In order to get to uni, I have to take a train; and in order to get to the train station, I have to walk. It's a pleasant, fifteen minute stroll - and, this morning, made all the more pleasant by the fact that I had to wear my raincoat.
Yes, you heard me correctly: I was wearing my raincoat.
And that's because it was raining. And not just a passing shower, but a constant, gentle, soaking rain. The kind of rain for which our parched, drought-struck country has been thirsting after. Alas, by the time I made it into the city, it had stopped coming down; and didn't rain for the rest of the day, despite the skies remaining overcast and threatening. We need much more of the kind of rain that fell this morning; but, oh, what a joy to have some rain of this variety at long last.
Let's pray it continues.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Rain is what makes flowers grow - and taxis disappear. (Hal Roach)
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
The Heat of the Dinner Party
The other night, my Dearly Beloved and I watched Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? on DVD, starring Sidney Poitier, Spencer Tracy, and Katherine Hepburn.
Aside from the fact that my Dearly Beloved described Mr Poitier as "sex on a stick", the thing that struck me most about this movie was its disarming frankness on issues such as sex and race relations. Granted, the film was made in 1967, at the height of the "swinging sixties", and granted also that matters such as sex and race relations were the point of the film, the unabashed fashion in which this film tackles these contentious subjects is both refreshing and captivating. And let us bear in mind that the civil rights movement, and the upheavals of the end of segregation, were still being played out in America at that time, leaving millions with raw and anguished sensitivities.
The plot of the film is simple enough: the daughter of two wealthy, white liberal parents returns home from a holiday in Hawaii, bringing with her a man she has met while away, and with whom she has fallen in love. Simple enough, except the man turns out to be black, a fact that confronts the parents with their own prejudice. At first, they try and pretend that they are concerned for the welfare of the young couple, and the hostility they will face on the matter of inter-race relationships. All too soon, however, it is shown that what really disturbs them is the fact that their lovely young daughter wants to marry a talented, intelligent, black man.
There's a terrific scene in which the mother (Hepburn) and the father (Tracy) are contemplating the situation. Hepburn laughs wryly and says something to the effect of: "We raised our daughter not to be prejudiced, to not see any difference between black people and white. We taught her that folks who do are sometimes hateful, mostly ignorant, but always wrong. We just forgot to tell her not to fall in love with a negro."
Of course, the difference between their pretensions and their actual attitudes is illustrated by the fact that they have a black cook/housekeeper. But it is in this character that we also get to see another dimension to prejudice. Because of all the people you would expect to be on the young black man's side, it would be the black housekeeper; and yet she is immediately hostile to him, and sustains that hostility throughout the film. Indeed, there's a brilliant scene in which she gives him a piece of her mind, informing him that she knows what his "game" is: that he is some "smooth talking" hustler looking to exploit a vulnerable and naive young woman in order to get "above himself". Her prejudice is the prejudice of learned helplessness, of accepting that there is a "natural order" to existence and that anyone who breaks the conventions of that order must be immediately "pulled into line".
The young couple are played by Poitier and Katherine Houghton. And they, too, have their failings. The daughter is to some extent quite self-involved, acting on impulse without consideration for the feelings of others, and simply expecting that they will fall in line with her plans. And Poitier, while pretending to be mindful of the sensitivities of the situation, in fact backs Hepburn and Tracy into a corner by delivering a rather self-serving ultimatum. In exploring all these foibles, the film is not being nihilistic or cynical; on the contrary, it is simply reflecting on the fact that prejudice is about more than just race bigotry - it is the assumption that other people will respond in certain ways on the basis of how we have defined who they are.
And the counterpoint that illustrates this principle occurs in the figure of the old Irish Monsignor, a long-time friend of the daughter's family. You would expect this figure to be an unreconstructed racist; afterall, the Irish in America were noted for their hostility to African-Americans, a hostility extending back to the so-called "draft riots" during the American Civil War, when Irish mobs in New York lynched blacks en masse. But it is the Monsignor who unhesitatingly and unconditionally accepts and welcomes the young couple's relationship, overthrowing the ancient stereotype; because, of course, it would have been both a stereotype and racist to have assumed he would be racist on account of being Irish.
I won't spoil things and reveal the denouement, suffice to say that Spencer Tracy delivers one of the most brilliant soliloquys in film history at the end. There is little to wonder that this film was nominated for 10 Academy Awards; what is inconceivable is that it didn't win all 10 - unlike, say, that piece of melodramatic tripe that was Titanic, and which ended up winning a swag. On a personal note, I spent the whole film looking at Spencer Tracy and thinking: "He looks like my father". Naturally, my Dearly Beloved, being the sensitive and sweet-natured being she is, remarked that Spence, in his appearance and attitude, reminded her of Yours Truly!
Postscript: One poignant aspect of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner was that, in certain scenes, it was possible to detect signs of the Parkinson's Disease that was to afflict Katherine Hepburn's later years: the involuntary shaking of the head or hands. And yet she carried off the role with great poise, charm, warmth, and humour. At one stage, watching her, I said: "Gosh, she's beautiful!" And not because she looked beautiful, but because, in her character and in the signs of the disease that was only then just emerging, she conveyed the terrible beauty and dignity of life and being.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Terrific - I'm married to a combination of Spencer Tracy and Homer Simpson. (My Dearly Beloved, talking about Guess Who)
Aside from the fact that my Dearly Beloved described Mr Poitier as "sex on a stick", the thing that struck me most about this movie was its disarming frankness on issues such as sex and race relations. Granted, the film was made in 1967, at the height of the "swinging sixties", and granted also that matters such as sex and race relations were the point of the film, the unabashed fashion in which this film tackles these contentious subjects is both refreshing and captivating. And let us bear in mind that the civil rights movement, and the upheavals of the end of segregation, were still being played out in America at that time, leaving millions with raw and anguished sensitivities.
