Mosquito Netting

 

Fifteen years ago I went to a thirtieth birthday party held in an old church hall. An abundance of green mosquito netting hung below the ceiling in arabesques piled high with balloons. A jukebox blared eighties music, heavy on The Police and U2; and at three o’clock in the morning, a group of us stood on the lawn and howled at the moon.

At the centre of the howling group was the birthday boy, a gentle bewildered and very unhappy man; safe inside, away from the lunatics, stood his confused and defensive wife. As the party drew to a close, the mosquito netting was pulled down and the balloons all popped; then the netting was bundled into a large green plastic garbage bag.

A couple of years later, the couple split; and soon after that, I moved in with the man who is sad and lonely no more. We have lived in half a dozen different houses together, and the mosquito netting has moved with us as we wait for a good use for it.

At last this week I stood and unpicked the staples which so long ago had held the netting in elegant swathes, and remembered the party, and the time of life when we were all so young and muddled and lonely. Then I drove some stakes into our planter boxes and draped netting over them, so the cabbage moths can no longer lay their eggs on our baby brassicas.

It feels a good use for the netting, falling in soft arabesques over veggies now. Instead of helium balloons, butterflies and cabbage moths float above it; and in place of eighties music, the voices of children drift through the air. We may not howl at the moon these days, but our kids always shout when they see it.

Just a glance at the netting is enough to remind me that this life of children and constant visitors is a daily party, as we welcome guests, play games, tell jokes, and share food and wine and stories. And even as I watch and remember, a little girl runs past in dress ups: red velvet, sparkly sandals, and red floppy hat; and her hair flies behind her like streamers.

Under a Rock

 

Recently I was told I live under a rock. Here's a bit of doggerel in response.

***

Yes, it’s true. I live under a rock.
Shrink down to my size and join me for a while.
You might find old friends, long stories,
family secrets come to light,
A baby blowing bubbles, a crooked smile.
Neighbours reconciled, gifts given and received.
Quietly reading, a little child.
A kid on a bike, a kid up a tree.
The satisfaction of a pile of washing,
scented by the afternoon.
A toddler in a puddle, sloshing.

Under a leaf, small eggs hang.
The grapevine is now speckled red.
Mornings are crisp, autumn’s in the air.
‘The moon, the moon!’ my daughters said.
We came home late as it hung low
And dazzled us with its golden glow.

These are the things of everyday living:
kitchens and gardens and women and kids.
A life which is rich and generous and giving
– I wouldn’t trade any of it for quids!

A Room of One’s Own

All I need is a room of my own...

Or a desk at the library. To my left a student sleeps, head resting on folded arms. To my right is the hot pink Mills & Boon bookstand, with its racy covers and titles. My iPod's in and techno blasts, drowning out gossiping teenagers. As the librarian rolls past with the book trolley, the sprung floor bends and complains and my chair tilts: a hundred years ago, our library was a dance hall.

Or a table at a bar, James Blake on vinyl bringing me to tears. As I sit in the shadows, the barmaid tells a story and people start to laugh; the owner makes calls in the next booth; a delivery man rolls in a trolley full of crates; and women stride past, their boots crashing assertively on the old wooden floor.

Or an anonymous food court where a pot of peppermint tea buys a seat for hours. The surrounds are so ugly I have no option but to concentrate on the task at hand. Lower back aching, chair digging into my legs, I write three thousand words in a sitting.

Or halfway up the stairs, the sounds of a houseful of children ebbing and flowing below me. I sit in the illuminated square below the skylight and a gentle breeze curls its way upwards, softly brushing past me as I type.

Or the kitchen table, kid asleep in another room, a sticky smear of jam at my elbow, crumbs at my feet, a pile of dishes in the sink and me steadfastly ignoring them all as I grab an hour to write.

It may not be what Virginia Woolf had in mind; it may not be much; but it is, for now, enough.

Our Primary Identity

 

The following reflection was presented to the South Yarra Community Baptist Church on 11 March 2012. To read the biblical passage, Exodus 20:1-17, click here. I am writing out of the Christian paradigm; a Jewish writer – and many Christians – would have a different take on the passage.

***

I don’t know about you, but a big part of my identity is that I am someone who can’t stand being told what to do. If I’m told to do something, then because I’ve learned a modicum of politeness I’ll grit my teeth and nod; and because for years now I’ve been training myself to slow down, listen and learn, I might even do it; but underneath my blood will be boiling and I’ll be longing to do the opposite.

