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Tuesday
Dec192017

Bring on winter!

SAD is a thing, apparently; an apt acronym for Seasonal Affective Disorder, also known colloquially as the Winter Blues. People get more depressed over the winter months; they get less sunlight, don’t socialise or exercise as much, things spiral down.

I suffer from SAD myself, but for me it’s the hot weather that gets me down. Come the first of the really hot days (and in Melbourne that seems to be happening earlier each year), the first hot nights and my mood plunges.

I grew up in India, so logic would suggest that I thrive in heat, but that’s not the case. I’ve lived through the brutality of life in one of the hottest cities on earth and it’s not very glamorous. Not sure if it’s global warming, but Melbourne seems to be following in Ahmedabad’s footsteps.

I blame my Anglo-Celtic genes for my love of the cold. Though willing to admit that I might not be as enamoured of bleak weather if I lived in Scotland full time, the minute I emerge from the plane into the grey, grim drizzle that is so typical of Edinburgh, my heart soars, as do my energy levels.

A recent article in the paper maintained that the optimum temperature for human activity and happiness in 22 degrees. And sure, it’s easy to love days when the mercury reaches only the mid to low twenties. Anything over 27 degrees, however, renders me too sluggish to do much. I love to be physically active; in the heat that’s hard. By 8.30am when I arrive at work after my walk in, I am already a sodden, sweaty mess. When it’s cold, I am energised, I naturally want to walk faster, work harder, be more creative.

Of course, hot nights are the worst. Breathless midnights, fans that labour heroically but manage only to circulate the leaden air, damp and twisted sheets, a complete inability to get comfortable. Few sensations are as blissful as pulling the doona around my ears on a frigid night and burrowing into the warmth of my bed.

People light up when they talk about long evenings, barbeques and cold beers on the deck, parties in the park, picnics by the river, bars spilling out onto pavements on balmy nights. Bugger that. Give me fires, mulled wine or cocoa, inside companionship, best of all, a long cosy evening with a good book.

You can have your hot weather. Right now, all I want to do is hibernate till autumn.

Published in The Melbourne Age 20 December 2017

Sunday
Dec172017

Preparing for Christmas

One of the first things we did when we bought our house, 17 years ago, was to plant a lot of creepers. Over our west-facing back verandah, my husband trailed ornamental vines that are vivid green in spring, shade-giving in summer, brilliant scarlet in the autumn and bare in winter, letting the gentle, welcome sunlight through to our big living area.

 Those first creepers have long since died and been replaced, and they continue to create an outdoor room, where we are protected from the elements but almost part of the garden.

 I love to sit out there, doing nothing much, not even praying, often with my hands clasped around a mug of steaming tea, watching the birds in the bird bath, the dog lazily stretched in the sun, the dappling of leaves and sunlight on the walls.

 As a Christian, I don’t believe that being busy brings you closer to God. The relationship I build with God, by taking time, being silent, reading the Bible, paying attention, being present in the moment will often result in periods of action as I do my tiny bit to tackle the needs in our broken world. But it’s not the starting point.

 All the great religions have mystics and contemplatives who gently remind us that chasing our tails in busyness, no matter how worthy the pursuit, will not bring us closer to the divine. Christians believe in grace – the fact that no amount of doing good will make God love us any more. God loves us endlessly and unstintingly, no matter what we do or don’t do, ‘good’ or ‘bad’. When we allow ourselves to stop running, we are confronted with our terror that if we stop ‘doing’, we will lose our worth in the eyes of other people, ourselves, God. It is extraordinarily difficult, in our society, to admit to not being busy. It’s especially challenging when a loving partner asks at the end of his busy day what I did in mine and I have to confess, ‘nothing much’!

 Traditionally Advent - the weeks leading up to Christmas - are a time of reflection for Christians, as they contemplate God’s love so immense that God somehow, mysteriously, became a baby and lived here with us.

 In our secular society, the lead up to Christmas is the opposite – a crazy time of spending, festivities and winding the year up. Maybe the best thing I can do as a follower of the Jesus whose birth we celebrate is deliberately not fill up my hours. To take time to sit on my verandah, nursing a mug of tea and watching the shifting patterns of the vine leaves against the sky. Reminding myself of the given of God’s love. Basking in grace.

