Peace One Day

My cousin Royston had armies of tiny green and brown plastic soldiers. I used to sit quietly for great lengths of time, watching him line them up – a bar of chocolate lying on the floor beside him. Carefully and patiently he would arrange them on two opposing sides before he would allow his imagination to enact a dramatic battle with all the folly and foley effects of a combat zone. It was my first introduction to war ‘movies’. In the background, the sounds of the Beatles singing happy love songs and my grandmother grinding ‘rempah’ (curry paste) reassured us of our safe peaceful reality, as it floated up the stairs of her home to mingle in with Roy’s commentary of death and destruction. He was my favourite cousin, and his boyhood battles drew me to appreciate ‘boy movies’ and is perhaps the main reason why I have watched just about every war movie ever made.

We are very lucky, we have lived all our lives in peace – we have never had to run or hide in fear upon hearing the shrill wailing of siren warnings or the hissing sound of missiles approaching. We have never known dusty obliterated surroundings, the empty pain of continued hunger, or the heart wrenching anguish of having loved ones ripped away from us - the last terrifying image of them screaming as they are herded away in trucks - disappearing forever.

What we knew we heard from our parents and older relatives who often spoke of the atrocities of war as they had lived through the Japanese Occupation in Singapore and Malaysia. Pregnant women with their precious bellies slashed open to display the innocent contents of their wombs. Heads of neighbours chopped off and plunged onto stakes, erected like lamp posts; dead lifeless eyes silently observing the continuing nightmare, to a cacophony of buzzing flies. Sharpened pencils placed into ears and forcibly rammed in to burst ear drums that dared to listen to the radio. These stories horrified me as a child and I remember going to bed every night, praying that war would never again come to Singapore and Malaysia. My little world only stretched as far as the small peninsula in the 60’s. But I gradually became aware of the wars in Indochina. Saigon, Kampuchea, Laos … even though the places were still so far removed from my reality. American soldiers, Communists, napalm, killing fields – random words I did not really understand but from hearing on the news every single day absorbed in my consciousness. And a blurry memory of John Lennon and Yoko Ono in their ‘bed-in’ in some public place pleading the world to Give Peace A Chance. And everyday ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ by Procol Harum playing on the radio.


In June 1972 the photo of 9 year old Phan Thi Kim Phuc screaming, burnt and naked - running out of her village that had been bombed with napalm was on the front page of the newspaper. It was 3 weeks before my 10th birthday. I remember staring utterly nauseous with my heart racing while I looked with horror at her picture, and I wept. Here was a little girl; we could have been friends, she and I – except I was born in a place far away from the Communists and the American soldiers, far away from all the fear and suffering that had engulfed Indochina for so long. In my world, while John Lennon sang 'Imagine' at least 3 times a day on the radio, mum was making beautiful paper hats from pink, orange and mustard coloured crepe for my birthday party. Little did I realise back then but that simple yet powerful song, would become my favourite of all time.

Shortly after my party, I realised I did not want to play any longer with the Barbie, Ken, Skipper and Midge dolls that I had inherited from the sister of mum’s best friend the previous year. I had been so excited about having my own Barbie doll collection I hardly slept the night before we went to pick them up, but now they just looked frivolous and childish. I packed them and all their clothes into the biscuit tins that I used to store my toys in, and kept them away forever. I instead began to obsess about the wars abroad and finding out more about the wars the generations before me had lived through. Always at the back of my mind … Phan Thi Kim Phuc screaming, burnt and naked … running.

The whole world knows the stories that followed of the thousands upon thousands of refugees that began to arrive in crude boats onto shores all over the world. The horrific tales of pirates, rape, family members dying of thirst and babies being born on the high seas during the long and terrifying journey. Of being shot at and being refused entry at places like Singapore, of being pushed away again to face the unknown. The anguished plight of desperation of our unwanted fellow human beings that were not given an ounce of compassion head-lined the news almost everyday.

