Getting Closer!

Time to get others involved in this search! Er, more like thousands? Ten thousand? Hundreds of thousands of searchers? I may be pushing it, but...

Yesterday, I sent an email to New Zealand's Stuff Newsroom, hoping someone with more exposure would be willing to help me find Joe. It was a giant leap of faith that I'm glad I took!

Today I got a call from a reporter who seems just as excited about this story as I am! Wahoo! We'll be meeting on Tuesday for a chat and some photos. I can pretty much guarantee I won't be sleeping the next two nights.

We're going to find him, I know it!

Stay tuned...

UPDATE: Huge thank you to Jessy Edwards at Fairfax Media! The article is live! More to come about the interview, but for now, here's to finding Joe!

Calling All 'Wellingtons'

Joe's inscription in the book he gave me in San Francisco 1998

The 2015/2016 phonebook came out a few months ago in Wellington. A friend sent me a photo of the names under Wellington. Two I'd called before and was met with no answer.

During the holidays, I put all writing about my search on hold. Until today.

Welcome to the first Joe Wellington post of 2016!

Thumbing through the W's, ticking off with my index finger the 'J Wellington' options, I tap the numbers into my phone. Not nearly as anxious this time than my last attempt at calling.

A man answers with a strong Kiwi accent.

"Is this Wellington?" I sputter.

"Sorry?"

"Is this surname Wellington?" I try again, thinking maybe I dialled wrong.

"Are you looking for Jeanette?"

"Oh, sorry. No, I'm actually looking for a Joe."

"Joe?"

"Yes, Jay-Oh-Ee." Spelling it out may help?

The man gets quiet, surely confused. "There's no Joe Wellington here."

"Ok, sorry to bother. Thank you!"

I feel like an absolute idiot. This is silly. Why continue on with this? I've met heaps of other people in my travels who I've connected with and then lost touch. Why bother with this particular one? If I've not found him yet, I won't. Perhaps he doesn't want to be found, as some people have mentioned.

Joe "Wellington" in San Francisco 1998

Yet, I'm determined. Because it's a really great story. He was such a good person when I knew him briefly in 1998. I considered him a friend. And now I'm in New Zealand, where I never even dreamed of being. It's a pretty damn good story.

On Twitter, I interacted with a lady with surname 'Wellington' living here in Wellington. I sent her a tweet asking if she knows a 'Joe Wellington'. Guess where that got me? Nowhere. Another dead end.

For nearly three years now I've written about my search. Safe to assume his last name just isn't Wellington, so how will I find him?

I ring another 'J Wellington' listed in Eastbourne.

"Jerry Wellington," he answers. His accent thick, for a split second I thought he said, "Joe".

"Hello, I'm looking for a Joe Wellington." Saying the name aloud is very strange. I've been writing about this person for so long now that he seems fictional.

"Joe Wellington... I don't know of any Joe Wellington's. Sorry." Quite a pleasant man.

"Ok, thank you. Sorry to bother."

I guess I'll just have to continue searching.

Wandering Otari-Wilton's

Otari-Wilton's Bush

Gratitude list for 2015:

Grateful for my son's health. His curiosity. His charm. Wit. Snuggles. Sleeping. Preschool.

My husband's insight. Humour. Intellect. Openness. Bravery. Love.

My mom and dad's willingness to travel twice to New Zealand to visit us. Their health. Healing. Their genuine interest in their grandson, son-in-law and their flexibility. Their love.

My brother's easy communication. Connection. Genuine care for his nephew. His perseverance in completing his doctorate. Being a fantastic father to his children. His compassion.

My mother-in-law's love. Her helpful advice. Support, encouragement and easygoing mentality about having to have a relationship with her grandson over the Internet.

Grateful for my friends near and far who allow me to be imperfect. Forgiving and encouraging and kind. Who gently challenge me. Who accept people for who they are- never willing anyone to be someone they're not. Their passion for life, love, others. Loyalty.

I have a true appreciation for our new home and the safety it has provided. Our new landlords, the 'angels' they are- helping us to make a home, offering us a sense of security during an uncertain time. God was listening to my prayers for guidance. I continue to listen to Her messages, too.

Grateful to live in New Zealand. For the tui, the toetoe, the rimu, the flax, the pohutukawa, the pongas. The sea. The colours in the sky. The people.

A ponga tree (silver fern)

The writing. The editing. The writing community. The readers. The passion. The resilience.

I hope to never forget the things I've learned.

The Tasman Sea

Full of grace, this is what I think of as I wander Otari-Wilton's. And I hope you have also found what you're looking for this year and then some.

I wonder what Joe Wellington is thankful for?

Traipsing Taupo

Craters of the Moon, Taupo

All right, Joe Wellington. Are you in Taupo?

