Faith Unfurling

We grasp,

tenuously,

this wonderful life.

We hope,

tentatively,

in days of joy.

We dance with freedom,

we sing through sunlight,

we laugh under blue skies.

We hold within us, 

carefully,

this awareness of pain,

this piercing suffering,

these plummeting depths

that we once fell to;

that we may again fall to.

We are free,

we are strong, 

we are bold,

we are creative.

We have been hurt,

we have bled,

we have cried

bitter tears.

We are creatures of strength

creatures of frailty,

lovers of the morning,

familiar with the night.

We are beset by fear

yet we stand tall

faces upturned.

Despite all we have known,

because of all we have known,

we believe.

Sunset at Wynnum

Into Wild Poetry

The weight of inspiration

lies heavy upon me

on this Monday morning.

Commuters on the train, we sit,

iPhones, Androids, Kindles in hand,

along with a lone newspaper reader, a single guidebook peruser,

three who journey apparently disengaged,

(or more engaged)

-  and your poetry strikes me,

sweeps me away.

I have not had my coffee.

It is too much,

it is too beautiful; 

my soul

is not prepared

for the sparks that fly

for the hope that springs;

my mind, 

lulled heavy by late nights and early mornings

wants to sit quiet

in its shell

- nothing expected,

expecting nothing.

I pause to reflect.

A tiny, burnt orange spider,

two millimetres in diameter,

weaves swift, tortured, repeated circles

across my clean white page;

endlessly, persistently seeking a way out.

I watch him till he finds 

the end of infinity,

slips over onto, into, a forest of a hundred paper edges

holding poems between them;

journeys into the unknown.

We are both learning this dance,

weaving our steps

from familiar circles

into wild poetry

today.

The Stories We Tell

"It is not what happens to us that has shaped us, it is the stories we tell about what happens to us that have shaped us."

So said poet Joel McKerrow this morning, to around 20 of us gathered in the old community house in West End, the house that has heard so many of our stories, so many of others' stories, over the years.

How right he was.  The same truth has been stated many times in different ways by many different people:  what we believe about our lives creates our reality.   For the past does not in fact exist, only our memories of it - individual and collective.  I have a friend who is naturally an optimist, her sister a pessimist.  She says she had a wonderful childhood; her sister claims to have had a terrible childhood, yet they grew up in the same family, in more or less the same situation.  The stories they tell themselves are all they have of their childhood, and both are, in a sense, right - the only childhood they have had is the childhood that exists in their memories, whether wonderful or terrible.  Memory, said a friend this morning, is a creative event. We recreate the past, and every time we do so, we get further from what actually happened.  This is hard-wired into us - the telling of stories, the recreation of the past - it is what we live by.

I have a chance to reflect on this every time people ask me about a significant broken relationship in my past,  which they still do, now and again.  But what happened?  they enquire - curiously, caringly, and every shade in between.   What did happen?  I ask myself.  Which version of the story shall I tell today?   Was it emotional immaturity?  Was it independence?  Was it lack of commitment?  Was it inability to understand?  Was it that we were not right for each other?  Was it that we did not love well enough?  Was it that it was not meant to be?  Was it the best thing?   Was it was it was it?  It was all of these, it was none of these, it was a thousand other things, it was none of them.

Can I choose the story that I tell?  Do the more positive stories (It wasn't the right thing, at the right time) comfort me, or leave me unable to change?  Do the negative stories (It would have worked, if only...) challenge me to change, or leave me depressed and regretful?

I come back to the words of Brother Roger of Taize.   Why dwell on what hurts, both in ourselves and others?  Yes, why indeed?  If memory is always a creative event, why not choose, why not create, the best version of a story to live by?

I'm still working out how to do this.

