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Thoughts on the Christmas story

12/9/2022

We tend to get swept up in the romance of the Christmas story, the wise men, the overarching star and even the heart wrenching image of no room at the inn. It makes for artistic nativity scenes and great carols, but I suspect there was little romance or comfort anywhere in the story.

The inn keeper must have had an exhausting week. The town was swarming with people, they’d been arriving all week and he’d filled every spare room he could find and had to turn many away. As he dragged his bone-weary body to the door to answer yet another knock, he found Mary heavily pregnant and his heart must have gone out to her. How could he turn her away?

He offered the only thing left, the stable. The rammed earth floor and the noise and smell of animals must have been a minor consideration compared to having a place to rest after the 145km trek from Nazareth, over rocky roads and through the Judean mountains. It was a long walk for anyone. For Mary, nine months pregnant, it must have been extremely difficult.

There’s little doubt she walked the distance. It seems that donkeys were mainly used as beasts of burden or only ridden very short distances. By all accounts the old saying, stubborn as a mule, was indeed accurate and would have delayed them considerably. They must have arrived in Bethlehem foot sore and exhausted.

But that’s the staggering thing about the Incarnation, the reality not just of the Divine, but the sheer humanity in every part of the story. It all began with a very ordinary young girl from a very ordinary town, betrothed to a very ordinary young carpenter, planning a simple life together. God could have chosen from the upper echelons of Jerusalem’s society, but he did not. He chose ordinary families like yours and mine.

While Mary accepted the angel’s message with grace and faith, how did her parents react to the story? And Joseph’s parents, did they try to persuade him to leave her or were they supportive? How did these families and the community as a whole, cope with this seemingly impossible situation in which they found themselves? How would you have reacted had it been your son or daughter?

It’s this everydayness that’s revealed in the Christmas story that sets the stage for all that was to come. Jesus was born into a family that had its joys and sorrows, struggles and misunderstandings. It had to be if he was to be tempted in all points as we are; if he was to understand the reality that we all face every day. It’s as we contemplate how Mary got on with her mother-in-law, how she and Joseph coped with the frustration of finding Jesus had stayed behind in the temple, causing them a long trek back to Jerusalem, that we begin to appreciate the sheer magnitude of the Incarnation.

And then there were the shepherds. Could you find a more ordinary lifestyle than that of the shepherd? Rugged men, weathered by the elements, but fiercely committed to their flock. God could have appeared to the local Pharisees and Sadducees but he did not. He chose to announce the birth of the One who would become the Shepherd of his people to these lowly shepherds watching their flocks by night.

Can you imagine the fear and shock that gripped them as the heavens opened and a host of angels descended, bursting in on an otherwise ordinary autumn night. Can you imagine the conversations that ensued as they followed the star to the manger? Surely wonder, amazement, and a sense of the surreal engulfed them, a thousand questions throbbing through their minds. What did it all mean? Why us? And as they knelt in the dirt before the manger it must have seemed an unlikely and humble beginning for a King. And of course it was.

And the story continued as it began. From the carpenter’s workshop into the company of fishermen and tax collectors. To healing the leper, the blind and the lame. He walked the dusty streets amongst people just like you and me. Those who came to hear him had hung out the washing, prepared breakfast, or worked in the fields. Ordinary people from all walks of life.

He knew what it was to be utterly exhausted, to weep at the death of a friend, to be rejected, and to be betrayed. He died on a rough sawn cross in the company of criminals.

It’s a mystery and a miracle beyond the comprehension of our finite minds and yet we hold the truth in balance, his Divinity and his humanity, both perfectly revealed in the Christmas story.

Image 1: Jessica Lewis
Image 2: Ozge Taskiran

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Living in moments

8/22/2022

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It was the year 2000 and the dying moments of the Sydney Paralympic Games. The Seekers took the stage for the final three minutes. Judith Durham’s voice rang out across a hushed arena as she sang The Carnival is Over. It’s a moment I will never forget. Her voice so strong and pitch perfect and a packed arena swaying in time to the music.

