Walking Loud

A decade ago, I volunteered in a community-based palliative care organisation. With a spiritual foundation firmly rooted in Tibetan Buddhism, their aim was to support terminally ill people to die with dignity, in their own homes, if this was their choice. Their mission was an ideal match with my personal values.

Their head office was a beautiful, period building in the northern suburbs of Brisbane. I recall light flooding through the large windows and reflecting on the polished floor of the long central hallway. Both the interior and lush garden exterior were dotted with traditional Buddhist symbols of love, peace, and healing.

Some of the staff were nuns with neatly shaved heads who seemed to glide soundlessly along the corridors in their red, orange, and yellow robes. I felt that their profoundly gentle and calming presence was reflected in the environment itself. In arguably one of the most challenging aspects of human of experience, dying, I felt that they brought rich beauty in the form of spaciousness, acceptance, and compassion.  I worked alongside them, took part in spiritual care training and retreats under their guidance, contributed my best efforts, and was in awe of their soft-spoken grace.

I, however, am neither graceful nor softly spoken. I have managed to tone down my ample energy through practice, but I still sometimes forget to use my inside voice. I also tend to throw my hands around when I talk, though I never intend to. I’ve inadvertently tossed pens that I had been holding during conversations, which shocks the other party and embarrasses me more than I care to admit. But that wasn’t my problem. The worst of it was my noisy walk.

My footfalls were far from silent and believe me, I tried to get them there. I didn’t wear click-clacky heels (heavens, no) just regular shoes. But where the nuns seemed to drift by, I either clip-clopped or clunked. Wearing softer flats soon helped me get my corridor walk down to a tap-tap sound. I stopped short of wearing ballet shoes, because they might attract attention for all the wrong reasons. I was already loud; I didn’t want to also look strange.

I had a romanticised view of the environment and didn’t want to ruin the ambience that I so admired, with my perceived clumsiness. I dreaded becoming the literal elephant in the room. ‘Oh, here she comes, we can hear her from a mile away,’ I imagined they might whisper, but then treat me kindly or worse still indulge me, in line with their acceptance of all, including the loud and the clumsy.

So, when no one else was in sight, I would walk on the balls of my feet in a tip toe kind of way, taking long strides and keeping my heels off the floor. That gave me the benefits of speed (get through that corridor asap) and near-silence, and therefore more comfort with the notion that I may fit in (as long as no-one ever caught me walking like a cartoon character).

As timid as this may make me sound, I assure you that I have plenty of push when I need it. For example, I’ve never been one to comply when others try to force me to do things their way. Refusing to be dominated and resisting bullying comes easily to me, and I have no hesitation.  I find it easiest of all to stand up in any circumstance to defend or advocate for others, not a problem. However, these were kind people. There were no bullies, no controlling attitudes, just a beautiful peaceful environment that I didn’t want to sully.

When I began writing, I did it with the express intention of crafting novels and seeking publication. Of course, this vehicle for writing is only one possibility amongst many, but it was my childhood dream. This meant that I was going to make up a story, write it down, then send it to other people to read, hoping that some might enjoy it. The plan seemed simple in theory however, I was then confronted by my unrealistic and idealised image of the publishing world. I could sense the well-polished hallway of literary genius, inhabited by the greats, gliding past peacefully and smiling beatifically at the less talented.

Growing up, I had savoured every delicious word written by Maeve Binchy, dove headlong into the pure excitement of Robert Ludlum, and devoured the suspenseful and masterful complexity of Daphne du Maurier, to name a few of my favourites. I am a voracious reader and no matter how busy life gets, I still wait for the latest release from Jojo Moyes, Julie Clark, Elizabeth Gilbert, and Liane Moriarty (to name a few).

Clunking down that hallowed literary hallway felt like a bridge too far. I felt clumsy in contrast to their mastery which sparked the familiar feeling that I had no place there. So, I had a choice to make. To write for publication, I’d have to abandon the inaccurate, exaggerated and let’s face it, childish fantasies of the literary world and those who pass through it. I cognitively knew that my fanciful imaginings were more farcical pantomime than real life; yet my inner critic and it’s ‘who-the-hell-do-you-think-you-are’ question persisted. I considered changing my goal – I could still write but use any other vehicle than writing novels for publication.

Being painfully goal focussed, I stuck with the plan and went ahead, but I struggled with self-doubt. I spoke with one of my daughters about it when seeking her feedback on an unfinished manuscript, and within a moment she brought it all into perspective. ‘Mum,’ she said, ‘I think you’re walking on your toes again.’

Will my books be everyone’s cup of tea? Absolutely not, but nor do I need them to be. I don’t write to be ‘great’, or known, or to fit in with anyone else. I write because this kind of creative expression brings me joy. I have one life to live, and it’s too short to allow it to be driven by fear or overly fanciful imaginings. The drama belongs on the page, rather than within. There is no ‘hallowed’ hallway and the only bully to be found here is me.

So, I’ve put on my favourite click-clack heels and loudly walk the path of my choosing.