That’s exactly how I feel when I hear the commandments blasted from the rooftops. As a teenager I lived in the United States, and not a week went by that one public figure or another didn’t call for the reintroduction of the commandments into schools, into courthouses, even into law. I gather that such calls are even more strident now. But whenever I hear such calls, my blood runs cold and I immediately want to rush out and bed somebody else’s husband in a trivialising manner; go steal a car; and take up a job on Sundays – I figure, ministry is always an option.

It’s particularly contrary of me as I don’t actually object to the content of the commandments. It seems clear to me that if we could all follow them, especially the first, which recalls us to our primary identity as those who belong to God, and the last, which adjures us to control our desires, then the world would be a better place. No violence, no envy, no murder, no bloodlust, no workaholism, no false idols, no broken hearts and a world worshipping a loving God.

The thing is, though, that the commandments aren’t a general law to be laid down upon every society. They were a set of guidelines for God’s chosen people, established through a loving covenant. Suggesting that the commandments are a blanket set of laws with universal application overlooks the relationship in which they were first established, particularly as our societies these days are so patently pluralistic.

It also ignores the sheer idiocy of trying to mandate them. While it’s easy enough to set down laws that no one shall kill or rape or steal, even if such laws can be difficult to enforce, how exactly do we mandate faith in God? And how do we mandate control of desires? You will notice that the last commandment is not about actions but about what we desire: ‘Do not want anything that belongs to someone else.’ I find myself wondering how on earth anyone expects the state to control and punish us for wanting the wrong things?

Clearly, the state cannot, although many totalitarian governments have certainly tried. But the sheer impossibility of the task raises the question of why desire is even mentioned; and so it is worth some investigation.

I suggest that the commandment is there because if we desired nothing of anyone else’s, then most of the other commandments would be pretty much sorted. Without desire there is no dissatisfaction with one’s lot, no rivalry, and therefore no impulse to engage in trivialising relationships, theft, lies or murder.

Sadly, these desires cannot be completely controlled. We are human. Like it or not, we compare ourselves to others and desire what our role models sport. Whether it’s a pretty piece of flesh or public acclaim or more material wealth – the bigger house, car or gadget – we find ourselves longing for it too.

Personally, one of the things I most often find myself wanting is professional success. There are times when my husband appears very busy very important, and I envy that. Meanwhile I have friends and acquaintances who have written good books, and I envy them, too.

But envy is a nasty beast. Instead of being delighted for these people and happy that they are doing such work, I can begin to dislike them. I can feel small and mean. I can imagine wanting to see them take a public fall, bringing them down to my small scale – and this, perhaps, is exactly what the final commandment is all about. ‘Do not desire what others have’ – because it brings out the worst in you. The most demoralising part of it is that, even as I’m experiencing envy, I can see just how awful I am being: selfish, narcissistic, life-sucking.

And yet the reason I haven’t written any books is a matter of faith. While I may have been called to write, I have also been called to do lots of other things. I was called to have children, called to stay home with them, called to read with refugees, called to learn theology, called to be a part of the school community, called to care for half a dozen other children over the years, and called to many other small tasks and relationships. In other words, I haven’t felt compelled to write a big book or be a big writer; instead, I have been called to love in whatever manifestation is required on a particular day at that particular hour.

Like all Christians, then, my fundamental calling is no more and no less than to follow Jesus and walk the path of love. Everything else is peripheral.

I know this, of course. Promising to follow the Way was a major part of my baptism – but I also forget, time and again. And it is when I forget that I find myself wishing that I had written a book, or had a job title, or somehow or other looked very busy very important too.

Yet if I can just embrace that fundamental calling to love, and if I can get it into my head that I am not called to follow anyone else’s path, then I can stop glancing over my shoulder and comparing my endeavours with everyone else’s. From time to time, in awe-inspiring flashes, I do get it; and when I do, my heart is buoyed up by an irrepressible joy and all my desires evaporate into thin air. In that moment, I know deep in my bones that I have everything I need, more than enough; and there is nothing that I want. At those times, of course, I envy no one and desire nothing; and I feel completely free.

Jesus said, ‘I came not to abolish the law, but to fulfil it’. He did this by becoming the New Human, modelling a way of life that was marked by love, justice, mercy, peace and self-sacrifice. As part of our baptism, we are called to imitate him, just as he imitated his Father in heaven – and if we adopt him and not the Joneses as our role model, then over time we will begin to display his qualities. Gradually, our desires will be limited no longer by our mundane human imaginations, which are so captivated by material wealth, popularity or success. Instead, our desires will be shaped by the coming reign of God.