It’s the memory that hung fragrant on my mind as I heard of her death. A lady who always doubted herself and never felt she was good enough, yet who inspired a generation. Maybe that was the reason we loved her, humble and self-effacing. Maybe we recognised something of our own feelings of inadequacy in her. Maybe she helped us believe anything was possible.

What would The Seekers have been without her? It was only together that the band found its way into the hearts of people worldwide.

Since her death, I’ve discovered there was a fifth member of the band, Tom Springfield, brother of Dusty Springfield. Tom was an English musician and songwriter, responsible for writing many of the songs that made The Seekers famous. Tom died just 10 days before Judith.

In a tribute to Tom, Athol, Bruce and Keith wrote, “We have heard reports that Tom Springfield has died. Tom was our fifth Seeker and we could not have done it without him. He was our creative heart and soul. A truly gifted songwriter, guiding light and powerhouse.”

Tom was a very private man and his story is intriguing. It was during Tom’s stint in National Service, that he was assigned to the Joint Services School for Linguistics. The school was known as “the Russian Course” to train conscripts in intelligence techniques and provided exposure to the Russian language. They were trained by studying Russian literature, film and song. One of those songs was a Russian folksong from 1880s called Stenka Razin, and 12 years later Tom used its melody as the basis for the very song, The Carnival is Over.

What a snapshot of all our lives. A tapestry of all the people and experiences that have made us who we are. Like a thousand colourful threads being woven together, imperceivable in the moment, but creating the shape and texture of who we’ve become.

Where would The Seekers have been without Tom? Who would we be without the myriad of people who have wandered in and out of our lives?

I think of all the wisdom gleaned from people who chose to invest in my life. All the knowledge that’s come from people who didn’t just live life but shared their lives in often costly ways. Those willing to be vulnerable enough to let me meet their real, raw, authentic self and challenge me to do the same.

Words were spoken that still come to me in unexpected moments, often when I need them most, words that have shaped a part of me and still continue to guide me. Echoing voices of the past that bring back rich memories, confronting at the time but spoken in love. And comforting words, as warm and encouraging as the day they were spoken.

I remember a woman I only met three times, for the shortest of times, 40 years ago. She introduced me to Remedial Massage. I don’t even recall her name but among the many other things she taught me was the best and safest way to get out of bed. Rarely do I get up of a morning without thinking of her and how a passing comment has stayed with me.

It reminds me that investing in someone’s life is about moments. Living with a generosity of spirit and a sharing mindset because we never know when a moment that passes between us might be life shaping. We leave a little piece of ourselves behind us in each connection.

Photos: Alan Warren Wikimedia Commons

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Broken

6/20/2020

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A thinning blanket was all that lay between her and the cold, hard pavement. I felt her eyes follow me as I headed for the Strand Arcade where she sat at the entrance. I glanced at her and for an instance our eyes met.

As I averted my eyes and continued on my way, my sense of confusion and embarrassment gave way to an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame. Adding money to her bowl seems to only add indignity to indignity but at the very least I could have had a conversation. I comforted myself with the fact that my walking away was merely because I didn’t know what to do, but the guilt and shame hung over me like a refusing-to-depart mist. In fact the real truth was I chose to avoid the discomfort of the situation.

While it happened many years ago, my failure to act with compassion and connection still haunts me.

Bryan Stevenson, an African American civil-rights lawyer said, “There is power in proximity”. He tells the story of being sent to Death Row to deliver a message to a man awaiting execution. At the time he was a fresh young lawyer and fearfully nervous. The inmate was chained, hands, feet and waist and Bryan found the whole experience deeply confronting. Yet as they talked and shared the stories of their lives, they found common ground. Bryan walked out of that jail a changed man. That moment reshaped the whole direction of his life. Horrified by the injustice and cruelty he saw, he committed his life to fight for civil justice.

