My Ikaria Read online

  There’s no turning back from the knowledge that my sedentary lifestyle was literally robbing me of years of life. I’ve become very conscious in recent months of how I can move about in my own ‘village’ more. I need the change to be easy for me – otherwise I won’t keep it up. And I don’t want it to take up too much time. And so, when I’m out, I’ve started walking up escalators, taking stairs rather than lifts, standing rather than sitting when on the train, and parking my car a little further at shopping centres rather than aiming for the spot closest to the entrance. None of this takes me any extra time, but it means that I move more. I feel more energetic, feel nicely tired at the end of the day. I sleep better and wake up with more energy. And in coming days I’m going to need the energy – we’ve been putting off a big household chore, but there’s no holding off any longer. We need to move our son into a bigger room.

  Emmanuel’s bedroom is like a well-organised op shop: boxes of soft toys and Lego atop the wardrobe; model planes, cars, snow domes and other miscellanea on the bookshelf; collections of radios that have been pulled apart, paddle pop sticks that have yet to be put together, football cards and magnets and dried-out textas in drawers; a bucket of old garage hinges from a metal detecting trip in a dusty corner . . . It’s amazing what a boy collects over the course of his childhood. Particularly a boy who finds it hard to part with stuff.

  Despite our best efforts to trim and cull over the years, Emmanuel has now outgrown his small room. After a sudden growth spurt, his legs hang over his bunk bed and his head hits the ceiling every time he gets up. We’ve decided to move him across the hall to the lounge room. Having prepared for a few weeks now, the stage is set – a bigger bed and a new desk are waiting to be set up. An office chair stands in the hallway. We’re ready.

  We earmark a day when everyone is home for the ‘exchange’. I brace myself to beg and plead that some of Emmanuel’s stuff goes to the op shop, or to a new home with a little boy who will enjoy Emmanual’s things as much as he did. I’m not so worried about the marathon of cleaning and culling, scrubbing and creating. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.

  The process starts early in the morning. We decide to empty the room first, and I start carting box after box, pile after pile to the study in the back garden. We dismantle the bed. Take out the rest of the furniture. Vacuum and dust and scrub the walls. Remove the furniture from the lounge and try and squeeze some of it into Emmanuel’s old room. Put the bed and new desk together. And slowly start to put some of his stuff back in the new room.

  Normally I would grumble my way through such a project – but I’m pleased to be able to help Emmanuel organise a new teenage room that he can move about in and put his own adolescent stamp on. My fitness tracker vibrates at midday – I’ve hit 10,000 steps already and we haven’t even made a dent. It feels good to exercise without thinking about it.

  As I’m trying to scrub texta marks and odd bits of tape off the walls, I think how the Ikarians and other Blue Zoners keep active throughout the course of their days without going to the gyms, lifting weights or standing on a vibrating machine. The thought is liberating.

  That night, we admire Emmanuel’s new room. He has a clean new desk, a bookshelf that isn’t crammed to the gills, and a new bed that he fits into. It’s taken a fair bit of work, but we got there. We’re both tired and pleased.

  By the time I have a shower and get into bed, I’ve clocked up 22,000 steps – and I haven’t left our home once today.

  Socialising

  Fiona and I part to avoid a cyclist, our runners crunching the gravel and bright autumn leaves underfoot. Around us there are dogs on leashes, toddlers in prams, primary-school-aged children rubbing sleep from their eyes as their parents cajole them into keeping up on their way to school. While I enjoyed the ritual of taking the kids to school when they were younger, I’m relieved that part of my life is behind me.

  We are on what has become one of our regular Friday morning walks now that the weather is cooling again, which starts ‘first thing’ at 8.30 after we’ve packed our teenagers off to school, put a few loads of washing on, made sure our beds are done and so on. One of us is usually late having tried to fit in as many domestic chores as possible. But we both look forward to our walk and rarely cancel.

