by Dasia Black
She observed me coolly, and then replied: You do not need a man. You need nail-polish remover.
She was right. I was, however, starting to listen to my sons’ and my friends’ advice. It was nearly six years since Henry had died. Perhaps it was time to step out.
XX
The Psychologist learns and observes
You are always trying to explain yourself to yourself observed my wise friend Audrey. I recognised the truth of her observation, though I would never have put it that way. I had certainly participated in workshops which had opened windows to the hidden workings of my mind and slowly allowed some healing.
I met Hal Stone at a lecture on his Voice Dialogue therapeutic model in a hall in North Sydney. He asked for volunteers to act as the client in his public demonstration of the way he and his wife Sidra applied their therapeutic method. Twenty people put up their hands but he chose me. I knew he would. There was immediate rapport between us as he asked me where I was born, and I replied: Galicia, Poland. He said: Ah, so you are a Galicianer (a Yiddish term for people from that province). I became a student of his method and, at the end of 1996, enrolled in a two-week workshop held at Thera, their home in Mendocino, California.
It was an expensive venture to travel to the States for such a short period, but I felt a strong urge to do so. The journey there, on my own to an isolated part of California a few hours north of San Francisco, was hazardous and hard to manage. However, when I arrived late in the afternoon at the prebooked Albion River Inn, a lovely place perched on top of rugged cliffs overlooking the wild and spectacular ocean shore, I was overcome with excitement. That evening, in a hire car driving on the wrong side of the road through a redwood forest, I found my way to Hal and Sidra’s sprawling old farmhouse, where I met the other workshop participants, mostly psychotherapists, from all over the world.
We came together as a group for several hours each day and lunched together on the veranda overlooking the garden. We listened to lectures and worked in supervised pairs. Most days were cold but sunny, and I relished my daily drive through the sun-dappled forest to the farmhouse with its low ceilings, bay windows and ambiance of a well-lived and loved place.
The Voice Dialogue model recognises that there are many aspects to our personality, many selves. Primary selves define us, control our behaviour and are generally the way others see us. The primary self is that aspect of our personality that developed most strongly because it has helped us survive by adapting to our life circumstances. But we also contain other selves which we do not recognise as being us. These we disown. They are often relics of our early childhood. For instance, vulnerability is one aspect of our personality that we often do not want to know about or reveal, even to ourselves. But when our primary self controls all our behaviour and we neglect other parts of our personality, we become unbalanced.
The aim of the therapy is to make us aware of our disowned selves, letting them speak so that we can choose to give them space in our behaviour and emotional life. I had no problem recognising the power of my primary self, the serious, harddriving, active, goal-oriented, single-minded Ester, as well as the self who wanted to please and be liked. These selves were part of my survival mechanism. I also realised that the part of me that Henry had encouraged and loved, my lighter self, seemed to have died or at least gone underground at his death. Qualities such as frivolity, occasional irresponsibility, laziness, creativity, untidiness remained not me – that is, disowned. The lack of balance was obvious.
Of course, there was strength in that primary self of mine, and Hal remarked that in my professional life I would be able to make a special contribution using my male energy with women who allowed themselves to be victims in relationships. Greater awareness of this energy in me, and the assertiveness that comes with it, has stood me in good stead in dealings with authority figures and institutions, where personal qualities such as warmth and empathy are mistaken for weakness.
Voice Dialogue became my preferred model for therapeutic work. The most significant moment on that visit to Mendocino occurred in a session with Hal as my therapist. Out of the blue, so it seemed to me, he said: Ester, inside you is a mountain of sadness. It’s like an iceberg with only the tip showing. There has been so much tragedy in your life and there is all this sadness still there. You need to allow that self to be acknowledged, to feel that sadness.
I replied that life was too precious to waste time being sad. Yet I knew the sadness insisted on making itself known to me. I went back to my hotel and sat at the bay window with views of the mighty surf pounding beneath me. I saw clearly how hard I had been running, doing, achieving, all my life, even more after Henry’s death. I had been running from tears, from all that grief.
I wrote in my diary about myself in the third person, finding it easier than using I, Ester:
Ester’s truly disowned self was not her vulnerability, which she knew well, not her fear of rejection, but her sorrow – deep, deep sorrow and sadness. Ester’s insistence that life, especially her life, should be happy and her inability to allow time to grieve for and with the little girl whose Mummy and Daddy never came back, and for all the losses and pain that followed, showed that a vital part of her was locked up.
I thought of my granddaughter Rachel, who loved imagining fairies and how impatient I had been with her preoccupation with something that belonged to the world of fantasy. In my own childhood there had never been time for fairies, so how could I possibly relate to her spirit and the freedom of her mind?
I sobbed and sobbed. When I returned to Sydney, I continued to weep and seek quiet moments for a long time.
A few weeks after my return, I sent Hal an email describing and reflecting on a dream. I felt it demonstrated the positive effects of my time at Thera.
