Settling in

How are you settling into life in Sydney? It’s the question my new and longer term friends ask.

Settling in. I’m not sure if we ever truly settle in to anywhere because the suggestion to me is that in the ‘settling in’ there’s a level of comfort that is reached; a bit like sitting on the edge of a large armchair and then manoeuvering yourself until you’re almost one with it. Once you are part of that chair the slightest movement can alter your comfort level – making you more or less comfortable than you had been.

If the level of your ’settledinness’  is complete, then one or all of your limbs or your whole self might go to sleep. When you wake with pins and needles, you wonder if there is something you’ve missed or should have been doing.

So – am I settling in? I like to think - no. Instead I am awake and watchful as I embrace the new experiences and convert connections made in the virtual world to real world friendships. I wake each Tuesday to the anticipation of the classes in the MA in Cultural and Creative Practice. I revel in the readings and what they might bring to my writing, but have felt the anxiety, the same as I am know my students have experienced in the past, as I structured the first essay I had written in 13 years. I was genuinely relieved and pleased with the feedback I received.

I have learnt not to be embarrassed about the writers I have not read – among them Foucault, Nietzsche and even Beckett – and have discovered that a few years on the planet and a lifelong engagement with reading and learning, means I can bring other insights to the discussions.

There are two cafés I frequent and my favourite of these is Mars Hill in Church Street, Parramatta. They make my double shot cappuccino with no chocolate on the top without giving me a strange look or suggesting what I really want is a latte. It may be a small thing, but life’s too short to drink bad coffee.

But, every now and then when I am feeling very much a part of this new place and this new life, I’ll be caught unawares: a memory of Albury will find its way onto the page. It did this recently in a workshop with award-winning poet, Fiona Wright at the New Writers Group meeting. Fiona asked us to list ten points of interest about a place that was familiar to us. I recalled a recent walk down my street:

In the yard of the only house I pass on my way to Westfield
there are chickens: two Isa Browns, two black and two white.
On the rest of my walk I miss
the Leagues Club, local pool and Centrelink office,
and instead see the quarter acre block
with its orchard, veggie garden and
Thea, Alice and Maggie.

I don’t think I quite completed the task as requested, but perhaps discovered we don’t have to ‘settle in’ to be part of somewhere new. We can continue to inhabit all of the places we have been.

In Celebration of World Poetry Day

This morning I decided I would blog in celebration of World Poetry Day.  These words were penned  (yes, penned, not word processed) when I spent some time last week at the New South Wales Writers’ Centre.

I was working away at some of the exercises from the text we are using for the first Research Methods Unit of the MA in Cultural and Creative Practice. Hazel Smith’s The Writing Experiment  has some terrific idea starters, and I had arrived at the ’When Prose Turns to Poetry’ task.  After almost an hour and a half in the Christina Stead room, apparently once known as the Hobbit Room and from the shape of the room I can see why it was so named, it struck me that this room with its bright yellow walls was now misnamed.  These four lines found their way from pen to paper.

The Yellow Room

(On spending an afternoon in the Christina Stead Room at the New South Wales Writers’ Centre)

Christina Stead cannot live in this room
with its yellow walls too bright for
Seven Poor Men of Sydney or
The Man Who Loved Children

Destination Sydney: Are we there yet?

I’ve been trying to work out why getting around to the writing of this post has been so difficult. It’s not that there hasn’t been anything to post about since I arrived in Sydney a few weeks ago, (I’ll elaborate on that soon), nor the time to do it; there’s just a feeling of ‘do people really want to know what I’ve been up to’?

When I wrote my fortnightly columns for The Border Mail I covered a myriad of topics – disappearing chooks, marking the anniversaries of the deaths of my parents, celebrating the arrival of my first grandson, neuroplasticity, the pervasiveness of gambling and equality for gay parents among other topics:  I had a hook for the 600 words that I wrote.  After the column appeared, I would post it on my blog. It meant fresh copy every fortnight.

But now, without that deadline there doesn’t seem such a rush to post, and even a slight nervousness about adding this to the blog. Is anyone really interested in what it feels like to leave the place you’ve called home for 24 years for love and your other passion – writing?

The build up to the move was protracted. I knew from mid September that I needed to make the move and study the Master of Arts in Cultural and Creative Practice offered through the Sydney Consortium. One of the authors whose work I admire immensely, Gail Jones, would be teaching in the program. After attending the information session I knew that even though I have written professionally and had fiction published, this was the right course to flourish not only as a writer but also as a critical thinker about writing. I applied and was accepted, but had to be patient because classes didn’t start until late February.

