An opportunity nearly missed

Another unexpected blessing today in my homogenous, 'trying-hard to be upper middle-class' seaside suburb. If you recall I 'visited' Greece a few months back while out on a lunchtime walk. Today I went to India. A new yoga studio has opened in the village; not so unusual, they're popping up everywhere, including the gym. Always on the lookout for opportunities to enhance my own teaching and practice, I tentatively called past to determine the time and nature of the classes. Greeted with one of those 'I know the secrets to the Universe and you don't' smiles I was asked if I would like to speak to the yoga teacher upstairs. 'Oh ... No,' I said.  'I'm in a hurry,' I lied.  My 'Best and Less' canvas shopping bags collided with Buddha and Krishna; nearly swept a bowl full of crystals on to the floor and I was in danger of becoming permanently entangled in Prayer Flags ... oh if I could so easily dissipate into the breeze! The question was inane enough, but I don't want my yoga wrapped in New Age eco-plastic. Back in the street I started to head for home, but pulled myself up. Why not speak to him?

Upstairs, the yoga room was a peaceful space away from the traffic. The teacher greeted me warmly and invited me to sit - he cross-legged and me upright and uptight with a 'Best and Less' barrier between us. What followed was a profound and stimulating discussion of Classical Yoga. I was impressed not only with his knowledge and his dedication, but that his understanding, and my albeit limited understanding of yoga were aligned. The fact that he was Indian shouldn't have made a difference, but it did. (Okay, I am sometimes a sucker for the cliche). I was enriched when I left. I had learned some things. How easily I could have missed it. As I walked home I thought about the opportunities that arise, in many different forms, when we open ourselves to their possibility. My 'visits' to Greece and to India happened because I said 'yes'. What they represent too, is that there are unexpected stories behind ordinary doors, just as those stories lie behind ordinary faces. For a writer this is grist for the mill; the real and imaginary behind the ordinariness of every day lives. 

A three blog night

1. Who do you think you are

Am feeling a bit hesitant as I write this blog. "Who do you think you are?", you might ask, "What makes you think that you have anything valuable to say?" Well, I answer, I think I'm just a very ordinary person, recording the events of the last twelve months that led me to 'jump ship' and try to find my 'right livelihood'. Do I have anything valuable to say? Maybe not. I'll leave you to be the judge of that. But what I would hope is that at some point you connect with me and I with you, the 'ahhh, yes' of recognition, that's the very greatest pleasure in being a writer. 

2. the story continues...

 My disassociation with myself persisted in the weeks that followed winning the competition. If I compare the road to the moment of winning, with the road to that other happy day when my dreams of having our own home was realised, there is a significant difference. That dream, the one that began on the verandah in a rented home (see earlier blog) was driven by love, responsibility and duty to my family. The motivation was intensified by need, primarily because it was for others (though of course I benefitted too). In some ways, this made it easier. This time, however, the motivation was driven by more self-serving principles. Whether because of some self-confidence issues, a complacence with the quality of my life, or a nagging sense of guilt that to serve yourself was the ultimate act of self-indulgence and selfishness, it made the journey a little harder. One thing that I was certain of was that ageing had nothing to do with it, except perhaps to provide another prick of motivation - better hurry up before it's too late. So, in the weeks that followed I lived in a fog, not quite believing it was happening to me. There were telephone interviews, photos taken of me in 'writer's pose', newspaper articles, and a contract to sign. Rupert and Neti were leaving home. Had I prepared them for the world out there beyond my cupboard? At work I basked in the well-wishes of my wonderful colleagues and lovely girls that I taught. At home, well, I can't say enough thanks for the sincere joy expressed by my family. But while I waited for the November date of publication, I had to settle back to work and write a thesis that was now moving into its eighth year. Towards the middle of the year there was a subtle shift in my psyche. Family illnesses, demands of juggling family, study and full-time work were starting to take their toll. My yoga practice was shifting too; it was going to have a profound effect on helping me to take the plunge. But more of that later. 