In the dream I am at my friend Ella’s wedding. I register mild surprise since she has been married happily for thirty-eight years to her present husband, Phil. I have been seated at the end of an oval table. I am aware that Ella did her best to seat me at a ‘good’ table, though I am not happy being seated at the tail end (as I see it), aware of my single status. Ella stands and makes a speech directed to her betrothed, who is a handsome man, a cross between her son, with whom she has a very happy relationship, and her brother. She is looking at him and saying with great passion: ‘Yes, I love you. Yes – you.’ I admire her open and forthright manner. Then I notice the back of her rather modest dress. It is fairly low-cut but Ella is clearly wearing a normal bra, the straps of which are visible across her back. I think to myself how typical this is of Ella. She has always been so secure and confident that she is attractive and loved, that people must take her as she is. I am full of admiration and find what others might call her inappropriate attire quite charming.
To me Ella has represented a person who, in contrast with me, has had a fortunate life. She has been a loved and successful traditional wife and mother. She enjoys being idle and sometimes stays in bed until late morning if she feels like it. She hates being regimented. I love her ability to be at ease. In many ways she has had the life I would like to have had and, indeed, may have had, if I had not been thrown into the Holocaust.
My feelings after the dream were of loving admiration and relaxation. If I gave the dream a title, it would be Fearlessly Saying Yes to Happiness.
XXI
Invitation to a Yacht
The year I turned sixty unpredictable things happened. My birthday was celebrated at a beach resort on the central coast, with both my sons and their families. We break-fasted together, sat around the swimming pool with the two young fathers supervising the children in the pool, and then enjoyed a superb dinner cooked by my daughters-in-law, with cake, candles and everyone joining in to sing Happy Birthday.
A few weeks later, Jonathan invited me to join him and his family at a luxurious resort in Queensland, where he was attending a conference. This was his and Paula’s birthday present to me. I was thrilled to accept and we spent some relaxed time toget
her at Coolum. The highlight was Jonathan taking me to a beach from which I could try parasailing. This sounded scary but in fact was a good way to prove to myself that I was still alive and kicking.
Parasailing involved going out from the beach in a speed boat and then being strapped into a harness which was hooked on to a parachute. A long towline attached to the boat was slowly released and as the parachute filled with air I soared up into the sky. Looking down at a bird’s-eye view of the ocean and beach was truly exhilarating, even if I felt slightly queasy.
I saw Jonathan in the boat gazing up at me and waving. He was quite pale as I descended. Later he told me he had been both anxious for my safety and at the same time proud of his Mum’s gutsiness.
After turning sixty, I decided to take a voluntary retirement package from the University, a financially sound move. Morale at work had also deteriorated. I knew that I wanted to leave but hadn’t really planned what to do next. There was no question of becoming a lady of leisure. For a start, I couldn’t afford it.
I explored every possible course of action. Should I set up in the corporate world as a family-work balance consultant? Maybe I should go into private practice as a counselling psychologist? I spent long nights agonising over the hows and whys of my future. It was all very well for others to tell me to let it happen but this was not my way.
A woman who lectured to corporate staff on family-work balance, an area in which I was interested, kindly advised: You will finish up doing what you are good at doing already. Build on what you know. So I did just that.
I rented rooms for a part-time psychology practice. Though initially slow to take off, I gradually developed a practice for both child and adult clients. There was a lot to learn, but I enjoyed developing the necessary skills.
Leaving the University gave me freedom from daily routine that I had never before experienced in my working life. It was a good move.
The first week of my post-University life, I took my ten-year-old grandson Zak skiing in the Australian Alps. While he attended ski school, I took lessons to improve my own skills. Zak was thrilled to be introduced to this new sport. My pleasure came from stepping on to fresh snow in the crisp air, looking down at the other skiers on the slopes. The lack of pressure to perform filled me with optimism that I could manage this new phase of my life.
My sons and daughters-in-law had decided it was now time for me to find a man, a companion for a less stressful life. Close friends echoed their advice. I could see merit in the idea but was not particularly enthusiastic. However, I agreed to become visible to suitable men, as they put it, by joining organisations where one might spot me. I also hoped to enjoy the experiences they offered for their own sake. I became a member of a Jewish communal organisation and joined the Sydney Institute, a think-tank providing a forum for influential and interesting people to exchange views.
And I did meet a man. I was attending a lecture at the Institute by Monica Attard, a journalist who had been the Russian correspondent for ABC radio and television. She spoke of her time in the Soviet Union and her book. I was scribbling notes on the back of an envelope I had found in my overfilled bag, when a man sitting in the row behind me tapped me on the shoulder and offered me some pages from his pad. At the end of the lecture he waited to talk to me, but I was too busy chatting to a group of friends.
I subsequently found out that he was a widower, a very nice man, who was eligible and who had already been advised that I was a single woman he might like to meet. I recalled that I had met him occasionally with his wife at mutual friends’ homes. His name was Sam.
A few weeks later I was attending a meeting of the communal organisation I had joined. I was wearing a black suit and high heels. Sam happened (or was it deliberate?) to be sitting directly behind me. I turned around and told him about my forthcoming Himalayan trekking adventure. He was interested, since he loved hiking and had trekked in New Zealand with friends. We discussed the merits of joining a bushwalking club.
