My Grandmother's Favourite Lesbians

There are times we read a blog, or a column and think; “Oh I just have to write a reply, I love this!” However, with such a constant barrage of opinion in the twittersphere and beyond, you get a bit overwhelmed and just move on. I could not this time. I was compelled to write this after reading a column by Monique Schafter, in the Star Observer, and the topic has been on my mind all weekend. ‘Are you out to your Grandparents?’ http://www.starobserver.com.au/opinion/soapbox-opinion/2012/02/02/people-can-surprise-you/70805 

I read. I remembered. I swallowed that lump. Then I wrote.

What really resonated with me was the whole idea that families tend to want to ‘protect’ the older generation from radical ideologies, behaviours and lifestyles. This is true with children as well, for some sectors of the community out there; people who cannot bear the thought of explaining two mummies or daddies to their little precious, sheltered children.

            “How will I explain to the children that John and Henry are married?”

            “Your great-grandmother wouldn’t understand, just leave it be”.

There comes a time when you get tired of your partner being referred to as your “friend” or that doosy; “special friend”. How naive do we think our olds are? They have seen a lot of change in their time; they know most “special friends” don’t spend every Christmas and family celebration together. They know most “special friends” don’t buy a house together in Daylesford. What we are all really doing is taking from our grandparents and elderly relatives the chance to speak their minds, to choose their own feelings. There are countless LGBTI supporters out there; parents, siblings and friends who once struggled with and even rejected that person close to them who first came out. It is risky business, to have your heart broken when a loved one takes the love away. It hurts because we care. It hurts because we spent our lives looking up to them, and we want them in our lives for as long as possible.

No doubt, it might backfire, but what if it doesn’t? I will humbly admit my own hypocrisy here, my family have no clue how or with whom I live my life, only my brothers and mum know I share my life with a woman; my wife. That’s all the more reason why I can’t let this one go...

My grandmother, Rosa, was a church-hating ex-Catholic. Born and raised in wartime Italy, she was a hard woman who often ruled our household with not so much an iron fist, but certainly an iron will. It was her way or the highway! Incidentally, I took the highway as soon as I could. We had a love-hate relationship fraught with many a butting of horns, but I confess we both kind of thrived on that. My one regret, one which will never be fulfilled, is that Rosa died before I had the chance to come out at all.

Rosa was the only one on our street, many moons ago, to befriend the gorgeous couple across the road. Long term partners, the two women went on to have a little boy, whom both Rosa and I would babysit. She treated them like her own family, and proudly spoke of them to family and friends. I will never forget how she referred to those girls as “De best lezbie in de world”.

Then there were the two boys next door, whom Rosa befriended in her usual way. She was genuinely devastated when they broke up, as if she was mourning the break-up of her own grandson. I know with all my heart that she would have embraced me. It would have been nothing like the time I told her I was moving to Japan; I thought I’d be cut-off then for sure! I remember her saying, after the fires cooled, that she was afraid because she thought I would never come back. Just like when she left Italy all those decades before, she knew we might never live on the same soil again. She was right.

I came back home after she had already lost her fight with life (and what a fight that was!) and she never had the chance to be my biggest supporter, my most vocal advocate...She never got to call me and my wife “De best lezbie in de world”.

2012: The Destined Self

Is there a parallel universe out there? One in which we made all the right turns and followed through on all our decisions? Is there a version of ourselves, complete and whole, for whom regret is a sensation unknown?

I like to imagine there is, and that evolved and perfect person, we can call her destiny. Flashes of clarity, intense dreams, deja vu; perhaps these are all moments in which the inescapable truth of destiny has broken through. Like shards of light on a thickly clouded day, she makes her truth known in sometimes subtle ways.

There are many ways in which we try to gain access to our destined selves; drugs, alcohol, travel, adrenaline rushes. But the drugs wear off and create even greater distance to our destined selves. The alcohol blurs the line between the selves, and travel can ignite the spark which makes us chase the destined self forever.

Solitude. To open the portals to our destined selves we must find solitude. Moments in which there is silence, enough to stop the mindless chatter and open up dialogue with our destined selves, that person you so rarely speak with or listen to. You never email them or write. You never call them. You just wait for them to call you. But the destined self gets tired of waiting around, waiting until you call. Then one day you finally muster up the courage to call your destined self, in one of those brave dashes of desperation to live to your true spirit. But she's not home. You were too late, call back later.

Your two selves continue to co-exist, parallel stories, overlaying in parts like a choose-your-own-adventure book. Your destined self was living your destined life all along. She was just waiting for you to find the break in the page, the right pause between words, courage between the falls...to slip into the gaps of your consciousness and into the rhythm of your soul.

I give my pen now to my destined self and let her be the author of the story of my life. Who is writing your story?

Only in silence can I hear my heart speak. It whispers through the trees, brushes gently over my skin, calls to me in subtle and gentle ways. Only in silence can I quiet the screams.

 

Happy New Year.

