The decision loomed, change and move forward or … Books in cupboards = books not in the hands of readers. Inspired by a new idea, I had dropped copies of Schicksal within regional Victoria. A trip up the Newell Highway to Brisbane, my place of birth, gave me further scope to share my book.
The journey took me down memory lane to a time when my parents had made the same journey visiting me in Melbourne. Synchronous moments began commanding my attention. I tried to ignore them, immersing myself in the beauty of the Australian landscape.
Arriving at my daughter and her partners new home, we drove past the cemetery. I wondered what my parents would think of their memoir and the book I am currently writing. Avid readers and storytellers, I felt subtle approval. I was moving forward.
Instinct reminded me about my childhood, growing up in an old Queenslander, the daughter of post war migrants, the times when caught the train to Shorncliffe, a beach accessible by public transport. It was 5.8 km from here. To my surprise, the old fish and chips shop was still there, still trading!
The area had changed, houses had been renovated and a new peer constructed but the beach with its shark cage, now a decaying wreck, still housed thousands of soldier crabs that scuttled along the sand. I was a child again, fifty years peeling back, burdens lifted. I was free, playing in the muddy sand oblivious to the mangroves in the distance.
Memories came flooding back, swirling and bathing me. I tied to catch them running after them like a child chasing butterflies. My daughter’s partner had discovered this place and regularly brought his dog here for a run. Was it purely coincidence?
The trees on the shoreline had grown. They bore profuse bright yellow blooms that turned orange toward evening, when they fell from the tree, life spent. Everywhere I looked the cycles of life and death abounded, interwoven in a complex tapestry. It was part of me and I part of it.
The places my Brisbane family now discover were explored half a century before by my parents. They shared them with me, weaving them into the fabric of my existence. Now I have a chance to re-experience these gems, looking at them anew.
Is it healing?
Wonderful and profound rumblings inside me, waken up thoughts and feelings beneficial to my writing. I feel change surging through me and wonder why now? Why am I being shown these things? For now, I shall revel in the synchronicity of life’s cycles until the insights flow from my finger tips onto the paper.
Do you have any synchronous moments to share?