TWO WORLDS DIVERGING

Thwack, thwack, thwack, echoes off the church walls as I am jettisoned along the street at high speed in a Sims shopping trolley; with a broken wheel, my legs spayed out the front, screaming in exhilaration. The car is turning into the carpark as we swing around in a vortex that no one seems to have control of anymore. There are screams, my screams, and laughter, uncontrollable hysteria as the alcohol and mystery tablet I swallowed earlier begin to kick in. Suddenly there is a crash…the trolley rolls and I am unceremoniously delivered by my trolley driver on the ground in front of my parents as they step out of the car.

Time to pull it together as we stagger inside the hall to complete the formal part of the evening, the traditional 21st speeches and presenting of the fake wooden key, that will later be filled with silly jibes from drunken party goers. As we stand there in front of friends and family, somewhere in the back of my mind I feel panic growing. My boyfriend, who shared the homemade tabs has disappeared. According to his friend he had a bad reaction. There’s a wild cheer as the carving knife shears into the cake. The panic dissolves as I embrace my parents and sister. Oh, what an awesome night we’re having, a crazy, fun night with friends and family. ‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you……’

Chooks are out, pony feed and it’s time to head back up to the house to make everyone breakfast. ‘Come on Rommel, I’ll give you a run for your money’. I take off at a leisurely pace with Rommel our Deer Hound Cross excitedly bounding around me. We pick up pace uphill, which is impressive at my age. Rommel’s impressed too. I have a sudden surge of youthful enthusiasm; I can still run like the wind. Look, look at me go, faster, faster. ‘Rommel, look out, don’t, Oh shit’. Crash. I hit the ground full pelt. I put my hands up for protection, but you wouldn’t think so by the cuts all over my face and body. Managed to jam quartz rocks into places I didn’t think possible. It’s going to be a sad and sore few days.

Exhausted from bar hopping in Byron till the early hours, we’re relaxing on the balcony of the youth hostel, sharing a joint and staring at the stars. Fits of laughter as we remember the evening; the old timer who fell off his stool at the bar; the drunken woman provocatively gyrating around him and his mate, as her skirt shimmied up her body showing far more than any of us needed to see. One, two, three, we count twelve shooting stars throughout the night as we lay there sharing stories, laughing, not a care in the world.

Where does he hide it? I know it’s here somewhere. I clamber through my 18-year-old sons’ cupboards and desk, until, ‘ah, ha’, I grab the tobacco, papers and filters and sneak out to the lounge like a teenager sneaking alcohol out of their parent’s fridge. The thrill of doing something naughty is exhilarating. I wait until the house is dark, everyone’s gone to bed. I carefully roll the cigarette and take it outside to enjoy. The stars look amazing, the sense of abandon, of feeling unbridled, it’s intoxicating. As I draw back on the rollie I dance naked under the stars. Life is wonderful, life is freedom. My hands swing about as I silently hum a tune and prance around amongst the tufts of grass and rocks. Suddenly I feel strange, confused, blurry. Need to sit for a minute. What the hell am I smoking. Very dark, can’t see, but the patio is just he…. Crash. Where? What? Shit! I’ve face planted in the gravel. Taken a good chunk from my face. Turns out to just be a massive nicotine rush.‘This’ll be a strange one to have to explain at work tomorrow.

The air is thick with odd smells, heat, exhaustion and the thumping sounds of the Park Rangers cutting their way through the vegetation with machetes. We have been struggling through the jungle for hours now, with only skerrick’s of evidence that the gorillas have been in the area. Finally, we find the site they slept last night. There is a strange smell in the air, a new odour; we listen intently. There, in the distance the trees move, sounds are reverberating through the forest. ‘Do not do anything that might upset the gorillas’, the Ranger instructs us as we rush to the clearing. Some sit, some stand, watching as the group go about their day. There is the occasional frantic rushing around as gorillas play games and barter amongst themselves for food or play items. They seem undeterred by our presence. Suddenly a female scampers by and grabs my friends back pack. Jane tries to stop it, but the roar from the Park Ranger convinces her to let the bag go. Later she can collect her items and repack the bag, once they’ve had their fun. Tiring of the people being in his space the Silverback rushes us with a piercing screech. We all back away nervously and prepare for the onslaught. He gets the desired response and turns back to his large band, settling down for a snooze.

