HERE’S WHAT I REMEMBER

Excerpt from the five-day writing retreat I’ve just returned from. Day two…

Salty tears stream down my face, landing on the corners of my lips before dripping off my chin. The deep magenta flush glowing on my cheeks, a stark contrast to the enormous grey circles appearing beneath my reddened eyes.

My housemates sit around the dining table, laughing with our dinner guests. The remains of our meal spread across the table and scattered empty wine bottles witnessing the ever-increasing volume of voices as tales of wit, wisdom and woe from the day are shared with great gusto and exaggeration.

We’d spent the afternoon preparing heaped platters of spaghetti and a Greek salad with enormous chunks of salty feta and a generous portion of olives, which I carefully avoid. Fresh breads from the local bakery complete the meal, spread across the old pine desk with it three small drawers, that serves as our dining table.

The room is awash with friendship and a sense of sharing that goes far beyond the helpings of spaghetti. We’re an eclectic group of university students – musician, sculptor, writer, fashion designer – brought together by an economic need to share living costs but staying together because we fell in love with each other’s company.

Two glasses of wine go straight to my head before moving south to my bladder, with it’s irrepressible need to evacuate contents constantly and urgently. Topics of conversation from that evening have long since passed from easy recall, but gut-piercing laughter and a sense of oneness with humanity is etched deep into my heart.

“You look like an afghan dog!” he guffaws, as my own uncontrollable laughter at an unexpected moment leaves me dribbling wine down my chin, my waist length, strawberry blonde hair wild and loose, hiding my face.

Merriment continues from everyone, as the little knot of despair starts knocking on the pit of shame nestled in my belly.

I make my way to the toilet and decide, This is it. I’ve thought about it a lot, but never before tried it. This time is different.

I lift the toilet seat, freshly cleaned that day for our dinner party, and stare at the shiny white porcelain. I tuck my hair into the back of my shirt, bend over, and with my right hand, push my fingers to the back of my throat in search of the automatic gag reflex, regretting the long fingernails I’ve valiantly tried to grow for so long. My stomach heaves but nothing happens. I remove my fingers and take a deep breath, feeling the warm air fill my belly. I bend over and try again. It takes several attempts, but finally long strands of barely chewed and undigested spaghetti start to come up. I’ve crossed a line and there’s no turning back.

This is who I am now.

Time slows and stops. My thick frizzy hair struggles to be contained, but my hand is becoming expert at forcing the recently devoured meal back out, spaghetti stretching the length of my oesophagus as I pull individual strands all the way out. Soon the porcelain bowl is filled with the meal lovingly prepared only a few hours previously. The two fingers that laboured to retrieve the contents, now indented with teeth marks. I stand. Stretch. Hold my shoulders back. Soggy toilet paper sticks to my fingers in little clumps like the patches on Gary McDonald’s shaving nicks, as I endeavour to wipe the digestive slime away.

I straighten my dress, rub my eyes, clean my hand again, then flush the toilet – ensuring no evidence remains once the water has settled. The old 1960s bathroom is adjacent to the toilet, with its ancient porcelain sink and lemon-yellow bath. I close the door, wash my hands thoroughly, rinse my mouth, and inspect my face in the mirror.

I stare into my watery eyes to see if anything’s changed. I look just the same. But everything’s different now. The exhaustion of vomiting is spreading through my body, while the exhilaration of an empty stomach is giving me a rush of endorphins. Finally – I’ve found a way to have my cake and eat it too. Finally, I know how to control my weight.

The table of congeniality barely notice as I slip back into my pine dining chair. I pick up my glass, swirl the smooth red wine around in my mouth, and wash away the last remnants of the purged meal. Everything is the same as before. Everything has changed.

I’M THE GIRL

Excerpt from the five-day writing retreat I’ve just returned from. Day one…

I’m the girl who loves cats, scrawny or fat, fluffy or flat, cuddly or coy.

I’m the girl who loves the jingle jangle of an armful of bangles, and the sweet sentimental memories of an amethyst necklace.

­I’m the girl who loves to be loved, for fear she’ll never be loved enough, and hungers for hugs and connections, smiles and acceptance.

I’m the girl whose heart is cleaved to music. Who felt the rhythms and vibrations of Mozart and Messiaen, Bach and Brahms, Charlie Parker and Louis Armstrong, pulsing through the soft comforts of my mother’s womb.

