Sacred Spaces

During our recent trip to New Zealand, my Dearly Beloved and I were fortunate enough to encounter a series of beautiful cathedrals and churches, thanks to the fact that many NZ cities have done a lot of work in retaining and restoring their colonial architectural heritage. And thanks to my Dearly Beloved being a wiz with the digital camera, I can now share some of these wonderful sacred spaces with you.

Rotorua

St Faith's Anglican Church, constructed in its present form in 1910, is part of the Ohinemutu Maori village complex in Rotorua. It sits on the edge of a square within the village that also houses a traditional Maori meeting hall, as well as beautiful examples of Maori wood carvings.

Photography was not permitted inside the church, however, I can tell you that it was stunningly beautiful. Maori wood carvings and weavings were combined with stain glass windows to produce a wonderfully peaceful and reverential worship space.

Wellington

The capital of New Zealand impressed us with its fine old colonial architecture, and that fact that many splendid old buildings have been given new leases of life. However, as we were only in Wellington overnight before heading down to the South Island, we weren't able to really investigate the churches of this picturesque city (we were especially sad that we missed out on seeing Old St Paul's cathedral, which is reputed to be absolutely splendid).

However, near the hotel where we were staying was a rather impressive looking Presbyterian church. We didn't go in as it was late in the evening and we thought in any event that it might be closed, however, I think you'll agree from this exterior shot that it looks as though it may have been worth investigating had we the chance to do so.

Nelson

Apart from the fact that Nelson is a charming town with a beautifully preserved central business district, it boasts one of the most magnificent cathedrals I have seen anywhere. Christ Church cathedral sits on a hill overlooking the CBD; it was the third church to be constructed at its location, and took 40 years from 1925 to build. The first thing you notice about the cathedral, aside from its imposing location, is its unusual spire:

The interior is possessed of a stark, ethereal beauty: there is an absolute minimum of architectural embellishment, nor do the columns create the cluttered, almost claustrophobic atmosphere that exists in some cathedrals. And there is a real sense of presence in this church, in that one feels as though they are coming into an encounter with both the immanence and the transcendence of God.

But the real glory of Christ Church cathedral is its stain glass windows. So I'll shut up now and let the pictures do the talking:

All I can say is that I truly felt as though I had been in a house of God.

Dunedin

Dunedin is such a treasure trove of historic buildings that it is impossible to see them all in one trip. Consequently, we missed out on seeing the First Church and Knox Church (both designed by the Melbourne architect R A Lawson), as well as other landmarks such as Lanarch Castle.

But we did manage to get a look at St Joseph's cathedral:

as well as St Paul's cathedral, which sits in the very heart of this historic city:

Like Nelson's Christ Church cathedral, St Paul's in Dunedin was a place of simple, yet powerful, beauty, projecting an atmosphere of space and peace that was at once both strikingly reverential and yet intimately engaging. Like Dunedin, there was a real sense of both the immanence and transcendence of God:


And also like Dunedin, the stain glass windows were beautiful and evocative. Just up the road from the cathedral was a smaller Anglican church that we had been informed was worth visiting. Unfortunately, it was closed for renovations, which was a pity given the promise indicated by the exterior:

Christchurch

Christchurch is simply too beautiful for words, with a wealth of historic buildings all within easy walking distance of one another, and focused around Cathedral Square in the heart of the city.

As the name suggests, the square is the location for Christ Church cathedral. Construction commenced in 1864, but due to various difficulties and delays, it was not until the early 1900's that the cathedral was completed.



I must confess that I found the atmosphere of this cathedral slightly oppressive. The ornate interior, in my mind, did not contrast favourably with the simple aesthetic of its counterparts in Dunedin and Nelson. It just struck me as a trifle overblown, indeed, as a distraction from worship, meditation, and prayer. But there was no denying that it was still a magnificent structure, and the stain glass windows were stunning:







Just to the south of the cathedral was the church of St Michael and All Angels. Erected in 1872, it is built in the revivalist Gothic style, and constructed entirely of timber. One of its design idiosyncrasies is a detached belfry, which is actually older than the church by more than a decade.



The interior of this church just has to be seen to be believed. The magnificence of the timber craftsmanship combines with the glorious stain glass windows to create a space that is at once powerfully beautiful and yet infused with an air of serene contemplativeness. Of especial significance is the traditional Maori treasure safe hung over the altar, in which consecrated but unused hosts are kept, a moving confluence of history and cultures.







So there you have it: a snapshot of our tour of some of New Zealand's sacred spaces. However, it is worth bearing in mind that, for many among the indigenous Maori population, the landscape itself is sacred. And as I post further updates displaying the beautiful New Zealand countryside, it should become apparent as to why this is the case.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Light (God's eldest daughter) is a principal beauty in building. (Thomas Fuller)

Vale, Connor

One of our much-loved dogs, Connor (pictured below, at right, with her sister Lucy), died yesterday.

My Dearly Beloved and I had noticed that she was a bit sluggish and lethargic on Monday; however, as she was still jumping up on the couch to sit next to us, and was not displaying any other outward signs or symptoms, we assumed she had a bit of a stomach bug, or maybe the canine equivalent of the common cold.

However, when we woke up on Tuesday morning, we discovered Connor had been sick overnight. We made an appointment with the local vet to see her in the afternoon, but weren't too worried as she just seemed lethargic and tired, and wasn't in any pain or distress or displaying any other outward symptoms.

She died, very suddenly, about midday. I had been keeping her under one of the ceiling fans as she always preferred being in slightly cooler spaces, with her bowl of water nearby, when Connor suddenly stood up and tried to go outside; she managed to totter a few steps then staggered. I put my arms around her to steady her; she just sighed softly, one long exhalation, and was gone.

Writers talk about the "light going out" of the eyes of the recently deceased, and of their expressions "going slack" - but they are wrong. The light didn't go out of Connor's eyes; they merely went dark. Nor is this being pedantic, for it was not a case of life "switching off"; life had simply departed. And her expression wasn't slack; on the contrary, it had softened, as though the animus, the being that had been the life of this creature had simply slipped the bonds of physicality with Connor's last breath. I can now see why the expression "gave up the ghost" came into existence; it was as though her very essence lifted out of her and drifted away.

Connor was a beautiful creature, loving and gentle and always glad to be around people. She loved being patted and was always very affectionate. Naturally, we were both very upset at her passing; even Lucy could tell there was something wrong and was agitated. How and why did Connor die? We don't know and probably never will, although it appears from what the vet has told us, and what we've been able to work out, that Connor did not die as a consequence of ingesting some poison or toxin. In any event, her death was swift and painless and she did not die alone. She died in my arms; there is some small comfort in that.

In our sadness, my Dearly Beloved and I offered (and still offer) the following prayer to God:

Lord of All Things:
gather unto Yourself this small life,
that in its being provided comfort and joy,
love and companionship;
knowing, as we do, that You love all human life,
so also do we trust that You love all life
that is Your creation;
and so, with that knowledge, and in that trust,
we commit this small life to You,
as it returns now to the cosmos from which it sprang.
In the name of Your Son, our Saviour Christ Jesus,
and through the power of Your Holy Spirit,
grant the being that was Connor peace and rest and happy hunting grounds.
Amen.

I believe that it is the ultimate destiny of all life to come into communion with God. What that communion might represent for non-human creatures, I do not know; but I do not believe it is reserved for humans alone. If that were the case, then all creation would be a hollow joke; but I do not believe that for an instant. And I do not believe the Lord of Light will abandon any part of creation to the finality of death.




Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside still waters; He restores my soul. He leads me in right paths, for His name's sake. Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I fear no evil; for You are with me; Your rod and staff - they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; and my cup overflows. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord my whole life long. (Psalm 23 - New Revised Standard Version).

We're Baaaaack!

Yes, it's true...my Dearly Beloved and I have returned safe and sound from our holiday to New Zealand. Three weeks ago, we set off to the Land of the Long White Cloud, initially spending seven days based at Rotorua - from which we explored the surrounding districts - before driving to Wellington, catching the ferry across Cook Strait, and travelling around the South Island for two weeks. We had an absolutely fantastic time, and I'll be posting details about particular aspects of the trip in the near future. For the nonce, this collection of "best of" bits will hopefully give you an insight into our time away...

Best Beer - Montieth's Black

I discovered this dark beer at the Lone Star Steakhouse in Wellington (see below), and was immediately won over. Lovers of Toohey's Old (and, yes, Yours Truly numbers among them) will immediately warm to the nutty flavour and smokey undertaste. A positive joy to drink ice-cold while relaxing in the shade on a peaceful summer's afternoon, with either a good book or the day's papers in easy reach.

