The Lonely Ride back to where it began...

Today I am forcing myself to write, as it does not come easily these days; the ability to rave on ceaselessly just doesn't flow as it used to.
To complicate my sudden lack of literary confidence, I am going to take a trek back into my past very soon, to my old primary school in NZ where so many good and a few terrible things happened to me. In a couple of weeks there will be a reunion there, on the site, which is in a short time due to be demolished to make way for a highway by-pass and tunnel.
It is a painful and daunting process, just considering if and how I might write about this event. I feel a whole range of emotions, from fearful to elated, and the recollections render me tearful and nostalgic in brief bursts. I'm sure as the reunion draws closer, it will get more intense and become all encompassing.
Writing about it is something I know I MUST do and cannot avoid, as much as I would like to.
Firstly I want to document a couple of events that happened to me there, good ones, ones I want to share with the Heritage Project site that has been set up to archive and share such things.
And I also want to background this blog a little, share some of who I am and where I've come from- it will save me having to continually dip into and retrieve out of the swamp some of my story.
I know I'm being hugely dramatic here- it is really only me that experiences the uncomfortable twisted knots of emotion when discussing my childhood, and I'm sure it doesn't read as sordidly as all that...there were some very bright moments in my childhood, and a couple of them involved Waterview Primary School,  for which I am incredibly grateful...

1st day of school, 1970, Me, (brother) Marcus, Christine and Lizzie Burke

 I attended Waterview Primary School from half way into my 1st year of school in 1969 until I finished as a Senior student there in 1974. I am pretty sure I turned 6 after we moved to Waterview from Henderson, in late 1969. I turned 10 in April 1974, and was one of the youngest of our group. Most of us were headed for Avondale Intermediate, and from there on we scattered slightly- but most went on to attend Avondale College.    

We had a very tight-knit group; right from the early days I was there in a split grade in Primer 3/4 with a few kids in the older group. I can see some of those kids in my mind's eye, right now. A vivid memory was on my very first day, when the teacher left the room for a moment and a very cheeky handsome boy called Gordon Brown pegged Ngamatua Cook's pigtails to the rope that we strung our artworks on. She was very distressed; although we felt sorry for her we laughed, and I think there was subsequently quite a quite a bit of trouble for Gordon that day as everyone hung him out to dry when the teacher came back...
I also remember that later on though, Gordon Brown stuck up for me in the playground, when I was being picked on by bigger kids, and I think he might have at that moment become my very first 'crush'!

 That's me, 2nd from the left on the bottom row, between Deirdre Lyons and Helen Deason. There's Ngamatua, 2nd from left on the 3rd row. And there's Gordon Brown, 3rd from the right, 2nd row. Mrs Morgan was our teacher that year.

 In Standard 1 our teacher the lovely Miss Grover became Mrs Lynch one weekend, and a few of us went to watch her arrive at her wedding in New Lynn in a fairy tail style horse drawn coach.

Mrs Lynch is on the right- wasn't she a fashion plate? We girls adored her. That's me top 2nd from left, between Kevan Bartlett and Cherie Final

Miss Deborah Tingly, in Standard 2, introduced us to the wonderful world of JRR Tolkein, and my love for all things 'Hobbity' since then has endured, and I've passed it down to my own children. Miss Tingly drove a mustard coloured VW with words 'SauerKraut' swirled on its door. She was extremely pretty and young. She also taught us Cat Stevens songs, which I was getting a double dose of, at home with mum. She was probably the coolest teacher anyone could have hoped for, and her encouragement to me in that year that I turned 8 was extremely significant.


Standard 3 saw our class enter a prolonged and unsettling phase as teachers came and went, including the enigmatic Welshman, Mr Booth, who was hilarious fun unless you got him angry, and the boys often did. Mrs Apted had us for a time, and although I had always been a bit scared of her, she was one of the best teachers I can remember- a pity we didn't get her for a full year.

The very funny Mr Booth is our teacher here. I'm down the front, 2nd to the end on the right, between Christine Rogers and Nyree ?