I’m the girl who longed for babies of her own all her living days, and hugged those cherubs to her bosom from the moment they were conceived.

I’m the girl who loves to travel – to an island near or far. A country overflowing with foreign flavours, mountains to climb, oceans to dive into, alleyways to explore.

I’m the girl who adores her friends, but chooses wisely whom to befriend.

I’m the girl who loves pink lady apples, Lindt chocolates, King Island triple brie, Liam’s crème brulee, warm toast with melted butter and just a smear of vegemite.

I’m the girl who loves her own bed, with it’s carefully chosen soft sheets and the goldilocks pillow that’s just right, and the little furry bunny to cling to each night.

I’m the girl who loves to love, to teach, to cuddle, to care, to nurture and nourish. To be wanted and appreciated and thanked.

I’m the girl who likes to drive too fast, who loves spinach pies and pumpkin soups and my mother’s cooking and my father’s good will.

I’m the girl who loves fit balls and kettle bells. Suspension trainers and resistance bands. The exhilaration of becoming fit and strong and the sense of community from the wonderful women of the gym.

I’m the girl who loves boho and raincoats and the smell of wet grass and the sun on a winter’s afternoon.

I’m the girl who loves the radiance of an open fire on a cold winter’s night, with a lover’s arm around me and a sleepiness in my soul.

I’m the girl who loves to write. To work with words and fill the page with nonsense and to write some more, exploring the hidden depths I can touch in no other manner.

FORGIVEN

There are many people in my world who have wronged me. No more than anyone else – we all deal with irritating twats, ignorant loudmouths, and just plain rude arseholes. Forgiving the sins – big and small – of others, is a powerful tool that benefits the forgiver more than than the forgiven. At the end of the day, most irritating, ignorant, arseholes are probably blissfully unaware of their foot-in-mouth disease.

The really important act of forgiveness comes not from a compassionate attitude to others, but to ourselves. When we royally fuck up. Say, do, think the wrong thing – be it out of anger, ignorance, habit, self-loathing, or just plain stupidity.

It’s not just words – thinking, I forgive irritating twat for their incessant talking, means nothing if your heart isn’t in it. The chat with yourself needs to be compassionate, empathetic and understanding. So the next time irritating twat won’t shut up, you’re in a position to accept their quirkiness from a compassionate perspective.

Ditto for yourself.

We all fuck up, but how we deal with the fallout speaks volumes. If someone else is negatively impacted by the fuck up, then obviously step one is to reach out and apologise. Whether that person accepts your apology is not the point. The apology needs to be made in a sincere and kind manner, and then extended to yourself. When the only person impacted is yourself it’s harder to forgive. Many people with mental health issues – and for all I know, many people without – act out their shame by punishing themselves or others. Exploding internally or externally.

If you’re an externaliser, maybe you get angry at the world. Chuck things at the wall. Drive aggressively. Scream at people. If you’re an internaliser, maybe you drink too much, self-harm, isolate yourself, eat three buckets of ice-cream, take drugs. And perhaps some people find themselves with a foot in each camp. But however you act out self-loathing, it’s time to take a breath. Sit down and feel the emotions – anger, shame, fear, hopelessness, embarrassment, despair. Whatever is going on needs to be felt and acknowledged. Numbing and punishing yourself into oblivion is counterproductive. We all deserve compassion, empathy and acceptance, and without approaching mistakes and flaws in a kind manner, we learn nothing – staying in a cycle of abuse and punishment, inflicted on ourselves or our nearest and dearest.

Yesterday I received an email that made me sad.

A little piece of hope I’d dared to believe in was snuffed out. In the big scheme of things it’s not a big deal, but I’d hung a lot of expectation on this particular prospect. Turns out, it isn’t meant to be. Naturally I immediately sank into a poor-me, victim mindset, and proceeded to catastrophise my entire life now this opportunity was no longer available. The noise in my head escalated and common sense was drowned out. I clung to some healthy behaviours for a while – putting my nightie on, having a cup of tea, watching trashy television. But the catastrophising wouldn’t stop, and the overwhelming sense of hopelessness, purposelessness and how do I move forward now, wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t gain perspective or logic and eventually headed out in my nightie and a jumper to buy junk food I knew I’d purge. So binge and purge I did. I can’t say if it felt good or bad, but I can say perspective on life came back. Immediately followed by the shame of having broken my recovery after so long.

