May 2017
Thirty years ago
I bought a dark red cashmere coat, the coat to end all coats, the last coat I
would ever buy – or so I told myself. I wore it confidently for about eight
years, and then largely stopped wearing it altogether. It travelled with me
across Europe, for sure, and re-emerged every now and again for concerts and
outdoor wanderings. It went with me from house to house to house and across the
country from my hometown of Perth, WA, to here.
In truth, though,
it wasn’t a final, last purchase of a lifetime, coat. I’ve bought two other
coats since. Dark red, almost maroon in
colour, the woollen coat was big and long and lined and had 80s style shoulder
pads. I almost disappeared into it. I looked pale and wane, and contrary to the
stereotype of pale and wane, I didn’t look particularly interesting. And so it
hung in my wardrobe for years gradually developing a status much bigger than
its actual coat-dom. It morphed into the coat I would wear in my mind’s eye as
a bag lady living on the streets, with all my bags gathered around me and all
my leggings and tee shirts worn at once, and everything else hoarded in a
shopping trolley, just in case. A coat, I thought, that would serve as blanket,
concealer of worldly goods, and tent, if need be. Or even a coat I could trade
for the comfort of a bed and a good night’s sleep. Even when I came to realize
the bag lady thing wasn’t going to happen, the coat remained a symbol of my fear
of letting go, letting be, and allowing my future to express itself, how ever
it wished. And I hung on to this dark red coat and my dark imaginings.
Then came the
massive floods of Lismore where many people lost everything. I didn’t. I live
up in Lismore Heights, elevated here on the caldera ridge above the town. My water
tank filled, my garden grew and blossomed and my trees took on a new flush of
growth. People mowed their lawns, and tidied up and we tried to get on with
ordinary life, but none of us have been able to (our hearts will not let us), for
down in the town was, and still is in some places, devastation. It’s there in
the brown dust, and the smell of nasty mustiness hangs like a pall over the
town. It’s there on the faces of the people, exhausted by the effort of making
right again something that very nearly finished them off. It’s there, in all
things.
People gathered from far and near to help
clean the town and clear the water destroyed belongings of businesses and homes.
Truckloads of clothing and other essentials came and were distributed. The
greatness of spirit was manifest. Yes, there was also looting and stealing and
other nastiness, but mostly a wonderful nourishing supportive presence came to
be here.
I listened to the
accounts of the townsfolk, knowing that active listening and being heard is the
first step to validation (an “it’s ok”) and healing. Being heard is like being loved. Hearing
requires not anticipating, not putting words into the mouths of others, not
being distracted by things around us, not planning a response, not judging and
not giving advice. It is just being present with the other person. Listening
and being present is most important as right now there is exhaustion and a high
likelihood of post-traumatic stress disorder settling in. I suggest we all find someone to listen to us,
for we need to speak.
As for the dark red coat, I gathered it, with blankets,
shoes, and clothing and gave it away.
