This a blog post from Dan Dick. Give it a read!

http://doroteos2.wordpress.com/2009/07/04/cranky-christians


I plan to add Dan Dicks BLOG AS A LINK.
http://doroteos2.wordpress.com/
Dan is UM church consultant and one of the voices helping us rethink church.
if you are in any church leadership...read his stuff!

Rev. Mark Sargent - The Thunk, the Gap, and the Six A's - Day1.org

Rev. Mark Sargent - The Thunk, the Gap, and the Six A's - Day1.org

Shared via AddThis

Progressive Christianity

While looking for a church to attend here in Auckland I came upon these helpful descriptions of "Progressive Christianity." The phrase was used on several church websites and I got to thinking of how we get into our church speak with words like scriptural, Bible based, traditional "family oriented" (That has to be the most confusing and coded!) Others use the word emergent or emerging church. Even a simple and essential word like "welcoming" has different meanings! I get frustrated when one camp of the church takes a word or phrase and then tries to be the sole interpreter of its meaning or packs it with some hidden agenda.For example, shouldn't all churches be evangelical and welcoming? Or...if a church is not inclusive should it then proclaim itself as exclusive? Would the "uninitiated" have a clue of what we are talking about?
We use language strangely. Back in Albury we saw a cafe sign that advertised "Breakfast Served All Day Until 2 pm" I understand what they are saying but why not say "Breakfast Served until 2 pm." "All Day" just doesn't fit here! All Day but not after 2! Do we do that in our church talk? Bible believing...but... not about how to treat the poor. pray...forgive..etc. All welcome, but...
So keeping in mind,that too often terms and labels get bantered around without sharing definitions or conversation, I borrow this from St Luke's Presbyterian as they reflected on there ministry.

"....The Centre for Progressive Christianity and adopt the eight points of the Centre as reflecting the position St Lukes takes. The eight points are:

By calling ourselves progressive, we mean that we are Christians who…
1.Have found an approach to God through the life and teachings of Jesus
2.Recognize the faithfulness of other people who have other names for the way to God's realm, and acknowledge that their ways are true for them, as our ways are true for us;
3.Understand the sharing of bread and wine in Jesus' name to be a representation of an ancient vision of God's feast for all peoples;
4.Invite all people to participate in our community and worship life without insisting that they become like us in order to be acceptable (including but not limited to):
◦believers and agnostics,
◦conventional Christians and questioning skeptics,
◦women and men,
◦those of all sexual orientations and gender identities,
◦those of all races and cultures,
◦those of all classes and abilities,
◦those who hope for a better world and those who have lost hope;
5.Know that the way we behave toward one another and toward other people is the fullest expression of what we believe;
6.Find more grace in the search for understanding than we do in dogmatic certainty - more value in questioning than in absolutes;
7.Form ourselves into communities dedicated to equipping one another for the work we feel called to do: striving for peace and justice among all people, protecting and restoring the integrity of all God's creation, and bringing hope to those Jesus called the least of his sisters and brothers; and
8.Recognize that being followers of Jesus is costly, and entails selfless love, conscientious resistance to evil, and renunciation of privilege.

(PS whether you support all these principles or not, I think life in Christ will be progressive....progressive Christianity...making progress..to advance..to go forward.
Is anybody claiming Regressive Christianity?

Rambling on...

creating the conditions....?

By Dawna Markova

There is no such thing as finding one’s purpose. It’s about creating the conditions, for six months or six minutes, where your purpose can find you. It’s not about asking what is the meaning of life, but rather asking what your life means. It’s being willing to receive the truth of what you hear.

Source: I Will Not Die an Unlived Life
from inward/outward site

Reports from Sara

AUSTRALIA UPDATE NO. 7Share
Yesterday at 11:32pm
Hello World!
I realize that it has been positively ages since my last general post. Actually, since our first day in New Zealand. Over a week and a half has passed since then, so I will do my best to inform you of all our activities. I will lump them together, though, instead of breaking them all down into individual days. This, I believe, is the best strategy to use in approaching New Zealand, as we have been doing a lot of lazing, bonding, and strolling here, break some location visits down into two or three days’ worth of visits, like the National Museum, which we have been to visit twice now, Cornwall Park, and the harbor area.
The first few days we were here, we focused on settling into our hotel, adjusting to yet another time zone (we are now 17 hours ahead of U.S. CST, in the first nation to see the sunrise every morning), and exploring the neighborhood. An interesting fact that my mother shared with us just yesterday is that this whole neighborhood is actually owned by a farmers’ trust. A hundred years or so ago, a crew of Irish bachelor farmers came and tilled this land. Having never married, they had no one to leave their beautiful acreage to, and so formed a trust fund for a school for orphaned boys. That school, Dilworth, was constructed of fine bricks and laid out with open playing fields for the boys to romp in. Family members of orphaned boys can petition to have their boys’ sent on scholarship to the school. The money for the school is collected by rent from all of the surrounding hotels up and down our street.
That gives you some starting geography of our area. We are in the Dilworth Newmarket neighborhood (a suburb of Auckland), staying at a Best Western hotel that is one of thirty plus hotels all built lot to lot next to each other up and down Great South Road. Further down the road, the hotels stop and the car lots start. There are an additional ten used and new car lots door to door with one another up and down the road, until one reaches the shopping neighborhood. From there on out to downtown are wall to wall restaurants, shops, and malls, with two movie theatres and an Olympic swimming pool tossed in for taste and variety. Going the other way down Great South Road, the neighborhood fans out into side streets full of antique shops, family owned restaurants, and residential housing. It seems everyone has a flowering garden and front gate, with at least one tree growing straight up out of the front yard. On that same end of town is an enormous park – Cornwall Park – complete with an extinct volcano, monument, working farm, and Eucalyptus grove that was planted in the early 1900s. I have gone on many walks through that park, as it stretches out for miles in all directions. Closer to town are the thick tree groves and winding walking paths, with great, ancient volcanic stonewalls that have been worn smooth and black from decades of rainstorms, and having thousands of people climb over them. The center of the park fans out into rolling hills and pasture. Flocks of sheep and herds of cattle graze together by the old stone fences, resting in the sun. The grass here is so thick and plush that it is almost marshy with dampness. It is a brilliant green color, too, as if it has absorbed so much sunlight over the years, that the grass itself has started shining. The trees are thick and towering, with trunks so wide that four people could wrap their arms around them at once, and still not touch fingers. The branches and roots alike rise and drop, gnarled and twisted with such waves that it seems they have been aesthetically influenced by the nearby sea.
Parts of the park are well groomed and planted. On our walk, my father, brother, and I experienced the surreal sight of passing through a trail that had both autumnal, falling leaves and brilliant spring daffodils growing from the ground. Anything is possible, on the underbelly of the equator, it seems.
At the very heart of the park is One Tree Hill. It is an ancient Maori holy ground, and an extinct volcano. Years of overgrowth and erosion have worn it down into a sloping, grassy hill, but the great volcanic craters are still apparent in open-mouthed hollows at its sides. I had made the climb before, on my own time, accidentally scaling the back of the mountain. I didn’t want to take the time to find a road or trail, so I literally pawed and clawed my way up the back of an almost vertical slope, before swinging myself Mission-Impossible-style over a fence and onto the road.
Dad and I took a different route the next time we went up. We followed the visitors’ guide trail and stopped to read the signs about the volcanic history and Maori legends. It was a much different walk, on the paved road, but both of them were equally good experiences, and the arrival at the top and the monument were just as satisfying, both ways.
At the top of One Tree Hill is a monument similar to the Washington Monument, but smaller, and made of black volcanic stone. It is wildly windy up there, but you can see for miles. All of the surrounding islands, ocean, and Auckland are laid out before you.
Back at the bottom of the hill is a visitors’ center and restaurant. Nick, Dad, and I stopped there before and after our climb – enjoying some hot chocolate and coffee while waiting for the rain to die down (it seems every afternoon here demands its ten-minute shower). Then we explored an early settlers’ cabin – the oldest wooden one left in Auckland – and hiked back to our hotel.
Other major events and sites here have included the National Museum, the maritime museum, and Rangitoto Island. (As a side note, Nick and I also went to one of the downtown theatres on our own one night to see the latest Harry Potter movie. Good old J.K.)
The National Museum, which we finished visiting today, is a classic, large building on top of yet another hill (noticing a certain geographic theme? All of New Zealand is built on extinct and dormant volcanoes, so hills and mountains are about as common as birds and flowers). The first floor is a broken into rooms each with their own motley theme – full of ancient chest drawers, clothing, wet suits, pickled sea creatures, taxidermied zoo animals, old children’s games, European instruments, and casts of Greek statuary. The second and third floors make up for the oddities of the first, however. The second has a fantastic display of Maori weaponry, clothing, pottery, ships, and architecture; not to mention a display surrounding Sir Edumund Hillary’s climbing axe, and details on his infamous first climb up Mount Everest. So, too, does it have a room about volcanoes, on Earth and other planets, and a film about Auckland’s own relationship to its nearby dormant volcanoes… the floor shook. It was fantastic. As the largest city in New Zealand, and home to over 1/3 of the nation’s population, Auckland MUST have a viable evacuation system in case any of these volcanoes decide to wake up…
We visited the third floor today. It was a singular memorial floor to all of New Zealand’s veterans, and history of the wars New Zealand has been involved with. I had never realized until today just how expansive the World Wars were. I didn’t realize that small nations like New Zealand and South Africa had been involved, nor that these wars had stretched far into the middle East. The whole world really was at war. And for nations like New Zealand, it was ruinous. New Zealand lost 1/8 of its entire population in men during World War I, and nearly that many again just two decades later for World War II. So, too, there were displays on the Anglo-Boer War, and the Maori-Anglo civil war. I thought it was especially interesting that it was known as a civil war, when in so many other nations – like Australia and the United States – we STILL don’t recognize the original rights and sovereignty of our native people. To call that time a time of civil war acknowledges the equal rights that all New Zealanders had to their land, and the current peace and equanimity under which both cultures now live. I think we all have a lesson to learn from New Zealand.

