The Ghosts of Teachers Past

Flicking through my wealth of saved quotes looking for my next inspiration, I was immediately transported back sixty years when I came across William Shakespeare’s little gem This above all, to thine own self be true. The line is from Hamlet, when King Claudius’ chief minister Polonius is farewelling his son, giving him advice before he heads to university.

The last teacher I had before leaving England when I was ten years old was Mr Tutton. There are very few teachers over the years who have become indelibly etched in my memory, those with that something extra, but he was one of them. I couldn’t recognise it then of course, for to me he was simply my teacher, and I can’t even bring his face to mind, but he was one of that breed who regard their students as more than receptacles for facts and figures. Looking back, I know for a fact he cared about us as people, for my memory is not so clouded that I cannot recall the feeling of simply being in his classroom. We enjoyed being there, learning was a journey of discovery, not a chore, and the praise we received when we ‘got it’ was relished.

When time came for my last day, he chatted to my parents, then gave me a farewell card wishing me well for the adventure I was about to experience, but it was the closing line of his brief message that caught my attention. To thine own self be true, he wrote. He may have mentioned in conversation that it was from Shakespeare, I don’t remember, but I do know that it hit me like a brick. At one level, I had no idea what it meant, but it felt very grown-up to receive such a message, like something precious had just been entrusted to me. I wish I still had that card, for it’s funny how things you discard over the years that seemingly have no value any more, suddenly call you back to a significant moment. Those few words were a gift, in more ways than one, and have remained in the back of my mind ever since. 

Mr Tutton and I corresponded for several years after we arrived in Australia. Remember those blue airmail letters? I would cram as much as I could into the space provided on that flimsy paper, telling him tales of this strange new land and how I was going at school, then I’d look forward with anticipation to his replies in the letterbox with T.R.Tutton Esq. written in his neat hand on the back. I never knew his first name, what the T.R. stood for, but to receive a letter from an ‘Esquire’ felt very important to a ten-year old. Like the farewell card, I wish I had kept them, for they would be an insight not only into part of my own history and my early impressions of life in this country, but how a teacher on the other side of the world could care enough about one of his students that he would keep encouraging her to embrace this new experience, even when much of it felt so foreign. 

I can’t recall when we stopped writing, or why. It was probably at a point where I no longer felt the need to hang on to the strings still connecting me to the land of my birth, or maybe Mr Tutton retired from teaching, who knows. I hope it didn’t just fizzle out, for even though I realise he would have died many years ago, I would like him to know how important that message was to me, and how I’ve tried, and unfortunately failed many times, to achieve that in my life. 

We spend much of our lives living up to the expectations of others, and often lose ourselves in the process. No matter what stage of life we’re at, we long for a little more time and space to connect with ourselves, for our spirits to catch up with where our feet are taking us. Life moves at such a pace we barely have time to catch our breath between one day and the next. It takes effort to set aside time for reflection, to do a personal audit, to determine whether what we’re doing and how we’re spending our time, is really what we want to do, or what we simply have to do at this point in order to stay alive and provide for our family.

How do I be true to myself? Do I simply discard everything I’m doing, to heck with everyone else, and say I’m going off to do my own thing? The consequences of such an action, and the chaos left behind, would certainly not endear me to those around me. It’s not about shirking responsibility, for when we move into any occupation, be it a doctor, retail manager or toilet cleaner, there are expectations of how we will perform. There are those fortunate enough to work in careers and jobs they love, or in environments that bring them alive, but for the majority, life’s daily routine does not offer that payback. How many times do we stop and wonder “How on earth did I end up here?”

There have been many times in my life when I’ve thought just that, wondering which decision I made in the past resulted years later in being somewhere other than where I expected or desired. Or maybe it was more the inner dissonance rather than the external location or occupation that brought on that sense of dissatisfaction or disconnectedness. Locating that inner peace in the midst of whatever circumstances we find ourselves in, choosing to be present in mind as well as body, is no mean feat. Changing external circumstances doesn’t necessarily bring about the inner changes we anticipate, for we are complex beings and have a habit of repeating past behaviours in new surroundings, undermining the gains we thought were going to come our way.

Making changes can be scary. It can mean financial and emotional turmoil, a risky thing to consider at any stage of life, but if that is what is needed to get us back on a path that will bring more fulfilment and a new lease on life, then maybe we should bite the bullet in those moments and just go for it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Sometimes though, the only changes we need to make are in our hearts, and our heads. Is what I’m doing valuable? Is it serving a need? Can I see where my role fits in the bigger picture? Can I still pursue those things which bring me more personal satisfaction while remaining where I am? 

We can be very quick to blame our circumstances for not pursuing the dreams we left behind, those things we believe will bring us more fulfilment. We visualise the perfect environment, the right moment, where everything will magically fall into place and we'll be the creative, productive people we were destined to be. I never did get my year in Tuscany to write my novel, but there you go, that’s life. Unfortunately, if we wait for such perfect conditions before we start, we’ll never get anything done.

For me, to thine own self be true is a call to arms, a practical directive to equip myself with what I need to pursue the right path, to be the best version of myself, to not compromise what is at the core of who I am, to become who I was meant to be. That might sound lofty or airy-fairy or totally unconnected to the pressures of daily life, but there you have it. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. It enables us ‘of a certain age’ to spot those moments when we followed our dreams and when we suppressed them, when we chose wisely and when we didn’t, when we battled on, and when we gave up. My past is littered with many regrets, and daydreaming about what might have been had I chosen differently is a luxury I can’t afford.

Like Polonius, Mr Tutton was imparting some farewell advice, something to aspire to, something against which to measure myself, something that would let me know if I was being authentic. He could see my potential, and wanted the best for me, wanted me to grab life with both hands and run with it. To not be afraid of the future, but to embrace it and find my place in it.

Thank you T.R.Tutton Esq, you were a true gentleman and scholar, and for a few years my mentor and friend.

Do I really want to Spring?

The sun is streaming in, and now that the Spring equinox has finally arrived, for me Spring has officially started. As usually happens on September 1st when we recognise the start of Spring, the sun came out, the birds were chirping, the daffies were blooming all over the place, lambs and calves were running around the paddocks and an extra spring in the step could be noticed as people ventured outdoors to admire the beginnings of new life. 

After two days of clear blue skies and sunshine that actually had a bit of warmth in it, Tassie then proceeded in typical fashion and decided our little foretaste would remain just that. We know down here not to get too cocky, for the brief respite from what has been a wet and soggy winter didn’t last long. Grey skies, rain and even snow have returned on several occasions over the past three weeks, as have our Spring winds, which are blowing a gale today and wrapping my washing very tightly around the line. 

For those old enough to remember, Demis Roussos sang his way through the early 70s with My Friend the Wind, but I can tell you the Spring winds are something we definitely do not welcome around here. Between the local motel having a whole section of its roof peeled off like a sardine tin some years ago, to the never-ending statistics of trees falling victim on the golf course, the wind can wreak havoc in our little State at this time of year. 

