98 Anderson Road

Pilgrim Artist's festival 2023 Literary finalist - Adult Non-Fiction Category.
Prompt: Beauty in the everyday. The abridged, competition version can be found here

He turned 90 last month but refused celebrations. His only daughter had passed away earlier in the year and “how is it right to make party when she’s not here?”. Instead, he stayed at home –  the two bedroom bungalow he’s lived in since Italy - “I have no English then!” – remembering her playing with all the neighbours’ kids - “We knowing everyone then!”. He nursed his late wife in this home, in her forgetful, fading years. Now, he’s alone - “I’m no watch the TV, really, I just put on to keep me company, you know”. 

She’s a third of his age and lives in the townhouse next door – though not during waking hours. She lives a scheduled life - scurrying from work to the gym, to church, to band practice, to babysitting, to…98 Anderson Road.  

She first started to visit because the Bible said to love thy neighbour as thyself… and…the latter she did very well. But now, it's so much more. Turns out, God was giving so much more than just a command. 

When she visits, his world comes alive. His eyes come alive and his voice comes alive (but he mustn’t talk too fast because these dentures give him pain). He turns up his hearing aid so he can absorb all she reports: The station is being redone, the dumplings at the lantern festival were almost as good as her aunties, the vet clinic around the corner had the fire brigade turn up but it was a false alarm. He leans forward in his chair and imagines.

When she visits her world stops - as if the doorbell is a pause button - and she can breathe.  Not that she couldn’t respire adequately for the last 90 minutes on the soccer pitch. But in between sips of tea (with a dash of milk, teabag in, he knows now) her body can breathe, her brain can breathe.

He tells her about the birds stealing his berries despite the netting he set up. Took him all morning and now his hip has pain.  His grand-niece in Sicily rang last Sunday but after 10 minutes the landline cut out. He waited for the great-grandsons to visit but they didn’t – the youngest will have his birthday soon and the present is ready. The cleaner came on Monday and did a terrible job as always - “I can make more clean myself, but company I like so I will not fire her”.

He went to the GP again on Tuesday – all his outings are health related -  and returned with “another medicine - do you believe, dear!”. She does believe him, but he rises slowly, shuffles over to the cabinet and tosses a box onto her lap. “Makes me bloody thirsty and pissing all the time!”. He jabs his stick at her, “You a doctor - tell me, what’s it?”.

The son-in-law dropped off groceries on Wednesday, didn’t stay for a coffee but thankfully remembered fish because he eats fish on Fridays because he is Catholic – “Born a Catholic and will die a Catholic” - and although he cannot attend mass anymore, “God is everywhere”. His funeral must be in a church - “I must remind the family…” - unlike his daughter’s which was in a funeral home, “without hymn, priest or communion!”. And now that she’s gone – “I put TV to keep me company, you know”.

She nurses her tea, nibbles on cashews (her favourite – he knows now) and reaches for the Bible. It’s always dark inside - with his shoulder now, he struggles to fully open the blinds - but not too dark to read. “Where were we up to? This page?”. He leans back in his chair and listens to light. She dog-ears where she finishes. 

She stands, stretches and her mind starts treadmilling. It’ll be a week of overtime, an extra rehearsal and more club training but “I'll try come next Sunday” (a lie – she will come next Sunday).

“I’m always here, dear,” he says, “but if you busy, you don’t need to come. I no expect nothing” (also a lie – he does expect her).

Two lies, one truth. In spending an hour in each other’s lives, they find more beauty in their own.

She runs

Soles pounding the pavement
Crowds pumping their fists
Drowned by the sound of her breath
Drowned by the sound of her thoughts:

They’re all behind me,

There’s no-one - and perhaps nothing - ahead.

But that’s the problem, 

They’re all behind me:

These burdens -

On her heels, on her back, on her mind - 

Eternally chasing

Pounding her soul.

And so she runs.

She must run.

Disguised, in the dark of dawn

is when she usually trains.

Far from comfort, the race-day sun

is cold and crushing.

The air is clear, her mind is not.

The pain in her body not clouding 

the pain of the past.

Forgive me my debts, she mutters

Though no one hears - 

they just cheer.