Then came Standard 4 and it was again quite tumultuous, as far as having a permanent teacher was concerned.
At least we were fortunate enough to have Mr Steve Bartley for some of the time.
It was during this couple of terms that I recollect some of my happiest times at Waterview.
As senior students we required to clean up the staffroom on a rostered basis, doing the dishes and wiping the tables. I remember going up there to do it; the smell and the atmosphere of the room, and loving that opportunity look out of that window where the teachers no doubt often looked down on us playing from above.
Another thing I loved to do at school was sing in the choir, and have the opportunity to perform at the combined schools choir in the Auckland Town Hall, in front of hundreds of people, accompanied by the massive pipe organ. Mrs Trevetta and Mrs Marsh taught us painstakingly to sing really technical pieces which came together incredibly when all 600 children from various schools around Auckland sang as a combined choir. This experience was just awesome to a kid of nine or ten such as I was then. My brother was involved too, he had a beautiful boy's soprano in those days, and I'm sure he would hate me sharing it.

One day Mr Bartley told me he had something very important he had to tell me after school. It seemed to me that I must have done something very bad, and was in trouble. I was nervous all day, waiting for the bell to go and everyone to disappear. Finally the moment arrived, but Mr Bartley called me out of the room just before the bell, so everyone in the class would have seen me go out, compounding my sense of terror about what was to come.

He leaned on the door frame with a twinkle in his eye and said something like "now you're in trouble!" just to make me feel even worse.
But he then told me, or did he ask me? that he wanted me to present a farewell speech and gifts from the school to our principal, Mr Taylor, at a special assembly. I was stunned to be asked, it felt like SUCH a huge honour. Mr Taylor was about to go on a world cruise with his wife to kick off his retirement, and so the school had bought him a set of matching luggage.
Needless to say, in spite of my feeling pretty unworthy, it turned out that I was just the person for the job- and took on the task very seriously, writing myself a lovely little speech which I practiced about 50 times in front of the mirror that week.
I had a special outfit to wear, a very fashionable vinyl pinafore with a skinny-ribbed jumper underneath, complete with my blue lace-up leather shoes.

Standard 4, the Pinnacle of our Primary School Education: I'm in the bottom row in the vinyl dress, 4th from left. Mr Steve Bartley is our teacher.

The day for the assembly arrived, and behind all the excitement was a definite feeling of sadness too, as I was pretty fond of Mr Taylor as a principal and didn't really like that he was leaving.
I really don't remember much about that assembly, let alone what I said in my speech, all I know is that it was well received.
I do however, remember that Mr Taylor responded with firstly commenting that he had seen me in my vinyl dress and the suitcases, which happened to match perfectly, and decided that I was off on a big trip! Perfect words to say to me to make me laugh and loosen up- and I at least haven't forgotten that bit.
That was a great moment in my primary school life; a time that had had its share of ups and downs. I suppose academically I had found everything at school pretty easy, but socially and emotionally I hadn't found it as easy as it obviously was for some. Life at home was pretty difficult and this was sometimes reflected in the way I interacted at school, in that I was pretty insecure.
 It was lovely to get that validation and approval from the teachers and staff at a pivotal time in my life, and I'm sure it has reminded me to believe in myself enough to continue to strive for success as an adult.

I have plenty of other good stories about Waterview Primary, in fact, at this moment they are ALL I can remember. Mostly though, I remember those children I spent so much time with, and how they affected me then. They are still so vividly present in my memories and I can see each one, hear their voices, remember their idiosyncrasies, even their handwriting in some cases! I wonder what they are doing now? I do know what a few of them are doing... but what about Gordon Brown?

A Year Of Post-grad Wilderness...

It's been a year now, since I put down my pen after completing my under-graduate degree in Arts, majoring in Literature. I am indulging in some self reflective assessment of this past 12 months, since I had vaguely thrown out to the universe some suggestions as to how this year might be best lived. I'm not sure I have really done it justice, however, and I have a sense of regret about some aspects of it. Yes, I have had plenty of opportunities to reconnect with family in meaningful ways, and this has been largely fruitful. But how I have spent my days at home, and how I have conducted my relationships back in my home town of Geelong, demonstrate that I have been lazy and disorganised at the best of times. The other times I have been either disabled to an extent by various illnesses and injuries, or have suffered bouts of depression, or, often, suffered both at the same time. 

I thought this year was going to be about gardening, cleaning, sorting, and taking charge of my home environment and about reconnecting with friends that I left along the roadside as I scrambled the last year of my degree together. I have failed to do any of it. I thought I might have written copious blogs or expressed myself creatively through painting or craft, and I haven't done those things either. I've picked up, and discarded again, ukelele and my guitar playing. Typically, when I'm at home, I am lost and unmotivated. The dust is settling even more thickly on all my course materials and writings from my degree, sitting in the bookshelf.

 

However.... read on below...

"My Life", The Musical.

