Letters from Christchurch

Below is a compilation of emails from Christchurch resident Elizabeth Woods, whose character bungalow was condemned after the September earthquake. She started writing to us on Valentine’s Day, just before the February quake, and her updates have become the voice of the quake for our readers, offering an insight into the situation facing Cantabrians.

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From: Elizabeth jane Woods
Sent: Wednesday, 22 February 2012
To: Sally Duggan (MAG)
Subject: 21st February 11.25pm

Hi Sallly,
 
It's the 21st February,  11.25pm
 
I'm sitting at my computer, and it's very quiet. The boys have gone to bed, and this is the time of night when I know that I should also be in bed, but it's a time of stillness and winding down, and of taking stock of the day. There is no sound other than the vague hum of the computer, and the occassional car out on the street.
 
I am thinking about tomorrow - the 22nd February.
 
There will no doubt be pages and pages written about tomorrow, the public memorial service (which a friend and I are attending) the genuine outpourings of grief, and the recollections and reminders of Christchurch's darkest day. There will be lots of photos and footage of the community of our city coming together in remembrance.
 
That's the public face of it. But what am I feeling right now? What is in my heart in this moment of quietness, as I think about that dreadful day a year ago? The news footage and the newspaper coverage will show one side of it, but there is also a hidden human cost in the hearts of all of  those who were touched by the events on that day.
 
On that day...let me start there, because that's in my mind.  February 22nd - the words in themselves are innocuous, and once, before all this, wouldn't have meant anything unusual. Say them now, and a stillness and a watchfulness comes over people, it's a shared experience of terror and travail, and is like a club that we would rather not have to belong to. On that day...
 
I will never forget as long as I live, the way I felt that day. I can recall it with painful clarity, and I will never be the same person again because of it. The sense of utter terror as I tried to get home through gridlocked traffic, my fuel light showing, to my son who was alone in our already damaged house will haunt me forever. I could hear on the radio that it was centred in Lyttelton, and that the hills and city had been very hard hit, and he was home for a half day from school. I knew that people had been killed, and I was sobbing with total fear at the possibility that he had been hurt. When I finally made it home and came up the hill to see him standing at the foot of our drive unharmed, I was completely overwhelmed.. The rush of emotion which that memory invokes even now, brings tears to my eyes, and raises the hair on the back of my neck.
 
I hugged him so tightly and cried as though my heart would burst out of my chest - I couldn't believe he was alright. I will never forget the sense of gratitude and love I felt in that moment, and even though it is painful even now, it continues to enrich my life and make me appreciate the people I love in a way I can't explain.
 
Jonathan wouldn't let me go into the house because everything was smashed, the devastation around us was unbelievable, and every few minutes powerful aftershocks would hit us. As we got to my younger son's school and found him in the crowd of anxious children, I saw in his face a relection of my own sense of terror and overwheming relief - he flung himself into my arms, clung to me, and kept saying "I thought you were dead, I thought you were dead". I am sure that is something he will carry with him for a long time, and even now he struggles to talk about the quake.
 
As we walked back down the hill, we could see the city, and the massive pall of dust over it, and both of the boys realised that their dad was down there, working in an old building in Manchester St. We quickly set up a tent on the front lawn, and then began a most painful and agonising wait. I knew that if he was okay, he would get to us as quickly as he could, but as one hour passed and then two and three, both the boys began to fear the worst, despite my attempts to reassure them. When he finally got a text message through to us that he was okay, and then made it to us an hour later, the look of joy on both the boy's faces is also something I will carry with me always. We knew that others out there had lost their lives, and we all clung to each other - it is people that matter, and it is the people that you love that you will think about in your darkest moments.
 
People will mark the day in different ways tomorrow. I have a friend who is going to go to the beach if it is a nice day, and just watch the ocean for a while, Michael wants to go and eat doughnuts for afternoon tea in our house, with the promise that it's going to be fixed, and others may decide not to acknowledge it. We will all do the thing that feels right for us to do - whatever that may be.
 
So what is in my heart right now, as I sit here in the quietness? Anger? - yes, there is still anger, at something mindless and violent and unbidden that has fragmented the life we had, and caused me grief and loss. There is sadness and deep compassion for those who lost loved ones, and for whom tomorrow is going to be terribly painful. There is fear of another big quake, which I keep hidden from my sons with a smiling face.
 
And there is a sense in my heart of a new knowledge that will stay with me always. The knowledge that life is a gift not to be taken lightly, and that I need to live it fully, with all the enthusiasm and joie de vivre I can manage. The knowledge that anything or anyone can be taken away in a blink of an eye, so you have to hold them and enjoy it all while you can..
 
I will find tomorrow hard, with its reminder that I have been out of my house for a year, all the memories and the awareness of a collective grief, and I will no doubt cry - but at the end of the day I will hug my children in gratitude, eat some doughnuts in my saved house, ring my lovely sister for a gossip - and be glad.

Elizabeth

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From: Elizabeth jane Woods
Sent: Thursday, 9 February 2012
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: The walking chintz curtain....

Hi Sally,
 
It seems like an age since I have written to you, and with Christmas out of the way, and the kids back at school, I thought I would send you an update!
 
I started 2012 feeling really grumpy. The mood in Christchurch at the moment seems to be one of irritation, as we wait for the promised rebuild and people see another year of battling bureacracy stretching out ahead of them.
 
After the initial euphoria about the saving and repairing of my house had settled down to a quiet satisfaction, the enormity of the task started to set in. The place is a ruin, broken bricks and rocks litter the ground and paths, some of the windows are broken, and the once beautiful garden is now so overgrown I won't be surprised if I find a lost and hitherto unknown species of animal living in it. Before the quakes I was happily restoring the house, but I hadn't expected to have to start from absolute scratch again!
 
It's a huge task, and in some ways, it would have been easier to simply build a new house. My poor twisted home presents real engineering challenges - how to hold it up to safely work on it? As it's lifted and realigned all the walls and windows and floors will crack and break, and it's going to need a new roof. How do we get the panelling off in one piece, and can we find a stonemason to re-create those marvellous Arts and Crafts flared buttresses?
 