She’s certain of a win

Not certain if victory buys absolution.

She fears it won’t, but 

as the only penance she knows

She runs.

And as she runs

He climbs.

He climbs not to the sound of cheers

but jeers. Yet

he hears only cries.

He hears her cry. 

The weight of the wood not heavier than

the weight of the world.

Father forgive them, he mutters.

She crosses the line

At the cross, it is finished

Darkness invades daylight

In the dark once again

She rises.

Not knowing he climbed

She still runs.

Poem runner up in the Pilgrim Artists' Festival, Tasmania, 2021. Theme: The Lord's Prayer 

Networking Is Not What You Think

Contrary to popular belief, being a Good Networker or Connecter Of People doesn't require you to be an extrovert, have a wide range of interests, or attend copious amounts of networking events.

It does, however, require one thing.
It requires you to
Care.

What does care look like, in this context?

To care is to:

1.    Ask good questions.

To care, you must listen. So yes, close your mouth - but then open it again to ask questions. Good questions, that is. Ones that go past How Are You, What Do You Do For A Living, Where Are You (Really) From?
Consider:
'What do you do for work?', followed by 'What is the best part of that sort of work?' 
‘How old are your children?', then 'What sorts of activities are they into?' 
‘What was the last good book you read?' ‘What drew you to it?’

First questions are asked out of courtesy. Follow up questions show genuine interest. We show we’re listening.  We can't connect with people – let alone connect them with each other - if we don't really know them. 

2.    Take note(s)

My dad is an academic. He’s not the typical 'life-of-the-party', nor does he have any hat-tricks, Dad-jokes or famous dishes to share. But he is an excellent networker and never short of friends. And one way he does this is by taking notes.

Classic example: we join a tour group on family holiday. Dad chats to his fellow travellers. At the end of the day, he jots down people's names, plus one thing about them, in his notebook. So whilst the rest of us on day three still have no idea who we are sitting next to, Dad, after 24 hours, knows not just their names but that: Bill is an accountant, married to Betsy; Frank also has teenage daughters; This is Janet’s 60th birthday present (and by the way, we should organise a cake for her) and Gerald is into golf. Note that Dad doesn’t just remember these things, with some amazing super power memory. He knows them because he’s made the effort to record them with simple pen and paper, back in his hotel room.

I used to scorn this as a child, but now I confess I’ve taken up the habit. If I meet you at church, or a backpacker’s event, you'll probably feature in my phone or at the bottom of my Bible notes: ‘Michael - plays keyboard'. 'Isabel - has a ragdoll cat'. ‘Anna - blue hair, works with kids'. Call it creepy, or stalking – only if you can offer me a more effective alternative.

First, we get to know people, then we remember what we know. Only then we can connect others. 

3.    Courageously connect

Ethan showed me twenty Instagram pictures of his Friday night feast. Cathy told me about a new Korean BBQ restaurant in the city. I’m going to connect these two because it seems like they’re foodies - and I’m not. Isabel won’t shut up about her new kitten. Eric always talks about getting a cat, so I’m asking Isabel to brief him about pet ownership. Simon mentions he’s joined a futsal team but when I ask how its going, he says they always seem to be short on players. I know Juan is sporty – well..at least he said he runs. He’s also new to Melbourne. Perhaps he wants to fill in for Simon’s team? No pressure either way, I tell both of them.

I’m aware that none of this connecting may work. But some of it just might - and I will have done it without sharing ANY of their interests. I’ve just taken an interest in the people themselves, noting their interests.

Dare to Care

We live in an age of information overload. From news of war to celebrity breakups to the brunch your best friend is consuming right now, we’re hit with a stream of disconnected information. Our brains aren’t trained to take much in anymore, unless, of course, there’s a scandal or a heroic achievement. The problem is, most people we meet won’t have either on their record. Neither – lets face it – do you and I. Though we’re still worth getting to know, right? Yet just as we scroll through profiles on a screen, we scroll through faces at a party. As we jump from browser to browser, we skim from conversation to conversation.
Shallow; disjointed.

We need to reset; to retrain.

