Heartlines Page 8
Susannah, you haven’t over-babbled at all – I was expecting lengthier, stream of consciousness type ravings I think!
Thank you so much for the photo of your children; they really are beautiful! Yes, we will have quite a lot of more serious things to share further down the track probably. Would you consider sending me that composite photo you made?
Actually, I didn’t realise you meant physically meet in that letter. Of course I want to (also a bit scared); my vision for the future is so full-on and comprehensive that I wouldn’t dare divulge it for fear of spooking you completely!
love,
Robin x
I get up early, before I need to hustle the kids to school, and check my emails like a child checking their Christmas stocking. I am disproportionately happy to see a new message in my inbox. I read it and am at once reassured and excited. I send a reply and attach the photo composite I made when I was going mental.
Email from Susannah, 5.02am
Hello
Up for same reason although I confess this experience has not been brilliant for my sleeping, too much adrenalin I think.
Here is the photo composite. You obviously, me about two years ago when having to have photos taken, me around the age of ten, and me around two. They were not selected for their ages, nor any other reason, they are just the ones I have on my computer (although we would have to be very close indeed before I released any photos from the 80s – what were we all doing?).
I hope it’s okay for you seeing the photos. As I said, it was quite a moment for me (and there have been a few this last week) but it was a comforting one, one of inevitability, of necessity even.
Please don’t think me rude that I’m not asking about your family, I need a little time to get my head around that and, frankly, I am happy for it just to be about you, us, for now. Is that okay?
Back to bed for I hope a little more sleep now. Singin’ in the Rain can probably bear high rotation – my go-to films are, to my kids’ horror, unspeakably daggy, apparently – Sound of Music and Mamma Mia (of course). x
Email from Susannah, 7.37am
Morning spamming now, sorry but just checking all okay after photo … X
Email from Robin, 7.37am
Frustration! My technical incompetence has struck! I opened your email with photos but it didn’t all fit on page. Pressing buttons wildly (predictably) didn’t help. That ‘box’ icon wasn’t there. So, I can’t read it all – nor see all the photos.
Email from Robin, 8.21am
Thank you! Have seen photos, but not all words of that email yet. Love Oskar email. Really want to reply properly, Susannah, but I have to go about my commitments today now. You must know there is nothing I would rather do than stay chatting on computer, but apart from other duties, Aziza is the perfect example of your mother’s phrase ‘oppressively high spirits!’
So, an enforced break. But I love, and am completely enjoying, our correspondence.
love, Robin x
Email from Robin, 9.39pm
Hi! Aziza asleep, so I can return and re-read your recent emails. Looking at the composite photos: three things. Firstly, the one of me may as well be photo shopped – I look older in real life; the one of you is good but of course it’s the one I have already seen on the Net (do you have more and any of you in your 20s? Or is that the dreaded 80s I suppose?); thirdly, the ones of you when you are little are adorable – what a dear little face! They do stir up feelings of sadness and yearning in me for what might have been. But a different path was taken and I am trusting, as ever, in the power and willingness of Jesus to redeem our messes and even make something beautiful out of them. I certainly am aware of the great beauty in this reconnection of ours – it has surpassed my hopes. You are just such a warm and alive person (and so clever and funny as a bonus!). What did I do to deserve such a gift? Nothing of course, but I am thrilled with it, with you.
I like daggy films too – including those two you mention. Do you have any other favourites you can think of?
I will close now and send this in hope that you can read it tonight. Lots of love x
Email from Susannah, 9.47pm
Hello, that was nice – thought I’d just check one more time and there you were.
Did you manage to play the music today?
Email from Susannah, 9.50pm
Here’s a picture of me around 1989 …
Email from Robin, 9.58pm
O my goodness, how gorgeous! Big family likeness I have to say.
The emails ping back and forth slightly feverishly and we begin to talk about meeting.
Email from Robin, 10.29pm
When shall we meet, do you think? I feel a bit like we are reckless truants without Maddy’s wise restraints.
Email from Susannah, 10.43pm
That’s funny, I was thinking the same thing about Maddy – and we are both going to have to fess up on Monday.
She’s completely right of course about taking time to process and not rushing but she seems to have two bolters on her hands.
I did talk to her about what a meeting might look like – I thought she might be a calming person to start with but I said I didn’t want to meet in her offices – she’s beautiful, they are ugly – and something special should take place somewhere special. Have been thinking about Botanical Gardens.
Bolter me says next week – too scary? X
Email from Robin, 10.46pm
Bolter me says sounds possible but let’s sleep on it. Night. x
Spinning tops, slightly wobbly
Susannah, Friday, 26 September
Email from Susannah, 5.32am
I’m sorry it took me so long to be able to come to you Robin.
But I also know it could only have happened now, and been like this now. I think I needed all the things, good and bad (but mainly bad as I suspect they are our greatest teachers) to bring me here.
