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.
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.
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