by Petrea King
Of course, the realisation of this type of dream takes a great deal of effort from more than two people, and so it was with the Quest for Life Centre. Friends, colleagues and past patients all stepped forward to assist with accounting and other procedures, and together we created the safe harbour that I had long wished for.
In the first two years, Wendie and I lived on our paltry savings as there were insufficient funds to pay us salaries when Quest had so many pressing financial commitments. My private practice was put on hold—there weren’t enough hours in the day—while sales of my books and recordings kept us going financially; we packed orders at night after returning home from our day’s labours.
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After we’d put in so much time, money and effort, we were delighted when so many people wanted to visit our safe haven. They travelled from all over Australia and sometimes beyond to attend Quest’s programs at the Centre. These programs have evolved over the past nineteen years to meet the growing and changing needs of our communities, and the evolution hasn’t always been easy.
We hadn’t been open for very long when we were inundated with people desperate to attend our programs but unable to pay anything towards the costs. I found it painful to turn anyone away on financial grounds, but we were so busy that it was impossible to arrange any substantial fundraising in addition to the day-today running of the Centre. We could hardly expect the people who sought our assistance to be concerned with how we were funding our services. They were already preoccupied with major health or other concerns, so Quest’s precarious financial position was not on their radar.
Over the years, more than one board of the Foundation thought that the best option for solving Quest’s financial difficulties was to sell the property; from the funds left over after repaying Geoff and Clare Loudon’s loan (this was before they had gifted the property to Quest), we could tailor our services to our financial realities. Undoubtedly, this would have been the fiscally responsible thing to do, but I couldn’t bring myself to sell the property for two reasons: first, I knew how important it was to provide a safe harbour; second, I wanted to honour the enormous gesture of trust and generosity that the Loudons had made by supporting me and Quest to provide this special place.
At one stage, a whole board resigned because I refused to sell the property. Understandably, they felt that they had provided their best advice and my refusal left them little option. With my history of avoiding angry encounters at all costs, I found some of these meetings quite intimidating and stressful—but they also helped me grow as a woman and leader. I learned to stand firm and stay true to what I most valued and believed in. I am sure some board members found me infuriating at times, though I doubt any would question my dedication to the vision and ideals of Quest.
The decision to keep going, even though we couldn’t see a financially sustainable model on the horizon, meant we continued to provide our services at the Centre week by week. Often a donation would come in at a critical time to pay some outstanding invoice, and while this unpredictable income could be a little hair-raising for staff and board members, I became used to trusting that life or love would always find a way.
On one occasion, a wonderful group of women who had attended programs for cancer sufferers came to the rescue. They formed another board as well as a fundraising committee, and together we continued to provide Quest’s life-changing services.
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In the first few years, Wendie and I conducted almost all of the Quest programs. The other facilitators included Pat Moss and Peg MacLeod, a clinical psychologist who was steeped in the principles of attitudinal healing.
Wendie and I soon realised that if the Centre was to flourish long into the future, we would need to train more people to do the work that had so long preoccupied us. We focused on training others who could facilitate, counsel, massage and generally support the participants of our programs without our direct involvement.
Our staff at Quest grew to manage the administrative and practical aspects of running a large and busy centre. In time, we replaced Wendie with a centre manager so she could more fully devote herself to co-facilitating programs with me.
We loved the work and spent most of our time ensuring the success of the programs and the smooth running of the Centre. Mostly we navigated times of high financial stress together, although once or twice we agreed not to discuss Quest outside business hours as we both saw the situation so differently—especially when Wendie was ready to give up the struggle to keep the Centre open. It was painful when we had such differing perspectives, as we were always so much in accord in every other way.
Over weekly dinners, some dear friends provided us with a sounding board to our ideas and offered advice about dealing with the daily challenges of managing such an ambitious enterprise. They listened to us endlessly and supported us as we grew into the roles needed for the successful running of the Centre and its programs.
CHAPTER 38
Out and about
Wendie and I have conducted workshops in every city and in dozens of towns, both large and small, throughout our wonderful country. I’ve found good people everywhere, and it has been such a privilege to share in their struggles, their challenges and their hopes. Wendie and I, and now other facilitators, have taken Quest’s work into communities dealing with illness, depression, natural disasters and other life-sapping challenges. We’ve delivered workshops in all kinds of places, including RSL clubs, church halls, CWA rooms, community health centres, agricultural stations, churches, pubs and clubs—and in a room while jackhammers were operating outside!
The two of us were once invited to a small, remote town interstate that had been experiencing many deaths through a variety of causes. Grief was putting a strain on the whole community. Domestic violence was escalating, along with drug and alcohol abuse, depression, hopelessness, isolation and anxiety.
