I can still feel my fingers
at the keys, tapping out eternal warnings to fellow thirteen year old pilgrims on the OG messenger platforms brains early in development didn’t stop my confident assertions I came at matters of belief like a child soldier lobbing theological grenades in the name of love? Thankfully, the turnings and conversions birthed from the faces and spaces that flipped my assumptions and judgments came divinely appointed again and again and again The ones the world calls lesser whom Jesus calls blessed kept bringing me home to the news that God never wanted appeasement or child soldiers or fear-based ultimatums Just mercy, and love, and embrace Though I shudder at times to think of my youthful arrogance I know this current me-in-progress fingers at the keys, tapping out reflections will appear immature in my rearview mirror twenty years from now And even as I look now at my own children in development I never want them to feel ashamed of the winding path they must walk to come home to the news that God only ever looks like mercy, and love, and embrace.
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It’s been raining for as long as this goldfish can remember
And the forecast shows no sign of change And I am tempted to complain about the moat forming around my castle, But then, I think of floodwaters Rising to meet eaves And the displaced ones Scattered through churning streets My mind Jumps borders Envisages explosions Tries to reckon with invasion The places where displacement Is not by nature, but by design The gridlocked chess match Of expensive weaponry and fragile egos History is a finger painting of innocent blood On repeat Much closer to home I think of the friends who cannot sleep Battling invisible mental beasts They text me to pray for them I pray Psalm 23 for us all, For the whole flooded, bloody mess of it Are there green pastures and quiet streams, Amidst all the dark valleys and enemy tables? Sometimes I lose sight of the shepherd As it all swirls through my mind To the sound of constant rain, I am hyper aware of the shelter I have from the storms I am sheltered — physically and emotionally And there is no entitlement in it No deserving of it The things I am most grateful for Feel like subtle reminders of injustice And I don’t know how to do anything else, Except cry out for the shepherd: Please, Don’t hide now. I am frequently paralysed by
the choices of the modern world: from how to spend $50 to how to spend my own life which streaming service to keep? which show to binge next? Leaves me flailing on my back, like a slater Perhaps this has always been a problem on some level, no doubt exacerbated, by optical fibre but, how do you choose what you do with these ticking hours? Mary Oliver phrased it beautifully; ‘What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’ But sometimes I want to say back to Mary ‘What is it you plan to do with this one wild selection of Netflix originals?’ Of course, Mary Oliver, Saint that she was, probably wouldn’t have made the first choice to even entertain the notion of the Netflix scroll She was just choosing which flower to write her next poem about and would probably gently encourage me towards the hum out the window of life pulsing electric through stardust and soil Ghost Mary reminds me the choice was never just whether to rewatch the Matrix trilogy or try something new The choice was (and is) to show up and write some words on this page or to distract myself, from myself catching up to myself. Of course you can watch movies and show up to your creative life (arguably, it’s essential) but I know when my own scales are tipped. So Mary, here I am beneath a thumping fan in the kitchen writing. I want to write the poems, like you. Every now and then
in quiet moments, the desire for ‘greatness’ wells up to my surface and takes the open mic in my mind’s stage ‘Where is your magnum opus? Your mass following? Your literary agent? Your flowing royalties? What have you been doing?! How come you have not been ‘found’ yet? Why have you not toured the world yet? Why are you not publicly adored yet? Well…what will you do about it?’ It is like my ego has had a few too many drinks and become narcissistically confident and deeply self-critical simultaneously I feel both berated and intoxicated remembering that I am apparently someone special Worthy of best-seller status and viral TED talk fame a bulging bank account Though I have also slacked off missed the boat, the train, the spaceship I have turned at the wrong times paused when I should have moved moved when I should have paused I have failed the all-important and never-satisfied god of hustle. The crushing weight of my not-so-specialness presses down upon me And I’m washed by a wave of disappointment anxiety sadness that I have not become great yet that I have not yet risen from the ranks of apparent mediocrity I’m still just here where life is happening steadily and quietly And then, I pour my ego a glass of water gently caress the microphone from his trembling hand sit him down at the bar I slap him hug him, look him in the eye and say, You are loved. and forgetful, and arrogant, and afraid. Do you think something is only great if a million people see it? Do you think being known by strangers would make you feel more seen than the eyes of your own children? Do you think there’s anything out there you don’t already have, right here? Do you really think the wildly successful version of you in an alternative universe isn’t still losing sleep over your crap? Sober up, Chin up. And let’s keep walking the beautiful path before us. He drinks his water, wipes a small tear from the corner of his eye and nods. I breathe deeply in the wonder of my life and walk outside. It is happening just like they said it would:
they are growing up fast I used to hold him like a football Yesterday he kicked one over the fence He used to know no words Yesterday he told me he could see ‘The soft-feathered wings of the day’ 6 and he already spins better poetry than me His brother, dresses up like a pirate like a paramedic like an astronaut And I’m still wondering is he dressing up as a 4 year old? or has that much time actually passed since we first met? They are growing up fast And you find yourself uttering that phrase even though you know how cliche it sounds And I wonder, if it is just an easy-to-reach-for substitute for things that are more difficult to say If you pause too long to ponder the volumes you’ve already forgotten the mispronounced words the day before walking the night after coming home it’s dizzying to think about the rollercoaster tracks in the rearview And when I say they’re growing up fast I think what I really want to say is that I’m horrified by how casually I am passing through this gift shop And I know, it’s easy to be sentimental when the household is asleep and you are writing poems in the quiet hour And I don’t want to romanticise the slog of it the shit of it the thousand little deaths of it There are honestly days when I fantasise about going back to before back to morning sex and midday movies and deciding to go to the beach and then just going, straight away And, maybe this is what horrifies me more than my kids growing up It’s the curse of casually spending every season of your life wanting to space-jump backwards or forwards when the miracle, in all its bloody wonder is always and only ever happening where you are now. And you casually let it play like background music. You are skim reading the body of your life You are swallowing without chewing your life You are driving on auto-pilot through the rich landscapes of your one life, Sometimes I feel like every poem I write is the same I only really talk about trying to be present trying to see the wonder trying to live and give from a deep well of gratitude I write about it so often because it is as important as it is difficult And the best things are often so like raising these kids who are growing up at the pace of growing up And maybe all you can show them is that none of it is casual none of it is granted none of it is cheap Every time oxygen fills those God-given tanks Every beat that is thumped from that drum in your chest every blink, every tear, every word, every touch It is all more dazzlingly wondrous than any Sci-Fi reality anyone’s ever dreamed of It is nothing to be casual about. This everyday miracle. These are my sons, Noah and Leo. They both have a penis.
And they both have adorable long hair. Noah’s favourite shirt has a pink glittery flamingo on the front. Leo collects shiny things like a magpie in his bed. They are both rough and gentle and kind and fierce and infuriating and fantastic. They are all kinds of wonderful and wild. This morning the three of us were sitting in one of our favourite local cafes having a babycino date. Sunshine out the window, double-shot flat white in my hand and the glorious site of chocolate mono-brows emerging as my kids made contact with the rim of their cups after every sip. Another family came in and sat behind us. I could hear the parents talking to one of their children about the exposed air conditioning system and what those large silver tubes snaking all over the roof were there for. I smiled; we had just had this conversation. When I got up to leave, the mother looked at me with kind, parental solidarity and asked, “How old are your girls?” My boys are five and three, I thought. “…Five and three” I said, opting to avoid any awkward vibes. “We have two the same age. Except they’re boys. So they’re very busy!” I smiled and walked out, leaving behind the familiar gift of assumptions with a side of stereotypes. Before I continue, I want to say, this family seemed lovely. There was genuine warmth in the interaction, and I have no doubt these are good parents who love their busy boys well. There was nothing malicious in this interaction. But isn’t it amazing how quickly our minds make links? My sons have long hair, so the snap judgment is that they are girls. And if they are girls, they must be less ‘busy’ than boys. I have interactions like this every week. I don’t have time to write a blog post about it every time (that’s what this poem is for). But this morning I was still stewing over an interaction from the night before. I was sitting round a table playing board games at a mate’s place. (Gender stereotype much? Sidenote: it doesn’t help that basically every board game ever only refers to players as ‘he’ in the instructions. Seriously. Go read instructions for any strategy game. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it). Anyway, it turns out one guy’s wife is pregnant. Congratulations are exchanged. Then someone asks, “Are you going to tell everyone what the gender is?” “Yeah, I think we will”. “Good choice. You don’t want to end up with a whole bunch of yellow and grey clothes.” True. You definitely don’t want that. What could be worse? I gently offer an alternative perspective, “You could just let your child wear whatever clothes they want?” It was a genuine suggestion, but grey-hater builds on what he perceives to be a joke about how PC the world is becoming, and chuckles: “Yeah. You need to wait until the child decides if they are a boy or a girl first!” He then tells a story about how his son always plays with trucks and cars as vehicles, but everytime he has seen girls play with trucks and cars they become characters talking to each other. His son never does this. His trucks and cars never have a conversation. He finishes the story by making the point that in the case of his son “it’s not a social construct”, just an observation about how his boy is wired. Read between the lines: he’s following those good old fashioned rules about what a boy is supposed to be like. Phew. Once again, I am sure this guy is well intentioned and that he and his wife love their little person who has the good sense to play with trucks like they are trucks, rather than characters having an emotional ‘girly talk.’ And I know, in the grand scheme of things both of these interactions may seem small and trivial. But that is kind of the point. It’s why I often don’t know how to respond when people project their assumptions on to my kids. It feels like I would be the one making a ‘big deal’ about gender and hair length. Meanwhile, pouring kids back into the moulds they supposedly came from is so socially acceptable you seem like a revolutionary for suggesting yellow and grey aren’t the only colours up for grabs if you don’t yet know whether it’s a penis or a vagina? This large, invisible framework of gender roles/stereotypes/expectations is actually made from mountains of ordinary, everyday, seemingly harmless moments like these. That’s the whole point. If you think your kid is free of any social construct, but the first question you ask someone when they are expecting is whether they are going to announce the gender….then sorry, I’ve got news: you’re handing your kid a pretty clear script for how they are supposed to perform in this world. And from little things, big things grow. Could there possibly be any connection between these busy little boys whose trucks don’t talk and these risk taking teenagers who don’t articulate their feelings and these grown up men who are angry and violent and isolated? It doesn’t happen in a single moment, but a lifetime of messaging about what the world does and doesn’t expect from you….might just produce exactly the kind of results we see on the other end? If you’re not allowed to wear certain colours when you’re an infant how many other options are already being taken away from you? How many unnecessary walls have been built for you to climb, before you have even learned to crawl? I’m not under any illusion that my house is some kind of magical neutral zone free of social constructs. Our kids are going to have plenty they need to unlearn. But I hope that every time we become aware of an invisible rule, we talk about it. We put a spotlight on it. We ask questions about it. We decide whether or not it is life-giving. And when the rules are questioned, some of them get ditched. I live with these wonderful little people who see themselves as poets and artists and inventors and scientists. They paint their nails and love dinosaurs and build towers and collect flowers and kick balls and ride bikes and cry and laugh and scream and give me high fives and kisses on the lips. All of these things are true. Shocking, I know. And I am sure it is confusing when we leaves our house where we’ve tried to dismantle these rules, and they walk through a world where some people call them she and some people call them he, and then people treat them differently based on which one of these they see. It can feel like it’s a lose-lose. We either start playing by the ‘rules’. Or we prepare for the ongoing bafflement and confusion and social awkwardness. But at the end of the day, I don’t think is my choice to make. If my kids want to rock long hair and pink flamingo shirts, I’m not going to stand in their way. Instead, I will try my best to create conversations about why this might confuse some people. I will share about the old stories, the invisible rules that have existed for a long time. I will also emphasise that they aren’t written in stone and they don’t deserve the weight they are given. We will talk about how I am a man and Mama is a woman, and that does mean something, but it has nothing to do with colours or hair or emotions or skill sets. We will ask together, what do these words mean, ‘man’ and ‘woman’? What could they mean? And what are the deeper words we would use to describe who we are? Maybe sometimes there’s no better word for who you are than your very own name. If you’ve read this far, could I ask you to consider a simple suggestion? A