Best Accommodation - Shades of Arrowtown

This delightful sanctuary is literally a stone's throw from the centre of historic Arrowtown, and consists of a series of cosy units set around a central lawn shaded by leafy old trees. A hedge screens the property from the outside world - not that you'd actually want to hide from the beautiful alpine scenery by which you're surrounded - and the general atmosphere is one of genteel colonial charm that doesn't lapse into hokiness or kitch. A true place of rest for the weary traveller.

Best New Location - Wellington and Nelson

A dead-heat between these two cities. Wellington, the capital of New Zealand, is located on the southern coast of the North Island. Nelson is situated on the north-west coast of the South Island. The heart of each city resides in a central business district that preserves the colonial architectural heritage without descending into pretentiousness or tourist-oriented cliche. Wellington features a number of splendidly preserved/restored buildings and churches, while Nelson is graced by a breath-taking cathedral, snug pubs, and agreeable eateries. Both are also picturesque cities, nestled between mountains and the sea.

Best Old Location - Arrowtown

As far as I was concerned, this was like meeting an old friend again after an absence of many years. I fell in love with Arrowtown the last time I was in New Zealand, largely because its location amid the magnificent Southern Alps and gentle charm reminded me of the Christmas trips to Bright (in the alpine region of Victoria) my family used to undertake when I was a child. I was delighted to discover that, unlike Bright, not much had changed. It is still a splendidly preserved mining town situated in a peaceful valley overshadowed by looming peaks. Of course, the place does cater for the tourist trade; but it has managed to retain its character and charm, and avoid become a cheerless tourist trap.

Best Restaurant - a) The Crazy Horse Steakhouse; b) The Stables

The Crazy Horse Steakhouse in Wellington (don't be fooled by the name: it's not a dodgy entertainment complex frequented by dishevelled men wearing long rain coats) is an elegant but relaxed restaurant located in the heart of Wellington's picturesque CBD. It's menu features superb cuts of prime steak nicely presented, a terrific wine list, and an even better beer menu, from which I discovered the dark liquid gold that is Monteith's Black. The Stables in Arrowtown is set within the grounds of a wonderfully well-preserved historic building, with a menu tending toward Mediterranean cuisine. Once again, the wine list is first class, and the desserts are the perfect compliment to a fantastic meal. Both are pricey, but well worth the capital outlay.

Most Interesting Restaurant - The Skyline Restaurant, Rotorua

As the name suggest, this eatery is located at the summit of one of the many precipitous hills overlooking Rotorua, reached by a scenic gondola ride. The menu comprises a four-course buffet, starting with soups, and running through seafood and main courses, before ending with dessert and coffee. The meal is complimented by comfortable surrounds, efficient staff, and spectacular views of Rotorua and surrounding districts. And don't be worried by the buffet format: this isn't one of those all-you-can-eat "family-style" joints where parents think they are abrogated from any responsibility for ensuring their children conduct themselves in a reasonably civilised manner; quite the opposite, in fact.

Best Cheap Eats - a) The Turkish Delight; b) Arrow Thai Foods

The Turkish Delight in Nelson is a simple, yet elegant, restaurant that serves real food in appropriately generous portions. The cuisine is unpretentious yet flavoursome, the menu expansive and inviting. You don't walk away from this establishment feeling in the least bit hungry, and the coffee is first rate. As you approach Arrow Thai Foods, located on the scenic banks of the banks of the Arrow River in Arrowtown, you are greeted by the delicious aroma of mixed spices redolent with the textures of all the different ingredients utilised in Thai cooking. And the treats to be had more than justify the olfactory promise. Add a solid wine list and the joys of eating outdoors in such a splendid locale, and you have a great dining experience at a cheap-as-chips price.

Best Pub - The Victorian Rose

Without a doubt, this hostelry in Nelson wins by a country mile. A "British" pub without the phony atmospherics or pretentious allusions to quaintness, the Victorian Rose combines nicely though unobtrusively preserved colonial architecture with a laid back mood, a great beer list, and basic but hearty pub food. The ideal environment in which to wet the whistle before heading off to dinner, or spend an idle hour or two lingering over a good brew and a book.

Best Natural Phenomenon (North Island) - The Waitapo Thermal Pools

This truly astonishing series of thermal pools just south of Rotorua makes you realise just how active the earth is, and just how contingent on the volcanic whims of our planet is the continuance of human life. From the multi-coloured thermal water pools with their billowing clouds of sulfurous steam and artist's palette of chemically induced colours, to the glooping mud holes with their acrid stench, this astonishing landscape has to be seen to be believed.

Best Natural Phenomenon (South Island) - Doubtful Sound

The Doubtful Sound cruise makes for a long but rewarding day. It starts with a pleasant cruise across Lake Manapouri, followed by a bus journey across the mountains (and remember, this is Fiordland, deep in the heart of the Southern Alps) replete with panoramic views, and ends with the cruise itself. The deep (and apparent) calm of the water in the Sound, the mountains that drop sheer into the fiord, the pristine silence of the wilderness, and the sheer isolation simply have to be experienced to be understood. Add sightings of dolphins and seals, and you have an excursion into one of the few areas left in the world that have remained relatively unspoiled by human contact. And best of all, you don't have to put up with the hordes of tourists to be found at other, better known, locations such as Milford Sound.

Best Wine - Marlborough Savignon Blanc, 2004-2006 vintage

Any wine from the Marlborough region on the South Island is bound to be pretty good, however, we consistently kept encountering sav blancs of this vintage that were truly outstanding. The crispness of the wine was always underscored by a subtle taste of fruit, and both combined to produce a nicely balanced drop that was worth drinking regardless of the meal. Neither too acidic nor too mellow, this wine managed to be both refreshing and flavoursome, and added up to a great drinking experience.

Best Scenic Drive - Pickton to Westport, via Nelson.

This picturesque but challenging road took you along the spectacular northern coastland of the South Island, before plunging inland across the northernmost reaches of the Southern Alps until you emerged at the north-western coastline for an overnight stay in lovely Nelson. Next day you head inland again, striking once more up and into the mountains, across upland plateau, before descending down to Westport by the spectacular Buller Valley. Along the whole course of the journey, precipitous peaks loom overhead, by different turns reminding one of the Australian Alps, the Scottish Highlands, or even (in my Dearly Beloved's case) the mountains of the upper Yangtze River. The road is frequently narrow and rarely straight, the weather (like all mountain weather) eminently changeable, and the result is unforgettable.

Favourite NZ Curiosity - Chips 'n' Chinese

In both the North and South Islands, my Dearly Beloved and I were repeatedly struck by the frequency with which we encountered fast food stores that provided both Chinese food and fish 'n' chips. Everywhere we went, store signs would proclaim: FISH N CHIPS. HAMBURGERS. CHINESE MEALS. Huh? In Australia, you either go to the Chinese take-away, or you head to the fish 'n' chip shop. But apparently not in New Zealand. We started wondering what this could mean. Stir-fried chips? Sweet and sour potato cakes? Szechuan flake with black bean sauce? We also wondered what it must smell like in one of these establishments, the aroma of Chinese cooking competing with the scent of fried batter; but in the end, we decided it was best to just pass on by and allow this mystery to remain unexplored.

Best Walking City - Christchurch

Without a doubt, Christchurch takes the prize. Nelson and Wellington were close, but Christchurch won without the need for too much reflection. The sheer density of well-preserved historic buildings and churches, combined with multitudes of green, shady spaces and pleasant malls, made Christchurch ideal for a day's idle wandering and pleasant exploring. There was much to see and of which to take note, and it was all nicely snug and compact, meaning you didn't have to go out of your way, or board some ruinously expensive transfer coach for a dull trip to some distant locale. Everything was more or less there in the centre of town, and the centre of town was pretty close to everything else.

Well, that's it for now. As I said, only a taste of some of the more detailed posts to come. For the moment, I need to get my backpack unpacked, my clothes washed, and my bills paid. Also need to get my body-clock back in sync (funny how ten hours doesn't seem to affect me much, but two hours knocks me right out of kilter!).

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Travel, in the younger sort, is a part of education; in the elder, a part of experience. (Francis Bacon)

Summer Holidays

Well, folks, my particular airwave is going to fall silent for a while as I and my Dearly Beloved take a short break.

Hope you and yours have a restful and safe New Year, and I'll resume normal service shortly.

Peace and Light to you all.

