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A special type of mystic

I have neglected my inner life. I know this because I have an increased longing to be in nature and I have a fidgety, niggling feeling that I can only describe as ‘divine discontent.’ I know that change is in the wind, I’m just not sure that I am quite ready to leap into the unknown.

A friend suggested I read Raynor Winn’s ‘The Salt Path.’ She knows me well – I devoured the book. I marvelled at Winn’s resilience and trust in simply walking, putting one foot in front of the other until the path revealed itself. Since then I have read her other two books. I have been deeply moved by them all.

I have long harboured a desire to walk the Camino but now I am wavering. I have watched footage of hordes of people on this ancient track and I doubt I will find the peace I long for walking with thousands of others. It has lost its appeal. Maybe I need to find my own way, my own path to tread.

In her second book, ‘The Wild Silence’, Winn mentions the venerable Celtic concept of a ‘thin place.’ This is a place where the membrane between the ordinary and spiritual world becomes translucent, and we can touch the ultimate, even if only for a moment. It is a place where it is possible to lose oneself and find oneself at the same time.

Maslow called these moments ‘peak experiences’ and puts them at the top of the hierarchy of human needs. According to him, they play an important role in self-actualisation. He describes them as moments of pure joy and elation that stand out from the everyday where we experience a heightened sense of awe.

I realise that given my preoccupation with work, finances and plans for the future, I am not open to perceive thin places, should they choose to reveal themselves to me. Before that can happen, I have to get out of my head and be present to the here and now. I need to experience the earth under my feet, the air I inhale, and the space around and within me.

Lately, I have been drawn to interviews with Brother David Steindl-Rast, Rabbi Lawrence Kushner, and Thich Nhat Hanh. I feel that each of these great spiritual leaders have spoken to me directly over the years. I am not at all surprised that they knew each other and that they have been in inter-faith dialogue for years. Using the language of their own tradition, they too speak of the thin places where the sacred and profane meet and there is a momentary dissolution of the self and a sense of universal belonging. It all makes sense. And so I leave you to ponder Brother David’s words: ‘The mystic is not a special kind of human being, but every human being is a special kind of mystic.’

Unsolicited Advice

I’ve just returned from a trip down south to see my sister. We haven’t seen each other often in the past thirty years, in part because of the long distance between us, and in part because we have been busy with our own lives. Lately, she hasn’t been well at all, and I knew she was looking forward to my company.

My sister lives alone in a substantial three-bedroom house which has an additional formal lounge and dining room as well as a study. She keeps the whole back section of the house closed off to save on heating and spends most of her time in either her bedroom, eating alcove or family room. She is surrounded by a lifetime of memories, enormous collections of blue and white china and heavy wooden furniture that fill the sizable rooms. Once a keen gardener, her backyard is overgrown and inaccessible, especially now that she has great difficulty walking unaided. It was hard for me to see the enormity of what faced her day in, day out.

While out for dinner at her son’s place, she brought up the subject of the upkeep of the house and garden. Would he be able to come and prune the trees and weed the garden? Maybe even paint the house sometime? I immediately knew this wasn’t a viable solution. My nephew works full-time, has his own family and a house to maintain and certainly doesn’t have the hours on the weekend to do it all.

I had brought it up in conversation before, but it seemed like the perfect time to say it again. The house is simply too big for her to manage, and she ought to sell and downsize. Unbidden, my advice fell on deaf ears. When my nephew joined in with the many advantages this would offer, she picked up her bag, tried to rise from the chair and said, ‘Let’s go!’

I didn’t respond. I let her calm down, changed the topic and enjoyed our dessert. I wasn’t going to let this outburst spoil an otherwise enjoyable evening.

I stayed with her for another couple days before heading home. I never broached the subject again. I still worry that she will have yet another fall and that no-one will be there to call an ambulance. I’m concerned about her heating costs and her steep driveway which most days keeps her marooned in the house. But I also acknowledge that it isn’t my decision to make.

The saying ‘Don’t let anyone who hasn’t been in your shoes tell you how to tie your laces,’ echoes in my ears. I realise I’ve been treading that fine line between concern and meddling.