My neighbour found three foreign socks in her yard after one such gale recently which had us both awake at 4am as someone’s wheelie bin maneuvered itself down the street under jet propulsion, the contents of which ended up in several front yards. I’ve had whole shrubs, and I’m not talking little things, but 2 metre-high shrubs literally ripped out of the ground and sent skittering across the yard or down the road like tumbleweed. Had a tree once which suffered a similar fate take out the side fence and block the adjacent laneway. Someone once found a pair of guy’s satin shortie pyjama pants on the golf course, but I think the owner was too embarrassed to claim them. 

The wind can get pretty crazy, and I reckon it even has a way of getting under your skin. When I was teaching my 5-year old Preps a whole lifetime ago, we teachers dreaded windy days even more than wet days, for it was like a tornado came back into the classroom after the kids had been outside for any length of time. Their concentration went out the window, the noise level increased by several decibels, and their behaviour matched their tangled, windblown hair.

Even hanging out the washing in a roaring forties gale can make me a bit skittish, and we have to warn the elderly folk around here not to go walking when there’s a real blow on, for some have literally been blown over in the past and suffered injuries as a consequence. On more than one occasion I’ve jogged home through necessity, for it’s been either that or land flat on my face as the tailwind has propelled me forward at a rate of knots well above walking pace.

We often find parallels with the seasons in our path through life. Summer is full of life and energy, autumn brings a slowing down, a letting go, but when we’re doing it tough, it can seem like we’re immersed in a never-ending winter experience where all is grey and gloomy, forbidding and foreboding. Coming through to the other side where conditions improve and situations begin to resolve themselves can feel very much like heading into Spring. Hope returns, and with it the prospect of new opportunities. 

Author Barbara Kingsolver put it well when she said “This is the season of exquisite redemption, a slam-bang return to joy after a season of cold second thoughts.”

Even with the ravages of climate change becoming more and more evident on our precious planet, the Earth remains on its axis, rotating and revolving, taking us along for the ride through space. Nothing is static, the only constant is change, but we can still rely on our home planet to follow the rhythmic cycle that brings the seasonal changes. Despite how we might have felt through the long winter months, we are not trapped there.

“No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips its turn” wrote Hal Borland in Sundial of the Seasons, compiled from his daily column of editorials on nature for the New York Times. It’s a fact we all know, but it’s also heartening to be reminded.

 We live very much in the present moment, and right now Spring is a time of transition. The period of dormancy is over. Warmth is returning, new life is in evidence everywhere, so what better time than this to shrug off our wintertime lethargy and prepare to embrace whatever possibilities come our way. 

Things are Looking Up

I’ve been looking up to people my entire life. When you’re just a smidgen over 5’ 1” tall, you don’t often find another adult who is shorter. When I was teaching, I had a habit of making sure my Prep class was well and truly ready to head out to play when the bell went, so I could make it to the staffroom in the adjoining building for a cuppa before the grade 6 kids swept out of their rooms and gathered me up in the outgoing tide. I knew I’d been a little squirt at eleven and twelve years old, but much of this boisterous lot towered over me, and it became a daily obstacle course to arrive without being trampled. Wading through the mass unencumbered only really worked when I was pregnant, for they at least showed a little more consideration by giving me a wide berth.

I’ve already digressed, but maybe not. I do a lot of looking up, and not just in the dictionary. Clouds still captivate me, as do the stars. With no city lights to bother us in our neck of the woods the Milky Way is a frequent sight, and watching the stars and planets and even the international space station as it traverses the sky on a pitch-black night is worth spending time out in the cold. Then there’s the mountain range just up the road. As I put up my blinds every morning I look up to see what sort of weather is heading our way. Whether stark and clear, shrouded in misty clouds, or disappeared completely beneath an ominous grey mass, the mountain’s many moods are mesmerising.

But this isn’t where I was heading when I was gathering my thoughts. I’d started with the spectacle of the Olympics in mind, but it seems I have no difficulty in heading off on a tangent. 

The on-again off-again, will we won’t we, should we shouldn’t we Olympics is now at its pointy end. With just a few events and the closing ceremony to wind it all up, whether you supported the go ahead or not, our television screens have once more delivered a constant stream of outstanding performances, as well as given us backstories of athletes worldwide whose road to Tokyo has been anything but straightforward.

At a time when everyone is tired of daily Covid statistics, athletic endeavour and achievement has been a welcome relief. We’ve ridden along with the highs and lows of our Aussie athletes who’ve done themselves and their country proud, and children everywhere have no doubt adopted new heroes to look up to. We have no idea whose Olympic dream has been sparked by what has unfolded these past couple of weeks. There might be Paris and Los Angeles still to come, but I wonder who will emerge and take their place on the international stage and compete on home soil in Brisbane in 2032, simply by being caught up in the fervour and drama of this strangest Olympic Games yet.

I want to inspire people. I want someone to look at me and say "Because of you I didn't give up."

      - Author Beatrice Wallace

The absence of the usual Olympic razzamatazz and thousands in the arenas appears to have made absolutely no difference to the athletes. They’ve maintained their focus through the extra year they had to wait to prove themselves, and even with no spectators to cheer them on, they’ve been as driven as ever to perform to the best of their ability, and for that I admire them. While some mark the end of their sporting careers with these Games, others are just beginning the journey. It’s been heartening to see the camaraderie amongst athletes, admiration for each other’s achievements, no matter what country, graciousness in victory as well as defeat, joyous surprise at personal best performances, appreciation of simply being able to represent their country, gratitude for their support networks, and through it all a dogged determination to lay it all on the line after years of preparation.

Everyone should be respected as an individual, but no one idolised.

   - Albert Einstein

We talk about admiring those we look up to, referring to the level of respect for those we see as possessing positive attributes and character traits, and using them to benefit those other than themselves. But there are those who elevate themselves, or are adulated by virtue of their social or celebrity status, or those who hold prominent positions, who don’t necessarily warrant the attention they receive. They expect to be looked up to, respected, deferred to, but for those of us on the outside who can spot a fake a mile off, we wonder what is going on in their head that they regard themselves worthy of such privilege.

Heads of State and leaders in every sphere have risen and fallen due to their own inflated egos, promising much but in the end delivering little, and leaving division, confusion and chaos in their wake. 

We are quick to judge the actions of others, using our own standards as the measuring stick, but tend to judge ourselves on the basis of our intentions. One thing is for sure, we will never be looked up to if we look down on others. I would much prefer to approach life from a standpoint of compassion and willingness to understand, rather than one of judgement and conviction that only my way is the right way. Not always simple to do, for we all look through our own lens at the world, which can sometimes be short-sighted.