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: A holiday is something that makes you feel good enough to go back to work, and poor enough so that you have to. (Rev. James Simpson)

A New Year Reflection

My buddy Mairmicate recently sent me this post from her blog.

As you can tell, she's quite angry. But she also makes a very good point: if Mary and Joseph arrived in Australia today, how would they be received? As persons seeking a safe haven - or as potential terrorists? Would they be treated with dignity and respect - or would they be treated as criminals who had to demonstrate their innocence before they received any consideration?

I know the issue of asylum seekers is a touchy one with many people, not least because various sections of our society have managed to create the impression that Australia is being "flooded" with refugees. Moreover, in the constant climate of fear that is the "War on Terror", anyone who is an "outsider" is treated with suspicion; as are those who argue for the humane reception and treatment of refugees. The walls have gone up; the "No Vacancies" sign is flashing in big red neon lights; and we are huddling behind our security apparatus, trembling with fear of we know not what.

Reading Mairmicate's post, however, it occurred to me that when Christ uttered the statement: "Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers, that you do unto me", he wasn't simply making an appeal that we deal with one another with dignity and respect - that appeal was made in the so-called Golden Rule. Rather, I think Christ was telling us in stark terms that God exists in solidarity with humanity; that God incarnate in Christ, who was born in humble circumstances, and who died in utterly appalling circumstances, was not simply a statement of manifestation, but was a radical declaration of unity between the human and the divine in the person of Jesus. God was saying to us: "You do not stand alone - I, also, stand with you." And not just with us, but in us, also.

And it seems to me that a necessary corollary of this declaration is that we must change the way we see other people. And, in this particular instance, when it comes to refugees, we must understand that, imprisoned in every single detention centre is not a potential terrorist, or queue jumper, or even asylum seeker; imprisoned in every one of those centres, behind the barbed wire, is Christ.

I pray that I may have the courage this new year to see Christ in all my fellow humans.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: When I was a child, it was simpler. You knew who They were, and where They were. Now it's different. We don't know who They are, or where They are, but we know They are out there. (George W Bush)

Warnie...Warnie...

As indicated in my earlier post, "The Art of Victory", my Dearly Beloved and I were fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of some friends' wonderful generosity, and scored a day watching the Third cricket Test between Australia and England from the Members Stand at the MCG.

I didn't get to see Shane Warne capture his 700th wicket in Test cricket (that happened on the first day), nor did I get to see him capture his 1000th international wicket (his Test and One Day International wickets combined), but I did get to see him in action, and in the context of an Australian victory in his last match at the 'G.

Warne is, as everyone knows, a controversial figure. Much of that controversy has been manufactured by the media's shameful invasion of Warne's private life, and by those odious individuals prepared to profit from our celebrity- and scandal-obsessed age. But much has also been generated by Warne himself. Like any flawed human being, he has done things that were thoughtless or stupid or downright crass. He has brought himself - and, it has been argued, the game of cricket - into disrepute on more than one occasion. No argument from me on that score.

But it is also undeniably true that Warne is certainly the greatest Australian cricketer ever, and arguably the greatest cricketer from any nation to have played the game. I do not posit that fact to excuse some of his less meritorious behaviour; I present it simply because it is the case. And it is a fact that exists independently of mere statistics and records.

Warne helped revitalise international cricket at a time when Test matches were considered dull and passe - indeed, when ODI's were thought to represent the totality of cricket's future. By utilising the hard-won art and skill of leg-spinning, Warne drew the attention of new generations of cricket lovers to the possibilities contained within the 5-day game. By approaching cricket with gusto and enthusiasm, he educated those inclined to dismiss Test cricket in its capacity for drama and tension. Most of all, Warne combined both flair and intelligence to effectively demonstrate that cricket could be both thoughtfully and entertainingly played.

True, Warne has sometimes let himself down on the cricket field as well as off, most notably when he got himself dismissed for 99 in the Test match at Perth against New Zealand some years ago. But those were occasional aberrations. As a cricketer, Warne was without peer, and Australia owes much of its success in the last 15 years to his once-in-a-generation talent.

And so it as fantastic to see Warne in action at the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Firstly, with a bat in his hand, which he wielded with wonderful aplomb to score a sprightly 40 not out. And then with the ball in his hand. He had to work a lot harder in the second English innings for his wickets than he had to do in their first dig; but eventually, he broke through, dazzling supporters, opponents, and team-mates alike with his skill. This was exemplified by the flipper he bowled to take the wicket of Sajid Mahmood. The flipper is a short-pitched ball which, because of the top-spin applied by the bowler as the ball leaves his hand, skids through at about ankle height to trap the batsman in front of the wicket, or which bowls him outright. It is a very difficult ball to deliver, and only the best can do it without any betraying change in their action, or without the ball simply sitting up to be dispatched by the batsman to the boundary. It is a ball with which Warne himself has had his problems; and yet, on this day, he produced the perfect specimen. A fitting tribute to both the cricketer and the occasion.

Warne has one more Test, in Sydney, to play before he bows out of the game altogether. But it was very special to see him in his last home Test; suitably, he was carried from the ground on the shoulders of his team-mates once the final English wicket fell, to the rapturous applause of the whole crowd of 80,000 people.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: A genius is any person who can re-wrap a shirt and not have any pins left over. (Dino Levi)

The Art of Victory

"Why are Australians such bad winners?"

My Dearly Beloved posed this question to me after we'd spent a day at the MCG watching the Australian cricket team wrap up the Fourth Test against England - courtesy of some tickets to the Members Stand provided by some wonderfully generous friends. The Australians won easily - indeed, the the English posted only modest scores in both their innings, and the Australians needed only to bat once; the subsequent victory to Australia by an innings and 99 runs was about as comfortable as any win at the first-class level gets.

What prompted my Dearly Beloved's question was not the understandable jubilation of the Australian players at their victory, or the generally celebratory nature of the crowd response to the game's outcome. Nor indeed was my Dearly Beloved disturbed by the mostly good-natured rivalry between the English and Australian fans, and the banter which this produced.

Instead, the question was prompted by the conduct of a single person: a woman sitting two rows behind us. Now, I'll admit that although I couldn't see this woman for most of the time, I was not well disposed toward her from the outset as she had a most unattractive voice: something akin to a bandsaw cutting through concrete. Hardly her fault, I'll grant you, but I did wonder as she gossipped to her friend through most of the day at the top of her voice why she had to be so loud. It was not as though the chanting which broke out at different times in various sections of the crowd made conversation impossible; and there were plenty of breaks in which there was neither cheering or chanting, and a quiet word with one's neighbour was perfectly possible. But the loudness and harshness of this woman's voice suggested some unattractive underlying personality trait; a suggestion that rose above simple bias by the content and manner of her conversation.

Although perhaps "conversation" is too generous a description. As I said, this woman's voice was quite loud, nor was its volume moderated in any way by her subject matter. And so she continued on with an almost embarrassing obliviousness to the sensitivities of others, dissecting the various scandals and other salacious affairs in which her friends, family, and acquaintances were at that time embroiled. I was neither interested in, nor did I want to know, who was having sex with whom, or who was in trouble with the Tax Office, or who was a bastard to work with. Not that I, or any one else within a considerable radius, had any say in the matter: this woman let us all know regardless. Moreover, she wasn't merely gossiping; she was engaging in what I call the "And then I said" mode of gossip. That is, every anecdote appeared to end with a cautionary sermon on how her sage advice in every matter had been ignored, with disastrous consequences. If only mere mortals had heeded her wisdom, all would have been well.

In other words, everything she said, and the way she said it, suggested she both had a smug, self-satisfied view of her own worth and wisdom, as well as taking an obvious delight in the misfortunes and foibles of others. Not the personality type to which I warm.

No, I was not well-disposed toward this woman. But what made my disposition less favourable was that, as the match (oh, yes, I was there to watch the cricket) drew closer to its inevitable conclusion - an easy Australian victory - this woman turned from gossip to bombarding those about her with disparaging comments about all things English. Every time an English player produced a good shot and scored runs, she would belittle their skill. Every time a wicket fell, or an English batsman had a near escape, she would laud the superiority of the Australians or suggest that it was only undeserved luck that had produced any English success in the past. Every time the English supporters tried to rally their side with chants or barracking, this woman observed with obvious relish that those same supporters would have 10,000 miles on their way back to England to contemplate their side's demise in this series.

Hence, my Dearly Beloved's question: "Why are Australians such bad winners?"

