fishers, surfers and casters

Apparently, according to The Great Firewall of China, this blog is blocked in the world’s largest nation. Could be a technical thing, could be that I use the “f” word, or maybe that I use the “g” word.

Hat tip to Arthur_Vandelay.

I had emailed my mates at uni to tell them I was in Shepparton and couldn’t get to the memorial service, but the idea of not being there played on my mind all afternoon. The agency was kind enough to let me borrow a work car and I made the trip down. It was a Roman Catholic ceremony, made hauntingly obvious by the opening petition to God to forgive Minnie’s sins before welcoming her into God’s kingdom. My angry thoughts returned to me, believing it’s not Minnie who needs forgiveness by God in this instance.

John 11 was read, the story of Lazarus’ death. I listened reluctantly, until I heard the line,

So the Jews said, “See how he loved him!” But some of them said, “Could not he who opened the eyes of the blind man have kept this man from dying?”

Hey, that’s me, I thought. There I am in the story. The persecutor.

After the reading Jacque, Minnie’s daughter, spoke. We all could see the pain she was fighting just to be able to string a few sentences together. She told us that, being blessed with her mother’s courage, once she is through this pain she will be a force to be reckoned with. She will be able to cope with anything. Then she told God that given she had only known her mother for twenty years, and God had known her an eternity, Jacque did not blame him for taking her.

Perhaps I should feel guilty for being so angry at God in front of Minnie’s own daughter who chooses not to be angry, but I didn’t. I held my mouth shut as tight as I could so I wouldn’t give my tears a soundtrack, and in my head I was screaming, “Be angry, girl. Be angry.”

Minnie lived twenty years as a single mother, studying in the USA and working as director of learning institutions in Zimbabwe and Kenya. I heard about all the stereotypes and prejudice she had to face in all of those countries, and thought that it would require the courage of a closed heart. But Minnie’s heart was always open. I remember walking through the streets of Sweden with her. We would stop so often to have conversations with strangers, as if we had known them forever. If by chance she spied someone on the street with the same skin colour as her, she would race up to them and bluntly ask, “Are you from Africa?” Within ten minutes we would be seated in a cafe sharing food and beer and hearing their entire life story. Minnie had a hospitality about her that welcomed the world to her. Walking down a street with Minnie was like being reintroduced to the planet.

If Jesus had let Lazarus die so Thomas could die and be reborn in witnessing the miracle, and if Jacque will be reborn as a brute force once she gets through it, then I too must die to this grief. And if I am reborn, then I hope the new me will carry Minnie’s open heart, a spirit of welcome about me.

God, let me die to this grief you’ve given me. Then, God, give me a new life that carries this spirit.

And then, please God, help me forgive you.

Last week my agency held a seminar called Be the Change, designed by the Pachamama Alliance. The Foundation was establshed with representatives of the Pachamama, an indigneous nation in South America, who invited people from the global north (mainly USA) to talk with them about how a return to some ancient values and lifestyle practices could help save the world. The global north representatives agreed to pass on the good word, and now the Foundation educates people all over the world to facilitate events like the one I attended.

Now, though I’m all for saving the planet, by the end of the day I got a little tired of watching video presentations of Americans telling me what to do. I found that others felt the same. I wondered if I had too much prejudice against white Americans to really learn anything from the seminar, but one criticism of the seminar turned out to be fairly valid among others that day. In nearly all the videos presented, very intelligent, highly motivated and well-researched speakers spoke about the immediate threat to the planet’s survival, and we heard a call to change the way we live. Yet in each of these videos, these same people wore make-up, expensive suits and well-groomed hair, in rooms with beautifully plastered walls, paintings of high art, Ming vases and satin drapes. While we heard the words of a people intent on doing good, we saw images of a people who also loved the beauty of first-world wealth. Methinks the creators of Be the Change need to be reminded that there is more text in video presentations than just the words of the speaker being filmed, and that text can carry meanings which conflict with the intended message.

Yet that thought which has survived most in my mind has been that created by listening to Julia Butterfly Hill (read more about her here. I’ll try to remember her words exactly here (a vain attempt):

When we throw something away, where is away? There is no away. The paper we throw away is a forest. The plastic we throw away is petroleum that was taken from an exploited community somewhere. The coffee we buy is taken from another exploited community somewhere. We buy it, use it for a second and throw it away, further exploiting the world by our own pollution. The modern world kills a planet for a moment’s pleasure.

It made me think about the packaging that covers everything I buy, and the waste that falls in my bin every day. For the first time in a long time, I was offered a moment to really consider what I’ve taken from the planet, and her people, in order to enjoy five minutes of caffeinated consumption. Only to throw the remains away and ignore where that waste goes. Not just coffee, also the plastic that covers all my groceries, or that new Bluetooth dongle (on sale for only $25). And they are all so cheap, and their consumption means little to my own resources. For too long I’ve ignored the impact made on the resources of others, employed and exploited for the market demands of my own little world.

So making the change. I’m giving up take-away coffee. I’m buying a monthly subscription to Carbon Planet to offset (some of) my carbon footprint. I’m trying to minimise the amount of packaging in my supermarket trolley (bloody hard work). I’m not printing as much (also bloody hard work – I really hate reading research articles on screen, and I miss printing out my daily Sudoku).

But I could do much more. And I need help. If you’ve got some suggestions, I’d love to hear it. But please be kind, I’m still very much a global bastard, but I am trying to reform.

Update: My God we Aussies are bad. According to Carbon Planet, Australians produce 28 tonnes of CO2 per year, compared to Europeans (11 tonnes p.a.), Canadians (25 tonnes p.a.), Kiwis (15 tonnes pa.a.) and Americans (25 tonnes p.a.). A person living in China only emits 4 tonnes per year, and we’re so arrogant to be worried about their environmental policies!?!

Technorati tags: Pachamama, carbon credits, waste.

This morning welcomed the arrival of Addison and Makala Drogemuller, two beautful girls, to the world and to the Teusner family. Mum (my sister Jackie) is okay though the birth came at their time and not hers (she was to be induced at the end of the week but the girls decided they’d do things their way, which is so Teusner of them). Born at only 31.5 weeks, they are quite small, and under the full support of the neo-natal unit. Addison arrived first at 657am, weighing only 1.7kg, and Maddison arrived two minutes later and less than 0.1kg smaller. While Addison seems okay, Makala requires a lot of attention. We’re worried but optimistic.

Uncle Paul, UP, Unky-Paul are all accepted terms to address the guy over here with the beaming smile. Can’t wait to get to Adelaide to meet them.