Is there anybody out there?

I didn’t choke when I took my tablets this morning. (The one with turmeric in it is particularly chunky, but it helps my arthritis.) If I did choke no-one would find me until Nev came home from work. No-one handy to help.

It’s the feeling of isolation that bothers me the most. Not that I mind my own company – don’t get me wrong. I’m actually enjoying having a bit of time without the complexities of human interaction. But I’m feeling kind of invisible. If I choked would any-one notice? The world would go on.

Here I am, rattling on as if some-one’s listening.

Since no-one is, I can say what’s really bothering me - I’m depressed.

I’m not a celebrity, so it’s not glamourous. It mostly consists of trying not to think about the release of death while my fruitless job-search continues, along with the grieving for the bittersweet job I can no longer do, as I struggle to train the dog, and I try to stay positive, and I focus on the task, and I meditate and try to be mindful.

I’m on the upswing again – I couldn’t write this, otherwise. And I pause to feel for the people who can’t even get out of bed in the morning. At least I can always do that. Somewhere along the way I have learned that, no matter what, you just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other and do what has to be done. Perhaps it was my children, needy babies, who taught me that.

With them it wasn’t enough to just feed and change nappies. I had to try to act the calm I didn’t always feel. It’s a handy trick.

“Hello. How are you?”

“Good thanks.” (No. I’m not good. I’m fucking awful. I’ve got no job and I can’t go back to the old one and everything in my life is wrong and painful because I‘m having trouble breaking the current loop of self-loathing.) “Could I have three lamb chops, please?”

I understand why people so often fail to pick suicides. You learn to keep your disease to yourself. It makes people uncomfortable. And what can they do anyway? If I had a broken leg people could see the cast and be a bit kind to help me out.

Would'e?

Spud's been dead for three years now and I've finally had the courage to bring another dog into our home.

After animal shelters and on-line rescue organisations, I went to look at a young dog my daughter found in the on-line "classifieds". I could see that he needed training; I could see that he had some issues; but when he melted on my feet and looked up at me with his amber eyes I couldn't say no.

I'm not fussed about the name he had - Woody - but he had so much to learn. Asking him to learn a new name as well at seven months old seemed a bit much. So I renamed him Would'e.

Would'e eat your slippers? Probably.
Would'e try to eat your dinner off the bench? Most likely.
Would'e be adorable? Definitely.

He's a red kelpie of indeterminate breeding. In other words, a beautiful brown dog with yellow eyes. He's full of beans and a bit insecure, but he improves every day. He can sit, and stay (most of the time) and has almost learned to walk properly on the lead. He can even heel without a lead in certain circumstances. He is struggling with coming when he's called, but getting better at it all the time.

And he's bringing some extra sunshine into my days. With the kids all living independently now (more or less), the house has often seemed empty. And as I struggle to re-invent my life after leaving teaching, Would'e is good company. I'm not just rattling around in the house by myself. He's also an excellent personal trainer, needing at least two decent walks a day.

I don't love him like Spud - not yet. But in his calm moments I glimpse a mature dog of sense and nobility. I'm looking forward to getting there with him.

Happy Birthday to Me!

I turn fifty-seven tomorrow. If I'm lucky my daughter won't have to work and will take me to lunch. Nev is buying dinner and then going to a local poetry night with me. My life is so privileged in an unjust world.

Instead of wallowing in my guilt at my good fortune, I will share with you the poem that I wrote, intending to read it during the "open mike" section.

The Inter-Galactic Greenie

 

I wanted to write a poem

A grand poem to be read in public.

It would be as rhythmic as a ballad by Banjo

And as moving as a passage from Eliot

(But less obscure)

And it would make you smile.

But I’m not a fancy poet

Just a mediocre story-teller.

 

I found some perfect lines

While I was putting out the compost

But the dog tripped me up.

I didn’t spill the smelly vegies

Just lost my words.

I had a story I wanted to tell,

Of an alien who came

To try and save the planet

From environmental disaster.

His arrival would be quiet, but spectacular,

And he would look like an intergalactic frog

In a weird, black suit,

With a voice that chirped.

 

I tried to make it rhyme –

I was aiming for a ballad –

There were words I wanted the alien

To pronounce emphatically:

“I have looked into your future

And it’s hot and harsh and dead;

If you don’t change the way you live

There’s no life on Earth ahead.”

 

But, as always, it just sounded like doggerel to me;

And I didn’t think any-one would find it particularly persuasive,

Especially as I couldn’t find a way

To say what I really wanted.

Like my alien I didn’t “want to give offense

Despite people being so very dense”

And my ragged words can not capture

The burning prophet in my soul . . .

 

You see, when I turn around to face

The mammoth in the room,

The environmental time bomb

To which we all contribute,

I can’t seem to communicate the sense of panic that I feel

The certainty that we are killing ourselves

And my words shrivel up

And die.

 

Words are no good any more;

It’s action that the world needs,

Change on a global scale,

But people just keep throwing their hands in the air

Saying, “What can I do?”

We no longer believe in people power –

We ignore the bleak future – the inevitable payback for our
Investment in our comfortable lives.