This morning I walked to Coogee Beach to swim in the ladies’ baths – a beautiful pool carved into the rocks at the ocean’s edge. I did very little swimming, instead sitting on the edge of the pool looking out over the ocean, clinging to the railing, and feeling the waves pummel me around as they washed over the pool edge. It satisfied almost every element of my being – water, nature, movement, the sound of waves crashing, the taste of salty water. I talked to God and anyone who would listen, asking for perspective and the ability to stop catastrophising every little bump in the road. I came back from the baths wet and salty, my gym gear stuck and crooked on my damp salty legs, my boobs and butt wet all the way home. And I have a sense of acceptance deep in my belly. I fucked up. It happens. Isn’t the first time and won’t be the last. But my world doesn’t end with this lost opportunity. It wasn’t meant to be so I move on to the next thing. I have to forgive myself.

And as I realised that, it dawned on me that forgiveness – or lack thereof – has been a huge part of my life. I’ve been surrounded by hypercritical people my entire life, and their focus on my imperfections and mistakes made it hard for them to forgive. My transgressions are invariably noticed, commented upon, criticised, and remembered. I’ve rarely been forgiven for my imperfections, mistakes, and just plain idiotic stuff-ups. So there’s a little curly haired girl I’m trying to heal, who needs forgiveness for all the times she did the wrong thing. When willfulness, arrogance, laziness or idiocy were showcased to the world, but the only lesson learned was, You’re not good enough.

You know what? We’re all good enough.

Just writing it down isn’t enough – tattooing it onto the heart and absorbing it into the essence of being is the key to healing. Forgiveness starts with me – if I can’t forgive myself, I can never fully forgive others. And without a forgiving heart, the world can feel like a hopeless place to reside. So today I look at the little girl who wanted to be loved and forgive her for not being perfect, and I look into my own adult heart and say, It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re forgiven.

TIME OUT

Meditation and mindfulness are the buzzwords of the decade. The practice of taking time out to check in with mind, body and spirit – to let go of the past and future for a few moments – is no longer limited to Buddhist monks, or yogis in search of spiritual nirvana. It’s mainstream practice, taught to children in schools and discussed in workplaces, gyms, therapy, and the media.

There are reams and reams of studies on the proven benefits of both meditation and mindfulness. Google benefits of meditation and mindfulness and there are currently 67,000 scholarly articles. So there’s no need for me to extol the virtues of these disciplines – science has done all the hard work for me.

In my limited experience, I’ve found meditation often has music playing, and mindfulness doesn’t.

Although that’s definitely not part of any official definition. I’ve also discovered meditation requires taking time out to sit and focus, whereas mindfulness is paying attention at any given moment and requires no extra time in the day. Both practices encourage thoughts to come and go without judgment, and often include focused breathing and/or grounding techniques as part of the experience.

While it’s perfectly possible and reasonable to do any meditation or mindfulness practice without an app, I confess I’m an app kinda gal. So here’s my experience of the following apps, and why I have a whole folder dedicated to them on my phone.

Like most new things in life, that for whatever reason may not come naturally, it’s important to start slow.

Abide is a Christian meditation app. The free version includes a two-minute daily meditation, one sleep meditation, and 28 topics ranging from addiction to thankfulness, each with heaps of two-minute meditations. All meditations have three background track options – a running stream, piano music or guitar music – and are voiced with different American men and women sharing words of support and encouragement as well as scripture. The paid version has a seven day free trial, after which it costs $90.99USD per year. It includes more timing options, background music, a plethora of meditations, and also has guides for each of the 28 topics. The app requires internet access to work – there’s no option to download or use offline.

I personally love this app. There’s so much available in the free version I haven’t paid for it. It’s visually beautiful, I love the variety of voices and that I can favourite my preferred meditations. The music is gentle and soothing while the running stream makes me want to rush to the toilet. Overall it’s a great meditation app for Christians.

Address Stress is a simple and accessible meditation. The free version has two options – relaxation exercises with focused breathing in 10, 15 or 20 minute sessions, and pressure valve, a two-minute breathing exercise to do anytime, anywhere. The only voice over is in the relaxation exercise tutorial and the American gentleman speaks in a lovely soothing tone. The paid version is approximately $75. (As I was gifted the entire programme I’m not sure of the precise cost.) It includes a 14-day programme with daily information, scheduled reminders, progress charts, and the option to buddy with a friend. The full programme also includes comprehensive booklets packaged in a beautiful box that talk about many aspects of stress, the impact on our lives, and how to manage stress.

