Anyone who read my blog entry on Anzac Day 2007 will probably be surprised to hear that I went to Anzac Day 2008 and had a very good time. I explained last year why I had been a regular truant but ended with these words:
All I can say is: Look fellas, it’s not you. It’s me. And that’s the truth – although I don’t rule out the possibility of getting over what ever it is that I don’t like about living in the past. Perhaps when it is long enough ago and I can be certain that THAT is not me, I will be able to go back and enjoy the memory of the most astounding year of my life: 23 July 1969 to 23 July 1970.(emphasis not in the original.)
Well the possibility came to pass sooner than I imagined when I wrote those words. I had a “road to Damascus” experience while reading something written by the theologian James Allison, whom I have referred to elsewhere in this blog. Here’s what he wrote:
I suggest that only someone who is really aware of being liked, who is really complacent, is able to defuse someone else’s place of shame and make it spacious. And it is out of complacency that liking flows to those who are like: because I am not frightened of being like someone, liking them, being liked by them.(my emphasis in both quotes)
[By the way, JA’s use of the word complacent above must not be taken to mean what it normally means. If you would like to follow up what he means see Chapter 5, Confessions of a Former Marginaholic in his book On Being Liked, DLT 2003.]
I told James that I had fallen off my high horse (why it is a “road to Damascus” experience) when I read the words emphasised above. As I said to him, I’m still not sure that the relevance of his words for mine is really as self evident as it seems to me, but for me they certainly flashed like lightning when I read them. In the light of his words I felt compelled to examine my position. At the time I wasn’t sure that it would result in my going to the Anzac Day Dawn Service and march, but I saw that I probably had to make an even bigger leap and rejoin the Returned Services League. He replied that he’d be interested to hear how the melding of the two sentences highlighted above affect me as Anzac Day comes closer, and my re-membering continues.
Well, I deliberately did not work on drawing out the case for going to the Anzac Day activities. I decided to act on the flash of insight and see what happened. I thought it would be more fruitful to reflect on the experience rather than run the risk of pushing the experience in a direction it might not be capable of going. So I went with the expectation that there was something in store for me that I not only wanted, but needed. And so it was. It was as though I had always been there. And look, I can’t help myself, a certain parable comes to mind – “These late comers have worked only one hour, yet you have paid them as much as we who bore the full day’s burden and heat.” [If you don’t know the parable and would like to know what I am talking about, it’s Matthew 20: 1-16]
DAWN SERVICE AND BREAKFAST
The day started with the Dawn Service at 4:30 am – the time of the Gallipoli landing. There was no formation, just people standing around in the dark with the president of the local RSL calling on people to lay wreaths and sing hymns. It was a surprisingly moving hour – surprising because when I was in the army I found military ceremonial utterly barren – even though I was good at it: I was the right marker for my rookie platoon and most subsequent units. But this, of course was not military ceremonial. It was blokes and the wider community remembering. The last post and Reveille were played on a bugle by a young man I later met and found to be in year 12 at the local high school. The singing was by a mother an daughter team – the daughter known to me and seen regularly at school dancing and singing extravaganzas. The mother was obviously someone who had had serious voice training – which probably explains the daughter’s regular stage appearances. The number of people there surprised me. Apparently I wouldn’t have been the only one surprised at the size of the turn out. I later heard that 450 attended breakfast – they had catered for 160. Not everyone who attended would have gone to breakfast – though it seemed that most did. I wondered if the later collected 12 baskets of scraps.
Because of the unusual circumstances of my being there I was not only participating in something I had mostly avoided in the past, but very actively observing that participation. As I waited in line for breakfast, therefore, I realised, with considerable clarity, one of the reasons that I had stayed away in the past. I was feeling vulnerable because I couldn’t see anyone I knew, apart from a couple of people on the RSL executive, and I didn’t think it would be right to attach myself to them – they would have more to do than protect me from my sense of being a stranger – how presumptuous would it be for someone who had not been involved to cosy up to the leaders. My first strong impulse was to flee. But too much was at stake. I knew I couldn’t ever succeed in what I was there for if I chickened out. So as I moved slowly towards the food service my mind frantically worked on opening lines and topics of conversation that might be useful when I found myself sitting at a table with people I didn’t know.
As it happened I sat at the same table as the bugler and found an instant opening line. Well done that man with the bugle. He was grateful but self critical. There was spit in the bugle which made a couple of the notes problematic. The conversation immediately turned on out mutual interest – music. He told me he was in the Lismore Symphony Orchestra. I confessed that I did not know there was a LSO (other than in London, of course) and told him that I was in the Mullumbimby Amatori Choir. He asked me if I had considered singing at the Dawn Service, which took me by surprise, because it had indeed crossed my mind during the service that it might be a role I could play as a veteran and singer. Next thing he has me meeting the president of the local RSL and it’s arranged for next year. Struth!! How fast was that?