How easy it is to pass by on the other side, to keep my distance from the uncomfortable. When I get close enough to see the wounds, feel the pain and experience the brokenness, maybe what I fear most is what I will learn about myself in the process. Will I be adequate?

Maybe fear itself keeps me from love.

The last weeks have shattered me to the core. I’ve never watched someone being murdered before. Never seen the level of hatred that keeps a man pinned under the knee until dead, despite all pleas for mercy. That video clip brought me into close proximity so I could hear the words, “I can’t breath”, again and again an again, getting softer and softer as life ebbed away.

In some small way my life changed that day. Since then I’ve read, listened and sought to understand, not only the history, but the true level of injustice that African American men and women live with every day. I’ve waded into stuff too awful to contemplate and that’s why I can no longer look away.

It seems to me that the issue is not as much seeing all men as equal, but rather seeing all men as broken. At some level we are all broken. Some have the opportunity to cover that brokenness through money, position, education or success but those things merely mask how broken we are.

The world is weeping. Weeping for justice. Weeping for equality. Weeping for mercy. Sometimes the cries explode in anger and sometimes they are the wet tears of fear and despair that have continued to flow for generations. When I cross to the other side to avoid the issues, to keep my distance, I vote with my feet for continued injustice and inequality.

If I’m brutally honest with myself, I have thoughts of superiority every day, subtle, unconscious bias, but no less superior. When I was growing up my parents taught me never to look down on anyone. They had a saying that was used a lot in those days, "There but for the grace of God go I". Looking back now I realise how arrogant and superior that statement was and although my parents were humble, gracious folk, that's the thing, superiority is insidious, creeping into the crevices of our mind and blinding us to our brokenness.

But when I live out of my brokenness, there can be no sense of superiority, only shared humanity. Without proximity I doubt there can ever be true empathy.

What if I’d sat down on that threadbare rug and had a conversation and we’d shared our stories? I suspect I might have walked away changed and at the very least she would have felt a level of respect and dignity. No longer invisible.

If only it were all so simple! If only there were evil people somewhere insidiously committing evil deeds, and it were necessary only to separate them from the rest of us and destroy them. But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being.
Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

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Unanswered questions

3/17/2020

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One of the joys of spending a few days with my daughter and her family is having time with a little boy who creeps into my bed for a cuddle and chat each morning. He knows the rule. Don’t wake grandma before the sun comes up. He’s very good at obeying that rule, except for the last morning I was there.

He crept in while it was still dark and gently nudged me awake. I reminded him of the rule and he said, “But grandma the night was so long and I couldn’t wait any longer”.

How could I say no to that sort of love? He cuddled down with me and we talked about life, about nature and about dreams. He’s a never-ending source of questions. Anything from, “You’ve been to the Colosseum haven’t you grandma?”
“Yes I have”
“What’s inside it?”
“Cats, lots and lots of cats”
Of course we talked about all the other things inside and why.

Not all his questions are as easy to answer. “Why doesn’t my friend like me anymore?”
I had no answer for that one except to admit honestly, “I don’t know”.

Our lives are full of questions without answers. Why did my friend’s teenage son commit suicide? Why cancer, Parkinson’s disease and a child's disability? Why COVID-19?

Madam Guyon put it this way,
"If knowing answers to life’s questions is absolutely necessary for you, then forget the journey. You will never make it, for life is a journey of unknowables, of unanswered questions, enigmas, incomprehensibles and most of all things unfair.”

Right now we are in unchartered territory with a multitude of questions about COVID-19 and where we are headed. Should I be preparing in case I need to shut myself away for two weeks or the government puts us into lockdown? Should I just get on with life as usual or should I be staying at home to reduce the possibility of infection and hopefully slow down the spread of the virus, as many doctors have advised?

We want answers but mostly we get confusing messages. No one really knows and that’s the hard part. I'm choosing self-isolation as an act of love and responsibility.