And so many decisions! Did I want the original floors or am I willing to compromise on that? Do I want the panelling replaced in the bedrooms or are we gibbing it? What about the carpet, bathroom fittings etc etc- terrifying! I find it hard to make up my mind at the best of times, and I don't have much faith in my own taste. Today I am wearing a floating floral chiffon top, that looked great in holiday mode in a shop in Queenstown, but actually makes me look like a chintz curtain. Enough said!
 
So there I was in mid January, facing a year of hard work, drudgery and tough decisions, driving everyone around me mad with my moaning, when a series of things gave me a shake and a slap, and dragged me out of my wilderness of whining, and made me see that I can either give in and be an annoying grizzle, or I can see it as an adventure.
 
The first thing was my son's results from his first year of NCEA. The past year has been a hard one for Jonathan. Being in the house by himself while it smashed around him on Feb 22nd had left its mark. We had shifted house three times, and he had missed a fair amount of school with closures and school sharing. Throughout it all he was strong, focused and hard working and even though I tried to keep my grief away from him, he knew that the loss of our home was coming close to breaking me. When his NCEA results arrived I was utterly humbled, and realised how self indulgent I was being. He passed all 7 subjects with a mixture of merit and excellence passes, and he deserves every accolade. If he can do that under such trying circumstances I can certainly rebuild my house!
 
The next thing was a visit to the Waitaki Valley for a few days to meet and stay with some clients of mine at Sublime Lodge, and I fell in love with it - I was completely awestruck. Never was a place more aptly named - Steve and Fenella are both a delight and an inspiration, and I came back wanting to chuck it all in, move to the glorious Waitaki Valley and start a vineyard.
 
Steve and Fenella have created a unique home and environment, decorated with unbelievable flair and ingenuity - they create the most beautiful things out of the most commonplace everyday objects. Gorgeous character mirrors out of old doors, light fittings out of old copper jelly moulds and a wonderful kitchen wall out of old car iron that Fenella hit with sledge hammers and shot with a shotgun to get the desired texture - fabulous! Again I felt humbled. I have a house and boxes full of things that I saw as a nuisance, but that I now see with a fresh eye!
(Steve & Fenella's home featured in the April 2010 issue of NZ House & Garden - view an extract here)
 
And finally it took my youngest son to add his own unique perspective. Michael is a philosopher in a 12 year old's body, and at the end of each day we usually have a conversation about what he is thinking about. A few nights ago he asked me to explain the notion of whether the glass is half empty or half full. What, he wanted to know, did that mean?  I tried to explain the idea that everyone looks at things differently, and that what to one person may seem like a bad situation, to another person it may look like an opportunity, or something to be grateful for. "Alright" he said, grasping the concept, "Is your glass half empty or half full?" I started to grin, and I replied that it was half full, and wasn't that great? "Me too mum, me too" said Mike, and started to laugh.
 
Trust Michael to hit it on the head and teach me a lesson. What I should have said was that with the adventure of fixing our house ahead of me, and two great sons to keep me grounded and remind me from time to time of what matters, my glass is actually overflowing.
 
Elizabeth

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Hi Sally,

As I sit writing tonight, I am in a state of glorious disbelief. My insurance claims officer rang at lunchtime today to tell me that against all the odds, all my expectations, and against all their previous advice, my house is going to be saved and repaired.
 
We had gone so far down the track with the certainty that it was to be demolished, that when she told me that the repair was the final official decision, I was incredulous and made her repeat it several times. She then apologised and said she hoped I was happy, as most people with old houses were quite excited to have a new one. Was I happy? I was shaking and inarticulate in my joy, and tried to tell her how utterly overwhelmed I was that I got to keep my home, when I had steeled myself to saying goodbye to it. I got off the phone, got in my car and drove to my house. I then stood in the lounge with my hands on the panelling, cried and told the house out loud that it was safe, and that I was coming home.
 
I am not sure why they changed their minds. It may have been the heritage features of the house, or it may simply have come down to the cost of a rebuild, but I will never be able to adequately express how much it means to me to keep that house.
 
Am I wrong to love a house that much? Possibly, but sometimes we don't get to choose who or what we love, we just do, and you can either try to fight it, or just accept that it enriches your life, and be grateful for it. That makes me think about what the house means and represents to me, and I wanted to explain it.
 
My ownership of the house began towards the end of Jeanne's life, and her allowing me to buy it was a gift to me of unconditional love. She knew that I loved it as she did, and that to me it meant a return to something that I had lost. She knew with a certainty born of the bond between us, that long after she was gone, I would sit on the verandah under that wide sweep of sky, looking at the sunset and the lights of the city below,  and think of her.
 
As a small child, the house was a delightful place to visit, full of interesting and curious things. Jeanne was an inveterate traveller and collector, and had been all over the world, so when I visited, fascinating things would come out of cupboards and draws, little handmade puppets from South America, jars of Victorian shell buttons, old maps and some of the most wonderful dress up clothes. She would let me rabbit on about anything and everything, and would never tell me off for talking too much. She treated me as an equal, and she made me feel as if everything I said was interesting and new.
 
When she was in hospital for the last time, slipping in and out of conciousness, the doctors told me that there was nothing left they could do, and that she had 6 days left at most. The wonderful nurses told me that the last thing to go is hearing, and that even though it may not look like she was aware, there was every possibility that she could hear me. So for a week I sat with her, and held her hand and talked. I talked about every memory I had of our time together, beginning with me appearing in a gap in her hedge at age 3. I reminisced about the fun we had had, and what having her in my life had meant to me. I said that I loved her, and that it was all okay and I was right beside her, even though I felt like laying my head in her hands and begging her not to leave me.
 
And I talked about the house and my delight in it. I told her about my plans for the garden, about the new curtains, about polishing the copper fire surround, and how the jasmine was out. I talked about the little hidden delights of finding tiny white fuschias growing amongst the hostas, and how the boys had found skinks in the rockery. I wanted her to be able to see the house and have her know that something that was precious to her, was also precious to me.
 
In an odd way, the earthquake did me a favour. In pushing me to the brink, and making me accept that things are not always permanent, it makes me appreciate my life more. I had accepted that the house was going, and even though it was heartbreaking, I learnt that I was perfectly capable of moving forward and letting go of things. Now that my sons and I get to keep the house, I will care for it in the knowledge that it is here for now, but that it, like everything else, can be taken away, so I will enjoy it while I can.
 
