It takes a lot of guts to get up and preach in a public space. Most people are rushing by, their heads variously full of tasks to be done. Or they are engrossed in whatever their hand is telling them, scrolling through news and social media.

I passed two men today in Penrith having a go at it - one a plaintive orator, the other with a clutch of pamphlets ready to hand out. They were doing a reasonable job under difficult circumstances, though I doubt that the message was getting across. People might be curious but they don't want to show it and dare not pause for fear that they will be unable to get away. Not every preacher is an Ancient Mariner, who 'stoppeth one in three', but who is going to risk it.

When I was a very young Christian I was involved in a street theatre group that developed short skits for performance. As a theatre studies student, I naturally was keen on having some input. Informed by readings from Esslin's 'Theatre of the Absurd', the theories of Sartre and Camus and the plays of Ionesco, Albee and Adamov, I set about arguing(most politely) for a micro-theatre that would reveal for an audience the utter meaninglessness of their lives. Into this fertile soil, one could then plausibly argue for  the need for God, creating meaning and purpose where before there had been none.

I can't remember how that went. I still think such an approach has a better chance of breaking through than straight out preaching to the secular crowd. But I'm often wrong. I salute those brave souls.

In the West we live in a society that pays homage to youth. Youth culture is pervasive - it is paid close attention to - and people strive to stay young by whatever means they can. I don't need to list all the cosmetic ways that this feat is attempted (even if the goal is ultimately defeated) nor the manner in which appeals to youthfulness carry endlessly positive promises for all who seek it out.

But that doesn't mean that young people, by virtue of their mastery of all things technological and a 'liberated' outlook possess wisdom or self-knowledge. It doesn't mean that they are mature, a process that usually develops through life's experiences, both good and bad. There have always been exceptions to this rule, of course, but you know what I mean.

It was fairly natural up till now to let competent adults run things and let young people get on with learning the ropes of life. It was a given that teenagers, in particular, went though developmental changes that affected their bodies and minds and consequently their feelings and opinions about themselves and the world. Further, that we should listen to them, acknowledge their feelings and then let them get on with the daily grind, knowing that odd or wayward feelings often reverted to the norm after a few months.

That was my experience as a school teacher when students would approach me (and other trusted teachers) in private to talk about their scary feelings about their bodies and emotions. I would listen, acknowledge what they were saying and tell them to sit with (ie. not push away) whatever was bothering them. 'Allow yourself to feel what you are feeling without any self-judgement,' I would add, and then see whether a few months passing made a difference.

All of these students self-righted themselves over time and went on to become mature adults. Today we are apparently facing a gender identity crisis with teen children and some who are even younger. My fear is that 'experts' are pushing them in a direction that they will deeply regret in the future. There is an abrogation of responsibility in this - allowing immature humans to make life-changing mature decisions.

I realise that whilst biological sex is determined, gender exists more on a spectrum. But the job of adults is to protect the young, not hand over the keys to everything, all at once. When I tell my wife about it, she rolls her eyes in disbelief, as if all foreigners are crazy.

When I last visited Thailand in 2017, the previous King (Rama IX) was lying in state in preparation for his funeral. Ann and I attended the Royal Palace to pay our respects.

On the occasion of our forthcoming trip to Thailand, the Queen Mother Sirikit has only just passed away. It seems like a strange circle of coincidence is now being closed with husband and wife reunited.

I am a little amazed at the fact that I have not been back in such a long time. After all, my mother-in-law lives there and most of Ann's closest relatives too. I have been constrained somewhat by looking after Tom and not having the time to go anywhere for more than a few days. This time it is a month in length, my longest sojourn from home since 2007, when we lived in Japan.

Perhaps we will get a chance to pay our respects to the late Queen. I would seem apt to me.

How hard is it to love your neighbour as yourself? How hard is it to love a neighbour who gives you a lot of grief? When asked in Matthew what was the greatest commandment, Jesus said that loving your neighbour was second only to loving God. In the hierarchy of things, that makes it both important and essential to the life of a Christian.

By neighbour, Jesus meant anyone other than yourself, not just a physical neighbourhood neighbour. And there were no caveats - your neighbour might be delightful or they might be ghastly (and everything in between) but you are still required to love them, as yourself. To love yourself does not imply any kind of narcissism, rather, the self-care and self-interest we afford ourselves, which is central to how we function.

I have a physical neighbour who has been a great source of anxiety and grief. It is very hard to think kindly of her and not remember the many unwarranted intrusions and accusations she has made upon us. Most recently we have all been Sent to Coventry without the slightest provocation. I don't mind the silence or the pointedly turned away head, but my job as a Christian is to love her.

