With the Rugby League World Cup being on, I’ve found myself thinking a lot about home, memories and just life in general.
Most of my friends know that when I have something to deal with, I tend to withdraw into myself. And I’ve been doing that quite a lot lately.
It’s almost as though I simply don’t have the bandwidth to cope with anything more, especially social interaction. I feel horrible about it, but withdrawing is one of my coping mechanisms. So, to those I’ve been ignoring lately, consider this an apology!
Anyway, back to the World Cup.
Lachlan might be half Kiwi, but as far as he’s concerned, he’s 100% Australian. This has made for some interesting conversations, particularly when Australia beat New Zealand (damnit!). But the final is still to come, so there’s hope yet!
I’ve also become mildly obsessed with the New Zealand national anthem and mildly annoyed with myself that I can’t sing the first verse.
When I left New Zealand 40 years ago, the anthem was only sung in English. Now, of course, the first verse is sung in Māori. So I’ve decided to learn it, much to Lachlan’s great delight.
He loves to hear me sing! Not!
One of the things I’ve really loved watching during the World Cup is the passion of the island nations in particular. Their pride in their countries, their cultures, their histories and their families. There is such a strong sense of belonging, of knowing where you come from and who you are.
I sometimes wish I’d grown up surrounded by that kind of connection.
Our family has always been small, especially when I was a child, and now it is small again.
Moving to another country is hard, especially when you spend most of your working life on night duty. I’m fairly reserved anyway, and working nights made it even harder to make connections and build friendships.
It was fine at the time. I did what I needed to do, and life was busy.
But now, I find myself feeling the absence of something.
I’m not entirely sure what it is. Connection, perhaps. That sense of belonging. Having people close by who know you, who share your history, who you can call on the spur of the moment.
A lot of my friends live overseas, which makes meeting for a coffee (or, in my case, water!), going to a movie or having a night out rather difficult.
Fortunately, I enjoy my own company. I always have. But sometimes it would be lovely to have that closeness, that easy companionship that doesn’t require planning weeks in advance.
I remember when my mother passed away, not long after my husband, I suddenly realised that I was now the older generation. The supposedly wise one. The one who was meant to know things, have answers and somehow understand how life worked.
I remember feeling terrified by the responsibility!
I think some of those feelings have crept back in while I’ve been watching the football and thinking about family and belonging.
And perhaps they’re a little stronger now because Ian isn’t here.
We spent a lot of time talking, discussing everything and nothing, and generally setting the world to rights. I miss those conversations. I miss having someone who shared so much of my history and understood so much without needing an explanation.
As well as all this thinking, I’ve been sorting through the boxes I’ve kept for the boys.
Each of them has a box of special things – little outfits, things made by my mother, school hats, a favourite toy and all sorts of other bits and pieces.
Then there are the boxes of paperwork – one each. Everything sorted into years, from birth through every year of school, with another folder for everything that came afterwards.
The other day, I came to the realisation – I’m keeping it all for me. The boys aren’t particularly interested in most of it, and that’s fine. They’re their memories too, but they don’t necessarily need the things to remember them.
So, after checking with them, I’ve decided to have a good cull. I’ll scan some things and add them to their books and let the rest go.
And I have to say, it’s been lovely going through it all.
A little outfit worn for a special occasion. A shirt that reminded me just how much Brendan hated Little Athletics! A tiny handprint from Lachlan’s kindergarten class.
Such ordinary little things, yet each one brings back a moment in time that I might otherwise have forgotten.
I haven’t started Ian’s boxes yet. And I probably won’t for quite a while. I am not ready yet.
Going through all these things has made me realise just how fortunate we are to have our memories.
We live in such a throwaway society now. Everything is disposable, replaceable or stored somewhere in the cloud. And while I certainly don’t need to keep every school newsletter or piece of paper, I’m so glad I kept some of these things.
Because it isn’t really about the objects themselves. It’s about the memories attached to them.
Having spent so many years working in aged care, I’m very aware that memories don’t always stay with us. And I can’t help thinking how much I would hate to lose the ability to look back on all those wonderful moments.
The fun times. The ordinary days. The little things that seemed so insignificant at the time but somehow became precious over the years.
And yes, even the sadder times.
Because all of those experiences, the good and the bad, the happy and the heartbreaking, have helped make us who we are.
We can’t simply erase the difficult parts without changing the whole story.
Of course, there are things I would change if I could.
There are moments I would love to revisit, things I would do differently and people I would give anything to have just one more conversation with.
But I can’t change what has been.
So instead, I’ll hold on to the memories, treasure the little things that bring them back and be grateful for the life I’ve lived.
For what has been, for what I have now, and for whatever is still to come.
Until next time, enjoy your story – wherever it takes you.
PS – I have decided to have the surgery mentioned in the last blog – assuming the superannuation company finally gets its act together and gives me my money. I am booked in for December 14!
Leave a Reply