The Maritime museum was also enriching. Built right on the harbor, one of the exhibits involved several of the old sailing boats, tug boats, and steamers that were sitting in the very bay outside. They had extensive exhibits on the whaling industry, Maori life and exploration, and the first settlers’ trips to the island. I especially enjoyed learning about the creation myth behind the New Zealand islands. I won’t retype the myth here, but I really encourage you, readers, to go out and read some of the Maori myths and legends that can be found online. It is a deep, complex, and interesting culture that is very much alive today. I still can’t believe some of the things the original Polynesian settlers did to get to this land! Crossing thousands of miles of open water by canoe to settle uncharted islands? Incredible.

Two days ago, we took a harbor ferry cruise around Auckland and got a little history of the place. We saw several of the Americas Cup racing sail ships out and about, learned a little about some of the local islands, watched bungy jumpers leap off of the Auckland bridge, and just happened across a large pod of black dolphins on our way back into the shore. Our ferry operator and tour guide was a kindly, gruff old fellow with a dry sense of humor and a warm heart. He stopped to let us see the dolphins, giving us an extra free fifteen minutes of photographic opportunities of the leaping porpoises.

Yesterday we took a ferry out to Rangitoto island, which is Auckland’s nearest and newest volcano. It started erupting just 600 years ago, and stopped a mere 250 years ago. The island is still covered in heaping piles of black rocks from the volcanic explosions. Through the rocks have grown several rare types of trees – one variety has grown in such excess, that Rangitoto Island is home to the one forest of this tree variety. The only forest like it in the world. On the ferry across, I met a lot of interesting travelers, including two boys from California that are here with their university; one woman who moved here from Texas; a young German fellow; and a British boy named Luke. Luke was traveling alone, having just graduating from college, and enjoying a summer adventure before heading into graduate school. He was blond, boyish, and about my height, with a thick farming English accent that he attributed to his Salisbury upbringing. I invited him to hike with my brother and I, and he spent the whole afternoon with us, wandering into dripping caves, hiking the rim of the main volcanic crater, and picnicking back on the shore. We talked about the differences in our nation’s sports, colleges, politics, and histories. He is studying Computer Science, helping to make programs for the iphone and working to improve hospital x-ray technologies surrounding osteoporosis detection. Someday, we both hope to be college professors. It was fun making a friend, and the three of us enjoyed one another’s company on the jungle-like, ferny mountainside. Someday, I would like to take a trip like he is – spending the whole summer hopping trains and staying in backpacking hostels, just exploring another country and meeting all sorts of people, by keeping an open mind.

Last Thursday or so, Nick, Dad, and I also went up the Sky Tower, which is the tallest building in the Southern Hemisphere. We took an elevator to the top, and enjoyed the incredible helicopter-height view out over Auckland and the islands. On our elevator ride up, we met a girl who was going to bungy jump off the top of the building – something which is apparently very popular to do. We watched her jump AND land, admiring her gumption. I, meanwhile, was struggling to make myself stand on the glass floor looking down, even though I had already been skydiving just a few weeks before. Funny how the human mind works like that.

That covers many of our greatest adventures – although I’m sure I’ll remember another great place that I forgot to mention, and I’ll remember it as soon as I climb into bed to go to sleep. Aside from those great adventures, we have enjoyed visiting a number of international food courts, tourist shops, and smaller, local parks. The country is beautiful, the people are friendly, and the sun is warm. We’ve enjoyed the continued attention to environmental issues and food quality --- nearly everything is organic, the eggs are labeled both “Cage eggs” and “Cage-free” so there can be no confusion; food courts use real plates and silverware for all eat-in meals; public buses run on natural gas; and 70% of the nation’s electricity is derived from sustainable energy. We are the very first Americans to stay at this Best Western motel, so the staff here is friendly, curious, and accommodating, always keeping us updated on good places to visit and how to find good bus passes. The manager, Laurence, is masterfully helpful in this, and makes a point to talk to us every morning.

As a side note, we have also discovered a fantastic little restaurant called “Hell’s Pizza” with great themes and character. You can check it out for yourselves: https://hellpizza.co.nz/

Mom has been enjoying her school visits, too. She has met some of the most powerful leaders in Reading Recovery both from New Zealand and from the Philippines. She loves the people she has met and is working with, and comes back every night enthusiastic and refreshed. She says she is learning more here than she could have learned in a year back home.

Needless to say, we have enjoyed lots of family bonding time, too. This has been a great trip, and is going by very quickly. As it is now 11:30 p.m., and we have to wake up early tomorrow for another ferry trip over to a different part of the North island, I am going to say goodnight, but I promise to do a better job of posting updates. Much love to all! Best wishes!

- Sara

from inward/outward ...

By Ann & Barry Ulanov

Desire in prayer shows itself in many forms. We go at God like a brass ring, wanting to catch deity and win the prize. We want so many prizes; fame, security, power. Often we want very good prizes: love, health, peace in the world, truth. We come to God in ways we are usually careful to conceal in our dealings with people. We do not say to a person, I want to be your friend because you are rich and may give me some of your money. But we do say to God, I pray to you because I want you to bless me, forgive me, help me, heal me….

With God our desire is more naked, and rightly so. With no secrets, we come at God crudely, like beggars or greedy children. It is no good denying this or trying to mask it. We must see the crudeness and include it. God loves us in the flesh.

Source: Primary Speech

Dag and Mary

When we come to a point of rest in our own being, we encounter a world where all things are at rest, and then a tree becomes a mystery, a cloud becomes a revelation, and each person we meet a cosmos whose riches we can only glimpse.
— Dag Hammarskjöld quoted in Senses Wide Open by Johanna Putnoi

from spirituality and practice website


and another from Mary Oliver
By Mary Oliver

Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for—
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world—
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant—
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these—
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?


I think of these as we bring fresh eyes to flowers we have never seen before, trees we do not know how to name, constellations that are strange to us, ocean bays, volcanic hills, birds of another feather, all new gifts of curiosity and....yes. if only to glean the wisdom and be the prayer...the rest..the glimpse...perhaps..simpley to allow the delight

By Ernesto Cardenal

God’s call, vocation, is twofold. God calls us saying, ‘Come and follow me.’ We arrive and then we must follow. We find but must go on seeking. God’s call is a never-ending call, to the unknown, to adventure, to follow him in the night, in solitude. It is a call incessantly to go further, and further. For it is not static but dynamic (as creation is also dynamic) and reaching him means going on and on. God’s call is like the call to become an explorer; it is an invitation to adventure.

Source: Love
from inward/outward

PS
off to explore another day in Auckland. Yesterday we climbed One Tree Hill and enjoyed the park there; Grassy volcano bowls filled with sheep. Ancient Maori settlement grounds
.
Kids went to the Harry Potter movie last night.

Hey Veronica..is that you checking this blog from Kentucky according to my site meter? Give Beth and me an email again!

To other readers..all is well here in Auckland. Went to Museum today and learned more about the Maori people and culture.