Address Stress is currently my favourite app. I love falling asleep to the relaxation exercise (without commentary to wake me up as it ends). The pressure valve exercise is easily done in the car, walking, working, eating etc. Over two minutes breathing gradually slows, bringing a quick reduction in anxiety or stress. I haven’t finished reading all the booklets, but it’s on my to-do list.

Aura starts by asking How are you feeling? But with the free version, the only available response is, Okay. It then pops up with three minutes of life-coaching wisdom on authentic happiness, narrated by an American woman. The free version has access to a community of other users – which I haven’t participated in – and an explore option, where users can subscribe to hundreds of channels encompassing meditation, hypnotherapy, stress reduction, life coaching, and inspirational stories. Within each channel there are hundreds of meditations, however the free version limits access to a randomly selected three-minute meditation. To access the paid version there is a 14-day free trial, and then it’s $59.99USD per year.

Aura is not my preferred app – it’s too fiddly to find what I want and doesn’t seem to offer anything particularly original. Having said that, it’s visually appealing and the content I accessed was very good. For users who like the idea of being in a community it would be a nice option.

Breathe is a beautifully simple app that just does focused breathing. It’s entirely free and has only two functions – measuring heart rate and guided breathing. I find measuring heart rate on a phone frustrating as I can’t seem to hold my finger over the camera at just the right angle, so it either stops and starts, or claims my heart rate is 40 when it’s definitely not. The breathing part of this app is brilliant. Set a duration, press start, and go. The settings allow you to change intervals for breathing in and out, and holding the breath. The app will either vibrate at the beginning of each in/out/hold, or ask you to hold your thumb on the graphic as you breathe in, release thumb as you breathe out. The graphic is a very simple blue circle with a yellow outline.

It’s a fantastic, simple go-to app for anyone with significant anxiety issues – particularly if you’re prone to panic attacks. I’ve used it during panic attacks to calm myself down. The only caveat, is it may only be available in Australia? I’m not sure…

Buddhify is a meditation app with a colour wheel describing every type of situation meditation (or mindfulness) can be applied to. There’s an option to edit the wheel and add or remove applicable topics. It’s confusing at first, as it functions slightly differently to similar apps. Tap on a topic (eg Walking), which then opens a variety of tracks to choose from (eg Street – 6 mins, Bridge – 9 mins etc). Each topic has 3-6 different tracks. To close a topic click back on the rest of the wheel. Every meditation has a different voice and accent. Interestingly, this is the only meditation app I’ve found without music – so it feels more like mindfulness than meditation. Personally, I prefer having music. The app is free, but there’s an option for an annual $30USD membership, which apparently provides, A range of features and benefits all designed to help you get even more out of your meditation.

I keep coming back to Buddhify, and then deleting it again. It seems good but without music, doesn’t quite suit me.

Calm is awesome. Music plays the moment it starts, and you can control the music – everything from the sound of the ocean to fairytale lullabies. Just the music alone would be lovely to drift off to sleep. There’s a daily calm meditation that goes for around ten minutes focusing on relaxation and body awareness. The sleep stories menu has a huge range of stories told by different narrators in a variety of soothing voices. I love listening to Stephen Fry’s lullabies. There are hundreds of stories. The meditation menu also has tons of options, for example mindful walking with a variety of timings (from 5-30 minutes). There’s also Calm Kids, Calm Masterclass, Calm Body, and a breathe function. I think I must have subscribed as I have full access to everything. It costs $59.99USD annually, or $299.99USD for lifetime access.

I think this is one of the best meditation apps available. If you’ve never tried meditation before, it’s a great place to start as there are lots of different voices, backgrounds and music to choose from, and the meditations are very well done. The option to have background music playing with no voice is lovely.

Headspace is the first meditation app I ever used and is brilliant. The delightful Andy Puddington, a former monk, voices everything – I love his voice! The app is sorted into courses and often requires completion of one before moving onto the next. It starts with basics and then branches into topics like anxiety, sleep, acceptance. The SOS meditations are fantastic for those times when stress, anxiety, panic, or deep depression have struck. There’s often a small video explaining techniques before the meditation starts. The meditation has no music, but I love Andy so much I forgive the lack of music. There’s a huge focus on guided breathing and body awareness. The free version is limited to the basic courses. The paid version is $95.88USD per year. As far as I can see, there’s no free trial – just use the free courses until you decide you want the paid version.