Now, don't get me wrong: I love Australia belting the Poms in the cricket as much as the next bloke. But what made this woman especially distasteful -aside from what her gossip revealed about her personality - was that her partisanship allowed for no acknowledgement of the merits of others. There was no sense of sportsmanship, of playing the game in a good spirit; that games, far from being one of many modes of developing the human spirit, were there only to be won. Moreover, not merely won, but won in such a way as to ensure the utter humiliation of the opposition.

Ultimately, however, what grated about this woman was the indication that she had no sense that cricket, afterall, is just a game. Granted, in the age of professional sports, it is a means of living for the players concerned; but this woman's response was one of excess, as though cricket, or any competitive sport in which Australia is involved, had a meaning and virtue in and of itself: namely, that Australia had to win, had to utterly thrash and humiliate the opposition, otherwise she would be lessened somehow, and life itself would be diminished. This woman had seemingly made an enormous emotional investment in Australia winning; such an investment, in fact, that there was simply no room for anything else.

Compare this attitude to an incident which occurred at the end of the Second Test when Australia last played England - in England, in 2005. The Australians had fallen agonisingly short of winning the game, a heartbreak rendered all the more wrenching because England had been well in control for most of the contest, and the Australian players had performed heroically well to get as close as they did. And yet, at the moment of triumph, one of the English players - Andrew Flintoff, who had been more responsible than most for the English victory - immediately went across to the disconsolate Australians to offer his congratulations for their efforts. There is a powerful photo of Flintoff on his haunches shaking the hand of the Australian player Brett Lee, one arm cast consolingly across Lee's shoulders, as Lee crouches, almost on his knees, sadly contemplating what might have been. It has been rightly lauded as the defining image of that particular series, because it speaks powerfully to the spirit in which the players conducted themselves: with determination to do their best and carry their team to victory, but in such a manner as left room for generosity and dignity and acknowledgement of the merit of others.

In that one instant, Flintoff conveyed a depth of spirit that the woman with the bandsaw voice seemed to lack entirely.

As for my Dearly Beloved's question, I am sure there are all sorts of sociological, psychological, and existential answers. The adoption of the "win at all costs" mentality; the importance which sport assumes in the lives of those who feel disempowered or disenfranchised; cultural cringe; anti-intellectualism; cultural arrogance; transferred compensation for personal feelings of inadequacy. And while all of these are undoubtedly true and accurate, it seems to me to be, ultimately, a question of spirit - and of the generosity of spirit. And it seems to me that the question of generosity of spirit offers us a clear choice: either we allow ourselves to enter into the lives of others, or we barricade our lives within the shell of our own being. If we do the former, we will expose ourselves to many misfortunes and setbacks; but we will be all the richer for the experience, and for the benefits which coming into contact with other lives brings. If we do the latter, we may very well be safe from the "slings and arrows of outrageous fortune", but our lives will be barren, empty, and always searching for some external source from which to find completion of our being.

Ultimately, beneath my dislike, I felt sorry for this woman; it seemed to me that she was entirely enclosed within herself, and could only find sustenance from the misfortunes of others, or from denigrating their efforts. Perhaps I am doing her an injustice, because I have only seen her within this one context. But it was a context that was powerful enough for me to conclude that, at the very least, her spirit of being was severely diminished or constricted. Afterall, if she conducted herself so spitefully in so trivial a context as a game of cricket, how did she conduct herself in important areas such as human relationships?

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: If a person cannot conduct themselves properly in trivial affairs, what hope is there that they will conduct themselves properly in important matters? (Confucius)

A Christmas Reflection

I have been reflecting about the "meaning" of Christmas. I realise this is a common occurrence at this time of year, with appeals to the "real meaning" of Christmas, and the implications of Christ's birth. Usually, these implications are interpreted in terms of goodwill, charity, compassion, or, on a slightly deeper level, of the common humanity shared by all persons and of the need to recognise this central unity over the divisions of race, culture, faith, or politics.

While I don't disagree with these interpretations, I have been reflecting on the meaning of Christmas with a view to going further in my exploration, to delving into the core of what is implied by the Christmas event.

It is widely known that the early Christian church was persecuted at different times and with differing degrees of severity during the Roman Empire (prior, that is, to the adoption of Christianity as the state religion of the Empire by the emperor Constantine). The common understanding is that this persecution was triggered by the Christians' refusal to participate in the state-sanctioned worship of emperors; by their convenience as scapegoats in times of political crisis or natural disaster; or as a consequence of misplaced rumours that Christians practiced cannibalism and/or gross sexual immorality. While this understanding is not without foundation, it does not articulate the deeper, more pervasive reason why early Christians attracted so much hostility.

This hostility had its origin in what is known as the "scandal of Christianity". This "scandal" arose from the Christian assertion that Jesus Christ was not just the Messiah anticipated by the Jewish faith, but was in fact God incarnate in human form; the Word, as is proclaimed in John's Gospel, made flesh. Now, the reason why this was so scandalous a notion arises from the prevailing view in the Mediterranean world at this time that the material world was inseparably divided from the spiritual world. According to this view, the world of "flesh" was corrupted, impure, and subject to decay and death; whereas the divine or supernatural realm - the world of the "spirit" - was pure, incorruptible, immortal and eternal. Thus, for Christians to suggest that, in the person of Jesus, God incarnated God's-self as a human being, was to suggest that the "pure" realm of the divine had become "tainted" by the "corruptible" world of the "flesh".

This was a notion that was deeply offensive to many people in the Roman period. And in the events commemorated by Easter - Christ's crucifixion, death, and resurrection - this offensive notion appeared to achieve its ultimate form. Were Christians seriously suggesting that God - the divine, the pure, the eternal, the ineffable and unknowable - actually suffered pain and death as a human being? And not just any old death - but a death that was degrading, humiliating, and utterly execrable: the death of a criminal, an outcast, a pariah? Nor did the assertion of Christ's resurrection cut any ice with those offended by the "scandal of Christianity": as far as they were concerned, you could not compensate for the outrageous notion of God reduced to the human by offering some countervailing assurance of ascendance or return to divinity. It just sounded like trying to be too clever by half.

This was the "scandal of Christianity", and it was the prevailing, underlying reason why Christians were variously feared or hated or distrusted. Indeed, it is why the early Christians were more than once accused of being atheists - because the notion of God made human, God suffering am utterly wretched and horrific death, sounded like a denial of God altogether.

And in considering Christmas, it occurs to me that, underneath the familiar, well-worn story about the Nativity, beneath the comfortable, familiar figures of the wise men and shepherds,the angels and Mary and Joseph, beneath even the figure of the Christ-child as well, the "scandal of Christianity" resonates as strongly as ever. Indeed, I think it resonates even more strongly than at Easter, demanding our attention.

Consider: even at a superficial level, most people are aware of the humble circumstances in which Jesus was born: in a stable, surrounded by farm animals and poor country folk. Granted, the presence of the wise men adds an element of gravitas; but the humbleness of the scene is underscored by the rural setting, by the fact that the momentous event of Christ's birth goes virtually unremarked by the world, and takes place in a rural backwater. Moreover, Jesus' parents belong to the unglamourous working-class; they're not royalty or nobility (despite being members of the house of David), or even wealthy traders or scholars, nor are they from the priestly class. In fact, they were hardly a step up the social ladder from the shepherds who attended Christ's birth.

But the really scandalous thing about Christ's birth was that his mother was not even married! Leaving aside the dispute about whether the original Greek text describes Mary as a "virgin" or a "young woman", the unassailable fact was that she was unmarried, and thus, given the patriarchal society into which she was born, in a highly vulnerable position. And if you want to understand how vulnerable, think about the prejudice directed toward unmarried mothers in our own society; consider the stigma that attaches to the term "unmarried mother". So not only did Christians - from the point of view of the "respectable" citizens of the Roman Empire -have the temerity to suggest that God had condescended to incarnate God's-self as a human being, they didn't even try and gild the lily by asserting his parents were powerful rulers or holy wise people or part of the well-regarded "establishment"! Quite the contrary: they went out of their way to proclaim that he was born to a poor unmarried couple in a rural backwater, attended only by shepherds and farm animals! The nerve! The cheek! The scandal of it all!

But why, you may ask, am I raising all of this? Because beneath the glitter and glib sentimentality, beneath the familiar story of Jesus' birth to which most of us have long since ceased paying any real attention, lies a simple, startling, scandalous fact: that God not only incarnated God's-self in the person of Jesus and thereby joined in our humanity, this incarnation was an act of solidarity with humanity. God was entering into our humanity and thereby declaring that the division between the human and the divine imagined by the ancients did not, in fact, exist. God incarnate in Christ was a proclamation that human fallenness and mortality were within God's power and subject to God's will; fallibility might be a condition of our being, and death might be the final end of our life on earth - but neither were absolute, and neither were the ultimate destiny of humanity. In entering into our humanity, God, through Christ, was articulating the promise, and the hope, of ultimate entry into communion with God.