The plot of the film is simple enough: the daughter of two wealthy, white liberal parents returns home from a holiday in Hawaii, bringing with her a man she has met while away, and with whom she has fallen in love. Simple enough, except the man turns out to be black, a fact that confronts the parents with their own prejudice. At first, they try and pretend that they are concerned for the welfare of the young couple, and the hostility they will face on the matter of inter-race relationships. All too soon, however, it is shown that what really disturbs them is the fact that their lovely young daughter wants to marry a talented, intelligent, black man.
There's a terrific scene in which the mother (Hepburn) and the father (Tracy) are contemplating the situation. Hepburn laughs wryly and says something to the effect of: "We raised our daughter not to be prejudiced, to not see any difference between black people and white. We taught her that folks who do are sometimes hateful, mostly ignorant, but always wrong. We just forgot to tell her not to fall in love with a negro."
Of course, the difference between their pretensions and their actual attitudes is illustrated by the fact that they have a black cook/housekeeper. But it is in this character that we also get to see another dimension to prejudice. Because of all the people you would expect to be on the young black man's side, it would be the black housekeeper; and yet she is immediately hostile to him, and sustains that hostility throughout the film. Indeed, there's a brilliant scene in which she gives him a piece of her mind, informing him that she knows what his "game" is: that he is some "smooth talking" hustler looking to exploit a vulnerable and naive young woman in order to get "above himself". Her prejudice is the prejudice of learned helplessness, of accepting that there is a "natural order" to existence and that anyone who breaks the conventions of that order must be immediately "pulled into line".
The young couple are played by Poitier and Katherine Houghton. And they, too, have their failings. The daughter is to some extent quite self-involved, acting on impulse without consideration for the feelings of others, and simply expecting that they will fall in line with her plans. And Poitier, while pretending to be mindful of the sensitivities of the situation, in fact backs Hepburn and Tracy into a corner by delivering a rather self-serving ultimatum. In exploring all these foibles, the film is not being nihilistic or cynical; on the contrary, it is simply reflecting on the fact that prejudice is about more than just race bigotry - it is the assumption that other people will respond in certain ways on the basis of how we have defined who they are.
And the counterpoint that illustrates this principle occurs in the figure of the old Irish Monsignor, a long-time friend of the daughter's family. You would expect this figure to be an unreconstructed racist; afterall, the Irish in America were noted for their hostility to African-Americans, a hostility extending back to the so-called "draft riots" during the American Civil War, when Irish mobs in New York lynched blacks en masse. But it is the Monsignor who unhesitatingly and unconditionally accepts and welcomes the young couple's relationship, overthrowing the ancient stereotype; because, of course, it would have been both a stereotype and racist to have assumed he would be racist on account of being Irish.
I won't spoil things and reveal the denouement, suffice to say that Spencer Tracy delivers one of the most brilliant soliloquys in film history at the end. There is little to wonder that this film was nominated for 10 Academy Awards; what is inconceivable is that it didn't win all 10 - unlike, say, that piece of melodramatic tripe that was Titanic, and which ended up winning a swag. On a personal note, I spent the whole film looking at Spencer Tracy and thinking: "He looks like my father". Naturally, my Dearly Beloved, being the sensitive and sweet-natured being she is, remarked that Spence, in his appearance and attitude, reminded her of Yours Truly!
Postscript: One poignant aspect of Guess Who's Coming to Dinner was that, in certain scenes, it was possible to detect signs of the Parkinson's Disease that was to afflict Katherine Hepburn's later years: the involuntary shaking of the head or hands. And yet she carried off the role with great poise, charm, warmth, and humour. At one stage, watching her, I said: "Gosh, she's beautiful!" And not because she looked beautiful, but because, in her character and in the signs of the disease that was only then just emerging, she conveyed the terrible beauty and dignity of life and being.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Terrific - I'm married to a combination of Spencer Tracy and Homer Simpson. (My Dearly Beloved, talking about Guess Who)
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Broader Horizons?
As part of my Period of Discernment with the Uniting Church in Australia, I have been talking to my mentor about chaplaincy. I have been having this discussion with him partly because the POD is about exploring the individual's call to ministry, and what form of ministry that call may take. Ordained ministry as a congregational minister is not the only form of ministry within the church; the UCA, like most other churches, has both ordained and lay ministries to which people may be called. The purpose of the POD is to help them discern in which one of these ministries they are being called to serve.
Within the UCA, there are two forms of ordained ministry. One is the Ministry of the Word (congregational ministry) while the other is the Ministry of the Diaconate. The Diaconate is a ministry that is focused on pastoral care, and can operate both within the congregational setting and within the wider community and institutions. Some Deacons act as pastoral assistants to congregational ministers; others work within institutions such as hospitals; some functions as chaplains; and others perform a combination of these tasks. It is an incredibly rich and varied ministry.
Personally, I feel called to the Ministry of the Word; that is, to being a congregational minister. However, I am also interested in chaplaincy, and with the possibility of combining chaplaincy with congregational ministry. And chaplaincy is an interesting role, because it can be performed by both ordained and lay people; it is a role in which the ordained and lay ministries cross-over. And that is the other reason why I have been discussing chaplaincy with my mentor: because I wanted to obtain some insight into chaplaincy and how it operates from the perspective of an ordained minister; but also because I have in mind a particular form of ministry to which I feel called and for which I feel there is a very great need.
As readers of this blog will know, in a former life, I worked for a white-collar trade union; indeed, my involvement in unionism in various capacities goes back the better part of two decades. During this period, I made a number of observations:
Within the UCA, there are two forms of ordained ministry. One is the Ministry of the Word (congregational ministry) while the other is the Ministry of the Diaconate. The Diaconate is a ministry that is focused on pastoral care, and can operate both within the congregational setting and within the wider community and institutions. Some Deacons act as pastoral assistants to congregational ministers; others work within institutions such as hospitals; some functions as chaplains; and others perform a combination of these tasks. It is an incredibly rich and varied ministry.