Later at breakfast I met someone with a medal I had not seen before and asked him what it was. It turned out to be a medal to which I am entitled but knew nothing of. So there’s another gong to add to my collection. What was particularly interesting about that conversation was the warmth of it. This bloke didn’t know me from Adam, yet he engaged with me instantly as though I was someone he could call a mate and mean it. Context is everything. If you’re here you must be OK, so to speak. Would I get the same reception from the same person in a different context? It struck me like a thunderbolt that that depends, not on the context, but on me, and that I was here to begin the journey towards being the kind of person who would get the same reception regardless of the context. The measure with which you give you shall receive. In the next hour or so as I moved around the hall saying g’day to people I didn’t know was so utterly painless that couldn’t help laughing to myself about my initial anxiety – and even invoked a piece of advice from quite a different context: Do not be concerned about what to say. The words will be given to you. It was the second time in a month that that advice had emerged from my unconscious. Maybe the message here is that I am a control freak who needs to trust the universe. Universe?! Wooooooooo! Hold that thought! I’m definitely not ready for reconciliation with the New Age.
The people I was sitting with left as I got up to get a cup of tea. When I returned to my seat I saw someone I knew at the next table and asked if I could drag up a chair on the end. He was with a couple from Brunswick heads and friends visiting from Melbourne, who were specialists in personal development. Me too I said. So we talked about a range of interesting things until it was time to go. At no time did I feel I was in alien territory. It was probably about 7:30 when I went home and took a nap before returning at 10:30 for the march and parade.
THE MARCH, PARADE AND LUNCH
By then I was much less apprehensive about being unknown, and it took no time to “be there”. People I approached greeted me as “one of them”. They had no way of knowing that until that morning I hadn’t been “one of them”. It didn’t even phase anyone when I pulled out my medals and asked which one goes on the left, which on the right and how the others fit in between. Haven’t done this for a while, eh was the remark. Haven’t done it ever I said. Well it’s good you finally made it was the reply are you coming to lunch after the march – would you like my wife to pin those on for you? I almost laughed. Someone who sews and makes biscuits, vacuums, washes and irons, you know, sensitive new age guy stuff, doesn’t need someone else to pin his medals on. So I thanked him but declined, and made a huge mess of pinning my own medals on. Maybe I’m not such a control freak after all. If I were I would have persisted until they were in a straight line. But hey, I’m just a few months away from being a pensioner. I don’t have to be perfect anymore. Not that I have ever been perfect – other than a perfect dickhead, of course.
Speaking to people before the parade prompted me to remember things I wouldn’t otherwise have thought about ever again in my life. And it was interesting to catch a glimpse into life in the Australian base early in our engagement. One person told me about building the base at Nui Dat where I first went. He mentioned the air field built by the Engineers (my Corps). I mentioned my alarm when I saw it for the first time coming in to land on it – it runs over a hill! Being able to identify that seemed to make a difference to the bloke I was talking to – he knew for sure that I wasn’t bullshitting about being there. Let me explain that. A problem I have had, not just with veterans but people in general, is that I have always looked too young to be a veteran. People have always given me dubious looks when I have said I was there. One of the people I had breakfast with me asked me how old I am. He was visibly taken aback when I said sixty in a few months. He told me he must have been in the same National Service intake as I. I didn’t tell him that he couldn’t have been in the same intake as I, because I didn’t wait to be called up. I volunteered for Nasho early. One in eight Nashos were volunteers. Why I volunteered is too long a story for here.
One slightly unnerving incident was that one of the members of the RSL executive saw me and asked, Are you the opera singer? I was absolutely confounded by this. I sing, I said, But I’m not an opera singer. I’m in a choir. To which re replied, Yes, you’re the bloke who’s going to do the singing next year, aren’t you? Struth! Talk about no where to hide. If I was planning to test the waters anonymously, which I wasn’t, I would have failed outright. Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves here, I returned, I made an offer not an arrangement. I don’t want to upset the people who are already doing a fine job of it. It’s something that would have to be discussed with all interested parties. So no, I’m not yet the person doing the singing next year, although I might be if no one minds. Fortunately I was rescued from any further discussion of this point by the signal to start the parade.
It was late starting, and it was led off by a tracked vehicle festooned with children. Small town, I mused. No one concerned with OH&S issues here. As we marched down the main street of Mullumbimby I scanned the crowd gathered and clapping as we passed, for people I knew. To my surprise I didn’t see anyone I knew at all, even John who was definitely there. Yet the people I didn’t know were not strangers. This was my town out to celebrate. When we arrived at the cenotaph we formed up for what was to be a much longer ceremony than the Dawn Service. This time there were speeches. Fortunately there was cloud cover so it was not as difficult as it could have been. Nevertheless one person fell over and was taken away in an ambulance. That brought back some memories. Parades were always ordeals in training units. Someone always fainted – and was charged later for (I forget what the wording was, but it was ludicrous.) That’s the military. There was a poem The Power of Kokoda by Dean Travaskis, a local lad from Ocean Shores, who had walked the Kokoda Track and subsequently won the Blackened Bush Billy poetry competition in Tamworth. It was quite moving. When the parade was dismissed I was delighted to discover that I had forgotten the dismissal drill – unlike the first time I attended an Anzac Day parade (mentioned in my blog post of Wednesday 25 April 2007).