The humbleness of Christ's birth was a declaration that salvation was not a matter of rank or reputation, nor was it conditional on human merit or effort; it was freely available to all humanity across all time, the free gift of God's grace to which are invited to respond. A response that can be made equally by all, regardless of the fallenness of their humanity or their station in the human society.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote of the Day: Christmas is that magical time of year when all your money disappears. (Hal Roach)

Game Over

My Dearly Beloved and I get married today.

Woo hoo.

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: I will. (BB)

The Vision Thing

I have been a voracious reader since childhood, and it was while I was still a child that I read Ursula Le Guin's novel A Wizard of Earthsea. The first installment of the now acclaimed Earthsea Cycle, this novel tells the story of a young wizard called Ged, who, because of pride and ignorance, lets loose a great evil in the world of Earthsea. The book is taken up with Ged's quest to track down the evil he has loosed upon the world; and, at one point, he is shipwrecked upon a lonely island and taken in by some poor fisherfolk.

It is at this point that one of the most memorable passages in Le Guin's novel occurs. Ged is given a boat by an old fisherman in order to continue his quest; and the passage that follows has remained with me ever since:

Unlike the shrewd fishermen of Gont, this old man, for fear and wonder of his wizardry, would have given the boat to Ged. But Ged paid him for it in sorcerer's kind, healing his eyes of the cataracts that were in the way of blinding him. The old man, rejoicing, said to him, "We called the boat Sanderling, but do you call her Lookfar, and paint eyes aside her prow, and my thanks will look out from that blind wood for you and keep you from rock and reef. For I had forgotten how much light there is in the world until you gave it back to me."

The reason this passage stuck with me was quite simple: as a child who suffered from severe myopia in both eyes, and who as a consequence was already wearing very thick spectacles (and which would only become thicker over time), I understood all too well the desire for unclouded vision. Laser surgery had yet to be invented (and would, in any event, prove to be inappropriate for my particular condition), nor had I reached an age where contact lenses could be utilised; so I had simply resigned myself to never being able to see except through the distorting lens of spectacles. Thus it was that I appreciated what the old man in the novel meant when he said he had forgotten how much light there was in the world; only, in my case, I had never really known.

As I grew older, I was eventually liberated from the burden of thick spectacles by contact lenses. First, soft lenses, and then hard lenses. Nor do I use the words "liberated" and "burden" lightly or melodramatically. Unless you have worn really thick spectacles (and I mean spectacles whose lens thickness is measured in inches) you cannot really appreciate what a "glass darkly" they are. For starters, with spectacles, the point of focus is in front of the eye, which means everything appears much smaller or more distant than is actually the case. Also, and especially with thick lenses that require thick frames, peripheral vision is virtually non-existent; wearing spectacles is like wearing a vision straight-jacket, limiting what you can see to a narrow field to your immediate front. Finally, thick spectacles are extremely uncomfortable: in Summer they are hot and heavy; in Winter, they are constantly obscured by rain and fog.

Not that I necessarily felt sorry for myself; I always counted myself more fortunate than the blind or the near-blind for whom no amount of corrective devices proved effective. In so doing, I concede that I was ignorant of the rich lives lead by those over whom I considered myself more fortunate; nor do I deny that my sentiment was occasionally a salve to damaged pride in the wake of the inevitable childhood bullying or adolescent angst. But in general, my feeling was not so much one of self-pity as sheer frustration. I felt trapped in a kind of netherworld, in which I could imperfectly glimpse the possibilities of undiminished vision, but from whose promise I was permanently alienated.

In time, of course, I came to terms with my condition. My vision gradually stabilised (in relative terms), I was able to access the freedom of contact lenses, and I was not prevented in any way from indulging in my love of literature and writing. But I never forgot that particular passage from A Wizard of Earthsea, either; it was at once both consolation and reminder, a kind of bitter-sweet meditation of the Weltschmerz of being.

And so it was that I recently sat in the consulting room of a retinal specialist, considering Le Guin's novel and the reaction of the old man. I had just been informed that I had suffered a detached retina in my left eye, and that it would require surgery to correct. And the sooner the better; indeed, if it was left too late, or not treated at all, the result could be total vision loss in the left eye. How had this happened? As I understood the explanation, it went something like this: as we age, the fluid in our eyes changes, becoming denser and harder. This usually starts in early to mid thirties, and usually has no adverse effects. In my case, however, because my retina was so weak, the change in the eye fluid had caused a tear in the retina, into which fluid had leaked. This fluid had eventually resulted in the retina becoming detached from the eye.

Shortly thereafter, I went under the knife (so to speak) at the Royal Eye and Ear Hospital in Melbourne. The procedure employed was that the fluid would be drained from my eye, a cold laser would be utilised to seal the tear in the retina, and a gas bubble would be dropped in the eye to press the retina back into place. It was a day procedure only, with an overnight stay for observation purposes. I was told it would be done under a local anesthetic, but as it transpired, they put me out completely. Coming out of general anesthetic was quite unpleasant; aside from general grogginess, there was a foul taste in the pit of my stomach. But aside from that, there was no pain; a slight headache, which pain-killers dealt with; a scratching sensation in the left eye which went away after 24 hours; a bruised feeling in the socket, which persisted for a week or so; and a bloodshot eye which gradually diminished. My eye was also puffy and black, like someone had smacked me in the face with a 4x2; but I suppose you can't have surgery and come out of it looking like a fashion model!

And all this just three weeks before my and my Dearly Beloved's wedding! Not that we were stressed (much!). For myself, however, I wasn't so much concerned with the procedure as with what would happen if it were not entirely successful: if there was vision loss, or loss of function in the eye, would that have implications for my hopes to candidating for the ministry? And if so, what else would I do; what calling could I follow, having set myself on the path to that calling which I feel it is my life's purpose to pursue? In the end, I could only shrug my shoulders and allow matters to take their course; there are just some things in life over which we have no control, and about which it is pointless getting upset. Not, I hasten to add, that I was resigned to any sort of fate, nor expecting the worst. Rather, I simply understood that all I could do was place myself in the hands of the surgeons and specialists and let them get on with the job.

Well, it's been two weeks since the procedure, and I am happy to report that, according to my doctors, I am healing nicely. I still can't wear a contact lens in my left eye as the gas bubble still hasn't dissolved fully (I may still be one eyed come wedding time), but at least I can now read and write (unlike the first week and a half, when I could only contemplate the slow passage of time), and I have no troubles getting about (although depth perception is slightly problematic). Also, there should be no problems flying off to NZ for the honeymoon since the gas bubble inserted in my eye should be fully dissolved by then; it looked at one stage as though I would have to have long-acting gas bubbles inserted instead, which would have meant delaying the honeymoon until much later next year.

More importantly, I want to add that I was a public patient. I do not have private health insurance because I cannot, and have never been able to, afford private health insurance, rebates and incentives notwithstanding. Moreover, I have always had a personal view that maintaining a public health system as a primary and not second-rate form of community care is an absolute priority, a matter toward which our tax monies should be focused. The REEH is a public hospital. I was in a public ward. The nurses, despite being obviously hard-pressed by their workload, were attentive and compassionate. The doctors were at once down-to-earth and humorous. I never once felt like a second-rate patient. The REEH was everything a public hospital should be - despite what I am sure were the kinds of shortages in resources and personnel which our user-pays obsessed society has imposed upon the public health system. They were absolutely fantastic, and I have nothing but praise for the entire staff.

It is just a pity that, as a society, we care more about tax-breaks and for the short-termism of immediate gain than we do for the institution of public health willingly funded by the citizenry as a whole.

I am still recovering from the surgery; and although I still don't have access to the full measure of the world's light, thanks to the staff at REEH, I have the same level as I enjoyed before. It is enough.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: We all know what light is; but it is not easy to tell what it is. (Samuel Johnson)

Behaviour, Technology & Population: The Environmental Triad

In 1966, Harry Harrison wrote a novella entitled Make Room! Make Room!, which, in 1973, became the film Soylent Green. Both depict dystopian societies in which the failure to check population growth and ensure sustainable development has resulted in chronic overcrowding, desperate resource shortages, and collapsing infrastructure. But Soylent Green made one significant departure from Harrison’s novel: it introduced the notion of global warming. Indeed, the plot turns on the fact that Soylent Green, a plankton-based food substitute, is actually made using human bodies obtained from state-run euthanasia centres - because global warming has killed off the world’s plankton supplies.

