Tristan myth becomes my reality

I first came across the tale of Tristan and Iseult when I was 21 and had developed a crush on the sales assistant at my local Readings' bookstore. I made a pact with myself that I could spend no more than $150 on books over a short period of repeated visits - all in the effort to catch Michael’s eye, get to know him, and hopefully become his girlfriend!  

At the time, US musician Jeff Buckley, was about to do some Melbourne gigs, and Michael had decorated the Readings’ window display in homage to Buckley.  He had included copies of Jeff's debut album ‘Grace’; posters; (unlit) candles; a crucifix or two; and propped all these trinkets in and among wooden crates.  This rustic and somewhat gothic construct was at odds with other window displays in shopfronts along Glenferrie Road. We were in middle class Malvern – where ‘vanilla’ conservative was more the order of the day.

And thus, Michael's visual creative said more about him than the passerby the bookstore was trying to lure. It was a work of personal devotion. The beautiful and talented, Jeff Buckley, had androgynous appeal - a bit like Johnny Depp.  Both girls and boys loved him. For this, I wasn’t sure whether Michael was straight but from the sweet glances at me across the counter, coy smiles and helpful nature in making reading recommendations, I was willing to take a punt.

In those two to three months it took for me to finally secure that date - I came to know Tristan.  


The Psychology of Romantic Love by Carl Jung analyst Robert A Johnson: “explores the significance and symbolism of romantic love portrayed in the timeless myth of Tristan and Iseult."

The myth begins:

“My lords, if you would hear a high tale of love and of death, here is that of Tristan and Queen Iseult; how to their full joy, but to their sorrow also, they loved each other, and how at last, they died of that love together upon one day; she by him and he by her."

Johnson says: "Thus begins the marvellous story of Tristan and Iseult.  It was with these words that travelling poets and minstrels of the Middle Ages would call together the lords and ladies, the knights and commonfolk, to hear a wondrous story of adventure and love." And continues:  "…every great myth is the symbolic record of such a stage of growth in the life of a people. This explains why these powerful stories capture us so completely and go so deep in our feelings."

I first read The Psychology of Romantic Love after purchasing it from Michael and 17 years on I keep coming back to the myth - as it infers above, the story conveying love and adventure has stayed with me ever since.

Tristan became my favourite boy’s name and without a doubt the Tristan and Iseult myth had its major play in why I consciously made a decision to pursue Tristan (the name for a start), the young New Zealander I met in Auckland this February - despite the glaring obstacles a long distance romance presents.

Tristan (I will italic Tristan from the myth) travelled from Cornwall, England, across tumultuous seas to land in Whitehaven, Ireland.  There he met the blonde Iseult.  Tristan (England)/Iseult (Ireland) - Tristan (New Zealand)/Caroline (Australia).

When Tristan suggested via text one evening that I visit him in his hometown of Dunedin - I googled ‘Dunedin’ on my phone to instantly fall in love with the images of a rugged and picturesque terrain shouldered by sea.  I text back: “yes”.

A passage from The Psychology of Romantic Love:

“As he grew, (Tristan’s) faithful squire taught him all the arts of barony:

Lance and sword,
‘Scutcheon and bow,
To cast stone quoits,
To leap wide dykes,
To hate each lie and felony,
To keep his word,
To sing and play the harp,
To do the hunter’s craft.”

New Zealand Tristan embodied characteristics of myth Tristan.  He had equal mix of masculine and feminine traits.  Tristan was outdoorsy and manly but also sweet and sensitive.  

In my mind, Tristan had materialised from Tristan.

I knew I had stumbled on something special the day we were driving back to Dunedin after a two hour hike in a South Island national forest. As a local, Tristan knew the narrow and winding roads and I felt safe in his command.  But not all drivers were as experienced and these roads on mountain range were writ with danger.  Sure enough, on turning a corner, we came across a car accident.  

The driver had overestimated the corner, tried to correct his wrong with a sharp turn, and the car had lost control skidding across the road to land heaped on its side. There had been two other passengers and we came across all three standing on the road by the car. They were young backpackers, and we later learned the girl had only just met her two travelling companions who had offered her a lift to the tourist attraction - the Glaciers.