By this time my grandmother had passed away, I was nearing the end of high-school and the 70’s were drawing to a close. The world had come to believe Christopher Reeve could fly and The Police had had huge hits with 'Roxane' and 'Message in a Bottle'. 1980 began with a bang, only to end with the cold-blooded shooting and murder of John Lennon. A man of peace whose death left a twinge in my heart that has never fully gone away.

2008 - I am now nearly 46 years old and terrorism is no longer a word I associate with Northern Ireland. Wars continue to be waged, the world continues to bleed, people continue to be refugees and peace sometimes seems so very far away. Technology brings real wars onto our TV sets as they happen so we can participate by watching the destruction from the comfort of our sofas, while we continue to take our safe and privileged lives for granted, complaining about an infinite number of little things. The war is not over, John. I sometimes wonder what you would think if you were still alive - what strange yet effective devices would you and Yoko have conjured to raise our awareness today?

This year, on 20 September Alan and I would like to invite our friends to Give Peace A Chance. A party to celebrate the UN International Day of Peace will be held at our home. We are encouraging our guests to dress up in 70’s outfits, we want to play, sing and dance to songs from that era. We want to apologise, share food and stories, and we want to spread the word that we all can do our bit for Peace One Day.

Please watch:

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid933119041?bctid=933518995

Earth Day

I am thinking back to the times when I have sat in church and listened to Sunday sermons given by the various priests from my Catholic childhood through to my adult life. Perhaps the sermons have changed and the church is now more open, but sadly when I look into Catholicism’s soul, I cannot help thinking it is still a somewhat exclusive alliance with man-made doctrines. Tolerate me, please I beg of you, for I have a great deal of love and respect for Jesus and his teachings, but feel much of his message has been lost and misunderstood. I know these are radical and strongly worded statements, considering I have spent the last 10 years working closely within a Catholic organisation. But perhaps I can say this because I have sadly witnessed it around me on such a regular basis, with increasing disbelief.

It is unfortunate, but I have been shepherded through many instances which have led me to be simultaneously filled with aggravation, sadness and often after I have had a chance to sit quietly and think about it, compassion. My present frustrations come from the directive for planning our forthcoming staff development day at the office. As always, a planning committee has been set up. I have been intensely involved for the past 5 years and every year it presents a bigger challenge to come up with fresh ideas to invigorate the staff so the day is as complete a learning and growing experience as possible.

This year, after a successful Earth Hour which many Australians took active part in one Saturday night about a month ago, we decided to have Earth Day as our theme. Putting our thinking caps on we have come up with some very good ideas. Instead of hiring transport to bring us to places to engage in the various activities like tree planting or weeding, we could keep the off-site venues close enough for staff to walk to. We could do an electrical audit before the day to work out how much we use per day. Then try to seriously conserve power on the actual day, and donate the difference in cost to an environmental cause. We could have lunch that was prepared from ethically fair-traded food items. Just to highlight a few of the ideas.

And then the directive came to us – Remember we are ‘Keeping it Catholic’. As I am normally the committee member in charge of catering – this instruction although not unexpected, has still put a great deal of restriction to what I could possibly serve or whom I could engage in the catering. You are wondering what I mean. Why would three words set me off to spend so much time in deep thought and then to write this blog.

You see, the fair-trade meal places I could approach to cater for the numbers I require, here in Western Australia are run by Hindus, Buddhists and the International Society for Krishna Consciousness commonly known as Hare Krishnas. And ‘Keeping it Catholic’ in the restricted view of our mandate meant the exclusion of such, dare I say - pagans. A highly offensive term to many, that in our politically correct society would not be repeated out loud in conversations but is ironically however, still used in the sacred Christian readings at Mass to describe anyone who does not acknowledge the God of the Bible. How often have I heard the word in sermons as a child and not fully understood? How often have I read it in texts as an adult and challenged the use of the word in liturgical sharing groups?

