- Published on
Mary Poppins came into my life
Because she floated daily
Into our loungeroom
The VHS watched and rewound and re-watched
So endlessly
That the tape eventually died
There has always been Number 17 Cherry Tree Lane
The toys have always flown into their cupboards with a click
Julie Andrews has always been Mary Poppins
Years later
On an excursion for Writing History
A pre-honours class in research and writing
The librarian at the State Library has pulled out a stack of papers
Random examples of the items held there
The letters of P.L. Travers
Did you know that the author of the Mary Poppins books,
Upon which the movie was based,
Was an Australian?
That there were disagreements between the
original author and Disney
(Corporation betraying the
Writer)
Graduation, a world trip, heart break, meditation, later
I was running in a park
And found a statue of Mary Poppins
(Unveiled by my aunt!)
To commemorate that P.L. Travers had lived in Sydney
Just a few blocks from my house
Another time
Listening to Mornings with Margaret
A fascinating interview with Valerie Lawson
About the biography she has written
The thought, “I must read that”
Filed away and forgotten
Later, in London
Wandering through the library
And Valerie Lawson’s Mary Poppins She Wrote
Sitting there on the shelf
And from the woods of Virginia I read
P.L. Travers
Never identified as Australian
Had left and, but for one short visit, never returned
Felt New York was her spiritual home
Hated the movie
Never found love
Never found peace
Was eternally searching
Knowing the postscript is delicious
And heart-breaking
And joyous
Where do I fit?
I’m no P.L. Travers
I haven’t even been published yet
And yet something stirs
Identifies
And today,
The sky is blue.
The end.
Because she floated daily
Into our loungeroom
The VHS watched and rewound and re-watched
So endlessly
That the tape eventually died
There has always been Number 17 Cherry Tree Lane
The toys have always flown into their cupboards with a click
Julie Andrews has always been Mary Poppins
Years later
On an excursion for Writing History
A pre-honours class in research and writing
The librarian at the State Library has pulled out a stack of papers
Random examples of the items held there
The letters of P.L. Travers
Did you know that the author of the Mary Poppins books,
Upon which the movie was based,
Was an Australian?
That there were disagreements between the
original author and Disney
(Corporation betraying the
Writer)
Graduation, a world trip, heart break, meditation, later
I was running in a park
And found a statue of Mary Poppins
(Unveiled by my aunt!)
To commemorate that P.L. Travers had lived in Sydney
Just a few blocks from my house
Another time
Listening to Mornings with Margaret
A fascinating interview with Valerie Lawson
About the biography she has written
The thought, “I must read that”
Filed away and forgotten
Later, in London
Wandering through the library
And Valerie Lawson’s Mary Poppins She Wrote
Sitting there on the shelf
And from the woods of Virginia I read
P.L. Travers
Never identified as Australian
Had left and, but for one short visit, never returned
Felt New York was her spiritual home
Hated the movie
Never found love
Never found peace
Was eternally searching
Knowing the postscript is delicious
And heart-breaking
And joyous
Where do I fit?
I’m no P.L. Travers
I haven’t even been published yet
And yet something stirs
Identifies
And today,
The sky is blue.
The end.
- Published on
Helene and I performing the Swedish frog song. Photo by Rene Macione
The camp where I work was founded by pacifists, people who had endured the horrors of Nazi Germany. Today our place of work is staffed by people from all over the world Australia, New Zealand, Mexico, Ireland, Scotland, Canada, Poland, Czech Republic, Sweden... As a
result, we don't celebrate Independence Day, we celebrate Diversity Day. In the evening the international staff and international campers share their cultures, their music and stories and tidbits of information that make their cultures different to the American one. But even Diversity Day makes me uncomfortable. I feel anxious around displays of nationalism. And so, I wrote and shared the following.
Diversity Day. I don’t care where you come from. Allow me to explain. I am Australian. I am Spanish. I am descendent from Filipinos, Dutch, and Polish. I have blood relatives in Spain, Switzerland, England, America, Canada, the Philippines, and Australia. I speak un pocito Español. I grew up in Sydney, approximately 10,000 miles from this place. Where I come from we wear thongs instead of flip flops, the forest is called the bush. We eat lollies and not candy, and wear singlets instead of tank tops. We say it is hot outside, and not it is hot out. I call my friends on a mobile not a cell, We don’t walk upside down. Nor do our toilet bowls flush in the opposite direction... I don’t think. I never rode a kangaroo to school. I never owned a pet koala. I never met Steve Irwin.
I’m rather uncomfortable with declarations of nationalistic pride. I grew up in a country whose national day of pride is Anzac Day, which commemorates the landing of Australian and New Zealander troops on the shores of Galipoli, Turkey, and were subsequently slaughtered in their thousands. Now we’re friends with the Turkish, and we eat their delicious foods and every year thousands more Australians congregate at Galipoli to remember the fallen from nearly a hundred years before.
I’m a raging pacifist. I don’t get war. I really don’t. Once upon a time the British fought the Americans. Then they decided to stop. Now they are allies. Now they laugh at each other from across the pond. Seventy years ago my country was shooting Turks, and Germans, and Italians. Seventy years later I grew up eating pita bread, pretzels, and pizza. When my grandparents were teenagers they were sheltering from Japanese bombs and fearing death. My grandmother now drives a Japanese car, we all eat sushi, and my class at school almost had more Japanese students than Australian.