During the meeting, I found that I felt rather warm and took my suit jacket off. Then I felt a draught and put it on again. Sam watched with some amusement as I took my jacket off and put it on again every few minutes – or so it seemed to him. All I knew was that my back was being closely observed by a man. It was an unfamiliar and rather exciting sensation.
On my way out, an acquaintance said to me: You couldn’t find a nicer man – but he is much older than you.
The following Thursday, he phoned and asked if I would like to go walking with him in Centennial Park. I love its lakes, grassy areas, magnificent old trees and rich bird life, so I readily agreed. When Sunday came, he picked me up. I was wearing walking shoes and was conscious that he was seeing me at my worst, which meant at five-feet-nothing, rather than the taller high-heeled Ester at the Sydney Institute.
We walked and talked. Sam’s wife had died about the same time as Henry, having for many years suffered a debilitating illness. The last eight years of her life she had spent in a hostel, since Sam had to work to support them and could not provide the round-the-clock care she required. Apart from when he was overseas, he would visit her every night after work. I learned that he was legendary among his friends for his loyalty and devotion.
Sam told me about his beautiful daughter and her husband and their three adorable children, and his son and his wife and equally adorable four children.
Sam’s father and mother had emigrated with their three children from London in the hope of better opportunities for their family. In England they had been poor. Sam was a traditional Jew, and though he did not insist on a kosher home, there were certain rules he observed, such as not mixing dairy and meat and certainly not eating seafood, which I happen to love.
During our first walk it started sprinkling. Sam offered to run back to his car for an umbrella but I declined, saying: I am not made of sugar and won’t melt. He was impressed by my response. He took me home and we arranged to walk together again the following Sunday.
As I entered my townhouse, I had a wonderful and unexpected sensation. I felt enveloped by a layer of warmth. This lingered. For the next few days, even though I could not recollect details of Sam’s appearance, I remembered that warmth. I promised myself to have a really good look at him next time.
Warmth was the sensation I experienced each time we met over the next few weeks. Sam is a good-looking man, medium-to-tall in height with an olive complexion, brown eyes and a strong hooked nose which, I suggested, must have come from a Turkish ancestor. His smile was charming, though his teeth were in poor condition. He had this corrected very soon after we met, since as the ex-wife of a dentist, I can’t tolerate bad teeth. Above all, he was fit, an excellent fast walker, a skier, and good at tennis and sailing. He had also been a competent horseman, an activity which I had loved but in which I had never developed confidence. He was a man who loved his wine, knew a fair bit about it and enjoyed talking about its virtues with other wine-lovers.
At our second meeting, Sam took me to lunch after our walk and told me his age. Ouch! He was 14 years older than me, one year younger than Henry. This made me hesitate. Did I want to get involved with another older man who was likely to die on me? Hadn’t Henry been enough?
I sought advice. My cousin in Israel was not enthusiastic. Sam has spent his youth with someone else and you will finish up being a nursemaid to an older man. My mother judged Sam as clever – but couldn’t I find someone younger, like him? Something urged me to go ahead with the relationship. I told myself that if I could enjoy five good years with him, I would take them.
We started going to the theatre, films, concerts and art galleries and found we had much in common. Sam had a much better ear and knowledge of music than I and a pleasant singing voice. He was well-read, especially on anything to do with Israel and Judaism. He appreciated art, drama and movies. Above all I found him a balanced man with little of the European (especially Holocaust survivor) anxiety about the future and the security of one’s children, c
haracteristics which I shared with those of my background. He was refreshingly normal.
But sometimes I found dealing with his normality difficult. While I liked to mull over problems and search for explanations for everything, he liked to take things as they came. He often found my intensity overwhelming.
He thought of himself as Australian but was sensitive to the anguish of people like me, who understood the Holocaust in every cell of our bodies. He was English, however, in many of his attitudes. He could not be expected to understand certain nuances of our experience. He was also much more conservative than he believed himself to be. His strength was also proving a point of conflict between us.
As a young man, barely eighteen years old, Sam had volunteered to fight the Japanese in World War II. He was on active service in Papua New Guinea, specialising in signals because of his mathematical ability. He found he had the ability to maintain his cool good judgement under fire, more than some of the older men. It was a quality that had also enabled him to handle the challenges of his subsequent life. Along with his natural robustness, this was something that made me feel I had met a man who could steady me during times when I felt vulnerable.
Sam had retired from being a senior respected partner in a major accounting firm. He was obviously a man who understood the world of business, shares and corporate life, the real world in contrast with my world of academia. This he did not really understand – another significant point of difference between us.
In those early months we often argued about education, about Aboriginal issues and about government policies related to these. I naturally believed that my views were correct but he refused to budge, drawing his opinions from such sources as the accounts of pastoralists he knew. While I recognised that we both felt compassion, his understanding was, in my view, limited. I suspect he thought the same of me, of course. Sam was primarily interested in what we could do about a problem, while I wanted to discuss insights, context, and research findings.