Joy will come

This arrived as an email subject heading today in my inbox and I figure it’s as good a statement on the nature of life as any other. Later on I spoke on the phone with the sender of the email and we talked about life, death, love, loss and laughter. We did some philosophizing on life and while not particularly highbrow or complex, we came up with the fact that sometimes life is shit, but it’s about making sure we’re walking through the shit together. I think this is really the crux of the idea for me today, that it’s important we walk side by side and that we hold close the idea that at some point, joy will come.

I’ve just finished Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly and while I normally shy away from people who have a background in social work (too much navel gazing for me normally), I’ve become a total fan girl of Brown. If you haven’t heard of her you can check her out in this TED talk http://www.ted.com/talks/brene_brown_on_vulnerability.html

On my desk at work I have a post-it from Schulte that reads ‘one has to stand in one’s vulnerability in order for it to become a strength’. This has been a concept that I’ve drawn on in my career as an educator and something I talk to pre-service teachers about too, particularly when we have crunchy moments in our practice or in our relationships with students, teachers and colleagues.

One of the key things I like about Brown’s work though is the idea that while vulnerability can be challenging, uncomfortable and difficult it is also the birthplace of joy, life and learning. Vulnerability means being open to the shit times, not running away from them, or running away from our friends and families who are having them, but being there, by their side as they go through the shit. My friend ended our conversation by saying ‘thanks for walking through the shit with me’. 

And this is what matters.

So while we wait for her shit times to pass, we’re looking at finding joy in the everyday simplicity of life. The way the sun streams down through the clouds, the refraction of light and the muting of colours as day turns to dusk. The moment as Ethan Hawke says in Reality Bites, when a ‘laugh becomes a cackle’. The sound of birds outside as night turns to day. The laughter of a small child. The sound of an old friend’s voice on the phone. The smell of freshly baked bread and the crunch of the crust as you bite into it. The warm embrace of a loved one. The sound of a song you haven’t heard for ages on the stereo. Getting dragged through the grass near the creek as the dog wags her tail in excitement. All these and more are the simple moments of joy. 

So my friend, as always, is right, shit as her time may be right now, joy will come.

None of us can leave here today unchanged

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A mourner, holding herself upright, stands and speaks passionately with love about the husband she is here to farewell. In doing so, she honours his life, their love and his memory. Soon, she leads a procession of walkers, following the hearse as it moves out of the churchyard. I look at her walking behind the grey hearse while sun streams down and tears catch in my throat, the beginning of a loud, uncontrolled keening that I swallow.  In the church hall, she hugs others, and as is typical of her, inquires if they are okay, laughs at their memories and wipes tears away when old friends envelop her in a hug. At the cemetery, they say ‘The Irish bury their dead and today we are here to bury our dead’ and she picks up a shovel and is the first to begin. Like a working bee for death, others join in, a mother, sisters, friends, they all take a turn and what at first seemed heartbreakingly grim becomes a tribute to the dead, with the living doing their duty and saying goodbye.

When finished, the priest says ‘None of us can leave here today unchanged.’

In my minds eye these moments are like stills from a distant and foreign time when people grieved differently.  There were moments when this day was tough, moments when it was uncomfortable, moments when there was a loud and open lamentation for both life and death. I’m fascinated by grief, fascinated by the way that we in contemporary society think we can outrun it, can outsource it, can outplay the reality that with life comes loss, and with loss comes grief.

In the funeral booklet it reads ‘To love someone is to risk the pain of parting. Not to love is never to have lived. The grief which we now experience is the honouring of that love’.  The words resonate deep within me. In the days that have passed since our friend died, I’ve wondered about life, love and loss. I’ve wanted to run at the sea and scream into the roar of the ocean at the unfair nature of life, at my friend finding herself a widow at 39, with a small, beautiful child by her side. I’ve felt flashes of pain as I think of never being able to again enjoy the witty humour, passionate mind and beautiful voice of our dear friend MK. In the church, the words from the booklet thrum through my brain and I begin to realize that today, hard as it is, is the honouring of the love we feel for MK.

