'ALIENS' ARE PEOPLE TOO

Have just finished an interesting novel, The Air we Breathe by Andrea Barrett. Set almost a century ago in a tuberculosis sanatorium in the Adirondack Mountain region in the US, close to the border with Canada, the patients feel far removed from the events of the First World War in Europe. However, things begin to change in this rural community when President Wilson brings the US into the war in 1917.

One of the patients, whose friend’s son dies as a result of being gassed on the battlefront in Europe, joins the local branch of the American Protective League and takes on what he believes is his duty to keep a watchful eye on all German nationals living in the region. The parallel to the bulletins aired some years ago in the Australian media about things to look out for which might arouse suspicion of terrorist activity on home soil were quite striking. Too easily, the mindset can become one of suspicion, distrust, blame, doubt, expecting the worst, pigeon holing people because of their race, religion or cultural practices, assuming their affiliation and behaviour will go against our national interest.

I’m all for being diligent and I wouldn’t want our defence forces and security agencies to assume there are no credible threats out there to our country’s national security. For me though, if I operated off that sort of mindset I think I’d go crazy. If you looked hard enough you could probably find likely suspects anywhere, under every rock, in every workplace, lurking in every corner and under every streetlamp. So how do you walk the fine line between good sense and hypersensitivity?

In times of war, internment camps have been full of foreign nationals, herded up and isolated from the general population regardless of whether they are a threat or not, often in diabolical conditions. These people became as much ‘prisoners of war’ in the country in which they chose to live, as those captured on foreign soil in the midst of battle.

With asylum seekers now fleeing the violence and persecution of their homelands searching for a spot somewhere, anywhere on the planet they can feel safe and make a new start, Australia has become a destination for many. Whether going through the correct channels or attempting to enter the country ‘illegally’, the promise of what the Land of Oz offers can sometimes be a long time coming for those lingering in detention centres, sometimes for years. They pretty much equate to the internment camps of the past, people groups fenced off and isolated, hoping against all hope their stories of horror will be believed and that those in authority will eventually allow them entry to a new country and a new life.

With the major parties on the election trail ensuring they will “stop the boats”, who speaks up for those in the interminable queues? I’m no strategist or formulator of foreign policies, but it’s obvious national security needs to go hand in hand with showing compassion and providing sanctuary for displaced refugees. Somewhere in there the humanity of the whole predicament has to be paramount.

Justice, mercy and compassion are central to the Christian message, and should likewise be central to any nation‘s dealings with those who are vulnerable. More than a few centuries ago the prophet Jeremiah spoke out to those in authority in a similar vein, reflecting how a nation’s character can be seen in the light of how it responds to the needs of its widows, orphans and aliens. You could easily include today single parents, homeless young people, those with disabilities, immigrants (both legal and illegal), and probably many more categories of vulnerable people who feel marginalised.

I would hate to think Australia would become a nation of closed doors, where we would be judged by others as a hard hearted people, interested first and foremost with the protection and preservation of our own lifestyle. If for some reason I faced a crisis of the proportions so many are dealing with on a daily basis right around the world, I would like to think there would be someone somewhere with open arms only too ready to provide the physical and emotional support such a situation requires.

Surely it doesn’t have to be that hard.

FIZZY PASTA, DINNER DISASTER

Left work early, eight people coming for dinner, and I still had to clean up after the second coat of paint completed last night. The offending dodgy wall is passable for the moment, but only just, so think I’ll still cover it up as soon as possible.

Anyway, back to today, clean up done, dishes done, herbed spuds in the oven, pizzas crisping up, fried rice on the go, now, how to cook the chicken curry pasta. With only two elements working on my stove, into the microwave it went, not the usual way I cook it. As everyone arrived with more casseroles in hand, the pasta was looking decidedly runny, not its normal creamy consistency.

Tossed it back in a saucepan, thought I’d hurry it along and thicken it with cornflour, grabbed the jar from the cupboard, mixed a spoonful with water and chucked it into the pan, whereupon the whole thing erupted like Vesuvius in a massive fizzy explosion.

Ooops, grabbed the jar of bi carb instead of cornflour didn’t I. Made for an interesting domestic science experiment as well as an entertaining start to the evening meal. Even ended up with a multi-coloured concoction, the bi carb somehow transferring the red out of the capsicum into some of the pasta, turning it orange.

Some of us were game to test a mouthful, but suffice to say, the neighbourhood chooks will be the ones feasting on that little culinary disaster for breakfast tomorrow.