I highly recommend Headspace to learn about meditation and mindfulness. You have to get comfortable with long silences, but the videos and voice overs are incredibly informative.

Insight Timer is quite new for me. It seems to have a large focus on community and claims to be the number one meditation app in the world. The menu includes sleep, meditate, and courses. Sleep has thousands of free music tracks and stories to help you get a better night’s sleep. Some meditations have music and some don’t, and many include a bell sound to begin and end the meditation. There are a variety of voices in different accents – quite a few are Australian. The app is not as “pretty” as some, and not as easily navigated. But it does have 15,000 free meditations – which is huge. Premium is $89.99USD per year and there’s a seven-day free trial. It includes all the 10 and 30 day courses, night mode, daily meditation and 365 different teachers.

Rated as the world’s number meditation app, it must be good. Certainly a lot to choose from in the free option. It’s an app I will explore in more detail.

Mindifi has the most beautiful selection of apps for everything imaginable. Choose which app you want, and the free version will have one guided session, or you can purchase the whole program for a one-off payment of $39.99USD. Sessions are around 25-45 minutes. The mindifi apps are all separate – in other words, you download the weight loss app, or the business success app etc. They are called hypnosis tracks, which is basically just a deep meditation, but with important self-affirming messages included for the chosen topic.

I love mindifi. The gentle music, soothing voice and the way it brings you into such a deep state of relaxation is fantastic. I have had half a dozen mindifi apps on my phone at different times – just accessing the free option for each different topic. As a hypnosis meditation, it works well for positive, self-affirming messages.

Rainy Mood simply offers soothing background sounds. The default setting has rain, thunder and birds playing and you can adjust the volume for each of them. The paid version of the app is $4.49USD and includes three more soundscapes – ocean, countryside and cafe.

Rainy mood is less meditation and more calm. It makes for nice background noise if silence is overwhelming for you, or street noise is distressing. The absence of any voice or need to do anything specific is good. It’s not an app I use much though.

Simple Habit is another meditation app that includes a community option. It’s divided into series and the free version gives access to the first two meditations in each series, while the paid version is $139.99USD per year, or $499.99USD for lifetime access. The app requires you to meditate a number of times before you can level up and access more features. The meditations are arranged by subject – weight loss, anxiety, well-being etc. You can also choose meditations based on one of the hundreds of narrators from every corner of the world. The app also tracks which days and for how many minutes you practice mindfulness.

It’s not as pretty as some of the apps, but the meditations are really good. The discover option makes it easy to find the topic you need and there are meditations for absolutely everything.

Smiling Mind is an Australian mindfulness app. Like most mindfulness and meditation, it begins with guided breathing and body awareness, before focusing on the topic at hand. It’s arranged by programs and after a short quiz when you sign up, it offers recommended programs. You can also access all programs from the menu. Programs are classified as Adult, Youth, Workplace or Classroom. There are also Other Language Programs. Each program then has modules and sessions. Sessions can be done with or without background music, and can be a favourite if you want to come back to it. Programs include digital detox, sleep, sport and mindfulness foundations.

Smiling Mind is very much an educational program and particularly focused on young people. It’s entirely free and is operated by an Australian not-for-profit organisation helping make future generations happier and healthier through the practice of mindfulness meditation. There is an option to donate to the organisation, but it’s purely voluntary.

Soultime is another Christian meditation app. It has the option to track mood. Menu options include meditation, music (with vocals), scripture and bible. Under the meditate tab there are hundreds to choose from, many of which required the paid version, but those accessible for free are beautifully done. There are a variety of different voices, and often a quote from scripture to read through while listening to the music or meditation. The background image can be changed to suit your mood. The paid version has a seven-day free trial and is then $96.99USD per year. It offers reports based on the check-up quizzes you complete. A full off-line bible and reading plan. And unlocks over 100 more guided meditations.

Soultime is quite good, but I would recommend Abide for Christian meditation first. The music isn’t my favourite, and it doesn’t offer anything particularly original.

Theta Waves is quite fascinating. It uses binaural beats for mindfulness meditation and biofeedback. There are three sound options and you can control how much of each is playing. The first is the theta waves, a slow pulse that is high amplitude but slow cycled brain waves… associated with a state of deep meditation and mindfulness. You can add synthesised music over the top, and/or the sound of rain. The idea is to just play the music in the background and then do self-guided meditation.

