Patching things up

Being the mother of two boys I spent many long hours patching the knees of my son’s jeans in their younger years. These days the fashion would be to leave them looking dishevelled, but when you’re on a modest income old jeans were kept to provide patches for those currently in use in order for them to last the distance until the boys grew out of them.

Didn’t do a bad job if I say so myself, the jeans didn’t look daggy and I hoped my sons didn’t feel like someone’s poor cousin by having to wear them. Hand stitching two patches on ripped knees is one thing, but what I’ve seen over the past couple of weekends is another thing entirely.

For the fifteenth year the Tasmanian Quilting Guild held their annual getaway here in Poatina where they set up their sewing machines and all manner of paraphernalia for four days of intensive quilt making. To me, real quilters are a rare breed, possessing the patience of saints as they create multitudes of squares of the most intricate designs which then blend into the overall design of the entire quilt.

The village residents are treated to an annual “Show and Tell” as each creator displays their work, telling something of the story of its making, who it is for, and often how many years it has taken to complete the project. The incredible skill elicits oohs and aahs from those gathered, but there is also recognition of the love which has gone into making particular ones where there is a special reason behind who will be the recipient.

Over the past few years, the Handweavers, Spinners and Dyers Guild of Tasmania have joined them on the same weekend, so we get to see the skills of these ladies, and one bloke, who, complete with their spinning wheels and looms and dyeing techniques, start with the raw product and see it through to a completed garment or piece of work, with beautiful results.

 

I am in awe of such skill and dedication to their craft. These people are not simply making quilts or scarves or garments, they are textile artists, and they have a lot of fun in those few days as they spend time together, learn from each other, and celebrate each other’s achievements.

However well I did my patch up jobs all those years ago, all I was really doing was covering up a hole, like putting on a band aid so what’s underneath can be fixed or obscured. The patches these women create are not there to cover over something, apart of course from when they become the finished product and someone actually gets to sleep under them.

To watch them choose materials, cut out hundreds, sometimes thousands of pieces, pin them, sew them, iron them, stack them until there are enough, arrange them, then see the squares sewn together is to witness an amazing process. Each little patch is the start of something new, something bigger. The quality of their work tells you instinctively that it will still be around on someone’s bed for decades to come, and will be valued.

Patching things up implies there’s been a problem, a rift that needs mending. It could be transforming if we went beyond the quick cover up job or temporary solution to whatever challenges we face each day, and took into other aspects of our lives as much love and care as the quilters invest in producing their long lasting creations.

A Time & Place to Reflect

Whether or not our lives have been directly touched by the rigours or horrors of wartime experience, Anzac Day has undoubtedly become Australia’s most hallowed day of the year. A time to honour those who made the ultimate sacrifice for their loved ones, their country, their mates and for the freedom we hold dear.

We set aside this day to commemorate a moment in history when our country took its place on the world stage alongside the Allied troops, thrown into a battlefield on an almost suicidal mission. The stories from that little cove in Gallipoli have become part of this country’s mythology, and have followed our troops all over the globe into countless war zones since.

I recently read Alex Miller’s novel The Ancestor Game, an interesting delve into the lives of several characters from foreign shores living in Australia before, during and after the Second World War. Lang Tzu is Chinese, and his telling of the invention of the gazebo structure made me think about those who take on the roles of lookouts and sentries while the remainder of the troops can rest in the knowledge that their welfare is of prime concern.

Commonly seen as an ornamental structure in a traditional English garden, the gazebo was actually a Chinese invention, a room built on to the roof of a family home for the purpose of looking out over the fields for the approach of any enemy forces. At dawn each day, the father would head up to the gazebo to sit for many hours watching and waiting in order to protect his family and village, but over the generations, as rivalries ceased and the need to keep watch became unnecessary, the gazebo lost its original purpose. With the advent of peace though, an interesting phenomenon began to emerge.

Those who’d sat for hours and watched began to miss the solitary time they’d spent in the gazebo…The long hours alone had revealed to them something which they could otherwise never have discovered for themselves in the world at ground level. Alone in the gazebo they had learned how to reflect on their experience. They had discovered the hidden beauties of solitary contemplation.

To gaze inward had become an established custom with them, and they found when they came down that they could no longer live happily without it…In the busy world of the daily routine of the village, where no one ever had a moment to stop and think but where everyone had to either get on or risk falling behind, those who had come down from their gazebos now found themselves to be strangers.

They soon found it necessary to return to their gazebos in order to satisfy the deep need for solitary reflection, in many cases abandoning their families and responsibilities to the extent where they moved or were forced to remove their rooftop gazebos and relocate them away from the house. Hence the modern day gazebo has become a structure situated away from the house, a retreat from the business of the day, a place to sit and rest and turn one’s thoughts inward while looking outward on the surroundings.

Some of us fear the world of contemplation and reflection. It can easily spiral into a self deprecating ‘woe is me’ or ‘I’m a failure’ navel gazing type of thing, so we prefer to keep barrelling on, maintaining a level of busy-ness which leaves no room for setting apart quiet times to think about the bigger picture and where we fit in it all.