Sounds good on paper/my device, you say – but it’s just not that easy. And you’re right. Which recipe/weight loss program/Master’s degree is harder on paper than in real life?

Building connections with and between people means looking beyond yourself, to others: Rather than switching off in ‘boring’ conversations, you actually recall the content at the end of the night. You create a new Google note. You debate whether to send the seemingly random text, asking yourself: ‘Is this socially appropriate? Or social suicide?’

Wanting to connect people takes effort, risk and humility. It doesn’t always come naturally – but who says we have to be ‘naturals’ at everything we do? If it’s not natural, at least it can become less unnatural. If you’re not intuitive, at least learn to be intentional. There’s nothing wrong with a few tips in the toolbox and a framework to work from. Perhaps this post has served this purpose.

Our world doesn’t need more networking events. It needs more networkers. It’s crying out for connection. It needs care in this context.

Being a Good Networker or Connecter Of People not be your cup of tea. Even so, what question might you ask, what note might you take, what suggestion might you make, for the sake of others?

Gift

22 Feb 2022

In preparation for Christian Backpacker’s 5^th Birthday picnic, I ordered a cake. (What’s a birthday without a party – and what’s a party without a cake?). I didn’t have many requirements: it had to feed around 20 people, have a splash of yellow and blue and the number ‘five’. In my hectic existence, that’d do.

But what I picked up from @imbuefoodandwine the day before the event didn’t ‘just do’. It was something not fit for a picnic, but a wedding: a chocolate cake with ganache filling and fondant icing that bore the name, colours and logo of Christian Backpackers. And it was ‘a gift - God bless your ministry,’ she smiled.

‘Hold it carefully, here, from underneath,’ she advised. Let’s just say, I was glad I’d done my squats and bicep curls at the gym that morning - such was its weight. I held it like a baby. I waited until there were NO cars in sight before crossing the busy road back to my car. For the next 24 hours, I guarded it with my life. I put it downstairs, out of the sun, away from the cat. I reinforced a transport box for it. I had nightmares of me squashing it, trying to put it back together and running late for the event (no kidding).

At the picnic-party, the cake didn’t fail to draw attention. Everyone ooohed and ahhhed, snapped pictures, had seconds and took pieces home in the paper cups.  Where did you get this? they marvelled.  ‘It was a gift’, I said, and we marvelled more.  

The food and our festivities made for a memorable night. But amongst it all, there was a slight misunderstanding.  The cake – in all its glory – wasn’t the real gift. The centrepiece of celebration wasn’t chocolate flavoured. Rather, it was the group itself: The community God brought together some 5 years ago, sustained to this day and laced with his grace. The gift was Christian Backpackers.

But how fitting a symbol of this reality was the weighty cake: Rich and sweet and carefully crafted.  Exceeding expectations and a sight to behold. A delight to partake of, with slices to spare. Not of my own doing but a gift to gently hold.  

That night, oh how we did ‘taste and see that the Lord is good….’ Ps 34v8 

 

Good King Wenceslas: Packs, Playstations and Page boys

My hiking buddy and I were walking along the beach, one behind another. Our packs were heavy; our spirits light. The sand was soft. I played with the placement of my steps - sometimes in her footprints, other times making my own. It reminded me of one of my (many) favourite carols: Good King Wenceslas. 

You've probably heard it a hundred times in shopping malls and carol services. If you've ever tried to learn an instrument, it was likely one of your first cohesive tunes, along with Ode to Joy and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.  But I'll bet you're not familiar with the lyrics - or the message - though its one we so desperately need to hear. 

It was my old high school music teacher who enlightened me - and our whole year 9 cohort - to the story. I still remember her standing at the front of the stage, explaining the old English, line by line, blow by blow. Most girls probably giggled or dozed. I was fixated, the story etched on my (primitive) teenage brain. 

It tells of the Good King Wenceslas looking out, one cold night after Christmas, spotting a peasant gathering wood. He summons his page boy, demanding to know who the man is and where he lives. Learning of his dwelling at the forest edge, he decides to pay a visit. The page brings his master wine and flesh (of an animal, not his wife or slave...), and forth they go together, into bitter weather. 

