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

Lost in Translation

Spent an interesting hour in the Bob Jane waiting room the other day while the car received a little attention. Happened to coincide with the last ten minutes of the US presidential debate, but what was even more amusing than the antics on the screen was the fact the TV had teletext for those with hearing difficulties. Coming a few seconds later than the audio, I was amused how minor errors kept cropping up. Not knowing the finer points of teletext and whether it is produced via some magical audio transcription method, or whether some poor person is actually furiously transcribing in real time and skipping and tripping over the keyboard to keep up, the end product has the potential to be quite misleading.

It all happened too quickly for me to take notes, but the telecast was followed by a press conference or some such with PM Scott Morrison in usual jovial up-beat form. The same teletext was flashing across the screen and I watched more closely this time as he referred to the lifting of borders to allow international rivals to enter the country. He'd actually said 'arrivals' but the written faux pas gave it a completely different meaning, and I wondered whether anyone relying on the teletext for accurate information would've been more than alarmed at that point.

And then there was the moment the PM acknowledged that his Deity Prime Minister had represented him at some function or other. Of course, it was the Deputy Prime Minister he had spoken about, but the teletext gave the leader of the National Party an elevated position way above his pay-grade plus a whole other quality I would've thought he certainly didn't have. All too soon the car was ready and I had to pull myself away from what had become more fascinating viewing than what I normally watch.

We all have moments when what comes out of our mouths isn't heard in the way it was intended. For some reason the distance between what is said and what is heard can be a very wide gap fraught with much danger and misinterpretation. Both our own life experiences as well as those of others we are attempting to communicate with, will colour the way we project our thoughts and ideas, and how they will be received. Even body language and the effect of what is not being said, perceived ulterior motives or manipulation or prejudices, can affect the simplest of conversations.

No matter how much we interact with each other every day, we still live our lives in our own little bubbles, seeing the world through our particular frame of reference, captives of our own paradigm. It takes skill and patience to develop the art of communication, to listen, to see beyond what we believe the world to be at this point in time, to acknowledge that the life experiences and opinions and beliefs of others are just as valid as our own. Never underestimate the worlds of others and their impact on the human soul simply because it's not the world in which you or I live.

They're simply different, that's all

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