There is no escape from the grief that I feel for him, for Carla, for Ailish. There is however, a charting of his journey, of the way that he touched all of our lives and the way he will continue to do so. In writing of my memories of MK, I wrote that I always walked away from him, feeling better about the world. In celebrating his life, I see that this feeling was not unique, and was in fact a quality that every single one of the people spilling out of the church knew, recognized and loved about him. In leaving his funeral today, he has made me feel better about the world and instilled in me a desire to be a better person, to make the choice to speak well of people rather than to waste words with meanness.

I like to think of grief as an ocean, a sea that surrounds us. We cannot live without it, yet there are times we do not wish to swim out into its depths. There are times when it is calm and still, we see it around us, but its waves do not touch our shores. Other times, grief, batters us, rolling down wave after wave until we feel swamped and wonder if we will be able to stay afloat. In time, the sea stills, the waves break into gentle ripples, the sky clears and it seems as if all is well once more.

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Today, over a week and half later the sun is again streaming down and I’m heading off to vote. I’m thinking of MK as I do this, knowing how passionately he felt about politics and knowing that he would want each of us to make our vote count today. So today, when we use our voices to vote, when we think of the kind of world we want to live in, I’m thinking that I want it to be a world in which people treat each other with kindness and gentleness.

The ripples touch the shore and hope lies within them.

For Ailish - remembering MK.

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Ailish, I'm crafting this with you in mind, taking you on a trip through my memories, stitching pieces of my story into the life of you, your mum and your dad.

This story begins with your mum, Carla, this tale cannot be told without her. The story cannot be spun without her at the centre, a girl with one of the biggest and best smiles I've seen. She has one of those smiles that as they say, 'lights up a room' and a heart to match. I met her on my very first day at university when I moved into a share house with her. A motley mix of personalities and backgrounds thrust together by circumstance, we all became friends. While time and distance mean that some of us have become lost to each other, Carla and I remain friends to this day.

I can't remember the moment I met your dad, Michael. As I write this today I wish I could. I can remember seeing him play live in the statue pavilion at the Ballarat Botanic Gardens; I can remember him playing in a room with ruby red walls somewhere else in town. Some of these memories are like flashes, fragmented snippets where all I can really recall is his beautiful voice. My favourite of all of his song lyrics has always been 'life needs only a whisper, and the soul can sing and dance, given half a chance' and the singing in my soul seemed to happen whenever I spent time with Carla and Michael or MK as we often called him. 

In time Carla became blended with Michael. I wouldn’t say one's name without the other and, again, I can't remember the moment at which this occurred, there was just the realisation that something had shifted and these two were going to journey through life together. I think about how good it was that the universe had brought together two of the best people I had met. For when I think of both your mum and your dad - that is what I think of - good people. People who cared about those around them, who are thoughtful and kind and generous. People who never muttered bad words unnecessarily. Whenever I spent time with Carla and MK I walked away feeling better about the world and to be able to generate that feeling in someone is a rare and special gift.

I remember emailing MK as a beginning teacher in the late 90s and getting a fax in response where he described himself as a Luddite, not ready to move into the digital age. It was full of witty humour and I stuck it in my teacher's chronicle as it made me laugh. Today I'm wondering if I still have that chronicle, is it tucked away somewhere safe? I smile as I recall a memory of this self-confessed Luddite years later becoming excited when Rohan introduced him to the delights of 'Deal Extreme', where he could pick up guitar strings online for a bargain. Unlike many others, MK wouldn't become an Internet pirate and download movies or TV shows, worried that if he did men in black suits would come knocking at the door.