I don’t get displays of nationalistic pride. They make me uncomfortable. I’ve spent the
last five years traveling the world. I’ve been to Spain, Portugal, Morocco, Germany, France, Switzerland, England, Wales, and the US of A. Now I may have only begun to scrape the surface of the metaphorical travel iceberg but here’s what I’ve discovered in my travels. No one place is better or worse than any other. America is no more the land of the free than Australia is the land of sunshine. In all those places I’ve seen people going about their daily lives. They wake up, they eat food, they go to the toilet, they spend the day making ends meet, if they’re lucky they’ll have time to play. At the end of the day they gather with their families and then they go to sleep. There are variations on this theme. Yes, many people have less other people. Yes, you have the occasional people that spend their days plotting the demise of other people who aren’t their people. But you know what? Most people just happened upon this here crazy planet, and they’re doing the best that they can.
Diversity Day. I don’t care where you come from. I care that you treat me decently just because. I care that I can be open to cultures and traditions and foods and that aren’t my own. It may be naive. It may be simplistic. But we’ve got to start somewhere. I hope you’ll care less where I come from. At the end of the day, let’s just exist on this planet together. Let’s draw on several thousand years of human history and share the foods that our ancestors ate. Let’s find a way to share life, liberty, and the pursuit of happyness in all its rich diversity.
The end.
result, we don't celebrate Independence Day, we celebrate Diversity Day. In the evening the international staff and international campers share their cultures, their music and stories and tidbits of information that make their cultures different to the American one. But even Diversity Day makes me uncomfortable. I feel anxious around displays of nationalism. And so, I wrote and shared the following.
Diversity Day. I don’t care where you come from. Allow me to explain. I am Australian. I am Spanish. I am descendent from Filipinos, Dutch, and Polish. I have blood relatives in Spain, Switzerland, England, America, Canada, the Philippines, and Australia. I speak un pocito Español. I grew up in Sydney, approximately 10,000 miles from this place. Where I come from we wear thongs instead of flip flops, the forest is called the bush. We eat lollies and not candy, and wear singlets instead of tank tops. We say it is hot outside, and not it is hot out. I call my friends on a mobile not a cell, We don’t walk upside down. Nor do our toilet bowls flush in the opposite direction... I don’t think. I never rode a kangaroo to school. I never owned a pet koala. I never met Steve Irwin.
I’m rather uncomfortable with declarations of nationalistic pride. I grew up in a country whose national day of pride is Anzac Day, which commemorates the landing of Australian and New Zealander troops on the shores of Galipoli, Turkey, and were subsequently slaughtered in their thousands. Now we’re friends with the Turkish, and we eat their delicious foods and every year thousands more Australians congregate at Galipoli to remember the fallen from nearly a hundred years before.
I’m a raging pacifist. I don’t get war. I really don’t. Once upon a time the British fought the Americans. Then they decided to stop. Now they are allies. Now they laugh at each other from across the pond. Seventy years ago my country was shooting Turks, and Germans, and Italians. Seventy years later I grew up eating pita bread, pretzels, and pizza. When my grandparents were teenagers they were sheltering from Japanese bombs and fearing death. My grandmother now drives a Japanese car, we all eat sushi, and my class at school almost had more Japanese students than Australian.
I don’t get displays of nationalistic pride. They make me uncomfortable. I’ve spent the
last five years traveling the world. I’ve been to Spain, Portugal, Morocco, Germany, France, Switzerland, England, Wales, and the US of A. Now I may have only begun to scrape the surface of the metaphorical travel iceberg but here’s what I’ve discovered in my travels. No one place is better or worse than any other. America is no more the land of the free than Australia is the land of sunshine. In all those places I’ve seen people going about their daily lives. They wake up, they eat food, they go to the toilet, they spend the day making ends meet, if they’re lucky they’ll have time to play. At the end of the day they gather with their families and then they go to sleep. There are variations on this theme. Yes, many people have less other people. Yes, you have the occasional people that spend their days plotting the demise of other people who aren’t their people. But you know what? Most people just happened upon this here crazy planet, and they’re doing the best that they can.
Diversity Day. I don’t care where you come from. I care that you treat me decently just because. I care that I can be open to cultures and traditions and foods and that aren’t my own. It may be naive. It may be simplistic. But we’ve got to start somewhere. I hope you’ll care less where I come from. At the end of the day, let’s just exist on this planet together. Let’s draw on several thousand years of human history and share the foods that our ancestors ate. Let’s find a way to share life, liberty, and the pursuit of happyness in all its rich diversity.
The end.
- Published on
from the Australian Business Review
They announced Geoffrey Rush as
Australian of the Year
He is the person
Who this year, most
Epitomises what it means
To be Australian
And it makes me feel good
Makes me feel proud
As an artist
As an Australian
To know that someone like him, is
The Representation
Of my national identity
The other Australians of note this year
Are also worthy of recognition.
Laurie Baymarrwangga,
An Aboriginal elder who has worked to
Teach and share and maintain her culture
In spite of invasion
In spite of ignorance
And Marita Cheng
Who inspires other young women
To go out into a world
Dominated by men
And question, and investigate, and analyze
And to become excited and passionate
About learning
And Lynne Sawyers
Who cared for hundreds of children
Not even her own
Took them in and said
This is your home too
We are artists and scientists and carers of the land
We are inventors and innovators
We are from all over the world
We live, work, and travel internationally
We live, work, and play in our own backyard
This strange large island
At the bottom of the earth
We are more than kangaroos and wattle
We are more than yobbos on the beach drinking beer
We are more than the Anzac legend suggests
More than boyish mates coming together under fire
We are more than a flag coloured by British rule
We are a complicated lot
Represented this year, by an actor
Who gets on with his work
And supports others to do the same
Who shows it is possible to be
A brilliant artist of the world
And still be, Australian in name.