Out in the bush, it’s not uncommon for people to wait a long time before getting a cancer diagnosis; several people in this community had been dealing with advanced illness and had recently died in a relatively short space of time. In addition, a young farming father had crashed his small plane and died. A child had fallen off the back of a truck and been killed; a young man had tried to beat the train to the crossing without success; and there had been several suicides among farming men who had found the drought, falling stock prices, flood, then another flood, too much to bear.
I sat on a pile of hay bales in a shed while two hundred locals gathered for a two-day workshop. After we’d established the guidelines for our time together—confidentiality, listening 100 per cent, not judging, staying with our experience rather than our theories—the first man stood up and, from under his akubra hat, described how he had been planning the murder of the local police officer for two years.
A deep hush fell on the crowd as they all knew one another quite well, including the police officer in question, who was also present.
The farmer described how his young daughter had died in a dreadful accident on their farm. The police officer had taken two hours to arrive and then asked some routine questions to ensure this horrifying tragedy was indeed an accident and that neither parent was involved in any way. The distraught farmer railed at the copper for taking so long to get there. The officer responded that there hadn’t been a rush—the farmer’s daughter was already dead, and the officer had to pick his own daughter up from school before coming over. The farmer was further enraged because the officer had questioned the cause of death and was outraged he should infer that either parent could conceivably have been involved.
Clearly, the farmer had shifted his grief into rage against the police officer for what he perceived to be a callous response, though the poor officer had undoubtedly been lost for words.
At our workshop, the farmer described in detail how he intended to kill the officer. But by the end of his outpouring of emotion, they were both weeping openly in each other’s arms.
To witness such events is a
n extraordinary privilege and always leaves me humbled by the capacities of the human spirit to reconcile, forgive and heal.
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Another time, Wendie and I were asked by the Loddon Mallee Integrated Cancer Service to facilitate a series of workshops across Victoria. Illness, depression and the drought had left many families at the end of their collective tethers. We were gone from home for a month and, in that time, conducted thirty-two workshops or talks starting in Lorne, then Kyneton, Bendigo, Echuca, Kerang, Swan Hill, Mildura, Wangaratta and finally Albury. Sometimes we had two or more commitments in one day, with evening and breakfast lectures as well as all-day workshops. Plus, of course, we travelled in between.
Our motel accommodation ranged from rustic to plush, and occasionally we were housed in a beautiful B&B. The owners of one were quite nonplussed by us as a couple—they couldn’t reconcile their Christian prejudices about gay people with the fact we were so friendly and interested in them and their lifestyle, along with helping their local community. Hopefully we melted some of the judgements that cause so much unnecessary pain to people.
We had no fewer than two hundred people at every event, as resilience was low and tempers were fraying. Some events were attended by over four hundred people, many of them men, angry and frustrated with the government over water allocations. In situations where tempers were short and the atmosphere tense, I always started by naming what I thought people might be thinking: ‘Now, I know you’re probably thinking, what does a woman like me think she’s got to say to men like you? But let me share a little of my background before you make up your mind that I’m not worth listening to.’
At these times, the complexities of my life experience were of such value. I had lived on and loved the land. I knew about sheep, the value of water, cattle, fencing, droving, mustering, drought, and the despair of losing crops and stock. I understood rural communities, both their strengths and frailties.
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I have Wendie to thank for many of the skills I’ve gained to be effective in volatile environments. My habitual inclination is to run when conflict is on the horizon, while Wendie stands firm, and I am so grateful for what I’ve learned from her. Her direct approach has helped me understand how to remain available and useful in difficult circumstances, without reacting from the habitual.
We are so different from and complementary to each other, and there is a lovely story that demonstrates this contrast.
We were on one of our long driving trips, out into the desert areas of Australia, when I asked Wendie the question, ‘If the children born today were the last to be born, what do you think would happen on the planet?’
In my reflection on this question, I had played out in my mind that people would cherish each other more; they would be loving, supportive and kind to one another, considering the certainty of humanity’s limited future; they would all do what they could to rise to the occasion and face the challenge presented by the end of humanity. These could, just possibly, be the most peaceful and enlightening years on Earth.
Wendie’s response had us laughing so hard we had tears in our eyes. Her take on the idea was simply, ‘There’d be complete and utter chaos as everyone grabs whatever they can for themselves—there’d be anarchy, mayhem and murder in the streets!’
The fact that we often see things from such different perspectives has provided us with much amusement and plenty of discussion. But our values are entirely aligned, something that provides a solid foundation for any meaningful relationship.
Wendie is comfortable in the world: when she wants something out on the table, there’s no sense in trying to postpone the meal. I may as well surrender and pull up a chair. We resolve whatever it is, so we are always emotionally up to date with each other. There’s nothing left unsaid or undone between us. This leaves us free to embrace each day completely at one with each other.
Though, to continue the analogy, Simon once said of Wendie, ‘The problem with Wen is that she wants to plate up before the food’s fully cooked!’ as she swiftly focuses on all the problems that could arise with any decision or plan and usually voices these, even before she’s grasped the whole concept.