And I am so happy to be here X
But where is ‘here’ and how did I get here?
Email from Robin, 7.43am
Good morning! I agree. This is the right time, given all the factors, I am so happy, too.
Re our bolter idea of maybe meeting next week, a spirit of self-control has alighted and I think maybe the week after might be better as an option. If I am going to write that longer account of my pregnancy and your birth (those events I did not put in my book), then you will need time to process that. I think it is good if we deal with major questions before we meet. Do you agree? X
Email from Susannah, 7.47am
Morning. Hmmmm … is my attempt at a measured response to waiting another week.
Or you could say they might be better dealt with once we have – the meeting, though enormous, is only another step in a not necessarily linear walk.
Hello! The adult has returned, being mature, saying sensible things – thank goodness, I have been missing her. Then this.
Maddy will agree whole-heartedly – I agree whole-headedly, but not heartedly.
Good bye adult, hello needy child. That was brief, better get the adult back again …
Email from Susannah, 7.54am
I need to have a button that says ‘Don’t send for five minutes while you have a proper think’ on my mail …
Sorry, Robin, that was selfish and maybe a bit six-year-old petulant. Of course.
Sorry
X
Email from Robin, 8.01am
Why don’t we be guided by Maddy in this? We will both be talking to her Monday.
And now my dear wild horse, a further bridle – I have to go now and tonight I am sleeping over somewhere else so will not be able to chat. I will hear the music though, God willing. I will be home in time to watch Grand Final on telly.
Xx
Email from Susannah, 8.05am
Well, poop all around!
Suppose I’ll have to do a lot of running (to burn off this energy) and some work. Then Maddy will absolutely say wait, so poop again.
Off
bolting again, will miss you tonight but have a lovely time wherever you’re going.
X
Email from Robin, 8.08am
xxx
I read over all the emails – why did I write that early-morning one? Am I sorry it took me so long to connect with Robin? Really? I have had the most wonderful life, loved and loving: I don’t regret my wonderful family for a moment. Where is all this coming from and what’s with the pushy and needy stuff? I seem to be in real danger of over-correcting – over-connecting? – here, from writing just one, resolving letter to stalking a woman I don’t know. But yet I do seem to know her.
Mental. I need to slow down.
Robin
I’m feeling a little bit overwhelmed. Wonderful, but full-on. Like the tumbling surf has got too strong and I’m beginning to be dumped by the waves. I feel like I can’t keep up with the pace and demands of the situation.
It’s time for the loved and lovable puppy to stop jumping up on the old woman just now. She needs a rest, a break – not from her, but with her.
I need to catch my breath.
Susannah’s inner child goes nuts
Susannah, Friday, 26 September
Robin has headed off to her life for the weekend and I don’t know what to do with myself. Ridiculously, I feel abandoned.
Fifty-year-old me gets it completely: it’s actually good to take a break on this fast-moving exchange for a while, take the time to get our breaths back. Maybe even spend some time with my poor, neglected husband. But the baby within me seems to have woken up with a hunger and ferocity and it’s throwing all of its toys out of its cot – and the fifty-year-old sensible person right out the window.
I didn’t really understand it then, but now I know we all have an inner child that can, if left untended, wreak havoc in our adult life when roused. My inner child had roared up and taken control. I knew something was up, wrong even, but I couldn’t work it out – it was like trying to push the off button from inside the blender.
Feeling dizzy from the spinning and needing to find that off button, I take to my meditation cushion.
I became interested in meditation about three years ago. I was driven to find something that might offer some relief from the constant over-thinking and questioning that came with Mum’s death and then the illnesses of my two children; I needed to put some space between me and my reeling thoughts and emotions. I try to practise Shamatha meditation – peaceful abiding – to train the mind in stability, clarity and strength. All three of these qualities seem to have deserted me at the moment.
You are supposed to simply sit and focus on the singular thing that is your breath. You watch it come in and out and, as thoughts swing in over the top, you acknowledge them as thoughts, as distractions, and then gently let them go, separate yourself from them and return to the certainty and unambiguity of your breath. Over time, one learns to tame the monkey-mind that jumps from one thought to another, incapable of keeping still, and moves to the calm equanimity that is something approaching a Buddha mind.
But you don’t meditate to become good at meditating, you meditate to become better at life, so you can put the same stillness into your life and you can learn to respond rather than react when stuff happens. And when you can do that, you can become kinder and more compassionate – to yourself and to others.
That’s the theory, anyway. I am very much still at the monkey-mind stage, but it has helped me at least to see, if not hold back, the mind-storms that have so often threatened to tip me over. And now, more than ever, I need some distance from these storms. But it’s hopeless. As I sit on my cushion, thoughts of Robin and what I am doing crash through constantly and I have a whole jungle of birth-mother monkeys screeching at the tops of their monkey mouths. Completely hopeless.