As I went in to the RSL for lunch I reverted to type fretting about who I would find to sit with. I made the cowardly choice of sitting with the same people as at breakfast. Calling it cowardly is not intended to reflect on the company, but to admit that I had not really gained courage from what I had learned – about myself and the universe – earlier that day. The bugler was there with two of his brothers. On the other side of the table, where I sat, was a WWII veteran and his son – a bloke about 50 years of age who turned out to have had a fascinating career in biomedicine. What was rather special about lunch is that it was served by the RSL catering staff. Roast beef with Yorkshire Pudding and three veg, followed by apple and rhubarb crumble with ice cream. Later on port was served. I had forgotten about that aspect of military life. The Queen is toasted with port or water for those who don’t drink. Interestingly enough, the Queen was not toasted – a fact that I noted but did not comment on. My conversation with others at lunch was not about the war – any war – but life in general. It was remarkably easy. Not at all fraught like others I had had in previous years. These were not blokes reliving the past but engaged with the present and alert to possibilities of the future. Maybe it was the fact that it a small town with no garrison. You know, the Capital of The shire. I’m sure if I’d have looked around I would have seen Bilbo and Frodo.
As I said earlier, the majority of people who saw me there didn’t know that it was my first time there. Most of them were probably regulars (not a military term in this instance)and probably would have assumed that I was too, if they thought about it at all, which they wouldn’t have, because they would have no reason to do so. But you see what I mean. It was like I had always been there. And it is my intention to be there from now on – as a regular. My next visit is this coming Sunday. There’s a monthly RSL meeting. I have an arrangement to make for next year. I was thinking maybe something from St Matthew’s Passion, but probably not. I mean it’s in German after all. It might be the RSL, but, you know… don’t mention the war.
Showing posts with label Personal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Personal. Show all posts
Saturday, 17 May 2008
Wednesday, 9 April 2008
What do you say...
Visit to G&I 6-7/4/08
Change is imminent. As a result I have taken the opportunity to catch up with a number of people, because it may be some time before I have as much freedom to choose as I have had for the past year. Particularly urgent was a visit to Rockhampton to catch up with a couple of friends, one of whom has a limited time to live. Well don’t we all, you might say. Yes, but this bloke knows that the end is not just some time in the future, but just a few … well, moments, really… away.
Even though I was present for the several months of each of my parents dying, I have never before gone to visit someone, looking the same healthy active person as ever, knowing that I would never see them again. I had seen community service announcements on TV about finding out what you can do/say when you know someone with a terminal illness. I looked up the website. It didn’t help. So I got on a plane and flew north hoping that a certain promise made by one of the great mythologers of ancient times would be fulfilled. I can’t give chapter and verse, or even an approximate quote, but the sense of it is: Don’t be concerned with what to say. The words will be given to you. It didn’t work – for me, anyway - well, if it did it wasn’t until the very last moment of my visit.
Part of the reason I found it difficult to address the issue of a friend’s imminent death may be that Graham and Inge are living each day, focused on that day, attending to the day to day, speaking when necessary of the time ahead – after Graham has died and Inge is getting on with her life. In other words, they are focused on being alive – doing what the living do. Furthermore, Graham has been keeping a journal of their activities since being diagnosed with cancer of the larynx. Selling their country property and their town houses and moving into town close to where Inge works; going to doctors, being given a range of options and calmly choosing the one that makes most sense – to him, to them; winding up his relationships with all and sundry and being very frank about why; paying attention to detail as one would in any enterprise of significance. And what could be more significant than this!
Graham met me at the airport, complaining about how busy it was and how hard it was to find a park. Mmmmmm, I thought. That’s a good sign: business as usual. And so it was. We talked about the trees they’d planted since moving in; the upgrading to the house; the plants that had come from their last half dozen places of abode, strategically placed to fulfil their purpose in their new location; the way Inge’s work place operates and its tentacles into all of the eastern capital cities and its overseas clients; and so on – oh, and the party they’d had the day before for Graham’s 65th birthday. The closest I got to saying anything about his limited remaining time was: Oh, it was your birthday? Well, I wish you many happy returns of the day – and this time I mean it as never before. To which Graham replied with a smile, Ah yes, it’s probably my last. During our conversation I managed to have two glasses of wine which clobbered me like nothing I could have imagined. I took an afternoon nap and resumed conversation with them well into the night, after we’d all slept for six or eight hours. In the morning I said hurray to Inge and was driven to the airport by Graham.
We parted as we always had. You know, with words like You look after yourself and give our love to John. and Yes, I’ll do that, and you take care, and don’t worry about parking tickets. You won’t be around to pay them when they’re due. There! I did it!! At that moment I realised that the right words for the duration of my visit were words that fitted in with the priorities of my hosts. They weren’t dwelling on what I considered – still consider – to be an imminent catastrophe. But if one was going to make any reference to it, maybe humour was the appropriate attitude to have. It might have been risky, but it worked. Graham laughed out loud and waved me off. That’s the last image I will ever have of him – how I will remember him.