Quite a while ago, a wise man encouraged me to live life’s questions and not need to know the answers. There’s a peace that comes with that … an acceptance that allows me to live in the tension without being eaten away with fear or frustration, resentment or anger … without beating my fist against a closed door demanding entry.

Ken Gire puts it this way, “Someone once said that writing a novel is like driving at night with your headlights on – you can only see a few feet ahead, but you can make the entire trip that way. Living life is like that. Certainly a life of faith. Give me the grace, O Lord, to live such a life … and to realise that though the light given me is never as much as I would like, it is enough”.

This will be my last blog for a while as I take time out to work on other writing projects. Maybe I'll be moved to share a blog here and there but not on a weekly basis for the time being. Thank you so much for you continued support and encouragement.

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Ode to a toilet roll

3/10/2020

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It's more precious than gold it seems and as rare as diamonds in the rough. No longer a considered a staple, it's a luxury for the fastest and most affluent shopper.

Its price is escalating faster than the stock market and fetching upwards of $1000 per roll on eBay or maybe you’ll be fortunate enough to find a bargain on Facebook Marketplace or Gumtree. I saw it for as little as $60.

For the connoisseur there is super-absorbent, ultra-strong, extra-soft or multi-ply but I’m sure you’ll pay a premium for the privilege. And then there’s the recycled toilet paper that commands an even higher price, but then my grandmother had that idea long before it was invented.

At the bottom of her back steps, next to the washhouse was the outdoor loo. Its unlined timber walls were the perfect shelter for spiders and a conglomeration of other insects that lurked in dark corners. But the thing I hated most of all was the recycled toilet paper that hung from a nail hammered securely into one of the studs.

My grandmother cut squares from newspaper and telephone book pages and threaded them on string. It was neither super-absorbent nor extra-soft but it was ultra strong, exceedingly cost effective and decidedly unpleasant to use.

But maybe for those of us not fortunate enough to have a Ute full of toilet paper we might yet have to resort to my grandmother’s solution if people keep stockpiling.

It seems that toilet paper was a prized commodity back in the 6th century in China. It was first mass-produced there in the 14th century and modern commercial toilet paper originated in the 19th century, but who could have dreamed that in 2020 it could have become one of the most sought after commodities in the country.

And who could have imagined toilet paper’s capacity to unearth the true nature of man?

Just a few months ago we saw an outpouring of love and compassion for all those affected by the bushfires. Wallets were emptied, volunteers rushed to help and we all shared whatever we could. The crisis brought out the best of human nature.

Now in shopping aisles from Bourke to Bullaburra, Kiama to Katoomba and Riverwood to Rylstone, tempers flare, police have been called and a knife has even been pulled in the high stakes of this me-first pantomime.

Greed and disregard for others is strewn behind overladen trolleys in the rush to the register, while those who live from pay day to pay day, those living on pensions or unemployment benefits and those who’ve had to wait for a carer to take them on their fortnightly shop, stare helplessly at the empty shelves. Their need may be urgent but who gives them a second thought in the rush for serving self?

Like most of you, I stand aghast that such an ordinary, everyday, innocent thing as a toilet roll can lead people to resort to such levels of greed, anger and even violence. And the ironic thing is that it’s the irrational reaction to a crisis that doesn’t even exist. As far as I’m aware, COVID-19 doesn’t present with diarrhoea and there was no danger that Australian produced toilet paper would become a scare commodity any time soon, until man made it so. I guess that is the power of fear, fear of the unknown, of being left out or of being out of control.

While I struggle to understand the logic, or lack of it, I must say I’m just grateful to live in a culture that has the humble toilet roll. I remember travelling in San Gimignano and having to hand over my money to receive just a few small sheets of toilet tissue before being allowed into the toilets. And when travelling on the edge of the Sahara Desert, it was a case of go west with your spade, not a toilet roll in sight.

So, long live the humble toilet roll I say. May they soon be reclining in abundance once more on supermarket shelves.