My favourite memories of MK are of the long lunches that we shared with him & Carla, particularly in Castlemaine. Days spent talking about life, politics, books, music, sci-fi TV, and travel. Days spent eating and then going for languid walks around shops. I’ll always remember the invite for the barn raising at the Castlemaine house where Carla and MK appeared as Amish homeowners. I'll always remember the day he first introduced us to the delights of the 'Restorer's Barn'. I'll always laugh when I see an old Soda Stream ad and hear the slogan 'get busy with the fizzy' and the way your dad loved this. I’ll remember the day we drove to the fruit trees at the bottom of the hill near your house and MK assessed the fruit, working out when it might be ready for pilfering in order to make jam. I’m sure jam made of stolen fruit would taste so much sweeter. In the cupboard I’ve got a recipe for bread written in MK’s handwriting and when I make that bread, I’ll think of him. I'll smile thinking of the time we all brainstormed a new genre of writing called 'corn' and most of all I’ll smile when I remember the way he gave compliments freely and often. I remember his wicked sense of humour, his passion for ideas, for music and his love for Carla.  

And then,

there is you.

You are the next chapter in this story.

When I think of you Ailish, I'm remembering MKs lyric 'hope found a home in the face of a child'. I remember the day I heard Carla & MK were going to be parents and it seemed no time and you were here. You won't remember the coffee shops in Castlemaine where you slept soundly while we all talked, but there you were, a new character in the portrait of all our lives. And in your parents there was painted a fierce, proud love for you.

Today I listened to 'Digging for Soul' and realised what a gift I'd been given in having the chance to know the gentle soul who crafted these beautiful lyrics. I’m happy that my friend Carla got to share so many special moments in her life with him, and grateful that Rohan and I got to share part of their story.

Things of Stonehenge and Bath

Rohan and I consider ourselves to be a certain kind of traveller, which basically means we don't like seeing the conventional stuff and we hate organised tours, preferring to stay in a place and gradually getting to know it by coming to live in it for a couple of days, coming to terms with its rhythms and cadences. Today we broke with tradition and headed off for a coach trip to Stonehenge and Bath.  The problem with these kinds of trips is that they involve other people, and generally, I hate other people. Particularly other people who are strangers. That's like a perfect storm. Nevertheless we headed off full of optimism for the chaos that is Victoria Coach Station at about 8.30 in the morning when busses are coming and going, spewing tourists in and out as they go.

Claiming the upstairs seats at the front of the double decker bus, we discovered that we would be seeing London through the eyes of our Scottish bus driver and our Irish tour guide. The bus rolled out and the cheesy jokes began. Canned laughter filled the bus, and I was conscious that the cheesy jokes made me cringe, how would I survive the day? Luckily I'd selected the 'independent traveller' option which basically meant we were being ferried to our destination, with little need to wander around as a whole group. Our arrival at Stonehenge saw us disembarking and grabbing our audio head sets to discover what we know about the great mysteries of the stones. In the queue tempers were already getting fiery as American tourists asked some other Australians if they'd been to Uluru, when they said no, the Americans replied incredulously 'What? You haven't been?' By this stage the Australian was getting surly, like a crocodile poked with a stick, and he snapped back 'Have you been everywhere in your country? No? No, I bet you haven't'. Two hours in and international relations are getting frosty. As we moved through the entrance gate, the staff told the Americans they needed to hold up their entrance ticket, as they rummaged for it, they said 'the thing we were just given?'. Why yes, the ticket you were just given would be your entrance ticket, amazing as that may be. See? People -they are generally idiots.

The answer about what we know abut Stonehenge turned out to be: Not much. Perhaps if the audio guide had claimed to know more about the 'secrets of Stonehenge' I may have been tempted to buy the book in the gift shop, but there is a flaw in their advertising when they tell you there is so much they don't know, and then advise you to stop in at the gift shop to buy a book about what they know. I have this theory it's like a Seinfeld book, a book about 'nothing at all'. I did enjoy seeing the stones and imagining stories of what may have transpired in this place. Still, tick it off the list, we came, we saw, we listened to the audio headset all the way through. Mark that down as an achievement for it would not happen again on this tour. Back on the bus and there was a distinct scent of alcohol when our tour guide floated past. Surely an Irishman wouldn't be drinking before midday? As long as the bus driver wasn't we should be okay, although the fact that I saw him eating an enormous hot dog for breakfast before we left doesn't bode well for his cardio vascular system. That combined with his sedentary profession, did leave me in some fear that he may end up slumped over the wheel at some stage during our trip.

