Wednesday 30 June 2010

You can’t help but wonder (by Heather)

Write your story based on the most outstanding event that has touched your life over the last month.

You ask what the most outstanding event that has touched my life over the last month is? -- that’s easy. World War II.

I spent 17 days travelling in Germany, like most tourists greatly appreciating the green countryside, the logic of the transportation systems, the antiquity, the food, the prosperity. But also like most foreign tourists, I found myself often lost in wonderment about the impact of World War II on this nation.

People like myself -- having lived in Canada and Australia, where war has hardly touched our cities in the last century -- are stopped in their tracks by the magnitude of the situation. As I mulled it over through those 17 days, I was overwhelmed. So, as I do when overwhelmed, I broke it down.

I discovered that there were actually five hugely bad things that have left me wondering.

Wonderment #1. The rise of the madman

The first of the big questions relates to the rise to power of Adolf Hitler. When you look in retrospect at the mess for Germany that one madman and a cadre of passionate followers managed to create -- ¼ of its population dead, 70% of its infrastructure destroyed, its international reputation in tatters -- it boggles the mind how this man managed to take leadership of a nation, for over a decade. How did he manage to get past everybody?

We took a few hours going through the Nuremburg Documentation Centre, located in the Nazi Party Rallying Grounds that Hitler had set aside for the glorification of the chosen country and its Fuhrer. It's a repository (with a good English audioguide) of documents, videos and general information -- about Hitler's childhood and rise to influence, about the massive annual rallies that became the launch pad for Hitler's popularity, about the gradual formation and implementation of policy, about the Nuremburg Trials. As we pored through the museum’s data, we found the facts carefully laid out before us, but the question was undiminished: How did Hitler get past everybody for so long? How is it he wasn’t deposed or assassinated early in the ’30’s when it surely began to be obvious how empty of logic his rhetoric was? How did he maintain the loyalty of his generals, his troops and his countrymen for all those years?

Wonderment #2. The war

The second bad thing leaving a trail of questions behind it is the war itself. In some of the cities we drove through, 90% of the town had been destroyed by Allied bombing. Berlin itself suffered a crushing 70% destruction. Aerial photographs of Nuremburg taken in the aftermath of the bombing show a town pockmarked with adjacent craters of silvery dust, looking more like a lunar landscape than a 20th century city. 20,000,000 Germans were killed in this war.

We saw things that made our hearts ache. The Naval Monument in Kiel is dedicated to the sailors who lost their lives at sea. It features a wall on the right that dispassionately visualises the hundreds and hundreds of vessels lost during the first world war. On the left, the mural shows the thousands of vessels lost during the second world war. The numbers of downed ships, never mind of the sailors lost aboard them, are unimaginable. It is hard to absorb the next room that honours the lives of sailors of other nations also lost in these two wars. It is hard to take in the tributes from nations and naval institutions around the world honouring this museum with its ruthless documentation of what was lost at sea during these wars.

You also can’t help wonder -- how did the Germans get into a war so soon after its previous war? Not more than 20 years after its great losses in World War I, Germany moved into another global battle. How can this have happened?

Wonderment #3. The holocaust

Though all of history humans have shown an unseemly desire to label, scapegoat and destroy those who are Other. But never has that happened on the scale of what was done to Jews and Jewish supporters under Hitler's reign.

I try to get my mind around the numbers. I think of the 3,000 people who died in the Twin Towers bombing, and the outrage that followed in consequence. I think about the impact on the American people -- how their world view was damaged by that incident, shifting America from being a fearful nation to a terrified one.

Multiply those 3,000 people by 10 and we're at the horrific number of lives lost in Krakatoa‘s violent eruption. Multiply it by 100 and think of the unbelievable 230,000 people killed on Boxing Day 2004 by the Indian Ocean tsunami. And we're still magnitudes short of the 6,000,000 Jews who were murdered in their homes, on the streets and in the voracious death camps machinery. I find I cannot even imagine those numbers, let alone the fevered intentionality that caused them.

I try to get my mind around the people who were murdered on this scale. These are people I can relate to -- teachers, students, doctors, entrepreneurs, housewives, grandfathers, children, philosophers, business people. How could any well of hatred have gone so deep?

