The best journeys take you home

Māori legends, old friends, and dying stars

Dear Friends,

I started writing this newsletter on our plane flight home from Aotearo / New Zealand. My husband and I joke that we’d catch an international flight again (thousands of dollars and all) just to have all four kids strapped into a seat with a screen and a food delivery service!

We touched down long enough for the kids to settle back into school and then packed our van for another adventure. It was a fast turnaround, with a good dose of ‘adrenalin packing’ — it’s amazing what you can organise when your heart is pumping. We’ve driven north to Coffs Harbour in northern New South Wales. Anders is working at the local Hospital. The kids and I have been learning remotely and exploring the local beaches and forests.

While we are excited to be away, our joy is tempered by the loss of school sports carnivals, book week dress ups, spring arriving in our garden, and time with friends and family. It is hard to find the right balance, opportunities ebb and flow, life is always moving and I am learning to go with it.

This edition of Wild and Wonderful is about our family holiday to Aotearo / New Zealand.

Let’s go, we have a plane to catch.

Thank you for your presence here and for supporting my writing.

Kate xx

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The best journeys take you home

Craigieburn Range, Aotearoa / New Zealand

We arrived at Christchurch Airport in a storm. Rain fell in thick sheets. The evening sky bulged with charcoal-grey clouds. The car hire attendant smiled miserably, her sodden hair stuck to her cheeks like seaweed. Water spluttered from pipes and pooled in dark puddles on the footpath. Reluctantly, we pushed our luggage trolleys outside in search of our hire car.

It didn’t stop raining for three days — a wet monotony of water. Luckily, we were staying with close friends who were not afraid to entertain a family-of-six inside their modest home. Or have their lounge-room decorated with lego and drying racks full of soggy raincoats.

They took us to visit Taylors Mistake, a beautiful bay with limestone cliffs and century-old baches — the Aotearoa / New Zealand word for shack — built on the edge of the sea. As we walked around the bay we watched surfers catch rips out to the breaking waves. The sea was violent, the swell the highest the locals had ever seen. Everything was steel-grey, even the sand that stuck to our clothes and hands. Earth and the sky blended into one.

Taylors Mistake

The cold rain didn’t bother the children, they dug trenches and floated logs in the flood water, until they fell in and we had no choice but to surrender to the storm. The adults found solace in the local weather report — snow was falling in the mountains behind Christchurch and we were going skiing soon. Perhaps this was our ‘silver lining’ or just perfect timing.

*

In a second-hand bookshop I read a Māori (the indigenous people of Aotearoa) creation story, it goes like this: In the beginning the universe was created by the sky father, Ranginui, and the earth mother, Papatūānuku. They were madly in love. They had 70 children, all boys, all gods, all immortal. One day, the boy-gods decided to separate Rangi and Papa, they were tired of living in the hot, sweaty darkness between their parents. Tānemahuta, god of the forests, birds and insects, lifted his strong legs and pushed until the sky lifted up and away from the earth and light poured in. The boy-gods ran around happily. But Rangi and Papa were heartbroken. A great storm began. Rain fell for the first time— Rangi’s tears for his beloved wife — and soft mist rose — Papa’s grief for her husband.

I thought about this story as we wandered through the Christchurch Botanical Gardens in the drizzle. Could this wild weather be a ‘love storm’, I wondered. Was the sky missing the earth just as we were missing home? My five-year-old lifted his head out from under a bird of paradise leaf and asked, “Are the Māori gods real?”. “They are just a story to help people understand the world,” I told him. And we all need a good story, just as much as we need food, water, shelter and love. Especially in bad weather.

