The Lightness of Being.

“Cheers mum” and we adult children raise our flutes high and toast our dear mother. After a passionate rendition of singing Happy Birthday, complete with hip-hoorays, her casket is wheeled to the waiting hearse; we watch as mum is taken for private cremation.

She wanted to make 93 and so she did, in her own way. After a horrific fall that saw her hospitalised since January - the third fall in as many years - we gave her a very pretty, symbolic, old ladies funeral: can’t ask for better. In fact, it was perfect.

Crystal bowls of her favourite chocolates for everyone to share, stunning posies of native flowers, old friends, familiar faces, a gentle priest and enough great-grandchildren to almost fill the small wooden church. Genuine tears to be sad at our loss, plenty more laughter to remind us that life does indeed go on, at a cracking pace too. Even champagne!

So how are we all coping?  Somehow I have changed. There is lightness now in my life. For the first time I have had to rely on myself.

Although dad has been gone for 9 years, I still miss his booming hello at the end of the phone line; and now there is no smiling mum asking me what my latest project involved. It’s just me now and I like it.  

I now sleep at night, not worrying about her latest injury. What did the doctor say?  Does she need to be moved to a Nursing Home? When was the last time her back was rubbed?   What needs to be done?  Her needs.   Gently caring for our elderly mother has been a loving blessing which was in danger of becoming a chore. And yet it never did. But still, now I can relax, and enjoy my life a little more. I was a good daughter; in fact we were all dutiful, obedient, caring children to our parents, returning the unconditional love shown to us. We not only did our best, but far and beyond that. And we happily exhausted ourselves.

Now, newly orphaned, there isn’t the distress I thought I would feel, only a calmness.

A lightness of being in my own skin, for the first time.

Like a modern day Gulliver, the family ties that gently wrapped loving arms around me, and gave me a stable, solid grounding; from tropical Cairns and Rockhampton, to Toowoomba and beyond to far flung Wollongong, have unravelled; as old age and death claimed the matriarchs, aunties and godmothers in my life. Three old girls dead in four weeks.  I drift through the days and nights, float through sleepless weeks, unweighted. The lightness both disturbs and comforts me, as I put into place life lessons learned from years of conversations and hands-on experience. I have to trust that I know enough. I need to believe that I can do this Living, without their voices on the end of the phone. Without loving arms surrounding me with joy. Without approval or judgement.

It has to be enough.

Now I am making my own decisions. Missing their opinions and helpful advice, yes, but gladly standing on my own two feet and looking forward to my own life, with confidence.

They say funerals are for the living, and it’s true. We created a memorable Service, which incorporated everything she wanted: The Lord’s Prayer. Traditional of course. Forever and ever, Amen.

The Magnificat. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be.

We gave mum what she wanted, and more. Now it’s our turn to live our lives with the same grace and integrity shown to us.

Living with such lightness, demands my feet be grounded. If I am ever in danger of floating away, my memories will form a rock steady base, and with both feet planted safely, my eyes look to my own horizon.

Mum's Passing - Thoughts.

March 19 2013
Thanks everyone else who has taken the time and care to comment, it's beautiful to be cared for by my Facebook family, hugely appreciated. Home now for a glass of red, my sister is showering, then back to hosptial, but not for me. I don't want to do it, I photograph too many dead people to want to see my mum like this. Over it. It was enough to hold dad in my arms as he went, I don't want to do that with mum.
I've said my goodbyes to her, and I am at peace with that. Candles are lit. x

At noon today we thought she would be gone by 1pm. Instead, her breathing regulated, her hands warmed up (!!) and here we are all those hours later. Death is a meanie, taking it's time, teasing and haunting us, every, single, fecking, day. We could still be having this conversation tomorrow! *faints.

Mum says in her halting, stuttering, breathy voice:"I must firmly tell my daughters; Family first". The irony made me weep. *sighs

Only 8 weeks ago today, my *almost 93yo mother, had sparking blue eyes, full of cheek and wit, rasing her wine glass and hugging her many grandchildren. Tonight, we keep virgil over her bed, as she sleeps peacefully snoring. Yoh Wah (*goodbye) Bunty, thanks for everything. I will miss you every day, and will never look at a telephone again without wanting to ring you at 5pm.

Worth sharing: "Go to sleep and rest your eyes. A clear conscience and no regret is what helps you sleep the sleep of babes. You have done what can be done. Believe me do not be afraid of death or the things left unsaid. Instead be able to celebrate life joy and happiness for these are what lives are for."

March 20 2013
The wind howls around the house, and cries through the trees: Where is our mother? Where is our mother?

RIP Pearl Warby, our Mother of 3 girls and 3 boys. Reader, gardener, opera lover, wife of a soldier, daughter, sister and mother to us all. Bless you and keep you in His loving arms. Toujours gai - and always a Lady. Yow Wah *goodbye

My 2 sisters are back home, red eyed, happy with grief. Phone calls are made...softly...gently.. We fresh ophans sit and raise our glasses of champagne, toasting our mum.