Personally, I feel called to the Ministry of the Word; that is, to being a congregational minister. However, I am also interested in chaplaincy, and with the possibility of combining chaplaincy with congregational ministry. And chaplaincy is an interesting role, because it can be performed by both ordained and lay people; it is a role in which the ordained and lay ministries cross-over. And that is the other reason why I have been discussing chaplaincy with my mentor: because I wanted to obtain some insight into chaplaincy and how it operates from the perspective of an ordained minister; but also because I have in mind a particular form of ministry to which I feel called and for which I feel there is a very great need.
As readers of this blog will know, in a former life, I worked for a white-collar trade union; indeed, my involvement in unionism in various capacities goes back the better part of two decades. During this period, I made a number of observations:
- Working for a trade union means dealing with human suffering. This seems a somewhat melodramatic statement until you realise why trade unions exist: because the employment relationship all too often involves exploitation and/or victimisation of employees by employers. Not always, and as I mentioned in an earlier post, one of the arts of trade unionism is knowing when your own members are at fault or not telling you the truth. But the bottom line is that no-one calls a union to tell them that everything is fine, that they are being treated properly and paid correctly. On the contrary, people call the union because they are in distress: they are about to be sacked, or are being bullied, or discriminated against, or victimised in some way, or exploited. Which means people who call the union are, at best, concerned, and frequently highly stressed. Which means being a union official is a stressful occupation.
- The union movement operates in a uniquely democratic/political environment. The leadership of unions are not appointed, like chief executives or board members. On the contrary, every three or four years, they have to face the membership, conduct an election campaign, and risk being challenged for office, in order to retain their jobs. In some unions, this electoral process extends down to the staff as well. Thus, there is a certain degree of understandable angst among elected officials about their job security and whether or not they will be challenged at the next election. Which makes the internal environment of the union intensely political, a factor which gives rise to stress and tension.
- Being a union official is an intensely thankless task. On the one hand, union officials must deal with the frequently unrealistic expectations of their members; the "wave a wand and make it alright" attitude among rank-and-file union members is widely prevalent. Over and against this is the fact that union members pay their dues to receive the benefits of membership, including competent industrial advice and advocacy. On the other hand, union officials rarely receive any acknowledgement for their efforts; you can put months or even years of your life into a member's case, only to have them walk away at the end without a word of thanks. By the same token, some members for whom you feel didn't get a good result are intensely grateful just to have someone on their side, someone to speak on their behalf. So the thanks, while few and far between, also occurs in the most unexpected places.
- Union officials suffer from being members of a "closed community". That is to say, many union officials feel unable to talk to their families and friends about what happens to them within their work as a union official because people outside the movement just don't "get it"; they don't understand the "context" in which stress and tension arise as a result of working for a union, and thus are unable to effectively act as "sounding-boards" or avenues of de-briefing. Exacerbating this tendency is the fact that the political environment within a union makes many officials hesitant to talk to their colleagues out of fear (whether justified or not) of any potential consequences for doing so. Thus, many officials simply try to "cope" without having anyone with whom they can "let off steam"or turn to in times of crisis.
- Working for a union frequently "burns out" people - for the reasons stated above, but also because union officials struggling to cope with crises or stress tend to "self-medicate"; that is, they turn to alcohol, for example, for stress relief. Which isn't to say that there is an "alcohol problem" within the union movement, or that unions are populated by sad, hopeless drunks. Rather, that in the absence of other support mechanisms, the "quick and easy" fix of alternatives such as alcohol can be a trap into which some fall, and which in the long run contributes to their sense of distress and isolation.
It is for this and other reasons that I feel there is a real and urgent need for a chaplaincy mission to the union movement. Moreover, I feel that my past experience as a union official equips me to deal with some of the cultural aspects of the union movement which may be problematic for others.
My mentor generously provided me with the details of a UCA minister who is also an emergency services chaplain;and he graciously agreed to meet me. We had a most interesting and enlightening discussion; and although I was a little disturbed to realise that, in so far as chaplaincy is concerned, matters within the church appear a little haphazard and ad hoc, nonetheless, I was able to clarify my thinking in this area. And the result is that I feel even more strongly compelled than before that I should make it part of my response to God's call to engage in some form of chaplaincy to the union movement. Moreover, I don't think that I need necessarily wait until the POD is completed, and the church indicates whether or not I am accepted as a ministry candidate. I think I need to take the initiative; I will discuss this with my mentor and reflect further.
But I feel very excited by the possibilities and the prospect for broadening horizons.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven. (Ecclesiastes 3:1 - NRSV)
Monday, March 05, 2007
Send in the Clowns
I went into today's Greek lesson not feeling terribly confident. Afterall, I had endured a less than ideal week in terms of study, what with various events and commitments to deal with, and relatives on both sides of the family providing very unwelcome distractions (is it too late to be adopted out?). Not that I'm offering excuses; just explaining that I was feeling less than boned up (and NO I'm not being crude) heading into today's weekly installment of torture by Koine.
My feeling of unease was not mollified when I noticed there was more than one missing place around the table this morning. I already knew one of my fellow students had decided enough was enough, and I started to wonder whether or not more than a few others had come to the same conclusion. The lecturer was also looking mightily pleased with himself; for a moment, it looked like his cunning plan to get out of marking a lot of exams at the end of the semester was bearing fruit.
Fortunately, it transpired that a couple of folks were running late or otherwise indisposed. Whether or not they turn up again next week is another matter. For the nonce, I was still content that I continued to be surrounded by plenty of fellow sufferers.
And so we commenced the lesson with a revision of last week's work and the exercises we had been set. Now, I produced a less than stellar performance, but I actually noticed that I hadn't done too badly either; my translations were either pretty good or just off the mark. Granted, there were some that stumped me altogether, but I was actually quite pleased that I seemed to be making some headway. Yet the curious thing is that I hadn't the faintest idea about the grammar; somehow, I had just managed to nut out what the sentences meant (or had nearly done so, anyway).
I was feeling a tad disturbed by this when one of the other students confessed to the same experience. And then a thought occurred to me: maybe if I can get enough of the vocab stuck in my head, I might just be able to make a fist of this subject. That is to say, when translating from Greek to English, an inside out understanding of the grammar is not strictly necessary; a sufficient dosage of vocab combined with a sense of sentence context might just be enough to see me through.