concrete action that we could all easily take? It’s one small brick in a big wall, but if we all took down one brick a day, that would make a profound difference (and maybe we could do away with some wrecking balls in the process). Ready for it? When you are interacting with a parent and/or their child for the first time, ask an open question without gender assumptions, like this: "How old is this little person?" "What is this little person’s name?" 90% of the time the answer will be something like. “She is two years old.” “His name is Rupert Made-up-child the Third!” If they say a name but not a gender, then just use their name in your follow up questions: “What does Rupert like to do? This might not seem like a big deal. It’s not going to eliminate all our ingrained stereotyping and assumptions and invisible rules. But I guarantee you, if you train yourself to ask a question like this first — that little shift in awareness will ripple out in all kinds of beautiful and helpful ways. After all, from little things big things grow. The dreamer and the doubter
sit side by side on my brain’s front porch The dreamer sits on a pile of pallets flogged from various roadside heaps (where he sees great potential) The doubter is the original armchair expert feet up on an old recliner, mirroring his sceptical raised brows The dreamer points to the nearby door, entryway to my brain proper “You know what’s in there? Ten thousand poems, and a novel or three a revelatory memoir and a PhD a groundbreaking series of documentaries a business model that values artists a church that restores hope to wounded roadside pilgrims all integrated with the qualities of a present father passionate husband, all-round neighbourhood hero” A pause, “There is so much potential behind that door” The doubter leans forward and his armchair squeaks, then slowly, he speaks: “Sure. One thousand and one dreams that will never take form all scattered, half-baked or halfway gone. He only ever writes the book’s first page only ever runs the first half of the race and it’s derivative drivel and it’s a sad sight to see. It’s all wasted potential, If you’re asking me.” Suddenly the door creaks open and a head peeps out It belongs to the doer, and he opens his mouth, “Excuse me fellas, trying to work in here Bringing to life a couple fresh ideas And it’s fine if you want to come chew his ear every now and again with all your hopes and fears But maybe you’ve both got the goalposts confused? Maybe the world’s not as clear-cut as win or lose So, have your little chat but if you want to keep judging maybe get off your chairs and come make something.” Before I was born
my mother and father moved from respective country towns became same city bound and together found the quiet, Australian, Christian values they were raised with became the awakened zeal of passionate university evangelists My Dad, always wanted to be a pastor, he is an architect, but I realise now he has always been a pastor to me. There were four kids before I came on the scene six by the time the family was complete And so I, number five was born breathing Bible stories into lungs immersed in words faithfully sung seeing Old Testament violence filtered through animated vegetables using clever puns I was suspicious of Santa from an early age I was singin' baa baa doo baa baa to Colin Buchanan tapes At five years old in the kitchen with my mother, I asked Jesus to enter my heart. Nothing deeply profound and yet, as simple and beautiful as it still sounds. Years later I would question the validity of my five year old faith but now I think a five year old’s faith carries no hate a five year old’s faith knows no shame a five year old’s faith can be pretty great. Fast forward to when I am fourteen years old I think life is swell I am on MSN messenger warning my friends about hell I hate Muslims, atheists, gay people as well I am very confident I know how everything works I love Jesus, but my faith is full of darkness unsearched assumptions unquestioned, questions forbidden collections of unwritten biases I was unconsciously given At Seventeen years old I am leading classroom debates about the age of the earth I am turning the public schoolyard into a church I am passionate, naive and clumsy at best I avoid alcohol, swear words, gay people and sex. In the eyes of some I am a success; in the eyes of others, I am a threat Nineteen years old I wade through Philosophy tutorials and set texts I add to my self-righteousness undergraduate pretentiousness. My mind is engaging more deeply, but my answers are still pre-determined God is still a middle-class, capitalist white boy like me and I still know how everything works Twenty years old I spit raps in juvenile justice facilities I begin to see aspects of faith a little differently I begin to wonder if these kids would be welcomed at services on Sundays I begin to confront aspects of myself that seem a little ugly I begin to wonder if I have misunderstood how some things work. The seeds of new questions are planted in the soil of my soul Twenty-five years old I become a father two months later I become a pastor both of these roles bring questions harder than any I had grappled with prior chinks to the armour having casual existential crises between