How Does One Deal With A Life Changing Moment

So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed every day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, because we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen; for the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal. (2 Cor. 4:16-18)

How does one respond to a new challenge in life, when almost overnight, everything changes dramatically? You look in the mirror and you recognise that your old physical self is to a large extent gone. There is denial. There is grief. And yes, in the middle of the tears and self-pity, an anger that could surprise you. Perhaps worst of all, the onset of a gnawing despair. You are in fact experiencing the inner and outer metamorphosis. All the self-help books in the world are of no use, for their premises are no longer relevant to you. The man looking back at you is not the man you once knew. The body you inhabited for sixty-five years can no longer serve you in the same ways. One can pretend to the world that these natural human emotions do not apply to them, that you have been able to rise beyond such fallible responses. Yet, and this much I must say, if you have belonged to the community of believers, and you have seen abundant evidence of Jesus Christ, the God-Man, at work in your life, then you will not question your faith nor put away the trust in the providence of your Creator. But your hitherto public stoicism, and those standard rejoinders to the problem of pain, as theologians have long framed this paradox—so much suffering in the world and still at the same time the goodness of God—will be thrown into upheaval and shaken to its core.

What this “thorn of the flesh” is for the present writer is entirely irrelevant. It is not the affliction itself that is of concern to him, nor is his experience at all unique. What he describes here is an undergoing that belongs in whole or in part, to at least some of his gentle readers. The question, then remains, how does one deal with a life-changing moment that has to some degree, made different much of one’s life. The saint, for there are saints who either live here in our midst or in monasteries or in faraway deserts, will reckon this as part of the soul’s journey toward redemption. Then there are too, the stoics, who courageously accept it all as part of the greater story of the cycle of life. But there is something very much in common to both of these positions, the acknowledgment whether be it manifest or tacit, of the joyful-sorrow of life and of the inevitability of our report here in this world one day coming to its close. From Siddhartha Gautama, to Socrates, to Saint Paul, to Blaise Pascal, to Martin Heidegger, to Sophrony Sakharov, to Viktor Frankl, to Irvin D. Yalom, to Dean Rickles, this ontological acquiesce is there in every profound thinker that has walked the earth. There are those winter seasons in which, as my dear friend Joseph Carvalko writes in one of his enthralling essays, that we are drawn to think of our souls in different ways until that time when they reach "that final purpose" (Paradox of Hope).

Pass then through this little space of time conformably to nature, and end thy journey in content, just as an olive falls off when it is ripe, blessing nature who produced it, and thanking the tree on which it grew. (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations)

When we are no longer able to change a situation, we are challenged to change ourselves. (Viktor Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning)

https://stockcake.com/i/butterfly-life-cycle_3152617_1654139

So we live each day grateful for all we have been taught, not despairing of the new stories we will now live through, and ultimately grateful for these additional narratives we might now write down. For these things, the precious fruits of courage and perseverance are not at all outside the realms of reality and have been manifested in the lives of so very many. And more recently we witnessed this in the life of my late and much beloved Momma. Not long before she left us she “woke” from her deep sleep and in English (her second language which to this point she had almost completely forgotten) to say: “I saw Jesus. He said He loved me.” Her countenance was amazingly bright. Of course, one can interpret these fabulous words in different ways. We took them at their face value, and at that moment she gave us a vision of meaning above and beyond what I could hope to describe here, that change when even at its most difficult hour is not bereft of the light. Suffering can only be met head on, there are no shortcuts to the problem of pain. There on those hard edges of Gethsemane, where the human spirit is tested that it might be refined as gold, awaits the revelation of our true name written on the white stone (Rev. 2:17).

Our eyes and hearts can become opened to astonishing depths of love (now re-defined and re-experienced on account of our new condition) and to all-encompassing fields of compassion once only imaginable when we were at our very best—those days when we refused to chase away the birds from our fruit-trees and considered the practise of forgiveness as the highest expression of agape.

Even with all of the hard knocks and heavy collisions along the way, we all have a fabulously rich story to tell. Whether we can write it down or not, will matter only very little. The narrative will take on its own life to become our legacy. I remember an elderly monk from Mount Athos, Father E., who would refuse to wear laces on his boots. One afternoon after the refectory I summonsed the courage to ask him ‘why’ [and here I must confess to paraphrasing him a little]: “One must be prepared and on time for the unexpected.”

