It's early, and, God bless the kookabura outside. He got up at 4:30 to say good bye to me. I'm leaving Australia this morning, for a while at least. Provided that the PotUS and his security detail, and their 'fans' (and by fans, here I mean crazy people hell-bent on disrupting life for earth people by rioting at the APEC conference) don't decide that this morning would be happy fun time to have an airport clogging riot.
Australia. Thank you. It has been a great year. You have, for the most part, wonderful citizens and inhabitants. You are blessed with beauty beyond what I had imagined. Far beyond. I will return. Soon, Inshallah. Soon.
So there you go. It's early. I may post a couple more pics from this last New Zealand trip, because I got some good ones.
Now. I go to enter my time machine. You see, I arrive in the states before I leave Australia...
Friday, September 7, 2007
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Breaking of the Fellowship
This weekend, Tertianship officially ends.
Most of us are kicking around for a week or two before heading back to our points of origin, but it's really all over but the crying.
And I might, a little. This has been one of the best years of my life, period. So as you might imagine I'm not anxious to see it end.
We have had a remarkable group of men. We have had incredible experiences, both together and separately. We have lived and made a community and, as they say here, 'a fair go' of it.
And now it's over. One is going back to editing a magazine in Italy. Another is becoming part of the faculty of the theology school in Frankfurt. A school chaplain in Berlin. A pastor in Winnipeg. The JSTB gets its liturgy professor back. A Swiss retreat house will see its director again soon. A new high school principle for Northern Poland and a returning vocations director for Southern Poland. A Korean missionary in Cambodia. One is returning to the classroom for his Masters in Fine Arts. The CPE Supervisor is returning to training people. And one is becoming president of a theology center.
But I think we'll carry each other for quite a while. We've really impacted one another. That is for certain. And I'm pretty sad that it's ending. It is the nature of the both my life and this year though, that the good things don't last long. So I have tried to drink deeply while the tap has been on.
My own adventures will continue on here. Despite the breaking of the Fellowship.
"Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end
of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace!
I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil."
Most of us are kicking around for a week or two before heading back to our points of origin, but it's really all over but the crying.
And I might, a little. This has been one of the best years of my life, period. So as you might imagine I'm not anxious to see it end.
We have had a remarkable group of men. We have had incredible experiences, both together and separately. We have lived and made a community and, as they say here, 'a fair go' of it.
And now it's over. One is going back to editing a magazine in Italy. Another is becoming part of the faculty of the theology school in Frankfurt. A school chaplain in Berlin. A pastor in Winnipeg. The JSTB gets its liturgy professor back. A Swiss retreat house will see its director again soon. A new high school principle for Northern Poland and a returning vocations director for Southern Poland. A Korean missionary in Cambodia. One is returning to the classroom for his Masters in Fine Arts. The CPE Supervisor is returning to training people. And one is becoming president of a theology center.
But I think we'll carry each other for quite a while. We've really impacted one another. That is for certain. And I'm pretty sad that it's ending. It is the nature of the both my life and this year though, that the good things don't last long. So I have tried to drink deeply while the tap has been on.
My own adventures will continue on here. Despite the breaking of the Fellowship.
"Well, here at last, dear friends, on the shores of the Sea comes the end
of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace!
I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil."
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Say What You Want...
...but you can't say I didn't see Sydney.
You can't say this because I ran in the City2Surf run in Sydney yesterday. It's a 14k run with 65,000 participants. It is HUGE and madness, but it is madness that is exceptionally well organized and run. Registration was a breeze, and all you really had to do was show up at the start with your pre-mailed number pinned to your chest.
The atmosphere was very Circus Maximus. As I waited at the start with all of my friends, I was astounded by the wide variety of people who showed up for the event. There was a guy next to me with his five kids who was leading them on the run/walk. There was an early twenty-something couple who were waaaay into PDAs (Public Displays of Affection, for those of who have never taught high school) for the rest of us to be comfortable with. A group of people in grass skirts and leis running. I saw Hugh Hefner with a group of bunnies lined up at the start (I'm not sure about the wisdom of running in silk smoking jacket, though, seems like it might be hard on the silk.) Teams and single runners, everyone was there. I was lined up in front of the Australian Museum probably 500m from the starting line. The race started with a gun for 'preferred racers' at 9am, then the people who have run the race before with certain times at 910am, then us unwashed masses at 920am and finally, the Soul/Back of the Pack entertainment runners.
The weather was simply gorgeous, if a little warm for the race itself, very spring like, but a little too warm for running even at 9am.
If you look at this map, you will see the route of the race, the following section references the map a couple times.
Some things guaranteed to make a better race:
1) There were live bands all along the route. From jazz quartets to a bagpiper, there were all there. The highlight here was at about the 4km mark near Manning Street on that map. As I came down a long hill into town, I could hear heavy metal music blasting. Which was unusual because I was wearing my iPod and playing that pretty loud to cover up the sound of stomping feet generated by hordes of my compatriots. Coming into the town lined with shops, on the right hand side of the street was a large, old, Victorian style pub with a huge marquee. Atop the marquee was a Guns-N-Roses cover band, complete with bad wigs, BLASTING G-n-R classics. It was too good. I threw them 'The Horns" as I ran by.
2) The things you won't see anywhere else... Moving about 2 kms down the road to Rose Bay, where I boarded the yacht Love and War a few months back, I spied a group of protesters on the side of the road holding a banner that read 'No Mega-Marina.' I don't know what a mega-marina is or if I should be opposed to it, but they had a lot of banners. Which was when I noticed that that one of the banners was moving. Approaching the moving banner from behind, I could read it through the sunlight, it read "I'm not Borat." Which confused me because I wondered what Borat had to do with Mega Marinas. Following the moving banner, down, I noticed that it ended at it's base in a naked, running man. Who looked just like Borat, I guess. Well, he wasn't *quite* naked. He was wearing the appropriate footwear. And he actually had a...thongish thing on. I guess. I suppose you need to wear something to pin your race number on, don't you? Knowing, at some primal, instinctive level, that looking at him could lead to nothing good, I resisted the urge, which I observed in most of my fellow runners, to turn and look back as you past him (after all, running while carrying a banner like that is no joke.) And take it from me, he's not Borat.
3) Finishing on Bondi Beach. Every race in the world should end on Bondi Beach. It's just better that way. Logistically challenging, but better.
4) Hills named 'Heartbreak.' Seems like every big race has this hill on it somewhere and the City2Surf is no exception. It didn't seem that bad to me, but judging from the number of people who were pulling off to the side of the road to abandon hope, I may be wrong. These hills test you in the midst of a test you are putting yourself through. There are to be commended for their contribution...
All in all, it was a good day and a fun run. My time was horrible due to two factors:
1) My training in the three weeks leading up to the race was pretty much non-existent. A sure fire recipe for distress, if not catastrophe, but I had signed up and knew I could finish, so I did.
2) There were 65,000 other people I had to dodge for 14K. The other 64,999 only had to dodge ONE person. Me.
So there you go, in some ways a great way to say 'good-bye' to the city of Sydney until next time.
You can't say this because I ran in the City2Surf run in Sydney yesterday. It's a 14k run with 65,000 participants. It is HUGE and madness, but it is madness that is exceptionally well organized and run. Registration was a breeze, and all you really had to do was show up at the start with your pre-mailed number pinned to your chest.
The atmosphere was very Circus Maximus. As I waited at the start with all of my friends, I was astounded by the wide variety of people who showed up for the event. There was a guy next to me with his five kids who was leading them on the run/walk. There was an early twenty-something couple who were waaaay into PDAs (Public Displays of Affection, for those of who have never taught high school) for the rest of us to be comfortable with. A group of people in grass skirts and leis running. I saw Hugh Hefner with a group of bunnies lined up at the start (I'm not sure about the wisdom of running in silk smoking jacket, though, seems like it might be hard on the silk.) Teams and single runners, everyone was there. I was lined up in front of the Australian Museum probably 500m from the starting line. The race started with a gun for 'preferred racers' at 9am, then the people who have run the race before with certain times at 910am, then us unwashed masses at 920am and finally, the Soul/Back of the Pack entertainment runners.
The weather was simply gorgeous, if a little warm for the race itself, very spring like, but a little too warm for running even at 9am.
If you look at this map, you will see the route of the race, the following section references the map a couple times.
Some things guaranteed to make a better race:
1) There were live bands all along the route. From jazz quartets to a bagpiper, there were all there. The highlight here was at about the 4km mark near Manning Street on that map. As I came down a long hill into town, I could hear heavy metal music blasting. Which was unusual because I was wearing my iPod and playing that pretty loud to cover up the sound of stomping feet generated by hordes of my compatriots. Coming into the town lined with shops, on the right hand side of the street was a large, old, Victorian style pub with a huge marquee. Atop the marquee was a Guns-N-Roses cover band, complete with bad wigs, BLASTING G-n-R classics. It was too good. I threw them 'The Horns" as I ran by.
2) The things you won't see anywhere else... Moving about 2 kms down the road to Rose Bay, where I boarded the yacht Love and War a few months back, I spied a group of protesters on the side of the road holding a banner that read 'No Mega-Marina.' I don't know what a mega-marina is or if I should be opposed to it, but they had a lot of banners. Which was when I noticed that that one of the banners was moving. Approaching the moving banner from behind, I could read it through the sunlight, it read "I'm not Borat." Which confused me because I wondered what Borat had to do with Mega Marinas. Following the moving banner, down, I noticed that it ended at it's base in a naked, running man. Who looked just like Borat, I guess. Well, he wasn't *quite* naked. He was wearing the appropriate footwear. And he actually had a...thongish thing on. I guess. I suppose you need to wear something to pin your race number on, don't you? Knowing, at some primal, instinctive level, that looking at him could lead to nothing good, I resisted the urge, which I observed in most of my fellow runners, to turn and look back as you past him (after all, running while carrying a banner like that is no joke.) And take it from me, he's not Borat.
3) Finishing on Bondi Beach. Every race in the world should end on Bondi Beach. It's just better that way. Logistically challenging, but better.
4) Hills named 'Heartbreak.' Seems like every big race has this hill on it somewhere and the City2Surf is no exception. It didn't seem that bad to me, but judging from the number of people who were pulling off to the side of the road to abandon hope, I may be wrong. These hills test you in the midst of a test you are putting yourself through. There are to be commended for their contribution...
All in all, it was a good day and a fun run. My time was horrible due to two factors:
1) My training in the three weeks leading up to the race was pretty much non-existent. A sure fire recipe for distress, if not catastrophe, but I had signed up and knew I could finish, so I did.
2) There were 65,000 other people I had to dodge for 14K. The other 64,999 only had to dodge ONE person. Me.
