Intense

The only dead body I’ve ever touched was my Dad’s. Until today.

The treasurer of the Red Cross here in the Solomons died yesterday after a very brief illness. It was a shock to everyone. His death was so sudden that at almost the same moment he died in the hospital, I was a few streets away assigning him some tasks in a working group we were on together.

Bobby was a good man; he was dedicated to Red Cross and attended almost every training session I’ve given since I’ve been here. He was a great workshop participant and although much older than most of the guys in the sessions he loved mixing in with their curious participation combinations of drama, singing and just plain story telling. He was the most dedicated Board member here and he often stopped into the office for a chat. So today, when the Secretary General asked everyone to go to his house to pay respect, I went too.

Mourning might be culturally specific but grief looks the same wherever you go. I have been there, where his family were today; a family grieving a lost husband, father, Grandfather and the traditions were different but the tears and fears all too familiar.

When we arrived, Bobby’s Wantok, his wider family & clan were all gathered; sitting quietly in the shade of his garage. More family were inside, sitting with tears silently streaming. And there, in the lounge, was Bobby with his wife and three daughters. He was laid out in State covered by an Island print cloth for his body, and another for his head. As the leaders of our organisation crouched next to the coffin on the floor, his family removed the cloths and there he was.

My lovely grown men of Red Cross began to cry. His wife and daughters silently sobbed, and I was overcome.

After a short speech by the Chairman of the Board, The Sec Gen made it clear with just her eyes that each of us were to pay our respects individually. Each of the staff and volunteers knelt beside Bobby and silently, reverentially, made their prayer. The physical nature of their respect differed each according to their own cultural custom; some grabbed his forehead in their hands – the Polynesian boys bowed their heads to his chest. Most put their hand upon his now silent heart. So that’s what I did too. I knelt there and laid my hand on his chest and I tried not to think of that last silent chest I touched as I gave thanks for Bobby’s life and his work and I asked whatever higher power that drives this universe to allow his work to inspire mine and be half as dedicated.

And then we acknowledged his family and left the room.

As we reached the road, the wailing began and it’s a sound that’s been with me all day. The men and women of Red Cross got back to their work distributing flood relief items. Maybe it was just me who struggled, reflecting quietly on another time and another place. Maybe its just me who is struggling still with a sudden pain as raw as that first day ten years behind me, which mostly I can deal with, but which sometimes bites me in the arse.

Vale Bobby Kwomae – another good man gone too soon.

I heart Kristin Fontana!

"Destiny calls. This is your year for recognition"

Now there’s an astrological star cast I can live with!

see www.kristinfontana.com

I've resolved...

This might seem really odd. I am trying to avoid the whole New Year blog post. I’m sure it’ll come because it’s lurking there, in the back of my mind; making its presence felt. I don’t really want to talk about resolutions – because I’m resolute about thinking they can be another way to set yourself up for failure! But hey, that’s chock full of my own life issues – so here’s one crazy little resolution I’ve made that I’m kind of looking forward to the challenge of keeping...

I’d like to write a Haiku a day.

Think of it as my daily crunches for my mind. I’m going to look at my day and see if I can do enough verbal belly flops and tumble turns to turn it into beautiful Japanese inspired verse.

It also helps to make manifest what I’d really like to do this year; maintain a positive perspective. Hopefully the concise nature of the Haiku will assist me to strip each day back to one theme, idea or action that has been central to my day. I think it will help me focus. And help me to write.

Each day will be a new muse.

Here’s yesterday’s:

Summer rain has come

The deluge stopped us on the road

Banana leaf umbrella

And today’s:

Disaster strikes!

But Humanity’s gone digital

We rebuild computers

Hmm… we’ll see…

Eve's first flesh, on Adam's torn out rib

Once upon a time I wrote a poem that I’ve been trying to remember.. it had a line in it about "Eve's first flesh, on Adam’s torn out rib." I think what I was trying to capture at the time was a visceral feeling of connection; one person growing from another – inexorably part of each other. I wish I could capture it.. or find that draft somewhere. It was a good line!

I was reminded of it just the other night, when I was treated to an indepth conversation with someone I have only just met. He intrigues me. We were discussing relationships – more particularly, the culture of relationships here in the Solomon Islands – and I was asking a lot of questions about the peculiarities I have noticed (according to my own cultural standpoint of course!) when Solomon men discuss their marriages.

My observation is that many of the men I have discussed relationships with here view their marriages as a social contract and a financial arrangement whereby they support and are committed to their family unit but do not necessarily feel a deep, heartfelt and soul stirring connection to it. My new friend had many great insights into the cultural reasoning behind this, which of course incorporated tribal beliefs and practices as well as the Christian teachings which have so influenced the development of this country. I found his musings fascinating but more than that, there was one thing he said that completely resonated with me..

When describing his idea of love and what it should be, he talked about a visceral feeling that is almost indescribable but which he thinks must be innate; there to tell us we have found a good match. A feeling that is like an implanted memory of Eve being shaped around Adam’s rib; a part of him taken and given to another to create a perfect match.

OK I agree - there’s so much in that to unpack. So many cultural references – so many truths and half-truths. But deep within me, it stirred something and it made me remember that line of my poem and smile in recognition.

In its simplest form, I think love is about connection. And I think you can recognise that connection instantly, or watch it grow over time. I think you can believe that you complete someone and they complete you – and like magnets you are drawn to each other over time and space to find that missing part and conversely I think you can build a connection with someone that draws your lives together; entwines you like roots growing around two tree trunks; two becoming one over time. However you want to depict it, I think these connections give meaning to the inexplicable feeling of belonging that is part of the joy of love.

For just a moment talking to J it was like looking in a mind-mirror. Our paths to the same conclusion have been so different and yet, there we were.

It was cool, that's all.

Sunday

I always wished you’d come

to me on Sunday afternoons

when the light was soft and

the summer offered jasmine on the breeze.

Filtered through the trees

and my window, the dappled light

made patterns of my crisp white sheets

and I wanted to turn your hands to them,

your back to them, your hips to them.

But you never came. Sunday after Sunday

passed and passes still without you;

just a memory on the breeze, with the jasmine.