At different times I have wondered how I would respond

I do love the good-humoured mathematician and lay theologian John Lennox. Not only for his intellectual brilliance in articulating the apologetics of the Good News, in a manner evocative of the great C.S. Lewis, but also for the ways he has reminded me of a dear friend, the logos-inspired poet Les Murray. Yet there is something else as well. Especially given the present challenges in my own life, the charismatic Lennox has often spoken of “finishing life well.” This right counsel, takes us back to Saint Paul’s moral parenesis, which has inspired and lifted the spirits of countless souls across the centuries: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith” (2 Tim. 4:7).

https://pixabay.com/photos/flower-dandelion-wildflower-nature-7700011/

At different times I have wondered how I would respond if I were sitting in a specialist’s surgery, waiting to hear the results of medical tests for a potentially life-threatening disease. For instance, would I remain stoic upon hearing the word cancer? Would I break down, if only for a moment, terrified of what it could mean? Or might my reaction fall somewhere entirely outside what I had imagined? In truth, one never knows how they will respond to news—good or bad—until it actually happens. Is it, then, the same for a believer of a religious community, and particularly for one of its theologians? I was to learn this on a pleasant morning in Wollongong, in late January of this year, during a consultation with my empathetic urologist, Dr. R. It was not at all as one might have imagined. The news was delivered no differently than if a general practitioner were calmly informing you that it was nothing more troubling than a sore throat. Except that this time, it all appeared to unfold in slow motion. Each word carrying with it a resonance that would need to be newly explored and analysed: “I am sorry it is cancer—Michael, but it is not a death sentence.” For a few moments at least, it seemed as though I had stepped into another world. This is a place where the archetypes stood in sharper relief, and where at any moment they might cut straight through you.

This is the hour when one’s metaphysical beliefs, whether deeply theistic or commendably stoic are pulled apart and, for some, stretched to their breaking point. Suffering in its various guises, if we should allow it, can easily undo us. When death rises to speak in its own ex cathedra voice, there is, one way or another, little to say in reply. The Great Divide has spoken shāh māt ("the king is helpless")–Or is he? Maybe not quite yet. If you are familiar with Moritz Retzsch’s 1831 painting The Devil’s Checkmate and with the story of chess master Paul Morphy’s response, you will know what I mean. For those of us who belong to a religious community, how often have we heard, or ourselves declared, the words offered in consolation by the Prophet Hosea but later to be made famous by Saint Paul: “Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?” (1 Cor. 15:55). The counter of every soul to such news is as unique as the individual response to our deepest joys or hardest sorrows. A range of emotions, natural to the human condition, can overwhelm us, and the comforting illusion that such things only happen to other people is fast destroyed. The reality is that it will happen to us all. Death comes, sooner or later—if not for us now, then to those we love, to our close of kin, and to our friends. And our hearts ache, too, at the daily images of lives taken in faraway places, without the blessings and benefits we ourselves have become ordinarily accustomed to. Perspective remains one of our most trustworthy teachers, and if we remain honest enough, it cannot fail us.

It all goes much too quickly. I could close my eyes and, for a few moments, go back to my untroubled teenage years, running about like a puffed-up bull on rugby league fields in Sydney and the country. Then before long I snap out of it. The mirror will make liars of us all. If we have not mentally prepared for this unavoidable and messy rencounter, one that philosophers and theologians alike agree will become the absolute test of our core beliefs, we are likely to panic and fall into those self-defeating emotions of denial and anger. Still, if we can get through this fiery trial and comprehend it as an awakening to something deeper and more nobler within us, then we will not only endure and persevere through it, but we will be initiated into revelations and lasting lessons we once believed beyond our reach. The giving and the asking of forgiveness becomes a commonplace experience. All manner of colour and sound become more vibrant and sharper. We can become humble, yet strong vessels of comfort to others. The expression of love and compassion are now as commonplace as our daily bread. Material aims and professional goals are much shifted or made altogether insignificant. Divine grace and moral strength can arrive in the most unexpected way. Saint Nilus of Sinai speaks in the tradition of Socrates (who posited that philosophy is a preparation for death): “You should always be waiting for death but not be afraid of it; both are indeed the real characteristics of a person who pursues wisdom.” This is the “memory of death” which the contemplatives of our major religious traditions practise, this they do in the most positive of ways as a reminder to cherish this present hour, and to not misuse the time we have each been given.