Next stop was Bath. I'd done a straw poll and everyone had agreed that Bath  was worth seeing and as the bus rolled into town through windy streets the view was quite magical. It was when we got off the bus that the trouble began. Our tour guide was getting us to follow him to the Roman baths, and pouff, up popped an umbrella for us to follow. Oh hang on a minute buddy, I think you had one too many whiskies back at the Stonehenge stop. I don't do this kind of tour. I am definitely not a following an umbrella kind of girl. Still we persevered, if only to get our entrance token ( note American travellers, it's a token not a ticket this time round. Confusing I know, but hopefully you'll work it out). Downstairs to the Roman Bath and there was a man dressed as a Roman in a toga.
Case closed.
The cheese factor has been exceeded for today.
Disappointed with the fact that imagination was not required I gave up on the tour and the audio guide and left. I want my own imagination to take me to the past, to scenes of Romans in gaudy, gilt outfits frolicking and enjoying the healing delights of the water. Don't give me an out of work actor who once appeared on Britain's Got Talent clad in a cheap costume. Damn you Bath -make me work for my history.

We wandered to the Abby, with it's gravity defying arches and intricate stained glass windows. Here was a moment for uninterrupted stillness. Unlike the cathedrals in Brussels there were no gypsies hawking their survey scams within the walls of the church. I came over all biblical in Brussels, ranting about temples and tax payers and whatever other remnants of the parable remained in my brain. Here there was just the stone arches, the ladder of the angels outside, oh and the gift shop in the cloister. Well I guess even the church has to make a living and I offered up some of my cash - stay tuned for your commemorative spoon mum.

Next stop was some ye olde buildings. And then some more ye olde buildings. Then we went into a traditional Cornish pasty shop. The girl asked what we wanted and I said I wanted a traditional miner's pasty, Cornish at one end and apple at the other. 'Oh I don't know why we don't make those', she said, 'that's what they traditionally were you know'. Yes, I do know. That's why I came into your not so aptly named 'traditional Cornish pasty' shop. Back to the Sovereign Hill bakery for me when I get home I guess.

After that incident, henceforth to be known as the  great Bath pasty disappointment, I decided we needed a drink and so we headed to a terrace for a glass of red in the summer sunshine. At the table beside us some British tourists were trying to decide what to eat. It was like they'd been hidden under the Medieval Ruins for the last few hundred years as they asked the waitress what the numbers next to the meals represented. 'That's the price', she replied. She gave them some more time to think and to ponder on this new phenomenon of printing the price next to the item on a menu. 'It's so much easier at McDonalds where I understand what everything is', one of them commented. This alone is definitive proof of why the empire crumbled. After sitting there for another 15 minutes they decided reading the menu in their own language was far too confusing and they headed off somewhere else. Presumably it was too McDonalds. (If you think I'm making this up, then let me reassure you, I couldn't imagine someone so stupid, but thankfully nature delivers us some gems every now and then).

4pm rolled round and Rohan and I were some of the first in line to get on the bus - there was no way I was going to be stuck in Bath with a whole heap of tourists (yes, I am aware I am a tourist). So now I sit here on the bus heading back to the metropolis of London. It's true that Bath is a beautiful looking place and that perhaps history echoes under the buildings and the footpaths. The problem is that going there in July it's hard to hear the whispers of the past through the crass commercialism of the present.





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Suspension

I'm zooming through France on a train and I feel completely relaxed. Real life seems miles away and I said to Rohan that I don't want to go home, he asked why and I thought for a while before responding that its because there are some parts of being on holiday that I adore, he asked if it is the being away from work part. He may have a point.