Both Make Room! Make Room! and Soylent Green have been criticized as overly dependent on Malthusian notions of exponential population growth, and for failing to take account of the remedial effect of increasing technological efficiency. But these criticisms fail to acknowledge the essential truth in both the novel and film: that environmental degradation is largely a product of the First World’s profligacy; and that technology alone cannot solve the ecological dilemma by which humanity is confronted.

These truths are relevant to Australia in two key respects. The Howard Government has declined to endorse the Kyoto protocols on global warming on the grounds that they don’t do enough to limit Third World greenhouse emissions. But the question immediately arises: why should Kyoto place similar limits on the Third World when it is the First World that is largely responsible for the pollution that has destabilized the global environment? Australia is the world’s largest per capita polluter; the United States is the world’s largest net polluter. The onus is surely on both societies to take the lead in reducing greenhouse gas emissions.

Secondly, the Federal Government is also making serious noises about building nuclear fission power stations as a "solution" to global warming, as well as indulging in speculation about the possibilities of geo-sequestration. This reflects a worrying obsession with the "quick fix" of technology instead of a preparedness to adopt the hard grind of behavioural change. The approach seems to be: let’s close our eyes and hope someone comes up with a clever invention that gets us out of this mess.

Moreover, population, for all its Malthusian overtones, remains an issue. Much hand-wringing occurs over the alleged failure by First World nations to sustain "replacement level" birth rates; the simple truth, however, is that there are too many people on this planet. Advanced industrial civilizations are mass consumers of resources, regardless of technological efficiency; therefore, mass population only exacerbates the negative effects of mass consumption. In other words, it is simply not possible – never mind sustainable - for the present global population to exist at First World levels of industrial capacity and material prosperity. And nothing we do to make technology more efficient, or our behaviour less wasteful, will change that fact in the longer term.

Thus, a long-term solution to environmental degradation will necessarily involve not just technological initiatives and changes to societal behaviour, but also a commitment to getting the global population levels down. And this is perhaps the most problematic aspect of the environmental dilemma, involving as it invariably must, difficult ethical issues. But the only way meaningful population decrease can be humanely achieved is through managed processes; that is, if we want to avoid the ghastly agencies of war, famine, and disease in the wake of environmental collapse – or the mechanical mass euthanasia depicted in Soylent Green.

The implications of Harrison’s novel and the film it spawned should be clear to most Australians. Aside from noticeable changes to weather patterns that have seen record dry winters and an unprecedented early start to the bushfire season in south-eastern Australia, there has been much media coverage of the Queensland Government’s decision to dam the Mary Valley, and of the dire warnings contained in the recently released Stern report. Australians are aware, as never before, of the consequences of environmental change – and of the long-term inability of technology alone to ward off the worst effects of global warming.

It now appears that at least some political fingers are starting to get twitchy on the panic button. The only question is whether this twitchiness is derived from a realization that we need to do something, or just reflects the politician’s instinct to bend in the immediate breeze of the vox populi.

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: In skating over thin ice, our safety is in our speed. (Ralph Waldo Emmerson)

Birds of a Feather

As human beings, we all have faults and foibles. Some of these are more forgivable than others: but there's one particular aspect of human behaviour that, while it might not rate highly on the importance scale, is number one with a bullet on the annoyance index.

I refer to this specific behaviour as cinema syndrome. Catchy name, isn't it? I define cinema syndrome as the inevitable propensity for people to gather in a space guaranteed to cause other people maximum inconvenience. As a plague, it doesn't kill, main, or injure; but it does annoy, irritate, and frustrate the bejeezers out of you. In fact, I'm willing to bet the irritability caused by cinema syndrome has resulted in more than one person thus afflicted doing something really stupid: such as having a catastrophic row with their spouse, for example, or driving while still in the grip of a rage, thus endangering themselves and others.

What the hell am I talking about? I hear you wonder. Well, let me give you a common example.

Have you ever noticed when you go the flicks that, after the film, people don't file out of the cinema and walk into the wide open spaces of the foyer? Instead, they congregate around the exit, impeding the flow of traffic out of the cinema while they dither about whether or not they need to go to the toilet, or engage in otherwise useless activities such as rubbernecking for friends or family members from whom they have somehow become separated in the interval between leaving their seat and exiting the cinema. Others just stand there talking, right in the middle of the exit, utterly oblivious to the people trying to leave and whose path they are blocking. Worse still, if in trying to get past this obstacle of stationary thoughtlessness, you have the temerity to ask them (however politely) to make way, they give you looks of such lethality the hair on the back of your neck shrivels up and dies.

This is what I mean when I talk about cinema syndrome. It happens at the movies, at the theatre, at rock concerts and orchestral recitals. Any place where you combine large numbers of people with small exits. People can't seem to help themselves: they just stand there making life difficult for the rest of us.

Mind you, cinema syndrome doesn't just happen at the locale for which it is named. It also occurs, for example, on public transport. School kids are notorious for congregating in the doorways and cluttering up the floorspace with their bags, making a virtual obstacle course of any train or tram in which they happen to be travelling. And, yes, I know that often they have little choice because the train/tram is either full anyway, or the size of their schoolbags makes standing anywhere else rather difficult. Frankly, however, I've witnessed too many examples of students (and, it has to be admitted, other passengers) who've quite deliberately positioned themselves right next to the doors because they were too lazy to move to the back of the carriage, or because public safety was less important than the opportunity to gossip afforded by congregating in the entrance. And, for the record, I've also seen enough examples of people nearly breaking their necks as a consequence of being forced to negotiate the labyrinth of bags and students for me to know whereof I speak.

Cinema syndrome also occurs on the footpath. Melbourne's CBD is blessed by having nice wide footpaths; however, some people think this is an excuse to engage in a particularly infuriating form of mobile loitering. And that's not an oxymoron, either; it actually happens. Just ask any person who's been running late for an appointment, or who has otherwise had somewhere they need to get to as a matter of urgency: they'll tell you they'll inevitably encounter a group of people strung out across the whole footpath, strolling along at a genteel pace and idly chatting to one another as though no-one else has anywhere to go. And the most annoying thing is that this oblivion to the needs of others forces you either to go around the offending group by stepping out into the road (and thus into the path of any traffic), or else come across like a pushy bastard by squeezing your way through their strolling skirmish line. And you just know that if you do the former you'll be subjected to bemused looks and thoughts along the lines of "what an idiot"; while, if you adopt the latter course, you risk scorching the back of your head with their glares of outraged propriety.

Not that I'm advocating people should be pushy or aggressive, nor that we should live our lives at the pace of a hundred meter sprinter on acid. However, I really don't think it's too much to ask to suggest that perhaps folks ought to be a tad more aware of their surroundings. Congregate in spaces designed for the purpose: ie, foyers, not doorways! And if you're out and about with a group of friends, by all means walk at your own pace - just don't take up the whole footpath while you do it. That's all I'm asking for: just a teensy, weensy bit of consideration...

Anyhoo, I gotta go. I've just inspired myself to get out there and suggest to my fellow citizens that they stop clogging the s-bend of society.

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: Moral indignation is 2% moral, 48% indignation, and 50% envy. (Vittoria de Sica)

Three Poems II

Entropy

It's not the fact that now you walk
with someone else. Nor yet,
that when you kiss, the pain and pleasure
etched upon your face
ripples through the space-time of my love.

It's not the fact that memories of love
grow cold. Nor yet,
that when I think, the image of your face
slowly decays, and carbon-14 dates the time
when you and I -

The prehistory of my heart leaves no trace.
It's only when I wake
and fine her here, cradled in my arms,
I know the thing:

a white dwarf,
dying amid the matter of itself,
outward bound.


Sentinel

What could be more innocent than this?
Love's terrible beauty,
measured in your body's form,
lies next to me.

My arms enclose your waist;
your quick, silent breaths,
patterned to the rhythm of your dreams,
encircle me.

The texture of your tongue and mouth,
the perfume of your hair,
the warmth of eyes now closed
and dwelling on your dreams -

I keep them close, sacred and loved.
Precious one, this is why I lie awake
tonight: to see your aching loveliness,
so vulnerable, yet safe.


Amateur

Dark shapes
hunched against the night:
man and telescope,
we gaze into the sky,
hoping what we find
will resonate with truth.