So there you go, in some ways a great way to say 'good-bye' to the city of Sydney until next time.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Happy Saint Ignatius Day!
I've been silent for quite a while, I know. Mostly, I was really busy down in Geelong (where I spotted the Philosophy sign in the CBD.) And then, I was assaulted by a serious laziness attack.
AND I owe SEVERAL of you responses to emails. *sigh* Yes, it's true, I'm a slug. But most of you knew that already, didn't you?
So this post is kind of a pastiche. Mostly it's to say 'Happy Saint Ignatius Day' to all of you. Jesuits. Non-Jesuits. It's a good day for all of us!
While I'm on the Jesuit tip, yo, I ran across this story about Jesuit involvement in the online realm. All I can say is: It's about time. If you click the link to find out what I'm talking about, make sure you scroll down to the comments. Students from some of our institutions post comments and its fascinating to see what they have to say. By the way, if you don't know what Second Life is, you should, so click here to find out about that.
I'm also in the midst of the last three weeks or so of Tertianship. Which means I'm trying to figure out how to say goodbye to one of the best years I've had in a *very* long time. Which may explain some of my lethargy in responding to people and getting real work done. But what are you going to do?
AND I owe SEVERAL of you responses to emails. *sigh* Yes, it's true, I'm a slug. But most of you knew that already, didn't you?
So this post is kind of a pastiche. Mostly it's to say 'Happy Saint Ignatius Day' to all of you. Jesuits. Non-Jesuits. It's a good day for all of us!
While I'm on the Jesuit tip, yo, I ran across this story about Jesuit involvement in the online realm. All I can say is: It's about time. If you click the link to find out what I'm talking about, make sure you scroll down to the comments. Students from some of our institutions post comments and its fascinating to see what they have to say. By the way, if you don't know what Second Life is, you should, so click here to find out about that.
I'm also in the midst of the last three weeks or so of Tertianship. Which means I'm trying to figure out how to say goodbye to one of the best years I've had in a *very* long time. Which may explain some of my lethargy in responding to people and getting real work done. But what are you going to do?
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Of Winter in the Antipodes
OK, so I'm here living in Geelong and I'm working down the road about 20 kilometers at St. Ignatius College in Drysdale, Victoria. And it's winter down here. Now, what most people from my neck of the woods would call winter is roughly analogous to what I'm experiencing: it's dark (yesterday was the shortest day of the year and all), it's rainy, and it's cool. Not cold mind you, at least by my standards. But because of the drought of the last few years, I think Melbournians and their nearby neighbors may have forgotten what real winter is like; it seems that for the last few years there wasn't a lot of rain in the winter and the temperatures were a little milder. That has now ended.
With temperatures plunging into the low 50's, people are bundled up like Eskimos. Scarves, wool hats, jumpers, sweatshirts, huge jackets, etc. etc. are all the order of the day. Warranted or not. All of which would be no never mind to me if I weren't living in the Biggest, Darkest, Coldest Church Rectory- EVER. The building, I am given to understand, was originally going to be the Geelong bishop's residence when Geelong split off from Melbourne as a separate diocese. An event which never happened. So it's Bishop Big. High, Georgian ceilings, long corridors, lots of huge bedrooms, a dining room big enough to double as a ballroom. It's really big. The idea, a year or two ago, was that they would lease it out to a group that would develop it into a boutique hotel, and the location for such a venture really is ideal, it's right on the water near a marina in Geelong, so the vistas of the water are beautiful, when it hasn't been overcast and raining. Which would mean yesterday it was beautiful to look out over the water.
So, anyway, back to the development plan. It seems that a 20 year lease was signed and the antique furniture (the Bishop who never was, his furniture) was auctioned off. Then the developers started filing plans, etc. And then, the neighbors became aware of this plan (you can see where this is going, can't you?) and vowed to fight it legally. So the developers dropped the plan, canceled their lease and bailed.
Now the parish priest has moved back in and I have followed suit. He had only moved back in about a week before I did. So we're living in a place that was partially redone to become a hotel (lots of beds in big bedrooms) with little to no furniture. In a mostly non-renovated building. My favorite feature: the circa 1972 velvet wallpaper. Somewhere, there is a steakhouse in the US that has no wallpaper because it was hijacked for a bishop's residence.
It's a little odd rattling around this place with one other person, I have to tell you. It's big, it's cold and it's drafty. Mostly it's weird living in such a big place with only one other person. It has horror movie written all over it. Not necessarily a slasher film, more like "The Legend of Hell House" where there is something creepy and otherworldy going on that you can't *quite* see. More like that.
More to follow...
PS- If you notice the Jaiku feed on the side of the blog and want to join me, let me know and I'll send you a friends invite. Think of it as micro-blogging, kind of like Twitter.
With temperatures plunging into the low 50's, people are bundled up like Eskimos. Scarves, wool hats, jumpers, sweatshirts, huge jackets, etc. etc. are all the order of the day. Warranted or not. All of which would be no never mind to me if I weren't living in the Biggest, Darkest, Coldest Church Rectory- EVER. The building, I am given to understand, was originally going to be the Geelong bishop's residence when Geelong split off from Melbourne as a separate diocese. An event which never happened. So it's Bishop Big. High, Georgian ceilings, long corridors, lots of huge bedrooms, a dining room big enough to double as a ballroom. It's really big. The idea, a year or two ago, was that they would lease it out to a group that would develop it into a boutique hotel, and the location for such a venture really is ideal, it's right on the water near a marina in Geelong, so the vistas of the water are beautiful, when it hasn't been overcast and raining. Which would mean yesterday it was beautiful to look out over the water.
So, anyway, back to the development plan. It seems that a 20 year lease was signed and the antique furniture (the Bishop who never was, his furniture) was auctioned off. Then the developers started filing plans, etc. And then, the neighbors became aware of this plan (you can see where this is going, can't you?) and vowed to fight it legally. So the developers dropped the plan, canceled their lease and bailed.
Now the parish priest has moved back in and I have followed suit. He had only moved back in about a week before I did. So we're living in a place that was partially redone to become a hotel (lots of beds in big bedrooms) with little to no furniture. In a mostly non-renovated building. My favorite feature: the circa 1972 velvet wallpaper. Somewhere, there is a steakhouse in the US that has no wallpaper because it was hijacked for a bishop's residence.
It's a little odd rattling around this place with one other person, I have to tell you. It's big, it's cold and it's drafty. Mostly it's weird living in such a big place with only one other person. It has horror movie written all over it. Not necessarily a slasher film, more like "The Legend of Hell House" where there is something creepy and otherworldy going on that you can't *quite* see. More like that.
More to follow...
PS- If you notice the Jaiku feed on the side of the blog and want to join me, let me know and I'll send you a friends invite. Think of it as micro-blogging, kind of like Twitter.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Out the door...again.
I realized that yesterday, while I was rushing around packing, that I didn't get to the action item at the bottom of my 'to-do' list, which was: "Make a new blog entry." So this will be short because I have to be driving in about 2 hours.
I'm getting ready to head out again on another Tertianship experiment. This time I am going to St. Ignatius School in Geelong, Victoria. Two years ago, St. Ignatius was the called Catholic Regional College (CRC). While this might have been accurately descriptive, it seems a little bland by my personal standards, so the name change, to pretty much any saint's name would have been an improvement. But the reason that the CRC changed its name last year was because it has started a twinning agreement with the Society of Jesus and Xavier College, the Jesuit high school in Melbourne. No one knows exactly what this twinning agreement means. Which is part of the reason I'm going there.
To be honest, I don't know what I'll be doing. I don't know where, exactly, I'll be living (other than 'a presbytery in Geelong.' I don't know the people I'll be working with; what their needs are, what they want from the Society and this Jesuit in particular. I don't know. By reading this, you now know as much as I do. So that makes me a little nervous, but everything else that has gone down this year has been so incredibly positive, that I just don't see God throwing a curve ball now. I think the string is going to continue. At least I'm going to act like it's going to continue. Hopefully I'll be posting more soon and we'll all find out what happens next.
I'm getting ready to head out again on another Tertianship experiment. This time I am going to St. Ignatius School in Geelong, Victoria. Two years ago, St. Ignatius was the called Catholic Regional College (CRC). While this might have been accurately descriptive, it seems a little bland by my personal standards, so the name change, to pretty much any saint's name would have been an improvement. But the reason that the CRC changed its name last year was because it has started a twinning agreement with the Society of Jesus and Xavier College, the Jesuit high school in Melbourne. No one knows exactly what this twinning agreement means. Which is part of the reason I'm going there.
To be honest, I don't know what I'll be doing. I don't know where, exactly, I'll be living (other than 'a presbytery in Geelong.' I don't know the people I'll be working with; what their needs are, what they want from the Society and this Jesuit in particular. I don't know. By reading this, you now know as much as I do. So that makes me a little nervous, but everything else that has gone down this year has been so incredibly positive, that I just don't see God throwing a curve ball now. I think the string is going to continue. At least I'm going to act like it's going to continue. Hopefully I'll be posting more soon and we'll all find out what happens next.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Laughter in a Collar
This is Jim Martin, SJ, a noted Catholic author and good personal friend of mine. If you haven't checked out his book, My Life with The Saints, you should.
Here are three You Tube videos of a talk on humor and the Church that Jim recently gave. It's great!
Here are three You Tube videos of a talk on humor and the Church that Jim recently gave. It's great!
Sunday, June 3, 2007
All's fair...
If you know the rest of that quote, then you'll appreciate this. I spent yesterday cruising around Sydney Harbor on the 47' yacht Love and War. She is one of only two vessels to ever win the annual Sydney to Hobart (Tasmania) yacht race three times. She did this in '74, '78 and '06. A gap of nearly 30 years is pretty much unheard of in the world of yacht racing due to technology advances, etc. and she did so because of the handicapping system used so that older vessels can compete. Not only that but the winning skipper of the '06 crew was our skipper yesterday. He was a delightful person whose whole goal in going out with us was to: a) Show a bunch of people unfamiliar with sailing what a delight and wonder it is, and b) to meet and have a day with a bunch of Jesuits from all over the world. And he thought he was getting the better end of the deal. Silly rabbit.
At any rate, we sailed up and around the Opera House, the Harbor Bridge, and all these other famous Sydney landmarks and I had a chance to see them in a way that few tourists ever do, from the water. Initially I was a little skeptical about 15 of us out on the boat; thought it might be a bit cramped. But it was an absolutely GORGEOUS Autumn day here in the Southern Hemisphere, just a touch light on breeze, the sailors tell me. Not that I would know. We puttered along at a leisurely pace, 'cheating' and using the motor for the parts of the day that we had no wind. It was marvelous.