As was the custom, the page went first. But though his heart is big, his feet are small; he begins to freeze and fade.  The king's solution is not to carry on status quo, nor abandon mission. But, switching places, he proceeds first, bearing the brunt of the winter's rage, shielding the child with his body.  The boy finds heat in the very footprints of his master - though I'm sure it was not just the warmth of his soles but the warmth of his soul that kept him going. 

We're not told if the pair made it to the peasant, if the page succumbed to hypothermia or any other ending to the story. Instead, the carol addresses Christians of all social classes, urging them to show kindness to the poor, with blessing promised in return. 

I think its a fitting call. But pondering the carol further as we hiked - and wishing we bore wine and meat rather than dirty clothes and dehydrated pea packets - I thought there were much deeper meanings to draw. 

If we are - indeed in order - to 'bless the poor', we should first understand the blessings extended to us from above. See, we, too, are yonder peasants. I know with our paychecks and Playstations it doesn't seem so - but how far from our true home we are, how distant from God, how we roam around picking up sticks to make meaning of our lives. And Jesus the King doesn't just view us from afar. He laces up his boots and comes down into our cold, dark world, to our edge of the forest. He gives us his flesh - eventually nailed to a cross - as atonement. His blood pours out like wine. And if I could extend this analogy - he doesn't just dine and dwell with us - he intends to take us home, back to the palace, to live in his presence, under his good reign. 

And when we are there - gratefully and joyfully serving him, our every need provided for - perhaps like the page boy we are sent out on missions not for the meek. Ones where we aren't sure how we will survive, where we can't see what is in front, for the storm. And it's then we find our Good King is there - not by our side, not behind, but in front of us: shielding us with his body, warming our souls as he speaks.

He bids us follow.
Won't you journey behind?

Good King Wenceslas looked out

On the Feast of Stephen

When the snow lay round about

Deep and crisp and even

Brightly shone the moon that night

Though the frost was cruel

When a poor man came in sight

Gathering winter fuel

Hither, page, and stand by me,

If thou knowst it, telling

Yonder peasant, who is he?

Where and what his dwelling?

Sire, he lives a good league hence,

Underneath the mountain

Right against the forest fence

By Saint Agnes fountain.

Bring me flesh and bring me wine

Bring me pine logs hither

Thou and I shall see him dine

When we bear them thither.

Page and monarch, forth they went

Forth they went together

Through the rude winds wild lament

And the bitter weather

Sire, the night is darker now

And the wind blows stronger

Fails my heart, I know not how

I can go no longer.

Mark my footsteps, good my page

Tread thou in them boldly

Thou shall find the winters rage

Freeze thy blood less coldly.

In his masters step he trod

Where the snow lay dinted

Heat was in the very sod

Which the Saint had printed

Therefore, Christian men, be sure

Wealth or rank possessing

Ye, who now will bless the poor

Shall yourselves find blessing.

                                           ~J.M Neale

It started in all innocence: 
A jog in the park,
Not a soul in sight.
Until he came along. 

He approached from afar. 
She saw him; she knew him. 
She knew why he had come. 

'Hey', he smiled,
'Do you want to....?'
He stood too close for comfort
and motioned into the distance. 

Her heart said yes but her sense said no
Her mind said no but her lips said yes.

And so she followed him
across the pitch, through the gate. 

It was the most illicit pleasure she'd ever had.  
She prayed they wouldn't get caught, though it'd be worth it if they did.  
They only stopped when they ran out of breath, and out of light.

She wiped away sweat, pulled her jacket back on
Donned her mask and felt
not ashamed, but grieved
at heavenly, yet forbidden fruit. 

And she longed for the day
when they could be
all together and free

To play five-a-side football
in the park. 

COVID, Cushings and RU OK?

Cushings is a disease that affects humans, dogs and horses. An overproduction of the cortisol hormone by the adrenal gland(s) is caused by either a pituitary or adrenal tumour, leading to a range of clinical signs. Any old dog that is eating, drinking and urinating excessively, has a 'pot belly' and hair loss - including a 'rats tail' - should set off alarm bells in any vet's brain (especially if it's white )(the dog, not the brain). 

