Tag: people

Emergency warnings

Not long ago, I complained, with such unfailing consistency, about the insensitive intensity of Canberra’s sun. It was less than three months ago, but feels like an eternity already.

When I first encountered the ferocity of the spring sun, I was aghast. Having grown up in a tropical country where it was almost always 30 degrees Celsius during the day, even the coldest time of the year hovered in the late 20s.

I couldn’t imagine what the summer would bring. That’s why Canberra’s 35-degree dry, dry heat drained me from sanity.

However, Like any other person, I learnt tactics to survive the heat. I bought sunscreens and stayed indoors more. I felt reasonably prepared for summer.

Spring sprang, and then before it settled, a hot flash blew it away, replacing it with a heatwave. It was just before the beginning of summer when we first heard instances of bushland going up in flames. And then overnight, one after the other fires swept down national parks, homes, and livelihoods.

Well before the fire season had started, we had more uncontrollable fires than we could comprehend. Numbers made no sense as newscasters spelled out the thousands of hectares of greenery, now scorched. Native Australian wilderness and wildlife went from safe, to endangered, to probably extinct. Not even hope survived.

More than 4000 people spent the first of January in the ocean, the only safe place from the advancing fires. Like a freshly laid bedspread, smoke blanketed the air, ash the ground.

No one could bring themselves to say Happy New Year. Happiness seemed so unrealistic.

In the days that followed, the heat rose from the late 30s to 40s. More than half of Kangaroo Island burnt. Victoria declared a state of disaster. NSW declared a state of emergency, and the ACT, a state of alert. But then, when the Bureau of Meteorology predicted thunderstorms, some of us were thrilled. But most were alarmed. And they were right, too— those storms brought lightning that started more fires. No rain.

The country faced the hottest and driest year ever since record-keeping began. Rapid wind currents fuelled fires all over.

And then one day, Canberra, Sydney, and Melbourne had hailstorms. Gigantic balls of ice pelted down from the sky, shattering thousands of car windshields, permanently maiming perfectly good vehicles. Temperatures dropped to less than 20 degrees in a day. Two days later, we soared back to the 40s.

When it seemed like the summer would never end, the city came down in rains. For two days in a row, Canberra has had steady and mild rains, seeping through dry cracks, kissing dusty leaves, and brushing aside soot that had settled on garden patches. Sydney and Melbourne, however, has had far more damaging rains, with flash flooding affecting train routes and landslides uprooting some railway tracks entirely.

Here’re the top news in Canberra in the last seven days:

  • A fire that’s still active, even after burning through 87000+ hectares (870 square km)
  • The spread of Coronavirus
  • More rains recorded in the weekend than the last two years combined
  • Flash flooding across various cities
  • A small earthquake in Western Australia
  • A major cyclone with wind speeds over 200km/hour in Western Australia

Could there be a clearer indication of climate emergency?

Note to humans

Exit sign at The Royal Botanical Gardens, Melbourne
Exit sign at The Royal Botanical Gardens in Melbourne

Please leave silently;
let the remains rest in peace,
recover pieces.

Useless

Fitzeroy Gardens, Melbourne
Fitzeroy Gardens, Melbourne

In times of crisis,
reflecting humans’ lifestyle 
flowers bow their heads.
As we pull, uproot their soul,
they pity us, a lost cause.

I admit

For the last few weeks, I’ve struggled with my reading and writing.

I’d borrow an interesting-sounding book, riled up and motivated after scanning three of a five-line blurb, smiling at positive words that jump out at me, only to set the book down a few pages in, never to pick up again.

Like most of us would, I too blamed the book. It was dull and monotonous. The pacing was off, the print was too small, the page too tattered, or the story unrealistic—

Excessive excuses rained in my brain, as I told myself lie after lie for why I couldn’t get through a book.

As for writing an article, a poem, or a short story—stuff I used to do daily—I got nowhere with them. My mind drew blanks every time I determined to roll up my sleeves and create something worth sharing with my writers’ group. And for every meeting, I’d turn up empty-minded, to sit there and listen to wonderfully strung words, tap-dancing in my head even hours afterward.

It wasn’t the block—reader’s or writer’s.

I was just lazy.

I spent so much of my time volunteering, having fun, chatting with people, laughing, baking banana bread and cookies and muffins for no reason, and whiling away all day doing anything but reading or writing.

In other words, I was avoiding doing what I had to do. Reading and writing, my greatest passions, had become more strenuous than before. It was hard to sit down and focus my mind on one thing. As a result, I began using volunteering (which I enjoy just as much) as an escape mechanism.

The reason: I’m starting to understand the difficulties in writing meaningful work. When I’m in the groove, writing is easy for me. It feels so natural that I get a lot done without feeling tired or worked up. However, I’ve also come to see that it’s not always the case.

Effective word chains don’t always flow from the mind and ebb through the fingers on to the screen. In reality, writing is a draining, time-consuming task. You need to be active and present in the situation. Reading is the same. It demands more energy than thinking about baking or looking up random, irrelevant recipes.

We all go through this phase. It’s not that we’re no longer dedicated or involved, but it’s just that sometimes, even our most innate hobbies and interests can overwhelm us. To run away—or at least trying to—is common. But we should, at some point, admit it to ourselves.

I love writing and reading. But sometimes I don’t want to read or write. I’d want to watch a crappy TV show instead. That doesn’t mean I no longer love writing or reading. It just means there’s temporarily a screw loose in my head. Accepting that allows me to fix it and come back, strong as before.