Whispers in the Night

I woke up this morning a few minutes before 4am and wrote my epitaph. Why? I have no idea, other than the words were there the moment I opened my eyes, tumbling out of nowhere and hovering, simply waiting for me to rearrange them somewhat. I was certainly left wondering why such a thing would occur at this precise moment, but then the subconscious is not always forthcoming with clear explanations.

If my genes are anything to go by, I have another twenty years up my sleeve before I depart this world, so why choose the wee hours to interrupt my slumber with notions of my demise. No idea. None of us know what's around the corner, but I hope I have a bit more living to do before my final farewell.

Maybe it was a wake-up call to make more of my life with what I have left, to make this last season of my time on earth really matter. Matter more to me or more to others? I really don't know. Will I accept the challenge if that's what it is? Now there's a loaded question.

Maybe I simply woke from a dream and that is how my mind processed it, but it's now 4.30am and of course I can't get back to sleep, hence the frenzied scribbling to get the words out of my head. I shouldn't be doing this crazy sort of thing in the middle of the night, but there you have it, don't always have much control over my sleeping patterns and the brain is now ticking over at a great of knots.

Why can't I think of these things at a more convenient time? Probably because in those moments my hands are more occupied with some mundane task like washing up, so my brain is preoccupied elsewhere and not ready to be engaged with such thoughts. Sometimes it takes the still of night when all is quiet for our minds to process the events of the day and the challenges we can't sort out in our waking hours. Maybe when we're at rest we are more open to receive the words we're meant to hear.

Hmmm, will sleep come now?

Well, it's twelve hours later and I can attest to the fact that sleep did not eventuate. The clock interminably ticked over the half hours as I rolled from side to side, by which time no position was comfortable enough to allow me in to the Land of Nod. The early light of dawn intruded around the edges of the blind after more tossing and turning, and by 6am hunger started to set in, but I resisted, and I think it was probably at the moment I was going to give up and get up just before 7am that I finally nodded off for a couple of hours.

In the light of day it is often fascinating to recognise what your night time wanderings are about. Sometimes you wake up wondering 'what on earth was that about,' and I've had many a weird dream in that category, but seeing how your sleeping self helps you direct your waking self to cope in the real world can be an enlightening process.

So, I don't think I'm on the brink of dropping off this mortal coil in the immediate future, but just in case, here's a little something to read at my send-off or etch into my gravestone, not fussed either way.

Ashes to ashes 

dust to dust 

when it all comes down to it 

we all must 

cease activity 

return to earth 

finish off in death 

what we started in birth

Beginning the Ascent

Two hundred and twenty-five years ago British poet Samuel Taylor Coleridge embarked on the ascent of the left face of Brockley Coomb in Somerset, "a deep narrow glen...sunk between steep rocks...rising to 300ft...adorned with many noble trees, and all the fissures and ledges of the cliffs enriched with...mosses and other vegetation...and masses of columnar basalt." (National Gazetteer of Great Britain and Ireland, 1868).

He penned his appreciation of the venture in what was for him quite a short poem, for I find many of his offerings rather long-winded, and coming from me that's saying something. I've had to discipline myself over the years to cut out and slash and burn in my quest to state what is necessary rather than burden a piece of writing with excessive verbiage. Two years of writing haiku certainly helped, but already I'm getting off the track.

In heading towards retirement I have embarked on a purge of my belongings, determining as I go the destination of the contents of drawers which have remained unopened for a while, shelves which have long since run out of room for anything new, and cupboards of this and that which haven't seen the light of day for many a year. Things that once held sentimental value are becoming less so as I get older, whereas others are still handled with a degree of reverence and tucked back in their hidey holes to be dealt with at some later date. The process has begun. The task ahead might take a while and feel like a bit of a mountain, but tackling a little at a time seems the best way to go.

What on earth has this to do with Coleridge you say. Well, I manage an Op Shop, and my little book of Coleridge poems was just one item among others relocated from the house today. A very small addition to the rows of books on offer in the shop, I doubt anyone will discover it for quite a while, but you never know who might breeze in who's studying the English Romantic poets.

In the reading of Coleridge's Brockley Coomb I was struck by one image in particular. For him it was the ancient yew trees embedded in sheer rock, and for me the picture resonated with parts of the local bush I have photographed many times. Around here there's about one centimetre of topsoil, then rock, so plants and trees must make the most of what little nourishment they can find, often to rather dramatic effect.