  We walk along the bush track that starts at the primary school our children attended. The kids are at different schools now and only see each other every now and then. For Fiona and I, though, what started as an occasional stroll and coffee after we’d dropped the kids off has morphed into a regular brisk walk and a gabfest before our family-focused weekends.

  Invariably, the talk turns to our children. We often share our small frustrations as we bumble our way through parenting in the age of devices. It’s us against the seductive flash of the iPhone and the sexy bleep of the Xbox, the Siren-like calls which seem to lure our children away from us. The devices are ‘Responsible for All Our Problems’. They stop our children from talking to us. From doing their homework or reading a book. From getting out and being active. Why can’t they just put them away?!

  But we both know we’re just venting, and that we are lucky. Our kids are healthy and still look to us for opinions and advice. They tell us the things that concern them. They still want to come out with us. They don’t take drugs, aren’t experimenting with alcohol – at least not yet. And they haven’t fallen in with a ‘bad crowd’.

  I hear echoes of my parents in my own voice. When I was a young woman, my father used to warn me against falling in with kakies parees – bad company – saying that rot quickly spreads. I remember my teenage self – eager to have more edgy experiences, to grow up quickly and do things I knew Dad wouldn’t approve of. I don’t see that same pressing drive in my own children. At least I hope my son is just joking when he says he wants to fight drug cartels on the streets of Rio di Janeiro as soon as he is old enough to leave home.

  I think back to the friendships I had as a young person. I was always drawn to strong women who spoke their minds and lived their lives passionately – we made mistakes together, picked each other up after failed relationships, ate and drank and danced our way well into the small hours of the morning. Some of these friendships have burned themselves out, but some are still going, albeit constrained by the commitments of our respective lives. I continue to catch up with my friend Stacey, who I’ve known for more than twenty years. I smile at how pressing our existential angst seemed when we were younger, when we would snuggle into the couch of her inner-city apartment, talking non-stop and smoking; how feverishly our hips swayed as we danced on tables at beachside bars on Greek islands, walking home in stilettos as the sun came up.

  Now, we both have teenagers and husbands, mortgages and ageing parents. Our six-monthly catch-ups are often qualified with, ‘I’m working early tomorrow, so I can’t stay out too late . . .’

  The last time we met, Stacey ordered chamomile tea and I stopped at one glass of wine. We complained that the music was too loud to hear each other talk. Stacey was worried about her eldest child going to schoolies, proudly showing me photos of a well-dressed young man smiling at the camera on his way to the school formal. She told me she was trying to keep body and soul together by doing yoga, practising mindfulness. We tittered at some of the more cultish forms of yoga she’d tried over the years. One, involving the signing of a confidentiality clause and animalistic grunts under the cover of darkness, had us snorting in laughter. She talked about how she’d joined an outdoor fitness class, which was the only thing that had worked so far in allaying her menopausal symptoms. I said how boxing was one of the few acceptable ways I could vent anger. Three hours flew past without us noticing as we careened between the nostalgia-tinged past and what was concerning us now.

  Fiona and I have wound around the track, past the shops and back to the car park, where we will take up our day again. She needs to shop for food and pick up one of her kids for a medical appointment later in the afternoon; I need to finish a repo
rt I’m working on.

  ‘What are you having for dinner tonight?’ I ask Fiona, who is a fine cook.

  ‘I’m just going to cook a quick pasta with a pesto of peas, basil, mint, garlic and oil,’ she replies. ‘I need to get my boys to basketball, and it only takes 15 minutes.’

  Like me, Fiona enjoys cooking. When she has time, she plans delicious meals based on seasonal ingredients. I respect her culinary opinion, and often feel inspired to head straight to the shops after our walks to pick up an ingredient that I’ve forgotten about or haven’t thought to use before. Once again, I’m inspired to try this new recipe. It sounds easy – and something my kids are likely to eat.

  Before long, our cars come into view and we hug.

  ‘Take care. See you next week . . .’

  ‘I look forward to it.’ And I do.