But here in this train, with green countryside and petit villages whizzing past my window, time seems suspended. Everything else is in a distant fog of memories past and an unfolding future, a cette moment,  there is just this. The sound of the train clicking over the tracks, the movement sideways as we lurch and the whispered voices of people discussing the progress of the Wimbledon final. Real life is just a scratchy, intangible constant that I cannot quite grasp.

I've been here for just over a week and yet it seems like a lifetime. Was it only last Saturday that we caught the tube to St. Pancras and then the Eurostar to Brussels?  Here in Belgium life is a melange, a mix of culture, language and political viewpoints. An invisible line divides the country into French and Dutch speaking parts and in both I feel like a lazy tourist as so many people default to speaking English when they realise you are not Belgian. In this country I've been shown so much kindness, and experienced moments where I thought the universe was trying to bring me together with strangers by bumping me into them in the most unlikely of places.

So to the travelogue, stop reading now if you are already bored, dear reader.  We navigated our way to the right platform for Liege-Guillmans upon arrival in Bruxelles-Midi (or Zuid depending on your language). Not realising that the trains had a 1 and a 2 for premiere and deuxieme (1st and 2nd) we jumped into the nearest carriage. Luckily  the conductor seemed to have no idea what our Eurostar any Belgian station tickets were (a groovy ticket where you can use your Eurostar ticket for the 24 hours before/ after your train to go anywhere else in the country), and so we were allowed to stay in first class while other people got kicked back to second class....ah the luxury of that on intercity trains is not to be snubbed at (particularly as holiday season starts and 2nd class is filled to bursting with families, suitcases and gypsies imported from France to scam unsuspecting travellers). I had a minor panic when the signs started saying the train was going to split in half and thanks to SueSherwood, my year 12French teacher, I was confident I was in the right section. This of all things should prove that I am suitably qualified to teach year 7 French. Well that and the fact that I used perfect French to extract baby photos of Joanne from her mum who speaks no English - I will remember those Carnivale pics forever!
Before our last stop the peacefulness of first class was invaded by a group of scouts and their leaders. Unlike Joanne's dad, whose scout name was Koala, due to his resemblance to the animal, these leaders had names like 'cheeseburger' and 'bimbo'.

At the space age station of Liege, Joanne was waiting for us. It's so lovely to be able to arrive in a foreign country and see a friendly and familiar face waiting for you at the station. She took us out that night to a traditional Belgian bistro, where Rohan was brave enough to try the traditional meatball with liegonais sauce which is made from a sticky, heavy paste of apple and pear. Of course there were frites and beer, with Rohan beginning his quest to taste as many Belgian beers as possible. I'm less adventurous in my beer drinking and was taking every opportunity to drink Kriek - a cherry flavoured beer that is my favourite. At home it is stupidly expensive, but here in Belgium you can buy it in the supermarket for a dollar next to the soft drink. Cue my lunch for the next week of baguette and beer. While beer, baguette, waffles, frites and chocolate doesn't sound like the most nutritious of diets Rohan managed to lose 3.5 kilos while in Belgium (and not just from his wallet getting lighter) - perhaps there is a market for a new, crazy diet in this. The Belgian Beer Regime anyone?

Sunday morning Joanne drove us to Carlsbourg in the south of Belgium, where Geert has a country house. Geert examined my PhD thesis and so I nearly fainted when he emailed and asked me to be part of a panel talking about emotions at the conference. He'd also invited the other members of the panel to come to his countryhouse to see some of the south and to do some work before the conference commenced. He told me it was about drive and that while old his country house had been renovated and had 7 bedrooms we could sleep in. In what seemed like the state of Belgian hospitality and kindness, Joanne drove us down, despite the fact that it was a 3 hr return trip for her. As we ventured further and further into the greeness of Les Ardennes, Joanne asked me how well I knew Geert. Hmmm, not that well I suddenly thought, conscious of the fact that I was about to spend the weekend with a man I'd met for one minute two years ago in Portugal,and a whole lot of academics I'd only heard of through reading their work. Joanne filled me with confidence when she said, 'is he going to chop you into pieces and kill you, there's nothing out here?' When we arrived at the house though, there was a convivial atmosphere and after having coffee from the magic pudding coffee pot (never empty it just seemed to magically refill all day), she seemed happy to leave us with Geert and confident that we wouldn't end up diced and filleted. Sunday was like a blur as Geert took us to Bouillon to see a castle built in the Middle Ages. As we sat drinking a Kriek not far from the entrance, I mused on the motley combination of academics sitting here, I couldn't quite believe that I was here and part of this.

