The meeting was every bit as awful as I expected it to be, but there was no nay saying my friend Glenda.

“The speaker is supposed to be absolutely fabulous. You’re coming”

It was held somewhere in the city. If I remember correctly a small room in an older building in Russell Street. Don’t expect me to remember either the name of the talk or of the speaker. All I remember is that it was as turgid and as banal as I expected it to be. It was a talk about women’s oppression in a patriarchal society.

We’re talking the early 1970s.

Don’t get me wrong. I have a great deal of respect for women, (and men) who have fought the good fight. In that I include my mother and grandmother. Both lived  their own life unencumbered by current social mores; both adhered strictly to universal moral ones. But that’s another story.

Back to the meeting. There were very few women present. All listened respectfully to the speaker, and asked loaded questions to which everyone knew the answer. The mingling and coffee which followed was not dissimilar to a Mississippi religious gathering. It oozed the certainty that one belonged to the virtuous circle.

““Aren’t you glad you came?” Glenda asked me, but before I could answer she joined the group of acolytes surrounding the speaker.

I looked around the room.  The speaker had covered the walls with photos of modern icons such as Germaine Greer and photos of recent demonstrations.   Some were enlarged, some were presented as a collage. Amongst them was the famous photo of Emmeline Pankhurst being literally carried away by a policeman. There were suited men beside her and more behind. 

Two women were discussing the photo.

“Poor woman. She looks terrified, doesn’t she?” 

“She was probably terrified of her husband, and of ‘what people would say’.”
​
The conversation continued in this vein. Their photo was that of a meek and mild woman,who being undoubtedly under the thumb of her husband and of public opinion, regretted her action. They were both indescribably patronising.

Irritated beyond belief, I walked away. How could someone call themselves a feminist, but be completely ignorant, and arrogant, about feminist trailblazers.

Today I would probably (uninvited) join the conversation and point out who the portrait represented. I would do it for the joy of sharing knowledge, not to show off. Far from being bunk, history gives us a third dimension. Or as one of my customers once put it “Knowledge is not a heavy burden”

This for me is one of the horrors of the 21st century. All knowledge must be monetized, art for art’s sake is an indulgence we can’t afford, so too serendipitous research.

My response to this argument is: who remembers Da Vinci’s accountant?


Delfina Manor
May 2024
​

It felt like I was in a time machine. The problem was I didn’t know if I was going forward or backward in time.
 
I was thirty-two and as I was giving a friend a massage, I could see much older hands working on her and so wrote this poem.
 
“I watched my hand all aged and wrinkled, massaging her leg with a knowing wisdom, and knew my destiny. A wisdom not yet known, almost forgotten. Hidden in a memory of a lifelong past, when healing was my trade, and my hands were older than they are now.”
 
I moved to NSW for a job where I met Sally who was to become my wife.
 
Following advice from Sally, for whom teaching was a calling, I qualified as a teacher and worked in primary schools in NSW for some twenty years.
 
About 20 years ago Sally started going to Lesley, a Bowen Therapist who lived in our street in Sanctuary Point. Sally had been wearing built up shoes for years because she had been told she had one leg longer than the other.
 
Lesley told her that it wasn’t uneven leg length but misaligned hips. After only a few appointments Sally was realigned and had to buy new shoes.
 
Months later I had a frozen left shoulder, which I thought would just go away. I tried remedial massage and that had no effect. One evening after school I had to drive a manual car through several mountain passes. By the time I was halfway home my shoulder was excruciating. I didn’t think I could make it home, but there was nowhere to stop, so I drove on. After a sleepless night I could hardly get out of bed and was certainly in no condition to go to work.
 
Sally booked an appointment with Lesley and drove me there, telling me that I should walk home after the treatment.
 
After a stop start hour of treatment Lesley finally did some work on my shoulder. I felt more relaxed, but nothing had changed.
 
On my walk home I was swooped by magpies, leaving me feeling more vulnerable and less impressed with the treatment.
 
That afternoon I came to the realisation that I could actually move my shoulder.
 
Throughout the day it just kept improving. I was sold on Bowen therapy.
 
I retired from teaching and, after trying working as a handyman and doing a couple of TAFE courses, I was looking for a new direction.
 
My dad told us of a Bowen Therapist who had an amazing practice in my hometown.
I said to Sally “What would you think if I trained as a Bowen Therapist?” She said, “Yes please.”
 
So, on my fifty eighth birthday, I met with an instructor and started my journey into the mysteries of Bowen Therapy.
 
Now I get to watch my hands, much more aged and wrinkled than they were when I wrote the poem, helping people on their healing journeys.
​
 
John Holschier
May 2024

​'When you look behind you, you see the future in your footprints' from Songlines[1]

The themes and features of my life story[2] only become clear by looking in my rear vision. Significant events and decisions are keys to how my story unfolds and offers any sense of a linear progression. To what degree was I in control of thus unfolding? Were outside ‘forces’ influencing or impacting upon the twists and turns of this journey or was it all just pure chance?

Writing this in my eighth decade I am inclined to believe that there were interventions unseen or unrecognised at the time. In summary, I am left with a very deep appreciation for my third decade (1968-1978) and its consequences for the rest of my life. By 1978 I was beginning to find peace after a very difficult decade and was drawn back to the ‘religious experience’ of my late teens, where I experienced a love that is ‘beyond all understanding'.
 
My second wife Jennifer and my two sons, Soren and Nick were the personification of this love.
 
At the end of the 70’s my three pillars, family, church and state had collapsed. My biological family were intact, but were quite distant.  Although supportive of me personally, there was not a sense of their understanding or emotionally supporting the decisions I had made and was making. And, my first marriage was irredeemable after the departure of my best friend, Elizabeth.
 
