Parents Part 1: Courage

Since moving overseas by myself I have had to learn a lot of things very quickly and draw on all of my resources in order to survive. It often leads me to reflect on various things people have taught me throughout my life – especially my parents. As always, these valuable lessons have been transmitted, not by the lectures given or rules made, but by the example they set as I was growing up. For the record, I have FOUR parents and since I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, I’d like to take the time share a little something about each of them and what they have imparted to me as a person. I’m going to break it down into four parts to make it easier reading, so let’s start with Dad!

My dad is one of the most courageous people I know. I’m sure he doesn’t always feel very courageous, but in order to bestow something on someone else, you must have a measure of it yourself; and, as a father, the most precious thing my dad has passed onto me is his courage.

Dad waged his anti-fear campaign from very early on in my childhood. Whenever I saw something scary on TV or heard a strange noise in the house he would always explain them to me…

“It’s not blood, it’s tomato sauce, and that’s not a real shark, it’s a robot.”

“There’s no one out there. It’s just the water pipes banging. Houses make noises all the time.”

Yep, I have countless memories of my dad saying: “You mustn’t be afraid.” He gave me the impression that truly scary things were very rare in life and we shouldn’t let the fear of them rule us. I didn’t realise how profoundly this attitude had shaped me until I moved over here. I mean, it had occurred to me before, when my girlfriends were freaking out about a big spider or a noise that seemed like a burglar trying to break in, that I was able to draw on my dad’s “It’s nothing to be scared of” doctrine, but now I have come to think of it as an invaluable part of who I am.

Friends that thought I was crazy for going outside to prove that a noise was just the wind and not a criminal thought I was even madder when I moved to a new country where I did not know anyone or speak the language. I landed in Italy with the nebulous reassurance that somehow I would find my way – and I did. I see now that that quiet confidence is a gift from Dad that, for me, has become a life philosophy: “You mustn’t be afraid.” Fear can rob us of so many things, and no matter what I do with my life, I hope that I will always make the choice to be brave.

My dad has seen some pretty awful things in his time and been through many tough times, but he has always kept going, kept working hard and not given up. I have to tell you, I’m really proud of my dad. Every time someone tells me that I have guts, the person they are really paying tribute to is the man that taught me how. I am so grateful to him, and if I ever have kids, the one thing I hope to pass onto them is the courage to live an intrepid life.

“Ships are safe in harbour, but that’s not what ships are for.” – William Shedd

Italian Stallions

The secret weapon of the Italian Stallion is all in the way he looks at a woman. It's an art. The surreptitious glances employed by Australian men are alien concepts in Italy. Italians have no qualms about staring at you unrepentantly and yet they manage to do it in a way that is flattering, not freaky. They make you feel like they really SEE you. This is cryptonite for women. After a fair whack of time in this country, I'm fairly immune by now, however, a recent Italian Stallion incident was an apt reminder of their capabilities.

I was sitting at the base of a monument in Milan's Piazza del Duomo when a couple of guys sat themselves down next to me. It has to be said: One of them was quite good-looking. Let's call him Giorgio. Giorgio had a shopping bag from some Milan-based designer store and a cigarette he insisted on smoking in that smooth European way. His phone rang several times and it was evident that he spoke at least 3 languages. Impressive. Suddenly, Giorgio jumps up, raises his dark eyes wrathfully toward the sky and then beseechingly at his friend: "Did it get me?"

Yes Giorgio... It got you...

A pigeon had pooped on his pin-striped shirt. The friend giggled, and Giorgio despaired. In Italy, your clothes are practically your curriculum vitae.

Then... What did he do? He turned to me with one of those looks... As if he were asking me the deepest and most meaningful question in the world... "Do you have a tissue?" Recovering from the bomb blast of his weapons of mass seduction I altruistically produced not only a tissue but a bottle of water to help save his shirt. What a caring person I am... It was only after he had thanked me profusely and reflected on how fortunate he was that I was there, that I realised what was happening. I injected myself with a hardy dose of anti-cryptonite and moved on.

Now I hear you asking, "Is that the only story you have from your five weeks in Italy?" Of course not! Nowhere inspires me to write this blog like Italy! As soon as I get back to England I'll fill you all in. At least Giorgio had a full arsenal to work with. Stay tuned for a couple of guys who came at me with the likes of catapults and butter knives. HahahFor now, I'm trekking around Eastern Europe for ten days. I was sad to leave Italy this morning but now I'm in Prague and looking forward to my first stint in the Eastern Block! Catch you soon!

Lovely People

“A loving person lives in a loving world. A hostile person lives in a hostile world. Everyone you meet is your mirror” – Ken Keyes Jr.

I can’t tell you how much I agree with this quote.

In my job I meet new people every day from all kinds of backgrounds and situations. It’s amazing how people cope, or don’t cope, with the difficulties of life. Today I met one of the loveliest couples I have ever encountered in my life. They are an elderly couple living in Essex (where, coincidentally, I now work), and for the sake of maintaining patient confidentiality, I’ll call them Bill and Jan. Jan suffers from a particularly severe manifestation of osteoarthritis. Her joints shoot out into all kinds of irregular directions and her feet and knees and visibly deformed. She has every excuse to behave like many of the bitter and prickly characters I have likewise met through working in healthcare; but Jan is the sweetest lady you could imagine, and her husband, just the same.

