A Sydney Reunion

Jenny and I had only twice stayed apart during our 30 years of married life together. Each time it was because of me being sent overseas for 4-6 months’ long training attachments that were required of my job. The first time was in 1990 at Belfast, Northern Ireland and the second was through the winter of 1996 in Ottawa, the capital of Canada. Instead of patiently waiting for my eventual return, the wanderlust in her would send her packing her luggage too, just so she could also be immersed and taste living abroad with me. On both occasions she took extended leave from work, joining me after I had settled in. And of course, she would bring the kids along.

I can never forget our tearful reunion at the Belfast airport, after 3 months of “enforced” separation with precious few opportunities for us to correspond. Back then in 1990,  unlike today, communication options were limited and expensive.  At the airport arrivals, Jenny and I embraced, locking arms for the longest time, with our boy then just turning two, sandwiched and suffocating in between.

Several years later, during my second training attachment in December 1996, we reunited again after a two month spell of living by myself in a freezing apartment in Ottawa. This time, her baggage was upsized, with two children in tow. Jenny was in fact in her second trimester of pregnancy, bearing our third child and her gynaecologist had certified her fit for travel. But then again, she had to brave through a 30-hour long haul flight and a Canadian winter at sub-zero frigidity.  Jenny was totally unfazed, so we spent Christmas together as a family that year, walking in our winter wonderland.

Last Thursday I flew to Sydney for another sort of reunion, this time with my daughter C.  She has been away from home residing in this sprawling down-under city on a semestral long student exchange programme. It was the first time she has stayed abroad on her own and the natural-born worrier in me was gnawing my insides out. How was she coping with her studies and hostel residential life? I needed to visit and check on her well-being.  But my anxieties were quite needless. She had settled very well in her hostel apartment, managing her school work and staying in good shape, preparing healthy meals for herself to save on eating out.

Sydney is bustling and vibrant as one would expect of any cosmopolitan city.  We visited the Darling harbour and strolled through the preposterously pristine parkways outside the famous Opera House. In the evening hours we took in the stunning Vivid Light display that was on show at the edge of the Rocks. So did tens of thousands others – Aussies and visitors alike, compacting and choking the parks in the dark of that Thursday evening. Most enrapturing was the light display against the shelled rooves of the Opera House, painting the building with a dazzling palette of moving patterns and shifting colours.



Sydney's building facade given a colourful makeover

Sydney's Opera House all "coloured" up
 

Several years back, Jenny and I have visited Sydney on one of our annual family holidays. Like any first time visitor to this famed Aussie city, we stopped over at the Opera House, snapping truckloads of photos of the iconic building for keepsake. But wouldn’t Jenny have been thrilled to watch the light display that coloured up the building in such enthralling fashion? It is hard for me to enjoy the light show without wishing she was there too, by my side holding my hands so we do not lose each other in the crowds. She would want to savour and enjoy this travel experience too.

On Saturday I rented a car and drove my daughter to Katoomba, the main town situated in the heart of the Blue Mountains. Answering the voluble call of Mother Nature again, as you can say.  Again, it was a kind of déjà vu experience for us because we had visited Katoomba before during our last Sydney odyssey. But that time the visit to the Blue Mountains was more a touch and go affair. We had driven through various vista points to take in the sights of the Three Sisters and the Blue Mountain valley which was about all, hardly breaking a sweat. This was quite a pity as the natural forested park has surely more to offer. This time round, my daughter and I would venture further and make more of our visit. We would take on the more difficult walking trails that bring us down and into the depths of the Blue Mountain valley.
 

View of the valley from atop the Blue Mountains

My daughter taking snapshots of the forested landscape.

Starting at Echo Point in Katoomba, we climbed down the very steep Giant’s Staircase.  The walk down is not for the faint-hearted, not least for me with my giddy-prone head for heights.  The Staircase is a series of steep metal stairways that zig-zag down to the valley below, 900 steps in all.  We made it down after about twenty minutes of gingerly taken footsteps and clinging on hand-rail supports. Then along the Federal Pass walking track we trekked through the valley, passing picturesque waterfalls and luxuriant rain forest. After more than an hour walking at a leisurely pace we reached the foot of the Furber Steps.  The Furber Steps comprise more than 1000 steps cut against the mountain slopes to get us back to higher ground, and along the way would take us past plunging waterfalls and gigantic overhanging rocks. It was a taxing climb, though slightly easier for me given my conditioning through regular exercises.  The sight of the valley that unfolded as we ascend the steps filled us with a mix of grandiosity and humility. My less-fit daughter was panting vigorously but keeping her smile in between each gasp. Obviously like me, she was fully exhilarated by the entire experience.

“It is a pity Mum isn’t here to see this splendid view of the forest. But it is most unlikely that Mum would be game enough for a walk like this. It would be too tough for her”, I could not help sharing my thoughts with C.

“Yes, Mum would be complaining all the way if we put her through this”, she chuckled, amid heavy gasping to catch her breath.

Indeed, now that I do not have Jenny as my main travel companion, I can add a new twist in the itinerary. As long as my feeble legs can still carry me, I will see more of the world on foot instead of whisking down the highways on travel coaches or rented cars. I will rekindle my love for nature by getting up close and personal and include trekking into the travel itinerary instead of endless walks along shopping mauls.