  Over the years, I’ve avoided socialising during work hours in a bid to get work done – but since meeting the Ikarians, I realise that socialising and getting work done need not be mutually exclusive. I need to get out of my office more, and feed my desire to talk with and connect with people. In keeping with this, today I’m having lunch with my friend Nic, a writer and teacher. We are in the café at the Heide Museum of Modern Art, dappled autumn sunshine filtering through the large windows. The museum is on the grounds of the former home of art benefactors John and Sunday Reed. Now it’s made up of a kitchen garden, a café and gallery, as well as the original homestead.

  George and I used to bring Dolores and Emmanuel here when they were little. They would run around the metal sculptures dotting the grounds, touch and smell the herbs in the garden, and marvel at the extravagant cat-run attached to the homestead.

  I think sadly about how the last time we were here as a family was with my friend Katerina. We had bought her an overpriced lunch box that she didn’t touch. ‘Could this be it, Spiri?’ she had asked me when the kids were away from earshot. A week later, she had passed away.

  It’s mid-week and the café is full. After spending so much time at home, it feels strange that so many people are out in the middle of the day, enjoying themselves. Lunching. Drinking. Laughing. I order a glass of wine so that I too might be part of the festive throng.

  ‘You should consider teaching, Spiri,’ says Nic. ‘You’d be a natural. And we’re in need of more staff where I work.’

  It’s not the first time Nic has suggested such an idea. But in the past I’ve always been too busy trying to run my fledgling business and raise our young family. Getting my certificate to teach in tertiary education felt too hard. It was yet another bit of paper I didn’t have the time or extra cash to get. Now, though, the sociable Ikarians have got me thinking that I need to get out more, see more people each day. Perhaps this is the answer?

  I met Nic when I did a corporate writing unit in a professional writing course. I’d won a prize for a story about Dad’s village. I’d written it while our family were staying with my aunt Kanella in southern Greece. The story slipped out of me after we’d visited Dad’s family home. I’d put the kids to bed, then stayed up well after midnight, my fingers flying across my cousin’s laptop keyboard, barely able to keep up with my racing thoughts, eager to capture the emotional vein of the story. As soon as it was down, it felt as if I’d written something special. I’d quickly funnelled the prize money back into paying for a corporate writing unit to help with my business before I could spend it on bills and food shopping.

  Nic has since encouraged and supported my writing, and every now and then we catch up for lunch and debrief about the trials and tribulations of running businesses out of a home office. He seems to have a lot more work on than me, seems to be able to get out of his office more. I find myself feeling a little envious as Nic reels off the many projects he is working on – teaching, writing books, taking his kids to basketball, thinking about a movie script.

  I am in awe of his energy. But I can’t help it. My mothering instinct kicks in, perhaps to avoid thinking about the changes I might need to make to my own life.

  ‘Take it easy, Nic. You need to have breaks. When was the last time you had a day off?’

  Nic laughs. ‘Maybe several years ago. I can’t remember.’

  ‘Promise me you’ll take a day off soon. Put it in the diary. You need to schedule it in.’

  ‘What about the teaching then?’ he counters. ‘Just do the training course. Send me your CV. I’ll pass it on to my manager.’

  I think about my lonely office, wonder if getting out a few days a week would do me good. I reflect that the Ikarians would never sit in a room all day, tapping at a computer, not talking to anyone. I find myself getting excited about imparting knowledge about my craft. About honouring it even more.

  As we part, Nic agrees to schedule in a day off and I promise to have a think about teaching. The seed that he’s sown is starting to germinate.

  Inspired further by the social Ikarians, I’d put a call out to start a book club. I’d been part of a book club years ago, where we argued about Christos Tsiolkas’s The Slap or waxed lyrical about Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead. But we were all busy people who lived in different suburbs, and in the end the logistics of coordinating dates and venues beat us.