After a while these archetypical disclosures of the battle, should we open up ourselves to them, will allow for bursts of light to enter into our hearts. This is not to whitewash our suffering or our fears, these conditions are all too real, and they will leave their rough mark on both ourselves and on those we love, but how we respond to this confrontation and where we allow for the dark side of our imagination to take us, is what altogether matters at present. There will be the dark night when for a believer it could appear that the Father is scandalously absent, or for our other brothers and sisters to seem that it has all been meaningless. These are very much the same feelings of inner collapse and that dread condition beyond the disease of the body—Søren Kierkegaard reflected in these terms when speaking on the “sickness unto death” that is, the deepest of despairs. Our modern existentialists have similarly spoken of this paralysing angst, as “the nameless fear”. It is not out of place, then, to recall that as a young student of divinity many decades ago now, I was struck by this fascinating revelation, that in the New Testament Gospels, the God-Man’s most repeated exhortation was not to be afraid: “Take courage; it is I, do not be afraid” (Mk 6:50).

On the Overwhelming Power of Forgiveness

Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven. (Lk. 6:37)

He who is devoid of the power to forgive is devoid of the power to love. There is some good in the worst of us and some evil in the best of us. When we discover this, we are less prone to hate our enemies. (Martin Luther King, Jr.)

Absolutely nothing will help us if we are not lenient toward the weaknesses of men and forgive them. For how can we hope that God will forgive us if we do not forgive others? (St. Nikolai Velimirovich)

When we are able to see the suffering in him or her, and see that that person is a victim of his own suffering, then it's easy to forgive. Recognize the suffering. Understand the suffering. And by having the desire to help that person to suffer less, you will be able to forgive very easily. (Thich Nhat Hanh)

To forgive, to truly forgive, to wipe the slate completely clean, is beyond the capacity of most of us, if only because we are creatures made of memory. From this arises an old, oft-repeated truth: I can forgive, but I cannot forget. And yet, we do surely try. On those occasions when we might succeed, there is a joy that settles upon the heart, a peacefulness, something not easily described. Call it a lightness of being, or even an acceptance of the foibles of the human condition to which we are all subject. When I look back on my own life, I find that some of my deepest joys and my most enduring hurts have to do, above all, with the asking or the giving of forgiveness. We often read that asking for forgiveness is harder than offering it. I have found, however, that both of these life-changing charisms are equal in measure, though each demands a different kind of humbleness.

To ask the other for forgiveness is harder in the first instance because it will normally mean that we must make the first move, and so we put ourselves in an extremely vulnerable position. If this action of opening our heart to another is rejected it can deliver a mental pain to rival, or in fact be worse, than a suffering we might feel in the flesh. Particularly when the rejection comes from someone we have loved. And often in the cruellest form of all: silence. Such an experience can unleash a devastating range of emotions, from a sense of worthlessness to having one’s integrity and intentions called into question. How, then, does one respond to such a brutal rejection? The pain if it be possible is compounded, if we should happen to hold a theology that will see in the other the very Image and Likeness of God.

There is, needless to say, no simple answer but only what our own hearts reveal to us. One thing we must not do is allow another, whose heart does not wish to embrace ours, to extinguish our spirit. Our souls are far greater and infinitely richer in their potential than any hard rejection we might face. To dwell on this truth alone is to make room for divine providence to take its course. At the same time, we can never know what tomorrow may bring, even the joyous possibility of reconciliation. Compassion never ceases to amaze, for even the greatest of enemies have, in many instances, found their way back to each other. What has brought me comfort is carrying the other’s name into prayer. Admittedly, after a strong struggle, that name grows sweet, until the pain itself is almost forgotten. There is a mistake many of us have made, and it is a compulsion that given our angst is not difficult to fall into. We try to get the other to bend their compassion towards us by hammering repeatedly on their door when they have made it clear they have shut us out. By continuing to ‘knock’ we not only do an additional harm to ourselves but also to the other whose time has not yet come. It pulls us further into our own despair, and it hardens the heart of the other. Let us make our peace with a sincere and genuine spirit and then turn towards the souls who love us and see in us not only our heaven-sent gifts, but also that which is common to us all, our brokenness and need for acceptance.