I confess I haven’t used Theta Waves yet. But I can see it could be very useful to play when in a state of distress to try and calm the panic in your head.

That’s all I’ve got for now on apps. There are millions of them out there. Many I’ve downloaded and deleted immediately because of a twangy voice I couldn’t stand, or being too complicated to figure out. Different things work for different people. Do you prefer music or no music? British, American, Australian voices? Long or short meditations? With or without silences? All or none of the above?! Please share your experience of mindfulness and meditation and the methods you employ to incorporate the practice into daily life. I use a timer on my phone four times a day. For now, it works for me.

FARM LIFE

Our home on the farm was a small, off-white, timber house with a grey roof, and an assortment of grey galvanised iron sheds spread about. Surrounding the house was a vegetable garden with seasonal vegetables like pumpkin, beans and rockmelon, as well as a small number of flowers. In my early years the house had a lean-to kitchen and three main rooms – mum and dad’s bedroom, the dining room, and a spare room for visitors.

There was a long-drop toilet about 20-30 metres from the house and not far from the wood heap. Every time we went past the wood heap we had to bring back an arm load of wood for the stove, which was the source of heat for all the cooking as well as warmth in winter. We also had chamber pots under the bed and if we needed to go out to the toilet after dark we took a hurricane lamp with us. It had a glass cover around it which apparently would burn even in a strong wind and was fuelled with kerosene. We also had one or two gas mantle lights which gave off a very strong white light.

Green frogs were everywhere and they would come into the house, attracted to the lights, if we forgot to close the windows at night.

I really don’t care for frogs. They have a right to exist, but just do it somewhere else. I wasn’t frightened of them but they were unnerving and we often had to sweep them out of the shower before using it. I trod on one on the step in the dark once – very off-putting. Thankfully there were no cane toads back then.

When we were little we just stood in a tin bath to be bathed. As we grew older, we used the shower at the back of the house. We would walk down some steps to a little concreted area with a low ceiling. The shower was a four-gallon drum with a shower nozzle on the bottom. It was connected to a pulley which we used to lower the drum and fill it up with a bucket (mostly just cold water but sometimes for a treat some hot water). We would then raise it up high, reach up, and twist the nozzle to set the water flowing. When the drum was empty that was it, so you hurried with the soap. At the house we had water tanks filled only by rain so we had to be careful with water use and I remember dad tapping each tank periodically to check the water levels. During a drought or spell of dry weather we had to be very careful with water use of course.

Before we had electricity on the farm, we had a wood stovethat, as well as cooking our food, also heated our water. It had a very small sidetank with instant hot water which was great. Mum had to use the wood-heatedcopper to deal with any larger requirement for hot water.

If we wanted a cool drink there was a canvas water bag hanging in the shade under the tanks, where the water would evaporate and the water left in the bag was always pleasantly cool.

When I was young we had an ice chest to keep things cold – the cream truck would deliver huge blocks of ice when it came for the cream two or three times a week. Then later we had a kerosene fridge which always smelt very kerosene-y. The kerosene tank for the fridge had to be filled periodically, and sometimes it wouldn’t burn right for some reason, and there’d be black smoke going up the wall behind it.

When I lived on the farm, if we wanted to make a phone call, we had a party line between the three farms. Our joint number was 104 for the three farms. Uncle Wilfred’s number was 104M, we were 104U and Uncle John was 104S. If someone in town wanted to phone one of us, the telephonist would put it through. The phone would ring in all three houses and then we had to listen for the morse code to see which family should answer. If the sound was dit-dit-dah (two short turns of the phone handle followed by one long turn), that meant U and so a call for us. But if the brothers wanted to talk to each other, they didn’t have to worry about the 104 – just the morse code for the separate lines did the job. Uncle Wilfred was M, so dah-dah, and Uncle John was dit-dit-dit for S.

The house had a front verandah and all three rooms in the house had double doors that opened onto it. As the three children came along, we all slept out on the front verandah. When I was a very young baby in the cot, mum said one day she could see me from her bed and there, wrapped around the mosquito net on the cot, was a python! No doubt this was a nasty experience for her.