Sara note # 5

This is out of Order..Sara #5

AUSTRALIA UPDATE NO. 5

Greetings from Hobart!
Again, I present to you my week from Saturday to shining Saturday. This week, however, I will have to give you backwards, as it is the best way for me to guide you through my own memories.
Yesterday after breakfast, Mom rushed away to her conferences, while Dad, Nick, and I got information from the concierge about how to take the bus downtown. As it happens, there was a bus coming directly to the Casino doors at ten a.m. We all scrambled upstairs to don our long-johns and winter hats (for it is fairly cold here. Something like a Minnesota mid-November) and rushed down stairs to wait by the bus stop shelter. Having only just tossed on my Minnesota Duluth Bulldogs sweatshirt, by the time we got downstairs, I was still struggling into a polar vest my dad had loaned me. The doorman stopped us to help me into the polar, read my sweatshirt, and happily introduced us to Robbie, his fellow doorman, who just so happened to have grown up in Alexandria, Minnesota. Robbie has been living in Hobart for seven years now, having moved here with his Australian wife. We gave him news and updates from our shared state, and he shared with us several memories from home.
Our bus driver was a wiry man, with watery blue eyes that seemed to slosh when he looked at us. After some struggle over our tickets, all three of us finally ended up with bus day passes. We found our seats near the back of the bus and watched in wonder as the bus rolled from our quiet, modern harbor into a wild urban area bedecked with towering colonial constructions painted brightly in pinks, yellows, and blues. The thick stone walls and spiraling columns leaned toward the sea, which had also changed: where our Sandy Bay wharf is dotted with white, fiberglass yachts and common gulls; the ancient, scarred planks of the Hobart harbor extended far into the water, roped into creaking place by seventh generation sailing ships, rusted fishing boats, and floating restaurants.
After exploring the dock to get our bearings, the first place we visited was the maritime museum. It was seven dollars each for Adults, with a sixteen-dollar A Family rate. The woman at the door greeted was warmly and comedically. In her bouncing Australian accent she explained to us that she couldn’t figure out how to get that troublesome cash register to work, oh, it had been giving her trouble all morning, these things act up you know, she was a volunteer, apologies, apologies, it would be just a moment, were we Adults or A Family? Which was cheaper, naturally (she smiled, laughing at herself), so we were A Family then? – hammering out key after key and growing a vine of receipt paper that wrapped halfway around the machine. Finally, a co-volunteer came out to assist her, and we entered the museum as A Family.
The exhibits were sweet and local, ranging from Hobart navy operations to the first lighthouses built on that shore. Nick spent a good time in the exhibit that explored the bloody horrors of the nineteenth century whaling industry, while Dad gathered details on the innumerable types of cargo ships that had sailed into Hobart’s harbors. In my strange and morbid fascination for ship wrecks (which dates back to my fourth grade obsession with the sinking of the Titanic), I read each plaque and examined every piece of wreckage found at various wreck sights. At risk of transforming into Herman Melville (without, of course, his compelling literary skills or superb language usage), a few of the tails I found most fascinating were those of the Svenor and the Waterwitch (the name of the latter may be incorrectly remembered. If so, I apologies to the ghosts of those who may or may not have died on that ship? Especially the ones who may not have). The Waterwitch got caught along an uncharted reef during a mild storm. The captain – who was an overconfident man that had already skipped their last scheduled stop for rations and repairs in an attempt to beat a deadline – assumed that the ship would free itself when the tide rose again. As the storm worsened and the tide rose, however, the ship began to fill with water very rapidly, as the entire bottom of the boat had been left behind on the reef. In their panic, the ship’s crew and passengers (consisting mostly of 200 plus English convicts who had already been starving and dying of scurvy in the hold) bungled the evacuation, losing many of the shore-boats and even managing to set the ship on fire. In the end, only nine of the people aboard survived by floating ashore on the debris of their lost ship. The captain was not one of them. He drowned while unsuccessfully clinging to a spool of chicken wire for support. The nine survivors lived on a nearby island for almost five months, eating the canned rations that floated ashore, and digging mass graves for the bodies that floated ashore with them. Finally, they were discovered and rescued by a passing whaler.

The Svenor is interesting as a ship in it of itself. This boat struck an uncharted rock, and began sinking very slowly. The crew and passengers were all safely evacuated and moved to a different cargo ship. The captain tried to have the ship towed to shore a few days later, so that it could be torn down into lumber. Unfortunately, the ship was damaged enough that it could not be towed – it would not steer in a straight line, and was threatening the ship that it was tied to. Giving up on the lumber, the captain had the ship set on fire. This was to prevent it from floating freely over the ocean – a ghost ship menace – and endangering other ships that might not see it by night. Thus, the ship was left to burn and sink.
But it didn’t. Almost half a year later, the charred, water-bellied ship floated into one of the most difficult, rocky shores in Tazmania. It had somehow managed not only to stay afloat, but to maneuver itself through one hundred miles of treacherous reef and rock territory that was considered virtually unmanageably even for some of the most skillful navigators. The ship finally beached itself the edge of a small fishing village. Imagine the surprise for the villagers. The figurehead – a charred woman in Greek robes – was still intact, holding her torch out as if lighting the way for this abandoned ghost ship to find safe harbor.

