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Two worlds collide on the 58 tram

The tram I catch from my place into the city, which has always read ‘Domain Interchange’ now says ‘Toorak’ and it’s doing my head in.

At one level it makes perfect sense. The number 55 tram from West Coburg trundled its way through Royal Park, past the hospitals and the Victoria Market, down William St and ended up near the Shrine, at the aforementioned Domain Interchange. The Toorak tram, number 8, used to start there and finish up at Glenferrie Road, Toorak. So they might as well join the two up.

It freaks me out though, as it is joining two of my worlds that I thought would never meet, Toorak and West Brunswick. I spent the last few of my teenage years living in Toorak, until, aged 21 years and six weeks, I married and escaped to the northern suburbs, where I’ve remained ever since, apart from overseas stays and ten years in the country.

I didn’t really belong on the Southside, and only lived there on account of my dad being a minister in one of the big churches in Toorak Road. Needless to say, there are many wonderful people who live in Toorak, and I was lucky enough to meet some of them, but I was never happy there. I have lived in a lot of places all around the world; I think that Toorak was the only place I felt completely ill at ease.

It was the money: the huge blocks of land, the private gardens like small parks, the high gates and walls and security systems that guarded these parks and the mansions hidden deep within them, the lonely, uninhabited streets, the fancy, overpriced shops. Moving there from the colour, chaos and crowds of India was like flying to another planet. I barely ever have reason to visit that side of town; when I do, I feel a residual discomfort.

But maybe it’s time I got over myself. Toorak is not a place I was happy, but it’s just a place. The people who live there belong in a variety of socio-economic categories, and, more than that, they’re just people. Maybe it’s time I got over my intense uncomfortableness with the very rich. Maybe it’s time I acknowledged that for most of the world’s inhabitants, very rich is precisely what I am. Maybe it’s time I took a ride on that new tram line – number 58 – from end to end, bringing my two worlds together and becoming a more integrated person in the process.

This was published in The Melbourne Age on 16 May 2017




Passing through the health precinct

On my tram ride between home and work, I pass through what must surely be the most heavily populated health precinct in the southern hemisphere. There they all are – hospitals old and new. First the super-flash Royal Children’s, opened by her Maj, no less, all colourful and artfully angled shutters, and, if you venture inside, acquariums and meercats.

The new Women’s, then my alma mater the Royal Melbourne, somewhat tarted up but inside still reassuringly and nostalgically recognisable. And just opposite that, the mothership as my son calls it, the new Victorian Comprehensive Cancer Centre, like a mighty ocean liner standing proud and tall against the waves of traffic beating up from Haymarket roundabout; a whole other species from the old-style heath institutions with their orange bricks and industrial chimney. It is all swirls and curves and roof gardens and inside it has an atrium where buskers play music that trails up the light well to all the floors where people are waiting patiently – it is a public hospital after all – for their oncologist, their X-ray, blood test, pills, whatever. You sit in one of the funky cafes in the VCCC and look around and realise that everyone sipping their coffee has intimate dealings with cancer – either as a patient, a loved one, or a worker in the field. It’s humbling.

I’ve been involved in most of these hospitals in one way or another. I trained at the old RMH in the 80s, garbed in old-school starched cap and apron. In the 2000s we were in and out of the Children’s for six years with our youngest. And I am about to become very familiar with the VCCC as my husband enters his inpatient phase at that impressive institution.

My familiarity with hospitals has perhaps made me more aware than most of what goes on inside their walls. As my tram trundles past, I can feel the welter of emotions emanating from them – fear and grief and despair, sure, but also camaraderie and triumph sometimes, joy (all those babies!) relief, gratitude, love. All those life and death (literally) battles going on just a few meters and one thin wall away. How can commuters, noses in their mobiles, not feel the great wash of human endeavour and endurance they are passing?

Maybe they do. Maybe everyone in my tram is thinking similar thoughts to mine. As I pass each day, I salute everyone within those walls, am grateful for good health care and am reminded of the fragility of life.


Worship in a foreign tongue

Two congregations share the worship space at the Uniting Church I attend: one is Cantonese, the other, which is very multi-cultural, is held in English. Mostly we worship at different times, but every so often we come together in a joint service that is held in both languages. Prayers are offered in both, the sermon is translated, one reading is delivered in English while the Cantonese version is up on the screen, and vice versa.

It can make for a long service, although the leaders do try to be concise. I’ve noticed, too, that regulars tend not to show up for these, as they do require a bit of effort. Oddly enough, I love these duo-lingual occasions.

It’s really good for me to be lifted out of my comfort zone. My Chinese fellow-pilgrims outnumber the English-speaking congregation by about four to one and it is a salutary reminder of what life is like for countless immigrants around the globe, surrounded by signs and sounds that make no sense to them. I grew up in this situation, but have been part of the dominant cultural group for a long time, and it’s easy to take for granted our automatic understanding of instructions and systems.

When I worship entirely in my mother tongue, there’s a feeling or urgency – of having to attend to every single word in case I miss something. When half is in another language of which I know nothing, not one word, I switch off and float into a peaceful space where I pay more attention to non-verbal things  – the beauty of the stained-glass windows, the deep pulsing chords of the organ, the mad variety of human beings around me. I connect with the Divine in a different way.