Tristan didn’t hesitate to pull over. He parked his car safely on the side of the road, leapt from his seat and hurried to meet them.  There he took immediate control.  “Are you ok?  Are you hurt?" Tristan asked gently. "Are you ok?” he continued as he moved to check their car to ensure it wasn’t leaking petrol.

“Have you called the police? Do you need me to call the police? Do you need a ride somewhere? We can give you a lift. Do you need a lift?” The questions kept firing.

I will take pause here. I am never short for words. But watching Tristan go about his way at the scene of the car crash rendered me speechless.  

Meanwhile I had gotten out of Tristan's car and was standing at the passenger side.  I kept my distance from the crash but watched the events unfold like a movie.

One of the men took the lead in speaking with Tristan. They were all Spanish but their English was excellent.  At first he politely declined Tristan's help - it was under control, they had rung the police, now it was just a matter of waiting.   It is around this moment, where most people would have accepted there was nothing much to do given the police were on their way - and left.

But Tristan held a firm hand.

He convinced the three Spaniards that the girl should come with us. We’d give her a lift to Wanaka (the nearest town) where she could settle at the backpackers and there organise rooms for the two boys who would later join.  Within minutes another driver had stopped (while one had also passed by).  The man who stopped was a local fireman who was on his way home from work. He said he’d be able to tow their car, so he too was there to offer his help. But the police soon showed up and the fireman left.

Tristan and I gave the young girl a lift to Wanaka (15 mins out of the way from our own route) where she sat in the back seat teary in shock. Her English was mostly fluent - she had been in New Zealand for a year already - working and travelling.  She told us her mother was a psychic and that her mother had tried to call her from Spain at the exact time of accident.  Amazingly spooky - we agreed.

All throughout the drive to Wanaka Tristan stroked my leg – a gesture showing care and reassurance. It was his unspoken acknowledgement that together we had witnessed something quite shocking, that could have gone a lot differently and had horrific consequences.  But we were all lucky – everyone was physically unscathed.  His touch said: “I know that was scary but we got through it and all will be well.”

I don’t think I’ll forget that day. Or Tristan stroking my leg(!)  That moment; the feeling that rode through me.   And I know the girl will never forget it - as well unlikely Tristan’s kindness in taking control and giving her a lift.

Tristan might. Because helping as he did is inherent in his nature. Being like that comes naturally to him and there will be many more occasions where he will step up to the plate. He would never have thought NOT to help.

I knew then that I wanted to be around that. I wanted to be with this person who makes no choice but to act selflessly and help another ahead of their own agenda.

I mentioned the Tristan and Iseult myth to Tristan on our last night in Dunedin together. “Have you heard of it?” I asked him.  “I think so,” he replied.  “But it has a tragic ending doesn’t it?”  “Yes,” I supposed so.  “But it’s also a story that fills you with hope.”

Sadly, I sensed from him my time with Tristan would be short. Deep down I knew he wasn’t going to give me his heart.  

In revisiting The Psychology of Romantic Love: “Every great myth is the symbolic record of such a stage of growth in the life of a people.  This explains why these powerful stories capture us so completely and go so deep in our feelings.”

Watching Tristan and his actions that day at the accident captured me so completely and (went) so deep in my feelings that the event spurred its own stage of growth in me:

“Wake up Caroline. There is more than just you!”    

Picture: James Franco (Tristan); Sophia Myles (Isolde) from the film Tristan and Isolde 2006.

Young Love

A couple of weeks ago while waiting for a tram I shared the platform with a young couple I would guess were in their early 20s, if not less.

The girl had that school girl look about her - naturally pretty with long brown hair casually pulled back into a ponytail. And the boy, youthful in his looks also, had light brown locks shaping a fresh face.

They would steal glances at each other, smile, giddy in their mutual admiration. Their behaviour confirmed to me that they were a young couple in love or at the least - smitten.

