WE LOVE TO GO A-WANDERING.....

After some overnight rain a couple of days ago I had some interesting companions crossing the road with me as I walked to work. The rain had brought the worms out of their hidey holes. I spotted a couple as I stepped off the kerb on to the road, nothing unusual about that, but then there was another, and another, until I stopped bang in the middle of the road (you can do that in Poatina at 9am, not exactly the place you find peak hour traffic), fascinated to find I was surrounded by about thirty of the wriggly blighters.

Not tiny little fellas either, most were about 20cm long. So what were they doing out here instead of turning over the soggy soil on home turf? Not being privy to worm habits and too lazy to find out, I guess there’s a perfectly logical, and biological and ecological explanation for their behaviour.

Maybe their spot of dirt was now a muddy quagmire and they’d simply come out to freshen themselves up in some nice clean rain, who knows, but right then some looked like they’d pulled an all nighter and were now a bit worse for wear. They were flagging as they crossed the bitumen in search of another patch of dirt to inhabit, some a little shrivelled while others were progressing at well below their normal speed.

What is it that compels us to look beyond our immediate world, and want to experience the worlds of others? The common phrase “the grass is greener on the other side” can be a way of displacing ourselves from the confinement of our everyday routine existence into one we believe would find us much more fulfilled and productive. Only problem is, no matter where you go, you take your baggage with you, and more often than not find your new location doesn’t deliver on your expectations.

The motives for travelling and possibly relocating are as many and varied as those who travel, from wanting to escape, to simply passing through as a tourist, to wanting to immerse yourself in another culture to the extent where it becomes part of you. For many, travelling overseas especially not only opens their eyes to worlds beyond their own, but brings them to a place where they more fully appreciate what they have left behind.

Do we need to leave the familiar to help us discover more of who we are? I guess for many the answer would be an emphatic ‘yes’. The wanderlust urge can be a cathartic motivator to call us out to new challenges, but maybe the solution is to not be so distracted by it, that we are unable to settle in the midst of that restlessness.

Changing our external circumstances doesn’t necessarily mean our internal world will automatically fall into place or heal itself or receive enlightenment and get a new lease of life. Finding the inner peace that sustains you can be found on home soil just as much as in some far flung corner of the planet which someone else calls home.

BONJOUR MONSIEUR, FOLLOWING 'LE TOUR'

The fact that the Tour de France begins the same day as Wimbledon finishes means five weeks of bleariness if I’m to keep up with it all. Must admit I didn’t watch a lot of Wimbledon this year, but Le Tour, now that’s a different thing. Not that I’m a huge cycling fan, but every year I somehow get sucked into the drama and spectacle of it all, following the individuals and teams as they attempt to outwit each other with their strategies.

The cycling is probably more an excuse though for my annual visit to the French countryside. If you can’t experience the delights of a European sojourn and immerse yourself in the culture firsthand, then why not use SBS to take you there for three weeks instead. Weaving their way through the narrow streets of rural towns with architecture like nothing we have here in Oz, speeding past ancient castles and great gothic churches and cathedrals, the competitors see none of the sights brought to us from every vantage point courtesy of the cameramen perched on motorbikes, in cars and aboard helicopters.

Watched the entire first stage, including all the carnage which brought the peloton to a grinding halt close to the finish, as well as other spills which brought a few undone on the first day. For the last three nights though I’ve headed to bed to watch the guys eat up the kilometers on my dinky little TV in the bedroom. Keep falling asleep so I miss most of it, but did manage to wake up once with only 10km to go so saw that sprint. Have slept through both of Mark Cavendish’s sprint victories, but I’m saving my energy for the mountain stages, when the real fun begins.

For the cyclists, the scenery is the backdrop. Fields of sunflowers and the spectators on the side of the road pass in a blur. Their purpose is to pass through it as quickly as possible in pursuit of their goal. For those who live there, the Tour is just one small aspect of the backdrop to their daily lives, the circus that rolls into town and departs as quickly as it comes.

I wonder how much of life we live vicariously, watching others do things we aspire to, going to places we would love to visit, making commitments to achieve their dreams while we just dream, taking risks and sacrificing the known while we hesitate and play it safe. None of us want to end our lives full of regret. We all want our lives to mean something, to have the courage to act at the right moment, and be able to say with conviction that we’ve done what we were meant to do. I know for myself the pain of what it’s going to cost to achieve certain goals can often seem too much, so I put it off yet again. Procrastination trips me up time after time.