It takes me back to a happy childhood spent in a country where I was the foreigner and it didn’t matter and I felt entirely at home. It transports me to many hours spent sitting in Gujarati church services (and they were inevitably long, and hot) where the language was familiar but I couldn’t really understand much, so that it washed over me like a soothing wave, like a lullaby familiar from babyhood, making me feel like a pre-verbal infant who doesn’t understand the words but feels secure and surrounded by community.

The clergy select hymns that can be sung to the same tune in the two languages, and there is something profoundly moving about singing my heart out alongside others singing the same meaning with different sounds. Ditto when we all say the Lord’s Prayer ‘in our heart language’. I am reminded of the communion of Saints around the world, that I have fellow-believers throughout space and not simply time, that there is this great chorus of Christians in every corner of the globe, praising and longing and wanting to grow in grace and yearning to be closer to our Creator and to be channels of God’s love.

This was published in The Melbourne Anglican, May edition


Melbourne - winter city

‘Sleeping with the fan on, on 7 April. This is ridiculous. Roll on winter!’

I posted this on facebook last week, and I got what I wished for. I wouldn’t have it any other way, except, of course, for the homeless who inhabit our streets in ever increasing numbers and for whom the advent of winter starts an even more harrowing season of deprivation. Lindisfarne’s hauntingly evocative 1970 hit Winter Song, with its plaintive refrain ‘When winter comes howling in,’ captured the contrast between those who have a place to call home and those who don’t.  It rings in my head at this time of year, especially when winter comes this abruptly.

I spend a lot of my time in parts of Melbourne that make me think of sunnier climes: Greek cake shops in Lonsdale St, Italian restaurants in Carlton, the plethora of kebab joints in Sydney Road as you head north from Brunswick into Coburg, the Vietnamese market in Footscray.

Despite this, Melbourne feels like a winter place, particularly the CBD which feels so much like London that when I am in London I feel completely at home, whereas even Sydney feels like a foreign country, Darwin like another planet.

The stately and dignified Victorian era buildings in the CBD (especially if they haven’t been recently cleaned, and still sport a fine layer of Dickensian grime) suit gloomy weather, umbrellas, brief cases and formal attire, just as the gorgeous bays and beaches that abound in Sydney suit sunshine and roller blades and guys with their T-shirts off and tucked into the back of their shorts.

Cold weather suits the black that Melbournians are notorious for wearing, whether they’re a city corporate type or a tattooed hipster on a fixed-gear bike. Rain and chill winds are perfect for all the indoorsy things you can do in Melbourne: drinks in a nameless bar up an obscure graffiti-bedecked laneway, endless permutations of coffee, music gigs in crowded pubs, restaurants and art galleries, the comedy festival and the theatre. Such activities lend themselves to frigid winter evenings where the dark draws in early and we long to huddle inside, out of the cold.

On the domestic front, winters in Melbourne mean mulled wine and hot cocoa, slow cooked meals, bracing walks followed by fireside chats and snuggling under the doona.  Winters in Melbourne mean boots and jackets and scarves and beanies and, most importantly, the footy.

Melbourne has many moods, but in winter, she feels most herself. Bring it on!

This was published in The Melbourne Age on 13 April 2017



Wonder as you age

‘The older you get, the less often you feel astonished.’ So writes Sian Prior, in a recent piece in this paper about wonder. Travel, she posits, puts adults back in a state of receptiveness to the marvels all around, something that maybe doesn’t happen so much in our normal existences, or not after childhood anyway.

No one who writes as beautifully as Prior could be immune to wonder, even in her home town, but she has a point. Travel is a wonderful way (no pun intended) for waking a person up to the miracles all around us, because we see things with fresh eyes, noticing colours, landscapes, smells and sounds we’ve never been exposed to before.

My experience over 58 years of living, however, is the opposite of hers. The older I get, the more often I am astonished, over the most mundane-seeming things.

When I was younger, I was often too busy to notice the marvels abounding day to day. It felt as though life would go on forever, so there was no urgency about stopping to watch the sun going down, or closing my eyes the better to savour a favourite dish. And there was so much happening – establishing jobs, bringing up children, working out what life was all about.

As I age, I’m aware that I am in the demographic that drops dead suddenly, or has a stroke, or, like my dad, develops macular degeneration and can’t see much. Even if I live to a ripe old age, my years on this beautiful planet are at least two-thirds over. The recent incursion of a particularly virulent version of the Big C into my immediate family has underlined for all of us how precious ordinary moments are, of how fragile life is, even in this most cosseted of societies.

But even before I got to the big 5-0, even before cancer became part of our lives, I had started a practice that helped to open my eyes to wonder in the daily round. Contemplative prayer, or Christian Meditation is a sure way to stopping the frenzy and start realising what a sensuous smorgasbord of delight surrounds us. Poking my nose out the door to see what the weather (different, every single day!) is doing. The incomparable pleasure of simple food when you are hungry, the walk to work past lemon scented gums that spread their tart sweetness so generously after rain, the cacophony of bird song even in the city, the mouth-watering anticipation of returning to a good book, sitting down over coffee with one of my kids for a leisurely catch-up, sluicing the grime of the day away in a hot shower, the crisp smell of clean sheets.

It’s nuts, how much there is to wonder at, every day. And what most helps me to be open to this is the practice of sitting still, being silent, saying a mantra, connecting with the God who made and delights in the beauty all around.

This was published in The Melbourne Age on 9 April 2017