There is a little secret in Eden. A gentle unfolding, a discovery.
The website announced ‘Reflect. Recharge. It’s Your Time. Rejuvenate your mind. Nourish your body and form a path to wellness’. With the expected offers (yoga, pilates, sauna, spa treatments) came 400 hectares of lush subtropical forest, nutritious gourmet food, locally sourced and organic. The accommodation was described as 5 Star luxury, with a ‘modest’ to what I would not call ‘not so modest’ price tag.
Umming and ahhing I looked at few other options, mainly outside of Byron and finally settled on Eden. Toying up the 3, 4 or 7 night options, my friend Leora (who’d been a few times) texted: BEST HOLIDAY EVER. Now Leora, like me, is a bit of a traveller so this was quite a statement. Eden it was, for 7 nights. My first ever health retreat. A blank canvas. How would my 7 night experience unfold?
I missed out on the highly desired premium single room (the cheapest). A call from reception staff suggested ‘upgrading’ to the Deluxe Double with a bath and kingsized bed, or delaying a week or 2. As my holiday was planned around family, friends in Queensland and school holidays, I forked out the extra for a Deluxe, determined to utilise the bath to the utmost. I enquired about their schedule. Leon, one of the ‘Joy Coordinators’, said one of his tasks was to wake each cabin at 5.55. Hmmm, I balked, “That’s not my idea of joy Leon”. I just wanted a break, to get out of Victoria, and a little winter warmth.
The week was booked, flights and transfers arranged and after a check-in with Leora, appropriate clothing (active wear) was packed. I was all set.
The past couple of years have really been something here in Melbourne. Air evacuated from Tonga 5 weeks into a 12 month volunteering project, prior to the now infamous hotel quarantine program, I spent the mandatory 2 weeks outside of Stradford on 80 hectares and, 6 weeks later, tenants evicted, came home to uncertainty all round. Early into the COIVD pandemic, no job (other than the 8 days at National OT where I quickly disentangled myself from the soulless corporate concept of billable hours), no cat, and constant talk of case numbers, I tried to rebuild a life in a city I had decided, just a few months earlier, I was not ready to return to.
Ahh the days when we thought we had choices, when we thought we could define our own lives.
My niece Maddy sourced a cat. The stunning beautiful (if not just a tad overweight now) Nala arrived and we-ed on the carpet. (Hmm she still does that on occasion, time for floorboards?)
Within a month of settling back Melbourne went into lockdown, again. “Just 2 weeks to flatten the curve”.
The weeks morphed into months punctuated by pandemic parlance.
3 hour queues at the PCR testing station.
3 hour pressers (briefings) from our beloved Premier (well they seemed that long).
The mantra ‘we’re following the Science’.
Zoom catch up with friends around the world and around the corner, now the norm.
Private practice via Telehealth. A few clients per week punctuated the lockdown days.
No visitors (I had not managed to find anyone on Tinder to designate as my ‘partner’ for conjugal visits).
Bubble buddy entitlements for we poor singles eventually allowed (oh but not at their house if another living soul was likely to cross their path in the coming millennium).
Funerals via ZOOM.
Endless treks within 5 kms from home (for one hour only, oh that is until suddenly 2 hours was deemed safe).
Yoga with Adrienne. The expansion of my Youtube watching in general and the creeping social media censorship.
Mask wearing outside when alone. Others passing by on the pavement taking a wide berth.
Only one person from a house hold to leave home for essential reasons only, ONCE per day.
Click and collect shopping.
Meeting friends to walk round Central Park, risking sitting to drink a coffee, with our masks down. Later cocktails from a local entrepreneurial restaurant replaced the coffees.
Takeaway meals from gourmet restaurants.
Children banned from playgrounds. Skate parks studded with concrete obstacles.
Exploration of local golf courses, free from errant golf balls zooming through the air.
Police cars driving across the oval through families who risked standing near other families.
Helicopters hovering above.
Remote learning.
Work from home.
Online shopping.
Delivery trucks.
Mandates.
Shut Borders.
By this time making sourdough bread, using the ‘down time’ productively, family time and togetherness were wearing thin for many.
Curfew. Silent roads at night. Road blocks during the day.
Protests. Black Lives Matter — yes; Against mandates — No. Rubber bullets. Militarised police force. Hold on, this looked familiar. Less than 2 years earlier these were scenes in Zimbabwe (well the bullets were real there).
WHO’s changed the definition ‘vaccine’.
Emergency Approval.
BIG PHARMA, VAERS, TGA. Adverse reactions. Gaslighting.
FLCCC, HART, BIRD group.
Melbourne, the most LOCKED-DOWN city in the world.
Chatting to friends early on there was a sense this was not going to be a ‘quick pandemic’, not because of the virus, rather the dominant players of this narrative. Censorship of any dissenting voice was evident within the first few months of 2020 along with gaslighting of previously WHO and internationally renowned experts. Human rights abuses were the clear and present danger by mid 2020. Instead the population was bombarded with a one sided narrative of FEAR. FEAR. FEAR.
In July 2022, while much of the world is learning to live with Covid 19, mandates are still real in Melbourne. Mandatory isolation and mandatory vaccines are both crippling the economy — that of finances and of well being. I vividly recall a friend Gemma saying in March 2020, “We will see a tsunami of mental health issues over the coming years”. It’s here.
Increase in suicidality (some clever data manipulation by the ABS hasn’t quite captured that).
Increase in eating disorders.
Increase in school refusal.
Health anxiety.
Youth choosing to wear face masks to hide from the world.
Academic and social impairments that will have lasting impacts upon a generation.