Australian of the Year
He is the person
Who this year, most
Epitomises what it means
To be Australian
And it makes me feel good
Makes me feel proud
As an artist
As an Australian
To know that someone like him, is
The Representation
Of my national identity
The other Australians of note this year
Are also worthy of recognition.
Laurie Baymarrwangga,
An Aboriginal elder who has worked to
Teach and share and maintain her culture
In spite of invasion
In spite of ignorance
And Marita Cheng
Who inspires other young women
To go out into a world
Dominated by men
And question, and investigate, and analyze
And to become excited and passionate
About learning
And Lynne Sawyers
Who cared for hundreds of children
Not even her own
Took them in and said
This is your home too
We are artists and scientists and carers of the land
We are inventors and innovators
We are from all over the world
We live, work, and travel internationally
We live, work, and play in our own backyard
This strange large island
At the bottom of the earth
We are more than kangaroos and wattle
We are more than yobbos on the beach drinking beer
We are more than the Anzac legend suggests
More than boyish mates coming together under fire
We are more than a flag coloured by British rule
We are a complicated lot
Represented this year, by an actor
Who gets on with his work
And supports others to do the same
Who shows it is possible to be
A brilliant artist of the world
And still be, Australian in name.
- Published on
In the morning you go out to meet another Aussie-expat and you go to a lovely Australian/New-Zealander cafe called Flat White and enjoy your renewed-found love of coffee. You make a note-to-self to find an alternative to espresso, as even four sugars per tiny cup seems excessive - though it is down from five. You enjoy delicious toast with homemade hummus and fresh avocado. It is the best hummus you have had in ages but you spend the rest of the day paranoid you reek of garlic. Afterwards you walk through beautiful
St James's Park to the War Rooms. There are ducks and geese and swans and a woman is hand-feeding them over the fence. You think she is a bit mad, but realize that these birds
are probably rather used to people hand-feeding them.
The Churchill War Rooms are bizzare. They are secret bunkers for the British War Cabinet during The War. Small and slightly claustrophobic and when the war ended the people literally turned off the lights, walked out, closed the door, and didn't come back for decades. Now the rooms and corridors and bunkers are a museum and you can walk through and see exactly how it all was over seventy years ago. Imagine being in the rooms Back Then. The rooms would have been smokey because everybody smoked back then, and above you the world was falling apart and you didn't know if when you left work for the day (or night) if your house or even your street was still going to be there when you did. No one except the government was allowed to know that you worked there because it was Top Secret. If you were a secretary you had a special gas mask that allowed you keep talking on the telephone even during a gas attack. The War Stops For Nobody.
You walk back to Soho to the Soho Theatre Bar to mingle with other drama students. You are late, but it seems you haven't missed much except a free drink. A casting director is giving a talk. She says things you have mostly heard before, but you're feeling light and inspired and you scribble down some of her points and feel a sense of renewed enthusiasm. Then you wander around the room and meet some of the other actors. They are all graduating this year too, ready to go out into the Big Wide World and try their luck at this acting thing. Will all this time and money and effort be worth it?
You meet a girl with Scandinavian/American heritage. She wants to move to New York and live the life of a starving actor. She knows it's a bit weird to want that life, but you understand what she means. It's New York. And then you meet a boy who gives you the feeling that he is on the cusp of something brilliant, but you're not quite sure what it is, but
you're sure he is destined for great things. And then you meet another girl who is interested in verbatim theatre and using theatre to make a positive difference to the world. And it is nice to meet someone as excited and passionate as you about the possibility of theatre.
You head home on the tube. And you get home and you make chickpea patties, which you haven't made in the longest time, and you make a big batch of quinoa and steam some spinach. And you spread a little beetroot dip from yesterday's cooking adventures on the chickpea patties, and you pour out a little sweet chilli sauce. And you sit at your desk to do some work and you breathe and smile and know that you have had a most wonderful
day.
The end.
St James's Park to the War Rooms. There are ducks and geese and swans and a woman is hand-feeding them over the fence. You think she is a bit mad, but realize that these birds
are probably rather used to people hand-feeding them.
The Churchill War Rooms are bizzare. They are secret bunkers for the British War Cabinet during The War. Small and slightly claustrophobic and when the war ended the people literally turned off the lights, walked out, closed the door, and didn't come back for decades. Now the rooms and corridors and bunkers are a museum and you can walk through and see exactly how it all was over seventy years ago. Imagine being in the rooms Back Then. The rooms would have been smokey because everybody smoked back then, and above you the world was falling apart and you didn't know if when you left work for the day (or night) if your house or even your street was still going to be there when you did. No one except the government was allowed to know that you worked there because it was Top Secret. If you were a secretary you had a special gas mask that allowed you keep talking on the telephone even during a gas attack. The War Stops For Nobody.
You walk back to Soho to the Soho Theatre Bar to mingle with other drama students. You are late, but it seems you haven't missed much except a free drink. A casting director is giving a talk. She says things you have mostly heard before, but you're feeling light and inspired and you scribble down some of her points and feel a sense of renewed enthusiasm. Then you wander around the room and meet some of the other actors. They are all graduating this year too, ready to go out into the Big Wide World and try their luck at this acting thing. Will all this time and money and effort be worth it?
You meet a girl with Scandinavian/American heritage. She wants to move to New York and live the life of a starving actor. She knows it's a bit weird to want that life, but you understand what she means. It's New York. And then you meet a boy who gives you the feeling that he is on the cusp of something brilliant, but you're not quite sure what it is, but
you're sure he is destined for great things. And then you meet another girl who is interested in verbatim theatre and using theatre to make a positive difference to the world. And it is nice to meet someone as excited and passionate as you about the possibility of theatre.