How does a nation live with the knowledge that something of that magnitude happened under their very noses?

I think of the thousands of Aboriginal children who were forcibly taken from their families by “well-meaning” government officials in Australia, and how the country has struggled ever since to find a meaningful way to say Sorry for those atrocities. It crosses my mind that perhaps the Germans have something to teach us about the impossibility of saying Sorry, and about dealing with the lessons of the past. I wonder.

Wonderment #4. The aftermath of the war

I spoke with my uncle recently, who talked about his dismal visit to Germany a few years after the war. I try to tell him about same places in 2010. The whole country has an atmosphere of prosperity. There must surely be slums somewhere, but we didn't see a trace of them. The little villages that dot the countryside every few kilometres are pristine. I can’t help comparing with Australia, which I have always felt to be a model of a prosperous nation, and it seems to me that perhaps we fall short of Germany’s mark.

The cities we visited, especially including Berlin, are either fabulously restored or rebuilt with striking new and modern architecture. We walked through castles and cathedrals that have been lovingly restored at obvious great cost. We strolled through areas like Potsdammer Place in Berlin where well-designed, elegant, people-friendly buildings and spaces dominate the landscape.

The questions that linger for me: how and by whom were the decisions made about whether to restore beautiful old buildings or go the simple route and cart them off as rubble? How was a country this demolished, that lost a generation of its young men and all of its merchant Jewish community, able to build itself back so quickly? What did these amazing Germans bring to the party after the war that allowed for these results?

Wonderment #5. The Wall

And as if all this weren’t enough…

…Take a country battered by war and internal breakdown, and give roughly half of it to each of two of the nations who defeated it. These nations bring to the situation diametrically opposing political philosophy and economies. One side favours industry, supports progress, rewards initiative -- and under its wing, half the country begins to prosper. The other builds a massive infrastructure to spy on its citizens, squanders resources, and destroys those who disparage its ideology -- and this half of the country sinks deeper and deeper into a numbing poverty. Lo and behold, citizens from one half begin to leave for the other -- some 3,500,000 of them, in fact. The leaders in the half whose people are abandoning it meet to discuss solutions to the dilemma of the depleting population. Someone stumbles across the obvious solution: put up a wall, fortify it with armed guards and several hundred thousand spies, and keep the wayfarers in. (Truly, does that not make you wonder?)

The rest is history. The Wall, consisting of concrete walls, barb wire and guard towers, went up in August 1961, through and around Berlin, and through the rest of Germany. The Wall came down in November 1989, after the death of hundreds of would-be escapees (and the defection of almost as many wall guards). As the two nations reunited, citizens of East Germany brought their poverty, their shame and their resentment to the post-celebrations. The economic situation copped another blow, as did the German psyche.


I’m in Canada now, enjoying its young cities, oblivion to war and general trouble-free existence (three police cars were threatened by protesters in Toronto last week and it consumed the front pages of all the nation’s newspapers). These kinds of questions aren’t even in the consciousness here; I find they’re rapidly leaving MY consciousness.

Lurking behind it all, of course, is the real question, which is not “How did this happen?”, but rather “Could this happen again?” And: “Could this happen on my watch?”

Considering that 75 years ago most of us would have laughed and said, “Impossible!”, I don’t feel well-positioned to say the same thing now.

And that’s a wonderment.

Saturday 26 June 2010

Unfashionable But Unbowed (Eve)

A swank Merc pulled up to the gravelly driveway of the gleaming new house.

The driver's door opened and well-heeled sling backs and stockinged, shapely calves pushed out first, followed by the rest of the compact, pretty blonde Sarah. She carried a dossier.

The Poundstones greeted Sarah Stern cordially, if trepidatiously.

Their phone conversation the previous day replayed in Taryn's head:

"I tell all my clients they need a thick skin to get the most out of my consultations. If you take any of what I say personally, we'll all feel bad, and you might end up throwing the bassinet out with the bathwater.

"I do try to be diplomatic," Sarah said in her most unctuous voice, "but sometimes I let my decorating passion carry me away."