Many fear darkening the doorway of a church and sitting in a pew in case they are challenged by something said from the pulpit, causing them to examine their lives. But no one has that same fear when it comes to attending a dawn service on Anzac Day. We listen with reverence to the words spoken on this sacred day, and pause to reflect not only what those who have gone before us have done, but on whether or not we would have the same degree of courage should we have to face such dire circumstances. It is often in those moments we feel we come up wanting, but there is also a sense of humility, inspiration and hope.

Reflection isn’t totally an inward activity. In contemplating not only who we are, but who and what we could be, the world beyond our own little bubble takes on more significance.  The benefits of time spent alone can have profound and far reaching ramifications as we find fresh ways of expressing who we are, as well as serving those around us. We may not have a gazebo to retreat to, but finding a quiet place on a regular basis to monitor how we’re going, how our inner world is standing up under day to day pressures, whether what we’re doing is bringing personal fulfilment, whether we’re contributing to the lives of others rather than taking, must surely be a positive thing.

Fascinating that this ancient structure designed to keep a sharp lookout for the enemy may have just lived up to its original purpose. Looking outward, while working on our emotional and spiritual well being, actually could alert us to the danger signs of self interest and complacency.

Wade in the Water, Swim in the Sea

I’m having trouble remembering exactly how long it’s been since I ventured into the ocean, apart from in a boat that is. Paddling in the shallows in Tasmanian waters is not the most inviting of pastimes, even in summer, unless you want frozen toes, and my last recollection of getting completely wet while at the beach ended in pain and suffering from a bluebottle jellyfish sting back in my Queensland days in the early 90s.

Have traversed Bass Strait via the Spirit of Tasmania on a number of occasions, a few of which have been far from smooth sailing, but there was never a question that I wasn’t safe and secure. I love walking along the beach fossicking in rock pools and watching a perfect sunset reflected on the water. Walking into a bracing wind along a pier with the waves broiling underneath makes me feel alive, and the sight of yachts and fishing boats tied up at their moorings herald a whole other world of enjoyment, challenge, livelihood and lifestyle.

The ocean has a lot going for it, but its moods can change, and if you’re not prepared, danger is not far away. Nightly news broadcasts offer up tragedies on a regular basis, from anglers swept off the rocks, to shark attacks, dangerous rips, an innocent day’s fishing with mates ending in loss of life, storms whipping up the sea into a frenzy from which many never return. Many a day on or in the water begun in excited anticipation has ended in disaster.

But we keep heading out there. For some reason we are not deterred and probably, somewhat foolishly, believe we are somehow immune from such mishaps. I watch with incredible admiration the exploits of those who pit their skills against the elements and succeed, but there are those like me who tend to watch from the safety of the shoreline with a degree of envy for those who are game to take the risk.

The imagery is pretty obvious here I know, but I wonder sometimes how much of my life is lived with barely a toe poked in the water. The water is inviting, lots of people seem to be quite at ease and having a great time, but there’s some pretty scary stuff out there too. You don’t have to venture far before you can find you’re out of your depth, not to mention the rocks strategically placed for you to crash into, or the creatures of the deep lying in wait to scare the living daylights out of you or devour you if they feel like it.

We all have our daily battles, whether external or internal, and both can be as debilitating when it comes to finding our place in the world and feeling like we matter and have a purpose. Facing what has to be done in the next year, month, week, day or even minute, for progress to be made, skills developed, confidence and trust to be built, for hope to rise that the future can be so much more than the present, takes courage.

Venturing from the known to the unknown always holds elements of both excitement and fear, and unfortunately most of us rarely get to see what we’re capable of because the obstacles overwhelm us. To move beyond the fear, to see beyond the rocks, we actually have to venture further than the water lapping around our ankles and make a move, a first step, a commitment.

We have to wade in the water, swim in the sea.

2012 - Not what I'd expected

So far, 2012 is languishing waaay down the bottom of my list of favourite years. Since the end of January my old war wound of a back injury came back to haunt me big time, warranting a ride in an ambulance, some unnamed weird virus laid me low, broke a tooth, had a 3 day migraine, plus a mild attack of shingles which was probably sparked by said unnamed virus, nearly swallowed a jack jumper ant which could’ve killed me, and 3 major jack jumper ant nests in the garden have since sprung up and needed to be dealt with.

No doubt they heard along the grapevine that one of their mates had been slaughtered through no fault of his own, and put a three pronged strategy into place to do away with me once and for all. In the end I won, with not a sting having found its mark, not bad seeing as I squooshed at least two hundred or more as they fled from the ant powder.

But that’s not all, or should I say, that’th not all. Bethideth breaking a tooth which wath filled a couple of weekth ago, the tooth next to it had to come out the other day. Poor old molar had been living on borrowed time for quite a while and wath cauthing an infection, tho after two X-rayth and much dithcuthon, out it came. That wathn’t the bad part though, in fact there wath altho a funny part, but the down thide wath that the tooth which wath filled now had a razor tharp edge on it which I didn’t dithcover until the numbneth went away.

