Hope in Her Heart

The Today show made me cry on Friday 13 November, nearly a day before the attacks on Paris shook the world. I'd seen Channel Nine's 'Block of Cash' segment on numerous occasions—I'd willed the viewer to pick up the phone, paused to listen to their excitement when they won—but when Karl Stefanovic read out that day's potential winner I was stunned to hear the name of a friend, Beverley Horsnell. I didn't cry because she missed out on winning. My tears flowed for the timing and the cruel irony, but mostly because those five long unanswered rings reiterated that she was gone. Bev passed away in September.

Like mail that comes for someone who has died, the announcement of her name for a prize that required answering a call was a swift and painful reminder that the world had lost Bev, one of the most selfless and kind-hearted women you could meet. She loved her family, socialising with friends, caravanning, reading and the beach. Cancer took her only seven months after her diagnosis, and six weeks before her daughter’s wedding.

How many people who knew Bev heard her name broadcast, felt that chilling jolt as I did, and despaired at how short and unfair life can be? Perhaps hugged their loved ones a couple of seconds longer that day?

Amongst all the entrants around Australia hoping for a chance to win, it seemed a harsh trick of fate that her name was selected now. If only...if only her luck had come in months earlier, I thought—how it would have cheered her to win that $10,000 and share the money and the joy with her family. But of course... if only she'd been lucky in a different way, with the outcome of her treatment.

Then I started to doubt myself ... Bev passed away more than two months ago. Had the competition even been running that long? Did I really hear her name, or was she floating in my subconscious, close to the surface at that moment? Surely I hadn't picked up on a name with similar sounds, or the same pattern of syllables.

According to the website, entries opened on Friday 4 September. Bev must have entered on that first day because she fell gravely ill early on the next and passed away on Sunday 6 September. Although bittersweet, it cheered me to think of her entering the competition on her phone from her hospital bed, still optimistic and eager to be involved in life.

Like the majority of Australians, Bev had probably never been on TV or radio, or in a newspaper, other than her birth and funeral notice. And now, her name on morning TV, however fleetingly…like a tiny memorial of her own making. By entering the competition she added one more story to the wealth of ‘Bev stories’ her husband and children can recall and tell. Some might scoff but I fancied that she had some influence over the draw from afar, that she’d found a way to reach out and say ‘Remember me’.

Someone once told me that it’s better to die with hope in your heart, having things to aspire to even if you never accomplish them. Bev was looking forward to her daughter’s wedding, the beginning of a new family that would be part of her own, and nothing could be better than that.

Bev couldn’t win last Friday, but a different kind of prize went to those who miss her. I won a mental image of her wishing to win, sending her details for a chance at the 'Block of Cash', layering a little more hope in her heart, a heart unburdened by the knowledge that it was her last good day on this earth.

"I Do Like to be Beside the Seaside"

Just a quick trip before dinner, he said. Hubby wanted to take some photos as the light faded from the day, to practise all the technical stuff he'd learnt in photography class. We jumped into the car —well Cindy did, then she whimpered nervously all the way, thinking she was going to the vet or the poodle parlour or, worse still, the boarding kennel.

South Cronulla

Walking around the Esplanade we passed couples and families with dogs on sunset walks, lone joggers, and others who perched on their low brick front fences enjoying Saturday evening drinks overlooking the ocean. Tripod up, shots snapped, tripod down, move on; and repeat, from cliff top to grassy slope to concrete promenade.

The clouds blushed to flossy pink and the waves caught the leftover colour. Soon the day was little more than candlelit, the approaching darkness making every place we stopped seem cosy, like a room at home, despite the exposure to wind, salt spray and unfamiliar faces. An overwhelmed feeling was building inside me, like a wave before it breaks. At first I was puzzled, then realised I couldn't look anywhere without being swamped by recollections—everything around me evoked a flashback, with varied emotions attached. And all intensified by the closing dark.

Looking up to the lit windows of a restaurant, tables set ready for the evening's diners, I was flooded with memories of my grandmother and her 90th birthday dinner there many years ago. Then the park that adjoined the beach had my mind flying further back—playing with my brother under my grandparents' watchful gaze, making a game with fallen pine fronds and littered bottle caps. Rock hopping around the point at low tide, swimming in the ocean pool and wearing seaweed wigs.

So many memories crowding in, pushing to be remembered. Sunbaking on the sand as a teen, right there. The surf club, a ride in a rubber ducky on a summer day almost hotter than the lifeguards. Next door, the indoor pool, our kids in swimming lessons and then Swim Club, trying their hardest, almost twenty years ago.

Cindy strained against her lead, nose held high to sniff the crashing waves, dragging me back to the present. Boys were still surfing, dark shapes clutching at the last of the day. Some looked as young as twelve and that made me scan the water for fins—it was shark dinner time, after all. They reminded me of my own nephew, and the little shudder of fear I feel when I think of him paddling out through the Broadwater at Southport.

Invisible markers for every stage of my life surrounded me. It wasn't the cosiness of dusk that made the beach feel like home, it was the still-lingering spirit of days lived and people loved.

A Fortunate Life

I love all of my lives.

Despite how that sounds I don't have a multiple personality disorder. I'm just thankful I can indulge my conflicting needs: to live in a vibrant city, breathe salt air with my toes in sand, and unwind in open acres near a boulder-filled creek.

On my family's farm I'm surrounded by nature. A myriad birds calling, creeks gushing, resident wombats, wallabies and echidnas. Cows that surprise me with their personalities and intelligence. And always something fruiting or in flower. We drink water from a spring and burn fallen branches to keep warm in winter. I relish the space, the freedom, the cliffs and majestic trees.

Calves on afternoon nap

But when I have the ocean spread in front of me, or a salty bay beneath our little boat, I belong only to the water. Sand and seashells and tides have a replenishing effect on me. I watch in awe as a pelican glides to a perfect landing, a fish jumps clear of the surface. Nothing beats snorkelling, looking through a tiny window into a vastly different world. I can't bear the thought of a chlorinated pool after swimming in salt water, and I'm always reluctant to leave the cleansing environment, the build and release of the waves.

Deeban Spit

Yet too much time away from the city and I start craving that industrious buzz; the people, the energy, the buildings, new and old sitting shoulder to shoulder. Our architectural heritage helps me peek into the past and gives me another perspective on the world. The city is a magnet for events and culture, local talent and celebrated artists and performers from beyond our shores. I am constantly learning and absorbing when in the city, and dread that feeling of loss when I leave, the never-finished quest for more knowledge of it.

So, I'm resigned to kiss-chasing contentment. City, country or coast? I adore them all and I'm lucky I don't have to choose just one. My corner of the world lets me embrace all three, and fondly squeeze the best from each. I started this blog to share the inspiration, beauty and joy I find in all my favourite places.

And also to remind myself how fortunate I am, living more than one life.