Diary Entries

ANZAC DAY 2020 [PART 2] Who is this for? And why? My parents are long dead, my husband in bed, the kids asleep in their separate dreams. But the service rolled on, through prayers I believed in, or not, ideas I agreed with or not, and despite our differences, despite the grumps of time and place, I knew there were others alone in our heads as always and this year separated as well in space, but coming together as we do this day for all our separate reasons to think, and to remember. I stood for the Last Post and promptly lost the service on my phone. No matter. Found it again and stood, and thought, and knew though alone, I was not alone. The silent minute passed. Reveille sounded. It was done. No one else had seen the white cat hair decorating my cape with the evidence of love. The scarlet Tudor roses in the garden took me back in time to clashes of sword and pikes, The red geraniums whirled me out in space to outback towns and women in red dirt acres mourning sons and husbands, fathers, brothers, then drying their hands and lighting the stove to cook breakfast for the mob. Should I pick the rosemary? I’d meant to wear it, and forgot. Did it matter? Yes, it did. I chose a careful sprig, aromatic with remembrance. Later, maybe, I’d make Anzac cookies. This year I might perfume them with rosemary. And memories, of course. No, today the service wasn’t perfect. It was messy. It was life. It was perfect. It was. It is.

ANZAC DAY 2020 [PART ONE] It wasn’t perfect. Who likes to wake before dawn? But I threw back the covers eventually, pulled on the warm red cape, found the small electric candle, and took my trusty phone to the top of our drive. Two other households in the street were awake, too, with television services drifting faintly out. One neighbour out with his own small light. We didn’t need to greet each other. Now, to find the carefully researched three minute service. Thanks, Youtube. Nope. Only the full thirty minute one. I sighed and sat on our sandstone rocks next to the letterbox. Surely I could spare thirty minutes once a year? My neighbour’s car pulled out quietly. We don’t talk much, but I knew what he was doing, and he saw me there. Enough. White cockatoos tore up with sound the peaceful lightening of the sky as they were doing at the War Memorial in Canberra, drifting from the faint TVs. The day’s first blowfly asserted insect dominance, followed by the love bite of a sandfly on my hand. Fair enough. I know my place. I let the didgeridoo music flow out and swirl around me perched on my sandstone, a Tibetan pendant of peace hanging around my neck, and thought of all the reasons to be back in bed again.

AN EPIC PANDEMIC So the epidemic has become a pandemic. Confused? Let us nitpick here a little, backed up by hefty dictionary definitions. An epidemic technically means a prevalent disease with many people ill. . A pandemic refers to ‘pan’: ‘all the people’ when a disease affects many people over wider areas, they say. If we take out the ‘dem’ (from the Greek root ‘demos’–people) –from either ‘epidemic’ or ‘pandemic’ then what do we left? Drum roll…an epic panic. Beware dem people: panic breeds fear, and fear hostility, anger, hate. No. Leave dem people in our calculations, our talk of flattening curves. The young dem seize the day, as young people always will. Older dems are gripped by the knowledge that the number of their days diminishes or worse, feel irrelevant and useless. Angry dems seek scapegoats, charitable dems give in many ways, sociable dems feel bereft of contact, withdrawn dems curl alone like snails. The sun still rises. The planets still revolve. Seeds sprout, ants bite, and all the while a smile can come unexpectedly from old, from young, from any-demi-one.

ADVICE AS THE VIRUS SPREADS Our leaders tell us that hugs are potentially contagious, and to practise social distancing. They are right about the danger of hugs. Hugs spread compassion, that can ripple through a group like sunshine when curtains are pulled back in a dark room. Let us sleep cuddled close, breathe fresh air and smile at strangers with furrowed brows. The hooded figure with his scythe strides the cornfields and the streets and we will all meet him some day. But we have this day, this moment, these lungs and can spread the scent of joy and hope on the winds that circle the world.

TODAY AT HOME A quiet rain sifts down, the air is rain-washed pure; my lungs expand like umbrellas. Scarlet geranium flowers sing sweet as saxophones, while white chive stars are piccolos. How has autumn arrived unnoticed? Green passionfruit swell in the tangles of leaves and bright tendrils reaching over rusty chicken wire. The grapefruit tree is studded with dark globes that will swell and lighten till they offer liquid sunshine in midwinter. And the bush whispers: hush, quieten. Treetops may toss with wind up there, but in our oasis, calm is queen.

FOUR MINUTES Today I increase my daily meditation to four minutes. I can do this. The threatening storms of life can wait. I sit at my desk, close my eyes. And then the tell-tale prickle starts. A coming sneeze tickles my nostrils. Calm. Breathe. Another inhalation. More dust or mould or something fills my lungs. Eyes water…and… kerchoo! I ride the sneeze, a shockwave pulsing out from my centre, coursing down my arms to tingle every finger. What a ride! And then another. And one more. I surrender to the moment. Let the sneezes rip and feel strangely exhilarated. No stifling the explosions by grabbing for the tissues no hasty scrabble for hay fever pills. The detonation shockwaves ripple out. I feel each one. Then quiet comes. That’s when I notice that my hands are dutifully paused, but grip the desk edge, waiting to plunge into the day’s email surf where I’m always Canute, commanding the tide to stop, in a fruitless daily exercise. I feel my body sitting twisted sideways, resting on just one buttock, poised for flight should something need me elsewhere. I take another breath, adjust my position at the desk, put my hands into my lap. Sit straight. What’s that? My phone alarm already? Was that four minutes? Was that a meditation? Mmm.

THE GREAT PANIC During the great toilet paper panic that gripped this fine nation in 2020, I saw two women, fear in their eyes, clutching hard-won supermarket treasure to their breasts with both arms, as if cradling babies: two rolls of kitchen paper each. Faces hopeful, they asked ‘We’re looking for hand sanitiser?’ A weary chemist’s assistant shrugged. ‘Nope. None. We’ve run out.’ She had answered this query all day. The women stood there, desolate. Where could they turn now? Soon there’ll be furtive touts on street corners selling contraband tissues, if only you can pay the price; or peddling tales of Aladdin’s caves: warehouses stuffed to bursting with loo paper, vats of hand-made sanitiser, to tease our fearful dreams. Gone are the heady days of Australia’s gold rush. The great toilet paper rush of 2020 gathers momentum. Then the people will revolt. Their flag? An honoured cross of white paper, stitched sheet by perforated sheet, Eureka stars of soft white tissue. And the toilet rolls will all be liberated, return to the longing, empty shelves to patriotic cheers and tears of joy, so anxious women can smile again. But like its precursor revolution in Ballarat, this stand will inspire valiant deeds and the sad slaughter of innocents. When will the madness end?