And what of Inge, AG? Her life will change, as would anyone’s. But she is a resourceful and imaginative. She will grieve and grow. And we will have a new role as friends of Inge, as distinct from, as it is at present, friends of Graham and Inge. But we will always remember….
Change is imminent. As a result I have taken the opportunity to catch up with a number of people, because it may be some time before I have as much freedom to choose as I have had for the past year. Particularly urgent was a visit to Rockhampton to catch up with a couple of friends, one of whom has a limited time to live. Well don’t we all, you might say. Yes, but this bloke knows that the end is not just some time in the future, but just a few … well, moments, really… away.
Even though I was present for the several months of each of my parents dying, I have never before gone to visit someone, looking the same healthy active person as ever, knowing that I would never see them again. I had seen community service announcements on TV about finding out what you can do/say when you know someone with a terminal illness. I looked up the website. It didn’t help. So I got on a plane and flew north hoping that a certain promise made by one of the great mythologers of ancient times would be fulfilled. I can’t give chapter and verse, or even an approximate quote, but the sense of it is: Don’t be concerned with what to say. The words will be given to you. It didn’t work – for me, anyway - well, if it did it wasn’t until the very last moment of my visit.
Part of the reason I found it difficult to address the issue of a friend’s imminent death may be that Graham and Inge are living each day, focused on that day, attending to the day to day, speaking when necessary of the time ahead – after Graham has died and Inge is getting on with her life. In other words, they are focused on being alive – doing what the living do. Furthermore, Graham has been keeping a journal of their activities since being diagnosed with cancer of the larynx. Selling their country property and their town houses and moving into town close to where Inge works; going to doctors, being given a range of options and calmly choosing the one that makes most sense – to him, to them; winding up his relationships with all and sundry and being very frank about why; paying attention to detail as one would in any enterprise of significance. And what could be more significant than this!
Graham met me at the airport, complaining about how busy it was and how hard it was to find a park. Mmmmmm, I thought. That’s a good sign: business as usual. And so it was. We talked about the trees they’d planted since moving in; the upgrading to the house; the plants that had come from their last half dozen places of abode, strategically placed to fulfil their purpose in their new location; the way Inge’s work place operates and its tentacles into all of the eastern capital cities and its overseas clients; and so on – oh, and the party they’d had the day before for Graham’s 65th birthday. The closest I got to saying anything about his limited remaining time was: Oh, it was your birthday? Well, I wish you many happy returns of the day – and this time I mean it as never before. To which Graham replied with a smile, Ah yes, it’s probably my last. During our conversation I managed to have two glasses of wine which clobbered me like nothing I could have imagined. I took an afternoon nap and resumed conversation with them well into the night, after we’d all slept for six or eight hours. In the morning I said hurray to Inge and was driven to the airport by Graham.
We parted as we always had. You know, with words like You look after yourself and give our love to John. and Yes, I’ll do that, and you take care, and don’t worry about parking tickets. You won’t be around to pay them when they’re due. There! I did it!! At that moment I realised that the right words for the duration of my visit were words that fitted in with the priorities of my hosts. They weren’t dwelling on what I considered – still consider – to be an imminent catastrophe. But if one was going to make any reference to it, maybe humour was the appropriate attitude to have. It might have been risky, but it worked. Graham laughed out loud and waved me off. That’s the last image I will ever have of him – how I will remember him.
And what of Inge, AG? Her life will change, as would anyone’s. But she is a resourceful and imaginative. She will grieve and grow. And we will have a new role as friends of Inge, as distinct from, as it is at present, friends of Graham and Inge. But we will always remember….