You head home on the tube. And you get home and you make chickpea patties, which you haven't made in the longest time, and you make a big batch of quinoa and steam some spinach. And you spread a little beetroot dip from yesterday's cooking adventures on the chickpea patties, and you pour out a little sweet chilli sauce. And you sit at your desk to do some work and you breathe and smile and know that you have had a most wonderful
day.
The end.
- Published on
The Cat Empire
Brick Lane
The sky is blue. And the air is crisp. And the night before you’ve been to see your favourite band, The Cat Empire. And the gig is not one of their most mind-blowing or exhilarating, but they play some of your favourites, like The Car Song and The Darkness and The Chariot. And seeing those Aussie boys all the way over here in London playing their tight tunes and doing what they do best just makes you feel good. And you remember all the gigs you’ve seen them play over the past 8 years and all the friendships and lovers they’ve seen you through and you know at the end of the day, no matter what, despite the glorious cliche of it, you’ll always have the music. And in the morning you head out to East London to meet up with old friends and you walk down Brick Lane. And you smell all the delicious curries. And you spot one of the lead singers from the Cat Empire and it makes you feel a bit hip that he’s here too. And you walk through the record shop and find a shelf full of books and you find one which looks interesting and you discover a lovely chapter on food foraging in London and you get so lost in its words and pages that you’re surprised when your friends are suddenly standing in front of you calling out your name reminding you that you are standing in a record shop in east London.
And then you sit on a bench in the sun with a chilli hot chocolate and a dark chocolate truffle. And to your left a family is posing for photographs. And to your right people are eating assorted food stuffs from the street vendors dotted all around. And you make your way west towards central London and stroll around St Paul’s Cathedral and feel oddly moved by the Occupy London people. This tent city outside the church, peacefully protesting the status quo. And you head back home and buy pasta and sauce and garlic bread for dinner and supplies for cookie baking. And the sun sinks deeper into the west and streaks the horizon with a dash of highlighter pink. And you smile at the chill in the air. And know you are living the life enchanted. The end.
And then you sit on a bench in the sun with a chilli hot chocolate and a dark chocolate truffle. And to your left a family is posing for photographs. And to your right people are eating assorted food stuffs from the street vendors dotted all around. And you make your way west towards central London and stroll around St Paul’s Cathedral and feel oddly moved by the Occupy London people. This tent city outside the church, peacefully protesting the status quo. And you head back home and buy pasta and sauce and garlic bread for dinner and supplies for cookie baking. And the sun sinks deeper into the west and streaks the horizon with a dash of highlighter pink. And you smile at the chill in the air. And know you are living the life enchanted. The end.
Occupy London - St Paul's Cathedral
- Published on
image by Rosel D
Dear Uncle Mordechai. Could you ever have imagined, two-hundred and twenty odd years go, as you sat in the pub in London that your great-great-great (etc) niece would one day be here in this city of yours?! Because here I am. I’m in London! There’s no place like London! Demon barbers aside... The double-decker red buses, the Tube, the masses of people from every walk-of-life, colour, creed, background, and birth status. That building is from 1200 A.D and that one was built on Roman foundations. And yet, here I am, this child from Australia whose ancestor sailed from here over two centuries ago! And in the intervening time his son sailed from London too, and he had children and they had children and they had children and so on and so forth and in between there were whole World Wars and the Depression and stolen children and whole countries were formed (including Australia which was signed into being in London!) and other immigrants arrived (including my mother) and suddenly history has fast forwarded, has appeared at this moment and here I am this Australian child born of Spanish, Filipino, Dutch, and Polish ancestors standing in London! And like a game from the Age of Empires, my map slowly unfolds around me as I explore this unknown yet strangely familiar territory. All the names from the Monopoly Board, all those markers from collective consciousness suddenly here in my real perceived existence. It is strange. It is lovely. It is just here. And here I am ready to start drama school, ready to begin this Next Chapter. And I think of everything that has brought me to this moment. Two hundred and twenty odd years of history. Twenty-seven years of my own history and memories and recollections of the life that has brought me to be living in London. And then I smile and let it all go because it doesn’t matter. Because here I am. And here we go.
- Published on
(L) Abuelo and Abuela in Manila (R) My mum, with her siblings and cousins, aboard the Iberia, bound for Australia
The notion of writing down all that I knew about my family had been in my mind since coming to Australia... I did so with a particular audience in mind: my grand-daughters...
We are all part of a broad mosaic of many Spanish families that, since the Pacific War, have left the Philippines and today are now Canadian residents, or American, or Venezuelan, Argentinian, Chilean, the list is endless...
The couple that leaned against the ships's railings that chilly, drizzly April morning in 1963 as the "Iberia" sailed into Sydney Harbour, were thinking of their offspring when they set forth on their great migratory adventure. We believed then, and are more confident of it now, that generations yet unborn, our descendants, will join our children and grandchildren in thinking kindly of us for having put an end to the global wanderings of my branch of the family and settled in this blessed land, Australia."
Excerpt from My Family by Luis R. Esteban,
my wonderful Abuelo
my wonderful Abuelo
Forty-eight years ago you sailed into Sydney and leaned against the railing of the ship
Thinking of children who weren’t even born yet
All the children with you would one day be grown-ups and married with children of their own
Could you have imagined me, your granddaughter, named after you
Who when she went to Spain for the first time felt strangely at home
Despite the language barrier
Who longed her whole life to be European, to speak Spanish, who thrilled and delighted at finally getting a Spanish passport
How would you feel knowing your nieta is not an out and proud Australian
That I cringe at our accents and our inability to speak more than one language
That I find Australian culture frustrating
That I can’t stand that our national day of pride is a day commemorating a bloody battle thousands of miles away
That I cannot connect with Australian history because it is so contested
A few months ago I sailed into Sydney myself
I got up at 5am to watch the lights of Sydney Harbour come into view
And I thought of you leaning against the railing of the Iberia
Could you have imagined as you sailed past Nielsen Park or Point Piper or Taronga Zoo that these would be the sites of my childhood?
