Is it just me or does everyone think very little should be left unsaid?

I’ve lived on the Sunshine Coast exactly 10 years and I’m hurtling toward 40. (I know! It came as a hell of a shock to me too.)

Actually, I’m sure I’m not alone in saying 40 really does feel like a surprise.

I remember when my Mum turned 40 she said to her (much younger) friend Cate: “I still feel 18.”
To which Cate replied: “Good God! I hope you don’t think you look it!”

My youthful good looks aside, however, I’ve decided to celebrate my birthday by writing letters to the people in my life who have made a difference.

I’m certainly not sad to turn 40. I’ve loved every single year so far, I just hate the thought this grand adventure might be over before I’m ready.

The first 40 passed so quickly. How do I make the most of what’s left?

That’s why I wrote the letters. And here’s my problem. There’s someone on the Sunshine Coast I want to write to – but he doesn’t know me and I’m not sure where he lives.

I don’t want him to write back, I just want him to know how important he has been in my life.

So here goes: this is a letter to Bruce Dawe, poet and teacher. The man whose book Sometimes Gladness has held my hand across four states and almost three decades.

Dear Bruce (I think he’d want me to call him Bruce),

This is not an invitation to my birthday party, because I know you probably can’t come – but I just couldn’t imagine a celebration of my life so far, that didn’t include you in some way.

I’m no poetry expert, some of it I find beautiful, some funny, some just plain wanky. Your poetry changed me forever.

In 1984, I joined Mrs Master’s Year 11 lit class at St Brigid’s Ladies College in Perth. Back then, St B’s was a small Catholic boarding school for poor country kids – I think it’s pretty ritzy now, but I don’t want you to get the wrong impression.

Mrs Masters was a lovely teacher. (Actually my sister told me Mrs Master’s husband has just left her for a 35-year-old, which makes me want to spit, but back then, she was a pretty spunky 40-year-old.) I loved her. She loved you and Bob Dylan.

Over the next two years together we spent hours studying your work.

Blink, blink. HOSPITAL. SILENCE.
Ten days old, carried in the front door in his
mother’s arms, first thing he heard was
Bobby Dazzler on Channel 7:
Hello, hello hello all you lucky people and he
really was lucky because it didn’t mean a thing
to him then...’

I don’t know if you ever get sick of your own work, especially in the face of fawning (ageing) English students begging for a piece of your time, but “Enter Without So Much As Knocking” still makes me yearn to be a better person.

You showed me how to love every piece of Australia. You were the first person I ever read who spoke in my voice.

Twenty years down the track, despite schoolgirl dreams of a life on the road, I’m “Homo Suburbiensis”. I’ve raised my kids in your suburbia and it’s you who reminded me, time and time again, to value that.

I want you to know I’ve done my best to teach my children what you taught me – that there’s beauty in the every day.

Gabe (our oldest) is in Year 12 now and while he’s quite possibly the laziest man ever to pass through the school system, he’s a fantastic English student and one of the great loves of my life. This week he asked me if he could borrow your book.

I know you don’t like attention much and I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable, but I’ve looked for you heaps of times at the shops and you never seem to be there. So this is kind of a last resort.

With love and gratitude,

Caroline Hutchinson xx