We don’t have to be a Cadel Evans or Lance Armstrong to be someone special. Being present in each moment, attuned to the people around us and the situations in which we find ourselves, making a contribution instead of taking, speaks volumes about our moral character. The pursuit of a dream is fine, and competing to the best of your ability can show remarkable strength, but it would be a shame if we were so focused on ourselves we sped on at breakneck speed while everything alongside us was left behind.

WE THINK IT 'MAZING

My friend Matt was relating the story of his family’s trip to Tasmazia yesterday, a popular tourist spot comprising several mazes. The last time they visited the kids were just little tackers, so Mum and Dad had the unenviable task of making sure the kidlets didn’t wander out of sight for fear of being swallowed by the greenery and never spat out again.

This time they encouraged the kids to go a-wandering, not that they wanted them to disappear, but letting them negotiate the twists and turns without help would give them a chance to find their own way. At one point their younger son obviously became hedged in (hah!) so climbed a pole to get his bearings, whereupon he found he was stuck and couldn’t get down again.

Matt, being the good dad he is, went to the rescue, only to come up against a dead end. Back up, turn left, head in the right direction, another dead end. Try again, different way this time, yet another dead end. Finally, on the fourth attempt father and son were reunited and son dutifully rescued. Funny how going in what you think is the right direction doesn’t always guarantee you’ll reach your destination.

Wally Lamb’s character Caelum Quirk in The Hour I First Believed (see yesterday’s entry) eventually applies his teaching skills with the inmates at the women’s prison founded by his great grandmother. There, he discovers the therapeutic effect his creative writing classes have on these damaged women. For them, simply surviving is like facing an endless maze, and finding the way out can sometimes take so long, it is no wonder that prolonged frustration, anger, isolation, poverty and oppression can result in violence and criminal activity.

So how do you negotiate the maze so the surroundings which are not of your design, and which are out of your control, don’t overwhelm you? Caelum Quirk’s thoughts no doubt reflect those of his creator, for Lamb has a similar position at Connecticut’s York Correctional Institute.

Mostly, the women want to write about themselves….it gives them wings, so that they can rise above the confounding maze of their lives and, from that perspective, begin to see the patterns and dead ends of their pasts, and a way out. That’s the funny thing about mazes: what’s baffling on the ground begins to make sense when you can begin to rise above it, the better to understand your history and fix yourself.

FORK IN THE ROAD

Having just finished reading Wally Lamb’s hefty third novel The Hour I First Believed, I was reminded how we are constantly faced with situations both of our own making and those beyond our control, which require us to take on board what is happening around us, make decisions based on these events and move forward in the hope that some sense and meaning will eventually be revealed.

Lamb’s central character Caelum Quirk is a teacher and his wife Maureen a nurse at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. In the setting of the tragic shooting in 1999, where Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold kill 12 fellow students and a teacher, and injure a further 18 students before turning their guns on themselves, repercussions are felt far beyond that fateful day.

As the years pass and other events like 9/11, Hurricane Katrina and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan take their toll on his characters, Lamb explores the maze of psychological and emotional trauma following explosive events which can instigate post traumatic stress disorder and have the potential to completely derail the human psyche.

Intertwining fact within the structure of his story, including actual excerpts from Harris’ and Klebold’s diaries and videos, Lamb’s characters need to dig deep into their internal resources to come to terms with events which at times spiral out of their control. Despair and hope go hand in hand. Anger, relief, fear, hatred, guilt, thankfulness, grief, acceptance, love and compassion all have their moments.

Battling through the minefield though can result in wanting to give in, take the path of least resistance, protect one’s own boundaries and erect walls to keep out that which disturbs our equilibrium. It is in those moments we are faced with the moral choices which call us out, which ask of us whether we are prepared to be open to others and therefore be vulnerable, if we are prepared to put the interests of others before ourselves.

Redemption comes at a cost, and Lamb doesn’t sugarcoat the journey his characters have to negotiate just so the reader can arrive at a neat happy ending. Time and again they face moments where a decision either way can have long lasting repercussions, and like all of us the way ahead with its possibilities and pitfalls is not always clear.

The beauty of hindsight is that we can see what would have been the right choice to make. Whether we make it or not is not a reflection of our intelligence, for situations can change at a moment’s notice. What we do have control over though, is how we shoulder the consequences of our choices. No matter what the external circumstances, if the core of who we are is centred and has a solid value base, our integrity remains intact.