SURROUNDED BY SAHARA SAND

When you live on your own, there are certain jobs which take on such unnecessary proportions in terms of size and difficulty that procrastination sets in so I’ve retreated to write this instead of facing the monster. I’m in the middle of redecorating, well not really redecorating, just painting walls, covering the bland dull whatever with a warm shade of ‘Sahara Sand.’

It’s in these moments it would be very handy having a bloke around with a bit more expertise than me. Not that I’m useless, have painted plenty of walls in my time, but this house is fifty years old, and one wall, of course the one staring you in the face as you walk in the front door, is the dodgiest one and not looking that great. Did the right thing, scraped out the cracks, sanded all the rough edges, spakfilled with great abandon, sanded again, and that’s when the problem became apparent. What I thought would result in a lovely smooth surface definitely wasn’t so, and bits of filler started to crumble off. Repeated whole process in bad spots to no avail, doesn’t look much better.

Too bad I thought, I’ll put the first coat of paint on and see what it looks like. Did that last night, and in the light of day, decided I’ll probably buy some wallpaper and make a feature of it to hide the disaster!!

Have watched many a Better Homes and Gardens over the years, and am always perplexed how a whole house can be transformed in a weekend or a backyard paved and landscaped in an afternoon, all with smiling faces and seeming ease. I think the DIY shows have a lot to answer for in terms of people’s frustration, for what looks so simple on TV can turn into the most monumental disaster lasting a lot longer than a weekend. I have to remind myself they are Tradies and have been doing this stuff for years, have exactly the right tool for the job which never seems to be in my shed, and are paid to make it look easy so we’ll all go running off to Bunnings to recreate what they inspired us to do.

Funny how the picture we have in our head, whether it be a renovation or a relationship, new career or job, holiday, fancy gadget, whatever it is, doesn’t always materialize. The promise of what was to come somehow takes on a different shape, and the initial enthusiasm and enchantment can quickly lose its gloss and we wonder why we staked so much on this new thing dangling in front of us.

So what do we do with the disappointment? I guess we could wallow in it, doesn’t achieve anything apart from state the obvious, and doesn’t move us forward. Somewhere in there we have to do a reality check and reassess what is achievable, adjust our expectations, acknowledge that sometimes the dream we first envisaged may not be so bad even if it does receive some adjustments here and there.

My friend Jen has a quote on her blog “Oh Happy Day” which I reckon is very sound advice at such times.

The most successful people are those who are good at Plan B – James Yorke

Oh well, second coat, here I come!

REVISITING BAD POETRY

Watched the movie Bright Star this afternoon, a dramatization of the life of the poet John Keats and his relationship with Fanny Braun. He was always my favourite during my high school and college years, and it prompted me to drag out my poetry file from the deep recesses of the filing cabinet.

I couldn’t find anything from my teenage years, I’d obviously culled them on a previous occasion for the drivel that they were, but some musings from my years at college and since were still there. What is it about those formative years that drives us to write poems and songs, pouring out our hearts on to the page as we deal with lost love, lost hope and lost dreams. All that teenage angst, burgeoning hormones, and attempting to find where we fit in this world with all its complexities, makes a prolific breeding ground for poetry and song writing.

Even though I can see what I was trying to convey, almost all my attempts now I read them again are clumsy and ill formed. They didn’t succeed then, and another look hasn’t improved them, but somehow I find it hard to part with them. I love words, playing with them, rearranging them, but as Keats in the movie states (courtesy of the scriptwriter) If poetry does not come as naturally as leaves to a tree, then it had better not come at all.

I only have a few lines here and there, snippets from five poems, which bring any measure of satisfaction.

How bitter sweet

This love – hate be

Your greatest friend

Your enemy.

With seeming ease

and fearful skill

The potter moulds me to his will

Little bird

why aren’t you singing

Do you hurt somewhere

but cannot tell?

Sun that warms

my upturned face

Throws its rays

upon the child

snivelling in the dirt.

No warmth there.

Meaty hand beats the pulpit

Wrings the pages of The Book.

Reads in tones of condemnation

Lest his listless congregation

Be content to sit and look.

Looking at the dates on the poems, I obviously gave up a long time ago, and probably a good thing. And what of understanding the poetry of others, a pursuit loved by some but despised by most. Dissecting the words penned by someone several hundred years ago was never my favourite part of English Literature, and a process I never found terribly illuminating. It didn’t really add to my appreciation of the poet’s thoughts or their skill in imparting them, but rather detracted from the whole experience of immersing yourself in this mysterious world conjured by the poet magician.