After some time in the gift shop (I was particularly not amused by the plagues for “Why Ships are Called ‘She,’” look it up sometime) we did some more exploring around the harbor, and then stopped in at the main museum and art gallery. Here, under various dusky lights and dim colors, we learned about the history of the aboriginal peoples in Tasmania, saw taxidermied native animals in artificial versions of their natural environments, examined paintings, watched 3D videos about the Antarctic exploration missions, and dinosaur bones. We also learned a bit more about the handsome, swashbuckling Errol Flynn, whose hometown we were visiting.
From there we spent some time wandering about the mall, and had lunch at a fantastic little Indian restaurant at the food court. The owner was a jolly fellow who ran two small restaurants with his sons. He had moved from India to Germany, and from German to Australia, all to be with various members of his family. He was such a kind and enthusiastic man that he gave us all extra food, just because there were things we hadn’t tried before. There are some people in this world that – with only a smile – can restore one’s entire faith in humanity.
After a few more hours of shop wandering (Nick bought a pair of jeans at the Salvo, I found more post cards, et cetera), we snacked on some honey and toffee roasted almonds, then caught a bus back to our hotel. The evening was quiet, with each of us reading or watching films in our own right. The sun sets very early, here in Tasmania. By 3:30 the sun is low in the sky, and by 5:00 it is completely dark. The view from our hotel window looks out on the houses that scatter up the mountainside. I love to watch the mist curl over the mountains – so low to the ground that it looks like the smoke from a bushfire. As the sun sets, the houselights flicker on one at a time. At first, they are only very bright, sharp pinpricks of light against the mountainside. Then, as the sunlight fades, the pinpricks grow into whole glowing rooms, which in turn become glowing houses and glittering neighborhoods. But we are on the 15th floor of our hotel, so the general affect is like looking out over a thousand jars of fireflies that have been set against a hill. Car lights glide from house to house, as if some fireflies have broken out for a tiptoeing escape. And alongside all of it – the reflection in the harbor.
Thursday was our first full day in Hobart. Mom attended conferences, while Dad, Nick, and I explored the neighborhood. Without taking a bus down to the main part of Hobart, we are in a fairly modern residential area. Dad is a fan of LaBella Pizza, where we have now eaten three times, and the German Bakery down the street. Nick fell in love with their Almond Bretzel, while the Hazelnut Horn and Apple Streusel won the hearts of my father and me. We attempted to access internet at the McDonald’s, but my computer was suffering some major malfunctions (all fixed now, due to some updates I installed), so we just enjoyed our stroll around the neighborhood. We picked out a church to attend on Sunday (more about that later), found a grocery store, and had a good time spotting unique shops and businesses in the area. (My personal favorite was the holistic health veterinary clinic, which offered acupuncture, herbal remedies, and massage for house pets.)
Thursday evening, I snuck into Mom’s conference to listen to a convocation speech given by the great Australian author, Richard Flannagan. He had a great deal of inspiring quotes about the importance of reading and writing, emphasizing the idea that in a world as cut throat and busy as ours, books remind us that we are all capable of the same sins and accomplishments – that we are all indomitably human – and that no one can be reduced from the complex status of the individual. I wrote down several notes and quotes. Just make a request if you would like to hear more about this speech. After the speeches, I found myself rushed down into a crowd of teachers, with a pate cracker and a glass of wine. Let me say that the wine was the most bitter, wretched thing I have ever tasted, and my wine days were over after that.
Wednesday was a busy day, as we were once more in transit. Nick and I went for a final stroll to the beach to say goodbye to Wollongong. On our way back, we stopped at the grocery store and bought a box of cream puff finger cakes, which we gorged ourselves on, laughing and covered in sugar, on the park bench just outside of the store. The seagulls enjoyed us, too. There is one seagull with a broken leg that makes its survival by hanging outside of the grocery store and feeding on the pity breads that people throw to it. It has a funny little bodyguard – a second seagull that both steals its food and defends it from being robbed by other seagulls. We fed both of them, and the four of us bonded as well as any seagull-human-quad could over that box of cream puff finger cakes.
We left almost immediately after Nick and I got back, but let me tell you… we left in style. Mom had arranged our ride with a bus and limousine company out of Sydney. But we never suspected that they would actually send one of the limousines. With a tall, quite driver in a sweater vest and over-polished shoes, we loaded our bags into the trunk and settled into the sleek leather interior. On each of the mahogany armrests were crystal glasses and bottle holders for wines and champagnes. However, the ride was given a strangely Hollywood air, as the driver played dance-techno music loudly on the radio for most of the trip. I thought that we would have been better suited for the trip had we all be dressed in purple sequins, or brought along a few tall blondes to wave excitedly out of the sunroof. Our driver accidentally dropped us off at the wrong door, so our sense of glamour was quickly diminished by the need to rush wildly with our suitcases to catch a bus that smelled suspiciously of lemon Lysol. We did make our plane, though, and in no time we were unexpectedly boarding a scam hotel shuttle that would rip us off shamelessly before delivering us to the lively and somewhat gaudy Wrest Point Casino Hotel. (More about that later, too.) I say lively and somewhat gaudy, as, like every good Casino, every surface in the place was plated with gold-colored mirrors, teal bird-of-paradise carpeting, red wallpaper, and absolute mountains of fruit and flowers. The rooms were just as showy – both painted in an orange-gold that Nick and I agreed was the exact color of cold macaroni and cheese. This affect was only reinforced by the deeply textured ceiling, which actually did look exactly like cold macaroni and cheese, and would start to rearrange itself if you stared at it long enough.
I think my favorite thing about the Wrest Point Hotel, though, was the breakfast buffet. Try not to be jealous, but I can’t help myself: picture steaming platters of hash browns, poached eggs, scrambled eggs, and (for you meat eaters out there) fat slabs of sizzling ham and bacon. Mountains of fresh kiwis, watermelon, apricots, peaches, pears, dried fruits of every shape and color; bowls of fruit yoghurt, granolas, six different kinds of cereal, stacks of hot toast, butter still melting on the bread; tumbling stacks of hot blueberry muffins, pancakes, French toast, pitchers of real syrup, and a variety of juices ranging from the traditional orange and apple to the thick and pulpy tomato and pineapple juices. Hot coffee and tea were served to our places while we were selecting our food, and while we ate, we looked out through a wall of windows that overlooked the bay. We watched the sailing ships move out of moor to the sea beyond, and watched the thick rolls of fog rise from the sea to the mountains. The sun rising through the mist glinted back off of the water, shimmering below the blurred horizon.
Monday and Tuesday back in Wollongong were delightfully dull. We spent some more time at the beach, explored the exotic Wollongong Botanical Gardens (we all got locked in at the end of the day and had to crawl through a hole in the rusted fence, but ultimately had a good time), and went skydiving. Right. Did I say delightfully dull? Well, on a whim Monday afternoon, Dad sent an email to the Sydney Skydiving operation on the North Wollongong beach. We’d been watching them do beach landings all week, and I kept teasing him about taking us skydiving, too. While it is something that I’ve always wanted to do, I really didn’t expect him to take me seriously. But he did, and I helped with the booking. The company emailed us back right away to let us know that they had an opening on Tuesday – would we take it? We would.
Mom was sad that she couldn’t tag along to watch (especially because, in her motherly fears, she figured she might have been watching us fall to our deaths), but she had to present a paper at the university during the same time that we would be plummeting 14,000 feet at 120 miles per hour out of an airplane.
We arrived early and had to spend some time sitting on a picnic bench contemplating our fates and the clouds. Eventually, they dressed us in blue and yellow polar suits and strapped us into harness gear. After a quick lesson on the take-off and landing (keep your feet up on the landing! Cross your arms and keep your head back when you fall out of the plane!), we were left outside to watch another crew jump, and to chat with our coconspirators. Jumping with us were a father and son pair – Chad, who had also just turned 18, and Nonu, who had reportedly been skydiving once before, unintentionally. Apparently a friend had picked him up, “to go for a drive,” and an hour later they were both strapped in tandem harnesses dangling into the sky.
Well, we watched the others jump. The plane flew overhead, and then they appeared, one by one: white raindrops falling far above the birds. After a minute or so, the parachutes blossomed open – not the way that flowers blossom into petal, but the way that fire blossoms into flame. One quick burst of color, then the swinging, fluttering fall down to Earth.
In less than twenty minutes, our sky diving experts were back on the lot with packed chutes. Apparently these guys do five jumps a day on a rainy winter Tuesday. They’ll do up to 15 a day in the summer time, maybe even 20 on a weekend. The fellow I was attached to – Rob – had done over 10,000 jumps. I imagine that they rack up pretty quickly at the rate listed above.
The fellows we jumped with were all lively and rough – permanent bachelors with a thirst for thrill – as Dad called them, “Adrenaline Jockeys.” I was attached to a squat Irishman named Rob, who was very quiet but had a sharp sense of humor. Dad was traveling with an old expert – a muscular, shave-headed man named Kevin who was powering down Red Bull in the plane. Kev had been jumping for twenty-five years to the day, and he was the one who led our crew into the sky. Nick’s fellow was a tall, skinny lightning rod of a human being, with a thin moustache and a tuft of wiry grey hair that looked like it had been sticking straight up ever since his first jump. He had a thick Australian accent and never stopped talking, even when they jumped out of the plane. Everything was a joke or a rib or a thrill – he was a nonstop comic, and, for those of you who have seen it, he reminded me exactly of the airplane expert, Gyro, from the Mad Max movies.
We took a bus shuttle to an airport that was coincidentally, if not ironically, not far from the Nan Tien Buddhist temple. I thought about the opposites of these events: a meditation retreat day, and a skydiving jump. I wondered what our nuns would think of us now.
The plane we took was a rattling old beast, with the windows duct taped into place, and the seat padding ripped up on the slides. They said that, if the water had been calmer, we would have been able to sight whales off the coast, as our plane climbed. As Wollongong diminished below us, my stomach started to fly. Were we really going to fall all the way back down THERE? When we reached the cloud break, Rob leaned over and told me, “This is the blue room! I painted it myself. But not the floor.” I responded, “Yeah – nice cloud carpeting.” The banter continued from there, to the point that the red three mile light popped on. He joked, “The red light means three minutes to jump. The yellow light means one minute. The green light means we’ve run out of gas.”
When the green light popped on, my dad was the first one out of the plane. Kevin had him dangling his legs out for almost a full minute, a stunt that would have had me doing mental cartwheels. I don’t think I believed that we were really jumping until I saw them somersault out. Nick went next, and then it was me.
You’d expect that, having so much gibberish to say about fruit plates and shipwrecks, I’d type another six pages about skydiving. But I can’t. There is no way that I can capture that feeling of falling, but not falling. The overwhelming joy of falling through a cloud, thinking, “I’ve always wondered about this,” collecting dew on my clothing. The cold of the wind, but the strange solidity of being in the sky, almost like I had planted my feet on all that blue and was just taking an elevator down. The vertigo of spinning, of not knowing up from down. The relaxation and peace of being completely out of control.
The chute popped quickly and then we were floating. The joy of freefall moments before was replaced by the calm of floating. It was the stuff of dreams, to see everything so far below, but not to be safe in a plane seat. Not to be looking at pictures. He asked me what I thought. I said, “DaVinci would be envious.” He let me steer, turning left, turning right. I have never seen anything more beautiful in my life.
And then we were on the ground. Nick, Dad, and Chad had landed before me. We all hugged and high fived, trading our thoughts from the fall, laughing about our anxiety from before. We got on the bus back to the base, got out of our harnesses, and continued to replay our falls by mouth and by mind.
While we waited for our pictures to process, Nick, Dad, and I stopped by our old burger joint for some shakes and fries. I’d be lying if I said everything looked brighter or more beautiful – I am fortunate in that, to me, everything is always bright and beautiful – but I had a new feeling within myself, that strange joy of falling, falling, falling, that bizarre sense of security even before the chute opened.
By then, then day had faded. We went back to our apartments and shared our stores and DVDs with Mom. Then we had dinner and finished packing. I wish I had a better conclusion to this story, but there are some stories that simply can’t be concluded.
Last Sunday, we went to the Wesley Church on the Mall again. Having discovered that Dad was also a preacher, the very friendly Pastor Gordon asked him to read and reflect on the scripture lesson. Afterward, we tagged along on the church bus, delivering a group of very sweet elderly women back to their various Independent Living Villages. I enjoyed listening to each of them describe the changes that they had seen in Wollongong over the years. Many of them had lived in the area for fifty or sixty years, one woman even moved here from London during WWII. After we dropped them all off, the driver told us about all of the amazing street ministry projects that Gordon has helped organize through the Church on the Mall. They not only run a daily soup kitchen, but also organize several other local aid facilities, and Gordon also spearheaded a suicide help hotline that is available 24/7. It’s a great, lively church doing great, life-giving things.
Well, that’s all for this week! More on the next week very, very soon. Again, please excuse all of the typos above, I don’t have much time to edit so I’m very plainly not going to. Love to all. Happy summer!