Naturally, the universe having the sense of humour that it does, I quickly realised that my revelation was not going to be the salvific experience for which I'd been hoping. Because, of course, when translating from English to Greek, I have to remember the right case endings and where the postpositives go and so on and so forth. And I'd be willing to bet my bottom dollar that our lecturer, being the smiling assassin that he is, will require that we render into our best Koine more than one passage of English for the exam.
But I thought to myself: maybe I might at least have the key to understanding at least half of this Greek thing...
Or am I just kidding myself? Am I doomed to end up with the linguistic equivalent of the custard-and-cream pie in the face...mmmm, custard and cream pie (incoherent Homeresque gurgling...)
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Language is not simply a reporting device for experience but a defining framework for it. (Benjamin Whorf)
My feeling of unease was not mollified when I noticed there was more than one missing place around the table this morning. I already knew one of my fellow students had decided enough was enough, and I started to wonder whether or not more than a few others had come to the same conclusion. The lecturer was also looking mightily pleased with himself; for a moment, it looked like his cunning plan to get out of marking a lot of exams at the end of the semester was bearing fruit.
Fortunately, it transpired that a couple of folks were running late or otherwise indisposed. Whether or not they turn up again next week is another matter. For the nonce, I was still content that I continued to be surrounded by plenty of fellow sufferers.
And so we commenced the lesson with a revision of last week's work and the exercises we had been set. Now, I produced a less than stellar performance, but I actually noticed that I hadn't done too badly either; my translations were either pretty good or just off the mark. Granted, there were some that stumped me altogether, but I was actually quite pleased that I seemed to be making some headway. Yet the curious thing is that I hadn't the faintest idea about the grammar; somehow, I had just managed to nut out what the sentences meant (or had nearly done so, anyway).
I was feeling a tad disturbed by this when one of the other students confessed to the same experience. And then a thought occurred to me: maybe if I can get enough of the vocab stuck in my head, I might just be able to make a fist of this subject. That is to say, when translating from Greek to English, an inside out understanding of the grammar is not strictly necessary; a sufficient dosage of vocab combined with a sense of sentence context might just be enough to see me through.
Naturally, the universe having the sense of humour that it does, I quickly realised that my revelation was not going to be the salvific experience for which I'd been hoping. Because, of course, when translating from English to Greek, I have to remember the right case endings and where the postpositives go and so on and so forth. And I'd be willing to bet my bottom dollar that our lecturer, being the smiling assassin that he is, will require that we render into our best Koine more than one passage of English for the exam.
But I thought to myself: maybe I might at least have the key to understanding at least half of this Greek thing...
Or am I just kidding myself? Am I doomed to end up with the linguistic equivalent of the custard-and-cream pie in the face...mmmm, custard and cream pie (incoherent Homeresque gurgling...)
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: Language is not simply a reporting device for experience but a defining framework for it. (Benjamin Whorf)
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Picture Perfect
Those of you who remember my post on the neo-creationist nonsense calling itself intelligent design will appreciate the following cartoon from one of my favourite cartoonists, Wiley.
The man is a genius.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the day: I desire you would use all your skill to paint my picture truly like me, and not flatter me at all; but remark all these roughness, pimples, warts, and everything as you see me, otherwise I will never pay a farthing for it. (Oliver Cromwell)
Monday, February 26, 2007
Morituri te salutat
I had been pleased with myself.
In the week and a half since my Greek precessional and the commencement of first semester today, I had thought I'd made some progress. I'd drawn up charts for the Greek alphabet and stuck them up on the back of the bathroom door, where I could contemplate (and memorise) the Greek alphabet at leisure. I had also drawn up a table of the noun and definite article declensions in masculine, feminine, and neuter singular and plural nominative, genitive, dative, and accusative cases. I'd also constructed some flash cards with various items of grammar and vocab.
And I'd also studied. No, seriously, I had studied. Indeed, I had reached the point where I could write out the Greek alphabet in both capitals and script (in sequence, if you don't mind), and had also been able to construct the full declension for some basic words. So I figured I'd made some progress, if not exactly become a star pupil. Granted, I was still having trouble with the vocab, as well as remembering where pesky little items such as breathing marks (for pronunciation) and iota subscripts (I won't even try and explain that one to you) went. But all in all, I reasoned, not a bad start. I was looking forward to today's lesson.
Nothing like an actual lecture to knock the stuffing out of you.
Well, okay, not the stuffing, exactly, but certainly my illusions. When we started the lesson with a review of the work canvassed in the precessional, I realised that I didn't know diddly squat. I had forgotten about the partial declension pattern for proper nouns, as well as the irregular declension pattern for feminine nouns (which results in feminine nouns ending in "alpha" changing their form from "alpha" to "eta" in the genitive and dative singular if the penultimate letter is not "epsilon", "iota", or "rho"). I'd also forgotten about postpositives and how they go between the positive article and the noun, as well as "epsilon/iota" ending that makes a noun a verb and means "I/he/she/it performs the action of the verb".
You get my drift!
So you can imagine my joy upon learning that today's lesson would cover prepositions, and all the tricky little rules and variations that go with them. My personal favourites are the triple-meaning prepositions; that is, prepositions that have three different meanings depending on whether the noun that is their subject is in the genitive, dative, or accusative case. What bliss, I thought, reaching for the aspirin; now I only have to remember the same word in three different forms and meanings! What could be simpler!
No kidding, Greece may well have been the cradle of Western civilisation, but they knew sweet FA about making knowledge - never mind learning - easy to access.
This whole experience reminds of the story about the English cricketer who was asked what it was like facing the terrifying fast bowling of the West Indian cricket team. He is said to have paused thoughtfully, then responded: "Tell me, did you ever watch the film Zulu and wonder what it was like to be one of the British redcoats facing the charge of the impis?"
