Amanda Apthorpe's Blog, page 4

Happy Anniversary, Rupert

Dear Rupert,

Was it just one year ago today that you and Neti found your way into the world outside my desk? I remember seeing you up on the top shelf at Readings, out of my reach, out of my control. I worried about you. Would others love you like I do? Would your awkwardness and gentility be appreciated in a big, brash world? The fact that you were on that shelf was testament to that you were appreciated - at least enough to win that national competition. 

It was a big step for us, wasn't it Ru? An even bigger one for me i think - straight off the cliff and into the abyss. I summoned some remnants of courage and adopted a risk-taking persona at odds with my usual one.

I'm writing to you from the Moat Cafe as I wait to begin a writers' Boot Camp with an acclaimed Australian author. I've got you beside me, and Neti; Whispers sits on the table next to my rhubarb muffin and latte. I raise my cup. To you, my Dears.

Beside Whispers, on the table of this very wordsy, funky city cafe is a brand new journal. Its beautiful green cover is embossed with a golden Celtic tree. It seems to hold some significance for me but I'm not sure why. Next to it lies a brand new pen bought just days ago in the night markets of Fremantle. Hand made, black and gold with marbled teale and copper that swirl like a deep and dangerous sea. These are the instruments of my trade. My heart swells in their presence, but they demand the best from me and I know I will fear writing the very first words on the clean page of the journal.

I've sacrificed a lot for the sake of those tools and the hope for a life of writing. But that's what I want to do. Of course you know that, but I only know that now. 

"Only know that now?" you ask, "twelve months on? What have you been doing?" you may well add. 

I'll tell you about it later. Join me for a drink, Ru? A cup of tea? And what about you, Neti? Of course, you'd say that but I don't think they serve champagne to minors, Neti.

Dear Ru, so good to see you laughing. Cheers!

All my love, Amanda

Trying to walk the middle path

Christmas holidays passed as many had over the 25 years of teaching. The complete and utter sigh of relief, long walks, probably too much sun, yoga on my deck, barbecues and salads (for international readers, this is an Australian Christmas holiday). But of course this one wasn't like the others, and I had to remind myself that I wasn't going back as I had done for so many years. This holiday continued its ups and downs. I was preoccupied with fattening up my daughter in case they decided to operate again. She didn't seem to change, but I put on weight eating ice creams on the bed with recuperating partner while we watched the cricket. I also carried some smug weight. Whispers' sales, the small kudos I was receiving, the occasional comment of "So you're that Amanda Apthorpe, all added inches to my rear. As I type this, I recognise that within the polarity of my life, I was always trying to walk the middle path. On one hand I was despairing for my daughter, on the other, I could revel in the bliss of summer and the very moderate success of my first novel. Was it a compensatory method to find joy when there was so much to cause me despair? Perhaps, but I think that I have been blessed with a nature that can experience both poles independently. Some might call it a 'cold' streak, but I don't' think so. It's just that I have come to recognise that life will continue to have its peaks and its troughs. The 'trick' I think is in experiencing the intensity of each, while remaining, at the core, somewhere in the middle. I am a middle-child after all!

So this is Christmas

As Christmas 2011 approached I took stock of my life. My mother was cleared and discharged from hospital, but my daughter was still critically ill. In the meantime my partner was in another hospital having his knee replaced and would be out of action and out of work for up to six months, and here I was with three children and about to become unemployed. Despite it all or, perhaps because of it all, I thanked that quiet place within my heart for leading me to make my decision. Meantime, Whispers was making sales and I was speaking to book clubs. More than anything, beyond 'fame' or monetary gain, I wanted my book to be read and it ​has given me the greatest pleasure to hear how much Rupert is loved. 

A Day of Mixed Emotions

The wait for November when my book would be finally published was excruciating. With all the 'fuss' of winning the competition winding down, I just wanted to see Whispers on the shelf. Superstition was lurking. What if the publishing company goes broke before the date of release? What if there's a mistake and the judges.... What if the printing press jams? But other, more urgent matters took over. My daughter was stricken with a life-threatening infection that would require heart surgery. My mother was to have exploratory surgery, for cancer. ​With my daughter in hospital, my granddaughter came to live with us, joining the two others that we care for. I was still working full-time and the combination of work, caring for three children and travelling to hospitals was taking its toll. Yoga remained my constant support. On the day of publication, my daughter was scheduled for surgery. Who cares about a book, I thought. But once again the surgery was put off for another day. When I was certain that she was resting, I caught the tram to my favourite bookstore, Readings in Carlton. I stood by the shelves looking for Whispers but was unable to find it. "Can I help you?" asked a shop assistant. I cleared my throat. "My ... book ... is published today," I told him. He beamed with genuine pleasure, "Congratulations! What's it called?" When I told him he excused himself to search the inventory. Five minutes later he returned with a hand full of ... Whispers in the Wiring. "I'll put it here," he said, leaning up into the "A" authors and placing it next to "Amis". He angled one copy so that its cover faced into the shop and turned to me and smiled. "Thanks," I said, "Do you mind if I take a photo with my phone?" He laughed, "Go ahead." When he left I stood looking at it for some time. Again that disassociation. I was staring at it but I couldn't feel anything. I took the photo and went to a local cafe. Over a latte and apricot Danish I offered a quiet toast to myself, and to Rupert and Neti. I got on the tram and sat with my mother in one hospital, then back to my daughter's bedside in another. 

