Australia Day

A lot of hours over several months came to fruition on Poatina’s biggest day of the year as visitors came from every corner of the State and were welcomed to our annual Australia Day Festival. Despite the growing controversy over celebrating Australia’s national day on what this country’s indigenous people recognise as a day of invasion, and what history cannot deny as being the start of a systematic denial of human rights, this little village at least came together to celebrate the importance of community.

Discovering you don’t have to shell out a fortune to have a good time with the family, there was something for all ages, crazy parades, good food, great music, games and prizes, politicians, families and your average Joe Blow, all smiling while jostling for a spot in the shade on a perfect summer’s day.

Have been writing a Haiku poem each day for a while, a Japanese form of poetry, not exactly the usual thing you’d produce for today when bush poetry reigns supreme, but in the light of today’s festivities, this is the result.

Australia Day

community together

like the good old days

Raise the flags and sing

dignitaries do their thing

under burning sun

Welcome to country

recognise the ancestors

and dispossessed

Aussie flags and hats

sausages on the barbie

ladies gumboot toss

Egg and bacon rolls

lamingtons, hot dogs, ice creams

pies and sausage rolls

Some tea and damper

kids games, animal balloons

painted faces smile

Feast for the senses

music and art to enjoy

relax and unwind

Banjo Paterson

immortalised yet again

in bush poetry

Australia Day

celebration for some and

mourning for others

But here in this place

we welcome all, help each one

belong, find their place

Just One Day?

There will always be something that grabs me at Christmas, chases away the bah humbug, brings a lump to the throat, a tear to the eye. Usually nothing monumental. A warm greeting, a hug, a smile, an unexpected gesture. When all is said and done, once the gifts are opened and the enormity of the ongoing repast sends us into a food coma, what we really take away from Christmas Day that stays with us, are those precious moments of connection.

Sadly, not all have the privilege of such an experience, and those of us that do, often wonder why so much is crammed into one day, and why it has a habit of dissipating throughout the year. We can find ourselves spending the day with a strange assortment of family and friends, friends of friends, distant aunts and uncles who you vow can’t possibly be related to you, then there are those whose families live far away, or those who have no family at all. Connection is important.

Have been writing A Haiku a Day for just over a month, poems structured in the 5-7-5 syllabic form, little reflections on each day. There have been a few seasonal ones leading up to Christmas, moments captured in 3 lines, but today called for something more, so each verse is a haiku in itself.

CHRISTMAS DAY

Early wake up call

shouting, bouncing in the street

someone got a ball

Toast and vegemite

then banana, strawberry,

nectarine smoothie

Gather together

Jesus birth celebrated

smiles, hugs and laughter

 Yea Lord, we greet thee

born on this happy morning

everlasting gift

 Eyes filled with wonder

stars, kings, shepherds, gifts given

kids have show and tell

Bob the Builder tools

mermaid books, pretty dresses

braided hair in bows

Car Transformers, kites

magic tricks and Lego kits

great new toys for play

Little girl circle

entranced, inventing stories

secret fairy land

Thirty two degrees

feasting, drinking jollity

brings me to my knees.

Food coma sets in

while away the afternoon

dozing on the couch

Sun finally sets

breathe a sigh of relief but

keep the love alive.

International Community Banquet

Move over Masterchef and whoever’s kitchen thinks they rule. Tonight at Poatina’s monthly open to everyone Community Tea we had a feast to tempt the taste buds from all corners of the globe, a somewhat strange term I’ve always wondered about seeing as the planet isn’t a box. Maybe it comes from when the Earth was considered flat. Be that as it may, we were dazzled with dishes from so many countries I lost count.

Italy, China and India were well represented with several varieties of pasta and rice, noodles and pappadums. Then things got more specific. Moroccan lamb, Aussie wallaby stew and bush tucker warrigal greens, Kenyan/Ugandan kunde, Belgian stumpf (that one had me stumped), West African jollof rice, French quiche, Mediterranean baked fish, German Kartoffel Brei – mashed potato with all sorts of stuff including sauerkraut, very tasty, and the good old favourite Pommie bangers and mash.

Sitting around the cosy Chalet open fire conversation was animated, bellies were satisfied, and then there was dessert. I lost track of what was on offer, but in amongst the trifle of Trifle was English bread and butter pudding, Indonesian Pisang Goreng – fried bananas, so yummy, German Thuringer Kirschkuchen, try ordering that at a restaurant. It’s a cherry cake, and very impressive too.