Now we come, let us say, to the flip side of the coin. And for a large number, this has proven the more difficult, if only because once we forgive, the memory of the injustice committed against us remains. Once more, in such matters, we can only speak from experience and learn best we can from the wisdom writings of those who have gone before us. To forgive demands the giving of the benefit of the doubt for a trust has normally been broken, but also the practice of other-compassion and an outpouring of love. This forgiveness is rarely easy when we are young. Early in life, lacking a broader existential perspective, we tend to see the world in stark polarities. We have not yet come to a nuanced understanding of the complexities and contradictions of the human condition. Concepts such as loyalty and betrayal, yes, undeniably important, assume almost mythical proportions when life is viewed through a murky lens.

https://pixabay.com/es/photos/par-rosa-flores-amor-rosas-boda-3640166/

As we grow into our middle and later seasons of life, a precious awakening occurs, like the shock at suddenly seeing the iridescent shine on a drake’s head or the exhilaration of being introduced to Bruckner’s symphonies for the first time. We come to the self-realisation that we, too, have missed the mark. Jung would speak in terms of “individuation” and of coming face-to-face with our shadow. We have all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. Looking at the accusers who brought the woman caught in adultery before Him, the God-Man responds: “Let any one of you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her” (Jn. 8:7). And who amongst us would claim to have never been a prodigal or has not considered pulling the arm back before casting the stone? Not only in biblical but also in those inspirational Levinasian terms, the “Other” is my salvation and not my hell. We are all of us, boats in the ocean, with rust and brine on the waterline.

Put in more earthly language, none of us is perfect. Though we might sometimes dare to convince ourselves that we are at least a little more perfect than the other. And who has not? So, then, forgiving the other for misdemeanours that we ourselves could be guilty of, is not as impossible as it once could have been. In this way, too, bringing the other to prayer, and allowing time to do its work, can become a great liberation for the soul. This is not to idealise forgiveness nor to trivialise the hurt that has been done; to forgive a grievous wrong demands an act of moral courage. Yet, in that one act alone, power is paradoxically restored to the one who forgives. This is the charism of the transformative power of love, for it endures, it does not fracture nor can it be broken, like a young oak tree that grows to become “windproof” as it matures. By far there are more gentle and compassionate people in the world than those who would will us harm. Let us allow for the possibility that we are acting in good faith.

Forgiveness is not a question of prescribed rubrics, in either its asking or its giving. It remains a profoundly personal act. Nor is it always a decision of a single moment. In any case, it cannot be hurried, especially when deep trauma is involved. Boundaries may need to be initially set. There is no “one size fits all” formula, any more than there is a single eye colour. What remains essential, if forgiveness is what we seek, is prayer, patience, and the belief that the potential for the redirection of another soul is rarely absolutely lost. Over time, forgiveness draws us further into those tremendous realms of self-sacrificial love revealed by Christ on the Cross, who forgives even as He is being executed (Lk. 23:34). From this mystical place, the thinnest divide between divine and human, the greatest graces and mysteries will flow. 

Finally, if I may add a personal reflection drawn from my own experience and from listening to others during my earlier vocation as a spiritual advisor. Asking for forgiveness liberates the soul from its guilt and resentment, and allows for the heart to be loved again. As much as we need creativity to survive, we also need to practise forgiveness so that we may live our humanness to its fullest expression. And for those who are able to forgive, this one act of grace alone, renouncing the claim that they once held over the other, can reverberate across generations. It can even save a brother or sister from death, for we know there are many ways in which one can die. It will foster beautiful friendships, or completely destroy them should we hold on to the bitterness. Rocks can crack bit by bit to then fall apart under the stress weathering of the sun. And such is the power granted to us from our Maker (or, indeed from the Universe) that with a single word—yes— (or, no) we can alter the direction of the future. The temptation is to forgive yet still deny access to those we have forgiven. For those of us who are members of the community of believers, we are asked to discern what it means that God Himself remains forever open to the cry of our lament and requests for mercy.

People can be good to each other

Source: friendship day image hd Free Photo https://www.vecteezy.com/photo/30639071-friendship-day-image-hd

In recent months I have been travelling to Sydney from the South Coast more often than usual to spend as much time as I can with my mother. The grand old lady is progressively becoming lost inside that terrible thick fog of dementia. I cannot describe this disease any other way. It is a heartbreaking experience known to many homes. A few days ago I shared a story inspired by an unexpected encounter during one of these trips. I have been to visit Mother twice since that reflection to do with the seminary. Now back home I would like to share another meaningful moment with you which has left an indelible impression on me. It has to do with one of my favourite words and the charism found in those beautiful souls we encounter along the way—that is, compassion (to “suffer with”). I do know, I refer to this most important of charities too often. Yet, for some good reason, I am compelled to speak on it. We may not all be capable of sacrificial love, which Jesus might ask of us (1 Jn 3:16), but compassion is always within our reach.