Clinging to the edge of rocky banks, gnarled roots wind themselves around the obstacles beneath to seek out sustenance, grounding themselves, determined to remain despite the elements and the situation in which they find themselves. Our bush is a mixture of dry temperate eucalypt forest, ferns and lichen-covered rocks, cliffs dotted with fossils, and a meandering creek under the canopy providing its own micro-climate abounding in moss and fungi.

So, with apologies to Samuel Taylor Coleridge for my slight changes, I found this little nugget within his poem most appropriate.

From the deep fissures of the naked rock
the Gum tree bursts! Beneath its grey green boughs
...where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,
I rest.

Excerpt from Brockley Coomb
Subtitled Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb, May 1795

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Springtime in Tasmania

Springtime in Tasmania

oh what a lovely sight

as long as you have thermals

and can rug up nice and tight

The daffodils are blooming

but their yellow trumpet heads

have been blown around

this way and that

and now they’re looking dead

My toes are froze

as well as my nose

there’s rain and wind and sleet

Where’s my jacket 
beanie, scarf and gloves

and ugg boots for my feet.

For without them

I am well exposed

when I head outside to roam

What happened to the sunshine?

It’s time to go back home.

This weather, it’s unseasonal

and well, downright unreasonable

Spring may have sprung

but it’s not yet begun

is summer looking feasible?

The snow upon the mountain

is something to admire

but I think I’d rather stay inside

and curl up by the fire.

They say that global warming

is heating the hemispheres

but something tells me they forgot
to include us way down here.

 

Pensioner Power

The milestone of reaching 65 may have passed a few days ago, managed to keep below the radar fairly well but decided the occasion had to be marked somehow. No party that’s for sure, have never been a party girl. I’m not entirely anti-social but on the rare occasions I venture out to attend such a ‘do’ you’ll probably find me lurking on the fringes mumbling “are we having fun yet?” I’m more of a You’ll always find me in the Kitchen at Parties kind of girl, hovering around to see if I can do something useful, or perusing other people’s bookcases to check out their books and magazines and DVD collections. Not that I’m judging those who like parties, and I certainly enjoy sitting round having a good chat with friends, but I guess I’m just too darn lazy to go to the trouble of making lists of things to do or buy or make or pick up in order to stage such an event. Oh dear, what a party pooper.

That said, as I stated back in the early days of this blog six years ago, if my genetic makeup is anything to go by I could be around for a good while yet, and the last thing I want to be doing in this third trimester of my life is sitting around in the oldies’ waiting room joining the queue to mount the slippery slide which will speed me on my way and land me with an unceremonious bump at the bottom then bid me a fond farewell.

I have friends my age who are zipping back and forth across the planet seeking out all manner of wonderful places to explore, cultures both similar and vastly different from our own, surrounded by languages they can’t understand. The conversations may be very ordinary, but it can be fascinating to hear them in a foreign tongue. Others are trekking around the country and also heading overseas to help strengthen community networks, provide training and assist local workers in assessing how best to serve the needs of their communities. Others are so active in retirement they wonder how they ever had time to go to work.

One thing is apparent, it is not a time to be idle, use it or lose it they say, so I sometimes wonder what awaits me when I finally close the doors on my current working role, maybe this time next year. The grey nomads are safe from any invasion from my quarters, and I think the dodgy back is going to see me relegated to terra firma instead of hopping on long-haul flights to explore the wild blue yonder. So what am I going to get up to? I have a few ideas, but who knows what could open up when the time comes.

Past the use by date? Never. Not me, nor anyone as far as I’m concerned. We wrinklies might be greyer, balder, paunchier, slower and creakier than at the start of our working lives, but if we don’t pass on the wealth of experience locked away in our still active brains, and the desire to make a positive contribution wherever we find ourselves, we’ll be doing both ourselves and those who come after us a disservice.

I’ll never make a lot of noise, but I don’t want to fade into the background either. Dylan Thomas may have penned it appropriately with his classic

Do not go gentle into that good night

Old age should burn and rave at close of day…

So, as my last word on this auspicious occasion of reaching pensionerdom, I wrote a somewhat less profound ditty of my own.

IT’S OFFICIAL

For my birthday

they gave me a little blue card

but somehow I still

find it rather hard

to believe I’ve arrived

at this new stage of life

where the prospect

of facing adventurous strife

is somewhat diminished,

for my daily activities

are more subdued

than once they were

when life was fast and

whizzed past in a blur.

In the distance

retirement beckons me

but it won’t

be one of inactivity

I’ll still be pottering

here and there

pulling out weeds

while I pull out my hair

from working out

what to do with my days

for no structure in life

can be a real maze.