It is hard, I tell you. Only by the grace of God can I achieve it. Only.

While I do attract attention to myself on occasions, sometimes even deliberately, I really don't like being the centre of attention on my birthday. It has nothing to do with growing older - I've felt this way since my teens - but more to do with the fact that I am rather self-conscious. Good observers of human behaviour will doubtless pick this up with little trouble if they spend some time with me. The ordinary Joe and Sharlene will shriek in disbelief.

Yesterday I had a shift for the Newcastle Herald at 2RPH which went very smoothly and was a lot of fun to read and announce. I only mentioned my nativity to one person at the studio and then in a perfectly natural context, but I did take the following shot of the computer monitor, set up for the program (left hand column) with a tell-tale top of the hour as a centrepiece. Just this sole obscure tribute to the day.

This year is an anniversary of sorts for this poor blog. I began Tatami Tales in August of 2005, probably for no other reason than I could. I had kept a couple of conventional diaries in the past, both of which had petered out after a year or two. A blog gave me the opportunity to type text (which I prefer), cut and paste, insert diagrams or images and edit at will.

I think when it all began I was far more political in my commentary. These days, whilst still a political creature, I have a broader scope for writing. Probably this blog is now more literary, more religious and more focussed on my actual life.

Will I continue for another twenty years? Will I still be alive? I think its best that I focus on getting through the next five years. After all, I failed my eye test for my driver's license renewal this afternoon and must now wear glasses. The day was coming, I knew it. But its arrival is always a little sad.

 When Whose Shall Those Things Be

Oh what is earth, that we should build

Our houses here, and seek concealed

Poor treasure, and add field to field,

And heap to heap, and store to store,

Still grasping more and seeking more,

While step by step Death nears the door.

C. Rossetti

I certainly couldn't have put it better myself. I wouldn't even try. You might think it a little grim, but materialism and greed are wrecking the planet. They are also destroying peoples lives on so many levels - friendships, marriages, community and so forth. Terrible crimes are committed in pursuit of money. Nothing is sacred. 

Money is not inherently bad in itself but the idolisation of it, is. Consumer capitalism creates many false gods, all clamouring for a bent knee at their wretched altars. Have a look around if you don't believe me. Social media, old fashioned newspapers, television, things that pop up unwanted on your phone - of course I could go on and on - the material in its many guises is always on show.

Rossetti's poem was written in the mid-19th century. Whatever would she make of the world today?

 By any measure, the decision to hold a 'martyrs' rally in Bankstown on Tuesday was inappropriate. Choosing the anniversary of the slaughter of October 7 to commemorate another opposing cause showed a total disregard for human feeling.

No matter what side you take in the Gaza conflict, or no side at all, it is clear how wrong such a gathering was. Choose any other day of the year and there is no problem. But choosing that day was wicked indeed.

Wind

Last night I dreamt again,

Awoke to find the house

Shuddering, windows

Alive in their frames,

The whole a stew of

Unanchored sound,

There was barely a periphery

Between wind and tree,

Or where the raven sky

was bound, All was

Unfeatured, just the

Carcass yowling, the

Whined insistent whittling-

Its sinew-assaulting cry,

The plum set to fall,

And a dull delirious 

howling.

After church this morning Ann and I did a bushwalk into Sassafras Gully, beginning in Faulconbridge and concluding, in one iteration, at Springwood. This is the Victory Track and it winds in an unassuming though fairly typical way down to the valley floor, crossing a trickling creek and many creek beds, numerous times. The lack of rain was evident in the slow flows in the gully and underwhelming force of the waterfalls. Clarinda Falls was barely a dribble though still very pretty.

The walk is somewhat chaotic in parts, with a huge number of fallen trees, and signage that was either smashed or absent. Doubtless this will all be rectified in the fullness of time. But it meant that we were often wondering which track intersection led where or how we might eventually get ourselves out on the Springwood side. Fortunately all went well with only one wrong turn.

Now I have relocated my 'How to See the Blue Mountains' by Jim Smith (long out of print) I hope that we can do many more walks, including redoing all the ones I did when I first moved here 30 years ago. Jim's hand-drawn maps are as good as they get, better in my estimation to the fancy ones online.

