A letter from Sydney
On holding on to joy, one week on
Fragrant eucalypts, fresh from overnight rain, fill the air as I walk home at the beginning of a week. Bushfires tore through the Central Coast, just north of Sydney, a few days earlier. The moon, bright and large and mere hours past fullness, was bushfire-tinged orange, while smoke-tinged air hung thickly over houses.
On the east coast of Tasmania, close to where I’d been days earlier with my family, bushfires tore through scrublands, parched and quick to burn.
I’m walking home and the rain, now, is a welcome reprieve.
They predict a long, hazardous summer ahead.
At the end of that same week, I head out for a swim as the afternoon floats into the evening.
I take a long route to get to the pool. It’s been a slow, lethargic day, as many seem to be at the moment with repeated days of extreme heat warnings and the city resting inside as a result. But the heat is beginning to dissipate, and so I stretch my legs, taking ambling detours to extend the walk from here to there.
I walk through a churchyard and peek into the local Anglican Church, one of the oldest in Sydney. It looks cosy, festive and inviting, with twinkling golden lights lining the aisle. There’s an evening service in preparation of Christmas and the doors are open, with the Reverend standing to the side and welcoming people.
I get to the pool. I swim my laps. I focus on my breathing, on the stretch of my arms, the length of my legs. The light dips and drifts. I get out and take photos of the sky, orange stretching out across clouds.
A text pops up from a friend in London. She’s just heard the news. Am I okay? Is everyone I know and love okay?
I open up three tabs with different news sites and hit refresh refresh refresh. I take a slow, stilted walk home, texts from friends filling my screen. We’re all in disbelief, trying to piece together what’s happened – happening? – on the other side of the city, about a dozen kilometres away. My stomach drops as I read for the first time – a Chanukah by the beach event was taking place at Bondi when it happened.
Refresh refresh refresh.
None of us can wrap our heads around it. The size of that gun. The way Ahmed Al-Ahmed rested it against a tree before raising his arms and stepping away.
Refresh refresh refresh.
We sleep badly. We’re restless. We’re easily distracted. We’re a city in shock.
As the week goes by, the horrors unfurl and the list of victims swells.
It’s all the city can talk about. We talk about brave and courage, love and community, while the media and politicians spew division and crackdowns.
A colleague was there, 100 metres away, on his way to grab ice cream with his kids. Golden hour on a balmy Sunday afternoon at the end of the year. Why would you want to be anywhere else?
Friends of friends ran along the beach, hiding behind the surf truck.
A colleague’s neighbour died at the scene.
It’s too close to home. Far too close to home.
This evening marks a week. A moment of remembrance is called – an invitation to light a candle, to remember, to reflect. We seek these moments of solidarity, knowing that community and connection are critical. Always, but especially now.
It feels strange to also, somehow, be gearing up for the festive season as the city is left reeling. In the days before, I’d been noticing baubles hanging from trees in people’s front gardens. The way Christmas decorations wound their way around the city, interwoven with gum blossoms made of lights, koalas in lifesaver uniforms, and festive spices filling shops.
Joy and light, two festivals both so alike.
It now feels like the season of hugging everyone we know, and holding on tightly.
After closing my laptop on the last day of work, I head to a friend’s house. We’ve each prepared presentations – an end-of-year celebration with twelve months in review. It reminds me just how much one year can hold, even when core facts – a job, a flat, dear friends – remain steady and true. Hope and heartbreak. Belief and surrender. Big dreaming, big scheming, big plans ahead. All the things we could never have predicted – good, bad, frustrating, comical.
A friend and I met in our usual spot at the beach earlier this morning. The summer solstice sun was hidden behind clouds as we tentatively tip-toed in to the surprisingly icy water. Small schools of silver fish swam around us as we criss-crossed the bay before grabbing breakfast and eating it in the emerging sunshine.
What a year. What a way to end it.
Sun, saltwater, time with friends.
Always, but especially now.