Wednesday, 25 April 2007
ANZAC DAY 2007
For yet another year I did not march on Anzac Day. It’s the medals. They don’t match any of my outfits. Just kidding. I have been a few times. The first was the first Anzac Day after I came home from Vietnam. That would have been 1971. I didn’t go again for a long time for at least two reasons. The first was that at the end of the march at the moment of dismissal, the platoon of Vietnam Vets that I was in executed the dismissal with perfect precision, and I had a very strong nostalgic feeling – which presented me with a real dilemma. Pursue this nostalgia and get trapped living in the past or reject it and keep moving forward. I chose the latter. The second reason was that I found it really difficult to talk to people at the RSL that day. The conversation was all about being in Nam – as though we were still there. I’d had a few of these conversations with other veterans and found them very disturbing. The same has happened each time I have gone to the RSL on Anzac Day. Of course that is what you should expect the talk of the day to be about. But it’s not for me. On one such occasion a young soldier was cosying up to me as though I was some sort of hero. Tell me some warie stories Sir – how many gooks didya kill? That sort of thing. I told him that I was a clerk in the safest part of South Vietnam and he went and found himself a real man. I’m sorry if that sounds cynical. I have the highest regard for serving personnel. But I just can’t talk that sort of talk. The same thing happened when I went to the Vietnam Vets Welcome Home Parade in Sydney in 1987. It took me a while to find my old unit (17 Construction Squadron, RAE) but when I did the vortex effect was instantaneous. Maaaaaaaaate. Cuddle cuddle. Even the odd kiss on the cheek. And Oh mate, that night you got pissed on vodka and passed out on the parade ground and didn’t turn up to work the next day … And Oh mate, remember the night we all went to the (I’ve forgotten the word for brothel) and it was your first time and you couldn’t….. and Sparkie tried to perve on Clarkie and got clobbered by the fan when he tried to look over the wall…. and … and… Yes it was nice that people remembered (regrettably, all that I remembered about most of them was doing their pay books) but I wanted to talk about more than that, because the world had moved on and as a society we came to realise that being there had been a colossal mistake. So when the back slapping of such conversations ends and people start brooding over the nasty aspects of the experience, I would like to suggest that it wasn’t just us who were badly done by. What about the boys who went to gaol for two years because they refused to be conscripted for a war that they saw then as unjust and we later came to see as wrong? Not to mention the “collateral damage” to the civilian populations of both North and South Vietnam – in the case of the latter, a population in which at least half the people did not want the government we were propping up. No of course you can’t talk about THAT at such times. But that IS what I want to talk about, so the wise thing to do is not to go. All the same, one very significant reconnection did occur on that occasion, with a bloke called Ray Spurling. We had a bit of a rocky relationship in country (hey, there’s a bit of jargon for ya) but he reminded me of a kindness I apparently showed him when we ran into each other after he returned. Apparently I offered him a job (on my farm) and he didn’t show up. He was sooooooo apologetic. I was really moved by that, the more so because I had absolutely no recollection of any of it. He’s one person I’d really like to catch up with again – to thank him, because I know that I did not realise the significance of the event at the time. So the day did have a few real gut wrenches, but by the time headed off to my motel, I was promising myself: Never again. Well, as it happened, I did go again. And had the same experience of being transported back to a world that is frozen in time. All I can say is Look fellas, it’s not you. It’s me. And that’s the truth – although I don’t rule out the possibility of getting over what ever it is that I don’t like about living in the past. Perhaps when it is long enough ago and I can be certain that THAT is not me now, I will be able to go back and enjoy the memory of the most astounding year of my life: 23 July 1969 to 23 July 1970.
Tuesday, 17 April 2007
Day 1 Continued
Day 1, has, as I said earlier, extended for a whole month, because I have been so busy that I have not had the time (energy?) to record my activities. The biggest task has been doing stuff for Certificate IV in Training and Assessment. Naturally, to have been doing the work I have been doing for the past six and a half years, I had the old qualification (Certificate IV in Workplace Assessment and Training), but to be current everyone has to have the new qualification by the beginning of 2008. The Job Network organisation I worked for offered it to me for free, as long as I slogged away at it by myself – as one would doing it externally – but having considered the material in the light of what I know about my learning style, I chose to pay $2100 to do it in regular sessions, driving to Ballina twice weekly, to interact with people in the learning process. I already knew that the new qualification was a lot more involved than the old one, but, even so, it has taken a lot more of my time than I anticipated. The other major undertaking has been getting two websites up. Neither are there yet, but only because the Hosting organisation that we chose seems to have gone walkabout. I tried to upload the site before Easter. When I couldn’t I emailed the Host organisation and got a reply that they would get back to me within 24 hours. It is now five working days and still counting. I would love to tell you the name of the Host organisation, but, for obvious reasons, I can’t – not here anyway. Anyone wanting to get a website hosted should call me personally and I will tell you who NOT to pick for the job.
Another major task has been spring cleaning the house. Yes, I know, it’s autumn, but, as everyone knows, it’s Easter – well it was at the time – and Easter is a festival of the Spring Equinox, so it must be spring – just like it must be winter at Christmas when we send cards with pictures of snow on them. (There’s probably a PhD that could be written on the psychological effect of living out a northern hemisphere time table in the southern hemisphere.) The house looks squeaky. And there’s a lot less in it now than there was when we started. In Townsville we had to spring clean every year, so vigorous was the mould that grew on the walls of the house. It took us seven years to get around to it here. Not a square centimetre of mould in sight. But lots of fly spots and stuff like that. It was a job that needed doing, but no one else would have known. We’ve had lots of people here since the job was finished. No one has noticed the difference, so we have to enjoy our virtuousness (or is it virtuosity?) in silence.
An unexpected setback, particularly this late in the summer season, was my getting heat rash. I quickly realised that it was probably because the average surface temperature of my body was higher since leaving work than when I spent most of the day in an air conditioned office. If anyone has a cure that doesn’t involve installing an air conditioner in the house I’d like to hear about it. Rolling in a bath tub of ice is also not an option. Fortunately winter is just around the corner and the problem will probably go away.