We kept driving and then left the car and hiked down through the trees (no murder involved and funnily enough, no work either) to a tiny chalet on the banks of the river. This was the house of Carol and Lyn, our hosts for the evening. An old cafe, they now run a pizza and beer night once a year for friends to empty out their beer kegs. Tonight was the night, and as you can imagine Rohan was pretty happy about that! So with a table of ingredients before us and the wood fired pizza ready we each made our own dinner and chose a beer to go with it. Carol cellars beer past its use by date, he and Geert have a theory that it goes bad, and then, if you wait a bit longer, it gets good again. I'm not convinced of their theory but Rohan was happy to give it a try. The Belgian sun was streaming down late into the night, and over and over again I was catching myself in moments of  happiness, as language, academic, and social boundaries between us all dissolved.

Early the next morning Rohan and I woke up and went walking while the rest of the house was still and sleeping. We strolled  from one village to the next, watching people begin their days and the sun start to inch across the sky. With Geert's rail card and instructions in my pocket, Rachel another Austrslian, Rohan and I set off for Ghent. After Wendy had become lost on the Belgian train network earlier in the weekend, Geert was like a protective dad making sure we got where we needed to. I loved the antiquated nature of the rail card, a paper card with 10 journeys, into which Geert inked our destinations with his felt-tip black pen.Two and a half hours later, I had inadvertently ignored Geert's instructions but had managed to get us where we needed to go. Geert had told us to get off at Brussels-Nord where we would wait 30 mins for our connecting train. With the Eurostar firmly in my head, I got us off at Brussels-Midi, and had a minor meltdown until I discovered there was a train leaving for Gent in 1 minute. Take that 30 minute wait! I had navigated the system without the 'lost traveller' ticket Wendy had received. I love this notion too, being given a special ticket for those who get lost on their journey so that they don't have to pay any extra. I've got an image of Paddington Bear at the station with a lost traveller ticket stuck on his back. I wonder if there is a life equivalent, a pass for those who lose their way so that they don't have to pay too high a price for losing their way on the journey.

At Ghent we wandered out into the sunshine and collided with Rachel's friend Monica from the US at the map of town. This would not be the only time, Monica and I would meet in the streets! A week later after the conference, Rohan, Joanne and I were walking the streets of Brussels, a thriving, busy city filled with 1.19 million residents and tourists. We rounded a bend in a quirky little corner of the city filled with antique shops when I ran straight into Monica who was spending two days in Brussels at the end of the conference. In a city  thriving with people, our paths crossed again and we hugged and talked about the fact that she hopes to come to Australia soon while on sabbatical. Belgium was full of these quirky coincidences, we jumped on a train to Brussels and ran into another academic from Australia, jumped on a different train to Liege and ran into a PhD student I'd met at the conference as well - sometimes our world seems small rather than large and lonely. Moments like this remind me that we are not easily lost from those around us, and that the connections we make with others form ever expanding concentric circles, like ripples in a pond.