I know exactly what he's talking about.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Education is what remains after what one has learned has been forgotten. (B F Skinner)
In the week and a half since my Greek precessional and the commencement of first semester today, I had thought I'd made some progress. I'd drawn up charts for the Greek alphabet and stuck them up on the back of the bathroom door, where I could contemplate (and memorise) the Greek alphabet at leisure. I had also drawn up a table of the noun and definite article declensions in masculine, feminine, and neuter singular and plural nominative, genitive, dative, and accusative cases. I'd also constructed some flash cards with various items of grammar and vocab.
And I'd also studied. No, seriously, I had studied. Indeed, I had reached the point where I could write out the Greek alphabet in both capitals and script (in sequence, if you don't mind), and had also been able to construct the full declension for some basic words. So I figured I'd made some progress, if not exactly become a star pupil. Granted, I was still having trouble with the vocab, as well as remembering where pesky little items such as breathing marks (for pronunciation) and iota subscripts (I won't even try and explain that one to you) went. But all in all, I reasoned, not a bad start. I was looking forward to today's lesson.
Nothing like an actual lecture to knock the stuffing out of you.
Well, okay, not the stuffing, exactly, but certainly my illusions. When we started the lesson with a review of the work canvassed in the precessional, I realised that I didn't know diddly squat. I had forgotten about the partial declension pattern for proper nouns, as well as the irregular declension pattern for feminine nouns (which results in feminine nouns ending in "alpha" changing their form from "alpha" to "eta" in the genitive and dative singular if the penultimate letter is not "epsilon", "iota", or "rho"). I'd also forgotten about postpositives and how they go between the positive article and the noun, as well as "epsilon/iota" ending that makes a noun a verb and means "I/he/she/it performs the action of the verb".
You get my drift!
So you can imagine my joy upon learning that today's lesson would cover prepositions, and all the tricky little rules and variations that go with them. My personal favourites are the triple-meaning prepositions; that is, prepositions that have three different meanings depending on whether the noun that is their subject is in the genitive, dative, or accusative case. What bliss, I thought, reaching for the aspirin; now I only have to remember the same word in three different forms and meanings! What could be simpler!
No kidding, Greece may well have been the cradle of Western civilisation, but they knew sweet FA about making knowledge - never mind learning - easy to access.
This whole experience reminds of the story about the English cricketer who was asked what it was like facing the terrifying fast bowling of the West Indian cricket team. He is said to have paused thoughtfully, then responded: "Tell me, did you ever watch the film Zulu and wonder what it was like to be one of the British redcoats facing the charge of the impis?"
I know exactly what he's talking about.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: Education is what remains after what one has learned has been forgotten. (B F Skinner)
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Weltschmerz
"What is freedom?"
"I don't know either. I only know that it is neither irresponsibility nor aimlessness. It's easier to say what it is not than what it is."
I am presently reading the novel Heaven Has No Favourites by Erich Maria Remarque, which is set in the immediate post-war period in Europe. It concerns a racing driver named Clerfayt, and a young woman, Lillian Dunkerque, both of whom are seeking freedom from a sense of doom, from the inevitable collapse of dreams and hopes and ideas in the face of time and death. Time and death are stark realities for Clerfayt and Lillian. He lives from race to race, knowing that his life-span as a driver is running out, that he must endure either a long, empty retirement forgotten by the world, or horrible death or disfigurement in an accident; she is dying from tuberculosis, her alternatives being a short, bright spurt of living life to the full, or the drawn-out accumulation of days and weeks and years imprisoned in a remote Swiss sanitarium.
Both were traumatised by their experiences in the war: he as a POW, she as a frightened fugitive on the run from the Nazis, and these experiences have coloured their perception of life. Knowing what they know of the human capacity for evil, and of the random arbitrariness of death, they regard the rituals of modern life as empty, meaningless, irrelevant. And yet they also long for meaning, for substance, for freedom from their sense of inevitable decay and entropy. They long for life, for innocence, for a time when they did not know what they know, and did not feel as they feel. They fear death, but also regard life as irrelevant.
Heaven Has No Favourites is the story of their attempt to escape their ennui, their attempt to try and find some meaning in life through the agency of all the things they regard as meaningless; it is the story of their attempt to escape back into meaning from the wasteland of alienation.
It is hard not to see Remarque's own life projected through this novel - as, indeed, it was projected through all his novels. Remarque's first and most famous novel - All Quiet on the Western Front - and its sequels - The Road Back and Three Comrades - depict the alienation and dislocation which young men returning from the horrors of the First World War experienced. And it is an experience made all the more poignant because they were enlisted in 1916 - that is, they weren't old enough to enlist at the war's beginning, and thus weren't old enough to have jobs or families or careers, conditions which could anchor them in the pre-war world and to which they could return if they survived. On the other hand, they were just old enough to have all their illusions and naivety destroyed by the experience of war, to have their expectation of, and faith in, all the things older men took for granted fatally undermined. And so when they returned from the fighting they had nothing - no hopes, no dreams, no plans or ambitions, no sense of place or belonging. Just cynicism, and grief, and anger, and guilt for having survived the conflict that claimed not only the lives of their friends, but also the world into which they had expected to grow up and become citizens.
Part of what makes adolescence a difficult period is that we are able, for the first time, to critically examine the world around us; and yet we also lack the life experience to resist the shock-value of our discoveries. Remarque and his peers went through a greatly magnified process; the shock value not of life, but of mass slaughter. And so they were confronted with the "Big Questions" of being without the luxury of first coming to terms with existence, and working out for themselves their own ground on which to stand, and from which to answer such questions.
The result was an alienation - not only an emptiness, a hollowness, but a sense of aloneness and insignificance - which haunted Remarque his whole life. After the war, he struggled to make ends meet variously as a teacher, a funeral ornament salesman (depicted in his novel The Black Obelisk), a theatre critic, and a sports journalist. When All Quiet on the Western Front was published in 1929, he found fame and fortune - but not peace. The rise of Nazism in Germany in the 1930's resulted in him being condemned as a "defeatist" writer, eventuating in his exile, first to Switzerland, then the United States. His sister suffered a terrible fate at the Nazis' hands because of him, and his personal life was a shambles, marked by a self-conscious, alcohol-fuelled hedonism, and destructive intimate relationships.