Without meaning to sound trite, I too remember being young. But I never had what they had –hopeful, young love. Instead I dipped in and out of unrequited love, forming intense crushes on hot (bad) men, yearning for their affections – sometimes returned albeit briefly, more often not. It was rejection after rejection but like a junkie I was hooked on the one time fix, accepting the inevitable crash.

Fortunately there were also men eager to show me love but these 'nice guys' never had a chance. I was too busy chasing the ones with no intention of making me their ‘one’.

Fast forward to today - 37 years old - I shared the tram trip with the couple, drinking in the aura of their youth. They were each carrying a large garment bag and during the tram ride’s slow amble, I speculated on what clothing was within.  Too young for wedding dress, perhaps a little old for Year 12 formal, could it be a University Ball? And I came back to the idea of wedding dress. After all, the tides have turned and young people are marrying again.

We dismounted at the same stop and off they cantered down the busy street, holding the bags close to their chests with one arm while reaching to hold hands with the other.

It was a beautiful and innocent moment to witness.

Almost double their age, I felt a pang of envy considering my own (lost) youth. I wondered whether they’d make it as a couple; keep their love alive on the long road ahead.

I think this missing out on young love plays its own part in why I have been open to dating younger men. That and not wanting to quite admit that at 37, it would be perfectly acceptable for me to date a 50 year old.

And thus, along this theme - I recently fell hook, line and sinker for a handsome, wilful, adventurous, 29 year old. At first, I reckoned it frivolous to entertain a future with this young man. But as time wore on and the courtship remained intact, the age difference began to blur.

It just became about me and him.

But undeniably, tick tock, age did matter. If I have any chance of children – at 37 (turning 38 at the end of this month) the likelihood is in rapid decline. He has since turned 30 but is focussed on getting a Masters and building his industrial design career, not setting up family and house with me (I haven't yet mentioned we live in different countries).

It’s this layer of (marriage and baby) pressure that forced me to call time on our ‘time’.

For the couple I saw that day, I hope they are saved such hardships and complexities in love. That in finding each other, their young love is long-lasting.

Do nothing

For a long time now I've been doing alot of development work on myself. I read, speak to friends and family, seek out wise people and I take on the wisdoms of those who've long passed (Shakespeare, Jesus) but in their teachings carry on.

I've attended Buddhist meditation sessions, gone to copious yoga classes and one thing I have learned through all of this is - 'to thine self, be true' and trust in the process of life.

For what I mean, if you trust yourself and the knowledge that there is a greater power out there, than ourselves, working its way as it should and we follow that process and move with it - it will work out as is right for us.

In loathe to sound like a hippy or surfer dude - I aim to consciously go with the flow. Taking this one step further, sometimes going with the flow means doing nothing. Do nothing. And by this I mean, things that are concerning to us or worrying us - we don't need to force a resolution we don't need to over analyse the situation.

We can just go with the flow and do nothing. And that's what I'm going to do. Nothing.

It's quite liberating to 'let go' and plenty of spiritual and new age healers are earning mega bucks teaching the wisdom of this simple philosophy. Let go and trust in the process of life.

Another one I heard just last week is "allow yourself to be in the imperfection" in the context that there is no sense of justice in life, it's not always fair and things can happen to us where we would otherwise seek an alternative outcome.

Our challenge and part is to navigate best according to our true self, our true nature - what feels right for us. Feels right - the gut, not necessarily the mind. The intuition. I've read recently about the "false self" - oh the false self - how I've allowed myself to get caught up in this so many times.

It's a relief to know how to strip back and just be. Just let go and do nothing! So this is my lesson for a Sunday night - even though it can be an uncomfortable process to go through as in order to let go, it may appear we are surrendering our control. But on the contrary - when we let go - we are in the hands of full control. We are letting ourselves be in the world as it is and where everything works out as it should.

I told myself you were right for me

This week I let myself get caught in a spin and it was only until a friend said to take stock that I stopped and took pause.

I had gotten caught up in a moment, a moment that in my mind unravelled into the full storybook.

For the first time in years (?) I had two men on my plate and as far as I was concerned one had to go (too young and unavailable) in order to achieve my desired life result (husband, kids - family) with the other.