I slaved away in my kitchen all afternoon and dutifully made my national flags so no one would be confused about the inspiration for the dishes I created, but I think the consensus was that most of my contributions were somewhat dubious in their origin.

Ice from Iceland - a bucket of ice cubes

Greens from Greenland - a green tossed salad

French Dressing for the Greenland Greens

Roasted herb potatoes from Ireland – descendants of the one solitary potato that survived the blight of 1845 which marked the start of the Irish Potato Famine

Something cold from Chile – red jelly

And finally my one genuine offering from China – spring rolls served on a china platter made in China.

I had considered making Bombe Alaska, but figured that might have been stretching my culinary skills just a little too far.

Good Friday

Amazing the places your mind can travel to in the space of an hour or so. Poatina’s Good Friday service began at the village monument, revisiting the events leading up to Jesus’ arrest, mockery of a trial and sentencing. We followed the cross slowly up the hill, flanked by eucalypts and then the prominence of the mountain as we climbed higher, until the cross and all the pain it represents stood out in stark contrast to the beautiful autumn morning sunshine.

Arriving at last at a bare patch of ground on the bluff overlooking the valley, we stood in the warmth or sat on tree stumps as the events of the Easter story unfolded. Through readings, music, a moving re-enactment of Mary Magdalene’s grief, a poignant drama depicting the enormous impact of individual forgiveness, and sharing the symbols of bread dipped in wine, a whole range of feelings were experienced.

We were asked to reflect on what we were thinking as we followed the cross up the hill. I sent myself back two centuries to imagine what I might have done on that day, and it was interesting to admit that I think I would have been cowering in the shadows of the doorways as the crucifixion procession slowly wound its way through the city and up Golgotha’s hill. The very nature of the spectacle and the mob mentality would have been a magnetic drawcard, but I wonder if I would have had the courage to identify with his followers, for I think fear would have been my predominant emotion.

Knowing the sequence of events that led to this historical moment is one thing, but to reflect on its impact on a personal level and feel blessed, confronted, thankful, and humbled in such a short space of time brought back the reality of the story on a human level.

The enriching time together as a small community made the gathering for tea and coffee and hot cross buns afterwards that much sweeter.

YOU WANT A WHAT?...A BROOM?

Joseph headed on boldly down the main street of the village, with Mary somewhat more tentative, slowing down for contractions in their quest to find a room for the night, not alone mind you, but with angels, shepherds, kings and suitably robed local riff raff in tow as well as visitors who had dropped in during the afternoon for Poatina’s first Christmas market.

Their first attempt was thwarted by the deaf innkeeper who kept offering them a broom instead of a room, and responded to their request for somewhere to stay with an offer of hay. Amid constant miscommunication and much hilarity from onlookers, he directed them across the road to the motel, so the weary travellers headed off with a glimmer of hope.

Paying more attention to the constantly ringing phone than their plight, the motel manager was justifiably booed and jeered by the crowd as he turned Mary and Joseph away and sent them packing to the stable on the village green. With more puffing and panting from Mary, they finally arrived at their destination and miraculously produced a baby in the fastest labour ever witnessed under trying circumstances. Not exactly much privacy in an open stable.

With the resident sheep bleating in all the right places, the angels and shepherds did their bit, the kings came bearing gifts of coffee, Avon perfume and Old Spice, and the happy family courtesy of Luke & Ali & little Aimee beamed happily throughout.

Traditions are something we consider as having been around for generations, sometimes centuries, events and rituals instigated to serve us as we attempt to express our personal beliefs as well as our communal life together.

They have the power to define us, to help us express who we are as people and communities and nations. Unfortunately, they can also confine us, constricting us into rigid systems of behaviour which over time feel alien to who we are and how we want to be seen. At such times we often find ourselves prevailing against these traditions, rejecting them, but at the same time feeling unable to replace them with something more meaningful.

Somewhere along the way a tradition has a starting point, and for this little village in the heart of Tasmania our annual Advent Pageant, complete with Aussie barbecue and market and loads of humour as the Christmas story is narrated and re-enacted, is one of the year’s highlights. It has become part of Poatina’s “story,” an event which places Christ at the heart of village life, a tradition which actually liberates people to cast off their daily persona, dress up, laugh and enjoy the company of others while hearing once again of the birth of Jesus.

As Christmas Day approaches and the machinery of getting everything done in time goes into overdrive, I find it helpful to reflect on the experience of Mary and Joseph’s epic journey and struggle to bring their child into the world in far from ideal circumstances. We can make Christmas so complicated, where really it should be so simple. Recognising Christ’s birth for what it is…God’s gift to us.