Playing The Lark Ascending for mum. (*And the lark just rises, going up, and up, and finally, it's out of sight) Having a quiet weep. She always wanted this for her funeral. Today we carefully ironed her beautiful purple blouse we all love, bought fresh white pretty knickers for her, and took her clothes to the funeral arranger. This afternoon we met with the always amazing Fr Cameron and planned her Service. Have to say, it’s going to be beautiful.

Flowers have started to arrive. Thank you to everyone for your kind thoughtfulness, with your loving Facebook posts, your beautiful Twitter messages of support, your phone calls, Sms’s and so on. Please know they are all read, noted, and enjoyed. Bless. X

Mum and I loved Archy and Mehitabel: we would often quote bits to each other. Please enjoy. http://donmarquis.com/archy-and-mehitabel

Happy Birthday Eve my darling mum, tomorrow we send you off with Grace and dignity, style and love. If you could see the waxing moon over Mt Archer, if you could feel the gentle night wind on your cheek once more, and know that your life was charmed, difficult, original and amazing. If you could only know, once more, the feel of my arms around you. I wish! Sleep now my darling girl, sleep now, brave girl. I love you. X

Please bear with me if I indulge in a little 1am quiet sob for my mum, whom I will never know. A private, reserved woman. The stranger in our midst. Yah wah mum. *goodbye

***

My aunty has my mother’s ears, and her own, twisted, paralyzed hands. She moans softly, Mum, mum. I am here.

Like a modern day Gulliver, the family ties that gently wrapped loving arms around me, and gave me a stable, solid grounding; from tropical Cairns and Rockhampton, to Toowoomba and beyond to far flung Wollongong; have unravelled, as old age and death claimed the matriarchs, aunties and godmothers in my life.

I drift through the days and nights, float through sleepless weeks, unweighted. The lightness both disturbs and comforts me, as I put into place life lessons learned from years of conversations and hands-on experience. I have to trust that I know enough. I need to believe that I can do this living, without her voice on the end of the phone.

Without aunty laughs and arms surrounding me with joy. Without female approval or judgement.

It has be enough.

Twitter:

She actually said: i love you, i love you, the naughty one. Sigh. X

Glad i am here, although i DID say no more death bed scenes. Still, who are we to write the script?

All a part of life & living, this dying business. Sitting cross legged in hall with a cuppa trying 2 get internet

Chatting to nurse Wendy. 'What was your husband like?' to mum. He was a beautiful man, she says. I cried, hearing that.

Mum glances to her right. 'Who's that?' she asks, nodding to the corner of the room. I nudge Carolyn. 'Is it a man or a woman mum?' I ask

She can't tell me. She looks around her room. 'There's 1,2,3 of them' she says. I stare and smile at nothing but curtains and the sink.

Carolyn suggests it might be mums angels, but mum isn't convinced. Yet she still counts them loud. One. Two. Three.

Mum is snoring. So sweet x

Sitting in the hallway playing solitaire, missing my pillow. Glad i am here though. Might make a nest in mums big chair. Goodnight x

Gawd i am freezing! Thin white hospital blanket, brrr. Mum still snoring.

Good morning Groovers. Sis and i at hospital with mum, starving for Maccas breakfast, lol. Long night. Long day ahead. the morphine is making her confused.

Think she "saw" 3 people in the room last night. Kept asking the time since 4am, witching hr

We will go soon, once witching hour has passed, come back later and do it all again.

Sending warm thoughts to you today..."thanks, i will wrap them around my shoulders like an old friend x

"I'm just a patient, who doesn't know: what's it all about?" says mum.

Remember family, says mum, then drifts off with a smile on her face. I wonder what that memory was?

It’s a restless wind in Rocky tonight, yachts jerk, trembling on their anchors, trees shake their manes with impatience, doors rattle.

It's a restless night tonight, the wind slaps the blinds and spanks unseeing windows.

Be able to celebrate life joy and happiness for these are what lives are for.

I am at home, listening to the wind shiver around the house. Sisters at hospital. Tired, bedtime xx

Back to sleep 4 me, mums candle went out, big wind here, think she is gone, dunno

RIP my darling mother with the laughing blue eyes, I shall always be grateful to you.

she was always a lady with a wicked sense of intelligence & humour. At peace now. Bless.

I am an ophan, the person who supported me & believed in me, listened to me, is gone. So non-judgmental & loving...

With life, comes death. My mother is teaching me gently, still.

she was our matriarch, much loved we won the jackpot with our parents. Marvellous lives x

I think what I'll miss most is her unconditional support, always interested in whatever funeral I'd film, supportive x

Mum's funeral notice in paper, looks good.