Remarque's sense of rootlessness is depicted in his "emigre" novels: Flotsam, Arch of Triumph, A Night in Lisbon. All the old certainties have been destroyed; but there is nothing to replace them, except grief for what has been overturned, and a vague, unsatisfying hope for what might be. You get a real sense that the emigre people of the between-the-war years understood that they were doomed: what they had once been, or might have been, had been swept away by the destruction of war and the upheaval of its aftermath; and they could also sense the forthcoming conflagration, and understood that its impact would be even greater than the first war. The in-between time was, at best, a brief respite.
And this impression comes across in the experience of Remarque's own life. Despite the fact that he lived in, or habituated, many "exotic" locations - Monte Carlo, Paris, Milan, New York - he never discovered a sense of home until later in life when he settled in Porto Ronco, Switzerland. Even so, the fact that he was forced into exile from Germany, and felt too alienated to re-settle there after the war, accentuated his feelings of rootlessness. Likewise, despite the fact that he had affairs with some of the most beautiful women of his day - Dolores del Rio, Lupe Valez, Maureen O'Sullivan, Luise Rainer, Marlene Dietrich, and Greta Garbo - these were almost always unsatisfying and frequently turbulent, characterised by emotional neediness and recriminations born of insecurity. His first marriage was marred by mutual infidelity and jealousy, and it was again only later in life that his second marriage, to Paulette Goddard, provided any sense of stability and comfort. And just at the point when his life seemed to have found depth and meaning, his being was undermined by terminal ill-health.
Many people find Remarque's work too cloying, too full of sadness and despair. But a careful reading also indicates an undercurrent of heroism and hope; the very fact that people struggle against their despair and feelings of futility instead of surrendering to apathy is itself a cause for celebration. Weltschmerz, the sense of the terrible sadness of being, may be the theme of Remarque's novels; but so, too, is the terrible beauty of existence. There is a glory amidst the sadness, a glimpse of the heights to which the human spirit can rise, in spite - and despite - itself.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the day: Thought shall be harder, heart the keener, courage the greater, as our might lessens. (Anglo-Saxon epic: The Battle of Maldon)
"I don't know either. I only know that it is neither irresponsibility nor aimlessness. It's easier to say what it is not than what it is."
I am presently reading the novel Heaven Has No Favourites by Erich Maria Remarque, which is set in the immediate post-war period in Europe. It concerns a racing driver named Clerfayt, and a young woman, Lillian Dunkerque, both of whom are seeking freedom from a sense of doom, from the inevitable collapse of dreams and hopes and ideas in the face of time and death. Time and death are stark realities for Clerfayt and Lillian. He lives from race to race, knowing that his life-span as a driver is running out, that he must endure either a long, empty retirement forgotten by the world, or horrible death or disfigurement in an accident; she is dying from tuberculosis, her alternatives being a short, bright spurt of living life to the full, or the drawn-out accumulation of days and weeks and years imprisoned in a remote Swiss sanitarium.
Both were traumatised by their experiences in the war: he as a POW, she as a frightened fugitive on the run from the Nazis, and these experiences have coloured their perception of life. Knowing what they know of the human capacity for evil, and of the random arbitrariness of death, they regard the rituals of modern life as empty, meaningless, irrelevant. And yet they also long for meaning, for substance, for freedom from their sense of inevitable decay and entropy. They long for life, for innocence, for a time when they did not know what they know, and did not feel as they feel. They fear death, but also regard life as irrelevant.
Heaven Has No Favourites is the story of their attempt to escape their ennui, their attempt to try and find some meaning in life through the agency of all the things they regard as meaningless; it is the story of their attempt to escape back into meaning from the wasteland of alienation.
It is hard not to see Remarque's own life projected through this novel - as, indeed, it was projected through all his novels. Remarque's first and most famous novel - All Quiet on the Western Front - and its sequels - The Road Back and Three Comrades - depict the alienation and dislocation which young men returning from the horrors of the First World War experienced. And it is an experience made all the more poignant because they were enlisted in 1916 - that is, they weren't old enough to enlist at the war's beginning, and thus weren't old enough to have jobs or families or careers, conditions which could anchor them in the pre-war world and to which they could return if they survived. On the other hand, they were just old enough to have all their illusions and naivety destroyed by the experience of war, to have their expectation of, and faith in, all the things older men took for granted fatally undermined. And so when they returned from the fighting they had nothing - no hopes, no dreams, no plans or ambitions, no sense of place or belonging. Just cynicism, and grief, and anger, and guilt for having survived the conflict that claimed not only the lives of their friends, but also the world into which they had expected to grow up and become citizens.
Part of what makes adolescence a difficult period is that we are able, for the first time, to critically examine the world around us; and yet we also lack the life experience to resist the shock-value of our discoveries. Remarque and his peers went through a greatly magnified process; the shock value not of life, but of mass slaughter. And so they were confronted with the "Big Questions" of being without the luxury of first coming to terms with existence, and working out for themselves their own ground on which to stand, and from which to answer such questions.
The result was an alienation - not only an emptiness, a hollowness, but a sense of aloneness and insignificance - which haunted Remarque his whole life. After the war, he struggled to make ends meet variously as a teacher, a funeral ornament salesman (depicted in his novel The Black Obelisk), a theatre critic, and a sports journalist. When All Quiet on the Western Front was published in 1929, he found fame and fortune - but not peace. The rise of Nazism in Germany in the 1930's resulted in him being condemned as a "defeatist" writer, eventuating in his exile, first to Switzerland, then the United States. His sister suffered a terrible fate at the Nazis' hands because of him, and his personal life was a shambles, marked by a self-conscious, alcohol-fuelled hedonism, and destructive intimate relationships.