The Conscience of a Nation

Here we are, 2011, a secular and seemingly progressive nation, and still we must fight for the right to marry. Those who do not care see it as a “gay issue”, those who do insist it is a basic human rights issue. One thing which remains blurred is the line between religion and marriage. Why is this so? We are living in a secular society in Australia, state and religion removed. This makes sense, as we are a nation made of many religions, cultures and communities, thus there would never be one god’s law which could accommodate the others. The GLBTI community extends to and includes parents, siblings, children, friends, pastors and ministers of parliament all of whom form part of the fabric of a community. There is no such thing as a “gay issue”, any more than there are “straight issues”. We all must abide by the same laws, and there are no gay laws after all.  

Our present Marriage Act 1961 is a document written by the hand of a living, breathing human. The Marriage Act is a document like any other, not a commandment passed down from a god. No, it is a product of a society which felt it reflected the values and appropriate model of its era. Times have changed, as they do and always will. We have the power to put pen to paper and re-write, edit and update this document to reflect the times in which we live.

Changes have been made time again over decades which saw the need to update the model of marriage as a legally binding agreement. The marriageable age, dissolution of marriage and the allowing of civil celebrants to conduct ceremonies; the latter being updated in the Marriage Amendment Act 2002 to reflect a surge in the use of civil celebrants. All these additions and amendments have been made to reflect changing times, yet those who oppose same-sex marriage still insist that the institution of marriage as it stands needs to be protected and we do not have the right to change it. Do we not? Tell me please, that we do not live in a country whereby our laws are not able to be amended to reflect our growth, our maturity, and our changing needs? This sounds dangerous to me.

Honourable Prime Minister Julia Gillard, when this conscience vote you have oh so mercifully and passively allowed fails, tell me on whose conscience the inequality of our citizens will rest? Ms Gillard, explain to me why same-sex partners cannot have the choice to marry or to remain de facto as you yourself have been able to choose? Explain to me now, why it is that our government so enthusiastically taxes us equally, yet cannot celebrate us quite so passionately? More importantly, why Prime Minister, is an educated, agnostic leader as yourself still pandering to those who believe that our laws, bills and policies are the work of a Christian God, not your own predecessors?

I would like to think the Marriage Act is like a patchwork quilt which over time will be added to; as it grows we will look back over it, reading its story and weaving our new threads into it. It will change as each generation has its say on which direction it will take. Let no one own love more than another.

     

December 4^th 2011

Bowls of Healing: Clay in Art Therapy 1

A couple of weeks ago I attended a workshop at Phoenix Institute run by Atira Lydia Tan, who founded The Art2Healing Project; a Creative Art Therapy grassroots organisation working particularly with women in Asia. Much of their project work is focused on empowering women who have been rescued from the sex trafficking trade. They teach yoga and meditation programs to empower women to bring healing into their own communities. The session was inspirational. I took so  much away from this, not the least the reinforcement of the idea that whether we are teachers, therapists or mentors the basic responsibility is not in the teaching itself but in what is left behind after the teacher departs. Resources, empowerment...

“Give a man a fish; you have fed him for today. Teach a man to fish; and you have fed him for a lifetime”

Whether you are of the belief the above quote comes from a Chinese proverb or the Bible, it still rings true of what I mean. A good teacher does not control what is learned, simply dishing it out in portion controlled parcels as they choose. Just like when teachers at school used to tell you to "Look it up in the dictionary" if you wanted to know how to spell something, there was intention in that kind of teaching. Irritating as it was, particularly when you didn't have a clue where to start, it taught me personally that the power to learn was within me and the resources were there for me to access. Therapists likewise facilitate the accessing of one's own personal resources. In my opinon, anyone claiming to know you better than you know yourself is a charlatan. A well paid one.

“The teacher who is indeed wise does not bid you to enter the house of his wisdom but rather leads you to the threshold of your mind.”

This one was Khalil Gibran, who runs rings aroung some of the weird shit Jesus said. So, back to EMPOWERMENT and The Art2Healing Project. Atira told a story of working with clay with a group of teens rescued from the sex trade in Nepal, and how they would spend their time making little bowls. Bowl after bowl, they would form these containers with lids, write little notes and place them in, sealing in their most private thoughts. Those little vessels were the safe container for their innermost fears and sadness. Things like "I miss my mother" and others perhaps never revealed... Such a powerful healing process. I imagined the possibilites of firing these little containers in a kiln and visualised the release of the burning away of the letters.  It got me thinking in my studies of transpersonal art therapy, ways in which containment and release of wounds, guilt, fears and feelings can heal. Writing your fears in an envelope and sealing them is an immediately accessible way to do this too. It might be before a meeting, a job interview, any kind of undertaking which causes some anxiety or fear. Think: "What am I afraid of?". Write it, seal it, and put it away. Once the event is over, look back over it. When I have done this I have found it amusing how over inflated my own fears were, and gave me a sense that I had more personal strength than I may have given myself credit for.