Magpies & crows having animated conversations #Rocky

Such a perfect circle.

Thanks Twitter buddies, give me strength to read the Eulogy (my part) & send her off with dignity.

We want happy funeral, she had a great life. Warby-time is over. Bless

So it is done. We orphans gave mum a dignified, memorable, creative Service. Yoh Wah mum. *goodbye #funerals

One Parrot, or two?

Once again I am in Rockhampton, the sleepy hot town of my childhood, but not my birth. I am a Saltwater woman; a beach girl, an ocean spirit who lived her teenage years trapped between the inland humidity of Mt Archer’s shadow, and the closed, tired minds of Rockhampton people.

It’s not true to say nothing changes here. It does, but it takes its time. Nothing changes in a hurry.

The Fitzroy River still ambles its sluggish way to the sea. Boats still glide and turn with the incoming tide; their bows facing the current pushing upstream, turning their backs to the bridge. Trains still shuffle along 'the main street of Rocky' – written once by a travelling writer, and often repeated, whether it’s true, or not.

It’s become folklore; people love to tell tales against this city, and sometimes its deserved, often not.

One thing that has changed with my latest visit is only one parrot hanging off the back door. Usually there are two clowns, gaily decked out wearing their feathered outfits, befitting their silly behaviour. Today there is only one, and he shrieks upside down from the red flowering bottlebrush tree in the front garden.

I wonder where his mate is, as they have almost become family pets, greeting my mother and sister each morning with hungry cries for bread and honey. Mum grew native plants for three decades, and flowering trees and shrubs for the birds to feed upon surround the house; so although there are a lot of natural bush foods here for them to eat, they adore their honey, wiping their sticky beaks of the side of flowering pot plants and sneezing with delight!

It’s almost irresistible to not put my hand out to stroke their colourful feathers. Today there is only one parrot. Perhaps tonight his mate will come, stomping his pigeon-toed parrot feet amongst the parsley, chasing the butcherbirds who come to feed on titbits of mince. I’ll watch for him, and rouse on him, scolding him in a motherly way, before placing bread and honey before his feet.

~

In my mother’s arms, lying across the bed, laying across her chest, I feel her arms wrap strongly around me. She holds me tightly. “I love you Mrs Warby,” I say softly.

She speaks with a strong voice, empowered.

“Some people want to live to 100,and receive the letter from the Queen. I am not one of those people. Enough’s enough.”

She repeats this.

Enough’s enough.

“I am simply being maintained, that’s all you can do at my age. It’s not like I can go to a hospital and have an operation and come out skipping. I’m simply being maintained, and enough is enough.”

There’s nothing more to add to that, and we sit in the cool darkness of her blue bedroom, and hold hands. We don’t speak, but we both sob silently with rage against time, and life and death to come.

~

“I don’t water the lawn”, my sister says, as she leaves for work. I know why she doesn’t. It’s all time, and money and effort. She has enough to do, enough to think about, more than enough to occupy her time and goodwill. I water the lawn for her, moving the leaking hose (did I say leaking? It’s a bloody fountain, twice over!) every 20 minutes, giving each patch a good soaking. Yes, it’s time and effort and water bills, but shows a generous spirit, saying to the neighbours: “Look, I care. I share this planet and this town with you, and I care.”

The birds chatter with delight; a solo peewee struts within the garden, a picture perfect image of military design in his crisp black and white uniform. A large ant marches backwards and forwards across the top of the stairs, halting and then turning and repeating the action. He’s either keeping the baddies out, or we are all going to be overrun by an army of insects. Whatever, will be.

~

My mother carries within her red walker; a racing guide, the crossword, and the telephone; all packed neatly with the seat up, in sight. Her silver hair has the permanent crease of bed-hair, no matter how much I comb it for her.

Her gait is slower, and more considered. As we speak, her eyes search for the right word. She grasps and stabs the air with her arthritic finger, digging out the right phrase, the correct word, and the ultimate answer.

~

I love to drive northwards - crossing the Fitzroy River over the new bridge - whilst watching the wrought iron train bridge to my left. Its elegance, leaping between black rock and black rock, always gives me hope, that one day – with thoughtful planning and an unbounded leap of energy and good faith, others can also escape the monotony of living in Rockhampton. And in leaving, they also leave their gilded footprint of the city and its people. Just saying.