Remarque's sense of rootlessness is depicted in his "emigre" novels: Flotsam, Arch of Triumph, A Night in Lisbon. All the old certainties have been destroyed; but there is nothing to replace them, except grief for what has been overturned, and a vague, unsatisfying hope for what might be. You get a real sense that the emigre people of the between-the-war years understood that they were doomed: what they had once been, or might have been, had been swept away by the destruction of war and the upheaval of its aftermath; and they could also sense the forthcoming conflagration, and understood that its impact would be even greater than the first war. The in-between time was, at best, a brief respite.
And this impression comes across in the experience of Remarque's own life. Despite the fact that he lived in, or habituated, many "exotic" locations - Monte Carlo, Paris, Milan, New York - he never discovered a sense of home until later in life when he settled in Porto Ronco, Switzerland. Even so, the fact that he was forced into exile from Germany, and felt too alienated to re-settle there after the war, accentuated his feelings of rootlessness. Likewise, despite the fact that he had affairs with some of the most beautiful women of his day - Dolores del Rio, Lupe Valez, Maureen O'Sullivan, Luise Rainer, Marlene Dietrich, and Greta Garbo - these were almost always unsatisfying and frequently turbulent, characterised by emotional neediness and recriminations born of insecurity. His first marriage was marred by mutual infidelity and jealousy, and it was again only later in life that his second marriage, to Paulette Goddard, provided any sense of stability and comfort. And just at the point when his life seemed to have found depth and meaning, his being was undermined by terminal ill-health.
Many people find Remarque's work too cloying, too full of sadness and despair. But a careful reading also indicates an undercurrent of heroism and hope; the very fact that people struggle against their despair and feelings of futility instead of surrendering to apathy is itself a cause for celebration. Weltschmerz, the sense of the terrible sadness of being, may be the theme of Remarque's novels; but so, too, is the terrible beauty of existence. There is a glory amidst the sadness, a glimpse of the heights to which the human spirit can rise, in spite - and despite - itself.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the day: Thought shall be harder, heart the keener, courage the greater, as our might lessens. (Anglo-Saxon epic: The Battle of Maldon)
Monday, February 19, 2007
Our First Service
Last night, my Dearly Beloved and I lead our first worship service together.
We have come to this point by an interesting road. When we commenced our Periods of Discernment last year, we wanted to undertake a project that would provide us with some experience in leading worship, as well as working collaboratively with others to enable them to utilise and express their gifts. At the same time, we also wanted to make a contribution to our local Uniting Church community.
As is often the way with these things, we found our way forward by talking to people. Through conversation, we discerned that there was a desire within our local church community for a time and a space which was focused exclusively on worship and worship styles; a process that complemented the regular Sunday morning service, but which was solely about the exercise of worship, about drawing on the richness of Christian tradition in order to bring people into an encounter with the holiness and mystery of God.
As a consequence, my Dearly Beloved and I hit upon the idea of a series of monthly services on a Sunday evening. They would not be services as this is understood in terms of the regular Sunday service; rather, they would be services that would focus on and utilise a particular process of worship. Hardly an original idea, I grant you, but we recognised that it fit the bill in terms of what we wanted to achieve and the contribution to our community we wanted to make.
The first step was discussing the idea with our local minister; and as we talked through the project with him, we felt blessed by his wonderful support, affirmation, and wise guidance. With great enthusiasm, he helped clarify our thinking and gave us the green light to proceed. Next, we approached a smaller group of people within the church community whom we knew possessed particular gifts and asked if they wanted to be involved in the project; and for a second time we were blessed by their support, enthusiasm, and generosity. Before we quite realised what had happened, we were planning the first service.
And last night was the occasion for same. It was a contemplative service structured in "cycles" that told the life of Christ from the commencement of his ministry to just before his entry into Jerusalem. Each cycle consisted of a reading, a Taize chant, and a meditation space. The intent was to generat in the participants a meditative mindset that enabled them to focus on God, and to have an experience of the indwelling of God which they could then take with them from the worship space.
The service started at 7pm. The cool change was threatening, but it was still hellishly hot. Nonetheless, an encouraging number of hardy souls turned up for the service. In retrospect, the whole service went better than either my Dearly Beloved or I anticipated, thanks to the contributions of our support group and the affirming presence of our fellow parishioners. No doubt there will be one or two minor aspects that will require attention; we'll debrief on these and make any necessary adjustment. But it seems to me that by the time the service ended forty minutes after it commenced, an atmosphere of contemplative peace had indeed touched all who participated.
For me, one of the most significant moments occurred during the first meditation space. As silence fell upon the congregation, the cool change at last arrived, and rain poured down onto the church roof. I have always loved the sound of rain falling, especially at night; and on this particularly hot and torrid evening, the sound of rain falling felt like the gentle benediction of God's grace.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: The quality of mercy is not strain'd, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. (William Shakespeare)
We have come to this point by an interesting road. When we commenced our Periods of Discernment last year, we wanted to undertake a project that would provide us with some experience in leading worship, as well as working collaboratively with others to enable them to utilise and express their gifts. At the same time, we also wanted to make a contribution to our local Uniting Church community.
As is often the way with these things, we found our way forward by talking to people. Through conversation, we discerned that there was a desire within our local church community for a time and a space which was focused exclusively on worship and worship styles; a process that complemented the regular Sunday morning service, but which was solely about the exercise of worship, about drawing on the richness of Christian tradition in order to bring people into an encounter with the holiness and mystery of God.
As a consequence, my Dearly Beloved and I hit upon the idea of a series of monthly services on a Sunday evening. They would not be services as this is understood in terms of the regular Sunday service; rather, they would be services that would focus on and utilise a particular process of worship. Hardly an original idea, I grant you, but we recognised that it fit the bill in terms of what we wanted to achieve and the contribution to our community we wanted to make.
The first step was discussing the idea with our local minister; and as we talked through the project with him, we felt blessed by his wonderful support, affirmation, and wise guidance. With great enthusiasm, he helped clarify our thinking and gave us the green light to proceed. Next, we approached a smaller group of people within the church community whom we knew possessed particular gifts and asked if they wanted to be involved in the project; and for a second time we were blessed by their support, enthusiasm, and generosity. Before we quite realised what had happened, we were planning the first service.
