No happy ending

The festival bubble has well and truly burst.

I knew it was coming, but I wanted it to be with a bang – to finish on a high – not the displaced flatness I felt yesterday afternoon. 

It came unexpectedly, just after lunch, when I saw the rain hit the footpath with unrelenting force. Like waking from a dream, I looked out the window, knowing sadly my time was over. Life beyond the bubble beckoned and I reluctantly began my journey back to the people and places that called for my presence.

I wanted to stay, to say goodbye properly, and grant gratitude to those who’d been in the bubble with me for past few days.

Closure.

That’s what I wanted. 

But the lingering unease in my heart told me I didn’t have it.

Bruce Oakman says there’s no such thing.

I heard him say it Friday night and immediately wished I could unhear it. 

Could there be any truth to his declaration? 

It has haunted me since and then yesterday afternoon, was put to the test. 

We all want closure at different times in our life, and search desperately for it, scrambling madly for some kind of satisfying ending to ease the pain of separation and goodbye; to prepare us for the life that goes on, and to begin, again. 

So this is it - my closure, my way of saying goodbye and thank you - it's been an honour, and a privilege to be in the bubble with all you wonderful Writers in Action, talking, sharing, laughing, crying, about writers and words and ideas and passions. 

And to you Sue, big thanks for letting me be part of your WiA bubble. It was an experience I enjoyed greatly and learned so much from.

I am still exploring Bruce's claim regarding closure, but will leave you with this ancient gem; maybe it's what Bruce was on about:

Amidst the worldly comings and goings, observe how endings become beginnings. Lao Tzu

The last post

Well, I've arrived. This is it. My final post for this blog.

It seems fitting to finish with closure in mind, which for me, naturally initiates reflection.

I had my reservations about doing this WiA subject. I wanted to be part of a group - to get a sense of belonging, to meet new people and connect with other wanna-be writers. I wanted to soak up the atmosphere of  the BWF and rub shoulders with the super-stars of the literary world. I wanted my mind to be free to learn and dream and plan and create without being tied to purpose and outcome.

I wanted it all, but I didn't want to do the work.

But ten posts in and I have loved it. 'The work' that I was dreading hasn't felt like work at all.  I have enjoyed going through my notes, reminiscing about what I heard from the famous and not so famous, searching for stand-out themes, ideas and quotes to kick-start my blog posts. And then letting the mysterious happen, that is creativity - each sentence magically appearing on the screen in front of me as I type the words that come.

The whole experience has been so timely for me. Dubious about my desire and ability to write, I enrolled in this subject with some hesitation, but it has given me a much-needed injection of faith. I feel that I'm on the right path - I'm doing what I love and have longed to do for years...write.

One key moment that inspired a letting go of sorts, was hearing Raimond Gaita say that he's not a writer - he just writes some words... some times. So humble.

I definitely don't see myself as a writer. Even after having had my work published and sold for a number of years, I don't feel comfortable with the classification of 'writer'. I see myself as someone who has something to say - to share. And writing just happens to be the best fit for me.

 I am fascinated by the human condition and if I can explore, understand, and learn from the classroom of life and pass it on in the hope that it helps others, through writing some words some times, then I will have done my job.

The end.

And also the beginning.

There's something about Raimond

Profound. Tender. Moving.

Just three words that come to mind when I think about the talk Raimond Gaita gave at Latrobe Uni on Friday the 8th of August.

In preparation for his talk I borrowed his book Romulus, My Father from the library on the Tuesday night. I had seen the film years ago when it was first released, so I knew a little of the story, but in no way did it prepare me for how deeply affected I'd be from reading it.

I didn't want to put it down, but of course life went on so I managed to read it in queues, waiting for kids and between appointments and errands. Thursday lunch time in a quiet cafe in View St, I came to its end - sadly. And Thursday night I re-watched the film. Sigh.

Tears stung my eyes several times throughout both the reading and the viewing. I was in awe of this man who could not only withstand such hardship and tragedy, but who could go on to become a brilliant philosopher and successful writer. I could hardly wait to hear him speak the next day.

Friday came and I was still feeling the effects of my immersion in Raimond Gaita's childhood, so much so that all I wanted to do when I saw him was go up and hug him!

You'll be relieved to know I didn't, but I did introduce myself after his talk -which was captivating. You could've heard a pin drop. Time stood still. His gentle wise voice treating us to a reading before talking to us of love, truth, beauty, leadership and inspiration.

By the end of it, I was completely enamoured of him ; my brief but personal encounter consisting of a photo and some words stumbling out of my mouth about my impending research masters...on love and forgiveness.

His positive response to this and well wishes meant the world to me - it felt like a wonderful affirmation that what I was embarking on was indeed a worthy topic.

 I thanked him as graciously as I could given my heightened emotional state and then fled the scene, just in time for the dam to burst! There was definitely something about Raimond...

Faith-full

Faith.

Complete trust or confidence, is the first definition of the word faith according to the Oxford Australian Dictionary, followed by firm belief, especially without logical proof.

It was the topic of conversation during the session titled "Faith comes in many forms" at the recent BWF.

Robert Kenny 's experience of receiving a quilt made by a group of caring locals in response to his loss from the Black Saturday fires illustrated the notion of faith and community.

Sara James, through a personal account of rising from hopelessness, said that faith was about optimism.

But it was Craig Sherborne who put forward the idea that faith was a temperament.

temperament : a person's distinct nature and character, especially as determined by physical constitution and permanently affecting behaviour.

Craig talked affectionately about his Aunt Doris, someone he believed to behold faith as a temperament, whose life motto was to 'muddle through' - something Craig saw as stemming from the stoic, hardy and resilient qualities his aunt possessed. Qualities which emerged as a result of her faith-full temperament.

