Rocky road
Despair and depression are very real and are commonly experienced by stroke survivors and their carers. It is a difficult task to be optimistic and not lose sight of hope. However, life was not meant to be easy. We are here to learn, and our lessons are in how we manage to overcome the obstacles set before us. We have to accept each new challenge as it is presented to us. We need to see them as a means of progressing along the path to become the best self we can be. An obstacle can be a stepping stone rather than a blockage. It all depends on my attitude and my point of view.
I see in my mind’s eye the path before me. I need to watch each step I take and where I place my feet. The path is uneven and rocky and the landscape is shrouded by a thick mist. There is a second path, gently sloping down to the left. This trail is smooth and inviting and looks the easier one to negotiate. However, I know this facade is deceptive. Beyond my view the path quickly spirals down to a dark and dismal place, a cavern full of despair, depression and blackness. I have been there before and know how difficult it is to extract oneself from its talons. Just as the Sirens beckoned the weary sailors of Ancient Greece onto the rocks and to their demise we can be enticed into its web of deceit. I know that I do not belong there and I must fight against the dreadful fatigue that I experience. Although it is tempting to give into the seduction of relaxing my control over my body and allowing passivity and negativity to take over it is not the ideal solution. I know how much energy it takes to drag oneself from the deep well of despair and emerge again into the light.
My path winds uphill to the right. I know that as soon as I break through the fog that surrounds me now, I shall see clearly. The road ahead will expand before me, and with determination and continuing dedication I shall achieve my goal.
I have found my own solution to overcoming despair, and that is passion. By being enthusiastic about my family, my friends and my hobbies, I can keep my spirits elevated. Each time I begin to feel low and am tempted to take that left path, I know just where to go – to our beautiful garden at Warburton. Here I can be re-energized and revitalized in this peaceful sanctuary. I believe I have the power to heal myself, I just have to find the way to do it.
Healing does not necessarily mean full recovery and eliminating all my deficits. It is the process of coming to terms with them, accepting them and moving forward. I needed to place less emphasis on what I could not do and more on what I could achieve when I challenged myself. The shady fern glades and the sound of the little creek babbling down through our garden provided the ideal backdrop.
Sanctuary
Each time I went to Warburton to stay, I felt stronger and more alive. Planning and designing new garden beds, and creating more breathing space for the already established plants gave me the opportunity to delight in nature and at the same time to be one with it. Together we could achieve so much.
My enthusiasm and passion for the garden diminished the pain in my brain as my mind was filled with visions of new gardens surrounding the large mature trees. The smell of the damp earth, the perfume of the roses and the colours and textures of the many plants were indeed heady. They all succeeded in overwhelming my senses and gave me a new lease on life.
From the front gate the gravel driveway winds its way towards the Devon-style cottage centrally placed in the garden. The cottage has a steeply pitched roof covered in grey slate-like tiles and projecting from the roof are two sets of dormer windows. Various plants border the drive and beyond them one can see the tall eucalypts rising high above the rhododendrons, camellias and hydrangea bushes. A pathway opens up beside the driveway and meanders through the double archway of clematis and wisteria to arrive at a sunken garden. A magnificent weeping Japanese maple with its long red feathery leaves is the centrepiece here, and edging this area are cherry trees and old fashioned rose bushes.
The garden drops down and away in a series of gentle slopes. A flight of wooden steps leads the visitor to the lowest level where the water lily and iris pond is fed by our little brook. The perfume emanating from the creamy heads of the tall ginger plants is almost overwhelming as we brush past their slender stalks and wander through the twisting trails between the tree ferns.
‘To everything is a season
And a time to every purpose under heaven A time to sow and a time to reap’
There is time in my garden for each inhabitant to be in the spotlight and shine in this small microcosm of the world. Every plant has the chance to take the limelight and bask in its glory before another takes its place. In July the first of the camellias put on their showy display. The early spring bulbs, snowdrops, jonquils and daffodils follow quickly competing with each other for our attention. Spring heralds all the cottage flowers, honesty, love-in-the-mist, and granny’s bonnets to mention just a few, as well as the rhododendrons and azaleas. The blossom trees and magnolias fight for supremacy and as summer approaches the hydrangeas come into their own. As autumn draws near the leaves on the many maple trees add a riot of colour and beneath their boughs the Japanese anenomes sway gracefully in the breeze. The rose bushes produce their blooms through spring and summer and the air is heavy with their perfume. The garden is a mass of colour throughout the year.
Around every corner is another vista, another surprise. It is like taking a journey of discovery. One has to explore each winding path and each level to find all its treasures. Over the little bridges that span the creek one can even find fairies at the bottom of our garden. Beneath the tree ferns in the deep shade, there they sit. Along this side of the bank red and white spotted toadstools can be found, and the grandchildren know not to touch them for these are the fairies’ homes.
I feel that we are the custodians of this place, rather than the owners, as the garden itself dictates what it is and how it shall grow. I really have no authority here. I stroll around and try to see where I can assist the plants, rather than trying to force my will on these living inhabitants. A small prune is needed here, the clearing a round a rose bush to give it more breathing space – these are my assigned jobs to do. This is indeed my secret garden to share with all my friends.
