Category Archives: Love and Other Bruises
Yesterday I went to a funeral. A friend’s mother. She was 88, frail, with dementia. It’s a bitter pill we have to swallow, aging, but, as the cliché goes, it’s better than the alternative – although perhaps less so towards the end. As is the way now, there was a slide show of her life. She was gorgeous – model gorgeous and very fond of dancing – when Sydney still had dance halls. So hard to pay tribute to a life in half an hour. My own mother died at 85, frail, with dementia. She was gorgeous – model gorgeous – with a gap between her front teeth like Lauren Hutton. When she died I would fall asleep clutching her wedding ring and when my father died three years later, I had his wedding ring fused with hers so I have something visible to hold the invisible.
Most eulogies are a timeline of someone’s life – facts, figures – the skeleton of our years here. It was a torment deciding what to write about my mother because those final words circle the universe forever and I didn’t want to talk about the skeleton, I wanted to talk about the flesh and bones. So, once more for you mum because love never ends.
” The danger in writing a eulogy, especially for someone like mum who had such a long life and whom you so love, is that you feel you need to cover everything in their lives to somehow “do them justice” and it can’t be done – not even if you had hours to say what is supposed to be said in these 5 or 10 minutes so I thought to myself, how would I respond if a stranger asked me to describe my mother and only gave me one sentence in which to do it”.
And the amazing thing is, I didn’t even hesitate. I would simply say, “She was a good woman”. At face value, you might think it a rather old-fashioned, almost mediocre description but sometimes it is the small, common words that we use all the time – and not always with much thought – that carry the most meaning.
So, here are some definitions from the dictionary for that one seemingly simple word and when you hear them, you will appreciate why it is such a fitting tribute to my mum:
Of high or superior quality Worthy of respect, honourable, admirable
Attractive Competent, skilled
Reliable Genuine, true
Pleasant, agreeable Of moral excellence, upright
Loyal, sympathetic Dependable
Warm-hearted, considerate Kind, gentle, gracious
Now before I make her sound too saintly, I must say, she did have a temper but children tend to bring that out in you. I know this will come as a shock to some of you but I have been known to be a little stubborn and headstrong and for a few years of my life, I thought my name had been changed to “asina”. For those of you without the benefit of Italian, it means “donkey” or “mule”.
My husband’s favourite memory of my mother is her rather brutally honest observation to him before we got married: “Daniela’s wonderful as long as she gets her own way and when she doesn’t, she turns into a viper”. I guess she thought that forewarned was forearmed.
She laughed, loudly and often. She had a dry, wicked sense of humour. She sang as she did the housework. She hated cooking. She loved my father faithfully and unwaveringly for over 52 years and had that love returned. She was, the most amazing mother, and in her honour, I would like to read a poem entitled, “A Mother’s Love”
A mother’s love determines how We love ourselves and others.
There is no sky we’ll ever see Not lit by that first love.
Stripped of love, the universe Would drive us mad with pain;
But we are born into a world That greets our cries with joy.
How much I owe you for the kiss That told me who I was!
The greatest gift–a love of life– Lay laughing in your eyes.
Because of you my world still has The soft grace of your smile;
And every wind of fortune bears The scent of your caress. ”
One day, someone will be talking like this about our lives – make sure you give them a wealth of material to work with.
As we hurtle headlong towards St Valentine’s Day – named after the Patron Saint of florists and Hallmark cards – I was struck by a particular radio ad urging men to spend vast amounts of money on something (obviously not a very effective ad) because “flowers are boring and poetry is lame“. Poetry is lame? Hello? Are you kidding me? A young ‘suitor’ wrote me a poem in Year 12 and I still have it tucked away. It didn’t do him any good but that didn’t mean I wasn’t impressed with the gesture! Writing to and about the person you love has been a romantic staple from time immemorial and given a choice between a poem written especially for me or a stuffed teddy bear embroidered with “Be My Valentine” or a dinner shared with dozens of other couples staring soulfully into each other’s eyes, I know which I would choose. His dedication began, “You are a new colour in my rainbow, a different shade of me I have never seen before.” A little schmaltzy, maybe but lame – never. (Unless it’s along the lines of “Roses are red, Violets are blue, Nobody loves you like I do”, in which case it had better be accompanied by some serious jewellery….) And obviously I am not alone in my thinking. Just out of interest, I googled “poetry sites” and was rewarded with 67,300,000 results.
Anyway, after hearing the ad, it occurred to me that over the past couple of weeks, poetry and its various incarnations had been bobbing up and down in my line of vision as if to say, “Talk about me! Talk about me!”. So, to honour its persistence, I will.
Its push for attention started when I recently found an old exercise book of mine from 1972 when I was all of 14. Not only was it full of my own brilliant, adolescent poetic creations (Please visit my last post at) but also those of ‘real’ poets. Obviously my teenage hormones had commandeered my brain as most of them, predictably, involved love and longing except for one notable exception by the wonderful Dorothy Parker which showed the take-over hadn’t been complete. I don’t know if it would be considered ‘proper’ poetry but it must have tickled my fancy at the time as it still does:
By the time you say you’re his, Shivering and sighing
And he vows his passion is Infinite, undying –
Lady, make a note of this, One of you is lying.
When I visited the sites of bloggers who had liked “Back to the Future”, I was surprised and delighted, in equal parts, to find poetry very much alive and kicking in the blogosphere which shouldn’t really have been a surprise as poetry has been around since those party animals, the Babylonians, when the Epic of Gilgamesh was written in about 2000BC. For some of us, our only contact with poetry would have been in High School or University and having breathed a sigh of relief when those were over, moved on without so much as a backward glance. For others, it becomes a life-long companion. Whilst easy to technically define, its attraction is less so but one of the best attempts I can offer is, “Poetry is like taking a blindfold off and starting a new world.” Indeed — whether it be creating your own or immersing yourself in someone else’s.
