Parents Part 3: Dedication

I was three-and-a-half-years-old and my mum picked me up for a weekend visit. My dad had dropped me off somewhere near the centre of Melbourne, where Mum worked, and we got on an almost empty bus. There were maybe two people on the whole bus: one of them a tall, dark figure with a black winter coat, black gloves and a black brief case. It’s common knowledge that villains dress in black, right?

I remember thinking, there are so many empty seats, we won’t have to sit next to him… and yet – incomprehensibly – Mum headed determinedly towards the black-gloved man. I tugged on her skirt hoping to enlighten her to the fact that there were many other seats available, but she didn’t stop! She sat down next to him and started chatting!

It wasn’t long before I realised that Mum knew the black-gloved man (maybe it’s my Australianness, but the gloves really made an impact on my impressionable young mind. Now that I have lived in Europe, I realise how few people wear gloves in Australia; I mean for the cold, and not just for fashion. Let’s face it, our winters often crack out days of 15-19 degrees: T-shirt weather in England).

Anyway, Black Gloves eventually started hanging out with us more and more. I soon learned that he did have other colours in his wardrobe, and that he wasn’t as villainous as I initially thought. Sure, he won me over cheaply with a pink possum (which I still have) that said “For Some Special” on its stomach, but I eventually liked him for reasons less superficial than that.

When I was five, my mum married Black Gloves and added an irreplaceable person to my life. We’ve known each other for 27 years now, and I have always been able to count on him for support, advice, comfort, hugs and anything else I might need. He is always looking out for me and I know for sure that if I am ever in trouble, or need the slightest bit of help, I can always rely on him. I’m 30-years-old now, and I have come to realise how rare it is to have someone that you can sincerely say that about.

Gavin (Black Gloves) is, without a doubt, the most dedicated and generous person I know. He is dedicated to his family, dedicated to his job, dedicated to God and to helping others. It’s from this constant willingness to give of himself that he has taught me to be reliable and to live generously.

I know you’re reading this blog, Black Gloves, and even for that bit of support, I’m grateful daily. I love you from a very special place in my heart! Thanks for always being in my corner  xxx

From the Archives...

I just found this bit of poetry that I wrote around the same time I started this blog back in 2010. It's strange to think about how I've changed and grown as a person since then. I've seen and experienced a lot over the past three years... I think my general outrage over the state of society has mellowed into a quiet rejection of the things that I feel belittle, contradict or ignore the intrinsic value of individuals, and  which contribute to the attrition of society's ability to ask hard questions of itself, admit its own distractedness and give precedence to interpersonal relationships over superficial ideas of success. Anyway, here it is:

X

Written by Tania Plunkett, 21/03/2010

They prescribed the medication

For my clandestine generation

Pop art pills

And sour milk spills

The property placebo

To subjugate our wills

If you work more, you’ll have more

More stuff than you could care for

So discard the word ‘why’

‘Cause there’s no adequate reply

Just fill up your schedules

And you can rest when you die

And yet there’s an underground

Who see just what went down

The disenchanted minority

With a non-fiscal priority

Searching for each other

Among the plastic majority

Has our moment passed by?

Or is it still worth a try?

Can we untwist the truth

That was wrapped round our youth

Or have we been hanging too long

From this propaganda noose?

Pick-Up Non-Artists

The “Priest”

It was only my second or third day in Europe and I was at a Metro station in Rome, waiting for the train. I saw a middle-aged African man in a priest’s get-up who looked lost and disorientated. I, assuming he may speak English, asked him if he needed a hand. He told me he was trying to get to the Colosseum so I replied that I was headed to that stop as well and could show him where to get off. It all seemed harmless enough and I was happy to help someone out. THEN! We got on the train and he started to ask questions about where I was staying. I said it was a B&B with a shared bathroom etc. So he asks me, “Can I follow you there and see what it’s like?”

           “No,” I said, proud of my correct reflex answer (my usual tendency is to be obliging). 

            “Why not?”

           “Because I don’t know you,” I said. The tone of his voice and the way he was looking at me was starting to freak me out.

            “Oh. Can I have your email address or your telephone number in case I want to ask you something later?”

            “No.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I don’t know you.”

            “Oh are you sure?”

            “Yeah I’m sure. Oh look, here’s the stop you want!” With that I jumped out of the train and ran up the stairs. I knew I was a lot fitter than him and would lose him but I walked home looking behind me the whole way. Ughh… It was a good experience to have early on because it made me much more wary when travelling on my own.

The Gladiator

I’ve mentioned the Gladiator before, but he deserved to be remembered in this post. Around the same time as the Priest – in Rome 2010 – I was staying at a B&B near the Colosseum and consequently had to walk past it every time I took the Metro. As I crossed the open area in front of the entrance to the Colosseum a Roman “gladiator”, who in that moment had no tourists to pose with, threw me this classic line (in a thick Italian accent) that I still chuckle about: “Hey darling you’re so sexy. What’s your name, Paradise?” Do you think he’s actually ever picked anyone up with that one?

