Dance like nobody's watching

What’s that old saying? Dance like nobody’s watching?

Some of my earliest memories involved doing just this. My sister went to boarding school when she was six and I was three, which left me, to all intents and purposes, an only child. Back then, our music consisted of reel-to-reel tapes – big ones that you had to wind on by hand – and loving relatives in Australia would record classical concerts onto these and mail them out to India. While my parents were working, or in another part of the house, I would put these on, and, to the strains of Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Mahler, Brahms, Haydn or Chopin, I danced.

I wore one of Mum’s dresses – fifties frocks – that for me were floor sweeping ball gowns. My hair was short; I pinned an old cloth nappy (not that there were any other sort back then) over my head to create an illusion of long, lustrous locks. Then, belle of the ball as I doubtless felt I was, I swooped and glided across the cool concrete floor, lost in my own little world. Once I remember becoming aware that my mum was quietly watching me, holding very still and smiling. 

Of course there were years when I danced in public. As a teenager I rocked the night away to Madder Lake (remember 12 LB Toothbrush? Goodbye Lollipop?), to Skyhooks and Sherbet, to Billy Thorpe and the Aztecs.

When we moved to the country and my kids were little, once they were all in bed, if my husband was at a meeting, the records went on, the curtains were drawn, and I jived around the house. Dancing with nobody looking. They were good years, but hard work, and the dance let my spirit fly. There was a lightness in my chest, an excitement, an elation, as I flew around the house to John Fogarty and early Bruce Springsteen, Tracy Chapman, Rodriguez, Tom Petty and Joe Jackson.

I’ve kept doing this over the years, and now that our nest is almost empty, I can indulge my passion for audience-free dancing more easily. Except that middle age has intervened and since a torn cartilage and knee surgery a few months ago, I cannot risk anything with twists and turns and sudden movements. Prudently, I stick to walking in straight lines.

Not long after I’d had my injury, we were at a wedding of Tongan friends. I watched those crazy Tongans, no warm up or consumption of alcohol or dim lights required, just jumping up and dancing the minute the music started, all of them, from little kids to seriously old ladies, and I nursed my sore knee and felt a pang, felt stuffy and boring and old.

There’s a kind of ecstasy (in the traditional sense of the word) about dancing. Speed and physical movement and wild music setting your heart alight. The Sufis know this, with their whirling dervishes who attain spiritual heights through dance. I’ve always been a sit still and pray person myself, but I can imagine how it works.

Maybe one day I will get back to dancing, increasing age notwithstanding. Or maybe not. But I have the memories of it to make me smile. Memories starting with a small girl in her mum’s dress with a nappy pinned to her head, dancing to Brahms and Mozart in a high ceilinged room. 

Fast track to compassion

Sometimes I think of myself as a book addict. At the library, I am like a kid in a candy shop. I go to pick up one particular book I have reserved, and I walk out staggering under kilos of volumes that I simply cannot resist. No matter how sternly I remind myself that I will have to carry them home and back again, that my bedside table is already groaning under a weight of books it will take me weeks to get through, I leave with more books than I intended. It’s as though something in me fears that when I come back next fortnight, all the books I want will have disappeared, and I need to grab them now. One of the most luxurious, bountiful and delicious things in the world is my awareness that I will never run out of wonderful things to read.

Not just an addict; I’m a chain reader too. Chain smokers light up a fresh (if you can use that word in relation to tobacco) cigarette with the fag end of their last; I put one book down and search desperately for what my next indulgence can be.

Last night, however, I finished a book and felt so soulful, so humbled, so utterly absorbed in the world of the story that I had to simply go to bed and lie quietly till sleep claimed me. It would have felt blasphemous to do anything else.

All that I am by Australian author Anna Funder has rightly been lauded as a masterpiece. It tells the story – new to me – of a small group of Germans between the world wars who could see what would happen if the Nazis came to power and tried to stop them. In the 1930s they were forced to flee to England, where they continued to try and raise awareness of the threat Hitler posed to the whole civilized world. They took great risks to do so and were largely ignored. With the benefit of hindsight, it is a heartbreaking read, reminding me of how subtle and insidious evil can be.

It is fiction; loosely based on real characters but largely invented by Funder herself. It brings to life the stories of two of the women in the Resistance, although it was their men who craved and received the limelight. As well as the narrative of those tumultuous and terrifying times, there is an intimate story of friends and lovers, trust and betrayal. It is a novel with everything.

I couldn’t resist scribbling down quotes from All that I am. Here is one:

‘The girl sits down at the table, side-on to me. Clara Bergdorf has been working with me for five weeks. She is a rare soul, with whom silences of whole minutes are calm. The time is neither empty, nor full of anticipatory pressure. It expands. It makes room for things to return, to fill my empty heart.’

Or how about this:

‘People often have to be alone to think or write, but being with Dora wasn’t like being with another person. We rarely made eye contact. I orbited her chair, eyed without seeing how her hair was cut soft into her nape, the gloss of it. To be with Dora was to be relieved of the burden of my self. This is the trick of creative work: it requires a slip-state of being, not unlike love. A state in which you are both most yourself and most alive and yet least sure of your own boundaries, and therefore open to everything and everyone outside of you. The two of us threw ideas and words around until we had carved a new way forward for the world – clearer and surer and nobler than had ever been done before. Then, elated, we went to bed, whatever the time of day.’ 