This was published in the December issue of The Melbourne Anglican

 

 

Wednesday
Dec062017

Silence

It’s not everybody’s idea of a fun time, but one of my favourite things to do is to go on a silent retreat for a day or two or seven. If I tell anyone this, nine out of ten respond with utter incredulity. (Mothers with little kids get it, their eyes close in utter bliss at the concept.)

‘What, like, silence. You don’t talk?!’

‘Not at all, no.’

‘What about meals, surely you chat over meals.’

‘Er, no. It’s a silent retreat.’

Most people express the view that they absolutely could not do that. But they might be surprised.

I attend Christian meditation retreats, as that is my religious commitment and it feeds me deeply. But people of all religions and none are starting to wake up to the power of silence. All the major world religions have a strong tradition of contemplation, of withdrawal from the hurly burly in order to do a variety of things: become closer to the Divine, gain perspective, regain peace, exorcise one’s demons, make an important decision. Mindfulness meditation is a secular version of this. And in our hyper-busy, hyper-connected era, the practice of solitude and silence is more radical than ever.

I’m an introvert, so the thought of not having to interact with people, even if I am sitting across the breakfast table from them, brings immense relief. But silent retreats are not only for introverts. We probably find practicing silence easier, but a dear and utterly extroverted mate of mine is a recent and complete convert to spending big chunks of time on one’s own, without benefit of verbal communication.

It would be a mistake, however, to think that the purpose of such a time is simply to chill out, to bludge; that’s good too, but it’s different.

When you go deeply into silence (and some guidance is wise, particularly if you are a novice) it is hard work. Occasionally it feels peaceful and easy; often it is dry and difficult. You wonder what on earth you’re doing. What the Buddhists call your ‘monkey mind’ swings gibbering from the trees, darting from one distracting thought to the next. Confronting issues that you successfully avoid addressing by filling your life with busy stuff arise and demand to be dealt with.

But if you persevere, there are rich rewards. Over time, silence, and the practice of meditation is the most powerful tool for growth in myself, in my creativity, in my relationships, that I know. You should try it sometime.

 Published in The Melbourne Age on 3 December 2017

Tuesday
Nov212017

Wrinkles

An absurdly young and good-looking man accosted me as I hurried back to my office at lunch time. His line was a good one, and stopped me in my tracks – "You have the most amazing skin".

He stood in the doorway of one of those airy, posh boutiques that line our end of Little Collins Street. Mostly they are clothes shops; this one sold make-up. He held out his palm on which trembled pale blue petals of, was it soap? It was. Fancy soap, that he wanted to sell me. "Thanks," I said, wondering where such fragile and sweet-smelling cleaning agents would fit in my life, and moving on.

But he wasn't going to let me go so easily.

"Do you mind me asking what skin product you use?" That was easy; I've used the same modest and affordable cream on my face for 40 years, and I told him so. He looked at me as though he couldn't quite imagine how someone who had been alive that long was still striding around without a wheel chair, or at the very least a walking frame.

I was hoping for another effusive compliment to propel me back to work, but instead, he said, "I could really help you with those wrinkles you know. And the bags under your eyes."

As the saying goes, pride comes before a fall. I threw back my head and laughed, which alarmed the young man a little, but he pressed on, undaunted. "No really, I could. Just pop into my shop for a minute."

"No thanks mate," I said. "I'm fine the way I am."

There followed a silence that felt like the pause on the phone when the cold caller asks would you like to decrease the amount of tax you pay madam, and I respond, no thanks.

I had him stumped, so I smiled as sweetly as I could, bags and all, said, "I don't mind my wrinkles," and headed back to my desk.

Would I go back to being young and nubile and wrinkle-free? Not on your life. Things were good back then, but they're so much better now, ageing and health issues and life's exhausting complexity notwithstanding. I wouldn't swap wisdom and self-acceptance for the smoothest skin in the universe.

In a society that worships youth and a narrow stereotype of attractiveness, I prefer the line from the Indigo Girls: "And every lesson learned a line upon your beautiful face." That's more like it.

This was published in The Melbourne Age on 20 November 2017.

An absurdly young and good-looking man accosted me as I hurried back to my office at lunch time. His line was a good one, and stopped me in my tracks – "You have the most amazing skin".