Then there was the end of year teaching and lecturing paperwork to attend to, Christmas with family and during January a number of farewell lunches, dinners and coffees.  I’m sure some who continued to see me in Albury thought I had changed my mind. (Them: Are you back for a visit? Me: No, haven’t gone yet.) There was a short visit to Sydney and a job interview and then back to Albury to make sure all was in order for the lovely tenant who was to move into our home. Finally, on February 11, the green Lancer was loaded up and I was on the much travelled Hume Highway to Sydney. (I later remembered I didn’t ring to pay the toll for the M7 and M4. I’m still waiting for the notice to come.)

I woke on the Tuesday morning and started the unpacking and getting to know my new environment. Over the next few days there were emails and letters to be written to advise change of address etc. etc. etc. and then in the early hours of the Friday morning incredible pain that worsened and resulted in me being taken by ambulance to Westmead Hospital where I remained for four days. It was my first experience of being a patient since the birth of my second son who is 25. The care was very good, the only glitch being a long wait for the porter to take me for a CT scan on the Friday night. I kept telling myself there was probably someone who needed to have a scan before me. As it turned out the poor porter was trying to be in five places at one time and got to me about four hours after I had drunk the last of the concoction that would help them to see what was ailing me. (The scan was inconclusive.)

By Saturday morning the pain had subsided, but I knew that I would be in hospital for at least two days. I switched on my writerly instincts and I found myself eavesdropping on conversations and tweeting to a) keep myself occupied and b) keep myself occupied. I was comfortable, relatively pain free and being well looked after.

However, I wasn’t going anywhere and had a lot of time to think. I wanted to be home and unpacking; getting everything organised including my study area, for uni. I read ‘Such is Life’ (oh fate how you can mock!)  I contemplated writing this piece from hospital, but that seemed indulgent – which it still does a little – but what struck me most was how, even though I wasn’t all that ill, I had handed over control. I was injected with Heparin morning and night to stop blood clots. I was up and around on the Sunday, so on the Sunday night asked did I have to have the injection and was told that I could refuse it and did. Blood was taken each morning, and again on the Sunday I also asked why this was being taken. (You can tell I was feeling better). I was informed that I could get a printout of the results to take home with me. (I did get these, but also the distinct impression that I was asking more questions than people normally did.)

On the morning of the day I was to be discharged, a Resident, trying to be helpful I’m sure, made an appointment for me for a follow up MRI. I thanked him for his thoughtfulness and trouble, but explained that perhaps he should have checked with me first because the time of the appointment clashed with a long-standing commitment I had and there was also a matter of cost. (This particular MRI doesn’t attract a Medicare rebate.) He disappeared, then returned to say he’d spoken to the specialist and there was an alternative procedure that I knew would not as effectively show up the problem if indeed there was one. (There was a diagnosis that perhaps I had experienced a bout of severe food poisoning.) “You’re not listening to me,” he said. “No, you’re not listening to me,” I replied assertively, but why oh why did I feel like I was being aggressive? In the end, I asked him for the referral and told him I’d make the appointment myself. “That’s what you want?” “Yes that’s what I want.”  (A friend of mine who works in the health area says my experience is all too common.)

After he left, I thought more and more about the conversation and the whole experience. I was lucky, that even though I was alone in the apartment as whatever I had worsened, I knew about the Nurse on Call service and was able to google the service on my iPhone and dial through, and I had health insurance including ambulance cover.  I thought about the increasing number of people who live alone and may not have the resources I have. I am well educated and well informed when it comes to what is happening to my body, and my first language is English, but I felt quite helpless, and that I was being a bit of a pest if I asked too many questions. Perhaps if I hadn’t gone into the hospital through Emergency I would have been given some information about being in hospital and the routine and procedures. For the first few hours I was there, I was just happy to be cared for and for the pain to be relieved.

But the longer I stayed there, and particularly after the discussion with the doctor, I thought about what it would be like if you arrived alone at the hospital and didn’t speak English. Alternatively, how frightening it would be if you were in so much pain that you could not communicate your name, date of birth, phone number, whether you were allergic to anything, your private health membership number or the name of your next of kin is. (I was asked these questions at least five times.)

I am happy to report that my health has returned to its ‘excellent’ status,  and with two weeks of the MA done, (including being introduced to a couple of new Australian poets, and reading the Australian classics, Such is Life and Voss), I feel I am settling into life here. I’ve enjoyed the opportunity through my membership of the Australian Society of Authors to hear Tom Keneally speak, and tomorrow night look forward to meeting other members at a new members’ night.  Last night I went to an event examining the future of the printed book, and next week will pop along to the launch of the NSW Writers’ Centre ‘Talking Writing’ e book. As the MA workload increases my social outings may decrease, but I am a social creature.