When this happens, our other desires will be revealed in all their pettiness. When love is the priority, suddenly someone else’s stuff, whether their husband or their house, their plasma television or their perfect children, their intellect or their career path or their attractiveness, all become somewhat laughable as objects of desire. We will begin to realise that any satisfaction they promise is illusion, for love is the only way. Any attempt to obtain that which belongs to someone else will only damage that love, and we are no longer willing to limit it because we will know it is the only thing that will catapult us into joy.

And that brings us back to the Christians souls who would like to see the commandments enacted as law. Clearly, I am not one of them. In the freedom which Jesus gives us, the commandments cannot be imposed. They are not the beginning point; they are what result when people have learned to love and their desires have merged with God’s.

Jesus said, ‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind’ and ‘Love your neighbour as yourself.’

Thanks to Jesus, these are the only two commandments we need. Even better, in them we find our primary identity: followers on a Way marked by peace and mercy, justice and love.

Why not love?

 

This piece appeared in The Sunday Age Faith column yesterday. As for the photo, well, what's not to love?!

***

Why not love?

Some people are naturally loving. I’m not one of them. For as long as I can remember, my first impulse has been to dislike, to feel angry, and to judge. I have fought and hurt many people unnecessarily; and I have often needed to apologise, even go through mediation, to restore a relationship damaged by my anger.

It’s not something I’m proud of.

But one day five or six years ago, as I felt myself growing furious over nothing in particular, three words dropped into mind: ‘Why not love?’

Three simple words, one little invitation. Why not love?

If it had been an order, ‘Thou shalt love’, I would have rejected it out of hand. A reactive soul who has always deeply resented being told what to do, I would have pointed out the ways I had been offended. I would have explained exactly why it was reasonable for me to be angry; with arrogance and disdain, I would have wielded my brutal honesty like a weapon; and with sickening self-righteousness, I would have justified the ensuing destruction.

But I wasn’t given a command. I was asked a question; and because of this, I felt surprisingly free. I didn’t have to react. Instead, I could engage with the question, holding it gently and turning it to and fro as I looked at it from different angles. As I did so, I realised I had an option. I could choose to go with my usual motivators, anger and fear, and lash out yet again; or I could take a deep breath, count to ten, and find a way to love.

Which option I took depended on who I wanted to be. Did I pride myself on being an angry little girl, flailing about and striking at will; or did I want to try a new path, which might just lead to kindness?

The choice was obvious. I knew what sort of adult I wanted to become.

Why not love? I unclenched my hands, and slowly breathed out. I don’t remember exactly how that day ended so many years ago; but I can say that there were no fireworks or angry tears. Instead, I recall a sense of lush green growth, a sign of renewal and hope.

I have carried the question with me ever since. Of course, there still have been many times when I have chosen not to love – always a mistake, and always more harmful to me than to anyone else. But thanks to the question, there have been many more times when I have opted to try; and in so doing, I am awkwardly stumbling my way into the wide open spaces of freedom.

Hide and seek

 

Sometimes I am too proud. My girls ask me to play hide and seek, and I demur. I'm too dignified to crawl under a bed; I'm too big to stuff my body into a cupboard; I'm too intelligent to pretend not to see them as they hide with one leg sticking out. Anyway, I have better things to do.

But they plead; and so I agree to play two or three quick rounds with haughty grace. I don't enter the game fully; I am pretending to play rather than actually playing. But as I pretend, something odd often happens. I wander into a room where I heard a floorboard squeak, and there is no child. I quickly check the usual places; still no child. My pulse quickens and my heart begins to race. 'Hello?' I ask tentatively into the quiet room. I check again, and perhaps then there is a muffled giggle. I look once more and finally see a small lump in a most unexpected place, hidden under a blanket. I tiptoe over, yank back the blanket, and a child bursts out; we shriek and laugh. Now it's my turn to hide.

Instead of going to one of my usual spots where I can stand quietly and check my text messages – in the pantry, behind the shower curtain, in the powder room – I race down the hall, sneak into the laundry, then set myself halfway up the stairs just out of sight; I creep onto an unmade bed and arrange the doonas over myself in a hot messy mound. With pounding heart I wait, stifling the urge to giggle nervously. When a child comes near, I hold my breath...

 

Still waiting...

 

then jump out yelling!

And suddenly I realise I am no longer pretending. Here I am, dignified old me, leaping and shouting and giggling like a five year old. I've shot from pretending to playing, just by going through the motions.

It makes me wonder what else I could master by going through the motions. By drafting small pieces day after day, could I learn to write? By acting like a faithful wife, could I plumb the depths of love? By pretending I have all the time in the world, could I acquire patience? By sitting in quietness and letting go of the voices, could I experience silence?

Could I soften my hard heart by pretending to be kind?

