understanding patterns; connecting dots

On the morning of my 38th birthday, I woke up in a hotel bed in Alexandra Headlands and turned the radio on. The first words I heard were “The World Trade Centre is no more.” It was like I was listening to fiction. Nearly 20 years later, as awareness of the dangers of the then-little-understood COVID19 virus were beginning to grip governments, I turned on the TV news to the headline, “China has closed its borders.” I again felt like I was watching a Hollywood movie. What followed was a season of unprecedented weirdness as stay-at-home orders were issued, face masks became mandatory and cities that never shut down became deserted. It was completely surreal. It was hell-on-earth for many. For others, it was surprisingly heaven-on-earth. We’ve all heard the reflections on how what matters most became front and centre. People reached out to neighbours, spent time with their kids like never before and discovered ways to tap into their creativity and ingenuity. Yes, for some it was unsafe an...

It had been a long time since I’d caught the train to Melbourne, so it was kind of interesting and kind of depressing to stand on the platform for a couple of days this past week, with what felt like 150 other people, waiting to do the commute. It bought back memories, not all good. In case this post is misunderstood - there is nothing wrong with commuting to work. Doing good work is an important and necessary part of being an active citizen, making a contribution to society and helping provide for our families and loved ones. But it’s got out of hand. How have our lives got so busy chasing more money and experiences? This morning I saw a re-post of a parable I’d heard many years ago. It takes different forms in different cultures, and every version I’ve heard is about a fisherman, but the message is the same. I thought I’d have a go at writing a version for my context. A parable Once upon a time there was a bloke who lived in a seaside village with his gorgeous partner who he loved at...

Last weekend I did my first solo bushwalk and swimming excursion. Saturday’s hike wasn’t particularly long, only about 10kms. But more than half of it was spent on soft sloping sand walking into a stiff breeze. By the time I climbed the track back up the escarpment I was wasted, and when I dragged myself into the camping area about 2.30 in the afternoon, my appetite for further adventure that day was near zero. And so I found myself in my tent, shutting up shop for the day in the near broad daylight hour of 7.30pm! At Maria’s suggestion I’d downloaded a couple of podcasts for such a time as this. Truth was I was pretty confident I’d not listen to them … I didn’t imagine myself with headphones in on a solo bush excursion, but there you go. It turned out to be one of two encounters I’ve had this week with prominent Australians who have recently made a major professional transition. The story of those transitions is not the main point here, they deserve proper consideration in their own r...

We recently visited family in the Northern Rivers hinterland. It was good in the usual ways. Except that one morning a few unrelated and incidental things unsettled me, and I lay in bed mulling over them. It wasn’t a great start to the day. It had been a while since I’d felt that way and I wondered not only what had triggered it, but why I wasn’t able to re-centre as quickly as I normally do. It helped me appreciate how significant my regular morning routine has become, so this post is to record something of the story of how it evolved into the multifaceted practice I now enjoy. I’ve always been a so-called ‘morning person’. Whether it was being up before anyone else in my residential college during uni days to think and study, or cleaning supermarket floors at ungodly hours to make ends meet when our kids were young, I’ve always felt at home in the morning hours, while most others are sleeping. We were incredibly fortunate to move into this seaside village across the road from Karen a...