I had a discussion with a staff member – who happens to be Aboriginal and Catholic – as I sat down with a cup of mint tea on the chesterfield in our staffroom. He runs a fair-trade shop with a small café attached to it in Northbridge. I was going to order our coffees for our morning tea from him and perhaps some biscuits, and mentioned my lunch time dilemma. His immediate response was disbelief. Being in the business he knew for example, that the Hare Krishnas use fair-trade rice, lentils and even butter to prepare their meals. These people are highly aware of fair-trade, but they followed a different path and for that reason alone I was not allowed to engage their services. These peace loving people should not be confused with the hippie subculture, they do not indulge in alcohol or intoxicants and have a pure love for God. I cannot help but wonder – would Jesus not be saddened? Did the Son of God not associate with people from all and sundry – was he not totally inclusive and fair? Remember the story of the Good Samaritan? (Luke 10:25-37)

Which then got me thinking - I remembered when Alan and I were leaving on our last trip to India on October 07. I was told by my sister-in-law whom I treasure deeply and affectionately call SIL that someone within our circle of family and friends had a lot of clothes to donate to charity. SIL excitedly told her that we were going to India and that we always bring items to give to the poor families there. Imagine SIL’s surprise when she was instantly told that the donations were meant for a Catholic organisation only, and they would donate it to the St Vincent de Paul Society here in Perth instead. My compassion for the woman ran deep; perhaps she did not know of the number of clothes that were rejected and thrown away by the Society in the back rooms of their outlets. Those very cast-off items that the people living in the slums in India so desperately would have welcomed. Perhaps it is because she has never looked into the eyes of these Hindu people and she has never been touched by the overflowing smiles of their children.

Another person close to me told me once that if we ever go to Kolkata, she would give me a cheque to present to Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity. I told her she did not have to wait for us to go to Kolkata to make a donation as there are many agencies in desperate need of her kindness perhaps even more than the Missionaries of Charity as they are world famous. She looked at me unable to say anything, but her silence told me what she was thinking. They are not Catholic.

Can you imagine Mother Teresa on finding that dying woman in 1950, in a dustbin in Calcutta, (as it was known then) asking “Are you Catholic?” Then excusing herself because the answer had been no? That poor unwanted woman was the catalyst that began Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity, I seriously doubt Mother's hospice would have been so over-crowded with unwanted, dying people or have become the institutions of dignity and care that they are today if she was only helping Catholics. Sister Josephine, from my school days in Katong Convent of the Holy Infant Jesus was the person who first introduced 10 year old me to the miraculous woman that Mother Teresa was. Coming from a country of so many different faiths, I never wondered what religion the dying were, there was no separation of beliefs for me – until the issue with the cheque presented itself.

When we were in Varanasi 2 years ago, I saw that Mother Teresa had a centre up in one of the Ghats along the holy and polluted Ganges. I cannot imagine that there are many Catholics in Varanasi – the Holy City where every other shop was a place where medicines were being dispensed. A city where the smoky air is thick with the smells of never ending funerals and sick people. Varanasi is the end station of life’s journey for the many Hindus who go there to die. Mother Teresa’s nuns are not there to bring comfort to sick, dying, unwanted Catholics.

But try explaining that to a person who cannot grasp the fullness of Jesus’ wonderful inclusivity. Or at my office to the Executives who would prefer I cater the mid-day meal from anyone else as long as they are not associated with another belief. Never mind our reasoning of ethical trade and encouraging staff to be mindful of the unfair suffering that could be behind the product they are about to buy. The mandate states - we have to keep it Catholic.

A special friend I know, named Jesus would have been overjoyed on our Earth Day to part-take in a simple meal prepared using ethically grown food, cooked by the Hare Krishnas of Perth - of this I am certain.

