Dates
December 20, 2019 is a date that will remain in my memory alongside the dates of loved ones lost. The Cudlee Creek fires started just seven kilometres from us, and we packed a few things and fled. Of course, we thought we would be back the following day. But when we rounded the last hill, we saw that none of our buildings survived. Subsequently, most of the trees died too. All of the fences were gone, all of the tanks and water pipes, everything.
Of Remainders and Loss
Three Lists Written at 2.00 am The Night After We Learned We Lost Everything
List of Objects that Matter Now
None.
List of Things Lost That I’m Sad About
Bob the bird. (Shrike Thrush) whom Ervin fed, and whom we loved.
All of the other birds, especially the small ones. Wrens, thornbills, pardalotes, finches. Maybe the bigger ones got out?
Native animals, our resident echidna.
Ervin’s sculptures and woodblock prints.
All of my on-paper haiga.
My hand made paintbrushes and a couple of commercial brushes that still sang at forty years old.
The singing bowls. My shaman’s drum.
All of Ervin’s framed works and prints in boxes. A lot of his negatives. The ones I didn’t scan.
Our new pigment printer.
My hut. His studio. Our little house in the woods.
The woods.
The records of our toys (that we made for a living for thirty years).
My jewellery, mostly worthless, but especially the ones made by friends. Ida for eg. Her early student jewellery. She will never make it again.
My journals of thirty years. Drawings and raw poems that showed promise but were never transcribed.
A couple of my paintings.
The birdbath.
Ervin’s tools, especially his chisels (some of which had been with him for fifty years) and his dremels.
Other things that I will remember later.
Things to Be Grateful For
Our bodies.
Our loved ones.
Our beautiful true friends.
The caring hearts of complete strangers.
That we have our computers, with the files of a lot of Ervin’s photos and most of my poems.
That we have our car and van and most of our camping gear.
That sleep is usually easy for me. Even if it isn’t tonight. (It’s 2:00 am)
That a lot of the bigger gum trees probably survived. That the beautiful bush will surely recover and we will watch it.
That we have a piece of earth that, in government records, is ours. That I have lived there long enough for it to be in my bones.
That I still feel connected to my dead son though I wish his corporeal body was sitting next to me.
Likewise, Mum and Dad. How unusual that they are with me tonight with their calm and graceful strength.
That my sweet loved man is as beautiful as ever. That he sleeps peacefully while I make lists.
That we do have resilience.
That nothing kills creativity.
That we will survive. And even, eventually, thrive.
A New List
I wrote the first three lists in adrenalin and innocence the night after the fire. Now, nearly twelve months later, I have a new list —
Things That I’m Sad About Now
Of objects, not even the journals; or, not often.
The place, the trees, the birds, the echidnas, kangaroos, koalas: yes, yes yes.
The buildings, (and here she shrugs) well, they are gone, and I have photos. Oh, they are delightful, the messy little house with all of the trinkets, and one grandchild or other standing on its head or being tickled into a writhing heap of laughter.
The record of love that inhabits a place.
I’m a bit sad about things we have no record of, many of Ervin’s negatives, my negatives and the juvenilia of my art. Eh! It was shit anyway, the juvenilia, that is.
Nature’s Quick-Slow Recovery
Mostly I am sad about the bush. It is not only decimated, it is desecrated. Sure, life is coming back. There are so many tree seedlings they will have to be viciously thinned. We have a sea of purple chocolate lilies. The air is sweet with them. I have seen only a couple of orchids, but perhaps they will flower in years to come. But of our many stringy barks, only three are shooting in the branches.
The rest of them will have to make new trunks. These are massive old trees, and this is massively sad. Blue Gums fared a little better though we lost seven of the largest. Weeds are incredibly vigorous. It turns out they love fire. All well and good, it’s their job, after all, to cloak bare earth.
Bob the thrush is back and as bold as ever. Sometimes I see a wren or a New Holland Honey Eater, we have magpies and crows and the bronze winged pigeons are coming for the early grass seed. It is a poor showing; I guess because there is no food yet for the many many birds that lived here before. And they will need time to breed.
My Gratitude List
Of the list of things I am grateful for, let me add these.
We have received from help from official entities. The South Australian recovery centre that I attend is brilliantly run, everything from sheets for your bed to help filling endless but tremendously helpful grants, the applications for lost documents. That is just some of what they do.
