BECOMING CARLA
Carla is at a crossroad. Her husband has just left her for a beautiful woman and believing her life to be devoid of meaning without her beloved David, she is overwhelmed by feelings of worthlessness and abandonment which escalate until they reach crisis point. As her world collapses around her, Carla receives an invitation from her yoga teacher to attend an ashram. At first reluctant, she finally relents and finds herself embarking on a journey of self discovery and hope. Becoming Carla is a heart-warming story of a young woman’s personal growth and reflects a path well trodden to awareness of life, love and possibilities.	In Store Price: $AU21.95  Online Price:   $AU20.95 ISBN:   978-1-921240-56-0 Format: Paperback Number of pages: 109 Genre: Fiction
Author: Chris Edmonds  Publisher: Zeus Publications Date Published: 2007 Language: English

About the Author  

Chris Edmonds left school at the age of fifteen, then returned to study at age twenty-six and spent the following thirteen years completing high school and two degrees.  

Chris trained in the area of social work and is currently employed by a health organisation and is particularly interested in mental health. She has been a yoga practitioner for eighteen years and has undertaken some preliminary yogic studies.  

Chris believes in yoga as a life discipline and its positive influence on emotional and mental disturbance.

Introduction

Carla is at a cross-road. Her husband has left her suddenly for a young, beautiful woman. Believing her life to be now devoid of meaning without her beloved David – feelings of worthlessness and abandonment escalate, reaching crisis point. Her future looks decidedly bleak.  

Beginning to despair, Carla finds a measure of cold comfort in devising ways of exacting revenge on the happy couple. After a somewhat patronising and fruitless counselling session, Carla’s self-esteem plummets to a new low and she contemplates drastic measures. During these dark days in Carla’s life, her mother, Frances, travels overseas for two months to pursue her passion for genealogy. Frances has a ‘get over it darling’ attitude and offers Carla practical advice prior to departure.  

Delving into a well of self pity and paralysed by inertia, Carla is eventually approached by her dear friend Trish, who is rather tired of Carla’s moaning. Trish and Carla attend yoga classes together and Trish fortuitously suggests contacting their teacher, Mukti, for guidance. Mukti extends an invitation to Carla to attend an Ashram in country Victoria and wisely presents Carla with a choice: to keep her head in the sand or to take a leap and seek a richer life. Reluctant at first, but with no more excuses to draw upon, Carla decides to leap. Attending the Ashram for two weeks with Mukti, Carla embarks on a journey of self-discovery and hope. Not all ‘beer and skittles’, she is spat on by a llama, half cripples a swami during a friendly volleyball game and develops somewhat of an aversion to certain yogic cleansing practices.  

Well-peppered with laughter and irony, Becoming Carla is a heart warming tale of a young woman’s personal growth and reflects the path, well trodden to the awareness of life, love…and possibilities.

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I never thought that he was my soul mate, but I did think we had a mutual respect for our differences. Maybe fate had crossed our paths for reasons unknown to me when we first met.

It was his laid-back attitude, the way he enjoyed himself whatever he was doing. He never took anything too seriously, that’s what attracted me to him. Yet, at the same time it was the very thing that annoyed me.

I would often think of the film The Unbearable Lightness of Being because it seemed to capture his attitude to life. It was this ‘lightness’, this incredibly frivolous attitude to life that I admired, but at the same time found so ‘unbearable’.

I didn’t realise how dependent on him I had become. I saw myself as strong, self-assured, and independent. So my reaction when he left was as much a shock to me as the fact that he had gone. I was an emotional wreck. I couldn’t eat, sleep or even think. I thought I was going to go stark, raving mad. I was an empty shell with no purpose for living and prayed to God every day to put me out of my misery, to strike me down with a terminal illness because I just didn’t want to deal with the pain any more. I thought about ways of ending my life but I didn’t have the courage. What if I went to all that bother and it made no difference to him, if he felt no guilt or sorrow? I would be more pathetic than I already felt. The truth was, I guess, that as devastated as I felt, I couldn’t put other people through the trauma of suicide, particularly my mother. When it came down to it I realised that perhaps, whilst I wanted the pain to end, I’m not sure that I wanted my life to end.

Day after day I sat, consumed with my misery. I wanted to be on my own with my feelings of aloneness, floating in the chasm that my ‘self’ had become. It wasn’t long before people realised what was happening. Like the true friends they are, they came around to sympathise and advise, to offer support and encouragement, but most of all to make sure I was not contemplating any drastic measures to deal with the situation.