Compassion asks us to go where it hurts, to enter into the places of pain, to share in brokenness, fear, confusion, and anguish. Compassion challenges us to cry out with those in misery, to mourn with those who are lonely, to weep with those in tears. Compassion requires us to be weak with the weak, vulnerable with the vulnerable, and powerless with the powerless. Compassion means full immersion in the condition of being human. (Henri J. M. Nouwen, You are the Beloved: Daily Meditations for Spiritual Living)

When we look at the world and observe many of the unspeakable horrors constantly rerun before us in various media platforms, it is not difficult to agree with Charles Bukowski that “people are not good to each other” (The Crunch). And, yes, to be truthful, he is not entirely wrong. Bukowski is one of my favourite poets, and though he is much underrated by the academe for a number of reasons, he has left behind confronting insights on the human condition. On this point, however, to do with people, I cannot agree with him without some strong qualification. There are many more good people in the world, who are “good to each other” than the other way round. If good people, those anonymous heroes, everyday saints I would call them, who go about their daily jobs to make sure we are not left without the essentials and that we are kept safe—where to begin and where to end—doctors; aid workers; nurses; hospice staff; plumbers; sanitary engineers; truck drivers; first responders; farmers; industrial workers; teachers; volunteers; and even our barbers who we trust to not cut our throats, were to suddenly stop delivering their grace, things would very quickly collapse around us. We do not often hear about these persons for we take such souls for granted until we need them. So it is the warmongers and the violence, for instance, which fuels our news broadcasts to fill us with our ‘daily dread’. And to be sure, they inflict untold and horrendous damage, but such saturation of evil makes it even easier to accept this darkness as normative and to sweep aside the majority, that is, the just and decent, who are, indeed, good to each other.

What brought this particular reflection into my heart these past few days? It was the deeply moving and selfless compassion of one young man quietly going about his everyday business. For the moment, lest I embarrass him, let us call him Zayan. I will do my best to explain below—and why I started on another private study on the Parable of the Good Samaritan (Lk. 10:29-37). There is a little corner shop not far up the road from where mother lives. I find it important to support these small family businesses and not only for the reason I grew up in such a shop. The young man behind the counter who was still observing Ramadan, was very polite and helped me locate the necessary things for my mother’s dietary requirements. I  complimented him on his courtesy and efficiency and asked him if was studying or working in the business fulltime. This is when my admiration for this young man moved to an enormous respect. He was indeed studying in a Sydney tertiary institution. He told me he was in his second year of a sports physiotherapy degree and was doing well. I suggested to him his career choice given the ubiquity of sport in our lives looked very positive and that he could even open up his own practice one day. Acknowledging these opportunities, he proceeded to share with me that this was not why he had enrolled in this degree.

Zayan went on to tell me the sole purpose of enrolling in this course of studies was to offer his services to those in need—and more especially to help his beloved older brother who suffers from cerebral palsy. These are the meaningful moments in life. The hours when you come face to face with the greatness of the human spirit and our capacity for God. I walked back to my car and never ashamed to admit, I wept. I shed tears for things which I could feel in my heart but could not put rightly into words. For those who are students of the Johannine corpus or have read Blaise Pascal you will get a more proximate sense of what I am grappling with here. Indeed in both instances the appeal would be to a coherent love from the one to the other—both in its original act in the first place and then afterwards in its communication.

When people are good to each other something wonderful will always happen. The goodness received is invariably paid forward. An Athonite monk I knew called this paying forward a “communicable disease”.  It was hard to forget this striking analogy. Our old friend Charles Bukowski was not entirely wrong when he spoke on the human condition but at times he could overshoot the mark.

The Mysterious Little Christmas Tree

Kiama-Gerringong, NSW

For you beautiful heart whoever you might be

“Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” (Heb. 13:2)

“Everything in this world has a hidden meaning.” (Nikos Kazantzakis)

“There are millions of homeless people in the world because humanity does not have a proper conscience.” (Mehmet Murat ildan)

“Sometimes it's easy to walk by because we know we can't change someone's whole life in a single afternoon. But what we fail to realize it that simple kindness can go a long way toward encouraging someone who is stuck in a desolate place.” (Mike Yankoski)

There are moments in our lives that have a deeply moving effect on us. They manifest a change in us. We normally remember these moments for the remainder of our lives. They can be sad experiences brought about by some devastating event or they can be joyful happenings which we might normally recollect as anniversaries through the passing of the years. Then there are  those “moments” which can leave us spellbound and spine-tingling with awe. Think back, if you will, to some of those occasions. Perhaps it was at the Louvre in Paris when you first came ‘face-to-face’ with Leonardo da Vinci’s famous ‘Mona Lisa’. Or maybe it was that time in London’s National Gallery when you saw Rembrandt’s ‘Belshazzar’s Feast’. Something inside of you is viscerally shifted, your response to such artistic human endeavours touches you to the core. And what of such places which have been flamed by the divine: the Temple Mount; the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; the Blue Mosque; the Bodh Gaya. So then it can become too easy [or habitual] to dismiss those occasions which might fill us with a different sort of awe, and to oftentimes pass them over thinking, yes, quite lovely, but way too mundane.