Funder’s novel reminded me of one reason I value reading – because it takes me into another’s head and heart, another’s world. The past is another country, another country is another country, every other person on the planet is a foreign planet to me, and there’s only one way I can visit. I would argue that reading a sensitively written book is as every bit as effective a way of broadening ones mind and heart as travel, not to mention less expensive and productive of greenhouse gases.

Reading about the terrors and restrictions of Germany as the Nazis took control made me treasure the freedoms we so often take for granted and resolve to defend those freedoms should they be threatened. It also revealed parallels between that situation and our own - boatloads of refugees from the Nazis were callously turned away from America, pretty much as happens in Australia today. 

Reading with an open heart is a fast track to compassion, which is the virtue I crave above all others. I can’t put this better than Funder herself, and here is one last, my favourite quote:

‘Imagining the life of another is an act of compassion as holy as any.’

The wonderful thing about being an introvert

The wonderful thing about being an introvert is that you don’t need anyone else to have a good time. 

In last Saturday’s arts section of The Melbourne Age, there was a review of a book by one Susan Cain, Quiet: the power of introverts in a world that can’t stop talking. Quoting extensively from introvert Virginia Woolfe, the reviewer (and, presumably, the author) argues that Western society in this ‘era of shrill narcissism’ – I loved that – rewards extroverts. 

‘Cain believes that contemporary capitalism has mistakenly seen extroversion as the path to betterment; a road of fire-walking Anthony Robbinson-reading actors, their bleached teeth lighting the way to love, happiness and wealth. Exemplified by Dale Carnegie’s How to win friends and influence people, the extrovert ideal grew alongside an industrial, urban society in which the manipulation and management of massed strangers was necessary.’ 

Despite coming from a fairly reserved family, I felt inadequate for years, on account of my deep introversion. The fact that I had no idea what this was or that I possessed it, made it no less guilt inducing.

As a small child I dreaded parties. As a teenager I went on summer holidays where I spent my time reading on deserted beaches, trying to escape the crowds of my more sociable peers. As a young wife, I felt terrible about dreading the parties my husband so enjoyed and resentful of him for coping so well with what I experienced as an ordeal.

It wasn’t till we had been together some years that we worked out that he was an extrovert and I was not. Suddenly we realised that no one was at fault here. We were just different.

As a teenager and young woman I probably came across in company as an extrovert. I was capable of projecting a bubbly personality. I can still turn this on when required – at social functions, with strangers, in front of a crowd, public speaking. And introverts often love being with other people, just not too many. One of my favourite things is having deep one to one chats over coffee, or to have two or three people for a long dinner complete with rambling, intense conversations.

But the cardinal test for extro/introversion is whether you replenish your inner resources by being with others or by yourself. 

I am such an introvert, I get tense when I have to walk past people in the street and will cross the road to avoid doing so. It’s as though there’s a force field emanating from other people that depletes me. I love travelling on my own. I love going to the movies on my own. For exercise I walk on my own – why would you sully perfectly good time alone by exercising with others? Needless to say, I have never participated in team sport by choice. If I were in gaol and they wanted to really punish me, solitary confinement would not work. They would have to put me in a room full of talkative people to really make me suffer.

When I do have to do the party thing too much, and I can do it reasonably well, it takes its toll. I feel a profound, bone-deep weariness that is beyond anything I experience from physical effort. I grow not just irritable, but downright nasty. I am in good company: speaking of Virginia Woolfe, the book review writes, ‘…this false extroversion often had a price: exhaustion, depression, illness’.

With the increased confidence of middle age, however, I am learning not only to manage, but even to rejoice in my introversion. I try to pace myself – not that this is always possible, but often it is. People actually understand the excuse of not being a party person more readily than I have given them credit for in the past. Recently I went to a do where no less than three separate people greeted me with the words, ‘Clare, what are you doing here? It’s a party!’

There are great things about being an introvert. There’s so much going on inside my head and heart that I don’t need much external stimulation. I can spend days and nights alone and be perfectly content. As long as I can sleep, walk, read and write, I am happily occupied. Even without books and a computer, I can stare out a window for a long time without getting bored. I suspect it’s much easier for introverts to be contemplatives.

Some of my best friends are extroverts. I love the way they are and the excitement and colour they bring into my life. But it’s liberating, in my middle years, to feel I am fine and have something to offer just being who I am.

A new writing experience - attention in cyberspace

This week brought a new experience for me as a writer. I have been trying for months to get a post on mamamia.com.au, the popular blog of writer and editor Mia Freedman.

I finally made it last Sunday with a contribution on the wearing (or not) of makeup. Which was a massive thrill of course. As was the barrage of comments my piece received – 221 at last count. As a person who gets excited when she has three comments on a blog post, this was overwhelming, initially in a positive way. After a while I wasn’t so sure, as the tone of many of the comments was, if not downright nasty, then defensive to say the least.