Taupo (means 'The great cloak of Tia', the one who discovered the lake) is a town in the middle of the North Island of New Zealand. It's bordered by the largest lake in the country and a volcano. With a population of 24,000 people, surely Joe could be there?

My search began at Craters of the Moon, a geothermal walk known to be rather touristy but an easy little trek for any preschoolers in tow. The bubbling, steaming pools of mud and geysers along the walkway provided an eerie sort of soundtrack to the otherwise gorgeous view.

We wandered along, oohing and awing that just below our feet, earth is doing its thing, with magma ready to burst and burn us all (ok, maybe it doesn't work that way but fun to be spooky near Halloween, right?). A few people, most with young kids, stopped for photos among the craters but none who resembled Joe Wellington. Still, it was nice to brush up on our geology.

Craters of the Moon, Taupo

Next up, we drove to Huka Falls (Huka means 'foam'). According to the web site, they are the largest waterfalls on the Waikato River, and empties into Lake Taupo. Another tourist destination, I was quite confident I'd have a good chance at finding my Kiwi mate here. The entrance was overwhelmed with crowds and I gave a good up and down glance to as many as I could. One man in particular caught my eye with his light red hair and beard, but as I was about to ask him if his name was Joe, I got completely distracted by this intense rushing sound and a vibrant turquoise hue with foam splashing atop! Huka Falls! I ran to the viewing platform to attempt a photo; I had to try to capture the power of the falls. Impossible. A jet boat full of people on a tour approached the falls only to get forced away by the angry current.

Huka Falls, Taupo

When I turned away from the falls, my possible Joe sighting had vanished. I figured. Oh well. It probably wasn't him, anyway. I mean, if he lives in New Zealand, why would he want to visit tourist attractions, right?

Onward to Wai-O-Tapu, a 'thermal wonderland' near Rotorua. It was a bit of a drive, 40 min from Taupo, but long enough to let my kid have a sleep and ponder yet again how I've not found Joe in the two years of living in this small country. Some people suggest he doesn't want to be found. And I suppose there may be some truth to that. It'd probably weird me out, too if some acquaintance from years ago had a blog about trying to find me. Maybe this is as far as I'm supposed to get in my search.

So, I decide, instead of looking for Joe Wellington at our next stop, I'm going to stay in the moment and just enjoy the sights.

I pull into our next tourist attraction and instantly pinch my nose. I even try to hold my breath so the sulphur won't seep into my lungs. Or pores. Ew. The stench of rotten eggs is overwhelming and my son thinks his dad is passing gas. Eventually, I just get used to it because this place is awesome!

Wai-O-Tapu Thermal Wonderland, Rotorua

pretty but so stinky!

hot!

It's said that back before there were kitchens and stoves, Maori women would place their food on the rocks near the volcanoes/geysers to cook! Mother Earth always giving back...

Gollum? Are you in there?

So, no, Joe Wellington didn't pop out from any volcanoes, nor did Gollum from Lord of the Rings. But I came away with an even deeper appreciation for what this small country has to offer. It's pretty wild to drive from the ocean, through the desert, to a lake, to waterfalls, and to volcanoes (!) within hours. Anyone would be lucky to grow up here. Every day, I look out my window at home and see the Cook Strait. Never in a million years would I believe that I'd be living here. Yet, I am. So, I best appreciate the moment rather than looking for some dude.

Goodbye for now. I'll have to come back to Taupo again soon. You know, to see if I can find Joe Wellington...

Lake Taupo

Searching the South Island:Te Waikoropūpū Springs

Looking down into the main spring

While searching for Joe Wellington in the north part of the South Island, I stumbled upon Te Waikoropūpū Springs. I wasn't sure what I'd find here, having only seen the sign for it along the road with a large dirt car park and barely any vehicles, I was certain it'd be 'just another tourist destination'. 

My son and I walked hand in hand toward the entrance and to my delight, I saw the word 'hine' (girl, daughter) in several of the brief explanations about the area. Perhaps Joe Wellington has a deep appreciation for Māori mythology? Worth a check, anyway.

Maroon posts of the marae were carved with the legends of strong wahine (women) and descriptions on each one. There's too many for me to name, but while reading about Hine Ahu One (the first mother of the land), I knew this stop wouldn't be trivial. Having to chase after a preschooler, I wasn't able to linger and read more. What I did understand before taking to the path was this: the grounds and water are sacred. Don't dump anything in the spring. Don't take water from the spring. Don't smoke or eat or drink. Respect the guardians and the Papatūānuku (earth mother).

Once on the dirt path sheltered by Manuka trees, it was stop and go several times due to a pebble hitching a ride in my boy's shoe. He was in good spirits, his playfulness refreshing. But I couldn't shake the feeling like we were being watched. Not in an eerie sort of way (although, that'd make a good story), but there was a definite presence. Joe Wellington of the Wind? Right. Joking aside, you could just tell you were in a special place.