Where to from here? My head is buzzing with ideas! As the house will be completely rebuilt, I will have to repaint it and redecorate, and I will do say paying tribute to it's Arts and Crafts heritage. Bring on those back copies of House and Garden! The garden will still be destroyed by diggers as the house is lifted, so Jonathan is busy having a go at designing a fantastical new garden. It is probably going to take longer to fix than it would take to build a new house, and I am sure at times it will be frustrating, but what a labour of pleasure it will be.
 
Sally, I feel like an enormous weight has lifted from my shoulders, and I am so looking forward to the day when I can once again welcome people into my house, surrounded by the legacy of friendship and survival.
 
Elizabeth

I usually write my updates to Sally, but right now I am going to go off track a little, and talk to everyone about Sally.
 
When I first started out on this journey of writing (and it has been a journey) I had no idea where it was going to lead. I wrote my very first letter to Sally in January on impulse, and back then it was a cry from the heart, and an expression of bewilderment at the circumstances I found myself in. The ghastly situation that a lot of Christchurch residents had found themselves in had thrown me completely off balance, and I was floundering around in a mass of shock and indecision.
 
When I wrote that first letter, I had no idea that I was starting down a path of self expression and catharsis through writing, and beginning something that is now giving me so much pleasure. I thank Sally from the bottom of my heart for seeing in my ramblings a story that she felt was worth letting me tell. I have met Sally several times now, and was lucky enough to spend the day at the Christchurch Cup Day with her recently. Sally has an irresistible warmth about her, and a megawatt personality that is a delight to be around, and this is my opportunity to say my hearfelt thanks to her for encouraging me the way that she has.
 
She has encouraged me to keep talking and writing and sharing my thoughts, and sometimes when I have started our rather incoherently, the very act of writing it all down has clarified my thinking and given me a positive direction.
 
I couldn't have managed this year without the outlet of writing about my experiences, and it has been a year of discovery.  I have discovered that my sense of humour is still intact,  that I am allowed to show my 'inner gypsy' and wear scarlet or green or purple instead of always wearing grey or black, and I have discovered that I love to write.  It has been the most amazing thing to be able to share how I feel, and it has sent me in directions I wouldn't have considered possible, and introduced me to some of the most wonderful people. To be able to write about my grief, sorrow, hope and aspirations has changed me, and along the way has made me far more open to change.
 
I confess that I used to be a bit of a control freak. I am (or was!) one of those 'fixit' people, who was totally convinced that I had far more control than I actually had, and that I had all the answers.  Boy, was I about to be taught a lesson! The earthquakes and ensuing chaos threw me kicking and screaming out of my comfort zone, and even though it was horrendous at the time, I now have no desire at all to return to it - bring on the unpredictability in all its glory!
 
Of course I still have control over most things; how much money I spend on unnecessary bits of Art Deco china, making sure the boys empty the dishwasher, and how many Tim-Tams I eat, but I also now recognise that there are things way beyond my control, and I am comfortable with that. Nor do I have all the answers, and it is actually a huge freedom to be able to honestly say "I don't know" - I would have struggled with that before.
 
In my house, with a 12 year old obssessed with history, there are always things I can't answer. A typical breakfast conversation would go something like, "Can we talk about parallell universes and by the way, what did Tolstoy die of?" "Umm, I don't know - and, err, he stopped breathing?" This past year, there have been lots of things I haven't had the answers for and, all joking aside, it has been a good lesson for us to learn. I have adopted an attitude of trying my hardest to find answers to the tough questions, but being willing to accept that I can't find them, and being honest about that.
 
So to Sally I offer my heartfelt thanks for showing me a side to myself I didn't even know existed, and that is sending me off in fascinating and uncharted directions. As I rebuild,  I am going to have to come up with a lot of answers in the next year, and even though I have no idea what the answers will be, or what's going to happen, I know that some of them will be exciting ones - how marvellous!
 
Elizabeth

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From: Elizabeth Jane Woods
Sent: Monday, 3 October 2011 1:44 p.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Thank God for Chopin

Hi Sally,

I was reading your latest newsletter about having a place to escape or reflect or gather your thoughts, and in light of the events of the last few days, I realise that music is one of mine.

As I write tonight, I have my earphones plugged into the laptop listening to Chopin's piano concerto number 1, and the music is soothing what feels like a fairly 'savage heart'. It's been a weekend of ups and downs, with moments of happiness and disillusionment.

On Thursday, I bought myself an old upright piano. I have resisted as long as I possibly could, but if I don't get a piano into my house and under my hands, I shall go mad, and I can't stand it another single second.. I am so used to being able to pour my spirit out through the keys, that it has felt like a peculiar kind of prison, and I didn't realise how much I needed it until I tried to live without it.

Having made the decision to buy another piano to keep me company until I have built another house big enough to take my concert grand, I started looking for one, and it hurt a little; my own piano has the voice of an angel, and I really didn't think I would find something that would make me happy, but actually, treasure can be found in the oddest and smallest places. I don't have a lot of money to spend on one, and I had looked at a few when I came across an old Brinsmead that fairly smiled at me with the first notes I played, as if to say "Oh, here you are at last, I've been waiting for you". It's out of tune, and has a few chipped keys, but underneath I can hear a mesmerising voice trying to get out, a sort of dark liquid honeyed tone, and I'm so excited that I will be able to discover what it has to say. It is being delivered this coming week.

So, on Friday morning I was feeling very cheerful, and rang a close friend of mine to arrange lunch. He and I are in a play together in Nov/Dec in the Celebration Theatre in Hagley Park. (Shameless plug - it's called The Sorcerer's Appendix, is written by another good friend of mine, and is a comic romp of clownish and epic proportions!)

When I rang him, full of happiness about my new purchase, he was in a complete state of shock. He and his partner had a very large and beautiful old house in Avonside that was badly damaged on Feb 22nd, and was going to be demolished. Although they couldn't live in it, all of their things were still in the house waiting to try and find a safe way to remove them, and in the early hours of Friday morning, someone deliberately set fire to it, and burnt it to the ground. As a publisher, he had literally thousands of books, his mother's antiques, her piano and a lifetime of precious belongings. They are all gone.