My mother Frances was particularly persistent. She is a pragmatist who doesn’t dwell on the negativity of the past, living very much in the here and now, except for her fascination with genealogy. But that was different somehow; it was more about knowing where you came from to understand who you are. It wasn’t about being morbidly stuck in the past.

The phone would ring; I would know who it was before I answered.

‘What have you got on the stove for dinner my darling?’ she would ask, knowing that there was nothing. I had lost seven kilos since David left two months ago and was having difficulty swallowing. ‘Soup,’ I replied.

‘Lovely, I’ll be there in about half an hour. I was just thinking this is perfect weather for soup.’

‘Great,’ I thought, dragging myself from under my brown, woolly security blanket. I threw a pot of water on to the stove and stood staring into the fridge, hoping to be inspired to make soup of some description.

I was still staring into the fridge when the doorbell rang. My time was up, no point pretending. God knows why I was even trying; when it comes to my mother, I’m as transparent as Gladwrap. She made her usual grand entrance, ‘Yoo-hoo, I’m here my darling.’ She didn’t literally twirl around the room, but I always felt as though she did, she just has that presence about her. Golden hair sitting gently on her shoulders and the bright, multicoloured shawl draped around her gave an impression of iridescence. Immediately she checked what was in the pot and pretended to be surprised when she found it was a pot of water bubbling away. Usually when I make soup I use my mother’s recipes for pea and ham or minestrone. They are rich, simple recipes that require a minimum of fuss. But even they were too much for me to manage.

The recipe for Minestrone is as follows:

4–6 Bacon bones

1 Onion, finely chopped

2 cloves Garlic, crushed

1 Carrot, diced

2 sticks Celery, chopped

3 Bay leaves

6 Peppercorns

½ cup Haricot beans

2–3 Tbsp Tomato paste

½ cup Pasta

6 Brussels sprouts, halved

2 Zucchini, chopped

Add all the ingredients except sprouts, zucchini and pasta. Cover with water, bring to the boil, and simmer three to five hours. Then add remaining ingredients and simmer for one hour. Serve with parmesan cheese.

‘I can’t remember how to make it,’ I proclaimed. Frances looked at me incredulously. ‘My dear, what’s happened? You’ve lost your confidence!’ With that, she sat me on a stool as she began chopping onion. Luckily I had some bacon bones in the freezer and there was always a supply of legumes in the cupboard.

There was plenty of time to talk while the soup simmered, so we made ourselves comfortable with a cup of tea and Frances filled me in on her progress with the family genealogy.

‘You know its not easy tracing the family tree. It’s okay while you’re in Australia , which goes back four generations, but before that it’s very difficult. I decided to concentrate on Nana’s side of the family—the Binehams. Last week as you know, I visited the Genealogy Society; it’s very frustrating in there. There’s a lot of information to sift through and not a great deal of help when you need it, so I thought I’d concentrate on one thing—Wales. I decided to look for a record of the marriage of John Bineham and Charity Anderson. He was born in Chepstowe in Monmouthshire, which is on the border of Wales and Gloucestershire. Their son Henry—your great, great-grandfather, was born in eighteen thirty-five according to his marriage certificate and I’m assuming that his parents were married in that area because not many people moved around in those days. Another problem with tracing people is the spelling of names particularly after they change them, and remember many people were illiterate. Now, Beynon, I think might be the original spelling, or at least Bineham could be a derivative of it. My main problem is I can’t find anything on Charity Anderson.’

I felt a bit guilty not giving Frances my full attention; she was so excited about the family tree. Instead, I found my mind was wandering off, thinking of David and the new ‘love of his life’. I knew her name but I couldn’t bring myself to think it let alone say it, that’s just how I was feeling; hurt and angry, really angry, like I could do some damage. I spent many hours devising ways in which I could exact revenge on the happy couple.

Thank goodness I have some level-headed friends like Trish who continued to highlight the consequences of such actions. However, that didn’t stop me thinking about it.

Trish is the most level-headed person I know, except when it comes to illicit drugs. She is also a great listener; she will listen to me for hours and not show a hint of boredom. We were only teenagers when we met; we were both working part time at ‘Benny’s Burgers’ while we were at high school. ‘Benny’s Burgers’ was your ‘try-hard’ burger giant. Benny’s had the 'giant' façade, but the work practices and standards left a lot to be desired. No one who worked there ate the food. Needless to say Benny’s is no longer trading.