CDC in 2022 altered developmental norms. For eons 2 year old children have been expected to have a vocabulary of approximately 50 words and be using some 2 word utterances. But not now, post COVID the CDC declares these developmental milestones, from now and into the future will be 2 years 6 months. Any plans to reverse this CDC? Or do we fail to identify children at risk and miss a precious 6 months of early intervention? This is only ONE of many areas of development ‘down graded’.
Trauma, PTSD.
It is twenty seven months into the pandemic before I leave Victoria for the first time. Having acknowledged the trauma of this pandemic for others, the realisation that I too have been traumatised was jolting. I had not lost a job. I had not lost a business, in fact I developed one. As someone who enjoys my own company and fills in a day with ease, the isolation wasn’t too hard. In fact it gave me ample hours to read and listen, to new spiritual sources, to perspectives on the narrative being played out. I relaxed. I reflected. I grew closer to some friends, moved away from others, the choices conscious and clear. Some of these choices have probably challenged others, just as some other’s choices have challenged me.
Only a few months ago I came to appreciate I am part of a collective trauma. When an acquaintance who lives on the outskirts of Melbourne recently asserted “the lockdowns were just as bad for us” I paused. Hmm, I was not so sure. But later, reflecting, I realised yes, perhaps for her, it was. The COVID pandemic was an experience framed by individual differences. How full was your cup at the onset? What were you individual perspectives on government, health, society, human rights? What were the individual challenges you experienced? How were you able to replenish your cup? Did you have access to the things that fill you? While many COVID brush strokes were painted by external hands, it is these individual pieces that frame your experience, my individual pieces that frame mine. And that is why standing here now, side by side, from each viewpoint seeing the landscape differently, we hold compassion for each experience.
And so seeking a change of scenery, a break from routine, and yearning for some freedoms I planned a holiday. I was a tad concerned that with the fairly hefty price tag the clientele might not quite be ‘my cup of tea’. As we drove from Coolangatta airpot through the back blocks of Currumbin, edging away from the sea towards the Springbrook National Park, I listened to women in the back seat chat about recent holidays in Fiji, comparing hotels. First impressions were not terribly inspiring.
About forty minutes later we turned right, through expansive locked gates and inched up the gentle incline. Grassy hills, architecturally designed cabins, a pavilion and other community buildings sat quietly on the remnants of an early settlers’ banana plantation. Our luggage was deposited in cabins while we toured the premises, ending in the dining room where the first of innumerable tasty, delectable snacks and meals awaited. Sipping a veggie juice, I turned to the wall of glass looking out to a wide deck and view of Mt Cougal, shrouded in low cloud awaiting the brief pink, amber and gilded glow of sunset. Queensland does not share the lingering dusk of southern states and by 5.30 pm it would be dark.
Hiking to my room, I entered and was blasted by the tropics courtesy of the split system. Opening the plantation shutters I glimpsed Mt Cougal, viewed lush slopes and the fast flowing creek below. It had been quite the hike, and only later in the week did I explore all the way to Room 28. Now that was a serious expedition from the pavilion and dining room . I imagined they packed for the day each morning. My room was sufficient to motivate returning a few times a day so by week’s end there was considerably less huffing and puffing in my stride. It reminded me of my villa on Hydra all those years ago where one didn’t wander down to the village on a whim!
More of a mermaid than gym junkie, suffice to say much of my week was centred around the steam room, sauna, spa and pool (heated to a pleasant 26 degrees). Leisure wear, pool hair and make-upless skin was pretty much the rule of the day for most, though not all women, and yes it was in the majority women. All ages, stages and stature were evident, from the new graduate Ballarat teacher through to the 70 year old glamorous New Zealander magazine owner. Friends, some couples, many solo guests, the program attracted all.
I won’t bore you with a chronicle of my week. In truth part of the magic was unravelling the mystery, creating the experience my soul was seeking day by day, moment by moment.
The AWAKEN program was a delightful unexpected gift, one I was keen to get up at 5.55 for. It was as if the universe had wandered through my musings and created the program just for me. I will say that I surprised myself by getting up for the 6.15 am activity most days. By the end of the week when I needed a little more ‘me’ time I woke early anyway. I did surprise myself by coping with the restricted caffeine (though this process had been naturally happening at home anyway…for some reason my morning coffee that is pure bliss, when sipped in the afternoon has become literally distasteful. I did not surprise myself by not missing alcohol….but there was a lesson there. Let’s see how that plays out!
I explored some ‘healing’ therapies, a couple novel to me — Kinesiology and Abdominal healing. As the Kinesiologist explored my psyche through muscles, asking poignant questions here and there, she reflected, “You are holding anger in your solar plexus”. Really? Feel I am pretty chill generally. Hmmm. I pondered then casually replied, “Well I’m from Melbourne”. Ahh. She knew. A few days later the Abdominal healing session revealed ‘Anger’. Quick reply this time. “I’m from Melbourne” and we shared a laugh. The CEO had commented earlier in the week, “Lisa we know we cannot comprehend what people in Melbourne have been through”. I felt the validation. I felt the compassion. I felt held. For Melburnians at Eden, simply mentioning you were from Melbourne was enough. There was no need to explore individual experiences, the collective trauma bound us as comrades in an invisible war, irrelevant of what ‘side’ the script writers had assigned us to.
To use a family therapy term, the comfort I have developed holding ‘a stance of not knowing’ during this past 2 & 1/2 year journey, the perspectives I have considered, discarded or embraced, the practices I have developed, they all coagulated at Eden. On Day 4 I found myself in a state of bliss, centred, grounded. Through acknowledging the anger, knowing I was not alone, and seeing the path through, the garden of Eden delivered, a path out of the trauma to wellness and the unknown future beyond.
