Why I Decided To Podcast My Poetry
Back in 2008, I decided to move back home to the countryside where I grew up. The decision wasn't that hard to make as my Mother was terminally ill. I had gone home for a holiday (well actually a fact-finding mission) and upon seeing my mothers condition, I chose to move back asap immediately.
After moving back home, the following eight months was a learning curve. Caring as best I could for a terminally ill parent was challenging at the best of times. Caring for a terminally ill parent with emphysema who smoked right up to their passing, and who also drank every day was at times completely soul-shattering.
I will always be thankful for the opportunity of being able to spend the last eight months of my Mother's life with her in her own home. Just me and my Ma. Oh, and her two dogs too. The day she passed, I was at home with her and was able to hold her hand as she drew her last breath.
The above may read hard. I learnt a lot about life during this time, a lot about life, and also a lot about death.
One thing my Mother always said in this time was nothing else matters but love.
After the numbness of her passing subsided, the reality of settling accounts began. I was in the thick of it, calling utilities and businesses to finalise accounts and such. There was one account of which I did not know the password. Going through my identity on the phone, I kept on saying that I didn't know the password. The lady, on the other end after a while said, "ok then, let's start with your first name". I said it's Gavin, and she responded that's correct, "and that's your Mothers password for this account". I was suddenly embraced with a sense of love, and also complete sadness, with a certain sense of closure too.
The eve of my mothers funeral service, I was on the phone for most of the night calling family members. I had been given the honour of reading her eulogy. One of the most painful things I had to come to terms with was that I did not know my Mother's story much at all.
Sure, I knew the part of my Mothers story where I was in it. A short 18 years from birth to leaving the nest, of which I now refer to as 'shared accommodation'. However, there was a vast amount of my Mother's life, of which I did not know.
And this, in essence, is what made me realise how short that eight months was. Sure we talked about many and varied things in that time. I admit I thought my Mother was going to get better. I had even started to think about planning Christmas lunch in the backyard. That wasn't to be. My Mother passed on December 16th, and her funeral service was on December 23rd.
Looking back now, listening and learning would have been time better spent.
The job I left in Sydney to return home was in community radio. For years I tasked myself with interviewing people, recording stories and such. As a leaving gift, my workmates gave me a little mp3 recorder I had even brought home with me.
I recorded my mothers voice once on it, one afternoon, asking her what was happening on one of her favourite pay-tv dramas.
Again, looking back now, time spent listening and learning would have been better spent, perhaps documenting my Mother's story.
Before heading home, I had left a draft copy of my draft book of poetry at a good friends place in Sydney. I had not seen it for a good ten years until one day he dropped it off at work for me by chance. Luckily at the time, I was back in my old job, so I was easy to find.
That was the beginning of my journey to do something with my own poetry.
Harvest is my story.
Poetry to...