Dreams and Reality

I wake before 4:00am from a vivid dream, in which I walk with a friend, invite her back to lunch, introduce her to my warm and delightful mother, realise I’ve forgotten to pick up some bread, begin to drive to do so, and find I am back in the suburb where I spent my late primary and then high school years.  We cannot find a bread shop any closer than the city, but end up in some industrial complex.  I am frustrated but as we are walking toward what we think is a bakery we see an older woman fall over; her son kneels down to help her, we rush to provide support.  The dream turns; instead of the woman being checked in for observations it is me who is in some kind of mental health centre; I must lie there for two weeks, I am fed apple pie.  When it comes time to be picked up it is my father who comes to collect me, and I wake with a sense of being protected, a sense that all is right with the world because my dad is looking out for me; I am safe.

I want to slide back into the dream but I pick up laptop and write about it; who knows if it will still be there when I wake again.

There are books that interpret your dreams for you; with pearls of wisdom such as:  You dreamt of coffee?  That means your best friend is jealous of you.  Along with Carl Jung, I believe there are some archetypal symbols in dreams, but I do not think that there is one interpretation that can be provided by a dream book.  The best interpreter of the dream is the dreamer.   What does coffee mean for you?  What associations do you have with it now, as it appeared to you in the dream?  Some years ago I was fortunate enough to do a dreams course with a wonderful Brisbane-based Catholic spiritual director, Patrick Oliver.  Over four Saturdays we were taught, and discussed, the role of dreams in the Bible, the way God would speak to people through them, and how to understand our own dreams.  We shared dreams with each other, we listened to their meaning for each other.  The stance was one of openness, of willingness to hear what God might be saying to us through them.  People say you dream of random things that happen in your life - but why, asked Patrick, does the dream choose that particular event from the thousands of thoughts and actions that you take every day?   The details in the dream are often slightly different from reality.  Why?  How is that difference significant for you?  In small groups we were taught how to ask each other questions to help each other listen.   

I believe that we can manage well enough without reflecting on dreams.  But if we stop and listen, we may just discover a window into our lives that we didn't know was there; we may find we can say with Jacob, when he awoke from his sleep and from his dream:  "Surely the Lord is in this place, and I was not aware of it." (Genesis 28:16)

Imprint of Uluru

 

 

 

Imprint of Uluru

 

Uluru is ancient wonder;

Uluru is desert wildflowers blooming at the end of August;

Uluru is feeling cold in a beanie and thermals at 10:00am, hot in a singlet top and sunhat at midday;

Uluru is no more beautiful than her cousin Kata Tjuta;

 

Uluru is 573 photographs;

Uluru is a busload of disappointed tourists staring at the “Climb is closed today” sign;

Uluru is bush plums and cave paintings;

Uluru is unexpected gorges of greenery;

Uluru is silvery spinifex and small yellow flowers;

Uluru is a cross-legged seat off the track and a 20 minute sketch;

Uluru is trying to hold the camera steady as a fly crawls under sunglasses across my closed eyelid;

Uluru is a decision to respect, made years ago;

Uluru is a knowledgeable, funny guide and a majestic, calm base walk;

Uluru is two guys reading the signs “Please don’t climb” and deciding what to do;

Uluru is tears cried in the cultural centre reading letters written by previous visitors;

 

Uluru is people climbing like ants up a steep slope;

Uluru is a gaggle of tourists at sunrise and sunset;

 

Uluru is the Anangu people;

Uluru is a hundred hues of purple brown blue ochre russet lavender pink apricot gold;

Uluru is grey sandstone and iron oxide rusting;

Uluru is 348 metres high;

Uluru is majesty;

Uluru is the desert watching;

Uluru is silence;

Uluru is birds singing;

Uluru is the colours of the desert;

Uluru is spiritual heartland;

Uluru is.

 

Uluru is.

 

Uluru is.

 

A Moveable Feast

Another housesit begins today.