Riding the Bus with my Sister

Just up the street from me live some 80 people in supported accommodation. Their problems range from intellectual disabilities to schizophrenia to frontal lobe damage caused by stroke or other injuries. Some of these neighbours are easy to get along with; we lean against our garden wall and chat about the weather or the footy. Some are just familiar-looking strangers we pass by on the street. And several are more difficult: paranoid, verbally abusive, erratic and even, at times, physically threatening.

Each person is, of course, an individual, and their problems are only one facet of their personality; but there are certainly times when I lack patience with some of them: those who chat one day and treat me as a stranger the next; those who scream abuse; those who shout and sing just in front of our house when I'm trying to settle a baby.

Meanwhile one of the crossing ladies at school is well and truly on the autism scale, and to my shame there are days I find it difficult to greet her cheerfully yet again as she obsessively calls out everyone's name, holds the same short conversation as yesterday and the day before and every day for three years before that, and refuses to believe that a young child could be terrified as she shoves her large face into the pram.

So it was with great interest that I read Riding the Bus with My Sister, by Rachel Simon. Simon's sister Beth has mental retardation (Simon's phrase). Beth is able to live by herself in a form of supported accommodation, but she does not, and possibly cannot, work. Instead, she spends her days riding buses. Every morning, she rises early and heads to one bus stop or another, then criss-crosses town meeting up with her favourite drivers. On the bus she sits in 'her' seat, cattycorner to the driver, plays music on her portable radio, and makes loud observations about life, the bus drivers, fellow passengers and whatever else excites her attention. One year, Beth exacted a promise from Simon to spend twelve months riding the buses with her whenever possible, and the book is the result of that year.

Simon uses the book to tell several stories. The first is, of course, the story of riding the buses with Beth, who is spirited, belligerent, defensive, large, loud, opinionated, bossy and unforgiving. Simon charts a year of early starts and sisterly conflict; bus drivers and health professionals; and mad dashes to public bathrooms at timing points. Some of the bus drivers are particularly charming. Among their ranks are story tellers, philosophers and comedians, and their hospitality towards Beth far exceeds their duty as drivers; these stories alone are worth the read.

The book also documents the relationship between the sisters. Before the year, Simon and Beth lived in different cities and had grown apart. Simon writes quite honestly of her discomfort with Beth's issues, both historical (having the sister in the 'slow' class at school) and current. Beth sounds exasperating, and Simon struggles through the year to come to terms with who Beth is now, rather than with who she wishes Beth might be. She investigates how much of Beth's personality may be an expression of her disability, and gains some new insights into why her sister is the way she is. Despite her ongoing ambiguous feelings about some aspects of Beth's personality, Simon documents a growing respect for her resourcefulness and a much gentler love for her.

Her year with Beth was also an opportunity for Simon to reflect on her own emotional state. Her significant relationship had fallen to pieces; she was working insanely long hours and was deeply lonely. Slowing down and spending time with Beth, as well as the more philosophical, pastoral or compassionate bus drivers, helped her reflect on what she had prioritised in life, and enabled her to make some different choices.

The final part of the story is their shared history, told in flashbacks through the book. Their parents split up, and their mother fell into a pattern of abusive relationships which ended in the abrupt abandonment of her children.

Simon's slight tendency to make everything neat is more than compensated for by the dynamic people in this book: Beth, her long term boyfriend Jessie, the bus drivers, even Simon herself. It is a pleasure to read. But what makes Riding the Bus really valuable are the questions it raises. What is it like to have a sister who is largely oblivious to one's own needs and the needs of others? How do you talk with someone like this? Who is responsible to care for such a person, and what supports need to be in place? What are the emotional and relational costs of caring for such a child? How liberating is self determination if the person making decisions is constantly self-destructive? What are the ethics of sterilisation when someone is sexually active and loves small children, yet is incapable of caring for a baby? How can someone express hospitality through their work, and what are the limits? Over the course of the book, Simon grapples with these and other difficult questions from a very personal vantage point.

It's a book which makes me think carefully about how I treat my neighbours, my crossing lady, or anyone else with a mental illness or disability. There are certainly times when I want to shun one or another because, quite frankly, they are a pain in the butt. Other times I am tired and grumpy and lack the patience to have yet another boring conversation about the weather. Riding the Bus with My Sister is a great gift because it reminds me to slow down, and have patience.

It shows how one such person is a dynamic whole person, embedded in a community, and reminds the reader of the obvious but easily forgotten point that people with mental disabilities have families, histories, stories, secrets and desires, just like everyone else; and, like everyone else, they come bearing gifts. Whether or not we take the time to recognise and receive those gifts is up to us.