Next to the shower under the house was the laundry and on Mondays mum would boil the linen and the clothes in the copper. Then with a special big stick (the ‘copper stick’) she would lift the heavy items out and drop them into a concrete laundry tub where they’d drain and cool. Then she’d rinse them, put them through the wringer (hand-operated of course) and hang everything out on the clothes line. When it was all hung out, she would have to push the long stick (which served as a prop for the line) up and under the line to raise the washing above any chance of being chewed by a cow, or dragging in the dirt.

Once the washing had dried she would do all the ironing but of course there were no electric irons. Instead we had little dolly irons which were quite heavy boat-shaped metal irons, with a handle we could clip on and off. These irons would be heated up on the wood stove in the kitchen upstairs, without a handle, while mum was downstairs ironing in the laundry. When her iron grew cold she would call the nearest child to bring the next iron from the stove. When it was my turn I found this a very frightening task. I had to go upstairs with the cold iron, put it on the stove to heat again, take the handle off it and put it on the next hot iron, and carry it down the stairs to mum in the laundry. I was always terrified of dropping the hot iron but thankfully never did. Later on, we had an iron with a little fuel tank that mum would ignite and heat up that way.

When we finally had the luxury of 32volt electricity we had all the mod cons.

Dad had the 32v electricity setup in a shed in the backyard. It was powered by a motor that charged a big set of storage batteries, a task that had to be carried out every now and then, when he would start the motor. (Are we coming full circle with power generation?!) This setup ran a fridge, vacuum cleaner, hot water heater, radio, lighting, and anything else electrical we had. This was real self-sufficiency.

Modern home generators produce 240v electricity now. When I was about 12 the 240v electricity arrived, carried on a line from town. Then of course we had to buy all new appliances, and dad heard about someone starting up a 32v system so all our 32v appliances were sold to that family. Everything was used and reused in those days.

The 32v electricity arrived at much the same time as the renovations on the house, when I was about seven years old. This was of course after the war, when the community was finally able to spend money on such inessential things as house renovations and new furniture.

Mum and dad hired tradesmen to build a side porch, a kitchen, and a lounge room. We installed an inside bathroom with a bath with running hot water (such luxury!) and there was a septic toilet in its own little room upstairs – so no need to go outside day or night. Of course there was no sewerage service then, so sewage ended up in the septic tank which was in a big pit dug into the ground in the back garden.

The new kitchen had the original wood stove, a sink, fridge, built-in cupboards, and the dinette – a built-in table and benches where we would sit to eat breakfast or just to chat. The floor was a boring beige linoleum and I remember one day mum allowed me to polish it – which I did with dark brown shoe polish. It was never quite the same again and she was very, very annoyed.

When we got the 32v electricity and the renovations, a hot water tank was installed up in the roof, which provided pressure for the delivery of the hot water. Unfortunately, cold water had to be pumped up to this tank – and one of my daily tasks was to fill that tank, which could take about 30 minutes. I would always take a book with me to read as I stood pumping, and I guess sometimes my arm got tired or I got lost in the book, because I remember lots of shouting: Get on with it! Get pumping, you’ve stopped pumping!

The old lean-to kitchen became an office and there was a big bedroom for the three girls to share. Auntie Amy commented on its likeness to a school dormitory. We had a bed each, all hand-me-down cheap timber frames, with metal mesh bases and rather thin horsehair mattresses, and on each bed was an eiderdown and a couple of blankets. I had a really special pink blanket, bought during the war especially for me. Apparently one day my toddler persona found the scissors and had a lovely time cutting holes in the blanket. Mum thought, She’s going to have to live with that for the rest of her life, so she stitched all the bits together onto a dark grey blanket which was then mine for many more years. I don’t know where it ended up but I think I must have been a very irritating child.

Excerpt from ‘The Girl from Gayndah’

CHRISTIAN

My baby brother has painted rosebud lips. Rouged cheeks. Long dark lashes. His face is round and perfect, crowned by wisps of dark hair. The corners of his mouth curve into a gentle smile. Five weeks old, with the silky soft complexion of a newborn and the double chin of a healthy, nine-pound baby. Delicate ears foreshadow a slimmer, more athletic build later in life – much like his two younger siblings to come. His eyes are softly closed and his nose is the perfect button with a wide bridge, so familiar in an infant’s face.

But it’s a lie. It’s all a lie.

The colours are painted onto a black and white photo – a common practice in the sixties. It’s the only photo ever taken, in an era predating the commonality of photography we now take for granted. It was taken at the morgue, sometime after he died. The soft blue background of the coloured-in photograph compliments the pink cheeks and pristine white nightgown. Yet despite the false colours and two-dimensional image, it’s obvious he’s dead. The photograph conveys the deathly stillness of his body along with the unnatural colours of his face.