Thuddenly I had thith Mt Everetht carving up the underthide of my tongue which I’m having to put up with until the firtht working day after Eathter. Hard to eat, I thound like I’m thpeaking with a mouthful of marthmallowth. Very difficult to keep your tongue behind your bottom teeth I’ve found, it really doth have a mind of itth own, but not thpeaking ith minimithing the damage.

The amusing part of the whole thing was the injections before the whole drama. After two injections I didn’t seem to be going numb in the right place, so to make sure I wasn’t going to feel anything, in went injection number 3, giving me a facial block. Wasn’t till I was driving home I realised what a facial block does. My right eye wouldn’t close, it was like I’d tripped and landed face first in a box of Botox needles, and my left eye was blinking furiously wondering why its mate wasn’t cooperating. Rather disconcerting, had to hold my eye shut, took a few hours to wear off before it could close of its own accord.

So with all these things assailing me from left and right, I’m trusting this is not a foretaste of what this year has in store for me. I’m tending towards a more positive outlook, hoping that my entire year’s ills have been dealt with in one fell swoop, and that the rest of the year is ready and waiting for me to take it on at full throttle.

That ith, ath thoon ath I get thith darn tooth thmoothed off.

End of Summer Serenade

The start of Autumn has heralded some cloudy skies and rather cool evenings, a far cry from a week ago when the State sweltered in the 30s. As it turned out it was a perfect Saturday, with myself and a few friends joining around 8500 others who took advantage of the balmy evening to flock to Launceston’s City Park equipped with all the picnic paraphernalia necessary to sit or lie back and be treated to the TSO’s annual Symphony Under the Stars.

Bad back or no bad back there was no way I was going to miss this, one of my few cultural events of the year, so spent most of the evening flat on my back being soothed by the music, staring at the sky as it gradually darkened and the stars were teased out by the strains of the great composers of past centuries as well as those of the present day.

New Zealand conductor and composer Kenneth Young brought out the best in Tasmania’s wonderful orchestra before new Chief Conductor and Artistic Director Marko Letonja takes over the reins this month. Violin soloist Ji Won Kim was captivating, with Vaughn Williams’ Lark Ascending absolutely exquisite, though one of the most popular moments of the evening came with the appearance of rookie guest conductor Vince Taskunas.

General Manager of RACT’s public policy and communications, Vince placed the winning bid at the TSO’s 2011 Gala Ball to conduct the orchestra at this year’s event, and despite having absolutely no qualifications to lead an orchestra, wowed the audience as he seized the moment and waved that baton like a pro as he played to the crowd through Rossini’s fast paced William Tell overture.

Confirmed that classical music is not simply for the highbrow, with everyone singing Happy Birthday to one of the orchestra members, and thousands yelling for more encores as the evening concluded, with no intention of leaving until the traditional can-can finale struck up so they could get to their feet and go crazy for a while.

Perfect end to summer.

A Close Call

Think I’m going to write February off this year’s calendar. After a horror of a month with a major flare up of a long standing back injury, some weird virus which made me feel like crap for weeks and sent my liver into a state of panic making my doctor send me for blood test after blood test, my body then decided to top it all off with a 3 day migraine.

Ah, but there’s more, a little episode this morning which could have seen me off with the angels. Innocently eating my vegemite toast while on the computer, turned to pick up my mug of tea on the desk by the window, when what should be trekking around the rim of the mug but a jack jumper ant.

“You’ve gotta be kidding.” I even said it out loud. Being not only allergic to the nasty little beasties but hypersensitive to spotting them at 50 paces in any direction of my vicinity, figured the lemon herbal tea smell must’ve wafted out the open window and enticed him in.

At the very least I would’ve been stung on the hand, but if I hadn’t looked and just drank it I could‘ve been stung either on or inside my mouth, the prospect of which I don’t really want to contemplate. Anaphylaxis can hit pretty fast, and seeing as I’m only four months into the five year desensitisation process, I gratefully offered up a prayer of thanks for avoiding what might have been a definitely dramatic end to the month.

Roll on March, looking forward to starting a new month with a clean slate.

A Glimmer of Hope

Yay, progress at last, albeit very minor. Managed to graduate to getting out of bed by deftly lowering the legs over the side and powering up the abdominals to get me in an upright position, rather than slithering out backwards on my stomach and walking on my knees to the nearest vantage point to pull myself up. No mean feat as I don’t actually have much upper body strength to even lift myself into a sitting position, will have to consider weight lifting or something.

Now that I’m able to dress myself once more, have the whole showering and dressing process down from an hour and a half to an hour, quite an achievement I thought even if I still can’t dry the bottom half of me. Who knows, maybe by the end of another week or so I’ll actually be able to shave my hairy legs and cut my toenails.

So, equipped with this new measure of hope, the very first attempts at physio were gingerly conducted on the lounge room floor. Not exactly easy, but baby steps are better than no steps at all.