• The first step is to take a general blood test. ALP is a liver enzyme that increases significantly in Cushings....most of the time. Other diseases including liver disease and bile stasis can also increase the ALP. Depending of the level of suspicion we might then do:
• A Urine-Cortisol-Creatinine Ratio - a test that is good at ruling out Cushings. If the result is negative, Cushings is unlikley. If it's equivocal or positive... well.... it may or may not be Cushings. In which case...
• An ACTH-stimulation test or a Low-Dose-Dexamethasone-Suppression test may be required to rule Cushings in. If positive, Cushings is very likely (if stress wasn't a compounding factor) (because vet clinics are always the most relaxing of places....for the animals and humans...). But if equivocal or negative...well.. you can't say it's not Cushings. So....
• An abdominal ultrasound (or CT) can look for other signs of Cushings - including an enlarged liver and adrenals - but it is not a confirmatory test. However it can pick up other concurrent diseases.
• A High-Dose-Dexamethasone-Suppression test can differentiate between a pituitary or adrenal cause - but only once Cushings is confirmed. 

Try explaining that to a client in the clinic car park, wearing a mask, at 1.5m distance whilst the patient is barking its bald butt off. (Me, yesterday at 640pm). 

Understandably, the client looked bewildered. 

    'So.....how do we know if Pumba has Cushings?' she finally said. 

     I sighed and summarised: 'Its complicated.' 

Yesterday was also 'RU OK? day' - a mental health and suicide prevention initiative where we're encouraged to connect with those around us using 'Are you OK?'. I thought about this. And I thought about Pumba.

See, the questions of Cushings and OK-ness are important, valid questions. 

The problem is in the answers. 

• Are you OK because you've only cried twice this week, instead of every day, over nothing (or everything)? 
• Are you OK because you've only needed one coffee today, instead of four...before noon? Or are you OK precisely because you've had four coffees... and does that indicate you're not OK? 
• Are you OK because you swore under your breath at the kids/hubby/dog (that may or may not have Cushings) instead of out loud? 
• Are you not OK because spilling the milk makes you more angry than a group of illegal party goers spreading the virus? 
• Are you OK because this month you've managed to pay the rent on the business and books are out of the red - even though only God knows what next month will bring? 
• Are you OK because 'At least you have a job, your health, a warm bed and a loving family'? Or does it kinda not work that way? 
• Are you not OK because the vaccine side effects made you dull and weak, but you were glad because for a few hours your body felt how your mind has been feeling for months? 

Does Pumba have Cushings? RU OK? 

Sigh... its complicated. 

I see beige

We don't count days, weeks, months anymore -
we count cases
we number needles.

And in my world 
- all π5² square kilometres of it - 
there is only 
Shades of beige and 
Flavours of bland. 

Trackpants and cups of tea 
News reports and Netflix 
Work-from-home and home workouts. 

Your colour that invades
is fake and foreign;
Unwelcome. 

Don't tell me of travel plans and photos, 
reunions and recreation. They are
Colours too bright, 
Salt that stings. 
Let green-eyed monsters lie. 

And I realise:
though I see beige
and I taste bland 
I'm becoming
Black and bitter. 

 

How Christians Suffer Differently

The rain was relentless, the wind bit hard
In the fading light, two children sat
Waiting

One, for her father
The other for -
well, he wasn't quite sure

'I'm cold,' he quivered
'So am I,' she said
'but I'll be warm soon.' 

'I'm wet,' he whispered
'Me too,' she said
'but not for long.'

'Must be nice to have a home.' he mused
'A father, a family, a future.' 

'It wasn't always this way,' she said
'I was once an orphan too.
I know thick winters and thin jackets
hunger and hostility.  
I know this curb ain't comfortable.' 

'Then Father picked me up,' her voice quickened
'Cleaned me, clothed me
taught me to smile, sent me to school.' 

'If he just 'picked you up', he'll likely 'put you down'.' 
The boy had seen how life worked:
Trash on the sidewalk
always ends up in the dump. 

'He won't. He can't.' she said
'He won't abandon who he's adopted.' 