I am often asked whether I like housesitting.   In the last year I have spent many hours of numerous weekends packing and unpacking, as well as cleaning a whole house or apartment from top to bottom in one sitting.  I have been confused by the arrangement of utensils, crockery and cutlery in different kitchens, I have been baffled by the location -  or the lack - of irons, saucepans, brooms and vacuum cleaners.  I have housesat for periods of six weeks, five weeks, four weeks, three weeks, and two weeks; I have lived in houses, units and apartments; I have discovered buses, trains and walking routes in Bardon, Auchenflower, Woolloongabba, Highgate Hill, and West End.  I have watered plants, taken dogs for walks, cuddled cats, fed worms, collected eggs from chickens; I have carried 15 or 20 keys on my keyring at once.  I have struggled to develop and maintain routines; I have been overwhelmed by the amount of stuff I appear to need to take with me each time.

Housesitting has its challenges. But the answer is yes, I like it.    The day I decided to move permanently out of my own unit in Highgate Hill was the day of my first housesit, a winter morning when I woke to sunlight streaming across the bed, and the Bible verse in my (sometimes) daily reading:  "In my Father's house are many rooms." (John 14:2)  I had a sense of hope.  I knew that this verse was not originally referring to the present existence, but I felt God's encouragement nevertheless: "If you choose to move out, I will provide for you".  And the last year has confirmed this; I have many more rooms than I need!  I am blessed by an abundance of offers, and in the in-between weeks I am able to live with my sister and brother-in-law, a gift of being with family which brings me joy.  When I am with them we share meals, cups of tea, fireside warmth, and veranda sunlight, and the daily commute includes a 50 minute train ride.  When I am housesitting I catch up with friends in my local community, live more independently, get my exercise by walking to work, and enjoy new views, new places to sit, new ways to see.  A year ago I could not have imagined I would be living this life, but life is full of unexpected surprises, and the abundance of more than we can imagine!  I am grateful.

Packing awaits.
   

Ramadan - reflections

It's been more than a month since I - since we - completed Ramadan this year.  It seems like a dream, years ago.  It was a month of waking early - at 4:45am - to my breakfasts fixed the night before of  smoothies, wraps, cheese, ham, boiled eggs, dates, nuts - whatever protein and carbohydrates I could find.  It was a month when, despite wanting to rise above the ordinary, I thought much more often of food, hunger and sleep - the first level on Maslow's hierarchy of needs.  It was a month when the happiest moment of many of my days was the moment I broke my fast and the sweetness of a date, the texture of chewing, flooded my senses.  It was a month when I was tired, when I got sick, when I had headaches, when I often didn't want to be kind to anyone.

So much for spirituality.

And yet.  And yet in the moment when I started crying on the afternoon train home because I realised I had forgotten my small ziplock bag of dates and nuts, could not eat at the designated time to break the fast, 5:19pm, and must wait another hour before I would be home - in that moment I realised how much I had been given,  how at least I knew where my next meal was coming from, and through my tears was able to find gratitude and prayer.  

And yet.  

And yet I began to read the Qu'ran, and began to understand and to love the new Muslim friends I made, to hear their compassion, their love for, their desire for God, and to find commonalities in our journeys.  

And yet I was able to go to a mosque, and was surprised - and changed -  to come face to face with a very real sense of the One True God as I prayed there. 

And yet I was able to wake every morning and read, and write, and to establish a pattern for the mornings.  

And yet I was able to walk at lunchtimes and pray for the poor, for those who, unlike me, were truly hungry.

And yet I was able to find joy in the simple taste of a date.

And yet I learned:  so much of how we do life is about attitude; that if I'm hungry and I choose it I am no longer a slave to my body and its desires, and that I can therefore choose how I respond - I don't have to be grumpy.  And so much of happiness is about expectation:  If I am without food when I think I have a right to eat now I am frustrated and upset; if I am without food because I choose it my blood sugar levels may be low; I may burst into tears unexpectedly, but I am, actually, ok.

And for these experiences, and a new awareness of these truths, I am grateful.  

