If there's one day of the year its good to be a secret fan of marching bands its today. It echoes. The bands pass and the sound of the next band merges into the last. Unexpected syncopations emerge and we are all here. There were beautiful indie boys with all their foppish dyed hair and tight pants marching with their grandfathers, all the band nerds and the boy everyone wanted to go out with marching with his high school pipe band.
Most years I go into the heart of the city to wander through the shut down silent streets and listen to the ricochet of drum patterns. I go to watch the city fill with people more thoughtful than they usually are. It is a day of grief, for me. It started the year my Grandfather died. I went to the dawn service with a band my brother was in and as the sun rose I discovered for the first time my well of personal grief. All around me people were quietly sobbing and the band played hymns as the sun rose through the mist. Since that dawn each year today feels like the day for thinking of all who have fallen from my life, all that has fallen from me. But not this year. This year I stayed with the thrumming crowds and heard the full melodies of all of the bands. I watched the players in their fierce concentration to maintain tone, pitch, rhythm, I watched them intent on staying in step with the march, I felt their joy at being a part of something bigger.
I stood out the front of the Town Hall with my brother and Boli in their silly scarlet band jackets and Chef and his lovely girl, in the middle of a breathing crowd. We watched the parade and drank a beer on the street and went back to my place. Spencer came over and my housemates were home. My life felt full. I felt in company. Then I got a phone call.
An old friend I have been out of touch with since Artboy pissed off contacted me. Her husband has bipolar. Her husband went mad, her husband left without warning and left her sobbing and alone with a mortgage and a phd thesis. She told me how hard it was to keep going, how hard to find a job to pay the bills and feed herself and the horses. How hard to have this hollow place where her husband should be but instead he is mad. He is mad and in Melbourne running up terrible debts and making wild accusations.
She got another job, packed up her house, moved herself and the horses, finished her thesis, battled with the university, organised the finances, started divorce proceedings so she can sell the property. I thought. You are so brave. You are so strong. Your story is breaking my heart.
I thought I could never be as good and strong and brave as you and then I remembered. Her story is my story. This happened to me. I did what she did.
I was struck by two things. The first is how spooky that we lived the same thing at the same time, the second is that until today I didn't give myself any credit for living through this the way that I have. I wonder if this day next year will be my day for strength and thinking with wonder of all the adversity each of us is capable of living through. Maybe we all need a moment now and then to reflect on our strengths and the personal battles we have won. Lest we forget.
Most years I go into the heart of the city to wander through the shut down silent streets and listen to the ricochet of drum patterns. I go to watch the city fill with people more thoughtful than they usually are. It is a day of grief, for me. It started the year my Grandfather died. I went to the dawn service with a band my brother was in and as the sun rose I discovered for the first time my well of personal grief. All around me people were quietly sobbing and the band played hymns as the sun rose through the mist. Since that dawn each year today feels like the day for thinking of all who have fallen from my life, all that has fallen from me. But not this year. This year I stayed with the thrumming crowds and heard the full melodies of all of the bands. I watched the players in their fierce concentration to maintain tone, pitch, rhythm, I watched them intent on staying in step with the march, I felt their joy at being a part of something bigger.
I stood out the front of the Town Hall with my brother and Boli in their silly scarlet band jackets and Chef and his lovely girl, in the middle of a breathing crowd. We watched the parade and drank a beer on the street and went back to my place. Spencer came over and my housemates were home. My life felt full. I felt in company. Then I got a phone call.
An old friend I have been out of touch with since Artboy pissed off contacted me. Her husband has bipolar. Her husband went mad, her husband left without warning and left her sobbing and alone with a mortgage and a phd thesis. She told me how hard it was to keep going, how hard to find a job to pay the bills and feed herself and the horses. How hard to have this hollow place where her husband should be but instead he is mad. He is mad and in Melbourne running up terrible debts and making wild accusations.
She got another job, packed up her house, moved herself and the horses, finished her thesis, battled with the university, organised the finances, started divorce proceedings so she can sell the property. I thought. You are so brave. You are so strong. Your story is breaking my heart.
I thought I could never be as good and strong and brave as you and then I remembered. Her story is my story. This happened to me. I did what she did.
I was struck by two things. The first is how spooky that we lived the same thing at the same time, the second is that until today I didn't give myself any credit for living through this the way that I have. I wonder if this day next year will be my day for strength and thinking with wonder of all the adversity each of us is capable of living through. Maybe we all need a moment now and then to reflect on our strengths and the personal battles we have won. Lest we forget.
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