Hopeful Vowel

Tell me spacefarer, when you look out, what do you see? What lies ahead on the cosmic horizon? Where are you headed? I think of you visiting far-flung outposts, orbiting space stations, and glimmering megalopolises. I dream of you touching pulsars, nebulas, black holes, and new stars.

Tell me spacefarer, what drives you? Why do you stay in that bubble of life surrounded by the endless void? Are you with family or are they far away? Does a corporation own your servitude, or do you fly for you? I imagine a large family onboard a generation ship excited to start their new life on another planet. I believe in an independent captain, who unites their crew when faced with overwhelming odds.

Tell me spacefarer, is your life filled with excitement? Is every week packed with new adventures? Or has your extraordinary voyage through the void become a repeatable exercise in logistics? Does your job inspire wonder or boredom? I picture your colleagues with titles like fusion technician, anti-matter analyst, or space folder. I envision them leap with excitement at their work, or dread yet another day at the same station.

Tell me spacefarer, how do you see us? Are we specs, stepping stones, or a bridge connecting humanity to the stars? Do you think of us like Verne, dreaming of an impossible submarine? Or are we the Wright brothers, only touching the surface of the inevitable?

I see a man, born in the late 14th century, standing on a dock looking at a newly built ship. He marvels at advances made to develop grander and faster ships that require fewer sailors to operate. He hears exclamations that within a decade these advancements will create new trading routes for all, a thought that intrigues and excites him. He dreams of brave explorers venturing out and imagines what they will discover by going further and faster than anyone before them. He pictures himself, aboard a huge barque, manning the helm and commanding the crew. The speed at which they travel astonishes him, enabling them to explore new lands with ease.

This man stands in his present and looks out to the horizon, the future, dreaming of what is out of reach.

Within a few centuries, whilst this man has long passed, his dream has become a reality. Ships have become so large and fast that they can move cargo from Europe to Asia and back within a year. New worlds have been found. Yet, with the wonders around them the sailors on board are no longer fascinated by the same advancements, but exhausted from the effort. They now see their role, not as brave explorers, but as employees in a repeatable exercise in logistics – often dreading the journey.

Spacefarer, you are my sailor. I look at you and marvel, even if you do not marvel at yourself. I stand here in my present, looking out at the horizon, and dream of what it must be like for you over the bend.

Growing up, Mum’s advice was like a compass, guiding me through life.

“Head down, bum up.”

That’s one bit of advice she always gave me as a kid. It was more applicable to swimming carnivals than year 12 exams, but it somehow always got the message across.

I grew up in a modest townhouse in Brisbane’s north. Mum, a single parent, and I, an only child, formed a close-knit family. In this house was where I learnt many a great saying and life lesson. One of my favourites was: ‘Bad things always come in threes, but so do strokes of luck’. Mum would punctuate this wisdom with gestures of painting invisible strokes in the air. She also taught that, no matter the situation, there is always a silver lining to be found - a positive amidst negatives. Over time, Mum turned her painting gestures into a prompt to search for silver linings – coupled with her belief, she also had an impressive talent for finding them.

During my mischievous years (think 10–12-year-old boy), we had a cat, whom I adored, though she harboured an equal disdain for me. One morning, I was chasing her around the house – it wasn’t a mystery why she hated me – and she aptly darted down the stairs. I of course followed, and, with my lack of coordination, placed one foot beneath the other and consequently tumbled down the stairs landing on my face. Fortunately for all involved, the cat got away.

A sprained ankle and bruised ego were my punishments for troublemaking – Mum, however, had to chauffer me to school and back for the next week as walking with friends was out of the question. A miserable situation, for all involved, with no positives; I wondered how my mom would find a silver lining. Every day in the car, I asked her if she had discovered the silver lining yet – each time met with a nonchalant “Not sure, have you?”. I aptly rebutted with the obligatory eye roll.

It wasn’t until the last day that she revealed her brilliant pearl of a life lesson. Arriving at the car during pick-up, I eagerly shared how I was able to run on my ankle during recess. In her unique way, she raised a single eyebrow and sported a mastermind smirk.