We approached the main spring that looked like a normal, quiet pond with flax plants and pebbles lining the shore. But when I peered straight down into it, the colours were none I've ever seen of water before. It was like a Monet (see above photo).

the waters represent the lifeblood of the Earth Mother & tears of the Sky Father

My boy gazed into the water, too, mesmerised by the eels and trout living beneath 'the submerged garden of Eden' while his grandparents explained as best they could the importance of not disturbing the sacred water. This was a place full of history, spirit, and conservation.

According to Māori mythology (forgive me if I'm misunderstanding), these springs are  protected by female guardian Huriawa. I've not had time to research as much as I'd like, and to be sure I don't get it wrong, I'll offer Wikipedia's explanation on Huriawa: 

"She is a diver of land and sea, travelling deep beneath the earth to clear blocked waterways. She is brave and wise and believed to still rest in the waters of Waikoropūpū, when she is not away attending to business." 

It's said to be an honour to gain guardianship over such sacred places as this. The role has been passed down over several generations from the ancestors to "ensure that the matauranga (knowledge and legends) and aroha (love) of our sacred place is not lost."

'the tears of the spirit ancestors'

Aha! So it's the female guardians whose presence I felt along the path; now making it a spiritual experience for me. Geez, I can't give up knowing more now... These mythological taniwha's are the 'dawn maidens', the 'mothers', the 'keepers', the 'sisters', the 'protectors'. They are described as brave, wise, strong, but also full of knowledge and love.

I'm finding in my mid-thirties, I'm appreciating what an honour it is to be a woman; grateful to the women before me who've fought to have their voices heard and to the women who've stayed silent but with a loud spirit. I'm in awe of the women who've carried shame, and the women who've not had time for it. I weep for the women who've suffered and applaud the women who've persevered even when silenced. I adore the women who dare to have an opinion and the women who laugh when insulted for speaking up. I join in solidarity for the sacred stillness we long for within.

Let no one take our power or the life-force we protect. I only hope I can pass on to younger generations (such as my son) a devotion to all things fragile, breathing, connecting us all.

It says at the entrance to the sacred grounds, "Because the physical and the spiritual are inseparable, the health of the whole system reflects the well-being of our community”.

Well, I can't deny that.

Sorry, Joe. Maybe we'll connect at the next stop. And this concludes my search on the South Island (until next time). Right now, I'm too busy protecting my womanhood.

A Dream Year

Edward professes his love for Elinor, as do I for the
written word

Confession:

I actually have no idea what I'm doing.

The only comforting response I can offer: Do any of us really know what we're doing?

I began this blog because it's a really good story. It's entertaining and true. Maybe I'll find the guy. But maybe I won't. Now that I've had the blog for two years and am not any closer to finding Joe Wellington, I'm accepting that I probably won't find him. That's ok.

Because this blog has become something more for me.

It has awakened a calling that didn't surface until I began this New Zealand journey. Writing was a secret passion. I loved doing it; wrote stories for friends in middle school, won a short story contest as a tween, and often it was the only way I could cope through my angsty teen years. But I never took it seriously. I never thought it was a realistic dream. Only a childhood fantasy.

But then I wrote a manuscript. A very awful, horribly written work of women's fiction. But it was finished. I did it.

So now what?

I wait. I read. I learn. I research US literary agents. I buy books about the industry. I research 'how to write a query'. I learn. I meet writer friends. Swap work. I query. I receive rejections. I enter contests. And get rejections. I read. I talk to a select few about the process. Swallow the fear. And borrow that 'thick skin' I developed performing on stage as a kid. I crumble into self-doubt and zone out on movies instead. Then I get more rejections. I learn more. I revise. I write a second manuscript while I wait. I breathe. I get a request. Another rejection. Repeat as needed. But I don't give up. I won't. I can't. Because I believe in the no-longer-horrible story so much that I feel like I'd be betraying my characters if I quit now. That's true love. 

There's this unwavering hope that writers must hold onto tightly. A hope that someday, someone will see the value in the words written and become your champion. A writer must carry that light of possibility at all times. Because with every rejection, the light can dim. But you don't want just anyone to represent your career. You want that very special someone (an Edward and Elinor love story, maybe?) who truly connects with what's produced and believes in you.

Sometimes there might be a tough critique and I think how far off I am from being a published author and that light becomes so clouded it dumps sheets of rain, leaving me to my chai tea and sweatpants (who am I kidding? I love sweatpants) for a while.

After some rejuvenation, revise. Work harder, use any spare second to get lost in my crazy writer mind. Try not to go insane from how fast those stories want to pour out. Neglect dishes. Praise dog for acting as the vacuum and eating the crumbs off the floor. Shower husband with kisses for taking the preschooler so I can write. Oh, and what's a shower? Sleepless nights are inevitable because I'm dreaming of how to restructure a sentence or what adverbs to omit. I'm not a perfect writer but I hope to be better.