As my friend was up to speed with all of this - by way of phone, text and email updates from me - by day five she dug her heels in and said it had to stop. No friend of hers was going to be doing all the chasing.

And so it did - stopped. I took pause and let myself breathe. I questioned my motive, my actions - why I was pushing so hard. I had been trying to escape my own daily drudgery, defy logic and fast-forward to a result that was never there in the first place.

It's a skill I've certainly had to learn - knowing when to stop and let something go - and this time around, it happened on an axis - the axis of my friend telling me the balance wasn't right. And like all good friends are prone to do, she told me I was better than that.

So I took pause and considered. With that logic entered and I let it go. I stopped hounding. And it felt good.

When smoking becomes the norm

It doesn’t take long for a habit once broken to become a distant memory especially when its demise is supported by the greater society.

Look around. Nobody smokes anymore.

I still remember coming home from pubs reaking of cigarette smoke and it was a given I’d need to wash my hair the next day, dry clean my clothes after one wear out, or worse ruin them from cigarette burns. Then there was the passive smoking and constant hand waving of others' smoke from our faces.

There were some benefits: “Got a light?” goes down as the easiest chat up line of my late teenage and early 20s. No, these days, smoking is uncool. No decent guy wants to date a smoker.

But recently I took a hiatus from society's widening reality of an implicit smoking ban when I celebrated Christmas with rellies. I reunited with my aunts, uncles, cousins and their spouses across a few lazy days out bush at Koomooloo station – a sheep farm about 160kms from Adelaide and north of country town Burra where my mum grew up.

My aunt and uncle are farmers and their kids too work the land. All of them smoke. My other two aunties smoke. Put us together and as a 'once a casual smoker' I’m now the odd one out smoke free.

Rollies, alpine lights and ashtrays littered with white butts stained with pink lipstick were the visual mainstay set against the blue bush and red dirt.

I’m pleased, obviously, that within my adult life, I’ve seen smoking go from perceived cool, to undesirable.

So it was kinda surreal to be set among a sea of smokers once again. A time warp and slice of what once was very normal.

Addiction is a shocker and let’s face it, the family members still smoking would no doubt have given the deadlies away if it weren’t for the cold, hard reality that after years on years of choofing away – they are well and truly nicotine hooked.

So this Bush Christmas there was a lot of smoke, but fortunately after 15 years of drought, no fire.

Sweet mouth

I have been going to the Sunday Feasts at the Hare Krishna temple in Albert Park since my uni days. Word spread there was *free food to be had and a group of us flocked to partake in this weekly ritual of vegetarian feasting.

Our visits fed more than our tummies – they nourished our souls as friends sat and chatted around the fountain in the patio of the stunning two-story Victorian residence. We’d soak up the visual surrounds that included women wearing colourful saris and men with shaved heads all but for the small patch of hair and ponytail.

Like the temple, I have been eating at the Hare Krishna vegetarian restaurant, Gopals, in the CBD on and off for years. Gopals catered for my 21st birthday celebrations.

I don’t get to Gopals as much as I would if I worked in the CBD but if I’m ever in the city for a meeting or on a short term contract, I’ll often head there for lunch.

The low key restaurant is reached by climbing a steep flight of stairs and overlooks Swanston Street. Gopals’ clientele are generally easygoing and quiet, this pace and type of person is a welcome respite from the usual rat racers. Many solo diners will sit at the window benches to take in the sights and sounds of the goings on below - trams passing, police cars, cyclists, horse carriages, city workers, shoppers, buskers...

During my recent visits to Gopals, I’ve been served by a young, Indian man who takes delight in suggesting foods for me to try. I love eating Gopals’ desserts and for this he said the other day I have a “sweet mouth”.

Our interactions deepened after I saw him at temple a few Sundays ago. I was sitting with my friend Sara, one of the original crew from the old temple days, when I spotted him in the queue waiting to be served.

I made my way across to him negotiating my path through the sea of people already seated. His eyes found mine and his face lit up. My initial impulse was to reach out and hug him. I was brimming with joy to see him especially as it was unexpected and out of context, but I refrained from being too tactile. I was later thankful for my (unusual) restraint - perhaps a hug would have made him feel uncomfortable?