So, I decide to channel my energies on the issue that appears to be obsessing me and I write Robin a long, long letter, babbling about my life, my work, my past, present and future. I know she’s not on email to read it but it seems one way to hold on to our fragile connection.
You really haven’t been very helpful in saying what you want to know about me so I have just taken a bit of a wander …
What’s important?
My family and friends. Obviously.
Laughing. Contrary to most of what you have seen of me so far, trying not to take anything, particularly me, too seriously.
I spent a lot of time at school being sent out of class for not being able to stop laughing (talking, too, actually – part of me really does want to be that quiet, wise woman in the corner who speaks rarely and softly but with great considered wisdom but it’s not going to happen.) and have had to leave meetings to ‘collect’ myself. I need to get a grip – or actually do I?
All my close girlfriends are funny, they make me laugh a lot.
Oddly for someone with zero musical ability I also like singing, particularly daggy 80s songs, advertising jingles and inserting same, ideally both, into conversations – absolutely kills my kids, which in turn is also amusing.
ABBA. That is not a joke. They are really important. They are like chardonnay (which I also love) – much maligned but, as time will show, classy and enduring.
Favourite ABBA songs –
– Dancing Queen – unoriginal but who cares. I can and do listen to it 7 times in a row when I run along the beach in the morning. (Not that I’m a runner – used to hate the idea, haunted by the idea that if I ran somewhere, I would then have to run back … But I started slowly two months ago and I have to say that it has been really good for me, particularly with all the nervous energy that’s been swirling around …) Anyway, back to ABBA. When happy play ‘Dancing Queen’, when sad, play ‘Dancing Queen’. Life is always better with ‘Dancing Queen’.
– Honey, Honey – weirdly, was as on high rotation when I was pregnant with Emma and once out she would always calm to it.)
– Dum Dum Diddle – possibly one of their more ridiculous songs but …
– Knowing Me, Knowing You – ahaaaaa … Arrival best album ever.
– Super Trouper – a late entry into my top 5, nudging out Mamma Mia.
Animals – for most of my childhood I wanted to be a vet but I just wasn’t good enough at science. (I also wanted to be a tennis player, a doctor, actor, journalist and then, just when it might have been really handy to know, in Form 6, I had no idea.)
We had five cats growing up – one came with the house, then each child had a cat and then I adopted a stray; two male budgies which turned out to be one girl and one boy and then we had three; mice (didn’t last long due to five cats); terrapins (which Dad threw out because he thought they were dead but they were just sleeping really, really still); and the odd stray bird with a broken wing which Mum would let us keep.
We now have two dogs – Bella, a cavoodle, and Bill, a small Jack Russell. Bill is nearly 10 and losing his boyish energy but still very handsome in a George Clooney kind of way. Really. Bill is Edvard’s spirit dog – unsure to start but if you’re in, you’re in, and good luck with getting out. Bill also thinks he is a German Shepherd.
Bella is Emma’s spirit dog. She is happiness in a dog. She is an enthusiast who has a poor sense of boundaries and wants to make friends with everyone. Not everyone wants to make friends with Bella but this does not deter her. I sometimes wish it would.
X
Susannah, Saturday, 27 September
I open my emails and Robin has replied. I am ridiculously happy.
Email from Robin, 10.05am
Lovely to get your email. I am still not home, so this is just a short note and I will reply later tonight at greater length. I love it; it needs to be responded to properly when I am not distracted.
I have listened to the music, which is beautiful! Tender, tremulous, yet hopeful and capable of great things – like you.
Till later, love. X
She writes lovely things and, again, sensible, mature-woman me gets it. Inner-child nut job, however, is furious at the
short email. It would seem no amount of kind words, compliments or attention is going to satisfy her.
Sensible me realises I have to try to wrangle all this feeling into some kind of thought, so I draft yet another email to Robin. I title it the ‘serious email’.
Dear Robin,
Last Friday night I watched the last two episodes of Love Child (do you know it? It’s a mini series about girls in Sydney in the 60s who give up their babies for adoption).
I watched an episode with one of the babies being born and a sheet going up in front of the mother just before she delivered and something broke – or maybe broke through – in me.
I think it is telling that I can’t remember what you wrote last time about my birth. I wasn’t forgetting but blocking, blocking something that perhaps I didn’t want to know, to see – and on Friday I did.
For the first time, consciously anyway, I let myself be that little baby and feel really sad for it, for me. I was told that I screamed a lot in hospital – well, of course I did – I’d just been taken away from the person who had been my only sure reality.
So, it could have been a messy Friday night but it wasn’t so bad because something had already been unblocked, released, by your beautiful letter last week.
And with that release came the really easy flow of communication we’ve been having which I have loved.
But the extent to which I have loved it has also worried me. This really strong, visceral feeling. I am so keen to have your every email and I jump on every compliment and affection. As I said, wanting approval, hunting for acceptance.