Sending my prayers to the gods of fate a year ago

That's what I've been doing the past year. Working my butt off.

While raising my son. And searching for Joe Wellington, who I MUST thank for this when I do find him. All this and trying not to exclude my friends from the process (I love you Bryony, Lacey, and Dan!) or ignore that life is happening outside my windows. Lovely, precious, occasionally cloudy life.

But I really have no idea what I'm doing...

...except living my dream.

Guest Post: One More Step by Jim Ormonde

This past year, I've met some amazing writers from around the globe. It's been a blessing to learn who they are, where they're from, and why they write. Their stories inspire me. Jim Ormonde is one of those inspiring people. An active member in our online writing community, Jim is honest, quick to offer (excellent) help, cheers us on, and is maybe even considered 'a knight in shining armour  by some. When I asked Jim to write a guest post for Where's Joe Wellington, he didn't hesitate. It's an honour to present Jim's take on this rather odd, but very fun, and quite real search for my long-lost Kiwi mate:

“If I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, it stands to reason that I'm going to get there.”

So wrote Rachel Joyce in her beautiful novel, The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry. After hearing nothing from his former colleague for twenty years, Harold receives a letter from Queenie Hennessie––she’s in a hospice and wanted to say goodbye.

Harold intends a quick walk to the corner mailbox to post his reply but a chance encounter convinces him of the need to deliver his message to Queenie in person because as long as he keeps walking, Harold believes his friend will not die.

At any point in his six-hundred-mile journey, Harold could call, write, Skype or email and bring his quest to a speedy conclusion but the point of this story is the importance of making the journey and the discovery it brings along the way.

Did he find Queenie, did he not? I’m not sure it matters in the end (besides, you should read the book for yourself). But I was reminded of Harold’s unlikely pilgrimage when Lissa told me of her search for Joe Wellington.

Her story is equally as engaging. In 1998 she went on her own adventure to San Francisco and met, along the way, a guy called Joe. This wasn’t a love story, it was nothing more than a good story, and in many ways an unfinished one as Lissa and Joe lost touch. She thinks his last name was Wellington and that he was from New Zealand because she remembers teasing him.

            ‘So you're Joe Wellington from Wellington?’

As it so often does, life interrupted their friendship, faded memories became loose ends, and important details blurred with time.

But almost twenty years later, like Harold Fry, a new journey has begun, this time fuelled by Lissa’s love affair with writing and her desire to use her search for Joe Wellington as the inspiration for a blog. In this pilgrimage, there are no geographic boundaries, the hard miles are being walked with words, and support is being sought from writers keen to join the hunt.

            ‘Joe! Joe Wellington! Where are you Joe Wellington?!’

I happen to be one of the new characters Lissa has met on her pilgrimage. It was a chance encounter, the ordinary with the potential to be part of something extraordinary––the search for Joe.

            ‘Where are you Joe? Can you hear me Joe?!’ I wonder if he went home to New Zealand after his time in San Francisco all those years ago, or whether, like many Kiwis, he found himself in the UK.

            ‘Joe! Joe Wellington! Where are you Joe Wellington?!’

             Silence. Joe doesn’t hear me. Maybe I need to shout louder, and further.

            ‘Are you listening, Joe? Do you even know we’re looking for you?’

            Nothing. Maybe Joe doesn’t want to be found.

            Who knows. Who knows if we’ll ever know.

But as Rachel Joyce also wrote… ‘The people he met, the places he passed, were all steps in his journey, and he kept a place inside his heart for each of them.’

Yes, I am sure Harold did. Like Lissa. Like all of us touched by this remarkable story. Wherever this pilgrimage happens to take us next.

I hope it leads us to Joe. But, in the end, I’m not sure it matters. It’s the journey that counts. And I’m happy to play my part.

            ‘Can you hear us Joe?’ we write. 

Because if we keep writing one word after the other, it stands to reason that we’re going to get there.

Jim Ormonde fell in love with writing as a youngster and decided to make a career from words while still at school when a week’s work experience at his local newspaper made him realise that writing about real life was almost as good as the made up stuff. He progressed from news reporter with provincial titles to broadcast journalist with the BBC when a chance interview with a former motorcycle champion kidnapped him from journalism and led him to an accidental career in financial services. He become CEO of a large technology company sold 72 hours before the credit crises, after which he returned to writing for pleasure, this time from a black desk in his study overlooking the family garden in rural Lincolnshire. He is engaged, with two young daughters, and would be blissfully happy were it not for the compelling need to write at least one more chapter. You can find out more about Jim on twitter @jimormonde or visit his web site: www.jamesormonde.com