School holidays

For many years as a teacher, I lived my life in ten-week blocks. The first few weeks of term were always crazy busy as I wrote programs, prepared for extra-curricular activities and of course faced the day-to-day challenges of teaching up to 30 children. During the term, very little was done on the home front except for cooking, shopping, washing, and keeping a basic level of hygiene around the house.  Everything else was put on the backburner until ‘the holidays.’ Inevitably, when those two weeks arrived, the first week was spent in a stupor on the lounge. The best I could do was to finally read a novel or two. The second week, I madly spent tidying up and trying to get ready for the term. At the end of the year, during those blissful five weeks off, I would finally relax and wonder how I would ever ramp up again to face a new year, but I somehow, I did.

For the past four years I have been in the privileged position of mainly working from an office and going into schools assisting teachers with improving their students’ literacy. I have set lunch breaks, can make a cup of tea whenever I want, I have weekends off, and rarely bring work home. It is the closest I have come to a ‘work-life-balance.’ My heart goes out to the teachers in front of classes who must cope with the pressures of teaching, the increasing burden of admin and the expectation to constantly improve their practice. Whenever I am in schools, I do my utmost to help teachers in ways that don’t increase their already unsustainable workload. I have not forgotten what it is like at the chalkface.

These school holidays, I am taking a week off to see my sister, elderly mother-in-law, and my daughter. That’s quite a bit in a week, especially as I will travel several hundred kilometres. When I get home, I will be going straight back to work, and everything will be left in the state that it was in before I left. But unlike my colleagues at school, I know it will only take me a weekend to catch up. So, these school holidays, spare a thought for teachers who have not only finished a long term of teaching but have also written reports, had parent-teacher interviews, spent hours on playground duty and are now preparing for the term ahead. I have nothing but admiration and respect for everything that teachers manage to accomplish.

Audiobooks

I do a lot of driving. Some of it for work, some to visit friends and family. I average about 28 000km a year or roughly 540km a week. This amounts to many hours in the car on my own. As I am out in the country, I don’t always have good reception.

I do enjoy silence, but I also like to use my time productively. When you’re out on the road as much as I am, there’s often not much time in the day to read. Listening to books gives me a chance to catch up on my reading list or to try new books I wouldn’t necessarily want to buy. The irony is that I often buy the books I have listened to because I want to go back and read them!

Some of the best audiobooks are the ones read by the authors themselves. It is such a pleasure to hear a book read in the way it was intended to sound. One of my favourites this year has been Chitra Ramaswamy’s Homelands which is a story of a friendship between her and a 95-year-old German Jewish refugee who arrived in Britain as part of the Kindertransport in 1939. It tells his story but also hers, examining their otherness, friendship, family and belonging.

Another book that had an impact on me was Syria’s Secret Library by Mike Thomson. In 2011, Syrian government forces attacked Daraya near Damascus and held it under siege, deliberately killing and starving its own citizens. Throughout the bombing and shootings, a group of dedicated men risked their lives to save books and established a secret library deep underground. These books could be borrowed and taken to the front, or read in the bunker where a young man took it upon himself to become the librarian. These men were fighters yet had a thirst for knowledge. So, they continued their education when educational institutions were no longer viable amidst the fighting. Listening to Mike Thomson read I was in awe of their dedication to the resistance and to their commitment to education.

I also like to listen to novels. On our way back from Adelaide, my daughter and I chanced upon A man called Ove by Fredrik Backman, a Swedish author. We thoroughly enjoyed listening to this story on our trip. I had never heard of Backman before and this lead me to listen to one of his other books, Anxious People, which I also loved.

Audiobooks have opened a new world of listening pleasure. Sometimes I listen to learn, other times I listen for pure enjoyment. Either way, it helps while away the hours on the road.

Soon I will be going to Melbourne to visit my sister. This is a round trip of roughly sixteen hours. I haven’t chosen my next book yet. Whatever it will be, I know I will enjoy those hours. In the meantime, your suggestions are always welcome!

A winter walk

It is currently six degrees, windy and grey. Trees are shivering now that they have lost their leaves and even birds look untidy in their coat of ruffled feathers. It is anything but inviting out there. The dog needs a walk regardless.