As I am for good breakfasts!

The Red Centre - a week-long trip into beauty.

Ramadan - the beginning

Inspired by the passion and devotion of my one Saudi student, and by the example of one of my mentors, I have decided to observe Ramadan in some way this year.    My experiential knowledge of and about Islam is increasing exponentially; since Khaled's presentation on the period of prayer and fasting two weeks ago, and since I mentioned to him my interest in observing the season, he and I have had almost daily chats about the Koran, about Islam, about fasting, about who God is.   He has lent me an English interpretation of the Koran - not technically the Koran itself, since this exists only in Arabic - and I have shared a small book of Christian-Muslim reflections with him.  I admire his Arabic script; far more, I admire his commitment and dedication, his passion and hope.
And though it is strange to me, I have a sense of excitement and anticipation, almost like a child before Christmas.  The starting date of Ramadan is not yet set - it may be tomorrow, it may be the following day - dependent on the sighting of the new crescent moon.  I am aware that I am one of millions of people around the world who are waiting, today.   The official word will be given, will, I suppose, flash around the world through websites and conversation.  My excitement is mixed with some trepidation - how can I possibly fast the daylight hours of a whole month?  Yet the excitement is winning - I am as a child not knowing about this season, I am as a child waiting with some impatience, I am as a child not only listening for the beginning from those who declare such things, but listening to the God who I know and do not know,  the God who I will seek to listen to this season, the God who loves.

Centering

Baby

Velvet skin

Soft as silk

I hold you close

The world is right

Beauty is everywhere

Australia Day

In between commitments yesterday, I sat in a West End cafe, ordered a latte, wrote my journal. Australia Day.  It was raining outside, but the cafe was warmly lit, the wood of the tables shone golden, the music played invitingly, the atmosphere was cozy.  The big wooden sliding doors and floor to ceiling windows were open to the grey day but the temperature was pleasant; the air smelled freshly of rain.

Across the street four men started fighting.  One was wearing a red, black and yellow knit hat, the others looked indigenous.  An older man, in his fifties perhaps, was pushed backwards so that he fell on his back into the gutter.  He got up and threatened the assaulter.  Loud words were exchanged.  Swearing.  People walking down the street crossed to the other side.  One of the four, a skinny man in blue shorts and an orange top, ran over to the cafe, stood in the doorway, asked the waitress to call the police, said he'd been assaulted, he would be hit. Eyed the remaining men fearfully, excitedly.

Australia Day, I heard one of them shout, as I sat in the warmth and sipped my latte.  Australia Day.  A warm cafe for me; the street - today, the gutter - for the original custodians of the land.

This is the legacy we have inherited.    How is it that we have come to this?  What have we done?  It was not me; the history of dispossession, disease, death was not my responsibility.  And this is not the whole story; this is only five people on one day, at one moment in time.  Yet if my ancestors had not come with their guns and their disease and their alcohol, the lives of these four men would be very different.

I cannot ignore this.

From a tiny second-hand shop in an old church on Hong Kong island, a Laura Ashley summer dress

New Year, New Goals, New Quietness

Everybody seems to be setting goals.  Of course, it is the beginning of January.  A perfect time to set goals.  It is a fresh start, and although in some ways one day is no different to another day, I do think this can be a God-given opportunity to reflect and recreate.  There is a quietness, a sense of space to be rather than to do.  There's hope that this year might be a little different.  Is this a vain hope?  Although many of our resolutions may be broken, I do not think it is pointless to plan, to dream.  As a wise friend of mine said the other day, there is value in the process of working out what is important to us, as much as in keeping the goals we set.   In Australia, I am grateful that the year turns in summer - it is a time of minimal fuss about dress, of twilight out the back with a cool drink as the light slowly fades, of crickets and cotton sheets. of sunlight and sandals.