So, am I there yet? Yes. I’m here. Sydney’s my home for at least the next 12 months and I know absolutely that for this time in my life, it’s where I should be. (Now to find a job …)

Postscript

My ‘settling in’ has been enhanced by Director of Booranga Writers’ Centre, Claire Baker’s  thoughtful review of my anthology, The Only Constant, in the March-April edition of Booranga News. http://robynewithane.files.wordpress.com/2010/10/claire-baker-review-of-the-only-constant1.pdf

Dad’s musical loves take little girl into a world of happiness

This piece appeared in today’s Border Mail feature – Happiness. Part 3 KIDS

I am two and in my father’s arms. He holds me above the smells and cacophony of Sydney’s Paddy’s Market. I am safe and I am happy.

I am still the only child, six months away from welcoming my brother.

 

The photographic record also shows a little girl perched on a chair in her full-skirted
dress; on a too-big bike, practically dressed in corduroy overalls and blouse, her favourite ‘tea-hat’ on her head and digging in the dirt with a little shovel. Always smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

What isn’t seen is the music that fills my world and makes me happy. The songs  that drift from the radiogram;  mostly the 78 records my father collects and plays. The deep resonance of Paul Robeson through to the warm tones of Vera Lynn, and the riffs and finger-clicking of the original Ink Spots.

And there is my father’s voice as he sings Lanza, Crosby and in the year my brother arrives Mancini and Mercer’s, Moon River,  and I wonder if it is this that has given me my love for all things Audrey Hepburn.

I hear that song now. It wraps around me lightly but as warmly as my father’s arms when he held me safe. I am happy.

Goodbye to the community that helped to nurture me

Border Mail Column Wednesday, 19 December 2012

Earlier this year when I gave my new short story collection the title of The Only Constant, I couldn’t forsee how prophetic this would be and that my end of year preparations would include readying for a move away from Albury to Sydney.

The move may not be permanent – more of a sabbatical than a final farewell – but there is a still a sense of sadness mixed in with the excitement of what lies ahead, and even some irony when I think about my initial response to the news, just over 24 years ago, that I would be moving to Albury.

Unhappily uprooted from my settled life on the mid north coast of New South Wales I came here with my then husband and two young children, one still a baby, but day by day I found despite my initial resistance, I was putting down roots, personally and professionally.

As I opened my heart a little more I found, and was offered, opportunities to be involved in a number of community and business organisations and to return to my profession of journalism starting work on a casual basis with the ABC then CO FM in its newsroom and later presenting morning and breakfast programs.

Casual work at Prime television lead to full-time work and in my 16 months with the station I made many invaluable contacts including one that later lead to me working as a senior media officer with the Australian Olympic Team in Sydney and Athens.

I left the station to have time at home with my younger child, but this period turned out to be short because I had the opportunity to lecture at Charles Sturt University – my Alma Mater – and later that year took on the position of Main Street Coordinator, now the Albury Central program.

I have had rewarding work with Wodonga and Albury TAFEs and a highlight has to be coordinating three Write around the Murray festivals for AlburyCity.

However, the intent of this column isn’t to present a curriculum vitae, but rather to illustrate that if you are open, this is a community of opportunity that can nurture you.

By far its greatest gift to me has been the chance to grow as a writer and the acknowledgment that even when I earn my keep through other employment this is who I am.

Since picking up the threads of my creative writing life in 1998 I’ve released two collections of short stories and have had writing included in anthologies including New Albury Writing released in 2002.

And each fortnight for the past two and a half years I’ve been given the privilege (and sometimes indulgence)  of having the space to comment and reflect on happenings in our community and beyond, covering topics as broad ranging as the impact of technology on our lives, my passion for art and education to my disappearing chooks!

I have also shared the emotion of becoming a grandparent, and have been deeply touched by the warmth of responses I have received from many readers over this time that I think reflects that despite all of the big world events that grab the headlines, it is those events close to our hearts and homes that resonate the most.

And it is because of the needs of my heart that I am leaving – but also to enrich my writing life through further study and advance the novel-in-progress.

So it’s adieu for now. I wish everyone a happy and safe Christmas and fruitful 2013 and you can always catch me at my blog.

The art of keeping our heads above water is never-ending

Border Mail Column, Wednesday 5 December 2012

There was the usual hub-bub of conversation in the foyer of HotHouse Theatre this week as we waited to go in and hear about the exciting program the company has in store for this community.

I say for the community and not just theatregoers, because over the years HotHouse has brought to us not just theatre but the opportunity for budding actors, playwrights and theatre technicians to take the first steps into real jobs.

But the risk in seeing theatre as a group of people playing on stage is to understate the importance of what theatre can bring to a community, and too easily theatre and other arts practices and events are the first to bear the brunt of government spending cuts.

Sitting in the Butter Factory Theatre, the lights came up and HotHouse Theatre artistic director, Jon Halpin took the stage to announce the 2013 program and we were aware that he could have been presenting a much contracted program.

