At the beginning of a new year, I often go through a time of yearning, searching, longing for something that I can't quite put my finger on. The new year brings thoughts of change, as we consider our resolutions, ponder the merits of a new job or what other project we might begin. For me, it always brings a sense of restlessness and wistful feelings that leave me unsettled for a while.
It wasn't until I attended an amazing workshop about 18 months ago called The Literary Therapist, in Castlemaine Victoria, that I began to make sense of this experience. The workshop presenter, Karen Masman, talked about the feelings of sadness that we sometimes experience, and focused particularly on a sense of 'soulful sadness' (see her book, "The Uses of Sadness"). She explored the idea of longing or yearning in other cultures and languages. These concepts spoke to me (pardon the pun), and I began to make sense of my own feelings.
In the Welsh language, hiraedd or hiraeth means something that is longed for but cannot be obtained, homesickness, a mix of longing, yearning, nostalgia, wistfulness for Wales, or as one woman describes "the call of my spiritual home". Similar and yet different, is the German word fernweh which means homesick for abroad, and the Finnish word kaukokaipuu which translates as faraway yearning. But perhaps they are not so different. Perhaps what is essential in both the Welsh homesickness for Wales and these other concepts, is that notion of yearning for the home of one's heart, wherever that may be.
My experience of longing, hiraedd, fernweh or kaukokaipuu is often triggered by the environmental aesthetics around me. Instead of the sweltering heat, dry earth and brown grass, I yearn for green, wet and cool. British or European architecture, cottage gardens, autumnal leaves and rolling pastures, rather than a rambling Queenslander, gum trees and grevillea shrubs. Don't get me wrong, I love the beach, but I'd probably prefer snow or mountains or a forest with babbling brook.
As a child I always had my head in a book. I loved reading. It was my sanctuary, my escape. I remember with love reading stories of Enid Blyton, Beatrix Potter and the like, about fairies and other such fantastical creatures and places, surrounded by greenness and flowers, village life, four distinct seasons and a mix of cockney and aristocratic language and culture. I had a longing even then, to live in this environment. I remember being 3 or 4 years old, and driving in the Landrover with my father on our property, probably to check on the cattle. In my memories, there was a small winding creek at some point, which created the need to drive through the dry bed and up onto a grassy mound a number of times. Taking this route generated the illusion of being on a circular, grassy knoll as we emerged each time from the creek bed, especially in spring when these openings were often full of tiny bluebells. I imagined all sorts of wonderful things about this place. Fairies, elves, animals, toadstools, butterflies, all living together in a comfortable and idyllic existence.
Why have I always been drawn so strongly to a particular environmental and cultural aesthetic? Part of my developing understanding of this issue came a few years ago when I read about the genetic transmission of culture. We are all a unique combination of genetically inherited traits, physically and psychologically. But this idea goes further to suggest that we may also inherit a connectedness to land or culture. I also recently read about the genetic transmission of ancestry memory. I'm not so sure about the latter, but I do think there is some potential in the idea that along with our physical and psychological makeup, is a spiritual element that may be genetically transmitted over the generations. Why not? Stranger things have been found to exist.
A dear friend of mine, who was born and bred in England but is originally of Viking descent if you go back far enough in her genealogy, has told me of her experience when she first spent time in Denmark. She was both unsettled and inspired by a strong sense of connectedness, a sense of being at 'home'. She didn't want to leave.
This is what I have experienced whenever I've visited Britain, and to some degree Tasmania, or even Melbourne. It is certainly what I feel when I read about or see images of these places, as well as northern Europe. And like in the Japanese poet Basho's haiku, "Even in Kyoto, hearing the cuckoo’s cry, I long for Kyoto", I have a deep longing for these places in anticipation of my inevitable leaving, a sense of grief of what I have not had, and may not ever have. Now, to take a genetic or genealogical perspective, this makes complete sense. My ancestry is strongly connected to these places. My maternal grandmother's family came from England, and my maternal grandfather's family came from Scotland and Denmark. My paternal grandmother's family came from Denmark and Germany, and my paternal grandfather's family came from Denmark and England. No wonder I don't like the heat!
Although I acknowledge, with gratitude, my being born in Australia, the lucky country, I have never felt really at home here. My goodness, I wonder how first generation immigrants feel?! There is the sometimes jarring of culture and ideas, of environment and surroundings; a sense that I do not relate to being 'Australian', indeed to not even really knowing what that means. But perhaps that doesn't really matter. Perhaps for me on Australia Day, I can just be grateful that my country is not (yet) at war, that as an individual (man or woman) I have freedom to make choices about my life, I have lots of wide open spaces to look at out the window rather than cramped high-rises blocking my view, I have the capacity to travel to another place that I feel connected to rather than being refused a passport or not afford the fare, and I have the foundation of a good education on which to ponder all these things.
Ok, so I don't like cricket or football, steak and prawns on the barbie, beer at the pub, or whatever it is that seems to symbolise being Australian (I don't include 'mate ship' or giving people a fair go, because to be honest I think you find that no matter where you go, and we could do a darn sight better on this score than we do). But I do respect the decisions that my ancestors made in coming to Australia all those years ago. And I do appreciate many of the wonderful things about Australia, especially the diversity, of people, culture, land, and opportunity.
My heart will always yearn for somewhere else, my spirit will always have moments of wistful longing, grieving a past never known. But as Karen Masman says, being sad is no reason not to be happy. So, Happy Australia Day everyone!
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| House once owned by Enid Blyton - Buckinghamshire, England photo from: quaintgarden.blogspot.com |