Another Sara update

AUSTRALIA UPDATE NO. 6

After my last post last Saturday, my family and I all took a ferry across the Hobart Harbor to visit a weekend market that had setup downtown. I am an enormous fan of street markets: the sights, the sounds, and the smells are simultaneously overwhelming and compelling. The wax candles, hand-sewn boots, carved wooden figures, knit scarves, wool socks, second-hand books, incense, frying meats, beaded necklaces, cheap rings, bushels of apples (red, yellow, green – vivid, brilliant against the brown scarves, dark hands, and heavy grey sky), the smells of cigarette smoke, coffee, breads, cakes, mixed perfumes, sweat, breath, leather; the bangs of tambourines, flutes, guitars, reedy voices of young girls kneeling on the pavement singing songs their parents taught them; the heckling, the “over here!”, the rush, the tumble, the laughter, the foot-falls, the wind chimes, the penny whistles, the boat whistles, the waves on the wharf; light fixtures, paintings, Activists’ tables, t-shirts, beach wraps, tie-dye, long-haired boys and short-haired girls, old women, babies, military men, backpackers, tourists, fashionistas – the lonely, the lively, the proud, the shy, the bold, the bored, the sharp, the smooth, the sweet, and always, the curious. I do love street markets.
Other than the day we spent at the street market, and on the brief ferry passage (the rock, the tumble of the water, the hum of the ship’s engine, the disappearance and reappearance of shifting shorelines), we were a dull crew on Saturday, enjoying our afternoon in and going out for pizza in the evening.
Sunday, Mom had conferences all day, but the other three of us went to a two-hour service at a local Uniting Presbyterian Church. It was a very small church, with only the main sanctuary and a greeting/coffee room behind it, but the people there were extraordinarily friendly. Upon being revealed as strangers in the congregation, we were immediately adopted by a lively little whip of a woman named Barbara. Barbara must have been in her seventies, but she seems to be the type of seventy-year-old who never actually turned seventy. She was bouncing all over the congregation, introducing us to the pastor and his wife, and all of the retired pastors, and the Korean minister’s wife, and the retired teachers of the congregation. She invited us back for a “Cuppa” or tea and crumpets, where she proceeded to introduce us and spark conversation among every one of the parishioners she could lay her enthusiastic fingers on. I have never felt more immediately loved or welcomed in all my life. We spent another hour or so just chatting with church members, jesting with the minister, and getting travel tips from whomever was willing to offer.
After church we had another easy-going afternoon, packing and hanging out around the casino. We took Mom out for pizza at LaBella because she hadn’t gotten to come with us the night before.
Monday morning we had to rush to catch our airport shuttle at 6:40 a.m. Unfortunately, the driver had taken on passengers that weren’t on his list, so he informed us that the next shuttle would be arriving in ten minutes, and that WE weren’t on his list. We waited, but there was no such second shuttle. This caused a lot of confusion, and finally, at the assistance of the two extraordinarily helpful concierges, the hotel offered to pay for our taxi to the airport. As our struggle revealed, that Shuttle Company had a history of cheating customers out of their money – the fellow who charged her initially charged her an additional hundred dollars that we are still trying to get refunded. That’s apart from the second fellow who tricked us out of our seats on his shuttle that morning. Despite all the drama, we did manage to make it to the airport on time, and had no trouble getting to our hotel in Sydney.
Sydney was fantastic. As Australia’s major city center, it was both busy and bright. I am not a fan of cities most of the time, but Sydney is one of the few that I have seen that I have liked. The first day that we were there, we settled into our hotel and got directions to the train station. We took the train to the Circular Quay (pronounced “Key”) and roamed about the gift shops and harbor. One of our first destinations, of course, was the Sydney Opera House. On a whim, Mom went in to ask if there were any spare tickets for a show. There just so happened to be six left for Bell Shakespeare’s “Pericles,” directed by John Bell himself! We took the four together in row R, and settled in for an incredible performance of the old Shakespearian play with a Japanese twist. All of the set, staging, music, and costuming were done in a Japanese style, with the Taiko performing group “TaikOz.” We got home late and crashed immediately. Flights do that to Swensons like us. But so do long, exciting days at the pier. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the sight of the sun setting behind the Opera House, shimmering off of the water; the office lights emerging boldly to compete with the stars.
We spent all day on Tuesday visiting the Australian Museum. There were endless exhibits on Mammoths, Dinosaurs, Aboriginal Artworks, Aboriginal Culture, Minerals, Bones, Australian Sea Creatures, Extinct Animals, the Environment… the list goes on. After six hours of museum time and a few minutes in the gift shop, we were once again happy to put our feet up on the train back into the Quay. There, we found dinner, watched the sunset again, and experimented with some creative flavors of Gelato.
Wednesday we devoted all day to the Toronga Zoo. Around 10 a.m. we caught the train and ferry over to the peninsula and were immediately shuffled onto the Sky-Safari ride into the park. This was like traveling in an enclosed ski-lift, and it allowed us to get a high overview of the entire park. The first animals we went to see were the Koalas. They were sleeping the first time we visited them, but when we came back in the afternoon, they were awake and lively. Koalas only spent about four hours each day awake, and that’s only a few minutes at a time, so we were incredibly lucky to catch them awake at all! Nick and I also had a great experience – Mom paid for us to go in and meet a Koala up close. We got to spend some time talking to a specialist and having our pictures taken with a peacefully sleeping Koala. Apparently these little marsupials aren’t so sweet in the wild, though. They have claws that can tear a person’s face off – quite a stunt for something that deceptively fluffy.
I can say without a doubt that our next collectively favorite exhibit was that with the kangaroos. Instead of having the kangaroos in a fenced off area – WE got to go into their habitat area. Here, the happy, lazy little creatures were lounging about. Those occasional kangaroos and wallabies that wished to venture onto the path were greeted by handfuls of sweet grass and some petting. They are intelligent creatures – the volunteer zoo worker told us a story about a kangaroo he once saw being chased by a dog. The kangaroo hopped into a stream, all the way up to its shoulders. When the dog swam out to it, the kangaroo balanced itself back on its tail and *bloop* caught the dog by the neck to drown it under water. The dog’s owner had to throw rocks at it to get the Kangaroo to let go. His half-drown dog gargled back to the shore, and, I daresay, never messed with a Kangaroo again. While we were in the exhibit, one of the Wallaby joeys decided to climb out of his mother’s pouch! He came bounding out, innocently happy and stupidly stumbling over its own legs, playing up to the paparazzi crowd that had gathered on the path nearby. His mother was very protective of him, however, and got him back into her pouch after a few minutes, but the little fellow kept his head out to watch the rest of us for quite some time afterward.
In addition to the other Australian rarities (the bilby, the platypus, the fairy penguin, and the wombat, to say the least), we visited the Asian elephants, seals, giraffes, and a few other African animals. By then, it was five o’clock and the zoo was closing. It’s a wonder how fast time flies on days like these.
We caught dinner at an amazing restaurant on the pier called “East Bank Café and Pizzeria.” I will shamelessly say that it was the best food I have ever eaten (a pumpkin-feta ravioli in sweet tomato sauce with roasted pine nuts and basil – not a usual combination, but I about swooned on the first mouthful. Seriously. Ask my brother). The meal was made even better (if that is possible), by the presence of the comedic and friendly matradee, whose perpetual bantering and attentiveness kept the café filled the entire time we were there. He was proud of his work, proud of his business, and in love with people. The beauty of the night also escalated the goodness of the meal: we sat outside, under heated torch lamps, and once again watched the sunset over the pier.
After a late night of packing, we woke up at four o’clock, this morning to catch our flight to New Zealand. I’ll save you all the details of the Customs paperwork, waiting lines, heavy luggage, droning elevator music, dizzying carpet patterns, takeoffs, landings, polite conversations, airplane breakfasts, or half-watched movies. Although I did sit next to a lovely mother and son pair who were vacationing in New Zealand from Australia. I had the innate sense about them that we could have grown to be very good friends under different conditions; though I kept rebuking myself for such a silly thought. Still, there are some people that you just click with, even if the deepest conversations you have are about snowboarding and the discomfort of cramped leg space. Long story short, we are settled in New Zealand now. The hotel keeper at our Best Western is a friendly Asian man who has gone out of his way to supply us with ample keys, maps, and connections, so that we are already at home in our new neighborhood. Now, after another long day’s travel, I think I am ready for bed…