A HUGE thank-you to the family who owns Love and War who were our hosts. There were absolutely spectacular. They are related to a deceased Jesuit here and bent over backwards to make sure we had a good time and were spectacular hosts.
So here I am again, posting another post that is designed to make you jealous. I find it hard to express how wonderful this year is for me. I have great classmates. I have had wonderful spiritual experiences. I have been made more welcome in Australia than words can communicate. I don't use terms like 'blessed' often to describe myself or my life. Maybe I should more often. Maybe that's what God is trying to show me is how fortunate I am and how much He cares for me by just keeping a stream of wonderful people and places flowing in my direction. I don't know. Every time I post something like this, I think, "Well, it can't last. It can't possibly keep getting better, can it?" Yet it does. God is good.
The Opera House from the water. Gives you an idea of how beautiful the day was.
The Harbor Bridge, the Opera House and Adrian K., a German Tertian.
The Sydney skyline and the Royal Australian Navy on display.
At any rate, we sailed up and around the Opera House, the Harbor Bridge, and all these other famous Sydney landmarks and I had a chance to see them in a way that few tourists ever do, from the water. Initially I was a little skeptical about 15 of us out on the boat; thought it might be a bit cramped. But it was an absolutely GORGEOUS Autumn day here in the Southern Hemisphere, just a touch light on breeze, the sailors tell me. Not that I would know. We puttered along at a leisurely pace, 'cheating' and using the motor for the parts of the day that we had no wind. It was marvelous.
A HUGE thank-you to the family who owns Love and War who were our hosts. There were absolutely spectacular. They are related to a deceased Jesuit here and bent over backwards to make sure we had a good time and were spectacular hosts.
So here I am again, posting another post that is designed to make you jealous. I find it hard to express how wonderful this year is for me. I have great classmates. I have had wonderful spiritual experiences. I have been made more welcome in Australia than words can communicate. I don't use terms like 'blessed' often to describe myself or my life. Maybe I should more often. Maybe that's what God is trying to show me is how fortunate I am and how much He cares for me by just keeping a stream of wonderful people and places flowing in my direction. I don't know. Every time I post something like this, I think, "Well, it can't last. It can't possibly keep getting better, can it?" Yet it does. God is good.
The Opera House from the water. Gives you an idea of how beautiful the day was.
The Harbor Bridge, the Opera House and Adrian K., a German Tertian.
The Sydney skyline and the Royal Australian Navy on display.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
His Lips Have Stopped Moving...
As many of you have noticed I have been silent here the last few weeks. My apologies.
Ironically, the reason that I have been silent is not because I didn't have anything to say or report or tell you all about. On the contrary, the problem is that I've been writing a great deal. That is, I am going through one of the most productive periods of writing that I have ever had. I think I've just about got 3 solid chapters for a...wait for it...book.
One of them is a radically re-worked version of the Bush Lunch episode that was my previous post. The other two are similar in tone but different in context; one details an experience I had on the Long Retreat and the other is about a fishing trip I took right before I left West Wyalong.
Now, dear readers, I don't want you to think that you are somehow undeserving of these objet d'arte of the literary kind. The problem is that I think they're good enough to be published in a form (print, in this case) which might get a wider audience than this simple country blog. And, in this day and age when I do get something published it is pretty standard to sign a contract saying it hasn't been previously published elsewhere. Like, say, on the web. So I'm reluctant to post these here and now (and believe me, I've uploaded them and deleted them twice because I really want to share them with someone.) They're good. Really good in my opinion, but then I'm biased. A sidebar note on the productivity: I think that the prodigious nature of my writing these days is a sign of how well life is going down here and how much Grace God is hitting me with. When I can write like this, it's crazy good and that means God is really doing something. More on that in a later post.
In the mean time. I owe you something. You come here looking for something. For many of you it's your way of caring about me long distance, and I appreciate that. A great deal. So, here are some photos of the Epic Herculean Fishing Trip of which I am currently writing. Enjoy and thanks.
This is Bernie and I in a Snowy River snow storm. Self-explanatory, right?
And here we are telling lies about the ones that got away.
This was LITERALLY what greeted me when I came into West Wyalong. They just wanted me to feel at home, I guess.
Breakfast while fishing. The only thing missing? Fish. But that's another story...
I could stand at this bend in the river and fish all day. Heaven will be like Tom Groggin Station. Trust me.
Yep. I've gone bush. Utterly and totally.
Ironically, the reason that I have been silent is not because I didn't have anything to say or report or tell you all about. On the contrary, the problem is that I've been writing a great deal. That is, I am going through one of the most productive periods of writing that I have ever had. I think I've just about got 3 solid chapters for a...wait for it...book.
One of them is a radically re-worked version of the Bush Lunch episode that was my previous post. The other two are similar in tone but different in context; one details an experience I had on the Long Retreat and the other is about a fishing trip I took right before I left West Wyalong.
Now, dear readers, I don't want you to think that you are somehow undeserving of these objet d'arte of the literary kind. The problem is that I think they're good enough to be published in a form (print, in this case) which might get a wider audience than this simple country blog. And, in this day and age when I do get something published it is pretty standard to sign a contract saying it hasn't been previously published elsewhere. Like, say, on the web. So I'm reluctant to post these here and now (and believe me, I've uploaded them and deleted them twice because I really want to share them with someone.) They're good. Really good in my opinion, but then I'm biased. A sidebar note on the productivity: I think that the prodigious nature of my writing these days is a sign of how well life is going down here and how much Grace God is hitting me with. When I can write like this, it's crazy good and that means God is really doing something. More on that in a later post.
In the mean time. I owe you something. You come here looking for something. For many of you it's your way of caring about me long distance, and I appreciate that. A great deal. So, here are some photos of the Epic Herculean Fishing Trip of which I am currently writing. Enjoy and thanks.
This is Bernie and I in a Snowy River snow storm. Self-explanatory, right?
And here we are telling lies about the ones that got away.
This was LITERALLY what greeted me when I came into West Wyalong. They just wanted me to feel at home, I guess.
Breakfast while fishing. The only thing missing? Fish. But that's another story...
I could stand at this bend in the river and fish all day. Heaven will be like Tom Groggin Station. Trust me.
Yep. I've gone bush. Utterly and totally.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Picnic! Bush Style
So, a farming family from the parish invited the pastor of the church where I am here in West Wyalong and myself to what they called a 'Bar-bee in the bush' yesterday. After the late morning Mass, we unwound a bit, changed into casual clothes and headed out of town about 15 miles to the family farm.
Pulling up at the house, Les W., the patriarch of the clan, greeted us at the picket fence surrounding the classically Australian farm house. He was carrying a large platter. "For the meat." He informed us as we got out of the car. "Why don't you just jump back in and follow me out to where we're cooking." Which we did. Across several more miles of farmland that is bearing just a stubble of green from last weeks rains. We ended up in a small stand of Eucalyptus trees (which the locals also call gum trees here.) There, we found a gargantuan picnic table, groaning under the weight of various covered picnicky things, some chairs and a swinging bench arranged in a large semi-circle and about 3 large fire pits with stone rings around them which had lots of...objects buried in the smoldering ashes of each one.
As soon as we got out of the car, we were greeted by the Australian national bird, the fly. In a great swarm. Flies, I have discovered are ubiquitous in Australia and while they appear in numbers that stagger the imagination, and they ARE annoying, they are not as numerous as parts of Southwest Asia I have been in. The other notable quality of the Australia fly is that it is slow. And stupid. So, for the rest of the afternoon, the fly was our constant companion, especially when eating the sweet things at the end of the day... No more will I mention them, because if I did, it is all I would have left to say in this post...fly fly, flyity fly fly. You get the idea.
Already out at the sight were Les' daughter-in-law, Katrina and son Chris. Soon others arrived, with their kids in tow. After about 45 minutes we had a crowd of about 20-25 people gathered, including all the toddlers running about. One of the late arrivals was John. John is the sacristan at the parish, flew missions against the Japanese during World War II and has spent lots of time what Australians call 'up North' indicating the far reaches of the Northern territory where 'going bush' is not an option, but the general mode of living. John pulled up, immediately dug into the boot of his car (what North Americans call the trunk) and produced what looked like, to the untrained eye, two cans, one larger, one smaller. These were not, in fact, old cans, they turned out to be an elaborate and highly efficient heating system for boiling large quantities of water, needed for that staff of life for nearly all of those children descended from that tree known as British Empire, 'tea.' John made 'bush tea.' Heating the kettle with Eucalyptus twigs and using tea bags, but throwing in Eucalyptus leaves as well, and, I suspect, other arcane bush ingredients that I am likely happier not knowing what they are. It will suffice to say that you could tan leather with the tea which was produced. And yet, it did have a certain appeal.
Before the tea though, came the parade of food which began to rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes of the various fire pits. Everything except the desserts had been cooked in them. Two massive Dutch ovens appeared which yielded the tenderest of mutton and pork, two small cast iron pots with handles were excavated which contained peas and carrots, respectively. Seemingly hundreds of large silver nuggets were produced from deep within the ash, some of which were fire-roasted potatoes, some kumera (an antipodal name for a sweet potato-like tuber), and some produced pumpkin (another staple of the diet here which has received little penetration into the North American diet, for the most part.)
The whole affair was kind of like being on the set of "Crocodile Dundee's Thanksgiving Special." Food. Food. More food. Then came what I have taken to calling The Parade of Desserts. With this many women around who are stay at home moms, the number of deserts was staggering. And they all wanted to know 'Father's Opinion' of their dessert. The apple pie was very nice, a touch of apricot and perhaps a little lemon just adding a bit of tartness. The trifle was not to be trifled with. The sponge cake with strawberries, kiwi fruit and cream was delightful, the home made Cherry Ripe, I thought was the punctuation mark in the Parade turned out to be merely a comma, rather than a full stop and was excellent. Reeling at this point, I turned to a cup of John's Bush Tea for a respite, only to be confronted with a huge slice of his birthday cake (we sang "Happy Birthday" in the shade of the gum tree.) At this point, I was ready to lapse into both a mutton and sugar coma.
The setting was truly idyllic, other than the aforementioned pests. A low winter sun, but a warm day, in this tiny clearing in the middle of nowhere. A family of generations of farmers doing what generations of farmers have done for their guests. Food that was as uniquely prepared as it was delicious. Exotic birds, mostly parrots, singing and calling in the bush. Not a snake or funnel web spider to be found. It was quiet in its own, far-from everything way. At least as quiet as an event like this laden with 10 small kids can be. But they were bush kids doing busy things, swinging from trees, playing with toy tractors, etc.
As we were getting ready to go, Jared, the eldest son, and I were standing watching the sun slink toward the horizon in the shade of that mammoth gum tree.