At the end of two hours of unrelenting feedback (at $120/hr.), the Poundstones were told they would be sent the decorating scheme within the week.

Just as they were seeing their decorator off, Taryn, in a masochistic moment, thought she'd try to squeeze out one more bit of advice.

"Sarah, if you had to change just one thing about this Great Room, what it be?"

"Ah, I'm so glad you asked," she gleefully responded. "I'd get rid of that big overstuffed, tired and tawdry, not to mention out-of-date sofa. The upholstery, no matter how practical it was at the time to get washable covers, has unsuccessfully visited your washing machine too many times."

Sarah was on a roll now.

"Even new covers wouldn't save its stuffing, as it's sagging in the framework from too many bums over too many years. Don't bother with Vinnies, they won't take it," she harumphed.

Breathless by now, she bid a hasty goodbye and gingerly tottered out the door on her spiky high heel shoes.

That night their loyal 18-year-old divan cried itself to sleep. Sobbing softly in between wet statements like, "All these years of unstinting support at all hours - Taryn's pregnancies, nursing the babies, and her soapy watching in the afternoons, Sam's insomnia over whether the house was going to get built and then whether it was going to bankrupt them, the trampoline-style trouncing of three kids, only one year apart each, and then, the canoodling of teenagers when their parents left them alone with girlfriends and boyfriends. Oh, the injustice!"

The next morning when the Poundstones came out into their open plan kitchen/dining/living area for their ritual cuppa, they saw this slightly damp note on the coffee table.

Dear Ingrates,

Thanks a lot for the rude and cruel assessment you subjected me to from that bitchy snob. It’s not as if I don’t have feelings, and I couldn’t just get up and walk out of the room, could I?

In fact, if I could have cleared out overnight, I certainly would have. There are people in this world that might appreciate owning a broken-in, faithful sofa, such as myself.

Now that I’m seen as past my shelf life and unattractive, I want you to know that I’m not going to even try to keep it together for you anymore. Be very afraid because when you are least expecting it, after slumping into your old couch after a hard day’s work perhaps, I may just crash down around you, broken down finally with a broken heart.

Your former devoted and steady friend,
The Big White Sofa


Taryn poured a coffee for Tim and herself and carefully approached the sofa, looking at it with amazement tempered with newfound respect. She tentatively sat down and then patted the seat next to her, motioning Tim to join her. The couch seemed to groan abjectly from more than the weight of just the two of them.

It’s not something you see everyday, and it’s certainly not anything you’d hear often either, but the couple spent the next few hours soothing their old piece of furniture and convincing it that the decorator’s view was not in any way theirs.

Taryn said the sorry word many times, and after awhile, the old settee seemed at last to settle into its old steadfast bearing, none the worse for wear.

Sunday 20 June 2010

Where Are You Calling From? (Eve)

Janeece woke up much later than usual to a blinding pain behind her left eye – as though someone had touched a needle to an exposed nerve.

She found herself mysteriously in the clutch of a vicious headache, a malady from which she never usually suffered. For an interminable minute, light burned through her brain, and then, as suddenly as the pain had arrived, there was a merciful release.

Cuppa tea. That should fix my poor nerves, she thought.

What just happened there?, part of her was screaming internally.
As she watched herself in the familiar act of pouring boiling water from the jug, Janeece noticed how strange her body now looked to her. Something had shifted in the way she was seeing, an alarming disassociation from her normal conscious state.

Coincidentally, her headache had returned, more fiercely gripping than before. Terror began to take hold of her. As her body began to seize up, she wondered who could possibly help her. Walking towards the phone felt like a lead-footed trawl. Janeece’s muscles were disobeying her mental commands to tense or let go. She lost her balance, falling against the kitchen bench, but still standing.

The phone rang. Good, she thought. The way her body was betraying her, she was unlikely to have been able to dial out. Janeece pulled herself along to the end of the bench and just managed to grab the phone.

A cheery voice said, “Good morning. Is this Miss Taylor?”

Janeece, in this moment, was experiencing no pain. In fact, her mind had gone completely quiet, a silence like nothing she had experienced before. Her body felt as expansive as her mind and a remarkable peace infused her.