Our days in Ghent were spent wandering through the streets with Darren Hanlon lyrics in my head as a soundtrack 'down cobblestone streets throughout the town'. Ghent has an impressive history, and from 1000 -1550 it was a central  European city, 2nd in size to Paris. According to my travel guide from the city, as one of the largest industrial cities Ghent became one of the birthplaces of the socialist movement and of trade unions. There are buildings from throughout history still intact in Ghent from the beautiful St. Bavo's cathedral, to the Belfry where a dragon has been watching over the city since 1380, to the castle of Gerald the devil (what a great name!), to the great butcher's hall where meat was sold in the Middle Ages, and the castle of the counts, everywhere you step in Ghent you are awash in history. In one street you are cast back to the Middle Ages, to another you can almost sense soldiers marching through during the war. Then, you return to the present where the streets are lined with terrace cafes and both locals and tourists drinking aperitifs and tasting beers, each with its own special glass. Although summer and peak season the streets are not ridiculously crowded, most tourists by-pass Ghent, seeing it only as a passing station on their way to the much more crowded and popular Bruges. In continuing my anti-tourist tradition, we did not take the 30 minute train to Bruges, preferring instead to wander our way down as many little lanes of Ghent as possible, finding treasures in tiny shops and snapping photos from St. Michael's bridge as the canal glittered in the glow of the lights at night.

All of which makes it sound as if I did very little work while in Ghent. As I had self-funded my trip I felt I could take a 'fluid' approach to my conference attendance. I went to the opening afternoon of sessions, hearing about the challenges facing those of us working in teacher education, and catching up with Amanda who I work with who was also at the conference. Weds morning I 'took' the morning off and did some more exploring before heading to work, to see Rach's session. She was presenting in the same session as Monica and I was in nerdy excitement when I realised Monica was presenting about third space theory as this part of the conceptual framework I have used for my work this year. Rohan met us at the end of the session and we went back to the elaborate cocktail bar at Amanda's hotel for an aperitif before heading across the road to at Le Duc. The food was great but clearly something was lost in translation as the English translation of one of the dishes said it contained 'dragon' - the mother of dragons Danerys would not be happy with that. I decided not to take my chances with the dragon and settled for scampi instead.

Thursday was my session, a discussion room and I wasn't sure if many people would turn up. Due to Geert's reputation our room was full and there was lively discussion as I defended and discussed  my choice of methodology with an academic from Poland. She was sceptical at first but by the end asked me to send her some work, and suggested we try and find a way to work together and for me to go to a conference in Poland next year. We'll see, as this 'let's work together' is a bit like of the academic equivalent of 'I'll call you'. That officially marked the end of my conference (I had already decided to ditch Friday) and so I promptly turned my brain off, before to started to deconstruct and analyse everything that was said in the session.  Even if nothing else comes of the conference, I was glad to have had this opportunity and to work in a discussion room style presentation. A highlight for me was meeting Rach and discovering someone who has a similar approach to our work as academics.  In one keynote, the speaker had talked about the need for each of us to know who we are in our work. This thrummed through my brain, and now three days later in London, I find myself caught in the continual reconstruction of my identity as a teacher, teacher educator and academic.

The real work done, my holiday begins and we head back to Liege to Joanne. In the next instalment we will taste frites in a cone, drink at the Maison du Peket and  walk every inch of Bruxelles in the Joanne walking tour.....


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The slippery slope

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Today I had to fight the urge to meet with an old love. As Rohan’s car pulled out of the driveway the thought flickered across my mind, ‘I could go now’. I looked outside, the sky was grey, a light drizzle of rain fell, I had an hour or so to spare before work, enough time. I told myself that Rohan didn’t need to know, that no-one needed to know. This could just be my little secret.

I stopped myself, wondering what the hell I was thinking. You might be wondering the same. What is this desire to hook up with an old flame?  I know it will only end one way. It’s a slippery slope and it leads to disaster.

I think the slippery slope began last Monday.

I woke up, rivers of irritation and adrenalin flitting under my skin. I jumped on the bike and pedaled, hard and fast until beads of sweat rolled down into my eyes. 45 minutes later, I stepped off, my heart beating faster but the itch still needed scratching.  I walked into the kitchen, sneakers still on and announced, ‘I’m going for a run’. Rohan looked at me -no words - just a look that said ‘do you not remember last November?’

