I have spent some time with my Year 4 teacher. Year 4 was my fourth year of school. It is the year I turned 10. My teacher is visiting Sydney with her best friend, who is the mother of a South African friend of mine. Her best friend is also a teacher, and taught my sister. I am reminded of how small this world is. It is surreal to spend time with someone from my life thirty years ago. And once one gets past the exterior change, the mannerisms of that person are still the same. The essence of one does not change.

I had a passing thought. Remember 1984? Oh. Yes, I remember sitting in the classroom. I remember my teacher reading us The Enchanted Wood. I had already read it a few times myself. I liked my teacher then. And I like her now.

And then I remember 1984. That was the year I wished to die. That was the year I experienced anger and wrath. And I felt fear. My life changed that year. And my fear would stay with me. It would influence my choice of husband. The way I live my life.

My daughter is nine today. It is her birthday. I do not believe she has ever felt fear. She is confident and passionate and sure of herself. I grew up hiding and scared and reserved. It is only through writing that I have found that I am as passionate as my daughter is. When I get past the fear and reserve that I carry as part of me, there is passion.