letter #16
we're all making our own sense of things
Before I begin, just a note to say I'm talking quite a bit about the fires and if you don't feel up for that, please delete the email ... I send you my love xx
It's hard to know what to say, isn't it? As we filter back to work, as we see people we haven't seen since before Christmas, it's hard to know where to begin. Happy new year? South Australia is a small state--does anyone not know someone whose life has been changed forever by these last few months? And of course, you don't need direct experience to be affected, to feel grief, shock, anger, fear...and while some are living with immediate changes to their lives, surely none of us is the same? Besides the many different soft emotions I feel over the course of a day, I'm flipping between two extremes: fear that we have reached the environmental tipping point, that we can't be saved; hope that we have reached the political tipping point, that surely now the big structural changes we need--the planet needs--will come to pass.
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You have probably already seen it, but if not, this piece by Jackie French is powerful, and I've read it a few times to remind myself about not giving in and not giving up. A few people I've known since the days of blogging have written about their experiences in New South Wales, one on her facebook page and one on her website.
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I was awake most of Thursday night, watching as the Kangaroo Island fires escalated and people evacuated to Kingscote. I cried for most of the hour between 2 and 3, and this was the kind of crying I did when my grief for my dad was at its most raw. How strange to be fifty years old and still thinking that if only your dad was here, he could fix things. Many years ago, I wrote on my blog about how strange it is to be so attached to Kangaroo Island and yet so distant from it.
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On Friday morning, I get out of bed. I need to loosen my muscles and joints and gather my focus. I am leading a memorial service in a few hours, and I want them to know they have my full emotional and physical attention. I feel the pull of the beach and think a walk along The Esplanade will soothe me. I open the front door, and the cool change softens my skin. This is the kind of weather I love the most, the relief after a heatwave. Grey skies, humid air, the promise of rain. My body thinks--automatically--'what a beautiful day,' but my mind reminds it of the truth of things.
On The Esplanade at this time of the morning, people walk or run, alone or in pairs.
The tide is high, right up to the rocks. Three dogs gallop through the waves and behind them a woman wading behind, calling, 'Come! Stop! Stay!' The dogs keep running.
At the bench where I sometimes sit to pass the time, a woman is doing something like sun salutations, breathing the energy in and out, gathering it in with gentle circles of her arms and sending it out again. Ordinarily I would inwardly roll my eyes and think, 'How ridiculous.' But today I think the planet needs more of this and less of my cynicism and I think, 'Thank you, stranger.'
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To make a practical contribution, I made a new appointment to donate blood, and ordered some seeds from Trees for Life. To help in the places where I can't be or am not needed, I donate money. To channel my anger I went to the rally on Friday afternoon. To gather hope I go to the facebook page with the Kangaroo Island dunnarts. To remind them I'm here and I won't be quiet, I write to my local MP and my state's senators (and I tell my children to write too). To process my thoughts and my feelings I write.
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To paraphrase Gough Whitlam: maintain your rage and your optimism
Be kind, but never quiet
Wherever you are, I send you every love
Tracy xx