Do we do this
thinking that we better humankind?
That if
we stare into the dark,
we'll find that point of light

familiar to us all?
Who thinks such thoughts
at times like this?
We see by light
refracted from the red,
the Doppler wail an old cadence:

the siren song of life.

Like Sand Through the Hourglass....

Today marks the beginning of the countdown.

Not to the forthcoming Victorian state election. As if I could be bothered with the public policy auction between the right-wing Alternative Liberal Party and the even more right wing Liberal In Name Only Party that constitutes an election campaign these days.

On the contrary, I am talking about the pending nuptials between myself and my Dearly Beloved. In one month from today, we shall be Mr and Mrs BB.

To mark the occasion, I thought I'd post this cartoon by Wiley. He's my favourite cartoonist since Larson, and I thought this one pretty well summed it up.

Let the countdown begin!

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: All tragedies are finish'd by a death. All comedies are ended by a marriage. (Lord Byron)

Scenes from the South Island

In the New Year, my Dearly Beloved and I will be travelling to the Land of the Long Cloud - New Zealand.

Aside from Auckland, I've not really seen much of the North Island. However, I have travelled throughout the South Island; so, in anticipation of the forthcoming trip, I thought I'd look back through some of my old photos and select some of the best for your viewing pleasure.

That's the great thing about digital technology: although it has, seemingly, rendered conventional photography mostly obsolete, it has also enabled me to load up my old pics and store them electronically. So enjoy!

I look forward to bringing you some pics from the North Island in 07!

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: Of all noxious animals, too, the most noxious is the tourist. (Reverend Francis Kilvert)

End Times

Last Friday was my last day as a trade union official.

It has been an emotional time, because I have been associated with the union movement for the better part of two decades. As a rank-and-file member, as a workplace delegate, as an elected honourary official, and as a paid official, I have spent the best part of my working life helping people in the often brutal environment of industrial relations. And I use the word brutal advisedly: I have witnessed some truly horrific and inhumane acts and omissions undertaken in the name of commercial advantage, operational efficiency, or simply as a consequence of the exercise of power.

But I have also seen some moving examples of integrity and compassion. I say this in all honesty: I have met very few HR professionals for whom I have any respect, simply because they were too cowardly, or indifferent, or stupid to conduct themselves with any independence from the corporate line. Most willingly subordinated themselves to being nothing more than the club in the managerial fist, and justified the fact by claiming they were only doing their job. Some, quite frankly, enjoyed the experience of power. But there were a precious few - about half a dozen or so whom I won't name, but if they read this blog will know who they are - who did not separate being a HR practitioner from also having a conscience, or treating people with dignity and respect. And, as time went on, it was these precious few whom I came to admire and respect, because, in many ways, they had a tougher job than I did. And sure, we didn't always agree on issues, and sometimes ended up in the Industrial Relations Commission contesting a dispute; but whether they agreed with me or not was never the issue. I knew these people always acted with principle and professionalism, and more than once they demonstrated their compassion toward people to whom it might have been very easy to be indifferent.

I have also had the immense privilege of working with some of the most talented, committed, and knowledgeable people one could ever hope to encounter in life. It has been inspiring and humbling to witness their commitment to the cause of human dignity, and I have often seen the terrible emotional price they paid for the sake of helping others. Of course, like all humans, trade union officials are not plaster saints: I have seen the incompetent or the indifferent, those who were not cut out for the job and those who simply viewed it as a step to somewhere else. But the overwhelming majority were motivated by an abiding desire to even the balance of bargaining power between the corporation and the individual, and to prevent the strong from victimising the helpless. And most conducted themselves with a courage and persistence and a self-sacrificing generosity that was wonderful to witness.

Ultimately, though, what kept me going were the numerous examples of courage and dignity which I saw displayed by so many ordinary working people under the most horrendous of circumstances. I have seen people bullied and victimised and terrorised who nonetheless refused to yield to fear or the cult of hierarchy; ordinary, everyday, remarkable people for whom their right to dignity was more important than security or popularity or the pressure to conform. And so often it was these same people who, when I thought I hadn't done enough, or achieved a sufficiently good result, told me with disarming honesty just what I had achieved, how much I had changed their lives for the better. The small results were so often the most significant: the mere fact that there had been someone on their side, someone to stand beside them and speak for them was what they most often appreciated. And that was moving and humbling and uplifting beyond my power to describe.

And so it hasn't been easy, making the decision to leave. But there have been other calls on my life growing within me for the last few years; calls which had always been there, but which I had briefly stilled through my work as a union official. But those calls can no longer be stilled. I do not know what the future holds; I have my hopes, but I am aware that I have not been made any promises, either. But, regardless of all that, I know the time has arrived: the roads and strands of consequence have converged, and I need to go forward toward that calling which I feel it is my life's destiny to serve. And so now I have aid aside one vocation, ready to pick up the new.

But perhaps it is not as simple as that. Perhaps the vocation of trade unionism has prepared me for the vocation of ministry; perhaps this is not an ending of one thing, but simply the beginning which toward which that thing was leading. Perhaps it is not a severing of strands but a tying off of loose ends, and their continuance in a new thread. But be that as it may, one thing is over and a new thing has begun; and I am grateful for the old and looking forward to the new.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: If we do meet again, why, we shall smile! If not, well then, this parting was well made. (William Shakespeare)

The Sadness of Pretence

In recent months, a number of prominent conservative politicians and religious figures in the US have been "exposed" in a series of sexual and political scandals. One thinks of Tom de Lay, who was involved in buying political influence and favours; of Mark Foley, who sent sexually inappropriate messages to teenage congressional aides while chairing an anti-child abuse committee; and, most recently, Ted Haggard, pastor of the conservative evangelical New Life megachurch, who has become embroiled in allegations of drug-fuelled trysts with a homosexual prostitute.

All these scandals have received high publicity for a number of reasons. One involves the predictable public fascination with the salacious; there is a certain voyeuristic element involved. But of especial note has been the satisfaction many have derived from the "downfall" of the men involved: seeing them tumble from their prominent positions, witnessing the "disgrace" of people who had previously asserted themselves as "guardians" of "moral values". I call this the You're no better than the rest of us syndrome. Others call it "tall poppy syndrome", or simply refer to the satisfaction many derive from seeing someone get their "come-uppance". Whatever you call it, there is no doubt that many derive gratification from the "shame" to which these "fallen" figures are exposed.

In one sense, this is understandable. Frequently, these figures have risen to prominence and sustained their influence by peddling to prejudice and fear, by engaging in "crusades" against "moral corruption" and "evils" within society. These activities frequently result in minorities or relatively defenceless sections of society being targeted for no other reason except that they make convenient scapegoats, or useful agencies through which the ambitious and unscrupulous might achieve their purpose. In these instances, people often regard it as "poetic justice" when a figure whom they have regarded as a "bully" or a "bigot" is exposed as having "skeletons in the closet".

Likewise, it is often satisfying to many to see that those whom we regard as having taken the "moral high tone" and indulged in "preaching" are themselves guilty of the very "sins" against which they have formerly railed. We are thus able to dismiss them as hypocrites and award to ourselves the moral "high ground" in the light of the "fallen" person's double standards.

Nor do I exclude myself from this practice. I have often smirked in self-satisfied affirmation upon hearing that this or that conservative politician or religious figure has been "found out". As a "progressive" who has often been vilified by "moral crusaders" (whether individually or as a member of a target group), there is a deep appeal to personal vanity and a sense of one's own righteousness when the other side's "towering figures" are found to have feet of clay.

But upon reflection, I find that this should not be the case - indeed, I should know better. For it seems to me that what these scandals reveal is not the hypocrisy of the people involved, but the sad, artificial pretense that certain theological and socio-political worldviews impose upon humans. Pretences that are a denial of reality - that are a denial of life - and which create impossible expectations which no mere mortal could live up to.

And I know this from my own experience. Many years ago, I knew a young woman who was a member of a conservative pentecostal Christian denomination. Indeed, her father was the pastor of the church she attended. But the more I came to know this young woman, the more I realised how dysfunctional her life was: a spiral of lies, deceit, shame, and despair generated by the fact that her "faith" demanded of her things which she could not possibly deliver and at the same time remain an integrated human being. For example, she was expected to be a virgin until she married; and yet, the "Christian" man she was at the time engaged to (and who was lauded by her parents as a "model" person), was both having elicit sex with her and putting pressure on her to keep the fact secret. Moreover, as time passed, she realised that she was not heterosexual but homosexual: this was her true sexual orientation, and the secret sex she was required to have with her then-fiancee was not only riddling her with guilt, it was damaging her self-identity. Eventually, and due to a variety of reasons, she developed alcohol and drug dependencies, all of which she kept secret from her parents; she could not tell them because she knew that any such admission would be seen as a "failure" on her part, a "shame" and a "disgrace" in which she had "let down" her parents and her church. They would not react with compassion and care and concern - despite the fact that her father was a pastor and her mother a counsellor - but with rage and condemnation.