I’ll leave it to Keats (via the movie scriptwriter again) to put it very succinctly.

A poem needs understanding through the senses. The point of diving in a lake is not immediately to swim to the shore, but to be in the lake, to luxuriate in the sensation of water. You do not work the lake out. It is an experience beyond thought.

7 YEARS ON

Today marks one of those anniversaries which bring bitter sweet memories. Seven years ago my husband Bob died following an eighteen month journey with a brain tumour. I say journey rather than battle, for from the outset it didn’t feel like we were dealing with an enemy which had to be defeated. True, we would’ve preferred a favourable outcome, but the reality and severity of his diagnosis brought with it a sense of preparedness to accept what the future held, no matter what, entrusting ourselves to God ‘s love and care.

Some may see that as defeatist, giving up and giving in to the inevitable, but for us it was a time where we didn’t dwell on the past or fear the future, but where we lived each day, enjoying the many good moments found in the midst of the challenges which increasingly came our way as his condition deteriorated. Radiation and chemotherapy bought us time, time which granted us the opportunity to see life from a different perspective. Bob got a lot of satisfaction out of his work both as a lecturer in theology, sociology and psychology, and as a graphic designer, but from the moment the tumour was diagnosed all that was taken away.

Instead of regretting what was lost, he had an amazing acceptance of the situation, his only concern being the burden it was going to put on others who would have to pick up the pieces and stretch themselves to cover his responsibilities. He had a deep love for so many, but this experience cemented that. Too many of us define ourselves in terms of what we do, and as important as the work is and no matter how much we love it, we concluded that when it comes down to it, it's our relationships which are really precious.

Many close friends found his illness difficult to come to terms with, believing he still had so much to offer, but his ministry didn't come to an end with his withdrawal from active work. It simply took on a different form. I think his illness prompted people to stop and reflect, to reassess what's really important. I've kept every letter, card and email since he first became ill, and each one is a testament to how much Bob was loved, how much he touched people's lives, how much he challenged them to discover who they were meant to be.

As I wrote in my journal after the diagnosis was confirmed, “Strange to feel so calm. Have sometimes wondered in the past how I would react if we were faced with such a challenge. To now find ourselves in this situation, it's lovely to know there is no need to despair”.

Bob was always an avid reader and writer, and very early in his illness he asked me to write down his thoughts while he could still get them straight. I included them in his eulogy on what was a remarkable day in our community for laying him to rest. I’ll let him have the final word.

“Am I dying?

I think it's pretty clear my life is coming to an end, barring miracles, and miracles are always God's choice. But the fascinating thing for me is I think all of life is a miracle.

Life has been just so full, so rich.

All across the world there are little kids who died today without food, with AIDS, through war, all innocent. How pathetic it would be to grumble that I'm dying young at 54.

Sure, I would rather be around to see my kids grow up, my grandkids grow up, to see the eventual outcome of Fusion's ministry. I'd love to be with my wife for what we thought would last until we grew old together, but I can be nothing but thankful for what's been given, and enjoy it.

It's strange to actually face dying. Part of me for months has felt like I might not live much longer. I don't know why, I just sort of knew. I'm not finished. I'm still learning and growing, and I know God has some lessons for me for this time. You just see things a little clearer or something.

I'm sorry I was such a workaholic. I wish I'd loved people more.

Inside, my heart still sings. My child sings because I met Jesus along the way, and through His family I got to grow enough to see what was important.

We're all aware of our selfishness, our self indulgence, but there's also, when you stop and think about it, a sense of joy and love that's at the core of who we are.

I'm looking forward to discovering what the after life is all about. You only get one opportunity, well, most of us anyway, and eventually it'll be revealed to us all. The funny thing is, we all think it's so far off, when really it's not far away at all, and we have the whole of eternity to appreciate it all.

So God is asking me, it seems, to accept His wish that I get there earlier than some of you, but it will only be a very short phase from then until we're together. That's what we need to trust. That's why we need to live our whole lives fully.

I don't think I'll miss you. I think there'll be too much going on. The pain for me is identification with your pain in losing someone you care about, but it's only for a little while.

Trust that.

Love, Bob”

424,424 and still counting

Two and a half years ago I stopped on the side of the road to take a photo of the odometer in my trusty 1989 Mazda MX6 Turbo. I’d been keeping my eye on it and was hoping I wouldn’t be in a situation where I couldn’t pull over to record the ticking over of 400,000 km.