The grey nomads are safe

I’ll leave them alone

I won’t be buying

a travelling home

I’ll stick around

and do my bit

try new things

and see where I fit.

Will I age gracefully

or disgracefully

the jury’s out on that,

but one thing is for sure.

This bona fide

fully fledged

card carrying pensioner

might be wrinkly and grey

and a little bit mad but

I won’t throw in the towel

or raise the white flag,

there’s years in me yet

to work it all out

for I’ve finally earned

the right to be 

an official old bag.

ASYLUM

We look for asylum

Mama taught me

to say in English

as we distanced ourselves

from war, falling bombs

falling buildings

fear of guns, knives

and men who used them

who did unspeakable deeds

in the dead of night.

Eastward, ever eastward

set adrift from country

from family

from Papa

Burning sand, blistered bitumen

dry, cracked skin and shoe leather

Discarding things as we worked out

what we could live without.

Days became weeks became months

became who knows how long

as one foot in front of the other

moving, moving all the time

the rising sun showed us the way

as each day stretched out

much like the one before.

We look for asylum, Mama said

but no welcome mat

no open arms.

The eyes said it all

Move on, not here, no room, move on

so move we did, further still

from home

from Papa

by any means possible.

Then southward we were told

was the way to go

to find our freedom and new home.

So south we went

day in, day out

week in, week out

until the land ran out.

Now set adrift once more

we desert people

out of our depth

All at sea on a bottomless ocean.

Blue sky above

now a menacing bruise

descending

as the elements unleash

their worst and conspire to take

our vessel

our bodies

our spirits.

When all seemed lost

a distant light spelled hope.

As lightning split the heavens

thunder shook us to the core

soaring black 
walls of water rose,

hung suspended

crashed and

sent us sprawling.

I still can taste cold

salt water on my tongue

Plucked by strong hands

dumped on the deck

placed in a spot

a sad and sorry

wet bedraggled lot.

Hope rises yet again

for this boat will not sink.

The stranger’s eyes meet mine

as he utters things I do not understand

so I speak the only words I know.

You take us to the asylum now?

Di Adams

© 2014

Shades of Early Autumn

Autumn….my favourite season, though this year it seems to have decided to make its entrance a little early and take us by surprise. From working in the garden in a tee shirt a couple of weekends ago, to donning a winter woolly jumper during the week, Tassie is doing its thing, messing us about. And it’s not only the human occupants who are wondering about the seasonal cycle, even some plants are confused with bright warm sunshine one day, chilling winds the next. A friend has a plant that is simultaneously displaying its autumn colours while sending out new shoots as if it’s spring. I poke my head out from behind the blind each morning like the poor plant, wondering what is the appropriate apparel for the day.

 

I do like the fact though that the grass has finally recognised it’s time to slow down and not demand to be mowed so often. Preparations for the approaching months are underway with firewood stacked, though I have refused to succumb to the temptation over the last few cold evenings to light the fire. It’s only March I keep saying, I shouldn’t have to light the fire for almost another month yet, so I hope it’s not a foretaste of a long cold winter, but even that I have to admit I really wouldn’t mind.

The sun is actually shining today, hardly a cloud in the sky after these few grey days, so I might as well make the most of it and get out in the garden to mulch and prune and help it prepare for hunkering down and braving the frosts and bitter winds that are to come.

The poplars are always the first to let us know the cycle of the seasons is moving on, lining the edges of the surrounding country roads as they shed their leaves, and as others show the first signs of yellow and orange, russet and red, I thought I’d pull out a poem penned last year.

AUTUMN

Jars with orange screwtop lids

stand in a row

side by side

neatly under the kitchen window.

Ginger biscuits, salted nuts

crackers and soft dried apricots.

Ripe red apples,

pears and autumn mandarins,

Imperials mind you, only ever Imperials

fill the bowl on the bench.

What delight to peel their thin loose skin

and fill the air

with such delicious sweetness.

Sparks fly

as a log shifts in the fire

and a shaft of sunlight

heralds the passing

of the morning shower,

beckoning me outside.

No warmth there

but its brightness touches the leaves

of the liquidamber

tinges them with gold

shines seductively scarlet

on the stately maple,

suffuses the air

with a blood orange glow.

One by one

in twos and threes

the embers of my burning bush

fall soundlessly

sacrificially

soft under my feet,

a sacred orange carpet

for my cold bare feet.

© Di Adams   2014