Continental Drift

Today marks 6 months of living, working, and raising children in Australia. I’ve been sick for half of it.

01/09/22.

The super flu came for us in June, bringing three months of fever and fatigue into our East Melbourne apartment. It pushed Australian teachers, childcare centres, and everyone caring for vulnerable people to the edge. It left all five feet and two inches my body depleted and weary. My children were absent from school for four weeks between them, which meant sleepless nights and delirious days in apartment 703. A few of my colleagues got sick, too. We even started ‘going on mute to cough,’ which worries me as I recall how ordinary it felt to work while ill.

Tonsilitis followed. It missed my kids (thank God) but took full advantage of my weakened immune system. A sore throat on a Friday afternoon became an inability to swallow on Saturday, and a home consultation with a doctor by Sunday morning. I was hoping he’d arrive with a leather doctor’s bag, like in the movies. Instead, he had an iPhone, a pad of paper, and a set of medical tools in a waterproof tote. We sat at the dining table while he inspected the white spots at the back of my throat. I was too distracted by an oil stain I’d forgotten to wipe up to hear what he said exactly about penicillin and rest.

By the time I tested positive for Covid in July I was too tired to panic. When they say something’s gotta give they’re talking about the ground beneath your feet. In August my body slid into the magma and returned to me raw and unfamiliar. Although I’m much better now I still feel frail in Melbourne’s cold wind, like it might pick me up to lighten the load.

11/09/22.

I made it through my first southern hemisphere winter in 13 years, although the in-between season is still heavy with clouds. When the sun does manage to escape, breathtaking light falls over the country between our building and the Dandenong Ranges. No picture can do it justice but I still take as many of them as I can. From our wraparound balcony I can see into the neighbour’s yard below. They have trees, tiny flowers, a wooden picnic table, and gardening tools. Due west, the buildings in Melbourne’s CBD throw the sun back towards the mountains. East of us, the Flinders-bound train curls around Richmond like a pencil gently drawing a circle. It will eventually run parallel to the 48 & 75 trams on Wellington, which are empty most days but packed when the footy’s on. I rarely leave our leafy corner of town during the work week but that doesn’t mean I don’t get to taste the air. My daily walk is a tour around the three nearby parks, with a pit stop at the local coffee shop. It’s a 5 kilometre route in total. On a recent walk I got caught in the rain a few minutes after leaving the house. I was the only person at Yarra Park that afternoon; a tiny dot under the elm trees. I pulled my hood over my head, took a picture of a wet Wominjeka sign, and waited for the light to return.

I accept that there is no fate and there are no cosmic signs but I’m still attached to the idea of grand lessons. As far as I understand, when the Wurundjeri people say wominjeka, they do not mean welcome. The word summons us to come with purpose. Without it, something’s gotta give.

I respectfully acknowledge the Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung people of the eastern Kulin Nations, who are the Traditional Owners of the land on which I write. I pay my respects to their Elders past, present, and emerging.

Turn this up in your headphones and go walking in the rain.