too much of everything

sunday October 9th

Back from two weeks of school hols spent up the coast. A rather exhausting holiday, though there were many delightful moments too. Can you have too many good times? I think so. Too many nice people, too many lively dinners and lunches and breakfasts and conversations. 

We had two different families at the beach house, staying with us from Victoria (September hols up here are always popular with the Southerners). All of them much-loved old friends and their children. We went walking on the beach and through the National Park and through the rainforest and down to the waterfall. We canoed up the river, played ukuleles, sang songs, chatted about our lives, rolled about laughing playing charades after dinner, sat round a fire with kids toasting marshmallows. 

We parents got sentimental watching our gorgeous long-legged suddenly-teenagers playing volleyball together. The photos show us all having a wonderful time. 

Seems ridiculous to complain of such an abundance of blessings. Yet somehow in the midst of it all, I yearned for a moment of solitude, of quiet and reflective time. I felt wobbly, a bit off-centre. Like I needed to withdraw into a quiet inner cave for a while, instead of being so out there, hospitable, engaging with everyone.

We went up a day before the end of term for Michael’s farewell event  - funeral/ memorial service. It was held in the ampitheatre beside the lake in the botanical gardens on a fine spring day. 

D and I joined with a small gospel choir at the beginning to sing Shine On Me. A sweet and tearful moment as Z , now a widow - what a strange new word for her - sang with us. 

Then a succession of people got up to speak, sing, play musical instruments, tell stories. Michael’s daughter A played the flute, and recited ‘Do Not Go Gentle’, by Dylan Thomas, who was Welsh like Michael. 

We heard about M’s intense working life in drug and alcohol rehab. People we'd never met made their tributes. One of his old patients, an ex-addict with an amazing voice had everyone almost in tears singing ‘Amazing Grace’.  Then a young GP - Michael’s local doctor for the last decade -  spoke of their lively debates about modern and alternative medicine. 

D spoke about how affirming it felt  as a younger man to have the approval and love of an older man, which brought more tears. We heard a recording of an old skit from The Goon Show - a favourite of Michael’s - which made everyone laugh.

After - I want to say ‘the show’ rather than ‘the service’ or ‘the funeral’ - we had lunch in the shelter by the lake, a place where, over the years, many of us had been for various picnics and kids’ birthday parties.

The wake, back at the house, was quite a party. When we finally got home to the beach house late that night, the first of our Melbourne visitors had already settled in there. I’d barely had time to get their beds together - the house was still half packed up after being painted. There were boxes of stuff in the corridor, and paintings waiting to be re-hung stacked against walls.  

I guess that’s part of why the time up there felt so full-on. No time to even get the house in order, let alone to reflect on Michael’s death, or on anything much. Too much sociability. Much as I loved hanging out with everyone. 

Today, second-last day of the school hols, we are home. All three of us have been peacefully pottering about, barely even speaking to eachother. Unpacking, messing around on the ukulele, pulling a few weeds out of the garden, flicking through the newspaper, doing a bit of laundry. I can feel myself  coming back together. I’m even looking forward to the rhythms of term-time routine.