He stood in the doorway of one of those airy, posh boutiques that line our end of Little Collins Street. Mostly they are clothes shops; this one sold make-up. He held out his palm on which trembled pale blue petals of, was it soap? It was. Fancy soap, that he wanted to sell me. "Thanks," I said, wondering where such fragile and sweet-smelling cleaning agents would fit in my life, and moving on.

  • I've used the same modest and affordable cream on my face for 40 years... I've used the same modest and affordable cream on my face for 40 years... Photo: Artfully79

    But he wasn't going to let me go so easily.

    "Do you mind me asking what skin product you use?" That was easy; I've used the same modest and affordable cream on my face for 40 years, and I told him so. He looked at me as though he couldn't quite imagine how someone who had been alive that long was still striding around without a wheel chair, or at the very least a walking frame.

    I was hoping for another effusive compliment to propel me back to work, but instead, he said, "I could really help you with those wrinkles you know. And the bags under your eyes."

    As the saying goes, pride comes before a fall. I threw back my head and laughed, which alarmed the young man a little, but he pressed on, undaunted. "No really, I could. Just pop into my shop for a minute."

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    "No thanks mate," I said. "I'm fine the way I am."

    There followed a silence that felt like the pause on the phone when the cold caller asks would you like to decrease the amount of tax you pay madam, and I respond, no thanks.

    I had him stumped, so I smiled as sweetly as I could, bags and all, said, "I don't mind my wrinkles," and headed back to my desk.

    Would I go back to being young and nubile and wrinkle-free? Not on your life. Things were good back then, but they're so much better now, ageing and health issues and life's exhausting complexity notwithstanding. I wouldn't swap wisdom and self-acceptance for the smoothest skin in the universe.

    In a society that worships youth and a narrow stereotype of attractiveness, I prefer the line from the Indigo Girls: "And every lesson learned a line upon your beautiful face." That's more like it.

    Tuesday
    Nov142017

    Il aime les caresses

    Psalms such as 148 are full of images of the whole of creation singing praise to God. They are all there: stars and waters, sea monsters, fire and hail, mountains and hills, wild animals and cattle and more. St Francis of Assisi, whose feast day we celebrated recently, had the same idea in his Canticle of the Sun, where he refers to Brother Sun and Sister Moon.

    Sometimes I think that animals, of whom Francis is the Patron Saint, do a better job than humans not only of glorifying the creator but also of loving their human companions.

    Last year I was staying in a small town in the south of France, and took to walking down a particular street purely because there was a dog there that I was powerless to resist. He was solid and intimidating – a white bull terrier with a heavily studded leather collar, and he leaned against the front wall of his house, basking in the sunshine and looking scary.

    He didn’t fool me for an instant. I clicked my fingers at him and crouched down to his level and he melted; not just his tail but his entire body quivering with delight as he responded to my overtures. It wasn’t long before his owner emerged, appearing every bit as fierce as his dog: a wiry, mean looking guy with multiple tatts and body piercings. But the international society of bull terrier lovers is a powerful thing; he could see that I was smitten with his pet, and we were instantly on friendly terms.

    ‘Il aime les caresses’, he said, describing his dog, which seems to me to be an apt description of the condition of all creatures on this planet, human and animal. Everybody has a hungry heart. We all want to be loved.

    Now back in Melbourne, we have our very own caress-lover; an American bullterrier/bulldog cross: warm brown and clean white, 30 kg of pure muscle. I have never seen such a ripped creature, and I’ve never met such a sook.  He positively adores les caresses. He is a rescue dog of uncertain provenance, so we were prepared for some aggro, some unsettledness, some obvious signs of his complicated and unsatisfactory past. All we got was an endless, deeply gratifying need for affection. Mr Bruce cuddles and smooches, he rubs his massive head up against us, puts his paw plaintively on our laps if we aren’t paying him enough attention, rolls over to have his belly rubbed. At a recent live music gig at our place, he worked the room, approaching each young person sprawled untidily on the floor for hugs and kisses, and getting them every time.

    In the CBD every day I see homeless people, many of whom have a dog curled up trustingly beside them, protector and companion. A month after the Feast of St Francis of Assisi, I thank God for the millions of animals the world over who reflect the love of their creator.

    This was published in the November issue of The Melbourne Anglican