“So you can walk home today?” she quipped “You’ve missed walking home with your mates.”

Admittedly, I was probably fine to walk that day, yet I didn’t want to. 

 “Oh no! Please! I want to come with you!”

“Why?”

“I want to spend time with you.”

With a single hand, she painted a silver lining through the air and simultaneously blew my tiny mind. Reflecting on this as an adult, I respect the quick thinking she had in the moment. Yet, I can’t understate how impactful this has been on me – because of this moment I have always believed in silver linings, regardless of how bleak or hopeless a situation can seem. She showed me that during a miserable time, separated from friends and hobbies, I had found a source of joy, in her.

Fast forward a few years, and Mum was refilling a bird feeder in our backyard. It was more of a courtyard with a strip of grass than a backyard, but Mum had a talent for making the most of any space. It backed onto the footpath with a tall fence, but it had quite large gaps that people could easily see through. She had adorned it with creeping vines and bougainvillea, creating a beautiful enclosed space we cherished, especially during the hot summer twilights.

With a comically large and seemingly inflated packet of birdseed purchased from the hardware store, Mum aimed to save money by buying in bulk. Retrieving the bird feeder from the fence, she placed it on the ground to pour in the seed. From the kitchen window, I observed as Mum opened the packet via a pull tab, intended for easy access, resulting in an echoing boom. Apparently, there was a pressure difference.

The contents were strewn all around. In disbelief at what I witnessed, I went out and found birdseed scattered everywhere, even at the back door and on the nature strip. Mum, now covered head to toe with a light powder looked at me – and we both burst with laughter. Examining the packaging I discovered only a tiny layer of seed remaining. With her characteristic tongue-in-cheek humour, she poured what remained into the bird feeder, filling it less than halfway.

She remarked, “A job well done”, and clapped her hands together causing a cloud of dust to erupt.

After a quick shower, Mum called the store, attempting to secure a refund. Money was tight for us, and that bag was meant to last the next few months. Mum spoke to three people, recounting how the bag exploded, with no luck. While Mum was quite good at shielding me from financial challenges, this was one of the earliest times I recall that I was old enough to piece it together. Feeling her frustration, I tried to comfort her by painting a silver lining, a gesture that brought a smile to her face as she pulled me into a tight hug.

At the time it was just that, a comforting gesture, as we both struggled to find something good, but with a bit of patience, Mum’s belief in silver linings would be substantiated. Over the next few months, seedlings sprouted all around our yard - and in our neighbours’ yard, and along the nature strip. The sheer quantity of new shoots was surreal, like something out of bad sci-fi. It became evident that they were all sunflower stalks – vibrant yellow sunflowers encircling our little townhouse. Mum adored sunflowers: they were her favourite. Pictures of sunflowers decorated our home, and she had a notebook with Van Gogh's sunflower painting on the cover. To now be surrounded by them was truly spectacular and brought so many people joy. Passers-by would stop and marvel, prompting Mum to share the story with whoever would listen.

Eventually, the neighbours and council cut down the sunflowers outside our yard, and Mum cut a few as well. However, she kept a small patch going for as long as we lived in that townhouse. She was so proud of her beautiful patch; it brought her so much joy. I recall one warm Brisbane night when we were admiring the contrasting view of sunflowers and bougainvillea, Mum reminded me of how I drew a silver lining for her right after ‘the incident’, as we had started calling it. I hadn’t thought about it since, but this was another formative moment for me – perhaps less ground-breaking – but it solidified the idea in my mind that it’s always possible for good things to emerge from trying situations.

Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer when I was 20. We were only beginning to navigate a new phase of our lives – I was starting university, attempting to adult, while Mum was re-entering the dating scene and climbing the career ladder. Chemotherapy started immediately, rendering her unable to work for months. Money, already tight, now required me to step up as the breadwinner in our two-person household.