"I love this place." He said. "It's groiyt, idn't it?"
I nodded my agreement.
"People can say all they want about the bush, but sometimes, when I've been out on the farm all day, and I'm on my way back to the house, I stop here in the ute. I just get out, walk around for a minute, say a quick prayer of thanks for this place and head on back to the house."
I nodded again, understanding that there could be no greater compliment he could pay to the Creator, and that nothing could be more heart-felt and appropriate than that simple prayer of thanks. I'd be happy to eat with the flies like that any time.
(I took a number of pictures which, once I regain access to broadband, I will append to this post.)
Pulling up at the house, Les W., the patriarch of the clan, greeted us at the picket fence surrounding the classically Australian farm house. He was carrying a large platter. "For the meat." He informed us as we got out of the car. "Why don't you just jump back in and follow me out to where we're cooking." Which we did. Across several more miles of farmland that is bearing just a stubble of green from last weeks rains. We ended up in a small stand of Eucalyptus trees (which the locals also call gum trees here.) There, we found a gargantuan picnic table, groaning under the weight of various covered picnicky things, some chairs and a swinging bench arranged in a large semi-circle and about 3 large fire pits with stone rings around them which had lots of...objects buried in the smoldering ashes of each one.
As soon as we got out of the car, we were greeted by the Australian national bird, the fly. In a great swarm. Flies, I have discovered are ubiquitous in Australia and while they appear in numbers that stagger the imagination, and they ARE annoying, they are not as numerous as parts of Southwest Asia I have been in. The other notable quality of the Australia fly is that it is slow. And stupid. So, for the rest of the afternoon, the fly was our constant companion, especially when eating the sweet things at the end of the day... No more will I mention them, because if I did, it is all I would have left to say in this post...fly fly, flyity fly fly. You get the idea.
Already out at the sight were Les' daughter-in-law, Katrina and son Chris. Soon others arrived, with their kids in tow. After about 45 minutes we had a crowd of about 20-25 people gathered, including all the toddlers running about. One of the late arrivals was John. John is the sacristan at the parish, flew missions against the Japanese during World War II and has spent lots of time what Australians call 'up North' indicating the far reaches of the Northern territory where 'going bush' is not an option, but the general mode of living. John pulled up, immediately dug into the boot of his car (what North Americans call the trunk) and produced what looked like, to the untrained eye, two cans, one larger, one smaller. These were not, in fact, old cans, they turned out to be an elaborate and highly efficient heating system for boiling large quantities of water, needed for that staff of life for nearly all of those children descended from that tree known as British Empire, 'tea.' John made 'bush tea.' Heating the kettle with Eucalyptus twigs and using tea bags, but throwing in Eucalyptus leaves as well, and, I suspect, other arcane bush ingredients that I am likely happier not knowing what they are. It will suffice to say that you could tan leather with the tea which was produced. And yet, it did have a certain appeal.
Before the tea though, came the parade of food which began to rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes of the various fire pits. Everything except the desserts had been cooked in them. Two massive Dutch ovens appeared which yielded the tenderest of mutton and pork, two small cast iron pots with handles were excavated which contained peas and carrots, respectively. Seemingly hundreds of large silver nuggets were produced from deep within the ash, some of which were fire-roasted potatoes, some kumera (an antipodal name for a sweet potato-like tuber), and some produced pumpkin (another staple of the diet here which has received little penetration into the North American diet, for the most part.)
The whole affair was kind of like being on the set of "Crocodile Dundee's Thanksgiving Special." Food. Food. More food. Then came what I have taken to calling The Parade of Desserts. With this many women around who are stay at home moms, the number of deserts was staggering. And they all wanted to know 'Father's Opinion' of their dessert. The apple pie was very nice, a touch of apricot and perhaps a little lemon just adding a bit of tartness. The trifle was not to be trifled with. The sponge cake with strawberries, kiwi fruit and cream was delightful, the home made Cherry Ripe, I thought was the punctuation mark in the Parade turned out to be merely a comma, rather than a full stop and was excellent. Reeling at this point, I turned to a cup of John's Bush Tea for a respite, only to be confronted with a huge slice of his birthday cake (we sang "Happy Birthday" in the shade of the gum tree.) At this point, I was ready to lapse into both a mutton and sugar coma.
The setting was truly idyllic, other than the aforementioned pests. A low winter sun, but a warm day, in this tiny clearing in the middle of nowhere. A family of generations of farmers doing what generations of farmers have done for their guests. Food that was as uniquely prepared as it was delicious. Exotic birds, mostly parrots, singing and calling in the bush. Not a snake or funnel web spider to be found. It was quiet in its own, far-from everything way. At least as quiet as an event like this laden with 10 small kids can be. But they were bush kids doing busy things, swinging from trees, playing with toy tractors, etc.
As we were getting ready to go, Jared, the eldest son, and I were standing watching the sun slink toward the horizon in the shade of that mammoth gum tree.
"I love this place." He said. "It's groiyt, idn't it?"
I nodded my agreement.
"People can say all they want about the bush, but sometimes, when I've been out on the farm all day, and I'm on my way back to the house, I stop here in the ute. I just get out, walk around for a minute, say a quick prayer of thanks for this place and head on back to the house."
I nodded again, understanding that there could be no greater compliment he could pay to the Creator, and that nothing could be more heart-felt and appropriate than that simple prayer of thanks. I'd be happy to eat with the flies like that any time.
(I took a number of pictures which, once I regain access to broadband, I will append to this post.)
Monday, April 30, 2007
I Be An Demi-God...
So, I arrived in West Wyalong on Saturday, in the rain. And it rained on Sunday and Monday too. Now, to those of you in the states reading this, particularlly those of you in the Pacific Northwest, you're reading that and likely thinking "Big whoop, three days of rain, so what?" Well, here, it was a regarded as something of a minor miracle. Consider this: No one here can remember when the last time they got three consecutive days of rain was.
Minor miracle indeed. And, as these things often are, the event was associated with an agent, if you will. In this case, me, and my arrival. Rain bringer, that's me! "Bless you Father, you brought the rain with you, dint-ya?" It is really heartbreaking to see these farmers hanging on and hoping against hope that this will be the year it breaks. I've never seen anything quite like it in the states, even though I lived through a few years of drought in Western Washington growing up. But a Western Washington drought and an Australian bush drought are Light Years apart, it seems to me.
And right now, these farmers are biting their lips and trying to figure out how much to risk in a gamble. See, with three days of rain, they can plant a crop to be harvested later in the year. A crop that will grow and maybe break their run of bad luck, harvest-wise. It will grow IF there is more rain for the rest of the year. So what it comes down to is:
a) Plant and hope we get enough rain to get back on a real farming track.
b) Plant and we don't get enough rain and guess what, you're now SEVEN years in debt with your farm rather than six.
You understand why they bite their lips when considering these things. You also understand why three days of rain represents hope for them.
Me? I'm a little uneasy with the Legendary Rain God status I achieved merely by showing up. See, I have visions of "The Wicker Man," a cheesy horror fantasy film from 1973. Only this version doesn't have Brit Ecklund doing her musical number. Perhaps I fear it will all end in a druidic style sacrifice if and when the rains do stop (even someone raised in the Puget Sound area knows that eventually they WILL stop.) I have a vision of being led out into a wheat field somewhere, and like the kings who had failed to produce good harvests for the people, my throat will be cut to appease some Outback desert God, then a new king will be appointed. I doubt it will come to that. But the way my luck runs, you can't rule it out.
While I've been typing this a new weather report just came over the wireless (that would be the device known as the radio in the Northern Hemisphere):
It will start raining again this afternoon and we can expect more rain for the next three days.
I will invite you all to the dedication of the statue when it is announced.
Minor miracle indeed. And, as these things often are, the event was associated with an agent, if you will. In this case, me, and my arrival. Rain bringer, that's me! "Bless you Father, you brought the rain with you, dint-ya?" It is really heartbreaking to see these farmers hanging on and hoping against hope that this will be the year it breaks. I've never seen anything quite like it in the states, even though I lived through a few years of drought in Western Washington growing up. But a Western Washington drought and an Australian bush drought are Light Years apart, it seems to me.
And right now, these farmers are biting their lips and trying to figure out how much to risk in a gamble. See, with three days of rain, they can plant a crop to be harvested later in the year. A crop that will grow and maybe break their run of bad luck, harvest-wise. It will grow IF there is more rain for the rest of the year. So what it comes down to is:
a) Plant and hope we get enough rain to get back on a real farming track.
b) Plant and we don't get enough rain and guess what, you're now SEVEN years in debt with your farm rather than six.
You understand why they bite their lips when considering these things. You also understand why three days of rain represents hope for them.
Me? I'm a little uneasy with the Legendary Rain God status I achieved merely by showing up. See, I have visions of "The Wicker Man," a cheesy horror fantasy film from 1973. Only this version doesn't have Brit Ecklund doing her musical number. Perhaps I fear it will all end in a druidic style sacrifice if and when the rains do stop (even someone raised in the Puget Sound area knows that eventually they WILL stop.) I have a vision of being led out into a wheat field somewhere, and like the kings who had failed to produce good harvests for the people, my throat will be cut to appease some Outback desert God, then a new king will be appointed. I doubt it will come to that. But the way my luck runs, you can't rule it out.
While I've been typing this a new weather report just came over the wireless (that would be the device known as the radio in the Northern Hemisphere):
It will start raining again this afternoon and we can expect more rain for the next three days.
I will invite you all to the dedication of the statue when it is announced.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
I've been busy...
...since the retreat we've had a fair bit of class, there have been a lot of things to do, including being the chaplain on a Kairos retreat for students from St. Ignatius, Riverview (lotta fun but some late nights.) So I have been inattentive to the blog.
I AM, however, working on a longer post that is more about the retreat. But tomorrow I am headed for the bustling metropolis of West Wyalong, New South Wales. It's out there. I mean, waaaaay out there. It's basically a poor wheat-farming community. I'm going out there to direct about 12 people in a retreat in everyday life. The area has been wracked by drought for about the last four years. In the last two years, about 20 farmers from the area have committed suicide, generally they have been so depressed by the financial repercussions of the drought that they have despaired of ever really being able to have their farms be theirs again. Even if the drought broke tomorrow, many farmers would still lose their farms. It's pretty grim. If you are the praying type, praying for rain wouldn't be a bad idea...
So I'll probably be able to post from out there, but we'll see what the web availability is. The Tertians are all going out to dinner tonight at a Viet restaurant which should be fun. See you soon, inshallah.