 Most nights I read a poem or two from my anthology of poems by Christina Rossetti, whom I have written about before in these pages. Rossetti's concerns and their expression don't sit all that well with the modern secular reader but they are beautiful and heartfelt nonetheless. The verse below, A Vain Shadow, while it seems to be a stand-alone work, is actually part of a longer series of pieces, 'The Face of the Deep: A Devotional Commentary on the Apocalypse.' 

A Vain Shadow

The world, - what a world, ah me!

Mouldy, worm-eaten, grey:

Vain as a leaf from a tree,

As a fading day,

As veriest vanity,

As the froth and the spray

Of the hollow-billowed sea,

As what was and shall not be,

As what is and passes away.

The poem references The Book of Revelation, the last book in the New Testament. I won't get into the deeper meanings of the lines here, but rather draw attention to just how wonderfully crafted they are. There is a world of experience and skill in Rossetti's work. Notice the repetition of 'as' as a line opening, lending a sense of inevitability the world that is but 'a vain shadow' Sometimes I read her poems and marvel at how articulate she is in ways that seem effortless, but which are not.

I suspect I would love to have had a conversation with her, or even been counted as a friend.

In the list of unpleasant things ones can experience, but not top of the list by any means, is a difficult neighbour. In my case, this is a person who makes unfair or unreasonable demands, who minds your business in an intrusive manner, can be quite rude and dismissive, and who sends you to Coventry for things they have done themselves.

Doubtless there is a possibility of some mental illness or cognitive impairment (though we all have these to a greater of lesser extent) and this should make one compassionate. As a Christian I know only too well from Scripture that it is easy to love a neighbour who is kind and likeable, but difficult to do the same for someone who is, well, sometimes unpleasant. But I must try. It isn't an option.

'To love your neighbour as you love yourself' is a command.

 Hazelbrook, while it is busier and noisier than once it was, still maintains many of the comforting rhythms of a semi-urban town that make it a desirable place to live. Mowers hum, hammers thump, dogs bark while acres and acres of trees sway and bustle with birds. Trains depart hourly for the city ('pent cloisters dim') and folks must head into the distance if they want more than the local shops can provide. There are joggers, but mostly walkers and the night is very dark and still.

But I confess, it has changed in some key ways over thirty years, with sirens an everyday feature on the highway, a greater volume of traffic and a changing population. There are more 'city-folk' ( I was once one of those) who are seeking a cheaper buy and a different lifestyle. Sydney is a relentless place. Nice to visit but...

So living here you might look outside and in the near vicinity and think you are in a bit of a bucolic paradise. But turn on the radio, TV or any news media site, and the mood is decidedly gloomy. Wars, rumours of wars, awful murders, dreadful behaviours, incomprehensible human conduct - one could go on. The case for turning it all off forever is strong indeed, if the discipline is there, if the temptation is avoided. An old university friend whom I lost contact with over ten years ago once said, in response to my shying away from terrible news,

'David, I watch the news because if I am going to be killed by something I want to know all about it.'

I used to agree but now I am not so sure. I have my faith, which is an extraordinary bolster to negative news. It doesn't mean I don't worry or get anxious - I do - but I also have a powerful refuge.

I have always been fond of Shakespeare's plays and sonnets. It goes back to Year 10 (then Fourth Form), when my English class studied Macbeth. Being brim full of witches, murder and revenge, it is a good play for adolescents to study as an entry point to the Bard. We read King Lear and Hamlet in senior years and then at university, another swag of his works. Later on I taught them myself, a challenge, I can assure you.

The following sign was allegedly posted on an academic's door, presumably one teaching in the humanities. If you know Hamlet, then it is quite witty. But if you don't, then it will pass you by without a titter. I wonder if folks will have a laugh at such references in 50 years time, or will this kind of humour become the preserve of a tiny minority.

Though I swoop, yet I love,

For you below, me above,

I am a guardian of the young,

Do not expect a sparrow,

Or a dove,

Or any lesser bird than I,

I am behind you now,

Or can't you see,

My instincts are

your enemy.

The magpies are in full diving mode now. Both of my regular routes to the local shops have at least one bird on guard duty. And both birds are in a swooping mood.

Of course, one is inclined to be cross with them. I turn, frown, sometimes shake my fist. Other times I engage in a lively contre temps, though these magpies are remarkably quiet. They have no time to warble.

I often wonder that they don't chat to the local birds in my garden to find out what a nice chap I am. I am not sure, however, that they are on speaking terms!

On Thursday night a small group from our choir, a Mini-Moo, if you like, performed a one song at the Good Earth Bookshop in Wentworth Falls. We were taking part in a 'music expo' for adult learners, essentially, a taster for anyone interested in participating in music events and groups of one sort or another, with the possible view to taking up a new activity.