In New Zealand

We got up at 4 AM yesterday to catch our 7 Am flight to Auckland. Since I like to try new things, last night I had a Lemon & Paeroa, also known as L& P. "A sweet soft drink manufactured in New Zealand. Traditionally made by combining lemon juice with carbonated mineral water from the town of Paeroa,
Lemon & Paeroa can be found only in New Zealand and in specialty New Zealand stores abroad. I liked its advertising slogan "World famous in New Zealand"

Hopefully you didn't come here expecting to read something more profound than that!

ok,,, a little more info ..in Sydney we went to a museum and a zoo...(we have pictures of Nick and Sara with a koala bear) and took pictures of the Harbor bridge and the Opera House and even took in a play there... A Bell/Shakespeare piece: Pericles.
Read the Sara Notes for livng details!
Thanks, as always, for rambling along.

Leaving Hobart

Our ride to the airport leaves the hotel at 6:40 AM tomorrow (Monday) and then we fly with JetStar to Sydney. This morning we went to a near by Uniting Church (Presbyterian) where the retired Scottish interim pastor was having his last Sunday. I heard him use a phrase I will keep; The "Harmony of God" rather than the more traditional will of God or kingdom of God. He had also started the practice of having cummunicants taking the elements home that day for others who could not attend. They received those elements as part of the communion time. The persons who were taking the elements were named as well as who they they being taken to. I have a copy of his home use ritual. At the church social time I also spoke with a Uni professor who had worked with a prof from Bemidji and yesterday we met a hotel staff person who is from Alexandria MN.
Beth has enjoyed the Literacy Conf. here.
Our time goes well, my beard is filling in nicely..but quite gray!
Thanks for reading the ramble

sky dive day

What a Day. This afternoon Sara, Nick and I did tandem sky dives. They took us above the clouds to 14000 feet. I was the first one out of the plane and Sara said the scariest part was seeing her Dad fall out of the plane. The cloud mist stung a little on the face as we dropped in freefall speed of about 120 mph.. abit chilly too..but it was awesome. They advertise free fall time of up to a minute but if it was , it went fast! Must admit some relief when I felt the jerk of the parachute opening. Landings went fine.First thing I did was watch the kids land. Wind conditions were not right for the beach sand landings we had watched so we went inland to land on a grassy playing field. I would do it again.It was something I wanted to do back in college days. Took me awhile to get around to it. Cant wait to hear Nick and Sara's descriptions. Don't know if we will get pictures posted. We go to Hobart, Tasmania tomorrow evening, with not much Internet options for a week. Then back to Sydney for a couple of days before going to New Zealand.
Thanks for reading!

updates bt Nick

Day 13
My birthday! (I’m 18 now!!!) We spent most of the day on the train traveling to Albury. It was a beautiful trip due to the mountain view and the frequent green rock formations. When we got there we settled into our hotel and later went out to dinner.

Day 14, 15, 16
These days were spent exploring Albury. There were a couple of malls and small shops. I found a $ 6.50 corduroy aviators Jacket at a used cloths store. It’s pretty awesome. We also got a tour of a completely eco friendly college right down to the composting toilets. It was really interesting. This is where mom went to her conference which she says was an interesting experience.

Day 18
We took the midnight train going anywhere. (Just kidding, we took it back to Wollongong). And then we spent that day readjusting from a rather sleepless night of travel.

Day 19 and 20
Mhmmm…we didn’t really do much. Explored a few more shops for the fun of it and went to the beach a couple of times. On, what was the fourth of July in the U.S., we went down to the beach at night. Watching the waves crashing in the moonlight was just like watching fireworks! :)

Sara's # 4 Note on Australia

words from Sara . Posted for those of you not on facebook:
If you are the types of readers who like to have a placement for your author, then picture me here: I have currently secured a seat for myself in the direct middle of a free Wollongong city bus. I am sitting in the section with the slightly shaded windows – still bright enough to let me watch the man in the suit coat rushing to meet us at the next stop, or the bicyclist in spandex uniform bike by with his jaw set tight beneath a mask of determination, or the pink-clad Asian girl with her face turned up to the sun hopping up and down at her patient mothers side – but still dim enough so that I can see my laptop screen below the glare. I have come from a cool morning walk, lungs scrubbed enliveningly raw by the salty air, through the mall, where my bones imperceptibly danced beneath my skin to the collective strums of all the young street musicians’ guitars. There is a man there who seems to have befriended all of them. I see him every time I go to the mall. He wears the same clothes and rough leather jacket every day, but they are always clean and he is always clean-shaven. He pollinates the musicians, traveling from one to the next requesting the same songs over and over again in exchange for coins that he may or may not have in his jacket pocket. They amuse him, and amuse themselves, trying to pick out tunes and remember words that they never bothered to memorize.

I look back on the past week and I’m not sure what I want to write about. There’s always an overwhelming expanse of words between me and yesterday, much less last Saturday, but I will do my best to harvest only the quality among them, and leave the rest for fictional gleaning. I should start with last Saturday and work my way up to this one, but there are parts of last Saturday that I would rather not record. I should not say “would rather not record,” but should say, “would rather not attempt to record,” as there is a great difference between the two phrases. We spent last Saturday at the Nan Tien Humanistic Buddhist temple just North of Wollongong. My family and I were there for a day retreat, which my father organized for us, and which we were fortunate to get into, as the retreat had initially been booked full. If you have been keeping up with my previous notes, then you already have the setting in your mind: crimson temple halls with golden, honeycombed walls full of small golden Buddhas, each lit by its own light, and shimmering with candles. The heavy smoke of incense circling the immense iron doors. Shoes neatly set or eagerly tossed into heaps by the door. The devout and the curious alike on bended knees, with flower, light, or fruit offerings laid before the five enormous Buddhas on the temple platform. Most of me would just like to leave you with the descriptions, themselves, and keep the day to myself. There are some memories that are too perfect to be remembered. I worry now, on the breach of description, that my very attempts at journaling through our retreat will somehow obliterate the completeness of it. Still, words are the best ways of remembering, and if I don’t at least try, then the whole day will be lost as I have allowed it to be: completely. Time burns through our memories like fire through a house, and this is my attempt to rush against the flames to grab what few things are precious and near to me. If I do not capture at least this much – then all of my thoughts and things should be lost together.

We woke up with the sunrise to catch an early bus to the temple. We arrived half an hour before the gates were scheduled to be open, at 8:30 a.m., but we were not alone. With us was a wiry middle-aged woman with purple-brown hair, a fur-lined winter jacket, and sweatpants. She had already called the office before our arrival, and after a few minutes standing below the towering iron grating, the gates yawned open and we found ourselves wandering through the meditation paths toward the reception area. The reception attendant served us tea and we all waited in quietude for the rest of our retreat members to gather. There was something about the reception room itself that commanded silence. Not commanded, so much, as invited. No words were spoken as person after person drifted in , collecting nametags and accepting glasses of tea. We were an unusual group, from all corners of Australia and beyond. There were three beautiful Indian women in brown wraps of a material light and delicate as paper, and several wide American women in two-piece matching purple track suits making sarcastic faces at one another over teacups that were too small for their hands. The rest of us were mixed in all shapes and sizes, mostly Australian, and hung with mismatched but comfortable clothing. When our leader, the Venerable Mai, entered, we collectively leaning out of our chairs with an eager anticipation. A compact, Chinese woman with a shaved head and layers of Autumnal nun’s robes, she greeted us with a sagacious smile that she would wear for the rest of the day. With a brief welcome and an outline of our day, she encouraged us to maintain what we had already instinctually begun: a noble silence. Throughout the rest of the retreat and the day, we were encouraged not to speak. This silence, she explained, would help us to face ourselves and find the centering that we had come to seek.

