Somewhere between joy and silence, Etsuko Yasunaga catches a glimpse of eternity.
By Etsuko Yasunaga
JUST after eight o’clock one Sunday morning, I was eagerly waiting for a turnaround point on Brunton Ave. I knew I had already run over nine km, and the goal was near. Yet I still couldn’t see the turnaround point. There were faster runners running in the opposite direction who had obviously reached the juncture and were ready to enter the MCG. Where is it? I must be getting close. I noticed I was getting little impatient.
That’s when I heard a familiar cheering voice of “Go Ettie!”. It was Jo, a fellow Wonthaggi Road Runner. She must have noticed my bright yellow WRR top. The timing was impeccable. I brought my focus back on my footsteps. Before long, I turned around and ran with renewed zeal to enter the G. I’ve heard how special it was to run into the G so many times from many friends. As soon as I entered, the vivid white protective ground covering came into my vision. It was almost blinding. My stride became longer, and I swung my arms stronger for a final sprint. I crossed the finish line with elation. Although I didn’t have any spectators in the crowds, it felt like everyone in that space was cheering me on and celebrating my small achievement with me. It was incredible.
JUST after eight o’clock one Sunday morning, I was eagerly waiting for a turnaround point on Brunton Ave. I knew I had already run over nine km, and the goal was near. Yet I still couldn’t see the turnaround point. There were faster runners running in the opposite direction who had obviously reached the juncture and were ready to enter the MCG. Where is it? I must be getting close. I noticed I was getting little impatient.
That’s when I heard a familiar cheering voice of “Go Ettie!”. It was Jo, a fellow Wonthaggi Road Runner. She must have noticed my bright yellow WRR top. The timing was impeccable. I brought my focus back on my footsteps. Before long, I turned around and ran with renewed zeal to enter the G. I’ve heard how special it was to run into the G so many times from many friends. As soon as I entered, the vivid white protective ground covering came into my vision. It was almost blinding. My stride became longer, and I swung my arms stronger for a final sprint. I crossed the finish line with elation. Although I didn’t have any spectators in the crowds, it felt like everyone in that space was cheering me on and celebrating my small achievement with me. It was incredible.
I looked up and around the entire stadium, including those empty seats. Suddenly a peculiar single thought entered my mind – in a hundred years time, we’ll all be gone. In a flash, thousands of people in that entire space vanished in my mind’s eye, and all the noises close by disappeared. I continued to look up and around this vast space which is now completely void in my imaginary world. Somehow I could still feel all the emotions that runners may have at reaching the goal: triumphant pride, victorious confidence, exultation and jubilation, a sense of relief and pure joy. It was quite strange to feel those collective emotions without the physical presence of human bodies, but I was pleased that those invaluable emotions were somewhat palpable even after the passing of our bodily existences.
The same thought came back to me a few weeks later. It rained heavily on that Sunday afternoon. I drove cautiously to Mardan Hall where my parkrun friend Robert was having his eightieth birthday party. I met Robert at the Grand Ridge Rail Trail parkrun in Mirboo North, where I volunteer as a parkrun run director occasionally, and we had become good friends. Whenever I go there, Robert is often volunteering. He is calm and gentle and his presence is welcomed by many. I was thrilled to bits to be invited to his party.
When I arrived, the car park around the hall was almost full. In spite of the horrible weather, the hall was packed by so many guests. Robert’s family and friends from near and far had made the effort to gather together on this special celebration. I circulated, chatting to GRRT parkrun crew and Robert’s family. Robert spoke quietly but eloquently in his speech, expressing his joy, fulfilment and troubles through his life journey. It was especially sad to hear about the passing of his wife Leonie, and his recent Parkinson’s disease diagnosis.
When Robert mentioned the GRRT parkrun community as part of his family, everyone had beaming faces. Wherever I looked, there were laughter, smiles and engaging conversation. Tasty party food continued to flow and the party culminated when a big birthday cake was presented and singing of ‘Happy Birthday’ followed.
Once more, the peculiar thought caught my mind out of nowhere. “A hundred years from now, we’ll all be gone.” Suddenly the noises near me faded and all the surrounding people evaporated. I was the only one standing in the Mardan Hall in my imaginary world. The unoccupied hall seemed so empty and lifeless. But in spite of the void, I could still intuit conviviality, connection and love that I had just experienced before in the room.
Maybe, just maybe, even after the passing of our physicality, those deep emotional bonds built on trust and understanding between people continue to exist in the ether – an all-pervading formless space. At least that’s what I felt and it was a comforting notion.
One hundred years from now, I’ll be certainly gone. As a mere mortal with a life cycle of birth, growth, change, decay and inevitable death, I accept that my days are numbered. After my death, nothing will matter except for how well I lived. One thing I strongly desire is to leave a mark via my words. One hundred years from now when I’m gone, will my words be read at all, evoking tears and the tenderness of human hearts? Will my expression make people ponder and wonder? Will my words inspire others to write, just like I did? Will my words last beyond the ordinary spans of mortal human years? Only time will tell.
The same thought came back to me a few weeks later. It rained heavily on that Sunday afternoon. I drove cautiously to Mardan Hall where my parkrun friend Robert was having his eightieth birthday party. I met Robert at the Grand Ridge Rail Trail parkrun in Mirboo North, where I volunteer as a parkrun run director occasionally, and we had become good friends. Whenever I go there, Robert is often volunteering. He is calm and gentle and his presence is welcomed by many. I was thrilled to bits to be invited to his party.
When I arrived, the car park around the hall was almost full. In spite of the horrible weather, the hall was packed by so many guests. Robert’s family and friends from near and far had made the effort to gather together on this special celebration. I circulated, chatting to GRRT parkrun crew and Robert’s family. Robert spoke quietly but eloquently in his speech, expressing his joy, fulfilment and troubles through his life journey. It was especially sad to hear about the passing of his wife Leonie, and his recent Parkinson’s disease diagnosis.
When Robert mentioned the GRRT parkrun community as part of his family, everyone had beaming faces. Wherever I looked, there were laughter, smiles and engaging conversation. Tasty party food continued to flow and the party culminated when a big birthday cake was presented and singing of ‘Happy Birthday’ followed.
Once more, the peculiar thought caught my mind out of nowhere. “A hundred years from now, we’ll all be gone.” Suddenly the noises near me faded and all the surrounding people evaporated. I was the only one standing in the Mardan Hall in my imaginary world. The unoccupied hall seemed so empty and lifeless. But in spite of the void, I could still intuit conviviality, connection and love that I had just experienced before in the room.
Maybe, just maybe, even after the passing of our physicality, those deep emotional bonds built on trust and understanding between people continue to exist in the ether – an all-pervading formless space. At least that’s what I felt and it was a comforting notion.
One hundred years from now, I’ll be certainly gone. As a mere mortal with a life cycle of birth, growth, change, decay and inevitable death, I accept that my days are numbered. After my death, nothing will matter except for how well I lived. One thing I strongly desire is to leave a mark via my words. One hundred years from now when I’m gone, will my words be read at all, evoking tears and the tenderness of human hearts? Will my expression make people ponder and wonder? Will my words inspire others to write, just like I did? Will my words last beyond the ordinary spans of mortal human years? Only time will tell.