No turning back

The annual review with the Principal. This was it; no turning back. Waves of conflicting thoughts pulsed through my mind as I walked into her office. Hold to the plan, I told myself. What plan! Just a dream to reinvent myself on my terms. In that office, a core of ​establishment, of careful considerations and the promotion of right choices, I wavered. I was a fool to consider leaving. I would be a nobody, I would be unemployed! But that steady flame within swelled with the promise of making other choices. Calm ran through my veins like oil, soothing the agitation of my nerves. I heard myself resigning, and something not tuned to my conscious mind breathed a great sigh of relief. 

The unflickering flame and an unexpected benefactor

There was a lot happening in 2011, some wonderful (the publishing contract of course), some not so good (family ill health) and plenty in between. Throughout it all I kept a staple diet of yoga. I've been practising, on and off,  for about 38 years, but for the past ten or so years have been more committed. Yoga sneaks up on you. You might begin just desiring more flexibly, to learn how to relax, but somehow it becomes so much more. ​

(I wonder, if you have read some of my previous blogs, if you think of me as being a bit 'floaty', a bit 'hippy'. Well, yes there is an element of that, but hopefully it's balanced by a healthy dose of pragmatism; I am a science teacher after all! I raise this now because what follows might be just 'too out there' for your taste, but I hope you will read on. (For others, of course, my experience will be familiar to you.)

A good yoga teacher is a blessing, and I have been blessed all my yoga life. A good yoga teacher guides you carefully and purposefully through posture, breathing, meditation and relaxation, and links them together holistically. A great teacher directs you, subtly and respectfully, to your own heart. I have a great yoga teacher. It has been during my practice that the most profound shifts in my self have occurred. In the silence of my mind I have 'seen' Shiva dance lit by glow of a flickering fire. I've been propelled through steep, dark valleys and swept towards blissful light. I'm not a Hindu, nor a Buddhist, Taoist, Muslim, Jew, Pagan, or much of a Christian for that matter, but I respect the wisdom found in each and take to heart core values, including the humanist principles of atheism. 

In my yoga practice, particularly during 2011, I found my way to the still, quiet place within my heart, where an unflickering flame burns. Here, I located what I have come to refer to as the Patient Presence, the Self, with whom I inwardly converse. As the name suggests it has been waiting for me to find my Self. In those quiet moments of relaxation and meditation, it acknowledges me with a nod of 'welcome back', knowing full well that I will veer away again. During the course of 2011, after the competition win, in the midst of my 25th year of employment, while some aspects of my family life were straining under stress, that central place within my heart became a sanctuary. All those self-help books drove home the point, "Listen to your heart'. I asked it, What am I to do with my life? There was no answer. It's a quiet place, that place within, but when I'm there I feel... calm, centred and at peace. 

So, I decided that I would trust that feeling and live out of my heart. I would 'jump ship' ands see what would manifest. At the time of my life when I should be squirrelling money away for real retirement I was going to spend it. I'd always dreamed of a benefactor who would believe in me, support my dream to be a writer. I would be my own benefactor. What better way to show confidence in myself. Was I up to it? 

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So... where was I?

If you remember from previous blogs, "Whispers" won the national competition and Rupert and Neti were on their way in the world. Recall, too, that I was experiencing a real disconnection from the fuss that followed caused by reasons I've mentioned earlier, but also from a self-enforced humility, I suspect for fear of appearing to be too 'cocky', 'up myself' or any other of the Australian colloquialisms that dictate that personal achievement is not to be celebrated. Such a shame in such a talented country, but I'm not immune. Remember, as well, that the competition win flamed the glowing splint of my inner restlessness. I wanted to 'jump ship' from my happy employment of 25 years, but I was scared. Scared of what you might ask. Scared of not being able to reinvent myself, scared of sacrificing relative financial stability gained after the struggle of my early years (see earlier blog) and scared that I just didn't' have the talent, energy, or ability to do it. Making a decision for my own sake doesn't come easily as I've mentioned before. Coinciding with the competition win were other factors that gave the process of leaving work more momentum. Family concerns were demanding that I direct more attention to them and I was finding it more and more difficult to manage full-time work, study and my need to write and 'follow my heart'. (Yes, I know it's a cliche). So what was my heart saying? I'll tell you about it in the next blog. 

Do what you love...

The desire to change was a constant in my life and, as you know, I daydreamed about the possibilities. However, in my case at least, it took the merging of various factors to lead me to act. There is no doubt that the competition win was an incentive to make a move. Believe me, I never counted on it making enough money to retire on, but the win gave me confidence, a 'rehearsal' for success (in my terms). I've admitted previously, and with some embarrassment, that I sometimes read self-help books. One of my favourites, by Marsha Senetar is called "Do what you love; the money will follow". ​Although I read it years ago, one story in particular stayed with me. A potter talked about leaving his profession as a teacher and he was commenting on how he knew when to make the move. He said that as he began to sell a few pieces of his work he felt that the 'Universe' was sending a positive message back to him and this gave him the confidence to invest more of his time into his pottery. Now that might sound a bit 'out there', but in Senetar acknowledges that not everyone has the talent or the wherewithal to succeed. You have to recognise your limitations too, and maybe change course, but when you do get positive feedback it suggests you have something of significance to offer. I felt that I was getting some of that feedback, so maybe I too, could make a move. 