Sunday sermons trying to exercise leadership that looks more like service I’m hyper conscious that I’m in a position of power and authority trying to follow a rabbi whose life was marked by sacrifice and poverty. My heart has felt the insane expansion of parental responsibility My past now looks like a bread crumb trail of judgmental hypocrisy I no longer know how everything works But I am still convinced that Jesus is the hope of the cosmos, the neighbourhood and me Thirty years old and here’s where I’m at: My faith is a vibrant patchwork with some open gaps I’m no longer desperate to hide every hole I have lost the illusion that God is mine to control I believe my body is not just a container for a heaven-bound soul but instead part of a cosmic broken temple being made whole I'm ashamed thinking of people my faith was wielded like a knife at particularly the ones who weren’t present to fight back all the people I had ridiculed before meeting round tables ideas formed without relationship, based purely on fables I grieve often for all my friends who have faced a choice between a faith community or an honest faith that should never have been a choice in the first place. If nothing else, shouldn’t church at least be safe? These snapshots of my evolving faith are pictures of broken humanity sprinkled with grace. There are past versions of me I struggle to like I hope the future versions of me look more like Christ Sometimes it feels like everything I believe has changed except one thing, one name, at the centre remains. These days, I know how very little works but now I think maybe that’s ok. I still believe Jesus loves me like when I was five years old. I process life as a human on planet earth through poetry. Love, loss, wonder, wounds, parenthood and more recently pandemics. Here are 9 poems I wrote during March and April, as we grappled with the biggest global disruption in living memory. You can also hear me read some of these poems on the Poetic Beings podcast.
#1 18/3/19 After bushfires, a global virus I look into my lions' irises my children - making their earliest memories within a globe that rocks unsteadily gig economy, cancelled concerts anxious crowds, hidden monsters and sometimes I wonder how to teach them God is love, the ground beneath them sometimes I wonder how to teach me God is love, the ground beneath me #2 21/3/20 The sun shines brightly here while the world is humbled systems crumble we lose the control we never had like the ferris wheel stops spinning the car tyre is flat the light globe blows but the sun shines brightly here the breeze still blows the birds still sing and the pen still writes when some things are taken, other things are left and maybe nothing's ever birthed without some kind of death #3 22/3/20 There are new griefs here more subtle than the classic losses we have tasted in the past The wave of fave local cafes ending their operation knowing you can't sit at that table drink that coffee made by that barista, anymore. Then there are the places trying to stay open you think about how difficult this must be your shoulders sag a little for their burden You just had a stack of new books arrive you will not be able to launch in person and you wonder, who wants to buy poetry books right now? And you enter the tangled mental knots of plans interrupted rhythms shattered likely losses passing before your eyes holiday cancelled business plans scrapped And there are beautiful innovations seeds of new creativity little sprouts of hope like 'going to church' this morning on couch with sons snuggled close And there will be new life there will be wondrous, unexpected beauty but don't miss the grief it deserves to be felt don't live out of the despair or anxiety but don't miss the grief it deserves to be felt. #4 24/3/20 The centipedes don't know Life continues normally for them and the billions of other life forms on earth that don't go to the cinema or the pub or the library It says something about us that these places feel like part of who we are limbs we only notice when they're lost These are the places we swap stories watch them on screens borrow them printed and bound part of who we are is in the telling and the showing and the sharing And we will do this in our homes and on our phones if our meeting places close But maybe it's a good reminder that what makes a human creature is a little more than hunt and gather a little more than food and shelter a little more than 'the essentials' And the more is in connection so we must not lose connection. #5 30/3/20 The parks are closed the swings hang still dust gathers on the window sills of restaurants with doors now shut Centrelink brims with the latest cuts And I lay in bed to pen this poem safe and fed, here at home and I don't know what words to write one minute, everything feels alright but sometimes a breath is all it takes to feel the fear, to sense the weight guilt that we don't suffer more terror that we might suffer more And being human is a fragile thing and we rest our trust on paper wings but they're razor thin and maybe life on a knife edge is always life and privilege is just another word for blind #6 5/4/20 I've been going to bed earlier spending less money sitting on the deck outside when it's sunny writing