The Hands-on Professor

There was a certain – married – middle-aged professor where I was contracted to teach some high schoolers. He couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He stared at me everywhere but in the eye and paid me repetitious compliments. I tried to be polite but when I finished working with that class and he asked for my number I couldn’t resist calling him on his crap. “Why do you want my number?” I said innocently but straightforwardly. “Oh, uh, you know, in case there’s some problem here and I need to contact you.” I assured him that the teacher taking over from me would be more than capable of handling any issues and if not, he could contact my boss! *Creep*

The B&B Sock Saviour

To cut a long story short… I left my socks at a B&B in Verona where I stayed with my sister before finding an apartment here. We moved onto the next city and the young Spanish guy from the B&B wrote to me to inform me of my loss. I told him I was on my way to Le Cinque Terre and would have to relinquish the socks. He wrote to me three times trying to convince me that I needed them. He even went to the trouble of detailing all the possible solutions for reclaiming them – every option depended upon me seeing him again, of course… Needless to say, I bought new socks!

The Ambos

It was 8am and I was walking across Ponte della Vittoria in Verona, next to the stop-start peak-hour traffic. The footpath and the car lanes are quite intimate on this bridge so you can almost hear the drivers cursing the traffic lights or singing along to tacky love-songs. I walked past the bumper-to-bumper cars in a purposeful yet distracted way. In my dream-like mental state, I heard someone say, “Buongiorno!” (Good Morning!) over some kind of loud speaker. I wondered what it was all about so I looked up and saw two ambulance officers smiling at me with all the self-satisfaction of two young guys who had just used the truck’s megaphone to get my attention! Only in Italy! All three of us had a little giggle and then went on our merry way.

The Little Grandpa on a Bike

The prize goes to my personal favourite… a sweet, little old man in his 70’s who was riding down the same street that I was walking down. He was going so slowly that I overtook him despite having no wheels. When I got near him, he had already pretty much ground to a halt. He saw me passing by, and said something I didn’t hear properly. I thought I’d better check seeing as he was elderly and might need a hand. I asked him to please repeat what he had said. He stopped fiddling with his bike and with both hands made a gesture of perfection, “Sei bellissima,” (you’re very beautiful). He had nothing else to say… He collected his bike and tottered off at the same break-neck speed as before. He made my day :)

There are several more stories I could share here, but this post is already too long and there’s only so much we can all take of these smooth operators! Maybe there’ll be a Part 2 some time! 

Where I Live

I just got back from a weekend in Rome where I celebrated my 30^th birthday with some very special friends. It was the best birthday of my life simply because I was laughing, eating, walking and chatting with people that I love dearly. They flew to Rome from London to be with me, knowing that I had just moved to a new city and may not have had anyone to really celebrate with! Aren’t they wonderful? I was also able to catch up with some local Italian friends ‘a cui voglio tanto bene’ :) It was fantastic!

I departed from Termini Station this morning, Verona-bound. As I stepped onto the train, my heart pumped out a strange and wonderful sensation that coursed through my arteries and gave me that tingly feeling in the guts that makes you smile. I can only describe it as a mixture of satisfaction, excitement and relief in one deep-seated hit.  It was something I recognised but had not experienced for a very long time… I felt like I was going home.

I’ve been travelling for two-and-a-half years now and during all that time, I have not stayed put anywhere longer than six months. I have lived in places for two, three, four months and then moved to another job, another flat, another city. However, as I got on that train to head back to Verona, I felt like I finally had a place to call home. A place where I could unpack my winter AND summer wardrobe because I’d be staying for more than one season; a place where I could put books on the shelves and own more than one suitcase-full of stuff.

Verona is gorgeous. It is an ancient city that has been dominated and developed by a myriad of people. You’ll see ruins and constructions still standing from the Roman to Austrian Empires. 

Every day I cross over the river at Ponte della Vittoria, and even if I have been wondering what on Earth I’m doing in Italy, I glance over to Castelvecchio on my right and the dome of San Giorgio in Braida on my left, and I know that I’ve made the right decision. It’s just so beautiful! Then in the evenings I walk along the Adige River listening to him rush by the soft yellow lights of San Zeno and I sigh contentedly… I live here.  

Farewell London

After a year-and-a-half of uninspired living in London, I have moved to Verona, Italy. There are many great things about Britain, but the constant grey and depressing weather eventually took their toll on me. The brown-brick buildings; the ever-insufficient footpaths replete with fast-moving pedestrians; the black stuff on your tissue when you blow your nose on the tube; the cold; the rain; the wind that renders your umbrella useless; and a lifestyle overflowing with all the things I would prefer to keep in my ‘seldom practiced’ basket (winter clothes in “summer”, the ever-present potato and thick-sliced bacon, and being the only sober person at the party, for example) finally turned me into a veritable malcontent. God bless you England, but I needed to get out!