The Olympic flag might be about to be lowered and the flame extinguished, but in less than no time at all the Paralympics will again fill our TV screens. If you want someone to look up to, you definitely can’t go past this inspiring event to witness feats of guts and determination worthy of our admiration.

Entering the Middle

In her debut novel The Centre of Winter, Marya Hornbacher wrote such a brilliant description of the seasons, I have come to recall it often as the yearly cycle moves systematically on from one season to the next, and we descend into winter’s grip.

"All the seasons here in the north move toward their own end, except winter, which moves towards its centre and sits there to see how long you can take it. Spring twitches impatiently in its seat like a child wanting to go outside, straining toward summer, and summer, all lush and showy, tumbles headlong toward the decay of fall. Fall comes and goes so fast it takes the breath away, arriving in brocades of red and gold and whipping them off in only a few weeks, leaving a landscape ascetic, stunned with loss."

It’s a little debatable when the centre of winter occurs down here in Tassie. Is it smack bang in the middle of July, or midway between the winter solstice and spring equinox, or simply when it just feels coldest? 

We’ve seen precious little snow visible on the northern side of the Great Western Tiers so far, though there have been a couple of decent falls on the top of the mountain. This year, July has been more about rain, with most of our snowfall occurring in August anyway, though sometimes in September, or October, or whenever it feels like it really. Tassie’s weather can be pretty fickle, or maybe I should rather say predictably unpredictable.

There have been a few occasions when most of our State has fallen under the spell of a mesmerising white blanket, though such times are fewer and further between as climate change reaches even our little island near the bottom of the planet, even if it is in close proximity to Antarctica. Some years ago it even snowed on the Tiers on Christmas Day; the fire was lit, the house was cosy, and it felt like a real Christmas. Winter can present itself at any time throughout the year in this part of the world. Even in summer it is rare for me to venture out without my warm jacket in the car, just in case.

There are those who suffer from the SADS, seasonal affective disorder syndrome, who would like to hibernate along with the animals that hive off and sleep through the harshest time of year, in order to escape the onset of what can often be a winter related depression. Fortunately, I’m not one of them. I don’t like being cold, but there’s something about autumn and winter that makes me feel so much more alive. Even naked trees fascinate me, their bare sculptural forms highlighted by their lack of foliage, and the abundance of fungi, don’t even get me started on that subject, I’ll either fascinate you or bore you to tears with my discoveries.

Then there’s fog and frost. As chilling to the bone as fog can be, and I must admit I’m not fond of days when it rolls in from the valley below and forgets to move on, I love its mystical quality and the opportunities it provides for great photography. I drove home through 50km of thick fog recently on a frosty morning with the long grass lining the paddocks on the roadside bristling with stark white frost. If the sun had been out it would’ve been almost iridescent, but I guess if that had been the case, the frosty coating would have already melted.

And of course, there’s the fire. What would I do without my fire. It provides both warmth and comfort and the best place for curling up with a book or a movie. Come that moment somewhere in spring when it is obvious the fire is no longer needed, I feel somewhat robbed of a companion as the lounge room reverts to a less cheery form of itself. 

So, are we at the centre of winter yet? Somehow I think not. We look up at the mountain in anticipation when the weather forecasters inform us snow is on its way, the firewood heap is replenished to see me through the next months, the extra layers are added as I walk out the door each morning, and hearty soups are the main item on my menu at this time of year.

Am I ready to sit here to see how long I can take it? Too right I am.

Feeling Overtaxed?

Despite his amazing knowledge and powers of deduction, Albert Einstein admitted that “The hardest thing in the world to understand is the income tax.” 

Wind the clock back 21 years when GST was introduced and I’d agree with him. Accounts clerks like myself and the accountants we worked alongside suddenly had to deal with a multiplication of administration as we were hurled kicking and screaming into the maelstrom of this annoying 10% tax addition which applied to this product but not that product, this service but not that one. Buy a steak at the supermarket and there’s no GST, but buy a steak at a restaurant and there’s GST. It’s all in the interpretation.

Deciphering the difference took a while, and even now if I’m helping newcomers learn the ropes in our local store and they ask if a product should be entered under the GST key on the till, or the GST free key, I ask “Can you eat it?” If the answer is no, that’s easy, it’s GST, though even then there are exceptions. If the answer is yes, I then ask, “Is it real food or processed food?” By and large, if it’s processed food, GST is the norm, but working out the definition of ‘processed’ brings up so many anomalies you have to check the supplier’s invoices constantly to get the right category before pricing the product.

Don’t know why I started on the GST issue, that’s not where I was really heading when I started. I’ve diligently filled out my tax returns since the 1968/69 financial year, my first year at Teacher’s College, and believe it or not I still have them all duly filed away in consecutive order in the filing cabinet. I did actually manage to pluck up the courage in 2012 to go paperless and do my first e-tax return, and did that each year until recently.

Have never had any qualms about paying my taxes, though I have long been a fan of the movie Stranger than Fiction, where an IRS officer has to investigate a bakery owner who was not fully forthcoming on her tax return evaluation. She explained, and I was in complete agreement, that she had no trouble paying the government for roads and schools and hospitals and all the good things they did, but she wasn’t prepared to pay for the things she disagreed with, nor their mishandling of her hard earned money, so she had come to the conclusion that withholding a certain percentage was the right and honourable thing to do.

One of the benefits of transitioning into aged pensioner status when you live a very uncomplicated life in terms of finances, is the fact I no longer need to submit a tax return. The pension is my only source of income, I have no shares either going through the roof or going down the drain, I have no rental properties to declare, no secret stash in a Swiss bank account, and no royalties coming in from the book I should have written by now. My needs are simple and the pension more than adequate to meet them. Having kept fastidious financial records for so long, it feels strange not accounting to the government for what I’ve received, and the legitimate deductions I could claim.

For many though it is a quagmire of frustration, a time for sorting through boxes and files of papers they vowed and declared last year to keep in order so they wouldn’t have to go through this annoying process yet again. They would probably agree with Mark Twain’s take on taxation. 

"What is the difference between a taxidermist and a tax collector? The taxidermist takes only your skin."

We do the adding and subtracting, finding what we can to minimise our losses, and emerge with an annual income which lets us know if we’re on the way up or the way down, whether or not we’re living within our means, if what’s going out is outstripping what’s coming in, and it can be a depressing exercise to put ourselves through. Being able to control our finances instead of feeling they are in control of us is a good place to be, but sadly not within everyone’s means. 

Come tax time, it’s all about numbers, but thankfully, our lives are made up of way more than a financial ledger. Despite what we have, don’t have or wish we had, those we care about don’t look at us in those terms. Author Mary T. Browne put it succinctly when she said “If you want an accounting of your worth, count your friends.”

It is our character that matters, our generosity, caring nature, listening ear, patience, perseverance and compassion, our contribution to the lives of those around us. These are the things we value in each other and aspire to emulate, and will be remembered long after our acquisitions fade into insignificance.