3. There goes a great man

My copy of Peter Steele's last book 'Braiding the Voices, Essays in Poetry', came in the post yesterday. Peter died recently. I had the great privilege of being under his supervision for my MA, which happens to be 'Whispers in the Wiring'. Before I met him I had already written a good third of Whispers. Rupert is a Jesuit priest. Peter Steele was a Jesuit priest. In a scene in the novel (already written) Athena goes to Rupert's office in the university to interview him. The day I met Peter, I sat in the chair opposite him at Melbourne Uni, as Athena had sat opposite Rupert. I looked around the room, as she did. Oh my God, I thought, I'm caught in a scene from my own novel! Peter Steele's intellect was WAY over my head, nevertheless, I could not help but be inspired by him and in awe of him. Whenever I came for our regular meeting, I would look across his desk to my manuscript, searching for that little red tick that meant he liked what he had read. I didn't get many of them, but they were gold to me when I did. A favourite memory was when he paused by a painting of Jesus and two of the Apostles, as he was seeing me out of his office. 'Look here', he said, pointing to the hand of Judas, 'See the dirt under his nails?' I gulped. I left the office and, after he had closed the door behind me, I stood for a moment in the corridor, profoundly moved. Peter Steele S.J. A.M. was a wonderful poet, intellect, and a man of faith.

 There goes a great man. 

Happy days, and a confession

As I observe the date of today, I am reminded of one of the happiest days of my life. Eighteen years since we moved into our own home, and the fruition of those daydreams spent on the verandah of the rented house (see previous blog). (There's quite a bit of literature about the significance of verandahs in people's lives; that space between what goes on within and what goes on without. I'll tell you about it later if you're interested). If you recall our circumstances at that time, you might remember that the odds were statistically stacked against ever achieving that dream and I recall sitting on the floor of the house on the day of settlement, numb with disbelief. The day that I won the national competition matched it for intensity, though I was still disconnected from my own sense of self, but I am reminded that only approximately 3% of budding writers ever get to be published, so, again, the odds were statistically... (you can fill in the rest now I'm sure, and perhaps start to see a pattern).

So, these are two of the happiest days of my life. Now for something a bit more controversial. As I wrote the above, a voice of motherly (or societal?) conscience gnawed at me. Wouldn't I say that the occasions that I gave birth to my children were the happiest days? In truth, no. Do I hear you suck in your breath in horror? What did I know at seventeen, and at twenty-four for that matter. Were they the most life-changing and powerful moments of my life? Absolutely. They formed me, made me who I am and gave me much of my life's motivation; they just weren't the happiest. 

She wins!

The title says it all, except perhaps why I refer to myself in the third person. In the weeks and days beforehand, I didn't remind anyone about the impending announcement. Perhaps you can relate to this, that small loss of energy that is experienced in the verbalising of your dreams, even when those around you want only what is best for you. I, as the "I", not the "she"(for I was still inhabiting my mind), went about my business getting ready for work, as though a whole daydreamed future did not hang on the outcome of the competition. At the point of opening the laptop to the day's emails, the "I" in me began to slip away - a protective mechanism perhaps. The publisher's font sat amongst the general incoming mail and I/she tidied up around it before getting the courage to open it. A generic message directed readers to the attached announcement. Something sank in the pit of her stomach. Surely, if she was the winner she would have been told. The "I" returned, the "I" that was used to rejections opened the attachment, trying to be good-hearted enough to send mental good wishes to the winner, whoever that would be. 

Congratulations to Amanda Apthorpe of Victoria

She stared at the name, not making any real connection, certainly not identifying with it. Just letters on a screen, too far out of her range of experience. "Look," she said, pointing to the screen as a colleague passed her desk. She needed someone else to make it real for her. The colleague squealed with true appreciation of the moment.  

I cried.