I was lucky enough to spend time on the beautiful Rottnest/Wadjemup last week. In between writing, researching and reading, I spent lots of time in the water, including this marvellous encounter with an eagle ray.
It may not look like writing or research, but I am sure this ray is going to turn up in a story or poem when I can find a way to capture its beauty and the awe I felt to be alone with it for so long. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the video.
This week I’ve been thinking of failure. It’s one of my biggest fears – that I will start something and not finish, or, finish but not finish well. Which I know is silly – because it’s more of a failure to not have a go than it is to start and learn from the experience. History shows lots and lots of failures that lead to learning and, ultimately, success.
Still, I can tell you about a lot of failures going right back to my childhood that I sometimes still carry with me. And it’s one of those that I’ve especially been thinking about.
When I was 7 my Mum very patiently taught me to ride a bike. I was a little young and uncoordinated to go from not being able to ride anything more than a tricycle to independently riding sans training wheels, but there was a reason – we were off to Rottnest Island for a family holiday. And, on Rottnest, the chief way to get around is by bike.
So Mum taught me to ride up and down the laneway at home, and, when we got to Rottnest, a bike was hired for me, along with every other member of the family. I was still a novice rider – and had yet to experience the joy of hill climbing – or descents – and was not too good at using the foot brakes which most bikes had back in the 1970s.
You might see where this is heading. All went well the first day or so, but then we rode to the top of the tallest hill on the island, probably to see the lighthouse which is there. My memory is hazy on what we did on the hill, and I have no memory of riding up the hill. But what I do recall, very vividly, is riding down. A steep descent, picking up speed and going from feeling excited to realising I was losing control. Time to apply the brakes. Nothing happened. My family, behind me, calling out ‘brake, Sally, brake!’ But the brakes weren’t working and I was panicking. It didn’t end well. Very soon I was in a bush at the side of the road, and my bike was on the ground.
I wasn’t terribly injured, but I was rapidly surrounded by my siblings and parents, who, once they realised I was okay alternated between laughter and asking ‘why didn’t you use the brakes?’
‘They wouldn’t work’ I sobbed.
It was fairly quickly established that the brakes were fine – but, in my panic I was pushing the pedals forward instead of back.
This failure might have been quickly forgotten but for two things – for the rest of the holiday I was banned from riding any distance, and had, instead, to ride in the baby seat on the back of Mum’s bike. The humiliation! I was seven! And then, not just for the rest of the holiday but the rest of my life, every time that holiday was mentioned, the story of me careening out of control down the hill to the cries of ‘brake, Sally, brake’ was told. And retold. With everyone laughing except me. When you are the butt of a funny story you don’t always see the humour – especially when it reminds you of a failure. (As an aside, it amazes me that my fall has been immortalised on yellow signs on the island)
BUT this story has a postscript. I have been coming to Rottnest a lot over the last few years. And, at first, I was very reluctant to hire a bike. Too many memories. But gradually I realised I was missing out on a lot. In February, for the first time, I finally hired a bike, and loved it. And yesterday, back on Rottnest, I rode to the lighthouse – and successfully rode down it! And then I rode to the top of the second highest hill and rode down that too.
The smile I had coming down was as big as it would have been if I was till 7 – maybe bigger.
And, of course, I realised that some failures are temporary. Sometimes the next day, the next week, the next month, other times 40 plus years later, another try gets a better result.
I’m going to try to remember that the next time I feel I’ve failed.
In the meantime, since it’s Poetry Friday, here’s a poem I wrote some time ago in celebration of bikes (and hills).
Going uphill on a bike
Is tough.
Really tough.
Muscles strain
Legs burn
Each push of the pedals
Gains an inch –
If I’m lucky.
Up out of the seat
Pushing, urging, groaning.
Thighs tight
Eyes yearn
Searching for the peak
Will it ever end?
BUT
Going downhill on a bike
Is fun
Really fun
Pedals turn
Of their accord
Lean back
Arms off handlebars
Look at me!
The bottom comes too soon.
And, in case you think I came to Rottnest without snorkelling, here’s a little glimpse under the sea.
Poetry Friday today is hosted by Carol. Pop over later and see what other poetry successes are being shared.