It was here where we formally introduced ourselves: “Caroline,” “Aadesh.”

Aadesh is delicious looking – I wouldn’t have put him at more than 23 or 24 years but recently learned he’s just turned 30. Whenever we see each other we both break into huge smiles. I think he is pure bliss. He must see something in me too as there’s chemistry that transcends heritage, age or religion. His friend standing with him in the queue that day at temple and the other staffers at Gopals all smile coy to witness our mutual happiness at being with one another.

Aadesh has twice stepped away from serving behind the Gopals’ counter to sit with me while I eat. He talks to me about the food and his faith. He told me on my last visit that Krishna devotees follow four principles: 1. No meat eating. 2. No intoxication (alcohol, tobacco, drugs). 3. No gambling. 4. No illicit sex (ie no sex outside marriage).

Naturally my heart sunk when I heard the latter (I am only human!) and at this point was reminded of the episode in Sex and the City where Samantha falls for the Franciscan Brother but as a priest Samantha can never have him! I called my friend Sara straight after my conversation with Aadesh and told her I felt just like Samantha! All my friends have seen Sex and the City. I had found my own Franciscan Brother but in the form of a Hare Krishna!

I have been involved on one level with the Hare Krishna’s (their food) my whole adult life but never took too much notice of its religion. But since I’ve been moving high speed along my own spiritual journey I appreciate hearing others talk about their faith.

Today I went to temple with Sara and expected to see Aadesh. I know he goes to temple every Sunday – he’s encouraged me to go more often. I thought I would see him and looked forward to it all weekend. Those butterfly flutters of sweet anticipation.

I scanned the whole room where everyone was eating, the queue, the prayer hall, outside on the patio. No Aadesh. Sara kept looking at me checking in: “He’s here – you’ve seen him?” No.

As we were leaving and it became evident I wouldn’t see Aadesh today I felt a strong sense of disappointment. “Well, this is the universe holding it back from me and protecting me from falling for a man who is celibate,” I told Sara. She agreed a celibate man was not the man for me!

That’s the thing about crushes – you can get crushed. I am Samantha from Sex and the City. Life imitates art. And like a beautiful painting hanging in a gallery, Aadesh comes with sign attached: Look but do not touch.

*donations were collected.
Aadesh is not his real name...!

Vale ol’ Walt

How many dogs can you say you’ve known who have made it to 17.5 years?

My very special boy: Walter Warwick James.

This last week, I wormed my way around the fact that my dearly beloved pooch best lay his gorgeous self in heaven.

I prayed to God, the angels (including St Francis of Assisi - patron Saint of Animals), my late mum and Walt's departed friend/foe Maggie Charly for strength, protection, guidance and support as well to ask their hand in Walt’s transition ‘home’.

Walt passed on Wednesday 28 Sept around 4pm with the aid of his vet, Di; Sandie my local florist and great Walt lover; and Sara, a friend who on many occasions has taken Walt under her watch.

Outside it was raining and thunder was bellowing two great claps (Sara remarked this a fitting send off – and my aunt Lucy later commented it was the heavens applauding me for having the courage to action a necessary bon voyage).

Sandie, who had stayed holding and cuddling Walt to her for his final curtain call, came out of the vet’s consultation room a few minutes later with a great tuft of Walt’s hair for me to cherish - taken from his gorgeous crimpy bits over his ear.

She said the vet had informed his little heart had stopped right away with the administration of the anaesthesia. There was no sign of pain or resistance. Walt went swiftly and without fuss. Sandie said he looked so peaceful wrapped up in the vet’s fluffy, white blanket.

I had kept the last chapter in this sad journey relatively private in honour of spending Walt’s last days together and in self protection to try and finally reconcile a life without him.

I had been considering a two month contract up in Sydney so had taken Walt to the vet for a consultation to make sure he was doing ok and that I could go ahead with including him in my short term relocation plans.