A less cheery and more concerned voice interrupted the silence. “Hello, hello, is someone there?”

Her headache came thundering back and a worse thing, paralysis of her whole right arm. Then, Janeece knew. She was having a stroke.

She found her voice and managed to speak words that to her sounded slurred and nonsensical: “This is Janeece Taylor and I need help!”

Somehow this kind phone worker was able to translate Janeece’s almost incomprehensible pleas for assistance, and then, prize the crucial details of her address out of her.

As Janeece alternated between a state of expansive surrender and one in which all of her senses felt tortured by overload, an ambulance was speeding towards her.

Hours later, when Janeece awoke in hospital, she was in none to good shape physically but she was alive. Moreover, she could still recreate the feeling of unalloyed bliss that she had experienced while she was “stroking”. The sense of mental spaciousness was related to feelings she had had in the past of freedom, peace and love, but magnified a million-fold.

In her almost mystical state, Janeece remembered the accented voice of a cheery telemarketer, and her heart almost burst with gratitude.

Tuesday 15 June 2010

based on something that happened in the last few weeks (thankfully not to me!) by Peta

“Explain this to me” Gemma said as she slammed the mobile on the coffee table.

“Later babe” Joe said not taking his eyes off the TV. “Yes!” he screamed leaping from the sofa, throwing his hands in the air, thanking the gods. On the screen the football was sailing through the air between the goals posts. Joe was elated that his team was in front and almost certainly on the way to victory.

“Not later NOW!”

There was no mistaking the urgency in her voice. Joe turned the TV to mute and looked up at Gemma. Gemma’s face was beetroot red. Moisture dampened the corners of her eyes. He picked up the phone and checked the screen.

Joe’s heart raced as he read the message “hey sweetcheeks, i miss u bed cold without u. When will i c u agin? xx”

“Shit” Joe said. He lifted his eyes to meet Gemma’s. Her stare cut to his core, both ice and fire laced with hate. Deep hatred and pain. Her devastation hit Joe like a brick wall.

“Gemma, honey. I am so sorry.” He knew there was no possible way he could deny the liaison. He moved towards Gemma, arms extended. His mind clicking over. Gemma pushed him away, backed off and bolted to the bathroom. The unmistakable sounds of vomiting filled the silence.

In an instant he despised himself for what he had done to her and for what? A few meaningless moments of pleasure. It was never meant to go so far but Linda had become an addiction. Or was it the sex? He certainly was not in love with Linda. He’d have to break it off immediately. He knew he should have a long time ago. Joe hurled the mobile against the wall. In pieces it felt to the carpet.

Gemma emerged from the toilet and moved behind Joe speaking softly but controlled.

“I’m going downstairs to the laundry. I want you gone by the time I get back. Take what you need. I’ll pack the rest and send it to Pete’s. Don’t call me. Ever.”

“But Gemma, it means nothing. You are everything to me.”

“Evidently I am not enough for you. That’s pretty obvious. And I don’t care what it means to you.” Tears streamed down her face as she hurried on, now shaking uncontrollably, her arms wrapped tightly around her midriff, barely pausing for breath. “What it means to me is that I can never trust you again. You have deceived me and ruined whatever it was we had together. You’re a liar and a cheater and that’s all I need to know. I am not interested in any explanation or excuse. I thought we’d have kids and grow old together but that will never happen. They say a leopard never changes it spots and I stupidly thought they were wrong. You were a cheat when we met and you're a cheat now. I guess this is what I deserve for getting involved with you in the first place. This is my comeuppance. Well so be it. Now pack up and get out!”

With that she walked calmly to the door and was gone.

Monday 14 June 2010

Mum's 90th (Kerry)

A story based on the most outstanding event that has touched your life over the last month.

Mum was sitting happily in her wheelchair in the sunlit lounge-room of the nursing home surrounded by well-wishers. My sister, Rosey, had remembered to bring the special brooch in the shape of a tiny vase of flowers, which Mum had been given as a 21st birthday present. It was pinned proudly on the lapel of Mum’s new jacaranda-blue woollen vest.