This week I was lucky enough to have a little holiday from work – and from the world, it seemed. I headed to Rottnest Island (which in the local Noongyar language is called Wadjemup), and spent two days snorkelling, riding a bike and relaxing. I especially wanted to snorkel at a place called Parker Point, on the other side of the island, and hired a bike specially. Last year I cheated and caught the tourist bus.
I got up super early and was the first one in the water. It was so worth it! I’ve tried to write about it, although the poem is still a draft. And, if you have time, I have cobbled together a video from my gopro footage. If I had more time I would have edited it better, but hopefully you’ll get a sense of the magic.
Wadjemup, Tuesday Morning
Six a.m
and holidaymakers
sleep still
in cottages
languidly enjoying
their break from reality.
But I
am far from my cottage
urging my bike
up hills much steeper than they appeared
from the windows of
the air conditioned bus.
At Parker Point
I stop
feeling sheepish
chaining the bike
when there’s no one else in sight
descend the stairs
and prepare
snorkels
flippers
rashie.
At the edge of the water
I pause
wondering at my sanity
to be here alone
so early.
Too late now
I commit
lunging forward inelegantly
over seagrass
darkly stirring
just inches from my face.
Within metres
I spot my first fish
and I feel myself
surrender
to the lure of the water
and its myriad treasures.
Later
as I float
in a school of silver
that seems to never end
I wonder, briefly,
if those cottage beds
are working the same magic
on those who’ve stayed abed.
Ruth is hosting the Poetry Friday Roundup. If you drop by there, you might be brave enough to add a fact for the group poem.
It’s Poetry Friday, and I’ve been thinking about stairs. Why? Because I seem to keep stopping at the bottom of them of late. My recent treks have seen me pondering (and climbing) these stairs
on Rottnest Island, a place less known for its stairs than for its gorgeous beaches and, of course, quokkas. But the stairs form part of its military history and thus I climbed them as part of a tour.
Closer to home, I often climb these stairs
when I leave my beach – and often pause to snap them, even though I know it isn’t the first time, and won’t be the last. They are my favourite stairs because of their location, but I must confess to preferring going down than going up.
I also, recently, came across these stairs on my morning walk closer near the Swan River in Perth. From the bottom I called them rainbow stairs, but wondered whether someone had just spilled paint down them.
From the top, however, I could see some deliberateness, including the yellow heart at the bottom.
Lastly, at my dayjob I work on the fourth floor, and must confess that I take the lift far too often, but this week have challenged myself to climb the stairs at least once per day. It’s hard work, but I’m hoping it will get easier. Maybe when I love the stairs more there will be a photo, but for now, you’ll just have to take my word.
So, with all these stairs featuring in my thoughts, it seemed logical to attempt a poem about them. Here it is.
Everywhere Stairs
Stairs
They’re everywhere
Beckoning me up
Calling me down
Obstacle
Challenge
Or invitation
Depending on mood
Or location.
I do like stairs
But sometimes
When I’m halfway up
I wish I’d stayed down
Or just taken the lift.
Rebecca at Sloth Reads is hosting this week’s Poetry Friday roundup. So step over there, or step right up, and check out what other poetry goodness there is to see this week.
It’s Friday, which means it’s Poetry Friday and, once this post is written, I will have managed to post every week this year! Of course I do realise it’s only week 3, but still a good sign that I’m going to do better this year).
First up, thanks to everyone who visited last week, when I hosted the weekly round up, and for all the lovely comments and messages of support for Australia. Like many Australians, I am blown away by the generosity coming from around the world – not just in the form of donations, but also messages of solidarity and hope as well as so many statements urging leaders to wake up and take more drastic action to prevent climate change and start saving our planet.
Onto the poetry. This week I set the goal to write something – anything – every day, preferably before heading out the door to my dayjob. And I managed to write something everyday. More pleasing, most of it was poetry, including progress on a verse novel I started before Christmas. Early days, but it’s just lovely to be creating.
On Monday, on my early morning walk, I spotted some words carved into the footpath – obviously done while the concrete was still wet. I snapped a photo and walked home pondering what would lead to someone carving those words there. More often you see initials, or paw prints or – and I love spotting these – the prints of leaves that have fallen onto the setting concrete. I was so taken by these words that I didn’t even notice some spelling quirks (which is most unlike this teacher!).
