Sage Advice...

... for Knots in the String.

“I don’t believe in ageing. I believe in forever altering one’s aspect to the sun. Hence my optimism.” - Virginia Woolf

I have a vision of Ms Woolf constantly moving around the conservatory at Monk’s House in Rodmell or perhaps in the lovely garden, seeking a trajectory of sunlight for the optimism it might hopefully give her. We all know her story and how desperately she sought such positivity.

For most of us, the sun is healing, engendering a sense of physical and mental wellbeing. Even though we have had days and weeks of unrelenting heat (by Tasmanian standards), sun beats cloud every time for creating lightness of mood. This week, I stood chest deep in the sea, waiting for a cloud to pass away from the sun so that I could immerse myself. The sea seems friendly in gold light – welcoming, more transparent. When cloud drifts across, the ocean darkens to pewter grey, the exceptional translucence below the surface disappears and a writer’s imagination can create threat out of nothing. Perhaps that shadow is a stingray, or that darker one to my left a Port Jackson shark. Maybe that huge shadow is actually a white pointer…

But the cloud vanished, the sea glittered, I could see my toes and a quarter of a millisecond later, I was under. My tired sore body from ballet, accompanied by heat grump, disappeared in a moment. Revived, refreshed – even if a nanna-nap still seemed vastly attractive.

This week has been refreshing. Chilly nights where jackets are de rigeur, where we finish evening walks on the cusp of darkness with goosebumps on our bare legs. Where the house mostly cools without air-conditioning and one can snuggle beneath a blanket layer.

Perhaps we are just demanding elders – nothing’s ever good enough. Not enough cool nor cloud. Not enough sun. Not enough rain (nor likely to be). Not enough fuel (don’t start me down that road. I’m furious that we’re in a situation not of our making).

Not enough time…

It’s probably the swift passage of time that ripples my calm more than anything. I need time to fit my day in. By anyone else’s standards they’re probably boring days but they overflow like effervescing bubbles from a vintage champagne and I draw my fingers up the moist surface of the bottle, trying to capture the fizz and sparkle. Easier I think, to catch dandelion florets.

Did you know that you can have up to 300 floret-wishes in a dandelion? I wish for peace. My own and everyone else’s but then I suppose by sharing the wish I’ve broken it and it’s unlikely to occur.

Still, I strive to find the sunlight and believe that anything’s possible if one manifests hard enough.

Other things:

I’m reading Rebecca Armitage’s The Heir Apparent. I probably need to say nothing about the plot since it was named a Reese Witherspoon selection, but it’s well written and Armitage describes the Tasmanian settings beautifully as only one who has lived here and appreciated the quaint isolation can. Of course, being about a contemporary royal heir, large tranches of the book take place in the UK as well, but there’s something emotionally apt about the Tasmanian scenes, especially when Armitage talks about farming (bingo), about a vineyard in the Coal River Valley (our valley), about Maria Island (my heart home) and about Hobart and Sandy Bay.

As a member of a Commonwealth country and a supporter of a constitutional monarchy, I appreciate the value of both institutions and I feel a degree of sadness for the Royal Family with the release of this book. It’s so easy for a reader to point the finger at fictional royals who remind them of this or that real royal and no matter the fictional narrative and the fictional characters, there are many moments where I feel the Family is being called to account. Still, I’m only a reader, not a reviewer, and I’m enjoying reading the novel.

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In the spirit of things royal, Australia (and Tasmania late in the week) welcomed King Frederick and Queen Mary of Denmark on a state visit to our nation. A large trade commission arrived from Denmark with the royal couple and it’s hoped both countries can benefit economically from the diplomacy. This is one of the positives about Trump’s pulling apart of the world. That strong alliances are being cemented elsewhere.

For Mary and Fred, it’s a coming home. Mary was born and educated in Hobart and her family are still here. She has a private aspect to her visit as she takes time to visit her ailing father. The nice thing about our island, and it’s well-documented, is that the population will allow her the grace and space she needs. We’re very protective of her and we’re very proud of them both. Tre hurraråb for Danmark…

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There was a moment of sheer panic when I broke a tooth last week. I hate sitting in a dentist’s chair no matter how nice my dentist might be. There’s a sense of complete claustrophobia, with suction, hands, metal instruments and God Knows What all stuffed in my mouth. I managed the whole repair without a needle as needles generally cause me tachycardia because of the adrenalin in them to cauterise excess blood flow. Yes, I could have a needle without adrenalin, but then I’m stuck with dribbling and garbled words for hours! So I shake myself off afterward, like a dog ridding itself of something it doesn’t like and hope to the stars my teeth stay whole for a while longer!

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Ballet this week again felt microscopically better. Is it possible to recognise that information is finally imprinting on brain and body? A sign of hope? After seven weeks we (me) still can’t fully remember the intricacies of these new routines but we (me) are getting better. We waltzed with turns along the full length of the studio but turns are impossible for me, so I just waltzed to the rhythm of the dance in a straight line. Arms should lift on opposite sides to legs and of course feet should always be delicately pointed, so there’s a lot of finessing to be done. But I do love the hard work and it is hard, that’s for sure - brain fog at the end, I assure you.

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I don’t particularly like thinking about age-ing. Best to just get on and make each day the best it can be. But I had a moment this morning after talking to a close friend, one of my beach buddies, who felt she may never swim with me again owing to her illness. I cannot begin to tell you how sad that made me. After we had talked and when she had gone, I had a gentle weep because we go back some 36 + years of wonderful coastal life, daring-to-do and simple friendship. It sounded like the end of an era, and my heart broke for her because she loves life like I do, loves the water like I do. But my heart broke a little for me too. Yes, I’ve been swimming a vast proportion of last summer and all of this on my own, but perhaps part of me believed she’d be in the water as soon as the ocean warms again. Perhaps not likely…

I’m ten years younger than the two wonderful women with whom I’ve had such long and enduring friendships. So is that why I can still do what I want and when? And how long will that last, anyway? Does it come down to age-ing? Best not to think about it – best to perhaps ‘alter one’s aspect to the sun’ and be a good friend in other ways, and so we had a cuppa. With a slice of coffee cake and a spoonful of coffee ice cream on the side (I both made this morning – yum!). Time chatting is still as meaningful as ever and if I think back, it’s this friend who taught me that one should always make sure that one good thing happens in every day.

Sage advice.

Music this week? A delicate little waltz. Maybe I could hum it to myself as I sway down the length of the studio with the ballet girls…