Largo in Lockdown

 I first learnt this Largo from Bach’s Sonata III two decades ago. It was the simple, accompanied version. Much like life back then: simple and social.

And then 2 months ago, as if something got into me, I suddenly decided to re-learn the piece. This time in its original solo - and much harder - version. How fitting and descriptive of lockdown, I thought.

A short time in, it sounded so terrible that I gave up and switched to something more ‘manageable’. The result is the Sarabande which I posted earlier . 

In my childhood music theory lessons, we learnt ‘Largo’ means ‘a very slow tempo’. I passed my theory exams alright, but looking at the flurry of my life from then til now, did I actually know what that definition meant? And did I deem this too hard because I never slowed down to sound out the chords, repeat one bar over and over or pay attention to the pauses?

It’s not completely finished. I have by no means perfected the piece or the pace. But I feel that in lockdown, I have indeed learnt Largo.

Unaccompanied Bach

There’s nothing that leaves a violinist feeling more naked and vulnerable than unaccompanied Bach. It was something only ever played to satisfy exam requirements or competition rules. It’s not that the pieces were bad, they just made you feel bad. So simple a score…so deceptively difficult. Every flaw in tuning or timing exposed. The double stops eroding what remains of your ego.

So you can imagine my mother’s surprise when I asked her to post me my 'J.S Bach Sonaten und Partiten'– that which I haven’t touched, or thought about, for nearly 2 decades. Yep, its strange times we live in these days.

I think if he heard my rendition, Bach might turn in his grave. My teacher might vomit. Lucky I have drugs in my clinic to deal with both situations. But through COVID-19 lockdown, this music has held my sanity. At first it was just for fun, something different (though, I suppose, anything is different from Russian Rock…). Yet the more I played the more I realised: these 17th Century works sorta speak into our reality today. Its almost as if Bach embodies lockdown:

Its unaccompanied.

Though solo, the work is complete.

It sobers and it stirs.

Its heavy with sorrow, laced with strength.

And did I mention its so damn difficult?

But if you’re still enough, there’s beauty that breaks through.

Lockdown has been all of the above – and more – for all of us:

A bunch of bad notes, but also beautiful moments.

I hope this is one of the latter for you

P.S If you make it to the end, listen out for my cat's contribution (still can't tell if its praise or protest...)

Mountains

Aug 2019, Sichuan Province, China. 

I love mountain tops. Could spend my life there, I say.
Fresh air and freedom. Adrenaline from the ascent. Sun on skin.
Glorious

But mountain tops are not for dwelling.
When the sun has gone and the chill creeps in
They are brutal, exposed, lonely places.

What goes up must come down:
The village is where we live.
In the valley shadows are long. It is cramped and cold. It is mundane.

But in the village there are people.
Creativity and colour. Feuds and fiestas.
There is life.
Nobody mourns a mountain like they do a mother.

Mountains may be breath taking
The village is life-giving.
Though I dream of one
I am content with the other.
Though I love the peak
I need people.

at 5200m, Siguniang Mountain, 

Progress

Calvings* are my most favourite procedure in the entire veterinary world (hence I am currently a small animal vet??!!) - so I was stoked to be summoned to one last weekend.

It was a small hobby farm of one paddock and 5 cows. By the time I arrived at 830pm, this not-very-tame heifer had already broken through two sets of yards. Very coincidentally the owner also had a side business importing tranquilliser guns. We ended up using one to dart her, not once but twice, in order to get close and personal.

The calf had already gone to heaven; the cow probably felt closer to hell. I gloved up and tried to convince her I was her angel in disguise (as the devil, she must've thought).

Now I'm by no means an expert. There are many cattle gurus that I would love to sit at the feet of. But with 6 calving seasons under my belt I feel I've learnt a thing or two. Actually, maybe just two.
See, the rules of bovine obstetrics drummed into us by my lecturer were:
           1) Lube, lube and more lube. You can never have too much lubricant.
           2) If you aren't making progress in 10 minutes, try something else.
I can't actually remember rule number 3). Maybe I feel asleep at the feet of that guru. Or maybe there wasn't a third. Either way, I've never needed it because, as it turns out, the first two always sufficed. 