I AM, however, working on a longer post that is more about the retreat. But tomorrow I am headed for the bustling metropolis of West Wyalong, New South Wales. It's out there. I mean, waaaaay out there. It's basically a poor wheat-farming community. I'm going out there to direct about 12 people in a retreat in everyday life. The area has been wracked by drought for about the last four years. In the last two years, about 20 farmers from the area have committed suicide, generally they have been so depressed by the financial repercussions of the drought that they have despaired of ever really being able to have their farms be theirs again. Even if the drought broke tomorrow, many farmers would still lose their farms. It's pretty grim. If you are the praying type, praying for rain wouldn't be a bad idea...
So I'll probably be able to post from out there, but we'll see what the web availability is. The Tertians are all going out to dinner tonight at a Viet restaurant which should be fun. See you soon, inshallah.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
And, into the sunlight...
OK, as of this morning, I'm out of the Long Retreat. I'm smoked. For the fact I haven't done much over the last month (depending on how you measure these things), I'm exhausted. I probably won't post a lot here about what went on...it just doesn't translate into 'web' that well. Of course, I am also in the process of figuring it all out myself, and THAT will take me a while. If you want to know what it was like, for me, it was like a Spiritual Ranger School. Only with more food. I didn't get a lot of sleep (self-inflicted). I had a great spiritual guide and companion. The weather was superb (it's what Northern Hemisphere dwellers would call Autumn, but not like Autumn, strangely). That's about it. So, what CAN I tell you? I ran a lot. More than that... like 6-8 miles a day and 10-15 miles on a long day. Over 4 weeks, that's a lot of miles, I can tell you. I prayed a lot. I walked and cleaned and did a lot of work in the Jesuit graveyard near by (exercising Chris W's 'preferential option for the dead.') For those of you who were praying for us, a big thanks. It helped, and believe me, I needed it. I'll file a real update and maybe a picture or two when I get back to Sydney next week.
Wednesday, March 7, 2007
Off the Grid and Into the Cave
This will be the last post for a while. Early on Saturday morning I will depart in an automobile for Sevenhill, South Australia, the natal location of the Society of Jesus in Australia. The Wikipedia page does not really do the place justice, I am given to understand. You see, upon arriving in Australia, the Jesuits there discovered that they were unable to acquire suitable altar wines for use at Mass. Being rational, intelligent men, they did the logical thing and started their own vineyard. The vineyard is still under the ownership of the Society and there is even a Jesuit there who is listed as "Winemaker Emeritus" in the Australian province catalog. (Oh that the Society owned a brewery, I would have a position to aspire to; "Brewmaster Emeritus." Oh, I could get used to the sound of that.) The website for the winery, if you would like more information about the austerity to which I am going to subject myself, is located here. Taste the history in every drop indeed. You may wish to order some of the wares from the website so that you may determine their suitability for your uses.
So, some of you are asking yourselves, what, exactly, is he going to do there? I will be making the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. For those of you not in the loop on that, it means that I will be sequestered in silence for 30 days, more or less. Praying 4-5 hours per day. A more detailed survey of the Exercises is found here. At this point, many of you who know me are chortling to yourselves. "Keep his mouth shut for 30 days? Unlikely..." you titter. (I can hear you tittering, you know.) Each Jesuit makes the Exercises at least twice in his life: as a novice and as a tertian. Some may make the Exercises more, but twice would be more typical. I will have it known that during my first pass at the Exercises, I was one of four retreatants and my classmates commented on my rigid adherence to the instructions on silence and modesty of the eyes. I believe the exact phrase they used was "Silence Nazi," but I may be incorrect. I doubt it though, a phrase like "Silence Nazi" stays with you. It was interesting to note the inverse relationship between introversion and silence; curiously enough, my first time around, the more introverted an individual was, the less need they felt to observe the silence. My moniker may tell you something about the depths of my extroversion...
I look forward to this second turn at the Exercises. One of the other features of the Exercises from my first time around was that I was quite certain I had broken them. That is, I was so afraid of doing them correctly, that there was no way I could do them correctly, if you follow me. Good things happened, to be sure, but my rigid need to follow the letter and execute them perfectly also (probably) got in the way of what God desired to do with me. 18 years on, I think I'm in a different space internally. At least I hope I am. One of the places I hope I am more free is on retreat. It is now my experience that God, like a good guerilla, will dictate the terms of engagement. Do I come to the retreat with my own hopes and expectations? My own 'agenda' if you will? Yes, absolutely. How could I not do so? But somewhere in the last eighteen years I learned that God will take control of these types of things and do with you as he will, not necessarily what you expected to happen. So I have certain questions that I approach the experience with, things I would like answered. I am also completely open to God bringing me to a place I cannot forsee or expect. That is God's job, as near as I can tell, to be quite honest.
So I note that some of you gentle readers frequent this haunt with regularity (I have my ways of knowing, as I'm sure you know, if you know me...). I do not want you to be shocked when these airwaves go silent for a month or so. If you're the praying type, I'd ask you to pray for us (all 13 of us will be making this journey, separately together, if you will.) If you're not, then you may observe the natural beauty of the place on the website and wonder what delights of vinticulture I am immersing myself in. It shall be an adventure, I know that. A few thrills, a couple spills and maybe something I don't even know yet...I look forward to it. See you in a month.
So, some of you are asking yourselves, what, exactly, is he going to do there? I will be making the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius. For those of you not in the loop on that, it means that I will be sequestered in silence for 30 days, more or less. Praying 4-5 hours per day. A more detailed survey of the Exercises is found here. At this point, many of you who know me are chortling to yourselves. "Keep his mouth shut for 30 days? Unlikely..." you titter. (I can hear you tittering, you know.) Each Jesuit makes the Exercises at least twice in his life: as a novice and as a tertian. Some may make the Exercises more, but twice would be more typical. I will have it known that during my first pass at the Exercises, I was one of four retreatants and my classmates commented on my rigid adherence to the instructions on silence and modesty of the eyes. I believe the exact phrase they used was "Silence Nazi," but I may be incorrect. I doubt it though, a phrase like "Silence Nazi" stays with you. It was interesting to note the inverse relationship between introversion and silence; curiously enough, my first time around, the more introverted an individual was, the less need they felt to observe the silence. My moniker may tell you something about the depths of my extroversion...
I look forward to this second turn at the Exercises. One of the other features of the Exercises from my first time around was that I was quite certain I had broken them. That is, I was so afraid of doing them correctly, that there was no way I could do them correctly, if you follow me. Good things happened, to be sure, but my rigid need to follow the letter and execute them perfectly also (probably) got in the way of what God desired to do with me. 18 years on, I think I'm in a different space internally. At least I hope I am. One of the places I hope I am more free is on retreat. It is now my experience that God, like a good guerilla, will dictate the terms of engagement. Do I come to the retreat with my own hopes and expectations? My own 'agenda' if you will? Yes, absolutely. How could I not do so? But somewhere in the last eighteen years I learned that God will take control of these types of things and do with you as he will, not necessarily what you expected to happen. So I have certain questions that I approach the experience with, things I would like answered. I am also completely open to God bringing me to a place I cannot forsee or expect. That is God's job, as near as I can tell, to be quite honest.
So I note that some of you gentle readers frequent this haunt with regularity (I have my ways of knowing, as I'm sure you know, if you know me...). I do not want you to be shocked when these airwaves go silent for a month or so. If you're the praying type, I'd ask you to pray for us (all 13 of us will be making this journey, separately together, if you will.) If you're not, then you may observe the natural beauty of the place on the website and wonder what delights of vinticulture I am immersing myself in. It shall be an adventure, I know that. A few thrills, a couple spills and maybe something I don't even know yet...I look forward to it. See you in a month.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Fauna Update
Last night four of us went to the movies and I was elected to drive. It's only a short way to the theater and when we were about 1/2 there, the Canadian in the back seat started in with "Oh thank God! It's on the outside! Oh thank God! It's on the outside!" Inquiring, he informed the rest of us that there was a Huntsman Spider running around the outside of the car.
"Uh-huh." I thought.
Spider on the outside of the car. What-evs. Until we got to the parking garage for the theater and a Huntsman the size of a beagle came loping down the windscreen. Honestly, this thing was HUGE. It trotted down into the gap where the windshield wipers get tucked when not in use and was lost to sight.
It was at this moment that the primary user of the car, the rector of the community where I'm living, piped in with: "Oh yes, he's been in here since the weekend. He was on the inside of the car on Saturday night. He seems to go back and forth from inside to outside somehow." This just after the spider has headed, unseen, for the engine compartment. Where the ducts which go from the heating/AC to the cab are. The size of this thing was...substantial. Seriously, it was probably 3"-4" across it's legs. And disturbing.
I now know where Peter Jackson got his inspiration for 'Shelob' in the film version of Lord of the Rings. He must have been staying in a hotel over here and found one in his room. He promptly called its agent and got it signed and it appears, lifesize, in the film, her name is Fiona and she lives in Milson's Point now if you want her autograph.
So at any rate, I find a parking space and we rapidly exited the car. Peering down toward the wipers, I couldn't see the beast.
I spent the whole film worrying about driving home. As I got in the car, I again looked down in the wiper slot and there were eight beady little eyes, the size of push pin balls, staring back at me. My entrance and locking of the door was swift.
One fool started to open his window because the Sydney night was muggy and warm. "What do you think you are doing? I don't care if we all roast, we are NOT exposing ourselves to that spider." He rolled the window back up.
I began driving toward the exit and the keychain, dangling down from the ignition brushed against the inside of my knee and I nearly rocketed through the windscreen. As we exited the parking garage, down a long, straight ramp, he popped out and began racing down the hood of the vehicle. Fairly certain that he meant to disable it and wait us out on the parking ramp, picking us off one by one, I jammed on the brakes and he disappeared over the edge of the hood. I gunned it in an attempt to crush him, but I don't know for certain that he actually fell off the vehicle. He made no further appearances, but I suspect he clung on, and I half expected him to pop back up at the last minute, a la Lord Wez at the end of The Road Warrior (Mad Max II for some of you). I made it home and parked the car. Got out hastily and gave the bonnet a cursory inspection. No spider.
My theories are that a) He may have gotten knocked off but is now only angry and will take this anger out on my when it finds its way home or: b) it is currently affixed to the undercarriage of the vehicle, waiting for me to come close enough to poison and feed upon.
If I stop posting abruptly, you'll know why.
"Uh-huh." I thought.
Spider on the outside of the car. What-evs. Until we got to the parking garage for the theater and a Huntsman the size of a beagle came loping down the windscreen. Honestly, this thing was HUGE. It trotted down into the gap where the windshield wipers get tucked when not in use and was lost to sight.