*

Later that evening, while cooking dinner at our friends’ home we felt a tremor, like the slight rumble a truck makes when it is passing by. “Did you feel that?,” the children called out excitedly. Everybody was tense as we looked at the Quakes app and discovered we had experienced a 3.5 magnitude earthquake, approximately 15km away. I froze, uncertain of what to do next, where would we go, what would we do, if there was another tremor. Which was a real possibility in Aotearoa / New Zealand because it lies on the boundary where two colossal tectonic plates collide. Having just visited Quake City, a museum exhibition about the Canterbury Earthquakes in 2011 that killed 185 people, injured 7,000, and destroyed 70% percent of buildings in Christchurch, I was well aware of the risks. But our friends just shrugged their shoulders and carried on getting ready for dinner. Apparently, Aotearoa / New Zealand experiences 150 earthquakes each year that are strong enough to be felt by people. I’m not sure I would be comfortable living here.

Ranginui and baby Rūaumoko, Atua: Maori Gods and Heroes by Gavin Bishop

To understand earthquakes in Aotearoa / New Zealand we need to return to our Māori creation story. Remember how Rangi and Papa were upset at being separated from each other. Over the years, their grief grew and caused a great flood. Mataaho, one of the younger boy-gods, suggested that the earth be turned over. “If Papa could see less of her husband she might not be so sad,” he said. So Papa was turned over, but Rūaumoko, a baby god, was being breastfed when this happened and so he was buried under his mother, trapped in the earth forever. Rūaumoko was not happy and he threw a massive tantrum. To this day, his cries and movements cause earthquakes, volcanic eruptions and hot springs — tremors of the heart. And ripples of trauma — like the Canterbury earthquakes disaster, not so long ago. But hope and courage are strong in this place, even if there is a moody baby-god in the earth. ‘Everything will be alright,’ the neon street sign announced next to a Christchurch construction site, more than a decade after the disastrous quakes. And I wonder if it’s the power of story that unites people in a crisis, or if telling a story is like casting a spell — even a ‘fully munted’ (Aotearoa / New Zealand slang for broken) city can be calmed with narrative.

*

Under a waxing gibbous moon we said good-bye to Christchurch and drove West towards the Craigieburn range. Lush green farmland stretched for kilometres and erupted into great cathedrals of rock. My eyes lifted to the snow capped peaks, which disappeared into the clouds. It wasn’t hard to imagine the mountains were shaped by gods. Our three-year-old called out, “Yah, we are going kneeing.” And we all laughed.

*

The storm passes and we enjoy five days of skiing with friends under blue skies with no wind, the perfect conditions for family skiing. Three of our children learn to ski independently, which feels like quite an achievement, mostly thanks to my husband who skied with our youngest in a backpack and our five-year-old between his legs for much of the time. We succumb to ‘snow fever’. The kids beg us to move to Aotearoa / New Zealand.

Ski family, Porters Alpine Resort

I escape for a child free ski with my friend Claire. At the chairlift we giggle like young women, our tired bodies and motherhood-responsibilities hidden behind our goggles and jackets. After falling off the t-bar tow twice, which was a little humiliating, we make it to the top of the mountain. The sun is shinning and we can see Mt Aspiring in the distance. Suddenly, we can’t remember that we have seven children between us. A moment of glimmer, our chance to shine. Except, I hesitate at the top of ‘Big Mamma’, a black run I know is probably out of my league, and slip and slide my way down. My legs burn. My heart pumps. My toes ache. At the bottom we throw our arms around each other, we have survived our mission — our families finding joy together in the mountains in Aotearoa / New Zealand.

Our eldest skis until the last tow of the day, fuelled by youth and the lolly snakes I put in her pocket. In the afternoon the boys start building tunnels in the snow. The littlest girls, make snow babies, cradling their miniature ‘snowmen’ in their arms, rocking them gently. I take my gloves off to take a photo, the tips of my fingers tingling in the cold. My hands are no match for the elements. And I am reminded that we are visitors in this harsh and unforgiving landscape. Our survival dependent on the thin layers of breathable plastic and the wool and down insulation that we wear. Our thermal reactions fuelled by hot chocolates and TimTams (one afternoon the kids ate an entire family packet). Time floats as we play in the snow. I marvel at a snowflake in my hands, how it gradually melts in the sun, how it vanishes between my fingers. How everything begins and ends with nothing.