A word on those self-help books. If you read them you can glean a lot of good advice; however, you (or at least I) can become more confused by the various methods to achieve your dreams, and then there's the subsequent feeling of inadequacy when you don't quite measure up. I was amused recently to see a new release in my favourite bookshop that proposed that striving for happiness could very well make us even more unhappy. I think I understand that. Too much pressure to be happy. Too much pressure to do it the 'right' way (as if there aren't enough rules around at the moment for doing everything the right way. Try 'parenting' again.). Anyway, the point of this is, that I have abandoned all (at least most) of the methods and procedures to attaining my dreams. I'm sick of the self-help books, and I'm sick of saying that one day I'll get around to being all those things I'm supposed to be. I'm running this show my way - win or fail. ​

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The True Plan

Had a good talk with a really nice person today. In course of our conversation, I told him about my decision to leave work and 'free-fall' as I discovered my Right Livelihood. 'Yes', he said, 'but such decisions need a plan'. 'Yes, that's right', I said, too ​embarrassed to admit that I had no such thing in place. I mulled over it for a moment. 'You know,' I said, 'in fact I don't have a plan, and that's what this is about.' I think I've been waylaid by too consciously constructing my life; it's got in the way of the true plan, lying waiting in my subconscious, or in my heart. Let's see. 

A three blog night

1. Who do you think you are

Am feeling a bit hesitant as I write this blog​. "Who do you think you are?", you might ask, "What makes you think that you have anything valuable to say?" Well, I answer, I think I'm just a very ordinary person, recording the events of the last twelve months that led me to 'jump ship' and try to find my 'right livelihood'. Do I have anything valuable to say? Maybe not. I'll leave you to be the judge of that. But what I would hope is that at some point you connect with me and I with you, the 'ahhh, yes' of recognition, that's the very greatest pleasure in being a writer. 

2. ​the story continues...

 My disassociation with myself persisted in the weeks that followed winning the competition. If I compare the road to the moment of winning, with the road to that other happy day when my dreams of having our own home was realised, there is a significant difference. That dream, the one that began on the verandah in a rented home (see earlier blog) was driven by love, responsibility and duty to my family. The motivation was intensified by need, primarily because it was for others (though of course I benefitted too). In some ways, this made it easier. This time, however, the motivation was driven by more self-serving principles. Whether because of some self-confidence issues, a complacence with the quality of my life, or a nagging sense of guilt that to serve yourself was the ultimate act of self-indulgence and selfishness, it made the journey a little harder. One thing that I was certain of was that ageing had nothing to do with it, except perhaps to provide another prick of motivation - better hurry up before it's too late. So, in the weeks that followed I lived in a fog, not quite believing it was happening to me. There were telephone interviews, photos taken of me in 'writer's pose', newspaper articles, and a contract to sign. Rupert and Neti were leaving home. Had I prepared them for the world out there beyond my cupboard? At work I basked in the well-wishes of my wonderful colleagues and lovely girls that I taught. At home, well, I can't say enough thanks for the sincere joy expressed by my family. But while I waited for the November date of publication, I had to settle back to work and write a thesis that was now moving into its eighth year. Towards the middle of the year there was a subtle shift in my psyche. Family illnesses, demands of juggling family, study and full-time work were starting to take their toll. My yoga practice was shifting too; it was going to have a profound effect on helping me to take the plunge. But more of that later. 

​3. There goes a great man

My copy of Peter Steele's last book 'Braiding the Voices, Essays in Poetry', came in the post yesterday. ​​Peter died recently. I had the great privilege of being under his supervision for my MA, which happens to be 'Whispers in the Wiring'. Before I met him I had already written a good third of Whispers. Rupert is a Jesuit priest. Peter Steele was a Jesuit priest. In a scene in the novel (already written) Athena goes to Rupert's office in the university to interview him. The day I met Peter, I sat in the chair opposite him at Melbourne Uni, as Athena had sat opposite Rupert. I looked around the room, as she did. Oh my God, I thought, I'm caught in a scene from my own novel! Peter Steele's intellect was WAY over my head, nevertheless, I could not help but be inspired by him and in awe of him. Whenever I came for our regular meeting, I would look across his desk to my manuscript, searching for that little red tick that meant he liked what he had read. I didn't get many of them, but they were gold to me when I did. A favourite memory was when he paused by a painting of Jesus and two of the Apostles, as he was seeing me out of his office. 'Look here', he said, pointing to the hand of Judas, 'See the dirt under his nails?' I gulped. I left the office and, after he had closed the door behind me, I stood for a moment in the corridor, profoundly moved. Peter Steele S.J. A.M. was a wonderful poet, intellect, and a man of faith.

 There goes a great man. 

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