It was at this moment that the primary user of the car, the rector of the community where I'm living, piped in with: "Oh yes, he's been in here since the weekend. He was on the inside of the car on Saturday night. He seems to go back and forth from inside to outside somehow." This just after the spider has headed, unseen, for the engine compartment. Where the ducts which go from the heating/AC to the cab are. The size of this thing was...substantial. Seriously, it was probably 3"-4" across it's legs. And disturbing.
I now know where Peter Jackson got his inspiration for 'Shelob' in the film version of Lord of the Rings. He must have been staying in a hotel over here and found one in his room. He promptly called its agent and got it signed and it appears, lifesize, in the film, her name is Fiona and she lives in Milson's Point now if you want her autograph.
So at any rate, I find a parking space and we rapidly exited the car. Peering down toward the wipers, I couldn't see the beast.
I spent the whole film worrying about driving home. As I got in the car, I again looked down in the wiper slot and there were eight beady little eyes, the size of push pin balls, staring back at me. My entrance and locking of the door was swift.
One fool started to open his window because the Sydney night was muggy and warm. "What do you think you are doing? I don't care if we all roast, we are NOT exposing ourselves to that spider." He rolled the window back up.
I began driving toward the exit and the keychain, dangling down from the ignition brushed against the inside of my knee and I nearly rocketed through the windscreen. As we exited the parking garage, down a long, straight ramp, he popped out and began racing down the hood of the vehicle. Fairly certain that he meant to disable it and wait us out on the parking ramp, picking us off one by one, I jammed on the brakes and he disappeared over the edge of the hood. I gunned it in an attempt to crush him, but I don't know for certain that he actually fell off the vehicle. He made no further appearances, but I suspect he clung on, and I half expected him to pop back up at the last minute, a la Lord Wez at the end of The Road Warrior (Mad Max II for some of you). I made it home and parked the car. Got out hastily and gave the bonnet a cursory inspection. No spider.
My theories are that a) He may have gotten knocked off but is now only angry and will take this anger out on my when it finds its way home or: b) it is currently affixed to the undercarriage of the vehicle, waiting for me to come close enough to poison and feed upon.
If I stop posting abruptly, you'll know why.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Of Native Fauna
Kookaburra sits on the old gum tree!
Merry, merry king of the bush is he!
Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra!
How gay your life must be!
If you do not know the song above, then, clearly, you were not instructed in music in the South Kitsap School District in the late 60's/early 70's. I think I was in kindergarten or first grade when I received instruction in this tune. And it is a good song to teach children. But of course, someone can teach you a song about something, especially something as far away as a bird in Australia, and said instructor may even provide an explanation of that call and it will still lack real significance until you encounter the Real Object of the song and discussion.
Hence, I knew there was such an animal as a kookaburra. I was given to understand that it had a peculiar call. But I didn't understand, you see. And neither, even after listening to the recording of its call I have provided, do you. You cannot fully appreciate the kookaburra's call until he gifts you with it in person. He will appear, as if by magic, at, oh, say, 0515 in the morning, just outside your window. And then he will begin his call. Now, you must understand that, where the kookaburra whose call is recorded for your listening pleasure is sedated, compared to the real item, the one who appears outside my window most mornings seems to have been on an amphetamine binge.
You remember Cheetah, the chimp from the 'Tarzan' movies? Imagine if you mainlined him with Crystal Meth, some Speed and maybe a gallon bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold. Then you spanked him with a cricket bat. The resulting sounds might approximate, but not fully capture, those released outside my window each morning. Early. If I were not actually grateful to the bird for serving as my alarm clock (you will remember I am running again), it would be my marksmanship I would be practicing rather than my aerobic conditioning.
Moving along in the avian world, we have the Sulfa Crested Cockatoo. Now these things are probably bigger than you are thinking. You remember 'Fred,' the cockatoo on the TV show 'Baretta?' Fred was a large cockatoo. These are his steroid using cousins. They are massive and white and they sit in the trees and flare those big yellow crowns and are imposing looking. You gaze at a flock of a half dozen of these things perched in trees and are grateful that they are notorius for tearing up your lawn, rather than say, human flesh. They are a marvel to behold and are equally impressive in flight. Then, they begin to remind me of some people I have encountered; they are beautiful to look at and then, they open their mouths and what comes out makes everything go horribly wrong. The ancient Greeks must have, in their sea faring days, traveled to Australia and, upon being greeted by the Cockatoo's call, promptly turned around and sailed back home, the inspiration for the Harpy safely secured. Suffice to say, I see no reason to keep any animal that makes this kind of racket domestic or otherwise.
Over here we come to one you may have heard of, the Sydney Funnel Web Spider. Quite likely the most lethal spider on the face of the planet. Nature's playful Atrax robustus abounds in and around the Sydney basin. If you have chosen NOT to go to the link above, I do not blame you. It will fill your head with nightmare images and facts. Fortunately for YOU, you are not living within envenoming distance of one of these wee beasties as I am. But allow me to excerpt for you, some of MY favorite facts from the spider page above:
So you see, life is not all beaches and spirituality here in Australia. There are hazards to daily life in both the aural and toxic realms. And I haven't even touched on the snakes. Something like 8 of the worlds 11 most lethal snakes are found in Australia. Haven't seen one of those yet. But you know, they're snakes, which are actually beautiful creatures. Even the venomous ones. In order to recover from the trauma of the spider colony thing, I think I need to go to the beach this weekend.
Merry, merry king of the bush is he!
Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh, Kookaburra!
How gay your life must be!
If you do not know the song above, then, clearly, you were not instructed in music in the South Kitsap School District in the late 60's/early 70's. I think I was in kindergarten or first grade when I received instruction in this tune. And it is a good song to teach children. But of course, someone can teach you a song about something, especially something as far away as a bird in Australia, and said instructor may even provide an explanation of that call and it will still lack real significance until you encounter the Real Object of the song and discussion.
Hence, I knew there was such an animal as a kookaburra. I was given to understand that it had a peculiar call. But I didn't understand, you see. And neither, even after listening to the recording of its call I have provided, do you. You cannot fully appreciate the kookaburra's call until he gifts you with it in person. He will appear, as if by magic, at, oh, say, 0515 in the morning, just outside your window. And then he will begin his call. Now, you must understand that, where the kookaburra whose call is recorded for your listening pleasure is sedated, compared to the real item, the one who appears outside my window most mornings seems to have been on an amphetamine binge.
You remember Cheetah, the chimp from the 'Tarzan' movies? Imagine if you mainlined him with Crystal Meth, some Speed and maybe a gallon bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold. Then you spanked him with a cricket bat. The resulting sounds might approximate, but not fully capture, those released outside my window each morning. Early. If I were not actually grateful to the bird for serving as my alarm clock (you will remember I am running again), it would be my marksmanship I would be practicing rather than my aerobic conditioning.
Moving along in the avian world, we have the Sulfa Crested Cockatoo. Now these things are probably bigger than you are thinking. You remember 'Fred,' the cockatoo on the TV show 'Baretta?' Fred was a large cockatoo. These are his steroid using cousins. They are massive and white and they sit in the trees and flare those big yellow crowns and are imposing looking. You gaze at a flock of a half dozen of these things perched in trees and are grateful that they are notorius for tearing up your lawn, rather than say, human flesh. They are a marvel to behold and are equally impressive in flight. Then, they begin to remind me of some people I have encountered; they are beautiful to look at and then, they open their mouths and what comes out makes everything go horribly wrong. The ancient Greeks must have, in their sea faring days, traveled to Australia and, upon being greeted by the Cockatoo's call, promptly turned around and sailed back home, the inspiration for the Harpy safely secured. Suffice to say, I see no reason to keep any animal that makes this kind of racket domestic or otherwise.
Over here we come to one you may have heard of, the Sydney Funnel Web Spider. Quite likely the most lethal spider on the face of the planet. Nature's playful Atrax robustus abounds in and around the Sydney basin. If you have chosen NOT to go to the link above, I do not blame you. It will fill your head with nightmare images and facts. Fortunately for YOU, you are not living within envenoming distance of one of these wee beasties as I am. But allow me to excerpt for you, some of MY favorite facts from the spider page above
They are probably the most venomous aggressive spider in the world, all funnel web species should be treated as dangerous to humans.
- Sometimes, Funnel-webs may be found in colonies of over a hundred.
- When mature, the males leave their webs and lead a homeless existence. They tend to roam and often enter homes particularly during Summer after a heavy downpour of rain.
- Their massive fangs can penetrate a child's fingernail.
So you see, life is not all beaches and spirituality here in Australia. There are hazards to daily life in both the aural and toxic realms. And I haven't even touched on the snakes. Something like 8 of the worlds 11 most lethal snakes are found in Australia. Haven't seen one of those yet. But you know, they're snakes, which are actually beautiful creatures. Even the venomous ones. In order to recover from the trauma of the spider colony thing, I think I need to go to the beach this weekend.
Monday, February 12, 2007
The Flogging Will Continue Until Morale Improves...
So. I made a promise to myself and I'm keeping it.
I'm running again.
I have waited to post about this until I was sure I could do it, that it wasn't just an outburst of energy that couldn't be controlled for a few days and then would lie fallow, its promise unfulfilled.
I've been running for about a month now and I've logged 18 runs and am over the 50 mile mark. And the worst part?
I'm enjoying it.
I've never considered myself a runner. I've never, enjoyed running, per se. Running was simply a necessary evil required by my choice of ministry. But I find myself out in the mornings about 6 AM and doing 3-4 miles on the average day, 2 fast miles on a light day and nearly 6 on a long slow day. And, except for the enormous hill I had not factored in to my route on the long, slow day, I've felt pretty good. That hill simply would not end. It went on forever. In fact, I still may be running on it...
But I feel better for doing it. And, I must admit, that I use some incredibly cheap motivations to do this. I tell myself I'm losing weight (I am). I tell myself it will help with the cholesterol (it will). I tell myself I'm going to run my first true marathon (I've run the distance before, but never been in a real race) (I will). But mostly, I trick myself with my iPod and its aural promises of escape from being pounded on for fifteen minutes to an hour.
And, to get even more detailed, I use a Nike+iPod dohicky that tells me precisely how far I've gone, records my runs to exacting detail, uploads them to a Nike website so that I can compare my runs, see my paces, set goals, accept challenges from other runners, and generally compare all kinds of useless data. Usually, I treat these kinds of things with scorn. Weaker men need that kind of motivation, I tell myself, then I look in the mirror and see a weaker man and plug the attachment on to my iPod and hit the road.
That's the thing, it really seems to work. Example: I set a goal for myself of running 16 times in 4 weeks. And, when I did a run that got posted to my web page, it showed me I was 1 run behind my target goal, so I ran for the next two days straight to catch up with where I needed to be. Oh sure, it's a cheap trick. It's a carrot in front of this particular donkey, but, hey, it got the donkey moving, didn't it?