I was choked with rage and sorrow for him, what sort of person would do such a heinous thing? The thought that someone would deliberately do something so awful, when so many people have lost so much, sickened me. I called past the house on Saturday, and it was a charred and gutted ruin, being devoured and finished off by a couple of large diggers. As I sat there looking at the remains of their much loved and beautiful family home, I had a rush of weariness and disillusionment- I am so tired of grief, and I know now why I need a piano so badly.

When I am playing, I can let it all go, and lose myself in a place where there is no anger, or annoyance or sadness, there is just me and the music, whole, solitary and content. At that moment I am the person I would be if nothing had ever hurt me, or no-one had ever disappointed me or lied to me, and it all just falls away for a while.

One thing the earthquake has done for me, has made me aware of my human frailties, and my need for escape to quiet and solace, whereever it can be found, and I am also more forgiving with other people's flaws than I was. I used to charge through life, unrealistically expecting others to always have strength and conviction, and never really giving a moments thought, or making allowances for people that were not as strong as I am. I know now that even the strongest can falter, and to find a way to put down the burden for a moment, even if it is just a walk in a garden, half an hour with a book, a bike ride, or playing the piano, it is as necessary as breathing.

So, even as the utter beauty of Chopin's notes fill my head, and I am deeply grateful for the pleasure I can take in that, I know that there can be real ugliness in the world. My heart goes out to my friends for their lost home, and for all those in Christchurch who are still suffering grief, and as soon as my new piano arrives, I shall play with all my heart and hope that they too are finding places to escape to as well.

Elizabeth

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From: Elizabeth jane Woods
Sent: Tuesday, 5 July 2011 1.26am.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Scarecrow, Tinman or cowardly lion? Musings on the nature of courage.

 

Lately I have been thinking a lot about courage, and the meaning of bravery, and I have been suffering a few “cowardly lion” moments in recent days.

I have heard the people of Christchurch described as staunch, brave and tenacious and that makes me proud of our city, and yet there are times when my own personal courage is nothing more than simply having no choice – you have to do what you have to do, and you have run out of alternatives. There are moments when I feel anything but brave, when I feel like I just can't make another difficult decision, I can't handle the aftershocks and moments when I feel like I can't paste another smile on my face and tell my sons that everything is going to be fine.

The demolition of my house is drawing ever closer, and this afternoon I talked on the phone to a very nice man from my insurance company, who asked me to talk him through my house and give him an idea of the things in each room that are special or worthy of note, so that he can write to the re-build team to start giving them an idea of what they are replacing.

So I talked. I talked him up the stone steps, through the front door, in to the lounge with its rimu panelling, built-in curved bookcases, leadlight windows, copper doorknobs and extravagantly and sinuously curved wrought iron window catches. I talked him through the panelled hall in to my bedroom with its high ceiling, rimu fireplace and fire red tiles and the window seat looking on to the garden. I talked him through my brand new kitchen.

He was very understanding, but what he didn't know was that the whole time I was talking in a calm and measured way, I was sitting with my eyes closed and my fists clenched, struggling not to cry, because every inch of that house is as familiar to me as my own face, and to be having to describe its soon-to-be-gone beauty is like squeezing my heart in a vice.

Am I courageous, or am I that cowardly lion?

Is it courage that makes me stay positive for my sons, encouraging them to look forward to the new house whilst grieving for the old one, even though sometimes the words feel like ashes in my mouth, or is it just the necessity of making sure they are moving forward and not holding on to something that is more my grief than theirs?

Is it courage or necessity that keeps us living our lives in as normal a way as possible, when sometimes all you feel like doing is running away and hiding because you can't face another broken building or the threat of more quakes? I would love to pretend that I am strong all the time, but the reality is that I am not. We stay strong because we have no choice.

Sometimes, what looks to other people like courage can be a terrified and quivering bravado. My boys believe in me implicitly and believe in my ability to solve and handle anything, so there are days when, despite feeling like a frightened rabbit, I will make myself pretend that I am in fact an avenging goddess than can handle anything. I will solve the problem, and then go away quietly and have my own private meltdown.

So, is it courage or necessity that makes us carry on? In the end, it doesn't matter. We will endure and rebuild because we have to, and along the way I am going to carry on laughing and loving, and making mistakes, and getting sad and angry, and falling over and getting up again, and just doing the best I can out of necessity. Just like the cowardly lion, I am on a journey thinking that I have no courage, and I think that one day I may well get to the end of the journey, look back, and realise that it was with me all along.

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From: Elizabeth jane Woods
Sent: Tuesday, 14 June 2011 12:50 p.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Cos everything little thing is going to be alright...

 

Hi Sally

 

Just a quick update on what is starting to feel like Christchurch's modus operandi – as the famous baseball player Yogi Berra said: "It's like déjà vu all over again".

I had started to write to you last night about what a great time I had on Saturday night and as I write now yet another aftershock is rolling through following on from today's 5.5 and 6 quakes. We have had enough. I am sure there are people all over Christchurch tonight who have had enough of being brave, had enough of being strong for their traumatised children, had enough of telling themselves that surely this is the last big one and had enough of being told to hang in there. I gave a ride home today to an office colleague who is originally from England and halfway home she said with real distress that she couldn't stand it any longer and she just wanted to get out of Christchurch for good. She has a lovely home and a great job, but like so many others, it is all just too much to comprehend or cope with.

I want to stay in Christchurch and see the reincarnation of my city, but I can see that for some people the constant threat of quakes and the day to day experience of living with apprehension and being confronted by damaged buildings, damaged streets and traumatised, nervous people is just too hard to cope with.

I was lucky today, my little wooden 1920s rental cottage is like a staunch little terrier, it just flexes and shakes a bit; both the boys were fine and nothing was broken. The house is little, but cosy, and although we have a heat pump, we also have a log burner that heats the whole house. While I sit here in comparative comfort in front of the fire, I am so very aware that there are many people in the city tonight without power and water and that makes me feel lucky and guilty and sad that it is happening for them all over again.

I do still think, in spite of everything that I have lost, that I am lucky. Lucky to have a chance to rebuild, lucky to have people that I love around me and lucky that I can still see a future for myself and my sons in Christchurch. For a lot of people facing the despair of not knowing whether they can rebuild their houses and their lives, or whether they can handle the uncertainty, lucky is probably not something they are feeling right now.

