Rearrangement...

... for Knots in the String.

‘I remember finding a large mermaid mosaic in the sand on (Arran), with a mosaic dolphin at her side. The next day I went back to find them rearranged by the tide, heading out to sea. It struck me, that’s what we do, rearrange ourselves accordingly.’ Sally-Anne Morten

These words are illustrated by the way our coast has changed over the last month. In the teeth of grey-as-grief easterly storms, the coastline has been pummelled into a different shape – the faded celadon sags have been flattened and dragged down steeply raked slopes into the sea. This will all change again with the next storm. There’s an inevitability about it and it mirrors how much of our lives are constant rearrangements. We might think because we’re settled in the one house, the one job, perhaps one partner or steadfastly single, that rearrangements are done with.

But they’re not. Every day we have to negotiate a change of some sort. Every day and in every way, we have to able to re-shape ourselves and our lives according to the moment.

I remember the first time I moved away from Tasmania to Adelaide, I was grief-stricken. I had to shift thoughts mightily into a more positive mindset if I was going to survive. I did, but within nine months, we moved to Melbourne. Nine months after that, we were transferred back to Adelaide. Like pregnancies. So nine months after the move back to Adelaide, we birthed a loved daughter and you guessed it, we were transferred back to Melbourne! With each move, we lived in a different home, a different suburb, and so I needed to rearrange not just our possessions and lifestyle in order to get a sense of belonging, but my mind as well. Back in Melbourne, we gave birth to an adored son and we settled ourselves as a complete family, whilst knowing in our hearts that one day by choice, there would be a move back to Tasmania and island life.

I think the copious re-shaping helped us in so many ways. We refined our possessions, we remodelled the way we wanted to live and who we wanted to share our lives with. I rearranged my mind. It’s been a constant ebb and flow.

In addition, there have been losses, health challenges, ageing changes, life changes – all requiring adaptation and most importantly, acceptance. A fluid existence. As a Chinese proverb says: “The wise adapt themselves to circumstances, as water moulds itself to the pitcher.”

Being a water person, I like the allusion.

‘You must be shapeless, formless, like water. When you pour water in a cup, it becomes the cup. When you pour water in a bottle, it becomes the bottle. When you pour water in a teapot, it becomes the teapot… Become like water, my friend.’ – Bruce Lee

Doing:

I welcomed an old friend to our coast. She’s taking a leap of faith and thus drove with her dog from the top of Australia to our island at the very bottom of the nation where she hopes to work – teaching dog owners to learn their dog’s language and capture good behaviour. She’s a superlative dog-whisperer and understands the intimacies of true connection between dog and human, knowing its not about forcing good behaviour on the dog. Her business is called It’s Not About The Dog. It’s so true. It’s we who need the training, not the dog.

This week she took the Terrier, a dog who has chronic PTSD from three unsolicited dog attacks (those dogs were off-lead and uncontrolled when ours was on-lead minding his own business) and with her own ultra-calm, articulate dog as an assistant, the two showed my little man and I that in fact he had nothing to fear from dogs he has never met before. It was up to me to capture those infinitesimal anxiety-free moments and reward him. By the end of thirty minutes, the Terrier was asking to play ball with my friend’s dog. It was astonishing to watch, amazing to be a part of and there was a lump in my throat. I suddenly saw that maybe, just maybe, my little Terrier could have a trusted friend in his last years.

My friend and I drove down country roads along the coast so that she could learn where the empty places were for she and her dog to enjoy. She was in awe of the space and scenery, and it underlined what I had said to my husband the day before.

He and I had been walking along a coastal back road with the Terrier after a week in town (more medical appointments – don’t ask). The silence, apart from the bush birds and the occasional throaty bleat of a pregnant ewe, was like a soft touch on the shoulder. I stopped and looked over the paddocks to the lagoon, and beyond to the sea and the far southern end of Maria Island. I could almost hear the pasture growing in the spring mildness. The air smelled of eucalypt, sheep and the salt air of a close coastline. The sun warmed our backs.

‘I don’t know what it is,’ I said. ‘but I look at that…’ I waved my arm in the direction of the view, ‘and it’s as if I can feel my very soul sighing. It’s palpable. As though I’m home.’ I shrugged.

He had been standing still, wrapped in the silence and merely nodded, but it was a shared thing. He’s a man of few words and always to the point. I’m a novelist - so I have many words to make the same point. I do love him…

I also rode mountain-bikes with my grandson.

A race down the drive and back to the barn – about a km.

I borrowed my D-I-L’s new mountain bike and hopped on.

Grandson asked, ‘Do you know how to use handbrakes, Nanny?’

Oh-my God, what?

I answered back in my best Lady Bracknell voice, ‘Haaand Brakes?!’

‘Well you have to use them or you’ll crash. And do you know how to change gears?’

Lady Bracknell replied ‘Gears?!’

We settled for the gear it was in (5) and I began pedalling. Easy, no problem. Made it to the front gate, turned, and then tried to ride back up the slope in 5. Ended up hopping off and pushing the bike to the crest because changing gears is beyond me.

Naturally he won the race.

Then he said we had to jump the v.small bank near the silo. I thought I could easily do that, my old $10 bike would fly over it, after all. But this supersonic mountain bike’s front wheel hit the bank and I nearly flew over the handlebars. It’s safe to say I will stick with my $10 1950’s bike with basket and which slows when I push the pedal backward, and I will ride along just like the old lady that I am.

But nothing through the week has equalled the Terrier’s moment and then my reaction to the view before me. They are the two instances when Joy visited. If you wonder who Joy is, please read:

Take them out at the knees

Joy was also present when The Red Thread made it to the (very) long list of the Ozma Awards.

And perhaps Joy was discretely evident when the dressing was removed from the remaining abdominal incision this week and I was finally discharged. Thirteen weeks two days, two ops, one emergency and 55 days of dressing changes. Thus I had a deep bath soak and fell asleep, but more importantly, I hauled on a wetsuit, boots and gloves and headed to the ocean. Twice over two days. My life is back.

I notice that the shape of my belly has changed, reshaped itself (and not in a good way) with a length of innards in absentia.

Ah, change – there’s no end to it, is there? It’s infinite. There’s so much to be said for going with the flow.

Song for this week?

A waltz because I would like you to imagine men and women gliding around a mirrored ballroom, then changing direction, rearranging themselves like a shoal of sparkling fish in the ocean or a graceful murmuration of starlings. Damask gowns and tailcoats reflected, darting diamond light and dewy pearls gleaming, patent shoes and silk dancing slippers. Beautiful…

Or perhaps in the light of my biking, it should be this. You choose…