It was tough – a true test. I remember both of us laughing at the morbidity of the situation, realising how distant our old lives felt, because the only alternative we had was to cry. The rapid changes left us little time to grasp the reality. Mum was hit hard by the lack of energy she had during chemo weeks. The once-busy supermum found herself unable to get out of bed on some days, challenging her self-perception. There were moments when she sobbed, feeling useless compared to her previous role as provider, leader, and beacon of optimism; regardless of how much I tried to reassure her she was still my supermum. It’s hard to suggest finding a silver lining to someone who is in such a bleak situation – but I still believed it was possible because she taught me to believe. That belief, the same one she instilled in me, became a source of strength for us both.

I had a friend’s birthday approaching, and I was tasked with bringing cupcakes. I’m not great at baking, so I planned to purchase some from a local supermarket. Saving up where I could, I managed to get enough together, until Mum needed some additional pain medication. There was an out-of-pocket, and it was a bit more than what I saved up. I messaged my friends and asked if someone else could bring the cupcakes, which they were fine with – problem solved right? Wrong. Mum was adamant that I could not use that money for her medication. To her many strengths, she had pride as a weakness, and this was something she couldn’t allow. I asked her what she wanted to do instead, and she couldn’t give me an answer. I told her it was done and went out to buy the medication.

That night, around 2 am, I awoke to banging downstairs. My initial thought was a break-in – thankfully nothing that dramatic. Instead, I found Mum in the kitchen baking up a storm. This was the woman who was in the midst of her most intensive chemotherapy week and had been exhausted for days. Shocked, I stood there for a minute trying to figure out what was happening. Eventually, she saw me, apologised for waking me up, and told me (in her Mum voice) to go back to bed.

“Uhh, no? What is going on? Are you okay?” I stammered out.

“Yes, I’m fine – I’m baking!” she beamed with pride, holding up a tray of cupcakes.

This wonderful woman had found the strength to bake cupcakes when her body was riddled with cancer and poison. I went over, hugged her, and told her what a supermum she was. I think she carried that moment with her for years – and how many compliments she got for the cupcakes.

I tell that story now to illustrate what it’s like to live with cancer, the highs and the lows. To me, however, it was a silver lining – a moment proving to herself that despite cancers challenges, she will always be a supermum, even if she didn’t believe it every day. Baking those cupcakes and being there for her son was enough to reaffirm that she was still supermom, cancer be damned. 

Throughout her battle, we continued to exchange silver linings – often – using them like a coping mechanism for mimes. Somewhere along the way, though, they lost their meaning – transitioning from finding a silver lining to merely trying to be optimistic. There were fewer ‘good’ things that we could attribute to ‘bad’ things, so we clung to the hope that eventually, something good would emerge. One time Mum described it as if she was constantly panning for sunflowers.

Everyone describing Mum includes the word ‘optimistic’. She became a beacon of hope for everyone around her during this time, inspiring most with her conviction that she would make it to New York City. She dreamt of visiting the Big Apple - the glitz, glamour, history, and culture all lured her to the city that never sleeps. She was enamoured with it, continually telling people around her that she would make it. It ceased to be a dream and transformed into her reality, her goal, her driving force to keep going. For her, it became the silver lining for having cancer.

However, Mum never made it; she passed away in 2019 after a long battle. I sat with her for seven days as her body slowly shut down, holding her hand. Surrounded by friends and family who loved her, it became evident during this time that the same optimism and hopefulness she embedded in me had rubbed off on so many others around her. We swapped stories where Mum encouraged, and sometimes challenged, us to find a silver lining. She inspired others to seek the silver linings by merely being herself in the same room.

A close friend of Mum’s travelled for work at the time. During one of her trips to New York, she bought sunflower seeds and planted them in Central Park, along with a personal item of Mum’s. I don’t know if they’re still there, but if you see sunflowers in New York, you can think of my Mum.

It’s been some time now since she passed, and I still find myself trying to find what the silver lining was in her battle with cancer. On a cognitive level, I know that there isn’t a cosmic balance that provides an equally good thing for every bad thing you experience; but that belief that there is always a silver lining still lingers deep within me. I believe one day I will find that silver lining.

I’m expecting my first child later this year; my wife and I are equally excited and terrified. Something came across my feed, prompting the question: out of everything in this world - if I could leave them with only one thing, what would it be?