When we arrive at our bach at the end of the day, I collapse. I have been stretched, like butter spread on too much bread. Carrying skis, putting on boots, toilet breaks, hungry bellies, finding lost children. And there is so much gear to sort and dry, ready for another day of skiing. Perhaps this is what preparing for an expedition into uncharted polar regions feels like? The little girls put their snow babies to sleep in the freezer with dish-cloth blankets. I make a note in my diary, I want to remember this sweet moment. When I tuck my five-year-old boy into bed he tells me that he’s sad. “I want to go on a ferris wheel,” he declares. I throw my head back and roll my eyes to the heavens. The appetite of children is never satisfied, even in fresh glorious snow, even gliding down a ski slope.

*

Lindis Pass

We say goodbye to our friends and drive South towards Wānaka. Tears well in our eyes, the kids fight in the car, and a full moon rises in the sky. Another storm arrives. We make it over Lindis Pass before the road is closed. And I wonder if someone is watching over us, our timing seems too good.

Sunset at Lake Wānaka

We catch up with a friend and her family. We have been close since our teenage years but it’s been a long time since we have visited her in Aotearoa / New Zealand. After a day skiing together, the kids jump in the hot tub at our holiday home. They splash and laugh under the disco lights and water spouts. The adults share stories — the choices we have made, the places we have lived, the culmination of reality and dreams. And I think about our friendship and the different paths we have taken. How she has lived in the mountains, raised two kids on the turns of her skis and knowledge of snowflakes and winter’s beauty. While I have grown a family at sea-level, on the foothills of a smaller mountain, with gum leaves, river-stones and sandy-beaches. What was it that we wanted anyway? And how do you compare dreams?

On our last day skiing, my friend carries my youngest on her back and takes our family out to the back of the ski resort — a sweet fellowship in the snow. I marvel at her strength and confidence in this place of extreme beauty. But despite our different skills, we share the familiarity of a long friendship. Moments with old friends feels like wearing your favourite cardigan, like looking in a mirror, like going home.

*

The trip home goes smoothly. When we arrive in Sydney, Australia, the pilots invite the kids to have a look at the cockpit. “There are so many switches,” the boys tell me in excitement. A fellow traveler, spots our youngest as she makes a getaway in the airport terminal — the fourth time we have lost her this trip. And a plane hostess places a bag full of chocolates in my lap as I doze in my seat on the final leg to Hobart, Tasmania. A taxi driver plays a game of Tetris with our luggage and we make it home before midnight. All these little acts of kindness remind me of the beauty and love that exists in our world.

The next morning, our cat delivers a mouse to the backdoor, a gift for our return. Our cockatoo squarks on my shoulder like a house alarm. Sylvia climbs over the luggage in the hallway and sits on top of the bags like they are a throne or a mountain top — a conquest won. The orchid in the hallway parades her twin stalks with magnificent pink blooms, a tender gesture. For a moment I forget the unpacking but I can’t ignore my hungry children. Sylvia and I cross the road to the corner shop. She carries a little woven shopping basket with a paper list just like mummy’s. We lift our eyes to the brightening sky and there is the pale moon, a perfect half, watching over us. And I thank the moon for her light, the experiences we’ve had, the friendships that have orbited our lives, while she twirls half a revolution in the sky, and follows us home.

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Three Wild and Wonderful things from August

Once in a Blue Moon

In Wānaka, we hired a house with an outdoor hot tub. It was a real treat. After skiing we stripped off and looked up at the stars. Anders and I tried to spot the Southern Cross, Alpha and Beta Centauri, and Orion’s Belt. The only constellations we knew much about. The moon, a bright disco ball, drowned out the light from the stars. Later, I learnt that it was a super moon, where the moon appears brighter and larger in the night sky, as the moon’s orbit brings it closer to earth. In the Southern Hemisphere, the August full moon is called the ‘snow moon’. Perhaps she was watching over us on our winter holiday.