Plus, I like being able to view all this data on all my runs. I don't know why, perhaps because I can actually see the improvement (which is small at this point, but present, nonetheless.) Maybe it's because I'm afraid of failing on my goals that I set for myself. Whatever it is, that stupid little thing gets me back out on the road, and keeps me there, even when I really would rather not get out and run.
So there you go. I'm going to keep running and setting new goals for myself. I'm really looking forward to the long retreat where I'll have both time AND space (a wide open country vineyard in wine country) to really start pushing distances out a bit.
I don't normally endorse these kinds of things, but if you are, like me, a fallen runner, then I can recommend getting yourself an iPod Nano, a pair of Nike+ shoes and the Sport Kit thing and getting back out there. It's worked well for me, at least.
I'm running again.
I have waited to post about this until I was sure I could do it, that it wasn't just an outburst of energy that couldn't be controlled for a few days and then would lie fallow, its promise unfulfilled.
I've been running for about a month now and I've logged 18 runs and am over the 50 mile mark. And the worst part?
I'm enjoying it.
I've never considered myself a runner. I've never, enjoyed running, per se. Running was simply a necessary evil required by my choice of ministry. But I find myself out in the mornings about 6 AM and doing 3-4 miles on the average day, 2 fast miles on a light day and nearly 6 on a long slow day. And, except for the enormous hill I had not factored in to my route on the long, slow day, I've felt pretty good. That hill simply would not end. It went on forever. In fact, I still may be running on it...
But I feel better for doing it. And, I must admit, that I use some incredibly cheap motivations to do this. I tell myself I'm losing weight (I am). I tell myself it will help with the cholesterol (it will). I tell myself I'm going to run my first true marathon (I've run the distance before, but never been in a real race) (I will). But mostly, I trick myself with my iPod and its aural promises of escape from being pounded on for fifteen minutes to an hour.
And, to get even more detailed, I use a Nike+iPod dohicky that tells me precisely how far I've gone, records my runs to exacting detail, uploads them to a Nike website so that I can compare my runs, see my paces, set goals, accept challenges from other runners, and generally compare all kinds of useless data. Usually, I treat these kinds of things with scorn. Weaker men need that kind of motivation, I tell myself, then I look in the mirror and see a weaker man and plug the attachment on to my iPod and hit the road.
That's the thing, it really seems to work. Example: I set a goal for myself of running 16 times in 4 weeks. And, when I did a run that got posted to my web page, it showed me I was 1 run behind my target goal, so I ran for the next two days straight to catch up with where I needed to be. Oh sure, it's a cheap trick. It's a carrot in front of this particular donkey, but, hey, it got the donkey moving, didn't it?
Plus, I like being able to view all this data on all my runs. I don't know why, perhaps because I can actually see the improvement (which is small at this point, but present, nonetheless.) Maybe it's because I'm afraid of failing on my goals that I set for myself. Whatever it is, that stupid little thing gets me back out on the road, and keeps me there, even when I really would rather not get out and run.
So there you go. I'm going to keep running and setting new goals for myself. I'm really looking forward to the long retreat where I'll have both time AND space (a wide open country vineyard in wine country) to really start pushing distances out a bit.
I don't normally endorse these kinds of things, but if you are, like me, a fallen runner, then I can recommend getting yourself an iPod Nano, a pair of Nike+ shoes and the Sport Kit thing and getting back out there. It's worked well for me, at least.
Monday, February 5, 2007
Of Beach Cult-cha
So, I'm overdue for a post, but, what are you going to do? I mean, I have a brutally heavy workload to deal with here. Mostly at Australian beaches.
After arriving here a few weeks ago, we had a couple of days of nuts and bolts about the program here in Pymble, then we headed a couple of hours south of Sydney to Gerroa where the Australian Jesuits have a house on the beach. No, you are thinking, right now 'this is the Jesuits, they have a house ridiculously close to the beach' you are wrong. They have a house ON the beach. It was built, originally, waaay back right after the Second World War, when there was no real Gerroa, and the place has grown up around the Jesuit house, which today, through arcane and ancient agreements, is the only house on the beach. And will likely remain so. The purpose of our excursion was so that we could tell our stories about who we are and where we were all coming from. 'Getting to know you' in some language, 'Team Building,' in another language.
Which means I should probably say something about my fellow crewman on the SS Tertiana. We are 13 Jesuits from 7 countries plus our Australian Tertian Director (think: spiritual Captain Stubing) and his assistant (who is more 'Doc' than Gopher). All are good guys, in my opinion. At least no one set off my personal warning buzzers, set to detect the slightest vibrations generated by Weirdness fields. Country-wise we hail from: the US of A, Korea, Canada, Germany, Poland, Italy and Switzerland. A fascinating melange of cultures and ideas, I can assure you. Dinner and discussions after are never dull, believe you to me!
So we would get up in the morning, do a little story telling until about noon, then knock off for a day on the beach...which meant swimming, body-surfing, beach combing, praying, etc. etc. Until the evening meal, then we'd watch a video or TV or what ever. It was definitely Relax Mode time. And it was great. I cooked one evening and made a 4th of July kind of picnic dinner with grilled sausages, potato salad, baked 'cowboy' beans (my mother's secret recipe), a green salad and an ice cream dessert that is laden with Oreo cookies, chocolate fudge sauce, peanuts and vanilla ice cream...it is delectable. Following cooking that night my gut and I were photographed entering the water for a sunset swim, the time when the sharks like to feed best.
The sunsets, you see, are spectacular and, it is my opinion, that they are best viewed from in the water. Those with expensive photo equipment though, may wish to stay on dry land and capture incredible images like this:
After a week of this torture, we returned to Sydney this week, where I discovered that there is a beach house for our use about 20 minutes north of where I am, a place called Newport. I have visited there 3 times since last Friday. I think it only right and just to make the most of the experiences that are placed before me, and, in my opinion, it would be criminal not to use a facility like this. I have done a whole bunch of body surfing and desperately trying to figure out how to get my hands on an used surfboard so that I may continue to relearn old, corroded skills.
All of this brings us back to the original title of the post. I am amazed at the Australian beach culture and how pervasive it is in the Australian psyche, especially water recreation. Surfing here, unlike the States, is not a niche sport, it is something kids just grow up doing. The way American kids would play backyard football/baseball/fill in the sport, Aussie kids get a bunch of mates, grab their wetsuits (I haven't yet figure out why you need one, but my water temperature gauge may be permanently scarred by NW water temps), their boards and hit the beach. When such a large percentage of the population lives so close to the beach, well, things are going to get sandy and fun in a hurry. It's awesome... I am loving it so far. It's healthy and fun (outside of the SPF 30+ that I slather on because of the hole in the O-zone down here) and the people on the beach are pretty much Everyman. It's awesome. A place where the Boardless Man isn't trying to hold the Surfer Man down.
And because I know some of you will not be happy until I publish it, here is a shot of the Sydney Opera House and the Harbor Bridge at night. The views are from the old community rec room at St. Aloysius College in downtown Sydney. You know I only post these things to stoke the fires of envy, don't you?
After arriving here a few weeks ago, we had a couple of days of nuts and bolts about the program here in Pymble, then we headed a couple of hours south of Sydney to Gerroa where the Australian Jesuits have a house on the beach. No, you are thinking, right now 'this is the Jesuits, they have a house ridiculously close to the beach' you are wrong. They have a house ON the beach. It was built, originally, waaay back right after the Second World War, when there was no real Gerroa, and the place has grown up around the Jesuit house, which today, through arcane and ancient agreements, is the only house on the beach. And will likely remain so. The purpose of our excursion was so that we could tell our stories about who we are and where we were all coming from. 'Getting to know you' in some language, 'Team Building,' in another language.
Which means I should probably say something about my fellow crewman on the SS Tertiana. We are 13 Jesuits from 7 countries plus our Australian Tertian Director (think: spiritual Captain Stubing) and his assistant (who is more 'Doc' than Gopher). All are good guys, in my opinion. At least no one set off my personal warning buzzers, set to detect the slightest vibrations generated by Weirdness fields. Country-wise we hail from: the US of A, Korea, Canada, Germany, Poland, Italy and Switzerland. A fascinating melange of cultures and ideas, I can assure you. Dinner and discussions after are never dull, believe you to me!
So we would get up in the morning, do a little story telling until about noon, then knock off for a day on the beach...which meant swimming, body-surfing, beach combing, praying, etc. etc. Until the evening meal, then we'd watch a video or TV or what ever. It was definitely Relax Mode time. And it was great. I cooked one evening and made a 4th of July kind of picnic dinner with grilled sausages, potato salad, baked 'cowboy' beans (my mother's secret recipe), a green salad and an ice cream dessert that is laden with Oreo cookies, chocolate fudge sauce, peanuts and vanilla ice cream...it is delectable. Following cooking that night my gut and I were photographed entering the water for a sunset swim, the time when the sharks like to feed best.
 |
| From Aussie Beach Pix |
The sunsets, you see, are spectacular and, it is my opinion, that they are best viewed from in the water. Those with expensive photo equipment though, may wish to stay on dry land and capture incredible images like this:
 |
| From Aussie Beach Pix |
After a week of this torture, we returned to Sydney this week, where I discovered that there is a beach house for our use about 20 minutes north of where I am, a place called Newport. I have visited there 3 times since last Friday. I think it only right and just to make the most of the experiences that are placed before me, and, in my opinion, it would be criminal not to use a facility like this. I have done a whole bunch of body surfing and desperately trying to figure out how to get my hands on an used surfboard so that I may continue to relearn old, corroded skills.
All of this brings us back to the original title of the post. I am amazed at the Australian beach culture and how pervasive it is in the Australian psyche, especially water recreation. Surfing here, unlike the States, is not a niche sport, it is something kids just grow up doing. The way American kids would play backyard football/baseball/fill in the sport, Aussie kids get a bunch of mates, grab their wetsuits (I haven't yet figure out why you need one, but my water temperature gauge may be permanently scarred by NW water temps), their boards and hit the beach. When such a large percentage of the population lives so close to the beach, well, things are going to get sandy and fun in a hurry. It's awesome... I am loving it so far. It's healthy and fun (outside of the SPF 30+ that I slather on because of the hole in the O-zone down here) and the people on the beach are pretty much Everyman. It's awesome. A place where the Boardless Man isn't trying to hold the Surfer Man down.
