I sat up like a meerkat.
The very first day after my return from Garma, I was down at the surf club at the southern end of Manly Beach blinking in the dark at 5.20 am, as Claire and her sister stretched and chatted. Claire brought me a spare light to attach to the back of my goggles. The Crazies all wear them, to stop rogue kayaks from paddling onto their heads; they flash red, green and white, like Christmas lights.
The sea was black and the sky was black and I felt a little nervous: sharks feed in the dark. But just a few metres out from the shore, the sparkles appeared. I was transfixed. My fingers threw out fistfuls of sequins with every stroke. A galaxy of stars flew past my goggles. It was as though I was flying through space, like the opening scenes of the Star Wars movies, gliding rapidly through a universe only I could see.
We stopped at the point of the headland and looked at each other: we were glowing, lit from beneath, a vivid blue. We laughed, throwing our arms in the air and watching the sequins fall, kicking feet and creating fluorescent clouds beneath us. I dived down and tunnelled through another galaxy, twirling my arms and watching the sparkles follow in the same sweeps and rhythms.
When we got to Shelly Beach we splashed about in the blue-rimmed waves and left twinkling footprints on the sand. As we swam back, the horizon began to slowly burn, and as the sky lightened the sparkles dimmed. We re-entered the world, and the lights faded. We walked up the shore, gasping at the sheer beauty, wonder and miracle of it.
I floated on air for days and days. I went three more times, each time astounding.
And all of this was in the bay at the bottom of my hill.
In a similar way, the answers to the question that inspired this book — how do we endure when suffering becomes unbearable and our obstacles seem monstrous? How do we continue to glow when the lights turn out? — are there, right in front of us, all the time. All we can do really is keep placing one foot on the earth, then the other, to seek out ancient paths and forests, certain in the knowledge that others have endured before us. We must love. And we must look outwards and upwards at all times, caring for others, seeking wonder and stalking awe, every day, to find the magic that will sustain us and fuel the light within — our own phosphorescence. And always, always pay attention to the world as we live our one wild and precious life, even when we’re floating in the Bardo, about to return to the surface, bursting for air.
Acknowledgements
‘We are all worms,’ Winston Churchill reportedly said, ‘but I do believe that I am a glow-worm.’ This book has been written with the support of the many glow-worms in my life. First, my publisher, Catherine Milne, whose eyes lit up when I first mentioned this book, and who has championed it tirelessly ever since. My dynamite agent Binky Urban, whose cool tenacity, instincts and loyalty are rightfully the stuff of legend. My editor Scott Forbes, whose sharp eye and literary insights prodded me repeatedly in a better direction. And Alice Wood, whose enthusiasm provides a ready propeller in any moments of stasis.
I am indebted also to the wonderful Professor Peter Kanowski from University House in Canberra, for allowing me to write in residence for two weeks, in a place so peaceful and quiet, down by the lake, that I experienced alarming bursts of productivity.
I have been toying with, and developing some of, the ideas in this book for years. I have run them up flagpoles with some of my outstanding editors, including Trish Hall and Julie Lewis, and in particular Matt Seaton. Earlier versions, or fragments of, some of these chapters appeared in my columns in The New York Times, including ‘Women, own your “Dr.” titles’, 28 June 2018; ‘Forget calories. Exercise for awe’, 6 May 2017; ‘Don’t dress your age’, 21 October 2016; ‘Being dishonest about ugliness’, 9 November 2015; ‘Was it cancer? Getting the diagnosis’, 2 September 2015; ‘How we misread Renée’s face’, 28 October 2014; and ‘Doubt as a sign of faith’, 25 September 2014.
Shorter versions, or threads of, some of these chapters also appeared in my Sydney Morning Herald columns “What I really want to teach my son — and what he is teaching me’, 1 June 2018, ‘Christianity most powerful at the margins of power’, 20 June 2014, and ‘How to keep a BFF for, well, ever’, 1 February 2014, as well as on the Australian Broadcasting Corporation’s website, abc.net.au, in the article ‘“It’s about loss”: The transient beauty of Rone’, 18 October 2016. Some portions also appeared in Newsweek: ‘Why we need silence (not cell phones)’, 21 October 2009, and ‘America’s vanishing spaces’, 27 January 2010.
I would like to loudly applaud and acknowledge my excellent colleagues at the ABC, who have tolerated both my absence and my presence, in particular my smart, hard-working, team at The Drum: Annie White, Emily Smith, Jamie Cummins, Ellen Fanning, Margie Smithurst, Dale Drinkwater, Ghada Ali, Melanie Lobendahn and Sam Bold. I am grateful for the comradeship of my exceptional work-sister, Hayley Gleeson, and the ongoing encouragement of Tim Ayliffe, Gaven Morris and Grant Sherlock. I am thankful also to those who read early drafts and provided incisive feedback, including Darren Saunders, Catherine Keenan, Tim Dick, James Woodford, Leigh Sales, Naomi Priest, Martha Sear and Shane Clifton. Thanks also to Marcia Langton and Ali Alizadeh, who offered thoughts and expertise on particular sections.
And to all those marvellous people who helped the writing of this book in so many different ways: Candy Royalle, Maureen Dowd, Jamie Dimon, Lisa-Ann Gershwin, Richard Fidler, Helen Garner, Nick Dawkins, Paul Austin and Carl Adams, Nadia Bolz-Weber, my writing buddy Jacqui Maley, Annabel Crabb, Lucie Beaman, Mia Freedman, Sacha Molitorisz, Jo Dalton, Peter FitzSimons and Lisa Wilkinson, Megan Fraser, Jeremy Travers, Kate Zarifeh, Sarah Steed, Anna Leavy and all of my mates in Manly’s Bold and Beautiful swim squad.
As I mention in this book, I have had some bouts of illness over the past few years. The kindness of those friends who stayed by my side when the world narrowed to a pin point meant everything, especially Jo Chichester, Briony Scott, Caitlin McGee, Cath Keenan, Geoff Broughton, Woody, Zab, Josie Grech, Sarah Macdonald and Jo Fox. And, of course, Jock: you, my friend, are singular and spectacular.
One significant area I did not cover in this book is family. All of the members of my family have taught me a great deal about inner light. My two brothers, Mike and Steve, to me, exemplify decency. They, along with my sisters-in-law, my nieces Cate and Laura and my nephews Luke, Elijah, Oscar and Sebastian, are a constant source of love and comedy.
My parents have taught me most of all — my father about integrity, generosity, speaking your mind, fighting for the vulnerable, and the importance of daily swimming. My mother — a woman who is truly phosphorescent — has taught me about grace, faith, quiet devotion and a gentle joy. She is the lamp that lit our family, and does still.
My children, Poppy and Sam, turned my heart inside out on the days when they were born. They make me laugh so hard and I love watching them grow, seeing their brains boggle, crackle and fire. I feel incredibly lucky to be their mother.
I wrote this book for them — as well as my beautiful, much-loved god-children, Archie, Ollie, Hugo, Ava and Saskia. All of them have been little glow-worms for me, and will go on to light up the world.