RECYCLING AN ANCHOR

Never being one to turn up my nose at someone else’s cast offs, and an advocate of recycling long before it was deemed fashionable or ecologically friendly or simply necessary in order for the planet to survive, I’ve trawled markets, fetes, garage sales, roadside cleanups and second hand shops finding most of what I need over the years.

Right now I am relishing the loan of a computer monitor to replace mine which has been glaring pink at me on and off for quite some time, more on than off to the extent I’ve had very little interaction with the ‘pooter lately. Emails have gone unanswered, no internet browsing, only the bare essentials attempted, so my workmate’s fortune in now having a laptop means I have inherited his 15” monitor until I can resurrect mine.

Mind you, I did have to crawl on my hands and knees and drag the thing from the front door to the study on the front door mat, there was no way I was going to be able to pick up what was definitely big and heavy enough to be used as a boat anchor. I did manage to get it from the floor to the desk though, just, and as is obvious I am back clacking mindlessly away on the keyboard.

Doesn’t take much to keep me happy. I’ve managed to prolong the life of one little monitor and save it from being added to the heap of discarded paraphernalia in the computer graveyard. So much of what we manufacture and consume becomes obsolete almost as fast as it comes off the end of the assembly line, I guess that’s what keeps the economy ticking along and the advertising agencies in business.

Anyway, for this little camper I’m happy with my boat anchor, and if I need to write something important when I’m not actually in front of the computer, well, then I’ll just have to find a piece of paper, the laptop can wait.

CONTAGION, A CAR CRASH, A CONSTITUTION, AND CONFERENCE

Early Spring is known for its turbulent weather here in Tassie. This time last year we were without an entire section of roof on the motel in our village following probably the biggest storm we had experienced in the sixteen years I’ve lived here. This year though the winds have been a little kinder, but dramas of another kind marked this first month of spring.

My granddaughter Bella is a devotee of all things pink, but scarlet does not fit in that category. Looked like she was coming down with the flu right at the start of her recent school holidays, until a rash appeared, so off to the doc, whose quick diagnosis of scarlet fever courtesy of the coated bright pink tongue meant a trip to the hospital was also on the agenda.

Armed with an arsenal of antibiotics and rehydration supplies they managed to avoid a hospital stay and any procedures Bella definitely didn’t want, and she eventually recovered from an illness I had associated with such times as the Middle Ages and the Industrial Revolution when people used to drop like flies due to lack of medical treatment.

Not to be outdone my son Kris chose the first day of Fusion’s annual conference to miss a sharp turn on a narrow country road in the dark in the rain, and came a cropper through the fence over the ditch and into the bank on the other side (the dirt variety, not the sort with money). His first accident in almost twenty years of driving, his greatest concern was for their dog who went from the back seat to the front in rather rude fashion, but apart from some nasty bruising from the seat belt, he was none the worse for wear, albeit somewhat shaken and stirred.

Poor old Stirling, the car that is, has definitely seen its last ride, and was duly driven into the sunset the next day on the back of a trailer.

Which brings me to the conference itself, a time when the wider family of the community organisation I have worked with for many years get together to share what has happened over the past year and look forward to what is next on the agenda. This year was somewhat different. It was obvious that in the past couple of years while we have had two different leadership structures, we have also needed to reexamine the roles and expectations of our leadership, not only to make life more manageable for the people in those roles, but to see our work flourish as we go about the business of working for transformation in local communities.

It was an interesting exercise to say the least, and one not taken lightly, as we really had to go back to grass roots and wrestle with who we are as a movement, what are we about, and how do we work into the future in such a way that we all get there in one piece, and none are left behind. It was great to see resolution come over a period of days as a new constitution was brought into being and a new Board of Trustees elected.

Maintaining a sustainable lifestyle is not a simple thing in this complex world we find ourselves, and when those we love are sick, injured or hurting the tendency when we have so much on our own plate can sometimes be to distance ourselves from the problem rather than lending a hand. Fortunately, and I do mean fortunately, challenges staring us right in the face are much better dealt with than avoided. Caring for those who need us, and sharing the burden instead of expecting someone else to do it all brings its own rewards.

BATTLEFIELDS BIG AND SMALL

The main battlefield for good is not the open ground of the public arena, but the small clearing of each heart. Yann Martel – Life of Pi

Have had this quote on my fridge for several years, a constant reminder that even in the light of huge conflicts being waged around the world, we all still have to face inner battles on a daily basis in order to face the world with any sort of integrity.