That he was announcing the full program had come down to a massive social media and email campaign protesting a decision by Arts NSW to defund the company, despite a growth in subscriptions of 270 per cent.

The campaign, with the support of Member for Albury Greg Aplin, resulted in HotHouse receiving funding for 2013 and being able to present a full program, but as Halpin explained, HotHouse and companies like it are a dying breed.

For those outside or with little knowledge of the processes involved in gaining funding developing and writing funding applications is no small task and arts organisations of all shapes and sizes put not only a business case, but also promote how the company works with its community to achieve outcomes

The arts organisations in our community including HotHouse and The Flying Fruit Fly Circus continually have to fight to convince the funding bodies of their value to the community, despite being held up as jewels in the crown not only of our but on the national cultural scene.

In another attack on the arts, cuts to subsidies for visual arts programs at Albury TAFE mean students who cannot fund their studies may not be able to complete the courses they started.

All of these cuts leave me with an unsettled feeling not only for our community but also for the national psyche because the arts help us to understand our place in the world.  Whether we are aware of it or not we access some form of arts practice every day whether it is in the clothes we wear, the music we listen to, the theatre we attend or the beautiful handmade products we seek out to give as a gift because we want to move away from the mass-produced.

The arts organisations in our community extend beyond those with higher visibility and include community theatre companies, Murray Conservatorium, community art galleries, dance and music schools, community bands and choirs and writers groups.

Very few of these groups are completely self-funded with some funding coming from other sources including government at various levels and philanthropic funds.

Tens of thousands of people attend the performances, exhibitions and events put on by these groups as well as the shows offered at the Albury Entertainment Centre and newly opened venue, The Cube in Wodonga.

When the formal part of the launch of HotHouse’s program was finished, I thought how fortunate we are to have such richness in our lives in this community, and tried to contemplate what type of community we would have without them.

Without them it would be a big, empty and echoing space.

Post natal emotions bring both joy and challenges

Border Mail Column – Wednesday 21 November 2012

Yesterday I was celebrating – remembering the birth day of my older son and all of the amazing emotions that came with that moment of holding him in my arms.

I had an easy pregnancy including a few months at home that helped me to adjust from my workplace of a television newsroom full of deadlines, to a life dictated by the rhythms of my new son.

It was easy to spend hours just looking into his bassinette and be overwhelmed with a feeling that all was right in the world.

Because I knew very few people in the town we lived in and had no family living nearby I had joined the Nursing Mothers’ Association, now the Australian Breastfeeding Association, four months before my baby was due.

It was my connection to the world of mothers and babies and gave me not only the support of first time mums, but of women who had more than one child and could help me navigate this wondrous but incredibly scary new world.

If this sounds idyllic – it was for me, but I was also aware that women for whom the world of motherhood was a dark place.

We knew about postnatal depression, but it wasn’t given the publicity it has today in mainstream media. If you wanted to find out anything about issues to do with mothering you read about it in parenting or women’s magazines.

Any increase in the rate of the condition in Australia is hard to quantify because it may be that it is now more recognised, however research by Beyond Blue released during the current Post Natal Depression Week puts the cost to the community of perinatal depression and anxiety at $500 million.

Beyondblue defines perinatal depression and anxiety as any depression or anxiety experienced by a parent, not just the mother, between the child’s conception to its first birthday.

It believes one in seven new mothers is affected by postnatal depression, but one of the greatest challenges is for new mums to let someone know that they aren’t coping at a time that is supposed to be one of the most joyous and fulfilling in their lives.

In my contact with mums and mums-to-be I often spoke about that four letter word – cope – but coping at a time when so much information is available,and not all of it helpful, must be increasingly difficult.

Just a few days ago, a woman who is a contributor to online and other publications aimed at mums was approached to write an article about how women could get their ‘hot’ bodies back after having a baby.

Her disbelief and that of other Tweeps was palpable: it is this type of article that puts added pressure on new mums at a time when they need support, and to be realistic when it comes to their expectations of themselves in their new role.

One of the beyondblue initiatives is the ‘Just Speak Up’ campaign aimed at changing perceptions of postnatal depression by encouraging people who have been affected by it to tell their stories and reduce the stigma that still surrounds the condition.

But it’s not only these women who need to be heard.

As a community we need to speak up and support mothers in all their iterations – at home or in the paid workforce –  and play our part in working to reduce the numbers of women affected by perinatal depression and anxiety.

Research shows a five per cent decrease represents a saving of $136 million to the economy, but surely the human savings should be incentive enough.

More information about Postnatal Depression Awareness Week, Perinatal depression and anxiety is available at the beyondblue.org.au website with specific information about the beyond babyblues and the Just Speak Up Campaign here.
Australian Breastfeeding Association