Ah yes, November. Maybe that’s when the slippery slope began. The fateful month when I sat in a surgeon’s office in Hawthorn, an office normally filled with AFL players. Instead it was me and I was shown the images of bruising running all the way up my bones, the lack of cushioning in my knee and the inevitable signs leading to replacement surgery. This was the last in my list of surgeons, a recommended knee surgeon, a specialist for people like me. When I asked him about running, he told me my running days were over, possibly my bike days too - pointing once again at the MRI showing the bruising on my bones, he tapped home his point with his pen. The bruising extended high up despite the fact that I hadn’t run for 4 months and was still recovering from an arthroscope. ‘Find something else,’ he said.

Find something else.

Instead, I found myself in the kitchen on Monday, 7 months later, arguing my case. ‘I’ll just go for a short run. Just 2ks. Just to the bridge and back. I just need to run off this stress. Once I go, the itch will be scratched. It will be fine. One last time’.

Rohan looked at me like I was a maniac. I became defiant. ‘I’m going anyway, so don’t tell me not to. I’m not asking for permission. I’m just letting you know where I’m going’. He looked resigned, handed me his crappy, old phone and I zipped it into the pocket of my leggings and took off.

Out on the footpath, the air was crisp and cold and my feet tapped lightly on the concrete. I crossed onto the grass down by the creek. The path was quiet and still. Me, my thoughts, and the track before me. My knees didn’t feel creaky. There was no noise from them, none of that crepitus that sounds like a rusty gate scraping over concrete. My breath fell into a familiar pattern. Thoughts flicked in and out of my brain. The lyrics of The Cruel Sea thrummed like a mantra in my head, ‘my heart is a muscle and it pumps blood like a big old black steam train, my veins are the tracks and the city is my brain’. Here in this moment, I had a surge of pure happiness.

All too soon, I had reached the bridge, the halfway mark, it was time to turn back. Is this it? Are we done so quickly? I headed back and into the house. I handed Rohan his phone and he exchanged it for ice packs which I strapped onto my knees with a pair of old stockings. Ice, elevate. Ice, elevate. Ice, elevate. That night, I rubbed arthritis cream into my knees and hid the fact that when I walked my knees felt stiff and clunky.

Easy. The itch was scratched.

Until this morning.

This morning, the itch was back. I contemplated running, and not just going for a run, but taking it up again. Just a sneaky run, once a week. No more, no less. I don’t need to tell anyone. What kind of damage can one short run a week do? If I don’t tell anyone, no-one will know. Surely with just one run, the bruising won’t get too bad? There’s no cartilage in my knees anyway, so it’s not like I can damage it any further? Just one little run each week. No big deal. The desire intensified as I read a newspaper column written by someone I went to school with. Brigid is writing of her foray into running and I’m seething with jealousy. Here she is, on the verge of the infatuation, about to fall headlong in love with it. Oh, those halcyon days when you strap on your shoes, head out the door and all is possible. I remember them. I want to feel them again.

See the slippery slope? Like an abandoned lover who just wants to go back for one last night of passion, I yearn for another run.

 I can justify it in a million different ways. Reason has left the building. The person in the surgeon’s office looking at that fateful MRI seems like someone else.

The problem is that it won’t just be one run. I had one run on Monday and look at me now - jittery, jangled, wanting more. Hooked on the endorphins that running blasts through my system, I won’t be able to satisfy myself with just one run a week. So I try and talk myself out of it. I try and talk myself into swimming. It’s cold and wet and miserable in Ballarat and the thought of pulling on bathers makes me nauseous. I think of heading to the Pilates studio, but the thought of it makes me more frustrated and I’m not seeking the stillness it provides. I’m seeking something that makes my heart pound until I am breathless.

I jump on the bike again and pedal hard until my knees ache.

Meanwhile, the itch lurks beneath the surface. Is it only a matter of time until I scratch it again?