Making Marks; the creative urge lives on

I went to Sydney. To see my daughter share her words on stage at the NSW Poetry Slam, part of the Performing Writers' Festival. I watched and listened as finalists from all our Australian states and territories pierced the air with words sharper than swords, straight to the heart like the hunter's arrow. Words shouting "Here I am!" "This is me!" "This is my experience!" "This is our future!" "This is our now!" Marvelous words tumbled from the deepest recesses of our thinkers' hearts. 

Thank God for our thinkers and our poets. Thank God for our writers. Writers create not just prose; they create more thinkers. This is the miracle, perhaps the miracle that drives us to record our thoughts. Our images, whether word pictures or snaps taken with our phones, share thoughts and ideas. Why, we might ask, does that picture exist? What does it mean to me? For me? Oh, lovers of words and of images, purveyors of truth, what richness and depth you add to life.

I went to Sydney. Before my daughter arrived, I fell in love with the State Library. Oh, the magic of that place had me in its spell as soon as I stepped through the great doors. Or perhaps it grabbed me sooner, wafting tentacles of delight sent forth into the Botanical Gardens to catch my heart and reel me in. A storm loomed large, lightning split the sky and booming thunder warned of its swift approach. The Library promised refuge. It was not hard to be tempted. What wonders I found inside. A mere hour before the galleries would close, the doormen cautioned me. That's fine I said, I can come back tomorrow if I want to. I lost myself many times over as I sauntered the roomy corridors and read a word here, a passage there. Gazing upon the gilt framed oils, I had to take some photos to share. Further on I listened to the narratives of Aboriginal elders and saw memorabilia from their lives; anchored in a great history, through a time of great loss and mourning, thriving in the modern world.

This image taken from a booklet in the library 'Sydney Elders Continuing Aboriginal Stories'

Later I wandered through to a second exhibition, one of diaries and poems and glass-plate photographs. As I read some notes written painstakingly by men in the trenches during wartime, it occurred to me that we just can't help ourselves. We have to make marks. We have to make our marks. Our mark. Leave a legacy. Share our story. Share our horror and our humour. Share our thoughts. We have to make images. We have to create. We do it for others but I wonder if in the end we really do it for ourselves because we have to. We just can't help it. The creative urge? The insistent need to prove that we have in fact existed? Invisibly connecting ourselves to others as we imagine our marks being read or our images observed and pored over - is that what drives us? Perhaps it is just for the doing. I don't know. But it became clear to me that day that through the ages there has been that drive to make marks.

It's easy to see that it's nothing new. Hieroglyphs in Egypt, scrolls in the Middle East and rock art here in Australia and in other parts of the world left by ancient people millennia ago are evidence that this urge is part of the human condition. We need to communicate. One with another. The hardest part of it all is to slow down enough to really look and listen. 

I went to Sydney. I entertained some memories of times past. Mine and those of others. I saw new things and opened parts of my heart that hadn't seen daylight for a while. I'm glad I went to Sydney. It was just what I needed and I think it's left its mark on me.

With love

Kerry

Not So Intrepid Travel Adventures

Wondering where to begin telling the tale of my Not So Intrepid Travel Adventures, I fell upon the idea of creating a  word cloud. Sitting and thinking about all the things I'd done and places I'd been created a bit of a bundle from which to create a post. I didn't keep a diary each day, though at the start I thought that would be a great idea, but there is enough stored in my memory to do some justice to the subject. After all, I was there.

To put it all in a nutshell wouldn't be so possible if I'd 'done' all of the UK, or even all of England herself, or if I'd 'done' a furious ground mashing tour of Finland. But it was a holiday in the true sense of the word for me; one where I most importantly learned to sleep again. It was so wonderful and so worth all the effort for that simple achievement alone. Not something I set out to do, but a wonderful and so welcome surprise that came to me entirely by accident. Getting away - properly away - from all that you are generally party to, gives you the permission to sleep again like a baby. Oh, and I did! It didn't matter where I was staying, deep, restorative sleep accompanied me on all but two night of the 37 I was away. This is a miracle to me. 