Revolving Doors

The Womens Weekly ran a one page article back in the 1960s which captured my imagination, throwing a long held belief about my future career into disarray. After fronting up to my very first day at school in fear and trepidation, by the end of the day I raced out to Mum saying I wanted to be a teacher. All credit to the teacher, for I have no recollection of her whatsoever or what she did to make that first day so memorable, but she must have picked up on my anxiety and included me in such a way that not only quelled my fears but brought something inside me to life. 

Fast forward to 1964, late in my second year of high school, when we had to make that all-important decision whether we would go professional or commercial in terms of our subject choices for the next year, determining the remainder of our school life and the future paths we would take. Back then, if you chose commercial, girls tended to head towards secretarial, retail, dressmaking, hairdressing and other seemingly traditional female roles within society, and boys took on woodwork and other stereotypical male pursuits and eventually headed to Tech School to learn trades.

I chose professional without a second thought, for teaching was still my goal, but that one magazine article when my road was already mapped out, upset the apple cart bigtime. Kudos to the editor for including it, for it probably coincided with the beginnings of women looking outside the box in terms of career choices. The Women’s Liberation Movement didn’t really come into its own in Australia until the late 1960s, but the issues and sentiments had been bubbling away for quite a while, and the article sparked something in me.

It started off as a simple article about career choices for women, such as teacher and nurse, librarian, hairdresser and secretary, with appropriate photos of women dressed for the job, smiling into the camera, looking confident and fulfilled. But then there were a few curly ones thrown in, none of which I can remember, except one. There on the page, resplendent in a trendy trench coat and sporting a hat shading her face, was a private eye. Private Eye, oh yes, now there was a job, truly unconventional but well worth considering.

Spellbound by that image and with a quickening heartbeat, it felt like I was reading something truly subversive. Was such a choice even possible? However attractive it might have been, my reaction probably had more to do with my desire for a degree of excitement my life was sadly lacking, rather than righting the wrongs of the world through subterfuge. Well, it was the 60’s after all, and the fact we were in the midst of the Cold War at the time meant much would have been going on undercover in every corner of the globe. To be honest though, the actualities of the job would have scared me out of my wits, but even before picking up the Weekly, the image of an immaculately dressed Diana Rigg as Mrs Peel in The Avengers TV series, had already etched itself on to some secret part of my psyche, appealing to my teenage fantasies of stepping my tomboyish ways well and truly up a notch. To me, she was the quintessential female private eye, and everything I was not. Trendy, brave, sassy. 

I’ve wondered at times whether I would have been a completely different person had I become a vet, or journalist, librarian, actress, singer, or even airline stewardess which I considered at one point, all interests on which I would have enjoyed building a career. But in the end, I followed through with the original plan. I chose teaching, which I loved, don’t get me wrong, but sometimes it felt like the safe option. There have been moments when I would have liked to approach a revolving door and come out the other side a completely new being, but no amount of looking back and wondering about what might have been can change how my life evolved. 

               Risk something or forever sit with your dreams    - Herb Brooks

I’ve always enjoyed the movie Sliding Doors, for it delves into the monumental changes that can happen in a person’s life as a result of split second decisions, how the paths our lives take can be very different depending on the choices we make, sometimes in circumstances beyond our control. It’s interesting to consider the possibility of a parallel existence moving alongside the one we inhabit, and whether, in hindsight, we’d prefer that other life, the one just out of reach. 

But we don’t get that choice. The whole process of decision making has a forward momentum. Choosing is a conscious act. One thing leads to another, one skill builds on another, expectations and responsibilities accumulate until what seemed like a good idea at the time can often find us feeling like we’re stuck on a treadmill, wondering how we managed to arrive at such an unfulfilling destination. That’s obviously not true for everyone, many are very happy with their career choices, but we also have to acknowledge that even not choosing can be a choice in itself, and carries its own consequences.

           The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new      -  Socrates

If we decide in the end we would prefer to live that other life, the one that could have been had we made choices based on what we really wanted to do, rather than on what we thought we should do, then maybe it’s simply time for a change. None of us want to look back on our lives with a sense of regret, but neither do we have to negate the years behind us, the time, effort and responsibilities we’ve carried for however many years. They are not wasted, not useless, for they are part of our life’s experience and who we have become, and it’s not impossible at any stage to become the better version of ourselves we would like to be. We can’t go back in time and start again, but we can make a new beginning and move forward.

Totally Eclipsed

I was always a runner. A one hundred metre sprinter, or two hundred at a stretch. That short, sharp thrust off the blocks and burst of energy, unleashed with such explosive force then burning out in less time than it took to stand up and scratch yourself. Anything longer than that and I was done. 

Throughout primary and the early years of high school, athletics proved to be one activity I not only enjoyed, but in which I excelled. Blue and red ribbons came my way, which might not sound much in terms of reward for all that effort, but they indicated I was up there with the best, albeit at a very local level. The breadth of competition might have been comparatively small, but it wasn’t until a new arrival at my high school during my senior years, that my dominance in the running stakes was really challenged. 

There was a new kid on the block, two or three years my junior, but this unknown soon proved that she was much farther up the athletics achievement ladder than I would ever climb. I’m just over five foot one on the old measuring scale. Standing next to this amazon woman, or rather amazon girl, for she was only about fourteen at the time, her never-ending legs felt like they came up to my shoulders and I was staring at her belly button. I was a little squirt compared to her, running flat out like a hamster on a treadmill while she strode like a gazelle on the African plains.

I soon discovered she was a State high jump champion for her age, and no slouch on the track either. No amount of natural talent or training was going to help me surpass what was evident from the first moment she set foot on the track. There was no point in getting my knickers in a knot about it. I hadn’t a hope, but as it turned out there was a silver lining to the cloud looming to rain on my parade. 

Anger may bring extra energy, but it eclipses the best part of our brain: its rationality.

                   Dalai Lama

The school structure of ‘house teams’ for intra-school competition was in my favour, for as it turns out she was allocated to my house. We were competitors during the heats, and despite the fact she totally eclipsed me both in track and field events, we were in the fortunate position of placing first and second in the finals, garnering those precious points to boost our house’s attempt to win the pennant. 

The phenomenon of the total eclipse of the Super Blood Moon this past week was fascinating to watch. I was just as excited watching the moon rise as I was by the eclipse several hours later, for our night light rose large and glorious, heralding what was yet to come. Earth’s shadow gradually encroached on the moon’s radiance, and as the moon was eclipsed, it was then that the russet red colour came into its own in a stark black sky of brilliant stars. The sun, earth and moon have to align to create such a spectacle, whether it be lunar or solar. One overshadows the other, and we watch with delight as the process unfolds. 

As with my short-lived athletic prowess, I became the lesser light, and my team mate came to the fore and shone in spectacular fashion. I’d been dethroned, but by working together we became formidable allies. In the long run, it didn’t matter that I was overshadowed in this one aspect of my life. There would be other dreams to pursue, and it gave me the freedom to enjoy watching her excel and go on to reach her full potential in her own athletics career.