And last night was the occasion for same. It was a contemplative service structured in "cycles" that told the life of Christ from the commencement of his ministry to just before his entry into Jerusalem. Each cycle consisted of a reading, a Taize chant, and a meditation space. The intent was to generat in the participants a meditative mindset that enabled them to focus on God, and to have an experience of the indwelling of God which they could then take with them from the worship space.
The service started at 7pm. The cool change was threatening, but it was still hellishly hot. Nonetheless, an encouraging number of hardy souls turned up for the service. In retrospect, the whole service went better than either my Dearly Beloved or I anticipated, thanks to the contributions of our support group and the affirming presence of our fellow parishioners. No doubt there will be one or two minor aspects that will require attention; we'll debrief on these and make any necessary adjustment. But it seems to me that by the time the service ended forty minutes after it commenced, an atmosphere of contemplative peace had indeed touched all who participated.
For me, one of the most significant moments occurred during the first meditation space. As silence fell upon the congregation, the cool change at last arrived, and rain poured down onto the church roof. I have always loved the sound of rain falling, especially at night; and on this particularly hot and torrid evening, the sound of rain falling felt like the gentle benediction of God's grace.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: The quality of mercy is not strain'd, it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath. (William Shakespeare)
Monday, February 12, 2007
It's All Greek....
I have just returned home from the first day of a two-day precessional on Koine, the dialect of ancient Greek in which the New Testament was written. This is part of my theological study for 2007, and, if I hope to ever be a minister one day (that is, assuming I'm accepted as a candidate), I must complete at least one semester of study in either Koine or Hebrew.
I will try to convey to you my first impressions as succinctly and as accurately as possible:
OH - MY -GOD!!!!
Make no mistake, dear reader, I was under no illusions that this subject would be anything but difficult. But having no illusions is not quite the same as understanding the cold, brutal, frightening reality.
The lecturer was keen to dispel any misconceptions which I and my fellow students may have nurtured. In pleasantly conversational tones, he informed the class at the beginning of the day that Koine is a subject that produces a high "casualty rate" among students in terms of failures and drop outs. I know he was simply telling us what we were letting ourselves in for - I just wish he hadn't been smiling when he said it! Nor was I comforted by his assurances that dropping out or failing was okay; I don't want to drop out or fail, I want to pass, so that if I am selected as a ministry candidate, I won't have to worry about learning another language in order to successfully complete my candidature
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I mean, as if learning a new alphabet wasn't bad enough, there's the grammar. I don't even know the first thing about English grammar, never mind that pertaining to an extinct dialect of ancient Greek! Subjectives, participles, tenses, cases, infinitives, and on and on and on....and, hey, just because I do a bit of scribbling in my spare time doesn't mean I actually know anything about the way my mother tongue is constructed. I'm a writer, not a grammarian!
It needs hardly be said that the rest of the day was a real slog, and I made a complete hash of everything; I could barely write the alphabet out coherently, never mind do any transliterating.
I really don't remember much of the train trip home; and I certainly hope none of the neighbours noticed the foetal ball I collapsed into when I staggered through the front door. I think this is just going to be a case of lots and lots of study and lots of hard work in order to scrape a bare pass...but I'll be damned if I drop out. I've already made the investment, I can't afford to.
There is one bright side: my Dearly Beloved has a real facility for languages - afterall, she speaks and teaches Chinese, and speaks one or two other languages besides. I really, really, really hope some of that facility rubs off on me.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: In language, the ignorant have prescribed laws to the learned. (Richard Duppa)
I will try to convey to you my first impressions as succinctly and as accurately as possible:
OH - MY -GOD!!!!
Make no mistake, dear reader, I was under no illusions that this subject would be anything but difficult. But having no illusions is not quite the same as understanding the cold, brutal, frightening reality.
The lecturer was keen to dispel any misconceptions which I and my fellow students may have nurtured. In pleasantly conversational tones, he informed the class at the beginning of the day that Koine is a subject that produces a high "casualty rate" among students in terms of failures and drop outs. I know he was simply telling us what we were letting ourselves in for - I just wish he hadn't been smiling when he said it! Nor was I comforted by his assurances that dropping out or failing was okay; I don't want to drop out or fail, I want to pass, so that if I am selected as a ministry candidate, I won't have to worry about learning another language in order to successfully complete my candidature
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I mean, as if learning a new alphabet wasn't bad enough, there's the grammar. I don't even know the first thing about English grammar, never mind that pertaining to an extinct dialect of ancient Greek! Subjectives, participles, tenses, cases, infinitives, and on and on and on....and, hey, just because I do a bit of scribbling in my spare time doesn't mean I actually know anything about the way my mother tongue is constructed. I'm a writer, not a grammarian!
It needs hardly be said that the rest of the day was a real slog, and I made a complete hash of everything; I could barely write the alphabet out coherently, never mind do any transliterating.
I really don't remember much of the train trip home; and I certainly hope none of the neighbours noticed the foetal ball I collapsed into when I staggered through the front door. I think this is just going to be a case of lots and lots of study and lots of hard work in order to scrape a bare pass...but I'll be damned if I drop out. I've already made the investment, I can't afford to.
There is one bright side: my Dearly Beloved has a real facility for languages - afterall, she speaks and teaches Chinese, and speaks one or two other languages besides. I really, really, really hope some of that facility rubs off on me.
Talk to you soon,
BB
Quote for the Day: In language, the ignorant have prescribed laws to the learned. (Richard Duppa)
Thursday, February 08, 2007
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
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:
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)
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
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)
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
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).
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).
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
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)
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)
Monday, January 01, 2007
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)
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)
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)
Sunday, December 31, 2006
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)
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)
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)
Monday, December 25, 2006
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)
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)
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Game Over
My Dearly Beloved and I get married today.
Woo hoo.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: I will. (BB)
Woo hoo.
Talk to you soon,
BB.
Quote for the Day: I will. (BB)
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
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)
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)
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