Prior to the presidential election in Nigeria on April 16 three nationally recognised youth leaders appeared on Nigerian television praising the country’s young people for their exemplary conduct during the parliamentary elections the previous week. One we know of who is part of the national youth monitoring team for the elections appealed to young people to not get caught up in any potential violent activity which might be instigated by politicians intent on their own agenda rather than working towards cohesion and progress within Nigeria.

With high hopes for a positive outcome from the election, everything turned on its head within two days as incumbent president Goodluck Jonathan’s main rival Mohammadu Buhari rejected the outcome of the election. In almost no time at all violence erupted, with the political animosity taking on a religious dimension, as Muslim supporters of Buhari went on a rampage burning cars, buildings, churches and pursuing Christian supporters of Goodluck Jonathan in what they declared a holy war.

In the midst of all this our friend who has a deep love for his people and seeks to build community in villages and towns and care for those who are marginalized, was in a dire situation. In the three days and nights it took before troops arrived to restore peace, he and other Christians feared for their lives as young people were sought out and killed. Despite his experience in community and youth work he found his core values challenged, a very confronting experience for him. I’ll let him tell it in his own words.

During that period I was very annoyed, I was filled with hatred and vengeance, I had wanted to kill any Moslem on sight. I kept asking the question: what wrong did we do? Is it a crime to be a Christian in a secular state like Nigeria? The innocent people that were killed what was their crime?

But I asked myself the tough question: what will Christ want me to do? He wants me to be a peacemaker. He was innocent but was declared guilty and sentenced to death. I have put the past incidents behind me. I have come to look at this from the perspective that this trouble was caused by people who don’t want Nigeria as a country to move forward. I have forgiven them personally and have looked at what steps to take towards reconciliation and National healing.

It will take a long time for things to return to normal…I don’t know what I am feeling right now but we’ve got to be strong. Please pray for us as we look at ways to bring lasting peace, reconciliation, and development in Nigeria.

To see gains in community work go backwards, to see the Cholera Relief Effort come to a grinding halt after the recent cholera outbreak, to see relationships and networks fractured, would make it easy for many to throw up their hands and walk away and leave the mess to someone else. But our mate is not giving up. The community looks to him for leadership, and despite his feelings of inadequacy in the light of the riots and the task ahead of bringing healing and a lasting peace, he is not backing away.

To confront the dilemma of choosing to care for those who only days before had you literally in their sights, is no small thing. I can only wonder what my choice would be if my life was threatened. Finding the right response in such a situation is to embark on a minefield, no pun intended, but to deal with the myriad conflicting emotions and values and overpowering survival instinct, having to make decisions with little or no warning, I’m certainly not one who’s going to judge the actions of another under such duress.

Most of us will never have to make such a decision, but wherever we confront situations where our values are challenged, where injustice is staring us right in the face, how are we going to respond? How am I going to respond? I can wax lyrical about what I think I might do, but unless I’ve really done the work on the inside that gives me a solid foundation from which to live, the positive outcomes I would like to see happen out there, in the public arena, will never happen.

Would I be able to put self interest aside and reply with a resounding “yes” to the tough questions like our mate in Nigeria faces? Confronting to say the least.

THE MULTICULTURAL CHOOKYARD

In the light of the relentless incidences of racial, ethnic and religious tension and persecution around the globe, I had to smile the other day when I dropped off my food scraps to my friend’s chooks. No sooner had the peelings hit the ground and the chooks were foraging, what should stroll up and join them for breakfast, in broad daylight no less, but a female possum.

I made a rather stern suggestion that she get lost, only to discover she is actually blind and pregnant and has been hanging round for months gleaning what she can from the pickings delivered by friends and neighbours. The chooks appear to tolerate her presence quite well, and don’t seem the least perturbed at sharing either their home or their food.

Presumably without the presence of a developed brain which can reason and calculate all manner of other clever things, here were two very disparate species content to live side by side, sharing space and resources without feeling the need to dominate or drive the other away. We humans on the other hand, with so much resource and knowledge and reasoning power, seem hell bent on erecting barriers, excluding what is unknown and therefore a supposed threat, challenging those who don’t see eye to eye with us, and avoiding those who look different, dress different, talk different, smell different, worship different, and whatever else it might be that prevents us seeing beyond what for us is an obstacle.