So, we all know what lube is, but what constitutes 'progress'? We talk about career progression, progress on a project, progressive parties, nations, societies.  We tick boxes, hit KPIs, stay late, get up early, do push ups, give speeches, perfect our profiles - lest we be labelled as 'static', or worse, 'regressive'.

But that crisp, starry night, with mud in my boots and foetal juices in my face, it occurred to me that, in bovine obstetrics,  'progress' was something quite different: 

There I was

pulling a 50kg calf

out of a 500kg cow, 

in the 120th minute, 

    yet one centimetre 

          was enough to keep going.


*that is, assisting a cow deliver a calf

May one flame remain

6 Jan 2020

Australia is burning and our hearts are breaking. Today's CNN reports 15 million acres has been reduced to ash - an are larger than Belgium and Haiti combined. In New South Wales, close to half a million animals - up to 1/3 of koalas - have been killed. Thousands have lost their homes and over 20 people their lives. Smoke in Sydney has caused air quality to reach 11x the hazardous level. You know things are bad when its not just Asians that don face masks.

Instagrammers and news reporters describe the images as 'apocalyptic'. Celebrities promise their thoughts and prayers; a sign on a noodle bar in China Town asks for ours. New Delhi's Hindustan times say #prayforaustralia has trended on Twitter over 1million times. People are opening their pockets and digging deep like never before.

And suddenly, this secular, post modern society that 'believes in themselves' has seemingly become very.... spiritual.

Which makes me wonder:
Perhaps I'm not so strange when I say I pray to a higher power on a regular basis.
Maybe I'm not completely crazy to give a portion of my salary to the church and other charities.
What if it's not so weird to believe in the end of the world, supernatural revelation and life after death?

Amongst the destruction of these bush fires, maybe - just maybe - the faith on which our country was built is rekindling.

        And if one flame remains
                Dear God,
                may it be one of hope

Prayer... not such a silly idea? 

红包

2 Feb 2020

Its Chinese New Year, when traditionally, the family gathers, we squeeze into red clothing, lions dance, we eat like there's no tomorrow (even though its just the start of the year) and the older married people give 红包* to the young and single.

As I unashamedly collected my 红包 (what a great incentive to not produce grandchildren...) it got me thinking. And perhaps its a question for all of us to consider.

Money is nice and makes the world go round. But aside from material wealth what else is important for older generations to pass on to younger generations? And not just once a year, but every week, every day, every moment (driving, eating, being on devices) they're together?

And what about me? I may not be dishing out cash or raising kids. But what do I have to give (time, a listening ear, life skills...can you add to the list?) to those younger than me, here and now?

Fig 1. Unashamed single specimens showcasing 

*hong bao - red envelopes containing money 

New Year Shout Outs

Looking back on 2019, there are two shoutouts that I want to give. Just two - and they’re not to friends and family (Friends and family: I love you - but you know who you are, and everyone else doesn’t need to). 

       Shoutout number one is to my lovely clients (only the lovely ones, who, alas, I wish made up a larger proportion). The ones who are always so patient and honest, who trust me with their beloved pets and don’t complain about costs.

       Being a vet can be a stressful existence (marked by our poor mental health statistics and high turnover rates) but a big part of what keeps me going is the joy of working with decent and dedicated pet owners.

        The other shoutout is to my neighbours. John and Jessie the sort of retirees I want to be when I grow up: 5 am swims, gym classes, DIY/GrowIY and community service. She’s always ready to give me food and he to lend me a hammer or hand with my bike. I try to repay them with baking and dog advice. But both parties know its the cuppas and yarns that matter the most.  

        When I was a kid, we played with the kids next door, knew which neighbours moved in and out and got together for annual street parties. It was part of who we were and what we did. Nowadays we live in townhouses and apartments but barely share a nod – we’re too busy sharing GIFs far and wide. I know times have changed and often for the better. But bring back neighbourhoods, I say.