I’m sure a great many of you have seen “Four Weddings and a Funeral”. It caused a frenzy, not over Hugh Grant (as if) but W.H. Auden, whose poem “Funeral Blues” was read during the eulogy. Read it and weep. From the first , the sorrowful imagery of each line compounds that of the one before until, in the span of four short stanzas, you are left with a world decimated by grief. And its impact never diminishes, no matter how many times you read it. http://allpoetry.com/Funeral-Blues
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
Then I heard that Rod McKuen had died. Poet, author, song-writer, he was a staple of my adolescence and his words took up most of the pages in that exercise book. His poems were about love, nature and spirituality. Some would label him a little “mass market” but his poems were uncomplicated and accessible but I imagine these are the very reasons he had such great appeal.
Love I wear
As open as a wound,
a mad mistake I know
but love, like Lent
only comes to those of us
who still believe.
On top of all this, my son is doing his poetry module in English so you can see how the universe was prodding me in a particular direction! And for those of you still not convinced of poetry’s value, I give you this. And Happy Valentine’s day. I hope you get a poem.
Well, as one alcoholic said to the other, “It’s been a long time between drinks.” Since my last post in August, I’ve had lots of ideas and done absolutely nothing about them so I thought I had better redeem myself and get scribbling … so before I get to the point of the whole exercise, a little background information.
I was a bit of a smart chicky-babe at school and earned a scholarship to University with a view to becoming a teacher but after completing my Bachelor’s Degree, I just couldn’t do it. The thought of another year of lectures, study, research and assignments made me ill whereas the thought of travelling the world did not. Serious money needed raising because although I have always been quite happy to go camping and poop in the woods, the idea of schlepping all the way to Europe with my own bed sheet and having to share a hostel room with assorted party animals and snorers was not quite the dream trip I had in mind. So, after three years of tertiary education at one of the State’s finest universities, I put my degree to good use and went off to learn how to be a secretary – or PA (Personal Assistant) if one wants to be PC (politically correct) – which nobody was back then. A little over nine months later I could take shorthand at 120 words a minute (how useful would THAT have been during lectures…) and type…umm…very fast! And that, my dear readers, is how I ended up at Grace Bros and the reunion that sparked this post because not only was it my first job, it was where I fell truly, madly, deeply, deliriously, fiercely in love for the first time.
To protect the not-so-innocent and for the sake of this post, let’s just call him Max. If someone had asked me to describe the complete opposite of what I found physically attractive about a man, he would have been it – shortish, baldish and pretty ‘meh’ in the looks department but he would walk into my office and I would flush hot like a Bunsen burner turned too high. He was a Manager and I worked for his boss so we kept the relationship a secret until one of us left. People were dumbfounded when they found out. Hilarious really, considering we ‘worked back’ almost every night and the occasional Saturday morning so the chances of being caught not actually working, on my boss’s sofa, were reasonably high but it never happened. The secrecy drove me mad but I had to acknowledge the position he was in and his concern that telling our workmates might put our interactions under a scrutiny that neither of us would have welcomed. And my God – all the hedging and evading when people asked what you did over the weekend! “Ohh, you know, movies, seeing friends, usual stuff.” I had ‘vague’ down to an art form. Our subterfuge was so seamless, even when we both requested leave at the same time (to go to Queensland for Expo 88), no-one suspected anything. Honestly, I should have quite the secretarial scene then and there and become a spy. I would have put Mata Hari in the shade.
I’m ashamed to admit that I cannot remember the first time my husband told me he loved me (although I’m fairly certain it would have been over the phone as we were conducting a ‘geographically undesirable’ relationship between Australia and America when the ideas for Skype and FaceTime were, as my late Italian father would so colourfully explain, “ancora nelle palle di San Francesco”…. which delightfully translates to “still up in the balls of St Francis”.) but the scene of Max’s declaration is still as clear as the glorious Sydney summer day on which it was made. We had been lying by the pool at his mother’s apartment. I was earning a little extra pocket-money by waitressing at a friend’s restaurant so needed to leave late afternoon to get home to shower and change. With the car in reverse, driver’s window down, he said goodbye with the usual “Drive carefully.” followed by the not-usual, “I love you”. To my credit, I did not lose control of the car or squeal or ask him to repeat himself and I have absolutely no recollection of how I responded but I can tell you my heart just about burst and we were heart-stoppingly happy. Three years later it was over and not because the relationship faltered or we stopped loving each other – but that is a post for another time.
That was 25 years ago. Now, schedules permitting, we catch up at the annual Grace Bros reunion which is where I saw him last Friday night and it absolutely astounds me, as it has each time we have seen each other, how I can look into his eyes, listen to his voice…. and thank the gods of every nation on earth that we didn’t stay together. I believe it’s described in the vernacular as having “dodged a bullet”. And it’s not that he has changed – it’s just that now I see how incredibly unsuited we were for any long-term commitment. The things that drove me a little crazy when we were dating would have driven me completely demented over the long haul. Characteristics I glossed over when we were living apart would have turned into major obstacles when we were living together. Had we married, I seriously doubt it would have lasted. It does freak me out a little though to feel so dispassionate about this man that I loved so wholeheartedly, so intensely. How can you feel absolutely nothing but a little residual fondness for the person who was your first great, all-consuming love? Truth be told, part of me is a little sad that our encounters don’t have even the teensiest hint of the Mills and Boon about them – no catch of breath, no short, sharp pang of the heart. Not only are there no embers, the fire has been well and truly stomped on and covered over with several thousand kilos of earth.
Just goes to show that Soren Kierkegaard knew what he was talking about when he said “Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.”