'Then where is he now?' he challenged
for it was dark and they were drenched.
'Oh, he'll come.' she was confident - 
though the street screamed eerie silence
'He'll take you home too.' she added gently

He looked away -  away from the wind, it seemed.
But as the rain fell off one cheek
a tear rolled down the other. 

One storm 
Two children 
Same suffering
Suffering differently 

How to help your driven friend

Of late, I have been thinking a lot about people like me who are - for want of a better word - 'driven'. What makes us this way? How do we interact with the rest of society and vice versa? And what do you do with someone who is driven?

Surely genes must play a role in making some so abnormally activity oriented. I mean, if you need convincing, just look at my family (actually, maybe don't...). As one (driven) friend put it: some dogs are bred (which species bred them huh?) to be fat and lazy, whilst working dogs don't stop. And just as humans 'designed' different dogs, God must have created us with different natures. Regardless of the cause, I'm certain a handful of humans can't help but be driven. And, contrary to how we feel sometimes, its not a bad thing. 

You see, there is a stigma attached to being always motivated.  I mean, you'll never hear 'Hi, I'm Esther and I'm driven', just as you'll never hear 'Hi, I'm Dana and I have depression'.  Not wanting to blow our own trumpets we don't readily talk about about our multiple missions or latest commitments. We know we're not, but we want to seem 'normal'. Yet the more we don't say on the topic of driven-ness (is that a word?), the more alienated we feel. 

So, lets talk! 

Disclaimer: This is not directed at anybody or any comment in particular - if you've said some of the following to me, relax and know 1) I probably don't remember it specifically, cos 2) It probably wasn't just you. 

1. Don't tell us to slow down or rest. 
       I'm not saying we shouldn't slow down or rest. But after being told this for some two decades, does it look like its worked? Telling a driven person to 'Just say no', 'You need to slow down', or 'You should get some rest' is like telling an obese, KCF/gaming addict to 'Just go vegan and run a marathon!'. Or telling your grandpa who's smoked a-pack-a-day for half a century to 'Just quit!' 
        For all the speed in our lives, this type of change comes slowly, from within. 

2. More than help, we want to be understood. 
      We know society at large doesn't 'get' us. But some at least try, whilst others make us feel like black sheep, albeit unknowingly.
      Believe it or not, responses like: 'OH MY GOSH you ran TWENTY-ONE KMS during lockdown, just 'cos'?'; 'You did EXTRA NIGHT SHIFTS on your days off, are you CRAZY??'; 'How will you manage yet ANOTHER volunteer role?' just don't make me want to share these 'normal' aspects of my life.
      But instead, responses such as: 'Amazing effort! Where did you run and what was your speed?'; 'Cool, any interesting cases overnight?'; 'What compels you to volunteer and why this role?'  are telling - they tell you more about me; they tell me I'm accepted by you. 

3. But, you can still help. 
      Driven people will rarely ask for ask for assistance. Either we don't think we need it or we believe we're beyond help. But, you can still help. The trick is knowing how. 
             i) Be specific and concrete. Don't say 'Let me know anytime how I can help'. We won't. We're too preoccupied trying to help others to think of how you might help us. Instead say: 'I'll do a school pickup next week, tell me which day and where'. Or: 'I'm doing a market run - let me know what you need by 8am'. Or: 'I'll notify everyone of the event, by the weekend. Give me the updated list of members'. 
              ii) Be subtle yet forceful: 'This committee meeting doesn't really involve your area of the club, why don't you just give it a miss and I'll send you the minutes?'. Roster us on to start an hour later occasionally, or send us home early if work is quiet. 
       We might give you a dirty look, but inside we're breathing a sigh of relief. 

4. Know that we love you.
     Doubting that we do is understandable when we rush in late, forget to reply, can't find time for a coffee date in the next month or seem more interested in coffee than conversation. This must be one of the most painful parts of the driven existence. The problem is, we're passionate about people and our projects. We love our family and friends, but also our multiple missions and latest commitments. Our hearts are big, each calendar square so small.
    But believe that we love you; trust that we care.

In doing so, you might just help

Your Driven Friend. 