I put on my walking boots, puffer jacket and scarf and head outside. The moment I turn the corner, the wind assaults me with a slap across my face. An involuntary sound escapes my lips. It is even less pleasant to be out than I imagined.

We walk along a well-worn route, down the footpathed side of the street where I can let the dog off the lead for a short block of freedom. Zoë runs ahead to say hello to the caged cockatoo who calls out to her, ‘Hello, puppy, hello, puppy!’ I reply with, ‘Hello, cocky.’ He rewards me with a bark to let me know that he has recognised the animal to be a dog. I marvel at his intelligence.

Further ahead, I stop for a moment at the corner store. Zoë gets excited at the prospect of a treat. Sure enough, the store manager comes out with a Schmacko. After a couple of high fives, Zoë is rewarded, and her eyes are aglow with devotion for this young man. She is playful and affectionate and jumps up at him. I cringe a little at her lack of manners and my neglect to train her.

We walk through the centre of the village and meet more dogs and people. Some of them are up for a friendly chat, others growl and snap. Our walk is slow as every blade of grass has a story to tell. Zoë reads the doggy news slowly and leaves her own messages at important junctures. Meanwhile, I hop on the spot and rub my hands together to stay warm. We make our way to the dog park, a handkerchief sized plot of land befitting nothing but a Chihuahua. Still, there is fresh news here too and Zoë learns all the local dog gossip as she keeps her ears and nose on the ground. My toes are beginning to protest at the pace of our walk.

Eventually we make our way back home. I can feel my pace quicken as we round the last corner, and I am once again assailed by an Arctic blast from the south. Zoë doesn’t register the cold but even she seems happy to arrive at our gate. Inside, we huddle in front of the heater.

I have a postcard on my desk which I picked up in Germany many years ago. It shows two windows, one looking out and the other looking in. Below are the following words:

There are people who stand in front of windows and longingly look inside believing that life happens there. While those inside stare out at the street believing it occurs there. Günther Kunert

On wintery days like today, I am content to live my life inside and look out.

Buying a fountain pen

I promised myself upon finishing writing my memoir, I would reward myself with something extravagant. Something that would last and be cherished, an item of beauty. I decided upon a fancy fountain pen to mark the occasion. It seemed a fitting purchase for someone who loves writing.

I finished the memoir six months ago now, but the time never felt right to spend money on an indulgence. Something more pressing always came up. Then, about two months ago, I took the plunge and began to research the pen that I would eventually buy. I looked at a number of luxury brands and chose a slightly lesser-known English company which offered a range of limited-edition bespoke pens. The one I eventually ordered had the advantage of offsetting some of the profit to a charity I was keen to support.

I couldn’t wait for the pen to arrive. As each pen is individually crafted, it took over six weeks to make and then I had to wait for the shipment from London. I was so excited to pick it up from the post office I wanted to unpack it there and then. But reason prevailed and I carefully unpacked my treasure at my desk. It came in a stunning black leather box, complete with a certificate of authentication, ink, and detailed instructions. When I removed the pen, the first thing I noticed was its weight. It felt very light and small in my hand. The body was made of resin, yet in parts it looked almost translucent. I felt a little disappointed, as I was expecting something akin to the sturdy Bakelite pens of the 1920s. Then I filled the pen and began to write. The 14c gold nib dragged across the paper and at times the ink didn’t keep up with my writing. I could hear it scratch along the paper and I knew the sound itself would be enough for me never to want to use it.

I swapped over to my trusty Lamy Studio fountain pen which I bought in Zürich about 15 years ago for about quarter of the price. It floated effortlessly across the page. I enjoy writing with it, and it has never let me down. Sure, it looks well-worn, and the patina of the bronze coating is clearly visible, but I love this pen. Why did I think I needed a replacement?

I think my motivation was that I wanted something new and shiny. Yet I love every old piece of furniture in the house with a unique story that can be traced through marks and stains. I still use the fifty-year-old pencil case my father made and every time I hold it in my hands, the worn leather fills my heart with gratitude for this object. Surely, my old Lamy is no different.