Art therapist Pat Allen says "Art is a way of knowing". This is know; All That I Have To Learn is Within Me. This is my mantra. I just forget it sometimes. I might put a reminder in my phone...

The Art2Healing Project:

http://www.theart2healingproject.org/

Phoenix Institute of Australia

http://www.phoenixinstitute.com.au/index.html

Born To Scribble: My Art is my Word

Sunshowers, hailstorms, rainbows...Nature puts on quite a show for us in September, and I love nothing more than to view it from the box seat of my back deck, out onto the stage of my garden below here in Daylesford.

Last week Cecile and I went to visit Heide, the place where I had asked her to bind our love together with a commitment ceremony and where we now came to mark the year and one day later on which we had promised to renew the vows we made. It was a beautiful warm spring day, as we emerged from our hibernation to bask in all the potential which lies ahead at this time of the year. Blossoms have us ponder the brevity of this moment; daffodils illuminate all around. Anything seems possible in springtime.

The exhibition Born To Concrete was the standout this visit to Heide. Showcasing the works of the Concrete Poetry movement from the 60's, it was a reminder of the relevance of poetry and the written word as an art form. As a young and eager student of Fine Art in the 90's, I struggled creatively with the written word. Words dominated my life from a young age, and I left that degree still feeling a bit frustrated at what I felt was a lack of consolidation of my use of text within my art.

Here I am, years later, still writing and scribbling words straight from my heart. Even when I stopped drawing or printmaking, I never stopped writing in one way or another. Born to Concrete reminded me once again that the truth is;  THE WORDS ARE MY ART.

Checkout Born to Concrete at HeideMOMA, til Sept 25th. http://www.heide.com.au/

Thanks to National Poetry Week for the inspiration.

Guys like this at Overload Poetry bring the Art of the Words out in the open and all over, where it belongs: http://overloadpoetry.org/

THESE WORDS

ARE MY VESSEL

THEY CARRY

IN THEIR

LEAKY ARMS

MY LIFE

MY VOICE

MY SHAME

MY HOPE

The words will write themselves
either way.

Journal Sketches; Self Portrait as a Chair.
My beautiful Cecile began this project and I did one each day for 10 days.
Such a great daily journal project; and I found myself using words
in many of these sketches.

Travelling Poetry; Words are Prayers

Words are prayers I carry in my heart, rarely sharing them. Until now.
I travel with my eyes open and a notebook handy. The seasons, the trees, the breeze...I write my prayers upon them.
I live this way in still, untravelling moments too. Living in Daylesford, Australia bring the blessings of a rush of unwritten and half uttered words to my daily life. This month has seen the Words in Winter festival celebrate that art of wordsmithing, and I love that this town gets on board. To honour this I am peeling back the cover of my modesty and sharing some mumblings.

Hanging high from bare branches

The skin of old trees

Wait for time to break their fall

Winter day in Daylesford, VIC 

this place has not

forgotten

about colours

no urban palettes

of grey or coal

char

and coal

this place is not

afraid

of colours

Nimbin and Uki, NSW

Verdant

         Ripe

                     Fecund

And the rain...

Mullumbimby, NSW

Dreaming of temples

Hidden in the hills

A falling leaf...

Winter in the arms

of the trees

The warm smell

of incense

In the

cool air...

Missing Nara...

First snow, Nara

Travelling Spirituality

Part of my interest in starting up this blog is to share experiences of the places and ways in which travellers (of the land or astral kind) have encountered spirituality.
It might have been on a pilgrimage trail, or a chance encounter with a spiritual teacher. Perhaps you had a vision.

Walking a local trail in Nara, Japan a few years ago I found this guy. I asked for some guidance, gave him a tip and took a snap which now embodies my idea of spirituality on the road. It pops up in the strangest of places and often when you least expect it.

Nara, Japan

Niigatsudo, Nara.

In 2008 I made my way to the Thaipusam Hindu festival in Kuala Lumpur. This for me marked a long journey after a backpacking trip which took an unexpected turn after a friend survived a near fatal motorbike accident, resulting in an amputation. By the time I got to KL I was emotionally raw. Witnessing the devotion of hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who went to physically challenging extremes, piercing skin and flesh with metal and carrying burdensome loads, tongues ablaze, all for the devotion of their lord. It was awe-inspiring and left me carrying the burden of my own emptiness after such an emotionally draining few months.
   I was grieving the recent death of a grandmother who had raised me and feeling the gap left after my friend returned home to recover, in fewer pieces than he had begun. I had given myself to his caring, and now the loss of this left a hole I needed to fill, beginning with the caring of myself, of my soul.

Thaipusam made me question the lengths I was prepared to go to myself, in order to test my faith...I still ask myself this and am yet to find the answer. Perhaps the answer is in the journey itself.

The devotees pinnacle; Batu Caves

Trance states make for thirsty souls

We came to know, we leave to remember...