It had only been a couple of hours earlier that the three sisters had finally succumbed to the pressure and agreed that it would be appropriate for us to define a focus for the afternoon tea celebrations, with a speech. Actually to be honest, my youngest sister, Hilary, had acquiesced when the boys made the first request. Rosey and I were holding out but Hil said, “Let’s say I’ll do it.” Her generosity could have let us off the hook but, despite our misgivings, there was something incomplete about only one of the girls speaking. With a little more cajoling and coercion, Rosey and I bowed graciously to popular demand. Besides only three of the four brothers were able to be at the party, so to use the complete set of three sisters obeyed some sort of strange family logic.

Apart from the speech, the day had been planned well in advance. The grocery shopping for the party had been completed the day before. The champagne was chilling in the freezer. Three sumptuous cakes had been collected from the bakery. Someone had remembered to pick up the hired crockery and glasses. Three loaves of sandwiches had been prepared, although not without some controversy. There were discussions about only having white bread, about the efficacy of cutting the crusts off the bread, about using curried egg or watercress with the egg, about mustard or not with the ham. In all, we expended six man hours making sandwiches. It was suggested that Someone could have ordered and picked up sandwiches for the occasion in a fraction of the time.

As had been arranged, Graham, the eldest brother, tinkled a teaspoon against a champagne glass. Hilary, Rosey and I scurried for our handbags, rummaging for scraps of paper with hastily written notes and, more importantly, for our reading glasses. The crowd hushed.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Thank you for coming this afternoon to celebrate Mum’s 90th birthday.” I began, being the eldest.

I spoke about what a beautiful woman Mum is and that she is as beautiful now as she was as a young woman. There were loud murmurs of agreement. I talked about her intelligence, about how we always knew if we asked Mum a question we’d get the answer. If she didn’t know she’d get out the dictionary or the encyclopaedia and find out. She returned to University study when she was in her fifties and completed her BA by correspondence. She was the family Scrabble champion. I acknowledged Mum for her dedication to her family. I remembered how she and Dad had travelled to Canada twice when our first two babies were born, both times in the depths of an Ontario winter. Mum remembered how the icicles had dripped off the guttering.

Rosey continued by acknowledging Mum for her love of the natural world, for the interest she took in the native flora in Western Australia and for her efforts to preserve the bush. She particularly noted how Mum was able to convert Dad to someone who appreciated the bush even though he never got past referring to most plants as ‘hovea’. Rosey mentioned how Mum had style and a wonderful sense of colour and design. She could arrange a vase of flowers, embroider a cloth, make her own clothes and carry it all off with great aplomb.

Hilary began by reminding everyone to charge their glasses. She noted that Mum had run a well-organised household. Rosters were created for household chores. The kids would come home from school and find notes reminding them about jobs that had to be done that afternoon, ‘Hilary, feed the chooks’, ‘David, get in the cows’, ‘Randall, set the table’ and so on. Mum participated generously in community life, the church, schools, the golf club and many more, often in leadership roles. Hilary recalled once having a conversation with Mum about being involved in community groups. Mum’s advice was to be the President. All you had to do was delegate and then make sure the jobs were done.

“Let’s drink to Mum, a wonderful mother, grandmother, sister, and aunty; a loyal friend, dedicated naturalist and Honorary President of the Jasper family.”

We raised our glasses to toast a wonderful woman. There was not a dry eye in the house.

I Love Being Lionised - by Eve

I teach yoga because I love doing it, and, I believe, those who avail themselves of my classes enjoy them very much too.

This is a felicitous recipe.

Occasionally I say I would teach for free because it’s such a pleasurable pursuit. Usually I say this out of range of my husband’s ears. He likes me to earn money from teaching.

All this is preface to the fact that I don’t dwell overly much about the impact of my teaching on students, although I have had feedback that it’s made a difference in people’s lives.

I felt greatly acknowledged at my yoga studio farewell in November last year. I was especially delighted when my friend and old yoga student Carole Baillargeon turned up for the occasion – all the way from Darwin – with her partner, Martin, and his son, also.