Eighty

My father turned eighty last Friday. He has been many things for me but most of all he was my childhood Guru. Howard Leo Nonis was a high-school teacher. It was his chosen career, but more than just teaching from text-books within a school environment, my father believed that in order to truly learn – practical knowledge was essential. And he was right, somehow things always become validated when I had physically seen it, smelled it, and touched it.

When we were kids, my brother and I looked forward to our school holidays because dad would take us ‘up country’ to Malaysia. On these trips he always included a learning experience. For instance, he would endeavor to take us to the source of a river when we were up in the highlands – where the temperatue was cool and clean air would fill our lungs. Sitting with our feet in the cold, sparkling running water, dad would tell us the route the stream was going to take to become a great river that would bring life to all the people and their farms or rice-paddy fields along the way. Then on another holiday, he would bring us to the mouth of that very same river, in a totally different state and again we would endeavour to put our feet in the water and witness how much pollution that same water had sadly been forced to amass along the way.

While driving along the undulating and winding roads lined with rubber trees that stood tall in straight rows, I remember sitting with my chin resting on the rubber seal of the car window. With the windscreen wound all the way down and my long hair flying everywhere - knotty and wild, I would watch the Tamil rubber tappers. These people had become very real to me; for dad had once stopped by the side of the road and asked them to show us how they tapped the rubber. This gave us a chance to see for ourselves how the bark of the tree was sliced to allow the latex to slide down into those little cups. Dad had asked the rubber tapper in Malay where he lived and if he had children. He pointed out his home – it was literally within the rubber estate and he told us he had 4 children. Dad being dad of course, kept talking and asking questions – how old were the kids, where did the kids go to school?

At other times my father showed us how coconut and palm trees were harvested, and all the bi-products that came from them. We would watch with fascination as the local Malay women made rope out of coconut fiber while we sipped though paper straws (yes, in the 60's and 70's straws were made out of paper) cool coconut water from freshly plucked and cut coconuts. Then there were the tin mines and the stories of drownings that used to happen when children ignored the danger signs and went swimming in the water that would accumulate within.

We have sat in hot springs and run along slopes of tea plantations; we have gone swimming in the then crystal clear seas and screamed with a mixture of fear and delight as bats flew above us in caves. We have had excursions through the many states of Malaysia into the various kampongs (villages) and we have experienced their language, dress, customs and worship. We learnt how different they were regionally, within the one country. I did not realise it then, but through this, dad was teaching us what we now call the modern concept of open learning.

I remember when we were old enough to understand, he took us into the red-light district in Singapore. He parked his car outside one of the many brothels that lined the street and we sat there for a long time, watching. Male customers would arrive and the bargaining would begin, before they would disappear upstairs with one of the girls hanging onto their arm. I saw first hand how the girls had to behave in order to be chosen - despite how belittling it must have been for them. It was a valuable lesson that taught me never to judge a person's choices. I was filled with compassion for these girls and the web that many of them were trapped in.

My father was also a great writer of letters. He was always, always writing to someone. I used to think it was so lovely that he kept in touch that way. I can still see his letter pads, his pens and recall clearly his cursive writing style. I had a habit of literally sitting on the floor by him, caught in my own fantasy world, but still completely aware of what he was doing because I would insist on reading each page as he finished it – which he patiently always let me do. Until today, even though I communicate mostly though email, I still send hand written notes every now and then.

Dad also taught me how to change a tyre, how to wire an electrical plug, how to behave in a temple and a mosque, as well as in a church. He opened my world by giving me the greatest gift of all … the love of reading, and the empowerment that came from finding out for myself through reading and hands-on research.

I have developed into the person I am today, because my Guru showed me where to begin.

I am Indian (Part 1)

The very first memory I have of feeling disappointment that I wasn’t born Indian was probably when I was in Primary 4. It was after I had attended a school concert. I had always been a little actress and story-teller but those talents had not yet surfaced for public display – so during this performance I was one of the many convent school girls seated in the audience. Cross-legged on a grey cement floor. Bored.