Deep thoughts about the four courses I hope to run, to fund my retirement, have also been sloshing around at the bottom of the well. For those who don’t know, the courses are: How to get a job you don’t have to hate; Practical Philosophy – why do we believe what we believe and why does it matter?; Practical Mythology – connecting with the whole of what exists; and Plan to live to 100 – without caring whether you do or not. I now have another one to add to that list: Love your enemies. No sub-title needed – though an explanation might help. It’s about the use and abuse of power, and the merits of cooperation and conflict. Conflict? Yes. The popular, or common-coffee-table, understanding of the word Shalom is peace. But it means a great deal more than that. It means the state of mutual accommodation that exists just on the verge of conflict between competing interests. I mention that to illustrate why conflict and cooperation go together in loving one’s enemy. I’ll say more about the other courses in due … well, course – of course.
I have been telling people that my medium term goal is to become accredited as a Registered Training Organisation. I probably shouldn’t have said that. The more I find out about what is involved, the less I like the idea. I know it’s possible, because I know two people who are one-person RTOs. And I know of many others. But as I look into the compliance requirements it is becoming clear to me that I will spend the rest of my life doing paper work instead of facilitating courses.
I guess I had better bring Day 1 to a close. In my next I’ll tell you about the most fabulous theatre experience we had recently.
Another major task has been spring cleaning the house. Yes, I know, it’s autumn, but, as everyone knows, it’s Easter – well it was at the time – and Easter is a festival of the Spring Equinox, so it must be spring – just like it must be winter at Christmas when we send cards with pictures of snow on them. (There’s probably a PhD that could be written on the psychological effect of living out a northern hemisphere time table in the southern hemisphere.) The house looks squeaky. And there’s a lot less in it now than there was when we started. In Townsville we had to spring clean every year, so vigorous was the mould that grew on the walls of the house. It took us seven years to get around to it here. Not a square centimetre of mould in sight. But lots of fly spots and stuff like that. It was a job that needed doing, but no one else would have known. We’ve had lots of people here since the job was finished. No one has noticed the difference, so we have to enjoy our virtuousness (or is it virtuosity?) in silence.
An unexpected setback, particularly this late in the summer season, was my getting heat rash. I quickly realised that it was probably because the average surface temperature of my body was higher since leaving work than when I spent most of the day in an air conditioned office. If anyone has a cure that doesn’t involve installing an air conditioner in the house I’d like to hear about it. Rolling in a bath tub of ice is also not an option. Fortunately winter is just around the corner and the problem will probably go away.
Deep thoughts about the four courses I hope to run, to fund my retirement, have also been sloshing around at the bottom of the well. For those who don’t know, the courses are: How to get a job you don’t have to hate; Practical Philosophy – why do we believe what we believe and why does it matter?; Practical Mythology – connecting with the whole of what exists; and Plan to live to 100 – without caring whether you do or not. I now have another one to add to that list: Love your enemies. No sub-title needed – though an explanation might help. It’s about the use and abuse of power, and the merits of cooperation and conflict. Conflict? Yes. The popular, or common-coffee-table, understanding of the word Shalom is peace. But it means a great deal more than that. It means the state of mutual accommodation that exists just on the verge of conflict between competing interests. I mention that to illustrate why conflict and cooperation go together in loving one’s enemy. I’ll say more about the other courses in due … well, course – of course.
I have been telling people that my medium term goal is to become accredited as a Registered Training Organisation. I probably shouldn’t have said that. The more I find out about what is involved, the less I like the idea. I know it’s possible, because I know two people who are one-person RTOs. And I know of many others. But as I look into the compliance requirements it is becoming clear to me that I will spend the rest of my life doing paper work instead of facilitating courses.
I guess I had better bring Day 1 to a close. In my next I’ll tell you about the most fabulous theatre experience we had recently.
Day 1 of Life after ...
Day 1
Well, actually, it’s Day thirty-something, and I am trying to recall as much of what has happened since 14/3/07 as possible. A hopeless task I’m afraid. It’s all called Day 1, by the way, because it is all such a blur, and I want to pull it back into focus. I woke on Wednesday 14/3/07 at the usual time – 4:00 am, when Soxie jumped on the bed and said “Let me out or I’ll report you to the RSPCA for animal abuse.” He’s been doing that ever since he was a kitten big enough to jump up on the bed. My first thought was that I wouldn’t be going to Boot Camp that day. It’s a long story.