I have to bring balance to the above by stating that I did love the parks, the politeness, the existence of the queue (Italy is yet to understand this concept), the Southbank, and mostly the free museums and galleries. When someone asked me what I would miss about London, I said, “My friends, and the National Gallery!” Some amazing pieces are there, and I could go and see them free of charge, as many times as I wanted. If I was meeting someone at Trafalgar Square, I’d often wander in for ten minutes to have a peek at my favourites… The Tailor by Moroni, The Boulevard Montmartre at Night by Pissarro, and everything by Canaletto!

In July I finished up my job as an Occupational Therapist at a swish private hospital in Harley Street and kissed my career and London goodbye. I went home to Melbourne for six weeks where there was more sun and blue sky (in winter) than I’d seen all summer in England! It was so refreshing to be home in the city that I still love the most.

I went to all my favourite coffee houses and laneways, visited my old regular haunts and walked along our Southbank. It doesn’t have the iconic landmarks that London’s Southbank is littered with, but it’s a really wonderful area of Melbourne. As I walked along the Yarra River, soaking in all the things I love about my hometown – every familiar building and every new development that I had never seen before – it was like someone had pulled out the defibrillator and stunned my heart back into action. I gazed down the river towards Flinders Street Station, inhaled deeply, emotionally, emphatically, and realised... I could breathe again.

The Story of the Leaves

Somebody told me I should put some of my poetry on this thing so I picked my shortest one, just to test it out ;)

THE STORY OF THE LEAVES

Green leaf, turning yellow

Do you have any last words to say?

I suppose even if you did

The wind would carry them away

Your beauty promises barrenness

And your brightness impending doom

Do you despise the blossoms – pink and white

That in your place will bloom?

Brown leaf, breathing shallow

I’ll not cry over your demise

Though transience is moving

The pain we shared has made me wise

Explanation

This poem is about change and the transition. The green leaf turning yellow represents the approach of a new season. The outgoing season may wish to persist in speaking into your life without recognising that it is about to speak it’s last. However, the winds of change will carry even its last words as the new thing sweeps in.

Although the vibrant colours of the autumn leaves are beautiful, they “promise” the barrenness of winter, which is to follow. Autumn is a transitory season and the stark contrast between the season preceding it and the one succeeding it, creates a sense of loss and barrenness, not unlike winter itself. Even if the preceding season was unpleasant, change still brings with it a sense of loss and apprehension about the unknown.

The autumn leaves are just as beautiful as the blossoms, “pink and white,” but the difference is that the blossoms promise new life while the leaves are the symptom of an end. I wonder if the leaves are satisfied with their purpose or whether they envy their counterpart. I wonder if I am satisfied with their part, and can appreciate the function of both, or whether I despise certain season of my life even though they are necessary.

The brown leaf obviously represents the end of a season, which again conjures feelings of loss and the unfamiliarity associated with change. Though I may want to “cry” over the closure of one season of my life, the pain of that season and the lessons I have learned from the very process of transition has taught me that change is a necessary and natural part of life. 

Parents Part 2: Compassion

As explained in an earlier blog, I've decided to jot down a few things I've learned from my folks that have influenced the way I think and live. I'm doing this partly because I'm an uber-reflective person and partly because, well, maybe I shouldn't be the only one who knows this stuff about them. Besides, parents don't get much encouragement and yet, it seems to me that being one is the hardest job in the world. This one's for mum.

My mum was the tallest in her class at the end of primary school... and then... she stopped growing. Now my twelve-year-old sister uses her as an armrest - just as I have for many years. She also informed me the other day that she is shrinking! Though she may be a small package, my mum manages to keep a very big heart crammed inside of her. When I think of her and what she has taught me more than anyone else, I would have to say that it is compassion... not just the kind that feels sorry for someone, but the kind that rolls up its sleeves and seeks to bring relief.

Ever since I was little, I noticed that Mum seemed to have a self-administered job description of visiting elderly relations (and even neighbours), cooking for or delivering groceries to sick family and friends, and losing sleep at night over the struggles of other people. Throughout my childhood years this all gave me the impression that it was normal to seek out and take care of the sick, marginalised and burdened people in one's circle. It wasn't until I was a little older that I realised, it wasn't normal at all... my mum was in fact... very special.

Now as an adult I have had hours and hours of conversations with Mum, listening to her sorrow over the ailing elderly people in our family and wishing she could do more. I don't know anyone who gives as much time to visiting and caring for older people, and she has done it ever since I can remember. As I look back on my own life, in light of the person she is, I see her influence in the choices I have made.

I'm an Occupational Therapist who has specialised in working with the elderly. When I talk about my job with others my age a lot of them say things like, "Wow, that must be really depressing" or "I don't think I could do that job, I would get too emotionally involved." Whether it was people close to her, or people she only saw once a year, Mum has always had boundless respect and compassion for the older people in her life. She takes her chances and dives in where others are afraid to get too affected. Working in the field myself, and seeing all the difficulties of ageing on a daily basis, that is something I really admire about her (at least I get paid to do it!)

Mum has taught me to put myself out for others, give practical help when needed, appreciate and respect people who have walked the Earth longer than you and don't let discouragement diminish the compassion you first felt in your heart towards somebody.

Thanks Mum, you're a really good one :)