We have received help from people of all walks of life, means, local, known and loved, associate, and even complete strangers from the other side of the world.
Volunteers will come this week to carry, by hand, tons of firewood. People are growing plants, making food, knitting blankets, building fences. Oh I shouldn’t make this list because there are so many, and I am grateful to everyone, and every little thing helps.
Our Return
We have a new roof! We are among the first to be this far advanced in our recovery. The processes of recovery after a total loss are complicated and involved. Decision fatigue is a real thing. It is very wearing, day after day, and if you have a brain like mine (a little scatty), you are never quite sure if you’ve done everything that you need to do. It wakes you in the night. And the order of things, it would have been better to burn the burn piles before the foundations, for example. But they were too wet. Now the fire season approaches. Will we get them done in time?
But we do have a roof. Soon, the electrical first-fix and the beginning of cladding! We are this far advanced because our daughter is almost an architect and has designed and is managing the build. Thank our lucky stars. Our builder is the nicest man you ever met. We love him. He is 31 now and has been building and fixing things for us since he was 21. He was always our choice. And he and his team are working like demons because he wants us to be in by Christmas. Never has anyone given me such a gift.
All this goodness makes the tears flow. I have shed have been many tears, not for things lost, but grateful tears.
Hopes? I have a few. That I never have to tread this path again; that no one has to. That people and politicians will realise their interconnection with the earth and her systems and act on climate change and poisons (like plastic).
And I hope that when it is all over and I am living in my new home that looks like a bird crouching to fly, I will not have rewritten my brain with all of this worry, and will again be able to be free from fear and as innocent as a child in joy.
Author Bio
Belinda is a visual artist who committed herself to poetry in 2004 after a lifetime of occasional poems. Visual art taught her the fine art of observation, and she delights in words throwing themselves at the page. Most end up on the floor, or in her hair! Specializing in Japanese forms, particularly haiga ( haiku with image) Belinda has published three collections. Her poetry also appears in print and online at home and abroad. She has won various competitions and undertaken commissioned research and writing for performance on themes like the history of the Onkaparinga Woolen Mill.
Belinda’s three poetry collections, ‘Sparrow: Poems of a Refugee’, ‘A Slip of the Tongue’, and ‘Not Looking for Signs’ are available for purchase on her blog, www.belindabroughton.wordpress.com.
Our builder, Barnard Construction, can be found here, and
Hana Broughton, our ‘almost architect’ who is skilled in many other ways, here.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: All poems and images remain the property of Belinda Broughton.
Hi Veronica. I’m glad you like it. Don’t worry, I have my fair share of ‘poor me’. Actually as a little child, the last of five, when I wasn’t quick enough with whatever was on offer, and I missed out, I’d say, ‘Poor me. Gocka none. ‘ (Got none.) And this year sometimes, I’d say just that. But it just made me laugh. Never more appropriate, let’s face it. But still there was a bit of true self pity thrown in. Of course.
Inez, sorry so long responding, I didn’t see your comment. Thank you, and all the best for the new year
We’ve all been kept up to speed with what’s gone on since you lost everything, Belinda and with various publications, knew that your replacement house was a happening thing. Most impressive is that it is self-sustaining.
Your writing is so matter-of-fact, no ‘poor me’ stuff and your poetry
simply added to the whole. I found it very encouraging and overall a good read.
Veronica
Dear Belinda,
Incredible! Your hope shines through despite the charcoal lament of crows., this devastation is heart wrenching. I love your lists, your connection to the earth, to art, to Ervin and your mother.
That’s kind of you to say, Belinda. I get great joy hearing other people’s stories so thank you so much for sharing your experience on wattletales.
Hi Lindy. I love how you have woven all of the elements of this very complex post together. Thank you.
Hi Steve, there is much to be grateful for! Not least you and your ilk.
Thanks Julie, yes, it’s been quite a ride.
Thank you Carolyn. ‘What happens next’ hmmm. Yes. We’re in for a rough ride, us humans.
A constant thread of gratitude, Belinda. Bless you – and your Ervin.
Oh Belinda, what a read, what experience.
Such tragedy woven through your tender words. They made me cry, and delight in your strength and resilience.
Thank you again, Lindy. Your guest writers along with yourself are jigsaw pieces of the human spirit. Xx
These lovely thoughtful words are the making of a future, while looking at, but not dying from, a frightening past. Hope such as yours is fire-proof, I hope, and you are emerging, phoenix-like for what happens next.