Here in the garden my thoughts return to a song we sang at a Girl Guide camp all those years ago. We would be sitting cross-legged around the campfire with the shadowy silhouettes of the majestic gum trees in the background behind us. We listened to the final chords of the native birds’ twilight chorus before we would raise our voices in song to rival our feathered friends:
Peace, I ask of thee, O river Peace, peace, peace
When I learn to live serenely Cares will cease
From thy hills I gather courage Vision of the day to be
Strength to lead and faith to follow All are given unto thee Peace I ask of thee, O river Peace, peace, peace.
Part 9
Rock art
I had promised our daughter Fiona and her husband Paul when they moved to North America that I would visit them each year. I devoured all the travel brochures to discover the best places to visit and the ideal time to travel. The Grand Canyon, the big drain, as it is affectionately named and surrounding region was calling me and early June seemed ideal. The temperature should not rise above 35ºC and with an air-conditioned bus to ride in, I believed I could cope with the heat. Graham had enough frequent flyer points to secure an economy class seat for me and I flew to Los Angeles by myself, carrying the obligatory items of survival for two Australians living in the USA.
There was barely enough room in my luggage to squeeze in a few pairs of shorts and tops for myself. The remaining space in the case was filled with jars of Vegemite and Crunchy Peanut Butter. While bottles of Australian wine and several packets of Cherry Ripes, Flakes, and Tim Tams fought for room in my overnight bag. Just the essential items that Fi had not been able to purchase in America. Her email shopping lists became longer and longer as the day of my departure drew nearer.
To this day I did not remember much of the flight. Although it was not the first time I had
traveled alone overseas, it was my first journey since the stroke ten months earlier. Concern about how I would survive the journey and what would happen if I had another stroke in flight kept me anxious. No one around me knew of my medical history. I wondered how difficult it would be to indicate to strangers if I did have a stroke and lost my speech. I had to keep strong and concentrate on being calm and stress free. I counted the hours until touchdown in Los Angeles and saw the friendly faces of family waiting for me.
We spent the first week just enjoying each other’s company. We then flew to Las Vegas to begin our tour of ten days. We visited Zion National Park, Bryce Canyon, Checker Board Mesa, The Grand Staircase Esclante, Anasazi State Park, Capitol Reef, Lake Powell, Goblin Valley, Arches National Park Canyon Lands, Monument Valley and the Grand Canyon.
The delicately carved spires and towers at Bryce Canyon were a highlight. Their shades, from deep apricot to pale cream, formed a sharp contrast to the dark green fir trees and the smoky blue of the distant ranges. We were up at dawn that morning for a hike through the canyon. Although it was cool as we began our descent, the temperature within the canyon rises dramatically as the day moves on, hence the need for our early start. The light from the early morning sun created fiery colours and deep red shadows on the fairy castles.
The narrow path cut into the side of the canyon wall zig-zagged down into the depths far below us. There were no handrails and no steps, just a series of steep slopes. Fiona with her long legs and youth on her side made swift work of the descent. For me it was a different story. I had hung my water bottle, essential equipment for any desert excursion, onto the back of my shorts’ belt. My camera was tucked into the front of my shirt so I could have both hands free and more importantly that I had a clear unobstructed view of my legs and feet.
It was a slow and tortuous journey as I gingerly moved forward one foot in front of the other supporting myself with my hands flat against the canyon wall. With each step I took, small pebbles dislodged themselves from the path and created mini avalanches beneath my feet. Walking on level ground or uphill was not so difficult for me to achieve. However, a downward slope always made me nervous. No longer could I concentrate on pushing my weight down through my leg to my knee and onto my heel, thus keeping my centre of gravity balanced. Now the force of my weight rested on my right toes. Toes that my brain considered did not exist. I never knew whether I was balanced or not and if my right foot was about to slip out from under me.
Every zig on the way down had my right hand on the outside edge of the path to the depths below. At least every zag was a little safer as my right hand could touch the wall and I had less chance of a false step sending me over the edge. It was my sheer determination to reach the bottom that kept me going. The desire to explore the floor of the canyon and experience the view from below kept me cautious and overcame my fear of slipping and falling. Slowly and surely I made my descent.
The journey was well worth the trouble. It was cool and pleasant walking around the bases of these beautiful spires and I was reminded of the magnificent cathedrals I had seen in Italy. The silence also added to the ambience of the environment. This was an incredible place for worship, the soaring rosy coloured pillars reaching up to the deep blue dome of the heavens above and the soft subdued light surrounding us. It was an architectural masterpiece executed without the hand of man in any of its planning.
I would probably not advice anyone in my condition to undertake this hazardous journey without due thought. But I will never forget the peacefulness and serenity that overwhelmed me and now have another memory to hold for the rest of my life. I had achieved one more goal on my path through life.
We knew before we started our descent into the canyon that it would take us three times longer to retrace our steps back to the top, as it was so steep. The ascent was without incident. I had no trouble keeping an eye on my right foot and climbing up the steep grade was achieved with a minimum of fuss.
