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A small part

2/25/2020

It was a warm summer evening. I was enjoying A Night in Vienna at the Sydney Opera House, quite swept away by the magnificence of the orchestra and the magic of the music. It transported me back to the Imperial Palace in Vienna where I first heard the Hofburg Orchestra and fell in love with the music of Vienna.

As I watched, I noticed a man at the back of the orchestra. He was short, with greying hair and receding hairline. He sat quietly through a number of pieces of music and didn’t appear to have a part to play. Then, as the music reached its crescendo, the sound vibrating around the great Opera Hall, he stood, triangle in hand, and when the conductor indicated, he struck the triangle.

It seemed in that instant quite ludicrous, a tiny tinkle in that vast ocean of sound, but there it was, audible, harmonious and adding something very special.

I thought about the man and his triangle as I walked home that evening along the harbour’s edge, the city lights reflected in the now-dark sea. I wondered how many people noticed him, how patiently he waited for his time, his small part, and what a difference it made. I wondered about his life and how he came to be playing the triangle in that particular orchestra.

As the music died away and the grandeur of the night receded, he stayed with me.

Sometimes when I feel that what I have to offer is insignificant and unlikely to make any difference, I think of him and I’m reminded that in the hands of the Great Conductor, every part is significant to the beauty and overall harmony of the music.

I’m sometimes guilty of wanting the big part, the significant role that makes a visible difference. Slowly (and what a slow learner I am) I’m learning that I was made for small things and my contribution will always be from the back of the orchestra but it’s no less significant.

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Between the pages

2/18/2020

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I was raised in a book-addicted family. From my earliest memories stories were an integral part of life and books became the fodder for my fertile imagination. My parents were always trying to drag my head out of a book long enough for me to do my chores or get ready for school. I read beneath the bedcovers by torchlight, I read in the bath and as I walked to school.

Books were my inspiration. I fell in love with Charles Dickens, with the jilted Miss Havisham, still languishing in her wedding gown in her cobweb-strewn living room, with Little Nell and her grandfather in the musty old curiosity shop and Oliver’s twisted path from the workhouse to life in the cruel hands of Fagin. I lost myself in the adventures of Jim Hawkins, in Robert Louis Stevenson’s, Treasure Island.

Anne Shirley, of Green Gables became by bosom friend, as did Jo March in Little Women. I saw myself in both of them, imaginative, determined, head strong or what my father called flighty. But somewhere tucked between the pages I discovered the longing in my own heart to write.

I wrote copious amounts of stories but none of them saw light of day. They were my inner world crafted in words, filling journals and exercise books and anything I could lay my hands on. My parents saw them as nothing more than my scribblings. Back then it didn’t dawn on me it was a gift, maybe even a purpose for my life, and I live with a deep sadness about that, of what might have been.

But books have continued to be my source of inspiration. Between their pages I’ve found great wisdom or there’s been a paradigm shift, a light globe moment and those squiggles on the page have stretched my world beyond imagining.

How many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book? Henry David Thoreau

My bookshelves are crammed with books from every genre and a great many subjects. Every one has a history. Some have been read from cover to cover many times and the pages tell the story, yellowing with age, notes in the margins. Some have an inscription from a much-loved aunt and one reads, “ To my dearest little girl with all my love, from Daddy”.

Others have languished on shelves, unread, unmarked, except for a layer of dust. I brought them home with good intentions, or was given them because someone thought I would enjoy them, and one day I will. George Steiner, author and philosopher, said, “A book can wait a thousand years unread until the right reader comes along”. Or maybe in my case, the right moment comes along. Sometimes a book, which doesn’t speak to me today, will scream at me tomorrow.

I love the Japanese concept of tsundoku; a stack of books yet to be read. It makes me think of those yet-to-be read books as doors waiting to be opened or pathways yet to be explored. What lies between their covers a still-to-be-discovered storehouse of treasure.

And there's something enduring about a book. This handful of bound paper can connect me to someone who died centuries ago, yet still I can hear their thoughts, benefit from their wisdom and find joy in their words. I can ‘meet’ Tolkien and Hemingway, Henry David Thoreau and CS Lewis, through their writing. Tucked between their pages are legacies of a lifetime that will never die.