There seemed to be an endless stream of fluffy tutus attached between pointed toes and raised hands; piano pieces I had never heard before performed with dramatic nodding head movements by a girl wearing very thick black rimmed glasses; other acts which I cannot remember and several high-pitched voices singing a monotonous Chinese song that had the word 'wu' in it. I wanted this concert to end.

Suddenly I heard music from a cassette player start. Deng de getak … deng de getak – it was loud and bold, and this vision in pink, gold, green and orange walked onto the stage – bells tinkling with each step she took - she stopped when she got to the middle of the stage, and striked a pose with her back to the audience. It was an Indian girl from my class. She looked dazzlingly and I hardly recognized her. Her hair was braided in a thick long plaitt that went from the nape of her neck to her waist. It was covered with fragrant white flowers, the kind that grew in my Grandma Winnie's garden, and gold jewellery that glittered as it caught the spotlights. The tinkling sound had come from the bells on the broad anklets she was wearing. I noticed that the bottom of her feet had been stained a bright red. I wanted feet and anklets like that.

And then she started to dance. I couldn’t believe how beautiful it all was, her darkly kajaled eyes, darting from side to side, her fingers moving in different gestures while her hands posed in varied dance movements. She had beautiful red and white dots that had been skillfully painted into a pattern on her forehead and chin, and bright red lips. The most exotic ear-rings encrusted with tiny red stones dangled as they framed her face and she had bangles on both her hands that went from her wrist to half-way up her arm. Her silk costume was blinding, gaudy even. It was something I had only ever seen in black and white, on TV on the Tamil language cultural programmes. I stared at her with my mouth open and I think experienced real jealousy for the first time. I wanted to be her.

News flash ~ Indian Classical Dance classes are not for Eurasian girls. Eurasians go to ballet class and piano lessons.

And so I started piano lessons. I was extremely grateful to my father, as it was an expense he could hardly afford. It was a thoughtful investment. It was going to be a skill that I would take with me when I leave school so I could teach piano lessons from my own home, when I have kids of my own. Everyone thought it was a wonderful idea.

I was ten years old. I wanted to be Indian.

About Men

Donny used to work at Video Ezy and for six very satisfying years, it provided us with complimentary entertainment that we would experience by simply sitting on our family room couch, Alan with remote in hand - hitting the Play button. One Friday evening, while browsing Donny’s neatly stacked shelves, I decided to take home Legends of the Fall, for a second viewing.

You see, when Legends first came out in 1994, like a lot of women I went to see it for one basic and obvious reason, Brad Pitt looked divine in the promos. But like a lot of people, I was not impressed with the movie. I came away feeling let down and I could not put my finger on what it was. Brad as Tristan Ludlow was magnificent to look at; I don’t think there is a woman alive who would honestly not agree - the man is beautiful, eye-candy of the highest order with tremendous acting ability. The story was pitched as being a thrilling epic adventure with Tristan as the central character, a hero fighting a crusade of madness both within himself and the world around him. A tale of brotherhood and betrayal with scenery so spectacular, it literally did leave me a little breathless. But the movie as a whole, did very little to inspire me. Even Brad with his expressive blue eyes and his character's Mills and Boons hero-hair, tumbling all over the place was not enough. I did not like the movie.

Not until the second viewing that is. On this occasion, I came away feeling somewhat exhilarated - I wanted to tear apart all the characters and explore their personalities. It really was a complex story of character traits that are very reflective of my own observations. I like men, sometimes more than women. And this was a story about the relationships between four very different men and one very unfortunate and beautiful woman.

Legends contained four masculine types and so these are the ones I will mention. And I will then reflect on three of them. The reason I am putting these thoughts in my blog is that over the years, both women and men have had open discussions with me about their relationships. Today I want to share some of my thoughts  on the things I've picked up from these conversations. I am in no way suggesting that men only fall into these categories, what I am saying is ... such masculine types exist.

