The Dig

Sometimes, I’ll go on a little archeological dig into my past. It’s quite the journey these days because there is now so much ground to cover while I try to find those moments where discoveries were unearthed, and everything changed.

There’s the usual childhood stuff, mostly packed into paper bags and ensconced in the tumble of the lower shelf in the linen press of my mind. And then there are the moments, scattered everywhere, when I had to go out into the world on my own, travel trains and buses and aeroplanes to places of training and work and negotiate new and/or unreliable relationships.

Then there is the mind-blowing stuff of finding the man of my dreams… the one I wished for every evening if there was a clear sky; because back then, any opportunity to wish on a tiny star would find me walking out the front of the house every cloudless night to search. Desperate like a drug user, not for sex, but for that connection of intimacy and understanding and the need for validation and appreciation that I thought a relationship with said man would bring. Sad, but true. Ah youth!

I was lucky with my friendships. Most of them proved to be long lasting; there were the marvelous ones whereby we spoke at depth instantly. We would dig deeply into our own psyche, growing and nurturing the inner life that called for investigation and the sharing of our thoughts. Over the years, we felt we solved many of our heartfelt issues.

Always curious. That’s what it was, and still is. And it was on that basis that I responded to an advertisement in the local paper, a Creative Writing class to be held at the Victoria University, Sunbury campus. To be honest, I was thinking practically. It was a long time since I had attended any schooling and while I felt I was a reasonably capable writer, I thought it would be advantageous to learn more about the craft than I had learned in my secondary school education. Maybe it would be the course that could help me put into words much of what I was feeling, maybe I had a story in me. I called the number and booked in for the information evening.

And, well. There you go.

I found gold.

The Sunbury campus of VUT was originally established in 1879 as an asylum for the insane, not a hospital where people were nurtured and helped, but a place of detention for the incurable souls. The red brick buildings stood atop Jacksons’ Hill, quiet and foreboding in its gloomy grandeur.

It was a dark and stormy night…it was! But this isn’t a horror story. It had been a stinking hot summers day, and a cool change was forecast that evening. The skies grew richly dark quickly, and the smell of the promise of rain assailed my nostrils as I made my way from the carpark. The campus was all but empty and the only lights were those in the building where the course was to be held. Worn granite steps led into the foyer and up to the first floor. To the right were a row of inmate cells and to the left was the classroom with a kitchenette off to one side.

Curtains billowed from the open windows, allowing the room to cool considerably while everyone gathered. There was a large and interesting array of people, ranging from teenagers to the elderly and I was somewhere in the middle. The master of ceremonies, Bruno Lettieri, was also the teacher who would be taking the course, and he was assisted amiably by Irene Dostine, a current student and all-round great chick. We all enjoyed a glass of wine or cups of tea and snacks and chatted happily to one another.  We were all lovers of words, after all.

A published and popular author then spoke about how she came up with the ideas for her most recent book and read excerpts from it. Everyone was impressed and the author was open to questions and happily engaged with those who wanted to talk with her during a break in proceedings. I liked these people. I liked the enthusiasm of the teacher, I’d have bought a used car from him, no worries! My interest was piqued as was my imagination. I felt an urgency to get home and start something, so I signed up for the course and left the evening feeling exhilarated, inspired and eager to begin.

Three years later I was signing up again along with nearly everyone else from our class. We had become active and fearless participants in our school life. The confidence our teacher exuded was not the confidence in himself, but his confidence in us.

Apart from the usual challenges of writing, Bruno would encourage us to read a novel from an Australian author, and the said author would be invited to what was to become wonderful “In Conversation With…” evenings. These became very popular events, with people from all over Melbourne attending. Bruno liaised with the Hospitality teachers and the conversations were held in the beautiful old restaurant on campus. Here, the Hospitality students got to put into practice what they were learning, from preparing the restaurant, setting tables, prepping food and drinks, meeting and greeting and waiting tables.

We were fortunate to have local musicians perform too and we even had a belly dancer. Then the conversations would begin, and two students would interview the author. We were lucky to meet Arnold Zable, Helen Garner, Dorothy Porter, Ray Gaita, Peter Rose and Martin Flanagan, to name a few, who all gave happily of their time and knowledge. They were fabulous nights and were known as “Rotunda” evenings, after a nod to our original incarnation at Sunbury and the rotunda that stood on the lawn outside our classroom. Sadly, the Sunbury campus closed, and those evenings moved to Footscray and Melbourne campuses. Heady days indeed.

I was someone, along with others, who had never read in front of anyone, let alone get up and speak in front of people or converse with acclaimed artists. I was being heard and it was unnerving.

Bruno called it ‘diving off the diving board’.

I read somewhere that life hinges on a few seconds that we don’t see coming and that how we respond to those few seconds can change the direction of our life.

We don’t think that the action of writing our name on a list will make a lot of difference or add meaning to a life. But in fact, the act of writing my name down was to completely change the direction of where my life would take me. Within a few years I had signed up to another course. The years at Rotunda gave me the skills to sit with people, listen and go home and write their story. I became a Civil Celebrant, writing ceremonies of love and loss, weddings and funerals. I take that dive from the diving board quite often, immersing myself in the lives of others and putting their stories into words. It is an absolute privilege.

Bruno Lettieri no longer runs Creative Writing classes; but he could, and they would be packed classes. He always thought it funny because his students just kept coming back, even when they had completed the course, they would return when classes restarted the following year. And why was that? What was it that this teacher gave? I think it was his ability to connect with everyone individually with warmth, enthusiasm and a gentle push in the right direction.  We had troubled teenagers in class, who struggled with regular school. There were elderly people, lonely people, refugees, a few people between jobs and actively inspired people who had an important story to write and were given those skills.

Everyone was heard and validated; and it was a very safe place to be with others who contributed to your well-being, your sense of self and the fact that you could do what you set your mind to, because encouragement was a major gift.

I take the relics of those days, old manuscripts and poetry, and immerse myself from time to time in who I was back then, and I give thanks that I found that tiny article in the local paper and printed my name on that list. I hope everyone who attended, gained what I gained; I know that is possibly improbable, but it was only ever good things that came from those classes. In the unpicking of those years at school, I find no loose ends and I keep those memories close to the surface to remind myself of how lucky we all were.