It was hard work at Benny’s, but we had some fun. It was while we were working there that I smoked the first and only joint I’ve had in my life. I was taking rubbish to the dumpster out the back when I noticed Bryan, one of the cooks, having a smoke. Something looked odd about that picture so I asked Bryan , ‘What’s that you’re smoking?’

Bryan nodded, like he thought he had my number, and replied, ‘It’s a joint little, naïve Carla, why don’t you come here and have a toke?’

If I have issues now about making the right choices, you can imagine how bad I must have been as a teenager. I wasn’t naïve, I’d show him, so Bryan and I shared that joint and it seemed like a pretty cool thing to do until Trish came out and caught us. She took one look at me and said, ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ At the same time she hit the butt out of my hand with so much force that the butt and I were knocked to the ground.

Trish never said another word about that incident and I never touched a joint again. I think Trish feels a little responsible for me. I don’t have a big sister but if I did, she’d be just like her. Trish finished school and went to university, I’m still serving food. Still, we’re friends and I’m not sure what I’d do without her.

Frances was also supportive and sympathetic to how I was feeling but her strategy was simply to take the problem, the thing which is causing so much pain and bury it in the backyard, then get on with your life. It is obviously a strategy that has worked for her and God knows she has had plenty of things that have needed burying over the years, but I was not at a stage where I felt I could honestly do that. I knew I couldn’t go over and over things with her like I could with Trish because she would not allow me to do so. And I guess I didn’t feel the need to unload when I was with her anyway. Instead I tried to seem interested in what she was saying and I was interested, it’s just that I couldn’t stop thinking, or rather, obsessing about David and ‘her’ and the thing they had done to me.

Frances suggested we go for a walk to the beach while the soup was cooking. ‘That will clear our heads and give us an appetite,’ she declared. I’d had a horrible feeling she was going to suggest a beach walk. I think it was her idea of aversion therapy.

The beach is a wonderful place at any time of year but at that particular moment it was too full of memories. David and I used to walk along that same path regularly with Oscar, our Cocker Spaniel. Spring was not far away but the chill of winter was still in the air. We were yet to have one of those warm, sunny days that make you feel summer is on its way. Frances and I strolled together, arm in arm, rugged up in our scarves and hats to try and keep the wind from chilling us to the bone. I used to enjoy the walk to the beach. Along the way you pass the creek, where we watched the boats being launched and retrieved from the boat ramp. Actually I shouldn’t call it the creek any more as it’s now referred to as the canal. I had noticed that most of the real estate agents in the area referred to the ‘Magnificent lifestyle by the Canal’.

Growing up around Morloc, the canal was always called The Creek and God help anyone who ever fell in. It was believed they’d surely die from some terrible disease. The water in the creek has always been murky, collecting enormous amounts of rubbish in its numerous nooks where it twists and turns. Some days there are lots of birds around the canal, especially ducks waiting around the observation landings for people to feed them. Usually feeding the ducks is a pleasant way to pass the time but then, seeing the ducks only served to increase the pain in my chest, as it made me recall happier times when David loved me.

Continuing to walk along the canal, one is captivated by the birdlife and the Australian natives. The next part of the journey is the railway yard, the only unpleasant element. It’s overgrown with weeds and seems to collect enormous amounts of rubbish, empty beer cans, chip-wrappers and all manner of waste.

Frances and I walked beside the dormant trains before entering a tunnel covered in graffiti. It could be a little scary at times and I wouldn’t fancy walking that way at night on my own. Still, when you emerge from the tunnel, you’re back walking alongside the ‘ Magnificent Canal ’. We continued along, past another launching ramp and under the bridge on the main highway. On the other side there were boats of all shapes and sizes, from little wooden dinghies that you probably wouldn’t trust in two feet of water, to great big fishing boats with lanterns hanging from support wires for night fishing. Sometimes there were beautiful sailing boats with polished timber and shiny brass bits. Those boats conjure visions of sailing into the sunset. Perhaps people look at them and wish they could take off on an exotic trip somewhere, transforming their lives from humdrum to adventure.

In the summer there’s nothing more pleasant than sitting out on the decking at Lloyds Cafe which overlooks the canal, watching the boats coming and going, gazing over the sparkling water or along Main Street , which is lined with Date Palms. It looks so tropical and cosmopolitan in the summer, people often say—we could be anywhere in the world! Who’d believe it’s downtown Morloc? Previously, low socio-economic home to the blue-collar worker, the Aussie battler and semi-industrial; Morloc is now the place to be. Sitting there sipping an ice-cold beer or chardonnay, who’d think of a single care in the world?

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