Strange to think that the Opera House wasn’t even finished yet
Could you have imagined me singing in the Opera House?! Or having my year 10 formal at the Zoo overlooking the giraffes looking out to the Harbour?
Could you have imagined that I would grow up among the eucalyptus and the smell of the Australian bush
And yet never feel at home in it
To feel frustrated every time someone asks “but don’t you feel so lucky?”
In two months, I’m leaving this place
To go to the land where your brothers live
And then to London to seek my own life and put down my own roots
Where I will be in forty-eight years time?
And what stories will have played out between my arrival at Heathrow and sitting down to reflect on it all?
Abuelo, forty-eight years ago you sailed to Sydney
To a land that for you was entirely sight unseen
No internet to do your research
No crystal ball to let you know that it was all going to be ok, that you were making the right decision
Our wanderings are not over yet
We are still shifting in time and space
But wherever we go, there we are
And we have our stories and our ancestors to guide the way
Thinking of children who weren’t even born yet
All the children with you would one day be grown-ups and married with children of their own
Could you have imagined me, your granddaughter, named after you
Who when she went to Spain for the first time felt strangely at home
Despite the language barrier
Who longed her whole life to be European, to speak Spanish, who thrilled and delighted at finally getting a Spanish passport
How would you feel knowing your nieta is not an out and proud Australian
That I cringe at our accents and our inability to speak more than one language
That I find Australian culture frustrating
That I can’t stand that our national day of pride is a day commemorating a bloody battle thousands of miles away
That I cannot connect with Australian history because it is so contested
A few months ago I sailed into Sydney myself
I got up at 5am to watch the lights of Sydney Harbour come into view
And I thought of you leaning against the railing of the Iberia
Could you have imagined as you sailed past Nielsen Park or Point Piper or Taronga Zoo that these would be the sites of my childhood?
Strange to think that the Opera House wasn’t even finished yet
Could you have imagined me singing in the Opera House?! Or having my year 10 formal at the Zoo overlooking the giraffes looking out to the Harbour?
Could you have imagined that I would grow up among the eucalyptus and the smell of the Australian bush
And yet never feel at home in it
To feel frustrated every time someone asks “but don’t you feel so lucky?”
In two months, I’m leaving this place
To go to the land where your brothers live
And then to London to seek my own life and put down my own roots
Where I will be in forty-eight years time?
And what stories will have played out between my arrival at Heathrow and sitting down to reflect on it all?
Abuelo, forty-eight years ago you sailed to Sydney
To a land that for you was entirely sight unseen
No internet to do your research
No crystal ball to let you know that it was all going to be ok, that you were making the right decision
Our wanderings are not over yet
We are still shifting in time and space
But wherever we go, there we are
And we have our stories and our ancestors to guide the way
- Published on
In the past 7 days I have had several beautiful, inspiring, and exciting experiences...
On Monday I went down to Canberra (the above image is actually a photo of the air con and personal light on the bus!) to visit my good friend Susie La Q and her boyfriend Ryan, and after a delicious lunch in the CBD, we headed off to the Australian War Memorial. Even though I have been to the memorial countless times, each visit is an emotional, confronting,
and inspiring. It is a beautifully designed space, and the exhibits never fail to move me. It seems that the more I learn about conflict around the world, the less I understand it. At closing time, the crowds are ushered towards the exit, and we were privileged to witness the “closing ceremony”, a simple service at the Pool of Reflection. A different soldier is remembered each day, his story read out to the crowd, and at the conclusion, a moment of silence followed by a lone musician playing The Lament on the bagpipes. Looking around the crowd, a multicultural mix of tourists from all around the world, I couldn’t help but wonder, what is the point of all this conflict? I am standing with people whose nations at one time or another Australia has most likely been at war with. And for what? Has it made the world a better place? Or does it just make people more mistrusting of each other?
On Tuesday Susie and I visited Floriade. If you ignored the carnival rides and Easter Show-like stalls, you could almost believe you were stepping into an Impressionist painting. The rainbow of colours of poppies and irises and English daisies and chrysanthemums, the light green of the weeping willows dotting the perimeter of the lake was breath-taking (I love how in the photo above, the image has pixelated and it looks like a painting). The gnome knoll was a surprise highlight, with a myriad of brightly and imaginatively painted gnomes grinning up at intrigued passers-by. Thank you to Susie La Q and Ryan (and Sulley!) for a lovely couple of days!
On Thursday I took Phoebe and her friend Sara (aged 7 and 8 respectively) to the Rock’s Discovery Museum for a school holiday program called HMS Discovery. Each “sailor” was given a passport, and the embarkation point, Plymouth, was stamped onto the yellow page. The year is 1792. Captain Natalie (not quite historically correct having a female captain, but we’re willing to be a little more open minded these days) reads her crew of 10 sailors, ranging in age from about 5 to 11, a letter from Captain Arthur Phillip to King George, requesting supplies for the colony of NSW. A projected image on the wall behind the ship tells us we are at the Plymouth dock. Over the (anachronistic) loudspeaker we hear sounds of a busy wharf - sailors stomping up an down the gangplank, cows and pigs mooing and
oinking, the horns of the ships.