The father, played by Anthony Hopkins: Col William Ludlow; highly intelligent with old fashioned values, has little understanding of the fairer sex, stubborn and set in his ways. A man who has favourites and does not see the harm in displaying his affection as such.

The youngest son, played by Henry Thomas: Samuel; intellectually very capable but emotionally still immature, very sweet but a little self-centred, not very confident but he is a gentleman who tries to do the right thing. Lovable and overall a very nice boy.

The middle son, played by Brad Pitt: Tristan; so beautiful to look at - he’s right out of a romance novel. He is charismatic, brave, and physically strong with the survival instinct of an animal. An element of the wild and dangerous resides in his gaze, and his dazzling smile leaves the women witless and weak. How his brothers wish they could be loved like him.

The eldest son, played by Aidan Quinn: Alfred; dependable, trustworthy, somewhat dorky, a nerd. Conscious of setting the right example and of doing what is morally correct at all times – deemed boring as a result. A protector and a worker, he gets things done in the background. Has much love to give but often goes unnoticed by all. Average looks.

Okay, no prizes for guessing the one everyone everywhere falls for. After all who did Tristar Pictures pitch as the hero of this movie? It was Tristan, of course.

You will see Tristan in the cool kid at the school playground, the one all the other children want to be seen to be friends with. Tristan is the scorchingly hot guy that the girls have secret fantasies about. He’s the one who makes you feel special for reasons you cannot put into words.

Isn't it any wonder at all that I did not like Legends the first time I saw it because a Tristan could never be a true hero in my humble assessment. I have known several Tristans-like men. They are the illusion of all that is beautiful and rare. They bear the semblance of everything that human nature thinks it wants. Sadly, too often Tristans break hearts – it just happens that way. Tristans do not set out to break hearts, at least  in Legends I don't believe for a minute that he did. But once caught in that mesh of delusion even when he’s made a woman feel wretched, it becomes very difficult for her to separate herself from him and to believe that she can breathe on her own again.

Young Samuel. Samuels are lovely men and generally make good friends. But they are hatchlings when it comes to relationships; in the sense that they need to mature. Full marks to them for being very open to suggestions of growth and being less egocentric are ever willing to give things a go.  However many a woman has failed with a Samuel-like man. It saddens me that a lot of women lack the wisdom and honesty to be direct and bare their souls if they are in such a relationship. For such a man needs to be told how his partner is feeling. And with the right woman, a man with Samuel's characteristics truly grows.

Alfred. Please give this man the time of day, for Alfred is the real hero in this film - for me. He is the man a woman who chooses happiness would choose for her life-long partner. He is only dorky and boring because he has not yet met the right woman or been loved by the woman he is most comfortable and at ease with. Alfreds have the greatest capacity to love, because they have spent so much time waiting to give love. They work hard and are ambitious, seldom preoccupied by other distractions once their mind is set on a task. While they have mostly gone unnoticed, they have honed these characteristics which will make them leaders of men someday.

And you know what … they are never boring, trust me. Two of my most favourite happily married men are Alfreds. My Alan. Nadia’s Sam. Our Legends

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Discovering Me

It’s only recently dawned on me that taking on new challenges might be one of my chronic precepts for survival. Finding new interests, new topics, new things to create, new stories to tell - gives me a buzz. I don’t mean new as in the novel-up-to-the-minute-innovation kind. Unfortunately and infuriately I have a terrible knack for cavernous yawning when faced with people who want to explain such matters to me. I apologise, but I also get that way with data-entry on excel.

My kind of new resides in - for example and not necessarily purely - the discovery of ancient civilizations or religious movements first through books and DVDs borrowed in obsession from the library; and then perhaps in getting on a plane armed with files of information, a camera and my loving side-kick next to me. I also thrive on discoveries such as a new place to buy good tropical fruit from at affordable prices. In this blue-sky Mediterranean type climate that our Perth is so famous for, it can be a rather thrilling shopping excursion for foodies like Alan and I.