These people I’ve mentioned aren’t my friends on Facebook (or don’t have Facebook at all). They will likely never see this blog. But I wanted to mention them for 2 reasons:

           1.     Some of the most important people in YOUR life might not be your Facebook friends. I know its hard to believe, hence this lengthy post. 

           2.  We are ALL are clients and neighbours. Yes, YOU. You, too, have the chance to be lovely and make a difference in the lives (and longevity!) of your vets, doctors, physios, dentists, baristas - anyone you wait in line to see. 
           And likewise, you have the opportunity to build friendships with those next door. It may not involve the swapping of cupcakes and coriander over the fence (though FYI, those things help). But how much richer would our lives be if driveways became bridges...Laughter filled lifts...

...If we were all the subject of these shout outs.  

Journeys

Its Christmas morning and Esther is at Melbourne Airport reflecting on her group Christian Backpackers Meetup Melbourne. 

The tagline for Christian Backpackers  is ‘We’re all on a journey’. As well as pointing out the common ground for travellers, the more artistic of us might realise its metaphorical reference to other journeys. Our personal journeys. Our spiritual journeys. Everyone’s trying to get somewhere right?

But the path is oft not easy. The way is winding, confusing, uneven. They say God is love, but he sure seems distant sometimes. 

And so this is Christmas. Mary, Joseph and their little donkey, little donkey made the trek to O little town of Bethlehem. Shepherds left their flocks by night to confirm the great news and bundle of joy. Them three kings from orientar*, bearing gifts, travelled afar. And then there me: 6am at the airport, already tired from the trip home and there’s still 2 hours til take off.

We think of Jesus as the Holy Infant, so tender and mild. We think the travels centred around him, but in fact, he was a weary traveller too.  How long is the trip from eternity to earth? And how long is the road to calvary with a cross?

We struggle our way to him, but he’s already come down to us.
He places heaven on the horizon and walks with his hand in ours.

We’re all on a journey –
O traveller, walk with him.

*come on, didn’t you think it was one word when you sang this growing up?

All I want for Christmas

My Christmas wish
my prayer, even
is that in this sweet
yet struggling world
after a year of success and surprise
alongside volcanoes, bush fires, anti-government protests, mosque shootings and more -
God would once again meet us where we are.

That he would invade hearts and lives
- quietly, powerfully -
like he did that first Christmas.

I am reminded that he did not provide a quick fix back then
(we know better than to believe in those)
thus its unlikely he will do so now.

But that the ray of hope,
the comfort that flowed 
as his feet his the earth
was, and is,
all we need.

~~

How silently, how silently

the wondrous gift is given. 

So God imparts to human hearts 

the blessings of his heaven 

No ear may hear his coming 

but in this world of sin 

where meek souls will receive him 

still the dear Christ enters in. 

                                                                                             ~O little town of Bethlehem
                                                                                                                                                                      P Brooks, 1868

Discrepancies

The 1 December, the first day of summer. To mark the occasion, Melbourne put on a top of 16 deg and a relentless downpour. The next day, as a consolation prize, there was a high of 15 deg and a hailstorm. One could be forgiven for thinking there had been a serious mistake.

As I longed for mulled wine in my merino jersey, I mulled over similar discrepancies:

When the letters after your name say you’re a qualified surgeon, yet you don’t feel qualified to slice the pizza you’ll binge on tonight.

When you're head hunted and got that promotion - and still feel like unworthy to be a janitor in the building.

When he says you’re beautiful and proved it with a ring, yet you can’t brush your teeth in front of the mirror.

When you read 'Jesus died for the sins of the world' in your Bible and sing 'red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in His sight' with your kids, yet can't help thinking you're his one exception.

Winter weather, when the calendar says summer.
The facts - and the feelings that suggest otherwise.
How do you dress for the discrepancies?

No one's suggesting you head out in a bikini. The storm is real.
Nevertheless head out; dress warm, head up.
Weather the weather and know deep down inside
it is
     indeed
          Summer

And that’s what its all about

If I were a fly in the sky I might look down from on high
and think that soccer was all about a ball.
For they chase that sphere
over here, over there
Seems so important even though its so small

If I were a bird up above watching from a power pole
I’d say soccer was about scoring goals.
For when the ball they try and get
goes into the net, they cheer -
realised fears and hopes.