The people of Christchurch are all in this together; we are all hurting and it feels like a cruel and endless nightmare, but if we can make our way through this I believe with all my heart that we will have the opportunity to create a unique strong community, with the bond of a shared experience. Now I'm going to tell you about my Saturday night!

I am 45 years old and on Saturday night I danced like a maniac for the first time in years. My brother is a drummer in an iconic Irish band, The Black Velvet Band, and on Saturday night they played at Living Springs in Governors Bay. Their regular and long time venue was destroyed and Saturday night was a chance for people to gather, have some fun and forget about the reality of how tough life is right now. There was a great mix of people there, of all ages, and the spirit of solidarity and determination to enjoy ourselves was completely uplifting.

I haven't heard my brother play for ages, the band is fantastic, and I haven't danced like that for a long, long time (too long in fact) and it was joyful to see everyone jumping about with huge smiles on their faces, singing along with the band, and just being there together. At one point, the band played a Bob Marley song and the whole crowd was singing “Baby don't worry, ’bout a thing, cos every little thing's going to be all right" and the sense of camaraderie was tremendous.

That is what will get us through this. It is very easy to look at the footage of the new appalling damage and see the trauma on people’s faces. I could write just about the misery of it all, but I choose not to. I have met some amazing people since September that I may not have met otherwise, and I have faith in the people around me, and faith in the people of Christchurch. If we can hang together, keep helping each other, keep caring about each other, noticing when people are not coping and doing something about it, then even though things are black and incredibly difficult, we will get through it.

Cos every little thing is going to be all right – eventually!

Elizabeth

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From: Elizabeth jane Woods
Sent: Monday, 25 April 2011 8:49 p.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Music

Hi Sally,

I know that it's important to keep your eyes on the future, rather than looking back, and I made the observation to a friend the other day that hopefully the loss of something you loved can eventually become a warm memory, a nostalgia and a thankfulness for what you had, but right now, grief has me in it's grip a little.

I played my grand piano in my beautiful house this afternoon, for what will probably be the last time.

The house has mostly been emptied of all the furniture, and the piano will be going into storage this coming week. The piano is sitting in the empty lounge, covered in dust sheets, beside the collapsed fireplace, and it looks and feels like the end of a life. It has been particularly tough being without it, as I usually play for at least an hour every day, and for me playing music is a solace and an escape from what life throws at me from time to time. I have been up to the house and played a few times, once at night, by the light of a camping lantern, at the end of a particularly rough week (there is no electricity there now).

The piano has a wonderful voice, a deep, rich singing sound, and the high ceilings and panelled walls all help to make it a joy to play.

Today was the very last time that I played for the house that was my dream, and was Jeanne's gift to me, and actually my heart is still breaking. To begin with, I sat there in silence for ages, still in disbelief that I can't keep my house, and full of an impotent rage at how unfair it all feels. And then I played to the empty rooms with everything I had in me, and I filled the house with Beethoven and Chopin and Bach, just like Jeanne always wanted me to. I shut my eyes and played and imagined the rooms furnished, the garden blooming, and Jeanne sitting in the sun, looking out the window, listening to MY gift to her.

 

Video: Guy Frederick

I have had quite a few people say to me that I am lucky that I will get a new house with all it's double glazing, low maintenance, new carpets etc, and yet that really is no comfort when you are losing a home. Some people just see a house as a place to sleep, and can't understand how it's possible to be attached to a place. However, for a lot of people their home is the place that defines them, the repository of their particular treasures, a place to feel at your safest, to express yourself in the things you have around you, and a place to welcome people and share who you are. This house was Jeanne's and mine, she loved me so much, and even though she is gone, living in her house always gave me a sense of still having her arms around me.

Although we are incredibly lucky not to have lost any people close to us in the quake, losing things that you love hurts, whether it is a small irreplaceable precious ornament, or a whole house..

Some people would caution me against building us a new place that we will be attached to, and think that it is safer to just see a house as a place to be when you aren't at work, but I will always choose to create a real home, a new place that reflect me and my life, just as much as the old one did. I will choose to express myself in my home, and the pain of the loss of our home is worth it, to have experienced every second of the joy that I found in owning it for the time that I did.

I am determined to create a really special home for my boys, for myself, and to have a place to welcome all the people that I love and that love me. Jeanne's house was always filled with laughter and warmth, and I owe it to her to never ever let that go..

Best regards
Elizabeth

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From: Elizabeth jane Woods
Sent: Monday, 18 April 2011 9:48 p.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Fleas, Michael Buble and synchronicity!

 

Hi Sally,

Thought I would send you a quick update on what's happening down here- I hope you are well!

I have managed to find the boys and I a nice little rental property, a small character house in the same neighbourhood, and we are settling in and snuggling down for the winter. It's so much smaller than my own house, the lounge is about the same size as my old bedroom, and I didn't realise quite how accustomed I had become to large rooms and high ceilings!

The seach for a rental was a learning experience, I haven't looked for somewhere to rent since I was 18, and it illustrated how things can go from tragedy to roaring farce in the blink of an eye; and reinforced for me how important it is to keep my sense of humour, even if it's in a slightly hysterical, mad woman kind of way.

The first place I looked at sounded promising, 4 bedrooms, large lounge and dining, nice city views from the kitchen, 2 bathrooms and close to my youngest son's school. I made an appointment to meet the agent there, and the minute I got there, it took all my strength and sense of politeness not to run out the door! It had the 3D factor - dirty, dingy, dated, and you would want to be looking out the kitchen window at the views, because you certainly wouldn't be wanting to look at the actual kitchen. It was a really disheartening experience, and I came away feeling sad and angry that I was leaving my lovely house, and potentially living in something like that.

I went and climbed in my car, turned on the radio, and Michael Buble started singing 'Home' - total emotional overload and I sat in my car at the side of the road and cried and cried.

I thought I would take the boys to look at the next place, and at first glance it looked okay, a nicely decorated smaller character house, and we wandered around for a few minutes, until Michael said "my legs are all tickly", and I looked down and he was covered in dozens of fleas! Quick exit, with the boys frantically jumping around on the footpath, ripping their jackets and shoes off, and at that point I lost it again, and laughed my head off! Needless to say, they weren't very keen on that place!