Sometimes you have a moment, when the events around about you create a vortex, and you realize that your life is not a mere cacophony of accidents, which just happen to form a pattern because of the serendipity of random events. Yesterday, the violins swelled in the background, and the harmononious symphony of life sprang into glorious orchestral proportions, as it occasionally does, from time to time. A crescendo of joyful noises, which all melded into a refrain that made me want to sing, seemed to ooze out of seemly random circumstances. A series of wires connected, the amplifier was plugged in, and the "stage Musical" of my life and of those around me seemed to jump into action as a beautifully scripted song. If Hugh Jackman had entered the scene wearing a cowboy hat and singing and dancing at that point I simply would have carried on, and not skipped a beat. Bear with me as I wax poetic- there is a reason for it.

 Perhaps I need to backtrack further to events of last week. These relate to someone close to me, who has found herself embroiled in a soap opera of her own. Unbelievably complex in dimensions, a series of connections and dramas had touched her own life, in a way which to me that seemed to be straight out of a daytime TV drama. Someone she thought she had feelings for was in love with someone that another friend had loved for many years.  The story doesn't end here, it is ongoing, and the songs which could be written in this tale could be very poignant, stirring, tragic and operatic in the extreme. The "someone" at the centre of the love-triangle was causing a good deal of trouble for all the individuals involved, but trying to do it under a pseudonym. It was all being played out on social media, making it seem even more dramatic. Because real people with real feelings were involved, it could have ended very badly. Do you know of a similar plot line? It was inconceivable to my friend and those of us closest to her that this actual situation could be happening, in real time, and yet it was all too real. The 'conclusion' however, has been a much more pleasant one than was predicted. The score at this time could be written by Lloyd Weber himself, and the aria sung by my friend was prophetically belted out by her in a karaoke bar one drunken night not so long ago: "My Heart Will Go On". Little she realize it really WOULD go on, and eventually, happily, because her own musical is thankfully veering away from this Greek Tragedy scenario.

 So what is the refrain behind my musical at the moment? Well it's not something from anything more musically wonderful than the very weird but wonderful HMS Pinafore, I've often thought. It is true, I found out my real dad was alive, and living in another country, at 33 years of age, 14 1/2 years ago, and that I had another whole family, another whole dimension to my life, and a whole new future to walk into. I heard the violins at that time. I knew I was no "accident" or hiccup in my mother's life. Not just a haphazard arrangement of molecules called Briar, a thorn in the side for most of the family, but someone whose life suddenly made sense. The words and lyrics seemed suddenly to me to be in harmony, my feet were dancing, and I was, momentarily on stage, as a player in a colorful scene from something like a Rogers and Hammerstein musical. It was a cathartically wonderful event to walk into that reality; having a father as well as a mother, and life has seemed to be more musically charged ever since.

 I always have had theme music I guess, but it seems more significant to me, as I go on. It changes from day to day- I can get stuck on a plot line... The music can falter and fade from hearing at times, as I doubt the worthiness of a tune... The authenticity of a lyric...but the melody always comes back in, on cue, when certain other things work together...the rhythm, the timing, the inspiration, working in harmony. Like now.

 Yesterday the simple exchange of excited chit chat and banter between myself and my son's partner of nearly three years revealed a connection that blew us all away. Her new friend has a husband who happens to be the son of people I knew in a very different context, almost 30 years ago. There, a simple coincidence, maybe, but then, what a wonderful one! When I knew this young man's parents, I was younger than these young people are now. I knew them before they got together, and was at their wedding,about 28 years ago. I remember when this young man was born, as he shares my birthday. They lived in another state, as I did, and our sons were born at the same hospital, about 18 months apart. They have gone their separate ways, but I remember them both as remarkably intelligent and compassionate people, and I do happen to be a Facebook friend of the mother of this boy. We're not in conversation much, but perhaps we will be more so now. I can't wait to tell her about this connection, through our offspring. She writes, too. That our kids have become friends in another city, 26 years later, in a city of 4 million people, in another state, just makes me feel as though we are all in someone's very big, Michener style epic. Maybe we are? What is the song playing today, you may wonder? I'm not entirely sure. It could be a Bob Dylan-style ballad of 48 stanzas (so far), one that is still being written... One thing I do know, the music score is simply magnificent, full of light and shade, depth and drama...

Three girls, three journeys, three pairs of boots.