The colours are painted onto a black and white photo – a common practice in the sixties. It’s the only photo ever taken, in an era predating the commonality of photography we now take for granted. It was taken at the morgue, sometime after he died. The soft blue background of the coloured-in photograph compliments the pink cheeks and pristine white nightgown. Yet despite the false colours and two-dimensional image, it’s obvious he’s dead. The photograph conveys the deathly stillness of his body along with the unnatural colours of his face.

I know his story intimately well. September 17 1968. I’m just two and a half when Christian is born at Calvary Hospital. Five weeks later he’s gone. A perfectly healthy baby boy, dying in his sleep. Sudden infant death syndrome the doctors said. A syndrome. It’s not how my parents describe it. For almost three decades we never speak of him. His story a mystery. His photo hidden away. His death haunting my parents with grief and guilt for the rest of their days. But over the years I learn more. Never from my mother – she rarely speaks of him, and only ever in terms of how she failed. But from my father and grandmother I piece the story together.

Christian was beautiful and healthy, chubby and full of life. His long dark lashes exactly like my brother, who is yet to be conceived. Put to bed in his cot, he’s later heard crying for a short period of time but settles himself so my parents don’t go in. For decades they hold onto this guilt. If only…

When eventually dad goes in, Christian is cold and blue. No sign of the painted rosebud lips. No soft rouge on his cheeks. Just that fatal soft bluish-purple hue skin takes on, when warm blood ceases to flow through veins.

Dad shouts to my mother, Run down to the doctor! Get the doctor now! So she runs. Dad desperately applies mouth-to-mouth resuscitation until the doctor arrives and tells him to stop. It’s too late. He’s dead. He can’t be saved. The ambulance arrives and Christian is taken to the morgue. My parents don’t hold him, touch him, or say goodbye. They never see him again.

Mum phones my grandmother, “I’ve killed him! I’ve killed my baby!” she cries down the line.

It isn’t true. But guilt is an eternal weight around every parent’s neck. If only…

In 1968 grief counselling is a stark contrast to twenty-first century practice. Just have a good cry for a couple of weeks and you’ll be right dear, say the nuns at Calvary. Buckets of tears are shed, but she is never right. My mother’s heart shatters into a million pieces and is never whole again.

A few weeks later we move interstate, leaving behind all that is familiar and comforting. It’s unfortunate timing. Dad had already accepted a new job in Perth – the house sold, packing underway, removalists organised, and travel plans in place. Still in the throes of grief, my parents leave friends and family behind and move 3000 kilometers away, with me in tow bewildered by recent events. My baby brother safely ensconced in a tiny white coffin, six feet below the earth. It’s too early for the headstone to be erected before they leave, but it’s chosen and ordered. I know it intimately well – I’ve visited his grave in Cornelian Bay a hundred times. His infant body just one in a sea of dead babies at the children’s section of the cemetery.

I don’t remember him dying but I always knew I had another brother – I don’t remember not knowing.

He’s my angel brother – his round face with its gentle smile and dark lashes, never marred by age. Never naughty or disappointing. He never made mistakes or did any of the myriad things that happen as we grow and learn. He remains unchanged – forever perfect and innocent.

The only photo ever taken of my baby brother is a lie. The soft colours exaggerating a life long since gone. I treasure this photo with every ounce of my being. His perfect face I have silently called upon countless times. My guardian angel with the rosebud lips and long dark lashes.

In the 1980s mum reads an article about cough medicine and wonders if perhaps that’s how she killed her baby. She’d taken some when pregnant. For the rest of her days she wonders what she did wrong and how things might have been different. If only…

In 2018 I interview my father. He’s 85 years old and we’re recording his story for posterity. Christian would have turned 50 this year. Despite five decades passing, dad cannot talk of that day without his eyes welling with tears and a catch in his throat. Still wondering how things might have been different. If only…

I was once asked what I would choose if I could go back in time and change one thing. Just one single thing. Without hesitation it’s this day I would change. The day my parents’ hearts broke. The day my 24-year-old highly anxious mother had her worst nightmare realised. The day my emotional and sensitive father began to break. When grief and fear began to rule our family. The day my brother became angelic and the rest of us never good enough by comparison.

Excerpt from my memoir.