And because I know some of you will not be happy until I publish it, here is a shot of the Sydney Opera House and the Harbor Bridge at night. The views are from the old community rec room at St. Aloysius College in downtown Sydney. You know I only post these things to stoke the fires of envy, don't you?
 |
| From Aussie Beach Pix |
 |
| From Aussie Beach Pix |
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
An Atypical Entry
As I have been tagged by the PAgent man, I feel required to post my book entry. Now, you understand that I am 'on the road' for several months and while my abode here in Australia is comfortable and very pleasant, it is also somewhat spartan. And I brought few books with me. When the call came from the PAgent that I had duties to perform, vis a' vis this book list, the only things on the desk at that moment were:
a) a Sydney phonebook
and
b) a guidebook to Australia, which, on page 123 had listings for hotels, none of which seemed that pertinent to my struggle to be interesting (in fact, the entry was much like that in 'a' above.)
So I got some books that we will be reading here in the program I am in and I selected one, more or less at random and performed the rituals. I now give you the entrails of the literary bird I have split open at the behest of PAgent:
"Assessing pedagogical effect is never easy. The only attempt to do so for catechetical instruction during this period has been for Lutheran parts of Germany. It led to negative conclusions, hotly contested, and to the surmise that an examination of catechesis in Catholic Bavaria would show the same results."
From John O'Malley's The First Jesuits.
And so it is complete. Read the Oracle as you will.
For my tagging, I choose:
1) Hog
2) SPU
3) Chuck D. (the attorney, not the one from Public Enemy)
Those NOT having blogs of their own may post in my comments. The rules, gents, are simple:
1) Find the nearest book
2) Open to page 123
3) Type lines 6-8 of said book
4) Tag three others
You have been tagged. Proceed at your peril.
a) a Sydney phonebook
and
b) a guidebook to Australia, which, on page 123 had listings for hotels, none of which seemed that pertinent to my struggle to be interesting (in fact, the entry was much like that in 'a' above.)
So I got some books that we will be reading here in the program I am in and I selected one, more or less at random and performed the rituals. I now give you the entrails of the literary bird I have split open at the behest of PAgent:
"Assessing pedagogical effect is never easy. The only attempt to do so for catechetical instruction during this period has been for Lutheran parts of Germany. It led to negative conclusions, hotly contested, and to the surmise that an examination of catechesis in Catholic Bavaria would show the same results."
From John O'Malley's The First Jesuits.
And so it is complete. Read the Oracle as you will.
For my tagging, I choose:
1) Hog
2) SPU
3) Chuck D. (the attorney, not the one from Public Enemy)
Those NOT having blogs of their own may post in my comments. The rules, gents, are simple:
1) Find the nearest book
2) Open to page 123
3) Type lines 6-8 of said book
4) Tag three others
You have been tagged. Proceed at your peril.
Saturday, January 20, 2007
Words Fail
There are these theories, elaborate constructs of quantum physics, time and space, math and language, that state that it is possible for a place to be more beautiful, more wild, more spectacular, than Great Barrier Island.
I can state, conclusively, these theories, they lie.
Last week I was treated to a 4 day fishing trip to the Great Barrier. We left Auckland about 6-6:30pm and sailed North for about 2 hours, the Coromandel Peninsula on our right and the Northland of New Zealand on our left. The sun was setting just as we arrived at the Great Barrier, a spectacular explosion of color and beauty on the South Pacific...
We entered Fitzroy Sound just as it was getting dark, settling down in one of the myriad small bays for the night; the water still as glass, two Morepork (really) owls calling gently to one another across the sound, photoluminescence made the water around our boat glow and sparkle, making the place positively other-worldly. Fitzroy Sound (and I recommend you check Google Earth or some such for more detail) is big. As in, in the 1800's it was reckoned that Fitzroy was one of only two harbors in the world that could shelter the entire British Navy. It's that big, and that spectacular.
In the morning, we woke early to go out fishing and I was greeted by the captain and this view, the sky slightly overcast with high clouds.
We headed out through Man O' War passage, which is only a couple of hundred feet across, I'm guessing and just outside of Fitzroy, we anchored next to a large rock and dropped our lines overboard. The results were almost instant. A couple small, throw back snapper later and we started pulling up a fisheries' manual of the local fauna. I landed a Trumpeter, Bede landed a John Dory and Red and I landed a couple of Parore, including this one, which weighed in at about 8 pounds.
We returned to Fitzroy, the village at about 1030am after fishing for several hours and gorged ourselves on the Trumpeter, Red's Parore and the John Dory, which you can see Bede cleaning and filleting here:
The John Dory was exquisite, I can assure you. My big Parore was held in reserve, we went back out that day and fished the north end of the island, near The Needles, way up top of the island, not really doing much, lots of small throw backs and a parade of non-eating fish graced us. Returning to Fitzroy Sound, we selected another isolated little bay, anchored and prepared for dinner. My Parore was butterflied and a smoker was produced. The fish went in, the beers came out of the cooler and we went into the water. Following brief showers to rinse off the salt water we settled onto the back deck to relax, lie about the ones that got away and enjoy the exceptionally delightful company of one another. It was incredible. The next two days we spent fishing and circumnavigating the island. The wind came up and we actually got stuck in Tryphena Harbor for a day as the winds roared through Colville Passage at 28 knots, bringing up the waves. We celebrated Mass each day we were out and it was absolutely amazing.
There are, you see, these places where language, where words are crafted. Adjectives roll off of tongues in these places and are soon sullied with overuse and unreflected application. These language mills, at the mention of the Great Barrier Island, they fall silent. The adjectives they would fashion falling uselessly to the floor, the craftsmen themselves painfully silent, like a Greek chorus that knows it cannot possibly meet the task of reducing this place into a sound which accurately captures its meaning. And this is the only place I have ever been where words positively...fail.
This was the sunsetting on the clouds my second night on the island...even the image doesn't capture it adequately. But it will suffice to stoke you to go there for yourself, perhaps...
More to follow...
I can state, conclusively, these theories, they lie.
Last week I was treated to a 4 day fishing trip to the Great Barrier. We left Auckland about 6-6:30pm and sailed North for about 2 hours, the Coromandel Peninsula on our right and the Northland of New Zealand on our left. The sun was setting just as we arrived at the Great Barrier, a spectacular explosion of color and beauty on the South Pacific...
 |
| From Great Barrier... |
We entered Fitzroy Sound just as it was getting dark, settling down in one of the myriad small bays for the night; the water still as glass, two Morepork (really) owls calling gently to one another across the sound, photoluminescence made the water around our boat glow and sparkle, making the place positively other-worldly. Fitzroy Sound (and I recommend you check Google Earth or some such for more detail) is big. As in, in the 1800's it was reckoned that Fitzroy was one of only two harbors in the world that could shelter the entire British Navy. It's that big, and that spectacular.
In the morning, we woke early to go out fishing and I was greeted by the captain and this view, the sky slightly overcast with high clouds.
 |
| From Great Barrier... |
 |
| From Great Barrier... |
We returned to Fitzroy, the village at about 1030am after fishing for several hours and gorged ourselves on the Trumpeter, Red's Parore and the John Dory, which you can see Bede cleaning and filleting here:
 |
| From Great Barrier... |
The John Dory was exquisite, I can assure you. My big Parore was held in reserve, we went back out that day and fished the north end of the island, near The Needles, way up top of the island, not really doing much, lots of small throw backs and a parade of non-eating fish graced us. Returning to Fitzroy Sound, we selected another isolated little bay, anchored and prepared for dinner. My Parore was butterflied and a smoker was produced. The fish went in, the beers came out of the cooler and we went into the water. Following brief showers to rinse off the salt water we settled onto the back deck to relax, lie about the ones that got away and enjoy the exceptionally delightful company of one another. It was incredible. The next two days we spent fishing and circumnavigating the island. The wind came up and we actually got stuck in Tryphena Harbor for a day as the winds roared through Colville Passage at 28 knots, bringing up the waves. We celebrated Mass each day we were out and it was absolutely amazing.
There are, you see, these places where language, where words are crafted. Adjectives roll off of tongues in these places and are soon sullied with overuse and unreflected application. These language mills, at the mention of the Great Barrier Island, they fall silent. The adjectives they would fashion falling uselessly to the floor, the craftsmen themselves painfully silent, like a Greek chorus that knows it cannot possibly meet the task of reducing this place into a sound which accurately captures its meaning. And this is the only place I have ever been where words positively...fail.
This was the sunsetting on the clouds my second night on the island...even the image doesn't capture it adequately. But it will suffice to stoke you to go there for yourself, perhaps...
 |
| From Great Barrier... |
More to follow...
Friday, January 19, 2007
A Big NZ Post Will Appear In The Next Few Days...
...but in the meantime, for the record, I hate leaving Aoteroa.
Saturday, January 6, 2007
Transmission from Paradise
Wow. Not sure what else I can write that will cover the last week except: Wow.
I arrived back in New Zealand on the first day of the New Year. Michelle and Steve B. picked me up at the airport and fed me and transported me up to the D's place at Hahei.
The weather, they tell me, has been inconsistent for summer weather and there has been grousing about the coldest December on record, but coming from Seattle, where we had the wettest November in recorded history, this is outrageously nice.
Sunny or broken clouds all day; temperatures in the 80's; almost no one wears shoes except maybe Jandals (what Americans call flip-flops, I'm too tenderfooted to go with out my Tevas for long). Birds I can't recognize (sorry, Tom L.) calling all day. White sand beach on a crystal blue ocean. Heaven, thy name is Hahei.
I am DEFINITELY the whitest person here. Everyone else has been taking advantage of the sun for a while and I am rather albino-esque at the moment, although steps are being taken to remedy this situation. I am, however, exercising great caution, as I have no desire to increase my already substantial chance of malanoma. I wake each day and slather SPF 30 waterproof sunblock all over my swarthy Scots complexion, paying particular attention to my nose. Sun glasses and a hat are not optional equipment here.
So far my list of activities includes swimming every day, sea kayaking to an island and exploring it (my group being the only persons on the island), snorkeling the marine reserve on the island, dredging mussels somewhere up near Cook's Beach where the good Captain came ashore for water and masts, cooking dinner for the family I'm staying with and the many people who drop by about 6pm for drinks and then just linger in an wonderful way throughout the evening, finning back from the island (approx. 1.5 kilometers), hiking, watching a fire that threatened some local homes that was started by some local youths with fireworks, and nothing. Doing NOTHING.
I have been reveling in the nothing part. I have nowhere to go and no when to be there. And it is the first time in a very, very long time when I haven't been on a vacation or some kind of break that that I wasn't worried about "what's coming next;" about focusing on getting back to work rather than just enjoying the here and now in front of me. And for me, right now, there is no 'next' because I honestly don't know what to expect from Tertianship and have no expectations of it, so I might as well take the grace God is providing at the moment. And right now that grace seems to be calling me to maxing my relaxing. And it's working. I haven't had this much fun since I can remember. So right now, think of me with envy. It is correct to do so...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)