats,

  and tea parties

  with cake

  and bread

  where the Queen of Hearts orders:  

“Off!

          With!

                     Her!

                               Head!”

Yvonne Harman, 2011

Soul Speaker

My childhood was spent on a remote sheep station, miles from anywhere and even further from the family and friends we’d left behind in Sydney. I remember being quite lonely at first, finding the hardship and isolation of life on the land harsh and unbearable. 

But I also remember the freedom and sense of space we enjoyed, where our backyard was endless and pets became cherished companions. I remember simple things: crawling into the cool space under the lemon tree and picking the wild violets that grew there, gently placing fragile stems in my palm to arrange a posy for mum. Picking tomatoes off the vine in the veggie patch and eating them like apples, the warm, delicious juice dribbling down my chin and leaving Rorschach prints on my t-shirt. I remember getting into trouble for that!

My fondest memories are of family. I remember being overwhelmed by excitement when my grandparents would arrive after their day-long trek to ‘the bush’ from their city bungalow. Us kids would all be delegated chores the week before their arrival in an attempt to make our simple 2 bedroom shearer’s hut into a hospitable environment for our elderly guests. To this day, I can’t remember where they slept in our cramped quarters; I guess in my childish excitement I was so overcome with joy at having my beloved ‘Pa’ arrive, the logistics of where they slept was too mundane a detail to remember. 

 

I remember bony arms embracing me in warm hugs and long, hot days spent on the riverbank as Pa indulged in his favourite passion: fishing. I remember eating fresh catfish and hating its muddy taste, but eating it anyway to avoid tarnishing Pa’s pride in his bountiful catch. I remember long talks on the verandah, watching the magic of a summer snowfall as thousands of white cockatoos perched in trees along the riverbank. I became known as ‘Pa’s shadow’, an affectionate family joke. It was a joy just to be in his presence, drinking in his quiet conviction that life was full of wonder. We shared a love of books and poetry, escaping together into enchanted worlds of words and pictures. We would sit together for hours, reading and talking. Or not talking. Sometimes those silent moments were the most comforting, creating a special space where our hearts and souls merged. 

Pa is the only person who has loved me unconditionally, without judgement or expectation. It was okay to just be me, not some version of me that was being reflected by others. I didn’t have to be better, or try harder, or bite my tongue; I could say and do and be what I wanted without guilt. We didn’t have to touch, or speak, or even glance at one another; just being in each other’s presence calmed our souls and brought immense joy.

Pa passed away 30 years ago, a memory so devastating my heart still aches all these years later, a piece of me dying with him on that day. But beneath the sadness there is a quiet acceptance: he is with me always, his kisses blown on a breeze sweetened with the scent of Old Spice, his smile imprinted on every sunrise. We are able to communicate without words, because he is my Soul Speaker. 

I love you, old man.

XX

Pa’s Shadow

Heartspace

Wow, has it really been more than 2 years since I poured my heart out on 'Syb's Sunny Side Up'?

Time has  flown by since I completed my teaching degree 18 months ago; there has been little time and even less energy to indulge my writing passion. Lately though, it's begun to itch - the impulse to write something other than a teaching resource, or observation notes, or a shopping list. So Syb's back!

This time I'm intending to use my blog as a sanity-saver. I still hope to keep an upbeat, positive vibe, but it may occasionally get a little darker when the stress pours in and I need an outlet. I've reread some of my posts, and it's like curling up in your mother's lap: although some of them are tinged with sadness, the memories are something unique to me, a touchstone to my past and my heritage. There is comfort in revisiting them, something akin to returning home to your roots. To your heartspace.

The idea of returning to my roots is just that - an idea. An unspeakable evil entered our lives 17 years ago, and tore apart our family. It's interesting to reflect on this expression; phrases are often metaphoric rather than literal, but this one is very apt: when a family is torn apart, it is just that - a horrendous sense of ripping the very fabric of your existence. I ache from the loss of that sense of belonging. Being someone's treasured daughter. The habitual ribbing of siblings. Secret in-jokes. Family celebrations. Sharing food. Sharing memories. That place that exists in your mother's embrace, where her arms create a barrier to the rest of the world, protecting you from harm. Her heartspace.

It is the fairytale of family life that I miss; it seduces my memory and casts a spell, erasing all the bad times, the arguments and hurtful words. I long for that special embrace, where I can fall ... fall ... fall against someone and know they will catch me and prevent me from shattering. The adult me knows this is a fictional representation of family life, a fabrication based on magnified good times and omitted traumas. The adult me rationalizes that life is better without the toxic presence of manipulation and deception.

So the adult me has created its own heartspace. It's a place where I feel safe and loved, nurtured and protected. A place were I can release the pain in my soul as well as the song in my heart, and not be judged.  A place that celebrates life. All of it - the fairytales and the tragedies.

Welcome to my heartspace. Let the memory-making begin.