The crew were briefed on how to run a ship by playing Captain’s Coming, and were quickly inducted into the technicalities of port, starboard, bow, and stern, climbing the rigging, sewing the sail, and scrubbing the deck. The crew assembled in the Plymouth Storehouse, and were ordered to load the ship. Sacks of tools, timber, flour, and sugar, heavy chests with currency, a large sack of mail and cages of animals were quickly despatched onto the ship by the willing crew. Once all were aboard, the gangplank was removed, the ropes were thrown in, and the sail let down.
The ship was off! The image on the wall changed to a painting of a ship at sea, and the sounds of the ocean could be heard all around. The eagle eyed crew quickly spotted that the ship was overrun with rats, and spent time running around the ship throwing fat black squeaky rats overboard. Each sailor took turns in the important tasks of furling and unfurling the sail, throwing the ropes, and steering the ship. As evidenced by the sound effects, and a new image on the screen, the ship sailed into a storm, and the crew tied themselves to the
railings to avoid being flung overboard by the rollicking sea - thankfully everyone knew how to tie a reef knot! They charted their way down around South America and found themselves in Rio de Janeiro. The crew avoided scurvy by eating lemons, limes, and bananas, and dancing to the music of Rio de Janeiro. But the stop was only a short one, as there was still a long voyage ahead.
Finally, after 8 long months at sea, the crew could hear seagulls, which meant land was at last nearby! The distinct sounds of the NSW bush could at last be heard - cackling kookaburras and lilting lyre birds. The image on the wall transformed into Sydney Cove, and the crew rejoiced at having made the long voyage successfully. The cargo was unloaded into the Sydney storehouse, and all sailors were given a new Sydney Cove stamp in their passports. A most wonderful way to spend an hour in the school holidays... now I need to find a version for adults!
The War Memorial visit re-inspired me to keep learning about conflicts around the world, and after a delightful couple of hours in the City of Sydney Library on Tuesday afternoon, I have a new stack of books on Afghanistan to keep me busy for a while. Yesterday I finished reading Three Cups of Tea, a powerful book about the importance of providing education in Central Asia. Once again, the more I learn, the more I want to know, and the less I seem to understand... the contradictory joy of learning!
So a very busy and wonderful week, with much to inspire me! And the best part, all of these activities were free! WIN!
On Monday I went down to Canberra (the above image is actually a photo of the air con and personal light on the bus!) to visit my good friend Susie La Q and her boyfriend Ryan, and after a delicious lunch in the CBD, we headed off to the Australian War Memorial. Even though I have been to the memorial countless times, each visit is an emotional, confronting,
and inspiring. It is a beautifully designed space, and the exhibits never fail to move me. It seems that the more I learn about conflict around the world, the less I understand it. At closing time, the crowds are ushered towards the exit, and we were privileged to witness the “closing ceremony”, a simple service at the Pool of Reflection. A different soldier is remembered each day, his story read out to the crowd, and at the conclusion, a moment of silence followed by a lone musician playing The Lament on the bagpipes. Looking around the crowd, a multicultural mix of tourists from all around the world, I couldn’t help but wonder, what is the point of all this conflict? I am standing with people whose nations at one time or another Australia has most likely been at war with. And for what? Has it made the world a better place? Or does it just make people more mistrusting of each other?
On Tuesday Susie and I visited Floriade. If you ignored the carnival rides and Easter Show-like stalls, you could almost believe you were stepping into an Impressionist painting. The rainbow of colours of poppies and irises and English daisies and chrysanthemums, the light green of the weeping willows dotting the perimeter of the lake was breath-taking (I love how in the photo above, the image has pixelated and it looks like a painting). The gnome knoll was a surprise highlight, with a myriad of brightly and imaginatively painted gnomes grinning up at intrigued passers-by. Thank you to Susie La Q and Ryan (and Sulley!) for a lovely couple of days!
On Thursday I took Phoebe and her friend Sara (aged 7 and 8 respectively) to the Rock’s Discovery Museum for a school holiday program called HMS Discovery. Each “sailor” was given a passport, and the embarkation point, Plymouth, was stamped onto the yellow page. The year is 1792. Captain Natalie (not quite historically correct having a female captain, but we’re willing to be a little more open minded these days) reads her crew of 10 sailors, ranging in age from about 5 to 11, a letter from Captain Arthur Phillip to King George, requesting supplies for the colony of NSW. A projected image on the wall behind the ship tells us we are at the Plymouth dock. Over the (anachronistic) loudspeaker we hear sounds of a busy wharf - sailors stomping up an down the gangplank, cows and pigs mooing and
oinking, the horns of the ships.
The crew were briefed on how to run a ship by playing Captain’s Coming, and were quickly inducted into the technicalities of port, starboard, bow, and stern, climbing the rigging, sewing the sail, and scrubbing the deck. The crew assembled in the Plymouth Storehouse, and were ordered to load the ship. Sacks of tools, timber, flour, and sugar, heavy chests with currency, a large sack of mail and cages of animals were quickly despatched onto the ship by the willing crew. Once all were aboard, the gangplank was removed, the ropes were thrown in, and the sail let down.
The ship was off! The image on the wall changed to a painting of a ship at sea, and the sounds of the ocean could be heard all around. The eagle eyed crew quickly spotted that the ship was overrun with rats, and spent time running around the ship throwing fat black squeaky rats overboard. Each sailor took turns in the important tasks of furling and unfurling the sail, throwing the ropes, and steering the ship. As evidenced by the sound effects, and a new image on the screen, the ship sailed into a storm, and the crew tied themselves to the
railings to avoid being flung overboard by the rollicking sea - thankfully everyone knew how to tie a reef knot! They charted their way down around South America and found themselves in Rio de Janeiro. The crew avoided scurvy by eating lemons, limes, and bananas, and dancing to the music of Rio de Janeiro. But the stop was only a short one, as there was still a long voyage ahead.