“They say that society is going downhill, but I think that people are still pretty friendly, don’t you?” said Bill when we were discussing technology and its social impact.

“Yes definitely,” concurred Jan, “I say hello to people and I get warm greetings back. People are generally nice.”

I responded to them with what I said to you guys at the start of this post: “They say the world is your mirror. Loving people live in a loving world and hostile people in a hostile world. I think that saying is really true and you are both the proof of it because you’re both lovely.”

About five years ago I found that quote, scribbled it into a notebook, and it has stuck with me ever since. The more people I meet, the more I agree with it. When I was younger I was quite introverted and mistrusting of people. I thought they were bound to disappoint you in the end. I’ve realised over the years how wrong I was. People really are wonderful; flawed but wonderful. I meet more and more fantastic specimens at every bend in the road and I never want to take any one of them for granted. So I just wanted to take this moment to really cherish the nourishing and uplifting time I spent with that gorgeous couple today.

I shared a fact about my hometown with them and Jan said, “Oh I’ll always keep that with me now and I’ll think of you when I remember it.”

Jan… I will remember you too, and I won’t need anything external to prompt me to do so…

Pondering at the Park

It's a warm spring day in Kansas City and I am lying under a tall tree in Jacob L. Loose Park.

With my line of sight little higher than the lush green lawn I see the city from a new perspective. The lawn seems like a metropolis of grass edifices trembling in the comforting breeze. They seem to dwarf the actual skyscrapers that serve as their back-drop. And as I look up toward the hazy blue sky, my view of the light is filtered by the skinny boughs of the tree that shades me. It is obvious that the winter has only recently passed, but the naked branches are starting to show signs of new life springing up in the form of butter-coloured blossoms.

My bag serves as a pillow and the wind is leafing through the pages of the magazine resting on my tummy. That rustling sound and the threat if it blowing away all together keep me present in this moment.

The guy on my iPod is singing about God being a dad who wants to take care of his little ones: us. Somehow lying here, amongst everything I've just described makes it a little easier to believe that. He surely didn't create all this to do me harm...

Humility

“Life is a long lesson in humility” – James Matthew Barrie

What is humility? And how can I have more of it? Those are two questions I have often pondered over the years. Everybody likes a humble person and they like to hypothesise about what it means to really be humble. Some say it is making a right estimate of yourself (Charles Spurgeon), others say it is the foundation for all other virtues (St Augustine).

I agree with those guys… and yet there’s something so elusive about humility. If you think you are humble it is likely that you aren’t, so how can you ever know?

I don’t know… and this blog really doesn’t have any answers… I’ve just felt humbled lately by certain happenings in my life and though it isn’t a fun experience, I am acutely aware that I don’t want to lose this consciousness of how fallible, fragile and faulty I am as a human being. Not in the sense that I am sitting around hating myself, but in the sense that, just now, more than ever, the desire to judge others, get offended or indulge in the delusion of self-righteousness has somewhat faded away; and I’ve only just realised how much it was there to start with. From this place, it’s much easier to love and respect other fallible, fragile and faulty people…

I’m not saying that I’m suddenly living in a posture of newfound humility. What I am saying is, I’ve just discovered how much I need it.

The Weather

“Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.” – John Ruskin

What a load of rubbish.

Obviously John Ruskin never lived in South Shields where winds blow so hard that little old ladies are bowled over by them and present themselves in tatters to the Emergency Department where I work. They come in with injuries that range from skin abrasions to fractures. That’s right Ruskin, fractures! Winds so strong that just one gust can leave you brushing the knots out of your hair for extended periods and even able-bodied 28-year-olds struggle to remain upright.

And snow, exhilarating? I’ll concede that I was awed by my first experience of falling snow this winter. The trees were pretty, wearing their snow-caps, and the soccer fields covered in white powder had undergone a fascinating transformation; but snow is inconvenient. Public transport becomes chaos. You can’t leave the house at times, and most of all… IT IS SO COLD!!!

“Conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative,” said Oscar Wilde, but even though he would condemn my choice of topic, I am going to continue!

I think that people talk about the weather because it really does have consequences for our everyday lives. I’ve realized that more than ever since moving to England. My whole lifestyle has had to change. In Australia I would go – even in winter – and sit outdoors in a piazza with my hot chocolate and a good book to have my relax time. I would take walks through city gardens or duck in and out of quirky stationary shops and book stores.

Here in the freezing cold climes of northern England I often feel house-bound. Every time I venture out for too long I contract a cold or at least a sore throat for the next day or two. I’m just not built for this kind of climate! I am rugged up in my 14 layers of clothes while the Newcastle girls traipse around in short-sleeve tops and impractically sheer stockings at the first sign of a double-digit temperature… The weather is dictating my life and I don’t like it.