We have now found a nice little house through a family friend, and although it's small, it feels nice. I have made sure that I have created some pretty spaces for myself, and some cool funky spaces for the boys, and I totally 'girlied' up my bedroom with new cushions, throws, and lamps. I had my friends around on Sunday afternoon, and my best friend made the point that it looks like my house, and feels welcoming - because I'm in it! Thank god for best friends!

And finally, the synchronicity. Sometimes, when you think something is a disaster, and you think you are going backwards, it can turn out that you are not going backwards at all, you are just changing direction. In the process of starting to think about a new house, I have met some amazing new people, and although there is still an undercurrent of grief running though my life, I am starting to get interested in building a new house. I have made a great new friendship with an interior designer that I started randomly talking to in our local cafe, we just clicked, and the prospect of working with her on a new house is exciting. I started talking to an architect at a local school event, and before I told him I needed to build a new house, he started telling me about his interest in Arts and Craft architecture - click! He then started telling me about an interior designer who was a close friend of his, and with whom he worked a lot, and yep- double click- it was my new friend!

We are all meeting up at my old house next week to have a talk about where to from here, the architect really wants to see what I am losing, so that we can move forward and create a new dream, whilst paying tribute to the old one. I'm starting to feel lucky again, lucky to still have my family, and lucky to have my friends -old and new- around me!

I hope everything is well with you Sally, and I hope you don't mind me rabbiting on to you!

Take care

Elizabeth Woods

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From: Elizabeth Jane Woods
Sent: Wednesday, 30 March 2011 11:15 a.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Re: Resolution! (thanks for the word - it's great!)

 

Hi Sally,

 

I’m so sorry, I thought I had replied to your email below! Thank you so much for your praise, it really makes me feel great, and please do feel free to put anything in the magazine – that’s fabulous!

 

I just have to tell you about an experience I had yesterday. I have been trying to decide what to do about some long-term accommodation for the boys and myself, and trying to think about how to give them the stability they need. They are both back at school, but the younger one particularly is struggling with not being in our own home and is finding staying with friends and living out of suitcases enormously stressful. He gets very tearful and asks all the time when our house is going to be ready. He can’t understand why they can’t just fix it, and it’s really hard as a mother not to be able to solve this for him. All he wants most in the world is to go home.

 

I have been looking at rental properties in my area and then yesterday, on a whim, started looking at houses for sale, as my family have been talking about buying a rental that I could rent while my new house was being built. There was a house up the hill for sale and when I rang the agent to have a chat she was really nice and so helpful. We were chatting away about things when she gasped and said, “Good lord, you are Elizabeth from House & Garden!” She then went on to say how much she has enjoyed reading what I have been saying and how connected and moved she felt reading about my feelings and thoughts - it made my day!

 

I am going to meet up with her in the next few days to have a coffee (and invite her to our Resolution Dinner!) It’s yet another example of one of the major effects of the earthquake on our community; the stripping away of reticence. There seems to be a far greater sense of unity among people now that I really hope continues. I find myself having great conversations with complete strangers, as we all have a shared experience and a common need to reach out to other people. I walked out of my office about 20 minutes ago to get a coffee – it’s a sunny day here. As I walked across the car park, a lovely breeze caught my hair and as I smiled in pleasure a man coming out of the cafe grinned at me and said, “It’s a great day to be alive.” Yes, yes it is.

 

My sister and I were talking last night about how people are also getting more irritated at little things as the stress of living in our injured city starts to take its toll. We decided that the converse is also true - we are taking more pleasure out of the little things than we did before and not caring so much about things that we once thought were important. My usual cynicism is being replaced with a determination to be hopeful and to spend more time connecting with people and celebrating the little things: the white anemones in my garden that I thought the builders had trampled have flowered; my son has successfully just figured out how to tie his shoelaces (yay); I am riding my bike more because of the awful traffic; my 15-year-old has very proudly figured out how to make fabulous home-made pizzas because our regular takeaway place has closed down..

 

It’s all hard, but it’s also a great opportunity to head off in different directions and do different things that we wouldn’t have considered before.

 

To this end, and in the spirit of “I don't care about that stuff”, I am today wearing a purple velvet coat that I bought some months ago, but that I haven’t been brave enough to wear yet. My sister says it makes me look like a teacher from Hogwarts, but I am wearing it today with great aplomb.

 

Hope your week is going well, Sally.

 

Best regards

Elizabeth

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From: Elizabeth Jane Woods
Sent: Tuesday, 22 March 2011 2:03 p.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Resolution! (thanks for the word - it's great!)

 

Hi Sally,

 

I'm writing this from Owen River Lodge, an absolutely beautiful five-star lodge on the Owen River near Murchison. I am lucky enough to have driven up here for a couple of days for a bit of a retreat and it’s incredibly peaceful and incredibly beautiful. I have done some work for the owner, Felix Borenstein, over the last couple of years and Felix offered to have me here for a couple of nights as a Christchurch refugee!

 

Sitting here in the sun in this incredible setting, I have been thinking about your use of the word resolute, and resolution is something that is being discussed among my friends and family a fair bit at the moment!

In the first few days after February 22, I really felt like leaving Christchurch for a couple of years and coming back when it felt safe to do so. I have changed my mind.

 

After a few days spent away, I began to realise that Christchurch is where I want to be and that being part of the rebuild is something I want to experience, and that’s where my personal resolve comes in. It was prompted by a conversation with my oldest son, Jonathan, coming home from his first day back at high school. He and his classmates and friends had been playing Truth, Dare or Promise at lunchtime and they had all made a pact and promised not to leave Christchurch - I love that! We then had a conversation about hardship - something that my sons (and probably a number of the other teenagers) have never really experienced. I am beginning to see that to have to fight for something may very well turn out to be a character-building experience for my sons and, though that sounds a bit harsh, it may very well make them stronger.