And while this is not a traditional ode, it is a heartfelt cry for the small things, the things that are always there so we don't give them a second thought. We don't really value water until the dam runs dry, the ability to walk until something cripples our mobility or the true value of love until it's taken from us.

It's got me thinking about how much I take for granted, sunrises, fresh fruit, shoes, shampoo, fresh air, good conversations, a roof over my head and yes, the humble toilet roll.

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The cost of the instantaneous life

3/3/2020

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Granny Allen was barely five foot two. I have precious memories of her old mountain home and the breathtakingly beautiful garden she had carved out around it. Large swaths of lavender hang in my memory, the fragrance and the mist of mauve as it moved in the breeze.

She was an old lady when I first met her but still digging, planting and harvesting blossoms for Seals florist shop in Sydney. As a young girl I helped her pick and package the flowers into long cardboard boxes ready for shipping. As I look back, I think maybe it was the beginning of my dream to one day become a florist.

I hadn’t thought about Granny Allen for decades and it was a recent catch up with a childhood friend that brought back those memories. There’s something wonderful about a friend who has lived a lifetime with you and has the long view of your life. It made me realise that it’s the relationships that have grown over the years and the things I've had to save or strive for over time that I value most.

Nothing we become is instant. It takes years to become an engineer and many more to qualify as a doctor. Parenting is a lifelong learning experience as is mastering art, ballet, self-control and patience.

We gain life experience, we gather wisdom; our development is a slow process and often imperceptible and yet somehow we are being tricked into the idea that life can be instant.

Google gives us instant answers; a mobile phone makes sure we are contactable 24/7. We no longer need to queue at the bank, we manage our finances online or from a hole in the wall. We have instant pay, don't queue any longer for train or bus tickets and can even have our shopping or takeaway delivered to our door.

When I was growing up, autumn was apple and pear season. I remember going with my family to buy apples at an orchard. The apples were crisp and the juice ran down my arm. They tasted unlike anything I buy as an apple today. Now we chill them, gas them, genetically modify them and now we even Xray them (even more reason to grow your own)! We import them from all around the world, from countries that do not have the same restrictions that we have regarding fertilisers and pesticides. And I defy you to buy a strawberry that tastes anything like it did when I was a child, sweet, juicy and red right through.

We’ve lost so much of the joy of seasons, of looking forward to winter vegetables and autumn fruit. We’ve lost the healthy practice of only eating food that’s in season. The market has dictated that we don’t have to wait; we can have whatever we want, whenever we want it.

It helps us live faster and smarter, or so they say. But in the process, something precious is lost. We are being robbed of the opportunities to develop patience, resilience, perseverance and self control, the experiences that teach us to value and treasure things that are special, and above all, the joy of anticipation.

I'm convinced that nothing of real value is achieved in the instantaneous life and yet its tentacles have a vice-like grip on our way of life and the very fabric of society. I see its consequences daily in intolerance, impatience and an easy come, easy go attitude.

It's the very weathering of rocks over time that creates their beauty.

Eighty one year old, Bill Hatfield, has just become the oldest person to sail solo, non stop and unassisted around the world. It was his fourth attempt. Despite encountering weather and equipment difficulties requiring him to abort attempts in 2015, 16 and 17, he refused to give up on the dream he'd cherished since he was seven years old. That's a lot of dreaming, perseverance and resilience at an age when many people have settled for a quiet, relaxing retirement.

Some of the most precious things in my life have cost dearly; the investment of time, endurance, courage and a great deal of patience, something I had to learn the hard way because it certainly wasn't in my nature.

I'm so grateful that life is a process, a slow developing fruit. I can always look forward to who I am becoming, for like diamonds that take hundreds of millions or even billions of years to develop into one of the strongest materials on earth, its in the slow process of living that we become strong and rich in the things that truly matter.

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A small part

2/25/2020

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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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Living in moments

Broken

Unanswered questions

Ode to a toilet roll

The cost of the instantaneous life

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The healing power of beauty

I'm scared too

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