Firsts

July 2012

I was born on the first of July, one minute past midnight in a grass hut in the highlands of Papua New Guinea. I was my mother's first child and the first 'pink' baby the local villagers had ever seen. I took my first steps at nine months of age, my first real word was 'star' and I first tried to grasp light from the candle on the cake made to celebrate my first birthday.

As I grew older, I wanted to come first in school running races, be the first to climb mountains when bush-walking and be the first in my ballet class to master the perfect triple piourette.

I had a voracious appetite for life: the first sight, first taste, first touch of something new seduced me to push boundaries, try new things; to seek out the firsts.

I danced with a ballet company, jumped out of a plane, went white water rafting, wrote songs on my grandmother's piano, travelled to exotic countires, got married, lived in a remote Australian mining town, studied English literature, became a dance-maker, had three children. And I noticed I began to feel tired.

To my horror I discovered there were firsts that exhausted and frightened me: the first serious argument with my husband, my first real labour pains, and the first death in my family.

The first phone call from my mother saying her cancer had metastasized started the first contractions that led to the birth of my first and only son. Five months later, her dead body, the first I ever saw, left me waiting for others to make the decisions: to say the first words. I was the first to place my hand on her chest to check for movement, that's true. But there was none, so I snatched my hand away. The others were the first to understand.

I shunned the firsts. There was nothing new under the sun. I had tried a lot, felt a lot, seen a lot. None of it was new, so why bother? I drew aside: so much safer. Better to wait for someone else to suggest a new adventure, take the first risk: be the first to cross the finish line.

It was easier to defer to others, to silence my thoughts, to look after my children and to teach others to embrace the firsts. I genuinely delighted in the first steps of my friends, my students, my children. They had things to say, places to go: experiences to share.

I used to have this tradition: each year, on the first of July at one minute past midnight, I would stop and seek out a star and listen. I'd look up, grateful for the lights that sparkled in the Milky Way, and just listen.

The first time I neglected to do that, I discovered I was still pursuing firsts.

The first refusal to speak truth when it needed to be spoken, the first hesitation in advocating for someone less capable, less fortunate, the first time I stopped writing and making and creating: these too were firsts.

My first breath of courage fuelled me to look out. My acceptance of grace in the midst of fear steadied my heart beat. My letting go of achieving, knowing or 'making it' somewhere, somehow, gave space for the first series of new stories to tell.

On the first of July this year, at one minute past midnight I was in an aeroplane flying back from the first ever Remnant Dance international dance tour. It was the first time I had friends sing me happy birthday among the stars. And I realised this also marked the first official year of life for our fledgling collective of innovative performing artists.

I'm looking forward to seeking new firsts.

Photography by Ellen Avery, reprinted with permission.