Knowing
And knowing that we know
I was intending to write something light and whimsical this week — a little taster of my ponderings on the collective Kiwi identity, and our mystical little place at the bottom of the globe. Something knowledgeable, clever, and witty.
When I opened my laptop on Monday morning, I immediately realised this wasn’t the week for that. It’s been a heavy and tragic week in our corner of the globe, and a heavy week for our big brother across the ditch. We Kiwis and Aussies like to rib each other — a kind of sibling play-fighting — but when they hurt, we hurt too.
The name Bondi has always been synonymous with golden sands, surf, and sun-drenched happy crowds enjoying incredible natural beauty. Bondi will now sadly carry a different memory, especially for those who were there last Sunday evening. Arohanui from us across the Tasman Sea to the Bondi community, the local Jewish communities, to Sydneysiders, and to all of Australia.
I’ve tried to stay away from the news this week, because I know I’ll find it hard to see what has unfolded. It’s tragic and heart-wrenching. It’s hard to make sense of how and why something like this could happen. We’ve heard of some heroes — the brave souls who ran towards the danger. They’ve been honoured and celebrated, but they should never have had to do what they did. We know deep in our bones this isn’t right.
Deep in our bones. In our gut. This shouldn’t happen. We don’t need words for that. We just know.
Ultimately, words have failed me this week. Perhaps that’s the point. Sometimes no words are sufficient — and sitting in silence, simply feeling what we feel, noticing what is there, and what our deep gut-wisdom is trying to say, is enough. Sometimes clever words get in the way of that. Sometimes Divine wisdom is found not in the many words, but in the silence. Not in all the doing, but in the deliberate pauses in between — in stillness.
It’s not easy this time of year; we’ve made Christmas so busy. But we’re remembering a child born in the margins — in a rural backwater, in poverty, among dirty and smelly farm animals — and only low-caste shepherds noticed. In the quiet, the Divine broke into human history.
Whatever your beliefs are, I’d encourage you to find time to just pause, and sit. For as long as you’re able.
Notice what you can see — random things you mightn’t have otherwise noticed.
What can you hear — things near and far?
What can you smell? Notice.
Notice the feel of the ground beneath you, your seat holding you, the fabric of your clothes on your skin, the breeze on your cheek.
These things are miracles. They are gifts to receive. May they, even for a moment, cancel out some of the noise of our world and bring you peace. Arohanui.