I do believe it is well documented that people are generally happier in summer and warmer climates… and it’s got to be true! Now I understand why the English drink so much beer and eat so many potatoes. What else is there to do?

Let Me Lend You The Rhodora

“I’m writing this sitting in the kitchen sink.”

That’s the opening line of Cassandra’s journal (or as it is better known: the novel, I Capture the Castle, by Dodie Smith). I just finished reading that book. As I lie here procrastinating the preparation of my dinner and listening to Luciano Pavarotti, that quote floated into my mind. I love it because a kitchen sink is such a mundane thing, but when there is someone sitting in it, writing, it becomes irresistibly quirky and interesting.

The contrast between the kitchen sink image and the live recording of Pavarotti is creating quite a fascinating confusion of artistic expression in my head. On the one hand, there’s the off-beat, poetry-reading Cassandra writing in the sink and on the other is one of the most beautiful operatic voices belting out an Italian aria. I imagine Cassandra with her tatty clothes and alternative perspectives, living in a dank, broken-down castle and somehow it’s just as beautiful as the image of Pavarotti singing to an elegantly dressed crowd in a stunningly preserved 18^th century concert hall. I love that about art.

Listening to Luciano’s live performance reminded me of a time I attended a free concert at the music school in Siena. It was free because all of the performers were students, but of course they were all brilliant because you can’t get into that school unless you’re good! The room was magnificent; the kind I would imagine they held grand balls in during the 18^th & 19^th centuries. The walls were white with ornate cornices and golden gilding. I soaked them in as the exquisite violin and piano filled my ears… you know when you just feel beauty? There’s nothing else like it. You forget to take breaths and just allow everything you see and hear to absorb into your senses; hoping that you will be able to take in enough to remember it forever.

I think beauty is something that human beings need to survive. True beauty. Something that makes you marvel. Without it we forget that life is worth living. I’m sure you can all think back to a moment when you saw a gorgeous skyline, talked to a kind soul or heard a moving piece of music. Didn’t you feel… alive? I strongly encourage purposeful pursuit of beautiful things. It’s good for you! If you can’t think of anything like that right now, let me lend you a poem that always does it for me when I need a hit of beauty…

THE RHODORA

By Ralph Waldo Emerson

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,

I found a fresh Rhodora in the Woods,

Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,

To please the desert and the sluggish brook,

The purple petals, fallen in the pool,

Made the black water with their beauty gay;

Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,

And court the flower that cheapens his array.

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,

Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,

Then Beauty is its own excuse of being

Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!

I never thought to ask, I never knew:

But, in my simple ignorance, suppose

The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.

The Man Who Smelled Like Peanuts

I read somewhere that many of Charles Dickens’ peripheral characters were inspired by the odd people he observed on his train travels. Here in England I often think about that when I’m riding the trains and imagine the people around me as characters in a novel. It’s not too hard to do either because trains are always full of eccentric and obnoxious people just begging to be satirised.

At the moment I’m living in South Shields… a small town twenty minutes from Newcastle (the ‘cool’ city of the north). There really isn’t anything very remarkable about South Shields in the winter. It’s cold, bleak and everything closes early. However, it is a coastal town and I’m assured that it’s quite a charming little place in the summer. I can’t say I’m convinced that summers here are a worthwhile affair, but for these guys 24 degrees Celsius is a really big deal, so I smile and nod (I know… I’m an Australian-summer snob).

Apart from all that, the people here are the highlight. They have musical accents that I sometimes can’t understand and they are all SO NICE! From what I can see the north of England is one of the most amicable parts of the world. People are friendly, helpful and open. I love that. It makes my dinky accommodation and unfulfilling job almost worth it.

South Shields is linked to Newcastle by the Metro (Newcastle’s version of the tube). It’s an attempt at modernisation that would have me convinced if it weren’t for the fact that it only runs until about 11:30pm (even on weekends) and the carriages always smell like urine. No I’m not exaggerating; every carriage, every day, smells like urine. I’m not sure what’s going on there…

Anyway, one day last week a different smell wafted through my carriage. A 60-something-year-old gentleman decided to sit himself next to me with his newspaper and his flat cap. As he did, I smelled peanuts. It took me a couple of seconds to realise that (a) there were no actual peanuts in sight; and (b) there truly was a man sitting next to me who smelled like them. I mean REALLY smelled like them. In fact, that day, there may have actually been a giant peanut riding the Metro disguised as a Geordie.

What’s a Geordie? An inhabitant of Newcastle. They’ve all got nicknames up here depending on where they’re from or which politically incorrect category of social hierarchy they fit into.

I don’t know why the peanut man made such an impression on me but for some bizarre reason, he will pop up in my memory whenever I think of Newcastle! I guess maybe I felt a bit like Charles Dickens might have; sniffing this man and deciding to write him into a story as the eccentric do-gooder who baffles his beneficiaries with nonsensical one-liners (while emitting various legume-family odours). And for the first time since I got here, I felt like I was really living in England.

Thanks Dickens…