She hoped to write a book one day

Plus, a posy of thoughts

Photo by Avrielle Suleiman on Unsplash

Dear Creative Soul,

My Oma loved to read and write poetry. Books were her passion and, at her funeral in 1997, one of my aunts shared memories of her mother ‘asleep in bed late at night, glasses perched on her nose, book almost falling from her hand’. I don’t remember seeing this, but I do remember her collection of Readers Digest condensed books, with nondescript brown covers, gold lettering and (to me) treasures within. I remember visiting every fortnight, plucking a volume off the shelf and tucking away into a corner of her spare room to read after a lunch of crispy roast chicken with gravy and her famous potato and bean salads. I remember in my teenage years she sometimes gently chided me for reading a “little too much” instead of playing with my younger cousins or talking with the adults. What I don’t remember are the stories of her early life for, as was common to many German migrants including my maternal grandparents, she never spoke to us about the days before.

My Oma hoped one day to write a book, but never did. I think we talked about this once or twice, but I don’t remember for sure. I do remember that she encouraged me to be a writer, to tell stories. Sadly, she didn’t live to see my dream come true. After she died, I wrote a fictional story about a conversation with her for a university assignment - I still have that paper in my drawer. Maybe I’ll revisit it one day.

My Oma loved cornflowers - they were one of the few things she let slip about her life in Germany, before the war - that and sitting in a rowboat on the river, and walking in meadows. I have a vintage bone china trio tea set with a cornflower pattern; it wasn’t hers but I think of her when I drink from it.

Oma, circa 1970s.

I would love to talk about books and writing with Oma again. If I close my eyes, I can imagine us sitting side by side on her old couch all those years ago - she is sitting on a pile of clothes to “iron” them, an ashtray in front of her, a coffee cup. The TV is on in the corner; a scruffy little terrier jumps against the screen door. The house smells of food and cigarette smoke. It feels like love.

Tomorrow morning I am flying four thousand kilometres to visit my dad, her son. And even though these days he finds talking and breathing and walking and living hard, I will feel love.

Have a wonderful week and enjoy my posy of memories below.

Saturday

I slice a plump pomegranate in half, then another, and another, until I have reserved enough juice to make a syrup, enough seeds for an infusion. A pot simmers on the stove: pomegranate juice, cinnamon sticks, sugar, star anise, sliced dried oranges and the zest of a fresh orange. Later, I add the seeds and a big bottle of gin before decanting the mix into clean glass jars; in a couple of weeks, when the weather turns, I will sip a glass of pomegranate spiced gin from a glass that once belonged to my grandmother.

We are cooking a Vietnamese curry - the air is heavy with the scent of bruised lemongrass, thickly sliced ginger, garlic and shallots; we hum with Angus and Julia Stone as the curry simmers, and wonder if we will ever do another ballroom dancing class.

We take ourselves off for an evening walk. The wind is picking up - the forecast is for stormy weather, but we are certain it will be all bluster and no rain. We are right.

I learn a new word: polysyndeton, which involves the repeated use of conjunctions (such as “and,” “or,” or “but”) to create a sense of emphasis and rhythm and continuity in a sentence or passage. I realise I have been using this technique in my writing without knowing it had a name.

We are watching One Day; my husband finds the characters frustrating, especially Leo. I have read the book and know what will happen, but I urge him to stay with the story. The slow burn lasts the longest, I tell him, and we both know I’m no longer talking about Leo and Emma.

Sunday

Unusual levels of humidity have sapped the energy from our limbs; outside the air is heavy, stagnant, muggy. We want to move, but the outside air is too oppressive; we feel trapped, like we’re wasting the day. Later I look up the word muggy - it is thought to have origins in the old Norse words mugen or mugga, meaning drizzle or mist.

We are cooking together ahead of a family gathering; Greek meatballs with mint, panko-crumbed chicken for sushi, chocolate brownies with mulberries from a friend and shards of crisp organic chocolate. The house smells of contentment.

I hang black-and-white photos from our trip to Germany on a wall in my new creative space, then sip freshly brewed Moroccan Mint tea I bought from TWG Tea in Singapore. My screensaver shows Eibsee with snow-covered mountains reflected in glassy water, and I think about the privilege of having freedom to travel.

A glut of red capsicums comes from the Circle of Giving. A splash of extra virgin olive oil, a liberal sprinkling of sea salt, then they roast for thirty minutes in the oven. I puree the roasted flesh, add a scoop to a fiery tomato sauce simmering on the stove, then freeze the rest for a pasta dish I plan to make with a friend next week.

Monday

It is so windy at the beach that I have to tilt my head to hear my husband, and eventually we walk the walk of a couple that doesn’t need to talk to enjoy each other’s company.

A friendly pup barrels towards us; her trusting personality reminds me of Rosie, one of three pets we have buried in our garden; our slightly batty Rosie, rescued from a shelter, barely more than a pup herself when she was dumped in a rural area by her owner, and I wonder anew what kind of person does that.