True, the possum was blind, but she was still very aware she was on someone else’s turf, and no doubt thankful for permission to stay without fear of eviction. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt us to be blind once in a while to the differences we see in others, and given the chance to rub shoulders a little more closely with those we feel awkward with or threatened by, we might actually discover in the process that real people are involved here, and that the awkwardness and suspicion they may also feel can be overcome and have a positive outcome.

And not just tolerance of each other, but a better understanding and a willingness to be open to something and someone outside our normal sphere of what is comfortable.

To steal a line from Elvis, we can’t go on together with suspicious minds. And another from the Bible, where the way a nation and its people treat their widows, orphans and aliens is the measure by which they are judged. It doesn't take much to extrapolate that into the current equivalent of widows, single parents, homeless kids, neglected kids, refugees, victims of every persuasion.

If a few chooks can take a blind pregnant possum under their wing, then surely we're capable of the same.

OUT OF THE ASHES - PART 2

Oh how I love the “specials” table at Birchalls in Launceston, my most frequented destination when I’m running low on reading material. I picked up another gem recently, I am Fifteen and I Do not want to Die by Christine Arnothy. Born in Hungary in 1930, this first novel by Arnothy chronicles her experiences as a fifteen year old during the siege of Budapest in the dying months of the Second World War, and the journey over the ensuing years to find freedom and a new life.

With Budapest occupied by the Germans, and with Russian soldiers encircling the city, the resulting barrage from both sides left the city in ruins and tens of thousands dead. Retreating to the basement of their apartment building, Christine spent several months with her family in what had been the coal scullery, while other occupants of the building created space for themselves in the dark, cramped conditions, hoping and praying that their makeshift haven would stay intact as the bombs rained down, taking out several apartments above them.

I often struggle to read biographies and autobiographies, and even memoirs can be a bit dry, but Arnothy’s account of those turbulent years in her life is written with such poignancy that you have no difficulty seeing through her eyes the horror and brutality of war, as well as a young girl’s dreams for a future where such despair and destruction can be replaced with hope.

Thrust into living together in the basement, the residents find they have to rely on each other for their survival, and surrounded by this mixture of people Christine finds solace in writing, recording her observations of how each react to their privations and destitute circumstances. Managing to escape Budapest with her parents, Christine spends the next three years in rural Hungary, then despite the war having ended, they finally take the arduous journey into Austria as refugees, crossing frontiers with no identity papers, risking detention and deportation.

Christine’s dream destination is France, having long harboured a love of France and what she imagines life there would be like. Succeeding in 1949 to leave Vienna, her dreams are dashed as she spends the next years in virtual poverty in Paris, scratching out a living while dreaming of being a writer, finding eventual refuge with her young husband and newly born daughter in Belgium.

The publication of I am Fifteen and I Do not want to Die when she was just twenty four years old thrust her into the limelight, earning her accolades worldwide for what was regarded a masterpiece of war literature. Sponsored by the French daily newspaper Le Parisien Libere, she was awarded Le Grand Prix Verite in 1956 (The Grand Prize for Truth).

What amazed me throughout was her belief that there was more to her life than the tragic events of war. Not to be defined by it or overcome by fear, danger, deprivation, starvation, and the stark reminder of the images of war in her dreams and memories, the little flame of hope that a future beckoned always flickered, however small.

With my thoughts recently concentrating on the numerous natural disasters occurring both here in Australia and overseas, I have the utmost admiration for those who have had to literally pick themselves up out of the ashes and ruins of what was once their life, to forge a whole new one.

Where do you go for help? Where does one’s identity go when faced with such an overwhelming task? There are those who are so traumatised they cannot face even the simplest task, and that is quite understandable, whereas others seem to be able to just roll up their sleeves and get on with it. Undoubtedly, even for them there’s a lot more going on under the surface than they might let on. Disasters can bring out both the best and worst in people, so to see others not touched by tragedy going out of their way to help those affected make a new start and get some sort of normality back into their life, keeps that faint light of hope burning.

Christine’s flight from Hungary to what her family believed would be a life of freedom and safety has its present day sequel. In no matter what corner of the globe, every violent conflict produces its share of refugees, ordinary people thrown into extraordinary circumstances. As if that experience isn’t traumatic enough, they then often have to battle for years before being able to reclaim their lives and start a new life in a foreign country where unfortunately many feel isolated and unwanted.

Like the tee shirt says, How far would you go to save your child’s life?

I know I don’t want to be the one to snuff out someone else’s flickering candle.