Nor is this an isolated example. But the point of it is that it seems to me that the kinds of figures who frequently feature in scandals - especially "sex scandals" - are the very people who are worst affected by the artificial milieu created by frantically conservative moralism. In order to be a member of the church, in order to be "respectable" and "acceptable", they have to live a lie. And you cannot go on living a lie: either you will implode psychologically and emotionally, or someone will find out and "expose" you. Especially if you make a career out of pretending to be someone you're not.

Another is the so-called "saving myself for marriage" movement, wherein teenagers are encouraged to vow to "save" their virginity until marriage. I've seen kids as young as thirteen and fourteen wearing wedding bands as a "reminder" of their "vow". Is it just me, or does anyone else realise how unhealthily morbid this is? Aside from the actual obsession with sex and the impression it creates in vulnerable minds that sex is somehow "wicked" or "dirty", has it occurred to anyone how actually counter-productive it is? One survey I saw actually suggested that over 80% of teenagers in California who take such a vow "break" it within 12 months. Why? Because - it seems to me - the obsession with sex, with making it "forbidden", actually increases the potency of its allure; the more you depict something as "out of bounds", the more you make it the locus of otherwise unattainable thrills and excitement. In other words, the more you make it attractive.

And the result? Guilt, lies, deceit, secret double-lives, a cycle of shame and avoidance. Despite their bravado, no teenager likes to know their parents disapprove of them, or are ashamed of them. No teenager relishes the prospect of owning up to their mistakes - especially in the context of knowing they'll get not comfort and support but blame and recrimination. So having succumbed to temptation - a temptation created by the hysteria of the adult community - most teenagers in these circumstances will prefer to avoid the disappointment of their parents and just pretend it didn't happen, or that it won't happen again. Or, if it does, that their parents are "better off" not knowing. All too often, these situations end in tragedy - even if it's the tragedy of a person having to carry an unnecessary load of guilt and resentment with them for the rest of their lives.

I feel sorry for Ted Haggard and others like him. Not because he doesn't think like I do, or agree with my point of view. Just because he has a sad, warped view of "faith" that forces him to live a lie instead of as a complete and fulfilled human being.

Talk to you soon,

BB.

Quote for the Day: The more hidden the poison, the more dangerous it is. (Margaret de Valois)

The Definition of Loneliness

I was recently summonsed for jury duty.

I've actually been looking forward to this for a long time. Ever since my name went onto the electoral roll, I've waited for my opportunity to undertake jury service. Not, I hasten to add, because I relished the opportunity to sit in judgement on any of my fellow citizens. On the contrary, I have always been aware of the terrible responsibility that frequently rests upon jurors, and my anticipation of jury service was anything but tinged with rose-coloured perception. Rather, I viewed jury service like voting: part of the simultaneous privilege and responsibility of citizenship. Serving in a jury would be both a reminder of my duty as a citizen to strengthen civil institutions through participation, and of my great good fortune of living in a democratic society where the legal process was underpinned by the involvement of the citizenry.

So wouldn't you just know it that when I finally do get summonsed, it couldn't have come at a worst time. Right in the middle of my theology exam. I had actually been anticipating that the exam would be concluded before I was due to report; but it was only after I received the summons that I discovered the exam would be running into the period after my jury service commenced. Accordingly, I was hoping - somewhat reluctantly, I have to admit - that on the day I was summonsed to attend, I wouldn't make it out of the general jury pool. Or, failing that, that I would be able to convince the court that I should be excused.

I and my fellow jurors gathered in the jury pool room. Eventually, the supervisor informed us that of the sixty or so people present, some forty of us would be selected at random to serve as a jury pool, from which a jury would be empanelled for a trial commencing that day. I waited as each name was called, my hope and anxiety in equal portions increasing as I escaped the calling of names...until, right toward the very end, I heard my own name. With a silent sigh, I answered to my name and took my place within the jury pool.

I won't tell you what court was involved, or the nature of the charge. Except to say it was a serious matter. As the jury pool filed into the courtroom, I found to my surprise that I was sitting next to the dock, within touching distance of the accused. I could hardly believe my eyes: the young person in the dock looked all of sixteen. Obviously, they must have been older, but all I saw in that moment was a vulnerable young kid.

Immediately, I was assailed by a wave of compassion. Regardless of who this person was, or what they were alleged to have done, I realised in that moment that here was an individual whose future had not merely been suspended, it had been changed completely, perhaps even eradicated. Obviously, I was conscious of the other side of this particular coin: of the victim of the alleged crime, and that person's family and friends. But as I examined the accused, I could see the emotions flickering across this young person's face: fear, anxiety, helplessness, and a sense of restlessness not unlike that one might expect from a caged animal. Nor was this person acting for the benefit of the jury: as it turned out, most of those who were to be empanelled sat with their back to the accused. I was one of the very few who could see this person's face, see their wide, staring eyes and apprehensive expression.

And the terrible, terrible loneliness. The accused sat in the dock at the back of the court. Their counsel sat at the bar table with the prosecutor at the front of the court, facing the judge. No-one sat with this young person except for a stolid guard who obviously wasn't there for moral support. The accused was utterly, completely, on their own. The fact that they were so young added poignancy to their isolation; they could see the whole court, see their counsel talking to one another, even on one occasion sharing a professional joke with the prosecutor. But this person had no-one to talk to, no-one with whom to share a reassuring smile or even a supportive squeeze of the hand. All they could do was follow the proceedings; and, during moments of intermission when the court's attention was occupied by other matters, contemplate their thoughts.

What was passing through this young person's mind? I wondered. Were they contemplating the possible future that lay before them if they were convicted? Were they wishing that if only they could have their time again, they would do anything other than be in the situation that had ended with them coming before the court? Were they thinking of family or friends? Of ruined prospects? Of the victim of the alleged crime and their family? Or were they simply too numb with fear, with the enormity of their current circumstances to think coherently?

I noted the nervously tapping fingers, the fidgeting feet, the occasionally bowed head. What state of mind did they reflect? What thoughts? What fears? I was overwhelmed; felt sick at heart, felt utterly wretched for this young person, and for the human condition that produces situations like this...

Eventually, my name was called. I explained my situation to the judge, and was excused. And with relief, I might add. I wanted no part of the terrible sadness I sensed was unfolding in this court.

Eventually, the jury pool members who had either been excused or not empanelled were discharged. As we were lead from the court, a burst of sunlight washed across my face. I was suddenly, intensely aware of my liberty, of the fact that I was free to leave that court. And I wondered: would that flood of compassion I had felt for the accused have affected my judgement had I been free to be called and empanelled? I would like to think not, and in retrospect, believe that, like most jurors, I would have judged the case on the evidence. But I would have felt the full weight of my decision, whatever it may have been, having caught in that glimpse of the accused not a possible criminal but a vulnerable human being, terribly, cosmically alone.

As I walked away from the court, I whispered a silent prayer: God be merciful to all those involved - the accused, the victim, and their family and friends.

Talk to you soon,

BB

Quote for the Day: Man's capacity for justice makes democracy possible; but man's inclination to injustice makes democracy necessary. (Reinhold Neibuhr)

Three Poems

Wish You Were Here

Launched from dreams to wakefulness,
I lay beneath the covers, listening.

The warmth between my arms was empty air,
the shades within my heart

shadows of your parting kiss.
Launched from wakefulness into my dreams,

I lay beneath the covers, listening:
rain against my window pane.


Kiss

I held you in my arms.
Your heart fluttered,
the captive bird held
within the circle of my love.

I felt the thrill,
the tremble in your bones.
The kiss was light,
yet shook you like a 'quake,

feet of clay. Were you scared,
or just afraid
I'd find the child
hiding in the dark?


In Absentia

I miss -

The eyes, the lips,
whirling,
falling into emptiness,

holding onto life
and joy
and love,

onto thought
and flesh
and time,
when time spent

passes like a winking eye,
like a smile:
fleeting, full,
thoughtful,

like the night,
like the bright
coloured light of dawn,
of the sun rising.

Like the morning sky,
like waking in each others' arms,
dreaming,
laughing, smiling.

I miss -

you!