Since the day I had my first child back in 1990 and perhaps even before then, I've barely had a proper night's sleep. I had a lot to catch up on. And then I got home. Jetlag. None traveling the other way but coming back was a nightmare. Day and night. My body hadn't a clue. I almost undid all that good holiday sleep in my first 3 weeks at home. Despair fell upon me as night after night I was bright as a button and even for the mornings. Bleary-eyed afternoons gave way to evenings where I held off sleeping until bedtime. I finally booked a trip away again and scored some really good sleep again in New South Wales! So, it seems my body hadn't forgotten how to sleep again. It just needed much longer to adjust than I had expected. Or perhaps, just to be away from home.

During the days away from home, I had a grand time. If we ignore the fact that I fell down the stairs bruising my coccyx at my cousin's house during my second week, and had trouble sitting down and standing up thereafter, it was pretty jolly. Most of the time I stayed with my aunt, and she doesn't drive. I wasn't game to drive overseas (that level of bravery will have to wait) so we went here and there on the bus. That was quite a novelty for me as buses are few and far between at home, and I drive myself where I need to go. It was a bit wretched after the fall because it took me so long to raise myself to disembark, it was a bit embarrassing. I thought people watching probably thought I had piles or something. I stood up like I had a full nappy. I don't wear a nappy, just for the record, but I hope that gives you some idea of what it might have looked like. Despite all that though, the bus was great fun because I got to observe the locals in their native habitat and it was so entertaining and a super way to understand myself more because this is where I've come from. Good old England. I guess there are differences in traditions and culture as you go from place to place, but still it was enlightening. The buses are normal bus size and the roads and like alleyways or lanes. Drivers must show a level of patience, kindness and forbearance I doubt would be possible in Australia. Fortunately the Poms are a polite race, not least on the roads. 

In fact, I've never heard people apologise so liberally for everything under the sun. Sorry, sorry, sorry. It was a bit amazing. I thought it was weird and was heard to say on one occasion something like..."Well, I'm not sorry. It just took that long to put the shopping in the bag. Have a nice day." It felt to me a bit like everyone was apologising for not being super-human. Like sorry it's taken me a normal amount of time to pack my shopping. Because yes, like at Aldi, you had to pack your own. At Sainsbury's you did, at any rate. But you know, it's not about that. It's cultural. One must apologise. And so now, I must apologise for taking the mickey about apologising. Sorry. Thus proving that I am indeed a Pom! They might pack for you at Marks and Spencer's but I only bought one thing there - my birthday cake in a box - and it didn't need a bag, so I guess I'll never know. Unless I go back.

Shopping in Finland was a whole other thing, not least because although I coped quite well with converting Australian dollars thinking to British pounds thinking, I hadn't learned how to say numbers in Finnish. So I can count Euros in English, but I can't hear how many you want from me. I kept smiling apologetically and using English with a shrug that was meant to say "Sorry I didn't bother to learn any of your language before I came and visited your country. I'm an arrogant idiot." The Finns are generous people and accommodated my lack with kindness and a smile on every occasion. But really I was most shocked with my ignorance of the fact that not everything everywhere has English subtitles. Now I know how to say kiitos - thank you. Not a lot else. But it is just better than nothing. It was great to see some familiar products on the supermarket shelves, and certainly I didn't look like starving at any point, that's for sure. My Finnish hosts, friends I'd only met online prior to visiting them in their homeland, were generous, kind and forgiving and I shall be forever grateful for them taking me into their homes and showing me their way of life. They also kindly curtailed their enthusiasm for wanting to show me much more of their beautiful country, in deference to my trouble with sitting in the car for too long hours. 