Walter was very old, feeble, had periodontal disease and dementia. But I was committed to holding onto him and if he still had a Sydney run in him, we would make the trip. After all, we had practically been all over Australia together.

Another cursor to get me to the vet was Walt had 'urine scold' brought on by his unsteady gait and pretty much no strength in his back legs to hold him up and prevent the urine stream from hitting his skin.

In short - the vet was adamant Walt would be in pain due to a myriad of poor health conditions (namely all brought on by his v grand age) and suggested I say my goodbyes before his condition deteriorated further.

“If you hadn’t been at home to care for him all these years – he would have gone by now. Most people who go off to work each day and leave their dogs in the backyard would have had to put him down a long time ago. With the dementia, he more than likely would have found himself in a precarious position and met his end.”

She had a valid point – there have been several occasions over the months where without my interception, Waltie’s misdemeanours would have led him haphazardly to heaven’s pearly gates.

One evening last year for example I took Walt off lead to Albert Park Lake. While I had turned for not more than a minute, he had wandered across the path and fell into the water. A passing jogger yelled to me as I searched (in the other direction) for him: "Is that your dog swimming in the lake?"

I wouldn’t have suspected Walt would end up paddling in the water! But it was already dark and Walt had obviously lost his bearings and fallen in. I had to dive in - in the middle of winter - to retrieve him. The jogger stayed with me and helped me haul him up. Shivering, skinny, tiny Walt. I cradled him in my arms and carried him home, looking to the sky all the way: “Mum, I know you saved him for me, I know.” And the jogger guardian angel sent.

Walt was a cat; he had nine lives but more. I used to call him my little ever ready battery – he went on and on and on. Even after each close call, he would rally.

In our last days together, I reasoned that he’d experienced enough sorrow on my part. He had tolerated me sobbing over him – tears welled when my look lingered on his trusting eyes, the sense of dread permeating through my every pore. But he was sensitive to my grief and he took it on. Witness to this I determined this transference of despair would cease. Walt’s body was too old, too frail, too worn to absorb these punishing throes of sadness.

Instead, happiness and joy, peace and respect would reign. Walt didn’t deserve any less – he had shouldered my ups and downs, been there through it all, a staunch support and trusted shepherd. The Shetland Sheepdog – in his breed’s made role; a shepherd to the sheep, but for Walt’s life, the shepherd over me. Watching and there, ever present.

Tuesday we had a good night’s rest together. Sure, I was up intermittently tending to his needs as per usual, but importantly I had mostly slept soundly and hadn’t succumbed to a sleepless night.

As Liz Gilbert reported in her personal memoir ‘Eat Pray Love’, I knew the tempest was coming but “go back to bed Liz,” because you will need all your strength to push through.

This is how I felt. Lord, please give me a good night’s rest so that I am in the best physical, mental and emotional standing to meet the eye of the storm.

The next morning, my Waltie spent time sleeping with me and we had a good while together where he lay by my side and I snuggled into him. He positioned his beautiful nose to nuzzle my neck and face and his front leg lay on my arm as I stroked his body’s soft fur and moved my fingers over his worn paw pads.

My aunt Sue said to me about losing her beloved Hacksaw at 15 years: "When Hacky died, I wasn't sad....he'd had a great life and it was his time to go."

In part this rings true. Walt exited this world when it was the right time for both of us - and in his departure and the days before - he handled it with patience, courage, grace and dignity.

The dog was worn out – he was exhausted, but in true stoic, stubborn Walter style he was going to stick around and wasn’t going to leave me. But boy was he ready to go. And it was my call as the custodian of his comfort and care, the steward for this animal’s welfare, to give him my blessing and fond farewell.

It is also important to place in perspective that Waltie outlived almost any canine’s lifespan. Walt’s struggles with movement, agility, eating and his ‘witching hour’ dementia meant his life had well come to its end. Nature’s way – circle of life.

Vale ol’ Walt and Godspeed. You are and will be sorely missed.

Images - painting of Waltie, photos taken by the artist and friend, Sam for inspiration, in August 2011; flowers given to me by Sandie in memory of Walt; Caroline James (me) and Walter (taken April 2010).