Actor Amy Landecker put it well when she said: You don’t want your personality to eclipse your work, because no one would be interested in seeing your work anymore.

None of us appreciate a poor loser, or those once dominant now past their prime, clinging to previous glories and bemoaning the rise of another to take their place. We can be caught up in the excitement and celebration of competition in whatever field of endeavour, but genuine grace and humility in victory as well as defeat is something we applaud. To receive recognition, to be in the spotlight, no matter how fleeting, is a privilege, but also carries with it a responsibility and expectation some have found to be a burden. 

Most of us can only aspire to such moments. The Olympic dreams of my childhood went out the door when I realised the simple joy of running was not going to get me there. In the end, I became the reliable middle-of-the-road athlete, making up the numbers for the relay, which didn’t really phase me for I loved the drama of relays. I would urge my team mates to practice baton changes over and over again, not allowing anyone to leave it to chance on the day, and then to top it off, I’d run the first bend which no one else wanted, for doing a crouch start with a baton in your hand could also be fraught with disaster.

Being eclipsed doesn’t have to be a drawback. We may have to put aside some of our dreams along the way, but even so, our best efforts will be noticed and appreciated by someone, even if we never hear about it. We may not find ourselves the centre of attention, but neither should we feel overshadowed by everyone and everything around us. 

Lost in the World of Books

I simply cannot imagine life without the joy of reading. The world of books, or rather the umpteen worlds, were opened to me from a very early age. The Famous Five and Secret Seven of Enid Blyton’s imagination accompanied me throughout my English childhood, appealing to my inner tomboy, justifying my dislike for anything ‘girlie’ and feeding my love of billycarts, climbing trees, homemade bows and arrows and the adventures that followed in the wake of such pursuits.

Just like walking into a movie theatre, I have no trouble in suspending reality for a time while I immerse myself in a world of someone else’s making, experiencing the ups and downs of the characters’ lives in the hope that a beneficial resolution will be reached before the final page or closing scene. A story is not simply several thousand words poured out of someone’s brain, but an entry point.

When I open a book and find dialogue, it’s a stark reminder that there are going to be people in there.

                      Sue Hepworth/Jane Linfoot  -  Plotting for Beginners

We become invested in the joys and challenges these characters experience, the twists and turns of plots as disaster looms. If it were not so, the Harry Potter books would not have caused such a stir and resulted in a resurgence of reading amongst the younger population, and no one would be binge watching such series as Game of Thrones and The Walking Dead.

I value my personal library, not for its monetary worth, but for the breadth and depth of creativity that has brought me so much delight as their many characters and settings are brought to life. Nothing gives me more pleasure than spending an hour or so in my favourite second-hand bookshop stocking up, especially at this time of year when an afternoon in front of the fire is just begging for a good book. There is always a sense of anticipation as I approach the beginning of each one. 

Funnily enough, I have always found the practice of searching out a first edition and the monetary value attached to such a book a strange phenomenon. A writer writes because he or she desires to do so, or is compelled to do so, not by some outside influence, though no doubt some publishers or editors or agents have turned on the screws to make their money-making charges get moving to meet their deadlines. The inner compulsion to get what is in one’s head and heart transferred on to the page has been raging since time immemorial. The writer writes because there is a story to be written, or a poem, a play, an essay, a conglomeration of ideas waiting to be gathered and put together in such a way that not only the author is satisfied, but those who read it are equally gratified or inspired. To complete a book and see it published must be a wonderful feeling, something I have never managed to achieve, but I doubt authors, even of the calibre of Dickens and Shakespeare, would see the point in their very first volumes hot off the press of whatever masterpiece, being so highly valued over those published in subsequent print runs. No matter when the book is published, the story remains the same.

The great thing about books was the solidity of the written word. You might change and your reading might change as a result, but the book remained whatever it had always been.

                            Karen Joy Fowler  -  The Jane Austen Book Club

At a market many years ago I found four volumes of Myths and Legends – Classic, Celtic, Teutonic, and Egyptian. Paying $10 for the lot, I expect I could increase my investment a few times over should I wish to sell them, but they won’t be going anywhere any time soon. With their pale green hard covers sporting black and gold lettering and symbols, plus coloured and monochrome illustrated plates, they are a joy to hold, but for me that is not where their value lies. They were written in order to be read. All published more than a hundred years ago, I have no idea how old the volumes I have actually are, but they will become part of my inheritance, that’s for sure. 

The written word will never cease to enthral, entertain, challenge and inspire me, in whatever form it comes, but the pleasure of holding a book, turning the pages, reluctantly slipping in a bookmark as I put it on the bedside table at night, waiting for where the next chapter will take us all on this journey together, who could resist such an invitation. No matter when a book is read and by how many, the story is fresh and new each time, for each person’s reading of it brings it to life yet again. The characters are awoken. It is opening night and the actors are released on to the stage for the first time, and no matter how many might be aware of the ending, in that moment, for that person curled up on the couch, book in hand, the story is yet to unfold.

Half a World Away

Sixty years ago, after a five-week journey which for a ten year old was nothing short of one continuous adventure, my family disembarked the P&O liner SS Strathaird and set foot in Australia to start a new life. Leaving our home had not been a great wrench for me, and trekking half way around the globe was simply another part of the adventure, for I was an adaptable, laid back kid, and looking forward to where this huge move would take us.

Having devoured many Famous Five and Secret Seven stories that confirmed my life as a tomboy was well and truly on the right track, my brother and I spent those five weeks exploring every nook and cranny of the ship that we could find, a favourite of mine going down to the deck at water level where you could get up close to the ocean looking through the porthole.

My brother had turned 14 just before we’d left England, and my sister turned 17 somewhere between Fremantle and Adelaide. Arriving in Melbourne we ended up at the Holmesglen migrant hostel in the south-eastern suburbs, where we spent the next eighteen months. Living in a Nissen hut, divided lengthways with one family on either side occupying three rooms, was an education in itself. No toilet, no bathroom, no cooking facilities. 

Coming from what had seemed to me a comfortable life in our neat semi-detached suburban house, we were now living in what was essentially a giant army camp where everyone ate together in a much larger version of our housing accommodation, a massive mess-hall style dining hall. Toilet, bathroom and washing facilities were also communal in ablution blocks, stark and rather unpleasant, and not your preferred destination when you needed to go to the loo after dark.

In hindsight, I wonder how my parents coped with it all. Both were almost fifty years old when we left, and I have to admit the thought of doing the same thing at the same age increases my level of respect for them. Mind you, the unlimited opportunities broadcast far and wide back in the 1950s and 60s of this sun soaked land flowing with milk and honey proved to be a magnet for all and sundry wanting to create a life for their families far better than they were accustomed. We joined the mass migration as ten-pound Poms along with thousands of others and wondered what lay ahead.