They can bridge generations. I remember my father giving my daughter, Good Wives. He took time to write little messages to her throughout its pages, a gift from a grandfather long gone but which still speaks to her today.

I imagine, after my demise, someone will learn a great deal about my life from the books I’ve read, and more so from the treasures tucked between their pages. I have an eclectic assortment of bookmarks … a postcard from a cousin, a pressed leaf and a perfectly preserved pansy that remind me of spring, a letter from someone dear to my heart, a photo of a family wedding, a boarding pass from a flight to Bendigo – I obviously read that one on a plane – a concert ticket from the Schonbrunn Palace, Vienna, and my portrait, drawn by a grandchild.

They are so much more than mere books; they are receptacles of the moments of my life.

But life has come full circle and I find myself reading very different titles, Room on the Broom, The Gruffalo, Wind in the Willows and Hairy McClary and Muffin McClay. Now I have the privilege of awakening in other children the joy and adventure that books brought into my life, to develop in them that love of story, the magic of reading, and maybe, just maybe, help them find their place in life.

What books have changed your life?
What bookmark treasures would you find between their pages?
What unread books languish on your bookshelves waiting to stretch your world or even change your life?

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The healing power of beauty

2/11/2020

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Imagine with me for a moment a freezing winter’s night on a street in Rome. The icy wind is strong and the near zero temperature inches its way through the thinning blanket that is all he has between his weakened frame and the elements. He wraps it tighter around him knowing sleep is unlikely. He’s had nothing to eat all day and hunger pains keep sleep at bay.

Hopelessness threatens to overwhelm him and bone aching weariness make him wonder if this life is really worth living. It’s the endlessness of it all that drains away any last shed of hope.

A few kilometres away a meeting is taking place in a warm, well-lit drawing room. A discussion is underway about what is to be done with the Palazza Migliori, a 19th century palace on the edge of St Peter’s Square.

The building has just been vacated by a Calasanziane order that has worked there for 70 years. It's prime real estate. There's strong consensus that it should be turned into a hotel for the hoards of tourists that visit the Vatican every year. They would pay handsomely to stay so close. It seemed like a forgone conclusion.

Pope Francis has listened quietly to all the recommendations and now it is his turn. He agrees there is little doubt that it could be a lucrative enterprise but he has a very different vision.

That exquisite palace has now become a home for the homeless. Those who have shivered through freezing nights on Rome’s streets, had nowhere to shower or wash their clothes and had been vulnerable to abuse, are now enjoying the wonder of a beautiful palace. They have their own bedroom and bathroom and healthy meals.

It sounds like a fairy tale. Some see it as a waste. But rather that being wasted, beauty is doing a healing work in each of their lives, restoring dignity and hope. One of the volunteers who work amongst them said it reminded her of the story about the woman who poured expensive perfume on Jesus feet. Many criticised her wastefulness, saying the perfume could have been sold for a lot of money that could have been given to the poor. Jesus said; she has done a beautiful thing.

I can’t help thinking that those people no longer sleeping rough or queuing in long lines hoping for a dormitory bed for the night are feeling very much like Jesus did; it's a beautiful thing.

Its one of those rare occasions when love and compassion and genuine care for humanity triumphs over the love of money. That too is a beautiful thing.

Lily Yeh is an artist, but you won’t find her working in a studio or her art hanging in galleries. You might bump into her in Korogocho shantytown that is built around a huge garbage dump on the outskirts of Nairobi. One hundred and fifty thousand people live there in less than a square kilometre.

Lily’s mission is to bring beauty into the broken place of the world. She teaches people to paint and together they’ve added brightly coloured murals to the walls around the town. Colour has added a brightness and beauty amidst the poverty and filth that is the everydayness of their lives. It's brought inspiration and creativity unthought-of before Lilly arrived on the scene.

And sometimes it’s nature that weaves its beauty into a healing work. I’m sure you’ve heard of Gregory Smith, a man who became an alcoholic as a result of an abusive childhood and years of abuse in an orphanage. His life spiralled out of control and eventually, homeless and without hope, he wandered into the bush and there he lived for longer than he can remember.