For those who don’t know, or haven’t been all that clear on the details, I had been working as a Job Search Trainer in a Job Network organisation for the past three and a half years. I really liked the job, and was always operating at full stretch, delivering sessions in the morning, dealing with non compliance issues, inducting people into the program, doing administrivia, and most importantly of all, giving personal assistance to people who, having been made aware of the issues involved in best practice in job seeking, tried to put it all into practice and sought my help on aspects of their endeavours. Then just before Xmas 2006 all the trainers were called to a meeting (I have given it the title Boot Camp) at which we were told, among other things, that as of 2/1/07 we would be delivering twice as many sessions in the three week cycle of JS Training. And we were given 7 new training modules that we had to start delivering from that date. Which meant, of course, that we had to spend the Xmas – New Year break swatting up on them. Not that that was expected of us. Oh no! But how else were we to be ready unless that’s what we did? So come the appointed date, I was ready, but quickly came to the decision that I was not prepared to endure the stress of the new regime. Doubling the number of sessions to be delivered meant a doubling of the amount of non-compliance (in theory – in practice it more than doubled it.) It also reduced to less than one third the amount of time available to do everything other than deliver sessions and induct people into the program. Clearly, something had to go. Since records are of paramount importance, it was client support that got the chop. It also meant that three days out of five I would go home with significant amounts of administrivia not done and would have to pick up the pieces the following day. There’s more, but I’ll spare you the details. I told the HR Manager at the end of the two day Boot Camp, when everyone else was gone and I could speak my mind (it is the kind of organisation in which you can speak your mind at such gatherings, but no one ever does) that we were being asked to undertake a massive increase in our workload. “Oh, do you think so Paul?” she whined, “It’s just a pilot. It’ll all be reviewed in three months. We can deal with any difficulties then.” The clear implication in that statement was that if the workload was, indeed, too great, it would be dealt with accordingly. It proved to be as I foresaw, and at the end of the first week back I resigned. The reaction was so awesome that I felt compelled to reconsider. “How could you leave us for you kids?” about sums up the response. No, really, it wasn’t like that at all. People were genuinely dismayed and pleaded with me to reconsider. I offered to withdraw my resignation (which was graciously accepted) and slogged on for another couple of months, becoming more and more angry about the situation. When asked for input to the agenda of the soon to be reconvened Boot Camp, I said that there were many issues that I could put on the table, but that there was only one that I wanted on the agenda: the new regime is too much work and client support has not just suffered, but virtually disappeared. It was soon made clear to me that that issue was not going to be on the table. So I resigned – again. Day 1 of my new life was the very day the trainers met for the reconvened Boot Camp.
Well, actually, it’s Day thirty-something, and I am trying to recall as much of what has happened since 14/3/07 as possible. A hopeless task I’m afraid. It’s all called Day 1, by the way, because it is all such a blur, and I want to pull it back into focus. I woke on Wednesday 14/3/07 at the usual time – 4:00 am, when Soxie jumped on the bed and said “Let me out or I’ll report you to the RSPCA for animal abuse.” He’s been doing that ever since he was a kitten big enough to jump up on the bed. My first thought was that I wouldn’t be going to Boot Camp that day. It’s a long story.
For those who don’t know, or haven’t been all that clear on the details, I had been working as a Job Search Trainer in a Job Network organisation for the past three and a half years. I really liked the job, and was always operating at full stretch, delivering sessions in the morning, dealing with non compliance issues, inducting people into the program, doing administrivia, and most importantly of all, giving personal assistance to people who, having been made aware of the issues involved in best practice in job seeking, tried to put it all into practice and sought my help on aspects of their endeavours. Then just before Xmas 2006 all the trainers were called to a meeting (I have given it the title Boot Camp) at which we were told, among other things, that as of 2/1/07 we would be delivering twice as many sessions in the three week cycle of JS Training. And we were given 7 new training modules that we had to start delivering from that date. Which meant, of course, that we had to spend the Xmas – New Year break swatting up on them. Not that that was expected of us. Oh no! But how else were we to be ready unless that’s what we did? So come the appointed date, I was ready, but quickly came to the decision that I was not prepared to endure the stress of the new regime. Doubling the number of sessions to be delivered meant a doubling of the amount of non-compliance (in theory – in practice it more than doubled it.) It also reduced to less than one third the amount of time available to do everything other than deliver sessions and induct people into the program. Clearly, something had to go. Since records are of paramount importance, it was client support that got the chop. It also meant that three days out of five I would go home with significant amounts of administrivia not done and would have to pick up the pieces the following day. There’s more, but I’ll spare you the details. I told the HR Manager at the end of the two day Boot Camp, when everyone else was gone and I could speak my mind (it is the kind of organisation in which you can speak your mind at such gatherings, but no one ever does) that we were being asked to undertake a massive increase in our workload. “Oh, do you think so Paul?” she whined, “It’s just a pilot. It’ll all be reviewed in three months. We can deal with any difficulties then.” The clear implication in that statement was that if the workload was, indeed, too great, it would be dealt with accordingly. It proved to be as I foresaw, and at the end of the first week back I resigned. The reaction was so awesome that I felt compelled to reconsider. “How could you leave us for you kids?” about sums up the response. No, really, it wasn’t like that at all. People were genuinely dismayed and pleaded with me to reconsider. I offered to withdraw my resignation (which was graciously accepted) and slogged on for another couple of months, becoming more and more angry about the situation. When asked for input to the agenda of the soon to be reconvened Boot Camp, I said that there were many issues that I could put on the table, but that there was only one that I wanted on the agenda: the new regime is too much work and client support has not just suffered, but virtually disappeared. It was soon made clear to me that that issue was not going to be on the table. So I resigned – again. Day 1 of my new life was the very day the trainers met for the reconvened Boot Camp.