This was food for thought. Could faith be a temperament? Could trust, confidence and firm belief, one that defies logic be part of ones nature? Born with it, as Craig suggested - in ones DNA?

I wondered about faiths role in the writing journey I was about to embark on. Was it faith in myself or faith in that which cannot be seen that I needed most? I found the confidence and the courage to ask the authors on the panel what they thought. Craig's answer, to surrender - conclude that I've got nothing to lose and just go from there. Wise counsel, especially coming from an acclaimed author.

At the end of this post I realise I will need both; faith in myself - the confidence and trust that I can 'muddle through' and pull this thesis off, and faith in my connection to the spiritual nature of life and the bigger picture.

Faith in all its forms.

From the heart

A challenge has been thrown open to me.

On Friday 8th August I went to see Blanche d'Alpuget in conversation with Hilary Harper as part of the Writers in Action group at the BWF.

They talked. I listened. Quite comfortably - in fact, even though I am a diligent student and like to take notes, I felt that there was no need. That is until Blanche said that what we should all take from novels is knowledge of the human heart. Wow. True. What a beautiful thing to say. I had to write it down.

No sooner had I finished scribbling when I heard her follow up, saying that
no psychological text or self-help book could do that.

! ? Really?

I quickly wrote that sentence down too - Blanche had hit a nerve.

I proudly write non-fiction. What I write comes about from exploring the heart and what it is to be human. My blog Seeker & Sage is testament to that. There is nothing fictitious about it. It is all real and raw. I share my experiences of longing and despair - what it is to be human - with integrity and sincerity. I do it for me, but I also do it for you - and for the greater good.

And the knowledge I have gained of the human heart so far, has come from non-fiction sources. I have read hundreds of wisdom literature books written by psychologists, Buddhists, spiritual teachers and numerous self-help sages, and I can honestly say that what they have shared and how they have shared it has helped me look into and open my heart.

But the challenge remains - I still feel stirred up when I remember Blanche's declaration. So, I vow  to prove Blanche wrong by continuing to write what I write and to write it from my heart.

A lesson in disguise

I don't know what to do.

Yesterday I started a post that I thought 'wanted to be written'. It took a little tweaking and crafting but it was definitely blog-worthy.

I really wanted to finish it last night and hit 'publish' before going to bed. So I played with it and edited it, uploaded a couple of photos and then saved it so that I could attend to another computer matter.

I made my way back to my post, feeling very pleased with myself and what I had created. Then the shock and horror. No. It seems I didn't save it. Hours of work, gone. And no amount of ranting and crying would bring it back.

The over-achiever that I am wanted to press on, keep at it, work until it was done, no matter how long it took. But my emotions got the better of me and I decided to leave it till morning.

So here I am. Back at the desk. Staring at the screen, trying to recall the opening sentence and wondering why? My get up and go has gone.  Was it really something that wanted to be written? I am a firm believer in everything happening for a reason. So why did this happen? What is there to learn from it, to come from it, so that it could serve its purpose?

Most would say it's a lesson in backing up your work, and be done with it! But for me it's much more than that.

I think it's a big lesson in letting go. I was feeling quite 'proud' just before I discovered it was gone, so it is probably a good reminder not to get too attached to what we create. Which begs the question, who is creating? Where do the words come from?

I can't answer that. In fact I'm not sure anyone can. But I like to think it's my job to be a channel. To allow the words that want to be written, to be written. To move away from tight construing - objective, aim, outcome, purpose. Lose my self, my importance, my judgement, about what should or shouldn't be written and trust that what does come forth is what is meant to come forth.

I'm not sure that was happening yesterday, but it has definitely happened today.

Terror Incognita

I didn't want to wear it.
I wasn't even sure I wanted to be there.

Yes I was keen to go to the Bendigo Writers Festival, but I was regretting my decision to be a Writer in Action (WiAer). I was so used to wallflowering and living in my zone of comfort that the thought of meeting new people had my inner in terror.

Day 1 of donning the designated t-shirt had me dooming and gloomy. I can't believe we have to wear this every day. And tonight!

Being winter in Bendigo I was able to hide under a coat and scarf until safely into my first session. I looked for a seat, and there were two of my fellow WiAers, easily identified due to their team t-shirts. I suddenly felt less conflicted - more calm.

Next stop was the Uni to see and hear the beautiful Raimond Gaita. Fear and worry again filled my mind and throat - I had no idea where to go or who would be there. Instant comfort came when I found the lecture room and saw a few more of my WiA colleagues in their t-shirts. Conversation and camaraderie were building and a little more calm was instilled within.

Later that afternoon I made a quick stop at home - I wanted to refresh before heading out to the Write on The Fringe events which would be followed by Blanche's interview and the official opening. Again, I was perplexed by the t-shirt. I put it on and shook my head. No. It can't stay like this.

That morning I had met a couple of classmates who had made adjustments to suit. If they can, I can, I thought!

Scissors in hand and several fittings later - reconciliation. My t-shirt and I were now in harmony and from that moment on I relaxed into my choice to be a WiA student. In fact I wore that shirt with pride. Days 2 and 3 even had me being a little creative about what I wore with it.

Dressing on our final day together as WiAers I felt a little sad.  The 'bubble' I had been in for five days was about to burst. And I didn't want it to. My initial reluctance had been transformed - I had embraced my status as a WiAer and I didn't want it to end.

I put it on one last time for a group photo before folding it into my bag with reverence. This t-shirt had done more than identify me as a WiAer... but that's another post!