~

Sketches from a plane window

A steam train of pink clouds puffed along the horizon, tooting the sun up.Flying over the city of Brisbane, bridges of reflected light cross the river, here, and here.
~
The Rockhampton sky is full of fog and sadness; the sun is missing. Bogs and hollows are full of water, an emerald carpet of grass edges to the river. The Fitzroy obediently flows in a straight line, past the shops and houses, past the boats and crabpots, before kicking it’s giddy way to the sea.
Fat bottomed boats turn their back to the sea with the outgoing tide.
~
Just south of Rockhampton is a secret place of rivers. Too lazy to immediately rush to the open seas’ embrace, they meander in a slovenly but sensuous twist and turn; their banks lined with dark green borders of mangroves and mud crabs.
Placed in between each snaking stream are areas of neat rectangles of various colours: whites, pinks, greys. Salt lakes. Slow evaporation ponds scar the land and jar the senses and rounded curves of the smaller rivers.
At low tide, acres of mud lies sunbaking in the Tropic of Capricorn sunshine watching the planes fly overhead. Lushness tickles the tree-line, and lagoons hold lily pads and many secrets. The Fitzroy strides to the oceans, impatient to be released.

Waiting

Rockhampton has a hidden underbelly, a soft layer of art and craft and creativity within.

Often seen as a cowboy town and a cultural backwater, (where even my 3year old nephew mimics the rodeo riders – I’m buckin! I’m buckin!)  Rockhampton holds its serious creativity deep inside, for fear of mockery, fear of ridicule, and delights in a secret celebration of passion and drive.

I’m sitting in the quiet semi-darkness, waiting for my writing class to begin. On the second floor, around the corner, past the Creative Embroiderers and diagonally opposite the Spinners and Woven Fabric Artists, is where you’ll find me.

A giant red circle is speared with long purple arrows pointing to the centre of the building; a disused and re-energised warehouse, at the far end of East Street.

In my Writers Room, there are photos of this building on fire (1912), a photograph of the building in flood (1918) and a photograph of the magnificent building in it’s heyday (1919) with 2 bicycles, two small boys and a horse and buggy passively looking to the camera.

In my Writers Room, the colour of the walls matches exactly the colour of the coffee mugs.

Deep jacaranda purple.

I wonder which came first, the mug, or the walls?

“Here, this is the colour”, and the newly purchased mug is held up and turned this way and that.

Memoir Class

So I am about to learn how write Memoir. Just in case someone might find my life interesting.

The workshop will be held by Patti Miller, over 2 days, and fits in perfectly with schedule of seeing my mother.

I am in Rockhampton, home of the Fitzroy River and the many boats that tickle its belly as it glides to the sea 35 kilometres away.

Yesterday I came to see the Walter Reid Centre, to visualise where the class would be held. It’s not for me to arse-about endless rooms and become lost in the labyrinth of arts and craft related activities; I like to know where I’ll be. It’s the Capricorn in me; the practical girl who dwells within.

Walking upstairs to the first level, I follow a man and his wife. He is the writer, and she leads him into the large empty room. They have travelled from Mackay to be here. He carries his life typed in single spaced white sheets of paper, held together by an old bulldog clip.

Every now and then as his large fingers flick through the pages (all 120 pages of them) the clip releases, sending his life-story in a shower of heavy confetti, to the floor.

A circle of 10 chairs is formed, posse-like, and we’ll sit here, this bunch of strangers, and wait for the injuns to attack.

Patti Miller is busy, head down, reviewing her notes. She’s a small, well-built woman with firm thighs and toned arms. She wears a classic Little Black Dress, sleeveless, with gorgeous leather suede shoes. A tan remains, and freckles are barely hidden on her face. Her hair is thick and brown, with hints of auburn in it, and as she speaks, her voice is clipped, articulate, and intelligent. You can see the university lecturer in her. Her face has no laugh lines. This worries me greatly, but it’s not her style to laugh at life, it’s her job to analyse it, and write it down.

She is not a frivolous woman.

We sit in a circle in pairs of five, neatly pinched into couples, in order to share a book.

And so we begin.

***

At lunch break, I amble the empty wide corridor and peek into the hobbies of Rockhampton. Model Train Modelling. Lapidary Club. Rockhampton Quilters. Rockhampton Photographers Club, and so on.

A large Dance Studio adjacent to our Writers Centre offers Belly Dancing. The room has curtains and full length mirrors, and I can see ‘pops’ on the floor. As I leave, a young man, a gay man, spins in lazy circles in the Dancing Room. He is dressed in army fatigues pants and huge work boots, with a purple singlet top. Alone, with the afternoon sun streaming weakly through grimy windows, he spins. Twirl, twirl, twirl. He stretches his arms and lets his fingers uncurl. He really is dancing like no one is watching.

***

Driving home, I choose the long way, along the Fitzroy, past the clubs and pubs and trendy restaurants, past the trees with their parrot virus germs, past the muddy rocks jutting out along the river bank. I commit to lying on my childhood bed, with a pillow over my head. I might just cry.

Seeing mum laying on her bed, I tiptoe in, and sit on the side. Bending over, we embrace, and I lie in her arms, as she smooths my hair. I cry there, instead, listening to my mother’s heart.  She tells me things, stuff of whispers and comfort, and I rejoice in the love of my mother's words. 

I am home. I am safe.

***

To be continued....