 

Birthday Outing to the Wetland Reserves

I started a Whatapp chat group recently and invited a few colleagues to join in.  Those with an ear for music, and I know a number of our staff who love to sing. Like me, quite a few could also strum or pick a guitar. We also have a violinist, a ukuleleist and a pianist but sadly, missing a drummer. Not quite a full-fledged band as yet, at best a motley crew of music wannabes.  But we have a decently well-equipped music studio at our campus set up for the student music clubs that we could gather for jamming sessions. It’s one of the few perks of working in an education outfit.

So last Friday we got together for our first jamming session. It went well enough. Prior to the music meet-up I had arranged for our IT colleagues to set up a flat TV screen in the studio. With that, we could beam up lyrics and musical chords called from the internet so everyone present could sing along. It was a much welcomed enhancement to the studio. Our HR was urging staff to start up all sorts of interest groups to add some buzz to our work life and help staff to bond better. So I was just doing my part.  And our music interest jamming group went off to a fine start.

So my work life, along with its humdrum of meetings and appointments have enough bright moments to help lift me from being oppressively sad. Colleagues, busy as they may be are often all smiles and jovial. I cannot ask for better ones to work with. But I sometimes wonder if they could see through the mask I wear. The sadness that I try to hide. It should not be hard to call my bluff, me not being the poker-face type.

Yet, I am sometimes troubled that of late, noone has asked me how I am getting along. With this new widowered life of mine.  Or coping with my loss.  As if, after more than a year, I should have totally recovered and adjusted. As if, reminding me of the painful past is the uncool and inconsiderate thing to do. But then again, could I fault them for this? What would they know, not having walked this path of misery and grief?

Last Saturday, 11^th of June was Jenny’s birthday.  My old school-mates and I, some 6 of us had weeks ago arranged to get together early in the morning for an outdoor walk at the Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserves. It is a splendid natural mangrove forest with mudflats and walking trails that attracts migratory birds of all plumage, winging across the globe to stop by for their yearly seasonal visits.  But my old school-mates have little affinity for feathered creatures as far as I know.  We were merely looking for a place to meet and the wetland reserve, tucked away at a remote corner of our island with its interesting biodiversity, gave us a good reason for a brief reunion. 

Part of the walking trail in the Wetland reserve park

Mudflats surrounding the Wetland reserves

 

This group of friends is probably my oldest of acquaintances.  We shared our teen-age years of growing-up pains together. Now, of a greater age, with greying hairline, wrinkles and droopy jowls, we could barely recognise each other. “If I bump upon you in the streets I wouldn’t know it is you”, my old class buddy V remarked matter-of-factly, while flashing his trademark toothy grin. Some of us have not changed as much.

With the morning sun scorching down, we strolled through the shaded mangrove forest, reminiscing and nostalgizing on old times. A couple of my old class-mates had attended Jenny’s funeral wake and the word has gone round earlier, so my widower status was not unknown to the others. But not unexpectedly, none of my old friends brought up the matter of Jenny’s demise. The conversations steered clear of asking how I might be coping with my new life or how my kids are coping without their mother. They probably thought they are doing me a favour by not raising up the subject of my bereavement and thereby avoid reminding me of my loss. It was the kind and civic thing to do, so it appeared. Death is just not the right thing to talk about. Not on a beautiful day like this. It would spoil the mood and put me into an emotional nosedive.

Or would it?

All but one of my ex-schoolmates came by himself.  The others had their wives or spouse, hand in hand in tow. I have no quarrel with that. On a rare Saturday morning outing to the Wetland reserves, which loving husband would leave his partner behind, unless she insisted on sleeping in and giving the occasion a miss. It was an opportunity to rekindle old friendships and certainly getting acquainted with their loved ones is part of the process. But I must confess feeling awfully deprived. My sense of loss, that all too familiar chasm of grief was deepening. But I braved myself and stayed cheerful, putting aside my selfish pride. I could not be expecting my friends to have left their spouses at home just so I would not feel so “left out”.  It would be ridiculous for them to even think about it.

But I did wonder long and hard if Jenny would have joined me on an early morning outing such as this. Like most of my friends’ better halves. If she was still alive.  Jenny with her need to sleep in on Saturdays and her general abhorrence for perspiration. “It will be so hot and humid and we will be donating blood to the mosquitoes. Plus, I need my beauty sleep”, she has grumbled more than once when I insisted that she joined me for a park outing.

But once again my wandering thoughts are akin to a broken pencil – totally pointless. Jenny’s not tucked under her blanket for me to rudely awaken to be persuaded for an early morning walk to meet old school-mates.  I could only show up solo as my friends had expected me to.

Anyway, coincidentally the day was Jenny’s birthday. She would have been 58 years old. But she would not look a day older.

Later in the day, her sister sent me a picture of her niche, adorned with a new stalk of flower (a  tulip?) and a birthday greeting card. I did not drop by the columbarium to visit her niche. I did not feel the need to. A birthday is just another day and Jenny is always in my heart. Quietly, she was by my side as we strolled hand in hand amid the flora and fauna of the Sungei Buloh Wetland Reserve. I got her to wake up this time.

Happy Birthday Honey.