Secondly, I had lost faith in both the political and public administration systems that I experienced as corrupted by power and expediency.
 
Thirdly, I had become disillusioned with the church which had trained me to be a parish minister and treated my family as political pawns, rather than a couple with particular skills and needs.
 
I was disillusioned, alienated and angry. In fact, I felt quite anarchic.   
 
It would be three chance encounters which would change my direction completely.
 
The first was a call which I received while working for a community service agency. Quite accidentally, Jennifer’s call was transferred to me. Finding that we had a great deal in common, we chatted and after a number of chats we decided to meet. I nearly blew it by arriving at our blind date in my grey and yellow seersucker jacket with my sandwiches and to her bemusement, I to share. My chance meeting with Jennifer became an invitation to begin rebuilding my life.
 
The second encounter was with one of my adult education students, who advised me that she was standing for election to the ACT Assembly, representing the Greens. She had no chance of winning but felt the desire to act on her deep-felt values and beliefs. This brought me back to the political realm.  I later joined the ACT Greens and, a number of years later, was the Convenor of the party when we negotiated to become the key player in any future ACT government.
 
The third encounter happened more recently, when algorithms operating within Facebook introduced me to the mystics and opened me up to the experience of contemplative prayer.  
 
My three pillars have been restored. I am left to acknowledge that my 75th year has been the best year of my life..... so far.


Graham Jensen
May 2024


[1] The term 'Songline' describes the features and directions of travel that were included in a song that had to be sung and memorised for the traveller to know the route to their destination.

[2] The theory of narrative identity postulates that individuals form an identity by integrating their life experiences into an internalized, evolving story of the self that provides the individual with a sense of unity and purpose in life.

​'You've travelled through time and encounter a younger version of yourself.  What life lesson (or lessons) would you share?'

I had a great life full of variety, experiences and, above all, change. So, it’s difficult to say what advice I would offer my younger self. Perhaps I would suggest that I stop being reserved, shy, quiet and self-doubting and go for it... "Whatever your goal or dream, go for it. Don’t conform to the stereotype that society maps out for you, make a change, make a difference. Be yourself."

In my early years women were still restricted as to career options, finance, and so on. . We couldn’t get a loan for a house without a male guarantor. Jobs for women were usually clerical, sales catering etc. On marrying, we were expected to give up our jobs to raise the children and care for our husbands.

My mother was an apprentice dressmaker, her father was a tailor. She gave up her career to marry Dad, but ended up in a munitions factory during WW2. After the war she stayed home and cared for him, and eventually me. My Aunt was a bit of a rebel and chose a career over marriage and children. We often talked long and hard about my dreams hopes and ambitions and she tried hard to encourage me to try. Sadly, I gave in to pressures of society and missed a lot of opportunities. So, if I were to meet my younger self I would say, listen to your aunt.

She loved photography, taking lots of shots of nature. She was also an accomplished artist and we often sat by a river, or in the gardens where she painted whatever was in front of her. I sat watching in awe of her talent, I idolised her. I confessed to her that I wanted to be an author and artist, travelling the world. I even dreamed of travelling on a canal boat as some of her friends did. Sailing up and down rivers and mooring wherever or whenever the mood took me. I even thought of being a vet or horse breeder, perhaps owning a property where I could let out cabins to artists. My aunt and I laughed over dreams of us co owning the property, much to my parents’ horror.

Had we stayed in Wales, who knows, I may have tried to achieve some of these dreams with my aunt’s encouragement. However, with a new baby and toddler (my sisters) and Dad being a broken man after some awful experiences in the war, things were tough in the UK, so our family came to Australia.

I was engrossed in exploring the new surroundings and ended up, predictably, working in a shop, then becoming a vet nurse. I did start to travel a bit to explore my new home and when finances permitted, I returned to the UK to visit relatives. Under my aunt's influence I did investigate alternate careers so on my return home I sought, and achieved my RAAF career, then my OHS career.

No major regrets, so little advice to offer other than, whatever your goal or dream,

"GO FOR IT!".


Heather Hartland
May 2024

From family folklore, I had a mind of my own very early. This became obvious when I found myself between a very adept older sister and a very cute, well-behaved younger sister. I needed to be noticed. I trust I have softened my stance since then, despite still feeling the need to make my opinions known.

Second-hand clothes made up most of my wardrobe when young, so I was happy  to make my own clothes as the years went by. At no time in my life have I been a doyen of fashion.

‘Junior Age’ printed children’s writing on Thursdays and, as far as I remember, there was sometimes a ninepence reward. I haven’t stopped writing! Articles for Women’s Network and Grassroots magazines, various church papers and magazines, the odd book, and finally ‘As time goes by’. There have been a few ninepences along the way but mostly just a sharing of my thoughts.

My final year at High School and also while at university consisted of a class room of boys with a few girls and, hence, I found it easy to have both male and female friends along the way – from walking up the Belmont hill with Bill Grosvenor to having a cup of coffee with Graham Jensen.

Growing up, we were encouraged to be reasonably independent in our choice of interests and in the fulfilment of them. Despite Hobart, Ballarat and Geelong being home while I was growing up, and seven years in Melbourne studying and working, I was happy to be a small-town girl from then on.

This involved the challenge of finding friends, group activities and, later on, some paid work.  If these things were not already available in the small town we were currently living in, the option was to initiate something yourself. This resulted in a Brownie Pack, a Hello Group, a singing group, a multi-cultural group and some Indonesian teaching resources.

The footprints are indeed an indication of the person I became.

And when I remember the footprints of our children and now look at their present lives, I can certainly see the correlation and am delighted to do so.


Carmyl Winkler
May 2024