Going for a spin on the dance floor at home

I am at my desk. It butts up against a wall, with a window, that looks directly onto the fence separating our small townhouse from the neighbour's. A tall hedge peers over the top, its branches watching intently as my fingers hover above the keyboard.

To my right is our TV. Celena has come home after her shift at the library and chosen a playlist from one of the many options on Apple TV. A song by Sia has just finished. Beyond the tv is a narrow window, bisceted by cream slats. Through that window, I can see the six, spinning colours of a whirly-gig. They rotate in the late afternoon breeze - red, green, purple, yellow, orange and blue - dancing to the music of Sean Mendes. "I know I can treat you better than he can..."

At my left, alongside the open laptop, is a pile of books, some writing journals, a set of headphones, a Bible. Disrupting the scene is an open train timetable, listing the many journeys to and from our local station at Wellington Point, to destinations in Brisbane and beyond.

This insight into domesticity is shared because, for too long, I have been unable to appreciate what it means to be home. Last weekend, I was in Hervey Bay for work. Tomorrow, I will be on the road, speaking at several Masses in different locations. My week is filled with appointments, extra-curricular activities such as squash and networking and the commute to and from a place of employment that is fulfilling, but also demanding. This is not a complaint - it is the lot of many of us, as we look to navigate across the waves of work, family and social responsibility, in the ocean of life.

Sometimes, we - or maybe I should avoid the collective pronoun and start to acknowledge the truth for what it is - I need to stop and realise that no amount of running around is going to provide the peace and tranquility I am looking for inside. We - sorry, I - can expend so much energy beyond these windows that I forget that, maybe, just maybe, whatever I'm looking for is here in this room?

In a few hours, some friends will gather for a business meeting. I won't be joining them. Part of me feels a bit sad that won't be the case. But another part of me is glad that I can realise that I don't want to explore the world beyond the windows tonight. I want to watch as the sun sets and those spinning colours fade to black. I want to sip a beer and dance with my wife, to her chosen playlist. 

Enjoy your night folks! Regardless of whether you are outside your house, visiting someone else in their's, or staying put, like us, the world, unlike that whirly gig, will keep spinning. The time to step outside the door will come soon enough.  

 

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At the setting of the sun, it's time to be reminded of the ongoing battles around us

It is the night before ANZAC Day. Across Australia, those who have served in conflicts overseas, their loved ones and people who appreciate the efforts of the men and women in uniform are preparing for a multitude of events and ceremonies tomorrow. Each year, the news reports at the end of April 25 declare that the spirit of the ANZAC - a fierce and unwavering loyalty, a determination to succeed against the odds, a willingness to sacrifice for mates - is alive and well! The tradition, the headlines tell us the next day, continues.

As I type this, I am sitting in a motel room, just off a main road in Toowoomba. Tomorrow, I will attend a dawn service; later on, I will meet some new colleagues at a special ANZAC Day Mass downtown, before heading to Roma, where I will spend the rest of this public, almost spiritual, holiday. Tonight, however, my thoughts have turned to other battles that continue to be waged today.

I am spending the night catching up on some outstanding reading. The pile of literature includes several social justice statements, focusing on different issues, such as environmental sustainability; the exploitation of small-scale miners in a country like the Philippines; the challenges facing lowly paid or unskilled workers and the unemployed; and, finally, the emotional, psychological, physical and mental difficulties faced by those in prison, and those who love them.

To describe these issues as "battles" is not to downplay the harsh realities faced by our soldiers, sailors, pilots and others, who have fought and served overseas, in various wars and military actions. But as my reading reminds me, the above social plights do impact on those affected. Whether someone is behind bars or looking for work, tunneling deep underground in a Filipino mine or lobbying to protect the environment, there is a toll! The victims of these contemporary conflicts may not march, nor carry medals on their chest; but the challenges they face do leave scars!

Tomorrow morning, when I am listening to that poignant bugle blow, I will give thanks for people like my grandfather and a mate's older brother, among the many thousands, who have fought so that I can spend a night with my wife in a country motel. And I will also spare a thought for those who continue to fight today, both here and overseas, for rights and opportunities that we can so easily take for granted. Lest we forget, all that we have is a privilege!

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Love blossoms when we can bring 'Lili' to life

This is being written just after Celena and I have returned home from viewing The Danish Girl. A film loosely inspired by the lives of Danish artists Lili Elbe and Gerda Wegener, this film is deeply moving and inspiring. It captures the struggles of this couple as they come to realise that Einar Wegener, the husband in the relationship, wants to become a woman. As the movie unfolds, Lili comes to life, both literally and metaphorically, ultimately undergoing what was, for the era (the 1920s), groundbreaking transgender surgery.

By rights, this is not a movie I should have liked. The subject matter is quite foreign to me, dealing with matters and a struggle I have only encountered in perhaps one solitary relationship in my life...that I am aware of. And while I am sure the depiction on the big screen has been brought to life with a healthy dose of poetic license, I found myself strangely drawn to the turmoil of Einar and the loyalty displayed by his wife, Gerda.

Let me be clear: I am not intimating that I want to become a woman. But is it not possible that we all have an inner "Lili"? Don't each of us have something inside that needs to be given a voice, an inner truth that, no matter how much we try, cannot be suppressed or ignored? We may not need to dress it up in the clothes of the opposite sex, or undergo radical surgery to, finally, feel complete and whole but isn't there something crying out to be given expression?

Go to any gym and you see people wanting to sculpt their bodies. Enter any church or temple and you will find those with their eyes turned to the heavens, seeking divine intervention for some transformation in circumstances. Wander the campus of a university, the classrooms of a school, the corridors of a parliament - are these places not graced by individuals looking to advance in intellect and enquiry, hoping to give themselves a chance to make a difference in their life and the world at large?

Such comparisons are not to downplay the struggle of those who are undergoing a more personal journey or who may start out in one lifestyle but then feel compelled to enter another. Nor is it my intention to downplay the angst experienced by those forced to watch on, as this journey to wholeness unfolds. Part of the beauty of The Danish Girl is that it brings to light the sadness of Gerda, as she comes to terms with having to let go of the man she loved as her husband. For as Einar shares in one of many poignant moments between them: "I think Lily's thoughts, I dream her dreams. She was always there." 

In the end, I think the real power of The Danish Girl lies in its affirmation of the importance of self-sacrifice. We may very well have an inner flower that we want to see blossom but we also know that, sometimes, we have to make sacrifices for those we love, and those who love us. Gerda, knowing the cost, does more than just paint and sketch her husband dressed as Lili - she makes the ultimate sacrifice by letting go of Einar.

And in her doing that, Lili is able to profess a love that defies boundaries and labels and social mores. As she tells Gerda: "I love you, because you are the only person who made sense of me. And made me, possible."

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