If you were a spectator at our match
you’d be excused if you’re confused
and thought our games are all about food.
For our half-time feasts are enough, to say the least,
to fuel more than a few athletes.

But you know Mr Fly,
a ball is just a ball. Full of air and nothing more.
Its not the aim of our game

And, Dear Bird,
Goals in soccer (and indeed in life)
aren’t always measured by posts painted white.

But a feast – oh yes a feast
is close to what soccer means
Though it’s not because we just like to eat.

As we huddle around oranges and lollies
(and sandwiches/strawberries/muesli/baking/carrot sticks/salami...)
we rest, we’re fuelled
we hear wisdom, gain strength
to continue.

So soccer is a game
but for us its much more.
In many ways its a feast
for our souls 

Fig 1: One of the more modest half-time spreads of the Maribyrnong Swifts State 4 team

Small things

Lately, there's a Bible verse I've been bumping into. In the book of Zechariah, the temple in Jerusalem was being rebuilt. Amongst some interesting imagery, God tells the prophet not to despise the day of small things*.

Now, I'm no prophet, but I stopped to reflect:

- My dad made me my first violin out of a Kodak box and a chopstick

- When I started running, I lasted 10 minutes
- Halfway into my first soccer match, my team decided I seemed fit. They shouted for me to go striker. I had one question as I ran in the direction they pointed: 'Whats a striker??' 

- I came out of my first cat-handling practical bleeding and crying

- In my first gym class I could only lift the bar with no weights

- The first Christian Backpackers' event I organised, two people showed up. I showed up late, on crutches (refused to take a fractured ankle as a sign)

I've still got plenty small stuff on the go. But now: 

- My violin actually makes a sound (sometimes of questionable quality)

- I can run much, much further 

- I'm no striker, but am somewhat more soccer savy 

- I give cats tablets and take away their testicles
- I can lift bars WITH weights

- Christian backpackers is a growing community 

Don't get me wrong. This post - and that verse - is not about how you can achieve your goals with a bit of effort and positive thinking. Enough of that on the internet already. Besides, some things stay small (eg I've given up waiting for my growth spurt). Others go up and down in sin wave fashion.

But its to suggest that: if God is alongside you - carrying you, even - then on that day
   size
         doesn't
               matter 

*For whoever has despised the day of small things shall rejoice Zech 4:10 

Far from home

If you’ve ever travelled, you'll know the what its like to spread your wings: the thrill of adventure; the satisfaction of independence. You’ll also know what it’s like – at times – to miss home and all that home entails. As we approach the festive season, the distance is more keenly felt.. 
  
Someone else was far from home for Christmas once. 

His name was Jesus..

Jesus is considered by many as a good man, a good teacher, a prophet, even. Christians believe him as the Son of God himself, which means he always existed in the heavens with God the Father. 

Until Christmas.

‘Will God really dwell on earth with humans?’ Solomon, the wisest man in ancient times, marvelled*. Answer: Yes. And we sing about it now, sometimes at shopping malls: ‘Hail the incarnate Deity’ ‘Pleased as [a] man with man to dwell, Jesus our Immanuel**’. ‘Word of the Father now in flesh appearing’ 

If you’ve ever been to a foreign country and felt out of place, imagine the step (down) Jesus took in coming to earth. Yet you wouldn’t have guessed - he seemed so… natural.

Christmas is significant to Christians for many reasons, one of them being that it shows God as a relational God. Our relationship with him was broken - yet he cared enough to send us not a script, a sign or an app, but his Son to show us the way back. To be the way back, even. It follows, then, that if we are made in the image of God, then we too are relational beings. Could it be that pangs of homesickness are evidence of this?
If you are far from home this year and feeling it, take heart. Jesus was far – incredibly far – from home that first Christmas. 

He left his home so he would never have to leave you.

*2 Chronicles 6:18

**Immanual = 'God with us’