Who is Twogreytoes?
Twogreytoes is the name of a cat with whom my partner and I lived for a long time – though, regrettably, not long enough. That’s right, he didn’t live with us: we lived with him.One day he just vanished. We mourned him for half a year, and, certain that he had met a brutal fate (you don’t want to know why we thought that) we wrote a memorial verse for him. Incase you can’t read it from the picture, this is it:
…my eyes have seen the glory
of the mountains of the earth
I have been witness to the charm
Of gaia since she gave me birth
And now the brutal fate my nature
Calls me to affirms my worth
To roam the universe…
I'm not just your pretty pussie
I'm your talisman of wisdom
I can fortify your courage
Just call me and I'll come!
Just before Christmas 2001 we adopted two brothers from a local litter and called them Sox and Boof.
About a month later when I was in town, a sleek street walker rubbed up against my leg. As I bent down to pat him I had the strangest sensation. This was someone I knew. His markings exactly matched those of our precious lamented friend. As I picked him up I looked in his left ear and there was the tattoo that indicated his gender – neuter. I took him home in a state of high adulation only to find that he was not going to tolerate the new cossetees. We tried everything to keep him with us, but he ran away every time we brought him home. Finally we agreed that if he ran away again we would not go looking for him.
So why have I adopted his name? Because he lived as fully within the limitations of his physical form as it was possible to live. How do I know this? Well, apart from the adventures to which we were witness, when it became known in the street where I found him that he was “our” cat, people regaled us with heroic tales about the swashbuckler they had come to know over the seven or months that he held court in that part of town. Everyone agreed that he was the boss of the street. Dogs walked the other way or tugged back on their leashes if their owners were leading them in his direction. He never went hungry. He won the affection of patrons at the nearby café as well as people from the bakery, the butcher, the hotel and the fish shop. And grown men (well, young men, anyway) who loved him when they were little boys ask after him to this day, refusing to believe that he will not, one day, come back. Like the truth, he’s out there!
The philosopher Henri Bergson, observed that ancient Egyptians deified attributes of animals that contrasted favourably with weaknesses in the human constitution, and dismissed this as something we did on our way to becoming rulers of the universe. He wrote that before the second World War. Things have changed since then, and many people are now worried about the impact of humans on the planet and everything that lives here. We could learn a lot from animals about our place in the universe. They are not gods, but they can be teachers. What I have learned from Twogreytoes about being, is “Do whatever it takes to be who you really are, and to trust others to love you.” When Christians take the name of a saint, they do not presume to be the saint’s peer. Rather, they honour the saint and hope to live up to the qualities of a mentor – someone who has explored, more fully than most, who they really are. So I am Twogreytoes. I hope to live with courage to go where no man has gone before.
Just before Christmas 2001 we adopted two brothers from a local litter and called them Sox and Boof.
About a month later when I was in town, a sleek street walker rubbed up against my leg. As I bent down to pat him I had the strangest sensation. This was someone I knew. His markings exactly matched those of our precious lamented friend. As I picked him up I looked in his left ear and there was the tattoo that indicated his gender – neuter. I took him home in a state of high adulation only to find that he was not going to tolerate the new cossetees. We tried everything to keep him with us, but he ran away every time we brought him home. Finally we agreed that if he ran away again we would not go looking for him.
So why have I adopted his name? Because he lived as fully within the limitations of his physical form as it was possible to live. How do I know this? Well, apart from the adventures to which we were witness, when it became known in the street where I found him that he was “our” cat, people regaled us with heroic tales about the swashbuckler they had come to know over the seven or months that he held court in that part of town. Everyone agreed that he was the boss of the street. Dogs walked the other way or tugged back on their leashes if their owners were leading them in his direction. He never went hungry. He won the affection of patrons at the nearby café as well as people from the bakery, the butcher, the hotel and the fish shop. And grown men (well, young men, anyway) who loved him when they were little boys ask after him to this day, refusing to believe that he will not, one day, come back. Like the truth, he’s out there!
The philosopher Henri Bergson, observed that ancient Egyptians deified attributes of animals that contrasted favourably with weaknesses in the human constitution, and dismissed this as something we did on our way to becoming rulers of the universe. He wrote that before the second World War. Things have changed since then, and many people are now worried about the impact of humans on the planet and everything that lives here. We could learn a lot from animals about our place in the universe. They are not gods, but they can be teachers. What I have learned from Twogreytoes about being, is “Do whatever it takes to be who you really are, and to trust others to love you.” When Christians take the name of a saint, they do not presume to be the saint’s peer. Rather, they honour the saint and hope to live up to the qualities of a mentor – someone who has explored, more fully than most, who they really are. So I am Twogreytoes. I hope to live with courage to go where no man has gone before.
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