So, when I sat down after breakfast to write, it didn’t surprise me that my thoughts went back to that footpath. I wanted to explore not the meaning of the words, but the intention of the scribe. Here’s what I came up with:
The poem reads:
The Scribe
Wet concrete
Opportunity knocks
Chance to make my mark.
A footprint?
Too sticky.
A tag?
Don’t have one.
My name?
Asking for trouble.
Something to make people wonder?
I pause.
I breathe.
Grab a stick
And write.
It was only later that I remembered I had written on a similar topic before and went searching for those poems, first drafted on a visit to Rottnest Island (off the WA coast and home to the world-famous quokkas). I was there on a retreat with SCBWI pals, and on a sketch and scribble we stopped under this tree, which, from memory, may have been a young Moreton Bay Fig. I was drawn to the many names carved into the trunk and initially a bit cross that people would do this to a tree. That’s where this poem came from:
The poem reads:
The Name Tree
You are a thing of beauty
stretching grey-brown limbs skywards.
A testament to your will
to stand
against stiff sea-breezes
and salty spray.
But I don’t get why your trunk
must be scarred
by careless humans
wanting to leave a sign
that they were once here:
Ron + Therese
Sue
Hadly, Tony and
KC
all were here.
But now they’re not
and all that’s left of them
is their marks
scratched into your bark.
After I’d written that I had a little longer to sit and think. At the time I was working on a collection of poetry with paired poems, each pair looking at the same topic from differing perspectives. So I started to wonder what the other perspective was here. And I started to think about why we have this urge to leave our mark. Tony’s name was the most prominent, and I started to think of him as a small boy wanting to make a big mark, in the hope those who read it would imagine him as perhaps bigger, more accomplished than he saw himself. This was the result:
The poem reads:
The Tony Tree
I’m nobody
from nowhere special
no chance
that anyone will remember me
for anything in particular.
But perhaps
if I carve my name
in this trunk
then in years to come
someone will read it
and know I was here.
They will wonder
who Tony was
and where he was from
and what he was good at
and maybe
they’ll remember
the me I could have been.
On another walk on Rottnest, this time alone, I came across some rocks on the shore where, again, people had been carving their names. I sat on one of these rocks and just breathed in the amazing view, but I couldn’t help but again wonder about the need to leave a mark. I had no urge, but my younger self probably would have, and I wondered what could justify needing to carve like that. What would someone crave that would really speak to future visitors? This is what I wrote:
The poem reads:
Grafitti
Why carve your name
on a rock
on an isolated beach,
leaving nature scarred for all days?
Will anyone,
stopping to view the scene,
care that
Tammy woz here
or that Max
found a stick
just right to gouge his name?
Will they want
to know who Lizzy was
and, if they do,
will they ever
learn the truth?
But, still,
I have the urge to carve
and so I do,
leaving my words for all to see:
Contemplate, while you can.
I imagined some philosopher, wanting people to use those rocks to seize a few moments for quiet contemplation, but can also see now that that ‘while you can’ could also be a bit of a warning – ie contemplate this natural beauty while it’s still here. And it’s only while I write this post that I wonder if my imagined philosopher was also the person who, years later, left those words in the path for me to see?
So I am poeming once more – with new poems and reconnecting with older ones. – and this is good. Just in time, too, because this week I am having an ‘In Conversation’ with my amazing poet friend Rebecca Newman at Paperbird Bookshop in Fremantle. If you are nearby, drop by to hear us chat all things children’s poetry (or as much as we can fit into one session!). It’s a free event, to celebrate the end of Rebecca’s residency at Paperbird. You can book here. And, if you are across the country or across the world, I’ll share some highlights next Poetry Friday.
Phew. What a long post. I’m sure you are itching to see what other poetry goodness has popped up around the blogosphere today. the roundup is over at Reading to the Core, thanks to Catherine who is hosting this week.
I’m lucky enough to be spending a couple of days on Rottnest Island, on a writing retreat with fellow authors and illustrators. This morning I went for a long walk exploring the island – and Sage Cookson came with me.