Tired from the hiking of the past few days I find a spot on the ground to sit with legs crossed. On the embankment above me a female gorilla plays with her baby, aged only a few weeks according to the Rangers. We are all enjoying the spectacle when suddenly the baby rolls off his mother, down the embankment and lands right in my lap. He has huge eyes, more skin then he knows what to do with and a head of long fluffy hair. Naturally my instinct is to run my hand through that luscious hair, touch the cheeky face looking up at me. Not thinking of where I am. Just as I am about to touch him, the cacophony of noises around me brings me back to reality. The Ranger raising his voice in warning, the mother screeching with panic, the Silverback roused from his afternoon slumber and starting to roar. I shake all over, having just surpassed a life dream. I withdraw my hands. The baby jumps up and races back to Mum and the moment is now a memory, to remain with me forever.

It's a miserable winters day, drizzle, grey clouds, cold winds. Made worse by the fact that both myself and my son have the flue. We are going to snuggle up in bed together and ride out the worst of it in the warmth of our doonas, but first I must feed the animals. Chooks out, dog done, just the ponies to feed. Jemma as always plays her game of ‘I like you but I don’t’, wanting a cuddle but then pulling away and turning her back on me. Whereas Crunchy, a cheeky trouble maker, is always up for cuddles and a bit of mischief. Where is Crunchy? I find her down the paddock, lying on her side, writhing in pain. From the ridges worn into the ground around her, she has obviously been flailing on the ground most of the night. I try to comfort her and run for the phone. I beg, tears running down my face, I offer sums of money, but no vet in the district can come to help. Our local vet is working at the races until after 5pm. I ring around to people we know who have horses. There is a funeral in town and every horse owner we know seems to be there. I stay with her in the rain, talking, soothing her panic. We spend hours together waiting for help to arrive. I have no idea what has happened, what could cause this much pain. Finally, after hours, a caring neighbour comes to assist. Together we get her up but her weight is too much and she crashes to the ground on her other side. Our energy is spent; we are soaked to the bone. I must leave to pick up my youngest child from school. I fear the worst. As soon as I return I run down the hill to be with her, but I’m too late. I shake all over from cold, flu and deep despair. She died, screaming in pain and the memory will remain with me forever.

The children are finally sleeping soundly. Time to clean up and get a couple of hours sleep myself, before the new day begins. The respite centre has two staff at night, one that sleeps, one that keeps an eye on everything. Mike is my partner in crime that evening. He is younger than me, but seems like an old man at times. I am rolling the huge physio ball across the floor out of the way, when the thought crosses my mind, I wonder what it actually feels like for the kids. I look about, Mike is busy elsewhere. What will it hurt? Who will know? I gently roll myself onto the giant ball and glide about like a grounded albatross, with my wings out to the side. Suddenly I start to feel myself moving forward. Poetry in motion they say, who are they kidding! The imbalance is too much and I feel myself rolling forward with the ball, towards the wall. My head gently lands on the ground below and I am doing a head stand against the wall with the ball holding me in position. The absurdity of my predicament and the view of the room upside down is too much and I start to giggle, now uncontrollably. The noise alerts Mike and he rushes into the room to assist. On discovering his colleague upside down, against a wall, with tear of joys rolling down her cheeks, he curt response was merely ‘Grow up Marg and start acting your age’.

‘You are as young as your faith, as old as your doubt, as young as your self-confidence, as old as your fear, as young as your hope, as old as your despair’ (Samuel Ullman). As the world around us impinges on free flow of thought and deed, societal expectation fills us with dread and fear, the body slows and stumbles. Yet inside, the heart, the soul, the spirit still soar above the clouds, free as the eagle, nimble as the swallow, with a lust for adventure that never wanes…..until you fall, face first.