‘It’s really important to accept that there are differences between us but those differences aren’t an obstacle; they’re actually a way of helping us connect. Just because we are different and we come from different backgrounds doesn’t mean we can’t combine our energy, skills and experiences for the benefit of everybody.
‘Everybody’s got something to contribute. You’ve just got to find a way of helping that person contribute. Be open to engaging with people. All you have to do is talk to them – just a conversation. That spark can take a person anywhere.’
‘I have Stage IV cancer – it’s under control at the moment. I value every moment. I value the time I’ve got. I value friends and just the beauty of the world around me. You don’t have to go out in to the countryside to see beauty. There’s beauty here. There’s beauty everywhere. I seem to notice it more. I notice things more now. I don’t need to do spectacular things. I get pleasure out of very simple things in life.’
‘In the last few months of her life she aged 20 years in two months. It was really hard to see her deteriorate like that and not be able to do something about it. My mum battled different cancers for 10 years. She beat it twice and then it returned as a metastisised cancer in 2012 and was considered terminal. She was on a trial medication for around a year that had similar effects to chemo. That did slow things down but in the end it was just a slow deterioration. I think that’s the really horribly fascinating part of it is the way that it begins so innocuously. In the beginning it’s just a bit of pain and you almost wouldn’t even know there is too much wrong but then it’s like a slippery slope.
‘I was 23 when she passed. It was traumatic – the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through. In a way I think that I kind of died that day with her and a new me was born. I really feel fundamentally different from the day before that.
‘Starting Busk for a Cure was a way to fill some sort of existential purpose as I was slowly watching my mum pass away from cancer. I love busking – it’s one of my favourite things to do. It’s so humbling and nobody ever needs to stop and listen or give you any money yet they do. I think there’s something so pure about it because you know they’re giving purely because they like your music – there’s no ulterior motive.
‘I know my mum would be proud. I just wish I could show her who I am now.’
‘I feel like my ancestors are always present. I know that there is a chief from my grandmother is always to the left of me. I don’t know who he is but I know that he is always there. I’m still trying to understand when they actually reveal themselves and when they don’t. I don’t want to be selfish and think that they’re my babysitters. I do feel that I carry them inside me and that whenever I do really need help or guidance, they will come through and either reveal themselves in something or reveal what I need.
‘I feel more comforted about death as a result. I think it’s because I don’t know whether my spirit will stay when I leave but I feel comforted that at least my ancestors are here because if I have children, they will still be looked after. If it’s not by me after I’ve moved on but someone will always be there. That’s such an important part of our understanding of our culture is that everything you do is to ensure the safety and protection and preservation of the next generation in this life and the next life.
‘I’m not scared of death. I’m scared of pain for sure and the process of dying and how that happens. If I was to be scared of death, I would be scared of what there is to understand about spirituality. There is a lot of power in that and there is a lot to be scared of in the unknown but it’s also cool. Most of the ancestors that I interact with are beautiful and really lovely and caring and are just trying to help but it’s just about being aware and knowing and being respectful.’
‘As long as I can remember I’ve seen people cry and grieve and celebrate life by singing and dancing in the name of a person’s life.
‘I’m Tokelauan Fijian – my mother’s Tokelauan and my father’s Fijian. Both sides have quit similar mourning processes but on my Fijian side the whole mourning process is 100 days. On my Tokelauan side it’s 10 days.
‘I found out my nanna passed away when I was 17 and I was on a plane from Australia and thrown in to 2 weeks of planning, organising, crying, cooking, singing, dancing, praying with my family from 7am to 4am, 10 days in a row.
‘Sitting with her body and my family for ten days – actually sitting and talking to her and holding her and seeing that it was real; there was no tangible life left in her – that really helped me.
‘In my mother’s culture, when you begin the mourning process you have these things called Leos – each community or family member that’s connected to the person who’s passed away will come together with their family and present to the immediate family of the person who’s passed away gifts, prayer and song.
‘So many people came to my nanna – it was leo after leo after leo. Each time we did a leo, I grieved again – even when I thought I had nothing left in me.
‘If you know the songs and dance, you get up and join in – even if it’s not your family. The power of the call of community and the call to celebrate was so revealing for me because it was really my community and my family saying you’re not alone.
‘Going through that entire experience really slapped me in the face because it taught me about the importance of sitting with death and sharing your grief. It also taught me the importance of celebration for a person’s life.
‘You share everything throughout the process – there is no hiding; there is quite literally nowhere to go away and just be private. It can be very overwhelming too but I personally found a lot of comfort in it.’
‘You go on Facebook and Instagram and everyone’s like shiny and happy and that would freak me out even more thinking, I don’t know what my life looks like. I would then evaluate my career and relationship or where I lived and there was just no certainty and it totally led to these really intense panic attacks.
‘It was this pressure to kill it at everything and that is what totally triggered it for me – this fear of the unknown and wanting to have control over it. What if I do take this job, then this could happen or that could happen and it was all just what if’s. I would just spiral – I wouldn’t do anything and I would freak out – it was paralysing.
‘It was a couple of years ago anxiety came in to my life and hit me like a freight train. I never expected it. I never saw it coming.
‘At my lowest point I wrote this poem called “We’re all going to die”. It was the first time that I’d had a sense of certainty. There was this one thing that could be guaranteed in my life and that was that one day, I’m going to cark it.
‘I realised that the only guarantee is death and everything is a mystery and that’s the beauty of life. So, why not go for it and why not take a risk? I’m going to die someday anyway so I may as well be who I really am.
‘On Friday November 17th I’m hosting “We’re All Going To Die Festival”. It is an amusement park for the soul. As an audience member you choose your own adventure – art installations, a film festival, music, panel discussions around fear and death and a lot of immersive experience. There’s everything from a death meditation where you actually imagine yourself not here on Earth any more through to a dance class where you’re encouraged to dance like you do in your own safe space in your bedroom.
‘It’s really about shifting people’s perspectives to just go and live life. It’s going to be a whole lot of colour and humour and we’re delivering it in the most fun way possible, because, why not?’
‘On the last day we put him in the sunroom and we listened to Triple J and talked and that. I went home about 6 o’clock at night and we got the phone call at 4 o’clock in the morning and were told to come to the hospital. The nurse stepped out to stop us from going straight in to the room and told us. I got to see him and I gave him a kiss and all that and it was very peaceful but I wasn’t expecting it. It’s weird because there were other times during his illness that I was expecting it. The hardest things at those times, like when he had pneumonia so bad he was in intensive care for three weeks and had tubes down his throat and that, I had to realise that you can’t keep them alive for yourself. You’re not the one lying there with tubes down your throat – you can’t expect them to live for you. So I actually said to him, and I don’t know whether he heard me or not, I said, “Don’t stay alive for me.”
‘We were together for 15 years and 9 months. He made me who I am today without a doubt. And he made a lot of people. I think love, it can get you through things but also it’s very, very special. I don’t know that a lot of people will have what Goose and I had. Luckily, at the time, I knew I had it.’
‘They (Department of Education) told me in later years I wasn’t to hug the children and I said, “Well, it will be a long day before I can’t hug somebody.”
‘I can’t stop children from coming up and hugging me. I said that I won’t stop hugging them. I never did.
‘You know all children, doesn’t matter which ones they are, they all need love. You have to give it to receive it. I doesn’t matter how much their mums and dads love them, you can always give them a little bit more because everybody needs love and you can always do with a little bit extra of that.
‘Children are so hungry to be loved. That’s all most of them wanted – to be understood and loved. Because that’s the real main thing in life. Nobody listens much you know – they talk but a lot of people don’t listen to you, you know?’