Survivor's Guilt

10 June 2021 

For all the damage COVID-19 has wreaked across the earth, its been a playground for researchers and reporters. Studies show increased rates of anxiety, depression, domestic violence, obesity and rare blood clots all be linked to the pandemic. But will someone please write a decent article about what I – and I suspect not just myself – am experiencing: Survivor’s guilt.

The American Psychology Association defines survivor’s guilt as: Remorse for a) having survived a catastrophic event when others did not or b) not suffering the ills that others had to endure.¹ 

You know, it’s like if you were in a freak boating accident. You survived – just – but your best mate and his kids didn’t. And you didn’t just wake up in the hospital with no memory of the incident. You watched them slowly go down; drift away. And nothing – the copious amounts of coffee purchased from the corner cafe, the excessive Uber-eats to keep local restaurants going, the zoom check-ins with family and daily laps around the block with walking buddies – nothing could save them.

Now, don’t get me wrong: it’s not like I haven’t suffered at all. I’m a Melbournian, sigh. At this very time of writing, I’m meant to be with my sister in Queensland. Instead, I sit on my couch, locked down for the 4th time.  

But who am I to complain – or gather pity – when others have it so much worse? A friend was meant to travel to NZ this week to see her mother, terminal with cancer. A workmate was meant to get married on Saturday – I was to be her musician. The family of my Indian neighbours are in crisis. (My parents are travelling round and round NZ in freedom). All around, businesses struggle. Mental health takes yet another dive. (I’m bored and blogging in pyjamas).

And don’t get me wrong: It’s not like I haven’t seen suffering before. But this time its… different. Perhaps its that it’s so close to home.... yet so widespread. The kid next door is affected - as well as Mr President. It follows us around our 10k radius - on our masked faces and sanitised hands, in front of our Zoom-fatigued eyes and on our news feeds in our pockets. 

And somehow, I’ve survived the nuclear fallout.

Why me? Why not me? And - apart from the coffees, Uber eats, zoom check-ins and masked laps around the block - what to do? Sometimes I wonder which is worse: being a casualty or being helpless. 

Survivor's Guilt: Turns out those that have 'got it good' aren't always 'all good'. 

¹https://dictionary.apa.org/survivor-guilt

Good Friday, 2021.

Trudging up the slope in the midday sun
to Spion Kopje, the Alpine National Park. 
Someone else climbed a hill this very day,
two millennia ago, I mused. 

Instead of a pack, he carried a cross. 
We are four friends; he had none. 
We struggle with our dehydrated food
and branded camping gear,
He shouldered the weight of the world
and its sin. 

We go to stargaze,
He to be slain. 

To die,
that we might live. 
Live life to the full; Life eternal 
A life with the Creator of this beauty - 
That includes sweaty socks, hiking tents, re-hydrated mash, chocolate eggs
and stunning views atop this mountain. 

Because he climbed,
So I will live

Lockdown Lament

 I feel like this lockdown has affected me more than the previous two. It's short (so we hope), but it was short notice. It’s not simply that all my plans went out the window (I’ll have plans til the day I die). But that festivities, businesses, celebrations of love were overturned once again - such a blow and we were barely back on our feet.

See, I thought I came through 2020 relatively unscathed. But even so, I think there’s a little – or a lot - of trauma in all of us, which weekends like this unlock; we don’t want to go back there.

Yesterday I ran (a half marathon, just 'cos). Today I played. Alas, not futsal, no not solitaire. Not Bach this time (can’t whip that up in a day), but Australian composer Paul Stanhope’s ‘Dawn Lament’. I last touched/thought about this piece 15 years ago, gearing up for Young Musician of the Year. Its inspired by Oodgeroo Noonuccal's poem, depicting the wailing and sorrow of indigenous Australians. A piece not entirely out of place, then, considering the loss and heartbreak in Victoria right now.

‘Lament’ is an old-fashioned word, (perhaps replaced by the narrower ‘grief’) but the last 12 months have taught me it’s an appropriate response to trauma like this. In the Christian context, lament is sitting with the discomfort of things that shouldn’t be. It’s the individual and collective crying out to God over injustice, hurt and loss; not necessarily seeking answers but comfort. Its grieving but not without hope.

Its wailing, trusting the sun will rise at dawn.