In When Women Were Birds (one of my favourite books) Terry Tempest Williams writes: It is the province of mothers to preserve the myth that we are unburdened with our own problems. Placed in a circle of immunity, we carry only the crises of those we love. We mask our needs as the needs of others. If ever there was a story without a shadow, it would be this: that we as women exist in direct sunlight only.1 This quote has sat with me for years. It’s been an animating thought around which my new book Graft was written.
*
I’ve spent the last week on the road with two old friends. We finally managed a long-planned road trip to visit a third friend, living on a cattle station in Queensland. For me the trip was also a chance to catch a sighting of my son C.
We’d driven for days through a vast inland sea of grass. The straight line of the road was busy with scavengers’ fat on roadkill. There were glossy crows, bold magpie larks and swirling hawks who scattered at our vehicle’s approach. Emus strutted, their half-grown young forming gangs. I had thought the road would be empty, but it’s thick with cars pulling caravans and camper trailers. Road-trains whooshed past, leaving a hollowing of air.
A couple of thousand kilometres later and 100km north of Cloncurry, the traffic had thinned. We follow C’s instructions and turned off the highway onto a graded road that led down to the Leichhardt River. We’d planned a night out under the stars. I potter about gathering gidgee for a little fire to keep us company and we roll out our swags. I stayed awake watching the moon slide overhead, until just before dawn when I slip over into sleep and miss the deep calls of a pair of mopokes hunting. In the morning we meet up with C. He’s grown again, lean and strong with work.
C’s arranged a day off and we all drive out to our friend’s station. The four of us haven’t been all together since we were small girls, but as is the way with old friends, time shrinks and the talk flows fast.
That night I drive C back into town where the final of the Cloncurry Stockman’s Challenge is winding up. He and two of his mates are riding in the rodeo. There is no place I want to be less than watching my son in his first go competing in the open saddle bronc. I’d listened carefully for the moment when he might have said ‘don’t worry about staying Mum, head back to your friends’, but he doesn’t and I think he wants me to see his world, a world he has worked hard to learn.
I find a spot to watch, where hopefully my shaking hands are not too obvious. I feel small and terribly afraid. I can see the three boys helping each other at the back of the chutes, checking gear, throwing their heads back with a sudden nervous laugh. The first horse flies out of the chute and bucks so fiercely its rider lasts one spin. I feel sick. I’m grateful C is fifth to go and not fifteenth. I watch him get on the horse, see him being given last minute instructions, see him settle his hat, nod to the gate and, in a blur of power and speed, the horse leaves the chute. He doesn’t twist but bucks hard and high in a straight line for the fence. C sits, one, two, three and on the fourth the horse adds a twist and he flies off unhurt, almost landing on his feet.
I let go of my breath and unclench my jaw, my hands are still shaking. He walks back across the arena, picks up his hat. He hasn’t made 8 seconds or even been particularly stylish, but I can read his grin in the tilt of his shoulders. I’m a little in awe of his courage to risk failure in front of a large and raucous crowd. His mates slap his back. I find him afterwards, squeeze his hard arm in relief. Once the adrenaline settles I ask him why he wants to do this; he grins, the rush obviously and there’s more science to it than you think Mum. He nods at the crowd, besides, I’d only be up there at the bar if I wasn’t down here. A different sort of danger I think. He’s always been a doer, happier being part of the action than watching, but I would forgive him for standing on the hill, or even helping his mates behind the chutes without participating, rather than climb on those fiercely bucking horses.
We stand on the fence and watch his mate win the open bull ride. The three of them are delighted, their grins splitting their faces. I leave them to it. Drive safely I call and wave goodbye (they all must work tomorrow, the only concession to being a Sunday is a late breakfast at 7am).
I find the car and drive carefully through the dark back to my friends. The moon is late tonight, and the stars are a superhighway above my head. It’s huge country out here. Another world to the small Tasmanian skies. I’m thinking about my fear, about how much I didn’t want to watch. It sits at odds with all my instincts to have raised him to take risks, to live an adventurous life. It seemed tonight it was not his courage that failed, it was mine. And yet, it hadn’t. I had stayed - albeit with a flurry of text messages to various friends and family members in search of virtual support.
The next day is busy. We go mustering. We help draft cattle and load trucks. Then late in the afternoon our friend takes us out to a ridgeline. We climb up to a cave and wriggle through a hole in the rock to sit on the top of the world. Our chat fades and we feel our insignificance, the fleeting nature of life. The birds – finches and a flock of budgies – swell the silence with their calls. Below us in the distance two cows lead their tiny calves through the scrub.
*
Terry Tempest Williams also wrote that when women were birds2 they knew how to exist differently to the mothers without shadows. She says we knew our greatest freedom was in taking flight at night, when we could steal the heavenly darkness for ourselves, navigating through the intelligence of stars and the constellation of our making in the delight and terror of our uncertainty.3 Up on that ridgeline I sit between the shadowless woman and the freedom of flight. Both of them exist in me, and that tension I realise, is something with which I must make my peace.
mm
Reading
I might be the last to the party about the allegations surrounding Delia Owens, (of Where the Crawdads Sing fame - a book I thoroughly enjoyed), but I ended up going down a small wormhole about the whole thing. Here’s the original New Yorker article by journalist Jeffrey Goldberg and his recent follow up. I came across these articles through the excellent reading recommendation newsletter What to Read If. I’ve just downloaded The Exhibitionist and am loving it. Will report back next week.
Listening
We listened to Meg Bignell’s Angry Women’s Choir on our road trip. It was highly entertaining and brilliantly read by Meg - one of those books that comes alive as an audiobook.
Writing
Graft ms has been sent to editor for proofing…eek, it’s getting closer. Another Country Style article written on friendship and road trips and sitting up on the top of rocks.
Terry Tempest Williams, When Women Were Birds: Fifty-Four Variations on Voice, Picador, 2012, p15.
A reference to an indigenous creation story.
Ibid, p16.
Maggie, I just left that country a week ago, returning to my home in Windermere, Florida just last night. It was hard leaving, we had just had a wonderful gathering of family and friends in Brisbane celebrating our 50th wedding anniversary. The trip included a visit back to my family home south of Cloncurry, and I just opened your email to the astonishing sight of what I'm pretty sure is one of my favorite places - possibly Julie & Katie took you to the caves? I so love your writing about Tasmania, but this country still holds my heart and I am delighted you have seen it!
Angela
I woke this morning and decided it was a morning for slow, sitting in the sun with choccy lab and a Dilmah Earl Grey in fine China tea cup. I thought to myself, ‘all I need now is an article by Maggie to read’. Opened my email and there it was. Ahhhhh ..
I can’t wait for your new book. *excited happy little clap*
Thank you for bringing breath, joy and tangible glimpses of real dust-earth life to my suburban days.
Have a fab week Maggie!