  I learnt from this lesson, and so opted to ask only local people. I wanted to make it easy for them to come out of their homes mid-week. I would provide the venue; all they had to do was read the book and bring food or wine to share. Most of the women I invited were mums I’d spent time talking to at the school line-up. Dolores is still good friends with their children. I didn’t expect one of the perks of the group to be the exchange of information and a light-hearted debriefing on the challenges of parenting teenagers. A free therapy group over gooey cheese, prosecco and literature.

  Our group meets again, and we walk through our early winter garden towards the study where the lights and heater are on. George has got some soft jazz playing. I have set out wine glasses, and each member places something to share on the table – soft cheese and crackers, chocolate, biscuits, fruit. We pass around the cheese, pour wine, sit back.

  The Ikarians have prompted me to think about eating less, but it’s challenging to put into practice when faced with foods I love – tonight, I keep going back to the cheese, chipping away at it, even after my fellow book clubbers have slowed down.

  In a bid to eat less, I’m trying to take a gradual and non-punitive approach: putting slightly smaller portions on my plate, replacing sweet treats with nuts and seeds from the pantry, and eating smaller serves of bread and pasta, making up for it with larger serves of salads and vegetables. I’m more conscious of avoiding late night snacking, taking myself off to bed rather than raiding the pantry for my nightly energy boost. And I’ve been trying to listen to my hunger cues, eating when I’m hungry rather than when I’m bored or a bit flat. It’s all helped – I’ve sliced a few inches off my waistline over several months without even trying. But faced with the seductive lure of soft cheese, or potato chips, or salty crackers, my resolve leaves me.

  Tonight, we’re discussing Viet Than Nguyen’s The Sympathizer, but as usual the conversation has strayed to our children – how they’re going at school, how we can pull them away from the seductive lure of their devices, who they might be kissing. We don’t really know who they’re kissing, if they’re kissing anyone at all, but part of the joy is wondering and scheming how we can find out. As we drink more wine, the conversation gets bawdier. We’re a bunch of middle-aged mums, but something younger and freer comes out. We let loose in the safe confines of our messy study – then we can each go back to our families more responsible, more contained. More mature.

  While it’s not stated, each of us bring the things we like the most. Jill always brings cheese. Leah always sweets. Georgia wine. Invariably, I scrounge in the fridge or pantry a little before book club, wondering what my contribution will be. I’m determined that this group is not going to be yet another stress, but a joyful gathering to talk about books.

/>   I finish the cheese and take a sip of prosecco,.

  And while I know that I’ll regret it tomorrow as I move sluggishly through the day, tonight I enjoy this little feast.

  Reflecting

  ‘Mighty Greek warrior in the siege of Troy. First letter “A”.’

  ‘Adam?’

  It’s late in the evening and the requisite ancient heroes, whose names were drummed into me at Greek school, will simply not reveal themselves to me. ‘Adam’ might be right – but he doesn’t sound mighty enough. Biblical yes, mighty no.

  George and I are lying in bed, the paper between us. We started the crossword a little after six this morning. George is more alert than me in the mornings and usually wakes up in a sociable mood. Irritatingly, he wakes at the same time on weekends. It was a running joke between us early in our marriage that the only reason I would ever leave him is because he gets up so early. After seventeen years of the same, I’m almost used to it. I would never admit it to him, but I even appreciate having the quiet hours of the morning before the kids wake so I can potter, or read, or get some pressing work done before the day starts properly. And it would be ungracious of me to complain too much – he generally delivers coffee to my bedside.

  Still, I need at least half a cup of coffee before my brain can do the required linguistic gymnastics to get through the crossword. This morning we managed to get halfway through it before the kids shuffled into the kitchen, sleepy eyed and monosyllabic. We gave them some clues over breakfast, and they were pleased to get a couple of answers in.

  The day continued, and the paper sat on the kitchen table. Over lunch, I glanced at it again. I got a few more answers, snapped a pic of it with my phone and sent it to George at work. From the train home, he sent me three texts with answers – we’re nearly there. Just a few more and we’re done. It’s not often that we get all the way to the end.