FROZEN PEG POND

Thought I was smart when I headed out the back door to hang out the washing this morning. Having returned from previous episodes of hanging the washing out on frosty mornings with frostbitten fingers which hurt like blazes as they thaw out, I was suitably rugged up against the crisp morning complete with woolly gloves. Not the easiest thing hanging washing with gloves on, but prevention is better than cure.

I have an old plastic garden chair which sits by the clothes line, the sort with a hollow where your backside fits nice and neatly. I don’t use it as such, this is where my pegs sit, nice and handy every time I need them. However, having had some rain during the week the hollow had become a puddle, and with the overnight temperature at minus something the puddle had frozen, resulting in a solid peggy pond.

Ah well, brought it back in and hung it in front of the fire, quicker anyway.

ICING UP IN THE FOGGY FOGGY DEW

I was all set for my hour long trip to look after my grandson this morning, dragged myself out of bed before 7, which isn’t particularly early but at the moment still feels like the middle of the night. Headed off before 7.30 with the sun’s first glow on the horizon, neighbour’s car in his driveway well and truly covered with ice while mine having been in the carport was fine, a decent frost this morning.

Situated at 300m partway up the Great Western Tiers, we are often in sunshine while everyone in the valley below languishes in the fog at this time of year, and this morning was no different, though at the time I left the sun hadn’t really made an entrance. Headed down the hill and passed my friend Rikk on his morning walk about to be swallowed up by this impenetrable wall I was approaching, and the moment I arrived at the bottom of the hill I was into it, not meagre patchy stuff, and fortunately not a real pea souper, but with visibility at about fifty metres it was enough to make the trip pretty slow.

After super diligent concentration in which I discovered it’s actually easier driving in fog if you’re following someone, I finally came out of it 50 km later, and it wasn’t until then that I noticed a strange anomaly. Usually when your car is iced up on a frosty morning it disperses fairly quickly once you get going, but glancing at my driver’s side mirror I noticed it was covered in beads of ice and had tiny icicles hanging from it. I guess it was the one thing protruding from the car that was copping the frigid air. Looked quite bizarre. Hope there were no pooches with their heads stuck out the car windows this morning, their wet noses and flapping ears would’ve ended up frost bitten.

Freezing in Launceston today, finally home again, more fog on the way back, this time in the dark, house is freezing, retreating to the bedroom with heater and electric blanket to watch Miss Marple. Will thaw out tomorrow.

PLAYING CAN BE MORE THAN JUST FUN

Wednesday nights here in Poatina village, our population of around 130 can be seen wandering the streets heading in all directions to somebody’s place for dinner. Ten households are hosts for the night, everyone brings food to share, and for a couple of hours you get a chance to catch up with each other in an informal atmosphere.

Even in a small village like this where no one is a stranger, it is still easy enough to go through your daily routines without really getting to know your workmates, neighbours or those around the corner. Community doesn’t just happen, and as the whole purpose of this village is to provide a safe place where marginalised young people can come to start over, it is sometimes helpful to structure things which facilitate the building of a sense of community.

Last week I headed off into the rainy night with my fried rice, this week I was a host, and greeted my group after going flat out for an hour and a half whipping up herbed potatoes, garlic bread, a pasta dish, yet another fried rice, and blackberry and apple self saucing pudding. I tend to go a bit overboard when I host, but I love the Wednesday night meal to be something of a celebratory feast.

Most of the time we just chatter away, though there is a conversation topic offered if needed, but this week’s suggestion was to play a game. I’m not good at organising such things, so dragged out the Lego, the one and only thing besides books which I kept from the stash of toys my boys once had. There were only two kids in our group, but you should’ve seen the adults get into it.

We decided to collaborate our individual efforts and make a village, ending up with a playground, airport, and outdoor drive-in theatre among other things, structures every small village obviously needs. Interesting how simply having a bit of fun together can change the way you see those you might normally just pass in the street and say hello to.

Through casual chatter you discover a little more of who these people are that share your part of the world, and what could seem like an imposition in terms of structure, actually serves the community by bringing people together who might not normally seek each other’s company. We have the luxury of a small village in which to do it, but it’s certainly not beyond replicating in any suburb, high rise or inner city community.

Like dragging out a game from the cupboard, it can feel like a bit of an effort at times, but in hindsight the benefits go beyond simply the activity itself, and at their best become a lasting investment in each other’s lives.

Go on, make the effort.