Carole invited Daniel and me to her wedding to Martin at the end of May. I had wanted to visit her and see her yoga studios for years, so we happily accepted the invite.

Then, the betrothed couple got cold feet and postponed the wedding date indefinitely, but the invitation to visit them was still on the table. We booked our flights and arrived in Darwin on a red-eye special at 3 am.

Carole insisted on picking us up and drove us to our accommodation, a loft bedroom in one of her yoga studios. Talk about dying and going to heaven. If I chose to, I could just roll out of bed and do yoga in this gorgeous warehouse space, and in warm weather, instead of the rainy cold temperatures I’d experienced just before leaving Mitchells Island.

Carole didn’t get any sleep after she dropped us off because she had to teach her trainee yoga teachers in the next-door studio at 6 am.

We managed to sleep in till around 9 am. and then headed off to “Eat at Martin’s”, just a few doors down from the yoga studio. Both Carole’s and Martin’s businesses have recently been photographed and written up in the glossy Darwin magazine, “Resident”, because of the high calibre of products they offer.

Talk about dying and going to heaven circumstances number two: being able to roll out of bed and walk 500 meters to a wonderful cup of coffee and a menu where one breakfast offering is more stellar than the previous one.

Carole joined us for breakfast, and then we went shopping for provisions. She had carefully planned the most enticing itinerary for us over the next few days, mainly comprising a trip to Kakadu.

Daniel, Carole, Martin, and I managed to fit in an appearance at the launch of “Resident Magazine” on our first night in Darwin. It was a chance to get all dolled up and go to the nightclub venue, called “Throb” in town.

One of the features of being with Carole was that everywhere we went, current or old students adoringly greeted her. When she introduced me as her first teacher and someone who had made a big contribution to her teaching, these students looked at me with great respect.

The Kakadu trip was so special because of all the careful organising Carole had done, as well as the love she has for this rugged country. The first night we spent in Gagadju Hotel near Jabiru, not luxurious accommodation but comfortable enough.

Up at sparrow’s fart the next morning, we joined a tourist group for a cruise on Yellow Waters, which connects with South Alligator River. There had been rain the day before but this morning’s sunrise was clear and spectacular over calm waters.

We saw our share of crocs, birds, flora and fauna. I appreciated at first hand the delicate balance of wildlife that occurs in the dance between The Wet and The Dry seasons.

After leaving the cruise and the hotel, we headed to Gunlom Falls where we set up camp for that day and night. It was still a touch overcast, so we weren’t sure whether we would have a dry night, but, as it turned out, cold wind was the problem, not rain.

When we had set up our camp, we walked, and then climbed up a rocky hill to get to a series of pools, which were deep enough for swimming. I was so pleased that my bionic hips let me prance like a mountain goat up the irregular, rocky path. We stripped off and jumped into a plunge pool and were enjoying the peace until, would you believe, some of Carole’s students showed up on the bush track.

I’m not sure if they realised the naked state of their yoga teacher and co., but if they did, they were either too embarrassed or uncaring to ask. Of course, Carole gave me what I was beginning to feel was a Royal Introduction.

The most amazing thing happened the next morning. While we were having our camp breakfast, dragonflies suddenly materialised. They are known as the harbinger of the dry season, and I’ve been told they only live for 24 hours. From that moment, I felt the humidity start to drop, and I swear it continued to do so for our remaining days in Darwin.

We packed up and drove back to Darwin, just in time for Carole to teach her evening class, and I participated in it. She introduced me to her students and then dedicated the class to me.

There was a catered dinner afterwards so other students could meet me, too. It was a chance for Carole to praise me and tell some funny stories about the early days of my being a yoga teacher trainer in Sydney. One thing I’d forgotten was that because I lived at a distance from my school, Sydney Yoga Centre, I used to sleep in the office 4 days a week, to be able to get up at 5 am. (I usually finished my class the night before at 8pm).

There were three more delightful things that happened on this trip:

1. Lunch in town on the water with Sue Moffit.
2. A day in Litchfield Park, inspecting beautiful falls and plunge pools.
3. An offer to teach a retreat at Mt. Bundy Station next year with Carole.

Will we be back?

Want to join us?