   We met through the internet- forums and social media - three women whose lives crossed over and connected in almost bizarre ways. Two of us parents, two of us living in Australia, two of us met on a weight-loss website, all of us connected over music and literature, (but not necessarily the same music), two of us over our living/having lived in the same town, two of us loved to share recipes and cooking tips, two of us met through the third person. We all shared our love of an AFL football team, the Geelong Cats, to be exact. And a mutual recognition that we three were attracted to each others minds and personalities and intellects. With that mutual attraction comes a respect for each one, we don't crowd nor demand of each other anything we wouldn't want to expect of ourselves. We're all different, with different dreams and aspirations, but all three are ready to embark on an adventure of fun and friendship.

   We have recently enjoyed a road-trip together and not only survived but thrived on a week of intense time living, travelling and sharing a tiny car, and sometimes a tiny living space. Secrets were divulged, passions shared and tears shed, midst much laughter and silliness. There was an agenda to this trip, and we shared the mission, although it only one of us who was directly involved. It didn't matter- we became a holy trinity of sorts, and all lived through the odyssey.

   There are nearly two decades in age between myself and the youngest of us, but I truly believe Mel and I are soul sisters, having lived parallel lives. Kirrily fits in the middle of us in age, and her warmth, knowledge and breadth of experience meshes us all. Her sense of humour and innate intelligence magnetises Mel and I towards her. Inexplicably we gel as a threesome, and yet enjoy a relative freedom of individuality as well. We seem to know how to flow together, all on our slightly different levels of energy and on our respective trajectories of personal growth.

  Why does this work so well?
How come friendship groups I have been in before this have been more hard work, less fun, and ultimately not as successful?
On my part- something I am not necessarily proud of, but I am aware that I am not an easy person to get to know, nor to be a friend to.
I've had hits and misses with people over the years. But some of my most enduring friendships are those that have happily puddled on the surface of life, and haven't had to get too nitty or gritty.
Not to dismiss these sometimes very comforting friendships as meaningless at all, but I know that I still crave that depth with people and very seldom feel sated, even after lots of social activity.

   I have on and off through the years had some intense bursts of passionate liaison with people I thought I might be able to connect with on that heart to heart level. But there were gaps between us in our thinking, in our ability to listen uncritically, to trust, and most importantly our values were somehow misaligned. Maybe the timing wasn't there, or we were heading in different directions, and we eventually mutually went towards our own paths.
So how come I can have so much fun with people now- where once I found it difficult to be intimate with people, especially people I caved to be near?
   Perhaps some tough experiences have not necessarily made me tougher, but have made me slower to judge, less ready to take offence. More open and willing to learn from my soul sisters, without doubting who I am and what I believe.
 Perhaps I will one day be the friend I always wanted to have, myself.
Meanwhile I love that I am accepted as I am, quite the warty, imperfect thing that I am.
As for my lovely friends, I love that they are the wonderful, accepting and open people they are, and am grateful for the colour they bring to my life. I adore both of them and respect that they are strong, outspoken and full of integrity.

 Oh- and the boots?
My surplus of boots on our recent trip became a great asset to us all, as we were able to mix and match outfits and go out on the town feeling quite the hotties that we are...
So we are permanently sharing them now.
 The sisterhood that began with a wheel of delicious StAgur cheese we shared over Margaritas last summer, ie the "SaintAgur Sisterhood" has now become a "Sisterhood of the Travelling Boots", and who know what the next incarnation will be?

Like Breathing, I'm Writing.

It feels SO good to be back-
After an interminably long absence from writing, I finally find the flood gates have opened again.
One little nudge, or let's say two little nudges, come to think of  it there were three...
Anyway, they worked, and got me over my hump. Who's to say I might have decided to get there alone, and managed to wander back on to the track without any assistance, but I like to think we are all interconnected and DO all help each other along, and for that I am very grateful for the encouragement of others.

I have two long months doing long and short trips, half of them by road and half by air. I have been in Auckland, Adelaide, the Gold Coast, the Tweed Coast, the Sunshine Coast and Mallacoota.
Some of it was with family, some with friends, and some was in a semi-professional capacity.
It has all been an incredible time, an odyssey in both physical and personal terms.
When I think of some of the ups and downs I went through I am reminded of that wonderful movie starring Ingrid Bergman, Inn of the Sixth Happiness. No wonder I like to challenge myself. Life is far too easy for me here in white bread Australia!

The journeys here and there, the friendships, the fun, the strains and difficulties switched my brain on again and hence I have overcome my irrational fear of overcoming "password-lock-out" and got myself back into this particular blog to resume the story of me. Watch this space, as I begin to unravel my Post-Degree Adventures...