There alone, eating berries, lizards, grubs and whatever he could find, the anger that had controlled him for most of his life, began to fade. When he finally emerged, weak and ill, he made a decision to make something of whatever life he had left. With the help of many people he did a TAFE course, went on to university, gained a PhD and is now employed as a university lecturer and is on the Premier’s steering committee looking into ways to help the homeless.

There was something in the silence and tranquillity of the nature and its breathtaking beauty that seeped deep into his soul and helped set him free from a lifetime of anger and violence. The beauty of nature was a transforming power, a healing path that still amazes him to this day.

Beauty, like love, brings the sacred into the ordinary, touches us at the very core of our being, soul-stirring music, a magnificent vista, a compassionate heart. We hunger for beauty. We were created for it. Yet we live in a world so often devoid of it.

But each of us has the wherewithal to weave beauty into the fabric of our everyday lives.

Flickering candles on the dinner table
A note of gratitude under a pillow
A pot of bright red geranium at the front door
An invitation to dinner for someone who has no way of repaying the gift
A bowl of seashells that bring home memories of the beach
A listening ear and a warm hug for a friend whose doing it tough
A home filled with music, laughter and warm hospitality
A bunch of flowers for someone for no reason other than to bring them joy
A few moments in nature every day, a garden, a park, the bush … notice the symmetry of a flower, hear the bird song, feel the tree bark, breathe deeply the oxygen-laden air and revel in the silence.

Seek beauty and embrace its healing power because life without beauty is only half a life.

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I'm scared too

2/4/2020

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My granddaughter started school last week. There were floods of tears and considerable resistance to letting go of mum. She felt overwhelmed with fear of the unknown. Then another little girl who was starting the same day came up to her, took her hand and said, “Come on, I’ll take care of you, I’m scared too”.

Isn’t that what we all need, someone to show up for us when we are facing the crippling fear of the unknown, a crushing sense of loneliness or when doubt engulfs us. Whatever others perceive, done of us are immune from those struggles; they are part of being human.

“I’m scared too”, she said. What powerful words.

Is there anything more comforting than to realise that you are not alone in what you're feeling?

It’s easy to feel alone in life, not lonely but alone. As someone on the far end of the introvert scale, I know that feeling well. Overwhelmed in a crowded room full of people chatting and laughing while I’m struggling to make small talk and feeling terribly alone.

I’ve been seen as aloof, distant and standoffish. If only they had known the deep internal struggles that were holding me captive. And maybe that’s what motivates me to gravitate to the person I see standing on the edges. I have a good idea what they are feeling and going to spend time with them is my way of saying, “I’m scared too”.

I remember a very wise man once saying to me, we can’t help someone move beyond where we’ve moved ourselves. Can I really understand grief if I’ve never experience the depths of pain and loss that ravage every part of my being? Can I comprehend the paralysing power of fear unless I’ve known it first hand?

“I know how you feel” can so easily be no more than a cliché and it hurts more than it heals. But when someone stands with you, in all their vulnerability, even if that’s just to say, “I don’t know what to say, but I’m here”, our world can change. And when someone is willing to share that they are struggling too, there’s a level of oneness that lets me know I’m not alone.

I know a young man with severe autism and making conversation with him is awkward and uncomfortable and often I see people avoid him. While I understand their fear, he must feel so lonely and rejected when that happens. Last week he was trimming the edges of the lawn and I chatted to him and admired what he was doing. Just seeing his eyes light up made all the awkwardness worth it. It’s a beautiful thing showing up, not always easy, but beautiful. And priceless.

In her acceptance speech at the recent Peoples Choice Awards, Pink said, “Kindness is an act of rebellion”. How true. Rebellion against the indifference that plagues our world, against power and greed and self-interest. Rebellion against racism and the belief that some people matter more then others.

Kindness and love and just showing up can change a life and maybe even change the world. I know it did for one little girl, ““Come on, I’ll take care of you, I’m scared too”.

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A small part

Between the pages

The healing power of beauty

I'm scared too

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