For most immigrants, moving to the new country is an act of faith. Even if you've heard stories of safety, opportunity, and prosperity, it's still a leap to remove yourself from your own language, people, and country. Your own history. What if the stories weren't true? What if you couldn't adapt? What if you weren't wanted in the new country?
                                                                              Nicola Yoon – The Sun is also a Star

Migrating not only forces you to explore and come to grips with a new, foreign environment to see how it works and what it has to offer, but it also forces you to discover who you are within it. At one level, when we move, we take all our attendant baggage with us, and I’m not referring to our material goods, but there is scope in removing ourselves from one place and taking root in another, that the clichéd ‘new beginning’ really does have possibility. You are in a state of expectancy. Like any adventure there is both fear and excitement, doubt and resolve, as you prepare to launch yourself into the unknown. How you deal internally with the external changes can either make you or break you.

Finding jobs quickly was the easy part. Adjusting to this new environment though, that was something else. Any new arrival in this country will tell you the same thing. The light is different, the colours are different, the smells, seasons, birds and animals, even the stars, and Christmas in summer, well that just felt really weird. I love eucalypt trees, that muted bluey grey-green which makes them so distinctive, but when we first arrived they all looked dirty to me. Where was the green I was used to? And why did it take so long to get anywhere? We were accustomed to riding pushbikes and catching buses and trains wherever we went, no one we knew owned a car, but once in this country with its ‘tyranny of distance,’ it was obvious purchasing a car was a necessity, not a luxury.

My parents flew back to England on a couple of occasions for holidays, but after my Dad retired he grew restless and at a bit of a loss. They decided to head back to England and spend up to two years there as residents, not in holiday mode, in order to make the final decision in which country they would spend their retirement and final years. Unfortunately, it was back in the turbulent Margaret Thatcher era when the economy was not in a good state. Dad’s dream of a peaceful retirement in his homeland went out the window as they discovered accommodation bearing any resemblance to what they had in Australia was far beyond their means. Here they were, approaching seventy, and having to rely on the goodwill of friends for a roof over their heads. Suffice to say, they were back here within months, feeling fortunate to be able to ‘come home’ to what was familiar.

Do we have to ‘migrate,’ wander, to discover more of who we are by removing ourselves from what is familiar.
                Bruce Chatwin – The Songlines

I wonder at times why I watch so many episodes of Escape to the Country. I only spent the first ten years of my life in England, and being working class there was precious little opportunity to travel, so apart from summer holidays on the Isle of Wight we didn’t see much more than what was on our doorstep. But the country of my birth is embedded in my DNA somehow, for the green rolling hills and country lanes, rural villages and ancient architecture, wild landscape and misty mountains, affect something right at the core of who I am.

I am now also on the verge of retirement of sorts, and have my own level of restlessness, but realise I am not in a position to go zotting back to England to rediscover my roots, and in this Covid affected world neither would I want to. Maybe that’s why I live in Tassie which at least bears some resemblance to a more temperate climate, for a chaser of the sun I am not. 

The attraction of what we don’t have, the promise of what could be, has a habit of lurking at the back of our minds, or in some corner of the heart, niggling away, causing us to feel unsettled or displaced. The grass might seem greener elsewhere, but when it comes down to it, it’s simply just another patch of green with as many advantages and disadvantages as where we currently are. I guess as you get older you feel time is running out to do those things you promised yourself all those years ago when you were up to your ears in work, but funnily enough as I’m nearing that point my ageing body responds with ‘Nah, not doin’ that.’ Somehow your priorities change.

I’ve spent sixty years in my adopted country. It would be another twenty three years after arriving before I took on citizenship, a conscious decision of setting aside my allegiance to England and affirming that this was now my home and where I intended to stay. I have never regretted the move, but sometimes wonder where I would be and what I would be doing, how the life I didn’t have on the other side of the world might have panned out.

But then I look at where I am now, in a comfortable house in a very small village on a little island at the bottom of the world. I have good friends right on my doorstep, and am surrounded by farmland on one side, mountains on the other, and natural bushland in which I can wander to my heart’s content. In essence I’m living my very own escape to the country, so how could I possibly be anything but thankful. 

No Regrets

I’ve started transferring all the quotes I’ve written in my journals over the years on to the computer, realising in the process I need to catalogue them somehow in order to find just the right one for whatever subject matter I have in mind. I came across this one which I’d written about eleven years ago on my previous blog; it jumped out at me then, and it did so again.

 There’s no if. There is only what is. What was. What will be.

﷒     Nafisa Haji – The Writing on my Forehead

 

That little word ‘if’ carries a heavy load. It can come at the start of an idea, the birth of a train of thought, a motivator to look outside the box and come at something from a different angle. Or it can come in the aftermath of a tragedy or upon reflecting on one’s own life journey, where it either bears the blame for one’s circumstances or is tainted with regret for what might have been.

 

We’ve all seen and heard stories from whatever is the latest disaster, be it natural or man-made or at the hand of terrorists, where those caught up in the horror who come out the other side either severely injured or mentally traumatised or both, have gone over the unfolding events of the day and pondered “if only I’d caught the earlier train, or later train…” or “if only I’d gone straight to work instead of stopping for a coffee…” or “if only I’d stopped for a coffee instead of going straight to work…”

 

Somehow, by rewinding the clock and re-imagining the day, they could picture themselves in another place, with a different outcome. None of us have that luxury, but most of us don’t have to deal with such catastrophic consequences resulting from the difference between heading out the door at 7.30 or 7.45.

 

There are politicians and people in powerful places who have come under the spotlight in recent years for either their appalling behaviour or lack of insight into how their actions or inaction appear in the eyes of us ordinary folk. Prime Minister Scott Morrison attracted the ire of the nation when he was found holidaying in Hawaii while catastrophic bushfires raged on Australia’s east coast just days before Christmas 2019, and not seeming to be in any rush to get back home. And then there’s the current furor over the toxic workplace culture at Parliament House that has found his leadership yet again far from exemplary. As misdeeds and misdemeanors are being exposed all around him, the queue is growing longer every day of people ducking for cover, sending in the spin doctors, trying valiantly to cover their tracks, and I would hope berating themselves with “if only I hadn’t done that..” or “if only I’d done this…” then I wouldn’t be in this sticky mess.

 

But you didn’t, so you are.

 

I could probably produce a very long list of ‘what if’ and ‘if only’ decisions which could have changed my entire life, if only I’d made them. But I didn’t, so here I am, just little old me. I’ve lived an unremarkable life, and have wondered at times whether my life might have been very different had I been braver.  

Nafisa Haji goes on to say…

…No story worth telling should ever be about blame or regret.

 

I look back and consider whether many of my choices were the safe option. We all have those moments when we wonder how things would have turned out had we done things differently, said things differently, gone down this career path instead of that one, married instead of staying single or stayed single instead of getting married, moved interstate or overseas instead of staying put, taken a risk instead of playing it safe.