Source: https://www.kiama.nsw.gov.au/Council/Projects/Hindmarsh-Park-upgrade

Today, on my early morning walk down by Kiama’s scenic harbour in the company of one excitable Mishka, the canine member of our family, we came across a profoundly moving sight. In a rarely used bus shelter on the lower end of Hindmarsh Park,[1] what I saw brought me to tears and what is more, touched me no less than those times when I stood in awe before the sublime artistry of our great masters. What did we see? In the shelter were two suitcases and a blue trolley with an umbrella strapped to its side. Through one of the side glass panels my eye caught a shimmering object on the bench. It was a small plastic silver star. It was placed there with a purpose as the surrounding evidence would show. Below the star itself, was a colourful [but broken] toy windmill. Little pieces of twig were arranged strategically around the windmill’s wooden blades. Attached to the twigs were a variety of shells as ornaments. All this industry was laid out on the top half of the bench. Clearly, this was a Christmas tree. I wondered which sensitive heart was behind such an honest creation. What might have been this person’s story? My eyes welled up as other parables of a similar sort came to me. I thought of the symbolism of what I had just seen and of the significance of such an act by someone who had obviously lost a lot somewhere along the way. I reflected on my comfortable life and my home which lacks nothing. And maybe once or twice before I had felt such raw and brutal proximity to that origin myth and of the implications of the exile from Paradise [if you still believe in such things].[2] There is much I would have liked to have said to this ‘angel’. To have embraced them and for my tears to have spoken to their heart when my words would only have meant something if I was to hold them back anchored to my tongue. I was defeated by the untold grace of this unexpected encounter. This work of angelic inspiration poured from the purest gratitude is reminiscent of the “widow’s offering” who gave all she had from her poverty (Mark 12:41-44). And no less magnificent in its intent than the breathtaking creations we come across in the great museums of the world.  I was dwarfed by this humble little Christmas tree. And religion, at least of the rubric kind, had little to do with it. It was the ‘tremendous mystery’ of the hour.

Postscript

The next day, on the afternoon of the 14th, Mishka and I were again out walking down at the harbour, which on our return will take us back past Hindmarsh Park. As we approached the bus shelter which the day before with its mysterious little Christmas tree, had opened up that flood of emotions in my heart, I could see something circular, like a bright large orange ball. Now, I wondered, what could that be? The closer Mishka and I got to the bus shelter, the one which housed this mysterious little Christmas tree, it became clearer that the bright large orange ball was in fact a small furry head. I once again peered through the glass window. It was a teddy bear! I smiled. It was perched on the window’s ledge watching over the Christmas tree with its hands outstretched as if in the orans position, like a ‘platytera’ on a half-dome. At the same time its eyes, which were still intact despite the unmissable signs of age on the body, were also surveying, protecting the bags and blue trolley from the day before. On the way back to the car, Mishka and I paused. We turned to look at that fantastic spot from where only minutes ago we had walked past. I understood the manger, or better still, the creche in the traditional Nativity imagery in yet another light and felt grateful beyond words to this travelling soul. Saint Seraphim of Sarov, Leo Tolstoy, and all the others, and those who came before, the Prophet Isaiah, and after them, Gwendolyn Brooks, were right, of course. Real beauty which is neither artificial, nor affected, is more often hidden, and waiting to be discovered, where you might least expect it. I remember Rembrandt and am struck by that spellbinding awe, but this recall does not comfort my spirit when it is aching. On the other hand, this ‘wandering angel’, already, is comforting my night pains and revealing insights into another, more enduring splendour.

[1] https://library.kiama.nsw.gov.au/History/Explore-Kiamas-Past/Local-history-stories/Hindmarsh-Founding-Orphans

[2] I use the term “myth” here in a similar way to Carl Jung’s conventional interpretation: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1hcogiUUNnM