New has taken various shapes and forms over the years. The death of my beloved grandmother Winifred Pereira was probably the first big one. I discovered I wanted to learn to cook after she died. I ended up burning most of everything the first few years but I really enjoyed learning to identify different spices and herbs through texture, smell and taste. It opened up a whole new gastrononic world for me and I went off Eurasian food completely soon after. Plus morbidly, I realised cremation was a better alternative to being left alone in the ground after death, the concept of which left me traumatised for many years.

Going to Peru at the age of 19 for the Miss Universe Pageant and finding the living standards of the country actually interested me far more than the actual pageant, was perhaps my next big discovery. And the fact that generally, all women get up in the morning looking as bedraggled as I do. (Tip: the only thing that separates us so called glamour girls from the rest is the art of skillful and diligent make-up application. )

I was shaken to my very core by the poverty in Peru, the instability of the government and what little information I was able to obtain about the Shining Path guerrilla movement and the conflicts which involved killing, torture, rape and Maoist-principled brainwashing of the Ayacucho people. When I came home and announced that I wanted to go back to Peru to work at Mother Teresa’s centre, my mother and others thought I had lost my mind. “Don’t waste your beauty. ” was basically the general essence of my mother’s counsel. Inside I was screaming, when did I stop being an ordinary person? I never even use a hairdryer. But I loved my mother. Knowing that she only ever wanted what was best for me, and the guilt of going against her wishes, helped me talk myself out of the idea with the most unfounded reasoning. Perhaps being unattractive was in the selection criteria for humanity aid workers - perhaps they would never consider a beauty queen as a volunteer. It's so strange, some of the most unlikely things we are able to talk ourselves into half believing - just to please a parent.

Who would have imagined that winning a title would prove to be such a challenge. I ended up spending years hiding the fact that in 1982, I was Miss Singapore, just so people would accept me and like me as an ordinary person.

My deepest admiration at this point for one of the most beautiful women in the world, who has truly found her way. UNHCR Goodwill Ambassador Angelina Jolie.

Watch this clip.

http://webcast.un.org/ramgen/specialevents/works_tan_jolie_combined2.rm?start=

More to come …

Interconnectivity

“…the paradox of human existence is that we can only affirm our experience as unique and individual because we connect and communicate with others.”

I believe it is virtually impossible for us to live without one another. We are all interconnected and depend so astoundingly upon each other in this one big circle we call home.

Today I was particularly mindful of the fish that I enjoyed with almost childlike delight at lunch. Mindful of the mother of the fisherman who caught the fish and deeply thankful to her for raising and nurturing him. Grateful to the people who worked in the factories that manufactured the fishing nets; and I wondered if the nets were made of nylon. Wallace Carothers invented the material; I remember because sixteen years ago I had researched the subject at the local library when it was discovered that my son’s hyperactivity was due to wearing nylon and not a symptom of a learning disability.

What a paradox, the very invention that brought me sleepless nights has also brought me so much enjoyment in other ways, something I am learning to be more mindful of. I thought of rubber tappers I had seen in the deeply shaded rubber estates of Malaysia – speaking to each other in Tamil as they collected latex in the tropical humidity. The latex that produced the tyres on the truck that brought the fish to the market. I reflected deeply on them and all the people involved; interconnected – right up to the cook who battered the fish from flour that was hopefully made from wheat grown in the fields of this beautiful country of ours by our own Australian farmers. I felt a connection with all of them as I saw them in the mirror of my mind. And as always, it made me feel fittingly small as an individual, yet at the same time infinite because I am part of this glorious inter-being.

I sent a gentle smile to each one of them and spent a few minutes to communicate my thanks in a meditation of thanksgiving for the roles they played, collectively to bring the fish to me for my lunch today.