 

That’s the beauty of hindsight. We can replay any situation, take out the parts we’d rather forget and put it back together how we think it should have happened, but it’s a pointless exercise. Finding others to blame for our misfortune or dwelling on regrets is about as useless as repeatedly hitting the replay button and expecting the outcome to be different each time. However important or insignificant have been our choices along the way, they have still been our choices. Or maybe we held back and didn’t choose what we wanted. Even then, the not choosing was a choice, and when it boils down to it, we will eventually regret more the things we did not do rather than the things we did.

 

‘What if’ can be filled with sadness for what might have been, but I love the idea of ‘what if’ being the initiation of something completely new. Thomas Edison himself said “I have not failed. I have found 10,000 ways that won't work.” Every time his experiments failed to produce the desired result, he had to stop, think again and approach the next step with ‘what if I tried this…’ and because of his perseverance more than a thousand inventions were attributed to him in his lifetime. Without responding to the possibility of a different outcome, no inventions, no progress would ever be made. No one would ever entertain the idea that things could be done any differently than they have always been. Scientists and engineers and architects and so many more innovators are the embodiment of ‘what if,’ stepping into the realm of the unknown to explore the possibility of what might be. 

 

Our circumstances are not always of our own making, and the past is not in our power to change, but our lives are littered with moments which can propel us one way or the other, and it’s not always the big decisions which hold the most promise or bring us unstuck. Even those annoying little everyday decisions and reactions and responses can leave their mark and determine the type of person we become and the life we lead. We can talk about making right or wrong choices, good or bad decisions, but in the end we have to own those choices and the consequences they bring. No ifs or buts or maybes can change the reality of the path thus far. 

 

Every experience in life brings us to the present moment, for we are the sum of the parts, whether good or bad, that have made us who we are. Our whole lives are not predetermined though, and no one wants to drop off into the hereafter filled with regret, so I much prefer the idea of looking forward with a what might be attitude rather than looking back with a what might have been one. Even at this stage in my life, I wonder where that approach could take me if I truly believe it’s possible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More than Paddling

I figured a reflection on my favourite quote of the month would be a good idea, but then felt like a bit of a fraud. Eleanor Roosevelt’s advice to do one thing every day that scares you sounded like a good place to start, but when I realised I very rarely venture into uncharted waters, let alone do that on a daily basis, I thought anything I might say on the subject would be rather trite and coming from a philosophical standpoint rather than a practical, lived out one.

We live in the real world, right? Most of us simply get up, go to work, come home, have dinner, go to bed. The routine of our lives follows a fairly mundane pattern, but when you think about it we like the familiar, the predictable, the regular pay packet or Govt benefit. We come to rely on these things; they sustain us to a certain degree, but they don’t necessarily give our lives more meaning. 

And it’s meaning we crave, isn’t it? I know as I get older I have more years to look back on than I have ahead, and I wonder at what points in my life I dared to make decisions which were just that bit scary, against the norm, not the safe option, what seemed to go against all sense of reason, and were definitely outside my comfort zone. Fortunately, there were moments when I did manage to do that over the years, but much fewer than I would have liked.

Despite heading into middle age or old age, the dreams and desires we had back in our younger days never really leave us. They might take on another form, be somewhat less risky, for I know even clambering over rocks at the beach looking at rock pools has become perilous for me, but the idea of venturing out, trying something new, having an adventure, is very tantalising. Even we oldies like to have something to look forward to, and not just warm slippers and a cup of tea. No one wants to toddle off into the hereafter loaded with regret, wondering ‘what if.’ We all want our lives to mean something, to feel that somewhere along the line we’ve made a difference.

I’d love to be brave enough to Live in the Sunshine, Swim the Sea, Drink the Wild Air  (Ralph Waldo Emerson). To embrace life with such energy and abandonment and sheer joy sounds intoxicating, and the fleeting image of a swashbuckling Errol Flynn in full pirate regalia sporting that telltale dashing grin flashed across my mind. Is it even possible? We have our roles and responsibilities, the expectations of others, the mortgage or rent and bills to pay; how do you have that sort of life and still do real work in the real world?

When did I become a creature of habit, so predictable that the familiar has stunted my growth? Sometimes habits, especially comfortable ones, can hold you back (Karen Hawkins - The Book Charmer). Maybe I missed out on my rebellious adolescence and mid-life crisis. Wonder if I’m due for a cathartic personal revolution of some kind. Sounds a bit melodramatic, but we all need those moments when we reflect on the path our lives have taken, and take stock of whether where we find ourselves now is remotely where we dreamed we would be all those years ago. 

I am most definitely not the centre of the universe, so don’t expect everything to go my way or have all my dreams fulfilled. All this inward-looking has the danger of becoming self-indulgent if what I pursue simply focuses on me, to the detriment of all others around me. 

Coming to that point where what you do brings you alive and aligns with what you believe you should be doing can be quite a journey. I remember the first time I saw the kids’ movie Antz, realising by the end that Z the worker ant was fundamentally doing exactly the same as he’d been in the beginning, only there’d been a monumental shift in his attitude and understanding. What he saw as drudgery and lack of consideration for his individuality took on new meaning as he found purpose in what he was doing and discovered his place in the bigger story. To get to that place though, he had to step out and face danger, put his own agenda aside for the sake of the whole ant colony.

I’m not good at facing scary stuff, let alone committing myself to leaving the safety of the shore and heading out into deeper waters, losing my footing, being out of my depth. It’s more than uncomfortable Eleanor, and not the natural choice. I don’t want to be bitten, stung or eaten, and I definitely do not want to drown. But then again, I could just get a boat, that would at least get me going. 

Far-away horizons beckon us, and not only the literal ones. Whether young and full of energy or creaking at the knees, our hearts and minds are constantly challenged to be open, to embrace the unknown rather than fear it, to learn and grow, allow the worlds of others to impact our own. 

Why paddle in the shallows when there’s a whole ocean to explore?  

Fill or Be Filled

In the space of a minute these few lines entered my consciousness…

Every notebook
every page
every minute
of every day
is blank
until you fill it

I’d been staring out the study window, observing the bird activity in the backyard, poised with pen in hand to face my journal, but nothing had been forthcoming. The blank page can be a disconcerting thing, intimidating, stark white until I make my mark. Both inviting and confronting. As are the blank canvas or musical score, even a blank afternoon or evening. They present themselves and pose such questions as what, why, when, where and how they will be approached.

Is a moment in time only worthwhile if we put our stamp on it? What we do with each moment is entirely up to us, whether we go out there with a 10-point plan of how to achieve whatever goal we have in mind, or whether we come at life somewhat more low-key and allow situations and our surroundings to influence how we choose to move forward.