(To interrupt my narrative and share a slight delight from my bus route, which is on its second loop around Wollongong: we are over the ocean now and the sea is speckled with determined surfers paddling against waves that are six times larger than themselves. A man at the street corner has lifted his toddler by the underarms and they are spinning together. The child’s smile outshines the sun, and is matched in joy only by the same smile on the face of his father.)

From the reception area, the Venerable Mai led us to a meditation center, where we were led in several basic meditation exercises, and encouraged to consider our own mortality as a necessary part of the greater cosmic workings. She explained an idea that I had heard previously from my father, that the wave can only be at peace with its swells and falls, when it realizes that it is part of the ocean.

After meditation, we were released for another morning tea, and after the morning tea, we gathered in the central courtyard at the base of the temple for a lesson in Tai Chi. Each of us stood at the seam s of two tile squares and flowed or stumbled through the movements demonstrated for us by a Tai Chi master who stood on the first landing of the temple steps.

From Tai Chi, we gathered again for more instruction and explanations about Humanistic Buddhism. The Venerable Mai’s words are strangely the hardest for me to remember, not because I have forgotten them, but because I have remembered, more, the feeling of them. I know the lessons I have learned, because they are part of me now. Her instructions on mindfulness, generosity, and living in the present moment have impacted me deeply in a way that I daresay I cannot begin to replicate through two-dimensional memories on paper. All I can encourage you to do is to do some of your own research and learning around Humanistic Buddhism, and hope that you, too, are impacted as deeply as I have been. I liked especially what she said about Buddhism as a mindset and matter of principle. Because it is so centered around action and living, it is a lifestyle and not a religion. It is just as easy for one to be a Christian Buddhist, or Jewish Buddhist, etc. as long as one is willing to live by the very practices that many of the mystic versions of Western religion already advocate: selflessness, awareness, compassion (SUPREMELY MOST COMPASSION), generosity, patience, and loving kindness. I suppose I can give the same example that she did of loving kindness, as opposed to kindness. Say you have two dogs – one is soft and fluffy and cuddly, and one is mangy and bad-mannered and has fleas. Kindness is picking up the soft, cute dog and petting it and giving it treats and being nice to it, but giving the ugly dog to the pound. Loving kindness is picking both dogs up and petting them and giving them both treats and loving them equally. Not because of any personal gain that could be accomplished, but simply because both of them exist. Loving indiscriminately, and being kind without consideration of the self. She said to give – give wholeheartedly and fearlessly, even if you were being taken advantage of , because what do we have to lose? Things are only things, and people are what matter. By being an example of love and wisdom, you are doing more good than by denying a request out of self-concern or fear. Ultimately, the other person is only hurting him or herself by clinging to the material needs and wants of a world that is fundamentally impermanent. We can’t take it with us. She said that death is just the exchange of old, used bodies for new bodies, for our bodies to continue our spiritual journeys along until we enter the path toward enlightenment. She said that sometimes when we keep encountering certain personality types that we can’t get along with, it is our soul’s way of encouraging us to make things right with these types of people. Our enemies, she said, are our greatest gifts, because they allow us to see the weaknesses of ourselves. “What is the sound of one hand clapping? There is no sound. We all know there is no sound. In the same way, we cannot have a clash or an argument without some wrongness on both sides. Our enemies can teach us what we are doing wrong.” The quote I liked the most was this: “There are two things that you must not worry about. First, do not worry about the things you cannot change, because if you cannot change them, then you are wasting energy thinking about them. Second, do not worry about the things you can change, because if you can change them, then all you need to do is take action!”

The rest of the day was spent upon a beautiful lunch, temple tour, and second session of meditation. We focused on mindful walking and mindful eating. To walk mindfully, we had to walk very, very slowly, being aware of every muscle as it moved, and every toe as it pressed full pressure against the cool wood floor. The same principles of attention and slowness applied to our eating, when we were encouraged to chew each bite of food twenty times. Such mindfulness helps us to take deeper joy out of life, and not to be so caught up in distant thoughts and worries. To reconnect with our bodies. I thought this idea of reconnecting with the body through awareness of walking and eating was especially applicable to our American mindsets, where food is often eaten on the go and walking is disregarded as a basic and slow function of motion. That is a quote that my dad often uses, too, about the distinction of monks in their awareness. “When a journalist asked a monk what the monks did at the monastery, the monk smiled and responded ‘we walk, we eat, and we sleep.’ ‘What is so different about that?’ asked the journalist. ‘Ah,’ the monk responded, ‘but when we walk, we know that we are walking; when we eat, we know that we are eating; and when we sleep, we know that we are sleeping.’”

Our day ended at 4:30 p.m., when two nuns struck the closing drum and bell, each 108 times, as the sun set slow behind the mountains. We waited for half an hour at the bus stop back, where I met a small, match-stick-thin woman with one front tooth and a thick tuft of black hair that disguised her age. She had also spent the day at the temple. She had taken the bus all the way from her hometown, all by herself, for the first time, to visit the pagodas and talk with the nuns. When we weren’t talking about her own adventures in New Zealand (getting traveling advice for the second half of our trip), she was reading information on taking Buddhist vows, and reverently smoothing the petals of a flower offering she had purchased earlier that afternoon.

(For those of you, again, who love author placement, I am off the bus now and attempting to access the internet from a busy McDonalds at the mall. There is a man sharing the table with me who will not make eye contact, and flocks of long-haired girls dressed in the latest fashions float by on clouds of perfumes. Malls, unfortunately, tend to remind me of all I like least about our species. Loud men my age race by, cussing and shoving one another in the wide hallways. Twenty different songs play from each of the surrounding stores. Wrappers and dirt clutter the wildly tiled floor. I will not stay here for long.)

The next morning we woke up early, again. This time, before the sunrise. It was Nick’s birthday, so Mom and Dad surprised him with breakfast in bed. We didn’t have long to lounge, though, because we had to catch a taxi at six in order to make our bus at six thirty. Nick and Mom slept through a good portion of the bus ride, but Dad and I couldn’t help but stay awake. We moved through each level of the mountains like we were moving through the evolution of centuries. First, the rugged seaside coasts, then shrinking local villages surrounded by fields full of fluffy white sheep, standing in groups with their back legs crossed like proper English ladies. Then the lurking forests with ageless, stooping trees – the thick peat of the Earth packed deep with stones. The grave-markers where the ferns come to bury their dead. The mountains climbed and the temperature dropped, until at last we were in the Australian highlands. We caught our train at a small town called Moss Vale, where all of the centuries we had passed were laid out before us, and we were welcome at every angle to take deep gulps of each, the fields, the forest, and sea.

The train ride was full of the previous – rocky, rolling fields with trees that had died with their roots in the ground and rotted where they stood. Sheep and cattle covered what the grass didn’t, and not a human soul was seen for four hours of our trip, before we started making stops at all of the small towns with stone churches and crumbling tin-roofed houses. There was a lively little boy in the seat ahead of me, who couldn’t speak much, but certainly had a lot of faces that he could make. When his mother wasn’t looking, we made faces at one another over the seat, and he laughed a lot. As mothers often do – I knew she had a sense of what we were up to, and soon we were having a friendly chat over the antics of her sweet little Alfred.

It was three o’clock in the afternoon by the time we finally arrived in the small city of Albury. Albury has a population of about 100,000 people, and, like Wollongong, is primarily constructed of local restaurants and small specialty shops. I’ll lump most of our week there into a single paragraph, as much of our time was spent in leisurely strolls, long lunches, and trivial shopping. We ended our day of travel with dinner at an Italian restaurant, giving Nick his gifts and topping the evening off with ice cream bars. Mom enjoyed her conference during the week, and Nick and I bought hats from a local surplus store. Nick also found a jacket at the Vinnies used clothing store, and Dad and Nick bought book satchels. We visited the Botanical gardens in that area, enjoyed the local library museum, and had a very… interesting tour of the local art gallery by a elderly gentleman who had an overwhelming affinity for trick rhetorical questions. “All right now. How is the color match on this? Does anyone think this is a bad color match? Who thinks it is a good color match? Well, right, it is an almost perfect color match…” and “All right now. Where does this line lead your eye? And where is the brightest color part of the painting? Now: is this a dress? Take your time. Get the angle. Hint. Look at the top. Is it a dress? Right. It IS a dress.” He didn’t seem to know much about the exact details of the art pieces, but as a volunteer tour guide, he had a lot of opinions to share, and invited us, often, to agree with him. It rained most of the time we were there, which was apparently a miracle to the people of Albury, who haven’t seen rain in years. The area has been plagued by such a terrible drought, that there are children in that town who have lived their whole lives without ever seeing rain.