Finally, after 8 long months at sea, the crew could hear seagulls, which meant land was at last nearby! The distinct sounds of the NSW bush could at last be heard - cackling kookaburras and lilting lyre birds. The image on the wall transformed into Sydney Cove, and the crew rejoiced at having made the long voyage successfully. The cargo was unloaded into the Sydney storehouse, and all sailors were given a new Sydney Cove stamp in their passports. A most wonderful way to spend an hour in the school holidays... now I need to find a version for adults!
The War Memorial visit re-inspired me to keep learning about conflicts around the world, and after a delightful couple of hours in the City of Sydney Library on Tuesday afternoon, I have a new stack of books on Afghanistan to keep me busy for a while. Yesterday I finished reading Three Cups of Tea, a powerful book about the importance of providing education in Central Asia. Once again, the more I learn, the more I want to know, and the less I seem to understand... the contradictory joy of learning!
So a very busy and wonderful week, with much to inspire me! And the best part, all of these activities were free! WIN!
- Published on
When one thinks of moments of beauty, inspiration, and excitement, a cemetery is probably not on the list of things that spring to mind. Let us travel back to the Victorian era... First of all, death was considered in an entirely different way to the way we view it today. It was much more out in the open, publicly discussed, shared, and mourned. Concurrently in this period, we see the development of public green spaces - large beautifully designed parks and public spaces for people to enjoy fresh air, sunshine, and be close to nature. Central Park, Hyde Park (both in London and Sydney), and the Sydney Royal Botanic Gardens, are beautiful examples of such parks.
These two notions came together in the form of the necropolis, or “city of the dead” (from the Latin words “necro” for dead body and “polis” for city), a large open space that was at once a park and a cemetery, or as it was referred to by our Victorian counterparts, a garden cemetery. A space for people to come and bury their dead, mourn the loss of their loved ones, and be in a beautiful environment. In Sydney, we are home to one of the the largest necropolis’ in the world, and what is considered to be one of the best examples of a Victorian necropolis in the world, Rookwood Necropolis (a tiny portion of which is pictured above, picture is from the Rookwood website). Located between Lidcombe and Strathfield in Sydney’s west, Rookwood comprises 700 acres of burial grounds, featuring beautiful gardens, architecture, and the names of over 800,000 people who are interred within the grounds.
Arriving at Rookwood on the free shuttle from Lidcombe Station for the Open Day yesterday was entirely bizzare. There were bands playing music, sausage sizzles and Devonshire tea stalls, face painting for the kids, and people everywhere. People of all ages and backgrounds were wandering around the grounds, looking at headstones, listening to volunteer tour guides share the histories of the cemetery and some of its more infamous inhabitants, and looking for graves of relatives and ancestors. If there is one thing that unites humanity, it’s death. No matter where we are born, under what circumstances we live, what we do, at some point or other, we will all no longer be living.
Due to the sheer size of the place, I unfortunately missed the talks I was hoping to attend - behind the scenes at the crematorium, and the history of embalming, but it was rather incredible to just wander through the grounds for an hour and a half. I felt that the original designers of Rookwood would have been proudly watching over the creation yesterday. Their
ideal of the garden cemetery was not realised in the nineteenth century owing to poor burial practices, issues with sewerage, and poor management, but today Rookwood is an eerily beautiful place. It is steeped in history, and captures the ethos of a time gone by.
Is it morbid to enjoy learning about the history of death? Or is it just a natural part of living? I find it fascinating, and I think we could do well to take a note from our Victorian forebears and bring the discussion of death back into a more public domain. Tours are run by the Friends of Rookwood (a volunteer organisation that works to promote the “social, historical, and cultural values” and preservation of the site), on the first Sunday of the month. It would be great to go back and experience it again.
These two notions came together in the form of the necropolis, or “city of the dead” (from the Latin words “necro” for dead body and “polis” for city), a large open space that was at once a park and a cemetery, or as it was referred to by our Victorian counterparts, a garden cemetery. A space for people to come and bury their dead, mourn the loss of their loved ones, and be in a beautiful environment. In Sydney, we are home to one of the the largest necropolis’ in the world, and what is considered to be one of the best examples of a Victorian necropolis in the world, Rookwood Necropolis (a tiny portion of which is pictured above, picture is from the Rookwood website). Located between Lidcombe and Strathfield in Sydney’s west, Rookwood comprises 700 acres of burial grounds, featuring beautiful gardens, architecture, and the names of over 800,000 people who are interred within the grounds.
Arriving at Rookwood on the free shuttle from Lidcombe Station for the Open Day yesterday was entirely bizzare. There were bands playing music, sausage sizzles and Devonshire tea stalls, face painting for the kids, and people everywhere. People of all ages and backgrounds were wandering around the grounds, looking at headstones, listening to volunteer tour guides share the histories of the cemetery and some of its more infamous inhabitants, and looking for graves of relatives and ancestors. If there is one thing that unites humanity, it’s death. No matter where we are born, under what circumstances we live, what we do, at some point or other, we will all no longer be living.
Due to the sheer size of the place, I unfortunately missed the talks I was hoping to attend - behind the scenes at the crematorium, and the history of embalming, but it was rather incredible to just wander through the grounds for an hour and a half. I felt that the original designers of Rookwood would have been proudly watching over the creation yesterday. Their
ideal of the garden cemetery was not realised in the nineteenth century owing to poor burial practices, issues with sewerage, and poor management, but today Rookwood is an eerily beautiful place. It is steeped in history, and captures the ethos of a time gone by.