It is a time, also, of something underestimated.  People plan to be more productive in business, to lose weight, to become healthier, to meditate more, to spend more time with their children.  But few of us set goals to spend more time sitting outside in the still night, listening to the sounds of summer, feeling the cool breeze waft over our bare skin, slowing our breath.  Few of us plan to sit quietly, to lie quietly, as the darkness gathers, as the traffic slows and disappears, as the neighbours go to bed.  I also do not plan for this - I plan so many other things.  And yet the night beckons, the coolness calls, the quietness invites.  And as I breathe the stillness I find I am only breathing in life, and that it is flooding my soul.

The Grass is Greener?

I spent my Saturday afternoon and evening visiting... lunch with an old friend, her husband and four-month-old - my goddaughter, followed by an afternoon and evening with a former flatmate, her husband and two little ones.   Two families - the families of two old friends who I once shared singleness with, with whom I had countless conversations about dreams, hopes, relationships, communication, men.  Now we talk more about children - sleeping patterns, nappies, toilet-training, solids. 

I once might have resented this - not the subject of conversation, but that I share it only in part.  For once envy consumed me - the desire to have what they have, to be the mother that I currently have no opportunity to be, to find my identity and my self-esteem in having a partner and child, to find some security in this.  And truly that's what it looks like from the outside.

But I have been - ever so slowly -  learning a few things.  I'm starting to accept that the grass only looks greener.  This is not to say that a husband and children would not give me some security, might not make me happy.  It is simply that I have realised that if I envy as a single woman, I will envy as a married woman, or a mother.  I now have what I might wish to have if I was part of such a family - freedom, independence, time to myself, the possibility of lots of sleep!  None of this should be underestimated.

I have also realised that my desire for a child is a very selfish one.  If a child defines me, I am having the child to create my identity.  If a husband defines me, I somehow think I am not enough by myself.  I lived like this for too long, thinking that if I do not have these central relationships, I somehow have not made it, am somehow less of a woman.   For too long I thought that if I do not have these people, I am nobody, I have nothing.

How wrong I have been.  For in fact I am part of so many families - so many good friends and family members who consider me part of their lives.  My life is rich.   Today we ate roast beef sandwiches, olives, pistachios, cherries, Lindt chocolate, blueberry baked cheesecake, home made Italian meatballs and pasta; we drank teapots of tea, glasses of wine and Baileys, mugs of hot strong coffee.  Today my goddaughter laughed up at me as I held her, and the cuddly, ringletted one-year-old nuzzled into my neck as soon as I arrived.  Today we talked of holidays and parents, work and houses, celebrations and love.  Today I pushed a child around the block in a pram - sun on my back, cool breeze on my face -  and watched her wide-eyed wonder.  

If only my eyes, too, can stay open to the wonder of all that is given to me.

Clarity

Lying on my back on red brick paving still warm from the 35 degree heat of today, I gaze at the midnight sky, blanketed in cotton wool clouds.  The breeze from the east is steady above, and as I watch the blanket is pulled back like a curtain rising, and an ocean of sky is revealed, stars innocent in their sudden nakedness.

My mind slowly clears.

I remember an incident in my adult English class today, in which the Saudi student told a Korean student that he didn't drink alcohol - not at all.  Sung Min looked slightly incredulous.  "Are you Muslim?", I asked, partly by way of explanation to Sung Min.  Abdul replied that he was.  Sung Min's eyes showed new understanding.  "You don't eat beef?" he ventured, attempting to cross the world.   "Pork," Abdul corrected.  Sung Min scribbled two words in his notebook in Korean, and at Abdul's questioning he translated "Muslim -  Pork".

It was a small thing, a tiny point of understanding, but it contained the essence of what I love about language teaching.  Two students from different worlds, living in a third - sharing their cultures, taking the risk of being wrong, learning about people and countries not from a book but from real connection.   This is the heart of engaging with others in a second language, and this too is the heart of what is really important for any communication - honesty, a willingness to learn from the other, a willingness to be wrong.