Accountablity

“Love one another as I have loved you.” Such uncomplicated words, yet we know how difficult it is to put into daily practice. We are always rushing, our minds racing like athletes ahead of where we physically are. Choosing to be self-interested can very often be an easier option than stopping to do the right thing.

Four years ago I chose to stop. I realised that I have been like a bottle of apple juice that is constantly being shaken. My mind was full of those bits that float around and cloud the juice. I realised I needed to sit quietly daily. My mind like apple juice needed to settle at some point everyday in order for me to see clearly, in order for me to choose to love.

I work for a Catholic organisation. Recently while doing a unit in Catholic Accreditation, I contemplated a word in unity with the many stories from both the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures - accountability. We are liable. We have to be responsible for life; our own, that of each other and this planet we have been entrusted with.

We need to love our world – not just the people and animals but the earth itself. And we are guilty of not making all of this a priority in our lives. Can we truly live without testing the truth? I always think that I want to be challenged; that I want to investigate and get to the bottom of things. The Buddha encourages us to investigate everything, and if I want to walk in his footsteps and live a Buddhist life-style, I must be brave enough to physically accept that I am accountable.

If we stop rushing and start being more mindful, we will want to make a difference. If we imagine ourselves as our great grandchildren – not just thinking of our great grandchildren but imagining that we have been rebirthed. We are them, born into a dying planet on a boat, where the sea-levels have risen – refugees of climate-change. Drinking water is fast running out, our parents keep arriving at land so over populated that every time they think they have reached a place to start life on, our boats are pushed away and we are fired upon.

These days, many of us have more than one home. People work very hard and sacrifice much quality time that they could spend doing more meaningful things just to have that investment. "It is for our future, for our children." I wonder why do we allow ourselves to think we need that sort of material investment for the future when we already have a roof over our heads? We have to break this cycle of delusion and challenge ourselves to live simpler lives. With generous hearts, we must find creative ways of investing in our planet and in a real future for our children.

Our planet is dying and mother nature is calling. How many of us can honestly say, "I am ready."

I Love My Life

Life has unfolded so beautifully for me.

When I left high school, I made the decision not go on to university because times were tough and I knew if someone in my family should be given that opportunity, it should be my brother. My father could only afford to send one of us. Many girls after all, still opted for secretarial school and a job in an office downtown. Girls would get married and be mothers someday, girls might end up being a stay-at-home mum or working part-time to supplement the household income. It was the late 70’s and most women no longer thought that way, but it rang true for me. What work could I possibly do with a degree in the finer arts in Singapore? I would still paint, take photographs and create within the quarters of my personal life, but I wanted more than anything to be an amazing wife and mother - that was my real ambition and the goal I endeavoured to achieve.

And you know what? I have. I love my life and have a truly astonishing relationship with both my husband, Alan and our 22 year old son, Donovan. We moved to Australia in 1987. Alan and I had just turned 25. We had $6,000 in our pockets and young hearts ready for the adventure. The Hungry Years is what we fondly call those early days. It sometimes overwhelms me when I look back at those challenging times. I am grateful at how skilled we became in creating beauty out of very little and how much closer we grew as a couple during those years.

We call ourselves The Travelling Children; Alan and I. We have a gorgeous comfortable home which has been the canvas for my art. We have raised an amazingly unique child into a young man of great integrity who seems incapable of doing anything devoid of dazzling to his peers and his parents. (Check out Donovan's blog, http://www.theminutehands.blogspot.com/)

As far as my work went, that is all it ever was - employment that lasted 9 to 5, with the opportunity to engage in adult conversations, office gossip and 5 weekday lunches with a mixed bag of friends. I wasn’t concerned about advancement and earning more than an average wage, the adrenaline rush of doing little more than just window shopping with those fortnightly pay packets was enough.

Now at 45, I'm thinking I want to retire. I want to venture into something new. It's time to take my art out of these personal quarters.