Words From The Edge

It’s been windy here and a bird’s nest lay among the stripy rock fragments and weed that fringed the back veranda. It’s a work of art – hundreds of carefully chosen twigs, plant fibre, a couple of leaves and lots of pine needles, all snugly woven and tucked together. I see soft white fluff from Yoko, our wildly fluffy cat, one long blue thread for a creative touch of colour and something green and spikey draped loosely across one side.

There’s something beautiful about all the pine needles standing higgledy-piggledy around the softly curved rim. It might look a bit ‘not-neat’, but not so long ago it was safe home for a family of baby birds. Whether it’s birds or people, home matters.

There’s something nest-like about home. Maybe it’s the curve. Even though the buildings we live in are generally angular, we like to think of home as somewhere comfortable, with cushions and sofas, sprawling bean bags and beds with soft pillows. Whether we live in a stand-alone house or an apartment block, it’s such a satisfying feeling to open the front door and close it behind you.  You’re home!

It’s not quite the same if you live in a share-house. Most young Australians grow up with an expectation of home ownership, so a bedroom in a share house is looked upon as one step on the way. The trouble is we get older and there comes a time when a much loved home may become too big, and often too lonely, and the future lies in a retirement village or a bedroom in a nursing home. As an elderly woman said recently: “I might live in it but don’t ever call it my home”.

On a 2008 trip to the UK I spent a day in East-Coker, a picture-postcard village in Somerset, doing a bit of family research. Along with thatched cottages, quiet laneways and a village pub I photographed these alms-houses and the accompanying billboard.

There’s nothing new about plagues, and I have a link to this 1645 plague outbreak. In 1640 Archdeacon Helyar began building this row of alms-houses for the poor of East Coker. Well before they were finished seventy villagers died of the plague and ever since then the alms-houses have been seen as a practical remembrance of that outbreak. In 1840, two hundred years later, my great-great- grandfather Elias Helyar and his family left Somerset in 1840 and settled in Melbourne.

Elias’ link with this earlier Helyar is tenuous but family tradition has always made a connection. I like to think that my (maybe) clergyman ancestor was not only living out Jesus’ teaching  to feed the hungry and house the homeless, but was ahead of his time in providing good homes for those 11 women and 1 man, and all who followed them. Those alms-houses are still lived in.

There will be an after for this modern plague and how that plays out will be in the hands of women and men a lot younger than me. If I could be an influencer I would suggest affordable housing, with space for children’s play and a garden, the kind of house that becomes a home.  

Judith Scully

Now and again, ever since Easter, a kangaroo has been spending time in our back garden. It’s a big eastern grey and I have no idea where he or she spends the rest of the time. It looks quite comfortable sprawled across the weed that from a distance could pass for grass, until I come outside when it gets up, has a look and decides that I’m not a threat. One of my small joys.

Talking of threats, I began this post with my kangaroo story because after a break of several months I did not want to start with the threat that has become part of our lives. Wherever you live, whether you are in lockdown like me or free to move around but keeping your distance all the same, it’s something we share – the fear, boredom, frustration, insecurity, sorrow, insecurity and  vulnerability that comes with Covid-19.

I can’t recall a time when I’ve felt more hopeless. Personally, it’s not my pain, but it’s a pain that seems to have the whole world in its grip. The pandemic is still spreading all over the world. Parents working from home, or not able to work at all, their children struggling with emotions that lock-down unlocks. One after the other there are fires, floods and earthquake. I cannot begin to imagine the hopelessness of a situation that leaves you homeless and maybe destitute.

The dreams of thousands of Afghanistan women and girls have been shattered, the citizens of Hong Kong who face an undemocratic future, while here in parts of Australia Year 12s and Grade 6 students have lost the anticipation that usually accompanies the celebration of the rites of passage that mark the end of an important stage of life.  

In so-called normal times I can hide from all that – visiting friends, family birthdays, dressing up for dinner at a restaurant, a stage play, a picnic a or a trip to touristy country town, shopping, a barbeque. Escapism it’s called. Now I can’t get away from the tragedy that dominates the daily bulletins and news broadcasts. The pain of the world keeps sneaking into my everyday and I can’t fix any of it.

It’s little things that feed my hope. Like a sunny morning, a cheery message popping up on my phone, the wattle trees that punctuate the road to the nearest supermarket, reading another chapter of Olive, Again, by Elizabeth Strout, my newest favourite novelist. The only person they are fixing is m, but I need compassion too.

 I’m not sure about the theological veracity of what I’m going to say next, but it seems to me that by acknowledging my inability to do anything practical to alleviate the pain and suffering that touches me, that’s prayer. It doesn’t need words put around it. It’s a living- out of the communion of saints that we say we believe in every time we parrot the Creed. Compassion is like sound waves, only more so. It reaches out and in to where and when it is needed. I know, that’s not scientific, but God-stuff overrides all that! I hope.

Judith

judith@judithscully.com.au