Finns are also very polite and generally somewhat introverted it seems. I came across an amusing set of postcards titled Finnish Nightmares. They depicted simple line drawings of what I presume are typical Finns in horror situations like wanting to get off a bus and having to ask someone to move, or standing in the rain at the bus shelter because it is already occupied by one other person. Being an introvert myself, I understood completely, but I did have to chuckle to myself. I so enjoyed meeting friends and family of my Finnish friends, and also seeing places of significance to their family. I was so lucky to experience a smoke sauna and then to swim in the crystal water of the lake which was a very respectable 21.5 degrees C. 

Finland gave me the opportunity to make a fool of myself on a number of occasions, and that can be a terrible thing for an introvert in a strange land. Fortunately by this time of life I am able to laugh at myself and my faux pas'. Like going around the back of a restaurant to use the ladies room, finding an open door going in to find the kitchen on the left and the bathroom on the right. Coming out to find the staff all standing agog as I emerged from the bathroom where all their handbags were. Luckily I'm honest so they had nothing to worry about. We all laughed when I saw my mistake. I had walked past the door with the little 'ladies' silhouette as I had my hat on and I didn't look up. I had thought to myself on entering the bathroom, gosh, these Finns are very trusting. Whoops!

Lakkar and Guinness deserve a mention. Lakkar is a delicious liqueur made from beautiful yellow cloudberries which grow in Lapland in the northern part of Finland. I also drank Jacob's Creek wine; sparkling Chardonnay/Pinot Noir in Finland after being assured that it is good for the brain. Great advertising Jacob's Creek. Maybe it's true. In England I drank Guinness well watered down with soda or mineral water. The bartenders wasted a lot of Guinness because it kept overflowing when they added the soda. But they unflinchingly kept at it until the glass was full, alas then with mostly soda. It can be done better but I guess they're not used to such a request. The thing about the alcohol was that I really haven't had much at all for many years, and it was nice to be able to have a few without ending up with a blinding headache. I thoroughly enjoyed that.

I ran into an old and elusive love in Porvoo...amber. I've been ogling amber jewellery in a little shop in Hobart for many years and there it was again on a market stall in Finland. I looked. I admired. But because I was nervous about the money and I thought I might pass out when the stallholder told me the price if I asked, I didn't bring any home with me. In memory of that encounter, I ventured into the Hobart shop just this week and purchased myself a ring and earrings. I adore them and wonder why I couldn't find my way to do this sooner. Before my trip away I couldn't do it. After my trip I could. Something has changed.

On the whole I would sum up my trip by saying that it was a great experience and one I am so very glad I embarked on. I learned a lot about myself and other people. I learned that I could feel completely at home when far from home. I learned that I can still get a great night's sleep. I learned that I might do a few things differently next time I travel. Yes, I hope there will be a next time. 

My travel tips:

• The long-haul flights suck. Do what you can to be comfortable without infringing on other passengers' space. 
• Carry medication for headaches, nausea and diarrhea as a minimum self-care package. Be wary of wipes as you might react to them. I did. Take your own.
• Pack light and buy what you need when you get there if you're staying more than a couple of days. I packed for cool to warm weather and it was hot. Hot. So I had a suitcase full of stuff and used very little of it. I lugged that case up enough stairs in London to know that I won't do it again.
• Learn the basics of the local language so that you can at least look like you're trying. Numbers, money, please and kiitos. It is polite to do so. Sorry Finland.
• Have some idea about setting up your phone to work where you are without it costing you the earth. I bumbled my way through this but think further research would be helpful. Thanks to friends who gave me a few tips before I left.
• Get to know a bit about local culture before you go. Surprises are nice, but it feels good to have some idea what's going on around you.

Did I mention that the morning after the stairs accident I woke to find one eye looking like Kylie Jenner's lips (I had to look that one up). I had used wipes again, the plane incident being insufficient to deter me, and had once again reacted. I remember what they say about donkeys and mistakes. Hee-haw. So with a bruised backside that made it hard to sit and an eye I could barely see out of, I was glad to be staying with friends and family who loved me better. I don't know if any of them will read this but if they do, thank you all for making my holiday a wonderful and memorable one. I loved almost every minute. 