Is it morbid to enjoy learning about the history of death? Or is it just a natural part of living? I find it fascinating, and I think we could do well to take a note from our Victorian forebears and bring the discussion of death back into a more public domain. Tours are run by the Friends of Rookwood (a volunteer organisation that works to promote the “social, historical, and cultural values” and preservation of the site), on the first Sunday of the month. It would be great to go back and experience it again.
- Published on
I used to be incredibly frustrated by what I didn’t know. I remember being in kindergarten and being annoyed at the way grown-ups kept using words I did not know the meaning of. As a six year-old trying to fit into and navigate the world around me, I was convinced that somewhere in the city were old men in suits whose job it was to invent new words and disseminate them amongst the adult population on a daily basis in order that there would always be words I would never know.
As a grown-up, there are still many things I do not know. A big topic at the moment is global warming and climate change. As an average person with no scientific training and a slight aversion to numbers, I don’t “get” the science behind the debate. But as an average person, I can comprehend this. The stuff we use to fuel our society, namely fossil fuels, is finite. Humans live in a way that is detrimental to our health and the planet’s.
Last week I attended a talk at Town Hall on a new report called Beyond Zero Emissions: Zero Carbon Australia Stationary Energy Plan. Thirty scientists, engineers, and academics got together and asked how can Australia move toward a more sustainable renewable energy existence. And they came up with a 200-page document thats shows how Australia can move to 100% renewable energy by 2020. And you know what got me excited? The men in suits say its possible. It’s not just bearded patchouli hippies. It’s Malcolm Turnbull and Bob Carr and former Australian Chief Scientist Robin Batterham and British engineer Allan Jones.
We have to believe that change is entirely possible. It’s happening in Spain and Germany and the United States. Commercial scale renewable energy. It was something I didn’t really understand when I was walking the Camino across northern Spain a couple of years ago. I saw wind turbines and solar panels on a scale I had never encountered and I started asking myself questions about energy and how it all works.
I still do not entirely understand the world. But tell my six year-old self that she would one day go to university and spend four years learning words she never knew and even after majoring in English there would still be an untold world of words beyond her cognition, and that’s not frustrating but entirely exciting. And tell the girl who read Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and walked across Spain and saw wind turbines and solar panels that in just over 6 months she would be working for a sustainability shop and going to the Farmer’s Markets every week and eating beautiful organic food and learning that there is so much possibility.
The world may be on the brink of collapse, but I choose not to be frustrated by what the men in suits beyond my understanding make up and implement across the globe. I choose to believe it is possible for men, and women, to put their brains together and come up with ways to make the world a better place to live in. As Annie Leonard says in the wonderfully
eloquent Story of Stuff, with all the clever people on the planet, surely we can come up with a way to live that is not detrimental to our health and very existence.
I live in a world where anything is possible. I can choose to understand. I can choose to make a difference. As Allan Jones said at the talk on Thursday night, “the barriers to 100% renewable energy are not technological or economic, but regulatory mindset and vested inteterest.” I may have felt powerless and small against the men in suits as six year-old. And I could continue to feel small and powerless against the people in suits today. But I chose to be inspired. I choose to be excited. I choose to believe the world I live in and the way in which I live on it can be beautiful, rich, creative, and sustainable.
As a grown-up, there are still many things I do not know. A big topic at the moment is global warming and climate change. As an average person with no scientific training and a slight aversion to numbers, I don’t “get” the science behind the debate. But as an average person, I can comprehend this. The stuff we use to fuel our society, namely fossil fuels, is finite. Humans live in a way that is detrimental to our health and the planet’s.
Last week I attended a talk at Town Hall on a new report called Beyond Zero Emissions: Zero Carbon Australia Stationary Energy Plan. Thirty scientists, engineers, and academics got together and asked how can Australia move toward a more sustainable renewable energy existence. And they came up with a 200-page document thats shows how Australia can move to 100% renewable energy by 2020. And you know what got me excited? The men in suits say its possible. It’s not just bearded patchouli hippies. It’s Malcolm Turnbull and Bob Carr and former Australian Chief Scientist Robin Batterham and British engineer Allan Jones.
We have to believe that change is entirely possible. It’s happening in Spain and Germany and the United States. Commercial scale renewable energy. It was something I didn’t really understand when I was walking the Camino across northern Spain a couple of years ago. I saw wind turbines and solar panels on a scale I had never encountered and I started asking myself questions about energy and how it all works.
I still do not entirely understand the world. But tell my six year-old self that she would one day go to university and spend four years learning words she never knew and even after majoring in English there would still be an untold world of words beyond her cognition, and that’s not frustrating but entirely exciting. And tell the girl who read Barbara Kingsolver’s Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and walked across Spain and saw wind turbines and solar panels that in just over 6 months she would be working for a sustainability shop and going to the Farmer’s Markets every week and eating beautiful organic food and learning that there is so much possibility.
The world may be on the brink of collapse, but I choose not to be frustrated by what the men in suits beyond my understanding make up and implement across the globe. I choose to believe it is possible for men, and women, to put their brains together and come up with ways to make the world a better place to live in. As Annie Leonard says in the wonderfully
eloquent Story of Stuff, with all the clever people on the planet, surely we can come up with a way to live that is not detrimental to our health and very existence.
I live in a world where anything is possible. I can choose to understand. I can choose to make a difference. As Allan Jones said at the talk on Thursday night, “the barriers to 100% renewable energy are not technological or economic, but regulatory mindset and vested inteterest.” I may have felt powerless and small against the men in suits as six year-old. And I could continue to feel small and powerless against the people in suits today. But I chose to be inspired. I choose to be excited. I choose to believe the world I live in and the way in which I live on it can be beautiful, rich, creative, and sustainable.