Once I realised that I was both disappointed with the new pen and with myself for not questioning my motivations, there was no other choice but to send it back and request a refund. I am not good at doing this. I was very factual and clear with my feedback and returned the item. I have lost some money on the postage, but I have gained a valuable insight about myself. This experience has taught me that I already have what I need, and that it is enough. More than enough.

Radical Gratefulness

Gratitude has become trendy with the positive psychology movement. You can always find something to be grateful for – be grateful for your breath, a pretty flower, a kind word. While I agree with the sentiment, I wonder whether the next generation who hear this mantra will grow up like I did, having to eat everything on my plate because I had to think of all those starving children in India. I am quite sure none of my Indian friends ever benefitted from the extra mouthful of cauliflower or cabbage I forced down my throat and it created a very skewed relationship with food for me which has lasted a lifetime. Waste not, want not…

Don’t get me wrong, gratefulness is a beautiful state and I do believe that we need embody it much more than we do. My gripe is the glib statements that often sound forced and obvious.  What I have been grappling with is what we do when things go wrong in our lives. How to be grateful when truly terrible things happen. This is what mean by radical gratefulness.

When I watched Peter die, struggling to take his last breaths, in those moments, I felt grateful. Not for the intense sunny morning that seemed so incongruous with what was happening, nor for the 20 or so years I had spent with him, but for those awful moments where I watched him suffer and that I could be there to share them with him. As my dear friend Janet said at her husband’s funeral, ‘Today is a beautiful, terrible day.’

Ten years later, I sat with Roger as he took his last breath and once more, I was grateful to have had the honour to sit with him in that beautiful, terrible moment. To bear witness to someone’s final moments is to be filled with deep sorrow, pain and beatitude. Radical gratefulness is the only way I can describe this. It is the experience of two opposing feelings in visceral communion through grace.

And so it was this week when I experienced a major setback. It was my fault – I missed a crucial date, and it has cost me dearly. My first reaction was to be annoyed, frustrated, and to be honest, gutted. But as time went on, I was able to find my way back to radical gratefulness. I didn’t accept the ‘it happened for a reason,’ ‘something better will come your way,’ comments, although I truly appreciated the love and empathy I received. No, I forced myself to look at the situation deeply, accept it fully, and be grateful for the lesson I have learned about my chronic inattention to detail. It simply matters, and I’ve stopped making excuses about being ‘the big picture thinker’.

I can now say with conviction that I am grateful for the mistakes I’ve made, for they have enabled me to learn and grow. As Alex Elle explains eloquently, ‘Gratitude practice isn’t about pacifying our painful or challenging times —i t’s about recognizing them and finding self-compassion as we do the work.’

Wings of Desire 1987

First released in 1987, Wim Wenders’ film, Wings of Desire is a love poem to a city which at the time was riven in two. Viewing it now, feels like watching archival footage of a Berlin I knew back then but which no longer exists. It also features real archival footage taken just after the war, when ‘Trümmerfrauen’ or ‘rubble women’ cleared streets, cleaned bricks, and helped reconstruct the bombed city.

The scenes depict many of the iconic places in the then West Berlin. The angels in the film sit atop the Victory Column on a golden statue of an angel. It is from there that they observe the city beneath them. They also congregate in the State Library, a stunning modernist building which reminds us of an ocean liner. There are images of Anhalter Bahnhof (railway terminus) in ruins, as well as Potsdamer Platz, the centre prewar Berlin, which until unification, was a deserted and muddy no man’s land butting up against the Wall. In addition, we see local nightclubs of the 1980’s and hear the post-punk, emotionally intense music of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

Most of the movie was shot in black and white which gives the film a dreamlike quality echoing the story of the angels who watch over preoccupied people as they go about their lives. Adults are unable to see the angels, but children can, and so we lament the loss of childlike wonder and children’s openness to possibilities beyond logical understanding.

The angels are poetic creatures who bear witness to humanity but are unable to participate in physical experience. This is amplified by the script, which was cowritten with Peter Handke, a well-known, if controversial, Austrian poet. These angels can only assume the meaning of human experience as they document their words, but they cannot feel them. When one of the angels, Damiel (Bruno Ganz) falls in love with a trapeze artist, he decides to trade his immortality to feel something real. Through his own actions, the fallen angel invites us to be amazed at the singularity of our own existence and be in awe of feeling the full extent of our humanity. After all, he has chosen to eventually die for the privilege to become fully human. At the end of the film, Damiel states, ‘I know what no angel knows’ and we are to understand that this knowledge, with all its complexities, ought to matter most.