Cheers for now

Kerry

Circles

With some trepidation, after attending the Men With Heart exhibition on Thursday, I put my name down for a mixed 'circle' which was to take place the following night. It meant another trip to town, and staying overnight because I avoid night driving here; there are too many of our precious native animals that are nocturnal. Too much roadkill. So, I was challenged because it was going to cost me to do this. Accommodation, fuel, time. But I really wanted to be part of it so I went for it.

I was a little nervous because I wasn't sure what to expect. I've read a bit about women's circles and have thought about how much I'd like to attend one or even learn to run one myself. So I was really interested in going along to find out more about how they might work. I was nervous about what might be required of me. I was nervous about being embarrassed in some way. I was nervous about hearing things I didn't want to hear. I was nervous about being looked at. I was nervous about being found lacking in some way. I guess it's like any of us trying anything new. Insecurities raise themselves up and old stories we tell ourselves get stuck on replay again. 

On arrival I found a circle of chairs in the space right inside the front of the building. Large glass windows. Dark outside. Passers by could see in. The circle would essentially be 'on stage' although I trusted what was being said would not be heard outside. I moved in tentatively and placed my bag under one of the chairs that was remote from those occupied; the other side of the circle. I didn't sit there but was engaged in conversation by a lovely man who proved to be the one who wrote for the grant that funded the exhibition (which, incidentally, took some three and a half years to bring to fruition). He was so friendly and welcoming and I soon felt much less nervous and more 'at home'. Other people came in dribs and drabs and before long most of the chairs were filled. I took a deep breath and moved to where I had put my bag, now flanked by two men I'd never met before. Brief introductions ensued and we waited for things to begin.

The facilitator took his place and outlined a few rules of conduct to ensure confidentiality and safety for everyone. We were asked to answer three simple questions; What brought you here? How are you feeling? What do you hope to take away from this? Participants were invited to speak one at a time when they were ready. 

To be in a group like that with the invitation to speak creates some angst. Do I jump in and go first to get the ball rolling? When I was younger that is what I would tend to do, in part to get it over with  and in part to make it easier for everyone else. I've grown some insight over the years and now usually choose to wait and allow others to speak first. I waited.

Both men and women shared their answers to those simple questions, and in so doing, also shared parts of who they were. Life experiences and perspectives were laid on the space within the circle while we, the not-speaking people, the listeners, watched and waited. Of course I am not at privilege to share any part of any of those stories, but I will say that they touched my heart and perhaps opened it a little. I was reminded of how very human each of us is and how vulnerable we are to the ups and downs of life. I was also reminded of the vital need for each of us to make and feel connection with others. Some of those words spoken that night might not have reached the ears of a fellow human before. How humbling it was to be part of that. 

Of course, I said my few words eventually, when the time felt right. I felt heard. I felt listened to. I felt seen. It was good. Because even though the questions were simple, there was an invitation to share a story. It was good to share and have my story respected and honoured by the telling and the receiving. Nodded heads and acknowledgements. They meant a lot to me.

The facilitator was the last one in the group to share. It was only meant to be an hour, but it took longer. We might have stayed longer and asked more questions of ourselves, but this was only a glimpse; a chance to try this thing on and see if it fitted somehow.

Fifteen random people came together (if I've counted right - each face remains a treasure in my memory) and got real for the hour and a half it took for everyone to share. I can only imagine the depths to which circles can take us if we remain for longer in that space and give people the time they need and the questions to help them explore and express their experience of being human. This is 'round the campfire' stuff. When we feel enfolded by the dark, cosy arms of circle and focus on the light space in the middle where we meet on common ground, we can share secrets and longings that don't meet easily with the light of day. There is no doubt it brings us closer both to others and to ourselves. Circles are not something new, but perhaps they are something we lost. It's good to see them coming back.

I'm on the list for possible future mixed circles. I have an invitation to join with a women's circle. Perhaps I will explore the idea of starting one close to home. The potential for personal growth is huge. The relief of sharing a story that weighs heavily can be huge. The bonding with other humans without the veil of alcohol or pretense is huge. I'm feeling excited for the future.

