Life has a way of intruding upon one’s best intentions.
Sometimes, like birthdays and babysitting, those occasions are craved and enjoyed. Or farm and garden times, when the seasons demand one’s presence.
But then there are other times.
What is tradition?
According to the Cambridge Dictionary, it’s apparently, ‘…a way of acting that people have… continued to follow…’ through time.
The way I celebrate my birthday has become one such.
Not long after we moved back to Tasmania from the mainland, I thought how wonderful it might be to celebrate my birthday with a trip to Maria Island. The island has played a huge part in my life. Through my childhood, before it became a national park and World Heritage site, it was our playground. We would play in the tumbledown houses, swim in glass-like water. Simply, we would live Swallows and Amazons.
I don’t often read reviews.
Not just for my own books but for anyone’s really. It’s a personal foible.
But for some unknown reason the other day, I had a look to see what folk might have to say about Passage, the book that was my first foray into writing contemporary fiction.
One reviewer commented that “She (Annie) just seems to be adrift from beginning to end… Throughout the book, readers truly want to see Annie find a love again to fill the ache in her heart. Or at least peace within her soul…”
I thought to myself that this reviewer doesn’t know grief, or if she/he does, then she/he should realise that grief affects everyone in different ways. There is no right or wrong way to grieve. For some, it can dominate their whole life.
It all started when I was a little girl.
I was born with foot issues and it was suggested to Mum that I do ballet.
I used to trot off to RAD classes with a woman who scared the very devil out of me. Tall, dark hair in a tight bun and archtypically, the frosty ballet mistress – think Cruella Deville with a bun!
The hall was big and cold for we little children in short white ballet tunics with grosgrain pink sashes, and pink ballet shoes that tied with long satin ribbons. For someone like me, a pudgy little six year old who even then sensed she was an introvert, it was intimidating…