Last night (31st August), as I finished this newsletter, another super moon rose in the evening sky — a ‘blue moon’. A name referring to its ‘rare occurrence’ rather than its colour. Every two-and-a-half years, two full moons occur within one month and the second full moon is called a blue moon. Hence the phrase ‘once in a blue moon’. Wherever you are, I hope you can step outside tonight and see the ‘blue moon’ illuminating the sky. It is the closest super moon this year, at a distance of 357,344 kilometres from Earth.

The last super moon of 2023 will be visible in Australia on September 29.

Matariki

While in Aotearoa / New Zealand we visited the Dark Sky Project to learn about our sky of stars and Māori astronomy. As we listened to our guide turn astronomical complexities into bite-sized pieces of information, I realised how little I understand about the universe. How I would be lost in the darkness, unable to orient myself, without modern technology. How my world view had been sculptured by a ‘earthward’ perspective. How I wanted to step outside, lift my eyes skyward, turn off the lightbulbs and use the light of the milky way to guide me.

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Mid-winter is a time of great celebration in Aotearoa / New Zealand. The appearance of the star cluster, Matariki, in the early morning sky marks the beginning of the Māori New Year. It is a time to reflect on the past year, celebrate the present, and plan for the year ahead.

Matariki is well known throughout the world. In English, it is called by its ancient Greek name, Pleiades or the Seven Sisters, and in Japan it is Subaru, meaning ‘gathered together’.

Seven Sisters Star Dreaming, Aboriginal artist, Japingka Gallery

The Australian Indigenous peoples of Western Australia tell a dreamtime story about the Kungkarangkalpa / seven sisters. It goes like this: a man fell in love with seven sisters and wanted them to be his. He was from the wrong skin group so he was not allowed to marry the sisters under traditional law. He chased them across the earth and they fled from him, eventually flying into the sky where they became the Kungkarangkalpa / seven sisters stars. But the man never stopped hunting them, and he too rode into the sky to become the stars of Orion, the hunter. To this day, he can be seen chasing his sisters across the sky. It is a story that is shared widely throughout central Australia and carries significant cultural and social meaning.

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Two years ago the Aotearoa / New Zealand Government introduced a national holiday for Matariki. On this day the people of Aotearoa / New Zealand are united under a sky full of stars — remembering the people they have lost the year before, enjoying the present with family and friends, and celebrating a bright, hopeful and optimistic future together. I wonder whether Australia could follow in Aotearoa / New Zealand’s footsteps and introduce a national holiday to unite all Australians under a sky full of stars, and to celebrate old stories and indigenous knowledge.

To view Matariki, look up at the north horizon just before dawn. Search for the distinct line of stars that forms Orion’s belt. Keep moving your gaze north of these three stars until you see a cluster of tiny stars, that are roughly as wide as Orion’s belt is long. These are the Matariki stars. Alternatively, you can cheat and use an app like Stallarium, to help guide you.

A poem about stars to carry in your heart

Watching My Friend Pretend Her Heart Is Not Breaking 
By Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer 

On Earth, just a teaspoon of neutron star
would weigh six billion tons. Six billion tons
equals the collective weight of every animal
on earth. Including the insects. Times three.

Six billion tons sounds impossible
until I consider how it is to swallow grief—
just a teaspoon and one might as well have consumed
a neutron star. How dense it is,
how it carries inside it the memory of collapse.
How difficult it is to move then.
How impossible to believe that anything
could lift that weight.

There are many reasons to treat each other
with great tenderness. One is
the sheer miracle that we are here together
on a planet surrounded by dying stars.
One is that we cannot see what
anyone else has swallowed.

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Happy ‘blue moon’ everyone.

Kate xx

PS. I’d love to know what the super moon looks like from your window. Leave a comment or reply to this email.

PPS. A grateful thank you to my husband and my Mum, who looked after the kids while I wrote this newsletter - on the plane, in our van, upstairs in my study at home, in NSW libraries, and on my phone in the middle of the night. I am showing up here because of you.