The three most interesting characters we met from Albury were the two breakfast hosts and a lively, bearded man from Mom’s conference. The breakfast hosts were interesting because of their opposite natures. Both were slightly over middle-aged, but that was their only similarity. The woman was a petite, wiry creature with bright red hair and a constant, ecstatic grin. She moved like a bird, constantly cleaning dishes, refilling trays, and chatting energetically with anyone who would talk to her. She referred to us all as, “Love, Dove, Darling, or Pet” and made the morning an event to look forward to. Her coworker, however, was a large, swarthy fellow with deep bags sculpted into his face under his eyes. He moved slowly, seldom spoke, and carried with him an ominous heir of doom.

The other character was a quirky old professor named John, who was from Redford, England. Mom had apparently met him earlier at her conference, but the rest of us met him while on a tour of the Charles Sturt eco College. The college in of itself merits some words: it is entirely self-sustained, recycling all of its own water to sustain local wetlands. They plant over 3,000 new trees every year and are reintroducing animal species that have been lost to the area. All of the toilets are composting, and all of the building materials are environment friendly. The heating and cooling systems are tempered by insulation, wax, and water pumped by energy gained through windmills or solar panels. The walls are made of a local red clay, and the buildings all looked strangely like the old adobe constructs of the American South West.

I met John on the bus. He latched onto me as a good target for his light bulb jokes. My favorite was, “How many surrealists does it take to screw in a light bulb? Fish.” He was a curious little man, with a very well kept triangular white beard that he occasionally tugged on. He told me of his adventures traveling to Poland, Iceland, Turkey, China, Japan, and living in Africa. He described himself as a “Philosopher of Geology,” and proudly went on to share all the details of his line of work, and how his son had taken after him. I am a fan of a good character, and that he was. It seems that John uses his light bulb jokes as a sort of introduction, as, after having a bottle of wine at my mother’s dinner table that evening at a conference event, he went through the entire sequence all over again.

After enjoying our vacation from our vacation (I finished editing my novel and read two books, Dad read several books, and Mom read… basically, we all read). We caught a midnight express train back to Wollongong yesterday. Needless to say, we all slept through the trip, after a slight altercation over who was to sit where (it seems a woman from Sydney had fallen asleep spread out over our row of seats. But the seat manager rearranged things so that she could continue to rest peacefully, and so could the rest of us). We had to wait for our rooms to open back up at the YHA, so we had breakfast at a fantastic little restaurant called “The Green Frog Café.” They thought we were an odd crew, coming in with full suitcases for breakfast, but after a few jokes and some get-to-know-you conversation, we each ended up with a plate of delicious toast, smoothies, and coffee. I had something called Scottish Barley Toast with butter, for which I will have to track down a recipe. Nick, Dad, and I went back there for lunch yesterday. They remembered us, and we had a good time telling them about our adventures and assure them that we had found a place to stay, after all.

We didn’t do much with our day back. Or yesterday. Nor have we done much today. We poked around at a few used clothing stores, and I discovered a new walking track that trailed around my favorite place in Wollongong: the shore. Last night we ate dinner at Wollongong’s only Mexican restaurant, It’s been very quiet, slow, and relaxing. I’ve caught up on my journaling, and Mom and Dad are rested again from all of our traveling. Nick has struck up a few sewing projects. Having explored most of Wollongong, I think we’re going to start doing more day trips up to Sydney. Dad, Nick, and I are considering going skydiving on the beach. They’ve got a popular operation here, and the cost is reasonable, so I’ll have to keep you updated on that.

Now, I think I’ve written enough. Whether you have read my entire update or not, I thank you for your attentions and wish you the best. I apologize for any typos, but I only have a little bit of internet access here at the mall, and I am rather eager to leave this place. Love to all, hope summer is treating you well! More later…

---- Sara Ann

A Sunday

Very impressed with the Wesley Mission Church on the Mall today where we were for Sunday service. I had been invited to read the scriptures and share some comments etc. We saw such diversity in the congregation of age and ethnicity. They are a fully welcoming , inclusive congregation with strong social justice and urban charity and service programs. The pastor, Gordon, did something I had not experienced before of giving individual blessings to each person after receiving communion.
Since there was room on the church bus we were invited along for the ride so we got a free tour of the area, plus a chance to visit with the passengers. Ate later at a Mediterranean food cafe, had after noon naps and an evening time of sitting in the near full moonlight enjoying the waves roaring and breaking onto the beach.
Oh..and the church ladies told us there is a chance of snow in Hobart, where we are headed on Wed.

By Wendell Berry

And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles,
no matter how long,
but only by a spiritual journey,
a journey of one inch,
very arduous and humbling and joyful,
by which we arrive at the ground at our feet,
and learn to be at home.

Source: The Collected Poems of Wendell Berry, 1957-1982

Walking Meditation

One of the everyday experiences of our time here is walking. Lots of it. At annual conference this year I finally joined the Amazing Pace pedometer program. I really didn’t want to be that calculating about this part of my life but I still recall the stern comments of a D.S. (from another district) who questioned why I had not. So I count the steps and the walking is still good.
We did a walking meditation as part of the Buddhist retreat day. I had been introduced to the practice at the Episcopal House of Prayer. It was my least favorite practice. Walking is something I need to do without thinking or being mindful. The act of concentrating and being deliberate about this “natural” movement almost caused me to lose balance. I did a little better with it at the Nan Tien Temple but still did not find it to be meditative. I have some hip trouble that causes me to want to get the weight off that painful hip side rather quickly. After the walking mediation exercise I saw Nick, still walking slowly and artfully around the temple grounds.
Then today I read Barbara Brown Taylors words about walking in “An Altar in the World.” She opens the chapter called The Practice of Walking on the Earth with these words from Thich Nhat Hahn “The miracle is not to walk on water but on the earth.” She described the beauty of a walking mediation as observed in a Buddhist monk, saying, “To watch a Buddhist monk practice walking meditation is like watching a lunar eclipse. First the bare heel extends over the earth, coming down so slowly that not even a dry leaf is displaced. Then the arch begins its long descent, laying itself down like a cat. Finally the toes arrive, beginning with the s mall one and ending with the big. Imperceptibly, the arrival turns into a departure as one heel rises and the other comes down.” She quoted St Augustine "Solviture Ambulanda"; it is solved by walking. She says, “if you want to find out what ‘it’ is, you will have to do your own walking.” She spoke of walking labyrinths, which I too have valued and been taught by. She spoke of the hajj and of La Via Dolorosa. I remember that walk in Jerusalem as well. I try to be mindful of this as we have walked in a rainforest, and up Keira Mountain, and along the beach, in the waves, on sidewalks, into shops and cafes, to bus stops and rail stations, and into the places of rest at the end of the day. Remembering that we are walking into each others lives, walking on holy ground…always.
I think we are planning another walk this evening.

Different view

TO VIEW REALITY from a slightly different perspective often yields a view of things totally unlike what they appeared to be. If we take just a couple of steps in another direction, what we view as reality is often profoundly changed.

- Norman Shawchuck
A Guide to Prayer for All Who Seek God

From p. 59 of A Guide to Prayer for All Who Seek God by Norman Shawchuck and Rueben P. Job. Copyright © 2003


Travel can be a way to get another view of myself and the world... so here I am getting the view from "down under" The time away, the change of routine, new tastes and cultures, time with family,the Buddhist retreat day, the journaling and walking, ...
Rambling on

stewardship note

Read Jeff Reeds blog or note on ,MN climate change forecast. Get a link at my blog if needed. Here in Australia. as in the rest of the non USA world, there is so much more environmental awareness about water and energy use, we see a majority of people here bringing their own reusable shopping bags, tv ads say go green, save the planet, go Veg. This is an area for the church in the USA to speak up on. We will have some reusable shopping bags distributed at Park church...use them. But also shop differently, less packaging Dont waste..etc.. make it a daily devotional lifestyle. Shop prayerfully. Will we do it perfectly? Of course not, but any step in that direction is a step of faith.


An act of love, a voluntary taking on oneself of some of the pain of the world, increases the courage and love and hope of all.


- Dorothy Day

Keira

a photo of Keira mountian by Sara