 

My grandmother is 97, still lives on her own, and has taken all the upheaval with a stoicism and insouciance born from experiencing World War II as an army nurse. Though the earthquakes and aftershocks have been an awful experience for her, she sails through it without flinching and has dealt calmly and cheerfully with every issue, such as lack of power and water, in a way that I both envy and admire. Having seen some of the things she has seen in her lifetime, she says that it is just another thing to deal with, and in her words refuses to “cower in a corner” - she is (also in her own words) “one tough old cookie”.

 

So my friends and I (several of whom have also lost their homes) are organising a Resolution Dinner to get together, reaffirm our friendship, support each in our resolve to rebuild and probably drink far too much wine! The whole earthquake experience has made me much less cynical. I have a great group of friends and now, more than ever, we are going to join forces, cover each others’ backs, and help each other rebuild our homes and lives.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, raise your glasses to the new-look Christchurch (hic!)

 

Elizabeth

From: Elizabeth Jane Woods
Sent: Tuesday, 15 March 2011 1:46 p.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Re: How’s it going?

 

Hi Sally,

 

How are you, I was just thinking about writing to you!

 

I’m okay, I am in Christchurch, although still living in Ohoka for the moment. It has been a very strange and hard few weeks and, as the dust settles (literally), we are all beginning to work around what everyone here is calling the “new normal”.

 

It had been such a huge upheaval for everyone - that things that we would have found unbearably inconvenient in normal circumstances have become part of the way we all live. My office building is full of business refugees unable to get to their CBD offices, so we have people working in the hallways and the conference room and there is a bizarre but strangely comforting camaraderie in the air.

 

It takes three times as long to drive anywhere, so the traffic flow is appalling. We all drive around with bottles of water in our cars, have our mobiles fully charged at all times, jump at the sound of buses and trucks, and the sound of helicopters overhead has become commonplace. My sister has taught my two-year-old nephew to do a funny little boogie dance every time there is an aftershock and sing “rumble rumble in my tumble”.

 

I went to Dunedin for a few days to escape the whole thing and before I went I was seriously considering moving down there, but the strange thing was, after I had been away for a day or two I began to realise that I do want to stay in Christchurch and that, even though it’s going to be a hard place to be for the foreseeable future, it’s going to be an interesting place in a couple of years. It confirmed to me that this is my hometown and I want to be around for the resurrection! I know that may sound mawkishy sentimental, but I think we have an opportunity to rebuild it and I would like to see it. Both my sons have also stressed that they want to stay in Christchurch and are determined to live on our section again one day.

 

It's almost as if the greater loss this time has pushed us beyond our grief at losing the house. It has brought home even more that things are just things and given us a more tangible determination to stay here and rebuild. It makes you realise that change is actually the only constant thing.

 

Things have changed so much. On the way down to Dunedin there was a hold-up at Rakaia with a road accident. There were an awful lot of cars getting out of Christchurch and we all had to stop and turn off our cars for about an hour while they cleared the road. Once upon a time we would have all sat in our cars and just waited, but it was the strangest thing - everyone got out of their cars and sat on the grass or wandered up and down talking to complete strangers. My boys and I sat on the grass and talked with a very nice older English couple and a couple of heavily tattooed truck drivers and drank ginger beer and ate jaffas.

 

We are also all only several degrees removed from the grief of losing people. A friend of my sister was killed as she was shopping in Manchester Street: 43 years old, two young children. My poor sister was very quiet for a few days, as they had met for a coffee in town only a couple of days before. Unfortunately for a lot of people here, attending regular funerals for the next few weeks is becoming a terrible reality.

 

My insurance company has been really great and, as I have no land damage issues, I may be one of the first places to be rebuilt, even though it will be months before they can start. We are going to be moving into a three-bedroom townhouse not far from my old house in the next couple of weeks and I can begin planning in earnest.

 

It’s so nice to hear that people are enquiring about me and I would love you to pass on all my heartfelt thanks to them. In the wake of all of this, it is so encouraging to know that they are thinking of us and do let them know we are all still smiling, albeit with gritted teeth, dark shadows under our eyes and slightly hunted looks on our faces!

 

Elizabeth

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From: Sally Duggan
To: Elizabeth Jane Woods
Sent: Tue, 15 March, 2011 10:03:57 AM
Subject: How's it going?

 

Hi Elizabeth:

 

Had heaps of queries about your welfare. Are you still in Christchurch? Guess with the schools going back you will have had to make a decision about settling somewhere… Love an update if you have time.

 

Sally

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From: Elizabeth Jane Woods
Sent: Tuesday, 1 March 2011 11:17 p.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Re: how are things?

 

Hi Sally,

 

How lovely to hear that people have rung to find out how I am doing and please do let them know that we are all okay. Thank you so much for the offer of your bach, that is incredibly kind of you and I may indeed take you up on that offer in a few weeks time.

 

I am still in Christchurch, but staying in a friend’s new, empty house in Ohoka (they are in Perth for two months), about 15km out of town, where you hardly feel the aftershocks. We were very lucky to be able to stay there, as accommodation in Christchurch is going to be increasingly hard to find. It is incredible how quickly life can be turned completely upside down and I will have to make decisions in the next few weeks about whether I stay in Christchurch or move away until I can r-build. I have spent the last week getting things out of my house. Trying to keep positive and reassuring for the boys, while dealing with the keenest grief, is really difficult. I am, however, a naturally upbeat person and in time I know I can deal with this!

 

There is a completely different mood here in Christchurch now - very different from after the previous quake. There is a sombreness and bleakness and a heaviness of spirit in people that wasn’t there before. I was in a local cafe today when the two-minute silence was observed and it was so terrible to see people so grieving and beaten. It was, however, a moment of solidarity and testament to the human spirit to see a room full of total strangers holding hands and hugging each other afterwards. I hope that that feeling prevails for a long time to come.

 

It also puts all those petty little things that people get uptight about into perspective. I went to the supermarket for the first time in a week and, when the checkout girl asked me if I wanted my meat in a separate bag, I smiled and said it didn’t matter at all. She said that everyone is so laid-back now, as everyone is realising that some things really don’t matter. Once upon a time, just over a week ago, in another life, I was worried about whether my shoes matched my jacket, or whether that chunky necklace was a little bit much, and now those feelings feel like a lifetime ago.

 

Thanks, Sally, and please do pass on my deepest gratitude to all those people who have been so caring. It means so much to know they are all out there thinking of us all.

