{"id":2888,"date":"2021-01-25T07:15:25","date_gmt":"2021-01-25T12:15:25","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/?p=2888"},"modified":"2021-01-26T08:29:31","modified_gmt":"2021-01-26T13:29:31","slug":"duetting-memoir-52","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/duetting-memoir-52\/","title":{"rendered":"Duetting: Memoir 52"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Duetting:<\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

In southeast Australia, in the tiny town of Port Campbell, in the room with the bay view, I wake to sunlight and sounds of birdsong. I wake from dreams of carrying too much in too many pieces, endlessly trying to hold on to what I have.<\/span><\/p>\n

What I have is an explosion of memories. And Marika\u2019s poems. And a couple of photographs to guide me to where, in Australia, Marika had been when she was here two years before. And it\u2019s Friday, so there\u2019s a V-Line bus that runs along the Great Ocean Road. If I time my day right and catch the bus coming and going, I can ride over twenty-two miles back and forth and, in-between, spend the day walking trails in and around the sites Marika had photographed. If I hop on and off the bus like Marika did I won\u2019t wear out my feet and energy just in traveling to all the places I want to go.<\/span><\/p>\n

The bus lets me off near the Loch Ard Gorge, and I climb down countless sets of wooden stairs to stand in the place Marika had stood, posing with a finger to her lips, a dubious expression on her face. Loch Ard means \u2018high lake,\u2019 but I am low down in the sand between two caves and a blue bay. \u2018High\u2019 are the two massive walls of stone that surround the small beach, leaving open only a narrow gap to the sea. \u201cEva\u2019s cave,\u201d I remember from the legend, and head toward the larger cave.<\/span><\/p>\n

When I first saw \u201cEva Carmichael and Tom Pearce\u201d written in Marika\u2019s scrapbook, I thought they were the names of rock stars. I didn\u2019t know Loch Ard was the name of a large clipper ship that sank in 1878, leaving these two the sole survivors. Inspired by tragedy and romance, Marika had written a poem about the two eighteen-year-olds. I, too, am captivated by the story of the apprentice sailor Tom swimming out in the dark, in strong winds and huge waves, to rescue Eva who clung to a floating part of the wrecked ship in only her nightdress. He carried her to a cave and at first light climbed the high cliffs of the gorge to find help. Tom was heralded as a hero, and the townspeople hoped for a romantic union of the two, but they went their separate ways. \u201cShe\u2019ll stay forever alone, \u2018cause it\u2019s her way, she\u2019s going back home,\u201d Marika wrote twice in her short poem. From the local literature, I learned that Eva fainted, was weak or unconscious for hours, hid terrified in the cave awaiting Tom\u2019s return, and had to be carried with difficulty up the cliffs. But Marika saw her as strong and in control. I saw Marika as strong and in control. I wonder how she saw me.<\/span><\/p>\n

For a long while I stand watching, trying to see into the long dark cave. I do not enter. My courage has not yet replenished itself from the rogue wave at Bells Beach. Luckily the waves are small here. I finally roll up my pants and wade into the shallow water. No one is at the Loch Ard Gorge this early in the morning so I sing lullabies to Marika as I toss her ashes in small sprays. Then, gathering strands of seaweed that litter the beach near Eva\u2019s cave, I arrange them to spell MARIKA <\/em>in large letters.<\/em> Soon people trickle down the stairs into our space. I wait to hear them say her name aloud when they see the seaweed letters. This past year friends hadn\u2019t mentioned Marika, afraid they would upset me, and I\u2019m desperate to hear her name and talk about her. But I don\u2019t want to make people sad, ruin someone\u2019s day with the intrusion of a pathetic mother who lost her daughter. I pack up to go. Except for my footprints in the sand and Marika\u2019s name in seaweed, I leave no trace of us.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s a short walk east along the Great Ocean Road to Gibson\u2019s Steps where 86 stairs are carved into the face of the cliffs high over crashing waves. Supposedly, if I climb all the way down, I can walk on the beach and see the giant rocks rising from sea level. But I see rising frothing water below, so I sit on a step halfway down, and picnic on a cold beef-and-Guinness pie from my pack. I consider how one journey leads to another, and how in every place there is a story waiting or some lesson to be learned. If I were traveling with another person I\u2019d be braver. I\u2019d cover more territory and do more things. But then, I wonder, anchored to another, how much of the story might I miss?<\/span><\/p>\n

Backtracking west a short way along the rugged cliffs from Gibson\u2019s Steps, I reach The Twelve Apostles, the major highlight for many travelers along the Great Ocean Road. Here, twenty million years of marine organisms\u2019 skeletal fragments have built up into steep limestone towers. Endlessly attacked by blasting winds and the savage Southern Ocean, their cliffs crack and erode into caves and gorges. These eventually collapse into towering stacks of rocks. Not quite twelve of these rock giants stand in the teeming surf where time, wind, and water continue to gut their softer spots, giving them character. Isn\u2019t it always the most common universal elements, like pain and loss, which shape human lives as well? I wonder. In pounding waves, I picture the rock stacks as giant matriarchs bellowing thunderous laughter. Life constantly crashes down around them while nesting seabirds find comfort in the nooks and crannies of their capstones.<\/span><\/p>\n

I throw Marika\u2019s beaded bracelets off the overhang as hard as I can to reach them. The giants gobble up the jewels, adding the bits of glass and plastic to their accumulations. Then I spend the rest of the afternoon with them, thinking of time, ongoing life, and the hearty women back home who saved me by listening. Now over thirty women, made stronger by life\u2019s poundings, share my stories with their daughters, cousins, and friends. They\u2019ve sent me encouraging words. I hug the last quarter of my daughter\u2019s ashes in awe of the greatness that surrounds me. And worry, what will I hug once the jewels and the ashes are gone?<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In southeast Australia, in the tiny town of Port Campbell, in the room with the bay view, I wake to sunlight and sounds of birdsong. I wake from dreams of carrying too much in too many pieces, endlessly trying to hold on to what I have. What I have is an explosion of memories. And […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2172],"tags":[494,938,2193,1202,1227,2044,2167],"class_list":["post-2888","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-2172","tag-child-loss","tag-dealing-with-grief","tag-duetting-memoir-52","tag-grief-journey","tag-healing-journey","tag-mother-daughter-relationship","tag-traveling-with-ashes"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2888","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2888"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2888\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2888"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2888"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/robinbotie.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2888"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}