We visited the rock faces at Capitol Reef and saw the pictographs and rock carvings left by the Anasazi, the earliest inhabitants of this area. Images of spacemen with large heads, etched into the desert varnish, a black growth that covers the rock face, or chipped into the sandstone, were still visible five hundred years later. These carvings were the only evidence left of Those that came before, the title given to them by their descendants, the local North American Indians.
Fi and I decided we had to experience sunset on the high plateau of the Canyonlands. Our tour leader organized one of the locals, a young ex-marine to escort us there, along with another Australian couple. There was not a lot of room in his small jeep, so Fiona and I took it in turns, to sit on the back mudguard, holding onto the roll bar for dear life, as we bumped over the gravel roads. At each lookout we would tumble out to take in the scenery and absorb the atmosphere.
As the sun set over this area, various formations became bathed in golden light, while the dark purple shadows created eerie patterns. We felt we were the only ones watching this performance as the silence was complete. The flat topped mesas, named the Islands in the Sky, emerged through the mists below basked in the changing light and reflected back the pinks, oranges and fiery reds as the sun slipped below the horizon. It was all and more than we could have asked for. We were transported by the glory of the earth and celebrated that we were part of it. We stayed until the last vestiges of colour faded from the sky and then made our descent in the darkness.
Each day there was a new experience and a new landscape to view as we saw the incredible grandeur of the rocks and the canyons. Our fellow travellers, mostly British, teased me about my enthusiasm. Each time the bus stopped for another photo shoot or a trek to an interesting site, I was the first off the bus, camera at the ready. I did not tell them that I needed a running start just to keep up with the group. Comments floated up to me that my legs were strong and sturdy and that I must be an experienced bush walker. I just smiled my secret smile and kept on going. I was pleased that they could not see my deficits and were not aware of the pain I was experiencing as the temperature soared.
I quickly earned the reputation of being the mad Aussie woman. I was the only one on the tour silly enough to rush out of the bus when we were caught in a snowstorm. I had to take some photos of the snow laden trees and nothing was going to stop me. Least of all that I was wearing shorts and it was freezing cold.
The Grand Canyon was so wide, so deep and so long that it was hard to appreciate its vastness. The helicopter flight over the canyon was incredible. We flew like birds from one rim to the other and followed the Colorado River on its tortuous journey through this giant crevasse. It gave me a sense of freedom to soar, to bank and glide. Afterwards as we walked along the south rim and we saw the condors circling above us, my heart flew up to join them.
At Moab, in Utah, we visited an art gallery showcasing Native American art. We were impressed by the sensitivity and skill of these artists. The connection linking them to their homelands and their interpretation of this was very moving. Fi and I were attracted to a collection of white pottery with grey shadowy figures chasing each other through a misty landscape, evoking images of the Anasazi, the ancient ones, whose rock art was all that remained of their existence.
We had plenty of light-hearted moments during our time together. Fi did not like the cold and I could not tolerate the heat. Each night as we settled into our motel room we would go through the same procedure. Fiona would turn the air conditioner off and I would strip my bed. She would add my blankets and spread to her bedcovers leaving me with just a sheet. Then Fiona would don thermal long johns and jacket and socks, while I would dress down to almost nothing. During the night, Fi would add jackets and extra clothing to cover her, while I would drape myself in wet towels to reduce the heat I felt in my body. One night we were offered a room with only one large bed in it, but we refused. We were just too incompatible to share it.
The trip was even better than I had dreamed it could be. The colours
were richer, the shadows deeper, the texture more incredible. Nature’s palette of shades seemingly endless in the changing light throughout the day.
Fiona and I had a wonderful time together and it was soon time to return to Australia. With less than a day to recover from jetlag, we welcomed our second eldest daughter Sandra, and her three little girls into our home. The family had moved to Samoa to live and this was the first chance in six months that we had to see them. The house rang gleefully with girlish giggles and the sounds of little feet. Their three week visit passed quickly, and a few days after they returned home, Fiona unexpectedly arrived in Melbourne to finalize her thesis for her PhD. We enjoyed our time together and compared our skills at photographing canyons. By the time we had waved goodbye to Fiona at Tullamarine, it was time for Graham and I to pack for our visit to Samoa.
Vulcan
Samoa is a small independent nation situated in the South Pacific Ocean and is the cradle of the Polynesian culture. First settled in 1000BC from migrating groups from South East Asia, the residents then spread to other islands of Polynesia including Hawaii, Tahiti, and New Zealand. Europeans first came to Samoa in the late 1700s. Ships began to call at Samoa for supplies and escaped convicts, seamen and whalers settled on the islands. However, it was the Christian missionaries in the early 1800s who changed the culture so dramatically. The old Saomoan religion of war gods and goddesses disappeared rapidly in the face of Christianity, helped considerably by an old legend that the war goddess, Nafanua, had predicted that a new religion would come to Samoa and end the old gods rule and influence.
The country consists of two main islands and a scattering of small islets surrounding them. Apia is the capital of Samoa and is the only town with a population of over thirty thousand people. The remaining one hundred and thirty thousand live in small villages scattered around the coastline. Each village consists of its collection of traditional houses – fales – on raised platforms with thatched roofs and no walls and a substantial European – styled church dominating the scene.
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