We seem to be completely co-dependent, as I am at a loss without her when I need to travel alone. I misplace and forget things, feeling discombobulated and sure that the most functional part of me is missing. She, on the other hand, doesn’t sleep unless our rescue cattle-dogs, Meg and Maxi, are beside her; she hears strange noises that only seem to occur when I am away; she finds excuses not to go to bed, and then we play online Scrabble until the wee hours. We simply don’t like being apart. Living and working together places a great strain on many couples, but we love doing everything together. We accomplish far more than most because of our shared commitment to each other and to our work, which we both find deeply meaningful.
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Our lecture and workshop tours were opportunities for us to meet some wonderful characters who truly love their land and their communities. We so appreciated the trust they placed in us when we, two strangers, arrived in their towns and laid down the four guidelines, then listened as they shared their vulnerabilities and grief, their rage and frustration, and finally worked with them to explore healthier pathways to peace.
On our tour through rural Victoria, we sold all my books and CDs at cost so we could get these practical resources out as widely as possible into struggling communities. Staff at Quest had to bring down two more full carloads of resources as we sold $45,000 worth of stock. People were hungry for anything to help them in practical and tangible ways to get to sleep, to communicate more skilfully around difficult subjects, and to manage their anxiety, anger, grief, fear and despair.
One of the dozen principles of Attitudinal Healing that Dr Jerry Jampolsky has written extensively about is: ‘I can always perceive anger in myself or in others as a call for help, rather than as an attack.’ That is a fabulous reminder to look past frayed tempers and harsh words. We can always consider an appropriate response to such outbursts, recognising we may have come close to someone’s vulnerability, rather than hurling back a defence that serves only to escalate the upset.
Given the fluctuations of a changing climate, the resilience and tenacity of people in the bush is extraordinary. We returned to some of these areas a few years later when they were dealing with the consequences of floods. Our workshops also took us to the flood-affected communities of Theodore and St George in Queensland.
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While I was conducting a workshop in the Gunnedah tourist centre, a truckie stopped off to use their facilities. He stood behind an educational display, listening in to what I was saying. He then came forward and asked if he could join us for the day—all the participants happened to be women. We welcomed him.
After the workshop, the truckie admitted to me that he’d been thinking about driving headlong into a tree or over an embankment to end his life. He had been playing out in his mind a good place for this ‘accident’ that would ensure he didn’t survive. He felt the awful pressure of the clock to deliver his loads and believed that the company he worked for regarded him merely as a commodity.
A few months later, we were relieved when he attended a program at the Centre; he has gone on to find more meaningful work in a managerial role.
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Wendie and I have been invited into many diverse communities, all of which were looking for healing and peace. We have worked with beautiful Aboriginal women from the Stolen Generations or who have been victims of domestic or institutional violence. These women often have devastating stories of trauma, abuse, grief, loss and violence—but, paradoxically, they usually laugh more than any other group. They have the most amazing sense of humour, and I’m sure it is why they have survived such appalling and inhumane treatment over the many decades since European settlement.
We’ve often had Aboriginal women attend residential programs at the Quest for Life Centre, and we always learn more from them than they c
ould ever learn from us. Our workshops provide an opportunity for them to interact in a supportive space, where together they can reflect upon what is happening in their communities and families, and develop practical strategies that might make a positive difference back home. They’re hungry to understand neuroplasticity, which is the ability to change our brain by consciously choosing new and healthier responses, along with epigenetics and how epigenetic consequences are passed on through the generations; this generational grief and trauma is a major stumbling block in the long journey towards healing and reconciliation.
Indigenous people understand the concept of connectedness better than any of us blow-ins. When Wendie and I were working with a group of Aboriginal women on the north coast of New South Wales, they described some of the ways in which they traditionally gathered their food. What to us might seem a delicacy was, for them, their daily fare—most of them had grown up eating oysters and laughed heartily when Wendie told them she’d paid $5 per oyster in a restaurant.
The women said that when the pipis were up the northern end of the beach, they would cross two rivers to the south, and they were bound to find fruit ripe and ready for eating. But, when the pipis were at the opposite end, they knew they needed to cross the mountain to the north to find nuts ready for picking, storing or eating.
This constant ‘reading’ and interpretation of the environment demonstrates a level of connectedness that most of us have long lost, though all Indigenous ancestors well understood the interconnectedness of life.
CHAPTER 39
Meetings in the ether
While travelling around the country facilitating workshops or giving lectures, I’ve been interviewed dozens of times on radio stations in every state and territory. Sometimes these interviews were conducted before Wendie and I were to run workshops in local country areas. At other times, a community had been through a particularly difficult period and the topic of resilience, or euthanasia, or dealing with death and dying or looking after carers or being aware of your mates when depression is rife would be our focus.