It is my mum’s 70th birthday and I want to celebrate with her, but I am on the other side of the continent. In less than ten days, we will see each other for the first time in fifteen months. Later, A’s extended family visits - his mum, dad, sisters - and, not for the first time, I wish I could shrink my extended family closer.

A feast: sushi, roasted vegetable tapas, falafel, dolmades, olives, cheese, meatballs, assorted sandwiches, mini quiches. The air smells like food and sounds like conversation. After the feast, dessert - brownies with extra chocolate and mulberries, soft amaretti that are so popular some of us split them in half. I stack the dishwasher, marvelling at how much this family values every person in the room, and I’m flooded with warmth and gratitude that I can call this family mine.

We talk of travel, leaf through the photo books I compiled before the memories faded. My brother-in-law as no patience for overseas travel anymore; we tell him our patience is yet to run out, but with the current cost of living, our money might. And then we look at our twenty-something kids, who dream of travel but may never have their own home.

My husband is talking to me from the other end of the house and all I can hear is a murmur; later I do the same to him. Later, over coffee, we laugh at ourselves and the lesson that we cannot seem to learn.

Tuesday

I call my dad. We talk for five minutes, that is all, because he has a coughing fit and and is gasping for breath. When he hangs up, choking out “I love you”, I want to cry. I can’t remember the last time we had a proper conversation, but I am glad to still hear his voice.

After a long weekend, I am juggling meetings and emails, meetings that could have been emails, questions and answers, and questions without answers. And I yearn.

Late afternoon - I need to expend energy, so I take my hula hoop and dance while listening to pumped-up tracks on Spotify. When I’m finished, the cat is still in the same place as earlier, asleep.

My eyes linger on a small blue and white pottery vase, typical of the Alsace region. I picked it up at a flea market in Strasbourg for ten euros; I close my eyes and I can almost smell the damp air and history, I can almost see the half-timbered buildings, I can almost be there again. We talked about living there for a few months, and I wonder whether we’ll make it happen or if it will remain wishful thinking.

Strasbourg, December 2023. Image: Monique Mulligan

After dinner, I make bircher muesli: rolled oats, chia seeds, oat milk, toasted coconut, ground cinnamon and ginger, a grated apple (skin and all), maple syrup. Tomorrow I will eat this with a scoop of coconut yoghurt and sliced banana. Tomorrow I will look after myself better, I tell myself. Tomorrow is another day. And grace is better than guilt.

Wednesday

A tree branch drops in the grove between two buildings, narrowly missing the stone pebble seats under eucalypt trees where I have lunch several times a week; these trees are often called “widow makers” because of their propensity to drop large branches, and as I watch council workers clean up, I recall Judy in one of my favourite childhood books Seven Little Australians. Wild, wonderful tragic Judy who leapt off the page and lingers still.

The peppermint tree waves in the breeze, glowing golden as the sun sets. Honeyeaters flit in and out of sun puddles, chasing tiny moths that have nested in our grevillea ground covers. We watch this circle of life, this dance that we are part of, and wish we, all of us, were better stewards of this earth.

We talk about travel again, and then we talk about tourism and how we’re killing the world and one day there might be nothing left to see.

We watch the second-last episode of One Day and carry sadness to bed; we talk about making the most of each day because you never know …

Thursday

A loved one calls, tells me a story of betrayal that makes me angry. Why would someone be so reckless with another person’s heart?

I walk on a rainbow, each step a different colour; later I find out that this colourful walkway in Mandurah, thirty minutes south, represents the vibrancy of the seaside city and the community’s connection to land and water.

I am reading Wintering by

Katherine May

and am brought to tears by the memory of one of my own wintering periods when, as an overworked and highly stressed news editor, I was signed off on sick leave for six months. And I think of how I could have used that time better, if I did not fight it so hard.

Friday

A summer series of heatwaves has left my garden confused - the mangoes ripened a month early, the pomegranates are dropping, and my orange tree is loaded with green baubles twice the size they usually are this time of year. Our rain tanks are empty. And I think of the earth getting hotter and drier and of the legacy we are leaving unborn grandchildren.

I am sifting through photos on my phone when my breath snags on a holiday series from the Blue Mountains, New South Wales, Australia in 2022. For my husband, this wild and vast terrain is a holiday; for me, it is a coming home.

“We catch the train from Penrith to Bullaburra in the upper Blue Mountains, an hour-long journey I have not made in years. It is a scenic trip, past weekend-busy mountain villages, riding the top of the escarpment with views of an undulating blue sea of trees. My two sons’ eyes are glued to their game consoles, oblivious to glimpses of sheer limestone cliffs that fill me with longing. I have missed this place, this ancient landscape that looms over the Western Sydney valley where I grew up. My fingers drum a discordant, agitated beat on my thighs. If not for my sons, I’d lose myself in those trees.”

- ‘Feeling My Way’ by Monique Mulligan, in anthology The Heart Will Find a Way

Leura, Blue Mountains - view from the Everglades. Image: Monique Mulligan