The bookshop, nestled in an arcade in the middle of the main street, is a cosy venue for such an event. An audience of maybe 30 people would fit with little trouble. I think it's great to have such venues and occasions in our midst, building on the skills of the local community and encouraging wider participation.

Still, it's unusual to turn up for a single song, but it was only a sampler. I am having a think about joining a recorder group, particularly as this opens up some sweet medieval tunes. 

Today, the first swoop of the Magpie Season! It wasn't a full-feathered, beak-snapping swoop - rather, a kind of flyby, more of a warning than anything else, a 'keep-out' notice, if you like. I happened to have an umbrella with me, the day being unsettled, and I raised it in protest at the bird's impudence.

Of course, the poor magpie is only doing what nature has instructed it - protect the newly born in the nearby nest - so I shouldn't quibble with such a noble parental instinct. No magpie that I know of has smoked weed, gotten drunk, shot through or otherwise acted against the interests of the hatchling. That dubious honour is reserved for another species.

So well-done, you vicious bird, on doing your duty!

 Last night Ann nudged me awake at about 4.45. She wanted to look at the total eclipse of the moon, which I think was scheduled to begin at 4am. Alas we were a little late for totality. A small sliver of the moon was passing out of the Earths shadow, though the overall effect was still mighty impressive.

Total eclipses are quite rare, though Australia gets another go in March of next year. I was asked why there aren't eclipses every month as the moon passes behind the Earth relative to the Sun. Just because I host an astronomy program doesn't mean I can answer such questions, but this one I could.

It is a good question, but one that you can probably guess at. If the Moon's orbital plane was identical to the Earth's orbital plane around the Sun, then we would likely get those monthly total eclipses. But the Moon's plane is tilted by about 5 degrees relative to the Earths, so during a full Moon (another condition), our faithful satellite passes above or below the Earth's shadow, rather than through it. An eclipse only occurs when the Sun, Earth and Moon are perfectly aligned. Which is fairly rare.

I wrote a poem about a previous totality some years ago, called 'Totality'. I reprint it here for your scathing critiques.

Totality

Coatless I gaze

In sullen cold,

A lingering Scorpion

Above my head, a

Wide moon in the fold,

And the every-angled heavens,

Ablaze.

A night to be bold, sure,

Though few could tell,

How solid ground conspired,

To throw terrestrial shade –

The inching darkness,

First a fingernail,

Then a thumbprint

Made,

The ancient glimmering dust,

A reddening pale,

That hangs and floats and howls

To be itself again –

A catcher of dreams

And ark of night.

 

Beyond the trail

Of stars and dust,

The shrouding rust

Declines and fades,

Leaving the porcelain face

Unchanged,

Small mercies, perhaps,

Thinking of how things must go,

Thought a billion years of light

Remains.

When I taught in Japan, questions about the weather were par for the course. It's a natural bridge into more complex topics and the Japanese love talking about it anyway, because the seasons (and their weather patterns) inform their culture at a deep level.

Every March or April, as we headed into yet another Japanese spring, the weather chat would take a slight segue, because the temperatures tended to move around quite a lot. The idiom, 'three days cool, four days warm' would crop up unbidden time and again, it being one of those things that every Japanese would have heard as a kid. And yes, there was often a few days of cool weather followed by a slightly longer period of warm weather, so anecdotally, there was some truth to the saying. But I'm not a weatherman.

Songs titles and lyrics invariably reference the months and seasons as emblems of something else. Of course, most of these songs follow Northern Hemisphere seasons, so 'November Rain' has a different connotation down on the bottom of the world, these being the beginning of winter and summer respectively. But it doesn't always follow that the wet and cold is a time of misery, nor that the summer is unbridled joy.

I have written quite a few poems about autumn (spring in the north) and, try as I might, find it hard to escape from the 'season of decrease' narrative. It seems to work well with the way I think. I don't do joy very well.

Pianist 

(for Annie)

I imagine I'm not there,

But sitting by a radio,

Waiting as the audience -

All murmur and shuffle,

Impatient for the next-

Endlessly demurs.

While you, unobserved,

Mount an adjacent stair,

Settle finally on the stool,

And blithely begin

A different story,

And every eye, and every ear,

Is taken in by

This moment redefined,

That stops the prattle,

And unstops the mind -

You, unassuming 

In punkish attire,

Play into the keys, 

Innocent, unaware, 

Of the bright fire 

Blooming.