I’m more the low-key type, partly because I not only dislike planning too meticulously, which probably explains why I never complete anything writing wise, but I prefer to take in my immediate environment, observe it over a period of time, feel its moods and seasonal nuances, open myself to its leading, see where it will take me. Whether in nature, urban environments, or in the midst of the dynamics of family and friends’ relationships, I tend to hold back, take in as much as I can, wait for a response to emerge.

Creativity necessitates periods of what looks like doing nothing, what may seem to the casual observer a waste of time as we stare off into the distance or go for long walks without producing anything concrete, without doing any real work in the real world. But we need to venture into the interior before we can externalise our thoughts and ideas and emotions, before we can get a grip on what is lying beneath the surface, what it is we are wanting to present to the world.

And if that interior is barren, where do we go to from there?

Julia Cameron says in The Artist’s Way......In order to create, we draw from our inner well…If we don’t give some attention to upkeep, our well is apt to become depleted, stagnant, or blocked…We must consciously replenish our creative resources as we draw on them…by filling the well.

When farmers face prolonged drought, they have to dig deep to stay the course. As their livelihoods are stripped away along with the topsoil blown by scorching winds, how do they hang on? To be able to see beyond the cracked earth and broken dreams, believing rain will come, that life will return not only to the land but to themselves, takes courage and an underlying belief they are where they are meant to be. Without that hope, the white flag of surrender has already been raised.

I went for my first bushwalk recently after avoiding it during the summer months, too snaky this year, and realised what I’d been missing. My senses came alive as I moved away from the familiar streets and followed the dirt tracks until all trappings of civilisation were gone. My breathing settled, my mind less cluttered, my focus alternating between the broader vista and the abundance of details right at my feet. Birdsong became clearer, the rippling sounds of the creek rushing downhill increased, tantalising aromas of the bush tickled my nostrils, and the textures of bark and lichen under my fingertips reconnected me, not only to the bush but to myself.

I’d been neglecting what brings me alive, what stimulates my senses, what regenerates my spirit. A bushwalk, a simple thing, but an essential component of what I need if my inner well is to be refilled. I can’t draw on my inner resources if there is nothing there on which to draw. Along with my body, my mental, emotional, social and spiritual needs also need nourishing, otherwise I’ll shrivel up and be a poor substitute of what I could be.

There are other things I pursue to ensure the well doesn’t dry up, and for everyone it’ll be different. Music, painting, gardening, reading, art galleries, museums, playing in the park with the kids, fishing, swimming, writing, singing, travelling, the list is obviously endless, depending on our personal preferences. But unless we see such things as essential to our survival, instead of seeing them as less important than 'work' and merely luxuries to be indulged in, we will be missing out on the very things that enrich every part of our life, that make us more human.

I can fill a couple of pages with my rambling and throw it out there into the ether along with countless others, but am conscious I don’t need to do that all the time. I don’t need to make myself heard every moment of every day. What I do need is to take more notice, see as well as observe, listen as well as hear, tune in to my surroundings, drink from the well of life around me and absorb its goodness in order to replenish the well within.  

It Ain't Necessarily So

I have a friend who refers to me as ‘vertically challenged.’ After all, he is six foot something and I’m just a smidgen over five foot one, but somehow I’d never really considered that how he saw the immediate environment was any different to mine. That is, not until I used the booster step in our local store, a six-inch high step for the little kids to stand on, helping them see over the edge of the counter. As they grew, being big enough to hand over their own coins brought with it a sense of achievement, and even better was the milestone of being able to do it without the booster step at all. 

One day for no reason in particular I stepped on it as I came to the counter, and was immediately taken aback. Everything looked completely different from such an elevated position. I was no bigger, but I felt bigger, more prominent. My short stature has never made me feel inferior, and has never prevented me from participating in anything, but the added height in that moment caused me to think. As tall people look down on us shorties, do they look down their noses at us from their superior position, or see us as equals. And do we look up to them in more ways than one, maybe unnecessarily, feeling their stature somehow gives them more authority. 

A quote much bandied around in various forms, but attributed to Anais Nin from her 1961 autobiographical novel The Seduction of the Minotaur puts it succinctly.

We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are.

The first time I came across it I had to stop for a moment. Surely that’s not right, I thought, at which point it didn’t take long to realise she was exactly right.

From the cradle to the grave we come at life from our own particular viewpoint. How we’ve come to see the world in that way is dependent on so many things, from our ethnic, racial and religious background, our economic circumstances, academic achievement, physical and mental health, even where we are placed in the order of birth within a family. The list of family and environmental factors that weigh in to produce each unique being is endless, and we are at the mercy of our own parent’s ability or lack of it to negotiate a way through it all in our formative years, and somehow become a fully formed reasoning human being.

For some reason though, we believe what we see and understand is obviously the way it is, the right way, how could anyone possibly see it any differently. Police reports of crime or accident scenes can attest to the fact that no matter how many people give a written statement, you will end up with a wide variety of versions of the one incident. We see things from where we stand, through the filters built up over years. Not until we come up against someone else who perceives the exact same things in a completely different way, and can articulate why they see them that way, do we even consider there could be another way of experiencing the world.

I had contact with an American couple several years ago when Donald Trump was turning himself into a three-ring circus while pushing himself forward as a Presidential candidate. My friends and I looked on with horrified fascination, not thinking in our wildest dreams, or nightmare as it turned out, that anyone could possibly take him seriously. My American friends on the other hand had a completely different take on it, believing he could deliver and had popular support, so would bring stability and economic growth. No matter what we said, our arguments about his unsuitability for the role fell on deaf ears. Why couldn’t they see it? I guess they were thinking the same thing, wondering why we couldn’t understand their point of view.

The framework for how we see the world begins at birth, and is constructed, whether intentionally, meticulously or haphazardly, right through childhood and adolescence, and into adulthood, at which point we tend to follow certain pathways and make choices that enhance that perception. It usually takes a monumental event to shift that standpoint, especially if held with such tenacity that other points of view and attitudes are discounted, belittled, seen as irrelevant, and along with those differences those who hold them are likewise disenfranchised and held with little or no regard.

The TV series Go Back to where you Came From is a pretty clear illustration of how an entrenched attitude can be turned on its head. Not by argument, not by reasoning, not by bullying, but by experiencing the world from the standpoint of those we are so convinced have it all wrong. Meeting people face to face, hearing their stories, and not just hearing, but listening. True listening requires us to put our own agenda on hold, suspend our preconceived ideas, hold back the words on the tip of our tongue. 

How do I, how do we, have the courage to step back when it’s needed, and open ourselves to the chaos that another person’s world might have on our own. Forming a perception of ourselves and where we fit in the bigger picture is no mean feat, fraught as it is with many obstacles, but also many learning opportunities if we choose to embark on them. To have our opinions and beliefs challenged, to be confronted by how our actions impact others, to see our assumptions crumble and prejudices exposed, are we ready for that? Am I?

Could be scary, but could be just what we need.