Heading to the auto electrician the other day for a minor running repair something compelled me to glance it again, and sure enough another milestone ticked over. For 21 years this little red engine has been humming along, which for a modern car is getting a bit long in the tooth, but after 424,424 km she’s still doing the right thing, getting me from A to B with minimal maintenance.

Purchased in 2000, and the 8^th in a long line of Mazdas lovingly owned over the last forty years, she defies the odds, maintaining her looks and performance despite the passing of the years and the many revolutions of her engine and wheels. In the same way we talk about “dog years,” I wonder how old that would make her in human terms.

I don’t neglect her. She gets the bare essentials, regular oil changes and maintenance of all fluid levels, new tyres when needed, a spit and polish about three times a year, and despite the fact she doesn’t get the treatment she really deserves at this time in her life, she still serves me well.

For many of us, as the years pass and we also start to get a bit long in the tooth, we begin to see the signs of ageing, and the effects of only maintaining ourselves with the bare minimum. The physical side is the most obvious. I once rarely set foot inside a chemist, now I have my regular prescriptions which help keep my insides humming along, and I’m reminded of the importance of a healthy diet and exercise as the body starts to let me down in one way or another.

Emotional maintenance is not quite so obvious, but neglect this one by isolating yourself and denying yourself the interpersonal connections and creative outlets which bring affirmation and fulfillment, it’s not long before you start to shrivel up on the inside.

And what of spiritual maintenance, the one part of our nature most often neglected. We motor along on our own resources much of the time, but when situations right out of left field, or things beyond our control hit us full on, we can be found floundering if our spirits are starved of nourishment. For me, my relationship with God keeps me grounded, knowing that as huge as the Universe is, the creator of it cares about me personally. External circumstances can bring emotional stress, but being anchored spiritually gives you the means to control how you respond in those moments.

So, despite the fact Julia Gillard might prefer I surrendered my little Mazda in exchange for $2000 towards something more modern, I think we’ll be growing old gracefully together for quite some time yet. We’re both getting on, but with the right amount of love and care, there’s still a few miles left in both of us.

Where's the Refreshment Stand?

Starting to run out of steam, blog entries are getting farther apart, not feeling particularly creative lately. I guess I could blame the Tour de France and lack of sleep, though I missed all last night’s drama with Andy Schleck losing the yellow jersey to Contador as I just had to get some sleep after watching the whole stage the night before.

Several years ago a friend gave me one of those desk calendars you flick over for a daily inspirational thought. Depending on what mood you’re in they can give you a kick start as you head into a new day, but they can also remind you of how far away you are from where you’d like to be. Sometimes they can seem so trite they feel downright patronising, wrapping life up into a neat little package which bears no resemblance to what you have to manage both internally and externally.

Mine has been sitting on February 9 for a long time, for the message I feel is quite profound.

Don’t knock the benefits of relaxation. A refreshed soul can be a truly creative soul, and a truly creative soul is a productive soul.

I’ve never been one to shirk my work responsibilities, but so many of us have a tendency to knock ourselves out working, to the detriment of the equilibrium of our body, soul and spirit. What does it really mean to relax? Simply stopping work doesn’t guarantee relaxation will automatically kick in. Many people feel at a loose end when they go on holiday, and even weekends can bring their own stresses as the structure of a normal working day is taken away.

Unwinding in front of the square box can be fine for a while, but being passive doesn’t do it for me. I need to be actively engaged in something to come to a point where I get a new lease of life. I’m not arty or crafty or particularly skilled at anything much, but reading a good book can transport me to another world. I might be curled up on the couch, but my mind is active and my emotions engaged. Walking is a great tonic for clearing the head; making the effort is usually the hardest part, for once I get out there I wonder why I don’t do it more often. Walking in the bush is even better, increases my appreciation for the wonders of creation.

Surprisingly, a day’s hard work can actually be more refreshing than lying on the couch watching movies. Flexing the muscles and chopping and stacking firewood, or going for broke weeding and cleaning up the yard, can give me a great sense of achievement, and in the process the cares of the day get relegated to the back burner where they assume their proper place amongst the other insignificant things crowding my mind. I might be exhausted physically, but I come alive in the challenge.

Walking 18 holes and chasing a little white ball does it for some. Others travel, dance, paint, build, fish, care for kids, sing, ride bikes, act, restore old cars, climb mountains, draw, write, collect coins and stamps, garden, knit, sew, design, the list is endless.

Whatever it is, it will be those things which go to the core of our being and bring joy and a sense of fulfilment that will get our creative juices going, and when we’re firing on all cylinders, look out. The only restrictions will be those we put on ourselves.