Still, you know what they say about any publicity – and that’s what I told myself when I was feeling a little vulnerable and exposed. If I put myself out there, I need to be tough enough to cope with the flak.

If you’re interested, here’s the link:

http://www.mamamia.com.au/style/eyeliner-is-the-only-thing-in-my-make-up-kit/

Crowds and clouds at the G

It’s years since I’ve been to the footy. I’ve never been a serious fan, but for a while there, footy attendance was a regular part of my life. Last Sunday, I went to pay tribute to Jim Stynes, and found myself swamped with nostalgia.

Jimmy was a big part of our lives in the 90s. We had just moved to Melbourne from the country, and our kids, aged eight to one were of an age to get interested in the football. Our second, a son, rugged individual that he was, followed Essendon; the rest of us went for Melbourne with varying degrees of passion.

That was Jimmy’s decade. He never missed a match, and we watched him week after week. Our oldest, a daughter, wore a Melbourne jumper with Jimmy’s number 11 stitched on the back. We went to a MFC family day at Luna Park and, in between rides, chatted to Jimmy and David Neitz, Shaun Smith and Adam Yze, Garry Lyon and our favourite – the Wizard, aka Jeff Farmer.

We had another good reason to go to the footy. My parents lived on Hoddle Street, a short walk from The G. We parked at their place, caught up with them and then walked to the match, laden with back packs full of food for six – packets of home brand chips, apples, fruit cake, tetra packs of juice and a thermos of coffee for the grown ups.

Needless to say, we took the footy, and all the way the kids and their dad played kick to kick along the quiet, East Melbourne lanes. We had red and blue jumpers, beanies and scarves in abundance, and those little flags that threatened, every time, to put someone’s eye out 

The rule was that we didn’t start eating till quarter time, and after the match, the family would pour onto the ground with the rest of the excited crowd and play kick to kick again. I watched from the stands, mesmerised by the arcs created by multiple footballs, and the seagulls swooping between them.

A check in with the grand-parents and then home in the heavy, post-footy traffic, listening to the post-match commentaries all the way, our scarves flying out the car windows.

Last weekend it was just my husband and me. Dad no longer lives in Hoddle St, so we parked with thousands of other cars in the paddock surrounding the MCG, and all we took for sustenance was a bottle of water. The ground itself has changed since I was there. We used to walk up interminable concrete ramps and stairs to the top; now there are escalators that ascend smoothly past tasteful décor.

The Stynes tribute was beautifully done; the highlight for me being David Bridie’s soulful rendition of ‘Oh Danny Boy’. I thought, as I have numerous times since Jimmy’s death, of what a relief it is to have a sportsman in the news for admirable reasons – a role model in the true sense of the word.

Then the match began. It was vintage Dees, alas. Apart from ten glorious minutes in the third quarter when we piled on goal after goal and caught up with the Bulldogs, it was pretty miserable.

Unlike my husband, who is a true believer, I didn’t really mind. I sat there happily, drinking in the memories of all the matches I had attended over 17 years of living in Melbourne. I had forgotten the living roar that rises from the stands, the power of a groan uttered by every one of 30,000 spectators when a player lands awkwardly on his neck, the held breath of 30,000 as they wait to see whether he will get up of his own accord. 

I had forgotten the furious cry, ‘Ball!’ which seems to be what fans get most upset about, closely followed by ‘In the back!’ I had forgotten how the umpire really does get blamed for everything, the quaint but ferociously yelled ‘You bloody mongrel umpire!’ that was about the most vulgar utterance I heard last Sunday.

I had forgotten that though feelings run high, there is seldom violence between spectators, and that supporters of both teams sit happily in the stands together; a state of affairs that would not be possible for the soccer crowds in Europe and the UK.

Most of all, I’d forgotten the different reasons my husband and I go to watch a football match. I was fascinated by the crowd; the remarkably good looking family in the row in front of us – a father and several adult children, the antics of the kids sitting just behind, the weird guy close by who kept shouting ‘Nathan Jones, I love your bald head!’ 

Even more than crowd watching, the weather provided an endless sound and light show. Last Sunday we had thunder and lightning, rain and sunshine – at one point both at once, as it poured on half the G while the other half was dry. For a few minutes, a glowing double rainbow hung in the heavens for Jimmy, and as the sun set, a series of lurid pink clouds blew across the sky, only metres above where we were sitting at the top of the stands.

‘Look at the clouds, just look at them, they’re fabulous,’ I kept urging my husband who, every time, replied tersely, ‘I’m not here to look at the clouds!’ Finally, to keep me quiet I suppose, he said he’d look at half time. By half time the sunset was long gone, but there was still a spectacular show provided by the MCG lights reflecting off the bellies of the soaring seagulls, sharp and bright against the deep grey of the sky.

It’ll probably be a while before I go to the footy again. The treat of an entire Sunday afternoon with the house to myself is irresistible. But I went home happy – a lot happier than the die-hard Dees fan. A tear of sorrow and gratitude for Jimmy, memories of a hectic but precious time in our lives. And a breath-taking panorama of clouds.