more poems calling more friends thinking more about who I'll be when this ends I've been reading more headlines feeling more anxious craving more wine acting impulsive and restless I get stuck in my mind when there's nowhere to run and I wonder where I will be when it's done In some ways I feel better, in other ways worse and maybe the mix of the two just affirms I'm still broken and beautiful like I was before I'm still held by grace no less and no more #7 12/4/20 (Easter Sunday) Death and resurrection; the way. In the time of crucifixion or coronavirus this hasn’t changed every ending, a rebirth waiting to be reframed check your tombs for rolled stones and messiahs playing gardener like when it all began If the story teaches anything maybe it’s that Christ often resides in ordinary places unrecognised and seeing requires more than just eyes So check your tombs and don’t be surprised if new life walks out of the burial sites #8 18/4/20 Exercise has returned to nature We used to sleep in our homes but did we live in them, like now? we used to drive on our streets but now we walk them, rediscover them I have never seen so many people walking their local pavement It helps that these last few days have been the glory of autumn warm sunlight after cool mornings I wonder about winter maybe it is time to learn to hibernate? If we could sleep 6 months and wake on the other side, would we? Is there enough life here to be here, today? But that is always the question in our privilege or our poverty we gaze towards unrealised horizons replay waves of yesterday's waters Here is so often the most difficult place to be. But here is where we are, walking our streets drenched in Autumn light as ordinary and extraordinary as ever. #9 19/4/20 When my grandkids ask me about living through the coronavirus I hope I can tell them I trod gently on sacred ground and didn’t squander all my thoughts on the survival of my comfort The preservation of privilege turns our gaze from the sacred amongst the suffering Christ, the ground of being is always positioned with the suffering That is why sacred ground abounds the woman whose home reeks with bulldog masculinity the bruised child facing bullies haunting homes and not just schoolyards the elderly who miss the glint in grandkids eyes (not captured on screens) single ones whose skin will only know its own touch for months not to mention the frontline workers or the very ones who suffer the virus I have been known to trample over sacred ground in my anxious rush to feed my ego but I hope that when my grandkids ask me about the days the world changed I will be able to say I changed with it I trod more gently I loved tenderly and fiercely among all the sacred in midst the suffering Lately I’ve been splashing around in the waters of contemplative prayer. Like a kid. I’m no expert. I don’t understand how it all works, but I’ve found some water I want to jump around in. Ironically, it’s the kind of water that makes me want to stop jumping around. To sit, to be still, to feel every sensation, the cool liquid my toes can drink from, the sun settling softly on my tightly wound mind.
The last few mornings I’ve started each day with centering prayer. I sit in my armchair in my office, focus on my breath and use the word ‘spirit’ as a focusing point. Breathe it in, breathe it out. There is spirit here. Magic here. Wonder here. Christ here. The sitting perfectly still part feels kind of like planking. Or holding some other kind of stretch. Like when you can feel the muscle stretching, straining in physical exercise. I can feel my mind stretching, straining. Wanting to snap back to familiar fidgeting, distractedness, permanent state of rush. But instead I choose to sit through the stretch and let it grow me. For each of the last few nights I have closed my day with the Examen prayer. I sit straight against the back of the bed (if I lay down, I’ll be asleep in seconds), and I run through my day in mind. I see myself: so rushed, so distracted, so anxious. I see brief moments where I was present. Kind. Available to my children, my wife, myself. I see the seemingly wasted moments and the deeply wonderous ones. And as I hover over my day in my memory, I speak to God. How could I have done this differently? Where were you breaking through amidst the ordinary? It feels like I am sifting through my inner world. It feels like a muddy bundle of sticks and leaves and treasure that I am holding in my hands. Some of it is very ugly. Some of it is very beautiful. God promises me, we are sifting through it together. This bundle of muddy nature that I am; we are making something out of it. I feel like I have been fascinated with the contemplative for a long time. At least at a theoretical, cerebral level. I like the idea of it. But right now it feels like I am beginning a practice. Like a child learning to ride a bike. It is a fumbling and beautiful and clumsy thing. But I can feel the brief moments of what it could be like, to ride this bike down a glorious hill, to feel the wind, the spirit, hammering me with glee. So I will keep splashing in these waters. I will keep trying to ride this bike. I will keep sifting through this muddy mess with God. |
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