 

Best regards

Elizabeth

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From: Elizabeth Jane Woods
Sent: Wednesday, 23 February 2011 12:20 p.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Re: Emails

 

Hi Sally,

 

Quick email from Christchurch. Horrific. My family and I are all okay, my house now completely destroyed and everything in it smashed to pieces. Twenty years of collected antique china smashed all throughout the house; it’s like a giant hand has lifted my house and tossed it like a salad. Lots of houses in Cashmere ruined, Lyttelton flattened, Sumner, Redcliffs, so much devastation. Centre of town is a war zone an, d all those poor , poor people dead. At least we are alive. It kind of makes my earlier grief about my house now seem trivial. This is a terrible tragedy for our beautiful city.

 

My son was home by himself when it hit, and luckily dived for a doorway as a massive bookcase flew across the room and landed just where he had been sitting seconds before. It took me nearly two hours to make a drive home that usually takes me 15 minutes, thinking every second that I would find him buried in rubble. Seeing him alive and standing in our driveway was an indescribable feeling of relief. I grabbed him so tightly and we just stood there with our arms wrapped around each in silence for about 10 minutes. I have kept both my sons close to me and there are people waiting outside collapsed buildings in town waiting for sons that they will never get to hold again.

 

Elizabeth Woods

From: Elizabeth Jane Woods
Sent: Tuesday, 22 February 2011 10:29 a.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Emails

 

Hi Sally,

 

Thanks so much for forwarding through all the emails. I’m overwhelmed at how kind people are and I will definitely reply personally to some of them if that’s okay.

 

It’s interesting to see how many people identify with the theme of loss and grief and moving on. It’s a universal human condition, I guess, and reminds me yet again that, if you strip away the social constructs and surface differences, we are all human; capable of feeling grief and sadness and empathising with other people.

 

Some of the letters actually did move me to tears, (not an easy thing to do; I am a fairly strong woman) and it made me feel so much better - there are people like me out there every day dealing with setbacks and obstacles and loss far greater than mine, which is also a timely reminder to me to count my blessings.

 

Some of the ideas that people came up with were great and I really am going to try to incorporate some of the features of the old house into the new one and talk to my insurance company about being allowed to keep some of the fittings and leadlight windows etc. I think an extravagant and whimsical stone folly and fountain in the new garden made out of the rock from the house would be a great idea!

 

Thanks again, Sally. I feel so much more positive and I will be avidly reading your magazine, garnering ideas for my new house. Onwards and upwards!

 

Kind regards

Elizabeth Woods

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From: Elizabeth Jane Woods
Sent: Monday, 14 February 2011 1:35 p.m.
To: Sally Duggan
Subject: Christchurch Houses

 

Hi Sally,

 

I buy NZ House and Garden regularly and I was sitting here in my lunch break, reading it and drinking coffee, feeling terribly frustrated, and I thought I would get in touch with your magazine!

 

I live in Christchurch and my 1920s arts and crafts bungalow up on the Cashmere Hills, which I have been lovingly restoring, has been so damaged in the earthquake that it is going to be demolished.

 

Needless to say, this is breaking my heart. I grew up in the house next door to the one I now own and the elderly lady who used to own it (her name was Jeanne) loved me and was my friend my whole life. She never married and never had any children and I became like a daughter to her. When she became too elderly and ill to stay in the house, she asked me if I would buy it, which I did, and now live there with my two sons. I visited her nearly every day in the house as a child and to own it for my own family was an absolute dream come true for me. Jeanne passed away three years ago and lived just long enough to see me living there and loving it, which made her very happy.

 

It is a stone and weatherboard, possibly Hurst Seager house on a large rambling old-fashioned garden, with a fabulous city view, and to lose it is going to be so hard.

 

When my insurance company first gave me the bad news, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of disbelief, quickly followed by a huge sense of loss, followed by the sinking feeling of knowing I was going to have to build a new house - something I have never wanted to do. I have just spent a huge wad of money on a brand new kitchen and building that was bad enough - a brand new house is a horrible prospect.

 

I initially had a very nice architect up to see me to discuss what we could do and I could see him growing more and more perplexed as his buoyant enthusiasm for my fantastic section was met with increasingly pained expressions on my part. He finally stopped and said gently, “You don’t really want to do this do you?” He has since come across about a dozen people, all of whom have character houses that are going to be demolished, and all of whom are only going to build because they have to.

 

He is used to dealing with people who are excited about building their dream home, not a group of people who are glum at the prospect. It’s like going into a restaurant, starving, and being told that the only thing on the menu is fried cockroach. It’s something you have to do, but it’s going to be very hard to swallow!

 

Where do you start? The houses that my insurance company has steered me towards are concrete monstrosities, like instant McMansions, and even though I want to stay on my section, the thought of figuring out how to build a quirky, stylish, individual home that replaces a character home that I adored is very lowering. I don’t have buckets of cash that I can throw into a new house, so will have to work to a l, arge extent within t, h, e in, surance company’s budget. I ha, , ve a house full of antiques a, nd art and a very large grand piano, all of which look fabulous in my panelled lounge, but which I am afraid will look completely ridiculous in a new house.

 

I have absolutely no sense of cohesive style (I tell myself my style is eclectic, but actually it’s just because I haven’t a clue) and the thought of choosing colours, doorknobs, carpets etc is terrifying. I am more than likely to tell them to paint everything white because I won’t know what else to do.

 

There has got to be an article for you somewhere in the experiences of the people of Christchurch. I can’t be the only one in this situation and it’s a unique one for our city. I would love to see you write about where to start with building a new house: how to track down people who can help you recreate what you are losing; how to come to terms with what you are losing and move forward with enthusiasm.

 

My 11-year-old son saw me standing on the verandah, watching the sunset with tears rolling down my face just the other day, and our conversation went like this:

 

Mike: The first house on this site burnt down in 1918, didn’t it, Mum?

Me: Yes, darling

Mike: And then there was this house. Nana Jeanne’s house wasn’t there?

Me: Yes, that’s right.

Mike: Well, now it’s time for us to build a house that’s ours, isn’t it? And the view will always be the same, Mum.

 

From out of the mouths of babes!

 

Kind regards

Elizabeth Woods