So, the world will miss the irony of my final stanza

When the alien admits that he’s a galactic greenie
Come to save the human race,
A seriously endangered species,
From its greatest threat – itself.
And I wonder if there is any-one else
Out there shouting into the void
Who has words to reach the deaf.
 
Is there any-one out there . . .
Who can convince us to save ourselves?

 

Blowing in the wind

Change is terrifying me.

I have spent so many years caught between the blackboard and the sullen desks that their absence feels like guilt. I have replaced the certainty of my daily dose of abuse with the anxiety of seeking work at a time when jobs are prizes pursued by crowds. At times I despair - I will never find gainful employment.

But I persist. And I wonder how many of our current environmental crises could be solved if people were willing to tackle change. Is the process simply too scary? I know I'm ready to give up my process of change.

However, I also know that there is no going back. "That way madness lies". For good or ill I have changed my course. I will persist.

Has our earth reached the point at which there is no going back? Will we even know when we reach, or pass, our tipping point?

I am afraid!

NASA has confirmed that 2014 was the hottest year since temperatures began being recorded in the 1800s. Nine of the ten hottest years have been in the last 20 years. Am I the only person who finds this terrifying?

The anxious fear in my gut is gnawing. What kind of future do my children face? What will happen when global warming starts to affect our lives : crop failures, worsening economies, shortages, land being swallowed by the ocean?

Millions of people marched for free speech in Paris. What are we doing to save the world we may have doomed with our own actions?

We have to stop. Take a breather. Give the world a chance.

Governments need to help our way of life become more sustainable.

Companies need to change any practises that are damaging our environment.

Individuals need to reduce consumption - tread lightly on our home.

Of course it won't be easy! We have been encouraged to believe that we should have everything we want - those of us who are privileged to live in countries where it is possible and expectations are high. And those who live in places where life is more tenuous are just trying to survive. If we are going to save the world we must work together - help each other.

Imagine. A better world.

Except that pragmatists and cynics say it will never happen.

And it won't if we don't try. I will keep believing it possible and trying to spread that belief.

The alternative to trying? Accepting that our future is one of widespread misery. Crop failures and extreme weather events will make third world countries where societies now prosper. Science fiction often paints a bleak future because our scientists have spent so much effort trying to warn us of the dangers to our environment in the path we have chosen. And there is other human behaviour that makes disaster a credible prediction.

We know the human race can be self-destructive. Do we have to take the whole planet with us?

Ningaloo

Our long service leave has brought us to Ningaloo Reef. As I float in nature’s aquarium, awed by the display of fish, multi-coloured in the water below me, I am reminded of how important the ocean is.

We continue to exploit its resources, even though fish stocks are running low, pollution is increasing and below me I see the damaged coral that has resulted from our beaches being loved to death.

Our oceans are our main source of oxygen as well as an important source of food and are central in the regulation of our climate. If they die, we die.

I have swum with a whale shark. Will future generations have that privilege?

Compassion

Despite being on Long Service Leave, remote from phone reception and hearing only occasional snatches of ABC radio when we are driving close enough to towns, we have not been able to avoid hearing about many of the tragedies that are currently unfolding around the globe.

While the senseless aggression in (insert the region of your choice) is appalling, what has me angry at the moment is the words of our current treasurer. Costello says the poor don’t drive, therefore the tax changes won’t affect them so much. He neglects to consider how the price of the petrol needed to maintain a job is actually a greater proportion of their income than for a better paid person. In fact he continues to show a complete lack of understanding about what it means to live on a small and limited income, enjoying his expensive cigar every day.

The Liberal ideology (for international readers, the Liberals in Australia are a conservative party, not a liberal party – tells you something about the way they operate, doesn’t it?) says that people will rise to their natural level – in other words, if you’re poor it’s your fault. But it’s wrong. Advantage gained from higher social standing accrues with the generations. Poverty entrenches itself.

I have gained a “middle” level in society, the first in my family to attend university (thanks to the Whitlam years), but I have dealt with generational poverty professionally. Behaviours learned from your environment can be hard to shift, even if they aren’t helping. And the reasoning is not always bad. “Family comes first” is a reason for much truancy among disadvantaged kids. After all, someone has to support a parent, or take care of siblings while the parent is drunk or mad (a harsh word, but reality is often a harsh struggle).

I do not believe Costello has ever had to consider whether he will be able to keep his family fed. To “make ends meet” people will often do whatever it takes, even if that is something society condemns.

Yes, we all may possibly rise in the world. But it’s so much easier when you’re already half way there. I would prefer to live in a country where the prevailing ideology is one of compassion. Where I am happy to pay my taxes because I know they will be spent helping people in need rather than subsidising wealthy mining corporations.

Meanwhile, back on the road trip . . . I was chatting with a Canadian couple on the Escarpment Walk off the Victoria Highway between Katherine and Kununurra. They commented that Canada does not have so many wild places to walk – it’s all tamed. I replied that it was only because the farmers couldn’t use the land. A rather cynical response, but one with a grain of truth. The places that have stayed wild and become national parks are generally in rough or infertile areas that are not very useful for farmers.

As I travel my country I can’t help but wonder what the arid plains looked like before they were fenced and overrun with cattle and cane toads.