What experience have you had with circles? I'd really love to hear.

Much love

Kerry

Men With Heart - changing times

There are times when scrolling idly through Facebook can pay off big. On Wednesday I noticed a post about an exhibition in Hobart titled Men With Heart. I clicked on it to find out more and knew immediately that I must go. The pull? Bill used to say "There is so much out there for women but there is nothing for men." This movement had been active in Tasmania for 21 years, commencing the year we departed Tasmania. Most people won't have heard about it because it's been 'underground' for all those years; only now have they decided to venture into the public arena. Obviously Bill wasn't the only man seeing and feeling a need to get together with other men. I was so excited to know this was happening, but so sad to think that it was a little late in coming for him. So I was curious to find out more; to find out what he might have discovered if he'd had the chance. To consider how it might have changed his-story.

I felt a little intimidated as I approached the doorway of the Mawson Pavilion, as there was a group of men standing inside and no women in sight. I asked gingerly if it was okay for me to come inside. Yes, of course! Everyone is welcome! I was greeted warmly with a handshake and a brief overview of the layout and the best place to begin. And so I dived into the world of the TMG (Tasmanian Men's Gatherings). It was a journey of the heart for me, an emotional one. There were tears. There was comfort offered by kind hearts willing to listen as I shared what was happening for me. I was overwhelmed by the privilege of being given these glimpses into the lives of men. I was heart-broken for the men in my life - my father, my son, my partners over time, and friends who I know have felt isolated and alone and have not known how to connect to their hearts or themselves and other men in a way that gave them peace. Where did it all go wrong? When did we lose place for men to gather and to nurture one another without getting pissed or high? 

Men are not that different to women once you take off all the gendered conditioning our society loads on them. This idea was presented in one of the videos where men shared their experiences at the gatherings and how it had impacted on their thinking and their lives. Men are human beings with insecurities and fears and the need to be accepted just as they are. Just like women. Just like kids. All human. Musculature might be different but hearts? No.  

The photographs, the work of Paul Hoelen, were striking in their rawness and simplicity. The men were real. Some faces smooth and youthful; some wrinkled, deeply carved by the wretchedness of life and the passage of time. All together. Eyes sparkling with the joy of companionship and a sense of belonging. Eyes shining from the souls of these men. Everyday men from all walks of life. Some fathers and sons. Many alone and longing for the companionship of other men before finding their way here. Many isolated in our society where a man is expected to be know what to do. To be strong. To be independent. To get on with things. But these men, the ones in the photographs, have found a way to pause and connect with their hearts through spending time with other men and sharing their stories and their struggles. They are slowly pulling down the facades they live behind in daily life and discovering who they really are, perhaps for the first time. Connecting to themselves. To others. Heart to heart. The photographs convey such tenderness it is almost shocking. 

Most of all, this exhibition and the fact that it is happening at all, signals for me the changing times. The time has come for men and women to take a step back and look at where we are at. There has been so much focus on women and their rights. Things needed to change. There is still a way to go. But I wonder if some of the problems women have, especially those problems related to men, exist at least in part because men have become isolated from good male role models who can guide them into being great men who love and know themselves first. I wonder if it is time for men to make it their business to become part of this growing movement to become better fathers, husbands, uncles, sons, partners and friends. Get involved. I hope it signals a time when we might all start to take responsibility for connecting with and supporting one another. Women, support and encourage your men to start this journey to the heart if they are not already on the way. They need it. They do. 

If you're in Tasmania and have the chance to get along and experience this exhibition I would strongly recommend that you do. There is the opportunity to make comment by writing on tags and hanging them on the wire fencing on which the photos are displayed. 

Fences. We build them around our hearts. It's time for them to come down.

With much love and gratitude to the men who allowed their photographs to be taken and displayed, and to those who spoke their hearts on the videos. You are all champions in my eyes. Gratitude also to Paul Hoelen who gave permission for me to include some photos of his work here for you. 

For more information: https://tasmen.org.au/


Until soon

Kerry