Falling ill

When I am well, I take my health for granted. I forget about the aches, lethargy and depression that beset me every time I go under. I rush about my days as if I were invincible and eventually illness strikes as if from nowhere.

Two long weeks ago, I visited my daughter in Canberra. She mentioned she was ‘snuffly’ but forged on in the way her mother always did. By the next day she was much worse and by the time I left, she was bedridden. I now wish I had set a better example when she was younger.

It had occurred to me that I might have picked up the bug, but I put it out of my mind. After all, I was feeling fine. Did I slow down or take better care? Hardly! I kept running until I felt that rug pulled from under me. Predictably, I landed with a thud.

The first few days were a guessing game. Covid? Flu? A cold? After a process of elimination, it turned out to be nothing more than an ordinary common cold. Except that there was nothing ordinary about it. I coughed for nights on end, hardly slept and my energy levels were depleted. It went on for days and more days, then a week and now I’m three days shy of a fortnight.

What is fascinating is how quickly it affected my mood. I’m usually all smiles, cheeky, irreverent, and able to find humour in most situations. I consider myself buoyant. Within a few short days, I could feel myself sink. Then I was struggling to stay afloat. Dark thoughts descended and seemed to pin me to the bed. Although I knew it otherwise, it felt as if I would never get better. I thought about people with serious illnesses who spent years plagued by pain and I wondered how they ever found the tenacity to go on. Would I ever find my inner strength, or would I go under? I hope I’m never put to the test.

Yesterday, I finally rounded the corner. I had energy to complete some simple tasks, my mood lifted, and I found beauty at my doorstep – a purple rose in bloom, a parrot in the yard, a gleaming shaft of light. Slowly, the fog lifted and my body has fought off the intruder.

Driving without a phone

I was in a hurry. It takes three hours and fifteen minutes to drive to Canberra and I had precisely three hours and twenty-four. Doable but it was cutting it fine. I couldn’t get stuck behind a cattle truck, come across road work or, dare I say it, hit a roo. I threw everything I needed to stay the night into the car and did my final check. Keys, wallet but where was my phone? I ran back inside calling ‘Siri’ but there was no answer. Frantic now, I began turning bags inside out. I was wasting precious minutes. It occurred to me that I might have left my phone at work. Could I drive back to the office and take a different route? No, there wasn’t time. I had to jump in the car and leave.

I was beginning to sweat. Waves of panic came over me. What if I were to break down? The sun was reaching the horizon and the roads were empty. What would I do in an emergency? Then I remembered the long stretches in the journey where there was no reception. My phone was useless in these dead zones, so why should I worry now? I thought back to journeys of the past. I often drove long distances then and mobile phones only existed in our collective imagination. My cars were much less reliable and from time to time, they did break down. The difference was that I remembered many more phone numbers back then and I probably carried a small address book, just in case.

This time, I could only remember my daughter’s number.  It happened to be fortuitous as I was driving to her place. She had managed to get last minute tickets to a show and knew I’d be up to the challenge of getting there. But I knew she would be tracking my journey on her phone and would worry that I hadn’t left yet. So, when I came across a public phone in a deserted small town, I called her. Of course, she didn’t answer. A strange number was most likely a scam caller, so I called again and again. Finally, she picked up.

‘Your phone is at work,’ she said. ‘How are you calling me?’ Clearly, she is too young to have ever relied on phone booths.

The next couple of hours did have their moments. Thunderstorms, pouring rain, potholes and road works all slowed my journey. Still, I arrived with twenty minutes to spare, and we made it to the theatre in time. I could finally relax. By the time I was to return home, I had embraced the experience. I didn’t miss my phone once.

The following day was a Sunday. Could I wait until the next day to retrieve my phone? I thought about it. I really did. But the truth is, I enjoy the many benefits of the twenty-first century and nostalgia for simpler times has its limits, even for me.